Cancer and Victimization

Victims or warriors? Can cancer truly create a personality that exudes false positivity? To act evasivly by smiling and saying everything is great when its not truly is an act of self victimization. To whom do we vent our internal state? A support group, good friend, spouce, family member?

God forbid anyone hear those three little words: “I’m sorry but…” and become a member of club cancer after this moment only they will know how we truly feel. Victims of corporate greed. Victims of poisonous cures. Victims of lonliness. Our futures victimized. Those we love victims all
of the pain of loss. We cannot remain as we once were changed forever. Some of us lose friendships and even face divorce in the most difficult time of our lives.

Stress takes on a whole new meaning as it could contribute to the furthering of our disease. If it’s possible to remain calm between scans, tests, years, months…Only those 1:8 know the ravages of this pandemic. And the lack of knowkedge to those of us with dense breasts who it seems haven’t the global right to know our breast density and thus our increased proclivity by 40% over those women without dense tissue.

Imagine being a man with a stage IV diagnosis. I only imagine they cannot bear witness to such a victimization of their gender and masculinity.

We then die as victims of information dissemination or lack thereof. The politics of illness keep us falling one after the other into open graves.

Two poems to leave you with this week on the act of victimizing the “other.” French Feminism dwells on this problem if you reach back about 30 years. Even the existentialists including one who personally changed me through reading her texts, Simone de Beauvoir said:
“I tore myself away from the safe comfort of certainties through my love for truth – and truth rewarded me.” May we all be saved by the truth of our own bodies and rewarded by health not punished by an ultimately wrongful death.

Victim
Dark blue night wings past
Snuffing out the end of day.
If memory serves,
Against curtains of magenta
Birds in paradise
Flew with flame flaring wings
And etched the scene into
Stone. The stripes earned by
Erosion and echoes
Cavernous crayon colors
Outside the river banks
Of eon twisted canyons
How stubbornly they
Remain unchanged yet to us
Markers of the waters trip out west
Sinking lower and lower then by
The end of the poem
A couplet of a sunset
Sinks in
To the sky writers of yesterday.

Let’s go kill this scene off
Of the death list —the so called
Bucket list. Bristling, insisting
Kicking a bucket is isn’t better revenge
Of a life lived well;
A container cannot defend itself;
It stores pictures without words.
Believing in emptiness
We never fill up our containers
And rename our dreams to fit
Infinite, empty, and black as ink.

Victims’ Dream

Pink cheeky girls woke up
Hearing my screams in the dank alleyway.
Just a caterwauling stray, they yawn,
Slipping into their pretty dreams
In between rose covered sheets —
Lining the inside of a restful box.

Curled up like kittens having tea
Painted into black flocked drops
Still life frozen stiff.
Another innocent mother
Wasting her love
Couldn’t know what to do:
Crying deeper than an orphan
With a never ending need
Of a basic meal and the itch unscratched it’s Mottled by parasites.

With her tongue like a steak knife
She clears the fleas she combs
From their fur bare coats.
Near silence hearing their satisfaction Through innocent mews,
Razor claws ripping, scratching, pushing
Her cradle fell away dying
I saw her almost speak
They watch her slowly
Creep back away and off
Like the sound of an old door
Squeaky and shut for the last time.

Finding herself everywhere,
Slashed and scattered she collects herself
From the pavement
Glass and stones
Hearts and bones.

Underneath the safety of a redwood porch.
Food and water sometimes appear
Bowing into the dish and darting
Up for air and reassurance against a trap.
Victims of a crisis or of conscience
Never get relief to drink or food to eat for thought.

In the dark wanting to see the other side
Only instead to stare back into our own faces.
Light of a camera obscured the window from a world view.
My hand saluting from my forehead
Blocking the indoor daylight at sleep from my eyes.
And mamma cat scared herself.

Pressed against my face, yet
Seeing those green eyes in the glass
Instead of me she ran off so fast they didn’t see her
Passing the pink girls who turned in,
Between Egyptian cotton sheets of papyrus,
But the alley cats silenced
And never once let a word out again.

Waiting for her,
But for me instead. Bottle fed and fatted
Unnaturally, all of us may never find a home
And the coats we wear
Are the coats of the pick pocketed and the poor.

All of us victims,
crying for food made from our mother.
But she’s not saving anything,
Not tonight—
The litter stole everything
Including her tongue.

Metastatic Cancer Awareness Day: 114 more will die

In the United States, 40,000 adults died last year from a particularly horrible terminal illness. The same critical disease queues up approximately 155,000 into a lemming line and eventually fall inside our graves. Remarkably, exact statistics aren’t available to understand how many people died as a result of metastatic breast cancer (MBC). Many of us lemmings in line, we’re not counted in the statistical data. For instance if you’re diagnosed this year with any stage of primary breast cancer for illustration purposes say 15 years later you’re one of the 30-40% who will eventually be diagnosed with MBC, you’re not counted in that number because you’ve already been put into the pool when first diagnosed with stage 0 and I-III.

Furthermore, if you’re “lucky” and you survive MBC more than five years and we’re diagnosed de novo (from the start) then there’s no formal tracking at least not in the United States. I suppose it’s not as interesting since it would sound less sensational to the pharmaceutical companies to track 15% give or take. Not many of us live five years beyond diagnosis – the majority die in an average two and a half years.

You bet I’m glad that we had one day. Wow! For those 30% who will find themselves diagnosed with MBC – the vocal metsers or metavivors have an entire day to explain what stage four metastatic breast cancer really means. To try to define the extent of collateral damage to our lives. To leave women (and men) with a better understanding of just what it means to live with an incurable disease. To hear these phrases over and over, “but you look great!” or the ever popular “you don’t look like your have cancer.” To have people who were once close you actually not believe your diagnosis. For family believe you’re actually lying about having MBC since you simply look too good to have any disease at all.

Just a lazy, early retried, government money sucker. I wish. No, I don’t wish. I do wish I were not laden with dense breast. The tissue in my fun bags is indistinguishable from the blood sucking cancerous tumors that started whittling down my life to a stump nearly five years ago. The years when the discussion was about indeterminate mammogram and ultrasound results. The years just before 3-D mammography might have saved my life. If you so happen to have dense breasts like I do, insist on more diagnostics and a physician who’s better at reading radiological results than the abilities of an average technician or your general practitioner. I wish I’d known more then. But wishes don’t often translate to reality once the blade has come down in the guillotine. My tumors weren’t large and still have no lymph node inclusion. It wasn’t law yet to notify women of their breast density. According to areyoudense.org

Adding more sensitive tests to mammography significantly increases detection of invasive cancers that are small and node negative.

I wish either sociopathy or borderline personality disorder were my diagnosis instead of invasive ductile carcinoma with osseous metastasis to the bones, liver metastasis, multiple periocentesis to drain asceites fluid buildup from my abdomen, and a nice size tumor that pressed on my duodenum and would not allow any food to pass from my stomach to my small intestines. My body is an amusement park for cancer, an e -ticket ride at one of the many Disney theme parks. This one is Cancer Land where the characters aren’t cute and they come home with you for the rest of your life.

I’m on my third line of therapy. Xeloda in 2015, Ibrance and Fulvestrant in 2018 and currently, and Taxol in late 2018 and the first six months of 2019. There’s still lots that I can do. I also take charge of my own health and my oncology teams. I’ve moved to a less stressful more peaceful place. But I’m lucky as I know many women do not have some of the resources of a partner as I do. But if you take one message from my day late post, insist on the right level of detection for you even if you are unlucky enough to wind up with a cancer diagnosis. It may save your life.

No poem this week. I’m a little down and I’m going to pick myself up as I have done every day by drawing. I’ve been Zentangling on every piece of paper I can find. It calms me and I keep my mind really busy when I need to – I highly recommended it. I couldn’t draw, either. But I can now. It’s amazing what we can do if we put our minds to it.