“It came without ribbons, it came without tags. It came without packages, boxes, or bags.” — The Grinch

 

Well, folks, it has been a strange week of angst and, probably, over-thinking. Here it is Christmas Day, 2022. A new year is coming, There is a movie playing of me in my multi-plex. In Theater One we have, “How The Grinch Stole Christmas.” In Theater Two there is a movie about my Christmases while growing up in Stuyvesant Town, in New York City. Technically, we didn’t celebrate Christmas but my mother played into the Santa Claus phenomenon. We had no chimney, we lived in an eleven-story building, one building of about one-hundred, with our windows facing-windows. There was no way for Santa to get in. There was no tree, there were no twinkly lights. There was no special dinner.

My parents were from the post World War II mindset of no religious mindset. Perhaps it was more of a cultural-religious mindset. Maybe we had Chanukah candles, I can’t even recall, but I do remember going next door to my neighbor, Ivy-Lou’s house, and peeling potatoes for Chanukah latkes. Then I returned home, with a chunk of a nail missing due to misuse of the potato peeler, and screamed at my mother: “Why don’t YOU ever do anything for Chanukah?”

Ivy’s mother heard me through our back-to-back wall and sent Ivy in with a plate of fried potato pancakes.

My mother’s parents were born in what might have been the Ukraine at the time. The area was constantly changing. Romania. Belarus. They lived in a town in Kiev,(“KEEV.”) called Kishinev. It was the land of pogroms and fear and could kill your faith. My Grandmother was taken away as a child to the royal palace to sew for the Czar and family. I’ve written about it…”at Christmas she was given a dress.”

I was a young child in elementary school. Back to Stuyvesant Town, on cold Christmas mornings, the Con Ed steam heat barely sent up causing the radiators to bang in protest; my socks were safety-pinned to the round drawer pulls of the credenza. The credenza, dark, shiny mahogany, was situated in the living room in those early years, and held all kinds of stuff. It was the closest thing to a fireplace that we had.

I don’t think I ever found anything in those socks on Christmas morning.

But there was always a gift on the floor.

I was never satisfied.; I was always disappointed. I always felt cheated.

I watched all of those shows where kids got all of what they hoped for: stuff was piled under the tree. Stuff upon stuff. Glee upon glee, paper ripped to shreds all over the place. It was the best day on earth!

I would carefully unwrap the one little box that was left on the floor. It was too small for a piano. It was too concrete for art lessons. It couldn’t be a container for a cat. It was invariably purchased from Key Pharmacy on East 14th Street between Avenues B and C. They had a glass showcase in front of the counter with products for little girls. They were called, “Little Lady.”  On the Christmas of which I am speaking what I found was a little gift box called, “Cookies and Milk.” It contained three circular soap cookies with scalloped edges, one pink, and a facsimile of a little milk bottle filled with white bubble bath that looked like Tide.

“Maybe Christmas (he thought) doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas perhaps means a little bit more.” — The Grinch 

I didn’t care that my parents didn’t have enough money for the plural of “gift.” I didn’t care that we didn’t celebrate Christmas, though my mother seemed to buy into the interpretation of the Czar’s mentality, passed down via her mother: you get one of something.

“4:00, wallow in self-pity. 4:30, stare into the abyss. 5:00, solve world hunger, tell no one. 5:30, jazzercize; 6:30, dinner with me. I can’t cancel that again. 7:00, wrestle with my self-loathing. I’m booked. Of course, if I bump the loathing to 9, I could still be done in time to lay in bed, stare at the ceiling and slip slowly into madness.” — The Grinch 

Days have gone by since my Tuesday visit to the surgeon and the oncologist. I have been mentally sorting information constantly, day and night and in my sleep, tiring my brain into ocular migraines and vertigo which even my new medication could not address. Every moment since has melded into a pile of wax, like a sea of melted Chanukah candles. The colors have mixed to a hard,crusty, gray, amorphous lump and each day has been gray every since. I tried to distract myself by taking action.

By Friday, I had completed my tasks:

Organization of the two folders of materials I received;
Construction of lists and charts;
Requested release form from radiology for CDs of MRIs from 2021 and 2022;
Received form, completed and faxed;
Called American Cancer society and told them I have raised thousands of dollars over the years; I asked about possible transit to appointments if needed; (I was feeling panicky)
Downloaded recent bone density and faxed to new oncologist as requested;
Spoke to my doctor of almost 40 years for moral support;
Made appointment for (another) MRI with and without contrast to ascertain whether anything else has been active on in the breast that was cancer-free for eighteen years;
Made appointment with geneticist as requested by surgeon and oncologist; (cancer should not return after so many years)

Then, eventually, on the near horizon, again: get medical clearance, undergo surgery again, to remove sentinel lymph nodes on left side.

Get all of the facts.

You see, what has happened here really is a holiday miracle. A pencil point lobular invasive cancer was serendipitously discovered in the recent lumpectomy, surrounding the tissue, of the benign papilloma. Had I not had this papilloma, had it not been protocol to remove it, this spot would not have been found at this early stage.

What are the odds?

The oncologist recommended an “aromatase inhibitor.” These hormone suppressants have many side effects, including  bone loss which causes other issues: then you need a bone med to counteract the bone loss. And that drug has other side-effects.

“Now you listen to me, young lady! Even if we’re horribly mangled, there’ll be no sad faces on Christmas.” — The Grinch

But,

Here’s the rub that dawned on me: what I have been experiencing these last two years has been a benign array of papilloma and one incident of LCIS, also benign. I’ve had a surgery each year.  It didn’t occur to me to ask if these drugs that address the cancer will suppress recurrence of these benign issues which require surgical removal. I am sick of surgery and what leads up to it. So I have been trying to make peace with the thought of another mastectomy and reconstruction.

“I could use a little social interaction.” — The Grinch
I am walking a lonely road.

“No one should be alone on Christmas.” — Cindy Lou Who 

Thankfully I will not be alone on Christmas. The last few days of isolation have been brutal. I have been invited to my friend Lilly’s holiday celebration.

“HELP ME…I’m FEELING.” — The Grinch  

Listen and listen good. There are many people going through some really tough times:
Two of my friends lost husbands, one relative lost an adult child, one friend has lost partial use of her hands, another had another fall and arm break. It goes on and on and it sucks. Social media is a miserable culprit: everyone is feasting, looking happy and safe and warm surrounded by love. Good for you if you have this.

Not everyone does.

What you can do, right now, is, to look up from whatever you are doing take a moment and text someone you know who is in need and just say, “I am thinking about you, I am here for you.”

Maybe that is what my mom was trying to say, over sixty years ago, when she left the box of Little Lady Toiletries at the foot of the credenza.

 

 

This post is part of my series, Blogging for Breast Cancer. The index link is here.

The previous post is here

The next post is here