The Bitch in the Test

Yesterday morning I left the house cursing like a cartoon character. The string of profanity coming out of my mouth was G%R&A&*^%$#!!@$!!!--and kind of like James Joyce was writing bad words—the nastiest things all strung together with no punctuation…

At work I was better outwardly but inwardly I was a mess of cranky, scared, sad and, well, just disconnected. Luckily it was Friday and luckily I had a lot of basic tasks to do. Head down and uncomfortable I worked the day away.

But still. Yuck.

John’s son came for dinner so I thought maybe it was the stepfamily stuff. It’s always hovering there in the polite way we talk and how carefully we choose our topics when together. We don’t use these words: wedding, marriage, divorce, Mom, sex or affair, and I’m the only one who will say the word cancer out loud.

And I did. That was it. After dinner John and I talked about plans for the weekend and he reminded me that Sunday plans were out because he’d be doing “The Prep” and it hit me:

His big test. The in-hospital colonoscopy, performed by our favorite surgeon is Monday morning at 7am. Oh. Dam. Oh Dam. All that cranky, out-of-sorts misery is about cancer and chemo and The Test racing toward us.

But we are a different couple three years later. And I am a different woman. I said, “Sit and talk to me.” So we bundled on the bed and talked. I said, “What if..” and he said, “It will go like this…”. And I said, “I’m going to be hard on you this time….” And he said, “I’ll listen this time…” and we laughed. And laughed. We played the “If Cancer Comes Back” Game. We talked about our voodoo beliefs and the deals with God we’ve each been making. I was happy to hear the words “beach” and “diamonds”.

Looking forward to making love tonight because Sunday is not an option. The Prep is a mess in every way with its pills and solutions and salves and timers. But the real prep began last night laughing about what used to be and what could come and how we’ll do it together.

Medical Reimbursement & Cancer's Return

It’s time to complete the benefits election paperwork for both of our employers. We have stacks of paper from his job and from mine. The pile has moved from kitchen counter to dining room table to the living room floor and back to the kitchen. I remind him, “We have to talk about this.” and “How much should we put in the medical reimbursement account this year?” I’m avoiding it too, pushing the task to him, noting my particularly unfeminist separation of duties.

This has gone on for a month.

Last night, annoyed that the pile of papers is back in the living room, I nag again “We have to turn those in on Monday—let’s decide how much to put in this account.” In my head its all about the number—how much should we designate pre-tax to allow for medical expenses next year? My internal juggle –I assume—is about making sure we have enough to cover dental for two adults, eye care for two sets of aging eyes, and enough for deductibles, co-pays and prescriptions. It’s a calculation.

Why is this so hard? Why are we procrastinating?

My annoyed voice bothers him so at 11pm we get out the calculator and paper and start in. “OK, so if we each need new glasses this year, and if we assume we each need a crown and a couple of cleanings, and what about any medicines?” But as we talk my stomach starts to hurt. Really hurt.

And then I realize that what we are not talking about is this: What if cancer returns? How do we do that calculation? How do we guess at those huge copays and the multiple prescriptions? But really, how do we talk about this seemingly money thing, which has nothing to do with money?

My stomach hurts. I take a breath. I say to him, “This is all about cancer.” We choose this number now, but on your next test in July we’ll know for sure if the cancer is back. Then what? And the “what” isn’t about the money. I tell him that we talk about cancer and don’t talk about cancer. It’s always out there. Out there in the tests and the meds and the lingering neuropathy, and it’s out there in the obituaries of people younger than us who “endured a brave battle with lung/breast/colon/brain cancer.”

But this simple form that asks for a single simple number has yanked cancer into our living room hard and fast and frightening.

We sit up and talk. The number was easy. The conversation was not. But we’re not so far apart in our numbers or our beliefs about what to do if and when. “We have great sex,” we say, “and we can have great cancer and even great death.” We can do this.

It is intimacy of the most devastating kind and the most real. 

Standing By

I have a cold that I can’t shake. Everyone I know has or had this cold and all my hand washing, zinc lozenges and vitamin C did not save me. But I’ve been fighting this like crazy because today I was giving a talk on my book about military mental illness and I really, really wanted to give that talk. I love talking about the men—the China Marines—that I interviewed for this book and their stories of survival. But this dam cold and constant cough--I knew I was in danger of my voice simply disappearing mid-sentence.

So I prayed--for God’s will and acceptance--and to get my ego out of the way. What mattered was that the stories got told and that the China Marines –Donald, Frenchy, Gene and Bones--lives got witnessed. Then it hit me. I could ask John to go with me, and he said yes. He would read if I couldn’t.

I loaded the podium with hot water, throat spray and cough drops and I explained to the audience that my husband might step in to read if my voice disappeared. John was standing by.

I read for the whole 55 minutes. I told the stories of men who served and survived and thrived—men who were my teachers. And after I finished reading I opened my mouth to say “thank you” and my voice was gone. It was a gift to be able to give the talk and John was beside me to take over.

What Friends Don't Tell Each Other

Part of why it takes so long to learn how to make sex good is that we don’t talk about it enough. Now that may seem crazy if you think about the number of times sex is mentioned in movies, magazines and on TV. But really talk about it? Not so much.

Think about your closest gal pals and what you know about them and what they know about you. We’re told how hard it is to talk about money. Do you know how much your friends make? If they have family money? The amount of debt they have?

And what about your friend’s spiritual life: Do they believe in God? Do you know who prays and when and how?

Money and God is a lot of intimate info to know about a person. And then there is sex.

Now the odd thing is that you may know about some really personal stuff about your closest friends. You know about the difficult childhood and the deep wounds carried from parents or siblings. You may know about family illnesses: mental illness and addiction and alcoholism. You talk about the secret shames of the workplace, the tensions in marriages, the pain from breakups. You may even know about the secret surgeries---the eye job her husband doesn’t even know she had on your “girl’s weekend”. But do you know if she does Kegels?

Yeah Kegels. How could a close friend not talk to her closest women friends about Kegels? Do you do yours? Does she do hers? Have you talked about how much better sex is with a regular Kegels routine?

And masturbation. We believe that we are free, open minded and liberal but have you ever told a woman friend that you had a great time—alone—after a stressful week at work? Do you know if she prefers erotica and what kinds?

Imagine your best friend in the world and the parts of her life you don’t know about. And start talking. Everyone will be happier.

Save the Date: Sex and Cancer

There are a lot of things to feel squeamish about with cancer. But sex isn’t—or shouldn’t be—one of them. So here is a chance to listen, learn, talk and ask questions about sex and cancer. Mark your calendar:

Monday June 13th --7 pm to 9 pm

at The American Cancer Society Hope Club (formerly Gilda’s Club)

One Penny Lane—off Wade Road—off exit 6 of Route 87 Latham, New York

There will be a panel presentation and open discussion about the anatomy, physiology, chemistry, etiquette, hope, fear and what real people really do when making love in the time of cancer. I will be part of the panel along with other experts on cancer, caregiving and sex.

The High Cost of Not Dying

It may be too hard to read if you have cancer but if you have a loved one with cancer you must read the Annals of Medicine article by Atul Gawande in the August 2 2010 issue of the New Yorker magazine.

With compelling stories and plenty of grey in a black and white world Gawande invites us to consider what it means to be dying—especially of cancer—when there is no end of treatments and procedures that can be tried, applied and administered.

Most interesting is his challenge to us about how death itself has changed because we no longer stop and let a person experience it.

This excellent essay walks us through the very high cost of cancer in both dollars and healthcare system costs and the cost to us as people when we treat cancer as a problem to be fixed. We lose not just dollars but part of our humanity—and for those of us who care for or have cared for someone with cancer—we lose an essential piece of being a loved one in the truest sense of that term.

This August 2 issue is on newsstands or at your local library. Check it out. Make copies to share with friends. Talk about it now.

Do You Still Have Cancer?

I have noticed a way that people will sometimes try to ask about cancer without actually asking about cancer. Saturday we were at a basketball game and John was seeing folks he hadn’t seen in a while. I heard several—guys—asking him, “So how is EVERY thing?” John would answer, “I’m good; I’m good”. I heard the question buried in the question: Do you still have cancer? I get this too sometimes, people will ask me, “How is he DO-ing?” and it is the slowing down in the question and the odd emphasis on “every” and “do” that signals the question they want to ask but don’t want to be caught asking: Does he still have cancer?

Making Love and Making Peace

Today is about coming to some understanding of sex and sensuality and aging. His and Mine and Ours. Wanting to have all the freedom my body demands. Also wanting to be as free as possible while simultaneously haunted by messages of Good-girl and being nice. Nice can kill sex and being good makes it hard to be bad. Talking helps. But something else is lingering underneath. Maybe it is regret. Maybe it is summer melancholy. Maybe it is desire for the impossibly perfect relationship and the impossibly perfect me.

Awkward Sex

Oh, and then there are those moments in a relationship when something happens and sex is awkward. Something doesn’t work or you want something the other can’t do or the other one wants something you’re not sure, or you both try a new trick and it bombs.

This is the turning point, the critical moment when you know whether you are a couple or not. Do you laugh? Yes, with each other not at. Do you cry? Maybe, both of you. Do you get mad, yes that happens too and the words come fast and hopefully not too many.

I talk to myself. And I talk to him. “This is us” I say. “This is our sex life not anyone else’s; we get to make the rules.” “This is us” he says. And we hold each other.

Friends in the Time of Love and Cancer

Oh, if I could only remember to get a reality check before my imagination kills me first.

Twice this weekend a conversation with a gal pal saved me.

My friend Aletha is in a similar relationship. She and her beau are both in the process of separation legalities but moving ahead with their lives. After a night of torment I finally ask her, “Does the limbo bother you?” and it pours out. We end by laughing and speculating on when and how to wear our scarlet letters. I chose one of red chenille (an athlete’s letter) but am saving up for something bejeweled. Hester Prynne was a Puritan. I am not.


Saturday John became very dizzy at dinner. We cancelled the Netflix and crashed on the couch. As I sat there I imagined brain tumor, brain cancer, aneurysm or stroke. I saw my life slip away along with his. Fear, frustration, panic. The next day I talked to my pal Leslie and she tells me she was dizzy for two days—an inner ear infection—we all had the same cold.

I am saved by my friends and saved by talking.

Precious Time

We spent this day talking and making love. Maybe this too is a bit of chemo recovery for both of us. I’m not sure yet whether this is a new start or a respite but I am grateful for this precious time in our life.

Long Talk About Love

Could we even remember what began the conversation? This morning I can’t. It began Friday night—maybe Friday morning. It involved concert tickets, an old girlfriend, coming late to dinner, a clash of calendars, and what a particular word meant. Ah, the devil of two people who love words and who think that language really, really matters.

There was talking then crying. I cried, he cried, I cried, we cried. There was yelling, “Fuck you” from both parties both under the breath and then loud enough to shake the neighbors.

There was “You don’t listen”, and “No, you don’t listen”. Then there was careful and concentrated listening. There was “This is what I am trying to say” as we both struggled to form the right words and struggled inside ourselves for—“What is it that I really want to say?”

We moved together and apart. Went to meetings, practice, errands, and the kitchen. Clothes on and clothes off. The hope appeared in the form of laughter—finally—even as we were saying, “Fuck you.” “Really”, he says, “That’s what I want.” “We should only fight naked” is my suggestion. “Then I’d keep trying to piss you off” he wisely offers.

The love never left the room is what I know now. We talked for days, spiraling then circling, coming back to “This is what I want.” Then a gentle night and lovely, comforting skin on skin. We wake in peace and he goes to get our Sunday donuts and the New York Times.