Author Archives: Britt

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About Britt

A white girl in an Asian family... with a bit about breast cancer, flowers, Belief, and a deep love of champagne.

The Importance of Angelina Jolie

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The Breast Conservationists are on full alert. Angelina Jolie bares everything but her new rack, and now responsible scientists and doctors are scared that stupid, stupid women will be lining up for bilateral mastectomies like it’s the wedding dress sale at Filene’s Basement. Otherwise healthy women will be demanding expensive genetic testing, insisting on amputations, and requesting Jolie Boobs from their plastic surgeons. If Angelina Jolie did it, then it’s possible that stupid, stupid women will start shopping for their own, Celebrity Cancer-Preventing Surgery.

Have we demonstrated an uncontrollable need to Be Like Angie? Do we all have slit-up-to-there dresses in our closets and a gazillion babies? (To be fair, I do have my own, Asian Brad Pitt… but I had mine first.) I have to believe that we’re smarter than this. Most of us aren’t Golden Globe-winning UN ambassadors. And most of us don’t carry BRCA mutations: only about 5% of us with breast cancer have the unlucky genes. Angelina Jolie’s story is one of access to superb health care, intelligent, informed consent to risk reduction treatment, and bad-ass, story-sharing bravery. The Breast Conservationists worry that her boldness will undo years of work informing women that they do not need to suffer barbaric surgery to live. But I think Angelina Jolie has done more for breast cancer awareness than all of the pink crap in the world. Angelina heralded the possibility that breast cancer isn’t a dreaded path to ugly.

Perhaps we are all a bit more informed about BRCA mutations and statistics and recommendations than we were on Monday. But what this beautiful woman did in one day was to put a spotlight on breast reconstruction after mastectomy. Living in Boston, and specifically in the same home as someone who does this sort of surgery every single day, (and personally with my own set of silicone bags), it is impossible to believe that only 30% of women are offered or encouraged to seek breast reconstruction options after body mutilating surgery. Despite many, many studies showing that quality of life is significantly improved with breast reconstruction, many women are still discouraged from “unnecessary” or “cosmetic” or “long, painful, and risky” operations that would restore their sense of self. They are (ill-) advised that reconstruction will delay their cancer treatment. Of course I need to insert all sorts of disclaimers that some women are not eligible for current reconstructive efforts because of radiation or extent of disease or other underlying conditions, that some opt out of reconstruction and live comfortably with that choice, that there are always more risks with more surgery. However, everyone should have the information about and access to breast reconstruction. And although there are thousands of cancer bloggers cheerfully over-sharing about their bikini-rific , gravity-defying post-Cancer boobs, you know who they’re really going to believe? Angelina Jolie.

Because Angelina went public with the story of her reconstruction, it’s possible that she has inspired other women to advocate for their right to restore their bodies, to feel empowered, to feel whole. While any diminishment of her hotness was always impossible, she explains how it is also surgically preventable. She writes,

“On a personal note, I do not feel any less of a woman. I feel empowered that I made a strong choice that in no way diminishes my femininity.”

Of course, those of us in the shitty sorority know what she’s not telling us: that she is changed, she’s scarred, and where there was once sensation, there is now the numb reminder of an ever-lurking Cancer. Strong, indeed. And she’s more beautiful than ever.

Bringing sexy badass to the Big Cancer Fight

Bringing sexy badass to the Big Cancer Fight

FAIL, by Steve Safran

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Commonwealth of Massachusetts Trial Court
Probate and Family Court Department
Standing Order 4-08

This court finds that the interests of the minor children of parties appearing before it would be well served by educating their parents about children’s emotional needs and the effects of divorce on child behavior and development. It is hereby ordered that all parries to a divorce action in which there are minor children are ordered to attend and participate in an approved Parent Education Program. No (divorce hearing) will be held until the court receives a certificate of attendance from each party.

I needed a piece of paper. One last piece of paper. A piece of paper that showed that I, a divorcing parent, had attended a class mandated by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts instructing me in “Understanding the Effect of Divorce on Children.” My lawyer warned me: do not show up in court without this piece of paper.

You do not need to take a class to get married. There’s no required reading to become a parent. But the great Commonwealth requires divorcing parents to complete coursework. The need for this escapes me. I suppose the reason at heart is solid: you should know how to be a responsible single parent, even if you can’t stand your ex-spouse. And listening to my fellow classmates, that certainly seemed to be the mood. The 15 attendees were much more interested in talking about the bastard/bitch they were divorcing than listening to anything the state had to say.

And I was much more interested in listening to them. And, occasionally, debating them. Because, you know– me.

As if “Divorce Class” could do anything else, it is designed to make you feel absolutely awful about your impending split. The only practical advice given about co-parenting is “communicate with your ex-spouse,” but of course if we could do that, we probably wouldn’t have been in the room. Take that, Standing Order 4-08.

And although the State insists on shaping the quality of Divorcing Parents, it does so by providing material that is 30 years old. The extremely bored class leader outlined the syllabus for single parenthood using an overhead projector and transparencies. He screened two, ten-minute “films” off a VHS. (“What? No Beta?” I asked. Nobody laughed.) Bored Teacher showed us examples of children’s crayon drawings that are so on the nose, I cringed at what the state must think of me.

We see a crayon drawing of a happy family.

“What can we say about the family in this drawing?” asks Bored Teacher.

Silence.

“That they’re happy?” I half-ask, half answer.

“Good!” he tells me in the way you might praise your schnauzer for finally pooping outside. Then he shows a crayon drawing of a sad family. Frowns. Tears. Bad stick-body language. He asks what we can say about the mood of this family. Again, silence. Really? I’m going to be the only one in this class who answers stuff? I’m the only one who wants this to end?

“They’re sad,” I say, and I get the same verbal pat on the head. I get an unwarranted sense of pride. I have skillfully read the mood of a 6 year-old with a box of Crayolas.

Several drawings later, and it occurs to me that I’m not looking at a random selection. The state has picked the saddest drawings from the saddest children in the saddest homes. I begin to wonder if the state didn’t just draw these itself, using its left hand, and thinking about being picked last for sports. Another shows a plane labeled “747” with a crack right down the middle and a family falling out of it. Heavy. But I spot the glaring error: the plane has only one level, and 747s have two. Sloppy work, Standing Order 4-08.

The program is supposed to consist of two classes of about two and a half hours each. But I find a “condensed” class that is four hours on one night. I can get my piece of paper– in one hour less! Take that, system! Even though we’re supposed to be listening and asking about the information in the program, people can’t help but make it about themselves. So when the topic of safety comes up, one parent asks:

“What if my ex- decides it’s OK to go skydiving with my child, but I don’t think it’s OK?”

Bored Teacher agrees that could be (could be?) dangerous and that a conversation should be had and that there should be communication. Most of the night is like that– in the passive voice. Discussions should be had. Timetables should be set. Ideas should be shared. A ten minute smoke break should ensue.

Outside, I talk with a guy who has the thousand-mile stare. I make small talk. He lights up and goes right into his divorce history with me. He did nothing. She took his daughter. He will never marry again. He’s not mad, just disappointed. I nod a lot. I didn’t ask, so I’m not really going to follow up. But I’m all for venting, especially while smoking, so I let my companion ramble on.

Side note: I would never recommend smoking. However, if you ever find yourself bitterly complaining to a stranger in the dark, light up a cigarette. It really adds to the noir effect and lets you punctuate points with that small, glowing ember. And your deep sighs of pain and regret have a nice smoky air swirling about them.

Back into class. There are lots of discussions about me Me ME. It feels like a state-mandated self-help book club. I start to sort out the likely dumpers from the dump-ees. I know– there were plenty of mutual divorces going on, just like mine. But what fun is that to imagine? Plus, people were dishing. Some stories were unintentionally funny. Some, like the brave and wrenching confession of an abused woman, were decidedly not.

Bored Teacher finally got back to the materials. He talked a lot about our failed marriages. How we will cope after the failed marriage. What the children of a failed marriage can expect. How a failed…

And suddenly I turned off my humor meter.

It’s that word: fail. All of us in that room– the skydiving worrier, the smoking sigher, the woman brave enough to leave the abusive husband–we’ve failed. The state is telling us we are failures. As in getting an F. That there is exactly one guideline for a passing grade in marriage: being married until you die. Anything else is a failure. The couple that stays together 30 years after they’ve lost all interest in each other is a success, but the couple that decides to split and find new happiness is not? The woman who escaped abuse? She was supposed to stay in that situation to “succeed?”

I had plenty of failures in my marriage. And plenty of achievements–three teenage successes, for starters. So maybe I give myself about a C. But an F? We need to start grading marriage on a curve.

(Oh, and I still have that piece of paper. The state never collected it, yet I successfully divorced. Take that, Standing Order 4-08.)

Divorce Class didn't cover this.

This happened while their parents were at Divorce Class. (photo: DIYfail.com)

So Ordered

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Steve writes about The End with brutal, hilarious honesty. The judge made it official, and the anticlimactic end to two years of divorcing is a Fluffernutter.

The divorce courtroom as you picture it: Last minute accusations. Long-lost lovers come forth with shocking revelations. Doors fly open with grown men claiming to be the divorcee’s long-lost son. Lawyers fly at each others’ throats as soon-to-be ex-spouses are restrained by beefy bailiffs.

The divorce courtroom as it is: The DMV meets your principal’s office. With Georgian columns.

The actual, final act of getting a divorce was as painless as the process was painful. It’s an exchange of paperwork: a very bored-looking judge, thinking “I went to Columbia Law for this?” looking over the 30th complaint for divorce that day. (“Complaint,” indeed.) Finally, the judge broke his silence. It was so quick it startled me, as I was spacing out considering what to have for lunch. A peanut butter and Fluff, perhaps.

My heart raced, as I feared I’d get something–like my name– wrong. A few perfunctory questions later and the judge pronounced the divorce “so ordered into the record.”

Briefly I looked at my ex. What is the etiquette for this? What does one do? A hug? Surely not. When you marry, the officiant spells it out: now, you kiss. But in this moment, a small tip would have been appreciated. Even a “You may now ignore the bastard” would have helped. I don’t remember what I did. Possibly some looking and nodding? Something stupid like that. A knowing look, like giving her a poker cheat. What can I say? I panicked. Nothing you have learned as a civilized, well behaved, Miss Manners Man prepares you for the protocol involving what you do as you “walk down the aisle” in reverse.

But I did not flash back on years of marriage and heartache (although my friend Jenn Lane describes this brilliantly.) No. I didn’t well up, as I thought I might. No. I thought about my kids, but only in terms of hopes for their future. Nope. In this awkwardly brutal moment, the only thing going through my mind was…

Don’t sneeze.

I had to sneeze so badly. Spring allergies. And the courtroom was dusty. And I hadn’t taken an Allegra. But I didn’t want to sneeze in court in front of the judge. I have no idea why. I must have thought “If I sneeze, he will see I am clearly the unfit person in this and will award everything to her.” It was a big, big empty room and the sneeze would have echoed… possibly through today.

Two days earlier I found myself in the state-mandated divorced-parent class. This is a real thing. You have to attend divorcing parent class before you can get a divorce. The class was exactly as useful as you would imagine a state-mandated class on being a divorcing parent would be. The materials were from the ’80s. They used an overhead projector with transparencies. They showed “movies” on VHS with health-class quality acting (inexplicably hosted by Timothy Busfield in his leaner, 30-something years). The only excitement came when a mom brought up how much she hated that her ex-bastard let her kids eat peanut butter and Fluff sandwiches, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Wait.

She was defaming Fluff? Into the fray I jumped, defending this New England confection, this ambrosia, this perfect peanut butter pal. Perhaps Fluff ended her marriage, I fancied. Perhaps he made One Sandwich Too Many. Perhaps he used Raspberry Fluff, for which there is no excuse.

I had thought of Fluff in the courtroom, as I didn’t sneeze, or hug, or listen to a judge who wasn’t paying attention to me. That was my divorce court experience: empty calories. How’d that happen? Two years of drama led up to this moment. There should have been something. A musical number. A trumpet. A small firecracker, perhaps? No?

Just Fluff.

Don't knock it.

Don’t knock it.

Weekend With Zealots

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The Family Lee traveled south to witness the First Holy Communion of the most pious 8-year-old boy on the planet. Sweet Alex is a rare child who hugs without reservation or restraint, adorably recites all words to all prayers, and answers every “I love you” with “I love you… MORE!” Who hath wrought Pious Boy? Why, the Zealots, of course! My darling (Zealot) sister and her lovely husband (Uncle Kabobs) put on an impressive, Catholic show down there in Suwanee, GA. Pious Alex and his Saintly Sister, Kensley will yes ma’am you silly and can put all of the Commandments into the proper order. And on Saturday, the Family Lee, along with Teeny Twin Grandmas, Pop Pop, and Atheist Uncle Patrick filed into pews to resurrect our Catholic faith.

All of us, save my husband who was raised in the Taiwanese-Christian tradition of obey-your-self-sacrificing-parents, were baptized and catechized in the beat-my-breast-and-call-me-sinner style. It’s been a few years since I’ve been to a proper Catholic mass, but all of the prayers and responsorial phrases were as easy to finish as The Pledge of Allegiance. Their repetition through the entirety of my youth has kept them tucked away in brain junk drawers that hold childhood phone numbers and all of lyrics to Babe. (There might even be some Calculus under the piles of old boyfriend peccadillos, too.) But there I was, sit-stand-kneeling with the Faithful, and listening with my Episcopalian-prejudiced ears to the Message: if you are not Holy, you cannot be Happy.

Go ahead, try to get this song out of your head now.

Go ahead, try to get this song out of your head now.

Little girls in teeny wedding dresses and little boys suited up like miniature bankers were reminded that they would be wearing similar outfits when they returned to the altar for the grown up sacrament of marriage. And they were instructed to arrive as unsullied as they are now, at the tender age of eight. The priest generously offered another path: the convent and priesthood are also delightful options should these tiny treasures heed The Call. But I kept thinking that the Message of the Day was that Uncle Patrick, still single, and gleefully sullying up his life, certainly is not, cannot, be Happy.

It’s also possible that I got it all wrong. Maybe the Catholic Church doesn’t trouble itself with the sinning shenanigans of Atheist Uncle Patricks. Maybe the sermon was merely a wagging finger at the miserable wretches who would find happiness if only they’d jump on the Holy Train (neither helpful nor kind, in my opinion). In any case, I got the same queasy feeling similar sermons elicited in my youth. Even if I did my homework and emptied the dishwasher without provocation, I was still inherently bad. Catholics really take this original sin stuff to their self-flagellating hearts.

However, what I really admired about the whole, heavy-handed production was its refusal to be politically correct or to dilute its message for a modern audience. Telling 8-year-olds to remain pure and virginal to their wedding day, or (gasp) forever, may be naïve and old-fashioned (or weird)… but it’s not a bad message. And in a crazy, sexed-up world, Catholics have the parental easy button on this issue. Are they wrong? Any tipsy reprisal of first-times amongst trusted girlfriends would tilt the argument slightly to their favor. And though it won’t hold much weight in the back seat of the Jeep a decade from now, at least hearing an unwavering message during the formative years might prevent a few judgment slips, or at the very least, delay the inevitable, gleeful defilement of the family car.

I’ve got to hand it to Zealot Family. They’re no grocery store Catholics, picking and choosing which rules to follow, and which to ignore. They’re fulfilling obligations and sending up prayers and tithing and do-gooding more often than the Stockton Family makes trips to the package store. And when Pious Alex took the Sacrament, we were all a bit teary. Because Paige and Bob are raising him entirely within the Faith, it was a proud moment for him, one he took seriously with prayer hands and no fidgeting. We were honored to witness it, and possibly a little inspired to reclaim a bit of that innocence and purity the white robed guy was on and on about. And as I looked down the pew at the row of Sinning Stocktons in a collective countdown to cocktail hour, we were all beaming at this beatific boy. We might not be Holy. But are we happy? You bet.

Sweet faced pious boy, who loves everyone MORE...

Sweet faced pious boy, who loves everyone MORE…

(Not) Tossing Tatum

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I have one year of hair. It’s my Hair-iversary. Since my shorn-like-Sinead debut last June, all wigs and hats have been stuffed unceremoniously into boxes and bags, cluttering the dark closet corners where I keep other things I’m too sentimental to toss: the original draft of my PhD dissertation, my prom dress, the typing trophy, and squeezy skinny jeans. Last year I must have written a dozen times how excited I was to burn and banish Tatum (wigs have names: mine was a Tri Delt), but one year later, she’s still on the shelf with other fears I’m too superstitious to toss.

Those of you that read the informative, well balanced, and (let’s face it) bleak essay by Peggy Orenstein learned that we “survivors” (blech) never really get away from fear and superstition. For us, there is no such thing as remission, much less a Cure, no matter how many people run and walk and row and shop and throw money at it. And now with the Pinking of America, none of us is spared from these ubiquitous, bubblegum-hued reminders to remain vigilant. With the best intentions, Komen has made breast cancer the sex offender in the neighborhood: as long as we’re aware (and incessantly imaging and chipping away at our breasts), we will be safe.

But that’s not true. Not at all.

Instead, this crazed awareness browbeats healthy women into an anxiety-riddled, breast-smashing exam as a 40th birthday rite of passage. And it’s quite possible that the only significant result of all of this awareness is earlier detection of cancers. But because this disease is still killing us with the same, disturbing frequency, it’s quite possible that much of that early detection wasn’t entirely necessary. Instead, it just means that girls like me get to live with this Survivorship status for an extra decade. But you won’t find disgruntled grumblings from this set of hairless amputees. Nope, we’d do it all over again. And then blog about how freaking lucky we are to be alive to clean the house with a pink vacuum.

I have one of these.

I have one of these.

I’m quite interested in any data that suggests I completely over-reacted to my breast cancer. Maybe my little cluster of rogue cells had already been there for a decade, and like her homebody host, never had any interest in travel. But maybe an evil, cellular dictator crossed the basement membrane in the six months between my 40th birthday and actual appointment for my slightly tardy (life-saving?) mammogram. Right now, scientists have no crystal ball to discern which breast cancers linger around like an unemployed college graduate and which ones are plotting for total body domination. And since they don’t know, girls like me mix superstition and treatment like cocktails, and then toast each other that we did everything we could.

It might be going a tad too far to call the removal of my non-cancerous breast “superstition.” However, as a scientist, I knew that drastic surgery wouldn’t change any statistics related to my survival. My breast surgeon and oncologist urged me (as they should) not to conflate cancer treatment with prevention, but reading Ms. Orenstein’s story—and knowing scores of others—I wonder if there is any kindness in extending the anxiety of yearly mammograms (for decades!) to save a breast? If there is NO CURE, no widely applicable tests to predict recurrence, and the only tools we have are imaging and butchery… shouldn’t we attempt to limit body-deforming procedures and radiation?

When her cancer recurred, and Ms. Orenstein considered a bilateral mastectomy, her doctor argued that an “average woman” wouldn’t cut off her breast to prevent an unlikely cancer. And yet, the “average woman” might not need four Ativan to get through a yearly, breast-flattening reminder of a disease that already tried to kill her. And a very, very low threshold for biopsy of any suspicious densities puts the “survivor” right back under the scary knife more often than the “average woman.” The remaining breasts of women with a history of cancer (or radiation) are treated like the heads of a family of vigorously nitpicking monkeys. The breast may be saved, yes, but it also may be bruised and biopsied at regular intervals for a lifetime. A bilateral mastectomy might not have been medically necessary for me, but it was psychologically crucial. Also, being unfailingly vain, I wanted a matched set right off the bat. There’s something you won’t read in the New York Times: mastectomy as a means to obtain the best post-cancer rack.

The latest “news” in breast cancer wasn’t really news to me. I know that statistics are on my side, that my complete surgical annihilation of cancers known and unknown won’t improve those numbers, that I might never have needed the treatment I got, and also that this might be the exact thing that kills me. Awareness isn’t helping us survive, but including more in our ranks. (And truth be told, the world hardly needs another blogging breast cancer survivor… plenty in my own family wish I would stop already.) But as we continue to shuttle more and more women at earlier and earlier stages into Survivorship, is the charge to Save The Breast the kindest dictate for these women? Should psychological and aesthetic reasons for a bilateral mastectomy be discussed, or will this continue to be touted as unnecessarily brutal “prevention?” I have no idea. Though I worship science, I’ve approached my own disease with fear and superstition: you’ll never hear this breastless girl say she’s “cancer-free,” nor will she ever tempt the fates or jinx her luck by tossing out Tatum.

The only badge of “survivorship” I’m willing to flaunt is One Year of Hair. It’s my Hair-iversary. I’m expecting presents.

Ask and ye shall receive...

Ask and ye shall receive…

The Local News, by Steve Safran

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I want to tell you a little bit about working in local news.

It’s messy and complicated. It’s filled with drudgery. It’s overnights for years without recognition. It’s reporters who start in small markets with pay so low they take a second job, usually as a waiter or waitress. Pilots describe their job as “Hours of boredom with moments of terror.” There’s not a lot of terror in news.

Until Monday.

My friends in local news work their asses off to tell stories that affect people’s lives. They are lumped in with “the media,” so often used these days as an insult. But “the media” is people: normal people (mostly). People at work the same way you work. Working in news is just like working in any company.

Except when you get something wrong.

I do not for a moment defend the inaccurate reporting that went on Wednesday. That was terrible journalism. That was rumor-mongering. That was the absence of the rule to have at least two sources. The oft-quoted saying in journalism is “If your mother says she loves you, get a second source.” News let us down Wednesday.

But, for the most part, that was the national news. What inaccuracies were reported locally were sourced, as in “According to the AP…” That’s not an excuse. That’s how it works. And how it doesn’t. My friend Cory Bergman at BreakingNews.com had a perfect tweet midday Wednesday as the networks were pulling back from the report that a bomber was arrested. Cory’s site was not reporting any such arrest. And Cory tweeted “And that’s why Breaking News is still waiting.”

Props, Cor.

Local journalism can be silly. We’ve all seen those “WILL THIS THING KILL YOUR CHILDREN? TUNE IN AT 11!” teases.

But it can also rise to the occasion. On 9/11, NECN was on the air for 60 hours straight. Tom Melville, the Assistant News Director anchored overnight. Everyone pitched in. NECN News Director (and now GM at WBUR – an example of excellence in reporting) Charlie Kravetz gave cool-headed direction and insisted upon accuracy. We held off until we knew.

On Monday, as the bombs went off at the Marathon Finish Line, I am quite certain the instinct would have been to run like hell. But the journalists stayed: people like Steve Silva of Boston.com, who was there simply shooting what he hoped were inspiring stories. As soon as the explosion hit, Steve ran to get more footage. That’s not sensationalism. That’s journalism. And, though he’ll shrug it off, that’s bravery.

My friends in local news tried to make sense of the chaos. Mike Nikitas at NECN anchored calmly and accurately. Kathy Curran of WCVB, there to report on the race, put on her local news hat and stood within yards of the explosion reporting. Producers and Assignment Editors in every newsroom – unheralded though they are – scrambled to keep things organized and on the air. The national anchors dropped in later. But the local newsies were there from the first second.

I worked in local news from 1992 – 2006, and continued to work with stations as a consultant right up to last month. 20 years of experience. I can tell you what I know for sure: the people who bring you the local news are, well, wicked awesome.

PRESS

The Basement

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Teddy is scared of the basement. I totally get this. I was always scared of the basement. It’s where spiders and monsters and murderers lurk. The basements of my youth were unfinished spaces. In one house, Dad put up a makeshift curtain divider to separate his workbench and tools and things-in-storage from the area we were allowed to rollerskate and jump on old mattresses, chalk foursquare courts onto the concrete floor and make forts with moving boxes. Occasionally one of us would be sent to retrieve an item from Beyond the Curtain: a space that wasn’t illuminated by the light switch, but instead required wild grasping in the dark until a grateful hand met with the pull cord of a naked bulb. That moment before contact with the blessed string was probably the height of scary for me as a kid. But now Teddy, my funny, imaginative little 8 year old, won’t go down to the basement alone because… well… maybe we should sweep it for bombs first.

I think we all feel like we just finished explaining Newtown to our children. And now, there’s another bad guy… and he’s still out there… and he knows how to make and hide bombs. (And if the good guys can’t find him, maybe he’s hiding in the basement.) Our church, our schools, and everyone on Facebook tell us to look for the helpers. Brodie and Teddy saw their dad suit up in scrubs, throw on a white coat, drive closer to bombs, and enter hospitals armed with guns (to keep the bad guys out, or keep them in?). They might be proud that Daddy is a “helper,” but more than usual, they want to know when he’s coming home.

“So this is probably the second worst day of my life?” Teddy wondered at dinner on Monday night. Because “that time the guy killed all of those kids was the worst.” This was followed by a discussion of how 9/11 would trump even these, but they weren’t born yet. Jesus. When I was 8, I’m sure I couldn’t name a single murderous event that didn’t involve a fictitious, deranged goalie, much less three acts of belief-shaking violence. Those things lurking Beyond the Curtain of my youth were unnamable, fantasy, and just on the cusp of exhilarating (if it weren’t for the more tangible and real threat of spiders). The fears of my children are spun from things on TV in the afternoon.

Later, there was this: “Should we have a moment of silence?” asked my 9 year old. Brodie, whether he knows it or not, looks for answers (or solace) in Prayer. Reluctant to sob in front of my little guys, I deflected that with “who wants ice cream?” I’m not ready for a Moment of Silence. Here’s the loneliest thought: there will be no answers to the why Why WHY of it all in even the most momentous of silences. And until they catch the bad guys, I’m still too distracted and scared to pray to anyone… but what many of us feel (regardless of your brand of spiritual cracker) is that we’re praying for each other.

Here in Boston, familiar sights are outlined with yellow tape and there’s nothing else but this on TV. Here in the Lee household, Daddy is a helper but there might be bombs in the basement. We’re all grasping for that cord in the dark, and finding… each other. Although we’re sad, there is great love amongst us. (See: countless acts of kindness, frantic Facebook queries and assurances, The Yankees, and Chicago.) We’re not defeated! But right now, here in Boston (here at the Lee’s), we have no explanations to alleviate the basement fears of an 8 year old boy. An 8 year old boy. An 8 year old boy.

We are all Bostonians right now.

We are all Bostonians right now.

Thinking of Martin… always thinking of Martin.

Ten Awesomely Wonderful Things to Say to Someone With Cancer

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These messages made me cry and giggle, made me feel warm and loved. And even if these bon mots never find your lips or keyboard at the right time, “I’m sorry this is happening to you… and I love you” never misses the mark.

“Steel yourself for the hurdles before you, take strength from the ardent support of those around you, seek communion with the Lord’s will and His peace, and keep plowing forward through the awfulness.”

“Whatever it takes. I support you and all you do. Unless you crochet. I can’t get behind that.”

“…with so much love, there is no choice but to come out the other side whole and well. I know this to be true. And will be one of the ones who knows this for you if you ever need reminding.”

“Please know that you’ve made us one community and we will always want to know how you are doing. We are all here for you. Forever.”

“Long hair, short hair, or no hair at all, you will be a tough-as-nails badass camouflaged in Lilly Pulitzer dresses beating the shit out of cancer.”

“I am in awe of your strength, your support system, and your ability to put together a good outfit.”

“Hello God? I am a bit pissed off. Stop fucking with my sister. She has done nothing but support you despite our innate human inability to understand your mysterious ways. Enough is enough. Thanks in advance.”

“Yup. You’ve gotten my husband to pray. Look at the power you have!! We’re going to be thinking about you obsessively tomorrow. With crazy adoration.”

“I send you much love and am figuratively wrapping you in one of those shiny silver post marathon blankets.”

“Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!  Should we go get drunk?”

A picture worth even more: a dear friend's "alter" sending my whole family sweet aloha breezes.

A picture worth even more: a dear friend’s “altar” as a portal to send my whole family sweet aloha breezes

Stupid

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with ,

Messages abound of What Not To Do. Don’t admit you want to get married (at Princeton), or that you want to stay home with sticky children, or that you almost never shop at Whole Foods. And don’t eat baby carrots. Ever. But certainly don’t say that to someone with Cancer. Maybe these messages are true, and mean well, smooth over cocktail conversations, lasso you to the tony social circle, and prevent tumors. But, to me, they all sound like this: “listen up, dummy.” Three people sent this to me yesterday. It’s genius, and a diagram… so, obviously, I love it. But like so many of the messages of the day, it’s also a bit of a finger-wagging admonishment of Things Not To Do.

Superfamous blogging/tweeting Lisa Bonchek Adams compiled a list of crap things uttered to the cancerous, and she recently reprised the list now that news of her own metastatic disease inspired even more awkward responses. The list is horrifying. The list is unbelievable. The list is… hilarious. The Cancer Girl in me reads these smugly: oh, yes… you wouldn’t believe what someone once said to me. What an idiot/bitch/zealot. But even though I heard some doozies, they never (ever) made me angry… certainly they didn’t make anything worse. I already had Cancer. In fact, the really awful, thoughtless comments were fun to share with my girlfriends later with giggly, text-y glee.

“Oh. My. God. It says, ‘Well, make the best of it!!’ Yup. Exclamation points and all. Obviously I’m approaching this all wrong. I don’t need wigs and Ativan… just fezzes and kazoos.”

But this is difficult stuff: we’d all like to deliver the perfect response to shitty news, and yet in the moment ridiculous things fly out of our mouths and keyboards. After Lisa’s husband (an old high school crony) shared her website with me–and only weeks later the news that her Cancer was back–I was praying for her. And after reading a heart-wrenching tweet in the wee hours, I wrote something to the effect of oodles of us on our knees on her behalf. Little did I know those sentiments were about as useful to her as barrettes during chemo. Had I read earlier posts from Lisa, I would have learned that she finds the Churchy Jesus Girl approach sort of annoying. Ooops. A few tweets later she sort of asked for well-wishers (like me) to keep all the goofy praying crap under wraps. It wasn’t helping her.

See? Even The Girl With Cancer can say The Wrong Thing. It’s so easy to do. And though we can poke fun at an acquaintance’s blunder, or ignore the tweeted prayer of a Bible-thumping stranger, when The Wrong Thing flies out of the mouth of someone closer, we’re troubled enough to issue reprimanding blog posts. I had my own when I first entered Cancerland. But on the anniversary of my mastectomies, which has been my most difficult day in the Era of New Hair, the only words that I remembered were the good ones.

Most thoughtful friends and supporters of the cancerous can avoid the stupid remarks (more easily than I can), but often wonder, “What is the right thing to say?” Whenever I am asked that, I think of Drew. The night before my surgery he sent this:

“We will love you most on January 17th… until January 18th when we will love you more.”

Sifting through the cards and emails and messages from those scary days, I compiled my own catalog chronicling a chorus of kindnesses. And if you have the grave misfortune of knowing me on Facebook (I’m a frequent updater, a rather public guilty pleasure), you might have seen it there. Quite easily I could find scores of wonderfully “right” things to say. I thought it deserved its own page devoid of the smug finger wagging of the breastless. (Not that we don’t deserve our finger wagging.) Ten Awesomely Wonderful Things to Say to Someone With Cancer. I hope you’ll add to it.

The instinctive goodness of an eight year old...

Kids never get this stuff wrong…

Communication

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , ,

Steve is feeling the chirpy-birdy, sunshiny effects of Springtime in Boston. Here’s his wake up call to all of us: communication is not a competitive sport.

Have your love, your lust, your crazed, Cirque du Soleil sex. Enjoy your puppy dogs and rainbows, this-person-is-perfect-for-me, Teenage Dream early days of a relationship. Treasure the weeks and months you will likely never get again– not because of cynicism, but because you simply can only have the joy of discovering someone once. After that, what you need is communication.

Want a great relationship? Communicate.
Want a divorce? Don’t.

It’s almost as simple as that. The communication needs to be respectful, which is equally obvious as it is difficult. But when you hear shit you don’t like, the healthy couple response is “I’m sorry you feel that way– let’s talk it through.” The guaranteed divorce response is “You shouldn’t feel that way… oh, and screw you.”

“All You Need is Love?” Due respect to Messrs. Lennon and McCartney, it’s not so. But “All You Need is Healthy, Respectful Dialogue” wouldn’t have been a good hippie mantra and would have been harder to sway to.

We communicate so poorly when we’re trying to win the argument. But in our competitive world, this the one time we should be aiming for a tie game. (Apart from soccer and don’t get me started there.) Communication, done properly, is a mutual win. But that’s marriage counsel-y stuff, and I don’t have the right feel good degree to help with that. (See: every other post of mine.)

Here’s what I do know. When you cut someone off in traffic, they’ll give you the finger. When you brush shoulders on the sidewalk, you’ll say “I’m sorry” and they’ll say “No problem.” Internet and TV arguments work the same way. It’s what Roger Waters called “The Bravery of Being Out of Range.” But in our closest, most intimate, important relationships, we can get out of range right there at the kitchen table.

(Incidentally, I respond to all rotary enraged bird-flipping by blowing kisses. Smootches, jerkface!)

I really have no other relationship insight. Oh—wait. One more: double sinks. When you’re buying a place, be sure the master bath has double sinks. You have to trust me on this one. Double sinks will make you a nicer person. You won’t fight over toothpaste, how she takes too long, how he leaves his shavings, why there are eleven different bottles of hair goop– double sinks win. In the space of one morning, this means four fewer arguments in tight spaces.

So in the Springtime of the relationship, enjoy the circus sex, the romance, and the googly-eyed sink sharing and synced swaying. That’s what the Beatles were crooning about. But we need to communicate less like Boston drivers to keep things humming. We need to continue the conversation… sidewalk style.

Let's stay on the sidewalk together.

Let’s stay on the sidewalk together.