Tag Archives: Breast Cancer

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…

License to an uncertain future

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with ,

Like all formerly bald people, I have a standing appointment with the oncologist. Today I arrived for my semiannual weights and measures with the usual amount of dread. Sure these checkups are routine, fairly non-invasive, and perfectly pleasant. But I cannot trick myself out of the actual reason for the visit: has it come back? “Do you have any pain?” is a simple enough question. But any forty-ish mom whose iron has been paying rent to the car and dog for two hours is in agony if she attempts to spring from the floor to fetch a ringing phone.

I'm always iron. If I can't be the iron, I don't really want to play.

I’m always iron. If I can’t be the iron, I don’t really want to play.

Sadly, all of my benign groans and creaks now echo a possibility of metastatic disease. My darling doctor assured me that this paranoia diminishes over time, though that’s difficult to imagine after an hour in a waiting room staring at knit caps pulled over hairless brows. Finding me rather spry and not at all lumpy, I was released from the 9th floor with a hug and a promise: by next year, I might go an entire day without thinking (or writing) about it. I don’t quite believe her, but then again, I have a Cancer blog to maintain and another ten years of quibbling with CVS pharmacists.

You might think it’s impossible to put a fun spin on this, but I’m annoyingly upbeat, and there’s another hour before the bus returns small children to my care. In fact, I have something fabulous on the horizon: getting a new driver’s license picture! Because my inability to be photogenic is at odds with my boundless vanity, I’ve been hiding this picture for the past decade:

Glowing... not in a good way.

Glowing… not in a good way.

Well, sort of hiding it. Actually, not hiding it at all. It is so phenomenally bad, that I enjoy whipping it out and bragging about the unbeatable awfulness of this DMV-immortalized Britt, circa 2003:

“Can you believe Bernie married this girl?”
“Yup, that’s my native nose.”
“Nine months pregnant… and I only gained 60 pounds!”

But the next time I return to the 9th floor, I’ll sashay in with much prettier proof that I am Britt Lee, reporting for TumorWatch. (In my mind, I sashay everywhere as my primary mode of transportation.) It’s unimaginable to think I can’t improve on this expiring license photo, and heartening to think I look better after two kids and Cancer than this swollen, 31-year old gal—even if I still envy her long locks and soccer-free Saturdays.

Today, as I giggled for the umpteenth time at the Uncomfortably Pregnant Girl on my ID, I realized that in spite of it all, I’m happier now. Don’t get me wrong: this is no Cancer-is-a-blessing ditty. I’m just so relieved not to be that sweaty girl looking at four consecutive years of diaper changing. And with odds in my favor (luck-on-my-side?) maybe I’ll have the luxury of analyzing the one-year-out paranoia of 40ish Britt with 50-year-old wisdom. Maybe I’ll admire her unflippable hair with nostalgia, and envy her simpler life before little boys had chin stubble and car keys. Maybe by then I’ll be able to look forward more than a handful of holidays without superstition or fear. Maybe I’ll go a full day without thinking (or writing) about it. Maybe there are so many more licenses to renew.

My Valentine

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Before I tell you all about my Valentine, here’s a bit of sweetness to herald the day. Bernie gave me a book with even more adorable cartoons than these:

HAIR WITHOUT DO

If I were a tattoo-getting kind of girl, it would absolutely be “hair without do.” Better than buttercreams or diamonds is this little book of funny drawings, and lovelier than roses or candlelight dinners is a Bernie who knows how much I’d adore them. But here’s another Valentine’s Day Story, which begins (like too many of my evenings) with Prosecco-infused internet trolling.

A few months ago, I entered a silly, online contest to win a serious bag. Fashion Moi Moi is a fun website that instructs women with overstuffed closets how to repurpose their cast offs– and to cast off the things that you should have never bought on purpose. (It sort of reminds me of that time Ginny, the coolest girl in high school, turned a giant sweatshirt upside down and rocked her own Hammer Pants.) Occasionally, Fashion Moi Moi awards faithful readers with fantastically free stuff, and when this orange bag appeared, I knew I could do better than the “me likey!” comments in the contest thread. So after a glass (or five) of bubbly, I wrote something about how a bag this beautiful really belonged on the brave, if not lymph-edematous, arm of a bald lady. Maybe it was heartfelt, or even witty, but the intent of my comment was a desire to pay the purse forward.

A few weeks later, I learned that my Cancer-y comments earned me a Michael Kors large enough to hold five small dogs. But ever since I pulled it from the foam peanuts, I’ve been staring at it with a wigless conscience. I told April that I really wanted to give it to someone more deserving, someone who would appreciate the joy of a giant orange purse, someone I love. We didn’t discuss long. Of course: Maria! Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria! (Say it loud, and there’s music playing!)

Some of you know all about Maria (I compare her to a vacuum cleaner over here). Last year, many doctors in and out of the operating room agreed to join Team B(ritt) Cup despite the inherent awkwardness of it all, but I’m pretty sure no one gave Maria a choice about being my Nurse. In fact, knowing the enormity of Maria’s talent and heart, I was encouraged by all of my caregivers to lean on her when things got shaky. So in addition to hand-holding The Boss’s Wife last year, Maria continued doing all sorts of above-and-beyond things that keep her from sleeping in on Saturdays, or turning off her phone. Last year, Maria earned a Patient Education Award for Excellence and never once cried in front of me… placing her in the top 2% of clinical nurses, and top 0.0002% of Italians.

And then, amidst achievements and accolades, Maria turned some of that life-affirming love and you-can-do-this support toward herself. With willpower, dogged determination, and a gym membership, Maria lost over 60 pounds. Seriously. Just look at her all fabulous and flirty:

Maria then... and now

Maria then… and now

Always gorgeous, Maria now channels this:

Maria is totally skinny Adele.

Google “skinny Adele”… and you get Maria.

And so, this year Maria is My Valentine and I hope that she is accepts this pretty purse with all the grateful appreciation I have for her talent and beauty (even though a teeny part of me wonders if internet-contest spoils are a tad re-gifty). I’m hoping she carries it with all the love and gratitude of hundreds of patients she keeps in her heart and phone. I hope she carries it knowing I won it for her.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

 

For you, sweet girl. Delivery included.

For you, sweet girl. Delivery included.

Fat Tuesday

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I attended a super swanky event on Monday night. Invited by the tallest, smartest, still-so-in-loviest couple I know, they paired me up with a cologne-ad handsome “date” who was all sorts of charming. I sat three feet away from a star, and our waiter appropriately gauged my enthusiasm for refills. All snowy school weeks should be ushered in with a boozy evening in formalwear.

A particular highlight for me was gaining outfit approval from a drag queen. An Amazonian with astonished eyebrows, a headdress, and much larger falsies than my own gave me the once over and announced, “I love your outfit. I would totally wear that.” I’ve arrived. Mid-twenties Britt with a closet full of Ann Taylor matchables never expected to own anything that would be coveted by a man named Destiny. Of course, mid-twenties Britt would also never have guessed she’d be growing out a head of hair from scratch. But for the first time (in a long, long time) there were no questions about the etiology of my closely cropped cut.

I’m still practicing funnier, deflecting answers to hairdo inquiries. My almost-Diana ‘do is less and less a dead give-away, but still provides the possibility of sneaking the dreaded disease into an otherwise lovely night of fundraising. I never shy from sharing a breezy spiel that ties up a terrifying year with a pretty bow, and deters any utterances of prognosis (blah, never say this word near wig-owning women). Certainly, An Evening Without Cancer is an added bonus to An Evening Without Children. And on Monday night, because no one asked, I was just another shorthaired girl in sequins. Gala Monday was my Fat Tuesday:  bubbly indulgences, Art, movie stars, drag queens, witty whispers, scrumptious little cookies, and truly lovely friends who might not realize how great the gift of glittery gluttony would be for this gal.

Later I plan to get all ashy and serious. Lent has begun and the following forty days will be dry. Britt Without Bubbles. Because a season of sobriety may dampen my usual jokiness, Steve Safran promises to keep drinking in my stead. I am so frequently asked about my grumpy guest blogger, that I commissioned an About Steve page from my funny friend. Much like me alongside any man in size 14 stilettoes, Britt and Stevie make an unexpected pair: Churchy Jesus Cancer Girl and her Snarky Jewish sidekick chiming in as Heeb Meets Breast. I warned the writing might suffer (like Jesus). Lent: forty days of horrible jokes. Apologies in advance.

No higher compliment than outfit accolades from the likes of these ladies.

No higher compliment than outfit accolades from the likes of these ladies.

The Accidental New Yorker

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Steve Safran takes a break from whoring-his-talents-for-television to explore the heart breaking impossibility of perfect parenting. We can only hope that the bystander trauma of our (mid)-life dramas will make them more compassionate and resilient for having endured ours.

The Accidental New Yorker, by Steve Safran

It’s getting harder and harder for me to tie in my writing to Britt’s Boob Blog. If I am to be a columnist here, you may have to settle for the mundane details of my life without my stretching past credulity any metaphor to Britt’s. (“I had a sandwich today. Britt couldn’t have sandwiches during chemotherapy because they made her throw up. Mine was ham.”) Recently, however, I’ve landed on a legitimate theme for a site that often includes ways we unintentionally traumatize the children:

Change, uncertainty, absence, loss: the inevitable and difficult aspects of life we’d like to shield from the kids until they can afford their own therapist.

A month ago, I was your standard issue, work-from-the-home-office, nap-often kind of guy. I have six years of bedside coffee rings and navel-gazing Facebook status updates that prove my tenure of freelance-ability. But now I’m a New Yorker four days a week, producing a TV show, and suffering the whiplash of mid-life career reinvention. I don’t even have a place to live. I stuff boxers into a backpack, crash on couches and in cheap hotels, ride the rails, and eat meals out of bags.

At 45, I’m a 19-year-old with a Eurail pass.

This is plainly absurd. Yet it is a fine example of “Mixed Blessings Come to Those Who Wait and Wait and Give Up.” It’s great to have work. It’s fun to be back in TV. I’ve been out of the game since 2006 when I was last a news man. Now I’m firmly in entertainment, producing a reality show for Discovery. I’m at once at home in the environs and homeless in the city I’ve cursed all these years as a proper Bostonian. I have, by accident, become One Half New Yorker.

This week’s schedule:  Sunday: Natick, Monday: New York, Wednesday morning: Natick (son’s birthday), Wednesday night: New York, Friday: Natick

At the time of this writing, it’s Thursday. Don’t tell anyone, but I just woke up in an empty NYC office, when I swear I’d dosed off watching Boston local news.

Did I mention I’m 45?

As taxing as this is on the middle-aged body, I’m more worried about what this is doing to the kids. They have a Dad who is unavailable during the week and is exhausted on the weekends. They’re doing OK.  I know they’re OK. (I’m telling myself they’re OK… feel free to chime in and agree.) But it’s not fair. I told my son I had to go where the money is. He said, through tears, “I’d rather you were here and didn’t get the money.”

Me too, kid.

In the last year, these awesome little people have endured their parents’ separation, ongoing divorce, and now their dad is… gone. Here’s where writing for Britt’s Boob Blog becomes no stretch at all. If a child’s greatest fear is his parent’s divorce or death, then Britt and I are doing a bang up job scaring the crap out of them. It’s difficult enough just being a kid, without us getting diseased, and divorcing, and hobo-ing across three states to provide a steady income. Of course, Britt is better and her boys are relieved. But kids’ fears exist in the moment, and between us we have five kids who have had more than their share of scary moments. But we’re OK. (We’re telling ourselves we’re OK… feel free to chime in and agree.)

Shuttling Stevie between Boston and NY. His car will never be the Quiet one.

Shuttling Stevie between Boston and NY. His car isn’t likely to be the Quiet one.

Gross

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Two posts? Blame it on the HVAC guy. He’s taking forever. I submit that most bloggers are simply waiting for repairmen to arrive.

Being a parent is occasionally quite disgusting. This morning’s bus stop backpack pummeling death match between my usually-not-that-annoying children resulted in a bonk to Brodie’s nose. Two minutes until bus arrival, and my son looks like a tiny trauma patient (while the little one shirked into the shrubs submitting a steady stream of  “sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…”). With no Puffs to be found in any of our pockets or zippered compartments, I let my darling son blow his bloody, runny nose into my sweatshirt. Repeatedly. Until the flow stopped and the bus arrived. As a parent, at some point, you’re going to find yourself wearing blood and boogers. (And you might even forget, and chat up the neighbors wearing your defiled athletic-wear.) Being a parent involves Gross Things.

I’m certain many of you have your own tales of ick, especially with flu season not quite wrapping up in these parts. Teddy’s stomach bug coincided with an awesome sushi feast last weekend. “Hey, there’s my clam!” the little patient exclaimed, after he spewed everywhere except the designated HazMat area I had prepared. Although small people often feel instantly fabulous after a good purge, this excrement identification game had Mommy dry heaving her own expletives at the chum-stained carpet. Blech.

I have no idea why the toilet is an elusive target, or why all of our iThings are covered in a greasy film, or why Brodie’s hockey bag smells like that. But I do know that despite lots and lots and lots of wonderful things about little boys, they’re kind of revolting. Last night Brodie showed all of the signs of imminent hurling, and I consoled him commode-side as he suddenly switched gears and unleashed the evil humors from the other end. Luckily this was one of the times when his aim was good, but little boys with sore bellies want Mommy’s company. So we’re privy to these charming moments in the privy. An honor, I’m sure.

Last year, when I was on immunologic lockdown, Teddy got sick. The projectile kind of sick that involved all 147 of his stuffed animals. Bernie insisted that I keep my distance as he and A-Ma did the midnight sheet swap, jammie change, and mountains of laundry. This was, actually, a bit of a perk regarding chemotherapy, although at the time I would have happily de-chunked the blankets if it meant I wasn’t bald. A year later, I can care for my bloodied, oozing, vomiting boys… and even three inches of hair is plenty to collect a delightful souvenir of such proximal parenting. Yuck. But it’s a good thing to know that my little boys are no longer scared to blow their noses and vomit clams all over me. That’s a beautiful kind of gross.

My apologies if this whole thing has you groping for Purell. But there is actually great love in these nauseating moments. What’s the most repellent thing you’ve done in the name of Parenting?

Don't leave home without it.

Little boys should be issued with a lifetime supply of this stuff.

Endocrinologic Solidarity

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Bernie took a tamoxifen. No, this wasn’t an extreme act of endocrinologic solidarity by my prince charmy guy. Instead, when I consolidated my anti-Cancer, anti-reflux, and anti-headache pills into one tiny bottle, Bernie was none the wiser… and now has ever so slightly reduced his own chances of getting Breast Cancer. When I finally found my little container of mixed meds in Bernie’s briefcase, I knew the 1:3 risk of filling my husband with anti-estrogens was too great (and too funny) not to have happened.

I suppose I could fill the next three paragraphs with jokes about how smart, logical, unemotionally focused, and virile my estrogen-dampened husband has become. But truth is, (unharmed) Bernie and I found the whole pharma swap a funny end to a gloomy week. Though I had counted the calendar days to the anniversary of The Big Bummer News with dread, I hadn’t counted on how the One Year After Mutilating Surgery would feel. It crept up on me in little, devastating moments: Brodie’s un-knocked arrival into my bedroom, those fucking airport scanners, and Adam’s* birthday.

We went to Florida last week. Bernie and I use plastic surgery conventions in warm climes as a great excuse to recruit a teeny tiny Grandma and escape without children. Bernie and I flew south to attend talks by the best and brightest in reconstructive microsurgery, and to share shakers of poolside cocktails in the name of scientific communication. As I was packing for the trip, consolidating the medicines, and unearthing strapless beachwear from the back of the closet (and another life), Brodie burst into my room unaware of my half-out-of-formalwear dishabille. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but I worry that my altered and scarred body can create its own wounds on the psyche of a little boy who doesn’t deserve such a naked reminder of anything from last year.

Ultimately the bags were packed and Bernie and I were off to the airport to stand in lines, disrobing for strangers who make the world a safer place for our temporary shoelessness. I have a new-found hatred for the security detail. I wonder if other patients of the oft-scanned-for-Cancer ilk also have a mini panic attack in that damning tube. It’s also just embarrassing: what do these implants look like on the monitor? Can EVERYONE see them? Does the TSA agent make a connection between my short hair and those opaque circles… or just assume I’ve made some age-related adjustments? Add this to the List of Unfair Things: I don’t have the choice to keep my altered body a private matter, much less to get to Gate C without a reminder of everything from last year. Once we finally arrived, I dulled the post-traumatic stress with mojitos.

After a few days, we returned to our little boys, the wintery weather, and Adam’s birthday on the calendar. This exhumed a handful of year-old, Ativan-dulled memories of terror, sadness, and the hunt for a present worthy of a man willing to be a participant in our trauma—and taint his own cake-and-ice-cream celebrations for the rest of time. Adam’s birthday is the anniversary of my mastectomies. When I re-read the posts from a year ago, I hear a drug-addled girl with a lofty gratefulness. Apparently, it takes a year to get to Sadness: to mourn my body, my Peace, my life in a strapless dress.

Recently asked about the side effects of tamoxifen and other Cancer reminders, I confessed that I don’t always (ever) want to take this little pill. I get mad at it. I hang up angrily at the automated CVS reminders. I’m annoyed with the pharmacist who will ask me each and every month if I have any questions about a prescription with 60 refills. You bet, I have questions. But the answers can only be found in Church, or the kind company of my Bible study companions, or the collected messages from all of you who have been reading this nonsense from the scary beginning right up to its Sad-iversary, or in the eyes of sweet Bernie who has been waiting with open arms for the inevitable fallout for weeks.

My poor husband was all too aware of the date, and how I might spiral down into a wallowing, winy mess of a girl. Bernie chaperones his patients through these crappy milestones at work, and now… every January 17th… will soldier through with his own weepy wife at home. And although I do think it is important to recognize the anniversary, and respect the emotions it will always trigger… Bernie and I aren’t really wallowing types. We’re going honor the Sadness but we will Find the Funny! Bernie took a tamoxifen. Insert jokes here.

*Bernie’s colleague and my plastic surgeon

 

The most estrogen-dampened Prince Charming I could find...

Ironically, all Prince Charming stills look decidedly estrogen-rich

 

 

 

It’s Mine

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Stevie is back to ponder the illusion of control associated with grammatical possession of our illnesses. I don’t want to own my Cancer anymore. I’m hoping it was more of a borrowed time share condo in Cancun.

Me, Myself and My Illnesses
By Steve Safran

Those of us with anything interesting to suffer from use a particular possessive term to describe them: “My.” As in “my depression,” “my epilepsy,” “my cancer,” etc. I’m a word guy, and I find this choice interesting. We are claiming ownership over something we don’t want.

Why is it “my illness?” After all, saying “When I had the first heart attack” is structurally and grammatically sound. There is no need to amplify it by specifying, “When I had my first heart attack.” What other heart attack could you possibly be having? His? He’s not having one. Look at the shape he keeps himself in.

I’m not going to go on about how making it your own somehow makes you feel more in control of it.  If I could make it “your anxiety,” chances are I would.

(Well, not you, per se. But “you” in the sense of “not me.” So, actually yes, you.)

Ownership is one of the first things a child learns — both to claim and to lie about. “That’s MY finger paint,” yes, but also “That’s NOT my mess over there, despite the use of MY finger paint.” Ownership usually implies pride, too. See: “That’s my new car” vs. “I drive a piece of crap.”

The possessive can be used as an admission of guilt, as in “My bad” or “My mistake.” (I have yet to hear “My good,” and our language is the better for it.)

None of which gets us any closer to understanding this peculiar propensity we have for claiming ownership over illness. It must be about control. And maybe it’s a little mental sleight-of-hand.

If we choose to make an illness ours, then it is our battle. We can beat it or succumb to it, but it’s in our hands. “My depression” means it’s not entirely up to the doctors and the drugs to fix me – the ultimate “repair” is my responsibility, too. There’s a handy bit of self-deception involved in this, of course. But who better to deceive than one’s self? We do it all the time, anyway. In my mind, I weigh less and am taller. I might as well be healthier as well. And I probably read Dostoyevsky.

It’s mine, you see. Mine to win, mine to lose, mine to fight, mine to throw pills at, to wallow in, to lament, to mock, to endure. I appreciate your help, doctor. You, after all, have the degree and the stethoscope and you know how to say “uvula” without giggling. But it’s mine. All mine.

Unless you want it.  All yours.

Mine?

Mine?

Christmas Cards

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The Lee Family Christmas cards are in a pile waiting for addresses and Santa stamps and happy little words to sum up an entire year. I relish this task because I never do Christmas cards without a festive musical and champagne bubbly accompaniment. Also, I sort of delight in those moments when I think about the people on my list, the ones in my heart, (and the ones who sent me a card last year). I love holiday cards more than Christmas itself. Birth announcements, children getting cute, then all gawky, then cute again, long-winded essays about medical ailments and grandchild accomplishments, hey-we’re-on-a-boat!/ski-lift!/gondola!, card stock, theme stamps… the whole shebang.

To illustrate how freakishly fond I am of the ritual, I’ll share the fact that I send out 250 of them. I realize that because I am neither popular nor employed nor a Kennedy, this makes me ridiculous. But if I have your address, you’re getting the 2012 version of Brodie Hugs Teddy. And after the year I’ve had, and all of the resulting new friends in the worlds of Medicine, and Cancer, and Church, I’ll be spending more on stamps than Nerf Darts this month. These cards are another opportunity to pen a little thank you to anyone I might have forgotten. But as I look at the gigantic stack of Brodie Hugs Teddy, I’m wondering about the cards that go out to my thesis advisor, or great Aunt Pat, or my lab partner—the people who don’t… KNOW.

Although I love love love love long, single-spaced, tell-all, bragging, and even boring holiday card letter inserts, I am personally opposed to writing one. This is because I feel quite obligated to mock any holly-sprig-bordered form letter that flutters out of a lined envelope. It’s possibly the least Christian thing I do (another lie, I’m perfectly dreadful about plenty of other things), but I am unable to refrain from poking fun at a perfectly pleasant summation of a year. I find it great fun to read what someone deemed holiday-card worthy to share. Last year, great Aunt Pat’s was a dry memo about the inevitability of assisted living; a more distant-than-close acquaintance sent everyone on his list comprehensive beach house renovation details; one year my sister-in-law’s letter had a picture of her pool house, my children, and her uterus; and everyone gets at least one note with lots!! of !!! exclamation!!!! points!!!!! bordered with thirty-eight thumbnail pics of kids-on-holiday in addition to the twenty scanned onto the card, itself. (You know I adore it, Kir.)

But after a lifetime of gleeful giggling over Christmas letters, I’m wondering if Happy Holidays from the Lees! requires my own embarrassing missive on theme paper. It’s quite possible that my old boss (and everyone else who isn’t on Facebook) will just assume that I grew tired of long, awesome hair and chose to embrace a practical mom style. But in the spirit of (over) sharing, maybe these old friends would want to know what happened to us this year? In the end, I’ll err on the side of a simple signature, as every attempt to write one of these things is dreadful. I should really subcontract this out to Steve Safran, because this is what I’ve got:

Merry Christmas! We’re happy to see 2012 pass. Britt was diagnosed with breast cancer and slogged through the usual drill of surgery and poisons, wigs and hats, Holy Spirit shout-outs and blogging. Sending happy, haired messages of thankfulness and love from our home to yours.

Nearly Happy Holidays from the Lees. 2012 was a terrifying year for us. Frankly, we’re a little mystified why so many of you shun social networking, thus necessitating a holiday insert about Cancer. You can read all about it at http://www.eastmeetsbreast.com, but realize some of you are too busy/important/cool/retro to read about Britt’s Tragedy online. We hope you enjoy a Cancer Free Christmas.

Happy Holidays from the Lees! Britt had breast cancer! But now she’s fine!! Everything is great!!! Yay!!!!!

So I think I’ll keep Cancer out of the Christmas card.

Today at Bible study (yes, BIBLE STUDY), one lovely lady shared that she prays for each person on her list as she addresses her Christmas card envelopes. I love that image, and hope it’s one that rings with you, too… in whatever form prayer takes as you shovel stacks of letter-pressed and offspring-adorned cards into the post. I’ll be sending out 250 cosmic messages of love along with my Brodie Hugs Teddy. And all I want in return is some truly tell-all, boastful, misspelled missives peppered with alots. As crap 2012 comes to a close, I deserve a good giggle.

One of many Brodie Hugs Teddy captured by www.drewwiedemann.com/family

One of many Brodie Hugs Teddy captured by http://www.drewwiedemann.com/family

The Millers: Part Two

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , ,

I’m probably too pooped to be amusing. Luckily, there’s Maida. All writers should have a Maida. Endless material.

The Millers returned to their winter home in California last week, and I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye in person. As the Christmas Market co-chair at my church, I spent the entire week preparing for this annual event, doing the things that churchy do-gooders do for these shoppy fair thingies. But while I was running around the undercroft with good, Christian women, the Millers were packing up to leave the cold weather (and us) behind for good. Stressed with the work of it all and upset about leaving her cherished home, Maida left without her usual excitement about heading west. She left without the comfort of knowing her house would be waiting for her in the spring. She left without her purse.

I wonder how many travelers were delayed behind the Millers as Maida convinced TSA agents that she wasn’t a terrorist using a 1975 passport and her considerable powers of persuasion. Gabbing on the phone like BFFs who ignore all notions of the terminal F, I was treated to the funny details of ancients-in-air that probably weren’t so hilarious to the poor flight attendants. Maida is also so angry with her husband for planning to sell the house that she’s threatening divorce. “But FIRST, Britta, I’m going to need face lift!” I love that age is unable to tame the spunk of that gal. Someday, I hope to be a flirty octogenarian who can get onto the jetway using only my charm and a library card.

Liberal Joe (in a post-election departure from super fabulous, lefty political rants) recently blogged about spending some time with a crowd of extreme elders, and how that sucked in a going-to-be-me-soon kind of way. Glimpsing a relatively imminent and inevitable drooling decrepitude is unsettling. We all want to hold on to our beauty, our dignity, and our bowels. But the Millers consistently remind me of the Powerball fortune of longevity, as my own remains in constant query.

I’ll lead with the very good news that the lump was benign: basic scar tissue with nary a rogue cell in the mix. But just in time to taint Thanksgiving with a touch of terror, Bernie noticed a bump– a bump exactly where my cancer originated. But no matter where I get lumpy, from now until The End, any teeny bulge necessitates a biopsy, and a pathologist decides if I get to keep all of this fabulous hair. Bah. But I’ll happily endure these mini-dramas, these additional little pokes and prods and scars, if it means I can see the boys go to college, or watch them wait nervously at the end of an aisle, or hold their own, fractionally Asian kids. I just want to grow old and fall down stairs with Bernie.

Last night, we unlocked the Miller home and by the light of their 20-watt bulbs, found Maida’s purse where she always puts it after a (failed) attempt to pay me for eggs, or milk, or vodka. There in the dim light, I could almost see the house through Maida’s eyes and felt sad for her loss. And if her style of fierce, loyal love is the key to staying power on this planet, then I’m going to be just fine. We have this in common, me and Maida—a tenacious glass-half-full-ness in spite of scary lumps or removable teeth.

I hope these little saucy broad vignettes might be a bit of a foil to the daunting detection of mortality Joe faced on the arrival of his 70th birthday (still a youngster!). My dad always says, “Dying is really going to piss me off.” He doesn’t want to miss the party. But for people like my Dad, or Joe, and especially Maida, the bar is still open and the band is just getting to the good songs. In her 90th decade, and with nearly 60 years between us, Maida and I became friends. Good stuff lies ahead for those of us with the gift of time. Still grateful about my pathology report, I’d like to think the quality of that gift doesn’t depend on my dependence on Depends®. Let’s just all grow old and fall down the stairs together.

JOE BURKE

Liberal Joe… who will never be old.