Last Monday I had the first surgery in a phase of breast cancer reconstruction. Basically some of my back moved to my front via my armpit. It's as gnarly as it sounds. I've had three drain tubes trailing directly out of my skin for over a week now. Totally reminds me of The Matrix. 

It's been a hard week or so. The night after my surgery I stayed in the hospital, pretty much drifting in and out of episodes of American Greed. My nurse was 15 minutes late with my morphine the first time. He made some joke about how my doctor had so no more morphine, and I told him it wasn't funny at all. The second time he was 45 minutes late. I'm sure there was a reason, but it just goes to show people can decide their hustle based on how they feel about you. Not so well played, Rita Arens.

I didn't really understand what had happened to me until I finally found an animation that wasn't too gross. Now I understand why the healing has been going what to me feels like so slow. I was back at work four days after my lumpectomy, after all. It was way too soon emotionally, but I was fine physically. This time has been the opposite, except for two big cry days.

Last night I went to sleep at midnight and Beloved woke me up at 1 pm. I remember getting up with my alarms to take hydrocodone at four and eight am and my other pills at 9, but each time the fog enveloped me again pretty quickly. If he hadn't woken me up, I think I could've slept 24 hours straight. I do feel better, though.

The reason I wanted to write, other than to capture how this has been (the somewhat primordal scent of limbs not fully lifted in days, the clicking and hissing of hospital machinery in the wee hours, the passing fear that your actual skin might die during a commercial break) -- is to say I found myself searching blogs for what to expect in the ensuing weeks. I've had my first surgery, and now I anticipate my second, which will be much easier, much quicker. I'm amazed at how open and honest the bloggers are, even sharing pictures of what their expanders look like in naked breasts. I wonder, if this would've happened to me years ago when I was more comfortable sharing all my feelings on the Internet, if I would've posted pictures, too. Most of what I find is about reconstruction after masectomy, but my lumpectomy was so extensive and my radiation so effective, I'm essentially being treated like I lost the whole damn thing. 

So hear I am, someone who blogged so faithfully for so many years, surfing and searching the blogosphere for other people's courage and raw authenticity. It feels great to know I can do this, that the whole emergence of blogging created a safe space to say things we all want to hear and no one is able to find in the scientific journals or legally approved medical websites. 

I have to go now - evidence of my past blogging lingers in my inbox. This month I emailed with a woman whose cat had the same surgery I blogged about years ago, and two boyfriends have emailed about my 2013 post on eating disorders and relationships. 

This is beautiful and amazing, that we can all talk together about these hard things in these ways. That I need it so much now feels like a beautiful irony. 

Beloved called me this afternoon to say the wood floor guy called, like, a few months early to say our wood is in, and could he bring it over tomorrow?

Except that meant I needed to clear out six floor-to-ceiling bookshelves between dinner and the work left over from today. With MY BABBEE'S childhood memorabilia, along with my master's thesis, gifts from family members, copies of three books (one out of print) and photo albums dating back to college.

Oh, and in the space I used for eight lovely years when I worked for BlogHer from my house, where I greeted my daughter each day when she got off the big yellow bus from kindergarten through sixth or seventh grade.

This won't take long. 

The biggest thing I noticed, though, in scooping out books I loved from writers I used to email daily to my daughter's early elementary accomplishments, is how far away I've grown from the daily documenting of my own life. In leaving BlogHer, I left blogging, and tweeting, and really ... all of it.

In some ways, it's okay, because the little angel does not want me documenting her life anymore. It's her life, after all, not  mine. My dad always says your right to swing your arm ceases when it connects with someone's face, and writing about my teen feels like that. Like telling you the story of my current parenting situation would be stepping out of the bounds of my experience and treading on hers. I'm not interested in doing that. 

There are, however, some things I've forgotten to write down.

1. I always thought teenagers would hate me. She doesn't. Unbelievable.

2. Watching your child drive is both terrifying and awesome.

3. I owned a horse as a kid. My daughter seems more confident than I ever felt on horseback. That's pretty cool. But as she's lost interest in the horse we've leased since she was a preteen, I've taken over. He's my horse now. I didn't see that coming.

4. I cry over all the things, because I can see the moment where she leaves looming on the horizon. I thought eighteen years would take longer.

5. I always thought I would be so old when she left, but now I realize I will have probably 20-30 years of life left after she starts hers. Whut? I did not plan for this. I need a second act.

6. I don't want to put on her that I hope she has babies. But I hope she has a baby, because I want to talk to her about becoming a mother. I'd love to talk to her about what that feels like. I'd love her to know how much I truly love her.

The light is here longer now. 

My girl is finishing her freshman year of high school. She just got a learner's permit. She's a better horseback rider than I am and wields a mean powerpoint. 

And oh, my God, how is it possible she's going to be a high school sophomore in a few weeks?

I started this blog on my maternity leave. I started it because I didn't know how to process what I was feeling about being a mother. That totally hasn't changed in fifteen years. I still don't know how to process what I feel as a mother, except now that I'm here, I want to say this to the me there, the one who started this blog at this time of year in 2004.

It turns out okay, Rita.

I want to say that to the me who cried in the shower every morning at 23, not sure if I would find my way. I want to say that to the me who paced for miles up and down gravel roads at 17, the me who worried about grades at 12. The me who was afraid my mom would die young. The me who was afraid of tornadoes and fires as a kid.

It's not over yet, but so far, Rita, it's been okay. Your life turned out okay.

You got married, and you still are. You gave birth to an amazing girl who only got more amazing with every year. You live in the Midwest, and you like it. Your friends are amazing people who have your back through everything, even cancer. You did write those books you said you would write. Your body held up. You can still carry your own groceries and think your own thoughts. 

When I was in my twenties, I thought I had to be fabulous. Then I realized I wasn't fabulous and dismissed fabulous. In my thirties, I survived new motherhood and marriage and mortgages and friendships and career. In my forties, I'm redefining fabulous. 

Maybe fabulous is just turning out okay. 

Tonight I saw some commentary on DadSummit about a device that simulated breastfeeding.

I had some feelings.

My friend Doug French encouraged me to write. 

So here goes.

I have one child. She's fourteen. 

She's healthy and happy.

I only breastfed her for seven weeks, because that was the minimum my OB-GYN gave me for her health.

I hated breastfeeding.

Imagine, my men, what it would feel like to have a part of your body that you had always associated as a secondary sex charactaristic suddenly turned into your baby's only method of survival.

Someone suddenly told you that unless you gave up what you had always associated as part of your sexuality, your baby might die.

Welcome to being a woman.

I wasn't onboard.

I didn't like the feeling of satisfaction breastfeeding gave me. I considered that part of my sexuality.

I spent 45 minutes on each side trying to get three ounces of milk. My baby cried and fed constantly. I never slept. Every three hours, it started over again.

I moved to formula. La Leche League hated me.

That was 13 years ago. You guys, she's fine. This child has missed one day of school for illness in ninth grade, and that was due to a stomach virus. Thank God she had all her vaccinations, because don't get me started. 

And so I had a reaction tonight to a simulated breastfeeding scenario for men. I saw their comments as dismissive and resistive. I thought, you know, it must be really nice to be given a hard pass by society to feed a child with your bodily bluids. Cry me a river, men.

Seriously. 

I'm 45. I've had one pregnancy, one childbirth. I have suffered endometriosis, where part of my uterine blood escaped into other parts of my body. Yes, that's internal bleeding. I was cauterized at eighteen. I've woken up at night soaked in sweat. I've felt the rage that only comes from hormones. And through it all, I've shown up every single day at work. I've done everything a man can do, bleeding.

So to see men shirk away from a simualated breastfeeding exercise? Super pissed.

Why must we lose the hormones that makes us beautiful as part of the end of our childbirthing years?

Why must childbirth be the worst pain in recorded history?

Why must society make us feel that we are less than if we don't volunteer for that pain?

Why must we breastfeed when it's not necessary for human survival and it often causes pain for the women who do it?

Who has the right to guilt any women for how she chooses to ride out her own childbirth and parenting experience?

Doug challenged me to write about it, so here it is. I love you, men. I love you for all the things you have contributed to my life. I love you for building homes and fixing pipes and getting rid of stray animals. But I don't think that I'm going totally rogue to say when it comes to physical suffering, you have no idea.

You have no idea.

The woman in your life faces more pain on her crimson tide than you did when your broke your leg in third grade. I'm sorry, it's true.

I am here to tell you that being a woman hurts so much worse than your woman has ever shared with you, because we've been socialized to hide it.

I've had days where just my monthly cycle brought me to my knees. I can't begin to tell you about labor pains or bleeding nipples. Just don't ask. Just listen.

Don't question whether understanding what it's like to breastfeed might check your man card. 

Check whether you would ever qualify for a woman card. 

Seriously. 

I never really processed the radiation tattoos.

Six little dots. Freckles, they called them.

I was happy they weren't my first ink. I had two real tattoos before those six dots. I assume there are plenty of straight-laced ladies who were horrified to get their first ink in this way.

My breast cancer still doesn't feel real. I see people with pink ribbons and I don't resonate with them. Mine was so early, so unexpected, so ... in some ways, harmless, compared to what other people face. 

My broken ankle feels more real than cancer did. Isn't that odd? Broken bones are so innocuous. 

But .... the tattoos remain. When I go to put on a bra. When I go to think about a swimsuit. What is that mark? Oh, yeah. I had cancer. Really? You? Yeah, actually, just a few years ago. 2017. 

It's 2019. That was like, yesterday. 

It would be easier to forget all that happened. If there weren't tattoos. They aren't freckles. They never were.

IMG_0251

I've used this boot twice before. Seriously, this is ridiculous.

In the past, however, it's been my fault. Stress fractures from running longer and harder than a nonathlete with flat feet should. This time, a very tall, very large horse accidentally stepped on my foot and broke a toe. The doc with the X-ray warned me if I didn't wear the boot, I'd end up with arthritis and also not be able to run without pain. He also told me that if I were eighteen, I'd probably heal within a week. 

Thanks, motherfucker.

So this week, I wore this giant sofa on my foot to my corporate job with a normal black leather boot on the other foot. I clomped around the office for four days before giving myself a giant overcompensation injury, supination. In other words, I woke up on Friday morning barely able to put any weight on my left foot. I broke a toe on my right foot.

So, yeah. 

I iced my left foot and realized my Mac was down to 60% and I'd left the power cord at work. I headed in with a sneaker on my left foot and a sofa on my right foot and kissed any hope of looking cool at work goodbye for at least six months. There's something about looking physically weak at work that is especially threatening to me. Clomping is not my jam.

So now it's been a week. The doctor initially told me I'd be in a boot for three weeks. I think I'm going to get an X-ray next Saturday, just to see. Maybe I'm closer to eighteen than he thinks.

So many people have been curious this week as to what I could've possibly done to end up in a boot. That's kind of crazy to me after two stress fractures, a broken ankle, a plate, five pins and now a broken toe: How do you people get through life WITHOUT ending up in a boot from time to time? I'm now starting to wonder if my lifestyle is unusual or I am just unrealistically clumsy. 

I suppose, though, the alternative is not moving at all. Staying 100% safe from boots and crutches but instead falling prey to high blood pressure or diabetes. I think as we grow older, the side effect of an active life is a little time spent here and there in a medical boot. I might be deluding myself, but I'd rather be riding horses and once in three years break a toe when the gentle giant accidentally steps on me than to miss the reassurance of the smell of a horse's neck while going through radiation treatment. 

When I'm running or riding a horse, I don't feel middle-aged. I feel like I'm LIVING. 

So, here I am. In the boot again. Thankfully, I have two of them and a set of crutches in my house. Just in case. 'Cuz I'm living. 

Tonight the little angel introduced me to Ari's Seven Rings. Cultural appropriation aside, I need to react on a whole 'nother level. That's not really setting cultural appropriation aside ... I just have another subject to also introduce, and others have handled the appropriation better than I would. 

Dude. What is wrong with us? When are we going to realize that buying stuff doesn't solve anything?

Sorry, Ari. I just can't listen to this and take it at face value -- you've never been one to brag on your dollars before, and I just don't want to hear it now. 

Wearing a ring, but ain't goin' to be no "Mrs."

Bought matching rings for six of my bitches.

I'd rather spoil my friends with all of my riches,

think retail therapy is my new addiction. 

I'm picturing Ari and her girl gang with their new matching diamond rings, probably enormous diamond rings, and realizing once again that even though I personally look around at other people's diamonds and think they are awesome, diamonds are actully not fungible. We only care about them because a long time ago, a diamond miner decided we should celebrate marriage that way. Diamonds aren't rare. Think about it. Diamonds are like assholes, and everybody's got one. 

I'm not proud of the fact I look at other women's diamonds knowing that those diamonds have absolutely zero zilch zippo to do with the men's or women's who presented the diamonds love for their partner. Your love is not actually reflected in carats, regardless of what the industry would like us to think. 

I'm going to be forty-five in a few weeks, and I keep waiting for maturity. Why do I care about diamonds and square footage and thread count? Why do I think having nice things is a sign I've moved on from post-collegiate threadbareness? Why am I obsessed with replacing all my windows? Where does proper adult maintenance separate itself from superficial materialism? STOP THE MADNESS.

So when I hear Ariana Grande singing about retail therapy being an addiction, instead of being cool, it just feels far too real. When the world is hard and cold and scary and the government shuts down for a month and plays chess with people's paychecks and livelihoods, it's really damn tempting to bury your head in useless diamonds and real estate and anything that can insulate you from the suffering you see every time you turn on the TV. 

It's so tempting to think money could solve everything.

That diamonds held their value. 

That anything material could insulate us from pain or loss or fear. 

I'm not surprised not long after going through a ridiculously public break-up, Ariana Grande might be tempted to buy all her bitches engagement rings. It probably felt safe.

But if a diamond isn't actually worth money, then what does it signify? And why would we try to transfer that onto something like friendship that actually is worth more than gold?

I see it

I like it

I want it

I got it

Over the past year or so, I've been having what I'll call a stress dream over finding an apartment because I suddenly realize I have to go back to college.

I graduated from the University of Iowa over twenty years ago. In all the time I lived there, through two dorm rooms, one sorority house and three apartments with approximately fifteen roommates, I don't recall losing any sleep over where I was going to live. 

I didn't go to graduate school in Iowa City. I went to graduate school in Kansas City, as an adult living with my now husband.

I have no idea why I've constructed this storyline in my head.

I realized last night that I have a created a whole town in dreamland that doesn't exist in reality, and I've revisited it several times now.

There's the two-story duplex with the leaky sunporch and hilly back garden planted with flowers I don't know how to grow. Its windows and doors don't lock, and I'm constantly closing the shades. It has a pool I have no idea how to chlorinate. It's on a street that doesn't exist and that I've researched several times over the past year in my dreams, trying to find my way back to my bedroom there, the one with the four-poster bed I've never owned.

The union where I buy groceries in my dreams is located just south of a four-story library I never saw in real life but where I study constantly in my dreams, sure I'm about to fail. There is a cupola at the top that plays calliope music at all times.

Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens.

In this town, I keep driving past a row of restaurants in Omaha that doesn't exist. I really like the Mexican one on the end with an ice cream parlor adjacent.

Brown paper packages tied up with ribbons.

We try to get a table more than once at the Mexican restaurant and are turned away because our group is too big. I don't recognize the people in my group, but they are very important to me.

The row of restaurants turns into a train line into the north loop of Chicago. I am very worried about missing my transfer to the library on the north end that I've never been to. Someone important lives two blocks south. There are no Ubers, only cabs. I can never catch one. I get back on the train to Naperville.

Snow geese that fly with the moon on their wings.

At the end of the line, a hyperloop takes me back to my sorority house in Iowa City. It has burned down, its ashes still smoking.

I flee, park my car in a six-story parking garage by Currier Hall, where I have a room on retainer up three flights of stairs. My parking space is eternal.

My cat lives there. I will always forget to feed it. It will cry out every time I open the door, and I will be terrified I have starved it, because I am so stupid I forgot to feed it.

I don't know which cat. There have been five in my adult life.

These are a few of my favorite things.

I've been back to this place enough times over the past few years that I recognize the stairwell in the dorm, the elevator that spins when I try to take it to a floor that no longer exists. It makes me nauseaus to get on the elevator, but I still do it, and it never goes where I think it will go. It spits me out on a different floor every time. The doors are adorned with handwritten welcome signs for kids I never met, never will meet. 

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes.

The garden in the duplex dies and revives as different people move in behind it and sink swimming pools with no water in the backyard. Nobody ever buys the vacant lot next door.

Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes.

Sometimes the duplex bedrooms grow huge and comprise city blocks filled with young people I've never met but who know my name. They never get out of bed but call to me to come join them.

Silver white winters that melt into springs.

I don't understand this dream, or why it keeps coming to me over and over throughout the years, much like the mansion with the ghosts in the ceiling tiles and the ballroom floors that haunted me ten years ago. The one with the roof that kept burning and falling, over and over, the one with the basement that filled with water every few minutes, then drained to reveal rotting floorboards.

These are a few of my favorite things.

I wonder why these neighborhoods are so real to me.

Today I had a worlds-colliding moment when a new co-worker commented on an old practice of mine, which is to say, blogging. He called it "Facebook," which is totally fair - that's one of the places my blog bleeds out to. And he complimented me on my writing. In my head, I was all:

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

        William Shakespeare

Because even now, when I went to put that quote in there, I had to pop the hood up on Typepad, creaky old bitch that she is, and look at the HTML, because the WYSIWYG editor doesn't even work anymore. I'm like the old couple in The Princess Bride who give you a cure for being only partially dead but then tell you to not go in swimming for at least an hour. "Well, hidee ho! Let's take a look at that href tag!"

But can I just say, wow, that felt amazing! Thank you, dude, for reading old words of mine from months ago and realizing I was a person before I came to the cube next door. I don't pay my corporate job any disservice, but it was still fun that for an amazing decade people paid me for my voice. 

A few weeks ago, one of the little angel's friends did THE OBVIOUS GAME for a book talk. I was driving them to whatever and heard her talking about how she chose the wig lady scene to highlight and I had this moment where I realized my daughter's best friends took my writing seriously enough to talk about it at school. 

Guys, I can't tell you.

I just can't tell you.

I have always been one to write fan letters to my favorite authors. I've never had a letter back, but I do believe they get read.

Always write fan letters.

My co-worker appreciating my past work. My daughter's friend -- someone I view like my own kid -- volunteering to use my work as a subject at school ... I can't even say what an honor and a privilege that is. 

Why thank you, sir.