Zippy Lomax

today’s better than yesterday — and it looks like the forecast has improved moving forward — but it’s still very cold and will be through tomorrow.

pass it on:
More warming shelters were opened on Friday night: here’s where people can go without a referral. Pets welcome. Free rides available by calling 211.

- Salvation Army: 5325 N. Williams Ave. Portland
- Cook Plaza: 19421 S.E. Stark St., Gresham
- Friendly House: 1737 N.W. 26th Ave., Portland
- Ascension Catholic Church: 743 S.E. 76th Ave., Portland
- Powell Shelter, 7332 S.E. Powell Blvd., Portland
- Market Street Shelter, 120 S.E. Market St., Portland

This series of self-portraits — taken in the few days leading up to my mastectomy — convey much of the discomfort I was feeling then.

I can see the inner conflict between the part of me that so wanted to honor ‘the breasts that were’; as they naturally developed — before they were forever changed — and the part that recoiled at the thought of being so seen, *even if only by me.*

The 8 rounds of chemo wreaked havoc — like nuclear bombs — leveling everything, forever changing my physical and emotional landscapes.

After 4 infusions of Taxotere & Cytoxan, administered in 21 day cycles, I was switched to a more aggressive treatment; the strongest chemo ever created (Adriamycin) and more Cytoxan for an additional 4 rounds, given every two weeks.

Whatever systems had slowly begun their delicate recovery towards the end of TC, buckled when the AC hit them.

No part was spared — from brain to skin to heart to nails to hair — so complete was my annihilation.

I felt….and still do…undeniably awkward. Like I’m bumbling around in an ill-fitting suit; a borrowed garment belonging to someone older. Someone heavier set, with softer edges and darker spots.

She doesn’t feel like…me. Not really.

I feel…unfamiliar — both in and out.

Still fumbling my way through the wasteland — picking my way through the fall out — discovering that which remains as I slowly come to know this new shape.

While I’m not sure such specificity matters at this point, I feel inclined to share a few details.

At first, all I could think about were these new terms — an entirely new language — carrying heavy, life-changing meaning.

• Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, Grade 3
• Ductal Carcinoma In Situ, High Nuclear Grade
• Hormone Receptor Positive
• HER2 Negative
• Ki-67 (Growth Rate) 70%

I learned all I could about my diagnosis, shedding quiet tears as I realized how aggressive it appeared to be. Yet, somehow, such intellectual understanding comforted me, making the physical experience easier to endure.

It’s been through a lot, this miraculous body. Cancer is simply its most recent adventure, but one that has changed more of me than anything that came before.

I’m alive, and grateful for being so. But the cost of that truth has been undeniably high. Though I’ve maintained a decidedly level-head about everything, I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit how uncomfortable I am in this present iteration of ‘self’.