I wish I had been more accepting of help in the early days when I was first diagnosed with breast cancer in 2006. I wish I had not seen it as a personal “weakness” the way that I express in this piece. I don’t want to change what I wrote then, but I do want to say that I don’t think I was right to push myself so hard. If I had it to do over again I would accept help more often– maybe not for the hair-washing, but definitely for other tasks that I should have outsourced. I have learned from my experience and I now try to graciously accept help when it is needed.
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One of my favorite romantic movie moments occurs between Denys (Robert Redford) and Karen (Meryl Streep) in the movie Out of Africa. The two lovers are out in the African desert at a fireside camp. Karen leans her head back into Denys’s hands. He washes her hair gently, then cradles her head in one hand and pours water from a pitcher, slowly and gently rinsing the soap from her hair after he’s done washing it. It’s a tender moment, to me utterly soft and sensual.
Before I left the hospital after I had a double mastectomy, the staff told me I might not be able to lift my arms over my head. With both sides affected, they said, I’d likely be unable to wash my own hair.
Recovery is slow in the week after surgery. A clear thin tube (like aquarium tubing) is literally sewn into a small hole in the skin under each arm. It carries excess fluid away from the mastectomy site as it heals. Fluid is collected into a small “bulb” and measured every few hours. After certain medical criteria are met, the drains are removed, the incisions sewn up, and then you can finally take that longed-for shower. Eight days after the surgery I received the all-clear. As any mastectomy patient will tell you, the day you get your drain(s) out is a great day.
Only then did I try to lift my arms. And hurt it did. I tried to shrink down into my body. I tried to be a tortoise withdrawing my head back inside my shell, shortening my height so I wouldn’t have to lift my hands so high to reach my hair. It was a painful challenge. I worked up a sweat trying to get my fingers to touch my scalp. I knew it was a questionable proposition. But I thought I could do it.
I thought about that scene— that romantic tender scene from Out of Africa. And I started laughing. I laughed and I laughed and tears came down my face. That cry hurt. It was one of those “I’m laughing and I’m crying and I’m not sure if it’s funny or sad or both and I don’t want to think about it so I’ll just go with it and I hope I’m not on Candid Camera right now…”
I was laughing at the absurdity of it. Here I was. It was my chance to get Clarke to wash my hair. My big fantasy moment. I was going to be Meryl Streep and he was going to be Robert Redford and he was going to wash my hair. Except I couldn’t move without pain. And I certainly wasn’t feeling romantic. I had just had my breasts removed. And I had these weird temporary breasts (tissue expanders) in their place. And my chest was numb. And my underarms hurt from having tubes in them for a week.
Because I hadn’t properly showered I still had purple Sharpie hieroglyphics all over my chest. And I had no nipples. And I had big scars and stitches in place of each breast. And a small angry scar with stitches under each armpit where the drain had just been removed. Let me tell you… this was clearly not how I envisioned beckoning my loving husband to come make my little movie scene a reality.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Had I called him from the other room, he would have done it in a second. He would have been there for me, washed my hair, and not made me feel the bizarre, odiferous (!) freak I felt at that moment. And I would have loved him for it. But I did not want him to see me like that.
In that moment I had a dilemma. What kind of woman was I going to be?
What kind of person was I going to be with this disease from that moment going forward?
I was going to push myself. Do it myself.
I wasn’t going to be taken care of if I could help it. I knew I was going to have trouble asking for help, have trouble accepting help. I knew these things were going to be necessary. But I also knew they were going to cause me problems. That’s the kind of person I am.
I knew asking for and accepting help were actually going to make me feel weaker than I was already feeling. And it was only the beginning. I knew these actions were going to make me feel weaker than I knew I was going to get. I wanted to do everything myself for as long as I could.
That was what was going to make me feel alive: doing it myself.
I am not sure I did the best job washing my hair. I probably missed a spot or two. But I did it. And I didn’t ask for help.
Granted, it was something small.
But in that particular moment, on that particular day, that particular act gave me a feeling of pride as big as anything else I could have possibly accomplished.
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I gave that very advice to a woman expecting her first child just two days ago: learn to accept help. For my first baby, I vehemently refused to ask for help. I was going to prove I could do it. I didn’t need advice. I could figure it out. I could skip that nap. I could do everything. And even though I might have felt proud of myself for doing any one particular thing, the drain of always doing it eventually took its toll. PPD is rough and it hit me hard. I was so exhausted, I couldn’t sleep even when I had the opportunity. With my boy sound asleep upstairs, I’d sit awake at 2am, watching tv, utterly beside myself with anxiety that I wasn’t getting the sleep that I knew I should be getting. I finally had to get a prescription for sleeping pills to “re-boot” me and get me back on my feet. Even after that, though, I *still* didn’t get it. Pride makes you so stupid!! I basically lost a year of my life; and ruined the joy of my first born’s babyhood. I wasn’t like that at all for my second child. Or my third. I suppose having 3 boys under the age of 3.5 was something even *I* had to admit was more than I could handle! And the first years of both of those boys’ lives were SO much more fun!
Being a new mother is certainly not the same as dealing with the consequences of cancer; but the message of accepting an offer of help when it’s needed is the same. No one will give you a medal for doing it yourself. There’s no one tabulating points. It’s ok to admit weakness. Ironically, you will be stronger for it in the long run.
Oh, Lisa. This one got to me. I’m so grateful not only for the honesty of your writing, but for the comments you offer from where you are now, looking back on where you were then. Sending you love and appreciation, my friend. xo
Lisa – You’re teaching me to be more “gracious” ….
i so get this. even the different perspectives of ’06 and now. i so get this.
Many things that seem daunting or just too much are the best things you can do. I think asking for help is one of them.
I got vehement advice early on about asking for help when I was diagnosed with DCIS. So I set up a way for my friends (the ones who had said: let me know if there’s anything I can do) to sign up to drive me to SF for my radiation treatments. The six-week calendar was full of volunteers in about two days.
My friends were so relieved and delighted to have a job. I was so glad to have different people to chat with on the way to radiation, both for the pleasure of their company and so I didn’t obsess about what was going to happen to me next. I was so glad I took that advice. (And my friends still thank me for giving them the chance to do something for me.) <3
It’s a surprising pull between pride, determination, vulnerability and (in my case) shame. But it’s no surprise that you have a different perspective now. We sure learn a lot, don’t we? I guess a part of that is humility, and that there’s nothing wrong with accepting support. ~Catherine
I am a very independant person also. Needing help has been such a challenge for me. I even had to move back in with my mother in a city I hate. I don’t try to do everything by myself anymore because I know it’s impossible. It is still frustrating. I love that scene in “Out of Africa” too by the way. I think it is sexier than most bed scenes in films. That whole movie is one of my favorites.
I am a very independent person as well, so accepting or asking for help has been difficult. I even had to move back in with my mother to a part of CA I despise. I have learned that it is impossible for me to do certain things alone, but it is still frustrating. I love that scene in “Out of Africa” also. I think it is sexier than most bed scenes in films. One of my fave films also.