I see a red door and I want it painted black

You know how people say not to google health stuff because it will lead you to the worst possible scenario? You should just wait and speak to your doctor.

Because if you google you may end up thinking maybe you have, oh, say, liver failure when in fact the likely explanation is hay fever.

So today, at the start of my annual physical, when the nurse asked me the list of mental health questions, I answered honestly.

Have you felt depressed, hopeless, or down in the past month? 

Yes. 

Rarely, often, almost every day? 

Almost every day.

They asked whether I've lost interest in things that usually bring me joy. 

Yes. 

Lost motivation? 

Yes. 

Am I thinking of harming myself?

No.

And then she did an EKG and the doctor came in.

My heart is terrific, apparently.

I had a whole list of questions for my doctor. 

One of them was about the whites of my eyes.

Because the other day in yoga, we were facing the mirror wall, all up close. And I was like, the whites of my eyes are not white.

I didn't think they were yellow, but they were not white.

As soon as I got home I googled and I was all, oh my god, my liver.

I've never had hepatitis, and when we lived in India, we got regular gamma globulin (painful, in the butt muscle) injections to prevent Hep A. In Peace Corps those of us who worked in health had to get Hep B shots.

But I'm on some intense medication. What's it doing to my liver?

So today at the doctor I bugged my eyes out all, "Look! The whites of my eyes are not white!"

And my doctor said, "It looks like either you've been rubbing your eyes a lot or you have allergies. Have you been rubbing your eyes?"

No.

"Do you have allergies?"

Yes.

"Did you google and freak yourself out?"

Oh, absolutely.

She was like, "These look like allergy eyes." Her suggestion is take allergy pills or get allergy eye drops.

So we did the whole physical, and I was about to head off and get blood work when my doctor said, sooooo, about these mental health answers...

At which point I started to cry.

Because that is how I am right now.

And this is what I told her: I know I'm struggling. I just don't know what to do about it.

My favorite antidepressant makes my hips hurt because of whatever the aromatase inhibitor is doing. And it's my favorite after years of trying different ones and titrating up and down and being tired and gaining weight and being all clenchy and angry and whatever else side effects. 

My favorite one is my favorite for many good reasons. Except that now, in conjunction with my aromatase inhibitor, it makes my hips ache quite badly.

And choosing between cancer prevention and mental health, I have to go with the former.

If chronic pain is optional, I choose not to have it.

So I've been doing the following: Using my full-spectrum lamp. Eating really well. Exercising every day. Getting as much sunlight as I can. Seeing my therapist.

I know all the things you're supposed to do.

I think this is seasonal. Though I wasn't diagnosed for years, I've had seasonal depression since high school. 

Sometimes people say things like, but it's so warm! It's not even winter! 

It's true, it's been delightfully and alarmingly warm. But the fact is that I could be 100 degrees, but if it's pitch dark by 5:00 pm, that is hard on people like me. 

Our serotonin gets re-uptaken too easily or something like that.

I know this kind of depression. Hello darkness, my old frenemy.

One of the tip-offs for me is that I'm gravitating to all black. I've forced myself into some of my fun clothing, because I firmly believe in dopamine dressing.

But right now it just feels like I'm in someone else's clothing.

I bought a second pair of black leggings for yoga. Basically all of my yoga wear is brightly colored.

So, yah. (A phrase Nick hates.)

I cry easily. I don't want to do much of anything. I hate most of humanity, although it's hard to know if that's depression or warranted.

I would prefer to never leave my house, but I do, every weekday morning, for yoga. I walk the dog. I bike a couple miles to therapy, and then I bike back.

I feed myself. I feed my family. I bathe pretty regularly. 

I hate my face and I hate my hair but I don't know if that's depression and I'm hoping whether it is or isn't it's not permanent.

But I currently feel kind of like when that bug came to earth in Men in Black and put on a human suit. I'm doing many normal human things, but kind of fakely and somewhat awkwardly.

But things feel kind of pointless. Hopeless. Not completely, but mostly. But again, it's hard to know if that's my depression talking or the way the world is.

I really enjoy my family most of the time. I'd like to spend all my time at home with them. 

I am able to find joy, and sometimes I laugh out loud. I still have my excellent sense of humor.

I'm not contemplating self-harm. I'm nowhere near the bridge.

I want to curl up in a ball and sleep most of the time. I don't. But I want to.

Anyway, I told my doctor, who I love, that I just don't know what to do.

So what do I do?

Do I maybe try Prozac, the OG, which I've never tried, to see if that helps my mood and doesn't cause me physical pain?

My hesitation is that I don't want to further burden my kidneys or liver. And it might make my joints hurt.

Even though I am very happy to know my eye issue is allergies and not my organs failing.

Or do I just keep doing what I'm doing, with the knowledge that in just over a month the days will begin to lengthen again? The sun will return.

The next couple months will be hard, but there is hope on the horizon. Like, maybe March-ish it'll start improving?

She didn't know. I don't know. We'll see how my bloodwork looks. I'm going to discuss it with my therapist.

And then we'll make a plan.

So, yah.

And the days go by, like a strand in the wind

Dear Nick,

Seventeen years ago tonight I walked into the Tabard Inn on what would be my last first date. 

I love this date, and used to document it annually, but I've kind of fallen off on that. But I love the first year post.

We hadn't yet had kids, so I didn't yet know the phrase "warmy-coldy"—but warmy-coldy perfectly describes the November weather that evening. Which I wasn't dressed for when I left for work in the morning.

I'd have been on time if I hadn't gone home to change.

Well, I've contended that for years, but with my current understanding of my ADHD and my fraught relationship with time, and my jaded view of dating, I probably would've been slightly late anyway.

Back then, I didn't wear my glasses all the time, because I could see clearly at distance. And so if men hadn't treated me like I was smart when I wore my glasses, and not so smart when I didn't, I wouldn't have started wearing my glasses out at night.

And then after that one Match guy asked if I wore my glasses to look less pretty, I defiantly always wore them on dates.

But otherwise, I wouldn't have been wearing my glasses, so they wouldn't have fogged up when I arrived, slightly late and slightly blindly flustered, at the Tabard.

And you wouldn't have had something to tease me about immediately, and something to repeat very probably until death us do part when telling people about our first meeting.

Sometimes I think about the what-ifs, and so many of my what-ifs are wishing the past were different. My what-ifs are anxiety driven.

But recently I read this thing that said something like, "What if everything works out?" 

And sometimes, like 17 years ago tonight, when I wasn't exactly on time, but was barely late, and you were already sitting on a sofa drinking a beer—which, let's be honest, is not a hardship at the Tabard Inn—things do in fact work out.

Seventeen years ago tonight, we'd been working in offices about five blocks apart for a couple years, and yet we'd never bumped into each other in a coffee shop or lunch place, or on the street corner waiting for a light. 

In a movie, we'd have done one of those things.

But in real life, we were both on the Internet, and this night, November 13th, worked for both of us. And once my glasses cleared, I spotted you, and you stood up, and I put small hand into your big one, that was that.

And I've never looked back. 

Love,

Lisa

Hallelujah "nothing concerning"

I put that in the title because I hate it when you click on a link thinking you're going to get the number of minutes to cook unsoaked beans in the Instant Pot, and then you have to scroll through many paragraphs of how the blogger backpacked through Albania.

I want to thank all my kind friends who offered words of love and support on FB, in messages, in texts, and on the blog. I'm tremendously grateful for my community. 

And my goodness, I'm so relieved.

At Georgetown, at least from the entrance we use, you have to pass the Pope and photographs of other figures of historical import to get to appointments. The Pope gets his own sort of corner, though, which I think you can see.

I had to turn right at the Pope for surgery. I go straight past him for my regular appointments.

When I sat on the table the radiologist asked if I had any questions. I got all teary and was like, "Well, I guess what I want to know is if it's more cancer."

I don't even know what other question I'd have.

I said, "My tumor was behind my left nipple, and this little bump is under my left nipple."

So it's not an insane leap to imagine both implants removed and going through chemo and radiation.

These are actually possible scenarios with a recurrence.

This is not like envisioning sliding down the inflatable slide onto the life raft, imagining sharks circling just because you hit the kind of turbulence that makes pilots use their stern voice when they tell you to fasten your seat belts.

I told the radiologist that my surgeon thought maybe it was fat necrosis, and he said he couldn't say what it was, but the appearance was consistent with fat necrosis. 

Mostly we talked about the Hinkley Hilton, which he calls the Reagan Hilton (while I don't call anything the Reagan anything), and the Air Florida flight that crashed into the 14th Street bridge (and which, oddly enough, the dad of my friend Debbie had crossed just in time). We lived in the US the first time during both those events.

I also learned that he was born in Georgetown Hospital after his parents immigrated from mainland China. 

I don't know if I should capitalize mainland?

Basically, the radiologist said he saw "nothing concerning" and he had me sign a paper saying he'd given me this information. 

I don't recall having to sign a paper before, but to be honest with you, the other day I couldn't remember the word for dresser. I was talking to Nick and India and I said, "It's like a table with drawers that you put your clothes in."

So maybe I always sign a paper?

The radiologist told me to follow up with my surgeon, and then told me that she'd have ordered a biopsy if she were particularly concerned.

I found that extremely comforting.

So I texted my surgeon to say he found nothing concerning and wants me to follow up with her, and she hearted my message.

I don't know how I would fare with dating in the age of texting and emojis.

I had a flip phone (ooh, and also that wonderful Nokia brick, if any of you remember that) when I was doing all that Internet dating, which only partially explains realizing en route to meet a guy for a Match date that I couldn't remember his name. I had no time to go home and log into my computer. We hadn't talked on the phone.

Anyway, when I checked out I asked if I should make an appointment and they said she'd contact me once she'd seen the scans if she wants me to do anything further.

Phew.

And at least I know that I will see the oncologist in under three months and my surgeon in six, so that's helpful.

But for now, whatever this is is "nothing concerning" and I will take that. 

If I learned anything from Nicole last year, it is to dress up to feel better. So the photo above is what I wore this morning.

It's fall, which is not my favorite, because of course it is a precursor to winter. But at least it's sweater and boot weather, and I love both of those things.

I cannot take my antidepressant in conjunction with my aromatase inhibitor because for whatever reason, it makes my hips hurt like holy hell.

So I need to get out in the sunshine, and use my full spectrum light, and eat well, and exercise, and do all the mental healthcare things.

I know all these things, and I need to do them all consistently.

Yesterday, though, yesterday I ate an entire box of palmiers from Costco, and if you go to Costco, you know they sell everything in packs of five million.

Often when I'm stressed I just don't eat. 

But yesterday I ate one palmier after the other after the other while watching Love is Blind (which Nicole thought was a show about blind people). 

I never watch TV during the daytime. I did laundry concurrently to mitigate daytime TV guilt.

Some days are just like that.

I think despite going to yoga I was basically holding my breath for 10 days. And now I need a big cry. 

I used to cry almost every day. If I felt it welling but not coming out, I'd watch the English Patient. Back then, I had more time to commit to sobbing over a beautifully filmed three-hour romance tragedy. And I knew which scenes were my triggers, if I were short on time.

But I haven't watched it in over a decade. Could I just skip to where he's carrying her to the cave? Would that still work?

I'm so incredibly thankful to currently be in the position to be wondering about this, rather than making all the appointments and plans I was terrified I'd have to start making.

And that's where I am today.

The lump

When Jordan was little, and we couldn't find something, I'd say, "Jordan, where is it?"

I'd shrug my shoulders and put my hands in the air like I just didn't know.

He'd mirror the gesture, looking at me very earnestly. He'd shake his head, and say, "It's SOMEWHERE!"

Which is always true.

Ever since my surgery last September, I've had a checkup with oncology every three months, and with my breast surgeon every six months.

About 10 days ago I had my one-year check with my surgeon.

My last oncology checkup was in September, when I was in the throes of pneumonia, and that's what the oncologist was most concerned about.

I don't have scans, because I have practically no breast tissue. Basically, I get felt up every three months.

Nick took me to the oncology check because I wasn't strong enough to go by myself. Otherwise I'd have gone alone.

I told Nick I didn't need him to come to the appointment with my surgeon, because all the checkups so far have been very routine. 

Everything feels fine, you look good, see you next time.

But of course, everything is fine until it isn't.

Because at this check, my surgeon found a lump.

She immediately said she thought it was nothing to be concerned about. "Fat necrosis" was most likely what it was. Very common, not a big deal.

She was all, "I don't want you to get all anxious. This is going to be nothing."

But of course I started crying. I started listing the choices I made, saying I should've made different ones. 

No, she said. I did everything I should do.

We were at the downtown building rather than the hospital, and she sent me to the radiologist upstairs to see if they could fit me in, because she could then just run up and take a look.

They don't do breasts on Fridays. 

It took me a bit of time to get an appointment. In the meantime, I've googled.

Fat necrosis is common after trauma like surgery. Fat cells die from lack of blood supply. They make a lump.

This makes a lot of sense.

But of course, I've catastrophized. I'm a catastrophizer.

And I work fast.

Way back in my singleness I'd go on first dates and by the time we'd had a glass of wine I'd mentally have married and divorced the guy.

So.

First thing Wendesday morning, I'm going for a scan.

It's either something, or it's nothing. 

I mean, it's something. 

It's just either something no big deal, tantamount to nothing, or it's a really big deal.

Sixteen is wax (and honesty)

Yesterday was our 16th wedding anniversary. 

Weirdly and foreverly, it's also the anniversary of my double mastectomy. Last year I told my surgeon that it was our silicone anniversary. 

In case you're wondering, 15 is crystal. This year is wax.

I'd heard about golden anniversaries and such, but I learned about year-by-year commemorations of anniversaries from The English Patient. Paper for the first anniversary. 

Pretty sure that for me, deep in grief over my father plus undiagnosed post-partum depression, I'd have crumpled that paper, stomped on it, doused it in kerosene, and set it ablaze with an entire box of matches.

I've joked about lying awake at night that year, dividing up the furniture. But that's not really true, because it's so clear what furniture is Nick's, and what's mine. We'd never vie for the other's. 

Until recently, before I felt empowered to voice my actual needs, I'd say things like, oh, look how well our furniture fits together! Because look, Nick, yours is from the colonizers, and mine was all purchased in those colonized countries your ancestors were busy dominating while they were running around wrecking the world.

Instead of just saying: you need to come home from the office and participate nightly in the care of our children. 

To which he could've responded: when the entire world economy collapsed, everyone stopped paying their bills, and I have to work all the time to keep the business afloat.

Me, I had a secure job, but it didn't pay enough to cover our mortgage and expenses. 

And we didn't have that conversation until years and years later.

You cannot expect to have your needs met, or even examined, if you don't voice them.

So over the last maybe year and a half, I realized I had to take responsibility for my actions. I had to look at how my own actions contributed to my happiness or lack thereof in my relationship and in life.

It kind of sucks but is also kind of a relief when you recognize you are your own problem. 

Until recently, I didn't have the ability to confidently and consistently say no in our relationship. No, I don't want to do this. No, this doesn't work for me. 

Or, anyway, the way I said no wasn't the way Nick heard no.

I'd say it in an oblique way, like, well, I don't prefer that. Or, I like this one better. Um, not really.

My concrete and perpetual example is a toilet paper holder.

After seven years in the house, we were going to have a master bathroom. And we got to choose everything.

I said I wanted a particular style of toilet paper holder, the kind where the holding bar flips up. So Nick said to find one. And then he didn't like any of the links I sent him.

Nick wanted, and purchased, a massive monstrosity that would also hold magazines.

I kept saying I didn't think we really needed one that big, how about this one, I prefer this kind, etc. etc.

This was over a number of weeks, as our bathroom was being renovated. And then we stopped talking about it. I didn't see the matter as decided.

And then, on what turned out to be the day of installment, Australian Builder held up Nick's large magazine holder with a bar for toilet paper and said, "Lisa, do you actually like this? Because I'm going to drill a whole lot of holes in your new tile."

And I was all, "Kim, I hate it so much."

He nodded and said, "Yes. I thought I should check." 

But if he hadn't asked me, and had put it up, I'd still be looking at it and feeling bitter every single day. It's not even easy to change the toilet paper. I know, because it's installed in our downstairs bathroom.

(As it is, we never got a wall one in our bathroom. Nick bought a stand, and for the first couple years, without saying anything about it, I wouldn't change the roll when we ran out. I'd just put the new toilet paper on top. My passive-aggressive little fuck you.)

Anyway, when Nick came home that night, I said, "Kim didn't put up your toilet paper holder."

And he said, "Why?"

I said, "Because I fucking hate it."

This was news to Nick. I didn't like it? Why didn't I say anything?

I was raised to say yes. If that's what you want for us, then yes. OK, sure. I mean, not really, but if it's what you want, we can do that.

For him to hear no, I had to explicitly say no. Very strongly, no, absolutely not, I hate it, no. 

I understood this, but I was not equipped to do this. I tried, but I just couldn't. I mean, I could say my sort-of nos, or no-adjacent things. But standing solidly by my no, when Nick wanted me to say yes?

Ha.

Added to this, if Nick doesn't get the answer he wants the first time, he'll ask repeatedly.

Making his viewpoint seem reasonable, and persisting until he gets his desired outcome is his actual job. And he is very good at his job.

So even if I started with no, eventually, I would be worn down enough to agree. And then I'd be pissed.

At some point in my youth I learned to just agree with my dad, and then on the side go ahead and do what I wanted.

This was the easiest approach with my dad and people like my long-ago boss who wanted me to find a way to make Canada look smaller than the US.

Be agreeable and subversive.

Eventually I started doing this with Nick. I recently admitted it to him.

In dysfunction, things get complicated and twisty.

But now, with a tremendous amount of work with my therapist, I can say no. This approach doesn't work for me. I don't want to do that. I will not. No thank you. Absolutely not.

I don't manage it every time, but most of the time.

And then he can say OK, or we can have a conversation. But at least it's starting from an honest place.

This makes things so much better. 

It is awful for everyone if you say yes and then are super crabby about it. Agree, and then resent being stuck somewhere you don't want to be, and pick a fight about something completely different, not realizing why. Say yes and seethe and smile and pretend it's all fine, but with a bitch-faced I fucking hate you smile.

Ooh, I did so much of all those things.

Because I can now say no to things I don't want to do, I can now also be generous with things I don't particularly want to do but I know would make Nick happy or would make for greater family harmony.

And I'm not perpetually angry.

Growing up, I was taught to stuff anger down. Don't make anyone else uncomfortable. Or anyway, don't make men uncomfortable, if you want them to love you. And you want them to love you.

Quietly simmer and seethe and swallow it. Preferably forever, but if not forever, then until you absolutely cannot hold it in any longer.

Nick, on the other hand, was raised wielding anger self-righteously. A useful tool. 

And together, we had so much anger. 

The Anger could be a whole series of posts.

So much anger. And so little emotional regulation.

Part and parcel with saying yes when I wanted to say no, I didn't feel like I had the right to voice my needs.

I didn't really even know how to recognize them to voice them to myself.

All those jokes about stabbing Nick? Hahaha! 

They didn't originate in a place of joy.

Now, as much as I can be, I'm honest. I say: this is what I need. If you want to make me feel like a priority, this is what I need you to do to show me I'm a priority.

Which is not to suggest that Nick hasn't been there for me, because he's been incredibly solid through huge, terrible things. Nick is good people. He's loving and kind and supportive.

We've been there for each other through some very painful events. And being there for those you love is imperative. But the crisis ends, and you still have the day-to-day.

It's true that I'm still quite resentful about the early years with the kids. Even now that I understand how much Nick had to work to keep the business going.

And I understand now that while my mom was helpful, in those young kid years I was also already doing a lot of caretaking of her. 

It was too much for many reasons.

Our new dynamic means that sometimes Nick does not get his way, or we come to a compromise. It also means that I'm not constantly accusing him of having everything his way and resenting him for it. 

It seems so simple, when I think about it now. But those fucked-up learned patterns are powerful.

I mean, how do you communicate in an honest way when you're not even aware of how you're being dishonest?

Gosh, this all took so long to learn.

This isn't a remotely romantic anniversary post, but I don't actually think marriage is all that romantic.

Maybe it's more romantic for other people? I don't know. 

Maybe it's easier for other people? I think, given my family of origin, it was never going to be easy for me or my partner.

Nick and I were old enough when we met that I thought we were grown up. But it turns out we both had so much growing to do.

I know we have more work to do, but 16 years in, I'd say we're in a happier, more solid place than we've ever been.