I forget to remember I had breast cancer

I know, that's weird but true. I am approaching 12 years since I was diagnosed. You would think every cancer survivor thinks about it every single day. Maybe most do. But here is the really odd thing about my lack of awareness -- I had a bilateral mastectomy and have no breasts. This means my chest looks like that of a nine year old girl, minus nipples. With that kind of physical evidence, you'd really expect I'd think about it each and every day.

But I'm used to my body now. When I get dressed for work in the morning, I put on my fake boobs and special bra that has pockets to hold them without any more drama or thought then putting on my underwear or socks. I guess that's one of the great things about time going by -- even the odd becomes routine. I stress about my getting jowls more than I do about my lack of breasts and the associated experience with cancer. For real.

Breast cancer has been more on my mind of late because I am part way through reading "The Middle Place," Kelly Corrigan's memoir about her own experience with breast cancer (and other things). The book is just so so in my opinion, but lots of people loved it and it's an easy read so I'll finish it. She was a younger mother with really young kids when her diagnosis came out the blue. I was 40 years old with two school age kids. So there is a common link. Sadly, it's a too common story. Surviving/living with breast cancer is so well documented that I likely won't share my saga with you.

But in thinking back to those very scary days of diagnosis and uncertainty, I did remember something worth sharing. Someone, maybe my therapist, told me to use creative visualization to help me cope and to increase my chances for a good outcome. I'm not sure what she had in mind for visualizations (one I remember her suggesting was visualizing the operating room and everything in it -- the people and the equipment -- as my friends there to help me survive). But my mind is not that literal. Here's where I went in my head:

1. I imagined a bevy of butch dyke warriors on a McCale Navy's era boat, racing through my bloodstream shooting down cancer cells with rifles, cannons, bomb launchers and more. They were stationed all over the boat, sporting tattoos, piercings, muscles -- and they were very hot (as in hotties), and very devoted to saving me.

2. I named my breasts (they were smallish, perky, and average in every way) "Thelma and Louise" prior to going into surgery. I imagined them in the big red (was it red?) convertible driving off the cliff at full speed, a daring and outrageous act of death and survival (meaning my breasts -- I was killing them for my survival).

For the first couple of years, I thought about my cancer obsessively and was terrified about the cancer coming back and me dying. I practically became a vegan, drank no alcohol, and exercised like a fiend. I thought about where I could move that would be less toxic that the middle of a city.

Then at some point I shifted. I decided to relax and to embrace all that I love, and to have fun. To make whatever time I had left good. Like eating really rich food. Drinking a great martini or gin and tonic (or two). Taking risks for love. Appreciating my kids, especially when they were driving me crazy. Playing well with friends. Partying like a rock star. Living a normal, ordinary life.

I must have been so very terrified in the beginning. I realize now that back then I really low-balled my prayers for survival, demanding that I live at least long enough to see my kids into adulthood -- which was only another decade. At about year five post-diagnosis, I revisited that prayer and demanded that I make it well into my 80s.

Good thing.