Through unlined eyes…

Some time over the course of this summer, my daily guilty pleasure eye-liner habit slipped into an every other day thing. And then a few-times-a-week thing. Until summer break drew to a close, and over a week went by with nary an eyeliner application.

Was it having the kids home, and less time for myself? Nah.

Was I just, like ADHD-fixation *over* make up? Not this time.

Maybe I was feeling like embracing a more natural look? Intriguing, but… nah.

Or just moving into a new era of me?

Well, the last point is up for consideration, but it’s mostly because I was tired of raccoon eyes leftover from crying.

I’ve been doing that a LOT lately. Crying.

More, actually, as summer went by.

You see, just as school was letting out, I had a routine MRI mammogram. (I alternate between this and 3D every 6 months because of my family history.)

And it came back showing that I had an abnormal spot on my mammogram.

Which led, a few weeks later, to more scans.

Which led to a stereotactic biopsy.

Which … sigh… led to not enough answers.

Which led to an MRI-guided biopsy.

Which led to, the Friday before school began, a breast cancer diagnosis.

Like, in one light: Phew. An answer. FINALLY.

But also, in another, like: Shit. Here we go.

And there have been a lot of tears along the way. And with those messy, hot tears, a lot of smeary, blurry, smudgy eye make up. And puffy tender under-eye that doesn’t make application easy, or really want it anywhere nearby.

I’m a big believer that we need the release, the cleansing of tears.

But I also know how very tired I am of having my feelings spill out without control.

Of having my eyes burn and hurt from crying.

Of wearing them, and destroyed eye make-up, all over my face.

Of being afraid that I’ll go down a road comparable to my that of my Mom, who fought long and hard, and still lost her life to breast cancer.

Of recognizing it’s a very different world since my Mom had it in the 1980s, but also recognizing it took her way too soon. And not feeling exonerated from the potential of a very hard ahead.

So now I’m part of the Cancer Club. The early 40s cancer club. The mom of 4 cancer club. The I-don’t-have-time-or-energy-for-this-but-I-have-no-choice club.

It still feels very weird to look in the mirror and whisper to myself, “I have cancer.”

Because outside the stress and tears, I feel OK.

I have never felt a lump; the doctor – specialist – couldn’t either.

But I have cancer.

And I’m beginning to learn about it, and what my options will be.

And information is helpful.

But it’s also overwhelming.

And my eyes hurt from crying.

So until I can wear my favorite wingy eyeliner looks without the extreme likelihood of them ending up smeared all over my cheeks, I’ll be going a little more natural.

In this new era of me, where I’m… a person with cancer.

We’re still mapping out what the road ahead will look like.

And I know that treatment and facing my mortality and making a million choices won’t be easy, but I also know I have incredible strength in my friends and family and church and community.

And my tears – which, though a bit on the ever-present side, are not the enemy – will probably be there for the duration of this, to cleanse and release .

I have had people encourage me to face this positively, and to be hopeful.

And I hope to, because as in much of life, attitude is close to everything.

But I’m also going to let my tears come along.

(Like I could stop them if I wanted to.)

And I’m going to cry if I’m sad. Or scared. Or angry.

Because I have a gift in this moment, to honor my fears and worries and concerns and family history and my mom and what she went through. And to honor the little kid… and teen… and young adults who watched it wither away her mom.

And I’m allowed to release that heaviness.

Because I sure as hell am going to need some strength to get through this, and that’s a lot to carry around, every moment of every day.

And there are tears that come with laughter too, though there haven’t been as many of those lately.

But one came during a group chat with my very best high school gals.

I told them I’d learned my cancer is called Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. I told them my tumor is tiny (7mm, hence not feeling anything), but aggressive (3/3). I likened it to a nasty little chihuahua.

I told my friends it needed to be re-homed STAT.

To which my friend, who loves dogs dearly, announced, “We’re putting that nipper down!”

And the tears… from fear, from worry, from a lack of good nights of sleep… spilled over and flowed.

But in that moment, in laughter and in hope.

I’ll cry when I need to.

(And not generally advocate animal cruelty, but she’s right, this damn dog has to go!)

It’s the right… and brave thing… to do, as I move ahead.

Thanks for your prayers and love.