Then Came Life: Living with Courage, Spirit, and Gratitude After Breast Cancer, by Geralyn Lucas
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Then Came Life: Living with Courage, Spirit, and Gratitude After Breast Cancer, by Geralyn Lucas
Free PDF Ebook Then Came Life: Living with Courage, Spirit, and Gratitude After Breast Cancer, by Geralyn Lucas
Author of Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy Geralyn Lucas’s funny and moving story of leaving the traumatic experience of cancer behind and learning to survive all the challenges of a life she thought she would not have. When Geralyn Lucas, author of Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy, put on red lipstick in the hall on the way to the operating room, she was showing her doctors, her family, and, most important, herself that she planned on coming out of the OR and living life to the fullest. She figured that that day in the OR would be the hardest day of her life—but, it turns out, the twenty-seven-year-old cancer survivor was a bit short-sighted.Then Came Life picks up almost two decades later, when Geralyn is now living the life she was afraid she’d never be able to have. After having almost died from cancer as a young woman, Geralyn felt that growing old enough to get wrinkles is a gift—one she prayed fervently for in her youth. But she is now in her midforties: Her two miracle babies (both C-sections, both advised against by her doctors) have grown into a mean tween with a fierce eye roll for her mother’s failures and a tornado of little-boy energy who refuses to play by his preschool’s rules; a storybook romance with her husband has become couples therapy with a grumpy prince; and her demanding corporate job at Lifetime TV that she loves moves across the country without her. She has lost the wonder of that cancer gratitude moment, and when she looks in the mirror at her hard-won wrinkles, all she can think about is that she wants to have Botox.Then Came Life is a charming, quirky, delightful yet poignant story of surviving life, a collection of coming-of-(middle)-age stories of trying to be a role model for her daughter while being dissatisfied with her own looks, and what happens when her adoring son is more intent on romancing her than her husband is (right down to dueling Valentine’s Day cards). With the clear-eyed wit and observations of Nora Ephron, she not only explores the dissonance of facing the challenges she was afraid she wouldn’t be alive to have but also confronts them with a great sense of infectious empowerment and a hilarious voice. Geralyn harnesses her fighting spirit and leaves behind the trauma of cancer to battle all the rest that life has to throw at her. Then Came Life is not a cancer recovery story: It is about rediscovering the resilience, courage, and optimism it takes to reinvent yourself at every age.
Then Came Life: Living with Courage, Spirit, and Gratitude After Breast Cancer, by Geralyn Lucas - Amazon Sales Rank: #643996 in Books
- Published on: 2015-10-06
- Released on: 2015-10-06
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 7.98" h x .61" w x 5.30" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 224 pages
Then Came Life: Living with Courage, Spirit, and Gratitude After Breast Cancer, by Geralyn Lucas Review Praise for Then Came Life
"The candid and perceptive author talks about motherhood...marriage, body image, self-worth, family, and the loss of loved ones as she ultimately seizes living over living in fear. ...Lucas’s sage commentary will bring a nod of recognition from fellow cancer travelers and a smile to everyone’s lips, even if they aren’t cherry red. Highly recommended.-Library Journal
"Lucas’ success in overcoming breast cancer would give nearly anybody the sense that other, more “manageable” obstacles can also be overcome. Different challenges—learning to parent, resolving marital difficulties—have called on her to tap into other inner resources, and she continues to handle them with a positive attitude. ...Women inspired by the way Lucas marshaled her resources for treatment will enjoy seeing how such strength can be channeled into other challenges."-Kirkus Reviews
Prone to self-criticism and with an affinity for Botox, Spanx, and antidepressants (as well as the red lipstick that gives her courage), Lucas doesn’t hold back as she confronts aging, negativity, and living fearlessly. This forthright tale of a woman facing her future after cancer will resonate with survivors as well as others caught in the throes of midlife.-Publishers Weekly
“I love this honest, funny, and deeply emotional book. Geralyn charmed her way into my heart and took up permanent residence.”-Delia Ephron, author of Sister Mother Husband Dog (etc.)
“The author of the original girl power cancer tome is back with a tour de force. THEN CAME LIFE isn’t just for cancer survivors, but for anyone who’s survived anything. I just love this book!”-Marissa Marchetto, author of Cancer Vixen
“As the physical embodiment of aspiration and audacity, she has paved the way for our generation of young cancer survivors to become the change we wished to see.”-Matthew Zachary, cancer activist and CEO of Stupid Cancer
“l loved Geralyn’s words of wisdom, wonder and whimsy. She is my pink soul sister!”-Betsey Johnson, fashion designer
“It takes a tremendous amount of courage, determination, and confidence to rise up and reinvent your life after breast cancer treatment is over. Life feels fragile and frightening. Geralyn Lucas’ book is a fresh, smart, funny, open and honest account of the raw moments from low self-worth to new self-appreciation, mourning to celebration, marriage to motherhood, and from hiding to bold extroversion. It’s a fascinating real life bumpy ride. Buckle your safety belt and read this book!”-Marisa C. Weiss, MD, President and Founder, Breastcancer.org
Praise for Then Came Life“The candid and perceptive author talks about motherhood . . . marriage, body image, self-worth, family, and the loss of loved ones as she ultimately seizes living over living in fear. . . . Lucas’s sage commentary will bring a nod of recognition from fellow cancer travelers and a smile to everyone’s lips, even if they aren’t cherry red. Highly recommended.”—Library Journal “Lucas’ success in overcoming breast cancer would give nearly anybody the sense that other, more ‘manageable’ obstacles can also be overcome. Different challenges—learning to parent, resolving marital difficulties—have called on her to tap into other inner resources, and she continues to handle them with a positive attitude. . . . Women inspired by the way Lucas marshaled her resources for treatment will enjoy seeing how such strength can be channeled into other challenges.”—Kirkus Reviews Prone to self-criticism and with an affinity for Botox, Spanx, and antidepressants (as well as the red lipstick that gives her courage), Lucas doesn’t hold back as she confronts aging, negativity, and living fearlessly. This forthright tale of a woman facing her future after cancer will resonate with survivors as well as others caught in the throes of midlife.”—Publishers Weekly “I love this honest, funny, and deeply emotional book. Geralyn charmed her way into my heart and took up permanent residence.”—Delia Ephron, author of Sister Mother Husband Dog (etc.) “The author of the original girl power cancer tome is back with a tour de force. Then Came Life isn’t just for cancer survivors, but for anyone who’s survived anything. I just love this book!”—Marisa Marchetto, author of Cancer Vixen“As the physical embodiment of aspiration and audacity, she has paved the way for our generation of young cancer survivors to become the change we wished to see.”—Matthew Zachary, cancer activist and CEO of Stupid Cancer “I loved Geralyn’s words of wisdom, wonder, and whimsy. She is my pink soul sister!”—Betsey Johnson, fashion designer “It takes a tremendous amount of courage, determination, and confidence to rise up and reinvent your life after breast cancer treatment is over. Life feels fragile and frightening. Geralyn Lucas’s book is a fresh, smart, funny, open, and honest account of the raw moments from low self-worth to new self-appreciation, mourning to celebration, marriage to motherhood, and from hiding to bold extroversion. It’s a fascinating real-life bumpy ride. Buckle your safety belt and read this book!”—Marisa C. Weiss, MD, president and founder, Breastcancer.org and author of Living Beyond Breast Cancer Praise for Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy“This is the first time that wearing lipstick is a metaphor for courage and hope. Geralyn Lucas’s story of her experience with breast cancer is written in a breezy, inspirational voice. Her energetic enthusiasm and fears are balanced beautifully and expressively to rivet the reader on each page.”—Evelyn Lauder, senior corporate vice president of the Estée Lauder Companies and founder and chairman of the Breast Cancer Research Foundation “I played it, Geralyn lived it. Read this book and you’ll never wear lipstick the same way again.”—Kim Cattrall, actress “In this gutsy, touching, and often hilarious journal, Geralyn takes the reader on her roller coaster of emotional experiences, from the heartbreak of hearing her diagnosis to the triumph of her daughter’s birth. Millions of women, and those who love them, will be forever grateful for this powerful and life-affirming book. At Lifetime, I know we are immensely grateful and proud to have Geralyn’s passion and knowledge dedicated to our advocacy campaign to stop breast cancer.”—Carole Black, president and CEO of Lifetime Entertainment Services “This book is an extraordinary perspective from the inside out. As Geralyn’s self-discovery and triumph over breast cancer unfolds, she takes us with her from her doctor’s office, to work, through her living room, to the bedroom, right into the bathroom, and in and out of taxicabs. You need to be with her through each of these moments to see—right up close—how much sheer sweetness, sadness, love, honesty, uncertainty, terror, courage, excitement, hope, and guts were bundled into each piece of every day. Geralyn is bigger than life and death. Now I’m wearing lipstick!”— Marisa C. Weiss, MD, president and founder, Breastcancer.org and author of Living Beyond Breast Cancer “Geralyn Lucas makes you laugh and cry in the very same moment. . . . Her vivid scenes are cinematographic in detail and sweep you along her journey with unerring perception, insight, and, ultimately, acceptance and personal growth. This unique story is a must-read for any woman who has a friend, loved one, or who is herself enduring the experience of breast cancer. It’s like nothing else ever written on the subject, and adds a note of humanity and humor to a topic that often lacks either. You can’t help but thoroughly enjoy this book.”—Lucy Danziger, editor in chief of Self magazine (the founder of Pink Ribbon) “A bold memoir.”—People “Surprisingly optimistic and immensely empowering.”—Publishers Weekly “Outrageous and often hilarious . . . This is a totally frank, inspiring, and defiant account of undaunted courage.”—Seattle Post-IntelligencerPraise for WHY I WORE LIPSTICK TO MY MASTECTOMY"This is the first time that wearing lipstick is a metaphor for courage and hope. Geralyn Lucas' story of her experience with breast cancer is written in a breezy, inspirational voice. Her energetic enthusiasm and fears are balanced beautifully and expressively to rivet the reader on each page."
-Evelyn Lauder, senior corporate vice president of The Estée Lauder Companies and
founder and chairman of The Breast Cancer Research Foundation
"I played it, Geralyn lived it. Read this book and you'll never wear lipstick the same way again."
-Kim Cattrall, actress
"In this gutsy, touching and often hilarious journal, Geralyn takes the reader on her roller coaster of emotional experiences, from the heartbreak of hearing her diagnosis to the triumph of her daughter's birth. Millions of women, and those who love them, will be forever grateful for this powerful and life-affirming book. At Lifetime, I know we are immensely grateful and proud to have Geralyn's passion and knowledge dedicated to our advocacy campaign to stop breast cancer."
-Carole Black, president and CEO of Lifetime Entertainment Services
"This book is an extraordinary perspective from the inside out. As Geralyn's self-discovery and triumph over breast cancer unfolds, she takes us with her from her doctor's office, to work, through her living room, to the bedroom, right into the bathroom, and in and out of taxicabs. You need to be with her through each of these moments to see-right up close-how much sheer sweetness, sadness, love, honesty, uncertainty, terror, courage, excitement, hope, and guts were bundled into each piece of every day. Geralyn is bigger than life and death. Now I'm wearing lipstick!"
-Marisa Weiss, M.D., breast cancer specialist, president and founder of breastcancer.org, founder of Living Beyond Breast Cancer, and author of Living Beyond Breast Cancer
"Geralyn Lucas makes you laugh and cry in the very same moment...Her vivid scenes are cinematographic in detail, and sweep you along her journey with unerring perception, insight, and ultimately, acceptance and personal growth. This unique story is a must-read for any woman who has a friend, loved one, or who is herself enduring the experience of breast cancer. It's like nothing else ever written on the subject, and adds a note of humanity and humor to a topic that often lacks either. You can't help but thoroughly enjoy this book."
-Lucy Danziger, editor-in-chief of Self magazine (the founder of Pink Ribbon)
"A bold memoir."
-People
"Surprisingly optimistic and immensely empowering."-Publishers Weekly
"Outrageous and often hilarious…This is a totally frank, inspiring and defiant account of undaunted courage." -Seattle Post-Intelligencer
About the Author Geralyn Lucas is an award-winning TV producer, author, lecturer, and women’s health advocate. She lives in New York City.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CHAPTER 1
Right Now: Stop and Smell the Roses
Italk too much. Mostly to myself.
Sometimes the conversations are productive pep talks, but usually they are negative and don’t reflect how optimistic I want to be and all the money I spend on therapy and that I am a cancer survivor and I’m still alive.
I was only twenty-seven years old when I was diagnosed with a very aggressive breast cancer. Because of my age and the type of cancer, the prognosis wasn’t great: They expected me to have a recurrence within two years, and any future recurrence would more than likely be, as they said, “treatable,” not “curable.” Every six months I’d have blood tests to check my tumor levels; I was constantly put into different scanning machines so the doctors could look at all my organs to make sure the cancer hadn’t traveled somewhere else. A single rogue cell could start trouble again.
I’m forty-five now, but I remember when all I wanted was to hit thirty. At the time that seemed like a more dignified age to die than twenty-eight or twenty-nine. I had read the statistics for the percentages of women who would be alive two years, five years after my kind of diagnosis. Even though I survived the first round with cancer—six months of chemotherapy and a mastectomy—I never knew if or when there might be another round. Would I die or live? Which column would I land in?
When I turned forty, my forty-year-old friends started complaining that we were getting old. I always thought: Please don’t complain to me about getting old; I know the other option too well. Each year passed with the punctuation of tests, mammograms, and scary reminders of the possibilities. I still think about those statistics and hold my breath every time I wait for my medical test results. All that worrying—and then came life.
For instance: Tonight I’m on my way to Saratoga Springs for my seven-year-old son’s chess tournament. We are all squeezed into the car, three moms and three sons. We have already been pulled over by the cops for making a left turn from the right lane. It wasn’t really our fault; the GPS isn’t working. I am sandwiched in the backseat between two boys playing video games. The games are loud, there’s not enough heat, and I wish I weren’t in this car. The conversation has begun, and I’m so relieved that the other moms and kids can’t hear what I’m saying to myself.
You’re dreading the weekend. Chess moms are so uptight. After he lost a round, last year, Hayden complained that you don’t push him hard enough to practice, and that he wants you to be a Tiger Mom. You don’t even remember how to play checkers or backgammon.
I interrupt the conversation and ask Hayden to turn the music down so I can hear myself better. I pull out my mirror that lights up in the dark and stare at myself.
Your hair is so gray—you haven’t had time to dye it. Why do you always revert to pulling it back in a greasy ponytail?
I squint into the mirror to see better in the dark and realize how much my face is falling. My Botox shot is long overdue. My pants are too tight. I unbutton them so I can breathe. I pull my sweater down to cover my muffin top.
Maybe you didn’t need those fries with your meal today. Aren’t you trying to be healthier?
I have no cute clothes anymore. Earlier today when I was packing, I sneaked into my teenage daughter’s room to borrow a T-shirt. She claims my stomach stretches her shirts, so I’m not allowed to wear her cute stuff. She scares me. She’s the cool girl I never was. I worry about our relationship lately. She seems like she hates me.
I want to call Tyler from the car, but I figure he’ll just screen the call. I can’t remember the last time we had a real conversation.
I feel all the gratitude for my hard-earned life draining out of me. All the things I wanted so desperately, clung to life so I could keep, just feel like a drag at this moment. I sigh into the mirror.
· · · ·
Before they wheeled me into the OR, I put on bright red lipstick and I swore to myself that I would come out the other side and become the woman I never thought I could be. I would dare to live up to my lipstick and make every day red-lipstick-worthy. It was all about transformation: As my breast was being removed, I was going to be glamorous and reinvent myself. I had always been a gloss girl, and I thought I couldn’t wear red like other women. But I decided to wear bright red lipstick to my mastectomy to show the doctors and nurses in the operating room that I had places to go, things to do. And here I am in the car nineteen years later, a chess mom. Alive.
I pull out a new tube of red lipstick and pucker up.
You need a lip wax.
It’s going to be hard to put the lipstick on right at sixty-five miles per hour, but I need to live up to that notice-me hyper-red lipstick again. I need to make that feeling last, to remember the courage from that morning in the operating room and have it inform my entire life. No more taking life for granted.
I pause to reflect, and a different voice chimes in to the conversation in my head:
Remember when you thought you’d never have kids after cancer? This little guy is your bonus. Remember when he was in speech therapy and couldn’t pronounce an R and you worried about his future? Now he’s playing two-hour notated games. And your hair—remember when it all fell out from chemotherapy? When you used to watch Hair Club for Men commercials and cry? Remember when shampoo commercials made you lustful? You prayed to grow old when you were only twenty-seven and diagnosed with cancer. You said all you wanted were wrinkles—and now you hate them? And yeah, so you’ve gained a few pounds. At least you’re healthy. Do you remember when you had to drink Ensure to keep your weight up for the chemotherapy treatments? How can you be afraid of your own daughter? And so grumpy at Tyler? He was there when you woke up from your mastectomy. Why do you fight all the time if you were strong enough to survive cancer together? What else could be so bad?
You are lucky to be alive. To be a mom, to have hair, to have wrinkles. How dare you take one day for granted. Remember the friends you met who weren’t as lucky, who would give anything to be here, alive.
I take a deep and grateful inhale to slow down and smell the roses in my life. Long breath in through my nose, long exhale from my mouth. A cleansing breath. Breathing connects me to life. It is at this precise moment that my son and his friends begin to have a farting contest.
“Guys, gross!” I yell, and they all crack up.
I am trying to smell the roses, but all I can smell are the farts in the car.I lean across my son and hit the button to put the back window down as fast as possible.
“Mom, you have a double chin, like Family Guy. I’m sorry, Mom, it’s true.” Hayden is giving me the news as I’m trying to jut my face out the window to suck in the fresh air.
Sometimes gratitude is so easy for me. Other times it’s hard, like when I’m bored, cold, and grossed-out. I have everything I worried I never would, and it came with more heartache and pain and gray hair and wrinkles and cellulite and insomnia and even more joy than I ever imagined.
I’m not going to take one day of life for granted. I promise.
I keep inhaling. I’m visualizing my roses, even though the farts are lingering. The roses are long-stemmed and fragrant, not like the corner-market kind that have no scent. Mine are perfumed, and a reminder of how gorgeous life can be, how you can miss it if you don’t pause and reflect, appreciate, and see what is right in front of you as life whizzes by.
My son is laughing hysterically, even as I’m almost crying because his farts are so bad.
Be grateful.
Okay, it’s hard to be grateful for farts. But I need to remember to cherish it all, even the farts!
We arrive at the hotel. I smile at my son in the badly fluorescent-lit corridor of check-in. Hayden seems concerned and points at my mouth. I have lipstick on my teeth.
I’m not sure if he’s embarrassed by me or looking out for me, but I wipe my teeth quickly and do a lipstick check with him: thumbs-up. I decide it’s his way of showing me he loves me.
Chess: game on.
Life: game on.
Here is my story of mining the gratitude.CHAPTER 2
Skye’s the Limit
My name is Geralyn Lucas, and I have a shopping problem. I have always had a shopping problem.
Admitting it is the first step to recovery.
It got worse after my cancer diagnosis. Not only was I looking to replace my lost nipple with every purchase, but shopping took on a deeper meaning. Shopping was a way of running toward life, a declaration that I was sticking around: I needed to wear all the purchases. Buying stuff guaranteed more time: I was shopping, not dying.
The things I bought seemed to promise a new identity, novel experiences, and possible life-changing opportunities. A new me was always just a purchase away. Hiding my shopping bags from my husband, Tyler, was a full-time job. Tyler would ask, “Is that a new dress?”
“No, I’ve had this forever. You don’t remember?”
Even chemo couldn’t keep me from shopping. After my injections, feeling woozy, nauseated, exhausted, veins blackened, I always found just enough energy to make it to T. J. Maxx. Plus, losing my hair opened up a whole new shopping category: I was suddenly in the market for berets, baseball hats, fedoras, and scarves. No one could judge me for buying new head coverings; they were an essential part of my self-esteem. Did I really need four fedoras? Or eleven baseball caps, in every color, smooth velvet and plush velvet, wool and satin? Yeah, I did; the berets would bring a sophistication that had always eluded me, the baseball caps a downtown edge I had craved.
After spending time with the skull and crossbones on my chemo bag, wheeled over to me on the IV pole, shopping felt so alive. I had places to go, people to meet, things to wear.
“I shop, therefore I exist.”
One day, after an especially awful chemo when they couldn’t find a “good” vein and had to reinsert the needle three times, I fled to the warm and reassuring shopping aisles of T. J. It was only when I was at the checkout counter, surveying my loot, planning all the different outfits that would coordinate with my new hats, that I had an existential moment of sorts. Just as I was about to swipe my credit card, a voice inside my head boomed so loudly that I was sure the cashier could hear it too.
You can’t take it with you.
People could be buried in their favorite outfits, but there was no way that I could wear all these hats at once to my funeral. I didn’t know how to explain all this to the cashier, so I bought everything anyway, but as I unpacked at home I had that sickening and paralyzing thought again: I couldn’t take it with me.
Where exactly would all my prized possessions go?
Before I could spend too much time worrying about that, I had more stuff. After chemo my hair grew into a chemo-chic short buzz-cut look, and none of my old clothing matched my hair. My wardrobe was too conservative. I needed edgier suits to match my hair. And then there was my chest. Two A-cups had become a removed-then-reconstructed B-plus-cup, and the other one enhanced to match, thanks to my plastic surgeon. So of course I needed new bras. It was nice to have a medical excuse to shop: It felt like having a prescription that said “Go shopping” instead of a prescription for a dose of medication. I did need an entire new wardrobe after my cancer treatments, and I was ready. My look was evolving. Tyler bought me a black satin suit with zippers, to match my new punk hair. I was trying to forge a new identity for my new life. I loved feeling so new and different, like maybe the cancer couldn’t find me again.
But I worried a lot about the cancer coming back. I developed a phobia about waiting. I couldn’t wait in lines at the bank. Tyler tried to take me to an art exhibit to cheer me up on a really bad day, and I had to leave because of the crowd. It got so bad that I had to go on medication. I went to a doctor who specialized in EMDR, a kind of therapy used for people who have suffered severe trauma and PTSD, and I began to understand that I had a fear of waiting because I thought I didn’t have enough time left until my cancer might return. Waiting for anything reminded me of being in doctors’ waiting rooms, waiting for bad news. Waiting for test results, watching the second hand on the big clock as I waited to get my bone scan. Minutes in machines felt like hours; days waiting for blood-test results to see if my tumor levels were up and my cancer was back were torture. My doctor prescribed Zoloft to take the OCD edge off my cancer-returning ruminations. It helped with my worrying, but nothing soothed me like being let loose at a T. J. Maxx. Spending time in the home-goods section was better than a double dose of Zoloft. Looking at linens, shopping for pots and pans, buying another ceramic rooster, just brought a sense of calm that maybe I had a future.
I became a big returner of gifts because that gave me a chance to shop again, without guilt, and it seemed there was always something better out there just calling my name loudly. Returning was a guilt-free shop—found money that I could spend on something new.
After all the anguish, I made it to thirty, and got fantastic birthday presents. The “Now that you have cancer, let me show you how much I love you” presents. I was drooling over one particular present-return because the gift came from a store that was way out of my league, a store that had a doorbell, plush carpeting, and in which—when I walked in—it was clear from what I was wearing that I did not belong. The only reason I was holding a shopping bag from that store was to return something. I did have awkward return-guilt, and was extremely self-conscious to go to such a fancy store. I knew the drill: Fancy stores have the worst return rules and are real sticklers. I reassured myself that it was ridiculous to be intimidated by a store, and especially not a fashion-model-look-alike sales associate named Candy, who inspected me as I handed over the bag.
“Return?” She was glaring at me like I was ungrateful, and her stare seemed to say, “Do you know how much time we spent looking for the perfect present for you, scouring the store? Your friend thought you would love the shirt. If she could see you now, she might cry.”
To make matters worse, the birthday card was still in the box. It had a heart drawn on the envelope, with my name above it.
“You forgot something,” Candy said with a smirk.
I kept checking to make sure my friend wasn’t outside the store looking through the glass and watching me return the present, or standing behind me at the register because she had forgotten something in the store and just happened to be there at the precise moment I decided to come in and return the present. I imagined the expression on her face when she realized I hadn’t come to find a pair of pants that matched the shirt she had painstakingly picked out. Is there return-karma? I felt it burning shame into my red face. I wanted to blurt, “I know it’s not the present, it’s the thought that counts, but I only wanted to shop more.” I was a lowlife. I had taken her beautiful sentiment, her act of caring, and made it a cold, hard business calculation.
Any return-guilt evaporated when the salesgirl handed me the receipt. I knew I had to act calm when I saw the credit. I nearly screamed, “She paid that for that?” but fortunately my return experience came in handy and I just glanced at the receipt calmly. “Why don’t you look around?” Candy suggested. “We just got some great pieces in.”
Before I could start browsing, something flashy and sparkling winked at me from a glass case across the store. I tried to head toward the sweaters, but that thing kept flirting: Sparkling red and pink gemstones were luring me toward the glass case. I couldn’t turn away. Candy noticed the seduction going down and came over to make a formal introduction. She took out a set of keys to remove a jeweled cowboy belt from its case. When she held it in her hands, it seemed to sparkle even more outside its case in the direct store light.
“It’s like a piece of jewelry, isn’t it? Handmade, so much craftsmanship.” Candy looked like she wanted the belt too. “Do you want to hold it?”
Hold it? I was almost scared to touch it.
“Look: It has sterling-silver trim, traditional cowboy style, with all these semiprecious gemstones.” The stones made a dazzling pattern and the sparkle-wattage had us under its spell. It was a tiara version of a cowboy belt, with ruby red and the prettiest pink and vibrant violet crystals encrusting the belt, and the buckle was the most tasteful design ever. The silver seemed to make the crystals shine even more.
“Try it on,” Candy encouraged me.
I was experiencing the ultimate shopping moment. This belt had the potential to transform me into a person I never thought I could be. This belt was red lipstick on steroids. This belt was self-actualization. This belt would make me live forever. I would jump out of my convertible wearing the belt. I don’t have a car and I don’t drive, but the belt would make me just that daring. The belt would make me a world traveler; it would encourage me to visit its relatives in Austria, where I could buy more crystal-laden things. I could buy Austrian-crystal chandelier earrings and real chandeliers, and I could hop over to Italy because it’s right on the border. The belt would encourage me to stay thin because it accented my waist. Actually, it wouldn’t matter how much I weighed, because the beauty of the belt would distract people. By association, I would be prettier.
My hands were a bit sweaty as I looped the belt through my jeans. Candy had to help me because I was shaking so much. I had never owned anything like this, and when I looked at myself in the mirror, I sort of hallucinated the new life that awaited me.
The belt was reminding me of everything I wanted. I imagined brunches where I would never wait for a table because the belt had seduced the hostess. The belt would be a magnet, drawing to me all the perfect things that had never been attracted to me before. The belt was the perfect combination of high and low fashion. It was as glamorous as a high heel, but as practical as a flat. And where exactly was I going to wear this crystal cowboy belt? Well, everywhere. I could dress it up or dress it down. I knew this belt would bring me invitations to places where it would look perfect. It seemed like the kind of belt Pink might own. She would wear it to her recording studio. It would be so dazzling that it might inspire a new song. Women who would wear this belt were rock stars. This was a belt that conveyed a lifestyle, and new horizons would be discovered wearing this belt.
To make the belt even better, it had to be special-ordered from Austria, where all the crystals would be hand-applied. The one I tried on was a store model.
Candy explained, “It should take about three weeks for your belt to arrive.” Each dazzling crystal, shining brighter than I could dream, would be placed precisely into my belt. The wait was hard because I wanted the life that would come with it. Before the belt arrived, I had a strange dream that my nipple, the one I lost in my mastectomy, materialized from Austria. How did it ever find its way back to me? But when I woke up, I started craving the real package I was waiting for.
Finally the belt arrived. Candy called and sounded so excited on the phone.
“It’s here, and I think it’s even shinier than the floor model!”
Call-waiting was beeping through. My doctor’s office. I didn’t want to leave the belt’s status hanging there for even a moment.
“Candy, I’m so sorry, it’s my doctor’s office.” I clicked over. I always had to take calls from my doctor.
Line one seemed to be the new life, just imported from Austria. Line two: It could be cancer.
I was three weeks pregnant.
Doctors had told me I would go into early menopause because of chemotherapy. I couldn’t bank eggs before chemo because the doctors were worried that the hormones would jump-start any rogue cancer cells. I begged, but they wouldn’t relent. They told me I needed to wait at least two years after treatment before trying to get pregnant to make sure that my cancer wasn’t coming back.
There was no consensus on whether it was safe to get pregnant after breast cancer. But one thing doctors did agree on: If I got pregnant, I would be a high-risk patient; the baby and I would have to be monitored closely.
At the time I was a story editor at the newsmagazine show 20/20, and I went straight into research mode. I found the preeminent Dr. P, studying the question “How safe is it for a young woman to get pregnant after breast cancer?” Unfortunately, her study—announced in the journal Cancer—found that pregnancy after breast cancer was not as safe as previously assumed.
I contacted Dr. P anyway. She said, “If I were you, I’d adopt.”
I understood that getting pregnant was filled with risk. If I got cancer while I was pregnant, there was a program in Texas in which women could have chemotherapy after the third month, because after that the chemicals wouldn’t cross the placenta and injure the baby. But then I was haunted by the question: What if I had a baby and then I went and died on her? What if I died before I could teach her anything?
A piece I was working on at 20/20 finally convinced me that having a baby was still worth a shot. The story was about Erin, a mom whose daughter Peyton was only four years old when she started videotaping a farewell to her child because she was dying of breast cancer. At first Erin was scared to tape her good-bye, but once she started, she couldn’t stop. She talked about everything from what to say to boys to what to do when Dad remarried, and how much she loved Peyton. Erin showed me that I could still be a mom no matter what, and that love was so much stronger than cancer. And I can’t describe how badly I wanted a baby. Put every purse, every shoe, every pair of jeans, every necklace I had drooled over in a huge pile and it wouldn’t compare to how much I wanted to be a mom. It was a longing unlike any I had ever experienced. The more they told me it was impossible, the more I wanted to be a mom. I had always wanted to be a mom, ever since I was little and played with dolls. Now I wanted it even more because I’d had cancer.
One rogue cancer cell started all my trouble, and one rogue sperm was responsible for my impending joy: Thank you, Tyler! Having a baby after cancer felt like a sprint toward life. There was no turning back if you were pushing a baby carriage.
When I clicked back over to Candy, I was still crying tears of joy about my baby news. Maybe one tear of lament: the belt. I tried to imagine if I could wear the belt while I was pregnant. How long did pregnant women retain any waistline? Could I have the belt expanded? But I’d never seen a pregnant woman actually wearing a belt.
“Candy, this is so awkward. The belt. Can I return it? I’m pregnant!”
“No problem; in fact, I just had a woman who wanted one too. Come into the store; we just got some great new things that might be more practical.” The word “practical” hung in the air, and every dream about the belt and me evaporated and was replaced with visions of diapers, burp cloths, bottles, baby wipes, and the smell of poopy and spit-up. Those visions almost choked me when I returned to the store. I saw the belt one more time in its case, working its wiles on me again.
Candy led me away from the case toward a black sweater made with spandex. She explained it would stretch comfortably around my expanding belly and then shrink back after my pregnancy. The good news: I had a whole new category of shopping to do—maternity wear.
· · · ·
And once I realized I was having a girl, it was off to the baby stores because she needed that adorable leopard-print onesie. Shopping for baby clothing is an unfair challenge to someone with a shopping issue. Baby clothes are all too cute and irresistible, and it’s always practical to keep buying stuff, because babies grow so fast! My daughter had black-fur-lined white go-go boots (bought on deep discount), before she could even walk, actually before she was born.
I named my baby for the mantra that had sustained me through every surgery, every IV they put into me. My hypnotherapist had suggested the mantra. Here’s what she said: “You are like the sky. Nothing can stick to you, not even a needle. The sky is vast and open and never changes, even though there are changes. A plane can roar through the sky, a storm, a sunrise, and a sunset. You can throw paint at the sky, and it will always be the sky.” I was safe because I was the sky, so I named my daughter Skye.
My estimated due date: July 26, the exact date I’d had my biopsy four years before. How could the same date mean such different things? A diagnosis of malignant cells and a birth. Was that a bad omen or a good omen? The baby would just miss having Cancer as her astrological sign—I had forgotten that cancer could also be a Cancer, a baby born when the sun was in that sign of the zodiac. Her life was a new symbol of life for me: Those endless white hospital floors had led me to the operating room for surgery to remove cancer, and now they’d take me to the OR for a C-section to give me a baby.
I wore lipstick to my C-section.
It was surreal to wear lipstick in the very same hospital, to a very similar operating room, for such a different reason. When I had put on lipstick four years earlier, I never imagined wearing lipstick to meet my baby daughter.
Tyler was there in the OR, as he was for my mastectomy. When we heard our daughter’s first cry of life, it seemed to dry the tears we’d both cried before. He assured me that he would be both daddy and mommy if my cancer came back. He knew that having a baby with me was a risk, but he wanted to take it. “I want your baby so I’ll always have a piece of you if anything goes wrong.”
Remarkably, her eyes were sky blue, sparkling brighter than Austrian crystals, rimmed with thick black natural-mascara lashes. She, like my mantra, would heal me. Her middle name was Meredith, to add more gravitas and to honor my former boss, who survived breast cancer but was never able to have a child. Giving my baby the name Skye Meredith was my tribute to the journey I took to have her. She could always be S. Meredith if she wanted to be a lawyer or do something else serious.
In the hospital she was brought to me in a little glass jewel box; the nurse wheeled her in, like wheeling in room service. The box was like a present from Tiffany’s—all that was missing was a satin bow. Her skin was pink and soft and suddenly she was the best present ever. This was better than my engagement ring. Better than the black patent-leather shoes I looked at in the window longingly for three weeks waiting for them to go on sale. Better than the Austrian crystal cowboy belt. Anything I had ever wanted before seemed to go to the bottom of my wish list, and she was on the top. I loved Skye in a way I had never loved anyone or anything before. Just saying I loved her didn’t seem enough.
The glass box was so clear, I could see through it perfectly, and so clear there were no reflections to distract from the main attraction. This glass held no secrets and it was shiny like her new life. It was the perfect glass to hold her, like a simple clear glass vase to showcase only the beauty of the flower it’s holding. I just wanted to stare at her in there. When she was returned to the nursery, there was a glass wall between us, a glass wall marked with the fingerprints and breath of parents pushing up against it to look at these babies all wrapped in blankets.
Sometimes I’d look in on her in the middle of the night, staring at her until I needed to shuffle back to my room, barely able to stand from the C-section, to take painkillers. But the painkillers didn’t kill the pain I felt from being away from her while she was sleeping in the nursery. I needed to be with her, next to her, all the time. On my second night in the hospital, I pulled myself slowly to the nursery, holding on to the wall to keep my balance. When I got there I expected to see Skye sleeping peacefully in her blanket. She was screaming.
“I will rescue you. I will know when you’re crying,” I said to myself in a low but firm voice so the other people standing at the glass wouldn’t think I was talking to myself like a crazy woman. “I will know whenever you cry; I will be your knight in my hospital gown, here to rescue you, my princess in your poopy diaper.” It was so strange and complicated—this love I felt for her despite morning sickness and vomiting, three days of labor, the cut from the C-section that seemed to hurt especially when I held her, the breast-feeding on one boob. All of that risk to have her was rewarded by staring into her blue eyes, feeling invincible, like my mantra: “I am the sky.”
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5 of 5 people found the following review helpful. Fighting complacency and the temptation to rest after the battle, Lucas offers lessons for living positive lives in an upbeat. By Bookreporter Geralyn Lucas is indomitable. Her first memoir, WHY I WORE LIPSTICK TO MY MASTECTOMY, details her fight with breast cancer and the resilient spirit that led her to wear bright red lipstick to the hospital for her surgery that morning. Her second book, THEN CAME LIFE, examines the life-changing events that actually occur every single day. She moves between the moments of right now and the reflections on where she has been. Her style is breezy and sometimes funny, but underneath the lightness are some important things to remember about life.Situated in New York City, Lucas’s job as TV producer at Lifetime Television ends when the studio moves to LA, leaving her like a callous boyfriend. She becomes a stay-at-home mom, a tushy wiper as her son, Hayden, is being potty trained. She questions her usefulness, her ability to earn money, and her definition of self. She had cancer and survived horrible treatments. But what else has she done? “My work credentials felt so yesterday, now that I wasn’t in my job.” However, she discovers that what she felt was the biggest disappointment of her life is going to turn into new possibilities.When she goes for her next mammogram, always a fearful experience, she takes along her 13-year-old daughter, Skye. As they wait for the results, Lucas recalls a photograph she had recently found of her mother and sees that she was “so pretty I couldn’t believe I was related to her.” Because Skye bursts out about how much she hates her looks, specifically her freckles, Lucas tells her the first time she had ever felt beautiful. After her mastectomy years earlier, she posed topless for a women’s magazine but was afraid the focus would be on the long diagonal scar. Instead, the image astonished her. She saw only her own eyes and her own courage. She saw herself for the first time and loved it.Her 16th year of surviving breast cancer earned her a trip to a tattoo parlor, “wearing a flashing ‘Sweet Sixteen’ blinking tiara, jeans I had to lie down in to zip up” and underwear that both accents and hides her less-than-perfect body. It’s her cancerversary: 16 bonus years. This time, she has chosen needles and pain, “HEALED” spelled out across her butt, and to show women that “getting a tat hurt more than getting a mammogram.” She changes her mind after realizing she is so not healed, and her second choice for a word exemplifies who she is: confident, greedy for life, appreciative. And, as a nice afterthought, she pictures a far-distant mortician squinting to read the word and nodding.Lucas also discovers a variation on the theme of Virginia Woolf’s room of one’s own: not a quiet reflective space, but rather a room filled with sweat, bikes and pulsing music. She finds that going to the SoulCycle room gives her control over where she is running. She is not running from anything anymore --- she is running toward --- and is perfectly in place, biking, spinning, pumping and toning her large butt. She uses her beautiful, brave cousin Hallie as the impetus for her renewal of energy and optimism. And the room that smells of grunge, exercise and exhaustion becomes her own.She accepts her worrying, too. When she had cancer earlier in life, she thought it somehow would cure her of worrying because it would trump every other worry. It even became her mantra: Don’t worry; it’s not cancer. But in the final pages of this memoir, Lucas acknowledges that she still is a worrier. She believes that her fear of cancer and of loss is rightfully scary, and this gut-wrenching fear is how she knows she’s alive and fully invested.The final picture we must retain has Lucas wearing red lipstick. When she gives speeches now, she asks each woman in the audience to put on her lipstick and make a big, Texas-sized red-lipstick wish to see the “really big version of herself.” And she tells them to look only for the beauty --- no flaws. She reminds them that seeing the journey, the courage and the beauty first is a choice. Her hope is that her daughter, wearing red lipstick, will produce a granddaughter, also wearing red lipstick, who will turn to her grandmother, who, of course, is wearing red lipstick. “A daring red-lipstick-wearing gene, a development passed down to new generations.” A genetic evolution.THEN CAME LIFE builds on the first memoir, and in many ways is more courageous than WHY I WORE LIPSTICK TO MY MASTECTOMY. Lucas creates her own “purse list,” eschewing the bucket list that she believes is too popular and gritty. Fighting complacency and the temptation to rest after the battle, she offers lessons for living positive lives in an upbeat, believable tribute to women’s power and love for one another.Reviewed by Jane Krebs
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful. For any individual who has had to deal with life after one or more excruciating life circumstances or who just wants to have a g By The Fabs Usually they say the sequel does not compare to the original but Geralyn's second book obliterates this notion completely. What is often excluded in the autobiography's of survivors of all kinds is any mention of their life after their extreme life threatening incident. Once again Geralyn breaks with tradition by going into many facets of her life. With clarity and wit she dives deep into the various roles she plays as a mother, wife, breast cancer advocate, writer and spin class enthusiast. For any individual who has had to deal with life after one or more excruciating life circumstances or who just wants to have a good chuckle or two over the daily hiccups of family life this is one book you do not want to put down.
3 of 3 people found the following review helpful. Geralyn Lucas' NOW Moment By Dara Holzman I always understood the physical pain associated with Breast Cancer, but never quite got the emotional pain that comes with being a Breast Cancer Survivor. Geralyn Lucas, in her new book, 'Then Came Life," describes the daily challenge of always living in the shadows of survivorship with raw honesty, detail and authenticity. In her journey back to health, she has found her radiant light and is the voice of all generations of women who struggle with the fear of checking, getting, living and dying. Her battle scars are sexy, unique and create a whole new way to show her strength.Geralyn dares us to wear our red lipstick: to be relevant, gutsy and bold.
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Then Came Life: Living with Courage, Spirit, and Gratitude After Breast Cancer, by Geralyn Lucas
