breast cancer « Viola Moriarty

Posts Tagged ‘breast cancer’

Reassemblage

Saturday, June 5th, 2010

Since I finished chemotherapy treatments in 2007, I have experienced increasing neuropathy in my hands and feet, but most dramatically in my hands. Morning and night seem to be the most noticeable in terms of collateral damage. Over these three years, I’ve saved bits of my favorite coffee cups and breakfast plates that have fallen out of my hands. Recently I reassembled the pieces around my bathroom mirror, and yesterday finally got around to grouting them in place. The celery colored grout is pretty, and I feel happy looking at this assemblage of crockery bits. I feel like this mirror not only reflects my body on the outside, but the mosaic frame now reflects how I feel on the inside….bits rearranged into a new piece of art. It’s hard to explain the seemingly chaotic process of healing, of change and evolution. The broken pottery pieces are more useful than words.

Poem: “ReEntry Girl”

Thursday, April 9th, 2009

ReEntry Girl

ReEntry Girl begins to paint,

begins her retablo, her prayer

after a long, long convo with Frida K—

a conversation which puts her head

back where it belongs

in the clouds

in the dream

in the colors

and shapes

Where she smells the memory of

being nine years old . . .

of being well deep inside,

And she starts to write: Thanks to G-d for delivering me . . .

while other people die.

Viola Moriarty 2008

Poem: “Phantom Pain”

Thursday, April 9th, 2009

Phantom Pain

My oncologist calls It “Phantom Pain”

She says the second year is worse than the first

The brain begins to process what has happened

She also calls It “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder”

Pain by any other name still hurts

The trauma is not over–

it has just begun….

The guidelines

for this particular phase

are what is out of order

Where are the pink pamphlets

With beautiful women

Losing all the weight, and

Remembering all their words?

There’s no treatment plan

for ReEntry,

for New Normal

I still need to talk about things,

someone to talk to.

I want those make-ups and massages

I need help with these tamoxifen hot flashes

and the numbness in my hands

Now is when I need understanding about how I look and feel

and the things I forget, the times I fall, the mistakes I make.

Old Normal has apparently vacated the premises

so the big fat New Normal Ghosts could move in.

We are just getting acquainted

It’s a very dicey transition

I thought it was my Left Breast

that was partially amputated,

Instead the twenty pound Phantom

and some of It’s Friends

moved into my head.

Neuropathy?—where is that located

Prefrontal cortex- Focus…plan…control impulse

Deep Limbic system—bonding, mood control

Cingulate—gear shifter

Basal ganglia—Temples, temporal lobes, memory, language, facial recognition, temper control—

They must all be broken because I should be fucking mad,

Or fucking,

Or laughing…

and I’m not

I’m cooking, burning, and freezing

I teach myself how to hold the paintbrush again

And my husband,

And the espresso pot

Every incision, scar and skid mark

sneaks on board another Entity

that resides where Something Else once did

Something taken for granted,

but not any more—

now that It’s gone

There are no pain pills for the haunting and the stumbling

Zolpidem has been banished,

We were together too many nights, too many months,

So now I feel this other diaphanous Intruder

when I’m struggling to sleep

and when I’m awake

My oncologist—whom I love and respect, absolutely revere

tells me to trust that there is nothing there,

It’s Phantom Pain

But I see in her pretty eyes

that truly, madly, deeply,

primally

she knows,

And I know….

We both know

Ghosts are real.

Viola Moriarty, 2008

Look in the Window

Thursday, April 9th, 2009

Old Windows, New Views:

The Healing Power of Art

Each of these windows contains collages and sketches which lend insight into the process of accessing understanding and increasing a sense of well-being. Some of these collages were done with Art Therapist, Beth Newman.

Throughout cancer diagnosis and treatment, I was engaged in dream analysis, various forms of introspection and observation through journaling, collage—flat and book style,—art therapy, poetry, moving slowly, making dreamcatchers, pictographs and big colored windows. Exploring a variety of media with the intent of making sense of and expressing what was happening both inside and out—this was my extension of that art therapy.

I accomplished my goal of trying every free activity provided for breast cancer patients. It was because of the the cooperation between SVHC Integrative Therapies and SVHC Cancer Center in grant acquisition and administration that I was able to participate in, and benefit from, the following offerings:

Yoga for Breast Cancer Survivors
Art Therapy (six sessions)
Acupuncture
Massage
Reflexology
Reiki
Look Good, Feel Good
Casting For Recovery
Cancer Support Group (with Bernard Bandman)

I am forever grateful for all the support I received.

Color and Healing

Cobalt blue helps reduce the impact of electromagnetic fields on humans. Reds and oranges ignite hunger for food and company. What color is cancer? The interplay of lights and darks in the color/energy terrain lends insight into our bodies and our dreams. Working with my hands and with forms and colors makes me happy.

Putting the artworks and exhibit together took me back through diagnosis and treatment various times—a process that proved to be both therapeutic and transformative, allowing me to see my records and expressions of experience evolve into artworks, which in turn helped me see myself not only as a patient, but also as a stronger, working artist. Making art proved to transform deficiencies and difficulties into assets and opportunities.

Guest Blogger: Jon Lev

Thursday, April 9th, 2009

Stranger Than Paradise

What is going on here in this house now?

You are working on nine things at once, the house is a mess with papers, paintings, paint, metal, dolls, ….junk all over the place….hearing your question, “What bothers you about this?” a million times, swearing at the computer, helping support Jay’s retirement account, packages coming in the mail every day, furniture moving, the calendar is so full I have no idea what is going on, smoke alarm blaring, CHAOS! I love it. It feels like Viola, the person I fell in love with, the person who can do more with less.

What was going on here?

Viola was diagnosed with cancer and so much changed. Her life as I knew it for 25 years stopped. But then, after surgery, as chemo treatments began, something strange happened. My life changed. An opportunity for a new job that ended up changing my career in education became available. Tragedy and happiness can’t mix. I was traveling through parallel universes. At work things could not be going better, but at home, emergency visits scarier than I could ever describe, chemo days, throwing up, up all night, losing her hair, losing her.

But now we have joined universes again. Viola tells me, “This is the life I always wanted, I could not be happier.” She takes the words right out of my mouth.

~Jon Lev, 2009

Jon

Thursday, April 9th, 2009

Jon (at Stratton Mountain)

JON

These paintings were all done before I was diagnosed with cancer. The person who was most by my side over the past two years was never allowed to be still long enough for me to do more than a fast sketch in a waiting room. So these paintings are old—In face, one of them is the sixth painting I ever made and the FIRST human I ever painted—Jon. He’s my alpha and my omega. Over the course of treatment I saw a lot of women cope with challenges I never could have imagined. One day the woman I followed in the radiation schedule asked me if that strikingly good looking man that often picked me up was my husband. She said his suspenders reminded her of her own husband who was no longer living. She wished she had her husband to come to radiation with her. I asked her if I could take her picture. And after she left I sat in the dressing room and blubbered and drooled and sobbed out of gratitude for the father of my children, the love of my life, and the guy who still makes me feel that feeling when I see him walk into a room.

Flowers

Thursday, April 9th, 2009

Lilacs, Spring 2008

Throughout diagnosis and treatment, as well as for quite a long time afterward, and even as recently as yesterday, I found myself often hiding out: watching Law & Order reruns in pajamas, eating gummy colas on the couch. I was afraid to shower for the pain of the shingles, and ….well,…I sometimes was just plain afraid. I stayed underground like a little mole, but my community never stayed away from me.

Throughout this exhibit the messages of love and wishes for wellness are embedded in and surround some of the artworks. The lilacs were the first oil painting I made coming out of treatment, and they represent to me every email, phone call, funny card, loving touch, remedy, recommendation, and every surprise left on the stoop. The flowers kept me company and even in my haziest, laziest hours, inspired little drawings—reminding me that I was still an artist, still a woman, underneath it all . I carry those messages of love inside me forever.

My artworks are my thank-you notes, my expressions of gratitude for those watchful, respectful, loving eyes and ears and hands.

Poem: “Dancing With Dex”

Thursday, April 9th, 2009

Dancing with Dex

She takes the woman’s part, stepping back on her right

I try to lead, pushing her back into night

What color is cancer

Asks this sexy salsa dancer,

Her long, lovely hands on my hefty hips

Suggestions and questions on her bright white lips,

Turquoise and teal, I think

And maybe periwinkle and pink

The dream was so real,

I can still feel

That I have the port, the sox and the gowns

Tape over my eyes, doctors in multiple towns.

Who was there? She asked with a squeal,

Oh, yes, I repeated- it was so incredibly real-

You were there -and you were there- and you and you and you

Who, me? She demurred. Do you honestly believe that it could have been true?

She steps to the side, wanting to know

Sliding forward and backward ever so slow,

Am I a good witch or a bad witch

Or just a subborn and silly, mucked up middle aged bitch?

What happened in there, when the fog finally cleared?

Didn’t heaven want you, she perservered?

Are you kidding?

Cha cha cha ching.

I’m stuttering

And faltering

Without a sound mind and no sense of my body?,

No, Heaven did not want me

Nor did hell

I wanted to yell

Not even that black hole filled with failure and fun,

Carousing and constantly, caprichously coming undone

Not even the fury and the flames would take

Such a distorted identity- half asleep/ half awake

So, its back to black and white

Without too much fuss, certainly no fight

Thank G-d -Thank “I am that I am”

For all the drugs whose names end with “pam”

And for those that begin with an s and a z

I truly and humbly thank the Drug Company

The salsa surrenders to sappier rythms

That belong to stupid labels that end in isms

Ba, ba ba ba-expressionism, successionism, ba, ba ba ba

Bada bada bada bada-excapism, impressionism -za zah zah zah,

Was that how cancer looked? She pointed and begged.

Like a saggy old breast that’s been recently egged?

I laughed loudly and pulled up my shirt

So she could see where it did and didn’t hurt

What’s the hole for, she wanted to know.

It’s my new hideout, where my feelings can go

I thought it was a dream, she harshly restated

Something you imagined, subconscious, and hated

It was -It was so many nights of turquoise and periwinkle, fuschia and teal dreams

Where the fabric of uniforms regularly rips out around the snaps and on the seams

Where I got up at night, or so I thought

Turned on the light, never argued, never fought

Rocked in the rocker

Listened to Joe Cocker

He loves my new do, and so does my Jon

“Baby, oh, yes, you can leave your hat on, you can leave your hat on.

I ripped up the colors on the couch and computer as prayers to dead saints

Glue sticked and cried , cutting linoleum and spilling watered down paints

I won’t go back I scream, I won’t do it again-you can’t make me

Now I’m numb and I’m dumb, I’m stress and panic free

There, there, my sweetness, she hums and she sways -Everything’s okay

I’ll start another dance, and you start another day

She twirls sultrily toward me, and whispers, shhhhhhhh, girlfriend,

we’re almost finished- finally,

softly,

quietly

coming to the end.

~Viola Moriarty, 2008

This poem emerged as I deconstructed the journals– kept during cancer diagnosis and treatment in 2007-9–ripped out the photos, layered paints and pastels—wiping out the non-essentials, focusing on the faces of the caretakers and the color of the experience. The edges hold messages of love—also torn from the cards and emails pasted into the journals. Walking back through these artifacts, through the human contact and care, became another therapeutic step, as was making each piece in the exhibit.

*note: Dex refers to Dexamethasone, This poem was a reflection upon effects of steroids during chemotherapy.

“And you were there . . .”

Thursday, April 9th, 2009

And You Were There . . . (Photo by Tim Cooley)

And you were there, and you were there, and you, and you, and you . . .

Mixed media on canvas, 5’ x 7’

2008

During cancer diagnosis and treatment I kept a series of carefully dated journals beginning with the pre-op lab work at Brattleboro Hospital. The smile on that woman’s face as she said, “You are one of the ones who are going to be alright– I can tell” gave me a sense of having a part in the healing work: photographing, sketching, recording, and asking others to help me take photos. My hands had something to do, and my mind had something to help mediate the fear. The journal maintenance was also akin to that of leaving a trail of breadcrumbs so I could find my way back through the fog, and therefore helped me to hold and process my experience. There was also the realization that heretofore I had kept better records on my car than on my own body. This became the beginning of keeping careful health records, not only for me, but also so my daughters will have the information I hope they will never need. I became one of the subjects in the clinical trial. The camera became a way to realize the humanity and depth of the patient care. The relationships that evolved became as important and sustaining as the medical care.

The canvas underneath these faces was rescued by Betsy Browning and given to me. Betsy was the person who first diagnosed my cancer during an in-office breast exam.

And You Were There and You and You

Comic Relief: Anna and Kabuki

Thursday, April 9th, 2009

During treatment I was making these collage journals and I was obsessed with pictographs. Anna came home at one point with a gift for me: This time it wasn’t her comic work—which I LOVE and find objectively to be the most brilliant in the universe–but that of some guy named David Mack. She said that when she saw his work it reminded her of mine.

The comic book was called Kabuki, and it was one of the Alchemy series. That guy’s work struck me immediately, visually, viscerally and physically so deeply inside from the first images inside. As I utilized a magnifying glass to access the print, I found myself reached out to from somewhere unknown to me. Japan? Kentucky? Who knows-Who cares? Kabuki became my hero– I related to her scars, her confusion. I devoured the artwork and the story. I wept when I read about the machine for Little Girl to navigate big world. I wanted one. I remember thinking that I have been inside some world renowned museums and galleries, but that slippery $3.99 issue in my hand had affected me as profoundly as any other artwork I’d ever encountered. I wished it was my work. I claimed it’s protagonist as my new friend and fairy godsister. I needed her in those dexamethasone nights. Kabuki was my Achemi— my secret friend—she kept me going.

After chemo and radiation were completed, I found myself in another new environment: New York City ComicCon. It’s pronounced as one word, but it stands for Comic Convention. And my one goal of attending with Anna was to meet this David Mack guy and thank him. And…maybe…maybe…to have him look at my own strange and awkward attempt at a comic book about my experience—if he were willing.

Not only did David receive Anna and me graciously, but in minutes we were relating about pain scales and life’s challenges and making art work. He encouraged my work and I felt him to be sincere in his commentary. I have asked him to write the Forward for “The Adventures of My Left Breast”—the humble beginnings of which are included in the ReEntry station of the Ex Voto Exhibit. David has something like nine billion Eisner awards but he still stands for hours at the convention, signing and answering, taking photos with person after person…relating to people as people. And at no time did this hip young man ever treat this middle aged puffy almost hairless Shrek like female (that would be ME) with condescension or impatience. In fact, he treated me like a comrade. I was buoyed. I felt the power. I did a couple of secret side kicks and round kicks in my head. I was Kabuki.

As Anna and I walked out of the Javitz Center that day, a young man looked up at me from his booth and shouted out, “Hey!– cool hair!” After 49 years of feeling like a geek who didn’t belong, I had found my people.

Back in Bennington, when I went to thank Betsy Browning—the amazing, local midwife and patron saint of females across the globe—who diagnosed me, she said the most awesome thing: She said that it was my art that saved me because her assistant had been calling me for artwork for her new office walls that day. Had it not been for that call I might not have been diagnosed for several more months.

Betsy was right. Art has saved me many times over the past several years, but not just my own work—-and not just that of the more obvious well-known suspects—my friends Vuillard and Neel, Park and Kahlo.

The power of art to heal lies as much in how others show us through their art how they see us. It shows in how the art of one artist in Kentucky can make another in a Bennington chemo room feel understood, feel the energy of a two-dimensional friend on the page.

Thank you, Anna. Thank you for the Kabuki comic, for being one of the two most awesome women in the universe. Thank you for your incredible and inspiring work. Thanks for helping me learn how to make my own and for all those hours during treatment where we sat at the table and worked together. Thanks for continuing to help me search for issue #8 of Kabuki (Alchemy) at the comic book stores. Thank you for remaining forever young and for thriving in spite of life’s challenges. Thank you for being you–for being my hero. It is my privilege to be Phoebe’s and your mama.

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Viola Moriarty
(American, b. 1958)
Modern Expressionist painter and poet

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