Felicia Carparelli

When you are missing part of your chest, you must make concessions.

Lopsided good for bunny ears, not for breasts.

One high, one low, studded with scars. Funky!

She is missing her arms, but at least she has her breasts.

The Winged Victory of Samothrace – she is missing her head, but at least she has her breasts.

They have endured for a couple thousand years unfinished.

This poem was originally submitted for the CURE® 2021 Poetry Contest. Submissions are open until August 15 and poems can be submitted

For more news on cancer updates, research and education, don’t forget to 

Articles

A stage 2 breast cancer survivor uses poetry to reflect on her views about her changing body after a lumpectomy, chemotherapy and radiation.

Imperfection After Breast Cancer

My daughter recently had a beautiful baby girl in Frankfurt, Germany. From Chicago, that’s about 4,300 miles, as the jet flies. I would love to jump on a plane and travel over there immediately to see my daughter, meet her new husband and hold my adorable new granddaughter.

Unfortunately, I cannot. Travel is severely limited to all European countries for Americans. Germany is not allowing in any Americans at the time I am writing this. COVID-19 still plagues the world and vaccinations are in progress, hopefully, for everyone. My heart is sad, and I pray daily that COVID-19 cases decrease as vaccinations go up.

What do I think of travel? Even as a breast cancer survivor of three years and a recent skin cancer survivor, I am not worried about travel – not much. I have had my two Moderna vaccine doses and have been informed that my blood pressure, weight and blood work are all good. I try to be positive. I sleep seven to nine hours a night. I walk three miles daily and watch my diet, more or less. Yoga, reading, walking, music and prayer keep me mentally and physically going. I fight depression and COVID-19 sadness daily, but I think I am on top of the battle.

I have close friends who won’t go for a walk, go to church, a museum or a restricted seating restaurant. I understand their anxiety. After seeing pictures of a cousin in Florida on a ventilator, I totally get their fear. Sometimes we can talk about their fears, but not always. It’s tough to admit being frightened of illness and dying.

There is almost an embarrassment about fear. Americans are supposed to be superheroes – traveling, going, doing, living – says the media and some people who did not always take the virus seriously and traveled throughout the worst of the pandemic. I was not happy with their lack of regard for humanity, but I held my tongue. They were close friends and I valued their friendship, but I didn’t agree with their choices. We are still friends and act like nothing happened. That is our way of coping and dodging the truth.

As a cancer survivor, and after going through chemo, radiation and the Neulasta (pegfilgrastim) patch, I am afraid of travel, but less afraid because of my cancer. Cancer makes us tough. We learned patience and how to maneuver our lives with a temporary handicap. We learned how to get out of bed at 4 a.m. because our body needed care. We learned how to wear scarves to cover our cold, bald heads. We accepted the twitching fingers and erratic heartbeats. We accepted our big, shiny, steroid moon faces. We learned coping mechanisms to hide our pain and personal fears.

Now, as the situation improves in this country, I still wear my mask, respect CDC and state guidelines, clean and disinfect and give people space. I will do that when and if I am allowed to travel overseas. Cancer makes us tougher, more resilient, more intelligent about correct choices for ourselves and gives us courage and strength.

I will travel as soon as I am able. I want to hold my grandbaby in my arms. Cancer survivors can do this. What’s 4,000 miles in the air after facing the struggle of life and death?

A skin and breast cancer survivor expresses her thoughts on travel restrictions due to the COVID-19 pandemic and how it has affected her family.

Traveling Amid the COVID-19 Pandemic As A Cancer Survivor

It's been 18 months since I finished chemo for breast cancer, 15 months since I finished radiation at this writing.

My hair grew back a year ago. The tingling in my fingers is gone. I used to have heart flutters and some chest congestion, but those symptoms have passed. I had a mammogram recently, it was good. No "signs of malignancy." That's how the official language goes. I wasn't expecting anything bad, but you never know.

I saw my oncologist, the following week. She felt my scar tissue. I have tenderness under my armpit where four lymph nodes were removed. She said it all felt fine. She also told me my "blood work was perfect." That is very encouraging. However, my BMI hovers between average and overweight; 24.8 some weeks, 25.2 on others. I can't lose five pounds, I've been trying for five years. I know it's not life and death but it sure means something to me. Less belly fat, more control of my life? Perhaps. A sign that middle age is not getting to me? Maybe. A sign that having cancer has not rearranged my motivation to be a bit slimmer? I could move more, eat less— I am trying.

It's so hard with the COVID-19 pandemic that stopped our lives for months in Chicago and even now, as numbers start to lessen, we must still practice social distancing and continue our super cleanliness routines. 

I don't have a car. Is it safe to take a bus or a taxi? Even with a mask and gloves, I worry. I walk to the stores; I try to go for senior hours. After the protests, many stores were/are boarded up and have reduced hours. For a cancer survivor, this is a bit stressful. Where to go, what to do and how to do it safely. This doesn't consume my thinking, but it sure is part of my daily life planning. I am so happy and grateful my cancer hasn't returned, but I have to admit I am more worried about not getting sick from the COVID-19 virus.

I take my temperature every morning. I have never cleaned so much in my life. I will get through this, as we all will. I see a rise in anxiety in my friends. If cancer is an inflammation of the body, we must be vigilant and so careful not to develop an inflammation of the mind. I will try and remain positive, I will smile as much as before or more, I will try and do one joyous, outrageous activity every day, even if it's only in my imagination. 

Waiting for the Oncologist Amid COVID-19

In my Walter Mitty fantasy life, I am a Gwen Verdon Lola, sleek, supple and luscious.

One of the few good things to have come out of the stay at home order is on-line classes. I take Tai Chi, Jazz, Be Moved, Easy Improvising, Chair Yoga and Meditation all on Zoom. A different class or two or three every day as I am battling COVID-induced depression.

I am 67, retired and a cancer survivor. Some mornings, I suppress the urge to scream and cry. So, I move.

Gilda's Clubhouse in Chicago has Zoom classes for cancer patients and their friends and families. You don't have to be a member. Thanks, Gilda Radner, for inspiring such a haven, after you passed away from ovarian cancer in 1989. Lucky Plush Productions in cooperation with the University of Chicago has a fabulous virtual dance lab, with the most innovative and nurturing teachers I have ever met. Yesterday, I wrote about cooking and emotions and danced my feelings in my living room with the dogs underfoot. I am paring away negativity and blending in optimism to my frightened soul.

I am trying not to poach myself with alcohol. The Merce Cunningham Trust offers daily classes. I have been slowly working through a repertory workshop called "50 Moves." Each move flows through a series of steps and actions. It is making poetry and music with the body. You don't have to be a dancer to feel like the Venus de Milo. Or Rodin's The Thinker. It's very Zen. Check it out, all classes free, donations accepted. These are just a few organizations that are keeping me healthy and sane.

Maybe I will emerge from this pandemic, smarter, thinner, more creative and will have made new friends. Now, if I can put down the chocolate chip cookies and the Prosecco.

Dance like nobody's watching. Because nobody is. 

Felicia Carparelli is a retired teacher, tap dancer and dog walker in Chicago. This essay is from her book in progress, Life After Medicare.

Felicia Carparelli

Imperfection After Breast Cancer

Traveling Amid the COVID-19 Pandemic As A Cancer Survivor

Waiting for the Oncologist Amid COVID-19

Dance Like No One is Watching

Latest News