I am Post-War France

I preface this by saying that my full understanding of the World War II Occupation of France, particularly Paris, comes from the recent Broadway adaption of the film An American in Paris by way of a filmed London performance projected onto a screen at a local movie theater and on PBS’s Great Performances. As a lifetime dancer, it is no surprise that I would base my experience on a wonderfully dance laden musical than on the European History course I didn’t pay enough attention to while in high school.

During World War II, France was invaded and occupied by Germany. In Paris, and I’m sure in all other occupied territories, the Nazis hung their flags with the Swastikas to declare their ownership, much to the French consternation. The Nazis clearly let the French and the world know that France was theirs. There was a lot of carnage leading up to the occupation and more carnage for the French to gain their emancipation. The French coordinated resistance groups, along with the allied troops, could not stop the occupation. However, they certainly helped with the emancipation.

While bombs were destroying Paris and major parts of France, the Eiffel Tower, the beautiful wide boulevards, Champs Elysee and more, still remained fairly intact although losing their grandeur and beauty while being draped by Nazi flags. During the occupation, the French lost their power, their pride and their pretty. When Paris was liberated, the flags came down. It was time for the French to rebuild with the help of their allies. The bones of the city and the country were there; they just needed to heal and start rebuilding.

Reconstructing what once was there is not always easy and the result is never the same as what came before. Sometimes it’s better; sometimes it’s not. Whatever the outcome, it certainly will be tangibly and intangibly different than what it was previously. There are some things that can never be unseen, some experiences that cannot be unfelt, and some aspects that cannot be rebuilt.

So here I am; just like Post-war France. I had been invaded and occupied much to my consternation. Although there weren’t any flags flying to state the occupation, the scans and lab reports were incontrovertible: invasive ductile carcinoma. With the help of excellent physicians, family, friends and learned colleagues, I’ve been liberated and the enemy eliminated. Similar to Paris, there were parts of me hidden under flags of exhaustion during the bombing of the cancer with chemotherapy. These parts still exist. I am rediscovering them as the rebuilding begins and work to reclaim my temporarily lost power and pretty. As for pride, it comes and goes.

Foolishly I thought that the reclaiming and rebuilding of myself after finishing my last chemo treatment would be fairly easy and pretty quick. I’ve come to learn that being impatient leads to poorly laid foundations. In the beginning of the recuperation phase after chemotherapy if I overdid my activities, even simple ones like walking for long stretches, or trying to gain muscle strength back by doing isometrics, I became like a building on the verge of falling. And like Post-war Paris, I had unexpected power outages. (In An American in Paris, while singing and dancing to the fabulous song, I’ve Got Rhythm, there is a power outage. Celebrants at the bar mount a rigged bicycle to generate energy. It’s a great scene. In my life, the bicycle is more like my recliner chair in front of the TV).

Two months after completing chemotherapy, I hooked up with fitness coach, Amy* who is also a breast cancer survivor. The first thing she said to me was that I was only two months out from chemotherapy. I had been berating myself with, “I’m out of chemotherapy FOR TWO MONTHS!” The differences in our statements are her experience and my impatience. Amy told me not to expect to do more than 1 or 2 walks/swims a week and to expect the days in between to have to rest. She said that the more you overdo, the further you will go backwards. Then she gave me the information I really needed, “You will likely feel better in 6 months.” Finally, someone gave me a parameter such that I could stop killing myself in trying to get back to myself. Her prediction was correct. So went the aftermath of the battle using chemotherapy. I am still blown away by how RBG did it.

Three weeks later, I embarked on the final phase of my treatment. I guess it could be looked at like a peace treaty between breast cancer and me. If I continue to take estrogen receptor blockers every day for 5 to 10 years, breast cancer cells will agree to never again take up residence within me. Sometimes peace treaties come complete with complications. It is hard to discern if the fatigue I experience is due to the medication or due to the work of coming back to myself. I am hopeful that over time the fatigue will wear itself out. I am tired of being tired.

My incredible support team of family, friends, colleagues, doctors, and more, got me to this wonderful place that I am: Post-war France, working to regain my power, pride and pretty. It’s good to be Post-war France. I have the knowledge of where I’ve been and that I am heading to a place where things will be better, perhaps brighter. I acknowledge that my life was significantly altered and saved. My allies were those who offered love and support, allowing me to regain myself with dignity. It is humbling. It requires me to acknowledge and accept my limitations. It requires me to learn to ask for help, something that I am not really good at doing. It requires me to learn how to stop overdoing, another hard thing for me to learn.

At six months out from chemotherapy, I am still impatient about my getting back to being just France. I still have unexpected power outages, albeit not as frequent and I’m not as depleted. I am still waiting for my structure to have a closer resemblance to what it was before the invasion. My plastic surgeon says there is more to be gained by further surgical reconstruction. I am hopeful despite the inconveniences of additional surgery. Oftentimes I lose sight that I am still Post-war France. I wrote “PWF” on the inside of my leather watchband. When I lose my way, I glance at the inside of my wrist. I am reminded that I am still in a process. It calms me.

Paris got out from under the Nazis, with the help of strong resistance fighters and allies. It still remains the beautiful (although not my favourite) city that it always was; home of fine art, fine cuisine and fine fashion. In time I will be back as the energised sparkly, glittery, sequin wearing (which I try to do energised or not) woman, wife, mother, grandmother, sister, aunt, friend, dancer, therapist, and more, that I’ve tried to be. France is no longer Post-war France; it is just France – a new and improved version of what it was before the occupation. I will be me, new and improved, who benefitted from the incredible outpouring of love, support and prayers from those I love. My sparkly radiance will not be from sequins or glitter, but rather from the love that I’ve been so blessed to receive.

* Pseudonym

Joyce Bloom, Ph.D. earned her doctorate at Hofstra University and postdoctoral degree at Adelphi University Derner Institute. She currently is training in Internal Family Systems through the Center of Self Leadership. Dr. Bloom is a clinical psychologist practicing in Manhattan and Roslyn Heights, NY.

Joyce is a married mother of three children and grandmother to four. She is a two time breast cancer survivor. She pursues her life long interest in dance by performing and choreographing for a senior tap dance troupe called The Red Hot Mamas.