Finding a Way Back to Sex
“I have been to the Sahara Desert, and wow, is it dry!”
After treatment, it’s not easy. From body image to side effects to mental health, challenges are stacked against intimacy. But time, patience and understanding make a difference.
I remember the second time I met my husband, Mike. It was opening day for the Cubs and the game had been called because of the rain. We were in a crowded Chicago bar on Clark street. I remember just wanting to be close to him. I was captivated by his crystal blue eyes, with their depth and sincerity. I didn’t even care what he was saying, I just wondered what it would be like to be wrapped in this devastatingly handsome man’s arms.
I was lucky enough to find out, and even better, to be loved by him. It was those same arms that caught me and told me to breathe when I heard, unfortunately, “Ms. Lanzito, your biopsy came back positive for breast cancer.” It was those same arms that helped me walk to the car after my bilateral mastectomy and every treatment thereafter. Those arms held our children when I couldn’t and carried our family until I was back on my feet.
After treatment, I still wanted to be close, to be held, to be intimate. But so much of me had changed. Even though I knew I could trust Mike to be the gentle, considerate, loving man I fell head-over-heels for, my body wasn’t the body I wanted to celebrate, the body I felt comfortable sharing. I lacked the emotional bandwidth to manage the disconnection of my body and mind.
The Body in the Mirror
Mike has seen me at my best—and now for certain he has seen me at my worst. I would look in the mirror and think, “Who the fuck would want to have sex with me?”
“I wondered if the spark was ever going to be ignited again? Would I be able to be free and enjoy myself? To enjoy my husband?”
I can barely stand the sight of my uneven, half-growing-in weird hair or my rock hard boobs. My vagina was now one of an 80-year-old woman, to quote my gynecologist. While I have not physically been to the Sahara Desert, let me tell you, I have been to the Sahara Desert, and wow, is it dry!
Physically, maybe I could find a way to have sex. But emotionally, I just felt dead inside. I didn’t feel one spark of excitement, not one rush of emotion other than to cry my eyes out and think, What is wrong with me? I didn’t want to do anything, not even with the man I had waited so long to find. I felt no emotion whatsoever, nothing! I wondered if the spark was ever going to be ignited again? Would I be able to be free and enjoy myself? To enjoy my husband? Would Mike be able to touch me without wondering if he was hurting me or wondering if I still loved him because we are not intimate or affectionate the way we used to be? What do we do?
First Things First: This Is Normal
My doctor told me much of what I was experiencing was normal. I was in a chemo-induced menopause and had started taking the medication tamoxifen—a medication with oh-so-sexy side effects like hot flashes and vaginal dryness—and I needed to let my body work itself out.
But I also needed to just “DO IT” and get some good lube. Let me tell you, nothing makes you feel like a goddess more than leaving a doctor’s office—where everyone is having babies—having been told your insides look like an 80-year-old bitty and then researching what is the best lube amazon could deliver ASAP.
I also went to the medical cannabis dispensary. Somewhere I had read that if you put some CBD and mix it with some coconut oil things may slide back into place, of course. (Hey, you’re willing to try anything at this point.) I also thought “Well shit, if all else fails, we could just puff, puff, pass and say we tried.”
Slowly—and I am talking slower than the excruciating wait time for your scan results type of slowly—things started getting better. The mechanics of it all became more natural, and I had more time to accept and explore my body.
I don’t know that I feel the level of libido my peers feel, or at least the ones who don’t take tamoxifen or haven’t been through this ultimate shit show. But I don’t feel dead inside anymore. Instead, I feel. And if you are asking me, that is a win. If you are asking Mike, he would say he rocks my world again. And it’s true. But sometimes I still just want to be wrapped up in those arms — at least until I get too hot and roll over to the cool side of the bed.
