...is the enemy unseen.
I sit here at the computer wanting to write about the crazy. I feel like, if I could just describe a bit of the anxiety, put a name to the unknown, maybe that could weaken its hold on me; not a lot, just a little. Just enough to let me breathe. But, nooooo. I am frozen at the keyboard. All I want is to bleed the voices out of me - just a little - so that maybe tomorrow will be a little easier than today. But I don't know where to start.
And now, I come back to this screen after almost 20 minutes of staring at NBA 2K14 and no new words have magically appeared. Imagine that.
So I focus on my irritation. I focus on (what I perceive to be) the obstacle that so deftly, so expertly, so intimately keeps me from writing. Calling that obstacle "voices" was just... uninspired. Complacent, if we're being honest, because I don't really have voices in my head. "Voices" is a cop-out. "Voices" is me being lazy. The only actual voice in my head is mine. I know how many there are - one - and I know whose it is - mine.
That's not the problem.
Here's the problem.
Voices in your head, no matter how many there are or who they sound like, are not constrained by the restrictions of the physical body. Space and linear timelines are anachronisms in the realm of head-voices. Just because there is only one voice doesn't mean there aren't a million tracks of that one voice all playing at different speeds and volumes, reflecting a million different moods and voicing a million different opinions. Just because there is only one voice and it happens to be yours doesn't mean you can trust it.
Hell. Just because there is only one voice and it happens to be yours doesn't even guarantee that you can understand what it's saying. With a million different tracks playing simultaneously at different speeds and volumes while concurrently sampling a million different moods and proclaiming a million different opinions, the end result is a cacophonous clamor. A discordant drumming. A raucous racket.
My own personal Tower of Babel.
There is some kind of pseudo-intellectual, faux-philosophy
connection between the biblical story of Babel and my current state of insanity,
but I can't quite verbalize it, at the moment.
Oh, but if I could.
The most fearsome thing is the enemy unseen.
True dat.
Hells to tha' yeah.
Fo'sheezy.
Daaaaarn tootin'.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Sunday, October 4, 2015
?TMI? Again, You Can't Say You Weren't Warned...
THIS is a crazy side-rant in the middle of what, I am quickly becoming convinced, is a minor nervous breakdown. But it is a really positive crazy side-rant, and I *really* need the positive right now, so don't say you weren't warned about the upcoming crazy-laced TMI rant.
Women under the age of menopause (and any many in or hoping to be in a long-term relation with a woman) might secretly fear "the Change" more than any other biophysical event outside of dying. Let me demonstrate my point. Set a timer for 45 seconds, then close your eyes and think about the ways menopause has or is impacting your life. What might the future hold for you when you finally stare the Change in the eyes for the first time.
How could it not send icy cold shivers down the spine? Considering Hollywood's portrayal of older women, (women of any age, really) pharmaceutical advertising's constant reminders about the heat, moods, and moisture (or lack thereof) associated with the Change, and the ever-present stoic, matronly mother/aunt/grandmother/friend's mother/church pew neighbor/sweet little lady next door archetype, what else are we supposed to think? I've always imagined a grim Transformation (I'll stop speaking for the majority of women now) resulting in a shell of a woman, a ghostly shadow of her former self. Every joke, ad, and movie reinforces the idea that menopause is PMS-on-steroids.
I see things a bit differently now.
I would like to point out a few things 1) in no conceivable way did my 3-month, chemically-induced, stress-drenched menopause experience resemble what I understand to be the "average," "natural" menopause reality, information admittedly gleaned mainly through furtive, short conversations and late night Google obsessions. 2) In no universe do I think it's possible that my "Change" is complete. 3) In no realm of the imagination would I EVER be so vain ~ or disrespectful ~ as to superimpose my experience onto others. What I write next is my experience, thus far, and I must assume that it is mine, alone.
But I dearly, truly hope not. :-)
I look back now at the barely-contained angst that consumed me during the months after my diagnosis, but before... well, today, and my first instinct is to stoically smile, just like I've seen a million other white-haired matron smile. For months that seemed like *centuries,* I could not, in my relative innocence, imagine me without my "Drive." And that's the big deal about menopause, right? You lose your "Drive," and then you go crazy. "Drive" has played a heavy hand in my Universe for almost 40 years. The thought of it simply disappearing (because that's what happens, right?) was so inconceivable, so... unspeakable that I spent many nights/early mornings alone on the couch, trying desperately to not-disturb my 16 year old son or my boyfriend ~ of *7 very short months* ~ as I immersed myself in imagining who that woman would be. There is *nothing* to prescribe, no exercise to overdo, no proven remedy for the loss of... desire. How... boring that must be, I thought. So empty. Dead. And anyone who knows me intimately understands that boredom is my kryptonite. I was scared to death. How in the HELL was my already-stressed-to-the-max-7-month-old relationship going to handle THAT?!?!?!? It was already juggling work, children, grandchildren, family, bills, daily life, blah, blah, blah. Oh, yeah. And breast cancer. Put menopause in the mix? You could say I was scared. To death.
Fast-forward several months later to now... I am emerging into the next phase of this. I am coming to understand that Drive and Desire are two often-very separate things. The absence of "Drive" is not a vacuum. To be left empty, the core quality of the human spirit would have to be "Drive." Somehow, in my pre-menopausal way of assuming the worst (something I have NEVER done before), I had decided that "desire" equated the "Drive," that they were one and the same. It is a Need, a Necessity, ultimately, a biological imperative. It is Sex Drive that has allowed the human race to procreate and survive. Drive is produced largely by estrogen and in the hormone's absence, Drive all but disappears. This would be a terrible tragedy if Drive and Desire were the same thing. I am coming to see they definitely are not.
Desire involves interest. It involves enticement. Desire equates *want,* instead of need. Yes. The stripping of estrogen from my body would leave me bereft of Need. But Desire, I can now see, has nothing to do with estrogen. In fact, it's had an almost inverse affect on me. The death of Drive has left all kinds of room to filled in with Desire. (That is about the cheesiest-ass thing I have *ever* written.) Being able to let go of "have to" and embrace "want to" has been amazing. Enlightening, really. I look back at my menopausophobia, and I can't help but laugh at my irrational fears. Interestingly, I think I'm glad I was given a healthy fear the Change. In some ways, the looming threat of <<<menopause>>> kept me on my toes. It never let me forget for too long that nothing is permanent. The zombie-esque future I face as an aging woman often inspired(s) me to acts of great fun and foolishness. Desire, unfettered by "Drive," is trans-formative. When sex sheds the weight of "must have," "want to have" all but takes over.
Remember that 45 seconds of imagining menopause? Close your eyes, again, but this time imagine what wanting feels like without the pressure of "must." Wanting the one you love, not because a gland in your brain is flipping internal switches your body can't ignore, but simply because... you want them. You don't have to have them. <close your eyes!>
You *WANT* them.
;~*
And that, my friends, is *hot.*
So when half-joking, side-stepping inquiries about the HELL of menopause come my way, I think a calm, reserved smile is probably the way to go, don't you?
Women under the age of menopause (and any many in or hoping to be in a long-term relation with a woman) might secretly fear "the Change" more than any other biophysical event outside of dying. Let me demonstrate my point. Set a timer for 45 seconds, then close your eyes and think about the ways menopause has or is impacting your life. What might the future hold for you when you finally stare the Change in the eyes for the first time.
How could it not send icy cold shivers down the spine? Considering Hollywood's portrayal of older women, (women of any age, really) pharmaceutical advertising's constant reminders about the heat, moods, and moisture (or lack thereof) associated with the Change, and the ever-present stoic, matronly mother/aunt/grandmother/friend's mother/church pew neighbor/sweet little lady next door archetype, what else are we supposed to think? I've always imagined a grim Transformation (I'll stop speaking for the majority of women now) resulting in a shell of a woman, a ghostly shadow of her former self. Every joke, ad, and movie reinforces the idea that menopause is PMS-on-steroids.
I see things a bit differently now.
I would like to point out a few things 1) in no conceivable way did my 3-month, chemically-induced, stress-drenched menopause experience resemble what I understand to be the "average," "natural" menopause reality, information admittedly gleaned mainly through furtive, short conversations and late night Google obsessions. 2) In no universe do I think it's possible that my "Change" is complete. 3) In no realm of the imagination would I EVER be so vain ~ or disrespectful ~ as to superimpose my experience onto others. What I write next is my experience, thus far, and I must assume that it is mine, alone.
But I dearly, truly hope not. :-)
I look back now at the barely-contained angst that consumed me during the months after my diagnosis, but before... well, today, and my first instinct is to stoically smile, just like I've seen a million other white-haired matron smile. For months that seemed like *centuries,* I could not, in my relative innocence, imagine me without my "Drive." And that's the big deal about menopause, right? You lose your "Drive," and then you go crazy. "Drive" has played a heavy hand in my Universe for almost 40 years. The thought of it simply disappearing (because that's what happens, right?) was so inconceivable, so... unspeakable that I spent many nights/early mornings alone on the couch, trying desperately to not-disturb my 16 year old son or my boyfriend ~ of *7 very short months* ~ as I immersed myself in imagining who that woman would be. There is *nothing* to prescribe, no exercise to overdo, no proven remedy for the loss of... desire. How... boring that must be, I thought. So empty. Dead. And anyone who knows me intimately understands that boredom is my kryptonite. I was scared to death. How in the HELL was my already-stressed-to-the-max-7-month-old relationship going to handle THAT?!?!?!? It was already juggling work, children, grandchildren, family, bills, daily life, blah, blah, blah. Oh, yeah. And breast cancer. Put menopause in the mix? You could say I was scared. To death.
Fast-forward several months later to now... I am emerging into the next phase of this. I am coming to understand that Drive and Desire are two often-very separate things. The absence of "Drive" is not a vacuum. To be left empty, the core quality of the human spirit would have to be "Drive." Somehow, in my pre-menopausal way of assuming the worst (something I have NEVER done before), I had decided that "desire" equated the "Drive," that they were one and the same. It is a Need, a Necessity, ultimately, a biological imperative. It is Sex Drive that has allowed the human race to procreate and survive. Drive is produced largely by estrogen and in the hormone's absence, Drive all but disappears. This would be a terrible tragedy if Drive and Desire were the same thing. I am coming to see they definitely are not.
Desire involves interest. It involves enticement. Desire equates *want,* instead of need. Yes. The stripping of estrogen from my body would leave me bereft of Need. But Desire, I can now see, has nothing to do with estrogen. In fact, it's had an almost inverse affect on me. The death of Drive has left all kinds of room to filled in with Desire. (That is about the cheesiest-ass thing I have *ever* written.) Being able to let go of "have to" and embrace "want to" has been amazing. Enlightening, really. I look back at my menopausophobia, and I can't help but laugh at my irrational fears. Interestingly, I think I'm glad I was given a healthy fear the Change. In some ways, the looming threat of <<<menopause>>> kept me on my toes. It never let me forget for too long that nothing is permanent. The zombie-esque future I face as an aging woman often inspired(s) me to acts of great fun and foolishness. Desire, unfettered by "Drive," is trans-formative. When sex sheds the weight of "must have," "want to have" all but takes over.
Remember that 45 seconds of imagining menopause? Close your eyes, again, but this time imagine what wanting feels like without the pressure of "must." Wanting the one you love, not because a gland in your brain is flipping internal switches your body can't ignore, but simply because... you want them. You don't have to have them. <close your eyes!>
You *WANT* them.
;~*
And that, my friends, is *hot.*
So when half-joking, side-stepping inquiries about the HELL of menopause come my way, I think a calm, reserved smile is probably the way to go, don't you?
Sunday, September 20, 2015
The Hubris of the Scholar
sen·ior·i·tis
sēnyəˈrītis/
a supposed affliction of students in their final year of high school or college, characterized by a decline in motivation or performance and can be, although not always, accompanied by an absolute certainty that there is little left to learn.
As time pushes me ever closer to, once again, being a "senior," the reminders that I do *not* know everything seem to be getting more pointed.
The most recent?... "Oh, L@@K," she said, all triumphant and confident and smiling, "I found her! My Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss was with me all along! The Schol@r inside was just biding her time until I was ready. And ready, I am!" [Imagine arms up and out, with palms turned up towards the sky and head thrown back as the words burst from my very being] "I LOVE AND EMBRACE MY INNER BREAST CANCER B@D@SS!"
My naivety is a never-ending source of entertainment and consternation for me. And probably those around me.
I was so happy to be in a place of "ok." I was so relieved to find some peace. I was so thrilled to feel *good* more frequently than *bad,* that I believed the hype. I swallowed it all, hook, line, and sinker. Chemo had ended *6 months* before. All signs pointed (and still point) to complete and utter destruction of any detectable cancer. I was moving through the reconstruction surgeries with relative ease. With my rose-colored glasses adding a lovely hue to the whole scene, I allowed myself a congratulatory pat on the back for coming through this hell of a cancer journey with my sanity (largely) in tact. I just *knew* that finding my I.B.C. B@d@ss was my first major step into "life after cancer." I treated myself with a rare bit of pride and admiration at how far I had come in a year that was at once maddeningly long and anxiety-inducing short. I may as well have been practicing my "Pomp and Circumstance" walk and decorating the mortarboard I would soon pin to my hair.
I thought chemo was hard. Well, to be fair, chemo *was* hard. But there is a luxury in being the kind of physically ill that is painfully obvious to you and anyone around you. No one (including yourself) expects much of you when you are getting a toxin designed to destroy human cells pumped into you every Friday. And that, I have come to see, is something of a luxury.
The chemicals we put in me now don't make me puke, won't make me bald, and can't, technically, kill me unlike the weekly Taxol injections. There are few visible signs of the chemical battle raging inside me. But this, what I do now every day, this is harder. Every day I get up, and I look in the mirror. The way I look and the way I feel are so discordant, so opposing that cycle of physiological anxiety begins anew, just like it did the day before and just like it will tomorrow. I look... good. But I feel... indescribably terrible. So much for my short-lived senioritis.
Monday, June 8, 2015
To Be Or Not To Be...
It kind of really is the question. Should I be "this thing" or this OTHER thing? Should I watch a show or play Diablo? Should I start planning classes or start writing a book? Should I get out of the house today or...?
Or stay inside like I have for months now? I remember having energy... I remember looking forward to *do things.* Anything. EVERYthing. Everything takes so much *energy.* There's a quote I included in my ScholarRevelationEntry that was supposed to inaugurate the "new" blog and it goes...
"I am an old scholar, better-looking now than when I was young. That's what sitting on your ass does to your face." ~Leonard Cohen
It's a nice sentiment. I don't think he's right. Not when I look in the mirror. Sitting on my ass is probably just... flattening my ass. The Invisible Scholar is just sitting here on her ass, stewing in a lack of motivation and often overwhelming lethargy. Just last night, all of the amazing, strong women of Spokane's 2015 "Listen to Your Mother" got together again to celebrate our experience this year. I didn't go. I spent all day holding myself and everything together and just... had no happy left to share at the end of the day. Little desire to celebrate something that now feels like a lifetime ago. I've lived a lifetime in less than a month, it seems.
That statement is rather self-pitying. And false. And self-indulgent. I could only be so lucky as to live *my* lifetime of experiences in less than a month. I've had some pretty damn awesome experiences.
Some of them even occurred on this couch that is currently hosting my ever-more-flattening ass. So the answer, then, is "to be." To be what? My Inner Breast Cancer Badass asks a most important question. "Does it really matter," she whispers.
Or stay inside like I have for months now? I remember having energy... I remember looking forward to *do things.* Anything. EVERYthing. Everything takes so much *energy.* There's a quote I included in my ScholarRevelationEntry that was supposed to inaugurate the "new" blog and it goes...
"I am an old scholar, better-looking now than when I was young. That's what sitting on your ass does to your face." ~Leonard Cohen
It's a nice sentiment. I don't think he's right. Not when I look in the mirror. Sitting on my ass is probably just... flattening my ass. The Invisible Scholar is just sitting here on her ass, stewing in a lack of motivation and often overwhelming lethargy. Just last night, all of the amazing, strong women of Spokane's 2015 "Listen to Your Mother" got together again to celebrate our experience this year. I didn't go. I spent all day holding myself and everything together and just... had no happy left to share at the end of the day. Little desire to celebrate something that now feels like a lifetime ago. I've lived a lifetime in less than a month, it seems.
That statement is rather self-pitying. And false. And self-indulgent. I could only be so lucky as to live *my* lifetime of experiences in less than a month. I've had some pretty damn awesome experiences.
Some of them even occurred on this couch that is currently hosting my ever-more-flattening ass. So the answer, then, is "to be." To be what? My Inner Breast Cancer Badass asks a most important question. "Does it really matter," she whispers.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
52 Days Later...
And I still have nothing to say? Right. I've taken notes on so many "wise," "insightful," "inspired," thoughts and ideas. They are all over the house - stuffed between book pages, tucked into drawers, and ferreted away among so many other treasures. So many personal revelations - innumerable "occurrences," and yet here I sit. With nothing to say. And a million things screaming to be let out. My Inner Breast Cancer Badass - the "Invisible Scholar" - seems to be sitting down on the job. Or scared to death. One or the other. But then, what other option is there? Plenty. Just not many I am *capable* of executing. That is a much more positive statement then it appears. What is it they say about talking to yourself? As long as you don't reply?...
Thursday, April 16, 2015
THE Search is OVER! Just Keep Reading...
...and the connection to the search for My Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss will become clear. I tell my students the very first day of class; just stick with me. It may not make sense in the middle, but just stick with me. I almost always come full circle. I should have probably said that in my very first blog entry. Better late than never, I suppose.
<Scooby-Doo rewind to a few hours ago> I am explaining to my son that I would give anything if I could magically make people feel about learning and education the way I did as a student and do, now, as a professor. When I was in school (like starting in elementary school), it was the first thing I wanted to do when I got up and the last thing I wanted to do before going to bed. The same is true now, except I now learning through teaching, both through what I try to teach students AND through what students inevitably teach me. If everyone could feel that about learning - even just a little bit - I think they would struggle with school so much less. It's what got me through the courses I absolutely hated - finding something within the subject I wanted to know.
It is the guiding principle of how I organize my classes. I try, in the short span of ten weeks, to offer as many examples of how to approach history as possible, so that even if the student *hates* history and is just taking the class to graduate, I have the best chance of offering even just *one thing* that hooks them. I love it when I learn I have students that hate history. They are so much easier to please, if nothing else ;-). I should start a teaching blog. No.... a learning blog.
NO TANGENTS! (cue amused laughter/eye-rolling/head shaking/sarcastic retorts of former students)
I am explaining this to my son because he just started his third quarter of college. He is a running start student, which means he is a junior in high school and a freshman in college simultaneous. He's taking an online math and on-ground Japanese class through his high school and plant biology, philosophy of religion (200 level), and American multi-cultural lit (again, 200 level) classes at his college. By far, this is the most intensive, in-depth quarter in school for him, so far. By *far*.
And it's only the second week of the quarter, so he hasn't had time to find the rhythm of his new classes, yet. This is one of the hardest areas of transition for running start students - for all students, really - having to adapt and adjust your *entire daily routine* every ten weeks to the demands of an completely new schedule that is usually radically different from any other that came before AND most often under the command of three frequently widely-differing bosses who NEVER coordinate their requirements, AND who, odds are, you either have never met before, or, at the very least, don't know very well. People give students crap all the time, especially community college students and within that group, ESPECIALLY running start students. "I mean, it's community college. How hard can it REALLY be? You aren't even out in the real world yet." Those people have either never done it or have forgotten.
NO TANGENTS! (cue amused laughter/eye-rolling/head shaking/sarcastic retorts from everyone, now)
<Second Scooby-Doo rewind> He stands at the end of the couch with heavy eyes. (Paraphrasing) "I am so tired. I still have more homework. And it's philosophy." (We just had the discussion about the brain-sucking, thought-sapping, mentally-draining experience that is philosophy class yesterday.) I mentally scramble for the words that will impart this little piece of wisdom to him. I want, in some way, to describe my passion to him about learning - how it makes me feel - so that somewhere in all of the craziness that is his life for the next nine week, he can find hooks that make him want learning to be the first thing he does when he wakes up and the last thing he does before he goes to sleep. It's the only way to get through college AND get something out of it. If he could just see a little of what it is like for me... not was ~ *is*....
And as I look around the room at the stations I have set up for me to help me through recovery, it occurs to me that I am lying.
*We had just finished watching an episode of Modern Family, our latest favorite "feel good" show - there are so few, and this one is SO good - and the tv holds its breath in a pause screen of credits.
*The vintage eBay stuff to my left and right - left being stuff that doesn't have pictures, yet and right being items with pictures divided into posted and not-posted-yet piles - waits in baited anticipation.
*My book and syllabus for the faculty learning community I am part of this quarter sleeps at my knee.
*My box of vintage magazine pictures and its accompanying boxes of empty vintage frames (I make framed collage art out of vintage magazines) lounge at my feet.
*The curriculum I've created for "Intro to Gender Studies" taps its foot in a hidden window on my screen.
*My cross-stitch bag with the dragon I've put over 350 hours into - so far - cuddles up to my 4 ft Valentine's bear, who keeps me constant company on the couch.
*My "Listen to Your Mother" piece I'm reading in front of God and everybody in less than a month is pacing back and forth in Word, just waiting for me to practice.
*The non-fiction book I'm reading keeps company with my wallet and keys in my purse.
*My phone with my brain games to help with the chemo-brain recovery sucks juice from the charger on the chance I might play a session or two.
*Outlines of the pieces I am writing to partner with the pre-surgery portrait session in the hopes of creating an art exhibit and to use as voice over in the documentary are back row students, sitting next to the Gender Studies curriculum and LTYM.
*The grant proposal files I am going through to distribute to the Northwest International Education Association Board - on which I am the VP and the Grant Coordinator - haven't given up on me, yet.
*Living Richly and Fully - my chronic illness support group on FB - prefers the next to last row.
*LR&F is becoming great friends with my breast cancer research and blog drafts.
*And my list of free, online MIT course I want to start get the position of honor, perched triumphantly right next to me as the only learning opportunity I had taken advantage of all day, gloating over the rest... and that only received maybe an hour of my attention.
And I know. I am lying.
Premise A: If someone made me choose one activity to do for the rest of my life, I would choose learning (and not in a scape-goat, twist-of-words-you-learn-from-everything-you-do-so-I-learn-from-doing-nothing kind of way). Premise B: If learning is the first and last thing I have *always* wanted to be doing every day. Then Conclusion: I am lying. I am not doing it. I've had all of these options surrounding me all day, and I devoted maybe an hour to all of them combined. Now, don't get me wrong. I had major surgery two weeks ago tomorrow. My left breast was "augmented," and the side we cut off now houses an expander placed underneath the pectoral muscle. Since the surgery, I've gone into the office twice to have a total of 100 cc's of saline injected into my right lump so the expander will slowly stretch the pectoral muscles to allow them to cradle the eventual reconstruction of my right breast. I will go in three or four more times for saline "fills," and then, when my bump is big enough, I will sit with that for three months in an effort to assure a successful reconstruction comprised of a breast implant combined with lipo-ed tissue from other areas of my body. It would be fool-hardy to "work" from the time I get up until the time I go to bed. I have to be rested and healthy, if I want to continue this journey and be the best version of me possible on the other end.
But I'm being ripped off. And I'm the one doing the ripping off. I am denying myself - consciously, for the most part - activities that I enjoy. No, not just enjoy; these are activities I love. Am I trying to punish myself? Am I depressed? Am I just damned lazy?
I could drive myself crazy trying to answer those questions. Does it even really matter why I didn't do much of any of these treasured opportunities today? I guess you could argue "yes," it is important. It makes sense that knowing the root or cause of a problem takes a huge step towards fixing said problem.
But I'm also a firm believer in the first step to overcoming a problem is identifying it. My problem is that I'm not consistently doing the things I love. At any given time, I am sure all of the possible explanations apply. Sometimes, I am punishing myself. Others? I am depressed. There are times where I am truly not physically able to work on anything that takes any brain power, you know, what with two major surgeries, radioactive tests, and chemotherapy (to name a few) since July, it's bound to happen. And sometimes, I am just damned lazy.
So now I've identified it AND explained it well enough. Now, I fix it.
And there she was, surrounding me the whole time. Since the beginning of this journey, really. My Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss was always with me. I didn't have to search for her. She started doing her thing immediately. The earliest days of this experience were filled with research and posting, research and posting, research and posting. I had to learn about this new entity in my life - this parasite, a living thing, that had taken the opportunity grow in me. And then I had to talk about it, to tell people what I was learning because I knew I needed help - and I knew I wanted to help anyone I could. My Inner B@d@ss has been with me my entire life. She has carried me through every dark day of my existence. First, we learn. Everything we can. Then, we talk. To anyone who will listen. She is a philosopher, a biologist, a historian, an author, a child, a sociologist, an artist, an entrepreneur, a performer, a supporter, a professor, a student.
I found my Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss. She is a B@d@ss Scholar.
Scholar:
1. a learned or erudite person, especially one who has profound knowledge of a particular subject; one who learned and analyzes
So she is a teacher.
2. a student: pupil
3. a person, especially a child, who studies
And a student.
4. savant
And... a little bit crazy.
The Search is now officially ended. Elvis has left the building. (That one's for you, Aunt Sheila ;-). I hear the fat lady singing. (I REALLY don't like that phrase) Stick a fork in it. Roger, over... and... out.
It's time for a new blog.
P.S. This Search has given me FAR more than it could *ever* take away. The one thing I *can't* say.... good riddance.
<voice from the future whispers> "I wish you the best of luck. You're going to need it."
<Scooby-Doo rewind to a few hours ago> I am explaining to my son that I would give anything if I could magically make people feel about learning and education the way I did as a student and do, now, as a professor. When I was in school (like starting in elementary school), it was the first thing I wanted to do when I got up and the last thing I wanted to do before going to bed. The same is true now, except I now learning through teaching, both through what I try to teach students AND through what students inevitably teach me. If everyone could feel that about learning - even just a little bit - I think they would struggle with school so much less. It's what got me through the courses I absolutely hated - finding something within the subject I wanted to know.
It is the guiding principle of how I organize my classes. I try, in the short span of ten weeks, to offer as many examples of how to approach history as possible, so that even if the student *hates* history and is just taking the class to graduate, I have the best chance of offering even just *one thing* that hooks them. I love it when I learn I have students that hate history. They are so much easier to please, if nothing else ;-). I should start a teaching blog. No.... a learning blog.
NO TANGENTS! (cue amused laughter/eye-rolling/head shaking/sarcastic retorts of former students)
I am explaining this to my son because he just started his third quarter of college. He is a running start student, which means he is a junior in high school and a freshman in college simultaneous. He's taking an online math and on-ground Japanese class through his high school and plant biology, philosophy of religion (200 level), and American multi-cultural lit (again, 200 level) classes at his college. By far, this is the most intensive, in-depth quarter in school for him, so far. By *far*.
And it's only the second week of the quarter, so he hasn't had time to find the rhythm of his new classes, yet. This is one of the hardest areas of transition for running start students - for all students, really - having to adapt and adjust your *entire daily routine* every ten weeks to the demands of an completely new schedule that is usually radically different from any other that came before AND most often under the command of three frequently widely-differing bosses who NEVER coordinate their requirements, AND who, odds are, you either have never met before, or, at the very least, don't know very well. People give students crap all the time, especially community college students and within that group, ESPECIALLY running start students. "I mean, it's community college. How hard can it REALLY be? You aren't even out in the real world yet." Those people have either never done it or have forgotten.
NO TANGENTS! (cue amused laughter/eye-rolling/head shaking/sarcastic retorts from everyone, now)
<Second Scooby-Doo rewind> He stands at the end of the couch with heavy eyes. (Paraphrasing) "I am so tired. I still have more homework. And it's philosophy." (We just had the discussion about the brain-sucking, thought-sapping, mentally-draining experience that is philosophy class yesterday.) I mentally scramble for the words that will impart this little piece of wisdom to him. I want, in some way, to describe my passion to him about learning - how it makes me feel - so that somewhere in all of the craziness that is his life for the next nine week, he can find hooks that make him want learning to be the first thing he does when he wakes up and the last thing he does before he goes to sleep. It's the only way to get through college AND get something out of it. If he could just see a little of what it is like for me... not was ~ *is*....
And as I look around the room at the stations I have set up for me to help me through recovery, it occurs to me that I am lying.
*We had just finished watching an episode of Modern Family, our latest favorite "feel good" show - there are so few, and this one is SO good - and the tv holds its breath in a pause screen of credits.
*The vintage eBay stuff to my left and right - left being stuff that doesn't have pictures, yet and right being items with pictures divided into posted and not-posted-yet piles - waits in baited anticipation.
*My book and syllabus for the faculty learning community I am part of this quarter sleeps at my knee.
*My box of vintage magazine pictures and its accompanying boxes of empty vintage frames (I make framed collage art out of vintage magazines) lounge at my feet.
*The curriculum I've created for "Intro to Gender Studies" taps its foot in a hidden window on my screen.
*My cross-stitch bag with the dragon I've put over 350 hours into - so far - cuddles up to my 4 ft Valentine's bear, who keeps me constant company on the couch.
*My "Listen to Your Mother" piece I'm reading in front of God and everybody in less than a month is pacing back and forth in Word, just waiting for me to practice.
*The non-fiction book I'm reading keeps company with my wallet and keys in my purse.
*My phone with my brain games to help with the chemo-brain recovery sucks juice from the charger on the chance I might play a session or two.
*Outlines of the pieces I am writing to partner with the pre-surgery portrait session in the hopes of creating an art exhibit and to use as voice over in the documentary are back row students, sitting next to the Gender Studies curriculum and LTYM.
*The grant proposal files I am going through to distribute to the Northwest International Education Association Board - on which I am the VP and the Grant Coordinator - haven't given up on me, yet.
*Living Richly and Fully - my chronic illness support group on FB - prefers the next to last row.
*LR&F is becoming great friends with my breast cancer research and blog drafts.
*And my list of free, online MIT course I want to start get the position of honor, perched triumphantly right next to me as the only learning opportunity I had taken advantage of all day, gloating over the rest... and that only received maybe an hour of my attention.
And I know. I am lying.
Premise A: If someone made me choose one activity to do for the rest of my life, I would choose learning (and not in a scape-goat, twist-of-words-you-learn-from-everything-you-do-so-I-learn-from-doing-nothing kind of way). Premise B: If learning is the first and last thing I have *always* wanted to be doing every day. Then Conclusion: I am lying. I am not doing it. I've had all of these options surrounding me all day, and I devoted maybe an hour to all of them combined. Now, don't get me wrong. I had major surgery two weeks ago tomorrow. My left breast was "augmented," and the side we cut off now houses an expander placed underneath the pectoral muscle. Since the surgery, I've gone into the office twice to have a total of 100 cc's of saline injected into my right lump so the expander will slowly stretch the pectoral muscles to allow them to cradle the eventual reconstruction of my right breast. I will go in three or four more times for saline "fills," and then, when my bump is big enough, I will sit with that for three months in an effort to assure a successful reconstruction comprised of a breast implant combined with lipo-ed tissue from other areas of my body. It would be fool-hardy to "work" from the time I get up until the time I go to bed. I have to be rested and healthy, if I want to continue this journey and be the best version of me possible on the other end.
But I'm being ripped off. And I'm the one doing the ripping off. I am denying myself - consciously, for the most part - activities that I enjoy. No, not just enjoy; these are activities I love. Am I trying to punish myself? Am I depressed? Am I just damned lazy?
I could drive myself crazy trying to answer those questions. Does it even really matter why I didn't do much of any of these treasured opportunities today? I guess you could argue "yes," it is important. It makes sense that knowing the root or cause of a problem takes a huge step towards fixing said problem.
But I'm also a firm believer in the first step to overcoming a problem is identifying it. My problem is that I'm not consistently doing the things I love. At any given time, I am sure all of the possible explanations apply. Sometimes, I am punishing myself. Others? I am depressed. There are times where I am truly not physically able to work on anything that takes any brain power, you know, what with two major surgeries, radioactive tests, and chemotherapy (to name a few) since July, it's bound to happen. And sometimes, I am just damned lazy.
So now I've identified it AND explained it well enough. Now, I fix it.
And there she was, surrounding me the whole time. Since the beginning of this journey, really. My Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss was always with me. I didn't have to search for her. She started doing her thing immediately. The earliest days of this experience were filled with research and posting, research and posting, research and posting. I had to learn about this new entity in my life - this parasite, a living thing, that had taken the opportunity grow in me. And then I had to talk about it, to tell people what I was learning because I knew I needed help - and I knew I wanted to help anyone I could. My Inner B@d@ss has been with me my entire life. She has carried me through every dark day of my existence. First, we learn. Everything we can. Then, we talk. To anyone who will listen. She is a philosopher, a biologist, a historian, an author, a child, a sociologist, an artist, an entrepreneur, a performer, a supporter, a professor, a student.
I found my Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss. She is a B@d@ss Scholar.
Scholar:
1. a learned or erudite person, especially one who has profound knowledge of a particular subject; one who learned and analyzes
So she is a teacher.
2. a student: pupil
3. a person, especially a child, who studies
And a student.
4. savant
And... a little bit crazy.
The Search is now officially ended. Elvis has left the building. (That one's for you, Aunt Sheila ;-). I hear the fat lady singing. (I REALLY don't like that phrase) Stick a fork in it. Roger, over... and... out.
It's time for a new blog.
P.S. This Search has given me FAR more than it could *ever* take away. The one thing I *can't* say.... good riddance.
<voice from the future whispers> "I wish you the best of luck. You're going to need it."
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Look Right Through Me
Menopause - /ˈmenəˌpôz/ - noun
the ceasing of menstruation; the period in a woman's life (typically between 45 and 50 years of age) when this occurs.
Okay. Well, that definition is pathetically simplistic. Let's try a medical dictionary.
Definition: Menopause represents the end of menstruation. While technically it refers to the final period, it is not an abrupt event, but a gradual process. Menopause is not a disease that needs to be cured; it is a natural life-stage transition during which women often make decisions about "treatment" options, such as hormone replacement therapies.
Now we're getting somewhere. That one reads more like the opening of a conversation. Unfortunately, it's a conversation, it seems, no one is having, not with any kind of full-disclosure honesty or in-depth exploration. Or maybe it's too complex and unique for a true conversation; I just don't know.
What I do know is that 3 months ago, one of my favorite nurses at CCNW looked at me and said, "Well, you are fully post-menopausal, so we don't need to do anything there." Uuuuhhhhhh, WHAT? Before chemo started, I wasn't even PRE-menopausal, and now, less than 4 months later, I'm fully POST! What the F@CK!?! Couldn't SOMEONE have thought to mention to me that my hormone levels were changing so drastically that I would be through menopause in record time? Maybe there's a meditation practice I could have done to ease the symptoms. Maybe some gentle yoga. A pill with no harmful interactions? SOMETHING? I thought I was *losing* my mind. I really, seriously thought I was going crazy and that I wasn't going to come back from it. At least if I had known it was menopause, I could have focused on the.... temporary nature of the mood-swings and physical changes. I figured my care team would KNOW to say something about it, but no one thought to say anything. No one thought to mention it. I felt so invisible that day. So trivial. Glossed over and unseen.
And now I'm going through it again. Not menopause (I don't think), but the great, invisible Phantom Nipple strikes, this time. The weight of misunderstood assumption is *so heavy.* I completely understand why anyone in their right mind would look at breast reconstruction following malignant breast cancer as a positive, celebratory thing. Maybe I'm not in my right mind (ha. ha. ha.) but it doesn't feel that way. I just hurt. Badly. Not as bad as I did after the mastectomy, but almost. And definitely more widespread. This pain is temporary, though, I know that. Who, (there's that phrase again) in their *right mind* WOULDN'T celebrate their return to looking "normal?" Apparently, not me. I am on my way to the full breast augmentation I have wanted for *years,* and I am not happy about it. And I don't know why. I'm sure I will be, eventually, but right now, in this moment, no.
There's a sense I get that many might think I am now on the road to "over;" that I am officially on the road to "recovery" with this first surgery. Maybe that's what's pissing me off, because I don't feel the "over" - the "recovery" - that so many seem to see. I still have Herceptin infusions through September. I still have many minor and at least one more major surgery between now and February of next year. I have Tamoxifen pills (the ones that will KEEP me post-menopausal) for a minimum of 5 years, or 10 years, if the current studies say 10 years is better. Maybe I'm pissed off because I can't seem to see this step like others do - for me, this is one of twelve thousand steps I simply never wanted to *have* to take, one of many pills I never wanted prescribed, one of many chemicals I never wanted injected, one of many surgeries I never wanted to have. I can't seem to find the "at least" in this, yet.
And underneath it all, every time a migraine sets in, or my damaged heart starts pounding too quickly and too hard, or my vulnerable lungs show the slightest sign of ache, I will have to fight the urge to beg for more tests - just to *make sure* IT hasn't come back somewhere else. Just to make sure I don't have to start this *hell* all over again. I now know, intimately, how much this experience sucks. And I can never *not know* that again.
Ignorance is bliss. And in this, I am not blissful.
(In honor of my dearly departed cousin, Ashley Carol, age 52, who passed away on Good Friday. Your pain is relieved, your fears are allayed, and your suffering is at an end. God speed and take care of you, "Sis." You've earned it.)
What I do know is that 3 months ago, one of my favorite nurses at CCNW looked at me and said, "Well, you are fully post-menopausal, so we don't need to do anything there." Uuuuhhhhhh, WHAT? Before chemo started, I wasn't even PRE-menopausal, and now, less than 4 months later, I'm fully POST! What the F@CK!?! Couldn't SOMEONE have thought to mention to me that my hormone levels were changing so drastically that I would be through menopause in record time? Maybe there's a meditation practice I could have done to ease the symptoms. Maybe some gentle yoga. A pill with no harmful interactions? SOMETHING? I thought I was *losing* my mind. I really, seriously thought I was going crazy and that I wasn't going to come back from it. At least if I had known it was menopause, I could have focused on the.... temporary nature of the mood-swings and physical changes. I figured my care team would KNOW to say something about it, but no one thought to say anything. No one thought to mention it. I felt so invisible that day. So trivial. Glossed over and unseen.
And now I'm going through it again. Not menopause (I don't think), but the great, invisible Phantom Nipple strikes, this time. The weight of misunderstood assumption is *so heavy.* I completely understand why anyone in their right mind would look at breast reconstruction following malignant breast cancer as a positive, celebratory thing. Maybe I'm not in my right mind (ha. ha. ha.) but it doesn't feel that way. I just hurt. Badly. Not as bad as I did after the mastectomy, but almost. And definitely more widespread. This pain is temporary, though, I know that. Who, (there's that phrase again) in their *right mind* WOULDN'T celebrate their return to looking "normal?" Apparently, not me. I am on my way to the full breast augmentation I have wanted for *years,* and I am not happy about it. And I don't know why. I'm sure I will be, eventually, but right now, in this moment, no.
There's a sense I get that many might think I am now on the road to "over;" that I am officially on the road to "recovery" with this first surgery. Maybe that's what's pissing me off, because I don't feel the "over" - the "recovery" - that so many seem to see. I still have Herceptin infusions through September. I still have many minor and at least one more major surgery between now and February of next year. I have Tamoxifen pills (the ones that will KEEP me post-menopausal) for a minimum of 5 years, or 10 years, if the current studies say 10 years is better. Maybe I'm pissed off because I can't seem to see this step like others do - for me, this is one of twelve thousand steps I simply never wanted to *have* to take, one of many pills I never wanted prescribed, one of many chemicals I never wanted injected, one of many surgeries I never wanted to have. I can't seem to find the "at least" in this, yet.
And underneath it all, every time a migraine sets in, or my damaged heart starts pounding too quickly and too hard, or my vulnerable lungs show the slightest sign of ache, I will have to fight the urge to beg for more tests - just to *make sure* IT hasn't come back somewhere else. Just to make sure I don't have to start this *hell* all over again. I now know, intimately, how much this experience sucks. And I can never *not know* that again.
Ignorance is bliss. And in this, I am not blissful.
(In honor of my dearly departed cousin, Ashley Carol, age 52, who passed away on Good Friday. Your pain is relieved, your fears are allayed, and your suffering is at an end. God speed and take care of you, "Sis." You've earned it.)
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
The Power of Cleavage
I wonder how many women have debated *not* going through with breast reconstruction after scheduling the thing. How many women are torn over this decision? I know there are women - many women - who choose no reconstruction, but my interpretation is that they were NOT torn; that they knew they didn't want a reconstruction at some point *before* scheduling it. But I don't know that, for sure, I haven't looked. Maybe I should.
(Some time later...)
So, I did. I read for about an hour or so. First thing I learned; it's called "going flat" when you don't reconstruct. Another thing; most women who "go flat" are doing so after a full-on, double mastectomy. The few single (one-sided) mastectomies I found that didn't opt for reconstruction, most wear prostheses: rather heavy gel fake breasts. Some don't, but most are saying no to reconstruction because they are scared of more surgeries, their health won't allow it, or they worry about the complicated, long process that is reconstruction. And the process is lengthy. First, there is a major surgery (if you are going expanders and not trans-flap, which I am) during which we will augment the left and place a spacer under the right. The spacer gets inflated every week for 6 weeks or so. Once the reconstruction side is the "right size," you wait 3 months - THEN you get the mastectomy side rebuilt. Then there comes the "do I want a nipple constructed"-type decisions, along with a myriad of other, relatively minor procedures to tweak and perfect. All in all, at least in the path I've chosen, you are looking at a year to a year and a half of surgeries and recoveries; most small with a couple of bigger ones thrown in for good measure.
Oh yeah, and implants aren't permanent. They have to be replaced, eventually, for almost everyone. The "average lifespan" of implants - 10-15 years.
Do I want more breast surgery at 60?
Do I want more surgery now?
These are the times that try a woman's soul, lemme tell ya.
I could be all ragey and say things like, "breasts aren't beauty" and "women shouldn't be defined by their bodies" and "this is all trivial when compared to cancer and chemo" and... blah, blah, blah and not get the reconstruction.
But the truth is, I've always wanted a breast augmentation. For as long as I can remember, I've never particularly liked my chest. And now that I'm one week and two days away from the first "perk" of breast cancer (I can't count how many times I've heard some variation of "well, at least you are getting something out of this), there's this nervous nelly inside of me saying the same thing over and over and over again... "there's no turning back... there's no turning back... there's no turning back..."
And some of the scenery I expect on the next leg of this journey?
A year of procedures - and, most likely, noticeable discomfort.
The myriad of potential complications.
The celebratory well-wishes of friends and family.
There is more I could list, but there are two pieces that threaten to pick up my phone and cancel the surgery.
1. I am *so tired.* I am SO TIRED that sometimes, I just don't want to do *anything.* I don't want to get up, I don't want to eat, I don't want to watch tv, I don't want to read. "Doing" something always involves a decision. I'm tired of making decisions. The way I feel right now, I don't want to decide anything ever again. And this surgery is a big decision.
And 2. There are many people that don't care that I have only one breast and they have supported me and walked with me and loved me through this whole process. When chemo ended, though, there was something of a perception that the journey was over with my last infusion, but it wasn't. It isn't. I felt almost... guilty when explaining to people that I wasn't done, that the road I am on doesn't have an end in sight. That's really hard for people to hear, though, and even harder to explain - over and over and over again. Sometimes, though, easier is all you can really do. I just started agreeing how great it was that I was through with the hard part.
But lying is only easier in the moment. I don't like lying, and I don't do it very well. Lying leaves little stains on your soul; it punches you in the gut every time you do it. It makes me want to cry. Lying is only easier in the moment.
And I don't want to lie about more than I already do. I wonder how many people will want to celebrate my new boobs with me when that's the last thing I want to do, because again, it will look like I'm "through the hard part."
Maybe I'm scared it'll be "over" for everyone but me. Maybe I'm scared there is no such thing as recovery and moving through this. Maybe I'm scared that I'm going to be scared for the rest of my life and have to hid it behind a smile and a lie.
Maybe I would give anything to have my chest back like it was: saggy, stretch-marked from years of nursing, and a bit too small...
...if it meant never having breast cancer.
Maybe there is nothing that can make me feel "better" about all of this.
When all of this is said and done, maybe I'm scared that everyone's perception of "over" will simply leave me sitting alone in the fear that "over" doesn't exist.
I've always said that "afraid" doesn't apply to me. Nervous? Yes, but afraid? Not me. I can't say that anymore. I have now been afraid for 278 days. 278 long, nauseating, exhausting days. Reconstruction will make me look whole again, and yet, I'm afraid "whole" might no longer be in my vocabulary. I am afraid the cancer will come back. I am afraid that no matter how healed I look, I will never feel well again. None of this makes me feel healed and well and "whole."
Maybe it's as simple as wanting to look as broken and scarred on the outside as I feel on the inside. Looking at all of the ink on my body, it's easy to see that I wear my pain "on my sleeve" for everyone to see. Why should this be any different?
(Some time later...)
So, I did. I read for about an hour or so. First thing I learned; it's called "going flat" when you don't reconstruct. Another thing; most women who "go flat" are doing so after a full-on, double mastectomy. The few single (one-sided) mastectomies I found that didn't opt for reconstruction, most wear prostheses: rather heavy gel fake breasts. Some don't, but most are saying no to reconstruction because they are scared of more surgeries, their health won't allow it, or they worry about the complicated, long process that is reconstruction. And the process is lengthy. First, there is a major surgery (if you are going expanders and not trans-flap, which I am) during which we will augment the left and place a spacer under the right. The spacer gets inflated every week for 6 weeks or so. Once the reconstruction side is the "right size," you wait 3 months - THEN you get the mastectomy side rebuilt. Then there comes the "do I want a nipple constructed"-type decisions, along with a myriad of other, relatively minor procedures to tweak and perfect. All in all, at least in the path I've chosen, you are looking at a year to a year and a half of surgeries and recoveries; most small with a couple of bigger ones thrown in for good measure.
Oh yeah, and implants aren't permanent. They have to be replaced, eventually, for almost everyone. The "average lifespan" of implants - 10-15 years.
Do I want more breast surgery at 60?
Do I want more surgery now?
These are the times that try a woman's soul, lemme tell ya.
I could be all ragey and say things like, "breasts aren't beauty" and "women shouldn't be defined by their bodies" and "this is all trivial when compared to cancer and chemo" and... blah, blah, blah and not get the reconstruction.
But the truth is, I've always wanted a breast augmentation. For as long as I can remember, I've never particularly liked my chest. And now that I'm one week and two days away from the first "perk" of breast cancer (I can't count how many times I've heard some variation of "well, at least you are getting something out of this), there's this nervous nelly inside of me saying the same thing over and over and over again... "there's no turning back... there's no turning back... there's no turning back..."
And some of the scenery I expect on the next leg of this journey?
A year of procedures - and, most likely, noticeable discomfort.
The myriad of potential complications.
The celebratory well-wishes of friends and family.
There is more I could list, but there are two pieces that threaten to pick up my phone and cancel the surgery.
1. I am *so tired.* I am SO TIRED that sometimes, I just don't want to do *anything.* I don't want to get up, I don't want to eat, I don't want to watch tv, I don't want to read. "Doing" something always involves a decision. I'm tired of making decisions. The way I feel right now, I don't want to decide anything ever again. And this surgery is a big decision.
And 2. There are many people that don't care that I have only one breast and they have supported me and walked with me and loved me through this whole process. When chemo ended, though, there was something of a perception that the journey was over with my last infusion, but it wasn't. It isn't. I felt almost... guilty when explaining to people that I wasn't done, that the road I am on doesn't have an end in sight. That's really hard for people to hear, though, and even harder to explain - over and over and over again. Sometimes, though, easier is all you can really do. I just started agreeing how great it was that I was through with the hard part.
But lying is only easier in the moment. I don't like lying, and I don't do it very well. Lying leaves little stains on your soul; it punches you in the gut every time you do it. It makes me want to cry. Lying is only easier in the moment.
And I don't want to lie about more than I already do. I wonder how many people will want to celebrate my new boobs with me when that's the last thing I want to do, because again, it will look like I'm "through the hard part."
Maybe I'm scared it'll be "over" for everyone but me. Maybe I'm scared there is no such thing as recovery and moving through this. Maybe I'm scared that I'm going to be scared for the rest of my life and have to hid it behind a smile and a lie.
Maybe I would give anything to have my chest back like it was: saggy, stretch-marked from years of nursing, and a bit too small...
...if it meant never having breast cancer.
Maybe there is nothing that can make me feel "better" about all of this.
When all of this is said and done, maybe I'm scared that everyone's perception of "over" will simply leave me sitting alone in the fear that "over" doesn't exist.
I've always said that "afraid" doesn't apply to me. Nervous? Yes, but afraid? Not me. I can't say that anymore. I have now been afraid for 278 days. 278 long, nauseating, exhausting days. Reconstruction will make me look whole again, and yet, I'm afraid "whole" might no longer be in my vocabulary. I am afraid the cancer will come back. I am afraid that no matter how healed I look, I will never feel well again. None of this makes me feel healed and well and "whole."
Maybe it's as simple as wanting to look as broken and scarred on the outside as I feel on the inside. Looking at all of the ink on my body, it's easy to see that I wear my pain "on my sleeve" for everyone to see. Why should this be any different?
Thursday, March 19, 2015
The DMZ
I have been staring at a blank page for... ever, it seems. I have *so much* swirling inside me - churning, really - that I have the overwhelming, rather irrational, urge to throw up. It's as if vomiting would expel all of the retching, putrid filth inside, leaving me refreshed, energized, and above all, empty. Lighter. I would give anything to feel a gaping void where there is currently a roiling cesspool of anxiety. I'm not going to write about the myriad of issues pertaining to my current crisis, although my continually evolving relationship with cancer certainly contributes to this nausea. What sits like a rock in my gut is the crushing reality that there are *so precious few* in my life that do not have a major quantum shift taking place in their own worlds. I almost can't count the number of people I consider near and dear to my heart that are now in the midst of their own painful transformations, and it literally makes me sick to my stomach.
I suspect my turmoil might be a result of what can only be described as raging empathy emerging from my still-infant Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss. I have become intimately familiar with raw, unbridled terror through this journey. It is a facet of everyday life. Now, though, many people I love the most must stare into the eyes of their own fearful beast. Just typing that makes my mouth water and my stomach turn. It really is harder to watch it happen than to live it. People shake their heads at me when I say that, but... well... they are wrong. I would rather live it any day of the week (and twice on Sunday) than sit meekly on the sidelines, powerless and impotent.
This empathy emerges, I think, from vivid memories of the worst of my meltdowns. I remember lying in bed at night, muscles rigid, trying to minimize my tremors so that Brian could sleep. Eventually, I would creep into the living room, curl up on the couch, and simply sob for hours. I worked so hard to keep the tiki mask in place. I couldn't let the people I love see me like that. It wasn't embarrassment. It wasn't a lack of trust. It was because there is so much pain and suffering in life; I could *not* add to their burden. In the dead of night, though, masks often get dislodged. Never before had I felt so helpless, so broken, so incapable of drawing another breath. There were times when I begged the fear to consume me; I longed for it to own me, to take away all control, so I could just let the current sweep me out to sea. Never in my life had I *not* believed in my ability to weather the worst. I knew me. I trusted me. I believed in me. Until this.
And again, I quell the urge to hurl. The gorge that rises in my throat, though, is not the floating scum of my own terror. It is the helplessness I feel knowing that many I love are now taking those same steps. Their story may be different than mine, but the result is the same ~ same, same, but different, all f#ck!ng over again. I know they are trying their damnedest to lie still at night, so others can sleep. I can feel them sneaking into their living rooms to rage and cry where no one can hear, even if only metaphorically. They are shaking and quaking on the inside while desperately trying to keep the tiki mask in place to protect the ones *they* love, because they see no other option.
But they are wrong, just as I was wrong. There is another option. They are not the first, and certainly will not be the last, to traverse the shadowy landscape of fear. They are a very few among so many that have fought and will fight these battles, time and time again. A single soldier, though, cannot win a war; it takes an army. So just in case someone reading this is standing in the middle of their own personal combat zone shivering and weeping and scared shitless, I thought I'd remind you; I've been through basic training, and I am still standing. I may not be a battle-hardened warrior (just yet), but I have stared down the most evil of demons and the scariest of enemies, and I have a lot of fight left in me, yet. You don't have to walk this alone. You don't even have to ask. I am here, if you want, and I will cross this minefield with you. It would be my honor.
And my salvation.
Just as long as we get to stop, sometimes, so I can throw up.
I suspect my turmoil might be a result of what can only be described as raging empathy emerging from my still-infant Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss. I have become intimately familiar with raw, unbridled terror through this journey. It is a facet of everyday life. Now, though, many people I love the most must stare into the eyes of their own fearful beast. Just typing that makes my mouth water and my stomach turn. It really is harder to watch it happen than to live it. People shake their heads at me when I say that, but... well... they are wrong. I would rather live it any day of the week (and twice on Sunday) than sit meekly on the sidelines, powerless and impotent.
This empathy emerges, I think, from vivid memories of the worst of my meltdowns. I remember lying in bed at night, muscles rigid, trying to minimize my tremors so that Brian could sleep. Eventually, I would creep into the living room, curl up on the couch, and simply sob for hours. I worked so hard to keep the tiki mask in place. I couldn't let the people I love see me like that. It wasn't embarrassment. It wasn't a lack of trust. It was because there is so much pain and suffering in life; I could *not* add to their burden. In the dead of night, though, masks often get dislodged. Never before had I felt so helpless, so broken, so incapable of drawing another breath. There were times when I begged the fear to consume me; I longed for it to own me, to take away all control, so I could just let the current sweep me out to sea. Never in my life had I *not* believed in my ability to weather the worst. I knew me. I trusted me. I believed in me. Until this.
And again, I quell the urge to hurl. The gorge that rises in my throat, though, is not the floating scum of my own terror. It is the helplessness I feel knowing that many I love are now taking those same steps. Their story may be different than mine, but the result is the same ~ same, same, but different, all f#ck!ng over again. I know they are trying their damnedest to lie still at night, so others can sleep. I can feel them sneaking into their living rooms to rage and cry where no one can hear, even if only metaphorically. They are shaking and quaking on the inside while desperately trying to keep the tiki mask in place to protect the ones *they* love, because they see no other option.
But they are wrong, just as I was wrong. There is another option. They are not the first, and certainly will not be the last, to traverse the shadowy landscape of fear. They are a very few among so many that have fought and will fight these battles, time and time again. A single soldier, though, cannot win a war; it takes an army. So just in case someone reading this is standing in the middle of their own personal combat zone shivering and weeping and scared shitless, I thought I'd remind you; I've been through basic training, and I am still standing. I may not be a battle-hardened warrior (just yet), but I have stared down the most evil of demons and the scariest of enemies, and I have a lot of fight left in me, yet. You don't have to walk this alone. You don't even have to ask. I am here, if you want, and I will cross this minefield with you. It would be my honor.
And my salvation.
Just as long as we get to stop, sometimes, so I can throw up.
Monday, March 16, 2015
Let's Face It...
I'm lazy. Every time I get in this thing, it is glaringly obvious that the time between blogs keeps getting longer and longer. And it's always some version of the same ol' bullshit. "It's been awhile. I feel bad about that. I should look at that. Some other time ~ I have more important things to write."
But, do I? I have ideas. Goals. Wants. Needs. Desires. Lazy doesn't do any of those things any good; it doesn't bring them any closer. There are times to be lazy and there are times *not* to be lazy. Lazy is easier. It is quieter. It is less exhausting. Lazy is all kinds of things, but one of those things is *not* healthy. I cut off my left breast so I could be healthy again. I went to chemo every Friday for 12 weeks so I could be healthy again. I "willingly" instigated full-blown menopause at the tender age of 45 while in a *brand new* relationship so I could be healthy again. I am offended. I am insulted. I am disappointed by my laziness. I deserve more respect than that.
A wise man once said, “Reality denied comes back to haunt.” That is the truetrue. But a different wise man also said, "A person who has never made a mistake has never made anything." I am quite accomplished at mistake-making. I am so excited to see what is made of more recent mis-steps. But if the accomplishment of "making" something necessitates mistakes, (def. a act or judgement that is misguided or wrong) can you really call it wrong?
But, do I? I have ideas. Goals. Wants. Needs. Desires. Lazy doesn't do any of those things any good; it doesn't bring them any closer. There are times to be lazy and there are times *not* to be lazy. Lazy is easier. It is quieter. It is less exhausting. Lazy is all kinds of things, but one of those things is *not* healthy. I cut off my left breast so I could be healthy again. I went to chemo every Friday for 12 weeks so I could be healthy again. I "willingly" instigated full-blown menopause at the tender age of 45 while in a *brand new* relationship so I could be healthy again. I am offended. I am insulted. I am disappointed by my laziness. I deserve more respect than that.
A wise man once said, “Reality denied comes back to haunt.” That is the truetrue. But a different wise man also said, "A person who has never made a mistake has never made anything." I am quite accomplished at mistake-making. I am so excited to see what is made of more recent mis-steps. But if the accomplishment of "making" something necessitates mistakes, (def. a act or judgement that is misguided or wrong) can you really call it wrong?
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Oh, To Be Behind The Camera
I haven't been on here. Again. I'll explore it, I will. I promise. There's something more immediate I want to process. Isn't there always.
Whatever, so anyway...
We took portraits yesterday. We had this idea awhile back that a zombie picture shoot would be cool - it would be fun - with a healed mastectomy scar surrounded by way-too-much-left-to-prepare-for-the-reconstruction skin, we could make some *sick* looking wounds. And we had limited time - mere months - because the reconstruction surgery would take away this unique opportunity.
Well, time flies. The surgery is April 2nd, 2 weeks and 5 days away. In preparation, we started brainstorming other themes we might want to include that might take advantage of my soon-to-change-again chest. If nothing else, it would be a treat. It wasn't initially planned to explore breast cancer and its impact, in my mind, we were doing it to take advantage of a unique and soon-to-disappear physical state that now rules my daily life. The more we talked, the more I came to see, though, that the themes that really attracted me were more than simple fangirl infatuation. The themes we settled on were zombie, warrior (duh, isn't every cancer diagnosee a warrior?), and steampunk. Steampunk was my idea. I love steampunk. It fascinates me. It inspires me. It excites me. Steampunk, to me, is a literary genre born of creativity and genius and innovation... and necessity and desperation and often last recourse in the face of adversity. And it was discussing this piece - and the accompanying, self-written essays that will be read when (hopefully) this photo shoot becomes an exhibit - when all the pieces of this shoot fell together in my head. From diagnosis on June 30th, 2014 to sometime in August (before I began research on my treatment options); that was my Zombie phase. I couldn't think. I couldn't reason. I couldn't communicate. I couldn't do anything but go where I was directed and do what I was told to do. All someone had to do was make the right noise, and I would follow along in a haze. If you don't get that reference, you should try "the Walking Dead;" it's a great show.
The second phase was my Warrior phase. She's exhausted. The Warrior made all of the decisions about surgeries and treatments. The Warrior got out of bed every Friday for 12 weeks to go to the chemo suite for 5 to 6 hours. The Warrior got up every day (almost every day) and went to work. The Warrior had to make the command decision to stop lecturing in class because she couldn't get from point A to point B in her lectures coherently, much less intelligently. The Warrior counted the days until she could take off her armor and put down her sword and simply be. Like I said, she's exhausted.
The third phase, which I am now heavy in the middle of, is the Steampunk phase. This is a time of reinvention, of improvisation, of ingenuity. I don't *have* to reinvent myself; I am choosing to reconstruct post-surgery Stacy into something new. It's exciting, enticing, intoxicating. Sure, it's a bit nerve-wracking, but how many people get the opportunity to consciously orchestrate the definition of themselves? We are all doing it with every action, every decision, every stumble, and every fall, but it happens without really noticing, if you think about it. I can't *not* think about it. I COULD choose not to act, but I would have to conscious miss appointments. I would have to actively refuse treatment. I would have to look at one breast in the mirror every day and be reminded that I had opted out of reconstruction. I am doing none of those. I am going to write and speak and recover my way into a new expression of me. And because of opportunities like Listen To Your Mother - Spokane, 2015, the ongoing creation of documenting my experience on film with a brilliant former student - and now, dear friend - Mikayla Daniels, a wonderful photo shoot made real through the efforts of many special people, and other project still in their infancy, the potential exists for many people to hear my story and watch it unfold. What more could an educator want?
To not be in front of the camera, that's what. To sit in the relative safe space behind the lens and watch someone else do this. I am beginning to see what many have intimated to me in various ways - it's a bit unsettling to share so much. It's a bit unnerving. I have always chosen to leave myself exposed, knowing I could weather any resulting storms. I would like to say this is no different, but... the Warrior is *so* tired. Who am I to ask her to continue marching bravely into these storms? I think she really wants this to all be over. It's sitting behind the Warrior's eyes in the portraits, almost like she's pleading with me. Just let it be done.
"If you wish for peace, prepare for war." Thanks, Flavius. In the Warrior's defense, she may be exhausted, she may have taken a knee temporarily, but she's been repairing her armor and sharpening her weapons while in this eye of the storm. Tired doesn't mean done. Wiser? Yes. Slower? Absolutely. Experienced? For sure. Grayer? Hehehehe, yes. But done? Not by a long shot. It makes me sad to acknowledge all of that, but happy would be incomprehensible without sadness as its reflection.
Whatever, so anyway...
We took portraits yesterday. We had this idea awhile back that a zombie picture shoot would be cool - it would be fun - with a healed mastectomy scar surrounded by way-too-much-left-to-prepare-for-the-reconstruction skin, we could make some *sick* looking wounds. And we had limited time - mere months - because the reconstruction surgery would take away this unique opportunity.
Well, time flies. The surgery is April 2nd, 2 weeks and 5 days away. In preparation, we started brainstorming other themes we might want to include that might take advantage of my soon-to-change-again chest. If nothing else, it would be a treat. It wasn't initially planned to explore breast cancer and its impact, in my mind, we were doing it to take advantage of a unique and soon-to-disappear physical state that now rules my daily life. The more we talked, the more I came to see, though, that the themes that really attracted me were more than simple fangirl infatuation. The themes we settled on were zombie, warrior (duh, isn't every cancer diagnosee a warrior?), and steampunk. Steampunk was my idea. I love steampunk. It fascinates me. It inspires me. It excites me. Steampunk, to me, is a literary genre born of creativity and genius and innovation... and necessity and desperation and often last recourse in the face of adversity. And it was discussing this piece - and the accompanying, self-written essays that will be read when (hopefully) this photo shoot becomes an exhibit - when all the pieces of this shoot fell together in my head. From diagnosis on June 30th, 2014 to sometime in August (before I began research on my treatment options); that was my Zombie phase. I couldn't think. I couldn't reason. I couldn't communicate. I couldn't do anything but go where I was directed and do what I was told to do. All someone had to do was make the right noise, and I would follow along in a haze. If you don't get that reference, you should try "the Walking Dead;" it's a great show.
The second phase was my Warrior phase. She's exhausted. The Warrior made all of the decisions about surgeries and treatments. The Warrior got out of bed every Friday for 12 weeks to go to the chemo suite for 5 to 6 hours. The Warrior got up every day (almost every day) and went to work. The Warrior had to make the command decision to stop lecturing in class because she couldn't get from point A to point B in her lectures coherently, much less intelligently. The Warrior counted the days until she could take off her armor and put down her sword and simply be. Like I said, she's exhausted.
The third phase, which I am now heavy in the middle of, is the Steampunk phase. This is a time of reinvention, of improvisation, of ingenuity. I don't *have* to reinvent myself; I am choosing to reconstruct post-surgery Stacy into something new. It's exciting, enticing, intoxicating. Sure, it's a bit nerve-wracking, but how many people get the opportunity to consciously orchestrate the definition of themselves? We are all doing it with every action, every decision, every stumble, and every fall, but it happens without really noticing, if you think about it. I can't *not* think about it. I COULD choose not to act, but I would have to conscious miss appointments. I would have to actively refuse treatment. I would have to look at one breast in the mirror every day and be reminded that I had opted out of reconstruction. I am doing none of those. I am going to write and speak and recover my way into a new expression of me. And because of opportunities like Listen To Your Mother - Spokane, 2015, the ongoing creation of documenting my experience on film with a brilliant former student - and now, dear friend - Mikayla Daniels, a wonderful photo shoot made real through the efforts of many special people, and other project still in their infancy, the potential exists for many people to hear my story and watch it unfold. What more could an educator want?
To not be in front of the camera, that's what. To sit in the relative safe space behind the lens and watch someone else do this. I am beginning to see what many have intimated to me in various ways - it's a bit unsettling to share so much. It's a bit unnerving. I have always chosen to leave myself exposed, knowing I could weather any resulting storms. I would like to say this is no different, but... the Warrior is *so* tired. Who am I to ask her to continue marching bravely into these storms? I think she really wants this to all be over. It's sitting behind the Warrior's eyes in the portraits, almost like she's pleading with me. Just let it be done.
"If you wish for peace, prepare for war." Thanks, Flavius. In the Warrior's defense, she may be exhausted, she may have taken a knee temporarily, but she's been repairing her armor and sharpening her weapons while in this eye of the storm. Tired doesn't mean done. Wiser? Yes. Slower? Absolutely. Experienced? For sure. Grayer? Hehehehe, yes. But done? Not by a long shot. It makes me sad to acknowledge all of that, but happy would be incomprehensible without sadness as its reflection.
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