It occurs to me that time flies, whether you are wasting it or not.
I could sit here and pontificate all day long over the definition of "wasting time" and its relative nature. I could rant about society imposing unreasonable expectations and that a bit - or two - of leisure time here and there is a healthy thing. I could wax on endlessly about how one man's castle is another man's prison, but I don't think that's the important piece of what's aching to get out tonight. The important piece is that I'm losing it. I am fairly certain I have never felt more broken, more exhausted, more... unmotivated in my life. And I'm not trying to suggest I think those issues will be rectified by writing, but I decided, as I was lying in bed for over an hour labeling my mind's frantic tail-chasing as "thinking" and desperately trying to "let it go," I thought, it certainly isn't going to set me back any if I get up and do what I should do for myself.
So now I sit here with a Melatonin preparing a lullaby - and I reread that paragraph. It reads pretty nicely, actually, especially for a first draft. A little catchy, with good rhythm, it screams "opening paragraph, chapter 3 of Stacy Kowtko's new book, 'The New, Amazing, Jaw-Dropping, Grand Adventures of the Phantom Nip' with its admission of weakness followed deftly by the correct answer. You, see, that paragraph subtly, subliminally suggests that I'm getting it right.
Now I'll describe what *actually* happened.
After lying in bed for over an hour labeling my mind's frantic tail-chasing as...
Damn. I really don't want to explain what brought me to this post. I literally typed the fifteen words above before I consciously realized I was, again, telling the embellished story. *Here's* what happened.
For an hour after I laid down to sleep, I lay awake worrying about work and family. I planned my forms I need to complete for the IRS concerning our current "interesting" relationship. I stressed about tomorrow's classes. I promised myself I would make a dentist appointment to at least see if they can save my broken tooth and if I will be able to afford the work that will need to be done. I rehearsed the talk I want to have with my doctor that I now have to leave because I messed up and left them out of my bankruptcy. I chided myself for too much gaming and not enough reading or writing. After every self-admonishment, I desperately reminded myself that I do truly believe everything happens for a reason and that this, too, shall pass. But after every reassurance, another self-admonishment would creep into my thoughts, and the cycle would start all over again.
After about an hour, I gave up and got up. When I got up, I instinctively picked up my phone from the bed and had to tell myself to put it down and pick up a book. A page an a half in, and I couldn't tell you what it said. THAT'S when I decided it couldn't hurt to blog.
Then I spent 20 minutes researching a Google "502. That's an error. The server encountered a temporary error and could not complete your request. Please try again in 30 seconds. That's all we know" and enjoyed a little victory jig when I figured out a way around blogger.com's MAJOR access issues they are currently experiencing. I briefly wondered if the universe was trying to tell me something, but when have I ever listened to the universe?
And even now, as I read back through this one more time before I'm done, I have to convince myself not to replace "unmotivated" with something less... damning. Like... drained. Or... empty. Or... lost. Depressed, even. *Anything* but unmotivated. But unmotivated is what I am, so in the interest of honesty and health and recovery, it stays.
And so I close, with the hopes that this gut-spillage will mix nicely with the Melatonin and lull me to sleep before 3. I close with the hope that this release, this sharing, this naming of the enemy will give me some measure of power of it. I close with the hope that this gut-spillage will end up on the screen of someone who needs to read it. I close with the hope of some decent sleep tonight.
And I can't explain it, but I do still believe in those hopes. I have named my captor, and it now has no power over me. (Rest in peace, D.B.) "Wasting time" really is a relative term, if you think about it.
Showing posts with label Blogging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blogging. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Last Published...
...on Oct 17, 2015. So much for the ability, drive, motivation for consistency, and my Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss...
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, if I would have felt stronger...
...or if it would have drained me more.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, if I would have felt more sane...
...or if it would have made me crazier.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, I would have been able to avoid the current financial crises I find myself facing...
...or if I'm just *that bad* at the daily life stuff.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, reality would look more like the grand ideas in my head...
...or if I want to blame cancer because I am a dreamer, not a doer.
I wonder a lot of things. I would say I wonder how important my wondering even is, but I know from experience that making a difference, even to one person, it's important. It's not just important to that person, it's important to our community, our society. Not only do we "get back" what we "put out there," what we send out creates ripple, whether we witness them or not.
I want my ripples to look like smiles. I want my ripples to sound like sighs of relief. I want my ripples to feel like company.
And that can't happen sitting on my couch guzzling Candy Crush Saga. I'm not sure how it DOES happen, but it won't happen in the cocoon of a cell phone screen.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, if I would have felt stronger...
...or if it would have drained me more.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, if I would have felt more sane...
...or if it would have made me crazier.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, I would have been able to avoid the current financial crises I find myself facing...
...or if I'm just *that bad* at the daily life stuff.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, reality would look more like the grand ideas in my head...
...or if I want to blame cancer because I am a dreamer, not a doer.
I wonder a lot of things. I would say I wonder how important my wondering even is, but I know from experience that making a difference, even to one person, it's important. It's not just important to that person, it's important to our community, our society. Not only do we "get back" what we "put out there," what we send out creates ripple, whether we witness them or not.
I want my ripples to look like smiles. I want my ripples to sound like sighs of relief. I want my ripples to feel like company.
And that can't happen sitting on my couch guzzling Candy Crush Saga. I'm not sure how it DOES happen, but it won't happen in the cocoon of a cell phone screen.
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.
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."
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.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Terrified Celebration: The Reality of an Oxymoronic Existence
"Today" (Monday, even though it's Tuesday on the calendar - I haven't slept yet - it's still today) I showed up at Cancer Care Northwest's south office for my final chemotherapy treatment. It's been awhile since I blogged, and I've beat myself up about that. I - we - are taking another step into more undiscovered country, though, and I just can't stay away any longer. I started this blog with the idea to chronicle my search for my inner breast cancer b@d@ss from then on, but it has been sporadic, to say the least. It has been approximately (exactly) 137 days since that first blog, and there are 7, total. That has bothered me. Often and intensely. Yes, the blogging and the FaceBooking was and is for my emotional health, first and foremost, but I am - at heart - an educator and a story-teller. So many have helped me along the way that I feel it's important to tell my story so maybe women - and men - who walk this road in the future might benefit from the steps I have taken - good or bad. It's how we learn, as a species, from our history, both macro and micro. I also took vows as a Buddhist to dedicate my meditation practice and my life to doing my bit to ease the suffering of all sentient beings. If the Buddhist belief in reincarnation is really the "way it works," the Bodhisattva vow also includes the promise that, should the vow taker achieve enlightenment, they will still chose to come back and work again to alleviate the suffering of all. My vow was my promise to God that I would be the best person I could be for as long as I am allowed so that my and others suffering is just a bit less because I lived - that's the goal, anyway. Really, I can't not tell my story. It occurs to me, though, as I begin this entry with the goal of blogging every day of my post-chemotherapy life until further notice (for a variety of reasons that include guilt), that I should go a little easy on myself. I am, after all, one of those sentient beings I vowed to ease the suffering of, if at all possible. If every living creature on this planet deserves kindness and compassion and the easing of their suffering - and I hold this idea as my dearest, universal Truth - I *have* to acknowledge that *I* am one of the deserving. And that hurts to say. I want so desperately to *believe* that statement, and it is *so* difficult. But that doesn't change the Truth that I deserve the same respect I give others. It does *not* change that Truth. It doesn't. But I so wish it didn't make me cry and feel like I need to keep repeating it to make it a little more true.
Anyway, in respect of the fact that I deserve relief from suffering, I am beginning a quest to view my sporadic blogging is *not* a negative thing (I will have to keep reminding myself this for some time, I'm thinking). It is a natural thing, really. Even in the best of times, dedication to the recording of your life is not an easy undertaking mentally, emotionally, or logistically. And it has its own time and place. Unless someone wants to chronicle their entire life, there are times when regular, frequent blogging just shouldn't happen. That's a whole different kind of crazy that gets movies made about them. Looking at the indescribable impact steroids have had - and are still having - on my emotional control, mood swings, sense of self worth, faith in myself, anger threshold, and pretty much anything else you can think of that involves *moods,* combined with the impact "chemo brain" has had, continues to have, and will continue to have for the foreseeable future on my ability to do my job easily, to organize the many spheres of my life, and pretty much anything else you can think of that involves traversing the *busy* that is daily western life, blogging with any kind of frequency would have been... well, I want to say unhealthy, but if I'm being honest, it would have been self-abusive. And if I saw anyone I knew attempting that while going through what I've experienced over the last three months, I would have literally sat on them to make them take a break and rest themselves. That means I deserve the leniency, if everyone else does too, right? I so wish it didn't make me cry and feel like I need to keep repeating it to make it a little more true, though.
So I allowed myself that time to rest. In fact, I didn't feel guilty about resting when I needed to, because I KNEW I needed to recover well so that I didn't end up extending my healing exponentially. Now that I can see the mending beginning and I am not trapped in the... mental and emotional... hell that chemo sometimes has been, I feel strangely guilty that I didn't blog more. I've been wishing I had recorded more of the crazy I experienced. But I have to believe that if I had been capable of recording it, I would have. During these meltdowns, every ounce of energy was spent not losing what little hold I had on my sense of stability and sanity. Don't get me wrong, this wasn't a daily experience, but there were enough of them and they were close enough together that they filled in the few empty cracks left by the steroid-chemo brain train wreck. I deserved it the breaks; the rest. And it's nice that it hurts a little less to say that now, because I believe it a little more.
(Sidenote - it is so interesting how the point of a blog often emerges rather differently than expected and it is so fun when it happens. It's happening right now :-)
My Ego wants to add that there were often days where I felt decent. Like, really decent. Decent enough to get things done - with work, with my sons and grandchildren, with my writing contract, with the oh-so-fun vintage eBay store, with my boyfriend of almost a year - who has walked *every step possible* with me, with my videos I want to make for my history classes, the fiction I've started and never finished. The steroids and chemo brain often leave me unable to complete complex thoughts and tasks, but it wasn't 100% difficult 100% of the time. Instead, though, I would often watch tv or play Diablo or some other leisurely, unproductive activity. There were times I could have been "working," but instead, I was playing. But my Ego is often unfairly hard on me - everyone's is, if you think about it - and it was doing it again. Don't I deserve to have some fun, I mean, even if I *wasn't* going through chemo, EVERYONE deserves fun, right? If that is true, then so do I, regardless of chemo. I prioritized my classes first, and beyond that, all work and no play makes Stacy so much sicker. I deserved the play time. And it hurts a little less to say that now, because I believe it a little more.
And so the purpose of tonight's blog was to help me let myself off the hook for the things I seem to feel I *should* have done, which really is simply a false statement. Because I *did* do what I was supposed to. I took care of myself as best I could so that I could start getting better as soon as possible. Even when I slipped and worked too long or stayed up too late, I always came back to taking care of myself. I deserved it. I still deserve it. Saying that makes me smile. Right now, I have little trouble believing it :-).
postscript: I have been watching "Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants" for the first time ever while writing this entry. The scene playing while writing that last paragraph was in a store where one of the four main teenage girl characters is making a documentary with the help of a 10 year old girl. The main character just found out the girl is dying of leukemia. Normally, the main character is rather irritated by the girl, but today, she's asking her to help her with one more interview. The girl figures out that the main character learned her secret and looks at her and says, "Are you asking me to help you with the film because I have leukemia?" Thoughtful, delayed response - "Maybe." The girl thinks about it and smiles a little. "Okay."
:-)
Anyway, in respect of the fact that I deserve relief from suffering, I am beginning a quest to view my sporadic blogging is *not* a negative thing (I will have to keep reminding myself this for some time, I'm thinking). It is a natural thing, really. Even in the best of times, dedication to the recording of your life is not an easy undertaking mentally, emotionally, or logistically. And it has its own time and place. Unless someone wants to chronicle their entire life, there are times when regular, frequent blogging just shouldn't happen. That's a whole different kind of crazy that gets movies made about them. Looking at the indescribable impact steroids have had - and are still having - on my emotional control, mood swings, sense of self worth, faith in myself, anger threshold, and pretty much anything else you can think of that involves *moods,* combined with the impact "chemo brain" has had, continues to have, and will continue to have for the foreseeable future on my ability to do my job easily, to organize the many spheres of my life, and pretty much anything else you can think of that involves traversing the *busy* that is daily western life, blogging with any kind of frequency would have been... well, I want to say unhealthy, but if I'm being honest, it would have been self-abusive. And if I saw anyone I knew attempting that while going through what I've experienced over the last three months, I would have literally sat on them to make them take a break and rest themselves. That means I deserve the leniency, if everyone else does too, right? I so wish it didn't make me cry and feel like I need to keep repeating it to make it a little more true, though.
So I allowed myself that time to rest. In fact, I didn't feel guilty about resting when I needed to, because I KNEW I needed to recover well so that I didn't end up extending my healing exponentially. Now that I can see the mending beginning and I am not trapped in the... mental and emotional... hell that chemo sometimes has been, I feel strangely guilty that I didn't blog more. I've been wishing I had recorded more of the crazy I experienced. But I have to believe that if I had been capable of recording it, I would have. During these meltdowns, every ounce of energy was spent not losing what little hold I had on my sense of stability and sanity. Don't get me wrong, this wasn't a daily experience, but there were enough of them and they were close enough together that they filled in the few empty cracks left by the steroid-chemo brain train wreck. I deserved it the breaks; the rest. And it's nice that it hurts a little less to say that now, because I believe it a little more.
(Sidenote - it is so interesting how the point of a blog often emerges rather differently than expected and it is so fun when it happens. It's happening right now :-)
My Ego wants to add that there were often days where I felt decent. Like, really decent. Decent enough to get things done - with work, with my sons and grandchildren, with my writing contract, with the oh-so-fun vintage eBay store, with my boyfriend of almost a year - who has walked *every step possible* with me, with my videos I want to make for my history classes, the fiction I've started and never finished. The steroids and chemo brain often leave me unable to complete complex thoughts and tasks, but it wasn't 100% difficult 100% of the time. Instead, though, I would often watch tv or play Diablo or some other leisurely, unproductive activity. There were times I could have been "working," but instead, I was playing. But my Ego is often unfairly hard on me - everyone's is, if you think about it - and it was doing it again. Don't I deserve to have some fun, I mean, even if I *wasn't* going through chemo, EVERYONE deserves fun, right? If that is true, then so do I, regardless of chemo. I prioritized my classes first, and beyond that, all work and no play makes Stacy so much sicker. I deserved the play time. And it hurts a little less to say that now, because I believe it a little more.
And so the purpose of tonight's blog was to help me let myself off the hook for the things I seem to feel I *should* have done, which really is simply a false statement. Because I *did* do what I was supposed to. I took care of myself as best I could so that I could start getting better as soon as possible. Even when I slipped and worked too long or stayed up too late, I always came back to taking care of myself. I deserved it. I still deserve it. Saying that makes me smile. Right now, I have little trouble believing it :-).
postscript: I have been watching "Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants" for the first time ever while writing this entry. The scene playing while writing that last paragraph was in a store where one of the four main teenage girl characters is making a documentary with the help of a 10 year old girl. The main character just found out the girl is dying of leukemia. Normally, the main character is rather irritated by the girl, but today, she's asking her to help her with one more interview. The girl figures out that the main character learned her secret and looks at her and says, "Are you asking me to help you with the film because I have leukemia?" Thoughtful, delayed response - "Maybe." The girl thinks about it and smiles a little. "Okay."
:-)
Saturday, July 26, 2014
n00b
So... First day with your new blog? Yeah, I am a n00b. To so many things. In this blog, in this space, I am a breast cancer n00b. Well, I *was* a breast cancer n00b, let's see, approximately 27 days ago. On June 30th, 2014, I was diagnosed with stage II Infiltrating Ductal Carcinoma in my right breast. Fast forward to today, and I am 15 days post-radical right mastectomy. I am 45 years old, 7 months into a new relationship, and I am a n00b. I chronicled my early days and weeks on FB, I vented to friends and family, I agreed to do a documentary of my journey, and talked at least 16 people into feeling the lump in my breast before they cut it off. I have been told I am brave, strong, undefeatable, wise, and courageous, in response to sharing my story. I have also been told I'm a bit crazy, as well. It was the only way I knew how to do it. I am a history professor, by trade. I research and teach for a living. It's the world I know. The world where I am most comfortable. And on June 30th (the day I found out the lump WASN'T a tumor), I was dropkicked into a new, alien, uncomfortable world. I was scared, and that is a word I *never* use lightly. I could even add "to death," which I don't think I've *ever* used, not seriously. So I dragged my uncomfortable-ness into my comfortable world and started posting.
Over the next week, after we received the "call," consulted with a surgeon, read everything we could find on lumpectomies, mastectomies, radiation, chemotherapy, estrogen, HER2neu proteins, cure rates, and the 12 MILLION (exaggerated perception) different kinds of malignant breast cancer, which can only be determined definitively through analysis of the removed tumor and 3-4 "sentinal lymph nodes," I spiraled into a quickly changing, completely unpredictable, dynamically expressive series of dramatic mood fluctuations. My partner, Brian, (you know, the previously mentioned 7 month relationship) rode (and is STILL riding) every wave with me. My children, to a lesser extent, rode many of those waves with me, as well. And because I chose to post my journey on FB with the overt goal of educating complacent men and women into REGULAR SELF-EXAMS EVERY FOUR WEEKS BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT SAVED MY LIFE, I found that ultimately, it was for me as much as it was for anyone and everyone who would listen.
But as time went on, the posts became less completely about the medical reality, options, downsides, and decisions and more peppered with the immense challenges of adjusting to the reality of being a 45 year old woman in a new relationship who was chopping her breast off in a week or so... I could sense a sutble (and sometimes not so subtle) shift in people's reactions, responses, and maybe even willingness to delve into the rabbit hole me and mine were tumbling down. At first, I was a bit put off. The love and support and prayers and thoughts were precious - invaluable - in getting through the medical quagmire of information we had to absorb and digest in order to make life altering decisions in a matter of days. But what about the rest of me? My heart - my soul - everything that is *I* was screaming at the top of my lungs - THIS IS F#CK!NG CRAZY! THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING TO ME! But it was. It is. It will always be. So what did I expect from all these wonderful people who came out of the woodwork to support me, to thank me, to pray for me, to help me, but didn't necessarily feel the desire/need/capability to jump in with both feet with me, and really, should they? Could I, if the shoes were switched? Yes, I *could,* but would I, if it were a past friend, a previous professor, a social contact... really, anyone but my partner or my kids? No, I wouldn't. Because I couldn't. That's the way society is supposed to work. We can't care all the time - deeply, intensely, personally - about everyone in our lives. We have to save those reserves for the times when they are most important. Like this one for me and Brian and my two sons. That makes sense.
But that doesn't change my want - my need - to share *all* of this journey - heart, mind, body, spirit, and missing breast. I need to do it for me. Maybe no one will read this now, while it's happening. Maybe they will, it doesn't matter. I *know* this will help me heal, so I am doing it. But maybe, just maybe, someone I know will end up where I am. 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer. In the next two decades, predictions suggests that more than 50% of diagnoses will be women under the age of 50 instead of the current over the age of 60. Maybe down the road, my chronicles of cancer will provide some.... comfort or... companionship or... distraction for someone suffering. Maybe. But it doesn't matter. I am doing it anyway. What is the harm, right? Well, that has yet to be seen, but I don't really believe in "harm" in this context. I mean, I'm looking down at the plane of what used to be my right breast. It's all relative, in the end...
And so I sit here - same person, same heart, but different body. Same, same, but different. It's a phrase I learned in Cambodia. It means, "yeah, this book is a bound photocopy of the original. It has the same words, the same ideas, the same pictures, the same story, it's just... different." Yup, it is different.
Over the next week, after we received the "call," consulted with a surgeon, read everything we could find on lumpectomies, mastectomies, radiation, chemotherapy, estrogen, HER2neu proteins, cure rates, and the 12 MILLION (exaggerated perception) different kinds of malignant breast cancer, which can only be determined definitively through analysis of the removed tumor and 3-4 "sentinal lymph nodes," I spiraled into a quickly changing, completely unpredictable, dynamically expressive series of dramatic mood fluctuations. My partner, Brian, (you know, the previously mentioned 7 month relationship) rode (and is STILL riding) every wave with me. My children, to a lesser extent, rode many of those waves with me, as well. And because I chose to post my journey on FB with the overt goal of educating complacent men and women into REGULAR SELF-EXAMS EVERY FOUR WEEKS BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT SAVED MY LIFE, I found that ultimately, it was for me as much as it was for anyone and everyone who would listen.
But as time went on, the posts became less completely about the medical reality, options, downsides, and decisions and more peppered with the immense challenges of adjusting to the reality of being a 45 year old woman in a new relationship who was chopping her breast off in a week or so... I could sense a sutble (and sometimes not so subtle) shift in people's reactions, responses, and maybe even willingness to delve into the rabbit hole me and mine were tumbling down. At first, I was a bit put off. The love and support and prayers and thoughts were precious - invaluable - in getting through the medical quagmire of information we had to absorb and digest in order to make life altering decisions in a matter of days. But what about the rest of me? My heart - my soul - everything that is *I* was screaming at the top of my lungs - THIS IS F#CK!NG CRAZY! THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING TO ME! But it was. It is. It will always be. So what did I expect from all these wonderful people who came out of the woodwork to support me, to thank me, to pray for me, to help me, but didn't necessarily feel the desire/need/capability to jump in with both feet with me, and really, should they? Could I, if the shoes were switched? Yes, I *could,* but would I, if it were a past friend, a previous professor, a social contact... really, anyone but my partner or my kids? No, I wouldn't. Because I couldn't. That's the way society is supposed to work. We can't care all the time - deeply, intensely, personally - about everyone in our lives. We have to save those reserves for the times when they are most important. Like this one for me and Brian and my two sons. That makes sense.
But that doesn't change my want - my need - to share *all* of this journey - heart, mind, body, spirit, and missing breast. I need to do it for me. Maybe no one will read this now, while it's happening. Maybe they will, it doesn't matter. I *know* this will help me heal, so I am doing it. But maybe, just maybe, someone I know will end up where I am. 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer. In the next two decades, predictions suggests that more than 50% of diagnoses will be women under the age of 50 instead of the current over the age of 60. Maybe down the road, my chronicles of cancer will provide some.... comfort or... companionship or... distraction for someone suffering. Maybe. But it doesn't matter. I am doing it anyway. What is the harm, right? Well, that has yet to be seen, but I don't really believe in "harm" in this context. I mean, I'm looking down at the plane of what used to be my right breast. It's all relative, in the end...
And so I sit here - same person, same heart, but different body. Same, same, but different. It's a phrase I learned in Cambodia. It means, "yeah, this book is a bound photocopy of the original. It has the same words, the same ideas, the same pictures, the same story, it's just... different." Yup, it is different.
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