All posts by Rebecca Qualls

the word hope with different fonts and colors for each letter

Hope is like Weird Barbie

Cancer, mental health, On Life,

What does Barbie do in response to her feet changing? She climbs the hill to visit Weird Barbie in search of answers. After introductions, Weird Barbie begins questioning  the events preceding this seemingly catastrophic incident. 

Weird Barbie asks, “What proceeded this?” Stereotypical Barbie shares she played a “fun” game of volleyball, then lowers her voice to add, “…and thoughts of death”. 

“What?” Weird Barbie leans in closer, awkwardly putting her ear near S-Barbie’s mouth (for ease of typing and reading). 

“Maybe some thoughts of death,” S-Barbie repeats, barely audible still, eyes fixed ahead.

“Thoughts of death?!” Weird Barbie shouts.

Weird Barbie proceeds to explain S-Barbie has opened a portal. In a sort of blue-pill, red-pill, Matrix reference, S-Barbie can choose the high heal shoe, return to “normal”, and forget anything happened; or, she can choose the Birkenstock, discover the “truth about the universe”, go into the real world to visit her child, and fix the issue. 

S-Barbie choses the heal, closes her eyes and says, “I’m ready to forget”.  

Weird Barbie admonishes her, “You’re supposed to want to know…You’re doing this one (as she shoves the Birkenstock into S-Barbie’s face)… I just gave you a choice so you could feel some sense of control!”

Hope is like Weird Barbie

In a previous post, I shared how grief and cancer are like doors. They invite you into a room, rarely of your choosing, to confront the truth, in all its forms. In these rooms, we often rendezvous with thoughts of death, the meaning of life, will we have a chance to become the best versions of ourselves…you know, the easy questions. 

But if grief and cancer are doors, I think it’s quite likely those are the rooms where we find hope, masquerading as Weird Barbie. We would rather close our eyes and pretend we aren’t in the scary room, but Weird Barbie, aka Hope,  presents a beautiful, albeit random opportunity to confront our fears, acknowledge our firmly held yet limiting beliefs, and move forward. 

Hope is like Weird Barbie

I cannot claim this simile. It was birthed out of a therapy session I had with an amazing practitioner ( who you will get to meet in a minute). Through this journey of being diagnosed with cancer (I’m trying to avoid saying I “have” cancer. To insinuate I “have” cancer seems to create a type of reciprocal relationship in which cancer can also have me. That is a world I refuse to live in, hence the careful word choice – can’t get enough of word association!!) Anyway, this cancer journey has provided space, or better stated, forced me to explore what self-care looks like and to ask, what does it look like to really take care of myself – all of me, body, soul, and spirit? 

I have gotten pretty good at compartmentalizing those aspects, and care of body is at the bottom of the list. I try to be cognizant of what I eat, and then I push my body into submission. Seems like a fair trade. But one day, in the throes of chemo fatigue, I realized I was angry at my body and feeling betrayed. It didn’t feel like my body was being a team player. So I started looking for ways to figure out how to get my body to step up.

Through the recommendation of a close friend, I contacted Sonya, who is a “message therapist”. You’ll see why that’s in quotes because she is so much more. In my world, she’s a practitioner of healing.  But maybe it’s best to let her explain. She’s lovely and I can’t wait for you to meet her. (Anyone who can compare hope to Weird Barbie should be a celebrity in my book!) Below is a brief interview so you can get to know her and get a glimpse into her beautiful person and practice.

Please let me introduce an amazing woman and a faithful partner on this journey with me, Sonya Weiser Souza…(hold for applause). 

Me: Let’s jump right in. Can you give us a bit of your background?

Sonya: This is one of those long story short answers 🙂 so maybe we’ll get into the depths later… I was walking along just minding my own business as a successful science and sport focused massage therapist, full of injury and performance protocols, just whistling Aloha Oē, and along came another massage therapist friend who said “hey, I tried this modality called Barnes Myofascial Release wanna try?” And I was like sure! I love trying new things… and then my world was blown apart with the softest of touch, like a whisper that blows a house down… I was hit in the feels by a dancing dandelion and I’ve never seen bodywork the same since…

Me: You mentioned moving or adding onto message with a study in Barnes Myofascial Release. How would you explain the difference between Barnes Myofascial Release and typical massage?

Sonya: Traditional massage feels amazing and boosts circulation, muscle tone, and relief—though it’s temporary, like a dream vacation. Sports massage, however, aims for performance and injury prevention with intense techniques like deep tissue and cupping, causing “beneficial damage” to heal tissues, like a volunteer vacation, where you work for your room and board. Both effectively treat symptoms and make you feel and work better. Myofascial release (MFR), especially the John F. Barnes method, is next-level! From the MFR perspective the body is viewed as a whole, treating symptoms while looking elsewhere for the cause with gentle, sustained pressure on fascial adhesions for 5+ minutes. This nurtures and hydrates tissues at a cellular level, allowing your consciousness to address those issues underneath the tissues without causing harm. Unlike the temporary vacation feeling massage gives you, MFR is like taking a road trip with a good friend – where the adventures are guaranteed, instructions are not included, and you’ll have a whole new perspective on life when you get back… if you decide to even come back 😉

Barnes MFR feels more like an art form than a treatment protocol. In fact, every Barnes MFR practitioner has John’s voice in our head, repeating over and over, “Let go of the outcome… find the barrier and wait”, because we know that when we let ourselves let go of the labels and the outcome we, as the therapist, can hold space for our clients to heal from within… and sometimes the healing doesn’t feel better, but it feels like what the client didn’t get to feel during a time when they were scared, or hurt, or afraid, and those feelings have been tucked away for however long, still need tending. Emotions don’t kill people, but storing them in your tissues, and never tending to them will. 

[Side note: Sonya is not kidding! Because my lymph nodes have been affected and my body has been trying to cope with some pretty serious medical treatment protocols, we avoided massage and I got the “extra light” package. But even an extremely slow and safe approach created some intense moments where I had the space to discern where I’ve stored or stuffed emotion in my body. But also, recognizing my body hasn’t betrayed me. It has been doing the best it could. The appointments with Sonya have provided a space to acknowledge all that my corporal shell does for me and how much of the weight it carries, literally and figuratively.]

ME: You made the following statement in a recent appointment with me, “Hope is like weird Barbie?” Do you care to elaborate?

Sonya: Hope is what we need when we are actually in the fire… hope can’t be pretty… she’s too busy helping us get out of trouble… and get into it too. So, in my opinion Hope be lookin’ pretty wild about now.

See? Hope is totally like Weird Barbie! 

Sonya’s practice has helped me find a safe space to learn to address care of my whole being. This type of treatment might not appeal to you. That’s okay. My wish is for you to think about ways you may be neglecting yourself. I get it might sound selfish. But “you cannot give what you don’t have”. Profound insight from an argument with a three year old about gum, but nonetheless true. If you are curious, have any questions for Sonya, or are interested in learning more about Barnes Myofascial Release, I’ve linked her website here. Trust me, she would love to engage with you on this topic! But for now…

May you look for Hope and find her in all her wacky and unexpected presentations! 

P.S. Quick update – I’m officially done with treatment and have been declared, “in remission”! Woohoo! But spoiler alert, there are a couple more blog posts coming about the journey. The feeling of wanting to write is catching up with the stuff to write about. Now go out and find Hope! I promise she will greet you with a smile. 

I don’t think it means what you think it means…

Cancer, mental health, ,

On the advice of a family friend fresh out of her own treatment journey, I found a therapist who specializes in cancer patients. Very quickly an interesting pattern emerged. She would ask how I felt about certain words, and we would both anticipate my response. Sometimes it would be a visceral reaction (turns out I do not welcome the term “new normal”. I refuse to acknowledge this new-found fatigue and angst as any kind of normal, new or otherwise). The other common response was a blank stare. Words like grief, anxiety, fear, and achievement gave me pause. I had never stopped to ponder any sort of personal definitions, assuming there were basic universal interpretations. I was wrong.

Take the word “achievement”, for example. My therapist made a comment about the achievement of finishing chemo. I believe my response was something like, “finishing chemo doesn’t feel like an accomplishment,” and then she took a page out of my playbook and blankly stared at me. I’m rather familiar with this look and have since used it as an indication that more information is needed.

So, I continued. “All I’ve done is sit in a chemo chair then put up with the aftermath. It doesn’t feel like an accomplishment.” 

Her stare persisted.

“I guess I need to give that one some thought?” 

She nodded and suggested, “Maybe examine what ‘accomplishment’ means.” 

Message received. I had a week to figure this out before I saw her again. While that may sound anxiety producing, these little side quests into my psyche are not only brilliant distractions- something to focus on other than the current state; but also, opportunities to evaluate some long-held beliefs, and subsequently dump a lot of them because they are utter nonsense. (More to come on that.) 

Back to the side quest. What is an achievement? Obviously, it’s the attainment of some lofty goal – finish a second novel, run a half marathon, build a successful business. Essentially, I subscribe to the “go big or go home” way of measuring. “I’m giving up months of my life to lie here and not progress toward any sort of achievement”. But when you spend so many days lying in bed battling fatigue and illness, this definition obviously breeds anxiety and depression.

I shared my definition. Here’s her response (paraphrased). “If the goal is to make it to the other side of treatment, anything to help realize that goal qualifies as an achievement, right?!” 

Achievement. I don’t think it means what you think it means.

Apparently, lofty is irrelevant here, and more importantly, of my own making. Why would I choose to adhere to a definition that feeds anxiety? And it turns out, we can change those definitions (insert mind blown emoji here). Finishing an Audible book is an achievement (and I’m getting more comfortable saying “I read” instead of “I listened to” as if listening is less than). Being still and resting when needed is an achievement. Learning to give myself grace and love is an achievement. Learning to be patient with the seemingly slow progress of recovery is turning into an achievement. Learning to relax my shoulders multiple times throughout the day and stop wearing them as earrings – you guessed it – an achievement!

When only the grandiose wins the title of achievement, there are few finish lines to cross and even fewer celebrations. Having walked these past few months with Professor C, I am discovering I much prefer a life full of celebration and how that ultimately comes down to choices I make. The focus can be on the distant lofty achievement, or the beautiful experiences along the way.

I know, I know, some of you are thinking, “Duh, ‘It’s not the destination, it’s the journey’.”  Sure. But until now, I always said it backwards in my head. Seriously. Not on purpose. I just didn’t get it. That’s probably pretty telling on its own and honestly, I still don’t 100% prescribe to that idea. It is a bit about the destination. How do you know which way to turn at the first intersection if you have no idea where you hope to end up? But, even my definition of “destination” may be changing. Maybe the destination is getting to the end, having learned how to celebrate life and having said the important things to the important people. 

Anyway, maybe that’s another post. Professor C pushed me into a room I didn’t want to be in. However, this created opportunities to reflect and examine who I am and who I want to be. Those opportunities have been terrifying, beautiful, unexpected…I still have a lot to learn (which I’m hoping takes decades). Clearly, I have a robust subconscious dictionary of words to redefine – and a lot of moments to celebrate!

man standing in front of old door

Grief – A Study of Maybes

Cancer, Grief, mental health, On Life, ,
man standing in front of old door

I’ve been challenged over the past few months to confront fear and anxiety. I have had the pleasure of unexpected visits from hope, signing off my last blog with this apt description of my current state – finitely human and infinitely hopeful. But, the journey continues. In a recent appointment, my therapist brought up a new aspect. She asked, “What does grief look like to you?”

I responded with a helpful distant stare, while thinking, “It looks like something I don’t want to talk about.” Needless to say, I have more appointments scheduled.

Since then, I have been trying to mold a blog post for practically a month now, using this medium as a way of untangling what grief looks like to me (thank you for indulging my cathartic exploration). Usually, I sit down, vomit on the screen, then walk away for a day or two before returning to refine the words and then post. But grief…I’m painfully wrestling with this one. So, I turned to a familiar friend of mine in times of uncertainty – research. I asked Dr. Google. One of the first suggestions came from the esteemed Mayo Clinic. Their experts describe grief as “…a strong, sometimes overwhelming emotion.”

Again, a distant stare. Um, doesn’t that seem a bit vague?

More research quickly uncovered the revered “stages” of grief (post to follow on how certain words trigger – spoiler alert, “stages” is one of them). As a math person, I get the trend and desire toward the measurement and application of patterns to our existence. Civilization is replete with such utilizations from our literal measuring systems (plural because for some reason America prefers a system based on random numbers instead of a base 10 model, but whatever), to our calendar, and the way we proportion our presence on this planet in reference to celestial bodies. Humans need to measure things.

Grief feels similar, measured somehow. I have lost people I love, but I have never lost a child, or a spouse, or a best friend. My tangible existence has never been consumed by fire or whisked away in a tornado. I feel like I’ve been a mere spectator to those levels of loss. More measurement, accompanied by the realization, I don’t feel adequate to write about grief, coupled with the challenge of dealing with something I cannot name or define. (I may have mentioned this before).

Grief feels like the giant elephant in the room that appears when someone looks at you and declares you are now a cancer patient. Maybe dealing with the smaller pieces feels like a tangible way to address the elephant. After all, that’s the best way to eat it right? One bite at a time? And maybe I currently only have the capacity to deal with the “smaller” things? (More topics for upcoming therapy appointments).

While we seem to accept the idea that some things are just spectrumie (definition “somewhere on the spectrum”), like light for example, we struggle in that space between things that can be measured and things that have span – beginnings and endings beyond what we can see or define.

Maybe that’s grief? 

At the risk of sounding flippant, I think grief is like that horse in “The Wizard of Oz”. You know the one that changes color? Sometimes it’s green, then it changes to yellow and then blue, without measure or pattern. A spectrum of color that represents how quickly we move from one feeling to another. But like light, there are some pieces that feel invisible, outside the realm of the seen – felt deeply but challenging to define or describe.

Maybe grief isn’t even an emotion?

I realized recently cancer is not actually my teacher. Prof C simply opened a door in my being to a room full of mirrors that provide opportunity to look at myself in ways I would never have chosen. A sort of House of Mirrors, but in this case, the distortion is the reality. I get to see how short and squatty my love can be, or how twisted and grotesque my anxiety is.

Maybe grief is like more like a door?

A door that propels you into a room of emotion and sadness and loss that cannot be experienced any other way. But honestly, I don’t know. And based on the definition provided by the Mayo Clinic, maybe it’s beyond easy definition.

We measure our lives by counting the boxes on a calendar. Some are filled with appointments, errands, meetings, chemo chairs – moments that gauge the productivity of our days and our accomplishments. In that frame of measurement, it’s easy to lose sight of the experience – the small spectrum of visible life we can see in the greater vastness of existence that begins and ends in the unknown.

I’ve committed to stand in this room, opened by Prof C, eyes open, looking at the iterations of myself I’ve created or allowed. Maybe I can change some of them, but maybe that isn’t the point either. Maybe this is a chance for me to experience and embrace the finiteness of my specific flavor of humanity. To learn to practice measuring days in things not tangible – the more spectrumie bits like joy and love and presence in between the measured notches on my calendar.

And maybe grief is giving myself permission and space to feel the losses, to wrestle, and hopefully, at the end of it all, accept what I cannot define. Maybe.

Another Bitch

Cancer, On Faith,
Photo by Dmitry Ratushny on Unsplash

It has become common practice as of late to attempt a description of my current landscape. Metaphors such as dance partners and professors fall a bit short in portraying the fullness of this “new normal” (quotes added to denote the derision imposed by this phrase). Honestly, I’ve been struggling to garner the courage to paint a broader and encompassing picture. So, after some therapy sessions, I sat down last week and wrote a few paragraphs to viscerally illustrate what it feels like to be me in this moment. I quickly discovered why I had been avoiding this practice. The product was authentic but startling – graphic, and so bleak, depressing, and dark. The premise or metaphor employed was to wake up in a room, pitch dark, disoriented, and terrified. Upon realizing I had possibly written a scene for a “Saw” movie, I had to get up and walk away. (If you are not familiar with the “Saw” movie franchise, please do not research. Preserve your soul and trust me when I say they are yucky.)

The extreme images, though accurately depicting my current state of emotion, hung around me like the lingering smell when your toaster self-actualizes and burns the toast regardless of the low setting selected. I felt overwhelmed by the darkness, exhausted at fighting what I could not see. I had looked into the face of my reality and while I held a degree of gratitude (I tend to think you can’t fully deal with things you cannot name), the aftermath was vile, unwelcome, and debilitating. But keep reading, it gets better.

Karma showed up. And not in the bitchy way one might assume (which would make her the third bitch in this succession of blog posts). She has another side. My dad often used to tell us how the unseen world, or spiritual world, has been ordained under the same physical laws that govern the universe. “One reaps what one sows” is not just the first lesson in horticulture. It is a basic tenant of the universe. You plant a peach tree and expect to find peaches one day. Similarly, you sow seeds of greed and jealousy, and the hope of humanity is Karma will eventually repay such things in kind. But, using that same logic, one could be repaid for kindness and generosity of spirit. And such a repayment found its way to me in a very unexpected way. The following was forwarded to me recently.

“…it’s one thing to tell someone you’re sending positive thoughts or praying and it’s another entirely to let them hear or read exactly what that message is. So below is my prayer for you today…

Divine spark, Sustainer of all energy, and Giver of life…surround Anne with your presence. As she tries to breathe deeply to release stress, I pray the inhaling breaths are full of peace, like breathing in an intoxicating and calming fragrance. Infuse her breath with Peace while she waits for life to unfold and the path to be made clear. Right now, she is standing in a dark tunnel with only a couple doors. I pray that upcoming events burst through the tunnel, letting light in so she can see the other doors…”

As I read this, my daughter was sitting next to me and happened to be the one who sent it. As tears streamed down my face, she said, “You wrote this.” She reminded me how Anne, a few years ago, reached out and asked if I would send positive thoughts and pray for her. The above was my response to the request from Ann “with an e”. (For the record, I’ve changed her name – the friend, not my daughter.)

This was a message I needed. Kindness returned, ironically in my own words, and reminded me what hope looks like.

I hope you will go back and reread the prayer as needed, as I am doing and have done (I’ve reread it a lot). Bravely insert your name, hopefully finding a glimpse of light, a few seconds of relief, and give yourself a moment to acknowledge the beautiful incense of hope. Also, I am painfully aware the syntax and grammar are far from perfect, and am fighting the urge to edit the crap out of it. In its current state, it seems real and raw and perhaps more human. Hmm, maybe that’s the best representation of my current state after all – finitely human and infinitely hopeful. 

I’m about halfway through the sentence of this dark place. I’m diligently trying not to sit in resignation and/or hold my breath until it’s over; but instead, to somehow find the strength to keep looking for clues, or lessons, and ways to help me deal with the symptoms – physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual. To figure out how not to isolate entirely, but fight to be present with my family, with my friends, with myself, through these new and deepening shades of exhaustion and compromised immunity.

Finitely human and infinitely hopeful.

P.S. I truly feel all your prayers and positive thoughts. I relish the check ins, and I know you are with me in spirit – like a great cloud of witnesses, cheering me on.

New Dance Partner

Cancer,
ID 28292912
© Makar
| Dreamstime.com

I’m not the first to waltz my way into this metaphor of life and dance. There are times life feels like a Tango, deliberate, full of beauty and intrigue. There are moments of joy and celebration akin to the Charleston. And then, there are seasons where you feel as though your two left feet leave you stumbling and consistently one step behind.

A new dance partner has interrupted the general choreography of my life. I may have mentioned him before. His name is Professor C. (C is for cancer for those just joining.) I gave him that title to help minimize and categorize this experience. A fitting title as the treatment was scheduled to take six months and I expect to learn something. However, this whimsical label did not have a minimizing or diminishing effect. I’m a few months into the treatment cycle and realizing I may have underestimated the reach of Prof C. Professor C has ignored the polite rules of society and appropriate academic boundaries, and has launched a full-on invasion into my life and my personal space. (Maybe “C” is for cad.)

He has become a dance partner everyone tries desperately to avoid, and reminds me of the Hungarian linguist in “My Fair Lady” – loud, obnoxious, controlling, presumptuous, and an inflated sense of his power to ruin one’s life. Statistically speaking, some of you may have never seen “My Fair Lady.” (I cannot imagine this world, but for the sake of argument, I’ll concede it may exist.) “My Fair Lady” is a 1963 film, set in 1910 London, where Professor Henry Higgins makes a bet with an old army buddy determining he can refine Eliza Doolittle, a crude flower girl. At one point, Eliza is taken to a ball to test the success of the experiment, and subsequently handed off to dance with a man, the Hungarian linguist, who believes he can speak to anyone and immediately surmise their lineage. But did I mention he’s a pompous ass…much like Professor C, my current dance partner. The pure gall and audacity! (And I shall leave it at that. You’ll have to watch the movie to find out if the ass succeeds.)

But, like Eliza and square dancing lessons during 3rd grade PE, I didn’t get to pick my partner. Nor am I familiar with, or have any control over, this new dance. My treatment was postponed last week to give my white cell count and liver enzymes a chance to recover before the next dose of chemo. It felt like a betrayal, a detour from the goal of finishing and moving on. The damn linguist whisked me off the main dance floor, out on to the balcony in some sort of forced side quest. UGH!

Professor C (now a weird cross in my head between a faceless academic and a Hungarian linguist), the unwanted dance partner, has started to teach me some things. Actually, that’s not accurate. The interval of being forced to dance with him has created a space where my perspective has been altered.

I was reminded recently of a poem that demonstrates this perfectly.

The Guest House – Jellaludin Rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

I have no idea what comes next in this dance or who shows up tomorrow. But, I’m dancing, and here’s what I think I’m learning:

  • The unexpected appearances of joy and pain no longer get a wave and brief acknowledgement but are invited to sit and stay as long as they like.
  • I’d like to think my gratitude has found deeper roots. I don’t take for granted the moments of connection with my family or my friends.
  • I’ve discovered there’s so much beauty in the world and in my space than I realized. And, the beautiful things have so much more meaning. They become the colors I paint my daily life with.
  • There’s value in learning the discipline of letting each day unfold and resisting the tendency to brace myself for the unknown. I cannot live in the future and trying to do is a colossal waste of energy.
  • I thought I controlled a lot of things. I control very little. And those things I thought I needed to control aren’t that important anyway.
  • Being undone does not make me weak or needlessly vulnerable, it just makes me human. The humanity of me is what connects me. And, those connections have tremendous meaning and value. Maybe even the most meaning and value.

As my new dance partner takes me places I don’t want to go, I’m learning the dark moments don’t destroy beauty or joy, and as invasive and tumultuous as Professor C can be at times, he cannot take away my ability to love, to create, to laugh, to pursue the best version of me. Honestly, I’m still remedial at all this. But maybe that’s the most important thing I’m learning…

one of the most beautiful parts of being human is the ability to learn and grow.

Fish out of Water

Cancer, ,

This picture asks a thousand questions. My best guess, a small child was escorted to the bathroom. Said child held shark toy until perfectly aligned above the toilet. At which point, small child let go, releasing the shark back to the water. Wasn’t it “Nemo” who taught us “all routes lead to the sea?”

One hopes the toy was dropped into a “clean” bowl of water, allowing adult escort of child to fish out the toy. (Pun intended). But then, how does adult convince small child to leave the shark on the rim? And if one goes to the effort of retrieving something from the toilet, wouldn’t the more obvious place of eternal rest be a trash bin? Or…someone before me found this little treasure in the water and retrieved it in case small child returned? Not sure I would be that person, but it’s comforting to imagine a world where such humans exist!

Back to the shark, which not only provided a wonderfully unexpected photo to send to my son who is vocal about his fear of sharks, but it also brought enormous joy from a normally mundane activity.

But how does this track with my current journey?

A few weeks ago, I described being in a state of anxiety and apprehension. My first chemo treatment was right around the corner. I felt like a fish out of water – flailing and unsure how I got here. How does one navigate the terrors of the unknown –  especially unknowns with names that illicit horrific connotations – like emergency surgery, or chemo? But, I’m discovering time marches on, and eventually, the terror inducing moment weaves itself into the fabric of personal history.

I survived my first round of treatments. The days after were not exactly fun, but they are in the review mirror. While I never wanted to say “been there done that” regarding chemo (and five treatments still to go), there is something to be said for a familiarity gained from experience.

Especially the experience of being a fish out of water.

While I’m learning to allow the spectrum of feelings their moment, it helps to remember, regardless of my feelings, time will move me along…through the thing…until it becomes a blip on my linear timeline. My dad used to boil it down to a well-known saying, “This too shall pass.”

Like my little shark friend, at some point, we all find ourselves on the brink of a toilet experience, literal or metaphorical. Chemo is my current toilet experience. However, I would bet a sizable sum my little shark friend is no longer in the same place. And neither am I. Round 2 starts on Monday and yes, I feel a bit anxious, but less so. Cheers to progress!

If you are in a toilet experience, remember my little shark friend. Perhaps the only constant in this life is change. Which means, toilet experiences don’t last forever.

You are Here

Cancer, On Life

Where is here? State of confusion…denial…angst?  Oh yeah, that last one. Definitely the last one.

There is not much I remember about my childhood. I contracted chicken pox when I was five and we were moving. That was a hassle. Or I was. When you’re five you don’t differentiate that line very well. I also remember having a lot of emotion as a kid (and by kid I mean anywhere from birth to like mid-thirties). What can I say? I’m a deep feeler.

At some point, I realized I needed to figure out how to control some of that emotion. The goal was to learn to live in the state of even-keel. How I felt about something wasn’t nearly as important as what was true. The energy previously spent on an emotional response was channeled into that fun game that Pita from the Hunger Games played when he could no longer make sense of the hijacked memories – “Real, not real.”

I could say I got pretty good at it. I still have a lot of feelings. But I guess that’s just it. I’ve learned to redirect. I think that’s how I would describe it. I show passion in my work. I extend emotion to my family. The good feels can stay, but there must have been a moment of epiphany when I decided negative emotions no longer served a valid purpose. Why waste the energy?

How’s that working you ask? I’d say okay until recently when the excrement hit the high velocity spinning device.

Just a few minutes ago, as I was wrapping up an anxiety attack (we will get to that in a bit), I had this weird flashback. I was standing in front of one of those directory, map-like thingies found in malls to guide you to Cinnabon. Guess what was missing? A giant red star, created to state the obvious, “You are here.” I couldn’t find it anywhere! As I frantically searched, the world started to pull away, like the waters receding from the beach in anticipation of a giant wave. An existential tsunami was gathering just off the horizon of my subconscious…

“Okay, I got it. Let’s go.” My husband pulled on my sleeve, snapping me into an alternate reality where he is now giving me directions. (heehee)

This flashback floats back as I’m in child’s pose on my bed (which I would like to think is a step up from the fetal position), focusing on my breathing. The map flashback is so absurd it makes me chuckle. Oh the times I have mocked that red star.

You are here.

My current life map happens to have a giant red star. “Here” is recovering from the insertion of a port into my chest officially marking the countdown to chemo.

Here is shit. (Look at me! I’m practicing having negative emotions). I don’t want to be here. I don’t want my family to be here, or my friends, or the dermatologist I saw today who gave me good news, but was clearly uncomfortable being in the room with someone so close to walking into the veiled and uncertain world of chemotherapy. Probably why they pursued dermatology. And for observation sake, how is a sense of humor not required to enter the medical field? Did Patch Adams teach us nothing? 

Anyway, nobody wants to be here.

A week ago, I had a run in with fear and panic. Once again, the good feels swooped in to save the day. Perspective arrived and the world made sense again.

Until it didn’t.

Apparently a dalliance with fear and panic is not a one and done type thing. Noted. And they don’t always present in the same way.

In an ongoing attempt to do “normal” things and stay just this side of sanity (avoid negative emotion), I have been making an effort to connect. This has created some awesome moments, one being lunch recently with some dear friends who I see maybe twice a year. They are the kind of friends you sit down with and dive into deep discussion, peppering the entire conversation with laughter. But also, they have seen some stuff. I trust them and asked them to look at my most recent battle wounds (port incisions).

“Does it look right? Not infected or anything?”

“No,” they reply in tandem, “looks okay, why?”

“I just feel weird. I’m spending way more time thinking about breathing, which I have always relied on as an autonomous action, and I feel something in my chest. Like my chest hurts. That can’t be good, right?”

There was an awkward pause as the three of them looked at me. I braced myself. I’m dying, and they can’t find the words.

“Um…” one of them began with trepidation, “it sounds like anxiety.”

I stared back at them and tried to digest this information along with the salmon I had just eaten. Anxiety? Like Ted Lasso? Should I watch that show for the third time straight through as a type of research? (Just a quick glance into my thought process). 

You are here.

I currently reside in the state of anxiety. I have been trying to distract myself – reading, embroidery, making bracelets, checking I don’t have skin cancer – and although there is a strong possibility I will be fine in six months, logic doesn’t always seem to win. Or at least not long term.

My chest hurts, I keep telling myself to breath, and tears are always standing at the ready to cascade down my face. AGH!!!

But I am here. And I committed to learning on this journey – I dubbed cancer Professor C. I get him for a semester, he’s an ass, but I’ll learn something. My first lesson? How to process emotion (not be so quick to dismiss it) and figure out how to feel all the feels. Not just the ones that are comfortable.

BTW, the “gown” angst persists. The dermatologist’s office had me don a “paper gown”. Her exact words. I really wanted to say something, but my previous attempts a breaking the ice (humor is my go to when I know I am going to have to get naked) had created a thick fog of awkward, so I left it alone. Her loss. Anyway, I think I’ve decided it, the “gown”, should just be referred to as an article. “This…put this on.” It doesn’t deserve to be a noun.

Two Bitches – Fear and Panic

Cancer, mental health, On Life
Photo credit: darkbird77

“I expect great results.” The charming and jovial doctor sat across from us and smiled. “Everyone I have treated in your shoes has responded positively.”

“And how long have you been a doctor?” My husband smiled sheepishly but also, yes, let’s get a read on the extent of “everybody.” Good question, Babe.

The doctor looked at his watch pensively and replied, “I think like two weeks?”

He was kidding. I’m pretty sure he was kidding. We all laughed so I’m assuming…High fives all around ended the appointment and more appointments were scheduled. Just another path to walk. No big deal. Been there done that.

I walked into the prep room of the hospital a couple weeks later. The quick routine procedure spiraled unannounced into a panic attack and hit me square in the chest in a split second. The last time I was in a room like this, “a routine procedure” left me in the oncology ward for five days.

“This isn’t that!!” I internally shouted at myself trying to get a grip while I donned the “gown”, attempting to redirect my focus to the directions I had been given.

(Side note, can we please rename the “hospital gown”? The crepe like square of cloth reminiscent of an old flour sack, with random holes and too many occupants to count does not deserve to be called a “gown”. The word “gown” should be proceeded by adjectives like “inaugural” or “beaded”. Also, I may have had a bit of fun with “”. One must entertain oneself.)

Anyway, I surrendered my clothing and dignity and the nurse returned to take my blood pressure. It was high. No kidding! The world had turned to a swirling mass of chaos! Your lucky I’m not a giant pile of goo right now!

I kept trying to take a deep breath and fight back the torrent of emotion. She said she would come back in a few minutes to retake my blood pressure. I nodded and wiped my eyes.

“Get a grip, Rebecca!” I yelled internally again. David handed me a tissue, rubbed my back, and I climbed onto the gurney (not a bed – see above discourse on the word gown). I shut my eyes and kept trying to breathe. For an autonomous action, it’s amazing how difficult breathing can be at times.

Life leaves no one unscathed. At some point, we all find ourselves in the metaphorical forest, as the sun sets, and enveloping darkness and strange threatening sounds push in and isolate us.

I’m in the forest. I can’t run. And Fear, smelling my indecision like a shark smells chum, runs at me. A chill rises from the damp mossy ground, adding an eerie mist. I try to reason with her. “Hey Fear, listen, it’s going to be okay. This isn’t going to be a big deal. Of course I’m fearful. Who wouldn’t be? But, you can go now, and uh, thanks for stopping by.”

The vapor swells, dancing at my feet, and blocking any view of the ground where I’m standing. I spin around looking for any way out, a tiny vantage point into the trees, some faint hint at a direction to run. The expanding fog rises and swirls around me, pulling in the smells of pine and damp earth. The shock of the cool heady vapor hitting my nostrils stings and announces Fear’s twin sister Panic has heard the thudding of my heart like a drum calling soldiers to battle.

For the last few weeks, I have attempted to fight Fear and Panic, pulling out as many strategies as I can muster. The plan was to get all the facts then start fighting the disease, understanding fully the outcome looks positive. I may have underestimated my foes.

Fear and Panic are ruthless bitches. I’ve delude myself into thinking there’s an ounce of humanity within them – or that their reign of terror would somehow motivate me. When I was a teacher, I used to remind my students, “Fear is a powerful motivator.” But now I wonder. Remember the scene in the movie where the deeply frightened teenagers being chased through the woods run as fast as they can into the barn? Fear “motivated” them, and how does that turn out? Fear just made them run into the next chapter of doom.

I think fear pushes us and causes us to move, to attempt to run away, because she loves a good hunt. Her and her sister are like tigresses who isolate the weak and wounded, setting up a chase where the outcome is nearly guaranteed. But I’m not sure that’s the same thing as motivation. It’s just movement. It feels like motivation should have an association with something positive, maybe?

My forest is cancer. It’s back, and I start chemo soon. Fear is on me like an angry swarm of bees and I can hear Panic breathing heavy in anticipation of her quarry. Mantras like, “It’s fine”, and “No big deal” run through my head at frequent intervals. Turns out, Fear and Panic chew trite platitudes like bubble gum. They chew them up and spit them in my face, causing me to retch.

I started fumbling around in old files on my computer looking for something productive to do and keep Fear and Panic at bay. I found this gem in an old blog post I wrote and probably never posted, “But gratitude is always the fruit of correctly altered perspective.” Seriously? I wrote that?

Correctly altered perspective. Hmmm. Currently, my perspective is dictated by those two bitches, Fear and Panic. So, what would happen if I invite Perspective? “Come on over Perspective. Meet my nemesises…nemesi?” Give me a sec…nemeses. “Come on over Perspective and meet my nemeses. You can take a swing at these two and I’ll take a breather.”

Turns out, Perspective is a bit skittish and fragile. She wants to crawl into my lap. So, in the middle of the fray, I sit in the dirt, cross my legs, and close my eyes. Fear, sensing I’m changing the rules of the fight, begins to scream. I hear her and instead of the continued futile attempt to ignore her, I listen. All this time she’s been whispering nonsense, but I was too afraid to register the words. This entire time Fear was a complete idiot? Why did I listen?

Perspective brings me back. She times her breathing to mine and I being to calm down. She then rises above me in an orb of light like Glenda the Good Witch. A hint of illumination reveals she is not alone. She has brought her friends – Hope, Faith, Love, Joy, and Peace. They stand in the blurred edge between light and shadow, incandescent and translucent like a rainbow. Fear shrieks. She wants me to keep wrestling with her, engaging her, and focusing on her.

Perspective laughs and her glow brightens as I steady my gaze on her beautiful gown (see what I did there? That’s a proper use of the word). It reflects tender memories where Hope, and Faith, and Joy, and Love, and Peace have visited. My new born child placed on my heaving chest until our breathing falls into sync and we both drift into a blissful rest. A student’s eyes alight, find mine, and I see a whole new world of comprehension has opened up to them. And the time I stood on the parapet of a broken and ancient castle and heard history whisper to me in the wind. Memories play like an old home movie reel, one after the other.

Perspective rises with each memory, supported and heightened by the presence of her allies.

I can no longer hear Fear or Panic.

A warmth falls across me, as if the sun has just burst through the clouds – the humbling realization and recognition of all the amazing and glorious moments. And then faces fill the screen – my husband, my children, friends – a cloud of witnesses who surround me with love and support – the amazing people who share life with me.

Perspective has done her thing and made way for Gratitude.

Lesson learned…perhaps again. As I said before, apparently like 15 years ago, Gratitude is always the fruit of correctly altered Perspective.

I have a couple of questions for you:

  1. Any thoughts on a new name for a “hospital gown?” Seriously, maybe we can help make the world a better place.
  2. How do you invite Perspective? … Prayer? Meditation? Exercise?

Shoot me a response in the comments! I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Don’t be an Octopus

mental health, On Life, ,
wood carved of octopus
Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com

Disclaimer: It is my understanding octopi are sentient, highly intelligent, and rather remarkable beings. Therefore, the admonishment to avoid imitating this phenomenal creature is metaphorical, mostly.

If they just know me better, they will like me. If I give more time and energy, he will love me.

There are moments when a great deal of time and energy are spent chasing. This applies to friendly, romantic, or even a quest to find ourselves. In these moments, there is a strong pull to throw all we have into the pursuit. But…

Don’t be an octopus.

“She used to be my friend. I don’t know what happened. I’ve done all these things to put our friendship back the way it was…I don’t understand what changed…”

A recent conversation turned to tears of frustration as I listened to a story about the ineffectual results of the pursuit for the attention of another. A heart, feeling broken from neglect or indifference.

And then an image popped into my mind…

The Incredible octopus that can walk on dry land | The Hunt – BBC

Like something out of a sci-fi story! But, my point is octopi have the capacity to expend energy through eight different channels, simultaneously! Humans on the other hand, do not have eight appendages. Perhaps an obvious observation and yet, there are clearly moments when we forget this. We dispense energy as though we are not bound by our miserly four limbs and the implicit laws of the universe.

In the instances where we pretend to be octopi and flail our metaphorical appendages around hoping to garner attention, affection, validation, we are simply proving the First Law of Thermodynamics – energy can only be transferred; it cannot be created or destroyed. In other words, it is impossible to give limitless energy to others.

When my daughter was about three, she asked for gum. I didn’t have any gum. She kept asking, and asking, and asking. (I’m sure you can imagine). And then in a blaze of brilliant failure to communicate, I blurted out, “I can’t give you what I don’t have.” The asking stopped as suddenly a charge filled the air in the car. The profound had hit like a bolt of lightning.

Apologies if you have heard me tell this story, but seriously, it just applies to so many things! Gum, faith, love, energy…

I can’t give what I don’t have…

Please give to others. Give kindness, love, patience, peace…but don’t be an octopus. Give in appropriate quantities. Keep some energy for yourself to grow your own container. Then you can give more.

Don’t be an octopus.

Stop whipping limited appendages about in pursuit of attention, metaphorically or literally. Chose rather to give, arms outstretched, and palms open – like a human. And actually, that puts you in the perfect position to receive something in return.

New Year’s Restoration

mental health,

While the trend about now is to look to the future and decide to achieve things in the coming new year, I’m thinking about going a slightly different direction. Metaphorically of course. This post is not about a newly discovered worm hole or alternate universe. Sorry.

It started with a blog post “Lessons Learned in 2023” I was working on. See below…

It doesn’t matter what you look like, how much money you have, or what you have accomplished. Insecurity, self-doubt, sadness, and loneliness do not discriminate based on these criteria. 

It doesn’t matter who you are, where you have been, or where you are headed, chances are you have a friend who believes in you and encourages you to remember the best version of yourself. (If this isn’t true, email me…I’m happy to remind you!)

It doesn’t matter if you are good or right or socially conscious, someone will spread rumors to tear you down. Refer to paragraph one. 

It doesn’t matter where you are in your career, your relationships, or your stage of life, there will always be hurdles, both external and internal. These are merely opportunities to overcome. How do you know this? Because they are in front of you and the best direction is forward.

It doesn’t matter if you are weary, disheartened, betrayed, wounded, or destroyed. The choice to persist will always be in your hands. And moving forward will never negate the betrayal or condone the yuck hurled in your direction. It’s merely a chance to redirect your focus to something productive.

But, it’s the beginning of January so I started thinking how this relates to the common, albeit annoying, practice of resolution setting. “Ignore the ugly voices and try not to talk crap about others?” Perhaps a good start, but seriously? 

After further consideration, it turns out I don’t want a resolution – by definition, a seemingly benign practice that masquerades as a vehicle destined to deliver large doses of guilt or foster internal accusatory dialogues to deepen self-doubt. Pass. 

Don’t misunderstand, I have intentions for 2024. I want to improve as a human. For example, I intend to go on a word diet. If words have the power to create or destroy, maybe I should be careful how I brandish them. Also, I do not wish to be one of the “spreaders of rumors”. But still, it felt short sighted. It wasn’t enough. The question plagued me, beyond simply moving forward, can we affect the past at all? Do all the decayed and burned-out buildings of yesteryear get to stand as monuments to pain and error? Do we simply give a nod periodically at their existence and try to move on? Or…is it possible to deconstruct some of the crap and haul it out? I realize our scars define us in beautiful ways, but do I have to keep all the dilapidation that’s taking up valuable real estate? Can I tear it down, leave a plaque, and build back better? 

I don’t want a shallow resolution. I want some restoration. Maybe that’s a lot to ask but I’m learning if you don’t ask, you don’t get. Can this be a sort of both/and situation? I will purpose to choose my words more carefully, and also, walk into 2024 with hope toward a new stretch of internal skyline? Sounds idyllic, but honestly, I’m not sure where to start so I consulted some wise council.

“Carefully watch your thoughts, for they become your words. Manage and watch your words, for they will become your actions. Consider and judge your actions, for they have become your habits. Acknowledge and watch your habits, for they shall become your values. Understand and embrace your values, for they become your destiny.” – Gandhi

Easy enough (sarcasm), so I guess I start with my thoughts. Wish me luck. And before I forget, I have another idea for the next blog post already. “Don’t be an Octopus.” I promise it relates. It’s on my calendar to post the beginning of February. 

Cheers everyone and Happy New Year! May 2024 be full of joy, peace, and discoveries of better.

P.S. I’m still using my treadmill, but also thinking the above practice might affect my mental health in a positive way as well. Worth a shot.