Category Archives: On Life

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.

snowy night in Nevada

If I’m being honest…

mental health, On Life
snowy night in Nevada
Snowy night in Nevada

Anyone else notice this phrase infiltrating most conversations? “If I’m being honest, I really prefer this restaurant.” Are we starved for this level of honest? But I’ve caught myself saying it, if I’m being honest.

Seriously though, it makes me wonder. What is it about our current psychological state that we feel the need to convince others, or ourselves, that the next words to escape our lips will be truth? I have a theory, but first a story.

Once upon a time, in a town buried in snow, there lived a woman. If her life were to be measured in Facebook posts (of which she never actually makes), they would likely garner lovely comments, and small hieroglyphic responses. She does not find herself struggling with hunger, or bombs exploding, leaving a haze of dust, debris, and chaos. She plans trips, enjoys her job because she works with amazing people, is happily married, has children who call and text her and friends who reach out…Webster might define her existence as nearly idyllic. 

But as in all good stories, there must be a villain—a force to test the mettle of our heroin and give rise to the triumphant. There have been villains that have crossed her path. She has woken from a routine surgery only to find herself in an oncology ward. She has started and failed a business, damaged her children and generally struggled with her identity and existence. She has crossed oceans and swam in grief. But if she were being honest, there is one particular villain, perhaps even a nemesis, who, like her shadow, cannot be truly vanquished. It has followed her for nearly half a century. 

Perhaps the power it wields lies in its shape shifting essence—frequently transforming and donning a clever disguise veiling its true nature and confounding at every turn in her story. But she finally recognized this menace, after months of turmoil, and to vanquish or at least send this threat back into the subtext of her life, she bought a treadmill. 

***

I think the whole “if I’m being honest” thing gets to be me because unless you are a sociopath, or just icky, your goal during engagements of conversation is to be honest. And in a world inundated by half-truths, media hype, and tortuous levels of advertising, we have to wonder if we ever hear a grain of truth in the course of a day. On top of that, I think honesty is like onions, and parfaits. It has layers. We want to be honest, but do we want to be totally, brutally honest about where we are and how we are feeling? Can the world handle our own brand of naked transparency and vulnerability? Can we handle our own truth(s)?

Here’s my onion (at least some of it regarding this topic). I bought a treadmill (spoiler alert, the woman in the story was me) because I don’t like being cold and apparently Nevada is having an identity crisis and it thinks its Alaska. And one should exercise. Layer one.

I bought a treadmill to attempt to shed the poundage delivered by the bitch menopause, and attempt to fit back into my clothes again. Layer two.

And if I’m being brutally honest, the kind of honesty that deflates justifications and sears through self-righteous nonsense to reveal the vulnerable, if I’m being that kind of honest, I bought a treadmill to hold at bay the familiar foe of mental illness. 

A perfect storm of normal changes and new life adjustments knocked me sideways recently, and experience has taught me the consequences of not recognizing the familiar signs indicating I’m headed down a dangerous path. If I don’t acknowledge the indicators and fight back at the onset of these signs, a thick presence of indifference will settle in around me like a soupy fog, blocking joy and love, and isolating me until I begin to believe there is no way out. Then a spiral of despair and depression begins…therefore I bought a treadmill. (I’ll get to the connection between spiraling and treadmills later but for now, you’ll just have to go with it).

In a conversation with a friend recently (we were making jewelry so of course the conversation went deep) she pointed out I had written a book that highlighted my husband’s struggle with PTSD and the reverberating repercussions, several posts about marriage as it relates to horses (shameless teaser), but seldom have I (if ever) gone deep into my own mental illness struggles. What the hell is that about? (She didn’t say those exact words. She’s not a monster).

But it got me thinking. Why am I avoiding? And, it seems the best chance of finding out would be to just stop avoiding and start writing. Hence, this prologue post to a series on mental health. (EEK! The word “series” makes my palms sweat a bit, which means I cannot promise a consistent release of posts. But I’ve started at least. And maybe you feel this is simply a self-indulgent, narcissism fueled attempt to garner sympathy and attention. You can tell me that as long as you start with, “If I’m being honest.” Because then at least there will be a bit of irony, which will make me chuckle and it will be easier to absorb your opinion).

On that note, I realize perhaps I’m only adding one more strained note into the cacophony of voices shouting into the ether. I have no ideas of grandeur that what I have to say will be anything new or revelatory. But, what the heck. Nothing ventured nothing gained. 

Perhaps I have painted this blog with enough self-doubt for now. Until next time, when I either discuss crippling abandonment issues or postpartum depression. Either of which sound equally riveting, I’m sure. 

P.S. I am not a trained professional. I’m just a woman, who appreciates sarcasm, sharing a story. This post is not a plug for treadmills nor is it a claim that treadmills are a cure for depression.  

It’s Time to Let Go!

On Life, PTSD, , ,
Photo from Katman1972 (free images.com)

Top Gun Maverick. Rotten Tomatoes gives it 97%. You read that correctly. 97%! For those of you who didn’t have a stellar math teacher, only 3 out of every 100 people that saw the movie were like, “Meh.” Only 3.  

I’m with you 97%. I cried. I cheered. I felt elated. And thank you, Hollywood, for the power of the cinema. Thank you for embracing a bit of the real. Just a bit. But I’m struggling to say it was truly real.

For those of you who have been around for a beat, I have some experience in the PTSD arena. (I may have even written an entire book dedicated to the cathartic journey of being married to someone who has been diagnosed with PTSD. Insert tireless self-promotion here.) 

It’s time to let go!

Absolutely no disrespect to Val here. That man is a warrior. But I think Hollywood missed the mark a bit. PTSD cannot be reduced to a simple act of “letting go.” I appreciate the fact that they went there. Especially since I know the military doesn’t do “mental health” all that well. (Topics for a different time.) Maverick is still struggling with the past. That’s real life. But maybe there could have been a better way of representing the theme of the movie.

In true Hollywood fashion, the one-liner foreshadows the ending. Several men, intimately aquatinted with grief, and one (ahem, Maverick) who clearly struggles with PTSD, find themselves wrestling with the past. (I’m not a psychologist but willing to go out on a limb if for no other reason than the literal flashbacks and nothing says PTSD like flashbacks.)

Don’t get me wrong, there is now another musical score that rivals Chariots of Fire and Harry Potter for moving and inspiring. Duh duh duh dadadada duh duh…it’s moving. It’s heroic. It makes you want to kick ass. But is it entirely real? 

It’s time to let go!

I honor what Ice was trying to say. And at some level his intent seems legit. But it doesn’t seem to work quite like that. At least from my experience. It’s more like, “It’s time to practice reprogramming the guilt and it’s going to take a long time…a very long time…and oh, it never fully goes away because it’s a scar on your soul.”  Yeah, I hear it. Maybe not something 97% want to hear. 

But here’s what they did get right – it’s engaging. And maybe, hopefully, it moves us a notch closer to being able, as a society, to reconciling the impact PTSD has had on our culture and our oft ineptness at knowing how to deal with it. 

It inspires me to think that 97% connect with the movie. But do 97% think PTSD can be conquered, and in 2 hours no less or do 97% watch and feel a sort of solidarity with Maverick? 

I’m hoping for the later. I’m hoping a national audience walks away with not only the intense thrill of being in a cockpit, but a sense of understanding of the sacrifices made by those who willingly chose to put themselves between us and danger–fighter pilots, service members (but a shout out to Marines), law enforcement (and CHP because, you know), firefighters, even those who work for state transportation agencies (maybe like NDOT) who are tasked with running into the road to pick up the sh!t that fell out of the back of your truck so someone who is slightly distracted doesn’t hit it and crash. When you see those people, doing those jobs, remember the 97% elation you felt after this movie. 

Remember that such a level of dedication and risk comes at a price. 

Here’s to the 97%. May it spark awareness, conversation, and empathy for those who choose to wear a uniform that bears a weight they may never be able to take off. 

A Female Bedtime Story

On Life

Once upon a time, there was a woman. The doctor kept referring to her as a “woman of your age” until numerous witty retorts danced across her face and emblazoned her eyes. He then found a different way to explain to her that she didn’t need her uterus any longer. To this she argued, “What if I wish to surrogate for one of my children someday?” Her husband looked at her with a small degree of alarm and the doctor shifted his head very slightly to one side. The woman wasn’t trying to be difficult or irksome, she only wanted the doctor to be sure he was guiding her down the best path. You see, he wanted to remove all of her reproductive organs, along with a fibroid they had found on an MRI. This course of action seemed like a big deal to the woman. But the doctor persisted in his explanation and a date for surgery was set.

The woman soon discovered there’s work to be done to prep for this kind of surgery. She was asked to conduct a bowel cleanse the day before. Her initial thought was to imagine she was simply doing a juice cleanse until the numerous trips to the toilet made it impossible to paint the experience in a different light. The evening quicky focused on her success in ridding her body of everything. The next morning, feeling empty, hungry and anxious, the woman and her husband drove to the hospital where they waited and waited for her surgery.

The two-hour surgery turned into three and a half hours when the doctor opened her up and found the fibroid was a nasty tumor the size of a cantaloupe attached to her small intestine. He removed the tumor, taking part of her small intestine and appendix with it, as well as the lady bits they had discussed originally. Once she was patched up again, he sent her to a room in the hospital to recover. 

The next morning, when she awoke, she was told she could not have anything to drink until she was able to pass gas and that she would not be able to go home until she could have a normal bowel movement. Brushing aside the initial injustice of it all, she reminded herself she had been doing these activities since the day she was born. It surely couldn’t prove to be that difficult. 

With great determination she put her mind to the task at hand. She took walks, practiced the child pose, and generally concentrated on getting things moving. By the end of the first day, she was frustrated and exhausted. How could something so inane and base be so difficult? The nurses, seemingly convinced it would happen, encouraged her as best they could, and it turned out they were right. The next day, her body remembered and what a joyous moment it was when the gas finally arrived. She continued to progress until they announced her fit to return to her home. The end. 

As with all good bedtime stories, we must discuss the moral. During the struggle, the woman could not escape the irony of the situation. She was required to poo to have the surgery, then required to poo to go home. (The exclusion of the “h” is intentional as not to confuse this topic with a small adorable yellow cartoon bear.) Many times, her roommate heard her say, “The outside world is far less concerned with excrement as the medical world. In fact, we poo-poo it.” The woman thought she was clever. Regardless, the irony just would not leave her alone. 

Being in a hospital for several days gave her opportunity to explore this idea further and sit with it awhile. Is the outside world missing something? Beyond the obvious obsession with bowel movement, was there a lesson to be found? Understandably, the doctors and nurses didn’t want to send her home until they knew all was well and things were functioning as they should. But the woman continued to ponder the irony. Her life experience had taught her there is often great profoundness to be found in the presence of irony–like standing in front of a magnificent wisteria tree in bloom and expecting the alluring scent to find its way to your nose. 

And then the profound whispered to her. 

Maybe we should spend more time thinking about what we waste.

 If her exit from the hospital was determined by her waste, perhaps there is something to be gained in the outside world by being mindful of what we metaphorically flush down the toilet. Clearly this is the current idea as we strive to eliminate plastic and superfluous materials out of our landfills. There’s one application of the idea. She knew she was on to something and pondered further until another whisper. 

Maybe we are measured by what we waste. 

We furiously endeavor to be defined by what we accomplish. We want to be measured by our achievements or our image or by our successes. But maybe we should give as much attention, if not more, to the things or people we push aside. 

Maybe we are more defined by the opportunities, relationships, moments that we allow to pass by–those glimpses of eternity that we discard–the “base” things we waste.

That was it. That was the profound hidden in the irony. The woman took a deep breath and pondered this, wrapping it gently in the folds of her mind so that she could cherish the lesson found in the struggle. 

****

In case you missed it, I’m the woman. And as I’m sure this will spark some questions, it was a tumor, but possibly the best-case scenario. I see the oncologist next monthand will know more but for now…I’m visiting the bathroom often, which means ample opportunities to ponder the lessons learned in the hospital. And as the journey unfolds, I will share more profound lessons as I learn them. At least I will try. 

It is easy, natural even, to measure the day in minutes and hours. It is a far different and more difficult practice to measure the day in moments. 

All I’m askin’

On Life
A cold day in Paris

The French have a saying. “Pfffft.”

Okay, saying is a stretch. It’s really more a sound of derision–the expulsion of emotion in a puff of hair through the lips. (Seriously, it’s a thing.)

Several months ago, the phrase “the new normal” seemed quaint and clever. Isolation. Lockdown. Change.

The new normal.  Pffft. We had no idea. 

I thought of writing something at the beginning of this journey fifteen weeks ago. And then the cacophony of voices erupted from the internet. How could I compete with “Some Good News” by John Krasinski? 

But that was really only the beginning of the great disgorge. It’s as if staying in our homes has caused a divergent response in what once felt like loud talking has now become maniacal screaming. Here me or maybe I don’t exist! And that’s when I noticed something. Something disturbing. 

Some of the caustic posts are discomfiting enough all by themselves but I began to see a pattern. The two-by-four between the eyes moment came when I read a post full of the words “anti” and “pro.” 

When did we start choosing titles over traits?

When did we come to believe that “anti” and “pro” statements are adequate descriptors of who we are?

Shakespeare coined the phrase about wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve. Someone unable to hide how they really feel. Is it just me or have we magnified this ability and turned it into a cultural phenomenon? Our opinions become our titles we wear like badges on our chests to distinguish what camp we live in, who we vote for, what we vote for, who we hate, what we hate… 

I’m “anti-…” “I’m pro-…” 

We have chosen titles over traits.

Who we are and how we see others has been compressed into inane descriptions of our opinions. I don’t want to be defined only by what I think. I want to be defined by who I am. Who I really am. I’ve worked hard to love better, to laugh more, to listen harder. And I know a lot of others who are involved in the same tough work. But it is beginning to feel as though all that work goes out the window if my “anti/pro” statement doesn’t align with someone else’s. 

Pfft.

Is it possible to go back to traits?  I’m talking about things like kindness, honesty, respect. You want to spell that last one don’t you? Or sing it? With abandon? Throw in a finger snap?

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

And then, of course that makes me think of her. 

Oh yes, the indomitable Queen of R&B. The great Aretha Franklin. Do you see what I did there? I gave her a title. “The Queen of R&B.” I promise I did it on purpose. I’m about to prove a point. Technically, Aretha is going to prove my point. I could not do this moment justice. You’ll have to see for yourself. Watch this!

There’s no way a woman who changed the music industry with her 1967 release of “Respect” could be relegated or defined by a title. It’s a nice title but still—it doesn’t come close to defining who she was. The “Queen of R&B” rocked the Grammy stage in 1998 as “a stand in” for Luciano Pavarotti and smashed it. Aretha a “stand in?” Pfft. 

The so-called Queen of R&B shook the roof and swept the audience with opera. I want to be like Aretha. I want to be defined by more than titles. I want to be known for my contributions not captions depicting my opinions. I want to learn how to love better, to laugh more, to listen harder. And I think Aretha nailed it. A little more respect has to be a great place to start. 

No more titles. They’re just so “pfft.” 

Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not opposed to opinions. But can we have more? Can we expect more? Can we be more? I care what you think. But more than that, I care why you think it. I would rather know you. The you beyond the titles. 

Unprecedented: adjective

life in the UK, On Life

“never done or known before.”

The landscape looks different depending on where you stand. This is applicable in wrestling with a vacation destination and equally so when contending with the truth from an event in our past..

I am struck by the extreme vantage points as I read the opinions of close friends, acquaintances, people from my past and present. There’s a militant strength on both sides. “Take this seriously,” shout some of you. “Make the media stop freaking us out! It’s just the flu,” others scream. Then there are those dancing somewhere in the middle posting memes about beer and toilet paper, giving us a chance to smile and breathe if only for a split second.

The master bedroom of our house is on the third floor and our house sits atop a hill overlooking South London. We stand at our window in the early morning and look down on rooftops, tendrils of steam rise into the cold London air, like flags rising on masts to furl in the wind and declare life below. On our way to bed, we look out our window and a sea of millions of colorful lights twinkle in the distance like fairies watching over the masses. Skyscrapers become the stuff of puzzles. The lyrics of Bette Midler’s song “From a Distance” find a home in reality.

From our third floor rooftop view, the world looks normal. All is as it should be. Reality is setting the alarm to get up for work. Scheduling a trip to the theatre next weekend. Making dinner reservations at our favorite Turkish restaurant down the street. Only two floors down, the view changes drastically. On the first floor, images flash on the news and words from solemn strangers paint a far different picture. Most recently, a story of a neighborhood in Italy, the inhabitants have been forced to stay in their homes under a government lockdown. Can we even imagine? And yet, they have been heard singing, blending their voices and instruments into the streets below. Uniting through music and keeping them together as their economy, plans, maybe even dreams shatter around them.

I wonder if this whispers of a previous time. Never before have I known anyone to have to cancel a memorial service for their 45 year old husband who has died suddenly out of a conscious decision not to put anyone at risk. March 16th’s memorial for Dave has been cancelled. There was a wedding in three weeks, now postponed indefinitely. The bride saddened, mourning a day that was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.

I was speaking with a colleague yesterday (the UK hasn’t suspended school yet) and she used the word “unprecedented.” It definitely feels like that. Unchartered waters. High school sports suspended. Schools around the world canceled regardless of weather conditions. And yet, history whispers of moments when such chaos and confusion have altered lives, stories, and families. It is a rare moment to meet a survivor of global tragedy. Perhaps for that reason, we steel our hearts and our determination.

It would be much easier to stay on the third floor with the expansive view of a silent sparkling civilization. Of calm and peace and rationality. Much easier. And although even my parents cannot recall a time when food and goods were rationed, such living conditions are not entirely unprecedented. History is awash with stories across the globe of opportunities missed. When tragedy has struck and the thin vein of humanity went into hiding. In this current unprecedented moment, we have opportunity again.

I hope and pray we allow ourselves the space for our opinions to change. I hope and pray that if things do change, we transfer our strength of opinion into strength of community and remember, unprecedented or not, and like it or not, life is only lived out on the bottom floor.

The Queen’s English

life in the UK, On Life

Photo by Suserl just me from FreeImages

Halloween, at least the American version, has jumped the pond. People put a lit Jack-O-Lantern on their porch and hand out candy to those dressed in costumes. Only they don’t dress in “costumes.” They call it “fancy dress.” We noticed this a couple of weeks ago on an outing. We passed a pub with sandwich board advertising a Halloween Party and “wear your fancy dress.” I had seen other signs on thrift stores for “fancy dress” and wondered if they sold prom dresses or cocktail wear? Which then made me wonder how often the common British folk were required to wear “fancy dress,” and should I start to worry if we ever were invited somewhere. The sandwich board regaling “fancy dress” in the same sentence as Halloween put my anxiety regarding dress code requirements to dinner parties at rest.

Translation: Fancy dress simply means, “come in a costume.”

However, this led to an interesting exchange in our house several days later, and I thought I might use this opportunity to practice dialogue. My day job is a math teacher (maths teacher in the UK) but I like to write. Someday, I may even publish a second novel (I have started it…about 37 times. And finished it…twice. Stay tuned.)

Here is one more example that the citizens of Great Britain speak a different English…

David is gone for three days. It may not sound like a big deal, but he is the one who has kept the rest of us alive. Grocery shopping, meal planning, dinner execution. Literally, keeping us alive. It’s a job I’ve done before. A point the two of us have discussed recently with great overtones of irony. But, one cannot subsist on irony, so, I tie on the apron, and get to work. Dinner for us girls. I haven’t had to focus on work for the past week so I have time to visit the store, and plan a meal. Sausage and butternut squash risotto. The recipe called for red wine. Sold.

I’ve missed the creative outlet of cooking. Not that I’m ready to take over the task of keeping us all alive. I am probably enjoying it because it’s not something I’ve had to do everyday.

Dinner finished, my two daughters and I sit down to eat.

“Are you girls excited to go to Wicked in a couple of days? And just so you know, my friend from work told me it was going to be way better than the musical we saw here in Wimbledon.”

“Oh really?” My youngest doesn’t look up from her dinner.

“What are you wearing?” My middle daughter joins the conversation.

“I’m dressing up. “ I assume this means conversation is in full force, so I continue. “It is in Central London this time and not a matinee. So, dress up.”

“In a costume?” In the incredulous tone of voice only a teenage girl can fully and wholly articulate.

“Um, not a costume.” My age is showing and I’m trying not to sound confused. “More like fancy. More dressed up than before.”

“Fancy dress?” Both girls are now looking at me.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“So a costume?” A small choir of two teenage girls in unison.

“Why would I wear a costume to the theatre? I’m not planning on joining in.” Do you ever have that feeling like you are missing something relevant? Both girls are now staring at me. Awkward half seconds tick by. I’m wondering how long they have known me. Have I ever worn a costume outside of a Halloween Party? Why would they even…and then a flash of light and I get it.

Images and lines from Abbot and Costello, “Who’s on First,” flash through my mind in rapid succession. “I don’t know…no, I Don’t Know’s on third…”

The only rational thing to do at this point is to carry the entire conversation on my own because I now think it’s hilarious.

“Why would I wear a costume?” I ask. And before anyone can answer, I keep going. “But you said you were wearing fancy dress…” I change the pitch of my voice slightly. (Think King Julian of Madagascar.) And I thoroughly amuse myself as I proceed to parody the best duo in comedy.

In mid-stride I hear, “Like Who’s On First. I get it.” At least my children are educated. But her recognition can’t slow my roll. I feel as though I just found my stride, so I obviously keep going. Another two lines at least.

“Right, fancy dress…so a costume…Why would I wear a costume?…”

Both girls have gone back to eating. But that is the beauty of writing. I get to re-live what I think was a hilarious interlude and now the frivolity has been transcribed into the written word for all of posterity. Heavy is the head…

Happy Halloween! Be safe and have fun in your Fancy Dress!!!

Cheers!