Books: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly (Fear of Death)

In this story, David gets pulled into a world not quite like ours, and while traveling this world, he meets various people and creatures, some good, some evil.

One of those people is Roland, a soldier. David is traveling to find the king of this land not quite like ours, and Roland is traveling to find Raphael, his friend and "the blood in [Roland's] veins, the sweat on [his] brow." Without him, Roland says that he is less than he once was, and he fears Raphael may be dead (Connolly 207). David asks Roland if he is afraid of dying in his quest to find Raphael (Connolly 207). Roland responds:

"'I am afraid of the pain of dying . . . I have been wounded before, once so badly that it was feared I would not survive. I can recall the agony of it, and I don't wish to endure it again. But I feared more the death of others. I did not want to lose them, and I worried about them while they were alive. Sometimes, I think that I concerned myself so much with the possibility of their loss that I never truly took pleasure in the fact of their existence'" (Connolly 207).

I have had to think about the so-called bus that could hit me tomorrow, but through this, I have been far more worried about the bus that could hit The Husband next week, that could hit my sisters next month, that could take away those whom I love and cherish. This terrible diagnosis has forced me to contemplate death with far more depth and detail than I would prefer.

The interesting part of this is that the more I think about death, the less afraid I am, for myself. Death is a universal truth. While, hopefully, it is obvious that I am in no rush to meet him, and I would be so pleased if he could pass me by, that is childish fantasy. I don't want to say that I am not afraid, but less afraid as a result of this choice to contemplate him.

Even now, I am far more terrified of losing those whom I love. I am a master worrier, and yes, I can and will worry myself to pieces if I haven't heard from Baby Sister in several days, or if The Husband takes an unusually long time to get home. So I can fully understand Roland's take on death. We are all dying (hopefully slowly). This story speaks to what I think may be a common experience for many of us. The fear of losing someone else hurts far more than the fear of losing myself. At this point, I've come as close as I can to accepting my diagnosis. I don't like it, but it is what it is.

Today is the 6-month cancerversary of my diagnosis. This diagnosis changed my life. I felt so much loss. Like I could no longer keep a grasp on the life most extraordinary I used to have with The Husband. The thing is, after six months, I've figured some stuff out. Yes, we still worry. Those bills won't pay for themselves. The GoFundMe has stalled out and we aren't sure how to get it rolling again. 

I don't remember the last time I cried for myself. I don't know if I need to worry about that. It seems like I am reminded of my condition in different ways. The tremor in my hand. The trouble sleeping. The weird cold flashes (anti-menopause?). The unpredictable appetite. The handful of pills I have to take every day. The constant and never-ending fatigue. The constant and never-ending co-pays.


I worry constantly. But The Husband is there to hold my hand and comfort me. I am lucky to have the opportunity to take pleasure in the fact of his existence, for I know that I could not have made it this far without him.

Dying fast vs. dying slow

Presumably, most of the people reading this are dying slow, in the sense that this is the way time passes: it is a reality of life.

There are some readers who think that I am dying fast, in the sense that they think I am actively in the process of wasting away in a sickly and frail bag of skin and bones.

I am not dying fast.

Yet.

Of course, at some point and for everyone, that changes, but I want people to know that for the time being, I am just like most of you. I am dying slow.

Because I'm still in the position that I am dying slow, life is actually pretty ordinary. I take my morning medications, I write, I eat breakfast, I play with my goofy dog and have extensive conversations with my cats.

I nap. I eat lunch. I write or read for a while. I hang out with The Husband when he gets home from work.

We have a remarkably ordinary routine going. Often, I miss the extraordinary that we were able to experience, but for now, uneventful is objectively a good thing.

I know that with a diagnosis like mine, my family and friends worry that I am dying fast.

Here is my Christmas gift for you: For the time being, you don't have to worry so much!

Van Gogh-ing to the Museum!

The Husband is awesome. My friend K is awesome. My friend Z is awesome.

K mentioned on Facebook that there was going to be a Van Gogh exhibit nearby, about two hours away. I mentioned it to The Husband, who immediately said, "Book a hotel. We're going."

He knows how I feel about Van Gogh.

My friend Z joined us, which as always, I enjoyed hanging out with one of my oldest and closest friends.

This exhibit had 12 of Van Gogh's works, along with many other works by other artists to demonstrate those who influenced Van Gogh, or were influenced by him.

I love Van Gogh. This will sound ridiculous and I don't care, I always liked Van Gogh, but it wasn't until the Van Gogh episode of Doctor Who that I discovered that I loved Van Gogh.

By no means am I some kind of art critic or art historian. I know what I like. Sometimes, I even know why I like it. I also know what I don't like, and sometimes I can verbalize why I don't like it. As The Husband and Z and I discussed at length, not all art is art just because someone called it art, and some works, while skillfully created, should not be considered art.

How do you decide what is art?

For me, not everything that Van Gogh painted, drew, and sketched was art, but so much of it is. For me, I call it art because it makes me feel something. Because I feel like I can relate to it. Because I feel like I can understand what the artist was feeling.

Van Gogh was well-known to be a troubled man. He suffered from depression, and did not find success as an artist until after his death.

The thing that I like about so many of his works is that they make me sad. It may sound strange to say it like that, but it's true. He was a sad man, and that sadness radiates off of the canvas. Sure, I like Starry Night, everyone likes Starry Night, but he had so many masterpieces. Starry Night looks like he was looking at the sky through tears.

The exhibit we went to did not have Starry Night, but it did have Self-Portrait. I love this one. He looks so angry. Almost hateful. Somewhere beneath the rage in his eyes, I see a sense of self-loathing.

To look into his eyes in this painting is to feel his pain. He is so serious. You can't smile for this picture. You can only try to understand an artist who seems to have been caught by surprise, who did not have time to paste a fake smile on his face, who showed a vulnerability that he didn't necessarily want to show.

How did he paint this? Did he spend his winter of 1886-7 looking at himself in a mirror? Examining every detail of his face, the darkness behind his eyes? Did he struggle to look at himself?

When I have been in the deepest depressions, I have had trouble even looking myself in the eyes in the mirror. There have been times when weeks or months have passed and I haven't seen my own eyes because I couldn't bear to look at myself.

Did he feel some catharsis in painting himself? Did it hurt him to have to look at himself just to get this painting done?

I, too, have suffered from depression at various points in my life. I look into his eyes, and I feel a certain, almost, kinship, and then I saw this:

This is Man with Spade. The write-up next to it said that this was a worker taking a lunch break from digging ditches, but what I saw was a soldier, exhausted, after digging graves. Yes, I know that it's dark, but it is Van Gogh, and again, it felt like grief radiating from the charcoal in the sketch.

A Trunk of a Tree. Not a painting, but a pen and sepia on paper. I love the details in this work. I love that the top of the tree appears very intentionally detailed, with strong lines. I love that the trunk of the tree is remarkably understated, as if added detail would be unnecessary. I just love this.

 Finally, here is Constantin Meunier's Ophelie. It is not a Van Gogh, but I saw this painting out of the corner of my eye and I was drawn to it. The paleness of the figure. The darkness of her gown. The storm clouds to the right, and what looks like a clearing in the sky on the left, as if her troubles are past now that she has taken this final action.

I so enjoyed our visit to the museum, and The Husband was kind enough to buy me goodies from the gift shop. I was very tired, as this was the longest I had been on my feet. What this means is that my impulse control was all but gone, and I wanted ALL the Van Gogh souvenirs from the gift shop. I didn't get ALL of them, but I got two beautiful packs of notecards (who wants to be a pen pal?), stickers, a print, some postcards to put in my journal, and a magnet (that I made Z buy for me).

So there you have it: proof that I can do more than read books and have cancer! Ha!

Books: The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers (Part 2)

I am almost finished with The Power of Myth, and there is an interesting part of this interview that I wanted to share. Before I get to that, remember that last time, I talked about learning from our imperfections and shared experiences.

I've always had a fascination with the cycle of life, death, and life again. When I turned 18 years old, my mother took me to get a tattoo, so I could "get it out of my system." I was still mourning a significant loss in my life, and the tattoo I chose for myself that day was symbolic of that cycle of life, death, and life again. Unfortunately for my mother, I did not "get it out of my system," and I now have double-digit tattoos.

The thing is, there seems to be an over-arching theme to my tattoos. I currently have five tattoos that represent that cycle of life, death, and life again. Although I am not mourning that loss the way I was when I was 18, that loss changed me fundamentally to my core, for I am different person than I was before that loss.

It could be argued that in the time before that loss, I had a life that I lost. I died inside, and was eventually reborn as the person that I am today.

Coping with loss has empowered me to wear my fear on my skin. To display my vulnerabilities while simultaneously wearing my hope like a shield to protect me from that which I fear the most.

Campbell discusses this life and death cycle. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it is a cycle of death, life, and death again:

"The serpent sheds its skin to be born again, as the moon its shadow to be born again. They are equivalent symbols. Sometimes the serpent is represented as a circle eating its own tail. That's an image of life" (Campbell and Moyers 53).

Ouroboros

I wear that image of life, as well as other images of life that I wear on my skin. These images of life are also images of death. There is no contradiction here; as with the Ouroboros, that which nourishes the snake also destroys it, and in destroying itself, the snake is gathering nourishment.

Campbell continues,

"Life sheds one generation after another, to be born again. The serpent represents immortal energy and consciousness engaged in the field of time, constantly throwing off death and being born again. There is something tremendously terrifying about life when you look at it that way. And so the serpent carries in itself the sense of both the fascination and the terror of life" (Campbell and Moyers 53).

When I first got my diagnosis, I realized that there was something I'd never taken the time to think about as a possible future for myself. I am not yet 40 years old, and although I've lived a life most extraordinary, I had never really thought about death. I wear death on my body, but it has always been far too easy to focus on the life part of the cycle.

The death part of the cycle was suddenly brought into sharp relief. I lost that life most extraordinary and had to learn how to live again. Once again, I needed time to mourn the loss that changed me fundamentally to my core. I am a different person, once again.

And so the cycle goes.

Books: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly (Intro)

I recently finished this book that I had been simul-reading with The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell and Bill Moyers, and I need each and every one of you to get your hands on a copy and read it immediately: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly.

Amazon describes it as such:

"High in his attic bedroom, twelve-year-old David mourns the death of his mother. He is angry and alone, with only the books on his shelf for company. But those books have begun to whisper to him in the darkness, and as he takes refuge in his imagination, he finds that reality and fantasy have begun to meld. While his family falls apart around him, David is violently propelled into a land that is a strange reflection of his own world, populated by heroes and monsters, and ruled over by a faded king who keeps his secrets in a mysterious book... The Book of Lost Things."

When I started reading this book, I was immediately devastated and immediately hooked.

"Once upon a time—for that is how all stories should begin—there was a boy who lost his mother. He had, in truth, been losing her for a very long time" (Connolly 1).

If this isn't a gut punch of an opening, I don't know what is. It grabbed me by the heart and squeezed, refusing to let me go. This is a story that could not be ignored or set aside.

—

From https://www.thepunctuationguide.com/em-dash.html
© 2019 thepunctuationguide.com

—

From https://www.thepunctuationguide.com/em-dash.html
© 2019 thepunctuationguide.com

The protagonist is 12-year-old David, and his mother is dying of some unnamed illness.

"Before she became ill, David's mother would often tell him that stories were alive. They weren't alive in the way that people were alive, or even dogs or cats. People were alive whether you chose to notice them or not, while dogs tended to make you notice them if they decided that you weren't paying them enough attention. Cats, meanwhile, were very good at pretending people didn't exist at all when it suited them" (Connolly 3).

Okay. Excellent description of people, dogs, and cats. But stories... I am intrigued.

"Stories were different, though: they came alive in the telling.[. . .] Once someone started to read them, they could begin to change. They could take root in the imagination, and transform the reader. Stories wanted to be read, David's mother would whisper. They needed it. It was the reason they forced themselves from their world into ours. They wanted us to give them life" (Connolly 3).

Three pages in, and already I feel that this book isn't just a book. It is already coming to life in my hands, in my mind. It is grasping at my soul, and I am simultaneously losing myself in the ink on the pages while finding my secret truth buried in between the lines.

This was recommended to me by one of my favorite people, and I swear that she recommended it because she knew I needed this book. It fits perfectly into the types of fiction that I prefer, bordering somewhere between science fiction and fantasy, straddling the line of a dark fairy tale that brings adults back to their days of reading YA fiction. There are stories that we read that keep reality crystal clear right in front of us. Personally, I prefer to read stories that pull reality just beyond the reach of my fingertips, tugging at the veil of my imagination. It is in these stories that I am able to escape, and what is the point of reading fiction, especially science fiction and fantasy, if you can't escape into worlds unknown and unexplored?

I have a few more things to say about this, but right now, I want you to order this book, request it from the library, download it to your Kindle, whatever. Get your hands on this book!

Books: The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers (Part 1)

I'm currently simul-reading a couple of different books, but I want to talk about one that I am in the middle of right now.

Amazon has this to say:

The Power of Myth launched an extraordinary resurgence of interest in Joseph Campbell and his work. [ . . . ] With Bill Moyers, one of America’s most prominent journalists, as his thoughtful and engaging interviewer, The Power of Myth touches on subjects from modern marriage to virgin births, from Jesus to John Lennon, offering a brilliant combination of intelligence and wit.

This extraordinary book reveals how the themes and symbols of ancient narratives continue to bring meaning to birth, death, love, and war. 

This is a book that has sat on my bookshelves for years, and for some reason, when I finished When Things Fall Apart by the Venerable Pema Chodron, The Power of Myth reached out and grabbed me. I've been reading a fair number of philosophical or faith-based books, and at this point, I felt like it was time to change it up a little. This book touches on so many different topics, and I felt like I needed a book that took a different approach. This book is written in a bit of an unusual format compared to the other books I've discussed in the last six months.

In this one, Bill Moyers is interviewing Joseph Campbell. This long-form interview covers much of Campbell's works, but is particularly interesting because Moyers does not always agree with Campbell; in fact, they hash out some points of dissent over the course of the interview, further developing their own and each other's ideas.

As I have been on this journey of illness and self-discovery, weakness and epiphanies that have surprised me over and over again, I've realized many things about myself.

I am not always kind to myself. I have flaws that I'd prefer not to admit to, although I am sure that many of you have been witness to one or many of them. I have reserves of strength that reach deeper than I ever expected. I am even more stubborn than I ever thought I could be. People are complex. I am complex.

In an early part of the interview, Campbell says,

"the only way you can describe a human being truly is by describing his imperfections. The perfect human being is uninteresting—the Buddha who leaves the world, you know. It is the imperfections of life that are lovable. And when the writer sends a dart of the true word, it hurts. But it goes with love. This is what [Thomas] Mann called 'erotic irony,' the love for that which you are killing with your cruel, analytical word" (Campbell and Moyers 3).

The flaws in life are what make life interesting, right? It is too common for people to try to gloss over the faults in our friends, our family, ourselves. Think of the last funeral you went to: I have been blessed; for me, it was 23 years ago. People spoke so kindly of the dead. You know, and I know, that we should not speak ill of the dead, right? I felt so uncomfortable speaking so kindly of the dead and erasing the essence of who this person was. Of course, that is not to say that this person had no positive qualities, but ignoring those flaws swept away that which made this person so important, so loved, so missed. Ignoring those flaws distorted my memories, even as I knew that people were merely trying to be kind. 

But what did it mean that we, collectively, could not be honest with ourselves and each other about the true essence of this person? Why did we work so hard to pretend to ourselves and each other that there were only and exclusively good things to say about this person?


Moyers posits that

"what human beings have in common is revealed in myths. Myths are stories of our search through the ages for truth, for meaning, for significance. We all need to tell our story and to understand our story. We all need to understand death and to cope with death, and we all need help in our passages from birth to life and then to death. We need for life to signify, to touch the eternal, to understand the mysterious, to find out who we are" (Campbell and Moyers 4).

Anyone who knows me at all knows that my favorite book is The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I love it so much that I have a tattoo inspired from the book. In this book, among other things, they are trying to find the ultimate answer to life, the universe, and everything. The search for meaning appears to be a universal truth, contained within the pages of a British comedy trilogy and the pages within this more academic book about myth.

Something that I've always known about myself is that I love stories. I don't think that this makes me unique; stories tie us together, keep us together, bind us to each other. I love books, movies, tv shows, any medium that tells a story. This is part of what brought me to teaching at the community college. There is so much tucked away within the stories we read, the stories we tell each other, and it is far too easy to feel separated from each other when we are allowed to forget the universality of these stories.

I miss teaching. One of the best parts of teaching, for me, is getting to see the look of recognition on a student's face as they realize that this or that experience is not unique to their own life. I have interacted with so many students who feel alone in their experiences, singled out, on their own. Outcast, out of place, rejected. Having the opportunity to build connections and community with my students through shared stories has been the single most fulfilling part of my life. Finding shared meaning is so rewarding.

Goldfishing

So The Husband and I came up with a term that more people should be familiar with: goldfishing.

We all know that goldfish have a memory that lasts 3 seconds, right? Wrong. Goldfish have memories that can last months. For the purposes of this post, we are going to stick to the idea that goldfish don't remember so well, though, because I have a point to make here.

Chemo-brain (similar to mommy brain or pregnancy brain) has made me quite similar to those goldfish. Maybe having 30 doses of radiation aimed at my brain shortly after having not one but two brain surgeries did have some effect on my short term memory.

I want you to know, I keep on getting distracted as I'm trying to write this d*mn blog post.

A scenario:

Me: ... blah blah blah stuff that happened blah blah... [I trail off into silence...]
The Husband (TH): Are you okay?
Me: I forgot where I was going with that story. I don't know.
TH: [very kindly does NOT laugh at me]

My attention span is shot, and my short term memory is a joke right now. I'll set down my phone and immediately forget where I put it. I'll pick up a pen to write something down and suddenly be unsure what that something was.

I'm not stupid. I promise I'm not stupid.

But the effects of what I've been through are no joke. All in all, I have had very minor cognitive defects. Sometimes I have trouble finding the right word. Sometimes I lose track of time. Sometimes I get distracted and forget that I was in the middle of something else.

[I just got distracted by my cat.]

What was I saying?

Oh yeah! For all intents and purposes, I have healed remarkably well from all of the stuff that has happened in the last six months. I didn't need occupational therapy. I didn't need to re-learn how to walk, talk, or read.

However, because of where my tumor was located, the issues with attention span and short-term memory are unsurprising.

Some days, I have full attention span and no memory issues. Some days the opposite is true. I let The Husband know when it's a bad goldfish day, and he is always so understanding when I get stuck on a word or forget that I already told him this or that thing.

Goldfishing is frustrating, though. I wasn't like this, and I don't know how long it will take to get back to how I was before. In the meantime, I make notes to myself, I set reminders, and I do the best I can. But I can't help but feel a sense of loss of who I used to be.

Books: When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron (part 9)

We are finally reaching the end of When Things Fall Apart. As a reminder, I've talked about embracing fear, being vulnerable, embracing hope, letting go of control, beautiful fleeting moments, suffering and hope, the impermanence of pleasure and pain, and the compelling urge to procrastinate when it matters most.

This book has been enlightening in a way I never expected. I mean, when my dear friend recommended it, I knew it would be something good, but I didn't expect to be so introspective as I read these teachings. We may have our diverse belief systems, but I feel like any and all of us can find some wisdom in Pema Chodron's teachings.

It would be so easy to continue being the cynic that I have always been. Past hurts have led me to expect only more hurts in the future. My diagnosis was the ultimate hurt that proved that my cynicism was warranted. I simply don't have enough words to describe the devastation and shock of Diagnosis Day.


The Venerable Pema Chodron says that:

"Every act counts. Every thought and emotion counts too. This is all the path we have [. . . ] We are only going to be here for a short while. Even if we live to be 108, our life will be too short for witnessing all its wonders. " (Chodron 141).

This was perhaps the most difficult part for me to come to terms with; I say that life is too short, but how much do I really believe that? The words "cancer," "aggressive," and "incurable" hover around my head in a way I can never escape.


Life is too short.

Life is too short.

Life is too short. 

Like a mantra, over and over again until I believe it. And still, I don't always believe it. Only when I learn to believe it will I be able to truly appreciate this life I have in front of me. Remember, we all have said that we might get hit by a bus tomorrow. I am staring down the grille of that bus. I need to make it all count. There are no worthless moments.

Sometimes, I get down on myself, because I talk a big game about appreciating life and taking in the wisdom of this Buddhist nun, but it is so often difficult to follow through when it is so easy to fall back into complacency.
 
The Venerable Pema Chodron says,

"Some of us can accept others right where they are a lot more easily than we can accept ourselves. We feel that compassion is reserved for someone else, and it never occurs to us to feel it for ourselves" (Chodron 140).

I want to be more accepting of my situation, but if I am not intentionally thinking about it, I slip right back into that rage that burns inside of me because this is not fair. I have to really be consciously thinking about her teachings, because any moment in which I stop actively thinking about my extraordinary life is a moment when I am deluded into thinking that life is merely ordinary. I need to remind myself that this life is a gift, even if it is merely ordinary.

Things may fall apart, but learning to accept and embrace the chaos has been a transformative experience.

Read this book.

Flu season quarantine and the travel dilemma

Over the course of the last several months, I have had multiple invitations to visit friends and family, as well as multiple offers to have friends and family to visit me. While I love to travel, I don't know yet if I am allowed to fly; remember, I have a piece of skull cut out of my head (the so-called brainhole) which may affect my ability to fly. In addition, because I am on chemotherapy, I am immunocompromised. So even if I were allowed to fly to visit my friends, I'd be worried about catching some germ or the other, because I have gotten sick EVERY time I have gotten on a plane, including catching the flu in Florida and a horrible sinus infection on the way to Italy.

According to the CDC, flu activity in South Carolina is high.

CDC flu data

The absolute last thing that I want to do is have cancer AND the flu. What this means is that, with the exception of one event I might attend in a couple of days, I am putting myself in voluntary quarantine. The only person allowed in my house is The Husband because he is cute and I love him. Anybody else is barred from visiting. I will not be hugging or even shaking hands with people.

While I would love to travel to see my friends all over the country, the Gofundme would have to be much more successful for that to be a possibility, and to be honest, I probably shouldn't be getting anywhere near any red or orange states in the image above for the time being.

At least for now, I have to settle for being a homebody. If you want to visit with me, download Skype. Text me. Email me. Just no hugs!

Intentional ignorance

Throughout my journey through this diagnosis, I have taken certain steps to set boundaries to protect my own mental, physical, and spiritual health. I have been adamant about avoiding Dr. Google. I have been very strict with my friends and family about not looking for comfort from me if they feel bad about my diagnosis. I've worked really hard to maintain a level of comfort for myself where I can.

When I shared the news of my diagnosis, I chose my words carefully because I did not want to be misunderstood as I explained what was happening to me.

Through all of this, it has been incredibly important for me to avoid certain pieces of information.

Picture this:

Interior: Doctor's office. Patient and caregiver, and doctor.

Doctor: You have cancer.

Patient: How much time do I have?

Doctor: Six months. Maybe. It depends.

Patient: Spends the next six months with an expiration date hovering over her head.

This is not what happened to me. Instead, it went kind of like this:

Interior: Doctor's office. Patient and caregiver, and doctor.

Doctor: You have cancer.

Patient: *Stunned silence*

Doctor: Now, I don't want you looking up information about your diagnosis, because yours is a very unusual case. Any data you find on google will be outdated, and wouldn't apply to you anyway because of your age, the symptoms with which you presented, and your general level of healthfulness. You are going to want to look this up, but I strongly recommend that you don't, because it will not help you.

Patient: Ok.

And I have not googled this condition, not even once. I'll be perfectly honest, there are many times that I was tempted to look it up, just for a minute, just for a tidbit of information.

Here's where The Husband swoops in to be my hero, as usual.

It is hard to be intentionally ignorant of my diagnosis and my potential prognosis. From the beginning, I have tried to be open about mental health, and as my sister has told me multiple times, outcomes in the treatment of any cancer are so dependent on mental health, and it is incredibly important to stay as positive as possible, even when all I want to do is crawl under my bed and cry for a few days.

The Husband has taken one for the team. He's my research guy. He has looked up the things that need to be looked up, and he has been kind and careful enough to not tell me about any of it. I understand that there is some truly frightening information out there. I have none of that information.

Some may feel that it is wrong for The Husband to keep this information a secret, but the simple fact is that I know myself well enough to know that if he gave me some of the information that he has, my mental health would suffer tremendously. I am on anti-depressants. I asked for them about 30 seconds after I got my diagnosis. If I remember correctly, my exact words were, "Yeah... I'm gonna need some Prozac."

Let's go ahead and address the stigma surrounding mental health.

We don't talk about how we take our "happy pills" to function. We don't talk about going to therapy. We don't tell people when we are feeling depressed, hopeless, suicidal.

I have been depressed several times in my life. I have been in and out of therapy for years. I am on those "happy pills" as we speak.

Working through mental health issues is as normal as going to physical therapy for whiplash.

The Husband has been my rock. My angel. My everything. And the simple fact is that my mental health would not be where it is right now if he had not taken the role of research guy. He has protected me from so much that is out there. He has been so understanding of my need for intentional ignorance, and he has built that protective wall around me to keep me safe.

We are realistic. At some point, I'm going to need to end this phase of intentional ignorance. But in the meantime, I am taking care of my mental health the best way I know how, and The Husband is playing the critical role of enforcing that intentional ignorance, exactly as I asked him to all those months ago.

I know that this arrangement would not work for everyone, but for now, it is working for me.

Books: When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron (part 8)

Let's keep thinking about When Things Fall Apart. I've talked about embracing fear, being vulnerable, embracing hope, letting go of control, beautiful fleeting moments, suffering and hope, and the impermanence of pleasure and pain.

Life is too short. It actually doesn't matter how long it lasts. It is too short. However easy it might be to feel invincible, to feel like your daily routine will continue for endless days, weeks, months, the reality is that life is too short.

The Venerable Pema Chodron says that:

"The teachings of Buddhism are directed at people who don't have a lot of time to waste. The includes all of us, whether we're aware of it or not. From the point of view of the teachings, thinking that we have ample time to do things later is the greatest myth, the greatest hang-up and the greatest poison" (Chodron 127).

I felt this in my core. I am a master procrastinator.

As I am sure many others have, I've thought to myself: I can get to X later, I'll start Y tomorrow, maybe over the weekend I'll finally get around to doing Z.

I don't want to tell you how long I procrastinated by looking for a meme about procrastinating. It's a real problem.

The thing is, and I've said this so many times, life is too short. Yet I wasted (ahem) a certain unacceptable number of minutes procrastinating even though I know that life is too short. Why am I like this?

I am so easily lulled in by the myth that there will be more time later, even though I know for a fact that I should be doing something more productive than playing around on Facebook, scrolling mindlessly through Buzzfeed, or just staring off into space.

With all of this, the passage of time inevitably courses forward even as I try to slow myself down, for no other reason other than because I can.

Remember, that Rockstar Neurosurgeon said,

"Cancer."

"Aggressive."

"Incurable."

How am I supposed to look forward to a future like that?

Can't I just hit the pause button for a minute?

If I'm being really honest, I know that my tendency to procrastinate is bad for me. When the man says incurable, I have to admit that I am in absolutely no rush to face a future like that. Can you blame me for being afraid?

That Rockstar Neurosurgeon relieved me of the poisonous belief that I'm invincible, with plenty of time in my future. I should thank him for this kindness.

Yet somehow, I still have these complicated feelings about this man that saved my life. He took out my tumor. He gave me this terrible diagnosis. He released me from the grasp of this childish belief that in the end, everything would be fine. I should be grateful to him, and I am. But I also feel such an aversion to him, because in the same way that he saved my life, I feel like he ruined my life.

I may be a master procrastinator, but I had plans for my summer. Those plans were replaced with over a hundred appointments across six months and three hospital stays. Very few of those appointments were pleasant. I've only really felt truly healthy for maybe two or three days in the last six months. That is a really long time to feel unwell.

And here I am, six months after my first brain surgery, doing my thing. I managed to get through all of this with very little in the way of cognitive deficits. I am still me, even if this Me is not who I had planned to be.

But I'm here. I'm still me.

Rome: Colosseum

Cancer Update: Scan results and Boundaries

Well, today we are taking a break from When Things Fall Apart, but don't worry, there are still a few posts ready to finish analyzing this book.

In the meantime, here's an update.

I had my brains scanned a week or so ago, right? I got the results just a couple of days later, but I needed some time to process the information before I put it out there. As a reminder, I am very open about the horrors of this diagnosis most of the time, but that does not mean that I am obligated to share with you every medical detail of my life.

Anyway, there is good news: There no significant change to the size of my teeny-tiny tumor, so my doctor wants to stick with the current plan and re-check my brains in a few months. Right now, they are not worried about me, and from what I can tell, the lack of urgency on their part means that there is nothing to worry about doing.

I am doing maintenance chemo, and I am going to continue that for at least the next six months, I think, unless something significant changes in the scans of my brains. That part, I am not looking forward to. Chemo SUCKS,  and even though they say that oral chemo is supposed to be more easily tolerated than IV chemo, it still SUCKS.

For a little while, I was feeling really good, and now, I'm not. It happens. Nothing out of the ordinary for a patient with my diagnosis to feel good, then feel bad, then feel good again, and so forth and so on and what have you. It's a cycle.

Remember that bus that could hit me tomorrow? I feel like it just revved its engine to remind me that it's there, but luckily, for now, it's not going anywhere.

I am still frustrated by many parts of my diagnosis. I feel like there is so much waiting involved, and I am not a naturally patient person. Right now, I am at the point in the cycle where I am cranky, and tired, and generally grumpy. I know that I will feel better, because it is a cycle of ups and downs, but right now, I just want off this ride.

Books: When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron (part 7)

Let's keep thinking about When Things Fall Apart. As a reminder, so far I've talked about embracing fear, being vulnerable, embracing hope, letting go of control, and beautiful fleeting moments, and suffering and hope.

If we stop thinking that we have earned the good things that happen to us, and realize that even the bad things that happen will happen even if we don't deserve it, maybe we can change our perspective. I've spent so much of my life thinking that I have some semblance of control. I've spent so much of my life feeling like it would all work out because things work out, and that's just the way the world works. I trusted that the world worked the way I thought it did; I depended wholly on everything making sense. It can be such a shock when it all falls to pieces.

The Venerable Pema Chodron says that:

"Our suffering is based so much on our fear of impermanence. Our pain is so rooted in our one-sided, lopsided view of reality. Who ever got the idea that we could have pleasure without pain? It's promoted rather widely in this world, and we buy it. But pain and pleasure go together; they are inseparable. They can be celebrated. They are ordinary. Birth is painful and delightful. Death is painful and delightful. Everything that ends is also the beginning of something else. Pain is not a punishment; pleasure is not a reward" (Chodron 60).

In American consumerist society, we are constantly told that we can increase our pleasure, decrease our pain, if only we buy this car, that anti-wrinkle cream, the other pair of shoes. We can distract ourselves from the pain by taking advantage of this Black Friday Sale, by triggering our dopamine receptors swiping left or right in finding a partner. We can increase our pleasure with that overpriced (and delicious) coffee, that cheap candy bar, that newest phone, that fancy pair of earrings. We can forget our pain with that dry white wine, that semi-authentic Cuban cuisine, that not-authentic-at-all but eminently satisfying Chinese buffet.

We buy or rent pleasure in food, in objects, in experiences, but in the end, none of it lasts. We pay a premium to delude ourselves into believing that we can find happiness. The unfortunate truth is that, even when that pleasure is merely temporary, it calls to us, a siren song.

We reach out, grasping for those moments that bring us pleasure, even as we know that they can never last. We can't help it; we are pleasure-seeking creatures. How painful is it to know that every pleasure we find will fade in the mist of time?

Nothing lasts.

Everything is temporary. Life fades. Happiness turns to something less than.

We should celebrate those momentary pleasures while we can.

I have always said that life is too short for bad books, but throughout this diagnosis, I've come to realize that life is too short. Full stop.

Celebrating the fleeting nature of pleasure is just as important as understanding that pain is temporary.

Nothing lasts, and that is okay.

Books: When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron (part 6)

Let's keep thinking about When Things Fall Apart. As a reminder, so far I've talked about embracing fear, being vulnerable, embracing hope, letting go of control, and beautiful fleeting moments.

It seems overly cynical to say that life is about suffering, and yet, haven't we all suffered in life? Granted, some suffer more than others, but I think that suffering is a universal aspect of the human condition. We don't deserve to suffer, and still, we suffer.

I think that just as suffering is a universal aspect of the human condition, so is hope. Some (many) of us may be lifelong cynics who expect nothing but the worst in any particular situation, but even the most hardcore cynic among us feels that little spark of hope. We can't help it. I'll be the first to admit that my cynicism is tainted by a deep underlying hope that I'm wrong for being cynical.


The Venerable Pema Chodron says that:

"The first noble truth of the Buddha is that when we feel suffering, it doesn't mean that something is wrong [. . .] Suffering is part of life, and we don't have to feel it's happening because we personally made the wrong move. In reality, however, when we feel suffering, we think that something is wrong. As long as we're addicted to hope, we feel that we can tone our experience down or liven it up or change it somehow, and we continue to suffer a lot" (Chodron 39; emphasis original).

When I think of suffering and hope, I think of my own tendencies to run away from suffering. It is so easy to believe that suffering reveals the true nature of life, the universe, and everything.

Suffering is a universal truth.

How depressing is that? I hate to think about life this way, even as I've suffered particularly difficult trials in the past six months. The Venerable Pema Chodron says,

"Hope and fear come from feeling that we lack something; they come from a sense of poverty [. . .] We hold on to hope, and hope robs us of the present moment. We feel that someone else knows what's going on, but that there's something missing in us, and therefore something is lacking in our world" (Chodron 40).

Chodron describes hope in such a negative way here, and I can't get behind that. To hold onto hope is to acknowledge that there is something missing, something wrong. Even if it is more in line with Buddhist teachings to abandon hope and accept that which is lacking in life, this feels counter-intuitive. Hope keeps us striving for a goal of some kind. I've mentioned before that I am not good at letting go of control. While I have felt a deep connection with the teachings in this book, here is where I struggle.

I struggle, and I hope.

I suffer, and I hope.

I hurt, and I hope.

Hope is painful, but the simple fact is that without hope, there is only suffering. I cannot suffer without feeling the respite of hope, no matter how far-fetched or unlikely that hope might be.

I cannot take that medication that makes me vomit without hoping that it is working valiantly and violently against my cancer.

I cannot suffer the pain in the hole in my skull without hoping that it means it is healing appropriately.

I cannot be poked and prodded, tested and scanned, examined and stared at, without hoping that someday, eventually, someone will find a cure for my incurable cancer before this takes me.

I breathe, and I hope.

Scanxiety

Today, my brains get scanned.

Next week-ish, I get to find out if the tumor grew or if it stayed the same. Remember, last time it was tiny. We want it to stay tiny. Tiny is good.

Waiting a week to find out if it is still tiny or not is a special kind of hell devised by cruel radiologists intent on torturing me*.

So, while I wait, if I am unresponsive to messages or particularly anti-social, please understand that I'm waiting to find out important news that affects the rest of my life. I am doing the best I can.





*I know that they are not actually trying to torture me, but it sure does feel like it.

Books: When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron (part 5)

Let's keep thinking about When Things Fall Apart. As a reminder, so far I've talked about embracing fear, being vulnerable, embracing hope, and letting go of control. 

I've mentioned before that I felt like I deserved this condition. If this was meant to happen and everything happens for a reason, it's my own fault that I have this cancer, right. I mean, who else could I possibly blame for the Hell that has been the last five months?

The Venerable Pema Chodron says that there is a teaching that says "Drive all blames into oneself" (Chodron 81). Bearing in mind that she is not trying to encourage us to be scapegoats, instead, what she says is that

"pain comes from holding so tightly to having it our own way . . . It is a very common, ancient, well-perfected device for trying to feel better. Blame others. Blaming is a way to protect our hearts, to try to protect what is soft and open and tender in ourselves. Rather than own that pain, we scramble to find some comfortable ground" (Chodron 81-82).

As another tiny little scared blip in a world full of tiny little scared blips, I felt this like an arrow aimed right at my heart. I am not comfortable exposing my vulnerabilities. I am afraid to get hurt.  That fear is overwhelming because I've felt that pain, and I've squeezed so hard that I lost some ephemeral pieces of myself.

Ultimately, this comes back to the idea that I don't have to hold on so tightly. I am exposing myself "over and over to annihilation" and I am finding within me that which is indestructible (Chodron 8).

People tell me that I am brave and strong, but I am afraid. People look at me with surprise because apparently I don't look like I have cancer, but I feel like I have cancer. People seem uncomfortable when I make inappropriate and macabre jokes about my cancer, but I feel most comfortable when I am able to mock that which is trying to kill me.

Simply put,  the part of me that is indestructible is learning that this diagnosis does not have complete power over me.

Sometimes there is nothing I can do, and cancer takes over. Sometimes the ugly side rears up and I spend hours vomiting. Sometimes I am hyperaware that just a few months ago, I had two brain surgeries, and as far the doctors can see, I came out with only very minor cognitive deficits. Sometimes I get frustrated with a body that is weak from the process of recovery and a mind that occasionally struggles to communicate my thoughts because there are consequences to having a Rockstar Neurosurgeon digging around in your skull.

But there are these beautiful fleeting moments when I can forget that I'm the cancer lady. Dancing with The Husband in the kitchen. Playing with my goofy dog in the yard. Going out to a dinner where nobody there knows that I have cancer so I don't have to talk about cancer or think about cancer or be the cancer lady. Laughing at my dopey cats who try very hard to maintain their dignity even though they are clumsy and a little dumb. These beautiful fleeting moments make everything worth all of this.

Books: When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron (part 4)

Let's keep thinking about When Things Fall Apart. As a reminder, so far I've talked about embracing fear, being vulnerable, and embracing hope.

In this highly consumerist society, we are inundated with commercials, billboards, and advertisements that tell us we are not thin enough, not pretty enough, not motivated enough, not feminine (or masculine) enough, not healthy enough, not good enough.

We all know that feeling; berating ourselves for not going to the gym even though that $50 membership fee is coming out every month. Feeling frustrated because we should be doing something productive, but there's a new season of Orange on Netflix and maybe now really is the best time to start watching Supernatural from the beginning, so maybe we will be productive enough tomorrow.

Tomorrow rolls around, and all that healthy food is in the fridge, but we would rather pick something up from some fast food restaurant because cooking takes too long, and it's boring, and we don't feel like washing the dishes. Tomorrow we have to cook that chicken we thawed before it starts to go bad, and those veggies are getting mushy and nobody wants to eat half-spoiled food, so let's just clean out the fridge and try again tomorrow.

Tomorrow we'll be motivated enough.

According to the Venerable Pema Chodron,

"It is said that we can't attain enlightenment, let alone feel contentment and joy, without seeing who we are and what we do, without seeing our patterns and our habits. This is called maitri—developing loving-kindness and an unconditional friendship with ourselves" (Chodron 26).

How many of us have that voice whispering just behind us that reminds us of all the ways we are not enough? I will be the first to admit that I am a Master of Negative-Self-Talk.

Would you ever tell your friend that she looks especially ugly today?

Of course not.

Yet too many of us bring exactly that kind of negativity and intolerance upon ourselves. What if we tried to be as protective to ourselves as we are towards our friends and family?

Interestingly enough, as I ponder these ideas, I realize that I am viewing this negative-self-talk as a problem that needs to be fixed. The Venerable Pema Chodron has this to say:

"What makes maitri such a different approach is that we are not trying to solve a problem. We are not striving to make pain go away . . . In fact, we are giving up control altogether and letting concepts and ideals fall apart" Chodron 26).

For me, one of the more difficult parts of being diagnosed with cancer is that so much of it is outside of my control. Because of this, I so frequently feel like I'm losing myself. The entire reason this is called More than My Diagnosis is that I was afraid of losing my identity to this disease. I hate the thought of being the Cancer Lady.

By trying to maintain complete control over this, I feel like I am grabbing a handful of sand that is the essence of me. I fill my hand with as much sand as I can hold, and then I squeeze my hand into a fist.

The tighter I squeeze my hand to hold onto my essence, the more grains of sand slip between my fingers. If my goal is to keep as much of myself as possible, I have to let my hand relax before I lose everything that is me.

With a diagnosis like this, and a personality like mine, do you know how hard it is to just relax and let go? I have learned that letting things fall as they may is hard. but only by relaxing and giving up control do I get to keep the most of what I am afraid of losing: myself.

Instead of squeezing, I need to find peace within myself; only then will I be able to hold on.

Books: When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron (part 3)

So let's continue talking about When Things Fall Apart. As a reminder, so far I've talked about embracing fear and being vulnerable.

Generally speaking, we as a society are incredibly uncomfortable with being uncomfortable. Awkward silences. Wardrobe malfunctions. Putting your foot in your mouth. Bad news. Embarrassment. Trauma. Catastrophe. We spend so much time hoping that things will go according to plan, and so much time fearing that they won't.

The Venerable Pema Chodron says that:

"Hope and fear is a feeling with two sides. As long as there's one, there's always the other . . . This is the root of our pain " (Chodron 39).

Diagnosis Day is a day burned into my memory as the moment that every single piece of my life changed. It was the worst day of my life. I am 38 years old. This wasn't supposed to happen to me. As I sobbed hysterically that day, I realized that I didn't know I was so afraid of dying until that Rockstar Neurosurgeon said the words "cancer" and "aggressive" and "incurable".

I've mentioned the abstract bus that could hit any of us tomorrow, but as I sat in that office getting that diagnosis, I saw the bus. That Rockstar Neurosurgeon pulled aside a curtain to show me how close it was. It was right there. It is still right there.

Diagnosis Day shined a light on my deepest fears, but hidden deep underneath of that was the inkling of an idea that maybe, just maybe, Rockstar Neurosurgeon was wrong. I couldn't help but hope that he had misidentified that bus; maybe it was actually just a skateboard.

It is easy it see how fear is painful. For me, fear is a product of weakness exposed. I make it my business to put on a strong face. People see me around town and always look so surprised that I don't look like I'm dying. Maybe they think I'm making it up, because how could someone make jokes about cancer, or talk about other aspects of life besides cancer, or smile or laugh while having cancer?

I put on that strong face and I smile at my friends. I make small talk. I go out to dinner. I have birthday celebrations with friends.

This is my First Face. It is almost disturbingly easy to put on that strong First Face and laugh off any of the uncomfortable things I experience. People say things that hurt me, but I smile and laugh it off. People fail to respect my boundaries, and I grin and bear it because I don't want to make anyone else uncomfortable. People look to me for comfort because they feel sad that I have cancer, and I grit my teeth because it shouldn't be my job to make you feel better about your discomfort about my diagnosis.

So here is something from my Second Face. Those who only see my First Face don't get to see how fragile my Second Face really is. It is incredibly difficult to admit, even to my Second Face family, just how afraid I am. The fear is always there, because this diagnosis is terrifying, and Prozac can only help alleviate that fear so much.

That's where The Husband comes in: he is so helpful when it comes to mitigating that fear, which is so very important. Sometimes I don't think he realizes how important he is for me. Because he makes me feel safe to let go of that fear, even for just a few minutes, he allows me to embrace that tiny nugget of hope that lingers in the back of my mind.

Fear is painful, of course, but embracing that tiny nugget of hope is also painful. Anyone who has experienced betrayal, trauma, or regret knows how painful it can be to have that nugget of hope slip right between your fingers.

And of course, following right after it is the fear that the tiny nugget of hope will be lost forever. How much does hopelessness hurt?

The beautiful thing that I have discovered is that there are tiny nuggets of hope to be found everywhere around us, if only we are paying attention. It is far too easy give up and embrace the fear. It is so much more difficult to leave yourself open to the possibility of hope, even if that also leaves you open to the possibility of pain.

Books: When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron (part 2)

So let's continue talking about When Things Fall Apart. As a reminder, so far I've talked about embracing fear.

The Venerable Pema Chodron  references a sign pinned up on her wall that says:

"Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us" (Chodron 8).

I've never been good at vulnerability. Events that have happened in the past have led to me building a wall around my heart. There are very few people allowed past that wall.

I've always assumed that, because I have a wall around my heart, others have the same. I keep people at arm's length because I don't trust them to be mindful of my soft spots, and because I've unintentionally caused pain by not being mindful of others' soft spots. I've been so afraid of being hurt, of being vulnerable, or of hurting someone else, that I created a boogeyman in my mind to protect my soft spots and keep most everyone else at bay.

The thing is, having a wall around my heart that is guarded by that boogeyman leads to a lonely existence. I've mentioned the three faces before, and because of this blog, I have forced myself to show more of my Second Face than I would typically be comfortable showing. This process of self-discovery has been painful and humbling.

I didn't realize that my loneliness was my own doing.

With pain and humility, I have been slowly tearing down that wall. People have told me that I am so strong to go through this. So brave.

But when I think about it, I don't feel strength, and I certainly don't feel brave. Yet here I am going through treatments that I don't like, that make me feel sick, that make my hair fall out, that make me so tired, that affect my short-term memory in ways that frustrate me to no end, that make me feel stupid because I have a hard time remembering words or staying on any one train of thought.

What I am doing is not strength or bravery. What I'm doing is what I have to do to survive, which means that I'm exposing myself to literal and metaphorical annihilation.

The interesting thing is that I am getting closer to finding that nugget that is indestructible. Self-examination of the mind, body, and soul is daunting, but it has also forced me to be honest with myself in ways that I never expected. I am finally getting to know my Third Face, and I am finally learning that I don't have to run away from pain, and I don't have to be afraid to be vulnerable.

"[T]he truth is that things don't really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It's just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy" (Chodron 9).

Ultimately, it doesn't matter if I run from the pain. It will be there if it needs to be there. This emotional roller coaster from hell has taught me that we are all vulnerable. We are all afraid. We all feel pain. What if we worked on exposing our vulnerability so that we can find the essence of strength deep inside of us?

Books: When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron (part 1)

I was talking to a friend several days ago, and the topic of Hard Times came up in conversation. Hard Times include my cancer, but it also includes the other difficult things that life throws at us.

In American society, there is so much of this idea that if we work hard and have a good attitude, then everything will work out the way it's supposed to. As a result, when people are going through a particularly difficult time, whether it's chronic or terminal illness, whether it's death or divorce, whether it's mental illness or heartbreak, we feel compelled to grin and bear it. Be strong. Don't air your dirty laundry. Think about that stigma around mental illness, for example. We don't tend to talk about depression or anxiety disorders, as if they were shameful, yet we are not ashamed to admit that we caught a cold or flu. This idea that a positive attitude and a go-get-'em spirit will prevail can be so problematic, especially when considering what that means if you don't have a positive attitude. Does that mean that we deserve whatever life throws at us if we aren't positive enough?

This book is by an American Buddhist nun, which immediately piqued my interest because I can remember reading the Dalai Lama's The Art of Happiness about fifteen or twenty years ago. It fundamentally changed how I view and interact with people, and so far, I am finding When Things Fall Apart changing how I view myself.

Amazon has this to say:

How can we live our lives when everything seems to fall apart—when we are continually overcome by fear, anxiety, and pain? The answer, Pema Chödrön suggests, might be just the opposite of what you expect. Here, in her most beloved and acclaimed work, Pema shows that moving toward painful situations and becoming intimate with them can open up our hearts in ways we never before imagined. Drawing from traditional Buddhist wisdom, she offers life-changing tools for transforming suffering and negative patterns into habitual ease and boundless joy.

I haven't finished this book yet, but I have so many thoughts and feelings that I decided to just jump right in and start doing my thing. You may have followed along while I was responding to and discussing Everything Happens for a Reason and Other Lies I've Loved by Kate Bowler. I plan to follow a similar format where I talk about this book for multiple posts.

This is only the introductory post for this book, if any of you would like to get your hands on it to read with me.

The Venerable Pema Chodron  says this in the first chapter:

"It's not a terrible thing that we feel fear when faced with the unknown. It is part of being alive, something we all share. We react against the possibility of loneliness, of death, of not having anything to hold on to. Fear is a natural reaction to moving closer to the truth. If we commit ourselves to staying right where we are, then our experience becomes very vivid. Things become clear when there is nowhere to escape" (Chodron 2).

Another dear friend of mine once told me that sometimes you have to "embrace the suck." In fairness, this was my Badass Marine friend, so his version is a little less poetic, but the sentiment remains the same.

I will be the first to admit that I am afraid of a lot of things, including but not limited to my cancer, heights, snakes, catching the flu, and the dark.

The truth is that somehow, at some point, I became the kind of person who enjoys doing frightening things. Skydiving. Ziplining. Swimming with manatees*.

When I went skydiving, and I jumped was pushed out of that plane, even though I am afraid of falling, afraid of flying, and afraid of heights, I suddenly realized one key fundamental point: No matter how scared I was, no matter how hard I screamed, the outcome was inevitable: I would hit the ground.

Of course, it was important to trust that the parachute would work, and we would have a nice soft landing, but even if it didn't, fear is not stronger than gravity, and no matter how frightened I was, fear would not allow me to spontaneously grow wings. I had to accept that mind-numbing terror and sit with it. That gave me the opportunity to just be in the moment, where I was, 13,500 feet in the air.

Being unable to escape the pull of gravity, I realized how big the world is, and how tiny I am. This was unexpectedly comforting for me, because it made me realize that I was just a tiny little scared blip. In reality, we are all tiny little scared blips. Some hide it with arrogance, some with vanity, some with emotional walls built to keep people away.

What happens when we embrace that fear? What happens when we stop trying to run from that fear?




*I know that manatees won't hurt anyone, and they are super cute, but I am still afraid they might be secret carnivores. Don't judge me.

Cancer update: Things that have been happening.

I've spent so much time thinking about other things that I realized that I haven't really had any cancer updates lately. So here it goes.

I am at the boring stage of cancer. Of course, there's the vomiting, the dehydration, the fatigue. There's the feeling like I have ADHD because my attention span has significantly decreased. There's the multiple naps I take every day because the body is working hard to repair all I've been through. There's the change in medications and the change in appetite.

None of this particularly interesting to me. I'm sure there are some who might worry that I am wasting away on my deathbed, but the majority of the time, I am just napping on the couch.

I'm still not driving because my eyesight still hasn't returned to normal (which Rockstar Neurosurgeon said could take several months). I'm in my house almost all day unless someone wants to come pick me up to go somewhere while The Husband is at work. Honestly, though, since it is finally starting to get chilly, I am perfectly content cocooning up in a blanket in my house.

So, during the day, I write, or nap. Play with the dog. Read from my book. The Husband comes home from work and we figure out the dinner situation. We empty the trash and wash the dishes.

Remember back when I said that cancer was boring?

It still is.

Don't Read with Me: The Rule of One by Ashley Saunders and Leslie Saunders

So I tried to read this book:

I thought the premise sounded really interesting, so I've had it on my wishlist for a while and a dear friend bought it for me.

Amazon has this to say about it:

In their world, telling the truth has become the most dangerous crime of all.
In the near-future United States, a one-child policy is ruthlessly enforced. Everyone follows the Rule of One. But Ava Goodwin, daughter of the head of the Texas Family Planning Division, has a secret—one her mother died to keep and her father has helped to hide for her entire life.
She has an identical twin sister, Mira.
For eighteen years Ava and Mira have lived as one, trading places day after day, maintaining an interchangeable existence down to the most telling detail. But when their charade is exposed, their worst nightmare begins. Now they must leave behind the father they love and fight for their lives.
Branded as traitors, hunted as fugitives, and pushed to discover just how far they’ll go in order to stay alive, Ava and Mira rush headlong into a terrifying unknown.

This book isn't bad, necessarily.  The reason I couldn't get more than a few pages into it was because it was too similar to a Netflix Original Movie What Happened to Monday

IMDB has this to say:

In a world where families are limited to one child due to overpopulation, a set of identical septuplets must avoid being put to a long sleep by the government and dangerous infighting while investigating the disappearance of one of their own. 

I watched this movie when it first came out, and easily dozens of times since then. I love this movie. I did not expect The Rule of One to remind me so much of What Happened to Monday, and so, I had to stop reading it and switch to something else. That's not to say that I won't read this book someday later, but for now, I'd rather re-watch this movie!

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow!

Guess what time it is...

That's right, it's time for another hair post!

So, my hair has been... interesting.

Most people think that the hair falls out because of the chemo. What they might not understand is that in my case, the hair loss is from radiation, not chemo. The radiation beamed its science into my brain, but it also burned me pretty badly. It led to a 'do that was less than ideal, and although I don't consider myself particularly vain, I also don't prefer being stared at.

See, at the final stage of radiation, they do what is called a "power up, cone down" for treatment. What that means is that while, for the first five weeks they beamed radiation over a larger area of my brain, but at a lower dose. During "power up, cone down" treatment, they tighten that beam so it is hitting a much smaller area of my brain, but with a higher dose.

I tell you all of this so I can show you this:

Essentially, I got the equivalent of a severe sunburn to my head. Now, as someone who has only ever had one sunburn ever, I had no idea how painful and irritating this would be. If you look at that area right by my ear, you can even see blisters.

No fun, right?

And then it started peeling.

So, when the peeling was finally over, I was left with an almost perfectly smooth side of my head. It looked not terrible from this angle, but it was an unholy mess of unevenness from every other angle. Also, because the peeling skin also took out hair follicles, I am going to bet that I might be half-bald for quite a while, or maybe forever; who knows?!

I found myself feeling self-conscious because my hair kept reminding me that I'm cancer lady. I don't like being cancer lady. As a shy introvert, I tend to make decisions based on what will bring the lowest amount of attention, so I went back to this 'do:

You've seen this haircut before, and for the time being, it will probably stay like this. Unfortunately, it's the wrong time of year to be rocking a haircut like this, but it's a good thing I like hats!