Fave Quote of the Book: Small Victories by Anne Lamott

From Amazon:

Anne Lamott writes about faith, family, and community in essays that are both wise and irreverent. It’s an approach that has become her trademark. Now in Small Victories, Lamott offers a new message of hope that celebrates the triumph of light over the darkness in our lives. Our victories over hardship and pain may seem small, she writes, but they change us—our perceptions, our perspectives, and our lives. Lamott writes of forgiveness, restoration, and transformation, how we can turn toward love even in the most hopeless situations, how we find the joy in getting lost and our amazement in finally being found.

Profound and hilarious, honest and unexpected, the stories in Small Victories are proof that the human spirit is irrepressible.

I first read Anne Lamott in grad school. Her book, Bird by Bird, changed the direction of my education, my career, and my life. Although Lamott and I have some things in common, our belief systems are vastly different, but that's ok. Obviously, I don't know this woman, but from her writing, I get the impression that she is kind, warm, and thoughtful. I'd love to have a meal with her, or buy her a cup of coffee.

Throughout my diagnosis, I've been heavily contemplating the idea of grace. My therapist says I should give myself grace, but I don't always know what that means. She says I should forgive myself, and I don't always know how to do that. I have spent the majority of my life mastering negative self-talk; what is this grace we speak of?

I feel like Lamott understands me, without even knowing me. One of my favorite parts of this book is when she says,

"When you are on the knife’s edge—when nobody knows exactly what is going to happen next, only that it will be worse—you take in today" (Lamott 4). 

I feel that this is my diagnosis, summed up in one sentence. I'm still in a place of intentional ignorance. This diagnosis has taught me to take in today, one day at a time. Like an addict, I don't count too far ahead in the future. I count tomorrow, and the rest come as it may.

Lamott also talks about her family:

"Ours was like any other family, basically well-meaning, with lots of addictions, secrets, and mental illness. We were such a polite catastrophe that everyone’s energy went to survival, self-medication, Mask Making 101, and myopia" (Lamott 161).

Every family has their secrets, right? As Tolstoy said, "All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way" (Anna Karenina). While I'm not prepared to share all of our secrets, I will say that Tolstoy had his wisdom.

Am I saying that I came from an unhappy family?

Stay tuned to find out more!

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

While David is in this land that is not quite like our own, he is stalked by the villain of the story, the Crooked Man. At this point, he has discovered the Crooked Man's lair, with a thousand rooms and for each room, a story. Many of these rooms have stories that are almost, but not quite, familiar. A girl with a red hood. A gingerbread house. A witch.

In one of those rooms,

"a woman sat facing a blank wall, endlessly combing her long, silver hair. Sometimes, the Crooked Man would take those who had angered him to visit the woman, and when she turned to look at them, the would see themselves reflected in her eyes, for her eyes were made of mirrored glass. And in those eyes they would be allowed to witness the moment of their deaths, so that they would know exactly when and how they would die. You might think that such knowledge would not be so terrible, and you would be wrong.

We are not meant to know the time or the nature of our deaths (for all of us secretly hope that we may be immortal). Those who were given that knowledge found that they could not sleep or eat or enjoy any of the pleasures life had to offer them, so tormented were they by what they had seen. Their lives became a kind of living death, devoid of joy, and all that was left to them was fear and sadness, so that when at last the end came they were almost grateful for it" (Connolly 295).

I have mentioned many times before that I have my oncology team with all of their fancy degrees. These are very smart people. These are the only people allowed to provide me with medical advice. No Dr. Google, right? This passage also explains exactly why I choose (at least for now) intentional ignorance. For all I know, I have 10 days, 10 weeks, 10 years in front of me. As a direct result of my intentional ignorance, I have been able to not only enjoy beautiful things, but also forget, even for a few moments here and there, that I have cancer. There was Sunflower Day. The day that I didn't ring that bell. I got to Van Gogh to the Museum. I went to a hockey game.

The Husband has given me the gift of maintaining intentional ignorance, and it truly is a difficult gift to give. He carries the weight of knowledge on his shoulders and in his soul, and I know that weight is a difficult one to bear.

Because he has given me this incredible gift, I have had so many moments of pure joy. We have so many moments that I don't usually share, because to me, they are sacred.

I still don't have an official prognosis. Perhaps at the next scan there will be more news. But right now, because The Husband has given me the gift of intentional ignorance, I am able to experience true joy. The life I get to experience now is so fundamentally different from the Before. I try not to grieve too much for the Before life. Life now is different, but certain things have not changed. The Husband is still as big a dork as before (I can say that because I, in fact, am also a big dork). We still laugh together. I am grateful that I can still laugh, even in the face of all of this ugliness, but that is only possible because I have The Husband, the greatest gift of all.

Have I mentioned that I love this guy?

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.

More of the Ugly side of this Diagnosis

Through this entire ordeal, I have tried to look on the bright side of things.

Yesterday, the only bright side was at the bottom of the toilet bowl.

I started the six months of chemo, and suddenly, I was barfing over and over and over and over again. I hurled nine times within three hours. The same medication that I have been taking suddenly made me a puke machine.

I talked to my doctor (Reminder: Don't be Dr. Google!).

Evidently, this is not unusual when moving to this round of treatment, but they did want me to go to the cancer center for infusions. They pumped me full of fluids and anti-nausea medicine and sent me on my way. Nobody was worried, which was a good thing, because that helped me relax just a little in a very stressful situation.

This means, though, that I need to adjust how/when I take my meds, when/what I eat, and when I sleep so that I can figure out what my new normal will be.

My therapist once told me that she hates the term "the new normal." I have to say that I agree with her. Things are constantly in flux, swirling in the chaos that is life. We may become accustomed to one form of this chaos, but one thing is always for certain (especially with this diagnosis): Don't get too accustomed, because things are always just on the brink of change. We all have to be prepared for that, because the change may be positive, like a cool new haircut or it may be negative, like hurling for three hours in the middle of the night.

Historically, I've tried to be brutally open about my journey with glioblastoma. I have tried so hard to be more than just my diagnosis, but simultaneously, I have tried to explore and explain my journey, in the hopes that perhaps this voyage can be just a little less difficult or frightening for anyone who might be sailing through these stormy seas.

Full disclosure, though: I have NOT been 100% open about my journey.

You have seen my First Face. That's the easy one.

I have worked really hard to show you as much as possible of my Second Face. This is really challenging, because I am not accustomed to opening myself up to the vulnerability involved in being so exposed, especially when things get ugly.

The reason I have not been 100% open about my journey is because my Third Face needs the time to process information, to make decisions, to determine what kind of access my Second and First Face have to my innermost feelings that make me who I am. My Third Face is mine. This means that although I have been chronicling this journey, this does not mean that any individual person has a right to see my Third Face (or even my Second).

This journey is incredibly difficult, moreso than I let on much of the time. I try so hard to inject my own inappropriate and morbid sense of humor to this little piece of hell, because if I can't laugh at or mock my cancer, what can I do? But please remember, my Third Face is mine.

So there you have it. Opening up my Second Face is very difficult. But I think that it is important that people who see my First Face understand that, although I might make light of the situation, my Second Face is showing you that this is hard. Harder than you know.

How can you help?