With my daughter, just after she
started kindergarten.
As of today, I'm a seven-year survivor of cancer.
Lucky number seven. Luck of the Irish. :)
Oh, sure, I recurred after five years and three months, but I am still here. And that is no small thing.
Seven years ago at this time, I was completely terrified that I wouldn't see my daughter start kindergarten. I did get to see her start kindergarten, and first grade, second grade, third grade, fourth grade, fifth grade and now sixth grade. I plan to be here for all of the other grades. I plan to be here when the grandchildren and the great-grandchildren start kindergarten, too.
It has been far from easy, but, strangely, breast cancer wasn't actually the hardest thing I've done in the last seven years. I can remember shortly after I was diagnosed, a family friend told me about her breast cancer experience and said, "Now, when I look back at it, I realize it wasn't even the worst thing that's ever happened to me." At that time, I was speechless at that comment. At that time, the thought of anything worse was mind-crippling.
I was facing losing my breast, my hair, my ability to have children and my life. WORSE? Could anything be WORSE?
It can. I've come to learn that losing one's life sucks, but you aren't actually here to worry about how much it sucks. It's in the living that you get to experience the worst — and, thankfully, the best.
I'm still very mad at cancer. I still have to think about it every day, even though the way I think about it now has changed radically from seven years ago. It controlled my life then; now, it's just an inconvenient presence, much like the weeds that stubbornly grow in my sidewalk. I take great joy in destroying those weeds. I am thrilled when I go days, weeks, sometimes months, without having a worry about cancer. Generally, I think it's stupid to waste my time fretting it.
You will never hear me refer to cancer as a "gift" or some sort of life-changing experience. I think I was pretty good at embracing life before I had cancer. I think I had a pretty decent handle on how precious and short life can be. I didn't need this experience to show me that. However, I do know surviving cancer has created an urgency in me — an urgency to live, to sort out the necessary from the unnecessary, to be as fully present in the moment as I can possibly be.
I also feel like I routinely stare death in the face. For me, that has been a very freeing experience. Ten surgeries have gone by, chemo, radiation and countless drugs. I've lost in love not once in the last seven years, but twice, hugely and painfully. I've watched friends and family suffer in various ways, including my sweet little girl. I've had to reorganize my life multiple times just for the privilege to go on living.
And gone on living I have. I have traveled more in the last seven years than in my entire adult life. I've seen Rome. I learned to love deeply and to be exquisitely loved. I've seen my daughter achieve amazing childhood milestones. I have made more friends than I can count. My life has been wildly enriched by them and my dreams exceptionally supported. I've been to concerts, barbecues, drag shows and even an embassy party. I've met famous people. I've been treated like a famous person. I've gained control of my life in a way I have never had before. My writing has grown and I'm working on writing a book.
There is always a point in the bad experiences where I feel incredibly empowered, when I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, where I feel like shaking my fist at the sky and screaming, "IS THAT ALL YOU'VE GOT?"
I live with very little fear. Yes, in those bad experiences, I am sometimes overcome with fear. But one after the other, I learn to adjust and realize that I am invincible.
My very first real job - after my high school career of tying tomatoes on a farm and making wreaths for a pittance for the farmer's daughter's not-so-thriving interior decorating business - was as an obituary writer for the local paper. It was a dream job for a journalism major who had only one college-level journalism class under her belt!
The entry-level job was a way to learn AP Style and get acquainted with the workings of a newsroom. I was promoted pretty quickly to a reporter - a fact of which I am proud to this day - but I was a little sad to see the obit job go. It might seem emotionally hard, but mostly in the obit business you are dealing with people who have lived good, long lives, whose time had simply come. (I won't lie; writing about children and those taken too soon was never a treat.) It was actually fun and incredibly interesting to learn about the lives of the recently deceased, to see all of their achievements, to learn about important milestones in their lives and to see their long list of loved ones. It was frequently inspiring.
Our obit style was pretty regimented, most likely to keep word counts manageable and make sure everyone was treated fairly. We actually had a form we filled in that "wrote" the obit for us: Name of City died Date. He/She was Age-years-old.
The form went on like that through survivors, work history, organization memberships, volunteer work and other life achievements. It wasn't terribly creative, but it got the job done.
This week, a friend of mine shared the obit of Harry Stamps, who sounds like a man we all should have known. You should definitely read it here. I love that you can really understand who Harry was from this obit. More than a list of his life accomplishments, it's a true testament to his spirit, passions and personality. I am even inspired to write my congressman about Daylight Saving Time. Harry would want that.
It makes me laugh, too, that in my recent self-development work, I wrote a relationship vision. I named this man (who exists out there somewhere, but is as-yet-unknown to me) Harold because I don't know anyone named Harold and I didn't want some real-life dude mucking up my vision. I feel incredible kinship to Harry, who has a lot of characteristics in line with my Harold.
For many years now, I've thought I should write my own obit. For one, I'm not sure how many of you I trust to do it for me (and the ones I would trust would be crying too hard to see through their tears to write) and if I were to end up with "Name of City died Date. He/She was Age-years-old" I'd be really sad. While I don't plan to die any time soon, who knows? Not me. However, I am certainly confronted with my mortality every two months or so when I visit my various doctors, who generally treat people much older than me. Somehow, it just makes good sense.
So, I'm not dying. Not planning on it. But I find Harry's life inspirational, funny and endearing. It's something to aspire to.
Rosie Blankenship (future obituary)
April 18, 1971-January 1, 2090
Rosie at 118 after a skydiving trip.
Sunscreen, people.
Avon, Ind. — Rosie Blankenship, 118-year-old writer, skydiver and passionate fan of life, died today following an overindulgent New Year's Eve.
Rosie was a the life of the party to the very end, dying in her sleep just hours after toasting the new year, shrieking Auld Lang Syne into a karaoke mic and dancing until 3 a.m. with friends and family at her lake home.
She was spry for her age and her mind was sharp as a tack. She found joy everyday. She frequently laughed in the face of danger and was quick to dismiss negative experiences in life. Following in the footsteps of her beloved grandmother, Victoria, she took up painting during her late 60s under the tutelage of her daughter, the world-renowned artist and brilliant scholar Colleen M, Ph.D, M.D., J.D. Having succeeded at that challenge, she later sought to be a skydiver in her mid-80s, a hobby for which she was avidly enthusiastic until her death. She founded the Central Indiana Rosie Skies Chapter of the National Skydivers Association. Her funeral will include an exhibition skydiving show.
As a young survivor of breast cancer, Rosie spent many years advocating for the worldwide eradication of chemical farming, cleaning up air and water sources and supporting holistic health services. Her work helped lead to the full-scale elimination of all cancers during the 2020s. Her own dedication to her own health and wellness helped her live to an average age for these times, rather than the shortened lifespan predicted in her younger years. She frequently flashed her fake breasts in public, saying, "what? They aren't real!" Although she never lived in a nursing home, she often predicted she would have the greatest bosom in the place.
She was known for her incredible parties, bringing together people from all walks of life and usually firing up the karaoke machine. Her Two Buck Chuck, generic Ritz crackers and colby jack cheese parties were the stuff of legends.
Of course, she also brought the party with her. Her lifelong BFF would often say the two of them could have fun with a paper bag. She enjoyed going to rock concerts with friends well into her 90s and organized no less than 20 "flash mob" dances in her lifetime. She was addicted to Reese's peanut butter cups and ate broccoli every day of her life, claiming this was a balanced diet. She had a lifelong love affair with jeans and t-shirts. Her campaign to fix the women's jeans industry led to women being able to provide waist, hip and inseam measurements to obtain the perfect pair of jeans without ever trying one on.
While truly a pacifist, she once punched a man for pronouncing "specific" as "pacific" 28 times in a single conversation.
Her daughter was the brightest spot in her life. Among her many academic and professional achievements, Colleen was the source of four grandchildren for Rosie, 12 great-grandchildren and 40 great-great-grandchildren. Dozens in the family would gather for Sunday brunch at "Mama Rosie's," where they were treated to Rosie's secret recipe pulled pork sandwiches, a recipe she developed herself for Tres Leches Cake and homemade dandelion wine.
She met the love of her life at 49, after a short affair with Colts punter Pat McAfee. Harold was an adventurer who was perfectly happy to come along for the ride of Rosie's journey to squeeze the last drop of goodness out of life.
Rosie's books inspired millions and brought Oprah out of retirement for multiple interviews. Writing on life, love and happiness, she poured her heart out for the world to see. She is frequently credited with her work helping others live full lives.
Rosie will be cremated with a tube of her Smashbox Be Legendary lipstick, which she never left the house without.
In lieu of sending flowers, Rosie asked people to go buy perennial flowers to beautify their yards or the yard of someone they love. "We create our own beauty," she often said.
Slightly out of focus and too red from being burned to death
by the flash, but, trust me, it will have to do.
"Never work with animals or children." - W.C. Fields
Last week, my 11-year-old dropped a new word on me that had me running for the Urban Dictionary. As is often the case with my very communicative kid, my brain was tuned only into the keywords of the conversation. My mom brain has that scanner thing you know the government uses on our phone calls and status posts looking for terrorists, so I come to attention when I hear things like, "getting an F," "kissed him" and "smoking a doob." (Do kids still smoke doobs?)
The conversation was a little like this:
Kid: "Mumur, gerberdang swooosh flurgs BEST FRIEND'S NAME mmmpfh fzzzzz hmm science class brrrmmm clerg ammerr did a selfie."
Me: "I'm sorry, she did what now?"
Kid: "A selfie. That's when you take a picture of yourself."
Believing my sweet, innocent child had been the victim of a linguist practical joke perpetrated by a nasty sixth grade boy — as we ALL know that's what nasty sixth grade boys live to do — I discreetly typed "selfie" into Urban Dictionary.
Huh. "A picture taken of yourself that is planned to be uploaded to Facebook, Myspace or any other sort of social networking website." What do you know? Myspace apparently still exists and I have a dirtier mind than a fictitious sixth grade boy.
By the way, if you are a parent and don't know about Urban Dictionary, you need to hop on immediately. It's the site our parents wish existed (when they didn't know the Internet was going to exist yet) to look up things like "gnarly" and "cool beans," so they could feel less stupid around us and our infinite teenage cool. Also, it's a public dictionary, where anyone can add a definition of anything. So, it's important you check in from time to time to make sure none of your children have added your name as a definition. Like, "Rosie Blankenship: a mean mom who makes kids clean up the dishes she leaves in the living room. My mom was being a real Rosie Blankenship last night when she spilled popcorn on the floor and made me get out the vacuum."
So, yesterday, we were goofing around before bedtime and ignoring explicit instructions from the school to get to bed early to be prepared for testing tomorrow. I want to state for the record that I repeatedly said, "You need to get to bed, so you don't FAIL ISTEP tomorrow and have to repeat sixth grade." I was met with eye-rolling. "I'm not going to fail ISTEP." I wasn't fazed. It was my duty as a mother to make sure she performed to her highest standardized-test potential. "How do you know that? It would be terrible if you failed! Everyone would point fingers at me and say, 'her mother obviously didn't put her to bed early and feed her a healthy breakfast.' My reputation will be ruined." More eye-rolling. Eye-rolling is a way of life for us these days. "I am not going to fail because ISTEP is easy," she said. "I know how to READ, mom."
This is where my mom would have said, "well, excuuuuse me" and told me to get to bed anyhow. But I am not my mother. So, I said, "Ok, then, let's take selfies."
It has been almost a year since I had my photo with her, so it was high time to document. Also, our last photo together was just a day before her heart surgery and I never, ever want those photos of me to see the light of day. I look like I have had a serious Benjamin Button reversal of aging by a good 15-20 years in just nine months. (Those last days before the surgery almost killed us all.) And since we'd already settled that she knows how to READ, now was as good of a time as any to grab a snapshot.
Only, as it turns out, the kid isn't quite as experienced in taking selfies as her mom. It was like working with a monkey who had just stolen the espresso machine from Starbucks and was using it to mainline a nice Sumatra.
We took 62 photos to get the one above. SIXTY-TWO. I'm not even exaggerating. I felt I should clarify since I've recently learned my blog posts are prone to hyperbole.
And this is what happened:
Blurry. Mom smiles. Kid caught off guard.
Mom: ready for her close-up. Kid: loses composure.
Mom: lovely, laughing photo. Kid: top of her head.
Mom: best Brooke Shields impersonation. Kid: do what, now?
I could go on. There are 54 more like this. But I don't have time. You see that mess in the living room? I have to go pull a Rosie Blankenship and get the kid to clean.
I love the Indiana State Fair. I love the crazy fried foods the vendors provide, even though I generally take one bite and pass it off to someone else or trash the rest because my old, gall-bladder-deprived body can't handle the fat. I love the animals. There is nothing better than looking into the deep brown eyes of a gorgeous Jersey cow and saying thanks for the yummy and delicious ice cream she provides at the dairy barn across the road. I never fail to visit the Red Gold tomato booth and stand around talking to strangers about the virtues of their products, which are canned RIGHT IN THE FIELD. I MEAN, SERIOUSLY, PEOPLE. IT DOESN'T GET FRESHER THAN THIS! IT'S LIKE SUMMER IN A CAN ALL YEAR LONG. RED GOLD, WHY AREN'T YOU PAYING ME?
I sometimes miss the fair because August in Indiana is mother-freaking miserable. Have you ever been in a sauna or a hot whirlpool? Don't stop thinking yet. You don't quite have the mental picture. Sitting in a sauna or whirlpool, there is that point where you are just done and it's time to get out. Suddenly, the steam and heat overwhelm you and you must escape or die trying, so you jump out to cool off in the open air or even dive in a pool. Well, that feeling — where you are on the verge of fainting from heat stroke and know you HAVE to get out of the suffocating, hot moisture that has filled your lungs, is sticking to your eyeballs and makes you want to tear off your hair — that's what Indiana feels like from mid-July to late August. All. Of. The. Time. And the best part? You can't escape. It just goes on and on and on until someone gets stabbed.
Floridians often try to stake claim to having the most miserable summer heat. I've experienced it. Florida in the summer is a bleeping swamp on fire. However, bring Floridians to Indiana during a humidity wave and you will see the cry-baby in all of them. In Florida, y'all know how to deal with the heat. You have air conditioning in outdoor places and those cool spray fan things every 10 feet. Heck, at DisneyWorld, you have hand-held spray do-hickeys. You crank the A/C higher than our thermostats allow. You limit your outdoor activities. When you spend time outside in the heat, it's on a boat, where the wind dries the sweat from your skin or on the beach, where you can jump in the cool water at a moment's notice. In Indiana, we only deal with this for about six weeks a year. That's not enough time to invest in great A/C. We don't have beaches or delightful Gulf breezes. We just sit around in our front yards with our feet in a baby pool of tepid water feeling incredibly sorry for our sweaty butts. And because we sometimes luck out and don't get the steam table experience for the entire two months, our event organizers are perpetually hopeful that this year is going to be the one time their outdoor concert doesn't end up in a heat wave that causes overheated rednecks to start a knife fight at the back of the crowd. We are an optimistic bunch.
So, it's not always a real blast to be standing around the state fair in that pressure cooker atmosphere with 900,000 other Hoosiers suffering heat-induced brain damage. The smell of human sweat, cow and chicken poop melding with fried Oreos and roasted turkey legs, while existing alongside fired up tempers, can be a tad overwhelming. The constant threat of us all dying from E. coli or swine flu a week later only adds to the excitement.
But my desire to see my Jersey ladies, show my kiddo what a state fair champion 4-H project looks like and delight in the experience of all-things-Indiana is a powerful draw for me. That leads to the annual juggling act of "what days am I available to drag the kid to the fair that coincide with lower than 1,125% humidity?"
The Indiana State Fair midway. I'm not sure if that's the coaster in the back.
I've tried to block it from my memory. You see the haziness of this picture?
That's the 1,125% humidity causing it. (From Wikipedia, used under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported.)
We made it last year and it turned out to be an unseasonably pleasant day. By "unseasonably pleasant," I mean that as long as we interrupted our hikes around the fairgrounds with trips to the indoor, air-conditioned exhibits, I only had to worry about back sweat and didn't have much trouble with streams of salt water running into my eyes. Beautiful weather, really.
I tend to avoid the rides at the fair. Not because I don't love rides, but because who the hell trusts carnies?* When I see the guys running the rides who clearly haven't showered in days, who look like they might devour every teenage girl in sight and certainly have the appearance of someone just released from prison, I think, "no effin' way do I trust they properly tightened all 10,000 bolts on that machine currently flipping 200 children upside down." My rule has always been that I only ride roller coasters at theme parks where I assume the employees are full-time, passed a background check, are certified in something related to bolt-tightening,** shower daily, wear cute uniforms, and get health insurance.
But, when you have a kid in tow, there is only so much "can we ride that one?" repeated incessantly in moderate humidity you can take before you cave and put your lives in the hands of criminals.
So, cave, I did, on a really fun-looking roller coaster. It wasn't until we were standing in line with tickets in hand that I thought, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" But it was too late. She'd already been incensed.
As I watched perfectly alive people exit the ride, I psyched myself up for the experience and created positive thoughts of spending a long, happy life reminiscing about that particular roller coaster ride. I envisioned living through it without a single missing-bolt incident.
The innocent-looking carts pulled up and my daughter and I boarded. I wasn't the least bit worried about the coaster itself. It seemed tame enough. I mean, I enjoy a good "loop de loop" at theme parks. You know — 20 years ago when I was last on one. The rush of the wind, the excitement of swooping down steep hills — I really was looking forward to that part of the ride. This coaster was tame in comparison to the many giant ones you wait two hours to ride at parks.
Then, we started climbing the big mountain.
The view was great. We could see tall buildings miles away. We could see the distant parking lot where we had to make the long trek back to our car. We could see the entire fairgrounds, as the coaster curled slowly one direction and back. It was fun! I was loving the view and the anticipation of the "whoosh" feeling coming in the next moments. In my mind, it was going to be exactly like hitting a little rise while driving along a smooth road. It would tickle my tummy. My daughter was already happy and having fun, so the whole thing was worth it. I was going to survive!
Then, a split-second later, all hell broke loose inside my head.
The coaster was designed to give the carts the experience of hanging over nothingness, while whipping through dramatic curves several stories above the midway. It operated on a single track, with the carts pivoting about 180 degrees on their center point for the maximum "swing over the open air" feeling, while always keeping a mostly forward position. From the ground, I had missed these design elements.
As the coaster rapidly spun through a series of sharp corners, picking up speed and knocking us about, for the first time that I can ever remember, I panicked on a ride. I wanted off. Like, "UNHOOK THESE EFFING STRAPS, I'M GOING TO JUMP NOW" off. I couldn't breathe. I could only panic.
Normally, I'm someone who laughs hysterically on those rides, enjoying the wild freedom and adrenaline rush. I'm an adventurer who, although sometimes scared that my body will fail me, likes to get on roofs, climb trees and use power equipment. I've never screamed before, that I can remember, on a coaster. I just laugh and laugh. But this ride, this feeling, it overwhelmed me. If I'd been standing, my knees would have gone out from under me. I really think I was on the verge of fainting. My brain couldn't keep up with the emotions I was having, as I swam in the hormone stew that had me alternating between laughing and screaming, then, finally, just screams.
We headed down an impossibly steep incline and I couldn't stop screaming. Tears were coming. I could only breathe through the scream. I could think nothing but, "STOP." I was vaguely aware of my daughter laughing hysterically next to me. In retrospect, I can now appreciate that she was simply enjoying the moment and thought I was screaming with joy. She doesn't have the history of emotions that I have experienced. Her brain doesn't have deep patterns of fear existing inside of it. While she has been through some incredible and unfairly painful experiences for her young age, I've got 30 years on her. And, frankly, I think she is better at processing emotion than me. She knows how to let go. So, while I was in emotional hell, she was at the peak of joy.
As the coaster started to slow, my screams stopped and the laughter came back. My daughter was in fits of giggles at the way I had "acted," with (thankfully) zero understanding that those moments were horrific for me. And, by that point, the horror had dissipated, so I was able to laugh with her. I'd been a crazy person. It was true.
Naturally, as we coasted to a stop, the relaxed, happy after-effects had both of us talking about a second ride. However, the outrageous ticket prices kept us away from another spin. I wondered, though, whether I would have been able to handle a second ride. Would it have been easier the second time? Would it have been WORSE? Could I have done it without the uncontrolled screaming? Could I have just enjoyed the ride? I'm not sure. It was pretty bad and I think it would have taken more than two rides to get over it. I wasn't willing to have that much life experience at that moment. With the sick feeling I have in my stomach writing about this eight months later, I'm not sure I ever want that much life experience again.
The last few days have been like the screaming part of that roller coaster ride for me. I feel caught in an uncontrolled moment that seems to go on forever. I'm vaguely aware that there is something happier around me, but the rage and the desire for it all to STOP has powerfully overwhelmed me.
I've been reading a lot about control with the constant theme in my reading that we orchestrate our personal destiny, i.e. we control our lives. I accept this. I have been told that with things that seem outside of our control, we always have control over our response. But do I? Emotions are tricky and powerful things. With something that wasn't in my control — like a freakishly and surprisingly scary roller coaster ride — did I really have any control in how I responded to that overwhelming rush of adrenaline, other hormones I can't name and past experiences welling up in my brain? I was on autopilot and feeling took over. That's how I feel right now. Like waves of feeling have taken over my body — bad feelings that cause more bad feelings that are making me act like a nutcase.
I want this roller coaster to slow to a stop. I want to depart safely and admire the fair from the ground, thanking my lucky stars I made it back alive. Then, I want to head to the dairy barn and get some vanilla ice cream made with whole milk and with some M&Ms stirred in for good measure.
*My apologies to all of the honest, hard-working, crime-free carnival workers out there. This is a terrible bias I have. I'm working on it. Maybe think about providing hand sanitizer on the rides. And stop leering at our daughters.
**I am certain all of the bolts on all of the rides at the state fair are tightened by experienced professionals. However, my horrific bias, as explained above, and my love for being alive keeps me from total confidence.
I'm going to delve into something here that is really hard for me to share. In fact, as I write this opening paragraph, I'm not sure if this post will ever see the light of the internet.
I'm writing it, though, for a few reasons. First, I am going to write daily. It's an important intention of mine for reasons that would take a million years to explain, but that every writer would understand without explanation. Actually, I think any artist or any person who feels passionately about something can "get" it. It just needs to happen. Second, I share constantly about my life. Avoiding sharing what I'm currently experiencing is so utterly inauthentic and unusual for me that I know if I want to grow beyond this stage, I had better get it out of me. Finally, as my fog of sadness, low self-esteem and raging emotions lifts, I am starting to realize that I'm not the only person on the planet who has had these experiences. (This isn't an "aha moment," it's more of an "oh, duh" moment.) In the same way that I feel much better to read about what others go through and talk to friends about what they go through, I want to give that back to the world. I know how to write. I know how to articulate my thoughts and experiences (most of the time). I shouldn't just read what others have written and not give back. I kind of owe it to the world.
I've been dealing with a very serious, painfully recent breakup. You would think, after having so many major life experiences, that I could have handled it pretty gracefully. I did not. I still am not. All I can say about the way I'm dealing with it is that I'm still here! Things are getting better for me. I would prefer to continue moving forward, but I doubt that I always will. That's not pessimism speaking, but realism.
I have much control over my present and future, but the things over which I have no control make me want to break stuff. That's a really difficult emotion for me. I can never remember — as an adult — being so angry and feeling violent. It's not a good feeling at all. My only explanation for this is that these experiences are definitely creating the "fight or flight" response in me, but I don't have the option to flee. So, fight it is.
I'm working on trying to channel the fight into something productive instead of destructive. I don't feel like I'm there yet.
I've been working very, very hard on doing something about the sadness, low self-esteem and raging emotions. This work might help deal with the anger. I really believe it is important to feel your emotions and work through them because, if you don't, the problems hold you back and those feelings will resurface again, making some future situation much harder to manage. I'm dealing with such ugly and terrifying emotions, however, I have felt stuck within them.
Two weeks ago, my therapist suggested I write a relationship vision. A very powerful feeling I have is that I want someone to share my life — to be a partner in all things, to have adventures, to have romance, to navigate ups and downs. While friends and family are incredible and I certainly feel love from them, being in a partnership is a very different and exclusive feeling. You can experience physical closeness unlike you can with anyone else. You can experience vulnerability (which I believe is a good thing and opens you to an amazing world). You can experience a shared vision. While these things might be replicated in other types of relationships, I feel they are most strongly found and developed within a romantic partnership.
I have felt really weird saying this — in my head, to my therapist, right now. Really, I don't think anyone has to have a romantic relationship — I don't think I HAVE to have one. I have never been one to jump from one relationship to another. Although I married at 26, I was plenty single before then and single after that. I didn't even feel I needed to be in a relationship when I got into my recently-ended one. I have never felt I needed to be in one. I have recently realized I WANT one and I have wanted a deep, satisfying, loving relationship for a very long time.
It's kind of like buying a new house. The house you live in is a shack. It's a cute shack you chose and you loved it when you got it. Then, you realized the roof leaks. That's ok, you can deal with that, but, damn, it's annoying. You make the place your own: paint, buy throw pillows, bake cookies. Then, you realize, you really would prefer to have space for a washer and dryer, a roof that doesn't leak, a little garden out back, and maybe a kitchen with a stove that has more than one functioning burner. Do you need a new house? No, you are getting along just fine in the shack. You really love it, actually. And the mortgage is practically free, so that's good. But you really, really want that washer and dryer, garden, dry roof and functioning stove. And, why not? You want a nice house. You will shop around and make sure you get the best darn new house you can afford. Will it come with it's own set of problems? Probably. Surely, the mortgage will cost more. It will take more time to clean. You might get termites. But the washer and dryer, garden, dry roof and stove will make your life better than the cute shack every single day. The trade-offs are undoubtedly worth it.
I want the new house, dammit.
I feel like I have a lot to give toward a healthy, positive relationship. I feel like I would get a lot from one, too. So, Dr. Therapist told me to write a relationship vision. It felt weird admitting that's what I wanted to do, but it was no problem for me to actually do it. In the last few weeks, my vision of that person has become utterly clear in my mind. Completely. Entirely. I know what I want, mainly because my relationship failures have made it abundantly clear what doesn't work for me, as well as what parts I miss terribly. It probably took me 30 minutes (or less) to write my three-page relationship vision.
As I neared the end of it, I realized I was writing about a pretty incredible man. My mind started wandering into the territory of "do I even know someone like this?" As it turns out, I could name more than a handful that — from outward appearances — do seem to fit the bill. And what do they all have in common? They are married. Of course, "already married" is not in my relationship vision, but it was a bit depressing to realize that. They are married to women just as incredible as them. And the very next place my mind jumped? "You could never attract someone like this."
Screeeeeecccchhh.
Chalk it up to a therapy bill of $800 or so (and counting), but I was able to stop myself and say, "your therapist would have a lot to say about that."
So, I decided I need to write a vision for myself. It only seemed appropriate. Why the heck was I writing about some other awesome person when I didn't even think that much of myself? The only problem was, I couldn't come up with a single positive word to describe me.
That's a problem, eh?
I sat at my computer staring at the empty screen unable to think of a single thing about me that was good. I have been propped up in recent weeks by friends. I could see their faces as they looked at me and said all sorts of wonderful things to me, but I couldn't recall a single word. I tried hard to remember it — anything — and I had nothing.
I pondered it for a day, thinking maybe I was just putting too much stress on myself at that moment. Still, over the next 24 hours, nothing came to me. This was so far beyond writer's block; this was a complete and catastrophic self-esteem failure.
I recognized how empty and sad that was, which was exactly how empty and sad I was feeling.
I decided to reach out yet again to my friends. I planned to ask them for five positive things about me off the top of their heads. It would be just a little boost to get my mind headed in the right direction. But as I considered this process, I wondered if reaching out to my best friends would really be enough. They told me the things I needed to hear all of the time and it wasn't sinking in! What would make the most impact for me? What would I BELIEVE? As I thought, I decided I had to broaden my request. I needed some men on my list - men I thought were pretty cool. I needed people to whom I don't normally look for validation: co-workers, acquaintances. I even included my ex-husband and his wife (my daughter's stepmother) on the list. If those people could come up with five things, I would be forced to believe them.
It was an idea so crazy, it had to work.
So, I sent out emails and over the next few days, the words that came back to me were, in a word, AMAZING. Just as I thought, as the first BFF emails came in, I thought, "Oh, that's sweet ... but they have to say that." Then, as more and more came in, all echoing the same qualities over and over, I started to believe it. (And, yes, my ex-husband and his wife each sent me a kind and wonderful list.)
Then, I wrote.
First, I wrote "how others see me." Using present tense "I" statements, I wrote up all of the qualities people were giving me. It was two full pages of awesomeness.
The same things came up so often, there was no way I could deny that it is me. At the very least, it's the me the world sees when I'm at my best.
It was the self-esteem boost I needed to get myself writing a personal vision. Again, using present tense statements, I wrote about the life I want now and in the future. It was incredibly empowering.
Since I wrote those documents — eight pages of who I am and what I want in my life — things have dramatically shifted for the better. I'm able to concentrate better. I'm more emotionally stable. I'm thinking a bit more clearly. I feel hopeful again. I'm not all there, but I have vastly improved.
When I have moments where I'm getting that feeling where I'm about to spin out of control, I read my statements. If things are really feeling badly, I read them out loud. Sometimes, I can't do it aloud, but I'll mouth the words. Something about the physical act of reading them makes me concentrate harder, makes me feel it, makes me believe it.
As I've done this, I haven't needed to call one friend to cheer me up in the last 10 days. Yes, I've talked to friends, but it's been really more about quality time laughing or catching up. I haven't needed someone to tell me I'm OK. I have my statements to tell me and I can slowly feel my inner voice starting to say it.
As I write now, I can tell you those qualities about me are absolutely true. I can also tell you I'm perfectly capable of achieving my vision — both in my life and relationship goals. In fact, it's pretty true right this minute, minus a few minor details. My therapist and a few close friends tell me those details are there right now, I just have to grab them. As I write now, I'm not sure at all why I didn't think I could do it, even for a moment. However, in an hour, I'm just as likely to feel frustrated and hopeless. That's when I'll pick them up and read them again.
I'm looking forward to the moment when those visions feel like an integral part of me. They are, to say the least, very inspiring. I want it all.
So, I'm still working, as I'm sure I always will be. I'm still trying to get the anger under control. I'm still trying to integrate how others see me into my psyche. (Did you know I have great hair? I HAD NO IDEA! But at least four people said it, so I'm going to believe it now.) And I'm trying hard not to put pressure on myself to work on everything at once, which is really impossible and exhausting. I'm just trying to believe it for now.
And because ABBA makes everything better, here's a song for you. I picked this version because their blue eyeshadow matches their blue outfits! And if ABBA can be one of the most commercially successful acts in rock history with those awkward dance moves, surely I can write a book people will read. My dance moves are better.
Blogger's note: I wrote this blog post a few days ago, then almost immediately second-guessed it. I didn't want to post something that felt false and within just a few hours of writing it, I had spun out of this moment of clarity and back to a darker, foggier side of my brain. It's been several days of enormous suckitude since. Yesterday, a friend posted this video for me as a show of support. The lyrics of the whole song really sound like the band followed me around and took notes on my life in preparation for writing their song. Of course, I feel that way because I generally forget the universe doesn't revolve around me and these are themes felt by most people. I decided to take my friend posting the song for me as a sign from the universe (or a sign from Cass) that I should believe in myself for more than a heartbeat and just publish it. So, maybe I'm not feeling my own blog post at the moment, but I hope I get back there soon. For those of you not feeling it either, just for now, let's carry on.
Santa is very bad. Awful. Stinking rotten.
I'll admit it: I'm an emo 13-year-old girl inside. It doesn't matter if I'm up or down, I have trouble controlling what words come flying out of my fingertips. Social media is not my friend in these moments. I'm a media professional who considers herself a responsible writer, holding herself to standards unheard or unrealized by oh-so-many Millennials, who have grown up believing that words are something to flick off a touch screen at lightning speed. Despite my high ideals, I still shoot off status posts that lead many of my friends to question my mental and physical health, and rightly so. I need an "emo filter" on my status posts.
If I'm particularly wallowing in the existential self-pity that plagues those of us caught in perpetual pubescent angst, I post song lyrics.
You swore and said
We are not
We are not shining stars
This I know
I never said we are
Though I've never been through hell like that
I've closed enough windows
To know you can never look back
If you're lost and alone
Or you're sinking like a stone
Carry on
May your past be the sound
Of your feet upon the ground
Carry on
Carry On by Fun.
I'm not going to lie, folks, the last six and a half weeks of my life have sucked. I've been deeply hurt, which led to me being out of control, sad, enraged — a lot of emotions I'm not used to having anymore or ever. I've felt anxiety unlike any I've ever felt in my life and — with two cancer diagnoses behind me — you can imagine the anxiety I've managed to navigate in the past. At times — oh, hell, most of the time — I've felt like the only person on the planet who has been or is suffering heartbreak. The only person to have been deeply betrayed, not once, but many times. The only person to wake up on Christmas morning and realize there is no fucking Santa Claus, only a heaping mountain of lies.
Truly, when friends have given me the smack I needed and said, "Hey, wake up idiot! This happens to lots of people! You aren't the only 40-something who feels her life is horribly off track! You aren't the only person who has been devastated!" I felt like their voices were far away, like a pinpoint of light at the end of a very long, dark, cold path in the woods. I knew the light was there, but I didn't really believe I'd ever make it. It seemed pretty impossible.
I get it now. The light is a closer, anyway, and I know I have the power to carry me there, but it's going to take time to reach it. It still stinks. I'll probably have to take some naps along the way. I need a Gatorade and a Power Bar. But it's getting closer.
But I like to think
I can cheat it all
To make up for the times I've been cheated on
And it's nice to know
When I was left for dead
I was found and now I don't roam these streets
I am not the ghost you want of me
I doubt very much the next six months or year (or the rest of my life) is going to be the non-stop party I'd like it to be. (WHY NOT!?!?!?!) I know how I work. It's always two steps forward and one step back. A big fat party and a week of recuperation. Struggling to climb a ladder, while skinning my knees and gathering bruises everywhere. The backpedaling is never a choice I make. I'm never running away. Running away has never been an option for me. It's just backsliding and it just happens. My body and my brain just put on the brakes, slide back and force me to slow down. It's part of the process and the only way to make overall progress. But I'm telling ya, it blows: sorting out real from lies; admitting what was done to me and what I did to myself; acknowledging the woundedness in others, while only able to do anything about the woundedness of myself. There is only one word for it:
UGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
I hope I spelled that right.
However, I'm going to carry on. I want my past to be the sound of my feet on the ground. So, I carry on.
Emo girl, out. (microphone drop)
P.S. And if I ever get a chance, I'm marrying that dude from Fun. Because he named his band Fun. With a period. He didn't say, "Hey, guys, let's name our band Fun because we like to have Fun." No, he said, "Let's name our band Fun., period." It's an order, not a passing thought. Brilliant.
A year ago today, I had my ovaries removed. I had hoped this would be the end of my battle against a recurrence of cancer and the beginning of life anew.
I knew better, of course. Medication was forever in my future. I just didn't have any desire to be a cancer patient one day longer - not that I ever wanted to start. I wanted a clean break, a place to mark treatment as "done." I wanted it over.
It was the saddest of all of my surgeries - after a long line of surgeries that brought forth more emotional pain than I had previously considered possible. The recurrence after five years of constant treatment with a cancer-fighting drug had severed my last thread of hope of having another baby. Rather than incubating a child inside of me, my body chose to be hospitable to cancer instead. The hormone stew of pregnancy would be far too risky for me to try ever again.
The oophrectomy was necessary to cut off the primary source of estrogen in me. While I was already taking shots to suppress my ovaries, I'd had time to process the news of the recurrence and understood the expensive shots were pointless when a permanent option was available.
I knew the surgery wouldn't be the last of it, but I just wanted to move on. I felt this so much more desperately than after my first diagnosis. The first time was tough, of course, yet I felt then like i was on a mission to plan, attack and defeat. But last year, from my diagnosis in June to this surgery in November, all I could feel is, "I don't have time for this."
If that was the refrain in my head while I was in treatment last year, the year since my last surgery has been, "I want to feel better."
I am in pain every day. I am tired. I live life on a simmer. It sucks. I want to feel better.
Of course, I'm grateful for the life I have, yet that doesn't erase the worry that my days are likely numbered. I just want those days (which are hopefully counted in years and, God, I hope, decades) to be as awesome as possible.
I've spent the last six or seven months trying to get to better health, making it a priority on par with caring for my child. I've made progress, but at a frighteningly slow pace and without the medical input I'd prefer. In fact, the two biggest leaps forward I had were the equivalent of a medical break-through where I used myself as a guinea pig.
The answers are slow in coming. Meanwhile, my days tick away and I wonder if I will ever get to mark one as "the end," while looking forward to a new beginning.
