Trying to creatively exhaust this nervous energy

Its May already. My last post was December, before Christmas shopping.

Life has been so busy, so energy sapping, so full and challenging - its kept me away from writing for writing's sake. But today, and lately, when there is a bubble of unease and my feet tap, my fingers flutter and wring, and there's no single thing causing all of this nervous activity but maybe just the whole load of it beggining to slip as my mental acceptance of all my roles suffers in continuity - maybe this is the time to try and write.

My roles - as mother to three teens, as medical coordinator and interloper for my oldest in the journey to wellness, as the first line of contact for teachers, principals and guidance counselors, as a single head of household in charge of groceries, laundry, cooking, cleaning, upkeep and beautification, as full-time researcher making up for a lost year of projects due to cancer treatments, in striving to regain athlete status, as friend to many, and an obvious indulger of some portion of self pity.

My physical energy is so often zapped by my mental state. Dinner has been later and later until last week, none at all offered three of four school nights (there were snacks on the shelves). And I, who hate TV, have watched 13 episodes of Awake, finishing the series in a 6 episode marathon my one free night without the kids in four months. At least I am too immobilized to eat, unless there is cookie dough in the fridge or chocolate stashed above the rangetop.

Its finially spring so I am impatient for more energy to well up inside me. But not this nervous kind that keeps my feet tapping while I am at work, unable to craft the large specific data sets for uber-analyses that is my distinguishing skill here.

I have stopped saying that I hate my hair, since its okay, I guess. And so many point out that at least now I have some. I quite liked the cue ball look since it drew the focus to my face, which I know well. And of course the awesome eagle feather tattoo on the back, now hidden from the world.  This awful soft mass of curly dark thick hair that reminds me of middle-aged clowns startles me still everytime I look into a mirror, which is as little as I can get away with. All I see is the hair and I've never seen it on me until these last six months. And no matter what you think, that is not enough time to get used to it. It doesn't convincingly cover the 46 years of blonde straight hair I expect to see each and every time I dare to peek.

Complain, complain, complain. Is that what its come to? In nearly 48 years I should have learned the futility of complaints.

My kids are lovely. A wealth and depth of challenging entertainment. And the one thing I am so deeply pleased with is, that despite their lack of generally useful socialization skills (memory, organization, a sense of responsibility, eagerness towards work, a willingness to follow rules) they are all deeply ingrained in the art of grattitude and social awareness (re: prejudice of any kind), they are all outspoken, expressing strongly their innate personalities, and they let me know how happy they are to still have me in their lives. Almost daily they communicate that. Can't ask for much more as a parent. Except maybe help with the dishes and laundry and....

Next up, and soon I hope, is my re-discovery of Bernice. A dear and cherished friend that I met 19 years ago in France, that passed away 18 months later from cancer, through whose many letters in that dense 18 months span told me her life story. An amazing story. An amazing woman. One who puts me five degrees of separation from Hilter. Maybe Ghandi too, but we didn't discover that before she died. Re-reading our letters after my own bout of cancer brought a whole new meaning to them, to her and what she was trying to express. I can't wait for you to meet her and I'm sure she wouldn't mind. Until then - please - forgive the hair.

It Hurts to Laugh

I am having one of those days... The kind that is so ridiculous that it makes you laugh. Except it hurts to laugh. Since the rake. That was against the wall next to the oil tank. And behind a multitude of bags of carefully sorted recycling.

At least I got my hot shower, in time for my 7am meeting. But it ran luekwarm while washing up the dishes and while a cranky ten year old wash trying to shower. Late and hurrying, I detoured to the garage on my way to the car to check the oil tank. But the meager lighting had me back out digging in the back of my car for a headlamp to see into that dark corner. Stepping around the recycling bags closest to the wall just in front of the tank, I clocked myself in the jaw solidly enough to see stars by stepping on the buisiness end of a metal rake and getting the handle upside my head. I didn't hear twinkling bells or tweeting birds as they do in the cartoons but I was dizzy and swearing and late and ... out of oil. $1000 to fill it. One paycheck before Christmas. Sigh.

I was dizzy enough to catch myself driving on the wrong side of the road 5 minutes and 2 miles later when I turned onto Rt1. I was dizzy enough to feel a monster headache setting in by the time I reached the interstate 3 miles after that. And when I opened my mouth to bite into my on-the-go McD's finest breakfast sandwhich, I winced in pain. But at least if its my jaw, I probably won't be sporting a black eye the rest of the week.

And then my pants zipper broke. Jeans. Yep. Just moments before my bi-weekly progress report meeting with my boss. Did I mention my head still really, really hurts. Especially when I laugh?

I am laying low the rest of the day, somewhere between laughter and tears.

Wallowing Again

Like knifeblades, lately, your words to my heart.
And still ever that smile, so soft as we part.
Can you feel it, this drifting and do you act out of grace?
Or are you oblivious to the tears on my face?
My Someday is receding too far out of view
Yet I can't turn away from the beauty of you.
A partner, you say, would help ease my load
Yet you will not step in where my heart would enfold.
My heartsong's turned somber and salty as brine
With the thought that I never may call you mine.

155 - Not mine, but needed.

Ever stumble across something you really needed to hear just when you needed to hear it? I did. This morning. From one of my favorite writers. This is it. Thank-you Oriah.

The Call - (Oriah Mountain Dreamer)


I have heard it all my life,
A voice calling a name I recognized as my own.

Sometimes it comes as a soft-bellied whisper
Sometimes it holds an edge of urgency.
But always it says: Wake up, my love. You are walking asleep.
There’s no safety in that!

Remember what you are, and let a deeper knowing
color the shape of your humanness.
There is nowhere to go. What you are looking for is right here.
Open the fist clenched in wanting and see what you already hold in your hand.
There is no waiting for something to happen,
no point in the future to get to.

All you have ever longed for is here in this moment, right now.
You are wearing yourself out with all this searching.
Come home and rest.
How much longer can you live like this?
Your hungry spirit is gaunt, your heart stumbles. All this trying.
Give it up!
Let yourself be one of the God-mad,
faithful only to the Beauty you are.
Let the Lover pull you to your feet and hold you close
dancing even when fear urges you to sit this one out
Remember, there is one word you are here to say with your whole being.
When it finds you, give your life to it. Don’t be tight-lipped and stingy.
Spend yourself completely on the saying,
Be one word in this great love poem we are writing together.

--Oriah Mountain Dreamer

156 weeks, more or less

          I've calculated that I've got 156 weeks until I turn 50, and, because I want to be writing full time by then, I thought it would help to write at least one blog post a week until the big day. So here is the first. A few days late (not such a great start), but its been a busy first week.

          On my 47th birthday, we re-elected President Barak Obama! I am thrilled that he will see me into my 50th year as our President because he renews my faith in America. That we elected him twice by wide margins. That it wasn't just change we were looking for, but his vision of what we can be as a nation. Its a kinder nation, more compassionate. One that allows gays in the military to come out of the closet, that allows the bottom tier access to health insurance, that finds ways to keep blue collar jobs at home and that did not obfuscate on support for marriage equality. Most Obama detractors I know are mainly worried about their own bottom line, dollars and cents. They look at Obama and the people his policies help and think they are different. But what we gain when we look beyond our own situation, when we look at others as no different then ourselves, is of far more value than what can fit in our wallets. Thankfully, a majority of Americans felt the same way.

          The next day, I learned once again what heartbreakers kids can be. This time my youngest Rose, who, at 10, has decided to start in with the teenage melodrama, angst and disappointment. I should be happy to join the ranks of diligent parents that would applaud the lions roar response of the middle school guidance department upon coming across her doodled skull and crossbones with "Kill myself, Kill myself, Kill myself." scrawled at the bottom, but since it was my kid and my life's choices and parenting suddenly coming under close scrutiny, I admit to being less than thrilled with the hyper-sensitivity of the system. I did cancel the rest of my workday to meet her getting off the bus only to be told "Mom, that thing at school today. They talked to me, they made me understand what they thought. Its not a big deal, I was just mad. We don't need to have me see anybody, we don't even need to talk about it. It won't happen again." Sigh. If only it were that simple.

          The day after that, I got out the second issue of our department newsletter, acting as editorial lead, which means cutting and pasting with flair and being responsible for any typo or broken link. I am thrilled with the tedium of putting it together, with crafting a pleasing template and making it look magazine-like. I pushed hard for more engaging writing styles but its hard for research scientists to break out of the dry, objective tone we are required to report our most exciting findings in for publication in research journals. Even things like catchier titles - 'Itching for a New Rash Model' - were nixed for a more subdued 'In vitro Keratinocyte Model for Compounds hat Induse Rash'. But its writing of a sort, and its a step in the right direction.

          On the Cancer front, yeah, still dealing with that. Two wonderful things; met a woman and fellow survivor named Marianna who, tears in her eyes, introduced herself at the gym my first day back there. She had seen me strutting around at work with no wig and the bold feather tattoo and had wanted to say how brave she thought that was. She is lovely and gracious, feminine in a way I can never pull off, but raunchy too in that way that makes you want to share a cold beer. Her own treatment was much longer and harder than mine, full of rich stories and has a happy conclusion so far. Its going to be a great connection.

          Also on the plus side was my nipple reconstruction surgey yesterday at Faulkner Hospital. Wayde was my companion yet again. It took just under an hour and I was awake and chatting throughout. I noew have Franken nipples for the next two weeks when they remove the 300+ microstitches. It will be 3+ months before they can be tattooed a normal color and then the reconstruction is complete. The attached picture is of the proceedure I had. Truly amazing artwork.

          On the downside, my neighbor Terri stopped me this morning to tell me her mom has been idagnosed with breast cancer and starts chemo next Wednesday. Her mom has been a strong supporter of her and is a strong, hardy New England type. I know she'll be fine, but its not an easy near-term future so I am sad for what's ahead for her. There are always silver linings for everyone, so although its a path you have no choice but to follow, its a rich path to walk for most. I wish her speedy recovery.

          A few days from now is Thanksgiving. A day of food and family, and always for me, a time of reflection and thanks. And possibly another blog post. One can hope. One down, 155 to go...

Tomorrow's Black Hole

This overwhelming anxiety that has been plaguing me of late, that has me topping over emotionally with each powerful song, vivid art encounter or honest conversation. Its not all negative, though it tends that way. Its more of that over-adrenalin aching over-readiness while waiting for something bad to happen.

I am such an optimist that this is the last thing I expect from me. But I am coming up on one year since my diagnosis. October 31st was the mammogram turned into an immediately scheduled biopsy the next morning. Then November 4th, four agonizing days later, came the call "Sorry, you have cancer." Just in time for me to contemplate that for my birthday on November 6th.

I had already become leary of my birthday. I embrace getting older but lately... In 2002, 2007 and 2008 I was tossed out of my job (layoffs) a week or so before my birthday and in 2004 I had to share that special day with G.W.'s 're-'election.  By November 6th 2009 I was re-employed and November 6th 2010 I crossed the finish line of my first IronMan triathlon, so it hasn't been all bad. But 2011 was a doozy.

And so maybe that is why I write this post from my bedroom floor, after having so recently lain there sobbing, winter and summer clothes piled all around me in mid-transition, a blanket pulled off the bed wrapped around me helping me hide my tear-streaked face from the kids, feeling so overwhelmed and so devoid of any hope or purpose that only the dawning thought that this anniversary might be at its root could I sit up and begin to tame it with words.

I guess I'm just scared of what tomorrow will bring. And my only strength, at this moment, is in being able to admit that.

Living Better

          So 46 may not seem that old, I haven’t even gotten my AARP packet yet, but my life and career goals for age 50, my mental crossing over into ‘old-age’ has been approaching at an alarming speed and with a flurry of activities to drive my mindset there.
          In October of 1999, months after my second child was born and months before the fated millennium midnight and all the potential chaos that would ensue, I was being told I had hypo-thyroidism and would have to take a daily prescription medicine for the rest of my life. This was the first time I felt truly mortal, and that I was not young anymore. I was glad civilization did not break down after midnight 1999 as I had prescriptions to fill.
          Skip forward 12 years to last Halloween when I was being told I had invasive ductile carcinoma of the breast I had a similar, yet hugely magnified, emotional experience of mortality and sense of loss of youth. Between the two events, I felt I had reclaimed my youth by getting my weight down with walking and exercise. Eventually I found my way into a running and triathlon crowd that culminated in a personal finish of the Ford Ironman Triathlon – a 2.5 mile swim, a 112 mile bike and 26.2 mile full marathon run – on the day of my 45th birthday in a respectable thirteen and a half hours. Age never seemed so irrelevant as that instant my feet crossed the finish line.
          These last eight months, since getting my cancer diagnosis, has been a different journey, but one that has brought all the others into context and one in which age is a constant factor – in treatment options, in recurrence and survival statistics, and in personal choices for medical treatment. I opted for going through a double mastectomy and four rounds of chemotherapy even though it was early stage breast cancer and localized – 46 seemed young enough to take every possible measure to assure I need to take this particular journey only once. I now have more than a dozen meds on my active prescription list, some I will take for at least five years, and the thyroid medicine for the rest of my life, which I decided to be about 96 years. But my med list is as robust a list as many of our bona-fide senior citizens – which inevitably has made me rethink my assumptions about both our seniors and the extent of long-term medical assistance.
          I believe that what matters most at this point and going forward is what makes us feel young emotionally and physically. Laughter, friendship, love, ease of pain and movement, restoration of abilities and senses. In this day and age of medical advances we all are getting the opportunity to live longer, but more importantly, and where my optimism springs from, is in this later phase, the ‘golden years’, we are also being given the opportunity to live better. Truly better.