Chemo is a necessary evil.
It's sort of like a "good war," if there is such a thing. You know the fight needs to be fought, but no one really wants to experience it. There are all these plans and strategies and tactics. Certain drugs work on one front but not on others. Some take a proactive, offensive approach, while others fight the disease in a reactive, defensive state. It can leave you feeling ravaged, exhausted, less than you were before you began. It can beat back the enemy, but you're never sure if it's just a retreat or a victory.
But still, you have to go to battle ever so often to keep some semblance of peace. Even if you know that there will never be a victory.
For the last 7 weeks I've been on an oral chemo regimen called Xeloda. I take 3500 mg - 7 pills, 3 with breakfast, 4 with dinner - every day for 14 days, and then I take one week off. Rinse and repeat until they decide: 1) It has served its duty in causing my liver lesions to retreat temporarily 3) It isn't working and we have to try a new tactic. Xeloda is a popular drug because it causes far fewer side effects than most chemotherapy agents. No hair loss is a great bonus. Most people don't get too sick while taking it. However, I have been experiencing a lot of nausea, fatigue during my experience with it so far.
I have good days and bad. Highs and lows. Some days straddle the line between the two...either I start strong and fade fast, or I struggle to get out of bed but somehow end up staying up late because I'm feeling ok again.
I realize that I'm probably experiencing more of the negative side effects than a lot of people because of the way I straddle that line. If you know me in person, you know I go until I can't go anymore. It's my own special sickness, I guess. Some people may call it "type A," some say it's superhuman, some probably think I'm not quite sane. I say it's probably all of the above with the emphasis on "not quite sane." Whatever it is, it is my nature. It's my gift, and it's my tragic flaw.
Everything I've done in my life I've committed to until it drains me, either physically, financially, professionally, emotionally... Piano. My house, my yard. Work. Relationships...
I played piano for years until it wrecked my arm, and i literally had to re-learn how to play after two surgeries and ultimately led to a complete lack of desire to ever play again. But man I loved it when I did play. I lived for the sound. I hung onto notes until I couldn't drip any more sound out of them. I craved the physical pleasure and the emotional release of creating sound from that instrument. But then one day it turned against me. I fought it, but I never recovered.
10 years ago I bought a house that I saw great potential in. I poured all my money into this house. I poured a relationship into this house. I poured hours of volunteer/"mission work" from family and friends into this house and yard. I took a backyard from piles of rubble and kudzu into beds of flowers and trees and life. I fought bamboo and privet and ivy to lay a brick patio (mostly) all by myself. I mulched. I hand-weeded. I painted. I scrubbed. I refinanced. I refinanced again. All with the dream that I would give it the chance it needed to be great one day even if it caused back pains, headaches, debt, disappointment, anger. I give it my all until I can't give anymore -- which explains my yard's current state of disarray, my interior's disastrous clutter, and my growing pangs of claustrophobia. I love my house because I committed to it, even when it hurts.
I've worked for the same company for over 15 years. There are days when I hate it. There are days I want to walk out and never look back. But there are days it challenges me, inspires me, and teaches me to never stop learning. I am so blessed to work for the company and in the company of such great individuals. But for about 12 of those 15 years I did the jobs of 3 people. I did marketing. I did HR. I did bookkeeping. I did it all. I shouldn't have done it all. No one should. But I was (and am) so committed that I did way more than I should have. I often feel that the stress I put on myself for so long may have contributed in a way to my cancer by way of inflammation and just constant stress and multitasking. Even now I continue to work semi-regular hours. I still mediate between coworkers. I still stress over deadlines, failures, and whether or not I'm disappointing my team. I work an 8-9 hour day, and then I can't work the next because I did too much. I just can't help it. The lows inevitably follow the highs of the commitment to being everything.
And relationships...hoo boy. That's a whole other chapter for another time.
But back to chemo....
Now that I've confessed my commitment issues, I can see why I am probably having more trouble with this chemo drug. Ever since my diagnosis of metastatic disease, I've been determined to not let it stop me. I've worked. I've traveled. I've traveled some more. I've gardened. I've been to music festivals. I stood on the White House press podium, and sat in an NPR studio. I've been in a movie. I walked on the track at Churchill Downs. I've met rock stars, and chefs, and bartenders, and winemakers. Not to mention all my Twitter friends. I've sipped and dined and rocked and cleaned and danced and mentored and hiked and photographed until I can't go anymore. Those are the highs. And that High Life is so worth it. And I am committed to sucking every ounce of that High Life while I can.
In those moments and those days, I don't feel sick at all. My soul allows me to feel that way all the way up until the chemo kicks in to remind me to SLOW DOWN, YOU ARE SICK AND I'M TRYING TO DO MY JOB. And then come the lows. The tears. The nausea. The seemingly unending fatigue. Then I realize that there's that battle again. It's been going on while I've been living the highs. Sometimes, I need to let that battle go on while I rest so I don't burn out.
So rage on, chemo. I'm committed to life as long as I can be, straddling the highs and lows.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Friday, July 25, 2014
On heartbreak, setbacks and moving forward
Many of you may remember that when I first diagnosed with breast cancer, I chose to pursue fertility preservation in the event any cancer treatments would pose a risk to my ability to have children afterward. You can read about my decision to do so with my then-boyfriend, now-husband over here.
Long-story short on that decision: I'm glad I made it. As you know, over the next year my cancer spread to my liver and brain, taking me from "Stage 0" or "just DCIS" to Stage 4/Metastatic Breast Cancer. I was told last spring by my medical oncologist that not only was I in chemically-induced menopause - and will remain there - but that I also could not carry a child using our pre-baked/frozen "maybe-babies." The bursts of estrogen associated with pregnancy would cause my cancer to roar back, putting me at almost-certain risk of recurrence and/or death.
Even though, I knew this was my reality, it still hurt like hell to hear it told to my face. It hurt my heart to hear what my brain already knew. I would never be a mom in the "normal way." I took a day off from work to mourn, and then got back to my semi-normal life of working, doctor's appointments, scans, traveling, etc. I "got over it," I guess. Gestational surrogacy using our embryos was our only option. Luckily, we have 9 or 10 embryos that are 100% "Kristen + Michael" DNA, and 10 more Kristen-eggs as backup.
Sometimes I would get sad & "pity party" about my situation -- for example, reading about acquaintances getting pregnant ("again!") or get a baby shower invitation ("That's so great!! I'm so happy for you!!"). It's not that I wasn't legitimately happy for these other women -- I was, I promise! It's just that some days jealousy is inevitable, and I would let myself sink into the darkness of it. But in these times, Michael would be my light: comforting me, reminding me that I would never have to deal with the morning sickness, the swollen feet, the heartburn...the LABOR PAINS. "Plus, I can actually drink the mimosas at my own baby shower!" After I while I would always start to feel better again. Those all sounded like good things to avoid...as did the bit about staying alive a few years longer.
As the months passed, I talked more and more about surrogacy to a good friend. While she's several years younger than me, she has three kids of her own, had relatively "easy" pregnancies, and we just click like sisters do. After the birth of her third child last year, she offered to be my surrogate. I made sure her whole family was okay with this decision...husband, kids, etc. I mean, it's a very big decision to make! I was thrilled beyond compare when I had what seemed to be the "perfect" option...someone I was close to (geographically and emotionally), someone I trusted, and someone I didn't have to pay through a surrogacy agency -- saving Michael and me about $30,000-40,000.
We kept this news very quiet because we didn't want to announce anything until a lot of the groundwork was already laid --- legal issues, medical issues, etc. Think of it as the 12-week waiting period that most people wait to announce they are pregnant. We had, however, scheduled meetings with the surrogacy lawyer and the fertility doctor we used in 2012. We were moving forward, and I began to get very excited!
However, as I've learned over my 36+ years here on earth, life takes you where it goes. I'm the captain steering this ship, but sometimes the current changes your course before you realize what's going on. The week before our meeting with the surrogacy lawyer, my friend had an OB/GYN appointment, in which she learned she had two issues that would make it both dangerous and difficult to carry another child...hers or mine. She came over to my house to talk about it face to face, and we were both heartbroken. She for me, and I for her. And of course....I was heartbroken for myself and Michael.
Our "perfect" option was no longer an option at all.
Again, I let myself mourn for a couple of days. With Michael's love and encouragement and hours of Netflix binge-watching, I eventually emerged on the other side, that of acceptance versus disappointment. We kept the appointments with both the surrogacy lawyer and the fertility doctor. We learned what it would take to go the agency route and use a stranger as our surrogate. We learned of the matching process, the psychological and medical testing, the IVF transfer process, and the total cost of doing so.
We were told that if we found another friend or family member (or IDEALLY a woman who has been a gestational surrogate before) to be our maybe-baby's "rent-a-womb" for 9 months, we would save significantly. They advised us to look around for someone else, but they also assured us that if we could not find another volunteer that there are many other women out there with compassionate hearts and healthy medical records willing to do it for a fee.
So here we are today...stuck in between a setback and moving forward. Wondering if another volunteer is out there waiting for us, or if we should go the more straightforward path (or as straight as our crazy path is ever going to get!) and pony up for an agency surrogate which could lead us to a pregnancy in the next 3-4 months. We've already come so far on this journey, though, and it means the absolute world to us to have a child - OUR CHILD - created in love (& science!) to carry on our love for decades to come. Our heartbreak is healing and blossoming into hope. We know a child will happen. We just don't know when or how. But all we can do is just keep moving forward.
The good part is next.
Long-story short on that decision: I'm glad I made it. As you know, over the next year my cancer spread to my liver and brain, taking me from "Stage 0" or "just DCIS" to Stage 4/Metastatic Breast Cancer. I was told last spring by my medical oncologist that not only was I in chemically-induced menopause - and will remain there - but that I also could not carry a child using our pre-baked/frozen "maybe-babies." The bursts of estrogen associated with pregnancy would cause my cancer to roar back, putting me at almost-certain risk of recurrence and/or death.
Even though, I knew this was my reality, it still hurt like hell to hear it told to my face. It hurt my heart to hear what my brain already knew. I would never be a mom in the "normal way." I took a day off from work to mourn, and then got back to my semi-normal life of working, doctor's appointments, scans, traveling, etc. I "got over it," I guess. Gestational surrogacy using our embryos was our only option. Luckily, we have 9 or 10 embryos that are 100% "Kristen + Michael" DNA, and 10 more Kristen-eggs as backup.
Sometimes I would get sad & "pity party" about my situation -- for example, reading about acquaintances getting pregnant ("again!") or get a baby shower invitation ("That's so great!! I'm so happy for you!!"). It's not that I wasn't legitimately happy for these other women -- I was, I promise! It's just that some days jealousy is inevitable, and I would let myself sink into the darkness of it. But in these times, Michael would be my light: comforting me, reminding me that I would never have to deal with the morning sickness, the swollen feet, the heartburn...the LABOR PAINS. "Plus, I can actually drink the mimosas at my own baby shower!" After I while I would always start to feel better again. Those all sounded like good things to avoid...as did the bit about staying alive a few years longer.
As the months passed, I talked more and more about surrogacy to a good friend. While she's several years younger than me, she has three kids of her own, had relatively "easy" pregnancies, and we just click like sisters do. After the birth of her third child last year, she offered to be my surrogate. I made sure her whole family was okay with this decision...husband, kids, etc. I mean, it's a very big decision to make! I was thrilled beyond compare when I had what seemed to be the "perfect" option...someone I was close to (geographically and emotionally), someone I trusted, and someone I didn't have to pay through a surrogacy agency -- saving Michael and me about $30,000-40,000.
We kept this news very quiet because we didn't want to announce anything until a lot of the groundwork was already laid --- legal issues, medical issues, etc. Think of it as the 12-week waiting period that most people wait to announce they are pregnant. We had, however, scheduled meetings with the surrogacy lawyer and the fertility doctor we used in 2012. We were moving forward, and I began to get very excited!
However, as I've learned over my 36+ years here on earth, life takes you where it goes. I'm the captain steering this ship, but sometimes the current changes your course before you realize what's going on. The week before our meeting with the surrogacy lawyer, my friend had an OB/GYN appointment, in which she learned she had two issues that would make it both dangerous and difficult to carry another child...hers or mine. She came over to my house to talk about it face to face, and we were both heartbroken. She for me, and I for her. And of course....I was heartbroken for myself and Michael.
Our "perfect" option was no longer an option at all.
Again, I let myself mourn for a couple of days. With Michael's love and encouragement and hours of Netflix binge-watching, I eventually emerged on the other side, that of acceptance versus disappointment. We kept the appointments with both the surrogacy lawyer and the fertility doctor. We learned what it would take to go the agency route and use a stranger as our surrogate. We learned of the matching process, the psychological and medical testing, the IVF transfer process, and the total cost of doing so.
We were told that if we found another friend or family member (or IDEALLY a woman who has been a gestational surrogate before) to be our maybe-baby's "rent-a-womb" for 9 months, we would save significantly. They advised us to look around for someone else, but they also assured us that if we could not find another volunteer that there are many other women out there with compassionate hearts and healthy medical records willing to do it for a fee.
So here we are today...stuck in between a setback and moving forward. Wondering if another volunteer is out there waiting for us, or if we should go the more straightforward path (or as straight as our crazy path is ever going to get!) and pony up for an agency surrogate which could lead us to a pregnancy in the next 3-4 months. We've already come so far on this journey, though, and it means the absolute world to us to have a child - OUR CHILD - created in love (& science!) to carry on our love for decades to come. Our heartbreak is healing and blossoming into hope. We know a child will happen. We just don't know when or how. But all we can do is just keep moving forward.
The good part is next.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
#YesALLWomen - Time for a Blogfessional
I've had a pretty blue two days for reasons I'll talk about later, so today I set off on a wandering journey around intown Atlanta. I thought about a lot of things, but then I got distracted by this #YesALLWomen #NotAllMen controversy. I thought I was on the uncontroversial side of things by posting something that explained why it's a valid topic of conversation. I innocently reposted a link on Facebook that discussed both the Isla Vista shooting and the hashtag that came about over the weekend. I made no other comment on the shooting or the article, but I received a derisive comment about the article saying it was "most regrettable" and didn't have anything to do with the tragedy at Isla Vista. I shared the article not in response to the shooting, but for what it actually said: "What is #YesALLWomen and Why It's Important."
Here's the thing...we need to talk more about our experiences as women....I need to talk more about my experience as a woman who has been threatened, abused and assaulted. It IS important, and it is a problem worth sharing. I do not find it "regrettable" that so many women (and supportive men) are talking about this. I find it deeply regrettable that we haven't had this conversation so openly until now. I find it deeply regrettable that I haven't shared my own experiences but with a very few people.
Here's a sampling that I, alone, have experienced. Yes, well-adjusted, generally optimistic Kristen. I've dealt with a lot of shit. And yes, I've dealt (or not dealt) with a lot of it poorly. I've laughed some of it off. I've kept a lot of it hidden. But it's blogfessional time and since so many other strong women have shared their stories, I need to "woman up" and and share some of mine.
Remember that time I was at summer camp as a somewhat dorky 14.5 year old and I was cornered by 4 older guys while trying to put up my lunch tray who told me I was "too pure" and "needed to be corrupted"?
Remember that time I was trying to lift up my high school boyfriend during college application time by telling him all the things he'd be great at, and he responded "You'd be a great secretary."
Remember how I was 16 and on a FAMILY beach trip in which I met my new "cousin" (by marriage only) who proceeded to hit on me all week, try to fondle me and grab my hand to put on his crotch? Remember how many times I said no? Probably not, since I felt like I couldn't tell anyone because I felt I would be blamed or made fun of.
Remember that time in college when I was told I was "too intimidating" for anyone to ask me out? And that I should just "smile more" or not be as into music or politics or academics.
Remember that time senior year in which I was having beers with a male friend who started pawing at me and unzipping my jeans in the bar parking lot as I tried to drive his drunken ass home telling him "no" and "stop" knowing full well that he had a girlfriend of his own. Remember when he continued that when we got back to the apartment and how I continued to say NO? Remember how I couldn't tell any of my friends because I would be judged for trying to break up their relationship? Remember how I had to move away from all of my friends just to get away from the judgment and the "bad decisions" (which I had tried to say no to, over and over)?
Then remember that time when I was 23 and I was slapped across my face and then knocked unconscious by a guy I used to work with when he threw me up against a wall just because? Oh and it gets better...when it was clear that I suffered a slight concussion, my ex-boyfriend drove me back to his place and then decided to have sex with me. The ex-boyfriend that dumped me two months prior saying he "felt nothing" for me. Obviously part of him still felt something. Meanwhile, I woke up the next morning and went to work for a 10-hour shift at the store wondering why I had a gash on the back of my head and a raging headache.
There was that other guy that I dated for a while who thought it would be funny to bite my breast hard enough to cause a large hematoma for a few weeks. Why would that ever be okay? SERIOUSLY.
And that other guy...a "friend" who I turned down repeatedly who kicked in the door of my friend's car when I showed interest in anyone other than him.
And then there was the Kentucky Derby Infield in 2001...where I along with 40,000 other people got drunk in the sun. And at one point late in the day, I was led off by a guy I did not know who then started kissing my neck and running his hands up my shorts and beyond. I was sexually assaulted in a crowd full of people too drunk to notice and a guy too empowered to do so by us not saying THIS ISN'T RIGHT.
Even this year, 2014, on Kentucky Derby Day when I wasn't drunk, wasn't immodestly dressed, wasn't "asking for it" I had my ass slapped - HARD - by an emboldened young man who looked me dead in the eye and said "I did that. Did you like it?" I had no response other than shock. I laughed it off afterward as my husband exclaimed "Hey! That just means you still got it!" And yes, I guess I do. But in what world is it ever okay for a young man to slap a woman (of any age) in a crowded, dark tunnel where I couldn't get away from him? It really shouldn't be ok. Ever.
I've been accused of being "cold and frigid," "asexual," "a fucking slut," "too pure," and "easy." I don't think any of those phrases describe me. It took me a long time to get over a lot of these instances. A long time. And they fucked up a few relationships in the meantime.
I hated myself. I blamed myself. I was trying to find some identity between the two opposites that I was being called. I lived in a constant state of regret. Hindsight has allowed me to see a bigger picture that the bigger problem wasn't me. I was letting the problem define me instead of acknowledging it, confronting it and taking back control.
I know my experiences are not unique. I know that many other women have worse stories to tell. I know that many women will never tell these secrets either. But if the #YesAllWomen story helps some people expose truths and question how we can teach our children and ourselves to do better and with respect, then I don't regret for a second that it's being told.
Here's the thing...we need to talk more about our experiences as women....I need to talk more about my experience as a woman who has been threatened, abused and assaulted. It IS important, and it is a problem worth sharing. I do not find it "regrettable" that so many women (and supportive men) are talking about this. I find it deeply regrettable that we haven't had this conversation so openly until now. I find it deeply regrettable that I haven't shared my own experiences but with a very few people.
Here's a sampling that I, alone, have experienced. Yes, well-adjusted, generally optimistic Kristen. I've dealt with a lot of shit. And yes, I've dealt (or not dealt) with a lot of it poorly. I've laughed some of it off. I've kept a lot of it hidden. But it's blogfessional time and since so many other strong women have shared their stories, I need to "woman up" and and share some of mine.
Remember that time I was at summer camp as a somewhat dorky 14.5 year old and I was cornered by 4 older guys while trying to put up my lunch tray who told me I was "too pure" and "needed to be corrupted"?
Remember that time I was trying to lift up my high school boyfriend during college application time by telling him all the things he'd be great at, and he responded "You'd be a great secretary."
Remember how I was 16 and on a FAMILY beach trip in which I met my new "cousin" (by marriage only) who proceeded to hit on me all week, try to fondle me and grab my hand to put on his crotch? Remember how many times I said no? Probably not, since I felt like I couldn't tell anyone because I felt I would be blamed or made fun of.
Remember that time in college when I was told I was "too intimidating" for anyone to ask me out? And that I should just "smile more" or not be as into music or politics or academics.
Remember that time senior year in which I was having beers with a male friend who started pawing at me and unzipping my jeans in the bar parking lot as I tried to drive his drunken ass home telling him "no" and "stop" knowing full well that he had a girlfriend of his own. Remember when he continued that when we got back to the apartment and how I continued to say NO? Remember how I couldn't tell any of my friends because I would be judged for trying to break up their relationship? Remember how I had to move away from all of my friends just to get away from the judgment and the "bad decisions" (which I had tried to say no to, over and over)?
Then remember that time when I was 23 and I was slapped across my face and then knocked unconscious by a guy I used to work with when he threw me up against a wall just because? Oh and it gets better...when it was clear that I suffered a slight concussion, my ex-boyfriend drove me back to his place and then decided to have sex with me. The ex-boyfriend that dumped me two months prior saying he "felt nothing" for me. Obviously part of him still felt something. Meanwhile, I woke up the next morning and went to work for a 10-hour shift at the store wondering why I had a gash on the back of my head and a raging headache.
There was that other guy that I dated for a while who thought it would be funny to bite my breast hard enough to cause a large hematoma for a few weeks. Why would that ever be okay? SERIOUSLY.
And that other guy...a "friend" who I turned down repeatedly who kicked in the door of my friend's car when I showed interest in anyone other than him.
And then there was the Kentucky Derby Infield in 2001...where I along with 40,000 other people got drunk in the sun. And at one point late in the day, I was led off by a guy I did not know who then started kissing my neck and running his hands up my shorts and beyond. I was sexually assaulted in a crowd full of people too drunk to notice and a guy too empowered to do so by us not saying THIS ISN'T RIGHT.
Even this year, 2014, on Kentucky Derby Day when I wasn't drunk, wasn't immodestly dressed, wasn't "asking for it" I had my ass slapped - HARD - by an emboldened young man who looked me dead in the eye and said "I did that. Did you like it?" I had no response other than shock. I laughed it off afterward as my husband exclaimed "Hey! That just means you still got it!" And yes, I guess I do. But in what world is it ever okay for a young man to slap a woman (of any age) in a crowded, dark tunnel where I couldn't get away from him? It really shouldn't be ok. Ever.
I've been accused of being "cold and frigid," "asexual," "a fucking slut," "too pure," and "easy." I don't think any of those phrases describe me. It took me a long time to get over a lot of these instances. A long time. And they fucked up a few relationships in the meantime.
I hated myself. I blamed myself. I was trying to find some identity between the two opposites that I was being called. I lived in a constant state of regret. Hindsight has allowed me to see a bigger picture that the bigger problem wasn't me. I was letting the problem define me instead of acknowledging it, confronting it and taking back control.
I know my experiences are not unique. I know that many other women have worse stories to tell. I know that many women will never tell these secrets either. But if the #YesAllWomen story helps some people expose truths and question how we can teach our children and ourselves to do better and with respect, then I don't regret for a second that it's being told.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Words from my Father
My father wrote this today, and it explains a little better about what's been going on this week with my help. I wish that you could have all heard his wonderful toast on Friday night. If I know my dad well enough, I know it was probably done extemporaneously. But he took time to write this one out, and so I wanted to share it to my networks as well.
TO ALL MY FACEBOOK AND NEW TWITTER FRIENDS AND FAMILY:
I wish to share with all of you the roller-coaster recounting of events in the life of the Mohn family over the past week, in hopes that you will join us in prayers of joy and of appeal for God’s intercession and healing power…
Many of you know that my daughter Kristen, aged 36, was diagnosed more than a year ago with Stage –zero breast cancer. She had a mastectomy in December, at which time the cancer had advanced to Stage 2. Her surgery was to be followed by a chemotherapy regimen from mid-January through May. At the time scheduled for the first chemo on January 22, the doctors discovered numerous lesions on her liver – elevating the progress of the cancer to Stage 4.
At the end of the chemotherapy in May, the liver lesions seemed to be stabilized. Kristen and her
fiancé, Michael Dellaporta, proceeded to plan for a wedding, which was held two evenings ago – Friday. The bride was stunningly beautiful and radiant, the groom handsome and debonair, and the father of the bride -- well, we shall leave that to others to decide!
What only a handful of wedding guests (immediate family and a very small number of special friends)
knew was that the preceding Friday she had received the results of an MRI of the brain. This diagnostic test was initiated after she had had an evening of nausea and disorientation while on a trip to New York City. From that time until she had her next monthly consultation with her oncologist, she continued to have difficult with hearing, numbness in the ear and right side of her face, along with balance problems.
Thus – the brain scan was immediately in order.
The news was not good. She has developed several lesions in the brain. The most serious is positioned against the brain stem, thus causing the balance and disorientation problems. Radiation therapy, on a daily basis, was called for. The radiation oncologist agreed to allow treatment to begin tomorrow (Monday), so that the wedding celebration could proceed. Kristen and Michael chose not to air this latest medical complication in order that guests could maintain a celebratory atmosphere, rather than turning it into a “pity party” that would be exceedingly uncomfortable for all concerned. And, indeed, the rehearsal dinner, wedding, and reception were stellar! And the bride WAS stunning – even if I am a mite biased!
Because Saturday (yesterday) was the groom’s birthday, Kristen had arranged a backyard taco-and-beverage fete for the wedding guests and friends. Some of the guests were part of a broad “Twitter community” who traveled to Atlanta from across the country – literally – to meet face-to-face for the first time and to celebrate the union of these “electronic friends”. The weather cooperated – partly cloudy and moderately cool. At least 60-70 guests were in attendance.
In the midst of the party, Kristen became disoriented and stumbled, falling and hitting her head on a deck rail. While there were no visible lacerations or other injuries, it was apparent that something abnormal was occurring. She was helped into her house, where she continued to lose sensation in the right side of her face and body, to the extent that she could not turn or lift her head. EMTs were dispatched, and she, her mom Sharon, and groom Michael accompanied her to the Emory University Hospital.
After a long evening, it was determined that she had suffered a seizure. She continued to have minor seizures that would last 30 seconds or so, for several hours until anti-seizure medication could take full effect. She did remain conscious and responsive throughout the whole episode. Naturally, they kept her overnight for further evaluation and consultation with a neurologist this morning.
The good news is that she is now being discharged and will be on her way home shortly. The bad news is that the lesions in her brain are brandishing their power over her system. We must hope that the intensive radiation treatments beginning tomorrow will take immediate effect toward halting this evil disease.
Throughout this whole year-long ordeal, Kristen has shown enormous strength and determination to squeeze the last drop of goodness out of every second of every day. She is a fighter – while she has her moments, as any of us would – none of them have become self-pitying, hopeless, or angry in self-destructive ways. Her anger, to the extent that she has it, is a “righteous anger” that she is only one of many who face similar life-challenging difficulties.
She is not a “victim” – she is a whole person, one who must never take life, or love, or compassion for other people for granted. I invite all of you who read this to pray to the creative power to whom you worship – God, Yahweh,
Allah, or simply Creator and Sustainer of humankind – to provide ongoing strength of will, of body, and of spirit, for our beloved Kristen and Michael, and for her whole universe of family and friends.
You can do her one additional honor right now, TODAY… If you have a child, a spouse or partner, a parent, or even just a special friend within the embrace of your arms, hug (and kiss, if you so desire) him or her and express that love and solidarity with all humankind. It is that sentiment, frequently to be called to our attention, which will enable each of us to embrace life to the fullest… one step at a time!
From a prayerful and loving father and mother, brother, and husband,
Dan and Sharon Mohn
Twitter @danmohn1
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Active Listening
Her: "I feel that I wish you would make coffee now."
Him: "I'll make it in just a second."
[Seven minutes elapse as He stares intently at the iPad.]
Her: "I feel that you don't have the same understanding of 'now' as I do."
Him: [realizing the moment is ripe for active listening]
"What I'm hearing is that you want coffee 'now.'"
Her: "You are hearing me correctly."
Him: "What I'm feeling is that you are disappointed in *me* that I have not made coffee now."
Her: "I hear that you are feeling I am disappointed in you. However, I am more disappointed that there is not coffee in my belly."
It's a good thing we are practicing our "active listening" before the wedding.
Him: "I'll make it in just a second."
[Seven minutes elapse as He stares intently at the iPad.]
Her: "I feel that you don't have the same understanding of 'now' as I do."
Him: [realizing the moment is ripe for active listening]
"What I'm hearing is that you want coffee 'now.'"
Her: "You are hearing me correctly."
Him: "What I'm feeling is that you are disappointed in *me* that I have not made coffee now."
Her: "I hear that you are feeling I am disappointed in you. However, I am more disappointed that there is not coffee in my belly."
It's a good thing we are practicing our "active listening" before the wedding.
Monday, February 18, 2013
The shirts are here!
If you've been following along on Twitter or Facebook, you know that I decided to make #teamkristen t-shirts so that friends and family could show support as I went through this little life-detour we call "cancer." I'm not a huge fan of the ubiquitous pink ribbon emblems, so I wanted to make my anti-cancer statement in a more black and white way. This also allows all of my guy friends to sport one without looking as ridiculous as NFL players do throughout the month of October. (Fuchsia cleats, really? Please.)
Not to knock pink....it's just not my style. But these shirts...these are more Kristen - or #teamkristen to be exact. Also? PUNS ARE FUN.
So here they are. There's a mens version and a ladies version. Some of you may end up with a free one -- yes, Dad, yours is free. But if you're across the country or if you just want to throw in $11 to help me cover the costs of the shirts/shipping/etc, I created a little store thingy to help facilitate the Paypal transaction and shipping instructions. You asked, I answered. Now we just see if you guys were kidding....
TA-DAAA! CANCER-FREE OR BUST.
Men's Crew-Neck Tee:
Ladies' V-Neck Tee:
UPDATE 3/28/13:
I have youth sizes now!! Actually, I'm sold out of the XS and am low on S at the moment, but I should be getting more. But here's the shop for that:
Also, if you don't use Paypal or prefer to pay cash or check, feel free to email me via the "Email Me" button on the right.
Not to knock pink....it's just not my style. But these shirts...these are more Kristen - or #teamkristen to be exact. Also? PUNS ARE FUN.
So here they are. There's a mens version and a ladies version. Some of you may end up with a free one -- yes, Dad, yours is free. But if you're across the country or if you just want to throw in $11 to help me cover the costs of the shirts/shipping/etc, I created a little store thingy to help facilitate the Paypal transaction and shipping instructions. You asked, I answered. Now we just see if you guys were kidding....
TA-DAAA! CANCER-FREE OR BUST.
Men's Crew-Neck Tee:
Ladies' V-Neck Tee:
UPDATE 3/28/13:
I have youth sizes now!! Actually, I'm sold out of the XS and am low on S at the moment, but I should be getting more. But here's the shop for that:
Also, if you don't use Paypal or prefer to pay cash or check, feel free to email me via the "Email Me" button on the right.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Forget Next. Fast-forward to Now.
“These are our few live seasons. Let us live them as purely as we can, in the present.”
― Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
I've been remiss. I haven't updated the blog since November. I even left you hanging by titling the last post "Decisions, decisions: Part 1," as if a "Part 2" was to be written soon thereafter. Such a tease, I am. Leading you on...leaving you hanging...
But actually, the real tease is time.
See, I was so easily fooled into believing there would be time to write. I had stories to tell, updates to write, points to make. If I didn't have time now, I would always have tomorrow, or next weekend, or when I got home from work. But time is a tease, and if you don't grab it when you have it in sight it flits away from you.
And so this time, like many others before it, I let the time flit away.
I didn't write the follow-ups. I didn't write about the mastectomy. Or about finding out that the not-quite-cancer had become "real cancer." I didn't write about the wonderful Christmas I had despite the physical pain from the surgery. I didn't write about the amazing friends who fed me, sat with me, laughed with me. I didn't write about the decision to dance in the New Years and post it online for all to see, in an act of defiant alleluia.
Of course, I posted blurbs and blips of all these moments on Twitter and Facebook as they happened in real-time. Yet I failed to take advantage of real time to really write them out.
Flit, flutter, fast-forward to now.
(Or more accurately to two weeks ago.) I learned from my doctor right before New Years that my liver enzyme levels were elevated and that they would need to come down before I could begin chemotherapy for my newly named "Stage 2a" breast cancer. My oncologist felt the elevated levels were most likely due to all of the pain medications I had been taking post-op, so we all assumed they would go back to normal levels in a couple of weeks. I cut out all acetaminophen products. I cut out the booze. I avoided fatty foods. I babied that liver.
And on January 11th, I was re-tested, but this time the enzyme levels were even higher. About a week later and a few days before I was to begin chemo, my stomach sank. I knew something was wrong. I had the overwhelming feeling that things weren't right. A dark cloud entered my brain and wouldn't budge. I teetered between being at peace with whatever storm was headed my way and being scared to death.
On January 22nd, I was headed to my first chemo treatment when I got a call from my oncologist. She was canceling my treatments until we could figure out my liver situation. She ordered a CT scan for that day. I was told "It's extremely unlikely" the cancer would have spread beyond the breast and ONE lymph node (just one!), so I shouldn't worry too much. But the storm cloud was going nowhere, and time - that sneaky seductress - seemed to slow to a snail's pace.
The next morning I received the gut-kicking call from the oncologist: "The CT scan showed multiple lesions on your liver. We need to do some more tests to see if it's cancer." And of course the one time you WANT time to speed up, it slows down. The tests weren't scheduled until a week later. A full-body PET scan was set for Tuesday followed by a liver biopsy on Thursday.
Fast-forward to this week.
The PET scan gave me the best news I had received in a couple of months. "There's no sign of cancer in the lungs, bones, or other lymph areas. We're really pleased and hopeful by these results." Really? Hooray!! Everyone breathed a huge sigh of relief. The Facebook post with the good news got more "likes" than I've ever received. My little Twitter world was full of joyous celebration. But what about the liver? I was told the PET scan wasn't giving us enough information about the liver to really tell, so I still needed the biopsy.
The biopsy went fairly smoothly. I was told the lesions were so small and presented mostly as benign tumors that the radiologist was fairly sure it wasn't cancer. However, the liver was clearly "not right," so they ran a biopsy of the affected tissue to see what was going on even if it wasn't cancer. The thought was that it was an autoimmune disorder or a chronic problem that had gone undetected until now. I was asked if I had time to swing by the doctor's office for more labwork to test for autoimmune issues. "Of course I have time," I said.
Fast-forward to this afternoon.
The oncologist called again - not to tell me what time to come by for the labs, but to tell me "I have some bad news. The pathology report is back. It's metastatic breast cancer." Diffuse liver metastasis from breast cancer to be more precise. In English that means, "pretty fucking hard to treat cancer" and "oh yeah, not curable cancer."
In that moment, time stopped. And then in an instant, felt as though is snapped-to and ran away from me. I lost the time to ask "How does this even happen?" I lost the time to ask "How could we have fixed this before it hit my liver?" I lost the time to ask "Why did I think all of this would be over after the surgery?"
I hung up the phone, and realized everything I had thought about time and my life and my plans were under the wrong premise. The good part isn't next. Next is an illusion like the time that continually flits away from us. The good part is now. Or rather, all we have is now. So we better make it good dammit. FORGET NEXT.
Who knows how many "nexts" we get? One day you may get a call that says you're stuck with the "nows."
So, I can't let time trick me anymore. I'm onto its wily ways. I know I have to take it by its wings and do with it what I can while I have it. Who knows..Maybe that means more writing. At the very least I hope it means a heck of a lot more living.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Decisions, Part 1: Ice, Ice Baby
I've had to make some really big decisions this fall. Weird decisions. Life-changing decisions.
I suppose this is common for anyone facing a recent cancer diagnosis, or any illness for that matter. In my case the decisions started small...like the long list of doctor names -- which ones do I choose? Which ones are the best? Which hospitals are they affiliated with? Male doctor or female doctor? However, they snowballed into decision after decision, each one increasing in size and heft.
Next I was debating bigger decisions such as "lumpectomy or mastectomy?", "single or double?", "genetic testing or no genetic testing?" and "implants or natural reconstruction?" And it's not like I had the luxury of time to figure all of these things out either. But I made each decision one by one, after a little bit of [hastened] soul-searching, rational pros/cons lists, talking to others...and, ultimately, going with - or going back to - my initial gut reactions.
While the decision to have a mastectomy was a very big one, it was one of the easier decisions I had to make. The medical, practical and aesthetic concerns all pointed me to the same decision, which was to remove the affected breast tissue completely. There were other decisions that were harder to reach, as well as ones that had much broader impact on my life...and the lives of others.
One of the major decisions I faced was whether I wanted to take steps to preserve my fertility - that is, freeze my eggs. While I'm blessed to have caught my cancer early enough to prevent the need for chemotherapy (i.e., the cancer has/had not yet broken out of the milk ducts or become invasive cancer), which can cause infertility, and I'm most likely avoiding radiation on account of the mastectomy, I will be placed on a hormone-blocking drug called Tamoxifen for 5 years following my surgery. This drug blocks estrogen, which was fueling the growth of my cancer. It doesn't necessarily rule out my ability to have children, but I am not allowed to become pregnant while taking the drug. And since, I'm theripe old young! vibrant! sexy! age of 35 and still very much want to have children, I had to decide if I wanted to take my chances 5 years from now*or if I wanted to freeze my 35-year old eggs now as insurance for the future.
*Or 2-3 years, if I come off the Tamoxifen temporarily and under guidance to try to conceive naturally. After which, i would go back on the Tamoxifen for another few years.
My gut told me I needed to do it. Boyfriend, friends and family were supportive and all told me I may regret not doing it. Doctors encouraged me to pursue the option, adding that "after all, 35-year old eggs are both greater in number and less risk of complication than 40-year old eggs" and....tickticktickticktick....Yes, I got it. I'm not getting younger. I already heard that annoying alarm clock in my head before all of this. And now someone threw a little cancer on top of the "childless-35yearold-anxiety" and the ticking grew deafening. I had to do it.
With referrals from two of my doctors, my boyfriend Michael & I headed to Reproductive Biology Associates (RBA) of Atlanta for a free consult with Dr. Pavna Brahma to discuss what would be involved in cryoperservation for fertility preservation (costs, etc). I have to admit, I didn't know much about the process at all other than it was expensive and probably not covered by insurance. After a really great meeting with Dr. Brahma I knew much more about the process to make a more informed decision of whether or not I should cryopreserve my eggs. I knew the cost (think used-car prices, but financing is available...also like used cars!). I knew the process (lots of shots and pills followed by an easy surgery). I knew the side effects (think PMS, but worse). And I knew the rates of success (pretty good for my age, decreasing significantly past 35).
However, i had a new decision on my hands...or on our hands, rather. I/We were faced with the decision on whether we wanted to preserve embryos instead of, or in addition to, eggs. Embryos have a higher success rate in the thawing process of cryopreservation than eggs do. So here's the tricky part....Michael and I aren't married. Had we talked about marriage? Yes. Had we talked about our desire to have kids? Yes. With each other?? Yes, silly, yes. However, here we were skipping a couple of steps. All of a sudden, it was on the table to make babies - or as I began to call them, "maybe babies"....and in a very odd way. Or at least "odd" in those "This isn't they way I imagined it," and "Dammit, we're skipping the fun step of this process" kinds of ways.
There were many conversations between the two of us about it...about the costs, about how it differed from how we had dreamed we would create a family, and about what our families would think, too. There was much to consider. We kept coming back to feeling like it was just right. It was what we felt we needed to do. And we - together - were right, so who cares if this particular part of our journey together came somewhat "out of order"?
In the end, we were both really happy - excited, really - about our decision to freeze embryos in addition to my eggs. It felt like the right decision to maximize our medical chances of success, and it felt like the right decision for our future together. I'd like to say that was the last big decision we had to make, but it wasn't. There were more right around the corner. Though, that's all I'll write about for tonight. I'll cover "Decisions, Part 2: On Personhood, Property and Possibility" later.
[As an aside, I can't tell you how many Shake and Bake-Later (TM) jokes i made about our maybe-babies. It was a lot. The Vanilla Ice reference from the title only came to me recently, but you better believe that's what I'm singing every time the maybe-babies' icy storage comes up in conversation. BELIEVE.]
I suppose this is common for anyone facing a recent cancer diagnosis, or any illness for that matter. In my case the decisions started small...like the long list of doctor names -- which ones do I choose? Which ones are the best? Which hospitals are they affiliated with? Male doctor or female doctor? However, they snowballed into decision after decision, each one increasing in size and heft.
Next I was debating bigger decisions such as "lumpectomy or mastectomy?", "single or double?", "genetic testing or no genetic testing?" and "implants or natural reconstruction?" And it's not like I had the luxury of time to figure all of these things out either. But I made each decision one by one, after a little bit of [hastened] soul-searching, rational pros/cons lists, talking to others...and, ultimately, going with - or going back to - my initial gut reactions.
While the decision to have a mastectomy was a very big one, it was one of the easier decisions I had to make. The medical, practical and aesthetic concerns all pointed me to the same decision, which was to remove the affected breast tissue completely. There were other decisions that were harder to reach, as well as ones that had much broader impact on my life...and the lives of others.
One of the major decisions I faced was whether I wanted to take steps to preserve my fertility - that is, freeze my eggs. While I'm blessed to have caught my cancer early enough to prevent the need for chemotherapy (i.e., the cancer has/had not yet broken out of the milk ducts or become invasive cancer), which can cause infertility, and I'm most likely avoiding radiation on account of the mastectomy, I will be placed on a hormone-blocking drug called Tamoxifen for 5 years following my surgery. This drug blocks estrogen, which was fueling the growth of my cancer. It doesn't necessarily rule out my ability to have children, but I am not allowed to become pregnant while taking the drug. And since, I'm the
*Or 2-3 years, if I come off the Tamoxifen temporarily and under guidance to try to conceive naturally. After which, i would go back on the Tamoxifen for another few years.
My gut told me I needed to do it. Boyfriend, friends and family were supportive and all told me I may regret not doing it. Doctors encouraged me to pursue the option, adding that "after all, 35-year old eggs are both greater in number and less risk of complication than 40-year old eggs" and....tickticktickticktick....Yes, I got it. I'm not getting younger. I already heard that annoying alarm clock in my head before all of this. And now someone threw a little cancer on top of the "childless-35yearold-anxiety" and the ticking grew deafening. I had to do it.
With referrals from two of my doctors, my boyfriend Michael & I headed to Reproductive Biology Associates (RBA) of Atlanta for a free consult with Dr. Pavna Brahma to discuss what would be involved in cryoperservation for fertility preservation (costs, etc). I have to admit, I didn't know much about the process at all other than it was expensive and probably not covered by insurance. After a really great meeting with Dr. Brahma I knew much more about the process to make a more informed decision of whether or not I should cryopreserve my eggs. I knew the cost (think used-car prices, but financing is available...also like used cars!). I knew the process (lots of shots and pills followed by an easy surgery). I knew the side effects (think PMS, but worse). And I knew the rates of success (pretty good for my age, decreasing significantly past 35).
However, i had a new decision on my hands...or on our hands, rather. I/We were faced with the decision on whether we wanted to preserve embryos instead of, or in addition to, eggs. Embryos have a higher success rate in the thawing process of cryopreservation than eggs do. So here's the tricky part....Michael and I aren't married. Had we talked about marriage? Yes. Had we talked about our desire to have kids? Yes. With each other?? Yes, silly, yes. However, here we were skipping a couple of steps. All of a sudden, it was on the table to make babies - or as I began to call them, "maybe babies"....and in a very odd way. Or at least "odd" in those "This isn't they way I imagined it," and "Dammit, we're skipping the fun step of this process" kinds of ways.
There were many conversations between the two of us about it...about the costs, about how it differed from how we had dreamed we would create a family, and about what our families would think, too. There was much to consider. We kept coming back to feeling like it was just right. It was what we felt we needed to do. And we - together - were right, so who cares if this particular part of our journey together came somewhat "out of order"?
In the end, we were both really happy - excited, really - about our decision to freeze embryos in addition to my eggs. It felt like the right decision to maximize our medical chances of success, and it felt like the right decision for our future together. I'd like to say that was the last big decision we had to make, but it wasn't. There were more right around the corner. Though, that's all I'll write about for tonight. I'll cover "Decisions, Part 2: On Personhood, Property and Possibility" later.
[As an aside, I can't tell you how many Shake and Bake-Later (TM) jokes i made about our maybe-babies. It was a lot. The Vanilla Ice reference from the title only came to me recently, but you better believe that's what I'm singing every time the maybe-babies' icy storage comes up in conversation. BELIEVE.]
Monday, October 1, 2012
Keeping you a-breast of my news
Where does one begin? When the last five weeks have been a whirlwind of out-of-the-blue news, appointments and heavy-hit-you-in-the-gut decisions, where do you begin?
Many of you already know this news, if you've been following along on social media, but for those who haven't heard the full story yet...where do I begin??
I suppose I start at the beginning.
Five weeks ago, today, I went for my annual "well-woman visit" to make sure all the lady parts were in fine, working order. I went feeling rather proud of myself for not putting off the appointment this year, and I was also pretty happy that this year was the first time it would be co-pay free. (Partisan-aside: Thanks, Obamacare - I liked saving that $25-50!) I went in fully expecting everything to be normal. I'm in good health, a decent weight, no problems that I know of...so no biggie, right?
That's when the doctor -- who, by the way, is on my heroes/heroines list right now -- discovered something "off" on my breast exam. She felt a large ridge of density on the top of my right breast that she didn't feel on the left side. Now, like a long line of females in my family, I have really dense breast tissue and a history of cysts...it's what I like to call my "bumpy boob" condition. Yes - I could probably do a lot about this by adjusting my caffeine consumption, but let's not get extreme here, people. Mama needs her coffee, ok?
Since the ridge felt different than the rest of my "bumps," my doctor suggested I go to a breast clinic on the 4th floor of the building to get an ultrasound "just to rule something more serious out" and "for piece of mind...I'm sure it's nothing." I figured I was already running a little late for work, so I obliged. I headed upstairs and checked in for my ultrasound with a nurse practitioner (NP) at the breast clinic's office. During the ultrasound the NP, Anna, saw some calcifications on the right breast that caused some concern. She pulled in one of the doctors to check it out, as well. They both told me "it could be nothing," but they wanted me to get a mammogram - my first - right away. They said they would most likely want to follow up with a biopsy of the area, so we scheduled one for 2 weeks later.
I ended up having the mammogram the very next day. I can't say it was the most comfortable experience, but everyone was so kind at Piedmont's Breast Center that it really wasn't terrible. I felt a bit like a cow being milked from all angles, but aside from that not bad at all. MOO..........
The radiologist pulled me into her office and confirmed what I already knew - I needed a biopsy to check things out. Despite her grave face, I still wasn't concerned. I'm young! My mom and grandmother have had cysts checked out! That's all it is, right? Bring on the biopsy in 2 weeks. I can pass this test.
Cut to the next morning: I received a call from the NP Anna who had just received the mammography results. She asked me if I would be willing to come in THAT DAY to have the biopsy instead of the appointment two weeks later. Suddenly, I became concerned. Why the rush? Suddenly, my gut told me something wasn't right. At that moment, I knew something was wrong. I tried to tell myself it wasn't anything and to assume the best, but my gut already knew. Something was very wrong with my breast. I agreed, and headed back to Dr. Richardson's office for a core needle biopsy that afternoon.
The biopsy procedure is supposed to be an easy one that takes about 20 minutes. Lordy, was I unprepared. I guess that for many people it's an easy procedure, but mine required the doctor to biopsy two different areas, leaving my whole breast a bruised mess. And when I say "bruised," I mean BRUISED. Bruised like an Offensive Lineman stomped on my chest, cleats and all. Black. Blue. Magenta. Green. And the pain, oh the pain....I couldn't even let a seatbelt touch my chest without wincing. Purse strap? Fuggedaboutit. The next week was a painful blur of sports bras, Arnica gel, the occasional Lortab...and major worries about the results of the biopsy. Was this cancer?
The worst thing about waiting was that it was Labor Day weekend. It was Labor Day weekend, and Michael was out of town. I was alone and anxious. Thankfully, friends and neighbors kept me occupied by taking me on walks, out for coffee, fed me dinner, and laughed with me for hours. I did whatever I could do to stay distracted from the worries.
I also tried to stay off the internet. I failed miserably at that attempt.
"STEP AWAY FROM THE MEDICAL SITES, KRISTEN." I was told this over and over. However, I knew the look on the doctor's face when she told me what she expected the result to be ("I'm not telling you you have cancer. But it really looks like cancer.") I needed to prepare myself for bad news, while hoping to be surprised by good news. Besides, my gut already knew the answer anyway.
I made Michael come home to be with me. It was getting ugly inside my head, and the quiet house amplified the crazy. I needed him more than ever. And bless him, he came home...two weeks before I was supposed to see him again, and two weeks he needed to be in Florida for work... but bless him, he came home.
Tuesday morning, we got the call. My gut was right. I had cancer -- or "pre-cancer" -- or stage zero cancer....technically it's Ductal Carcinoma In Situ (DCIS) Stage 0 with Comedo Necrosis, Grade III. Grade III means it's high-grade, aggressive growth. "In Situ" means it hasn't broken out of the milk ducts into the rest of the breast tissue, which is great news. That's why it is considered "stage zero" and not yet an invasive cancer. This means I don't need chemotherapy, which is also fantastic news. But what it does mean is another surgery. Let me tell you what: That's NOT great news. And that pisses me off something righteously.
After all I have been through in my life, here I was with this new slap in the face -- cancer (sort of)...and another chance to go under a knife. Because, really -- getting hit by a car, breaking my spine, injuring the spinal cord/bladder and almost being paralyzed wasn't enough fun for one lifetime. Nah, let's test those comeback skills again. So yeah -- my reaction to the news was anger. Not sadness. Not self-pity. Not denial. Just some grade-A Anger.
Over the next week, I simmered down a bit and I took a bit of time to process the information. I had an MRI, and the MRI showed no signs of a spread to the lymph nodes. It confirmed the current diagnosis of DCIS-Stage 0, which is, all things considered, good news. We also got results back showing the cancer was 98% ER-positive and 63% PR-positive, which means it's fueled by the hormones estrogen and progesterone. This also means that after surgery we can prevent recurrence with a five-year regimen of hormone-blocking drugs like Tamoxifen. All good news.
Except, you know....the SURGERY.
I'll write more on the surgery updates in later posts, but for now I'll say that my option was pretty much limited to mastectomy due to the nature of the areas affected by DCIS. I'll be facing a single mastectomy and reconstruction surgery later this fall. I've come to terms with that reality, but it doesn't mean I like it. And if I seem matter-of-fact and calm/collected when I talk about it, it doesn't mean I'm OK with all of this. And it doesn't mean I don't have my moments in which I break down crying. But I know this is something I have to face head on or else things can get a lot worse, so a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
So...in light of the first day of "Breast Cancer Awareness Month," you are all now aware of my breast cancer diagnosis. Is that how that's supposed to work? Or am I just supposed to buy a pink spatula and feel better about all of this? Because quite frankly, I can't "Think Pink" right now. I just "Think This Stinks." But stink or pink, it is what it is..whether I like it or not.
Many of you already know this news, if you've been following along on social media, but for those who haven't heard the full story yet...where do I begin??
I suppose I start at the beginning.
Five weeks ago, today, I went for my annual "well-woman visit" to make sure all the lady parts were in fine, working order. I went feeling rather proud of myself for not putting off the appointment this year, and I was also pretty happy that this year was the first time it would be co-pay free. (Partisan-aside: Thanks, Obamacare - I liked saving that $25-50!) I went in fully expecting everything to be normal. I'm in good health, a decent weight, no problems that I know of...so no biggie, right?
That's when the doctor -- who, by the way, is on my heroes/heroines list right now -- discovered something "off" on my breast exam. She felt a large ridge of density on the top of my right breast that she didn't feel on the left side. Now, like a long line of females in my family, I have really dense breast tissue and a history of cysts...it's what I like to call my "bumpy boob" condition. Yes - I could probably do a lot about this by adjusting my caffeine consumption, but let's not get extreme here, people. Mama needs her coffee, ok?
Since the ridge felt different than the rest of my "bumps," my doctor suggested I go to a breast clinic on the 4th floor of the building to get an ultrasound "just to rule something more serious out" and "for piece of mind...I'm sure it's nothing." I figured I was already running a little late for work, so I obliged. I headed upstairs and checked in for my ultrasound with a nurse practitioner (NP) at the breast clinic's office. During the ultrasound the NP, Anna, saw some calcifications on the right breast that caused some concern. She pulled in one of the doctors to check it out, as well. They both told me "it could be nothing," but they wanted me to get a mammogram - my first - right away. They said they would most likely want to follow up with a biopsy of the area, so we scheduled one for 2 weeks later.
I ended up having the mammogram the very next day. I can't say it was the most comfortable experience, but everyone was so kind at Piedmont's Breast Center that it really wasn't terrible. I felt a bit like a cow being milked from all angles, but aside from that not bad at all. MOO..........
The radiologist pulled me into her office and confirmed what I already knew - I needed a biopsy to check things out. Despite her grave face, I still wasn't concerned. I'm young! My mom and grandmother have had cysts checked out! That's all it is, right? Bring on the biopsy in 2 weeks. I can pass this test.
Cut to the next morning: I received a call from the NP Anna who had just received the mammography results. She asked me if I would be willing to come in THAT DAY to have the biopsy instead of the appointment two weeks later. Suddenly, I became concerned. Why the rush? Suddenly, my gut told me something wasn't right. At that moment, I knew something was wrong. I tried to tell myself it wasn't anything and to assume the best, but my gut already knew. Something was very wrong with my breast. I agreed, and headed back to Dr. Richardson's office for a core needle biopsy that afternoon.
The biopsy procedure is supposed to be an easy one that takes about 20 minutes. Lordy, was I unprepared. I guess that for many people it's an easy procedure, but mine required the doctor to biopsy two different areas, leaving my whole breast a bruised mess. And when I say "bruised," I mean BRUISED. Bruised like an Offensive Lineman stomped on my chest, cleats and all. Black. Blue. Magenta. Green. And the pain, oh the pain....I couldn't even let a seatbelt touch my chest without wincing. Purse strap? Fuggedaboutit. The next week was a painful blur of sports bras, Arnica gel, the occasional Lortab...and major worries about the results of the biopsy. Was this cancer?
The worst thing about waiting was that it was Labor Day weekend. It was Labor Day weekend, and Michael was out of town. I was alone and anxious. Thankfully, friends and neighbors kept me occupied by taking me on walks, out for coffee, fed me dinner, and laughed with me for hours. I did whatever I could do to stay distracted from the worries.
I also tried to stay off the internet. I failed miserably at that attempt.
"STEP AWAY FROM THE MEDICAL SITES, KRISTEN." I was told this over and over. However, I knew the look on the doctor's face when she told me what she expected the result to be ("I'm not telling you you have cancer. But it really looks like cancer.") I needed to prepare myself for bad news, while hoping to be surprised by good news. Besides, my gut already knew the answer anyway.
I made Michael come home to be with me. It was getting ugly inside my head, and the quiet house amplified the crazy. I needed him more than ever. And bless him, he came home...two weeks before I was supposed to see him again, and two weeks he needed to be in Florida for work... but bless him, he came home.
Tuesday morning, we got the call. My gut was right. I had cancer -- or "pre-cancer" -- or stage zero cancer....technically it's Ductal Carcinoma In Situ (DCIS) Stage 0 with Comedo Necrosis, Grade III. Grade III means it's high-grade, aggressive growth. "In Situ" means it hasn't broken out of the milk ducts into the rest of the breast tissue, which is great news. That's why it is considered "stage zero" and not yet an invasive cancer. This means I don't need chemotherapy, which is also fantastic news. But what it does mean is another surgery. Let me tell you what: That's NOT great news. And that pisses me off something righteously.
After all I have been through in my life, here I was with this new slap in the face -- cancer (sort of)...and another chance to go under a knife. Because, really -- getting hit by a car, breaking my spine, injuring the spinal cord/bladder and almost being paralyzed wasn't enough fun for one lifetime. Nah, let's test those comeback skills again. So yeah -- my reaction to the news was anger. Not sadness. Not self-pity. Not denial. Just some grade-A Anger.
Over the next week, I simmered down a bit and I took a bit of time to process the information. I had an MRI, and the MRI showed no signs of a spread to the lymph nodes. It confirmed the current diagnosis of DCIS-Stage 0, which is, all things considered, good news. We also got results back showing the cancer was 98% ER-positive and 63% PR-positive, which means it's fueled by the hormones estrogen and progesterone. This also means that after surgery we can prevent recurrence with a five-year regimen of hormone-blocking drugs like Tamoxifen. All good news.
Except, you know....the SURGERY.
I'll write more on the surgery updates in later posts, but for now I'll say that my option was pretty much limited to mastectomy due to the nature of the areas affected by DCIS. I'll be facing a single mastectomy and reconstruction surgery later this fall. I've come to terms with that reality, but it doesn't mean I like it. And if I seem matter-of-fact and calm/collected when I talk about it, it doesn't mean I'm OK with all of this. And it doesn't mean I don't have my moments in which I break down crying. But I know this is something I have to face head on or else things can get a lot worse, so a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
So...in light of the first day of "Breast Cancer Awareness Month," you are all now aware of my breast cancer diagnosis. Is that how that's supposed to work? Or am I just supposed to buy a pink spatula and feel better about all of this? Because quite frankly, I can't "Think Pink" right now. I just "Think This Stinks." But stink or pink, it is what it is..whether I like it or not.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Tattoos
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I have a tattoo on my wrist that I got when I was 20.8625 years old. This is fairly obvious to anyone and everyone who has ever met me. It's not anything I really hide nor flaunt. It's just there.
Most people seem to like it, save for my father, but I think it's in a father's job description to be opposed to these sorts of things. And for those who mention that they like it there are usually two follow-up questions: 1) what does that mean? and 2) do you have any others?
The first question "What does that mean?" is a rather loaded one....What did it mean to me when I got it? (Probably had to do with a boy.....) What does it mean to me now? (Absolutely nothing to do with a boy, I mean come on. I'm an independent woman...)* Oh! You mean what does the symbol mean? Answer: Borromean Rings. As for THAT meaning? Let's just say I haven't had much luck explaining Borromean Rings to the drive-thru cashier or that drunk old man at the bar who keeps offering me Swedish fish and poking my wrist like a button.
The second question "Do you have any others?" should be an easy answer, but to me, this question is a bit of an iceberg. See, over the years I have often wanted another tattoo...or 2 or 3. I've contemplated another on my wrist - a Fleur de Lis with "KY" and "'77" to show my Louisville, Kentucky hometown pride. Or a ring around my finger -- just four words in script "You. Can. Know. Hope." Or the one I contemplated and planned for years....a knot on my back.
On the first couple of "big" anniversaries of my accident (1-year, 5-year) I really wanted a large "knot" design tattooed on my lower back to commemorate my recovery...survival, really...and to celebrate the strength of my back as it was "tied" back together, in a way. At the time though, my ex-husband (then boyfriend and then husband) talked me out of it. He said he didn't feel the accident was ever something to "celebrate." I tried to explain the difference in what I was trying to celebrate (survival/recovery vs death/paralysis), but I guess he was convincing at the time, as the anniversaries came and went without any commemorative ink.
On the 10th anniversary of my accident on Jan 2nd this year, I contemplated the idea again. This time around there wasn't anyone there to talk me out of it. But this time around I talked me out of it. I thought about it on many occasions leading up to that day. However, one morning I realized I didn't need it anymore.
As I was showering one morning, I looked down at my side, and a light bulb went off. I noticed something that I often forget is there -- the 16" surgical scar down the side of my torso. The superficial girl in me will always be thankful they brought in a plastic surgeon, on account my age at the time (24) and my sex, so I wouldn't be left with an ugly back surgery scar. The doctor did such a good job that I can wear 2-piece swimsuits and people barely notice. (Now... if I could just get my abs looking like they did at 24 again, I'd be set to show off the plastic surgeon's handiwork more often!)
It wasn't just the scar that I realized, nor the quality of the surgeon's work, but I realized instead that I already had a tattoo that both commemorated the accident and celebrated my survival. My scar was my tattoo.
At that point in the shower I reached over to my right arm and traced along another scar -- the 12" scar from my two elbow surgeries from years of playing piano. Like the scar from my accident, the elbow scar celebrates both a victory over years of pain and commemorates what was in essence the collapse of my love of the piano.
These scars, like tattoos, serve as markers -- on my body and my life -- of pieces of my history. They illustrate in an abstract, rudimentary way "something happened here, and it left a mark." I look at it and remember, or I don't see it at all. One day they mean one thing, and the next they mean something else. Sometimes I find them ugly, and other days beautiful. Though, the latter is few and far between. They elicit the same contrasting feelings of pride and regret that I can only imagine most people feel when looking at their own tattoos.
But the difference with these tattoos is that they were chosen for me by circumstance, as opposed to me choosing them to fit my circumstance. They're mine to accept. And they're mine to give meaning versus the other way around.
So yes, I do have another tattoo. I have three of them. And like the three rings on my wrist, they're all connected.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Dear Grandma
For Christmas all the grandchildren on my mother's side of the family were asked to write a letter to our Grandma, in place of our usual gift-exchange. There were no real parameters for what this letter should be. It was more of a "Let her know what you've been up to. Let her know she's special," sort of a thing.
My relationship is somewhat unique, however, since I live in the same city as my grandmother, and we try to stay in touch frequently. Also, over the past 12 years, I have lived with my Grandma FOUR times, from periods of 2 weeks (while a small renovation project happened on my house) to 3 months (after my car accident), to 6 months (after a broken engagement)...to 8 MONTHS with my boyfriend, while my house was completely renovated. Needless to say, my grandmother has the patience of a saint. Therefore, the usual "let her know what you've been up to" wouldn't suffice. Here's what I wrote instead. *I figured I could post it here, since she probably wouldn't read my blog between now and Christmas morning, right?
My relationship is somewhat unique, however, since I live in the same city as my grandmother, and we try to stay in touch frequently. Also, over the past 12 years, I have lived with my Grandma FOUR times, from periods of 2 weeks (while a small renovation project happened on my house) to 3 months (after my car accident), to 6 months (after a broken engagement)...to 8 MONTHS with my boyfriend, while my house was completely renovated. Needless to say, my grandmother has the patience of a saint. Therefore, the usual "let her know what you've been up to" wouldn't suffice. Here's what I wrote instead. *I figured I could post it here, since she probably wouldn't read my blog between now and Christmas morning, right?
Dear Grandma,
“You come by it honestly.”
How often do we utter that statement? In our list-making, our gingersnap-baking, our penchant for gift-wrapping, and the way we tear up at every emotional moment (happy, sad or MAD)…those are the traits we share. I’m my mother’s daughter, and definitely my grandmother’s granddaughter.
We share so many personality traits – aside from your questionable aversion to sushi, of course – that it’s clear we’re related. Some things are just in our blood, or were passed on from generation to generation that one can say, “Well, Kristen…you came by that honestly.”
But I think that, even more than the traits we share, I treasure most the moments that we've shared…as individuals, as different women.
Grandma, you have shared so much with me over the last 12 years. You have shared meals with me. You have shared your house with me….4 times to be exact! You have shared your money with me after my accident when I was out of work. You have shared showers with me when I had to have someone make sure I could support myself after surgery. You have shared your stories with me, and thoughts with me, and very looooooong car-rides with me. And most of all, you’ve shared your patience with me… and your heart with me.
With you I’ve shared snowy drives through midtown Atlanta in search of lost car keys. I’ve shared some pretty interesting pain medicine-induced conversations. I’ve shared rides behind a tow-truck after my chronic car troubles. I’ve shared many a night eating breakfast because we were both too tired to think of anything else to make. I’ve shared my successes at work, as well as my failures at life and love(s)... I’ve also shared my opinions where we didn’t always agree.
I’ve seen you angry. You’ve seen me sad. I’ve seen you healing. And you’ve seen me healing. I’ve seen you as a wonderful wife and partner to Grandaddy for all those years, and as a wonderful and amazing woman on her own for these last 12. You’ve seen me in and out of relationships, succeeding and failing…succeeding and failing; and hopefully now, much stronger than I ever have been – on my own.
I can’t tell you how much of an angel you have been to me over the past 12 years. Don’t get me wrong… you were very special to me the other 22 years of my life, as well! It’s just that in the last 12 years our relationship has grown in ways that I don’t know it ever could have had I lived elsewhere. Or had all the circumstances of my, or your, life been different. But life led us both here, together. It brought us together to share all of these moments. For that, and for you, I am eternally grateful.
You have helped me become the woman I am today. Not just in the traits I come by honestly, but in the honest moments we shared.
I love you Grandma. Thank you for everything.
-Kristen
Friday, April 15, 2011
I've been w
orking very hard on my yard this year. At the beginning of the year, I thought I might be leaving in the fall -- to go away to school -- and that this was my last spring and summer in the yard. It was a hard realization to have because it brought home all of the transformational work I've done to the yard over the past seven years. Literal blood, sweat and tears have gone into my yard -- along with it much Advil & "recovery" cocktails after long days' work.
It hit me that I might not actually be ready to say goodbye to it yet. As much as parts of the yard -- the messes, the failures, those "problem areas" and things left undone -- as much as they frustrate, disappoint or infuriate me to the brink of throwing up my hands and saying "screw it - let me move to the city to a place without this upkeep," I realized I would really miss it. I also realized that now hile I'm on my own & not bound to opinions of others, I'm finally fully in control.
While I've always picked the plants & dictated the design in my past, married life, I still would always get distracted by the projects of others instead of addressing the areas that bugged me. I'm not putting blame on the other person in the relationship; I'm merely saying "It happens." Whenever there are two people involved, there are usually two sets of ideas and you run the risk of losing a cohesive, overall vision. Some couple have gelled (similar or cooperating) visions, others let one person direct. Other couples have competing visions.
Yet none of that is an issue anymore. If I want to fix something, I fix it. If I want to do something, I do it. Boom -- CHANGE. And I did it. In taking control of things, I also take pride...more pride. I even started taking more pride in all the work I did while in my last relationship. I'm more proud to admit: "I designed that," "I picked those color palettes," "I picked those plants." I also can admit, "I tried that. It didn't work. But I think I learned why."
I want to make things work where they didn't before. I want to learn more, do things with more thought. I want to invest in quality projects -- things that last. I'm willing to spend where it counts. These are all things I've learned this time around. And this time, I'm in control.
Of course, I'm human & I want everything "perfect" right now. But I have to remind myself it won't be and that that really takes the true gratification our of it. As I looks to the yard, at each part and say "I did that. I built that. That took 2 weekends. That took 2 years," my heart wells up. I created something -- it's an ongoing project -- but it's mine. My own little world, imperfect yet beautiful, in my hands & of my heart.
Photo 1: The backyard today, April 2011.
Photo 2: The backyard today, April 2011.
Photo 3: The backyard "BEFORE" - Spring 2004.
orking very hard on my yard this year. At the beginning of the year, I thought I might be leaving in the fall -- to go away to school -- and that this was my last spring and summer in the yard. It was a hard realization to have because it brought home all of the transformational work I've done to the yard over the past seven years. Literal blood, sweat and tears have gone into my yard -- along with it much Advil & "recovery" cocktails after long days' work.
It hit me that I might not actually be ready to say goodbye to it yet. As much as parts of the yard -- the messes, the failures, those "problem areas" and things left undone -- as much as they frustrate, disappoint or infuriate me to the brink of throwing up my hands and saying "screw it - let me move to the city to a place without this upkeep," I realized I would really miss it. I also realized that now hile I'm on my own & not bound to opinions of others, I'm finally fully in control.
While I've always picked the plants & dictated the design in my past, married life, I still would always get distracted by the projects of others instead of addressing the areas that bugged me. I'm not putting blame on the other person in the relationship; I'm merely saying "It happens." Whenever there are two people involved, there are usually two sets of ideas and you run the risk of losing a cohesive, overall vision. Some couple have gelled (similar or cooperating) visions, others let one person direct. Other couples have competing visions.
Yet none of that is an issue anymore. If I want to fix something, I fix it. If I want to do something, I do it. Boom -- CHANGE. And I did it. In taking control of things, I also take pride...more pride. I even started taking more pride in all the work I did while in my last relationship. I'm more proud to admit: "I designed that," "I picked those color palettes," "I picked those plants." I also can admit, "I tried that. It didn't work. But I think I learned why."
I want to make things work where they didn't before. I want to learn more, do things with more thought. I want to invest in quality projects -- things that last. I'm willing to spend where it counts. These are all things I've learned this time around. And this time, I'm in control.
Of course, I'm human & I want everything "perfect" right now. But I have to remind myself it won't be and that that really takes the true gratification our of it. As I looks to the yard, at each part and say "I did that. I built that. That took 2 weekends. That took 2 years," my heart wells up. I created something -- it's an ongoing project -- but it's mine. My own little world, imperfect yet beautiful, in my hands & of my heart.
Photo 1: The backyard today, April 2011.
Photo 2: The backyard today, April 2011.
Photo 3: The backyard "BEFORE" - Spring 2004.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Tumblr.
Consider it an amuse-bouche. I have a Tumblr now:
http://thegoodpart.tumblr.com/
In keeping with the "Good Part is Now" theme, I created the Tumblr as a place where I can post the little things that make me happy. Things I find online...recipes that tickled my tastebuds...photos of things that make me smile.
I'll still try and post on this blog when I feel the urge to write more than 140 characters or post a video or link online. But for little tastes of Kristen and The Good Part's Next, feel free to check out the Tumblr.
Friday, June 11, 2010
You want a post? Here you go..
Why haven't I been blogging lately?
I'm too busy being happy, dammit.
That's right. I'm happy. And I'm encountering obstacles every day. But I'm still happy.
My life is all rainbows from rainclouds these days. Literally. See that photo? I thought for a moment I was having a sad day, but then I saw that rainbow. And not just any rainbow...no! A DOUBLE RAINBOW. How often do you see a sign like that? Not often. My frown turned upside down.....Happy.
Two weeks ago I was in NYC and having a frustrating morning after plans didn't go as scheduled. I felt rushed for time. I felt anxious about making an afternoon train to Long Island. I started to -- for a very brief moment -- get cranky & sad. I decided I needed to "take a moment" and sit down -- on the floor, no less -- of Grand Central Terminal. At noon. In NYC.... So I sat down on the marble floor & tried to correct my attitude. I had been so happy the entire trip; I didn't want to ruin things for the rest of it. I looked up. Up on the ceiling, next to Sagitarrius or one of those zodiac figures, there was a smiley face Mylar balloon...smiling right down at me.
I began to both sob AND burst into hysterical laughter. This continued on for about 5 full minutes. I sat down to to "take a moment" and get my attitude straight, and the universe decided to make that happen right away. Once again I was given a sign that everything was A-OK and that I just needed to smile. It reminded me of what was important. Of where I was. Of who I was with. Of all that's right. It reminded me to be happy. And I was....from that moment on.
When I returned home from my amazing Memorial Day vacation 1) four hours late 2) at 1:30am on the night before a hellish day of work and 3) with no "juice" left on my iPhone or energy left in my body, my hot water heater decided to start spewing water all over my utility closet & hallway floor. I had the pleasure of dealing with this by myself for the next 2.5 hours on my hands & knees. Thankfully, my brother was able to guide me via text message on some of the temporary repairs, so that I could at least get a little sleep without worry of a household deluge. Over the next 2 days, I found a plumber myself, dealt with the no-water situation myself, and oversaw the replacement of the water heater myself.....ALL WITH A SMILE ON MY FACE. The plumber even commented that he was so impressed by my good attitude over the matter (and the $950 repair). My response? It doesn't do my any good or make me feel any better to be sad or angry. I might as well just deal with it and be happy.
I've faced similar situations with: My Car (needed a new engine, warranty company denied the claim, fought the warranty company, and won). My Yard (fought with weedeaters, lawnmowers, 67 bags of mulch, incessant weeds, heat exhaustion, snakes, possums, and an unlevel kiddie pool that I won't let get the best of me). My Job (all the usual suspects here + increased volume of product + increased sales + increased responsibilities & new large marketing project). Yet despite all of these hurdles, I AM HAPPY, DAMMIT.
Oh, and did you know I "passed therapy?" I'm too damn happy that MY THERAPIST TOLD ME NOT TO COME BACK. See was so pleased with everything I was doing and the ways in which I was handling every obstacle, every tough conversation, every decision that she told me I didn't even need therapy. I'm happy dammit! She didn't need my $35 every few weeks. Told me to go take myself out to dinner. So I did! HAPPY.
I'm stupidly, giddily, excitedly, spiritually, emotionally, blissfully happy. No matter if I have a cold, if I'm making a cocktail, if I'm stuck in a power outage, if I'm playing with the dog, if I'm stuck on a Tarmac, or if I'm sitting on a beach with my feet in the sand. I'm happy. And I'm not regretful. And I'm filled with love and hope and confidence. (And often times, good food & drink.)
So if you want to know why I've been too busy to write, it's because I've been too busy living. To the fullest. And to the the truest form of me I've ever known. THAT'S what I've been doing.
The good part isn't next. The good part is NOW.
And I can't wait for it to get even better.
Friday, March 26, 2010
"Pardon me, but where have you been?"
Yes, I have not blogged since 2009. Yes, a lot has happened since last fall. I debated with myself over how to share some of this news, and finally just decided to spill the news on the blog. If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you may already know what's been going on. However, if you're like my mom & this blog is your only way of keeping up with me (outside of a phonecall or word-of-mouth), this post is for you.
The big news is that I'm getting a divorce. It's also one of the main reasons I've been absent from blogging for a few months, as I have been wrapped up inside my own brain for quite some time. I also didn't know what to say, and when, and to whom. If you're one of my friends and had no idea, then I apologize that this is the way you found out. I, honestly, did not know the right way to tell you via e-mail & I was too scared to have the conversation by phone. Why? Well, it wasn't an easy decision to come to, and I couldn't imagine that telling those who attended my wedding would be easy either.
There are many reasons that led to the dissolution of the marriage, and none of which I will go into in such a public forum. It was one of those situations that the problems were so far below the surface that I (or we) failed to acknowledge them for months -- years, really -- until they were too great to be fixed. Or rather, they were too far gone for me, personally, to want to fix them. Is this a personal failure? Is this just a failure of the relationship? I don't know. I do know that there were problems on both sides of the relationship -- the greater of which all landed in my own lap. And I take full responsibility for those problems.
Nevertheless, after weeks of discussions, counseling sessions, tears, hugs, fights, and some good/positive talks, T & I resolved to dissolve. I moved out of the house for several weeks in Feb/March, and T found his own place to live. I am now back living in the house with our dog, Daisy. Things are finally getting back to normal -- a new normal...a good normal.
In fact, I'm feeling better and happier than I have in a really long time. I'm finding confidence in my new independence. I'm rediscovering & nurturing passions such as cooking & reading. I'm going out & eating by myself, and overall, enjoying life.
I also began a GMAT prep course at Emory last Saturday which will continue through the end of April. I spent the last week poring thru GMAT prep books & practicing math problems that I haven't attempted since 9th grade Geometry. (A humbling experience for sure, by the way.) I hope to take the GMAT in late spring/early summer, and I will embark on the MBA application process soon after that. I have also been compiling a list of B-schools I am considering. This task is becoming increasingly daunting, as I realize almost all of the schools I am considering are top-tier B-Schools. I've never aimed this high for anything in my life. I've always settled for less and made the most of things. I don't want to settle anymore.
So yeah...a lot has happened. Life-changing events. I've neglected friends & family, as I've dealt with all of this primarily by myself. Please forgive me, but I really needed to do it in such a way. By myself. For myself.
And all in all, I think I'm dealing with it a-OK. Nevertheless, I promise to do a better job keeping people in the loop from here forward, especially with the school prospects.
On another note, I have to add this: never before has my blog title felt so appropriate. I truly feel like the good part IS next. And for the first time in a long while, I feel like I might actually get there.
The big news is that I'm getting a divorce. It's also one of the main reasons I've been absent from blogging for a few months, as I have been wrapped up inside my own brain for quite some time. I also didn't know what to say, and when, and to whom. If you're one of my friends and had no idea, then I apologize that this is the way you found out. I, honestly, did not know the right way to tell you via e-mail & I was too scared to have the conversation by phone. Why? Well, it wasn't an easy decision to come to, and I couldn't imagine that telling those who attended my wedding would be easy either.
There are many reasons that led to the dissolution of the marriage, and none of which I will go into in such a public forum. It was one of those situations that the problems were so far below the surface that I (or we) failed to acknowledge them for months -- years, really -- until they were too great to be fixed. Or rather, they were too far gone for me, personally, to want to fix them. Is this a personal failure? Is this just a failure of the relationship? I don't know. I do know that there were problems on both sides of the relationship -- the greater of which all landed in my own lap. And I take full responsibility for those problems.
Nevertheless, after weeks of discussions, counseling sessions, tears, hugs, fights, and some good/positive talks, T & I resolved to dissolve. I moved out of the house for several weeks in Feb/March, and T found his own place to live. I am now back living in the house with our dog, Daisy. Things are finally getting back to normal -- a new normal...a good normal.
In fact, I'm feeling better and happier than I have in a really long time. I'm finding confidence in my new independence. I'm rediscovering & nurturing passions such as cooking & reading. I'm going out & eating by myself, and overall, enjoying life.
I also began a GMAT prep course at Emory last Saturday which will continue through the end of April. I spent the last week poring thru GMAT prep books & practicing math problems that I haven't attempted since 9th grade Geometry. (A humbling experience for sure, by the way.) I hope to take the GMAT in late spring/early summer, and I will embark on the MBA application process soon after that. I have also been compiling a list of B-schools I am considering. This task is becoming increasingly daunting, as I realize almost all of the schools I am considering are top-tier B-Schools. I've never aimed this high for anything in my life. I've always settled for less and made the most of things. I don't want to settle anymore.
So yeah...a lot has happened. Life-changing events. I've neglected friends & family, as I've dealt with all of this primarily by myself. Please forgive me, but I really needed to do it in such a way. By myself. For myself.
And all in all, I think I'm dealing with it a-OK. Nevertheless, I promise to do a better job keeping people in the loop from here forward, especially with the school prospects.
On another note, I have to add this: never before has my blog title felt so appropriate. I truly feel like the good part IS next. And for the first time in a long while, I feel like I might actually get there.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Blur to bring the background forward - A Repeat
[I posted this last year, but I thought I'd bring it back again this December. It's one of those things I wrote a long time ago that I re-read because it reminds me of something important. I need to remember that lesson again this Christmas, so here's the repeat. Please forgive me, if you've already read this. Hopefully, I can post something new before Friday rolls around to make up for it.]
I wrote this six years ago, but I remembered it after decorating the Christmas tree on Sunday. I thought why not share it here:
Each Christmas I spend many an evening with the lights turned off in my living room and nothing but white tree lights on to provide a warm glow. I lay on the floor looking up toward the lights -- usually white lights only, not the multicolored strands. I love their simple beauty.
I like to cross my eyes a little and squint some, so that the lights become little, blurry rings of gold, twinkling ever so slightly. Some of them cast out thin beams of light -- like fine strands of gold -- and it gives the impression of staring into a star-filled sky.
I blink. It becomes clear again...just some lights on a tree, amidst the other ornaments, beads and balls. Then I stand up, step back and take a look at the whole tree. It's really quite pretty, I must admit. The presents momentarily grab my attention. But the moment passes, and I lay back down -- finding my vantage point on the floor. I squint my eyes again. My stars are there once more. Twinkling and giving off their tiny gold rays.
A strange calm comes over me, and I giggle at myself for being so silly about a tree of all things. I realize that I've been doing this since I was a kid -- ignoring the presents and the big picture for a while and focusing on something much smaller. Something some might consider the"background." Without the lights, though, something is missing.
When you look at the sky in the city, sometimes, something is missing. The stars are often invisible because of the "big picture" -- the buildings, the streetlights, the effervescent glow of everyday life. If you travel outside the city, though, the stars start to reappear. Go outside the city limits one night, and you'll see.
And I don't mean the suburbs, mister. Farther...Go on, now. Go to the mountains, the desert, the country. Now stop looking at the big picture, the presents, the ornaments. Lie down. Look at the background. Blur your eyes -- make the stars dance. Start to see the tiny gold threads that weave this whole shebang together.
Don't worry if you blink. It may look like they've changed, but they'll go back. You'll see...I bet, for a moment, that peace will come to you, too -- if you let it.
The lights are the details in life. The little things...the smiles when you need them, the love that's always there whether spoken or not, or the note that hangs on just long enough in a song. They're always there, but sometimes you have to blur the rest to see them. Sometimes they're forgotten altogether.
At this time of year especially, it's so easy to focus on the ornaments and the obvious details. I have to try to remember to look for the non-obvious details...the blurry backgrounds that hold things together. Those are the things that I think are truly special and truly important.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Stewardship, Service & the Sacrifice of Giving
We make a living by what we get. We make a life by what we give. - Winston Churchill
Yesterday was Veteran's Day. In all honesty, I can't say that Veteran's Day ever feels like much of a "holiday" for me, as it's a normal workday for those of us in the retail biz. And yesterday definitely didn't feel like a holiday since I had a very long, hard day at work. However, in the midst of my invoice reconciling & ad work the following thoughts started "percolating" in my over-caffeinated mind.
I remembered a conversation I had with my dad a few months back about the idea of stewardship. We were sitting in a funeral parlor following my great aunt Maggie's funeral, and our conversation turned to the eulogy he delivered during her service. My great aunt was an amazing woman...a devoted steward to her church, her community and her family. The eulogy (which was beautiful) centered around her stewardship and the grace with which she shared her gifts with everyone in her life.
The problem with stewardship is that it is often thought about in just a financial sense. In a religious setting it's usually used to refer to tithing or other financial gifts to the church -- and as a devoted & lifelong member of her church, Maggie was no stranger to this form of giving. However, true stewardship is more than just financial giving. True stewards are caretakers...servants giving of their resources, their time and their talents. This kind of giving is where Maggie and other true stewards like her shine.
Maggie was 84 when she passed away this August. She never married, never had children; yet on thing she didn't lack was family. Her 'family' reached far beyond her large extended family of her mother, aunt, sister/brother-in-law, nieces/nephews, great-nieces/great-nephews...it also included her friends (of which she had many), her church fellowship, her former students (she taught for years), and many more. To this large family, she gave so much. For years she volunteered at the church; she worked with literacy groups teaching adults to read; she sat on boards & sang in choirs. Every week (until about the last year of her life) she would even drive to her hairdresser's house to pick the hairdresser up and take her to the salon, where she would then get her hair set! Wherever -- however -- she was needed, she was there for her family.
Her stewardship was also evident in the grace with which she welcomed others -- family, strangers & otherwise -- into her home. It was evident in the way in which she cared for her home. She appreciated her blessings in life & took care of them & shared them with others. This grace and this sacrifice to others made her a true steward and one to be both admired & emulated.
So what does this have to do with Veteran's Day, you ask? In thinking about stewardship as "caring for" and therefore a form of service, I started to see the relationship to those serving in the military.
In a sort of "stream-of-consciousness move" my brain shifted from thinking about my great aunt to two other relatives who also passed in the last year. In June 2008 I lost my grandfather (or my "Papaw" as we say in eastern Kentucky), and this September I lost my great uncle, "Uncle Bob." Both men were of my great aunt Maggie's generation, and both men served in World War II. They both sacrificed family & the comforts of home to serve their country in a time of need. Papaw even earned four Bronze Stars for his service as a medical technician during the war.
So in making this arc between my relatives & their respective gifts of service, I started to see the parallels...or better yet the convergence of stewardship and service (in the military sense). Stewards take on the responsibility of caring for, protecting and serving that which is placed in their care (be it their church, family, home, community). At the same time, those in the military take on the same responsibilities for their country, their fellow soldiers, and those they are charged to defend/protect. Veterans become stewards of the country and/or our ideals; and stewards become defenders & protectors of the blessings they are given. They overlap, and the common area is the sacrifice of giving.
Maggie, Papaw, and Uncle Bob all made sacrifices in order to give. The two men made sacrifices in the war; Maggie made sacrifices at home. All served in their own ways, with their own gifts. And each should be remembered for those gifts they gave. So yesterday, I remembered not only the Veterans that have served our country, but I also remembered those that serve in so many other ways. It was also a good reminder of the need to do more myself. I need to be more gracious. I need to be more mindful of the blessings I have. I need to serve my community more. I have great role models in my family & in the greater community. I need to follow their lead. We all probably do.
To all who serve, thank you.
"Happiness lies more in giving than in receiving." Acts 20:35
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Passing Through Boston On The Way To Who-Knows-Where
"As the traveler who has lost his way, throws his reins on his horse’s neck, and trusts to the instinct of the animal to find his road, so must we do with the divine animal who carries us through this world." - Ralph Waldo Emerson from "The Poet"
As promised, I'm posting photos from my trip to Boston a couple weeks back. However, I've been staring at this computer screen for a good hour and a half figuring out what to write about my trip. I suppose I have a mild case of "writer's block."
I thought, well....I could sit here and run through all of the fun times that were had, like...
Or maybe I could tell you about how we accidentally stumbled upon Obama's motorcade or the way to lunch.... (He happened to be in town for a fundraiser for Gov. Deval Patrick. His visit spurred some impromptu protests outside of the Westin.)
Or I could tell you about how I had always wanted to visit Boston...how I almost transferred to Berklee College of Music my sophomore year of college....how I almost moved to Boston or Providence after graduation. I could tell you that I was going to Boston to "see what I missed"...to see what things might have been like if I made other choices....
Or I could tell you how great it was to hang out with friends, with whom I can talk about anything...and laugh & eat & drink....and drink....with...
Or maybe I could talk about how great it was just to get away and have fun.
The thing is, I can't really pick any one of those things to write about because this trip didn't have "a purpose." It was planned on a whim, and it played out in a whirl. Friends & family asked why I was going, and I had little reason to tell them other than, "Why not?"
It's funny because I only found the reason(s) for the trip after I was there. As I mentioned in my last post, I have a lot of big questions to ponder right now. The trip was another reminder to just throw my reins on the horse's neck & listen to the cues of the universe. (Man, I've been having a lot of those reminders lately...)
So anyway, "that's all I got." Since I'm in the middle of my journey to wherever the heck I'm going, I can't tell you much more...other than the ride's been fun so far & I trust the universe -- this divine animal -- to carry me through. And as for Boston: "I Wuz There." See the photos for proof.
As promised, I'm posting photos from my trip to Boston a couple weeks back. However, I've been staring at this computer screen for a good hour and a half figuring out what to write about my trip. I suppose I have a mild case of "writer's block."
I thought, well....I could sit here and run through all of the fun times that were had, like...
...sitting in a pub listening to an Irish band cover very non-Irish bands
...sipping milkshakes (on a wintry-cold day) while sitting in an oversized teacup
...eating lobster rolls & oysters at B&G Oyster House
...drinking bottles of really great wine (here & here)
...watching football in Boston's oldest bar
...traipsing through the North End on a rainy, windy night
...preventing food comas by following a huge meal with espresso & sambucca
Or maybe I could tell you about how we accidentally stumbled upon Obama's motorcade or the way to lunch.... (He happened to be in town for a fundraiser for Gov. Deval Patrick. His visit spurred some impromptu protests outside of the Westin.)
Or I could tell you about how I had always wanted to visit Boston...how I almost transferred to Berklee College of Music my sophomore year of college....how I almost moved to Boston or Providence after graduation. I could tell you that I was going to Boston to "see what I missed"...to see what things might have been like if I made other choices....
Or I could tell you how great it was to hang out with friends, with whom I can talk about anything...and laugh & eat & drink....and drink....with...
Or maybe I could talk about how great it was just to get away and have fun.
The thing is, I can't really pick any one of those things to write about because this trip didn't have "a purpose." It was planned on a whim, and it played out in a whirl. Friends & family asked why I was going, and I had little reason to tell them other than, "Why not?"
It's funny because I only found the reason(s) for the trip after I was there. As I mentioned in my last post, I have a lot of big questions to ponder right now. The trip was another reminder to just throw my reins on the horse's neck & listen to the cues of the universe. (Man, I've been having a lot of those reminders lately...)
So anyway, "that's all I got." Since I'm in the middle of my journey to wherever the heck I'm going, I can't tell you much more...other than the ride's been fun so far & I trust the universe -- this divine animal -- to carry me through. And as for Boston: "I Wuz There." See the photos for proof.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Silly Socrates: Excuses, Excuses
I realize I haven't posted here since August, but it's not from a lack of ideas or desire to do so. It's just that life has gotten in the way -- or perhaps, I let life get in the way of writing.
Now that the disclaimer is out of the way, I will say that I fully intend to post at least one new blog post in the near future. I want to post photos from my Boston trip last month (which I know you're all dying to see...). And who knows -- perhaps stating my intent publicly will motivate me not to be so lazy.
So what have I been up to that's kept me so busy, you ask? In notsomuch-of-a-nutshell: work stress, birthdays, anniversaries, baby showers, mother-in-law's wedding, concerts, more work stress, football games, more birthdays, a trip to Boston, and more work stress. On top of all of that, life keeps flinging big questions my way. So yeah...I'm sorting all that out, too.
In fact, I'm reminded of this quote:
"Bigger questions, questions with more than one answer, questions without an answer are harder to cope with in silence. Once asked they do not evaporate & leave the mind to its serener musings. Once asked they gain dimension & texture, trip you on the stairs, wake you at night-time....Better then to ask no questions? Better then to be a contented pig than an unhappy Socrates? Since factory farming is tougher on pigs than it is on philosophers, I'll take my chances."
-from Jeanette Winterson's 'Written on the Body'
Amid the crazy schedules, the daily stresses, and the big questions, I'm trying to keep my wits about me. I'm trying to find quiet moments (like my walk last Sunday, captured in the picture above). I'm trying to find those little spots of joy & calm to keep me sane. I'm trying to savor them, as fleeting as they may be. They mean the world to me. And believe it or not, they make this unhappy Socrates a lot more hopeful. (And yes...I realize I'm sounding very John Stewart Mills-ish here.)
So that being said, I do hope to write more here and to share some of these spots of joy. I actually found that sharing them with others helps open my eyes to seeing even more. The process of sharing makes them even more real. Just like the big questions (which can be scary and/or exciting) once they are shared or spoken, they gain dimension & texture. The moments of joy become real and show their purpose.
So that's where I am & where I have been...stuck in the realness -- the rawness -- between big questions & moments of joy. Shuffling through & occasionally getting tripped up. Pausing occasionally through the trips to dust off, pause, notice the surroundings, listening for answers and even bigger questions.
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