Life truly is broken up into segments… before and after, before and during, yesterday and today, today and tomorrow, etc. At the same time, life truly is prescribed catch phrases, quotes and Pinterest ideas. Every part of life is neatly packaged up for relatability, understanding and lessons learned. Life just isn’t that neat and simple.
Am I guilty of using this packaging lingo? Absolutely. I love Pinterest, quotes and poems – any language that can try to describe the complexities of the heart and soul. My two favorite quotes/quips were, “I’m a tough old bird” and “I will just pick myself up by the bootstraps and keep going.”
However, what I am learning as I face the “prover” part of my personality is that many lovely word choices are most often used as affirmation, but they are not always used with personal conviction. How can I explain? The phrases and quotes came easily to help comfort others about my diagnosis and prognosis, but they did little to reassure me. There just didn’t seem to be a good place to ask the tough questions or express fears… where could I have said, “I don’t want to die.” The doctor’s office? No, we were always talking treatment plans, expectations, possible side effects, and frankly reacting to what the poisons were doing to my body. Home? No, I couldn’t express that to My Core Four. They needed comfort and hope. My Parents? Certainly not. In some ways, they needed the most comfort and encouragement.
The result of living moment by moment, reacting to the side effects of the chemo, constantly altering treatment plans, encouraging others, offering hope, and trying to literally survive…for me, the result was creating a growing anxiety that has taken root in my soul. The best way I can describe it is sitting around waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Sixteen years of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
So many shoes that I can’t remember when the first one dropped! Life as a survivor and clinical trial participant means that it’s never quite over. There are always tests, new symptoms, new doctors, etc. All this while life continues to go on… It’s paradoxical living at it’s best. (Yup, that’s my sarcasm screaming loud and clear.) My Core Four lives this every day… when is “THE” shoe going to drop. I don’t recommend this type of limbo, not at all.
Now let’s factor in the pandemic of COVID-19 where everyone around me now lives how My Core Four lived during my treatments and isolation. So. Many. Memories. So. Much. Anxiety.
Today I sat in yet another specialists office, waiting for tests, breathing through “the look” of technicians who left the room to go and get the doctor. Sigh… Even though this happens often, it has never become normal.
Another shoe drops.
Yet…
Here is what I’m learning: Love. Gratitude. Joy. These are what I try to lead with and lean into. It’s not the number of shoes that I have, it’s the actual time that I have to live this gift of life.
I have a love/hate relationship with the word “fine.” Most times it feels like an automatic response to the question, “How are you?” Is it a normal response to say, “I’m fine. How are you?” Yes, it is normal. Do I always trust the response? No.
Cheerfulness has been my motto. I’m surrounded by an amazing group of humans: family, friends and co-workers. I’ve lived to watch my children grow up. I’m married to my Rock/love of a lifetime. I’m sitting here in a lovely home, decorated for Christmas, listening to Christmas music while my little group of rescue dogs chew on their toys in contentment. Tonight I’ll make chili and cornbread, because that’s what the blustery weather seems to dictate. Life is good. It’s more than good, it’s pretty freaking fantastic.
Yet…
If I were to honestly answer the question, “How are you?” I would say something like, “I’m really hurting and living with more physical pain than ever before and I’m struggling.” The reasons for the pain, in most part, comes from being part of a drug trial and fighting my own battle with cancer. Would I do it again? Absolutely. No question.
Sixteen years ago, when I was diagnosed with cancer, I kept an incredibly upbeat disposition. I assured and reassured family and friends that I would be fine… that I would beat cancer. I assured my children that if I did die that I would still be with them, in their hearts, even if they couldn’t see me. My oncologist, nurses, specialists and spiritual staff at the hospital all commented on my happy disposition – that it lifted their spirits. One such day, my blood counts were so low that even slightly raising my head off of the pillow would cause a whopper of a nose blood, something that could literally kill me. So, I laid flat, all day, while receiving chemo and blood transfusions. I can barely think of that day without crying… it was difficult. Painful. Scary. On the outside, though, all you would have seen was cheerfulness. The closest I can come to describing the emotions I was feeling in those moments is “terrifyingly confused with a hint of gratefulness.”
My greatest fear was being a burden… it still is.
When I was finally allowed to go home and begin isolation there, I did try and talk with a friend or two about my fears, but I was quickly reminded that everything would be fine… Keep a positive spirit… Only think positive thoughts… They knew I would be fine… Those comments all came from a place of love, I know that. I’m grateful for good friends. However, in my 16 years as a cancer survivor and fighter, I truly believe that we need to give people a place to be “uncheerful” ‘for awhile. Perpetual cheerfulness has, at times, become a prison for me and there are times when I desperately want to break free.
Much of my life and experiences are only truly known by a small handful of people, and that has been my choice. Frankly, most of my life these past 16 years can only be understood by those who have literally walked with me through each trial. My Rock and My Core Four have seen every single trial, and that makes me feel abundantly sad with a heaping dose of love and gratitude.
Some things can’t be told. You either live them or you don’t. But they can’t be told.
However, the lessons we learn, those things can be told. I’ve been on an exploration of who I am and how I can best live this life I have been miraculously given. It’s an ongoing journey. Some people are doers. Some people are takers. Some people are drifters. There’s lots of ways to break down personality traits, but what I’ve learned is that I’m a prover.
My proverbial need to NOT be a burden to anyone feeds my need to be a prover. I do not want anyone to feel like they have to place their lives on hold, give up any dream, or simply not run an errand because I may need them for something. This is what caused my overwhelming cheerfulness in times of absolute distress. I look back at my time in treatment, isolation, and re-navigating life and see a sick, scared and hurting human who couldn’t bare the thought of causing any more sadness to those around her.
BUT…
That doesn’t mean that my cheerful disposition wasn’t authentic the majority of the time. I have been blessed to have a personality that looks for the good, believes life will improve, loves to laugh with abandon, to cook and clean and work… 90% of the time I am truly happy, regardless of circumstance. There is so much about my life that I love! I’m grateful. I’m blessed. I’m a goofball.
I’m not fine. Every single day the amount of physical pain I feel is overwhelming. I’m also happy. I’m loved and I love those around me.
Life is so much more about “and” than “or.”
It’s okay to be happy with a twinge of sadness. It’s okay to be laughing out loud with a hint of uncertainty. It’s okay to be brave and scared at the same time. It’s okay to be disappointed with a whisper of hope. It’s okay to not be cheerful 24/7. We need to laugh, cry, dance, roll our eyes (my personal favorite) sing, scream, be quiet, be goofy, feel angry, feel hurt, feel love and to be loved. It’s all okay.
Emotions are signposts of where we are in the moment, but they are NOT directives on who we are.
So, now that you know one of my deepest secrets, let me introduce myself…
Hi, I’m Aimée. I’m a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, cancer survivor, prover and dog lover who loves to laugh (a lot), text (NOT talk on the phone) with my family and friends, cook, discuss the real meaning of life, give where I can, watch scary movies (zombie movies are my favorite) and eat dinner every single night with my Core 4. I’m a work in progress who is grateful for every moment and am discovering that it’s okay to keep discovering. We humans, we grow and change. No one is who they were 10 years ago, or even yesterday.
“It is the story of our youth, our hearts; that touches our very existence, that reminds us of what our lives once were. It is a story of our youthful vigor and folly before cynicism, disappointment, and inevitable sameness etched our personalities (or at least a story of what our idealized youth could have been, if our dreams had worked out as we had wished back then).” – Review by Steve Windisch of The Fantastics
September has always been an enchanted time of year for me. My childhood was simply wonderful and I loved every minute of it… well, maybe not every minute. There was that one time when my brother, aka my Priest, was quite angry with me for no good reason. I was an innocent 5 year old who accidentally taped the cats mouth shut. I’ve never understood why Dave got so upset with me. All he had to do was remove the tape from the cat, and I’m sure that was an easy task.
September was when Mom would roast the last of the sunflower seeds from our gigantic sunflowers in the garden, the leaves in the trees would start to turn, and the breeze would rustle the branches of the Willow trees. It was the time of baseball games, canning the last vegetables from the garden, lazy walks by the creek and getting ready to go back to school. September was a magical gateway to the best time of year, when the air starts to get a little cooler and the days a little shorter. To this day I can’t help but feel the magic that September brought to me on the farm.
September is Blood Cancer Awareness Month. I’d always looked forward to this time and used it to reflect on the importance of survivorship. Then my Mama got blood cancer and she passed away, in September.
I miss my Mom. I miss life on the farm. I miss watching the Willow trees swaying gently in the breeze. I miss sunflower seeds fresh from the oven. I miss lazy walks by the stream. I miss my Mom.
I still love September, but my sweet memories now have a twinge of sadness. Sadness and laughter. Love and loss. Family together then family apart. Gratefulness and emptiness. The feelings seem to war with each other more and more these days. Some days when it feels like December days outweigh the September days I can do one of two things: eat chocolate and watch a Hallmark movie (ok, those of you who know me know that’s not true, I’d watch a movie about a zombie apocalypse) or I can look back on those sweet memories knowing that sadness is a small price for living and loving.
Life is far more about “and” than “or” and my life is full of some pretty wonderful “ands.”
P.S.: If you haven’t listened to the song, “Try to Remember,” I highly recommend Andy Williams’s version. That’s the soundtrack of my childhood and it’s practically perfect.
Since starting this blog I have had a few people ask me what it felt like to hear the words, “You have cancer.” It’s hard for me to describe, so let me share with you a quote from David Fajenbaum that perfectly describes that moment for me. He writes, “I knew the language the doctors use, the careful truth-telling, the hedging, the open endedness. I’ve spoken that language before. Now that it was directed at me, it didn’t feel nearly as careful or open ended as I’d once assumed. Instead, the words felt like they were casting me out of the room, out of the hospital entirely. I’d been consigned to the plane of possibility. Anything was possible because no one knew. I was on my own.” – Hope Wears Sneakers
I still live on that plane of possibility.
Honestly, I’ve just begun to realize that my life is a chronic condition. By that I mean that up until recently I was still in crisis mode. 15 years. It’s been exhausting. Whether it was never hearing the word “cured” or not being able to ring the bell at the end of treatments, the constant testing or if it’s part of the drug trial – whatever the reason it’s been quite the realization process. So, now that I’m aware of this chronic condition, what do I do? Wouldn’t it be great if there was such a thing as a chronic incurable friendship to go along with my chronic incurable life? People who would stick around no matter what – that they understand that each scan, new detailed lab work, every specialist appointment feels like (and is) life or death? People who would understand my dark humor and my need to spend time alone, and yet they stay.
Guess what?
I already have a few of those!
BONUS: they already knew that I am chronic with a hint of crisis. (I wonder if that should be my personality type? Hmmmmm….)
These people have helped create a new and special type of magic that combats the pain, both physical and mental, of living with chronic health conditions. You’ve already been introduced to my Core Four. Let me introduce you to one of my chronic friends, Amy W.
Amy and I met in Colorado and became instant friends – the type of friend that makes you feel like you’ve known them forever. Her classroom was right across the hall from my office and we shared just about everything that was going on in our lives. Amy and I have so much in common: we are both stubborn, hate to be a burden to anyone, self-sufficient, creative and full of compassion for the underdog. We both love all things theater, especially the artistic choices in set design, staging and character development. We could see a play together 100 times before we would run out of things to talk about or discover.
Amy is the first chronic friend that joined my crazy life who was not a part of my life while I was battling cancer. We met during the “post-cancer but my body continues to fall apart” phase of life. She understood me. She stayed.
I cannot tell you how healing that is to my soul.
Amy understood from day one that my life meme is the one that says, “I hate to cancel. I know we made plans to get together tonight, but that was two hours ago. I was younger then and full of hope.” Trust me, I did a lot of cancelling on her. Yet she still stayed.
My life’s motto
Since those early days in Colorado, Amy and I have gone through a lot of heartache together. We both lost our jobs when the school downsized. We have both lost a parent to cancer. We both moved away from our beloved state, and we did not move to the same state. Yet, she still stayed and even comes to visit me. She doesn’t stress or become fearful when she doesn’t hear from me, because she still “gets it” – we don’t need to be together to be friends, because ours is a chronic incurable friendship. No matter how long we are apart, or go without texting or calling (well, calling doesn’t usually work because she also knows how much I hate to talk on the phone), we can pick right back up and carry on as though no time has passed.
We also share another thing in common, and how I wish it were not so. My Amy W has cancer. Those parts of me that she understood, she now understands what caused them because she’s experiencing them now. The fear, the hope, the planning (oh, there is so much planning involved when you receive a cancer diagnosis), the life-focus adjustments, the being strong for those around you when you don’t feel strong, the inner strength that comes roaring out when it is needed, navigating tests and procedures during a pandemic while the world is in chaos… so many things I wish we didn’t share.
The joy and comfort of having friends that are chronic and incurable are that no matter what – no matter what, they won’t leave. No difference of opinion, no level of heartache, no misunderstanding ever changes the friendship. It’s solid. It’s messy. It’s Lucy and Ethel laugh out loud funny. It’s comforting each other when there are no words. It’s speaking truth in love. It’s no matter what – no matter what, they don’t leave.
It’s an investment.
Oh, how I wish we each could move towards this type of friendship with those around us. Not every friendship is the same, but our approach in how we see each other could be the same. To see the person, not the affiliation.. the person, not the social status.. the person, not the social media post.. the person, not the snapshot of one moment in their life.
So many hours of my week are spent dealing with the chronic and incurable effects from my cancer treatment. It’s hard. It’s scary. It’s frustrating. However, the actual living of my life is pretty wonderful. What makes the difference? The human connection. The raw, real, honest and uncancellable frienships.
I guess I could say that the pain and heartache brought on by the chronic incurable conditions of my life are exceeded by the joy, hope and love brought on by the chronic incurable friendships in my life. I lead a blessed life and am so very grateful.
It took me awhile to come up with this title. I’ve been doing a fair amount of thinking back to my time spent in the infusion room. The room where I received more Arsenic than a gal should ever take. I went to that room, every weekday, for weeks on end, to receive treatment for my acute leukemia. The nursing staff and oncologists remained the same, but there was never a day that I was in that room with the exact same patients. Every day we created a unique time and space where, though we would most likely have never met in this life, we all became members of an organization which I like to call The Fellowship of the Afflicted.
Here are some other variations I thought about before giving the title that you see above – Fellowship of the…
Sick (nope, that word carries too much negative connotation).
Dying (definitely not, that’s too hard to hear let alone read).
Fighters against That Which Shall Not Be Named (I get it, but not everyone is a Potterhead, so I’ll shelve that for another day).
Champions (I like this one, but I have more than one cancer friend who HATE being called a champion).
Survivors (I LOVE this one, and since Cancer Survivor Day is coming up, sounds practical).
At the end of the day I chose to use the title I had given this group of humans many years ago, “The Fellowship of the Afflicted.” Tolkien is a master at his word craft so I just tweaked one of his masterpieces to fit my own imaginative sayings.
My time spent living in the hospital was intense and is the most difficult part of my story, both the living of it and the re-living of it. My human connection there was limited and I rarely saw anyone whose face wasn’t covered with a mask. When it was time, I was released back into the wild and it was unsettling. It was another “new normal” to adapt to and I missed the beeping from the machines and the constant visits from my medical team. I had left the loud, scary, poisonous, comforting, healing and commaradariness of the 7th floor and had to embark into the new world of daily trips to the infusion room.
The infusion room was where I reported every weekday morning, had some blood drawn for labs to make sure I was “healthy” enough to receive treatment, then was loaded up with poison and sent home to get some sleep before returning and doing it all over again the next day. Trust me, it was much less fun than it sounds. Every Monday I came in fresh with energy from 2 days off of chemo (think turtle on Ambien), some sleep (if I was lucky even 4 hours of sleep over those 2 days), a comfy blanket that was hand-sewn by dear friends, and my portable DVD player with a copy of the timeless classic,’ Arsenic and Old Lace.’ Yes, my friends, as I was willingly putting bag after bag of Arsenic into my body I would curl up, put on some headphones and laugh my way through Monday. (Christmas that year I gave a copy of ‘Arsenic and Old Lace’ to my oncologist. It was a big hit.)
On any given Monday, while I was laughing my way through arsenic treatments, there were others who were crying, or were angry, or were still in shock, or… fill in any number of emotions and I saw them in that infusion room. Actually, I felt them myself in that infusion room. It wasn’t just another room in the cancer center, it was where we met as members of The Fellowship of the Afflicted.
In that room there was no judgement, because we all got it. We understood each other and allowed the space for everyone to feel what needed to be felt. Some days we talked among ourselves and other days the room was filled with a heavy silence. Some days we rejoiced with the patient who celebrated the last day of treatment while other days we wept for a member who was no longer with us. One of the days I remember clearly was a quiet day and we could hear small, stifled sobs. We each looked around to see who needed a comforting glance or a fellow member to bring his/her own IV pole to sit next to, but it was not obvious until a small, quivering voice said, “When will you get your… you know… medicine?” I looked over as the lady next to me, who then completely drew back the small curtain barrier between us asked again, “I noticed that you are still getting regular saline – when will you get your… medicine?” I immediately understood, as did those in the Fellowship.
The young woman, mid-20’s, was receiving her first dose, and was feeling very much alone, and yet she still bravely reached out. Her simple question changed the entire room that day, and that one question began a day I will never forget. She asked when I would start my… medicine. I turned my balding-head, wrapped-in-a-blanket, shivering self to her and replied, “I’ve already started, but they give me the boring clear stuff. What kind do you have?” She smiled, looked up at one of the many bags of fluids on her IV pole and, while her eyes followed one line from the pole to her chest said, “I get the pretty blue stuff. I’d hate to have boring.”
Everyone laughed. Everyone cried. Everyone took turns talking about their “medicine” in terms of color, frequency needed and the “lovely” side affects. We talked about so much more than chemo that day, but we didn’t do so with the spoken word. We communicated love, compassion and hope with the subtext, with smiles, with nods, with sighs, laughter and tears. We were in this Fellowship, and though none of us wanted to be a member, we were thankful for the membership.
That day taught me so much! I’m never alone, though I sometimes feel lonely. Every day and every situation we are with a different and unique group of humans and therefore create our own type of magic that can never be repeated. What type of magic is up to us. I may not feel exactly what someone else is feeling in a single moment, but I can show compassion… I don’t have to “feel it to understand it.” I may have days when I need to be quiet instead of my sarcastic self, and that’s ok. During sad days I may need to laugh out loud, and that’s ok, too. I can experience different emotions at the same time: fear/faith, loss/grace, love/hate, sadness/laughter. Life is so much more about “and” than “or.”
We all have a Fellowship. We all have experienced some type of affliction. We are complex people who are at varying stages in this messy, beautiful chronic condition called life. When I am fortunate enough to come across someone who has been a member of my Fellowship longer than I, I find myself wanting to learn as much as possible from their journey. Isn’t that what makes this life, this membership, sweeter? We learn, grow, realize, feel, hope, change and begin to more freely express empathy and compassion.
Perhaps a better title would have been, “The Fellowship of the Circle.” Tolkien – the man was a genius.
For many of us, another “new normal” begins today. Here in South Carolina, salons can reopen, restaurants can begin limited indoor seating, and some businesses are starting the process of resuming operations with a well thought-out plan. I’ve lived many a “new normal” in my lifetime. Through the years I’ve been asked some wonderful questions and one of my favorites is this: does change ever become routine?
Interesting question. A valid question.
My answer has always been that I just go with the flow, or something to that effect. Truth be told, every new normal chips away at the strong walls I started building around myself in 2004. These walls were built with the best of intentions, and, frankly speaking, their construction began before I was fully aware of them. This is one of the many reasons that I connect so strongly with Wicked – and my favorite song, Thank Goodness. Glinda beautifully sings this celebratory anthem and perfectly hints at the cost of past and current choices with the phrase, “there are bridges you cross you didn’t know you crossed until you cross.”
The walls and bridges that I have built in my own life… well, they seem a bit worn and in some disrepair these days. That’s a good thing, I think. It’s a vulnerable state that I never could have imagined. I desperately wanted to be “a good and faithful” cancer patient, and I still find myself auditioning for that part whenever I meet a new doctor, specialist or physical therapist. I need to change this habit. Change: deciding to build a different bridge. This part of me will always be under construction.
God created me to be a generally upbeat person. I love a cheerful response, a quick joke (a sarcastic one, if I’m going to be transparent), a positive outlook… But, sometimes these traits feel like a proverbial prison.
I’ve always thought of myself as an Elphaba, but I’m discovering that I’m a Glinda.
It’s a struggle to ask the difficult questions in a perky and optimistic manner. There never seemed to be the right place or time to say things like, “I don’t want to die” or “I want to see my children grow up.” The few times I gathered enough courage to say them I was met with, “don’t think like that” or “you need to stay positive” or “I KNOW you’ll make it.” Oh how we love living in a Pinterest world full of sayings that can heal all hurt, comfort all sorrow and turn a frown upside down. My personal favorite is “every time God closes a door He opens a window” – I certainly need more upper body strength for that type of life. 😂
So, how does one walk on the sunny side of life when one can’t even walk? How do we navigate the new normals of today? We do it together.
COVID-19 has brought up many long-buried thoughts and feelings, and I doubt I’m alone in this. We all have moments in our past that have influenced our thoughts, feelings and direction. As we find ourselves in another new normal I hope to walk alongside my fellow humans as we navigate each step. We may come from different paths and have learned different things, but I think we all will find that we have far more in common than we thought if we just listen, give space to be understood, and work together to create this new normal – the inevitable routine of change.
COVID-19 has provided many with the opportunity to spend more time at home. Granted, some of the “opportunities” have been quite challenging. Working from home sounds perfect, but it comes with its own set of challenges. Then there’s the additional joy of homeschooling. Then the emotional challenges of social distancing. Working from home became its own logistical nightmare from which hilarious memes, vlogs and social commentary have arisen. To quote Hannah Montana, “it’s the best of both worlds.” I applaud each of you in this group! Every day you do your best to keep it all together while helping your community by staying apart from others. Many wonderful new memories and habits have been born out of this unstable time.
COVID-19 has provided many with the challenges of working more hours and spending less and less time at home. It is this group that I find myself thinking about the most. It would feel good to tell you that I do this because of my concern for those who are working on the front line, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. As with almost every aspect of this pandemic, I find myself reflecting back to my isolation days. What has surprised me the most are the triggers that I’ve been experiencing. The old faithful triggers include the smell of broccoli, the crinkle of the white paper that cover exam tables, quilts, the smell of saline, Fuddruckers, dates on a calendar, sounds in a hospital, purple colored walls, the loud clicks of a wall clock…
The biggest new trigger: face masks.
During my stint in protective isolation (this was before the lovely hospital rooms of today) everyone who entered my room had to have on gowns, gloves and face masks. Due to my unique form of cancer, I had an unusually large medical team. Throughout the course of a day I would see up to 25 different hospital staff, each one of them given the proper protection before entering my room so that they would not bring something in that would kill me. It was unnerving, especially in the beginning, to not have the normal identifiers we all use when seeing our family, friends and colleagues. I had no idea what the majority of my healthcare team members looked like.
How did I identify them? By their eyes.
It’s been said that the eyes are the gateway to the soul, and I’d have to agree with that. While I had many members on my team, there was a core group that I had every day. These people became family. My core team consisted of my oncologist, a nurse educator, 4 nurses, 2 nursing assistants, the angel of death, and 1 housekeeper. Not a week goes by that I do not think of these people. They walked through the fire with me in a way that no one else could. So many times I would be in a great deal of pain and would cling to a set of familiar eyes as work was being done to help me. My oncologist delivered news, good and bad. My nurses were in the trenches with me – so many life and death issues that they had to handle… My nursing assistants helped me with all of my day-to-day tasks. The angel of death… well, I’ve written about her before. My housekeeper deep cleaned my room every day and never ever said a word about the amount of hair that she would have to sweep up. (I cannot begin to explain what a gift that was! She had the ability to clean, carry on a conversation, and leave having made my day brighter. A true gift!)
Personally, I hated wearing a mask and every time I have to wear one now is a big trigger of the not-so-great variety. Today I am focusing on the positive triggers, the ones that remind me of the extraordinary humans that took care of me while I was most vulnerable. Those masks brought my focus solely to their eyes, and in those eyes I saw so much love and care while they offered me unending comfort.
I am a proud sister and aunt to 3 extraordinary humans who are on the front line of our healthcare workers in today’s pandemic. Let me introduce you to my sister, Lisa, my nieces, Mandy and Caitlin. They have been and continue to take care of so many people with love, kindness, respect and honesty. I love them.
They have amazing eyes!
LisaMandyCaitlin
Moving forward I will do my best to look at the eyes of those around me – to not focus on the panic I feel while wearing a mask, but to take a beat and truly see those around me. I’ve lived this #separatebutnotalone life before and I have learned that a great deal of comfort can be given and received when I truly see those around me.
I am a self-proclaimed super-fan of all things The Wizard of Oz. ❤️ If you don’t get the genius that is The Wizard of Oz and Wicked, well, I’m not sure we can be friends.
Today was like entering The Emerald City, trying to figure out how to see The Wizard, meeting an unexpected creature, then sitting down to enjoy a magical treat. Truly!
Navigating unemployment has been a never-ending quest. A daily challenge, if you will. I imagine it’s what Dorothy felt when she finally reached The Emerald City and just wanted to see The Wizard. Sure, the parade, beauty salon appointments and dazzling sights (who could forget the green horse she encountered!) were all wonderful, but I imagine she was thinking, “Enough already, let me talk to The Wizard!” Yup. Enough already. Please let me talk to someone who can solve all of my unemployment issues. I’m just a girl, waiting on hold, asking a rep to help her.
Wait.
Wrong analogy.
You get the picture. 😂
To break up the monotony, I took a break and went to look for a straw in the break room. I opened the drawer and encountered a sweet creature who stared up at me with the most adorable set of whiskers. I named him Wilbur.
Ok, so that’s not how it went down. I did open the drawer, but I encountered a startled rat – I’m not sure who was more surprised, me or Wilbur. He squeaked and took off towards the back of the drawer. I squeaked and ran to the phone to call our pest specialist, let’s call him Greg. Thankfully Greg arrived in about an hour, but during that hour I heard every single creak, groan and “normal” sound. When Greg carefully opened the drawer he said, “Huh! That’s cool! The little guy made a nest in here. By the looks of things he isn’t alone.” 😳
Not what I wanted to hear.
Twenty minutes later Greg left (after NOT finding any furry creatures) and I started reciting my new montra, “You’re a 52 year old woman who’s kicked cancer’s rear, you are not afraid of a couple of adorable rats.” 🐀🐀🐀
In case you’re wondering, that didn’t work.
I need a new montra.
So, I called my boss who sweetly said not to worry about the break room, she would take care of cleaning and getting it all put back together. She didn’t seem concerned about the possibility of encountering any creatures.
I have never loved her more! 😁❤️😁
So, I left Oz and headed home. There I was greeted by a clean house (thank you Victoria and Matthew 🧡), the smell of fresh baked (delicious) banana bread, and an amazing dinner being prepared. ‘Twas wonderful.
Ok. This week was a tough one. Like, really tough. Emotionally and physically tough. Did I mention it was tough?
I did?
Ok.
This week was also a good one. Like, really good. Emotionally good. Did I mention it was good?
I did?
Ok.
This whole quarantine/social distancing thing isn’t too far off from how I lived before, so that part hasn’t been difficult. Been there/done that. Physically I’m about done. There’s a looming brick wall with my name written all over it. That’s the advantage to having lived this life before, I’m more aware of said looming wall. So, tonight is family time, Harry Potter watching, mask making, cookie making time. (So, see ya later brick wall. Not gonna run into you right now. )
Emotionally… well, that’s the complicated part. Living the good quarantine/isolation life has certainly stirred up the old whomping willow (see earlier blogs). 🤔 It’s like my emotions from battling cancer have met the new emotions of a global pandemic with the hefty sidekick of responsibility. Combine these and it’s like, “we see your whomping willow and raise you a dementor.”
How can I explain?
Protective isolation battling leukemia: dual port put in after surgeon says I wouldn’t survive the surgery, major tests on my heart, cancer fever, chemo started, cardiac arrest, transfer to another department to deal with the heart, bone marrow biopsy, results from said biopsy, more chemo, staff infection, full body yeast infection, sores covering my mouth – down the esophagus and into the stomach…. and that was in a 2 week timeframe. I was so busy trying to survive that I wasn’t able to comprehend what was happening to me or around me.
Quarantine/social distancing battling coronavirus pandemic: husband has bad car accident, my doctor calls saying a soft tissue mass was seen on an ultrasound so I have to be evaluated – said evaluation was pushed off due to pandemic – until the specialist calls me in so he can determine if I need chemo, which he would have to start immediately as he felt waiting would hinder treatment due to the pandemic, getting results that it’s not cancer (happy dancing commenced), dealing with the professional effects of the pandemic, listening to the world panic and realize how dangerous a simple handshake could be (yup, I learned that 15 years ago and have hated that ritual ever since), observing the nation pretty much slow down to a crawl…
Emotionally it’s been good because even though I’m struggling with anxiety (who isn’t?!) I’ve observed teamwork and camaraderie from my “not our first rodeo” Core Four to co-workers to perfect strangers. This time around I’m able to look up and process what’s happening around me, and I’ve witnessed some amazing humans proving that life is better when we live it together… that our differences might not be as great as previously thought, and there’s plenty of hope for a better tomorrow.
Pretty powerful stuff.
You know what? It’s been a pretty terrific week. ❤️
My Core Four is pretty terrific. We all have projects to work on at home, 2 of us are still working at our jobs many hours each week, and our 4 doggos have made peace that they will not have the house to themselves. Lots of adjustments, but that’s the quarantine life.
One lovely tradition has been reborn: yard games. We’ve played darts, bocci ball and croquets this week. The doggos are a bit puzzled by this. They are used to seeing us play boardgames but now we’ve invaded their turf: the backyard.
I imagine our dogs meeting outside by the back fence to hold meetings on this bizarre turn of events. The humans have invaded the home at all hours and are now trying to gain a stronghold in the back yard. AND the humans not only befriended the neighbor’s cat but are now feeding the cat and even sit outside on the front porch to pet said cat. 😱 What. Is. Happening?!!!!! 🦮🐶🐕🐕🦺🐈
Life is strange, scary, boring, exciting, funny, tragic, full of light and darkness. I’m thankful to be sharing this crazy life with My Core Four, and I’m thankful the doggos are graciously allowing us to crash their turf. Life is better when we do it together. ❤️
The Time that is Given 