Midnight & Mountains

I started writing at exactly midnight, and writing feels like climbing, with my arms and legs burning and my eyes stinging from the harsh wind. I want to stop and sleep. But I can't. 

I started climbing this mountain a week ago. I’ve been in the foothills all week and we are nearing the summit now. By Monday I’ll have reached the opposite edge after which I’ll freely tumble down. I’ll take a nap when I reach the bottom.

There is so much here to be said, and I would like to be brief, but you see… I still have this mountain to climb. I don’t get to stop climbing until 1:00am. It’s a decision I made on my own, without fully understanding what it would mean for me, but hear me out. I’m not crazy for doing it.

See, I’ve written about post-cancer life—and yes, I have decided to just call it “cancer” because that’s honestly what it was. Poison is poison, no matter what clothes it may be wearing. I've talked about the doctors appointments, the nonsense I have endured at their hands, the surprise biopsies and terrible responses to what I want to do with my life.

I haven’t written about the most recent and unexpected change in my life, however.

It’s not that I’ve been keeping it a secret. There are just so many details. So many words to be said. So many thoughts to express, emotions to explore. I am actually planning on writing a book about the experience, if things ever calm down for more than four days at a time. It will be all of the funniest things I'll ever say for the rest of my life. Probably.

Here is the not-secret-secret: I got a second job at a restaurant.

This has come with a multitude of complications, of course. It’s the same restaurant where my husband is a server. I work as a host, a job which is easy enough, but requires a lot of energy for a poor introvert like myself.

I am trying desperately to avoid telling you everything about the work I do. I have a multitude of hilarious stories, but they’ll have to wait for another time, because this is a serious post. 

Seriously, I mean it!

Not surprisingly, this job wears me out. My back stopped hurting after a few weeks but my feet still get sore—my right foot in particular is in constant pain because it “suffered trauma” once. (That’s doctor talk for “it broke.”) The hours are long, you don’t always get to eat or take a break, and even if you get yourself something to drink or bring a water bottle someone else will inevitably move your drink, or spill it, or toss it out because it “might get in the way.” (Goodbye, my beloved cup of coffee…)

What I didn’t expect that during these first days of each month, these days where I take a drug (see other blog posts for that excitement) that makes me hungry for odd foods (I am really craving pineapple right now), I would find myself in a state of compressed exhaustion and I would lose my ability to stay up late.

It's really too bad that I must stay up late.

On the weekends the restaurant is open until 11pm. I am often a “last guest closer", which means I have to stay in the restaurant until the last guest leaves. So if a family comes in at 10:59pm and they enjoy their meal until 12:27am, I don’t get to walk out the door until I have watched them leave first.

So, back to the drugs.

I have to take them at the same time every day. And I mean the that. The same. Exact. Time. 

This is not like an allergy pill, or even birth control, where you can take it 5 minutes or perhaps  an hour late and you’ll be fine. If I take this 5 minutes late, the entire cycle of pills is wasted. I won’t get to reset until the next month.

I actually took 2 months off from taking it just because I was so concerned about getting it wrong. Don’t you worry, my anxiety about this was not misguided!

When January came I started taking it again. I concluded, based on my work schedule, that I would take it and my antidepressant at 1am. These are the only two meds I take that require a schedule and so it’s easier to take them at the same time, rather than set extra alarms and carry drugs around with me all day and potentially lose them. I know I’ll be home by 1am and so this was the most logical solution I could come up with.

You get it now? You see that this was logical?

It was logical, I promise. I planned well, to the best of my knowledge. But little did I know that for the next three weeks I would NOT be a “last guest closer;" rather I would be home before 10pm, but I’ve already started taking the pills at 1am and it can’t be undone!

So here I am. Sitting. Waiting. Ready for bed, Wishing I was asleep. I have been in this state for three hours, and I'm getting so close.

It’s within my grasp now; I can see the mountain top. My eyelids are heavy, my breathing slow and even, I am warm and comfortable and totally prepared to plunge my pickaxe into the rock and rest for the night.

Hunger & Surprise

There's an old saying--be careful what you wish for, because it might just come true. So far in life this has not held any relevance for me. Nothing I've ever wished for has ever come back to bite me. (Although, as a child enamored with WWII fiction I romanticized the idea of a country at war. For a little while I thought the "War on Terror" might have been my fault. Don't judge me, I was 13.) 

In any case, I have seldom feared wishing or hoping for something simply because I feared receiving that thing might be bad. I have, however, feared hoping or wishing for something because the prolonged absence of my desire would be altogether too painful. When you hunger for something so deeply it consumes all your thoughts, being denied can bring only destruction. 

This is one of the truest sorrows in life. We dare not to hope, for fear our hopes will be crushed. We stuff our hope in pockets and hide it in closets and bury it in the backyard where it can't be found. Or worse, we hold our hope in shaking palms and then we crush it ourselves, just so someone else won't do it first. 

And yet, that thing we hope for, that thing we hunger for, cannot always be neglected.

And all of this was on my mind 2 weeks ago when I went to see my obgyn. 

It was  a routine supposed to be a routine visit. It had been rescheduled once already, like most of my visits to the obgyn. When I arrived I was informed I would need to get into a paper gown and wait, but the doctor wasn't sure what procedure she was doing yet. I brushed off my confusion and got into the paper gown, only for the nurse to come back and tell me they needed to do another test first and so I got out of the paper gown and back into my clothes. 

When I returned, the nurse had moved my belongings to a different exam room and said cheerfully, "The doctor wants to redo the EMB so I have some paperwork for you to sign. Then you can get back into the gown."

I was halfway through my signature when I realized EMB meant endometrial biopsy. 

Let me be honest: I had been hoping I was pregnant, and that I just didn't know it yet. I want motherhood so desperately that I am willing to suffer through a surprise at the doctor's office. I hate surprises, I am terrible at surprises, but I would welcome such a wonderful surprise if it meant my heart's desire would be satisfied. 

But they had already done that test. I was not pregnant. I could not be pregnant if they were doing a biopsy--a biopsy I had not prepared for. Usually I would take some painkillers beforehand and plan something relaxing afterwards to distract me from the pain. None of that happened.

The doctor came in, discussed the risks involved, completed the procedure, and all the while I lay there feeling completely enraged as my hope slowly died. 

Still, while I had hungered and hoped for a surprise pregnancy, there was another part of me, a logical part of me, that wanted to know if the abnormal cells would return. It had been almost a year since my last biopsy and as I continue to not be pregnant I can't help but wonder if there's a recurring problem with me.

There isn't, at least not a definitive one. The results were all negative--a blessing, for sure!--but they give me no answers about my unexplained infertility. 

So I have been pondering deeply, as introverted nerds like myself often do, about my hope and my expectations and how the element of surprise is so conflicting for me. 

I have never reacted badly to a surprise. Yes, I was full of anger in the doctor's office, but I didn't show it. I could have said I wouldn't do it, I could have thrown a fit and ripped apart that stupid paper gown, but I didn't. I simply signed my name and put on the gown and tossed the paper towel blanket over my knees. I cooperated. I said I was fine. I didn't ask any questions. 

I believe my fear of surprise is not in the surprise itself, but that I will have to be dishonest in response to the surprise. Kind of like when someone gives you a terrible gift. "Oh, thank you, I love sweaters with embroidered geese!" What I really hate is not the surprise, but the politeness required of me afterwards. 

In light of this realization, I have been thinking about other situations in which I claimed to be afraid of surprises, afraid of not being prepared or not getting what I hope for, when in reality I am simply afraid of who I will be in the middle of that surprise. The best and most recent example I have is my women's huddle.

My church calls Bible studies/small groups "Huddles." I think it's an endearing and intimate title. It brings to mind images of friends huddling together around a fire, or huddling together for protection, or huddling in order to share a secret and then giggle quietly about it. It covers all the different aspects that I often found so absent in other Bible studies--it gives space for vulnerability and intimacy and true connection with others. 

However, I loved the name first and the experience second. I completely avoided the first huddle that was available to me. It was nearby, and people offered me rides, and I was even part of the group-text sent out each week, but I didn't go even once. I have a combination of good reasons for why I never went, but mostly it just didn't feel right. 

And then a few months ago a women's huddle was going through a transition period, and I was asked to join their group. 

This was a transformative moment for me, for several reasons. To begin, I have sought and hoped and hungered so long for a church like mine that the mere existence of Christian Neighbors Church is truly an answer to prayer. Second, I was keenly reminded that I had beloved friends in this church, and they wanted me.

But I was still my introverted self. I was still afraid of being surprised. I was still uncertain about who I would be in that setting, that intimate and huddled environment that emotionally seemed warm and inviting but caused me mental anxiety. As the first meeting approached my enthusiasm waned and fear had its way with me. What if I came across too strong? What if I said too much? What if I said too little? What if it was boring? What if the thing I hope for is denied and I am crushed by disappointment?

The day we finally met I had been fighting the urge to cancel completely. My personal experiences were that tainted, and therefore my fear of the surprise--or who I would be in the wake of the surprise--was that much stronger. 

And then I didn't cancel. And then we met. And then we spent an evening devouring each other's words and stories. There was no awkwardness. There was no fear. I was not anxious, and I was not polite, and I didn't say with insincerity, "Oooh, I had a great time!" 

The last several months of our meetings have been such a rich blessing in my life. As we grow closer to God and to each other through our conversations, I am continually in awe. I believed I was hoping for a non-awkward Bible study group, but what I was truly hoping and hunger for what a deep connection with other women.

In the same way that I believed I was only hoping for a surprise pregnancy, but the surprise I received was also something I needed.

I am reminded that sometimes what we hope for is a surprise. And sometimes the surprise is what satisfies our hunger. 

A New Season

I've been absent from the blog for over three months, so it's safe to say a new post is long overdue. Of course, you're all in luck, because it's almost my favorite month of the year: April! And we all know what that means. (In case you've forgotten, April is National Poetry Month, which equals a post/poem for every single day.)

Ahem.

Before I prepare you all for the wonder and joy of NPM, I should give some  updates, since my last post was somber--for good reason--and slightly ominous. I re-read it very briefly, to review my state of mind at the time, and couldn't get through it because things have certainly changed since then.

I'm not the first person on the internet to divulge details about depression and anxiety. I know that. I didn't expect to get an onslaught of sympathetic notes or anything. But part of the tragedy of depression is that we so often, for a multitude of reasons, feel as if our depressed state is something to be hidden or dismissed. I have been among those secretive people, deciding that I am fine and behaving as if I am fine to the best of my ability until I simply can't handle it anymore. I chose to express myself in a blog because it seemed to be the most honest way of admitting I needed assistance and also explaining why I had to make some difficult choices.

In any case, it has been an interesting three months.

For the first time since I was 19 I started an antidepressant. The first round was fascinating, especially the first week. I considered blogging the first week to talk about my extreme exhaustion due to the medication and wanted desperately to talk about my vivid dreams. My favorite side effect is definitely the vivid dreams. I've written previously about how realistic my dreams are, but these are on a whole new plane of fantasy. Usually I'm able to tell myself while dreaming if something is real or not--for instance, if something really terrible has happened or I'm scared, I can calm myself down and convince myself that it's not real and eventually I will wake up. But not anymore. Unicorns? Totally real in my dreams. Rainbows? They actually taste delicious. And don't get me started on the people I've dreamed about. Basically, I have no way to differentiate between subconscious concepts or reality. 

Other than the dreams, the exhaustion, and the incessant jaw-breaking yawns, it has ultimately been a successful experience. 

I can't describe to you the joy of being physically calm and mentally calm at the same time. Don't get me wrong, there are still plenty of stressful things in my life and moments filled with anxiety, but they no longer overwhelm my body and brain. I am completely astounded that I have not had any serious side effects and am thankful that this treatment is actually available to me.

Due to this blessing, as strange as it may be to call it a blessing, I have felt more like myself than I have in years. I have been painting a lot. (Sidenote: I redid the blog's design, and the background is one of my fun watercolors!) I have been able to read and draw and develop relationships new and old. I have been able to focus on the good things and handle the bad things.

I'm not going to say I'm happy. Happiness is a temporary, insignificant feeling. My goal is not to be happy. My goal is the ability to find contentment in every circumstance.

Of course, sometimes that circumstance involves going to the beach... and feeling happy.

More later. The next time I write here, it will be a poem. The time after that, it will also be a poem. Because National Poetry Month is coming. So watch out. ;)

Tis the Season

At the end of every year there is a burning light, and throughout each month the distance from that light becomes less and less as we trundle towards it. When we reach the end, the world is dark--we have passed through sunrise, daylight, and starlit nights, and the flame is nearly gone. We blow it out or watch it fade just in time. Somewhere on the horizon someone strikes another match, another flame blazes into the darkness, and we start over again.

But for me, this year, I never seemed to get any nearer to the light. Despite how I anxiously scrambled toward its glow, it was snuffed out before I got a chance to reach it. When this happens, reaching the next light is rather impossible. It hasn't been lit. When this happens, there is a great deal of wandering in the dark without any guidance or sense of direction, and we may not even see the next light when it is lit because we get lost.

If this sounds familiar or resonates with you somehow, there's a chance you've experienced depression the same way I have.

I have written, albeit briefly, about my depression a handful of times on this blog. I prefer not to talk about it on this platform because in spite of the decreasing amount of stigma surrounding the issue, there are still individuals who are not "safe" people to tell. There is the person who once told my eighth grade English class in a reprimanding tone, "Happiness is a choice." In addition, there are still people who will respond to another's depression with comments like, "It could be worse," and to add to their blithe statements, will often give examples of people who have it worse.

In any case, this post is not written for those people.

This post is written, first of all, for the people like me: The people who get it, who have been there in the dark too. However, it's also for the people who may have stood back and been confused by my irregular temperament. It is for those who were shocked by aggressive words or ignorant statements, by my impulsive actions or dramatic reactions, or even periods of what looks like laziness. If I seemed overly sad about something you thought was insignificant, if I was so excited about something I appeared agitated and ill-composed, or if you ever thought that my behavior was out of character--this year, or any year--it is likely because of depression.

I am not going to apologize for my feelings. They were real to me, even if they weren't realistic. I am only going to apologize if my behavior caused pain, confusion, or distress of any kind. You don't need to let me know if I hurt or disappointed you; just know that I am sorry, and I hope you will forgive me.

I have been able to cope with this, most days. I have a fairly reliable support system and people who will talk me through things. Sometimes the support system is there before I do something regrettable, but sometimes they are simply there for me in the backlash. And for the last several years I have not been overwhelmed by the depression that was so terribly consuming during high school and the year after. I felt relatively stable until this year, and following my surgery this February I realized that things were slipping out of place. I had a stressful spring and summer, and over the fall months it worsened until it suddenly came to a peak and I realized that for the first time in my life...

...this is real, and even with the proper support system in place, it is not going away. 

As a teenager the tumultuous experience of depression could have been blamed on an awful boyfriend or ridiculous hormones. As an adult I am distinctly aware that this is not how things should be. I have walked toward the light at the end of this year and watched it go out, and I know I do not deserve to wander aimlessly through the darkness.

Happiness is not a choice. Happiness is not even the goal. Happiness is a temporary, fleeting thing--and it is not the thing I want.

Yes, other people have it "worse," but that does not mean anyone has the right to dismiss my pain or decide that I am the antagonist in my own story.

I have taken steps to find healing and new ways to manage my depression, but it will be an extremely difficult first week. (My doctor essentially told me I should expect to feel varying degrees of awful.) That being said, I do not have time for those who refuse to respect the severity of this issue, or for those who won't acknowledge how imperative it is that I receive the support for which I am asking.

So I am taking a break this week.  From the people and situations which have hurt me, knowingly or not. From the people who don't understand. From the mindless, desensitized, media-driven world.

From Sunday, December 13th through Saturday December 19th I will not be on Facebook. You can feel free to text or call me (only non-advice conversations), and I will do my best to respond to messages on Facebook. There's a chance I will use Instagram and I might be present here on the blog (both automatically send updates to FB) but I haven't decided yet. Mostly I just want to avoid the senseless scrolling and the following fogginess.

And there you have it. Even writing this made me anxious... I worry that expressing my feelings and being vulnerable here will somehow have terrible consequences. Anyways. Thanks for taking the time to read this. I would appreciate any prayers you can offer, and encouraging notes/messages/calls/etc. are definitely accepted. As I said before, I'll do my best to respond if I'm feeling up to the task. Hopefully I'll be back in a week with a new light. :)


-K

Thanksketching: Better Late Than Never

I realize it's been just over three months since I wrote a blog post. This isn't because I don't have anything exciting to report. I do. But when you're busy living life you don't always have time to write it down.

So before I dive into the focus of today's title, I'll give a few updates.

1. I went home (to Seattle) to surprise my mother for her 60th birthday. It was a wonderful week filled with coffee and old friends and anxiety, because...
2. My husband got a new job. While I was gone. Yep.
3. I've been working a lot and cleaning a lot. Those aren't really updates, but that's what's up.

And now, an explanation. Thanksketching--I'm sure you're wondering what the heck I could be talking about. Basically, I thought about blogging the "30 Days of Gratitude" stuff that I've done for the last few years, but it's the same things year after year (unless something really fun happens in the middle of November.) I avoided thinking about it simply because I wasn't planning on doing it. And then it hit me--what if I sketched what I was thankful for, instead of just wrote about it?

So here you go. I have done most of the month's drawing already, to stay on top of it (since the month is already almost half over.) The other posts will be back-published, so you can scroll through and see them all. Each post will include a picture and a few carefully chosen words.

Here is today's:

I am thankful for

fuzzy socks,

warm feet,

being cozy.

Outcome #2, Hospital #3

I have been waiting a while to post because I hoped I would have something concrete to say. I do, of course, but it's not the preferred sort of concrete facts. That sounds silly. Basically, I wish I could drop a whole concrete house on the blog but all I've really got is a couple of those holey concrete blocks that people plant flowers in or use for makeshift shelves with a couple of 2x4s.

So here are my concrete blocks: To sort of piggyback on my last post, I would like to present you with Outcome #2. All the cancerous cells are gone!

It was over a month ago now, but I had my biopsy. They forgot who my ob/gyn was, forgot the year I was born, and forgot what my diagnosis had been. After some necessary clarifications, we got started. It was short, but still incredibly painful, especially since my lovely doctor didn't tell me he'd begun the procedure. If you know me, you know how badly I react with unpleasant surprises. Even pleasant surprises are a coin toss. 

When it was over he told me to get an ultrasound, and after that it would be a few weeks before I knew the results. He also suggested that I have another surgery (the name of which I will not disclose, because it was completely unnecessary) and that I get an IUD for 18 months.

I made faces at him to express my feelings (which were equal amounts of disgust and amusement.) He wouldn't shut up about either, so eventually I had to say, "Yeah, I'll consider that!" with a big fake smile. For a "short" appointment, it could not be going any slower.

His suggestions, aside from being absolutely not what I needed, were ridiculous. I'm not dying, and have fairly good health (more on that later); I do not need another surgery (especially a surgery that often leads to more fertility problems.) And the IUD? Don't even get me started. (the short definition for an IUD: fancy birth control device that hangs out inside your body and can sometimes attach to your body and also lead to more fertility problems.)

I left the doctor's office feeling sour and frustrated, and very misunderstood. We went to Hansa in Libertyville for some coffee, and I avoided the ultrasound for another week. I had to get it done at a different hospital, but they were understaffed, so then I had to go to another different hospital. (In the list of hospitals/offices I would prefer to go to, we were now at third on the list.)

Fast forward 2 weeks: I've gotten the results from the biopsy. No cancer! Just waiting for the ultrasound. I thought about blogging then, but still wanted to wait for the full results. And... hospital #3 forgot to transfer my results to the cancer doctor. So I had to call... give them the fax number... and wait some more. I hated thinking about how those stupid ultrasound images had just been sitting in a filing cabinet somewhere in hospital #3, and no one had even looked at them.

Finally I got the call with the ultrasound results. Everything was normal! Along with being informed I no longer needed to see my gynecologic oncologist (hopefully I will never have to type those words ever again), I was told I could finally go back to my ob/gyn. I had no other directions, except to "follow up with her."

So my appointment with her is this comingThursday morning. I'm not sure what it will entail. It has been a stressful few weeks since I received the final results. In addition to taking a close friend to the ER twice last week, and taking her to/from surgery between those ER visits, I had my own trip to urgent care (on my birthday) and then this last Friday had my "urgent care follow up" with my regular doctor, only for her to tell me... to go see a specialist because my current predicament (sinus related, not cancer) is an anomaly.

Yeah, that's right. I'm an anomaly. I'm so weird she actually called me "darlin'."

I'm starting to feel like that crazy aunt/uncle that can't stop talking about their cataracts, or their arthritis. Don't assume I don't understand that those are serious issues--they are!--but only talking about medical maladies can put strain on a relationship.

I really don't want you to start thinking of me as your crazy aunt.

So I'm going to blog again tomorrow, about wonderful things, happy things. It doesn't mean my health is not a complete conundrum, or that I'm not deeply worried that my ob/gyn will also tell me I need 18 terrible months of terrible birth control... it just means my life is full of both the wonderful and the terrible and they both deserve to be shared.

Round Three (or Fighting & Winning)

Apparently there was a big fight a few weeks ago. It's funny, because I'm actually a big fan of boxing thanks to one of my favorite books, but I could not have been less interested in this particular match. Somehow, there's something unappealing about paying $100 to watch (on tv) two dudes hit each other for a prize of approximately $300 million. (Tickets to the actual "fight" were $1000-$10,000, just in case you were wondering.)

That's right. If it was confusing, let me spell it out for you. Pay ten thousand dollars to see two boxers fight for forty-five minutes for three-hundred-million dollars. This insurmountable sum was split 60-40 in the favor of the victor. This means that one guy went home with an estimated $80 million and the other went home with $120 million. (Although, it should be noted some estimates predict it could be upwards of $100mil. and $180mil.)

So we've got the Boko Haram insurgency, children dying of cancer (or the measles), wars in Afghanistan and Russia, two devastating earthquakes in Nepal, and thousands of other conflicts which--yes, I actually looked up thousands!--I will not describe in detail. All of these other disasters and tragedies are taking place and causing misery around the world, but here in the heart of America we care about... two dudes who fought each other for an hour.

What really gets me is that nobody was knocked out, or really injured, for that matter. I didn't watch the fight but I'm pretty sure if someone had broken a body part (other than teeth, or a finger) we would have heard about it by now. If significant damage had been endured, we would be informed and we would have something to say about it.

Can you even call that a fight?

Maybe my definition of a fight is different.

Maybe when I think of fighting, I think of the young women and men in wars overseas, having to leave their families and children and lives, just to fight for someone else's freedom.  

Maybe when I think of fighting, I think of the overwhelming depression I and so many others have warred against, along with the stigmas of mental illness and the isolation that comes from having an invisible disease.

Maybe when I think of fighting, I think of the people I've loved who battled cancer. For most of them, it's an ongoing conflict. Sometimes they lose, but even if they win, there's always that fear that they'll have to go back to the front lines.

Maybe when I think of fighting, I think of the "abnormal cells" that entered my body and caused a thousand problems (like depression! yay!). I think of the road I have to take and the warrior I must become to reach my destination... to defeat my supposed enemies... to win.  

Maybe when I think of fighting, I think of winners and losers. 

Apparently one of the dudes in this hour-long fight, the guy who won, only won by a "unanimous decision." As in, he won because.... someone just decided he did?

In my book, in order for somebody to win, somebody else has to lose. When it comes to fighting, there is always a loser and a winner. That means the winner takes all and the loser gets nothing.

When I get to the end of this road, I don't want my enemy (the cells, the cancer, whatever) to get 40% of the winnings. I don't want 60% of the victory.

I WANT IT ALL.

I want the disease out of my body, I want a baby in my arms, and I'm not going to look back. I'm not going to concede any of my victory to my enemy, or be satisfied with only some of the goal. I will not reach the finish line and throw my enemy 40% or even 1% because it was a "good fight." I understand that, at some level, simply being alive is a victory, but I am not near death and therefore the enemy is not the death of my body, but the death of the life I want.

And I am sure, as certain as the sun will rise tomorrow, that I am not alone in this sentiment. If you have truly fought anything (illness, addiction, literal weapons) for any amount of time (a moment, a day, a lifetime) you can understand the notion that the purpose of the fight is not to share the victory with your enemy.

The purpose of your fight is to use your fists or your words or your will to win.

With all that said... if you take a look at the photo above you'll notice a handful of pills. These are the buggers I take every day. (There are actually three more, not pictured.) Some of them are for allergies (because it's springtime!) and some of them are to save my life (because I'm dying! Just kidding.) In 10 days I will start round three of my "cancer therapy." It doesn't kill me, but the side effects are exhausting. While I take the drugs I am tired all the time. I am able to fall asleep quickly, for the first time in my life, but it's almost impossible to wake up. I also have the munchies. My oncologist said this would happen, although I didn't experience it during the first round of drugs. I definitely felt it during round two -- it's kind of interesting, wanting a popsicle one minute and celery the next.

It's a different fight than what some people might consider "difficult," but it is still my fight. Even if it only means suffering from "the munchies" it is still my fight. Even though it means enduring several painful biopsies this summer, it is still my fight. Even if it means tumultuous hormones and being impatient with my husband or experiencing endless anxiety over all of the doctor's appointments to come, it is still my fight.

It is still my life that I am fighting for, and I intend to win.

NPM: Taking Hold, Etc. (Part 1)

"Loss" circa 2010.

This is going to be one of those long posts. So roll up your sleeves, or saddle your horses, or gird your loins, or whatever it is you do when you get ready for a thing.

It has been thirteen days since I last posted here, during this month when I long to post the most. (Look, a rhyme! No, that does not count as a poem.) This is one of those times I feel like an explanation is in order, especially since it relates to the whole pre-cancer adventure and some of you might want an update.

During the first twelve days of April I started my "therapy." This involved taking a pill at the same time every day (or every night, in my case.) The first three days I didn't realize it needed to be at the same time, didn't realize that I absolutely should not have waited any amount of time between those 24-hour doses, and upon realizing my mistake worried that I had messed up the whole process.

But I didn't mess it up. Five days later I woke up mid-morning and began to experience the beginning throes of (what I've decided to call) healing. I won't give you details, because you don't need them. However, it has been tumultuous. I have been anxious, relieved, awestruck and dumbfounded and to put it plainly... I've just been a mess. 

And so during a time I wanted to be writing, and sharing, and deeply connecting with people, I found myself rather isolated. I found myself feeling abandoned. This "healing" has been a profound joy that I cannot share with the world, and the experience has left my heart vulnerable. It's day 9 of this long process, and as I'm coming out of it I want to rejoin the world with all of my words. There's not much as far as an update, except that the drugs are working. Round 2 starts May 1st, so hopefully they'll continue working.

Also, yes... I will be sharing thirteen poems. Six here, and seven in the next post. I would be so honored if you read them and told me what you thought of them--or you can tell me how they made you feel, or what they reminded you of. Not everyone likes poetry, I understand that. But right now they are my way of connecting with you, with the world, with life... so don't be shy if you have thoughts you would like to share.

1. Take Hold - February 22, 2015

We clasp together our wounded hands
and wander out here like orphans.
We hide our pain in the shadows,
we are silent and ashamed.

But you take hold and heal us,
you take us in like a son and daughter.
You raise our faces to the sun,
and we are overjoyed to be redeemed.


2. Crash Test - January 5, 2015 [edited April 26, 2015]

Sometimes
I am magnetized
back into your orbit.
I am drawn to the darkness
you made a house inside,
where you forced me to live
without oxygen.
I breathed only you
and thought someday
if consumed
you would simply set me free.
But all this time
I've been my own
and still I am possessed.
Still a prisoner.
Always wondering,
was I an experiment?
Did you bend me
just to break me
when the pieces didn't fit?
You let me crash and burn
but blamed me for who I am,
and now would rage
against the world
for not accepting
your love or your plan.
You told me
it was my fault
like I made the prison.
But the truth is
the chain of sin
has always been
your decision.


3. Meshed - June 3, 2014

Long ago, when we adored other men,
when the world inside our souls
was meshed without our knowledge,
when the air hung so densely
we could swim in its summer breath,
awash on the shore like
stranded changelings from the ether,
we met. A friendship swapped
between white-washed bricks
and solidified under a cherry tree.
We foraged like mercenaries
without causes for combat,
hunted madly like wild sisters
abandoned by our brothers.
The sun shone so brightly
we could taste it. So we drank
of the cherry blossoms blooming
and the green grasses reaching
and the sweet, bright rays
of that summer we fell out of love.
Today we soaked in it once more,
looking back on the storm clouds
that covered our silver linings.
A blue butterfly grazed my hand,
drifted from me to you to the sky,
as if it might have known
that in just another heavy moment
we would come full circle and
float back into the heavens.


4. Nobody Else - June 12, 2014 [edited July 2014]

**Author's note: This was originally a non-rhyming poem, but through the process of mourning a lost friend it turned into a short song on the guitar. I am really bad at playing the guitar, but the lyrics/poem aren't awful. So there you go.

I returned to life once,
having been on the run,
like a vagabond
But I came back to you
with my broken shoes and my
broken song,
wearing colors
I could not forget.
And you loved me yet.
You said,
No one could wear those
colors like you.
No one colors the world
the way that you do, you do.
And I don't want
to say goodbye
or watch you ride the train
into the sky.
But even if you asked me to
I couldn't keep you here with me.
No, there is nothing I could do
to stop eternity.


5. Be Mine - December 28, 2014 [edited April 26, 2015]

On a holiday, overcome with rage
not at my own circumstances,
I held at arm’s length the obvious,
regarding those lost second chances.
And my chest filled up
like a thirstless cup
with all the stuff a heart can hold.
The world ran for cover
as it all brimmed over
and I felt suddenly cunning and bold.
And within the confines of my body
rushed the longing for only what’s right.
Senseless with energy and without reason,
something in me just wanted to fight.
So I will look for the battle
through blitheness and prattle,
I’ll break boundaries and cross lines.
Somewhere a war needs a warrior,
and I will make it mine.


6. Make Me - May 31, 2014

My heart is stillness, it is patient
with all things, bears all things, it is
merciful and not ambitious
it exudes tranquility and peace,
it offers grace to you
and to everything
but me.

I offer myself bargains
and deals I cannot keep.
I barter and trade my best,
hating the thing inside my chest,
awake inside the void
hearing that damning voice
that just won’t let me sleep.

But I want
what everyone wants.
I want what they have
despite their faults.
So make me pick me
first in line.
Make me allow me
a second try.
Make me graceful,
or merciful, not hateful.
Make me offer it up
like a reflex I can’t stop,
make me give
the right to live
without limitations
or sordid hesitations,
without seeing failure
to go with the plan here
in my responsibilities and
unsavory obligations
to the bitter thing which holds
my heart’s place.
Someone make me give myself
grace.

NPM: Pour Out (Day 7)

A small update among the pages of poetry. We didn't get the job we were hoping for. My heart is broken in some ways, and at peace in others. There is a reason for everything, you know?




Pour Out - Written January 9, 2015, Revised April 7, 2015

In that breath which held
more solitary twilight
than every exhalation of
these twenty and six years,
I stilled at the precipice
of the parched desert,
my body merely flesh,
my heart merely stone.
And I would have perished:
this is documented truth.
But sincere sorrow expressed
by the simplest of minds
begged for me to stay
in all my colorful forms.
A request only for me,
reaching mournfully
to the pitches of the sand,
uprooted my soul
from the unloving earth.
As the horizon set ablaze
with scarlet curses
I poured out a song
of oceans and rivers,
I emptied myself
of the darkness and blues
which had been carried
for that very purpose.
The knowledge of that weight
was somehow not suffocating
but freeing, for no longer
was my heart an anchor
but a melody rising
on the desert wind.

The Reward

I went to see my oncologist today.

Technically he's my "gynecologic oncologist."

Whatever he's called, I went to see him.

These are unexpected words. And I understand that, even with my constant descriptions on this blog, sometimes people feel out of the loop. There aren't enough words in the world to adequately explain to your friends that your life is changing, and you don't know everything, but you hope they'll support you. Okay, maybe there are enough words, it's just hard to find the right ones at the right time.

So I'll start at the beginning, for those of you who feel like you missed something. There will be fancy links so that you can go back and read those blogs, if you wish.

On February 21st I announced I was having surgery and asked for prayer. I went in for the surgery on February 26th and the next day began describing my experience, in three parts, which you can read here, here and here. A few days later I got the results of the surgery and they were not what I had hoped for. I began the process of life with "pre-cancer" which seems silly to say, but as my doctor would say, "It's nothing to sneeze at." I have a 5% chance of getting full-blown cancer, and am now working diligently to avoid that.

It's almost a month later. I finally had my post-op appointment last Friday, and I am healing up as expected. My doctor re-explained everything to me, which was irritating. I often feel like my doctors think that I'm stupid, or that I am uninformed. They behave as if "pre-cancer" means nothing to me, and clearly I don't do my own research.

I do my own research. I am a woman of words.

Anyways.

So I went to see my oncologist today. I had been dreading the appointment a little bit simply because I know that down the line he'll need to do more painful biopsies and, of course, he's a man. Last week I was discussing these anxieties with a friend, and she suggested that I think of something fun to do after the appointment, so I would have something to look forward to.

But when today finally came, I was so concerned with getting to the appointment on time and then getting to work on time afterwards that I forgot about the reward. I slept in longer than I should have because my bed was abnormally comfortable. As we sat in the car I suddenly realized, and then said aloud, "I really don't want to do this." Still, we made it to the appointment on time, and then I sat in the office waiting for twenty minutes after my nurse said, "We'll be right back."

My doctor looked like a taller, chubbier Ben Stein with giant Fezzik hands.

He also sounded like he had something stuck in his throat. His humorous appearance and voice perfectly counteracted his intimidating height, and I relaxed a little bit. 

Overall, it was a fairly pleasant appointment. My nurse was incredibly sweet and funny--she genuinely laughed at my jokes! They did an exam, so quickly I didn't even know it happened until it was over. We talked about future appointments, and potential procedures, and the options I had for my "therapy" medications.

It wasn't until we were back in the car, trying to find our way out of the parking garage, that I realized how stressed I'd been and how much I needed some sort of relief. I wanted a reward, and so I jokingly said to my husband, "Can you get me coffee today?"

He obliged with the largest soy mocha he could find, of course. 

But it reminded me that all of this is necessary. It's imperative. It might be awkward, and my doctors might treat me like I don't know anything, but it's an important part of the process. The hard work comes first, and the reward comes later. This is true right now, for this part of life, but it is also true for everything else... everything else I'll ever do is just the work I must finish before the great reward.

Yeah, I made that spiritual. Deal with it.

Next week, starting April 1st, I'll begin my therapy (in pill form, thank goodness.) It will supposedly make me extremely hungry, so I might be updating you all as my munchiness progresses. 

As always, I am grateful for the support of those who read this blog.

Thank you for being part of my story.

Surgery, Part 3: The Flow

It's nothing like sleep, but it feels like it should be. One moment someone is telling you to "hop" from your hospital bed to the metal table, and the next moment you're somewhere else and despite the quiet atmosphere and the dim lighting you feel full of chaos. I'm a pretty flexible person. I can change a lesson plan in five seconds if I have to, I can think of another way to get somewhere in about five minutes, and when I make a mistake during a conversation I don't waste time pretending it didn't happen. I go with the flow--it's the most efficient way to do things.

But I felt incapable of going with the flow. There was no flow.

I woke up feeling extremely irritated that I was sleeping on my back. I hate sleeping my back. Actually. to be more accurate, I can't sleep on my back. I wake up. Like every two minutes. But I was in this stupid hospital bed with a stupid mask on my face and it didn't fit right so every time I breathed a puff of air went into my eyes.

I thought, "Maybe I can roll over." I kept looking down at my arms, realized I didn't have my glasses or contacts, noticed there were giant pillows under each arm, and fell back asleep. There was a nurse to my right, and I could hear her say they couldn't find my husband.

This news caused my achy, sore body to be filled with rage. Where had Joey gone? Didn't he know I was in surgery? He was actually there in the waiting room, but had his headphones in and didn't notice anyone calling his name. But I didn't know that. I didn't know anything. I was just busy trying to find the flow so I could go with it, but it couldn't be found. So I just stayed mad, and remembered I was still trying to sleep on my back, and got even more mad.

It felt like I was laying there forever, and I wanted to talk, but I couldn't. So I groaned, like a grumpy old man. I would wiggle my feet around and hated that they were touching the curtain at the edge of the room. There was a guy in the bed next to me, and if I turned my head I could see that he wasn't wearing an oxygen mask, and that pissed me off even more. So I just kept wiggling around and groaning and trying to wake myself up enough to get that stupid mask off my face, and kept angrily glancing at the man in the bed next to me until he seemed to stare right back with just as much venom.

When the nurse removed the oxygen mask my rage and fury subsided. A male nurse with beautiful brown skin suddenly appeared at my side, wheeled me down to the recovery room and then disappeared just as quickly. I felt fuzzy and sore all over, kind of happy, and kind of confused.

Another nurse helped me out of the bed and into a fancy chair, all the while saying, "Oh, your hair is so pretty!" and I wanted to tell her I dyed it, but couldn't remember the words. I felt dizzy, and as I scooched from the bed to the chair I realized once again that I was wearing a gown and everyone could see my bum--except now they could also see the weird post-surgery underwear that had someone gotten onto my body. I ignored how terrifying and humiliating that was and sat in the chair where I immediately curled my legs up in front of me and asked for some water. 

At some point, Joey appeared, carrying my purse and coat and my bag of "comfortable clothes." He gave me my glasses and a kiss and fluffed the pillow behind my head, and informed me that he'd called my parents to let them know I was okay. My first sip of water was next--it felt like acid. My throat was so sore from the breathing tube, but it was my first food or water in 17 hours and I was parched.

I remember talking, but don't remember the words. I remember my nurse asking me over and over again if I wanted any food or juice. Another nurse hooked me up to some fluid because, "Yes, doctor wants her to empty her bladder before she goes home."

My apple juice smelled like bananas, and also felt like acid. Why was everything refrigerated? Why can't I have room temperature juice? Nurse #1 kept pestering me about food. "We have pretzels, and cookies. Chocolate chip? We have Lorna Doone cookies!"

I said "okay" because I felt a little like I'd found the flow. The flow is being forced to drink apple-banana juice (kind of like onion banana juice, eh, ATLA friends?) and eat Lorna Doone cookies. My only problem was that I had no recollection of Lorna Doone but some part of my brain hoped whoever she was made cookies that were similar to ice cream, or maybe french fries.

They were shortbread cookies. They tasted fine but they felt like wood chips.

And then, as if a heater had just clicked on overhead, my entire body flooded with warmth and I needed to pee--now. Thus began the adventure of the supervised bathroom trip. That morning when I'd first gotten to the pre-op area I'd noticed there was a curtain in the bathroom, and I thought--well, must be nice, for the elderly or people who just had foot surgery or something. There was a sign on the door explaining our safety was more important than our privacy.

Nurse #2 showed me some compassion and put a secondary gown on my back so that the world did not see my bum, and allowed me to take her arm as I hobbled to the bathroom and she held my IV bag. Once in the bathroom she hung it up on the wall hook, pulled the curtain, and left me there with the toilet containing two plastic measuring receptacles.

I will not tell you anything more about the bathroom, except this: As we hobbled back to my fancy chair Nurse #2 called out to Nurse #1, "She did it! Almost 300 milligrams!"

I passed the pee test, and there was much rejoicing.

It became clear to me that whatever I thought was normal, whatever I thought "going with the flow" was, it didn't exist for post-surgery Katie. Post-surgery Katie would have walked down the hallway by herself and shown her bum to the world, if they had let her. Post-surgery Katie (who was called Katherine all day, just for the record) didn't care about the curtain in the bathroom or glaring at the man in the other bed.

As we left the hospital I couldn't help but feel absolutely fearless. I couldn't help but be impatient, to make my follow-up appointment, to find out the results, to see what the next step would be, to turn into something greater. I couldn't help but feel like I was a brand new person. I had left that other woman on the metal table. Her chaos had followed me into waking but I left that behind too.

New day. New person. Time to find a new flow. 

Thirty Thanks, Day 11 - Day 18: All These Things In Between

An entire week has passed since I made the time to blog. I mentioned, I think, that November was my busiest month. I wasn't lying. Perhaps this is why it's important to stop and be thankful for things amid all the chaos and bewildering activity. I would attempt to go back to each day I've missed, thinking of something that happened on those days that I can be thankful for. But it's been a long week, and then a long weekend, and so these smell in-between things are going to be arbitrarily chosen.

Day 11: I am thankful that my apartment is fairly clean right now, and that (for the winter, at least) the spiders have stopped invading.

Day 12: I am thankful for winter clothes, and for the excitement I experience when I take them out of storage and put away the summer dresses.

Day 13: I am thankful for stores that are closed on Sundays, even if it inconveniences me.

Day 14: I am thankful for friends who come to visit me in Illinois, because it makes me feel grown up and worth hanging out with.

Day 15: I am thankful for Chicago and all its wonders.

Day 16: I am more thankful for Seattle, because it's my favorite city, even if its wonders are more familiar and less mysterious.

Day 17: I am thankful for stores that haven't put up their Christmas decor yet.

Day 18: I am thankful for peppermint flavored things, and the abundance of them during this absolutely delightful season.

And now I'm all caught up. I promise to try to get on top of everything again tomorrow. I may even write some posts in advance because Thanksgiving is coming soon and I will be even more occupied and busy.

Thanks, all-these-things-in-between. You're incredible... and your brevity is convenient.

It's that time again. Sorry about that.

I will start this new blog by talking about old things, because I've been out among the non-bloggers for quite some time now. I've got my trusty private Xanga still, going on 6 years now, but only my brother reads it. (and I'm fine with that.) I've decided it's time for something a bit more public and possibly contagious. (because who doesn't want to talk about things they've lost, or stuff they've found?)

So I've been out. In fact I've been out since senior year. I graduated with a decent GPA and then went on to... nothing. I went on a mission trip that was "less than ideal" in comparison to the others, which brought a few catalysts to my summer, and consequently went on to have a job. I worked at this "job" for 9 months, and during that 9 months the desire to leave Washington was slowly growing and growing. When that desire finally gave birth, I went on my fourth and final mission trip, and shortly after flew to Illinois to go to school.

Talk about a really big baby. I mean... HUGE.

And that has been my life as of August 2008. Trinity International University is my home away from home. I go to class (most of the time) and hang out with my roomie/best friend. We're over the top and seriously inappropriate. But we're good company. I've got myself a sweet boyfriend back on the West Coast, and things are going well in that aspect. Really well.

This year has seen me at my best and my worst, among a string of lung infections and coffee houses and confrontations. But isn't that life? You lose an opportunity because you can't breathe without coughing up blood, but you find out later you would have time for something else--something much less painful.

That is where I will end this post. I'm tired and getting sick and I have to go out into a blizzard in order to find some food. Excellent.