Storytelling

My father was an artist. He painted before I was born. My mother still has several of his paintings. Growing up it was a thrill if we could get him to draw for us; usually just something simple in pen on scraps of paper. While I was in high school he wrote poetry. He became published, and even won some regional awards. My brother is an artist. He paints. And writes. My sister is an artist. She draws, paints, and creates beautiful pottery. I even have a piece. My mother is a storyteller, and a local legend for her storytelling and acting. She’s also the author of a published children’s picture book. It seems that being an artist is in my blood and DNA.

I often wondered how it was that I got left out of all this talent. My painting was limited to paint-by-numbers. I was in the high school drama club and band but it wasn’t like our school was winning any national awards for our abilities. And even if they did, I was not the one who stole the show. My best friends did; they were hysterically funny in Kiss Me Kate.

I use the word “wondered” in the past tense because as I’ve grown older I have realized that I have my own talents; my own artistic creations. I have created some beautiful counted-cross stitch pieces and I knit. Granted, both of these are similar to paint-by-number. There is a pattern with specific instructions that allow me to create. However, I also write. Sometimes in prose. See The Ice Cream Stand or Princess Julianna.

When I was in law school my study group met on-line every Saturday. There were times that we would struggle with a concept or rule statement and I would find myself reading examples from our casebook or hornbook to illustrate what we needed to learn. Eventually, I started making up stories to make the point. My classmates encouraged my examples. It was kind of fun. Plus, it is also the way I learn.

And here, on this blog, I share my story. While my story is not fiction or a fairy tale, it doesn’t have to be in order to be a storyteller. The best stories come from the heart; even fiction. If you have the time, watch this video, please do. It’s about telling your story with your whole heart.

If you enjoy my blog and would like to follow me on FaceBook, I can be found at The Reluctant Survivor

Comment Circle

I recently joined a Comment Circle. The idea behind it is to make a commitment to read the blog posts of other members of the group and comment on at least two posts each week. This Comment Circle was established with a time limit of twelve weeks. I believe we are at the end of week eleven. I made the commitment for a couple of reasons. One, my good friend (we’ve known each other for over 25 years) is the one who organized it. And two, one of my goals for 2013 is to write at least once a week. I figure making a promise to a friend is a good way to keep me focused. It was a bit slow getting started – my first post was at the end of week one.

This week I haven’t written anything. When I think about the possible reasons why I realize I have no excuse. I certainly had time. And there are still plenty of things I want to share. However, I believe my lack of motivation comes from having poured out my heart over the past few weeks. As I wrote in my last post, one of the most difficult things I do is write this blog.

This has been a quiet week, but it has also been reflective. I still have many posts yet to be written. Yes, I have a “to write” folder. So instead of another piece of my journey, I share with you a bit of hope that is special to me.

Courage

Courage does not always roar. Sometimes it is a quiet voice at the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.” – Mary Anne Radmacher

Courage: Middle English corage; from the Latin cor, meaning heart. Courage is to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart.

One of the most difficult things I do is write this blog. Not because I lack courage. I started this blog because I wanted to tell my story. Some pieces are easy to write. Others are painful. But it is also too painful to keep it inside, so I write. Many posts take days, even weeks to write. Several of them were written a few years ago and it is only now that I can dust them off, polish them up, and share them with the world. Or at least my readers.

I am told that I am an inspiration. I did not plan to be an inspiration. Sometimes just doing; just being who I am touches a life in a way that I could not even imagine. When I was officially diagnosed with breast cancer I had about six weeks left of law school. It did not occur to me that this would be the time to quit. It was only six weeks; I needed to finish. So I put my head down and plowed ahead. I finished the paper I was writing for my elective. I did all of the assignments required for my Capstone class. What I did not realize was that I had become quiet in class and in the on-line Yahoo Groups. (The days before Facebook). When I finally disclosed my diagnosis to my classmates I had several say, “We were worried about you. We wondered why you had become so quiet.”

After completing my law school studies, I studied for the bar exam.* I went to graduation. At the time, it did not feel like I was courageous. It felt like I was stubborn. I wasn’t going to let cancer defeat me. I wasn’t going to let chemotherapy and a bald head keep me from fulfilling my dream of graduating from law school. And I certainly wasn’t going to let this thing, this disease, keep me from graduating with my class. Over the years I have heard from classmates and others at our graduation just what my attendance meant to them. It brings tears to my eyes when my friends share their version, their perspective of our graduation ceremony.  I had no idea what a powerful statement I made by showing up.

It has been a slow process coming to terms with my diagnosis and what it means. I began researching breast cancer about six months after my diagnosis. It was then that I learned of the different types, as well as the fact that there are different identifications within the types. First there is staging. Then there are tests for hormone receptor involvement. And a test for the Her2 protein. Surgery involves finding out if lymph nodes are involved. Beyond that, the doctors will determine the grade of the tumor, which gives an additional level of information on just how aggressive the cancer is. There is a lot that goes into a final diagnosis and ultimate treatment plan.

Knowledge is both powerful and frightening. It is scary because it told me exactly what had gone wrong within my body. It is chilling to learn that my tumor is rare and aggressive. It is encouraging that it was Stage I (no lymph node involvement), but alarming to know that it was Grade 3. But knowing these things is powerful. I have the knowledge of my diagnosis, and there is nothing to change what happened. However, with this knowledge I can take control of my life by living a healthier lifestyle and being aware of changes in my body. I am fortunate because triple negative breast cancer has a high rate of recurrence in the 36-48 months after diagnosis and I made it past the four year mark.

Also, I am able to share my knowledge with others. My friends have connected me with their friends and family members who are facing the unknown that is breast cancer. I share my story to encourage others. While I know that my story brings hope to those who are struggling I am also aware of this truth: cancer kills. Breast cancer comes back, even with an early stage diagnosis. Mine is a story of healing and hope, and I want to bring that hope to others. But I am also here to share knowledge, provide support, and give my love to those who are facing the very scary, very real unknown. So I will continue to tell the story of who I am with my whole heart.

March 1, 2008

 

*I did not pass the February exam, but I passed when I took it again in July.

 

Equipping the Called

I received my undergraduate degree from Gordon College. Gordon is a private, four year Christian liberal arts college on the North Shore of Massachusetts. It started out as a Bible and Missionary Training school in Boston. When I attended, there was still an emphasis on missions, and you could major in Biblical Studies. I have always been fascinated by people who are “called” to become missionaries. Though the one thing I know about myself is that I do not have that calling. In fact, it was the last thing I wanted to do while I was in college. And there were plenty of opportunities to do short-term mission trips. What fascinates me are the people who are called into this ministry.

My friends, Steve and Pam Hill, are missionaries in South Africa. I love them dearly. Pam and I were part of a close-knit group of friends when we were young adults. Ever since I have known them the Hills wanted to go to Africa as missionaries. And they went. Every time I think of them there is a small tug of envy in my heart. Not because I want to be a missionary, but because I want to be like them. I want to “be called” so strongly that there is no doubt in my mind or heart that I am doing the right thing with my life. Missionaries are my perfect example of living God’s will.

As much as being a missionary fascinates me, it also scares me. How can anybody do what they do? And then I remember: God does not call the equipped. He equips the called. It is this response, this answer to God’s calling that tugs at my heart.

After diagnosis and treatment I learned of the American Cancer Society Fundraiser Spin for Hope. (It is now named Pedal to End Cancer). I heard about it at my athletic club and decided that I wanted to participate. I did in 2010 and was the second top fundraiser from my athletic club. It was an amazing experience and I have often thought about participating again. It is always held the first Sunday in March.

However, even after treatment I could never imagine participating in a “walk,” let alone anything that took more than a day. I’m not sure why, but maybe I was afraid of walking long distances whereas riding a stationary bike is pretty safe. As I wrote in my initial post The Reluctant Survivor, I was the one always willing to sponsor. It was when my school mate and friend called to ask if I’d be interested in doing a fundraising walk in memory of our friend that my heart answered “yes” before my brain could close my mouth. During the weeks that followed I often found myself questioning my ability. I would often think, “What have I gotten myself into?” And I would wonder if there was a way out.

I trained, to the best of my ability, for that first walk. It was painful. There were injuries. But the biggest hurdle was the emotional one. The one where I was full of doubts; doubts about my physical ability. The fear of an unknown walk, in an unknown city. I was pretty sure I had said yes to something that was impossible, at least for me. It was then I would feel that tug on my heart and would remember that God does not call the equipped. And I would find myself saying to God, “Well, you better equip me.”

Even today as I begin “training” for the 2013 Avon Walk I am struck by the fact that I am not equipped. I am not an athlete. I walked 30 miles on my treadmill during the month of January. I have been slowed down by a minor injury to my left heel, so I will not be walking 30 miles during the month of February. However, there are other things I can do, such as weight training and yoga, to prepare for a marathon walk. As unequipped as I am, God continues to equip this walker who was called.

Training for a Marathon

As you know, I participate in the Avon Walk with a team from my Law School. Our team is the Concord Law School Team, and members are alumni, students, faculty and staff, as well as friends and family. We started walking in 2011 in memory of our dear friend and fellow school mate, Jan Keith Harper. In 2013 our destination city is San Francisco and it is our third walk.

Back when I first agreed to walk I knew I would need to train. While I had been exercising some as part of my recovery, I really was not in shape to run a marathon, let alone walk a marathon and a half over two days. So I put myself on a training plan and I did the best I could. I committed to walking a full marathon over two days; 13.1 miles each day. My walking partner and I were the caboose, but we did it. We walked the first half of our marathon on Saturday. Until you experience it, you cannot know the thrill of making it to the 13 mile marker.

Last year the Team walked in Washington, D.C. Again, I knew I’d need to train. Training was a bit easier. There was a sense of “been there, done that” so I did not feel anxious about the weekend or the physical requirements. Again, I committed to a full marathon knowing that I was in better shape in 2012 than I had been in 2011. However, I did not want to commit to 39.3 miles and fall short. I mentally prepared myself with the idea of 13.1 miles on Saturday, and if I felt good at the midway mark I’d keep going until I knew I needed to stop.

The Washington, D.C. walk was physically more challenging. There were hills. But ultimately I did not feel that the hills were all that bad. However, I did stop at the 13 mile marker knowing that I would have to do it again on Sunday and I wanted to be able to climb those hills.

So now I’m facing San Francisco in less than nine months. In December, as we looked toward the New Year with resolutions (and long winter months) I decided to set a goal for the month of January. Not a New Year’s resolution. Just a January goal. The goal was to walk one mile a day six days a week. (Monday through Saturday). It meant getting up a little bit earlier every day in order to have time to visit my treadmill before starting my day.

I am told that it takes 30 days to form a new habit. (I’ve also heard 21 days and three months). Well, my body is now used to the new routine. I am waking up on my own before the alarm most mornings. On days when I can sleep in I’m usually up by 6:30 a.m. I guess that habit has been formed.

I started December 31. Today is January 31 and so far I’ve stuck to my routine. I just have to walk tomorrow and Saturday to make it five full weeks. And that’s the hard part. Not the walking, though some days I’m stiff. It’s the mental discipline. It is so easy for me to try to talk myself out of walking. I’m running late. I’m sore. I’ll do two miles tomorrow. When I start down that mental path I admonish those thoughts and tell myself “Just a mile. That’s all. Just a mile. If you want to walk two miles tomorrow, that’s ok. But that’s tomorrow. Today it’s a mile.” And believe me, some mornings that mile is longer than others. However, as of today, from January 1 – January 31, I have walked 30 miles. (32 miles if I count December 31^st).

Now it’s time to set February’s goal.

 

 

Looking Fear in the Face

I hadn’t intended to write this post, but I’m just too angry to keep silent. I’m going to share with you part of my mother’s story. It’s ok. She has often said I can tell her story because her story is part of mine. In some ways it is. In other ways it is her own. And together, it is ours.

As you know, I was diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer in November 2007. My treatment consisted of surgery, followed by chemotherapy, followed by radiation. While undergoing radiation treatment my mother called one day, in the middle of the week, to tell me she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. It took me a while to understand what she was saying because it sounded so foreign. Additionally, she had given no indication that she was going through testing. I know her reasoning; we had just been through so much with me and I wasn’t even done treatment. The last thing she wanted to do was worry us if it were not necessary.

I ended up taking one day off from radiation so that I could go with her to a doctor’s appointment. One week after my radiation treatments ended, she had her surgery.

Recently, I’ve been reading more about breast cancer and treatment options. It is part of my own education and acceptance process. I’ve read articles, blogs, and I just finished the book Surviving Triple Negative Breast Cancer. In all these resources the authors have had this to say: if you live near a major city, get yourself into the city and one of their hospitals. Go to one of their cancer treatment centers. That’s what I did. I am forever thankful to our friend who gave me the referral that helped save my life.

My mother had the option of coming to Boston or traveling into Hartford. However, she chose to stay close to home at the small, country hospital that serves the county where I grew up. I went with her to appointments and liked what I heard based on my own research into her diagnosis. The doctors were not contradicting what I gathered through my own research, as well as my recent experience. Additionally, the hospital is associated with Hartford Hospital as part of a network. Her oncologist is from Hartford Hospital. My comfort level was certainly increased.

My mother’s diagnosis was completely different from mine. If there could be opposites, it was ours. As part of her treatment she has had to take hormone blockers for the past five years. About two years into the medication cycle she started experiencing bone pain, along with some other symptoms that were of concern to both me and my sister. My mother dismissed the back aches as a flare up from an old injury, being on her feet for two long at a function, and a recent car accident. All of these things were (and are) probable explanations. However, the aches and pains went on for too long and I decided to go with her to her next oncology appointment. My rationale was twofold. One, I wanted to make sure her doctor got a complete picture of her complaints and my concerns. And two, I wanted to hear what the doctor had to say. As I told my mother at the time, it’s always good to have a second set of ears.

The result was a physical exam, blood work, and ordering a bone scan to make sure the cancer had not come back. That was my fear, but I couldn’t say it. Or even ask her oncologist. It was her doctor who said, “Let’s address the elephant in the room.”

Her oncologist also switched her medication. It turns out that in the majority of cases if a woman is going to have severe side effects from Tamoxifen or Arimidex they usually do within the first three to six months. However, in a small percentage of cases, women have limited side effects until approximately half way through the five year cycle. It turns out that was the case with my mother.

Now you’re probably thinking this wasn’t a very angry post. My anger comes when I learn of substandard care. When a woman’s complaints are not heard. When concerns are dismissed as “normal” for the medication she is taking. When the usual standard of care and treatment is ignored. My message here is to speak up. Ask questions. Seek answers. If you don’t like what you are hearing, keep looking for answers. You are your own best advocate.

And to my mother’s doctors: thank you. Thank you for providing the standard of care that all cancer patients deserve. Thank you for listening to her. Thank you for speaking our fears and looking for answers when we weren’t able to ask the question.

To anyone struggling with finding the answers: don’t give up. You deserve the best.

Have you ever looked fear in the face and said “I just don’t care.” ~ P!nk

 

Brothers & Sisters

The relationship between a brother and sister is unique. I have an older brother. William. We were bonded while I was in my mother’s womb. Back before ultra sounds and being able to tell a woman the gender of her baby, my brother announced to the world that he was going to have a baby sister. At least that is the story my mother always tells. I don’t remember, but maybe William does.

We were inseparable. Even when “the baby” arrived it was us against the world. I think we must have referred to her as “the baby” for the first two years of her life. She was an outside entity. She was not part of our world.

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We grew up. And then we grew apart. We made different life choices that lead to our current lives. I get a sense that neither of us expected to be where we are today. I sometimes wonder what people think when I tell them I have an older brother. Do they imagine a male version of me? Do William’s friends envision a female version of him? That is probably the case because how else do we judge others except by what we know.

Over the past few years my brother and I have reconnected. He lives in Maine with his wife. We exchange emails. He occasionally writes in one of his blogs. That’s something we now have in common. Through his emails I see the brother that I left behind. Our exchanges are intimate in a way that only he and I could possibly understand. He has a depth, an intelligence, and a brilliance that he doesn’t often share. He has remained sensitive and insightful. I hope he continues to write. And maybe pick up the paint brush again.

The world, my world, is a better place because of my brother. I love him for who he is and am glad that we are once again connected.

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