Hooky

The past few months have been busy busy, and while there have been many days I've needed to write out/sort out some roller coaster emotions, I haven't had anything particularly profound to share.  Today I don't plan on offering wisdom or advice, but had an excellent day with my kid and wanted an excuse to show off some beautiful photos.

We've really continued to struggle with our fertility situation (which is to say there is none) and we are still in a limbo place, not quite ready to pursue any of the few options that are left.  If we were to be asked about our relationship status with Fertility in general, no doubt we'd choose 'it's complicated'.  It's been a challenge to watch our neighbors and friends (not to mention acquaintances and strangers) continue to move forward in their own family building and feel left behind.

At the crossroads of the third anniversary of my diagnosis of cancer, and the end of Judah's kindergarten year, we are faced with decisions that need to be made at some point if we do want to grow our family.  I'm torn.  Struggling to decipher between listening to my intuitive voice(s) and pushing away fears.  Are they simply fears of the unknown?  Or is it my intuition screaming at me to not make a giant mistake?

Who the hell knows?

I guess at some point, I'll read an article or hear a story or come to some sort of realization that will push me one way or another.

I'm sure there are many of you wondering what in the world I'm really talking about, but I don't feel quite as comfortable publicly sharing all of the intimate details of our IF journey.  Perhaps it is the stigma, the shame, guilt, yadda yadda, that go along with our circumstance (though, of course rationally, I can agree that it has nothing to do with me as a person whatsoever).  I'm not quite certain what makes this wound so tender that I must keep it covered and private.  It's quite the opposite of how I felt about sharing my story 3 years ago.

And then we've got this amazing kid.

I woke up this morning and saw that the sun was seeping through the blinds, trying to touch every corner of the house, and I realized that today was the day for playing hooky with the kid.  Zero humidity, zero clouds - your basic California sunshiny day.  In Philadelphia, we don't get too many completely perfect days in a year.  And life is just too damn short to not pull your son out of school to go strawberry picking on such a perfect day as today.  Too damn short.


Let me say, there are plenty of times he doesn't listen, he plays instead of aiming properly, dawdles, cries for no reason, makes enormous messes, leaves his toys EVERYWHERE, stains his clothes/upholstery, sings in my ear, jabs me with his pointy elbows, accidentally breaks lovely household goods... But not today.  All cooperation, smiles, listening to directions, all the goods.

He was thrilled when I presented the idea to him, and gladly joined me on a road trip to the countryside strawberry farm.  We chatted as we picked, compared strawberries - shades of red, sizes, shapes - and accumulated quite a pile in our box.

Upon leaving the field, I caught a whiff of some fragrant honeysuckle, and promptly taught him how to gently nibble the bottom of the flower to taste the tiny droplets of sweetness inside.  He was hooked.

We moved on to lunch.  Picked out whatever friggin sandwiches we wanted from side-by-side bbq and gourmet lunch spots and brought them over to the Fonthill Museum grounds (which happen to be where Dan and I were married).  Laid our food out on the grass and stuffed our faces (and ate even more strawberries), sampled more honeysuckle, and walked in the woods a bit.  I showed him the inside of the Fonthill castle (that is now a museum) and the tile factory across the property.  He was impressed, but probably just because he wanted to buy something.  After all, what fun is it if you go home without a souvenir?

On our way home, we stopped off at a market where I grabbed a few locally grown eggplants (for tomorrow night's dinner) and surprised him with a scoop of vanilla fudge brownie ice cream.  Total indulgence.

The day was blissful.  We took turns picking songs from my iPod on the way home and then he sang all of the songs he's been learning for his end of kindergarten performance (sniff, sniff).  I sang with the windows down and Indigo Girls blasting (for every other song, at least).

Best decision I've made in a very long time.

Stuck

I got back on my green meditation cushion tonight, hoping to calm my monkey brain.  What surprised me was how quickly 20 minutes passed, whereas when I first started learning about focusing on the breath, 5 minutes felt like an eternity.  But tonight, I didn't feel ready to open my eyes when the (iPhone) tingsha chimed.

It had been a while since I practiced on my own.  A few months ago, I discovered a local group that meets once a month to meditate together.  We meet in the same place where I took a class a few years ago, so the space feels safe and familiar.  Usually, I look forward to going there, it brings a sense of calm and my body almost instantly settles when I enter the room.  It's easier to be with others, to follow the sound of a voice, to let someone else be the leader.

The funny part of that realization is that I typically prefer to be the leader.  I have always liked being in charge, making decisions, being The Boss.  But part of being the boss is having to live with the choices you've made.  Bosses hold a great deal more responsibility than I'm interested in having at the moment.  Making decisions is easy when your choice is clear.  I am so used to just knowing which path to take, or which entree to order.  And now, arriving at a point of discomfort with decisions is unsettling.  I like to be sure - don't we all?  And thus, uncertainty in itself seems to generate its own brand of added discomfort.

Looking for some perspective, I went searching back a year in my posts and found myself to be teetering on the edge of Pre-scan Lookout.  Anxiety was building and I was convinced I was about to have a recurrence.  My outlook was bleak.

On the bright side, a year later, I am not quite as nervous about scan results (big sigh).  But there are other pieces of the puzzle that have yet to fall into place and it feels like it's been forever and it will be forever.  A bit like high school - hard to imagine anything different.

This all brings me back around to the cushion.  I'm always hoping that my intuition will find me and guide me if I can give it some space in my head.  As Pema Chodron says: With openness, friendliness to the uncertainty, we create possibilities for the future in the way we handle each moment.

What Chemo Did

mystery bag

The past few weeks I have been entirely wrapped up in some lingering challenges from chemo.  Without getting into too much detail, I'll just say that it has made our struggles with fertility that much more difficult.  And at this point in my life, it often feels as though every one I know (or sit next to, or stand behind, or order my juice from) is pregnant.

While I am very happy for my friends (especially those who have struggled right alongside me), I can't help but feel disappointed and discouraged by my body's seemingly uncooperative attitude.  It's easy to feel guilt and blame - just lop it onto the ever-growing mountain that I've saddled myself with since cancer changed things so.  Even though logically, I know that I didn't do anything to cause my lymphoma, and I've done everything within my financial and gastronomical power to improve our chances at conception, the feelings are hard to shake.  Bouncing back and forth from living in the moment, enjoying watching my boy blossom, read, sing, smile, and then fighting the desire to crumple into a ball under the fear of the uncertain future.  

The heart of the matter is that in treating my cancer, I rightly chose to preserve my own life.  In doing so, I may have lost the ability to create another one.  This is not a choice I should have had to make.

Okay, okay.  I'm working through the angry, the bitter, and the sad of what chemo did.  Dan and I have every intention of building our family, through whatever means necessary.  I am enormously blessed with a loving husband, a healthy child, doting parents close by, a home, fresh food, supportive family, quality friends, health insurance, a part time job, and a few pairs of shoes I even like (there's more but I don't want to rub it in).  Meditation is helping me to make peace with whatever will be, helping me to loosen my grip on Plan A (as if we were still on Plan A).

And today, to help me regain my perspective, I had my six month CT scan.  Dr. Herbert, wonderful, caring, human Dr. Herbert called me approximately 15 minutes after I had dropped off the disk at his department to give me his caveat-filled take on the images:  looks good.

We all have this blissful illusion of control.  We imagine that we will reap what we sow, hard work will be rewarded, etc.  Until reality sets in and that delicious, comforting feeling of power (we thought we had) is suddenly in pieces on the floor.  Sometimes, it takes a big meatball (seitan?) to open our eyes to the randomness of life.

Tonight, when I posted my preliminary good news on Facebook (which, by the way, I've been trying to largely stay away from in order to stay sane), the feedback was so gratifying.  Thinking back to 2 years, 8 months, and 25 days ago (diagnosis day), I did not foresee the future.  I was not time traveling, future projecting, or kicking myself for past mistakes.  All I focused on was every minute as it came (and not vomiting).

blast from the past

And I know now that I couldn't have possibly gotten through the past 2 years, 8 months and 25 days without all of the formidable support of my team.  I've written before about luck - and I've got a feeling I'll still be warming to the idea for years to come.  Today I am relieved that I got lucky, for along with the bitterness, chemo left some joy behind as well.  I was lucky that my cells were ripe to the rituxan (R), cytoxan (C), adriamycin (H), vincristine (O), prednisone (P) + death ray machine my doctors threw at them, and that the support I reached out for is still very much with me.  I learned a great deal over the past few years - particularly how very much we need each other, and that's amongst the few certainties in life.

Big gracious love to you for reading, "liking", commenting, messaging, calling, texting, emailing, old fashioned letter writing, and reminding me you are there.  Those reminders are essential to staying focused on what IS (instead of what ISN'T).  

xxoo

A Pledge

source

My mom is going to be so proud.  I am making a social media pledge of kindness.  Let me explain.

This afternoon, I logged onto the emotionally-toxic dump that is Facebook.  The first post I saw was an awful image equating our president to Adolf Hitler.  It made my stomach turn, and I felt my skin crawling with the fire of anger and disgust.  My first instinct was to comment and challenge the poster's thought process.

But I did some deep breathing instead, and hid the photo from my view.

As I read some other non-offensive updates and slightly intriguing headlines, it dawned on me what the crux of the problem really was (of course, aside from the fact that as a Jew, I felt personally offended).

Who does that image help?

I've often tried to be a helper - in my jobs, as a friend, mother, advocate, community member, grocery store consumer, cancer survivor.  Doing something has always been more comforting than doing nothing.  In a crisis, I love an action plan.  It's probably something to do with that deep need for control.  Life can be uber frustrating when one reaches a feeling of helplessness.

Perhaps posting these types of disturbing images gives people that sense of control they are lacking in other areas of their lives.  They disagree with the political leaders → they express their feelings a la Facebook → they feel better.  In turn, though, others may feel worse.

What now?  I went back to my own page and sifted through the articles and updates I've recently posted.  I was looking for something offensive or insulting, and I'm super relieved to say that the most offensive post (at least from my perspective) was a link to a Colbert Report piece on the Ham Rove Memorial Fund.  While this was quite hilarious in my opinion, I can see how a Karl Rove supporter might feel it was a tad disrespectful.

This brings me to my pledge (and a brief explanation of my mom's pride).

I hereby promise...
- to post images and articles only in SUPPORT of good health, effective educational practices, and safety for all.
- to promote positivity and kindness to others.
- to focus my updates, pins, and tweets on the good stuff.
- to try to be a helper, not a hurter.

I guess my aspirations are twofold.  First, I value the whole practice-what-you-preach mentality.  Second, since attending my monthly meditation group meetups, I am beginning to buy into the theory of Karma.  Since life doesn't really make sense right now, I'm practicing lots of deep breathing, and banking on it sorting out on the next go around.  If we all continued to send out warm, loving thoughts into the universe, well, I don't know what would happen.  I don't imagine it could get much worse than what we've got.  Maybe we should give it a try?

My mother is known amongst a few of my friends for her famous words, "Mia, be nice."  Also, "GIRLS, be nice." (Girls becomes a two syllable word in this usage - guh-rils)  She's always longed for a nice daughter.  Now at least she'll have one on social media.  I can't speak yet for how this will impact real life.

What are your thoughts?

Two Years

hanging at moshav beit chanan

 Forgive me, I'm a few days late in marking my 2 year cancerversary here.  I've only just returned to my laptop after two weeks on an amazing celebratory trip to the other side of the world.  Now that we're back, I can attempt to capture in words (along with a few photos) what it was like to mark this pretty major milestone with the two boys I love most in the world.

We left for Israel just one day after the nightmare in Newtown happened.  I found it very difficult to concentrate on packing that day, but somehow we got it done.  It seemed like the perfect time to take my family, jump on an airplane, and leave the country.  We'd been planning this trip for quite some time, though, wanting to return to the place where Dan and I met, and to introduce Judah for the first time to many family members and the unique place we had both grown to love.

Once we finally arrived, we were so lucky to be hosted by Dan's family.  Despite Judah being a bit on the cuckoo side (sleep deprived, and I think a bit overwhelmed by the language barriers), they fell for our boy and made us all feel right at home.  Dinners, breakfasts, lunches, snacks, all prepared with love and the best vegetables on earth.  Obviously, I left my typical eating habits at home, and have since returned with an extra few new pounds that decided to camp out on my hips.

For two weeks, we adventured around the country (Dan gets Star Driver of the Year 2012 Award).  Swam in the Dead Sea (Judah was not a fan of water no good for splashing), made it to the top of Masada, hung out with Australian animals, walked through the caves in Rosh Hanikra, tasted Zaid's warm and creamy hummus in Old Akko, picked out new Naots at Kibbutz Naot-Mordechai (where they make Teva and Naot shoes), toured around the Hula Valley in the company of 30,000 cranes who come to visit every winter, and shopped at Nahalat Binyamin (the weekly craft fair in Tel Aviv) - for starters.

trying hard not to splash...

Judah and his field guide trying to identify birds in the Hula Valley

making new friends

waterfall at the banyas

kibbutz: see the orange door all the way on the left?  that was my room.

We traveled to the north, both to see some beautiful sights, but also to visit the Kibbutz where I spent a few months living and learning Hebrew 15 years ago.  It was surreal and wonderful to bring Dan and Judah to a meaningful place, and to see people I remembered well from a very different part of my life, but also a bit sad to see with my own eyes that kibbutzim are not what they used to be. 

December 27 - two years to the day of my final radiation treatment - was a bright and sunny day in Jerusalem.  The day before had been the long-awaited trip to see the Kotel (the Western Wall), along with shopping on Ben Yehuda and tasting everything at Machane Yehuda (FINALLY got my warm chocolate rugelach from Marzipan).  I stood at that wall, tucked in my notes, and cried.  Don't know if it's possible to name all of the salty emotions that dripped down my cheeks, but relief, fear, anxiety, frustration, despair, deep gratitude, and happiness were among them.

Back to the 27th.  We packed the day with an elevator ride to see the view from the top of the YMCA tower, lunch at the Mamila Mall, and an archaeological dig at Beit Guvrin, where Dan discovered a jaw bone (we think it belonged to either a goat or a dog) untouched for the past 2,300 years.  Lots of talk of the past.  As we drove back to Jerusalem, led by the bright, full moon, I had a chance to mull over how happy I was that we had the opportunity to be in such a special place together.  Full of appreciation for my good fortune, we arrived at the Haas Promenade (another spot for a beautiful view of Jerusalem) to see the city all sparkly at 5:58 pm.  A few minutes later, we began to hear calls to prayer - from the many towers dotted through the landscape.  The voices echoed in the valley and added another magical layer to the moment.  We couldn't have planned it if we tried.

So lucky to have had not just Dan's extended family (who live in Israel) with us, but also both of his parents, both of my parents, and MY extended family there to celebrate my dad's birthday and my health-aversary on our last Saturday night in town.  

I haven't a clue what 2013 has in store.  I hope for a cure.  I hope for health and happiness for those I love the most.  I hope we can each find our way and remember to take care of each other for the short time we have together.  I am extraordinarily lucky I have been given a bit more time to try to figure it all out.

Thank you for all the reading and caring you've done over the past two years.  The rest of the journey is just beginning.  Sending out warm wishes for a peaceful 2013.  

tel aviv tayelet: where it all started for our little family

23 monthaversary

Two years ago this week, I was just getting started on my 20 rounds of radiation therapy.  We did not radiate lightly, or for "insurance", but because my bulky, persistent (bitchass) tumor had not been entirely decimated by the 6 rounds of chemo I'd already swallowed.

Every day at 4 pm, I would drive myself over to our closest hospital, leave the car with the valet, and then scan my id card to let the technicians know I had arrived.

Push through the double doors, grab 2 uber-used blue gowns and head to the dressing rooms.

gown de abington

There, I'd strip from the waist up, and replace my soft sweaters and undershirts with those sickly old rags.  Hang all belongings in a locker, take just the key on a spiral plastic bracelet keychain, and make my way to the ladies' waiting room.  There, I get to be the youngest depressed person in the joint.

Wait.

Hear my name called and mosey on over to the treatment room with the green dot over the door.  Lean mean green machine.  Enter through the bomb shelter-esque doorway.

the long hallway

Assume the position - on my back, in my mold, arms above my head, eyes looking up.  And which Christmas song will add to the soundtrack today?  Ah yes, Jingle Bell Rock.

see the webcam in the corner of the room?  they were watching me from the hallway.

Technicians make adjustments, lining up my tattoos with the red lasers shooting out of the walls, tell me not to move and leave me alone with the death beam.  The indestructible door closes silently.  I can hear the machine whirring.  Spitting the invisible fire in the shape of a tumor.

the source

A squirt from above to the tune of ten seconds, then a squirt from below.

I hear the door open and the cheery voices return to help me sit up, put my mold back into its cubby, and wish me well until tomorrow.

my mold: doesn't it look just like me?

I take my keychain bracelet back to my locker and shed those scraps of hospital blue quickly but carefully, so as not to irritate the red, burned spots on my chest and back.  Going back out the way I came, I return to the valet and ask for my car.  Since I can't possibly tip the guy every day for moving my car 5 yards,  I decide to save up and give him a hefty tip along with some high quality chocolate at the end of the month.  I think he still remembers me.

Radiation was lonely, very isolating, and full of quietness.  Nothing like the constant hustle and bustle of the chemo clinic.  While it didn't make me nauseous, it made me sad, made me feel like a sick person.

Now, twenty-three months later, the crisp, drying air feels the same.  The Christmas songs all sound the same.  The clear sky looks the same as it did that month of December.  How odd for so much to remain unchanged.

Giving Thanks

hand jive turkey photo source

There seems to be a heckuva lot of gratitude going around these early November days.  I'm jumping on the bandwagon, but with a twist.  In my meditation group, one regular gratitude practice is to think of something that is easy to be grateful for, and something that is difficult to be grateful for.  While I'm not always an advocate for finding a silver lining, it is helpful - when you are working to feel happy about today - to try to find some value in life's challenges.

Tonight there are many things that are easy to be grateful for.  Starting with the fire in our fireplace right now.  So glad I grabbed that clean burning duralog on my last trip to WF.  It makes me feel cozy and snug when the weather is so mean and cold outside.

Then there's Judah's half-birthday today.  I made a cake (yes it had zucchini, carrots, and walnuts in it - but it was decorated with lemon cream cheese frosting), which he loved, and he got to pick out a few books from his school book fair this morning and I am just so grateful to be here for another happy day in his life.  Like I said, easy.

I am ever so grateful about the results of last night's election.  Between the increase in women voted into our national government, the approval of equal marriage rights in 4 states, and the president, I am profoundly grateful that the opportunity is there for our leaders to make good change in our country (and even further out into the universe).  I am not going to go too deep into the politics as it can get sticky, but I will say, as a person with a cancer history, I am so grateful for Obamacare, most especially the clause about preexisting conditions.  As long as this law continues to be upheld (by our dear SUPREME COURT), I will always be eligible for health insurance.  And so will you.

I am grateful for new movies coming out (Les Mis!, This is 40).  Grateful for TiVo and commercial skipping.  I am grateful for Ayelet Waldman and her book Bad Mother, which makes me feel like a good one.

Now.  Here's where it gets a little tricky.  Something not so easy to be grateful for...

Well, I could say that the election was an awful waste of millions (billions?) of dollars, stressful back and forth, scary threats and lots of lies.  I am grateful that we've had the experience because we have the chance to reflect on how harmful it can be to the health of us ordinary citizens.  The stress was overwhelming, but the relief palpable.  I am grateful to feel relief.

Can you think of something you're grateful for?  Something easy or maybe not..?