Yes, cancer sucks.

When I was a little girl, my parents taught me that the word "suck" was akin to profanity, so I never used it. As I got older, I realized it wasn't that bad, and put it to occasional use. Well, since my diagnosis of breast cancer, the word "suck" comes to mind at least once a day. And it will appear multiple times throughout this blog, so here's the apology to my parents: "I'm sorry I'm using the word 'suck.' Sometimes, nothing else will do."
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I am about nine weeks into this journey known as breast cancer. Someone had told me going into it that I would start to experience a "new daily normal." I didn't know at the time what that meant, but I do now. I constantly hear phrases like, "Wow, you look great," or "You're handling this so well!"

And my response is usually somewhat of the same. "Thanks. I don't have a choice to handle it otherwise, do I?"  And what I mean is this: I could get up every day, refuse to put on make up, jewelry, or clean clothes. I could mope around the house, or worse yet, stay in bed all day. I could have a crappy attitude, shut myself off from everyone, and never leave the house. But why? The person I'd be hurting most is myself, followed by my immediate family. And what would that accomplish? Nothing. A friend asked me, "But aren't you mad?"  Well, sure. I'm pissed off. I didn't want cancer. But walking around like that all the time won't help.

Then I hear, "And you're handling this with such grace..."  Well, I have it on good authority that grace can be defined by not just what you say, but what you don't say. Because if everyone heard my daily, inner monologue, "grace" may not be the word that would first come to mind. Because cancer sucks. It S.U.C.K.S.  And here's how. (This will be my one and only pity-party-blog, so indulge me.)

Cancer sucks when I wake up in the morning. When I've slept eight hours without my own thoughts. In my dreams, I still have hair. Iwake up, feel no hair on my pillow, and adjust my shoulder from where my port is located, I'm reminded that I'm a cancer patient.

Cancer sucks when I get ready in the morning. When I peruse my closet, looking at my pretty nice wardrobe and wonder, "What will take the emphasis off the fact that I'm wearing a wig?" I miss my hair. There's a bald woman standing in the mirror where I used to be. Then I look in the mirror, hoping that my eyebrows didn't just magically fall off over night, thankful that they are still there, for at least one more day.

Cancer sucks on chemo days.  I sit in a room full of people who are old enough to be my grandparents. We all share similar stories. I'm pumped full of drugs with more letters in their names than some middle-Eastern countries, and I know that within hours, my body will be feeling like it's been run over by a truck. A big one. 

Cancer sucks the days after chemo. The tiredness isn't too bad, and it's a good excuse to slip away for a nap, but otherwise - it sucks. My mouth feels like it's full of cotton; like I haven't brushed my teeth in days. My stomach churns and has sharp, shooting pains. Food has no taste. I'll omit the rest of the yucky details.

Cancer sucks when it comes to my self-esteem.  It may sound like I'm some vain, self-centered, conceited woman. The truth is just the opposite. I've never felt amazingly beautiful. Then add to this that I just had a third baby. First, I hate my body. I hate my body for what it allowed itself to do. How dare it get cancer!?! I feel like it betrayed me. I hate what I look like bald.  I hate that my husband has a bald wife. He tells me I'm beautiful; I know he believes that; but it is hard to FEEL beautiful. I hate that I now have scars. Up to this point, the only surgery I'd ever had were my wisdom teeth. I now have s.c.a.r.s.  I've never had those before. One is under my arm from a lymph-node removal, and the other is near my collar bone where my port is inserted. That one is visible with certain shirts. All this combined makes it hard to feel very confident.

So, there you go, the inner-workings of my brain. Cancer really does suck. But choosing our attitude is what makes the difference. I said from the beginning that I would fight this because I didn't have any other choice. And I live that each day.

Yes, this sucks. Yes, I'm mad. But I'm a fighter.
And I don't accept failure.
Not this time.

Hair Apologies

In the shower today, my hair started to fall out.

I'd been waiting for it, but with each passing day of not losing a single strand, I alluded myself to thinking that I would be some superhero chemo patient who kept her hair.  But...

Apparently, I'm what the oncologist referred to as "average."  The "average" chemo patient starts to lose their hair by the second treatment. Well, I have my second treatment this week.

As I felt strands of hair between my fingers, and the tears started to flow, I thought back to my life with my hair. And I felt a sudden need to apologize to my locks.

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Dear Hair:

We've been together a long time now. But we need to talk. It's not you; It's me. I'm what they call "average." We're going to have to go our separate ways for awhile, but don't worry, I'll come back for you. In the meantime, I wanted to say that I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for perming you in 1991 at the tender age of 10. It was a mistake, and for the frizzy curls you didn't deserve, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for not learning my lesson and perming you again in 1995. Let's just leave it at that.

I'm sorry for not appreciating your length and always wanting to cut you.

I'm sorry for not appreciating the natural brunette color you so desperately wanted to be. And for the torture I put you through in trying to change the color.

I'm sorry for the at-home highlights and the terrible cap procedures.

I'm sorry for the entire first year of college when the University's water system was overflowing with chlorine and it inadvertently dyed you green.

I'm sorry for the time in college when I wanted to get you high-lighted, but didn't have a ton of money. I went to a walk-in salon and walked out a strange shade of yellow.

I'm sorry for the years of trying to do it myself and turning you a rainbow of different colors, ranging from yellow to green to orange to black.

I'm sorry I didn't appreciate you. Now, I'm just sorry that you're leaving."They say" you'll come back even better than you were before. Either way, just come back soon. I'll miss you.

Life Chaperone

Chaperone: A person who accompanies and looks after another person 

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I met Nathan when I was fourteen and a freshman in high school.

 

He was a senior.

 

The older boy. Gasp.

 

I had always thought he was super cute. He even offered me a ride to a friend's birthday party after a chorus concert one night, but my parents declined on my behalf because I wasn't allowed to ride in a car driven by another teenager. I was surprised he even knew who I was, but that was enough for me.

 

He graduated high school and went into the military. I dated other boys throughout high school. I did become friends with his two brothers, and I even got to know his parents because they chaperoned many chorus trips.

 

My senior year approached, and our choir was asked to sing at Carnegie Hall in New York City. I worked all summer to save up for the trip in April of 1999. I had heard that he was going to be on leave from the military at the same time, flying through New York on his way home to Florida. His brothers would be on the chorus trip, and his parents would be chaperones. As a family, they decided that he would stop in New York with all of us, be a "chaperone," and then fly home to Florida for the rest of his leave time.

 

I heard he'd be on the trip with us. I hadn't seen him in years, but I was so excited to see him again. I don't know why; it's not like we had had any sort of connection before. Something inside was stirring.

 

While God knew what was going to happen, I thought I was taking matters into my own hands. I was supposed to be in my best friend's mom's chaperone group. Well, at the last minute, I changed groups to be in Nathan's dad's group because I knew they'd hang out together the whole day. I very quickly made myself known, re-introduced myself, and clung on like white on rice.

 

And this time, he noticed me.

 

By lunchtime of the first day, we took our first picture together at South Street Seaport.

 

By that afternoon, he grabbed my hand to cross 5th Avenue. (He hasn't let go since.)

 

I called my mom that evening from the hotel lobby's payphone. The conversation went something like this:

 

Me: "Hi Mom."

Mom: "Hi! How's New York City???"
Me: "Great. Do you remember Nathan, from chorus?"

Mom: "Yeah, why?"

Me: "Because I'm going to marry him someday."

Mom: "Didn't I just leave you at the airport?"

 

People started to notice that we were hanging out. And they started to ask questions.

 

Two evenings later, on April 23, 1999, we had - what we consider - our first "date." We saw the same Broadway show (Miss Saigon), had pizza together at Sbarro's underneath the World Trade Center, and when he dropped me off at the elevator doors in the hotel, he kissed me.

 

And we've been together ever since.

 

We dated for three years long distance. And I don't mean long distance like some do - we were in different countries - no, make that different continents. I was in Orlando; he was in Italy. Then he was in Pensacola, Florida. Then he was stationed on the JFK Aircraft Carrier that deployed to the Middle East.

 

In August 2002, we were married.

 

I don't know how I knew that he was "the one." It was just the feeling that it was supposed to be. That I had found "home."

 

He was supposed to be my "chaperone" that trip. Google defines a chaperone as someone who looks out for someone else. Well, 13 years later, he's still my "chaperone," always looking out for me, taking care of me, and protecting me.

 

A trip of a lifetime...

Powder

Some of you may have recently seen my Facebook post about my three-year old "decorating" his bedroom and bathroom with the contents of a medium-sized container of baby powder. It took an hour to clean up, learning quickly that baby powder mixed with water creates something similar in consistency to wallpaper glue.

 

While it was inconvenient, I did have to laugh at the situation. I should have taken pictures; it would make my story that much more compelling.

 

In an effort to lighten the mood in the teachers lounge at lunchtime, I thought to share my evening's story. In attendance were three other teachers - two of whom have raised children, and one who has never had children.

 

I received laughs, giggles, and tales from the other mothers as to what their children used to do to their rooms while unsupervised - paint, powder, and poop were all used as artistic mediums.

 

However, the woman who had never had children of her own looked appalled and disgusted.

 

"And what exactly was he thinking?" she asked, shaking her head disapprovingly.

 

"He wasn't. He's three," I answered.

 

"Well, I know that, but what was his thought process? He must have had one," she begged.

 

"Like I said, he's three. There was no thought process. He's three," I repeated once more for good measure.

 

"Ugh, the joys of motherhood, I suppose," she lamented.

 

And the conversation ended there.

 

So, I got to thinking.

 

What had his thought process been? I'm sure my sweet, little, three-year old boy didn't lie awake at night, plotting ways to make my day busier. I'm sure he didn't think to himself, "Wow, my mommy and daddy don't have enough to do, and my room sure could use a cleaning, so let me find the finest substance around that would be the hardest to clean out of carpets and spread it around like snow."

 

My little man's actions weren't malicious, mean, or vindictive. There was no ulterior motive. There was no revenge. No malice. No hatred. There was no other thought process, other than, "Wow, this is fun." So, while it was inconvenient and landed him in time out with a stern talking to, my heart was melted when upon cleaning the room I had found a spot where he, himself, had tried to begin cleaning his mess.

 

All I can determine from my co-worker's indignant response is that really, deep down, somewhere, she's envious of the family I have, the memories we are creating, and the laughs that we share. And I'm sorry for her that she'll never experience paint, poop, or powder. But more importantly, I'm sad she'll never enjoy all the joys of motherhood.

Sunshine, Daisies, and Unicorn Farts

When I received my teaching assignment this year, I was thrilled - 11th grade English. One of my favorite reasons to teach this grade is because I get to teach my favorite novel - Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston.

If you're not familiar with the novel, it's a story of a young black woman, Janie, who spends her life trying to figure out who she is and spends her years chasing the dream of "true love." After two failed marriages and a third that ends in murder, the character returns home. My students get emotionally attached to the characters and spend the weeks in deep conversation about the themes of the book.

Today's chapter featured "Janie" being married off to a man some estimated 60 years her senior. Her grandmother arranges this marriage because she knows she's nearing death and wants her granddaughter to be well-taken care of - mostly financially. This gentleman has a home and 60 acres of land. Janie lives with him for one year, and continually "waits for love to begin." After the year is up, she says that "the dream (of marriage) is dead."

After a discussion of marriage in today's society, I asked my students the following question:

"Is marriage worth it?"

And the overwhelming, sad, and immediate response was "No."

I asked more questions. Why is it not worth it? Why do people get divorced? Why should they not get married in the first place?

The majority of students saw no purpose in marriage. They said they've seen too many divorces, too many unhappy people, and some even said that "marriage was a waste of money and time." They claimed boredom, adultery, abuse, and personality changes as reasons people don't stay together. They didn't see the purpose in the "piece of paper." They said they've become numb to the negative stigma that society used to have on divorce.

And I felt sad.

I am going to be married ten years this coming August. Has every minute been, as my husband would say, sunshine, daisies, and unicorn farts? No. Sometimes it's been just the farts.

But the truth is, I love my husband. I love our marriage.  I love our family that we have created. I love our memories. I love our story.  Our good times and our bad times have created the strong couple that we are. We've grown together; we've laughed a lot; we've changed together. Are we the same people we were 13 (gasp) years ago when we started dating? No. But I think that's a good thing. Are there things we didn't expect as we exchanged our vows? Sure. The whole "poorer, sicker, and bad times" part of the vows weren't what we looked forward to, but it was what we committed to. And we made a commitment to God to stick together through those times.

My heart breaks for these young kids who see no hope in the future. They haven't seen what good marriages can look like. So, can we blame them for not wanting to get married? I wish people would stop making the excuses of, "Well, he's/she's not the same person," or "I just fell out of love," or "We have nothing in common." Those aren't real reasons; they're sad excuses for not sticking things through. Sure the grass may be greener on the other side; it's the most green over the septic tank.

So regardless of what the world says, I love my marriage. Unicorn farts and all.

For Ebony

I know there are a lot of tough jobs out there.

I'm not pretending like I work in a field full of daisies, nor am I saying that I work in a mine field either. But for those that are on the "inside" of education, you know that being a teacher is a tough job. I have administrators and "the law" checking in on me, parents questioning me, and students demanding my knowledge, expertise, and time. But to me, those are the things that are expected. Someone recently asked me what the "most surprising thing about being a teacher" was. After some time in thought, it came to me.

Attachment.

I get emotionally attached to my kids. And yes, they're my kids.

I recently heard a teacher say about a theoretical student in her class, "Really, I don't care about you.  You're just a cog in the wheel."

Really, lady? Then why are you still teaching?

After eight years of being the classroom, I figure I have taught just over 1,000 students. And if you look at my Facebook account, almost half of my "friends" are former students. And I love that. I love that they care enough to stay in touch, and I hope they feel the same in return. I cared about them as students, and I care about them as adults. While in my classroom, my main concern is not that they learn literature or grammar, but that they learn life skills and begin to discover who they are and what their bigger purpose is in life. I just use Shakespeare as a scapegoat.

Possibly the toughest part of being a teacher is when I lose one of my kids. After eight years, I have lost four - three boys and one girl. One was killed in a car accident, one was beaten to death, and two were suicides. If I had this blog up and running in November, I would have written this then.

For two years, I taught at a local middle school. It was not by choice. The first year was the toughest; most days I hated going to work. But there was one 7th grade girl, Ebony, who was the bright spot of my day.  She was feisty, smart, talented, and stubborn. And after awhile, we grew to love each other. Every morning she came to my room to give me a hug. She gave me the utmost compliment one day. She said, "Hey, Ms. L. You gangsta!" Once I left the school, we became friends on Facebook. I ran into her this summer in the mall. She was still smiling.

At the end of this past October, I heard a news story that a local high school student was found hanging in the school bathroom in a suicide attempt. Shortly there after, I received a text message from a colleague telling me that it was Ebony.

My world stopped. Even now, months later, I fight back the tears. I waited by my phone, my email, and the local news channels to hear updates. "Fighting for her life," were the words we hung onto for days. Finally, the first days of November rolled around, and Ebony's family took her off life support. They had kept her alive a few extra days to make sure family could say good-bye, and that her organs could be harvested. I cried. A lot. I went to her funeral. I prayed. I still don't understand. No one does.

So when someone says that being a teacher is "easy," or that we teach for "three reasons: June, July, & August," I want to tell them that I'd give it all up, if I didn't have to lose one more kid.

They're not the cog in my the wheel. They're the wheel.

Where's My Cape?

Ever since I was a little girl, I've put an enormous amount of pressure on myself to succeed. To be the best. To not let anyone down.

 

I must have only been seven or eight years old, but I would ask my mom and dad at the end of the day, "Was I a good girl today?" And their consistent answer of, "Yes," reinforced my good behavior. I distinctly remember one time after having company asking my parents that nightly question. For whatever reason it was, I hadn't been my angelic-self that day, and my parents' response devastated me: "No, you were not a good girl today."

 

In high school, I took honors, dual enrollment, and AP courses. I joined numerous clubs. I was the editor of my school's newspaper. I graduated with a 4.2 GPA. I looked really good on paper.

 

My first taste of being "Superwoman."

 

College rolled around and kicked me straight in the tail. My first semester yielded me less than a 3.0, and I was crushed. I had let "everyone" down. Who was "everyone?" I don't know. But the president of the "everyone" club was me. The next semester I swore my grades would improve, and they did. I rarely got anything less than an A - studying for long hours, being a constant visitor to the university's library, and finding study groups at every corner. The semester before graduation I had a cumulative GPA of 3.8. It wasn't good enough. I wanted to retake my few bombed classes to raise my GPA. Even after receiving word that I was selected to "Graduate with Distinction." it wasn't enough. What stopped me? Health problems that were triggered by stress and unnecessary pressures. So, I graduated with my "measly" 3.8, got a job within two weeks of graduation, and never looked back.

 

Instead, I looked forward - to my Master's program - where my main goal was to graduate with a 4.0. And I did. I walked across the stage, six months pregnant. Swollen ankles and all.

 

Superwoman.

 

So, now I'm the busiest I've ever been. Both my husband and I work full time jobs (and sometimes more than full time), we have two energetic sons, I'm five and a half months pregnant, and all the while trying to hold it all together. I hate when stay-at-home moms say, "Oh, well, at least you get to get out of the house and work." Well, yes, I do, and I wouldn't have it any other way. But because I'm a teacher, I'm out of the house by 6:30am, dressed up and pretending to be sufficiently rested. I'm at work by 7am each day where I get to teach 150 uninterested, unimpressed high-schoolers the importance of grammar and American Literature. Yes, I get home early, but that just leaves me with the other half of my waking hours with my own kids. Somehow, dinner must be made, carpets vacuumed, laundry washed and folded, groceries shopped, birthday parties planned, and I'm expected to do it all with a smile on my face.

 

Superwoman.

 

So where does that leave me at the end of a day?

 

Still putting that childhood pressure on myself.

 

Some things I hear in my head as I roll over at night:

- The kitchen's still a mess. There must be some law about sanitary cooking conditions.

- I didn't take anything out for tomorrow evening's dinner. What will we eat? We'll surely starve. And a restaurant is out of the question - it shows my weakness of not cooking gourmet meals.

- The boys didn't get their baths tonight. Will mold start to grow in their toes overnight?

- The boys didn't brush their teeth tonight (gasp). CPS will surely fine me for poor dental hygiene.

- B's birthday is in seven days and I haven't bought matching streamers and plates and balloons yet. He will be emotionally scarred and it will be a conversation he someday has with his psychiatrist.

- We're having company tomorrow; I better vacuum when I get home from work. Can't let people think we live in a pig sty.

- Are all my lesson plans done for school? What fascinating bit of knowledge will my kids depart with tomorrow? What if an administrator comes in and I look incompetent?

And the list goes on...

 

And I wonder why I can't sleep at night.

 

If I'm supposed to be Superwoman, WHERE'S MY CAPE?

 

I have to start learning, even at the age of 30, that perfection isn't necessary, and it's not even possible. If something's not clean, it's okay. If a miss a night of brushing teeth, the boys will survive. And if we have a weekly pizza night, at least no one goes to bed hungry. My success as a wife, mother, daughter, daughter-in-law, teacher, etc., aren't judged by these things. The Bible tells us that we are created in God's image. Well, if He's okay with crumby carpet and Chick-Fil-A dinners, then so am I.

 

But if I can't have a cape, then at least let me buy a pair of new shoes.