breast cancer, life, Uncategorized

Where Pinktober fails

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I’m constantly, continuously tired. I’ve told all my doctors, and they all agree it’s a combination of several things- insomnia, back to back to back to back to back surgeries (I had five -two major, two minor, one sort of minor- surgeries in a one year span…I’m still not a year out from my last surgery), a solid year of cancer treatments, radiation, and the whole PTSD resulting from diagnosis, treatments, surgeries, and follow ups. Every so often, it catches up to me in a major way.

Yesterday afternoon, I decided to lie down. It was 4 pm, and I figured I could take a quick nap before going to dinner and the football game. I woke up at 6:41…a lot later than I planned because that 6:41 came this morning.

Thanks cancer…

Y’all, it’s Pinktober, and I get it makes people feel good to donate or help out breast cancer awareness, but the thing is…we’re all aware of breast cancer. What we aren’t doing, what we’re failing at with horrific and deadly consequences is finding new treatment options, finding cures -breast cancer is more than one type of cancer, providing support to those living with breast cancer and those living after cancer treatment, and realizing the happy narrative of breast cancer awareness month fails in so many ways.

There is an underlying arrogance of breast cancer awareness, if you’re aware, you won’t get cancer or if you do, it’ll be caught early. Fair enough on early detection, but early detection doesn’t save anyone from Stage 4 -one in three diagnosed at Stages 1-3 go on develop Stage 4. 40,000 will die THIS YEAR from Stage 4 breast cancer, the only kind of breast cancer that kills. That number HAS NOT CHANGED since the birth of Pinktober.

We have to do more than be aware of breast cancer. Awareness is not changing the statistics of survival, particularly for Stage 4. Research is. Clinical trials are. Doctors are. Science is. Advocacy is. METAvisor is. Stand Up to Cancer is. The American Cancer Society is. The National Cancer Institute is. Breast Cancer Research Foundation is.

Most of the time, lately, my anger towards the fact I developed breast cancer at 37 years old is on a slow simmer, but like any simmer, it can become a boil very quickly. Pinktober has my anger on boil 24/7. Breast cancer is more than a month and more than a pink ribbon. Breast cancer is millions of women and men. Breast cancer is 40,000 funerals and memorial services a year. Breast cancer is treatments year-round. Breast cancer is short term planning. Breast cancer is bankruptcy. Breast cancer is a game to politicians. Breast cancer is too many people’s reality.

I slept nearly 11 hours last night not because I was out late or had a hard day or week or because of any fun sort of reason. I slept 11 hours because I had breast cancer.

That’s my reality. That’s my January through December. It’s not just a rah-rah, feel good, pink-all-the-things time. It’s my life.

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breast cancer, life, Uncategorized

Stop Googling…

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From someecards. No infringement intended.

…said Dr. O to me today as I sat with her in the exam room while tears ran down my face.

The good news: my blood work was mostly normal (dehydration and kidney function don’t play well together).

The bad news: I had a wreck as I left the cancer center. I’m fine. My car…not so much. It’s drivable, but the front driver’s side is not ok. As I was leaving the cancer center’s underground garage, I hit a concrete column. I didn’t see it. I wasn’t going fast, so that’s good, but my car is messed up.

I’ll get the results of my scans sometime next week if there’s something to discuss. Otherwise, I go back in 16 weeks…unless…

Dr. O wants me to start on Zometa. She said studies show it significantly decreases the rate of reoccurrence for ER+ cancer. I told her I’ll do whatever I need to do. So, she’s putting in the preauthorization paperwork. When it goes through, if it’s approved, I’ll have Zometa infusions twice a year for the next several years.

We talked about how crippling my anxiety has been for the last two weeks as this appointment crept closer. She said the same thing the cancer counselor said -I’m traumatized from everything I’ve been through over the last two years. She’s putting through another request to my insurance to approve me to see the cancer psychologist at Baylor. Apparently one of the cancer psychologists deals only with breast cancer survivors. Dr. O wants me to see this psychologist. I agreed. Whatever I have to do to be happier and less anxious is worth it.

Dr. O also clarified some things for me. I thought because there was cancer left behind when I had my mastectomy that meant I did not have a complete pathological response (cPr) to TCHP. Googling led me to believe since I did not, as I understood it, have a cPr, my risk of reoccurrence was as high as 60-70%.

I was wrong. Really wrong.

Dr. O told me I did have a cPr to TCHP. None of the HER2 was left. She said that’s a cPr. She said if HER2 had still been there, my after surgery treatment would have been vastly different. Dr. O told me with a cPr from TCHP, the reoccurrence rate could be as low as 5% for the HER2. As for the ER, she said the only other thing, medically, I can do is Zometa. I’m doing everything else.

So, as long as my scans are clear, I’ll see her in 16 weeks and will start Zometa infusions as soon as we get insurance approval.

I felt such relief when I left her office. It lasted for about twenty minutes. Then, my car decided to become friendly with a concrete column. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So, now I wait, hoping for no news this coming week since no news means clear scans yet hoping for news in the coming weeks so I can start on Zometa.

I couldn’t have a better oncologist. I’m so grateful Dr. O took me as patient. Tonight, I’m going to bed, and I’m going to sleep peacefully.

I hope.

breast cancer, life, Uncategorized

Is it too late?

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Found on Pinterest. No infringement intended.

I’m melancholy today. I fear what tomorrow might bring, what Dr. O may say. People tell me this will eventually become easier, but honestly, I truly doubt it. How can this ever become easier, this precipice on which I stand? These appointments where my blood is taken, shaken, and tested, where my scarred body is examined, where my insides are xrayed, looking for the uninvited interloper, are not easy. I am anxious and scared. I feel no different than I did twelve weeks ago, yet I felt completely healthy as cancer grew insidiously inside me, so am I truly the best judge if whether I’m fine? My track record says no.

As I walked down one of the hallways at work today, thoughts of cancer and fears of reoccurrence swirling in my mind, a singular thought stopped me, stopped me in the middle of the hallway, stopped me cold.

I believe it’s too late for me.

I’ve waited too long to adjust my lifestyle. I’ve waited too long to get my insomnia under control. I’ve waited too long to lose weight. I’ve waited too long to start doing anything which could keep the cancer at bay beyond the medications I take everyday.

I deeply, truly believe I’ve waited too long, it’s too late.

What a horrible, terrible thought.

It’s not only what I think, though, I realized as I stood in the hallway, alone, this afternoon. It’s what I believe, and truthfully, I’ve believed it from the moment I was diagnosed. I knew long before that fateful August afternoon that I needed to lose weight, eat better, stop drinking 4-6 Coca-Colas a day, exercise, and sleep more. I knew, and I did nothing until I was told I had breast cancer. Even then, I did little. I cut Coca Cola. Chemo helped me lose thirty five pounds. I’ve gained back some of that weight. I drink one or two Dr. Peppers most days. I’ve stopped my evening walks because I’m tired after work. I have a million excuses, a million moments of shame.

I look in the mirror, and I am sad by what I see, pieced back together with other pieces of me. I am sad to see the weight I’ve gained. I am sad to see the scars, more noticeable to me right now than usual. I know it’s anxiety because of my appointment tomorrow. I’m in limbo. I seem to live in limbo lately.

As much as I try to stay away from breast cancer sites, I lurk on a breast cancer community’s message boards. Yesterday, I read a post from a woman at Stage 4 who wrote to others newly diagnosed with the same breast cancer I had, that they should not worry about a reoccurrence. If it comes back, it comes back. The worry did nothing. She wrote if she could go back in time to when she was NED (no evidence of disease), she would enjoy every single one of those days instead of spending them worried about a reoccurrence.

I want to make myself stop worrying and to just enjoy whatever time I have, but I haven’t found a way to do it. Today, in the hallway, I think I discovered why I can’t get there. I believe it’s already too late.

breast cancer, life, Uncategorized

Pretending

sometimes all you can do

I’m tired…

of Republicans trying to kill me through healthcare bills that are nothing more than deathcare bills

of feeling like my concerns don’t matter

of cancer

of worrying the cancer is back

of wondering what I did wrong

of wondering if I’ll see my kids grow up

of not being good enough

of being told “it’s going to be ok” when you don’t know that

of not sleeping

of letting myself down every morning by sleeping through my alarm instead of getting up early and going for a walk

of crying from exhaustion

of feeling I don’t matter

of being my own worst enemy

I’m spent.

I’m a wreck wearing a mask, dreading my next check up, terrified of seeing Dr. O because what if the cancer is back even though I don’t feel any different than I did 12 weeks ago? What if the scans show it’s back? What will I do?

I’m tired.

I’m spent.

I’m a wreck.

breast cancer, family, life, Uncategorized

My Spoons Are Running Low

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I’ve never been good at saying no. I’ve never been good at asking for help. I’ve never been good at admitting I’m overwhelmed. I’ve never been good at putting my needs ahead of those I love.

But, I’m running out of spoons.

My dad is not doing as well as we hoped after having surgery almost six weeks ago. He has little to no movement on his left side. He’s wheelchair or bed bound at the rehab hospital. He does hours of physical therapy. He’s remarkably better than he was a few weeks ago, but he’s nowhere near how he was this time last year. I’m worried sick about how my mom will handle him at home in a house that is in no way wheelchair accessible.

My sister is back in the picture. I didn’t survive cancer to be scared of her anymore. I’ve vacillated between being livid and being bitter. Eventually, I’ll hit apathy again with this situation just as I have before.

My mom is one of the strongest women I know. The last five years have been nothing but battle after battle and burden after burden for her. The weight she carries everyday would crush me, squash me, pancake me. She wakes up every morning, settles the weight on her shoulders, and marches on. I’m worried sick about her.

My school year started out at 100 mph and hasn’t slowed. I like the fast pace. I like a sense of urgency. I like what I do. I like my classes. I like a new challenge everyday.

But, I’m running out of spoons.

Cancer took one of my colleagues on Monday, a teacher who’s taught at the school since I was a student there, a seemingly healthy, ate well, exercised, did all the right things, woman, a mother, a daughter. I froze up when the email came with the news of her death. I avoided Facebook all day.

The grim reality of cancer is death, and I’m running out of spoons and couldn’t face the reality of cancer on Monday.

I’m really running very low on spoons.

I see Dr. O in a week and a half for my next check up. I’ve gained some weight, I’m not sleeping, I’m falling back into old habits. It’s a self-defeating cycle, yet here I am. I’m in a constant state of low anxiety, and as my appointment day creeps closer, my anxiety builds. It spikes when someone asks me how A is enjoying his new job (a lot), when someone asks me how my dad is doing (it’s day by day), when someone asks me how I’m doing (we don’t have that kind of time). If Dr. O we’re to measure my spoon count, I’m not sure she’d find many.

My spoons are low, so are my spirit and energy. I’m tired, in all sense of the word. I need more spoons. They’re hard to recover, slow to come back.

I need my spoons.

breast cancer, family, life, Uncategorized

Straight to the Feels

I fell down the rabbit hole of cancer articles this afternoon -some feel good, some not-so-feel good. I started out reading an article from an invaluable resource I stumbled upon on Twitter months ago, I Had Cancer. From there, the rabbit hole deepened.

As I read the articles, the blog posts, the personal essays, they were like sucker punches. Straight to the feels.

This has been a rough day. I slept horribly.    My son had an argument with one of his friends and was really upset. My daughter sensed the tension in the house today and took refuge in her room. I’ve been a ticking time bomb of emotion since I fell down the rabbit hole this afternoon.

I still believe this is my fault. I did something wrong. I had a 1 in 220 chance of breast cancer at 37. I had a .4 chance. Yet, here I am. What did I do wrong? Nothing, everything. Cells are innumerable, and all it takes is a clump to go nuts. Some of my cells went nuts and grew a tumor. I have breast cancer thanks to those haywire cells. I couldn’t stop it. I know that, but it happened to me. My body betrayed me.

Betrayals linger and sting, burn and hurt.

August is coming, the 2 year anniversary of my diagnosis. Watching the calendar move closer to those days where I had appointments and tests and biopsies is traumatic. Knowing those days await is traumatic. A breast cancer diagnosis is traumatic. Treatment is traumatic -chemo, radiation, targeted therapies, and immune therapies if needed. Surgery is traumatic. Completing treatment is traumatic. Going for checkups is traumatic. Going for scans is traumatic. Cancer is an assault on the body, the mind, the soul. As I wrote last year, a diagnosis of breast cancer is something that never goes away, no matter the stage. It’s always there, and it’s always traumatic, and it’s more traumatic for some than others. It does not make a person weak, the person who struggles with the diagnosis every single day -a person like me, who searches for the way to make this wrong a right knowing intellectually I did nothing wrong, but the human need to make amends is there, strong sometimes, demanding to be felt.

I have not moved on from being asked why I thought I developed cancer, the unspoken blame. I have not moved on from being told I should be happy about getting new breasts, the insinuation if I were happier, cancer would be easier. Nothing about cancer, any cancer, is easy. I wish people internalized that.

The healthcare battle in Congress over these weeks and weeks has been traumatizing, fearing I could be facing lifetime and annual caps on my insurance, discrimination because of breast cancer. I cried when the three GOP senators voted no. I felt a moment of reprieve.

A moment of reprieve. That’s what I get with the shadow of cancer -moments of reprieve.

I vacillate from happiness to despair, joy to anger, shame to apathy. I liken cancer to a roller coaster, and like a roller coaster, the track is rarely just straight. As I coast towards these cancerversaries, the track twists and climbs, drops and frightens. I am frightened. I want so badly to be fearless, to be the person who’s been diagnosed with cancer and becomes better than they were, stronger than they were, happier than they were.

I wish I were, but I’m not. I still put on a mask most days -I’m ok. I’m fine. No, nothing’s wrong. Most fall for the mask. They’re happy to believe I’m ok. They don’t see the sadness, the fear in my eyes.

I’ve yelled at A today, picked fights with him. I’m moody, scared and sad. I’m struggling today. Everyday is a struggle. Some days are harder than others. Today is a harder day. I had nightmares last night, didn’t sleep well, and it would be easy to blame the nightmares and bad sleep on the way I feel right now; however, the truth is simple -today is just a harder day.

“As far as you know, you’re cancer free right now. Stop worrying about it. You’re so dramatic,” I’ve been told by well-meaning friend. Maybe I am dramatic, but I’m doing the best I can. I’ve had cancer, I’ve faced my mortality, and some days are better than others.

I never feel cancer free. I don’t really believe that’s a thing anymore. It’s always there, lurking. Cancer is my Grim Reaper. Death always lurks around us. We’re mortal. Cancer makes me feel it more acutely.

I’ve been told I have to wake up every day with the mindset to win. I hate that. Cancer isn’t win or lose. It just is. Why do we lose to cancer? I hate that saying. I hate that mindset. Isn’t living that battle? We don’t lose to death. My great-grandmother died at 101. No one said she lost to old age. One of my grandfathers died in his eighties after living for years with Alzheimer’s. No one said he lost to Alzheimer’s. So, why do cancer patients lose? That’s demoralizing. No one facing a life-threatening illness is a loser. We all succumb to something. Why is cancer associated with loss? Death is loss. It just is. It exists, we all face it, we all know we are not promised tomorrow, yet when tomorrow doesn’t happen for a person with cancer, society says that person lost. It’s infuriating.

While I hope with all my being I will not succumb to breast cancer, I know it’s a possibility, and if that possibility comes true, don’t ever say I lost to cancer.

breast cancer, family, kids, life, Uncategorized

Rule of Fear

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I broke down in tears yesterday right before I prepped dinner. I’m pretty good at hiding my tears, or I try to be. I don’t want to worry S or AJ or A. The thing is, though, I’ve been worrying A for weeks. He knows I’m worked up about my upcoming five month check up. He’s not unobservant. It’s his insight, his ability to see the trees and the forest, and his compassion that make him so good at his job and with relationships, which he has to be for his job, too. Building strong, productive relationships is a huge part of his job. It’s not something he takes lightly at work or at home.

He doesn’t tolerate me being down for long. He wants to fix it, to fix me, yet there is no fix.

When he realized I was crying, he followed me into our bedroom, sat down beside me, and asked, “When do you see Dr. O?”

“June 20th at 1:00.”

“So, nine days. You want to be miserable for nine days, there’s nothing I can do about that. It’s your choice. What I can tell you is what I’ve told you for years -when all you do is fret over the future, you steal the joy from now, and you’ll never get now back.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. I’m doing this to myself because I’m scared the cancer is going to come back, and I can’t do a damned thing about it. So, I’ve dug myself into a hole that’s dark, and I’m miserable.

Do I want to be like this for nine days? No. Absolutely not.

The truth is I’m afraid if I let go, I’m inviting the worst to happen. If I stop worrying, I feel like I’m opening myself up to my fears coming true.

A coworker posted an article on Facebook this weekend about the neuroscience of happiness. She’s an RN, and I swear, this article was meant for me to see. It states, “Here’s what brain research says will make you happy:

  • Ask “What am I grateful for?” No answers? Doesn’t matter. Just searching helps.
  • Label those negative emotions. Give it a name and your brain isn’t so bothered by it.
  • Decide. Go for “good enough” instead of “best decision ever made on Earth.”
  • Hugs, hugs, hugs. Don’t text — touch.”

I stopped the gratitude journal I was told to keep by my cancer counselor. That was stupid of me.

When I was a teenager, every single weekday morning, I did a devotional before school began. I found these devotional guides, I can’t even remember what they’re called now, but every page or so was a story or prompt or Bible verse and guided questions. Each ended with a fill-in-the-blank prayer which focused on the lesson. I don’t want a Bible based devotional, though. As I’ve said before, my relationship with God and church is complicated at best. It’s just not as simple as it was when I was a kid. Too much baggage. Too much heartbreak. Too much disappointment.

I do want a meditation journal, though. Something similar to what I had as a teenager with guided lessons and specific targets. I remember how calming and soothing it was to start out each school day with it.

I bought the Sunrise Manifesto a few weeks ago. I haven’t started it, yet, but maybe I will this week. Every lesson begins with a gratitude question. Neuroscience says just searching for gratitude is enough to trigger the right brain response. I’ll give it a go. My current brain response sucks.

As for naming the negative feeling, it’s fear. I’m freaking afraid (not the f word I want to use, but my mom reads my blog and would yell at me, and yes, I’m 39 and still have a healthy fear of my mom).

I’m scared.

I’m terrified.

I once read to help yourself with your fears, look at yourself in the mirror and say the fears out loud. I’ve done that.

I. Have. Cancer.

It’s my reality. I. Have. Cancer. I’ll always have cancer, even if I live to my hundreds and die in my sleep like my great-grandmother who died in her sleep at 101. Remission doesn’t mean cured. It means dormant. Asleep. Undetectable.

I’m scared of the cancer returning, of not being around for S and AJ. I’m scared of the cancer returning, of not being able to work and ruining A’s financial stability. I’m scared of the cancer returning, of dying a slow, painful death.

I’m. Scared.

There. I labeled the negative emotion. Now, I have to decide how I want to spend the days leading to my five month check up. Day-by-day. As my mom tells me, one day at a time. That’s good enough.

S and AJ are full of hugs. It’s the first thing they do after waking up. They come find me and give good morning hugs. That’s good enough.

All of this is literally in my head. The choice are mine. I can let my fear of cancer rule me or I can rule my fear.

It’s ruling me right now. I can either say enough or remain miserable.

It’s so hard to be bigger than my fear, and truthfully?

I don’t know if I can.

breast cancer, family, kids, life, Uncategorized

I need something

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I need something to do, something to take my mind off my upcoming 5-month check up, something to take my mind off cancer, something.

I’ve read two books in the last six days.

I’ve taken my kids swimming four times in the last five days.

I’ve seen two movies with my kids in the last seven days.

My kids have pretty much done everything possible to shove summer vacation into seven days.

My mind keeps whirling.

I haven’t slept well in weeks.

I can’t shake the ten pounds I’ve gained since the oophorectomy.

I overspent our budget. A lot.

Summer is not starting out the best…

breast cancer, family, kids, life, teaching, Uncategorized

A Friday Full of Failure

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An experimental third-person limited series of vignettes about my Friday.

Part 1 -The first failure

It’s 12:30 am, early Friday morning. L can’t sleep again. She lies in bed, reading on her iPad -a sci-fi book, part of a series that catches her imagination. She knows she needs sleep, but her brain will not shut down despite her attempts to relax. She knows she has to be at work in six or so hours. Fleetingly, she thinks about putting in for a substitute, but it’s Friday, and subs are a precious commodity on Fridays. She doesn’t feel right putting in for a sub. She’s not sick. Her kids are not sick. She just can’t sleep. Plenty of people struggle with insomnia and go to work exhausted. It won’t be the first time L’s gone to work after having slept less than six hours. It is what it is. People count on her.

L turns her attention back to the book she’s reading -to have something to focus on besides her fear of dying, fear of cancer, fear of fragility and mortality.

Sometime, in the wee hours of the morning, she drifts into dreams.

Part 2 -The second failure

It’s 6:01 am, Friday morning. The screeching noise from beside her pulls L from sleep. She hits her alarm clock. It takes effort not to burst into tears. The last time she saw the clock, it was 4 am. She thinks she slept some from 2:00 am to 4 am -a fitful sleep, but she thinks she rested a little. She’s not sure about 4 am-6 am. If she slept, it doesn’t feel like it. A tells her to get up. It’s Friday. S has choir practice every Friday morning, and her ride will be there soon. She wishes she had given in and put in for a sub. She knows she won’t be on her “A game” today. She knows she’ll be lucky to be on her “F game.” She goes to dress. As part of her morning routine, a part she knows does her no good, she steps on the scale. The number staring back at her makes her cry. In her head, she hears the words of Dr. O’s nurse practitioner, “We’ve had patients no evidence of disease for ten or more years who gain ten or fifteen pounds and their cancer comes back. You need to watch your weight.” She feels shame because she’s gained ten pounds. She feels fear because her brain tells her the cancer will return and when it does, it’ll be all her fault. She feels anger because her head is being such a scumbag right now. It’s been like that for days now.

She roughly wipes the tears away and jams the heels of her hands into her eyes. “You’re just exhausted,” L tells herself. Maybe she’ll rest this weekend. It’s a busy one, but maybe she can rest more. She steps off the scale and puts a smile on her face as A walks into the bathroom. The fake smile doesn’t fool him. He stands beside her. A critical gleam in his eyes doesn’t quite mask the concern reflecting deep from them. “You have got to sleep. You have got to stop staying up all hours. You need to take a shower at 9:30, be in bed by 10:00, and asleep by 10:30. You need to get your sleeping habits back on track. Part of being healthy means getting enough sleep.”

She stares at A. She wants to scream at him that she needed him to be sympathetic, to hug and hold her, to lend her some of his strength. She didn’t need his cool logic, but that’s what she got. She mumbles that she’s leaving to go to work. She gives hugs to S and AJ, takes her medicine -tamoxifen, Claritin, biotin, Flonase, and gets into her car, starts it, pathetically grateful for the classical music station when the radio comes on because it’s playing a piano piece by Mozart, soothing.

Part 3 -The third failure

For the first time in a long time, walking into work, a place she loves, feels heavy -a burden she doesn’t know if she can carry this morning. Most of her students, her juniors, will not be in class this morning -they’re out taking the APUSH exam. Her first class is Seminar, and they had their exam Thursday afternoon. She knows the seniors and sophomores who show up are going to be tired, ornery. They’ve had a long, disrupted week of AP and state testing.

She unlocks her door, turns on the lights, turns on her coffee maker. The bell rings; students trickle in. She turns on her computer and yawns. The warning bell rings. A few more students trickle in. She tells the students in her room that she’ll be right back as she grabs her coffee cup, it needs washing, and walks to the office.

In the office, L washes her coffee cup. It’s one of her favorites with a black cat that sits with a look in its face with the phrase “You’ve got to be kitten me.” It’s prophetic this morning, not that she knows that yet. She washes her cup, says hello to a substitute teacher she knows well, goes to the ice chest, and puts a few cubes in her coffee cup -she prefers her coffee warm instead of taste bud melting hot. One of the academic counselors comes in and comments, “I heard there was a lot of sleeping in the Seminar exam yesterday.”

L stares at the counselor. Her face flushes red. Her heart sinks. She says, “Oh?” and the counselor nods her head. L walks out of the office, angry, hurt, and runs into a Seminar student she knows and trusts. She asks the student, a junior, if she saw students sleeping. The girls nods. “I’m sorry, Mrs. V. I wasn’t one of them.”

Part 4 -the fourth failure

L fights tears as she walks back to her classroom. She sees her department chair and tells her what just happened and childishly says, “I just want to go home.” L’s department chair squeezes her shoulder.

Standing outside her classroom, L takes a few deep breaths. She knows she’s on the verge of tears. She’s an angry crier, an exhausted crier. She’s exhausted. She’s angry. It’s not professional to cry in front of students, she reminds herself and opens her classroom door. She makes it a few steps inside the room, but she stops. She looks at the very few faces in her room, and the anger bubbles out in quiet condemnation, “You slept? One of the counselors just told me there was a lot of sleeping. You slept?” Students avert their eyes. Some flush an embarrassed red. A few questioning glances dart back and forth, seeking silent answers from unspoken questions. Here and there someone nods, admissions of guilt.

Angry tears flood her eyes, and try as she might, she can’t stop them. “You didn’t try. The only thing I ask is that you try, and you didn’t try. Some of you didn’t even show up.” Tears from anger, from exhaustion roll down her cheek. She’s embarrassed. “We worked so hard,” she whispered. “You didn’t even try.”

She turns, grabs the door knob, and steps outside her room. She needs to compose herself. She knows better than to let something get to her like this. She’s just so tired and so worn out. She sits down, leans against the wall, covers her face with her hands. Her shoulders shake. A few more tears slip. A voice, “Hey, are you ok?” L says she’s fine. The teacher -choir director now- former student of hers once upon a time, sits down beside her. “Mrs. V, what happened?”

She says she’s just tired. It’s been a long, stressful week, and she’s upset knowing some students didn’t even try on the exam. Her former student, colleague now, sits beside her and just listens. Then, she goes inside the classroom while L goes to wash her face.

She sees her department chair and tell her that she just needs to go home to sleep. She can’t face the rest of the day. She’s too tired, too overwrought. Her department chair hugs her and tells her not to worry, she’ll get it worked out. “Go home and rest,” another colleague and friend tells her. “We’ve got this. I’m sorry for whatever is going on. Don’t give here a second thought,” another says. “I’m going to nag you to rest,” says the one who told her to go home and rest. L smiles at this, a watery, sad smile. She goes home.

Part 5 -the last failure on Friday

Exhaustion wins. Friends will cover her second period class. There’s a sub who can cover fourth. So, she goes home, and she sleeps. Finally.

But…

She fails on this Friday.

She fails herself. She fails her colleagues. She fails her students. She fails her administration.

She fails on this Friday.

She fails to be strong. She fails to be confident. She fails to be humble. She fails to be grateful.

She fails on this Friday.

She fails.

But, she will get up. Failing means trying. And all she asks of anyone, including herself, is that they try.

So, she’ll try again.

She’ll fail again.

And so the cycle goes.

breast cancer, family, kids, life, teaching, Uncategorized

Sliding

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Found on Pinterest. No infringement intended.

I’m not sleeping again. Well, ok, that’s hyperbole. I sleep for three to four hours and that’s it. The insomnia battle started last week again. It was a stressful week for A at work, and I take everyone’s worries and burdens on my shoulders, so, last week, on top of recovering still from surgery, I fretted endlessly about A. He works so hard and is good at his job (I’m biased), but his work is hard. I couldn’t do what he does. Worrying for him triggered my insomnia. So. Here I am. Exhausted to my core, tired to my bones.

When I’m this tired, this physically and emotionally wiped out, it’s hard not to slide back into the dark places, those places where my brain tells me cancer will kill me sooner rather than later, that my children will grow up without me, that A will be a widower before he’s 40, that I’m unlucky and doomed. My brain reverts to its scumbag state, and it’s hard to claw away from that hole, that abyss. The slide is gradual, persistent, with few footholds to grab.

Work, friends, and family stop the sliding and give me footholds.

S spent part of her weekend with her best friend, and A had to work most of Saturday, so I spent time with AJ. We Pokémon-hunted at the park, I watched him play and run around, and I taught him how to make his daddy’s favorite cake frosting (dark chocolate ganache). We walked around, went to the lake, and relaxed. AJ is my goofy kid who exasperates me one second and has me laughing the next.

Work helps because I have amazing coworkers and teach at a school with a close-knit faculty and staff who watch for each other. My school has its struggles, but it truly is a great place to work. I spent some time today on the phone with a friend who is a superintendent in another district, and one of the things we talked about was my decision to leave my instructional coach position to return to the classroom and just how much I love being back in the classroom. We talked about the fact that teaching where I do makes a difference because it is a school with such a faculty who feels tied and bonded to each other. We rise and we fall together. Then, we talked about the importance of relationships from administration to faculty to students to parents to community (and the importance of a strong curriculum founded in instructional best practices, meaningful data usage from sound formative and summative assessments, discpline practices…once the two of us get going on education stuff, we go on tangents.). We had a great conversation complete with a joking “If you decide you want another job…” from him and me laughing a lot.

I’m holding on right now, staying out of the hole, and it’s hard. Exhaustion makes it so easy to see the worst in everything, to blame myself for things I have no control over (like cancer), and to believe the lies my scumbag brain whispers. It’s easier to slide, but I’ve never been a quitter…not really. As Shakespeare wrote in Caesar, “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.” I don’t know that I’m valiant, but I don’t want to die before I die, as Robach says in Better. Allowing myself to slide into the dark where I listen to my scumbag brain does me no good, nor does it do anything good for A, S, or AJ.

There’s a reason I chose a phoenix for my first tattoo -cancer became my first fire, making it through an entire year of treatment became my second fire, and enduring three major surgeries and two minor ones became my third. I’m still here. I rose from those, and I feel the fire licking at me right now. If it becomes more than I can take, that’s ok, too because fire forges steel. It teaches us to be strong, to bend, to remake ourselves.

I’ll rise. I’ll persist.

I have to until I can’t, and when I can’t, it isn’t because I lost. It’s because my time came. Try as we might, death is the equalizer. It comes for us all. Until then, though, fire can burn my feathers, exhaustion can be my slide.

But, I’ll still rise.