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  Adventures of a Girl with Hodgkins

Radical Grace (this one's for you Leonard)

11/13/2016

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​"…Oh where do we begin? The rubble or our sins?..." 

I've had a lot of unexpected conversations with people who are fellow cancer survivors this week, and the feeling that so many of us have now is similar to the feeling of waking up the day after a cancer diagnosis. It's terrifying and it's sad and you have no idea how it's going to affect your world, but you know it ain’t gonna be pretty. It stops you cold, forces you to quickly recalibrate your life, to get really clear, really quickly on what's important, on what matters most.  It’s also an invitation to embrace radical grace, the kind, as the song goes, that both teaches your heart to fear and the kind that ultimately leads you home.
 
During the election there was much hand wringing (I know, because I was doing it too) about how Trump’s campaign was fueled by anger, by fear.  “Why so much anger?” we asked. “Why so much fear?” Now we are the ones who are angry, afraid.  And they ask of us as they watch our brothers and sisters protest “why so much anger? Why so much fear?”
 
The last few days have been a haze for me, as for many. As I said to a conservative friend earlier today, “before I felt like America was cracked. Now I feel like its broken.” But the more I read, the more I reflect and try to understand, I know that many others – on the left, the right and in the middle - felt like America was broken for them long before Tuesday.   60+ million voted for Trump because they think it’s broken. 12 million voted for Bernie Sanders because they think its broken and 90,000 voters in Michigan who turned up at the polls and voted for everything but president – 9x the number needed to swing Michigan and thus the election -- think it’s broken.  
At my darkest moments the divide between our world views has seemed like a black hole, with a gravitational pull so strong that not even light could escape it. As my momma once said to me by way of explaininng how she processed the realization that she would forever be confined to a wheelchair,  “it’s these moments, when you take all of the things that define you – all the labels and descriptions and ideas about yourself – and you throw them to the wind - whatever you’re left with, whatever sticks and stays true in the toughest, loneliest moments, that is the essence of you." This election has felt like a rending. It also an invitation to dig deeper to understand the true essence of who we are as Americans. 

On the surface it seems easy – even logical given our history and our current reality in many corners - to blame the racism, sexism, xenophobia that Trump actively sought sow and trade on along his scorched earth path to victory at any cost, roadkill be damned. And to be sure the fallout from that is real, is rearing its ugly head as we speak, and we cannot underestimate or downplay it.  But there are plenty of other data points that show that, as with with most important things, the answer is much more complicated.  

What is clear is that so many of the 60 million people who voted for Trump on Tuesday were sending a loud, dissonat message -- we don't belive this country is working for us. We don't know if we have a place here. This week that message sounds gut-wrenchingly familiar.

The hard truth of this election, is that from things like affordable college and the shrinking middle class to the opioid epidemic and the Flint water crisis, we've let down many of our fellow brothers and sisters -- and they just let us know that in the most jarring way. Even if indeed white privlege played a role in the outcome, the way that concepts *manifests* in individuals is wholly personal. We need to acknowledge and to be willing to engage in radical listening if we are deeply understand it. To understand it (instead of just judging or being scared by it) is the only way I know to make the constructive and real change that creates the America we say we want.

Just like those who now tell the protesters to “get over it and move on” - to put this in one box without taking the time to listen and understand, is to miss an opportunity (perhaps our only real opportunity) for healing. I’m talking not about the fake brand of unity that we are told is supposed to come in the package with the transition plan and fancy parties, but the real kind born of dialogue, radical listening and human to human connection.
 
Several days before the election I posted that regardless of who won, that we had hard work ahead of us, because no one leader can save us.  That is still true, and that is the good news, because the flip side is also true -- no one leader can destroy us.  The comparisons I’ve read to Nazi Germany, are not just hysteria – they’re history – the kind that repeats itself if we don’t learn from it. But Hitler did not destroy Germany on his own. He did it by catalyzing anger and fear. And now that we are the ones who are afraid, let us, as Cory Booker so eloquently put it, not become the thing we despise. That we are afraid makes sense – there is much at stake.  It’s what we do with that fear that will determine whether or not we slay the dragon or are consumed by it.  As Elizabeth Warren said  “The American people voted for change. It’s our job to give direction to that change.”
 
To those who are denouncing the protesters, let’s face it – this unrest was coming regardless of who won. We know because Donald Trump and his supporters said as much. (Remember the Milwaukee sheriff who said it would be “pitchforks and torches time” if Trump lost?  This is the same guy who is calling the protesters anarchists and now wants a cabinet post.)  And the fact that unrest was inevitable is kind of the point, because at its heart this election was never about Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton. This election has always been about people on all sides who have the same fear – what if America no longer has a place for me?  That feeling is real and it needs to be honored - on all sides.

The good news is the very force that feels like it is now sowing our division, is the key to our coming together, because it has also shown what we alreaday know to be true, that at the core we all want the same things -- to feel safe and loved and like we belong to each other. 

Our outrage in Trump’s victory hinges on the now-shaken belief that we are a country that embraces everyone, that seeks to build bridges not walls and that fosters understanding not fear.  We can’t simultaneously hold that belief and dismiss half of the country as evil or ignorant simply because we don’t agree with them. That view is rooted in fear, the same fear that drives suspicion of Muslims and Syrian refugees, that would send gay teenagers to conversion therapy, that yells “lock her up”, that spray paints swastikas on churches.
​
There are terrible things happening right now by those who feel emboldened by Trump’s victory.  We can – we must – speak out against those things, to be allies and advocates. To speak and up and keep speaking up and donate our money and our bodies and our time. But if we ultimately want to get to a place of real healing, we must be able to do that while acknowledging that the all 60+ million Americans who voted for him are not simply deplorable

In our anger we must not become what we condemn. We must now, especially now, be brave, to undertand how we can, as Cory Booker said, "stand in the breach." To quote one of my faves, the writer Anne Lamott ”courage is simply fear that has said its prayers.”  To put it another way, courage is fear that has found its grace.

Walking our talk is hardest when we are afraid. It’s also when it’s most important.
 
Donald Trump has done much to sow seeds of fear and hatred. We do not owe him the benefit of the doubt. We do owe it to each other.  Say it with me: You matter. You belong here. Grace will lead us home.
 
 #ImWithUs
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Things Going Awesome - Election Eve Edition

11/6/2016

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In hindsight, the dragonslaying blog was the root of #thingsgoingawesome, which is all about finding the beauty amongst the dark, embracing as Glennon Doyle Melton says, our broken parts, the things that make life "brutiful."  It's about embracing love even - especially and most fiercely - in the face of fear.  This election season has been steeped in fear.  The fear seems palpable, like smog, making it positively (for some of us literally) hard to breath at times.   In October, a NC Republican party office was firebombed. It was a dark moment, one that made manifest some of our deepest fears about the election - fear of violence, fear of our fellow citizens, fear, fear, fear.  And just when I started to feel like maybe this fear was bigger than us, right on cue, love showed up.  Specifically in this case, it showed up in the form of a GoFundMe page started by a group of Dems who also know that when fear is thickest, we need to spread more love.  When I went to make a donation myself less than 24 hours later, I found it the fund was closed, having exceeded its goal in less than 40 minutes. As I started scrolling through, looking at the donations and reading the comments, I began to cry. Not because I was scared, but because for the first time in weeks, I was hopeful. Most donations were left quietly, without comment.  But many were accompanied by a note, each one a love letter - to the NC office staff, to America, to democracy and humanity. I went through the nearly 600 donations, copying each and every comment, knowing that things may likely get worse before they get better, that then would be time that we need to be reminded of the good, of what holds us together instead of what threatens to tear us apart. Here they are, my election eve gift to you, as a reminder that like it or not, we are truly one human family.  I invite you to share your own thoughts of unity and healing in the comments. The fund was set up by mostly Dems, so the comments skew that way, but if you have comments of common ground or healing from  conservative friends or if you'd like to share a comment yourself, please leave it below.  

Link to full site:
https://www.gofundme.com/reopen-a-nc-republican-office-2ukuprzy?rcid=7742648e940911e68b8dbc764e065880
 
Comments:
Rolando Flores
One Nation. Go USA. Proud Democrat from Henderson, NV.
 
David Veloz
I'm a Democrat but I don't believe in violence.
 
Dirk Hohndel
Not a republican, but we all stand together against such anti-democratic violence
 
Gloria Caruthers
This Democrat from IN hopes you're able to get your back to your office as soon as possible.
 
Robert Davidson
Sorry about the fire. I'm not Republican but we are all American
 
Jeffrey Bigham
May we be spared Trump, but not this way.
 
Lara Shields
Sending you my best wishes. So sorry this happened.
 
Adrian Benepe
Whoever did this doesn't speak for Democrats or anyone rational. We will help fix this.
 
Lewis Geer
With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.
 
Michael Bussee
As a Democrat and a believer in safe and fair elections, I support the effort to help this office reopen.
 
Ray McKinnon
I currently am a SEC member in Mecklenburg County and President Emeritus of YDS in Meck. As a person who had called Hillsborough home, I grieve with you. We stand with you; the dawn will come.
 
Michael Donohoe
Win or lose, we're in this together as Americans
 
Vivian Vacca
This act of terror was an attack on all of us. In moments like these, there's no partisanship. We're all Americans. We stand by you.
 
Linda Foley
This Democrat deplores this act and wants NCGOP to be able to operate campaign offices in peace and safety.
 
Dan C.
Make America kind again. Violence is never the answer. We are more alike than we are different.

Jessica Spiegel
I'm a bleeding heart liberal, chipping in to help rebuild the GOP office. Because this is not who we are.
 
Neal Goldfarb
Whoever threw the bomb was attacking democracy and (even if the lefties or even Hillary supporters) helping Trump, who is similarly undermining democracy.
 
Jonathan McDowell
Electoral violence is a threat to the country. I am against Republicanism, but I'm against violence more.
 
Nathan Moore
From one Democratic Family that believes nothing & no one should have to deal with any form of violence or hate.
 
Steve Olson
Political violence is unacceptable. I hope you're back up and running soon, so we can have a proper contest.
 
Anil Dash
I'm not a member of any political party, but I am against violence.
 
Rob Knight
I hope they can get back up and running with this help.
 
Robert Fisher
We must all stand against political violence.
 
Lisa Rector
#ImWithHer but clearly violence is not the answer to anything wrong with our country or this election
 
Karyn Wiseman
We cannot resolve our differences with violence. I am a democrat but do not support violence in any form. Hope you can reopen soon.
 
Grace Suarez
Hope you can rebuild quickly and so happy no one was hurt. A Hillary Supporter
 
Liz Wally
So sorry this happened to you!
 
Amy Sweitzer
Let peace be in your walls.
 
Andres Monroy-Hernandez
I'm not a democrat, nor an American, but I support this cause.
 
Michael Robins
Because hate and violence should not be the answer.
 
Amy Garman
This is what we Americans do. We help each other. Peacefully.
 
Nikk Folts
because, we can't have this escalate, this is wrong on so many levels
 
Tara Jenkins
No matter your political affiliation, violence is never okay.
 
Sean Webster
We're all in this together.
 
Kevin Schwartz
Republicans or Democrats, this is unacceptable. As someone voting Hillary, I disagree vehemently with this act and am donating to support democracy and the free expression of all U.S. citizens.
 
Regina Baucom
I'm a liberal dem who believes in country before party!
 
Lori Hyrup
When all is said and done, we're still one people. We need to be there for each other. I'm a Democrat, and I hold no ill will toward Republicans.
 
David ten Have
I'm not even from the US... but I'm not going to stand by and watch a healthy democracy tear itself to bits.
 
Danny Hooley
Hillary 2016! Non-violent, civil, fair elections forever!
 
Chris F
We're better than this as a country and as a people. Regardless of your feelings on the election we do NOT slip into barbarism.
 
Tracy Thompson
Good luck rebuilding. We all need to support one another.
 
Linda Pryde
I'm an HRC supporter and violence is never the answer!
 
Evan Hoffman
#NeverTrump but violence is never acceptable.
 
James Mayer
We've only got one country.
 
Philip Auerswald
easiest decision i made today
 
Jamin Warren
Be well!

Elizabeth Lower-Basch
Not ok.
 
Doug Gordon
Our democracy is stronger when we work together in good times and bad.
 
Christopher Casey
I'm a Democrat, and this is absolutely unacceptable. Best wishes to everyone.
 
Sara Davis
I don't have much to give, but I want to show some support of this important thing. Opposing views are how we work in this country. We are a country that works out our differences in peace with elections. We may throw a great deal of passionate words at each other, but we must never ever devolve to this.
 
Kevin Pazirandeh
Democracy is messy folks, but violence against the opponent? You debase our values.
 
Frank Holland
I find Donald Trump to be dangerous, duplicitous, craven, hateful, unbalanced and repellent in every way. That said, we must be bigger than this petty, vindictive man. We should revere and protect our democratic institutions while promoting a culture of civility in our politics. Get that office open so we can compete on ideas!
 
Elaine Replogle
Because we are stronger together, even when we disagree. D
 
Melanie Parfait
Country over party. I'm with Her this election, but I am always for Democracy.
 
Josh Ols
Because we need to show unity when someone is trying to divide us.
 
Joseph Crawford
I repudiate violence of all kinds.
 
George Higgins
Democrat and Hillary supporter here chipping in. Politically motivated violence is downright deplorable no matter who it is directed against. Just thankful nobody was hurt.
 
Bryan Lakatos
"Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that
Because I love my country, believe in nonviolence and resolving political differences at the ballot box.
 
Shawn Borin
No matter who did this, it is an unamerican act that cannot be condoned by any political party.
 
Danielle Sterzenbach
We all want the same thing - we just have a different thought on how to get that result. We can and should stand by each other.
 
Sandra Thompson
Stronger Together
 
Kimberly LaFave
I will NOT be voting for Trump, but I stand against any attempt to interfere with the integrity of our political process. Please band together to prevent intimidation of any kind.
 
Paul Hauser
I disagree with everything Republicans stand for this election cycle but violence, especially in our political process, is abhorrent.
 
Jim Avery
There is no place for political violence from anyone in a democracy, much less the United States.
 
Jill Borak
Violence is never the answer. This Democrat sends you love and kindness.

James Fatheree
Terrible act perpetrated on your office. I am relieved no people were injured. Hope you can rebuild and carry on soon.
 
Tree Hugger
An opportunity to do the right thing should never be wasted.
 
Lila Ralston
Violence has no place in a civilized nation. Nobody sets fires in my name.
 
Gary Ferguson
We need to rise above tribalism. Americans are better than this.
 
Stephen Sherman
Seems like the right thing to do.
 
Robin Kirk
Standing up for civil discourse and against violence.
 
Glenn Fleishman
Striking at political freedom hurts us all.
 
Dee Austin
We ARE Stronger Together.
 
Joanne Bouknight
I lived in Orange County for 2 years, then in Wake County for 8 years, and I loved North Carolina. This attack is an affront to democracy, and I'd like to contribute in the name of a peaceful election and aftermath.
 
Michael Foley
Proud Clinton supporter. Prouder American. We don't tolerate violence. I hope you are on your feet and back to fighting for the NC GOP as soon as possible.
 
Sally Cohen-Alameno
#I'mWithHer but am horrified by this. Let's go high, as our First Lady would say!
 
Jay Patel
This is not how we act as Americans. I strongly condemn this, hope the perpetrators are caught, and that we recognize that, no matter what, violence is never the answer.
 
David Ballard
Hope you are back up and running as soon as possible -- from a Pennsylvania Democrat
 
Randy Perez
This is so important
 
Nick Pellicciotto
Good call. God bless America.
 
Brandi Lilley
This is NOT okay no matter whose name you mark on the ballot! Our democracy will ALWAYS defeat HATE! (TX-D). I hope you are back up and running as soon as possible. Stay safe everyone!
 
J Courteau
Liberal or conservative we are Americans.
 
Elayne Burke
I condemn political violence and support all efforts D's & R's to campaign and vote.
 
Nan Satterlee
Life-long democrat glad to help in a small way.
 
Jeffrey Jaeger
Proud American and Democrat. Happy to help you all get back on your feet.
 
Michael Haji-Sheikh
No one should condone violence.
 
$20
Greg McAvoy
We all need elections that are free of intimidation and violence.
 
Daniel Gunter
I'm a Democrat. I don't approve of violence. I don't know who did this, but I believe in winning fair and square.
 
Susan Mitchell
Our democracy is strengthened when we work together.
 
John Berry
A tiny gesture in support of democracy in the USA.
 
Justin Reese
Fight fire with love.
 
Daniel Youd
#ImWithHer -- but I'm with you, too.
 
Denis Markell
When they go low, we go high. This is America, and we help one another
 
Geoffrey Rhone
I'm a lifelong Democrat but I believe in safe and secure elections. I respect my conservative friends. I hope that the Republican office is able to reopen soon. Good luck.
 
Kevin Collins
I'm an HRC supporter, but we can't let this happen. We must stand together or we will fall.
 
Mireya Monroy
I am a Dem from Los Angeles. Violence has no place in our democracy. Take care NCGOP
 
Eliza Sweet
People working for democracy are on the same side.
 
Alex Russell
This action and this threat are a horrific breach; they are un-American. Whoever did this must be found and prosecuted. Anyone who knows who did it should turn them in immediately. We don't do things like this; we don't let things like this be done or stand. They attack the very fabric of our democracy and the society our democracy makes possible and safeguards. Let's show what we do.
 
Pamela Hale
I will vote for Hillary in a few weeks, but I want to help you guys get back on your feet. Violence is never the answer. I pray whoever did this will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.
 
Deirdre McCarthy-Dillon
I'm a Dem all the way, but this is a direct attack on Democracy, no matter who did it.
 
Brigitte Peck
Tarheel born Democrat proud to support the NCGOP in the aftermath of senseless violence.
 
David Anderson
elections should be free and open...determined by debate and discourse, not by violence. I condemn political violence on either side to determine the outcome of the election.
 
Cliff Stockton
Elections are too important to tolerate this type of violence. I'm a yellow dog democrat, a small blue dot in a sea of red in Idaho. I'm on putting this back together.
 
Jerry Davis
#ImWithHer, but I'm not with whoever did this.
 
Cara Lynch
Reopen soon! Democracy takes all of us.
 
Krista S Givens
Violence has no place in our democracy.
 
Roland Zwick
Violence has no place in American elections. From a Hillary supporter
 
Augusta Ridley
I'm sorry this happened to y'all.

Ethan Gilsdorf
This is important. and I'm a democrat.
 
Mitch Bayersdorfer
Glad everyone was safe. Even though I am a Democrat, I believe in a fair democracy and that this was a deplorable act.
 
Lee Needham
Durham County NC Dem supporting neighboring Orange County democracy after this abhorrent attack. #NeverViolence
 
Erick Guerra
Hope things get up back to normal soon, and those guilty are brought to justice. 
 
James Dowd
Democrats don't stand for hate like this
 
David K
No matter how much I disagree with them, violence has no place in our democracy.

Phyllis Henderson
Stronger Together
 
Sara Hanks
Violence has no place in democracy.
 
Beth Beaty
We - democrats and republicans both - are better than this. Rebuild, friends, and we will meet you on the battlefield of respectful discourse.
 
Mark Toth
Sorry this happened. Hope this helps to rebuild.
 
Wanda Sekelsky
I am an independent voting for HRC, but EVERYONE DESERVES TO VOTE! #StrongerTogether
 
Rick Flowerday
Confronted with domestic terrorism, patriotic Americans join hands.
 
Benjamin Katz
Our democracy depends on a peaceful clash of ideas.

Matthew Stafford
Hoping to help get the office back up after this attack. -Democrat from California
 
Lila Ashear
Standing with GOPNC so everyone's voice can be heard, no matter which platform they align with.
 
James Grimmelmann
Violence is never the answer in a democracy. We settle our differences with ballots, not bombs.
 
Eric Sinclair
Ugliness isn't how we should debate and decide the process of our ongoing experiment.
 



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Goodnight, Irene

1/28/2014

2 Comments

 
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I turned on the radio this morning to the news that Pete Seeger died.  As the NPR reporter went through his life and music, I heard snippets of "If Had a Hammer", "Goodnight Irene" and "The Land is Your Land" -- or as I call them "the Soundtrack of My Childhood".  When most people ask about my first concert I'll usually reference U2 or REM, because those were my first "real" (read: cool) concerts...but in reality before there was Bono, there was Pete Seeger.  

My mom took me and my sister to see him perform with Arlo Guthrie when I was nine years old.  Mom taught herself to play guitar when she was sixteen and was still playing four years later when she had me.  We had dance parties in the living room where mom would serenade us with "Goodnight Irene" before bedtime. I really did believe that she was conjuring magical fairies that would allow me to see her even while I was asleep. When I finally saw Pete Seeger live, it was like meeting an old friend.

I realize now I kind of took Pete Seeger's presence in my life for granted -the background music of play dates and backyard picnics and the protest rallies mom would take us to on weekends. But sitting in my car this morning singing along softly with the radio and crying at a red light, I was hit with the kind of realization about your parents that really only comes with a few decades of perspective: my mom was really cool.  I mean I've always known that, but I didn't always understand it. 


I realized much of Pete Seeger in our lives was a reflection of the way my mom lived hers: believing in the promise of something better, where tolerance, love, empathy (and yes, music) rule the day. And that was how she raised us, fiercely, unapologetically believing that the world could be a better place, that we had the power to make it a better place if we just paid attention and weren't afraid to speak up. What an amazing gift to give your child, the belief that from day one such a world is possible.  


Now that I am an aunt, I spend a lot more time thinking about how I want to parent - whether it's my own someday child or my nieces and nephews (those related to me by blood or by choice), and I can't help but think I was given something precious and wonderful -- a blueprint for what it looks like to help raise another human being to be conscious, awake and unafraid to get up every morning ready to love the world all over again.  So here's to you Pete Seeger and here's to you mom: thank you.
2 Comments

Fragile

7/26/2012

1 Comment

 
I’m sitting here at the office trying to get some work done (yes, yes, I realize it’s midnight – don’t ask) but I can’t focus. I am fixated on the awful news I got a few hours ago. My dear friend Matt was walking on the beach yesterday with his wife Jill, down near Cape Hatteras, NC. It was hot and they decided to go for a swim to cool off. They got caught in a riptide and couldn’t get back in. It was after 6pm and all of the lifeguards had gone home for the day. Passerby found them floating face down in the water and rescue crews airlifted to them to the hospital. 

Matt survived. Jill did not. She was six months pregnant and had just found out that they were expecting a little girl in November.

When I googled Jill’s name to try and get more information, the first four links that came up were to stories came up with some version of the headline “pregnant woman drowns off NC”. The fifth link is to their online baby registry. The second-to-last post on Matt’s Facebook page is from Jill talking about how excited they are to be having a girl. His profile says he is married to Jill Bailey Chenet. Yesterday he was.  

Before this happened, I was obsessed with that crazy movie theater shooting in Denver. As with most horrific mass killings that pivot around people doing things I can picture myself doing (going to work on a beautiful Tuesday morning, waiting in line to see a congresswoman, seeing a late night show), I slip into a vortex where all I can do is consume information. I think I am not unlike a lot of other Americans in this way. Information is power. And when life events unfold in a way that make us feel our inherent powerlessness, we want to tip the balance, to re-take the reigns, to create a sense of steadiness -- no matter how hollow. 

Matt is a surfer who grew up around the water. He knows his way around a wave.  Knowing Matt and how much he loves the ocean, it’s hard to even imagine what might have happened. In my mind I can’t stop picturing Jill tiring out from fighting the current as they try to wait out the rip tide, Matt holding her up and treading water for both of them until he just can’t anymore. How people will tell him he is “lucky” to be alive, but probably for a long time to come he will wish, if he couldn’t have saved them both, that he had slipped away with her. 
 
I didn’t know Jill very well. I met her once, 3 years ago when she and Matt came to a screening of the documentary I produced.  In our brief encounter I could tell immdiately that she was kind and lovely and made my friend Matt very, very happy. Maybe she knew her way around a wave too. I don’t know. 
But I do know it must felt like the most natural thing in the world to go
for a quick swim before dinner at the beach you vacation at every year.  Just like it’s the most normal thing in the world to go see a movie at midnight… 

Nowhere feels safe. That’s the cliché in moments like these. And honestly, in most the literal sense, it’s true.  At any point, anyone or anything can act outside of the order of things, outside our expectations -- with devastating consequences. 

My heart is breaking for my friend and I am once again this week trying to make sense out of the inherently senseless, but this time the senseless is much more personal. What I am realizing is this: we just have two choices, to live as if everything is scary because we think could die or to live as if nothing is scary because we know at some point we will.  

In the Rat Race of our work lives information might be power, but in all the ways that it really counts, embracing life from a place of love and joy and gratitude is most the powerful thing we can possibly do. That and give more hugs. Hugs are important.


 
1 Comment

Full Circles

6/2/2012

7 Comments

 
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There's this line of greeting cards I love called, appropriately enough, Curly Girl Designs.  My own curls are back in full force (even more so on humid days) and last weekend I pulled my hair into a ponytail for the first time in two years.  But I digress… Name aside, I love Curly Girl greeting cards because they offer up pearls of wisdom like "I am fairly certain that given a cape and a nice tiara, I could save the world" or "Life is too short not to have a little umbrella in your drink."

This past weekend, I was in a sweet little shop in Galena, IL where I was celebrating the wedding of my old roommate Ami Copeland. Nestled amongst the rubber duckies dressed as a bikers and band-aids that looked like strips of bacon I stumbled across a whole treasure trove of Curly Girl cards, including one that said "Sometimes 'right back where you started from' is right where you belong."  Once again CG, you know just the way to my heart.

There's been a lot lately that feels very "full circle".  And I'm not just talking about the ponytail. Two weeks ago I co-hosted a party for my friend Michi's new book How I Lost My Uterus and Found My Voice.  Michi and I were childhood best friends who did everything together. We started to drift apart after I went off to college, but hung in through our early 20's (long enough for me to help her plan her first wedding and bury her father).  But we couldn't stop the gravitational pull of opposite planets that was taking us in different directions, and by the time Michi found out she had cervical cancer at age 26, I was out of the picture and had no idea she was sick.

Fast forward 10 years to my own mother's death. Michi reached out (thank you, Facebook) to send her condolences. She became a real source of comfort in that way that only people who also grew up with your parents and knew them "back when" can be.

Six months later I was diagnosed with cancer myself and when Michi gave me her unfinished and unpublished memoir to read as a source of information and encouragement, I suggested she hire an editor to help her refine it, flesh it out and get it published. She asked if I would do it. So I did -- in between chemo treatments.  We spent months patiently going through Michi's book line by line, page by page and version by version, crafting and honing the story of her own dance with the dragon.

A year later I am cancer-free, her book is on Amazon.com, and Michi and I are now closer than ever.  We're close in a new way, forged by time and wisdom and growing up,  and looking death in the face and saying "not me, not now, not yet."

A week after the book party I found out I had been elected to board of directors of Women in Film and Video. For those of you who fall into that "knew me back when" category you will know that aside from Democratic politics, WIFV was my mom's big life passion. She also served on the board of directors and then later on the advisory board and frequently roped me into licking envelopes, taking tickets at film festivals and working the sign-in table at events.

When President Sandy Cannon-Brown heard I had thrown my hat in the ring for a board seat she said both "you know we all loved your mom" and "I do believe you are our first legacy candidate."  It's a legacy I"m intensely, fiercely proud of. The whole thing feels very Sophoclean, but in a good way.  Now when I show up at a WIFV event, it won't be because someone bribed me by promising me I could use the car for the weekend.

As I write this, I'm sitting in my new, fancy 5th floor apartment with a beautiful view of the trees that line Connecticut Avenue.  And I can't help but smile at the fact that I'm living a mere four blocks where from where it all started 15 years ago when I struck out on my own in my first big-girl apartment, a baby-sized DSP living in an English basement, braving the urban jungle. Okay fine, Cleveland Park doesn't really qualify as an "urban jungle" but it is technically in the city and once I skinned my nose outside the 7-11 on the corner trying out my kickboxing moves after a few too many cocktails, which really, really hurt -- and not just my pride.

Anyway, the point is, I'm back where I started. And I have to say, it feels pretty cathartic.  Sometimes to fully understand how far you've come, you need to look out over the landscape of your life from the same vantage point but with 15 years under you belt.  The scenery is more or less the same, but the glasses you're wearing allow you to see it all in a very different way. It may feel like starting over, but it's really about appreciating where you've been, how it's shaped you, has left imprints on your soul, on the world, on the people around you. How nothing and everything can be the same all at once.

"Sometimes 'right back where you started from' is right where you belong."   Sometimes, it is.  And that card?  I bought and framed it.

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Team Glen

5/6/2012

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I did a 5k walk/run for brain tumor research this morning. I was apparently running for Steve, who I’ve never actually met, but since he’s my co-worker’s father-in-law and she asked, I was happy to oblige and join her team.  My stepmom actually had a non-malignant brain tumor removed when I was in college, so it’s a cause near and dear to my heart.  But I didn't really think it applied to me, until I met Team Glen.

When I arrived at Freedom Plaza, it was clear this was one part race and one part party. Diverse throngs of people from every walk of life mobbed Pennsylvania Avenue. Dads pushing strollers and women running with their dogs. Little kids jogging along side their parents. College kids with their earbuds in, less focused on the bonding than the personal record. One guy even had an artificial leg (I’m pretty sure he ended up beating me too, but let’s not dwell on that.) 

Nearly everyone there was running for *someone* whether they had written that person’s name in sharpie on their race bib or had actually gone to the lengths of having team shirts made. I learned that “in memory of” means that someone died and “in celebration of” means they looked the dragon in the eye and lived to tell. I passed whole gangs from groups with names like Rob’s Runners, Lisa’s PittCrew and Team Terri. Some just said “In Memory of Ryan” or “running for my grandma”.  Others had telltale dates – 12/14/69 –5/9/11, above smiling photos that said person pictured on said shirt had fought the devil and lost. One team, Sara's Angles, had shirts emblazoned with a picture of a bubbly and smiling four year-old girl in a sundress.

Since I rolled in about 30 seconds before the starting gun went off, it was a little hard to find my compatriots in the crowd. I ended up run/walking most of the race by myself, which, as it turns out, was probably a blessing in disguise, because I was not prepared to spend most of the race choking back tears.  
 
Okay, let’s face it, I’m pretty out of shape, so I was prepared for the possibility of some crying but I figured it would come from a muscle cramp or something. I didn’t realize the t-shirts would get me.
 
But then again, that happens now. I hear of someone who has recently been diagnosed (like my friend Kate’s husband who’s battling a really nasty form of Leukemia – their four kids are ages 10 months to 6 years), someone who has survived, and those who haven’t, and I can feel the emotion well up. It starts in my gut and rolls all the way up to my throat until I have to bite my lip and think of spreadsheets to keep from crying. 

In these moments, it hits me:  I had cancer.  Like the thing that *kills* people.
 
I realize for all of you who know and love me, this hardly counts as breaking news. At this point it’s like me telling you “I’m from Michigan!”, like it had just occurred to me. But sometimes I forget. Getting through meant never really admitting to myself the full extent of what was happening. So, as you can imagine, I don't really like to think much about it now, either.   But sometimes I don't really have much choice on that score.

This is exactly what happened, when I rounded the corner on Constitution Avenue and caught sight of a whole extended family wearing shirts that read "Team Glen." As I looked at the screenprinted photo of Glen in his shades, relaxing on the deck of a boat, holding a beer and smiling up at me, it hit me like a brick to the face:

I am Glen and Glen is me. 

The tears that came then, sprang from the sharp thing that is part realization and part reminder that I went to hell, danced with death and came out the other side. And that Glen did not.  That both of those things remind me that my life is simultaneously both permanently altered and stunningly blessed.   

As we ran past the Botanical Gardens over the one mile mark, I was overcome by a sudden urge to grab every member of Team Glen then and hug them. I wanted to tell them I know how brave he must have been. How unfair it is. But also how they've really captured his spirit in those t-shirts.  How their love is a
living testament to the fact that he must have been a pretty great guy that
lived a pretty great life.  
 
I did not grab them, mostly because I don’t want to scare the children (or get arrested and miss out on those free juice bars at the finish line I see people who ran faster than me walking around with.) So I keep  my hands to myself. But I do silently say a little prayer – sending loving  comforty kinda vibes to Glen’s people, and thanks to the universe for both forcing me into the fire and seeing me out the other side. 


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The Lucky Ones

4/4/2012

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“Hi, my name is Erin and I had Hodgkins Lymphoma. Last month was the one year anniversary of me finishing chemo. This is my first meeting.”

That’s how I introduced myself at the Young Adults with Cancer Support Group last night. That’s right people; I went to a support group. Just like the folks with gambling problems and eating disorders and those who hide vodka bottles under the mattress and drink mouthwash when they can’t get booze.   That’s me.

I never thought it would come to this. I made it through cancer and more or less felt pretty lucky. Or at least that’s what I have been telling myself. And everyone else.

Honestly, I was pretty lucky. I knew I wasn’t going to die (okay, well once I got the diagnosis -- before that month-long limbo period where we weren’t sure exactly what kind of cancer I had or didn’t have, and I had to ban my dad from Web MD and the internet in general because he was scaring the beejeezus out of me, himself and anyone else in the family who had the misfortune to call him ask how things were going.)

And I made it through, out the other side, cancer-free. There was the crushing nausea, horrible metallic taste, the port surgery and the scar, the extreme fatigue and the Neupogen-induced joint paint, the hair loss and the lovely sunken eyes and yellow pallor and the extreme itching in my fingers and the ridiculous chemical burns on my arms, chest and stomach caused by the chemo drugs seeping through my skin from the inside….but I’m telling you, by cancer standards, I got off pretty easy. 

You would think if I was going to feel sad or confused or pissed off or anxious, it would have happened while I was actually experiencing said cadre of symptoms.  But here I am one year out. The dust has settled and the chemo is over and my hair is growing back all nice and curly and I finally have energy to travel and work and see my friends.  Now is when I should really feel lucky.

Except right now I’m just mostly… well let’s face it, I’m pissed off.   And kind of depressed.  I cry for no apparent reason. I feel irritable and cranky, and lost. Like two of the best, most productive, vibrant, creative, set-the-world-on-fire years of my life were stolen from me. Like I wuz robbed. 

Here’s the the thing: at the beginning of January 2010, I was at the pinnacle of my production career. I was building a fierce New York City network of other creative badasses. I was assembling all of the gas cans and TNT I needed to set said world on fire. 

That was then. Now I just feel sort of…used up.

But luckily for me the goddesses above got my back and send me angels in the form of amazingly wise and awesome people like my friend Deilia.  This is why after I went from happily munching my edamame and avocado salad at Corner Bakery on Monday, to crying and talking about how I don’t really want to celebrate my birthday this year because nothing feels joyful or worthy of donning a birthday hat, Deilia sent me a link.  “Just thought you might want to take a look,” her note said.

And that, my friends, is how I ended up at the Young Adults with Cancer Support Group.

The crowd at the Smith Center for Healing and the Arts was 15 strong – men and women each with their own story and all at different points in their cancer journey. One woman who can’t be a day over 32 had just been diagnosed with breast cancer and is having a double mastectomy next Tuesday.  Then chemo. Then radiation. The guy next to her said he has been in remission for 20 years.   The woman across from him told she was 36 -- my age -- and  almost done with treatment for rectal cancer.

I’ll just let you ruminate on that for a minute.

Right?  

Let’s just say, that got me to stop feeling sorry for myself real quick.

The woman next to me had 7 surgeries for melanoma in six months last year and she looks amazing. I’m serious. If she weren’t at the Smith Center for Healing and the Arts for the Young Adults with Cancer Support Group, you’d never even know. 

Then there’s the guy that had esophageal cancer last fall and was given a 10% chance of living.  He survived and his scans immediately after looked totally clear, but he’s petrified of going for his 6-month check-in because with esophageal cancer there’s a 50% chance of a relapse. Then he told us “the doctor said if it reoccurs, I’m toast. He literally said that.”  

There were two other women there who have been through Hodgkins Lymphoma - my people! - but what really connects us all is that we’ve had this experience that less than 1% of the population can relate to.  Literally. And after the third person in the group said some version of  "everyone tells me I'm lucky and deep down I know they're right, but I just want to punch them in the face," I knew I was in the right place. 

They compared the psychological fallout to PTSD -- as in I look fine, but I still feel real, real broken.  There were a lot of tears and a lot of hugs. We did not sing Kumbaya but they did serve snacks, so that was nice.  Mostly, I left feeling grateful to have met so many fabulous people and relieved beyond words to know that it’s not just me.

And then on my walk home, I got one of those nice reminders the universe is so fond of giving out.

My friend Dan, who I haven’t talked to in three years, called. He’s a cameraman who I met on the film festival circuit back in ’09 right as I was setting about that whole lighting the world on fire business.

He shot one of my favorite docs of all time called The Way We Get By (you should totally rent it from Netflix) and is now working on his own project.  He’s three years into production on a film that sounds like it’s going to be brilliant. 

As usual, just like clockwork, the isolation, doubt and fear that all independent filmmakers experience at some point in the process, has kicked in.  It feels like an unrelenting pit in your stomach accompanied by a little demon on your shoulder saying “You fool! You’ve invested all of your free time and money into creating an unwatchable piece of garbage. Who do you think you are?” 

So I did what any good friend and fellow creative worth her salt would do – I talked him off the ledge.

I explained how we had felt exactly the same way when we made MINE, about six weeks before we got accepted to SXSW and four months before we won the audience award. I reminded him that being an independent filmmaker is important work. That the fear is normal. And that it takes real balls (or in my case, ovaries) to make a movie. That he might be freaking out, but he’s incredibly brave. That his idea sounds really good and deep down he knows it’s good, or he wouldn’t have embarked on the journey.

Dan was quiet for a minute and then he said “Thank you. This is just what I needed to hear,” And then, “I just have so much respect for you and your work that I knew I needed to talk to you. I knew you would have the answer. This means a lot coming from you.”

Whoa.  Thanks Dan. Thanks universe.  Thanks for the reminder of two very important things:

1. I may have been through the wringer, but I am still a kick-ass, smart, creative goddess.

2. No matter who you are, or where you might be on your life path, everyone needs a support group now and then.

Now pass me that birthday hat. I got some celebratin’ to get to.

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God Bless Us, Every One

12/25/2011

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About this time two years ago, a group of us gathered at Le Madeleine on Rockville Pike to take over the private dining room affectionately known as the “wine cave” for my mom’s annual holiday party.  In years past the Rossenmacher holiday soiree took place at the townhouse I had grown up in but mom had steadily downsized over the course of four moves and her tiny apartment in Kensington simply didn’t have the pomp and grandeur of the wine cave.

My mom loved the place  - she had even intimated that we might hold Annie’s baby shower there slated for the following March. The night of the Christmas party we listened to music on the Bose stereo mom brought in for the occasion. Towards the end of the night she and I did a karaoke-style rendition of Janis Joplin’s “Mercedes Benz” as we pretended to drink out of little bottles of cheap red wine. Someone snapped a picture and I have it on my desk. 

We, of course, had no way of knowing that just 2 weeks later she'd be gone.  That we’d be right back in the wine cave, mom's beloved chocolate fountain flowing in the background as we toasted her amazing life with that same cheap red wine, and mourned her passing.

The night of the party mom had asked everyone to bring an unwrapped toy for House of Ruth, a shelter in DC for women and their children.  The guests dutifully obliged and deposited teddy bears and board games and books into the box mom brought. I took the box home, promising to drop it off, but after I learned House of Ruth doesn’t take toys, I put the box in the corner of Annie’s spare bedroom hoping to find another proper home for its contents.  Two weeks later the bottom fell out of our world and the box would sit, untouched for two years.  Every time I caught sight of it, those stuffed bears with their ears sticking up and out reminded me of how awesome and thoughtful and strong my mother was – how she fought for the little guy her whole life. How finding a good home for those toys would honor her memory.  And then I would forget about it until I saw it again, at which point I would feel that familiar little stab in the heart that is equal parts gratitude and regret.

About this time last week, I had my first check-up with Dr. Fishman since that final PET scan, the one that said I was cancer free.  I now work at an office at 21st and M about four blocks from Dr. Fishman. The scenery on the walk over is the same – same bagel shop where Charlie and Annie would go and get lunch for me and for the nurses, same parking garage where we would wait for Rocinante the wonder Jeep to come forth and carry us home, same breast feeding center in the basement filled with new mothers and their little ones – all of that new life and hope a stark juxtaposition to the way I felt so used up and one foot in front of the other.  I don’t eat at that bagel shop anymore, but I’m a regular at the salad joint next store.  And now seeing those babies just makes me smile. Today the neighborhood around Dr. Fishman's office is all about possibility and moving forward and happy hour. 

Most of the time I almost forget about that whole cancer thing. Almost.

Last week, just before I saw Dr. F, I got an email from one of the professional list serves that flood my inbox, from some guy named Lorenz.  He and his girlfriend were volunteering to collect and distribute toys to kids at the Extension Center. They needed to collect 200 toys in seven days. Could anyone help?  His email signature featured a quote from Khalil Gibran, one of my mom’s favorite poets. I remembered the box and sent him an email. We met on the street in DC and I loaded the managerie into his car. As he drove away, all I could see through the back windshield was so many sets of fuzzy, stuffed ears sticking out of the top of box.   

After the event that Saturday, he sent me a bunch of pictures, including the one posted above here.

It was a good reminder that life has a funny way of coming full circle - that you can walk by the same buildings, but see them through such different eyes, depending on the day, or the month, or the year.  Mostly it was a good reminder that even if it doesn't happen at the time or in the way that we expected, sooner or later all of us (every stuffed bear and every girl) winds up exactly where we’re supposed to be.

 


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Broke Into the Old Apartment

11/1/2011

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We moved out of our apartment yesterday.  It served us well for 14 months, but neither Charlie nor I ever really loved it.  We’re both city kids at heart who want to be able to walk home from the bar at midnight and be in bed by 12:15, or come home from work, change and then pop back out for dinner, or a screening, or as my mom used to love to say, to “rendezvous” with friends. So that apartment, in all of its quiet, suburban, manicured lawn, proximity to the mall glory, no longer fits. 

It was, however, perfect for convalescing during chemo (which when I read out loud, sounds like a line from a twisted children’s story – as in ‘“C” is for Convalescing during Chemo when you have Cancer.’)

Moving out has been full of mixed emotions for me.  While it might not have been my dream home, that place was the backdrop for the most intense year of my life. I spent whole days on that couch in that corner, too exhausted to even lift my head.  I lay curled up in the bed in that other room, crying inconsolably from the intense pain and wishing for something - anything - that would make it stop.  Those steps there lead down to the main office where I would go and pick up the care packages that came 3 a week - and sometimes more -  that would make me cry just as hard -   because acts of love and kindness are especially powerful when you’re at the bottom of  a well and someone throws you a rope. And that little balcony that overlooks a quiet and tree-lined part of Tuckerman Lane?  That served as my meditation space where I would go to get centered and to remind myself that living on life’s raw edges also opens you up to incredible amounts of grace.

When I was first diagnosed and considering where to get treatment and all that would flow from that, I needed to decide where I was going to live for those 6+ months. I could return to my New York apartment smack in the middle of all of Manhattan’s wonderful insanity. I could continue on holing up in Charlie’s big group house in D.C., where I had been hunkered down since my mom died, playing with the two crazy dogs and having BBQs with a revolving cast of characters that usually involved impromptu games of beer pong.  My sister very sweetly offered up her house, but I knew that space needed to center around nurturing a new baby, which would be harder to do with me curled up on her couch for days on end, crying. 

Just in the past two months Charlie read somewhere that Bethesda means “healing spring”.  He didn’t know that when he rented the place. He only knew that I needed a quiet place to rest and to get better. The little place on Strathmore Hall Lane was perfect.  

Now, 14 months later, it’s time to move on. I’m working again more than full time, planning a big event that happens next week. Let’s just say the move was not well-timed, but despite all the ways having cancer has changed me, it’s still pretty amazing (and sometimes pretty scary) how easy it is to slip right back in where I left off – namely juggling a lot and somehow making it all work.   In between late nights at the office and jaunts to Chicago, Dallas and Birmingham, AL to interview America’s boardroom leaders, I’ve been packing boxes and sorting papers and trashing things that no longer serve me (orange bikini from 1995 – I’m talking to you.) Miraculously, we got it all done and somehow managed to get out just under the deadline of midnight on October 31st.  Once I had time to sit still and catch my breath, I realized that I had just sped right past a moment that was the bookend to most influential chapter in my story.  In my haste to get it all done, I had almost missed it. Almost.  

I left for work an hour early this morning and after I got my obligatory Panera hazelnut coffee (it makes me so freakin’ happy that stuff), I stopped by the old place.  Although it’s technically November 1st and I technically don’t live there anymore, I figured at 7am no one would be the wiser.  I walked in just as the first rays of light were streaming through the windows.  I sat, crossed-legged on the floor of the empty living room and silently thanked that little apartment for all it had given me, all the ways it had supported me the way a proper nest should. I silently thanked Charlie and my sister and my amazing dad and stepmom and sisters for all of their love and care and support. And then I thought of each one of my amazing friends and how it’s possible to feel the depths of despair and the depths of the most amazing love all at the same time.  Mostly I just reflected on all that’s happened in the past year – what I know about how it’s changed me, and what I’ve yet to discover. 


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The "R" Word

6/7/2011

5 Comments

 
I had my end-of-chemo-PET scan a week ago Wednesday.  It’s a routine test given to us cancer patients, which involves drinking radioactive dye and getting in one of those MRI tubes so the techs can take photos of your insides. (You end up with a photo that looks not unlike those new TSA full body scans, only those are free and the one I got cost $12,000. One the up side, there was no slow dude in front of me trying to unpack three laptops with all of the grace and speed of a wounded basset hound.)

Dr. Fishman recommended I get this test back in February when I finished chemo, mostly as a baseline against which to measure all future scans. And…”just to be sure.”    I put off getting the scan for a month and then scheduled it and then rescheduled it twice after that.  

“What’s the rush?” I thought. I mean, if my scans came back clean half way through chemo (which they did) surely another 6 rounds of that stuff could only have made me extra cancer free or super-cancer free or something like that. Besides, three months out from chemo, I’m busy.  I’m working again. And I *really* needed a pedicure.  Plus no matter how much they try to disguise the label with pictures of strawberries, that disgusting contrast dye shake tastes like “berries” the way that air freshener sprayed over rotting meat smells like “lilacs”.   

And if I’m being totally honest (and let’s face it, that’s what blogs are for) I knew that even though there was NO way I still had cancer in my body, that if for some crazy reason I did….I kinda didn’t want to know.

Let’s just say when you relapse with Hodgkins, the treatment starts with a month-long stay in the hospital where they put you in a bubble and totally blow away your immune system. Then they give you a transplant of your own stem cells. After that you get 6 months of chemo. Then radiation.  (I know all of this because it happened to my friend Mia, who is twice as brave and fierce and amazing than I could ever hope to be.)   

I would tell you that the thought of all of that totally freaked me out, except I can’t. I don’t really know what the thought of that feels like, because I never entertained that thought. 

What I did know was that I made it through chemo with my sanity intact – but just barely.  I also knew that if I considered the thought of a relapse even for one second, I might go totally, completely and irretrievably batshit crazy. (And not crazy in that fun, “my-life-is-a-Laverne-and-Shirley-episode” kinda way.  I mean the other way. The “talking-to-yourself-real-loud-and-punching-invisible-bad-guys-in-public” kinda way.)

So that’s all to say, I tried not to think about it.  And I knew I would be okay.  So except for the momentary gag reflex when I forced down the “triple berry shake”, this whole PET scan thing was a total non-event.

Or so I thought. 

I was getting ready for work when I got a message from Dr. Fishman’s receptionist.  It was short, sweet and to the point: “The doctor would like you to call him.” 

Well…shit.  That doesn’t sound good.  Doctors are usually too busy to give you good news in person over the phone.   I listened to the message again and then stared at my phone for about a minute.  “What’s up?”  Charlie asked.  “Fishman wants me to call him,” I replied.  While I refused to meet his gaze, I could see out of the corner of my eye a very small, barely perceptible flash of sheer panic on his face.  Charlie also knows that doctors never call with good news.

I dialed the number and tried to stay as calm as possible.  I had to hold for about 3 minutes (roughly about 4 ½  hours in “waiting for the diagnosis” years).  Finally I heard Fishman’s very authoritarian sounding voice come on the line.  He asked how I was feeling.  “Oh great, just great.” I said, lying through my teeth. I actually had been feeling great about 20 minutes before.  Right then I thought I was going to puke.  “Well,” he said “I just wanted to tell you that your scans look excellent.  I would say you’re in full remission.”  

Full. Remission.   Just typing those words now gives me goose bumps all over again.

I hung up the phone and immediately burst into tears.  Charlie hugged me as I said, though sobs “he…s-s-s-said…I’m…in…remission.”  Charlie managed to both smile and look a little freaked out, the way most guys do when they see the waterworks.  “Are these good tears?”  he asked.  I nodded.  And they were good tears.  But I realized I didn’t really feel happy. I mostly felt...relieved. 

It's like I had girded up for battle, fought the good fight, took a lot of hits along the way, and through it all the only way I kept going was to never entertain the idea that it might NOT be okay -- that I might not be okay. That sense of optimism was my magic lasso, my invisible jet, my Rocinante, all rolled into one.  And it worked. It held me together. Allowed me to kick some serious butt.  The flip side is that without realizing it, I spent the better part of the last nine months holding my breath.  I guess it took hearing official confirmation from a guy with letters after his name, to finally exhale.

Later that day I found myself at the Sculpture Garden enjoying some of the free jazz and not-so-free sangria they have there (if you’re in or around DC on any given Friday this summer, you should check out both: http://www.nga.gov/programs/jazz)

Thanks to Charlie who had beaten me there by at least an hour, I had a prime seat along the fountain, toes in water.  About two hours into the show, ominous black clouds rolled in from the east. Lightning crackled through the sky like a thousand fireflies doing their best impression of Rolling Thunder (without the Sarah Palin photo-op.) The rain started immediately fast and furious.  Folks all around me grabbed their blankets and pitchers of sangria (and this being DC, their Tory Burch flats) and scrambled for cover.  Everyone, that is, except for me.  Some little, but very firm, voice in the back of my head said, “stay.”   (Actually it said “stay, but take your toes out of the water for god’s sake – it’s lightning!”)

So I did.  (both)

I watched the drops falling on the water in the fountain, hitting the surface in a way that made them look like they were doing a frenetic little happy dance, ecstatic at being freed from whichever dark cloud they had come from.  It was the kind of show you don’t see every day, either because you’re stuck inside, or not paying attention or too busy running for cover.  It was raw and beautiful and made me laugh out loud.  I felt like a little kid at the Icecapades. 

Staying there, in the midst of that lashing rain also felt like church, like I was being baptized anew, reborn as someone who looked a lot like my old self, except for stronger and wiser in ways I had never imagined before.

Bearing witness to that downpour felt like an offering to the universe, an acknowlegement  of all that life has both taken away and given me over the past 18 months.  And it was a great reminder that things bigger than us -- things that we cannot control -- will upend our lives in ways small (the sudden soaking rainstorm, the blown tire) and big (cancer, a tornado that wipes out an entire community).   These moments are part and parcel of being alive.  And if we can weather the initial influx of pain, sit still and just bear witness, that sudden downpour can be as beautiful as the most breathtaking sunset.

Staying put was also an offering to myself, to that scared inner part of me that had held her breath for so long.  Yes the lighting crackles and the thunder roars and rain comes down in sheets, but eventually it stops.  And it's then you realize you’re still alive -- soaking wet, but still laughing.

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    Standing in the breach, trying to hold the flashlight for love.

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