Monday, August 31, 2015

Laundry, Lady Bugs, and Lint

I am really good about making sure clean laundry is available to my family but I kind of suck at folding the clean clothes and putting them away. For the last few days, three baskets of clean laundry has lingered around our kitchen table as the kids fetched their favorite clothes and faded bathing suits out of them.

Last night before the kids went to bed, in an effort to ease them back into the reality that summer is ending and structure and responsibility are on the horizon, I decided that we would all fold the laundry together and finally put it away. Teddy and Annabel saw it as a way to stay up later so they agreed to help. It went swimmingly. For the first 90 seconds.

Then I found a lady bug.

It was odd, I admit. The lady bug looked perfectly fine, stuck to the inside of a new black t-shirt that I had just purchased on sale (apparently I missed the "dry flat" instruction so what was once a medium is now an extra small...oops).

Anyways, I remarked about the lady bug to Teddy and Annabel and, perhaps seeing a chance for an even further delay to bedtime, they appeared interested. I tried to pick the lady bug off the shirt to bring it outside but the little shiny bug fell to the floor. Clearly the thing was dead. D-e-a-d. Dead.

All of the sudden, Annabel lost it. She started to wail, "Is he ever going to be not dead? But once he's dead he won't ever be alive again!!! Fings that die don't ever be alive again." Her tears looked so enormous on her tan little face.

At first, I pretty much ignored her. I had a goal: finish the damn laundry before bed. So I told her something about heaven and figured she'd move on with me. She didn't.

She kept crying and I could almost see the thoughts in her head. Thoughts about permanence. About something or someone being gone. Forever. As I let her emotions seep into mine, I could feel my heart start to feel heavy. Sad and scared and heavy.

Annabel kept on asking me whether someone who dies will ever "get not dead again." I had no freaking idea what to say. Still folding and trying not to make a big deal about it, I tried to tell her something about a person's spirit remaining alive. But she didn't understand, probably because I didn't make much 4-year-old sense. I stopped folding.

I picked up my daughter and sat down with her on a big chair in our living room. I hugged her. I told her that sometimes I have thoughts like she was having and those thoughts are so hard. I agreed that it is really yucky to think about someone you love being gone. She settled down a bit.

Still stumped as to how to deal with the sobbing, I went back to fundamentals. My own adult fundamentals, I admit, but it was all I could think of. I told her, "Oh, my Boo," (that's our nickname for her) "Let's not think about years from now. Let's just think about this moment. And at this moment I'm here and you're here and Daddy is here and Teddy is here." She immediately retorted with something about one day us "getting dead" and how sad that would be. She's so darn persistent. And so darn right.

The heaviness in my heart grew heavier.

I held her tight and said I understood her but that sometimes when it's scary to look ahead, we just need to think about what we have at this very moment. I repeated to her that I understood and that I get sad when I think about those things too. I told her that she was brave to talk about it with us because that's hard to do. She cried a little more and may have even started to recognize this conversation as a tactic to further delay bedtime (I don't think it started out that way, but still...). So I shut that door, thank you very much, and carried her upstairs to brush her teeth. A few jokes about Daddy's belly button lint and she was giggling again. Thank goodness for Daddy's belly button lint.

In the end, I have no idea if I made things better or worse for my Boo last night. I just know that as I sang George Michael's "Faith" to her at bedtime, she was smiling. Thank goodness for George Michael too, I guess.

Now if only someone would put away that folded laundry at the top of my stairs. Nah. I'd rather just write about it.

(To be continued...Because Teddy's mind is always going, too...)


*   *   *

For those looking for more information about speaking to children about cancer and death, check out these recent pieces that I really appreciated. 


Boston Globe Article by Kristi Palma, "Talking to young children about death" (I hesitate to include this one because upon re-reading it, I realize that I failed on several pieces of the advice!)

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Zone Three

Apparently lightening struck the Providence line commuter rail track this morning which means big delays. So I sit on a bench at the station waiting for a train to work and reflecting on the 11 years I have commuted into Boston...

*   *   *

Before I went in to have both of my breasts removed, a weird sort of nesting thing came over me. I wanted to make sure that our house was in order while I was away, which made sense I suppose. But there were a few twigs in my nest with which I became obsessed and those small pieces didn't make much sense at all. One involved my family's coins. In our kitchen junk drawer, we had accumulated a sandwich-bag full of coins and I was set on cashing them in. Granted, this was at a time when doctor appointments and surgery-related preparations took up the bulk of most days, so I have no idea why this mattered to me so much, but it did. 

I had long since given up the exercise of rolling coins so the solution was a simple one. I just had to get to the Coin Star machine at my local supermarket. The machine would take 10% off the top but I didn't mind. I just wanted those coins gone. 

The problem was that every time I tried to get to the Coin Star machine during the week before my surgery, something got in my way. So my bag of coins sat in my car, waiting as impatiently to be cashed in as I waited for my breasts to be removed.

I will never forget a day or two before my surgery when we were out and I told my mom about my coins. I presented it jokingly but she knows me enough to know that deep down, I was serious. 

Of course, she drove me straight to the Coin Star machine and I felt an odd sense of relief as I walked away with a ticket worth about $50. It was probably 0.03% the cost of my surgery. 

I don't know if it's true for others who have gone through a traumatic time, but I have arrived at a few other fixations throughout my cancer experience, most as seemingly insignificant as the bag of coins. I feel the need to write about one more of those now, as I sit still waiting for a train to work. I want to write about my monthly commuter rail passes. 

*   *   *

I have commuted into Boston since 2004. For the first four of those years, I made the trek for law school, driving in on the expressway three or sometimes four nights a week after work for my classes. The traffic was atrocious if I left any later than 4:45 PM but if I left before then I could make my first class that started at six (and maybe even down a grilled cheese from the cafeteria beforehand).

Once I got my first lawyer job, I switched to riding the commuter rail into the city. It always seemed to be an eventful journey, mostly since I had to get Teddy to day care by 7:45 and he has never been easy at getting ready to go anywhere. 

When everything goes smoothly, the commute to and from my office is one hour door-to-door each way. I hated that hour so much at first, as anxiety plagued me. But life experience (plus Effexor) has helped me a lot and I have come to not only accept the reality of a commute but even enjoy it some of the time (not including last winter!). 

After I arrived at my new firm four years ago, I started to get my Zone Three train passes every month. It was my ticket into the city. When a new month rolled around, the previous month's pass was rendered useless and while I like to throw away anything unpurposeful, for some reason I let these train passes pile up. I couldn't let them go.


Every month when I put the new pass into my bag, I had a flash of overwhelming gratefulness and anxiety. I would think things like, I'm still here. Another month cancer free. But will I get a pass next month? Or will something crazy happen, related to cancer or not, that will make this month's pass the last one? It was such a strange obsession and I still don't fully understand the root of it.

What I do know is that my July 2015 pass is the last monthly pass I will buy for a while, or maybe even forever. While I still have to work these first two weeks of August before I begin teaching after that, I decided to forgo the August pass and buy a 10-ride pass on my phone. In fact, since I began this post, I boarded the late train and just flashed the conductor the mTicket app. Activate ticket.

I had no idea where I was going with this post when I started. But as the train pulls into Hyde Park station, just a few stops away from South Station where I will depart, I have found a bit of clarity. 

The truth is that cancer or no cancer, none of us know what the next month will bring, or even the next moment. In fact, in the minute before I sat down on the bench at the train station this morning, I heard about a young mother who lost her husband unexpectedly just weeks after she underwent a double mastectomy for breast cancer. I can't even comprehend it. Or maybe, a tiny, tiny part of me can. And my heart breaks. 

The last three years have taught me so much, including that anything can happen to any of us no matter how good we are or how hard we work. Next month's train pass is never a given. For so long, that thought has terrified me. But in a crazy twist, that thought brings me an odd sense of hope this morning. Because tragedy hits all of us at one time or another. But in the last three years, I have seen countless stories of people who have continued on in the face of those tragedies. They have lived strong when doing so seemed absolutely impossible. 

The hope that churns in me now is supported by the fact that I sit wedged in the corner of a crowded train with hundreds of commuters who are likely late and frustrated, but who neverthless appear calm and patient. It is supported by the fact that I don't have an August train pass, but not because my cancer came back. I don't have an August train pass because I chose not to have one. I chose, instead, to have my own classroom again -- an honest-to-goodness dream-come-true. And believe it or not, that classroom, and that dream, is walking-distance from my house. 

*   *   *

Last stop. South Station. Have a great day, everyone. 

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Scared of Not Being Scared

I hate to repeat myself and I hate to write blogs that I know are mediocore (at best), but tonight I'm going to do both of those things. In a vacation house full of sleeping people I love, I am wide awake, not only because I was the last one to wake up this morning, but because I'm scared. Yes, I'm scared. Scared for the same reason that I've written about countless times before. Scared that I have cancer in me.

I know the story is getting old, which is why I really don't talk about it with anyone anymore. But this is the space that is always willing to listen. It is the space where I can admit -- despite the redundancy of it all -- that my anxiety once again appears to be buliding as I near the anniversary of my diagnosis.

I thought a lot about this fear and anxiety today in a quiet 20 minutes I had alone kyacking on a lake in Maine. During that precious time, something clicked for me. An epiphany of understanding. A moment when I realized that I'm actually scared of not being scared.

The truth is that in the past few months, I've been relatively not scared of my cancer coming back. I've been particularly busy, which helps, and while there have been blips, overall, I've felt good both mentally and physically. The most valuable proof of this progress is in the fact that during the past few months, I've thought a lot about the future -- even the long-term one -- without anxiously doubting that I will be blessed with it.

Then, the summer arrived. I love the summer. But it also happens to be the season that I still associate with the scariest time of my life. Yes, those memories still weigh heavy with pain.

Today's realization was so simple yet so truly significant. I am scared to not be scared. I'm scared of that fact that I started to let my guard down. I'm scared that I started to feel free again -- free of the burden of cancer. Because the last time I felt free like that was right before I was jolted by the news that I sometimes still cannot fully comprehend.

Out on the kyack today, cruising across the glassy, gorgeous lake, I wondered about the dangers of feeling free. Am I setting myself up for another awful shock? Are these pains I feel in my chest and my neck something gravely significant -- the dreaded nightmare that "it's back"?!? It's come back in so many others, so why wouldn't it come back in me? These thoughts haunt me. Then I hate myself for thinking such negative things. And I wonder if my chest hurts because of the kyacking.

This blog is D+ material but I'm going to publish it anyways. I'm going to publish it because no one ever told me that there could come a time when I become scared of not being scared. But since that's happening to me, perhaps it's happening to others. And even if it's not, I'm sure others nearing their cancer-versary would agree -- it can be such a difficult and complicated time, and hearing others admit that is sometimes all you need to feel like the heavy burden is just a little bit lighter and easier to handle.

Thursday, June 25, 2015

That Fire

I'm one of those A-type-first-child personalities who grew up feeling like it was absolutely necessary to be good at everything I did. I honestly didn't feel any external pressure, but rather, a heavy sort of internal pressure to make everyone happy, to get s&*t done, to succeed. And generally, I did. It may not have come easy to me but I worked hard, really hard, and my teachers--and later, my bosses--had good things to say.

Until last year.

Last year, I got my first negative review at work. It was a few months after I had decided that I was leaving the law to go back to teaching, but still, it stung. Or maybe more than stung. Okay, it hurt.

It hurt for several reasons, including the one reason I want to write about tonight -- it hurt because it was so unbelievably and undeniably true. The oh-so-true part of the feedback was that I get "easily distracted." To be honest, I remain stubborn in my opinion that I did every assignment I was asked to do within the time frame that I was asked to do it, but I concede that the feedback is 110% accurate. And I couldn't be more thankful for having received it.

The truth is, that with the exception of my pro bono immigration work, I have never not been distracted at my lawyer-jobs. When I started at Ropes & Gray, I was distracted by my seven-month old and by trying to maintain a healthy marriage through the turbulent time of transitioning to a demanding and unpredictable schedule. I was distracted by things as small as lunch and snacks to things as significant as my grandmother being ill and dying before my eyes. I was distracted by Scott's passing and by far too many other tragic deaths that followed. I was distracted by an infant who had a never-ending ear infection and who projectile vomited on countless rides to day care. I was distracted by family struggles and celebrations, and by trying to help other people through tough times. I was distracted by wanting to always talk to my office-mate who I loved (and drove nuts), and I was distracted by the realization that when it came down to it, I hated the professional life I had created for myself. I hated the motion-sickness that plagued me on the cab-rides home from the office after midnight and I hated the absolutely awful exit gate in the lower parking lot of the Route 128 train station which often failed to open at the most inconvenient times and thus made me wonder if one day I would just drive straight through it in protest (I confirmed last week that it's still broken). Most of all, I hated that the work day (and night) made me feel like I was dying inside. Like the fire I used to have in me was gone.

Once I moved to a so-much-more-humane law firm culture, I was still distracted, then by a baby girl who I loved as much as I loved her older brother, which I never thought could be possible. I was distracted by books and even by a little bit of exercise. I was distracted by the news that I hadn't followed in years and by wide-awake dreams I started to have again. I convinced myself that everything was good again--that I could succeed as a lawyer in this new place. But deep down, I think I knew I was pretending. Then, on August 8, 2012, I became so distracted by an out-of-the-blue cancer diagnosis that I barely knew what day of the week it was or what planet I lived on.

I tried to fake it at first (not even consciously realizing that I was faking anything). I returned to the office after my first chemo infusion convinced that I would try to work--at least part-time--through my treatment. But then I was allergic to the Taxotere and had my world flipped upside down again. After that, I tended towards far-too-few white blood cells and each chemo round felt like an extremely dangerous adventure. I gave up all my corporate work and focused only on Wendy's asylum case. I couldn't find it in myself to focus on any other work beyond that. I should have known then--if not five years before--that I was wasting away in a place that I didn't belong. I was dying inside, perhaps too literally for it to even be an ironic thing to say. But I was also coming alive.

*   *   *

I read the following quote in a book recently:


Since I have been open and honest with myself and with others about what makes me come alive, I have heard the most remarkable things from people--mostly dreams they have...things they would do, "if only..." If only... I love hearing those stories. Even if part of me is sad when I hear them prefaced the way they always are. The way I used to preface things.

I know now that I have always been a distracted lawyer. But I also know that this morning, I almost missed both of my train stops while finishing Of Mice and Men (I started it Monday). The entire world melted away as I circled vocabulary words and particularly-gripping passages that I can't wait to discuss with my high school English classes. I felt so deeply alive. Cancer was completely pushed out of my mind. It was amazing.

I will take a six-figure pay-cut when I leave the legal profession and return to teaching. It will be okay because Brian and I will work hard to ensure that it is. Plus, excess money, while lovely, has never made either of us feel alive. Ultimately I know that I will never review a contract or sit on a corporate conference call without a million other thoughts or ideas popping into my head and begging me to play with them. But I know that I will walk into my classroom every morning focused on what I'm there to do...teach kids about literature and history. And more importantly, help them try to discover what makes them come alive. Because Howard Thurman is so right about what our world really needs--lawyers who aren't distracted by the paint on the wall, and teachers who pack up their classrooms in June with a fire in their belly about coming back in the fall. I so miss that fire....and I so should have been working in the 45 minutes that it took to write this....

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

The Brave Ones

Today I find myself feeling heart-broken over the news that a young man from my hometown died of a drug overdose last night. I knew this young man only well enough that we would say hello in passing in the school hallways or around town. I can still hear him calling me "Miss Talbot," and I can see him bowing his head with a sort of charming respect, probably because I knew (and adored) his older brother. I remember the last time I saw his mother—how proud she was telling me about her new job that she loved, how proud I was of her for being so strong even after she lost her husband to cancer.

I should be clear—this is not a blog about my hometown’s most recent victim of drugs. I don’t know enough about the victim, or about drugs, to write that piece. This is simply a musing of my sad and numb heart.

Since I made the decision to go back to teaching high school students, I have been following the news on the opiate epidemic in our area. I’ve read several articles, one as recent as yesterday, about families who have lost a loved one to heroin. Today I found myself rereading one such piece.

Over a month ago, I read an article in my local paper about the growing opiate epidemic. Three individuals were interviewed in the article. One gave his name.

When I read this article back in March, I recognized the name immediately, and could even visualize Mike B. in my classroom. I remembered where he sat and what his hand-writing looked like. I remembered his spirit and his never-hidden smile. I remembered his kind soul. When I read Mike’s admissions about his use of drugs, my heart sank. How could this happen? How could someone so sweet get mixed up in something so bad? I was asking these questions rhetorically but also because I wanted the answers.

In the article, Mike talked about losing his younger brother to a drug overdose in 2013. He talked about his own addiction and the pain it caused others. He explained that he had been drug-free for over one year now, although the rest of the story was still an ugly one. Jail. Psychiatric facilities. Guilt over his brother's death.

After I read the article, I wrote to Mike. I told him how brave he was. How proud I was of him for sharing his story. I wondered if I would be as brave as he was if my story of struggle wasn't such a socially acceptable one.  I honestly don't know.

I think that most people like a good cancer-survival story (especially one about breast cancer), and for that reason, I'm not brave for telling my story. But I will tell you who is brave. The brave ones are the people who write about issues that make people squirm—people who write about being transgender, or depressed, or bipolar. People with metastatic disease or rare diseases that nobody knows anything about. People who write about cancers that involve the rectum instead of the breast. People who write about complicated racial and social issues. People who write about suicide, or drug addiction, or failures that they haven’t yet reconciled. People who write about stories that don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end.

Don’t get me wrong, I am deeply proud of my blog and my book. Those represent my story and in a way, they are living beings to me. But I don’t think I’m brave for sharing them. By sharing my writing, I get only good things in return—emails and texts with words of great support and kindness, interviews with amazing people, invitations to speak and receive awards. But the ones who share the “uglier” stories—stories about heroin addiction, for instance—they risk attaching themselves to a potentially hurtful stigma. A parent brave enough to talk about his or her child’s drug addiction risks judgment (“What did they do wrong that made him become a drug addict?” Answer: In many cases, nothing.). A young ex-addict courageous enough to share his story risks people turning the other way—both on the street and in his life. Even I admit, part of me is scared of people who get mixed up in drugs.

Right now I feel heartbroken for a young man’s family who will need to bury their son, brother, and friend before he had a chance to live his life. I feel overwhelmed by a drug epidemic that is killing our youth, or at best, limiting their potential and their happiness. I feel scared for my own children and for the students I will teach next year. And then there’s that pride and appreciation I feel for people like Mike. People who have pulled themselves up from life's depths and found the courage to talk openly about a problem as ugly as drug addiction. Clearly those stories can’t save everyone, or even most people who fall, or jump, or tiptoe into the deadly grasp of drugs. Those stories can't comfort families who have lost a loved one, or families who know they are in the turbulence that will likely lead to that loss. But those stories are the only place I find hope in tragic moments like this one. Because I don’t know what it’s like to try opiates for the first time or become addicted to them. But I believe that the people who can best lead our communities to the bottom of this seemingly boundless problem are those who do. And those who have the strength and the courage to have an honest conversation about it.

Rest in Peace, M.A.