I couldn’t find my happiness this past Sunday. I tried.
I couldn’t find my happiness this past Sunday. I tried.
I wasn’t slated to work that day, but I had gone in early for a problem and then, later, learned that a customer had reduced a staff member to tears with bullying. The day ended with phone line trouble, a saddened and frustrated staff member walking me through it over her cell phone, and another trip from home to work.
Sundays aren’t a day that’s dictated. I don’t have a set schedule on that day of my week. It’s always a little bit loosey goosey. Usually.
But there must have been a subconscious plan in my head for that day that just wouldn’t come true, and by the end of the day I was blue. Sad. Pissed.
But today – another snow day – I found my delight in not wearing my watch, making breakfast for a teen, playing and losing four games of Scrabble, watching two movies, and taking one nap.
I had no set schedule in mind when I went to sleep last night and none when I woke up. It seemed to help.
This Friday I will have a surgical procedure to remove cells that, left alone, could turn into cancer. These pesky cells were discovered during a routine yearly exam…
This Friday I will have a surgical procedure to remove cells that, left alone, could turn into cancer. These pesky cells were discovered during a routine yearly exam with my gynecologist, after which she called to let me know that my test results showed an abnormality and she wanted to take a closer look. During this second visit, after a look-see, she calmly said, “I am going to take a couple of quick biopsies.”
What happened next is a bit fuzzy, because when I heard “biopsy” my heart stopped beating and my head started to spin. My family doesn’t have great history with biopsy results. And, in my experience, biopsy spells CANCER.
I don’t have cancer. I may never develop cancer. And I am more than willing to have these cells cut from my body later this week.
I think I may even survive the heart stopping attacks I have suffered during this process. First, biopsies. Then, waiting for results. Then, being told I have high grade cancer-causing cells. Then, the call to let me know the amount I will owe the hospital Friday after my very expensive health insurance is done accounting for the 80/20-out-of-pocket-co-pay-deductible-not-covered-under-your-plan-matrix-of-go-screw-yourself-lady-coverage.
But talking about CANCER in relation to my body has changed me forever. I will learn to live with the reality that my body carries a virus that causes cancer sometimes. I will learn to forget about it for long periods of time. I will learn to not live in fear of cancer. I will re-read all the anti-cancer lifestyle books I have read because of my mother’s breast cancer and my father’s lymphoma. I will make more lifestyle changes. I will feel blessed that I had the resources to have preventative care. I will get more sleep. I will continue my journey to control my anxiety and my stress. I will eat my fruits and veggies. I will walk thousands of miles for my health. I will show up for all my exams and tests in the years to come. And soon I believe I will feel lucky that I don’t have cancer.
But I will never again walk into my doctor’s office with the same confidence I did before this happened.
This week, my father is travelling to MD Anderson in Houston for a battery of tests to find out if his 18+ months of chemotherapy is working to put his lymphoma into remission; my mother is at home without an ounce of breast tissue left on her body; and I am joining some of my friends that have been in my same situation.
I am writing this blog to continue the public conversation about cancer, and to help remind myself that we are finding treatments and strategies for prevention and that every day we are closer to a cure. To encourage everyone to get yearly exams, and to educate yourself on your own health.
And I am writing this blog to bolster my own strength in the fight against cancer. I know I should feel like one of the lucky ones, but I don’t yet. I believe I will soon.
Shortly after Christmas my daughter and I went camping in coastal California. It was peaceful. It was also nice to be outside (although a bit colder than we had wanted) all day, every day. We spent most of one day on this beach.
It was the perfect way to spend a day.
A couple of days ago I posted this blog. When I came across this image today, I thought it was a great addition to the stacking stones images.
I should have never cracked the car window. Dang this unseasonably warm weather. Sixty degrees in February. With time, being able to catch gulps of fresh air would be a blessing.
I watched the door of the ice cream shop as my husband ran in to get a coffee drink, and I watched a woman with a walker walk out.
I should have never cracked the car window. Dang this unseasonably warm weather. Sixty degrees in February. With time, being able to catch gulps of fresh air would be a blessing.
I watched the door of the ice cream shop as my husband ran in to get a coffee drink, and I watched a woman with a walker walk out. She was escorted by her son and his wife. She had all the makings of a woman who has come to terms with her older status and her condition. Bright, clean tennis balls adorned the front two supports, and sturdy sneakers held her in place. Her steps were slow and purposeful, bone and muscle clearly full of the memories of a few steps previously misplaced.
She was over 80, if she was a day. Well-groomed. Tidy. And the man, who I took to be her son, was my father’s age. 60s. Established. Comfortable in his life. The woman with them was his age, but he was the direct link to the walker, I surmised. All wore wedding rings, but the deep relationships ran beyond the binding of gold.
I saw them coming towards the car next to mine, and I decided that pulling back a bit to give them room would be so helpful. The tail end of my sedan was pretty much protected by the monster SUV idling to my right. A distant memory reminded me that you need room to maneuver a car door, a human and a walker. You need space and time and patience.
When my dad’s mother was in the last few years of her life, she was relegated to a walker. She took to it pretty well. She was a joyous and happy woman most of her life, and what would be a set-back to many just kept her moving, which kept her happy. What I remember most about this time was the feeling in myself that it was time for me to slow down, too. Rushing through life needed to abate, and I needed to watch more and see more. I had to be missing things by not standing still a bit. By not waiting. My time with her was clearly running shorter, and I learned much from her final years about myself and my family. Some of us couldn’t wait to ditch her walker at the restaurant after getting her settled. Some of us would apologize to others in public for our speed, even if we weren’t impeding their progress. I noticed strangers would occasionally have trouble making eye contact with me, as if my grandmother’s limited ability was a freak show they shouldn’t be watching. On several occasions, my grandmother would start to make conversation with an able-bodied stranger, and they seemed shocked that she could speak clearly!
Much came flooding back to me as I watched this group leave the ice cream store while adjusting my car’s position. Tears came to me slowly, and I was transported back to a cool, brisk day several years ago when I took my grandmother out for her last Coke and short walk. Within 24 hours, the beginning of her end would start, and she would soon take me on a journey that would eventually end at her graveside.
When the stranger had his mother seated in the front seat of his car, he and his female companion walked toward the back of their car, and he said to me, through my open window, “Thank you very much. That was kind of you.” I was barely able to choke out the part about how it was the least that I could do.
“I remember it all so vividly,” is what I told them from behind my sunglasses. And I do.
This past November, I found myself unexpectedly and briefly on the beach…
This past November, I found myself unexpectedly and briefly on the beach in Montauk, New York, for a couple hours. My friend and I came across some stacked stones. I think stacked stones are magical. And I have played with stacking myself.
These unexpected temporary sculptures are the combination of an artist’s desire to create something beautiful and some gifts of nature. Which makes them magical to me.
I took these photos with my phone with the Instagram app. I dig Instagram and would love to see your photos, too. So…find me…caseysimmonsloveswaves and let’s become Instagram buddies.