Some bad hair days are coming!

I finished radiation treatments (gammaknife/stereotactic) two weeks ago today. Honestly, everything about that process was easy, quick, and painless. In fact, it was only three treatments over the course of a week and I quickly became so attached to the incredible nurses who took care of me each day. This journey is teaching me so much about the amazing people who work in these places and they were just some of the absolute best. 

 Heading into these treatments, both my cousin Mike (an oncology raqdiologist) and the radiologist whose care I was under mentioned very briefly -- almost in passing -- that I might lose "some" hair from radiation. I honestly gave it very little thought, in part because I really thought I would somehow be immune to this particular side effect.  Though as I look back, I understand now how prevalent this topic has been in the course of all of this. 

 * Even before the surgery, a doctor in the hospital during my first stay made a point of telling me how I'd have very little hair shaved and would most likely just be able to adjust my part ever so slightly and barely even notice it. I remember thinking that was such an odd detail to share with me but I just honestly didn't yet understand how I was going to come to feel about my hair throughout all of this. 

 * The morning after surgery, a neurologist commented that I might be bothered by my glasses hitting the incision that ran above my ear, but then he noticed that it was up even higher and remarked on how lucky I was. That was two now, I felt like I was winning the brain surgery/hair effects lottery! 

 * When I got home from the hospital and took a good, long shower to get the adhesive and general post-surgery gunk out of my hair, I was at first a little taken aback by the hair that was coming out in clumps. A woman who works with Dr. Tsung had done the first shaving of my head the morning of surgery (looking back maybe that should have felt a little more traumatic at the time but it really was so minimal as promised!) It didn't take long for me to realize that most of what was now coming out was just left over from her shaving it or maybe even the shaving that might have happened after my hair was already gathered up into the weird little ponytails used to keep it out of the way. Side note: I recognize now that they could have opted to just shave my head so I am VERY grateful that they took the time to put those weird little ponytails in instead. It's a simple touch that did so much for my dignity at a time I had so very little of it on hand. 

 * Once that initial shower was done, I quickly figured out how to style my hair in such a way that it was nearly impossible to see my incision. Once the stitches were removed, it got even easier. The nurse even commented on how fast my hair was growing back, people were constantly telling me they couldn't even see where I'd had surgery, and the only advice I was actively ignoring from my neuro nurse was the advice about wearing a hat because the cold didn't bother my incision and if anything, hats made me *too* warm at a time I already had steroids making me sweat around the clock. My nails were also growing crazy fast (they still are) and to be honest, these were small signs of "normalcy" that I clung to. I could feel how my hair was thinned out but with a few styling tricks, I don't think most anyone else really could tell.

 * Somewhere in the midst of all of this we had learned that my treatment was going to be immunotherapy, not chemotherapy. I'll share more about what that means and looks like next week but what it meant to me initially was that I wouldn't lose my hair. I didn't think that really mattered to me and I certainly think I was prepared for it but somehow, hearing that news was such a relief. I now understand fully all of the complex emotions that swirl around cancer patients and their hair. I remember that my dad shaved his head (right after our wedding, where he walked me down the aisle while brushing away the curls that were falling out as a result of the chemo he had just started) because it was important to him to 1- still have hair at our wedding and 2- be the one who decided to shave it as an act of control and maintaining some dignity. I've always thought I would do the same if put in the same position. 

 All of this brings me to yesterday when, in the normal course of washing and drying my hair, I noticed what is definitely an inordinate amount of hair falling out. I try not to bother my cousin too much and I certainly try to keep perspective about things that are mostly vanity-driven but I just needed to know what to expect with this. I mean, for how long should I expect this to continue? Will this be temporary? (That answer is yes, thankfully!) Why did I somehow think that *if* this happened, I'd mostly lose the new growth along my incision lines? That doesn't actually even make sense, given my understanding that the radiation targeted the tumor cavities, which of course don't line up with the incisions. Also, he tells me that sometimes hair loss is more significant at the radiation "exit" sites than the "entrance" sites, which in my case would mean the side of my head that was, prior to this,  in really good shape. 

 Suffice to say, it's time to add to my hat collection for a while. The newly bald spots are in pretty visible areas and it will likely be a while before I can figure out a good styling trick again. There is a part of me that just wants to let this go - embrace and accept it as an outward, visible sign of what I've been through. And then, there is the vain side of me that is just not sure she can really do that, especially during what is actually a pretty vulnerable time for me. And there is the part of me laughing at the naivete of the three weeks ago me who didn't think this would even happen, or be that significant if it did. Wrong again! :) 

 My cousin says it should only be a week or two until this phase is over and the re-growth begins (though hair lost due to radiation will not come back quite as fast as the hair lost to a razor) so that means this should be at its worst in a few weeks and then get better from there. 

 In the meantime, I also learned on Monday that I had broken a tooth. My dentist was able to pull out the broken half and then referred me to an oral surgeon, but with the holidays I wasn't able to get even a consultation until Wednesday. Meanwhile, I have some pretty excruciating pain (why is mouth pain so much worse than brain surgery recovery?) and I'm honestly not sure I'll make it until Wednesday. This pain had me crying real tears this morning and I'm back on the Norco I haven't needed since I was in the hospital. On the bright side, maybe this will finally jumpstart a little weight loss? :) 

 I'm going to try to do an update about once a week - I'm finding myself in this weird limbo of still needing to acknowledge everything that's going on (and honestly, wanting to share it and be open with you all) but also needing to re-acclimate to some "normal." Aidan goes back to school on Monday, Ainsley goes back on Tuesday, and Edgar will be traveling for a lot of next week so ready or not, "normal" is on its way! (And if not for this tooth situation, I'd be much more ready for it!) It's also time to buckle down and get serious about preparing for my spring classes so if you see me back here blogging too much, be sure to say something about the syllabi I should be writing!

 One last thought to share for now - recently a friend warned me to try to avoid engaging in the "comparison" game and she's really not wrong. Sometimes, it just really helps me to keep perspective because there are so many "it could be worse" examples to look to. Other times (as she reminded me) it borders invalidating your own feelings and experiences. I find myself walking this line all the time right now, (an entire blog post devoted to the subject of my hair is a pretty good example!) and sometimes I'm guilty of not being empathetic enough to the struggles of others. Sometimes someone will say or do something that just flat out pisses me off in that moment but it isn't really warranted or justified for me to react that way. Mostly I trust that others understand where these feelings are coming from but it's just so complex and hard to navigate and there is a lot of guilt involved. This journey is so, so hard sometimes. I am going to see a therapist next week and I look forward to where that may take me as well though to be honest, this blog may be the best therapy for me right now. 

We've been so blessed with incredible support from our admittedly very large village. Edgar has started doing some "my wife had brain surgery" material in his stand-up (who says brain tumors aren't funny?) and one of the things he talks about is the sheer number of prayers that have covered us. At first I found it so overwhelming (and I'll be honest, I was even angry at first because I didn't *want* to be someone who needed those prayers) but now I am just so grateful. Whenever someone says they've been praying for me, I ask them to please keep those prayers coming. I have a long road ahead. But while I *think* my immediate "danger" period is behind me now (knock on wood) our friends Jason and Becky Jester are facing a battle of their own and if you have been praying for me (or sending positive vibes) in any way, I ask you to please add Becky to that list for whatever you do to show your compassion and concern for others. She's a 49-year old wife and mother of 3 who is struggling with some complications after a liver transplant at Northwestern Hospital in Cbicago. She's going to need another new liver. She is an incredible fighter and her husband is an amazing support system in a time of so much uncertainty. Please keep them in your thoughts.

This life is not a comparison game of who has it worse, though it's all too often so easy for us to feel that way. There is so much room and space to feel conflicting beliefs and thoughts at the same time -- I can be sad about losing my hair and grateful to be alive all at once without having to pass judgment on priorities. You can too -- and if you're lucky, it won't take something like a few brain tumors to help you understand that. 

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This is not even 1/2 of what I've actually lost in the last 24 hours. Also keep in mind that it's all coming from very concentrated areas (which is kind of a good news/bad news situation.) All of this has fallen out from the area I used to use to comb over that new growth down the middle.

No news is... good news?

The past five weeks have been an absolute whirlwind of hospitals, doctors' appointments, and tests. So many tests -- looking for my cancer. 

Over and over, I've found myself feeling both completely disconnected from so much of my life and also grateful that I have the ability to disconnect right now. My jobs have been incredible blessings and my family and community support has been amazing. I've been living in a strange sort of limbo but I think it's time to start moving beyond this place. 

Yesterday was a BIG day in my recovery. It was easily the most significant day I've had since this all started.

First of all, I completed my first of 3 radiation treatments. I don't even have the words to describe how amazing the staff was there. They were quick to get me, they knew that my back had been a little sore at my fitting the week before so they had accommodated that for me, and they carefully explained how everything would go and then made sure there was music I enjoyed playing. (I went with Christmas music because my lack of driving lately has meant I listen to a lot of sports radio instead.) First they do a scan to make sure everything aligned correctly (this is not the time to be off, even by little bit!) Then the actual radiation itself takes maybe 3-4 minutes. 

I arrived at 9:05, did the treatment, saw my doctor and asked questions (including getting the clarification that this is not the proton therapy I thought it was but actually stereotactic radiation.) I explained that as a former journalist, it's important to me that I have these little details right and he said, "you must be an old school journalist" and we both laughed even though there's nothing really funny about any of that.

But I digress. We did all of that and still walked out at 9:55am. I am legitimately looking forward to going back tomorrow and Friday. After 5 weeks and a major surgery, it feels so good to be doing something proactive and focused on treatment. So good!

Our next stop was a follow-up with my neurology team, Sarah Beam and Dr. Tsung. I was officially medically cleared to "resume all normal activities" to the degree I feel up to it. This includes working, driving, and sadly I even have to go back to things like vacuuming and laundry. She did recommend I ease into things and not do all the things at once and that is advice I plan to follow. She also kept me on the anti-seizure med for now. I haven't had any seizures (a fairly common effect of brain surgery) but there is some extra risk from radiation and I do have a history from my teen years. The meds aren't bothering me at all, so I'm happy to keep them on board just a little longer.

Sarah is also a former speechie (she did radio) and a former speech mom and at this appointment, she let me know that my oncologist is also the mother of a standout speech student from Richwoods (also from a few years ago) so I went to my third and final appointment of the day armed with that very interesting information. It was a fun connection to make.

And then I learned that my last scan, a PET scan, was CLEAR.

(How's that for burying the lead?)

Her's what we know:

1. My cancer (metastatic melanoma) started somewhere and then morphed into the melanoma. They think they got it all in surgery so the radiation is mostly to get anything microscopic or try to prevent a recurrence.

2. We don't know where that somewhere it started actually is. Yes, this makes it a rare form of this particular cancer. I like to be extra special. :) All major organs have been ruled out, as has a B-RAF mutation. 

3. Nothing about the treatment plan is really affected. The good news is that whatever it is, it's still microscopic and can't be detected, even with the miracles of modern medicine. Immunotherapy should still get it but not being able to see it means we won't know for certain that treatment is working because it will be more difficult to track progress. But that is the only downside and I can live with that. I'm confident we'll have other ways of knowing, not the least of which will be all the MRI's I'm going to have in the months (and years) ahead. 

Overall, this is the best case scenario I could imagine having after my initial diagnosis. I am kind of overwhelmed knowing this is actually happening this way, and to me. I am sad for anyone who gets different news and I am more aware than ever of how often that happens.

I get ALL of next week off from doctors' appointments (WOO HOO!) and then I go back to start immunotherapy sometime the week of January 7. Those will be monthly infusions that take about 30 minutes and shouldn't have any major side effects. I will do those for at least a year and then we'll go from there!

Before brain surgery - this is the bigger of the two tumors on my left side.

12 hours after brain surgery. You can see the cavity that's left behind. It just fills with brain fluid now. Also, you can see in these two images how the midline of my brain was being significantly pushed to the left (well, right.) Now it's correcting, and you can even see more difference on my most recent MRI.

When I first went to the hospital, it was presented to me that brain tumors would be my worst case scenario.

Now, standing where I am, I couldn't disagree more. Those tumors were a blessing in my life. They alerted me that something was really, really wrong in my body and we still don't know what that something is but we have the ability to harness the power of my body's own, otherwise very healthy immune system to fight back.

I've had the opportunity to reassess everything my life and determine what brings me joy and makes this crazy life worth living.

Yesterday, I had the chance to thank Sarah and Dr. Tsung. They saved my life and they made it possible for me to realign everything. For that -- especially at this time year, I am grateful beyond the ability to fully express the depth of my gratitude. I am humbled to know that people like this exist.

                          Two of the people responsible for saving my life. It's finally really sinking in.

Yesterday was a top-tier kind of day.

Oh Deer

Well. It's been more than 4 years and my attempts to blog more regularly have... well, failed.

But then Election Day happened and after voting and grabbing lunch, I went to the local urgent care and earned myself a quick ambulance ride to a hospital in Peoria, setting off a chain of events that would ultimately end with me being diagnosed with 2 brain tumors and sent home to wait 9 days for surgery. Before, during, and then after surgery we were told it was most likely/was melanoma. (Just to be clear, this was a surprise to a lot of people except us. We knew for a while, though having it confirmed still hit a little differently.)

I didn't see any of that coming and it has been... a lot. So now I make my return to blogging on perhaps the most ironically named blog ... ever. :)

But I want to start back up today telling you all about my dad and how he has been so present - but at a respectable and comfortable distance - throughout this all. And in a way that is hard for me to fully explain or talk about but I will try.

When I came home from my first 3-night hospital stay, it wasn't long before I saw a buck in our yard. I see deer often out here but the bucks show up a little less frequently. I am honestly not sure of the last time I saw one but it feels like it's been a few years. It's only really happened a handful of times, including when my dad died.

But now, this buck walked through my front yard -- present, watchful, it almost felt like he was standing guard or just checking in on me. One night, my sister was here visiting and saw him outside.

I haven't seen him for a few weeks now, (not since the surgery I think) but the day I got the first good news about my treatment plan, my sister saw a different buck run through the grass when she returned to work after running into me at lunch. You know, just in case we weren't getting the message. 

I have not had a visit or a dream about my dad even once since this began and for about a week, that was the single piece of evidence I clung to that I will be ok. Because if that wasn't the case, I think I'd know. Right before my grandpa died, I had one of the most vivid dream visits I've ever had in the past 16 years in which it was very clear that my dad was waiting for my grandpa. In that time, there have been a handful of others, usually fairly randomly. But now, it's radio silence and it's so comforting to have that. I think he knows I need that. Frankly, I'd be so unnerved if he showed up now. The significance of his distance is not lost on me. He's here but holding space for me. 

My mom has done the same in terms of holding space. So have my in-laws and Edgar's siblings and my sister. Really, most everyone in my life has been this way. (A few of you have been a little overly-alarmist but I understand and appreciate it more than you know!)

My husband has been my rock. I could write an entire post just about him but suffice it to say that I'd be completely lost without him and I don't know how anyone gets through something like this without someone like him. The love and security he has shown me are next level. 

On the day of my first consultation, I was surprised to learn that Illinois Cancer Care is a stand alone institution that is filled with "sun" imagery -- it's in the logo, the "Sunshine Shuttle," an award that is given to employees, etc... The image of radiating positivity is not lost on me. Or the fact that when he was dying, I told my dad that I would always look for him in anything sun-related. At that first appointment, the receptionist recognized me as Dave Tebben's daughter right away. She went on and on gushing about him while I had my vitals done. At first I was a little taken aback at having been recognized so quickly, but I quickly realized what a gift she was giving me and my attitude changed. That night, it happened again as another stranger stopped to talk about my dad at a high school basketball game. You know -- in case I didn't get the message the first time. :)

During a routine physical, my dad was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma at the age of 50. It's hard to ignore the parallels, they're literally right in front of me. Through it all, my dad kept a positive and upbeat attitude. I know he did chemotherapy and I know it must have been hard, but we never saw him struggle. That's not always my default so for years I've wondered if I could do the same but now I know -- I really don't know any other way to be.

As of Friday, my insurance has approved my proton therapy (stereotactic radiation.) Those three sessions will be done this week and wrapped up on Friday. What a gift this is! Then I'll begin immunotherapy. I'm hoping to have at least the week of Christmas off before starting those but we'll know more after this week. I was worried heading in to that first appointment the I might be told there was nothing they could do. Instead, my oncologist told me all the reasons she felt optimistic about my prognosis, not the least of which is that I have been healthy up to this point. She said, "there's always a plan" and I felt so much relief wash over me. We still haven't found the primary source of my cancer, which is a strange place to be. We hope to have that answer later this week and I am comforted in the knowledge that it may not affect much about my treatment plan (outside of some logistical things) but it is causing me some anxiety right now. We've ruled out a lot of scary possibilities so I'm focusing on that. Still, it's weird how much cancer can feel like a game and you're just hoping you don't get a particularly bad hand. And you feel so much guilt for anyone who does. There are a lot of people -- and I know many of them -- who have it so much worse than I do. 

That is not lost on me, especially now.

I could choose to be sad that this has all happened but I honestly don't have it in me to be sad. We never know what we're capable of until we're facing it and this is just one more example. I feel great! Nothing hurts or is bothering me -- and my cognitive functions are almost back to where they were before surgery. The only thing I really struggle with -- ironically -- is typing. My body seems to have forgotten how to type with my right hand so that is frustrating because I used to be so proud of my typing speed and now it's mostly hunt and peck. My handwriting isn't really up to snuff either (it's one of the reasons I keep putting off all the thank you's I need to write!) but my husband jokes that even my "bad" handwriting is still much better than his so there is that. :)

I have every intention of returning to coaching and teaching in January. I recognize that all of this has had some effect on my speaking abilities, (more irony!) but I'm back to doing the NYT games every day as just one way to sharpen my brain again. My PhD is on hold while I take some time to decide if it's still my dream or if I'm willing to let that be. For now, it's an option I'm keeping open. I can't lie, the idea of getting my doctorate *after* brain surgery seems pretty badass. But I'm also not sure it's still a priority in my life. So, it's on pause and we'll make that decision later.

And in fact, everything in my life has shifted. I now see miracles and heartbreak and happiness and gut-wrenching pain in places I never have before. I let stuff in and embrace it and *feel* it rather than keep it at arm's length in denial because the empath in me that couldn't handle it before has now changed. I am letting go of people (only a few) and letting people in (so many!) who want to be a part of my story. I am making choices about the things I do want to do and the things I no longer want to do. Sometimes those choices are more about what is the right thing to do for others and those decisions aren't always easy but I'm making them anyway. 

I have some guilt about the friends who have fought their own cancer battles or those of their loved ones and I maybe wasn't as supportive as I could/should have been. I know now that I was mostly in denial but that doesn't make it ok. I will work every day to do better.

I don't know how long this "new me" will last but I hope she sticks around a while because she is wonderfully courageous and unburdened by expectations and it is so freeing. 

In that spirit, I'm going to share some photos of me taken in the aftermath of brain surgery. I want to be open and vulnerable about what I've been through. I've been so blessed in my recovery but I want you all to also understand the very real trauma I've endured. I'd never had any kind of surgery, so this was a doozy to start with! I'd never really had anesthesia (yes, I'm still bringing up the "no epidurals" in childbirth thing but in my defense, it's relevant - lol!) or gotten through a 5.5 hour surgery or had my head shaved or a piece of my skull cut out and then put back. The first 36ish hours were hellish, in large part because of some things in our healthcare system and having to share a room on top of a struggle to get my pain under control that was exactly as bad as I was warned it might be. My recovery didn't really start until I got home and I have some thoughts about that to be shared another time.

But then, we turned a corner. Every single day has been better than the day before and they've all been pretty good since Thanksgiving. It's been quite a ride and we're just getting started. 

Getting my head shaved at about 6:00am the day of surgery. 

No idea why I'm laughing but it says a lot about my attitude going in to this. Right after this I went for an MRI of my brain so we had the best possible information on everything as I headed into surgery.

               

Post-surgery. Don't be fooled, those moments of rest didn't happen much. The blood on my head is, I think, from where the pins on a device that held my head still were. It washed right off once I thought to try washing it off.

Photo taken less than 48 hours after surgery was done as I was learning I could go home. I ended up going home just like this (with a hat to cover up this lovely hairdo!) and then taking the BEST shower of my life that afternoon! I used a shower bench for just a few days before I ditched it and just stood up instead but it was worth every dime for those few days! My ability to complete sentences returned almost immediately after surgery and doctors did a 2am MRI (roughly 12 hours post-op) and said the next morning they thought they'd gotten all of the two tumors, one of which was the size of a walnut.

 

Wedding Watcher

 I watched a wedding today.

It wasn’t on TV, and I wasn’t in a public place. I also wasn’t an invited guest. But I was allowed and encouraged to watch and by that generous action of sharing, I have been blessed today.

But that’s not even the best part of the story, so let me start at the beginning. 

Like many of us, we have been steadily working our way through some home improvement and organizing projects during the pandemic and recently I was looking through some old family photos which happened to include photos of the home commonly considered to be “THE HOME,” for my dad’s side of the family. My dad grew up in that house and my grandparents lived there for 22 years. I was only 2 when they moved out, so I am one of a small handful of grandchildren with no memories of it of my own. However, it was a constant touchstone in our family throughout my life and the numbers that comprise the address (709) have become synonymous in our family with “signs from heaven.” (In fact, I have a long running list of the times those numbers have appeared at meaningful times, which I probably should take the time to write down.) There are a few treasured items in my home that hold special significance because they came from that house. 

You could say the house is almost like a member of our family.

I’ve only been inside the house (when I was old enough to remember it) once and that was because it was between residents and empty when our family happened to be having a family get-together at the house next door, where my aunt and uncle lived for many years. Knowing the house was empty and knowing who the new owner was, my family decided to try to get inside to take a self-guided tour. Naturally, the house was locked up and I can remember the adults discussing how to overcome that obstacle — including, of course, calling the new owner and asking if he might come and unlock it. Instead, my dad decided to try out the method he used to use as a kid when he found himself locked out (or maybe needed to get back inside quietly?) and found the basement window to be exactly as cooperative as it had been in the days they had been co-conspirators. He crawled inside, opened a back door, and we all took a tour. 

By the way- the person who was that new owner still lives there today, and that’s going to be important information in a bit.

That house is a fixture in my life. When we were having second thoughts about whether we could afford to build a home, my dad agreed with our decision and went on to explain that when my grandparents bought 709, they couldn’t afford curtains and so they lived there for a few years with bare windows. I know he was trying to make me feel better about waiting but all I heard was “they couldn’t really afford it either but they took the leap and it became this amazing family home” and a few days later we signed the paperwork to move forward.

That house is a fixture in my life. When it came time to pick out siding and shutter colors for our house, we simply took a drive by 709 and then replicated what we saw there. I don’t even know that we loved the particular colors, but we were in love with the idea that we were building our own version of this iconic place for our children.

That house is a fixture in my life. We planned my dad’s funeral procession route to drive by that house as one final good-bye. The current owner made sure to put out his city flag in tribute.

When I found those photos recently, I took some time to reflect on how funny it is that I can feel so connected to a house that I never really knew. And then I realized the current owner has lived there so long now that it’s probably not right that I don’t think of it as his. I don’t think of it as anyone’s house really. I just think of it as this foundation of family, as if the house exists all of its own. I was feeling bad about that, but now I’m not.

Today, the current owner’s son was married at 709. A friend lives close by and had messaged to say how beautiful the outdoor ceremony setup was and like so many others in town as word spread, I drove by to see. Then I stopped and we sat on my friend’s front porch and watched the busy preparations of people coming and going. It was like watching those scenes in “Father of the Bride” and “Steel Magnolias” in real life. At some point, the owner saw us and made a point to invite us over to see the beautiful table decorations for the outdoor dinner seating up close. It was gorgeous, and it caught my breath to be so physically close to where so much of my family’s history lies buried in the walls.

But it was also wonderful to just feel alive and normal, for a few minutes to forget about the craziness in the world and to just look around and soak in some of the love already floating in the air. Love, hope, excitement — all just there for the taking in. Ah, weddings.

We watched the wedding from the front porch of my friend’s house across the street, with the blessings of the father of the groom. It is not something I ever thought I would do and even as I write it, it sounds crazy, nosy, and certainly kind of tacky. But please believe me, it didn’t feel that way in the minute. I am eternally grateful to him for letting us share in that very special moment for their family, and here’s why. 

It felt like we were part of a community again. It was a sense of connection that we have been so missing in these many months of distancing and lockdown. It truly felt nostalgic, as we realized this must be the way “it used to be,” when the best entertainment possible on a Saturday afternoon could be taken in from a rocking chair on a front porch as your neighbors celebrated some wonderful milestone in life. I imagine it used to be like this more often. 

When I gave birth to our last child at home, neighbors took note when strange cars appeared in our driveway and wondered if the blessed event might be happening. I imagine it used to be that way a lot more, when midwives or doctors suddenly appeared in the driveway as a due date drew near. 

Perhaps it used to be easier to tell when good and bad things were happening to a family in a home, perhaps it used to be easier to tell when they needed a casserole or someone to drop in with a neighborly good wish. Today we lock our doors and close our garages the minute we get home. Truthfully, I suspect this is why social media was so appealing in the beginning, because it gave us that sense of connection again.

But there’s something else. 

I swear to you, I saw that house smiling today. 

That house has been home to maybe half a dozen families. It’s seen some things. Last night I found a picture of my dad, maybe 8 or 9, in shorts and argyle knee socks standing near the steps at the front of that house. Today I watched a beaming bride and groom have their photo taken in that same spot. It was the house that my dad grew up in. It’s the house that groom grew up in. It will likely be the house that countless more generations are shaped in.

That house doesn’t belong to my family, but truthfully it never really did. It doesn’t belong to the current owners either. It will likely outlast us all. 

Yes, its continued existence does depend on those who care for it.

But my existence depended on that home caring for those who lived there.

Thank you, 709. And thank you to the new bride and groom and their family for sharing your moment with us. Thank you for sharing it with the home and for sharing that home with your friends and family.

We need that today. 

I needed that today.

Ten Years

I was in Target trying to do some Christmas shopping a few days ago when this man appeared. 

The first time I saw him, he was asking a sales associate for a video game. The associate pointed out there is a newer game that had just come out (I think assuming if the request for the first game had been made, the recipient might also be happy to get the second) and the man looked, then somewhat gruffly declined, saying he’d better stick to what the text said.

The next time I saw him, he was on his phone. He wasn’t so loud as to be rude, but he was loud enough that it was obvious he simply didn’t care that others could hear him. He was talking to someone about that person’s recent trip to Chicago and kept asking if they had done certain things. “Did you have lunch in the Walnut Room at Marshall Field’s?”

As I listened to him, it began to dawn on me that this could have been my dad. Buying gifts his grandchildren sent text requests for, talking to me on the phone as he walked through a store. Slowly, I felt a familiar panic start to creep in. An urge to run out of the store washed over me, but a few deep breaths did the trick as I mentally talked myself down. “Focus. Christmas shopping. It will be ok.”

Today marks ten years since he died. It feels like a special milestone, like there should be something extra special to mark the occasion this year. After all, ten years is an ENTIRE DECADE. It's almost 1/4 of my lifetime. I feel as if I should have extra special words to share this year, something worthy of the occasion. But I don’t.

Really, today feels a lot like yesterday. Tomorrow, I suspect, will feel much like today. The truth is, the milestone I’ve reached is possibly just one where today feels less obtrusive than in years past. Yes, I’ve felt the familiar dread seeping in but it started later and was less intense than in the past. 

This morning as I woke and remembered what day it was, the word “metamorphosis” popped into my head.

I know what it means, but for the sake of exploring further why it might have come to me, I looked up the definition. 

“A change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one…”

Often, we analogize between death and metamorphosis, particularly if we are of the Christian faith, and we tend to associate it mostly with the person who has died.

But truthfully, those who are still living will go through a metamorphosis too. 

I look around me some days and think about how this life I have now is one my dad wouldn’t recognize. If he somehow came back today, he would see how everything has changed. I have another child. Our house has different furniture. I am a college professor. I finally applied to graduate school.

Our children are ten years older. Ainsley is now a year older than Ethan was when he died. He has four grandchildren who did not get to know him here.

Our city has roads and buildings that didn’t exist when he was here. Even the last house he lived in looks different, having withstood a tornado.

A big part of grieving is that you keep on moving and creating your life and eventually the void you have feels less significant. It’s still there, but you grow accustomed to it. It’s not able to sting as often as it used to because you continue to build a cushion around it. Most days, I can say the words “when my dad died” without skipping a beat. The ache still comes at unexpected times, but much less frequently. 

As I lay in bed reflecting on that word - metamorphosis- today, I wondered- how much of the life I have now would have happened even if he had lived? How much of it has only happened because he died? What if some of the most wonderful things that have happened in the past ten years were only able to be so because his death steered me toward that path? 

Does the caterpillar know what lies on the other side of the cocoon?

I don’t know who the man in Target was buying the video game for, or who he was talking to on the phone. I don’t know what about him exactly triggered a reaction in me except that it was another reminder - not of the things I miss about my dad, but of the things we’re missing out on sharing with him. The next few months will be filled to the brim with milestones he is missing. How I wish he was here to congratulate Ethan on his college acceptances and watch him graduate, to teach Elisabeth how to drive, and to see Aidan start high school. And oh, how he would laugh at Ainsley, considering her the perfect retribution for my own childhood.

I suspect that like the man in Target, my dad would have enjoyed Christmas shopping in his retirement, using lists texted to him by the kids. But ten years ago, we had a different arrangement. My dad used to have me buy the kids’ Christmas gifts for him. He knew it was a gift for everyone- the kids got fun stuff, I got to shop more, (it was fun when they were little) and he didn’t have to mess with it. He really was the consummate deal maker.

When he was hospitalized, I was still valiantly doing his shopping - at first. I had only bought one thing, a sweater set for Elisabeth. I remembered it a few weeks after he died. I never got to wrap it but eventually I did put it in her closet. It’s still here in the house today. It doesn’t even fit Ainsley anymore, but I can’t bear to get rid of it. Sometimes, part of grieving is just learning what to hold on to, and what to let go. It’s a process. A leap of faith, if you will. 

A metamorphosis.

Tell me a Story

(This is the speech I gave to my students on the last day of the semester,
Spring 2018.)

Over the weekend, I attended several "end of year" events and banquets at the high school. At one of them, the teacher read the words of the famous "Wear Sunscreen" essay that has become rather a cultural icon in terms of graduation speeches.

"Your choices are half chance," she read. And immediately, I thought of the best job I've ever had- the one I have right now, the one I got by chance.

Or was it? Because when I think back, there is a pretty sturdy chain of people and events that leads to me teaching Speech at Bradley. I don't think I can quite pinpoint its origin either. It's tempting to say that it all began the day I decided the best way to get over my fear of public speaking would be to try out for the speech team in high school. (Oh, how I miss the naive bravery of youth.)

But recently as I was looking through my Facebook feed, I found a post from earlier this year in which I described how my dad used to joke about my gift of gab saying that I "loved to hear the sound of my own voice" and how I had come to realize that he was only partly right because what I really loved was the sound of *anyone's* voice- so long as it was talking. So I think it started much earlier than I used to think.

The first semester I taught speech at Bradley, I decided that it would be appropriate if I ended class on the last day with a speech of my own. Each subsequent semester, I debated doing it again but then some bit of inspiration would strike me like a lightning bolt and I'd feel compelled. So I guess that by now, it's practically a tradition.

But I admit that while I spend the whole semester pushing and prodding my students not to procrastinate, I am the absolute worst at heeding my own advice. This time though, the problem wasn't coming up with *what* to say. It was figuring out how to tell them everything that has been swimming around in my head for the last week or so.

And if that isn't a perfect metaphor for what it's like to be a teacher at the end of the semester- drowning in the things you still want to impart to your students, I don't know what is.

I suspect it's the same for parents come graduation time, and part of why May is filled with so much personal angst in general.  There is so much "but I still have so much to tell you/show you/ teach you" in the air.

So, back to my speech.

Last week, my sister found a box of my old things in her attic and in there was a diary I started at the age of 14 and completed when I was nearly 16, though I did add a few notes in a few years later during college. I sat down eagerly to read through it but quickly became fairly horrified with that version of myself, who seemed - at best - well, fickle. She displayed a stunning lack of judgment, some questionable character choices, and just showed a different person than I thought I had been. It's not an exaggeration to say it sent me into a bit of a, shall we say, tizzy?

Essentially, the entire journal is about boys and relationships.  And one in particular that stood out and continued to haunt me through the evening, because in among all the stories of the boys who so clearly treated me so very badly was one - yes, just one- who did not. He said lovely things to me and pulled off incredibly romantic gestures (I mean, as romantic as 15-year olds can be really) and while I had kept these memories tucked safely in my heart all these years, there was one big problem; I felt I hadn't been as kind to this boy as I should have been. And despite trying a few times over the past 25 years, I'd never been able to find him.

So of course, I did what any sane person would do- I tried again. When a search on Facebook proved fruitless (I mean really, who isn't on Facebook these days?) I turned to our old friend Google and saw that in fact, this particular boy- sorry, man- had created an account on a reunion website not so long ago. And after some clumsy navigating of the site that had me embarrassed about ever making fun of old people and technology, I was able to send him an e-mail. Well, sort of, because the website made it clear that he would only be able to see it if one of us had paid for a membership and I had not done so. Still- I figured that after all this time, fate would step in if the universe deemed it to be so.

The next morning I woke and grabbed my phone to snooze the alarm and saw the Facebook notification at the top of the screen that I had a friend request from... guess who. I'll spare you the details of the parts where I doubted it was actually him, scanned his page, determined it was him and that I had not been searching for his proper first name all these years (yes, really), and then sat stumped for what to do next. I texted both my husband and my best friend like a silly teenager because really, there's no etiquette book for this stuff is there?

The sunscreen essay advises us to "do one thing that scares you every day." Hitting send on that message definitely qualified.

So to wrap up what has become an example MUCH longer than any I would ever recommend any of my speech students use, I feel blessed that I have been able to reconnect with this person because he is an important part of my story and it's one that was missing some pages. Being able to fill them in is a great gift.

And THAT brings me to my point. (I know, just when you thought it wasn't possible that I was getting to one.) When I think about why we do this- why we insist that college students take a speech class and put them through the process, we sometimes talk about how it will benefit them in their future careers. They'll be so good at giving presentations, we say. They'll be able to pitch proposals and ideas, we say. They'll be able to talk to co-workers and be social. Interpersonal skills.

But I think it's so much more than that. I think it's about telling your story. About speaking up and sharing who you are. It's arguably the most powerful thing you'll learn not just here in college, but in life. And that's a skill you're going to need your entire life because you - and your story- is going to keep changing. Right now, 15-year old you is still pretty fresh in your minds and he or she doesn't seem so bad. Trust me, that will change and if you have written a journal all I can say is, save it - but prepare yourself.

In an effort to try to ease your fears, I joke all the time that we are just giving speeches, we aren't doing surgery. No life and death actions in speech class. But recently a friend told me that high school speech changed her life, saved her life, and shaped who she is and as I started to reflect on that in my own life, I realized that maybe I should stop downplaying it so much.

It's important. Using words as tools to tell your story is important.

That's where the magic in life is. What you're experiencing right now- this place, this school, this season of life- it's magic. And there will be people who cross your path here who may disappear and then reappear 25 years later and as the line in that sunscreen essay says, "the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young."

I didn't attend school here. But the man I told you about? Nope, he didn't go to school here either. He didn't even live in Illinois. I met him through mutual friends, and they met him here. At a camp for speech team kids, that I attended here with him and many others that following summer. That story? It starts here. As does my story with many other people, including now- all of you.

Chance? Maybe not.

Go, tell your stories. They matter.

Thank you Mr. G

I may be one of the last people left still playing "Candy Crush," but I'm pretty faithful about it. It's become a nightly bedtime ritual to use up my allotted "lives" to try to pass yet another level. I don't know that I'm especially good at the game, but I'm diligent.

A lot of the levels I've played lately have this challenge where if you clear enough of the "jelly" of a 3x3 square, a hammer will come down and shatter what's left, thereby jostling every piece of candy on the board into a different position. Sometimes it's jolting because the next match my eye just saw is suddenly knocked out of place and not there anymore. You kind of get used to where the pieces are and then suddenly, they all get knocked around.

The game stays the same, but everything changes in that one moment.

That was exactly what came to my mind early this morning. I was just starting to get moving for the day and with nothing pressing to do on these lazy summer mornings, I often just grab my phone and take a quick look at my Facebook feed before the day starts. I was scrolling through when suddenly I saw a post in which one of my favorite teachers was tagged. My stomach dropped when I realized he hadn't written it. I thought something was wrong and immediately a voice inside my head started to silently scream, "No."

And then I read the words his son had typed - that Mr. Grodjesk had died this morning.

Boom - the hammer hit - and suddenly everything changed and I am grieving a great loss.

Mr. Grodjesk was my science teacher in junior high, for both 7th and 8th grades. I was not particularly strong in science (I mean, I went on to get a college degree in Journalism, need I say more?) but Mr. Grodjesk definitely made it fun. He was always eager to get started, always so passionate about what he was teaching us, and never really willing to let anyone be less than completely engaged. He would do experiments with dry ice that were impressive. One time, he showed us DNA. I don't think any of us really understood what he was so excited about but thinking back on it, he was showing us DNA in junior high science in the late 80's. That seems pretty impressive and the sign of a lifelong learner sharing his passion.

I remember spending extra time in Mr. Grodjesk's lab working on my science project (does the size of the environment affect the growth of a goldfish - yes, for real) and I remember working so hard to get an A and getting within a couple of tenths of a point and him rounding up on my behalf in recognition of the effort I'd put forth. (That's a lesson that several of my own students at Bradley have benefitted from.)

It isn't so much the stories or lessons in class I remember, it's more the way this teacher made me feel.  I'm not even sure I can properly articulate it, he was just one of those rare and wonderful teachers who stays with you over the years and always comes to mind when someone says the words "favorite teachers."

A few years ago, he happened to come to mind one night and so I did what we all do in this day and age- I looked for him on Facebook and sure enough, there he was. We officially reconnected in December of 2014 and in February of 2015 we met one day for coffee. Do you know how amazing it is to grow up and connect with one of your role models like that? I hadn't started teaching yet but I knew I wanted to and I think we talked about that. I know we talked about our families. My dad. His wife and children.

I must have been working on a story for the paper about high school graduates. I remember being struck by some of the difficult life circumstances many of them faced and I think we talked about that. In a message on Messenger he asked me, "Are these students the ________ of our community? If all the students were in a Kaleidoscope. . . what would one see?"

I messaged him on Facebook when I was planning to talk to someone at Bradley about grad school so I could teach (a meeting that fell through) and then again after I (somewhat ironically here) had started teaching at Bradley a few months later. He himself had taught at the college level (after teaching junior high) and he offered to help me navigate the world of academia.

He messaged me while visiting his sister in Carmel Valley because they were watching KSBW and he knew we had worked there. He messaged again around my Spain trip last year, to mention a 101-year old cousin he had there and I promise, had the trip been mine to plan and execute, I would have gone to meet her.

In September of 2016, he wrote that he had been "sidelined, temporarily" with brain lesions and that had slowed down his work as a paramedic. He offered to connect that week to talk about me going to graduate school but I was busy with Marigold Festival work that week. He asked for my e-mail address so he could send me some things, and that is where our chats ended.

In reading the thread on Messenger, there are times the messages seem disjointed. He would see something I had posted and then take a moment to send me a personal note - just a quick thought or words of encouragement. The writings back and forth read like something between two good friends who could pick up and put down the conversation on a whim. How blessed was I.

Mr. G came back into my life as a father figure at a time I really needed one and that, I'm sure, was no accident.

I've always felt that the true gift of a teacher often goes unnoticed. Often by the teacher themselves, sometimes by the students. Because the true gift is the impact teachers can have on their students' lives, the ways they can empower and embolden and enrich without even knowing it has happened.

The way they can linger in the shadows of a person's life story forever.

It is both beautiful and tragic to me to see the many posts of fellow students who share sorrow in the news that we received today. We are all from another time, another chapter in Mr. Grodjesk's life.

How lucky are we that Mr. G was part of our story. I am forever changed because of it, and I am forever changed by his loss.

Thank you, Mr. G.