Remembering Gloria

There is a story I tell a lot to my students, usually at the end of the semester. 

It goes something like this: "I've known I wanted to be a teacher since a few weeks after I graduated college -- with a degree in Journalism. As a new reporter, I was assigned to go and cover a family reading night at a local school for a feature story. The school happened to be my grade school, a building I had not stepped foot in for at least a decade. And what I remember most about walking through the front doors was this overwhelming feeling that came over me that I was walking into a place I was meant to be in. And not even in a literal sense, probably a more metaphorical one. 

But realistically, I recognized that two weeks after graduating college wasn't exactly a great time to be questioning my life's decisions. And while I loved my job working at the newspaper, my dream was to work for a local TV station and that was definitely never going to happen if I changed course then. So I quietly shelved those feelings and tucked them away. 

And over the years, every time I visited a school --  any school -- I would feel that tug again. And to be clear, I never really felt drawn to teach elementary school so the tug wasn't really being all that specific -- there was just something about *teaching* that was calling to me, even if I couldn't figure out exactly what it looked like or how I'd ever really get there."

The part I think I often sadly leave out of this story though, is that night at C.B. Smith School, I ran into Gloria Ranney, who I had known since childhood. She and her husband were good friends with my dad and the kind of people I can't ever remember *not* knowing.  I don't remember specifically, but I probably visited her classroom, maybe I even interviewed her for my story. I do remember talking to her later in the evening and expressing this feeling I was having that maybe I should have gone into teaching all along. And Gloria, who had herself entered teaching a little later in life, assured me that it was of course entirely possible. And I remember believing her. I mean, I knew I *could* do it but she also talked to me about all the reasons she thought I would be a good teacher. Or at least, in my memory that's how it unfolded. What she did was build me up and pour into me in those moments and the confidence she instilled in me that I could (and maybe should) be a teacher was so plentiful that it lasted 20 years and propelled me into a college classroom to teach a class on public speaking without any formal training on how to actually *be a teacher.*

I don't know why I don't talk more about her role in this story because I know it's one most of my students can relate to. Many of them have mentors who have gently and quietly steered them on their paths. Some of them are teachers, but not all of them. I know they would get it.

But somehow, Gloria's unseen role in this story feels appropriate because in so many ways, that was how she lived her life. The tributes that have been written about her in the days she she suddenly left us last week and shared online have been innumerable and for several days, I struggled to figure out how I could possibly contribute anything that hadn't already been said about her. Truthfully, I know this tribute is falling far short of the things that are so heavy on my heart.

Since that family reading night so many years ago, Gloria has remained a constant and steadfast fixture in my life. We attend the same church and I always made it a point to greet her at the end of a service. She always found a way to bring my dad into the conversation. She'd say how he would be so proud of Elisabeth's singing that day, how he would be so proud of the way I've been handling my diagnosis and treatments, how I remind her so much of him and how much she still misses him. She would frequently bring me old newspaper clippings about my dad that she had found and thought I might like to have.

In some ways, there is a part of me that feels like Gloria was single-handedly keeping my dad alive for me. And now, that is gone. 

But losing her is so much more than that. All of the tributes that have been posted seem to share one thing in common -- we all thought we were extra special to Gloria. And that's because that's how she treated everyone. She showed up with unbridled enthusiasm and interest in everyone she encountered and remembered the tiny details about their life - or had a way of asking about the things that were secretly most important to you - without skipping a beat.

And here's a funny thing that happened while I was writing this today. I'm currently teaching a seminar at Bradley called "Do Nothing" and today I told my students to go outside and as they enjoy this amazing weather we're having, take a few moments to journal. I explained that I would be writing this blog that I've been putting off and maybe they could do something along a similar vein.

So we came outside and I sat down on a bench and a student I do not know walked by and said, "hello." And I responded in the polite way one does but that seemed to set off a chain of events I wasn't expecting, as the student said he didn't really have a class to get to right now so could he just sit next to me for a few minutes? And of course I responded that he could, and told him what I was in the middle of doing and that led to him saying, "I don't think I've ever just sat on this bench before."

And in that moment, I realized this was a student I could make a connection with. Not a student already enrolled in one of my classes, just someone I could share a moment with by simply engaging in a bit of kindness. So, we made some small talk. We chatted about how nice it is sometimes to sit and do nothing even in the midst of projects and deadlines that are rapidly approaching. I learned about his major and a big project he has been putting off. He mentioned that he might like to take a class like "Do Nothing" in the future. 

It took me a few moments to absorb the entirety of what was happening. (Just for reference, having a student who does not know me sit down, introduce themselves, and engage me in conversation is really not an everyday occurrence.)

In the middle of trying to find the words to write a tribute befitting of one of the best teachers I've ever known, an opportunity to share a moment with a student happened and I am so glad as I look back now that I chose that first. 

*I wrote this on Monday and Gloria's funeral was today, on Tuesday. In his tribute to her, one of her sons talked about trying to follow Gloria's example by always staying open to the possibility of helping someone even when you least expect it and my mind flashed back to that student yesterday and the conversation we shared. At the time I was trying hard not to read too much into it but now it's hard not to think she had a hand in creating that moment -- what she would call a "God moment" -- and maybe it went something like this: "Hey Shannon - I know that you are trying to find a way to write about me but I'm fine where I am -- just pay attention to the person right in front of you. Right now, give him your attention. You'll be glad you did."

And I am glad I did. May it be the first of many moments where I feel certain I am following in her footsteps.

Moving Day - Writing a new Chapter

(Photo courtesy of Ethan from Day #1 of their trip home)

In November of 1997 at the ages of 23/25, Edgar and I made a cross-country journey to California. It was a quick, whirlwind trip to get Edgar to a new job in Monterey (we left on a Wednesday and I was on a flight out of San Francisco back to Peoria on Sunday.) At the time, I told him we hadn't been dating nearly long enough to pack up my life and follow him across the country but in May of 1998, I ended up doing just that. My lease was up, I had been at my job for a full year, and we were planning to get engaged soon. It felt so brave and bold to take that step at the time and I remember the freedom of the open road and possibility as we (again) made that cross-country trip. This time we had a full week, no real agenda of where to be when, and a cat along for the ride. (My husband is allergic to cats so every cat we have ever owned has been a testament to his love for me. ;) )

So it's easy in a way for me to understand exactly how my oldest son Ethan is feeling today. I've lived it, but in reverse.

Because truthfully, the only regret I ever had about moving back home was that I didn't stay in California long enough to truly close the chapter there. I wish I had better understood the trajectory my life was taking with that decision to move back and had waited just a little bit longer. I had a full-time job opportunity that I passed on (to be fair, for the full-time job opportunity that had been my childhood dream.) And I had a father who was battling cancer with an unknown future. So, we came home for what we thought would be a year or two and here we are still today.

So when Ethan first floated the idea of moving back home, I was (of course) elated. But also, if I'm being honest - a little reticent. Which is so funny of course because to know me is to know that I never really *wanted* Ethan to move to Las Vegas to begin with. Oh sure, I wanted him to leave the nest and spread his wings but would have preferred it had been somewhere within at least driving distance, thankyouverymuch. Side note: I'm still a little bitter about the friends who took him on that UNLV tour and you know who you are. ;) But I always also understood that our childrens' lives are blank pages they must write themselves and not only is it up to us to do everything we can to support their dreams, but we also have to stand in the sidelines and cheer them on -- really cheer them on -- through it all. 

When Ethan was a baby, I stumbled across the idea of attachment parenting. In looking back, I'm pretty sure it happened because I accidentally fell asleep with him on my chest (safely in a bed, don't come at me!) and it was the first actual stretch of sleep I'd had in days and I probably did a quick search to figure out if it was ok/safe and found it was one of the tenets of this (what I thought was) some kind of new parenting style. That led to a rabbit hole (it always does, doesn't it?) that led me to a lot of the practices I ended up adopting as a parent (and some of the best online friends who are definitely real people because I've met most of them IRL) who provided immeasurable support along the way. 

One of the "sales points" was this: if you formed a strong physical and emotional bond with your child as they were growing up, it would sometimes look like dependence (i.e. extended breastfeeding, co-sleeping, etc...) but would ultimately lead to children who were so emotionally secure that they would have no issues at all "launching" into the real world and taking risks because they would always feel there was a safe place for them to come back to if they needed. I used to joke that the proof of our success in this endeavor could be seen in how Ethan had slept in our room (he eventually moved to a couch in there) until he was 10 but then had no trouble at all moving across the country at 18. 

Ethan left for college in the fall of 2019, came home for Spring Break in the spring of 2020 and was in our house when the world closed down for the pandemic. He stayed until we drove him back to Vegas in July and he has not been home since. In his time there he has lived in 3 different places, built an amazing career, met a loving (and lovely!) woman, adopted three (yes, three!) dogs, and fostered and developed a stronger relationship with his grandparents, who have been living in Vegas for ten+ years now. I am so proud of everything he has done in his time there and would never want any of it to have gone any differently. I truly cannot even imagine a different path but I suspect maybe that's just how this parenting gig goes sometimes, if you're lucky. I am really lucky.

I've often heard that our lives are often just comprised of a series of chapters and for Ethan and Caitlin, a new chapter begins today. Together they decided they had squeezed all they could out of their time in Vegas and it's time to forge a new path and to my sheer astonishment, that path is leading them here. They are on the road now and they are coming here. I would say "home" but truthfully, it's currently only "home" for one of them and I am super tuned in to that fact for a number of reasons. First and foremost, I recognize that Caitlin is doing what I did back in 1998 and knowing there is someone who loves your child with that kind of devotion is the most amazing gift. I recognize and admire the bravery she is showing, I know it very well. Next, I have made it my mission (in true over thinker fashion) to ensure I am doing everything possible to make our house feel like a home to her as well, recognizing that it has to be a little bit awkward to move in with your boyfriend's parents after so many years on your own.

I often joke that my life is a series of examples of me getting my way by virtue of simply having patience and just waiting things out. (Exhibit A: Ainsley. ;) ) And in some ways, I could kind of laugh about this being another example of that but I don't really think that's what's happening here at all. I think that what's really happening is another demonstration of how the world really works -- that we are not (ever) the ones really controlling our own destinies because the universe itself is a separate being with its own plan and design and if your choices and decisions align with it accordingly, things will just work out. (This is a philosophy that brings me a lot of personal peace at the expense of my husband's sanity. Seriously, he hates this idea so much - lol!) And yet, here we are.

Of course I'm excited, I think that goes without saying. But mostly, I am just feeling so proud and so peaceful about this new chapter. I wish my dad was here to see it, he'd have lots of things to say about "taproots" and "roots and wings" and probably even a joke or two about the "prodigal son." My mom is already looking forward to some rounds of golf and computer help from Ethan. Ainsley is bracing for the impact of losing her "only kid in the house" status and figuring out how to have Ethan around again for the first time since she was 9. 

Edgar and I are both so proud that our son is bold and brave enough to leave behind a successful life in search of a more personally fulfilling one and working on embracing the uncertainty that comes along with this choice while also recognizing that maybe, just maybe we can give ourselves a small little pat on the back for being the kind of home base we all need in our lives. The rest will sort itself out. 

Wintering... again.

As I was recovering from my surgery a year ago, one day while we were out but I still wasn't really able to get out of the car to walk through a store, I had Edgar go into Ulta and buy a bottle of the shampoo I was using at the time. (OUAI for thick hair, for anyone who may be wondering.) I had only fairly recently discovered that shampoo and despite the shaved line for my surgical incision, at that time I still had some pretty thick hair.

But just a few short weeks later, the effects of radiation would catch up to me and I lost a lot of hair. (I know, I know... not more talk about the hair!) It just didn't really make sense to use that shampoo at the time, so it has sat in my shower since then.

But yesterday, I used it again and wow -- what an impact scent can have on stirring our memories and emotions. Suddenly, I was transported to a year ago when most days, my biggest accomplishment was taking a shower and then putting on one of the various sets of cozy pajamas that had been gifted to me for my recovery by friends and family. In those days, going through that process and then returning to the recliner to decide which of the gift cards to local restaurants we would use for lunch or for dinner that night was a successful, productive day. We watched the second season of a favorite Netflix show. We kept our schedule light.

And all of this wasn't just ok, it was expected. It was encouraged. It was welcomed.

There are parts of that time in my life that I'm beginning to realize I miss. In fact, even in the midst of it I can remember wondering what it would feel like when I didn't have this "permission" to just sit at home for weeks on end. And of course, there is nobody giving me permission -- it's just a matter of the choices we make.

People frequently ask Edgar and I how we possibly keep the schedules we do, where we find the time for our 5 (combined) jobs, and just in general how we manage to juggle everything. And the truth is, the older we get, the more we are able to focus on the things that drive us. "They" say if you have a job you love, you'll never work and I think that philosophy explains why we keep the schedule we do, because we have genuine passion for the things we are doing. 

But for eight years now, I've been on a mission to slow down at this time of year and focus on the things that bring me joy. (My first post about this was in my Facebook memories today.) I've labeled it #weekofjoy and have tried to practice it in some form or variation every year since. Essentially, the gist is this: for at least a week (and often, it's longer) I only do things that will bring me joy. It is the lens through which I view my time commitments. But of course, there are obligations that slip in still (even with the break from my full-time job) so what I've found is that this simply gives me the chance to really critically evaluate and then possibly re-frame my "why" for doing something. Maybe laundry doesn't inherently bring me joy, but ultimately taking care of my home does. Doing dishes or vacuuming aren't necessarily joyful activities on their own, but when I have them checked off the list it means the house is a blank slate for holiday decorating, and doing a bit of that every day brings me joy. (Side note: our house currently looks like Christmas exploded in here and I'm not even done. Edgar says I am likely over-compensating for the limited decorating I was able to get done last year. He's probably right.)

And perhaps, last year when I was in the midst of the biggest storm of my life -- that mission to use this time as a way to rest and recharge actually became even easier. Last year it was for my health. But really, isn't it always?

Last Christmas my sister bought me a book called "Wintering" and full disclosure -- I still haven't quite finished it. I think that a year ago, it was feeling a little too real. But life-threatening illness or not, the concept really is very simple in practice -- finding a way to rest and recharge and let your soul "winter." I suspect it doesn't have to be during the actual winter season but in a midwest climate, it just kind of makes sense. 

Don't get me wrong -- I fully appreciate that it is a luxury in life to be able to have this kind of time. My first job provides me with built-in breaks that allow for the shift in focus without sacrifice. I am still a little stressed about getting everything done ahead of the holidays but that is mostly self-inflicted. (I did give up on an idea for matching t-shirts today because the logistics of ordering them were not bringing me joy.) And truthfully, the ability to craft a beautiful holiday for my family brings me SO-MUCH-JOY!

My semester isn't quite finished yet. I still have two finals to oversee and of course, grades to submit, and then graduation next weekend. We are hosting a speech tournament this weekend. The responsibilities still loom, but interspersed with periods of doing a little Christmas shopping and decorating, and taking the chance to just sit back, be still, and prepare for what happens next.

Be still... and prepare for what happens next. A beautiful Christmas message for us all, I believe.

Carry On! - One Year in the Clear!

A year ago today, I came home from my hospitalization after brain surgery and got this weird idea that I should be saving the ID bracelets from hospital stays and treatments throughout my journey. I think that in my heart, it felt more respectful of the process than just throwing them away (and I wonder why I have sentimental hoarding problems?) so I started a ritual. Every time I've gotten one of these (and when you are a cancer patient, it happens a lot!) I simply take it off and put it in a bag hanging in my closet.

I think I was envisioning that someday in the future, I would be able to just use them for some kind of photo to exist as a form of art, a reflection and salute to the teams of healthcare providers who have gotten me to this point. I didn't really have a set idea for this vision beyond that, but when the one-year anniversary of surgery hit this week as I was also getting my regular 3-month MRI AND my monthly immunotherapy, it felt like a good milestone to document.

So, here it is:

It's intentionally a bit blurry but I did take the time to center the bracelet from brain surgery, though that's the only attempt I made at any kind of positioning.

I really like this photo because to me, it symbolizes how far I've come and how hard I've been fighting and I think that sometimes maybe I just don't even give myself enough credit for that. I still have so much anxiety around anything medical-related, so every time I walk through the doors of a medical facility of any kind, it represents my overcoming a fear. When I look at this photo I'm reminded that it is ok to succumb to a certain acceptance of your life's circumstances while still maintaining a sense of choice and self. 

While I was in my treatment earlier this week, I received two texts from students. One was a college student I advise and the other was a high school student I coach and both had things they needed at that very minute. At first, my internal dialogue went something like this: "Ugh. Don't they know that I am in the middle of something right now? (Of course they didn't, but since when is internal dialogue ever rational?)" And that thought was immediately followed by "how lucky am I to be in a place where my students again take my health for granted. This is what I hoped and prayed for a year ago."

A year ago, I had three classes of students whose semesters were upended with my diagnosis and then absence from campus. Visiting them both before and after my surgery was one of the best decisions I made (ok, I'll give my husband credit for pushing those visits) because it gave me added fuel to persevere. Looking back, I'm amazed to realize that through this whole ordeal, I only missed about 7 days of classes. (And my employer was incredibly kind in handling those days.) But, 7 days! That's all! (This is because the universe was kind enough to line up my diagnosis/surgery/recovery with the semester break but still...) I'm about to finish my second semester back and I haven't had to miss a single day because of anything related to my health (not even a normal "sick" day!) and I am feeling beyond grateful for that as well. 

So, following the results of my last MRI a year after having those tumors removed, tomorrow I'm taking in a bunch of cookies and inviting both current and former students to celebrate "one year in the clear" with me. I especially wanted to include those students whose semester was so horribly interrupted last year because they are a part of this story too and they deserve to celebrate this milestone with me.

The bracelet collection is FAR from complete so I'll just keep adding to it -- with a heart full of gratitude for each and every one.

On the Occasion of my 51st Birthday

On the morning I turned 51

I woke and turned to see the sun

The sound of geese honking was one of the first things I heard

As I closed my eyes again and quietly said, "thank you."

I have been surprisingly emotional as this birthday crept up on me. And I realize that it's probably strange to say "surprisingly" but here we are. 

Here's the thing -- even in the darkest depths of the valley I faced in the past year, I never once actually doubted that I would survive. I just didn't know exactly what surviving was going to look like. (And of course, I often worried that really I was just being naive to the realities I was facing.)

I remember writing at the time (and telling some people) that one of the reasons I was so confident that this was not yet the end of my story was that my dad never sent me any signs. There were no dream visits, or anything that I could in any way interpret as a message that he would be seeing me soon. There were a couple of metaphorical things that happened that told me he was close, but keeping his distance so as not to spook me. And it gave me a lot of comfort and the fortitude I needed to keep going. Some people thought I was saying that my dad had abandoned me, but it was quite the opposite: my dad was letting me know that I could have the audacity to hope. Maybe I would have had it without that -- maybe it's just in my DNA. 

Recently I did have a dream about my dad. I don't remember the details and it wasn't what I'd consider a "visit" dream -- I just remember waking up and feeling happy and also content because it feels as though the storm has passed and it's once again safe for him to make himself known in small ways around me. The first time I woke up this morning was almost the exact time I was born 51 years ago (my mom used to call me at that time back when I was in high school) and then the second time, I heard the geese. 

Yesterday, I heard "Landslide" (Dixie Chicks version, which is arguably the second best version that exists) on my drive home and that set off a good, cathartic cry like I haven't had in a long, long time. I've come to realize that the older I get, the less I miss my dad on the "big days," and the more I miss him on the days like today. I've now lived 1/4 of my life without him. 

But this post/therapy session isn't really even meant to be about my dad - because really what's been heavy on my heart in the weeks leading up to this very significant birthday (arguably this is way more of a milestone birthday than 50 was) is just how very, very lucky I am to still be here. Period.

Life is so, so fragile. For all of us, regardless of any other circumstances we may be facing.

Just in the past few weeks, our community has experienced several devastating losses -- two I can think of off the top of my head were people younger than me, not sick. One was a tragic accident that rocked most of the people living here and the other, a sudden and unexpected loss that touched so many in my circles. The older I get, the less distant any of this feels.

We went to Kouri's the other night after Ainsley's volleyball game for a late dinner and the place was mostly empty except for a table near us. The women were talking quietly amongst themselves about someone they know who has been diagnosed with cancer. They weren't being rude or disrespectful in any way, I want to make that clear. And they were talking quietly, I just happen to have supersonic hearing sometimes so I was able to pick up on a lot of the conversation. And suddenly it dawned on me that a lot of people probably were having that exact same kind of conversation about me just a few months ago. It felt unnerving, and also somehow reassuring. 

I've also been thinking a lot lately about the nitty gritty details of my surgery. Wondering what it looked like as they did the actual physical things required for a procedure like that, wondering what I looked like lying there on the operating table. Maybe one day I'll look for a video of a craniotomy but I'm not there just yet. :)

As we inch closer and closer to the 1-year mark, it's just so reminiscent of how I felt when we reached the 1-year anniversary of my dad's ordeal. (His heart attack was Nov. 1, my diagnosis was Nov. 5. We both had major surgery within a day of each other on the calendar.) Just like in 2009, the changing of the seasons has me (and, apparently, my sister...) experiencing things on a physical level that are hard to explain, like our bodies somehow just internalized the trauma. Just like in 2009, I'm starting to feel myself getting anxious to just get these dates over with and behind me. Just like in 2009, there is this feeling that if I just deep-clean and rearrange my house, things will somehow be ok. (I painted our garage doors and have been obsessively adding to the fall decorations on my front porch. My sister is painting almost every surface of her kitchen. The genetics are deep here!)

But maybe this sense of cleansing that I'm feeling is just going to be a new way of life from now on, one of the many ways I have been so forever changed by all that has happened.

I can't say I *love* knowing that I am now 51. But my dad used to say, "growing older beats the alternative" and today, I celebrate growing another year older with a new appreciation and sense of gratitude.

Another milestone I forgot to notice and other treatment room musings

Monday marked 9 months since I had brain surgery and once again, I forgot to even notice the date.

There was a time when it was inconceivable to me that I could ever pass the 18th of the month without thinking back to that day, at least for the first year. And yet now I have missed the last two months. (I'm pretty sure I won't overlook the actual 1-year anniversary though.)

Today I'm getting immunotherapy treatment #10 and an iron infusion topper so I'm sitting in the treatment room for hours on end today (maybe about 5 total before I'm done) and I have a long "to do" list in anticipation of the start of the fall semester next week so naturally, I'm taking some time to record some of my thoughts here instead.

My iron has been low since I first started getting bloodwork and after months of little to no progress with oral supplementation, today we're trying the infusion. It takes about 4 hours so today's treatment is long but also a good reminder that this is much more the norm for many cancer patients and probably the reason so many people always offer to come sit with me during treatments, not realizing that I'm usually here less than an hour.

Officially nine months post-diagnosis, these days I find myself frustrated by little things more than I ever thought I'd allow myself to be. I like to have a plan. And honestly, it doesn't even matter when things have to deviate from "the plan" all that much to me as long as I can understand the reasoning why. I'm pretty sure this is just my version of being neuro spicy and at almost 51 years old, I no longer worry about trying to change it. It's who I am.

Obviously, these past 9 months were never a part of any "plan" I had, but I think I've done a great job of adjusting and rolling with the punches, putting on a brave face (that honestly isn't for show because it's how I've felt 99% of the time during this whole ordeal) and just moving forward with what needs to be done.

But oh boy, that other 1% of the time. When it hits, it hits hard. And this week, I am just weary.

I'm weary of a healthcare system filled with people who know so much but can't seem to find a way to communicate with each other.

I'm weary of conflicting advice given by different providers in the same practice and then what basically amounts to gaslighting when I try to gingerly point it out.

I'm weary of how little we even know about cancer (and by "we" I mean the medical community) and then by extension, how little the general public actually knows about it. 

I'm tired of having to explain that immunotherapy is not just another version of chemotherapy, so most of what we have come to know and expect to be the case with chemotherapy doesn't generally apply to me.

I'm weary of the "is it side effects or is it perimenopause?" game and a medical community that doesn't know or seem to really care.

I'm weary of explaining that despite my age, I am still (to my knowledge, but see above) showing no actual signs of menopause, which also seems to make me a medical mystery to most people (medical or not) that I encounter.

I'm weary of the crash course in med school I've had to endure these past 9 months and the constant inconsistencies in what I do learn.

I'm weary of trying to decide whether I should go back to school or give up the doctorate dream.

I'm weary of people asking me how I'm feeling.

And I'm going to be brutally honest here, I don't even care of that last one bothers you or makes you feel targeted in any way. I just don't know how many more ways I can say "I feel great!" because the underlying question has to do with some kind of expectation that because I was diagnosed with cancer, I must not be feeling well. But the truth is, ever since Nov. 18, I've felt the same as I ever did. Sometimes I follow up with, "if they didn't tell me I had cancer, I'd never know anything was wrong!" But even that response is so tiresome now. 

When people ask that question, they mean "how are you feeling physically?" Or at least I assume they do. If they meant "how are you feeling mentally?" I assume they'd know they know that's a loaded question and very little of the answer is likely to have much to do with me medically. As I said, 99% of the time when it comes to my medical situation, I'm fine. 

But I get the sense that people don't really believe me when I say that or give my usual upbeat answer. And I get it, I would have been the same way before -- skeptical that anyone was actually capable of being so cheerful in the face of so much struggle. Or maybe what's really happening is that people want to believe that you feel sick when you're sick, because the alternative is that they too could be unknowingly walking around with something terrible growing inside of them. I need to think on that a little more. 

But here I am, most of the time. I worry so much more about my kids and my husband and my family and my students and covering my bases for volunteer work than I do about my medical situation. (I mean, after reading that how is there even space inside my brain to devote energy to worrying about anything else? :) ) And maybe if I'm open about these moments I don't feel so great (emotionally, not physically!) you all will better believe me when I say I'm feeling great.

Or better yet, just stop asking me all together. Because as much as I do like the attention (just ask my husband!) I think I'm getting a little weary of all that goes along with this too.

I don't feel sick and I'm weary of feeling somehow guilty about that.

I'm weary of being told I'm brave.

I'm weary of being told that I am evidence of answered prayers. (This one is SO complicated because I do believe in the power of prayer but I can't reconcile believing that I have been somehow singled out when so many others who are also being prayed for are not. I just don't think that's how God works.)

In short, I don't want to be "special" because of this anymore. :) But I don't want to stop openly sharing about it either and I'm just not sure how to move forward with those two things both being true.

I have an MRI of my brain tomorrow and a follow-up with my neurologist. A PET scan has been scheduled for October. I can't get MyChart to let go of the "you are overdue for a mammogram" reminder even though that will be my third PET scan in less than a year. It doesn't take a brain surgeon (see what I did there?) to understand that today's malaise is undoubtedly a result of this week full of medical stuff I've had to deal with and the inevitable anxiety it dredges up. 

I'm hoping that I'll have good news to post tomorrow and earn another 2 months of being back to my 99% sunny self.

I may be in a funk, but I'm not so far gone that I don't remember the days just 9 months ago when I prayed to be where I am today.

The Queen of Hair Products

First of all, I want to say that it is truly and completely unbelievable to me that today, the biggest update I feel compelled to share is on the current status of my HAIR. I feel blessed beyond belief and afraid to say more for fear of somehow jinxing things. But I guess to be fair, I do feel like hair can often be a direct reflection of your health status and so far, mine continues to look great. It's actually kind of empowering to regularly know that my vital organs are all operating as they should, my thyroid is in good shape, and so on. And by empowering I also mean anxiety-inducing and fairly crippling each time I brace myself for something to be "off," immediately followed by the relief that if not for this little cancer diagnosis, I'd probably be considered in pretty good health!

It's been so long since I've last updated but I've been wanting to share these photos for quite some time now. Yesterday I finally got my haircut and I've noticed a couple of things:

1. My hair appears to be re-growing at a very fast speed (yay!) and coming in the same color and texture as it was before, which is to say it's re-growing with a slight wave to it and it is VERY thick. This is a great thing! The friend who cut my hair said she even thinks there is hair coming THROUGH my scar (which she also noted is "beautiful" and "very small" and I'll take her word for it because I can't see it!)

My dad would most certainly make some kind of crack about how this just proves how hard-headed I am. And he wouldn't be wrong. :)

2. The one downside to #2 is that very thick hair that is only a few inches long but lays underneath other hair is kind of troublesome - it has a tendency to stick up and out, possibly in part because I've also had to re-train my part (I hear side parts are coming back, thank goodness!) to go the other way. 

I've been through more hair products than I can begin to describe -- including some "filler" products, various dry shampoos, and hair thickening sprays. I've become a big fan of the Bb thickening spray along with the WOW root lifter. I literally can't travel without them. (On that note, I'm a bit nervous about how the hair routine will work in a foreign country without access to my usual heat tools but that's a bridge to cross this weekend.)

I know few people really notice it at all and most people probably have no idea that sometimes it can take me a ridiculous amount of time just to get my hair to look like I really didn't do anything to it. And honestly, most of the time I just don't care. Either you know me well enough to know that I lost a huge chunk of my hair due to radiation or you don't, in which case you shouldn't even care, right? And people I encounter are always so complimentary of my hair which is a little weird because that's not something I have any real control over but also a big confidence boost because it feels good to hear the subtext behind "your hair looks great." 

A few people have asked me if I'm doing anything special and I often joke that I am taking enough biotin every day to kill a small animal (without any actual knowledge of whether or not a biotin overdose would, in fact, harm an animal so please don't come at me!) Truthfully, I take biotin and I've been using a shampoo and conditioner bar that has biotin and rosemary in them and occasionally a hair oil with those same two ingredients. And I honestly have NO IDEA if any of that is helping but I KNOW it's helping me *feel* as if I'm doing *something* to take back control of something that was out of my control so that's not nothing, you know? For what it's worth, my nails are also in amazing shape -- I haven't broken a nail since before brain surgery (BBS.)

Right now, the hair "underneath" is probably in its most awkward grow out phase yet but I'm hopeful that in a few more weeks that will start to change and I'll notice the left side filling out to be more like the right side. Cutting this hair was like piecing together a puzzle because I have hair that was growing back after being shaved for surgery, then hair that was growing back because it all fell out due to radiation, then hair that is just randomly growing new (kind of like the hairs that sprung up after I had babies) and hair that has been damaged and made brittle for no real known reason. It's been a long time since my hair was quite this short but I think it's going to be like this for a while and I kind of love it. Every other time in my life that I've cut my hair chin length, I've immediately decided I liked it but would grow it back out again. This time, I think this cut is here to stay for a while. I guess time will tell. Here is a rough timeline, dating back to late February when I had finally stopped losing hair to today.