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Posts Tagged ‘Girl Scouts’

Well, if that title doesn’t throw you off a little…I’m not entirely sure what will.

In truth it’s going in about three different directions.  First and foremost, is the fact that I have been terribly absent in my writing for a while and for this, like all the other times, I profusely apologize.  Not just to those who read this for entertainment, but for those who read it to keep up on my health … and also to myself.  I really need to sit down and focus on writing a little bit more.  Second attributes to the absentminded part.  Which I will have to delve into with much more detail further below.  But third, which is actually what I intend on starting out with, is the Spoons.

That’s right, spoons.

Chances are if you have ever heard of the spoon theory you can gauge where this is going.  Now, the spoon theory is in no way something I created, but before reading on in my post I would highly recommend either reading it, listening to it, or watching it at the original author’s website.

Copyright Christine Miseradino

Christine Miserandino’s Spoon Theory

 

Yes, there are some very, very distinct differences between Christine and myself, the most obvious being her having lupus and me having a trump card of cancers.  It doesn’t change the fact that just about everything she states here strikes a chord for me in a way that I’ve never really been able to articulate fully to all but a tiny, tiny handful of people.  So I really hadn’t ever tried.  Having the benefit of, for the most part, not looking sick and being able to function on a visually normal basis has made this possible for me over the last eighteen years.  There are and were a few exceptions.  So what brings it on now, then?

One of those exceptions.  Guess that means it’s story time, right?  I hope you like to read! (I mean, if you’re here I’d hope that’s at least part of the case…because this is going to be a bit long.)

This part is going to have to go all the way back to 1998.  I was pretty normal for a 6’2″ beanpole and I had what I considered to be two very close friends, BFFs as my daughter would call them now.  Thick or thin, lunch, after school, between classes, pretty much any time we could wedge in to hang out together we did.  A terrible trio of slightly warped blondes who defied popularity, loved Metallica and Celtic music, and spent a lot of time making up really bizarre inside jokes that left everybody else around us scratching their heads and passing us wary looks.

One, Jenn (who I will unabashedly name here), and the other who I will simply refer to as ‘3’ for the purpose of privacy.  This doesn’t mask who it is to those who were there in High School with me and it doesn’t really mean to since I’m not telling this story to tarnish her image or drag old dirt out.  It’s simply a story to help understand where I come from and what it is that shaped my outlook on life the first time I had to deal with cancer.

Jenn, who I have mentioned as my ‘Hospital Buddy’ several times in the course of blogging here, started her medical trek a few years before I did.  I don’t envy her dive into it, either.  Getting sick in Middle School is quite possibly the worst time you could do it.  Pre-teens and young teens are often, without a doubt, insensitive, mean, and very insecure.  Particularly to each other.  We’ve all been there and know there are exceptions, but in a big group at that age we’re a pretty judgmental bunch still trying to figure ourselves out, so the search for normalcy is a common struggle.  While popularity is up there on the top of the totem pole for a few, most of us just aimed to keep ourselves from the very bottom, flattened under the weight of our peers.  Hovering somewhere around the middle was where most of us settled.  When you get sick you start slipping.  When you get visibly sick and people hear about it, you go straight to the bottom.  Jenn’s body started to fail her rapidly and the methods taken to bring her body back into full swing made it very well-known to her peers that she was no longer normal in their eyes.  To make a long story short, she lost a lot of friends.  It’s devastating enough going through something that paints you as abnormal at any age, but at that age when so many are still trying to maintain their self-image it slams as a double blow. She maintained very precious few good friends. Those that had extraordinary maturity for that age and defied social stigma to remain friends with her in her time of need helped her through those years and beyond.

And, in a way, also helped me.

About a year before my own initial cancer diagnosis Jenn, 3 and I developed what I considered to be a very close bond.  The three of us were pretty much against the more popular crowd, which, by the time you’re in High School pops you into one of those cliques.  Ours drifted somewhere between the Music/Drama/Art crowd including the ever-popular 90s flannels tied around our waists  and ‘goth’ mentality without the stereotypical heavy black makeup.  Not to mention we giggled too much to be outwardly goth, never did drugs so we didn’t really fit into the stoner crowd (though most of our friends resided there), and spent more time drawing or writing up our own stories to be too worried about what the rest of our High School thought of us.  Considering our graduating class was over 700 in size … this wasn’t really too hard to do.  Staying away from the jocks and the popular kids who we weren’t too fond of was actually a pretty easy feat and we liked it that way.

Near the end of my sophomore year, however, our bond was put to the test in a way that was completely out of our control.  I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma shortly after my 16th birthday.

To paint a picture, I went from relatively chipper to pretty dour right off the bat.  I didn’t even know what Hodgkin’s Lymphoma was when the doctor gave me the diagnosis.  What didn’t help is that there was a good month and a half of tests, biopsies, antibiotics and the like just to diagnose what the heck I had, so it started adding anxiety to my already insecure teenage attitude.  When the bridge between ‘Hodgkin’s Lymphoma’ and ‘Cancer’ was finally connected … my world shattered.  I didn’t feel sick.  I didn’t look sick.  The word cancer back then to me meant certain death, too, since that’s what you do when you have cancer…right?  Lose your hair, end up on a bed stick-thin, and die.  I was sixteen and facing the most amazing trip to England that I had been fundraising for with Girl Scouts for two years and now I had not one, not two, but a slew of doctors from several different hospitals all telling me that I shouldn’t go.  I had two weeks between diagnosis and England and the stress of everything was beginning to make me crack.  I didn’t want to die.  Two years of planning, fundraising, preparing…

So I did what any stubborn sixteen year old would do.  I went to England.

I should point out that my mother and I did some pretty heavy negotiating and agreed to get all of my pre-chemo testing done before I left.  Which also put me smack-dab into the chemo chair the day after my plane landed back in town.

All the while I started to see a shift in the way both Jenn and 3 were treating me.  While Jenn was on the phone with me immediately after chatting about the diagnosis, 3 didn’t seem sure what to do.  We were both in that boat in truth, as I was clueless as to what this would bring.  I also can’t blame her for taking a step back to try to figure things out.  One of her closest friends had been diagnosed with cancer and she had pretty much the same experience with the disease that I did.  None.  I believe she cared, but she didn’t know how to handle it.  She stuck around, however, through the entirety of my treatments.  3 was a pretty positive force, but I will never know for certain if it was because of Jenn’s overwhelming support that made her feel it was something she had to do…or if she truly wanted to stick around but the general ‘illness atmosphere’ put her into a very deep discomfort zone.  Because she stayed, however, she and Jenn both got to see every brutal detail of what cancer brought to the table.  I didn’t spare them details when we’d talk because those two were the only peers I could talk to about it.  Or so I thought.  Jenn took it in stride because she had been there, she was living this with a different disease but the experiences were all too familiar to her.  Even some of our medications were the same.  We tried to be inclusive of 3, but I don’t think we ever saw that she might have felt left out, uncomfortable…or just unsure how to break away without hurting me when I was obviously at a pretty bad low in my life.  Where Jenn would come to doctor appointments, 3 would start to opt out.  Hanging out at one of our houses?  More often than not it happened at my place or Jenn’s, but only sporadically at 3’s.  Attending Girl Scout meetings?  Jenn kept coming, 3 eventually dropped after missing most of the meetings.  She stuck it out admirably until maybe two to three months after my last chemotherapy and I was announced in remission.

Because of what I thought was unwavering support from both of them at the time, I was able to pull my head out of where the sun didn’t shine about halfway through my treatments.  My negativity slowly lifted towards the optimistic, but not before it had me alienated by quite a few people outside of our circle of friends.  Each lost friendship hurt, but I had two friends that I could count on…and they kept me going.  My attitude improved, my outlook improved.  Hand in hand with this I began to mature in a way that only a life-threatening situation can really do to a teenager.  My perspective on life changed, the way I treated people changed, and I began to grow in confidence that there was a light at the end of the tunnel.  I mean, sure this was a poor situation, but it didn’t mean I was done for.  As far as I could see?  I had beaten this.  I was ready to move on in life with a few ugly setbacks, but there was nothing that could hold me back.

Which is why it was so confusing for me at the time, why it is she chose when things were getting better to break away.  Not to mention the breaking away wasn’t in a pleasant way at all.  We’re talking a lengthy letter pretty much expressing all the anger, resentment, hurt feelings she’d likely been keeping bottled up for near a year delivered via e-mail and followed by an avoidance that would’ve put a four block perimeter between us in even that crowded school.  The type of letter that delivers so much articulate pain all at once that you just don’t come back from it.  There was no room for reconciliation, no room for discussion, and a very clear message that there was no desire for it.  Only a permanence that bordered on raw pain that came completely out of left field for not only me, but Jenn as well.

I might have been a pretty mature sixteen year old, but I don’t think there’s a teen out there that would take a hit like that without responding in one form or another.  For Jenn it was silence, avoidance, discomfort in regards to 3’s letter.  She had never been confrontational in High School, and she had been blind-sided into shock.  For me, however, I still had a bit of teen-rage in reserve and 3 lit a fire that only turned into slamming the nail in the coffin of our friendship.  She gave me an outlet for my anger and it simply deteriorated from there.  To refer to the Lion King, our trio went down to two in one e-mail.  Even years later Jenn and I have looked back on how we would’ve done things differently, but have come up empty-handed.  There are just some things that can’t be truly rectified I suppose.  After all of it I’m not angry at her … nor am I angry at myself or Jenn or how it happened.  I simply learned the hard way on who, where, when, and how to share my cancer history and to let people know up front so there were never any surprises.

I’ve been complimented on my attitude about handling cancer, how I go on without bemoaning …I’ve amazed doctors with my fortitude and how I take things in stride.  Despite fighting cancer for 18 years I’m still not rolling over, it’s just not in me.  Call it stubborn, I’ll take that.  Call me a fighter?  Sure, I mean a good stiff wind might knock me over, but we’ll go with that.  I’d like to think more along the lines of having goals that I’m not really bothering to let my disability interrupt.

Yep.  I just broke down and called it a disability.  Technically with the side effects I’ve been going through with lung cancer I should have been officially calling it that for a good four years now.  Complete with a roller-derby wheel chair jockey handicapped placard in my car.

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Seriously, though. This guy’s rockin’ it.

So why finally the change?    My lung cancer has remained relatively stable for about a year now, a little growth, but nothing that’s been overly debilitating in my book.  Key part of that, ‘in my book’.   This is something that Jenn and I both understand a little too well.  We take on a lot outside of our personal lives, but it comes at a cost.  Early nights, no drinking or smoking, no real social lives outside of what we do during the day.  Lots of medication and planning we have to do in order to have a somewhat normal life.  Sometimes there are days where we have lots of energy … spoons in plenty.  Other days we have little to none.  Passing out for hours, barely managing to go pick up my kids or for her to get to the store or get her cats to the vet.  Most days we have Skype open simply sitting in silence and understand that the other may not be capable of being any sort of social with people who don’t understand it.  There’s never been a way we could explain why we can’t drop everything to do something social without it making people feel like we’re brushing them off or excluding them.  How each and every outing requires planning right down to when to take medications, when those medications will hit us, how much we can eat, when to eat, what to eat, if we should do anything before hand.  This may seem like a lot of planning … but after the amount of time we’ve been doing it?  Like any change in your lifestyle it will eventually become routine.

There have been hiccups along the way, scares that make us step back and realize that we’re probably not as infallible as we’d like to think that we are.  Liver and kidney transplants for her, flare ups in new types of cancer for me.  Surgeries.  Treatments.  ER visits.  Not to mention all the side-effects and a pharmacy of medication that comes with it.

All of this is the stuff that people just don’t see and by no fault of their own do they understand it.  Even as up front and open about our situations as we are, Jenn and I still have never really been able to articulate what it’s like to them.  But we’ve been fine with it and have coped…and we still do.

Back in November, on a whim and a few dizzy spells, my Oncologist brought up the idea of doing a brain MRI just to rule out anything that might be attributing to them.  I wasn’t opposed, especially if you consider the fact that in all of my years I’ve never actually had my head scanned.  A small part of me may have just wanted to see what my head looked like.   Then there was that little nagging part that wanted to be sure that the dizzy spells weren’t related to another issue.  My priorities might be a little weird, but I digress.

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Well, it turns out I can’t really do anything normally. Lookie, lookie what they found!

Hop skip and a jump and we’re looking at what we call cyberknife or gammaknife radiation.  By comparison to my other cancers, my Radiation Oncologist was quite positive that this little ugly lesion would be the easiest cancer of mine to treat.  90% chance of success (I don’t think I’ve ever been given such a positive percentage prognosis quite so readily, either!).    Two months of waiting, insurance approval, too many steroids in order to keep swelling down, and I was ready to start up my treatment.  Throw in a fancy facial mask to keep my head still and by January 29th I was done with my one and only treatment.

Only to have the treatment (they presume) cause a grand mal seizure two days later in the parking lot of a local strip mall while I was purchasing Girl Scout supplies for our troop.  I was in my car, I had just parked…and then nothing.  I remember absolutely nothing.  Everything I have that day is told second-hand from those around me.  I was found slumped over my steering wheel.  They had to break the passenger window to get me out for the EMTs.   The officer who helped me stayed with my car until family could arrive to take it (because of course I had to park somewhere that theft would’ve been a real possibility).  Not only how I fought the EMTs (…this one still baffles me), but I also ripped out one of my IVs for some unknown reason.  I had bruises all up and down my arms, medication that could sedate a horse coursing through my system and words like hospice, end of life treatment, brain damage, never driving again, always needing care were being tossed around like popcorn popping without a lid on a hot stove.

For the first time in my life I was actually terrified…and I let it show.  I had to let go of control, let others step in to take on jobs I’d easily done in the past.  I was slurring speech due to medication, spaced out, exhausted, holes in my memory that I was filling with the wrong memories from weeks and even years before.

My body may have been a bit of a failure but my mind had always been there.  Sometimes a bit flighty and buzzing but always there.  Now it was questioned not only by myself, but others.  Despite having a month of recovery there are still fuzzy spots in my memory over the last month, but I am improving.  I’m getting better.  Things aren’t dire anymore, at least not to me.  I’ve had to adjust how I approach things, make plans that I should’ve done before, write everything down.  My independence has been limited, but not erased, and in five months I’ll be able to drive again.  I’ve had no seizures since then and today I’ll even find out if I can start to get off these steroids that are eating at my physical mobility and making me walk with a cane.

But even in all of this, I realized through my years of experience when to recognize when those around me get that look.  If you’ve been through this sort of thing, you know it.  You can see the distancing, the look of pity or sorrow.  The way some of the doctors look at you as a hopeless case but just don’t know how to tell you, especially when they don’t know you outside of the three-inch binder full of your medical history.  How even years away from High School we recognize those who still struggle dealing with mortality and those who face it daily a bit with trepidation.  Perhaps it reminds them of our own limited time.  Maybe they’ve dealt with it recently and just cannot put themselves through it again.  No way of dealing with this is wrong, but if there was a way to make it a bit less scary then I had to try.  I knew that I was going to have people draw back, whether they realized it or not, and I couldn’t let that happen the way it did back in High School.  I wouldn’t let that happen again.

This led to a very long discussion with Jenn and re-visiting the Spoon Theory, something we’d seen a few months previous but never really had a use for since we’d had each other. But we can no longer just isolate ourselves.  I especially can’t with my kids, they might be used to my cancer and see it as a normalcy in their lives … but their friends won’t.  Their friends won’t understand why I can’t hold a sleepover.  Why I can’t drive to take them places or even leave them with people who don’t understand and know my situation.  I had to find a way to communicate this, and the only person I could figure out who to help me get there was Jenn.

Let me just point out that deciding to share her story…?  It’s helped a lot.  Like I wrote earlier, not everything is perfectly lined up, but it is the closest thing either of us have ever had to accurately describe our unique situation.  For the first time in a long time those faces of fear and trepidation turned into looks of understanding.  I don’t have to go into lengthy explanations now, I just let them know ‘I’m out of spoons’ and there’s no questions asked.  My kids aren’t being left out, I’m not feeling left behind, and people understand that I am recovering, even if my normal isn’t the same normal that they thought it might have been.  But most importantly they know the importance and weight behind my words when I tell them I have spoons for them.  That not only that, but they are one of my spoons.  A message I wish that I could have conveyed to 3 so many years ago, but never had a way to do so.

A mistake I will never, ever make again.

 

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For the last three to four months I’ve been starting and re-starting, erasing and saving this post.  Half the time I get a  paragraph in and I just walk away.  Writing, reading, memorizing, and altogether being creative lately has all but been sapped from my person until recently.  With how fleeting these moments seem to be for me, I feel it’s best to sit down, while I still have it, and write once more.

My house has been under a false sense of sanity for a while now to the casual observer.  Two kids, a semi-decent lawn, a house not completely derailed and messed, a dad who works, a mom who stays at home and looks healthy.  We smile in public, we pay our bills, and we do our best to keep ourselves informed in the world around us.  But I can tell you, right now, that what you see is only the tip of the iceberg.  Not to use cliché statements or anything but really, what you see of the iceberg is small compared to what’s beneath the surface.  A little lesson I’m sure the survivors of the Titanic could tell you in spades.

When you dig a little deeper, though, boy are things on the crazy side.

The short list of crazy?

  • The axle on my car broke.
  • A pipe burst in our back yard.
  • My son was diagnosed with ADHD.
  • My son keeps getting into fights at school.
  • I just spent the last three months in radiation therapy.
  • The roof keeps trying to leak.
  • Found out that I’ll be starting chemotherapy soon, even though I’d hoped to avoid it again.

And now…for some expansion, because when you just list it out like that it really, really comes across as bad.

Car Chaos

So, last summer as I was driving to and from various doctor appointments (All part of my monthly routine, mind you.  These were just followup and checkups) I heard a few strange noises coming from under the hood.  Both the brake and the oil light came on together, giving me reason for alarm.  Searching through the manual just told me to replace the belt, checked under the hood…the belt was fine.  Attached. Didn’t seem off at all.  So I pulled onto the freeway and headed home. Turns out that shortly after, somewhere along I-5, I lost one of the pulleys from my engine.  I pity the driver who had to dodge the bouncing thing that was somewhere, somehow, ejected at seventy miles per hour.  This, of course, stopped my battery from charging.  Over the forty mile trek I watched my battery power slowly deplete and by the time I was backing into the garage all of the interior lights had gone out and the car sputtered to an uneasy stop. My husband came home, figured it out with some research, and after a bit of Google-fu did his own fix.

This seemed to be all right for a while. Until I was about halfway through Radiation this year.  It rattled. It squeaked.  And every time I turned the corner it sounded like somebody tossed a wrench in the engine just to watch it bounce around.  Taking a leap of faith I found a mechanic to look at it and it turned out that not only did my husband install the pulley wrong–but that my axle was grinding out its’ last few breaths of life.  Every corner turned was a protest of agony that could be heard five blocks away and sent me sinking down in the driver’s seat in shame.  Between my parents and my husband taking a day off, the mechanic had it to me the next day, fixed up and ready to go.  This alone wouldn’t have been too bad, but…

Backyard Flooding

The same day I’d been trying to figure out the axle, I came home to yet another surprise.  I stepped into the house, went to fill up my water bottle and noticed that the water pressure was insanely low.  I could hear water running in the pipes.  Checking frantically I could not find the source.  Finally I ran outside to see water bubbling up from the ground like a primitive drinking fountain.  Calls to the city, plumbers, and my husband led me to seeing dollars that I just didn’t have fly out the window.  After monetary help from both my parents and my husband’s parents and, of course, turning the water to the house off, we finally finagled a solution out.

Long story short?  The city I live in, last year, changed their water source.  It used to have a low pressure, flowing easily downhill.  When they changed, the direction in the pipes all shifted, having to add pressure to suddenly deliver water uphill. There was at least a little consolation knowing that my house was one of many that had to face pipes bursting in back yards.  Now if I can just hold my breath, cross my fingers and not asphyxiate myself in the process hopefully, just hopefully, the pipes in my house can handle the water now coming in from a brand new line in my back yard.

Parenting Challenges

I like to think that my own health offers my family enough challenges, but often I am reminded that there are no real limits to what can be thrown into the gears.  I’ve suspected for a while that my son might have hints of ADD, possibly even Autism.  This year, his first grade year in school, things seem to have boiled over.  He can’t keep his hands to himself.  He randomly would stand, walk around, drop to the floor, kick at his chair.  He has troubles verbalizing things, even if he does understand them.  I am constantly having to remind him to use his words.  Unfortunately it got to the point at school that he was becoming a danger to other children.

Now, before anybody assumes, I am going to point something out.  My son is amazing.  I could write an entire blog post gushing about how much my son has already gone through and triumphed and it still wouldn’t give you the best indication of his personality.  He’s joyful and curious, creative and full of ideas.  He loves to smile, to have fun, and is so very wonderful to his little sister.

In January he was diagnosed with ADHD after I finally managed to meet with a doctor from Doernbecher’s Children’s Hospital in Portland.  Even though he flaps his arms when he’s concentrating, opts to yell or grunt or make awkward noises instead of speaking, and will at times pace or run circles in the house so he can think (‘Dream dancing’, as he calls it), the doctors have dismissed the possibility of Autism.  Unfortunately, like so many people with experience with ADHD know, ADHD tends to not just come alone.

The medication did wonderful for him for a couple of months, almost five in total, but now it seems to be petering off and he’s resorting to old habits.  It may require a dosage change, but there may be other things going on.  OCD, Asbergers…these are just two of many possible things that have been put onto the table.  Not to mention that he’s watched his mother go through cancer three times in his short life…which I cannot imagine is easy on a child’s shoulders.  I don’t think he understands the possible gravity of my situation, but I’d be a fool to think that my poor health hasn’t had an effect on him.

Radiation Reality

Yes, they even give you a certificate when you finish. My daughter was there with me for every treatment, enjoying the waiting room and free access to PBS. I'm sure she'll miss it more than I will.

Yes, they even give you a certificate when you finish. My daughter was there with me for every treatment, enjoying the waiting room and free access to PBS. I’m sure she’ll miss it more than I will.

And on that note…well, the good news is that I am done with radiation.  The small tumor between my esophagus and my bronchial tubes has been radiated up until the beginning of this month.  The side effects of pain in the area are mostly gone now, but I seem to have a cough that doesn’t want to leave me alone.  The dead tissue in my lungs often contracts, too, and I find myself struggling to breathe.  Chances are I might be coughing for the rest of my life and keeping an inhaler in reach for days that I just can’t get my lungs to fully expand on their own.

As I step further from radiation I’m getting my energy back, which is good because I was about as useful as a sloth for the longest time around here.  I’m walking more, I’m up and capable of doing laundry and dishes and cooking once more.  But Monday proved to me that I still can’t quite get through the grocery store without struggling.  Normally I can come home and help my husband unload the van and put things away.  When I walked in this time, however, all I could do was sit. This much is a general frustration on my end every time I go through some sort of extensive treatment.  Be it for surgery, chemotherapy or radiation none really prove to give me an energy boost.

Under One Roof

So, a year ago my roof, in the middle of the night, started to leak.  We patched it as best as we could, but by Summer of 2013 we were up there for months peeling off old shingles and putting new ones on with a fresh spread of tar paper.  This took most of our summer, and I was under the impression it was done.  It was a bit on the chaotic side,  however, when I came home only a week after the back yard and car issues to find my laundry room light full of water and spilling over onto the floor.  It took a few tries and testing and one hefty tarp, but my husband figured out where he’d missed a bit of roofing tar.

While it seems to be doing all right, I admittedly cringe a lot more during a heavy rainstorm–which spring has supplied us endlessly with so far.  It looks good, I think, and I’m hoping to paint the house to match  this summer.  Changing it from a chewed Trident cinnamon gum look to a nice navy blue will be a welcome look, I think.  Maybe it’ll stop the door-to-door salesfolk from coming up and making silly conversation with me:

“Hey there, we’re in the neighborhood fixing up a gal’s place over on Field.  We noticed that your roof is old and looking like it needs repair!”

“My roof…is brand new.”

“..r..really?”

“Yep. Just replaced it last Summer.”

Two of these in a row.  The second looked properly abashed, gave us his card and left.  The first, however, kept putting his foot in his mouth.

“Oh…w..it looks old.”

“It’s not.”

“R..right. So about your windows, looking to update those?”

“When we can afford to, but right now I’m about to go into chemotherapy so we’re saving up our funds.”

“Really? You don’t look like you have cancer.”

This received a long silence from me.

“That is…I mean, you have hair, which is neat. Lucky you!  My aunt lost hers during chemo.”

“I haven’t started chemotherapy yet.”

At this point he made a hasty departure.  Somehow I don’t think he felt he was going to get a sale.  The ‘No Solicitors” sign should have helped, but…some people are apparently illiterate.

Chemotherapy … again

And now it all boils down to this.  As I approach Summer and a few months of weather that will allow for house painting, swimming lessons, and the summer camp that I help run, I’m also facing an entirely different issue.  For the first time during summer I’ll be going through chemotherapy.  Four months of it.  Once a week for two weeks in a row, then one week off, then back two weeks, wash, rinse, repeat.  It won’t be near as much driving as radiation, but again, I will lose my hair.  I will be exhausted.  I will be a useless sloth once more.  But somehow I’m going to do it.  It’s not a matter of bravery, it’s a matter of …well…really, what other option do I have?  In my eyes there’s only one other and it isn’t an option.

I have until after my CT scan to get things done for camp—which has not been scheduled yet.  While I’d like to put it off as long as I can to get things done, I know that after I do a little spell check and re-read this for errors…I’m going to be on the phone trying to figure out what’s taking so long.

And then?  Well, at least I didn’t give away my scarves, eh?

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As I swing full force into life beyond chemotherapy I took a moment to reflect on how grateful I am to be able to do so.  My life, while boggled down by cancer at times, is so much more than the disease that I write about.  The time I spend thriving isn’t always marred by thoughts of cancer…as a matter of fact it’s not the only thing odd or unusual about me.  Long before cancer was even on my radar I was able to push myself apart from the crowd simply by being who I am.

Tall.

Now, I’m not talking about slightly above average, that’d be somewhere in the 5’8″ to the 5’10” range and I am above that.  I stand a striking 6’2″, putting me not just eye-level with most men, but also taller than a good chunk of them.  In fact, by the time I was in the sixth grade (back when elementary schools in the local area went from K-6) I was not only taller than all of my classmates, I was also taller than all of the teachers at the elementary school…and I had yet to stop growing.  I reached my full height in the 7th grade.  You heard me.  I’ve been 6’2″ since I was twelve.  Most boys in junior high were eye-level with my non-existent chest and most girls barely any taller than the boys.  I can say one thing, it’s certainly given me a lot of unique stories to tell.

Then there’s always being in the back row of every class picture.  Not to mention the awkward feeling of dancing with a guy shorter than you.  Then there’s the whole ‘going to an old ruin or fort and discovering just about all the doors are just a bit too short to get through without risking concussion’ problem that pops up now and then.  The awkward feeling that just because of your size everybody feels like they need to pick on you or bully you just to prove themselves to be strong.  It’s a bit strange, being considered a right of passage.

But not everything is negative.  In fact, how I got my nickname, ‘Stilts’, is one of those positive memories I have that came from my height alone.  Another strange thing about me is that I’ve been a Girl Scout for my entire life.  Don’t believe me?  Ask any of the Cadettes from my mother’s old troop that changed my diapers for their childcare badges.  Still don’t believe me?  Let me pull out my Day Camp patches from 1984 from when I was two.  Get the picture?  Girl Scouts, I don’t really know what I’d be without it.

Now, there’s a little tradition that isn’t just limited to Girl Scouts.  Whenever you go to camp typically all of the girls and leaders are referred to by their camp name.  Some are cutesy, like Flower or Dove or Sparkles.  Others are more unique, like Pickles, Ed, or Buzzard.  All have a story behind them, even if it’s something so trivial as the person named ‘Beans” liking beans a lot.

When I was young I bounced around to all sorts of names, trying to find a good fit.  For a while I was Bunny to my mother’s Rabbit.  At another time I was Michaelangelo due to my love of the Ninja Turtles.  I even went so far as taking on the name Tiger Lily at Outdoor School in the 5th grade.  Not sure why I picked the last one, but it didn’t go beyond Outdoor School, that’s for certain.  I don’t even remember what my camp name was as I got older…until the fifth or sixth grade (I honestly cannot recall which summer).  Now, reading back to how I hit the stride of my height around this time it should really come as no surprise that I was taller than a good chunk of the counselors at resident camp that summer.  It did come as a surprise to one person, however, a female counselor that stood at about 5’9″.  Her name was Stilts.

I stood a hair taller than her, still not yet done growing, and I watched her eyeball me the entire week with a conflicted expression.  It wasn’t until the last day of camp that she finally approached me with her name tag in hand.  With a sigh she reached over, took my hand, and placed her name tag in it.

“I never thought I would find the day where I’d meet a camper taller than me.  You deserve this camp name more than I do.”

It was so out of the blue for me…and yet it fit.  It was the camp name that actually stuck to me, had its own story, and actually felt right.  And it was oddly touching.  She was a counselor that I’d never met before and have not seen since, but I will always remember her every time I make a new name tag for camp.

Every girl at camp knew me as Stilts from that point on.  It fits so well that a lot of girls don’t even know my real name, instead yelling my camp name when I run into them at the grocery store.  I respond, as it comes natural now after almost twenty years of carrying it.  But someday…maybe someday I’ll find a camper taller than me.  And maybe that day I’ll pass it on.

And then I’ll be Donatello.  Because, frankly, he was smarter than Michaelangelo anyway.

Yeah, yeah, that's me that the former Governor of Washington is staring at. I get that look a lot.

Yeah, yeah, that’s me that the former Governor of Washington is staring at. I get that look a lot.

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