An Ordinary Day

Tomorrow at this time, I will be at Hopkins for my five-year brain tumor MRI and neurosurgery appointment. They will make me sign a bunch of consent forms, then give me a sedative, before putting an IV in my arm. It will be my right, because that is the one with the "best" veins. I always ask them to please not talk about my veins, because it makes me queasy. They always do, anyhow. 

I will be strapped down so I cannot move my arms, and then a Hannibal Lecter-type mask will be locked over my face. I will be told not to move, and to keep my head still. As soon as they tell me this, my nose will start to itch, it always does. I will be fed into a tube, where the banging, clanging, will go on for an hour. 

It will be loud, it will be cold. I will refuse a blanket (eww, hospital blanket!) and try to think positive thoughts, although my mind will wander to the injustice of how this became my life, why I am here, my fears, my hopes, and eventually, how RIGHT NOW my nose REALLY itches and I sort of have to sneeze. 

The MRI will end, and still sedated, I will wait for the neurosurgeon. I'll be told by a nurse to go get a cup of coffee or some lunch, but I'm still queasy, from the sedative and the IV and all that vein talk, so I will wait, with the book I brought unopened on my lap. 

The neurosurgeon will arrive, he will measure the tumor on the screen and compare it to past scans, ask me about my symptoms, check my reflexes, ask me some questions, "Who's the President? Subtract 7 from 100, keep going ... Remember these three words, watch, pen, ball ... OK, what were those words?" (Maybe I should be studying now?)

It is routine - my twelfth visit - yet, it never is. Because you never get used to being slapped in the face by your own mortality. It never feels "normal" to confront a potentially life-limiting illness in your 30s (my doctor does not enjoy the word "terminal"). 

When I was first diagnosed, the five-year survival rate was 32%, or maybe 50%, depending on what you looked at. "You are a statistic of one. That is all," said the neurosurgeon. I thought that was bulls^%t, because it was MY statistic of one, not his. 

My son was four, I was worried he would never know me. He'd have fuzzy memories, of course, but if I were gone, he would never REALLY know me, as a person. 

Scariest of all was that thought of putting my son through the sudden death of his mommy. Or the opposite, a gradual decline, a long goodbye, diminished vitality, and then a slow death. Which was worse? Did it matter? I could not control this. 

So here I am, five years later, and my nine-year-old boy knows me. I still have the same worries, and more. Facing a serious illness is, in a word, devastating.  Emotionally, physically, financially. Every possible facet of my life has been shattered by me being sick.  

Even my decade-long marriage has been a causality.  Sometimes people fall together during a crisis, and sometimes they fall apart. We were the latter. We had plans - law firm partnership for me, share in the Hamptons, 2.3 kids, a golden retriever ... not this. Not this! 

And, yet, even amidst all the devastation, I am still here. I am still standing. I am still fighting. I am still me, in all the important ways. I am funny (sometimes inappropriately so), I am an excellent writer (and working on getting a book published this year), I am a caring, involved mom, I am a loving and empathetic friend; I am a terrible cook, I am awful at math, I am always ten minutes late for virtually every moment of my life, I have little patience. 

I am both incredibly strong, and extraordinarily weak, sometimes in the same day. Sometimes in the same hour. In short, I am human. 

My son still has his mom, and he knows these things. 

Last night, we had a completely ordinary Tuesday, I picked him up from school, we went out for macaroni and cheese, we walked to the library to pick up some new Thea Stilton (him) and Jodi Picoult (me). He laughed, I laughed.  It was happy, it was easy, and I was content. 

Here's to five more years of perfectly ordinary days, and then five more after that. 

Wish me luck.

Maroon & Orange

Excerpted from an essay I authored in 2007, Maroon & Orange:

April 17, 2007: In August 1993, my parents dropped me off at the West Ambler-Johnston residence hall, the same freshman dormitory where the violence began. That summer day on campus was thick with heat and that vibrant anticipation unique to youth. Hundreds of students flooded the halls and stairwells, eager to begin their first offi cial day as college students. The throngs of parents were less eager, as evidenced by the lingering hugs, reddened eyes, reminders to stay out of trouble and to call home.

The elevators in my dorm were broken, so my father gamely lugged two minivan’s worth of luggage up four flights of stairs. My mother, ever the perfectionist, had obtained a list of recommended supplies from the university. She had spent the preceding weeks in a manic consumer scavenger hunt to ensure that I began college with every single item on that list including, to my new roommate’s amusement, a personal-sized fire extinguisher for our dorm room. As my father finally unloaded the last item of luggage and said farewell -- until Thanksgiving -- we began busying ourselves with the important decisions. Who got which closet? Where should we hang all of our 90210 Luke Perry posters? Our entire lives stretched out in front of us, full of promise and hope. Maybe one of us would marry Luke Perry?

During my time at Tech, I met and befriended people from all over the country, from all walks of life. There was the girl who would become my roommate for the next two years, kind enough to overlook my obvious lack of housekeeping credentials, funny enough that I hated to turn off the lights at night because we were having so much fun talking and laughing. There was the shy, freckled boy, an initial romantic prospect, who after many joint study sessions fraught with tempered flirtation, grew to become a close friend and confidante. There was the girl who enjoyed incense (wink) and listening to the Grateful Dead, she spent virtually all her waking hours designing and building otherworldly projects for her architecture classes.

College was where I studied hard (and conversely, at times, hardly studied), fell in love (and then out again, and back in, and ... repeat). Where I crossed the threshold from teenager into adulthood. Tragedy in my circle meant a lower grade in a course than anticipated, breaking-up with a boyfriend, or saying good-bye to a beloved grandparent who passed after a long life. My friends and I grew up, some went on to jobs, some went on to medical or law school or graduate programs. Now, many are married and have children of their own ...

... As I watched the media images of the massacre, my heart shatters for those who have been deprived of these simple and wonderful memories by one horrific act of violence. My heart breaks further for the parents who sent their children off to learn, love and grow up, in a place whose tranquility befits a Norman Rockwell painting, only to learn that their children will never be coming home again. I state the obvious when I say that there are few things more cruel than a parent burying a child ...

... Last night, I unearthed a decade-old sweatshirt from that cardboard box in the basement tattooed with the black Sharpie VT. I sorted through Tri Delt formals glasses, Phi Kap baseball caps, report cards (Organic Chemistry derailed med school plans), and reams of photos of young people I once knew, now legitimate adults with mortgages and 401ks, many of whom I am still fortunate enough to call friends. The shirt is faded, the sleeves and collar are frayed from repeated wearing. I haven’t put it on in years because -- let’s face it -- maroon and traffic-cone orange are not exactly a girl’s best colors.

I asked my four-year old son for his opinion. “So, how do I look?” He surveyed me solemnly before answering, “You look very handsome, Mommy.”

I couldn’t agree more. Go Hokies.

High Brow

Sunday brunch humor courtesy of 9-year-old Alex P. Ethan.

"Why did the chicken cross the road?"

"Dunno."

"To get the New York Times. Get it?"

"Um ... no."

"Me neither, I get the Wall Street Journal."

Which reminds me, time to renew his subscription.