I survived

Today is the first of May. For those of you who are not aware of the plethora of causes recognized in May, here is a small sampling. May is:
ALS Awareness Month, Arthritis Awareness Month, Asthma and Allergy Awareness Month, Celiac Awareness Month, Cystic Fibrosis Month, Lyme Disease Awareness month, National Mental Health Awareness Month, Correct Posture Month, and so on and so forth.

And while many of those causes have impacted someone in my life, May will alway be "Melanoma & Skin Cancer Awareness Month" to me. I spend this entire month harassing everyone around me. I send annoying emails, I post depressing stats on facebook. I basically make a gigantic nuisance of myself. Many of you have heard my story in bits and pieces, but very rarely do I really open up about how I was feeling through my experiences with melanoma. So, this will probably be long and emotional. You have been warned.

Back in 2008, I was about 7 or 8 months pregnant with my son. I went in to my OB for a routine appointment. We had a wonderful appointment and she mentioned, just in passing, that I might want to get that mole on my face checked out. She didn't like how it looked and I should probably do something about it.

**I am going to stop here for a minute to get on my PSA band wagon. This mole was NOT raised. It was NOT odd shaped. It was flat and perfectly circular. It was however a little larger and darker than the rest of my moles. Cancerous moles don't have a particular shape. What should worry you is if your mole is somehow different than all your other moles.**

I noted her advice in the back of my mind and then proceeded to go home and take care of a 17 month old, work full time, and birth a baby. Color me shocked that I didn't make it in to the dermatologist. And. while I would occasionally think about that mole, I doubt I ever would have made it in to see a doctor if it wasn't for trashy tv. You see, I don't watch too much television. But I am a devoted Grey's anatomy fan. And right about the time Gavin was 9 months old, they started the Izzy storyline. Those of you who watched will remember it vividly. Here is a character, inches a way from death, due to an unchecked melanoma. Suddenly, I was no longer sleeping at night. I just knew, deep down, that I had cancer. I was terrified.

When I went to that first appointment, they did the biopsy right there. I wasn't prepared for that. I just thought they would keep an eye on things for a while, but they took that sucker right out and scheduled a follow up appointment a week later. I went by myself and a doctor with little to no bedside manner told me that I had melanoma. He told me I was fortunate to have caught it in the earliest stage and asked me when would I like to schedule my surgery. My head was spinning. I was speechless. I left without asking a single question! I returned later that month to have the surgery on the surrounding area and left with a 2 1/2 inch incision across my cheek and swaddled in bandages.

This is where my story usually ends when I share with others. I had cancer, they removed cancer, I was fine. Which, essentially, IS the story. But so much more was going on inside. I was upset over the whole thing, but always felt as if I didn't have a right to be upset. After all, this melanoma had been caught in the earliest possible stage. I never felt sick, I never had to undergo treatment, worry about my life, face my death. Hell, three years later I barely have a scar. People asked me how I was and I laughed them off. I'm fine! I was never even sick! I was embarrassed to even use the word "cancer"... like I hadn't earned it or something. My husband said to me one night, "It isn't like you really had cancer.." and I had to agree. My immediate family has lost 2 people to cancer. Awful, horrible cancer.

And yet, while I laughed it off, something wasn't right inside. Because while I felt like I didn't belong being labeled a cancer "survivor", I did have cancer. And melanoma - well that is a particularly deadly form of cancer. Melanoma caught in the earliest stage, like mine, is exceptionally treatable. But once it moves out of those early stages, it is one of the deadliest. And if it hadn't of been for some awful trashy television show, I wouldn't have caught it in the early stages. I would have put it off. I would have been too busy. And I would have gotten very very sick. I had a 3 year old and a 1 year old... and I could have died. And the reality of that came crushing down on me in a way that I never expected. I stopped sleeping at night. I worried about every little health thing that came my way. I became a professional hypochondriac. And I did all of it in secret.

Time heals most wounds. And this wound was no different. As time and distance began to grow between me and my melanoma... I began to feel okay again. I was able to begin to forget my mortality and cover it in blissful naivete again. I began to feel silly and ridiculous for worrying about something that "wasn't even really cancer".

And then - 18 months later, they found a second melanoma. And all those wobbly walls I had just begun to put up came crashing down around me. This second melanoma was on my arm and atypical. It didn't demonstrate any of the normal characteristics except for a scab that lasted a little longer than normal. We almost didn't remove it.

Again, I told everyone not to worry. We caught this one in the same stage. It could be removed and forgotten. Except this time I couldn't forget. I became obssessed. I would lie awake at night and wonder. I would wonder how many years I had before we missed one. How many years would it be before the melanoma was on my back or shoulder and I wouldn't see any changes? How many years before I would have the melanoma that would kill me? Because I knew. I KNEW that this was how I would die. Maybe at 85, maybe at 40. But I knew that this was my death sentence.  And I thought all of this in secret.

I kept it secret from those who had lost loved ones to cancer. I kept it secret from those who had suffered through cancer. I kept it secret from those who had other illnesses or challenges in their lives that needed amazing amounts of strength to make it through each day. Because, I "didn't really have cancer."

It has been 18 months since that second melanoma was removed. I have continued to recieve clean bills of health. I have a wonderful doctor who has a wonderful plan that will keep me healthy for many many years to come. Emotionally? Emotionally I have come a long way. The fact that I can put this out there for others to see... that alone is huge. I still feel a strange feeling of guilt for having trouble processing what happened to me. Guilt for experienceing mental anguish over something that is so much less than what others have suffered. Last year I wanted to buy a black ribbon tee-shirt, and couldn't bring myself to buy one that said melanoma survivor because I didn't feel I had earned it. And while I still don't feel ready for that step, I have realized some things in the last year.

I had cancer. Not "sort of" cancer, not "kind of" cancer, but REAL cancer. Having cancer caught in the earliest stage is incredibly fortunate, but does not make it fake cancer.

I was scared. I was young, overwhelmed, and scared. And while I was never in any actual danger of dying, that does not make the fact that I had one of the deadliest diseases in my body less scary.

I survived. While I still feel too much guilt to label myself a survivor, I can now say I survived. Because it was more than the cancer. It was the insomnia, the depression, the persistant visions of my children without their mother, the realization of my mortality, and all the other things that accompany that word. And I survived them all.

The teacher's kid

It can be tough to be a teacher's kid. After all, I WAS a teacher's kid. I remember. Teacher's look at things a little differently I think. I imagine it must be similar to being a social worker's kid, or the kid of a parole officer. Teachers know things. Things you sometimes wished you didn't know.  However, the difference between being the child of a teacher and those other two examples is the context of that knowledge. I mean, as a social worker or parole officer - you know the bad possibilities, but you like to think your kids will never get there. But school? Every kid goes to school. And we teachers know a lot about school.

Now, don't get me wrong, being a teacher's kid can be fantastic. During those early years we got that special, behind the scenes look at everything. You know how you always wanted to draw on the chalkboards, have unfettered access to construction paper, USE THE COPIER?? I got to do all those and more. I got to play fetch with my dog at night in the empty halls. I got to write on the overhead projector to my heart's content. It was marvelous.

You see, it isn't until much later than you realize it can be tough to have teachers as parents. They know things, they expect things. Your parents' current discipline hang-ups are very much regulated by what ever is currently driving them nuts in their own classroom. Are your parents suddenly cracking down on responsibility? Tattling? Writing neatly? I'll give you 10 to 1 odds that some kid is driving them up the wall on a daily basis doing exactly that. Your parents know your friends, your friends' parents, your friends' grades, and even your friends' standardized test scores. Your parents also know your schedule, your every move. This can be... difficult.

So I was a teacher's kid. Now I am a teacher WITH a kid. Actually we are two married teachers with a kid, and our entire social circle consists of teachers with and without kids. My children are doomed. But standing here on the other side - I am watching my kids take joy in after hours opportunities to draw on the smartboard and forcing them to bear the brunt of whichever kid has tormented their mom and caused her to enforce waiting their turn with a vengence. And I realize that even harder than being a kid of a teacher is being a teacher with a kid.

Before, your heart broke for all those children who lived in homes where they had no one to count on or had no homes to live in. Before, you spent every waking hour worrying about your lessons, your curriculum, your school. Before, you suspiciously eyed legislation and wondered when it would come your way, what it would change in your life. Before, you looked at the pay stub and wondered how you would do everything you wanted to do.

After? After you become a teacher with a kid? Well, after, your heart still breaks - but now your heart breaks as these kids become your child's friends and you can do nothing to make things better for them. After, you still worry - but you worry about how these curriculum changes will affect your own child's education and love of learning. After, you still eye legislation - but you know that your child's entire educational future depends on the decisions of people who most likely have never have taught a single child. After, you still look at the pay stub and wonder - but you wonder how you will send your kids to college when you haven't paid off your own degrees yet.

You see - those of you who are not teachers? Well, you know the saying ignorance is bliss? I know all the inside information on school. I know why it can be the most amazing experience your child can have, but I know what is broken inside it as well. I know how fragile it all is. I know that every single one of my students started as a blank slate but that by 9 or 10... things have changed. And I know that my child with change too. I know that the classroom, the classmates, and the curriculum will have at least as much (if not more) influence over my child than I will.

My daughter has had one year of school with one of the most amazing teachers I have ever known. I wouldn't change a thing about this first year of school. She has 12 more years to go. Tell me that isn't terrifying. And by being there, by knowing so much, I feel responsible for making sure that those 12 years are as positive and successful as possible. It is almost enough to make you miss potty training! I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to just send my children to school without knowing all I know. Would that have been easier?

But I get to walk past my daughter's room on the way to make copies and see her in rapt attention as her teacher reads a book. I get to stop by the cafeteria and give her a kiss. I get to hold her hand (as long as she'll let me) and walk her to class. And I get to watch her ecstatic joy as she takes my copies from the copier. We've got 12 years to drive each other crazy, but at least we get to do it together.

A fork in the road

This week our family had to make a decision about our son's life. It was one of those decisions where the answer is pretty obvious, and yet it feels excruciating to make. So, of course, the final ruling came complete with the full panel of angst-ridden emotions - fear, sadness, loss, guilt, worry. But after the whole process was over, I sat down and tried to weed out the emotions one by one. I acknowledged the legitimacy of each, but reasoned with myself as to why I could let each one go. And once I weeded out every emotion that was tied to that one decision - I was still left with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Worry - I just couldn't seem to get rid of that one. So I talked through all the different reasons I shouldn't be worried, and yet it would not leave. At night, when lying in bed, trying to sleep, I could feel the worry resting in my chest.

So, I took a step back. I looked at the bigger picture. And that was when I realized that the decision we made was not the issue. The actual conclusion had resolved itself in my mind. No, the real problem, the thing keeping me awake at night was the fact that we hadn't made this type of decision with my daughter at all. Here it was. The moment in time when we began parenting two seperate children. The first of the many life choices that would create two lives, two personalities, two life histories.

Until this point, we had raised both children essentially the same. They had the same books, same toys, same trips, same games, even the same pink cloth diapers (sorry Gavin). I know they weren't the same children and that they didn't respond the same way to everything. But we had pretty much lived life with the "What's good for the goose is good for the gander" parenting philosophy. Some of it was just our inner cheapskate. But, even better, for us emotionally there was very little guilt in this plan. There was no worry that in 25 years we were going to hear about how Chloe got a bike and Gavin didn't. Check your own history - how long does it take you to come up your unfair mom and dad moment? We all have them. We also didn't have to worry about screwing up Gavin. He was the second child, and every time we needed to make a decision we could say, " Hey - look how Chloe turned out! She's mostly normal."

I knew that this wasn't a very realistic method for child rearing in the long term. I mean, we'll start with the fact that one is a girl and one is a boy. You can raise them as gender neutral as you desire - but some decisions are going to have to differ (No Chloe - you may not stand up to pee). However, I was willing to hold on to this consistency, this safe routine, as long as possible. And suddenly - without warning - we are there. Because this isn't a "popcorn at 1 year or 2" type decision. This is a major change in their life experiences. From this point on, their paths have diverged. And - to continue to paraphrase (ie: steal from) Frost - we are on the road less traveled. We have never done this before. And that is scary. I don't know what comes next because we've never been down this road before. Rationally, making two different decision for two different children seems obvious. But from now on I will have to fight the voices in my head. The ones saying, "Was one way better?" And I will have to fight those voices for the rest of my life. Because starting today, I have two individual stories for the two individuals I have helped create. And while I can't wait to celebrate the amazing differences in my two amazing children - I will continue to worry. Worry and love.


The Road Not Taken  (1916)
by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Beyond Babies

Sometime in the year 2011, my title changed. I was no longer the mom of an infant, baby, or toddler. We graduated from diapers, pacifiers, sippy cups, and (sadly) naps. We packed up the "does not contain small parts" toys and shipped them to the attic. We also began to give things away. At first it was just a few baby clothes. Then we bit the bullet and said goodbye to infant seats, high chairs, play mats, and swings. While I can't cite one moment or great pronouncement, sometime in the year 2011 the decision was made. There would be no more babies. Sometime in the year 2011, I became the mother of children.


It doesn't seem to be a great distinction. Unless, that is, you are actually a parent. And then the distinction is enormous. These two human beings that were created from my own body, that spent years of their lives completely dependent on me, are becoming their own people. People separate from me. And, as with all big life changes, this is bittersweet.


The bitter being, of course, the letting go. Letting go of the special, precious time of those first three plus years. There really are no words to describe that time. Either you are a parent and you know... or you don't. On some days, the bitter taste of letting go can stand in the way of the sweet. On melancholy evenings, you can get caught up in the idea of never again. Those are scary words. Never again. I will never again feel a baby move inside of me. I will never again look into my child's eyes in the first moment of life. I will never again fall asleep with my child sleeping in my chest. I will never again watch them say first words, take first steps, or tell me they love  me for the first time. Those words, never again, weigh us down. Weigh us down physically with still cameras, video cameras, scrap books, and cell phones. Weigh us down emotionally with fears, sadness, worry, and regret. The bitter can be very bitter.


What gets forgotten sometimes is the sweet. I believe the reason for that omission is because of a dirty little secret we don't want to admit to ourselves. It isn't just letting go of our dear sweet babies that is so hard. We also hate letting go of control. Letting go, coming to terms with never again, means that we are no longer in control. These little people are making their own decisions. We don't get to just sit and hold them anymore because they won't let us. Tantrums and terrible two-ness aside, we start with unconditional adoration from our babies. We walk on water, we ARE their world. And that feels good. When these babies begin to turn into people, we start to turn over control. No, actually it is wrenched out of our hands by these strong little people. That feels terrifying. By taking pictures and video, by documenting every moment, we try desperately to regain some of that control. Which is fine, as long as we don't let that make us miss the sweet.


So what is the sweet? Precisely that which is so bitter. The letting go of control. Watching these little people we created grow into independent human beings is scary. Trusting them to make their own decisions is terrifying. Standing back and letting them fail... well, again there are no words. But these moments are also breathtaking, awe-inspiring, spectacular, and wondrous. If you can come to terms with the letting go, the never again... then your vision is clear enough to see the moving forward and the never before. That is the sweet. 


So, that is inspiration for my New Year's resolution this year. Not to lose 10 pounds (though I'll take it) or to exercise more. My resolution is to focus on both the bitter and sweet and appreciate them for what they are. My resolution is to slow down and think about what is happening and enjoy it instead of trying to control it. My resolution is to both let go and look ahead. My resolution is learn to live as a mother to children, not babies. To realize that means I have more of myself back, and to decide what I want that "myself" to be. There is no goal, no plan. Just life. Happy New Year.