Cancer and Gift Bags

Does it seem…oh I don’t know, weird to you that, upon leaving a two-hour chemotherapy-orientation class, my husband and I were presented with a gift bag?  I’m talking a real “gift bag,” like the kind you get after you’ve attended a Mary Kay party, or some kind of an open-house event.  I found this amusing. The dark-humor side of me woke like a sleeping pup. It’s not that I think cancer is funny…but cancer with gift bags? As the nurse smiled and handed the little white bag to Brad, I half expected her to say something like:  “It really sucks that you have cancer but, hey, just like everything else in life, there’s always something good that comes from something bad. Anyway, thanks for coming and enjoy your goodies!”  I smiled awkwardly, walked out, then seized the bag from my husband’s hand. I was curious. What could be in a Chemotherapy-orientation gift bag? When I got in the car I looked inside.  The content included one pencil and one eraser with the cancer center’s logo on them, two anti-nausea lollipops for future use, and then the kicker:

A personal, pocket-size, 6-month planner.

I couldn’t repress the twisted and equally obvious question: We don’t even get a standard, full-year calendar??? Just January to July? I’d love to know who and how they came up with this decision.  I pictured a handful of hospital P.R. folks sitting around a conference table, brainstorming and trying to decide what to put in the chemotherapy-orientation class gift bags. (Maybe they called them “C.O.C.G.B.’s” for short.) Did they all agree on the pencil, eraser, anti-nausea suckers but couldn’t come to a consensus on the amount of calendar months they should use, deciding in the end to just go with the less paper/cheaper/6-month route?  I know there’s a big green movement out there, and everyone’s trying to cut costs, but couldn’t they just skim a little money and paper utilization from the candy stripper orientation budget, give them a few less handouts, and give us 6 more pages?  What kind of message does a freakin’ half-year calendar send to a newly diagnosed cancer patient?  Hey, we want you to stay organized for the next 6 months, but after that, well…..who knows where you’ll be.

I know cancer isn’t comical but I’m determined to find amusement along the perimeter when I can…and as an honorary caregiver, a member of the cancer “in-crowd,” I take sardonic-license.  In other words, I kid because I am.  Why not make light when the opportunity presents itself in an otherwise difficult situation?  After all, the last two hours had been tough on us both.  Sitting in a room with 5 other couples, wondered which had (or likely still have) cancer and which would take on the new title of Caregiver, like me.  I also wondered what kind of cancer they had and what the short and long-term ramifications will be for their families…as well as for mine.

My husband and I had a good chuckle about the abbreviated planner.  And one more question that’s swirling around in my head to further drive home my point:  In the phrase, chemotherapy-orientation class gift bags, there’s got to be an oxymoron in there somewhere, don’t you think?  Just an observation.

Avoiding Me

A cumulative rush of nerves and fear are rushing through me right now as I stare down at my laptop.  At this moment, I’m afraid of my computer.  It’s weird, I remember having this exact feeling before; it’s the same damn combination of adrenalin and dread I got when I walked into my dentist’s office as a little girl, (I had 6 root canals by the age of 12, swear) opening the door to the waiting room and taking my first whiff of that intense, 1960’s-universal-dentist-office-smell.  A blend of Novocain, antiseptics and tooth-filling-fillers?  I have no idea. All I know is that I hated that smell because it was the precursor to certain pain. Weird how an unpleasant aroma and a computer can evoke the same feelings of trepidation in me. Right now, looking down at my keyboard brings me back to that smell, that office, that feeling. Lump in my throat, heart pounding.

 

Difference is, today, I’m not sporting knee socks, anything plaid or 1-inch bangs. But I’m just as scared.  I tell myself that, like a root canal, there’s no way around what must be done. Nope, can’t ignore a toothache forever, any more then I can deny what makes me a more authentic version (Sorry Oprah, may I borrow?) of who I am.  So today’s the day I face my fears, breathe in the scary fumes of I don’t want to! Today, I stop making excuses for not doing what is equally as hard as it is gratifying, blaming my year and a half complacency on tough times and my husband’s on-going, poor health.  So here goes. (Deep breathe) Today I will, once again, write….something.

Anything.

Hummmm….wait a minute.

I guess I just did what I was so afraid to do.

Well then.  Good for me.

I’ve overcome inertia.

Tomorrow’s attempt is bound to be easier

Loud Skin

Loud Skin

So this morning, I’m out for a run with one of my clients when something unexpected happened. I discovered something about myself that’s meaningful and real and to be honest…not all that flattering.

Here’s what happened:  About 15 minutes into the jog, kibitzing over the details of our weekend, I hear this strange and unfamiliar noise…coming from, get this, the upper portion of my body (I said upper portion.)  It was a flapping sound, like the kind you hear when…well I don’t exactly know what to compare it to because I never heard it before.  And I felt something too!  What the hell was that?  Initially, I decided to ignore it.  I had never heard a noise coming from this region of my body before (oh, grow up!) so I shirked it off as an anomaly, a one time thing, so why fixate, right?    I let it go, moved on, and initiated a fascinating dialogue (typical me) with my client, and…there it goes again! This time, it was a double-flap noise.  Like flap, flap, then nothing. But this time, I could hone in and identify the exact area, not merely the general quadroon.

It was coming from the portion of my body, right above my tank top and directly under the arm pit, due west of my left breast! I don’t think there is a name for this fleshy part, so for our purposes we’ll just refer it as the: “Prairie-Flatlands, located on the Outskirts of my Breasts,” or “PFLOB.”  Check this out: The flappity-flap noise came from the swinging of my arms as I ran and this area, my PFLOB was making contact with my inner/upper arms as they went rhythmically back and forth. Horrors!  Now I’m no Professor of Biomechanics or anything, so I don’t know, scientifically speaking, what actually caused the noise.  Maybe the motion created a wind tunnel, or maybe it was the suction between two squishy parts, or maybe just the mere smacking of two loose objects.  I don’t know and I don’t care.  All I know is that my PFLOB and my inner-arm were making contact and I could hear it!

Are you kidding me?  I’m a Personal Trainer!  And although I’m not the militaristic, supplement drinking, boring-at-parties-cause-all-I-talk-about-is-health-and-fitness-and-good-carbs-versus-bad-carbs type of trainer…

I am.

None the less.

A health conscious individual that practices what I preach….most of the time.  So, now you’re probably wondering: How did I resolve the clapping sounds that came, (and will probably come again) from the clashing of my two body parts, what with being a trainer and all.   It’s simple. I processed it for a minute and then let it go.  You have to.   I’m 50!  Okay 51, whatever, and there’s not a thing I can do to prevent my skin from losing its spring.  (Like I said, I’m no Biomechanics Guru, but I think the sound had something to do with loose skin.)

The thing about people in our culture today is that they’re either hyper-focused on every little imperfection that actually makes them who they are, or they completely don’t care at all.  I say, do what you can, make an effort to be the best you can be (too Oprah-ish?)  and let go of the stuff you can’t change…

Cause it will make you crazy.

Oh, and really, really boring at parties.

You Had Me at Hell-NO!

You Had Me at Hell-No!

After coming home from work the other day, feeling like I needed a little disconnect between work and full-throttle mommy-mode, I kicked off the shoes, poured a glass of Chateau Frantically-Need-a-Small-Buzz (any year will do) and pushed the button to listen to my messages: “Hey Brenda!  This is Carrie Taylor, my son Gus attends Perfect Little Angels Pre-School with your son, Seth.  I’m calling to see if you’d be able to Chair this year’s Fall Festival.”  (Well, there goes my much needed intermezzo.)

I could tell by her tone and inflection, Miss Homemade-Cupcake-Baker-Mom had done this before; she takes a calculated pause before launching into Phase Two, The Hard Sell:  “No one has volunteered to get things going and if we don’t find someone, like this week, we’ll have to cancel everything.”  Another strategic pause follows, (making absolute certain Momma’s guilt switch is flipped, engaged and fully activated) she goes on, “Please call and let me know if you can help.”

Utter dread washed over me. As if I could actually stop the request mid-air, I dove towards the erase button, but I hesitated too long, allowing her time to step back, re-group and deliver a karate chop to my parental insecurities…”You did such a amazing job supervising the pony rides last year, (Gag!) I know you’d be great as the lead on this.  Please call me at….”  Damn, I’m thinking, she’s good!  If I ever decide to start my own high-end cutlery business and am in need of some sales people, I’m so calling this chick.

I grabbed my butter-oaky GFF, (Good friend, not Best Friend.  Jeez, I’m not an alcoholic!) whom I’d been shamelessly ignoring, plopped down on the sofa and listened to the two opposing voices in my head duke it out. After 15 minutes of sipping and stewing, I took a deep breath and picked up the phone. What happened next? I wish I could tell you I politely and most eloquently told her “Hell No! Find another Sucka!” but that’s not how it went down.   Suffice it to say, I’ll be at the Ponderosa next Tuesday night at 7:00 to meet with my committee.

I hate it when people try to guilt me into something, and I hate it even more when I let it happen. How is it I managed to, again, push aside my own needs and resentfully do what I really, really don’t want to do?

It’s too late for me to bow out of this one, but after I agreed to take on the job, I hung up, took a sip, (or was it a gulp?) and decided it was time for a change. I made a vow to myself, right then and there. Grabbed a spatula, climbed up on my kitchen chair and proclaimed out loud, (Props courtesy of Chateau Frantically-Need-a-Small-Buzz.) “I’m not gonna do what I don’t want to do, any more!  Not cow-towing to any more requests, no matter how good the cause. Saying No and being honest does not make me a bad person!”

So yes, I’ll be at the Ponderosa next Tuesday, but not as the women I was; I’m committed to fighting my Disease to Please. Here’s my strategy:

Start with the Twix Trick. You know the commercial where the guy says something offensive to the girl he’s hitting on, then realizes he’s said something he wishes he hadn’t, so he shoves a Twix candy bar in his mouth, giving him time to come-up with a better response?  Well, the next time someone asks you to do something and your little voice tells you not to, don’t knee-jerk, “Twix It,” buy some time and tell’um you’ll get back to them.

Sorry seems to be he hardest word. When Elton John wrote this song, back in the day, I know he wasn’t referring to women, cause we’ve pretty much got “I’m sorry” down-pat. Apologizing before you say “no” doesn’t ease disappointment or get your name on the Super-Nice-Person Wall of Fame; it just makes you sound weak and whiney!  If you haven’t done something wrong, opstay apologizingway!

Next time someone asks you to help out or volunteer, tell them you’ll call them later with an answer and when you do call…1) say no, (you need the practice) and 2) resist the urge to preface your answer with a sappy sorry.

Oh, sorry, I hope I didn’t offend anyone who may be reading this.  Wow, did I just apologize?

(Ah well…Two steps forward one step back.)