I stopped writing for a while. I don't know why. Things got complicated. I didn't really have much left to write about the whole cancer experience anymore. But, I started a new blog to keep track of some of my experiences at my new job.
Logging on to write for that one, I happened to notice that my last entry here seemed kind of bitchy and negative. Alot of my blog entries about cancer and being unemployed were bitchy and negative...I think that's understandable. But, I don't want it to end on that note.
This might not be my last posting for double-whammy diary, but it is the last one for now, so I'd like to write something more positive. And here it is.
I don't have cancer anymore, and I finally found a job.
So no matter what kind of bad day I might be having, those two things make me feel very very lucky. Especially the part about not having cancer.
And on good days, I feel even better.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Just One Point
Yesterday I went to a workshop to learn about making money as a copywriter and I was so annoyed because everything the presenter told us was just based on her own experience. I don't think the information in one person's story is enough to make you an expert on a topic, even if that story is your own. This woman thinks it is. She came right out and told us so.
"Write the text for your own website," she instructed. "Then you can position yourself as a web-copy expert because you have already done it!"
It's probably not fair to use quotation marks. Those might not have been her actual words. But I like writing like it's dialogue. Or, in this case, monologue, because we all sat quiet while she made this proclamations. I, however, had plenty to say to my spouse when we met at Zolo for lunch afterward. (I am probably misquoting the following statement too, but it's okay because I am giving myself permission to do so.)
"I can't believe she thinks she's qualified to tell other people what to do! Things have worked out okay for her, sure, that could just as easily be the result of freak chance! Or, maybe she's just riding on her own overblown sense of self-confidence. That's not something you can pass on to someone else! Until you can, you shouldn't go around preaching that if others do everything just like you did that they'll end up happy! She is totally self-absorbed, speaking to the rest of us from a place of blind privilege! She needs to wake up and face the fact that other people have other experiences. She needs to realize that her viewpoint is not the only valid one!"
You can probably tell that toward the end of my tirade I am not really talking about her anymore...I am talking about myself.
I have been so lucky, at least as lucky as one can be when she needs to have a breast removed.
Because I've always been small-chested, I still look normal in clothes, even when I don't wear my Phyllis, faithful prosthesis. If I wear a sports-bra under a t-shirt, no one can even tell there's anything missing. I can even wear strapless dresses, if they are cut right. I almost bought one when I was shopping for something to wear to our wedding reception. I thought I looked pretty good.
Because my rib cage has a fortunate shape, curving noticeably out beneath my collarbone and dipping in at the center, my chest above where my breast used to be still looks relatively normal too.
Because I'm tall and relatively slender, my waistline does not exceed my bustline. I didn't even count this fact among my blessings until I read a blog comment from a writer who felt she had to wear her protheses every day, because without them she looked pregnant.
Because I've never quite filled out a "C" cup, my prosthesis is small and light. When I do feel like wearing it, I don't even notice any extra weight on that side, or extra pressure against my still-healing surgery-site.
I have to admit too that being raised a feminist, and having identified as a lesbian for the last 15 years also have an effect on my experience of breastlessness. Early on I started questioning the narrow scope of what is understood to be attractiveness in males and females. For most of my adult hood I've felt partly excused from those proscriptions because the people I was trying to attract didn't fit neatly into those categories either.
And now, to top it all off, I'm married. I've got this wonderful person in my life who already loves me for exactly who I am, who is as committed as I am to loving and accepting my asymetrical body, who never ever ever leads me to question whether or not I am attractive or acceptable. It's true, I still have some issues to work through in the areas of self-presentation and intimacy, but I don't have to work through them alone.
No wonder I am so gung-ho to vote against reconstruction! How would I feel if my remaining breast was a double D and it stretched out all my t-shirts unevenly if I didn't wear my falsie? What if my prosthetic wieghed as much as grapefruit and made me feel like I was leaning sideways when I walked? What if I had a big stomach and short legs? What if I'd been raised by a beauty queen and the man I loved read magazines with names like "Big Jugs." What if my chest looked caved in and hollow without breasts? What if I was all alone?
I think it's time I realized that my point of view is just one point. It isn't a line, it isn't a plane. It is the exact opposite of multi-dimensional, and nothing short of a multi-dimensional approach is going to help any of us understand the complicated interplay of personal and societal issues that inform women's decisions about reconstruction. It's an incredibly complicated process even those there are only really 3 core options to consider.
These are:
1. You can have the first step of your reconstruction surgery completed at the same time your breast is removed.
2. You can begin reconstruction surgery after your mastectomy has healed.
3. You can skip having reconstruction all together.
Each of these option comes with a fat packet of pros and cons, risks and benefits, advocates and critics. Don't let any one tell you that they know which one is best for you. Even if it's me.
"Write the text for your own website," she instructed. "Then you can position yourself as a web-copy expert because you have already done it!"
It's probably not fair to use quotation marks. Those might not have been her actual words. But I like writing like it's dialogue. Or, in this case, monologue, because we all sat quiet while she made this proclamations. I, however, had plenty to say to my spouse when we met at Zolo for lunch afterward. (I am probably misquoting the following statement too, but it's okay because I am giving myself permission to do so.)
"I can't believe she thinks she's qualified to tell other people what to do! Things have worked out okay for her, sure, that could just as easily be the result of freak chance! Or, maybe she's just riding on her own overblown sense of self-confidence. That's not something you can pass on to someone else! Until you can, you shouldn't go around preaching that if others do everything just like you did that they'll end up happy! She is totally self-absorbed, speaking to the rest of us from a place of blind privilege! She needs to wake up and face the fact that other people have other experiences. She needs to realize that her viewpoint is not the only valid one!"
You can probably tell that toward the end of my tirade I am not really talking about her anymore...I am talking about myself.
I have been so lucky, at least as lucky as one can be when she needs to have a breast removed.
Because I've always been small-chested, I still look normal in clothes, even when I don't wear my Phyllis, faithful prosthesis. If I wear a sports-bra under a t-shirt, no one can even tell there's anything missing. I can even wear strapless dresses, if they are cut right. I almost bought one when I was shopping for something to wear to our wedding reception. I thought I looked pretty good.
Because my rib cage has a fortunate shape, curving noticeably out beneath my collarbone and dipping in at the center, my chest above where my breast used to be still looks relatively normal too.
Because I'm tall and relatively slender, my waistline does not exceed my bustline. I didn't even count this fact among my blessings until I read a blog comment from a writer who felt she had to wear her protheses every day, because without them she looked pregnant.
Because I've never quite filled out a "C" cup, my prosthesis is small and light. When I do feel like wearing it, I don't even notice any extra weight on that side, or extra pressure against my still-healing surgery-site.
I have to admit too that being raised a feminist, and having identified as a lesbian for the last 15 years also have an effect on my experience of breastlessness. Early on I started questioning the narrow scope of what is understood to be attractiveness in males and females. For most of my adult hood I've felt partly excused from those proscriptions because the people I was trying to attract didn't fit neatly into those categories either.
And now, to top it all off, I'm married. I've got this wonderful person in my life who already loves me for exactly who I am, who is as committed as I am to loving and accepting my asymetrical body, who never ever ever leads me to question whether or not I am attractive or acceptable. It's true, I still have some issues to work through in the areas of self-presentation and intimacy, but I don't have to work through them alone.
No wonder I am so gung-ho to vote against reconstruction! How would I feel if my remaining breast was a double D and it stretched out all my t-shirts unevenly if I didn't wear my falsie? What if my prosthetic wieghed as much as grapefruit and made me feel like I was leaning sideways when I walked? What if I had a big stomach and short legs? What if I'd been raised by a beauty queen and the man I loved read magazines with names like "Big Jugs." What if my chest looked caved in and hollow without breasts? What if I was all alone?
I think it's time I realized that my point of view is just one point. It isn't a line, it isn't a plane. It is the exact opposite of multi-dimensional, and nothing short of a multi-dimensional approach is going to help any of us understand the complicated interplay of personal and societal issues that inform women's decisions about reconstruction. It's an incredibly complicated process even those there are only really 3 core options to consider.
These are:
1. You can have the first step of your reconstruction surgery completed at the same time your breast is removed.
2. You can begin reconstruction surgery after your mastectomy has healed.
3. You can skip having reconstruction all together.
Each of these option comes with a fat packet of pros and cons, risks and benefits, advocates and critics. Don't let any one tell you that they know which one is best for you. Even if it's me.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
My Honest Opinion
I used to have a friend who, I would occasionally say, "kept me honest." My friend was a boy. He was 9 years old last time I saw him, but I had known him all his life. I loved him with all my heart. (I still do, though I might not recognize him now if he passed me on the street in full daylight.) What I meant about him keeping me honest was this. Sometimes back then, I would get extremely angry at men. It would be after learning about one more person who had raped or murdered or maimed another human being. As usual it would me a man doing the violence and, more often than not, a woman receiving it. Or, I would hear from my mother, who works to prevent domestic violence, about one more idiot who had inspired the headline, "Shoots family, then self." Only men seem to do these things in this order. Women, on the rare occasion they aim real bullets at real humans, at least have the decency to shoot themselves first most of the time.
Even though most men don't hurt other people, I would cry that all men are dangerous. Even though most men don't make such bad choices, I would shout that all men are stupid. Even though most men are capable of giving and receiving love, I would insist that they were all emotionally defective scum who should be eradicated from the earth.
I was young. I was angry. It didn't make sense to draw these sweeping generalizations about the other (slightly LESS than) half of our species. But, I didn't care if what I was saying was true, it felt like such a relief just to say it, just to hate them. If felt good and clean and pure and simple. Also, it was a lot easier that trying to stretch my mind and emotions until they were flexible and expansive enough to consider all the complexities of our gender based socio-cultural realities.
I didn't want to spend the energy. I didn't want to spend the time. I wasn't just being cheap, I was cheating.
And then, after a gibbering rage on the topic of "Man's Essential Evil Nature," I would have a visit with my friend. He was sweet, and kind and thoughtful. He was beautiful and perfect and dear. He was smart and loved to learn about science and nature. He was creative and made up stories about detective adventures and robots from Mars. He was loving, and paid attention to the likes and dislikes of everyone in his family, so that he was always a good person to turn to when it was time to brainstorm about birthday or Christmas gifts. He was silly and fun and helpful and affectionate. He was, in short, every thing a human being should be.
And he was a boy, on his way to being a man. Five minutes with him and all my generalized fury just fell away. Like I said, he kept me honest. He kept me in touch with reality, and squelched my ballooning ideology of anger before it took over my entire world view.
I'm thinking maybe this is what I need right now as I'm trying to sort out my thoughts and opinions on breast reconstruction: someone to keep me honest. I need to get close to someone who had the surgery, and really experienced it as a worthwhile, sensible procedure. I need to hear about someone who was plainly offered all the choices, and told of all the risks, and had the surgery anyway. I want to understand, or at least try to, the perspective of someone on the other side of my self-erected fence.
I don't even know where to start. I wrote about the woman I met a few months ago, whose "live breast" is now so much larger than her implanted one that she looks totally lopsided in clothes. This seems like a less than satisfactory outcome. I've heard about several mastectomy patients who started the reconstruction process but who, by the time they were ready to have their neonipples* attached, were so sick of surgeries that they decided just to live without them. I am fascinated by the idea of smooth Barbiesque globes underneath their clothes and would love to see them. But it doesn't make me feel any better about surgery as a viable option. I know a young woman who, after being diagnosed with cancer at the age of 17, ended up with a double mastectomy and double implants. She's been plagued with complications and infections for years. Her story is less than comforting.
Maybe it's too much to expect that I'll ever find a woman who is actually happy with her reconstructed breasts? Maybe the most I can hope for is to meet someone who is satisfied, content. Maybe there are lots of women out there who really truly feel like they had a choice and that they made the right one by getting new breasts built. I would really like to meet them.
*I am just came up with this, but I think it might actually be a real word. I've been reading Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex by Mary Roach. It's a fascinating page-turner and I recommend you read it for your own education and entertainment. If you do, you'll learn, as I did, that surgeons use terms like "neoclitoris" and "neoanus" to describe body parts they've created from scratch. "Neonipple" seems like a reasonable extrapolation, despite the opinion of this site's spell-check function.
Even though most men don't hurt other people, I would cry that all men are dangerous. Even though most men don't make such bad choices, I would shout that all men are stupid. Even though most men are capable of giving and receiving love, I would insist that they were all emotionally defective scum who should be eradicated from the earth.
I was young. I was angry. It didn't make sense to draw these sweeping generalizations about the other (slightly LESS than) half of our species. But, I didn't care if what I was saying was true, it felt like such a relief just to say it, just to hate them. If felt good and clean and pure and simple. Also, it was a lot easier that trying to stretch my mind and emotions until they were flexible and expansive enough to consider all the complexities of our gender based socio-cultural realities.
I didn't want to spend the energy. I didn't want to spend the time. I wasn't just being cheap, I was cheating.
And then, after a gibbering rage on the topic of "Man's Essential Evil Nature," I would have a visit with my friend. He was sweet, and kind and thoughtful. He was beautiful and perfect and dear. He was smart and loved to learn about science and nature. He was creative and made up stories about detective adventures and robots from Mars. He was loving, and paid attention to the likes and dislikes of everyone in his family, so that he was always a good person to turn to when it was time to brainstorm about birthday or Christmas gifts. He was silly and fun and helpful and affectionate. He was, in short, every thing a human being should be.
And he was a boy, on his way to being a man. Five minutes with him and all my generalized fury just fell away. Like I said, he kept me honest. He kept me in touch with reality, and squelched my ballooning ideology of anger before it took over my entire world view.
I'm thinking maybe this is what I need right now as I'm trying to sort out my thoughts and opinions on breast reconstruction: someone to keep me honest. I need to get close to someone who had the surgery, and really experienced it as a worthwhile, sensible procedure. I need to hear about someone who was plainly offered all the choices, and told of all the risks, and had the surgery anyway. I want to understand, or at least try to, the perspective of someone on the other side of my self-erected fence.
I don't even know where to start. I wrote about the woman I met a few months ago, whose "live breast" is now so much larger than her implanted one that she looks totally lopsided in clothes. This seems like a less than satisfactory outcome. I've heard about several mastectomy patients who started the reconstruction process but who, by the time they were ready to have their neonipples* attached, were so sick of surgeries that they decided just to live without them. I am fascinated by the idea of smooth Barbiesque globes underneath their clothes and would love to see them. But it doesn't make me feel any better about surgery as a viable option. I know a young woman who, after being diagnosed with cancer at the age of 17, ended up with a double mastectomy and double implants. She's been plagued with complications and infections for years. Her story is less than comforting.
Maybe it's too much to expect that I'll ever find a woman who is actually happy with her reconstructed breasts? Maybe the most I can hope for is to meet someone who is satisfied, content. Maybe there are lots of women out there who really truly feel like they had a choice and that they made the right one by getting new breasts built. I would really like to meet them.
*I am just came up with this, but I think it might actually be a real word. I've been reading Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex by Mary Roach. It's a fascinating page-turner and I recommend you read it for your own education and entertainment. If you do, you'll learn, as I did, that surgeons use terms like "neoclitoris" and "neoanus" to describe body parts they've created from scratch. "Neonipple" seems like a reasonable extrapolation, despite the opinion of this site's spell-check function.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Confession
I am totally judgemental about reconstructive surgery.
I try not to be. I try to direct my adamant feelings in the direction of "every woman has a right to know what all her choices are." This is what I say out loud when invited to speak about the issue. This is what I tell other breast cancer patients and survivors when the topic comes up. If I were really being honest with them (and myself,) I'd probably say, "reconstruction is ridiculous, obscenely expensive, wasteful and harmful surgery!"
I wouldn't just say it, I'd scream it. I'd plaster the town with home-made flyers calling the surgery "medical mutilation" and begging women to "Stop It!"*
It's not polite to say that. I can't say it to anyone who works in healthcare and helps women to get reconstruction. I can't say it to women who are considering reconstruction or who have had it. I guess that's part of why I haven't called that woman yet...the one who emailed me and asked if I could talk with her. I want to call and give her an unbiased opinion, a relaxed listening ear. But, I can't. I don't have one.
I think what she is doing is wrong. I think it is a bad choice. I think the expander she has in her chest could damage the muscular wall behind her breast, or even her rib cage. I think stretching her skin out to make room for an implant sounds painful and self-punishing. I think the implant itself, whether it's silicone gel or saline in a silicone wrapper, could make her sick, or weak, or disabled. I think the surgery itself could go wrong and she could end up with a deformed lump on her body, instead of an attractive breast. I think she might need repeated surgeries to get a look and a feel she's satisfied with. I think the incision site could get infected. I think she could loose or gain weight in the future and end up looking strange and lopsided anyway.
I think to risk all these complications and negative results for the sake of "self image" says something very sad and twisted about our culture, about women, and about the individuals who undergo this surgery.
So, that's my confession for this morning. I'm not open minded about this issue at all. I'm stuck up and judgemental and politically incorrect. When I say, "All women should have the right to get this surgery if they want to," I almost believe it. It seems a little unfair to me, that we live in a world where 1.5 billion dollars a year is spent on breast implant surgeries, and there are still hungry children in this country. But, insofar as I believe that capitalism is a healthy system for resource distribution (I don't) and insofar as I believe that our medical reimbursement system is sound (what a joke) then yes, I believe that all women should have the right to reconstructive surgery after breast implants.
I also believe all women should have the right to pierce and tattoo their faces until there original features are indiscernible. It's getting to where a boob jobs sound about this appealing.
*That round of flyers would be directed at women who were considering getting implants. The sequel would be directed at women who had already had them put in. These would say, "Cut It Out!"
I try not to be. I try to direct my adamant feelings in the direction of "every woman has a right to know what all her choices are." This is what I say out loud when invited to speak about the issue. This is what I tell other breast cancer patients and survivors when the topic comes up. If I were really being honest with them (and myself,) I'd probably say, "reconstruction is ridiculous, obscenely expensive, wasteful and harmful surgery!"
I wouldn't just say it, I'd scream it. I'd plaster the town with home-made flyers calling the surgery "medical mutilation" and begging women to "Stop It!"*
It's not polite to say that. I can't say it to anyone who works in healthcare and helps women to get reconstruction. I can't say it to women who are considering reconstruction or who have had it. I guess that's part of why I haven't called that woman yet...the one who emailed me and asked if I could talk with her. I want to call and give her an unbiased opinion, a relaxed listening ear. But, I can't. I don't have one.
I think what she is doing is wrong. I think it is a bad choice. I think the expander she has in her chest could damage the muscular wall behind her breast, or even her rib cage. I think stretching her skin out to make room for an implant sounds painful and self-punishing. I think the implant itself, whether it's silicone gel or saline in a silicone wrapper, could make her sick, or weak, or disabled. I think the surgery itself could go wrong and she could end up with a deformed lump on her body, instead of an attractive breast. I think she might need repeated surgeries to get a look and a feel she's satisfied with. I think the incision site could get infected. I think she could loose or gain weight in the future and end up looking strange and lopsided anyway.
I think to risk all these complications and negative results for the sake of "self image" says something very sad and twisted about our culture, about women, and about the individuals who undergo this surgery.
So, that's my confession for this morning. I'm not open minded about this issue at all. I'm stuck up and judgemental and politically incorrect. When I say, "All women should have the right to get this surgery if they want to," I almost believe it. It seems a little unfair to me, that we live in a world where 1.5 billion dollars a year is spent on breast implant surgeries, and there are still hungry children in this country. But, insofar as I believe that capitalism is a healthy system for resource distribution (I don't) and insofar as I believe that our medical reimbursement system is sound (what a joke) then yes, I believe that all women should have the right to reconstructive surgery after breast implants.
I also believe all women should have the right to pierce and tattoo their faces until there original features are indiscernible. It's getting to where a boob jobs sound about this appealing.
*That round of flyers would be directed at women who were considering getting implants. The sequel would be directed at women who had already had them put in. These would say, "Cut It Out!"
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Mystery Missive
This is an email I got from a total stranger a couple of weeks ago.
She gave me her phone number, but I didn't call it. Instead, I wrote back:
I haven't heard from her. It's been two weeks. I wonder how much the expanders have stretched her chest skin out since the day she wrote to me. I feel bad for not calling her already. Maybe she's already got the implant inserted. Maybe I could have made a difference in her life.
I'll probably call her today.
A. sent me your info. She mentioned you were out of town. I wanted to thank you for the info, I went on the Absolutely Safe website and immediately netflixed the movie and watched. Disturbing, for sure.
Did you have a mastectomy and if I can ask, what did you opt for ?
Only place I know that the fat tissue surgical procedure if performed is in New Orleans - and of course, I'm looking for information on insurance coverage and especially now that I've already started a different procedure.
I'd much rather know before the final step, so this was really helpful, thanks again!
Let's talk when possible if you're up for it!
She gave me her phone number, but I didn't call it. Instead, I wrote back:
I'm so happy to hear from you.
Give me a call and I'll be happy to answer all your questions.
Today is very busy, but tomorrow I have a little more time...and the weekend is wide open.
I haven't heard from her. It's been two weeks. I wonder how much the expanders have stretched her chest skin out since the day she wrote to me. I feel bad for not calling her already. Maybe she's already got the implant inserted. Maybe I could have made a difference in her life.
I'll probably call her today.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
3 hours a day
Back when I was first recovering from surgery, and everything about my life and priorities seemed so clear and easy, I started writing for 3 hours every day, from Monday to Friday. I don't know what I thought I'd get out of it. It just seemed like the thing to do. It felt right. It helped me feel grounded and sane when everything thing else in my life seemed to be turning upside down. Sometimes good things came out of my writing: complete stories, interesting accounts of my recent adventures. Lots of days it was all just crap: lists of thing I needed to do, complaints about my aching body. When I came to Colorado, I kept doing it for a while, getting up at 5 am so I could still have the day to spend with my friends here. But, after awhile, other things seemed more important. Sleep seemed more important. Cleaning the litter box seemed more important. I was busy making breakfast, making phone calls, making a life for myself here in this city of my past. I stopped writing.
But when I came home from my 10 day visit to California earlier this month, I felt so clear again that writing is important for me to do. I'm still not certain why. It's a real act of faith, sitting down at the keyboard every morning, getting up at five am five days a week. Mostly I have nothing to show for it. I told myself that as part of my new writing routine I would also post something on one of my blogs every day. Even if it was really short, even if it was unpolished, even if it was self-indulgent drivel, I would put something up on either the Double Whammy Diary or The Adventures of Library Girl every single writing day.
That's what I've been doing. That's why the last 7 entries or so have been so sloppy. It's an experiment, I guess, in quantity over quality. Thanks for bearing with me.
But when I came home from my 10 day visit to California earlier this month, I felt so clear again that writing is important for me to do. I'm still not certain why. It's a real act of faith, sitting down at the keyboard every morning, getting up at five am five days a week. Mostly I have nothing to show for it. I told myself that as part of my new writing routine I would also post something on one of my blogs every day. Even if it was really short, even if it was unpolished, even if it was self-indulgent drivel, I would put something up on either the Double Whammy Diary or The Adventures of Library Girl every single writing day.
That's what I've been doing. That's why the last 7 entries or so have been so sloppy. It's an experiment, I guess, in quantity over quality. Thanks for bearing with me.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Re-Learning the Lesson
I worked really hard on my talk, and suffered over it.
First, I spent hours and hours writing about what I think gets in the way for people who want to reach out and provide support for Breast Cancer Patients. I wrote for longer about how much they (we) need help and in what ways. Most of what I wrote was yada yada yada and I cut it out.
Then, I was delighted on the day that I managed to sort out a few strong threads of information and wrangle them into a reasonable outline. It took two weeks for me to flesh out the outline and I felt stupid the whole time I was doing it.
It's hard to keep believing I have anything useful to say to anybody on this topic. Isn't that silly? Here I am writing this blog for months and months and I feel like I don't have anything useful to say? I guess the difference is, if no one wants to read the blog, they don't have to. They can stop and go do something else anytime they want.
But, if I do this talk, I'm inviting people to come and I'm promising that they'll get some value out of the event. I guess they could get up and leave if they thought it was stupid...but most people don't really feel free to vacate the premises in the middle of a workshop.
I try not to worry too much. I guess my hope is that I'll be brilliant and dynamic and will motivate people to break through their cultural habits of isolation. I hope that I'll inspire them to build strong networks that will continue to serve them in future times of crisis and that they'll increase the number and quality of authentic relationships in their lives. Maybe that's too much pressure to put on myself? (!)
After something that felt like a month of writing and organizing and editing and tweaking, I did a practice run with K. It was the end of the day. She was tired. She listened to it from the sofa, laying down like one of Freud's patients. She liked it. She thought it was good. She made some suggestions.
To my immense relief, she agreed that it might be useful to people. That's the main thing I want for this talk, workshop, whatever. I want it to be useful to people.
A few days later, after making K's suggested changes and putting together a rough draft flip chart, I did a second practice run for 3 friends. It was the middle of the day. They sat up in their chairs. They drank tea and ate food we enjoyed calling crumpets, though they were really just assorted pastries.
My friends made good suggestions too. I could make it more interactive. There are parts I can shorten. There are places I might introduce a topic shift more smoothly. I need to introduce myself and Breast Friends in more detail.
It was very good to get their feedback. Just as importantly, it was very good to get it over with. I stood up there and I went through the whole thing and I didn't faint and fall over from embarrassment at my stupid talk. That was how it felt before I did it...that I would feel so useless and awful that I wouldn't even be able to stand it...or even stand up.
But I feel better now. The packet of brochures and support information from head of the local Breast Friends Chapter came in the mail while I was in California last week. It's nice to feel like I have some concrete reference materials turn to. Also, during the last two weeks, while I was taking a break from actively working on the talk, but still thinking about it, I had some more good ideas about what to do and say.
Most importantly, I think actually being in California helped me relax. The idea of giving a stupid and useless talk still feels unpleasant, but not devastatingly so.
I think that's because I remembered that I am a full-grown functioning adult, capable of having a good job and supporting myself. It's easy to remember that in California, where there is a house furnished with nice things I selected and purchased for myself. It's easy to remember when I'm visiting my friends there, who met me and knew me as someone who drove a nice car, travelled a lot, and invited them out on my sailboat most weekends. Someone like that, like the person I feel myself to be when I'm there, could volunteer to give a workshop on community building, and it's just a cool thing to do. If it's excellent, it's excellent. If it's mediocre, so be it. Either way, it just seems good that I thought of it, that I worked on it, that I tried it.
But, here in Colorado, it's hard to remember that I'm a competent, capable, valuable adult. When I lived here before, I was mostly working minimum wage jobs and taking part time college classes. I rode my bike everywhere for 3 years. Then, for seven, I owned a string of semi-reliable vehicles that were donated to me by family, friends, and ex-lovers. I was always broke and usually in debt.
I'm not broke now, and I'm not in debt. But neither am I earning my own money. I've used up my savings. I don't have a car of my own. My sail boat is broken and parked on a busted up trailer than cannot safely haul it farther than 20 feet.
I don't have a job, much less a career. I don't even have any concrete plans for one at the moment. No matter how much I tell myself that it is okay to take a break, I still feel like a bum. No matter how hard I work everyday to wrestle this house into a functioning home for K and me and our various furry housemates, I still feel like a spoiled brat for not working at a "real" job.
This talk...writing it, giving it...has felt like an opportunity to prove that I'm actually capable of doing something worthwhile, that I'm not a spoiled bratty bum taking advantage of K's gentle heart and love for me.
Actually, "opportunity" is the wrong word for how it feels. It feels more like an exam, or a dissertation. But, instead of defending my work, I've been set to the task of defending myself, and my right to feel okay about myself on any day that I don't earn a paycheck.
Maybe feeling better about my talk, and myself, wasn't as much about remembering my life when I was employed, as it was about remembering my life right after I was fired. Maybe the magic of being back in California had to do with going back to the place I was at when I was learning the lessons that cancer had to teach me.
Those lessons were mostly about what is important in life: family, friend, each moment of being alive. And they were about what is not important: impressing the boss, fat paychecks, working hard at a job I don't believe in.
These things seemed so clear back in August. I can't believe I fell back into the trap of needing to prove that I deserve to feel good about myself. I guess I'll probably keep forgetting what's really important. Hopefully, I'll also keep remembering.
Maybe giving my talk will help me remember more often. Maybe it will help other people remember too. But even if it doesn't do a damn thing for anybody, I still think it's worth doing. I think it's worth taking a chance. I think chances are good.
I'm not broke now, and I'm not in debt. But neither am I earning my own money. I've used up my savings. I don't have a car of my own. My sail boat is broken and parked on a busted up trailer than cannot safely haul it farther than 20 feet.
I don't have a job, much less a career. I don't even have any concrete plans for one at the moment. No matter how much I tell myself that it is okay to take a break, I still feel like a bum. No matter how hard I work everyday to wrestle this house into a functioning home for K and me and our various furry housemates, I still feel like a spoiled brat for not working at a "real" job.
This talk...writing it, giving it...has felt like an opportunity to prove that I'm actually capable of doing something worthwhile, that I'm not a spoiled bratty bum taking advantage of K's gentle heart and love for me.
Actually, "opportunity" is the wrong word for how it feels. It feels more like an exam, or a dissertation. But, instead of defending my work, I've been set to the task of defending myself, and my right to feel okay about myself on any day that I don't earn a paycheck.
Maybe feeling better about my talk, and myself, wasn't as much about remembering my life when I was employed, as it was about remembering my life right after I was fired. Maybe the magic of being back in California had to do with going back to the place I was at when I was learning the lessons that cancer had to teach me.
Those lessons were mostly about what is important in life: family, friend, each moment of being alive. And they were about what is not important: impressing the boss, fat paychecks, working hard at a job I don't believe in.
These things seemed so clear back in August. I can't believe I fell back into the trap of needing to prove that I deserve to feel good about myself. I guess I'll probably keep forgetting what's really important. Hopefully, I'll also keep remembering.
Maybe giving my talk will help me remember more often. Maybe it will help other people remember too. But even if it doesn't do a damn thing for anybody, I still think it's worth doing. I think it's worth taking a chance. I think chances are good.
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