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Monday, January 18, 2016
Friday, January 15, 2016
Parenting When Your Child is an Adult and Doesn't Need Your Damn Parenting
The greatest thing that ever happened to me was becoming a parent.
I should preface that by saying that being a parent, or a spouse, for that matter, was never a goal of mine. Probably because it happened to me before I really had the chance to evaluate those situations. But, growing up and thinking about future life decisions never included me having children of my own some day.
I could barely take care of myself. Responsibility for another person? Uh, hell nah.
And "responsibility" doesn't even cut it as a word here. Babies are HELPLESS. They can't do ANYTHING themselves, aside from sleep and eat. They have a lot of demands. They're super fragile.
I didn't take care of my own DOG effectively when I was a child.
Get the picture?
So fast-forward to me, just past my 21st birthday, checking into the hospital to produce a human child. A child that would be sent home with me at the conclusion of my stay.
I've talked about this next part before, but it bears repeating, because the memory is so sharply embedded.
It was the moment that changed my whole life. Not to get too cliche or anything, but I already put it out there, and I'm not taking it back, so...
When that black-haired ball of screaming rage was laid across my chest, I totally fell in love. Like, deep, crazy, insane love. All-encompassing, wild, protective love. I knew, right then, that it was him and me to the end.
What I didn't realize was that "the end" was coming a whole lot sooner than I wanted it to come.
Don't get me wrong, I logged some seriously great parent-child bonding time. He was my world for his first 12 years, and I was his.
Life was good that way.
But then, as will inevitably happen in long-term relationships, cracks started to form in the foundation. He was independent, and wanted to hang with his friends. I didn't say anything, so certain was I that he would realize I was way, way cooler than any of them. He was a genius, so I knew it wouldn't take long.
I'm still waiting for him to realize it.
But I digress. So, when you go from being that mom who wants to do everything with her kid to being that mom whose kid doesn't want much of anything to do with her, due to not being a kid anymore...well, there's a mental break that has to be made.
A step back.
A disconnect.
A LETTING GO.
I'm not much on letting go. Wait. That's not true. I'm not much on letting go when I don't want to let go. I'm great at it when it's my idea. Or when something requires more work than I'd care to do. If somebody is super lame, for example. I'll let go of that shit in a heartbeat. See ya, stupid. But yeah, no, not my kid.
He's going to be 20 this year. TWENTY.
I was 20 when I found out I was going to have him. What a great day that was! Just kidding. It wasn't that great. Pregnancy wasn't that great. In fact, it sucked. But the END product, super great.
He's independent. He doesn't ask me for anything. Doesn't hit me up for loans. Doesn't hit me up for advice. Doesn't text or call.
What he DOES do is randomly Facebook message me. And every time, EVERY exchange, well, I completely ruin it.
Because I cannot suppress my excitement.
The typical "conversation" goes something like this.
Hunter: Hey
Me: Hey
Me: How are you?
Me: I miss you.
Me: I mean, really. Like, a lot.
Hunter: :)
Me: I love you. I'm so proud of you. When can I see you? When can you visit? How are you? What's happening? How is everything?
Hunter: *Radio silence*
Aaaaaaand scene. Repeat in two weeks or so.
I mean, I'm an adult, with my own life, with my own activities. But there is something about him, about this one individual person in a sea of billions, that makes me want to drop everything I do and everything I love if I even THINK he may need me.
Does that part ever go away? Will I ever stop being a stage-five clinger with my own child?
We had a Facebook exchange earlier today during which I said, in a super casual way via typed word, that this was my best day ever. He responded that it wasn't HIS best day ever, because he had to talk to me. I responded that he left me no choice but to blog about him. This is why I hate my struggle with impulsivity and then my struggle with follow-through...because once I threatened it, I had to do it.
But anyway, here was his counter:
Hunter: I'm not going to read it, just like all of your other blogs, so please go ahead and try to edit it accordingly in order to avoid embarrassing yourself, and, more importantly, me, anymore than you already have. You're predictable and cliche.
And the sad part? The really sad part?
I was super proud. Because I had raised a son who could fire a snappy and cutting comeback so quickly.
*Commence shame spiral*
I still love him.
I should preface that by saying that being a parent, or a spouse, for that matter, was never a goal of mine. Probably because it happened to me before I really had the chance to evaluate those situations. But, growing up and thinking about future life decisions never included me having children of my own some day.
I could barely take care of myself. Responsibility for another person? Uh, hell nah.
And "responsibility" doesn't even cut it as a word here. Babies are HELPLESS. They can't do ANYTHING themselves, aside from sleep and eat. They have a lot of demands. They're super fragile.
I didn't take care of my own DOG effectively when I was a child.
Get the picture?
So fast-forward to me, just past my 21st birthday, checking into the hospital to produce a human child. A child that would be sent home with me at the conclusion of my stay.
I've talked about this next part before, but it bears repeating, because the memory is so sharply embedded.
It was the moment that changed my whole life. Not to get too cliche or anything, but I already put it out there, and I'm not taking it back, so...
When that black-haired ball of screaming rage was laid across my chest, I totally fell in love. Like, deep, crazy, insane love. All-encompassing, wild, protective love. I knew, right then, that it was him and me to the end.
What I didn't realize was that "the end" was coming a whole lot sooner than I wanted it to come.
Don't get me wrong, I logged some seriously great parent-child bonding time. He was my world for his first 12 years, and I was his.
Life was good that way.
But then, as will inevitably happen in long-term relationships, cracks started to form in the foundation. He was independent, and wanted to hang with his friends. I didn't say anything, so certain was I that he would realize I was way, way cooler than any of them. He was a genius, so I knew it wouldn't take long.
I'm still waiting for him to realize it.
But I digress. So, when you go from being that mom who wants to do everything with her kid to being that mom whose kid doesn't want much of anything to do with her, due to not being a kid anymore...well, there's a mental break that has to be made.
A step back.
A disconnect.
A LETTING GO.
I'm not much on letting go. Wait. That's not true. I'm not much on letting go when I don't want to let go. I'm great at it when it's my idea. Or when something requires more work than I'd care to do. If somebody is super lame, for example. I'll let go of that shit in a heartbeat. See ya, stupid. But yeah, no, not my kid.
He's going to be 20 this year. TWENTY.
I was 20 when I found out I was going to have him. What a great day that was! Just kidding. It wasn't that great. Pregnancy wasn't that great. In fact, it sucked. But the END product, super great.
He's independent. He doesn't ask me for anything. Doesn't hit me up for loans. Doesn't hit me up for advice. Doesn't text or call.
What he DOES do is randomly Facebook message me. And every time, EVERY exchange, well, I completely ruin it.
Because I cannot suppress my excitement.
The typical "conversation" goes something like this.
Hunter: Hey
Me: Hey
Me: How are you?
Me: I miss you.
Me: I mean, really. Like, a lot.
Hunter: :)
Me: I love you. I'm so proud of you. When can I see you? When can you visit? How are you? What's happening? How is everything?
Hunter: *Radio silence*
Aaaaaaand scene. Repeat in two weeks or so.
I mean, I'm an adult, with my own life, with my own activities. But there is something about him, about this one individual person in a sea of billions, that makes me want to drop everything I do and everything I love if I even THINK he may need me.
Does that part ever go away? Will I ever stop being a stage-five clinger with my own child?
We had a Facebook exchange earlier today during which I said, in a super casual way via typed word, that this was my best day ever. He responded that it wasn't HIS best day ever, because he had to talk to me. I responded that he left me no choice but to blog about him. This is why I hate my struggle with impulsivity and then my struggle with follow-through...because once I threatened it, I had to do it.
But anyway, here was his counter:
Hunter: I'm not going to read it, just like all of your other blogs, so please go ahead and try to edit it accordingly in order to avoid embarrassing yourself, and, more importantly, me, anymore than you already have. You're predictable and cliche.
And the sad part? The really sad part?
I was super proud. Because I had raised a son who could fire a snappy and cutting comeback so quickly.
*Commence shame spiral*
I still love him.
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Let's Talk About Food (Alternate Title: Fear and Loathing in My Body).
In the year 1988, I enrolled in Home Ec because I was allowed to have a blow-off class, and how hard could it be?
Pretty hard, as it happens. I still can't make divinity.
But that's neither here nor there. I pinpoint middle school home ec because it was the first time I remember consciously thinking that I was fat.
And, brother, there has been no turning back since.
Even as I type this, I feel vaguely hive-ish and distinctly uncomfortable, which is how I felt for most of the 80s, so let's segue back to that little pocket of good times. My home ec partner was this boy, name not important because he's not important, who made a throwaway comment about a new outfit I wore to school one day.
"You look like a cow."
At age 13, I was 5'9" and about 140 pounds. This is roughly the same size I am now, which, if I'm honest with myself, isn't cow-sized. But when surrounded by other students in different stages of puberty/growth, I was noticeably larger than, well, almost all of them.
I was also all puberty-ed up and stuff. So that comment hit me right in the feels. I took it to heart. I BECAME the standard-size cow. I was always food-obsessed. But now my obsession shifted to my body, and the inevitable back-and-forth began.
I lost something like 30 pounds in a very, very short amount of time. My parents took me to the Golden Corral buffet because they were worried.
And I was skinny.
And people commented, favorably.
And I felt GREAT.
Thus began a horrible roller coaster of self-loathing. I stayed skinny until my sophomore year, at which point I gained 40 pounds over a period of maybe six months. My coaches teased me after weigh-ins about the numbers they were recording.
"I can't believe you weigh ___ pounds!!!" *laughing, looking around the crowded room, repeating*
When I was 18 and went off to college, I was overwhelmed with joy that I could eat all the unhealthy food that my parents didn't keep around the house when I was growing up. I lived on white bread and jelly mountains and snack cakes and Lucky Charms. By the end of the semester, I could only wear my DAD'S sweats. I gave almost my entire wardrobe away to my roommate.
That's when the shame spiral commenced. Every day I woke up full of resolve and a desire to "get healthy" and make good choices. By the end of the day, though, I was starving (because I didn't eat) and cranky and it seemed insane that, if I didn't eat anymore, I couldn't eat until the NEXT DAY. That was a whole completely different day! From the one I was in currently! Was that even realistic!? No way.
And as jacked up as my mind was, I decided to try pretty much anything if it promised weight loss. I hated throwing up, so bulimia was out, but smoking wasn't (I managed to get down roughly three half-cigarettes). Or mini-thins. Or 357 Magnums (Safe as Coffee!).
I was always starving myself or stuffing myself. There was no happy medium. There was an EXTRA medium, maybe. There were a lot of elastic waistbands and over-sized sweatshirts. I had my dad and stepmom lock the cabinets, and the fridge. But I had a skinny wrist and a lot of determination. Nothing worked.
The only thing that ever saved me was exercise. I was always very, very sports- and fitness-focused, from an exercise standpoint. First it was aerobics tapes with my dad. Then it was weights, first in our basement gym, then in the one he opened over his office.
I could get on an elliptical for an hour. I could log serious gym time. I loved tennis, and my spring through fall seasons were loaded with it. Later, weights and tennis morphed into yoga, and then Nevada Fitness Club. Exercise saved me.
Food crippled me.
And I couldn't get to the root of it. I didn't have a bad childhood on which to blame my choices. When I was asked about the amount of food I could consume, when people made comments like, "Where do you put it?" I would give my standard reply. Because I thought it was true.
I just love food.
I stayed on the roller coaster of weight throughout my twenties and early thirties, at which point I finally, miraculously, stabilized.
From a weight standpoint. From a mental health standpoint regarding my body image, it was still an "All aboard the hot mess express!"
I was fine, as long as I never started eating. Once I did, it was game over. I had a fairly strong nutritional background, but I couldn't seem to apply even the most basic rules to my own life. I'd read little fitness articles about "Nutritionists reveal their daily food intake" and it would be shit like, "I just have a small handful of nuts to get me through my cravings! Tee hee."
Bitches. Those nuts probably weren't even chocolate-covered.
I still don't know when or why I became like this. I don't blame unrealistic advertising/images of supermodels/celebrities, because it's an ever-present background noise that I can pretty much tune out at this point. My parents didn't fat-shame me; on the contrary, they were always really supportive.
I think part of it is being a woman, with all of the multiple open tabs in the mind that implies, and part of it is that I've been like this for so long that it had become deeply, deeply ingrained.
But, shit, ENOUGH. My number one saying is, "You gotta get there yourself." And I finally, FINALLY, did.
In October, I got rid of all three of my scales, going cold-turkey with my weight obsession. It was brutal. I truly felt like scales were my drug. I kept my eye out for them in assorted bathrooms after giving mine away. I had several mini-panic attacks that my friends text-calmed me through. I imagined that my clothes were getting tighter.
And then, after several weeks, I could suddenly breathe again. It felt normal, not starting my day with a weigh-in. I didn't think about it at all, first for hours at a time, then days.
At the same time, I discovered Emily Rosen, and her very plainspoken way of addressing what it means to have a healthy attitude about food. So it is, now, finally, that I'm claiming a healthy perspective toward food. I'm -SLOWLY- accepting that, just because I eat a bunch of white-chocolate-covered popcorn, I don't have to attack myself for the rest of the day (and the next one, who am I kidding?). I can just move on. It's a thing that people do literally all the time.
Make no mistake, this is a very, very slow process. There are still setbacks, for sure. I still get really anxious when I'm alone with a dessert. Just last week, I fell off the diet pop wagon for the first time in like, three years, and had a Diet Dr. Pepper. And then a whole can of trail mix. And then two chicken sandwiches. In like, the span of a mile (I was driving). And I spilled one of the sandwiches down my front. And side. And part of my seat.
Past Jen would have gone all weight-mental.
Present, still-weird but healing Jen reminded herself that she had exercised for 75 hard minutes that morning, and it was not a big deal.
I'm counting it a win. But, at the end of the day? It still comes down to this...
Pretty hard, as it happens. I still can't make divinity.
But that's neither here nor there. I pinpoint middle school home ec because it was the first time I remember consciously thinking that I was fat.
And, brother, there has been no turning back since.
Even as I type this, I feel vaguely hive-ish and distinctly uncomfortable, which is how I felt for most of the 80s, so let's segue back to that little pocket of good times. My home ec partner was this boy, name not important because he's not important, who made a throwaway comment about a new outfit I wore to school one day.
"You look like a cow."
At age 13, I was 5'9" and about 140 pounds. This is roughly the same size I am now, which, if I'm honest with myself, isn't cow-sized. But when surrounded by other students in different stages of puberty/growth, I was noticeably larger than, well, almost all of them.
I was also all puberty-ed up and stuff. So that comment hit me right in the feels. I took it to heart. I BECAME the standard-size cow. I was always food-obsessed. But now my obsession shifted to my body, and the inevitable back-and-forth began.
I lost something like 30 pounds in a very, very short amount of time. My parents took me to the Golden Corral buffet because they were worried.
And I was skinny.
And people commented, favorably.
And I felt GREAT.
Thus began a horrible roller coaster of self-loathing. I stayed skinny until my sophomore year, at which point I gained 40 pounds over a period of maybe six months. My coaches teased me after weigh-ins about the numbers they were recording.
"I can't believe you weigh ___ pounds!!!" *laughing, looking around the crowded room, repeating*
When I was 18 and went off to college, I was overwhelmed with joy that I could eat all the unhealthy food that my parents didn't keep around the house when I was growing up. I lived on white bread and jelly mountains and snack cakes and Lucky Charms. By the end of the semester, I could only wear my DAD'S sweats. I gave almost my entire wardrobe away to my roommate.
That's when the shame spiral commenced. Every day I woke up full of resolve and a desire to "get healthy" and make good choices. By the end of the day, though, I was starving (because I didn't eat) and cranky and it seemed insane that, if I didn't eat anymore, I couldn't eat until the NEXT DAY. That was a whole completely different day! From the one I was in currently! Was that even realistic!? No way.
And as jacked up as my mind was, I decided to try pretty much anything if it promised weight loss. I hated throwing up, so bulimia was out, but smoking wasn't (I managed to get down roughly three half-cigarettes). Or mini-thins. Or 357 Magnums (Safe as Coffee!).
I was always starving myself or stuffing myself. There was no happy medium. There was an EXTRA medium, maybe. There were a lot of elastic waistbands and over-sized sweatshirts. I had my dad and stepmom lock the cabinets, and the fridge. But I had a skinny wrist and a lot of determination. Nothing worked.
The only thing that ever saved me was exercise. I was always very, very sports- and fitness-focused, from an exercise standpoint. First it was aerobics tapes with my dad. Then it was weights, first in our basement gym, then in the one he opened over his office.
I could get on an elliptical for an hour. I could log serious gym time. I loved tennis, and my spring through fall seasons were loaded with it. Later, weights and tennis morphed into yoga, and then Nevada Fitness Club. Exercise saved me.
Food crippled me.
And I couldn't get to the root of it. I didn't have a bad childhood on which to blame my choices. When I was asked about the amount of food I could consume, when people made comments like, "Where do you put it?" I would give my standard reply. Because I thought it was true.
I just love food.
I stayed on the roller coaster of weight throughout my twenties and early thirties, at which point I finally, miraculously, stabilized.
From a weight standpoint. From a mental health standpoint regarding my body image, it was still an "All aboard the hot mess express!"
I was fine, as long as I never started eating. Once I did, it was game over. I had a fairly strong nutritional background, but I couldn't seem to apply even the most basic rules to my own life. I'd read little fitness articles about "Nutritionists reveal their daily food intake" and it would be shit like, "I just have a small handful of nuts to get me through my cravings! Tee hee."
Bitches. Those nuts probably weren't even chocolate-covered.
I still don't know when or why I became like this. I don't blame unrealistic advertising/images of supermodels/celebrities, because it's an ever-present background noise that I can pretty much tune out at this point. My parents didn't fat-shame me; on the contrary, they were always really supportive.
I think part of it is being a woman, with all of the multiple open tabs in the mind that implies, and part of it is that I've been like this for so long that it had become deeply, deeply ingrained.
But, shit, ENOUGH. My number one saying is, "You gotta get there yourself." And I finally, FINALLY, did.
In October, I got rid of all three of my scales, going cold-turkey with my weight obsession. It was brutal. I truly felt like scales were my drug. I kept my eye out for them in assorted bathrooms after giving mine away. I had several mini-panic attacks that my friends text-calmed me through. I imagined that my clothes were getting tighter.
And then, after several weeks, I could suddenly breathe again. It felt normal, not starting my day with a weigh-in. I didn't think about it at all, first for hours at a time, then days.
At the same time, I discovered Emily Rosen, and her very plainspoken way of addressing what it means to have a healthy attitude about food. So it is, now, finally, that I'm claiming a healthy perspective toward food. I'm -SLOWLY- accepting that, just because I eat a bunch of white-chocolate-covered popcorn, I don't have to attack myself for the rest of the day (and the next one, who am I kidding?). I can just move on. It's a thing that people do literally all the time.
Make no mistake, this is a very, very slow process. There are still setbacks, for sure. I still get really anxious when I'm alone with a dessert. Just last week, I fell off the diet pop wagon for the first time in like, three years, and had a Diet Dr. Pepper. And then a whole can of trail mix. And then two chicken sandwiches. In like, the span of a mile (I was driving). And I spilled one of the sandwiches down my front. And side. And part of my seat.
Past Jen would have gone all weight-mental.
Present, still-weird but healing Jen reminded herself that she had exercised for 75 hard minutes that morning, and it was not a big deal.
I'm counting it a win. But, at the end of the day? It still comes down to this...
Monday, January 11, 2016
Adventure Time!
I have never really been anything but a live-for-the-moment type of girl.
That's a blessing and a curse, really. Right now, because the sun's out and I just had this amazing lunch, I choose to consider it more of a blessing. Other times, when I've been zoned on the couch for the better part of a day, binge-watching Netflix, wearing my robe and covered in crumbs/sugar dust, I wish I was more of a forward-thinking type.
Overall, though, I'm all about the now. What I like about being this way is that I see life as a series of adventures just waiting to be collected. And one positive thing I can say for myself is that I can (quickly) find the positive in every negative situation. I've been tested. For sure [just like everyone], I have been tested. But I can do it.
My last six months have been full of amazing adventures. I've shattered my comfort zone more times than I can honestly count. I've tried many, many new things. If something doesn't work out, or is a little too weird, I file it in my "Unintentional Bucket List" and move on from there.
And I love it. I love that I can essentially live my life like a "Choose Your Own Adventure," but with less cataclysmic end choices than I always turned to in those childhood books of the same name.
I have this pretty incredible boyfriend who lives in a similar vein, and finding someone whose weird matches your own is truly the coolest. Plus, it's just easier because we love most of the same things and go on the same adventures together, so, if anything, my fun new life experience threshold has grown exponentially since he has come into my life.
Today, I had the chance to meet a bunch of new people, and then turn around and have lunch with someone I hadn't seen in 22 years. None of this would be happening if I hadn't had the unexpected opportunity to move to Springfield. And a year ago, I never, ever thought I would have a life outside of Nevada, much as I yearned for it to be so.
And that, because I realize some of you may be wondering by now, is the point of this blog. I felt fairly mired in some serious quicksand at this point last year. I had a son on the brink of adulthood, about to leave me behind (which is fine! Really! Except not, at the same time.) A lot of changes were happening, and I didn't feel that I had control over any of them. I wanted to be free, but had no idea how to start.
The human spirit, though, is an incredible, resilient thing. Even while I felt like curling up in the corner and rocking, I continued to get up and push myself forward. I tried new things that would introduce me to new people, even though every fiber of my being was telling me to stay home and read a book instead. When my friends told me I was getting a little too wild, I recognized it as something almost beyond my control. My world then was a cage, and there was no discernible release mechanism from the inside.
And then, suddenly, there was.
And I opened it.
It has been the best decision I've ever made, even though my sister would hasten to add that there weren't many good decisions prior to that with which to compare.
So, believe me when I say this, it is not too late. No matter where your struggles lie, no matter how hopeless you feel, understand that this doesn't have to be the best that life gets. It's a matter of shifting your thinking.
There was a post, from Humans of New York (check that site out, seriously!), that provided the best summation of how I look at life. It came along at the best (worst?) possible time, and got me through a lot of dark moments thereafter.
*Credit: Humans of New York, 2014*
There will always, always be a delicious pear. Find yours. And savor every moment of it once you do. Because all we have, ALL we have, is this moment. Right now.
That's a blessing and a curse, really. Right now, because the sun's out and I just had this amazing lunch, I choose to consider it more of a blessing. Other times, when I've been zoned on the couch for the better part of a day, binge-watching Netflix, wearing my robe and covered in crumbs/sugar dust, I wish I was more of a forward-thinking type.
Overall, though, I'm all about the now. What I like about being this way is that I see life as a series of adventures just waiting to be collected. And one positive thing I can say for myself is that I can (quickly) find the positive in every negative situation. I've been tested. For sure [just like everyone], I have been tested. But I can do it.
My last six months have been full of amazing adventures. I've shattered my comfort zone more times than I can honestly count. I've tried many, many new things. If something doesn't work out, or is a little too weird, I file it in my "Unintentional Bucket List" and move on from there.
And I love it. I love that I can essentially live my life like a "Choose Your Own Adventure," but with less cataclysmic end choices than I always turned to in those childhood books of the same name.
I have this pretty incredible boyfriend who lives in a similar vein, and finding someone whose weird matches your own is truly the coolest. Plus, it's just easier because we love most of the same things and go on the same adventures together, so, if anything, my fun new life experience threshold has grown exponentially since he has come into my life.
Today, I had the chance to meet a bunch of new people, and then turn around and have lunch with someone I hadn't seen in 22 years. None of this would be happening if I hadn't had the unexpected opportunity to move to Springfield. And a year ago, I never, ever thought I would have a life outside of Nevada, much as I yearned for it to be so.
And that, because I realize some of you may be wondering by now, is the point of this blog. I felt fairly mired in some serious quicksand at this point last year. I had a son on the brink of adulthood, about to leave me behind (which is fine! Really! Except not, at the same time.) A lot of changes were happening, and I didn't feel that I had control over any of them. I wanted to be free, but had no idea how to start.
The human spirit, though, is an incredible, resilient thing. Even while I felt like curling up in the corner and rocking, I continued to get up and push myself forward. I tried new things that would introduce me to new people, even though every fiber of my being was telling me to stay home and read a book instead. When my friends told me I was getting a little too wild, I recognized it as something almost beyond my control. My world then was a cage, and there was no discernible release mechanism from the inside.
And then, suddenly, there was.
And I opened it.
It has been the best decision I've ever made, even though my sister would hasten to add that there weren't many good decisions prior to that with which to compare.
So, believe me when I say this, it is not too late. No matter where your struggles lie, no matter how hopeless you feel, understand that this doesn't have to be the best that life gets. It's a matter of shifting your thinking.
There was a post, from Humans of New York (check that site out, seriously!), that provided the best summation of how I look at life. It came along at the best (worst?) possible time, and got me through a lot of dark moments thereafter.
*Credit: Humans of New York, 2014*
There will always, always be a delicious pear. Find yours. And savor every moment of it once you do. Because all we have, ALL we have, is this moment. Right now.
Wednesday, January 6, 2016
I'm Punchy.
It's the beginning of January, I'm a milestone age, I'm going on vacation in a matter of weeks, and I haven't really worked out for six months. For those keeping score on the walking cliche card, that can only mean one thing: new gym membership.
There were a couple of issues I faced with this new commitment, aside from my own deep-seated desire to remain deeply seated. First, I live in a community laden with options, and I am a woman laden with indecision. I knew this much: I'm 40, 4-0, and I like to punch and kick and punch.
Points for anyone who got that.
No? Moving on.
So my first desire was to punch stuff, and my second was to punch stuff in a location close to where I lived. That narrowed the options considerably, and Title Boxing seemed to be the answer. Plus, the first class was free. Boom.
My first class was on a rainy Sunday with this drill sergeant-type instructor. Perfect. She pushed, and pushed, and stayed on me, and called me Mama, which was oddly comforting (let's not go too deep with this), and I was sore for two days afterward. Then I got a follow-up call a couple of days later, inquiring about my level of satisfaction with my Title experience, during which I discovered that there was a current Groupon.
Done and done. These were my people.
Class number two was my first 5:30 a.m. foray, as well as my first kickboxing class. I was a little smug, because of my prior 18 months of combat cardio classes.
I realized about 10 minutes in that those classes didn't mean shit. Air-kicking and bag-kicking, weirdly, were not the same. But it was still kind of easy, once I got my stance and leg placement down. In no time at all, my smug had morphed to full-blown.
"Well, probably these classes are easy because I'm just naturally in prime physical condition, and good luck coming up with something too hard for me. Nice try, Title Boxing. You couldn't have known, honey. Don't blame yourself." I'm not going to say this was what I thought verbatim, but I'm not going to say it wasn't, either. The bottom line was that I didn't feel like I was getting a workout worthy of spending actual money on. This is how we learn, though, so I figured I'd just finish out my Groupon and then move on to the next gig.
Let me back up here, due to my propensity for all things disjointed, and add that kickboxing was also my first Tyler class. He's the instructor. I should mention that I have no idea what his name actually is, but I bet it's Tyler.
I digress, though. So this morning I went back, for 5:30 a.m. Power Hour Boxing. I didn't know if Tyler was like, strictly a kickboxing guy, and therefore if I should expect to see someone else teaching regular boxing, but nope, he was there. I was crazy relieved, because I didn't really feel like working that hard, and I knew in my heart that I could trust Tyler not to push me.
But Tyler, like so many before him, let me down. For the next 60 minutes, I was either running, speed-punching, or doing some form of walking lunge/jumping jack/deep squat. I didn't even have time for my 10 water breaks. It hurt. It hurt to breathe, I was pretty sure I tasted blood, and there was a very real, very terrifying span of seconds where I suspected that I was sweating to the point of smelling unpleasant.
The insult added to those layers of injury came when I inadvertently saw my reflection, started to laugh at the terrible form, and then realized those were my own arms flailing like a high-school girl-fight stereotype.
Before I had time to recover from the horror, I saw him approaching me. I started to furiously telegraph him in my mind. "Tyler, now is not a good time. I'm working through some things. I fell down some stairs a few months ago, and my arms still aren't right. I don't want to talk about my arms right now."
He ignored all of my non-verbal entreaties and resting bitch face. He was a damn machine. He just kept approaching. Then he was there. Next to me. My useless arms fell to my useless sides. I was defeated, and we both knew it. I steeled myself for the inevitable teaching moment, and reminded myself not to activate my tendency toward oppositional defiance.
"Hey," he said, gently, because above all else, Tyler is a gentleman. "I really like your bright shoes."
That was not what I was expecting. My reaction center, having been padlocking the potential oppositional defiance backlash, left the unable-to-handle-compliments section wide open and completely unmanned. Before my brain had fully processed his throwaway comment, my mouth was open and words were coming out. There was no time. THERE WAS NO TIME.
"I really like your bright sweatshirt."
And there it was. Words, once spoken, that could never be taken back. Words hanging in the stale air that I couldn't flail out and grab with my useless arms.
His sweatshirt wasn't bright. Not even a little.
He smiled at me, as one would smile at someone once they realized they were dealing with an vastly inferior intellect, and backed away. Facing me, so as to be able to react if I said something else incomprehensible.
The important thing that came out of the exchange was that he only encouraged me from that point forth, as one would a slow child.
So I got through that excruciating class, managed to bid Tyler a simultaneously muttered and strangled good day, and moved on to the next tortured part of my new routine: healthy food.
But I'm too hungry to talk about that right now.
There were a couple of issues I faced with this new commitment, aside from my own deep-seated desire to remain deeply seated. First, I live in a community laden with options, and I am a woman laden with indecision. I knew this much: I'm 40, 4-0, and I like to punch and kick and punch.
Points for anyone who got that.
No? Moving on.
So my first desire was to punch stuff, and my second was to punch stuff in a location close to where I lived. That narrowed the options considerably, and Title Boxing seemed to be the answer. Plus, the first class was free. Boom.
My first class was on a rainy Sunday with this drill sergeant-type instructor. Perfect. She pushed, and pushed, and stayed on me, and called me Mama, which was oddly comforting (let's not go too deep with this), and I was sore for two days afterward. Then I got a follow-up call a couple of days later, inquiring about my level of satisfaction with my Title experience, during which I discovered that there was a current Groupon.
Done and done. These were my people.
Class number two was my first 5:30 a.m. foray, as well as my first kickboxing class. I was a little smug, because of my prior 18 months of combat cardio classes.
I realized about 10 minutes in that those classes didn't mean shit. Air-kicking and bag-kicking, weirdly, were not the same. But it was still kind of easy, once I got my stance and leg placement down. In no time at all, my smug had morphed to full-blown.
"Well, probably these classes are easy because I'm just naturally in prime physical condition, and good luck coming up with something too hard for me. Nice try, Title Boxing. You couldn't have known, honey. Don't blame yourself." I'm not going to say this was what I thought verbatim, but I'm not going to say it wasn't, either. The bottom line was that I didn't feel like I was getting a workout worthy of spending actual money on. This is how we learn, though, so I figured I'd just finish out my Groupon and then move on to the next gig.
Let me back up here, due to my propensity for all things disjointed, and add that kickboxing was also my first Tyler class. He's the instructor. I should mention that I have no idea what his name actually is, but I bet it's Tyler.
I digress, though. So this morning I went back, for 5:30 a.m. Power Hour Boxing. I didn't know if Tyler was like, strictly a kickboxing guy, and therefore if I should expect to see someone else teaching regular boxing, but nope, he was there. I was crazy relieved, because I didn't really feel like working that hard, and I knew in my heart that I could trust Tyler not to push me.
But Tyler, like so many before him, let me down. For the next 60 minutes, I was either running, speed-punching, or doing some form of walking lunge/jumping jack/deep squat. I didn't even have time for my 10 water breaks. It hurt. It hurt to breathe, I was pretty sure I tasted blood, and there was a very real, very terrifying span of seconds where I suspected that I was sweating to the point of smelling unpleasant.
The insult added to those layers of injury came when I inadvertently saw my reflection, started to laugh at the terrible form, and then realized those were my own arms flailing like a high-school girl-fight stereotype.
Before I had time to recover from the horror, I saw him approaching me. I started to furiously telegraph him in my mind. "Tyler, now is not a good time. I'm working through some things. I fell down some stairs a few months ago, and my arms still aren't right. I don't want to talk about my arms right now."
He ignored all of my non-verbal entreaties and resting bitch face. He was a damn machine. He just kept approaching. Then he was there. Next to me. My useless arms fell to my useless sides. I was defeated, and we both knew it. I steeled myself for the inevitable teaching moment, and reminded myself not to activate my tendency toward oppositional defiance.
"Hey," he said, gently, because above all else, Tyler is a gentleman. "I really like your bright shoes."
That was not what I was expecting. My reaction center, having been padlocking the potential oppositional defiance backlash, left the unable-to-handle-compliments section wide open and completely unmanned. Before my brain had fully processed his throwaway comment, my mouth was open and words were coming out. There was no time. THERE WAS NO TIME.
"I really like your bright sweatshirt."
And there it was. Words, once spoken, that could never be taken back. Words hanging in the stale air that I couldn't flail out and grab with my useless arms.
His sweatshirt wasn't bright. Not even a little.
He smiled at me, as one would smile at someone once they realized they were dealing with an vastly inferior intellect, and backed away. Facing me, so as to be able to react if I said something else incomprehensible.
The important thing that came out of the exchange was that he only encouraged me from that point forth, as one would a slow child.
So I got through that excruciating class, managed to bid Tyler a simultaneously muttered and strangled good day, and moved on to the next tortured part of my new routine: healthy food.
But I'm too hungry to talk about that right now.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
The Jennifer Novak Story
A thing I like to do as part of my never-ending quest not to better myself as a person is come up with new titles for my autobiography.
This is not to say that I will ever write an autobiography, because I won't. Where's the fun in that? If I wanted to relive my first 40 years, I'd just get into my bed and pretend it was time to sleep, because it's part of my regular nighttime routine already.
No, the fun is in coming up with titles. Honestly, I don't even have to try. They just pop into my head randomly, sometimes based on current circumstances, but more often used as a symbol for my life decisions/experiences in general.
My go-to, stock title has long been "Mistakes Were Made: The Jennifer Novak Story." But that's a little too vague and a little too Every Man. Mistakes are part of being human. So I realized that it was time to broaden my horizons and narrow my focus simultaneously.
Without further adieu, then, here are several categories of The Jennifer Novak Story (that will never be written). Side note: I'm gonna go ahead and include "The Jennifer Novak Story" after every single one of them. Because I like it better that way.
Regrets:
"I Should've Eaten Before I Got There: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Sorry About What Happens Later: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Sure, I'll Have One More: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Challenge Accepted!: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Where Am I?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I'll be Healthy Tomorrow. Or Wait, No. Monday.: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"That Sounds Like a Problem for Future Jen: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I'm So Full: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"She's Taken Off Both Shoes and a Sock, and She Appears to be Crying: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Make it Strong, Because I Don't Need to Think: The Jennifer Novak Story"
Oh, man, I could go all day on regrets. And will. Probably avoid me at parties. So, because I like to stretch my brain, I'll get positive.
Aspirations, or "Selling the Package"
"Yes: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Smiling's My Favorite: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Sometimes I'm Really Funny: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Get Along with People: The Jennifer Novak Story"
God, never mind. That was excruciating. Let's get back to my comfort zone.
Excess
"I Go Hard: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Can We Make That Thing I Already Did Not Happen?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Didn't Mean It Like That: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Wait. How Did You Think I Meant It?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Put the Food I Just Ate in my Tracker App, and it was Over 15,000 Calories: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Anybody Else Drinking Out of this Bottle?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Anybody Else Eating Out of this Pizza Box?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Are You Going to Finish That?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Should I be Ashamed that I Achieved Sephora VIB Status in Like, Three Months?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Can't Remember the Last Time I DIDN'T Have 'Second Lunch': The Jennifer Novak Story"
Again, I could go all day on this, but won't, because I'm getting bored. However, I think we have time for one more category:
Passion
"I Like You: An Ode to Cobbler: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Love You: A Woman and her Donuts: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Am Super Into You for a Minute: An Ode to Goals: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Mmm, Leftover Pizza: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Love Sleeping and Eating and Baseball and Adventure: The Jennifer Novak Story"
I'm title rich. But I'm also super not into this anymore, so I'll leave you with a summation...
"I'm Vaguely Tired, Hungry, and Cranky: The Jennifer Novak Story"
What's YOUR title? I mean, just think about it quietly to yourself, because I'm going to go have first lunch. Take care now.
If my title could only be one single picture.*
*This was not my food.
This is not to say that I will ever write an autobiography, because I won't. Where's the fun in that? If I wanted to relive my first 40 years, I'd just get into my bed and pretend it was time to sleep, because it's part of my regular nighttime routine already.
No, the fun is in coming up with titles. Honestly, I don't even have to try. They just pop into my head randomly, sometimes based on current circumstances, but more often used as a symbol for my life decisions/experiences in general.
My go-to, stock title has long been "Mistakes Were Made: The Jennifer Novak Story." But that's a little too vague and a little too Every Man. Mistakes are part of being human. So I realized that it was time to broaden my horizons and narrow my focus simultaneously.
Without further adieu, then, here are several categories of The Jennifer Novak Story (that will never be written). Side note: I'm gonna go ahead and include "The Jennifer Novak Story" after every single one of them. Because I like it better that way.
Regrets:
"I Should've Eaten Before I Got There: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Sorry About What Happens Later: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Sure, I'll Have One More: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Challenge Accepted!: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Where Am I?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I'll be Healthy Tomorrow. Or Wait, No. Monday.: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"That Sounds Like a Problem for Future Jen: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I'm So Full: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"She's Taken Off Both Shoes and a Sock, and She Appears to be Crying: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Make it Strong, Because I Don't Need to Think: The Jennifer Novak Story"
Oh, man, I could go all day on regrets. And will. Probably avoid me at parties. So, because I like to stretch my brain, I'll get positive.
Aspirations, or "Selling the Package"
"Yes: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Smiling's My Favorite: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Sometimes I'm Really Funny: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Get Along with People: The Jennifer Novak Story"
God, never mind. That was excruciating. Let's get back to my comfort zone.
Excess
"I Go Hard: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Can We Make That Thing I Already Did Not Happen?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Didn't Mean It Like That: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Wait. How Did You Think I Meant It?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Put the Food I Just Ate in my Tracker App, and it was Over 15,000 Calories: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Anybody Else Drinking Out of this Bottle?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Anybody Else Eating Out of this Pizza Box?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Are You Going to Finish That?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Should I be Ashamed that I Achieved Sephora VIB Status in Like, Three Months?: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Can't Remember the Last Time I DIDN'T Have 'Second Lunch': The Jennifer Novak Story"
Again, I could go all day on this, but won't, because I'm getting bored. However, I think we have time for one more category:
Passion
"I Like You: An Ode to Cobbler: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Love You: A Woman and her Donuts: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Am Super Into You for a Minute: An Ode to Goals: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"Mmm, Leftover Pizza: The Jennifer Novak Story"
"I Love Sleeping and Eating and Baseball and Adventure: The Jennifer Novak Story"
I'm title rich. But I'm also super not into this anymore, so I'll leave you with a summation...
"I'm Vaguely Tired, Hungry, and Cranky: The Jennifer Novak Story"
What's YOUR title? I mean, just think about it quietly to yourself, because I'm going to go have first lunch. Take care now.
If my title could only be one single picture.*
*This was not my food.
Monday, December 21, 2015
Straight Outta Remission.
Five years. Five years ago today I arrived at Via Christi hospital for what was to be a routine removal of a cyst. I truly believed that that was all it was. I was a little anxious, but more so about what kind of scar the excision would leave than anything. I didn't even really want anyone to go with me, because I was so sure it was nothing and didn't want anyone to make a fuss.
There was nothing in my life that could've prepared me for what happened when I woke up. I remember groggily noting that Bill and Hunter were in the room with me. Belatedly, I noticed the surgeon was there too.
And then he spoke.
His words are still seared into my brain today.
"Well, we got it all...and it was, uh, it was cancer."
It was as if everything turned white, with fuzzy edges (the movie 50/50 with Joseph Gordon-Levitt NAILED that part).
EVERYTHING disappeared, save for his voice and those words. First I looked at Hunter, my eighth-grade son. And then I realized that, for both his sake and mine, I needed to keep it together and figure out what those words would mean for me.
However, I was so groggy that I missed a lot of the finer details about what exactly those words would mean for me.
It wasn't until the next day that I realized my surgeries were far from over.
I was a bitch to be around once that little bombshell dropped, I can promise you that.
So it was that, a week later, I returned for lymph node removal to ascertain what stage my cancer was. I spent some great days and ultra-comfortable nights attached to a bunch of tubing and a drain bulb. But, in the end, the nodes were negative. The cancer hadn't spread, which made me Stage One.
I thought that meant that I was done with the pesky little setback.
Once again, though, I should never be told anything when I'm coming out of surgery. It turned out that my young age, coupled with the fact that my tumor was the most aggressive type (Grade Three), meant that I would have to have chemo and radiation as a preventative measure.
I was super pissed. I had shit to do, and this cancer was really going to mess it up.
The next months were whirlwinds of doctors, specialists, more surgery (the chemo port insertion, which looked like a small doorknob sticking out from under my collarbone) and hair loss.
Chemo: the nausea was like nothing I can describe, then or now. The neuropathy was debilitating. The baldness would have been more devastating than it was, but I was so sick I really couldn't care (I did love how smooth my head was, though).
None of those things seemed that bad, though, because I had such amazing people in my life who loved and encouraged me through every sick day. The people who took care of me and the people who bolstered my resolve on a daily basis? Well, I'll owe a debt to them for the rest of my life - one that I can never begin to repay.
Unfortunately, not everyone who started with me five years ago made it to this point with me.
And that's what I hate the most about cancer. It's so cruel. I watched it break people who were by my side during treatment, either literally or figuratively. Young people. Older people. People that had no fucking business going through that kind of pain. People who had small children. I communicated with them all.
Two of them didn't make it.
I never thought the five-year crossover to survivor status would really get here. Every check-up, every mammogram, every ultrasound brought new waves of fear and expectation that round two was imminent.
Then there are the parts that will always stay with me. I can't ever have my blood pressure taken on my right arm. I will never again sweat under my right breast. I have a fun collection of scars and radiation tattoos, and my skin has some interesting, random discoloration. I have episodes of short-term memory loss, holdovers from "chemo brain." Part of my mind feels like it's locked away, and damned if I know where I put the key.
Every single one of those things is a tiny price to pay for my post-cancer life, because so many more positive things came from those dark days.
What cancer did for me? It gave me an appreciation for life that I previously lacked.
I enjoy every sandwich now, even though I still inhale my food.
Spending so many weeks wishing that I could sleep through chemo makes me thankful for every time I get to walk out into the sunlight.
I'm grateful for every bad hair day, because every time I start to curse the interesting half-ass, thin semi-waves that grew from my head after chemo, I remind myself how great it is to have hair at all.
It was a long five years, but today I finally cross over from remission to survivor status. The likelihood of my recurrence of cancer has dropped significantly from the 35% it was in 2010.
As great as it feels to hit this mark, though, it is so, so bittersweet. It is so, so emotional. It is remembering my supporters who didn't get the privilege of five years. Although I get that life is unfair, although I get that none of us have the guarantee of health and longevity, nobody deserves that pain.
So I just want to say thank you to everyone who got me through it.
I want to thank my son for telling me he wouldn't put the dishes away when I was sick, because if he did, then I would grow to expect it.
I want to thank my family for making my bald head a big joke (duct tape hair removal! Lathering it up with a wig of shaving cream and getting rid of the weird patches of stubble!) and normalizing it in the process. Like when we had Italian Night since I was already wearing bro tanks throughout radiation.
Playing the cancer card was the best thing ever.
I want to thank those who got "Team Mom-Tard" bracelets - and wore them.
And I want to thank everyone who sent me a kind word. I saved every message. I saved every card.
I've become an advocate for cancer research in the last five years as a result. I spent several years on the Board of Directors for Vernon County Cancer Relief. I have counseled many new diagnoses through their own journeys, because it's scary as hell in the beginning.
I have said, more times than I can count, that cancer was the best thing to ever happen to me, and I still mean it. Cancer takes away so much, but what it gave me was my life. It gave me much-needed strength, and confidence, and resolve. It gave me appreciation, and love, and new perspectives on so much.
It can still come back. I'll never be in the clear, not really. But I can handle it.
Because I'm out of remission - and into the chapter I've wanted to write for a long, long time.
There was nothing in my life that could've prepared me for what happened when I woke up. I remember groggily noting that Bill and Hunter were in the room with me. Belatedly, I noticed the surgeon was there too.
And then he spoke.
His words are still seared into my brain today.
"Well, we got it all...and it was, uh, it was cancer."
It was as if everything turned white, with fuzzy edges (the movie 50/50 with Joseph Gordon-Levitt NAILED that part).
EVERYTHING disappeared, save for his voice and those words. First I looked at Hunter, my eighth-grade son. And then I realized that, for both his sake and mine, I needed to keep it together and figure out what those words would mean for me.
However, I was so groggy that I missed a lot of the finer details about what exactly those words would mean for me.
It wasn't until the next day that I realized my surgeries were far from over.
I was a bitch to be around once that little bombshell dropped, I can promise you that.
So it was that, a week later, I returned for lymph node removal to ascertain what stage my cancer was. I spent some great days and ultra-comfortable nights attached to a bunch of tubing and a drain bulb. But, in the end, the nodes were negative. The cancer hadn't spread, which made me Stage One.
I thought that meant that I was done with the pesky little setback.
Once again, though, I should never be told anything when I'm coming out of surgery. It turned out that my young age, coupled with the fact that my tumor was the most aggressive type (Grade Three), meant that I would have to have chemo and radiation as a preventative measure.
I was super pissed. I had shit to do, and this cancer was really going to mess it up.
The next months were whirlwinds of doctors, specialists, more surgery (the chemo port insertion, which looked like a small doorknob sticking out from under my collarbone) and hair loss.
Chemo: the nausea was like nothing I can describe, then or now. The neuropathy was debilitating. The baldness would have been more devastating than it was, but I was so sick I really couldn't care (I did love how smooth my head was, though).
None of those things seemed that bad, though, because I had such amazing people in my life who loved and encouraged me through every sick day. The people who took care of me and the people who bolstered my resolve on a daily basis? Well, I'll owe a debt to them for the rest of my life - one that I can never begin to repay.
Unfortunately, not everyone who started with me five years ago made it to this point with me.
And that's what I hate the most about cancer. It's so cruel. I watched it break people who were by my side during treatment, either literally or figuratively. Young people. Older people. People that had no fucking business going through that kind of pain. People who had small children. I communicated with them all.
Two of them didn't make it.
I never thought the five-year crossover to survivor status would really get here. Every check-up, every mammogram, every ultrasound brought new waves of fear and expectation that round two was imminent.
Then there are the parts that will always stay with me. I can't ever have my blood pressure taken on my right arm. I will never again sweat under my right breast. I have a fun collection of scars and radiation tattoos, and my skin has some interesting, random discoloration. I have episodes of short-term memory loss, holdovers from "chemo brain." Part of my mind feels like it's locked away, and damned if I know where I put the key.
Every single one of those things is a tiny price to pay for my post-cancer life, because so many more positive things came from those dark days.
What cancer did for me? It gave me an appreciation for life that I previously lacked.
I enjoy every sandwich now, even though I still inhale my food.
Spending so many weeks wishing that I could sleep through chemo makes me thankful for every time I get to walk out into the sunlight.
I'm grateful for every bad hair day, because every time I start to curse the interesting half-ass, thin semi-waves that grew from my head after chemo, I remind myself how great it is to have hair at all.
It was a long five years, but today I finally cross over from remission to survivor status. The likelihood of my recurrence of cancer has dropped significantly from the 35% it was in 2010.
As great as it feels to hit this mark, though, it is so, so bittersweet. It is so, so emotional. It is remembering my supporters who didn't get the privilege of five years. Although I get that life is unfair, although I get that none of us have the guarantee of health and longevity, nobody deserves that pain.
So I just want to say thank you to everyone who got me through it.
I want to thank my son for telling me he wouldn't put the dishes away when I was sick, because if he did, then I would grow to expect it.
I want to thank my family for making my bald head a big joke (duct tape hair removal! Lathering it up with a wig of shaving cream and getting rid of the weird patches of stubble!) and normalizing it in the process. Like when we had Italian Night since I was already wearing bro tanks throughout radiation.
Playing the cancer card was the best thing ever.
I want to thank those who got "Team Mom-Tard" bracelets - and wore them.
And I want to thank everyone who sent me a kind word. I saved every message. I saved every card.
I've become an advocate for cancer research in the last five years as a result. I spent several years on the Board of Directors for Vernon County Cancer Relief. I have counseled many new diagnoses through their own journeys, because it's scary as hell in the beginning.
I have said, more times than I can count, that cancer was the best thing to ever happen to me, and I still mean it. Cancer takes away so much, but what it gave me was my life. It gave me much-needed strength, and confidence, and resolve. It gave me appreciation, and love, and new perspectives on so much.
It can still come back. I'll never be in the clear, not really. But I can handle it.
Because I'm out of remission - and into the chapter I've wanted to write for a long, long time.
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