I've been reading Louise Hay's stuff. I'm totally hip to her woo woo jive – affirmations and loving the self, etc. She writes about "female problems" as all being related to a rejection of the feminine. Sister, I hear you.
I've been working against being a woman for a long, long time. And I'm just coming to realize it.
I was a tomboy as a kid, which is neither here nor there. But as I've grown up, I have hung on to some really negative beliefs about being female. I grew up believing that expressing emotion was a sign of weakness. Which is kind of a 'guy thing' to grow up thinking. And totally impossible for me. Everyone within a five-mile radius knows how I'm feeling at any given moment.
I also hate, hate, hate dresses and skirts. Now, I doubt that I'm still traumatized by the time when the boys rushed us and looked up our little first-day-of-kindergarten corduroy jumpers. But I am rarely seen in a skirt.
These are surface-level examples. If I truly unpack some of my past beliefs here is how they look: I've actually said that if I could choose, I'd rather be a man. I've also said I'd rather have a son than a daughter. I have seen The Feminine as weak, over-emotional, unfocused, sexually vulnerable, fearful. I rarely see the power or creativity of being a mother. I only see the burden and sacrifice.
Oh my God. I'm a female chauvinist pig.
Who knows where these beliefs came from. Maybe my dad expressed some off-hand desire for a son. (He had three daughters. He was totally surrounded. Who could blame him for wanting a little more Y-chromosome in the house?) Maybe I tried to be that son. Who knows? But here they are. Laid bare for the world to see.
Looking at my beliefs, it's easy to see that I have rejected the feminine. Whether they are contributing to my health issues is up for debate, but these beliefs certainly aren't going to help me with the 'loving the self' bit.
But, beyond the Louise Hay affirmations – "I rejoice in my femaleness. I love being a woman. I love my body" – how does one embrace the feminine? Tangibly. Should I wear skirts more often? Take up goddess dancing? Place African fertility symbols with huge boobs all over my house?
The Feminine is slippery. How do I know it's truly the capital-F Feminine and not some culturally constructed Maybelline version of womanhood? For some reason, Angelina Jolie comes to mind right now. Is she the feminine ideal I should be awakening? My inner 103-pound immigrant child adopter? I'm so confused.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Mental Judo
I've received several emails from women lately (thanks girls!) in response to these posts. Many of them mention their fear. About their LEEP surgeries, about not knowing, etc. I am no stranger to fear myself.
Knowing that my colposcopy results weren't good, but not being able to hear how 'not good' for three weeks was brutal. My friend described it as the 'knowing but not knowing' phase. You know your life is about to change, but you don't know how drastically.
I've written about a different kind of fear. Or a different context for fear anyhow. The fear of pushing outside your comfort zone as you go after your dreams. This fear is actually delicious because it means you are evolving, just by being there to feel it. If I could have a favourite kind of fear, that would officially be it. Which reminds me that there is always something to be grateful for. Always.
The fear of knowing but not knowing is mixed with the frustration of not being able to do anything about it. You sit, festering in your anxiety, waiting for someone else to tell you what's going on in your body. Your body becomes a foreign country.
I have been thinking a lot about this lately. I've never been one to tolerate helplessness or inactivity. I'm impatient, I guess. And while I do trust that my doctor (and others in my support network) have my best interests in mind, no one knows Melanie like Melanie. Listen to your intuition. What is it telling you?
The messages from my intuition are about taking responsibility for my own health. They are about being proactive and doing something I've been calling mental judo. Transforming all that negative freak-out energy into positive action.
Ladies, we haven't been given any options. Have you noticed that? Abnormal PAPs lead you straight to colposcopy. Abnormal colposcopy leads you straight to surgery. In between, we are just asked to wait. Once again, I don't think that's good enough. So, I encourage you to use the time (and the opportunity) well. Do something. Please don't let fear paralyze you. Let it galvanize you.
Your intuition has been talking to you for some time. Perhaps it's been telling you to quit that terrible job. Or travel. Or learn how to play the cello. If you read my past posts, you'll see I say the same thing about how to live your dreams. It's all connected. And it's all about filling your life – and your body – with joy, love and gratitude. Regardless of whether there are double-blind clinical trials to back it up.
You know what? Forget HPV. Well, don't 'forget it' like 'go into denial' about it. Read these posts. And then read the posts in April when I went to Paris to live my Big Dream. Boyfriend left me a Post-It love note this morning that read: You Inspire Me. Well, let me pass along the favour to you. Read about my journey to Paris. Get inspired. See the possibilities. Use this moment in your life as the TSN Turning Point. The part where you come from behind, kick serious ass and walk away with million-dollar endorsement deals. Or something like that.
Knowing that my colposcopy results weren't good, but not being able to hear how 'not good' for three weeks was brutal. My friend described it as the 'knowing but not knowing' phase. You know your life is about to change, but you don't know how drastically.
I've written about a different kind of fear. Or a different context for fear anyhow. The fear of pushing outside your comfort zone as you go after your dreams. This fear is actually delicious because it means you are evolving, just by being there to feel it. If I could have a favourite kind of fear, that would officially be it. Which reminds me that there is always something to be grateful for. Always.
The fear of knowing but not knowing is mixed with the frustration of not being able to do anything about it. You sit, festering in your anxiety, waiting for someone else to tell you what's going on in your body. Your body becomes a foreign country.
I have been thinking a lot about this lately. I've never been one to tolerate helplessness or inactivity. I'm impatient, I guess. And while I do trust that my doctor (and others in my support network) have my best interests in mind, no one knows Melanie like Melanie. Listen to your intuition. What is it telling you?
The messages from my intuition are about taking responsibility for my own health. They are about being proactive and doing something I've been calling mental judo. Transforming all that negative freak-out energy into positive action.
Ladies, we haven't been given any options. Have you noticed that? Abnormal PAPs lead you straight to colposcopy. Abnormal colposcopy leads you straight to surgery. In between, we are just asked to wait. Once again, I don't think that's good enough. So, I encourage you to use the time (and the opportunity) well. Do something. Please don't let fear paralyze you. Let it galvanize you.
Your intuition has been talking to you for some time. Perhaps it's been telling you to quit that terrible job. Or travel. Or learn how to play the cello. If you read my past posts, you'll see I say the same thing about how to live your dreams. It's all connected. And it's all about filling your life – and your body – with joy, love and gratitude. Regardless of whether there are double-blind clinical trials to back it up.
You know what? Forget HPV. Well, don't 'forget it' like 'go into denial' about it. Read these posts. And then read the posts in April when I went to Paris to live my Big Dream. Boyfriend left me a Post-It love note this morning that read: You Inspire Me. Well, let me pass along the favour to you. Read about my journey to Paris. Get inspired. See the possibilities. Use this moment in your life as the TSN Turning Point. The part where you come from behind, kick serious ass and walk away with million-dollar endorsement deals. Or something like that.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Crusader? Um. No.
Watched the Global TV segment last night. One of the announcers said that I am "speaking out against the vaccine." And the headline on top of the gargantuan Herald photo positions me as a Health Crusader. Huh?
I wrote literally four posts. About my own personal journey with this stuff. And now the newsmedia – desperate for representation on the 'other side' of the Gardasil debate – shoves me into the Opposed position. Nice. And totally false.
Here's the deal with me and Gardasil. I am 31 years old. I am too old. The vaccine is not an issue for those of us who are over age 26. Keeping our asses out of the cancer clinic is our business.
The vaccine, at the moment, seems to be more of a parental issue than anything else at this point. I am not a parent. So the idea of me speaking out against it is ridiculous.
If I can do one thing for this world right at the moment, it will not be to take a side on this debate. It will be to crack the HPV code of silence wide open. So talk! Or write, rather. If you would like to air your feelings about it, please, please leave a comment. Let's start a dialogue.
From where I sit, though, the dialogue should not be entirely focused on Grade 5 girls. Right now there are millions of adult women confused about abnormal PAPs, fearfully waiting for colposcopy results or sitting in day surgery waiting rooms before getting LEEPs and cone biopsies. If 80% of us have it, we are certainly not talking to each other.
C'mon girls! It's time to connect and share. We need good information and we need support.
As I mentioned before, while the screening programs are to be applauded, our treatment and prevention of cervical dysplasia and cervical cancer is "look for it" and "cut it off." In my mind, that's not good enough. It's a little too Middle Ages for me. What do you think?
And really, it won't be long before the vaccine is marketed (I chose that word carefully) to those over 26, so...would you do it?
I wrote literally four posts. About my own personal journey with this stuff. And now the newsmedia – desperate for representation on the 'other side' of the Gardasil debate – shoves me into the Opposed position. Nice. And totally false.
Here's the deal with me and Gardasil. I am 31 years old. I am too old. The vaccine is not an issue for those of us who are over age 26. Keeping our asses out of the cancer clinic is our business.
The vaccine, at the moment, seems to be more of a parental issue than anything else at this point. I am not a parent. So the idea of me speaking out against it is ridiculous.
If I can do one thing for this world right at the moment, it will not be to take a side on this debate. It will be to crack the HPV code of silence wide open. So talk! Or write, rather. If you would like to air your feelings about it, please, please leave a comment. Let's start a dialogue.
From where I sit, though, the dialogue should not be entirely focused on Grade 5 girls. Right now there are millions of adult women confused about abnormal PAPs, fearfully waiting for colposcopy results or sitting in day surgery waiting rooms before getting LEEPs and cone biopsies. If 80% of us have it, we are certainly not talking to each other.
C'mon girls! It's time to connect and share. We need good information and we need support.
As I mentioned before, while the screening programs are to be applauded, our treatment and prevention of cervical dysplasia and cervical cancer is "look for it" and "cut it off." In my mind, that's not good enough. It's a little too Middle Ages for me. What do you think?
And really, it won't be long before the vaccine is marketed (I chose that word carefully) to those over 26, so...would you do it?
Friday, June 27, 2008
Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!
I had this idea yesterday to write a play about all this HPV hooplah. My off-the-top-of-my-head title was Gardasil Girls. Har har.
The more I thought about writing this play, the more excited I got. But, I got a bit stuck. I mean great, smart-ass title, but what's the story? I thought about gathering a whole bunch of stories from other women who have had HPV issues, cervical cancer, young women unsure of the vaccine, etc.
And today, I'm feeling myself get all caught up in this media coverage and stressing about turning into some unwitting spokesperson for HPV awareness when I really just trying to focus on my creative work right now and not get derailed by every shiny thing that I come across.
Deep breath.
So, I went looking for stories online. Just to start me off on some brainstorming for this play. I came across a site called EyesOnThePrize.org. Started by ten gyno cancer survivors. Stories galore. And I must be a sucker for punishment because I went to the story about the 30-year-old who, within a year, went metastatic and died. Oh. My. God.
To brighten my teetering mood, I went to another story of a woman from Alberta. Hey, maybe I could interview her as research! Her story did not end in death, thank God. But, of course, her's was the kind of story where the stats say 90% of people will be cured and she was one of the 10%. Over and over again.
It's just after noon and I am FREAKING OUT. The fear is back. The fear is saying, "Mel. You could be that 10% too. Just get the effin' surgery. Quit trying to be a hero. Quit trying to be a this-will-look-great-in-my-memoirs drama queen. Just stick to the program and shut up."
The more I thought about writing this play, the more excited I got. But, I got a bit stuck. I mean great, smart-ass title, but what's the story? I thought about gathering a whole bunch of stories from other women who have had HPV issues, cervical cancer, young women unsure of the vaccine, etc.
And today, I'm feeling myself get all caught up in this media coverage and stressing about turning into some unwitting spokesperson for HPV awareness when I really just trying to focus on my creative work right now and not get derailed by every shiny thing that I come across.
Deep breath.
So, I went looking for stories online. Just to start me off on some brainstorming for this play. I came across a site called EyesOnThePrize.org. Started by ten gyno cancer survivors. Stories galore. And I must be a sucker for punishment because I went to the story about the 30-year-old who, within a year, went metastatic and died. Oh. My. God.
To brighten my teetering mood, I went to another story of a woman from Alberta. Hey, maybe I could interview her as research! Her story did not end in death, thank God. But, of course, her's was the kind of story where the stats say 90% of people will be cured and she was one of the 10%. Over and over again.
It's just after noon and I am FREAKING OUT. The fear is back. The fear is saying, "Mel. You could be that 10% too. Just get the effin' surgery. Quit trying to be a hero. Quit trying to be a this-will-look-great-in-my-memoirs drama queen. Just stick to the program and shut up."
The Plot Thickens
I am a holistic, spiritual, woo woo-type girl smack in the middle of a hardcore science family. I grew up with a framed Charles Darwin quote on the wall. And I'm the oldest of three daughters. As the oldest child, it is absolutely my responsibility to rebel and not do what I'm told. To test my parents' patience and limits on a daily basis.
We all thought I got over that when I was sixteen. We thought that again at twenty-three. And finally, I swore, at twenty-nine.
So here we are, on the almost-eve of my thirty-second birthday and oops, I did it again. Or am about to.
I have just left a message with Dr. Best In The City. When she calls back, I'm going to discuss my gradually forming plan with her and see if she'll buy in.
My idea is this: to delay surgery by six months. To maximize immune function in those six months. To get re-tested as many times as Dr. Best thinks is...best. And to transform my abnormal cells into vibrant, healthy, glowing cells. (The word regression sounds so negative, doesn't it?)
As a spiritual type, there are some other methodologies I will be looking into. The major one being Louise Hay's metaphysical work. I've written around the subject of Louise Hay in a few posts, and as I get more into her work, I'll share it with you. Her basic thesis is that the root causes of disease are within us, as is the capacity to heal.
Which is what this whole experiment is about: my body's capacity to heal itself. I am banking on my body's intelligence and strength, and a belief that my body wants to make itself healthy. Quite a concept, hey? The word 'empowerment' comes to mind.
My personal journey will also focus on creativity. Read my posts Body as Metaphor and A New Day.
I am not about to make reckless decisions about my health. I am not here to pointlessly rebel against the Western health care model. I am here to evolve as a human being and help others through my writing. That is my purpose.
The fact that, after a measly four posts about cervical cancer, this blog has been brought to the entire city (and way beyond) tells me that this is important. Starting a dialogue is important. Questioning the 'way we've always done it' is important. It also tells me now is the time.
But I'm not the kind of person who will rehash what's already being said just to make everyone feel comfy. I thought about my impluse to edit myself, to censor my desire to discover a new way to approach this 'very common' problem. Well, that's not me. I am the oldest child. The iconoclast. I think there are other ways of seeing this problem and this is where we are starting. If you want pat FAQs and statistics, you won't find 'em here. What you will find is a creative person taking a creative approach to her health. You will also probably find that I think laughing my face off is a nice way to begin.
We all thought I got over that when I was sixteen. We thought that again at twenty-three. And finally, I swore, at twenty-nine.
So here we are, on the almost-eve of my thirty-second birthday and oops, I did it again. Or am about to.
I have just left a message with Dr. Best In The City. When she calls back, I'm going to discuss my gradually forming plan with her and see if she'll buy in.
My idea is this: to delay surgery by six months. To maximize immune function in those six months. To get re-tested as many times as Dr. Best thinks is...best. And to transform my abnormal cells into vibrant, healthy, glowing cells. (The word regression sounds so negative, doesn't it?)
As a spiritual type, there are some other methodologies I will be looking into. The major one being Louise Hay's metaphysical work. I've written around the subject of Louise Hay in a few posts, and as I get more into her work, I'll share it with you. Her basic thesis is that the root causes of disease are within us, as is the capacity to heal.
Which is what this whole experiment is about: my body's capacity to heal itself. I am banking on my body's intelligence and strength, and a belief that my body wants to make itself healthy. Quite a concept, hey? The word 'empowerment' comes to mind.
My personal journey will also focus on creativity. Read my posts Body as Metaphor and A New Day.
I am not about to make reckless decisions about my health. I am not here to pointlessly rebel against the Western health care model. I am here to evolve as a human being and help others through my writing. That is my purpose.
The fact that, after a measly four posts about cervical cancer, this blog has been brought to the entire city (and way beyond) tells me that this is important. Starting a dialogue is important. Questioning the 'way we've always done it' is important. It also tells me now is the time.
But I'm not the kind of person who will rehash what's already being said just to make everyone feel comfy. I thought about my impluse to edit myself, to censor my desire to discover a new way to approach this 'very common' problem. Well, that's not me. I am the oldest child. The iconoclast. I think there are other ways of seeing this problem and this is where we are starting. If you want pat FAQs and statistics, you won't find 'em here. What you will find is a creative person taking a creative approach to her health. You will also probably find that I think laughing my face off is a nice way to begin.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Celebrity Cervix
Um, didja see the Herald photo?! It was freakin' huge! I WAS the City section of the Herald today. And I just finished an interview with Global Television. I'm on Friday evening at 5 pm. I appear to be this week's HPV poster girl.
I am okay with this, except for a couple of things:
However.
I love the fact that I wrote four blog posts and BOOM, a city-wide dialogue has begun. This I can get behind. So let's keep talking, shall we?
I've learned a lot today. The trigger for the virus isn't well understood, but it appears to be immune system related. Which connects with what I've been thinking about.
This week, I have been absolutely leveled by a cold. For the first time in around two years. I don't know how scientifically accurate this is, but to me this says something about the state of my immune system. Also, and I can NOT believe I'm telling you this, but I noticed what appears to be a wart (sigh) on my foot the other day.
This tells me that a) I have no shame whatsoever, b) HPV is having a house party in my body right now, and c) my immune system is on summer vacation.
I checked out factors that weaken your immune system. In a nutshell: bad diet, not enough exercise and stress.
If I'm the HPV poster girl, it looks like I'm also the low immune function poster girl.
For the past year or so, I haven't been exercising as regularly as usual. I have not been sleeping enough. My diet has gone to hell. And I've been stressed: moved in with my boyfriend, wrote and performed a one-woman show, traveled overseas and have pretty much lived as far outside my comfort zone as is humanly possible for the past year.
All of this points to a system that is taxed to the limit. So, once this cold lets me peel myself off the floor, it's immune boostin' all the live long day.
Speaking of the common cold. I am now BFF with someone from the US who found the Herald story and tracked me down. Sweet lady and damn smart too.
She had some awesome things to say about the stigma of HPV. She described it as the common cold of the cervix. Sort of. Stigma-wise, it doesn't matter who gave you the cold. You don't go around blaming and freaking about how you got it. You just deal with it. And try not to get it again or let it turn into pneumonia.
I have more to report from my US BFF, but for now, this is HPV Girl, signing off.
I am okay with this, except for a couple of things:
- I keep being asked to comment on the vaccine debate. Whatever the opposite of 'political' is, that's me. Although, I grew up in a household that did not buy what the pharma companies were selling.
- I now feel like I need to be cautious in terms of what I say on my wee bloggie. Because people might actually listen. And the fact that I am questioning the standard treatment protocol might not, y'know, go over so well.
However.
I love the fact that I wrote four blog posts and BOOM, a city-wide dialogue has begun. This I can get behind. So let's keep talking, shall we?
I've learned a lot today. The trigger for the virus isn't well understood, but it appears to be immune system related. Which connects with what I've been thinking about.
This week, I have been absolutely leveled by a cold. For the first time in around two years. I don't know how scientifically accurate this is, but to me this says something about the state of my immune system. Also, and I can NOT believe I'm telling you this, but I noticed what appears to be a wart (sigh) on my foot the other day.
This tells me that a) I have no shame whatsoever, b) HPV is having a house party in my body right now, and c) my immune system is on summer vacation.
I checked out factors that weaken your immune system. In a nutshell: bad diet, not enough exercise and stress.
If I'm the HPV poster girl, it looks like I'm also the low immune function poster girl.
For the past year or so, I haven't been exercising as regularly as usual. I have not been sleeping enough. My diet has gone to hell. And I've been stressed: moved in with my boyfriend, wrote and performed a one-woman show, traveled overseas and have pretty much lived as far outside my comfort zone as is humanly possible for the past year.
All of this points to a system that is taxed to the limit. So, once this cold lets me peel myself off the floor, it's immune boostin' all the live long day.
Speaking of the common cold. I am now BFF with someone from the US who found the Herald story and tracked me down. Sweet lady and damn smart too.
She had some awesome things to say about the stigma of HPV. She described it as the common cold of the cervix. Sort of. Stigma-wise, it doesn't matter who gave you the cold. You don't go around blaming and freaking about how you got it. You just deal with it. And try not to get it again or let it turn into pneumonia.
I have more to report from my US BFF, but for now, this is HPV Girl, signing off.
Fame...Check. Fortune...Not So Much
Here is Valerie Fortney's column today. Sans photo of me elegantly draped somewhere on Kensington Road.
She's right that I don't want to be roped into a Gardasil debate. But that's because I'm still so under-educated about this stuff. And I'm a little distracted by my own decisions. Let alone other people's decisions.
I will say that I've heard enough vaccine horror stories in general to be wary. (My ex-husband had an autoimmune reaction to a flu shot that he believes led to his first MS exacerbation.) And, although I have no source whatsoever, I've heard that even the creator of Gardasil doesn't think it's ready. So this pilot project for Grade 5 girls freaks me out.
I think education and talking about it is the key. Knowledge is power and all that. That's why I'm blogging this experience. I think we need to shine a light on this virus in particular because we are so far behind the 8-ball on it and it affects so many people.
I am in such a privileged position. My parents are doctors and I get to navigate the health care system with ease. It's like health care nepotism. I am also so incredibly lucky that my lesions are only moderate. I do not have cancer. Others are way worse off.
But my point is this: if I, in my privileged position, can be so ill-informed and have such ridiculous experiences, then anyone can. And maybe everyone does. We don't know. Because no one's talking.
If someone told you that your cervical cells were abnormal because of a virus spread through sexual contact (a.k.a. an STD) would you go blabbing it around? Probably not.
And here I am...shameless. Sheesh. My grandmother reads this for God's sake! But if I can help in some small way be sharing my experiences, it's worth it.
She's right that I don't want to be roped into a Gardasil debate. But that's because I'm still so under-educated about this stuff. And I'm a little distracted by my own decisions. Let alone other people's decisions.
I will say that I've heard enough vaccine horror stories in general to be wary. (My ex-husband had an autoimmune reaction to a flu shot that he believes led to his first MS exacerbation.) And, although I have no source whatsoever, I've heard that even the creator of Gardasil doesn't think it's ready. So this pilot project for Grade 5 girls freaks me out.
I think education and talking about it is the key. Knowledge is power and all that. That's why I'm blogging this experience. I think we need to shine a light on this virus in particular because we are so far behind the 8-ball on it and it affects so many people.
I am in such a privileged position. My parents are doctors and I get to navigate the health care system with ease. It's like health care nepotism. I am also so incredibly lucky that my lesions are only moderate. I do not have cancer. Others are way worse off.
But my point is this: if I, in my privileged position, can be so ill-informed and have such ridiculous experiences, then anyone can. And maybe everyone does. We don't know. Because no one's talking.
If someone told you that your cervical cells were abnormal because of a virus spread through sexual contact (a.k.a. an STD) would you go blabbing it around? Probably not.
And here I am...shameless. Sheesh. My grandmother reads this for God's sake! But if I can help in some small way be sharing my experiences, it's worth it.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Crazy Girl Strikes Again
I have an idea. A big, scary, crazy, what-the-heck-are-you-thinking-girl? idea. It involves a Size Large leap of faith. But it's not totally stupid.
My idea is... No, wait, let me justify my position first.
See, my colposcopy results were moderately abnormal. Two bus stops away from cancer. That is Exhibit A. Exhibit B is that our immune systems fight a full 90% of HPV infections. So only a small percentage go on to morph and mutate our pretty little cervix cells.
My hypothesis is this: if I maximize my immune response, then I can beat the virus. Without surgery.
You may be right. I may be crazy.
Honestly, I'm scared. I'm thinking about the fact that a normal cervix is three centimetres thick. My first surgery lopped off one centimetre. And I'm facing another surgery that will take off yet another. Leaving me with only one third of my cervix. At age 31. This is not sitting well with me.
When you are a young person, as I generally consider myself to be, you really do think you're invincible. The notion of things not growing back doesn't even occur to you. Until times like these. You don't know what you've got until they're about to cut it off.
I'm trying to remember if I was ever told that the cervix doesn't regenerate. I don't think I was. Or maybe I blocked it out in the blissful denial of youth.
Regardless, I'm now thinking long term. Like, say my HPV gives me another seven year grace period. If all goes well, I'll do my reproducin' and get that all checked off my list. She said glibly. That puts me at the ripe old age of 38. Facing possible cervical obliteration.
I know. Getting the LEEP procedure means I'm no more at risk of dysplasia than anyone else with HPV. I get that, thank you.
But even if it didn't come back for 10 or 15 years, that still puts me at a quarter past Too Young For No Cervix. And if it didn't come back at all, well, yay.
So, my idea involves my immune system. And no surgery. And I love that I'm writing this right at the moment when my story is appearing in the newspaper. Hello new readers! Welcome to nuttyHPVgirl.com. Where we don't do as we're told!
Before you all go berserk and tell me how off the charts insane I am, just take a breath. And let me work this through. Surgery doesn't feel right for me. I am not advocating wild disregard for Western medicine. I'm no alt health care activist. I'm just working through my feelings.
I'll take you with me through the process. But you have to stay strong. Welcome aboard.
My idea is... No, wait, let me justify my position first.
See, my colposcopy results were moderately abnormal. Two bus stops away from cancer. That is Exhibit A. Exhibit B is that our immune systems fight a full 90% of HPV infections. So only a small percentage go on to morph and mutate our pretty little cervix cells.
My hypothesis is this: if I maximize my immune response, then I can beat the virus. Without surgery.
You may be right. I may be crazy.
Honestly, I'm scared. I'm thinking about the fact that a normal cervix is three centimetres thick. My first surgery lopped off one centimetre. And I'm facing another surgery that will take off yet another. Leaving me with only one third of my cervix. At age 31. This is not sitting well with me.
When you are a young person, as I generally consider myself to be, you really do think you're invincible. The notion of things not growing back doesn't even occur to you. Until times like these. You don't know what you've got until they're about to cut it off.
I'm trying to remember if I was ever told that the cervix doesn't regenerate. I don't think I was. Or maybe I blocked it out in the blissful denial of youth.
Regardless, I'm now thinking long term. Like, say my HPV gives me another seven year grace period. If all goes well, I'll do my reproducin' and get that all checked off my list. She said glibly. That puts me at the ripe old age of 38. Facing possible cervical obliteration.
I know. Getting the LEEP procedure means I'm no more at risk of dysplasia than anyone else with HPV. I get that, thank you.
But even if it didn't come back for 10 or 15 years, that still puts me at a quarter past Too Young For No Cervix. And if it didn't come back at all, well, yay.
So, my idea involves my immune system. And no surgery. And I love that I'm writing this right at the moment when my story is appearing in the newspaper. Hello new readers! Welcome to nuttyHPVgirl.com. Where we don't do as we're told!
Before you all go berserk and tell me how off the charts insane I am, just take a breath. And let me work this through. Surgery doesn't feel right for me. I am not advocating wild disregard for Western medicine. I'm no alt health care activist. I'm just working through my feelings.
I'll take you with me through the process. But you have to stay strong. Welcome aboard.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Lady Parts: The Prequel
I'm sorry about the obsession with girlie bits. But my HPV rantings have attracted media attention, so I hafta keep reaching out to the people. (For real...Val Fortney from the Herald is interviewing me today for her column.)
I need to tell you the horror show that was Surgery #1.
I was in my mid-twenties and totally clueless about what was happening. With the amount I've now read about how terrible smoking is for your cerv, I suspect it was my I'm-a-cool-smoking-arty-type phase that did me in that time. FYI, staying up until 5 am in Montreal dance clubs smoking your face off may seem like one hell of a party, but it can lead to devastating results. Including hangovers and cervical surgery. Play safe.
You quit smoking yesterday, right? Good.
I was dating Ex-Husband at the time of CervSurge #1. He was the kind of guy who came to the gyno appointments. The kind of guy who came into the examining room. The kind of guy who passed out during my colposcopy. Good thing we never had children. Imagine him in the delivery room.
Supportive Ex was with me all the way. (Until the intersection of Push and Shove, but that's a different story.)
My surgery was a Wednesday morning. I was to proceed to the Day Surgery Unit to enjoy the thrilling sensation of an electrically charged metal loop searing off a chunk of my womanflesh.
But we got kind of lost. We stumbled around and finally found an information desk. We asked the nurse-looking lady behind the desk for directions and her eyes got wide. Her voice dropped to 0.25 decibels and she said, "Oh. Are you terminating?"
Ex-Hub and I stared at her, thinking this was some kind of advanced medical code. I stammered about how I was getting a LEEP. Which is what the procedure is called. The nurse-looker now looked at me as if I was speaking in code. There was clearly no chemistry happening here.
We got the directions and lurched on our way.
We followed her directions and came to what looked like an empty waiting area. We drifted in, looking confused. The linebacker-sized nurse there watched us flail for a moment before barking bitchily, "So. Change your mind?"
Ex-Hub chuckled and assured Nurse Ratched that no, we had not changed our minds about this important preventive procedure. Ratched was decidedly not amused. In fact, she looked disgusted with us. "Across the hall," she grunted before shaking her head and turning back to her bad mood.
Ex and I pushed through the intimidating yellow doors and sat in the waiting room. As we sat there, the strange behaviour of the nurses began to come clear.
They thought we were here for an abortion.
Both of them. They simply assumed that a couple wandering around looking for Day Surgery on Gyno Wednesday was obviously terminating a pregnancy. And since said couple was so clearly terminating a pregnancy, it was absolutely A-okay to invade the couple's privacy about it and, as a cherry on top, judge them for it.
Pardonez moi, Judgment Squad. We just wanted DIRECTIONS.
Regardless of what procedure I was having done in the Day Surgery Unit, it was and never will be anybody's business but mine.
I won't judge those nurses, or Doogie Howser for that matter. I won't start ranting against The System either. But I think this does illuminate, even just a little, the experience of 'health care.' As soon as you enter the process, your own body isn't yours anymore. It becomes property of fallible, imperfect human beings who control the information. Who disconnect the body from the person because that's easier for them. Who operate from a perspective of 'sickness management' rather than health and care.
I need to tell you the horror show that was Surgery #1.
I was in my mid-twenties and totally clueless about what was happening. With the amount I've now read about how terrible smoking is for your cerv, I suspect it was my I'm-a-cool-smoking-arty-type phase that did me in that time. FYI, staying up until 5 am in Montreal dance clubs smoking your face off may seem like one hell of a party, but it can lead to devastating results. Including hangovers and cervical surgery. Play safe.
You quit smoking yesterday, right? Good.
I was dating Ex-Husband at the time of CervSurge #1. He was the kind of guy who came to the gyno appointments. The kind of guy who came into the examining room. The kind of guy who passed out during my colposcopy. Good thing we never had children. Imagine him in the delivery room.
Supportive Ex was with me all the way. (Until the intersection of Push and Shove, but that's a different story.)
My surgery was a Wednesday morning. I was to proceed to the Day Surgery Unit to enjoy the thrilling sensation of an electrically charged metal loop searing off a chunk of my womanflesh.
But we got kind of lost. We stumbled around and finally found an information desk. We asked the nurse-looking lady behind the desk for directions and her eyes got wide. Her voice dropped to 0.25 decibels and she said, "Oh. Are you terminating?"
Ex-Hub and I stared at her, thinking this was some kind of advanced medical code. I stammered about how I was getting a LEEP. Which is what the procedure is called. The nurse-looker now looked at me as if I was speaking in code. There was clearly no chemistry happening here.
We got the directions and lurched on our way.
We followed her directions and came to what looked like an empty waiting area. We drifted in, looking confused. The linebacker-sized nurse there watched us flail for a moment before barking bitchily, "So. Change your mind?"
Ex-Hub chuckled and assured Nurse Ratched that no, we had not changed our minds about this important preventive procedure. Ratched was decidedly not amused. In fact, she looked disgusted with us. "Across the hall," she grunted before shaking her head and turning back to her bad mood.
Ex and I pushed through the intimidating yellow doors and sat in the waiting room. As we sat there, the strange behaviour of the nurses began to come clear.
They thought we were here for an abortion.
Both of them. They simply assumed that a couple wandering around looking for Day Surgery on Gyno Wednesday was obviously terminating a pregnancy. And since said couple was so clearly terminating a pregnancy, it was absolutely A-okay to invade the couple's privacy about it and, as a cherry on top, judge them for it.
Pardonez moi, Judgment Squad. We just wanted DIRECTIONS.
Regardless of what procedure I was having done in the Day Surgery Unit, it was and never will be anybody's business but mine.
I won't judge those nurses, or Doogie Howser for that matter. I won't start ranting against The System either. But I think this does illuminate, even just a little, the experience of 'health care.' As soon as you enter the process, your own body isn't yours anymore. It becomes property of fallible, imperfect human beings who control the information. Who disconnect the body from the person because that's easier for them. Who operate from a perspective of 'sickness management' rather than health and care.
Report on Junk
There's no hiding the fact that the Women's Health Centre is part of a hospital. No flowers or floofy interior design. Just a lot of hard edges and a whole lot of signs. We're not here to make you feel loved, the building seems to say. We're just here to give you kick-ass medical care, if that's okay with you.
The admissions lady had mastered the tone of voice that sounded kindergarten-teacher-friendly as she was telling you to piss off. I bet she spends the entire day fielding these two questions: 'Can I park where I just parked?' and 'Where is Mammography/Breast Health/Colposcopy Clinic/the bathroom?' Listen. She's the admissions lady. Not the parking patrol lady. Not the shopping mall information booth lady. Do not mess with her.
Scottish Nurse Jo was also a tough bird, but her job was to educate me and answer my questions. A whole new concept. See, I have been getting PAP tests since I was 18 years old. I have had four or five colposcopies and one surgery. In all that time, no one has told me what they are looking for and why. The letters H, P and V have never, y'know, come up in conversation. In almost 15 years.
Everything I've learned about cervical cancer and HPV has been from the internet, waiting room magazines and whispered conversations that begin with "Did you know..." M'kay. I have a Masters degree. I was raised in a family of physicians, surrounded by medical knowledge my entire life. And I'm finding out what is happening in my body using Google and gossip?
I wonder how Hippocrates would feel about that.
This is what I was thinking as I stared at a ghastly-looking diagram of nice, round healthy cells progressing to big, blotchy cancer cells. Jo went through a definition of terms. She pulled out my results and I (gasp) was allowed to see them myself.
I read that I have high grade intraepithelial lesions. Which sounds terrible. But is only bad-ish. Because the 'high grade' classification includes moderate and severe cell changes. Severe is one bus stop away from The Big C. Moderate (where I am) is two.
The nurse asked me a total of four times whether or not I smoke. Smoking is a sure way to cancer if you have this HPV stuff. Smoky Ladies of the World, please quit. Quit or I'll write a scathing missive on smokers next. Which I might do regardless. Why not quit so you can laugh along smugly with the rest of us!
Jo told me that up to 80 or 90% of people have HPV. Dudes, every time I research this virus, I get a different number. But Nurse Jo was a stone cold fox and I believe her. Besides, knowing that everyone has this thing makes me feel less like an STD-laden skank! (Smiles brightly. And cue dimples.)
Boyfriend and Mom went a little pale when I explained my high grade situation. But I was happy as a clam. Why? Because my own body was no longer a mystery to me. I knew exactly what was going on and what they were going to recommend.
Although I did wish that I had waxed or something. Which is what you think in moments like these...when a specialist is about to rummage in your junk. But, chances are they've seen hundreds or thousands of cooters in their careers and it probably all blends into one. Same cooter, different day. You know.
Dr. Best in the City reminded me of my mom, but more relaxed. Dr. Mom is high strung, just like me. Dr. Best? Totally chill. 'Hey Sister, we're just gonna check out the scene and then I'll rap with you about the plan. Cool? Cool.' Her confidence put me way more at ease than Doogie 'Phone It In' Howser.
Because this was a high-tech medical centre of excellence, they had leg drapes instead of stirrups. Which are actually less humiliating because no one asks you to 'just open your knees a liiiiiiittle wider' to the point where you are splayed out like a biology class frog.
Got the visual? Good.
So, here's the deal. They want to cut out the bad cells. Or moderately bad cells, rather. I knew they were going to say this because I have the same brand of bad cells as last time. Only this time they are in the birth canal. Which creeps me right out.
"You've still got good volume to your cervix," Dr. Best said by way of reassuring me. What the hell does that mean? Well friends, it means there's still lots of cervix to cut out yet. She told me that the cerv is three centimetres thick and most gals can deal with three of these surgeries before childbearing becomes an issue.
And for me, formerly basking in the glow of patient education, this was too much information. "Don't worry," said Dr. Mom afterward. "They can always stitch it closed if you get pregnant." Cold. Freaking. Comfort. Mom.
"So, when do you want to come in for your surgery," the Nurse asked after Dr. Best had left the building. "Next Monday?"
Are you kidding me? I can't even get in to see my hairdresser next Monday.
The admissions lady had mastered the tone of voice that sounded kindergarten-teacher-friendly as she was telling you to piss off. I bet she spends the entire day fielding these two questions: 'Can I park where I just parked?' and 'Where is Mammography/Breast Health/Colposcopy Clinic/the bathroom?' Listen. She's the admissions lady. Not the parking patrol lady. Not the shopping mall information booth lady. Do not mess with her.
Scottish Nurse Jo was also a tough bird, but her job was to educate me and answer my questions. A whole new concept. See, I have been getting PAP tests since I was 18 years old. I have had four or five colposcopies and one surgery. In all that time, no one has told me what they are looking for and why. The letters H, P and V have never, y'know, come up in conversation. In almost 15 years.
Everything I've learned about cervical cancer and HPV has been from the internet, waiting room magazines and whispered conversations that begin with "Did you know..." M'kay. I have a Masters degree. I was raised in a family of physicians, surrounded by medical knowledge my entire life. And I'm finding out what is happening in my body using Google and gossip?
I wonder how Hippocrates would feel about that.
This is what I was thinking as I stared at a ghastly-looking diagram of nice, round healthy cells progressing to big, blotchy cancer cells. Jo went through a definition of terms. She pulled out my results and I (gasp) was allowed to see them myself.
I read that I have high grade intraepithelial lesions. Which sounds terrible. But is only bad-ish. Because the 'high grade' classification includes moderate and severe cell changes. Severe is one bus stop away from The Big C. Moderate (where I am) is two.
The nurse asked me a total of four times whether or not I smoke. Smoking is a sure way to cancer if you have this HPV stuff. Smoky Ladies of the World, please quit. Quit or I'll write a scathing missive on smokers next. Which I might do regardless. Why not quit so you can laugh along smugly with the rest of us!
Jo told me that up to 80 or 90% of people have HPV. Dudes, every time I research this virus, I get a different number. But Nurse Jo was a stone cold fox and I believe her. Besides, knowing that everyone has this thing makes me feel less like an STD-laden skank! (Smiles brightly. And cue dimples.)
Boyfriend and Mom went a little pale when I explained my high grade situation. But I was happy as a clam. Why? Because my own body was no longer a mystery to me. I knew exactly what was going on and what they were going to recommend.
Although I did wish that I had waxed or something. Which is what you think in moments like these...when a specialist is about to rummage in your junk. But, chances are they've seen hundreds or thousands of cooters in their careers and it probably all blends into one. Same cooter, different day. You know.
Dr. Best in the City reminded me of my mom, but more relaxed. Dr. Mom is high strung, just like me. Dr. Best? Totally chill. 'Hey Sister, we're just gonna check out the scene and then I'll rap with you about the plan. Cool? Cool.' Her confidence put me way more at ease than Doogie 'Phone It In' Howser.
Because this was a high-tech medical centre of excellence, they had leg drapes instead of stirrups. Which are actually less humiliating because no one asks you to 'just open your knees a liiiiiiittle wider' to the point where you are splayed out like a biology class frog.
Got the visual? Good.
So, here's the deal. They want to cut out the bad cells. Or moderately bad cells, rather. I knew they were going to say this because I have the same brand of bad cells as last time. Only this time they are in the birth canal. Which creeps me right out.
"You've still got good volume to your cervix," Dr. Best said by way of reassuring me. What the hell does that mean? Well friends, it means there's still lots of cervix to cut out yet. She told me that the cerv is three centimetres thick and most gals can deal with three of these surgeries before childbearing becomes an issue.
And for me, formerly basking in the glow of patient education, this was too much information. "Don't worry," said Dr. Mom afterward. "They can always stitch it closed if you get pregnant." Cold. Freaking. Comfort. Mom.
"So, when do you want to come in for your surgery," the Nurse asked after Dr. Best had left the building. "Next Monday?"
Are you kidding me? I can't even get in to see my hairdresser next Monday.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Upside Downside
I'm working on some things right now. One of which involves speaking only positively about myself. For the past three days I have – don't laugh – repeated 'I approve of myself' approximately 500 times. It's from Chapter One of Lousie Hay's book – loving the self is the key to blissful health, happiness, creativity and prosperity. Makes sense to me. So, I'm trying it.
This little exercise has had some interesting effects, even though I've only been doing it for three days. The first effect is I feel better. Wow, hey? Earth shattering. When you say nice things to yourself and about yourself...you feel better about yourself! Another thing I've observed is the word 'Love' has edged into my lil' affirmation without me even trying. 'I approve of myself' has become 'I love and approve of myself.' Yessssss.
An unexpected side effect of this exercise is that negativity has started popping out of the landscape. When negativity and criticism are the norm, you don't even notice them. But when you start observing your own behaviour, that shit is everywhere! It's like when I wanted to buy a Subaru Outback...all I saw were Subaru Outbacks. Only this time it's Snarkbacks.
I went for a walk in a park and passed a mob of school kids whose assignment appeared to be 'Build a Boat and then Go Float It.' I was struck by the effortless creativity and play of these micro-humans. First off, they refused to walk on the right side of the pathway. Why should they? Why should they even walk on the path at all when there was all that grass and stuff? Some of the boats were effing incredible. Massive cardboard galleons with cannons and sails. And the kicker was this girl who had an electric hand fan. Her personal growth affirmation was, "I am a robot. I am a robot. I am a robot."
So you can see how the 20-something rockabilly princess with the Bettie Page haircut and the shortest shorts of all time would have caught my eye. And ear. She was having a conversation with her friend about the plane going down and her being seated in the emergency exit row. Hypothetically, of course. She couldn't process the fact that we need emergency exits in the first place and that planes could possibly even go down. How the hell could she ever get into a plane again knowing that there are EMERGENCY FREAKING EXITS in the world?!
Lovely sunny day. A gorge of green. A river ran through it. And...we're going down like a DC-10.
Then I met Angry Arby's Lady. I was a bit early to meet a friend at Starbucks and lingered in my car with my door slightly open for air flow. As I rummaged around in my bag, I didn't hear the car pull up beside me. But I certainly heard the lady who got out of it. Here is what she, very loudly, had to say: "F*ckin' close your door so people can f*ckin' get out of their cars. Some people blow my mind." And then she went in to get her '4 for $6' Deep-fried Happiness To Go.
You know when you start a sentence with the word F*ckin' things are only going downhill from there.
DC-10 and Angry Miss Arby taught me some valuable lessons. Which I'll pass along to you, gentle readers. These people made me grateful for who I am...grateful I'm doing this personal work and grateful for my mantra, even though it feels silly and I was embarrassed to tell you about it.
They also taught me that we get to choose how we interpret the world. Everything in the world is open to interpretation and you can believe that emergency exits are a shocking admission that the plane could go down, or you can see that there is something (or someone) taking care of us at all times. You can believe the world is out to block your way, or you can navigate around car doors that are ajar and other apparent road blocks. We get to choose how we see ourselves and the world we live in. How are you seeing things?
This little exercise has had some interesting effects, even though I've only been doing it for three days. The first effect is I feel better. Wow, hey? Earth shattering. When you say nice things to yourself and about yourself...you feel better about yourself! Another thing I've observed is the word 'Love' has edged into my lil' affirmation without me even trying. 'I approve of myself' has become 'I love and approve of myself.' Yessssss.
An unexpected side effect of this exercise is that negativity has started popping out of the landscape. When negativity and criticism are the norm, you don't even notice them. But when you start observing your own behaviour, that shit is everywhere! It's like when I wanted to buy a Subaru Outback...all I saw were Subaru Outbacks. Only this time it's Snarkbacks.
I went for a walk in a park and passed a mob of school kids whose assignment appeared to be 'Build a Boat and then Go Float It.' I was struck by the effortless creativity and play of these micro-humans. First off, they refused to walk on the right side of the pathway. Why should they? Why should they even walk on the path at all when there was all that grass and stuff? Some of the boats were effing incredible. Massive cardboard galleons with cannons and sails. And the kicker was this girl who had an electric hand fan. Her personal growth affirmation was, "I am a robot. I am a robot. I am a robot."
So you can see how the 20-something rockabilly princess with the Bettie Page haircut and the shortest shorts of all time would have caught my eye. And ear. She was having a conversation with her friend about the plane going down and her being seated in the emergency exit row. Hypothetically, of course. She couldn't process the fact that we need emergency exits in the first place and that planes could possibly even go down. How the hell could she ever get into a plane again knowing that there are EMERGENCY FREAKING EXITS in the world?!
Lovely sunny day. A gorge of green. A river ran through it. And...we're going down like a DC-10.
Then I met Angry Arby's Lady. I was a bit early to meet a friend at Starbucks and lingered in my car with my door slightly open for air flow. As I rummaged around in my bag, I didn't hear the car pull up beside me. But I certainly heard the lady who got out of it. Here is what she, very loudly, had to say: "F*ckin' close your door so people can f*ckin' get out of their cars. Some people blow my mind." And then she went in to get her '4 for $6' Deep-fried Happiness To Go.
You know when you start a sentence with the word F*ckin' things are only going downhill from there.
DC-10 and Angry Miss Arby taught me some valuable lessons. Which I'll pass along to you, gentle readers. These people made me grateful for who I am...grateful I'm doing this personal work and grateful for my mantra, even though it feels silly and I was embarrassed to tell you about it.
They also taught me that we get to choose how we interpret the world. Everything in the world is open to interpretation and you can believe that emergency exits are a shocking admission that the plane could go down, or you can see that there is something (or someone) taking care of us at all times. You can believe the world is out to block your way, or you can navigate around car doors that are ajar and other apparent road blocks. We get to choose how we see ourselves and the world we live in. How are you seeing things?
Thursday, June 19, 2008
This Is Not A Detour
This is a green light. This is no excuse to stop working and creating. In fact, it's the opposite. It's a big, flashing GO sign. My body says create. My body says keep going, keep writing. Let your writing reach out now. No more artistic masturbation. Reach out and jerk off the world!
Or something like that.
I think in the past, a health thing like this would have been an excuse to stop creating. It would be another convenient reason to put the work aside and focus on getting healthy. Or whatever the excuse du jour is. Anything other than making art.
Pardon my French, but fuck that. Creativity is healthy. It is the healthiest thing in the world. Life is creation. Vibrant, glorious, energetic creation.
So, along with things like affirmations, organic blah-blah and seeing Dr. Best In The City on Monday...I will keep writing.
This morning, I went back to basics. Morning Pages. Well, first I listed off everything that I'm grateful for in my life. What a list! One thing on my list was this stunning, heart-filling moment of sunrise sunshine I experienced this morning. I caught the sun just when it was bursting with warm, crazy orange through the blinds. It was the colour of heaven. Early mornings are the best for colour, incidentally. If you need some colour therapy, don't sleep in.
So, Morning Pages. I went to the page. I asked for David to come clear to me. He is the only thing holding me back from completing Draft Three. And I wrote and wrote and then I realized, he's already clear. He came clear a little while ago (in my Morning Pages) and I just haven't written his new scenes. Yesssssssss.
I think life is one big, fat, juicy metaphor. Whereas Charlie the Suicidal Princess of the Night was most like me, David the Warrior of Dreams has become most like me. He (me) is holding me back from finishing. And he (me) is already clear.
In this screenplay, he is my voice. He is the 'grab life by the balls NOW, today not tomorrow, live your freaking dreams message. He is also accident prone and has trouble getting his shit together. But what's next for him (me) is very exciting. He is about to take a big risk in the name of creativity.
I've begun to think about Creativity as synonymous with Life and Love.
The other day, Dr. Point Blank had a message for me (other than the write and travel message). She mentioned a book called The Five Secrets You Must Discover Before You Die. And I thought she was talking about that Mitch Albom book. Me and Mitch...not so much.
But no, different book. Fabulous secrets. Here they are:
My current fave is Take More Risks. Take risks in the name of your passions, dreams and creativity and you can't go wrong. I think we all need to hear that again and again and again. I love this! It's not "Be Safer" or "Contribute to your RRSP" or "Use Colour-Safe Bleach." It's TAKE MORE RISKS. Whooo!
I have a couple of deadlines tomorrow. And then...nothing. A big, wide-open expanse of possibility. I know all I need to do is make two phone calls and I'd have copywriting work galore. But I'm not doing that. I'm stepping into uncertainty. Into pure possibility and potential.
I am taking the risk that when I step out, my creative work will support me. This is a big risk. Not like a 'Let's see if flossing this rabid dog's teeth is a good idea' risk. Not a stupid risk. A wondrous risk. One that asks me to evolve. To rise to my own potential. To evolve and adapt. To heal and grow and move forward into love, into life.
Or something like that.
I think in the past, a health thing like this would have been an excuse to stop creating. It would be another convenient reason to put the work aside and focus on getting healthy. Or whatever the excuse du jour is. Anything other than making art.
Pardon my French, but fuck that. Creativity is healthy. It is the healthiest thing in the world. Life is creation. Vibrant, glorious, energetic creation.
So, along with things like affirmations, organic blah-blah and seeing Dr. Best In The City on Monday...I will keep writing.
This morning, I went back to basics. Morning Pages. Well, first I listed off everything that I'm grateful for in my life. What a list! One thing on my list was this stunning, heart-filling moment of sunrise sunshine I experienced this morning. I caught the sun just when it was bursting with warm, crazy orange through the blinds. It was the colour of heaven. Early mornings are the best for colour, incidentally. If you need some colour therapy, don't sleep in.
So, Morning Pages. I went to the page. I asked for David to come clear to me. He is the only thing holding me back from completing Draft Three. And I wrote and wrote and then I realized, he's already clear. He came clear a little while ago (in my Morning Pages) and I just haven't written his new scenes. Yesssssssss.
I think life is one big, fat, juicy metaphor. Whereas Charlie the Suicidal Princess of the Night was most like me, David the Warrior of Dreams has become most like me. He (me) is holding me back from finishing. And he (me) is already clear.
In this screenplay, he is my voice. He is the 'grab life by the balls NOW, today not tomorrow, live your freaking dreams message. He is also accident prone and has trouble getting his shit together. But what's next for him (me) is very exciting. He is about to take a big risk in the name of creativity.
I've begun to think about Creativity as synonymous with Life and Love.
The other day, Dr. Point Blank had a message for me (other than the write and travel message). She mentioned a book called The Five Secrets You Must Discover Before You Die. And I thought she was talking about that Mitch Albom book. Me and Mitch...not so much.
But no, different book. Fabulous secrets. Here they are:
- Be true to yourself
- Take more risks (leave no regrets)
- Become love
- Live the moment
- Give more than you take
My current fave is Take More Risks. Take risks in the name of your passions, dreams and creativity and you can't go wrong. I think we all need to hear that again and again and again. I love this! It's not "Be Safer" or "Contribute to your RRSP" or "Use Colour-Safe Bleach." It's TAKE MORE RISKS. Whooo!
I have a couple of deadlines tomorrow. And then...nothing. A big, wide-open expanse of possibility. I know all I need to do is make two phone calls and I'd have copywriting work galore. But I'm not doing that. I'm stepping into uncertainty. Into pure possibility and potential.
I am taking the risk that when I step out, my creative work will support me. This is a big risk. Not like a 'Let's see if flossing this rabid dog's teeth is a good idea' risk. Not a stupid risk. A wondrous risk. One that asks me to evolve. To rise to my own potential. To evolve and adapt. To heal and grow and move forward into love, into life.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Birthing A Forgiveness Baby
M'kay, the universe has a sense of humour. Today I found out that Ex-Husband is making a baby with his new wife. My response was telling, I think. I looked at the sky and said, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I'm free." And then I laughed. Because my ex-father-in-law used to refer to me as "the vessel." I dodged a serious bullet there.
This is also perfect timing because I am just about to start some concentrated work on forgiveness. And rather than do some kind of sobby exorcising of personal hurts, I want to laugh my way through this. Which is a nice little challenge, I think.
Why forgiveness? Well, why not, in the first place. And in the second place, if cancer is old resentments literally eating away at the body (see Louise Hay) then forgiveness is the cure for cancer! Along with other things, probably including organic carrot juice. But for now, forgiveness.
I suppose I could start with dear old Ex. But I think, miraculously, I'm kind of done with him. He was the star of Melanie Moves On for some time and I do believe he's been written off the show. And given my reaction to Spawn of Ex, I think we're good.
Hilarious Forgiveness might take a little practice, so I'm starting off easy. I'm going to start with one of my old creative nemeses. The Man Who Stopped The Singing. I want to call him Hugh McCool. That is not his name. It is cheesier than his name, which makes it all the better.
Hugh McCool was the Musical Theatre teacher at my high school. He also ran the Vocal Jazz ensemble. Hugh McCool looks exactly like Ned Flanders. Exactly. He even has Ned's too-much-Kool-Aid perkiness, except instead of religious fervor, it's Broadway fervor. Hugh seriously thought that directing a bunch of pimply teenagers in 'A Chorus Line' made him the sexiest mofo in the district.
I spent a lot of years resenting him. Because he didn't cast me in Vocal Jazz. And I never sang in public again.
Now, let's examine this. Vocal Jazz?! To be honest, it reminds me of my street name. My very embarrassing over-the-top street name that didn't know when to quit: Tuscany Vista Crescent. We all would have been okay with just Tuscany Vista. But you had to ruin it with the Crescent, didn't you? It's the same with Vocal Jazz. Just jazz? That's okay. But add in that Vocal and you've got yourself some kind of weird inflammation involving bad perms and acrylic sweaters.
But to Hugh McCool Vocal Jazz was his ticket to the top. For serious. Vocal Jazz (I'm just going to keep writing it until it makes you want to scream) was where he scouted and groomed young talent for blow jobs, I mean, record deals. Where he would become the manager/promoter and these young darlings would be all grateful and probably pay him a ridiculous commission.
I totally made that up...about the blow jobs and commission anyway. But you bought it. Because with a name like Hugh McCool, you wouldn't put it past him.
But this, dear friends, is about forgiveness. Releasing McResentment.
Because there is a Hugh McCool within each of us. I don't know what I mean by that, but I think it's probably true. Maybe Hugh is like a professional ballet mom. The kind of person who is living their failed dreams through through their children. I dunno.
I don't even know if Hugh thinks that deeply. He's too busy smiling that huge Ned Flanders smile.
I saw him a while back on Breakfast Television. And he was just a-schmoozin' it up. Horning in on my segment to say something about how the 23-year-old crooner he was hawking would be a great CD for making out. Meanwhile, when the mini crooner found out I give dating advice, he looked at me with a sweet desperation that told me that even though his voice was like buttah, his heart was lonely and sad. I loved McCrooner.
And I loved McCool. He had really tried to update his look since I was in high school. He traded in the V-neck sweaters and grey pleated pants for expensive jeans and some kind of Euro-mullet haircut that unfortunately came off more 'Lethbridge sports bar' than 'Milan speedway.'
I really don't know what Hugh McCool's inner struggle is, but I can be pretty sure he's got one. We all do. Maybe his high school teaching career and marriage blew to smithereens because he got a little too interested in some blond soprano's "career." Maybe his kids think what he does is stupid. Maybe, inside, he does. I don't know.
But the fact is, McCool is McTrying To Figure It Out just like the rest of us. And I am going to let him go. Have a good journey McCool. See you on the other side. Doo wop.
This is also perfect timing because I am just about to start some concentrated work on forgiveness. And rather than do some kind of sobby exorcising of personal hurts, I want to laugh my way through this. Which is a nice little challenge, I think.
Why forgiveness? Well, why not, in the first place. And in the second place, if cancer is old resentments literally eating away at the body (see Louise Hay) then forgiveness is the cure for cancer! Along with other things, probably including organic carrot juice. But for now, forgiveness.
I suppose I could start with dear old Ex. But I think, miraculously, I'm kind of done with him. He was the star of Melanie Moves On for some time and I do believe he's been written off the show. And given my reaction to Spawn of Ex, I think we're good.
Hilarious Forgiveness might take a little practice, so I'm starting off easy. I'm going to start with one of my old creative nemeses. The Man Who Stopped The Singing. I want to call him Hugh McCool. That is not his name. It is cheesier than his name, which makes it all the better.
Hugh McCool was the Musical Theatre teacher at my high school. He also ran the Vocal Jazz ensemble. Hugh McCool looks exactly like Ned Flanders. Exactly. He even has Ned's too-much-Kool-Aid perkiness, except instead of religious fervor, it's Broadway fervor. Hugh seriously thought that directing a bunch of pimply teenagers in 'A Chorus Line' made him the sexiest mofo in the district.
I spent a lot of years resenting him. Because he didn't cast me in Vocal Jazz. And I never sang in public again.
Now, let's examine this. Vocal Jazz?! To be honest, it reminds me of my street name. My very embarrassing over-the-top street name that didn't know when to quit: Tuscany Vista Crescent. We all would have been okay with just Tuscany Vista. But you had to ruin it with the Crescent, didn't you? It's the same with Vocal Jazz. Just jazz? That's okay. But add in that Vocal and you've got yourself some kind of weird inflammation involving bad perms and acrylic sweaters.
But to Hugh McCool Vocal Jazz was his ticket to the top. For serious. Vocal Jazz (I'm just going to keep writing it until it makes you want to scream) was where he scouted and groomed young talent for blow jobs, I mean, record deals. Where he would become the manager/promoter and these young darlings would be all grateful and probably pay him a ridiculous commission.
I totally made that up...about the blow jobs and commission anyway. But you bought it. Because with a name like Hugh McCool, you wouldn't put it past him.
But this, dear friends, is about forgiveness. Releasing McResentment.
Because there is a Hugh McCool within each of us. I don't know what I mean by that, but I think it's probably true. Maybe Hugh is like a professional ballet mom. The kind of person who is living their failed dreams through through their children. I dunno.
I don't even know if Hugh thinks that deeply. He's too busy smiling that huge Ned Flanders smile.
I saw him a while back on Breakfast Television. And he was just a-schmoozin' it up. Horning in on my segment to say something about how the 23-year-old crooner he was hawking would be a great CD for making out. Meanwhile, when the mini crooner found out I give dating advice, he looked at me with a sweet desperation that told me that even though his voice was like buttah, his heart was lonely and sad. I loved McCrooner.
And I loved McCool. He had really tried to update his look since I was in high school. He traded in the V-neck sweaters and grey pleated pants for expensive jeans and some kind of Euro-mullet haircut that unfortunately came off more 'Lethbridge sports bar' than 'Milan speedway.'
I really don't know what Hugh McCool's inner struggle is, but I can be pretty sure he's got one. We all do. Maybe his high school teaching career and marriage blew to smithereens because he got a little too interested in some blond soprano's "career." Maybe his kids think what he does is stupid. Maybe, inside, he does. I don't know.
But the fact is, McCool is McTrying To Figure It Out just like the rest of us. And I am going to let him go. Have a good journey McCool. See you on the other side. Doo wop.
A New Day
Posting about whether or not Boyfriend is thwarting me creatively wouldn't be fair without talking to him. I get on his case about being too internal with his thinking (and sometimes decision-making) process, but I don't think I'm much better. I've been riding out this creative angst on my own. I haven't included him in the conversation. I've made assumptions about him and his life and what he wants.
Saying 'I'm leaving' would be easy. Putting my creative dis-ease on his shoulders would also be easy. But neither of those things solves the problem because it skips one major, fundamental truth. My life is my responsibility. My current situation, even my current body, is the result of my thought patterns.
I have created this inflamed and stifled creative flow. And if my relationship stunts my growth, I've created that too.
If I take full responsibility, I wouldn't blame Boyfriend for any of it. That gives him the power to determine my life, my happiness, my health. Those things are my job. The person who is stifled is me. The person whose job it is to unblock is me.
Yesterday, I cleared out my work space. I made the room into a haven of calm with my beautiful Lawren Harris print and blue Chinese vase. I made a list of things still yet to do like renovating the collection of books in my bookshelf for a new influx of ideas and imagery. And venturing to thrift shops, flea markets and fabric stores, so I can bring weird and wonderful treasures into this room to act as idea seeds.
I sat and talked with Boyfriend. I told him, point blank, that I am dying here. That I need to be creatively stimulated or I will die. I need both the energy and sparkle of the city and the big calm of the wilderness, but the suburbs are nowhere. The best of no worlds. And that I am hoping that he can join me in my life of adventure, but I can't force him to be or do something he's not ready for.
I learned a valuable lesson, again, about assumptions. I learned the power of standing up for myself and my creativity. I learned that this is who I am. And I've been giving away pieces of myself and cutting off my own corners for a long, long time. I also learned that I am no longer willing to do that. And that it's not necessary. That this, to fight for my creative self, is the greatest act of love I have ever undertaken.
Of course, he rose to the challenge. That is what Boyfriend does. That is who he is. He even had an idea that was better than any I had. See, my parents are going on a year-long sabbatical to Australia and New Zealand. Which means an easy opening for a travel adventure, and also that their absolutely gorgeous Canmore townhouse is completely, blissfully available. Goodbye vinyl siding, hello mountain-soaked creative reatreat. Um, they're my parents. Why didn't I think of this?
And already, an adventure to New Zealand and Indonesia is beginning to take shape in my mind. Which is so funny because I went to see my beautiful family doc, Dr. Point Blank, yesterday and I ended up bawling in her office about all my problems. Dr. Point Blank always comes up with these matter-of-fact one liners, like Yoda or a crusty Zen master, cutting off my nebulous whiny confusion with something like, "You want to take control of your health, huh? So, why haven't I seen you in two years?"
And I sat there, next to the breast self-exam poster, sniveling away about a life of adventure and creativity. "So," she said, "You want to write and you want to travel. Yes?" I sniffed and wiped my eyes. Can my desires really be summed up that simply? Am I not as deeply complicated and fantastically, dramatically, daytime televisionly embroiled in a twisting, turning plot of stunted artistry as I thought? WTF?
"Well, yeah. I guess that's it," I said, sounding like a four-year-old. She nodded once, closed my file and said, "Do that."
Well, I guess I asked for clarity. Can't get much more clear than that.
Saying 'I'm leaving' would be easy. Putting my creative dis-ease on his shoulders would also be easy. But neither of those things solves the problem because it skips one major, fundamental truth. My life is my responsibility. My current situation, even my current body, is the result of my thought patterns.
I have created this inflamed and stifled creative flow. And if my relationship stunts my growth, I've created that too.
If I take full responsibility, I wouldn't blame Boyfriend for any of it. That gives him the power to determine my life, my happiness, my health. Those things are my job. The person who is stifled is me. The person whose job it is to unblock is me.
Yesterday, I cleared out my work space. I made the room into a haven of calm with my beautiful Lawren Harris print and blue Chinese vase. I made a list of things still yet to do like renovating the collection of books in my bookshelf for a new influx of ideas and imagery. And venturing to thrift shops, flea markets and fabric stores, so I can bring weird and wonderful treasures into this room to act as idea seeds.
I sat and talked with Boyfriend. I told him, point blank, that I am dying here. That I need to be creatively stimulated or I will die. I need both the energy and sparkle of the city and the big calm of the wilderness, but the suburbs are nowhere. The best of no worlds. And that I am hoping that he can join me in my life of adventure, but I can't force him to be or do something he's not ready for.
I learned a valuable lesson, again, about assumptions. I learned the power of standing up for myself and my creativity. I learned that this is who I am. And I've been giving away pieces of myself and cutting off my own corners for a long, long time. I also learned that I am no longer willing to do that. And that it's not necessary. That this, to fight for my creative self, is the greatest act of love I have ever undertaken.
Of course, he rose to the challenge. That is what Boyfriend does. That is who he is. He even had an idea that was better than any I had. See, my parents are going on a year-long sabbatical to Australia and New Zealand. Which means an easy opening for a travel adventure, and also that their absolutely gorgeous Canmore townhouse is completely, blissfully available. Goodbye vinyl siding, hello mountain-soaked creative reatreat. Um, they're my parents. Why didn't I think of this?
And already, an adventure to New Zealand and Indonesia is beginning to take shape in my mind. Which is so funny because I went to see my beautiful family doc, Dr. Point Blank, yesterday and I ended up bawling in her office about all my problems. Dr. Point Blank always comes up with these matter-of-fact one liners, like Yoda or a crusty Zen master, cutting off my nebulous whiny confusion with something like, "You want to take control of your health, huh? So, why haven't I seen you in two years?"
And I sat there, next to the breast self-exam poster, sniveling away about a life of adventure and creativity. "So," she said, "You want to write and you want to travel. Yes?" I sniffed and wiped my eyes. Can my desires really be summed up that simply? Am I not as deeply complicated and fantastically, dramatically, daytime televisionly embroiled in a twisting, turning plot of stunted artistry as I thought? WTF?
"Well, yeah. I guess that's it," I said, sounding like a four-year-old. She nodded once, closed my file and said, "Do that."
Well, I guess I asked for clarity. Can't get much more clear than that.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Body As Metaphor
I'm doing some work with Louise Hay's writing, which is a lot about metaphysical causes of disease. Which means things like thought patterns and beliefs manifesting as disease. Although I'm only partway through her book, I've learned certain things. That any "female problems" are due to a rejection of the feminine. That cancer is a manifestation of deep resentment. And that venereal disease is about sexual guilt.
And sure, it's always good to accept the feminine, release resentment and rinse away sexual guilt. And, not to get all After School Special on you, but I've done a whole schwack of work around sexual trauma already, thanks.
But today, I turned my writer's eye on my body. I began to think about my body as a metaphor.
Bear with me.
My health problems are locating themselves in my reproductive system. The system of procreation, or on a more fundamental level, creation. In other words, my creative centre. An interesting "coincidence" at the time of my most exciting creative output and adventuring.
The problems are located specifically in my cervix. Not my uterus, or creative womb...the place where ideas are fertilized and nurtured. Not the birth canal, which is a kind of conduit. But the cervix. A deeper gateway.
Now, don't get me wrong, I have no effing clue where I'm going with this. I have no brilliant and pithy conclusions for you. All I have is the observation. The question. What is going on at the gateway of my creativity? What is the gateway of my creativity...what does that even mean?
I think there's something about feeling limited or stifled going on. About ideas not getting through. Or translating into something tangible. Which makes some sense because I've been turning my productive attention to things like real estate sales centres. And to taking care of other people – something I didn't have to do in Paris. In Paris, it was all about me. Here, it's all about everyone but me.
So, there's the resentment. The carcinogenic resentment of not nurturing or allowing my creative expression to be realized.
And there's guilt, too. Because I am craving freedom and fighting my current life. A life I share with someone else. Who is not stupid. Who knows I am railing against this sturdy, stable, boring suburban life. Honestly, I feel like I'm cheating on him. Like I'm abusing the trust of the relationship by wanting this freedom. By wanting something different than he has "provided." I think I had craved stability before, but now I crave freedom. Adventure. Romance. Passion. Creative stimulation. New, exciting experiences, not ones I can predict.
Here is something you should know. The last time I manifested cervical problems, I was in my terrible marriage. So there is something about associating relationships with thwarted creativity. Or there's something about choosing relationships which thwart my creativity. The jury's out on which is which.
Because I refuse to believe that the person I chose cannot be a partner in a creative life. But, already, I am letting this other person horn in on this blog post. The metaphor in action. Thinking about someone else again. Putting them first.
My problems are in my creativity. There is resentment. There is anger. There is frustration. So. That is where my work must begin.
And sure, it's always good to accept the feminine, release resentment and rinse away sexual guilt. And, not to get all After School Special on you, but I've done a whole schwack of work around sexual trauma already, thanks.
But today, I turned my writer's eye on my body. I began to think about my body as a metaphor.
Bear with me.
My health problems are locating themselves in my reproductive system. The system of procreation, or on a more fundamental level, creation. In other words, my creative centre. An interesting "coincidence" at the time of my most exciting creative output and adventuring.
The problems are located specifically in my cervix. Not my uterus, or creative womb...the place where ideas are fertilized and nurtured. Not the birth canal, which is a kind of conduit. But the cervix. A deeper gateway.
Now, don't get me wrong, I have no effing clue where I'm going with this. I have no brilliant and pithy conclusions for you. All I have is the observation. The question. What is going on at the gateway of my creativity? What is the gateway of my creativity...what does that even mean?
I think there's something about feeling limited or stifled going on. About ideas not getting through. Or translating into something tangible. Which makes some sense because I've been turning my productive attention to things like real estate sales centres. And to taking care of other people – something I didn't have to do in Paris. In Paris, it was all about me. Here, it's all about everyone but me.
So, there's the resentment. The carcinogenic resentment of not nurturing or allowing my creative expression to be realized.
And there's guilt, too. Because I am craving freedom and fighting my current life. A life I share with someone else. Who is not stupid. Who knows I am railing against this sturdy, stable, boring suburban life. Honestly, I feel like I'm cheating on him. Like I'm abusing the trust of the relationship by wanting this freedom. By wanting something different than he has "provided." I think I had craved stability before, but now I crave freedom. Adventure. Romance. Passion. Creative stimulation. New, exciting experiences, not ones I can predict.
Here is something you should know. The last time I manifested cervical problems, I was in my terrible marriage. So there is something about associating relationships with thwarted creativity. Or there's something about choosing relationships which thwart my creativity. The jury's out on which is which.
Because I refuse to believe that the person I chose cannot be a partner in a creative life. But, already, I am letting this other person horn in on this blog post. The metaphor in action. Thinking about someone else again. Putting them first.
My problems are in my creativity. There is resentment. There is anger. There is frustration. So. That is where my work must begin.
The Mornings After
I wrote that rage-filled post on Sunday night. Had to tell my oncologist father on Father's Day that I might be coming to see one of his colleagues soon. Sheesh. Not in my Awesome Daughter Master Plan.
He, of course, was great. Whenever there is a medical problem, The Folks are on the freaking case, yo. They will get you in to see the best in the city, like, this week. Which is what happened. I'm going to see Dr. Best In The City on Monday.
Yesterday morning I woke up feeling exhausted. Today, same thing.
And there is so much going on in my head that I don't even want to begin. I want to turn off the constant monologue that woke me up at 4 a.m. with its yammering.
The "weird" thing (if you believe in weird things) is, I had planned to really take a look at my health beginning this week. I just needed to get the show out of the way and then it was going to be Mel's Health Month. Rethink my diet, start doing regular meditation, etc.
I guess I have a good reason to actually do it now. Yay.
The thing I'm most excited about is this book I'm reading. You Can Heal Your Life by Louise Hay. I would love to explain her work, but I'm freaking exhausted.
I want to be funny for you. I want to turn that frown upside down. I want to tell you a hilarious madcap story about doctors and lady parts. But I'm not there right now. I can't entertain you. I'm really confused actually.
Last night I prayed and prayed for guidance. I'm in the middle of a life transition, but this is not the direction I had hoped for. But if you believe Law of Attraction, I attracted this. So...why? Why did I put my problems there of all places? Issues in my junk, I guess.
And here I am, a Woo Woo Girl in a family of Western medical model people. I'm a person who would rather do affirmations and organic carrot juice than chemo and surgery. So, my dad gets me in to see the Best In The City. What do I tell her if she suggests surgery? Thanks, but no thanks, I'd rather dissolve my resentment?
And last night I hung out with Life Coach Cathy. Who is normally really great at this stuff. She usually just says the one right thing and everything comes clear. But last night she asked me how far down the rabbit hole I wanted to go. And I said as far as it takes. And we ended up with me sitting on a restaurant patio sobbing my face off, thinking how the hell did we get here? The whole thing was too much. Way too much. And I can't tell if that was helpful or crazymaking.
Which is the other thing about this whole deal. Are people helping or are they pushing their agenda? You never know. Maybe Dr. Best In The City is vaccine-happy. Maybe LCC is projecting her stuff onto me. It would be lovely to think that all our caregivers, friends and counselors were like Mother Theresa, but they aren't.
My best resource for now is going to be me. I need to listen to my intuition and see what feels right. And, as my friend Andrea so beautifully put it last night as I was sobbing to her on the phone: don't react. Don't turn into a pinball and get hammered by every new bit of information. Keep a calm centre and keep listening.
He, of course, was great. Whenever there is a medical problem, The Folks are on the freaking case, yo. They will get you in to see the best in the city, like, this week. Which is what happened. I'm going to see Dr. Best In The City on Monday.
Yesterday morning I woke up feeling exhausted. Today, same thing.
And there is so much going on in my head that I don't even want to begin. I want to turn off the constant monologue that woke me up at 4 a.m. with its yammering.
The "weird" thing (if you believe in weird things) is, I had planned to really take a look at my health beginning this week. I just needed to get the show out of the way and then it was going to be Mel's Health Month. Rethink my diet, start doing regular meditation, etc.
I guess I have a good reason to actually do it now. Yay.
The thing I'm most excited about is this book I'm reading. You Can Heal Your Life by Louise Hay. I would love to explain her work, but I'm freaking exhausted.
I want to be funny for you. I want to turn that frown upside down. I want to tell you a hilarious madcap story about doctors and lady parts. But I'm not there right now. I can't entertain you. I'm really confused actually.
Last night I prayed and prayed for guidance. I'm in the middle of a life transition, but this is not the direction I had hoped for. But if you believe Law of Attraction, I attracted this. So...why? Why did I put my problems there of all places? Issues in my junk, I guess.
And here I am, a Woo Woo Girl in a family of Western medical model people. I'm a person who would rather do affirmations and organic carrot juice than chemo and surgery. So, my dad gets me in to see the Best In The City. What do I tell her if she suggests surgery? Thanks, but no thanks, I'd rather dissolve my resentment?
And last night I hung out with Life Coach Cathy. Who is normally really great at this stuff. She usually just says the one right thing and everything comes clear. But last night she asked me how far down the rabbit hole I wanted to go. And I said as far as it takes. And we ended up with me sitting on a restaurant patio sobbing my face off, thinking how the hell did we get here? The whole thing was too much. Way too much. And I can't tell if that was helpful or crazymaking.
Which is the other thing about this whole deal. Are people helping or are they pushing their agenda? You never know. Maybe Dr. Best In The City is vaccine-happy. Maybe LCC is projecting her stuff onto me. It would be lovely to think that all our caregivers, friends and counselors were like Mother Theresa, but they aren't.
My best resource for now is going to be me. I need to listen to my intuition and see what feels right. And, as my friend Andrea so beautifully put it last night as I was sobbing to her on the phone: don't react. Don't turn into a pinball and get hammered by every new bit of information. Keep a calm centre and keep listening.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
My Effing Cervix
Just when you thought me ranting about my lady parts was a thing of the past, I'm back with more. Only this one's not as funny as the bike seat episode. This one isn't funny at all.
You see, I am one of many, many people in the world who have a lil' something called HPV (human papilloma virus). Word on the street is that about 70% of young folks will dance with this disease in their lives. In my case, like many women, HPV infection has led to precancerous lesions on my cervix.
I had an abnormal PAP test around seven months ago and was sent to get a colposcopy (Round 2 of testing). I went for my appointment. The waiting room was a Russian bread line with women hanging off the walls.
My doc (who looked about 16 years old) was almost two hours behind. He was curt and obviously stressed. He said I would be booked in for two follow-up tests six months apart and I'd be getting results in four weeks.
I got a message from his office several weeks after the test. I called the office. No answer, no voicemail. I waited. I called again. Still no answer. I called again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Since they hadn't called back, I assumed (after calling ten times) that all was well. Six months passed. I went to my follow-up a couple of weeks ago. There, Doogie Howser admitted that he, um, didn't get enough cells in the first biopsy, so there, um, weren't any results.
Oh.
So, let me get this straight. You botched the biopsy because you were trying to be a hero and see four thousand patients in one day. And then, four weeks later when the non-results came back – you know, when you realized you screwed up – you didn't call to get me in for another test. You let me and my gradually morphing cells just hang out for six months?
Oh. I see.
Doogie did a better job this time around. And he was extra, extra nice to me. Ain't that sweet?
They called on Thursday, and by the grace of God, I answered the phone. They asked me to come in so they can discuss the results with me.
I am not stupid. I know what this means. I have been here before. This means the cells are abnormal enough to warrant surgery.
This is information I really needed six months ago.
Can I tell you what you feel when you receive information like this? Here is the thought process: Cervical cancer is coming to get me. They are going to keep hacking bits of me off until my entire cervix is gone. I will not be able to have children. I am going to die.
So there's the fear. And in me, right now, there is anger. Big, red gushing anger. Because we are all gung-ho about our marketing campaign to vaccinate our daughters but right now half of the women in my demographic have this virus. Right. Now. And what are we doing for the women who have it now? We're chopping off pieces.
The prevention is 'look for it.' The treatment is 'cut it off.'
And, tell me...what's the point of vaccinating my daughter when I might not be able to have her in the first place?
We are not dealing with the underlying cause. We are not addressing the men who gave it to us. (Why? Because it "doesn't lead to any health risks" for them. Um. Half of their wives, sisters and mothers having cervical cancer...not a health risk? Sure, boys, don't worry about it. You're clear. Go back to the Golf Channel.) We are in the dark ages.
Yes, I know that HPV and mutant cells don't necessarily mean cancer. And yes, I know that cancer doesn't necessarily mean I can't have children or that I might die. I know my facts are probably all twisted and sideways and I'll get over this rage fit soon. But right now I am angry and I am scared. And that is real and this is happening.
Here it is, folks. Real live rage. Livid white fear. Molten and blazing. Get it while it's hot.
You see, I am one of many, many people in the world who have a lil' something called HPV (human papilloma virus). Word on the street is that about 70% of young folks will dance with this disease in their lives. In my case, like many women, HPV infection has led to precancerous lesions on my cervix.
I had an abnormal PAP test around seven months ago and was sent to get a colposcopy (Round 2 of testing). I went for my appointment. The waiting room was a Russian bread line with women hanging off the walls.
My doc (who looked about 16 years old) was almost two hours behind. He was curt and obviously stressed. He said I would be booked in for two follow-up tests six months apart and I'd be getting results in four weeks.
I got a message from his office several weeks after the test. I called the office. No answer, no voicemail. I waited. I called again. Still no answer. I called again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Since they hadn't called back, I assumed (after calling ten times) that all was well. Six months passed. I went to my follow-up a couple of weeks ago. There, Doogie Howser admitted that he, um, didn't get enough cells in the first biopsy, so there, um, weren't any results.
Oh.
So, let me get this straight. You botched the biopsy because you were trying to be a hero and see four thousand patients in one day. And then, four weeks later when the non-results came back – you know, when you realized you screwed up – you didn't call to get me in for another test. You let me and my gradually morphing cells just hang out for six months?
Oh. I see.
Doogie did a better job this time around. And he was extra, extra nice to me. Ain't that sweet?
They called on Thursday, and by the grace of God, I answered the phone. They asked me to come in so they can discuss the results with me.
I am not stupid. I know what this means. I have been here before. This means the cells are abnormal enough to warrant surgery.
This is information I really needed six months ago.
Can I tell you what you feel when you receive information like this? Here is the thought process: Cervical cancer is coming to get me. They are going to keep hacking bits of me off until my entire cervix is gone. I will not be able to have children. I am going to die.
So there's the fear. And in me, right now, there is anger. Big, red gushing anger. Because we are all gung-ho about our marketing campaign to vaccinate our daughters but right now half of the women in my demographic have this virus. Right. Now. And what are we doing for the women who have it now? We're chopping off pieces.
The prevention is 'look for it.' The treatment is 'cut it off.'
And, tell me...what's the point of vaccinating my daughter when I might not be able to have her in the first place?
We are not dealing with the underlying cause. We are not addressing the men who gave it to us. (Why? Because it "doesn't lead to any health risks" for them. Um. Half of their wives, sisters and mothers having cervical cancer...not a health risk? Sure, boys, don't worry about it. You're clear. Go back to the Golf Channel.) We are in the dark ages.
Yes, I know that HPV and mutant cells don't necessarily mean cancer. And yes, I know that cancer doesn't necessarily mean I can't have children or that I might die. I know my facts are probably all twisted and sideways and I'll get over this rage fit soon. But right now I am angry and I am scared. And that is real and this is happening.
Here it is, folks. Real live rage. Livid white fear. Molten and blazing. Get it while it's hot.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Psycho Midnight Cleaning Lady
Currently, I find myself in what I've been calling the Super Sonic Centrifugal Life Transition Vortex. I've been in it since returning from Paris. Sometimes, I handle the spinning chaos with grace and aplomb (whatever that is), but other times, like two nights ago, I turn into a shrieking neurotic hellcat on wheels.
I'm all blender-drinked on the insides trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life. I'm in this play that scares me, playing a lesbian in a jean skirt. And meanwhile, I've done my usual 'overprogram the daytimer to the freaking max' thing and have approximately nine hundred freelance projects all of which are not ending when they were supposed to end.
So, maybe you can see how I took it just slightly personally when my boyfriend implied that maybe we need to clean up around our Hurricane Hannah pig sty of a home, beginning with our bathroom. I don't know how you masters of graceful social interaction would have handled this, but here's how I did:
First, I got really quiet and employed the patented One Word Answer technique. Then I avoided eye contact and changed the subject. Then, as I climbed the stairs to bed, I made sure my 'Good night' was barely audible, just to make sure Boyfriend knew that he was a big jerk and I don't love him anymore.
I brushed my teeth using the gingivitis-fighting Stab Myself in the Face Because I'm so Mad method. I noticed Boyfriend had cleared away most of the stuff on the bathroom counter, including my stuff. Which, of course, means he doesn't love me and and doesn't want me in his life or in his house.
I slammed the light off, practically putting a hole in the drywall. I harumphed into bed and proceeded to relax into Frustrated Sobbing meditation. As my ear canals filled with tears and I became aware that I was probably going to give myself a headache and seriously puffy eyes for my opening night, I thought about all the bad things Boyfriend has ever done. I decided that I've never loved him and I never will and I should probably just break up with him right now. It would be better for everyone.
Right after I take the garbage out. At midnight.
Then, riding the red PMS-soaked crest of my rage, I proceeded to clean the bathroom. My peaceful bathroom-cleaning mantra was something like this: You want a clean effing house you effing sonofabeep, I'll effing show you a clean effing house.
As I lathered up the counter, I listed off all the deadlines and responsibilities I have that are way more important than cleaning a bathroom. I made a mental spreadsheet of how many times I've gone to the grocery store vs. how many times he's gone to the grocery store...you never know when you might need this kind of statistical analysis. I polished the counter, sinks and mirror to a blinding shine.
And then I moved on to the shower.
Our shower is pretty large. It's got a seat in it. Its made of glass. It's basically a big glass shower box. You have to get fully IN the shower in order to clean it. Which means getting cleaner goo all over your feet and probably all over your clothes. So, really, it's best to clean the shower...naked.
Which is what I did. I stripped down to my Birthday Suit, elegantly accessorized by my glasses and puffy red crying face, and got in the shower. I sprayed and scoured. I got on my hands and knees with the brush-thing and scrubbed the grubby shower floor. The brush is too big for the corners and it made a loud clunking sound as I scrubbed away.
I imagine it was the clunking that alerted Boyfriend. Who walked into the bathroom to find his red-faced neurotic girlfriend buck naked, glasses sliding down her nose, scrubbing the shower at one a.m.
He tried not to laugh when he asked what I was doing. And by that time, the meditative effects of housecleaning actually had calmed me down, so I didn't spray bleach cleaner into his eyes and drown him in the sink.
He explained that he didn't mean to imply that I should clean the house. But that we should clean the house...after my show...together. I stared at him. Scummy cleaner juice dripped down my leg.
He retrieved an old toothbrush from under his sink and said, "Here, this brush is good for the corners." He squatted down and brushed at the corners. I took the toothbrush from him and told him that this was my psycho midnight cleaning binge and he was really stealing my thunder. He laughed.
And then he whistled at my nakedness. And got me a towel after I rinsed myself off. And gave me one of those cute towel-wrap rub-a-dub hugs.
Bastard. We're through.
I'm all blender-drinked on the insides trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life. I'm in this play that scares me, playing a lesbian in a jean skirt. And meanwhile, I've done my usual 'overprogram the daytimer to the freaking max' thing and have approximately nine hundred freelance projects all of which are not ending when they were supposed to end.
So, maybe you can see how I took it just slightly personally when my boyfriend implied that maybe we need to clean up around our Hurricane Hannah pig sty of a home, beginning with our bathroom. I don't know how you masters of graceful social interaction would have handled this, but here's how I did:
First, I got really quiet and employed the patented One Word Answer technique. Then I avoided eye contact and changed the subject. Then, as I climbed the stairs to bed, I made sure my 'Good night' was barely audible, just to make sure Boyfriend knew that he was a big jerk and I don't love him anymore.
I brushed my teeth using the gingivitis-fighting Stab Myself in the Face Because I'm so Mad method. I noticed Boyfriend had cleared away most of the stuff on the bathroom counter, including my stuff. Which, of course, means he doesn't love me and and doesn't want me in his life or in his house.
I slammed the light off, practically putting a hole in the drywall. I harumphed into bed and proceeded to relax into Frustrated Sobbing meditation. As my ear canals filled with tears and I became aware that I was probably going to give myself a headache and seriously puffy eyes for my opening night, I thought about all the bad things Boyfriend has ever done. I decided that I've never loved him and I never will and I should probably just break up with him right now. It would be better for everyone.
Right after I take the garbage out. At midnight.
Then, riding the red PMS-soaked crest of my rage, I proceeded to clean the bathroom. My peaceful bathroom-cleaning mantra was something like this: You want a clean effing house you effing sonofabeep, I'll effing show you a clean effing house.
As I lathered up the counter, I listed off all the deadlines and responsibilities I have that are way more important than cleaning a bathroom. I made a mental spreadsheet of how many times I've gone to the grocery store vs. how many times he's gone to the grocery store...you never know when you might need this kind of statistical analysis. I polished the counter, sinks and mirror to a blinding shine.
And then I moved on to the shower.
Our shower is pretty large. It's got a seat in it. Its made of glass. It's basically a big glass shower box. You have to get fully IN the shower in order to clean it. Which means getting cleaner goo all over your feet and probably all over your clothes. So, really, it's best to clean the shower...naked.
Which is what I did. I stripped down to my Birthday Suit, elegantly accessorized by my glasses and puffy red crying face, and got in the shower. I sprayed and scoured. I got on my hands and knees with the brush-thing and scrubbed the grubby shower floor. The brush is too big for the corners and it made a loud clunking sound as I scrubbed away.
I imagine it was the clunking that alerted Boyfriend. Who walked into the bathroom to find his red-faced neurotic girlfriend buck naked, glasses sliding down her nose, scrubbing the shower at one a.m.
He tried not to laugh when he asked what I was doing. And by that time, the meditative effects of housecleaning actually had calmed me down, so I didn't spray bleach cleaner into his eyes and drown him in the sink.
He explained that he didn't mean to imply that I should clean the house. But that we should clean the house...after my show...together. I stared at him. Scummy cleaner juice dripped down my leg.
He retrieved an old toothbrush from under his sink and said, "Here, this brush is good for the corners." He squatted down and brushed at the corners. I took the toothbrush from him and told him that this was my psycho midnight cleaning binge and he was really stealing my thunder. He laughed.
And then he whistled at my nakedness. And got me a towel after I rinsed myself off. And gave me one of those cute towel-wrap rub-a-dub hugs.
Bastard. We're through.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Anti-Mercury Retrograde Survival Kit
M'kay. I'm gonna go a little Madame Roslin's Psychic Hotline on you here. See, after Le Grand Divorce, I got heavily into horoscopes and astrology. I guess I needed something to make sense of the swirling chaos.
Astrology it was. And I got REALLY into it. There was a time, I'll admit, when I wouldn't give an Aries the time of day. Because Aries are, like, super incompatible with Cancer. Embarrassing.
I am now fully recovered and happily dating an Aries. (Ha! Yeah right. He's a Pisces.) Regardless, there are two astrological events that I have not given up believing. One is full moons. They seriously mess with people, especially us water signs. Rumour has it the police tend to staff up on full moon days. I shit you not. Mmm, wait. I have no source on this. It could be an urban legend. Meh.
The other is good old Mercury Retrograde. About three times per year, Mercury appears to move backwards in the sky. Mercury rules transportation, communication and the past, and when it goes into retrograde these things get messed up. So, for three or four weeks, you will drop cell phone calls, lose emails, lock your keys in your car, be late, have misunderstandings with people and run into every single ex-boyfriend you've had since kindergarten (if you were an early bloomer, that is).
It doesn't sound like much fun and I suppose it isn't. So, I've taken the liberty of creating an Anti-Mercury Retrograde Survival Kit available online for only $29.99 (plus GST and shipping).
Your stylish Kit includes:
Ex-Girlfriend Pacification Spray OR Ex-Boyfriend Ego Massage Oil
Portable Folding Cell Phone Tower (No reception? No problem!)
74 Assorted Emails (In Work Related, Pornographic/Personal and SPAM flavours!)
LockMaster2000 Skeleton Key (Fits all cars, homes and diaries! Not suitable for retinal scans.)
Never-B-Late Alarm Clock (Guaranteed 10 minutes early!)
Fast-Acting Apology Powder (Sprinkle it on and they'll brush it off!)
Green Light Transmogrifying Lotion (Because red lights are for people without this lotion!)
ORDER TODAY! Call Madame Roslin NOW at 1-800-MERC-SUX and receive a bonus gift!
Today only, we will include a convenient Madame Roslin's Psychic Hotline Official Folding Astrological Chart FREE. Never forget which sign is ascending into which house again! Fits easily in the glove box! ($11.99 Value)
CALL NOW! Before you miss a pornographic email from your ex-boyfriend!
Astrology it was. And I got REALLY into it. There was a time, I'll admit, when I wouldn't give an Aries the time of day. Because Aries are, like, super incompatible with Cancer. Embarrassing.
I am now fully recovered and happily dating an Aries. (Ha! Yeah right. He's a Pisces.) Regardless, there are two astrological events that I have not given up believing. One is full moons. They seriously mess with people, especially us water signs. Rumour has it the police tend to staff up on full moon days. I shit you not. Mmm, wait. I have no source on this. It could be an urban legend. Meh.
The other is good old Mercury Retrograde. About three times per year, Mercury appears to move backwards in the sky. Mercury rules transportation, communication and the past, and when it goes into retrograde these things get messed up. So, for three or four weeks, you will drop cell phone calls, lose emails, lock your keys in your car, be late, have misunderstandings with people and run into every single ex-boyfriend you've had since kindergarten (if you were an early bloomer, that is).
It doesn't sound like much fun and I suppose it isn't. So, I've taken the liberty of creating an Anti-Mercury Retrograde Survival Kit available online for only $29.99 (plus GST and shipping).
Your stylish Kit includes:
Ex-Girlfriend Pacification Spray OR Ex-Boyfriend Ego Massage Oil
Portable Folding Cell Phone Tower (No reception? No problem!)
74 Assorted Emails (In Work Related, Pornographic/Personal and SPAM flavours!)
LockMaster2000 Skeleton Key (Fits all cars, homes and diaries! Not suitable for retinal scans.)
Never-B-Late Alarm Clock (Guaranteed 10 minutes early!)
Fast-Acting Apology Powder (Sprinkle it on and they'll brush it off!)
Green Light Transmogrifying Lotion (Because red lights are for people without this lotion!)
ORDER TODAY! Call Madame Roslin NOW at 1-800-MERC-SUX and receive a bonus gift!
Today only, we will include a convenient Madame Roslin's Psychic Hotline Official Folding Astrological Chart FREE. Never forget which sign is ascending into which house again! Fits easily in the glove box! ($11.99 Value)
CALL NOW! Before you miss a pornographic email from your ex-boyfriend!
Twisting in the Wind
Yesterday when I wrote about converts, I excluded one person. I did that for her privacy because I'm not sure how 'out' she is about her particular journey. But she is actually one of the biggest Dream Junkies I know. The kind of person who is super inspiring and maybe doesn't even know it.
So, I won't name names, but I need you to know her story.
My dreams are creative, and being a blog about chasing dreams, the focus here tends to be on artistic journeys. And I often wonder if the hugely artistic bent of this writing alienates those non-creatively focused people. I hope not. Because dreams are dreams are dreams. And making dreams come true, no matter what they are, is a purely creative process. You are making something new and beautiful.
And this story is not about making art, it's about making love. Not in a Barry Isaacs 'I just wanna love you' kind of way, but in an epic love across obstacles kind of way.
I'm going to call this story's heroine Athena. Goddess of the Hunt. A kick-ass warrior broad. Seems fitting.
I met Athena on the eve of an earth-shattering breakup. Hers, not mine. Her fiancé had, without warning, totally decompensated, freaked and moved out. She stayed with a couple of friends for the weekend and they brought me in as Breakup Damage Control.
We hit it off right away, Athena and I. We connected in the way soldiers do in the trenches. Because we both know what it feels like to have your heart suddenly and forcibly removed from your body.
Before I knew her, Athena had to undergo a hysterectomy. There are a handful of women in and around my world who have had to go through this. I am never totally clear about the exact reason for it, but I always assume it has to do with fibroids or endimetriosis or some other 'Please God, stop this excruciating, debilitating pain' rationale. Hearing that someone had a hysterectomy always affects me very viscerally. There is a loss of womanhood thing associated with it. And I imagine the grieving process after a surgery like that is intense.
Athena's hysterectomy and breakup happened pretty close together, like within a year or so. So, for her, both Marriage and Children were surgically removed from her life. Pretty fucking devastating if you ask me.
Athena did not fall apart. She did not turn into a self-destructive psychopath. She – in true warrior style – soldiered through.
And then Dream Guy came along. Way too early. Dude missed the memo that Athena needed two years of grieving and getting her shit together before she could deal with someone this great. Dream Guy said, 'Sorry Lady. I'm here. Deal with it.'
All of Athena's friends did their over-protective 'I don't know about this' thing. Including me. But that's because it took me five years to get over my breakup. I'm slow, I guess. So Dream Guy's here. Dream Guy's a reality.
I met him and was blown away. Not that he's shizzammy, glitzy wonderful. He didn't try to win me over or anything. He's just simply, totally, completely great. And he 100%, non-negotiably loves Athena. I'm talking rock solid human being, partner for life stuff. It's just that simple.
Athena and Dreamy start talking about children.
Did I mention Athena's hysterectomy? Yeah. This is a big, big, BIG deal. They talk about the surrogate mother route. Because that's kind of the only way to go.
And it would be so easy to trot out the 'if you have to try that hard, it's not meant to be' line. And I'm sure people have. I'm also sure Athena and Dreamy thought about and felt that too. I'm sure about four million people suggested they 'just adopt.' It's easy for those of us with all the equipment to judge, right?
Doing something that other people don't understand or support is so incredibly hard and so beautifully brave. Living a life that is outside of the narrow confines of 'normal' is an act of courage and an act of creativity. It's an act of love.
Do you think anyone would choose to be judged or alienated or ostracized if they weren't being driven by something much larger, much more powerful and beautiful than caring what other people think?
I'm thinking about my gay friends now. And my artist friends. And the people in my life who don't fit the mold of 2.5 kids and white picket fences and perfect cocktail party small talk. All of these people live on the fringe of something called Normal. I don't even know what that is. I don't know what marketing genius made us all think we needed to be part of it. But there's Normal and then there's us.
Right now, Athena is on some hard-core hormones, getting her ovaries ready for a huge process that may or may not result in a child. She's feeling completely alone. She's feeling scared and probably totally crazy. She's questioning every choice she's made over the past six months and wants nothing more than to claw her way back to Normal Town.
Sister, you are not alone. We're all here with you, hanging out on the fringe. On the cutting, bleeding edge where the wind is colder, but the views are fucking breathtaking.
So, I won't name names, but I need you to know her story.
My dreams are creative, and being a blog about chasing dreams, the focus here tends to be on artistic journeys. And I often wonder if the hugely artistic bent of this writing alienates those non-creatively focused people. I hope not. Because dreams are dreams are dreams. And making dreams come true, no matter what they are, is a purely creative process. You are making something new and beautiful.
And this story is not about making art, it's about making love. Not in a Barry Isaacs 'I just wanna love you' kind of way, but in an epic love across obstacles kind of way.
I'm going to call this story's heroine Athena. Goddess of the Hunt. A kick-ass warrior broad. Seems fitting.
I met Athena on the eve of an earth-shattering breakup. Hers, not mine. Her fiancé had, without warning, totally decompensated, freaked and moved out. She stayed with a couple of friends for the weekend and they brought me in as Breakup Damage Control.
We hit it off right away, Athena and I. We connected in the way soldiers do in the trenches. Because we both know what it feels like to have your heart suddenly and forcibly removed from your body.
Before I knew her, Athena had to undergo a hysterectomy. There are a handful of women in and around my world who have had to go through this. I am never totally clear about the exact reason for it, but I always assume it has to do with fibroids or endimetriosis or some other 'Please God, stop this excruciating, debilitating pain' rationale. Hearing that someone had a hysterectomy always affects me very viscerally. There is a loss of womanhood thing associated with it. And I imagine the grieving process after a surgery like that is intense.
Athena's hysterectomy and breakup happened pretty close together, like within a year or so. So, for her, both Marriage and Children were surgically removed from her life. Pretty fucking devastating if you ask me.
Athena did not fall apart. She did not turn into a self-destructive psychopath. She – in true warrior style – soldiered through.
And then Dream Guy came along. Way too early. Dude missed the memo that Athena needed two years of grieving and getting her shit together before she could deal with someone this great. Dream Guy said, 'Sorry Lady. I'm here. Deal with it.'
All of Athena's friends did their over-protective 'I don't know about this' thing. Including me. But that's because it took me five years to get over my breakup. I'm slow, I guess. So Dream Guy's here. Dream Guy's a reality.
I met him and was blown away. Not that he's shizzammy, glitzy wonderful. He didn't try to win me over or anything. He's just simply, totally, completely great. And he 100%, non-negotiably loves Athena. I'm talking rock solid human being, partner for life stuff. It's just that simple.
Athena and Dreamy start talking about children.
Did I mention Athena's hysterectomy? Yeah. This is a big, big, BIG deal. They talk about the surrogate mother route. Because that's kind of the only way to go.
And it would be so easy to trot out the 'if you have to try that hard, it's not meant to be' line. And I'm sure people have. I'm also sure Athena and Dreamy thought about and felt that too. I'm sure about four million people suggested they 'just adopt.' It's easy for those of us with all the equipment to judge, right?
Doing something that other people don't understand or support is so incredibly hard and so beautifully brave. Living a life that is outside of the narrow confines of 'normal' is an act of courage and an act of creativity. It's an act of love.
Do you think anyone would choose to be judged or alienated or ostracized if they weren't being driven by something much larger, much more powerful and beautiful than caring what other people think?
I'm thinking about my gay friends now. And my artist friends. And the people in my life who don't fit the mold of 2.5 kids and white picket fences and perfect cocktail party small talk. All of these people live on the fringe of something called Normal. I don't even know what that is. I don't know what marketing genius made us all think we needed to be part of it. But there's Normal and then there's us.
Right now, Athena is on some hard-core hormones, getting her ovaries ready for a huge process that may or may not result in a child. She's feeling completely alone. She's feeling scared and probably totally crazy. She's questioning every choice she's made over the past six months and wants nothing more than to claw her way back to Normal Town.
Sister, you are not alone. We're all here with you, hanging out on the fringe. On the cutting, bleeding edge where the wind is colder, but the views are fucking breathtaking.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
We Have Converts!
The Church of Living Your Dream Lifestyle Network of America has a new convert! At least, our source believes her conversion can be somehow attributed to this here blog. A friend of Dana the Artist is plotting a month-long solo sojourn to the Yukon. Yesssss. One of our other converts is a friend of mine. An actor/writer who is leaving for Prague this summer to write either a novel, stage play, screenplay or maybe all three. Go AJ!
Which makes me think this: it's all about permission. Giving yourself permission.
I shall sing this from the rooftops (although that may not maximize my market reach, I realize): IT IS OKAY TO LIVE YOUR DREAMS.
Nothing bad will happen to you. You will not turn into a different person. Your face will not melt off. You will not necessarily have an affair with a circus performer, turn into a cough syrup addict and ruin your life. (Unless that's part of your dream.)
What will happen if you make the leap is this: you will experience great gobs of joy and probably fear in equal measure. You will look at that fear and say, "Hello Fear. How's tricks?" And you will tape the following statement up on your mirror: If the goal doesn't scare you shitless, it's not big enough.
I'm sorry, what? You need to hear this again? Sure: PLEASE GOD...JUST DO THE WORLD A FAVOUR AND LIVE YOUR DREAMS.
See, giving yourself permission is a nice thing to say you're going to do. But it also helps having someone break the ice for you and make it okay. I'm your girl! If you need me to write permission slips to your teachers, I'll do that. If you want me to call your parents and explain why you are leaving a perfectly stable job at the call-centre to explore the jungles of the Amazon basin, I'll do that too.
Here's a wee rationale for you. Say the world is a big Tupperware container. And all the people in the world are crammed together in this air-tight system. Who is going to be more helpful to our little freshness-packed human race, people who resent their lives and are all bitter and surly or people who love what they do and probably spread that love around a little because they are so filled-to-overflowing with joy? Look folks, we're all in this together. And the best thing you can do for yourself and our Tupperware world is to bring the love and live your dreams.
A word on uncertainty. Which is a concept I've been trying to avoid since my plane touched the ground here at home and I started trying to manhandle and mud wrestle the forces of the universe into a state of submission. "Uncertainty is your path to freedom." There's another quote for your mirror. It isn't mine. It's Deepak Chopra's. (Thanks Deepak. No worries, Mel.) Uncertainty is the place where true evolution happens. Because you aren't limited by how you've always done things or who you've always been. It is literally a whole new world unfolding moment by moment.
You don't have to know what's next. Just take the leap and spend that month in Paris, Prague or wherever. Write that novel, screenplay, poem. Get up on stage and sing. Cycle across the country. Just freaking do it. Please.
And tell me about it.
I think we should build a society of dream junkies. Hearing that other people are making a break for the life they always imagined is so inspiring and encouraging. Tell me your stories. If you're shy about public displays of dream-chasing, email me: melanie at melaniejones dot ca.
Which makes me think this: it's all about permission. Giving yourself permission.
I shall sing this from the rooftops (although that may not maximize my market reach, I realize): IT IS OKAY TO LIVE YOUR DREAMS.
Nothing bad will happen to you. You will not turn into a different person. Your face will not melt off. You will not necessarily have an affair with a circus performer, turn into a cough syrup addict and ruin your life. (Unless that's part of your dream.)
What will happen if you make the leap is this: you will experience great gobs of joy and probably fear in equal measure. You will look at that fear and say, "Hello Fear. How's tricks?" And you will tape the following statement up on your mirror: If the goal doesn't scare you shitless, it's not big enough.
I'm sorry, what? You need to hear this again? Sure: PLEASE GOD...JUST DO THE WORLD A FAVOUR AND LIVE YOUR DREAMS.
See, giving yourself permission is a nice thing to say you're going to do. But it also helps having someone break the ice for you and make it okay. I'm your girl! If you need me to write permission slips to your teachers, I'll do that. If you want me to call your parents and explain why you are leaving a perfectly stable job at the call-centre to explore the jungles of the Amazon basin, I'll do that too.
Here's a wee rationale for you. Say the world is a big Tupperware container. And all the people in the world are crammed together in this air-tight system. Who is going to be more helpful to our little freshness-packed human race, people who resent their lives and are all bitter and surly or people who love what they do and probably spread that love around a little because they are so filled-to-overflowing with joy? Look folks, we're all in this together. And the best thing you can do for yourself and our Tupperware world is to bring the love and live your dreams.
A word on uncertainty. Which is a concept I've been trying to avoid since my plane touched the ground here at home and I started trying to manhandle and mud wrestle the forces of the universe into a state of submission. "Uncertainty is your path to freedom." There's another quote for your mirror. It isn't mine. It's Deepak Chopra's. (Thanks Deepak. No worries, Mel.) Uncertainty is the place where true evolution happens. Because you aren't limited by how you've always done things or who you've always been. It is literally a whole new world unfolding moment by moment.
You don't have to know what's next. Just take the leap and spend that month in Paris, Prague or wherever. Write that novel, screenplay, poem. Get up on stage and sing. Cycle across the country. Just freaking do it. Please.
And tell me about it.
I think we should build a society of dream junkies. Hearing that other people are making a break for the life they always imagined is so inspiring and encouraging. Tell me your stories. If you're shy about public displays of dream-chasing, email me: melanie at melaniejones dot ca.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Time and Love
I'm thinking about time. About the fact I'm a year off on the length of my relationship. About my friend whose dad passed away a year ago. About how I have no idea how I'm going to pull these thoughts together into a coherent piece of writing.
Maybe my thesis statement is simply this: time is a fucked up thing.
I realized yesterday I've been dating Boyfriend for two years, not three. I just lost a year. Or gained one, depending on how you look at it.
Boyfriend and I moved slowly towards love and it took about a year for us to get from Just Friends to Boyfriend-Girlfriend. Our 'slow as molasses' approach, however, is completely different than The Mark Hopkins Experience.
Which has nothing to do with romance, but everything to do with ALS.
See, Boyfriend and I met at Betty's Run for ALS three years ago. Boyfriend's aunt has been living with ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease) for something like fifteen years, and we run this race every year. My friend Mark Hopkins' father, Doug, died of ALS last June after only eleven months with this disease. Four days after his dad's death, Mark ran his first Betty's Run.
So, I'm thinking about time, yes, but also love. And how some loves unfold slowly and others are like freight trains.
Sunday was Betty's Run – Boyfriend and my third 'Meet-iversary' and pretty much the first anniversary of Doug Hopkins' death. I ran with his son. We spent 54 minutes together – more time than we'd ever spent, just me and him. Thirty-two hundred seconds running and talking and connecting as human beings.
Maybe it's because I knew the context. And maybe it's because I'm a runner and Mark Hopkins isn't (yet), but I wanted to make those 54 minutes good for him. I gave him all the energy I possibly could – staying totally, completely present with him during that run. I also bounced up and down like some aerobics teacher-Chihuahua cross, pointed to the top of the huge hill and chirped, "It's right there! It's right there! You can do this."
I have no idea what those 54 minutes meant to Mark Hopkins. Maybe he was thinking about his dad the whole time, maybe he was trying not to. Maybe he wished Chihuahua Girl would piss off. But I hope not. Because that time meant a lot to me.
Mark Hopkins was the second highest individual fundraiser for the event. The only fundraising most of us knew about was his big birthday bash last weekend. It raised $1100. So, Mark quietly raised ten grand without anyone else noticing. And in our 54 minutes, he never mentioned it once.
I feel really grateful today. In fact, I'm a freaking mess writing this right now because I feel so grateful to have spent 54 minutes with someone whose force of love was that powerful, that humble...that magnificent.
I've got time with a person that I love. Time that Mark Hopkins no longer has with his dad. So I figure I'm lucky. And I better not screw it up.
We've got time and we've got love. Both stretch and shrink and get bent out of shape. And I don't know whether time will help you if you're running out of love. But if you're running out of time, here's my advice: add more love.
Maybe my thesis statement is simply this: time is a fucked up thing.
I realized yesterday I've been dating Boyfriend for two years, not three. I just lost a year. Or gained one, depending on how you look at it.
Boyfriend and I moved slowly towards love and it took about a year for us to get from Just Friends to Boyfriend-Girlfriend. Our 'slow as molasses' approach, however, is completely different than The Mark Hopkins Experience.
Which has nothing to do with romance, but everything to do with ALS.
See, Boyfriend and I met at Betty's Run for ALS three years ago. Boyfriend's aunt has been living with ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease) for something like fifteen years, and we run this race every year. My friend Mark Hopkins' father, Doug, died of ALS last June after only eleven months with this disease. Four days after his dad's death, Mark ran his first Betty's Run.
So, I'm thinking about time, yes, but also love. And how some loves unfold slowly and others are like freight trains.
Sunday was Betty's Run – Boyfriend and my third 'Meet-iversary' and pretty much the first anniversary of Doug Hopkins' death. I ran with his son. We spent 54 minutes together – more time than we'd ever spent, just me and him. Thirty-two hundred seconds running and talking and connecting as human beings.
Maybe it's because I knew the context. And maybe it's because I'm a runner and Mark Hopkins isn't (yet), but I wanted to make those 54 minutes good for him. I gave him all the energy I possibly could – staying totally, completely present with him during that run. I also bounced up and down like some aerobics teacher-Chihuahua cross, pointed to the top of the huge hill and chirped, "It's right there! It's right there! You can do this."
I have no idea what those 54 minutes meant to Mark Hopkins. Maybe he was thinking about his dad the whole time, maybe he was trying not to. Maybe he wished Chihuahua Girl would piss off. But I hope not. Because that time meant a lot to me.
Mark Hopkins was the second highest individual fundraiser for the event. The only fundraising most of us knew about was his big birthday bash last weekend. It raised $1100. So, Mark quietly raised ten grand without anyone else noticing. And in our 54 minutes, he never mentioned it once.
I feel really grateful today. In fact, I'm a freaking mess writing this right now because I feel so grateful to have spent 54 minutes with someone whose force of love was that powerful, that humble...that magnificent.
I've got time with a person that I love. Time that Mark Hopkins no longer has with his dad. So I figure I'm lucky. And I better not screw it up.
We've got time and we've got love. Both stretch and shrink and get bent out of shape. And I don't know whether time will help you if you're running out of love. But if you're running out of time, here's my advice: add more love.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Crotch Management
My dear friend, Miz B, wrote to me in distress about the genital agony that resulted from her first cross-training bike ride. I empathized. See, no one really talks about how much cycling hurts your lady parts.
Bike shorts include a padded section called a chamois (pronounced shammy). The chamois, though, is a bit of a tease. It feels so spongy and padded! You think, heck, my junk is going to feel like a million bucks! So what if you feel like you're wearing a diaper? So what if your ass looks double its normal size? It will all be worth it for a pain-free ride.
But, alas. The chamois can only help so much. Hours of banging up and down on a hard plastic bike seat can really take its toll on a person's personal business.
So then, you go into the bike shop and say, 'Hey, my ass hurts.' And they flog this gel-filled seat cover gimmick. And you gladly hand over your $20 because you've been violated repeatedly by that godforsaken suicide seat and enough's enough. And you put the gel-thing on. It feels kinda gooey and cool. You think this is it.
You get on. You slide off. You get back on. You slide off. You get on. The seat cover slides off and kind of hangs limply off the side of the seat. Then a really, really old man wearing a hockey helmet for a bike helmet rides by. He's got a gel-filled seat cover. You decide that gel-filled seat covers are not exactly your style.
Then, some hard core Iron-yutz suggests something called chamois cream. This Iron-yutz looks good. I mean really sexy. And you think, heck yes, this is my ticket back to genital health. No longer will my lady parts be burger! And then, because hey, you're human, you think, maybe you should take this Iron-yutz for a ride. You know....a RIDE. Wink, wink.
But he's way out of your league and is probably boffing two blonde models as we speak.
So instead, you spend another $20 on chamois cream. And it has a gross name like Chamois Butt'r or Udder Balm or a brandname called Assos of all things. On the back it says "Apply Liberally." It doesn't say where. It doesn't say what "liberally" even means.
So there you are, buck naked with a tube of thick white cream, staring at your crotch.
Because in passing you've learned that you aren't supposed to wear underwear with your bike shorts. Maybe you've learned this because people have laughed at you and your visible panty lines out there on the trail. Maybe that was a really crappy way to learn that, and the jackass that sold you the shorts might have been nice enough to give you the heads-up if he wasn't such an elitist prick.
C'est la vie. We're naked, we've got cream.
And you think you should probably put the gunk on the place that hurts the most. Only, that particular area is not a place you usually put cream. And you think, is this safe? Is this hygienic? Am I just begging for a raging yeast infection here?
So, you bail on that line of thinking and spastically smear some cream on your inner thighs. Then you pull up your diaper shorts, avoid looking at your ass in the mirror on the way out and go for your ride.
Later, when you limp to the bathroom and surgically remove your bike shorts from your tenderized AAA privates, you think maybe you used the chamois cream incorrectly.
In two days, when you can walk again, you visit that sexy Iron-yutz again.
Blushing, you tell him you got the cream thanks and you used it on Wednesday, but um...is it possible that maybe you did it wrong? And he looks at you while caressing his tanned muscular calves and says, "Dude, you have to use a lot. Like...a lot." And you get the feeling that is the end of the conversation.
So the next time, you use a lot. Like, you squirt a quarter of the tube into the crotch of your shorts and pull them up. Which is when you experience the ice-cold slimy sensation of a half pound of goo connecting intimately with your junk.
You waddle bow-legged to your bike. You get on, ignoring the squishing sound. You feel like you are floating in a sea of clammy crotch cream. You ride.
Then you have to pee. You peel off those shorts to find a white mess waiting for you. Good. God. You look away. You pee. You think, Crap, should I wipe? Or just drip? And you end up dabbing pathetically and then pulling up your shorts for Cold and Slimy 2: The Chamois Cream Returns.
You finish your ride and by this time, you've forgotten all about the slime because, guess what? Your crotch still aches. And this could be the $80 bike shorts, $20 gel-seat cover and $20 cream talking, but yeah, y'know, I guess maybe (maybe?) it's a little better.
Bike shorts include a padded section called a chamois (pronounced shammy). The chamois, though, is a bit of a tease. It feels so spongy and padded! You think, heck, my junk is going to feel like a million bucks! So what if you feel like you're wearing a diaper? So what if your ass looks double its normal size? It will all be worth it for a pain-free ride.
But, alas. The chamois can only help so much. Hours of banging up and down on a hard plastic bike seat can really take its toll on a person's personal business.
So then, you go into the bike shop and say, 'Hey, my ass hurts.' And they flog this gel-filled seat cover gimmick. And you gladly hand over your $20 because you've been violated repeatedly by that godforsaken suicide seat and enough's enough. And you put the gel-thing on. It feels kinda gooey and cool. You think this is it.
You get on. You slide off. You get back on. You slide off. You get on. The seat cover slides off and kind of hangs limply off the side of the seat. Then a really, really old man wearing a hockey helmet for a bike helmet rides by. He's got a gel-filled seat cover. You decide that gel-filled seat covers are not exactly your style.
Then, some hard core Iron-yutz suggests something called chamois cream. This Iron-yutz looks good. I mean really sexy. And you think, heck yes, this is my ticket back to genital health. No longer will my lady parts be burger! And then, because hey, you're human, you think, maybe you should take this Iron-yutz for a ride. You know....a RIDE. Wink, wink.
But he's way out of your league and is probably boffing two blonde models as we speak.
So instead, you spend another $20 on chamois cream. And it has a gross name like Chamois Butt'r or Udder Balm or a brandname called Assos of all things. On the back it says "Apply Liberally." It doesn't say where. It doesn't say what "liberally" even means.
So there you are, buck naked with a tube of thick white cream, staring at your crotch.
Because in passing you've learned that you aren't supposed to wear underwear with your bike shorts. Maybe you've learned this because people have laughed at you and your visible panty lines out there on the trail. Maybe that was a really crappy way to learn that, and the jackass that sold you the shorts might have been nice enough to give you the heads-up if he wasn't such an elitist prick.
C'est la vie. We're naked, we've got cream.
And you think you should probably put the gunk on the place that hurts the most. Only, that particular area is not a place you usually put cream. And you think, is this safe? Is this hygienic? Am I just begging for a raging yeast infection here?
So, you bail on that line of thinking and spastically smear some cream on your inner thighs. Then you pull up your diaper shorts, avoid looking at your ass in the mirror on the way out and go for your ride.
Later, when you limp to the bathroom and surgically remove your bike shorts from your tenderized AAA privates, you think maybe you used the chamois cream incorrectly.
In two days, when you can walk again, you visit that sexy Iron-yutz again.
Blushing, you tell him you got the cream thanks and you used it on Wednesday, but um...is it possible that maybe you did it wrong? And he looks at you while caressing his tanned muscular calves and says, "Dude, you have to use a lot. Like...a lot." And you get the feeling that is the end of the conversation.
So the next time, you use a lot. Like, you squirt a quarter of the tube into the crotch of your shorts and pull them up. Which is when you experience the ice-cold slimy sensation of a half pound of goo connecting intimately with your junk.
You waddle bow-legged to your bike. You get on, ignoring the squishing sound. You feel like you are floating in a sea of clammy crotch cream. You ride.
Then you have to pee. You peel off those shorts to find a white mess waiting for you. Good. God. You look away. You pee. You think, Crap, should I wipe? Or just drip? And you end up dabbing pathetically and then pulling up your shorts for Cold and Slimy 2: The Chamois Cream Returns.
You finish your ride and by this time, you've forgotten all about the slime because, guess what? Your crotch still aches. And this could be the $80 bike shorts, $20 gel-seat cover and $20 cream talking, but yeah, y'know, I guess maybe (maybe?) it's a little better.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Breakthrough!
Friends, I'm so excited! Last night on the wee puddle-jumper prop plane to Seattle, I finally (FINALLY) figured Charlie out. Maybe you are bored by Charlie by now. God knows she's been a handful. Maybe you were hoping for some lyric and expansive travel writing about Oregon pinot noir country and how being in wine country always leads to great spiritual insights. Too bad.
Claire helped me figure her out actually. See, the beauty of Claire is in her simplicity. The facts of her life are going one way and she is responding in essentially the opposite way. Her denial is almost poetic. She is facing losing her breasts to mastectomy surgery, so rather than mourn their loss in a healthy way...she dolls them up in lingerie and learns to strip. The stakes are high and you can see how that storyline can escalate to a climax.
Charlie hasn't been that clear. What I'm missing is the opposites. There is huge power in opposites. Think about it: love – hate, black – white, Bush – Gore (I've been getting my fill of American politics these days. Sorry). If you pit good against evil, there is an explosion of drama. Good by itself is kind of boring. Evil by itself is unappealing. But chocolate and peanut butter together? Magic.
So. Charlie's dad kills himself. She gets depressed after his death. An unfortunate reality of depression is it can lead to becoming suicidal. She's now obsessed with suicide on two levels. This throws a lovely opposite into the mix with accident-prone David. I thank my friend D for this insight. David's injuries are all unintentional, Charlie's are self-inflicted. And, I figured this one in bed last night at 2 am, they don't meet in the clinic because she's the nurse and he's the patient. They are both patients! Of course.
Incidentally, a fully formed scene between Charlie and a bitchy male nurse jumped out of my head at 2 am as well. That's how it works when you are tapped-in creatively. Whole scenes seem to be waiting for you. They are almost impatient to get out of your head, like they have been hanging around for freaking ever waiting for you to show up and figure it out.
So. Back to Charlie and her dad. In order to avoid dealing with the pain of losing her father to suicide, Charlie throws herself into the details of his death. She CSIs his death and in the process becomes this sui-scientist. Through her research, she realizes that her dad and her have been punters. There is a serious art to effectively offing oneself. Really, her dad was lucky he actually died from his suicide attempt. His suicide was actually kind of pathetic. She begins planning the perfect suicide.
Only, what do you do once you've planned the perfect suicide and it's really just a way to avoid dealing with your dad's death? I mean, we are not in cry-for-help Kansas anymore. If she does this...it's forever.
See? I've upped the stakes. I've backed her into a corner. I'm forcing her to choose. And I've taken the writing further. Rather than shy away from the suicidal aspects of this character, I've taken them up to 11.
Claire helped me figure her out actually. See, the beauty of Claire is in her simplicity. The facts of her life are going one way and she is responding in essentially the opposite way. Her denial is almost poetic. She is facing losing her breasts to mastectomy surgery, so rather than mourn their loss in a healthy way...she dolls them up in lingerie and learns to strip. The stakes are high and you can see how that storyline can escalate to a climax.
Charlie hasn't been that clear. What I'm missing is the opposites. There is huge power in opposites. Think about it: love – hate, black – white, Bush – Gore (I've been getting my fill of American politics these days. Sorry). If you pit good against evil, there is an explosion of drama. Good by itself is kind of boring. Evil by itself is unappealing. But chocolate and peanut butter together? Magic.
So. Charlie's dad kills himself. She gets depressed after his death. An unfortunate reality of depression is it can lead to becoming suicidal. She's now obsessed with suicide on two levels. This throws a lovely opposite into the mix with accident-prone David. I thank my friend D for this insight. David's injuries are all unintentional, Charlie's are self-inflicted. And, I figured this one in bed last night at 2 am, they don't meet in the clinic because she's the nurse and he's the patient. They are both patients! Of course.
Incidentally, a fully formed scene between Charlie and a bitchy male nurse jumped out of my head at 2 am as well. That's how it works when you are tapped-in creatively. Whole scenes seem to be waiting for you. They are almost impatient to get out of your head, like they have been hanging around for freaking ever waiting for you to show up and figure it out.
So. Back to Charlie and her dad. In order to avoid dealing with the pain of losing her father to suicide, Charlie throws herself into the details of his death. She CSIs his death and in the process becomes this sui-scientist. Through her research, she realizes that her dad and her have been punters. There is a serious art to effectively offing oneself. Really, her dad was lucky he actually died from his suicide attempt. His suicide was actually kind of pathetic. She begins planning the perfect suicide.
Only, what do you do once you've planned the perfect suicide and it's really just a way to avoid dealing with your dad's death? I mean, we are not in cry-for-help Kansas anymore. If she does this...it's forever.
See? I've upped the stakes. I've backed her into a corner. I'm forcing her to choose. And I've taken the writing further. Rather than shy away from the suicidal aspects of this character, I've taken them up to 11.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Off to Wine Country
Hi Friends,
I'm off touring Oregon wine country for a couple of days and will be offline. I'll be back soon.
XOXO,
M.
I'm off touring Oregon wine country for a couple of days and will be offline. I'll be back soon.
XOXO,
M.
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