I don't know who you are anymore (a.k.a. being true to oneself)

The other morning Phil Collins found his way to my Pandora Internet Radio Station. "In the Air Tonight." The former me would have reflexively leapt to the radio and changed the station to pretty much anything else- including commercials. I didn't change the station that morning. I listened to Phil Collins because I actively like that particular song, and I no longer feel the need for my music selections to be cool, trendy, underground, or otherwise. Nor do I feel the need to be closeted in my like for Phil Collins, so much so that it is now published on the Internet for all to see.

When my husband found out I started writing this blog, he said to me, "I don't know who you are anymore!" This was coupled with the "new" information that I happen to really love Johnny Cash's version of "Hurt," of Nine Inch Nails The Downward Spiral fame. I say "new" because this should have not been new information to anyone, really, as it's a fantastic rendition of an already great song, but when I started publicly writing about my personal struggles (and liking Johnny Cash/NIN), I somehow didn't fit who my husband perceived me to be. He had to adjust his perception of me, and I'm fine with that, and though I can't speak for him, I think he was fine with that, too. 

So why confess that I'm down with Phil Collins? Not just Genesis Phil Collins (that was always OK), but regular ol' solo artist Phil Collins. To illustrate a change that happened slowly over time and all at once. I say slowly over time because I think confidence sometimes accompanies age and experience (but not always), but all at once because of my experience with my sort of cancer and surgery. I don't care what you think of me anymore. You think I'm a bossy know-it-all akin to Hermione Granger? Fine. You don't like me? Yep, I probably know you don't like me (and I don't care). You don't agree with my viewpoints, political, religious, or otherwise? Oh, well. Don't get me wrong. I care about YOU, your thoughts and opinions (even if they don't align with mine), and your mere existence in this magnificent life, but I don't care what you think of me. Really. Sure, I still get insecure at times. For example, writing like this leaves me feeling a bit vulnerable, but overall, I'm doing what I do because I want to. Not because of how you will perceive me. 

In addition to the admission that I unapologetically like Phil Collins, I have physical evidence to provide. 

Excuse the low-quality photo, but that is MY arm. That's right, I got a tattoo. More specifically, Chris (my husband) "gave" me the tattoo for Christmas. No, I haven't lost my mind and let Chris come anywhere near me with a needle, but he got me the artist and appointment, and he paid for it. Before my surgery, I didn't want a tattoo. I didn't have anything against the tattooed, it just wasn't my thing. Once my surgery forever altered my anatomy, the idea of forever altering the color of my skin with a pretty design didn't seem so outrageous of a choice for me to make for myself. To reiterate, I did this because I wanted to. Not because of what others would think of me, positively or negatively, but because I saw a design that would make an awesome tattoo. Obviously, the photo above shows a just glimpse of the bottom of my tattoo. I don't have only three-fifths of a book tattooed to my right arm. Some of you have seen my tattoo in person, but the rest of you will have to wait for the day I feel like showing you the entire piece via the Internet. Know me IRL (in real life)? Just ask to see it and I'll gladly show you. 

The reactions to my tattoo have been varied. The best was probably one of my sisters who seemed shocked that I, of all people, had just gone and gotten a tattoo one day. I've also gotten "I don't like tattoos." Well, I do. If you aren't in to tattoos? Fine. You could choose to alter the way you think of me as one of "those" people who has tattoos (c'mon, what does that even mean?). Or, you could alter the way you think of people who have tattoos. Don't like me AND you don't like my tattoo? No need to adjust your perception at all, then. A psychologist I know theorizes that people with health problems are more likely to get tattoos because it's a way to control something about their bodies. I think there's some truth to that. Did the tattoo change me? No, but I changed and got a tattoo.

I hope you have enjoyed my confessions of the day. Phil Collins, blog writing, Johnny Cash, NIN, and finally, my tattoo. I feel like I should somehow weave "Hurt" ("I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel.") with my tattoo story, but I didn't think the tattoo hurt at all, and I don't feel like speaking in clichés right now. I'll save that for another day, maybe the day I show you the rest of my tattoo =) .

Happy Whippleversary to Me

One year ago today I underwent an 11 hour surgery to remove a 9.5 cm tumor from the head of my pancreas. Those of us who have had The Whipple call these anniversaries "Whippleversaries." So, happy Whippleversary to me. I remember that day all too clearly (except the 11 hours I was anesthetized, of course). I remember the drive to the hospital, checking in, and waiting in the waiting area. I remember the awkward prep for surgery, I remember the surgical nurse telling my husband Chris it was OK to kiss me before I went into the operating room, I remember getting an epidural. If you've ever been "out" by way of anesthesia (the "black magic of medicine," as so named by my BFF), you know that time passes in an instant (or it does for me anyway). So after the epidural I remember waking up, being extubated (they took out my breathing tube /respirator), and being wheeled to my room in surgical ICU. I remember seeing my husband, Chris, who seemed giddy to see me and couldn't stop saying how good I looked, which was funny to me because I had never felt more terrible. I remember my surgeon came to see me in recovery with an imprint of the mask on his forehead from looking through the DaVinci robot to operate on my insides for hours on end. I was freezing cold, and my surgeon called me a "popsicle" in his soothing Italian accent. My father and stepmom (who had been there all day, too) came in to see me.  They told me they loved me and they'd be back the next day. I remember telling my husband that no, he should not spend the night, our kids needed him more than I did. I remember spending a long night (mostly awake) listening to the sounds of the ICU.

Thankfully, the next couple of days passed in a blur of sleep and pain meds. I remember more than I'd like to, but I'm indeed thankful for what I forgot. Apparently I had a concerningly high heart rate that was feared to be a pulmonary embolism or a blood clot somewhere else. I did not. But they put me on blood thinners that may have slowed my recovery. I'm OK with that, as I left the hospital 2 weeks later without having faced a serious complication.

I can't say I'm thankful for the experience. I'm thankful to be alive and tumor free, I'm thankful that the Whipple surgery exists, I'm thankful to have been eligible for surgery, I'm thankful for my surgeon, and I'm thankful for my seemingly hundreds of doctors and nurses (realistically, I had tens of doctors and nurses) who managed my care. So, I'm thankful for so much, but that surgery sucked. I've been told that all surgeries suck, which I now willingly believe without the necessity of experience.

For many people who undergo the Whipple, the surgery is just one step of their care. Many people face chemo or radiation before or after or before and after surgery. My tumor did not require such adjuvant therapies. I am thankful for that.

I am thankful for so much. For family and friends who visited me, who washed my hair and rubbed my feet, who talked to me when I wasn't dozing in and out of sleep and who just sat in the room with me so I wasn't alone. I'm thankful for everyone who sent me well wishes and prayers and fed my family.

Maybe the day will arrive when I can say that I'm specifically thankful for having had the experience of the Whipple, but for now I'll be thankful for the positive effects of the Whipple (no tumor) and everything else positive that surrounded that surgery and recovery. I'd like to think I could have learned the life lessons I learned with a gentler experience. But for now, that's the best I can do.

Happy Whippleversary to me, the first of hopefully tens of Whippleversaries.

Anniversaries (part 2)

A year ago today I received what was probably the most traumatic news of my tumor experience. The news that I had a mass in my pancreas that was probably a tumor three weeks prior was also pretty traumatic, but I would place it at a close second.

In mid-December I had a CT scan that revealed something amiss (a.k.a. a large mass) in my pancreas. The next day, a Wednesday, my GI Dr. Bansal told me about my probable pancreatic tumor in an incredibly gentle way; I'm still in awe over his bedside manner. That Friday Dr. Bansal performed an EGD (in the simplest terms, he stuck a thin camera down my throat while I was under anesthesia and looked around and took a few biopsies, or samples of cells). I knew I would have another EGD in a few weeks (January 9th, 2015, to be specific) that would reveal much more diagnostic information. The first EGD revealed nothing unexpected, and we all got to see the bulge of the alleged tumor from inside my stomach via camera. No wonder I didn't feel good. The tumor had not grown into my stomach, so that was good, but beyond that, we would have to wait until a biopsy of the actual tumor (and not just the lining of my stomach) could be performed.

In order to biopsy the actual tumor, I needed an endoscopic ultrasound (EUS) with fine needle aspiration (FNA). So, to simplify, an ultrasound machine was stuck down my throat along with that camera, and they biopsied the tumor using a needle by way of my small intestine (the ultrasound allowed them to see the mass so they could accurately obtain a biopsy). January 9th was a date I awaited with a fair amount of nervousness, but also looked forward to for the relief of information. Dr. Chi, the GI who performed the EUS/FNA at Lutheran General Hospital, was optimistic that the assumed pancreatic tumor was actually a cyst, and best case scenario, may have been treatable without surgical intervention. So, January 9th we would get more information.

I arrived at the hospital with a crazy high heart rate (nerves), and I was looking forward to the nothingness of the required anesthesia so I'd wake up to hopefully good news. My poor husband had to endure the wait of my procedure awake. After my procedure, I was visited by Dr. Chi. We did not get the good news we were hoping for. The mass was definitely a tumor. A big one. He gave us differential diagnoses, or several types of tumors the biopsy may reveal. He said it was most likely a pseudopapillary tumor, followed by a neuroendocrine tumor (the Steve Jobs variety of pancreatic tumor), followed by adenocarcinoma (the Patrick Swayze variety of pancreatic tumor), a highly deadly (and the most common) form of pancreatic cancer. Reflecting upon this crappy experience, my husband said that he had never seen a doctor give bad news before. It sucked. It's difficult to say something positive about the experience. I learned from it, surely, but it simply was awful.

What did I learn? When something is wrong with your body, it is difficult to say the least. Dealing with the unknown is tough, dealing with the possibility of being diagnosed with a highly deadly cancer is downright traumatizing. I learned to never minimize what someone else is going through. Don't compare your awful to someone else's awful. For the individual, it is a personal and difficult experience. Hearing that it's going to be OK or that it could be worse really isn't that helpful to the one suffering. I said those things numerous times during my tumor experience, mostly to make other people feel better. The most comforting things people said were honestly the people in my who acknowledged how awful this was and they didn't try to minimize or overshadow what I was going through. So when someone tells me about their heartburn or depression or whatever, I listen and acknowledge how hard it is. I don't say, "well, at least you don't have 'x' going on." It's not helpful. It's just not.

This is not a particularly uplifting piece of writing. Last January 9th was not a particularly uplifting day. One year later, I'm fine, and on this day in 2015 I was 6 days shy of receiving relatively good news. But I hadn't received it yet, so I was feeling pretty low. Some of the people close to me might remember how uncontrollable crying spells would happen at unexpected times, like at work. I'm very thankful for my understanding coworkers and the social worker who sat with me and got me to at least stop crying. One year later I'm so thankful for a relatively indolent tumor and modern medicine. And while I'm not thankful for having a tumor in the first place, I'm thankful for what I learned. Never minimize what someone else is going through. We all have our moments of awful.

My parenting rules

These little guys turned 3 today!

Birthdays, at least the early ones, are more of a celebration for the parents rather than a celebration for the children. Today, my kids turned 3. We've been to their peers' birthday parties and have been talking up their "Happy Birthday" for weeks. But, today I reflect upon the way the "twin tornadoes" have impacted my life. They turned me into a mother, but also a "mother of multiples," which I suspect is slightly different than parenting singleton children (that's what us mothers of multiples call offspring not born in sets). So, without further ado, here are a few lessons I've learned. 

Children (and everything else that really matters) are washable. Yep, truth. From newborn excrement and spit-up to 2-year-olds who draw all over themselves and sometimes the walls and stick stickers to my floors, it all can be washed. If it can't be washed, say that onsie has had it (throw it out!) or a magic eraser doesn't do the trick on wall art (hasn't happened to me yet), it didn't really matter in the first place. I didn't buy my babies $40 outfits because they'd likely sh!t all over it, and I don't buy my 3-year-olds $40 outfits because they really enjoy avocado (it stains!), play doh, and markers. 

Children are expressive individuals who operate on their own timeline from the day they are born (or sooner!). This is a lesson I attribute to having given birth to two babies at once. I see the insecurities of parents of singletons as they wonder if their child is "on schedule" for milestones such as rolling over, talking, walking, etc. My two never seemed to do the same thing at the same time (except poop). Rather than fret over why one of my boys walked at 11 months and the other one not until closer to 14 months, I just accepted their status as individuals. Not to say I don't experience insecurities about my children's development, because of course I do, but there is a wide range of normal.

Your children will embarrass you, but everyone else's children embarrass their parents, too. (Or they're lying or delusional.) I'm a fairly confident individual, if I do say so myself (or I'm just oblivious), but my kids do cause embarrassment occasionally, and by occasionally, I mean nearly every time we're not at home. They run (because toddlers don't walk), they throw balls inside (because what the hell else are you supposed to do with balls?), they throw tantrums (because they're expressive individuals, see above). I can handle the above embarrassment with a certain amount of grace, sometimes, but the worst is when your child is an asshole to another child (who isn't related to you). Thankfully, since my two came as a pair, they have been used to competition and most often respond to other children with either kindness or indifference, but, sometimes they are a-holes. It happens. We intervene as necessary, but we can't always prevent them from being a-holes. 

"Just wait" should be a phrase banished from discussions about children. My husband is super guilty of this one. I catch him telling his friends newly granted parent-status "just waits" all of the time. If what you are about to say to a fellow parent starts with "just wait," you're probably going to describe a negative aspect of having children. I'm amused by the "Just wait until your kid eats blueberries for the first time" (because it's super gross), but if you say something like "Just wait, your sleepy newborn will soon keep you up all night!" - just shut up. Don't say it. There are a bunch of "just wait" moments in parenting, but focus on the wonderful, especially to those new to the job. I am happy to have this life experience, even if it involves sleepless nights and other unsavory things.  

Strive not to make other people feel bad about their children or themselves. If I had made this a numbered list in order of importance, this rule would sit closer to the top. Before I had kids, I recall a colleague saying that becoming a parent really changed her as a teacher. Not how she interacted with children, but how she interacted with parents. I really, really understand what she meant now, three years into the gig. As an educator, I never, ever want to make parents feel bad about their child. For one, their child is their entire world. They know their child's weaknesses and really want what is best for their child. My own kids are in daycare, and I can honestly say no one there has made me feel bad about them. I know they're in the right place. I really only have experience as a parent up until the age of three, but I can honestly say I deliberately try to lift others up rather than make them feel bad. If you are reading this and I have ever made you feel bad about yourself or your child, I am sorry. I didn't mean to. 

Strive to make your child not feel bad about him or herself. As parents, we all lose our "game face" at times. Sometimes, I get overwhelmed and yell even though I know better. At my school, when the adults lose their "game face," we say that we "leak." So, yep, I leak. But, I really don't want to make my children (or anyone else's children) feel bad about themselves. You won't catch me referring to my child as a "bad boy." I cringe if I hear that kind of language. You might catch me saying "good boy," but know that was a slip of tongue rather than a deliberate choice of words. Am I saying I don't correct behaviors or offer praise? Of course not. Feedback should be immediate and specific, in my professional opinion, "professional" referring to my teacher self rather than my parental self. So instead of saying, "You hit your brother! Bad boy!" say, "We do not hit. That is not nice." I am not saying I've got this parenting thing all figured out, I'm just saying I don't believe in labeling children. Label behaviors. 

So, Happy, Happy Birthday to the guys who took everything I thought I knew and up-ended it. It's been a real trip.

The newly 3-year-olds this morning. 

Anniversaries/Life goes on

Not surprisingly, I remember exactly what I was doing a year ago today. Sure, it's the eve of Christmas Eve, and it was only a year ago, but next year I will likely remember this December 23rd as a semi-ordinary Wednesday. 

One year ago today I was in diagnosis limbo, which felt like diagnosis hell, really, if I'm allowed to be dramatically figurative. My husband and I attended our first-ever "baby gender reveal party," unless you call our twins' first detailed ultrasound a "gender reveal party." I cried on the way there. I cried on the way home. I did not allow myself to cry at the party, I put on a happy face and did my best to avoid thinking about my pancreas. No one else knew I was having a hard time, and I was determined to keep it that way. I drank a glass of wine, I ate some pizza. I witnessed the true joy of expectant parents finding out the gender of their baby. I was so, so happy for them. This event was a memorable lesson in "life goes on." This is corny, but every joy I have had the fortune to witness since my tumor has been especially joyful. I don't mean necessarily in a "I'm so glad I'm here to experience this" kind of way, but in a "life is truly incredible" kind of way. 

One year ago was not my first memorable December 23rd, however. Four years prior (five years ago today), I spent part of the day in the emergency room (as a patient), as doctors tried to decide if I was carrying a viable pregnancy or if I was miscarrying. I would have to return on December 25th for blood work that would confirm a miscarriage. I had to make a couple of interesting phone calls that evening, since we hadn't told anyone I was pregnant but that my miscarriage might interrupt holiday plans thus people (parents) must be informed. So I had to announce my likely failed pregnancy on Christmas Eve eve. No fun. I will say that telephoning my father to tell him about my pancreatic tumor was much, much worse, though, but it wasn't on a December 23rd. As mentioned in a previous post, I'm going through a bunch of weird anniversaries this month, some good, some really, really, bad, but all memorable. 

So, if this blog post were a record, "Life Goes On" would be the B-side. I'm not trying to compare myself to The Beatles, by the way, but it's a catchy, meaningful title of a decent song. I suppose I could also steal It's a Wonderful Life as an analogy for this next bit. After my surgery I was hospitalized for 14 days and recovering at home for months. I got a view of my life I suspect most people don't experience at the age of 33. I was most certainly alive, but I got to see what life was like without my active participation. You know what? Life carried on. My husband, family, friends, and daycare providers took over. I remember trying to explain this to my BFF, who summarized this revelation that life goes on as "a really depressing episode of Dr. Who." Yep, it's depressing to think about, but also reassuring. Obviously, I was the most worried about my 2-year-old twins through this whole ordeal. But I learned that they'd be okay. They'd know me, too, through the people who knew me. I'm tearing up as I write this, but it's a reality I tackled head on during my illness and during counseling. 

But, today, on Christmas Eve eve, today's reality was normal things. Life really is incredible. Merry Christmas.

Different strokes for different folks

I've lost count of the number of times I've been to the doctor over the past year. And by "the doctor" I mean any number of doctors, because I have quite a few. I've definitely been to "the doctor" tens of times this year. Three groups of 10? Five groups of 10? Can you tell I teach small children for a living? 

Earlier this week I made the decision to go to urgent care because my shoulder REALLY hurt. Before I arrived at said decision I was filled with doubt- should I go to the doctor? Can't I handle this on my own? Will I be wasting my time and the doctor's time? I knew I had just hurt myself and I didn't know what to do as I had to go to work and I can no longer take anti-inflammatories (like Advil, thanks to the Whipple). But I was seriously worried about whether or not this was worth the doctor's time and was I just being a wimp. 

I have a really hard time asking for help. I bet nearly everyone reading this would say the same thing. Why is that? Why do we feel the need to handle things on our own, without an expert? Why did I feel my shoulder injury was "silly?" I didn't want to go to the doctor when I had that awful heartburn that led to the diagnosis of my tumor, either. I remember saying it was "just heartburn." Ha. It was just heartburn, but it was being caused by something really huge- a 9.5 cm pancreatic tumor. I suppose I'm glad I went to the doctor then. There were three months between that initial visit and diagnosis, though, and during that three months I became a regular at my primary care doctor's office, trying to figure out what was wrong. At one point the doctor started treating me for depression, thinking maybe my stomach problems were a physical manifestation of depression. I remember later explaining to my would-be-surgeon that I was taking anti-depressants and him telling me "you're not depressed, you have a legitimate physical reason you are sick." He was both right and wrong. I had a legitimate physical reason I was sick, but I was also depressed. I have been diagnosed with "adjustment disorder," which is considered a somewhat temporary depression in response to life events. My definition of adjustment disorder probably isn't super medically accurate, but that's how I understand it. 

It's difficult to ask for help when something is physically wrong, but in my opinion it is even more difficult to ask for help when you can't cope emotionally. A physical problem seems less within your control than an emotional problem. I was raised to believe that emotional problems were a lack of strength or a sign of weakness, something you could think yourself out of. I know some people truly believe that their coping mechanisms and strength of mind are within their control, and that they should be within my control, too. I'm sure people think I'm weak for taking an antidepressant, that I should somehow be able to snap out of my funk with positive thoughts or exercise. A part of me believes that I should be able to snap out of my funk with positive thoughts or exercise, too. My life is pretty great, admittedly. I have a family, a job, a home. But I'm also depressed. And an antidepressant is just one tool in my toolbox of mechanisms to snap out of it. I am not going to feel bad about it or allow someone to shame me for needing medication. 

Each reader will make his/her own conclusions about the legitimacy of my depression, and I suppose that's fine. But the teacher in me feels the need to restate the moral of my story: don't judge. Maybe you can handle more than I can, but don't assign me the label of weak of character. Don't assign others that label, either. I ended up going to two doctors for my shoulder pain, and in the words of my osteopath, I "tweaked" a rotator cuff muscle. Ouch. She assigned me heat, stretches, and steroids. I feel much better today, and there's no shame in me having asked her for help. If you believe in asking for help for physical pain, please believe the same for emotional pain. It might not be what you need, but I'm not you. We all aim to be healthy and happy, and our paths to that aim will be different. And that's okay.

Different strokes for different folks. Some people make funny faces when having their picture taken.

Mmm, Barium.

This will be a VERY short post, as I am pressed for time. I don't know what I was thinking, but I scheduled my 1-year-post imaging test for today, 364 days after my first-ever CT scan that revealed my pancreatic tumor. I am not super worried that the tumor has returned, because it is unlikely to have done so, but I won't get the results until my oncology appointment next Tuesday. I scheduled my oncology appointment to be before Christmas on purpose, relying on good news. The thought was if I knew I was OK before Christmas, I would be free to enjoy this holiday season (last Christmas SUCKED). I suppose this was going to be a hard week anyways, approaching all sorts of tough "anniversaries," so might as well pile it on. My husband and I have a history of dramatic holidays. Last year we were not-so-patiently waiting for my biopsy, three years ago awaiting the birth of our twins (this was crazy good drama, of course), and five years ago I miscarried the day after Christmas, after having spent part of the 23rd and the 25th in the ER. So, fingers crossed for a medically uneventful holiday season. If this last year has proven anything, I can handle the unexpected, ungracefully, but I can handle it. Fingers crossed for a "normal" CT.