Kicked by an Angel

I spoke to my older brother yesterday to tell him what time I would pick him up for Thanksgiving.  It was a call I dreaded. Not because I dislike my brother who has struggled with mental illness and depression for years, but because I had promised something I never followed through on and I was afraid that he would be angry with me.  I had promised back in June that I would come to his tiny subsidized apartment in Lowell and give it a good “spring cleaning”. I was going to replace the nicotine stained curtains, scrub down the walls and replace the fraying rug. We were both excited with the prospect of his new and improved living space. My brother has very little and this was a gesture that would bring great joy to his somewhat lonely existence. But I never went. I let the Summer turn to Fall and made excuses when I thought about it and got busy and then it just got too late. When he answered the phone yesterday he sounded genuinely happy to hear from me.

“Hey Franny, how’s it going.”

“Great Bri, listen I am sorry about not getting over there to clean, yet.”

“Oh that’s ok, I figured you weren’t feeling well.” Of course he thought that.  He has always worried about me, his little sister, since I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Brian always made time to call and find out if I was ok.

“I feel terrible that I never got there to clean. I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” he said as graciously as he could.  How could he be so accepting of this, I wondered, when I was so horrible about handling disappointment in my own life? Why do I get so upset when things don’t go my way?

I have lived through quite a few “real” disappointments in my life–like the death of my father and two brothers at young ages or the fact that I moved to a new town every 10-18 months throughout junior and senior high always right about the time I was settling in, not to mention the loss of my youth and body parts due to cancer. After enough of these major life disappointments  I seem to have become immune to death,and sickness and change in location, losing friends and loved ones with an heir of acceptance. The major blows I can handle–leaving no room  for the minor disappointments in my repertoire of coping skills.

When looking for a new home years ago when the market was red-hot and if you didn’t place a bid higher than asking price as soon as your foot hit the threshold then most likely you would lose it; my real estate agent told me to never picture my own furniture in someone else’s house so I wouldn’t be upset when I didn’t get it. But I didn’t take his advice.  Each house I entered I could imagine how my wooden bench would fit perfectly in their kitchen-nook and ,oh, wouldn’t my couch look lovely under that sunny window. And I am still doing it today.  Although now it’s with those that I love. I am the furniture and I picture myself in different scenarios surrounded by friends and family.  Whether it’s a simple lunch with a friend or a night out or a weekend away with my family where everyone gets along. I forget to take into account that other’s may have their own plans.

As I get older, my circle of close friends has narrowed considerably in direct relation to the widening of my  expectations of their loyalty and love for me. I find myself getting my hopes up about spending time with the ones I love–people I want desperately in my life–and when they are too busy for me, I become extremely disappointed. So when a friend can’t meet me for lunch or isn’t home when I visit I am heartbroken. Because in my mind I had things worked out just-so.  Last Spring I was hoping my best friend and her family would join us on a trip to South Carolina.  I got my hopes up so high and pictured all the fun our families would have together that when she finally told me no (which took some time because she didn’t want to disappoint me), I was crushed and angry.

As an adult I should have learned by now how to handle disappointment. Instead, a constant battle rages between my grown-up mind and my child-like heart . My brain does realize that I have no right to be angry at the other person for letting me down.  Since usually it is not they who have let me down but my own mental furniture moving that has gotten me into the predicamanet in the first place. But my heart acts out so when things don’t work out for me I sulk and feel sad and rejected for a while until I talk myself out of the destructive self-pitying that doesn’t do anyone any good.  At the same time I am trying to teach my children to handle disappointment. “It”s fine” ,I say when they don’t make the ‘A” team in hockey or soccer. “Pick up and move on” I say when my son realizes his bum knee will handicap him for life.  I want them to learn how to handle such things knowing full well that I, a 47 year old woman, still struggles with it.

There are solutions to this problem, but none of them sound enticing.  My disappointment revolves around people I care deeply for, who I want to spend all my time with. I am never disappointed by aquaintences or those I hold at arms distance in my life.  Only the few I have let sneak into the inner circle of my heart.  I suppose I could stop letting people in. But I would have to let the others go as well. If I stand alone, then no one can hurt me.  Just like when my oldest son was about 6 years old  and he stopped accepting balloons at birthday parties and carnivals.  When someone offered him a balloon he would say,

“No thank you, I don’t like balloons.”

But I knew he loved balloons.  It’s just that he had lost one too many to the windy skies or popped them on sharp objects and he had told me that he was never going to get a balloon again because it was too sad when you lost it. I don’t want to do that.  I don’t want to stop accepting balloons or let loose the ones that fill my heart just because they may disappoint me. It’s a jaded and cynical way to live. I think I would rather enjoy the beauty and happiness of spending time with those that I love and suffer the disappointment when things don’t work out as planned.  The alternative feels  too lonely.

I don’t want to stop making plans either. If I don’t ask anyone to be there for me then they can’t let me down.  Again a cynical view.  One I am not willing to adopt.  I think I would rather continue to make plans and get excited about things that “might” happen even though sometimes they may not work out exactly as planned. I’d rather continue to buy balloons and fill up my imaginary house and take the risk.

Because I know, deep down, that those that I love mean well–like I meant to do well by my brother. Eventually I will clean his house.  He knows that.  He trusts me. So I must learn to trust the ones I love, and like my brother, graciously accept that their true intention is never to disappoint me–only that life gets very busy and sometimes with a little patience on my part things may work out even better than I had planned.

Aging is a natural process. Everything we do and everyone we lose adds moments to that process. Getting married, watching our children grow, losing our parents. We can’t stop it, it’s inevitable.

I remember crying one day when I was pregnant with my oldest son–16 years ago. I told my husband that I did not want to have children because their mere presence in my life would age me.  I thought that by focusing on my child’s developmental growth, I would lose track of the years and my life would fall by the wayside. A lot of my panic at the time was the hormonal mood-swings of pregnancy but there was a bit of truth to it as well.  Obviously I grew older as my children did and yes I lost myself waiting for them to walk, and talk, and ride a bike, but it was gradual enough and I was busy enough for years so that  I didn’t notice. It’s only now, looking back at pictures do I see how youthful I was back then and I can compare it to where I am now. Older, yes, wiser, definitely.  They do not exist independently.

With my children out of the baby stage there are now other reminders of my own aging.  Two years ago the death of my own mother and last month with the passing of my Mother-in-law, Virginia.  Virginia was an incredible grandmother, no better could you hope for, she remembered their favorite candy every visit, she knew about sports and how to engage a teenage boy and of course was very gentle without being condescending to my daughter. She was a beautiful woman through and through.

Although I have only had one Mother-in-Law I am pretty sure I lucked out in that department.  She was caring without being intrusive; she somehow found a way to let her opinion be known in such a way that was acceptable, and she was usually quite right in her perceptions.  I am  sure she held her tongue far more than she let it wag and when my sons get married I can only hope to follow her lead. And although I didn’t have the kind of relationship with her that boasted of daily phone chats, I knew she always understood me and I certainly knew she always had my back in any conversation that may have led to disparaging remarks about her daughter-in-law.

And now she is gone.  My children are grandparent-less–which I don’t think of as devastating since I lived my entire life, grandparent-less. I feel that they are indeed lucky to have had any grandparents at all, but to them it is a horrible fact that they throw onto the table at various times.

When my kids say, “I have no grandparents, now”, I am instantly transported to a recurring conversation I used to have with my own Dad sitting at the kitchen table;

“I am an orphan, you know,” he would say.

“No you’re not, Dad, you had parents at one point.”

“Doesn’t matter, they are both gone, and now I am an orphan.”

Well, I guess I must be an orphan now, too, which really sucks because the word itself conjures a sense of being alone and on your own in a big scary world. That’s exactly what happens when both of your parents are gone. You are in a sense alone in a big scary world.  There is no one to call when you are not quite sure how to handle a teenager with a new license, or a middle child’s insecurity, or God help me a pre-teen girl and all her dilemmas. The generational layer that laid above me, protecting me with their knowledge and wisdom has been ripped away. There is no hierarchy, anymore, they have moved on.  Now it is up to me.

Had I been a little more organized I would have thought ahead.  I should have made a giant list, as long as Santa’s, with questions to ask my parents and in-laws. Questions regarding future years, about when my daughter reaches puberty and my sons get married. There are questions about my own childhood that I never asked–like ‘did you hate me when I was a teenager?’ Or everyday questions like how Virginia made that amazing roasted lamb or what it feels like to turn 50. I would have kept this list in my desk drawer, categorized like an encyclopedia, referencing it daily. Since I was not that organized, my only hope is to try to remember the wisdom the previous generation has instilled in me and try to recall as many facts and advice that I can. I will  encourage my children to start a list, to ask me as many questions as they can and write them down–questions for me, their protective layer.

…I have not been writing.  Here or anywhere else. .  It would be easy to blame my lack of creativity on outside events like work,school, sports schedules, funerals, car disrepair, or financial upheaval. But that is a cop-out.  I should not be waiting for inspiration, I should be seeking it out actively in the routine, the mundane, the ordinary. Instead of letting life kill my inspiration I should be looking closer at the world around me.

See, I have officially entered the Post Cancer Stage. And look at me–I am fine. Just fine. But fine is so boring. No one aspires to be “fine”. If they did you certainly wouldn’t hang out with them. Unfortunately what comes along with “fine” is a settling into routine.  Somehow between driving to soccer and hockey, filling out PTO forms, and making dinner I have forgotten about how precious life seemed 2 years ago when I thought it might be stolen from me. I have lost my edge and though I desperately want it back, I certainly don’t want to go back to the days of cancer and chemo. I have met people over the years who need that edge constantly.  These people  can’t  handle the ordinary so they create drama and tragedy to justify their existence.  When there is no more tragedy in their own lives they seek it out in others.  These people are exciting to be around at first, but quickly become exhausting.

But routine can be exhausting too. Lacing up my sneakers for a run this morning, I was feeling tired and irritated that  I had to go running– conveniently forgetting the past few years and  how wonderful it felt to run after each surgery and how excited I was for the doctor’s OK to get back at it. But  now I am back to running 5 days a week and there is no reason not to run –no surgeries or chemo or swollen appendix. As I left my house and headed up Summer Ave, I was tired and hunched over and thinking of all the things I had to do when I got home. A hotter, more humid than usual Autumn day today,  I started to feel the weight of the past few weeks heavy on my shoulders.

Right when I was thinking I would turn around and go home, an incredibly refreshing breeze blew straight at my face. It was perfect, not too strong as to impede my forward motion but strong enough to cool me off.  I continued my run and it seemed every time I got really hot this breeze blew at me.  As if I were running behind a flatbed truck with an industrial fan set on 4 minute intervals. Eventually I anticipated these breezes and stood up straighter to catch the full effect.  At one point I lifted my chest and opened my arms out wide in an attempt to capture the fresh air into my lungs.

I could have just run like I do every other day and not paid much attention to the wind.  It was innocuous enough that I easily could have taken the breeze for granted.  But somehow today that breeze lifted me up and gave me the strength to continue. An ordinary breeze. Yes.  It’s just nice when you actually stop and realize how much these short bursts of air can give you the strength to get through the ordinary, mundane, sometimes harrowing daily routine.

So I began to think of all the breezes in my life.  My breezes blow in as a bear hug from my teenager while I try to make supper, a cup of tea at a kitchen table with my best friend, a comforting voice on the telephone, or a picnic under an oak tree with an old friend.  Quiet and strong they fill my lungs with air and carry me through even the most boring day. They let me know that “fine” can be awesome and the mere fact that I can appreciate them is enough to keep me on track.  I am blessed to have them and will cherish these breezes with open arms from now on, savoring every one, never taking for granted the simple beautiful moments in my life. A fine life, after all.

I know that the yearly mammogram  you get after you are finished with all treatments for breast cancer are supposed to cause anxiety and stress but  that wasn’t the case for me yesterday.   I admit I was quite stressed getting to my appointment, because we are now dealing with 2 broken vehicles and I had to ask a friend for a ride into Boston, but once I was in the building I was calm, cool, and collected.  So calm in fact, I fell asleep in the chair waiting for my results.  Head back, mouth open, deep snooze until I heard my name from far, far, away, “Frances Kolenik”.  My head snapped forward as I wiped drool off my chin and looked around at the other woman in their starched blue and white gowns, busy reading or worrying.  I wondered if they overtly stared at me while I slept or stole fleeting glimpses of my slumbering while thumbing through their magazine.  I’m sure they thought it was wildly inappropriate.

My mammogram was over quite quickly. Done in half the time it used to take. Since I have only one real breast, they only squash and flattten one side into their heineous machine of torture.  The nurse I had was exceptionally rough yesterday, handling me like a slab of meat. “Just slap that baby up on this counter…ya come on, up here, stand on your toes. That’s it, now stand like that while I screw this vice down on top of it..one…more…turn…there now don’t move, and hold your breath.”

Like I could breath if I wanted to.

But I was spared the agony of having to do this  on the other side because they don’t check the implanted side. So within minutes I was sent off to the waiting room with the other women to await my results, and in my case catch a few winks.   My results were normal.  This was good news but nothing I didn’t already know. See, it is not the other breast that concerns me.  I don’t expect to get breast cancer in my other side.  That would be a new cancer.  What actually causes me anxiety is that a cell from the cancer I already had somehow escaped the onslaught of  chemo and has attached itself elsewhere in my body.  The area surrounding my implant particularly worries me-but they don’t check that.  Nor have they done any other scans on me like they do for others that have had the same treatment.  I am still not quite sure why.

I did see Dr. Christian who ‘manually’ checked my chest and said it seemed fine.  I told him about a pain near the sight of the original cancer and he said he had no answer and that maybe it was a “ghost” pain–pain some people get in an area of the body that has been removed or amputated. I am not quite convinced that is true,  but  for now this answer will have to do.  I will bring it up again with my oncologist in August.

So as far as the year mammogram check, which some think is a big deal, I am not feeling that great sigh of relief.  I am happy to have a clean scan in my right breast but what would make me really happy is a PET scan that would show no evidence of cancer anywhere else.  This, again is something to take up with my oncologist.

The good news is this…a full year has passed since the end of my chemo and I am here, and feeling stronger than ever.  I certainly  don’t need a test to tell me that.

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My kids are out of school at the end of this week which had me pacing the halls of my house yesterday , sick to my stomach. It’s not that I don’t want my kids around all day, everyday–not at all.  I actually enjoy the carefree days of summer with them.  But yesterday I was in a panic  about our serious lack of finances and how I can’t afford to send anyone to camp this year, especially my middle schooler who still struggles with finding friends and who spends most weekend days home alone. “What are we going to do all summer?” I kept thinking”What are they going to do?”  Drama camp costs $400, hockey camp over $200,the beach parking lot costs $25 at a pop, the movies for all of us runs over $50,the mall?  Forget it.

My panic was just about at Ativan-level when I walked by the refrigerator and saw this, posted by my 10 year old daughter:

“Things to do over the Summer with Maddie(her friend)”

1) Jump in a freezing pool 5 times

2) Rollerblade up the Mineral Street hill.

3) Silly-String each other.

4) Dance in the rain in our bathing suits.

5) Plant a tree named Fred.

6) Design a new drink.

7) Put pink streaks in our hair.

8) Stay up all night at a sleepover.

9) Go in the pool at night.

10) HAVE A PARTY.

Not only did this list make me smile, it blanketed me with such nostalgic warmth that my panic melted away by reminding me that summer is not about  camps and spending money we don’t have–it’s about dancing in the rain in our bathing suits and staying up all night long because we can!  It’s about remembering what it’s like to be 10 years old when the world was safe and school was out and lemonade stands were at every corner.  Thank you Maeve, for reminding me.