Comin Under Fire

The complexities of cancer psychology or survivorship psychology are directly in my face right now. Clearly I seek them out and pick fights on purpose because that's just how I roll. Yesterday, I broke down in tears because it was brought to my attention that I was part of an evil scheme to hurt someone's feelings. It was the perfect storm to which I was culpable and I knew it. Drawn in to a new experience of love and second chances at life, I failed to focus and act like a grown up. Right. If A, then B, where B is a list of potential consequences, positive and not so positive. I selectively decided that the negative consequences simply could not exist and struck them  from my viewscape. Whoops.
"If anything can go right, it will, at the best possible moment." Except when it doesn't and you realize just a little too late that not everybody is onboard the love train.
My experience with cancer has magnified every emotion I have times 50. When I am sad, I am deeply sad. When I am happy, I am off the charts. And when I love, I love deeply and openly. When your paths cross with someone who is arrogant, ignorant or muted, the contrast is significant.
Cancer survivors live every moment as if it were their last because we now know what that last moment looks like. "Mrs. Robinson, you have cancer." BAM. There goes your hair, your eyebrows, your skin, your nails, and you get to spend Christmas looking like Uncle Fester. It's in that moment that your life changes not when you are ravaged by the cancer itself or the treatments that take time to break you down. Outward signs won't be visible for months but inside, the life is literally sucked right out of you.
Any other moment is a bonus. A gift. Every connection with a friend. Every moment of laughter with your kids. Every drop of ice cold water on a scorching, hot day. That is what survivorship is like, all with the unpredictable possibility that Cancer is silently waiting to creep up on you. For me, my lack of prudence conflicts with  social acceptability everyday . Frivolity is a way of life. The distances between emotions are far greater also. Just when you are having the absolute best day, an emotional ripple drives you to the depths of your despair. The waterworks begin and and you can't conjure a single positive thought.
It's not easy on your loved ones.
"What's wrong?"
<sobbing> "I'm in trouble..." ( a poor choice of words since this can mean any number of things like, I got pulled over, I lost my cell phone, we're pregnant, I washed the whites with the reds again or my cancer is back.)
"What's this about?"
"I'm an insensitive jerk."
"And...."
I tell him my story.  He is not moved by the events that I describe that are contributing to the Belagio-esque fountain show. He brings me back to reality. He reminds me that  I am not responsible for the happiness of the entire world. Only my own, and unhappy people are unhappy with or without my input.
"Now be happy," he says. "You promised," in reference to our wedding vows.
"I didn't promise to be happy," I retort. "I promised to love with an open heart and take naps often.."
"Nope, you promised to be happy, to love and OBEY right down there," as he points to the spot on our property where we were married.
"OBEY?!?  I don't f*&^%ing think so!" He KNOWS that this statement riles me into attack mode. He knows I will react and he knows I will once again be inspired to  put myself out there as always out of pure obstinacy and rebellion alone. It is in this knowing that I have placed my trust and faith of all I deem important. I am reminded that this moment is brought to me by my own perseverance to explore the very deep and emotional connections that drive my soul with what little time I have left. Consequences are unknown but living fully always results in a lesson of great importance or a reminder that the rest of the world has not fully evolved into a similar place of love, faith and trust. However, it is my world and I get to live in it one more day, without boundaries, ceilings or protocols, or Uncle Fester staring back at me in the mirror.

FourFiveSeconds

I know. I've been writing with a lot of seriousness and "meaning-of-life" type posts but sometimes you gotta work through the deep stuff to get to the good stuff. I've had a lot of time this summer to analyze and overanalyze what my life means to me. Apparently, it wasn't enough to have to battle cancer with chemo and radiation and all the rest. Now, it's about survivorship. Survivorship is a crazy ride. Riddled with doubt, guilt, fear, pure extreme joy and sadness and barely containable desire to slap people silly. Really? Every day, I say this to myself at least 100 times... (really? Really? REALLY?) Sometimes, I look at people in awe that they just wasted 30 seconds of their life complaining about something stupid or dwelling on something they have absolutely no control over. At some point, you have to move on and appreciate the fact that air is still passing in and out of your lungs and really big things are happening to people around you like death, divorce, illness, love, requited and unrequited, and the joy of new life. But no, we have to throw a fit because we dropped our cell phone in the toilet, or broke a glass dish or spilled a glass of milk. I have NO tolerance for this.
Recently, our family went to a football game about 3 hours from our home. We left late. Why? Because we did. Nobody was moving their feet, somebody forgot their charger, or couldn't find their sunglasses... It was the classic family vortex sucking us into our house and preventing us from leaving on time. I have a lot of experience with this since I'm the one who is generally the person shuttling people out the door. My husband, on the other hand, travels for work, so he's not always plugged in to the trappings of trying to mobilize a herd of cats in the same direction. On the weekends, I let him do it because he needs the practice, and frankly, I'm tired of constantly taking responsibility for not getting everyone where they need to be on time, with clothes on and water bottles conveniently stashed somewhere. Needless to say, it set the stage for another grand cancer "a-ha" moment for our family. When we finally got in the car and on the road, my darling hubs tried to break the land speed record only to be stymied by lanes and lanes of traffic. I swear that everyone in California was trying to get to the same darn place at the same darn time. It was practically a road rally race. No matter which way we tried, we ran into stop and go traffic on all the major thoroughfares. The universe was sending us a message: "Nope, not this time. You guys need to leave earlier."
Personally, I couldn't have been more stoked. We were on our way to an epic football game between two ginormous football clubs. We had great seats. We were meeting great friends. The sun was shining, I was breathing, and life was good. The kids were tolerating the whole traffic situation well. We only had to endure the "are we there yet," for the last portion of our 3 hour epic that turned into 4. Meanwhile, smoke is starting to rise out of my husband's ears. His angst is escalating as we get closer and closer to kickoff and have only inched a mile on the road. As the tension builds, he starts to passively distribute accountability.
"We need to leave earlier next time."
"We need to not plan sleepovers prior to big events."
"We are all going to miss the first half, because WE made some very poor choices."
"WE paid a fortune for these tickets."
Granted, he was correct and we had an opportunity for a teaching moment but the angrier he became, the more that moment slipped away. WE all got it. WE were all missing out and WE were all feeling it. However, my husband felt the need to continue to verbalize the WE phrases, as if to  recruit us into feeling as crappy as he did, and it made for an awful experience.
Anger, well any emotion really, is like a hungry puppy. It will grow to an epic size if you feed it and continue to feed it. It will also multiply like promiscuous rabbits and spread like wildfire. Anxiety, sadness, love, all have the same tendency, and part of being an adult is knowing when to stop feeding unhealthy emotions and choosing to feed healthy ones instead. Survivorship magnifies this times 50. Fortunately, my husband kept his cool (enough) and got us to the game safely. We got to our seats and were able to enjoy much of the game. As we sat there on a gorgeous day, watching the best in the world compete in their sport, surrounded by fans and friends, my husband sat and stewed in his own frustration. Despite my attempts to cheer him up with smiles, funny faces, and incessant selfies, he was determined to be miserable. This is soooo unusual for him. Usually the tables are turned and it is he, talking me off of the proverbial ledge. Put. the. gun. down.......
I don't talk anyone down quite as well as he does, because frankly, I don't have the patience for it. He was difficult to diffuse and I was not going to spend my awesome day at an awesome game feeding his internal beast. The second half of the game was awesome. 4 goals were scored and we witnessed 3 of them, plus numerous attempts on the post, and 3 yellow cards. It was a super show. We also got to experience it with fans from home which always makes for a crazy good time.
After the game, we got back in the car and headed home. By this time, my DH can hardly speak without some sort of poison coming out and it's clear that the day is shot to hell for him. He refuses to meet our friends for dinner because he "just wants to get home." I am genuinely sad for him. And then, I begin to feel my own angry monster start to rise. I choose not to feed it....yet. After all, I have 3 hours in the car, weaving through traffic in hopes of getting home and salvaging whatever was left of our dignity. It was another wild ride fraught with close calls and near misses and an occasional expletive. Both of my girls sat quietly in the back seat. They didn't speak. They didn't bicker over petty inequalities. Tension in the driver's seat was palpable, and nobody wanted to light the match that was going to set off the bomb.
We got home safely and without incident, for which, I am grateful, of course. Gratitude always works for me in diffusing frustrations or dealing with difficult emotions. There is always something to be grateful for and the time you take to look for it, makes you forget why you went looking for it in the first place. I do my best to inspire my better half to see the gratitude.  One of the girls did not get her chores done and Dad decided to let her have it, which triggered my "hell hath no fury" button, and boom...... I went off.
"REALLY?"
I held nothing back. And it had an effect.
My complaint is this. We don't always choose our emotions but we do choose whether or not they control us. Last week, I thought I had cancer. This week, it's back to survivorship and gratitude for every single particle of life that I get to spend with my family. EVERY MOMENT counts. Every moment develops into a series of moments and the emotions we assign to these moments are what make them memorable. Anger happens. Frustration arises. You gotta have the unhealthy emotions to appreciate the healthy ones. But you always have a choice to nurture that anger or that frustration or to nurture something else.
Cancer survivors are masters of living in the moment. We are poor planners and we don't learn from mistakes because it is THIS moment that matters. We have an opportunity to create a memory. Right here. Right now. When I'm swirling the drain, clinging to the few moments I have left on this planet, the last thing I will choose to remember is the traffic, or the anger, or the frustration. It will be the smiles on my kids faces, the sea of Barcelona shirts in the stands, the roar of the crowd when a goal is scored. It is that palpable experience that leaves its mark on the soul I will take with me in the end.
My challenge in survivorship is realizing that nobody around me sees this. I pointed it out to my husband quite frankly, and he got it right quick. He looked in my eyes and saw what I was talking about and profusely apologized. He salvaged the moment and ultimately the day because he knew I have no patience for anyone who doesn't appreciate finding the good in each moment or appreciates the opportunity of creating a memory in every single second, every single breath. I have streamlined my life to do this and am fortunate that our life affords this possibility. People come first. My kids, my friends, my love, all come first and all at the same time so that I may squeeze every possible drop of goodness out of this very important second, minute or hour.
Ironically, in a recent conversation with a friend, they told me that I had a "zest" for life, and that it was refreshing to see me living all of my moments to the fullest. They pledged to do the same...., so I called them out on it.
"Hey, I'm in town for a few days. Wanna grab lunch?"
"Sorry, I'm too busy with work this week."

Really?

Head over Heels

Yesterday morning, I woke up from the yummiest dream, full of love and youth and life. I hadn't slept much over the last week for multiple reasons, but this night, I slept like I was underwater, peacefully, quietly and without difficulty. My soul is intoxicated with love. Love of life, love of my family, love that I do not have cancer and that I may continue to live this charmed, amazing life watching my kids grow up, my husband grow old ("distinguished" ha ha) and my friends grow close. I am consumed by this feeling. My friends tell me I look "radiant." I am certain it is because love looks good on me, on all of us really. Love drives beauty over the top. It is the light that shines from within, and when we love, we are fulfilled and no longer driven to the unhealthy pursuits of youth and debauchery.
Yeah, that's a little flowery.
But hey, I'm going with it. It's not every week your oncologist tells you that you have a 5cm mass growing in your body that wasn't there a year ago, or that you have a cystic liver consistent with "worrisome metastatic disease." Yeah, that's a rosy picture. It all came on the heels of me slaying a dragon that had been haunting me for years and basically, all my ducks ending up in a row. 15 years of nursing has taught me that these coincidences are strange turns of events where people die for no reason. When I worked in the cath lab, we had a guy come in on his birthday. He had just reconnected with his daughter with whom he had been estranged for 15 years. He had a strange peace about him. His pre-tests were unremarkable other than he had significant, unexplained angina with EKG changes. So we cathed him and he coded on our table. He had a 95% left main coronary artery blockage. We call it the "Widowmaker" for very good reason. We had to put in a balloon pump to save his life. We did. Barely.  It was one of the most memorable codes we ever ran and afterwards, we all agreed that we had the heebie-jeebies about the guy prior to the procedure. Everyone had that feeling that too many of the guy's ducks were in a row.
Last Monday, I thought I was dead. I thought I would be stepped up to Stage IV (due to the liver mets) with a bonus, ovarian cancer diagnosis. Marek and I braced for impact. We made all of our usual agreements. "If this, then this." "If that, then that." We sat on the steps up from our pool. I stared off into space and he played the knight in shining armor, emotionless and quiet, scared out of his wits on the inside and exuding confidence and comfort on the outside. Tuesday, I went dark. I shut my phone off. I couldn't bear to talk about it. Chemo loomed in the distance. No more hair. No more eyebrows. No more eyelashes. Fuck.
I cranked my 80's mix and thought of everyone I loved. I tried to conjure that feeling of being washed over with love and light from all the wonderful people who have been a huge part of my life and I drove to San Francisco (and back) in a nostalgic haze. Then it was time to wait.
I've made references to my sexy jewish oncologist that I am now lusting after due to a nasty case of transference and I make no excuses for it because it helps me survive all of this. I know I'm one of his favorites. Could be all of the winking and ass-grabbing, but I think he just likes the way I take my shirt off the minute he walks in the room. Okay, no ass-grabbing, but he really does have a warm smile saved especially for me and I have no qualms about going there in the deep, dark, twisted parts of my mind, especially when he percusses my liver. Seriously, there are few healthcare professionals who utilize percussion on their clinical exam but my doctor still does it and he's a total pro. He NEVER shortcuts my physical exam. He is thorough and methodical and this obsessive compulsive manner of missing nothing sends me a message that he is not going to let anything happen to me. I just love that Knight in Shining armor shit. Gets me EVERY time.
At about 7pm Tuesday night he rode in on that white horse to deliver the news that neither the hepatic cysts nor the 5 cm ovarian mass were cancerous. Miracle of miracles. I kept my cool because I don't want him to think I'm a total freak..... (because I am).
"That's great news. Thank you Doctor. I will follow up with OB/GYN right away. You'll upload the report for me? That's very helpful. Thank you sir. Yes, you have a great night too."
I hung up.
MAREK!!!!! I DON'T HAVE FUCKING CANCER!!!!!! WOOOOOO HOOOOOO!
And then I wept. I wept for a good 5 minutes and freaked my family out in the process but I did not care. I was not going to have to lose my eyelashes anytime soon. I did not have to rally my recovered body and mind for another fight. Well, except for the surgery to remove the ovarian mass which just so happens to be full of blood for who knows what crazy reason, but surgery I can do. Not only can I do it, I'm really good at it. Plus, our out-of-pocket for the year is paid due to Zoe's appendectomy, so insurance has to pick up the tab. It serves those fuckers right for denying coverage for the Petscan and making me go through hell for a full two weeks while we got three tests instead of one, loaded me up with radioisotopes so that if I don't have cancer today, I'll surely get it ten years from now, and making me wait for results,  prompting a total psyche eval and prescription for Xanax.
Yes, I know I'm swearing a lot. I usually don't swear like this, but there's a certain emphasis that swearing lends to the emotion of this news. I am free to continue living this amazing life empowered by new connections of love and joy and sweet revenge on my health insurance company. Meanwhile, love and light shine out from my girls and my husband and all of my friends that have been patiently standing by me these last couple weeks. I think we all enjoy basking in the good news and experience love regardless of social mores because in the end, love is love. No one is going to cry infidelity for loving others who are passing through to the next life, nor scream in rage when we survive that close call or the bullet whizzes by our head. I think we all take a collective sigh of relief, acknowledge that we love each other regardless of status quo and then return to the business of our lives and our love fulfilled that life is exactly as it should be. Such is the way for many, but not so much for me. This experience has rocked me to my core and it is love that has gotten me through it. I have no qualms about openly loving everyone who is watching and drawing them into my bliss. Love looks good on me. I'm going to keep wearing it.

If Today was your Last Day

Today is my last day of being me, just as I am right now. Today there are no diagnoses, no treatment plans, no new agendas. Today, I ask myself all sorts of life-deafening questions because I want to know the answers before I see life through a different lens. Here's a list of today's burning questions:

• If you are pregnant, and driving by yourself, can you use the carpool lane? (2 or more persons.....)
• If you are a married,  regularly, heterosexual female (such as myself), and you have a sexual encounter with a lesbian, is that considered "infidelity?" Are the consequences the same? What if genders were reversed? 
• If you have cancer, and you go into space, do you die slower?
• Destiny/Fate? or Self-Determination?
• Is it really ALL fair in LOVE and WAR? Who draws the lines and where are they?
• Do you physically have to go through a worm hole to get to heaven? How does a soul get to it's final resting place if we start here on earth? Time/space continuum? Are we "Beamed" there?"Or is heaven a fabrication of a dying brain? 
• If you only had 24 hours left to live, what would you do?
• If you could relive ANY moment in your life, which one would it be and why?
• Should female survivors of breast cancer (post-mastectomy) be allowed to go topless in the same public places that men are allowed to go without their shirts? If no, why not?
• If someone were able to tell you the exact day and time of your death would you want to know? 
• Is it better to have loved and lost? or not to have loved at all? 
• If you had a chance to right every one of your wrongs, would you? 
• If you could do anything you wanted, knowing you would die the next day, would you do something that could potentially ruin one person's life while enhancing the life of another? Does one life = another? do they cancel each other out? 
• How much of yourself would you carve away to continue to live and what would you give up to continue? At what point do you throw in the towel? 
• Live your last day to the fullest and be cursed for all eternity by those you leave behind? Or live responsibly and thoughtfully and leave a legacy?
• Slowly deteriorate into an empty shell of a human being requiring others to care for you and compromising the happiness in their lives? or suicide? 
• If you know the world is going to end by atomic bomb, do you situate yourself close to the bomb or as far away as possible? 
• If you know you are going to die in X amount of time, do you still try to learn new things? Cram it all in? or drop and run?

Yeah, this is my day....Why? Well, I fear that tomorrow the answers will be different. Existentialism is an interesting concept. We make choices and share opinions based on today's status quo. Today, I'm fabulous. Tomorrow, I might be dying. That's the trouble with Cancer. You don't know it's got you until someone peeks in the box and tells you what's going on in there, which is generally characterized by a time and a place and a doctor who calls later to tell you the news.Tomorrow I will learn my fate around 8 or 9pm. Live or die? Fight or go down quick? To carve or not to carve? Not knowing is blissful, especially if you live your life as if every day were your last day on Earth. However, we all know that some things have dire and awful consequences for those left behind, and behaving responsibly and nobly may contribute to your remembrance. Information is power. Lack of information is also power.
One of my favorite sayings is "Well-behaved women don't make history." I'm far from well-behaved but I do try to avoid the nasty consequences of not behaving well. It also begs the question, "do you really want to make history?" or even better "Notorious or famous?" If you're dead, does it matter if you know you won't be around to witness the consequences?
I watched a movie this year called "Interstellar" with Matthew McConaughey and it twisted my little non-quantum physics-minded, pea brain. Relativity is a trippy concept. It makes me wonder about all the crazy rules of the universe and ultimately why does it matter if I rack up my credit cards, leaving a mess for my spouse, if I could feel awesome for one day before I take my last breath? It's something to remember me by.... a monthly check to pay off my last day? What better gift?
The reality of a cancer patient's situation is that you don't go from  a living, thriving, energetic, youthful spirit with great hair and great skin to dead in 24 hours. Instead, cancer whittles you away, slowly, over time, and each day, you lose something that means something to you such as your energy, your muscle, your memory, or the worst: your eyelashes. Last round, I was fine with being bald. I didn't mind that my fingernails were hideous or that going to the bathroom was a foul experience. I didn't mind that some days, I couldn't get off the floor or others, I couldn't eat or drink. What really got to me was when I lost my eyelashes. That was the straw. It was the difference between tolerance and despair. It was so superficial and so shallow and yet so relevant.  I have decided that if I do get a cancer diagnosis and I do decide to fight, I will go until my eyelashes fall out. Then, it's crazy town and watch out world because I am going to break every rule and leave my mark and probably lay waste to my civilities. Today, pray it's not Cancer. Tomorrow, see the world through different eyes.

3am

What is it about the 3:00am hour? Lately, I wake up every night at 3:00am on the button. This is starting to get annoying. Under normal circumstances, I sleep like the dead. I can go to bed with lights on, TV blaring, kids arguing over the latest minutiae and husband packing for his next business trip. And I will stay asleep for 9-10 hours, waking up well-rested and refreshed. So what the heck am  ding up at 3? There can only be one explanation.
Cancer.
I swear that I'm not scared of anything anymore. With a second degree black belt, a lifetime of skiing fast, kayaking class V, and coding numerous patients, it takes a pretty big thing to keep me up at night. Once I had recovered from chemotherapy, radiation, adjuvant treatments, menopause, and the initial discomfort of the daily meds, I did not look back. Many survivors suffer from the anxiety that cancer will return. Coming up on five years, and ultimately getting my NED chip, I continue to look forward. I REALLY want that chip.
Then my CA 15-3 spiked. Thankfully, my doc is on it and I've explained before that he is my knight in shining armor, wearing a white lab coat and dorky leather shoes. When he called me and told me about the lab test, I allowed denial to do its magic. Knowing full well that it was denial, I embraced it, and focused on fun and anecdotal statements to flirt with my doctor.
"It's nothing," I keep telling myself.
Meanwhile, it's summer. Summer is the time for soccer practice in the mornings, games, sleepovers, birthday parties, river trips, swimming parties, rope swings, nighttime trampoline jumping and swimming, and the daily onslaught of Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom......(Can so-n-so sleepover? Can we go shopping? Movie? Shopping and a movie? Can I call someone? I'm bored.)
I don't have time for cancer. And that right there is the fatal mistake. Nobody has time for cancer, but cancer doesn't really care. I've taken a page out of cancer's book for when I visit my friends in Park City.
"Hey I'm in town. Let's get together"
"Oh we're so busy, I don't know if we can squeeze it in."
"Okay, I'll be there in five."
Yeah, I don't care either.
Anyone, even me, can carve out 15 minutes for an old friend. So, I agree to carve out some time for Cancer whenever it decides to drop in. I get poked, injected with glow in the dark shit, sit in a scanner, and give up my Tuesday to hang out in waiting rooms and visit Pete's deli on the corner. Love Pete's deli. I get the cream cheese veggie sandwich loaded with tomatoes, cucumbers, sprouts and avocado. They toast the bread just right....mmmmm. It's part of the ritual. I make my peace with it. I do what cancer tells me to do. My body is the battleground where my sexy, jewish oncologist/knight in shining armor goes to war against the evil-doer,  a.k.a. my cancer. This part of my life resembles a Claude Rains movie.
I wasn't paying attention this time around. So close to my five-year chip, I started to get cocky that I'm making it. "Not so fast," cancer says as it grabs my gonads (quite literally).  I have cysts in my liver and on my ovary. It's as if cancer is holding them at gunpoint and saying, "if you ignore me, I will take this to the next level." It demands to be paid attention to. It's a small price to pay really given the richness of my life this summer, and I understand that it must be done to pay the piper. I've agreed to give it it's due by practicing denial and not sleeping, so that it thinks it has me by the balls.
...And technically, it sort of does. The "cysts"that they found are significant. I finally took a look at my report and the news is not good. I have a bunch of old cysts, probably related to my ski accident. 2 have gotten bigger and there are 2 new ones. All of them are in the 4-10mm range and the report indicates that "interval growth is worrisome for metastatic disease." Everyone has hepatic cysts and therefore, their presence is easy to downplay. However, it can't be argued that the growth and change signifies that something is brewing, something that probably shouldn't be ignored. Additionally, there is a new cyst on my left ovary that has grown to 5cm in size. Yep, it's pretty much a golf ball, and it doesn't hurt, which is also a really bad sign. It would be so easy to ignore this right now especially with all of my personal issues resolved, my marriage in a great place and my kids being able to take care of themselves. I feel obligated to at least pay attention.
Going back to chemo and radiation and the ugliness of it all is a daunting thought. It seems like I JUST got my body back, my hair in a good place, and my psychology handled. I reached out to my home of Park City and connected with so many great friends who have become my family. All my ducks are in a row including a trip to Tahiti next March that Marek arranged for us. Tahiti is one of the last stops on my bucket list. My life is a dream right now, which begs the question, "What better time to die?"
A cancer survivor battles with "What if it comes back" constantly. You start evaluating the way you lead your life and suddenly your moral compass points in a different direction. Some things just don't seem like a big deal anymore, and you feel as if you've evolved. You feel as if you have transcended the human experience. Problem is, not everybody is on the same page so issues of love and sex and escalating credit card debt continue to be points of contention. I'm going to die so what do I care? Well, when other people are IN-volved,  and not so highly E-volved,  it gets sticky.
Patience is an absolute necessity when it comes to keeping cancer dormant. It is the difference of life and death. I am certain that learning patience is the goal of this whole experience. Be patient, specifically, be patient with others. Not everyone is in your head or your particular level of the evolutionary process. Don't rush to cut stuff off and don't jump to any conclusions. Let your sexy oncologist do his job and have faith that he will do it well, but don't get sucked into the idea that he is in love with you too. He's not there to help you because he's in love with YOU. Either way, the insurance company pays him enough money to overcome his shortcomings. Live or die, he's just doing his job, and I'm not so disillusioned to think otherwise.  
Cancer has been a gift on so many levels. My life is richer for it. Currently, I feel that Cancer is a lot like Rumplestiltskin. It comes out of nowhere, grants you certain wishes and then later, comes to collect. I take comfort in the fact that I have not wasted ANY of my second chances. I have made the most of every moment given to me and despite pushing the boundaries of what is deemed socially acceptable, I have lived with my heart and have shared it with everyone I deem worthy. I give myself fully to those I love in whatever capacity they will have me. I do fear that this is it though. Liver cancer and even ovarian cancer are among the worst in terms of quality of life. I fear that I will soon have to make the very difficult decision of whether or not to choose treatment. I don't feel any obligation to torture my loved ones by hanging on by a thread for an extended time. Let death come. Let it come and let me face it bravely and not in the tattered, fragile shell of a human being I've seen far too many times as a nurse. I have recently reconnected with an old friend who has given me this courage to face my end. It took a great deal of courage to reconnect and the outcome has been extremely positive. I pray that he will be my side with the rest of the people I love, as I slay my last beast or more accurately, it slays me.

Our Lips are Sealed

Went to crazy town yesterday. Yep. Absolute, whack job, crazy town. I got completely caught up in the emotional roller coaster of my 30th reunion, reliving my high school memories, and facing the fact that my cancer may have returned. I didn't sleep a wink and the deprivation turned me inside out. Plus I watched "A Fault in Our Stars" for the umpteenth time. Can you say Mid-Life crisis? Crazy town.
I think I've managed to work through the idea that Cancer is going to knock on my door again, which inspires an air of desperation and a microscopic look at my everyday happiness. Hopefully today is not the day because I have all this other cool stuff going on including a reconnection with an old friend. As I updated my husband on his return home that I was currently off of my rocker, he laughed and reassured me that I was simply returning to normal.
My husband is an absolute gem. He is knowledgeable, witty and super funny.
It takes a very confident, well-adjusted person to trust and be vulnerable to the intricacies of love and life. I can't think of anyone I know who doesn't have a little trepidation of allowing their spouse to have lunch with their high school sweetheart, or even letting them go for a poker game at a friend's house or a trip to Baja with the boys. My husband is a true diamond in the rough. He understands that sometimes stories just have to unfold in order to get to the good stuff. Certainly he has boundaries and clarified those, but by trusting me to be an adult, and giving me the extra leash length to explore highly emotionally charged experiences, I am convinced that our marriage is rich with love and laughter because there are no dark places. I have witnessed anger, jealousy, indifference, defensiveness and malice in other couples and it makes me so sad. Empower people to make good choices and they will vitalize your life. For this reason, I tend to forget that there is any other way that works. I behave in an  open and outward manner and on occasion, get a scolding because I was not sensitive to the insecurities of someone else. (I'M in trouble? deal with your shit people)
One of my favorite sayings is "Change the way you see things and the things around you change." True statement. A poignant observation of this is that we shape our experiences based on our context. At 16, I was exploring love, and the evolution of myself as a person. This could have gone horribly bad, or mind-numbingly good. At 16, you sort of ride the ride without thinking where the destination is. My daughters of middle school age constantly have to be reminded to bring dry clothes to a pool party because they don't think about what's going to happen AFTER they get out of the pool, the sun goes down and temperatures drop. I think we tend to behave this way until we've been burned by it enough times, that we actually change our behavior. However, you never get a second chance at a first impression. A first dance, first river trip, first love, has tremendous opportunity to leave a LASTING impression or in some cases, some life-altering psychology and a significant scar.
I am fortunate to have not had to walk the scarred path, despite the potential for absolute disaster which I chalk up to right place, right time. Ultimately,  I chose my life partner. He is my soulmate and our amazing life is rooted in an accident. I get caught up in the gratitude and I'm sure people wonder why I have such a reverence for the people I love, but without their contribution, today's happiness would not be so pronounced. I see this now through experienced eyes. I see the substance of our choices that we make so nonchalantly and haphazardly at 16 and think about how many unseen bullets I managed to dodge or more appropriately articulated: whizzed by my head. How I see those days has changed from part of my past to a secure future, and an opportunity to guide my own daughters through the very scary waters of love, sex and friendship. I'm not taking any chances. I am not too proud to get on my knees and beg the universe that my girls meet the kinds of people that teach the same lessons, gently, without a lifetime of angst. I realize I have no part in this, but I guess sometimes we just have to let stories unfold to get to the good stuff.

Lust to Love

Recently, I had a checkup by my fantastic Oncologist who diligently keeps track of my health every six months or so. He's not very athletic, he's not outdoorsy at all, and I'm pretty sure he's jewish (not that there is anything wrong with that. I am just not jewish, meaning we don't have that in common either). He is brilliant and sweet and every time I go to see him, he gives me good news. Plus, he's the only other man in my life besides my husband that pays attention to my chest. Back in the day, I used to think a guy checking out second base was lame and sexist. Now I kinda miss it.
On my last checkup, one of my labs spiked. CA 15-3 is a lab test that is used to test for cancer recurrence in the lungs, liver, colon, ovaries and pancreas. It's not a test where elevated levels automatically indicate that cancer has returned. Given the presentation of the patient, the trend and treatment, all of these must be evaluated by the physician to determine the next course of treatment or diagnostics. 4 days before my 30th reunion, my doctor called me personally and informed me that this lab test is elevated and he'd like to order a Petscan to check for abnormal growth. First of all, I love when he calls me personally. I feel super special. He's a busy, brilliant guy so for him to take the time...well, he gets me all twitterpated. Now, if you look at the picture of him and you know me, you will agree that he is not exactly my type. Not in a million years would I ever date a doctor, which speaks to the powerful effect of transference. I am acknowledging it. I love it and it makes going to the doctor really easy. However, he nonchalantly dropped the bad news following up with the Petscan order to offset it. THEN, my insurance company denied approval for the petscan. I sent him a message via my UCSF email account which is how we communicate and he called me back! <Love him> Apparently, he tried to appeal the denial (so hot!), but the medical director of my insurance company was adamant and my doctor's hands were tied. It's ridiculous really. Without the Petscan, we have to do a CT and a bone scan. If anything comes up, we then have to do either the Petscan or the MRI to ascertain if the mass found is metabolically active, spending more healthcare dollars, not less, which is what these guys are all about. I told my doc this and he tells me, "you are preaching to the choir." We got that going for us, (which is nice!)
Okay, in all seriousness, I'm adding a little humor to a serious situation that my labs are abnormal and we are trying to get to the bottom of it. Yesterday, I had a CT scan and a bone scan. They loaded me up with radioisotopes and lit me up under the scanner. My bones appear to be fine. This is a huge relief as bone cancers tend to be ultra painful and difficult to treat. The CT shows hepatic cysts in my liver and a 2cm cyst on my left ovary, nothing of "grave concern" says my hunky jewish doc but he wants the MRI just to be sure.
Both Marek and I have been on pins and needles all weekend. In a crazy weekend in Park City, this was in the back of our minds....what if. I was scared to death driving to San Francisco. I went alone and the drive was frought with visions of returning to chemo and radiation just when I managed to get my life to a place where I feel confident and healthy. If I have it, then I will fight it. Again. Because my life is worth it, but as I do, ten more years fall off of my life and the rest of my posse changes. So many great new things in my life right now. I am loving my dormant cancer life and hoping and praying that I have a few more good years to see the progression of my renewed spirit and sense of joy. Until then, I am resolved to eat well, drink lots of fluids and engage in pursuits that keep me smiling, which includes lusting after my brilliant, jewish oncologist!

Reunited and It Feels So Good

This weekend was my 30^th HighSchool reunion. 30^th. Thirtieth. Yeah, thirtieth. It doesn’t seem plausible. All that happened 30 years ago? Other than the kink in my neck, the blown eardrum from jumping off of a rock into the river, the hip replacement, the left knee pain and the lines on my face, I just don’t see the signs that I’m actually that old. Well, okay, now that I read that out loud, I guess there are a few things.

I’ve crammed a lot into the last 30 years. World Cup ski racer, River guide, waitress, EMT, ER Nurse, cancer survivor, wife and mother…High School seems far away and yet so close. When I think of High School, I think of the last great moments that transitioned me into my life. These moments are the beginnings of what shaped me as a person and launched me into oblivion. I buried these memories. I tucked them away thinking that I was finished with them and that they had served their purpose, but just as I think of Baja and surfing every time I smell fish tacos at Rubio’s, visiting my home town and running into my classmates reminds me of my teenage angst and all that goes with it. Yep, I’m acting like a ditzy schoolgirl. Really? I thought I had evolved. I was excited to present my newly evolved self to my fellow classmates. Hey! Look at me! I actually accomplished staying out of prison, rehab, 5 marriages, and moved to a new state! Yeah, great, except I was still acting like a dorky freshmen around all the people who graduated two years ahead of me. How does THAT happen?

I was a jock in high school, so naturally at the reunion picnic, I’m thinking that I can dive for a volleyball in a 2 v2 sand volleyball game with my former teammates. So what if 30 years has gone by? It all came back. My serve, my pass, and my dive which bought me a face full of sand and the recognition that those muscles are genuinely pissed off that I woke them up from their 30 year sleep. Then there are all my classmates who went out and got educations, jobs, significant others and families, that have not changed in personality, and predictable tendencies. They all act the same, sound the same, look the same (plus or minus a few pounds, a few new age spots and missing  a whole lotta hair), and reassume their role in your social circle as if time never passed. Jocks gravitate to jocks, nerds gravitate to nerds and girls giggle and cackle like they did way back when. EXCEPT, we now have filters and we go a whole lot slower. AND we have partners who are looking at us like we just got off the mothership from an unknown planet. Who ARE you?

In my case, I never really had a filter so my husband is used to my inappropriate behavior and my classmates sort of expect it which makes for a great match of expectations on all fronts. However, there were a few people who surprised me, a few people I was grateful have not changed a bit, a few people lost to tragedy, illness, or distance, and a select few that I didn’t realize I had buried. There were also a few that went straight from zero to hero, bubbling up to the top of the evolutionary chain for whatever reason. Those are my favorites. Everyone has a few extra miles on their external frame. There are one or two who walk in and everyone starts whispering, “who the hell is that?” After five minutes, that person opens their mouth or performs some unique distinguishing characteristic that makes the whole crowd sigh in collective relief, “ooooh, he’s THAT guy.” (no way!).

Reunion etiquette is funny. First, there’s the absolutely demand for name badges with the names everyone had in high school. Many of the women are married so they go by their married names in their contact info and no matter how many times you scour your yearbook, you can’t figure out who the hell Meggan Clayton is. Then there’s the postural gesturing that takes place as you position yourself in such a way that you read said name badge before you make eye contact. 3 guys walked into our reunion and I recognized two of them right away with big hugs and smiles, hoping that the identity of the third guy would come to me before it was his turn. Nope. I had nothing. There was an awkward pause of wondering whether or not to hug third guy because I wasn’t sure if he graduated with me or if the two guys ahead of him brought him along to troll for high school ex-girlfriends and free drinks. I figured out a moment too late that he was one of the hottest guys in school who just so happened to be quarterback of our State Championship-winning football team. Luckily he knew before I did that he’s a touch lighter on top, ignored the awkward pause, and didn’t notice me staring at his rock hard physique with a few extra road miles. My husband missed that too thankfully.

Significant others have THE worst job at these functions. You bring them along to show them off or to doll up the awkward expression of your adult self, and they have to endure your giddy stupidity and ditzy, high-school persona. They also have to suffer the same story told by everyone else of who you were in high school despite the fact that you’ve been married 20-25 years and they know you better than anyone ever did in high school. Despite this fact, as the night rolls on, you get the occasional zingers. One spouse was making a joke about why they married my fellow classmate, and in an admirable attempt to boost my classmate’s street cred, proclaimed that he was “good in bed.” What’s funny, is I had actually slept with my classmate when we were 18 and knew this to be fact. She was spot on, and it was good to know that things hadn’t changed (for his sake), but I resisted the urge to blurt “He was even better when he was 18!” That could have gone REALLY bad, or not, depending on my presentation, but I didn’t want to risk it. The look of fear and wide-eyed pleading on his face was hilariously funny. We were not far enough into the evening for me to make jokes about previous carnal knowledge about anyone. No one wants to hear how their spouse knocked the back out of it on graduation night with the person standing in front of them, so instead, I took the high road and I acted shocked and surprised. (insert giggle and courtesy laugh here). I found out how incredibly cool she was later (and throughout the event) when she said she knew the attire was somewhat dressy, but she went with jeans and a nice top because after all, “It wasn’t HER reunion.” Unfortunately, she rocked those jeans like a superstar and unknowingly and unwittingly, made the rest of us look like we were trying too hard. Still I walked away feeling proud of myself that I had not inspired the marital discussion that begins with “how many girls did you actually sleep with in high school?” or have to endure the answer, “Oh, that girl? She slept with everybody.”

Actually, I was a serial monogamist. It kept me out of trouble most of the time and makes it far easier to go to these events. You will have to take my word on this one because we didn’t have the internet back then, and we are all grateful that we are unable to google our high school sexual exploits. Good luck with THAT one millennials.

Why is it that the nicest guy in high school gets stuck with tragedy, trial and tribulation, the nerdiest girl lands the hot, rich husband, and the guys on the football team all have Ph.D’s? That slutty cheerleader is now a mother of 5 having to explain why everyone keeps buying her drinks and the girl who starved herself for 3 months in preparation for this event is now hoarking down all the cheese-filled appetizers.

Reunions are awesome because you are thrust into a room with everyone who knew you at your teenage best and look beyond the wrinkles and the bad hair to the teenage person you once were. I adore these people then and now and despite my husband having a little more fodder to chide me with, I am grateful to the many who bit their tongue and talked me up like I was a rockstar. I wasn’t, but as we evolve into older human beings, the people we started the journey with, still have a better perspective on our progress.  They met you when you were awkward and reconciling your transition to adulthood and they celebrate your success. They are also the first to commissurate about the aches and pains associated with achieving one too many birthdays. They love your kids like they were their own and they welcome your spouse into the inner circle, especially when they realize he’s got you nailed more than anyone there, that he takes better care of you than they ever could or would and is willing to hold your hair back because you downed too many shots and drinks due to your own reunion angst. Meanwhile, your unmarried former classmates are waking up naked in a hot tub with another of your divorced classmates and wondering, “holy shit, how are we going to explain this one to everybody?” It’s just more fuel for the 40th reunion fire and the fortunate occurrence that makes us ready to disperse and return to our post High School  lives. Talks are already underway to crash next year’s 30^th group and the 40^th is planned for some exotic location where we can all get a tan and a mai tai. I never want to lose touch with these people. I just hope I live to see the next one.  

Fading Fast

Thursday came and went. I had visions that I would be late because I am always late. I would walk in and see him sitting there. He would get up, give me a cold, courtesy hug and we would sit down and chat awkwardly. I would tell him what I had to tell him. We would eat or have a drink or whatever and then it would be done. My expectations were low. I would tell him I love him and  that I'm sorry. If he chews my ass, I will let him. I'll thank him for coming and tell him I love him anyway. I'm probably going to hell but this way, I will have made my peace. Get in, get out, get it over with.

It didn't quite go that way.
First disaster: I was on time.
Second, he wasn't. Actually, he was waiting for me in a different location, so he was on time but elsewhere. I thought for sure he wasn't going to show. 10 minutes in, I took my last shot. "I'm here."
"So am I"
I look around and I am one of five people and nobody resembles him. And then he walks in. The ground drops out and I am hurtling down the mountain at 90 mph.

He's older, but attractive in a distinguished sort of way. He wore a pink buttoned shirt that reminded me of the pink Izod he used to wear back in High School. He always looked good in Pink. He was normal. Dressed for work, he looked sharp but not flashy and not overdoing it. He wore glasses. He still has plenty of hair and was innocuously handsome. I looked in his eyes, and there he was: the 17 year-old boy I fell in love with 30+ years ago.... and he was looking right back at me.

Despite years of testing my flight or fight response in skiing, river running and ER nursing, mine was  in overdrive. In ER nursing, we have algorithms so that when the moment starts to test your resolve and disconnect your ability to critically think under pressure, you can refer to something simple like the ABC's: Airway, Breathing, Circulation. I worked hard to breathe and I could feel my heart beat out of my chest at somewhere between 110 and 120 beats per minute. I thanked the universe that I didn't have to save anybody's life. I felt my own in the balance.

These are the pivotal moments in life. This is when you ask yourself what is really important about this, and this I've had some practice with. I can't change anyone that doesn't want to change or who is not open to an experience however uncomfortable. If this was going to go badly, it was not because I was going to let him get under my skin. I had a job to do and that job was REALLY important to my self-preservation and how I would face my end. I was focused. We made some small talk but it was obvious that he was wondering why are you here, what's this all about, why today. I told him I didn't have any adult children to present him with, nor any other shocking news that would affect him or his family. I went right into what I had to say, that I was happily married with two kids, and how I have spent the last few years. Tears streamed down my face as I apologized for being awful, for being such a shrew and for missing out on a beautiful life with him. I would have married him in a new york second back in High School and with my career taking off, I didn't know how to reconcile the two. I told him about how he accompanied me over the last number of years to my darkest places and some bright ones, that the memory of him got me through some rough spots and that I just wanted to thank him for taking care of my soul while I transitioned from innocent young girl to a sexual, adult woman capable of love, happiness, and a fulfilling life.
<awkward pause>
He tried to speak. He paused. It was as if he didn't want to tell me, but I was there, and this could be the very last time I would ever see him. He shared some personal information he has not revisited in a very long time. It was nice. It was comfortable and the conversation began to roll. So what have you been doing for 30 years? Family, school, jobs, trials, tribulations, and so on went the small talk. Breathing became easier, my pulse came down and it appeared that neither fight nor flight would be necessary. It was a nice reprieve from my emotionally charged agenda. Time passed easily. He spoke fondly and lovingly of his wife which reinforced his decency. He was not unlike the boy I knew so many years ago. His mannerisms had not changed. The way he smiled, the way he put his hands up when he was nervous about the views he was expressing, his facial expressions.... all him. It was uncanny. He was visibly proud of his kids and told me a little about his job and the fact that it makes it impossible for him to participate in social media. We talked about the reunion, people we had been in touch with, people lost to illness and a series of "what ever happened to....." We realized we had just missed each other over the years. Despite trying to connect, we literally passed each other like two ships in the night. As we realized this, I thought of how the whole day's meeting began. We almost missed each other again. He was waiting outside. I was waiting inside. Had I not had the courage to text him, we might have both thought the other didn't show. It's like a 1950's movie. I can't help but wonder how many times that happened over the last 30+ years, how much I depended on external sources for information about him that was incorrect, and how it affected the choices I had made. It's crazy how we missed one another. We both have happy endings and I am relieved by that. His family seems amazing and I am so happy for him.
An hour and a half flew by. He had to return to work. The time together was pleasant and good, completely unexpected. He welcomed further contact and agreed to stay in touch. I thanked him and said goodbye. He gave me a big hug. One advantage to the double mastectomy is there is no longer anything between you and another person. It makes chest bumps really fun, but moreso, when you hug someone, you get really close to them. Needless to say, it was a good hug, one I will not forget. Ever.
I turned and walked away expecting to never see nor hear from him again. I walked proudly and lightly as if a hundred pounds had been lifted off of my shoulders and I didn't look back. I was free.
Since then, my world has opened up into this amazing place full of life, love, joy and desire. I have so many plans, excited to return to my MMA training, soccer (kids), workouts, carpools and as exhibited here: writing. The relationship with my husband appears to be even more solid and our physical desire for one another is "inspired." It's like everything is right with the world. I made great life choices in my husband, where I live, what I do, and how I do it, and I feel like it all grew out of this first relationship of love that was so healthy and rich. I want to share everything about myself with the world. Go ahead take it. Wanna stalk my FB page? Do it. Stories of my kids? Coming up. What's mine is yours. I am consumed with love and joy and peace. I haven't felt this good in YEARS. I am so glad that my friend and I connected, that his wife could operate on faith and trust, that my husband understands that cleaning my house means he lives in one, and that love doesn't just turn off. I fell in love, truly fell in love twice, with the first man I ever loved and the last one. I will love them both forever and I'm good with it.
Even if forever means only a year or so.

Just Between You and Me

My adventure continues and just when I thought my life couldn't get any more interesting, BAM, it gets crazy cool.  Suddenly a rush of memories, feelings, misunderstandings, explanations, and beauty has opened a flood of thoughts, ideas and stories to tell. My wit and sarcasm have returned. Life is funny, crazy, tragic and well, life, all over again. This is a great story and I feel compelled to tell it primarily because you just can't make this shit up. The story of my life has so many twists and turns that not even I can keep up and when I have an epiphanic experience, I feel it is too good not to share. However, there are characters involved and I don't want those characters to misconstrue my intentions, specifically because this is a love story and it's easy to get carried away with my own experience while denying the importance and role of others, specifically and in my case, a husband who I love and adore. I've been married 20 years to a man that I am completely and totally enamored with. He remains my soulmate, stunningly handsome, with a deep, sultry voice that makes me swoon especially when he uses it to woo me in Spanish. We were married when I was 29 which, growing up in Utah, qualifies me for Old Maid standards. Many of my friends are launching kids while we remain in the Middle School years. Most of my friends got married around 24 or 25 after they got out of college, and started families,  but I was too busy ski racing, travelling the world and running from unsuccessful relationships to commit to anything worthwhile. I had some great ones too. I almost married this amazing guy from Montana, fabulously gorgeous, a world cup ski racer, rugged, cute and dreamy. We dated for four years while both of us chased our Olympic dreams until one day I ran into a finish post and suddenly we had less in common. It is my belief that timing is everything when it comes to love and despite trying to hang on to what we had with a marriage proposal and a promise of a lifetime, our window had closed. I was on a new, non-ski racing path and he was on his way to the Olympics. I called off the wedding 3 months before our nuptials, a decision that even to this day, I'm not sure why. I wanted to be married but there was something under the surface that I just couldn't put my finger on. I chalked it up to intuition and that marriage was a really bad idea given the circumstances. I had another subsequent relationship that I refer to as the "one-night-stand that lasted two years." He was like a hall pass. He was different from my usual athletic, gorgeous, Type A boyfriends. He was a tortured artist trying to launch his career in a ski town by day and bartend by night. And he just so happened to be my fiancee's neighbor. So when my fiancee called to inform me that he "slipped' while on the Men's World Cup tour in Kitzbuhel, I proceeded to "slip" into my next door neighbor's bedroom and consummate the end of my engagement. It was the first and last time I ever did something like that, so not being comfortable with myself afterwards, I chose to extend our relationship (after moving to my own apartment) while I finished out my college degree. I fell for this Artist over time and ultimately wanted more from our relationship than I had anticipated. However, he was not in a place of commitment. He was in his 20's, living in a ski town, surrounded by beautiful women, bartending at night and was doted on by his ski racer girlfriend who introduced him to all the cool people. (ha!) He had it made. No man in his right 27 year-old mind would give that up and my "tortured" artist was no exception. It took me awhile to figure out that the relationship was going nowhere. Meanwhile, I had a feeling that something (someone?) else was still out there. I left him, crushed, heart in pieces, feeling of failure. It was one of those where I didn't want to make it end, but his obvious avoidance toward something deeper was the first sign that maybe I was barking up the wrong tree. Then there was the "Boys trip" to Mexico. He said I couldn't go because well, it was boys only. They were going to Mexico to do "Boy" stuff. I could handle that but when we went out with his "boys" prior to them leaving, they all asked me why I wasn't coming.... when I looked at my boyfriend, he smiled sheepishly, and said, "Yeah, why aren't you coming?" Done. Unwanted and crushed, I fled to the Grand Canyon, sat on the rim with my dog and contemplated  my next move. There's a really big river at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. As I looked down into it, I thought of a boy I knew in High School and I remember feeling like he was sitting right next to me, telling me I was going to be okay.
 You never forget your "first" love and I have never forgotten him. He was cute but when he smiled, my knees shook. I literally melted when he looked at me a certain way. He was athletic, kinda smart, well, smart enough. We were in High School so smart wasn't exactly part of the criteria so I can't speak to how smart he actually was, but he graduated so that's that. He was gentle and kind, caring, intuitive (a touch anachronistic here but lets go with it). He was perfect. A little too perfect. He even had this brother who was neither hard to look at nor difficult to like.
At the time, I was chasing a skiing career filled with travel and experiences that no 16 year-old can really appreciate until she's way beyond it. My life was unfolding beautifully and all of my dreams were coming true. I made the U.S. Ski Team, I went to Europe to represent us in competition and I was doing well. The whirlwind took me up, up and away and I became driven toward my purpose and far too egocentric. My perfect first love no longer fit in to my crazy World Cup life and I felt like I had to choose. I didn't want to, but I knew both would implode if I didn't. I chose my skiing career thinking I couldn't reconcile the two. I didn't see how this teenage boy would not be swallowed whole by my life of skiing and ski racing and how we would manage to start a life together while I was traipsing around the world growing in ways he couldn't contemplate. I chose to end it. I didn't know how to do it. I LOVED him with my body and soul and didn't know how to face this enormous responsibility of ending a relationship I so desperately wanted to keep. I thought about stringing it along until it soured and disintegrated on its own but he got in to college and was making plans. The kindness and support of his brother and his father guilted me into doing the right thing, which, at the time, was ending the relationship. This was the noble part. The not so noble part was HOW I did it. I remember it like yesterday. Me: "It's over." Him: "Don't DO this." Me: "We are done." Him: "Please." Me: "No, I'm leaving for..... and I won't be back for awhile so this is it." Him: "You fucking bitch."
And that was it. He stormed out and I collapsed into a puddle of tears.
Over the years, his final statement rung in my ears. One night, my artist boyfriend and I got in a fight. He threw my car keys at me and had that "fucking bitch" look in his eyes and while it hurt, it wasn't anything like the original. No one has dug that deeply into my soul and ripped my heart out, ever. For years, I avoided my High School boyfriend and anything close to him because I was wounded. I was wounded and it was all my doing. There was no going back. I ran into his brother once or twice on my path and he informed me that his brother was dating someone seriously and pursuing a career in...... who knows or cares, because all I heard is he was gone forever to someone else. I was 23.
I decided to fall off the face of the Earth. I swore men off forever. I'd had it. I mismanaged the good ones and got abused by the bad ones and figured that maybe I should join a convent or choose homosexuality in hopes of better luck. Despite my best efforts, sex with women was not going to happen and the fact that I thought about sex with anyone kinda made the convent idea unrealistic. Instead, I became a river guide. I went to the river to hide. Heart battered by love, body battered by ski racing and head battered by why, I told no one where I was going. There were no phones, no computers, no reminders of growing up in a ski town. I lived out of the back of my car with my dog and learned how to guide rafts down the river with commercial guests. It was an enormous departure from school, ski racing, etc. I felt lost in a place where no one would find me. I was hiding. Artist boyfriend finally found me, evidenced by a dozen RED roses that showed up at the guide house which is a comedy of errors really. I cannot stand red roses. To me, red roses signify death. Not sure why but I have this thing about red roses, which I am certain I told him about. And yet, he sent me red roses. Any other color or a bouquet of daisies, and I probably would have gone running back to a relationship that would have brought me my first divorce and a mountain of heartache. But it gets better. A week later, he sent me ANOTHER dozen. By now, I am the talk of my new river rafting company. Who is this new river guide who keeps getting roses that she keeps giving away? Well, it got the attention of one staggeringly, gorgeous guide who was managing my river. The first time I laid eyes on him, I was held hostage. He had long brown hair that curled gently at the end. He was tan, and chesty and stunning with green eyes that swallowed me whole. He smiled this big toothy smile and when he spoke, he had this deep booming voice that made the ground shake and everything around me fell away. Well, having sworn off men for awhile, he had the effect that chocolate chip cookies might have, if one had been on a diet  for far too long. I wanted 20 of him. He was perfect and I remember thinking, "You've already let one slip through the cracks. Don't let this one go by." And I didn't. I have loved him for 23 years since and don't regret a single second. Had that boy in High School not taught me how to love, how to be hated, how not to change, and how to hold on to love and never let it go, I might still be suffering through bouquets of red roses.
But this story gets better because the truth is always stranger than fiction.
About two years ago, I connected with my high school boyfriend's brother.  I had just survived Breast Cancer which takes you to all kinds of crazy places. I was determined to make amends. I needed to free my soul, and felt that happily married with two kids, breastless and hormone-free (due to menopause),  now was as good a time as any to reach out and right a lifetime wrong.  But my friend said no.
[really?]
28 years isn't enough to water down a few raw nerve endings? Oh come on. Seriously? Yep. He wasn't budging. I was so sad. I did not expect that answer, but I dropped it. I respected his advice because he is a great friend and I trusted his wisdom. For whatever reason, which was none of my business, I would remain lost.
However, we live in an era of social media and I figured if I can't contact him directly, I'll contact him indirectly. He must have a Facebook or instagram account right? Married with kids? Heck, my kids can navigate every social media site out there. I'll just stalk him.  So we went to work and of course, we found nothing. Nada. Every search engine yielded a reference to a computer mogul who died the year I was married. There was nothing. No facebook. No linked in. Nothing. Dead fricking end. The only way I was going to find him was through his family and they were clammed up. I started to wonder. Does he suffer from mental illness? Is he a recluse living somewhere on the other side of the globe? Is he married to a tyrant or worse......single? That would explain it and make it easier for me to drop it because being happily married, that just makes sense. Essentially, I gave up.
My 30th reunion is next weekend. I reached out to that brother and initially, he was resistant to connect me with my first love. I backed off and didn't push but I tried again and invited them both to our reunion which spanned their graduation years also. Phone calls were made, texts were exchanged, and suddenly, I have a phone number.
<insert F bomb>
My stomach has dropped out and suddenly, I feel like I am at the top of the Val d'Isere downhill, I'm naked, it's cold and we probably missed the wax. Be careful what you wish for. The "good" news is I just got off the Rogue River with my family. I have black eye and a blown eardrum from jumping off of a huge rock into the river. Both my feet are infected with Staph and to add insult to injury, I have ten extra pounds I don't need. Really? But it's now or never. Time to put your poles over the wand, shoot out the starting to gate and drop to your death. It will be a good death though, driven by the best of intentions.
I have a number.
Call or text? Text or call? I can't call. I can't even order a taco without tripping over my own tongue right now. Okay, text it is. Wait, what time is it. He's married I think. Don't text during family time or wife time or midnight. Check. I'll text in the morning. Wait, work. I'll text him at lunch. Please God, do not let him be lunching with his 12 year-old daughter....Hmmmm, maybe morning is better. After all, he doesn't have to respond until lunch. And so on, and so forth went the banter in my head. I had to take time to breathe and ask myself: Is it safe? Is it reasonable? Is it respectul? My husband guides me through these situations and this was no exception. "He loved you once. If he's a decent guy, he'll be cordial." How I love the voice of reason, especially in bass.
I texted.
Lunch on Thursday.