The Importance of Hair

My New Hairdo 9/28/11

Hair is important... just ask any guy spending $19.95 a month on rogain, or the average woman who spends well over $100 every 5 weeks for a cut and color (don't even get me started about the additional cost of a blowout).

Millions of dollars are spent every year in salons and on styling products, and networks are starting to create reality TV shows (e.g. Tabathas Salon Takeover; Shear Genius) that showcase the "real" trials and tribulations of bobs and bangs. Even Sarah Palin's hair salon is getting its own series: Big Hair Alaska, "where the personalities of the owner and her staff are as big as the hairstyles they create."

Why all the fuss?

Hair has long been considered a source of mythological and cultural strength. Some Native American tribes believed that scalping was a way to capture their enemy's strength. In the Bible, Samson is granted unimaginable physical strength by God on the condition that he never cuts his hair. (Samson of course loses his power when Delilah finds out his secret, and has his head shaved.) Even today, certain faiths still forbid their followers to cut their hair, such as Amish women and Sikh men.

Hair is important... just ask any cancer survivor who has gone through the trauma of losing it.

I've been a frequent flyer at different cancer centers these last 15 months, always with a full head of hair. While I am grateful that carcinoid cancer really doesn't have a treatment path that leads down the way to baldness ... my locks always make me feel like a bit of an impostor - like a weak warrior on a battle field of combat veterans who wear their shiny bald heads (delicately lined with thin blue veins, wrapped in colorful silk scarves) like fierce battledress.

In the new Seth Rogen comedy, 50/50 (opening this weekend) two 20-something bosom-buddies find out that one has cancer - with a 50% chance of survival. The trailer plays a familiar scene in which they use a "questionably clean" set of body trimmers to shave off the one friend's hair, before the chemo and radiation can melt it away.

This film scene isn't fiction for one of my seniors - Tim - who did the same exact thing, two years ago. (Except he used very clean trimmers of course!)

In tenth grade, Tim was diagnosed with advanced stages of Hodgkins Lymphoma, and had to complete the year through home-tutoring and painful cancer treatments. He returned his junior year and organized the first ever PC Relay for Life, which raised over $43,000 dollars for the American Cancer Society. He and I were the speakers at Relay's opening ceremonies, and formed an instant bond. We were both thrilled that he was in my English class this year, and for the past two weeks, we have been working on his college essay.

Tim started his college essay with a memory from the day his pediatric oncologist told him, "you have cancer" for the first time. At this point, his immediate thought did not turn to the fear of dying, but to the fear of going bald. Apparently, Tim was absolutely obsessed with his hair and couldn't imagine living without it. Eventually, he decided that he needed to be the one to take his hair - not the cancer... so first he gave himself a Mohawk, and then he shaved his head.

Having the privilege of getting to know this young man, I can unequivocally state that Tim's spirit and strength could outmatch a follically endowed Samson in any battle - any day of the week.

So I think the mythology got it backwards. Hair in and of itself does not pass along secret powers to its owner... rather it is the act of losing one's hair in a deadly, knockdown-dragout fight against an invisible enemy that makes one truly heroic.

Teaching About 9/11 (in English Class)

During my senior of high school, my mother, sister and I moved to an orange farm in Ojai, CA; before that, we lived in Ridgewood, NJ in Bergen County. Three years ago, I moved back to NJ and began teaching English at Paramus Catholic HS - just a few miles away from where I grew up... a full circle.

Bergen County is a suburban area that is heavily populated by Manhattan commuters; and before my family's cross-country relocation, both my parents worked at what's now known as ground zero. Sadly, many of my students lost family members in the tragedy.

The beginning of our school year always inevitably corresponds with the anniversary of 9/11. This year, we had orientation on Thursday (September 8th) and started classes on Friday - two days before the 10th anniversary of when everything changed in America.

While I could have spent the first day of classes jumping right into Unit 1 - an introduction to the ancient texts of Mesopotamia, I felt it was important to recognize the magnitude of 9/11.

After I began the class with a prayer - remembering all those affected by the terrorist attacks, I asked students to raise their hands if they had ever read The New Yorker before - not one of my 118 seniors raised their hands.

I explained that The New Yorker is basically a literary magazine, filled with a datebook, cartoons, short stories, essays, fiction and poems; and that it would provide an important literary voice for reflecting on the 9/11 attacks. Then, I passed around my advance copy of The New Yorker's 9/11 edition (reason #637 why I'm not a Kindle fan - passing around a Kindle version of The New Yorker to students whom had never seen it before just wouldn't be the same).

I then read from an essay in the magazine's 9/11 edition: "Speechless", by Jonathan Safran Foer.

Literary Non-Fiction Essay

"Speechless" starts with a personal anecdote - the author recalling his young son crawling into bed with him and his wife after having a nightmare. When the author asked his son what the nightmare was about, his little boy was at a loss for words:

"At the time, I thought he didn't want to describe it: putting a nightmare into words - saying it aloud and sharing it - would only expand the terror. But I've come to wonder if he simply didn't possess the vocabulary. And if that failure of language was at least part of the problem."

The author uses his son's inability to articulate what was so frightening about his dream as a metaphor for his own inability to explain what it was like living in New York on 9/11:

"How could this world be so unlike the world that I believed I was living in? I can't describe it. Do I not want to describe it, or do I simply not possess the vocabulary?"

(Here - I snuck in a quick review of metaphor v. simile.)

The piece concludes with a reflection on the power of language - not only to make sense of the senseless, but as its own form of heroism:

"Is there anyone who hasn't played out the nightmare of having been trapped in one of the towers? Is there anyone who hasn't wondered if he would have had the superhuman composure to call and comfort a loved one? Dozens of phone calls home were placed from the towers between the moment that the first plane hit and the time that the north tower collapsed. When words should have been most impossible to find, there were words of grace, and dignity, and consolation. Words of fear, and words of love. There's nothing to learn from this, except everything."

After we discussed "Speechless" and the importance of having the "vocabulary" to adequately tell our own stories, I asked the class if anyone had seen photos of the planes crashing into the towers. This time, every hand went up. The fact is, you couldn't turn on a television leading up to the 10th anniversary without feeling like you were trapped in a time warp - the newsreels looping a never-ending reminder of terror.

I then asked my students if any of them knew what the City was like immediately following the attacks... none of them did.

First-Hand Account (Interview)

I then shared an interview of a 16-year-old girl that I heard on the radio on the way to school that morning. She was asked what she remembered most as a 6-year-old living blocks away from ground zero. Ash. She remembered ash covering everything - and how she begged her parents to buy her a purple plastic umbrella that she carried with her outside every single day for three years. She also said that she taught herself to read, just so she could read the weather report every day - so she would be prepared if something like this ever happened again.

I told my students that when I first heard the interview, I didn't make the connection - but then it dawned on me. This little girl associated an environmental change (ash) with panic and sadness. She didn't see the towers crashing, and had no way of linking cause and effect; all she knew was ash was falling from the sky - like rain - and if she had some advanced warning when the ash was coming again, she could feel in control of her situation.

Poetry

Then I lead a brief discussion about how poetry could also be a way to gain a sense of control through self-expression. Next, I held up the tenth anniversary edition of Poetry After 9/11, An Anthology of New York Poets, and I read a short excerpt from the Forward, written by editors Dennis Loy Johnson and Valerie Merians:

"There were, in the immediate aftermath, poems everywhere. Walking around the city you would see them - stuck on light posts and phone stalls, plastered on shelters at bus stops and the walls of the subway stations. In neighborhood newspapers the letters-to-the-editor pages were full of them. Downtown, people scrawled poems in the ash that covered everything. And on brick walls of police stations and firehouses, behind mountains and flowers and between photos of the dead, poetry dominated... Prose wasn't enough. There was something more to be said that only poetry could say. Everybody, apparently, knew this."

We then discussed as a class what the editors meant by: prose wasn't enough. (Here, I managed to sneak in a mini-lesson about genre, and the relationship between form, purpose and audience as well as the importance of cultural context in analyzing literature).

Finally, I shared one of my favorite books - which isn't a book at all in the traditional sense... rather it's a book of postcards entitled Haiku on 42nd St, A Celebration of Urban Poetry & Art . Each postcard is a photograph of a haiku poem that found its way onto one of the empty porn marques of Times Square.

After shocking the socks off of my students by describing how Times Square used to be a very different place (filled with shady hawkers, prostitutes and drug addicts - not $200 show tickets, strolling tourists and sidewalk seating), I defined the word "gentrification" and briefly mentioned some of the mixed social connotations of the word.

Holding up my postcard book, I explained that the photographs captured a moment of transition in Time Square's history - just before one of the most dangerous areas in NYC became one of the most sought after tourist destinations in the world. Perhaps these unsolicited haikus were one last rebellious dare - challenging the magical land of Oz (or Wicked) that was soon to follow.

For homework, students were asked to brainstorm about a moment of change in their own lives that they might use for their college essays. I reassured them that their "moment" didn't have to be as dramatic as 9-11, it just needed to provide a little snapshot of their character for the admissions officers to see.

I will end this blog the same way I ended my first day of 12th grade World Literature classes - with two 5-7-5 snapshots of New York City ...

9/11: Remember * Honor * Reunite.

Additional 9/11 Links:

Gathering Place - remembering those with disabilities on 9/11: This blog reflection is especially powerful for me, because my mom is disabled and this was one of the first things she said after the planes hit ... "what about the gathering place?" I didn't get it - she did. When you are disabled you are supposed to wait at a certain location for help in case of an emergency - all those people with disabilities (save one blind person whose dog led him out) died at the designated "gathering place" waiting for help that never came.

Baseball symbolized resiliency after 9/11: The nation turned to baseball after 9/11 for a sense of normalcy and healing; this article captures some of the incredible moments - including Fenway Park's famous 7th inning stretch when the entire stadium erupted in "New York, New York" during their first home game against the Yankees after 9/11.

National September 11 Memorial (WTC): A guide to a national tribute of remembrance and honor to the 2,983 people killed in the terror attacks of September 11, 2001 and February 26, 1993.

Prayers, Vigils, Remembrances Mark 9/11 Anniversary: A listing of events in Washington, PA and NY to remember the victims of the 9/11.

The Sept. 11 Attacks, Remembered - PICTURES: A series of pictures of international and national remembrances.

For My Teacher Friends... Concepts Taught In This Lesson

Vocabulary: gentrification; connotation
Literary Terms: simile; metaphor; genre
Writing: relationship between purpose, form and audience; cultural context; voice
Poetry: haiku, postmodernism
Big Idea: there is nothing more important than stories - and nothing more powerful than having the ability to skillfully tell our own stories to others

A Para-Equestrian's Passion

My beautiful mom showing off her Mother's Day present: a pictorial history of Jackie-O's lifelong passion for horses

My mom contracted polio in 1955; ironically the same year the vaccine came out - she was 5 years old. She spent 10 months in the hospital, and the polio left her with severe weakness in both legs. The doctors all said she'd never walk again, but she proved them wrong by walking, by herself with the aid of leg braces, up to the altar to receive her first Holy Communion. Afterward, she got a gift that would change her life: a ride on a white pony.

My mother in 1956 with my grandfather - taking her first ride on a horse while still wearing her leg braces, Holy Communion dress and veil

This began my mom's love affair with horses... but it wouldn't be until she was in her 50s that she would start competing competitively as a para-equestrian rider. Over the past few years, she has gotten so good that her competition level required her to get her own horse. After much searching, she finally found Andy - a beautiful white Arabian. I can't wait to meet him this summer.

Mom and her horse Andy at
REINS Therapeutic Riding Stables

My mother's grace and talent continue to inspire all who meet her, especially those in the equestrian community. Thanks mom for reminding me every day that there is no value in being a victim - only in living bravely.

Why Princesses Matter

"Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed." - G. K. Chesterton

Marlena, Princess of Emerson NJ (1976)

It's a strange phenomenon. We encourage little girls to grow up to become doctors and lawyers, yet we dress them up as miniature princesses every Halloween, and relentlessly play Disney DVDs over and over again, until they become obsessed with pink tulle dresses with matching sparkly tiaras. (Go to Toys 'R Us and just try to find the "high powered business executive" themed birthday party paper-plates, streamers, and napkins... not happening.) As we grow older, our fascination with princesses doesn't go away - it simply morphs into an "adult version" of a fairy tale: the wedding.

Diana, Princess of Whales (1981)

On July 29, 1981, my mother and I watched a beautiful 20-year old girl emerge from a horse drawn carriage and walk into St. Paul's Cathedral - with her 25-foot train, trailing behind her. I was seven years old at the time, and Princess Diana's wedding is one of the first clear memories of my childhood that I have. Last weekend, I once again watched a simple girl become a breathtaking princess ...

Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge (2011)

Catherine ("Kate") Middleton married her prince in Westminster Abbey, with 2.5-3 billion people watching; four years ago, about the same number of people watched another royal gathering at Westminster Abbey: Princess Diana's funeral.

Touchingly, the last hymn sung at Diana's funeral - "Guide me, O thou great Redeemer" - was the first hymn sung at her son's, Prince William's, wedding. As I watched Kate standing at the alter in her laced bodice gown, I was immediately reminded of Grace Kelly's wedding to Prince Rainer of Monaco.

Grace, Princess of Monaco (1956)

On April 16, 1956, American movie star Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier (who proposed three days after they met) and became Princess of Monaco. Life as a princess for Grace Kelly, however, was no fairy tale. Prior to her marriage, she was a very accomplished actress, starring in three Hitchcock films, and even won the Oscar for Best Actress in 1955. After her wedding, however, Prince Rainier banned all screenings of Kelly's films in the country, and refused to allow her to act in any future projects.

Sadly, Grace Kelly died at the age of 52 in a car accident. Ironically, Princess Diana was the representative for the British royal family at Princess Grace's funeral in September of 1982. (Diana, of course, was also tragically killed in a car crash - she was only 36 years old.)

No life is filled with only happiness, but as the expression goes, if we did not feel the cold of the rain, we would never appreciate the warmth of the sun. The divorce rate in America is about 50% - but that does not stop us from spending over a thousand dollars on a single beautiful dress that we will wear for just one day, and posing for hours for an overpriced photographer - hoping he will capture our own storybook promise of "happily ever after" on film.

These moments of celebration, of joy, of beauty are absolutely necessary; whether it's a wedding, prom, or quinceanera... we all need to see flashes of fables come to life - even if only for an instant - to remind us that sometimes the dragons really do get slain, and love really can conquer all.

Happy Anniversary to Me

“Birthdays don't really matter much anymore ... for me, I sort of have a new birthday and that's October 2nd, the day I was diagnosed, ... the day we all sort of look to and mark these milestones by one year, two year, five year, 10 year. Hopefully, I have a 50 year.” Lance Armstrong

One year ago today, I was diagnosed with carcinoid cancer; the following day, I started this blog. Recently, somebody commented that perhaps Channeling Jackie-O had lost focus, "I mean - is it a cancer blog? a travel blog? a food blog?" I guess the answer is - it's all of those things, because although cancer has become a big part of my life, it has not consumed my entire identity.

One of the toughest things about this past year has been trying to lead a "normal" life - in between doctor appointments... my blog is a record of both the cancer, and life beyond the cancer. So here is to another year of colonoscopies and Sloan Kettering appointments, teaching and grading essays, traveling with friends and eating great food... here is to another year of celebrating life - one day at a time.

Does Cancer Hurt?

"A man's illness is his private territory and, no matter how much he loves you and how close you are, you stay an outsider. You are healthy." - Lauren Bacall

When I was first diagnosed with cancer, one of my students shyly asked, "Ms. Johnston, does cancer hurt?"

I could see the worry in her expression, and I gave her the only answer I could: "No, it doesn't hurt at all - I'm just a little tired, but I'm not in any pain."

That, was a lie.

Cancer hurts - not only does it wage a brutally physical and psychological war against the patient, but it injurers the patient's friends and family - innocent bystanders - along the way. One of the most painful things about having cancer is watching the people around you, whom you love with all your heart, become deathly afraid of losing you... sometimes they look at you so intensely, so desperately, that it's almost as if they are searching your gaze in hopes of uncovering some secret expiration date stamped on your pupils.

I don't know if my increasing pain and decreasing health is related to the carcinoid cancer or something totally different; what I do know is this - my body is in the middle of a mutiny, and my friends and family are helplessly watching as this syndrome, or illness, or cancer (whatever it is) is conspiring and rebelling against me. In the end, the fight is mine to win.

I'd Rather Teach Peace

Colman McCarthy's book I'd Rather Teach Peace is a required read for anyone who doubts the power of passionate teachers. In fact, it should be on the reading list of every news anchor who diabolically delights in demonizing teachers based on outdated stereotypes.

Before I became a teacher, I made six figures as an attorney at one of the biggest and most prestigious law firms in the country. I was good at my job, and I didn't leave because of the great allure of summers off or getting out at 3pm (which never happens)* .... I left the firm for the same reason every good high school teacher joins this thankless profession - because I felt an overwhelming need to pursue a career where I could make a difference, a real difference, in the lives of teens.

*News Flash for all you doubting-Thomases out there: I work MORE hours as a teacher than I did as a third-year associate at the law firm, only I don't get a fancy car, or an expense account, or trial bonuses. Instead, I get something much better - my kids; there is no better place than with my students, celebrating their successes.

Now, amidst this recent "teacher-bashing" public dialogue, I find comfort of purpose in McCarthy's words:

"At fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen, the ages of everyone in the class, teenagers are shopping around for ideals to live by. This week I was reading a bit of Mother Teresa, whose Sisters of Charity have three convents in Washington and whom I interviewed when she opened the last one in the south-east part of the city. I ask a student to read aloud a few of nun's lines [from "Anyway"] that might help everyone, me included...to be the idealists we are meant to be."

Anyway

People are unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered.
Love them anyway.

If you do good, people may accuse you of selfish motives.
Do good anyway.

If you are successful, you may win false friends and true enemies.
Succeed anyway.

The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway.

Honesty and openness may make you vulnerable.
Be honest and open anyway.

What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight.
Build anyway.

People who really want help may attack you if you help them.
Help them anyway.

You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God.
It was never between you and them anyway.

New Year's Resolution

The best advice I ever got concerning new year's resolutions was dispensed by one of my favorite grad school professors. She said that most people set themselves up for failure because they plan to unrealistically change their whole life by just uttering a single vague sentence: I'll eat healthy; I'll exercise everyday; I'll stop procrastinating.... "If you really want to make a change" she said, "change your life by one degree."

She reminded me that one degree can alter outcomes drastically; after all, the difference between water freezing or boiling lies within one degree. The overall message is a good one - just one small change can significantly impact your quality of life.

So this year, my resolution is to keep what I'm calling a "thankful journal" where I write down - every day - at least three things I'm thankful for. Since I've started keeping the journal, I have become more aware of all the little things that make my life so wonderful - little things that previously, I would have taken for granted. Life is too short not to relish in the beauty of it, and now, at least for a few minutes every day, I remind myself of that fact.

My "Thankful Journal"

"If you think you're too small to make a difference or that your voice is too small to be heard, you've obviously never been in a tent with a mosquito" - unknown

Baptisms and Birthdays

Recently, Gary and I had the honor of attending my good friend's daughter's baptism. One of the things that I most appreciate about being Catholic is the ability to symbolically celebrate life's important milestones: baptism, confirmation, marriage, anointing of the sick - all of these sacraments remind us that we are not alone; our faith and community are there to help us on life's sometimes bumpy journey. It's a nice feeling - not having to brave the big bad world all by yourself.

We have plenty of these moments outside of the religious context: birthdays, graduations, proms - events that mark not only the passage of time, but also new chapters in our own unique story. Shortly after the baptism, we attended Gary's grandmother's surprise 90th birthday. What an incredible few days - seeing the grand spectrum of life's beauty in these two precious souls.

Sophia Rae's Baptism

Sara Mae's 90th Birthday

A Mother's Wisdom

"If you can find a path with no obstacles, it probably doesn't lead anywhere."

My mother, a polio survivor and 2011 Equestrian Paralympic hopeful, pictured here with her former - much beloved - equine partner Pan Pan

Emerson and the Icebox

I don't trust people who don't clutter their refrigerator doors with cheesy travel magnets, birth announcements, postcards and left over fortunes from bad Chinese take-out... refrigerators are empty canvases - patiently waiting to be turned into feel-good mosaics of inspiration and memories.

The latest addition to my own hodgepodge collage is an Emerson quote, which is too good not to share... "Finish each day and be done with it. you have done what you could. some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. tomorrow is a new day. you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The Evolution of Toys

I bought a new car; it is the first new car that I have ever owned.

It is green ... the kind of green that prompted my grandmother, the day after she first saw it, to write me an email asking permission to name it the Green Hornet; permission granted.

When I picked up the Green Hornet from the dealer, I was struck by the irony of the situation; here I was buying a brand new bright green car while simultaneously teaching Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby in senior honors English. Gatsby is a symbolic novel, and may be best remembered for the green light at the end of Daisy's dock, which serves as a beacon for Gatsby's romantic, albeit naive, optimism. The 1920s American automobile is also used in symbolic fashion as a metaphoric vehicle for rebellious self-indulgence - speeding past landscapes of the materially wealthy and spiritually poor until all that is left is a blur of moral irresponsibility. In the end, Gatsby's rose-tinged longing for the past spectacularly crashes head-first into an ash-grey wall of reality, constructed from the burnt-up reminents of the American dream.

As Americans, our fascination with "stuff" starts at an early age. When I was growing up in the 1980s, every kid wanted a "Green Machine" - a three wheeler by Huffy with serious pizazz. Thinking back, I can almost hear those oversized black plastic wheels chewing up driveway concrete, and the joyful squeels of excitement from rider and onlookers alike. I think somehow we have misinterpreted those childhood memories - we remember the toys more than the experiences, and try to regain those innocent delightful feelings by acquiring things rather than enjoying moments.

Cars can be symbols for traveling back to the past or hurrying into the future; both trips however have the same destination: to transport us away from the hurts and insecurities of the present. So as I set out for new adventures in my Green Hornet, I will try my best to drive toward a place of fresh possibilities rather than following detours back to a land of worn-out dreams.

"Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther ... And one fine morning -- So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past" The Great Gatsby

Shifting Focus

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeing new landscapes but in having new eyes." Marcel Proust



"Everything depends on our way of looking." Thich Nhat Hanh

The diagnosis of a potentially fatal disease makes us acutely aware of the impermanence of our existence, and forces us to reevaluate our contribution to the human story. Put plainly - we wonder how we will be remembered if we die. This mortal uncertainty breeds chaos, and from this chaos - all art is born, especially great works of literature.



I am teaching Siddhartha by Hesse in my senior World Literature Honors class. It's a bildungsroman (coming of age story) about a young man in ancient India who sets off on a path of self-discovery amongst Buddhist teachings. It was written in the 1950s by a Swiss author who was the son of Protestant missionaries, which evidences the fact that "truth" isn't confined to one religion or experience - it is a quest that sometimes requires us to visit unexplored lands and ideas in order to make sense of our own world and our place in it.



These distant landscapes that help illuminate our own individual truths can be literal or metaphorical, and certainly the "land of cancer" counts as a foreign place filled with epic battles that no one is particularly prepared to fight.



After my own cancer diagnosis, I dusted off my pocket survival manual for times of spiritual doubt: Living Buddha, Living Christ by Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, who draws from both religious traditions to make an eloquent and insightful argument for peace. Both Jesus and Buddha stressed mindfulness - being aware that people everywhere suffer, and that our role in this world is not to avoid that suffering but rather to be part of its solution.



Part of the solution to our own suffering lies in our focus. "What is important is our insight into the nature of reality and our way of responding to reality...When you look at the blue sky and are aware of it, the sky becomes real, and you become real" (Thich Nhat Hanh). This sounds pretty mystical, but it's not. Basically he is saying that if we go around worrying and carrying anger with us, then that is the reality of the world; but if we stop and see the beauty in our lives, then our reality changes into something much more meaningful.



It's hard to close the door on negativity and self-doubt, but I'm going to try at least to wake up every morning and make an effort to turn the knob.

School Days

"A healthy social life is found only, when in the mirror of each soul the whole community finds its reflection, and when in the whole community the virtue of each one is living." - Rudolf Steiner

A school is a microcosm of human experience, and it has a soul. It's not just a building with a bunch of desks and state issued textbooks. It's the administrator who creates a teaching schedule that allows you to heal; it's the department chair who hugs you twice because he's so happy you're back; it's your colleagues who great you with tears in their eyes and ask you to lean on them for support - and mean it; it's the students you had last year telling you how much they learned in your class; and it's the students you have this year smiling because they wanted you for a teacher. It's love. It's faith. It's where I work.

Too often we wait until someone is ill or in pain to tell them how much they mean to us. I'm guilty of that. Cancer was a blessing that allowed me to see how much I have touched other people's lives. I need to be better about showing others how much they have touched mine.

Note to Self...

If children have the ability to ignore all odds and percentages, then maybe we can all learn from them. When you think about it, what other choice is there but to hope? We have two options, medically and emotionally: give up, or fight like hell. ~Lance Armstrong

I am fighting against becoming someone I'm not - someone who is afraid that when they wake up, there will be a new hurt to deal with; someone who doesn't want to leave the house for fear that they will become sick in public; someone who scrutinizes every twinge and pain for a sign that something is wrong.

Cancer is a betrayal by our bodies - and carcinoid cancer is long-term betrayal. Although carcinoid malignancy rates are widely debated in the medical community, many estimate that it takes on average 3-5 years for a neuroendocrine tumor to reach 2cm. My tumor was 3cm, so it must have eluded detection for years - maybe even a decade. How can I trust my body anymore to, as Spike Lee would say, "do the right thing"? I guess the answer is, I can't - none of us can. All we can do is try our best at prevention and healthy living, and hope that the doctors and medical field continue to make advances in early detection and treatment.

However, while I may have limited control over my physical well-being, I have complete control over my psychological and spiritual well-being. I truly believe that happiness is a choice, and not something that just happens to us. I can choose to face the day with fear or with fervor; with weakness or with strength. Lately, I've let my emotions drift from the safety and joy of the "now" to unfounded future anxieties and scary memories of the past. Today, I'm going to have ice-cream and go for a walk, and smile because I know that simply breathing means - anything is possible.

Keep On Keeping On

The toilet. It is the one place that every single person on the planet must visit several times a day, and the one place that is never spoken about in polite company. In fact, we are so embarrassed by our natural need to eliminate waste from our system, that we have invented "code names" for the places where we keep toilets (washroom, loo, bathroom, powder room, water closet, little girl's or little boy's room, restroom), and use fans, sprays, and scented candles to mask any evidence of us having been there. In fact, some public toilets are now automated to flush for you, so that you can escape from your up-right coffin sized cubicle with less trauma.

Public toilets. I remember one of the most surprising aspects of volunteering in New Orleans right after Hurricane Katrina was the port-o-potties. Without running water, whole parts of the city were forced to use these temporary outdoor toilets, perched on every corner, which became so full that people began putting clothes and rags on top of the overflowing piles of excrement to avoid having to come in contact with feces - creating this weird, awful layered monstrosity. There was a lot about New Orleans that was crazy to comprehend during that time, and such a simple dignity that most of us take for granted was just one of the many hardships that resilient city faced.

Similarly, in the world of cancers involving the digestive system, the toilet is no longer a quiet, private and dignified place. Whether or not you are peeing, farting or pooping is the topic of conversation with every doctor or nurse who you come into contact with. And if that weren't embarrassing enough, you actually have stuff to talk about. For example, prior to surgery (and certain procedures), you are forced to gag down glass after glass of a mixture best described as salty mucus to "empty your bowels" - violently. Prior to office visits, you sometimes need to use a Fleet enema - so you learn to buy the Fleet two-pack to avoid multiple trips to the pharmacy, since the cashier always tries just a little too hard to look nonchalant while ringing you up. In the hospital, if you can't urinate, you get a tube shoved up you. It's not a fun world, and sort of like the port-o-potties of New Orleans, it's an aspect of cancer that rarely makes front page news.

For me, just when things were starting to work as they should, "in the toilet", I woke up yesterday with a horrible UTI (urinary track infection). Truth be told, it's actually the second UTI I've gotten since I left the hospital, and I'm more than just a little annoyed. The first infection (July 31) I was able to treat with a gallon of cranberry juice; this time - cranberry juice wasn't working, so I had to call Dr. Nash, again.

As I dialed his office's number, I began to feel like "that patient" - the one who always is complaining or has a problem; but the on-call nurse was as nice as pie, and faxed in an order to the local lab, where unfortunately Gary and I spent our Friday afternoon. Even though the official lab results won't be in until Monday, Dr. Nash called in a prescription antibiotic to start immediately, which personally I'm very grateful for. I picked up some AZO and the prescription, and after whining (a lot) to Gary, I finally fell asleep.

I know that on the grand scale of things, this latest minor setback is a blip. Just like there were much worse realities in New Orleans than the toilets (ninth ward, exploitation of illegal workers, lost court records, lost hope), there are much worse realities in battling cancer than a UTI; but it's these little indignities that begin to drain your resolve. Someone once wrote: "anyone can survive a crisis; it's the day to day living that gets us down". There is some truth in that - after the "get well" bouquets have wilted, and the mail returns to the normal bills and super savers instead of colorful envelopes from well wishers, there is the everyday living to be done. So that's what I'm doing now - trying to "keep on keeping on" - with Jackie -O in mind.

A Moment of Zen

The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, not to worry about the future, nor to anticipate troubles, but to live the present moment wisely and earnestly - Buddha


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A Soldier's Prayer

Growing up, "The Prayer of An Unknown Confederate Soldier" was taped to our refrigerator door. When I went to college, my mother gently pushed aside the few scattered magnets that had settled along its borders, peeled back the yellowing tape, and gave me the prayer. Eighteen years later, that faded, worn piece of paper (that fell victim to more than just the occasional wayward kitchen splatter) remains one of the most valuable things that I own.

The prayer transcends politics and religion to reveal a fundamental truth about the human condition: quality of character is not determined by the types of challenges one faces, but rather by how one faces any type of challenge.

My mother, Adria DiMaria, contracted the polio virus when she was five years old, which left her with significant weakness in both legs. After being hospitalized for a year, her primary treating physician said that he would "tear up his medical license" if she ever walked again; my mother not only walks, but is currently training to become a member of the US Para-equestrian Team and compete in the specialty of Para Dressage at the Paralympics in England (2012). [Click HERE to read her incredible inspirational story.]

With the words of this prayer in my heart and my mother at my side, my cancer diagnosis and treatment has never been a burden; it has always been an opportunity to become more "richly blessed".

The Prayer of An Unknown Confederate Soldier

I asked God for strength, that I might achieve.
I was made weak, that I might learn humbly to obey.

I asked for health, that I might do greater things.
I was given infirmity, that I might do better things.

I asked for riches, that I might be happy.
I was given poverty, that I might be wise.

I asked for power that I might have the praise of men.
I was given weakness, that I might feel the need of God.

I asked for all things, that I might enjoy life.
I was give life, that I might enjoy all things.

I got nothing that I asked for—but got everything I had hoped for.
Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.
I am, among all people, most richly blessed.

Today is the Day

It is always strange arriving at a highly anticipated day. Whether it's a joyous occasion like a wedding or a heartbreaking gathering like a funeral; weeks, months, years of planning are played out within the same short 24-hr time period, after which the sun rises on a "new normal" and we learn to adjust our hopes and sorrows to somehow account for the magnitude and consequences of that one highly anticipated day...

"Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place." - Susan Sontag

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Pre-Surgery Appointment at Sloan-Kettering

On July 8, 2010 we traveled to Sloan-Kettering for my final appointment before my surgery with Dr. Nash in a week. They did the usual: EKG, chest-xray, blood work; standard stuff.

After we left Sloan-Kettering, I reflected a bit on the journey so far. In the last six months, I've had 16 doctor appointments, two lab work ups, one surgery, and six diagnostic tests: MRI (2/17); CT scan (3/18); endoscopy (4/2); anoscopy (4/28); sigmaoidoscopy (5/20); and colonoscopy (6/25). All of these diagnostic tests came back negative - even, unfortunately, the MRI and CT scans which failed to identify the large carcinoid tumor in my appendix prior to my first surgery.

Also, July 19th will be the fourth time I'll be put under general anesthesia in the last four months; however, it will be the first time that I'll also have epidural anesthesia. This will allow me to control my pain with the push of a little button for a few days following surgery, until I can eat and drink on my own.

What is Epidural anesthesia ?

After a sterile prep and draping, local anesthetic is placed to numb the area where the Epidural needle will be inserted. The needle for the Epidural passes between the vertebrae of the Spinal column to the Epidural space. Once the position is verified, a very small catheter(tube) is placed via the needle. The needle is then removed and the catheter remains in the Epidural space. The catheter is then taped to the patients back. Local anesthetics and narcotics are given epidurally via this catheter. The procedure usually takes 10 - 25 minutes.

How do I feel about getting an Epidural?

Initially, I was upset. I always thought the procedure sounded scary and painful; but, one thing you learn with cancer is nothing is as bad or as easy as you anticipate. I didn't think I could ever stand a foley catheter, but after minor complications with my first surgery, when I had no choice but to get one, I realized it wasn't that bad.

One of my favorite artists is Kate Bush, and I'm reminded of her lyrics from "Walk Straight Down the Middle" that sum up the reality of anything tough in life, including my next surgery:

But he thought, he was going to die

But he didn't

And she thought, she just couldn't cope

But she did

And we thought it would be so hard

But it wasn't

It wasn't easy, though.