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The Stories We Tell Ourselves

By cancer, storytelling

Last week, I discovered just what the storied chemotherapy side-effect called “chemo-brain” feels like.

Stupid. On the short bus. Intellectually disabled. Whatever you call it, it sucks.

Now that I’m emerging from the fog, I find myself reflecting on the stories we tell ourselves – the internal monologue of our lives, if you will. The stories that we carry with us wherever we go, whatever we do, and that truly define us – no matter what stories we tell to mask what we’re telling ourselves.

We all have our “stuff” – those pieces and parts of ourselves that we reallyreally don’t want anyone else to see, the “stuff” that holds our darkest selves. Most people manage their “stuff” well enough, only giving their most intimate circle any glimpse of darkness in their inner story.

Look around, and find the happy people you know – my firm conviction is that their inner and outer stories are very much the same. That’s not to say happy people are simple creatures. What I’m saying is that finding happiness – that “happily ever after” thing – is only possible if you live life authentically. Out loud, walk your talk, live your brand – pick your aphorism. To be happy, I firmly believe you must reveal, and live, your true self.

Now, I’m not recommending that you vomit out all your innermost thoughts at the next project team meeting. That’s a great way to live authentically unemployed. What I DO recommend is that you start listening to the voice in your head. Unless your shrink has given you medication to STOP the voices in your head, in which case…can I get you a glass of water? Listen to what you’re saying to yourself, and see if that might not be a source of much of your “stuff” – it’s “stuff” you’ve given yourself.

Think about the stories you’ve heard or read about people who’ve triumphed over adversity: escaping a childhood in a terrible neighborhood, surrounded by crime and drugs, to become a doctor; surviving horrific physical and emotional abuse to become an inspiring writer and speaker. For every person who has navigated past horror to success, there are countless others who did NOT make it past the bad stuff, who got stuck on the corner or who succumbed to despair.

What separates the successful from the also-rans? That internal story. They tell themselves a story that takes them where they want to go – out of the darkness, and into whatever light shines on “happy” for them.

So – what story are you telling yourself? Listen to it…and learn. And if it isn’t serving you, start telling yourself a story that does.

A highly cautionary tale is unfolding this week as Elliot Spitzer slowly turns on the roasting spit he shoved up his own glory-hole…by telling himself a story that he hid from the rest of the world. This was a BIG story, folks. Spitzer was called “Elliott Ness” for his prosecutorial zeal in going
after consumer fraud, Wall Street, the mob…and call-girl rings.

I’ve watched many people, over a number of decades now, who stridently spoke out of one side of their mouths while – thinking no one would ever notice – speaking silently to themselves a story that was in complete opposition to the story they were telling publicly.

Ladies and gentlemen…Larry Craig! Bill Clinton! Jim McGreevy! And now…Elliot Spitzer!

By the way, in the interest of fairness I did try to find a woman who had instigated a sex scandal – no soap. Must be the wiring.

Shakespeare said it in Hamlet. Twice.

[The lady] doth protest too much.

Hoist by his own petard.

Watch carefully those who rail against the actions of others – particularly if those rants include the word “moral”. In my experience, the ones shouting the loudest are almost always trying to drown out an inner voice…the one that’s telling on them.

Sorry, Elliot – I thought you had a stick up your a**. Now I know it was a barbeque spit.

That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it..   .

Chemo-rama

By cancer

For those of you who have been paying attention, you know I got breast cancer for Christmas. I had my first chemo treatment on Monday, 2/11 (in keeping with that holiday theme – Happy Valentine’s Day, early!), and so far the after-effects have been weird, but manageable.  I keep thinking of cartoons where some character starts quivering, and then his head explodes into a Dali-esque fright mask with, oh, a foot springing out of his forehead.

That hasn’t happened. Yet.

What is happening is that instead of my usual eat-like-a-garbage-truck self, I’ve become someone who has to think hard about what might be edible. The data sheet on my chemo cocktail lists this side effect as “anorexia” – which makes me laugh so hard I can barely breathe. My name and anorexia in the same sentence? Get outta town.

The closest analog I can come up with for the current eating sitch is this: back inna day, when I did offshore sailing, there were more than a few times that the rest of the crew was crawling around on the deck, beggin’ to die. At those times, my experience was usually, “well, I don’t feel GREAT, but how about I make some soup?”

The most memorable version of this was twenty years ago, delivering the schooner ORIANDA from Lauderdale to Tortola. The skipper decided to leave Lauderdale literally on the tail of a hurricane (luckily only a weakening Cat 1), just before midnight.

No, it didn’t seem like a great idea to me, either, but a ship is not a democracy.

Another woman on the crew and I had drawn 12-4 watch, meaning we were first up, and would be fighting the Gulfstream by 2am. When we did hit the Stream, we had 15 foot cross-seas and were shipping green water over both bows. Both my watch-partner and I were literally tied to the boat (as one always should be offshore), taking turns steering, which was like trying to wrestle an anaconda. At about 3am, the engine started to sputter (we were under engine and sail power – we needed everything we could get to keep the ship stable!) – the skipper and the mechanic headed into the engine room to see whassup. Diagnosis: busted fuel hose.

The engine room was off the pilot house, which was directly in front of the steering station. In order to work on the engine, the pilot house light needed to be on. In order to see the compass and steer a course, the helmsman needed to have the pilot house light OFF. We struck a
compromise – I would hold the pilot house hatch doors closed and shield them with my body, preventing the light from hitting the helmsman in the face and thereby risking a course change for Havana. Or Maine.

So, there I was, holding the doors closed as heavy diesel fumes rolled past, and the boat tossed around like we were driving through a washing machine on full agitate. Right about then, the 4-8 crew staggered up on deck. The first mate, who had asked me every five minutes before we left port if we had enough Dramamine on board “because sometimes people get seasick on these deliveries”, took over the helm – which was right behind me, remember? – asked the skipper for his course, was told zero-nine-zero, responded “aye, aye, steering zero-nine-….” The rest of his reply was literally drowned out as he started hacking up everything he’d eaten since the Carter Administration.

He continued this until dawn. My watch-mate had to re-take the helm, since first-mate-dude was pretty useless. Really hard to steer while barfing – you tend to drag the wheel over with you as you heave. I’m still holding the pilot house doors closed. So: diesel fumes, a violently ill crewmate less than two feet behind me (at this point, he was like a sodden mass of rags at the bottom of the cockpit…yep, beggin’ to die), and motion so violent that we’re all literally hanging on for dear life.

What I wanted most right then – other than for things to settle down, just a bit, or for blessed dawn to break – was some coffee. And some soup. Which I got, a few hours later, once the dawn did break and I could get down to the galley (I was ship’s cook), clear away the debris from the rough passage, and get things going.

So, chemo “anorexia” for me is more like eating like a 10-year-old. PB&J sandwiches, mac-n-cheese with grilled chicken, chicken noodle soup. My usual chili, garlic, and stinky cheese palate has vanished. It’s only until June, though – who knows, maybe I’ll feel better about bathing suit season after this!

That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.

Dispatch from Cancer Camp

By cancer

It’s been a while, so let’s catch up: got cancer for Christmas (whoopee!), and then a New Year lumpectomy, followed by Valentine’s Day chemo. Coming up later this year – Fourth of July radiation, in which I’ll get beamed up by the mother-ship.

Enough of that. Back to another story already in progress.

I’m sure you’ve wondered why I haven’t weighed in on all the twisted tales being told daily – even hourly – by all sides of the current political race. All sides in that sense including the candidates, the flacks, the mainstream press, and “new media”, a/k/a the blogosphere.

The answer there? Exhaustion, pure and simple.

Back inna day, when political noise emanated from just the campaigns and the mainstream press, I thought there were way too many words being used to describe way too little real thought or policy. Adding the chorus of new media voices to that dissonant opera has done…what, exactly? At best, it gives every possible view the opportunity to have its champion, particularly on the media side. At worst, it confuses the hell out of everybody.

This reflects the scattered political landscape this country – and any democracy – has, whatever tidy little bundles history books try to make out of the American past. For every issue: fetal rights, fetal pig rights, gay rights, “sanctity of marriage” rights (that’s got to be a joke, considering the divorce rate in the U.S.?), education, dedicated ignorance (a/k/a “teaching creationism”), there is a candidate that will meet your needs.

Once you pick one…is he, or she, electable? That’s what this long, muddy slog toward the first Tuesday in November is purportedly about. I have to admit, though, that as I watch this horse race, I’m thinking less Lincoln, “To give victory to the right, not bloody bullets, but peaceful ballots only, are necessary”, more Barnum, “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

What I Got for Christmas

By cancer

Remember that old song, “All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth”?  A sincere cry, albeit with a lack-of-dentition lisp, for a physical transformation. Just in time for Christmas.

I’ve had occasion to recall that song in the last few days, as well as one of my favorite Jules Pfeiffer cartoons.  In the cartoon, a guy is bemoaning all the things in his life that have been discovered to cause cancer, the most recent being scotch whiskey.  In the last panel of the cartoon, he lifts a glass (scotch, of course) and says, “Whoopee! Cancer!”

This year, I got cancer for Christmas.  Whoopee! Cancer!

Yeah, yeah, I can hear you screaming.  Trust me, it was a gift, and here’s why.  I’ve gone for a mammogram every year since I turned 40.  That’s fifteen of the suckers.  This year, instead of hearing what I’d heard every year before – “see you next year” – I heard this from my radiologist as we looked at my films: ”Hmmm…”  There was a “thing”, and he wanted to take a look at it.

Magnification mammography.  Stereotactic core biopsy (for this procedure, I highly recommend an IPod with volume set to “Stun” playing something like the Clash or Pearl Jam).  A diagnosis where he actually said, “Well, I’ve got good news and bad news.”  You can guess the bad news, right?  The good news is that it’s so small that the only thing that makes it Stage 1 vs. Stage 0 is that it’s an invasive carcinoma.

Why am I telling you about this?  I think you probably have an inkling already.  Girls, get your mammograms.  Get a baseline by 40, and then get one every year after 40.  Guys, encourage the girl you love to get her mammograms. And help her get through what might come after, because it will be infinitely preferable to planning her funeral.

Girls, I know that mammography is a classic example of a medical device made by a man.  I know that you feel like you go in a 38C and come out a 42 Long.  I know that if guys got screened this way for testicular cancer, there’d be some big changes quick.  As much of a pain in the boobs that mammograms can be, this one saved my life.  There was no lump.  Who knows when
a lump would have been palpable, and how far this thing would have spread by then?  I’m glad I don’t have to learn the answer to that question.

I’m taking this as a gift.  I’m also choosing to look at what’s going to get yanked out of me this way – it will be a complete encapsulation of all the anger, resentment, self-doubt, all the crap collected on a 55 year journey.  It’s coming out, and I’m moving on.

Since I’m more of a Druid than anything else at this point, I’m marking the Winter Solstice this year as my Yuletide celebration.  The end of the darkness, and the return of the sun.  An appropriate image for a time in my life where that has, literally, happened.

Happy New Year.