Diagnosis day aka the day we busted

When April 29 comes around, the countdown of days begins in my head. April 29, 2014 was the day that Mom and I were headed to Disneyland to meet up with my brother, sister-in-law and niece for a few days of fun. The plan was for her to pick me up from work and we would hit the road. Around noon, I received a text - "Dr called your Dad in to talk about his test results. Not sure if I should go with him or not." We went back and forth a little before the decision was made, "Your Dad said I should just go ahead with our plans. I'll be there to pick you up." Looking back, I wish I had pushed her to make a different decision.

Mom came and picked me up. As we made our way out of town I posted on Facebook, "Disneyland or bust!" I remember the exact point of the road when the phone rang, where we answered the call and my Dad's voice came through the car speakers, "You better come home. I...", he said something that got lost in the cell reception, road noise and maybe the fuzziness of our brains that comes when really bad news is about to be delivered that you really don't want to hear. We looked at each other, neither one of us fully comprehending what was said, and I asked, "What did you say?" My Dad replied, loud and clear, with a irritation in his voice at having to say it again, "I have Leukemia." I'm not sure there was even a second that passed before my Mom was changing lanes to make a U-turn. We busted.

I don't recall what Mom and I talked about in the hour or so it took to get home. I'm not sure we talked much. I remember getting home and sitting on the couch across from my Dad as he recounted the diagnosis, Acute Myeloid Leukemia. He could live 6 months to a year without treatment, or he could try chemotherapy. We talked about those options. We talked about the what-if's. We sat and looked at each other, each of us lost in our own sense of disbelief that this was actually happening. At one point, my Dad looked at me and uttered the words that have become an inside joke between my Mom and me, "If I die, you get my car." I didn't want his car. I had a car. I didn't NEED his car, I needed him. I now own his car.

We decided that I was to continue the journey that my Mom and I had started earlier that day, and head to Disneyland, more specifically, to go be with my Brother. I picked up the phone and made the call, sharing news that would forever alter the trajectory of our family. 34 days later, he was the one telling me news that forever altered our family. 

That weekend was when Disneyland became my refuge, a place to escape, to be happy, even though I was really, really sad. I had a few hours alone one day, my first solo experience in Disneyland, and just walked through the parks, watching families enjoy the magic that is Disneyland. I welcomed the laughter and the joy. I left the reality of what was happening at the gates, and immersed myself in the Happiest Place on Earth. People ask me, all the time, why I go to Disneyland so much. It's my refuge.

My Dad chose chemotherapy. He took a gamble and got 34 days. He went out on his terms. April 29 - Diagnosis day, aka the day we busted. It comes around every year and the countdown starts in my head.

What makes a story believable?

Twenty-nine years ago I was taking classes at the local Community College. I typically tried to take as many classes in one day as possible, so my schedule could go from 8am to 9pm, depending on the day. This particular day I had a long break between classes, so I took advantage of the break, as I typically did, and drove to a spot near the ocean to study. I pulled into an open spot, turned off the car, pulled out my books and started to read. I don't remember how long I had been there before I looked up and around. A car had parked to the right of me. There were people strolling along the beach. The sun was shining but it wasn't too warm. I checked my surroundings, felt secure and went back to studying. Not long after I felt the weight of someone's stare. I looked up and to my right and made eye contact with the guy in the car next to me. He had a leering smile on his face that immediately made me uncomfortable. I quickly looked away but continued to feel his stare. Glancing over again, I confirmed he was still staring at me in the creepy leering way and his hands were very, very busy in his lap. I decided it was time to get the hell out of there.

I never told anyone what had happened. I felt too vulnerable, like I had put myself in the situation and I was to blame. I hadn't been physically assaulted and I never actually saw any body parts, so, I told myself, maybe I was just jumping to conclusions. Twenty-nine years later, I can still see the creepy, leering look on the man's face and remember being afraid that he would follow me as I drove away. I never parked at that particular beach again for study breaks. 

I know women who have been physically and sexually abused. They don't openly share their stories easily. The guilt, the shame lingers. For some they hope that by not talking about it will mean that they can forget. But "it" continues to loom. The abuse has shaped them, is a lens through which they view many aspects of life and is never forgotten.

A few years back, I was scrolling through FB and ran across a post from an extended family member that had me seeing red pretty much all day. It was a picture of a little boy, probably not more than 2 or 3, being held by a woman with large breasts and, as little boys do, he was touching her breast. The caption read something to the effect that he would never make it to the Supreme Court because of the picture, alluding to accusations against the then nominee for the Supreme Court, Mr. Kavanaugh of attempted rape. Along with sharing the photo this extended family member made a comment to the effect of, "I know I'm going to be hear about this but how dumb is this investigation." I clicked on the comments. There were only a few, but they all said pretty much the same thing - "haha, great photo, isn't this whole investigation so ridiculous?"

At lunch that day, I scrolled back through FB and there were more comments on the post. One person, a woman, commented that sexual harassment wasn't a joke, wasn't okay and shouldn't be taken lightly. The extended family member replied with "yeah, but it's those 'liberals' who are making this all a big political mess and how can anyone remember what happened 36 years ago anyway?" I saw flaming red. 

I thought about commenting on the post. I thought about asking this extended family member how they would feel if that woman was one of their relatives. I thought about asking, if the Supreme Court nominee was more liberal leaning if they would believe the woman coming forward. I thought about asking them what their earliest memories were or if they had ever been assaulted or been in a traumatic situation. I thought about leaving a snarky comment, "great Christian witness you are", or "casting stones are we?", but knew that was just stooping to their level. The discourse on the post was already flaming and the "stupid liberals" phrase was being banded about so much I knew whatever I had to say was going to fall on deaf ears. Ultimately, the decision I needed to make was simple. With one click we were no longer FB friends. I haven't talked to them since and, honestly, that's okay.

Twenty-nine years later, I couldn't tell you the book I was reading or the make, model and color of the car next to me. I couldn't even give you a really good description of the leering man in the car next to me. What I do remember is the feeling of being violated, in a sense. Even recounting the experience my stomach turns and I feel slightly ashamed, and all I was doing was studying in my car by the beach. Just because I didn't tell anyone, doesn't make it any less real. Just because I didn't report it, doesn't mean it didn't happen.

I wonder if that extended family member would believe my story? Does actually knowing a person make their story more credible, more believable? Or would my "liberal" viewpoints overshadow my story, my experience? I'll probably never know.

Well, Hello there

 Well, hello there. It's been a hot minute. Okay, it's been months. I had good intentions of using this space frequently last June, I just didn't follow through. So, here I am again, randomly dropping in with thoughts circling my mind. Are you ready? Let's get caught up.

After a slow, hum-drum summer, September started with an impromptu - let's go to Disneyland (surprise!) trip for Yo Momma and me. We were home two weeks and then we jumped in the car for a planned trip to Yellowstone. Friends, I LOVE YELLOWSTONE. We saw elk (a little too close), bison, something that was probably an elk but we want to say was a moose, geese, Pronghorn deer, geysers and more geysers, a lake, rocks, rocks and more rocks, yellow jackets that sent us back into the car and more. We were in Yellowstone four days total and I want to go back. We went to Craters of the Moon and hiked to the top of hill, that the last time I "hiked" was on the shoulders of my Dad. I was not quite 3 then. The home trip took us to Washington State and a visit with Aunt C, Uncle K, Cousin L and Grandma. It was a good trip.

I was back to work for 7 business days and then work sent me out to New Orleans for a Tradeshow. I was VERY clear with the powers-that-be at work, that if they sent me to New Orleans, I would be taking a few extra days off because 1 1/2 hours away from New Orleans is Pearlington, Mississippi and Mr. Ben and Ms. Sue. My two days with them was too short but so wonderful and needed. I left Mississippi with a soul bursting with joy at reconnecting with Ben, Sue, Tom, the pretty house, Pearlington and Mississippi. I want to go back.

I got back to the office on a Monday and on Wednesday big things changed at work. Really big things and all that soul filling, wonderful vacation, reconnection with who I am time was gone. The last few months have been stressful, uncertain, hard, full of doubt, grief, some anger and a whole lot of frustration with a significant helping of helplessness. 

These last few months have also helped me to really see just how much of me is being stuffed down everyday with my current job. There are parts that I love, that give me moments of joy and fill my soul, but the majority of it, I just don't love. I wake up in the morning and I don't want to go back.

Those words feel dangerous. Those words are unsettling. Those words are true. Work has changed in drastic ways, yet much is the same just harder, more convoluted. The parts that I love, I REALLY love, and those parts of my job that I love have a common theme throughout each of my jobs (hint, it's about the people I work with!). I don't know what to do with that. The story is still unfolding.

Watch this space.