Good bye 2017

I have dreaded writing my final post this year, something I have never done before. Usually, I am excited to review all the wonderful things I have experienced and accomplished in 12 months, but 2017 was the most overwhelming year I have had in a long time. I mean it was so challenging, I allowed those difficulties to overshadow the good, take me out of my gratitude mindset. One was my hernia surgery, which I thought would happen in late winter or early spring, but instead, it was postponed, as was my recovery. In my mind I was going to have the surgery, heal up quickly, and be snatched, quite frankly. Instead, I am still slightly swollen in my abdomen and I have no ab muscles. Most of my summer was on bed rest.  Much like after previous surgeries, I know that in due time I will get my strength back, but still, it frustrating as hell.

Secondly, my number one goal of 2017 was complete my dissertation and finally become Dr. Boz.  Well, technically I did finish my dissertation. However, due to some changes within the school, approval on so many levels has been postponed, and there is nothing I can do except file a grievance and pay my costly tuition.  This has been devastating. They were things that happened within the immediate family that rattled me. Not to go into so many details, but there was another breast cancer diagnosis, my adult son moved back home, and my grandson’s mother did not care about him having a relationship with anyone on my side of the family. It breaks my heart into little pieces everyday that he lives so close by and I can count on my hands the number of times I have seen him. How do shape all of this nonsense into a lesson and shape it positively?

Here it goes:

 First, upon heavy meditation, I’ve been rushing all my life. Subconsciously, and somewhat consciously, I have always tried to beat the clock because my experience with the death of so many women in my family created fear about the brevity of life. I thought I had dealt with this, and come to terms with the fact that I have taken steps to extend my life and I will die an old lady. But this year I have realized I have not. I let the idea that I must rush and get things done, accomplish goals before it is too late. The crazy thing is, I only rush to cross items off a list. I don’t bask in my accomplishments, or focus on experiences instead of just accomplishments. Because of this, two of my major changes for 2018 will be:

A.      To have more fun! To live honey! More experiences and traveling

This year I

B.      Celebrate Every F**king Thing. Because I honestly do not celebrate myself enough. The Queen of Self-esteem doesn’t celebrate all she’s overcome!  I have been going and going so long that I am no longer mindful of just how amazing it is.

C.        

1.       I finished my dissertation. I did. I finished 5 long ass Chapters. A year of literal sweat and tears (no blood.)

2.       I created  #SistasAre Dope journal and T-shirt

3.       Published my first Children’ s book

4.       Gave a kickass commencement speech

5.       Graduated from a leadership program

6.       Inspired crowds with spoken word  and got paid for it

Not bad. Not bad at all. And the crazy thing is, I really didn’t take the time to pat myself on the back.

 And you know what else was awesome about this year?

1.       The breast cancer diagnosis meant involved no chemo and was a stage 0. She is cancer free

2.       I was there when my grandson was born and watch him for his first few minutes of life. I got to see my son, become a father.

3.       I was there to see people I love in awards, like my father and my sista friend

4.       I attended the New York red carpet movie premiere of my sista friend

5.       I switched to a position at work that is way less stressful, and I have a better leader

6.       I had the support of family and friends through the dissertation writing, the recovery from surgery and at my book release

7.       I did an amazing professional photo shoot

8.       Welcomed a baby girl in the family whose life I will be a part of

9.       Tried 3 new activities

10. I have discovered estrogen in hormone replacement therapy

2017 wasn't so horrible in hindsight. It just forced me to face some things I had pushed deep down, and it is preparing me to reap (and enjoy) the rewards of my hard work. 2018, I will work smarter not harder because there is some fun not be had!

Hold on

I can officially say that the second week of January 2017 was the most emotionally draining I’ve had in a long time. But if you know me, after I have time to refill my  cup,  I reflect and figure how what's next…. how do I make it better? What can I do differently? How can I help?

Tragedy and Trauma (with capital T's)  were the words of week as I found myself needing to be there for others while internally dealing with my own emotional response. There were very few people who actually checked in to see how I was doing. Then there were people I called and they focused on how they were feelings. I ended most of my days on my couch in a catatonic state, followed b restless sleeping and wearing my mask at work. Now that the week has ended, and I've had time to think, I've learned at least two major lessons this week. The first is I've learned is ...  ask for what you need. There are some of us ( like Me) who are perceived to be these strong people who may bend but never break. And while I do consider myself to be resilient and adept at self-care, this week I really needed a shoulder to cry to on because I spent my days hugging & comforting crying teens and young women during the day, and texting, instant messaging and calling them by night. All of this after news of a successful and then thankfully an unsuccessful suicide attempt, sexual assault on video, hospitalizations and mental breakdowns. All in a matter of days. 
In the mist of it, the innate nurturer in me just wanted to make sure everyone was okay, so I sprang into comforter mode.  But when it was all done, there were about three people who called to check on me. Then I realized it’s not their fault, they assumed that I got this, because most times I do. What I should have done was said was, “Listen I’m emotionally drained and heartbroken, can someone come get my 5 year old so I can have moment to cry."  "Can someone cook me hot food because I just want to lay here."  "Let's a have chocolate or wine and talk it out."  But I didn’t, so I cannot be mad that I didn’t get what I didn’t ask for. My commitment is to make sure from now on that I ask for what I need and I teach my students and mentees to do the same because no one should suffer in silence and so many people do.  As I was there this week  for one of the strongest people, this truth was reiterated.

 This leads me to my second lesson. Early last week I learned that I’m not done with major surgery.Nope. Because of my hernia, I in fact will have to endure another 6 hour surgery, a couple of days in the hospital and 6 weeks of recovery. I was devastated when the surgeon explained why a simple laparoscopic surgery would not be enough. After a small temper tantrum in the car on the way home, I realized. I will get through this as I did all of the others, that that is just the way life works, if you don’t give up. You will get through it and come out on the other side, most times stronger, better, and more beautiful. This is also what I remind myself… and what I will teach my students and mentees as well.  It’s definitely easier said than done, especially when your world is crumbling and you don’t have emotional support or coping skills, like many of the young people in my live. I just hope that by persevering and sharing my story they can see that it is possible. Depression, illness, death, loneliness, etc. It is possible to come out on the other side. This too shall pass.  As I type this I can hear that Wilson Sister’s song in the back of my mind... "Hold on for one day, things will go your way." It’s so true, and until they can hold on to themselves, I’m going to be there to help them hold on. 

Dance with My Mother

I’d be dishonest with the world and myself if I didn’t admit that occasionally I feel a sense of envy and hurt when I see the relationship some of my closest friends have with their mothers. They party together, gamble to together, or live across the street from each other. I can’t help but think that if my mother was alive, she’d dance with me at family parties; I’ve been told all my life that she could cut a mean rug!

Sometimes I wish that I could crawl up in the bed with her like I did when I was three and be vulnerable with her. I’m come along accepting this loss, using my poetry to deal with my emotions, honoring her with my pen name and a tattoo, and having a zest for life so I can live for both of us. Anyone who knows me, knows that I believe in spirit and that much like water, we humans only change form, but our spirits, our energy never really dies. I know her spirit is present, and I get little signs every now and then, but sometimes I just want that physical presence, arms to hold, neck to smell in an embrace. I even get the bigger picture, I wouldn’t be who I am if I hadn’t suffered the loss.  I wouldn’t have ever picked up a pen to process my feelings and written words that I can truly say have inspired others to write, reflect, or do better. I wouldn’t be the type of teacher or mentor who is on call 24/7 for babies. I wouldn’t have this relentless desire to inspire women and teens to take power over their futures instead of being consumed by the past. I know her time was limited, and her purpose was fulfilled in those 23 years (according to two different mediums and my own intuition), but sometimes it doesn’t make it any easier, and sometimes I become overwhelmed with emotions and tears fill up my eyes and I let out a broken cry. This is the reality. I never want to sound ungrateful, I’ve been more than blessed with an enormous family, surrounded by love and mother like figures, something I’m sure other people wish they had.  The older I get the more I come to understand the bigger picture, which is why 90% of the time, I can tell my story to a crowd without even a lump in my throat, but other times, l find myself wondering what would certain moments be like if she was physically there instead of just mentally. 

My mother, looking exhausted after giving me a bath

FREASTS: The Right Choice...Part II

When the alarm clock went off at 5:15am, I had only napped about an hour.  Although I was exhausted I was in good spirits. I had made peace with my decision and the changes it would bring. But I did tear up when I kissed my toddler as he slept, praying I would see him again. I went in alone, which was what I needed. As I lay in pre op, I meditated and focused on coming out of surgery and healing like a rock star. I was so calm as I changed into a gown, emptied my bladder, got weighed one last time (Whoa) and let them begin to hook me up to all of the machinery. I answered the same questions over and over about allergies, last time I ate, etc. Then my handsome (in a quirky way) plastic surgeon came in and marked up my body. When I told him how much I’d miss my belly button, he told me I would still have the same belly button, it would just be moved. This gave me comfort.  
Then the anesthesiologist  came in, explaining that I would have an a an epidural that would numb my chest muscles so that I wouldn’t feel pain when I awoke.  I leaned over on a pillow; the nurse held my hand, and the needle in my lower back was the last thing I remembered. 
This is what was happening while I was completely unaware:

 My oncologist would cut and remove both of my breasts, removing the fat, the muscle, mammary glands and all. Her reputation is that she is thorough and would scrape away all of the breast tissue. Like all. Next, my brilliant plastic surgeon and his team would begin what is called DIEP flap reconstruction.According to BreastCancer.org, DIEP stands for the deep inferior epigastric perforator artery, which runs through the abdomen.  In other words, they would cut a large portion of skin and fat from my lower stomach, and then transplant them to my chest wall in the shape of breasts. Crazy, right?  But not simple. It involves microsurgery, reattaching the veins and arteries one at a time.

This is a diagram showing one breast. I had both breasts removed and reconstructed

For my surgical team, it took 15 hours total.

 This meant that while my family thought I’d be done by 8 or 9pm, I was not out of surgery until after 1am (Tuesday).

            When I opened my eyes, my two aunts were there like angels…

Gloria(L) and Saundra(R) my mother's sisters

 because my vision was blurry. I was distracted by the breathing tube that was still in my throat. Panic set in, medical staff tried to calm me, but I kept trying to speak. I could hear myself saying, I can’t breathe, I was gagging telling them to please take it. When they didn't listen, I tried to remove it. I felt people grabbing my arms and I heard “Sedate Her” , which they must have because the next thing I remember  (12 hours later apparently)  I was waking up with straps on my wrists. But at least the breathing tube was gone. What I didn’t understand in my panic was that they had to keep it in because, just like with any transplant, there was the risk that my chest wall wouldn’t take its new FREASTS. If the tissue didn’t stay alive, they would have to take me back into the OR and remove those. Not to mention, they needed to make sure my throat wasn’t too swollen and that I could breathe on my own. Which was kinda important.This is why I was in the ICU, being checked in half hour intervals. I was under heavy IV pain meds (thank God) so the first 24 to 36 hours were a blur of nurses brushing my teeth, wiping my dry cracked lips and putting petroleum jelly on them, cold cloths on my forehead, I remember them being so great, and feeling comforted despite the fact that I could only open my eyes seconds at a time, and my voice was weak. Unfortunately, I also had a fever of 102 and they worked vigorously to drop it down with IV medication. What I also was unaware of was that they were trying to keep me awake and get my body’s systems going. One of the nurses had me verbally complete the health care proxy form and sign off on it.  I had no concept of time; I just remember when they told me it was safe to move me out of ICU and into a regular room because my FREASTS were still viable. As they wheeled me on a stretcher, I passed a blond haired, fairly young, handsome doc. He introduced himself (I can’t remember his name) and said that he was on the surgical team. He told me I was brave and bad ass for my decision and that I made the right choice.

          According to my family, I was out of ICU by mid-morning on Wednesday and into my room. It was there I remembered that I was going to be a rock star in terms of doing what I needed to heal quickly. I asked that the catheter be removed so I could go to the bathroom on my own. (Why not, I was on morphine?).  It was so weird. I didn’t feel pain, I just felt stiff and tight as I walked in  cave man like baby steps, escorted by a nurse. I still had a low grade fever, so they were constantly checking in on me; they still needed to check the FREASTS every 1 to 2 hours.  I remember it was hard for them to find that swooshing sound in my left breast, so that had to put it in a special spot.

They put on a surgical bra, which I would grow to hate over the next 3 weeks, which matched my waist binder, which I’d grow to love and hate. They wanted me to sit in a chair. I did, and I slept there. But I also walked the hall, ambulating like it was suggested. I was determined to be model patient.

 The next few days would include daily visits from my angel aunts, my fiancé, and my uncle, and special visits from cousins, my dad, my brother, my oldest son, and my sister.   It was my sister and one of my closest friends who took a lesson in how to change my drains (we’ll discuss those in part 3).  I had my friend take this picture of me:

I wanted to document this journey, which would be hard because apparently I had multiple conversations under the influence of drugs that I don’t remember. It was a blur of Law and Order SVU reruns in the TV, multiple sleep interruptions, wraps on my legs to prevent blood clots, breathing into devices to restore my lungs, picking out my meals, taking sponge baths. Great nurses and PCAs, and awful nurses. Looking at the clock, not sure if it was 4am or pm.

The day my fiancé finally brought my toddler to come see me, it all came full circle. He was soooo happy to see me. At one point I glanced up at my wall chart with all of the nurse’s names and the date. It was Friday, September 4th. The anniversary of my mother’s transition. I looked at my toddler, I was about his age when I would go see my mother at the hospital, and like I saved my dessert for him, she’d save her dessert for my sister and I. It was mind-blowing to me, and I was rushed with emotion.  I was sad for the little girl in me who had no idea that one of the times she left the hospital would be the last time she saw her mother. I felt sad as a mother, for my mother, who at 23 knew she wouldn’t be around to see her kids, and that one of those hospital visits would be that last time she’d hug her little girls.  But I felt grateful that because of modern medicine, I would be there. I would be there for my toddler, and despite missing me dearly, he’d see me again. That doctor was right; I’d made the right choice.

My oldest son

My 4 year old

Bittersweet Choices

   

     Even though I’m consumed with
 my dissertation, I am also

 preparing for the biggest, most complex surgery of my life; my mind and spirit are all over the place.  First off, I am beyond grateful that because of technology I am able to take steps to prevent the breast cancer that took my mother away at such a young age. But when I look at my toddler, I’m sad because my sister and I were so close to his age when she passed away. My baby is 3 ½ and he comes looking for me in the middle of the night. I couldn’t imagine not being there for him, and knowing that I was dying and wouldn’t get to see him grow up. My oldest son just graduated high school, and last week I took him to get his college ID. My mom missed that. My grandmother missed that. And so many other things in between. So lately I’m extra attached to both of them (even though the teen is totally not feeling mom). 

    Then I feel blessed again because it was my choice to wear 

my fabulous wigs, and to chop all my hair off, and it wasn’t the case for my grandmother. I remember coming home from school one day and she was sitting on the couch with a pile of hair in her lap. She explained to me that it was an effect of her chemo. Looking back, her wigs were in no way as beautiful as her once long dark hair.  And when it grew back, it looked a lot like mine does now, just gray. I have options, and it’s amazing, and it’s still scary and bittersweet.

      Then there's my mortality, something I struggled with so

much as a young person, so much that I refused to wear bandanna scarves because I remember my mother wearing them while she was in treatment. 

Now that older, and I’ve outlived my mother, it’s coming into a play again.  I’m going under the knife for 10 to 12 hours. YIKES!!! I’ll be in ICU;  in the hospital away from my baby for 5 days. I’ll have to look at my breasts without nipples or areolas for about 6 months. I will have a huge horizontal scar across my abdomen; I’ll try best to look at that with gratitude because I have a choice. That choice doesn’t involve radiation, chemo, or not being here to see my sons grow and evolve. I have a choice, but it doesn't mean I'm still not apprehensive.

Brave or Afraid?

As I watch Angelina Jolie make the news once again for her “heroic” decision to undergo another surgery to eliminate her ovarian cancer, I think…it’s a big deal, but it’s not a “big” deal. What I mean by this is that  people do what  Angelina did all of the time  but no one pays attention because, well they aren't a sex symbol, movie star, or poster woman for  a thousand and one humanitarian organizations. I know because the women in my family have been doing it for over 10 years, including myself.

            My mother died of breast cancer at only 23 years old. Her mother died of ovarian cancer at 57. My mother’s sister also died of ovarian cancer before age 60. Of my mother’s three remaining sisters, two have had their ovaries removed upon turning 40, and one also opted to have a preventative double mastectomy with reconstruction.

            According to one study, only 1/3 of African American women who meet the criteria for genetic testing are actually referred. I was only referred because I insisted  testing for the BRCA1 and BRCA2 gene mutations. If positive, I would have had up to a 60% of developing ovarian cancer in my lifetime and up to an 85% chance of developing breast cancer. After receiving my results in the fall of 2014, I elected to also have my ovaries and fallopian tubes removed last month at age 36. Within the next year, I too will have a double mastectomy with reconstruction.

            I didn't once look at it as brave, but almost as necessary. While my results were negative, there was variant, which means there was a mutation that could be linked to cancer, but that it hasn't been determined yet. However, recent research has indicated that there are more genetic mutations being discovered that could be linked to cancers. As African-American women specifically, we develop breast cancer at an earlier age and it tends to be more aggressive. So while I’m no world famous icon, I am a member of a medically under served population who has experienced the trauma of watching loved ones suffer from the disease. Therefore, I choose to act.  Being a career mom and dream chaser, surgery is scary; recovery has been and will be difficult. What’s more unbearable at this moment in my life, is hearing those dreaded words, “You have cancer.” That doesn't make me a hero, it makes me afraid. 

Read the full version here http://www.forharriet.com/2015/04/why-i-chose-to-fight-cancer-by-removing.html

For the Loved Ones

With the holiday season in full bloom, many people are in the mood to celebrate. But there are those of us who are suffering because the holidays remind us of the loved ones we've lost. I myself used to always get depressed after Thanksgiving because that was the last holiday I spent with my grandmother, even though she was bedridden. She died on Christmas morning in 1991, and since then my mother’s side of the family has not actually celebrated Christmas in the traditional sense. Without really acknowledging this, we just began to celebrate on Christmas Eve by coming together to exchange gifts, eat, drink and well…be merry.   On Christmas we all kinda do out own thing. 
   As time has gone on, I've been able to avoid this seasonal sadness, and really begin to celebrate. This is not to say that I don’t think of my grandmother everyday, because I do. But I hold my memories of her so close to me that I cannot help but smile when I think of her. I may cry, but they are tears of joy that I was so lucky to have her in my life, to have her love so unconditionally.

So for those of you out there who feel that emptiness because it’s that loved ones birthday, or anniversary of their passing, I encourage you to fill up on the love, the memories, and cherished time you did have. Easier said than done, I know. But it is also my belief that we are all energy, and energy never dies, it just changes form. So talk to your loved one, acknowledge them through candle lighting,  by going through old photos. or playing music (My grandmother loved Temptations’ Silent Night).  If you pay attention, they will communicate back, through that song on the radio when you first turn on the car,  that scent that you smell out of nowhere, or in that baby bird hanging around suddenly all over your yard, or that feeling of warmth that suddenly consumes you. They are always with you. 
My Ga-Ga is always with me.


"The things we love stay with us always, locked in our hearts..."- Josephine Baker

"Happy" Mother's Day

Mother's Day wasn't always a struggle for me. When I was younger I absolutely loved making gifts in school for my ga-ga (my maternal grandmother). Let's see, it was the plants in a Styrofoam cups, homemade candy (which she couldn't eat because she was diabetic), and plenty of specially written and decorated cards. Mother's Day became harder after she died because it wasn't until I'd lost her that I began to feel like a motherless child. All of the love in the world couldn't stop me from feeling this emptiness when Mother's Day arrived.


When I became a mother, it got easier; I saw my son come home with the cards and plants, and I'd smile. But then I found myself missing Brenda, my real mother. As an adult, I wanted that special relationship I saw all of my friends have with their mothers, so I still felt empty. To cope, everyone knows I deemed myself Brenda's Child, and I became that parental figure to other kids who were missing a mom for whatever reason.


Three weeks before Mother's Day also marks the anniversary of the death of my mother's sister ( she died unexpectedly at 36 from a seizure, which was a reaction from her medication. She had been on dialysis for years due to kidney disease.) Two cent was my homegirl. I use the old school term because growing up in the '80s, she was who you wanted to be: creative, stylish, sexy, and cool. What made her most important to me was that had if not been for her babysitting my son free of charge, I would not have been able to finish college and work full time. It's because of her that my son developed early on a love of reading and learning. That was 2002, and again I learn to cope. She was the 3rd person whose name would be tattooed on me, and I honored her memory by publishing some of her poetry in a chapter dedicated to her at the end of my first book, A Piece of My Mind.

In 2009, my friend Gail died the week of Mother's day from Leukemia. She was a mother of four, and like my mother, my grandmother, and my aunt, she liked working with kids. I used my words once more to honor her in my memoir, The Right Amount of Sunshine.

This is the only way I know how to deal, I keep their memory alive through the work I am still able to do while I'm here on this earth.

I'll light a candle for each of them this Sunday, knowing they are present in spirit always. And although I may shed some tears of remembrance, I will have "Happy" Mother's Day just for them!
:

Ga-Ga ovarian cancer 1991

Brenda Breast cancer 1982

Gwen a.ka. Two Cent 2002

Gail Leukemia 2009

Knocked Off Focus

Anyone that knows me, understands that I am driven. However, there is one thing that knocks me right off focus...DEATH. It instantaneously reminds me that I am not in control of anything while putting me back in a state of missing, yearning for my loved ones. This year, I lost a good friend to Leukemia, and not a day goes by that I don't think about Gail. And when I think about her cancer, I think about my mother's and my Ga-Ga's (my maternal grandmother) battle with the disease, and the suffering they went through. And while I try to console myself with the idea that they have moved on to a better place, I am still haunted by visions of them weak, in pain, so thin they are barely there, and it saddens me.

My great uncle just died from cancer on Thursday November 19, pancreatic I believe. I have constant thoughts of him, and my friend having to plan their own funeral services, and it hurts like hell. Any loss is tough but to watch someone suffer is torturous for my spirit; traumatizing. I think about my friend Gail, who was just getting ready to find herself as a woman. She finally knew what she wanted to do with her life, found the job she loved and went back to school to further her career. Around the time of my birthday in 2008, she was diagnosed. Around the time of my birthday, 2009, she called to tell me that the doctors could do no more.

Not a day goes by that I don't want to call her or laugh with her about something that I know only she would find funny. And when things happen, like my paternal grandmother being in the ICU for her heart, (which has been going on for a month) I just want my mommy or my Ga-Ga to be there to hug me and to help me through it. Instead, I just shut down. I lose focus, I make it through the day just to get in the bed. I don't want to be around others, even my family who are still alive and well. I just want to be in my dark place until I'm ready to see the sunshine again. And right now I'm just not ready. With the holidays coming around, ( I lost Ga-Ga on Christmas Day when I was 13) it only gets harder.

And I have prayed, I have meditated, and now I am writing, but the reality is, nothing ever helps until I'm ready to come back, re-focus, and live for today, though I'm not promised tomorrow.