Life Cycles

When I look at this picture, I am flooded with thoughts and emotion. It was 20 years ago, on my 19^th birthday, and I was pregnant. I was in love and had illusions of happily ever after; ready to skip through the parties, meeting new people, and all the experiences college life had to offer and leap right into domestic tranquility. While most of my friends were away, fully emerged into their college lives, I was fully emerged in my son’s father and his family, distancing myself from everything and everyone whom I loved. I had plans to finish college, but only to prove that those naysayers who were so disappointed in my pregnancy were wrong.  But I was lost. I even took a hiatus from writing poetry because all that mattered to me was having enough money to get a place for us- him, our baby, and myself. Myself. Myself became last and remained that way for a long time. That’s why I totally get it when I work with young women who follow my path... I had become so absorbed in the idea that at 19 I was with the love of my life and nothing else mattered. Fortunately for me, I grew the hell up and eventually found myself. Unfortunately many like me remain lost, jumping from relationship to relationship, never finding out who they really are. All I can do is drop little gems here and there, and hope it helps them find their way, much like Hansel and Gretel.

Which leads me to my second thought. More than the idea of evolution is how history repeats itself, and things come full circle. 20 years later, my son 19, with a baby on the way, is trying  ( or maybe not trying ) to find himself. How wild is that? And me, being a mother and refusing to be a hypocrite, must let him walk his own path of self-discovery, understanding that every screw up, every heartbreak is a lesson that will make him stronger and wiser. Talk about Life Cycles.

Body Image Revisited

The body image saga continues.  If you’ve read my memoir then you know that starting as early as 11 years old I struggled with body image.  I thought I was had finally conquered it in mid twenties, even if I was close to 250 pounds. I mean I deemed myself the Queen of Self -Esteem! For about 10 years after that, I was in a really good place. I had mastered posing so that the camera hit all of the right angles. I had come to love all of my flaws, finally accepting my lumps and bumps, and really focusing on what I loved about my body. Then 2015 came and I’d have to come to accept a new body. Just as I’m starting accept the fact that I have no feeling in my breasts (which I have now decided to call NOOBS -new boobs), and get happy that the foot and a half long scar across my abdomen is fading,  my incisional hernia enlarges and that’s ALL am able to see. I’m cognizant  of it all day long. Aside from the extreme physical discomfort, I find myself double checking mirrors and buying shirts that disguise the massive bulge protruding from my right lower quadrant. I haven't been this self-conscious when getting dressed in so long, it feels awkward. But it’s really because I do in fact feel self-conscious. And why? I  have yet to understand why this insecurity has crept back in my psyche. I mean before the surgery I gained like 50 pounds, and after the surgery I walked around for 6 months with no nipples or areolas? Why am I tripping?  I had no answer, so last week I decided to get back in the gym ( I have to keep it extremely light until and even months after my next surgery). It made a world of difference, because after one session, I was reminded of just how powerful and amazing my body is. Each chest press made me feel more and appreciative of my body and its journey. It reminded me that this shit is temporary and aesthetic. What matters is keeping it healthy for its next healing challenge! Here we go!

Whatever the Hell I Please

                  


It’s tax season and social media has been flooded with 

memes, some hilarious, some not so much. There are the ones about fat or ugly girls having men they supposedly wouldn’t ever be able to attract otherwise. Then there are those, which I’m guilty of laughing at, showing how women look before and after taxes, from weaves to furs and anything else you can imagine. While I have what I believe to be a great sense of humor, the feminist single mother in me cannot help but be offended by some actual written about posts about how we choose to spend our money,  or our audacity not to split the child income credit with our “baby daddy”. While I’m sure every case is different, I’m writing on behalf of the many women I know.  It’s my damn money and I will do what the hell I please!!! 
 As someone who has been in different tax brackets, I have strong feelings about this. When I was living in subsidized housing, with my fuel assistance and Medicaid, I received the EIC (Earned Income Credit) for my son. I was a full-time student who delivered pizzas, substitute taught and did whatever I needed to do pay bills. When I got that tax check, I treated myself to some new clothes to prepare myself for the professional world, bought my son things I normally couldn’t afford and gave money to my babysitters who kept my son for free all year while I worked. I also redecorated my apartment, switching out my son’s toddler size mattress to a twin bed, or upgrading a furniture set or TV ( that was a hand me down) to something newer. It felt good to have that extra money when there were times I was searching my couch cushions for loose change just to have enough for my son's lunch money. One year I used that extra money to buy a new car so that I could stop driving pieces of junk that constantly needed oil, brake fluid, coolant, tires, a jump start or a tow.  Then for two years in a row, I saved my money to use for a down payment on a house so I could get the hell out of the projects.  Fast forward years later, I apparently make too much money for the EIC. Still, I look forward to the benefits of tax season and my substantial refund.  Daycare for my toddler is $500 a month,  I’m paying back money from the my students loans, and I’m an owner of a historic home which is constantly being upgraded for myself and my tenant.  When I get my money, I treat myself first to clothes and shoes, do some home improvements and redecorating, save some, pay ahead some bills and... whatever the hell else I please! 
 A woman should not be condemned for what she does with her tax money, especially not by her “baby daddy”  because he pays child support. Child support??? Please! Unless you’re a celebrity dropping thousands monthly, child support for many of the women I know only pays for sneakers, or haircuts, maybe daycare. And then I know men who only buy their kids "what they need” because they don’t want to put money in a woman’s hands? What a joke! All year long your child needs food, electricity, hot water, heat, and if you’re lucky cable so they can watch Nick Jr.  But it’s the mother who is put down because she wants to treat herself to a mani and pedi, or a new hairdo? Again, I know there are outliers, extremes on both ends, but I’m writing for the many hardworking single mothers who didn’t plan on raising babies alone, and we deserve more respect. Instead of condemning her, why not help her out?  Expose her to some financial options or programs, teach some skills, lend a helping hand, be an emotional support system. 
While today  I'm in a much better place than I was 10 or 15 years ago, I know that the struggle is more than real, it can be  continuous, lonely and exhausting.

This is why every other year I host the She got H.E.R.S conference for young women, mothers or not. We all need a little guidance and encouragement!

Happy Foob Year!

5 days later, here I am wearing the most hideous surgical garment ever. I mean the last ones were ugly, but they were all white and  made no attempt to be cute. However uncomfortable and unattractive this contraption, it does what it’s supposed to, which is support my newly lifted foobs and sewn on fipples.

 I have to say this surgery was a breeze compared to the last two. Aside from the fact that we had our first snow/sleet/ice storm the night before, which caused my surgeon to arrive 15 minutes late, everything went as planned. At 7:45am the anesthesiologist injected my IV with the feel good stuff. At 11:10 I was awakened by a nurse placing pillows under each side of my arms. She told me I could keep sleeping, which I did for another hour. Then I was ready to get up and go. My fiancée came for me, and other than feeling light headed and dizzy, I felt relieved; no more surgeries, I did it. I was home in time to watch Judge Mathis, which I eventually fell asleep on.  With the help of some narcotics, I slept on and off the rest of the day.  The next day, I was still groggy and my only discomfort were the stitches were underneath the foobs. It felt tight, and itchy, but nothing unbearable.  Because I wanted to celebrate with champagne on New Year’s Eve, I was hell bent on not taking any pain meds at all. So I sucked it up. My reward was spending my holiday surrounded by family, and wearing scarves and sweaters to cover up the bulky surgical tube top. I tried to go the whole week with only sponge baths, but once 2016 came around, I gave in, being sure not to wet my bandages. In two more days I will get to see an updated version of my foobs and fipples. 

At this point I’m not even excited about it because I’ve just become more and more accepting of my body no matter what it looks like. Besides, it’s amazing, I mean look at all it’s been through and it continues to heal and allow me to do whatever I set out to!

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.

Purpose is Priceless

I sat up this past Wednesday night until 1:30 am (Thursday Morning) perfecting my PowerPoint presentation for the CHD Through Her Eyes Annual Conference. My third cup of coffee for the day was at 10:30pm. For a moment a voice in my head begin to complain, asking...Why are you doing this, it’s not like you are getting paid to be presenter? Yet this is the third year in a row you’re presenting? 

Then the other voice, the inner voice which knows me best said…It’s because you love what you do! It’s because you a have a gift and it’s only right you share it with others who work with young girls so they can be their best. You get so much, you have to give back. So I finished my pumpkin spice coffee and 3 hours later went to bed exhausted, but wired. Not from the coffee but from the anticipation I felt thinking about my workshop.  

                When I awoke 5 hours later, I had already learned a lesson, or should I say I was reminded of several: It’s not work when you do what you love! Nothing is handed to you, you want it be prepared to work for it!  When you want to give up, push harder, the finish line is right there!  As cliché as all these sound, all of these slogans were running through my mind.

            After facilitating my morning workshop “Defining Me” and performing spoken word at lunchtime, I felt I deserved some chocolate. When I whispered to my friend, she insisted I wait. In a room of at least 500 people, I’m thinking no one will miss me if I slip out and get a milk chocolate fix, but I agreed to stay. Well, it’s a good thing did, because five minutes later, I was called on the receive the EYES OF COURAGE award. Typically, people are aware they are receiving this and have time to prepare a speech. I, on the other hand, was completed clueless that I was a recipient this year. As my eyes teared up, it felt out of body to hear my bio read, to hear of my accomplishments, my qualifications, and most importantly my life’s mission. I was actually speechless. This has only occurred three times in life. This award means the world to me because I had a tough week, heck, a tough month dealing with some of the teen’s and their baggage.  This was like a gigantic road sign that says keep going, you are headed in the right direction. It was confirmation once again that I was living in my purpose and I am thankful for that. 

Repeated Lessons

There have been a few lessons I’ve really learned so far this year, and I feel it’s only right I share them with my readers. The first is do what you love. I know this is my heart of hearts, but sometimes people can really trip me up. Anyone who knows me knows that I am juggling about 6 to 8 balls on average. I’d like to think that I am pretty good with the balance, I try to rest when needed, and I try to make the time I spend with other quality, versus quantity. But some people don’t make it easy when they make comments about being productive. The other day, someone said that I just leave my kids with anyone, and someone else said I’m never home. While there is some truth in be living much of the life on the run, I tend to involve both of my sons and family in many of my activities. And not that I feel the need to explain myself to anyone, but I write this to make a point, which was clearly re-iterated to me at the NAPW’s women’s conference that past Friday. Randi Zuckerberg (one of the original founders of Facebook) spoke about being an “AND” woman, stressing that we shouldn’t feel guilty about having interests outside of work and family and that those interests should be taking seriously. Now I’m lucky enough to combine works often, but sometimes the people closest to me don’t get that my poetry, my nonprofit, my empowerment, is not just a hobby, but it is work and meaningful, and I do get paid for it. That’s the great thing about it all, when you love what you do, even when you are exhausted, you still feel simultaneously energized.

This leads me to my second gem, which is to surround yourself with people who make you feel good, and who are like minded. Again, it sounds obvious, but it’s sometimes difficult because of where we work or live. But I find when I am around other teachers or artists, or moms who understand the struggle, and who have common goals, it feels amazing. AMAZING!!!! And there is a balance, you can be around those who are like-minded, but if don’t make you feel good,  and vice versa, conflict can arise. It can really be hard to distance yourself from the friend, lover, co-worker, or relative, but for your own sanity, you have to if they are toxic, or for me, if they do neither.

            

 And I’ve mentioned the last several times in the past…PAY ATTENTION! The universe/God/whatever your belief is always sending you messages in the form of nature, animals and other people. I often have conversations with people who validate what I already know but may not act on. So I frequently get gentle reminders. For instance, I had a conversation a few days ago and the woman told me that there are people out there who I was made to impact specifically, that when no one else will reach them, I will. She told me that what I do is the church because churches heal. Last month when I performed I was told my story was like going to church (Hear that bell ringing). And for like the 3^rd time a person mentioned that it’s time for me to get paid for what I do, to get paid a lot, and to not only rely solely on the satisfaction of helping others as payment. Apparently, I should be paid spiritually and financially and not feel guilty about it. How about that????

                So what do you think readers? Do any of these gems apply to you? Is there one that you think you should follow? Share!

Ego Tripping (There may be a reason why)

It is so hard trying to do good in a world where people are always looking for bad. Judging and scrutiny can get the best of us, even me, the self-proclaimed “Queen of Self-Esteem.”But whenever I find myself pulled into the negativity I have to step back and look at two important things: Purpose and Outcome. What is it I’m trying to do and why? For me, it’s inspiring people, especially youth. Why? Because I am a product of it. Throughout my life, it’s been mentors, historical figures, art and music that have kept me going when I wanted to give up, that have forced me to see things in a more positive light. I want to do that for others because it can be life changing, literally. Inspiration can mean the difference between high school drop out and college grad, between a drug dealer and car dealership owner, between suicide and living. Why is so important because it helps us to maintain our integrity when we are tempted to compromise our standards, beliefs, and values in order to live out our purpose. It is also important because it distracts us from our own selfish reasons that may arrive. For instance, I want to sell 6million copies of my memoir to save 6million lives. Not to get rich, but to save lives. However, I would love to write professionally full time. I have to be wary of this when opportunities present themselves that may tempt me to stray. This is when I have to look at outcomes. I will know I am staying true on my purpose when I can see its effects. For me, it’s the youth I work with who flourish into productive adults who are accomplishing goals and making their mark on the world.  In the end, this is all that matters, not what other people think my intentions are, not what they feel I am doing, and not if it gets national exposure or millions of dollars. In the end, when you do what you’re passionate about, it will pay off in more ways than one.

Goals must never be from your ego, but problems that cry for a solution.

-Robert H. Schuller

Looking for Daddy

Psychologists have theories about how when we become adults we look for in our mates what we got and what we missed from our opposite-sex parent. I can totally buy into this. Immediately, I think about all of the great qualities I see in my dad. He's there when it counts, when I feel like I need to be rescued, financially or emotionally. He's proud of me, and that's a great feeling, having someone be proud and confident when it comes to your aspirations. My dad celebrates all of the milestones in my life, college graduations, the birth of my children, buying a house, getting my teaching license. What's more important is that I can feel his love in the tears he cries on those special days.

         My dad is so much more laid back than I am because I am high strung (passionate is the positive twist I put on it). He’s able to look at what really matters and pick and choose his battles. This is something I'm learning more and more how to do every day, though I admit it's often a struggle. And my competitive nature definitely stems from him because he never discouraged the tomboy in me; in fact, I think he liked the fact that his daughter was tough enough to wrestle down boys. I don’t think I can ever remember a time when he told me to act like a lady. So glad about that!

        But it wasn't until I did some real deep processing that I realized there were things I missed from him as a kid. My father was just 19 when I was born. After my mother died, he pulled a no-show on several occasions, leaving me and my sister sitting on the front steps of my grandmother's house waiting.

        Then there were the trips to Friendly's Restaurant ( still one of my favorite pastimes), that would have been so much better if at least every now and then it was just his kids and not his girlfriend's kids. Don't get me wrong, we had a great relationship with them, but he was still OUR daddy, and we never really got that one on one time with him. This leads me to the affection part. That tomboyish demeanor must have made my father feel like I didn't need consoling; I just needed to brush it off. As a result, I grew up hiding my anguish, putting on a shell even when I was crumbling inside. I don't blame my dad for any of this, because he was young, and as we've both gotten older, our relationship has grown closer and continues to do so. However, I have to be honest in saying that I feel my relationship with him directly relates to what I crave and loathe in a mate. For instance, my father was completely oblivious to my feelings and being stood up or not getting that alone time. I become absolutely incensed when a man is unaware of my feelings. I know men aren't minded readers, and anyone who knows me knows I speak my mind, so when I feel like you lack empathy or consideration; it's a problem for me! My feelings need to be validated if you are to be my man.

        Not calling to say he wouldn't be coming that day was irresponsible (a young thing, so easily forgiven). Yet and still an irresponsible man is a huge turn off for me! My father got a pass because he was young and inexperienced, but any man that is over 30 in my life, needs to have it together. Those are two of my biggest deal breakers.

Consequently, what I crave in a man is what I’ve gotten and still get from my dad. I need you to make me feel like I matter to you; my struggles, my dreams, my wants, my fears, are all important to you. Your world doesn't have to revolve around me, but show up when it matters, when I need it most. I am a strong, independent, superwoman, blah, blah, blah, and I can do it all, blah, blah, blah, but who wants to? Hell, even Superman is clumsy, quiet Clark Kent sometimes. I want to be vulnerable, so I need someone who can allow me to do so. I need to know that if I'm off duty, my world won't come shattering down because I left it in your hands and you didn't handle it.

This is what makes love hard, like my girl Iyanla Vanzant wrote, love is easy, it's the expectations we place on it that make it rough. Understanding why we have those expectations can sometimes help us to recognize why we become disappointed in our loved ones, and how we can take some of that pressure off of them.

        It's tough to say what you need and why you need, but I am glad that I am at a place where I can say it without reservation to my man and to others. What about you? What do you need, why do you need it?