The Search for Treasure

Once upon a time, there was a gypsy girl who felt her life was destined for great adventure.  Young, full of hope, and anxious for a quest, she set off on a search for buried treasure.

Impatient to begin her adventure, she picked a digging spot early in her journey, and immediately began clawing at the hard surface of the earth with her bare hands.  She had neither tools nor a remote clue of what a large endeavor she had begun.  As a result, she tore her nails, and her fingers bled.  When the cuts and bruises became more than she could stand, she would cry and throw dirt and rocks with reckless abandon.  It was a sloppy, ugly search.  Impatient clawing was not a great strategy.

That said, it was not a completely futile strategy, either.  She was still able to make progress.  Eventually, something shiny started to poke out from beneath the ground’s surface.  Heart quickening, she looked up with an excited smile to show the people around her what she had found.  This was when she noticed that they were angry and bruised from the rocks she had thrown, and their mud-caked eyes made it impossible for them to see the things she had discovered.  She recognized it was time to take a break from digging, so she could apologize for throwing dirt and help to gently clean the eyes of those around her.  Once their cuts were bandaged and the dirt was mostly gone from their faces and hands, she again showed them her treasure, beaming proudly. Then she set out on her way again, in search for treasure in new places.

Throughout her wandering search, she would often surprise herself by ending up back at her original digging site.  She would wonder how she had come to be in the same spot where she started, when she thought she had finished digging there years ago.  Sometimes the wind had blown a little dust on top of the shiny spots, and she needed to uncover them again.  Other times great storms would come, and the rains would fill the holes that she had dug so diligently, making her feel like she was starting all over again.  This was frustrating and painful.  But after the storms passed, she would often find new tools awash on the shore of the swollen rivers, inviting her to resume her work. Over time, she acquired a large selection of tools and learned how to use them.  She also found that the rain made the earth softer and more malleable than it had been on the hard, crusty surface of her youth.  With her new tools, she was not only able to resurface the treasure a little more quickly, but the soft ground allowed her to dig even deeper than she had the first time.

The deeper she would dig, the easier it became to see the treasure, and the more detailed her perspective of its infinite beauty grew.  In the early years, she had no idea there was so much treasure to find.  With the new knowledge of abundance, she no longer felt an urgency to dig so quickly.  Instead, she chose to enjoy each new nugget as it surfaced.  She was pleased to find less dirt under her nails, and fewer scrapes and scratches on her arms and hands, although the scars from past wounds reminded her to dig carefully and to try not to throw dirt at people.

She learned to take breaks when the digging got really hard.  She knew she could rest because she was confident that the treasure wasn’t going anywhere — no one could possibly steal it.  So she sat back next to the hole, breathing and taking in the view around her.  It turned out she had chosen an amazing digging site: there was a stunning landscape of trees and mountains and birds and beautiful, beautiful people all around her.  She suddenly realized that all of these things had always been there; she just hadn’t taken the time notice them when she had been solely focused on her own digging.  It also became apparent that her treasure was connected underground to the treasure of all of the people who were digging around her.  There was no need to grab at it or try to stuff it in her pockets – its beauty was much more staggering when it remained connected to everyone else’s.  Her job was simply to uncover her piece for everyone else to see.

After a rest, she would start digging some more.  But here’s the thing – she was learning to actually enjoy the digging.  She found that the hard work helped clear her head; it made her conscious of her breath, and she began to relish in the workout and sweat that goes with digging.  The act itself confirmed she was alive.  Plus, the fresh air and fertile soil smelled delicious, and the sun felt warm on her back.  When she allowed herself to get lost in the blissful, wordless act of digging, more sparkling jewels and shiny gold would suddenly appear.  The more treasure she uncovered, the more it reflected the brilliant light of the sun. The more the sun shone, the brighter her treasure sparkled and reflected off of the treasure of the people who were also digging near her.  She was amazed at her deep knowing that it had always been there, just waiting for her to develop the strength to uncover and share it.

Still, there were times when she would hit an unexpected rock, or a person clawing near her with bare hands would throw dirt, which would jar her and cause great pain.  And of course, the storms would return from time to time; once again sweeping mud back over the hole she had been working so hard to excavate.  But by this time, she had her tools, and she had been at the work long enough to know that the sun would eventually return.  With each storm or unexpected obstacle, she was able to recover a little more quickly.

She came to the conclusion that she would never be able to reveal all of the treasure by herself; it was just too incomprehensibly vast.  But she appreciated each tiny piece she was able to uncover, and she relished in sharing it with the people around her.  She also took time to peer at their sites, because the treasure they were finding sparkled with its own unique beauty, even though it was so clearly connected to hers beneath the surface.  Each time she was able to share treasure with another, her perspective and appreciation of it deepened.  She found that although her idea of adventure had changed dramatically since she began her journey, she was indeed living the life she was destined to live.

How To Succeed in Being Human (without really trying)

originally published at www.cadigancreative.com

“There is a Brotherhood of Man,
A Benevolent Brotherhood of Man,
A noble tie that binds
All human hearts and minds
Into one Brotherhood of Man.

Your lifelong membership is free.
Keep agivin’ each brother all you can.
Oh aren’t you proud to be
In that fraternity,
The great big Brotherhood of Man?”

–The Brotherhood of Man,
from “How to Succeed in Business (Without Really Trying)

OK, so I will admit, I kind of wish there were more women in this number. And some people may be put off by the fact that the quote above does not include a “sisterhood of women,” but when we talk about success, what I would really like to emphasize is the larger picture of a brotherhood and sisterhood of humanity.

I was recently invited to participate on a panel of women at Gettysburg College to discuss Sheryl Sandburg’s book, Lean In. I was a little nervous about this, because although I think that each chapter of the book offers wonderful advice, if I had to choose an ideal outcome, assuming a world full of people followed that guidance, I don’t necessarily share Sheryl Sandburg’s 50/50 vision. I guess it’s a possibility. It just doesn’t strike me as the most important consideration when defining success.

There was a time, as a younger woman, when I would have been reluctant to sit on a panel of highly career-oriented women to share my story. Even as I write this essay, I don’t want to give the impression that my career is not important to me – it is – and I am deeply thankful to the women who have pioneered before me, making it possible for me to have more choices as to what I want to do with my life. But my career is not at the root of my definition of success. I am 40 now (I love being 40), and I have two kids and a good bit of life experience under my belt, so I enthusiastically accepted the invitation to “lean in,” “sit at the table,” and say my piece, because as a woman and a human, I am honored to share what I believe is a viewpoint worthy of representation in this discussion.

I spent a large portion of my time on the panel speaking about how I have come to define success and leadership during my 40-year tenure as a human being. For me, the definition of success is pretty simple – it is not measured by job title, salary level or what house I can afford. These are limited benchmarks used to measure a “successful career” that often lead to defining one person’s success by comparing it to someone else’s. Although I love my job, and I am interested in success in my career, I am much more interested in having a “successful life.” And when I consider whether or not I am living a successful life, there are only two assessment questions I need to answer at the end of every day:

1. Am I happy?
2. Have I done something today to leave this world better than I found it?

This definition of success also shapes the way I think about leadership. When I think of inspiring leaders, the people who come to my mind are not necessarily those who have set out to attain a high-ranking position in a company or in government. Good leaders may or may not hold these types of positions because it is not one’s job description that defines her as a leader. The people I consider to be the most inspiring leaders are those who have passion and follow it fearlessly with the purpose of making a positive impact. They follow all of the advice in Sandburg’s book, but this may or may not result in choosing to climb a corporate ladder (or even play on the jungle gym). Fame, rank and title do not make good leaders – passion, service to others and integrity make good leaders. And we need all kinds of leaders. We need the women CEO’s and we need the stay-at-home moms; we need the kindergarten teachers and the social workers and the doctors and the presidents of the PTO, men and women, including the people who choose to serve humanity and lead without raising children at all. The world needs us all.

I recently read a blog entry by Glennon Melton, where she mentioned an interview during which she was asked whether she considered herself a leader, and if so, what that meant to her. She replied, yes, she is the “accidental leader” of many women, and she defined leadership as “joyful service.” I love that definition of leadership. THAT definition of leadership means that we can be leaders in every moment of every day by simply treating people with kindness, compassion and respect. THAT definition of leadership says that by treating people kindly and keeping our focus on doing the next right thing, we are teaching others to be more kind. We are recognizing that not only do I have a right to sit at the table and be heard, but everyone else does, too. We are acknowledging that we are all teachers and students to each other. This is not just a message for women – this is a message for humans. THAT kind of leadership makes me think of visionaries like Martin Luther King and Mother Theresa; people who selflessly dedicated their lives to serving others. Mother Theresa wasn’t an inspiring leader because of her job title. She was an inspiring leader because when people saw the passionate light aglow in her to help people and make the world a better place, they couldn’t help but want to follow her example.

I can practice joyful service with the President of the United States and by helping the bagger at my local grocery store. I can practice joyful service with my clients and my children and my husband and my family and my friends and my community … every single day.

The funny thing is, when I do these things – when I focus on treating the person in front of me as the most important person in the world, whether it is a new client or my son’s buddy at school, all kinds of opportunities seem to open up for me. I am suddenly invited to speak on a panel of successful women…and asked to serve on the Board of Directors at my local arts council…and forced to turn down new projects for work because my plate is just too full. I live in abundance. The externals, like my bank balance and what car I am driving, suddenly seem pretty trivial, but are also surprisingly always enough. And most importantly, I feel pretty darn happy. I think the Dalai Lama (another great leader, by the way) calls this phenomenon “wisely selfish.”

Am I happy? Have I done something today that makes the world a better place? These two questions provide an umbrella over every hat I wear in my life: mother, wife, sister, friend, daughter, businesswoman, human being. So, yes, I will continue to passionately imagine great things for myself without limiting the possibilities of what I can accomplish; yes, I will sit at the table and raise my hand and be fearless…but I will not define the success of my life by someone else’s idea of what that means. I will not replace one stereotype that limits women in the workplace with an alternative stereotype that defines leadership and success in a way that does not feel authentic to me. If I have done my best to be a successful leader during the course each day, there are no barriers left to overcome. And I have to wonder, if we could somehow collect data on success and leadership according to these definitions, would we find that 50% of our society actually IS being led by women? The answer is: probably. But I don’t know that it matters. My wish is for all humans to be successful, and the pathway to a successful life comes from each of us doing our part in the brotherhood and sisterhood of humanity.

A House Full of Geniuses

When I was eight or nine, my friend Karen had a bright purple bedroom.  Karen is a little older than I am, which made her infinitely cooler and wiser than I was.  One of the things I remember most specifically about her room back then was a Smurf poster that read, “Geniuses are rarely tidy.”  I remember thinking, “Yes.  YES.  This is most definitely true.” My plan at the time was to use this phrase from that point forward to combat all requests to clean my room or the bathroom or to do basically any other household chore.

It’s funny how specific, snapshot memories can creep up on you at unexpected times. Today – thirty-plus years after being exposed to that poster – I am cleaning my house.  I am preparing for guests who are visiting this weekend.  I still don’t like to clean.  And as I was begrudgingly vacuuming, wiping food off of kitchen chairs, and picking up socks in random rooms while choosing to ignore things that caught my eye under beds and couches (pretending I didn’t really see them and therefore surely no one else will notice either), I remembered that Smurf poster.  And I thought to myself, “Yes. YES.  Geniuses ARE rarely tidy.”  Then I smiled a big, proud smile, because clearly I live in a house full of geniuses.

Photos credits:
Einstein – www.npr.org
Smurfs – www.bluebuddies.com

Magic Words

When the kids were little, and we wanted to teach them good manners, we would prompt them with, “What’s the magic word?” before giving them whatever their latest desire happened to be.  They would respond with the “P” word, we would reward them by granting their request, and then prompt again with, “And now what do you say?”

“Thank you.”

This was an easier habit to teach to my son initially, who acquired language largely through rote repetition as a little guy. For him, “more-please” was learned as one word, and “thank you” was simply the routine that completed any transaction of this nature.  I have always been grateful for his polite manners in this regard.  Even when he had a rough day in pre-school, his teachers would note what good manners he had. My daughter required a bit more reminding to get into the habit – sometimes she still does — but I don’t worry about this at all, because I am fairly certain that she understands the deep meaning of the words, “thank you,” and the feeling that accompanies those words when you understand them.

The children each seem to approach gratitude in their own way.  For him, it is often a practice – a “fake it ‘til you make it,” so to speak – where the feeling follows, but not all the time.  She, on the other hand, is more likely to express it when she notices she is feeling it, which she notices more often than not, thankfully.  I think gratitude has to exist in both places – you have to practice it, so that when you find yourself in the midst of something awful, you are well trained in the habit of seeking out a hidden gift – you have the tools to “fake it ‘til you make it.”  And when you do feel it, you should practice identifying and expressing it, so that it continues to bloom and grow in all aspects of your life.

After my surgery, I went through a period of pretty deep depression.  My doctor told me this was because I had been diagnosed with the “C” word, which is depressing for most people in general.  I was fairly certain, however, (and later confirmed) that there was a physical component to my situation; that it wasn’t just psychological (not that this wasn’t enough reason to seek help).  Regardless of its cause, however, I was determined to pull myself out of the depths of darkness.  The first step I took toward this end was to start keeping a gratitude journal.

Every night, I would force myself to list five things for which I was grateful during the course of the day, and then I would rate the day from 1 to 10, with 1 being “totally in the crapper” and 10 being “ecstatic and filled with wonder and joy.”  After a few months of this, I realized a few things.  First, I confirmed that my most depressive episodes were very much aligned to the latter half of my menstrual cycle, confirming for me that there was indeed a physical component to be addressed.  But the other thing that I learned was that on the days that came closest to approaching a “10,” my gratitude list was comprised of incredibly simple things like “having enough creamer for my coffee this morning,” or “a warm fire on a cold day,” or simply “family.”  The best days were not necessarily colored by extraordinary experiences or huge gestures made by others – they were good days because I made the choice to find good in the mundane everyday things that surround me all the time.  I think gratitude may be the key to seeing the world as a magical place that is filled with miracles at every turn.  (For the record, balanced hormones are also incredibly helpful in this regard).

I am a big fan of the Einstein quote, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”  For those who want to see everything as a miracle, I think the magic words are simply, “thank you.”  Because when we choose to be thankful for what is, we aren’t just accepting life with indifference, or throwing up a white flag to surrender to our lot.  We are instead proactively seeking hidden gems in the darkest caves. With practice, we can find those treasures more and more often and with more ease, even on our darkest days.  The practice makes us actually thankful for the dark days, because we are trained in finding the gifts they have hidden for us.  This simple discovery has fundamentally changed me.

There was a time, not so long ago, that my husband would bring me red roses every year on our anniversary and on Valentine’s Day.  Sounds lovely, right?  And yet, there were years when the thought that went through my head was not, “Thank you,” but instead, “Doesn’t he know that I like tulips?”

Ooh…sometimes I want to slap that girl.

Well, not really.  I forgive her, and I am actually thankful for her.  It is because of her that I am speaking to you today .

What I really want to do is take her face gently in my hands, look into her eyes – deeply into the windows of her soul – and ask her to please just dig a little deeper.  Don’t just look at the color or variety of the flower in front of you.  Look beyond the flower to its origin.  The idea of this gift was born in the love of your husband’s heart.  It is his way of expressing romance and love and feelings that he has just for you.  THAT is what is in front of you.  A rose is NOT just a rose – THAT rose is filled with wonder and joy, but you have to open your eyes to see it.  The funny thing is that practicing gratitude has also made me feel freer to be open and honest with my feelings, and so I have since shared with my husband that tulips are actually my favorite.  And so now he brings me tulips.  But I think I might love dandelions just as much, because the practice of gratitude is not about the physical things around us as much as learning to witness the love that brought them here in the first place.

The funny thing about gratitude is that when I practice it regularly, I can feel surrounded by love even when I am all by myself.  And that is magic.  However, the magic is greater when I witness those moments simultaneously and in the same space as another human being.  With a single shared glance, over the course of a conversation, while playing music, while holding hands – the details of the transaction of gratitude are not as important as the fact that the experience is shared.  When that happens — wow –  that’s the stuff of fireworks.  That is when I feel most grateful that I get to experience all of the amazing, connecting varieties of love that this beautiful world has to offer, whether it is the mother’s love of a child, the bonding with my best girlfriend over a glass of wine, or a sweeping romantic love story that is set in the woods on a hike, or on the shore of a beach, or on my couch watching Mad Men — each variety of love has its sacred space in my heart, unique and special thanks to the person who made it possible to grow beyond just me.  Gratitude in a moment of solitude is magic.  Gratitude witnessed and shared in the presence of another … that’s when my cup runneth over.

My sincere gratitude to you for reading.

May you say the magic words and find miracles around every corner today.

Lessons from the Playground

My family and I spent Saturday at a state park where we hiked for a while until we reached a playground at the end of the trail.  It was a beautiful day; the first peek of spring getting ready to burst forth in all of its splendor, and it felt great to be outside basking in sunshine under tall trees with the people I love most.

The kids had been looking forward to reaching the playground during a good deal of the hike – particularly my son, who often forgets to realize that he is actually presently having fun.  He often chooses to look for what may be coming that’s potentially better in his future rather than realize that the moment he is already occupying is pretty good, too.  It leaves him disappointed a lot.  We are working on that.

By the time we reached the playground, both kids were happy to be there.  They had been getting along pretty well all day, which I always view as a small miracle, and I hoped their shared adventure would continue now that we had reached the much anticipated playground destination.

Unfortunately, though, shortly after arriving at the playground, my daughter tripped and fell on the suspension bridge, leaving a painful red mark on the side of her belly.  She started to cry.  My son rushed to her aid, trying to make her feel better, a little afraid that it might somehow be his fault, I think, because he often feels that everything is his fault (which sometimes it is, but not always – this is another thing we are working on).  He started to give her a big bear hug and sing a song we had made up for her when she was a baby.  She got angry and started yelling at him that she was NOT a baby.  Plus, the hug was TOO MUCH.  The brand of help he was offering was not what she needed at that time.  We tried to explain this to our son; to thank him for trying to help, to tell him we were so glad he was looking out for his sister, but that part of helping people is listening carefully to find out what they need and then to offer THAT to them, if you have it to offer.  The truth is, I am not sure my daughter really knew WHAT she needed, because when he finally left her alone she became angry that he wasn’t paying attention to her anymore.  He was frustrated that his efforts were unsuccessful.  She was looking for an apology for the stupidity of his efforts.  My guess is that she just needed a little alone time to allow the sting to go away, and then an acknowledgment from him that he loved her and understood how much it stinks to fall and hurt yourself; that he was there for her while she healed.  He couldn’t magically heal the red mark, though.  Her body was going to have to do that in cooperation with a little time and space.

Later, when we sat on the deck in our yard, my daughter’s previously bruised belly poking out of her shirt in the warm sunshine, I hoped that she was feeling the soothing rays of the sun more acutely than the bruise; that maybe the bruise was even making her a little more aware of the warm sun, so that she could convert her anger at the stupid playground equipment that bruised her and her brother who couldn’t adequately comfort her into gratitude for the warm sun that was presently soothing her skin.  I hoped her brother would check back in with her to see if she was OK later, when she was a little more open to feeling his unique (and sometimes trying) brand of love.

I am supposedly a grown up now, but I still hike and play the playground games from the points of view of both my son and my daughter. I don’t always know how to comfort the people I love when they need comfort.  I struggle with giving them what they need in the times that they need it.  And I can get really frustrated when my efforts don’t work.  On the plus side, I am getting better at living in the present and at looking within myself to heal some of my own wounds and find my own peace, although I still need to remember that

a)    having the space and time to look deeply is largely possible thanks to the people around me who make a gift of that time and space.  I can’t take that for granted.

And

b)   my methods of finding peace may not work for everyone. Pushing my methods to find happiness and peace onto others in an effort to “help” rather than just giving them the time and space to figure out how these things work for themselves is like giving big bear hugs and singing baby songs.

Hiking and playground games seem to be my life’s work.  I don’t think I will ever master the games; but I keep playing them and playing them, varying the methods and strategies to keep it interesting.  The longer I play, the more apparent the simplicity of the rules becomes, and yet the act of playing still makes me breathe as hard as I do when I hike up a mountain.  Somehow knowing that hiking to a playground is simply the act of putting one foot in front of the other doesn’t make the work of the actual hike any easier.  But with practice, I am finding that it is possible to enjoy the feeling of the burn in my muscles when I play hard.

Today I am thankful for the people in my life who play with me every day.  May we continue to play without keeping score, and graciously offer “do-overs” whenever necessary.  May we take breaks when we need to, help each other up and try again when we stumble and fall, revel in the best moments of the game, remember the best views on the hike, and use all of the memories to help us appreciate the new moments as they come.  And at the end of the day, we need to give a high-five to all of the beloved peeps on our team, saying, “Well done.  Let’s do it again tomorrow.”

Zen and The Mama Bear

When I was a little girl, we spent a lot of our vacation time in the Poconos. To this day, the smell of bug spray and pine needles and driving through winding, densely treed roads brings me back to the little house my uncle built with his own two hands in the woods of East Stroudsburg.

There is a black bear population in that area, and although I never actually saw one directly in front of me while I was growing up, I do remember staring in awe at the claw marks that were left in the screen on the porch one morning when we had accidentally left food out on the table.  I also remember various family members sharing their own “close encounters of the black bear kind,” describing creatures as shocked to see them as they were to come across a massive black bear.

The little bit of research I have done on black bears makes them strike me as fairly Zen.  Eighty-five percent of their diet is vegetarian, with the animal portion consisting mostly of insects like bees, as well as fish.  They keep mostly to themselves, scavenging for food and marking trees if they need to communicate with each other.  Confrontations with other animals are rare and usually due to hunger rather than any territorial claim (I can relate to this as I, too, am cranky when I get hungry).  They are quiet, gentle giants, minding their own business unless provoked, and even then, according to Wikipedia, “Black bears rarely attack when confronted by humans, and usually limit themselves to making mock charges, emitting blowing noises and swatting the ground with their forepaws.”

As a child, my mother warned me about the possibility of coming upon black bear cubs.  Apparently, one of my cousins found one once, and started playing with it – it was just so darn cute.  When his mother (my aunt) saw him with the cub, she whisked him into the house in a state of panic, because she knew that if there were cubs, the mother bear must be close by.  Our mothers explained to us that, yes, they are cute, but a bear cub’s mother, like all mothers, will become very protective of her young, and her sheer size is capable of killing you, even if she doesn’t mean to.

Sometimes I feel like a Mama Bear.  I try to mind my own business, avoid unpleasant confrontation, and I like to eat fish and veggies.  And I, too, feel it is my job to be fiercely protective of my young.  Like the Mama Bear, I try to coast through life pretty peacefully, but every now and then, something gets on my last nerve and I yell and stomp my feet.   Then I might emit a blowing noise (take a deep breath) and lumber away to collect myself.

When my son was three, he went through this phase where he would smack anything he saw that was red.  The phase just so happened to correspond with the holiday season, when on any given day countless people would walk by his stroller wearing festive red sweaters.  There was one instance when I was paying for a gift at the Children’s Place in our local mall, and my little Houdini somehow managed to wiggle his way out of the stroller buckle and underneath the snack tray to get out of his stroller.  Before I could catch him, he had toddled to the register next to us where an older woman in a bright red sweater was paying for her purchases.

SMACK.

Right across her back.

Now it couldn’t have hurt.  He was only three.  It was like being smacked with a Q-tip.  But I was really embarrassed.

I stooped down so that I could look him in the eye.  I was JUST about to say to him, “No hitting – we don’t hit people,” but before I could even get out, “Nnn,” the woman shocked us both by smacking him back.  Yup.  You heard me.  That woman smacked my child on HIS back.

I stood up in shock, silent for a moment, and then words came, although I didn’t know what they would be until after they were already out there.  They may as well have been grunts and blowing noises.

“Do NOT put your hands on my child.”

“He hit me first.”  (Seriously.  That’s what she said.)

“He’s three, Ma’am.  What’s your excuse?  I can’t teach him not to hit people if the grown-ups hit him back.”

There was a moment of tense silence.  The people working the registers were frozen.  The woman and I stared at each other eye to eye, wondering who would growl or retreat first.

“If he were MY child, I would give him a good spanking.”

“Well he’s not your child.  He’s MY child.  And you are not to put your hands on MY child.” (Grunt, stomp, stomp).

I was shaking.  She grumbled some more and left the store.  I thought of about 100 better things I could have said later.  Roaring things.  I don’t remember any of them now.

What would I do differently if it happened again today?  Maybe nothing.  As the Mama Bear, I said what needed to be said in defense of my child, and had she gone after him again in any other way, I may just have swatted her to the death.  Although not on purpose, of course.

I realize that writing this today may be a day (or seven years) late and a dollar short, but here is what I want to say to that woman as a human being rather than as a stunned Mama Bear:

Dear Lady in the Red Sweater,
I am sorry my three-year-old smacked you, but I stand by what I said, which is that you have no right to put your hands on him or any other person’s child.  We are never going to solve issues of violence and aggression in this world by modeling violent and aggressive behaviors.  We also need to respect other people’s parenting strategies, hopefully with a little kindness and with the understanding that we don’t have the whole picture of a family’s struggles when all we see a is the snapshot of those lives unfolding in public.  You will be happy to know that my son doesn’t hit people wearing red any more.

Sincerely,
Mama Bear of a Really Energetic Boy

I probably could have written that seven years ago, too.  But what I may not have considered back then that I can offer today thanks to a little time and perspective is this:

Dear Mama Bear of a Really Energetic Boy,
Please do not judge the lady in the red sweater.  She may have been having a really bad day/week/life.  A person who smacks a three-year-old stranger is likely having a much worse day than you are. You didn’t need to do anything more than what you did, which was to be the Mama Bear who protects her son and then knows when to walk away.

Peace.

Black bear original photo found at http://www.bear.org.

To Glow or not to Glow…That Was The Question

Also Known As
“My Story, Part 2 – The Aftermath:
Soaring Birds + Intuition + Statistics = Three Years Cancer-Free”

Following a total thyroidectomy, the typical protocol for treatment of thyroid cancer is Radioactive Iodine treatment (RAI).  This entails taking a pill(s) made out of some kind of radioactive poison strong enough to require that the pill-taker remains sequestered in a room without touching anyone, preparing food near others’ food, eating next to anyone or even sharing a toilet seat with anyone.  People burn their sheets when they are done with this treatment, I’ve heard.  But the doctors will reassure you that it’s really no big deal.  They will explain that it’s such a LOW dose of radioactive iodine, after all.  It won’t hurt YOU.  Just the people NEXT to you if you glow too close to them.  Oh, and your salivary glands may not work right anymore afterwards.  But really, that’s it.  Well, except that if you took the radioactive iodine in very LARGE doses it is possible that it could cause other cancers.  But yours are SMALL doses.  Teeny, tiny doses.  So it’s really no biggie.  Not that the doctors have necessarily ever taken the pill themselves.  Do I sound bitter?  I really don’t mean to sound bitter.

Don’t get me wrong – I get it.  The benefit of preventing recurrences of thyroid cancer is supposed to outweigh the risks of the RAI treatment. RAI irradiates any remaining thyroid tissue (cancerous or not), giving doctors a better baseline for reading future blood work, while simultaneously wiping out any remnant cancer cells that could have been missed during surgery.  And for many thyroid cancer patients, this makes perfect sense.  I have three dear friends who have also had thyroid cancer, and for all three of them, RAI was a no-brainer.  (Yes, we became friends primarily for thyroid cancer support – it’s like a little club).  But not all cancers are created equally. Their cancers were different from mine; theirs were papillary carcinomas, which had already spread to other areas in their necks and lymph nodes.  Prevention of recurrence as well as killing remnant cells with RAI was absolutely necessary for them.  My cancer, on the other hand, was a follicular carcinoma – less common than the papillary, less likely to recur, although if it does come back, it comes back in scary places like your brain, lungs and/or bones.  That said, pathology results after my surgery had shown that my cancer had not spread anywhere.  Mine was “totally encapsulated, with no vascular invasion.”  This means that I had this slightly-larger-than-a-grape-sized ball of cancer in my neck with a nice thick membrane around it that kept it all in one tidy place. Remove the ball, cancer gone.  No remnant cancer tissue – it’s all INSIDE the ball, and the ball is gone (along with the rest of my thyroid, which appeared to be healthy, but apparently, one can never be too careful).  Not to mention, after seeking second and third opinions, only two out of three doctors were calling my ball “cancer.” (First opinion=cancer; second opinion=not cancer; tie-breaker=cancer).  Although the cancer identifiers were in the majority, it was not a unanimous decision.  Apparently even science is open to interpretation; it is not all cut and dry, which made me think that as a smart girl with a lot at stake, I had an active role in this decision.  In my mind, the “facts” surrounding my case told me that surgery had likely solved the problem. Done and done. There was no need for poison and quarantine.

My surgeon did not agree.  He thought I should do the RAI.  It was protocol, after all.  But something in my guts was telling me not to do it.  It was not just that I had small children; kids who were already a little freaked out that their mother had been in the hospital and then incapacitated for a while to recover from the “boo boo in her neck.” I certainly didn’t want to have to explain to them why I couldn’t live in the same house, hug them or tuck them in for two weeks, but I could have gotten past that if I really thought the RAI was necessary.  I even tried to talk myself into the idea that two weeks of quarantine might be nice – maybe I would teach myself to play the guitar.  I would certainly read a lot, write a lot, and try to enjoy the “alone time” that moms always wish for, remembering to be careful of what I wish for in the future.  But I had a deeply intuitive feeling of overall health telling me that I didn’t need this treatment.  Not right now.

Once I was back on my feet after the surgery, I started running again.  I would go for a run, and get into that happy Zen place where the sunshine makes my skin tingle, and I would just feel and know that my body was healthy.  I would be filled with this overwhelming sense of gratitude, feeling connected to the whole world around me.  I would notice soaring birds a lot on these runs (turkey vultures mostly), and when I saw them, I would imagine that they were flying with me; that they were somehow confirming information from a higher source of intelligence.  Sometimes I could vividly picture in my mind’s eye the birds’ perspective of what it must look and feel like to fly over the trees.  Whenever I felt that tingly feeling of happiness during a run, the birds would appear, and the thought that would occur to me was, “Yes, you are correct – you DO see the big picture, and your body is healthy.  There is no need for anything else.”  And in those moments, I knew with absolute confidence that I was OK.  I know this sounds a little crazy.  But learning to live in the present moment has often left me feeling pretty spectacularly connected to nature, and in those moments, I just knew from the core of my being that the cancer was gone.  And I think that maybe…just maybe…those beautiful soaring birds knew it, too.

I decided to change doctors.  I had planned on doing that anyway – I had just had such a terrible experience at our local hospital.  So my husband and I set off for the big city to see a big-wig thyroid expert with a lot of cred.  I will call him “Dr. P.” The “P” is for “Puppy,” because sometimes when I tell him what I am thinking and feeling he cocks his head ever-so-slightly to the side as he listens.  Just like a puppy when it’s considering an unfamiliar situation, or it is perhaps slightly confused.  When Dr. P. does this, it can be very endearing, or it can make me feel a little crazy.  But make no mistake; Dr. P. is a very smart, highly reputable endocrinologist at a renowned hospital, and he seems like a very nice man with all good intentions and a lot of knowledge and resources at his disposal.  All good things in a doctor monitoring a person for cancer recurrence.

Dr. P. also initially recommended the RAI.  The factors pushing the case over the edge for him were 1) the idea that “majority rules” in terms of diagnosis, and 2) the size of the nodule that had been removed.  For nodules 1 cm or less, RAI is not always recommended.  Mine was 4 cm.  Not even borderline, but like I said, I just knew.  So I made my case to Dr. P.  I explained to him that my husband and I had done the research, and after reading the studies and statistics, we had figured out that if I did the RAI, there was a 99% chance of non-recurrence.  But if I DIDN’T do the RAI, there was still a 94% chance of non-recurrence.  PLUS, the treatment protocol for recurrence was EXACTLY THE SAME AS THE PREVENTION.  This made it seem a ridiculous no-brainer to me.  Why on earth would I pump my body full of poison unless it was undeniably necessary?  I told him I could live with the 5% difference, knowing that if it came back, it’s that slow-growing-cancer that everyone tells you is the one you want if you were ever forced to pick a cancer, right?  (For the record, I hate it when people say that – I’m glad I’m OK, but thryoid cancer has its pretty sucky moments).

Dr. P. cocked his head, considering this strange girl, her strange logic, and her willingness to argue with accepted protocols while simultaneously on the verge of very non-scientifc, emotional girly-tears (Don’t worry – I didn’t tell him about the birds).  He conferred with his colleagues, and he ultimately agreed that I didn’t have to do the RAI.  At least not right now.  He agreed to follow me without the RAI, as long as I agreed to have my blood work done religiously every three months, and with the understanding that we weren’t necessarily closing the door on RAI forever.  Deal.

February 17, 2013 marks three years since my surgery.  I am three years cancer-free, baby  - Yahoo!  And I feel great.  Possibly better than I have ever felt before.  It certainly hasn’t all been sunshine and soaring birds, but today – right now – I feel really good.  Over the past three years, there have been a lot of experiments with vitamins, exercise, diet, creams, therapy, etc. to balance my hormones to get to this lovely, happy place (you would be AMAZED at how a body can react when its hormonal powerhouse is surgically removed and its function substituted with pharmaceuticals – not to mention, the “c” word can do a number on your psyche).  There have also been moments when my blood work has shown bizarre little jumps; moments when I have taken pause, felt real fear and cried a lot of tears.  But overall, things are really, really good.  And up to now, I have always had hopeful, intuitive explanations for the blood work jumps, and when we have re-tested, so far I have always been right.  But perhaps these things are fodder for another essay at another time.

The lesson I take from all of this is that I am learning to listen to my body.  I trust it.  I love it.  I know that it is connected to my mind and spirit, and when everything is in balance, I get good information from all three sources, and life is really, really sweet.  I do carefully consider the research and knowledge of my doctors, and I respect their experience and advice, but I also know that medicine is a “practice” – there is no “perfect,” which means that my opinions and instincts about my own body count, too.  And frankly, no one knows my body better than I do.  In this particular situation, Dr. P’s willingness to endorse a treatment plan without RAI confirmed my thought that in my case, the RAI plan was intended to err on the side of caution.  Another patient’s conclusion in the same situation may have been entirely different than mine – but I don’t think that there are wrong answers, as long as you know you can make peace with the consequences of whatever you decide.  I am quite pleased with the outcome of my decision so far.  Quite pleased indeed.

Three years cancer-free, baby…and no RAI in sight for me…at least for today.

Want to read more about my cancer story?

My Story – The Prequel: Yoga, Qi Gong & Belief in Impossible Things

My Story – Part 1: Statistics, Probability & Cancer

Photo © Kathryn Mann, Original can be found here:  http://oklahomabirdsandbutterflies.com/cat/3/18