Don't Ask, Do Tell

We'd like to think that we live in a democracy. We operate as a republic. We'd like to view our history as a series of triumphs by and for the people, the kind of struggles that my cousin made a career out of writing about. So we like to make any and every issue we can open to a vote. Not doing so goes against the fabric of the nation; it is anti-American. However, certain facets in human nature, namely, in the case I'm about discuss, the fear of what is different, will prevent us from making a decision that ultimately serves our interest. As a result, our vote hurts us in the long run.

In a perfect society, we could put every issue up to a vote, and rest assured that every opinion would be completely unbiased. Unfortunately, we are and will always be imperfect. And so we sometimes must be protected from our own nature. This is the case with civil rights.

We have put LGBT rights up to a vote in several states, hoping that the public will bolt the closet open when it's ready. The result of those efforts is that 39 states currently do not support gay marriage. A military officer can still be fired for disclosing his or her sexuality.

Civil rights efforts in the past were not successful because they were put up to a vote. They were successful because they used force. They would have their rights, and they wouldn't see otherwise. That meant refusing to sit in the back of the bus. It also meant finding one key figure who knows how to get a point across, but is also non-threatening enough to be identifiable with people who normally wouldn't consider patronizing the gay rights movement. That is, the LGBT community needs its own Martin Luther King. A few figures have come close (i.e Harvey Milk), but none have become universal symbols of the community.

Only when those rights are won can we begin to educate. Just as we are taught to respect other students, regardless of their ethnicity, religion, or skin color, (and that experimentation with religion, or conversion to another, is also okay), we need to be taught to respect others for their sexuality and how they choose to express it (as in clothing choices or their partner(s). When we have been taught to respect sexuality in others, we can learn to accept it in ourselves. And that means a society that is more open to experimentation, and even sexual fluctuations. We may not always be permanently gay, straight, or bisexual. Only when we realize that our desires change can we be subconsciously satisfied.

Ideally, a society should be devoid of labels. There should be no gay, straight, transgender, or bisexual-only sexual. Just as there would be no race, religion, (or anything else John Lennon may have imagined). But, because we think in terms of what we are not, we will label (i.e "He likes men. He is gay. I'm straight. I'm labeling him to describe how he is different"). And we either take solace in our own label, or we learn to fear the other label. A gay man might take pride in being gay, and a straight man might be afraid of homosexuality. Regardless of label, however, sexuality is a part of our nature. It is as fundamentally human as race. And it's not going anywhere. So if we learn to come to terms with it, and not spend our energy fighting it, we will be a more content society that is able to devote our time to other matters. We will have a bigger, more skilled army because we're not turning away gay soldiers. We will be able to tackle global warming or the deficit sooner because we're not discussing gay marriage. And you have my vote on that.

The Sydney Carton Complex

We grow up, naturally, to look up to parents. When we are in any particular dilemma, we think that they can provide our solution. Alternately, they give us someone to emulate (or to oppose completely). Either way, we exist to please or live in spite of them. If we do not learn to sever the tie enough to become our own person, we will continue to need someone to cling to, long after we have grown up and moved into our own homes. Many times, we will cling to friends or lovers. They become our new "parents", so to speak. We will live for them, and their opinion on us becomes a be-all, end-all.

When I first read A Tale of Two Cities, I made the same conclusion that (most) analysts make. Sydney Carton stopped drinking, stopped pitying himself, and, ultimately, became, to quote Depeche Mode, a "martyr for love". To give your life for someone you love is considered the epitome of sacrifice, particularly for a culture that's afraid of death.

Apply what I said above, and you get a whole new perspective. If the desire to cling to someone else stems from an inability to separate from parents, then Carton's actions were not the heroic deed they've seemed. They're the product of living off of a parent "substitute". Much the way we, as a society, are raised to look for instant gratification, even if it's not the true solution to our problems, anyone who has not separated (to become his or her own person) will look for someone else to cling to. This trait is especially prevalent in addicts; it's largely the reason for twelve step programs. It's the reason that interventions are successful. If the addict lives by clinging to others, then he or she will only stop if he or she sees who the addiction is harming. An addict rarely ever quits purely for his or herself.

There is an alternate perspective on why Carton acted the way he did, and the ultimate symbolism of his action. One considers his social status; he's not a noble man who dies to protect Charles Darnay. In a Christian school of thought, Darnay's sin would be his social class; he's a noble (One of the seven deadly sins is gluttony). Manette's sin could have been getting involved with him in the first place. By sacrificing himself in place of Darnay, Sydney Carton died for someone else's sins. So Carton could have very well been Jesus. (And, alternately, Dickens could have been writing a Christian novel.)

Dickens may not have even known what he was thinking when he wrote A Tale of Two Cities. The novel works because it is embedded in human nature to have this desire to cling. We value self-sacrifice. It's the reason that Jesus is one of our heroes. And, because of this inability to separate (and learn that we need to take care of ourselves), we develop this idea that pain, for a higher cause, is good. When we starve ourselves in the name of human rights, our suffering is valued. We tend to suffer in the name of what is valued when we are growing up. An anorexic suffers for fashion (or, in some cases, attaining the perfect body, the only thing that an anorexic may not feel is perfect about him or herself). The alcoholic drinks for his or her family; the addict may feel inferior as a parent (possibly because the alcohol has made them that way), so the alcohol serves as a way of suffering for any shortcomings.

What I am proposing is not a better way to suffer. The anorexic does not need another reason to starve, and the alcoholic does not need to have his or her drinking justified. Rather, we begin to encourage separation earlier on, and more thoroughly. This does not mean throwing children out the minute they turn eighteen. It means teaching them how to take initiative, and how to figure out what they want and who they are. And, they will most likely be mature enough to be able to figure out those big problems on their own at one point or another. Then you have to let go.

These can all start in small steps. It's letting your child arrange their own guitar lesson at thirteen, or being aware of their own needs (i.e Going to the store for stringed cheese instead of asking you to buy it for them). I did not start taking initiative until I turned nineteen, after illness taught me that I am too pressed for time to waste it relying entirely on my parents. It shouldn't take an illness to start the process. And you will have to start it for them. But they will keep it going.

They'll move out and get a job. And maybe, if they'll find that person worth living for, they will also know how to walk away.

Stop Starving. Start Playing.

Music, that is. I rarely talk about my history (however brief it was) dealing with an eating disorder. When I was seventeen, I went on a diet, along with my parents. I felt that, because of academic pressures, I was being pulled in three places at once, and had little control over where I would land. And I loved the results I achieved losing twenty pounds, so I tried to lose thirty. Only my dieting was just a little too drastic by that point. I ate eight hundred calories a day; the recommended caloric intake for a seventeen year old girl is two thousand. I would walk up to 90 minutes a day, and then go home a do an hour of advanced (We're talking Cathe advanced) kind of step.

I used to play guitar; the time I used to spend practicing was spent dieting, overexercising, and taking laxatives. My Mom used to fight with me to get me to eat. When, after a few months, she finally realized she wasn't winning, she gave me a taste of the kind of treatment I would be getting if I didn't learn to love my body...and fast. She took me to an eating disorder clinic, where I was examined as though I was a specimen or a number, and not a person. The experience scared me witless. I had no idea exactly what recovery entailed, but I knew I had to try. I only allowed myself to exercise up to 45 minutes a day, incorporated weights into my regimen (saying goodbye to the Twiggy look), and stopped weighing myself and counting calories. I went on a dieting holiday. (I eat healthier now, but I approach it from a perspective of overall health, and not a number on a scale.)

During my Senior year of high school, I barely wrote. I didn't even think of music. I wasn't naturally talented the first go round, so there was no reason to start playing now. The urge didn't come back until Crohn's Disease sidelined me from college. I had enough spare time, so I started thinking about learning an instrument. At first, I wanted to trade in my guitar for the piano. But I wasn't ready to start anything I had to commit to, so I let myself forget it. I forgot it until I returned to school in the summer. I had to take either an art or music class for a college requirement, so, naturally, I chose music.

When I first entered, I sat in the back. I had no intention of participating, let alone taking up an instrument. I wouldn't take up anything I wasn't good at, where I had to work. I took every mistake I made personally; it was a statement on me as a person. If I made a mistake, I was stupid. I tried to shut myself away from the piano in my classroom. It didn't mean I succeeded.

The way my professor played reminded me of the way I used to play. He would shoot his keys a steely look as he approached them. He was attacking them with his eyes. I saw Ana in the keys. And so I realized I had no choice. Regardless of my natural aptitude, music was a forum for me to wrestle Ana. I knew guitar, so if I was going to start playing an instrument, I might as well play one I already knew (That, and I don't have enough space for a piano). So, once summer school was finished, I started taking guitar lessons again. My chords were muffled. I didn't care.

Ana, like anything else, is a steady battle. When you just want to do something simple, like drink bubble tea, you will see her lean and hungry look. She is forcing you to be lean and hungry with her. In situations like these, you cannot always project your feelings publicly. But you can take it out on your instrument. Play as loudly as you can. Crescendo. That is Ana. In her wig and her toothless grin. She's too hungry for teeth.

Society does not always like emotion. And so we are taught to suppress. Until you come to terms with food enough to start eating freely, there is nothing wrong with this. However, you will eventually be faced with your triggers. Unless you learn how to have that battle with yourself, so to speak, you will be afraid of your triggers. Find a forum for self-expression, and they will lose significance. So that bubble tea will just be bubble tea.

One session alone does not do it. Ana does not go away, and neither should your desire to keep playing. So let her have it. You may find a talent you never knew you had.

That iPad I've Been Wanting

When I was being prepped for surgery, my grandmother visited. She saw me gaunt, pale, and in the middle of a blood transfusion. She was used to seeing me reading, thinking, and seizing life. She didn't know what to think, let alone what to say to me. So she promised me an iPad when I got out of the hospital. I used to be a gadget addict. So when someone promised me another one, especially in my particular condition, I was overjoyed. My grandma felt comfort in seeing me smile. She did a mitzva. Everyone wins.

Not exactly. I hung on her word when she promised me one. Weeks and weeks passed by. No iPad. She mentioned getting one several times on the phone and several more on the rare occasion that I would see her. So I assumed that the iPad was in the mail, and that it would arrive any day. I still have an iPad. Only it's invisible.

I should be angry. She reneged on a deal. And for many months, I was. Not necessarily because I still don't have an iPad, but she used me to make herself seem generous, when I was too weak, both mentally and physically, to see through her efforts. However, I'm not angry anymore. The way she acted was not her fault. It's an example of how we're conditioned in society.

When we're little, how do we express the desire for happiness? It's a toy or a cookie. Little kids often see happiness more as pleasure-a short term state. Which is normal. It's the way we propel this mentality that isn't. We're rewarded when we get good grades, or when we do our chores by things. We get that toy we've been eyeing. We're given a Hershey bar.

So, as a result, we grow up, confusing happiness with pleasure. Happiness is an iPhone or a piece of chocolate cake. As a result, we go into debt and we become overweight. As we buy more and eat more, we are prevented from discovering why we are unhappy. Our unhappiness is good for business; Apple makes record profits and Hershey gets more airtime.

Even when we see the negative effects of the way we live, we still can't fix our situation because we are conditioned to think in short term solutions. What will make me happy right now? The result is the emergence of fad diets and credit card scams. We start out with the right intentions. But because we don't think ahead, our attempts to solve our problems can do more harm than good.

The answer is to reconsider what we use as a coping mechanism. It isn't an easy solution. This requires learning how to substitute short-term thinking for long-term thinking. And it requires serious thought. What are the things that are making you unhappy and how do we change it? Oftentimes, we will find out that what we need to make us happy costs less (and it doesn't require a gym membership).

That doesn't mean that we need to eliminate materialism from our lives altogether. Everything must exist in moderation. If Grandma showed up at my doorstep with an iPad, I would take it. Alternately, I still love cheesecake. However, these things should come second, after we have found what makes us happy. If you still want that Android? Carry on.

So You're Shy

You've even shifted your ideas about how the world works a few times over. And you're an open-minded intellectual. So you look for that special friend who likes exactly what you like.

The bad news: You're not that special.
The good news: You're not that special.

Nobody will like exactly what you like-exactly the way you like it. You can either sit around and feel sorry for your oh-so-smart self, or you can accept that being different is a part of life. And you learn to like it.

You've gone through high school shunning everyone who wasn't nearly as talented as you are. Now, college comes around and you're tired of having nothing to do on a Saturday night. What do you do?

You start small. Nobody ever magically becomes the life of a party in one day. And right now, you'd probably like to just be invited to one. Just because people are different doesn't mean they have to be complete opposites. Take one thing you'd like to share in common and build on that. Have a passion for writing? Join the school newspaper. Find other people who like to write. You might even learn a little bit from them.

This one's a given, but join a crapload of clubs. It doesn't matter that you were the Vice President of your high school Key Club and you can still smell the brownies you burned...er...baked for Language Club in your kitchen. It's not high school anymore. You've had the summer to shake off all those connections. Well, do you want to start meeting people or not?

Get a job. No, I don't care that the Sociology paper you've been living to write is due in one month. Find something you like to do. Love animals? Become a professional dog walker. Want to help people get in shape? Become a personal trainer. I understand the economy sucks right now. We're all feeling it. You may not wind up with that perfect job. So work as a Starbucks barista. Then you and your coworkers can go out after and all talk about how much your job sucks.

Can't find a job? Or maybe you've found one, but taking twenty credits a semester doesn't leave enough time. Volunteer work gives a more flexible schedule (So you're not always stuck with the 9-5 grind). Alley Pond Environmental Center assigns every volunteer one day a week. That's it. You do what you love and you meet a few other people who love doing it. And you still have time to write that paper. Easy.

So you've tried to get a job and you've been turned down. Or you really couldn't stand working as a Starbucks barista. And APEC wasn't your thing either. And you don't want to spend more time in school than you already are. You don't have to get social just yet, if you really think you're not ready.

Make a list of a few things you've always wanted to do. You don't have to be talented at any of them. You might be downright horrible. Doesn't matter. You're not trying to make a living off of them. They could be small. I've always wanted to learn how to tap dance. So I'm taking an introductory class next semester. I'm not going to be a Broadway star. But I've always wanted to do it, and, well, what's the point of thinking of things you want to do if you're not actually going to do it?

If you're still reading...wait...you're still reading? Well, Mr. (or Ms.) shy intellectual, the world is yours...if you want it. You're witty and you have more than your share to contribute to the world. Start small. Just as long as you start.

After Howie, A New Dilemma

My summer reading has been considerably lighter by what I'd hoped it'd be. And when I say light, I mean I'm reading Tragedy and Hope. The idea that we are a nation ultimately dominated by economic interest, that the world is a sum of its economic interest, is hardly new. It's been the premise of every other song I've ever listened to since I was seventeen. The significance of the individual against an international economic interest is hardly a new idea either.

I used to toot around my relation to Howard Zinn as though it was proof of my academic pedigree. And yes, it is a pedigree. The smarts don't just come from my mother. They come from her side. The Zinns have a history of turning out math professors, religious scholars, and one writer. I am the second to come along.

Partially out of respect for Howard's legacy, and partially because I do not want to live in the Zinn shadow, I made the decision to focus on the quiet desperation of everyday life, rather than the quiet desperation of anyone in a particular social class. Becoming political places me in a precarious position; I must do politics  better than Howard Zinn. If I make my name as a writer, comparisons will follow. They are inevitable. If I decide to write with a political message in mind, unless I do politics far differently or better than Zinn, I will be seen as a shadow of the man. 

What do you do if you're Howard Zinn's cousin?  The point of my writing is largely lost if you do not ask that question. The short stories I post, particularly "Choices", about a political disagreement between a father and daughter, attempts to answer it. You look at politics as a destructive force in the home, and, in analyzing how it severs relationships instead of fostering unions, you find a new angle of oppression. 

How do you get political if you're Howard Zinn's cousin? The answer, on the surface, is that you don't. Politics becomes a metaphor for the dynamic in the home, and, rather than the call to action that Howard wanted, a forum onto which parents latch on for their need for control, and onto which their children latch on as a means to express their need for individuality. The inability to reconcile (and, arguably, the loss of focus) means a lack of cooperation and the futility of politics.  

This has been my solution for the three years that I have been writing. Which brings me back to Tragedy and Hope. It's a book based on history that I've already learned; however, it's assembled to shake the reader. Whether Quigley intended it or not, it implies, to me, that our lives may be dominated by the economy, but they don't have to be. And I find the urge to become politically active. Because any political experiences I have will inevitably filter into my writing, I cannot promise I will always stay neutral. 

But I try.

The Post Surgery Letdown

Your surgeon will always promise the best outcome. And sometimes, when they're predicting your outcome, they exaggerate. Mine promised that my body would only take six weeks, and then I would be
able to eat as much roughage as I want, and be as active as I want.

A piece I studied in music, called "The Gallbladder Operation", tries to depict surgery for those who have never experienced it. The piece was written before IVs, or painkillers, when people would be held down during an operation until they were in too much pain to think about running away. Even if we aren't tying people down anymore, anyone who has ever been in this position knows that the same uncertainty still exists. By agreeing to be operated on, you are placing your life in someone else's hands. And if you are going to be put to sleep, you not only have no control over your body, but you cannot see what's happening to it. Sensational stories in the news about patients having the wrong organ removed don't help the situation.

If you have enough energy to think, these possibilities probably circle around your head, and hit you full on when you sign the release. You do it anyway, because you know that this is your last option. But you do not want to give up control, so you keep your eyes open until you can't see straight.

The battle does not end when you go to sleep. It does not end when the operation's over. And it certainly does not end after six weeks. It's continues as long as you do. The test comes, not on the days that you feel as though nobody's ever manipulated your body, but on the days where you have an extra ache in your shoulder, a headache, or a stomach ache.

In my first college semester, I took twelve credits. When my classes were over, I used to sit in Klapper Hall, wondering where I'd get the energy to finish any of my schoolwork. I cried. Now, you'd be hard-pressed to see me without a smile. If I attributed my newfound happiness to my perfect health, I would be lying. My body is not the same as it was before I was ever operated on. If I'm out in the heat too long, if I overeat, or even if I overexercise, I pay the price the next day. There are many imperfect days. But for every imperfect day, I have four perfect ones. And I'll take that over the alternative any day.

What Fitness Has Helped Me Realize

When I initially traded time I would spend playing guitar for working out, I did it because I was getting out of breath changing my sheets or walking for fifteen minutes at a clip. I initially despised gym time (and would take every opportunity to avoid going). But I kept going because I knew that my body would thank me in the long run.

I never became an athlete because I wanted to be Jack Lalanne or Lance Armstrong. If I run one 5K in my lifetime, I'll be pleased. Many people who make the commitment to fitness never become legendary athletes. But they do it because they like it and it's healthy. There are days when the whole world seems to conspire against me; I miss the bus, come in late to class, and get handed that music quiz I forgot to study for. And I try to take out my angst on the guitar, but I miss every chord. I try to pen a story, but I have writer's block. So I get out a DVD, a punching bag, some kickboxing gloves, and sweat it out. I probably look awkward kicking around in my living room (and I probably scare the hell out of my guinea pigs) but I do it anyway. And, when I'm all cooled down, I feel better because I had something to kick around. I don't win any gold medals. I'm not trying to.

We can say that certain fields are our "calling", so to speak. We're just so damn talented in the field we choose, such as athletics, writing, music, or art. But circumstances made those fields click for us. If I didn't have a rotten day, kickboxing might not have appealed to me. And if I didn't change my own sheets, I might not have realized that I wasn't physically conditioned in the first place. (So, thanks, Mom, for giving me chores.) These fields are, ultimately, coping mechanisms; their existence as a means of expression is an example of kindness in an unkind world. Someone I know said that one of the reasons he plays piano is to remind himself that there is still beauty in the world. I write to describe all of the ugliness I see around me. Maybe, if enough people read my work, I might motivate them to change society for the better. 

These are all small. People see my writing and they dismiss it as not being uplifting. But for every complex story is an underlying message and an example of what must be changed. The father and the daughter learn to reconcile in spite of their differences. The politician discovers his true identity, even if it means that he's not a politician at all. 

We spend considerable amounts of time pleasing others. We write up that report for our boss. We get a job because we don't want to spend the rest of our lives living on Ramen noodles. We study because we know we'll be grounded if we don't (Or, in my case, because I don't want math books aimed at my head.)

At the end of the day, we don't see our bosses, professors, or parents in the mirror. We see ourselves. We all need to, eventually, enter the work world. And, if there's anything I've learned from my previous experiences, it's that life is finite. So there is no point spending time doing something we don't believe in. And that may mean becoming a personal trainer, college professor, social worker, police officer, or any combination of those. 

My cousin wrote that you can't be neutral on a moving train. Our lives are constantly moving forward. There is nothing wrong with sitting to enjoy the scenery. Sit down too long, however, and we may not know what stops we're passing.

A Short Story

Speculation

            “You’ve got your mother’s smarts”, he said. I had told him that he knew my mother.  I mentioned the name of his high school they attended and even went far enough to throw out her name. He just wasn’t connecting the dots. So I finally blurted it out.

            “I’m her daughter.”

            He began to tell me about what a wonderful person he knew her to be. How I had her round face, but not her long hair. I would’ve told him how that was the closest I would get to going bald, in support of those with Crohn’s and colitis who are too malnourished to grow their own hair, and how my brother almost thought he had one of them a few days before I cut it, but that was neither here nor there. He had hardly had a conversation with my mother. From what she told me, he refused to talk to anyone who wasn’t in his classes.

            He had learned to bind himself only to those who pushed himself academically. And he pushed himself. His father was a math teacher there, and I suppose he refused to have an anti-intellectual son. So he made him read A Tale of Two Cities. Told me he liked the book, but he couldn’t remember who said the last quote. Even fought me when I said it was Sydney Carton.

            But he admitted he was wrong. And he admitted that was my field, not his. And that was the most he could ever give you. He had this antagonistic personality when it came to books. He liked an argument, but he loved winning even more than arguing. So he would hammer his students into submission, speaking over them until they just realized they shouldn’t be speaking at all.

            Where it all turned I will never know. Probably had something to do with some poem I wrote in twenty minutes. It was about a pianist succumbing to syphilis. He played piano. Says he took it up after he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Something about needing to look for the beauty in life. Either that or life was too short to do what he was doing. And what he was doing wasn’t working anyway.

            He was a premed major. I guess that’s what all the whiz kids liked to do. Either that or his father put him up to it. I’ve seen enough profiles of perfectionists in the making to know who decides for them. He had probably been listening to Chopin and Haydn, because his father, trying to prop him up to become the academian he wasn’t, knew that everyone who made a living at it had to be well rounded. And nothing would be more well rounded than a mathematition or a scientist who knew about classical music.

            He was told to know just enough to be able to mention the composers in passing. But not enough to like it. And he liked it. So he kept listening to “The Surprise Symphony” with his door closed, telling his father he was working on some problem that had stumped his high school math team. He was enamored by all of the layers of variations within the “Surprise Symphony”, and the way it suddenly crescendoed midway into the second movement. He tried to analyze it again and again. He was taking out all the books he could find on Haydn, hidden beneath the biology books his father was making him read to prep him for his major. College wasn’t for two years. Which meant that he was just early enough to study it intensely.

            He was going to Yale. He hadn’t applied yet, but his father would drill him until he was a shoo-in. So he buried himself in textbooks on the human anatomy. He tried to balance it with his taste for music. But as he grew closer to the application date, he realized he couldn’t find time for the two. He reassured himself that the music was only a hobby; he only had something to gain from having ever listened to it in the first place. But he was still too enamored with what he was hearing, so he weaned himself off it by one hour every day. It was one week and he was off of it.

            He promised himself that he’d get back to it, when he had established himself in Yale. He scraped by. He was getting As. His father pretended not to boast about it. He told everyone he ever met. That reputation required maintenance. So his father encouraged him to keep at it. And he was spending more and more hours buried in his medical books until he wasn’t sleeping.

            He couldn’t sleep. He had this pounding in his head. Starting every midnight. It was downright rhythmic. He was 23 and close to his degree. So he grinned and bore it, promising himself he’d take care of it once he was in grad school.  But the headaches turned to dizziness, and he was only comfortable turning his body to the left side when he lied down. He finally walked into an emergency room when he realized he wouldn’t be able to see his diploma.

            It was initially chalked up to exhaustion. He thought he’d be given a pill and walk home the next day. But he was feverish. He was told to stand up straight just so he could be taken for a cat scan. He stumbled onto the floor. Paramedics normally would worry more about stabilizing someone in his shape than running tests. But something seemed indescribably different about this case. So they laid him flat and waited for a doctor to examine what he could make out in a CAT scan. There were these little white bumps scattered along his brain. They were actually pretty difficult to make out; it wasn’t the size, but the location. The bumps were pressing on his occipital lobe, which explained why he had trouble seeing straight.

            There had been several year remissions reported for several similar cancers, with some new techniques called chemotherapy and radiation. This wasn’t one of them. The average patient with this kind of cancer was given one year. He had six months. Chemo might extend it one week; combined with radiation he was given another two months.

            The most effective option was a new surgery where only the affected areas could be removed. But fifty percent of patients lost their sight completely. Another thirty-five couldn’t be accounted for, because they didn’t make it past the operation. He hesitated at first. If he survived, he would go back to a major he didn’t like pursuing, and to lab work he didn’t look forward to doing. He would’ve rather had cancer kill him a long time ago. But he did it, because his father reassured him that a fear of death kept him back. He was afraid that the operation would kill him; if he didn’t have it, he’d die anyway and he’d die a chicken shit. He made the appointment for that Friday.

            Doctors had kept him under supervision. He stayed in a white robe, looking at books he couldn’t read. He tried to count the pages in A Tale of Two Cities. He couldn’t hold the book straight. So he just kept his eyes closed and wondered if and when they would just roll back into his head.

            They were nailed open. And so he occupied himself with whatever mindless programming was on TV, while he watched his body atrophy. He was encouraged by several nurses to walk around, because it meant less of a chance he would be on life support post surgery.

            He didn’t care enough to get up. He’d seen prettier scenery. Several trays of food were brought over. He turned away all of them. Eventually, nurses stopped bothering him, telling any new ones on staff to stop wasting their time.

            And so he wasted like this for one week. He was about to go to sleep when he was wheeled into the operating room. He was introduced to whoever was going to cut him open and whatever was going to make the room dizzy that day. And he was smiling as he closed his eyes. It was the first time he smiled in several months.

            He had trouble telling what went where. But he had this thick white bandage around his head. He tried to peel it, only to have his hands curl and fall back down to his side. He tried again several times, and by the seventh, just threw his head back down where he tried to pick it up.

            He began to sleep. And he dreamt that he was walking, with no machinery attached to him. It was a field he used to play in when he was growing up. He was with his mother. He hadn’t seen her since he was about five, when his parents divorced and he was asked to pick the parent he wanted to stay with. She never visited and never called, despite whatever attempts he had made later on in high school through letters and phone calls. But this was when he existed to her. He saw the flowers as he was going to run into them, and how she told him he could make a wish and blow on it and all of the pedals would disappear.

            It was 4:00 A.M. A nurse came in, saying she had to take a blood test. He woke up. He was crying. She wrapped a rubber band around his arm and told him to make a fist. His veins were bursting.

            A sound was coming from the next room. It was a violinist. Her father was waiting for a heart transplant. He loved to hear her play. So she serenaded her father before he would be wheeled off.

            He couldn’t tell what he was hearing. And he was too tired to guess. So he closed his eyes, and let himself listen idly. It was goddamn beautiful. He promised himself that, once he was off these machines, he would learn to play the violin. And he would play it every bit as well as she did. He hasn’t put it down.

            

A Funny Thing Happened...

On the way to maturity. I've been gradually begun to feel this desire to take initiative when I see fit, because I do not know what lies ahead. Having surgery puts that in perspective.

I was unfortunate enough to face death, not once, but twice. The first time occurred when I was seven. I was experiencing symptoms of what would be diagnosed later as Ulcerative Colitis. I couldn't go to school. I couldn't leave the house. I had to undergo a medical test to confirm the diagnosis; I wasn't allowed to eat solid food for 24 hours before. I understood that I was ill, but I had no idea as to whether or not what I had was treatable. I knew I was bleeding, and that I was sluggish and in pain. The night before I had to undergo this test, I was watching TV in my mother's room. I was thirsty. She saw me licking my lips and nodded her head. I could get water. I hovered over the sink. I wasn't in pain, so I could think. And I concluded that I was going to die. So I decided I would take solace in every moment I was alive. I would play and laugh with all of the energy I had. I would cuddle more often and spend as much time with my parents and my brother as I was allowed. Resentment only wasted time.

The second was when I was eighteen. I had been in remission for almost ten years. Over that summer, I began to look pale. I had a few red spots on my knees. I thought I'd bumped them. They were the marks of anyone who has active inflammation in their body. I was running daily fevers. But I was starting college in the fall, and I couldn't afford to delay my start. I had wanted to go to college ever since I was fourteen. So I finished the first semester. By December, I was barely able to leave the house. When I wasn't lying on heating pads, I was sleeping. I had been given various prescriptions for Entocourt and Purinethol, with the promise that one had to put me back into remission. Purinethol didn't stop the pain, and Entocourt made me lose my appetite. I remember waking up one day in January. It was the day the second semester was supposed to start. I was once able to work out for three hours. I couldn't work out for ten minutes. I was too tired to read and in too much pain to write. I didn't have enough strength to go to school. So I laid back down and closed my eyes, hoping they'd roll back into my head.

I was operated on January 31, 2010. After a few arduous days trying to walk and get out of bed without the aid of a few painkillers, I was sent home. I was ecstatic enough about not being in pain to make it seem like I was never ill. My mom gave me the option of returning to school early. I chose, instead, to take the semester off and return in the summer. I reminisced about high school, and I started working out again. I bought coffee for myself every day, and made sure that, if I wasn't reading, I was writing. I wrote several short stories about my experiences. But, by May, I felt bored and incomplete. I started my vacation to get away from the pressure of having to perform for someone, be it my professors or my parents. If I wrote, it was for the reader. I studied to please my parents. I needed to learn how to study, not because I was asked to, but because I wanted to. And the summer semester was less crowded, shorter, and free of the rush that's become iconic of the school year. It was optional. So I decided to take a music course, just to test the proverbial waters of academia. It was almost my second year; I considered myself a Freshman.

When I made the decision to go to school, I did it as a symbol that I could let the past be, and that I was capable of reinventing myself. Even if I did recover, I still have doctors' appointments every six weeks. They served as eerie reminders I felt that I didn't need. I made the decision that, should I experience another flare up, I would simply have a colostomy. I would rather walk around with a bag and a stoma than have to worry about pills, have the potential flare up looming over my head, or constantly be plagued by fears of colon cancer. I made this clear to my doctor, who refused to consider the idea of a nineteen year old wearing a permanent ostomy bag. A pull through was not an option, because of a potential for a flare up in the small intestine.

I walked out discouraged. I came back into class with my head hanging, trying not to think about what my doctor told me. We were discussing a lieder, or mini-drama, by Schubert, called "Erlkonig", or "The Angel of Death", based on a poem by Goethe. It was about a sick boy, whose father carries him to the doctor. The boy claims he sees the Angel of Death, and that he is trying to entice him. His father doesn't believe him until the Angel realizes the only to win the boy over is to take him by force. The boy dies in his father's arms.

I realized that a connection between my dealings with disease and what I was studying would be inevitable, no matter what song we were hearing. So, instead of fighting, I decided to use it as an outlet to wrangle with the situation. There and then, I pitted myself against Death. And Death was letting myself lament, showing weakness in the face of illness, and in front of doctors and parents constantly asking how I was feeling, waiting for me to admit that I couldn't keep going. They had seen me lose weight and become pale, but I wasn't officially sick until I admitted it. That's when I stopped working out and going to school. That's when I became a patient.

I didn't want to admit my experience in front of the class, so I told my professor. I didn't specify what I was diagnosed with when I was seven. But I did say that I have been ill enough to think I would die. I didn't know what reaction I would get, and I wasn't sure I cared.

He said he had a similar experience when he was in his twenties. What happened to him is not important. What is important is that he related to me.

There is a unique bond that exists between people who have had to wrangle with the possibility of dying. It's in our faces and in our eyes, and in the way we connect on other topics, and overlook it when we don't. Because we know we've all experienced enough hardship on our own to fight over details.

I began to come into my own as a patient. There is still the chance that I may develop cancer. I may have to have surgery again at one point. I still need to go to the doctor every six weeks. And these are all fundamentally human.

I know I'm not the only one.

Welcome!

When you've lived with illness, you're told to move on. And, in many ways, I have. At seventeen, I was a budding perfectionist, sacrificing all of my time and energy to academia as though my self esteem depended on it. And it probably did. I had grown up being insulted in all kinds of ways because I thought differently. I was "stupid" when I couldn't tell time, "absentminded" when I couldn't catch a ball, and I "wouldn't live until eight" when steroids bloated my face. So I turned to my grades, just to prove to myself, subconsciously, that I had worth. My body and my eating habits paid the price. I was constantly snacking on chocolate. I got out of breath changing my sheets. My mother signed me up for a gym. And I joined, albeit reluctantly. I detested being out of breath. But I knew I had to. I substituted chocolate for apples. I lost about thirty pounds within that year. I liked losing too much for my own good. The more I restricted, the more I exercised.


There's a high that results from not eating. It's a similar high to the endorphins you experience when you push yourself. And I was always pushing myself. Because the high stopped me from thinking. I had too much to think about. My school was beginning to discuss the college transition. Between looking at pamphlets from NYU and Sarah Lawrence, studying for an AP, and pursuing various school clubs that would fluff up my resume, something had to go. I had been learning to play guitar. It was one of the few outlets I still had to express myself. But practicing became drudgery. So I quit. 


I had been playing for several years. I had dreams of writing music and even forming a band. When I was little, I wasn't initially interested in acting. I didn't draw. And I didn't write stories. I wrote scores. Pages and pages of scores. They had no meaning. They were important to me. Writing them was cathartic. So I kept doing it. I remember having entire notebooks filled with them. As much as I loved music, however, I was not paired up with the right teachers. I had music classes in elementary school. But I couldn't tell a quarter note any more than I could tell you a quarter from a dime. So my teacher would yell. I received the impression that I didn't have the intellect to pursue music. But I knew, somewhere, that I must like it, so I kept trying.


I tried until I graduated. I had been practicing the guitar meticulously by the time I went into ninth grade. My school required every student to play guitar. I took private lessons with this particular teacher when I heard he offered them. The thought didn't occur to me to learn from anyone else; he was the only musician I (and my parents) knew of who gave any. I learned the Pentatonic Scale and how to improvise. I didn't learn how to read music. Continuing lessons meant going to another shop and starting over. I was aggravated. But I tried for about a year. I had been playing for six years; I expected to be working on fully-fledged solos. Instead, I was learning the A scale. I played as long as I had patience. I tried to have patience with myself. But I could hear my old music teacher still calling me "stupid" for having to start over. He used to yell at me when I made mistakes. And not knowing how to read music was a mistake. 


I was a budding writer. I had become known in school for my poetry. And I was given the opportunity to organize festivals and collaborate with published poets. I had come to a crossroads where I had to decide where to devote my energy. Was I going to be a poet or a musician? I decided I would be a poet, since I was a stupid musician. So I traded my guitar for my pen. And the gym.


This is what I was blocking out of my mind when I was working out. In eleventh grade, I dropped my AP class, opening my schedule. I would have had free time to do both. But I felt burnt out and unable to go back to music without shaking the feeling that I was looking at what I was giving up. I would play guitar, but I had no emotion to give. It died in my hands. So I obsessed over exercise instead. I played games to see how little I needed to eat to get my high. I was eating eight hundred calories a day. 


One visit to an eating disorder clinic and several years later, I look back and do what I never thought I would. As a requirement for my degree, I was assigned either an art or music course. I chose the latter. I assumed I would get a basic education about specific composers. What I got was kindness and a new role model. The professor I had saw my intelligence and my talent. That little bit of kindness was enough to push me past the feelings that once stood against me. I'm trying my hand at guitar. And I'm starting from the beginning. I deserve that much.