My Writing Process

Posted on: July 21st, 2014 by


I am pleased to participate in the blog tour that highlights each participating blogger’s writing process. I hope this post helps readers better understand mine. I was invited to this tour by the wonderful Jennifer Campisano of the excellent blog Booby and the Beast.

As part of this blog tour, I answered the following four questions about my writing process.

What am I currently working on?

I am working on many writing projects at once. Besides blogging, I have completed a manuscript titled Calling the Shots: Navigating Your Way Through the Medical System. The book describes how patients can advocate for themselves through today’s often-frustrating, often-difficult medical landscape.

I got the idea for my book when I was diagnosed and treated for breast cancer. I encountered hostile doctors and rude receptionists, as well as kind, wonderful medical personnel. I learned the difference between poor and superb doctors, staff, and so on, and I felt I could have really used such a book when I was going through all of this medical crap.

My goal with this book is to help others. While I use my breast cancer experience as personal examples, the book is focused on helping anyone who finds themselves at the patient end of things.

The manuscript is publisher-ready, and I am choosing to attract an agent.

Interestingly, writing the proposal for an agent has been much more difficult than writing the book. But I wouldn’t change a thing because I learned a lot through the process. My proposal has been rejected by many, but one agent nibbled before she said “no,” and another simply LOVED the concept and the writing! Unfortunately, the latter had too much on her plate to take my project on.

Rather than be discouraged, I am now even more confident because an agent thought so highly of my work. Rejections don’t bother me; I don’t take them personally, and if an agent has advice on how to improve my proposal or my book, I will take it.

Besides Calling the Shots, I’m starting to work on a memoir, which will include my breast cancer story, but will not focus on it. I think it will focus on the theme of identity.

I have the poems for a collection of breast cancer poetry I want to publish someday.

And I think I have a novel in me. Maybe.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I think this is the most difficult question to answer because there are so many wonderful, authentic writers in the blogosphere, and each one of us adds to the fabric of health-related narratives.

What makes my work unique is my use of various narrative techniques to tell my own truth. I enjoy experimenting with short story formats to tell a true story. For example, I sometimes use the present tense to make readers feel they are experiencing a scenario I experienced at a particular moment. Other times I might begin a post with actual dialogue so as to “hook” readers in. I’m also an artist and once in awhile provide artwork to complement the narrative.

Why do I write what I write?

I blog to develop a sense of community, to be heard, and to help others know they are not alone. When I was diagnosed with cancer and undergoing treatments, I felt isolated and unheard. There were support groups, but they didn’t help me. I wish social media had been around then. Writing about my cancer experience is cathartic because I am able to process it and express myself freely and authentically. I am grateful to be in a community of like-minded individuals who may have differing opinions but who are part of a community that fosters mutual respect.

That being said, I want to write about topics other than breast cancer and even medical issues in general. The truth is, I love writing. About. Anything.

How does my writing process work?

I am never short of ideas, but I am often short of time. Motherhood and a career often interfere with my attempts at writing and my focus. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Yet, at the same time, I’ve realized that writing is a choice and commitment I must make every single day. For the next year I am committing to making writing a daily habit. I have fulfilled that commitment today; as I write this, it is 2:20 a.m. and my daughter is fast asleep.

In my blog, I often use writing to process trauma. I find it so very difficult to write while I’m in the middle of distressing times. I admire writers who can write while they find themselves in the midst of chaos. I need a bit of physical and emotional distance before I can write about it.

Now about the craft of writing. Generally, I love, love, love revision. Revision is more fun for me than creation because with revision, I already have something to work with. I aim for concise, effective writing. My blog posts take less revision than, for example, my book proposal, but I enjoy the process of making all of my work the best it can be.

For me, technology has a direct impact on my writing process. I use my laptop; I use long-hand only when I journal. I think better when my fingers are on the keyboard. I use Evernote to help me keep track of writing topics. I use Word when drafting, but I’m considering using the Scrivener program for my memoir. Scrivener is designed for writers and can put material in manuscript format. I’ve been tinkering around with it during my 30-day free trial and like it for organizing thoughts. If I decide to use this program, I’m sure my writing process will change, and this scares me a bit.


I don’t believe one has to be inspired to write; for me, it’s the other way around — I write to be inspired.

One person who inspires me and who will be taking the baton in next week’s blog tour on July 28 is the terrific, inspiring blogger AnneMarie Ciccarella, at Chemobrain ….. In The Fog. Besides sharing her experience with chemobrain, she is a tireless advocate, fearless friend, and engaging writer. She takes a firm stance in advocacy and patient empowerment. AnneMarie speaks out about metastatic breast cancer, and I’m sure readers (me included) would want to know more about her writing process. If you are not yet familiar with her blog, please check it out.

Do you enjoy writing? Why or why not?

If you write, what is your writing process like? I would love to know.

If you are an artist of any kind, what is your creative process like?

Please feel free to leave a link to a blog posting. I will certainly check it out.

Pet Therapy

Posted on: July 10th, 2014 by

My eyes were red and swollen from crying all night.

The day before, my surgeon confirmed my worst fear: I had cancer.

After I got the fated phone call, my then-husband and I decided to adopt a cat at a local animal shelter the very next day. It would be a joyful distraction, we reasoned, and I had been longing for a cat for years. (I do love all animals, but I’ve always had a soft spot for cats.)

Now, at the animal shelter, I was too bleary-eyed to notice the ugly brown tabby that grabbed me with her paw as I passed her cage.

I stopped, considering her. She was purring loudly and gazing at me with what seemed to be a look of love, as if she sensed my hurt. She persisted, grabbing me with the other paw, demanding that I pay her attention. I told the shelter volunteer I was interested in holding the animal, jokingly telling my husband “Oh, the cat is nice now, but watch it scratch my face off!”.

I sat down and the volunteer gently placed the cat on my lap. She purred and purred as I stroked her dull fur, and she sat on my lap as if she belonged there. She looked into my eyes, perhaps searchingly, perhaps knowingly, but the magic was there.

The magic being that for the 10 minutes I held her, cancer did not exist. Terror did not exist. Time stopped, and all I felt was complete joy. I forgot about my tumor. I forgot about doctors. As the volunteer pried her from my lap, the kitty kept trying to cling to me. And I longed to have her in my arms again.

A spay and a few vaccinations later, Cosette (the name we gave her) was in our home. But something was terribly wrong with her.

As I was getting lost navigating through doctors and dealing with my new-found status of cancer patient, I was losing my cat.

She was refusing to eat, losing weight, and veterinarians couldn’t figure out what was wrong. They told me that this six-pound cat wasn’t worth keeping alive. At around the same time, an oncologist told me that I would probably not live.

Both of us were in a real predicament. Hearing about Cosette’s probable death would be hard news for anyone to take, but for me going through cancer hell, it was too much. I cried a lot, but I still held her weak, limp body in my arms and listened to her purring — unsure of our fates. There we were, both ill, with uncertain futures.

My lumpectomy was scheduled (I initially chose lumpectomy with radiation), and I kept obsessing that the cat would die first, and then I would die. I knew she needed medical help fast, so I called the shelter, which had an in-house veterinary clinic. I spoke to a kind veterinarian who was a cat specialist. I explained my situation: that I had cancer and was having surgery in a few days. She reassured me that the cat could still bounce back, and she offered to hospitalize Cosette for free while I was in the hospital. I agreed.

It turns out, Cosette and I were in our respective hospitals at the same time. We had IVs at the same time!

I and those annoying drains were finally released from the hospital. A couple of days later, my brother drove me to the shelter to get Cosette, who was very much alive — and pretty. Turned out she had a severe upper respiratory infection that demanded immediate attention. She was now good as new, purring up a storm.




Throughout chemotherapy and radiation treatments, she was my constant companion, running to me when I was crying, jumping on my lap when I needed hugs, and refusing to leave my side when I was so very sick. As I convalesced, she sat on my lap and purred. And this did me a world of good during the most frightening time of my life.

We helped each other through the tough times. Despite how sick I was during treatment, I still managed to take Cosette to her followups. She and I were a team, cheering each other on to embrace life.

Today, 13 years later, Cosette is a happy geriatric cat who still doesn’t leave my side. We are close and we still take great care of eachother. She has helped me through my divorce, a few moves, several surgeries — including my DIEP — and lots of medical scares. She was with me when I got the news that my friend Faun died of metastatic breast cancer.

And now, as I write this post, she is with me — curled up by my feet. It is a widely known fact that pet therapy helps patients heal and/or cope with trauma. I’m not saying Cosette’s presence resulted in NED for me. However, her presence certainly calmed me and helped me cope with all the difficulties life dished out, especially cancer diagnosis and treatment.

A few years ago, another feline, Hemi, aptly named for his purrific style and flair, joined our family. Cosette is the dominant cat, but for the most part, they get along. Hemi is a sweet tuxedo Manx, who also offers love and support when I and Arielle need it most.

Cosette and Hemi chilling

Cosette and Hemi chilling



I know people who never want to live with animals. They are entitled to their choice, of course.

But I know that my life is truly enriched by two very special cats.

Do you believe in pet therapy?

I would love to hear your stories about your pets. How have they helped you?

T&A at the TSA

Posted on: July 2nd, 2014 by

At the airport’s security check, I approach the body scanner with trepidation, knowing about the vow I took years ago: if confronted with such a machine, I would refuse a full body scan.

After all, I’ve had my share of scans, thank you very much.

I certainly don’t need one with the general voyeuristic public looking on.

And I certainly don’t want TSA and airport security employees seeing my body parts. It’s bad enough that I’ve had body image issues since breast cancer. It’s bad enough that my body has been altered, fabricated if you will, to help save my life. I have to live with my altered state every day.

I don’t want the world at large gawking at my fake breasts or my massive below-the-belly scar from my DIEP flap surgery. Yes, I know the Advanced Imaging Technology is supposed to be minimally invasive, but I don’t buy it.

So now I move up in line. Now is my time to face down this mechanical invader that everyone is nonchalantly going through. I tell the security person, “I can’t go through this machine. I’ve had breast cancer and don’t want to have any images of my body taken.”

I see a brief flicker of compassion in her eyes before she calls for a female security officer who will do the pat-down. I swallow hard as she approaches me. After all, I am a pat-down virgin and have no idea how I will feel having my privates — and privacy — invaded.

The security officer makes me point to my possessions in the bin on the conveyor belt, and she gathers them up. She is about to feel me up pat me down in front of every Tom, Dick, and Harriet looking on when standing on line awaiting their turn to have their privacy violated.

She sees my hesitancy and then asks me if I would rather be felt up patted down in private.

Duh. Yes.

We go into a private “room” within a glass room. It is her, me, and another female security guard. The security guard I met first is the one talking to me and groping me patting me down. Before she gets started, she says that when she handles “sensitive areas,” she will feel them with the backs of her hands.

She is referring to my breasts. A bit ironic, considering “sensitive” no longer describes my breasts.

Come to think of it, she never says the word “breasts.” Why is that? Is it taboo for security personnel to say that word? Maybe calling them “sensitive areas” is a form of denial.

After she sweeps the backs of her hands under my “sensitive areas,” I wonder if she can feel that one breast (the one that had had the cancer) is significantly smaller than the other one. I am wearing a sports bra instead of my mastectomy-with-prosthesis bra on. So the asymmetry is apparent.

Or is it only apparent to me?

I’m sure she can feel the difference between my breast sizes, I think.

Then again, maybe she can’t.

After the breast test, she works her way down my body and then sweeps her hands too close to the groin area for my comfort. She has woman-handled every part of my body, it seems, and I feel violated.

She then gives me permission to leave and catch my flight. She wishes me safe travels.

As I head toward the gates, I pass the body scanner. And I realize a choice between digital exposure or a pat-down is no choice at all. Things sure get complicated when one has had breast cancer — or any medical condition for that matter.

Luckily, I do have a safe flight, but my journey through the airport felt anything but safe.

Where the pat-down took place.

Where the pat-down took place.

Has having breast cancer affected your airplane travels?

How do you feel about the airport’s full body scanners?

Please feel free to share your stories — the good, the bad, and the ugly.

And the Survey Says….

Posted on: June 13th, 2014 by

I’m supposed to see my oncologist this summer. I pick up my phone. I hesitate. I tell myself I’m just not up to it and I’ll call another day. And I put down the phone.

This has happened now every day for awhile. I know that I will make that appointment.

But today is not the day.

I have to gather the strength and courage it takes to make an appointment for a followup visit.

Many emotions overtake me when I go to the oncologist, including high anxiety.


At my last appointment with my oncologist, he was kind as usual. So why the hesitancy to make the appointment and go? The answer lies in a survey.

Like so many hospitals, my hospital has a Center for Advanced Care, which is trying to be a kinder, gentler place and take stock of the whole patient. The staff wants to make sure that they are meeting the psychological needs, as well as the physical wellness, of the patient.

I think this is a great approach — to an extent.

My last appointment was a bit jarring for me, though, all because of a survey that patients are now told to take before seeing their oncologists. The survey asks you to rate your feelings on a scale of 1-10, with 10 being the highest level.

The minute I saw the questions, I totally got it. The staff wants to make sure I’m psychologically in a good place. To me, this is an oxymoron, as an oncology office isn’t exactly where you’ll find me in the best mental state. In fact, I’m usually in high-panic mode there. And I’ll bet that, for the majority of people, an oncology department isn’t the bastion of sound psychological wellness.

As I was filling out the never-ending survey, answering questions about my crying habits, depression, and so on, my heart started racing and I was feeling out of sorts: should I be feeling all the things the survey asked? I continued stressing. Then the next question asked me to rank my anxiety level on the aforementioned scale.

Being honest, I chose 9 out of 10.

Had I answered the survey at home, it would’ve been much lower, as I am not typically heightened emotionally. My nerves are in control in my native habit, but not so much in the sterility of an oncologist’s office.

After the survey incident and now really upset, I was ushered into the examination room. There I was sitting on the examination table, ready for the exam, when I heard that familiar knock on the door, followed by an unfamiliar smiling face. She introduced herself as a social worker and said it’s policy for her and other social workers to check with anyone who answered that anxiety-level question with a 3 or higher.

Of course, now my anxiety level felt like a 10.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” she asked.
“Huh?” I barely gasped.
“Why is your anxiety level so high?” she asked.
“Because I’m here,” I said.

And, with that, she quickly excused herself and left. And so did some of my anxiety. By the time my doctor entered the room, I was spent.

Don’t get me wrong: I like the idea of a survey and keeping a handle on how patients are doing, not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. These social workers are so necessary. However, perhaps mailing the survey would have been a better idea — after all, I am less anxious on my own turf.

I think from now on I will try to be less stressed. And I will rank all my answers as a 1.


Do you typically complete surveys regarding mental state at doctor’s offices?

If so, do you find these surveys helpful?

A Truly Phenomenal Woman and Book Review

Posted on: May 29th, 2014 by

Like so many in the world, I am grieving the loss of Maya Angelou, an articulate, brilliant individual who left a huge mark on the world. A literary genius whose writing captivated many generations, Angelou was also a Civil Rights activist.

I have always felt close to Angelou and wanted to meet her. While that never happened in person, I did meet her — through her outstanding, ground-breaking memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. This famous book, which debuted in 1969, was way ahead of its time and tackled serious issues considered taboo at the time.

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings covers Angelou’s growing up in Stamps, Arkansas, and St. Louis and without sound guidance from her parents. Angelou and her brother Bailey were raised in large part by their grandmother. Angelou’s life in the segregated, racist South is documented in this very human book with memorable truth-telling. I will never forget the scene when a white dentist refuses to help a young Maya suffering from a toothache. And a young Maya suffers a horrific tragedy that no one should have to go through. The trauma left her unable to speak for years. Ironically, it was after being voiceless for awhile that she eventually found her voice.

The book is a powerful testament to human triumph through adversity.

Angelou also infuses a great deal of humor in her memoir. In fact, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings contains the funniest scene I’ve read in a book to date. I won’t give it away to those who haven’t yet read the memoir, but here’s a hint: it happens in a church. Completely hilarious.

I’ve assigned this book to students many times, and the memoir resonated with each student every single time. Times have changed, but her memoir is timeless. Angelou’s book is life-changing: it changed me. And I hope somewhere out in the world my former students are remembering how Angelou changed their world in an English class. And I hope that these students are changing the world for the better, as Angelou would want them to do.

The world has lost a wonderful human being, a soulful soul. She touched us in so many ways. But I’m heartened to know that the world was made a better place for having had her in it.

Maya Angelou

What is your favorite Maya Angelou work?

Feel free to comment on how this amazing woman has touched your life.

‘Oncologist’ Turned On a Dime

Posted on: May 15th, 2014 by

I judged him way before I met him. There I lay, on my sofa, swearing up and down that I would never, could never, ever see an oncologist.

I was in limbo. My surgeon told me that day — Almost-Botched Biopsy Day — he was pretty sure I had breast cancer. Pretty sure, but not definitely sure. (Two days later, he confirmed that biopsy results indicated I had cancer.)

But I couldn’t wrap myself around another thing the surgeon said on biopsy day, and that word was “oncologist.” I don’t remember the context in which it was mentioned, as the terror of that day and that word was overwhelming. I don’t even think I had heard of the word until that very appointment.

The Gainer Dictionary defined “oncologist” as “bogeyman or bogeywoman; see ‘czar of the cancer underworld.’”

The lines were drawn, and I hunkered down, determined to keep the oncologist on his/her side of the line and out of my personal space.

I was angry. I was hostile. Of course, that anger was partly a cover-up: for fear, for anguish, for pain.

And my declaration that I would never see an oncologist was somewhat arrogant. I was used to a life where I was the epitome of health. My doctors always admired me for taking such good care of myself. I didn’t smoke. Or drink. Or do drugs. I exercised regularly and ate right.

I would leave doctors’ offices with the confidence of an Olympic champion — someone who expected to succeed and who did. My physical exams were boring. And I was proud of that, believing wholeheartedly if I took care of myself, I wouldn’t fall ill.

And now a doctor had the nerve to tell me that I probably had cancer. How dare he? And, after my diagnosis, he told me I definitely had to see an oncologist. How double-dare he?

At the time, I thought, I would rather die of cancer than see a cancer doctor. Yes, seeing an oncologist was that terrifying. I. Would. Not. Go. My fear took the driver’s seat and hit the accelerator at 1,000 miles of panic per hour. My primary care physician immediately wrote a referral for me to see oncologist Dr. B. So I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I went.

So here I was in the cancer doctor’s examination room, feeling like someone on death row waiting for the executioner.

As I waited for the physician, my arrogance unraveled like surgical tape and I found myself bare, frail, vulnerable, and terrified. Deep down inside, I knew I wanted to live. And I was forced to be honest with myself: I needed help to help me live.

That’s when a human being walked in the room. He smiled, looked straight in my eyes, and shook my hand and said how nice it was to meet me. He also expressed how much he wanted me to live. He was kind.

He had a treatment plan. He explained everything clearly, listened to my concerns, and made it clear we were on the same team. I wasn’t just a patient to him; I was a person. And during that hour appointment my perception of the word “oncologist” turned on a dime.

An oncologist would be my medical champion, and I was grateful.


What has been your experience with an oncologist/oncologists?

What characteristics does an oncologist have to have in order to gain your trust?

Mother’s Day 2014

Posted on: May 10th, 2014 by

Here in the US, Mother’s Day is right around the corner, Sunday to be exact. I will be celebrating my fourth Mother’s Day. Has it really been four years already? Time seems to have gotten away from me.

What happened to my superpower of slowing down time?

Once a year, I celebrate Mother’s Day by sending and receiving flowers. Once a year I’m treated to a nice Mother’s Day meal. But these really don’t make me feel like a mother.

My Mother’s Day began the day I first held a frightened, grief-stricken 13-month-old baby, July 19, 2009. She sized me up that day and decided she didn’t like me.

Now my almost-six-year-old tells me she wants to be with me forever. This comment puts me on the edge of joy and pain. I love that she always wants to be with me. And, yet, I know there will be times she won’t want to be seen with me. Perhaps she will even hate me, albeit temporarily. And, of course, in the natural order of things, there will come a time she will grieve for me.

Dramatic irony, indeed, for she is unaware of what is to come.

Come to think of it, so am I.

For my first Mother’s Day in 2010, I bought myself a gold pendant with my daughter’s Chinese first name on it, “Fu,” which translates to something like “the highest luck, happiness and blessing.” The pendant actually has the pinyin, or Chinese character, for “Fu.” I’m not a superstitious person, but I never take this pendant off.


(I did have to take it off for surgery, which caused emotional upheaval, but I made sure that the pendant was left with my friend at the hospital with me. It was the first object I put on when I could get dressed.)

Well, maybe I am a bit superstitious after all.

When Ari was a toddler, she fingered the pendant cluelessly. Now she fingers it with purpose. She’s curious and, I believe, flattered that I’m constantly wearing her name. She will inherit — and I hope wear — this pendant when I’m gone.

Ari’s pinyin name is so fitting for our life together. The universe has spoken — and a baby from China and a woman from the United States became inextricably bonded. It was meant to be. Creating a family with Ari has been “Fu,” the highest luck, happiness and blessing that I could have ever hoped for.

Please feel free to share your parental experience(s); I would love to hear about them.

What are your plans for Mother’s Day?

Chemobrain: War, Then Peace

Posted on: May 2nd, 2014 by

Chemobrain is real.

Ask any patient receiving or who has received chemotherapy. Some of us recover fully from the cognitive dysfunction resulting from toxic chemicals dripped into our bodies. Others do not. And some, like me, recover a bit after treatment but never seem to quite regain their mental sharpness and stamina and focus.

For me, chemobrain has been a sad, frustrating reminder of cancer. My oncologist told me that chemotherapy should not be having an effect on my brain for so long after treatment. Blame it on depression. Blame it on menopause. Blame it on stress.

But I and at least a few experts know better. I even reviewed a book on this condition.

Chemobrain is real. And, yes, I’m a card-carrying member of the Chemobrain Club.

I’ve tried to describe to those never having been affected by chemo what this condition is like. For me, it’s a fog rolling over my mind, causing facts to no longer have that stickability — as soon as I learn something, it often flies away rather than sticking to my brain. I must write everything down, and my notes are usually all in a jumble, not like in my neat pre-chemo days. Thank goodness for Evernote on my iPad Mini. I am also so grateful to my other best friend and personal assistant — my Google calendar, which syncs all of my appointments and meetings with my Android phone.

Yes, technology provides the necessary cover-up, so I can pass for “normal-brained,” whatever that means.

Prior to chemotherapy, I took my smarts for granted. I was sharp back then, remembering even the minute details of daily life. I remembered all my appointments and obligations without using reminder tools. I also had a long attention span and intellectual stamina; I could read challenging materials for hours.

Fast-forward to today. A fog still resides in my brain, and I know I’m not the same as my pre-chemo self. After years of brain-activity exercises such as crossword puzzles, Sudoku, computer brain games — all causing me to short circuit — I finally got to the point where I accepted the “new me” (I hate that term) and accepted this cognitive dysfunction as the “new normal” (I hate that term even more).

Chemobrain is a force to be reckoned with. That’s a no-brainer, pardon the pun.

Then there’s reading. Or, rather, not reading.

Since chemotherapy, the thing that I loved to do so much throughout my life — reading — has no longer been pleasurable. I’ve been easily distracted, have lacked focus, tripped over sentences, and forgotten what I just read. Over the post-chemo years, I would have prefered a comic book version of many books. Sure, I could read what I needed to read for class, but no longer for the sheer joy of it.

Reading became joyless. My confidence in my reading intellect waned. Not reading for pleasure itself was a huge loss — until this year.

This year, I got tired of being tired of reading.

I would no longer allow chemobrain to hijack my literary joy.

I had been reading material for classes and really hunkered down and focused on the tasks at hand. This year, I found just a bit of joy reading the material and a thirst for more to read. I hung onto that feeling and tried reading for fun. I started with memoirs. I was enjoying non-fiction. I would download the books on my iPad mini and read them and, for some reason, I found my concentration to be stronger than it had been in years.

One late night I was hungry for fiction. I wondered, with excitement, about all the books I’ve always wanted to read. The choices were endless.

However, my mind kept returning to one book. I tried to dissuade myself. But in the end, I made my decision.

Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace.

Yes, extreme reading should be an Olympic sport.

I was scared at the thought of reading this mammoth novel, especially given my shattered confidence in my brain’s ability to absorb material. But all I could think of was that I wasn’t being fair to myself to deprive myself of the ability to try reading this book.

Now that I’m 13 percent finished with War and Peace (but who’s counting?), I can say that it is truly wonderful and pleasurable! It has so many degrees of awesomeness. Sure, it’ll take me forever to finish it, but who cares? What’s the rush? Why rush time?

Chemobrain is definitely affecting my ability to remember some characters and details. (In my defense, War and Peace has, like, a gazillion of them.) But I’m not allowing my brain to intimidate me and hold me back from what I truly want to do, and that is to read more and read what I want. And reading this novel has boosted my confidence in my brain like nothing else has.

For years, I have fought the war against chemobrain. Now it’s time to accept who I am and enjoy the peace of getting lost in a great classic.

War and Peace

Do you suffer from chemobrain? If so, how do you handle it?

How would you describe chemobrain to someone not initiated into the world of chemotherapy?

Teaching Life Lessons

Posted on: April 23rd, 2014 by

This week, Marie of Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer has set the following writing prompt for Mojo Monday, “If you had to teach something, what would you teach?” I know it’s no longer Monday, but I want to take on this challenge nonetheless.

This particular prompt interests me because, as it turns out, I am a teacher by trade and by choice. I enjoy watching students learn and have that “aha” moment. If I’m lucky, I witness many accrued “aha” moments.


My role as a teacher goes further than that, beyond the confines of a classroom: I try to teach students about being good citizens and making the world a better place for them having been in it. We are participants, not spectators, in our world order, and I’m hoping I make a difference in my students’ lives. And, hopefully, they can pay it forward, making a difference in others’ lives.

And that leads me to my youngest pupil — my daughter, Arielle.

Before I became a parent, I didn’t really know that parenting is a superhuman feat. How could I? I knew I wanted to have a hand in raising someone who would make a positive difference in the world. I wanted to teach my future child.

Once I became a mother, I realized that I had to teach her: It was my responsibility to guide her on navigating this complex world we live in. It is my job to ensure she is prepared for the world, and that’s a tall order. Because there is no right way to parent: No two parents are alike, and no two children are alike.

Thank goodness for that.

There are a gazillion life lessons I have for her, but I can only cover six takeaways in this post. Parents evolve, children evolve, and so does what we teach. I’m hoping that Ari learns the following from me. I am trying my best to turn those teachable moments into permanent values for my daughter, and I work my hardest to lead by example.

These are not listed in any specific order of importance.

Actions speak louder than words. Just telling her to be kind to others is simply rhetoric. Showing her how to be kind toward others is one of my proudest teaching moments. Kids watch adults so closely. She watches how I treat my friends and family. And hopefully, she has already learned not to just tell someone she loves him or her, but to show it.

Be rich in self-esteem. She must always value herself, who she is on the inside. She must not endure ill treatment, and she needs to be strong enough to assert that she has value and won’t tolerate mistreatment.

Have integrity and character. I am honest with her and try to be honest with the world and myself. I hope she chooses to do the right thing whenever she’s at a crossroads, for being ethical is so important. The world is filled with unscrupulous people, and I always want Ari to follow her conscience and do what’s right.

Don’t feel entitled to rewards; you must earn them. I want Ari to expect excellence for herself through a solid work ethic. There is such gratification for trying one’s best, even if one falls short of a goal. A few weeks ago, students at Ari’s school competed for a spelling bee. The top three spellers of each grade would go onto the actual spelling bee. Ari and I studied super hard for it; I told her I wanted her in one of the top three spots. And she delivered a better performance than I could’ve imagined: she made it to the fourth round of the preliminaries. For a child who didn’t know how to read at the beginning of the school year, this was an excellent result.

On the day she found out she wasn’t one of the top three spellers, she was disappointed. I told her that I was proud of her for trying her best and making it as far as she did. She learned a valuable lesson that day: that even falling short of a goal is fine, as long as you try your best. And she learned a lot about earning one’s spot at the top.

Have courage. The world is not an easy place, and I hope Ari can face it with courage. That doesn’t mean she must be stoic in times of adversity. I just want her to look life in the eye and be tough when life stares at her right back.

Love life. I want Ari to take nothing for granted. Life is precious. I just want her to savor it, live in the moment, and seize all the goodness that life has to offer.

Ari at Museum

That’s all I can think of — for now. I’m doing my best to ensure Ari is embracing these values one teaching moment at a time. And it’s the hardest teaching challenge I’ve ever had.

Have you had any challenging teaching moments?

Have you had any pleasant teaching moments?

I would love to hear your point of view.

Killing Time

Posted on: April 17th, 2014 by

“I’m just killing time.”
“This session was a waste of my time.”
“All I have is time” (usually said with exhaustive surrender)

We hear these expressions regularly. Heck, even in Chicagoland a popular radio station has a Kill a Half Hour segment where trivia is discussed. Kill a Half Hour irks me, so I switch radio stations when this segment comes on.

Even a half hour is so precious. Why kill it?

I know I’m being quite literal here, and that “killing time” is just an expression.

Or is it?

I used to think so before cancer came wiping its filthy feet on my doormat.

This disease and its treatments gave me a rude awakening – and immense perspective. I quickly learned how vital and fleeting time is and how life is too important, too precious to live in perpetual stress.

I rebuilt my shattered life. You can read about it here and here and here.

It took cancer-colored glasses for me to truly see the picture plainly.

Time is precious.

This no-brainer cliché must be emphasized time and time and time again. I know cancer survivors who take the gift of time for granted. All they do is complain, complain, and complain, and grouse about the petty issues that populate life’s landscape.

And while I reserve the right to get disgruntled and angry and vocal about cancer’s collateral damage, the truth is, I’m also a positive person who savors the moment.

And, now, it’s time to reveal my superpower.

I have the power to harness life in freeze frame and slow down my perception of time. I separate and savor each moment I snuggle with my daughter as we read books, as she climbs in the playground, when she sings with a light heart, and when she successfully (or not so successfully) jumps over a puddle.

Time also seems to slow down as I paint, exercise, and read books. I’m currently reading War and Peace (more on this in a future post). Thus far, I’ve read 28 chapters and I’m only 9 percent done. Although it’s a wonderful book, it’s been daunting and I’ve almost given up several times.

So I am really tapping deeply into my superpower so I can savor each word and enjoy all this book’s moments. Why rush to finish this novel?

Why rush through life at all?

We should exalt time, not aim to kill it.

How do you feel about time?

What is your perspective on this issue?

Do you have any superpowers you’d like to share?