A Kick-Ass Fairy: A Memoir (30 page)

Doug was not happy about my leaving him at this busy time of the year. I didn’t care. I knew if I didn’t do something to change the tide of my despair, I was heading straight for the iceberg that sank the Titanic. I was a survivor. I needed to do this, and they would survive my temporary absence.

On Kauai, I drove the Kuhio Highway through Hanalei and hit all the beaches on the way to Haena State Park, the literal end of the road. Slathered in sunscreen and wearing a hat, I carried my chair, umbrella, books, water, and snacks down to the beach. The weather was beautiful, not too hot, too cold, or too humid. Every day I sat and stared out at the clear, turquoise-blue ocean. I watched the sun move across the sky. I watched the waves crashing again and again, the tide coming in and then going out. I watched the birds along the shoreline looking for food and heard the occasional sounds of someone rollicking in the surf. The whole process was so cleansing, so harmonic.

It was while I was zoned out to the white noise of the surf that I had a revelation, though not necessarily a good one. I was thinking about how I felt about being abandoned by some of my friends during the lead up to and after the lung cancer diagnosis and surgery. I thought about Mother Angelica and the guy with AIDS. I thought about sin. I thought about the story of Job.

I reviewed the Collegeville Bible Commentary I’d brought on the trip, some light reading. Job, after losing his family and all his possessions, still did not curse God.

So Satan said to God, “Skin for skin! All that a man has will he give for his life. But now put forth your hand and touch his bone and his flesh, and surely he will blaspheme you to your face.” And the Lord said to Satan, “He is in your power; only spare his life.” So Satan went forth from the presence of the Lord and smote Job with severe boils from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head.

To make a long story shorter, Job covered his boil-infested body with ashes and sat as a homeless man and began lamenting, even cursing the day he was born and the night of his conception. He questioned why this horrible thing happened to him. He wanted to die. Three of his friends heard of his plight and went to give comfort and consolation. They started off quiet and listening, but after a few days of hearing his lamentations, they all began to verbally assault him relentlessly. They told him that all this misfortune had happened to him because of his sin, his shortcomings, and his ignorance of God. A fourth friend joined in the put-downs, telling Job that man cannot fathom God’s motives.

I started crying. Lung cancer is associated with so much shame, judgment and blame. This diagnosis wasn’t supported by ribbons, walks, and store promotions. With the diagnosis of lung cancer, I realized that I was harder on myself than anyone else could ever have been. While the sun began to set I had an epiphany, that I was very judgmental and hard on myself. Therefore, why wouldn’t I see everyone else in my life as being the same?

In the days that followed, I continued to ponder the story of why does a good man suffer? I was good, a good wife, a good mother, a good daughter, a good friend, a good person. There weren’t many things I had done in my life that I would be ashamed of—shoplifting, lying, acting out in junior high, things of that sort. Surprisingly, smoking wasn’t one of them. But then it struck me like a brick to the head, maybe the whole premise of the story was screwed up. Why would God play a cosmic game with Satan over the faith of a man? Are we all just playthings? Does God have an ego? Why would God care about Job’s faith? Does God need to be worshipped?

My mind started spinning. I had to force myself to pause and remember to breathe. I was getting very angry. I rationalized that the Book of Job was a story and, as such, it could not be a literal truth—because if it was, then life was nothing but a cruel hoax. What was the point of all of it? It seemed to me that then we would all be doomed from the beginning. Then it would mean that the Church, while providing tradition, ritual, community, history, the teachings of morals, and the virtues of society, was also part of the hoax. If you don’t believe what the Church teaches, you are damned.

I was really having a hard time with all of this. Wasn’t it OK to be human? Isn’t that what God created? The idea of temptation and the fall from grace seemed so antithetical to the notion of a loving God. Why would God create man only for us to be damned, weak, have to struggle and suffer on the eternal wheel of life for all of creation. Is all of this just another myth to help explain what we cannot understand?

Then I thought, The magnificence of creation is here to put everything into perspective. Yet we have pride, ego, we suffer, we transform in the pit of hell or the cauldron, and then we relapse into pride. And then the cycle begins again and repeats again and again until we get it. But then, aren’t we created as humans, and isn’t this is part of being human? As humans, don’t we house the divine spirit within us? Is all of creation deemed wondrous except for us?

I thought that perhaps this is all a game. Maybe this life is all supposed to be fun, a great mystery to be solved. Maybe the only point to all of this is to laugh at it all, find the good in everything, and just love. The God puppet was on one shoulder debating with the Satan puppet on the other shoulder, and they both wore my face. I wanted to drown them.

I woke up at dusk. The circuits in my brain were fried. As I stumbled back to the car, I remembered that I had to write a note to remind myself—Do Not Take Life So Seriously. Ha, yeah right, I thought, as I emptied my bag on the ground to find my keys.

While I was in Hawaii, Brad’s robotic parts kit arrived and he went to pick it up at the designated drop-off site. Brad and a few like-minded friends had six weeks to build a robot for the 2007 FIRST Robotics—Silicon Valley Regional competition.

FIRST is an acronym for “For Inspiration and Recognition of Science and Technology.” The program had sounded like a win-win when Brad and I discussed starting the club and team early in the previous fall. At the end of the six-week build period, the robot needed to be shipped to the competition in accordance with a chapter’s worth of rules and guidelines, regardless of its state of completion. Once the robot was shipped, I had a few weeks to recover from the months of coaching (organizing), mentoring (nagging about sponsorship), planning logistics not related to building (being ignored), and fighting with my son. Through all the aggravation, I could see this was Brad in his element, building, creating. Quite frankly, he didn’t know what the heck I was talking about in organizing and starting the business of the club. Brad made it clear with a look of Really, Mom? that organization and preparation was not what this was about. And he was right—I knew I wouldn’t have been able to build a robot if there was a gun to my head.

In March, ready or not, the matches were called up one by one, three teams on the red alliance and three on the blue alliance. The referees were introduced—volunteers from Google, NASA’s Jet Propulsion Lab, San Jose State University; mechanical engineers; electrical engineers; rocket scientists; and experts from the who’s who of Silicon Valley technology companies. An experienced announcer detailed each two-and-a-half-minute match play by play, as if it were a gladiator tournament.

Each team’s robot had to be controlled remotely using a joystick. It had to pick up an inner tube and hang it on a large rack of three rows. Each row had eight hanging posts suspended by movable chains. Hanging the tubes was to be done within the framework of a three-team alliance competing against the other three-team alliance. While doing this they had to employ strategies to maximize points earned for each match. Scoring was based on the number of tubes hung, more for tubes hung in a row and their height on the rack, as well as bonus points for an automation sequence, and, finally, where on the field the robots ended up when the final bell rang and the power was cut off.

The master of ceremonies was a man named Mark who worked at NASA as some sort of aerospace engineer and sported royal blue hair. As the matches were set up, he announced each team, athletically ran their flags around the field wearing a cape, then a hula skirt, then a large police hat, a jujitsu outfit, and a NASCAR jacket, showing us all how much fun he was having. He was very funny.

“Let’s break the law—the law of technology!”

“Let’s get these buggies rolling!”

“This is why we do the math!!!”

“Here’s to the Best of the Best!”

He definitely had a flair for the dramatic.

In the early matches very few inner tubes were hung. Brad’s team, The Spartonics, had a problem with the power supply to their robot and it sat paralyzed for one entire match. In the subsequent match, Spartacus, their robot, was intentionally rammed by another robot and critically wounded, leaving the arena at the end for emergency surgery. The team seemed to take it all in stride, as if this was expected and was just an opportunity for improving their robot.

Later, I held my breath while Spartacus picked up and then dropped the inner tube, finally picked it up, held on to it, and tried to center it on the post, which was moving back and forth. I held my breath some more while the robot’s arm tried to disengage from the tube and leave it on the post while the rack was rammed, and the robot was tussled about by the other robots. In another match, someone threw an inner tube and horseshoed Spartacus’s alliance flag, disqualifying the team in the match unless it was removed by another alliance robot. No one came to their aid as the rapid, eight-count bongo drum played, followed by the robotic female voice that gave warning of the last thirty seconds of the match, “B-e-g-i-n … t-e-r-m-i-n-a-t-i-o-n … s-e-q-u-e-n-c-e.”

By the middle of the tournament, robots had been improved, perfected. On the rack tubes were hung on the posts six across, three vertically, and evidence of alliance strategizing started to emerge. Some robots were clearly designated as offense and others played defense to prevent the opposing alliance from scoring. There was wedging, ramming, entanglements in the rack, and the complete overturn of one robot, which caused a yellow flag to be thrown down by the referee indicating “not playing well with others.” The referees huddled after the match for a good long time while inspecting the carnage, submitted their ruling, and then the penalties were announced.

Spartacus began scoring consistently once its “new” pneumatic arm was perfected in a series of surgeries performed in the pit between the team’s assigned matches. Brad and the Spartonics would wheel the robot on a Radio Flyer wagon back and forth from the pit to the field, oblivious of the banners, team spirit chants, and team mascots, which included a person dressed as a hat, a wolf made of metal diamond-plate, and a spaceman. Nor did they hear the incredible soundtrack, mixed by a live DJ, playing at stadium volume between the matches. I finally understood the mentality of the sports mom. I felt like I was back in high school myself but doing something great instead of waitressing at the coffee shop on the weekends or working at the puzzle factory after my dad’s store closed.

The matches continued the next day. The winning alliance would advance to the national competition later in the spring. The increasing ability to accrue bonus points ratcheted the scores higher and higher. The thrills became greater, the cheers, louder as the stadium filled to capacity. The stands looked like a multicolored checkered flag with the large blocks of seats occupied by each team’s parents and other fans dressed in team colors. At our peak, the Spartonics cheering section comprised maybe six seats of unmatched outfits, and we didn’t have the color-coordinated sticks either.

I noticed one young woman wearing a T-shirt that said “I ❤ NERDS!” I too loved nerds. I was a nerd. In between the matches there was team dancing and performances, one that included twenty or so girls from Hawaii doing an aerobic Irish jig that would rival a cardiac stress test, accompanied by some fun music.

At the end of the day, Brad’s team wasn’t in the top-eight seed. They weren’t picked in the first or second round of alliance building. However, they were ranked high enough to be a second alternate, just in case two robots bit the dust on the way to finals. They waited in the wings as the best Super Bowl ever was played out in the San Jose State Arena. It was so exciting to see a thrilling competition of the mind, with science, math, technology, and strategy played out—robot fashion.

Brad’s team did great for their first time out, on a shoestring budget, with little or no help and minimal classmate support. I was so proud of him and so happy for him. Being involved in FIRST Robotics with my son was one of the best times I ever had in my life. Seeing him shine, doing something he loved, having it be about him, was worth it all. And I felt happy, like a kid myself, but also humbled and grateful to have lived to see it.

This experience was also just like the game of life, riddled with the drama of ups and downs, the proverbial thrill of victory and agony of defeat. Although the agony wasn’t so bad if you took it in stride and saw not winning as an opportunity to refine yourself, the player of the game. The drama of the game was the point. Brad seemed to get this already.

Chapter 28

February–October 2007

S
ince the lead-up to the most recent surgery and cancer diagnosis, I knew I was spiritual, but I could no longer subscribe to organized religion and the dogma of the Catholic Church. I just couldn’t believe that I was that bad, had sinned that much, or deserved any of this. I didn’t think these things were about punishment; otherwise, I was chained to the wheel in hell. I no longer believed that I needed to be redeemed just because I was born a human being. It didn’t make sense to me that everything created was perfect and good, except us.

Early in the year, I hosted my book club at my house for the discussion of Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Everyone in the group wished they could take a year off to find themselves, redefine themselves, travel, or just plain get away.

As hostess, I said, “Let’s go around the group and tell one word that you would use to define yourself.” There was a teacher, a helper, an artist, a mother. There was a different word for each of the women in the group.

“I am a seeker,” I said.

February 27, 2007

The weather has been cold and raining, even hailing every day. There has been snow on Mt. Diablo twice this week. Naturally, the dogs do not want to go outside and get their paws wet. I smudged the house with smoldering sage this week to get rid of all the toxic and negative energy. I have been collecting crystals for creativity, healing, and abundance. I have started on my yearlong picture project. I want to organize the photos, transfer the videotapes to DVDs, and transfer the slides to digital. I want to remember the good times and see my life as a flowing river rather than functioning between blasts from within a fox hole.

Yesterday I met Kim in the city. I took her shopping for clothes for her birthday. It’s hard to believe she will be 26. She’s enjoying graduate school and her boyfriend. But she’s still not feeling that well physically or mentally. She sees a therapist whom she really likes. She also sees a nutritionist and an energy worker.

Kim told me that she has been told that she has “adrenal burnout” and is dealing with a lot of “mom issues,” meaning me. She said something about some archetypal contract she made. She is also working on her issue of letting go and the feeling that she is responsible for this or that. She has had such a heavy load in life. I want her to be happy, healthy, and fulfilled. But her journey is hers to walk.

March 20

I’m angry with Brad. Tonight before my doctor appointment, I shared that I was nervous and trying not to focus on my appointment and the outcome. He told me that I just wanted pity.

“Oh! Here we go—just cry me a river.”

“I thought you were old enough to share this with,” I responded. “And by the way what happened to compassion and empathy?”

“That is the same thing as pity,” he said.

March 22

Today is Nancy’s 50th birthday. I’ve known her since we were 14. We are still 14 inside. I had my oncology appointment yesterday. The PET CT was good—nothing new going on. I’m not even feeling relieved or happy. I’m thankful, yes, but for some strange reason, I feel irritable. I’m still depressed. My oncologist thinks I might need an antidepressant (I’m already on one) and therapy (again). She added, “By the way, why wouldn’t you be depressed?”

I told her, “I feel like a POW in a torture camp, in a cage, waiting, anxious for the unseen door that squeaks open. I can hear the footsteps, my skin is crawling. Are they going to stop at my cell to beat the crap out of me, or does this mean this is just the end?”

Kim and I went to lunch at the Cliff House. When I got home I read the reports. Apparently the lung tumor tested positive for EGFR, epidermal growth factor. I don’t understand the significance of this. The report also noted that there is a splenule located adjacent to the spleen bed. I need to follow up on this, since the spleen was removed six years ago.

April 21

I started reading a book, Your Body Speaks Your Mind: Decoding the Emotional, Psychological, and Spiritual Messages That Underlie Illness, by Deb Shapiro. I was reading chapter 2 when I started having an anxiety attack.

The text posed the question whether illness was a time when you can feel special, allow yourself to rest and be nurtured? I asked myself, Has my disease made me special; extraordinary disease and history equals extraordinarily special? Do I feel special without defining myself externally or by cancer? Why not? Aren’t I just special because I am? This is what I need to work on to heal. I don’t need to be anything, a great anything, always, never, whatever. I need to accept myself as no one has ever done before and that’s that! This is my mission—unconditional love and acceptance of me.

GOOD LUCK TO ME!

April 30

I listened to a book on CD this weekend called The Wisdom of Your Cells: How Your Beliefs Control Your Biology, by Bruce Lipton, PhD. It was fascinating. He is a biologist that has studied cells. His theory is that the cellular membrane controls the cell, and it is influenced by the environment and how we perceive the environment. This study of the cellular membrane revealed that the membrane is like an organic computer chip. It is the ”brain” of the cell. Messages from the environment registered by the cellular membrane could turn the genes on and off.

This book was also the first time I heard of the field called epigenetics. Epigenetics could mean that you could manipulate the environment of the cell. Even genetic mutations could be overcome by switching the expression of the gene on or off. This means that your behavior and environment actually change your genes, which could be good or bad for you.

He also spent a lot of time talking about how threats and perceived threats influence our immune systems and thereby influence the health of the cells. Chronic stress creates a less than optimal condition in the environment of the cell when cortisol is released from the adrenals in the “fight or flight” response. This puts the body in survival rather than thriving mode. This response is automatic. The only thing we can change is our belief about the threat. These beliefs are usually recorded to our “hard drives” (our subconscious minds) before we are six years old. How do you change beliefs you don’t even know you have?

In early May of 2007 I telephoned Bill, a therapist and an expert in the use of EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) for treating post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. I had learned that EMDR could help identify repressed traumatic memories and triggers that create the stress response throughout life. Put simply, the technique occupies your conscious mind to access memories—even ones that are preverbal. Then, through a series of steps, you can rewrite your subconscious mind. I scheduled an appointment. Bill was the seventeenth therapist that I was meeting on the path of recovery since 1994.

When I arrived for the first appointment, Bill opened the door, introduced himself, shook my hand and invited me in. His office was hot and stuffy.

“Is it all right if I video record our sessions?”

He said the tapes would be for me to review after our sessions. I said sure, thinking I would probably never watch them. Then he asked me why I came to see him.

“I am specifically interested in the EMDR, the eye movement desensitization and reprocessing.”

I told him about reading the Lipton book. He said he hadn’t heard of it.

“I want to get to the bottom of why I keep getting sick.”

He responded with a skeptical eyebrow and in between asking questions soon began to furiously take notes in a red spiral notebook.

For the next hour, I downloaded the highlights of my life thus far. It was like a tsunami. I think the guy took a solid six to eight pages of notes while occasionally wiping his brow with a pressed white handkerchief. He said something about there being “a lot of low-hanging fruit.”

He gave me a homework assignment to journal events that bothered me or got me upset, “triggers,” and how I felt about these things. At the end of the hour his telephone rang, he put the caller on hold, and we set up our next meeting. I felt exhausted.

In the next couple of meetings, I learned that EMDR would bypass a great deal of talk therapy and that it could “cure” things that always bothered me. If it was successful, I would cease to notice my triggers. It sounded great to me.

Bill asked me questions about my children, my husband, my illnesses and surgeries. He wanted to know more about my family, my parents, my sisters and brother. In the third session, he asked me for the first time if I was sure that I wasn’t molested by my father when I was growing up. I was taken aback by that.

“My father,” I mused “wouldn’t have harmed a fly.” He asked me to make a list of the “ten worst things that ever happened.” Whoa, that would be a challenge. How could I limit the list to ten? It seemed impossible. We would discuss this at the next visit.

During the week, after much consideration, I began my list. It came to the point that I had to think in terms of yes, this was bad … but not as bad as…. Eventually, I came up with my “worst things” list. And honestly, even though each one of these was bad, I had survived, hadn’t I?

Linda’s 10 Worst Things:

Dave’s death

Waking up during surgery

Waking up in the recovery room without medication for pain after the Whipple and no one listening

The Whipple

Losing both my breasts

Diagnosis of cancer each and every time

Wanting to die

Almost dying

Not feeling loved

Not being heard

At our next appointment, Bill looked over the list, did some professional prefrontal cortex machinations and asked, “So what is your earliest memory?”

I thought to myself, What are you talking about? Look at the list! Why did I bother to even make the list? Perplexed, I closed my eyes and thought back—Linda in the playpen, Mom on the phone, silver and turquoise kitchen, Mom ironing, talking to someone else, she’s laughing on the phone. Next memory—Linda in the playpen, Mom on the phone. In fact, I felt like I was always in the playpen, trapped, jailed.

I remembered something! I told Bill that when my children didn’t walk until they were 15 months old, my mother had told me, “You were toilet trained, walking, and singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” at your first birthday.”

“Wow!” Bill said, “that means that by one year you were already trying hard to win your mother’s love and approval.” That sent me reeling. I felt so much rage toward my mother.

“How does that make you feel?”

“Angry,” I replied.

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate that?”

“Eight to ten.”

Using a metallic wand that looked like an old TV antenna with a ball at the end, he instructed me to follow the ball with my eyes as it moved back and forth. As he distracted my conscious mind, he asked me a series of questions. Slowly guiding me through these earliest memories with questions, he instructed me to focus on my feelings. We paused after each set to check in with what I was thinking and feeling and assign a number on the feeling scale. The more I dug, the more anger I felt.

The next week, Bill had me beating the sofa with a tennis racket, then stepping on a rope attached to a bar trying to dislodge the bar from the rope until I almost broke a blood vessel in my eye. I felt like a jerk, but it felt good. I wanted to kill her (my mother), and that feeling wasn’t coming off the top of the rating scale. It was hovering at around a nine. My hate was so intense that sometimes we would have to digress onto something else. He told me that I probably had these feelings when I was little but that I had to suppress them to survive. He postulated that maybe I felt as a child that I was a monster and compensated by having to be a superhero just to live.

“Mmm,” I said. I’d have to give that some thought.

After a few months of seeing Bill, I had to switch my appointment time. My slot was following a woman who came out of her therapy appointment looking like she had been reliving a weeklong gang rape and Bill was glazed over for the first quarter of our session.

I now had the first appointment of the day. Soon, I began noticing that Bill was developing a trend of showing up five to ten minutes late for our appointments. Interestingly, while I was waiting I would get nervous and fidgety, obsessing about how he wasn’t going to show up. I had to tell myself that it wasn’t personal; it didn’t mean See, you really don’t matter, the way I automatically thought. Starting to feel like I was “owning” my power, I brought up his lateness, telling him in a nice way that I thought it was disrespectful and unprofessional. He apologized and showed up on time for the next appointment.

He asked me where my father was and what he did during my childhood.

“Either he was working two jobs, starting a business, losing a business, or just plain checked out. He wasn’t around.”

“How does that make you feel?” And for the first time, I realized how angry I was at him too. Why didn’t he protect us from her? Why wasn’t he around more if he knew how she was? Didn’t he care? Maybe he was trying to stay away from her. What a coward, I thought. Maybe he didn’t know everything. In my thoughts I was defending him, excusing him, but also wondering why he wasn’t the parent. My feelings vacillated between compassion and anger. I thought it was all crazy.

Bill asked me if I had any other medical history other than what I had already described.

“Yes, when I was four years old I had surgery to remove two moles, one on my shoulder and one on my back.”

Up to this point, this was just some benign statement I had transcribed onto innumerable patient history forms.

“Let’s talk about what happened.”

He handed me a double buzzer apparatus that alternated a zzzzz in each fist, again with the purpose of distracting the conscious mind, allowing better access to the subconscious and repressed memories.

“On a scale of one to ten, how do you feel right now?”

Whoa, I thought, I was a joke. When the stitches were about to be removed my mother did nothing to comfort me. She not only didn’t care, but she was also making fun of me. I was less than a nothing. I hated her. Oh! How I hated her. Why did I have to have this surgery—to remove the remote chance of getting cancer someday? For God’s sake, I was 4 years old. What was she thinking?