Curve Your Line

One of my very favorite comics is called “Sheldon” (check it out at: http://www.sheldoncomics.com/) and it’s by an awesome artist named Dave Kellett.  

This is my absolute favorite strip.  I have a copy taped on my fridge, and it’s the desktop background on my work computer.  By starting each day with this sentiment, it reminds me that--ultimately--my life is my own.  I may have company along the way but it’s up to me to make my life worthwhile, and to make the most of every moment.

Thank you, Mr. Kellett. :)

F.A.I.L.ure

Today’s entry is a lesson in failure. All too often, people who fail tend to think they didn’t work hard enough. Or that they aren’t smart enough. Or capable enough. We live in a success-driven culture and--consciously or not--there is a certain amount of shame attached when we don’t succeed. It doesn’t matter what the circumstances are. If we tried and we failed, then there must be something wrong with us.

And until recently, I bought into this idea. I’d berate myself every time I tried something new and it didn’t turn out perfectly the very first time. I couldn’t do <fill in the blank> because obviously I wasn’t smart enough. I’d become frustrated and get disappointed in my lack of ability.

When I was in grad school, I took a class titled Introduction to Bibliographic Metadata (aka “Cataloging”). Most of my librarian colleagues and fellow grad school folks warned me, “You’ll either understand it immediately, or you never will. There is no in between.” 

Wouldn’t you know it? I was in the “I don’t get it” crowd. 

I worked my tail off for that class and received mostly Ds and Cs, a rude awakening for someone whose current GPA was 3.94. And it didn’t help that I happened to be in a section where most of the other students “got it.” After a disastrous midterm I began to question my general intelligence and capabilities. 

I tend toward the melodramatic when I’m feeling down, and by the time I’d finished castigating myself I was pretty sure the only job I would ever be able to excel at was that of a ditch digger (no disrespect to ditch diggers). Maybe.

I took to Facebook in search of something to distract me from my impending “flunking out of grad school and taking up a shovel” future. And then, I saw it. The image that would change everything.

Truly, a game-changer.

Leapin' library books, Batman!  All this time.  I wasn't failing.  I was learning.  No words can convey how radically this concept has changed my thinking.  It was instantaneous.  I realized first tries at something always go poorly and my second attempt would be better.  My third attempt would be even better than that.  Heck, by my fourth and fifth attempts I could very well be almost competent!

So next time you try something new, keep your mind open to F.A.I.L.ure.  It's not a stigma.  It's a badge of honor.

PS--that cataloging class?  Squeaked out a low B by the skin of my teeth.

A Matter of Strength

Toward the end of my mother’s life, her nieces and nephew (my cousins) all made the trip to see her one last time. A few days after one such visit, my cousin Carrie sent me a card that said “You never know how strong you are until you have no other choice.”

I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly strong individual. If you yell at me, I might cry. I don’t do well with adversity. I’m something of a pushover. I tend to whine a lot. And I’m not nearly as calm and patient as I should be.

And yet, suddenly, I had to be strong. I was the advocate. The head of the household. I had to make the decisions. I looked after my mother’s house and my apartment. I tracked and paid two sets of household bills. I dealt with the attorneys. And the accountant. And all the doctors. The nurses. The nursing home. The hospice workers. The funeral director. I sat in that chair and watched my mother die. 

I will be forever grateful to my family, friends, and colleagues for standing by me. For helping me with decisions, feeding me, texting me, letting me scream when I needed to, and having my back every step of the way. But, ultimately, these were my tasks, my responsibilities. My strength was needed. It’s amazing how fast this became my “new normal.” It didn’t seem particularly “strong” of me. It was just another facet of my life that I needed to find a way to incorporate.

And these facets just keep coming. In the past twelve months: 

I was diagnosed with adult asthma.
    And I got back up.
I was diagnosed with stage I breast cancer.
    And I got back up.
I faced down a lumpectomy and sentinel node biopsy.
    And I got back up.
I endured chemotherapy and lost my hair.
    And I got back up.
I went through radiation.
    And I got back up.
I was diagnosed with a brain malformation called Chiari Type 1.
    And I got back up.
I was diagnosed with osteoporosis.
    And I got back up.

Taken all together, this is a hell of a list for anyone to go through. At the time, though, it didn’t seem like all that much. It was just another day. Just another doctor’s appointment. Just another test. Just another procedure. Just another step in my journey.

You never know how strong you are, until you have no other choice. 

I was told I have a “suspicious” mass on my ovary.

    And I got back up.

I am undergoing a partial hysterectomy in January.
    And I will get back up.

Memory Lane/One Way

A walk down Memory Lane, literally!

I saw this signpost while on a walk this past weekend. I joked to my friend, "Hey, look, we found Memory Lane!" I snapped a photo, and went on our way. It didn't make much of an impression in the moment (quite possibly because we were hoping to finish up our walk and get home before it started raining again) but once I was home and all dried off I started thinking about it again.

In some sense, that signpost holds some excellent reminders. There's Memory Lane, of course. We've all heard of Memory Lane. Our parents and grandparents--okay, and us too if we're being honest--have been known to take a stroll down this little pathway upon occasion. Memory Lane can make you smile, or it can make you cry. You can relive the best time of your life, but you can also relive the worst. Memory is a two-edged sword. For every welcomed interaction with a loved one, we’ve had an interaction that made us uncomfortable. For every fun time we've had, there's one that wasn't.

I can tell you about the time my straight-laced father cranked KISS on the radio, rolled the windows down, and started belting out "I...wanna...rock 'n roll..." while headbanging as we tore down I-90 at 80 miles an hour (and then subsequently ordering me not to tell my mother). But I will not forgive myself for turning away to concentrate on a televised golf show so I wouldn't have to see the last breath he took. I could tell you about my goofy friend, Chris, who never gave up on trying to teach me how to shoot free throws, even when it became glaringly obvious it wasn't gonna happen. I can also tell you exactly how the air in the church smelled when I attended his funeral.

Indeed, memory can be both healing and traumatizing. Restful and anxiety-producing. Comforting and regretful.

Which brings me to the second sign. One Way. We know that saying, too. There's only one way out. There's only one way to do things. How many of us have travelled down a one-way street? With a one-way street, you only need to look in one direction. You won't be blindsided by something coming from the other way (provided, of course, you’re driving in the right direction!).

I’ve started practicing visualization as a way to calm my anxious “what if what if what if” thoughts about my future. I imagine I’m standing in a long hallway. There’s a locked door behind me, and a closed door in front of me that says “STOP.” I can’t look back (i.e. worry about those stupid “coulda woulda shoulda” moments we all have) because the door’s locked. I can’t see forward (i.e. worry about what’s to come, what’s next) because that door’s not open yet. All I have is today, right where I am.

In theory, that might sound like a wonderful way to view one's life. Always looking forward. You can't turn around to see what's behind you, because then you'd be going the wrong way. There's a lot to be said for living in the moment instead of the past. You've heard that, haven't you? That it's not a good idea to live in the past?

If we don't remember where we've come from, though, how will we know where we're going? Looking back, and sharing those trips down Memory Lane, guarantees that--for better or worse--the past isn't really the past. All those prior experiences went into shaping who we are today. Is it right to deny them, simply by not acknowledging them? After all, people who are gone aren't really gone. Things that happened aren't really over. As long as you remember them they’re still alive. Even if it’s only in your memory.