This was pretty awesome. And nerve wracking. And thanks to the flu, although I was able to write what I wanted to say, it wasn't so easy to nail the entire thing from memory. As you can see from the photo, there was no podium, no microphone (it was clipped on my ear)--it was just me. Talking.
TED style. No props. No powerpoint slides to guide me along.
This was the launch of the
Second Wind Tour. The energy was wonderful. My talk as I intended to deliver it can be found below the photos and copies of the tweets. I know I missed a few points at the very end but I felt very strongly about not having papers in my hand. OK, I'll admit it. That had more to do with vanity than the papers. I didn't want to wear my glasses.
My iPad was on the music stand. As I walked on stage, I placed it on the stand, sharing with the audience, "How they asked someone with chemobrain to give a talk is beyond me, thus, the iPad -- just in case....."
I would be remiss if I didn't offer tremendous thanks to Health Republic of NY who sponsored the NYC leg of the tour. YES, my health insurance company. They invited me to speak on their behalf, to tell my story and I certainly hope I met their expectations.
Thanks, too, to AARP NY for sending this into the twitterverse with the accompanying photo!!
And to Beth Finkel, AARP NY State Director for sharing the last part of the show. The musicians are world class.
Samite is from Uganda. To say he is a humanitarian barely scratches the surface. You simply must go to his website if you are not familiar with his work.
And mostly, thanks to all of you, for reading, for sharing, for connecting. If not for each and every one of you, none of this would have happened. Without the connections here, there is no second wind. I am deeply humbled and so grateful for the gifts you have bestowed upon me.
THIS IS WHAT I SAID, MOSTLY......
It's never too late to become who you might
have been.
George Eliot, a British author is credited
with that quote.
When my daughter was in her teens, she
would frequently suggest, "It's never too late, mom," in response to
any remark I might make about doing just about anything. We had a habit of doing this dance. One of us exasperated (Her), the other, eye
rolling (Me). I recall on more than one
occasion explaining to her that there IS a point in life when these great
inspirational quotes no longer apply.
That it is too late to switch paths, change course. Only in the movies, does someone hop off a
tour bus and decide to start a new life under the Tuscan Sun.
She was young and idealistic and I was
seasoned and jaded. And realistic-or so
I thought.
In the spring of 2006, a curve ball was
thrown my way. This is just a teeny snippet of what
happened in the span of 15 months. My
routine mammography returned suspicious findings. Three biopsies and almost four months later,
I was told I had invasive breast cancer.
Several surgeries, procedures and eight rounds of chemotherapy
followed. Midway through my own
treatment, my dad, a healthy 70 year old, was diagnosed with an early stage
lung cancer. For a while we were on parallel treatment paths, I can think of better paths to share than cancer. Complications from treatment
would cause his untimely death less than a year after my own cancer
diagnosis. As if the times weren’t rough
enough, three weeks after my dad’s death, my mom was diagnosed with breast
cancer for the second time, 20 years after her first bout with the
disease.
To say that I was frenzied, doesn’t even
begin to describe how I felt. I
experienced the full gamut of emotions.
Fear, anger, denial, sadness. It
was messy time but slowly things began to get back to normal. I settled back into work: managing two
commercial construction companies and doing all of the accounting for
each. As the weeks turned into months
and the months extended beyond a year, I noticed I was struggling to keep all
of the balls in the air. I blamed it on
the work load, I blamed it on the constant interruptions, I blamed it on being
pulling in too many directions by too many people, I blamed it on everything I
could think of until I finally came to the realization, maybe, it’s YOU.
I had a neuropsychological evaluation done
by a doctor who understands the nuances associated with chemotherapy induced
cognitive impairment. Chemobrain. After a series of tests than spanned more
than three hours, I felt like my brain was dripping out of my ears. The doctor shared
some preliminary findings. She told me
she identified areas of difficulty.
Quote: “Your problems are
primarily around numbers so it’s not really a big deal.” She looked down at her notes, saw the word
“accounting” which prompted her to say, “Well, I guess in your case, this could
be a problem.” Ummm, yeah. Little bit.
At that moment, and in the days and weeks
that followed, I was a lost soul. My skills were in accounting and
management. I wasn’t marketable. I was too old AND I was incapable. Sitting on the sofa watching mindless TV,
really not for me.
So, Now WHAT?? A friend suggested I might consider writing a
blog. “ABOUT WHAT?” I wanted to know in a tone that wasn’t exactly
friendly. “Breast Cancer? That’s utterly ridiculous. There are enough voices in cyberspace about
breast cancer.” Plus, I didn’t know a thing about blogging. My understanding of
the internet didn’t extend much past Dr. Google and finding my way on several
occasions into that internet pine box.
My only knowledge of social media was
Facebook. And the sole purpose of FB was
a means of stalking my kids. Checking
their updates was a way of knowing they were okay without being a complete nag.
My friend was persistent and relentless
with the blog gig. Same tone, same
tenor, same words. Her: “Write a blog.” Me: “About What?” Until one day she said, “Chemobrain.” Suddenly, my tone and tenor went from “you
are annoying me to no end,” to “Now that’s something I might be able to do.”
When I realized my life took a turn to the
left and I was still going straight, I could fight it or I could embrace
it. I could continue my present path,
or, I could choose to turn left and see where it might take me. I don’t buy into the “cancer is a gift”
theory—Seriously, where’s the receipt, I’d like to return it---- OR that my
cancer diagnosis was part of some grand plan for me to live a more fulfilled
and meaningful life. I was quite happy
with my life and this is not a path I would have chosen to take.
A cancer diagnosis IS a pretty big
deal. It’s traumatic. While you are in treatment, it’s an in your
face thing. Then, the active part of the
program subsides and that’s when the fun begins. Learning, not only to weave the trauma into
the tapestry of my life, I slowly realized it was a catalyst for post traumatic
GROWTH.
I began to write. I found my voice. I found a passion previously unbeknownst to
me. I reached out to people. I volunteered at the hospital where I was
treated and I volunteered with a number of local and national research and
outreach organizations. I made tons of
friends. The magic of community that
began on social media spilled from the computer screen to my brick and mortar
world.
I think of all of the relationships and the
opportunities that have come my way because of that silly little blog. My life is completely different from anything
I could have envisioned. And
exponentially more fulfilling. First it
was about the writing, hoping that my words would resonate with just one
person, validate the feelings of just one person. Then, it became so much more. It served as the conduit to The Next of My
Life.
Somewhere along the line, I turned into a
science geek. I pore over new research
findings. I follow meeting hashtags – if
you aren’t familiar with twitter, that means nothing to you but there is power
in that little tic tac toe board, the hashtag.
And somewhere else along the line, I turned
into someone who is unafraid and unapologetic.
I speak out about what I believe to be true and just and I speak for
those who struggle to make their own voices heard.
I’ve found ways to tune out the static, to
focus on following where my heart and my thoughts are trying to lead me. I still shake my head in amazement at some of
the things that have happened over these past two years. I cherish every relationship that has
developed because of that blog. I stand
here today because I walked away from what was familiar and comfortable and
embraced something so different from anything I knew.
A rebirth.
Sometimes, we can become who we were meant
to me and in my case, I think it’s about time I apologize to my young and idealistic
daughter for every single one of my jaded, seasoned eye rolls.
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