Incompatible with Life

I miss my right breast. There, I said it. It’s not often that I allow myself that luxury. It’s been nearly twelve years since I had it. My late breast was warm and soft, lovely really, even if it was a shave smaller than its mate, and parting with it saddened me deeply. I could say that I lost my breast, but that would imply that there was some remote possibility of getting it back. It’s more accurate to say that I removed it for medical reasons, and replaced it for cosmetic ones. If I had known how much the laborious process of reconstruction would hurt, I would have taken a pass on the effort. When the plastic surgeon explained the process of stretching that would precede placement of the actual implant, it did not occur to me that post-surgical skin might rebel against this strain on its capacity. However, once you’ve committed to the risk, you need to see it through to the reward, which is exactly what I did. I tolerated the pain for the eventual trophy—a cohesive sili

Race for the Cure 2010, one month post-chemo. Yesterday marked six years from the day that I received the call telling me that the pathology report from my surgery four days earlier was in, and confirmed that I had cancer…for the second time. It was late in the day, as afternoon gave way to evening, its subtle waning light foreshadowing sunset. I remember marveling at the idea that my surgeon was still at work, reviewing reports and delivering verdicts, at such an hour.  It was spring break for me. I'd scheduled the surgery on the Monday after Easter so that I wouldn't have to take time off for it and, when the call came, I had just returned home from a run which, in hindsight, was either evidence of extremely poor judgment or the strength of my ability to ignore and deny the facts. I sat on the porch, cordless phone to my ear, furiously scribbling notes as I absorbed the news. It didn’t pack the same shock value as the first time I’d received this diagnosis, m

Sammy and I make an annual trip to the floral shop down the street on the day before Easter to pick up something for Anna. We always decorate her grave for Easter, and have already placed a palm cross and added silk irises beside the headstone. However, the Easter Bunny doesn’t visit the cemetery and we hate for Anna to be left out, so we leave flowers on Easter to make sure Anna knows we miss her. And there’s something about fresh blooms that celebrates the promise of the resurrection. Sammy is a discerning and opinionated shopper who takes the lead on these missions. Perusing the selection of long stemmed roses in the cooler, she quickly dismissed the peach and red and fuchsia-rimmed yellow, and picked out the pale pink spray roses. “How many?” the clerk asked. “How many?” I repeated, nudging Sammy to make the decision. “I don’t know…seven?” “Seven?” It seemed like an unusual number. “Seven. I don’t know how many to get, but I like the number seven.”

A fundamental truth of pregnancy and infant loss is that a mother blames herself. It doesn’t matter what the doctors and nurses say to reassure her that it wasn’t her fault—that it was nobody’s fault—she believes at the deepest part of her being that she caused her baby’s death. All around her she sees other women who have delivered their perfectly healthy babies with ease. Her awareness of having been singled out for the agonizing fate of loss is compounded every time she realizes that she is the only mom in the room who didn’t get to keep her baby. The broken record of prenatal admonitions screeches in her head. If only she’d exercised more, or eaten better, or been able to keep those horse pill vitamins down, or prayed harder…She ponders what she could have done to deserve such disaster. She wonders if God hates her.   Her shame is a secret so dark and deep, so powerful, that it drives her sorrow underground. To publicly display her grief would expose the magnitude of

I have a confession to make, one that seemingly meets the criteria of a mundane mid-life crisis: I love what I do, but I hate my job. I’m a kindergarten teacher by trade. I adore children—always have, always will—and have a natural affinity for the littlest learners. I enjoy watching their growth across a school year, the way they come in green and fresh as newly planted seeds at the start, and leave my classroom as saplings stretching toward the infinite sky of knowledge and understanding. I hate the metrics that are used to define my students’ performance (and my own). I loathe the over-reliance on a narrow band of assessment measures that ignores the intangibles of student growth and extinguishes the joy of learning. I resent seeing children reduced to numbers on a grid in the name of data-based decision-making. I cherish the time I spend with my students in the Zone of Proximal Development. I thrive on the everyday teachable moments that enable me to coach into my stud

It's Valentine's Day. My husband is working today, not that we would have had plans to do anything special. It is, for us, just another weekend, simple and ordinary. Both of us are more pragmatic than romantic in nature. The one time I sent Scott a bouquet, he sold it to a co-worker who'd just had a blow-out with his girlfriend and needed a make-up gift. He did take me out to dinner with the proceeds of the sale, but the writing was on the wall. We would not be a couple who showered each other with sentimental tokens of love. My career path into the kindergarten classroom has ensured a steady stream of gifts and goodies, so I haven't missed out. Every year I am inundated with boxes of chocolates and valentines filled with sweet expressions of the undying affection of my five- and six-year-old friends. I rather enjoy this innocent side of the holiday. Racy lingerie and dirty talk are not my forte. Hand-scrawled hearts and messages of unconditional love and accept

Two years ago a postcard advertising a personal trainer certification program arrived in my mailbox. It wasn’t a particularly noteworthy event, except that instead of throwing it immediately into the recycling bin, I held onto it. And began to do a little research into exactly what the certification process would entail. I couldn’t imagine how I would use said credential, yet the idea of adding personal trainer to my resume nagged at me like an itchy bug bite. I mentioned it to my sister…who promptly agreed to enroll in the program with me. After several months of discomfiting study that filled us both with fears of inadequacy, we completed the coursework. All that remained was the certification exam. My sister went first, early in the morning, and I followed suit on the same day, albeit after lunch. We both passed with flying colors. A few months later we attended our first “Fit Fest,” a weekend of workshops meant to build our skills and knowledge. We were at a distinct d

I’ve been nursing a lingering cough since before Christmas. At first I didn’t think too much of it. I’d caught the upper respiratory virus that circulated through my kindergarten classroom, but after suffering through a few feverish nights and a week of congestion, all that remained was a mild residual cough. It stayed with me through the holidays. By mid-January my patience was waning. Any attempt at physical exertion left me winded, which hampered my daily exercise habit, which increased my stress level, which made me reach for comfort food...you get the picture. I found myself shivering in the evenings, unable to get warm enough, which was unusual for my hot-flashy self. Yes it was colder than normal outside, but I was chilled to the bone. Until I went to bed, at which point I started sweating like Frosty in a greenhouse. My frustration came to a head last weekend. Tired of being tired and sick, I dragged myself to Urgent Care. The doctor thought my lungs sounded clear,