jennethink

BOOM

D-DAY ANNIVERSARY

Yesterday marked the 3^rd anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. Each year I reflect back on that time and I'm always struck by how thick and dark the dividing line is between the before and after. The calendar of my life seems to be divided into B.D. - Before Diagnosis and A.T. - After Treatment. So much has been colored by those months of care. And as each day clicks away and I get more and more distance from those days of chemical poisoning, I can see more and more of the effects of what happened after the B.D. and before the A.T.

I loved to draw when I was a kid. Still do, actually. To this day, one of my favorite activities is to color. I love everything about it. I love the thick smell of the crayons, especially ones that are all piled together. I love the waxy feel of crayon residue on my fatty part of my palm left over from dragging my crayon-clutched fist across a creation. I love scraping at the paper on the disappearing flattened tip of a crayon and using that tiny bullshit sharpener in the box to create a dull point on a used stick. I love using the same color to make both gentle light sweeps of color and thick heavy bold lines. Crayons rock. Versatile. Simple. Colorful. Once, when I was pretty little, a babysitter showed me how to lay down stripes of color on a piece of paper. She showed me how to use as many colors as I liked, in whatever random pattern I wanted. Then, when I had the paper filled, she showed me how to take the black crayon and cover it all up. Dark and thick I would lay the black crayon on its side and press a wax blanket of black over all the color. The harder I pressed, the darker the black. The darker the black, the quicker the colors would disappear. With each pressured sweep across the paper, the color would evaporate right before my eyes. Every pretty bright thing would be swallowed up, overtaken by blacknesss.

Before diagnosis, I had spent much of my life laying down bright strips of color. Family relationships – blue green. The Hub –yellow orange. My business – blue violet. Friendships – brick red. Other friendships – olive green. Still others – cornflower. My home – lemon yellow. The Kid – periwinkle, carnation pink, orange red. And the colors were beautiful. Even the burnt sienna and bittersweet. They worked. Messy in places, sure, but as a work of art, it was really coming together nicely. It's pretty easy to see where this is going. If B.D. was laying down color, then treatment certainly was The Black. 12 treatments. Six scans. 3 operations. Countless blood tests, needle sticks and saline flushes. And 1 very scary hospitalization. Each a very heavy sweep of a very black crayon. And with every pressured sweep, my color evaporated right before my eyes. Every pretty thing about me and my life seemed to be swallowed up, overtaken by blackness.

People still ask me if I was scared when I was diagnosed. They ask me what I thought about. Did I worry about dying? How did I handle the news? Did the diagnosis terrify me? And I have the same answer to every one of those questions. No. I was not terrified. No. I did not worry about dying. No. I didn't freak. But that was then. That was a B.D. reaction. And although I can't predict the future I can guess I would react differently a second time around. My A.T. reaction to a recurrence would most likely be different. There would be fear. There would be dread. And there would be panic. Not because cancer scares me more now but because treatment does.

It is black

And heavy

And it covers the color so completely even the memories of color fade.

The first time my babysitter told me how to color and cover, it was hard to convince me to do it. I didn't understand. Why would I want to make something beautiful only to cover it up with something ugly? I'm not sure how much convincing it took for me to finally give in. Eventually, I did what I was encouraged to do. I wasn't happy about it. But I did it. Of course, at the time, I didn't see the whole picture. I didn't know the final step. I didn't know something else was coming. I never imagined after the paper was engulfed in black she would pull a coin out of her purse and begin to slowly, and with intention scrape the black crayon away. But that's exactly what she did. She pulled that penny across the paper and used it to spell my name – letter by letter. And in doing so, she revealed all the beauty that was beneath. Each letter contained a pattern. A burst of color. Each bit of my name housed pieces of the colors laid down before. Right before my eyes, Jenne bloomed - a beauty that never could have been created any other way.

Today is 3 years and one day since my diagnosis. It is also 2 weeks since my first triathlon and one week from my second. It's not the solution, not by a long shot, but somehow, I think the scraping has begun.

OPEN LETTER TO THE GUY WHO JUST BROUGHT HIS TWO PIGTAILED DAUGHTERS TO THE PLAYGROUND, PUT THEM ON THE SWINGS, SAT DOWN AND IMMEDIATELY OPENED UP HIS LAPTOP AND STARTED WORKING

I don't think that's what they meant when they said, "Daddy, please take us to the park!"

Love,

Jenne

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

OPEN LETTER TO MY SPAM FILTER

I can almost guarantee no one I want to hear from is concerned about the length of their sword and its fit in "her scabbard".

Also of note:

• I'm not interested really in any email about my tool, rod, stick and/or little friend
• I don't wear a watch and therefore don't need a designer one at "unbelievable prices so low you'll be over amazement"
• I have no rich dead relatives in Nigeria
• I get my prescription medicines at the pharmacy, not online and
• No one I know would put "Here You Will See Big Choice Of Soft," in a subject line

However, if you filter out one more email from a potential client, you might need a new tool of your own.

 

Love,

Jenne

 

 

WHY TRI?

I was having dinner at HOLLIE'S house last weekend and eventually the conversation led to my triathlon. Probably because I shouted "I'm doing a triathlon!" when I walked in the door. Of course HOLLIE knows I'm competing in The Thon and her mom knew (because I met her mom the day before and shouted "I'm doing a triathlon!" within moments of meeting her) and a couple of other people knew, but HOLLIE's dad, Mr. HOLLIE, did not know. And so he asked some pretty typical questions. The first being something about the distance. After I gave him the stats, he asked the next logical question: Are you nervous? And I explained very clearly that yes, I was, sort of, I mean, sometimes, but then again I'm excited, but of course, that can be nerves, but it's not like I'm trying to win, but that doesn't mean I'm not nervous, in fact I am, sort of, I mean, not really, but kind of. Then I ate a deviled egg and when I came to (those were some good deviled eggs) I explain that mostly I was looking forward to it – except the run. I wasn't looking forward to the running because, as you know, I don't like to run. I explained this is detail – the fact that I don't run, don't like to run, don't like the concept of running and don't like to run. Yes, again.

Then came a question that I don't get often but was pretty logical given the power with which I explained my dislike of running. Mr. HOLLIE asked, "Well then, why are you doing a triathlon if you hate running so much?"

That Mr. HOLLIE, he's got a way of putting things.

It took me about ½ a second to decide if I was going to tell him (and Mrs. HOLLIE, Nanny HOLLIE and Pa-Paw HOLLIE) the reason I'm doing the tri. Because there is a reason, a real reason. Not just a "for the challenge of it" or a "because it was there" Edmund Hillary type reason but a real, solid reason. A reason that I spent entire agonizing runs trying to uncover. A reason I pondered and examined with every painful, lung-bursting stride. A reason that goes past the competition of it, past the enjoyment of it, past the addicitive nature of competition. All the way back to the days I was laying around growing wild, mutated, uncontrolled cells in my body. Cells that were trying to kill me.

(YOU: Oh goodie, she's going to talk about cancer again.)

There were a lot of things I disliked about my cancer. There were some good things – renewed friendships, getting to see what I looked like bald, not having to shave my pits – just to name a few. But there were a lot of not-so-good things. Too many to name, actually. One of the biggest sucks for me was this whole idea of having to fight the cancer. It is something people tell you right away when they hear you've been diagnosed. "You're in for a fight!" they say. And "Give it hell!" and "You need to really fight this thing!" and I get that, I really do, but I hated it. I hated the whole idea of it. I hated that I had to go to war against my body. That I had to poison it. That I had to do really mean and hideous things to it. Then again it was trying to kill me, so I guess we were sort of even.

Up until that point, I'd always felt like I had a really good relationship with my body. My body and I were really tight – not in the I-look-great-in-hotpants way but in the I-know-when-I'm-ovulating way. Like my body and I were in sync. We were in harmony. Ebony and ivory – er, ivory and ivory. We were in it to win it. The Dynamic Duo. And then, suddenly, we weren't. Suddenly, we went from being all Peaches and Herb to all Ike and Tina. My body went haywire. Turned against me. Took all the good things I'd ever done for it – and pooed all over them. My body basically looked me in the eyes, put its thumbs in its ears and gave me the biggest, wettest, pffffflllllbiest raspberry ever.

And I was left blinking and confused.

It took many, many months for me to figure out if I was at war with a killer. There were many times, well into chemo, when I would be sitting bald and weak and have it dawn on me that Holy Shit – I have CANCER! Those moments were frightening and heart lurching – the exact reverse feeling I've had all my life when I've woken up from a truly horrendous dream and realized I didn't actually kill someone, wasn't pregnant out of wedlock, hadn't accidentally had sex with the neighbor or wasn't responsible for a misfortunate understanding that led to mass genocide. The waking realization of those moments was the same intensity of the realization of my diagnosis. The intensity was the same. The emotion was quite different. Different like cheesecake and a kick in the nuts is different.

Of course, there are only two ways to deal with a realization that intense and that stark.

1) fiercely ignore it or

2) fiercer-ly face it.

The lack of hair and the puking made it a little difficult to ignore. So that left number two. Aptly named. I faced it. I fought it. I told my body to f-off if it really thought I would go that easily. Really, who did my body think it was anyway? Was it new here? Did it not realize who it was messing with? This was ME for crying out loud. Had it forgotten? Apparently. Apparently it needed a little reminder. And so I reminded the rebellious child, the bitter teenager I was harboring, just exactly who I was. Basically I spun around, looked my body right in its cancerous face, narrowed my eyes and whispered two words, "Bring it."

Important side note: there is a song by P.O.D. that I listen to over and over again when I am training for this triathlon. It's called "BOOM". And there is a line in that totally awesome song that is repeated over and over again with increasing intensity.

Is that all you got? I'll take your best shot.

Is that all you got? I'll take your best shot.

Is that all you got? I'll take your best shot.

Is that all you got???? I'll take your best shot … I'LL TAKE YOUR BEST SHOT!

BOOM!

If you watched me train to that song, you'd be convinced I wrote it. It's probably obvious who and what I'm thinking of during that song. And why.

Is that all you got?

You'd think I penned those words myself.

I'll take your best shot

You'd look at me training, you'd listen in on my ipod and you'd raise your eyebrows in recognition of something profound.

Here comes the BOOM.

Eventually, the body backed off and got back in line. Backed off. Capitulated. What choice did it have? Eventually, the body saw the error of its ways. Eventually it shrugged its shoulders and dug its toe in the earth and apologized with its hunchy posture. Oops, it said. My bad. Never mind. Friends?

I'm not one to hold a grudge. Spit/Shake, it was all behind us.

But to be quite honest, we've never really gotten back to where we were before all of this happened. Ever since then, I think my body and I have only been tolerating each other. We've been like two lovers after a fight–without the make-up sex. We've been tiptoeing around. Nodding politely when the other has something to say or contribute. We've endured each other's presence. By and by we've abided. And that's the all of it. Which is fine.

Fine, but not okay.

I miss me. The whole me. The united me. The oneness I shared with myself at one time. And I want me back.

So I don't know. Maybe I've seen too many of those movies where two opposing forces come together against a common enemy or a common goal. Maybe I've read too many Jane Austin novels where the one you hated ends up being the one you marry. Maybe I've watched too many after school specials and tween movies where foes become friends, but somehow, someway I just believe that if my body and I can do this thing … this crazy, senseless, what-are-you, nuts? thing called a triathlon .. and if we can do it together – because believe me, it's going to take at LEAST both of us to finish this thing – then in some way I will have shown myself that we're back. That we can hurt and push and strain and we can do it together and we can do it side-by-side and we can hate the difficulty without hating each other. That together we can girl-up and do this.

And when we cross that finish line, my body and me, it will be because together we figured out how to run without throwing up in the ditch and together we rode our bike in high freakin' winds and together we figured out how to overcome leg cramps and side-stitches and together we swam lap after lap after lap in a warm rehab pool and together we sweated and stunk and ground out one more mile, one more lap, one more time around the track. Together. And that's why I'm doing the triathlon. Because by God, I have to.

There's really no finish line when you beat cancer. No end of the road – the road, in fact, keeps going. That is, after all, the point. But there is a finish line in a triathlon. A very distinct, a very clear and well-marked finish line. And I guess I need a finish line.

And a start line too.

Here comes the BOOM.

OPEN LETTER TO MYSELF

Just post already!

 

 

Love,

Me.

OPEN LETTER TO ALL THE ANGRY, BITTER, SARCASTIC, INSULTING AND LOUDLY SIGHING PEOPLE WHO ARE STANDING IN THIS REALLY LONG SECURITY LINE WITH ME

I guess that's why they say get to the airport early, huh?

Hugs and Kisses, and happy Friday!

Love, Jenne

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

FOUR FAMILY MEMBERS AND A TRUMPET

Well … it seems The Kid is playing the trumpet. Actually, you may already know that because you might have heard her practicing. This past week we were all in sunny florida with Momme and decided to have a little jam session. Meaning, we all wanted to jam cotton in our ears.

Ba-da-ching!

Actually we all decided to try and play. Luckily, I had my camera nearby and was able to catch most of our little musical soirée. I'll want to use this for an audition video at some point for something, I'm just sure … or for evidence to establish my mental state and get me out of some crime in the future.

Here are the videos. Make sure you turn your sound up … well, or down.

This first one is The Kid playing her, um, scales? I think that's what she said she was going to play. Turns out she only knows 4 notes so it's a rather short scale and apparently the order of those notes isn't set in stone. Now-a-days I guess you can just play any old note whenever you like.

Lovely. She's no Dizzy Gillespie but she is dizzingly cute when she plays, you gotta give her that.

Next I decided to give the horn a shot. As you can see from the video, I picked it up rather quickly. Then I tried to play it and that didn't go so well - <rimshot> - this was my third attempt at a song in the kid's music book. I was playing it so Momme could guess what the song was.

Huh. Watching it again I'm just as surprised as I was then that she didn't get it. I'm not sure what her issue was. That is clearly Go Tell Aunt Rhody, as if you didn't already know that!

Next, The Hub gave it a shot. Don't be too impressed. It turns out he played coronet in Jr. High. So, he was kinda a ringer. Then again, so were my ears! Boo-ya!… try the veal! He's also playing Go Tell Aunt Rhody (well, honestly, we didn't have that much to choose from). However, he'd never heard it so Momme and I had to sing along. He was doing really well until he learned some disturbing news about the old grey goose at the end.

And rounding out our session is Momme. Man, I love me some Momme. Prior to trying out the trumpet she said four or five times she would probably have a heart attack. She was completely confident in her inability. However, she surprised herself. And frankly, all of us. My favorite part is when she realizes just how good she is and calls for her music!

And that, my friends, rounds out the trumpet session. I had a massive headache for about 6 hours after this. As did, I'm sure, the neighbors. Oh and, 4^th grade music teachers should have a free pass into heaven, in my opinion.

OPEN LETTER TO MY OKLAHOMA CITY CAB DRIVER (ALL OTHER CABBIES FEEL FREE TO TUNE IN)

Overwhelming air freshener smell

OR

Overwhemling cologne smell

Pick. You can't have both.

Love,

Jenne

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

BUNKO CLUB

You don't even know. Tonight was my introduction to Bunko – Commando Style. I played Bunko a long time ago and remembered enjoying it. So when my mom told me there was a group of ladies that play every Friday night, I thought we should go and check it out. I've never met these ladies before – well, that's not entirely true. My mom was there and I knew her (she's only played with them once) but other than that, I was with strangers. And I have to be honest, when I thought about a game of Bunko with the little old ladies who live in my mom's quaint Florida community I really sort of expected to be cooed over and given home-baked cookies and patted repeated on the hands and told what a lovely young woman I was.

Instead – and please know, I'm not making this up – I was cursed at, jostled around, ordered to pick up the pace between rounds, repeated yelled at to "ROLL, KEEP ROLLING" and once told to shut up. I'm not kidding. One of the little old ladies told me to shut up. And why? Because I said "Well hello again!" when we changed tables. I can put up with a lot. And I've been raised to respect my elders. And normally I'm very sweet to the Geritol crowd but with that one "shut up" it all changed. I sat down, tucked my chair up under the table, and thought Okay, you wanna play, sistas? Then hey howdy, we'll play … and I spent the next 90 minutes being the most aggressive, most sarcastic and worst version of myself. I hollered at slow rollers. I yelled for the top table to ring the bell. I slapped the table and scowled at the dice when the wrong numbers came up and I added a very distinct "eh, fuggetaboutit!" once or twice with Anne from New Yourk had a good roll.

Needless to say, I was invited back next week. They love me.

And, by the way, don't let the smiles in the picture fool you. I had to practically promise to pay their Medicare Part D to get them to take this picture with me.