So I am driving to Monday night yoga with Lauren which has become my new favorite class because my back feels so open and five inches taller post-practice, when I realized something. Earlier, I am at the Hope Cancer Center ready for...wait, should I say...present for my first radiation treatment. The moment I walk in it is like I am some rock star that everyone recognizes. I have my entourage of peeps in the waiting room and the receptionist knew my name. The doseologist (saying that because I think her title sounds cool; she is the one setting up the dosing) shoots me a recognizing smile as she gets water from the water cooler. The two radiology techs whisk me in smiling and teasing like I am their long lost best friend. I am thinking this is pretty cool because I don't want to be here. I am laying on the table, excuse me, couch with this mesh mask over my head strapped down so tight that my teeth are clinched. I am told to look down at my toes when I can barely open my eye lids. They set up the markings then shoot the laser on my left side and my brain starts to smell really bad. It is sort of like the smell of sanitized aluminum cookie sheets in a hot kitchen (I worked in a bakery when I was in high school.) Oh, and I get a little personal light show as they are zapping my brain. Apparently, the lights which are greenish are the lasers refracting off the water in my eyes so I am the only one that can see them. How is that for sci-fi coolness Jedi training simulation? Well, it is not. I am the only one who can smell this awful smell too. They come bopping in and out asking me these questions like the hygienist does while your mouth is gaping open. Except my jaw is clinched shut, and I can't see any think but the tops of my cheeks. "How are you doing?" Gruburronbhadjjfsdxzzz. "Are you comfortable?" Fujknsbymnntotfreakijek. Okay, for those who are not hygienists, I said: This totally sucks and is freaking uncomfortable. What the fuck do you mean I have to do this every fucking day for four weeks and it stinks in here. So I apparently compensate into a flippin' teenager when under pressure, I mean, when I am tied down like Gulliver's Travels.
Okay, okay, it isn't all that bad, and you know if anyone can do this it is me (because I am an awesome yogi time bender, that's why.) And, I just totally got off the point of my realization I came to while driving to yoga. They are totally faking it. They, the nurses, took my picture on my first visit. It sits there right at the top of my chart along with the description of me in one sentence: 36 year old mother of two ages 6 and 7 artist with metastatic breast cancer being treated for metastasis to the brain. I am so okay with that. I like them knowing exactly who I am in two seconds and treating me like their long lost best friend. Sometimes we all deserve a little rock star status.
Besides, faking it until I make it is my number one coping mechanism. In college, I did the stupid thing any 18 year old does who didn't drink alcohol in high school (okay, mom, I had a few sips here and there but hated how it made me feel and stopped after a few sips.) So I got really mad at a boy at one party and started downing the Jungle Juice. I preceded to get totally wasted. Yep, my "designated mom," one girl in my circle of friends was not allowed to drink for the weekend on a rotating schedule so there was always a girl watching out for you, held my hair, cleaned me up, and told me that the red vomit was not me bleeding from the inside. Well, I pretty much learned my lesson. Man, I rock, one time and lesson learned...awesome. From that point on, I fake drank. I ordered one rum and Coke, Roman Coke, to begin the night. Then I preceded to order plain sodas all night. I am out on the dance floor for three or more hours solid on my caffeine while all the drunks were slumping in the corner. I say that was a pretty good way to spend the evening faking and still fitting in with the crowd.
Oh, there are plenty over other stories of my faking it until I make it. Like the time I delivered a speech to 500 plus of my peers at the Colorado Art Education Association annual conference in 2002, for Rookie Teacher of the Year. I had lost my second baby to a miscarriage at ten weeks only seven days prior to the event. I was still cramping. I was still grieving hard core. But, I did it. I walked up to the podium, started bawling my eyes out, took a deep breath, and totally blamed all my flood emotions on the pure fact that my teaching professor, Patrick Fahey, just hugged me and whispered in my ear, "I am so proud of you." Okay, I probably would have cried anyway being so nervous in the spot light. But, heck, it is good to fake it a little when you have to. And, if I really reflect on my first five years of teaching, it was the faking it until I made that won me that moment of honor in the spot light.
Or let us go back to my sister's wedding. There she was all dried eyed and tall while the two other brides maids and myself welled up on our reddened, damped cheeked glory. She teased us all for our tears so we collectively faked blame on the tiger lilies and allergies. Well, everyone knew the truth but heck, it sure got a good laugh out of the deal.
Yes, there are a lot of stories. In fact, I actually think I taught my kids to fake it until they make it though I am not sure that was a really good idea. "Sure, honey, just smile and stand up. The pain will go away in that toe you just totally jammed into the cement step." But, all in all I smile and laugh all the way through whatever I need to make it through. No, It isn't always appropriate and acting like a snotty teenager in the office of my radiology oncologist is probably not the best of coping mechanisms. However, it is pretty funny in retrospect. And heck, they had no idea what I was saying anyway in my Hamible Lecter mask. One thing is for true, faking it works. In essence it is the power of attraction. I seek to attract the best outcome. So please understand when I am telling you it is fine, shrugging my shoulders, blowing it all off like it is a trip to the candy store, and pretty much marginalizing my emotions, I am coping. My mom calls it grace.
Deep down, know I appreciate you more then you think. Also know I have a safety net. She signed up for the job thirty six years, six months and two days ago. And man, where would any teenager be with out one of her? For reals. Whatever. Like I am totally needing to go to bed now. Love you mom.
No comments:
Post a Comment