The New Normal

Since my initial breast cancer diagnosis in November of 2009, I have endured surgeries, chemo, radiation, a stem cell transplant, and I’ve thrown back a pharmacy of pills. I’ve dealt with unintended side effects—an exceptionally high resting heart rate, removal of “non-essential” organs, and now, the latest—completely destroyed lungs. Overall, during the past six years, I have negotiated the torture pretty well, and I’ve somehow managed to keep my sense of humor and the “I CAN. I WILL!” attitude through it all.

In the past few weeks, after getting home from South Africa, my lungs have decided to revolt. I have found myself strapped to various breathing devices, tethered at home to a heavy machine with a long leash and attached to a (really ugly) backpack breathing-contraption when I leave the house.

My humor and attitude are still intact; however, I had to admit, right now, it’s a little harder to laugh when I’m out of breath. I’ve had to make lots of hard decisions in the past few days. I’ve usually been a quick decision-maker (my dad and I claim we can buy a car on our lunch break). And, since I’m always right, I always make the right decision, no matter how fast I make it.  This week’s decision was not a simple one, probably because it was difficult to determine what the “right” decision really was.

After teaching for a full week, trying to negotiate my fake lungs/breathing machine contraption, I wound up in the hospital for a couple of days and then had to take this week off from school. We did some scans and tests, but the doctors didn't find anything else contributing to my new breathing problems, other than the initial breast cancer (that, of course, has cruelly climbed into my runner's lungs). I found myself struggling to suck in air, unless I stayed in one place. If you saw me walking in the hallways (or cursing at the malfunctioning elevator), you'd know that a normal easy trek across the building turned into a legitimate marathon.

While I am certainly not admitting defeat, my "Darth Vader" like breathing was not helping me do what I needed to do to be an effective teacher. Teachers do not teach from a desk…we are constantly moving around the room, circulating to provide help and one-on-one instruction. If I can’t give 110%, I feel like I am not giving my students what they need. I do not like talking and putting periods in the middle of my sentences that don’t belong there. I had two realistic options: I could teach part-time, focusing on my two Creative Writing Classes, or I could take leave and spend my energy volunteering at East, cheering at cross country meets, and finishing projects, such as my South Africa photo book.

I decided to take leave. My decision feels right. It does not feel like I am giving up; I am just steering in a different direction, navigating an untraveled path.

I am learning to adapt to the new normal:

• I accept that “Choo-Choo Hill” at Pioneers Park is now the equivalent of Mount Everest.
• I know my friends will carry my bags for me.
• I can pacify Toonces with Lorna Doone cookies when he starts to chew on the newspaper because he is hungry—his cat food is downstairs and I don’t want to climb back up.
• I know my movements need to be very slow and deliberate—and methodical.
• Instead of panicking when I can’t catch my breath, I remember how I felt after finishing a hard interval or race—I need to breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, and don’t bend over, restricting the air.
• My bucket list will need an overhaul—too many of my goals rely on having functional lungs. Since I cannot be like Tony Stark/Iron Man, I will reevaluate what I can accomplish. And then I will do it.

I had my 5-minutes to feel sorry for myself. It is time to move on.

I CAN. I WILL!