A Book Review: Or How I Bawled My Way Through "A Fault In Our Stars"

I just finished reading devouring The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. (You know, that young adult novel-soon-to-be-released-movie about a 16 yr old girl with terminal cancer who falls in love with a 17 yr old boy with a history of cancer...). Clearly I was playing some kind of sick joke on myself thinking I would be able to handle that. But I couldn't put it down. I had to finish reading it at home because it was embarrassing how many public tears where secretly (aka not so secretly) shed.

It has been such a long time. A whole two crazy, full years. Not that anyone (but me) is keeping track or anything, but I have a routine follow-up with CT next week. And I'm not scared, but I really, really hate that place. Plus, I have a lot of free time with my school schedule right now and it is giving me way, way too much time on my hands to think about things. I am strong, but there is nothing to feel but  small and terrified sitting in that waiting room alone. Powerless. But enough about me.

Basically, I just had to tell someone (aka everyone) about this book which so perfectly describes cancer and young love and bad luck and all that is unfair. About how desperation makes you notice, makes you feel, more. About how this author nailed everything so perfectly on the head. It's all there. Like I had vomited the words onto the page myself (and a professional made them much prettier.) How it felt to be stared at because you looked sick, how it felt to talk to someone who truly understood and how no one else can help you (unless they knew what it was like.) Like there is some kind of weird cancer-kid-code-language and it is the only means to process your emotions. I wish I still had that. Someone to cry to, yell to, be terrified to, someone to get it. Someone to tell me what my next steps are. What is normal. What is normal, though, really?

Even how I feel bad because I am "in remission." Like I'm not worthy of calling myself a "cancer kid" anymore. How even "cancer survivor" sounds pretentious. I read somewhere that when people find positive meaning out of their horrible disease it is called "post-traumatic growth." And I think that's what this is called. This trying to give life perspective and make use of all this awful I went through. But sometimes even that feels misguided and full of guilt- and I think it is disgusting that I think that, so many many people have it way, way worse. And that's all there, too, tied up in this pretty little package of a book.

The point is that every one of you should read (or just go see the movie) this devastating book. Especially all of my soon-to-be-real-doctor friends. And maybe it won't mean anything to you, but maybe it will make you think about death and dying and how we choose (do we choose though??) to live and die.  How it feels when someone tells me "you are soooo strong and brave" and how it makes me feel numb- even though I know it is all they have to offer.  How people are not their disease but rather a "side effect" of it (credit- John Green). Everything that happens is a product of the terrible thing. But we just have to accept it and do our best to crawl out of it's shadow, even in remission, but it will always be there. It changes you in ways no one will understand. Not even me.

But this book put it so so so perfectly. And it is short and written for teenagers so it's an easy read. Chock full of the teenage angst we all once felt and loved/hated so much, sprinkled with insight so hauntingly relevant. Read it. (Just make sure you are alone when you get towards the middle/end, just sayin...)


Your favorite side effect,
Liv

(dis)ease

I haven't posted in a very long time. Not because I had nothing to say. (Because I always have something to say.) But, more that I had nothing to say about cancer.... and well I kind of forgot about this cancer-bashing-life-lesson-sharing forum that was always there for me when I was sick, and long after I was better.

But today, I have news.

What most of you don't know (myself included) is that cancer literally never goes away. Sure, the cells die and you are "cured"... but when someone hands you that diagnosis, you are basically signing a secret pact to keep the oncologists and radiologists in business for. a. long. time. It is years of follow ups and holding your breath for results. It is hypocondriasis at its finest. Obsessively mistaking every ache and bump in your body for relapse. It is a lump in your throat for a week waiting on PET scan results.

What else can I say about that feeling? That horrible, ominous, sinking feeling when I am sitting in the West Clinic waiting room. It is quite possibly the worst emptiness. A mixture of dread, neediness, and guilt. Emotions not normally found side by side. Emotions that mix like oil and water in my mind. I am teetering on the edge of "normalcy" (whatever that is), with my shoulder length hair, rosy cheeks, and ten pound weight gain. Uncomfortably shifting in my seat, knowing that my status could change at any moment. Pretending not to notice all the scarves and skinny, skinny people in the room.

In a sense, I belong nowhere. Not to either world. Although I prefer this terrifying limbo to the hell it was before, especially granted the glances I am afforded into "healthy" between the appointments and scans I trek to every four months. I forget all about it, just like I forgot about this blog. Funny how life works like that. It is promising though, since it promises a time ten years from now when it will all just be a story. One line squeezed somewhere in between medical school and residency. A passing trivia.

And now... the news. I did have a PET scan last Wednesday. And I did get the results back three days ago. And they are just now REALLY starting to sink it. And I want to scream to everyone (who I haven't already told) what the scans so wonderfully showed: NO EVIDENCE OF DISEASE.

No. Evidence. Of. Disease.

When I told my mom, she instantly burst into tears. A relief so wonderful it was too much to hold inside. And I'll admit, it wasn't until I heard those tears that I had even given those results a second thought. I had not REALLY thought about what it all meant: that the cancer continues to be beaten down. GONE. Something I prayed for everyday of chemotherapy. Something I still pray for when those fears creep back in. Something I could not be more blessed to hear. Something I will not take for granted.

The most wonderful words ever to be spoken to a cancer patient.

And so, for the next four months I will live in the land of "healthy"... until I have to go back for another look inside.  Until I have to sit in that waiting room again, terrified, a couple more inches on my hair and a couple more months between freedom and smothering. Looking for one more happy phrase to add to my collection, until eventually, as the time between appointments continually widens, I am finally done.

Liv

I'm scared but I'm not coming down
And I won't run for my life
She's got her jaws just locked now in smile
But nothing is all right
All right
I want something else
To get me through this life
I want something else
I'm not listening when you say
Good-bye

thy will be done.

This weekend I was fortunate to be able to fly up to Rhode Island to visit my maternal grandmother (Memere, pronounced Mem-ay) and (most of) the rest of that side of my family. It was wonderful. All of it. And while I was sitting there in mass on Sunday morning, the priest said something that really stuck with me in his homily...and maybe it's because I was sitting next to Memere or maybe because I was being nostalgic for that Woonsocket church where my parents were married or maybe because I knew I was leaving all of it in five hours time. But regardless it took all my strength to not be total waterworks for the rest of mass.

"Thy will be done"

It was a homily based on the Lord's Prayer. A prayer we spout off without even thinking most of the time. A prayer for mercy, that I clung to when I was sick, that I honestly don't think much about otherwise. Back then I clung to the "give us this day... And deliver us from evil" parts. The needy sick parts. The "give me" and "save me" parts. But this preist made us think about the other not-so-fun parts. "Thy will be done." It's not everything happens for a reason. It's just going to happen. Blink, and it's already done.

It sounds almost non-religious when you think of it in that sense. And I guess you could think of it either way. It all, just, happens. By divine intervention or not, life goes on. People get sick. People get stranded. People make decisions. People love you or don't love you. Someone loses their job. Someone else get's their dream job at age 65. Children are abandoned or cherished. People die.

But it does help when you think of some higher power controlling it all, I suppose. Because otherwise, it makes your whole life seem pretty pointless, right? What would I want with a God who planted that damn brain tumor or let my sweet Grandpa die before his time? It is impossible not to question where is the mercy, the justice? Thinking that God's will may be outside of our own interests or understanding is a bitter pill to swallow. It's a lump in our throat. It leaves us with more questions than answers. And that is just plain uncomfortable.

No matter what we may want, things are just going to keep happening. It is mostly out of our control. But in a broader sense, in the presence or absence of a higher power (though I prefer the former), we do have some control. Maybe not of the broad strokes that form the backdrop of our lives. But of the smaller details. Of extra hugs and kisses and smiles. Of acts of kindness and charity. Of how we invest our time. It is not that we can stop the flood or keep that tumor at bay, but it is in how we choose to navigate our lives against that backdrop of this constantly changing scenery. We must accept that "thy will be done"(or in the very least that we are powerless to nature's course) or we will be stuck, minds milling in frustration and sadness, for the rest of our lives.

I cried and cried when I left my grandmother and the rest of my family to take that plane back to Knoxville later that Sunday. I am 25 years old and I was a mess. All I kept thinking was how every time you see someone, you never know if it is the last time you'll hear their voice or smell their hair. Even if that person is someone you see every day, but more importantly if it is not. It makes me want to hug Memere and never let go. It makes me wish I could teleport places and that I didn't have so much ambition keeping me away from the people I love all the time.

But "thy will be done" somehow brought me some semblance of solace yesterday. I was able to leave knowing that no matter where I am or what I do... the bad and the good... it's all going to keep on happening whether I am there or not. My only job being to cherish the moments that are under my control. Love big and live well. Navigate all of this inevitable change with (clumsy) grace. Take time to listen to that voice and remember the smell of that hair. The sound of a rousing game of Parcheesi (and those dang triple sixes). The taste of Dinamites and that sly smile when Dean Martin is on. That four year cousin old playing the ukulele while I dance with Uncle Jim and that sweet grandmother taking it all in. I will cherish it all. And I will do all I can to see the beauty in those broad strokes He paints, even if the picture is yet unfinished.

Liv

up.

So my sister is dating this guy who loooooves to rock climb. (Indoors, outdoors, bouldering, with a harness/rope, all of it...) And so when I came back to Knoxville for the summer for these two rotations, she was all about getting me to try it. Even though I am terrified of heights and have developed the wimpy-est arms in lieu of not sticking to my yoga routine. Even though I had "like no time"cause I was always working, and when I wasn't working, sleeping. Even though I thought I'd look like a big ol' dork. Even though sometimes competitive sports type activities with my sister can be an awful idea.

Even though all of those things and more, I tried it. And I was hooked.

Not instantly, mind you, but gradually over time as I could feel myself getting stronger and less scared. Man, that time I made it to the top of that first V0 (the easiest bouldering course) I was so proud of myself. And then when I made it to the top of a couple more, I smiled even bigger.

Now, these are super super beginner level climbs, but it doesn't matter because rock climbing is just one big competition with yourself. Not that I don't "ohh" and "ahh" at those baller girls my age (and older) with the incredible back muscles and calves who can dominate anything they put their mind to... 'cause I do. But I have to admit, when you've been trying to get that V1 for the past week and you FINALLY get it, you feel pretty baller yourself. Like a pro. High-fives all around and then on to the next one.

Sometimes though, it is easy to get discouraged. Like yesterday Kamry and I, being the beginners of the group, harnessed up and climbed the big, tall wall. (At least I don't pee my pants any more thinking about going that high!) And let me just tell you, I didn't think it was possible to get bilateral forearm cramps, but now I know better. And after we were done Kamry had some wise words.. she said "Olivia, when I get stuck and think I can't possibly reach the next hold or push off that leg or climb anyyyy higher, I just tell myself to 'stop being a little b**ch'." Slightly vulgar, I suppose, but it gets the job done just fine.

And we hear those little clichés all the time, don't we? The "suck it ups" and "just do its." The "when the going gets toughs" and all of the rest of them. Sometimes it just hurts and you just CAN'T. Except that you can...

You always can.

It's thinking like this that gets me through any rough day or troubling night. And keeps me pushing forward. Even if it's just the super super beginner level, I always smile every time I push through and reach the top. Every time I stand up on my leg one more time to reach that next rock.  Every time I don't quit. It's not a race with everyone else, but a competition with myself to keep trying and trying and trying...

Life is just one long, tiring, but beautiful, climb.

And I'm going to stop that metaphor right there, 'cause that could get really cheesy, really quickly. (And I think it already did.) But y'all get the point. Don't be a little you-know-what. You have to tell yourself to "man up" and just keep going. Not because anyone else tells you not to or because they are cheering you on, but because it's THE ONLY WAY. Even though you may think of soooo many reasons why you can't. Even though you may be tired as all heck. Even though you feel self-conscious. even though you might fail. Even though all of that.

The only way is UP.

Liv

I've got my ticket for the long way 'round
The one with the prettiest of views
It's got mountains, it's got rivers
It's got sights to give you shivers
But it sure would be prettier with you

When I'm gone, when I'm gone
You're gonna miss me when I'm gone
You're gonna miss me by my walk
You're gonna miss me by my talk, oh
You're gonna miss me when I'm gone

constant change.

And once again the slate is wiped clean. I am done with surgery and walking in the shoes of a pediatrician for the next two months. It's all new. No one knows me, expects me to do great things, act like I am here to learn. It is earning that respect by working my butt off all over again, and it will be for the rest of my life, I guess.

It will be for the rest of my (academic) career at least.

The life of a medical student and resident is literally that of constant change. Just when you learn how one attending likes his notes written and presented. boom. you switch. Try not to get to comfortable because the rug is about to be pulled out from underneath you once again. (Dang, and I had just really learned how to use the staple gun properly, too....)

I think that is something so special and unique about medicine. Everyone is constantly learning, evolving. New drugs come out, new protocols, even new diseases. You've got to be able to think on your toes and adapt. You can never get lazy and complacent because that could be someone's life, or at least their comfort, that you hold in your hands.

I both kind of love and it absolutely hate it. Because really it's only a rare moment here and now when you actually feel like you know what the heck is going on and you are doing something 100% correct (without having to ask a nurse...or a patient, in my case, to help you operate a child's crib.) Most of the time we are on the receiving end of "are you lost?" comments and I'm sure even more sideways glares from people who actually DO know what they are doing, because they have done it every day of their adult lives (just try and remember that sometimes, please?)

But today at least, and more importantly, I was on the receiving end of a toddler's smile. And while I may have tried my hardest on that discharge note only to fail miserably at guessing which antibiotic to send that baby home on (in the end, it turn's out, none),  I didn't have to try and see the wonder in all that was happening around me. I mean, sick, but smiling kids, pretty much make the world seem all okay. If they can do it, I can handle a little change now and then. (Because, really I've done it before, and I think we've established that I did mostly okay.)

Nobody said it was going to be easy. (Really they just said to run while I had the chance.) But I could not imagine myself anywhere else but in this crazy whirlwind I am about to call life for the next 5-7 years. (Yep that's right boys, start lining up now... scrubs and 4 hours of sleep and no free time is attractive to other people right??!)

Peace out girl scouts.
Liv

But I don't want "good" and I don't want "good enough"
I want "can't sleep, can't breathe without you" love
Front porch and one more kiss, it doesn't make sense to anybody else
Who cares if you're all I think about,
I've searched the world and I know now,
It ain't right if you ain't lost your mind
Yeah, I don't want easy, I want crazy
You with me baby? Let's be crazy

and hope does not disappoint.

So I had been wondering when I would come face to face with life's next big decision. Life's next big challenge. The next line to check off life's ever important to-do list. And well... it seems I have stumbled, er more like crashed head first, into it.

What do I want the rest of my life to be?

Am I to follow a passion 'til it drives me to a life of crazy hours and solitary nights? Or do I settle in a different direction and spend that left over time cultivating a life outside of medicine? What is my passion, really? And whatever it is, will it last? Will it fulfill? Will I look back with regret either way??

Y'all know I have always been one to jump into life's next big thing head first. I am a do-er. Follow my heart, think later. And well, that hasn't always treated me kindly. But I have a big, big heart and I fall hard, fast, and I don't think I'll ever be able to change that. But, I am starting to take a little more time before I fully let go of the ledge, leaving the past for the future. Lately, I tied a rope to a tree in hopes of a slower descent.

Still it's hard to give up that free-fall. That feeling of flying. But, it has saved me a couple of bruises by trading in that hard, cold splat of my usual landing for a much softer touch down.

And on that note, I am completely, head-over-heels, and indescribably in LOVE.

With surgery.

Now I know what you must be thinking. "Is it for real this time, Olivia? I mean you've had so many flings before. Give it some time to really get to KNOW each other. Maybe you are just lusting after the energy, the excitement, the intensity, the rush." And yeah, well, I probably am. And maybe I'll feel this way about every. single. other. rotation. And really that would be a blessing, because then maybe I wouldn't have to face this dilemma and I could just happily match into something where I am home by 5pm and can go to my future daughter's dance recitals.

But then again. Maybe I won't.

What if nothing else makes me feel like medicine is where I belong? What if nothing else makes me smile in the middle of the night when I get to scrub in (and mostly just watch) a four hour vascular surgery? What if I belong here, and I miss it terribly when I have to leave?

Is it really time to put on my big-girl panties and make big-girl life decisions? Already?

In the past when I hit similar road-blocks, I have found so much solace in the words of St. Paul. His lost and found story. The real-ness in his words. He always finds a way to untangle the mess that is my confusion. And thank God I have been hearing his words these past couple of Sundays. See today's second reading:

Brothers and sisters:
Therefore, since we have been justified by faith,
we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ,
through whom we have gained access by faith
to this grace in which we stand,
and we boast in hope of the glory of God.
Not only that, but we even boast of our afflictions,
knowing that affliction produces endurance,
and endurance, proven character,
and proven character, hope,
and hope does not disappoint,
because the love of God has been poured out into our hearts
through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us. [Romans 5:1-5]

And I guess the point is that everything we go through and everything that lies ahead is all connected. All the struggle influences all the success. All the confusion becomes the steadiness. We flow from one high to another and in between we fall down and we get back up. We move forward and we hope that it really is forward where we are moving. I used to pray that God would show me where He wanted me to end up. What should be my life? But then, really recently, I realized that He is trying to show me every day...by filling my big, big heart with passion. By testing my strength. By giving me the choice between the easy and the hard way. And always pulling me through when I inevitably choose the hard way.

I mean, really do I EVER listen to ANYONE when they try to tell me straight-up what I should do?? Usually that sends me sprinting in the complete opposite direction, or defensively trying to argue another point of view, just to be contrary. This "gentle nudge" approach really is the way to go with me anyway. So I guess I'll stop freaking out now and stop waiting for divine intervention and just take it all for what it's worth. I will keep an open mind and let myself be nudged. And let my heart fill up, but try not to let go just yet. To keep my rope tied and my heart just on the edge of bursting.

So maybe I will be surgeon when I grow up. Maybe. But maybe I'll have a steamy affair with Ob/Gyn. Or maybe internal medicine will take me by surprise. All I know is that, this time anyway, I won't let the free-fall trick me into falling flat on my face. This time next year I will gracefully let go of that rope, knowing that wherever I land, I will be in good hands and I will be living the life I was meant to live. Happy, and full of purpose. Passionate and probably exhausted. But mostly just MINE.

Liv

Now we live our own lives
But in the night when my spirits drifting
And I come up from the deep end dive
I see the eyes of my unborn children
And I’m filled with the love I will give them
Cause it’s the love I was given
It’s the love we were given
It’s the love I will give them
To teach them

So they learn to dance
So they learn to dance
You can learn to dance
In this world you can learn to dance when there’s no tomorrow
[Andrew McMahon/Learn to Dance]

long hair, don't care.

I'm alive
And I don't need a witness
To know that I survived
I'm not looking for forgiveness
Yeah, I just need light
I need light in the dark
As I search for the resolution
I need light in the dark
As I search for the resolution- Jacks Mannequin: Resolution


So I'm done with boards. I'm done done done doneeeee. And it feels like nothing. and everything. but mostly nothing. but anyway, I am so glad it's behind me and I can spend a week with some great friends trying not to think about medicine for a little while and just enjoy the sunshine.

I just wanted to say thank you to Bristol. Thank you thank you thank youuu. I had the most amazingly wonderful time while I was home. And it really did feel like home, and not just some place I was stopping through for a couple of days. It really did feel like the place where I came from and the place where I belong, even if only for a short while. The support from family and friends meant more to me than I can express in words. Much more. It made studying actually enjoyable, well, as enjoyable as it could possibly be. And it made me smile much more than I would've just holed up in my study closet in Memphis. That is for sure. And that makes me happy. So, again, thank you Bristol, for everything. 

I've been saying "thank you" a whole lot recently. And I hope that's not too mushy, or too "feel good" or too whatever. Honestly, I've been saying thank you for a whole year. And in case you were wondering, yes, it has been almost a whole year. Two weeks from my one-year-out-mark. I never thought I'd be here, let alone so well adjusted and happy and being so dang cheesy. 

I've had so many different strategies for trying to deal with it all. At first, I really thought I could just push it way down and never think of it again. And I tried that for a while, and it was fun and I did a lot of "trying to be normal." But then I did a lot of thinking about it, and comparing everything to it.  The pendulum was swinging the other way and I was "trying to put everything in perspective." And, well, that was just as unfulfilling and awful and impossible.

But then I realized, not on my own mind you, but realized just the same, that it's okay to not be normal AND to not compare everything that I do to having cancer or to not having cancer. I can just be a "regular" person who went through this hell and is now living. Just living, like anyone else. Just experiencing everything and smiling and hurting just like anyone else. And stressing about boards and bickering with my sister (lovingly) and dishing about a date. 

I realized it's been a year. And so much has happened in a year. And NONE of it has anything to do with having cancer. And that feels damn good. More than good. I finished my second year of medical school on a high note and took the first step of my medical boards. I lost ten pounds. I had the most wonderful times going out (and staying in) with friends. I worked on my relationship with my parents. I learned how to love those crazy puppies again. I let go of all the bitterness. I forgave. I thanked. I loved. 

At the risk of sounding super lame (which probably isn't that much of a stretch) I went to see Andrew McMahon in concert in Nashville on Wednesday night, alone, because I am that cool. (Also he played me Konstantine and I can die happy now.) But really, it made me realize how far I'd come and how much I've changed. I am more brave now. I take more chances. I don't let anyone, or anything, get in the way of my life. I would've never been able to do that in the past... but here I am, and nothing scares me anymore. (Well almost nothing, that plane to Florida was sooooo terrifyingly bumpy, so there is that.)

So here's the point: it has been (almost) a year. And it has been long enough that I look like a normal, cancer-free 24 year-old-girl. I have short precious normal girly hair. Life is happening all around me. And I am living, just like anyone else. Except not just like anyone else. This is my life. I survived and I am thankful. And more than that, I am brave.


See y'all on the other side of one-year. 
Liv