Review and Remind

The school term has started anew and with it comes bittersweet memories of spring. This morning, I'm organizing my teaching files -- honing the efficiency of my (right-brained!) system and removing duplicates. I found this e-mail I sent my students at one campus at term end. It's the e-mail that prompted student responses. I'm copying it here so all my content relating to this journey is neatly in one place. 

    This also serves to remind me (and maybe readers) of what the Hero's Journey is all about and what it can mean for me and you.    

     Thanks all for the celebration last night and for your portfolios. I look forward to reading them over the next couple days.

     In terms of inspirations, one thing I wanted to reiterate last night was the idea of The Hero’s Journey. The timing didn’t seem right so I’ll share it here. The reason I’m drawn to the Hero’s Journey by Joseph Campbell/ The Writer’s Journey by Chris Vogler is that it relates to more than the stories we write. It relates to embracing the challenges we face in real life. There will be segments in each of our lives where we encounter seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Embracing the Hero’s Journey helps frame these obstacles and even know what to expect. Your Hero’s Journey could take the form of making it through a particularly challenging term in school; getting over a heartache; overcoming grief; kicking an addiction; moving to a new city; or even finishing a screenplay. This term has been unforgettable for me, and not just because of the energy of the Rock Creek class! but because of a personal journey I’ve been blogging about.

     A week before spring break at my annual mammogram, suspicious spots were found in my left breast, which upset my ORDINARY WORLD. I was called in the next day for an ultrasound and my REFUSAL OF THE CALL began at that moment. At the ultrasound, the spots were suspicious enough to biopsy. On spring break at Disneyland with my family, I got THE CALL that yes, I have breast cancer. I then proceeded to “enjoy” the next two days as we rode the rides designed with The Hero’s Journey in mind – rides like Indiana Jones or Space Mountain where facing death makes the ride worthwhile. Back in Portland, I started the teaching term, met my medical MENTORS, and the second week of class, I entered the SPECIAL WORLD of chemo. I got my hair cut short a week later and a week after that, it came out in clumps, hence the short wig (hopefully I fooled you.) I continued with a myriad of medical TESTS weekly and encountered many ALLIES while battling the ENEMY, which is the cancer, thankfully caught early. And today is my last of four treatments, (scheduled on Thursdays so I wouldn’t miss our enthusiastic sessions.) So for some of you, I’ll be reading your portfolios in the comfort of the chemo lounge sitting in a recliner. The mood is much like a Starbucks, except they serve up medicine cocktails rather than coffee. I figure I am now at the APPROACH TO THE ORDEAL stage, prepping for the surgery, the ORDEAL, the midpoint, which happens in three weeks. Then it’s SEIZING THE SWORD, which I envision as a positive surgery outcome and recovery and reconstruction via THE ROAD BACK to my ORDINARY WORLD where I will be changed and RESURRECTED due to this journey, culminating in a RETURN WITH THE ELIXIR, my newfound wisdom or something that is yet to be determined. I should have that answer by fall.

     I hope to see some of you again in class this fall or winter... For those of you who can’t fit this class in again, I hope you keep writing your script. I hope you keep writing your stories. It’s been my pleasure to have you in this class.

Onward!

Gail

The Big Still

     These past weeks, I’ve enjoyed a breather from analyzing my Hero’s Journey.  The good news is there hasn’t been much external story to share. The deeper admission is there’s simmering content below the surface.

     I noticed this at the dentist last week. My appointments are on a nine-month cycle so the last time I sat in the reclining chair was before my cancer journey started.
     "Anything new in your medical history?” the young technician asks from her chair-side computer. I stare ahead and answer quietly, “Well, yes.”
     “What’s that?” she says.
     I mention the surgery I had in July and then detail what kind. She asks a couple more questions. I answer briefly.
     My words breast cancer shock the air, then dissipate into an empathetic still. There’s no “aww, I’m sorry to hear.” No attempts at pacifying me with language. Just silence. An invasive silence like a huge balloon pushing everything else out of the room. It presses against me. Tears form at the corner of my eyes, then stream. I smear them up and out like one of those facial creams promising youth, hoping my young female comrade doesn’t notice my weakness.
     I experienced similar tears a week earlier on another appointment. The emotion surprised me then too. I’m not sure why it’s difficult to tell people about my experience.  I don’t feel I’m harboring post-traumatic stress or malingering grief. I don’t feel sorry for myself. And I definitely feel I’m moving on, that I’m firmly footed on “The Road Back” to my ordinary world. I’m just not sure what the big lesson is yet – the “Elixir” or greater wisdom the Hero’s Journey promises. I acknowledge that getting to that point may take awhile.
     For now, reminders of my recent journey are everywhere. The other day while cleaning a ripe Italian cantaloupe, I realized it was a perfect model of how my nipple-sparing mastectomy went down. My surgeon essentially scooped out the inside of my breast leaving the exterior intact. Amazing, actually.
     I realize the way I see things or describe things may shock others who haven’t experienced this journey. I realize I’ve caught up to the place my surgeon was the first day we met when she explained, “Think of your body like a car. Sometimes parts need repairing.” Her words were jarring at the time. Now I get it. Got a bit of rust. No problem. Cut it out. Then move on.
     Summer's end and the croquet set in the garage was another recent reminder. I’ve been undergoing “fills” each week, the process by which the plastic surgeon injects 50 or 100 cc of saline into the tissue expander under my chest muscle. I have now officially graduated from this process. Six weeks from now, I’ll have another surgery to replace the expander with the implant. I anticipate this will be the “resurrection” part of my journey. Until then, my left breast is as hard as a croquet ball. 
     This game is not yet over.