the whipped cream conundrum

Be authentic. Don’t write about what you think they want to hear. Write from the heart.

You can hear me say these words repeatedly throughout the day to anxious teenagers seeking to be accepted to the college of their dreams with a winning essay. When I help them brainstorm topics, I am often met with, “Ms. Geller, that’s so cliche!” Or, “That’s what everyone writes about!” Or, my favorite, “I’ve never had anything bad happen to me, so I won’t get in anywhere!” I explain that if they write about what they love and show what is important in their lives, the essay will write itself.  But, when it comes to genuinely writing from the heart, it takes courage and an ability to be vulnerable that can take time to cultivate. 

I am not unlike my students.  “Write, just write,” I tell myself, as if it is so easy, as if the words should just flow out onto the page. The pressure to say something profound, meaningful, and vulnerable overtakes me, and instead of writing, I hop on social media or browse the Anthropologie app.  More often than not, I convince myself that I have something better or more important to do than listening to the click-clack of the computer keyboard.  

So, I decided to jump back onto the blog and take some of my own advice. I put myself in the shoes of my students and wrote my college essay. I don’t know if I would even be accepted to my alma mater with this essay, let alone my SAT scores, but there was value in putting myself through this exercise not only to gain more empathy for my students, but to prove to myself that I have a story to tell, too, and it comes from the heart. Here’s the result…

The song “A Thousand Years” was on repeat because the radiation therapist forgot to switch off Spotify before he left the room.  At first, I was annoyed.  I was alone, lying on a cold metal table, staring at the linear accelerator that promised to destroy the cancer cells rapidly coursing through my body. I did not want to hear anything except the machinery’s clicks and whirrs and beeps.  I had a ritual – for each treatment, I counted the noises to see if I could tell, based on the number of sounds, how much longer I would have to be there.  This time, I was stuck with the song and had no choice but to close my eyes and open my ears to the lyrics.

Only in the second verse did I lean into the words…time stands still, beauty in all she is…My life was on pause. While all my 30-something friends were getting married, having families, and getting promotions, I lived with uncertainty and fear.  My days were unpredictable – I wondered when I would wake up and feel like myself again.  At the same time, while I had my moments, I chose not to feel sorry for myself.  I took time to be with the people I loved, write, and find meaning in my life.  There was indeed beauty in what from the outside might have seemed ugly. 

Then the following words hit me…I will be brave…Honestly, when people said, “You’re so brave,” my immediate response was to downplay what they considered a compliment or a way to build me up when I was falling apart.  I always thought I was doing what anyone would do, what people before me had done, and more would do after me.   But bravery is subjective, and, for me, I had to face many fears, do things I never thought I could do, and accept the ultimate challenge.  

The song continued, …I will not let anything take away what’s standing in front of me…While there were many things I could not control, I took hold of the things I could.  I could control my attitude, and while there were moments of self-pity and breakdowns in inappropriate places, I tried to maintain positivity and perspective.  Ordinary things that would bother me no longer did.  My father called these “small potatoes.”  I’m not sure where that phrase came from, but every time I became frustrated, he would say, “It’s small potatoes,” and that became my mantra.  It kept me grounded and in the moment. 

As the song went on…every breath, every hour has come to this…I thought of another mantra my father gifted me – “this too shall pass.” Lying on the radiation “bed,” as uncomfortable as I was, I knew it would soon be over.  The clicks and whirrs and beeps would end.  I would walk out of the room, wobbly on my feet, and back into the waiting room to be greeted by my mother with a small piece of candy and a story about someone she had met, maybe a patient or a caregiver, or even a simple smile. 

The song did not end there, nor did my cancer journey, but these are the lyrics that have stayed with me nearly ten years later.  During the darkest times of my life, these words gave me hope. Tears stream down my face when the song comes up on my playlist.  These are always tears of gratitude – for the therapist who forgot to change the music, for the songwriter who wrote the words that changed my perspective, and for the breath I take each day.  

I recently watched American Symphony on Netflix. As acclaimed musician Jon Batiste composes a symphony, his wife, author Suleika Jaouad, undergoes a bone marrow transplant. While the primary focus of the movie is Batiste’s musical journey, the filmmakers also offer a glimpse into Jaouad’s treatment. While I could identify with her experience, it was the way both Jaouad and Batiste lived two truths at the same time — he was at the pinnacle of success yet she was facing a life threatening illness — that got me thinking. What does it mean to live with two conflicting truths at the same time and which ones am I holding onto?

I hold these truths … I live with uncertainty and acceptance.  In the spring of 2016, as my doctors slowly exited the exam room after informing me I had no more options, living with uncertainty in 2023, almost 2024, is actually a pretty damn good place to be. So on the one hand, I struggle daily with the feeling that some day the other shoe may drop, that this miraculous treatment which melted my tumors away may no longer do its thing, and that the good cells will stop fighting the bad cells. And it’s true, even doctors don’t know the long term prognosis for people who respond positively to immunotherapy. However, at the same time, I look back seven, nearly eight years ago, when all hope was gone, and have accepted that if uncertainty is what is keeping me alive, I will take it.

I hold these truths … I experience joy and grief. 

I watched as my father took his last breath. He inhaled deeply and, in my mind, exhaled into another world. I felt many emotions all at once including heartbreak and love and loneliness and peace. My grief, although not always outwardly expressed, is ever present. In the midst of my grief, I experienced joy. I recall a time where I danced for hours as if no one was watching. I was going through an emotional time, but I was able to let that go to feel free and joyful. I remember someone once asking, “How can you laugh at a funeral?” To me, that is what it means to hold joy and grief at the same time. At my funeral, I hope you not only laugh, but you dance, too.

I hold these truths … I am a badass and I battle my self-confidence. It’s usually others who tell me that I am a badass, but this time it’s me. As we watched “American Symphony,” my mother pointed out to me just how much I have actually been through in the past 13 years. There are some scenes in the film that could have been taken from my own life — the transfer of the bone marrow, the conversations with the doctors, the isolation from the world — but they are ones that I have compartmentalized. However, these, and many more, were my lived experiences. And I conquered them all. So, I guess it’s ok to call myself a badass. At the same time, my other hand holds my lack of self-confidence. I don’t always feel as though I can take on the world in the same way I handled cancer. Indeed, there is a scene in the film where Batiste is fighting his demons of anxiety and not wanting to face the day despite all of his talent. I have a lot to learn from holding these two truths together.

These, among others, are the truths of my life, and, I powerfully hold them in each hand at the same time. Sometimes one truth is stronger than the other, sometimes a truth rears its ugly head at the wrong time, and sometimes many truths converge to make a big hot mess of my life. 

It’s after 11 o’clock at night. On a Wednesday. Of a very busy week. I should be resting. I should be drifting off to sleep preparing myself for the adventures and demands that tomorrow will surely bring. Instead, I am here — a place I haven’t been in a while, and a place I have missed.

Before I lay my head on my pillow with Sadie snuggled by my side, I feel compelled to write about an important, yet complicated, question that was asked of me today — what are your hopes and dreams? Initially, I was at a loss for words. I took a pass on answering. Several minutes later, after revisiting the question, I was overcome with emotion. I don’t think I have given any thought to my hopes and dreams in a long time.

I am not sure if I have any hopes and dreams right now. I say that as a person who worries from moment to moment whether I will wake up a healthy person or a sick person. I say that as a person who has lost many hopes and dreams but has yet to grieve those losses. I say that as a person who needs to give herself permission to hope and dream despite the cards she’s been dealt.

13 years ago, before I was diagnosed with Hodgkins lymphoma, I was filled with hopes and dreams. Some of them materialized — I have found meaningful work; I am part of a close-knit community; and I am having an impact on the world as an educator. Others did not materialize by my own choice, like becoming a successful lawyer (If you’ve seen Suits, you may know why!). During the years that followed the first diagnosis, my hopes and dreams began to diminish. Cancer began to steal time and opportunities from me.

The first big loss hit me as I was going in for my stem cell transplant. I was literally about to be admitted to the hospital when I asked what the doctors were going to do to preserve my fertility. I always thought I wanted a family, or at least know I had the option. “Oh,” said the oncologist, “there’s nothing we can do. You’re going to go into early menopause.” And that was it. There was no discussion about options, and they sent me on my way. I was devastated and angry. My hope of ever having a child was taken from me, and I had no control. I used to hope for financial security, to own a home, to find a partner, to travel, but because of cancer, some of these may not be possible. For so many years, my life was consumed with doctors and hospitals and treatments that I missed out on a lot of the life milestones that people my age experinced.

I wish I could wrap this all up with a bow and tell you I’m ok, and, to some extent, I am. I am high functioning; I am happy; I am in remission. But, in some ways, I am not ok. I am grieving; I am angry; and I am frustrated. I will leave you with this, however, while I do not necessarily have a list of hopes and dreams at the moment, I am hopeful that they will come to me.

50. Several years ago, I had little hope of ever reaching this milestone age, but here I am. The frequent trips to the doctors, the countless hospital stays, and the endless radiation treatments and other therapies to make me healthy helped to get me here. The miracle drug that reprogrammed my immune system to fight off the nasty cancer cells helped me get here. And the love and support of family, friends, and even strangers, helped me get here. So, it should come as no surprise that I wanted to do something monumental to acknowledge this big number. I wanted to give myself a gift. A trip? Some new bling? Skydiving? Nope. Instead, I celebrated 50 by having my port removed.

The purpose of the port — a small, plastic device implanted in my chest — was to deliver into my body the treatments which were intended to ward off the nasty cancer cells that didn’t seem to want to go away. For years, this port was a part of me not only physically, but also as a constant companion. I could feel it with a slight touch, and, every time I did, I was flooded with all sorts of conflicting emotions — fear and comfort; anger and joy; sadness and gratitude. Like a loyal friend, the port was there for me when I needed it the most.

When the port was implanted nearly seven years ago, I needed it to fill my body with immunotherapy drugs. My veins were too weak to withstand constant poking, so the port was a life saver in more ways than one. In 2021, my doctors made the difficult decision to discontinue my treatment; my body could no longer tolerate the drug and the side effects affected my quality of life. My prognosis was good, but my doctors felt it was necessary to keep the port in “just in case.” Finally, not wanting to continue living in the land of “what ifs,” I decided it needed to go. I spent my 40s living in a cancer bubble and, while I am just now processing the grief of losing those years, I want to embrace this new healthy decade. To do so, I knew I had to let the port go.

I was fascinated by the procedure to remove the port. Before the incision, an x-ray was taken to see the exact location of the object; the image is projected onto a large screen, and I could see it buried in my chest. I stared at it as the doctor made the incision, and as he began to dislodge the port, I felt some tears roll down my eyes. Shortly thereafter, the doctor exclaimed, “It’s out!” At that very moment, I smiled, cried, and felt a sense of relief I never knew existed. At the end of the procedure, another x-ray was taken to confirm the port’s removal. I followed the screen as I was wheeled out of the room — the port was gone.

I thought about writing a thank you note to myself because the moment the port left my body I realized that was perhaps the best gift I could give myself. I feel lighter; I feel healthy; and I feel closure. Of course, I still live with uncertainty and fear of the unknown, but for some reason, this gift allows me a newfound sense of freedom. While there will always be a physical scar, and I have many, this one is the gift I gave myself when I turned 50.

My life right now feels like one continuous loop of news.  I wake up to it and it lulls me to sleep.  I am glued to each and every press conference, hanging on the words of the experts, and obsessively checking social media and news sites for any updates.  Even when it’s off, it’s always there with alerts on my phone or texts from my news obsessed friends (you know who you are!).  I keep thinking there’s going to be some nugget of information that will shift us back to normal, but there is no “normal” anymore — just the “new normal.”

The “new normal” is not new to me.  I have heard it over and over as I have learned to manage with living with cancer.   All the feelings that I, along with many of you, am experiencing right now are very familiar.  Fear, loneliness, isolation, uncertainty —  I have lived through this before.  In fact, I have never felt more prepared to face this type of crisis.

When I tell you that it is possible to see some light in your life and that there is hope, I truly mean it.  As I faced the unthinkable in my own life, there were certain things that kept me going.  I thought maybe you could all use some tips from a pro like me.

1. Just Do It:  People have always remarked at my strength and resilience.  I was also told how they “could never do” what I do.  That’s nice and all, but entirely untrue.  You can do it!  You are doing it!  You are getting up every day and facing the most uncertain times of our lives (minus those of you who lived through the Great Depression).  We are all doing our best to make it work.  Keep going!
2. Be Kind to Yourself:  We all want to be tough and strong for the people who love us, but, in my experience, that is ex-haust-ing!  So many of us are balancing working from home with caring for our families (including those of you juggling work and home schooling).  Remember, it’s ok to take a break and have a moment of self-pity.  Yes, this sucks.  If you need to cry or scream or whatever you need to do to vent, go right ahead.  Just don’t sit there too long.
3. A Problem is an Opportunity in Work Clothes (credit to the late Gary Kent): Now is the time to do all those things you wanted to do — read the books on your bedside table, pick up that knitting project, train for a 5K, clean out your spare room, make that playlist.  Whatever you’ve been yearning to do, minus skydiving, take advantage of this opportunity.  While I was sick, I sewed like a madwoman, I baked like I was Ina Garten, and I started writing this blog.  Embrace the time.
4. Stay Connected:  When I was at my lowest points, it was the connections with friends and family that saved my sanity.  Texts, calls, emails, anything that reminded me I was still human. Today, it’s morning coffee on FaceTime with a dear friend, video chats with my folks, and virtual happy hours on Zoom.  Even seeing colleagues and students on Google Hangouts helps me remember life is filled with more joy than fear and loneliness.  I am part of a community larger than myself.
5. Rely on Others:  In the past, I had to rely on others because I had no choice, but I am terrible about asking for help these days.  I was reminded today, however, to let go of my pride and ask for what I need.  Because of my compromised immune system (Note:  I am not more susceptible than anyone else to get the virus, I am just less likely to have the ability to easily fight it off), I have to be extra careful.  This often means I cannot go to the store to get the things I need.  I need to rely on the kindness of others in my life.
6. Family:  Keep your family, and friends who are like family, close.  You all know how strong my family connections are, and they are even more so in times of crisis.  These vital relationships are everything to me and are the light in my darkness.

For all of us, we have to mourn the old normal and embrace our “new normal.”  For me, I need to quiet those voices in the media telling me it’s only going to get worse.  I need to focus on what’s in front of me while still thinking towards the future.  And, I need to take my own advice.  As Martin Luther King, Jr. said, we are all one “beloved community,” and we are in this together.