The
semester started in the midst of August heat. Corn sweet tantalizing. The sugars drifting through the air as the
stalks bent and crinkled in the summer’s blowing. Tomatoes rich red and deliciously dripping in
mouth-watering tanginess. Raspberries
expanding with rivulets red and juicy.
And I was prepared.
I had
gotten the courses organized, syllabi written, exams built.
But I wasn't prepared. Truly, I wasn't.
The tolls
of chemotherapy, double mastectomy, breast expanders, every three week
Herceptin infusions, coupled with daily radiation therapy…. for the first 4
weeks of school… I struggled. I
struggled to be engaged and manage my courses well. And while I was sequestered to Hope Lodge at
Mayo Clinic I actually did. Yet when I
returned home the family expectations returned.
The farm beckoned. The skin
reddened and peeled sending spasmodic penetrating pain deep into my chest. Sleep was scarce. Lotions and creams, antibiotics and salves
soothed the depressing distractions. Eventually the skin split and sloughed off
and the breasts were left clean, pink, and healing. A month later they even tolerated pressure
from the mattress so that I could curl into blissful sleep.
Periodically
they still spasm. Tight, as though a
rubber band were gripping them. The
edges of the expanders tender, digging into the chest. Bruising the ribs and chest wall. Painful with arm movement or lifting. Oddly shaped and unfamiliar.
Restrictive. And the axillary cording
shortening my extended arm movements.
But my work
entails only punching letters on a computer.
I could complete it. Albeit
slow. Mentally weary and chemo-fogged,
it was hard to concentrate, communicate without ambiguity. It took me hours,
hours to interact and provide constructive feedback. Deeply cognizant that my students needed more
than I ever received in graduate school.
They needed to learn, to be transformed, in their thinking from a nurse
to a nurse practitioner. They needed to be prepared – their patients needed
them to be prepared.
But the
students beat me up. Left me broken.
I’m feeling
the un-met expectations of disappointment and frustration. Or could it just be my expectations and my
frustration? But I am repulsed by the
criticism and interference. “Please, can
someone, anyone, be supportive or positive?”
And so I plod on. Grading,
reading, evaluating, answering inane and repetitive emails. If only students would read the information I
had posted. My time and energies are so
limited. The questions which really shouldn't be questions leech my resolve, my strength. Yet they require an
answer. And so my energies wane. And my aspirations in teaching do as
well.
But I look
fine. My hair is growing; I’m gaining
weight. I laugh and plaster the smile on
my face. My voice is strong. I can walk in heels again. Is this what people with chronic disorders
face? Un-well inside but seemingly fine
on the outside? No grace or gentleness
for expectations.
Three weeks
to go until the end of the semester. And
one week until I return to Mayo again.
Tests and infusions. Exams and
consultations. Scheduling and
hopes. A tiny squeaking voice of
unknowns, what ifs, and uncertainty. Am
I really almost done with this chapter?
And
Thanksgiving is upon us. Eucharisteo. The perspective which makes sense
in any season. Remembering I Thessalonians 5:16-18 – giving thanks always, always.
in any season. Remembering I Thessalonians 5:16-18 – giving thanks always, always.
Today’s Journey Joys: gingerbread cookie dough, an amazing video, warmth on a snowing day, cold metal mailbox filled with spring
seeds of anticipation, toasty comfy blankets, chocolate chip, butterscotch,
oatmeal and M&M cookies, shopping for scrumptious meal of farm raised
turkey and pumpkin pie.
