A Push Towards Perspective

I recently came across something written by a woman that I found to be simultaneously heartbreaking and inspiring.  This article, which ran in Vogue magazine entitled "The Long Road Back: How to Keep Going After the Unimaginable Happens," is the story of tragedy - but it is even more about love and strength and coping.

I found some of the words of the author, whose name is Madonna Badger, to be particularly moving.  When she recounts the two things that happened that she found helpful as she was going through the boxes in the warehouse, it makes me think back to the students with whom I worked in the months after my dad died.  Like Badger, through my work, I saw two things occur that nudged me in the right direction in the early depths of my grief: I too had to stay "in the present moment," and I saw for the first time that, although there was often ample opportunity for the grief that was upon others around me to incapacitate them, the people who made certain choices in the midst of hardship were able to survive without losing more of themselves than they had been forced to through the adversity. That, I guess, was my push towards perspective.

Brave and Important

I mentioned in the last entry that one of the things I've been doing to help me through my own grief is reading books and blogs of others who are also struggling with the difficult work of grief.

Here's a link to a blog that I started reading about the time my nephew was born last spring; in fact, I got the idea for making the video of photos from my sister's pregnancy and from the birth of my nephew from this site.  The story of the family that's detailed in the blog is sad but so touching and inspiring:

                                 Chasing Rainbows

I started reading the "Darcy Claire" part first - but it will make more sense if you click on each of the children's names across the top of the home page in order from left to right (that's their birth order), Gavin then Brian then Darcy Claire. When you get to the Darcy Claire part, have some tissues ready and be sure to watch the video (the link is at the bottom of the entry when you click on her name).

When you've read that, find the Blog Archive list on the right-hand side and click on "2013" and then "April" - that's what was happening in real-time just after I started following the blog, and it's very dramatic.  Start reading at the entry from April 2013 entitled "A Piece of Pop" and follow it from there - you won't believe what happens as the story continues to unfold.  

Be sure to read the entry called "Without Ever Uttering A Word;" it's touching beyond description.  It makes me think of the many kids I've gotten to know through my job as an occupational therapist who aren't able to communicate verbally and who've made such an impression on me through the years.  And be sure to read the one entitled "The End;" it's potentially the most powerful blog entry I've ever read.

Some of the things that have struck me in particular as I've read the entries (and from watching the Darcy video) are how touching it is how Kate (the mom) never seems to mind having her picture taken, even in the midst of tragedy, how she repeatedly says she feels "privileged" even in the midst of what must have felt like excruciatingly hard waiting, and how she seems to need to do something to try to help herself through her grief, even as the tragedy unfolds. Some of the stuff she writes about how hard it is to function at all in a state of grief reminds me of how I felt like I was that first year after my dad went on ahead, struggling just to get supper on the table or to pay a bill or help my kids with homework.  I admire Kate's writing because, while she's hopeful and that fact shines through almost everything she writes, she doesn't sugarcoat some of the ugly of grief, and I think that's brave and important.

Go, Dodger!

Here's an inspiring story about a professional athlete showing kindness to a fan with terminal cancer:

CLICK HERE TO READ THE STORY

I doubt Matt has any idea of the impact of his act, quite remarkable in my opinion especially considering it seems like he didn't intend for what happened to be publicized.  

Now that's what I call a Random Act of Kindness.

Ironwoman

I recently read an article about a woman that I find to be very inspiring.  Her name is Kristin McQueen, and here's her story:

Ten years ago Kristin was diagnosed with metastatic thyroid cancer.  Since then, she has had fifteen major surgeries and has undergone various cancer treatments including radiation on her brain.  To date, she has finished seventeen marathons and nine full Ironman competitions.  She has continued to train during her fight with cancer, she says, because when she's out there on the road she is in control, not cancer.  I think that's pretty badass. 

“Ironman is so much more than an endurance race," she says. "It is not about simply propelling myself 140.6 miles for kicks, it’s about challenging my limits and seeing what’s possible. It’s about reclaiming my body after five neck surgeries, two rounds of radiation, ten brain surgeries, and a slew of acquired physical challenges. It’s about not giving into all the limitations that cancer and its buddies have imposed on me, but viewing them as challenges that ultimately make the race even sweeter by overcoming them. It’s about going from not being able to open my eyes without getting sick, having difficulty sitting upright and being too weak to stand by myself to completing one of the ultimate tests of human endurance. It’s about raising money so that nobody else has to go through what I have. It’s about remembering those who have passed and honoring those who fight every day to live a 'normal' life despite a disease that tries to tear them down.”

As anyone who follows Ironman competitions knows, the Ironman Championship is held in October each year in Kona, Hawaii, and participants in the race have to qualify to enter.  It's "the big one," the granddaddy of all triathlons and one of the most rigorous events in sporting.

This year, the World Triathlon Corporation is giving seven athletes the opportunity to race at Kona though a program called Kona Inspired.  Each entrant in the contest has uploaded a 90-second video showing how their story relates to the theme of the contest, which is "Anything is Possible," and those who get the most votes will get to enter the race.  Kristin wants one of those slots.

If you are also inspired by this Ironwoman, here's how you can help, in three quick and easy steps:

1. Watch this video.
2. Vote for Kristin every day between now and May 7, 2013.
3. Share the info on Facebook and Twitter and any other social media feeds you have - and email the link out to others who may not be into social media.  Ask everyone you know to vote for Kristin!

Kristin, sporting a "SUCK IT, CANCER" message during a race

For at least a dozen years before he got sick, my dad always called or emailed me ahead of time to alert me to whenever an Ironman triathlon was coming on TV so I could watch, and many times he called me on the phone during the race so we could talk about it.  Every single time I have watched an Ironman on TV, I have cried.  I don't mind admitting it; I find not only the talent but also (and probably especially) the dedication and just the raw guts that it takes to go the distance so awe-inspiring, but it's the stories of the back-of-the-packers that get me going every time.  Even if you're not an Ironman fan (an Ironfan?), you know the storyline: the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat. I'm not sure which trumps which: the tears of the competitors who realize they will not be able to finish - or the tears of those who are crossing the finish line.  Either way, I can't imagine watching the race without being affected by those stories.

My dad wanted so badly to finish an Ironman competition; just a few days before he got sick - which was just a couple of weeks before his debut Ironman - he said he hoped to finish the event in less than twelve hours but that he would be happy just to finish at all.  After months of training and miles and miles on the road and in the pool, his chance to compete in the Ironman-North Carolina in 2010 was stolen from him by cancer, so unbelievably sad and so damn unfair.  As Kristin says, "Cancer is bullshit!"

Kristin has succeeded in finishing an Ironman - in fact, nine of them!  Most people feel they are giving their all when they finish a 5K, even if they are 100% healthy; Kristin has far surpassed that, while battling cancer. By any standard, she is already an Ironwoman, worthy of great respect and admiration for her athletic accomplishments.  The championship race in Kona, though, is within her reach, and I can't think of anyone who better embodies the idea that anything is possible.  With our help, she can make it there.

Good luck, Kristin; cancer can indeed SUCK IT!  I look forward to watching you amongst the other participants in the race on TV in October.  I can guarantee that I'll be watching - and crying.

World Autism Awareness Day

There are many people who played a role in my career choice many years ago, and I regularly think about the fact that I am so lucky to have found a profession that is fulfilling, challenging, and rewarding on a daily basis.

Once I decided on and then entered the Occupational Therapy program at Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri, though, there were still several different career paths within the field of O.T. that I could choose, based on various demographics of the patients with whom I would be working in the future - from very young to very old, by diagnostic grouping like "hand therapy" or "neuro rehab," and/or in different treatment settings such as an inpatient hospital or a school system.  In fact, the diversity of the options within my chosen field was one of the main things that drew me into Occupational Therapy initially.

During my final year as an O.T. student, I landed a part-time job working for my favorite professor, the woman who taught the pediatric-focused courses in our program.  Some of the work I did was data input, mainly typing the treatment notes that she had recorded on a mini-tape recorder and entering appointments into her schedule on a brand-new Mac Classic computer that seemed so high-tech and cool to me at the time.  I liked that work; it allowed me to learn a lot about computers and my teacher's clinical practice from the sidelines.  A second part of my job was to go to the medical library and research topics about which my instructor needed more information; through this, I learned to love research and to how to be organized in my approach to finding out what scientific studies and data said about a particular subject.

There was one more part of my job, though, and it was the part that I thought was the best: going with my instructor to clinical visits.  I primarily served as a hauler/transporter/equipment cleaner at the treatment sites, but, rather than feeling like a grunt who was limited to schlepping and scrubbing, I felt like I was a sponge, soaking up knowledge and inspiration from all around me.  Two of the children in particular who were being treated by my teacher that year ended up influencing my decision to set a goal of practicing in the field of pediatrics as an O.T.; after getting to know each of them, I was certain that my future was in working with the younger population.  

One of these kids was a boy named Johnny who had cerebral palsy that affected all four of his limbs, his trunk, and his speech.  A couple of month after I'd met him, my instructor had me sit with him while she left the room to take a phone call.  I had to focus and listen closely to make out what he was saying as he chatted away about his love of the Cardinals, St. Louis's major league baseball team.  After a couple of minutes of that, he abruptly changed the subject by asking, "What does it mean to be handicapped?"  His question took me off-guard; I spent several seconds trying to think of the best way to respond.  He beat me to the punch, though, blurting out the answer to his own question before I could say anything: "Oh, I know: it means you have to work harder to do things,"  and then he went back to talking about baseball.  I thought his answer was perfect, and I knew at the time that I would never forget this exceptional child or his profound words.

The second child was a girl named Casey who was at a different facility than Johnny.  Casey was a six year-old girl who had been diagnosed with autism.  She was verbal but had many social and other challenges that affected her ability to interact with the world in what is considered to be a "typical" manner.  Casey wasn't as touchy-feely as Johnny was; in fact, she didn't like to be touched at all, but I still found her to be very lovable and sweet.  She had some "quirks" - some habits and patterns of behavior that I found to be both interesting and endearing during the year that I knew her; one of these idiosyncrasies was that she coped with stress by pretending that she was interacting with a cat that she kept in her pocket.  Cleverly, I thought, she used this as a way to divert attention to something other than herself whenever she felt like she was being put on the spot; instead of answering a question or completing a task that she didn't feel like doing, she often emulated taking the cat out of her pocket and petting and talking to it.  

I was fascinated by this tactic; I thought the fact that she had devised such a creative strategy for gerrymandering was brilliant in many ways.  Some of the people who worked with Casey scolded her for talking about or to her pretend cat; I, in my squeaky-clean lab coat and with my very limited knowledge base and experience in the clinical world, tried to find out more about her and her world by playing with her and by asking her about the imaginary creature.  In turn, she often made better eye contact with me, and she talked and talked about things that were on her mind, all while pantomiming holding and/or petting the make-believe cat.  

Not long after my job working with Casey ended, I decided to get a kitten, and, as I looked through the want ads in the newspaper, I knew already that I wanted to name this cat Casey, after the child that first drew me into the world of autism, a condition about which I was sure I wanted to learn much, much more.  I ended up getting a male cat instead of the female I had envisioned, but I still went with the name Casey for the first pet I had as an adult, the cat that was with me as I graduated from college, found my first job, moved into my first apartment, met and later married my now-husband, and had both of my children.  

Like Johnny and his words of wisdom, I will never forget the girl named Casey, the child who drew me into one of the main fields of interest in my profession.  Today, on World Autism Awareness Day, and on many other days, I will think of her and the cat in her pocket and hope that she is somewhere doing something she enjoys.

The Power of Words

We must always remember the power of words.

Words can be healing, helpful, or hurtful, and each of us holds the power not only to express ourselves so that each of our messages has one of many meanings - but also to interpret words that are spoken to us so that messages we take in do as well.

                                                                 

CLICK HERE TO WATCH AN INSPIRATIONAL VIDEO ABOUT THE POWER OF WORDS IF THE EMBEDDED VIDEO DOES NOT AUTOMATICALLY BEGIN. 

Sharing

One thing that I have been doing more of since starting this blog is reading the stories of other people who are facing battles of their own.  I guess I am intrigued by (and sometimes desperate to) learn about how different people are making their way through their challenges.  One common denominator that I notice in the stories that inspire me is that each person speaks in a direct way, from the heart, and that each of them has a positive attitude (like my dad), although none of it is too flowery or Fantasy Islandish.  

I recently came across the story of Suleika Jaouad (pronounced "su-LAKE-uh ja-WAD"), which I feel compelled to share; in reading what she has written about her battle with cancer, it is clear that she is nothing short of a badass, and I find her stories, her writing style, and her perspective to be both inspiring and empowering.   Suleika writes a weekly column for the New York Times called 'Life, Interrupted,' in which she chronicles her journey with acute myeloid leukemia (AML).  Her blog, Secrets of Cancerhood, includes links to her series of newspaper articles and her video journal, which she has been keeping since her diagnosis in May of 2011.