Doing the Work

Zen = Work.

Yes, guest blogger Captain Obvious is in the house today.

Again, I am late. Last week two of our three family cars died ON THE SAME DAY. And not just like, merely a flesh wound—the one is too expensive to repair (ie is now being driven by firstborn with a supply of coolant to keep it from perpetually overheating) and the other is a challenging repair but STILL cheaper than buying two new cars unexpectedly at the same time. But until it is fixed, I am in “borrow a car to get anywhere” mode. I only work part time, so that makes sense.

I am actually kind of surprised, my initial response was not !@((#@&#*& AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH, but more of a “hey, nobody is dead. We can get a new car”.

For me, this is kind of a Zen Gold Star.

That said, the stress of having no car, of trying to help the two afflicted car owners deal with their collective frustration and stress, of dealing with ongoing other painful stuff here, of navigating work and school and schedule drama left me with no oomph to write anything.  For me, anxiety and stress are really contagious. I need some emotional Purell or something so I can be a better support for people in my life who are struggling with things instead of just catching their stress. Can somebody invent that?

On second thought, don’t. Being empathetic /compassionate is not something I want to limit. I just have to do the work to keep myself afloat while helping others stay afloat.

Zen = Work. And at the end of last week, I could only do the work in real life, not on paper (or, more accurately, screen—although I do most of my planning, etc., on paper. I need the physical act of writing to help me get my brain in order).

As I have been trying to help some of my family members with stuff, we keep coming back to this—we have to put in the work to see results, success, etc. Zen is achieved, not really discovered, even though I keep referencing my search for Zen—it is really the work of searching that will hopefully maybe finally achieve some state of peace.

I think the real gift of this time of medical respite is that I can work at using the tools of yoga, writing, bullet journal, prayer, books, podcasts, the little light therapy thing that I have not seen any effect from yet but I am hopeful, exercise, sewing, connecting with friends, practicing gratitude,  etc. to try and get through those moments where I feel skin crawly anxiety. Having the mental space to think “you must work NOW at dealing with this feeling instead of just lying on the floor” is a gift. I am really working at using it.

But gosh, it IS a work.

About 10 minutes ago as I was wandering around my house I actually out loud said to myself “SIT DOWN AND JUST WRITE SOMETHING!’. The dog looked a little perturbed (I know, Coco, you don’t have thumbs, I was talking to me), but today the work was getting my ample backside in this chair and typing something. Lesson plans are done. Test is written. Only one thing left to grade. SIT AND WRITE.

This is part of my work. 

I guess I just encourage everyone today—keep doing the work. Knowing that getting stronger and healthier and more balanced is a work helps me get past my sluggishness sometimes. Just like I keep going to my job, I need to keep working at me, too.  

Do the work. Achieve the Zen. Keep movin’. We can do it.

Zen and the Gift of Compassion

Sometimes, Zen isn’t possible.

Well, TRUE Zen practice probably is super Zen-y all the time. But sometimes, in regular person life—Zen is just not on the day’s menu.

Maybe that isn’t quite right. More accurately, I guess positivity is sometimes elusive. Sometimes, things just rot. On every level, they do. Difficult situations just take so much emotional energy, sometimes just hanging in there has to be the end game. Hanging in there in a not freaking out way is some kind of Zen, right?

Heck, I spent the better part of a decade hanging in there WHILE freaking out. I don’t recommend that. But truly, sometimes hanging in there one hour/minute/second at a time is all you can do.

It’s been a challenging week at the Casa Camiolo on the parenting front (medically no drama right at this second knock on wood etc.). Not my story to tell—I can just say it has been a week where I have been ransacking my toolbox trying to figure out how to best be the support I need to be in a very painful situation.

After so many years of yikes, difficult situations put me into pretty serious anxiety overdrive in about 8 seconds (see the above reference to “Decade-Long Barely Hanging In There/Freakout”). I am not amused by this reality, but I do think now I am in a slightly better place to deal with it. I am trying to use –and share-- my tools.

And I refuse to let the silence swallow me again.

I read a meditation this morning by Dorothy Day, one of my social justice heroes, in which she said “Compassion—it is a word meaning to suffer with. If we all carry a little of the burden, it will be lightened. “ While I feel emotionally spent and physically wrung out, I deeply, deeply appreciate the privilege of being able to be there for someone in the exact moment I deeply appreciate the gift of my people being there for me, to help me stay strong enough to help where I am needed. For so many years people shared compassion with me…in the last week or so, I have been profoundly reminded of what a gift it is to be able to share compassion.

I guess in some ways, sharing compassion IS a kind of zen. Just being with someone who needs love and support and shared humanity forges deep connections that withstand the stupid frenetic craziness of daily stresses. The big stuff is harder, but truly does make us stronger, connects us more deeply, makes us more courageous.

So hang in there, everybody. Even if it is only one tiny step at a time, together we can keep movin’ right along.

And again, apologies—my PLAN was to write about my attempts at positivity…not so much the “still lurking about!” ala Bugs Bunny version of things. But I would rather write SOMETHING than let the yikes make me silent again. (See yet again, reference to “Decade-Long Barely Hanging In There/Freakout”).

Compassion and the Darkest Hour

During the early days after my daughter’s brain tumor diagnosis, I was incoherent.
I barely ate for 10 days.

I couldn’t sleep.

My husband and I sort of waded through a fog of despair. I don’t know how else to describe it, that slow motion/breakneck hurtling forward feeling of those first weeks.

In a matter of hours, we went from getting G a Happy Meal as a reward for being good for her MRI to playing phone tag with neurosurgeons in New York and Pennsylvania.

We were utterly broken, and we stood at the epicenter of a sea of brokenness—we are both from large families, and the ripple effect of this disaster battered a lot of people we love.

G is NOT an only child.  At the time, her little sister was 2, her big brother was 9. Trying to keep functioning for them, and for G, pretty much sums up those first weeks into months.

The first blinding lesson of all of this—after the “if a doctor calls you immediately after an MRI that is NOT a good thing” lesson – was that in time of devastation, good people show up.  Even that first day, that first horrible day, a friend of ours had planned to bring us dinner, knowing we had this MRI planned and it would likely be a stressful day. And as she brought that chicken divan to our door—and I was on the phone, crying, begging our pediatrician to just tell us what to do, what were we supposed to do??—I mouthed to her “please pray”.

And she did.

In the weeks following the diagnosis/shunt surgery/port surgery/ start of chemo/almost immediate vision loss/severe behavioral challenges/chemo fail/ regroup, people carried us. Meals showed up at our house regularly. G was inundated with Care Bears and crafts and sparkly things. Our 2 year old was cared for by family during our frequent trips to Philadelphia, 2 hours away. Family members stepped up to take our 9 year old to his baseball games.  I got taken of the mandatory “lunch duty list” at school (one of the very few things I instantly saw as a huge blessing of this awful diagnosis. ;) ).  Random friends of my parents went to G’s school to provide one on one help for her, because she was having such difficulties emotionally, academically, and physically while on chemo. Every day. They showed up every. Single. Day. For the entirety of the school year. For free.

Compassion. We saw compassion lived out, acted on, practiced at a level we had never witnessed personally. It was staggering, and humbling, and life giving.

Being on the receiving end of this level of compassion is not easy—it feels…hard. But we are so grateful.

Over the last 12.5 years since that terrible day, we have gotten better at asking for help—not directly for us, usually (that is still hard), but for research. For organizations that have blessed us, groups like Ronald McDonald House & Ronald McDonald Camp, Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, Friends of Jaclyn, Camp Sunshine, the Children’s Brain Tumor Foundation, and of course the Children’s Tumor Foundation. We ask and ask, because we want G to grow old, we want her sister to grow old, heck, even though Dave and I are well on our way, I want him growing old with me and firstborn, too!  So we ask. And people have so generously answered us so many times and ways over the last decade and more. We are grateful. Nobody has to do that. We are sort of continuously agog at how awesome people are.

And it is in this spirit that I hope compassion prevails today, in the debate over Affordable Health Care. We know we are NOT entitled to people’s generosity. Generosity and compassion are gifts. We know this. We have been blessed, too, that Dave has great insurance at his work, and all of our medical yikes, the 50+ MRIs (at over 10k a pop, usually—and that is only for one of our NF kids), the multiple surgeries, the hospital stays…those are covered, to a great degree. And we are so, so lucky. G is 18. She will be 19 in July. When my 6 year old G was diagnosed with massive hydrocephalus and multifocal brain tumors, we could not see this day. We are almost incoherently grateful that she has gotten to grow up.

In a few years, she will have to take on her own medical care—our insurance will no longer cover her. The ongoing challenges of the dual brain tumor/NF diagnosis are many, and in every way, shape, and form are the legacy of her pre-existing condition.

 I try to avoid political discourse here; that is not what this page is for. I avoided social media for two months during the election, the political discourse from friends on both sides of the spectrum was so demoralizing to me.  Still, as NF and brain tumors have intersected in our family’s life, so does the issue of insurance and our G’s future. This is personal for us, for G. We have fought so long and so hard to care for her, to help her grow up—and we can try to provide as best we can…

But at the end of the day, we have to appeal once again to the compassion of people we don’t know.  Strangers who, on social media, say things like “your sad story doesn’t obligate me to pay for your health care” (this was in response to Jimmy Kimmel’s monologue about his newborn son).  While this statement is a bit shocking—it is true. Very true. Our sad story obligates no one.  We totally respect this. We can truly only appeal to compassion and generosity, fueled by the conviction that our children’s lives—both in my family and in our community of smite-- are worth more than any actuarial calculation about insurance risk/benefit.

I hope and pray that our elected officials (I called ours!) can see with eyes of compassion, and understand that behind every statistic there is a human being, who has a family and community that loves and values them. Just as the picture of that little boy on the shore in Greece made people understand that refugees are not faceless threats to society, but young children and families desperate for a life free of violence and upheaval, I hope the stories many parents are sharing will help people see that “pre-existing conditions” affect children and adults who just want a chance at a healthy life—folks who make the world a better place by being in it.

Policies have consequences. Nobody is asking for entitlement, just for that compassion that makes us most human.

Thanks, for the millionth (and still not enough!) time to all of those people who have shown us so much compassion over the years. You all have helped G get to grow up. Thank you. I hope that she does not have to fear a future where she can’t afford medical care—I really have to try and trust in the continued compassion of good people everywhere.

To the creators of "Warrior Eli", a few things you should know

The story of Warrior Eli went viral on Mother's Day--telling of a mother of 11 who died in an accident just before giving birth...one of her children is a relapsed cancer survivor named Eli.  By today, this story was revealed to be a hoax. 


To the creators of “Warrior Eli”, whoever you may be,


I don’t know why you thought it would be fun to create an elaborate myth about a child with cancer. Maybe you were inspired by Lifetime movies or Grey’s Anatomy or some sort of dramatic fiction that makes childhood cancer seem c’est tragique. Maybe you thought it would be funny to see if you could get your sad story about a young mother of 11 dying just before giving birth, while one of her young brood battled leukemia, to go viral. You don’t seem to have wanted money, since you asked for donations to go to Alex’s Lemonade Stand, a legit charity for kids who really do have cancer.

Honestly, I don’t really give a crap about why you did this.

And honestly, this isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed this. I, too, have believed a liar in the past, sent gifts to a phantom child. I learned from that experience.

Now it’s your turn to learn a few things.

One, most people are good, deep down. Parents of children struck with catastrophic illness can be some of the kindest, most generous people on the planet. This isn’t to say we need to start handing out halos –people are people, no matter how smote-- but folks who have walked through fire are the first ones to hand out buckets of water, if you know what I mean. When they hear that someone is facing the same tragedy they have faced, the FIRST instinct is to help, to assure the new family that they are not alone. They hurt FOR each other, because they so intimately know that pain that this kind of diagnosis brings. Even though it hurts to engage with other families sometimes BECAUSE of this shared pain, these parents do that.

So when you lied over time about “Warrior Eli”, you hurt real warrior parents. You should know that. You took the grace that these parents have to give, and you made a mockery of it.

Shame on you.

Second, your lies, your desperate appeals for the sympathy and concern of strangers hurt the real warriors, the children truly battling for their lives.

Last week we spent about 5 hours in the Alex Scott Day Hospital, named for Alex of Lemonade Stand fame, named for the money raised by the lemonade stands that funded this amazing facility. I sat there, watching poison drip into my child, and I had trouble believing the evidence of my senses. Yes, we were in the hospital. Yes, G was getting her port accessed (which means a ¾” needle stuck in her chest, not sure your “research” for “Warrior Eli” covered that). Yes, nurses double double checked G’s ID to make sure she was getting the RIGHT poisonous cocktail. Yes, my warrior smiled and gave me a thumbs up even though she was so scared, so scared about what the chemo would do.

The entire afternoon was surreal. A friend came to visit us, and I am not going to lie, I am always happy now, after knowing about people like you, people who lie about their children being sick, I am happy when someone sees us in clinic, sees my child like this. If I can’t even believe this is happening to us, why should other people?

You hurt the credibility of real families battling. You made us doubt when we should be feeling compassion.

Shame on you.

As a side note about Alex’s Lemonade Stand, who you dragged along , maybe to give your lies more credibility?: Alex was a true warrior. Because of her, kids like MY kid have a better place to receive treatment. When Alex was battling, the day hospital was a large room with a ring of chairs around a nurses’ station. Now children can have some privacy, if they want. They have working tvs and video games, there’s a playroom and a little kitchen where they can get a healthy bagged lunch while they are getting treated. Alex didn’t live to see this. You insult Alex and her work and the legacy her family has worked so hard to foster.

SHAME ON YOU.

Finally, you need to know that childhood cancer isn’t a means to getting noticed, or a way to look noble and cool. It’s a battle for life. It’s not pretend, or a play, or something you can treat lightly. You want to look noble and cool? Go HELP kids with cancer. Use your creative energy for something GOOD. You used pain and suffering of children for your own satisfaction.
Shame on you.

I don’t think there will really be any tangible repercussions for what you did. You simply lied, and people believed you. You didn’t get money, you didn’t ask for anything, from what I can tell. You simply lied, and stole the emotional resources and compassion of people that could be better used for REAL catastrophe. I do hope that maybe some corner of your mind still possesses a shred of decency, and that maybe, just maybe you’ll take some time and volunteer for Alex’s Lemonade Stand, or in a children’s oncology ward, or with Team In Training in honor of “Warrior Eli’s” leukemia. Maybe you can try and learn just a little bit about the deep truths discovered when you spend time with a child fighting for their life.

If not, then shame on you.