Detroit Love

People say a lot about Detroit.  People say true things.  People say untrue things.  But people say (mostly negative) things about Detroit.  I’ve heard many of them and maybe even said a few of them, but there is something about Detroit that not everyone knows. 

Detroit is a place to heal.

It may find itself on the top of almost every “Most Dangerous City” list and have one of the highest unemployment rates in the country, its school system may have no money and the auto industry attempting to pick itself up from bankruptcy.  But Detroit is full of people who are full of hope.

In Detroit I’ve met amazing doctors.  I’ve met amazing nurses and nurse practitioners. 

I’ve sat next to cancer survivors in the waiting room at Karmanos cancer center.

And I fell in love with all of them.

I fell in love with them because they don’t whisper.  People from Detroit don’t whisper about their sports teams.  They don’t whisper about how their job is going. 

And they don’t whisper about cancer.

This is so rare, and so incredibly refreshing, it’s hard to describe.  Because when people are uncomfortable, when they don’t know what to say, or how to express their concern, or what questions they’re supposed to ask, they whisper. 

They tilt their heads to the side and tell you really softly, I’m so sorry for you…

And there is no worse emotion than pity.  Pity is useless.  Pity, to me, feels a lot like saying “I’m so glad I’m not you.”  Pity is a waste.  It is not productive.  Pity doesn’t lead you to get off your seat and try to make someone’s life better.  Pity doesn’t stir your soul and inspire you to pray for your sick friend, or a famine on the other side of the globe.  Pity sits comfortably in it’s comfortable life and says, “Geez that really sucks,” and then goes back to enjoying that life. 

So when I sat down in the waiting room at Karmanos for the first time, and a stranger across from me said, “You look too young to be in here, what kinda cancer you got?”

I was shocked, but I think part of me was so relieved to be around strangers who didn’t feel like they needed to walk on eggshells around me.  I explained my situation.  Then she continued, unprompted, to say that she had lung cancer, and had been through chemo several times. 

We finished talking and my Dad leaned over to me, smiled and said, “Well I guess this isn’t a shy crowd…” and I responded, “I guess not.  I think this is the boat, and we’re all in it.”

That was the moment that every little part of me that was asking, “Why me??  Why do I have to deal with this??” dissolved.  Because it’s not just me.  Not even close. 

Maybe I don’t deserve this, but neither did anyone in that waiting room.  No one in that room deserved to deal with cancer or whatever rare disease had landed them in the cancer hospital in Detroit. 

Because that’s the thing about disease.  It doesn’t discriminate.  It doesn’t care if you’re only 21 years old, just trying to figure life out.  It doesn’t care if you’re 45, just lost your job, and have 4 kids to raise.  It doesn’t care if you’re rich, poor, nice, mean, ugly, or beautiful. In the eyes of cancer and aplastic anemia, we are all the same.  I am the 65-year-old woman next to me in the waiting room.  I am the 40-year-old businessman sitting across from me.  I am them and they are me. 

I also fell in love with the camaraderie of being in a room full of people dealing with an awful, uncontrollable situation and still having reason to laugh.  And still finding a reason to praise God.

I fell in love with the way it feels to hear someone who’s been through your fight 20 years ago and look you in the eye and say, “You’ll be alright.”

I fell in love with witnessing the kind of love and loyalty it takes to be the friend, family member, the neighbor, who’s sitting silently in support of their sick loved one.

What’s so great about Detroit is that it may be down on its luck, but it sure doesn’t feel sorry for itself.  Because maybe they don’t have jobs, and maybe they have cancer, but no one walked into that hospital alone.  A grandmother walked into the treatment center with her grandson helping her.  Two sisters walk in together, sharing stories about their spouses, their childhood, and their children.  Maybe they didn’t have everything, but they had each other. 

My Dad likes to say that all the Allens were born with shovels.  We were born with shovels so that when life gets hard we can dig in.  And when life gets harder, you don’t give up.  You just get a bigger shovel.  Or you call your family and tell them to bring theirs. 

In the face of something as scary as cancer and aplastic anemia can be, it’s easy to want to turn your back.  It’s easy to want run from it and whisper quietly to your neighbors about what a shame it is.  But it takes an incredible community to turn and face, and dig in.  Detroit is packing some seriously big shovels with the challenges that they have faced and it has left a group of people that are not to be messed with. 

I will forever be indebted to Detroit for showing a girl from Ypsi the meaning of community. 

For showing me that it’s possible to face adversity with grace, laughter, and an unwavering faith in God. 

And for lending me their shovel.  ;)

Love, Kelsey

Right on Time

Remember in my last post when I said that I needed to get through the heaviness and find the lightness that I knew was to come??

I found it. :)

I can feel that heaviness leaving me and replacing it is sort of a rush of happiness and contentment.  An expansion of my view of the future.  The feeling that doors are opening in front of me and the uncertainty of what the next few years will bring tastes sweet and hopeful. 

I’ve started my classes and my internship and the greatest gift that I have received is that the response to my return consisted of mostly, “welcome back” messages, or “I’m glad that you’re doing well,” a few people asked how I’m feeling.  But for the most part, the surprise and awkwardness of coming back from this was short-lived and very supportive.  I’ve been back for about 2 weeks and it already feels normal to be here doing all of these wonderfully normal things.

Right now almost everything that I do makes me feel lucky.  Even the silliest things, remind me that a month ago I didn’t have this privilege.  I feel lucky to be in grad school (although that doesn’t mean I’m not beyond excited to graduate).  I feel lucky to slug it out in my internship for a small stipend that doesn’t even cover my rent.  I feel lucky to walk in the freezing cold to the tiny gym at Pitt and spend my 30 minutes sweating on the elliptical.  I feel lucky to watch Friends with my roommate.  I feel lucky to make dinner for a friend.  I feel lucky to wash my own dishes.  I feel lucky to feel soreness in my muscles from exerting myself.  I feel lucky to feel tired from doing something rather than fatigued from a medical condition.  There’s definitely a big difference. 

I think part of what makes this mean so much is that not very long ago, my health was improving, but I still felt sluggish and down.  Even though my counts were going up, I didn’t feel good.  The thought of coming back to school felt daunting and scary.  I think part of me didn’t want to come back at all. 

A few months ago, I was searching the Internet for some post-chemo exercise plans (which as it turns out don’t really exist, but I really think they should), and I found an article on post-cancer depression.  It was written by a NY Times journalist who was blogging about his experience surviving testicular cancer. 

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/29/after-cancer-treatment-waiting-for-the-sadness-to-lift/

“After more than a year of diagnosis, treatment and waiting, it’s almost as if, finally and unexpectedly, my psyche heaved a sigh and gave itself permission to implode.”

His words described exactly what I was feeling.  That tiniest feeling of validation to what I had been thinking was all the push that I needed to know that I wasn’t alone.  And I wasn’t crazy for feeling depressed after having gone through this.  The article states that nearly 25% of cancer survivors face depression.  I didn’t even finish the whole blog post before I picked up the phone.

Going to see a therapist was one of the best things that I did for myself during this time.  I got to be completely honest about my fears and feelings without worrying about upsetting the other person.  It was a huge part of the healing process for me, and I am so glad that I took the time to dig into what was making me so sad.

Because honestly, this feeling as I write this right now, is totally worth it.  I feel great.  And it is so much more than my counts going up.

I think there is a little tiny part of me that didn’t want to write about going to a therapist.  There is a part of me that wants to be the type of person who just skates through tribulation in life with ease, and without professional help.  And the truth is that I could have survived this experience without counseling, sure.  But I would not feel as I do now.  I would feel physically better, without a doubt, but the fogginess of depression would still be with me.  And I would push through it, because I’m stubborn, but it would be hard.  And maybe I would have days where I ask myself, am I depressed? Maybe I should see a counselor.  But I never would.  I would just push forward, through the heaviness.

Do you see the difference?  Sorting through my sadness in Michigan means that being in Pittsburgh today, I am here.  I am not haunted by the nightmare I just survived.  I’m not falling asleep still shaking from the experience.  I am not anxious.  I am not held back by suppressed emotion.  I am present. 

I found this quote on Pinterest (obsessed, I admit), and I think it pretty much sums up this feeling.  Being back in school feels right in a way that I can’t quite put my finger on.  It feels like it was supposed to be this way all along.  I am exactly where I need to be, when I need to be there. 

Your journey has molded you for your greater good.

And it was exactly what it needed to be.

Don’t think that you’ve lost time.

It took each and every situation you have encountered to bring you to the now.

And now is right on time.

As always, thanks for reading :)

Kelsey

Put the Gun Down

[So I started writing this on a the bus, but actually I'm currently in my apartment in Pittsburgh, not the Megabus just so you know]

Hello from a Megabus! I’m on my way to Pittsburgh right now, heading back to my apartment, my life, my friends, my old self.  I have this feeling now that I’m creeping closer to the day when I get to resume grad school and working that it’s too soon.  Before I felt like I had all the time in the time in the world to prepare for re-immersion into the real world.  But all of a sudden it seems so soon and so fast.  In a few weeks the semester will start.  I’ll go back to my internship.  I’ll be living in my apartment again.  So much, so quickly.  It’s freaking me out a little.  But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want it to happen.  I guess I’m just questioning how hard of a transition it will be for me psychologically, emotionally, and physically.  Am I going to be too tired to do everything?  Will I get depressed if I can’t?  Will I be able to graduate this summer? 

I don’t know.  I don’t know.  I don’t know.

These are the questions running through my head these days.  Now that I’ve let go of a lot of the uncertainty that came with this course of treatment, I feel more confident that health-wise I will continue to improve and (hopefully) reach full remission.  However letting go of that uncertainty means that I’ve made room for all sorts of new worries.   I’ve let go of being in “survival mode” and now all the emotion and feelings that I pushed aside and told, “I’ll deal with you later.  This is not the time for tears.  It’s a time for strength and positivity.  We have to survive, so hush, you’ll get your turn soon enough.” 

Well here they are.  Demanding attention, having waited their turn.  But I don’t want to pay them any attention.  I don’t want to sort through sadness and anxiety.  I want happiness and celebration.  I want to feel good and light. 

But there is no denying that there is a feeling of heaviness lingering around me.  The feeling that you just went through something big and you need to look it in the eye and give it its due respect. 

The bell has sounded and the hard part is over.  It’s only right that I turn around and take one last look at my defeated opponent, to put my hand on his shoulder and say,

“You fought well, but I fought better.”  And “You’re strong, but not as strong as I am.”  And, “You were tough opponent, but just not as tough as I am.”

But I don’t want to turn around and look back.  What if he has one more hit in him, one that I can’t block?  I want to keep walking running away and never look back.  I used up all my bravery to get this far.  I’m all tapped out.  (Can't someone else do it for me?)

It’s like at the end of a scary movie, after the bad guy is assumed dead, but he always has one last scare in him.  Even if he’s lying on the floor bleeding like mad, you’re still nervous because he’s in your sight and history has proven that the bad guy always has one last murder attempt in him.  So you have to yell at the main character, “Don’t you put that gun down, girl! You know he isn’t dead!”

Aplastic anemia is still too close for comfort and I don’t know if I can put the gun down, as much as I want to move on.

It’s like if you’ve been in a car accident or close call, you know that you don’t relax immediately after you’re out of danger.  Just because the impact is over and you’ve pulled your car over to the side of the road, doesn’t mean you are calmly waiting for medical attention.  The adrenaline will run through your body and you’ll be shaking for a while.  And the next time you get into a car or drive past that intersection where you got hit, that feeling will return, and you’ll remember how scared you were.

That’s where I am right now.  I’m here and I survived.  And I intellectually believe the worst is over.  But I’m still reeling from the impact of the crash.  My hands are shaking, my legs feel weak, and my mind is still spinning with the possibility of a very different ending to this story.  Part of me is not fully convinced that it’s okay to put the gun down, take the boxing gloves off, and walk away from the crash (I’m apparently loving the analogies this morning).  Part of me doesn’t believe that life will leave me alone now because I’ve proven I’m not to be messed with.  I can still feel this disease hanging over my shoulder, holding me back.

Baby steps.  I think that’s key.  I’m not going to be the same person I was when I left, the moment I move back to Pittsburgh.  I think expecting myself to be will only make me depressed.  And unfortunately, as much as I want to bury these feelings, I think I have to let myself feel the weight of what just happened.  I have to let myself be sad, because I am a little.  I have to let myself be disappointed with life, because I am a little.  And I have to let myself believe that I am strong enough to feel those things without becoming them.  Happiness feels lighter when it’s not a mask covering up sadness.  And I want the lightness that I know is to come.  

With heaps and tons of love and appreciation,

Kelsey