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

On Kindness

I read the book, Love is a Mixed Tape a few years ago.  It’s a memoir written by a reporter for Rolling Stone about falling in love with his wife and then dealing with her sudden death a few years after they were married.  It’s a great book, in spite of the sad premise; especially if you’re one of those people who can define different periods of their life with what music they were listening to at the time (guilty).  When Sheffield loses his wife he is heart-broken over the loss.  However as life moves forward, he realizes that there is something else equally as heartbreaking that goes along with loss and difficult times in life.  And that is the tidal wave of human kindness that inevitably follows every tragedy. 

“Human benevolence is totally unfair. We don't live in a kind or generous world, yet we are kind and generous. We know the universe is out to burn us, and it gets us all the way it got Renee, but we don't burn each other, not always. We are kind people in an unkind world, to paraphrase Wallace Stevens. How do you pretend you don't know about it, after you see it? How do you go back to acting like you don't need it? How do you even the score and walk off a free man? You can't. I found myself forced to let go of all sorts of independence I thought I had, independence I had spent years trying to cultivate. That world was all gone, and now I was a supplicant, dependent on the mercy of other people's psychic hearts.”

― Rob Sheffield, Love is a Mix Tape

If you have ever been ill or lost someone close to you or been through a tough time, you know the way that the kindness of others can build you up and break your heart at the same time.  Being sick has exposed me to so much kindness that I will never be the same. 

When I was initially diagnosed with aplastic anemia, I was studying abroad in Ecuador and had to be medically evacuated on a small jet to Miami.  Once I was in the U.S., it was my own problem how I was going to get back home to Michigan.  I stayed in the hospital in Miami for a while but needed to eventually get home for treatment.  I was too sick to fly commercially (low platelets + cabin pressure = potential cranial bleeding = no good), so I had 2 options: pay approximately 30,000 dollars for a private charter plane to take me home, flying at a lower, safe altitude, or drive from FL to MI.  And here comes the kindness kicker: the head doctor at the health clinic at Michigan State University (where I was going to school) offered to fly down and drive with us back so that she could monitor my health throughout the trip.  I had never met her before. 

That seemed like our only option, until a family acquaintance called to say that he had extra time on his charter plane and offered to let us use his plane.  For free.  I had never met him before.  I still have never met either of them.

When I first got diagnosed, my second cousin called my parents from Afghanistan to say that he was getting registered to be a bone marrow donor.  This I just can’t understand.  My second cousin…risking his life for our country…calls from a war zone…to offer his support…and his bone marrow to me.  ME.  WHY?

My sister went to visit her boyfriend, Sean’s uncle who is far too young to be in hospice care, fighting brain cancer.  When my sister arrived his wife asked her, “How’s your sister doing?  We’ve been praying for her.”  To which, Sean’s uncle added, “She’s at the top of our list”.

When I was diagnosed, my community hosted a bone marrow drive for me.  Hundreds of people came.  People I hadn’t spoken to in years, people who knew my mom but had never met me, people who heard the story and just showed up. 

My dad is a hockey writer and has covered the NHL for over 25 years.  I have always heard that the hockey community is a small one and they take care of each other.  Since getting sick I know this to be true without question.  There was a week after I came home from the hospital where I got a package everyday from an NHL team or employee.  A cookie basket from the Nashville Predators.  A package from the Pittsburgh Penguins with a Pens hat, bobble head and a letter from Mario Lemieux.  A sweatshirt from the NHLPA.  A t-shirt and keychain from the Anaheim Ducks. 

Are you shaking your head at this list??  I am.  I am floored by these stories.  I understand kindness.  I have seen moments that leave me feeling like my chest might explode from witnessing such selflessness.  But it something quite different when it is directed towards me.  It confuses me because I feel undeserving.  It pulls my heart in a million directions.  It makes me sad for some reason, but it also brings me joy.  It makes me want to cry, but it also makes me smile.  But most of all, it is humbling.  It’s like if everyone figured out that you couldn’t afford groceries, and when you came home to your house, every room was full of groceries.  What you were once lacking, you now have in abundance, and you can’t help but look around, touched, but wondering, “What will I ever do with all of this?” 

That’s how I feel about the kindness in those stories.  What will I ever do with all of this?  Because it is certainly more than I ever expected.

I think that this is the type of kindness Rob Sheffield was talking about.  It’s in the moment in life when your world collapses around you and you think you might never heal from it.  When you think your legs will never be able bear your own weight again because the sadness, the fight that’s ahead of you is too much.  It’s in those moments when the kindness and strength of your rallying community will take your sorrow and fear and turn them to ash.  And it is an incredible thing to experience. 

But it also comes with a price.  Because this type of generosity will make that cynical, self-preserving person inside you, squirm uncomfortably.  That strong-willed, independent person that you’ve been building up your whole life, will not survive the assault.  After you’ve been on the receiving end of such kindness, you cannot go on thinking that people are to be kept at arm’s length, because there is too much potential to get hurt.  You can’t go on thinking that you don’t need anyone, that you can do it all alone. 

 The truth is that while we celebrate individuality and independence in this country, we need each other.  No man is an island, no matter how hard he tries.  We were never meant to go through this life alone, especially not the difficult times.  So I’m giving it up. The independent, stubborn girl inside of me is buckling under the weight such generosity.  I’ll acknowledge that I need the kindness of others.  I need help sometimes.  I cannot do it alone.  But I also promise to return the favor.  I will recognize the weakness and silliness of myself but only so that when I see it in others, I will feel empathy and offer in abundance what has been given to me without hesitation.

         If you can kill someone with kindness, then I have been killed 10 times over by all of you who have said a prayer on my or my family’s behalf, or hugged my mom, asked my dad how his daughter’s doing, or read and commented on this little blog, or sent a card, a care package, an email, or the tiniest good thought my way.  Your goodness fills me up and encourages me.  It reminds me that God is good and will provide us comfort in difficult times.  I cannot thank you enough. 

        I had coffee with my pastor and his wife recently and we talked about our love of international work and ministry.  He told me how much he wants to work internationally, but that his love for his family always brings him home.  He told me that people are like warehouses, always needing eventually to be restocked with whatever we need in order to continue to do good in this world.  Without intending to, this time at home has allowed me to restock the shelves that were getting filled with anxiety and fear, with all things good and light.  And I owe it to all of you.  So thank you, for breaking my heart in the best possible way. 

No counts to report this week because they gave me a week off of going to the doctor.  I have an appointment Tuesday and I will let you know then!  I have knocked a few things off my 25 by 25 list too.  I'll tell you all about it soon :)

Kelsey

In the Stillness

It has taken me foreverrrrr to post.  I am so sorry if you were worried, but there is nothing to be alarmed about.  I’ve just been slacking. (sorry)  I wrote this about a week ago, but couldn’t quite wrap it up/couldn’t get myself to click “Publish Post”.   Then I had the following conversation with my sister (who I call Bear).

Bear: You haven’t posted in a while.

Me: I know.  I wrote something, but I just felt kind of…exposed writing it.

Bear:  Isn’t that kind of the point?

Me:….yea…I guess it is.

So I’ve been nervous about posting this, although last week I told you some pretty humbling information, so I don’t know what I’m concerned about :).  But I’m going to post it anyway even though it makes my soul feel exposed, because when I started this blog, I said that I wanted to be as honest as possible mostly for others going through the same thing or who will go through something similar and happen to stumble across this.  And you never know how your story will affect others, so I will put this out into the universe and let it decide what it all means. Enjoy :)

In the Stillness

In my normal life, you know, the one where I am going to school or working full time or interning or doing some combination of the three, I am anxious.  I always feel like I am one mistake away from everything collapsing around me.  Have you ever felt like you had everyone fooled in some way or another and it was only a matter of time before everyone realized that you were a fraud?  That maybe you don’t have it all together.  That you’re not smart enough to be here.  That you have more questions than answers about the faith that you love so dearly.  I have always felt this.  I have always felt that what I outwardly project is not an accurate representation of what happens below the surface.  Because below the surface is utter chaos.  There is a constant battle between who I am and who I strive to be. 

When I am in my normal state I long for moments of stillness.  I long for times when the chaos is quieted and I feel sure.  I need reminders of how faith and community can strengthen a person from the inside out.  And I find these moments early in the morning when I’m the first one awake and my apartment is quiet.  There is stillness in the coffee I sip while staring out the dining room window, when the world is still calm and it feels like God and I are alone.  I find the quiet when I run.  When my mind empties itself and with every step I leave behind another insecurity, another fear that weighs me down.  I find the peace in kind, confident words from someone who knows me inside and out, and believes in me.  When I finally confess my anxiety to a friend and they gently remind me of all the things that make me, me.  They remind me that even if all my fears came true, even if all of my dreams and aspirations failed horribly, they would land softly in the arms of my faith, my friends, and my family, and those failures would become opportunities. 

But this current state is not my normal state.  I am not working.  I am not going to school.  I am not being productive.  Unless you consider completing season 1 of Gossip Girl, productive…  This season of my life is defined by stillness.  I have what I am normally so desperate for.  My mind is calm and quiet.  I’m not struggling to move forward and get ahead in life.  I’ve taken a hiatus from stressing about where I “should” be at 24 in this society.  I don’t really care.  It’s so far from my current state of mind, I can hardly remember what it felt like to be concerned with it.  A hush has fallen over my normally anxiety-ridden mind.  The storm has quieted, and the ocean is calm. 

What’s ironic about this, is that I feel less anxious now, when facing serious health issues, than before, when I was dealing with papers and deadlines and everyday stress. The stakes are much higher now, and yet…that familiar knot of anxiety that normally occupies my chest, is gone. Weird, right?

But maybe not.  My friend’s mom was diagnosed with colon cancer a few years ago and is now in remission.  Her diagnosis came after spending years juggling the stress of being a mom to three kids and very successful businesswoman.  I didn’t know her before, but my friend tells me that she is far more relaxed now, even facing cancer, than she was being supermom.  She enjoys her family, and her life, more now. 

I think what it really comes down to is perspective.  How often in life do you get to tell everything and everyone in life, “You go ahead without me for a bit, I just need a few months off”.  For most people, the answer is never.  And yet here I am, in the midst of such a blessing. 

This is not a statement about how the sky is now bluer and that flowers smell sweeter.  Not exactly, anyway.  I don’t spend my days frolicking through fields and smiling into the sun’s glow.  [Okay sometimes I do the second one…] But I’m still me.  With the same insecurities and curiosities.  This post is more to say that in facing this disease, I have realized that I have no control over how my immune system or my bone marrow behaves.  I don’t have the power to cure myself.  And that lack of control can lead you to two places: the first is swimming in anxiety and panic because no amount of effort on your part will change this situation.  But what I have found is that in situations where you lack control, there is also opportunity to find a quiet place to let go of the struggle and let God handle things.  And in that place, there is an incredible amount of serenity. 

Counts for 2 weeks ago:

            Platelets 12,000 Hemoglobin: 7.9 WBC: 2.7

I had my first and only transfusion since I’ve been home from the hospital.  I had 2 units of whole blood because my hemoglobin dropped to 7.9.  As much as I don’t want to have to get transfusions, I felt much better afterward. 

Counts for Last week:

            Platelets: 25,000 Hemoglobin: 9.8 WBC: 2.9

My energy level is MUCH better now than it was a few weeks ago.  I’ve started going for walks on the path near my house and am feeling pretty good!

Thanks for reading and caring :)

Kelsey