Chatarunga Dandasana (my first time)

tonight during yoga,
first time since surgery,
a voice said -
"you've been through so much. be kind to yourself. you're doing a good job."
no guilt. scale irrelevant.
it's okay.
i also did my first official chatarunga pushup - without putting my knees down first.
i am getting stronger.

Benign.

Results came back and my thyroid nodules are/were benign. I just have Hashimoto's disease and a goiter. I'm really very lucky.

All this news is good, but part of me is cautious and worried. Has a lot to do with watching my mother die of breast cancer at only 53.

Morbid thoughts: "Everyone gets cancer. You're safe - for now. There's many other cancers that you can get in your lifetime. "

Deep down inside, part of me thought that if I had thyroid cancer, I wouldn't/couldn't get any other cancer for the rest of my life. I'd get cancer "over with." Disturbing thoughts. Negative thoughts. I'm so morose sometimes.

But I will not judge my thoughts as positive or negative. I will let them be and move on. That's the least I can do for myself right now and always. Be kind.

I'm really very glad it's benign.

Enjoying the crappiness. (It doesn't really matter anyway.)

Shit. My clothes don't fit the same. I'm gaining weight. I'm 28. No, I'm not pregnant. I just had my thyroid removed. My slow and faulty thyroid has been the cause of so much in my life that probably matters so little.

Slow metabolism. Dry hair and skin. Weight gain. Fatigue. 

I am 20 or 21 again, right before diagnosis. Right before the pills. I am at the gym, I'm watching what I eat and I'm not losing. I'm not gaining, so I guess that's okay. I am sad. I feel depressed. Out of place. Lonely.

A few weeks ago, I had this overwhelming feeling of acceptance towards my body. It was really a euphoric breakthrough that was deep and real. I had just learned that I may have thyroid cancer and I'd have to undergo a thyroidectomy. I finally got serious about the best diet for Hashimoto's disease/goiter/hypothyroidism. Also, maybe this diet could help with my love-handles! A mostly veggie diet was leading to a soft middle section, so I started eating meat again in a big way by doing high protein/low fat/healthy carbs. It worked before when I was younger. It worked in a different way now, but I am also different.

Along with my body, my perceptions have changed. I've loved in this body in a pure way, I'd been loved in this body in a pure way, this body felt the pain of watching its first home and source take her last breath and, now, this body was going to go through more changes. (And there will be more to come in life. . .no list needed!)

Now that I have no metabolism and no real control over this weight gain (but an end in sight - THANK GOD), I am just enjoying the crappiness. Yes, I'm freaked out about feeling bloated and "un-svelte" in this body for a little while and of course I'm not eating pizza and hamburgers every night, but I'm going to experience this extra jelly the best way I can. Besides, it'll probably be gone in a month once I start taking my thyroid meds again and my thyroid level stablize.

While I was under anesthesia for the total thyroid removal, I dreamed. The surgery took place at the same hospital I'd been admitted to when I was 10 and had to get stiches on my forehead after a bike accident. My mom and I went to the emergency room alone and together. No brothers, no dad. She was nervous and worried at first. A lot was going on in her life. I was the calm one. When I came home after the bike accident, with exposed flesh and blood dripping down my face, she was hysterical.

"Your face! Your face!" She screamed.

"Don't worry, Mommy. Don't worry. I'm okay. . ."I assured her.

I was very self-conscious about my body at 10. I was made fun of for being fat. I was developing earlier than my peers. The doctor asked my mom if I started mensutrating yet. I cringed and felt embarassed. "No," my mom answered. "Not yet, but soon." I was confused. Did she know something that I didn't? The following summer she would send me away to sleepaway patrol camp with maxi pads "just in case." I was bewildered and embarrassed. I got my first period a few months after camp.

While I was under anesthesia, I dreamed of 1994 and 1995. I dreamed of elementary school. No worries except worrying about what would happen to my body during puberty. Worrying about not being in control of the things happening to it, but not really worrying at all because I couldn't help it anyway.

And, after regaining consciousness after anesthesia, I woke up crying. The cold post-op room. The beeping. The unfamilar faces. I wanted my mother, much like I did the day I got my first period. She was so happy that day and welcomed me to the club. She gave me a hug that night before bed. There were two women in the house now and she was so proud.  I didn't worry. It didn't hurt.

"I want my mom. I just want my mom," I said out loud. The nurse told me that she was out in the waiting room and I would see her soon.

"No,  I won't. She passed away."

The nurse may have muttered "sorry" or may have not. I don't remember. It doesn't matter.

Worrying about every pound I'm gaining doesn't matter either. Neither does worrying about my voice ever returning to normal. Neither does worrying about what's going to happen next. Neither does thinking about why everyone hates Anne Hathaway. All I need to worry about is taking care of myself and being well. I also want to focus on thanking people for their kindness, accepting the love I'm being given and giving love in return. That stuff matters.

Thanks for reading.

Busy is good, but my thyroid isn't.

Haven't written in a while.

Life has been busy and I suppose that busy is good.

I have a job that I enjoy, I'm a homeowner and things have changed drastically, in mostly good ways, since last year. This is all positive and for that I am thankful. (Oh yeah, and my braces are off! Whoo hoo!)

How can I explain that I'm also sad in some ways? The most obvious reason being that I don't have my mother here to celebrate these life changes and accomplishments. I know that there are some mothers who aren't there for their children, but my mom always was and I have had to adjust to a new reality for the past year and a half.

(Side note: The thing about humans is that we're many different things to so many different people.  Everyone who was close to my mom has had to adjust to this new reality. It's tough for us all. We're all still grieving.)

I've recently found out that I have to have my thyroid removed due to some suspicious cell activity. I have a 40% chance of getting cancer in my right thyroid gland. God, I hate cancer.

This surgery isn't uncommon and many other people have had it. I will not know if the cells are cancerous until my thyroid is removed and further testing is conducted. I know I will be fine and I'm strong and all that stuff, but I'm also feeling a bit despondent.

I have flashbacks to my mother's illness. Her experiences with tests, doctors and hospitals. Her feeling alone as she went to those early doctor appointments. Her dependence on her parents to take care of her spiritually, emotionally and physically during her illness. Her trying to protect her children from the pain, which kind of made me feel isolated and helpless.

I have a vivid memory of watching my mother call for her mom from her bedroom one day. I remember feeling left out and unneeded, wanting her to be stronger and knowing that I probably wouldn't have the same support when I am her age. Knowing that I probably wouldn't have a/my mother to take care of me or my children if I had to face a serious illness one day.  I remember accepting this and knowing life would be different for me. I realized that I'd have to construct a different kind of support system for myself. And that had to be okay because I had no other choice.

Now, over a year later, I do have a wonderful support system that consists of beautiful and loving family, friends and even coworkers. I know I will be fine and for that, I am thankful.

While I do carry some sadness around, there's also a lot to be happy about. There's a lot to look forward to.

Now that I'm finding my groove at work and settling into my new home, I hope to write more. I also want to take singing lessons again. There's so much I want to do. Busy is good.

Namaste.

* * *

A word on adriennechristina.com: Back in October/November, I accidentally let my domain name expire. Crap. Now, it's proving very difficult  (and far too expensive) to re-register my domain. For the time being, I'm doing without. Hopefully it's still just as easy to find me. Thanks for still checking out what I've got to say. Until next time . . .

Equal rights VS shady economic policy

Song for a Daughter (I am touched . . .)

Thought I would share this today. It affected me deeply as I listened to it on "The Writer's Almanac" this morning . . .

Song for a Daughter

by Ursula Le Guin

Mother of my granddaughter,
listen to my song:
A mother can't do right,
a daughter can't be wrong.

I have no claim whatever
on amnesty from you;
nor will she forgive you
for anything you do.

So are we knit together
by force of opposites,
the daughter that unravels
the skein the mother knits.

One must be divided
so that one be whole,
and this is the duplicity
alleged of woman's soul.

To be that heavy mother
who weighs in every thing
is to be the daughter
whose footstep is the Spring.

Granddaughter of my mother,
listen to my song:
Nothing you do will ever be right,
nothing you do is wrong.

"Song for a Daughter" by Ursula K. Le Guin, from Finding My Elegy: New and Selected Poems 1960-2010. © Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2012. (buy now)

The Impermanence of Technology (and other things . . .)

I will always remember when my mom gave me my Kindle. It was a few days before Christmas and I had just finished graduate school.  We had spent the day and night moving all of my belongings from my Brooklyn apartment back to my mom's house in Maryland and I was overly tired. Right before I climbed into bed, my mom came into my room and presented me with my Kindle. It seemed fitting especially since I was graduating with a Master of Library and Information Science degree.

I love(d) my Kindle. In fact, sometimes I would forget my cell phone when I went to work, but I’d always remember my Kindle. I remember my mother laughing about that.

My beloved Kindle, Dec. 2010 - Aug. 2012

So, over a year and a half after my mom surprised me with the Kindle, my Kindle screen has gone schizo on me. On the phone with an Amazon representative, I calmly explain the issue and am told that there is nothing they can do to save the Kindle. I must get another one. I decide to ask if there is anything I can do to keep my Kindle, or at least get the same model. He says “no” and I explain the situation:

“This was a graduation gift from my mom. She passed away last year so there is a little sentimentality attached to it . . .”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he says. “Ordinarily, we need the original Kindle shipped back, but we’ll make an exception for you. I’ll make a special note to let you keep yours.”

I wish I got to “keep” my old cell phone.

Last October, my Android phone was stolen at the public library. I couldn't care less about the phone itself, but I was upset that the last texts that were sent by my mom were stolen. Verizon told me that they could not give me a copy of the texts between my mother and me without a subpoena. I still remember my mom’s last text to me, which was full of misspellings due to her being on Superwoman-strength pain medication that made her drowsy. The text said:

“I love you moure . . .”

She sent it late at night on July 16, 2011, a few days before she went into cardiac arrest. I remember the date and the text because after she died I would look at our last texts sent to each other while smiling, laughing and crying . . .sometimes smiling, laughing and crying all at the same time.

I ordinarily try to practice non-attachment to physical things, especially technology. Computers incur damage, become outdated and are stolen. My mom raised us not to become attached to any material thing, including our bodies. Since I was a child, my mom would explain that our body is just flesh and is temporary, but our soul exists long after we are gone. In fact, she always said that it didn’t matter what happened to her body after she died because it’s just a shell.

I admire the Buddhist notion of completely shunning off all material attachment to realize complete unity with the Universe in order to become One with All. I’m not there yet and I don’t know if I ever will be (while I am alive), but sometimes life teaches you lessons in other ways. Maybe losing my cell phone and my Kindle breaking are mini-lessons for me in non-attachment to the material, especially technology. I saw my Kindle and the texts as a connection to my mother, but they are merely a symbol of our connection because our connection transcends the physical.

Or maybe this is all just a reminder that books are still golden because books don’t all of a sudden “stop working” on you. I never have to worry about a book “not opening” for me to read it. 

Ugh.