The Year of the Ox

My friend Leslie, the one who has breast cancer, has had a rough year so far. She says her Vietnamese hairdresser warned her at the Lunar New Year in January that this year, the Year of the Ox, would be a hard year. "The ox is hardworking," her hairdresser said, "he works very, very hard;" it would be a difficult year for sure.

In Leslie's case, she was right. As I wrote before, it was a cancer diagnosis, mastectomy, mother in car accident, father's unexpected death, chemo, younger dog hit by car, radiation, and then the older dog put down. She has kept it pretty well together, even teaching through it all, except for the time she got sent to the Social Worker at radiation.

Leslie tells it like she's a kid who got in trouble at school, except her trouble was crying:

"It was the 6th of 7 weeks of camp, and the 6th week of my daily radiation treatments. I was counting on the momentum of camp to keep me going through the summer, but I had been teaching both morning and afternoon sessions. Our camp is very intense - like a thematic birthday party every day. It's creative and fun, with the academics slipped in under the kids' radar and in a completely authentic way. But it also required lots of planning, forethought, and running around gathering things. I was beat. I was like a precarious highwire act, just waiting for a strong wind to blow me off the wire. And I was okay, until someone asked if I was okay.

"Thursday afternoon at radiation, I was lying under the machine, listening to the mechanical buzzing, waiting for the thing to be done, hearing the Sade CD the techs had playing, and trying to hold it together. I'd lie on a table, gown tucked off to the side to uncover the left non-breast, butt up against the butt pad, left arm up over my head in an arm pad, right arm clinging to my belt buckle so as not to fall off to the side, and head tilted up and back to keep my chin out of fire of the radiation. I wasn't allowed to move.

"And the tears just started. I imagine it was the fatigue. But the tears were there and I couldn't move. I couldn't brush them away. I don't think I blinked.

"Techs come in and out between adjustments of the machine, but they don't look at you. They just do the job of switching out the plates that focus radiation on certain areas, and call out numbers to each other (99.6! shift 11.8!) to adjust the table. Sometimes the two techs you start with aren't the two techs who are there at the end, but Thursday Meghan came in at the end to lower the table and help me off.

"She saw the tears and asked if I was okay. She shouldn't have asked that! That just brought on more tears. She said how positive I'd always been and that I should take care of myself and take some time off from work. Which, of course, I couldn't. Camp classes are so personality driven, we're really discouraged from taking any time off. And I chose to teach camp. I was obligated. I cried even more and, after a hug, left to get dressed.

"I then had my radiation on Friday as usual. But Monday, as soon as I was done, the tech said the Social Worker wanted to see me. Don't worry, he said, she sees everyone.

"Yeah. Right. I knew what this was. My last week of radiation and I was being sent to the Social Worker for crying. It seriously was like being sent to the Assistant Principal. When they tell you to go, and tell you not to worry, you know you're in it. Damn. Why did I have to cry?

"She introduced herself and led me to her office, shut the door and asked how I was doing. This time I was prepared. No tears. Just a suggestion on my part that perhaps I should tell her my story first. She listened and wanted to make sure I knew she was there for me. I could see her the next day even. Would I like to do that? Had I had time to grieve for my dad?

"Who knows? How in the mix of everything that is my life this year would I know? I miss my dad. But I miss my mom being the way she used to be. I miss my breast. I miss my hair. I miss the dogs.

"Last week, when teachers had their pre-service week, I was heading off to school with purse, tote bag and lunch box over my arms. I'd grabbed the car keys off the hook in the kitchen, and was walking to the front door, when, out of habit, I stopped and grabbed the baby gate to shut the non-existent dogs in the kitchen. It was a daily habit that had become instinctive over the years.

"It took me aback. I stopped in my tracks and just cried. I cried for the dogs who were no longer there. I cried at my stupidity in thinking they were.

"Is that grief? The beginning of grieving? The end? Or just a crazy, difficult, hard year to get through? "

Leslie, next year is the Year of the Rabbit. Perhaps it will be a little easier. Just hang in there until February 14. The Lunar New Year and Valentine's Day.

Wallflowers

So, some business first.

You might notice that I'm not calling myself the Village Idiot anymore. A friend noted that my observations didn't really seem idiotic, nor comical, but rather somewhat deep and insightful. Huh.

But I thought about it and realized that perhaps I am not here just to comment on the absurd but to record those things I just noticed as well. I will now call myself the Village Wallflower.

I see kids at school who are like that. They are watchers. They don't dive into things; they don't want to make any mistakes. So they watch and listen and notice the details. Sometimes details that I'd never noticed. They're the kids who can be underestimated, but don't be fooled. They're waiting until they have things figured out, and then, like a morning glory in the early sun, open up and begin to glow.

So, I'll be the wallfower: watching and waiting and quietly letting you know what you might be missing.

Siblings

I was reminded the other day of one of those amazing moments one has as a parent of two children.

My friend, the mother of a 3 year old and a 1 year old, was riding in the car with the two kids in the back. Her husband was driving. The sleeping baby awoke and his big sister said, "Hey, how you doing, little man? Did you sleep well?" mimicking the words her mother always uses with her little brother. The mom shot her husband a quick look and smiled, as if to say how clever their daughter was, at which point the 3 year old said, in exasperation, "Mommy! This is between Lawson and me!"

And so it begins. The kids don't need you. They start talking to each other. It's between them! They form a bond, as buddies, against you. When they get older, they become each other's attorneys, jumping in the second they're needed to defend their sibling's position. They laugh together at the foolishness of their parents.

And, as parents, you still look at each other and smile.

You smile in the knowledge that your kids are there for each other. They're there to pick on each other, to support each other, to talk to each other, to remember their childhood together. They'll be there for each other after you're gone, after friends and even spouses, perhaps, have come and gone.

And you find yourself glad that you have given them such a wonderful gift - the gift of a sibling who cares.