Procrasti...

Ah, procrastination. How I hate that ever-so-human trend. My classes, exams, and jury are all finished by April 13th. In that 2.5 week time though (ouch, only 2.5 weeks) I have about 1600 pages to read for an essay, my 30 minute jury to prep for, 28 essay questions to prepare in prep for my history exam and 3000 words to write for that final history essay (worth 40% of my grade). To say that this is stressful is an understatement, and so far I am not moving nearly as quickly as I would like to on things. I guess it's because the weekends have turned into 'do-nothing' festivals. Last night I intended to read at least 100 pages, and ended up reading not even one sentence. I guess the only positive to that was that I did a journal activity that I had been meaning to do-and needing to do-for a long time. I sat down and through writing about 20 pages, I expressed and listed what my mom did in my life that was good, and what things caused me pain, and may still be causing me pain. Writing down the good things was easy. But writing down the things that weren't so good was hard. Once again, it was feeling disloyal, but I needed to write them down, along with some acknowledgements-saying that certain actions were not helpful, perhaps wrong, but ending with other affirmations. It got pretty hard when I remembered a particularly disturbing incident from when I was seven years old that really encapsilated all the issues that had developed. What I've come to realize and talk about in my counselling is that although my parents did many things very well, their disciplinary style didn't really work in terms of emotional health, and as a young child, I learned that I couldn't feel free to express my emotions around them, or to look for them for support in anything that involved emotions. And that's the truth. What I remember is only pure terror and emotion, things were never really explained. In my mind, for any discipline to be effective, the reason for it needs to be explained, it needs to make sense in terms of the action, and it must not be done when out of control, or all the child remembers is fear. This feeling that I couldn't reach out to my parents for any sort of support continued throughout my childhood and teenage years. Not being able to explain what was going on when my sister and I were fighting as a child may seem like a small thing, but that small action of not being listened to or support in the emotions really seems to have made me terrified not to be always pleasing them (especially during childhood, my mom). The type of school-child that seems too good to be true, yeah that was me. Dedicated, always on time, work always done to perfected specifications. And so when things did go wrong that really DID need adult support, such as bullying in grades three-four, all sorts of other things...well, I couldn't reach out to them. I don't want to be like that with my children-if I have children someday. Probably the most painful memory from childhood isn't even the spanking-terror memories or my mom's sometimes explosive (without warning) yell, but that day when I was seven. I remember things VERY clearly. It was summer, and my sister and I had a friend over each (my mom was babysitting them-they are sisters about the same age as my sister and I). We were playing downstairs, going to make a playhouse. One of the little tables needed to be moved, and I wanted to move it by myself. My friend wanted to help, but I felt like I needed to prove myself given how I was always being told how little I was (and yes, I was tiny at less than 35 pounds but I was strong), so I started moving it myself. My mom seemed to think that that wasn't acceptable, so she sent me to my room without letting me explain, and without talking about what was wrong (my guess is that if the friends hadn't been there, I would have been spanked first).To me, in this situation looking retrospectively, it would have been appropriate to let me finish moving the table, then take me aside and talk about the situation, first letting me explain why I was so insistent on moving it myself, and then explaining that my friend wanted to help move things too, and that we should both do it. Perhaps even an affirmation that she understood that it was hard being small, and it was obvious that I was strong. Instead, there I am, in my room, full of emotions. I take refuge in my closet because I'm not allowed to express anything to anyone. I'm very frustrated, angry, and feeling that things are 'just not fair'. For some reason, the old peg-board and hammer are still in my closet although they probably haven't been used for at least two or three years. Because I haven't been allowed to express myself, I'm needing to let things out somehow, so I start banging (not very hard against the walls). That brings her in in a rage, so I stop. A couple of minutes later, everything still churning, I start banging on myself again-VERY hard. I'm not sure how many minutes it was before my mom looked in again, but there I was, in my closet banging away on myself with a wooden hammer. And she seems to find it somewhat amusing, at the very least confusing. It was a cry for help from a little seven year old, physically abusing herself because she isn't able to express her emotions in any other way, and there my mom is, looking amused, not at all concerned. Yes, at seven, I began physically abusing myself...and my mom didn't do a thing, except walk out. And that is why that memory hurts so much, a small situation is taken way too seriously, and something huge is taken as a joke. If I were to ever see a child hitting themselves like that, I'd definitely be very concerned. But I guess that is where experience walks in. That morning is one that I wish could be wiped out of history.

March 8th 2010

March 8th 2010 will always be one of the clearest days in my mind. It was the day that my mom had surgery to (hopefully) remove the cancer that had devastated her for the last five and a half months. At the same time though, we were facing the distinct possibility that they would find that it was advanced ovarian cancer that hadn't responded to chemotherapy, in which case there would be nothing they could do. I remember everything like it was today. I remember not being able to fall asleep for a LONG time the night before, eventually resorting to reading an 'Alice' book by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, one of my favourite light-hearted, down to earth series for more than a decade now. Of course, that meant then that I didn't wake up so easily in the morning. I remember driving to the hospital. I remember my mom's bracelet getting printed, I remember sitting waiting for someone to take us upstairs, I VERY clearly remember saying good-bye to her when she entered the pre-op floor (no one but patients and staff were allowed there so for more than three hours she was there by herself). I remember being told twice that the surgery had been delayed by about half an hour. I remember finally being told that she'd been taken into surgery, and then trying to work on the rep log for music history that was already extended. Instead, for nearly three hours I ended up staring mindlessly at the television (curling and Star Trek) with my dad, who was of course being very sociable with everyone-patients, other families, the staff. I remember being told that it was over, and that the doctor would be up to see us shortly. Now, that was probably only about 20 minutes, but it felt like an entire day. And I remember those-at the time-very relieving words that it wasn't ovarian cancer at all, but something called pseudomyxoma peritonei, a type of borderline tumour that develops out of the appendix, and is incredibly rare, about 1 in 1 million. It was a relief, because it meant that there was something they could do. We were of course, then dashed in May when we finally met with the next set of doctors and learned that it was adenocarcinoma of the small intestine...and that they could do chemotherapy but it would never go into remission, and that the average length of survival was two years (later doing my own research I learned that the average survival for metastatic adenocarcinoma was 8 months. In the end, my mom lived just over five months from when we met with those doctors). And yet...I do not remember that date when we heard that two year survival sentence. What I do remember is the first two things that popped into my head-my mom won't see my university graduation, and then-my mom's not going to see grandchildren. I wish that I could say she saw those things, because I know how much our education, and the possibility of my sister and I having children someday meant to her. It just doesn't seem fair-and it makes me very mad at cancer. For nearly a year of my life, cancer was almost every other thought. Interspersed throughout that year are memories I will never forget, no matter how hard I try...

On the plus side of today, I played in a music festival class. It was a wonderful experience because of all those wonderful fellow flautists-all my fellow youth symphony flautists and then a fellow FOM-er. Probably the most supportive class I've ever been in. I was flabbergasted when I came in first-I had been certain that Heather or Jaena, the two first flutes in orchestra would win. It means that I go on to a trophy class (as do they as they won other classes). So we all get to perform together again on friday evening. I have another class tomorrow afternoon. But for tonight, I have a band test to finish recording. It's painful to do because my computer is the only recording device I have right now, and it makes my flute playing sound like sick trumpet playing. It's really quite make-your-ears-bleed sounding. My promise to myself on that is never again!

Tomorrow Lent begins. I usually go pretty crazy on things to give up for Lent, and it's no different this year. One of the things I am giving up is the thing that has been quite an escape the past few months-watching dvds or videos or things from itunes or whatever on my computer. I'm not sure exactly how these months would have been different without it, but all those shows from childhood onwards were definitely a comfort. But now, it's time to move on, and to embrace the comfort that I am finding once again in practicing and studying. With each step I feel stronger and more normal. Sometimes I feel guilty about being normal, but I suppose it's a process. I definitely missed my mom a lot today. The piece that I played at the festival was the first movement of Schubert's Arpeggione Sonata in A minor. When I began playing, I was at first playing for my mom, although that wasn't true throughout all of the piece, as it is somewhat technical in places. Sometimes I wonder about heaven. Okay, somewhat frequently. Someone once wrote that they figured that heaven wouldn't be heaven if you couldn't see your family and other important people from time to time. My mom was always a huge supporter of my music. Really, she's probably the reason I got into music in the first place, and all from a simple paper ad at a library for Music For Young Children. Maybe she was listening to me today.

Four Months

Has it really been four months? Four months since I was last able to connect at all with the woman who gave me life? Some days it feels like it's been a lot longer...other days I still think I see her in the audience at my wind ensemble concert etc etc. And yet...life is easier now. That's what makes me feel very guilty. One thing that has been strange is in how I talk-I have to change all the tenses when I talk about my mom. It still feels weird to say "My mom used to say" instead of "My mom says" or something along those lines. What I really miss is...well...a lot of things. Although...I don't miss her constant worrying! I do feel a little more free. When I was staying at my sister's place last week I had to walk about 10 minutes down her street in the dark after my group. What came to my mind was the thought "If my mom had a grave, she would be rolling over in it right now!"

February has not been a particularly easy month, starting right at the start when I forgot to get my medication on February 1st. From there it was a bit of a downhill slide with sleeping, and then subsequently waking up later, and not practicing and then getting behind in school stuff. I ended up dropping my Race and Immigration history class. What bothers me is how hard getting down to studying for my midterm in The Vietnam War has been these past two weeks. I started studying...today. Urgh. My problem was that I got so stressed out about it that I couldn't get started. Once I got started I was fine. At least on the bus. I'm reminding myself that it's only 20% of the grade, and now that I've scheduled the rest of the semester, I will feel less stressed with the final exam and final 3000 word essay, each of which are worth 40% of my final grade. And an A in this course is 80%-in music courses, an A is 90%. It's a little bit relieving to know that and then figure in the 20% grade.

I had several appointments over my reading week. One of them was with a psychiatrist to discuss medications. I've been on only the seroquel for more than a year and a half now, and at that same dose of seroquel for more than 2 and a half years. What it boils down to is that I didn't know whether this dose or even the drug was really still working. And, to be honest, I was worried about possible complications from the Seroquel. The appointment, although dredging up some things, was quite reassuring, and I've been given the 'go ahead' to discuss a different line of anti-depressents with my doctor (because of the risks in patients under 25 and because I've had bad reactions in the past, she won't prescribe anything new without a psychiatrist's recommendation). Previously, I'd been on three medications in the family called SSRIS, which are relatively new-came out in the late eighties, I think. None has been a positive experience to say the least, and two caused significant short-term damage in both physical and emotional/mental side effects. It's a pretty safe assumption to say that this class of drugs is not very effective for me. So, the next step is to look at a class of drugs called tricyclics, which are just as effective, if not more so, over the SSRIS. They used to be prescribed quite frequently, but when Prozac and the rest of the SSRIS hit the market, they were pushed aside-mostly because they are much easier to overdose on. And, perhaps, because many doctors and patients jump onto 'new things'-especially drugs. I have to figure out a time in my schedule to see my doctor, which isn't easy because of how far the university is from my neck of the woods. I'd sort of meant to do it during reading week...but never got around to it. I did however end up seeing the dietician, the psychiatrist and my counsellor, plus the group session. And having a flute lesson. Perhaps with all of that going on, it isn't quite as much of a wonder as to why I didn't get into the studying during reading week. It's very frustrating though, I just wish that I had more time-and that I could have some of the anxiety/stress that prevents me from getting started studying (once I'm started, it's fine-it's getting there) lifted.