From patient to survivor

Survivor (noun): One who continues to live after illness, accident or war. 

 "So when do I go from patient to survivor," I asked my oncologist earlier this month. It's a question that has consumed me since surgery in July. 

Clockwise from top left: Flowers sent to my work from my hubby and boys;
certificate of completion from radiation; bathroom is full of creams and gels;
champagne and balloon from my good pal and neighbor.

"Oh, Wendy, you were a survivor the first day you walked in here," she said. 

Love her optimism. It's one of the reasons I chose her as my oncologist. And of course she's right. There was never any question of survival in my mind. But I wanted to know at what point I refer to myself as a survivor. 

"I'd say as soon as you're done with your radiation," she said. 

Today is that day. Chemo, surgery and radiation are now in my rear-view mirror. I'm far from done with breast cancer. My tumor fed on estrogen. So for the next five years, I'll take a pill daily to block the estrogen and hopefully prevent any recurrence. Reconstruction will be next summer. It takes about six months for the skin to totally heal from radiation. And then we will resume the expansion process to prepare for reconstruction surgery sometime next summer. 

The journey has already been 13 months and I have survived. April and Anne Marie, my radiology techs, told me they had a special song for me today. And as I began my series of deep-breath holds one last time, I heard Elton John sing, "I'm Still Standing." Made me smile. 

Cancer stays with you. The physical reminders are many--mastectomy scars, chemo hair, fragile veins and a burned and blistering armpit from radiation. I'm managing with my assortment of gels and creams and hope to see improvement by the end of this week. 

But even when the physical reminders have healed and reconstruction is complete, cancer will remain a part of my psyche. The challenge is to not let the worry keep me from living. Treatment necessarily requires you to press the pause button on many aspects in life. 

Today,  I'm pushing play.

Inspiration from poet Mark Nepo

Breaking Surface

Let no one keep you from your journey,
no rabbi or priest, no mother
who wants you to dig for treasures
she misplaced, no father
who won't let one life be enough,
no lover who measures their worth
by what you might give up,
no voice that tells you in the night
it can't be done.
Let nothing dissuade you
from seeing what you see
or feeling the winds that make you
want to dance alone
or go where no one
has yet to go.
You are the only explorer.
Your heart, the unreadable compass.
Your soul, the shore of a promise
too great to be ignored.

Monitor story on fugitive slave experience

What an awesome realization to think that my story about a reenactment of the fugitive slave experience should appear in a national newspaper on the day this country elected its first African-American president.

I am inspired and moved beyond words this morning. I awoke with a sense that it's a new day in America. My faith in this country and its wonderful people has been renewed.

"This talk is about living your life...it's for my kids"

You owe it to yourself to watch this lecture. It is pure joy and inspiration. Unfortunately, Randy Pausch passed away this morning. He was 47.

'60 Minutes' was riveting last night

Most Sunday nights I may hear a bit of CBS's "60 Minutes" while I'm cleaning up the kitchen or folding laundry or tending to any of a number of household chores. It's my husband's favorite news program and, after making Sunday night dinner, he watches faithfully every week. Last night, I saw the story teasers and decided to sit down to watch with him.

I'm glad I did because the stories were riveting and incredibly diverse, not something that usually can be said about network news. What's amazing is that these stories were rebroadcast from earlier this spring, but we must have missed that week.

The story out of Darfur was chilling, compelling and challenging. We're in bed with the Sudanese government for intel info so we've looked the other way at the genocide occuring there. Is that intelligence worth the extermination of an entire region of people?

The Kanzius Machine was an amazing look at how some people see solutions when most others see problems. A retired businessman and radio technician suffering from leukemia, John Kanzius sought to find a better treatment for cancer involving no side effects. He may be on to something that uses radio waves and metallic nanoparticles to destroy cancer cells. I hope the funding builds and he lives to see his invention work on humans.

Finally, what an uplifting and inspirational story out of Venezuela about the National Youth Orchestra and El Sistema (The System), which teaches and saves impoverished Venezuelan children through classical music from very young ages. This kind of unusual approach to poverty is life-changing and I'm sure could be replicated here in the United States.

Freedom to hope is a revolutionary act

Barack Obama's candidacy is bringing out some of the most beautiful treatises on democracy that I have ever read. The latest by author Michael Chabon and is in today's Washington Post. He acknowledges, and I have heard the same from many people, the fear that holds people back when they talk about an Obama presidency. I think his point about us fearing disappointment and broken hearts is especially poignant, whether or not we've been able to articulate it to this point.

"Fear and those who fatten on it spread vile lies about Obama's religion, his past drug use, his views on Israel and the Jews. Fear makes us see the world purely in terms of enemies and perils, and leads us to seek out the promise of leadership, however spurious it proves to be, among those who speak the language of that doomed and demeaning, that inhuman view of the world.

But the most pitiable fear of all is the fear of disappointment, of having our hearts broken and our hopes dashed by this radiant, humane politician who seems not just with his words but with every step he takes, simply by the fact of his running at all, to promise so much for our country, for our future and for the eventual state of our national soul. I say "pitiable" because this fear of disappointment, which I hear underlying so many of the doubts that people express to me, is ultimately a fear of finding out the truth about ourselves and the extent of the mess that we have gotten ourselves into. If we do fight for Obama, work for him, believe in him, vote for him, and the man goes down to defeat by the big-money machines and the merchants of fear, then what hope will we have left to hold on to?

Thus in the name of preserving hope do we disdain it. That is how a phobocracy maintains its grip on power.

To support Obama, we must permit ourselves to feel hope, to acknowledge the possibility that we can aspire as a nation to be more than merely secure or predominant. We must allow ourselves to believe in Obama, not blindly or unquestioningly as we might believe in some demagogue or figurehead but as we believe in the comfort we take in our families, in the pleasure of good company, in the blessings of peace and liberty, in any thing that requires us to put our trust in the best part of ourselves and others. That kind of belief is a revolutionary act. It holds the power, in time, to overturn and repair all the damage that our fear has driven us to inflict on ourselves and the world.

Further stretching of writing muscles

Since it's a new year and possibilities abound, I'm excited to say that I'm involved with a group of West Side writers who are organizing to meet monthly to work on more creative writing projects.

The idea for the West Side Writers came from talking to my fellow writers and from the inspiration of the East Side Writers Group. Whenever I listen to successful writers (or even newer writers) talk on the radio or TV or in print about how their book took shape, they almost always reference a writing group that provided invaluable feedback.

I had heard wonderful things about the East Side Group, led by Cleveland Heights novelist Sarah Willis and thought maybe we could duplicate that here. Let's face it, place does limit us from doing certain things (hence the westerly geographic focus). With the wonderful input of the east's Karen Sandstrom, we are ready to embark on something new—an ultimately terrifying.

When I ran the idea up the flagpole with two people (Lori Paximadis and Kristen Hampshire), they were both enthusiastically game.

So in the interest of moving outside our writing comfort zone, now six of us have decided to push ourselves creatively, provide support and feedback for each other and see what comes of it. From time to time, I may be writing about our efforts here. But mostly this will be more intimate work, that needs molding and sculpting before it ever sees the light of day.

Reminds me of a line in one of my favorite movies, "Shakespeare in Love." Will Shakespeare confides to his, em, psychiatrist that he has lost his gift and cannot find his muse.

Words, words, words. Once I had the gift. I could make love out of words as a potter makes cups of clay. Love that overthrows empires, love that binds two hearts together come hell, fire and brimstone. For sixpence a line I could cause a riot in a nunnery.

It is not my intention to cause a riot in a nunnery, but I would like to spin some great stories. Stay tuned!

Life's first big disappointment

When my oldest son Ryan was very young, maybe four, we had taken a bike ride at this time of year and cut through the high school. The football team was in the middle of two-a-days practice.

Ryan stopped his little silver bike and jumped off to watch. In the treeline that ran alongside the practice field, he juked and spun around trees pretending they were defenders and mirroring the moves of the big guys on the field. Cradled in his arms was his imaginary football.

Seems like yesterday to me. Today he is a 6-foot freshman who has spent every morning this summer out on that field or in the weight room—conditioning, lifting, working on agility drills, throwing the football with receivers, muscling through two-a-days. He woke up at six every morning to get there early.

Waiting even a few weeks to get back to the sport he loves is like asking him to give up eating. He got an early taste of what was to come this season last Saturday in a scrimmage. He took a few snaps at QB for the JV team. Still on his morning high, he was goofing around in the yard that evening with a bunch of neighborhood guys.

Ryan was running with the ball, was tackled from behind, lost his footing and fell on his shoulder. Rather than drop the ball to break his fall with his hands, he held onto the ball, fell and broke his left clavicle. He knew it the instant it happened.

Disappointment builds character. When I saw the x-ray, showing that his collarbone wasn't just broken, it was displaced—badly, I knew we were in for challenging few weeks. The bones weren't even touching. My heart sank. He worked so hard this summer, giving up sleep and downtime to work on his passion. In one instant, it was snapped away.

Yesterday was our first visit to the orthopedic and confirmation that it will be eight weeks before he can return. That gives him the possibility of maybe playing in the last three games of the season, provided it heals well.

The good news is that he's young, still growing and will not need surgery. The collarbone heals well with no real residual issues. It's his non-dominant side (not his throwing arm) so that's even better news.

But there was only one thing Ryan heard yesterday—No football for eight weeks.

He looked at me once the doctor left the room with tears in his eyes and said, "Mom, I can't play for eights weeks?"

It sucks. It sucks when you work so hard for something only to see it snatched away in an instant. The tackle was an accident and we had warned him and the neighbor kids many times to play touch, not tackle for just this reason.

"I'm such an idiot! I let the team down," Ryan said.

He was bummed big-time when we got home. Not even three junior bacon cheeseburgers could change his mood. But after a while, his buddy Jake came over and having his friend (and right tackle) hanging around cheered him up. Grandma stopped over on her way home from work. Then a few of the seniors stopped by with wings from BW3. The phone started ringing as news spread. I was amazed by the support, particularly from the senior parents, in letting us know that he would get through this—that we all would get through this.

Their advice was so good. Get him back up to practice, tell him to ask the coaches to give him a job to do. There's much to learn about football just from watching how the linemen move, seeing how decisions are made, watching how the older players handle situations and just being around his friends.

Today is a new day. Ryan is still devastated that he can't play for a while. But he woke this morning, asked for some help getting cleaned up and had his dad drive him up to practice.

Sure he's disappointed, but he's a competitor and this is about his team. And he's not going to miss out on helping and supporting his teammates no matter how badly he feels about himself.

Moving on...

Isn't it easier to go with the flow rather than take an unpopular stand?

It's neater certainly, tidier in many ways. But what if you feel so strongly that you cannot sit back and are willing to sacrifice professionally and financially for something you believe?

Does modern society even value such a position?

These are the questions that have gone through my head as I made the decision to rant here and to resign from my part-time position as Membership Manager for the Society of Professional Journalists.

In a nutshell, top officers decided to join major media companies in an amicus brief supporting National Geographic over a freelance photographer. The photographer was suing to get paid for reuse of his work in an anniversary CD ROM. The work dates back to the 1980s before freelancers even knew what "electronic uses" were. Without ever stating what dog SPJ had in that fight, I discovered that SPJ's legal counsel at Baker Hostetler recommended such action. It also lists National Geographic Society as one of its media clients (along with SPJ). I don't know if that played a part in the decision, but absent any other explanation, it certainly appears to have played a role.

At the very least, this was a decision that was made recklessly and without full input of those most affected by its precedent—freelancers. At worst, it was an ethical breach and a break from SPJ's long history of not weighing in on labor/management issues because it has members from both constituencies. Somehow that position is okay for staffers, but not for independents. I was left scratching my head and clearly the top leaders didn't feel a need to answer my questions about the decision.

In the immediate aftermath, I questioned my reasons for wanting to help other journalists. What was I really hoping to gain? Was it selfishness? Pride? Or was it my own sense that someone had to speak up for others who weren't able or willing to speak up for themselves? I like to think it was the latter, but maybe my ego also was served by my involvement.

Monday night was a sleepless one as I tossed and turned, ran conversations through my head, came up with things I should have said or should have said better. That day and night felt very lonely and isolating, as if the good works I had spent fours years on were suddenly erased by my decision to take a forceful stand.

I was the only one in a position to do so. No one else even knew about the decision until I discovered it by accident. Someone had to shine the light and I was in the unique position to be able to do so.

But did anyone else even care? In the wee hours, I would go to my laptop and with my hands over the keyboard, hesitate to type what was on my mind: How journalists routinely expect sources to blow the whistle, to take a stand, but would never do so themselves. I spoke up and lashed out against my own and that night I felt sealed off.

No doubt there is a certain segment who will seal me out permanently. I have to let them go. But as the week wore on, I received support from good people who were sorry to see me go, but were trying hard to understand my reasoning. Most didn't ask for particulars and I didn't share unless they asked. Many more just figured it must have been something extreme for me to take such a stand.

I've fallen on my SPJ sword, taking such a drastic and dramatic step so that others in the organization may look up and say, "What the heck is going on here?" I hope that's the case, but I'm letting go of the outcome.

Because as the week wore on, I found the constant pain in my left shoulder evaporating. I took a two-hour nap on Tuesday afternoon in which I was practically unconscious. I feel a growing calm and peace with my decision. And I feel a sense of excitement at the future possibilities.

One door closes, another one opens. I'm moving on.

I would never presume to encourage others to make a similar decision as I have. This is personal and it's tough. I made so many friends and had so many opportunities through SPJ. Those things will continue. People will continue to join, renew and volunteer for SPJ. I don't begrudge them their support at all. I only know that for myself, selling and supporting an organization that doesn't speak for me as a freelance journalist became impossible the minute the national officers publicly signed on to a legal decision that supported publishers over freelancers.

In my resignation letter, I mentioned that I would be spending more time on my journalism and less time advocating for other journalists. That isn't entirely true. It's in my nature to help others and so I will continue to advocate for freelance journalists, just not through SPJ.

The fortunate thing in all of this is that I now have 20 hours more per week in which to be a freelance journalist. And that opens up a world of reporting and writing possibilities.

My shingle is back outside my door and I am open for more business.

Today's horoscope

Virgo (Aug. 23-Sept. 22) ***** Knowing that all good things have to come to an end sooner or later will help you maximize the moment. Don't try to break down a door, rather walk through open and accessible areas. Maximize your energy. Tonight: Time to kick back and play great music.

Is writing an inherently deviant act?

4. Several of the writers discuss the act of writing as their “bad” behavior. Is writing inherently a deviant act?

"Interestingly, both Joyce Maynard and Erica Jong talk about breaking silences as a way of being bad. So yes, they write to be heard in a world that wants to keep them quiet."

Amen to that, sister!

From Jewess interview with Ellen Sussman, author of "Bad Girls: 26 Writers Misbehave."

Hat tip to Jill, who always seems to know what I need when I need it. A thousand thank yous!

No truer words...

"I'm more afraid of being in a bubble than I am of wide-open spaces." — Mariane Pearl, wife of slain journalist Daniel Pearl in Newsweek

A father shares his grief this Memorial Day

I first heard of Andrew J. Bacevich on NPR last week. It is heart-wrenching to listen to the pain in this father's voice as he tries to make sense of his role in his son's death earlier this month in Iraq. He was an outspoken critic of the war, but did not try to talk his own son out of serving. His son died on Mother's Day in a suicide bomb attack outside of Baghdad.

Today there's his op-ed in the Washington Post. He asks many questions of our nation and yet believes that as citizens in a democracy, our voices are no longer heard.

On this Memorial Day weekend, I pray for nothing short of peace, the conviction to speak truth to power, no matter how many times it takes, and the hope that parents, such as Andrew Bacevich, and the families and friends of those serving no longer have to suffer.

The secret joys of freelancing

You'd be hard-pressed to convince those in need of job security that there is real joy in working without a safety net. Even for those of us who know this is the way forward, it's easy to fall into the habit of worrying — about assignments, about getting assignments, about getting paid for assignments. But there are joys to be found in the freelance life.

Here's a perfect illustration: I had tears in my eyes as I read Patti McCracken's essay in the Christian Science Monitor.

In "A life out of the newsroom – and into the news: Sipping tea with babushkas ... and other scenes from a freelancer's life," she writes how she "walked out of the newsroom and into the news," leaving behind an editing job in Chicago (along with a boyfriend, apartment, friends, car, etc.) to travel the globe helping journalists in developing regions do journalism.

"I am sometimes afraid, overwhelmed, overtired, thrilled, lonely, amazed, inspired, and sometimes a very long way from the familiar. But my days are no longer instantly filed and stored into memory, sorted by years and milestones. Instead, the events in my life are worn like a cloak wrapped around me, the deepening layers swaying with me as I move."

The quest for experiences to share, stories to tell in pursuit of some larger truth are what keep me going. I envy her freedom to explore globally, but also see ways in which I can do that in my own limited space. She writes:

"I have shared an overnight train compartment with a Bosnian soccer team and held my hands over my ears as drunken, lederhosened Germans crooned their way through three countries.

I have had my heart shredded into little pieces by orphaned babies in the Republic of Georgia, and that same heart healed by a hero who doggedly, obsessively, champions their cause.

In Vietnam, I have learned that a man really can transport a six-foot bookcase on the back of a motorbike, that a photo of Ho Chi Minh on the desk never hurts in Hanoi, and that the kindness and warmth of the Vietnamese does a heart good.

And I have learned to take toilet paper with me wherever I go."

And yet in the sharing of stories, words can have limitations.

"I have learned, I hope, that words are sometimes no more than weighted obstacles, and that an unspoken language of shared feelings and experiences is as close as I'll ever come to truth.

Ambling along in a train bound for I don't care where, I still feel the same sense of liberation that I get when I have fallen in love. Holding hands and who knows where it will all go. But isn't it lovely? And please don't let it stop. Propel me onward."

Here's to following your heart.

Shirking the spotlight is a bad habit

Last Friday night we had a terrific party for my husband's 40th birthday. Plenty of family, friends and neighbors came out to celebrate with him and he soaked up every moment of the night. Afterward, he and my sister started talking about my impending 40th birthday.

While Danny is purely at home in the center of the action, pouring drinks from behind the bar, yukking it up with old friends and making everyone from an 85-year-old man to our newest friends feel as if they are the most important person in the world to him, I'm more of a peripheral partier. I'm an observer of the action. He's a larger-than-life personality, not in the least self-conscious about who he is and what he stands for. I'm the person who starts to say something but will back off if I can't seem to get anyone's attention. While he's surrounded by people who have known him all his life, I have only my family to share that experience.

There are times when I can be the gregarious hostess. I can play that part. I've done it hosting parties and I've done it professionally. But it only feels natural if I'm working behind the scenes. After nearly 20 years together, I think Danny's just starting to understand that about me. He kept asking if I had a chance to talk to this person and that person. Honestly, the evening flew by and I feel as if I hardly had the chance to talk to anyone, except for my sister whom I was so glad to have by my side.

Sure I love to be in a crowd and surrounded by friends. But I cringe when the spotlight swings to me. So when talk turned to my 40th I listened and laughed as the two of them planned on my behalf. It wasn't until later on Sunday night that I told Danny that I don't want a party. I don't mean to be a spoilsport. And it's not that I don't want to celebrate such a milestone. Our trip to Ireland is gift enough for me.

It's just that I'm not comfortable in the spotlight.

I'm one of those kids from school who people knew of but didn't really know well. To some degree, I'm still that person. I keep a distance and I'm really not sure why. Perhaps being the victim of mean girls has a longer-lasting effect than I thought. Or maybe my journalistic sensibilities cause me discomfort at being the focus, the story if you will.

I mention this not because I'm proud of this trait, but because I feel it is a great weakness. As a writer, I should want more of the spotlight, I should want to call attention to my work, to what I have to say. But I think I very nearly sabotage certain kinds of work out of fear of the white hot light.

Is it because I'm uncomfortable with myself? With who I am as a person? Is it because I feel unqualified? A fraud? Is it because I fear exposure? The answer is all of those things. Just when I think I'm making progress, I realize how much I hold back—still.

I've got a lot of stories -- some essays, some books, some articles -- in my head. Why don't I write them? Why don't I get them out? I've got my ASJA application half completed. Why don't I finish it? Because I might get rejected? They might not want me?

Some pitches need following up, so why do I keep putting that off? Because they're not good enough? I'm not smart enough? Pathetic!

So many times I've told writers that they have to move beyond self-doubt. That it's unproductive and paralyzing to their careers to stay static. And yet here I sit with ideas everywhere, but going nowhere.

With 2006 coming to an end, I took time to pull together a file of information labeled, "2006 Taxes." Financially, 2006 was my best year yet. But that's never been my measure of success. Instead, that review was a much-needed exercise in understanding what I've accomplished. Here's a brief list:

-- book manuscript on chronic pain/pain management
-- centennial book on Judson at University Circle
-- two large Web projects (one local; one national)
-- first piece in major national magazine
-- interviews/profiles of some of my favorite journalists
-- first place award for religion coverage for Thomas Merton article
-- in-depth narrative on education reform
-- interviews with curator from Israel Museum, Archbishop of Jerusalem, St. Francis scholars, cathedral historians, Sudanese refugees, German exchange students
-- spoken to fiction writers, high school and college journalism students, professional journalists on leadership and freelance writing and spoke to a religious group about Thomas Merton
-- spoke to journalists visiting from Russia, Moldova and Africa about Judith Miller and federal shield law
-- traveled professionally to Indianapolis (several times), Chicago, Alabama, Ohio University, Cincinnati, Columbus (several times) to share what I know and believe about journalism

So why all the angst, Wendy? Once the calendar turns, you're in your 40th year. Quit acting like an insecure child and become the person your inner writer is screaming to be!