oscar buzz.

You know that John Mayer song that says to "say what you need to say"? Subconsciously, I try to unsay what others have said. try to unbecome what others have become. it is exhausting.

Undoing #1: The martyrs and excessively dramatic people in my life

I was hesitant to post these past couple of entries for fear I too would sound dramatic. Yeah, I had BRAIN SURGERY, but I feared I was being too dramatic. I have at least 10 seizures every night and go into work the next day and give 100%, but I don't want to be dramatic. I don't want it to seem that I am using my illness to get attention.

Thank goodness for a friend at work who took it upon herself to organize a driving schedule for me. I was embarrassed to ask people to drive me home from work because I didn't want to inconvenience them. (This hole in my head that is filling up with cerebrospinal fluid is not exactly a 7-eleven). I am not supposed to be driving because I could danger myself or other drivers if I seize while on the road, but I didn't want to ask for something people were more than happy to do.

Undoing #2: The narcissistic and attention-seeking people in my life

Barring my professional and academic aspirations, I have not sought out opportunities to promote myself. I sing and would love to share what I have with the world, but do not want to have to convince people to want me. I am willing, but will have to be asked. I will never insist. I know many who have recorded and are involved in various musical projects. I would collaborate in a heartbeat.

I do not doubt my abilities; it's just that there is no forum to showcase them. I dislike when people are constantly doing things for recognition. But who doesn't want recognition? Who doesn't want appreciation? Who doesn't like attention?

I did not have a recital or a gallery where I could invite people and receive flowers and applause (side note: doesn't that look like "applesauce"?). There will be no stage lights when I modify my program (beyond what is required by NYS) so that my student with Autism can be successful. I cannot invite you to a performance of my classroom so you can see what I pour into my life's work. I feel strange even mentioning these things for fear of how I might sound.

I am not self-centered, nor am I self-loathing. I am not egotistical, nor am I unsure of what I have to offer. I find the need to explain myself for fear that I will be perceived as being on either side of this spectrum.

I feel strange even writing this entry. I'm not sure what you'll make of it.

I have always been the supporting actress. I understand that this is a noble and important role. In moderation.

truth: spiraling.

Things are completely out of control.

Even since my former post, seizures have worsened and we are unable to get the right help we need. Apparently after you have one seizure, the medical community is no longer concerned and your case is no longer considered urgent. Or they condescendingly inquire about any stress in your life. Yes, doctor-THIS.

I think, but I am unable to move, to speak, to react. A familiar heaviness covers the pathways from my brain to my heart, my limbs, my eyes, and my mouth. I am completely disconnected from my own body.

Lately, there's been no clear beginning or ending...just an ongoing sequence of unresponsiveness, stillness and unconsciousness, followed by confusion, followed by more unresponsiveness. Mix in a couple of convulsions and we have Saturday night at the Lipps'.

I spend so much of my effort attempting to stave them off by trying to keep my mind "distracted"-but I am always overcome eventually. It turns out that mentally reviewing multiplication facts, the first 26 digits of pi, or my favorite words in alphabetic order are futile opponents against this relentless force. (Oo-"relentless"-maybe that will be my new "r" word.)

What's that expression about losing the battle, but not the war? This is a civil war (me against my body) and either way, I lose.

the new norm.

Unpredictability has become a predictable foe during my recovery. Recovery is not over just because my hair is growing back. "Recovery" is a process that I am still in. I am reminded of that fact every. single. day.

I look normal and act like everything's normal, but it is far from normal...unless you had a brain tumor and are having reoccuring episodes from the after-effects.

Medication seems to help during the day while I am working. But every evening, I crumble, despite a second dose. People (besides Tim) don't see that. So they like to think it's not happening. They can't handle hearing about it. So I suffer in silence. God forbid I make anyone uncomfortable.

This world of neurolgy and neuro-oncology and EEGs and MRIs has become a regular staple in my schedule.

Roswell Park is not just a place I sang in with a choir or that my students sent letters to (while thinking I did some good deed). It is a place I know well. There is a particular scent there: the stench of impending bad news.

Since my seizures are still not controlled by medication, I need to have another long-term EEG monitoring done. That means a week at the hospital with probes glued to my head. The next week I have off from work is in December. Merry Christmas. If that test shows epileptic spikes (which showed in my 30 minute EEG last month), I may have to have a second brain surgery.

I will have to relive this nightmare another time. Start over. "Recover" again. Have another scar from having my head sliced open. Have another artery cut. Have more cells removed from my brain-maybe the part where my memory is stored. Maybe the part where language is stored. It depends on where the seizure focus is. If the surgeon is off by a millimeter, I could become paralyzed.

Even if the test doesn't show constant epileptic spikes and the episodes are actually psychogenic, I will need to continue medication. Medication that currently makes me dizzy. Medication that makes my limbs heavy so that I fall off the couch, unable to move.

In addition, there is a 10% chance my tumor will grow back. "Oh, that's good!" they say. But that's 10% more than they will ever have to face. There is a 100% chance that I will be on medication for life. There is an equal probibility that I will live in fear all of my days.

ignition.

Yesterday was a ridiculously significant day: it marked 6 months from the very start of everything that happened this year and, in turn, marked the minimum length of time I would be restricted from driving.

Luckily, doc was kind (or I complained a lot about it, either way) and decided that it would be ok for me to drive since things seemed more controlled.

When I got the call, I didn't know what to do with myself. I knew I wanted to go drive somewhere RIGHT away, but didn't know where.

So I put my keys in the ignition, arranged my chair to my liking, and carefully selected what would be the anthem of this experience (an old favorite-Switchfoot's "Learning to Breathe"). By the time it got to the chorus ("I'm living again, awake and alive"), I was so excited to be actually driving, I didn't care where I went. I didn't care if I ever stopped driving.

Naturally, my heart led me down Elmwood and the official first place visited on my own with my new found freedom was Rust Belt Books.

From there, I hit up Half & Half Clothing Co, Clutch, Feel Rite, and Rite Aid (it was a "rite" kind of day!).

Mobility after 6 months of medical restrictions, forced dependence, and perceived isolation: Awesome!

Bonus: Submitting this to the author of The Book of Awesome and 1000awesomethings.com: REALLY awesome!

repurposing.

I have had a large bag of shaved-off hair that I've been afraid to tackle. Until this morning.

After calling and looking up requirements for donating, I learned why the task had been so daunting: the hair had to be at least 10" long (NO problem!) and needed to be in a neat braid or ponytail (problem!). Thing is-when you're getting your head shaved in preparation for brain surgery, you forget to ask the nurse to put it in ponytails to cut off prior to shaving it. :)

So today's task was to untangle the big knot of hair and create ponytails, which, after much detangling, strand-by-strand straightening and even cutting to make it look neater, left me with 3 ponytails ready to donate to Locks of Love.

But there was over three times that amount leftover that I couldn't untangle, rendering it unusable by charities such as Locks of Love. There MUST be SOME other good this could be used for. This is exactly why Google was created!

After some searching, I found a non-profit environmental organization called Matter of Trust that has been making "hair booms" and "hair mats" to soak up emergency spills, such as the one in the Gulf of Mexico. They take any hair, fur, fleece, and feathers to make these booms and have made over 25 miles worth of booms in one month! Volunteers sort out the donations, make the booms, and are deployed to where they are most needed, which, right now, is the Gulf.

My hair will grow back and, in fact, I am enjoying the regrowth process because every centimeter shows how far I have come and I will not be ashamed of that or boo-hoo about how much it lacks.

I had been avoiding dealing with the shaved-off hair because I thought that the process would be cumbersome/painful. It was strange, yes, but I feel as if I will be investing a part of my former self into something much, much greater.

curtain call.

There is something so unbelievable beautiful about what happens behind the scenes-about people who work diligently for the betterment someone else, for a cause that is bigger than themselves.

The best part about this rare breed is that, although their labor certainly merits praise and attention, that is not what they seek.

Here's to people who know who they are without constant accolades, who do what they do without seeking personal gain, and who work silently for the greater good.

loaded questions.

In my last entry I was full of optimism and wrote that fear was gone. Little did I know that having my head cut open was only the beginning of this very dark and difficult journey.

People see the self that is healing, that is improving, and that is rebuilding. They have the best of intentions when asking about how I am doing; it's just that my answer is too long to say, too long to type, and who wants to hear the FULL truth anyway?

The thing is-they will never fully understand how triumphant each small victory was or the strength that was needed to complete each step in the process of complete recovery, a place I have yet to attain. The paralyzing fear of both the known and the unknown was something to overcome. The devastating loss of quality of life, though "temporary," was something to overcome. Every single day and every single night was something to overcome.

There were very dark days-ones where I thought I would never be able to sing again, ones where I thought I would never be able to walk again, ones where I thought I would never be able to teach again, ones where I thought I would never be able to be myself again, and ones where I thought that they might be my last. Truly.

I am not sharing that so you will pity me. Rather, I'd like to shed light on the depth of God's strength, without which, I could NOT have overcome.