This is a post about things that were happening in my life and in this project several months ago. I wrote a draft of this awhile back, but it's taken me some time to revisit it. I want to apologize in advance because it breaks lots of "blog rules". It's way too long and it deals with too many different topics. Plus, I'm posting it out of chronological order. But, I write to rob my problems of their power. So, I'm writing about May 2011 because, even though I cried my way through it, I did eventually make it through.
May 2011 was a nightmare. In a nutshell, I had to deal with an annoying blood disorder, had a breast cancer scare, had deep concern for the development welfare of one of my children, and tried to negotiate contracts Hollywood style.
The blood disorder is not major or even remotely life threatening, but the treatments are a hassle
Until last spring, the one and only official treatment I'd had was about eight years ago. It took seven hours and I had to do it in the same room where people receive chemotherapy. Everything in that room was grey. From the carpet to the recliners that lined the walls to the side tables that were covered with magazines, everything was grey. Even the liquid they pumped into people seemed to be tinged with a grey gloominess.
I sat in that room for seven hours while people came and went for their chemo treatments. Some people looked hopeful and energetic, others really looked like they were at death's door. One guy sat down for his treatment and a nurse came over to tell him that his test results had come back and the doctor needed to speak with him privately. I will never ever forget the look on his face as he searched hers for a clue as to how bad it was. His hand searched for his keys, his book, and his drink while his eyes desperately scanned her face. All the while she avoided looking at him. I remember praying for him and for every one else that came there for the medicine they hoped would save their lives. I felt so guilty sitting there getting an infusion because I was feeling a little rundown.
About a week later I saw the doctor to go over my blood work. He said that my numbers were up but that I would need to come back once a month or maybe even every couple of weeks to repeat my treatments. I had a full time job and a full time ministry at my church, and I didn't know if my spirit could withstand the heartache of that place. I smiled, shook his hand and never went back - that was about eight years ago.
Earlier this year I noticed that my hair was falling out. I went to my new stylist and asked her for advice. She said, "Hmph, I don't know why it's falling out. Maybe you should try a different shampoo." I was a 36 year-old woman sporting a comb over, this wasn't about shampoo.
With my tail between my legs, I went back to my old stylist, Stephanie. Stephanie is awesome, but her shop is far from where I live and she really doesn't keep up with the latest styles. What she does do is take great care of her client's hair. Mine thrived under her artful touch for almost ten years. But I got restless and wanted someone closer and more adventurous so I'd moved on. Unfortunately, I don't know the proper etiquette for breaking up with a hair stylist. Was I supposed to have a conversation with her about it? Maybe I was supposed to give her flowers and say, 'It's not you, it's me." Well, I didn't, I just stopped making appointments and hoped that I'd never run into her at the mall.
When I went back to Stephanie, she did not ask where I'd been or why I started seeing someone else. Instead she ran her fingers through my hair, walked around the chair to face me, looked me in the eye and said that she only sees my level of breakage in women who have health problems. She urged me to get myself to the doctor. Then she gave me a super cute cut while we got caught up on one another's lives. I promised myself that I would never stray again.
I'd already scheduled an annual with my primary care physician so, while I was there I asked her to order the blood work I knew that I needed. I got the blood work done and then went to California on vacation because my husband was on spring break. Late one night after a long five hour drive across the desert, I walked into my house, leaned on my counter and listened to my voice mails. I had four messages, all from my primary care physician's office. I needed to go to a cancer research center post-haste. Deep down I knew that this was probably about my blood condition, but having the nurse leave me urgent messages about going to a cancer center definitely put me on edge.
I went to the cancer research center and the hematologist was both interested and surprised at how low my numbers were. He kept asking me questions about my lifestyle. Was I able to do this? Was I able to do that? Did I get winded easily? How often did I feel like I was going to pass out? As I answered his questions, I realized that I'd let my disorder go for way too long. I acknowledged feeling all of the symptoms he was describing, but I also told him about my relatively active lifestyle. He smiled and said, "I'll be amazed to see what you're able to do when we get you well."
He signed me up for five sessions of treatments, which he said should definitely get me back to normal. Thankfully, in the last eight years they'd developed some new drugs and the treatments only took a couple of hours each. Figuring out childcare in the middle of the day was nuts, but it was only for a handful of appointments, so I wasn't that concerned.
That same month, March of 2011, I had my first mammogram. Feel free to stop reading...is it just too much? About a week after the appointment, the office that conducted the mammogram called back to say that they needed to take a more in-depth look because they saw something in one of my breasts. They wanted me to come back as soon as possible - literally, she called on a Monday and wanted me to come in that Wednesday. I was in the middle of the blood treatments and I just couldn't make it in that soon.
Then in April David called to tell me about the film and then he and Raymond asked me to make a documentary with them. Come May, I'd finished my blood treatments and I was just waiting on the results that were certainly going to tell me that they'd been effective. I was still putting off the mammogram thing. My husband and I were starting to talk with a good friend (a special education teacher) about a concern we had for one of our sons.
In early May, David Zellerford and I were going back and forth and back again regarding a little document called a deal memo. Every one in my family and I mean EVERY ONE (except my husband who is really too smart so he doesn't count) has asked me if I have a contract with the filmmakers since I'm co-producing and this is our family's story. Each of them seems to have a cautionary tale. It happened to Ashford and Simpson, it happens all the time - big, bad Hollywood people take advantage of unsuspecting everyday individuals. They come like thieves in the night, steal your ideas, make millions and leave you trying to figure out how to pay for toothpaste and toilet paper.
There's just one problem. It's Booker Wright's story and, as much as my heart feels attached to it, the story doesn't belong to me at all. Raymond and David have the 1966 film and they can do whatever they want with or without me. They're including me because they're good guys and they want my family involved. Nevertheless, I knew that no one in my family would agree to be interviewed if I couldn't say that I had some sort of contract. So, I painfully asked David (more than once) for something in writing.
He sent me something. It seemed to entail everything we'd agreed upon verbally and I was pleased with it. I showed it to my attorney who was decidedly not pleased with it. He had several revisions he thought needed to be included. For several days I had what felt like a thousand awkward conversations about things that really went over my head. I'd talk to David and feel great, then I'd talk to the attorney and feel not so great, then back to David, then back to the attorney, and into infinity. David likes to scream and apparently, I like to cave.
One last thing. My husband and I were learning AT THIS SAME TIME that someone in our family may have a life-altering disorder. But hey, I get to make a movie, right?
The worst day was on a Thursday in mid-May. Since I home school, doing anything during business hours is simply a pain, so I usually try to stack several appointments on one day so that I only lose one day of school and only have to arrange for childcare once. On this particular day, I'd arranged to have my simple follow-up with the hematologist and I was finally going in for the follow-up breast exam.
All week I'd been on the phone trying to find a happy medium between what my attorney wanted for me and what David was willing to give up. Maybe it was hormones, maybe it was sleep deprivation, but I basically had a meltdown. I went to see my blood doctor and he said that my body didn't respond to the treatments the way he'd expected. He thought that there must be a THIRD disorder that was keeping my body from efficiently making new blood. He wanted to test me for a whole host of disorders and diseases. I smiled and hopped in the car and went to the breast center. My mind was racing. What kind of underlying disorder? Cancer. That's why I'm not making new blood, I have breast cancer. I know this sounds ridiculous, but having never been to medical school it sounded completely plausible to me.
As I raced down the freeway I prayed and tried to calm my thoughts.
Thankfully, my friend Jill had offered to meet me at the breast center. I got there before her and promised myself I would at least ask her how her week was before launching into my battery of problems. She walked in wearing her trademark blue jeans with a white top. Her eyes sparkled with glittery eye shadow and her plump pink lips were turned up in a warm, calming smile. She asked me how I was doing and I immediately started crying and talking. I motioned for a box of Kleenex, which she dutifully put on her lap and then began dispensing tissues to me one at a time - all the while nodding and moaning at just the right moments.
In the end, I think cried for about three hours that afternoon. I'd convinced myself I was going to die. I was actually trying to figure out how to tell David and Raymond that I wasn't going to make it to Greenwood because I'd be spending my days in a chemo room, and not to get medicine for my simple little blood disorder. I was desperately worried about my son. Would I still be able to home school? Would all of his little dreams still be able to come true?
I went in for my first test. The technician rubbed my back while I cried. She told me that if all was fine I wouldn't even need to see the radiologist at all. I went back to the waiting room and poured out more emotion to Jill. Someone came out to tell me that I would need to see the radiologist after all. More tears. This was it. I went in to see the radiologist. I lay down on the table while she moved an ultrasound scanner over my breast, her eyes staring intensely at the screen.
Finally she looked down at me and said, "I have your results. I understand you have a friend outside waiting for you, would you like me to go get her?"
I lost it. I cried so hard I could barely breath. The radiologist's eyes got really big and she awkwardly waved her hands in front of my face, "It's good news, it's good news, I just thought you might want your friend with you."
I was fine. No cancer. The doctor left the room and as the door was slowly closing behind her I heard one of the nurses say, "Is she okay?"
The doctor said, "She has young kids, she's scared."
After another round of treatments for my blood disorder the numbers finally look decent. The deal memo is signed and filed away. We're working with my sweet son, finding creative solutions to make sure that he can be the boy he wants to be.
God is still God. In the end, it is always okay. Looking back, those days seem almost comical. At the time I felt desperate, clinging to scriptures with a death grip. Sometimes I wish He would send me a postcard with some clues on it as to how everything will work out. Alas, there are no postcards, just heavenly promises. But sometimes holding onto the promises feels like holding onto a slippery rope with sweaty hands, no easy feat.
As each day ticked by, I tucked myself deeper and deeper into my love for my grandfather. His mystery, his honor, his bravery all melded together to make a safe place for me. If I could smell him, I knew he would smell like home. The closer I got to my trip, to the culmination of the research and the angst, the more confident I was that I'd be able to really feel him. All the stories I would be told, all the testimonies I'd hear about him would pile on top of each other and make the figure of a man and I'd finally be able to see him, to feel his presence and to glimpse his spirit. Then this season of adding a part-time job to my already full life would finally seem worth it.
0 comments:
Post a Comment