Rhena Writes

Tag: mental-health

  • Running piglets and cancer

    Daily writing prompt
    What makes you nervous?
    View all responses

    Looking back to how I was before I had cancer, I would say that what made me nervous was everything. What makes me nervous a year post diagnosis? Nothing. 

    That answer is obviously too absolute for reality. But it’s a starting point. 

    I first learned the phrase “running piglet” from the book Chinese Medicine for the Mind: A Science-Backed Guide to Improving Mental Health with Traditional Chinese Medicine by Nina Cheng. “Running piglet defines a sudden rushing sensation that ascends to the chest and throat and a panicky feeling.” (P.89.) This very clearly describes how I experience nervousness or anxiety. The book even has an illustration of a distressed person with three yellow piglets in their stomach, ready to scamper upwards and into a pink trail leading up to the throat at any moment. I find this image to be very helpful in that it both contradicts the idea that nervousness is “all in my head” but also that it makes it seem so concrete and innocuous. I have little piglets running in my gut. I can deal with that. It was also a comfort to know that Chinese Medicine had a phrase and image that directly described what I was feeling. Meaning, in other words, that it was common enough to merit such a phrase. My chi might have been as chaotic as porcine babies  but at least I wasn’t the only one. 

    Perhaps if I lived in China, I would have visited an herbalist to help me getting my chi under control. But here, in the United States, instead, I got cancer. I know that this is a scientifically inaccurate way of looking at what’s happened to me over the last year. But I’m a writer, not a scientist. And I’m a human. I’ve needed to find the story that would best bring wholeness and unity to my person: body, mind and soul. So here it is. 

    Those little pigs were trauma and nerves and unexpressed, well, everything that I had been living with. They’d been gathering in my stomach over many decades. From time to time, I’d be able to settle and quiet them by getting them drunk, or overfeeding them, or distracting them in myriad ways like overworking or overworrying. But the little pigs were still there, unexpressed, unacknowledged and just aching at the chance to run all through my body, disrupting the flow and balance of my chi. 

    In the western scientific way of thinking about cancer, it’s considered a disfunction of the body. My cells were growing out of control. Somehow my genes were expressing themselves poorly or incorrectly. Which, honestly, shouldn’t come as a surprise in a western world where honest self expression and communication is discouraged. I know I’ve often felt disconnected from my body. I am not I’m getting anything particularly bold or unknown when I say that women’s bodies (and specifically Asian women’s bodies and biracial bodies) are continuously objectified in our culture. It takes its toll on us mentally and physically. 

    But you know what is also true underneath all of that surface-level objectification and mistrust of the human body? My body is incredible. My mind had been completely cut off from understanding my body and yet it still managed to take care of itself. To take care of me. 

    The cancer was my body, after all. 

    My body was creating cancer cells to mop up all those running pigs that were disrupting my chi and balance and life. All that trauma and unexpressed emotion had been running rampant for too long and my body had enough. The cancer gathered it all up and dumped it into my breast. Why there? One of the first things I said after my diagnosis was, “at least I’m done with using my breasts.” I’d already used them to nurse my babies. It’s not coincidence that my breasts have always been the most objectified part of my body. 

    When I first had my mastectomy (which was unilateral), I spent a fair amount of time thinking about how I would look with only one breast. I had already made the decision that I didn’t want to have reconstruction. More surgery and then the maintenance involved just seemed like, well, a lot to deal with. I did end up buying a few tops and a bathing suit that would de-emphasize the lopsidedness of my chest. And I’m still not one hundred percent happy with my bra situation. (I was offered to go to get fitted for a prosthetic but I wasn’t interested.) Still, I was kind of fiddling around with what shirts to wear. But the more I looked in the mirror and got used to how I look with one breast, the less and less concerned about it I’ve been. I realized that what was going on what that I was considering things like what top to wear to de-emphasize my lopsidedness because I was concerned that my body might make other people uncomfortable. Imagine that? I just went through one of the toughest years of my life, and I’m STILL overly fixated on what my body does to other people. Dang. Such is the power of misogyny. Fortunately, as soon as I realized that this was part of my thinking, I was able to shift it. Because the truth is: I’m a total badass and I have the scars and body to show it. 

    There are other aspects of cancer that have helped me cope with nervousness over the past year. Leading up to my surgery, I was very anxious and nervous. By going through it, though, I learned to ways to deal with that. Talk about it. Write through it. Return to focusing on my breath. I gained a mantra coming out of surgery: I am alive. And perhaps most of all, I learned the incredible power of my body and that I can trust it to take care of me. I’d long thought that the mind-body relationship was unidirectional, with the mind controlling the body. I woke up from surgery marveling that it’s a two-way street. 

    So am I really done with being nervous? Of course not. Each emotion along the whole spectrum serves its purpose. Just yesterday, the piglets woke in my belly as I watched my son run precariously close to the edge of the water at the Baltimore Harbor. But the sound of my voice calling his name lulled them back to sleep. se to the edge of the water at the Baltimore Harbor. But the sound of my voice calling his name lulled them back to sleep. 

    **********

    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. 

  • I do my very best.

    Daily writing prompt
    How do you unwind after a demanding day?
    View all responses

    I try to not get wound up in the first place. Sometimes this means recognizing what I can and cannot control. It means that I try to have touch-points through the day when I can check in with myself.

    When I am getting wound up, I try to figure out a way to unwind myself as soon as possible. How? Moving, breathing, creating, eating, resting. I might go for a walk or just stretch a little, dance or shake it out. Check in with my breath. Sometimes I write in my journal. Practice the guitar. Listen to some music. Light a candle. Read a book or a poem.

    I recognize that it’s not the day that’s demanding, it’s myself that’s demanding of me. The demands I make of myself are completely in my control.

    I affirm myself. In every moment, every day, I’m one hundred percent confident that I did my very best because that’s what I tell myself. I have various phrases that I can go to if I’m having a hard time unwinding. I am alive. I am human. One I learned from Black Liturgies by Cole Arthur Riley: I am no one’s savior. I am no one’s burden.

    Yesterday, I had various activities outside of the house. It might be have been a day that could be considered demanding. In the past, I likely would have come home and spent the evening fixating on how I did through the day and likely judging myself not too kindly. Maybe I was late arriving at different places. Maybe I didn’t get enough exercise. Maybe I was too chatty or not chatty enough; too helpful or not helpful enough. Oh! I shouldn’t have said that. Or maybe I should have said this. That person probably thinks I’m unkind or weird. I didn’t get enough reading done or clean the kitchen. With each thought, I’d wind myself up tighter and tighter.

    Instead, I wrote in my journal that I was really proud of myself for doing my best. And it’s true.

  • Is this what alignment feels like?

    Daily writing prompt
    How do you use social media?
    View all responses

    I’ve been responding to the daily writing prompt every day for about the last month or so. It hasn’t be a goal that I set, but it has played nicely into my larger goal of getting to one hundred posts. The daily prompts have gotten me into a nice rhythm of daily writing and posting, which I value and enjoy. Most days, I check the prompt in the first half of the day and then write my response later on. It being Easter, today has already felt like a full day. We spent most of the morning at my parents’ place for an egg hunt and lunch. I didn’t have the chance to check the question. And as we arrived home, I was having the internal debate, “do I want to post to the blog today?” It’s Sunday and even God rested. I was already pretty tired and wanted a nap.

    Well, turns out that all of these things are possible.

    I checked the daily prompt and saw that it was on a topic that I’d already posted about. No choice needed to be made! I promptly fell asleep on the couch and hopped on the computer once I woke up.

    Yesterday, I posted about rest. One of the things that I’ve realized is that when I’m doing something that I enjoy, it feels restful, even if it’s active. When I used to have to write for a deadline or for an assignment or for someone else or for money, it didn’t feel restful. I didn’t enjoy it. I was tense. It was draining. And so, for a long time, I believed that writing was something that exhausted me. It wasn’t the writing, it was the context, the subject matter, the lack of control and freedom. When writing is something that I choose, I find it energizing. And it turns out that the universe (or maybe at least word press) is in agreement. It sent me a daily prompt that I’d already answered, after all.

    So what does this have to do with social media? My previous post that I mentioned about was about how I took an indefinite time-out from social media. It ended up being a difficult sacrifice to make, but it was definitely the right choice. The daily prompt asks “How do you use social media?” “Use” is an important thing here. I don’t think I was using social media back when I was on it. I was allowing myself to be used by it. I wasn’t very active. I would scroll and scroll and rarely, if ever, would I create anything. I was very passive. Surprisingly, this also wasn’t restful. In fact, my brain was over-stimulating. Maybe one day I’ll have a reason to return to social media. If I do, I’m going to use it, not be used by it. It turns out that, for me, consuming is exhausting, and creating is energizing.

    ******************

    Here’s the text from my blog post about not using social media anymore, in case you don’t want to click through:

    I deleted Facebook years ago and Twitter a few after that. A few weeks ago, I the last of my social media apps: the mostly image-based Instagram and their partner text-based Threads. Social media, the whole of the internet, is, I believe, mostly a gift to the world. But my brain, my whole person was formed before the internet, much less social media, existed. In other words, I’m not equipped for handling it. My mind simply doesn’t move fast enough to keep up and, in attempting to, I was doing damage. It was as if I was lining up on the track next to Florence Griffith Joyner each and every day and expecting myself to keep up. My hamstrings – nay my whole body would have taken a beating if I ever even dreams of going up against Flo Jo but, more importantly, my self-esteem would have been obliterated. And it was. 

    I wasn’t too keen on the idea of deleting social media. The other day, my six-year-old son was staring out of the car window into the massive sky above. “Mom,” he said, “I don’t like to think about the universe.” I told him I get that. He confirmed that it’s the vastness that makes him feel small. It’s dark and lonely out there in the universe. I was so used to having and being on social media that I thought that deleting it would untether me from the earth and send me out there into the universe, alone, cold, and in the dark. 

    When I first came across posts on social media by patients in cancer treatment, it made me feel less alone.  Somehow, in spite of the fact that I wasn’t really looking for it, I’d come across people posting about their experiences with cancer. There was even a woman preparing for her mastectomy at around the same time that I was. I wasn’t alone. 

    Perhaps you can see where this is going. As soon as I clicked on a couple of cancer posts, the algorithm latched on. Soon, a good portion of my feed was cancer. And I couldn’t help myself but read and click. I’d try to close the app and just the c-word alone would catch my eye. I felt an obligation to consume it all. 

    One of the prayers that I had when I was going through treatment was this: that my suffering makes someone else’s a little less. There are certain aspects of Catholicism that are engrained in me and that’s one of them: offer it up. Offer up your suffering so that it has meaning if not for you, then at least for someone else. For the most part, I was thinking about my daughters in those moments, praying that somehow me going through all of these trials would save them from a similar fate. In the early days of my treatment, the genocide in Palestine was dire and so my prayers were also for mothers there. In my moments of pain rooted in my own body attacking my breasts, all mothers and children and their bonds and their bodies and suffering all became mixed together. 

    And some of that responsibility and connection carried over to my fellow cancer patients on social media. Somehow, it was my duty to keep reading all of these threads. But reading, engaging them seemed to created more until everything was cancer content. It’s about as much fun as it sounds. 

    This was all in the midst of me, in-person, going with some regularity to a literal cancer center where I would sit in waiting rooms nearly full with other people who possibly also had cancer. And at one appointment, my doctor mentioned (without violating HIPPA) that he’d been recently seeing more of the type of cancer that I have. Later, as I moved into the recurrence prevention phase, he mentioned that he had a patient in a very similar situation to me. At the very least, it’s possible that the doctor was able to use some of what he learned treating me to better care for the other woman. 

    These are connections that I couldn’t get on social media. 

    And so it was that I had it all wrong. When I finally cut the tether, I didn’t float out into the vast, cold universe. Rather, I floated back down to very real, solid, warm earth. 

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  • To rest or not to rest.

    Daily writing prompt
    Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.
    View all responses

    I’ve been thinking about rest a lot this week. Maybe it’s because the kids are on spring break and I feel like this is my opportunity to also take a rest. I’m conflicted between going out and doing and sitting around and not doing. I’m plagued by the idea that I might use my time poorly. And I suspect that this has something to do with the fact that in the society I live in we have little control over our time. When given the “freedom” to decide how to use it, I am paralyzed with indecision.

    And this might be because I don’t really know what rest is for me, yet.

    I find the idea of resting so that I can be more “productive” to be terribly off-putting. I don’t want to live for productivity. And, yet, on the other hand, living in a permanent state of rest is also unappealing. The other day, I read someone’s piece of advice for going through cancer treatment: to stay active during the day so that sleep comes more easily at night. And while I’ve experienced the truth to this, I find myself getting trapped on this mental hamster wheel, going around in a rest and productivity circle. I find myself at times floating out in space wondering: how much is enough activity? How much is enough productivity? How much sleep is enough? Too much?

    For a time, I’ve been relying heavily on my watch and phone to tell me these things. I gave up the sleep monitoring when I realized that wearing my watch (and knowing it was monitoring me) was making me sleep less well. I threw caution (or perhaps the need to have hard and fast sleep numbers) and stopped wearing it at night. I think I’ve been sleeping better.

    I still rely on it heavily to monitor my daily steps and my activity (you know, those primary-colored rings to close in a burst of fire works when you meet your daily goal). I’ve reached a crucial crossroads where I’ve been meeting my goals every day for well over a month now. Do I increase the goals or, again, throw a bit of caution to the wind and decide to just trust how I feel, trust my body to tell me when I’ve had too much or not enough?

    My body happens to be a trifecta of identities that cause me to struggle to listen to it and to trust it: a woman, racially marginalized, and, now, a cancer patient. With all three, the society and culture I live in is often telling me about my body, trying to control it (more successfully than I’d like to admit) or the other extreme of completely ignoring it. And so it is that perhaps I rely on those little rings closing than I need to. And perhaps I spent a little too much time (meaning any time at all) on the internet trying to figure out my own body and how to take care of it.

    So back to spring break. We didn’t make any big plans even though I didn’t know I’d be in radiation treatment until a few weeks before it started. I also didn’t know how exhausting the treatments would be. Still, I’m trying to stay active. One of the funny things about radiation treatment is that you’re just lying on this table for the twenty minutes to forty minutes that it takes to complete it. It looks like rest. But it isn’t restful at all. The machine is whirring and humming and moving around you, the radiation techs are drawing on you, sometimes shifting your body a bit, but mostly they’re in the other room operating the machine. The position is awkward, the table is hard (in spite of the extra thick, cushiony sweatpants I’ve been wearing), and the whole thing is more mentally tiring than I give it credit. I’m trying to stay on top of taking care of my skin and sometimes a sore throat or just some discomfort in the area arises afterwards. Yeah, it’s not the worst of things, but it’s still not restful or fun by any means.

    So I guess that one lesson I’ve learned from going through it is just that rest can look myriad different ways to different people and in different times in our lives.

    The other day, I decided I had enough energy to go with my daughter to a Smithsonian museum one afternoon. It was a lot of walking and my feet were exhausted. But it was also, I don’t know, restful in a way. I got to turn off the part worrying part of my brain and just enjoy my daughter’s company and her excitement about history. I didn’t have to be a cancer patient. I didn’t have to make any real plans or major decisions. I did buy a book (George Takei’s They Called Us Enemy) and some chocolate before we headed home. And I closed all my rings, easily.

    The next day, I got to sit on the couch and read the book, which was stunning. And although I wouldn’t always say that reading has always been restful to me, it was very restful to read Asian American history.

    But I think that ultimately the aspect of these days of spring break that have been most restful have been that I’ve just let go and trusted. I didn’t feel like I had to make anything happen (exercise or trips or even time to rest and recover from radiation). I just let things happen. And the end result has been that I’ve been able to rest and (dare I say it?) be productive too.

  • Choosing myself

    Daily writing prompt
    Describe a decision you made in the past that helped you learn or grow.
    View all responses

    Every time I decide to choose myself, to prioritize me, to give myself what I need, I grow and learn.

    To be clear, I believe that growth and learning are inherent to human nature. And while there are systems and individuals that attempt to stifle human development, we will always find a way to grow and learn. For me, the primary way that I return to this path is by making the decision to center myself.

    I wrote a while ago about how I disconnected from social media a few months ago. This was not an act of self denial, this was an act of choosing myself over social media. It took profound trust in myself that I would be able to fulfill my needs (to feel connected, to be stimulated, to be entertained) without relying on the scrolling that had taken over much of my time and brain space. I do not view this type of choice as deprivation. It is indulgence.

    In the absence of social media, I learned about myself and I learned how to “entertain” myself. Turns out, I’m pretty good at it. I learned to rely on knowledge that I already have within me. Turns out, I know a fair amount already. And I’ve grown into being able to be present to each moment.

    The decision to prioritize myself is one that I can make over and over and still continue to learn and grow. Sometimes, it’s a really easy decision (when I decide to take a nap when I feel tired) and other times, it’s rather difficult as when I have to choose myself over my kids. A few months ago, I sat down to do some writing. I knew that my daughter was waiting for her dad to give her a ride to her friend’s house. She didn’t even ask me for a ride, but I caved and offered her one anyway. I drove her and in doing so, I abandoned my writing. Not only that, but I deprived her of an opportunity to practice patience and to potentially experience some independence (she could have biked to her friend’s house quite easily). I also deprived my kids of seeing an example of a parent who prioritizes herself. But I let the fear that I’m not a good mother unless I do everything for my children get the better of me.

    More recently, I was practicing guitar and my kids were playing outside. My daughter came inside to tell me that my son had fallen down and was crying and asking for me. Of course, the mother in me wanted to go right downstairs to check on him and make sure he was ok. But another part of me really wanted to keep practicing guitar. I’ve been really tired lately because of radiation and the thought of negotiating the stairs again was a bit daunting. And my daughter was so matter of fact in her reporting of the events that I was pretty confident that her brother wasn’t in any serious danger or pain. So I sat there a moment or two trying to come to some middle ground between these two battling voices. I turned back to my guitar.

    Sure enough, within a moment or two, I heard him open the front door and call for his sister, cheerily asking her to come outside again and play. Apparently, the mortal wound had healed itself. It didn’t even require the presence of a mom. I got to continue with my guitar and my son got to experience some self care and the confidence that comes with being able to get up and dust oneself off and carry on.

    Sometimes, making the decision to choose myself is more subtle than that. As right now. I have the choice between giving you, dear reader, the satisfaction of a neatly tied-in-a-bow ending to this post. Or I have the choice of getting hitting publish and getting myself another cup of tea to enjoy while I write in my journal. I love to say it: I choose myself.

  • More of this: a practice.

    Daily writing prompt
    What do you wish you could do more every day?
    View all responses

    The sun, the wind, the tree outside my window are working in concert to create a moving shadow on my computer monitor base and desktop. It’s a performance, directed by Mother Nature. On the other side of the window, blades of grass shimmy and shake to the beat of the breeze. It beckons a memory from before language: light and dark, movement, rhythm. I wish I could show you more of this every day so that together, we might feel the same raw, timeless innocence.

    A few months ago, I started to take guitar lessons. I’m going to not equivocate or judge my abilities. This isn’t about that. I try to practice every day and I enjoy it, immensely. Every so often, I am able to enter that coveted flow state with guitar where I am able to focus on that one singular task, moment, note, chord, song, skill for a moment or two. Maybe even a few minutes. I enjoy the routine of the daily practice: stretch, meditate, scales, work on the assigned piece, and maybe learning a few new notes or a cord. I enjoy that each day I can see a little bit of my progress and a deepening understanding.

    I recently figured out that the tempo I play a given piece is only as fast as my slowest transition. The same way a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Rather than try to speed up the transitions that I most struggle with, I slow everything else down. This has allowed me to actually enjoy both the “easier” parts as well as the trickier ones. I can luxuriate in each note and cord, letting the easy, open notes ring a little longer. Inside those notes is where I find grace. This is where I learn that slow, fast. One is not better than the other. They just are.

    But I do not wish I could play more guitar everyday. In fact, each day, I set a timer and put down the guitar when it goes off. I do not obsessively try to “fix” whatever I’m working on. My goal is not to extend my practice to the length of the timer. My goal is to limit the time. And in doing so, I trust that there is always tomorrow’s practice. I trust my own faithfulness to the practice. I do wish that I could bring more of that trust throughout other parts of my day. Every day.

    I’m also finding time for exercise and movement each day. I do stretching and a few sun salutations when I wake up. (The moon was particularly beautiful from my kitchen window next to where I roll out my yoga mat this morning.) My dog and I enjoy a walk or two through the day. And this past month, I’ve started to integrate some Barre Empowered routines into my week. When I think about exercise, it’s something I kind of dread even though moving my body is something that I quite enjoy. And so I look for the moments of grace when I exercise too. Can I take it a little easier on myself today if I’m low on energy? Yes. Sure! I’m grateful for Maya, the founder of Barre Empowered, whose messaging is more supportive and, well, empowering than most exercise videos I’ve tried in the past.

    I don’t wish I could do more exercise everyday, but I do wish I could extend more gratitude to my body.

    I write, too, everyday. And I read, because otherwise my writing would just be a monologue rather than a conversation. Last year I read The Word: Black Writers Talk About the Transformative Power of Reading and Writing (edited by Marita Golden). In his chapter, Nathan McCall said, “Yeah, I had a notebook. You could buy little things from the canteen, and I bought a notebook and started writing down what I was feeling. Prison ain’t exactly the best place to be telling somebody your deepest feelings, talking about your pain. So I was writing stuff down. And I realized that it made me feel better, whatever I said, whether it was a paragraph, whether it was a page. Sometimes I would just write and it would be disjointed and everything, but it would make me feel better, So the more it made me feel better, the more I did it. Then the more I did it, the better I became at it. Then I began to see it become a challenge to get my feelings down with the depth and preciseness that I felt.”

    My wish is that everyday I believe in the value of my words, my feelings, my stories and my writing that emerges.

    Please support my writing here.

  • Is a port just a port?

    I could feel something happening on my lower abdomen, close to my pelvis. I saw the blue paper a few inches from my face and lights and blurry shapes through the clearish plastic to my right. Nothing else. I heard the voices of the nurses and techs talking to each other and some music. I’m fine I told myself. This is just paper and plastic. I turned my head upward slightly to look at the opening to the paper and plastic just above where I was lying on the operating table. What if I push this whole thing off of me? I thought. Would I be able to? Can I even move my body? There is enough air, I reminded myself. Soon, I’ll have a sedative in my IV and this will all be fine, I thought. But what if I don’t make it that long? What if they’ve forgotten about me? Calming words started to escape from my brain, fleeing alongside logic. I heard a slightly louder voice from the other side of the room.

    “Are you just getting nervous over there?” Joy, the nurse, asked. Is she talking to me? How did she know? Words were still floating somewhere outside of my head and body, flitting about out there with its buddy logic, having abandoned feeling to be on her own inside my body.

    “Are you feeling nervous there?” Joy asked again. Oh! Maybe she is watching a screen. Maybe the screen tells her my heart rate and my respiration too. Maybe Joy is an empath. Maybe both and all of this is true.

    “I’m just feeling a little claustrophobic,” I croak from the operating table, trying to gauge how loud I needed to be in order to be heard through the paper and plastic sterile shield. Hands were quickly enlarging the opening, rolling the paper from above my head to eye level. My hot breath escaped and cooler air touched my face.

    “Something is on my body. I don’t know what it is,” I tried to explain the feeling of lying on a table and not knowing what’s being done to your body. But words were still on the lamb.

    A voice: “We use your body like it’s a table.” I shouldn’t be comforted by this, but somehow I was. It was the straightforwardness of it. This is your body. We are using it. For this purpose. And somehow it was comforting even though no one could see my face nor any of my skin even really (wrapped, as it is, in warmed blankets) save for the six or so square inches of my left chest, below my collar bone where the port has been situated ever since it was installed in a similar operating room at a different hospital eight or so months ago.

    One of the nurses leaned down so that he was eye level to me. “If you need something like that, you can tell us,” and he offered to take my glasses. I was grateful that he phrased his help and care in this way. He didn’t question why I didn’t say something, just offered.

    I thought that maybe I could hear the doctor who I met in the prep area an hour or so before enter the room. I could feel the IV in my left arm being fussed and fiddled with. It wasn’t painful and I knew that Joy was likely getting ready to push the sedative into my body and I could begin to anticipate the not caring. And then, perhaps, the greatest comfort, more so than having the drape pulled back so I could breathe, is when Joy said in her very serious voice, “nobody touches this patient until she is sedated.”

    Joy gets it.

    Another beat passed and I felt the cool liquid enter my vein. Soon, a bitter taste filled the back of my throat.

    “I can taste it,” I announced. Apparently, my words found and opening and returned back into my brain. So did logic.

    “That’s the sign of a good IV,” Joy assured me. “This next one is going to burn a little.” But already I didn’t care. Or maybe I almost wanted the burn, knowing that what would follow would be complete not caring. I barely even noticed when the doctor injected the numbing agent. Still, Joy assured me, “this is the worst part.”

    I thought I heard someone at some point say something like, “I’m sure the chemotherapy is the worst part.” And then clarified, “that’s some nasty stuff they give them.” Or something like that. But maybe I dreamt that part. In a way, I feel proud that I endured something that even a medical professional (and one who is currently cutting into my skin no less) acknowledges as awful.

    I could feel slight tugging at moments. And then someone held the port where I could see it. It was a purple triangular hunk of titanium bobbing a bit at the end of the thin, white plastic tube and covered in droplets of blood. My blood.

    “See?” Joy said. “It’s out.”

    “Can I take it to show my kids?” I asked her, still sedated.

    “No, my dear,” she responded. “This is biohazard.”

    “Yeah. I’ll just draw it for them,” I answer.

    “Just draw a line with a triangle at the end.”

    I thought I could hear bits of conversation. The surgeon and the nurse discussed the scar from when the port was installed. “If she scars, she scars,” the doctor said. I could feel the stitches going in. The right side of my chest, where my breast was removed a few months back, is entirely numb. No nerves there anymore. And I’m finally used to the odd way it feels to touch the skin and have no sensation.

    And like that, the surgeon was done and gone. Ten minutes they told me. Someone finished bandaging me up and then they took the “after” x-ray showing nothing to pair with the “before” x ray of the triangular port in place.

    When the port was first placed, it was uncomfortable and at times even painful. Still, it was better than the alternative of the chemo medicines burning the veins in my arms as they entered my body through an IV. And the discomfort didn’t last forever. At times, I even forgot I had a port, although I never really wanted to touch it, so disconcerting was the feeling of that bump of metal under my skin. I say that at times I would forget it was there, but those moments were brief. I wondered how much my body and mind had adapted to having this in me without me even realizing. After my chemotherapy treatments were complete, I still had to have the port flushed at least every six weeks. Tracking this, scheduling the flushes, getting to the office, all of that took a large amount of mental space. I wondered too, if my body was expending energy to accommodate my port in ways that I wasn’t aware. Would I feel different after having it out?

    It’s been two days now and I don’t know how different I feel. Is my energy flowing more smoothly on that side of my body? Maybe. I’ll give it some time. I’m still healing.

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  • Are you only one?

    For about a year in my twenties, I lived and taught in Karenni Refugee Camp #3 in Mae Hong Son, Thailand near the Burmese border. I lived in a house built by hand of wood and bamboo with a thatched-leaf roof. I loved by house. In the camp, I was often asked, “are you only one?” At first, I did not understand the question. But eventually I realized that “only one” meant “alone” and I discerned that the asked was also usually asking after both my physical state and my emotional one. Are you alone, yes, but also: “do you feel lonely?” During the beginning of my stay there, I did, indeed, live by myself in my two bedroom house. As a result, I was often physically without another person in the same shared space.

    But I very rarely felt lonely.

    This was, in part, due to the nature of the space there. The next closest houses were a good distance away from me, but because the houses were all made of bamboo and wood, I could usually hear my neighbors. We were also on the edge of a jungle, in a fairly remote area and so there was little white noise. No street traffic. No air conditioners. For a few hours on some evenings, there was a generator that would run the lights so that students could study, but even that wasn’t all the time. In the cities of North America where I’d lived prior to that, the ambient noise covered over sounds of life. In the camp, the primary sounds were of life: people talking and chopping wood, roosters crowing and pigs grunting. I could hear the bamboo floors bending as my neighbors walked on them or even shifted in their sleep.

    I think that maybe a reason my students and co-workers often asked if I was “only one” and my that meant “lonely” is that I must have radiated some sort of American-ness that was unfamiliar to them. In this community — as with many around the world I assume — togetherness was central to existence. How strange and off-putting my American pseudo-independence must have been! I cannot remember specifically, but I must have inadvertently pushed away bids at connection directed at me.

    I remember hearing at some point that if you come across an injured or sick baby animal in the wild, you aren’t supposed to touch it. The theory goes that your human scent will mark the animal and frighten away the mother who will then leave the baby to die rather than care for it. I feel as though, having been raised here, I was marked by some sort of American-ness that, in a strange reversal, covered over my human-ness. Fortunately, my students and the rest of the community didn’t leave me to die. I think that they were pretty quickly able to smell through whatever it was that I carried on myself. Or perhaps the well water washed it away. Either way, eventually some students moved into my house. The “only one” questions became less frequent as I was so rarely without companions.

    I’ve been thinking a lot about loneliness and being “only one” lately. I’ve read that America is facing an epidemic of loneliness and that it’s suspected that this is maybe in part due to people more often engaging with their phones rather than connecting with humans in-person. I don’t know about all of that. For me personally, being tethered to my phone makes me feel more lonely. When I am able to step away from my phone, I feel less lonely even when I am physically alone. I suspect that having lived in a community like the one in Karenni Refugee Camp #3 inoculated me against feeling lonely even now all these many years later and in the middle of a loneliness epidemic. Such that even when I’m only one, I’m never really only one.

  • What needs to be written?

    This is a place of personal acceptance. What happened that this place became necessary?

    Many years ago I attended an MFA program in creative nonfiction writing. I won’t go into too many details about the program. I entered in bright-eyed, engaged, and optimistic. I was going to become a WRITER and this program was going to get me there. Suffice it to say, that’s not what happened. It was only years later that I realized just how cut-throat and toxic that whole setting was.

    Here, let me share with you one experience. I wrote and submitted a piece to a workshop. It was a long piece, maybe fifty pages. I was nearing the end of my access to getting feedback on my work and I wanted to get as many eyes on my writing as I could before I would be on my own writing my thesis. The comment that I received from the professor was that it was a disaster, so disorganized that she couldn’t even read it. At the time it didn’t cross my mind that if that was the case, how did she know it was a disaster. My only solace was that there was one other student in the class who received more or less the same feedback. In fact, the professor gave us the feedback simultaneously. We were both women of Asian descent.

    After workshops, we scheduled meetings with our professors to go over the work one-on-one in more detail (or something like that). To pour salt in the wound, this professor wanted to schedule our meetings at her apartment. I think that this was supposed to be some big deal: like the professor was so gracious as to welcome students into her home. But this professor lived across town. And most students lived near the university. After I scheduled the meeting with her at the end of the workshop, she turned to schedule with the other student who had received the same “this was unreadable” comment. The other student said something along the lines of, “if you weren’t able to read it, then there’s nothing to talk about and no need for a meeting.”

    Damn. I wish I had thought enough of myself to do the same. But I didn’t. I think part of me still thought I would show up to the meeting and, I don’t know, she would have changed her mind? Or she would have read it in the meantime and had more, you know, helpful things to say? Needless to say, she didn’t. When I was younger, I was always giving the wrong people second chances.

    I must have trekked across town because I remember sitting in her apartment with a cup of tea which she had offered and I had accepted because I thought that was the right thing to do. She couldn’t find a saucer or small plate and I told her it was fine. And I remember she said, “isn’t the tea bag going to bump against your lips?” And it was such a weird concern to me. Like, if you’re so worried about that, then just find a fucking plate or bowl for me and let me make the decision. And also, “you’re so worried about my lip coming in contact with a fucking tea bag when what you should be thinking about is the tens of thousands of dollars in tuition that I’m paying for you to read my fucking pages and have something helpful to say.”

    But, honestly, I didn’t have those thoughts until much later.

    “Pretty hard to hear feedback like that?” she said to me.

    “Oh no. It’s fine.” I might have low enough self worth that I was willing to cross the entirety of this island city on the off-chance that this person who had already proven herself to be unable to do her job was going to redeem herself, but I wasn’t going to break down in her apartment. Somehow, part of me thought that maybe that’s what she was trying to do? I implicitly (and wrongly) trusted professors and teachers and assumed that there must be some sort of greater plan or lesson behind this whole interaction. There wasn’t.

    This whole incident was one of the most obviously toxic moments of my MFA program, but there were other ones. The cumulative effect of these small jabs is that I really struggled with my writing and, as a result, my self worth. I hate that these individuals had so much say in how I valued myself.

    I’d like to end this post with some sort of redemption arc for myself. But, also, it’s necessary to sit with these moments of pain and toxicity, allow them to move through before jumping into “light and love.” Not everything is linear, which would be boring anyway. Besides, maybe where I want to end this post is actually where I started it.

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