Rise Above, An Intro...
Everyone has a story. Every single person alive has something to say - a message, good or bad, yet many fail to recognize what in them is true. Some might say that failure of recognition is rather unfortunate, but I think that the determination is stronger for those of us who are clear of mind and our will that much greater. I figured it to be appropriate to tell you my story in my first column. I very rarely tell this story in such detail and, in fact, there are people who I am incredibly close with who have never been made privy to such intimate parts of my past. My story may not be life altering to all who read, but I am hoping that it is reaches at least a couple of you.
Growing up, I was a pretty sick kid. Before I even had the opportunity of exiting the womb I was diagnosed with a kidney “problem”. To add on to the stress of my young parents, I decided that there was no way that I was going to wait a full 9 months in utero and clawed my way out a full 2 months early. Today, this would not be as big of a deal, but in 1979 premature babies made people panic. Thankfully, I made it through okay, but with a now apparent kidney disease, as well as a cyst covering a good portion of said kidney, it was decided that this organ needed to go. No biggie, we have two of them. A couple of months, the removal of a vital organ and a couple bouts of pneumonia later, I was set to go home. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, my parents especially, and off they went thinking that their now healthy child was in the clear.
If you look at my medical records today, it’s not unlike staring at one of those ginormous dictionaries that they have on display at Borders. You know the one I am talking about? The thing probably weighs about 35 lbs and costs as much as your first car. Yeah, that one. After a while I stopped keeping track of every ailment, but those records include, but are not limited, to: Another operation (not kidney related), dozens upon dozens of cases of tonsillitis (on average, 4 a year), 13 cases of poison ivy within 3 years, of which I am severely allergic to (those were my fault, though. I was a tomboy, and there was no way anyone was getting me away from the woods across the street from where I lived. There were too many manhunt games and attempts at building tree houses for me to give that up) heart palpitations so bad I swore I was having a heart attack at the ripe old age of 13, which in turn lead to months of EKG’s and halter monitors (end result was that I was allergic to a medication that had my heart rate up to anywhere from 140-170 times a minute. However, all of that testing determined that my heart skips beats…who knew?) Severe stomach infections, something or other to do with sleep apnea, as I apparently hold my breath in my sleep…the list goes on, and on, and on. Oh, and I was (accidentally) stabbed in the eye. Though, I never did mind telling that story. It made me feel like the toughest four year old on the block.
By my early teen years my immune system was shot to shit. Any illness that was going around, I caught. It was pretty fucking terrible, but I dealt and eventually grew used to it. Around the time I hit my late teens and into my early twenties I started getting sick less often, which clearly I was stoked about. What I failed to realize at the time was that the universe is a motherfucker, and that it was simply the calm before the storm.
I entered my Doctor’s office thinking I was there for a routine physical. By the time I left, my world was flipped. A rather large ‘lump’ was discovered during this visit. As soon as the Doctor made me aware of this discovery I knew something was wrong. My mind instantly said “fuuuuuuuuuck.” Off to the Carol M. Baldwin Breast Health Center I went, referrals in hand. The oncologist there was a real shit fuck and I hated him from the moment he stepped into the room. He proceeded to feel around a bit, order some tests and flat out told me before testing had even begun “it’s not cancer.” I looked at him like the asshole that he was and replied “yes, it is.” The nurse who accompanied him also tried to reassure me that I “was too young” (I was recently 21) and that “it would be incredibly rare.” I agreed, but still told them that they should not say such things until they were confident, as they’re unfairly getting peoples hopes up with their methods. I don’t think they liked me very much, either.
The initial test results came back showing that it was a solid mass. It was definitely a tumor and the only way to find out if it was benign or malignant was to remove it. Great, get this fucking thing out of me. A lumpectomy was performed about a week or so later. The only thing that went wrong, so to speak, was when I woke from the anesthesia at some point during the surgery. Dr. Douche Bag looked at me in a state of panic (never reassuring, for the record) before I heard him hiss at the anesthesiologist. Internally, I chuckled. Surgery’s over. Go home. Wait for results. “We really don’t feel that it’s cancer” is the last thing I heard before leaving. I was too drugged up at that point to say anything, so a simple scowl was my only response.
Result’s day: “Surprisingly, we detected traces of cancer.” Well, duh. Fortunately, it was considered a low grade cancer. Meaning, I was not dying, nor did I have to go through any treatments. The worst of the diagnosis is me living with the risk of reoccurrence, at a 15-20% chance. I’ll take it.
I broke down three times during that saga. On the day they determined that it was indeed a solid mass, I left the building, got into my car and proceeded to beat my steering wheel. The day that I got the results, I left the building, got into my car and proceeded to beat my steering wheel while screaming like a lunatic. The last time was not as crazy like, but the most vivid. It was the night that I took the bandages off. I don’t know why they decided to use a tape so incredibly adhesive on such a sensitive part of the body, but they did. A part of me still believes that it’s because I called “bullshit” on them and they were not all too pleased with having to admit that they were wrong. Anyway, I fought with that awful tape for a good hour. By the time I had removed it all, I was laying on the shower floor, sobbing. It was the last time I cried over (my) cancer.
Cancer scare over, let’s move on with life? Ha. Yeah, I thought so, too. A few months after “tumor trauma ‘01” things really started to get fun. I woke up one morning with my knee hurting quite a bit. Seeing as how I tend to fall up and down stairs, stub at least one toe a day and walk into everything and anything, this sudden knee pain did not seem a big deal to me. As the day progressed, the pain was getting worse and I was desperately trying to figure out what I bumped into that could be causing it. I am going to make a very long day’s story short and simply state that by the end of the day the pain had spread throughout my entire body, to the point where the thought of climbing a flight of steps caused me to burst out in tears. I fell asleep that night curled up in a fetal position, too afraid to move. You know how they say that the mind allows us to forget pain, so as to not further traumatize? I have never been able to forget the pain that I was in that night. I would not wish it on anyone.
I woke the next morning feeling absolutely fine. Normal people would probably stop to think that the previous days events would be enough to warrant a trip to a Doctor, but I preferred to play the ‘ignorance is bliss’ game and try to forget that it ever happened. It turned out to be a poor choice on my part. Over the next few weeks, things got much worse. I was battling flash fevers, severe dizzy spells, joint and muscle pain beyond description and my nerves were all sorts of haywire. It was like my limbs suddenly had minds of their own and were acting against me, at will. A few meetings with my Doctor and a trip to the emergency room later, I was diagnosed with Fifth’s Disease. For those not familiar, it’s not unlike chicken pox. If you have chicken pox as a child it’s not so bad, but if you end up with them as an adult it could severely affect you, physically. With Fifth’s Disease, the same principles apply. Now, if you have a normal immune system being diagnosed with such a disease is not so bad. It usually last’s from 4-6 weeks and one might usually experience slight pain, slight fever and a possible rash. If you’re like me, you end up with some freaky mutated form of the disease. The worst of it lasted for about 6 months. It was an awful period of time, to say the least. In rare cases, severe joint pain is long term, lasting up to 10 years. Of course I had to fall into that category, as I am currently on year 6 and the pain has never subsided. On a good day I can only feel it in only one knee. A bad day means that both knees and hips are working against me and I feel as if I am about 94 years of age.
There is a reason as to why I am telling this tale, and it’s not for want or need of a ‘pity party.’ I have never felt any pity towards myself and I don’t expect you to, either. Why I decided to share this was simple: All of these events made me who I am. They made me stronger and they drove me towards reaching my goals, never looking back. Because I was considered somewhat “fragile” growing up, there were a number of thing’s that I wanted to do, but could not. Once all of the hoopla started to die down, I decided that no one was going to tell me “no” anymore and if they did, fuck ‘em. I’ll find someone else to tell me “yes”. I cut out the people in my life who were bringing me down or holding me back. I left a job that I had hated, but had remained at for years because I got caught in the trap of living someone else’s reality. I started taking control and it was the greatest experience I had ever known.
I instantly looked towards one of the only constants in my life – one of the few sources of inspiration that remained to help me gain in this new found determination: music. Music has never let me down and I knew that the ‘hands on’ approach was the only way that I would ever feel truly fulfilled, as far as careers are concerned. I will not bore you with the details as to how music has become so relevant in my life…we’ll save that for another day. The transition from highly boring desk job to a life in music was natural for me. I consider myself lucky, as I know how incredibly difficult and heart breaking this industry can be. I would like to believe that it was good karma and the universe decided that maybe it was time that she answered. Whatever the reason, I am grateful. I have met some of the most inspiring, hard working and genuine individuals throughout my working in this industry. I have made some of the best friends that I have ever known. I have seen things unravel at the seams, only for those who are just as inspired to quickly sew it all back up again, out of sheer love for what they do. It’s stressful, back breaking, tedious work and you will often want to gouge someone’s eyeball out with a stale cheerio, but the memories I have are some of the most pure and honest that I have ever known.
Life can be a really hard sometimes, no matter what age you are. There are certain people, places and situations that are going to want to pull you down because misery does in fact love company. Don’t let them dictate your thoughts or your decisions. Bad things can make you stronger; it all depends on what you choose to make of your situations. You have the power to do some good in this world, no matter what your specific definition of ‘good’ may be. I get to sit and listen to music all day and then write about it. Have conversations with people that I admire and pick their brains as to how they got to where they are in life. It’s surreal at times, but it is also amazing. I have never looked back and never once have I felt regret. Do I question myself? Sure, sometimes. We would never challenge ourselves if we didn’t. But, I have never doubted my decisions or myself. This industry, as fucked as it is, has been the most constant source of release for me...I hope I can give back even a portion of what it has given me.
My dad told me something when I was younger and his words pass through my mind often: “You have to paint your own picture…no one else is going to paint it for you.”
