A Final (De)grade

The University of Pennsylvania has failed me.

Not in the academic sense, but in the other academic sense.

I'll clarify: I desire to take the maximum recommended courses as determined by my oncologist, and Penn does not wish to accommodate me. My case was petitioned and shut down, and with it my opportunity to (somewhat) comfortably continue my education. Instead, they have unyieldingly offered me the options of 

-  a full course load (to which my oncologist has explicitly objected ) 

- a part time course load with full tuition AND automatic academic probation (a nice, permanent addition to the academic record)

- surrendering my status and privileges as a CAS student and becoming LPS

- leaving.

The decision to continue to take courses is not a foolhardy one, nor one without some basis of understanding of the limitations of my...predicament. Doctors seem to agree that the practice of being "normal", however one chooses to define it, is essential for maintaining the positive psyche necessary to successfully complete treatment. The University of Pennsylvania has decided that it knows better than my oncologist regarding my health. The mindset: Why don't I just leave them alone to deal with healthier, happier students? Or, more forgivingly, we can assume their actions intended to alleviate. Benevolent intention or not, they have just made me all the more stressed, which according to medical professionals will weaken me, my resolve, and ultimately, my chances at recovery. So thank you, University of Pennsylvania, for placing yet another obstacle in my path to relative normalcy, already cluttered with things like hair loss, overwhelming fatigue, potential infertility, oh and the massive tumor in my chest. Who doesn't appreciate a good kick when they're down?

The combative(read: ornery) nature of this post does not go unnoticed. I would like to blame it on the 30 years I've aged in the past few months. The sort of lethargy attributed to years of simply existing.Though the wrinkles haven't developed (yet), there is a sort of grey that has taken over my eyes in place of the usual glint. I am worn down and embittered. Gravity(multiple references here) has hit physically and mentally.

I understand higher education is a service industry. This is not lost on me. The fact that I have to pay full tuition for part time (and be put on probation) as part of a policy to discourage students from "coasting", when in fact part time is the maximum allowable given that I will have chemotherapy cocktails (aka vicious cell-destroying poisons) circulating my body, accurately depicts this notion. Not to mention, going to class will prove difficult when I am confined to a hospital bed for 3 weeks at the end of term. This is not to suggest I do not find myself capable of completing a part-time course load successfully. This is also not to suggest I seek special treatment beyond the recommendation of my Harvard Medical School-trained oncologist.  I intend to contribute to my classes to the best of my abilities, and I hope to be held to such a standard. I simply ask to be accommodated where accommodation is needed. It's not about sympathy, it's about fairness.

Another frustrating aspect is the guise of assistance they paint upon themselves. Support! Advising! Come to us for this session on x,y,z, we'll help you do x,y,z. File a report! Tell your RA!  The means through which problems are supposed to be solved. Yet, in circumstances these means would most useful (I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest cancer is an extenuating circumstance), they instead choose to adhere to policies and rules that do not acknowledge extraordinary circumstances. They are as black and white as the text in which they are written. To give credit, they do allow one to leave and come back. Or drift off into the world of LPS. But I should not have to choose between going at the full speed I was once able to maintain and stopping entirely. I also should not have to switch into a school of general studies, inconveniencing and potentially endangering to my ability to graduate with my desired major in a reasonable period, in order to accommodate. I should not be penalized (read: put on probation) for desperately trying to continue my education amidst limitations outside of my control.

The policy is unfair and does not support the kind of student it seeks to protect. It fails to consider the needs of the ambitious and determined; the kind of student that demands the challenge Penn is supposed to provide. The kind of student Penn recruits and spits out into the world to make something (exceptional) of him/herself. The kind of student that does not simply "give up" when presented with adversity. This is the stuff of college admissions essays - you should know better. 

So I ask you, University of Pennsylvania, to allow me to do all that I am capable of. Hold me to the standard of excellence assumed when you accepted me (I'm going to assume there was one - go with it).

Here's the plan:

Regardless of what happens over the next few months of surgery, treatment, and hospitalization, I'm going to graduate from the College of Arts and Sciences. Maybe even by my projected graduation date! (I know I'm reaching here.) I would make some sort of statement asserting "you can't stop me," but I feel that would be excessive, and too easily considered a dare. 

I understand that cancer makes the assertion of future goals presumptuous. But I refuse to allow this affliction to define me. I wish you would do the same.

PSYCH001

"Well I looked my demons in the eyes,
laid bare my chest, said 'Do your best, destroy me.
You see, I've been to hell and back so many times,
I must admit you kind of bore me.'" Ray LaMontagne

We're on to biopsy round 3. Pre-surgical testing this week, getting chopped up next week. 

More scar tissue to dance around my purposely deflated(and then re-inflated) lungs, 

more tissue for pathologists to play with under microscopes and various stains. 

Make a pretty picture, please. And a prettier diagnosis. Then Chemo(again!) then a bone 

marrow transplant(I may be donating to myself if all goes well). A series of 3 day hospital stays 

culminating in a 3 week. The remnants of athlete within scream at the thought. Somehow amidst 

this I will act as a student and (student) leader, and maybe a social creature as well. (No promises 

on the last one though.) I don't know why I'm still in this lazy, anti-social mindset. I don't know 

why I don't seek the company of others as avidly as I did in the past. I don't know why my room 

has become as much of a source of comfort as it has a black hole of productive activity. 

The wrong weather can easily deter me from ever leaving my house. No commitment, 

no matter how important or enjoyable, can motivate my movement. 

In these few weeks leading up to my next round, I'm allowed to drink. 

I don't want to drink. 

How cruel. A 21st birthday to be spent spurning bars and their frequenters. 

In what nightmare did this scenario emerge?

The worst of it is, it's starting to bother me less and less. Though not accepting 

this new version of myself hasn't compelled me to be anymore active than it 

has made me anxious, I can't help but think retaining that POV(i.e. the one 

that condemns my fatigue for laziness) is essential in retaining some aspect 

of the former "me". 

An identity crisis, how post-adolescent of me. Right on schedule.

Back to School

Syllabus day. Books are cracked open for the first(and potentially last) time by students eager at the thought of their own gratification. The intellectual curiosity is at its peak in the first few days of roll call and administrative set up. Questions seem easy and open-ended, lacking the "wrong answer" that frightens away participation by even the most audacious of students. The motivated souls sit with pens raised at paper; fingers hoovering over keys. The distraction techniques of later courses have yet to spill onto the screens of the relatively well-slept individuals. 
There is an anticipation that can only be derived from a lack of awareness of what is to come -the impending, the inevitable. Fresher faced and more fancy free than these students have found themselves in recent weeks, they await the instruction with (almost) baited breath at the thought of successful completion. Yet to submit to the stresses of balancing activities, prioritizing actions and commitments, they remain hopeful that their capacity to try will see them through. And it does, often enough - though not necessarily with the all goals and promises made still intact. But who among us can honestly say they have remained untouched, remained poised above the masses with the omnipotence of the most crazed curve-killer? 

Set phasers to stun, it's another semester.

New York

I've been here in better times. I can recall walks and skips and jumps on each unique strip of cracked pavement. When alone, I would be joined by a book. With friends, I would be joined by a drink. I remember sips and bites of the cheap and expensive, with steamy side dishes of gossip and gaiety. It was about exploring the places we'd heard of once or whoever had the cheapest cocktails. We pranced around these streets like nothing could touch us. And nothing did. 

 

And then the days grew shorter as slowly as the last 15 minutes of a work day. Time turned itself over to new arrangements of commitments, based on new priorities. Life was reset to a default found only in novels praised for their ability to "get to the heart of the matter". The dramas, the tear-jerkers, the stories that attempt to speak to the strength of the individual. Adversity is encapsulated in a well known character, character trait, or external force we all know and fear. Human succeeds with the weaknesses of his humanity, we dwell on the miracle, and cheer for the brief fleeting moment we think such things are possible in real life.

I'm sitting in a car, traveling past as an observer. I do not sip or skip on these streets. My stomach is a child on a trampoline after too much cake. Sure, the cake was delicious and the traces of icing around his mouth make him look adorable and carefree. But the bouncing. Oh, the bouncing. Stumbling forward after a bad bounce, he catches himself near the edge. He waits, unsettled by the nearness.

I have this sense of foreboding that makes me want jump up and run as far away as possible. I feel tainted by merely sitting in this waiting room. This room is too full. There are too many people here too much older than me, too exhausted to make small talk with those around them. Let's do roll call. Why are you here? I ate a bad steak. My apples glow in the dark. A rogue vaccine. I'm rich. I'm poor. I'm coughing. I can't. Its growing. Its not. What to do, what to do.

A (Biological) Clockwork Orange

During my post-finals "I refuse to leave my bed/couch" stage(a beautiful, beautiful thing), I rewatched "Someone like You," starring Ashley Judd and that hot guy whose name I can't think of right now. There was one scene in particular that resonated with me for reasons to which most people my age won't be able to relate (fortunate for them). The sister and her husband are at a dining room table. The husband futilely attempts to jab an orange with a syringe - after the wife exasperatedly grabs the objects from him and completes the task, we learn she is taking fertility drugs which require jabbing a syringe into her ass. 

Now pause. What is the connection? Animosity towards citrus fruit? Needles in my ass? (No to the first and a "I hope not" to the second. "Yes" to the Can-this-post get any-more awkward?)

You see, cancer and its partners-in-crime chemo and radiation do a funny thing to fertility. Apparently, this is supposed to worry me. And make me want to either take some period-suppression pill or rip out some ovaries and freeze 'em for Sunday dinner (no, not actually, ya weirdo). As a 20-year-old girl just trying to graduate and uh, stay alive, I am less than concerned with procreating. Actually, (most)(sane) people (not on MTV) are trying to avoid that uh, miracle of life bit as much as humanly possible. 

So, what to do about babies? To this dismay of all desperately awaiting (grand)parenthood(ie my mother), egg harvesting (stowing away eggs for a rainy day) clinics haven't exactly figured out how to uh, jam 'em back in after the fact. Still waiting for that one. So, I was given an option with an actual success: in vitro fertilization!!! (get the egg fertilized first, and then freeze it.)

Oh great!

But wait. One problem: who is fertilizing this egg? I'm not exactly set on bearing anyone's children at this current point in time. And I doubt my boyfriend would be at-all surprised by that revelation.

Which brings me to my next point: Can we just dwell on how not-age-appropriate this topic is? Ok, so with the awareness of "Sixteen and Pregnant"/"Teen Mom"/girls who got knocked up at my high school,  the I'm-too-young argument doesn't really fly. But what else do I have? This is inappropriate for my current stage in life? I already have finals and you want me to worry about SPAWNING ANOTHER HUMAN BEING? (About that...) Maybe I'm just refusing to be an adult. Be mature. Truly consider my future. To which I say: Fuck it. I'm a college student.

Now back to the syringe-in-ass. Due to the doses of fun I've received over the past semester/are going to receive over the next (because it didn't really work the first time around - just found out ya'll!!), I'm on track for the Charlotte York storyline instead of the Miranda (for those unaware of the reference, one is a woman desperate for housewife of the month/small versions of herself and the other is a workaholic who gets knocked up by accident), which perturbs me. 

Priorities can change over the course of life. We may find ourselves seeking top preschools as avidly as we once sought  top summer internships. (gasp!) And as much as I may dismiss it now, I may find myself struggling with infertility. Despite this plausibility, I can't help but think I'll be okay. As long as I have my person by my side, willing to jab a syringe in my ass. 

So there you have it folks. Love is finding someone willing to jab a syringe in your ass. Eloquence. 

Ode to Willow Smith

I brushed(whipped) my hair(back and forth) for the first time today. 


And by "hair" I don't mean the $500 haircut that requires constant upkeep - I mean my actual, inch-long, strands. Weeks after chemo, I've finally reached the stage in which I don't feel a sense of revulsion when I touch my scalp. Because for the first time in a few months, the hair (mostly) stays in place when I touch it. More importantly, I've had the audacity to try.

I never thought I'd ever appreciate the resilience of a real head of hair. Sure, I've tested its limits in the past (a chapter in my life we will refer to as "sibling throwdown" or "don't touch my socks"). But after many an episode after a shower or nap, resulting in clumps of hair on a pillow or in a drain(sorry housemates), I had forgotten the wonder that is brushing one's hair - without the concern it will leave with your brush. I won't be overly boastful - it's not planning on making any Rogaine commercial endorsements anytime soon. But at least it lacks the look of sparseness it once possessed. I can no longer clearly see my scalp through the individual strands. My spring, when everything else is winter. Things will grow, things will blossom, things will return to their desired state. 

Radiation intends to revert the forest back to scrawny saplings it was composed of (trying to hard with this, I know, run with it). But I think I can handle it; knowing that there is, in fact, a spring. 

And no matter what the groundhog says, it always comes.

"It's My Bar of Chocolate"

I am drowning in thought.


Time limits capability. Yet it does not limit the willingness to accomplish, the desire to attempt. There has been much discussion on the notion of being "merely human" - the restrictions such a notion implies. A quote on a Dove chocolate wrapper: You don't have to do it all.

But what if you want to? Pick your battles, they say. But what if you don't win the war? And to that: who defines the terms of engagement? Who says when it ends, and the next begins?

What is worse: physical or mental exhaustion? What causes more frustration: the fatigue of our limbs or our minds? Be good at something. But what thing? What is the right thing? What if it's the wrong thing?

We may be only limited by our imaginations. Isn't that a nice thought? For those with minds confined to the apparent and the expected: try a little harder. Then again, they might have the right idea. They may never have to know the frustration that can only come from the want of something more; the very realization that it exists. It has been asserted that managing expectations is the key to contentment. The dreamers must fool themselves, a ruse to be maintained and practiced. There are of course, nuances in the realm of happiness, but contentment in itself seems unsatisfactory. It reeks of settling. Then again, there are cards dealt that we often cannot evade, cannot alter for greater benefit - or any benefit. It is said that it is irrational to allow sunk costs to influence future decisions. Chase bad money with more money - but what about chasing wrong use of time with more time? A defined assembly of choices; a distinct path? Do the same stipulations apply? Some choices are less reversible than others. And being wasteful is rarely considered positive - even if the discarding of a certain assembly of choices could lead to a better path. This requires one to first be aware of said path. And then the more frightening aspect: making a decision about it.