I am the Warrior

A warrior is an individual who is experienced at combat, particularly within a tribe or clan.  It is also defined as a person who has shown great vigor, courage, or aggressiveness.  There are many ways to define what a warrior is.  I come from a long line of literal warriors.  I am a McFarland, or in Gaelic, MacParlan.  The name originated from the sons and progeny of Parlan.  The McFarland clan was known long before even the thirteenth century to be one of the most warring tribes in Gaelic land.  The family crest illustrates this war-like drive, the crest depicting a man above it holding a sword with the Gaelic words, “This I will defend.” 

I am no stranger to the warrior drive of the McFarland’s.  My dad has always been driven and you didn’t dare cross him as a child because hell hath no fury like that of a McFarland.  If my dad got mad at my sister and me for something naughty that we had done, you knew to run if he put his index finger in his mouth and bit it.  You’d better run or you were going to get it, a spanking that is.  My dad and his brothers and sisters are very mellow and level-headed people, but if you piss them off, you’re going to know it.  They don’t pussy-foot around when they’ve been pushed over the edge and when they’re mad, they’re steaming.  

It’s a character trait that is not admired in our culture, but I have always been proud of my family’s directness and will to succeed.  I come from a typical Irish-American family that are proud and forthright people.  You stand up for what is right, you don’t coward, and you face any hardships life throws at you with strength and pride.  You certainly don’t piss and moan about it and you “take it like a man.”  I am proud to say I am a McFarland and this is my lineage and my destiny.

For the past few years, there has been mounting research studying the genetics of so called warriors - people who are aggressive or physically strong.  This research has identified a gene in them which produces a high level of an enzyme called Monoamine Oxidase A.  Monoamine Oxidases (or MAO’s) are enzymes in everyone’s body that breakdown neurotransmitters in the brain, such as dopamine and norepinephrine – which help regulate mood.  Simply put, people with high levels of MAO’s in their bodies are thought to have a higher propensity for depression, anxiety, aggression, and other psychological problems.  Monoamine Oxidase A is a form of an MAO that has been found in high quantities in people who are aggressive and have a high survival instinct.  The gene that codes for this particular MAO has now been dubbed “the warrior gene.”  It is widely accepted by scientists that people who are aggressive and have a strong will to persevere no matter what, most likely carry the warrior gene.  The newest research on the warrior gene shows that people who possess it are more likely to survive cancer and tend to have a better outcome after treatment.   

It is a joke between me and my husband Marcus that there is no way I don’t carry the warrior gene.  I am a McFarland, coming from ancestors that were savage warriors, and I have a disease that I have beat into submission.  And it has become an even bigger joke with my daughter, as she is the biggest warrior I have ever met in my life.  She makes my childhood fights with my mother look like pleasant conversations.  If Bluma had been born into a Native American tribe, she most certainly would have been named “Stands with a Fist.”  As much as she causes problems for Marcus and me parenting her, I wouldn’t want it any other way.  I am proud that she and my son are firecrackers, and although difficult to guide them, I know this character trait will serve them well as adults.

Why am I ending these 21 days of thoughtfulness and inspiration with a blog about being a warrior, of all things?  When I look back on my days as an FAP patient, my memories of being bullied, and my awkward teenage years, I feel that I was weak and insignificant.  But when I think about my life now, and how I currently feel about myself and my disease, I feel very much like I am a warrior.  I don’t cry about little things and I don’t whine about pain and tiny earthquakes in my life.  I see people around me crumbling from everyday events and then crying out in the community and social media for pity and support.  While everyone needs help from time and time and it does take a village, I wonder how so many people get through life when they are in so much need, so often, of emotional and physical support for every day dilemmas.  I am a warrior and proud to say, I can fight alone and have done it many times.  I’m not afraid to do it with merely my own two hands and I’m a better woman for it.  I think it is admirable and, depending on the situation, essential to go through that battle alone because you will discover that you are strong and can endure no matter what. 

You don’t have to win a war, or climb a 14er, or be trendy and run a marathon, or even battle cancer to be a warrior.  You don’t have to do anything incredible to be an everyday warrior.  You just have to take life as it comes, handle it, learn from it, and move on with strength and grace.  Writing these past three weeks has made me inspect my beliefs about persevering, surviving, and living meaningfully.  I was never very mindful of how much my disease had shaped who I was and who I’ve become.  I always thought I was different because I just am weird.  This experience has made me see that I am quite different from the people around me because my life experiences have been very unique. 

There is only a very small part of me that wishes I hadn’t gone through those things and that I’d be more like everyone else around me, ignorant of suffering if I may say so.  But when I really think deeply about it, to my core, I know that I am proud to be tough and I’m proud to think differently and live differently, and I wouldn’t want to be any other way.  I love who I have become and the most valuable thing I’ve learned the last twenty one days is that I’m thankful I went through everything I did when I was a child.  I accept that I have FAP and I feel positive about it because I embrace all the amazing lessons it has taught me and I am blessed to have received the gifts it has given me.  In spite of all the suffering and the pain FAP has caused me, the only impression it has left on my heart and my soul are its numerous, priceless lessons of strength and perseverance.  And maybe that is what a real warrior is.

It Could Always be Worse

When I was a little girl, my favorite story was called “It Could be Worse.”  The story is largely based on an old Yiddish folktale in which a man complains about the noise from his family, consults a wise Rabbi, who in turn tells him to add chickens, goats, and other livestock to his household in order to solve the problem.  The man goes to the town sage and says something like “Wise one, things are terrible for me.  My mother, my wife, and my six children live in a small house together and there is too much noise.  What should I do?  The wise elder tells the man “Get some chickens and put them in your house.  That will help with your problem of too much noise.“  The man, although a bit confused, does what the wise man says and gets a chicken to live with the already large family inside the little house.  Of course, this does not help, but instead, makes the problem worse with chickens clucking and feathers flying everywhere, and the man goes back to the wise sage for more advice.  The elder continues to make the life worse of the poor man and tells him to get a goat and then a cow, until the home if filled with utter madness.

You have probably heard this story at least once or twice, and you know the conclusion of the story and the subsequent moral it is trying to teach children.  After adding all the chaos with a bunch of barnyard animals to his already crowded and noisy home, the man can’t take it anymore and removes all the animals from inside his house.  Once they are gone, his house is quiet and enjoyable.  He notices the laughter of his children and the coziness of having his family all around him.  The Rabbi was indeed wise as he taught the poor man that although his life was difficult living in a small house with too many people, too much noise, and not enough to go around, his life could be so much worse.  He learned this first hand when he had to also live with a bunch or loud and crazy animals.  The simple man figured out that, although he didn’t have much, he had a family that was dear to him and he now was thankful for his simple and modest life.  He wasn’t able to see this gift until things were awful for him and he then realized his life was never so terrible to begin with. 

Jewish teachings are full of wonderful and thoughtful lessons.  Reading that story when I was little really had an effect on me.  I remember understanding the meaning in the story and thinking it was pretty special.  I didn’t realize then how much I’d have to reteach this lesson to myself and my children when I grew up.  There have been many times in my life - when I was sick in the hospital, when I was suffering with chronic abdominal pain, when my kids were ill in the hospital, and when my kids suffer from their bowel problems – where I’ve had to call on this teaching to bring me back down to earth and ground me.

Everyone has a sob story.  Everyone has had a few bad things happen to them, some really small and insignificant, but everyone thinks they’re a big deal.  We all get sucked into drama and the dregs of a painful event.  And many of us have trouble pulling ourselves out from the pile to see that it just really isn’t that bad.  It’s easy to get caught up feeling sorry for yourself and feeling like you’re alone and beaten down.  But the truth is, no matter how bad it is, it just could always be worse.  You might not feel like looking at it that way and you might want to keep wallowing in self-pity, but you need to look around and see that it just could be multitudes worse.  In situations when I’m feeling bad for myself because something negative is happening in my life, I remind myself of exactly what could be happening to me that would be so, so much worse.  For instance, when my kids were struggling in the hospital during their surgeries and treatments for FAP, I would look around me on my kids’ hospital floor.  I didn’t ever have to go far to see much worse suffering.  I saw a child walking down the hallway, only three years old, holding her mom’s hand and smiling in spite of her bald head and chemo treatments.  My child could be undergoing chemo and battling cancer.  It could be worse.  In the playroom, there was a seven year old girl with traction bandages over her arms and much of her chest, and her face was badly scared.  I would find out later she practically lived at the hospital because she had been burned over 70% of her body and had been receiving major skin treatments at the hospital for two years.  Her brother died in the fire.  It could be worse.  On the elevator, a mom and her son got on.  He was clearly a quadriplegic and his physical function was minimal, but he talked with his mother and they seemed to just go about their day as they waited for the elevator to arrive on the ground level.  It could be worse. 

If you aren’t looking around you for the signs that God is sending you when you are in the pits of despair feeling sorry for your situation and complaining to anyone who will listen about the terrible situation that has befallen you, then you are missing a divine opportunity to thrive.  Sure, everyone has to grieve and everyone has to feel the pain of losing, having less, and seeing things not working out right, but sometimes it’s just not bad enough to warrant such drama.  I hear people complaining everyday about small things, to a level that causes them extreme anxiety, fear, and pain.  I hear people complaining about the contractor not finishing their remodel on time, or their children getting tons of colds and viruses, or their vacation flight was majorly delayed to the Caribbean.  I have no idea why they are complaining, and they sound ridiculous.  You have the money to remodel your house, you have healthy children who might get little sicknesses but they aren’t dying of a disease, and you are lucky enough to be the minority in America that can afford an expensive vacation to paradise.  I even see people creating massive drama about pretty small things like minor surgery, a broken wrist, or treatable and avoidable problems like allergies. 

It could always be worse – you could be diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer (you’re probably going to die if that’s the case), your arm could have been severed in a terrible car accident instead of slipping on the ice and simply cracking it, and your child could have a virtually untreatable disease like Cystic Fibrosis or be waiting for a heart transplant instead of just avoiding eating dairy.  Nobody wants to hear that their problems aren’t that big of a deal, but people need to start hearing it and listening to it.  This doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck for you and that it isn’t unfortunate, but the truth is, you just shouldn’t be whining because it simply could be so, so much worse for you. 

Even through my disease and all my health problems, I think every day how much worse it could be for me and so I won’t complain.  I could have not known I had FAP and later found out as a young adult that I had late stage colon cancer.  I might have survived, but I probably would have died.  If you’ve going through chemo right now for something like breast cancer or prostate cancer, chances are statistically, you’re going to survive.  You’re going to live and be ok and enjoy more and more years on this earth with the people you love.  That a wonderful thing, not a sad thing.  Sure, it sucks to go through chemo and treatment, but it just could be so much worse.  You could be dying and watching the last days of your life go by.  But that’s not you and you get to keep moving forward.  You get to live, I get to live, and we shouldn’t be wasting this precious time focusing on the little blips on our radars.

The moral of that story “It could be Worse” is so incredible.  It’s not out there to minimize what’s going on in your life.  It’s there to pull you back up.  It’s a pick-me-up, when you’re having trouble seeing through the shit.  It’s there to keep you moving forward and upward.  It’s there to keep you in reality, and it’s there to keep you actually living – I mean finding the little joys in life that are priceless and being present to fully receive them.  If you’re not thankful for how your life is now, even if it could be a lot better, then you’re wasting time on negativity.  It won’t get you anywhere.  Looking for the little nuggets of pleasure around you will get you so much farther than having a pity party for your life.  I for one am celebrating delightful things every day, no matter how crappy of a day or life I’m having.  And I welcome you to join the party with me.     

Reach for the Brass Ring

When I was young, my parents used to take my sister and me to an old amusement park in the hills of Pennsylvania during visits to aunts and uncles in the summers.  It’s an amusement park, called Knobels, which has been frozen in time.  It’s nearing one hundred years old and it has historic rides to go along with its nostalgia.  One of oldest rides is its unique carousel.  It is one of the largest working carousels in the world, with 63 hand carved horses, made in 1913 in New York and purchased for the park in the 1940’s.  This special carousel is one of the last working ones that has a brass ring dispenser.  If you are sitting on a horse on the outside row, you can reach out and grab a brass ring from the dispenser as you sail past it.  A long time ago, they used to give you a free ride ticket for grabbing a brass ring, as a prize. 

I have many memories of going to Knobels over the years when I was little and now as an adult, taking my kids there each summer when visiting family.  But my most vivid memories are those of my sister Jennifer, who was (and still is) the master of grabbing the brass ring.  When I was little, Jenn would run to the outside row of horses as soon as she gave her ticket to the carousel operator.  She was so excited to have the chance to take a brass ring.  When the ride would start, she would immediately be ready, hanging her whole body out from her horse, ever so precariously, like she was on the verge of falling off her horse.  She would reach her monkey arms out as far as she could, and as she passed the apparatus loaded with the brass rings, she would snag one, almost each time she went around.  I would usually be behind her on an outside horse too. 

The first time she ever got one, I was probably in middle school.  She was three years older than me and taller.  I saw her do it the first time and I thought “I want to get one too.”  I stretched out from my horse just a little, not much, and I reached for a ring as I approached them.  I just couldn’t reach one.  I saw the look of joy on her face and the effort it took and I wanted to do it too.  But the difference between me and her was that I didn’t think I could do it.  I wanted to, but I wasn’t willing to go out on a limb.  I was afraid I’d fall off my horse, and I told myself I was smaller (I was stunted in growth too from all my surgeries and illness) and couldn’t quite reach one.  This was my excuse.  I was negative and I told myself I couldn’t do it.  I never thought I was quite good enough to do amazing things and certainly wasn’t going to go out on a limb trying, unlike my sister. 

I envied my sister’s attitude of “I can do it, I can get a brass ring.”  Why couldn’t I grab a brass ring?  But what I should have been asking myself was why wouldn’t I grab a brass ring.  I thought I couldn’t, but I wouldn’t take the risk, so of course I failed, and on top of it I made excuses for why I didn’t.  After all, there were kids my size and even smaller grabbing brass rings left and right.  It would take me until I was well into my adult years to realize just how much this very situation impacted my life almost daily.  I looked around and saw happy people, living successfully, making their way through the world grabbing wonderful things all the time.  I thought “why can’t I have that too.”  But I wasn’t looking at myself and why I wasn’t stretching out and grabbing at life too.  I felt like I couldn’t or I shouldn’t.  I was used to suffering, feeling low, feeling less-than, and feeling frankly – screwed over. 

I felt cheated and deprived by God, by life, by my parents, by society, you name it.  I was letting my childhood and my disease affect my life in a painfully negative way.  I thought I didn’t deserve the brass ring, beyond not even being able to go for it.  My disease had made me feel so small and so insignificant for so many years.  The aftermath of my surgeries had left me so scarred from such things as the pain and the bullying, that I was paralyzed from self-defeating and negative feelings.  I wasn’t thriving yet.  I was letting the world and my life beat me down.  But as I grew older and wiser, I started to find my voice and I started to see things just a little brighter.

I didn’t have to suffer anymore and I didn’t have to hold myself down.  The bullies were gone, I didn’t live with my parents anymore, and nobody was telling me I couldn’t be successful at life.  I was telling myself this.  I let all those bad things from my childhood and my disease infect my head, and I was listening to the ghosts from my past.  I needed to start listening to me and what I wanted and what I needed to accomplish in life.  What is it?  It’s still evolving and developing every day, but since I started reaching for greater things, I’ve decided - I want to be a loving wife who deserves her loving husband, a caring mother who deserves to be needed and loved by her children, and an exceptional person, not just a good one, who always listens, always lends a helping hand to others, and makes a positive contribution to the world and the lives of the people she knows. 

It is said in a Jewish Midrash teaching, one must do at least three things before they die – plant a tree, write a book, and make an effort to have a child or raise a child.  It means you should leave the world a better place than how you came into it.  It means you should leave a legacy, an influence on the people around you.  My biggest goal in life is to leave this world a better place than how I found it and positively influence the lives of others.  I certainly have made my own life better than how it started in my early years.  I don’t think I have achieved enough positive effect on other’s lives yet, but I actively work towards it every day.  I believe I deserve that and I believe I can do that.  I believe I can reach for the brass ring and give it my all and not worry about falling flat on my face anymore, and I believe I deserve to succeed.  I only hope I can convince other people the same - that we all deserve and should reach for brass rings, no matter how much is pressing against us.  We’re not always going to get them every time around, but if we stretch ourselves out there, we’re going to get it sometimes.  And I hope I’m there to see it happen because if I can do it, you can do it.

Resilience

My kids were unfortunate enough to be born with Familial Polyposis too.  They had something going against them from the minute they drew their first breath.  Although they were otherwise perfectly healthy, there was a ticking time bomb inside of them.  But we are fortunate enough to know that my kids have FAP.  Not everyone is that lucky.  Up to thirty percent of people with FAP have no family history of it and they are the first person in their family to ever have the disease.  This is called an index case.  It’s the first person in a family line to be born with a spontaneous genetic mutation.  The area on the 5^th chromosome where the FAP mutation lies is an area that’s known to be hypermutable.  This means that a particular area along the chromosome is known to be abnormally unstable.  There are many other places along human DNA, on other chromosomes, that are also hypermutable and result in a number of other genetic diseases. 

The point I am making is that I am lucky enough to have the knowledge of my family history of FAP, so my family knows to look for its ugly presence.  If you have an index case, you are even unluckier, because there is no reason to ever think you’d have an extremely rare genetic mutation in your DNA.  These individuals are going about their adult life quite normally until they are derailed with some kind of abnormal symptom – usually blood in the stool, which leads them to all kinds of doctors and testing, and ultimately, a devastating diagnosis of colon cancer.  It would be a horrible way to find out you have FAP.  I can only imagine the shock and extreme confusion this would cause to find out you have one freakish and uncommon disease most doctors have never heard of. 

So I count myself lucky.  I get the privilege of knowing my family’s genetic history and I was blessed enough to get to know at the very beginning of my children’s lives that I would have to protect them from this monster.  They say knowledge is power.  It truly is.  Both my children hit the ground running with the testing and screening to keep the disease at bay.  FAP can cause liver cancer in children under the age of six.  My cousin Kevin died from this very cancer and he did have FAP.  Starting at six months old, both my children had liver ultrasounds and their blood drawn to check their liver enzymes, and they did this every six months until they were six years old.  From an early age, my children grew used to being poked and having to sit still to have tests done.  I’ve never understood those parents who cry and act overly-dramatic when their child needs to have a shot or their blood drawn.  It’s not a big deal honestly.  Children don’t like it, but ten minutes later, they’re over it and honestly, they might remember it, but they don’t dwell on it like many parents do.  Get over it – your child will be just fine, it’s just a little poke and in the scheme of things, it could be so much worse, like surgery.

And surgery is just what was on the menu for my kids.  Marcus and I decided when Zehariah was very little that he, and any sibling he might eventually have, would have to have their colectomy young.  Why?  Because it’s not fair, nor ethical, to put a thirteen or fourteen year old through colon surgery, an ileostomy, and temporary incontinence.  It’s hard enough to be a teenager in America, with all the social media, bullying, and peer pressure.  Try being a teen who is running to get to the bathroom in time at school, only to miss and soil their pants.  How embarrassing and how cruel to knowingly do that to a teen.  Many FAP parents do choose surgery during the teenage years for their children, and this happens to be the most common time that FAP patients have surgery.  It makes no sense to me and quite honestly, I find it sadistic.  

In my opinion, having gone through the surgery myself, the best time in your life to be in this delicate position is when you are a small child.  Five and six year olds are not quite aware of the social world around them yet.  Bullying, peer pressure, and picking on other children hasn’t developed yet.  Five and six year olds don’t know that pooping your pants is a problem and if you do, they don’t really care.  They like to talk about poop and farts and they are fascinated with it too.  They haven’t learned from their fecal phobe parents yet or society that pooping is something to be ashamed of.  When children are small, their memories are not very detailed and they adapt to pain and change in body habits much easier.  The older you get, the harder it is to go through the bowel changes that the surgery causes and the harder it is to heal and adapt to.  For so many reasons, the younger you go through surgery, the better.

So, Marcus and I decided very early in our children’s lives that they would have surgery at the end of kindergarten, just before they turned six respectively.  It’s not a big deal to miss a few weeks of kindergarten, and when you come back to school, the kids don’t really care what happened to you, they just want to play and be silly.  They don’t feel afraid of you, like you have the plague or something, and they have no need to make fun of you because that’s not on their radar.

I did the same thing for each of my children when they had their colon removal surgeries.  I prepared them emotionally and physically for the surgery.  I took them to psychologists before their surgery so they could learn what to expect and feel safe to talk to someone about their fears, other than Marcus and I.  Both Zehariah and Bluma went on tours of the hospital, to see where they would have surgery and where they'd recover.  They got to see the play rooms and the fun places of the hospital too.  I invited friends, family, and classmates to visit Z and Blu at the hospital, so they felt like they weren’t isolated.  I decorated their hospital rooms with their artwork and the artwork of their friends who would come to visit them at the hospital. I bought them presents and wrapped them up so they had gifts to open while they were sick and recovering there.   I wanted my kids to experience a hospital stay I did not.  I wanted them to have a “trip” to the hospital, not a prison stay at the hospital.  I wanted them to experience positive things, instead of all negative.  Sure, they experienced some pain, but it wasn’t all bad.  There were friends and family there, presents to open, toys to play with, AND, they didn’t have to go to school! 

I, quite honestly, tried to trick their brain into thinking the whole thing was more fun than agony.  And to this day, almost six years post-op for Zehariah and two years post-op for Bluma, my kids don’t remember much pain.  They just remember their hospital rooms, some of the gifts they received, and friends coming to visit them.  They don’t remember the gory details, and that’s exactly my goal.  I don’t want them to have the emotional baggage I do.  I want them to grow up tough and resilient, but not scarred from their battle with FAP.  So far, they have shown me that they are the toughest kids I know.  Both of my kids faced their surgeries head-on, showing bravery and strength, getting through their hospital stays with courage and positive attitudes, and I know they are stronger for it and will get through anything life throws at them.  And no matter what, I’ll always be there to support them and cheer them on. 

Blue Genes

When I was nine and sitting in that hospital bed having that annoying gene conversation with the psychologist, I never realized then how much those “blue genes” would affect the decisions I made as an adult.  At nine, the last thing on my mind was growing up, getting married, and having kids.  I didn’t start thinking about that until after college.  Even when I was in a serious relationship in college, I never thought about having kids or the possibility of passing on FAP to unsuspecting tiny humans.  It wasn’t until I was maturing and growing up emotionally that I started to think this disease might be a total deal breaker for some men.

Let’s face it, it’s not for everyone.  I wouldn’t fault a person who didn’t want to breed with someone who had FAP.  It’s a lot to take on.  You are signing for the likely possibility (a 50/50 chance with each kid) of having a child/children who need extensive screening, medical intervention, and several surgeries in their lifetime.  That’s not something for just anyone, or someone with crappy insurance either.  It takes a special individual, or in my case a special man.  That man would have to really love me and be willing to be tough with me.  Not only would he have to accept the possibility of having “sick” children, he’d also have to put up with my medical problems and loose bowels.  I certainly couldn’t marry a man who was a fecal phobe or have any issues with poop or talking about poop.

And then, I met my incredible husband Marcus.  I remember going on our first date.  I had met Marcus at synagogue (I know, it’s a little cheesy).  We had a fifteen minute conversation after services and I enjoyed talking to him.  We exchanged contact information and about a week later, we met at a wine bar to talk some more.  About an hour and a half into our “date”, I decided it would be best to tell Marcus that I had the family curse – FAP.  I wanted to be honest and direct.  I didn’t want to waste Marcus’ time or mine.  If he couldn’t handle it, then I’d move on and so could he.  I felt like if I didn’t say something now, I’d be lying and hiding it from him.  Marcus was in medical school and I knew he was intelligent and would understand medically what FAP meant and the details that involved having FAP. 

So, I spilled the beans about my disease.  I felt like I was dropping a wrecking ball right in the middle of our table.  But Marcus didn’t miss a beat.  I told him what Familial Polyposis was, because even some doctors have never heard of it – luckily there aren’t that many of us out there.  He understood what I was explaining.  He engaged me, talking about the disease that had robbed me of a normal childhood.  Then I asked him if it concerned him that I had FAP.  I spelled it out for him that if I ever decided to have kids, I could pass it on to them.  He nodded and said he was aware of that.  Upon saying this, Marcus said he wasn’t scared of me.  He said it didn’t change what he thought of me and he said he enjoyed my company so far and he certainly wasn’t going to run away from me knowing that I had a genetic disease.

I was relieved, because I really liked Marcus.  He was intelligent, quiet, and very kind-hearted.  He was exactly the kind of man I wanted to be around.  After that night, Marcus and I spent more and more time together and if you know me, you know the rest of the story.  At that time, I knew Marcus accepted me and my disease, but I didn’t know what his family would think about it.  I still don’t really know.  I think they are very uncomfortable with it.  I don’t think they know how to relate to it.  I guess it’s not their fault as they never had to face any significant medical problems with their children.  It’s foreign to them, so I think it’s easier for them to keep their distance physically and emotionally from this issue.

After Marcus and I became engaged, we started to talk about whether we could have kids or not, and how that would work.  I knew we would have a 50/50 chance of having a child with the disease.  Did I really want to have a child with Familial Polyposis and bring someone in to the world to suffer?  I wasn’t sure what to do.  If I was going to do it, I couldn’t wait forever.  I only had one ovary and the other was severely scarred and was constantly making cysts and causing me problems.  Marcus and I decided that if we were going to have children, we for sure would have the fetus tested for FAP in the very early months of pregnancy so that we could make an informed decision about what to do.

That meant that once I was pregnant, I would have chorionic villi sampling of the placenta.  At about eight weeks, a doctor takes a sample of the placenta, sends it off for DNA testing, and that testing determines if the fetus is positive for the FAP gene mutation or not.  The process takes about 4 to 6 weeks.  So this is exactly what Marcus and I did.  We did this, to put it bluntly, so we could decide whether we wanted to terminate the pregnancy or have a child with FAP.  Unfortunately, we have a very black and white view of abortion in this country and it’s hard to talk about making a decision like this without the fear of judgment from “pro-lifers.”  I think anyone who would argue it’s a good thing to bring a child with a rare and serious disease into the world, needs an examination by a qualified psychiatrist.  And it’s also judgmental for someone to say they would never dream of even considering terminating a pregnancy like this.  It’s easy to judge when you’ll never be confronted with a situation like mine.

So when I became pregnant with Zehariah, I wanted all the information about whether he had FAP or not, so that I could make an informed and fully conscious decision one way or the other.  I had the chorionic villi sampling done at six weeks, and just before I was twelve weeks pregnant, I got the news I dreaded.  The fetus was positive for the FAP mutation.  I told the genetic counselor on the phone that my husband and I would make a decision in the next few days and call her back.  I didn’t know what to do and Marcus wasn’t sure either, but he wanted me to see a movie that might help us decide what to do.  The movie was “Gattaca.”  If you haven’t read the book or seen it, it is a science fiction film where a genetically inferior man assumes the identity of a genetically superior man.  During the course of the film, you learn that it doesn’t matter how “inferior” genetically you are, you are capable of amazing things if you have the will and work ethic to succeed.  Seeing the film made me realize that I had achieved lots of wonderful things in my life in spite of my suffering and physical struggles.  I had been through a lot of pain, but I was still happy and thriving.  Wouldn’t I be able to teach this to my child too?  Would he resent me for making him live to suffer?  Would my child thrive too? 

I didn’t have the answers to those questions, but I thought that if I could make it through and still be happy, then I could feel alright putting a child with the same genetic disease on this earth because I believed he would make it through too.  We decided not to terminate the pregnancy and six months later, a very healthy and complete little boy named Zehariah was born.  As soon as I held him, I knew the day would come where we’d have to watch him wheeled away to the OR, but in that moment, I was sure I could keep him safe and happy.  Four years later, when we had our daughter Bluma, I choose not to find out if she carried the FAP mutation until she was born.  I figured I’d brought one into the world, how could I go through that decision again?  Maybe it was selfish, I don’t know. 

After Bluma was born and they put her in my arms, I began feeling her head for osteomas.  Those are benign bony tumors found on the skull and flat bones, such as the rib cage, of people with FAP.  Osteomas are only found on people with FAP, so if you have them, you probably have Familial Polyposis.  As I ran my fingers all over Bluma’s small newborn skull, I felt a perfect bump just behind her ear.  It was certainly an osteoma and she had one in the exact same spot as I.  Instead of looking at my daughter to see whose nose and lips she had, like most other people do upon meeting their baby, I was discovering that my baby had my genetic disease and I had to take that in and process it.  My heart sank and I was very low for a few minutes, but then I reminded myself that I had an amazing husband, a beautiful son, and now we had added a little girl to our family – what a joyous day.  I decided to not dwell on discovering that Bluma had FAP, but to celebrate how wonderful life was for us and the magnificent gifts I have been given in my life. 

There are always total bummers in life, and some of us get a lot more of them than others.  I’ve had a lot of shitty stuff happen to me, but I choose to focus on the fabulous.  My husband, my son, my daughter, and the life I’m living are pretty damn fabulous.  You can choose to wallow in the pain of not having an ideal life, or you can keep moving positively forward with what you have.  The choice is always your own to make.

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger

My tumor removal surgery still wouldn’t be my last surgery.  The summer before 10^th grade I had my fifth surgery to remove a section of obstructed small bowel.  After the previous four surgeries, I was left with a large amount of scar tissue.  People with FAP grow things excessively – polyps, tumors, and even scar tissue.  Everyone makes scar tissue from surgeries, but people with FAP make much more scar tissue then the average person.  My bowels would periodically get twisted up in the various webs of scarring in my bowels, which doesn’t allow your poo to move through the small intestines, which in turn causes severe pain, not to mention if you can’t poop, eventually you’ll die.  In 1990, I had such a bad episode of obstruction that I was back and forth a few times to the ER in severe pain, vomiting, and my bowels were distended from not moving forward.  Things would seem to free up a bit, and then I’d go back home, only to get worse again.  After a few times in the ER for several hours, my parents had to take me back.  I began to vomit shit, yes actual shit, to be quite frank.  Since it couldn’t go forward through its normal route, it decided to go backwards.  Dr. Martinez came to the hospital and said he needed to open me up and remove the obstructed section of bowel.  Again, I did fine.  At this point, it was no big deal.  What was one more surgery?

As I got older, I started to think (unrealistically) that I wouldn’t live to see at least 30.  I just felt so beat down by the FAP that I thought I’d eventually get small bowel cancer, or one of the various other cancers the disease can cause and that would be it for me.  It wasn’t realistic for me to think that way because I knew what I had, I knew the risks, and I saw several specialists to have routine testing done to screen for the cancers I am at risk for.  But in my mind, I felt defeated, like I would never grow old, surely I would never be a grandmother or get wrinkled and grey.  I was sure I wouldn’t live that long.

But I kept living and doing well, in spite of my negative attitude.  I had some ovary surgeries to remove benign growths on my ovaries (and ended up losing both of them eventually), which had nothing to do with my disease, it was just bad luck.  When I was little, I never thought I’d have children, but I did.  I got married, I had kids, and I was doing everything “normal” people do.  As my 30^th birthday approached, I realized I never thought I’d make it to that number when I was younger.  But here I was, nearly 30 and doing well.  At that point, I decided I’d probably live to 40 and beyond.  And now, I’m pretty sure I’ll live to be really grey (I’m already getting there), wrinkled, and aged.  Like a good friend of mine says, who has also survived a bad childhood illness, “I’m a weed.”  And weeds survive all kinds of horrible conditions.

The last surgery I had was my ninth one, and I’m really putting positive energy out in the universe that this is the final one.  It was over four years ago and after a yearly, routine endoscopy (a scope with a camera on the end that looks into your stomach and the first part of your small intestine – the duodenum), my gastroenterologist found a polyp in my small intestine that looked strange.  The biopsy came back as severe dysplasia, the stage before cancer.  After deciding what to do about it – whether to biopsy it again in six months to keep an eye on it or just have it surgically removed – I decided it was going to have to go eventually, so I decided to have it surgically removed sooner than later.  I’m not one to stick my head in the sand. 

I waited to have the surgery until the summer when my kids were finished with school so that it wouldn’t be as hard on them or my husband.  I thought it would just be a five day hospital stay.  No big deal, I’d done it many times before.  The surgery went fine and so did my hospital recovery.  But after I went home, I spiraled down and ended up back in the hospital a week later with incredible pain and a really bloated stomach.  The cancer causing polyp that I had was near my pancreatic bile duct, called the ampulla.  When they removed the polyp, they had to remove the area where the bile duct dumps into the duodenum, in case any cells are left behind to cause cancer later.  Sometimes moving this bile duct and handling it during surgery really pisses off the pancreas.  Sometimes it happens and sometimes it doesn’t.  It’s a crap shoot.  My pancreas got really pissed and I was sick with post-operative pancreatitis. 

I was readmitted to the hospital and not allowed to eat at all.  Pancreatitis requires no food by mouth, as eating just makes the pancreas more inflamed and angry.  I would be there for a week.  I would spend both my son and daughter’s birthdays in the hospital.  In fact, I had to be given special permission to leave the hospital for three hours so I could attend my son’s birthday party.  Luckily we had my daughter Bluma’s birthday the day before I was readmitted to the hospital.  My family brought Bluma’s presents to the hospital on her actual birthday so that I could see her open them up.  After seven days, my blood work showed my pancreas was happier, so I was allowed to eat solid food again and go home.  But it was short lived and I ended up back in the hospital a week later, still with pancreatitis.  Same routine.  No food, only clear drinks and broth.  I was bred for this.  This is what my childhood was about – surgery, hospital, pain, no eating.  Please, this is nothing. 

There I was, in bed just like I was 25 years before.  I was lonely, starving, and guess what?  I celebrated my birthday in the hospital.  But I didn’t care about it like I did when I was nine.  I was an adult now and you start to not want to have a birthday and watch another year go by.  It was déjà vu in its most literal sense.  But the only feeling that was the same was the feeling of abandonment and loneliness.  My parents had been in town for my kids’ birthdays, but they had left while I was in the hospital the 2^nd time.  When I had the surgery, some of my friends and neighbors came by, but everyone was sick of me being sick and nobody came anymore.  Marcus saw that I was in despair, so he emailed some of my friends to see if they could come by.  A couple did, which meant the world to me.  I was going to get through it no matter how deserted I felt, because I’m strong and because I’m a mom now.  My kids needed me to be home to take care of them.

I left the hospital just after my birthday, but returned that summer three more times.  I lost over 20 pounds, once again, just like 25 years before.  History has a way of repeating itself, maybe so we’ll learn something from it.  I’m not clueless.  I saw the irony and the meaning in it all.  I realized I had grown a great deal emotionally over those twenty five years.  I did live to be thirty years old and what I learned from it was that nothing can keep me down.  If I can survive that crap at nine and all the shitty stuff after it, if I can do this again at thirty four, I can do it a million times and I can do anything.  Quite simply, I can survive anything.  There is nothing you can say and do to me that will break me down.  I am one hundred percent sure I can survive anything thrown my way.  Maybe I’m full of myself or I think I’m stronger then I actually am, but I’m pretty certain I am invincible. 

Welcome to Sixth Grade

The desmoid was growing in size every day and I had to get a new surgeon, one who could get every last bit out of my body.  His name was Dr. Martinez.  He was from Paraguay and he had a funny accent that made me feel better about the whole situation, because he had a great sense of humor too.  He told my mom I couldn’t wait at all.  The mass had to come out immediately.  I was scheduled the next week.  But I was starting school in two weeks.  There was no way I’d get to go to the first day of school.  I’d probably miss most of the first week of school and I’d be lost trying to figure everything out at the new school.  My anxiety was reaching melt-down levels.

The only thing positive I could possibly see about having the tumor removed was that I saw an opportunity for Dr. Martinez to fix my ugly scars.  I asked him if he could fix them when he cut my tumor out.  He commented that he agreed with me that my colectomy surgeon Dr. Lily had certainly done a pretty poor job of giving me a clean and tidy incision.  He said he’d fix it up when he removed the tumor and he’d try to make my tummy less bumpy.  That made me feel so much better.  At least something good would come from this stupid tumor. 

My surgery had to be scheduled at St. Joseph’s hospital in Denver because they had a radiation unit in the OR.  In 1986, doctors thought radiation could help kill the tumor if they weren’t able to remove it entirely.  They thought the radiation would prevent any leftover tumor cells from growing back, but that has proved over the years to be rather useless in desmoids.  After the surgery at St. Jo’s, I would be transported by ambulance a whole three blocks to recover at Children’s Hospital in Denver.

I had the surgery thing down and of course wasn’t worried about surgery itself.  I was just hoping and praying when I woke up, the tumor would be 100% gone and I could move on with my freakish life.  When I awakened in the post-operative room at St. Joseph’s hospital, my mom told me Dr. Martinez felt confident he had removed the tumor entirely and that it probably wouldn’t ever grow back.  A weight had been lifted off my shoulders.  I was pretty tired and drugged out, so at the time, I wasn’t expressing any happiness, but I was thankful to hear I wouldn’t have to go through this again.  I was then wheeled downstairs to the ambulance bay and transported to Children’s hospital.  Luckily, this is the only time I have ever been in an ambulance and it wasn’t anything exciting.  I was high as a kite and exhausted and the ambulance was just a glorified taxi I could lay down in to get to my destination.

My recovery at Children’s was uneventful, thankfully, and I went home after about six days.  My new and improved incision looked so much better!  It was straight and a lot thinner in width.  It was going to look so much better when it healed than my previous incision.  My stomach wasn’t as bumpy now and the freakish alien head wasn’t popping out of my abdomen anymore.  That sucker was gone.  But the tumor had wreaked havoc on my stomach muscle anatomy.  The mass was on the right side of my abdominal wall.  Desmoid tumors invade muscle, fat, and connective tissue, bundling it all up in its path as it grows in size.  Removing the tumor had left a hole in my stomach muscle wall – known anatomically as the rectus abdominus.  Muscle does not grow back once removed, so I would have a hole in my stomach wall and nothing to cover my bowels, so Dr. Martinez transplanted muscle from the other side of my abdominal wall to cover the hole on the right side.  This was a great solution, however, my stomach muscles would never work properly again. To this day, I am unable to do a sit-up, I have very little stomach muscle control, and although I am very strong in my core from personal training and taking TRX exercise classes, I mostly use my back to hold myself up when doing such things as planks and pushups.  But at least I can still do them and I am thankful to have any muscle control in my abdomen.     

School was just starting as I was released from the hospital, but I’d have to stay home a few days and rest before I could go back.  I missed the first four or five days of school.  My mom walked inside with me.  I really didn’t want to go to school at all.  I knew it was going to be awful.  We met the secretary in the front office and she showed me around the school, gave me my class schedule, showed me where my classrooms were, and where my locker was.

I was already behind.  I had extra work to do to catch up.  I was a good student, so it wasn’t a big deal, but I always felt like I was playing catchup.  I felt like all I did was get knocked down, just to get back up and start running again to try to catch up with the pack, only to get knocked down again.  The whole thing felt futile.  But what else was I going to do?  I was only eleven and I had to go to school, try to fit in, and just get through it.  Growing up is tough for everyone, no matter how easy you have it.  It’s hard enough to go through puberty and becoming a teenager when your body is perfectly normal and you have everything going for you. 

Middle school was tough for me.  It was like a black hole.  A lot of it I don’t remember (thankfully), just that I was pretty lonely and I didn’t fit in well.  I didn’t go through puberty like most of the other girls.  I was significantly growth delayed from all my surgeries and subsequent health problems.  I was geeky, freaky, and completely insecure, not unlike many kids in middle school.  But I just wanted to be normal, in the sense that I didn’t have a genetic mutation making me different from everyone else I knew.  I wanted to feel like I wasn’t in “the only one club.”  I didn’t want to feel alone anymore. 

Round 2

In spite of the social problems I had post-surgery, I somehow managed to get through fourth and fifth grade and move onto middle school.  At some point during fifth grade, I started to feel a strange sensation on the right side of my abdominal area, close to my incision from my colectomy.  The feeling was a cross between a stabbing pain and the feeling of my muscle being ripped apart.  The sensation would last a minute or two and then it would go away.  I might not feel it again for several weeks, or some days it would happen two or three times.  I had no idea what it was, but I was almost eleven by then and I really didn’t care.  In my mind, I was never going to have any more issues with FAP and those three surgeries I had before fourth grade were going to be it.

As the summer before sixth grade was approaching, it became pretty obvious there was something wrong in my abdomen.  There was a freakish, protruding, round hump on the right side of my incision.  It was rather hard to the touch and it was ugly to me.  My stomach already had an unsightly cut down the middle vertically, from my pubic bone area up to my belly button.  And then I had the horizontal cut on my right side of my belly where the ileostomy was.  The muscle and fat pushed out around where I had been cut, accentuating the incisions even more.  Now I had this ugly bump, and I figured it was normal and I could add this to my list of things I hated about me and my body.

It was summer and I spent a lot of time swimming and wearing a bathing suit.  My mom began to realize that bump on my stomach probably wasn’t something normal.  It seemed to be getting bigger and uglier every day.  You could really see it through my stretchy bathing suit.  The thing looked like the head of one of those aliens (from the movie Alien) getting ready to birth itself and rip open my skin to reveal a nasty, gooey, hissing creature ready to tear anyone’s head off.  The truth is, there was a nasty, tissue eating mass growing in my abdomen and it was probably every bit as ugly as an alien. 

My mom suspected I was growing a desmoid tumor.  Desmoids are a very rare tumor that are highly associated with FAP.  They start growing only after muscle and fascia are cut during surgery or more rarely, ripped or torn for example from a sports injury.  When muscle and fascia are cut during surgery, they normally scar and grow new tissue to fill in the space that becomes the incision scar.  After there is enough tissue to keep the skin, muscle, and fascia together, the body normally stops this growth process.  But sometimes, in people who have FAP, along the incision area, underneath the skin where all the connective tissue lives, the cells keep growing even after the surgical area has completely healed.  The cells of that connective tissue keep overgrowing and nothing tells them to stop.  When that happens, you officially have a tumor.  Desmoid tumors are benign in definition because they do not grow within organs and invade the blood stream, sending the bad cells to other parts of your body.  That is what a malignant tumor does – what cancer is.  But desmoids are anything but “benign.” 

Desmoid tumors don’t stop growing, they grow at an incredibly fast rate, and they will push organs out of the way and engulf nerves and blood supply structures.  They are very tricky to remove completely because of how invasive they are.  Quite simply, they are like a weed, like bind weed to be more exact.  The only way to get them out of your body is to surgically remove them, but a surgeon must be careful to remove every single bad cell of the tumor because much like cancer, if you leave one cell, the thing will just grow again.  Unfortunately, these tumors do not seem to respond well to radiation or chemotherapy regimens.  So if you are unlucky enough to have one of these tumors that surgeons are not able to remove completely, quite simply you are pretty much shit out of luck.  Most certainly, the tumor will keep growing back and it might get to the point where surgeons cannot control it anymore, and eventually the tumor causes death.  Most patients who develop desmoids successfully have them removed permanently, after at least one surgery.  But some are not so lucky and there have been several deaths in FAP patients from these nasty tumors.

My mom was pretty sure I had one.  She should know.  She had one, and had to have it removed when she was pregnant with me.  Her desmoid was growing in her body before she was pregnant, probably as a result of her c-section surgery three years prior when she had my sister.  It was small enough that she didn’t know it was there, until the pregnancy hormones fed the tumor like a large man at an all you can eat restaurant.  Desmoid tumors love hormones and seem to grow much better when there are a lot more of them around.  So my mom’s tumor grew so fast and so enormous from her pregnancy, that the damn thing was pushing me all over the place.  It was threatening my life, so away it went a few months before I was born.

I had to go in for a CT scan, to see if the freakish thing in my abdomen was a tumor.  I had to drink the disgusting white liquid before the scan, so it would better show the contrast between the growth and normal anatomical tissues.  I had to drink this crap every 30 min for about a total of four of five hours in preparation for the test.  Back then, you had to ingest the contrast to get it into your body, but technology has progressed and now doctors inject contrast directly into your veins so there’s no more nasty stuff to drink.  Once again, I was born too early to reap the benefits of more modern technology.  After vomiting up the last bit of contrast I had to drink just before the test, I went in for another dose of healthy radiation – the CT machine. 

And the results of the test: a mass the size of a toddler’s head in my abdomen.  I had just won another trip to the OR.  It was about two weeks before my first day of 6^th grade.  How fitting.  Wouldn’t you know it, I couldn’t even start middle school off with as normal as an experience as possible.  Clearly that wasn’t how I rolled.  It was already going to be rocky without surgery complicating things.  I knew I was going to get picked on, made fun of, and bullied.  That was my life, but now I had to deal with the hospital again and recover while trying to dodge the hell of being in middle school with old and new mean girls.  I couldn’t catch a break to save my life.  From the time I was in my mother’s womb, I was suffering and here I was, still suffering, ironically from the same damn thing that threated my life eleven years ago.  How ridiculous.

Silent All These Years

I hate talking about it –the bullying I endured after my surgery and on and off throughout middle and high school.  After being silent about it for so long, I'm ready and willing to talk about the disgusting and repugnant act of bullying. 

What is bullying anyway?  The Webster dictionary formally defines it as a person who is habitually cruel or overbearing, especially to smaller or weaker people.  This is an over-simplified and dated definition if I may say.  Wikipedia (yes, the go to place for getting recon on famous people and other mundane things) defines bullying much more detailed and contemporary.  It says, Bullying is the use of force, threat, or coercion to abuse, intimidate, or isolate to impose domination over others. The behavior is often repeated and habitual. One essential prerequisite is the perception, by the bully or by others, of an imbalance of social or physical power. Behaviors used to assert such domination can include verbal harassment or threat, isolation, physical assault or coercion, and such acts may be directed repeatedly towards particular targets. Justifications and rationalizations for such behavior sometimes include differences of class, race, religion, gender, sexuality, appearance, behavior, or ability.  If bullying is done by a group, it is called mobbing.

I was most certainly a target of mobbing more than once, and bullying was commonplace for me during fourth and fifth grade.  As I moved to middle school, the bullying actually became more sporadic.  I think this might be because several elementary schools dumped into my middle school and suddenly, there were more people in my grade.  I was able to hide among the masses much better.  The bullies were able to find other things to focus on and probably, other victims to harass, hate, and isolate.  But I was still bullied and made fun of all the way through my junior year of high school.  But by then, I was becoming less and less upset by it and I was beginning to grow protective armor. 

Even as an adult, I still feel bullied sometimes.  I am particularly sensitive to it.  It happens to friends, I see it in my Jewish community, and sometimes it happens to me.  But I don’t take it anymore.  I fight back.  Now, it hasn’t always worked out well for me to fight back against it.  Sometimes the bully is so shocked that I have had the audacity to deflect their words back at them, they figuratively throw their hands up in the air pretending to be the victim.  They have no idea how to deal with it because they’re used to just being an asshole to others and getting away with it. 

To me, bullies are a baby form of a sociopath.  Sociopaths are, to put it very simply, people who feel no remorse for terrible behavior and no empathy for other’s suffering.  In order to do that, you have to be incredibly selfish and self-absorbed.  To not think about how saying something to someone like “you are so ugly, you should just die” makes them feel, is an incredibly selfish thing.  To not try it on yourself first so see how it fits and feels before making someone else wear it, well that’s the heart of the problem.  Bullies don’t stop and think once how it would feel if it were done to them.  And they rarely notice what they’re doing is even wrong.  Many bullies aren't going to notice 20 years later that they were vile to their victim and atone for it.  That just doesn’t cross a bully’s mind. 

Now, I’m not saying once a bully always a bully.  I truly believe many grow up and become decent and loving citizens.  But I believe some never change.  Sometimes I feel like I’m still in grade school or high school.  I still have incidents where I feel bullied by an acquaintance, a family member, or an in-law.  I realize everyone probably feels this way at different points of their lives, like they’re still in grade school.  It’s hard for me to see, when someone does something rather cruel to me, that it’s just mean adult behavior, and not bullying like when I was little.  It’s hard to separate those two feelings out from each other. 

The most recent event that comes to mind, where I felt picked on and had to separate out my brain’s memory of the past from current life, was just a few weeks ago.  I attended my friend’s daughter’s wedding and I was delighted to be there on such a happy occasion for the family.  I was having a fine time until during the cocktail hour when a friend of the bride’s mom saw me waiting at the bar for a glass of wine and approached me.  I’ve met her before so I said “hi, how are you doing.”  She answered with the obligatory “good.”  Then she said to me the strangest thing – “Were you in the wedding?”  Now, she is a very good friend of the family and she knew who was in the bridal party.  I said “Of course I wasn’t in the wedding.”  She said “Well you look like it with that dress you have on.”  I asked her what she meant by that.  She said “Well, the bride’s maid’s dresses are purple, as you know, and your dress looks an awful lot like the color purple.”  I was wearing a royal blue dress, nothing remotely close to purple.  And, I was wearing red shoes.  I think that’s what pissed her off so much, that I dared to wear red shoes.  I said to her “I don’t know how well you are seeing in this light, but I am wearing a blue dress and it is not purple.”  This woman said, if you can believe it “Well, it looks purple in certain light and you just shouldn’t have ever considered wearing that color.”  I looked at her, gave her the most confused, yet disgusted look, took the wine the catering staff handed me and walked away from that nasty woman. 

As I walked away, I suddenly felt really sad and attacked.  At first, when she was doing it, I just thought she was insane and crude.  But a few minutes later, I felt attacked, singled out, and quite simply, bullied.  I looked around and counted four female guests, not in the wedding, wearing purple dresses, but she wasn’t approaching them and admonishing them.  Why did she single me out?  That’s what brought back the raw feelings of bullying for me.  The feeling of being the only one, the only one targeted, the one who was isolated.  In some ways, this woman’s behavior ruined the rest of the evening for me.  I just wanted to leave.  Perhaps my friend, the mother of the bride, was mad at me too, thinking my dress was too close to purple.  And I had even went out of my way when buying a dress for the event, to not try on any dresses that were plum or purple, because I knew the bride’s colors were purple and orange and I would never want to take away from that. 

I realized the next day that I had done something at the wedding I don’t do much anymore, I gave that nasty woman all my power and emotional energy.  I let her ruin the rest of MY evening at the wedding.  I gave her the power to allow myself to feel stupid and unwanted.  She was an idiot, not me.  But I was acting foolish by letting her get to me and get inside my head.  When I walked away from her, I should have thrown her insults away too.  But I let them get to me.  That’s my fault.  People who act like this asshole woman don’t deserve our energy.  And this is the difference between adult bullying and childhood bullying.  When you grow up, you have to ignore bullying and not let it get to you.  Yes, you stand up for yourself, walk away, and move on immediately.  But that’s not how it should work for children.  They are simply too little, too fragile, and not abstract thinking enough to be told to just ignore it.  They must be defended, listened to, protected, and supported. 

However, that still doesn’t seem to be happening currently, even after countless tweens and teenagers have taken their own lives directly due to mobbing and bullying.  And the incidents of bullying seem to be on the rise due to social media websites, where bullies thrive on anonymity and cowardice hiding behind their computer.  These mini sociopaths deserve a public verbal flogging and some swift punishment from their parents, but unfortunately, many of these little bullies are the progeny of big bullies who often defend their child’s disgusting behavior. 

I would love to name each and every person who bullied me as a child, but I won’t do that.  After all, I am even facebook friends with some of them.  The reality is, I’m not angry at them anymore.  I still have pain, but I have grown up, moved on, blossomed, and forgiven them entirely.  None of them have ever asked me for forgiveness personally.  A few have expressed remorse, but none have ever said specifically that they are sorry for what they did to me.  But it’s ok, I don’t need them to.  I’ve forgiven them, for me.  It’s not for them.  It’s for me.  It’s what’s best for me to be happy and thrive.  And that’s exactly what I deserve, to thrive.  After all the bull shit I’ve been through, I’m damn proud to say, I’m thriving, against all odds.