Dodgeball

I was consistently the next to last child to be picked for teams back in grade school when that was still deemed an acceptable way to form teams in physical education class. I’m not sure what great minds came up with it or chose to enforce it year after year, but I was reminded a few times weekly of my low skill level with little intervention to teach me what I failed to figure out on my own.

Dodgeball was always a popular game back in my youth. I never lasted very long as a player. I wasn’t expected to, and it was a group game where no one expected much of me. It was a game for the tough boys who took no account for their classmates as they knocked others out one by one. The game incorporated agility, coordination, running, jumping, catching, throwing, and of course, dodging. I did none of these things well. I quickly was pegged out and spent most of the time watching those who the game was made for strut their stuff and whip balls at one another with a force and meanness that communicated you better not mess with them.

There were two sides. Catching balls or hitting someone with one sent the intended person to the prison. There were three bowling pins that needed protection. These marked the far border at the end of your team’s side. The game was over when either the opposing team had knocked down those three pins or all of the players had been knocked out due to their lack of dodging or thrown balls had been caught. Those in prison could be set free if someone lobbed a ball over all the others and someone on your team in prison caught it.

There is one distinct memory I have of dodgeball in gym class from about the sixth grade. Somehow, I was the last player standing on my side. It wasn’t due to skill on my part. I just hadn’t been knocked out yet. The other team had everyone still playing. None of their players were in prison. The sides usually weren’t ever that uneven. How was this scenario possible? But I was alone and had to guard the one remaining pin. I was an underdog if there ever was one.

Most of the balls were on my side. The other side had two left. Out of kindness, they waited for me to get into position before deliberately firing a ball at me. It wasn’t a great strategy on their part, but whatever. Although not an athlete, I was a smart cookie even in my youth. I positioned myself in front of the remaining pin and squatted down like a catcher behind home plate. I was going to protect my pin and in doing so make myself a smaller target. I held out my arms and waited for the incoming balls.

They took turns throwing the ball straight at me. Why? Dodgeball is not a polite game! Another tactical error on the other team’s part. It prolonged the game. I wouldn’t be able to catch two balls at once, let alone one. Ball one came straight at me. It hit me and my arms instinctively wrapped around it. I caught it! Unbelievable!

There was only one ball left. The gymnasium was quiet as the second ball was thrown straight at me.

By some miracle, I caught it again!

All the balls were now on my side. Two of their players were in prison. One pin was left standing. It was up to me. My next move would either free everyone on my side and extend the game or end it by another player catching my attempt.

The game ended.

I learned a few things that day.

Use my head.

Play strategically.

Never give up.

Do my best.

I learned I could catch things other than colds and drifts.

Fast forward to the present. Lately, I feel like I’m in a game of dodgeball with a few stressors that inconveniently want to converge all at once. Appointments. Scans. Social opportunities developing all at the same time. A broken water heater. Appointments rescheduled. Several excellent fundraising opportunities and all the work to put into their details to favor their success. Any moments I think I have carved out for me, somehow disappear. Keeping up with regular household responsibilities frustrates me because they just never end.

I dodge.

As soon as I dodge one something, another two or three materialize. I never get ahead.

More dodging.

I have learned how to dodge like a professional.

Dodgeball isn’t a team sport. It never was for me. My memories of it, of physical education class in general, showcased the natural athletes without really taking time to teach the rest of us.

I can dodge today until the cows come home. I have acquired high skills in avoiding topics I don’t want to discuss by switching topics, diverting attention, and being honest that I don’t want to talk about something and won’t talk about something when dodging fails. Dodging doesn’t get me where I’m going as quickly if I’m ducking to avoid being hit by incoming matter.

Dodging isn’t my game. I don’t like people throwing things at me. I am not a runner. I am still a pretty good catcher. Time should not be spent dodging or preparing to be hit by intentionally thrown objects whether those objects come in the form of words, behaviors, or round rubber gym balls.

Dodging doesn’t give me what I need.

I need more uninterrupted time for me.

How?

I work out. I can focus on self-improvement one hundred percent whether strength training, working on flexibility, agility, balance, functional movements, and other realms of fitness. I build on what I know how to do, challenge myself, meet goals, and repeat.

My friends, reading, writing, exercising, and delegating tasks are all effective moves I have to dodge stress. Even doing something new is a way to reset. Giving myself some structured quiet time, watching a candle flame blur, listening to music, and meditating are almost forgotten luxuries that simply need to be prioritized again.

We all need to find ways to dodge life’s stressors and find that priceless time to dedicate to our well-being. Being on guard in a perpetual game of dodgeball is not a healthy choice. Waiting to be taken out by the next ball cancer whips at me is not how I am planning to spend time. I will not be tense, stressed, and feel like I am always dodging some unknown or dreaded event. It is tough for me to escape mentally. My fear reflex flinches almost daily. I have better things to do. Dodging keeps me away from what I want to do.

It’s funny when I think back to that moment in gym class when it was up to me to decide what would happen next in the dodgeball game. I really thought I had a chance to get the ball to my teammates. I did have a chance, just not a good one. Many instances mirror that in real life, especially when living with cancer. I believe I still have a chance. Belief motivates. Belief sees me through. No longer a child, I am stronger now and not as afraid of being hit with an incoming ball. I hope not to flinch as easily as I move forward. Sometimes I will dodge, and sometimes I’ll hit my targets with precision and force. It’s time I hurl balls at a few things I’d like to knock out of my way. Offense is a good defense.

Patients Have Names

I transferred from a smaller cancer clinic setting to a cancer center in a major hospital late last summer. I still believe I am getting excellent medical care.

There are some differences, differences I don’t like. They stem from the sheer newness of my experiences and the size of the cancer center. In time, the newness hopefully will feel more familiar. The gargantuan feel of the hospital maybe will feel smaller as I’ll only go where I need to be.

I’m not so sure about the size. There are two waiting rooms for labs. I’m given a pager that lights up and vibrates when it’s my turn like the ones used in restaurants when your table is ready. Sure, it’s a way to keep things moving quickly and it provides some privacy, but I have a perfectly usable first name. Then I go to another level for the breast center clinic where I wait in another waiting room. After the office visit, I trek upstairs again and get comfortable in a third waiting room where I wait for treatment. I check in at some type of reception area each time. So far, I have had moderate to long waits in each of my waiting rooms with no updates as to how much longer I’ll be waiting. I took my time between waiting rooms two and three last time and went to the germateria for lunch. I still had a good wait when I made it to the last waiting room.

I feel confident about the growing doctor-patient relationship I am developing with my new oncologist. It’s different from the one I had with my former oncologist, but it should be as she is a unique person. Oncologists are not one size fits all just as patients are not.

The treatment area is where I’m identifying more of a repetitive insensitivity issue.

It’s less personal. An identification bracelet is strapped on and it’s scanned to populate my personal information. It beeps. Every time. I hate that bracelet. It’s one of many factors that make me feel like I’m an illness. I will move past it.

I have a name and I’d like for my nurses to use it.

On my first visit there, the nurses noted it was my first treatment so I needed to be watched for a possible allergic reaction. No, it was only my first treatment at that facility. It was my 10th with this protocol and my 109th overall. For whatever reason, this important data wasn’t coming up. It’s a distinction I happen to think is worth knowing and should be correctly documented. Could just be me. Talking to me, bringing the patient’s voice into the discussion provides meaningful, not to mention accurate, information.

I know I have to give up comparing how my new place is different from my old place, but I never had to wear an ID bracelet in the old place. Everyone knew me. They took a genuine interest in me. We knew things about one another’s lives on personal levels. If an appointment needed to be changed, I was called. Here, I get a letter informing me appointments have already been changed without consulting me if the changes work for me.

Patients also have telephones by the way. It’s a good thing I’m not working and have a little more flexibility.

There’s more. Most of the nurses just swing in and out of my treatment cubicle and it’s all business. Some tell me who they are; some do not. Some are friendly; others not so much. I usually have more than just one per visit because they are running around caring for multiple patients at a time. I’ve asked for their names. My bracelet gets scanned and apparently that’s sufficient.

I have a name.

I am more than my ID bracelet. I am not a number. I am not an illness, and I am so much more than a patient. When multiple nurses shuffle in and out, it makes me feel like I’m not assigned to any nurse specifically. I feel like I’m an inanimate object on an assembly line. Truthfully, I feel a little bit that way when I have to visit three different areas on one visit. I feel that way when I’m not consulted about appointment changes. Asking if bigger is better in terms of patient care is a whole other topic.

I have had a couple of very friendly nurses. They visit with me and I do feel like I’m starting to get to know them and build connections. Personal connections and positive relationships make my health care better. I know their names. I recognize them. It helps me feel like I belong. Patients have names and it’s not unreasonable for nurses to use them. I empathize that they are spread thin and have a lot on their plate. I get that a lot is asked of them. I know from visits with my nurse friends at my old place how they are often left out of the loop with decisions that affect them. I know that more and more is being asked of them and that they have to do more with less. I know that some of these decisions don’t put the interests of the patients first. I know they referred to me as family. I felt the same and I miss them. I know all their names (Karen, Sue, the two Brookes, Kari, the two Ambers, Amanda, Sandy, Kay, Kelly, Justin, Nina, and Beth).

Is knowing a patient’s name too much to ask? I don’t think so.

As a teacher, calling a student by their name lets the student know you recognize them, that you care about them and their success, and it fosters a sense of trust. Students feel comfortable and, oh, I don’t know, it has a positive impact on learning. If I were a parent, I would not want my child to have a teacher who didn’t know their name. I would like my nurses to know who I am. I believe being recognized, feeling cared for, and trusting your healthcare providers will have a positive impact on care given and care received.

Going forward, I will be proactive and introduce myself, letting my nurses know that using my name makes me feel valued. I won’t be able to change the three different areas I visit when I’m there. I won’t be able to change how long I wait. I won’t be able to ditch the ID bracelet. I may not even be able to do much about whether nurses take my encouragement to use my name. All I can do is try.

Update: Most of this post was drafted about one month ago. My past two visits have been more positive in terms of my interactions with my treatment nurses. Situations change. I hope mine has changed for the better. I could have chosen not to publish this post, but I went ahead with it because it’s important to remember patients aren’t numbers, or statistics, or are treated like part of the equipment we are hooked up to when receiving treatment. We are people. We have feelings. We have names.

 

Empathy and Cancer

Empathy: the ability to understand and share feelings with another.

I recently read a blog written by an older woman who had a cancer scare that she had to deal with on her own. Her husband had passed away from cancer and she had had enough of it in her life. Her feelings are understandable. Two mammograms directed her to an ultrasound. The ultrasound triggered a biopsy. Her timeline read very much like mine did. One test after another was given with heightened urgency. Everything was fast tracked for this woman because the doctors were worried about the outcome of tests. She didn’t know how she would do cancer alone. Thankfully, this woman did not have breast cancer. Of course, I am glad it turned out this way for her.

She said her experience gave her empathy for people who are alone.

Hello?

I’m sure this fellow writer is a lovely woman. Supporting someone through illness is hard. Losing him/her to that illness is excruciating. I do not diminish her pain because I know it’s real. I can empathize with her because I have lost people in my life. Cancer takes too much.

I am confused though why empathy needs to be directed toward people who are alone. Is aloneness somehow lesser than togetherness? Do my experiences when I spend time with friends, family, or a group of people give me empathy for people with partners? They do not. I may at times feel a little thankful to be back home and away from some of the stimulation and unwelcomed opinions, but I do not have empathy for people in a relationship. It sounds absurd when the shoe is on the other foot.

Somehow the comment rubbed me the wrong way. It seemed more bothersome to me that she felt empathy for people who are alone than for people who have cancer. I just kept scratching my head. It felt like pity or that someone was feeling sorry for me. I don’t want someone’s sorrow. Her remarks made me feel like she was saying, “Thank goodness I didn’t have cancer and the double whammy of being by myself!” This is more of an inner reflection than what was likely intended. I guess being on my own is a bit of a touchy subject for me, mainly of how I feel society perceives it as something less. I feel like I’m regularly defending my status. Sometimes I feel forgotten. Having cancer and being on my own really isn’t so hard. For one thing, I am reliant on myself and can organize appointments, etc. in a way that works best for me. I don’t have to check with others when I need to change my plans. I know how I feel and I don’t need to try to convince or explain those feelings to someone else. Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes I wish I had a little more help and didn’t have to figure everything out. And I do have help. I have plenty of support. I ask for what I need. I feel connected to so many and have nurtured meaningful relationships. Technically, yes, I am doing cancer on my own, but I’m also not. It’s complicated.

“Empathy is simply listening, holding space, withholding judgment, emotionally connecting and communicating that incredibly healing message of ‘You’re not alone.’” ~ Brené Brown

Enjoy a short clip from YouTube where Brené Brown explains more about empathy.

I am not sure I’ve done all those things in my reaction to what I read. This post itself has been difficult for me to write. I have felt angry and questioned those feelings. However, it is completely okay, in fact it is fine, more than fine, for me to feel anger. I feel misrepresented. I feel there are indirect implications that are at my expense while someone else is expressing gratitude. Gratitude is not gratitude if someone (or another group) is put down in order for another individual to feel grateful. Nor is it empathy.

Empathy means a lot to a person whether they have someone at their side or they are on their own. Empathy is a universal yearning we all need and we all have the capacity to give. You are putting yourself in someone else’s shoes. It still isn’t quite the same because at the end of the day you put your own shoes back on. Still . . . there are moments when you almost get it. The important part is that you try to get it. I have beloved friends who try to get it.

One of my goals with this blog is to change perspectives on cancer, particularly advanced stage cancer. When I read something that feels a little, “Oh, that poor person has cancer and is alone,” I don’t like anything in that sentence because that feeling of pity permeates whatever sentiment is trying to be conveyed.

It doesn’t feel good.

What feels good is being welcomed to a group. I’d rather hear a compliment about something amazing I accomplished instead of a question on whether I went with anyone while achieving it. It feels good to be appreciated for my other qualities. It feels good to be included in things. If I’m unable to do something, then I may need to pass, but I appreciate being included. I like it when people remember things about me and respect my thoughts and opinions. I like it a lot when I’m not constantly asked about my health and truly treated like one of the gang. A small bit of thoughtfulness goes a long ways. It is how I believe we all can treat one another respectfully and compassionately.

Empathy in action is a lifestyle choice.

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Taken at the UW-Arboretum in Madison, WI.

It’s possible I’m confusing empathy with sympathy, but I don’t think I am. In fact, I think some other people are. I certainly don’t want anyone’s sympathy or sorrow. It belittles and demeans if directed at me because I’m living with cancer. I want an even playing field. Don’t give me something or take something from me because of my health. Don’t give me something or take something from me because I’m single. I didn’t ask for your sorrow or pity. I’ve asked for your encouragement, support, and friendship. These are the things I offer.

There is something else you can give me: caramel. If someone were to offer me a caramel, I would not say no. Really good caramels are an entirely different story. It just might be an edible form of empathy.

Empathy is feeling as sad for a friend as if the event were happening to you. It’s understanding your friend is in a lot of emotional or physical pain. Empathy is understanding a perspective that’s the polar opposite of yours. Parents and teachers demonstrate empathy every time they know that something that isn’t a big deal at all really is a huge deal to a child. You show empathy to me when you understand that I may cancel plans, not feel one hundred percent, and don’t ask me a laundry list of questions. It means a lot to me when you share something hard in your life rather than me always explaining my latest hurdle that I try to embellish with a little humor thrown in for good measure.

Empathy is not making comments along the lines of “It’s too bad you had to get cancer.” Yeah, I just don’t know what I was thinking when I was in the cancer store. It isn’t empathetic to tell someone what he/she feels. Neither is telling someone what he/she needs to do to fix what is deemed not right (health, job, loss, etc.). Empathy is not putting someone down or saying things could be worse or that he/she should feel grateful. The words “at least” aren’t used at all. Please don’t tell me to live life to the fullest because tomorrow I could get hit by a bus. What many people don’t understand is that I’m running from that stupid bus every day. These things seem obvious to me, but I’ve heard them all. Perhaps the intention isn’t to show empathy, but to show something far less kind. I can’t figure it out.

And empathy definitely is not knowing what it might be like to have cancer and be alone because you had a scare and everything turned out just fine. You put your own shoes back on and walked on.

Empathy is something we all need and we all have the ability to give. At best, we understand what it’s like to be scared, perhaps terrified about our health and our future. We understand all the “what ifs” that run wild in our thoughts. We understand that disease can be a very lonely place to live. We can relate to one another that our upsetting news, event, or circumstance may be completely different from another person’s struggle, but that they are the same in that they are unsettling, frightening, and possibly very lonely feelings. We understand people are doing the best they can with what they have. Empathy connects us to one another. Through empathy we can share with and support one another. IMG_1836

I can empathize with those feelings.

I am not alone.

You are not alone either.

Consider replying:

  1. Where have you seen empathy alive and well in your life?
  2. How do you best handle situations when someone is not empathetic?