My name is Chris, and I'm a Facebook Stalker...
Most of my career has been spent in radio, which in my opinion, was the original form of social media. Decades before Mark Zuckerberg and/or his minions coined the term, radio listeners often thought that the voice coming out of the speakers was a friend. Many would call in for a chance to talk to their favorite radio personality, ask a question, share an opinion, participate in a contest. Some deejays even had stalkers. Radio allowed for two-way communication when other forms of media did not.
And then Facebook came along and changed the definition of social media. Yes, it too allowed for two-way communication. But the difference was that imaginary friendships on Facebook were sort of consensual. The connections were real-ish. (Yes, I'm telling you that the friendship you thought you had with your favorite radio announcer was probably not real.)
Not a lot of my friends and family had Facebook accounts at that time I created my page, and it was often the topic of conversation. I would encourage them to get on Facebook because I had heard from long lost classmates. I had connected with relatives that I hadn't seen since my mom's funeral years earlier. While many people I knew were being cautious about putting their personal business out there for the world to see, I couldn't think of a good reason not to do it. Sure, I got some friend requests from people I had no interest in rekindling relationships with, and some I didn't know, but I wasn't too concerned about stalkers. Perhaps it was because I had mastered the privacy settings. Or maybe it was because I thought the whole idea of stalking someone on a networking website was crazy. Who had time for that?
Me, apparently.
Last week I was bored and checking out the news feed when I noticed that one of my "friends" commented on the post of an ex coworker (who is not my Facebook friend). The last time I saw her was when she left the organization to have a baby. I was curious, so I clicked on the photo. It wasn't private. There were a few more shots of a cute baby, and then I clicked on the "albums" link to see if there were more. There weren't. But there was a video that she had been tagged in.
I clicked on the video and became entranced. It was a memorial for a 28 year old who died in a freak kayaking accident. The video was a tribute to the handsome young man, and included scenes of his whitewater adventures, he and his girlfriend cross country skiing, and the two of them teaching their puppy to swim. For almost 10 minutes the video played, and my heart broke at the thought of a life ended much too soon. I felt genuinely sad. I spent the next half hour feeling blue and looking for more information about a man I didn't even know.
Then it hit me. I had become a sort of Facebook Stalker. Not the kind that some of my friends and family feared (someone with an obsession for one particular person). I was more of a passive stalker. Someone who stumbled upon something intriguing, like interesting photos of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, and got sucked into the life of a stranger. I'm not sure whether or not the person who posted the video memorial intended for everyone on Facebook to see it. It was beautiful, but it really wasn't any of my business. And an open door is not always an invitation inside.
The video incident was quite an eye-opener for me. I will no longer be spending my free time clicking mindlessly through the pictures of people I don't know. Instead I will be attending Facebook Stalker Anonymous meetings, and hosting webinars for former victims on how to master privacy controls.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Like home
I worked in radio for more than a decade. Nothing high profile, like a morning show host or anything. My job was more behind-the-scenes, and mostly entailed planning and managing events and promotions. My first gig was at Cities 97, a Minneapolis "adult album alternative" radio station, when I was in my twenties. The playlist included a lot of music from local bands, and one of my favorites was The Jayhawks. They had been around since the 80s, but I didn't really discover them until the 90s, when I saw them perform live. I copped their "Tomorrow The Green Grass" CD from our music director--free music was one of the perks of the job--and played it over and over. I quickly fell in love with every song, and got to see the band play live again on several occasions (another job perk).
As time went on, my taste in music evolved, but The Jayhawks remained on my top 10 list. I never forgot the lyrics to "Blue"--my favorite song--or any of the other songs on the album for that matter. And every now and then I would come across the CD and rediscover that familiar rock-country-folk sound I loved all over again.
Sometime in the early 2000s, I transferred all of my CDs to iTunes. Thanks to my long career in radio, I had over a thousand discs. Many of them didn't make the cut, mostly because I got tired of copying all those files. "Tomorrow The Green Grass" did. But something strange happened once my entire music collection was on my computer. When I could no longer hold a CD in my hand, look at the artwork, or read the liner notes--I could no longer remember what I had in my collection. I forgot about many of my favorites, and for around five years, I forgot about The Jayhawks.
That was until 2006, when I was living in Dallas and working as the marketing director for the Body Worlds traveling museum exhibition. I was on my own, and aside from an old friend who moved back to Texas around that time, I really didn't know anyone there. At first, it didn't matter. I was working a lot and spent most of my free time exploring with my dogs, and taking long walks on the Katy trail. After a couple of months, I began to miss my friends and family back home. I was finding it challenging to relate to many of the people that I met in Dallas. I longed to be near people who were down to earth, and not obsessed with cars and clothes and credit cards. As I walked the trail one chilly January morning, listening to my iPod on shuffle, the song "Blue" began to play. The lyrics hit me the way the heat of the sun does after it pops out from under a big cloud... "Where have all my friends gone? They've all disappeared. Turned around maybe one day. You're all that was there..." A warm feeling washed over my entire body, and tears came to my eyes. Hearing my favorite Minnesota band at that moment made me forget that I was a thousand miles from home. The Jayhawks were like home.
Two years later, when my boyfriend Matt and I were getting to know each other, I learned he loved The Jayhawks too. I shared my Texas story with him during one of our phone conversations. On our first official date, he surprised me with the then latest CD from one of The Jayhawks' original band members, Mark Olson. He waited until the end of the date, and as he walked me to my car, stopped at his car to retrieve a neatly wrapped package. I opened it and fought back tears. Again, that warm feeling washed over me... like home. I have teased Matt about how he waited until the end of the evening to give it to me (like a prize for having a better than expected first date), and joked often that I may have fallen in love with him at that moment. Even now, when I am bored or need cheering up, we get in Matt's car and take a tour of his favorite country roads in Wisconsin. I ramble on about the clouds and how big the sky is, and he plays The Jayhawks on the car stereo.
This past Tuesday night, thanks to a good friend who still works in radio, I got to see The Jayhawks perform for the first time in more than a decade. Hearing them live brought back a flood of memories. It's amazing how music can evoke such emotion and make you feel so good. I think for me, The Jayhawks will always be like home.
As time went on, my taste in music evolved, but The Jayhawks remained on my top 10 list. I never forgot the lyrics to "Blue"--my favorite song--or any of the other songs on the album for that matter. And every now and then I would come across the CD and rediscover that familiar rock-country-folk sound I loved all over again.
Sometime in the early 2000s, I transferred all of my CDs to iTunes. Thanks to my long career in radio, I had over a thousand discs. Many of them didn't make the cut, mostly because I got tired of copying all those files. "Tomorrow The Green Grass" did. But something strange happened once my entire music collection was on my computer. When I could no longer hold a CD in my hand, look at the artwork, or read the liner notes--I could no longer remember what I had in my collection. I forgot about many of my favorites, and for around five years, I forgot about The Jayhawks.
That was until 2006, when I was living in Dallas and working as the marketing director for the Body Worlds traveling museum exhibition. I was on my own, and aside from an old friend who moved back to Texas around that time, I really didn't know anyone there. At first, it didn't matter. I was working a lot and spent most of my free time exploring with my dogs, and taking long walks on the Katy trail. After a couple of months, I began to miss my friends and family back home. I was finding it challenging to relate to many of the people that I met in Dallas. I longed to be near people who were down to earth, and not obsessed with cars and clothes and credit cards. As I walked the trail one chilly January morning, listening to my iPod on shuffle, the song "Blue" began to play. The lyrics hit me the way the heat of the sun does after it pops out from under a big cloud... "Where have all my friends gone? They've all disappeared. Turned around maybe one day. You're all that was there..." A warm feeling washed over my entire body, and tears came to my eyes. Hearing my favorite Minnesota band at that moment made me forget that I was a thousand miles from home. The Jayhawks were like home.
Two years later, when my boyfriend Matt and I were getting to know each other, I learned he loved The Jayhawks too. I shared my Texas story with him during one of our phone conversations. On our first official date, he surprised me with the then latest CD from one of The Jayhawks' original band members, Mark Olson. He waited until the end of the date, and as he walked me to my car, stopped at his car to retrieve a neatly wrapped package. I opened it and fought back tears. Again, that warm feeling washed over me... like home. I have teased Matt about how he waited until the end of the evening to give it to me (like a prize for having a better than expected first date), and joked often that I may have fallen in love with him at that moment. Even now, when I am bored or need cheering up, we get in Matt's car and take a tour of his favorite country roads in Wisconsin. I ramble on about the clouds and how big the sky is, and he plays The Jayhawks on the car stereo.
This past Tuesday night, thanks to a good friend who still works in radio, I got to see The Jayhawks perform for the first time in more than a decade. Hearing them live brought back a flood of memories. It's amazing how music can evoke such emotion and make you feel so good. I think for me, The Jayhawks will always be like home.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Julo's Journey
As a child, she loved art, sewing, archery, swimming, and rollerskating--all passions that stayed with her throughout her life. When she graduated from Humbolt High School in the late fifties, she went on to get married and start a family. She had four children--two girls and two boys--and was a stay at home mom who devoted most of her time to volunteering at her kids’ schools, scouts, and church. She also had her own business as a tailor, and made beautiful clothes for several clients, including me. She taught me to sew when I was around 12 years old, after my custom clothing requests became too elaborate for her patience. But she was always willing to repair my sewing mishaps. I think one of her favorite spots on earth was her sewing room--a warm and cozy place with a straw mat on the floor, an old family trunk full of hundreds of pieces of fabric (a trunk that I have in my living room today), and walls covered with photos of her favorite things.
My mom joined the workforce when my brothers and sister and I were in junior high and high school, and found her niche in the health care field. She worked at a few hospitals before she ended up at Abbott Northwestern, where she worked for nearly 15 years. Although she enjoyed her job, she only worked so she could do the things she loved when she wasn't at the hospital. She had a free spirit and was very independent (something she instilled in me as well). She cherished life and appreciated nature, especially being in the woods walking, camping, or painting the beautiful scenery she surrounded herself with. She kept her camping gear in the car year round, so she could take off on a whim, and head for the forest. She also enjoyed just sitting on her deck, feeling the sunshine on her face, and admiring the beautiful gardens she tended to so lovingly.
Her sense of adventure led her many places, not just in travel, but hunting for treasures at antique shops and flea markets, finding the perfect pottery or jewelry at the Renaissance Festival, or discovering just what she was looking for at an art show. Her love of children inspired her fun spirit--she roller skated into her fifties, dressed up in costume every Halloween, and collected antique toys.
Something I really admired about my mom was that she found pleasure in simple things like putting handmade bows on Christmas packages, sending Valentines to her kids, and decorating her house for every season. Her warm smile, laugh, and gentle nature drew people to her. She had a lot of class, an artistic sense of style, and often wore vibrant colors that mirrored her personality--her favorite was purple. She was good to her children and her friends, and was always willing to lend an ear, a shoulder or her time. She always gave so generously of herself. She made the people she was near feel special.
She was diagnosed with Stage 4 ovarian cancer in 1997. For 23 months she fought with a strong will and brave spirit. She never gave up, even in the end when her body could no longer serve her beautiful soul. When the nurses told her she shouldn’t walk, she’d muster up all the strength she could to get up and walk across the room. She hated being cooped up in the house and would ask to be taken out for a meal, even though she barely ate a thing. She was determined to care for herself and although she had always been so generous, she found it difficult to accept help from those who loved her. She didn’t want to burden anyone. She didn’t know she was giving them a gift--especially me. I had the pleasure of being my mom's caretaker for the last months of her life, and was finally able to give back to her what she had given to me from the day I was born.
My mom’s wish was to spend her last moments surrounded by the comforts of home. Thanks to a wonderful team of hospice nurses, health care workers, volunteers, friends, and family, we were able to give her greatest gift of all. She died with dignity and was surrounded by the people, pets, and things she loved. On November 29, 1999, my mom Julo’s journey took her back to the beauty of nature that she respected and loved so much.
I will never, ever forget my mom, and I think about her every day. She was a role model in many ways, and I see so much of her in me, especially as I get older. This past year has been the most difficult of my life, and I often compare my own journey with cancer to hers. She is one of the reasons I was able to make it through, because she was with me every step of the way. She is in my heart always.
Happy Mother's Day.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Cancer time capsule
While I was battling cancer, my friend Lisa suggested that I keep a journal on CaringBridge, so that friends and family could track my progress, and show their support along the way. I am so happy that I did. The last few weeks, I have found myself revisiting my posts there to see what was happening in my life just one year ago. What's strange is that although I have recalled some of the milestones (surgery to remove the tumor, starting chemo, etc.), I had forgotten how I felt during that time. I have very little memory of how horrible the chemotherapy drugs made me feel--the physical and psychological side effects. And how despite the dark times, I always managed to find the silver lining. Reading those entries is a true testament to the human spirit.
Last year at this time, I had finished my second of six chemotherapy sessions and was struggling through a nasty bout with infected hair follicles on my scalp. I was still working at the museum full time, taking the week of chemo off, and returning to my marketing director duties for two weeks until the next treatment. I was so happy it was spring, and that green was bursting all around me.
A springtime memory from the cancer time capsule...
Monday, April 5, 2010
I am still having trouble sleeping, so I thought I would update my journal.
Easter was lovely. As a child Easter meant getting a new spring dress and coat (that matched my sister's) and going to my Grandma and Grandpa Olsen's house to hang out with my family. We would have ham and all of the fixings. If it was a warm, sunny day like yesterday, we would spend time in the back yard. The adults sipped on iced tea while the kids played. My grandparents had a big wooden double glider swing in their yard. To me, that white painted swing represented summer. It sat four adults comfortably, but up to five or six of my siblings and cousins and I could pile on it and pretend we were on a ship, rocking with the waves at sea, or some other adventure.
This Easter was reminiscent of my childhood. Although I didn't get a new dress and coat, I decided to wear a spring dress, just like old times. The hair on my legs had not fallen out, so I even shaved my legs (well, that was not something I did as a child). I threw my dog Jake in the car, picked up a strawberry pie and I was off to my aunt and uncle's house. As I was driving, all I could think about was how great I felt, how great the sun felt, how happy I was to be over the first hump of chemo side effects, how life was truly amazing. I told myself to remember exactly how I felt at that moment--to bank the memory for the times when I wasn't feeling so great.
When I arrived, my cousins and their young children were in the midst of an Easter egg hunt in the back yard. As I walked through the gate, and heard the laughter and excitement of the kids, I was transported back in time to my grandparent's back yard. All that was missing was the swing.
My aunt made an incredible amount of delicious food! She cooked a ham, green bean casserole, croissant rolls the size of my arm--and my favorite cheesy potatoes. She even channeled my grandma a couple of times, in particular when she was carving the ham and making commentary.
The day also included watching five happy wiener dogs run around the yard (my cousins, aunt and uncle and I all have dachshunds), watching my cousin Amie's husband Scott get pooped on by a passing duck, and listening to my cousin Alisha obsess about the plans she had for transforming my aunt's garden into a grove of various fruits and berries.
It may have been just another Easter to the rest of my family, but to me it was really special. I appreciated it more. I'm not sure why it took cancer to make me appreciate the little things so much, but I know for sure, I will continue to take note of these little things every single day. It was a perfect day!
Last year at this time, I had finished my second of six chemotherapy sessions and was struggling through a nasty bout with infected hair follicles on my scalp. I was still working at the museum full time, taking the week of chemo off, and returning to my marketing director duties for two weeks until the next treatment. I was so happy it was spring, and that green was bursting all around me.
A springtime memory from the cancer time capsule...
Monday, April 5, 2010
I am still having trouble sleeping, so I thought I would update my journal.
Easter was lovely. As a child Easter meant getting a new spring dress and coat (that matched my sister's) and going to my Grandma and Grandpa Olsen's house to hang out with my family. We would have ham and all of the fixings. If it was a warm, sunny day like yesterday, we would spend time in the back yard. The adults sipped on iced tea while the kids played. My grandparents had a big wooden double glider swing in their yard. To me, that white painted swing represented summer. It sat four adults comfortably, but up to five or six of my siblings and cousins and I could pile on it and pretend we were on a ship, rocking with the waves at sea, or some other adventure.
This Easter was reminiscent of my childhood. Although I didn't get a new dress and coat, I decided to wear a spring dress, just like old times. The hair on my legs had not fallen out, so I even shaved my legs (well, that was not something I did as a child). I threw my dog Jake in the car, picked up a strawberry pie and I was off to my aunt and uncle's house. As I was driving, all I could think about was how great I felt, how great the sun felt, how happy I was to be over the first hump of chemo side effects, how life was truly amazing. I told myself to remember exactly how I felt at that moment--to bank the memory for the times when I wasn't feeling so great.
When I arrived, my cousins and their young children were in the midst of an Easter egg hunt in the back yard. As I walked through the gate, and heard the laughter and excitement of the kids, I was transported back in time to my grandparent's back yard. All that was missing was the swing.
My aunt made an incredible amount of delicious food! She cooked a ham, green bean casserole, croissant rolls the size of my arm--and my favorite cheesy potatoes. She even channeled my grandma a couple of times, in particular when she was carving the ham and making commentary.
The day also included watching five happy wiener dogs run around the yard (my cousins, aunt and uncle and I all have dachshunds), watching my cousin Amie's husband Scott get pooped on by a passing duck, and listening to my cousin Alisha obsess about the plans she had for transforming my aunt's garden into a grove of various fruits and berries.
It may have been just another Easter to the rest of my family, but to me it was really special. I appreciated it more. I'm not sure why it took cancer to make me appreciate the little things so much, but I know for sure, I will continue to take note of these little things every single day. It was a perfect day!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Goodbye, Big Pig
On special occasions, we'd all pile in the car and go out for burgers. There wasn't a burger in the Twin Cities that my dad hadn't tried, and he did not discriminate. His favorites included 'Gut Bombs' from White Castle, and cheese-filled Jucy Lucys from Matt's Bar. But his top choice for a good old fashioned hamburger was Porky's Drive-in on University Avenue. It was the 70s, so carhops actually brought platters piled high with burgers, fries, onion rings and shakes, right to the car. I loved how the tray rested on the partially rolled down window, and how my dad would divvy up the food. I would sit in the backseat, munching on the greasy goodness, imaging that Fonzie and the Happy Days gang were going to show up at any moment. I would stare up at the Porky's sign, watching the Big Pig in his top hat and bow tie, as he winked his neon eye at me from high above the parking lot.
As time went on, and my brothers and sister and I grew older, burger nights were history, and our family outings to Porky's became a thing of the past. My dad's visits there continued, but it became less about food, and more about tradition. He would jump in his 1950 Ford pickup truck, cruise up and down University Avenue, and meet up with his hot rod buddies in the parking lot. They would pop open their hoods, compare parts, and 'shoot the shit' for hours and hours. Almost every time I saw my dad, he had a story to share about something that happened at Porky's. It was such a big part of his life that at his funeral a year and a half ago, dozens of his classic car cohorts came to pay their respects, and share Porky's Drive-in stories with my family.
This past weekend, Porky's closed its doors for good after 53 years. I drove by one last time, and the memories came flooding back. I thought of my many childhood trips there, but mostly I thought of what a special place it was for my dad. I recalled the last time I was there, three years ago. It was a warm summer evening and I had tried numerous times to reach my dad on his cell phone. When he didn't answer after several hours, I began to worry. I called my older brother to find out when he had last spoken to him. He asked if I had checked Porky's. I drove up to the restaurant and didn't see my dad at first. But then I heard his laugh and spotted him at a picnic table with four or five of his friends. There were several empty red plastic burger baskets in front of them. As I got out of the car and approached the table, he didn't think it was at all unusual that I was there. He invited me to join him and the gang. I sat down on the bench and his friends immediately started cracking jokes about my dad. I will always remember that night, how happy he looked, underneath the Porky's sign, with the Big Pig in his top hat and bow tie, winking his neon eye.
Goodbye, Big Pig. Thank you for making my dad smile, and for bringing my family many years of joy. You will be missed.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Big gulps or tiny sips?
My boyfriend Matt and I have known each other for a couple of years, but officially started dating last October. There were a few things that he said and did when I was battling cancer that made me fall for him. The first was after I shaved my head before starting chemo. He made a point of telling me that he thought I was cute bald. Of course, I didn't believe him, but it was nice of him to say so.
As my journey continued, Matt wasn't afraid to actually talk about cancer, or the fact that it affected my reproductive organs. Most of my guy friends disappeared when I went through surgery and chemotherapy. My own brothers left my hospital room when the surgeon said the word ovary. I know many men are wired differently than women when it comes to dealing with illness and death. But Matt had no fear. He asked questions, he checked in on me, he offered to help in any way he could. He'd offer to take me to lunch, or bring me food, but always understood if I wasn't feeling up to it.
In late June, as I was gearing up for my final round of chemo, he sent me a picture of a bike. An avid cyclist, vice president of a mountain bike club, and bicycle shop manager for many years, Matt came in contact with a lot of bikes. So at first I didn't get why he was sending me a random photo. As it turned out, the bike was for me. He made it. If I hadn't been going through chemo and my brain wasn't in a perma-haze, I probably would have figured it out sooner. Matt was not so subtle about asking me bike-related questions. Nonetheless, I was at my aunt and uncle's house when I got the picture message and my cousin Alisha suggested I date Matt. I recall explaining to her that we were just friends, and her matter-of-fact "so what" response.
At summer's end I started to feel good again, and I started to spend more time with Matt. We went out to eat, we went to movies, we went for walks. We talked a lot. We had a lot of deep conversations. During one of our conversations, I shared that I was sad because it seemed that I would never feel like myself again. Matt said the nicest thing. He said he talked to a friend whose wife had been through chemo. He said he knew without a doubt that I would feel healthy and happy and whole again... soon. His words touched my heart. He had talked with someone who had been through a similar journey because he wanted to better understand what I was going through, and to offer his support and love. It overwhelmed me. A few months later we decided we should "date" but looking back, we were sort of dating the whole time. Granted, we never even made it to first base, but we were getting to know each other--really know each other.
Matt and I still have a lot of deep conversations, and the time when we are sharing who we are, and discovering what we might become, is my favorite time together. The other day, we were having a discussion about how I tend to make decisions quickly and act on them, and Matt takes more time to think through things and weigh out all the options, before he makes a decision. I wondered how it would be possible for two people who were so different in this way not to drive each other crazy. Would I become annoyed every time he discouraged me from diving into something without first considering what could go wrong? Would my pushing him to take risks and follow his gut instead of his head always get on his nerves?
Once again, Matt's words touched my heart. He said, "Chris, you take big gulps of life, and I take tiny sips. But that doesn't mean one tastes better than the other." And he was right. Either way--whether you gulp it, or sip it--life is really good.
As my journey continued, Matt wasn't afraid to actually talk about cancer, or the fact that it affected my reproductive organs. Most of my guy friends disappeared when I went through surgery and chemotherapy. My own brothers left my hospital room when the surgeon said the word ovary. I know many men are wired differently than women when it comes to dealing with illness and death. But Matt had no fear. He asked questions, he checked in on me, he offered to help in any way he could. He'd offer to take me to lunch, or bring me food, but always understood if I wasn't feeling up to it.
In late June, as I was gearing up for my final round of chemo, he sent me a picture of a bike. An avid cyclist, vice president of a mountain bike club, and bicycle shop manager for many years, Matt came in contact with a lot of bikes. So at first I didn't get why he was sending me a random photo. As it turned out, the bike was for me. He made it. If I hadn't been going through chemo and my brain wasn't in a perma-haze, I probably would have figured it out sooner. Matt was not so subtle about asking me bike-related questions. Nonetheless, I was at my aunt and uncle's house when I got the picture message and my cousin Alisha suggested I date Matt. I recall explaining to her that we were just friends, and her matter-of-fact "so what" response.
At summer's end I started to feel good again, and I started to spend more time with Matt. We went out to eat, we went to movies, we went for walks. We talked a lot. We had a lot of deep conversations. During one of our conversations, I shared that I was sad because it seemed that I would never feel like myself again. Matt said the nicest thing. He said he talked to a friend whose wife had been through chemo. He said he knew without a doubt that I would feel healthy and happy and whole again... soon. His words touched my heart. He had talked with someone who had been through a similar journey because he wanted to better understand what I was going through, and to offer his support and love. It overwhelmed me. A few months later we decided we should "date" but looking back, we were sort of dating the whole time. Granted, we never even made it to first base, but we were getting to know each other--really know each other.
Matt and I still have a lot of deep conversations, and the time when we are sharing who we are, and discovering what we might become, is my favorite time together. The other day, we were having a discussion about how I tend to make decisions quickly and act on them, and Matt takes more time to think through things and weigh out all the options, before he makes a decision. I wondered how it would be possible for two people who were so different in this way not to drive each other crazy. Would I become annoyed every time he discouraged me from diving into something without first considering what could go wrong? Would my pushing him to take risks and follow his gut instead of his head always get on his nerves?
Once again, Matt's words touched my heart. He said, "Chris, you take big gulps of life, and I take tiny sips. But that doesn't mean one tastes better than the other." And he was right. Either way--whether you gulp it, or sip it--life is really good.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Hair!
Hair is a blessing and a curse. Especially for women. Also maybe for men who have balding heads along with bodies covered in fur like Silverbacks. I never realized how much I loved my hair until I went through six sessions of chemotherapy and it all fell out. And I never realized how much I hated it until I began experiencing the 'growing back' stages that followed my final treatment.
After my cancer diagnosis and surgery I took on my impending drug-induced hair loss like a champ. I cut off my 10+ inches and donated it to Locks of Love before I even started chemo. Only LOL wouldn't take it because it had been processed. Seriously. They didn't want my hair. What woman is sporting her natural hair color? I couldn't help but wonder how many more wigs the LOL people could make for kids with cancer if they weren't so picky. I got compliments on my faux golden locks all the time. I mean really, what kid wouldn't want a full head of beautiful blond hair complete with dark roots?
I purchased a wig before I shaved my head. It was a pretty good one and looked a lot like it was my real hair if my real hair had ever been a dark brown inverted bob. Classic yet sassy. I stopped wearing it after a few weeks when I developed a rash on my tender bald scalp from all the steroids I was prescribed. Steroid folliculitis. Ahh, what wonderful memories I have of playing Scrabble with my cousin Alisha and a bag of frozen corn niblets on my head. It was then that I switched to hats and never looked back.
You can imagine how happy I was when I started to sprout peach fuzz at summer's end. By mid-December I had a full head of half-inch dark blond hair. At first I loved it. I was so happy it was back. It was so low maintenance. Every morning I'd step out of the shower, give it a shake, and it somehow dried itself into a mini faux hawk. I soon realized it was a great look for David Beckham or a six foot tall super model, but I was being mistaken for a 12 year old boy. I decided a 'brightening up' might help. I ended up with a bleach and tone at the hands of my well intentioned but somewhat careless stylist. I still looked like a pre-pubescent male--just a weird one with a baby chick yellow mullet. Sexy.
My favorite aunt, an old school cosmetologist, helped me manage my hair dilemmas every step of the way. She presented me with a kick ass leather Harley Davidson cap when my treatment began. She spent our hours together at the cancer clinic crocheting custom beanies for my bald head. But most importantly, the woman who gave me a bubblecut on the front porch when I was a little kid, modified my bi-level disaster into a thing of beauty.
This past weekend I decided it was time to splurge and treat myself to a salon day. Although my hair was growing quickly, all areas were not growing at the same pace. My sideburns were having trouble keeping up with the top and back. But it was finally long enough for foils, and I was eager for low lights and another mullet modification. As I sat in the stylist's chair, I realized it had been over a year since I had the full salon experience--putting on a gown, sipping on sparkling water, paging through gossip magazines, eavesdropping on the stylist/girl chat going on around me. I had forgotten how wonderful the head and neck massage were. I had forgotten how long it took to go through this beauty regimen. I had forgotten how important it was to do nice things for myself.
Two and a half hours and $280 later, I had a fabulous new color and a cut I was pretty sure was great. It was just difficult to see its exact potential because the French-speaking stylist misunderstood when I said NO volume. I felt like Liz Taylor in the 80s. Only blond. And maybe less glamorous. But in the end, my day of pampering was well worth it. Because you can't put a price tag on feeling normal again. Well, maybe not 'normal.' Maybe just the way I felt before cancer.
After my cancer diagnosis and surgery I took on my impending drug-induced hair loss like a champ. I cut off my 10+ inches and donated it to Locks of Love before I even started chemo. Only LOL wouldn't take it because it had been processed. Seriously. They didn't want my hair. What woman is sporting her natural hair color? I couldn't help but wonder how many more wigs the LOL people could make for kids with cancer if they weren't so picky. I got compliments on my faux golden locks all the time. I mean really, what kid wouldn't want a full head of beautiful blond hair complete with dark roots?
I purchased a wig before I shaved my head. It was a pretty good one and looked a lot like it was my real hair if my real hair had ever been a dark brown inverted bob. Classic yet sassy. I stopped wearing it after a few weeks when I developed a rash on my tender bald scalp from all the steroids I was prescribed. Steroid folliculitis. Ahh, what wonderful memories I have of playing Scrabble with my cousin Alisha and a bag of frozen corn niblets on my head. It was then that I switched to hats and never looked back.
You can imagine how happy I was when I started to sprout peach fuzz at summer's end. By mid-December I had a full head of half-inch dark blond hair. At first I loved it. I was so happy it was back. It was so low maintenance. Every morning I'd step out of the shower, give it a shake, and it somehow dried itself into a mini faux hawk. I soon realized it was a great look for David Beckham or a six foot tall super model, but I was being mistaken for a 12 year old boy. I decided a 'brightening up' might help. I ended up with a bleach and tone at the hands of my well intentioned but somewhat careless stylist. I still looked like a pre-pubescent male--just a weird one with a baby chick yellow mullet. Sexy.
My favorite aunt, an old school cosmetologist, helped me manage my hair dilemmas every step of the way. She presented me with a kick ass leather Harley Davidson cap when my treatment began. She spent our hours together at the cancer clinic crocheting custom beanies for my bald head. But most importantly, the woman who gave me a bubblecut on the front porch when I was a little kid, modified my bi-level disaster into a thing of beauty.
This past weekend I decided it was time to splurge and treat myself to a salon day. Although my hair was growing quickly, all areas were not growing at the same pace. My sideburns were having trouble keeping up with the top and back. But it was finally long enough for foils, and I was eager for low lights and another mullet modification. As I sat in the stylist's chair, I realized it had been over a year since I had the full salon experience--putting on a gown, sipping on sparkling water, paging through gossip magazines, eavesdropping on the stylist/girl chat going on around me. I had forgotten how wonderful the head and neck massage were. I had forgotten how long it took to go through this beauty regimen. I had forgotten how important it was to do nice things for myself.
Two and a half hours and $280 later, I had a fabulous new color and a cut I was pretty sure was great. It was just difficult to see its exact potential because the French-speaking stylist misunderstood when I said NO volume. I felt like Liz Taylor in the 80s. Only blond. And maybe less glamorous. But in the end, my day of pampering was well worth it. Because you can't put a price tag on feeling normal again. Well, maybe not 'normal.' Maybe just the way I felt before cancer.
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