Simply not my story.

Breast cancer is not my story, I told Amna. My heart tells me that I had my share of drama in this life and no way I will test positive. Apparently, I was wrong.

This Tuesday morning I woke up feeling refresh for the first time since my surgery. I texted my sister, and brother-in-law saying, I slept great last night and am at my computer ready for the day. I didn’t receive a reply. A couple of hours later my sister called to inform me that our mother passed away.

The dam broke and my inside flooded with emotions that I still haven’t had the time to process. My mother was loved by so many. She had the capacity to love.  She just didn’t love me. I accepted that reality a long time ago. In the last couple of days, I have been searching my brain in hopes of recalling one compassionate moment that my mother and I shared. I cannot recall a single moment.

I can say that my mother was a great cook. She had the ability to taste a meal and decipherer every ingredient and replicate it. She was a creative person and enjoyed writing, art, and sewing. I wish her peace.

I sat at my desk and began to pound away on my computer when I received another call. It was the oncologist. “You have cancer,” he said. Then he continued dictating our plan of action. I listened though I didn’t hear him. I called my sister back to tell her my news.

Since Tuesday, I have had many reach out to me either to give me their condolence or to say sorry about my cancer.

You see, cancer is not my story. It is not my story because I have played a major role in countless other stories. My story is of an abuse survivor; my story is of a mother than a single mother; a friend; a sister; an immigrant; an activist; a Girl Scouts Leader; a writer; a storyteller; a learner; a hiker…my list goes on. Cancer is not my story because no one thing can or will ever define me.

Cancer is simply a chapter. I will put words into this chapter and give it a meaning. During Brene Brown’s commencement speech to UT Austin graduates last week, she talked about plans and detours. She told the graduates to not let COVID-19 steal their accomplishments. Instead, let getting up define you, she told them.

COVID, cancer, even the feeling of loss for what could have been, are just a chapter in our book. It is not our story.

Cancer is simply not my story.

Thankful

I just returned from my Atlanta trip and was gearing up for a week in New York. It was the beginning of February and I already had the rest of the year’s calendar filled with work trips and vacations. Upon returning home in the stack of mail sat my second reminder from the Texas Breast Imaging Center. I was overdue for a mammogram. I reluctantly made an appointment and went in for my routine checkup.

A couple of days later I receive a call, not the usual letter stating all is good but a call. They wanted to perform another mammogram, a diagnostic mammogram to get a better look at something. My first thought was, is this covered under my insurance? This began several months of back and forth with my OB/GYN’s office and the oncologist office then a biopsy. In the middle of it all, COVID-19 shelter in place began.

The oncologist set up an appointment despite COVID. There the surgeon mentioned doing a lumpectomy in order to get a better look except hospitals weren’t performing nonessential surgeries. Great I thought, I didn’t want a surgery to start with. While everything was on hold, I called my insurance so I can “decide” if this was a good financial investment or not. Even though being a mother of two daughters, I knew that it was a necessary “investment” for the three of us.

The day after restrictions were lifted, the office called to schedule. Frankly I wasn’t nervous. I was more concerned about the cost; about how will I take care of everything; about my job; and my girls. But I also wanted to be prepared so I made a list of my accounts; my life insurance; where I had my retirement funds; made sure that Miriam was added to my safe deposit box; and made sure that Amna received a document with details, just in case. Then I began to look at my house and wanted to make it as simple as possible for my girls to put the house on the market. So I started to declutter and started to look at my stuff with a question in mind, does it have a purpose?

Two days ago I had a lumpectomy. I don’t know the results yet. Something tells me that it will be benign. Perhaps it is wishful thinking but I am truly not afraid.

When I woke up from the anesthesia, I said ‘thank you’ so loudly that I startled myself.  I am thankful that I am surrounded by people who love me. Thankful that I am able to take off from work and not worry about being late on my bills. Thankful that both of my daughters will learn from this experience that routine checkups are important. Thankful that after boxing up the countless amounts of clothes, shoes and household goods to donate, my house is still full, not just of stuff but of love.

I am simply thankful.

Empathy - a work in progress

Each time I open my pantry door or my refrigerator, I am reminded of my blessings.  My home is safe, the abundance of food, hygiene products, even pet food to last us a month, may even longer without setting a foot inside a store.  Not to mention, I am fairly healthy and those I love are too. 

Like many, my job isn’t secure.  Our development team consists of five senior Directors and I am the newest hire.  If cuts and hard decisions are to be made, I will be out of work. This reality has caused panic, a constant state of heartburn, and many sleepless nights.  How long can I financially survive without an income? I have done the math and have somewhat of a game plan. However, like many of you, my game plan is evolving because no one knows how long this will continue.  My employer’s headquarter is based in New York, the epicenter of the virus. I don’t think that I need to say anything further. 

What I find myself struggling with these last couple of weeks is allowing myself permission to express my fears.  By expressing our “first world” fears, we are often criticized for sounding insensitive to other circumstances which are far more critical than our own.  Perspective-taking is healthy but it is also healthy to know and feel that your fears and disappointments are valid.

My daughter said to me (paraphrasing), “this is not the way I wanted to end my first year of college”.  I responded, “just think of all the seniors who aren’t going to have graduation”. My response was not empathic.  I tried to overshadow her disappointment with someone else’s disappointment. She wasn’t saying that ending her first year early is the worst thing that came out of COVID-19.  She was simply expressing her disappointment which is her to own.

Showing empathy is a struggle for me especially when I approach my children’s feelings as “complaints”.  However, as I reflect on my own disappointment due to canceled trips and fears for my job, I am reminded that now more than ever, we need empathy.

Virtual hugs to all and stay home!   

The Legends of St. Croix, Virgin Islands

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Last Christmas, my house was filled with decorations. The stockings that my girls’ dad and I had specially made hung by the fireplace. Everything was perfect … except my girls were heading to Galveston with their dad for Christmas.

During our mediation, I volunteered Christmas to him and in trade took New Year’s celebration with our girls.  I have no childhood memories of Christmas and only started “celebrating” it after my marriage.  It was his ornaments that hung on our tree. But, as years went by, I began to collect sentimental pieces of art created by my girls, gifts from friends, and special tokens from places that I visited to decorate our tree.

My plans for Christmas 2018 was simple: wine, pecan pie with an entire carton of ice cream, and some classic family movies that would surely induce countless hours of self-pity and tears as I made a mental list of all the ways life has cheated me.

But my plans were interrupted, thankfully if I may add, with an invitation to sail across the British Virgin Islands for 8 days on a private catamaran.  So I went on an adventure of a lifetime.  From purchasing a swimsuit in winter to getting my vacation approved, I was ready to get the heck out of town.

There were many things that I fell in love with on the sea.  The beautiful sunsets and sunrises, the clear blue water, delicious meals, and just looking out into nothing and realizing that I am merely a drop in the ocean. However, there was one thing in particular that I noticed on the wrist of our captain: a hook bracelet. I knew that I wanted to bring it back home.

I remember asking him about the bracelet and he told me that as legend has it, wives of seafaring men would fashion a bracelet from their husbands’ fishing hooks to show their commitment while the men were at sea.  You wear the hook facing towards you if you are “taken” and outward if you are seeking love.  It was an old Crucian tradition. 

On one of our island excursions, I purchased a hook bracelet.  And still today it remains on my wrist with the hook facing out. 

A few months back, I was in Atlanta at a funders gathering when a woman approached me and said, “I know that bracelet and its legend.”  It was a great conversation starter.  As we talked, I told her that I made my own interpretation.

I told her that I keep my hook facing outward not because I am looking for romantic love.  But because I am available to receive love; any and all forms of love.  I have spent most of my life being closed off, but that beautiful day in St. Francis Bay, St. John Island I made a promise to myself to not just give but be open to receive.

As I look back at 2019, I have not just attended church services but sat alone in silence, open to receiving God’s love.  I have accepted more than I gave.  And in return, it made me more capable of giving.  Each time I look at my wrist, my inner voice reminds me to be open to possibilities.

I can’t wait to receive the love that awaits me in 2020.

One cup at a time...

I don’t remember there being coffee shops back in the mid-1990s when I embarked on the dating scene.  I have consumed more coffee in the last several months then I have in my entire life.

The safe first meeting normally takes place middle of the day at a coffee shop.  I have met men at 10am; 1pm; 3pm; time of the day doesn’t really matter.  It is all about the coffee.

I have burnt my mouth in attempt to end the date as quickly as possible. And there were times with only two sips into my latte that it become obvious why he is single. And I have nursed the same cup and talked for over four hours; enjoying every sip and wondering why someone let the man in front of me go. 

I must say that with every cup, I find a new sense of confidence and clarity of what I am not looking for.  It is much easier to identify what we don’t want vs what we want. I have shared a cup with a former police officer; CPA; therapist; professor; business owner; and the list goes on. 

In my twenties, I looked for a partner thinking of my future and not so much of the present.  I wanted a man who desired a family and was dependable and safe.  At 51, I am not looking toward my future as much as I am looking at the present.  I just want to savor the cup in front of me and not think about refills.  And I am definitely not interested in purchasing an Espresso Machine together. 

Swiping is the easy part.  He profile states conservative – left; he has children below the age of 10 – left; he is separated – LEFT; he is super religious – left; his profile picture has a dead animal – LEFT; he smokes – left; and the famous picture in front of the bathroom mirror, shirtless – LEFT, and someone please tell him to put some clothes on.

After all the swiping is complete, there is a smile that it exchanged followed by the standard list of questions and answers that Siri has learned enough that she can fill in the rest without any efforts on my part.  And if for some reason neither of you haven’t made the other run, block, delete, and swear that you will never logon again; there is a cup of coffee in your future.

My Mr. Right is out there.  I just haven’t found the perfect blend.

Barista, I’ll have a soy latte. One cup at a time…

Saints at All Saints

Several months back a friend took me to a chapel, a place where she said that gave her peace. Since that first visit, this chapel inside All Saints Catholic Church has been my second home.  I go there on my way to work, after work, or whenever I have couple of minutes.

At first I just sat there feeling awkward.  Then I began to pray, not knowing any Catholic or even Christian prayers, I prayed in Arabic. I must say that the thought of the Holy Spirit striking me down did crossed my mind numerous times.  Here I was sitting inside a Catholic church with a statue of Jesus on a cross while reciting Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Rahim...

When I was a small child, my grandmother told me that God was this BIG ocean and everything and everyone else were small rivers slowly making their way to the ocean.  So I told myself, Allah/God and Jesus/Mohammed are same ocean and I am just a tiny stream trying to make her way to it so I kept praying in Arabic.

Soon I found myself kneeling and talking to God.  As weeks went by, I realized that going to the Chapel and telling God about my day, my worries, my heartaches, and everything else filled the gap that I have been feeling ever since my divorce.  I remember being excited to go to the chapel so I could tell God that I got a new job!

These notes and cards are just a small example of the folks at All Saints who have embraced me with unconditional love and acceptance.  I am also grateful for the soft introduction that my friend made that allowed me to just sit in God’s presence until I was ready to speak.

I doubt that I can ever be a Catholic.  I lack the discipline. I doubt that I could ever be a Muslim.  I have too much childhood baggage. But it isn’t religion that I have been searching all these years but God.  

My pseudo-religious; half-lost; completely confused soul has found a way to THE ocean and All Saints Catholic Church is offering me a life jacket.  

I have never been a good swimmer so wish me luck! Splash...

Dating Game

Tears ran down my eldest daughter’s face when I asked her how she would feel if I started dating.  My younger daughter on the other hand replied, “as long as he isn’t a jerk.  I guess its fine”.  However, they both looked at me in disbelief that I would contemplate dating.  Frankly I am in disbelief as well.

Perhaps it is because I had managed to let go some of my anger while walking the Camino or perhaps it is shear fact that my daughter will be leaving for college in the fall.  Whatever the reason or combination of reasons, I felt that it is time and that I am ready.

The last time that I went on a date was in the mid-1990s.  Things have changed a little in the dating world.  I no longer have an unmarried friend circle with like-minded individuals.  I don’t belong to any congregation and meeting someone at my work, not only inappropriate, but incomprehensible. 

Several friends suggested online dating.  First I tried Bumble for maybe a week when I realized that I “swiped” the wrong way indicating that I “LIKE” the guy when I was actually passing.  After realizing my mistake, I panicked and deleted the app. 

Next I tried Match.com.  On my first day on Match I was approached by several men.  The one that caught my attention was a 58 year old Norwegian.  I half-jokingly said to my friend that both Asian and American men are off my list so it’s time to give Europe a chance. 

For over a month, Chris and I talked, texted, and emailed each other.   Our schedule was never in-sync for us to actually meet in person.  However we finally had a date in mind.

Christopher Hansen– divorced with a 15 yr old son.  His ex-wife cheated on him with his best friend and they are actually living together.  They have been divorced for 9 yrs.  His ex and son live in Beverly Hills, CA.  He has a cat named Queen.  He is liberal and has lived in the States for 30 years.  He moved here with his mother.  His father was abusive.  He is the only child.  His mother died almost a year ago of breast cancer.  He moved to Dallas from San Antonio after his mother’s death.  He purchased a house on White Rock Lake and works as a contractor for Halliburton.  Chris’ company manages oil spills all over the world.  He travels a lot but being self-employed gives him the flexibility to take long vacations; visit his son, etc.

Did I mention that Chris is very cute and has that sexy European accent; and that he rarely eats meat? He also works out every day.  He doesn’t smoke but definitely enjoys a nice bottle of wine or whiskey at times.

Chris was in Cyprus while I was in Paris.  We exchanged text and spoke only once due to time difference and I wasn’t ready to say anything to my daughters about our communication.  I returned Dallas and Chris was to follow suit soon after. 

Then crisis happened!  One of his equipment needed repair in order to finish the job and there was some glitch with his credit card.  He needed me lend him money, only temporarily of course! He promised to pay me back as soon as he was back in Dallas.

I was a little heartbroken and pissed that my very first attempt was a scam.  Chris knew a LOT about me and I can only assume that he googled Shama.  There aren't too many of us with that name in the DFW area.

If you are wondering, I didn't send him any money.  Some men may perceive me as a woman of "certain age" who is desperate for companionship and is willing to do anything.  I probably come off rather naive too.  Apparently there were lessons to be learned about online dating and fortunately I didn't waste too much time learning them.

I am not ready to give up on men, especially European men! But to all romance scammers out there, I may let you break my heart but my bank account?  Not a chance!

PS- since Chris, I have communicated with two other scammers.  But now I am much better at identifying them.

Be Smart; Be Safe; Use an Alias, if you have an uncommon name; Swipe LEFT to PASS; and Don’t GIVE UP -or-

 “You will have to spend the rest of your life knowing that someone else is married to your husband” - When Harry Met Sally 

Camino de Santiago - finding my way!

Candles lite up the entire cathedral of Santiago de Compostela while I stood in line to hug Saint James’ tomb.  I only learned about him three years ago when I was in the midst of ending my marriage to James.  One afternoon a friend and I watched a movie called, The Way.  I am not sure what drew me to the story except I knew that I too wanted to go on this pilgrimage.

At first it was just a crazy passing thought but soon it became a calling.  I purchased books about the Camino de Santiago and started to share my plans with others.  I joined several Camino Meet-up groups and Facebook groups.  After doing countless research, I decided to hire Marily Camino to help me arrange my trip. 

I began to exercise regularly and mentally prepare myself for hours/days of solitude and the physical exhaustion that I was sure to endure.  In retrospect one can’t really prepare for such an adventure.  Physical strength, though very useful, is not enough.  It is one’s shear will and determination that is far more valuable than one’s physical abilities.

As the date got closer, friends asked me what I plan to gain from this trip.  I didn’t really know.  I told my best friend that I would like to let go of anger and find some peace for myself.  Perhaps I will walk and cry; yell ‘fuck you’ to the universe, even God.  Perhaps I just want to show the universe that it can’t break me.  But at the end I want to make peace with God and forgive the universe.

There is no way that I can express in words the feeling that I experienced; the people that I met; and the utter peace that I felt during my hike through Spain.  I can say that it changed my life.  I did not shed any tears; I did not yell at the universe or God, instead I fell in love with it all.  There were many moments of reflection about my struggle with depression.  There were countless analogy that filled my heart with grace.

They say that the Camino gives you what you need, not what you want.  What I wanted was to forgive this universe and especially God without realizing that what I needed was to forgive myself.

I stood behind St. James, as his tomb faced the altar.  I had no angry words for him instead I leaned over gave him a hug and said, “Goodbye James”.    

Wilson

I loved Castaway, the movie.  As a mother, especially during my daughters’ early years, I fantasized about being alone in an island, where no one made any demands on me, I told my therapist.

This Monday morning I reluctantly got in my car and drove to our vet’s office.  As the word cancer fell off his mouth, the word stupid popped into my head.  Yes, stupid. 

I have been so successful these past several years at avoiding men.  The continuing stream of disappointment and self-depreciation are the end result of every relationship I ever ventured with a man.  I have finally resolved myself to the conclusion that I will never pursue any form of relationship which require an ounce of intimacy with a man.  Though I must say that I find it fascinating when my newly divorced friends brave dating, even take chance in remarrying.  I don’t judge; I simply cannot relate. 

My plans are very simple, I need to live, not just exist, but live to my best abilities until June of 2022 when my youngest graduates from high school.  Her graduation will mean the end of my daily/weekly/monthly interaction with her father.  It will also free me to move wherever I chose.  The idea of relocating and starting over excites me.  But most importantly, I like the idea of being completely free of attachments.

My cat does put a hiccup into my plans since she is only 4 years old.  I have considered giving her up for a temporary adoption until I finish my travels and find a semi-permanent home.  So a little over a year ago when I decided to adopt my dog, her age played a huge factor.  I didn’t want a young pup but a mature dog.  In my mind, we will keep each other company until it was time for both of us to depart.  Seemed like a perfect plan!

“So I have to once again prepare myself to say goodbye”, I told my therapist. 

“It was going to be my turn.  I’m supposed to be the one to say goodbye to everyone else.  I feel stupid and completely blindsided, AGAIN”.

“It is interesting that you mentioned Castaway”, my therapist observed.

“Remember Wilson?” He asked. 

“Of course I remember Wilson” I replied.

“Maybe it won’t be a man or even a dog that you allow yourself to get attached to again.  But it is in our nature to long for attachment.  Unfortunately that longing comes with uncertainties.  You can’t avoid attachments” he said.

That’s when I remember that I cried when Wilson floated away.

Seat Filler

When the camera pans out over the audience at the Academy Awards, we, the television viewers, see a crowd of smiling faces in fancy gowns and tuxedos staring back at us. But the image of this crowd is an illusion. Many of those faces are actually those of “seat fillers”, regular people who are granted the opportunity to sit next to the stars when the stars vacate their seats during commercial breaks to present awards, to perform, or whatever. 

I wonder why empty seats makes us uncomfortable.  Does it represent some sort of shortcomings in our lives; do we feel less liked? But more importantly, what are we willing to sacrifice to have all the seats filled in our lives?

When I was searching for my new breakfast room table set, I kept telling myself that I didn’t want a “traditional” four seater table set.  I didn’t want to keep looking at the empty chair and have it constantly remind me that our family wasn’t complete.  So I got creative and found a way to make a table for three.

Recently, I have been thinking a lot about perfect families especially those with all filled seats at the table.  As I look back at my life, I can’t help but identify the times, knowingly or unknowingly, that I served as a “seat filler”.  

I was the son that my parents never had and the spouse that my ex never really wanted to marry.  But our family pictures looked complete and all of seats at our dinner table were filled.  We looked “perfect” but it too was an illusion.

I struggle to explain to my daughters that so much of life isn’t always about what we see. There are missing pieces in every family; there are scars and regrets that pictures cannot capture.  To assume that everyone’s life is “perfect” is to constantly feel that yours is not.  Perhaps perfectionism is the ultimate illusion.
  

I now see our family of three as complete.  It is complete with or without any empty seats.  It is complete because unconditional love and bonds exist between me and my daughters.  I no longer wish to be a “seat filler” in any relationship.  I only want to fill the the emptiness inside my soul and feel complete.

However, I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to be a seat filler at the Oscars.