Category Archives: Attitude

The struggle is real

Just breathe.

If only it were so simple.

When I’m not coughing I’m wheezing. My left lung is getting boggier by the day.

It sucks, this downward spiral. Been here, done this, doing it yet again.

I mean, I’m tough but this is fucking demoralizing.

There, I’ve said it. Allowed that this shit gets me down. That not falling into despair as I hang on until the next clinical trial that may or may not work takes enormous will power. At times I feel like I’m running on sheer survival instinct. I want to live.

Just live.

Profanity and profundity

At the age of ten I possessed a diary; red, covered in naugahyde, and secured by a lock and key. Its primary function was as a repository for each notable expansion of my vocabulary. Wonderful words like twat, that curled my tongue and piqued my imagination.

My classmates were one reliable resource, but I also scoured books that I pulled from my parent’s shelves. A quick study, I became incredibly adept at skimming until I got to the juicy parts.

Although I understood the need to be discreet per my prurient interest, it never occurred to me to be ashamed. I was curious, and frankly fascinated by not only what was being described, but the words themselves. There are so very many forms of human expression.

I also grew up in a strict and fairly repressive household, those books on the shelves notwithstanding. It would take a good long time before I became comfortable enough to simply be myself. Rather a bit of a randy (turning an adjective into a noun for my own purposes).

Or, as I was described (to my delight) by some young women: ‘dirty but elegant.’ A sentiment recently echoed by my friend Kate B: ‘so regal but can still tell a person to fuck off.’

My self description would be dignified but profane.

Megan Rapinoe just publicly apologized for using the word fucking. ‘“I stand by the comments that I made about not wanting to go to the White House, with exception of the expletive,” she said. “My mom would be very upset about that.’

Now I hear her. My mother would be upset if she heard me speak. However (and I am not representing a franchise like Megan is and my mother is deceased), I do not feel the apology was warranted.

I just made a presentation to GE where I used the word fucked three times. It is possible that some in the audience felt offended, but fucked belongs in my narrative. It describes actual words I used (communicating to my oncologist) and at the time seemed like the most expedient, honest and (yes) elegant way to describe how I was feeling.

What we refer to as ‘swear’ words are valid and time proven forms of verbal expression. And, to be honest, I don’t really understand how people can find them offensive.

Cancer offends me. And if a dirty word helps me get that point across, well then I will damn well utilize it.

xo

On the move

Peripatetic. Such has been my existence as of late.

No complaints. I have always craved the traveling life and feel extremely fortunate that I have been provided with these opportunities.

First, the annual Hope Summit sponsored by LUNGevity and now referred to by some acronym I shall never use (the world doesn’t need another acronym, but it can never get enough HOPE).

Each year this giant reunion of my lung cancer family becomes ever more meaningful. One big love fest. And given the fact that the majority of the attendees are living with a terminal illness, you’d never believe how much fun we cram into those few days.

People who have been living with lung cancer for ten+ years

LUNGevity outdid themselves this year, with the best lineup of speakers yet. I was honored to be part of a committee that planned the conference as well as to sit on a panel, ostensibly about palliative care, but titled Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll. Next year I think we should drop the pretense and just jump right into an extended conversation per the living part of dying.

A little over a week post conference, I returned to DC for my annual get together with some of my childhood friends. We can’t not have a good time (really) and they too are like family to me. Kate, Melinda, Sally—I love you so.

When grownups take a selfie: Kate and me and a monument

I caught my breath (sort of) before departing for Florence, Italy on the 27th of May. This was an opportunity that came about because A. my friend Marc comes to Florence every summer and invited all his friends to join him and B. as I just turned 59 and 1/2, I have access to my retirement fund without penalty. If I thought I was going to live to 80 I might not touch it but friends, the reality is somewhat different. And in its own way, freeing.

It’s going to be interesting to see if I run out of money or breath first. Fortunately I now have a little wiggle room in both areas and I’m going to give life a run for its money. So to speak.

So yes, Florence. Dream of a lifetime. Second full day here we climbed the Duomo. 463 steps up, 463 down. I did it, y’all. Fourth in line and only had to let four people pass me on the way up. All young enough to be my children. Own that, lung cancer.

And of course I have been taking lots and lots of photos. Should you like to share in some of my experience, give me a follow on instagram: @Linnea Olson.

xoxo

Clarity.

I am at an interesting place. Truly.

Part of this comes from an overriding sense of it’s time to close up shop-ness. A nice way of saying, I might be dying.

That. But also (and this is the scenario I much prefer), all that hard work is paying off. I’m talking about personal growth and my quest to be a better, saner version of myself. Not long ago my son Peter, our little mensch, made the observation that I was at my most reasonable. I realize that sounds like an incomplete sentence but I knew exactly what he meant. It’s a high compliment and just like my favorite word ok, does not overstate.

I’ve been through a little bit of hell in this lifetime of mine. The good news is there is always a potential benefit to struggle. Think of it as stairs versus escalator. They both get you to the same place but one gives you a bit of a workout, thereby building muscle.

I am strong in body and in spirit. And also brave enough to regard myself with compassion but not charity. This is thread the needle time. And if I want to hold it all together I need to lighten the load. Let go of what is not essential. Revel in that which is.

Reach. But also maintain reason. Rise to the occasion.

Eyes

wide

open.

The heart is a muscle

And you damn well better use it. Even if—sometimes especially if—it hurts. Love is the heavy lifting when it comes to this little pump. Love, love and more love.

Heartbreak? It’s real but, in the same way a tree requires wind in order to put down deep roots, a heart can do with a good gale now and again. Yes, really. Loving and losing is our greatest fear. But that is also what makes love so very precious.

The hardest part of living with a disease like lung cancer is the loss. If you make the decision to establish connections with people who are facing the sort of survival stats we have, well, you need to understand from the get-go that death is going to be a frequent part of the equation.

It sucks, and sometimes it overwhelms as well.

I asked my oncologist, Dr. Alice Shaw, how she dealt with losing patients. Her response was that she viewed her role as a thoracic oncologist as a privilege. That caring for someone (in all senses of the word) as they faced extraordinary circumstances was an honor.

Her response struck me, because it is exactly the way I feel. Privileged to love so very many. Honored to share this fucking journey. And in awe of the fact that my heart–although at times so very heavy–has only grown stronger.

Life is hard, and avoiding that reality is not going to make anything easier. Nor is letting your heart go all flabby, just because you’re afraid of giving it a workout. Use it or lose it y’all. Live. Love. Heart, eyes and mind wide open.

xoxoxo

While sleeping

I just got back from a week in California, compliments of my friends Wendy and Cristina. More details and photos to follow. But first this.

On the fifth night I dreamt of a black and white woodpecker with wingtips burned to ash. The next morning I was having coffee with Wendy at the table when I looked out the window to where a bird was pulling suet from a feeder. It was a Hairy Woodpecker, just like the one in my dream.

On night six I had a dream that I was dancing. I felt like Shirley Temple in my full skirted dress; jumping and leaping and twirling about. Again and again people would stop to tell me what an amazing dancer I was.

In my waking state I am far from confident per my ability to dance; lack of coordination coupled with an inability to follow direction and a sense of rhythm that is best described as uniquely mine. I dance alone or in the company of alcohol or some other source of disinhibition.

To be able to dance like that in my dreams is almost as good as flying. Perhaps my wings have been singed (after all, I have been flying rather close to the sun) but who’s to say they are not yet airworthy.

Dream on.

xo

Where your thoughts hang out

My daughter Jemesii was an amazingly precocious child. Highly verbal and given to preternatural wisdom. One day, at the ripe old age of maybe two, she said something that I shall never forget: ‘Dreams are where your thoughts go at night.’

Well yes, of course. Seemingly a simple observation but oh so much more.

Dreams are one of the reasons I love to sleep. When I am dreaming it is as if I have opened the door from one place to another. A magical place, strange and yet so familiar. From one self (waking) to another (sleeping).

Over the past two nights I’ve had a pair of dreams that seemed particularly powerful. In the first I am watching four elk graze when they turn and start moving toward me. Then I see the tiger. And then the tiger sees me. I begin to run and the only shelter is a screened in porch. I get there just before the tiger and quickly latch the door. To my surprise and great relief, the tiger simply regards me through the flimsy wood frame and wire mesh and then turns to go. I think to myself that sometimes a simple barrier is enough to protect oneself from danger. But there is more. Because this barrier is transparent, I can still see the tiger. Now he is far below and menacing a group of people gathered on the beach. They do the oddest thing (or perhaps it is the only thing to do, although I think I would have jumped into the water). They simply turn their backs to the tiger and of course this does nothing to stop him from attacking.

In the second dream I am standing in a series of lines, waiting to get into a cafeteria. At one point a number of us sit together on a wall and I share the fact that the previous night I had been very stoned while looking at the night sky. And that I had been able to hear the throb and hum of the universe. This is met with silence but an Indian man, who is also some sort of teacher, approaches me later and says ‘Absolutely. It is all moving, all the time, and that is what you heard. I too have felt it.’ The subtle (or not so subtle) wind of existence. Life. Energy. It. Us. Connected.

Where my thoughts go during the day: a captured moment.