Week 2
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
For this assignment we were to pick a passage from a memoir we enjoyed and then write a 2-page paper using the passage as a model. I kind of rushed through this paper. And at the end I tried squeezing a lot of info into just 2 paragraphs because she's really strict about having a 2-page limit. I think I could have made it better if I was allowed to write just one more page. Even so, I've gotten some really good feedback. Enjoy.
The Last Lecture, by Randy Pausch
"A Way to Understand Optimism"
My personal take on optimism is that as a mental state, it can enable you to do tangible things to improve your physical state. If you're optimistic, you're better able to endure brutal chemo, or keep searching for late-breaking medical treatments.
Dr. Zeh calls me his poster boy for "the healthy balance between optimism and realism." He sees me trying to embrace my cancer as another life experience.
But I love that my vasectomy doubled as both appropriate birth control and an optimistic gesture about my future. I love driving around in my new convertible. I love thinking I might find a way to become the one-in-a-million guy who beats this late-stage cancer. Because even if I don't, it's a better mindset to help get through each day.
After I learned I had benign brain tumor, my life began to change. Because my mom's side of the family was in such denial that surgery was the only option, from October 2005 to January 2006 I was to detoxify my body everyday which would then result in a shrinkage of the tumor--at least that is what the Homeopathic Doctor told my parents and me. Thirty-five enzyme pills, three fish oil pills, liquid drops, dry sauna, and a strict organic diet became my daily life for two and a half months.
By January, I was to have another MRI of the brain to see if in fact the tumor had shrunk. A visit with Dr. Brackmann, my brain surgeon, confirmed that it hadn't and they needed to operate as soon as possible. With our heads down walking over to the receptionist, April 20, 2006 was to be the day they would remove the tumor.
The months leading up to my surgery became a time for me to really live my life as much as a sixteen year old could. I was told it would take four weeks to recover, and that since I was young, I'd be back in school in no time. So I went to my teachers to collect my assignments for the next four weeks. I prepared my room at my dad's house, bringing over pictures, movies, pajamas, magazines, anything that I would need after getting out of the hospital. I vacationed in Hawaii for a week during spring break. I danced through pain in my Choreo Dance Concert. I continued to play soccer for both my high school and city teams. And went out with my friends as much as possible.
On April 19th, while talking to my best friend and her mother, I was struck by how well the last few months had gone. I was so caught up on trying to live my life to the fullest that I missed the pattern of flawlessness that showered over me. My life was perfect, which was so unnatural for me. And in that moment of realization I began to freak out, "Do you think I am going to die?" I cried. I began to think that the reason my relationships with family and friends were healed and all my adventures had taken place was because that would be how I left this world, doing those things for the last time.
It's now the day of my surgery and as I am being wheeled into the OR, tears are pouring down my face in fear that I will not be waking up. I look over to my mom and dad and they are fighting back their emotions, trying to remain strong. We say goodbye, and I fall asleep. Sixteen hours later and the surgery is finally over. It is time for me to wake up. But what have I woken up to?
I am now awake and a new life is ahead of me. A life of pain and suffering and hatred toward God for letting something like this happen to a young girl like me. I am deafened in my right ear, I am using a suction device in my mouth for I can no longer swallow on my own, and I am told that this journey is just beginning for me. The tumor was not benign! I have tumors eating away at my spine, ribs, and femurs. Surgery after surgery await me. And as each one passes I get further and further away from returning to that perfect life I was afraid of leaving.
It is not until now, four and a half years later, that I can look back and see just what a wonderful gift God actually gave me. He gave me those months to experience the things I loved for the last time. Not because I was going to die, but because I now have a body that can no longer function like it used to. It is not often that everyone gets that kind of spiritual gift. And for that, I will forever be thankful.
For this assignment we were to pick a passage from a memoir we enjoyed and then write a 2-page paper using the passage as a model. I kind of rushed through this paper. And at the end I tried squeezing a lot of info into just 2 paragraphs because she's really strict about having a 2-page limit. I think I could have made it better if I was allowed to write just one more page. Even so, I've gotten some really good feedback. Enjoy.
The Last Lecture, by Randy Pausch
"A Way to Understand Optimism"
My personal take on optimism is that as a mental state, it can enable you to do tangible things to improve your physical state. If you're optimistic, you're better able to endure brutal chemo, or keep searching for late-breaking medical treatments.
Dr. Zeh calls me his poster boy for "the healthy balance between optimism and realism." He sees me trying to embrace my cancer as another life experience.
But I love that my vasectomy doubled as both appropriate birth control and an optimistic gesture about my future. I love driving around in my new convertible. I love thinking I might find a way to become the one-in-a-million guy who beats this late-stage cancer. Because even if I don't, it's a better mindset to help get through each day.
After I learned I had benign brain tumor, my life began to change. Because my mom's side of the family was in such denial that surgery was the only option, from October 2005 to January 2006 I was to detoxify my body everyday which would then result in a shrinkage of the tumor--at least that is what the Homeopathic Doctor told my parents and me. Thirty-five enzyme pills, three fish oil pills, liquid drops, dry sauna, and a strict organic diet became my daily life for two and a half months.
By January, I was to have another MRI of the brain to see if in fact the tumor had shrunk. A visit with Dr. Brackmann, my brain surgeon, confirmed that it hadn't and they needed to operate as soon as possible. With our heads down walking over to the receptionist, April 20, 2006 was to be the day they would remove the tumor.
The months leading up to my surgery became a time for me to really live my life as much as a sixteen year old could. I was told it would take four weeks to recover, and that since I was young, I'd be back in school in no time. So I went to my teachers to collect my assignments for the next four weeks. I prepared my room at my dad's house, bringing over pictures, movies, pajamas, magazines, anything that I would need after getting out of the hospital. I vacationed in Hawaii for a week during spring break. I danced through pain in my Choreo Dance Concert. I continued to play soccer for both my high school and city teams. And went out with my friends as much as possible.
On April 19th, while talking to my best friend and her mother, I was struck by how well the last few months had gone. I was so caught up on trying to live my life to the fullest that I missed the pattern of flawlessness that showered over me. My life was perfect, which was so unnatural for me. And in that moment of realization I began to freak out, "Do you think I am going to die?" I cried. I began to think that the reason my relationships with family and friends were healed and all my adventures had taken place was because that would be how I left this world, doing those things for the last time.
It's now the day of my surgery and as I am being wheeled into the OR, tears are pouring down my face in fear that I will not be waking up. I look over to my mom and dad and they are fighting back their emotions, trying to remain strong. We say goodbye, and I fall asleep. Sixteen hours later and the surgery is finally over. It is time for me to wake up. But what have I woken up to?
I am now awake and a new life is ahead of me. A life of pain and suffering and hatred toward God for letting something like this happen to a young girl like me. I am deafened in my right ear, I am using a suction device in my mouth for I can no longer swallow on my own, and I am told that this journey is just beginning for me. The tumor was not benign! I have tumors eating away at my spine, ribs, and femurs. Surgery after surgery await me. And as each one passes I get further and further away from returning to that perfect life I was afraid of leaving.
It is not until now, four and a half years later, that I can look back and see just what a wonderful gift God actually gave me. He gave me those months to experience the things I loved for the last time. Not because I was going to die, but because I now have a body that can no longer function like it used to. It is not often that everyone gets that kind of spiritual gift. And for that, I will forever be thankful.