The Rice Bowl

Looking Alive

Once again, I feel neglectful of my writing, though this time, it wasn't by choice.  It simply just happened.  The fates were against me and the planets were not aligned in my favour, it seems.  My plans for spring break dissolved before my eyes due to doctors appointments and a mystery diagnosis.

It seems that I am not allowed to have an enjoyable spring break, because something always seems to jump in the way or some sort of event prevents me from doing the things that I want.  I have a track record with this, unfortunately.  Spring break, you are cursed, and I've never been able to enjoy you.

Weeks ago, I noticed something was not right with my belly button.  When a part of your body that has no actual function starts acting funny, it causes a strange amount of alarm to arise.  I figured I would fix the problem in no time by keeping an eye on it and being careful.  In a week, I ended up doubled over in pain and unable to walk or even breathe without being in pain.  I sought medical attention, which I tend to avoid. 

I dislike doctors, mostly because growing up overseas didn't inspire much faith in the medical community.  For the most part, I was diagnosed by my mother and placed on antibiotics by her.  The handful of times that I've needed to see a doctor for something 'serious' the issue was skirted around for months or even years before anyone would take my issues seriously.

My issue was not taken seriously for several weeks.  I was placed on different antibiotics while my symptoms merely escalated before my eyes.  I Googled and WebMDed my symptoms and even presented my findings to the doctors.  They were less than impressed by this telling me that self diagnosis never works.  Instead, I sat around, taking antibiotics waiting for the moment when things would get bad enough for someone to do something.

It happened.  My normal belly button began to protude from my tummy along with the counless other symptoms that I had.  I was told that I had a cyst and given more antibiotics which didn't work.  I came back and was told I had a hernia and given a referal to a surgeon.  I met with my surgeon and found that my issue was more serious than a mere office job and needed to be put under for a day surgery.

Buh-bye Spring Break.

Last week I went in for surgery and found out that I really did have a cyst, after all!  I cannot complain about my surgery at all though.  The doctors and nurses were all amazing and very attentive which helped me out incredibly.  When your parents are thousands of miles away and your friends are scattered throughout the world, it can be scary.  I'm so very thankful that I do have family around here though.  The staff was amazing with me and laughed at me as I raved about Twitter and Linux in my drug induced state.

Last weekend was spent in bed, sleeping and recovereing (knitting).  Being whacked out on Vicodin and having no motivation to move and aggravate my wound was a good inticement for me to stay put.  However, I (once again) found out that I don't deal well with pain releivers much stronger than Tylenol.  I was struck with dizziness, headaches, nausea, and severe mood swings.  I was every where from laughing hysterically one second to curling up in a ball crying that I missed my family, friends, room mates, and surfing.  It didn't take me long to realize that I was no good on the drugs and stopped taking them.

It's disturbing waiting for your body to do normal things though.  It's frightening waiting for the moment when you have to go to the bathroom again, just to make sure that everything is working fine.  And it's worse when you can't and you're curled up bawling because all you want to do is make your body work again.  It's like being broken, only you can't find the glue to put the pieces back together.

I am happy to report that I am fully functional once again and I am back at school and busy as ever, which excites me to the extremes.  It's good to be back in action and busy with things again.  It distracts me from my mind and gets me away from the phone that never seems to ring when I really need it to.

It's good to feel alive again.

Something to talk about

"Now we'll hear what Amanda Howson is fundraising about"

Applause, scilence.

Staring.

Speaking.  I'm the only one speaking.  There's no one else taking.  Silence.  The only sound in the room is my voice and the silent buzz of the microphone.  The shuffle of paper as I turn the page.  I stand there for the 7 minutes that it takes to say my speech and then I leave.  Everyone's eyes following me off of the stage.  Then the conversation starts to perk a bit.  Conversations about family memebers that have been diagnosed with cancer.  The ripple spreads and that was the topic of dicussion for the rest of the day.

Leaving the hall.  Getting stopped by other students asking me about my grandfather, Chloe and her mum.

Teachers stopping me to tell me that I had done an excellent job.  That it was very well written.  That I had put my heart and soul into what I was doing.  That it must have been really hard for me to say what I said.

It was.

But I don't regret going up there.  I wasn't afraid of the people.  It suprised me.  I have a hard time standing up infront of people.  I get it where I will go up infront of people and I will shake for about an hour afterwards.  This time, I shook.  But it wasn't because of the people.  It was because of what I was saying.  The words that I was speaking moved me, as well as the crowd infront of me.

I was afraid of losing it while I was speaking about something that was so important to me.

But I didn't.

And that has been something to talk about.

Cancer Speech

Amanda Howson

24^th April 2005

Cancer Speech:

“Welcome to the Planet.  Welcome to existence.  Everyone’s here.  Everyone’s here.  Everybody watches you now.  Everybody waits for you now.  What happens next?  What happens next?”

Imagine, if you will, you’re at a hospital.  Any hospital.  You’re sitting in the waiting room waiting for the doctor to call you in.  You’ve seen this room far too many times this week.  You’ve been in for countless tests and now they’ve called you in to tell you the results.  You know it has to be bad news because if it was good they would have told you on the phone.  They called you in case you couldn’t handle the news.  You glance over at the door and think about running away.  It’s better if you don’t know the truth, or is it worse? You sit there, too afraid to make a move.  That’s when the door opens and they call your name.  You walk down the hall behind the nurse.  You don’t like hospitals.  The smell gets to you.  It’s too clean.  The irony of hospitals throws you every time.  In one room someone could be giving birth or giggling over their newborn child, and in the next a wife could be crying next to her husband while he whispers that he loves her with his very last breath.  You shake off your thoughts as you finally reach your doctor’s office.  He’s sitting behind his desk and stands up to shake your hand and tells you to take a seat.  He tells you that he’s sorry that you had to come out all this way again and that he’s got your test results back.  Unfortunately, the results turned out bad and he informs you that you have cancer.

Every year millions of people are diagnosed with cancer. The statistics are startling.  Out of every adult living with cancer, 62% will still be alive in the next five years.  Look around at your friends, classmates, teachers, and family.  One in every three people will be diagnosed with cancer.  It could be you, even though we always think that something like this could never touch our lives, it does.  It has touched mine in so many ways.

While my family and I lived here from 1996 to 2001, we got news that my grandfather was diagnosed with prostate cancer and was due for radiation therapy and chemotherapy for the next year or so.  At hearing this, my family and I mentally prepared ourselves for the worst.  We moved back to the United States in 2001 and my grandfather was declared cancer free, or so it seemed.  However, we found out that the cancer had come back and was spreading to his hip.  Therapy was scheduled for him, once again, however, this time, the effects hit him harder.  In one week he was admitted into the hospital about three times due to complications with illnesses that he was battling along with the chemotherapy.  One morning, his life was claimed and he passed away.  Instead of mourning my loss, I like to celebrate his life and think of all the happy memories I shared with him.  The only thing I regret about his passing is that I didn’t know him as well as I wished I did.

In September of 2003, my father received a phone call from our best friends, living in Vietnam, informing us that their daughter had been diagnosed with brain cancer.  At the time she was eight years old and the girl whom I considered my younger sister, bonded to me by every tie of sisterhood, except blood.  Our families had met in 1996 when we were both living in Guangzhou.  Our parents became best friends and Chloe and I were pulling each other’s hair out and fighting over crayons like siblings.  We had always shared the bonds of sisterhood and when we both started going to school at Utahloy, I was always looking out for her.  The news of her cancer devastated me.  I went to school and broke down crying in the hallways because I didn’t know what else to do.  My baby sister was going through Radiation and Chemotherapy and I wasn’t there to be with her.  I kept hearing things about her losing weight, due to the effects of chemotherapy, and I could just picture her getting smaller and smaller.  She had won her battle with the cancer, and when I saw her in February for the first time since 2001, she was cancer free and living life with the same childlike enthusiasm she had always had.  Chloe became my hero.

Recently, we received another phone call from our friends informing us that Chloe’s mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer.  This news hit me hard and the only way to describe the feelings I felt at the time would be to compare them to those of a domino after its been pushed down and all the rest of the dominos are forced to fall with it.  I was devastated and helpless.  The woman that I had always considered my second mother had been diagnosed with cancer.  Fortunately, she had found the cancer in an early stage and they were able to remove the cancer before it spread.  Still, it struck fear into the hearts of the people near her and my mother flew to Singapore to be with her best friend during her surgery.

“Life is not what I thought it was twenty-four hours ago… and I’m not who I thought I was twenty-four hours ago.”

When cancer touches your life, nothing seems real.  In twenty-four hours your life could change.  Cancer changes lives, whether those changes are good or bad.  Lance Armstrong once said, “Without cancer, I wouldn’t have won the Tour de France.”  Everyone faces this battle.  Everyone faces the battle with cancer.  Cancer will or has touched our lives in some way or another.  Maybe we can help find a cure for it.  Maybe we can’t, but we could at least try.  It never hurts to try.

As part of a CAS project I want to fundraise a goal of 8,000 RMB for the Lance Armstrong Foundation in order to help find the cure for something that has affected my life and so many others around me.  We all need to give a little bit to show that we care.  Go back to that image that I painted in your heads when I first stood in front of you.  Don’t you think that that person sitting in the doctor’s office deserves some support?  Deserves the chance to live?  Deserves the chance to fight?  I do.  Because without cancer foundations and people who care about finding a cure Chloe wouldn’t have had her chance to fight.  When it comes down to it, 8,000 RMB isn’t a lot in an economy that speaks the language of billions and hundreds of billions, but it’s enough to show that we care and that we want to help.  Our 8,000 RMB could save a life.

So please, give a little bit.