Chapter 4, TWENTIES- My Contract With Cancer (Part One)

"It's all about God. Life it or not. No matter how your mind resists, somewhere deep inside, you know, or you'd have put this book down by now.

So here it is:

God is with us when we're born into the human experience. God is with us when we release the human experience and return to our peace of origin (Spirit). Therefore, no need to fear life or death.

Be with that for a while."

   After my parents gifted me with a seven day graduation cruise to Mexico with Tanja, I was finally going to live MY life. My plan was set. I would get a job, rent my own place, get married, buy a house, and have two kids and a dog. My father didn’t like the renting idea (surprise, surprise), thus, influencing me to live in his home and save money. This may sound like a smart plan to many people and even generous. Again, so confusing to differentiate between caring and control. I craved my independence, and chose to rent a quaint one bedroom apartment in San Luis Obispo. It had a babbling brook in the backyard and a hair salon in the front of the complex. It was perfect, only costing me $365 a month. I was also hired as a hygienist in Grover Beach (eighteen miles south). I was on the road to freedom.

     Six months later and at the young age of twenty-four, I was diagnosed with a one centimeter tumor in the choroid (back) of my left eye. This is considered a very large lesion, and I was informed that it most likely began growing as a child. Little did my parents or I know that regardless of vision issues, it is recommended to have our pupils dilated, yearly.

     Within a matter of days, I went from...Crap, I need glasses! to Am I going to go blind? to AM I GOING TO DIE? A reality check to never assume anything about the future. 

     The kind hearted opthalmologist said, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you have melanoma.” 

     “Am I going to die?” I asked, while my poor distraught father began rubbing my cheeks with his used handkerchief. 

      “Tumors generally stay confined in the eye, and we will refer you up to UCSF, immediately. I am so sorry.” 

     The opthalmologist was compassionate and sincere, unlike the rumors that had spread around town about his criminal record for growing marijuana. So here I am, being diagnosed with CANCER, and I am actually looking for the doctor’s GPS ankle bracelet. At the same time, wanting my father to stop wiping my cheeks with his nasty handkerchief. Man, what the mind will do to avoid pain.

     I walked out of the doctor’s office, and the world looked so different. More vibrant and alive. As we drove along the Pacific Ocean, it was as if I was seeing it for the very first time. All I wanted to do was yell at all the surrounding cars and say, “STOP! I have cancer.” As we all know, the world does not cease, and I was in for the ride of my life. 

     I was diagnosed on Friday the 13th of May, 1994 by Dr. Devron Char. I couldn’t believe that I had JUST graduated from the same school in which I was being treated. Grateful that it felt somewhat like home. As my mom and I spoke with the doctor, he said that he would do his best to save my eye. Blood tests were ordered to see if the cancer had metastasized, and he would let me know as soon as possible. The waiting was terrifying. 

     That night, my parents, Jay (my boyfriend), and I celebrated the localized diagnosis. My dad liked Jay’s personality, but he was NOT the person he wanted me to be with (would he ever?). I had never felt more relaxed around my parents and boyfriend. It was the first time that Jay seemed to be accepted into the family, and there was a part of me that was glad that I had cancer. It took cancer to have my father FINALLY off my back. 

     The surgery would be early Monday morning. I immediately began to pray that they wouldn’t remove my eye, remembering back to my junior high days of how horrified I was when a boy used to take his prosthetic eye out for fun. 

     

     Jay was the last person I saw before surgery. 

     “Am I going to lose my eye?” I asked him while they began wheeling me down the corridor.

      With confidence, he said, “You are not going to lose your eye, Kathleen.” 

       Four hours later, I laid in a hospital bed, bandaged like a pirate in a drug induced hysteria, asking the nurses if I still had my eye. “Yes, Kathleen. The surgery went well, and you still have your eye.” I didn’t believe them because in order to “protect me,” I was often lied to by my father. I continued to ask the question incessantly between each round of puking into a plastic bedside bowl that they had kindly held for me. Although I was grateful that it hadn’t metastasized and still inhabiting planet earth, I knew that my life would never be the same. 

      The doctor said that my eye was like a grape, and one good bump could crush it. Yikes! I needed to wear a patch and take three months off work. Jay and I had been planning to go to Bali. He went, and I stayed home with my parents to heal. I had six months of real adulthood, and I was back to being taken care of. A place that I so did not want to be, but at the same time, appreciative that my parents were taking care of me. The only difference was that dad had seemed to be different. Humbled and sweet, only complaining about who was calling us to check in on me and who wasn’t. If I had to get cancer to chill him out, then so be it. Anything was better than his strict dominance. 

     I healed up well, but I was left mostly blind in my left eye with very limited peripheral vision. I avoided the pain of pretty much everything. My attitude was to to not look back. I did this by pushing down all my fears. My eye looked pretty much the same, so I told myself that I was fine. I seemed brave to most people, but I was really just putting my energy into avoiding thinking about it. Complete denial was a part of my life’s contract, and I was a pro. At this point, I had no idea how important it was face our fears and move through the pain. It would be many years later that my suppression inevitably lead to suffering. After about two months and refusing my father’s advice, I moved back into the same apartment complex. Within a month, I moved upstairs into a more spacey environment, directly above the beauty salon. I was on the mend, in control, and ready to soldier on... 

COLLEGE-Hygiene School

“The only way to see yourself clearly as who you truly are is to take off the glasses of society and see yourself through the eyes of Love.”

     How I was accepted into The University Of San Francisco, California is still beyond crazy. Being on the Dean’s list at UCSB didn’t hurt, but my national test scores were below average. UCSF only accepted eighteen students for their one and only undergraduate hygiene program, and I squeezed in. My mom and I were told that the curriculum would be like a full time job. My classes would be from 8-5, and I would be taking TWENTY-SEVEN units a quarter. WHAT! How is that possible? I could only handle twelve units at UCSB. There is NO way I am going to be able to do this.

     “Do your best, Kathleen,” My dad said. “That’s all we ask.”

     Being (what seemed) to be the only blonde in the foggy Sunset District of San Francisco, I created the experience of being a total outcast. My jean shorts and flip flops were quickly replaced with blazers and closed toed loafers which killed my feet. Every student seemed over-the-top appreciative of being the chosen one, and talked about teeth like I talked about my new boyfriend.
     Jay would come up monthly, and we would disappear into my bedroom all weekend long. One time, he even surprised me with a two-night stay in Las Vegas, making sure that we had sex prior to handing me the tickets. “Pack your bags, muffin.” He said. We’re going to Excalibur!” I had never felt more high. That was definitely one of the two highlights in my two years of hygiene hell. The other was modeling for a Nike catalog. A representative for the company approached me at the gym. My father told me that it must be a scam. I fearfully accepted anyway. After they paid me $200, I was asked to pose for The Gap. My father freaked. I was not to miss class, and I declined the offer. Now, I know that I was never going to be a model, but...THE GAP!?! Bummer. I remember another classmate asked me why I listened to my parents so much. It had not been the first time I had been asked that question. My imagined future answer was always the same, “They are paying for me, and I don’t want to be an ingrate. I will do what I want and start MY life once I graduate.
     Meanwhile, I continued to “do my best,” taking Head and Neck Anatomy, Neurology, and all the other hygiene courses. The hygiene students took many classes with the dental students, but the tests had a different curve for us girls. There is a God! After each test, I thought I had flunked. I hated the subjects, and my mind would wander. I ended up being the annoying classmate who got straight A’s. 

     But...but...I really thought I got an “F,” I said and meant it. 

     My experience was that I had to study twice as hard as everyone else, even asking my two besties (Tanja being one of them) if I was...stupid? Their mouth dropped, “Stupid?” After they could clearly see that I was serious, they validated, “You are going to UCSF. You would have never been accepted if you weren’t smart!” It didn’t matter. I was dumb, and they just didn’t get it because I told myself the story that they were dumb, too. Comparison is a killer, and I was amongst brainiacs that actually dug and understood a language that I didn’t comprehend nor wanted to. 
     Days before our graduation, our hygiene class gave one another gag gifts. I was given a huge “F” made out of cardboard. Everyone laughed and said, “Here, Kathleen, you finally get your “F.” My heart dropped, and I had to force myself not to cry.

      I graduated with honors, but I was still an “F” in my illusory mind. Nothing outside of myself could prove to me that I was worthy. No matter what title I achieved, I still felt a void. I had a secret that no one either wanted to say out loud or would soon find out. I was stupid. A not enough story that at times surfaces to this day.