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RELEVANT Mag : Angelina Jolie and Every Woman’s Choice

Today I’m over at RELEVANT Magazine, sharing some thoughts in response to Angelina Jolie’s op-ed piece for the New York Times that was published yesterday, “My Medical Choice.” In case you missed it, she shared some pretty shocking news, announcing that this spring she underwent a preventative bilateral mastectomy after learning she carried a genetic mutation that dramatically increased her risk for breast and ovarian cancers. Join me over at RELEVANT as I explore some of the research around the BRCA genetic testing and prophylactic surgery, what Jolie’s news means for the general public, and some of the questions we need to ask ourselves about life and death.

If you knew you had six months to live, what would you do?

Many of us have asked that question at some point in our lives, whether hypothetically or not. Now scientific discovery is giving us the ability to ask the question in a new way: If you knew you were at high risk for developing a terminal illness, what would you do?

The disease may not exist yet, the prognosis might not been ascertained, but developments in cancer research have made it possible for high risk individuals to determine their genetic predisposition and take preventative measures.

In an op ed for the New York Times on Tuesday, May 14, Hollywood star Angelina Jolie shocked the masses by writing about her recent choice to undergo a double mastectomy … (Read more.)

What We’ve Been Through.

Last Monday I met a friend downtown. You could say we’ve known each other awhile, ever since I wrote that article about pinkwashing back in October. But this is the first time we met face-to-face.

She slid into the booth across from me at Bar Toma and we exchanged greetings and chatted and ordered plates of antipasti. We weren’t sure what the other did for a living, or how long the other had been married and lived in Chicago, but the one thing we already knew was the most important : both our mothers died of metastatic breast cancer. Her mother lived with it for 30 years, mine for 15.

I’ve never met anyone who has been through what I’ve been through.

I know people whose parents have died – died of cancer, even. But it’s always a different story. I’ve never met anyone close to my age that understands the endless hospital stays, the decades of living in survival mode that can make you feel like survival mode is the norm, and the long, drawn out, bittersweet goodbye. The strange relief and gratitude when it is all finally over. The way it is never really over. The way that it complicates desires of motherhood and ordinary happiness and the belief in your own future.

I sat across the table from her, listening as she talked, watching the familiar joy and sadness and cynicism and raw hope pass over her face with each story, awed that a complete stranger was not a complete stranger to me.

It Will Be Here When You Get Back.

Perhaps by accident, it’s been almost three weeks since my last blog post. Silly me to think that I’d land stateside with my hands on a keyboard and content ready for you in a matter of days.

Instead, I returned from the Dominican on Saturday and then left on Sunday for my grandmother’s funeral in Michigan. She died on the Friday morning before I went home. We were driving to the beach when my phone magically found cell reception long enough for me to get a deluge of messages, one of them holding the sad news that she was gone. Her funeral was on the following Tuesday, and then I came home to a mountain of emails and office work.

And then I just kind of let myself live this past weekend without my computer. I met dear blogging friends Kristin and Brenna and Tammy for breakfast on Saturday morning at the Lucky Platter in Evanston. (Go there and try their apricot cheese flakey immediately. Also, go visit my friends’ blogs. They’re wonderful people.)

And then, because my best friend just graduated culinary school and I haven’t seen her face in almost a month, we celebrated Saturday evening with a leisurely dinner at Bavette’s, a new place in the Rivernorth neighborhood with a 1920’s Paris atmosphere and a menu that’s, well, … c’est maginifique. I’m still dreaming about their peppered duck and goat cheese terrine with apricot mustard.

All this time, I’ve barely sat down to write. I didn’t take my laptop with me to the Dominican, thinking I wouldn’t have much time to write anyway. And I was right, I didn’t, but I’m glad I left the temptation behind. I journaled when I could, but being digitally disconnected for a whole week freed me from the stiffness of sitting at a computer for twelve hours a day so that I could walk through neighborhoods that were economically impoverished but rich in tangible love and community, and put my muscle behind a shovel and pour out love in the most literal ways. (If you’d like to know more about the service projects we did in the Dominican and the wonderful communities we got to connect with, read this post from our friends at Iglesia Communitaria Christiana, one of the churches we partnered with.)

Writing makes me present in my day to day life in a myriad of important ways, but my trip to the Dominican and this whole whirlwind month was an affirmation for me of something I’ve wrestled with for nearly a year :

It will be here when you get back.

It’s the total antithesis of what blogging experts and literary agents tell writers about platform and audience. But whether or not that’s good for a writer’s platform, as people, we need to hear that it’s okay to step back from things and take a deep breath. The blog is a means, not an end. And the blog has to be secondary to the actual writing that you feel called to do. It has to be secondary to the ways we live out life tangibly, whether it’s having dinner with friends or serving a community in need. It has to be secondary to actually making time to process our lives on a deeper level.

For the first half of 2012, I needed the rhythm of blogging to keep me going as I grieved the loss of my mother. And then, my grief turned a corner without my permission or will, and what I needed was to be still. What I needed was to be filled up by the words and ideas of others, instead of always pouring out my own. What I needed was to rethink the way that blogging works for me as a writer.

The people closest to me – offline and online – gently encouraged me with those words : It will be here when you get back. We understand.

It was a radical act of self-care that was made with a measure of sacrifice that I haven’t really regretted – less traffic, less comments, less attention. That stuff comes and goes. And while I’ve given up some things, I’ve also gained a lot from the decision.

I needed to learn to be more realistic about the time it takes me to think critically about the things I want to write.

I needed to be more present in my life – in my home, my work, my marriage, my faith.

Blogging less often has afforded me the time to take on bigger, long-term writing projects.

And as far as writing goes, blogging less often has also given me more time to craft blog content that is more meaningful and challenging to me as a writer.

I’ve also had more time and energy to invest in my work community so that I can do things like lead a group of students on a service project in a foreign country. And blogging less has allowed me to process my grief more naturally, because grief is unpredictable, and it will never be over nor neatly packaged in a few blog posts.

And so that’s where I’ve been and what I’m doing. Breathing deep and learning a new rhythm, being faithful to the deeper callings in my life. And of course, this community we’ve cultivated after nearly four years of this blog (!) has been nothing but supportive, even when I haven’t felt ready to hash this out. I’ll probably stay at the one-post-per-week pace on this blog for the foreseeable future while I work on those writing projects.

Maybe I wrote this for myself more than anyone else, but but thank you for your patience and grace. And if you are feeling fragile and broken because the pace and rhythm of your life has spread you thin, please be encouraged. Go out for a breath of fresh air, or a meal with friends, or a chance to invest in community in a new way. We understand. We’ll be here when you get back.

FemFest : My Daughter’s Body.

Today I’m linking up with FemFest, a three-day synchroblog devoted to exploring feminism and its importance, co-hosted by J.R. Goudeau, Danielle Vermeer, and Preston Yancey. Click over to Danielle’s blog to peruse the rest of these amazing stories, or to contribute your own. 

~

This story of mine, it’s about a woman and her daughter. It’s about a fight for life and a fight for faith.

And it’s also, I’m discovering, about a fight for feminism.

I’m not sure my mom would have put it that way. She had some negative opinions about feminism, most of them owing to the particular breed she grew up with in the late 70’s and early 80’s. As she told it, there was a lot of hostility back then. A lot of confusion. My mother was college educated, the primary breadwinner in our household, a leader in her church. She would never have said that men and women aren’t created equal. But if I had to put words to it, “feminism” was not the lens through which she understood gender equality. She understood what it meant to be equal in the eyes of God, and that’s what mattered most to her. When feminism began to form, it was mostly in secular culture. I don’t think she knew back then how one could inform the other.

But as I read through some of the things she wrote about her experience as a young woman, as a wife, as a mother, as a cancer patient, I’m seeing this theme emerge. On one level, this is just a story about coping with tragedy, about the tension of grief and faith.

But because it is about breast cancer, it is also a story about women’s health.

And you could look at our family history and point to genetics as the main culprit, but that would only be half the story. From the dosage of birth control her (male) gynecologist prescribed her without batting an eye, to the endless treatments and choices she made to try and defy doctor’s prognoses once she was diagnosed with cancer, everything about my mother’s experience tells me a story about someone else deciding what women should do with their bodies. It tells me about dangerous assumptions and naive women and sickness being passed from one generation to the next, daughters without mothers and mothers without daughters.

Do I have kids now or later or never?

If I don’t want to have kids right now, what kind of birth control is healthiest for my body?

Do I have to take responsibility for birth control because – physiologically speaking – I am the one that will get pregnant? What can I expect of my partner?

Once I have kids, how do I stay healthy enough to raise them? When should I start having mammograms?

These are the questions she faced. These are the questions I face. These are the questions all women face everywhere, all the time.

My mom became her own advocate, she started asking questions, she took the reigns and outlived her doctors’ death sentence by several years. But it wasn’t until the tests came back malignant. It wasn’t until a lot more research had been conducted and showed that super high doses of birth control might actually produce something scarier than an “untimely” baby.*

And I guess the thing about feminism that I need, the reason why feminism matters, is that like breast cancer, it has motivated me to be my own advocate.

Feminism has motivated me to not only be concerned about my health and my future, but to do something about it, even if it’s telling my husband I’m not okay with taking a pill; I want you to wear a condom.

And feminism motivated me to marry a man that could look me square in the eye and say, I am willing to do that for you because more than anything, I just want you to be healthy.

And feminism is motivating me to tell this story, this story of a mother and a daughter, of breast cancer and women’s health, of grief and faith and feminism, so that our daughters grow up independent, happy and safe in their own bodies.

What’s your story with feminism? What has your experience been with learning to advocate for your own body? How has this factored into your choices with birth control? All voices are welcome here. And yes, male readers, you’re welcome to share your experience and understanding, too. 

*For more information on the troubling correlation between birth control and the increasing rate of breast cancer among women ages 25 to 34, see this report published by NPR today. Note that the NPR article clearly states that this is merely a correlation, not a confirmed cause, and that in my post I am merely writing about my mother’s experience and the likelihood that her dose increased her risk of breast cancer, which was hormone receptor positive.

Picking or Planting.

He’s been asked to pick weeds, but he wants to plant a vegetable garden.

This is what he tells me as we sit at the table, poking remnants of our dinner and digging through the hard soil our lives have fallen upon.

You know the feeling when everything you’ve done that day – many days – has yielded nothing?

It’s an apt analogy for this music man of mine, who, when not wrapping his long, curved and calloused fingers around the body of a guitar, loves to wrap them around a shovel to till the ground and make things grow. Herbs, peppers, zucchini, tomato, potato, beans, broccoli. He loves to bring a small harvest home for a good meal.

Today he feels about ready to bury it all – the hope he’s had for his music, the earnest effort of a decade practicing and playing, practicing and playing. It has yet to yield a real career, and he’s tired.

And so I hand him the shovel and take up my own and we keep digging, side by side, separating weeds from wealth, fear from truth.

I have dirt under my finger nails and I can hardly catch my breath but here is what I know :

It is not true that our effort is wasted.

It is not true that we have been given talents and passion that we will never use.

What is true is that some days we have to pick, and some days we have to plant. Some days we have to uproot the lies and wrestle with the weeds and do the tedious tilling.

What is true is that whether we are picking or planting, we will come away dirty and spent, all our work hinged on hope for those seeds we have laid in the soil.

What is true is that soil is made of layers and layers of dead things - shit - and that all that mess is made new when we wait long enough, and with hope.

What is true is that today the ground is cold and the season hasn’t turned. That time is coming, but it is not yet now. And so we wait and work, worry tossed aside as a weed so that our dreams can take root and grow.

 

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Guest Post Swap with Allison Vesterfelt

Hello, dear readers. My friend Allison Vesterfelt are guest-post swapping today! Ally just turned in the manuscript for her memoir, “Packing Light,” so her post for you is about the process of writing through her story. Are any of you working on memoirs or writing a book, or just thinking about how to live a better story? Share your thoughts with us, and be sure to check out my post for Ally’s blog, “‘Comfort and Joy’ in a Season of Grief.” 

Writing My First Book: Packing Light, A Guide To Living Life with Less Baggage

From the time the idea first came to me, to the time Packing Light is published in September, 2013, at least three years will have passed.

It’s been a long time coming.

The wait has been long and the learning curve has been steep, and like all those who have scaled steep learning curves, I bear the scars of climbing to the top, and then tumbling tired down the other side. For first-time writers who hope that what’s in their heart will someday be on paper, I thought I’d share a little bit about my experience.

Living your story.

Before you can ever write your story, you have to live your story. For me this meant going on a road trip where I visited all 50 states (48 by car, 2 by airplane). For you it will be something different.

Living your story gives it the meat you need to tell it well. You can’t skip this part.

Before I left home on my trip, I thought I knew what I was going to write about. I already had the title in mind, and I figured the people I met along the way, and the experiences I had, were just adding icing to the already delicious cake. But I was wrong.

I didn’t even know what “Packing Light” meant before I left home.

I had no idea how hard it was, or how important.

My road trip didn’t alter the direction of my book, it was the direction of my book. You can’t write something before you live it. Don’t ever forget that you are the walking, breathing, living manifestation of your message.

Down time.

As if the logistics of executing a 50-state road trip weren’t complicated enough, coming home to write the manuscript was worse. I had the hardest time choosing what stories to include, and what to leave out.

I would sit at my computer screen, paralyzed, terrified that — after all this — I would never write my book.

These were some of the most depressing days of my journey because, after all that happened, sometimes it felt like I had nothing to say.

How could I have nothing to say?

But what I found was that, as I let the experiences and ideas sit and simmer together in the reality of everyday life, the most important stuff started to float to the surface.

Sometimes waiting, as difficult as it is, is our best friend.

Waiting for a publisher.

There was also this inclination I had to wait for a publisher to pick up my proposal before I would begin writing. I even had several people urge me in this direction. “You don’t want to start writing the manuscript until a publisher approves your project,” they would say.

I think they were trying to protect me from unnecessary extra work.

But in retrospect, I can see how I wasn’t waiting for a publisher to approve my project, I was waiting for a publisher to approve me, as a writer. It was like I needed someone else to affirm that I was going in the right direction.

Do you need affirmation to get started? Here let me give it to you.

You have a good idea.

No one else has it. If you don’t write it. Who will?

The Routine.

For me, writing involves this strange balance of routine and spontaneity. Since I work from home, my schedule changes everyday, so I just decided that I was going to write for two hours, everyday, first thing in the morning.

I would wake up at 5:00am, before there were any other distractions, and write.

I set my timer for an hour at a time.

I promised myself I wouldn’t get up until the timer went off.

Some mornings I wrote 200 words, some I wrote 3000, and some I spent most of my time just staring at my computer screen.

Finding Healing.

Healing comes simultaneous to writing, if we let it.

As I began to write the manuscript, I started to see things that happened on the road trip in a brand new way. It was like I was watching someone else live through what I experienced.

I had a zoomed-out, 180-degree perspective.

I didn’t have to have all the answers before I started writing, or know what was important to include or leave out, I just had write. I just had to start putting words on paper.

And, as I wrote, healing started to come.

Sometimes we try to force healing before we write, and our words come across stilted and dishonest. Or, instead of writing healing words, we just write mean words about people who are different than us.

But good writing changes us as much as it changes our reader.

Put your back in to it.

Don’t think you’ll walk away unscathed from writing a book. Writing takes hard work, just like anything worth doing. Be prepared to bear the emotional and physical scars of it.

During the process of writing, I developed a back injury.

I know it sounds stupid. Who injures themselves while writing? But I guess it must have been from the hunched over position where I found myself every morning, frantically trying to get my thoughts on paper.

To me the injury is more symbolic than anything. If you want to do something important, you’re going to have to put your back into it.

What about you? What’s the most important thing you’ve written? Will you share your experience?

~

 Allison is a blogger, writer and thinker who is becoming brave enough to live and tell the truth. She’s passionate about helping people to tell, hear and understand stories that inspire, uplift, encourage, and even convict by pointing to the truth of Jesus. She writes a column, “Packing Light” for Prodigal Magazine, which she and her husband Darrell own and manage. The Vesterfelts live in Minneapolis, MN.

 

The Last Thing You Wanna Do.

Neil Young : “…What happens in the lyrics happened because they happened; it’s not because you thought of them. That’s the last damn thing you wanna do is think of something. That is death.”

Jian Ghomeshi : “What do you mean ‘think of something’?”

Neil : “Think up an idea. That is the last damn thing you want. The worst songs I ever wrote were written that way – I can’t even put ‘em out. I got a few that are hidden – carefully hidden – no one will ever find ‘em. They’re awful.”

Jian : “So it has to come out almost like you’re expectorating?”

Neil : “It’s like Schubert said, ‘I don’t make up music; I remember it.’ I remember what I’m doing… That’s Schubert said, and he was a great composer. He remembered what he did – who knows from where – but there it is. And you’re there with it, and the only responsibility is to take care of it. Make sure you’re in good enough shape to deliver it, and make sure you know what you’re doing enough that you care about the moment that you do it.”

Neil Young’s Exclusive Interview with QTV, circa 2010.

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On My Bookshelf.

My library is bursting at the seams with new reads. It started with Story Conference. They gave us one free book after another from all the presenters who have been published recently – Makoto Fujimura’s refractions, Rachel Held Evans’ A Year of Biblical Womanhood, and Inciting Incidents, curated by Sarah Cunningham. I’ve been reading chapters of each of those here and there. Then Lore decided to send me two of her favorites – Lauren Winner’s Mudhouse Sabbath and Tony Woodlief’s Somewhere More Holy. And then, when I was supposed to be picking up mushrooms and wine for risotto the other night and I wandered into another part of the store, thinking about how to spend my birthday money, J.K. Rowling’s new book, The Casual Vacancy, leapt out at me, and I knew I had to take it home. So now I have nearly a dozen new books to read. My only problem is that I want to read them all at once, and don’t know where to start. It’s a good problem to have, I think.

What’s on your shelf right now? Have you read any of these yet?

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After 25 Years, She Learns A New Trick

To eat breakfast in the morning, at a table adjacent to my husband, before I leave for work, without being late to the office (mostly).

In a small but significant way, I’m finally learning how to show up for the day, coffee already downed.

And if this isn’t me conquering fear, I don’t know what is, but morning has finally become my friend.

(I think the promise of pumpkin butter over an English muffin has helped.)

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Stitches in Time.

Routine : thin threads of truth tying me together. All the loose, uneasy parts of me that threaten to fall apart are sewn quietly, steadily, in each cup of morning coffee, in each word that finds its way to the paper, in every whispering rise and fall of pages turned, in each sunrise and sunset and swift chop of the knife over dinner, each sweat of garlic in the pan.

Someday these wounds will heal, though the scars may show. For this time, I stitch, one loop after another,

My name is Bethany.
I am 24 years old.
I lost my mother.
I do not feel like myself.
But I am loved.
I am known.
You are not impossible.
You have made a way for me.
Everything is not lost.
Grief is good.
Grief is necessary.
I will not try to escape my grief.
Everything is not lost.
I am a woman.
I am a wife.
I am a writer.
Everything is not lost.

Stitch, stitch, stitch.

This is the steady rhythm of my life.

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