The Fine Art of Saying "No"

I don't really know how to say "No".  I'm really bad at it.  Wait... as a teacher, I shouldn't say "I'm bad at" anything... let me rephrase: "I find it challenging to say 'No'."

Actually, I'm great at saying "no" to my students ("Can I take home some clay?" "No." "Can we just paint today?" "NO." "Can I put glitter on this?" "For the love of... NO!").  I like to tell them I'm the meanest teacher at school.  They assure me I'm not, and I sat "I guess I have to try harder."  Confused laughter ensues.

Poor teaching practices aside, I am terrible at saying "No" to all the things that come up in adult life: work needs, volunteer opportunities, family things, social events, etc.  And I'm particularly bad at telling myself "no" when I am supposed to be advocating for myself instead.  Really, I'm bad at not doing things, particularly when not doing things is what's best for me.  These last few months, however, I think I've made some progress.

Back in February, I had a routine scan and check-in with my oncologist.  I was getting scans every 3 - 4 months to make sure no new cancer spots were showing up.  Until this point there had been nothing, which meant the Pazopanib/Votrient chemo pill was still doing its job.  After over a year of scans, Tom and I were getting more comfortable with the state of my health, so we expected this appointment would be no different.

In addition to my optimistically stable condition, we were having a baby!  Crystal had entered the second trimester of pregnancy, we were going to find out the sex the following week, and our families were beginning to plan a baby shower.  I was so completely caught up in the mental and emotional gymnastics of surrogacy and soon-to-be-parenthood - not to mention masticating through the meatiest chunk of the school year - I had no interest in thinking about cancer.

But, as we should all know by now, cancer has a crappy habit of being a total asshole.  My scans showed that the spot in my left lung had grown, and my oncologist recommended I have surgery to remove it.  I was completely taken off guard.  Yes, I knew that I still had a spot in my left lung, but it was too small to be found for removal during my previous surgery, and it had seemed to shrink with the Votrient, and we hadn't really heard anything about it since.  My oncologist said it'd be just about the right size to remove a few months later, so we'd need to do more scans in April or May for more information, and then schedule the surgery two to four weeks later, so maybe sometime in June.

I immediately freaked out.  June??  But we might have a baby then!  Sure, she's due in July, but who knows??  And lung surgery means at least two weeks before I can do anything, much less lift anything heavy like a baby!  And what if there were complications with surgery?  I didn't even want to think about what it might mean to take time off from work.

I left the appointment feeling completely deflated.  My oncologist is brilliant and I trust his medical decisions absolutely, but I felt as though the treatment/life scale was hanging horribly askew.  Tom and I were already dealing with unusual circumstances to become parents, why did cancer have to throw another layer of bullshit onto the pile?

(Side Note: Here's the part where I once again obsessively tout my belief that everyone should have a mental health professional on their medical/support team.  <rant> No matter who you are or what you're going through, if you don't have a mental health professional you trust to support you, get one.  It's literally life changing. </rant>)

My psychologist has been helping me through the emotional turmoil of becoming-a-parent-while-surviving-cancer, and she quickly supported my frustration about a June surgery.  She helped me give myself permission to say "no" and advocate for myself, my baby, and my family.  Fortunately, my lung surgeon and her nurse are also mothers, and understood my concerns.  My nurse even confided that she had adopted her child, and she completely understood my need to be physically functional when the baby finally arrives, since that immediate bonding time is so important for surrogate or adoptive parents.  My medical team worked together and we were able to move up my surgery to the beginning of May.  I had fought the First Battle of No and won.

Now, the rest are just details.  The surgery went very well, and I spent only one night in the hospital (a new record for me!).  My surgeon was able to get the entire <1cm tumor with good margins, while removing very little of my lung tissue.  Everything is healing the way it should, and nothing new has shown up.  I have maintained almost full lung capacity throughout my three lung surgeries, and while I may not take up running marathons in the near future, I should have no problems running after Mini Morgan when she eventually starts motoring around.  In the mean time, I am frantically trying to keep my head in the game to finish up the school year (usually failing), and wishing it was July already.  Mini Morgan is growing well in her host womb, though I have a sneaking suspicion Crystal is not the only one in her family who is counting down the days when they get their normal life back (~5 weeks!).

After my first success, I am definitely looking forward to fighting my next Battle of No.  Tom is thrilled of course, he's been trying to get me to say "no" to things and just do nothing for once! for years.  I'm actually excited to not travel this summer, to not attend every social event, to not volunteer my time.  And I can hear all you parents of young children laughing at me, thinking "Oh, just you wait!  You won't be so enthusiastic about being at home when you haven't showered in a month, you've forgotten how to wear anything other than yoga pants, and you'd kill for a conversation that doesn't involve poop."  You cackling parents might be right, but honestly, I've been there already: I was the un-showered, yoga-pants-clad, walking zombie-human talking about poop when I was going through treatment, and I was forced to be home for an entire year.  Sometimes I felt like I was being slowly poisoned (which I was), and I couldn't wait to go do something - anything - anywhere other than my house or Dana Farber.  I'm not going to pretend I know what it's like to have a baby, but I do think I'm well prepared for the sleep-deprived, dirty, anxiety-ridden life of a new parent.

Despite my reluctance, I was forced to say "no" to people since my diagnosis, and it has sometimes been painful.  Occasionally people didn't understand that I didn't have a choice, that I wasn't turning them down, I was trying to keep myself afloat.  But this time I did have a choice - and to be clear, it was not an easy choice - but I've already made it, and I'm sticking to it.  When I say "no, I can't talk to you right now," "no, I can't come visit," or "no, I can't help with that project," I'm saying "no" because I will be busy being a parent instead.  I won't be spending my time at Dana Farber, looking at the chemo pulsing through the IV in my hand and feeling nauseous, desperate, fearful, and trying not to die; I will be spending my time changing, feeding, and holding my daughter, looking at her and feeling amazement, joy, and love (ok, maybe those other things too, but you get the point).  She is a much more compelling reason for me to say "No".

It might take me awhile to figure out the finesse of wielding the No-Sword as a parent and not injure those in my path, so bear with me if you're on the receiving end of my No-Rampage.  Like all new parents, I am saying "No" to so many other things in my life so I can say "Yes" to myself, my family, and our future together.  I have to remember the big picture: my life is changing again, but this time it's a good change, a welcome change.  This time it's for the better.