The Golf Bug

This morning marks the end of our family vacation in Falmouth. When everyone wakes up, we’ll do that mad dash of cleaning out the fridge, divvying up the sunglasses and cell phones that have gathered in a pile on the kitchen counter, and stripping the sheets from the sandy beds.  And so I find myself reflecting on the week, again trying to distract myself from those fears that creep up every morning when I remind myself that I have cancer.

In a week of simple, treasured pleasures, there is much upon which I could reflect.  But I want to write about Thursday, the day that we played a round of golf.  We had two groups out at Ballymeade – Brianne, Seamus, Brian, and I in one and my Dad, Sean, and Teddy in the other. Despite the less-than-two-foursomes, my Dad and Sean declared this round the first annual “Tara Beats Cancer” golf tournament and I believe Sean already has his eye on some oversized trophy.

Anyways, my Dad and my brother always dream big when it comes to family traditions, and for this one, I did what I always do – I smiled and let their spirits run wild.  And I deemed Mom and Lauren our “team sponsors,” since they made our round possible by agreeing to watch Annabel for the day, a task that requires much more energy than the golf itself.

I love golf, although I can count on one hand (maybe even that Handy Manny hand) the number of times I have played a round since Teddy was born. I learned to play golf the summer before my senior year at Bowdoin when I heard that the college was starting a women’s golf team in the fall.  Almost every Sunday that summer, my Dad, Brian, Sean, and I would play, usually down in Pembroke.  I loved those early mornings we all spent together on the course, and I officially had the golf bug.

Now, 10 years and two kids later, getting in a full 18 holes with my family and our best friends was a huge treat, and I wanted to savor it.  So I was especially frustrated with myself when I woke up that morning afraid to golf.  As dumb as it sounds, I honestly didn’t know if I could play a whole round. I’m sick right? It was then that I realized one of the strangest things about my cancer – it was working its evil without me even feeling it (aside from the lump, of course, and a few other ailments that may or may not be related to my cancer).  But the mind’s a powerful thing (especially one like mine that is somewhat prone to hypochondria) and since my diagnosis, I have basically convinced myself, largely subconsciously, that I actually feel sick.  OK, I’ll cut myself some slack and attribute my recent nausea to worry, and some of my pain may even be cancer-related, but since my diagnosis, I know I have invented a lot of physical pain.  And if I ever Googled “lymph nodes” (which I won’t do) I’m certain I would immediately feel pain in the parts of my body highlighted by whatever photo of the human body I landed upon.

Now that you know a bit of how my crazy mind works, you won’t be surprised that Thursday morning, I woke up thinking ridiculous thoughts like, What if I swing my club and a lymph node pops some cancer cells into my blood stream? Would that spread my cancer?  Anyone who knows the first thing about cancer (or the human body) is probably cringing at my ignorance, and I (mostly) know how much of a nutcase I am.  Sometimes I even make myself laugh at the ridiculous thoughts I conjure up, but my laugh distracts me more than it actually solves my issue.  (Maybe I should email this entry to the psychiatrist at Dana Farber that I am seeing next week. Good luck to that poor man.)

Enough background on my madness…back to golf.  I admit, I started the round with a bit of a cloud over my head. It’s that fine line I talked about earlier – loving something or someone so much that it can cause pain, and I was feeling that pain as we all teed off.  Around the third hole, I checked my phone to see if I had any emergent texts from our sponsors.  There were none, but there was a message from one of Brian’s former hockey player’s (and my former student’s) mom, a lovely woman whose Italian warmth could comfort you at any moment.  Donna had written me a note about her brother who had battled back from Stage 4 Hodgkins lymphoma.  Like I always do when I read these incredible survivor stories, I cried, and my hope muscle grew.

The dark cloud over my head moved away, and something awesome happened – I played golf like I’d have played if I was cancer-free, or better yet, like I will play when I am cancer free (and silicone-filled).  I had some great shots and some really crappy ones. I was bored putting like I always am (mainly because it drives Brian crazy), and I craved a sandwich by the 10th hole.  I didn’t pay enough attention to where my ball flew, another of my tendencies to which Brian has adjusted (although by the way, I still don’t understand his technique of “picking a tree” near where my ball went because once we drive the cart up, the trees always look different).  Our group smiled watching Teddy scramble around ahead of us, and we laughed at how small he looked out there with his goofy little visor.  We made fun of Brianne’s enormous putter from Building 19 and we cheered when “the Mallet” helped her sink a few 20-footers.

It was the most precious and at the same time the most regular round of golf I have ever played.  When we finished, I choked up at bit, mainly because I realized that there will many more of these rounds in my future.  And I will look forward to, and cherish, every single one of them.

Fear to Fuel

My Grandma grew up during the Great Depression, and she never let you forget it (trust me, sometimes we tried to).  Her hero was Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and she pretty much credited him with all good in the world, even until her death at age 95.  She was a staunch Democrat, marched on Washington with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and even in her 80s picketed at Martha Stewart’s house in the Hamptons when Martha began to sell her brand name products at K-Mart, the same store that sold guns. 

From my childhood through my college years, I would spend a few weeks if not most of the summer with her at her house on Long Island (and with my Grandpa until he died just before I left for college).  As kids, our big troop of cousins would head to Atlantic Beach where we bodysurfed, boogey-boarded, and ate Chip-wichs and Bomb-pops from the Beach Hut.  At night, we played “Aliens” in the basement, a game we invented that was basically just a combination of hide-and-seek and tag, and it always ended with a bloody stubbed toe or a broken object displaced to make room for a hiding place.

When I was old enough to work out there, I waitressed at a ridiculously over-priced family restaurant on the side of Montauk Highway -- I could wear shorts and sneakers, hand out $23 lobster rolls in minutes, and turn tables quickly.  It was a great gig for a college student (and I still remember serving Brian his lobster roll when he came to visit).  In my spare time, I kayaked by myself in the ocean at the foot of the cliff upon which my Grandparents’ house was perched.  And I read.  Sometimes I wrote, but mostly I just read anything and everything I could find, which was a lot, because my Grandparents were both avid readers and their bookshelves were full with books new and old. 

My Grandma named her house and that spot on the cliff, “Cardinal Point,” and although I typically think people that name their property are in a class far above where I’d ever want to be, this was a different thing.  My Grandma loved her birds, especially her cardinals, and Teddy is already trained to know this – when he sees a cardinal he always reminds me that my Grandma loves those birds. 

It’s probably too early to teach Teddy about FDR, but I know my Grandma would be trying to if Teddy had the pleasure of seeing her today.  And if my Grandma were here now, I know exactly, and I mean, exactly, what she would tell me.  First, she’d swear.  She always liked a good swear word when she was angry.  Then, she’d try to blame a Republican (mostly as a joke), but she’d find that a stretch, and move on.  (Actually, with this whole “legitimate rape” issue, she’d actually forget my cancer for a bit while she exploded on this point.)  Finally, she’d get serious and she would tell me, There is nothing to fear but fear itself. 

I’ve heard this quote a million times and I honestly never really understood it.  I would think to myself, No, really, there are worse things to fear than just fear.  How about not having enough food to feed your family?  How about being killed by a drunk driver?  How about getting cancer?  Those actual occurrences all sounded a lot worse to me than just fearing them. 

Only two weeks out from my diagnosis, I’d be a fool to think I’ve become a stronger person, improved in some way.  I haven’t.  So much of the time, I still just feel shocked, sad, confused, and angry.  But most of all, I feel scared.  I keep replaying the last few weeks in my head – the words the doctors have said to me, the look on their faces when they said them.  Then I think of the weeks ahead – the surgery (or surgeries), the real news on how far this cancer has spread, or could soon spread; the game plan on how we’ll fight this thing.  I have tried to isolate what has me most afraid.  Even as I write, I still don’t have clarity on this question. 

Of course, my biggest fear is that the treatment won’t work.  But I mean it when I say that in the last few days, I have come to start to believe, I mean really believe, not just write so that I believe, that it will.  In our last conversation, Dr. Bunnell said he expects the surgery will reveal a Stage 2 cancer, and it’s taken me a while to digest that.  But whatever the stage, I believe in the team around me, from my doctors to my family, to you.  And I believe in myself that I can do this (OK, that’s still a little writing to convince myself it’s true, but so what?  I’ll get there.)  So from here on in, failure is not an option, which means that it’s not on my list of fears. 

And that’s when FDR’s words hit me square in the face, like Teddy’s new bounce-on-water ball that he and Sean kept throwing at my head yesterday while we played in the pool.  What I am most afraid of is that awful, terrible, indescribable feeling of being scared out of my mind.  I am not so afraid of the number of lymph nodes the surgeon will tell me she had to remove, but rather of what my mind will think of that number.  I am not so afraid of the ultimate Stage of my cancer, but rather that if it’s a big number, that I won’t be able to handle the news.  I’m not afraid of being under anesthesia for several hours, but rather, the fear that my family will have to live with during that time. 

A year from now, I’m sure I’ll be able to write an awesome conclusion to this entry.  Something about conquering fear, believing in myself, “Living Strong.”  But now I sit here, rushed as usual because my kids are kids and I’m still their Mom (Annabel just shoved a jelly munchkin in my mouth, yum).  And I try to think of what has helped me when I have been most afraid.  First and foremost, as I’ve said before, it has been the countless survivor stories that you and others have sent to me.  Just last night, my cousin Kenyon sent me one that had me in tears – good tears, hopeful ones.  These stories are my Popeye spinach, and my hope muscles grow with each and every one. 

Second, something else keeps popping in my head.  It’s the slogan on a t-shirt (I think one of those Lance Armstrong ones, focused on beating cancer) that Brianne said she’d find in her closet and bring to me.  She told me that the t-shirt says, “Battle Mode.”  There’s something about that slogan that helps me.  I know, it’s random, and weird, and proof that every individual’s fight with cancer is a unique one.  But those two words – Battle Mode – take some of my fear away.  They make me think that I have power, I have strength, I have a spirit, and a body that this cancer’s going to have to face now that it’s been discovered.  And somehow, that confidence turns a bit of my fear into fuel.  And since I’ve got a shitload of fear, that must mean, I’ve got a shitload of will-be-fuel.  So this one’s for you Grandma, you’re right, a good swearword, and a good FDR quote can go a long way, in the Great Depression or in a fight against cancer.  

Noisy Genes

I have the following quote hanging on the wall in my office:

Peace.  It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work.  It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart. 

Now, let me be clear, this is one of those concepts to which I aspire, and I am far, far away from becoming a master of it.  In fact, I need think back only to yesterday morning to realize my distance from this Zen-like state – Annabel had taken a tumble down a few steps on the back porch and, not hurt but still shocked, was hysterical.  Cue Teddy, who decided it was just the right time to have a mental breakdown about the tiny soccer ball that was still missing from his new Soccer Guys set (we eventually found it under our bed).  There was lots of noise, and trust me, no calm in my heart. 

Anyways, I think I was originally drawn to this quote because I am one of those quintessential first-child, type-A, far-too-serious-about-everything personalities (even if I have you fooled), so I’ve always had to do a bit of calming myself down over small issues.  And when I first found the sign, I was in the middle of a project at my old job that had me working long hours, while very pregnant with Annabel, with a broken rib.  

But now, like so many things, this quote has taken on a whole new meaning, and I was reminded of it yesterday when the genetics counselor from Dana Farber called me back with the results to the genetic test they had taken for two main breast cancer genes. 

For a bit of context, one of the many meetings we had on my first day at Dana Farber over one week ago was with a genetics counselor.  She asked me all sorts of questions about my family history (even drew one of those little family trees – males were squares and females were circles) and then gave us lots, and I mean, lots, of information about genetic tests, their costs, their implications.  To be honest, it was one of our last appointments of the day and I felt pretty dazed at that point.  I wasn’t following much of what she said and I just wanted to go home. 

One thing I did understand from the meeting was that I needed a blood sample taken so that the one lab in the world with a patent on this process (Myriad Genetics out in Utah) could test to see if I carried the “BRCA1” or “BRCA2” gene.  Again, I try to stay as far away as I can from the clinical part of this journey (although that’s going to be harder and harder in the upcoming weeks) so I don’t have much to say about this test or these genes, except that I understand that if I tested positive for either one of the genes, it would mean I was at increased risk for cancer in my other breast and other types of cancer (especially ovarian cancer) in my future.  Even worse, it would mean women related to me could also carry the gene, and that was a can of worms I sure didn’t want to have to open. 

As has become the norm when I am returning a doctor’s call these days, my hands shook and my legs felt weak as my Mom and I headed outside to the driveway of the vacation house to return the genetic lady’s call. 

Negative, Negative, she told me.  I don’t carry either gene.  But as I have learned, it’s never that simple anymore.  The test that my insurance company would cover could tell us with 95% certainty that I didn’t carry either the BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene.  To be 100% sure, Myriad would need to run additional tests (called the “BART” test, again, spelling questionable) and that would cost $700.  My insurance company had already explained to me (in a 45 minute call that I have not yet recounted to you) that it would not cover this additional testing (but they will cover a $500 wig!).  I would have hemmed and hawed but my Mom wanted to be 100% sure so she gave a few important women in her life an early Christmas gift – $700 to be sure that the cancer-risk gene was not lurking in that remaining 5%.   

You’d think it’d be simple from there, right?  Unfortunately, it isn’t.  I’m still 32 with breast cancer and no family history, so the genetics lady told me about other tests that we could run to see if I carry any other gene that could lead to my condition.  By now, Brian had joined the party ’round the speaker phone.  Again, I found myself lost in abbreviations and percentages.  And that kicked-in-the-gut nauseous feeling returned when the genetics counselor repeated what she had said in our last meeting (but I think I chose to block from my memory) which was that if I carry certain of these other genes, it could mean that our children are at increased risks of cancer, even childhood ones.  That is a thought Brian and I honestly cannot bear at this stage so we decided that I would get well first then we would talk again about further genetics testing.  Noise, trouble, hard work.  And no calm in my heart. 

After the call, we went back inside to prepare lunch.  Brian’s parents had come down to Falmouth for the day and it was such a pleasure to sit outside under the umbrella on one of the most beautiful days of the summer and enjoy some hot dogs and hamburgers.  I calmed, and I think Brian did too.  Thank goodness for family. 

Well, I began this entry when everyone was asleep, but now Annabel has finished her bottle, lost interest in Sesame Street, and is dancing around me, trying to grab my lap top and climb on the back of the couch.  We have a great day planned so I’ll wrap this up. 

I have realized in the last couple days that I have made strides, albeit very small ones, towards the goal in the quote.  I have come closer to accepting that in the next year, or two, or twenty, this cancer is going to bring with it lots of noise, and trouble, and hard work.  But I’ve also started to believe that in the midst of all of that, I will find calm and I will feel peace.  I’ll still enjoy lunches outside with my family even after confusing calls with genetics counselors.  And I’ll still have my little girl grabbing at my computer as I try to make sense of my life.  In the end, that’s just the kind of calm I need.  

My Mom

I cry at almost every montage.  Actually, I cry, then Brian laughs at me for crying, then I cry some more trying to convince him why he should be crying too.  The scene usually ends with me pinching him, and letting him believe that he wouldn't have become teary if I hadn't distracted him with my ugly cry.  

It really doesn't matter what the montage is about -- I'll at the very least get choked up.  The introduction pieces to major golf tournaments, any part of "Planet Earth," the recent Children's Hospital commercials, or the old Gatorade ads with injured athletes persevering to "Love Hurts" -- you set it to music and I'll cry.  Given this starting place, you can imagine what I'm like during the Olympics.  Never mind the actual event recaps, I'm already a mess at the Visa commercials.  I mean seriously, am I expected to stay composed with a combination of Morgan Freeman's voice, Natalie Comaneci's perfect 10 routines, and the message, "Go World."?  I know I look foolish, but I don't care.  It feels good to cry and laugh and pinch my husband for picking on me.  

But this entry isn't about montages.  It's about my mom (and she's a sucker, though a more modest one, of montages too).  Anyone who knows me knows that I could never, ever, sum up what I think of my mother in anything short of a 60 volume series of writings, each series at least 500 pages thick.  Actually, even that wouldn't capture it, so a little blog post sure won't do the trick.  That means, I'm left with metaphors, some symbolic way that I could express a tiny slice of the universe of love, respect, and admiration that I have for my mom.  

Enter, the montage, the ugly cry, and the Olympics.  I know, I know, I probably need to lighten up on the emotion that is likely generated in conference rooms of ad executives likely mocking the vulnerable audience of people like me.  But in all seriousness, the video I have posted below is something special.  And it will do a tiny bit of justice to what I think of my mother.  

I was only 12 when Derek Redmond ran the semi-final 400 meter race in the Summer Games in Barcelona.  I remember seeing this footage back then, and I know that my younger, but just as ugly ugly cry was in full gear.  Most of you will probably recall the race when you see it again.  If you think it's just a bit too much set to Cold Play, cut the volume, because the video is real, and worth a look.       

OK, so obviously I'm no Olympian, and my Mom is definitely no Mrs. Raisman (she admits that she spent most of her time at my swim meets and basketball games reading her book, or at least wanting to).  But this video, now more than ever, reminds me of my mom.

Without any intention of sounding conceited, I feel like a few weeks ago, my life was going along like the first half of Derek Redmond's race -- I was cruising, blessed with everything I could ever ask for.  My mom was in the stands, so to speak, cheering me on.

Then came the hamspring tear, or in my case, the cancer.  I broke, or rather, it was revealed that I could be breaking.  Like Derek Redmond, I fell to my knees, and limped along for a bit, trying to pretend I could deal with it all.  Then my mom rushed out, and while the tears streamed down my face, she stayed strong.

I'm sure that Derek Redmond's father wanted to curl up in a ball and cry the moment that he saw his son's dreams crushed in Barcelona, and my mother probably wanted to do the same when I told her that I likely I had cancer.  But my mom ran out to me, not caring about rules or recognition, and carried me.  She answered the phone when the doctor called to confirm the biopsy results that we already knew, because I didn't want to have those words in my memory.  She lined up all of the doctors appointments that I was too devastated to admit even needed to be made.  She called the best doctors she knew and made sure that I would be in the most capable, and kind, hands.  She babysat our kids so I could nap, she figured out the Partners Healthcare portal so she could send questions to my doctors electronically, and she made a calendar of all of my upcoming appointments.  She came with Brian and I to all of my appointments, and comforted him when I couldn't.  But most importantly, a few nights ago, when I completely broke down at the dinner table, she let me cry on her shoulder, telling me I deserve that time to be upset, angry, and scared.

At the risk of overkilling the montage metaphor, my mom has always been the brightest light to guide me home.  And I know that she will fix me now, because she always has in the past.

Work Refraction

We just tucked Annabel in her crib, snuggled next to "Coo-Coo" (her Cookie Monster from her Uncle Seamus) and Teddy is playing quietly with his brand new little figurine "Soccer Guys" (today's addition to the toy chest, rounding out the collection of Hockey Guys, Football Guys, and Baseball Guys).  The peace won't last long, but I'll get in a bit of writing before dinner.  

My first day of vacation with the family brought both great relaxation and much-appreciated fun where many times, I almost forgot that I had cancer for company.  Unfortunately, vacation also brought some of my most difficult, hard-to-catch-my-breath moments.  It's incredible how the overwhelming feeling of love can instantaneously turn to the overwhelming feeling of fear and pain, and I staggered along that line all day, fighting to stay on the former side but all too often falling helplessly onto the latter.  For my own sanity, I thought this entry should be a bit of a reflection and a distraction -- a "refraction" if you will.

I got to thinking, what might you be curious about at this stage?  I realized that if I were you, I'd be wondering, "What's the deal with your job through all this?"  It's a great question, and it got me to thinking about my work.  And so I refract...

For five years after I graduated from college in 2002, I taught in the Social Studies Department at Canton High School.  I think back to this time in my life very fondly, and very often.  It makes my day every time I bump into former students, especially when I hear that they have chosen a path in life that brings them happiness (and even more especially when I hear that they are studying to be a teacher!).  I chuckle when my former students call me, "Ms. Talbot," but I understand, because I'd never be able to call Mr. Badoian, Mr. Carta, Mr. Healy, or Mr. Sweeney anything but that.

When I see them, my students still remind me of some of my less-conventional lessons, like during our World History unit on India when I told them we had a guest speaker that was waiting in the teacher's lounge.  I went outside of the classroom to "retrieve the guest," then quickly transformed myself into Gandhi, and returned (ace bandage wrapped around my head to achieve baldness).  I let my students interview "me," and with my hunched back and walking stick (a ski pole) I answered their questions as if I were this most impressive of historical figures.  (I never mastered the Indian accent.  Any time I tried, I defaulted to the British accent I knew from growing up with English nannies.)  As you can imagine, my high school kids had a blast trying to stump me with questions (in a good-hearted way, I think), but I had read two books and watched several videos on the Mahatma, so I was well-equipped to answer even the most random of their questions.  I still play along that Gandhi really visited that day.  Needless to say, they probably think that I'm nuts.  

After two years of teaching, I was itching to become a student again myself.  I never intended on switching careers, but I wanted to study something fresh, and be able to do it at night.  When I was accepted into Suffolk Law School's evening program, I was elated.  I could keep the job I loved, and study topics like Constitutional Law that I knew I'd eat up.  

I began the four-year program in 2004, commuting into Boston three nights a week for classes that typically ran from 6-10PM.  My family jokes that I have a revisionist memory, because now I think back to law school with some amount of nostalgia.  I admit, however, that it was a grind.  I remember being on lunch duty at CHS studying for finals, reviewing Contracts flash cards while scolding senior boys for piling up their dirty lunch trays under their table (my revisionist memory also forgets which boys those were, so you're off the hook if it was you!).  But that "best of the best" group I keep mentioning includes so many people that I met in law school, so in the end, those four years were a true gift.  

After two years of law school, I had done pretty well, and someone asked me if I would be interviewing with "the big firms" when they came on campus in August.  I hadn't heard of these interviews so I had no such plans.  Plus, I never thought I would leave teaching any time soon.  Eventually I decided to toss my hat in for an interview, and when I actually got one, I assumed everyone had.  I did some background reading before my first interview and it was then that I learned the starting salaries of first-year associates at big Boston law firms.  I remember showing Brian the number one night at our condo in Stoughton.  He laughed in disbelief, and we wondered for a second if it was a misprint.  At the time, I supplemented my teaching salary by tutoring at least 12 hours per week, and the thought of having just one job that could pay exponentially more than I brought home with two was tempting.  

The first interview I had scheduled was with Ropes & Gray, a firm I had heard of, but only barely.  Our paths really had no reason to cross until now.  Somehow, I got an offer for an in-office call-back interview, but it was scheduled for the third day of the school year, which I hated.  Reluctant to leave my new classes so early, I nonetheless trekked into Boston wearing the same suit I wore the week prior (I only owned one at the time).  As I waited outside a partner's office for an interview, I asked the recruiter who was with me if everyone on the floor was on vacation.  It was so darn quiet there.  She looked at me like I was an idiot.  Looking back, I realize that the only workplace I knew, a high school, was never quiet, so the law firm halls felt almost silent.  Even now, I miss the hustle and bustle of a school.  The next day, I got an offer to join Ropes as a "summer associate," which I learned was the position that most often lead into a first-year associate position.  I was flattered by the opportunity, but joining as a summer associate would mean that I would have to end my teaching year early, and then maybe permanently, so I was hesitant to say the least.  

Ultimately, and in all candor, I couldn't resist the enormous jump in salary, and my family's encouragement that this would be a good thing for me.  Still to this day, I'm not proud to say that money was such a factor in my decision, but it's the truth.  Despite that I was busting my butt to pay thousands of dollars to Suffolk per semester, I was still going to graduate with over $80,000 in loans.  I thought I'd never be able to pay that back on a teacher's salary.  My plan was to try out this gig and if it was a bust, I would beg for another teaching job (maybe even grovel at Canton High), having at least paid back some of my loans.  

I remember my last day at Canton High School as though it were yesterday.  I saw the best magic show of my life (thanks to Ian and Ben), I received a gorgeous leather work bag for my new job (thanks to Jane and Heather and all the other teachers who were far too good to me), and I cried my eyes out pretty much from start to finish.  CHS is a very special place to me and I wasn't ready to leave.  Now, in the context of my diagnosis, I recall another vivid memory of that day -- I remember walking away from school thinking to myself, If I died today, I would feel that my life was fulfilled.  I don't remember ever having that thought before, and I honestly remember that it surprised me.  In the five years since, I have been blessed with new chapters of my life, and now I understand the hole that my death would leave in the life of others.  In fact, I wish I could rewind time and take back that thought I had five years ago.  I wish I could scream to the hills, That's not true anymore!  Please give me more time!  And since Dr. Bunnell has recently informed me that my cancer has been in my body for years, I hope it wasn't listening that day.     

I started the summer program at Ropes & Gray a week late so I could stay with my students almost up to their final exams, and I came back a few weeks later to review with them and correct their tests.  My 10 weeks in the summer program at Ropes and Gray may have well been a trip to a different country -- everything was so foreign to me, from the 9AM start time (not 7:10AM) to the office in which I sat alone (where were the 28 teenagers with whom I used to share my "office"?).  Along with the army of over 100 other summer associates in Boston, all with the most impressive of credentials, I attended almost daily training seminars on corporate law topics, and through the top-notch schedule of social events, I got to know some awesome people with whom I would work if I returned as a full-time associate.  It was a fascinating experience and at the end of the summer, I accepted my offer to join the firm when I graduated from law school.  I knew then that I was totally out of my element at a big corporate law firm, but I thought it may be good to try a new life adventure.  

In my last year of law school, we had our son Teddy, and I took the bar when he was about 5 months old.  When I began at Ropes as a full-time associate, he was 7 months old.  That was when Brian learned to cook, and, well, do pretty much everything else around the house.    

I worked as a full-time associate at Ropes & Gray in their corporate health care group for almost three and a half years.  I worked hard, as did all of my colleagues, and I learned more about myself in those years than I ever had before.  Most of all, I learned that while it would be fun to have tons of money, I wasn't willing to make the sacrifices necessary to get there.  I wanted to come home every night to see my family, and I didn't want to stay up until two in the morning to make up for it.  I knew a long-term career at a big law firm would mean travel, and the thought of consistently missing my kids' events, even just a baseball game or a gymnastics practice, made me sick to my stomach.  I was so thankful to have learned this about myself, and even more thankful that those years brought me some of my most cherished friendships.  It's amazing how fast you can bond over shared sheer exhaustion.  

In January of this year, I accepted an incredible offer to join the health care group at a mid-size firm, Verrill Dana LLP.  Verrill Dana (sometimes painfully abbreviated to VD so we can all have a childish chuckle) is based in Portland, Maine, and it was expanding its Boston office.  I knew it was the right fit for me from the day of my first interviews.  I could tell immediately that these people were not only incredible lawyers, but fabulous people -- smart, kind, hard-working, family-focused, and fun.  My seven months with them have confirmed my first impression and more -- we really are talking best of the best.  I can't wait to get back to my office, open my shades that overlook Boston Harbor, and get back to work.  

I never thought I'd say this, but I miss my daily commute into Boston (even the short portion of it on the Orange Line).  Once I beat this thing, maybe I'll have a new appreciation for things I never even enjoyed before.  Or maybe, as a dear friend has told me from his own experience, I will just go back to the way I was before -- being annoyed with my commute and the craziness I often witness on the Orange Line.  Either way would be a gift.  

In the end, I know I will group my employer and my colleagues in the cavalry of people who helped saved my life.  From the day I told them I had cancer, they stood behind me both emotionally and financially, and they gave me both the space and support to get better.  I feel so blessed for this, because I know that a serious illness of a working parent can set a family into a downward financial spiral.  I am so thankful that my colleagues and my family wouldn't ever let that happen to me.  

In the meantime, where I used to sit at my desk researching and writing memos for some of the best health care providers in the country, now I will visit them for surgeries, infusions, and life saving treatment.  I guess it's good to see life from all different perspectives, huh?