The Rabbit of Seville

How doooo!

Welcome to my shop
Let me cut your mop
Let me shave your crop!
Daintily! Daint-til-ly!

Hey yoooou!
Don't look so perplexed
Why must you be next
Can't you see you're next?
Yes, you're next!
Yoou're so next!

...

These are the opening lyrics to the Bugs Bunny cartoon "The Rabbit of Seville", which is a spoof of The Barber of Seville opera.

Steven and Olivia serenaded me with this little ditty as Dave cut my hair off this afternoon. Those two goofballs singing in their best Bugs Bunny voices put a smile on my face when I easily could have been crying. I thought I was going to cry. I actually told everyone I would probably cry. But in the end I didn't. No one did. We just all laughed our way through "The Rabbit of Seville" as my hair got progressively shorter and shorter, all the way down to 5/8 of an inch. 

I'm sure tomorrow morning when I look in the mirror it will be a shock. And I'm sure at some point I will cry because I have no hair. Or at least maybe I'll cry some more because of why I have no hair. 

But today, the day we shaved my head, was a good day. 

First off, Dave was okay with cutting my hair, for which I am so grateful. He could have easily said he didn't want to do something so traumatic and asked me to go to my hairdresser, and I would have understood. But he didn't. He approached it with clarity and tenderness, and that in turn made me feel calm and confident. Not an easy task, making a girl in my situation feel calm and confident. But he does it every day in a million little ways.

The kids came and sat outside with me through the whole thing. They sang (see above). They gave Dave compliments on his barber skills--we discussed the fact that perhaps Dave missed his calling. Olivia held my hand for a time. Steven told me with a genuine earnestness that I looked great with a shaved head--he thought I'd fit right in sitting at a table in a Starbucks with my computer, kinda hipster. 

Tomorrow will probably be hard. I'll venture out with a scarf or a hat. I'm sure people will notice. They will be polite and smile. They might feel badly for me. But they shouldn't. 

Because today, the day we shaved my head, was a good day :) And that makes me the luckiest girl in the world.

I Got to Watch My Daughter Row Today

NOTE: This is being posted roughly a month after I actually got to watch Olivia row.

I got to watch my daughter row.

It's fun to watch her row. She takes it very seriously and not at all seriously. At the same time. It makes me smile to see her do this. Mostly because it makes her smile when she's doing it.

I think it's her approach to life.

Olivia is just plain and simple one of the happiest people I know. She is effervescent and optimistic. And also driven and pragmatic. She's a girl who drags herself out of bed at 3:45am to go to crew practice, actually pencils in a nap on her daily calendar, and giddily face-times me and Dave when she has successfully cooked herself a new dinner recipe.

She can simultaneously be overwhelmingly challenged by something and completely enthralled with it.

And that's her idea of fun. Thus, the crew team.

The girl had never rowed a boat in her life when she got to college. And early mornings were NOT in her repetoire. Yet when she got an email saying the crew team was looking for new members, she responded. She joined. She got up early. She rowed.

She made an amazing group of friends. Somehow an eighteen year old young woman with no crew experience took over the team! You know that person at a party, the one who everyone wants to sit at their table? Olivia was the girl everyone wanted in their boat. And it's not hard to understand why. She showed up every single day. She rowed as hard as she possibly could. She encouraged all of her teammates. She participated fully, throwing herself without abandon into every aspect of being a teammate.

I think the best story Olivia has told us about her time on crew (and there have been MANY stories) is the one when she's on an ERG machine toward the end of this last season. The coach has surprised the women's team with a 2K ERG piece, which means each teammate gets onto her own rowing machine and rows as hard as she can for 2000 meters (as measured on the electronic display on the machine). They don't all row at once, as there aren't enough machines, so half of them row and then they get off and the other half rows. When you're not on the machine you're cheering on the rowers who are. So Olivia is on her machine, and she's got a goal. It's been the same goal since day one of being on this team--she wants to row a 2K in under eight minutes. This is a thing. Every single young woman on this team wants to achieve this goal. It's a badge of honor if you do it. Not many do it. It's hard.

So Olivia is rowing, and the display is telling her that she's on pace to row very close to an eight minute 2K. She starts pacing herself. The machine is reading that she's rowing exactly on pace for an eight minute 2K. She's rowing as hard as she can, but she somehow manages to row just a little bit harder. Her teammates are starting to gather around her machine. They've noticed what's going on. They're yelling at her. For her. Cheering her on. Encouraging her. She doesn't think she can row any harder, but if she does she just might come in under eight minutes. To the screams of her teammates, she finishes the 2K in 7:59. She wants to throw up, but she starts crying instead. Because she's wanted to do this for so long. And she finally did it.

Olivia is not a competitive person. Except with herself. If a team goal is not achieved, but she's done her part and has given her very best, she won't stress over it. You can only do what you can do. But if she really thinks she can do something, she will try and try and try until she's exhausted herself of every ounce of effort. She doesn't need to win because it's winning. She simply needs to know she's given it her all.

So back to the topic of this post. Dave and I went to San Diego to watch the Chapman crew team row in the Crew Classic. This is a huge event. It's considered the opening of the season. There are teams who fly across the country to row at the Crew Classic. So Chapman, tiny little college that it is, is rowing against schools like University of Washington (have you read Boys in the Boat?), Cal, UCLA, Harvard, Michigan and Boston College--schools with powerhouse rowing programs.

The Chapman women's team knows they don't really stand much of a chance against a lot of these teams. But they're excited anyway. They're happy to be there, and they're happy to be there together.

And I got to watch my daughter row a 2K race in an eight-boat. I got to see her approach a race she knew they weren't going to win with the same attitude she would approach a race in which they thought they might take first. I saw my daughter, who doesn't love the racing aspect of crew, give it her all--and I mean her ALL!-- for a little over eight minutes. When the Chapman boat crossed the finish line, it didn't seem to matter much to her what place they came in. It mattered to her that the eight girls all worked together to try their hardest. She took the rowing seriously. She took her effort seriously. She took the race not at all seriously. I love that she can do that.

Watching Olivia row reminds me that even though it's daunting and really hard, it can also be a lot of fun to push yourself beyond what you think your limits are. As long as you're doing it because it makes you happy.

I Got to Watch My Son Teach Today

NOTE: This is being posted roughly a month after I actually got to watch Steven teach.

I got to watch my son teach today. Dave and I got up bright and early and drove into Berkeley to see Steven teach his discussion section for CS10, which is "the Joy of Computing" class at UC Berkeley. It's billed as a sort of intro to computer science, but after sitting through this one discussion section I would have to say that if that's an introductory class then I can't even imagine what's going on at the next level. I'm really not even sure I could tell what was going on at the introductory level.

But what I do know is that watching that kid teach made me smile.

We sat in the back of a fairly small classroom. Some kids might have noticed us there, but Dave and I are young at heart, so it's possible we actually blended right in. Maybe we just looked like fifth year seniors.

Steven had his computer projection system all set up as the kids came in, and they all settled in quietly and opened their computers. Since we were sitting behind everyone we could see their screens. Not a single kid was on Facebook or social media or whatever else they might be on these days. Every single one of them had a screen following Steven's every move. You might think to yourself, "Of course they were paying attention! Why else would they be there?" And to this I would say you clearly have not walked past the open door of a college classroom while there is class going on lately. The number of students you would see with their computers open to anything BUT what is going on in class is astonishing. Not in Steven's section.

He began by asking if they had attended the weekly lecture and if they had any questions up front for him. Then he succinctly stated his objectives for the hour and then proceeded to accomplish his objectives one at a time, noting to the students each time he had completed an explanation and asking if they understood.

His teaching strategies were stunning for anyone, but especially impressive considering he's had exactly zero teaching instruction. It just comes to him naturally. A few examples: as previously mentioned, he outright let the class know what he wanted to accomplish before the hour was over, so they knew what to expect; he constantly but seamlessly checked for understanding, and if he sensed anyone wasn't clear on a concept he re-explained it, but slightly differently (because there's nothing more annoying than telling a teacher you don't understand and having the teacher repeat exactly what you didn't understand in the first place); he encouraged the kids to ask questions, even telling them that he expected that they would have questions, and each question was accepted with a genuine "great question!" and a smile; and he kept an eye on the clock to make sure he was able to get through his entire lesson plan because, as he explained to the class, they needed all of the information in order to best understand the upcoming assignment.

That may all sound like teaching 101 to you. But from experience I can tell you that there just aren't that many seasoned teachers who actually do all of that in one class period. And he's still in college.

Also impressive is that he knows and takes seriously the amount of work it takes to create and carry out a great lesson. And he puts in that work for every.single.lesson. It's his idea of fun. (credit to his dad and grandfather for passing down great planning/execution genes)

To hear Steven talk about his teaching is to hear a voice filled with passion and excitement. You can't miss it. His students can't miss it.

I think if he ever decides to teach as career,  he will, year after year, have classes of kids who, when they get their schedules, get great big smiles on their faces because they got Mr. Traversi.

Going to the Bathroom with Your Phone in Your Hand

So yeah, this whole cancer diagnosis is life-changing. In a million different ways. Here's one of the more amusing changes I've made since getting the news.

When you're expecting an important phone call, you want to be available when it comes through.

When you've just been diagnosed at fifty with cancer, every single phone call is an important one that you don't want to miss. Radiology is calling to schedule your biopsy. Your doctor is calling to discuss your diagnosis. Oncology is calling to discuss your chemo appointment. They're all important. And if you miss a call, good luck trying to call back. It's a one-way system (at least in Kaiser). They can get hold of you any time they want. You canNOT get hold of them without winding your way through an operator who connects you to a department which demands you enter your medical number, birthdate and social security number into your phone before it will connect you with a secretary who will see if the person you want to speak with is available. It takes a herculean effort to successfully return a call.

So here's my solution as of late: If I am expecting a call, I simply walk around with two phones in my hand. Everywhere I go. Even to the bathroom.

I know. Sorry about that visual. And I do always wash my hands so no worries about using the phone after me.

On the plus side, I never have to search for the phone! I knew there had to be an upside to all this shit!

Welcome to Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center

"Welcome to Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. How can I help you?"

Those were the words that a very kind sounding woman three-thousand miles away said to me when I dialed the number I had been given by a wonderful cousin who wanted to point me in the best possible direction with my new diagnosis.

How surreal.

I did not expect to be dialing that number or hearing those words at this point in my life. But there I was.

I would really like to write a long, eloquent piece about the shock of all of this. But I'm not sure eloquence is in my bag of tricks currently. I'll get there. But right now I'm still trying to adjust to the idea that I actually called Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.

More to come.

Hey Here's A (Great) Idea

I come up with all sorts of ideas. Some are ways to fix things. Some are ways to start things. Some are just invention ideas. Most of them are decent ideas. Perhaps not great, sometimes not necessary, and almost always they are never actually going to happen.

But this idea... this is a good one. Maybe even a great one. It's necessary, and it should happen.

Say you get a call one day from your doctor, and he tells you that you have cancer. BOOM!
That's what that feels like. Your whole world explodes inside your head in one tiny second.
You have a million questions but you can't ask any of them because you are mentally paralyzed and feel like you might throw up in between your heaving sobs. Before you know it you've hung up the phone. The conversation that just changed your whole perspective has ended and you are left, head in your hands, heart thumping wildly, legs too weak to get up, eyes red, cheeks wet, mind dazed and confused.

Here's where my idea comes in.

The next thing that should happen is that your phone rings again, and it should be someone from your medical plan, a designated representative assigned to you, calling to talk to you, to answer your questions regarding your diagnosis--all the ones that you now have but you can't reach your doctor because doctors don't have direct lines anymore and there's no way you're getting through the medical assistant to speak directly with that doctor that just gave you your diagnosis because for your to actually speak directly to your doctor you need a phone appointment and those are now being scheduled two weeks out because doctors are, you know, busy.

No one should ever receive a scary diagnosis and then be left with no one to answer questions or no one to talk to. That second phone call could make all the difference in the world.

Two phone calls means you now know what's going to happen next.
Two phone calls means you now have the phone numbers you need to call in the next few days.
Two phone calls means you now know a general timeline of what's ahead.
Two phone calls means you now know that two days is a good turnaround time for radiology to return your call and you won't need to spend hours on the phone trying to talk to them sooner.
Two phone calls means you now know which doctor is in charge of you.
Two phone calls means you're less likely to start googling anything.
Two phone calls means you now know there's someone to call if you need help.
Two phone calls might make the difference in being able to get to sleep that night.

No matter how great your health plan is, doctors are not readily available to talk exactly when you think you might go crazy out of fear and lack of information. Email is great, but again not when you're insanely scared and need an immediate response.

You need a voice to speak with, and ideally you need a body, someone to speak to in person so you can slow down and think and listen and respond in real time. You need someone who knows your case, who knows the system and can help you navigate it. You need a personal advocate.

That's my (great) idea. Please feel free to run with it, Kaiser.