Tag: mental-health

Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole, truth, and nothing but the truth? My truth behind medical menopause.

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The first step in being in denial is to admit you are in denial. So here goes, I’m living denial and have been. Since my original diagnosis at 36, I’ve been in medically induced menopause. Honestly, I didn’t do any research to know what that meant. I was glad to be alive and did not know the drastic changes that my body would go through. You know the feeling of going down the highway, windows rolled down? Yeah, it’s like that but then somebody pulls the parking brake on you. You can hear the sound right? It’s similar to someone stopping a record mid way through a song. The radio changed to “Here, I go again on my own (Whitesnake) to “Highway to danger zone.”

One minute I was young and carefree, now I am literally counting the colony of chin hairs in the car mirror and staring at myself, bags and all, wondering what happened. Now, when you read this, please know that I am not seeking validation or pity. I write to recognize my own thoughts in hopes that it helps others. As I type, our new kitten runs back and forth across the keys and I continue to hit back space. Cats are sadistic and lovable. The game continues.

Also know when I type this I am not bragging when I say I used to not have a weight problem. I didn’t. I was a normal size. I could eat whatever I wanted and walk it off. Now, I am 10 pounds plus overweight, I have absolutely no motivation to do anything except drink copious amounts of diet coke, eat cheese and crackers (or some other salty snack), and binge things on Netflix. I have bursts of energy but no continuous energy. The weight hangs on me like a size too big, drenched rain jacket. I drag it around, try to tuck it in or hide it behind dresses. My bottom half widens and I feel like a trailer (in two parts) going down the highway. All that’s missing is the “wide load” sign. My hair is thinning or my forehead is getting bigger (one of the two). What do hormones affect (and when you don’t have them)? Let me count the ways friend. I relate more to Quiser Boudreaux than Shelby.

My life currently is in piles- piles of laundry, piles in the car, etc. I’ll eventually tackle but for now, let’s just say “meh”. Does that mean I am depressed? Hell yeah, I’m depressed because I still want to eat and do whatever the hell I want and I can’t! I am grateful for the piles but for now they mock me.

Meanwhile, God love him, my husband gets up and gets ready, still doesn’t look a day over 20 something. Yes, I am jealous if you are asking. My husband is structured. He knows exactly what supplements he takes and how they work. He still has the same energy as his 20 year old self. I take the required medication. I ate quiche this morning and all I could think was how good the crust was.

I’m sure it’s my relationship with food. It started when I couldn’t eat during chemo to survive and then celebrate with food when the appetite returned. Now, there’s nothing that excites me about food. I’ve run out of ideas. I would rather live off bread. Just saying. Jesus said he was the bread of life but didn’t mean for us to just eat bread though I thought about praying to God about letting me just have bread and to lose weight. I didn’t. I knew he would hear that prayer, chuckle, and think, “Yeah right, Ashley Coplin. Have you seen what all I’ve provided with you to eat?” I have God. I just don’t want it. No offense.

Knowing is then half the battle but now how do you pick up the piles, yourself up and make that change. Elephants eat one bite at a time. I know I know. Baby steps, grace, etc. When I tell you that I have no motivation, I have zero. I am genuinely happy but not happy with myself. I don’t want diet suggestions, medications suggestions, etc. I want someone to see me -where I am at- and say, “this sucks- but you got this. I got you. It ain’t gonna be easy and sometimes not fun but hey there’s always ‘Towanda’. Keep getting up, keep trying, put down the bread. Get busy Ashley Coplin because you have a WHOLE life to live. This too shall pass.”

So, I told you I’d tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The whole truth is that life is hard for everyone. Everyone has their battles. We’ve got to admit that and help each other even when we feel helpless. God put us on this life to do that very thing- love.

So, as the cat continues to bite the crap out of my foot (at least he’s not on the keyboard), I’ll get up and I will continue to get up and try, try, try again. One pile at a time. I’ll put healthy food on my pick up with disgust and humor. I’ll continue to tell the truth so that I recognize what I’ve got to do. I’ll help you. I’m here. I love you, chin hairs and all. How many do you have?

If you don’t, well then bless your heart, you are in for a treat darling. I guess I’ll count my chin hairs as blessings as I’m still here. I am still alive.

Dammit kitty, I’m done. Are you happy now?

Once upon a time, I was fun.

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Once upon a time, I was fun. I told my eldest child. As soon as I said it out loud, I choked back tears. I asked him what he thought my hobby was. He responded, “cleaning.” Oh, how I’ve failed myself and child. He genuinely thought cleaning was my hobby and that I enjoyed it. I gently explained that it had to be done; it was not something I necessarily enjoyed. Whew. Reality hits you smack in the face sometimes.

I wanted to tell him that I used to ride with my windows down in my 94’ corolla singing every word to “to the windows, to the wall”, that I used enjoy getting dressed up and going out, and that I had friends over at my apartment every weekend. I don’t necessarily miss those days but maybe the feeling it gave me. I also wanted to let him know that I went to parties and laughed out loud until my stomach hurt. I wanted to let him know that I had lived at one point in time and that I will continue to live and have fun.

I’m not teaching my child that a mother knows how to live and have fun. Damn.

So, as the fairy tale goes “once upon a time” … well I’ve got to change that narrative (as cliché as it sounds). When did I stop having fun?  2013? 2019? 2021? Somewhere between childbirth and cancer, the fun must have packed its bags and moved out. It was a gradual move of belongings (not overnight).

What was left was a shell of a former fun person.

I’ve got to start living and modeling a life for my children and for my sanity. I don’t think moms start off thinking, “I’m never going to have fun again.” I think it happens because of the silent mental load (and responsibility) of everyone under our roof. Fun has not even an inch to live in the house because of the requirements needed for a mom to feel she has succeeded in her mission.

Why? Why is the mom the only one that takes on this load? Sometimes, we want to have fun too but holding the household together takes priority. It’s a pressure we feel and guilty when we don’t measure up to our own standards. Who wrote the standards? Why do we have to ask for help? I believe most of us are struggling silently and screaming from the inside out for help. Help take the pressure off. Help without us asking.

I’m throwing the book out the window that’s going to be rolled down. I’m going to sing loudly. I’m going to dance and walk around bare footed. I’m going to live. I’m going to find a hobby if it kills me.

I need somebody
(Help) not just anybody
(Help) you know I need someone, help

So much younger than today
(I never need) I never needed anybody’s help in any way
(Now) but now these days are gone (these days are gone)
I’m not so self-assured
(And now I find) now I find I’ve changed my mind
And opened up the doors

Help me if you can, I’m feeling down
And I do appreciate you being ’round
Help me get my feet back on the ground
Won’t you please, please help me

Proof that I was fun- Howlin’ at the Moon in the year of our Lord and Savior, 2008

The What Ifs

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I looked in the mirror trying to recognize the person I was now- not what I once was. I try not to think about the life I could have had if I hadn’t had- Then, I pause, I don’t think myself go too far down the road. What was the point? I have it. There’s no reasoning with the what ifs of the world.

She doesn’t quite look the way I remembered. There are more wrinkles, freckles, and her face is rounder from the weight gain. Then, the what ifs try to push through- if you hadn’t then what if you wouldn’t have aged so quickly and gained all that weight. “Shut up!” I tell the what ifs.

I put my clothes on. The what ifs persist- you’re not the same size anymore. I want to cry.

I take Anderson to school. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to put on lipstick. Mom always said I should wear more lipstick. I get to work. I start the day.

The what ifs persist- are you really doing a good job? I finally have enough. I silence the what ifs by pushing forward despite the feelings inside. As I begin to focus more on tasks and what I need to do for patients, the what ifs fall silent. They can’t defeat me- not when I focus on what’s really important not what should or maybe could have been.

Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Courage is more exhilarating than fear and in the long run it is easier. We do not have to become heroes overnight. Just one step at a time. You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face.”

So, to hell with the what ifs. Here’s to the now and here’s to how!

Don’t let the what ifs stand in your way.

Cancer Things

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Episode 2: Scan Anxiety

In two days, I’ll have my 5th PET scan since initially being diagnosed in 2021. The scan itself is relatively easy (albeit I hate not being able to eat). The tricky part of this game is purely mental. For me, it starts right about now (2 to 3 days prior). A kind of dread sets in. Remember, the cartoons, where the dark cloud would appear over the main character’s head? That’s me. However, I try my best not to let my anxiety interfere with my daily life.

I tell myself that this scan is a scheduled nap. As a mom, I can always appreciate some alone time and a quick snooze. I try to color my thoughts away on the way to Birmingham (yes, I am 40 with a coloring book, but it is a good distraction). I also like listening to Dateline, as Lester Holt tells the story of a murder. Surprise, surprise! It’s a family member. I comment to myself to humor myself, “What? I knew it was her or him!”

The reward after my scheduled nap is FOOD! I am much like my father. When our feet hit the floor, it’s time to eat, and for me, that also includes a Diet Coke (prefer out of the fridge in a can).

Then, there’s the wait for the oncologist to come in. The band Europe usually plays in my head- It’s the final countdown! I try to talk to my husband, who is by my side, but it’s hard. Mentally, I’m playing a tennis match in my head. What was the name of that commentator at the US Open? Mary Carillo? She’s commenting on my match. “Ashley has no symptoms, lost no weight, and is still active,” Mary tells John McEnroe. John adds, “That’s right, Mary. She shows no visible signs. We will have to wait and see what the oncologist says. You know, Mary, I’d smash a few more racquets if I had cancer.” Mary to John, “Indeed, John, indeed.” I try to silence Mary and John, but they are pretty persistent in their commentary, and no one wants to piss off John McEnroe.

After he comes in and explains the scan, I find a way to take it all in and prepare for questions that my family may ask.

On the way home, I’m mentally exhausted and try to nap. I try to process what I’ve been told. During the 2-hour ride, I try to prepare to be a mom again when we pick up the kids. Some days, I have to take a day for myself to feel normal again, but I try my best to get up and go to work like normal. My husband can sense on those rides there and back that it’s hard for me to be normal, act normal. I know it’s hard on him as well. There’s not much control we have over the situation, which, as humans, is what we naturally desire: control. In reality, there is only perceived control. It’s not to say all scans have been bad. It’s a different game when you are playing in the 9th inning.

The cycle repeats in the coming months as we prepare for another scan.

So, as the clock chimes like in Vecna’s house, I will wait for another scan. I’ll busy myself with writing, playing in forts built by master builder Anderson Coplin, and watching movies with William Michael. I will try to be as normal as possible.

Scan anxiety is real, but it will not defeat me. What Mary and John may have forgotten is that I, too, played tennis back in the day. I wasn’t too shabby. I will take what comes at me and hit it back. I will score the next point.

So obviously AI and so much younger than me, ha!

Cancer Things

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Episode 1: Medication Side Effects

Warning: This blog is not suitable for all audiences. Viewer discretion advised. This is my effort to understand my feelings and emotions as they relate to Stage 4 Cancer. I love Stranger Things.

With all treatments with all chronic diseases comes the dreaded side effects. If the disease was not enough, now you have side effects to deal with it too. Like those God awful side effects read and are portrayed in commercials, cancer medications are similar. This medication may cause drowsiness, weight gain, picking your nose in public, uncontrollable urge to slap someone, etc.

Okay, so it doesn’t cause nose picking or the urge to slap someone. But, the medication does cause one side effect that is not fun. It leads to irregularity- which means I can’t go or I have to Go. And not I can wait until I get my grocery pick up but now which means going into the store which was what I was trying to avoid. The lady in front of me, I am sure who is very kind, is taking her time headed to the same location. Bless her sweet soul, she doesn’t know but I’m dying, slowly and praying no one runs into me and ask how our Christmas was. Gosh, I love my small town but in these moments, I need to save the Hallmark moment for another time.

Whew, I make it by the grace of the Lord above. Part of the problem is that I need to calcium because I’m in menopause but can’t have too much because then I can’t go. Then, I am borderline diabetic which means I can’t eat a lot of carbs and you know what I love that doesn’t have a lot of carbs- cheese. I love cheese.

Therefore, I’ve got to do better but everything I love is bread, pasta and cheese. No no’s. Breaking habits is hard. Weight loss in early menopause even harder. I’m not complaining just explaining my reality.

So, what does one do, but get up and keep trying. Exercise, make new recipes that call for whatever the hell almond flour is. Choose to fight another day against the Mind Flayer, aka Cancer. Stay tuned to learn more about Cancer Things. Hopefully, I will defeat it once and for all, be an Eleven or sorts.

I’m living my own version of the Upside Down but I’m going to keep fighting. I’m going to turn on the 80’s and fight.

It doesn’t hurt me (yeah, yeah, yo)
Do you wanna feel how it feels? (Yeah, yeah, yo)
Do you wanna know, know that it doesn’t hurt me? (Yeah, yeah, yo)
Do you wanna hear about the deal that I’m making? (Yeah, yeah, yo)

Mom Guilt- The Queen of Empty Cups

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“You can’t pour from an empty cup.” Just you watch me. I am the Queen of the Empty Cups, your Royal Highness Ashley

Guilt appears throughout my day leaving me feeling overwhelmed and tired. Guilty for not working enough hours in the day before kid pick up arrives. Guilty for not wanting to play with my child at the end of the work day and wanting to rest. Guilty for eating this or that or not eating this or that. Guilty for purchasing something I wanted and not something that was for the kids or my husband. Guilty for not speaking up, guilty for speaking up. Guilty for not exercising, guilty for wanting more sleep. Guilty for wanting a career, to climb a ladder; guilty for going in on the weekends and taking a phone call after hours.

It’s almost a bad Dr. Suess story- will you be guilty in a box? Will you be guilty with a fox in a box? Guilty, I am.

When you are sick, the guilt feels even thicker. Guilty but now with a time frame. If x = time on earth and y= time spent, then z= is what you have to do despite feeling tired and wanting to free your mind of all its clutter of the day.

When and why did these feelings of guilt appear? When are we enough for ourselves? Why do we feel as if we have to carry the weight of everyone else on our shoulders?

I think the first step is to admit that we feel guilty and to remind ourselves that it’s okay to take care of ourselves. Remind ourselves that we shouldn’t feel guilty. One tiny step at a time. Saying “no” is okay; it doesn’t make you a bad mom, employee, etc.

Resting is a good idea to avoid being too run down and worse, sick. Acknowledging that you have no clue as to when your time will be and living your life is important.

As a type this blog, I am not saying this will be easy. Trust me. I am the worst at pouring from an empty cup until the proverbial cup shatters. I guess what I am saying is to give yourself grace, one moment at a time. With the holiday season here, remind yourself “I am enough.”

Put on some music, your favorite sweats, dance, laugh- love her too. Love her too.

Dear William Michael

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I watched in awe as you got up at 5:30 before school to practice soccer. Then, you asked to practice on Saturday, and I watched you practice. Neither of these times includes regularly scheduled practices with the high school team on Sundays and Mondays, nor games on Tuesdays and Thursdays with the league.

Your grit and determination at such a young age are truly inspiring. I told myself I’d start getting up when you do during the week to prepare myself for the next year when I plan to attend UAB and get my doctorate in Healthcare Leadership. My reasoning is that when I add coursework to my mom life and regular work, I’d have an extra hour to study, do laundry, pray, or whatever.

I remember the feeling I imagine you are feeling. The rush of playing a sport you love. For me, it was tennis. Like you, I’d get up early and play with Poppy. I loved how the racquet felt in my hand and the feeling of smashing the ball onto the other side or down the competitor’s throat, where they couldn’t return the shot. As the sweat poured from my brow, I wiped it off and reset to serve again, again, and again. I see this in you. I see your footwork, research in the best angle. You reset the ball again, again, and again. I think to myself, “Where did this kid come from?” Surely, not me. I’d like to take all the credit, but you are you.

I write this for myself selfishly, as I do not know what the future holds, but I do know I am here for whatever your plans may be with this sport or whatever you choose. I daydream that one day I am watching you in the stands when they call your name, and they happen to mention mine in association.

I am writing to let you know that I am incredibly proud of you. I cherish every moment we have together- in the car, watching scary movies, and watching you play your sport. I pray God gives me all the chances in the world to be a part of it.

You have inspired me to pursue what I’ve always wanted to do: a doctorate. Now, I have to muster my grit and prepare for the following year. I look to you for that motivation.

Together, at 5:30 AM, we will follow our dreams. This old lady will get her doctorate and maybe have an opportunity to teach college kids (a dream come true). You, my son, will play soccer at a higher level. I feel in my heart and know it in my mind.

Thanks for the inspiration and the reminder that dreams can come true, but they take hard work, perseverance, and determination. Something you already encompass. Don’t lose focus, my son. Don’t lose focus.

I love you, Mom.

YOU’VE been selected ….

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The words jumped from the page as I read about the study, I agreed to participate in regarding resilience in people living with metastatic breast cancer. “You’ve been selected” used to mean someone received a scholarship or a job. Now, it meant you’ve been diagnosed with something, and we want to study you. I’m flattered. Ed McMann didn’t present any balloons, just a knock on the door from a sweet lady almost timidly asking if I’d consider while I waited to see the oncologist. Yes, I want to help others, so the answer was a resounding yes but when you read the words it hits a little differently. You- who was you? It was me. I looked around at all the You’s in the waiting room later.

When God selects you for something, specifically a chronic disease. It’s easy to question things, almost automatic. Chronic is defined as a problem that is long lasting and not easy to eradicate. In the simplest terms it means it ain’t going away or if it is you are going to have to fight like hell.

Now mentally most days the word chronic doesn’t bother me as I have no obvious symptoms but when it’s time to see the oncologist, it’s a reminder of what my reality is. People with chronic diseases live everyday with the fact that they may not get better.

Two words that must sustain me are hope and faith while also being realistic. When “you’ve been selected” , a weird type of math plays in your mind. If x = the number of years, then y= how old my kids will be. Therefore, z= what I will be around to see. I understand that really only God knows x but when “you’ve been selected” you are more aware of time.

Time comes into factor with me when I go to the see the oncologist not before. I wait and let out an abated breath when I pass the test of this visit. I leave feeling mentally exhausted and have two hours to mull around the words spoken to me- scans, hope, as long as this works. Then magically, I try reappearing normal when it’s time to get my kids and go to soccer practice.

Well-meant people ask how I am, and I lie telling them “I’m great!” They say things like “you look so good.” Again, all well-intentioned but I know I can and may look worse down the road as cancer looms. Cancer is a bastard as that it can appear to be dormant but still be a seed waiting to sprout. When it’s chronic, it’s just waiting the right conditions and the medicine’s goal is literally to beat the hell out of the cancer so all it can do is lie.

After I have a day to reset and refocus, thanking God for a good appointment, I focus back on what really matters- my family, my work and living the best version of myself. I don’t let the word chronic mock me or cancer try to get the best of me. “You’ve been chosen” doesn’t seem so bad, a battle cry of sorts now, a way to do God’s work.

I’ve been chosen and I will help others with this ugly disease. I am glad to be chosen as I have the support and the means to fight. Chronic, pssh, in the words of the late Tom Petty, “I won’t back down. You can stand me at the gates of hell, but I won’t back down.”

Let it Be

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I found myself this afternoon in a melancholy mood. I found The Wonder Years on Hulu and watched the first episode. In the first episode, Kevin Arnold starts his first day of Junior High. Winnie loses her brother to the Vietnam War. I wanted to cry. I had seen this episode at least a dozen times. It hit me differently today as I could see the loss of innocence in the death of her brother. I felt like innocence in today’s society has long been dead. When AI calls and threatens an elementary school on the first day, it’s a sad state of affairs, which we Demopolites all know too well from last week.

In these moods, I find myself yearning for a simpler time, pre-Columbine High School. I long for my children to grow up in the same world. Alas, when the towers came down in 2001 and the iPhone was created in 2007, there was no turning back.

I found myself ripping down old shingles off our shed that I’ve been wanting to knock down today. The only problem is I am a 5 feet 1 inch tall, 40-year-old woman who has no business ripping away at an old shed. With each swing and whack of the hammer, I released some frustrations out Twanda style. I am not sure why I get into such a state of unrest. I believe it’s genetically passed down from my grandmother, through my father, and to me.

Maybe it’s the anticipation of the next round of shots and visit to see the oncologist that has my mind in a mood. Perhaps it’s the menopause I was put in at 36. I’m not sure. I’ll get out of this funk. I talk to God about it. He knows already.

For now, I’ll reminisce, dive into writing, or into a book. I’ll miss the sense of wonder that existed so long ago. I might cry, laugh, and smile, or do all three. I’ll hug my boys, protect them a little longer. I’ll do what Paul said and let it be.

Rise Up (I will).

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One, two, three, four, and how many centimeters are each? What does a centimeter look like? Damn. Why can’t they just use inches? I’ve never been a big fan of math (your dad is a math teacher). Thoughts swirl around in my head like a tennis match —the thoughts are the tennis balls. In which is this located?

Two recent CT scans with contrast show some possible signs of recurrence of cancer; one area being my lungs. I’ve been using Chat GPT to read my reports; ironically, its explanation is more human-like, and the radiology report seems more AI.

I was skipping down the yellow brick road again, and now I’ve veered off back into the dark forest. I thought we had killed this wicked witch; I thought the broomstick was in my hand.

My first DNA test was done on Thursday, and in ten days, it will show whether or not the cancer is back. It is referred to as ctDNA. I also have a pending date for a biopsy. The issue is the tissue. So, I’m chasing the rabbit back into Wonderland, so to speak, with peak highs – “I’ve got this!” to “Is this it?” Satan takes pleasure in the unknown, so I busy myself at work and home, but at night, the tennis match starts over.

I know that my mind and faith are my biggest weapons. I deploy them as often as I can. I am only human, so it waxes and wanes. 40 stares down the road next week with many, many questions. Hopefully, answers will come soon, but until then, I choose to live and rise up despite the uncertainty, fear, and fatigue (the kind that comes with dread).

I hesitated to share this time for some reason. It feels like I have to confess that I failed. However, it’s not that I have failed (I repeat over and over again). God gives us all battles. This is my battle.

We don’t know what we don’t know. I pray it’s not cancer. I accept that it is probably cancer. I call out to my lion, tin-man, scarecrow, and Toto. They, without hesitation, join me to find the yellow brick road again and prepare for battle again. I can’t do this alone. I dust off my ruby slippers. I let the rabbit run away as answers will come soon enough. I rise up (and I will continue).