Unexpected Intros…

I always thought my first blog post would be very different than the one I’m about to write. I thought it would be filled with exciting news of the latest book coming out, or about a giveaway I would be doing for my wonderful readers. But, alas, my website has taken a backseat to social media. I’ve always tried to incorporate this “home base” when the mood strikes me, but it often falls flat and I never go through with it. On this particular occasion, however, I feel that I am too long winded to fit everything I want to say in the caption of an Instagram post.

So as they say, it’s now or never.

If you’ve found this by accident, I will warn you that the following contains a heavy topic of health matters. You may want to wait for that elusive post with a more cheery tone about fantastic things coming down the pipe line. I will say, despite everything, I still have the best of intentions to follow through with that.

If you’ve been led here by my social media post, well than I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your interest in what I have to say. I know that many of you have followed me on my journey, and to express my gratitude for that…well we could be here all day. Just know that I am forever thankful to you.

Okay, let’s get on with it, I suppose.

On my way to St. Louis for a book con, my flight was delayed due to a broken handle on the plane’s main door. At the same time the airline text to inform me of this hiccup, I received a message for test results I had been waiting on for over a week and a half. Unfortunately, those test results showed that I was positive for breast cancer. “Unfortunately” doesn’t seem like a strong enough word to describe the pain and devastation that followed reading those results and seeing the term “invasive carcinoma.” Now, you want to talk about “strong” words…invasive is definitely one of them.

I’ll be honest when I say that I didn’t see this coming. Genuinely, I did not. And as I say that, I question whether or not that is 100% true. Because I do feel deep at my core, that we have an idea somewhere in our mind that something is “off.” We may not know what that something is at a conscious level, and so we brush it off to the side. We’re in a mood that day. We can’t be bothered. Etc.

But I digress.

Learning this information in Concourse B of Hopkins International Airport is not the ideal location. I don’t recommend it. But you work with what you’ve got. I found a mostly secluded area of a gate not flooded with awaiting passengers and I called everyone under the sun. Trying to figure out what my next move would be. I won’t bore you with those details and skip to the ending—which is me getting on the plane. I went to the book con anyways, and aside from the other women on the panel, and the hosting librarian, no one had a clue that anything was wrong.

Some people may question my sanity, and I think I did as well…at least a time or two that night. But I realized pretty quickly why I did it…because I didn’t want cancer to take something else away from me. To be the reason, yet again, why I missed an event or had to sit on the sidelines.

The trip was a quick one-day turnaround, and I was able to make it through with the support of those ladies on the panel, the librarian, and a few select friends who are very close to me. If I could give an award to my best friend for sitting on the phone with me while I cried my eyes out and blithered on, the trophy would be made out of platinum…and heavily blinged out, for sure.

As I landed back in the lovely city of Cleveland, I passed the bench I’d sat on just the day before and thought how much my life had changed in twenty-four hours. Oddly enough there was an old Asian couple sitting there, laughing and looking at something on their phone. I thought to myself, what things that bench must have witnessed over the years. Which then sprouted into an idea for a story, and I had to laugh at myself because I wondered if a writer’s brain ever truly shuts off. (Another digression.)

Anyways, I made it home and started making preparations of what had to be done next…the people I would have to tell, the doctors’ appointments I would have to make, the treatment I would have to endure, and whatever else went streaming through my head.

Two things kept circling through my mind. The first being that I felt I had failed myself, and a sense of shame took over. How could this happen to me again? A third time? Really?! Hadn’t I paid my dues tenfold by now?

The second thought was worrying what the outside reaction to my news would be. That it was disappointing. That…OMG, can’t this girl get her life together? We have to continue to hear about this awful disease? What would my publisher say? What would this mean for the future of my books, my livelihood, my childhood dream. And so it went.

Regardless of my fears and concerns, I went through the necessary paces and informed the people immediately surrounding me of what lay ahead. Which, let me take the moment, that if anyone from St. Martin’s is reading this—thank you so much for your compassion and understanding through all the challenges I have witnessed in the past three years. It means so much that you have worked with me on deadlines, delays due to treatment, and most of all, never giving up on me.

And that sentiment extends to my wonderful agent, Gail, who keeps me grounded when I start to go off the rails. Which is a heavy-handed task because—wow, can I catastrophize.

ANYWAYS. Why am I saying all of this? One reason is transparency. I pride myself on being open about my experiences, though I can be somewhat private when the occasion calls for it. But this journey has led me on a different path of thought because it is through my sharing of the struggles of “dis-ease” that maybe I have offered one person hope. Or another person validation for how they felt when going through something similar. Because no one “wants” to tell this news. Some people are even berated for sharing what is important to them because it’s not positive or it’s heavy and no one wants that vibe around. Etc.

And I’ll tell you what that’s called…toxic positivity. Yes, that’s a thing. I had no idea.

The second reason I wanted to write this is because I struggled with sharing this news (which ties into reason 1), afraid of what people might say, and I found myself overexplaining…turning my “caption” into an apology of sorts. And that turned into: Why am I doing this? That thought in itself led down so many roads, I can’t begin to express them here.

The most well-traveled road of thought was this: you can’t please everybody. You think that being genuine is enough, that people will get it and be like, oh ok. But that’s not what happens. There are always people out there who are going to naysay and question your reasoning, or “assume” that you have an ulterior motive. That you want “pity.” That you’re not being authentic. And so on.

And I’m here to tell you (and myself), keep rockin’ your truth. No matter what it is. I’ll be the first one to tell you that I don’t want pity. I’d sooner sit on a deserted island with two coconuts and the worst book in the world than for someone to feel sorry for me. You must keep in mind that compassion and pity are two VERY different things. Everyone deserves compassion. Let me say that again for the people in the back. EVERYONE DESERVES COMPASSION. And you (whoever you may be) are entitled to tell your story how you see fit and don’t worry about the rest. Because those haters are always going to exist. What matters is that YOU know your intentions.

Don’t let others question your authenticity. Being okay one minute, and then crumbling to pieces the very next makes you human. NOT FAKE. You are allowed to deal with your feelings anyway you see fit. So if you want to keep things to yourself, and not say, hey my life is in shambles, but then the next day decide you want it out there because you’re tired of being strong, more power to you.

I see these travesties of judgment time again through my own experiences and through others…some on a very larger public scale than I could never dream of placing myself. And it makes me sad…probably because I’m an empath and feel just about everything I come into contact with., but also because, in general, it’s a damn shame. No one should have to feel those things and I send a hug to everyone who has felt that on any level.

When you put yourself out there on any public platform, it’s not all “yes men” and people cheering you on. But you have to be okay with that. Especially when you have something important to share. And I’m on this path for I have no idea why, but I think that maybe, just maybe, I can help people. I want to take the stigma away from mental “illness,” and also to let others know that you don’t have to be ashamed of your diagnosis, and that you DO have control over your prognosis. To share through our stories of humanity that we are more than just “hardwired” to be a certain way.

So…if you ask, well Vivien, how are you handling this whole thing? – I will tell you this, I’ve never “sat down” a day in my life, and I sure as hell am not going to start now. Defeat is not an option. Never ever in the history of ever.

And with that, I’ll leave you with a favorite Charles Bukowski quote of mine that I often recite when I feel like crumbling: “We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that death will tremble to take us.”

Sending you peace, love and squishy hugs.

Xoxo,

Vivien