Picking Scabs

Within a few hours of submitting my story about the Boblo Boat, I had booked a flight to Detroit, where the SS Columbia documentary was being filmed. It was Tuesday, and they had selected my story and scheduled the interview for coming Saturday. Everything fell into place so seamlessly, I couldn’t help but think it was all supposed to happen.

I had a day to get ready; look through old letters, dig out the stuffed bunny Mike won me, make arrangements for the kids while I was gone, grocery shop, laundry, keep stuffed bunny away from the dog, and pack for a 5 day trip. I flew through my chores, and finally ready to go, collapsed into bed with my laptop the night before my flight. At which point, my brain started to kick into high gear.

I read my blog. I re-read it. I thought about Mike’s family, whom I hadn’t spoken to in years. At some point, towards the end of my college career, we had parted ways. It felt as though I would always be a reminder of where their son would be in life had he lived, and it was keeping me from moving on with my life. Now that I’m a parent, I can’t fathom losing a child. I would imagine it is something that they (try not to) think about every day. I was just the girlfriend, and it was easy enough to move on with my life once I made the decision to.

But what if they came across this documentary at some point? They would want to know, wouldn’t they? They should know, I thought. I began to super-sleuth.

Damn you googles. Damn you facebook. You make it too easy for someone to make a complete ass of themselves. I began to pick old scabs. I found his younger sister on Facebook, and sent her my (overly long) explanation. I sent her a friend request. I found his brother-in-law, and when I hadn’t heard anything back from his sister, I sent him my story. I received no response, from any of them.

Embarrassed, I spent the pre-boarding period bringing my best friend up to speed over the phone. I hadn’t mentioned anything to Lee about my semi-stalking (ok… just plain stalking).

“Why didn’t you tell Lee? Afraid he’d think you’re fucking crazy?”

“Why do you say that? Am I being fucking crazy? Oh my god, I’m being fucking crazy! I am, aren’t I?!”

“No, no, no” she assured… “well, maybe a little.”

Ugh. I boarded the flight, sat in my tiny, uncomfortable but cheap seat, and began to obsess. What on God’s green earth had possessed me to dig up things that happened over 25 years ago? I deleted the messages I had sent them, erasing the temptation to continue the self-mutilation.

I had been struggling to pick up writing about my cancer experience, and was feeling accomplished that writing had come back easily with the sharing of this story. It reinvigorated me, and gave me the courage to re-launch my blog and get back to work. I had been so excited about the documentary, the story, the feedback, and the desire to write again.

“Dumb ass”… I thought. Of course this is why I hadn’t gone back to writing my cancer story. Because I would be filling in the details I’d omitted, the hard truths that I didn’t have the courage to share before. Cancer was a fairly fresh wound, and picking scabs – even 25 year old ones – hurt. Who could it help? What a painful reminder I must be. What an asshole! I landed two hours later feeling out of place, a stranger in a strange land with no good reason to be there.

I walked out of the terminal, catching a clip of Caitlyn Jenner’s ESPY award moment on an airport TV, encouraging trans youth to “live their truth.”

It made me think.

Something happens to people after they turn 40, and is certainly true for a cancer survivor. You begin to not give a fuck what people think of you, and it’s for the better. You are able to approach the world more truthfully, because it’s what happened, and you can’t control or dictate how anyone would, could, should react to it. If you can’t live your truth, what kind of life is that?

“OK,” I thought… “I feel you, Caitlyn Jenner.”

Saturday came, and I shared my truth in front of the camera. What really happened, from meeting a boy and falling in love on the Boblo Boat, to surviving cancer, to my miracle baby, Dean Michael. For the first time in more than 20 years, I cried for Mike. I thought of all the different things that had brought me to this place, sharing my story in front of a film crew. A random facebook post, an encouraging comment from a friend, my guardian angel…? Caitlyn Jenner..? I’m convinced there are no coincidences; I was meant to be in Detroit, sharing this story. I kicked ass, and despite the tears, I felt great, with nothing to hide.