I'm Totally Scared- First Descents For A Second Time

I did a stupid thing. I sat up on top of the Cliff Lodge and pretended it was like I was back in high school where I could stretch out on a lounge chair, flip through a Cosmo and soak up the sun. Less than an hour later my upper thighs are on fire. Even my chest got fried despite the SPF 50 I slapped on. I needed this morning of chill. I blew up at Ryan, and Sage was hitting the back of my leg in response to the anger. I snapped her up and forcefully plopped her on my bed, making her cry. All hell was swirling. I feel like I can't get in front of the 8 ball. Ever since Punta Cana I've been playing catch up without success. Looking ahead 10 days I'll be back home and can breathe again. I will do nothing but hunt for a new laptop, write and climb. Maybe kayak too. I don't see me pulling a C to C on account of the ATV crushing my ribs but at least I can paddle.
I wonder if I'm doing the right thing going on another First Descents trip; not because I'm taking advantage of the offering- an all-expense paid whitewater kayak adventure on the Flathead River in Glacier National Forest- but because I may not be welcome. That 'chat' I had with Whitney (one of the FD organizers) questioning whether FD was the right place for me really rattled my ego. Like a breakup from a guy when I thought things were going well, I thought, "Huh?" I wouldn't have signed up for a second camp if I didn't get something out of the camp last year. It was my feedback. It's got to be. Perhaps they're used to only hearing raves. Who would say anything negative when they get it for free? But I was critical- like I always am- not in a bad way or so I thought- but I offered up some constructive feedback that a company looking to forever improve should want to hear. I'm guessing they took it as me attacking their program; which I wasn't. I explained that of course I had an amazing time why else would I want to attend again? My sole gripe was that I felt forced to bond and share emotions. I just wanted to meet new friends (who have something in common) and learn to kayak. I wasn't looking for therapy.
This is the first year in 11 that FD will host camps for 2^nd timers. The first year- just get them down the river. Young cancer survivors testing their determination and living in the moment instead of dwelling on cancer. Many were introduced to something they never in their life thought they would be doing. Now, the second year- turn them into kayakers. The staff is excited about the new offering and so am I. To start up where I left off. Physically, not emotionally. To hone in more time on the river. But I may be entering hostile waters…and Konvict is our leader again. History. It may not be a good thing in this case. It was his job last year to force bonds and make us all share with those nightly campfire chats and I'm pretty sure he told Whitney that I often checked out. She called and we talked. She said that maybe this time around I should tell everyone that I'm an introvert when it comes to sharing emotions so no one takes it personally. I'm more nervous about the group stuff than I am about the paddling. Gulp.

Back For More

You're shitting me, I thought when my routine mammogram turned into two hours of close-ups and an appointment to come in for a biopsy. I wasn't dreaming and this wasn't last year's nightmare. It was a whole new kind of ugly. The good news- Your left breast (the one with a tumor that sucked away my summer of '09) looks great. The bad news, your right breast has microcalcifications. These look like specs of sand on a mammogram. I had five specs. Five. Five f&%king specs that could turn my life upside down again. 80 percent of calcs are benign. You get a little metal clip in your boob, a pat on your head and be on your way. 20 percent come back malignant and you're back on the operating slab and then on to radiation. I'm starting to get how people could just stop treatment altogether and say f*&k it even if their odds are good.
Every six months I have to go through this hell? This dread that it could be back. Canser. The bitch is back? And even if it doesn't turn out to be canser, my breasts will be Swiss cheese. So this Asian radiologist is describing what will happen next and all I'm thinking is how smudged her glasses are and how I want to pull them off her nose and clean them off for her. Maybe she was just seeing the dirt from her lenses? But then I see the evidence for myself. Those little fricking specs. And I want to run out of the room and cry. But I can't. I have to sit there and pretend like I'm listening to my dentist explain how to floss. I nod my head. I keep my cool. I'm going to have a stereotactic biopsy she tells me. It shouldn't hurt too bad and it won't leave much of a scar.
The procedure involves me lying flat on a coroners' table with my breast hanging from a hole in the center. Lovely. They numb me up then send a giant needle straight to the place where they 'think' the calcs are and vacuum them out. The tissue gets sent to a lab and 48 hours later, I will know.
I talked this all over with Ryan last night. Up until then I guess it hadn't hit me. I was fine all weekend. Even forgot about this 'issue'.
As I described what would happen to me today, I scared myself. Regardless of the pathology, this is my life now. Every six months for the next five years, at least, I will be forced to deal. I can never put it in my past and pretend that was someone else it happened to. Can I be strong and stoic forever? I got a copy of "Somewhere in Time" just so I could have a good excuse to ball my eyes out. I don't like feeling sorry for myself.
My doctor tried to make me feel better. "It's too soon after chemo for this to be anything bad," she said. "I'll see you in six months." God I really hope she's right.
I brought in my Zune and watched a movie while they did their thing today. It helped. Not sure if it was a smart choice to watch "Crazy Sexy Cancer"but I only had 15 minutes left and I wanted to see how the documentary ended. It took my mind off what they were doing under the table. The hot pain of the lidocaine needles, the dig of metal into my ribcage, the snap of the vacuum sucking out my insides. All were slightly dulled thanks to my headphones and lack of focus. The movie ended and I was helped up. The nurse pushed firmly over the wound to squash the bleeding but also to keep me from freaking out when I saw the hole. Oops. Too late. But I didn't freak. In the scheme of things what's one little hole compared to a 2" scar on your nipple??!!! I'll take the hole.
It's been a rough day. Did I mention my Homeowner's Association is breathing down my neck? I got a certified letter today telling me I can't rent out rooms in my house because it's a single family dwelling and that if I stop renting they won't pursue the matter further. NEWS FLASH- single family dwellings these days are defined as three unrelated people living together. That's what I got. And don't you people have anything better to do with your lives than scour Craigslist looking to 'catch' me? My Prepaid Legal lawyers are all over this one. As much as I'm irritated by their Nazi-like abuse of power, I do appreciate that the HOA actually took my mind off canser for the rest of the day. Thanks, guys. I spent all afternoon researching the laws and combing through my CC&Rs. I'm ready to walk- head high- into our annual homeowner's meeting tomorrow night. That should be fun. NOT. I wonder if the person who complained will speak up if I'm present. Or will they be chickensh*t? Stay tuned....

A little about me.

I've known about Frank Garrish's acting class for years but have always been hesitant to enroll. He's scary- or so I've been told. He'll make you cry. He doesn't hold back. It's not that I can't take the criticism but I'm hardest on myself so when I hear from someone else that I'm not measuring up, I double that criticism and get discouraged. The last thing you want to be in acting is discouraged.
I've been at it for as long as I could control my own life. My parents refused to drive me to auditions or pick me up from play rehearsals so I had to wait. I combined my ability to write with my interests in media and - no- I did not become a screenwriter but a broadcast journalist. You know those people you see on TV telling you the news every night? I did that.- at KSPN in Aspen, Colo. and at KUTV in Salt Lake City. Then I was laid off. So I addressed another passion. Skiing. I joined Deer Valley's Ski School and taught skiing to all ages and abilities. I have been skiing all my life- including a stint as a racer in college at UCLA. Came in 7th in slalom out of 36th. Not bad but my dad says if I don't win, it's not anything. See where I'm going with this? He poo poos acting too- If you don't get a role, it's not anything.
I absolutely love acting and the training of an actor. I have studied with practically everyone in Utah- Anne Sward, Geoff Hansen, Jeff Johnson, Catrine, Kate, Judy, Molly Benson and anyone else who sounds like they have something to offer. Not because I think they're going to win me a roll but because I can practice with my peers, grow as an actor and 'disappear' for moments into others' skin. If I make it past the audition and into a callback, bonus!
I'm SAG eligible. Got my card after five days as a featured extra on Doctor Quinn Medicine Woman. I had spent the summer in LA working for a talent agent at ICM (who's now president of Warner Bros.) and did the stint on the Dr. Quinn set. I moved back to Utah and scored more roles - Promised Land, Touched, I was the soccer coach in Return to the Secret Garden and have three national infomercials to be (not so) proud of. I've done a handful of short films and if you asked what I dream of when it comes to acting it would be to star in a (good) independent that wins raves at Sundance. I have no desire to move back to LA. Ick. I have a strong freelance writing career, an adorable 3yo, a hot, loving boyfriend (her daddy), a great home in Park City and I ski 70 days a season. Why would I want to give that up?
To be honest, I want to nail more callbacks. I'm hoping Frank's class will advance that goal. Please, Frank, don't make me cry too much.
Update: Frank's not so scary at all! We did some Meisnerish type things that got you out of your head, talked about acting technique and started to work a short scene we'll do next week. As I was leaving he told me "You did good! And you listen, that's important." It felt like my dad had just told me he was proud of me.