The Song of Purple Summer: THE END.

When I was first admitted to the hospital, I had a "thing" about needles.

I didn't want them.  No needles for me.

But I quickly came to understand that needles were now a part of my daily life.  Every few days I would go and get blood drawn, and for the first few weeks it was an ordeal every time.  My dad would come in and sit with me, holding my hand, and the nurse's would hold their breath, hoping they didn't get messed up, as I was a bit of a loose cannon which is a nice way of saying huge bitch asshole.  They'd bring in the IV team, and even they had trouble because I couldn't relax, couldn't stay calm, couldn't keep from getting worked up.

Once, when we were on our way in to check counts, my dad suggested I find a song that made me relax, and play it on my iPod while they drew my blood.  Well, at this time, all I listened to was the original cast recording of Spring Awakening.  It was the perfect blend of anger and hope for a teenager going through hell.  And so I took in my iPod and played "The Song of Purple Summer"--the final song in the show.  

A summer's day a mother sings a song of purple summer

through the heart of everything.  And heaven waits, so close, it seems

to show her child the wonder of a world beyond her dreams.

The earth will wave with corn

The day so wide, so warm

And mares will nay with stallions that they mate,

foals they've born.  And all shall know the wonder

Of purple summer.

Listening to the words, I opened my eyes to realize that the tourniquet was off, the band-aid in the nurse's hand, and my blood in tiny vials on the desk.  It was over.  

I didn't have much trouble with needles from then on.  I played "The Song of Purple Summer", and closed my eyes, and it was over before I knew it.

"Those You've Known" became my anthem for my fallen friends, "Bitch of Living" for all those times I wanted to kick people in the face, rip out the tubes, and give up.

The Make-A-Wish Foundation, being that I was 17 at the time of diagnosis, was generous enough to offer me a wish.  I had only one.  I wanted to just get to audition for the show.  I knew they probably weren't looking for replacements, and I knew it was a long shot anyway that I'd actually be cast in the show.  But the music of the show was so much a part of my treatment that it was in my blood now--really, though.  I just wanted to get to sing it, and live it.

That, or Disneyworld.  That's what I told them.  

But the Make-A-Wish foundation made it happen, and the entire creative team of Spring Awakening was kind enough to dedicate an afternoon to audition me in New York City, three months after my treatment ended.  

Well, I was absolutely terrified, and the day of the audition, I couldn't believe what was happening. It was such a liberating day.  I worked with everyone: the casting director, the director, the music director, learned choreography, worked on music, read scenes...

A month later, I received word that they were extremely impressed with my audition and that the tour was coming to Rochester, NY...and would I do the ensemble track for a weekend of shows?  You don't say no to that...it was so unreal.

On a Friday morning I drove up to Rochester and spent five hours going over harmonies, learning music, choreography, movement, and staging.

And that evening, I had my opening night with the cast.  Everyone on the tour--the cast, the stage management, the crew--everyone involved was so unbelievably welcoming and kind to me, and there were so many experiences from that weekend that I will never be able to forget.

But one of those moments that stuck out the most was during my last performance.  During "The Song of Purple Summer" there is a moment when the ensemble stands on the chairs and sings the chorus a capella, before swelling into the final section.  And as I stood on my chair singing those words, it was like a slow motion scene in a movie.  It became hard for me to sing, and all of a sudden I could feel tears stinging my cheeks.  The ensemble members on the other side of the stage must've seen, because they smiled at me as they sang, and I even saw a few of the characters onstage tearing up--that moment was mine.  

Because in that moment, I realized how I'd come full circle.  I'd been a sickly little girl listening to this song, squeezing her dad's hand through pinpricks and spinal taps, injections and MRI's, chemotherapy and radiation...and here I was, on this big stage with some of the most talented theater performers, singing "The Song of Purple Summer", doing what I've wanted to do since I was young.  I kept asking myself, did you ever think in a million years when you were laying in that hospital bed that one year later, you would be here, singing this song onstage with the national tour of Spring Awakening, a cancer survivor?

That moment...marked the real ending of my cancer experience.  As cheesy as it sounds, it was my liberation from the dark year of 2009.

This post is my "Song of Purple Summer."  It's the end.  When I started this blog one year and forty posts ago, it was a healing tool.  It allowed me to get all of my frustration, anger, and triumph out of my head, and filed away somewhere.

But I feel it becoming more of an obligation than an outlet.  Because now I've outgrown it.  This blog has served its purpose in my life. If I continued this blog, I would be dwelling in the past.  

So that's all there is, folks.  Jesse doesn't want to be disgruntled anymore--and it's a good thing.  It's a milestone.  I'm graduating from college in December, and I'm really ready to start fresh.

The blog won't be gone.  It'll be here.  Every once in a while you'll hear from me.  But right now, I'm done confessing.

I want to thank you all for supporting this blog.  I never imagined it would gain the following that it has, and I'm extremely grateful--and of course, any of my fellow cancer fighters who need somebody to shoot the shit with (and really, anyone in general), can contact me by email (jesspardee@yahoo.com).

Now, my children, go forth, and listen to some Lana Del Rey.

Much Love,
Jesse

OMG I'm So Sorry! I Didn't Realize Your Life Was So Hard!

If you haven't figured it out by now, I sort of post whenever the hell I feel like it so...yeah.
To be honest, I've just been a little depressed lately what with the Jodi Arias trial not resuming until July 18th...it's really got me down, and my thoughts have been so all over the place--I just couldn't possibly bring myself to post on time when my whole life is on pause.  But no worries, I'm getting my shit together.  Bad Girls Club All-Star Challenge will keep me going.

But on to cancer--you know, my most identifying quality.  One of the most common phrases I hear on almost a regular basis goes a little bit like this:  "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't be complaining to you."  To which my mental response is usually, "And yet you are..."  BUT I would never say that aloud, and I do a pretty good job of reminding myself that not everyone has had to deal with something as awful as cancer, and that I should be understanding and so on and so forth.

During my treatment, however, I was not so understanding.  As I've said countless times, I was a nasty ass bitch that entire year, and chances are pretty likely that if you were facebook friends with me at the time, I read your statuses and judged you by how petty and trivial your problems were.  For example, someone might post the following:

Just dont knoww wut 2 do anymore.  It's lykke y do i even try???  </3

To which I would say/think (and in some cases actually post):

OMG I'm so sorry!  I didn't realize your life was so hard!  Yeah, while I was getting my 3rd dose of toxic chemicals this morning, I was thinking about how you bought the perfect thong at Charlotte Russe so you could wear your pants too low and get Johnny's attention--and clearly by the tone of your status, I see that it didn't work!  How will you ever find happiness?   I literally didn't realize that your life was so hard.  Excuse me while my dad gives me this injection--but please, by all means, keep me posted!  I'll be on the toilet for the next 12 hours with severely painful constipation but I need to know that you're doing okay!

I did that.  Every night.  And I know.  It's despicable.  But you'd be surprised how exhilarating it was.  Because its what many people expect I already do, and because I sometimes miss this healthy release of anger, I decided that for this one blog post, I would allow myself the pleasure of that kind of bitter judgement and self-pity.  So here we go:


But then [Justin Bieber] took a stand, letting loose with this instantly-infamous statement: “I really just want to say, it really should be about the music. It should be about the craft that I’m making. This is not a gimmick, I’m not — I’m an artist, and I should be taken seriously. And all this other bull should not be spoken of.”  (Entertainment Weekly)

OMG I'm so sorry!  I didn't realize your life was so hard!  People aren't taking you seriously???  With musical masterpieces like "Baby", "U Smile", and "Beauty and a Beat"???  You must be kidding!  You poor, poor thing.  No wonder you drive your disgustingly expensive car at 100 mph in the middle of the night down your disgustingly up-scale neighborhood!  Maybe once you kill an innocent civilian in your ridiculous f**king car, avoid jail-time because of your celebrity status and high-paid attorneys, and make ANOTHER BRILLIANT FILM about your wise, 19 years of life-experience starring you, your pet monkey and your girlfriend who used to be on Barney...MAYBE THEN PEOPLE WILL TAKE YOU SERIOUSLY!!!!!!  Until that day though, dear Justin, I'll be here taking my gigantic horse-pills waiting for that crazy dialysis contraption.  You just keep on keepin' on, Justin!!!   NEVER SAY NEVER!!!  I literally didn't realize that your life was so hard. 

"For years I've always been so gracious," Kim [Kardashian] writes. "Every shot they take now just isn't flattering & crazy stories get made up, so why would I willingly just let them stalk me & smile for them?"  (iVillage)

OMG I'm so sorry!  I didn't realize your life was so hard!  Why would someone who willingly allows cameras to record her every move ever be okay with so much attention?  It's not like you can just deal with the paparazzi and escape to your enormous mansion with the bowling alley!  People seriously need to be a little bit more understanding about your needs.  I mean, gracious is an understatement!  You're so gracious, in fact, that you've been goodly enough to allow men and women everywhere to watch you have sex with Ray-J!  And goddamn, if only pregnancy were more flattering, maybe the pictures would be better...I just wish pregnancy could be easier for you Kim, I really do.  I mean I've seen my share of suffering--hell, I've seen a six year-old suffer a stroke!  But nothing could come close to the pain you must be feeling when you open a magazine and see a picture of your pregnant belly!  So unflattering...you'd think after all these years of human existence, they could at least come up with an easier method for people who are filthy rich.  My thoughts are with you.  After I send out my positive energy to the victims of Oklahoma, Hurricane Sandy, Boston Bombings, The Newtown Massacre, and all of the sick and suffering, I say a little a prayer for you, Kim.  I literally didn't realize that your life was so hard. 


“People will stare at me no matter what and it’s the most irritating thing in the world. I got so much attention from all the guys, but I didn't get along with any of the girls. They were extremely jealous of me....when you look like me, it's not easy."  --True Life, I'm Too Beautiful

OMG I'm so sorry!  I didn't realize your life was so hard!  How do you even get out of bed in the morning?   I mean, I would look in the mirror and just start sobbing big wet tears of disdain at my perfectly tanned face and slender cheekbones.  People never think about how miserable it must be to have long beautiful hair, perfect skin, and gigantic boobs!  I mean, for people to force you to wear all those revealing outfits...is just--god it makes me so angry!  Don't they know you don't want attention?  Oh wait...no one forced you?  You mean you voluntarily flash your breasts in everyone's face, and take place in female wrestling?  Well...no.  NO.  YOU are the victim in all this, you gorgeous outcast, you.  I truly hope I run into you sometime at the hospital while I'm getting my X-rays and you're getting your new tits.  We can grab lunch and talk about how difficult it is for you to be a young, attractive, white female in 2013 society.  Good luck and godspeed.  I literally didn't realize that your life was so hard. 


WOO! That felt good.  I will now reassemble my positive outlook, and remind myself that the problems of one, however great or small, can be just as trying as the problems of another.

But sometimes celebrities deserve it...


OK I SWEAR I'M DONE <3

They Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab but I Said Probably Next Year

Hello, my name is Jesse, and I'm afraid of brushing my teeth.

The idea of tasting the toothpaste, feeling the bristles, spitting in the sink, brushing my tongue...it is all absolutely terrifying.  It is the absolute last thing I do in the morning, and I procrastinate until the very last second--really until I have to leave the house.

You see, when I first began chemo, I was very, very pukey all the time, and brushing my teeth would always make it worse--you swallow a little bit of toothpaste here and there, it mixes with the nausea you're already feeling, or the toothbrush triggers your gag reflex...it's a terribly dangerous game, the brushing of the teeth is.  

It is one of many things that plague me to this day.  I just can't brush my teeth with the same whimsical innocence anymore try as I might.  I've tried it all too--I bought a fun mechanical toothbrush...to no avail.  I even use Dora the Explorer Bubblegum Orajel training toothpaste to improve the taste of tooth-brushing--no luck.

I need help.  I need professional help for my fear of tooth care, my chemo brain, and the suppressed memories that I refuse to call post-traumatic stress disorder.

BUT.  I miscalculated.  I miscalculated in the worst way.  You see, in all my cancer power and warrior-ness, when treatment ended, I thought I could close that chapter of my life for good.  Write it off as a terrible experience that I can tuck away in the depths of my brain for another day--I didn't need therapy right now.  I'd look to get therapy once I'd restarted my life.  It's something to decide upon later.

I saw a few counselors here and there...but have been reluctant to see anyone steadily because I know I'm going to have to unlock certain parts of my brain that I've tried like hell to keep quiet.

I love my family, and I can't blame us for the way we tried so hard to resume a normal life immediately after my treatment.  It was what we fought for for so long...to be "normal".  To go to the grocery store and not be bombarded by people asking about my health, to go wherever we wanted without having to worry about germs, or blood counts, or white cells, to have the ability to make plans that aren't scheduled around chemo dates, radiation times, and neupogen shots.  As soon as we got the all clear...we tried to wipe the slate clean.

And I can't speak for my entire family...but I can tell you that at numerous times during my treatment, I thought they were going to have to take me to Psych.  Whenever we drove out of the Upstate Hospital parking garage we would drive past Hutchings Psychiatric Hospital, and each time I'd point out the window and say, "you're gonna have to put me there.  As soon as we're done at Upstate, you're gonna put me in there."  I was mostly joking.  But not entirely.

I know it's not entirely surprising that I was severely depressed during my treatment.  I probably suffered more mentally than I did physically if we're being totally honest.  Looking back, I understand that in many ways the depression caused more damage than the chemo...sure, the chemo did it's job, and totally wrecked my body, my cells, my organs.  But it's absolutely amazing, the ways of the human body.  The way our bodies are programmed to endure, to replenish, to fight, and to survive.

But the mind?  The mind is another story, the mind is trickier...and I severely underestimated its power.  Because while the body has that amazing ability to recover, the mind has the ability to recall.  And sometimes what the mind can recall--consciously and subconsciously--can be just as dangerous.  I have vivid memories of locking myself in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, crying and banging my head against the wall.  I have nightmares about the tiny hall washroom where my mother held my hand as my father shaved my head.  Squeezing my eyes closed so I couldn't see the hair falling...the tears that seeped out no matter how tight I shut them them.  They were absolutely the darkest times of my life.  Dark, icky, and not fun to remember.

I've been lucky in a lot of ways, because even though I tried to skip over the "mental recovery" phase, I've been able to keep myself in check.  But a lot of comments I get from friends and in emails are compliments on how put together and well-adjusted I seem in my blog.  And while I appreciate it...I have to say that I've fooled you.

I'm not all that okay.  I'm messed up in the head.  Pretty bad.  It just hasn't been something I really like to talk about because it's important to me to appear strong.  Sure, I've talked about my anxiety, my OCD, my antidepressants.

But I think it's important for me to lay it out in black and white. So here it is.  I suffer mentally.  I really, truly do...and I think most cancer survivors would agree that some of the biggest scars are the ones they've endured in the mind.  

Mental illness is still such a taboo topic in society, and when I was a younger girl dealing with OCD it was something I wanted to keep hidden from everybody else.  But as soon as my physical ailments became public knowledge--all discretion went out the door.  I don't care who knows:

I'm depressed.  I'm anxious.  I'm damaged.  I'm angry.

And I'm not ashamed.  Not one little bit.

Whether you've had cancer or not, life is often a heap 'a shit.  I firmly believe that suffering is not the human condition.  Living is the human condition.  If I've learned anything of substance from my experience, it's that the most important thing to worry about is waking up tomorrow.  When I have rough days...I take a step back and ask myself how I'm going to get myself to tomorrow.  And tomorrow, I'll figure out how to get to the next day.

I neEd thaaa rehAbBb lyKe mAhh GurL aMy.  (R.I.P.A.W)

Not only because I'm afraid of brushing my teeth...there are a slew of other quirks that have come up as a result of chemo.  Certain smells set me off...I have to drown myself in perfume sometimes to rid myself of a certain stench.  I was in someone's car last week and it smelled so vividly like ifosfamide and I thought I was going to punch a hole through the dashboard and escape down the highway.  There's nightmares...there's survivor's guilt...I'm gonna be a messed up crazy bitch for the rest of my life.  

Now that I'm almost a 5 year survivor...it's time to take care of myself mentally...time to deal with the demons.  This summer, I'm planning to see a woman who works specifically with people who have been touched by cancer.  I talked with her once before, and left her office feeling a million times better.  

It's never wrong to need help.  No one should live in fear of the toothbrush.

Jesse

PS:

On an unrelated note, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you all that unless you have had the responsibility of taking care of a long blonde wig, then you have NO idea how unreasonable it can be.  THAT SHIT IS HIGH MAINTENANCE MY FRIENDS, and when you're caught off guard and told you're being arrested...there is absolutely NO TIME to fix it up...it's just not realistic. Everyone needs to take a STEP BACK and re-examine the critiques they are making on Amanda Bynes' recent hairdo.  Because it can AND DOES happen ALL THE TIME:

                                                (Amanda Bynes)                                       (Umm. Unknown female.)

The way I see it is Amanda can wear whatever the hell she wants because she's young, she's rich, and she's livin' it up.  So.  There.  She's doing better than I am, if that means anything to her.  She probably reads my blog all the time...