Part 5: Musings While I Wait (oh, and vacation in Florida)

After I was home from Virginia for about a day, I got a call from Ana (I was starting to get attached…) to let me know there was a problem with my urine test. Not a big deal, just a little bacteria which could indicate an infection. I asked what it could be, and while Ana didn’t really know, she did know that I needed to retake the test at that same local lab. Ok, fine (ha). Ana set up the appointment for the following day, and explained to me that while my donation was crucial for the recipient, at that point, Gift of Life’s main concern was donor safety. My safety. While the initial blood test was to ensure compatibility of tissue type between me and my recipient, the physical was all about me and whether donation was safe for me. Well now. How about that? Whether or not it was safe for me to donate had never occurred to me. My thought process was more along the lines of: I have stem cells -> He needs stem cells -> I give him stem cells. It’s probably a good thing that Gift of Life was doing the higher level thinking.

Rosie (my oldest daughter and a fantastic source of blog material in her own right) and I left for Florida so she could dance in the All American Halftime Show in the Citrus Bowl on New Years Day (I *told* you). This was her trip and her time to shine. I dove into it, making the week all about her and her friends and the incredible way the choreography of 420 girls from around the country came together in a short time. It was a perfect week and it had nothing to do with me, or the thoughts swirling in my mind surrounding the donation, and I kept it all separate.

That’s not to say it wasn’t on my mind. I knew I wouldn’t hear from Ana that week, but that didn’t stop me from checking to see if she had emailed me. I spent a lot of time on line at Epcot and Universal thinking about Cousin Bob, wondering how he was feeling, if he had family, if he was scared. I wondered if he knew he had a match, even though I hadn’t been medically cleared yet (I found out later that the answer to that was yes. He was told he had a match when I was identified. Personally, I wasn’t sure that was so smart. What if I wasn’t medically ok to donate?). I wondered if we were biologically related in some way (I’m still going with yes). I wondered on which side of the family (I’m going with my mother’s side).

I thought a lot about that question my son had asked while I was on my way to my physical at ANOVA in Virginia. What if I was donating to a terrorist who had killed Jews? Not that I thought I was. In fact, the question of what kind of person I was donating to, the character of that person, never entered my mind. It is a person’s life, after all. I’m pretty sure that no one is requesting character references when someone is in need of a stem cell transplant, or any type of transplant. In fact, if transplants were based on how “good” a person was, I suspect there would be many fewer transplant recipients and most of them would be children who haven’t yet had a chance to do anything not considered good. My mind also wandered over the thought (listen, I am human) of what if I somehow discovered I was donating to someone I disliked. Let’s say I disliked this person a great deal. Let’s say I even hated this person. I even quickly reviewed the very short list of people I dislike in my mind to see if any of them fit the criteria of male, age 53. Nope. But what if they did? What if? What if? Would it matter? Should it matter? What if this person did something terrible to me? Would I want to be involved in saving this person’s life? Should I want to? Well, yes, I should. That is the easy answer. That is the answer that a “good” person would give, should give. Am I a good person? Well, people are saying so, especially now. But am I? Sometimes yes. Sometimes not so much. Would I knowingly give my stem cells to a person who hurt me terribly? Who I despised? In order to save their wretched life? Sigh. Dang it, I would. However, I wouldn’t want them to know it came from me. Aha. Perhaps now I understand part of why the process must be anonymous.

Now here I was, on line at Universal, having decided I would in fact donate (anonymously) my life saving stem cells to my enemy in order to save his life when my mind wandered (ah the wandering mind) again to my son’s question of the terrorist. Not exactly to saving the terrorist’s life, but more to the idea of the terrorist. The idea that while I am preparing to save a life (admittedly in the easiest way a person can save another person’s life…it’s not like I’m rushing into a burning building or taking a bullet for someone), somewhere in the world another person is preparing to end someone’s life because they are Jewish. This part was hard for me to think about and hard to decide to write about and I only did because my dear wise friend Sue also thought of it. I figured if I thought it, and she thought it, maybe someone else would connect with it also. The idea shook me, and felt very out of place on line at Harry Potter. Except, now that I had thought of it, there it was, and it wouldn’t go away. Of course, not all terrorists are solely interested in killing Jews. I am donating stem cells through an organization that was founded by a Jewish person (Jay Feinberg) who found his match in another Jewish person (it’s genetic, remember?), and the Gift of Life had a bone marrow drive at my kids’ school which is a yeshiva (again, Jewish), and my recipient is likely of a similar genetic background to me (eastern European and Jewish, even if he doesn’t know it). The whole Jewish thing is kind of out there. Plus, living where I do and being part of an Orthodox community, we really can’t ever escape the Jews-are-always-a-target way of thinking, especially these days, when I’m sorry to say, it is as true as ever.

I wish I could say I had a deep revelation about the soul of man, but all it did was make me sad. On one side there is killing and hate and on the other love and giving and healing. It was then that I realized, and as insane as I realize this will make me sound, I love my recipient and want a full and complete healing (refuah shulaimah) for him. I can’t do anything about the hate and terror in the world. I have only stem cells and love to give with an open heart. And give them I will.

Part 4: The Ultimate Physical

After a quick call back from Ana with a few questions regarding my allergies, I was deemed good to go by the powers that be (a faceless medical team that apparently really did review my answers). This was when I learned what I found to be the most fascinating fact of all. Any allergies I have, environmental or medication, or whatever, upon donation will become my recipient’s allergies. My tree and pollen sneezing and itchy eyes will become *his* tree and pollen sneezing and itchy eyes. My inability to take sulfa drugs will be *his* inability to take sulfa drugs. Whoa. If that is not a connection, I don’t know what is. After double checking with the medical team, I was cleared for the next round which would be the full physical. I *told* you I always do well on tests. Ana said she’d send me my travel information and asked what time on Sunday I’d prefer to leave and from what airport. What? Sunday? Oh, right. The physical would be Monday, December 22. It was requested that I go down the evening before so that I begin early in the morning. I said, “Sure, that’s fine.” I’ll bet somewhere on my file Ana has written “Sure, that’s fine.”

Well, now it really looked like I was doing this, pending of course the outcome of my very lengthy and thorough physical. I still hadn’t told anyone, besides the husband. It seemed like the sort of thing that I should mention, but I wasn’t sure how. Facebook post? Nah (although those who know me know that I do loooove my Facebook and many a commentary on my life and times is made that way). Just didn’t feel right. Text? No. Phone calls? Egad, no. I decided to just not mention it unless it happened to come up. Since you know, donating stem cells comes up very often in casual conversation at family events or when teaching a yoga class or whatever. Maybe not. I would not classify myself as shy, but I am introverted in the sense that I don’t engage in much small talk and social gatherings and large groups of people make me feel itchy. I figured those who needed to know would know, and those who didn’t know would be just fine.

The next few days went by and on Sunday, the day I was to fly to Virginia, my family was having our annual Chanukah party at my uncle’s house. Due to the timing of my flight, and the fact that I hadn’t thought to request the airport that would be on the way back from his house (ok listen, I don’t do this every day, cut me a break), I spend 2 hours at the party only if we arrived exactly on time. I packed the night before and harassed my family into the car so we would get there on time (if not early). Once there, I was having such an enjoyable time that suddenly, like Cinder-havetogotoVirginia it was almost time to go or I would miss my flight. I started to say my goodbyes, and my family naturally was all like “HUH? You just GOT here!!” A valid point, since I usually close the party down. I mumbled words like “stem cell,” “unexpected,” “bone marrow,” “Gift of Life,” “physical,” and “plane,” while I went from person to person hugging and kissing. The husband trailed along behind me offering slightly more detail by way of explanation but most of my beloved family still had the usual look of befuddlement and confusion they have when dealing with me. Ok, so I could have done that a bit better. Noted.

As we drove, it occurred to me and my very intelligent and not very young children that they knew something was up and I hadn’t explained much to them. I used the drive to give a basic explanation of what I would be doing (I was pretty much assuming I was doing it, if that wasn’t clear). My son’s first and only thoughts were “It is anonymous? What if you are giving your stem cells to a terrorist and saving his life? What if it is a terrorist who has killed Jews?” That became a discussion about genetics and the unlikelihood of having a close tissue type to someone not of the same cultural background as me. We barely made it to the airport, and the husband graciously slowed down, allowing me time to jump from the car with my overnight bag and make it to my flight. Gift of Life (the fabulous Ana, probably) had arranged for me to be on the travel pre-check line so I sped through security feeling like a rockstar. Flight was great, blah blah, blah. At the airport in Washington, DC I was met by a dear and wonderful friend whom I had never met in real life (What? The devil you say! No, it’s true!). Denise and I have known each other since we were both pregnant with our now 9 year old darlings, via the magic of internet mommy boards. I knew her instantly and may have attacked her with hugs. She tolerated my wild affection with kindness. It was awesome. But that is a topic for a whole other blog. Denise took me out for a snack and then back to my hotel. It was such a great night and really calmed whatever nerves I had about the physical the next day.

My oldest child (and only son) likes to say that if I don’t have people insisting I speak to them, I could go forever without hearing the sound of my own voice, and he is right. From the time I got to the hotel and checked in, to the time my other dear friend (also known from the same internet mommy group of the same time period) picked me up for breakfast, I didn’t hear my own voice. I know that would bother my darling boy greatly, but I loved it. Oh the quiet…if I could bottle it and pull it out whenever I need it…ahhhh bliss. Early in the morning, Beverly picked me up and we went for breakfast. So far, this Virginia thing really felt like a vacation. I was loving it. After lots of coffee and great conversation, she dropped me off at the Apheresis Center of North Virginia (ANOVA) for my physical. I walked in and was met by the lovely nurses and the nurse practitioner. For the next several hours, I was poked, answered questions (the same in many forms, and many times, by several people), had blood drawn, peed in a cup, had a chest X-ray, and an EKG. It could have been unpleasant. It could have been invasive. It could have felt weird or judgmental. It never did. It felt appreciated. It felt important. It felt like I was taking a journey towards doing something to help someone. Every single person I spoke to thanked me for what I was doing and treated me as though I was really doing something special. I appreciated all of the kindness, but truly I didn’t feel like I had done much of anything yet.

I caught a cab, and zipped back to the airport, saving my receipts of course, because Gift of Life did not want me to have to pay for anything out of pocket. Once home, I told Ana that all went well. I reminded her that I’d be going to Florida with my daughter the following Sunday (12/28) and she said that due to the holiday week we wouldn’t likely hear anything about my medical clearance until around then anyway.

With that done, I turned my attention back to my regular life and upcoming trip with my daughter and Chanukah.

Part 3: How do you say no when you can literally save someone’s life?

You can’t. You don’t. At least I couldn’t. It was never an option.

Ana and Sara, true to Regina’s word, called me at 10am sharp on Wednesday, five days after the initial contact by Gail. The husband was in the car and for the first part of the conversation he listened on the bluetooth. Ana and Sara began by discussing the details of the different types of donation (traditional bone marrow donation and peripheral stem cell), spending more time on the procedure being requested by my recipient’s medical team (In my mind, he was already “my” recipient. Later, I would start referring to him as Cousin Bob. I developed a theory that of course we are somehow related. We are family, especially now, and are cousins of some sort. In any event, we now have a connection and a truly physical bond, whether we ever meet or not.). It was during this conversation that I first heard that a center in Virginia was being requested as the donation site, although if I did not agree to travel, I could donate somewhere closer, say at Columbia Hospital in Manhattan. The important part it seemed, was that I agree to the donation. The location was not as big of a deal. As it turns out, being Zengirl, I didn’t particularly care where the donation took place. If there is a whole team of doctors that have decided that my old cells (oh yes, this was also the conversation where I discovered I am “older than ideal” for donation but still acceptable…hello ego blow) could help someone, I would trust that team to decide the best place to collect those cells.

The first type of donation, traditional bone marrow, would involve going to a hospital and general anesthesia for about a half hour procedure during which time the bone marrow (where stem cells are produced) is extracted by needle from my hips as I lay on my stomach. Yes, there is some discomfort after, and a small dressing (band aid sized) on each hip. As I understood it, most if not all donors walk out just fine after this out patient procedure. The second type was where our focus was, as that was what was being requested. Peripheral stem cell collection is a process where the donor (in this case me) is hooked up to an apheresis machine (the same machine used when someone donates platelets). I would be connected to the machine with a needle in each arm. Blood is taken from one vein and is circulated through the machine which separates the stem cells and returns the remaining blood and blood product to my body through another needle inserted into my other arm. In order to make sure I have enough cells to give, I would be taking a medication to increase my body’s production of stem cells. The recipient’s medical team would request a certain amount and the machine would run until I was able to provide it, usually several hours. If for some reason I was not able to tolerate the medication or if I was not able to generate enough stem cells, the bone marrow procedure would be done. However, those are very rare and unlikely occurrences. I felt pretty sure after this explanation that this entire thing was really no big deal for me, the donor. My only question was more of an unanswerable one…why doesn’t everyone donate who can?

Once I said “Sure, that’s fine” to the suggestion of Virginia as the location of the collection and “No, not really” to the 500th “Do you have any questions? Any questions AT ALL?” Ana said that the medical team was requesting January 16, 2015 as the collection date based on factors relating to my recipient’s condition and his health and that this timeline was unusually fast. I said, once again, “Sure, that’s fine.” Ana and Sara explained that I had to fill out and send back some consents and forms that were in the packet I had received that morning. This was when I first heard about Neupogen and the injections I would receive for 5 days leading up to and the day of the donation. I said ok to that too. They either thought I was very agreeable, or maybe not that bright (some days it could go either way, depending upon how much coffee I have had). In reality, there were just no deal breakers. There was no situation I could think of that would prevent me from saying yes.

Ana asked me when I would be available for my full physical, and I told her I could make myself available whenever she wanted, assuming of course that the physical would take place somewhere near my house as the blood test had. When she suggested Monday, December 22 I said (you know it’s coming…) “Sure, that’s fine.” I am not sure, but I think Ana and Sara were kind of incredulous. I don’t blame them, now that I have spoken to other people and heard how long and difficult the process of recruiting donors can be.

The surprise came when Ana said she would start working on the flight information and send me the details after I send the consents and questionnaire back. Wait. What? Flight? Where was I going? Perhaps Ana sensed my confusion because she clarified that the physical had to take place in the same facility as the collection, in this case, the Apheresis Center in Virginia. OH. Well ok then. That’s fine.

By this point, I was in my office, still on the phone. I filled out the paperwork, consents and all, and faxed it back. It is notable (to me) that this was the first time I answered the questions that I would be answering over and over and over again during the course of the next several weeks. Included in these questions were the typical Do you smoke? Do you drink? Do you take medications? Do you have allergies? (No. Not often. Yes. Yes.) Also included were the less typical (to me) Do you do drugs? Have you had any piercings recently? Have you been to Africa in the last 6 months? Have you been to Europe in the last year? Have you traveled outside the US in the recent past? Have you had any sexual parter who may have had a sexual partner who may have been exposed to HIV? (No. No. No. No. No. No.)

Ana now had my questionnaire, consents and all. She asked me a few more times if I had any questions (still no), and said she’d call me when the medical team had reviewed my answers.

Reviewed my answers. Like a test. I have always done well on tests. I sat back to wait.

I’m THE match, now what?

I’m the match.  I’m THE match.  Whoa.  I don’t care how many times you go to a bone marrow drive, or how often you read about bone marrow donation or whatever, when someone says to you that YOU are the match for someone who needs exactly what you have in order to LIVE, that is enough to make you sit and say, “Holy cow.”  I was sitting at my desk.  The husband was sitting to my right.  My heart started to pound a little harder and I got a lump in my throat.  I didn’t actually start to cry, but it wasn’t too far off.  A gazillion (yes, that many) questions and thoughts started popping up in my head.  Who is this person?  Grown up?  Child?  Male?  Female?  Local?  Jewish?  (interestingly, Jewish was not the first thought that popped in my head but it did pop in)  Will it hurt?  When do they need me?  What do I have to do?  How can it be me?  Are they sure? Me? Really? Me? And over and over…ME?

As if Regina could hear me, she started to tell me a few things.  First of all, this is an anonymous donation.  I do not know the recipient, or anything about him (a male as it turns out) aside from his age (53), and might never know.  I do not know where he is.  It could be anywhere in the world. The next step (there will be many steps) was to speak with the person who would become my coordinator, Ana, and Sara (whose exact role I don’t remember). I agreed to speak to them both the next morning (Wednesday) at 10am. Regina would make sure I received my donor information packet by 10am, so that I would be prepared to speak to them (both at the same time…I imagined it to be like when I call my parent’s house and my father answers and then my mother picks up the extension and shouts questions and comments into the phone and they have weird side conversations about coffee and lunch). I heard myself saying, “Ok, no problem, I’m available whenever.”

The rest of the day passed in a fog and I already knew I am going to do this…whatever this entails…because it already feels true and right and like a part of me. There is little thinking involved, only a sense that I have been called to do something and here I am, ready. I don’t feel the least bit nervous. I feel almost impatient. I also feel a bit shy about discussing it with “others.” I speak to several people throughout the day; friends, family, etc. This is always on my mind. It is so big to me but I don’t mention it to anyone. I don’t yet know what to say…the wheres, the whens, the hows…it is all still cloudy. At one point, I realize that it never occurs to me to really think about the pros and cons or whatever. It never occurs to me to discuss with anyone, including the husband, whether or not I will do this. The husband also takes it for granted that of course I will go ahead with it. We don’t know anything yet about the process, and yet I think that we are on the same wavelength from the beginning. It never seemed to be an option that I wouldn’t donate.

Much later in the process, my cousin mentioned to me that when he donated (also stem cells) through the New York Blood Center, his coordinator told him that many times when he calls people about being a potential match they hang up on them. Or say they did the cheek swab as a dare. My own coordinator on the day of my donation (John) told me that also. A dare? You did it as a DARE? You wasted TIME and RESOURCES never intending to donate life saving cells to someone on a DARE? That one was beyond my comprehension. Wow. Just wow. Really?

Regina told me that the next conversation would be important, as I would have both processes explained to me. Although this recipient’s medical team was requesting peripheral stem cell donation, traditional bone marrow donation would be discussed as well, in the unlikely event it became necessary. For the moment, I just had to wait to receive the material, and hear from Sara and Ana.  It was 5 days since the first call from Gail.

It’s “just a cheek swab…”

How many of us have gone to an event sponsored by a group of students or a family in support of a loved one, that asks for “just a cheek swab?” If you live in my neighborhood, these are common occurrences. You could be the match, they say. That chance to save a life, you are told. It could be you. It is a painless, three second test, the person behind the table implores. Chances are, if you showed up to the event, you had no intention of saying no to the test. Chances are, you didn’t think all that much about getting the call. If you are me, you are thinking, “Ok, I’ll give you my cheek swab. It’s not like you’ll ever call me. What are the odds, really?” When you reach my age (let’s just say, older than is ideal for this type of thing), you are not expecting to ever hear about it again. It isn’t as if I know more than one person in my entire world who has ever been a bone marrow donor.

I must have gone to the Gift of Life Bone Marrow Drive about 6 years ago. I could probably ask Ana, my coordinator. Ana knows everything, from my current actual weight, to the weight I give on my forms, to my blood pressure, to what I ate this morning. I am sure she knows the exact date I gave my cheek swab, and for whom the bone marrow drive was named. In the last four weeks since I got the call (I sometimes say I was tapped..it sounds sort of secret servicey….) Ana and I have spoken almost daily and usually 3 or 4 times a day. I am trying not to be too attached, because I know that soon she will move on and I will be just a memory.

The first call, the one that came on Friday, December 12, actually came from Gail. Gail was my first contact. Gail called to tell me I was a potential match. In fact, there was only a 30% chance I would be a match for the patient for whom I was identified. That 30% did not really impress me as being much of a chance. I mean, really. What is 30%? If one of my kids came home with a 30% on a test, I would not be impressed. Not that grades are the most important thing, of course, but you understand. Without thinking much about it, and without actually listening to Gail’s entire speech (which lasted a good 10 minutes) about the procedure should I be a match and all of that, I just said sure, I’ll go for the blood test to see if I really am a match. Because come on…30%? Give me something to work with here. I was not thinking much of this whole thing at all. Gail was lovely, and I know she could tell I wasn’t completely listening. She asked me if I’d be willing to go Monday, the 15th for the blood test very near my house. Sure, no problem,. It will take 5 minutes? Ok. Just a few tubes of blood? Great. Only a 30% chance, you say? You got it. I mentioned it in passing to the husband, who was momentarily interested, and when he heard the 30% statistic, he also faded. I mean, wouldn’t you?

Monday came and I went to the office. I skipped out at 1, sashayed into the lab and announced, “I’m the donor.” just as Gail had instructed. Interestingly, the bored looking woman behind the counter hopped up, pulled me to the head of the line, and produced a kit with my name on it. Huh. Might be only a 30% chance, but this is some VIP treatment right here. I’ve seen people wither away to nothing waiting for their turn at these labs. I was taken to the room immediately, told what a wonderful thing I was doing, as I explained the 30%, haven’t done anything yet, this is just a blood test, blah blah blah….and she just smiled at me. As she cleaned up the paraphernalia she said, “Do you have any idea what a big deal this is to the family?”

Um. No, actually. No, I don’t. I hadn’t given it any thought. That whole 30% thing. Of course, then I started to think about it, but dang if that 30% didn’t keep getting in the way.

The next day was Tuesday the 16th. Four days since the first time Gail called me. I wondered briefly when I’d hear from her, but then I remembered (one of the few things besides the 30% that stuck in my memory) that it might be up to 3 months before I knew anything. I decided to let it go (being zengirl, I am very good at letting things go), and I went to see my first private client of the day.

As I finished with my client, I noticed a voicemail on my phone, from a Florida number. Well, that was odd, since that is the same number that Gail called me from, but Gail was pretty certain I wasn’t going to hear anything for quite a while, so it couldn’t possibly be her. The message was from Regina, “I have something very important to discuss with you right away regarding your blood tests. Please call me as soon as you can.” What? Important? Blood test? OMG, I must have a disease. Why else would they be calling? And where on earth is GAIL? I need to speak to Gail. Gail is my contact person. Who is Regina? Not-so-Zengirl was in a tizzy. The husband said that they must have found something wrong with me. I told him to be quiet (so WHAT that I was thinking the same thing??) and called Regina with great calm and left her a message. Then I pretended to work.

Regina called me quickly and breathlessly told me that not only was I a match, I am the most perfect match anyone there had ever seen from a non family member. I am not really sure what that means, but she was very excited. Because I was such a gorgeous magnificent match, she just could not wait for Gail to come back from wherever she had gone off to. I was somewhat confused and mumbled something like “30% blood done only yesterday am I sick?” Regina was able to decode my babble and said that no, I am not sick with some rare disease, her urgency was due to the fact that the patient is very ill and marked as urgently in need. Oh. But what about the 30%? Oh that. Never mind that, it no longer applies. I am a match. I am THE match.

So, there is a learning curve.

I spent the better part of my professional life wondering why certain tasks either took so long or were done incorrectly by other people.  It’s not that I didn’t think these people were smart.  I just could not fathom why filing a few pieces of paper would take all dang day.  Nothing that was so hard, mind you.  Filing, answering phones, taking messages, data entry…all basic office tasks that are not exactly well paying positions in any place of employment and were certainly on the low end of my former place of employment as well.

I used to hear the phrase “well, there’s a learning curve” often and I admit I did the eye roll on numerous occasions.  Sometimes my eyes would get so far back I worried I’d be looking at the back of my sinuses for a long while.  No worries…that never happened.

About a year and a half ago, the program where I worked closed.  The details of why are not important (although I could give you an earful if you wanted to know my opinion).  What happened next was sort of shocking.  Well, to me.  Since what I spent most of my career doing was fairly specialized, there really were not many positions available to someone like me.  The first shock was that it wasn’t so easy to find a job that I considered “worthy” of my skills and talent.  The second shock was that once I interviewed and was then offered a position, the salary and benefits sort of well…sucked.  I will say that people were willing to let me have a flexible (i.e. not working on Friday) schedule.  The most interesting position I was offered was in Harlem, an approximate 2 hour commute each way.  The agency itself was run by strong and smart women.  I was thinking the commute would be ok if I got to work with these smart ladies.  The job itself was a great deal more responsibility than I had before, and included all of my old responsibilities.  I would have a budget.  I would be fiscally accountable.  It all sounded great.  I heard the words “learning curve” at least 27 times during my several days of interviewing.

Then came the offer.  Now, I won’t go so far as to say I was insulted…that just sounds obnoxious.  I will say that the cost of childcare plus commuting made what seemed like a flexible interesting position just not make a drop of sense for me.  The vacation and benefits were just meh.  Telecommuting was not an option at all.  I was surprised.  All tallied up (using a special kind of mathematical equation that only makes sense if you are trying to figure out if commuting 4 hrs a day is worth the salary and the benefits minus the commuting costs and the ability to ever see your children during the week) it just seemed like a very very small amount of money for a lot of travel and family cost.  There is apparently a curve of learning to be unemployed.

We (the husband and I) decided that I would continue teaching yoga and work for him in his office.  He needed an office person to take orders, payment, do customer service, file, input information, ship packages, do the deposit, etc.  Sounds easy.  No brainer.  I mean, hello….I ran a program and had staff and managed audits from the city and state and everything. Then he said those words.  You know the ones.  “There will be a learning curve.”  I wanted to gag, and I looked at my beloved in a (perhaps slightly condescendingly manner) loving way and said, “I think I got this.”  Come on.

So now, I am working in my husband’s office, when I am not teaching yoga.  I answer the phones, take orders and make up invoices.  I file, prepare the deposit and “pull the blue sheets” when I am supposed to.  I make labels for FedEx.  I find myself gnashing my teeth when I’m in the middle of making an invoice and the phone rings with another order and then while I’m trying to finish the old and take the new the other line rings with someone complaining.  This apparently is the dreaded learning curve.  I am a fairly intelligent being.  Yet, two phone lines ringing while I am trying to organize the papers on my desk, print something that doesn’t want to be printed, and finish an invoice that I don’t know the correct codes for can seriously throw me over the edge.  Add in one husband calling in saying, “Hey, were you able to finish up x,y or z today?” and I’d like to dive headfirst off of the aforementioned learning curve.  I want to call my assistant in to take care of this stuff and then I realize…oh wait…dang.

I’m not a fan of this curve of learning.  I loved learning yoga, but didn’t like not knowing how to teach it.  I enjoyed knowing how to do my old job, but not the job itself.  I like knowing what to do.  I like to be the one guiding not the one being guided. This must say a lot about my personality.  Am I a know it all?  Not by a long shot, but apparently I’d like to know everything I need to without learning it.  It would seem that part of this learning curve is me learning how to learn.  And to not know.  And to be ok with it.

So far, this is one steep curve.

I’m the new girl. No, really.

When I was in 7th grade, I moved from a minuscule town in Suffolk County to another small town in slightly more central Suffolk county, where my parents still live.  For anyone who has ever moved in middle school, you know that moving in 7th grade is borderline child abuse.  It is the worst age to be alive, much less move to an entirely new social situation.  I was awkward and horribly shy.  The first week I was in the school (we moved in MARCH.  Can you imagine a worse time of year to move?  MARCH!) the math teacher dubbed me “New Girl.”  Thus, New Girl I remained, until I graduated.

Much later, after having met and married my husband and had 4 children (more on them later), we moved from the Lower East Side of NYC to Woodmere, in The 5 Towns.  I’m not sure why it has to be called The 5 Towns, but it does.  Just wondering why this is so shows that I am once more the New Girl.  In fact, we have lived here now for over 8 years, and I am still the New Girl.

I don’t mind being the New Girl.  I’ve learned that being the New Girl means you can be anyone you want each time.  It can be kind of fun.  Now, I am the New Girl of the parents in my son’s high school.  That’s fine too.  I will soon be teaching a group yoga class at a studio where previously I have mostly only done privates and will be the New Girl teacher there.  Each time I have been the New Girl, I have learned something and grown from it. At the very least, I have learned that it doesn’t have to be awful, but it can be lonely, and when someone reaches out to you when you are the New Girl it can mean the difference between tears of loneliness and the excitement bubble of maybe having made a new friend.  I try to be the one who reaches out.  Now, I mean.  I wasn’t always so aware.

I’m also sort of the New Girl in the world of yoga and peace.  Not that anyone in that world is calling me the New Girl, but I am still stuck feeling that way sometimes.  I don’t want to be in anyone’s box, most especially my own.  As long as New Girl keeps evolving, I don’t mind being her.

Now I am the new blogger girl.  See how that works?