SIX LESSONS I’VE LEARNED FROM MY THERAPIST

Therapy is for everyone. No matter if you think you need it or not, we are all human and have things we need to work through. Therapy is a wonderful, and for me, lifesaving tool.

This month, I’m celebrating my sixth anniversary of beginning my counselling journey. As I reflect on who I was when I first began to who I am now, it is a world of difference. I have a long, long way to go and there’s always more to learn, but I’m just so grateful for the therapy that I’ve been able to access, the gift of growth, and of course, my therapist.

Starting with the Foundation: Three Lessons

I. Having Cancer was Traumatic

Having been diagnosed with bilateral retinoblastoma at the age of four, I grew up with the “C word” being commonplace. I learned, whether explicit or implicit, that because I was fortunate enough to survive and be healthy now, I wouldn’t be traumatized. I survived, I was healthy, and I had a bright future ahead of me despite the challenges of my blindness.

But this optimism, while well-intentioned and a means to cope on behalf of those closest to me, lead me to question my mental health and search for the root cause of my anxiety and depression. And what my therapist, who is both a Christian and a trauma-informed practitioner, explained to me was that my cancer experience was indeed traumatic, and many of the issues I face are due to that trauma. Knowing this has freed me and allowed me a way to understand and move forward in my life in a much healthier and more fulfilled manner.

II. Spiritual Bypassing

Out of my years of therapy, spiritual bypassing is a concept I’ve only learned about within the last few months. Yet, it is revolutionary for how it has opened doors for me to begin deconstructing particular patterns and relationships.

Spiritual bypassing is defined, according to John Welwood, the psychotherapist who coined the phrase, as a “tendency to use spiritual ideas and practices to sidestep or avoid facing unresolved emotional issues, psychological wounds, and unfinished developmental tasks.” It is a fascinating concept which I am in the midst of delving into more deeply to gain a fuller understanding.

III. My Body Has Answers That I Don’t

I used to believe that I knew better than my body. It was just a collection of organs and physiological processes, right? But thanks to my therapist and the abundance of research available, I know that the body is much more than that. Our bodies and our minds are intimately connected, making our mental and physical health inseparable. The body remembers events and traumas that we’ve forgotten or buried. And if we learn to listen to its wisdom and signals, we will be closer to gaining an understanding of our pasts and how we can use that knowledge to shape a healthier future.

Building On the Foundation for a Healthier Future: Three More Lessons

IV. Let Go of a Toxic Self Image

Umm, let’s just say that my self image needs work! In my 26 years, I have become incredibly skilled at crafting an image of myself based solely on everything negative, shameful or uncomfortable that I have done, said or believed. While these are parts of me that I can’t erase from my past and will continue to work on, they are not what defines me and not [usually] how others view me. I hope to learn to forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve made [and will make], and define myself by God’s standards rather than the world’s.

V. Deconstruct the Unhealthy Parts of My Faith

I have been a Christian since I was five and grew up in a conservative household. As I’ve matured into adulthood, I was able to begin disentangling what I’d been taught by the Church, the Bible and other Christians, and I want to continue this journey. This does not mean that I’m being selective in which parts of God’s teaching I believe. However, there are toxic teachings I have adopted which aren’t bringing me closer to God or showing His love to others. It’s these teachings and beliefs which I am hoping to shed as I continue to learn, grow and develop as a person and a follower of God.

VI. How to Talk to Others About My Journey

Talking comes naturally to me. Talking about deep, emotional and often traumatic experiences is another thing entirely. I’m hopeful that as I continue going to therapy, I will learn to balance my emotions with the knowledge that my mind and body hold, and engage in conversations that can help those around me understand and validate the journey I’m on.

Have you gone to therapy? Tell me about your experiences. What’s something you’ve learned there that you use in your life now?

WHEN CHRISTMAS WAS SIGHTED — SIX HOLIDAY MEMORIES FROM THE TIME BEFORE I WAS BLIND

As Christmas approaches and the world descends into a frenzy of holiday activity, I take a walk down memory lane, and reflect on the six Christmasses with my family before I became blind. I don’t remember many of them as I was so young, but there are bits and pieces that I recall which form the fondest of memories and the warmest of feelings. And I want to share them with you.

Here are six special childhood memories that I will always hold close to my heart and take with me as I celebrate this and many more Christmas seasons to come.

I. Frosty in Footprints

One winter while my grandparents were visiting, Grandpa and I were playing in the backyard, when Grandpa said “follow me.” He began walking in odd patterns, shuffling his feet in the snow. I followed where he put his feet, and was entirely confused. After he was finished, we went inside and he lead me to the kitchen window which overlooked the backyard. There, in the snow, was the word “Frosty” which had been written out by our footprints.

II. The Snow Mountain

Every year, our side yard became home to the snow mountain. When the handyman came around with his bobcat, he shoveled the snow into a hill and carved out small steps in the side. And every year, my siblings and I spent hours running up the snow mountain and sliding down just as fast as we could!

III. Home from the Hospital… Just in Time

I was fortunate that, for the first year I was battling my cancer, I was able to spend Christmas at home with my family. But it was a close call. I was released on Christmas Eve, and when I walked in the front door, my entire family was waiting for me–my grandparents, Aunts, Uncles and cousins on my mom’s side were there! It was so sweet, being surrounded by family for the holidays. I remember some, but I’m sure not all, of the mischief me and my cousins got into, and as the youngest cousin, I’m sure I got out of all the trouble, too.

IV. The Christmas Eve Tradition

For most people I know, Christmas morning is the pinnacle of the holidays. It’s when stockings are opened along with the presents piled up beneath the tree. For me, it’s opposite: Christmas Eve was the night I awaited with such excitement, and continues to since I’ve brought its tradition into my adulthood.

My family attended the Christmas Eve service at church where we would sing carols, read the story of Jesus’ birth and light candles. Once home, we’d change into pajamas and open every present… almost. Except for our stockings and the gift from Mom and Dad, every other present was torn open and squealed over. Then came the movie, which as tradition dictated, was the classic, Miracle on 34th Street. To this day, I have most of that movie memorized!

V. Into the Wilderness!

The first Saturday of December was the most exciting day–it’s when we got bundled up and headed out into the woods to cut down a Christmas tree! My memories are made up of trudging through the snow, picking out the perfect tree, Dad cutting it down with a saw and dragging it back to the car, and me, exhausted from the day’s events, insisting on being pulled home on the sled. On Sunday after church, we’d decorate it, and my favourite ornaments to hang were always the musical instruments.

VI. The Reindeer

Dad was a forester for 30 years, and as a gift from a coworker one year, he received a uniquely “foresty” gift–a reindeer made of tree trunks and branches! It has survived many a move and still stands proud, albeit a bit wobbly, in my parents’ living room.

Christmas, both when I was sighted and now that I am blind, holds a special place in my heart. There are parts of the season I wish I could see still, but I’ve gained a new appreciation for the holiday as a blind woman. After all, it’s still a celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ, and that is something I can celebrate with or without sight.

What do you remember about Christmas and the holiday season when you were a child? Let me know in the comments.

NINETEEN YEARS AGO TODAY…

I Became Blind

Nineteen years ago today, I took one last look around the Children’s Hospital with blurry vision.

I saw my family, together with the ophthalmologist, holding hands in a circle as we prayed for what was about to happen.

Nineteen years ago today, my Daddy carried me into the operating room and laid me down on the operating table.

And I smelled the watermelon scent that always lulled me to a blissful, dreamless sleep.

Nineteen years ago today, I became fully blind.

And nineteen years ago today, I became cancer-free.

This day goes by several names—my blindaversary, my blind birthday, Classy Glassy Day, but no matter what I call it, it will always be a day that I celebrate.

Yes, it’s the day that I became blind. It’s also the day my little body was free of the retinoblastoma. But this day acts as a marker for much more than that.

It reminds me how far I’ve come.

It reminds me of what my family and I went through, because cancer and blindness isn’t just my story—it’s theirs, too.

It reminds me that everyone who has a disability has a story, and each of those stories are unique and worthy.

It also teaches me things that I wouldn’t have learned otherwise.

It taught me the value of my health, and how nothing in this life can be taken for granted.

It taught me to be thankful for what I have, and who I have.

It taught me that my story has shaped me for the better, that I wouldn’t be who I am without having experienced what I did.

And it taught me that God is here through pain and suffering, and sometimes, it’s through those times that He’s the most visible.

So, happy Blindaversary to… me! I’m excited for what the next year will hold. How will I grow? How will God shape me into the person He wants me to become? I’m excited to find out.

Oh, and I forgot to mention one thing that this day always reminds me to be thankful for:

It isn’t the end of my story.

THE QUIET SIDE OF CANCER SURVIVORSHIP — LIVING IN A WORLD OF WHAT IF

January 27, A.K.A. Classy Glassy Day to my family in honour of my first prosthetic eye, is the day each year that I celebrate being cancer-free. Although I underwent a few rounds of precautionary chemotherapy after the final enucleation, this day will always be near and dear to my heart. After all, it’s the day that I became blind and the cancer was eradicated from my tiny body.

Yes.

And no.

True, the cancer was gone and that part of my life was in the past. It was now full speed ahead into learning braille, using a white cane and adjusting to life as a six-year-old without sight. But what everyone failed to mention was the fact that what I had just endured was traumatic, and that I would live with that trauma for the rest of my life. Yes, the physical cancer was gone, but the psychological ramifications would be a constant fight.

I was in middle school, deep in denial about my blindness, when I was handed a book of reports written by a fourth-grade class… about me. I flipped through it, astounded at what I read. I recall one report vividly which stated explicitly that the doctors expected me to be depressed, but I wasn’t.

“I was supposed to be depressed?” I said to my mom, shocked. I hadn’t heard about this. Why did they think that? I wasn’t depressed.

The Clock Syndrome

“I’m going to die,” I announced to my therapist one afternoon when I was 20. “I’m not going to live past 22. I’m going to die young. You just watch.”

Spoiler alert: I lived, and am now a grand ol’ 25. But what was the deal with 22? It’s hard for me to explain without fearing that you’ll think I’m crazy, but if I write for anything, it’s to normalize the unspoken experiences that many people are too afraid to say aloud.

Growing up, I saw my future stretching before me like a road. I could see the twists and turns and the landmarks that I would pass by on my journey through life—high school graduation at 18, travelling abroad at 19, earning a university degree at 22, and then—
Then what?
That’s where the road stopped. I had no more visual concept of what my life past university could be. It was blank.
To me, the emptiness of the road meant there was no road at all.

But I kept this to myself. To be “normal,” I dreamt about what life might hold for me, and I even planned parts of it. I wrote a list of my favourite baby names, I designed wedding invitations when I was 15, and I speculated at what kind of old lady I’d be. But deep down, I knew it would never happen—I would die before I got the chance.

My therapist and I called this the Clock Syndrome. Many days, it was a physical weight on my shoulders and I felt the tick tock, tick tock, thumping in my brain like a hammer. “Don’t waste your life,” it whispered. “Pack in all the experiences you can now, before it’s too late.”

As a result, I raced through my late teens and early twenties. I graduated from university in three years, enduring a five-semester streak that ran me into the ground. I pressured myself to get married and have children before I lost my opportunity to, and I made myself a deadline to be a published author by 25.

The fear that I would die young was paralyzing.

And every time I contemplated my inevitable death, it was because of cancer. I had it once, of course I’d get it again. And I wouldn’t be lucky enough to survive twice. But what kind of cancer? And when would I get it? Would I have symptoms? What if I had it now and just don’t know it? Thus, I fall into what I term “cancer spirals,” and they look a little something like this:

I feel fatigued. It must be leukemia. Wait, where did that bruise come from? Am I having a night sweat or am I hot because I sleep under four blankets? This hasn’t happened before—it must be cancer.
I’m not on my period, so what’s this discharge? Is that a sign of ovarian cancer? Cervical? Have my periods been extra painful lately? Wait, was my period on time last month? It must be cancer… I’ve always been regular.
My heart is beating faster than normal. I heard that advanced lymphoma can cause rapid heartbeat. Let me check the results from my last blood test; is anything out of the ordinary? What if the blood test doesn’t catch it, and then it’s too late?
Do I want to undergo chemotherapy again? What about immunotherapy? Where do I get a wig? Maybe I should get one now so I have it… just in case.

If you’re exhausted reading that, welcome to my brain. These cancer spirals are as normal as dipping chocolate chip cookies in milk. I don’t even have to have symptoms to fall into the world of medical articles, diagnosis stories, the latest experimental cancer treatments, and which secondary cancers to be on watch for. I live every day, expecting to be thrust into this reality. Yet, it mightn’t ever happen. I might die before I turn 26, or I may live another 70 years in perfect health.

But, what if I do get cancer again?

It’s that what-if that keeps the clock running. And every day, I wonder if I’ll ever outrun it.

September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. It’s a busy time, with fundraising for cancer research and programs to support the children and their families taking their well-deserved place in the spotlight. But amidst all the activity that September brings, take a moment to remember the quieter side of survivorship.
Remember the ones who live each and every day with the fear of relapse and recurrence. The ones who won’t tell you that they lay awake, examining their body for any potential threat. The ones who have to leave the room because the smell of bananas triggered a memory from the hospital. The ones who have trouble remembering things because of the chemotherapy. The ones who you didn’t even know had cancer.

Take a moment this September and remember us. Our stories are still unfolding, and at least for me, all I pray is that with each page turn, every childhood cancer survivor will know that they are loved, supported and heard, no matter what happens.

IN THE BEGINNING

“In The Beginning Was The Bird and the Bird Was Blind.”

Every story begins somewhere, and the story of my blindness begins with a bird.

To this day, I do not know what kind of bird it was, but I remember with vivid detail its crooked feet, its red-flecked breast and its eyes… oh those eyes. I remember specks of colour—maybe red or black?—but what I remember the most is how wrong they looked. Something was wrong with this bird.

Something was definitely wrong.

This bird was dead, having died after flying into our back kitchen window. I’d found him in our side yard and being filled with compassion for this hurt bird and no cares for the safety or cleanliness of such an act, I picked him up and cuddled him in my little hands. My four year old heart broke.

And when I was diagnosed with bilateral retinoblastoma—cancer of the eyes—within weeks, the connection was clear. This, in all truth and sincerity, is what I believed about how and why I became blind:

The bird had cancer and was blind, and because he couldn’t see our window, he flew into it and subsequently died. I touched the bird, caught his cancer and that’s why I became blind.

Of course, now as a woman in my mid-twenties, I understand the childlike ignorance that bore this theory into being; cancer is not contagious, neither is blindness and blindness is not always the result of a retinoblastoma diagnosis. But as a child, I carried this theory as fact with me throughout my childhood and adolescence, and even while I knew the truth of my medical history, a small part of me always clung to the bird. I wanted it to be real, to have an answer for why this happened to me. Follow up genetic testing would prove inconclusive, and with no family history of RB, my cancer effectively came out of nowhere. This bird gave me a reason and a tangible reality to hold onto while grappling with questions and emotions that were too big for a little girl to carry. To believe that the bird gave me cancer was easier than the truth.

How It Really Happened: The True Origin Story

My diagnosis of bilateral retinoblastoma came on April 19, 2001. It was just shy of six weeks before my fifth birthday. Everything I know of this time comes secondhand from my parents—the greenish-whitish thing my mother saw floating in my eye, the appointment with the optometrist, the consult with the ophthalmologist that same afternoon and the diagnosis of retinoblastoma at BC Children’s Hospital a week later.

The year 2001 saw me through several rounds of cryotherapy and chemotherapy, and in November, an enucleation of my right eye. In terms that I understand? My right eye was surgically removed, thus, I became legally half-blind. In 2002, I underwent further treatments and a trip to Disneyland which was generously provided to my family by The Children’s Wish Foundation. That trip holds many memories and smiles in my heart and I hope to share those with you in a future post. But 2002 came and went and I found myself in a back room of the surgical unit, holding hands with my family and ophthalmologist, praying to Jesus for what was about to happen. Then Daddy picked me up and carried me into the operating room. I breathed deep the scent of watermelon and when I woke up, my life had changed completely.

It was January 27, 2003, known in my family as Classy Glassy Day in honour of my first prosthetic eye. As of this writing, I have been completely blind and cancer-free for eighteen years. And while I continue to be followed by a team of medical professionals, I thank God that I have not been given a second diagnosis.

In The Middle… Is The Rest

But now, with the initial cancer treatments in my past and a life lived in total blindness stretching ahead, I live in a feeling of the middle.

I live in the middle of sight and blindness. I have memories of having vision, of knowing my colours and seeing the faces of my family. When someone describes a sunset to me or says that the dog in the park is a golden retriever, I can imagine it because I’ve seen it. And yet, I live in the middle of those memories, clutching them close to my heart yet I watch them fade with every passing day. The longer I live, the more my sighted life becomes a smaller and smaller piece, like an island that appears to be shrinking but it’s merely the ocean growing bigger around me.

I live in the middle of what society expects of a disabled woman and how I try to live outside that box. This is a Pandora’s box that I’m hesitant to open, but simultaneously, I feel is important to explore. I will go into depth in future posts, but sufficed to say that living as a woman with a visible disability brings with it a disturbing disparity that clings to me like a shadow. From society, I often feel an expectation to be an overachieving inspiration for the mere act of living, or a person of whom nothing is expected because I have a disability. I have to fight for accessibility, to be treated as equal, and yet all I want is the same things as you—equality, respect, dignity and a place in our world.

And I live in the middle of a life that is messy and broken, full of joy and lots of green tea. My faith in Jesus Christ guides everything I do yet I find myself struggling against Him because I can’t reconcile the world I live in with the love that He gives to us. I suffer from disordered eating habits where I hyper-focus on healthy ingredients to the point where I go without food for hours or days to avoid eating what I’ve deemed “unhealthy.” My mental health is steadied by medication and I go to therapy every two weeks. I cry during the radio drama production of Little Women EVERY. SINGLE. TIME! I’m an intense personality with deep, strong emotions that I’m learning to embrace. And I’m complex, quirky and valuable, and I have a story that matters–just like every human being.

This is my life. And I’m happy to have you apart of it. While this blog is centered around my experiences as a blind woman, I hope you will take from it much more than that. I hope that through my words, you will find me a person much like you, someone stumbling through life’s challenges and joys and just looking to do it with God and with those I love.