It’s safe to say that academics were not my jam. I am going to take you on a journey of my stellar academic career: One of my earliest pre-school memories is the toad tank. I wanted to touch the toad and there was a small hole in the top of the glass tank. When the teacher was out of the room, I shoved my hand through the small hole. Of course I didn’t reach the toad and as I heard the teacher come back to the room, or really heard the kids around me scamper away, I pulled my hand out but it didn’t come out. My hand was stuck. My heart was racing. I did not fear the teacher but rather feared my mother’s wrath. I was going to get in so much trouble at home. I was certain of that fate. From the fear of a red butt, I ripped my hand, and most of my top skin, out of the toad tank just in time before the teacher got back in the room. 

In the second grade, I remember coloring a worksheet about phonetic sounds. Our desks were in cubes. The kid in front of me was coloring things that I was coloring a different color. I knew her to be a smart kid so what she was coloring was probably right. I looked at hers, looked at mine and then I colored my whole sheet black. Hence why I say I failed phonics in the second grade. There were multiple times my dad would sit down with me at our fancy dining room table to go over various schoolwork: my b’s and d’s because I was confusing the two in my reading and in my writing, or it was subtraction, then my issue was long division because I was not understanding it. I would get my lines mixed up or my subtraction wrong. But it wasn’t just one occasion that I needed help. Multiple. 

In third (or maybe still in the second) grade, I remember the -er, -ir, -ur spelling test. Words like nurse, purse, stir. I studied for this one. I sat in the back of our huge yellow Oldsmobile studying these words on the way to school. Confused while I studied and confused when I took the test behind my barrier of folders so it was no surprise, I failed this test as well. But it was different with this test. I felt dejected and an understanding came to little Lizzy that I struggled with school. I enjoyed learning and loved history but school wasn’t easy. Which is hard to explain as a kid and even harder to ask for help. 

In fifth and sixth grade, my dad would drive me to school. Trinity Lutheran school. Small, private, very Lutheran. Unfortunately for me, my teachers would require a parent signature for any test score of a D or F. It was a regular occurrence for me to wait until the door was open and I was supposed to get out of the car for me to slide my signature required test into my dad’s lap and ask my him to sign. I would then hope by the time he saw me after school, he would forget about my test score. There were multiple times when I just forged his signature or my mom‘s. I learned several things about proper forging technique. Number 1: use a pen. Number 2: don’t hesitate. Make it fluid and flow. And 3: my eldest sister could do a really good copy of my mom‘s signature. Cash in on that. 

Then, in high school, it was the SATs. It was just me and my dad at this point so I didn’t know about classes or tutors to help take the SATs. I had several friends whose parents were helping them study or scheduling appointments to help them. I got one of those ginormous books you bought at Barnes & Nobles and tried to go through it on my own. I was in way over my head. I did not understand the type of questions they were asking which is the whole point of these kind of tests. Hence, I scored so low in both math and reading that when I entered college, I was in remedial classes for both. Like what? I wanted to be an English teacher yet here I am in remedial English. Oof. 

College proved to be no different than the rest of my academic life. Writing my senior paper was an absolute disaster. Probably because I didn’t learn how to write until I taught high school students how to write. The English Department held “awards” for our senior paper. My award was “most in need of spellcheck.” Amazing. I was an All-American basketball player at a tiny university but instead, the department focused on my lack of. My struggle. After almost 20 years, I still remember this and my sting of embarrassment. Another oof. My senior paper advisor was also my professor who, in class, when we were all joking around, said my syllabus will probably consist of the Boxcar Children. I can still hear the sounds of the other students suck in their breath and a few nervous laughs. A line had been crossed and I only realized it based on the other students staring at me while my face flamed red and my eyes watered. I didn’t speak another word in that class. I shut down. Maybe out of pettiness or maybe because my fear of being exposed as an inadequate student (and thereby an inadequate teacher) had been touched. Either way, for me, it brought up the concept that I wasn’t good enough. 

Don’t get me wrong, my overall grades were fine. I was a mostly A or B student. I worked my way to good grades. The worst grade in college was my C+ in my Shakespeare class (and yes, I was completely disappointed by that grade as I was unaware I was doing that poorly). Want to know what I taught the most in my high school classes? Shakespeare. Oh, the irony. 

Cancer and remission have this huge learning curve as well. The amount of information I have learned in the last year has been pretty impressive. The amount of information I cannot remember due to post-menopause and chemo brain working together is also impressive. But here is what I have learned: the system is broken. The right concepts are in place but so much of my experience has been a square peg in a round hole. What has been my saving grace are the people who I have met along the way. A friend who researched and read alllll the things about a keto diet and the best nutrition and supplements for radiation, chemotherapy, surgery and recovery. A radiation oncologist who I can send a message on my chart and she responds within a day about my concern. The PT who does the leg work to find out the available dates and locations for an overnight camp for kids whose parents have (or had) cancer. The countless friends who know my neuropathy is still a struggle and continue to ask me how it is going. These people have been a balm to my overwhelmed heart. I may or may not have had to look up the definition of oncology after my diagnosis but my ability to empathize with someone has deepened. Can’t win them all. My experience with cancer has been just that, an experience. And I’d be honored to share with anyone about to go through a similar journey. It doesn’t have to be colorectal cancer, specifically rectal cancer, but that is my expertise. Help me use my experience to help someone else. You have my permission to share my story, my contact information, with others. If I had to go through all this cancer shit and not help someone else, then I would think this was truly a failure. 

Liz