At least I'm still considered a "Young Adult"

It's the day before the first day of school.  Typically, this day is spent somewhere on the spectrum of frantic last minute preparation and resignation that nothing will ever be truly complete/done/ready to my idealized perfection for the moment when students first walk through the door.  For the first time since 1981, I will not have a "first day of school." For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, per order of the Board and Superintendent, I am not allowed to discuss school matters with Profile staff, students, or the community.  I cannot welcome my students, meeting new faces and assuring them that Profile will be a good, safe home for them.  I will not see how much my veterans have grown and matured over the summer. I won't get to hear about internships and summer jobs, see gleaming smiles set off by tan faces.  Instead of laying awake thinking about what I will say at the opening assembly, I will lay awake in bed for the umpteenth night, debating on whether or not I should give in and take an Ativan, my brain gnashing frantically but without resolution at what it means to be forced into this "medical leave" of mine that feels an awful lot like banishment from not just a job, but my vocation.

As I have recently learned, I belong to the "Young Adult" category of cancer patient, those of us supposedly in our working, reproductive, familial, and physical primes, for whom cancer poses a series of complicated challenges aside from the disease itself. Many of us are juggling young children and careers, struggling to maintain health insurance and salaries, perhaps pensions and life insurance, if we are lucky, while also spending and inordinate amount of energy fighting this demon called cancer. We are far too young to consider retirement, but given the uncertainty of treatment schedules, prognosis, and the simple cost of insuring us, we are not the first to be called for an interview, either.  It is illegal to discriminate against someone who is sick, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen.  It seems it is surprisingly easy for us to be pushed out of the way.

I can handle being sick. As I have learned, burns heal.  Scars fade. I don't like being poked and jabbed and scanned ad nauseum, but I understand it.  Fatigue. Well, that's new and less than exciting, but I will survive it. What I can't abide is feeling inert, like I don't have a purpose. Yes, I know.  My job is to heal.  My purpose is to get better. And yet, I can't stand the anxiety that bubbles up in me when I hear about something happening at school or with one of "my kids" that I am not allowed to do anything about. I spend as much time worrying about the family I have created over the last seven years as I do wondering if I am going to live seven more.  Neither is a healthy pastime, and yet many inky hours have been spent at this rather than correcting papers or planning faculty in-service.

For every problem I have or pose, I typically have at least one solution. But for this one, I'm not so sure. I can't change the fact that I have cancer.  I also cannot change the minds of the powers that be to believe I or people in my position are still capable of being productive members of their work societies. But when I am healed? I may have just found a new cause to fight for.