The Guru in the Elevator

It was this time a year ago. I was in the thick of allo transplant recovery, meaning I was tired, uncomfortable, irritable, frustrated, nauseous and in pain – a regular emotional biatch.

This particular morning I was particularly tired, swollen, hot and weak and was not at all eager to make the trek from Hope Lodge in midtown to Sloan-Kettering on the Upper East Side for a 9 a.m. clinic appointment. At that point the clinic appointments were essentially daily, and it was getting old and exhausting.

Every couple has their sticking point and ours for the summer of 2011 was cab hailing. A certain woman begged every night to call ahead to schedule a cab for door-to-door service. It would be a bit more expensive, but would save a whole lot of headache. A certain man with his certain manly stubbornness was confident that every morning getting a cab would be a breeze. He wanted to walk a block to the commuter epicenter of Herald Square and stick his hand out amid the chaos.

We woke and got dressed. Though it was already 80 degrees and humid at 8 a.m., as usual I was wrapped in jeans and a sweater trying to combat my lack of warming red blood cells, hair and body fat. I was a chilled waif.

The tension was already starting to seethe between us as I absently ate my toasted waffle with a side of six pills and a gagging spoonful of chalky anti-fungal rinse to wash it down.

I covered my face and nose with my requisite yellow mask and snapped my fingers into my germ protective blue latex-free plastic gloves – the picture of fashion. Shuffling on my stick-thin legs Craig and I made our way out of the Hope Lodge building and up 32^nd street to Broadway, eyes peeled for an open yellow cab.

Finding an open yellow cab at 8 a.m. on a weekday right at the hub where the Long Island Railroad, New Jersey Transit, and a slew of subway stops dump is like finding sea glass in desert sand. It’s a fierce competition among people stepping into the street with fingers extended into the air, legs poised in a stance of arrogance and urgency. The available cabs are few and far between, most already occupied, and getting one to stop for someone who looks like they’re carrying a communicable disease makes the challenge damn near impossible.

I was quickly losing patience and energy was fading. Craig stood there tirelessly on the corner with his arm out as cab after cab whizzed by or as others cut right in front of us just 10 feet ahead and weaseled their asses into a ride.

“This isn’t going to work,” I said. Time was ticking and we were losing our traffic buffer that would get us to my appointment on time. I loathed being late. The later I got to clinic, the later I got out. 

“We should have called ahead for a cab, ” I rubbed in to add salt to the already pulsing wound. “I told you we should have called last night. We’re never going to get a fucking cab here.”

Craig stood stoically, arm outstretched and unwavering as I danced around him like a nagging bumblebee. He wouldn’t even acknowledge me. My angst and frustration were getting to dangerous levels.

10 minutes passed.

5 more minutes passed.

No cab possibilities.

“We should just start walking,” I yelled through my mask, which muffled the severity of my tone. “This is the worst place to get a cab. It’s never going to happen.”

Craig quipped back at me telling me to be patient and that we had plenty of time.

Patient? I thought. Things didn’t have to be this difficult if somebody wasn’t so stubborn and we could have just planned ahead.

“Why wouldn’t you just call the cab company like I asked?” I yelled as I started to roll into temper tantrum mode right there amid the suited businesspeople all around us. The question was rhetorical at this point. I was just feeding fuel to a fiery situation.

Five more minutes passed with no signs of a ride. The frustration was escalating. I was hot and then cold and then nauseous and then woozy. I was still getting transfusions of nutrients at this point, functioning (barely) with scant potassium and magnesium, never mind a body wrecked by chemo and not enough blood cells to sneeze at. I hadn’t taken a normal shit in days and was unstable and getting angry.

“I’m going to the Penn Station cab line,” I announced to Craig. Penn Station was a long avenue block from where we were standing, but I knew that there were guaranteed cabs there. There would also be a guaranteed line of people waiting to get into those cabs, but at least it was a sure bet.

“That’s ridiculous, Karin,” Craig said, his voice now escalating. “Just wait.”

My mind was made up. Now my stubbornness had set in.

“I don’t know what the F you’re doing, but I’m going to get a cab to get to my appointment,” I bomb dropped and started on my way. Ooooh, this is a good way to get him back, I thought evilly, because obviously the whole New York City cab inefficiency problem was Craig’s fault.

Now it was a competition of who was going to get in a cab first. I didn’t give a damn if we took separate cabs up Manhattan: that would make my original idea of door-to-door service be the much more economical choice.

I was on my way, weaving through the throngs of people pouring out of Penn Station going against the grain at a real fast clip. I had only recently found my legs again and hadn’t walked much more than the minimal steps required to get through the day. But that morning I got my sprint back, spurred solely by determination to prove a point.

My sunglasses were steaming from the forced air coming up through my mask as I choked on its staleness and my hands began to moisten with sweat and itch within their plastic encasements. I pushed on, fast walking my bony little ass to the corner opposite the cab line – which was about 30 people deep – when my cell phone rang.

“What?!” I angrily breathed into the phone at Craig.

“Where are you?” he asked. “I have a cab. You need to get here.”

I could hear the cab driver in the background yelling at Craig to get in amid the honks and hollers of drivers trying to get around him.

“I’m already at Penn Station,” I quipped, which wasn’t entirely true.

He couldn’t believe that I had made it that far that fast. I turned around to head back to him and the cab he had snagged, but of course didn’t tell him that. I thought it would be more emotionally effective to hang up on him.

I shuffled up the street dodging people with rolling suitcases and men hocking over their tables of framed Justin Bieber photo prints, bootleg movies, peace pipes, chinsy phone cases and plastic Empire State Building replicas.

It only took a few yards before I started seeing stars and thought I might damn pass out in a puddle of street piss. My cell phone rang again, echoing violently through my throbbing head.

“What?!” I quipped again. I knew damn well what.

“Where the hell are you? I can’t hold this cab for long; the guy is screaming at me,” Craig pleaded.

“I’m coming!” I spat into the phone, this time keeping our connection open so that he could hear my labored breathing as I lumbered the rest of the way up the block – good dramatic effect.

The cab driver was off his rocker in anger, yelling: “Get out of my car! This is not your cab to hold!”

Craig was holding the back seat door open, totally manipulating the situation. I heard him pleading with the driver saying that I was just a few yards away, that I’d be right there.

Other cabs were driving by slapping their hands on “our” cab yelling in anger at this driver who was holding up traffic in a no-stopping zone. But Craig held strong and didn’t let go of that door.

I could see him in the distance in steamy chaos and I started to feel a little bit bad for taking off – just a little bit though. Even so, hell no was I going to admit it then.

I rolled into the back seat somersault style and the cab driver sped off with us plastered by momentum to the back headrests, yelling incessantly. It was probably a dangerous choice to get behind the wheel with him, but we were finally on our way still with the potential to make it on time if the 5^th Avenue traffic cooperated.

Not a word was spoken between Craig and me but a whole lot was said. We were each seething and leaning against our respective windows to get the absolute greatest distance between us possible. I really didn’t feel well but admit that I amped up my labored breathing and moaning for further dramatic effect, grumbling frustrations and ‘told-you-sos’ under my breath just barely loud enough for Craig to hear.

He said nothing, but his eyebrows were so furrowed their centers were touching and his back was as rigid as a plank, neck arteries pulsing.

The cab driver let us out at the hospital entrance and peeled away leaving us in a cloud of city smog.

Craig walked about 10 feet ahead of me. It was as if we were to be too close we would each implode in anger. I labored behind, super slow for effect, so that he would have to hold the elevator door open for me.

A man stepped in the elevator car with us for the ride to the fourth floor. He was in his mid-fifties, easy, breezy and relaxed looking. I wanted to bite and hiss at him.

He looked at me in my mask and gloves and said: “I used to be like you,” and proceeded to tell me that he was a transplant patient 15 years ago.

Last year's anniversary on a rickshaw ride
through Central Park and Times Square.

La dee fucking dah, I thought to myself and gave him a half sneer, which he couldn’t see through my facemask anyway.

He looked at Craig and said: “You want to smack her yet?”

What? Who is this guy? I thought totally shocked at his remark.

The elevator door opened on the clinic floor and the three of us stood in the vestibule.

“A year from now she needs to take you on a vacation for having to put up with all her crap,” the man said to Craig.

I stood there like a doofus knowing full well that this man remembered the many days on his own drug-fueled post-transplant emotional crazy train and could tell I was conducting my own engine that day.

“Do you know what happened today?” Craig asked, breaking into a smile.

“Yes; yes I do,” the man replied and walked away down the clinic corridor.

It broke the spell and we both took our guards down and actually looked each other in the eye and smiled – kind of.

A year later we’re taking that vacation, celebrating our 5-year anniversary today on our way to Bar Harbor, Maine, with Sam Dog in the back of the Jeep, for a week of playing at Acadia National Park – the land of no cabs, no traffic and no stress, but rather lobsters, ocean, trails and sunrises.

For all the crap I gave him last year, Craig never did smack me. I guess that man in the elevator was right. He damn well deserves this vacation – and then some.   

Chemo Day Eight

It's amazing how this roller coaster can change from climbs to dips to lightning speeds to terrifyingly slow crawls so quickly. Two weeks ago I said that I didn't mind going to my chemo infusions, that I actually looked forward to them because I knew it was one step closer to getting better. Well, that perspective completely changed with this eighth infusion - the completion of my fourth ABVD cycle - two more cycles (four more infusions to go). 

It took every ounce of mental strength I had to get to this infusion. Maybe it was because it was the first time I was driving myself there. Maybe it was because it was a Thursday and I knew the usual crew wouldn't be there to meet me. Maybe it was because I never quite bounced back this time around. Maybe it's because I'm just getting damn sick of feeling sick. The whole premise of chemo is so counterintuitive. The only way to ensure that you can beat cancer is to subject yourself to these drugs that make you feel awful. I've had much more debilitating side effects from the chemo than the cancer itself. At least that's what I feel like now. The cumulative effects of the chemo are really starting to kick in - it's not nearly as manageable as it was for me in the beginning, and I don't know how much more my body can hold up to. 

The morning went as normal. I packed my chemo bags - one with healthy snacks and lots to drink, the other with a sweatshirt, my laptop, book, magazines, thank you cards and other things to keep me busy. But when I got in my car to actually drive myself to the cancer center I lost it. 

The day was beautiful - crisp 70s, no humidity, the sun was shining and I was livid that I had to be stuck inside, hooked to an IV for five hours. I did everything I could to prolong actually getting there. Hmmm, I didn't have any fruit this morning. I should stop at Starbucks for a smoothie. I dillydallied there for as long as I could. When I walked in I felt like everyone was staring at me. Most of the time I don't even notice other people, but when I get into these super sensitive modes it's all I notice. I feel like people whisper, like they're looking me up and down trying to figure out what's wrong with me. Is she going through a sex change? Is there no hair under her hat? What is that thing sticking out of her chest? Does she has three nipples? Why is she wearing fuzzy slippers on a hot summer day? 

In retrospect, I'm sure no one was even looking twice but sometimes I feel like I have a neon sign flashing on my chest that reads: "Yes, I am young, but I have cancer. No, I didn't do anything wrong. I was healthy and now I am sick and am going through a lot of shit so what's your excuse?" Sometimes I hear people bitching and complaining and I just want to scream: "Do you know how good you have it?!" Of course, I don't know how good they have it. Everyone has their baggage, their bad days, their emotional days and I know I have no right to think that my situation is worse but sometimes these awful feelings of resentment take over that I just can't control. 

In Starbucks Bob Marley's "Every little thing is gonna be alright ..." was playing. Normally, this jam always gets me in a good mood. I listen to a lot of raggae lately, especially during chemo as I like the relaxing beats and it makes me think of the beach and sunsets and sand between my toes. But this day I wanted to rip the speakers out of the walls as the smoothie machine whirred with my banana and strawberry puree. "Don't you understand - everything is not going to be alright - not for a long, long time." 

I got back in my car and my eyes welled until I couldn't control it anymore. I just bawled and bawled, choking on my own tears and bawled even more when I would catch my pathetic face in the review mirror. Again, I have never been a crier and have always had complete control of my emotions. But now? There is no question who is boss. My appointment was at 10:15 a.m. It was 10:10 a.m. when I pulled up to the cancer center. I couldn't do it. I couldn't pull in the entrance.

I kept going a few parking lots down and pulled into an arts magnet school that I didn't know existed. I chose the furthest parking spot so that know one would see me, this heaving wreck in the driver's seat. I sat there and gave myself a pep talk to pull it together. I was literally talking out loud telling myself I could get through this. Telling myself that I didn't have a choice, that I needed this medicine or I could die. I truly could die and I needed to suck it up and get my sorry ass in there. I told myself: I've done this seven times before, seven times, and I survived all of those. Why would this be any different? 

I reached deep inside to a place that I've visited a lot through all of this and found the strength that I needed. All throughout this cancer battle the two words, I guess you could call them mantras, that have helped me are "strength" and "peace." "Strength" in the sense that I need to ensure that my body and mind are as strong as possible - that my inner strength and the strength of those around me will carry me through - it's all I have. "Peace" in the sense that this is my end goal. I want peace in my body, peace back in my life. I want the battle to be over, to be able to breathe and not have it hurt. To be able to wake up and jump out of bed ready for the day at peace with what I've gotten through and at peace with whatever challenges and rewards come next. 

With strength and visions of peace I wiped the mascara from under my eyes, tried to dull the redness, turned the engine, dropped in the clutch and creeped two driveways down to the cancer center to make it to my appointment just three minutes late. 

Though the lab tech taking my CBC was so sweet I could hardly muster a smile. I was afraid that if I spoke I would lose it again so I just sat there as she pricked my finger and squeezed my blood into a vile. I waited in silence as my blood levels were collaborated in the machine. When I got the copy of my printout I knew it wasn't good. 

I met with another doctor in the practice who looked up my history and noted that my white blood cells and granulocytes were at the lowest levels they've ever been. The printout had double stars and double "L"s for low - I've never seen this before. My WBCs were 2.4 K/uL (reference range is 4.1-10.9). My granulocytes were 0.3 (reference range is 2.0-7.8). He told me that he was very hesitant to treat me as that it would only make it harder to bounce back and I'd be even lower before my next treatment. He must have noticed that I was ready to scream, cry or faint. I dragged myself here. I was going to get treated. 

"But, I'll treat you. Only because you're wearing that shirt," he said. I was wearing the "Stupid Lymphoma" t-shirt I ordered from I'm Too Young for This courtesy of my Arts Council friends. These funny t-shirts have really gotten me through a lot. 

Thank God. But my treatment was on that condition that it would be followed up by a much more aggressive use of Neupogen the following week to boost my counts back up. So I'm going from my usual two doses to a shot in the arm every, single day next week. This means much more bone pain to look forward to as the Neupogen forces my bone marrow to work overtime. He also explained that he was hesitant to take me off schedule because I am on a curative regimen - to mess with the every two weeks schedule is to mess with my survival rates and no one wants to do that. 

I asked him if my low counts were why I had been feeling so fatigued and lethargic-much more than ever. He explained that I am at the roughest point of the Hodgkin's treatment. That now is the point when most patients really start to feel the cumulative effects of all the drugs. That my bone marrow is fatigued, which leads to my general fatigue - both physically and emotionally. 

"You have a lot behind you, but still a lot more to go," he said. "That really weighs on people." 

Hearing that made me feel normal again. It's not me. It's all part of the process - not that it makes that process any easier. I've discussed this phenomenon with other Hodgkin's patients. Yes, we've got the "good" cancer - it's curable, unlike so many other types of cancers. However, that doesn't change the shit we have to go through to get cured. It doesn't change the here and now. The emotional and physical tolls. The strained relationships. The self doubt. The questioning. The straddling of lives between who you used to be and who you are with cancer. Yes, the thought of knowing that this isn't a death sentence helps get you through the really tough times, but it doesn't make those times any less tough. 

So I picked up my bags and settled myself in a chemo recliner. My mother and grandmother showed up to keep me company and that helped distract me from my angry thoughts. Then five hours later the IV machine beeped that the final bag of meds was done. My port was unhooked and it was over. Another one down. Just like all of this, it's only temporary ... 

Now as can be expected I'm feeling pretty awful. There's so much that I want to do but my body is like dead weight - so tired - while my mind is going a mile a minute from the steroids and from my anxiety. Monday is a big day. I have my PET CT Scan. Dr. Dailey's hope (and all of ours of course) is that the results will come back cancer-free. This is why he wanted to wait until I had four full chemo cycles under my belt to ensure that it had time to do it's cancer killing. 

I've never been so scared about something in my entire life. More so than the first PET Scan. More so than my biopsy. Good or bad results they're going to change my life. Even if the cancer is gone I will complete the final four chemo infusions to make 12 for good measure. And if it is gone, now what? How long will it take to be healthy again? If the cancer's not gone then we look at other options ... options I can't even get my head to entertain right now. 

Safety Net

I saw Funny People with my sister this week and it got me thinking about the "cancer support network" that everyone talks about when you're first diagnosed. About how important it is to have people that you can count on to make you laugh, help you cry, look at things with a new perspective, give you strength and encouragement and make you realize how important you are to other people's lives - that you're not just fighting for your own life, you're fighting to stay around for everyone who needs you as well - and that's a really good feeling. 

In Funny People, Adam Sandler plays a big celeb but one that is also a loner with no true, deep connections with people --- until he meets Seth Rogan or "Shmira" and the story progresses ... .  It got me thinking how incredibly lucky I am and how I would not be able to bounce back from the negative thoughts and the pain without the help of my taunt safety net. The net is grander than I ever could have fathomed. 

During this experience I have reconnected with people I haven't talked to since middle school, heard from teachers that had me in kindergarten, formed closer bonds with friends, with their families and with my own family. Like I said in one of my first blog posts, it's like being there to watch your own funeral. It's truly a gift to be able to see the lives that I've touched along the way and how many relationships that I've made in my 27 years. It's deeply humbling, incredibly moving and has been vital to this whole healing process. It's difficult to know the effect you can have on someone's life until you're thrown into a situation like this. At the same time you learn what a profound effect people's simple words and actions can have on your own life. 

In the three months that I have been diagnosed, there has literally not been one day that a card hasn't arrived in the mail with some words of encouragement or a crazy memory to share. That's not to mention the thousands of e-mails, Facebook messages and wall posts and blog comments that have touched me in so many ways. Keeping up with all the correspondence is a big job --- a job I wouldn't trade in for a second. And the visits! We are so lucky to have such an amazing set of friends from all walks of life and they all provide a much needed escape from the day-to-day doldrums of cancer crapness. And the strangers that I've met on cancer websites or through their own blogs who have now become close allies in this fight - people I can learn from, swap tips with or just bitch with without fear of making them feel uncomfortable because they're reeling from this too. 

I've been going back to the office more on my off-week now that I've been feeling stronger. Being around co-workers, easing back into a more regular work schedule has been fantastic on my nerves and on my confidence. When I'm interviewing someone for a story or designing a web page I'm not thinking about the multiplying cancer cells or the port pain. I'm so thankful that I have the opportunity to keep on working and contributing to the greater society beyond my little cancer ridden world. 

When I was having a particularly hard time after last week's treatment and port insertion I sat down and flipped through all the cards I've received since my diagnosis. I've saved every one and have been collecting them in a basket in the kitchen --- a basket which I've had to upgrade in size twice. Then I dumped them out and just had to take a picture not being able to comprehend how amazingly thoughtful people are. 

Things that I would never even think of have shown up at my door to cheer me up: subscriptions to magazines like Natural Healing and People, Netflix subscriptions, yoga class and Amazon gift certificates, funny books, informative books, beauty products, relaxing candles, CDs, peanut M&Ms and healing crystals, restaurant gift certificates, house cleaning services, offers for Reiki and reflexology sessions, lots of movies, tomato, parsley and basil plants, hanging baskets, food, food, food and treats. 

All I can say is that I cannot wait to pay this forward for the rest of my life. My safety net is strong. I know no matter how hard I may fall at times, you'll all always be there to catch me. It's because of you that I can get past the fear and leap from peak to peak over the deep valleys of this journey with courage and determination. 

Stoicism

Sto⋅ic

 [Stoh-ik]

–adjective

1.	of or pertaining to the school of philosophy founded by Zeno, who taught that people should be free from passion, unmoved by joy or grief, and submit without complaint to unavoidable necessity.

I'm currently reading Dr. Bernie Siegel's Love, Medicine & Miracles: Lessons Learned About Self-Healing from a Surgeon's Experience with Exceptional Patients lent to me by a wise woman. It's fascinating and I think everyone should read it whether or not they're battling an illness. His holistic approach to healing makes so much sense.  

In it he talks about predispositions to cancer. Two being stress and suppressed emotions. I never considered myself a stressed-out person. In fact, many people, including my former boss, were always commenting how markedly calm I am under pressure. I work best under pressure and thrive in a fast-paced, deadline-driven environment (I believe that may be a line on my resume ...). 

Maybe responding well to all that pressure isn't always a good thing. Turns out unexpressed emotion can actually suppress the immune system and can manifest itself in disease. I very, very rarely cry. I don't get worked up or easily overwhelmed. I don't think I've ever had a fight with anyone in my life, well besides fights over Ken dolls and crab rangoon with my siblings. I don't yell. I don't get angry. I see lemons as lemonade. I'm even keeled, generally content and happy with whatever I'm confronted with. I've always been able to step back from a situation, formulate a plan and get 'er done. 

Dr. Dailey got it right in one of our first meetings together when I found out I had stage 4b cancer. I asked how that was possible when I wasn't feeling that awful. "Well, you were probably being very stoic about it." Ding! Well look where being stoic got me. 

Since my May 8 diagnosis all has changed. I liken my emotions to Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disney. Yesterday, I started crying while listening to a Bach concerto because the notes were just so beautiful. A couple weeks ago someone referred to me as "very ill" in a note and I screamed at the top of my lungs for a good five minutes. Today I was so overwhelmed with love for Sammy that I hugged her and laughed at her tail wagging furiously for about 10 minutes. I'm constantly doting over Craig now and feel like I keep falling in love with him all over again --- I think it creeps him out a bit. I must say, all extremes feel very healing, though it may make me seem a bit crazy.  

One of the questions Dr. Siegel asks his patients is: "What happened to you in the year or two before your illness?" Come to think of it, the past two years were quite eventful. 

In August of 2007 alone, I:  

-finished planning a wedding

-got married

-bought our first home

-delved into our first mortgage 

-moved out of our apartment

-survived a hurricane on our honeymoon

-had a run away car crash into the neighbor's garage on day 2 in the neighborhood

In the past year, I: 

-lost my grandfather

-lost Craig's grandfather 

-lost Craig's uncle very suddenly (in fact, this is the first time I learned of Dr. Bernie Siegel as he actually spoke at Kevin's funeral)

-lost Craig's aunt to brain cancer 

-got a new job 

-made the tough decision to leave an old job 

-got a dog 

If stress and cancer are interrelated, then I guess I can see how it could have developed. 

Siegel then asks his patients: "Did he or she openly grieve, rejoice, and face the challenge, or try to be calm and stoical?" Damn, that stoicism again. At the time, I never felt stressed during any of it, but now I see that maybe I didn't let myself accept that I was. I was always worried about how everyone else felt and trying to be strong for them. Craig is just the same as I am. Together we rolled with the punches, made each other laugh and smile and didn't let the little stresses that got others down get to us. Together we're one positive, smiley, stoic team. Maybe that's not always a good thing. Some of the things we've gone through were very, very difficult, especially losing his father to a long-fought battle with brain cancer just a few years ago. But we came out okay and stronger for it, because we always do. 

The loss of my Peppe two bitter cold Januaries ago hit me particularly hard. We were very close and I credit so much of who I am to him. He, too, loved writing and this blog is dedicated to him. I felt a very deep grief for a long time, still do. It was the first close family member I've ever lost and being a very small family - no aunts, no cousins, just the now 9 of us, it was a big hit. It took every ounce of strength I had to write and read his eulogy, but it was something I needed to do. Of course, I smiled through it, laughed and shared stories and didn't shed a tear in front of anyone at the service. When I was alone, and only when alone, that was another story. 

The last in a series of four questions Dr. Siegel asks his patients is "Why did you need this illness?" This is what I'm exploring now.

Says Siegel: "Sickness gives people 'permission' to do things they would otherwise be inhibited from doing. It can make it easier to say no to unwelcome burdens, duties, jobs or the demands of other people. It can serve as permission to do what one has always wanted but has always been 'too busy' to start. It can allow a person to take time off to reflect, meditate and chart a new course. It can serve as an excuse for failure. It can make it easier to request and accept love, speak your feelings, or otherwise be more honest. Even a cold has a meaning. Often its message is 'You've been working too hard. Go home and nurture yourself.'" 

I by no means blame myself or how I've lived my life thus far for getting me to this place. But I do see the fact that cancer chose me as an opportunity, not a punishment. 

Craig's mom always talks about listening to the little messages. Sometimes you get a tap on your shoulder and just ignore it. Then, another tap. If you keep ignoring it, you may end up with a piano falling on your head. I think this is my piano. I just haven't figured out exactly what that something is that I'm supposed to learn or do yet, but I'll get there. 

Until then, watch out. My emotions are running wild and free into the wilderness that is self-discovery. There's got to be a reason why this is happening to me and I will find it.