I wanted to be a big cat such as a lion or a tiger. Strong, fast, beautiful. But no … my spirit animal is a Bear. I figured there was a mistake so I retook the quiz and received the same conclusion. I am a Bear. “You are happiest when you are leading the charge.” (In real life, who follows bears?) I sighed and kept reading. “Whenever something needs to get done you always find yourself in charge, either through your own will or through others seeking you out.”

A sick feeling crept into my stomach. I am always in charge of almost everything in my life. From being a teacher to organizing social events, I do try to “lead with courage and integrity” and my “confidence and charisma cause people to gravitate” toward me. Here’s the problem: I don’t want to be a bear anymore.

There was no one particular thing that made me feel like stepping down from leading others in my life. A series of events occurred that caused me to shout, “No more. I am done. Screw being a bear!”

I no longer want to teach, a shame since one of the reasons I obtained my master’s degree was to be able to teach college. However, after a student committed plagiarism twice in the same term in my freshman writing class, I resigned. Even though I proved the plagiarism, the student only received a slap on the wrist; the offense is not going on her permanent student record. I cannot put up with the politics that come with both private and public education at every level.

I no longer want to allow new people in my life. Although most of my close (aka speed-dial) friends live far away and I am very lonely these days, I cannot risk getting to know strangers. Despite my outgoing personality, I keep most people at a distance. (We bears may seem sociable, but we are “the most solitary of all carnivores.”) For example, if you ask me how I am doing and I change the subject, then I am severely depressed and/or I don’t trust you enough to reveal my inner demons. After losing numerous friends after my sister Adrienne died, I concluded that people prefer my alter ego—happy, confident, friendly, funny Andrea—the Lucille Ball of every gathering. When a friend dumped me this past April after three years of what I thought was a wonderful relationship, I decided the third pig had it right: forget straw and sticks, I am building a wall of bricks around my heart.

I no longer want to plan events—not that I do this occupation professionally, but I organized my 20-year high school reunion from 2,000 miles away. The reunion consisted of five classes since my high school was so small. I spent 11 months of my life on this project, and I don’t regret a minute of it.

However, when a friend of 24 years flaked on her duties as both the co-chair and her class representative without ever calling or emailing me to explain why, the disappointment gnawed at me throughout the reunion weekend. Taking over her responsibilities less than two months prior to the reunion was overwhelming, but she didn’t leave me a choice. I resent her for adding to my increasing workload and for not bothering to explain her actions.

I no longer want to speak to seriously ill people. As president of my nonprofit Blue Faery, I often receive emails and phone calls from liver cancer patients seeking information. I listen to their stories and guide them as best I can. I used to love to help people in this capacity until I became emotionally attached to a patient who died this past July after her second battle with liver cancer. Even though she survived much longer than my sister did, this patient’s death brought back painful memories of Adrienne’s last days of fighting for her life. How can I offer hope when there is still no cure for liver cancer? How can I comfort individuals who will most likely die?

I no longer want to live in Los Angeles. If you read my blog, my dislike of LA is well known. I have lived here 20 years, and I must leave this toxic environment. I have only stayed because my husband, who works in the entertainment industry, did not think he could find employment anywhere else … until he received a job offer in Detroit! So now he is there and I am here, and we are apart from each other. I considered moving to one of the “Most miserable cities in America” but we would end up back here anyway after his job ends.

After seeing me cry off and on for several hours last month, my wise owl friend said, “You give so much to everyone else that there’s nothing left for you.” Other people have said the same thing to me in different ways, but I didn’t hear it until my beautiful owl spoke the simple truth.

Now my least favorite word in the English language—no—is becoming my new mantra: “No, I cannot teach needy students, make new friends, plan any events, or hear sad stories.” Unfortunately, I am stuck in Los Angeles for the time being; however, I have an idea. Most bears hibernate, and the period of time depends on where they live. Considering I live in a warmer climate, I think I can get away with three months or so. Hopefully longer.

The quiz warns that, “A prideful bear is a lonely bear” and I am proud when my efforts at any endeavor garner favorable results. However, I would argue that I stepping back from responsibility requires a certain amount of concession of pride. After all, while I am in hibernation, I cannot predict what will happen, but I’m sure the world will get on just fine without me.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. After I wrote this blog, I discovered that my job assigned me five students to tutor this fall when I was only supposed to receive three. YIKES! My hibernation in this respect will be temporarily delayed.

Except for The Game of Life, I have always been competitive. I never bought into that saying, “It’s not whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.” Bullshit. The objective is to win. Many people don’t play games with me anymore because I am too obnoxious. My husband and I can’t play each other in Trivial Pursuit because we get too mean, but we make a ferocious team. I love games because like math the answers are definite.
1 + 1 = 2 or Earn six pie wedges by answering tough questions and then answer one final question (selected by your opponent) in the center hub. Of course people interpret them differently, but for the most part, the rules of games are clear.

Real life, however, doesn’t work that way. It is far more subjective, enigmatic. I remember my dance teacher used to wear this t-shirt that read, “He who dies with the most toys wins”; he collected Porsches. Unlike the board game, I used to think “winning the game of life” meant having an incredible career. Later, I realized that being Adrienne’s parent made me happier than any acting role ever did. For example, I scheduled the final dress rehearsal of a play that I directed, produced, and wrote around Adrienne’s 13th birthday party, which I refused to miss. No matter what, she always came first.

Even though I did everything that I could, a part of me feels that I failed Adrienne. I didn’t help her win the game of life. I didn’t see to it that she made it to the finish line. It is as if she lost her turn and never came back to the game. Like she quit, but that is not what happened. She never gave up even when she knew her time was running out. Like a tired boxer in the ring, she kept fighting and every time a doctor counted her out, she got back on her feet and threw another punch. She refused to suffer a knockout. She finished the fight on her terms—she died at home in peace.

All of these years, I thought Adrienne had “lost” the game because she didn’t survive cancer and because I had lost her. I had it all wrong. Even though Adrienne was not as competitive as I am, I instilled in her the same aim: Play to Win. If life were a boxing match and the judges had to decide between Adrienne and her opponent—cancer, there is no question. Adrienne won. She led a successful life. She made some of her dreams come true. She inspired her friends; she continues to inspire me. While cancer may have beaten her down physically, she never allowed it to take away her heart, her spirit, or her soul.

When asked what they want for their children, parents usually reply, “as long as they are happy and healthy” but all parents have dreams for their children. When I was a kid, my father told me that I should be a doctor because I love to read. I guess he figured that I could survive medical school. I didn’t have a career selected for Adrienne, but I wanted her to leave home for college, preferably a four-year university such as Stanford, Berkeley or an Ivy League school on the East Coast. (She preferred my alma mater USC.) I wanted her to realize that there was nothing wrong with making money from her art. I wanted her to learn to drive a stick shift. And of course, I wanted her to be healthy and happy.

But Adrienne never graduated from high school, sold her art, or drove any car. She suffered from depression long before cancer invaded her body. She didn’t have a chance to do the things that I wanted her to do, but my dreams for her should have no bearing on whether or not Adrienne lived an extraordinary life. Even though I don’t like the outcome, Adrienne won the game.

It does not matter how you play the game of life  … it is how you define winning. Therefore, Adrienne is a champ.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Happy Birthday baby—you are the champion of my world. I miss you so much. Keep playing Queen for me, okay?

I smiled and congratulated her on a job well done. Inside I was thinking … And you think we’re not alike. Ha! A few days later, Adrienne was diagnosed with liver cancer, and she never returned to school. Although we both used humor to deflect our pain, we never discussed the irony of that particular situation. Funny how some things don’t need to be said aloud.

Wait … this blog was supposed to be silly and serve as a warning to others like me who need to lighten up. So in honor of my sister, who understood me better than anyone else, here are five signs that you might be too anal:

5. You own a label maker and will look for any excuse to use it. I don’t only label binders. I’ve labeled our pet-food bins, our recycling can, my husband’s water bottle (he requested it), and various medication containers (the fine print is too small). You know you are in love with your label maker if you have used the device so often that you have run out of tape more than once in three months, and you have memorized the refill tape cartridge’s model number. Right now, the Brother P-Touch M Series is on sale at Costco so I had better stock up!

4. You have a specific method for eating corn on the cob and any deviation from your method causes you great distress. For example, I prefer the horizontal approach. I eat three to four rows at a time from left to right. Then I go back over those same rows from right to left to make sure I didn’t miss anything. The cob, of course, is dripping in real butter. If I’m at home, I use our corn-on-the-cob holders; they make the process less messy and guarantee your teeth attack every kernel. When my husband told me that he varies his method—vertical vs. horizontal—depending on the corncob, I was shocked. I don’t know him at all.

3. You review a check list in your head before you leave your house. Mine revolves around the five senses:

• Do I look good? (How’s the hair, makeup, clothes?)
• Do I smell good? (Am I wearing deodorant, perfume, lotion?)
• Do I taste good? (Did I floss and brush my teeth?)
• Do I sound good? (Do I have a water bottle and cough drops? My throat often becomes hoarse.)
• Do I feel good? (Am I happy about where I’m going and if not, can I fake it?)

Disclaimer: While I may run through this check list every time I go out, it doesn’t mean that I look “camera-ready” at all times. Far from it. But I am always acutely aware of what I did and did not do before going out in public.

2. You color-code all activities in your organizer. Whether you use software (e.g., Microsoft Outlook) or an old-fashioned day planner (e.g., DayMinder), you divide your tasks into color categories (e.g., appointments—green, social activities—yellow). I started doing this toward the end of high school, and my friends have always made fun of me. Even though Adrienne thought it was hilarious that I highlighted my activities for the week in different colors, she told me I was “weird.” If she had only known just how anal I was … I hid the highlighters so she wouldn’t use them. (To be fair, she once “borrowed” my theatrical glow tape and used all of it to decorate her room.) For the longest time I only liked Zebra Zazzle highlighters, but I’m learning to be more flexible. The colors in my Outlook calendar don’t exactly match the highlighters I use in my day planner, and I’m okay with it. Yes, I essentially have two organizers—and no, I do not want a BlackBerry.

And the #1 sign that you might be too anal …
your organization system is so complex that no one else can understand it. For example, when my appendix burst nine years ago, my boyfriend (at the time) was frantically flipping through my address book trying to find my father’s phone number. Apparently, he had already looked under “W” while I was in surgery. Nope, not there. Still groggy from the anesthesia, I heard Adrienne tell him, “Sissy organizes everyone by first name. Don’t you know that?”
My boyfriend sighed. He turned the pages. My eyes were closed, but I could imagine his expression when he looked under “Z” for Zelmer. The page was blank. He shook my arm. “Dammit, Andrea. I can’t find your father’s number anywhere.”

I remember smiling because the answer was so obvious to me. “Look under D—for Daddy.” My boyfriend groaned, Adrienne laughed, and I drifted off to sleep.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I hope I made you smile, kiddo.
For what it’s worth, you were worth all the while. – Green Day

As I wrap up the end of Adrienne’s third round of chemo in my memoir, I relive it and I discover things I didn’t know about myself and about her. That third round was the worst. I can only compare it to the California wildfires. Adrienne had so many things happening in her body at once—so many fires if you will—that the doctors didn’t know which ones to put out first, how the “fires” started, or how to put them out. The more medicine they pumped into Adrienne’s body, the worse she felt, and I couldn’t make her better.

Tomorrow I start Day 73, which means I’m halfway done with this monster, I mean, memoir. I’ve written 82,385 words so far (yes, I’m that anal); many more to go.

AWW — XoXo

A highly intelligent, older woman made that statement. I want to shake her and scream, “Toxic emotions didn’t kill my sister. Cancer did. Cancer caused by hepatitis.” I won’t touch her, of course—that would be assault.

I don’t know what is harder to deal with: the fact that my coworker believes what she said or that Adrienne believed the same thing.

AWW — XoXo