Well, shit...

I didn't know what to title this piece, so I just went with Kelly's words. I'm also not sure I can say anything here that would serve as a fitting intro to her story. So I'll just let her tell it.

I will say that Kelly Clemeshaw, then Kelly Marean, graduated from high school in 1993. She was part of my first class, which naturally means I remember everyone one of those "kids" extremely well. In the photograph below, for instance, I can name every person in the frame (Kelly is in front with the red jacket), the class period (6th, after lunch), and the person who took the photograph (Paula Waisman, who was in third period with Riki, Adrienne, Raquel and a number of others who I still keep in touch with).

After graduating, Kelly moved on to Whitman College in Walla Walla, WA where she earned a BA in Spanish Language and Literature. (Not sure what Kelly's Senor Steel nickname was.) After earning an MA at Cal State San Marcos, Kelly went on to have a whole lot of what we call "life experience": she was an AmeriCorps VISTA volunteer at Interfaith Community Services in Escondido; she started a computer lab for homeless children and veterans; she moved to the tiny island of Rota near Guam in 2004; she taught Spanish at Northern Marianas College and 10th grade English at Rota High School; she got married (Braden); and she had two kids (Evers and Owen). Currently, she is homeschooling her boys and hiking and biking every day.

This blog is about surviving high school, but that term is generally used in a metaphorical sense. Kelly is talking about literal survival here. "My post is about not letting your health, or your mental health, write your life’s story," she said.

- C.H.

The summer after my freshman year in college, I was given a death sentence.

As a junior in Mr. Harrington’s first English class at Parker, I had no idea that my daily life was going to get significantly more challenging, and some days nearly impossible to manage. In the midst of juggling homework, sports, and musical theater, my body was slowly turning to stone.

Being a teenager can be horrible enough, am I right? Add in a swollen face, fingers that were so puffy and weak I couldn’t open jars or bottles, an extreme sensitivity to the cold, joint pain like that of an 80-year-old, all manner of GI issues, and a fatigue that could not be remedied with any amount of sleep. Combine all of this with trying to get into college, graduate, and leave home for the first time.

At 19 years old, I was finally diagnosed with a debilitating and disfiguring auto-immune disease called Scleroderma, or diffuse systemic sclerosis. In 1994 not as much was known about this chronic illness. My doctor gave me photocopied information which told me I most likely had two to five years to live. I thought, “Well, shit. That pretty much gets in the way of everything I want to do with my life.” Would I live to be 20? Would I finish college? Would I see the new millennium?

My stubborn will wouldn’t allow me to accept this death sentence. Instead, I made this bleak diagnosis my life sentence. I tried to do everything I could to live as if things were normal and denial proved to be a very useful tool. It’s not like I became reckless, but I lived knowing that my lifespan was probably shorter than I had imagined.

Twenty-seven years later, I still push myself through joint stiffness and fatigue, but I consider myself to be thriving, not just surviving. I am blessed to co-host the San Diego Scleroderma support group meetings once a month. I have lost more friends to this disease than I care to count which makes me feel grateful, and sometimes guilty, to be doing so well. This group, and the marvel of watching my eleven and twelve-year-old sons grow up, keeps me focused for the long haul.

I think back to the year after college when I moved to Seattle and met a woman named Alice who had been living with Scleroderma for 30 years. Her secret to a long, full life with a chronic disease was to get dressed up, go out for margaritas, and salsa dance as often as she could. June, a Scleroderma warrior of 35 years, is one of my biggest inspirations. I’ve never met anyone who is more affected by this disease. She tells the story of her own doctor who had nothing more to offer and sent her home to “get her things in order” . . . and that was 15 years ago! June still travels all over the world with her husband and her carefree attitude towards life.

I’m so used to living with Scleroderma that I sometimes forget the physical challenges that have become the daily norm. Over the years, my greatest adversaries have been Depression and her wild cousin Anxiety. I used to be ashamed to admit that I was struggling inside, but the more I share and listen to others I realize most of the people I meet are dealing with similar troubles. When I’m at my darkest I try to pursue joy, even if I have to crawl towards it.

So, to my fellow students of life, my advice is to lighten up, let go, love each other . . . and as my dad used to say, “Don’t major in minor things.”

Last summer I remembered Alice and June when an ambulance ride to the ER led to the discovery of a small brain tumor between my eyes. “Well, shit,” I thought, and added it to the list.