Chapter 4. "STAT"

Glioblastology, the book

Friends and readers, Thursday is new chapter release day, and we’re ready for chapter 4! If you’re new here, Glioblastology, the book (title TBD) is my work in progress, bringing 8.5 years of documenting my life with brain cancer into book form. These chapters are available to paid subscribers, but if you are not in a position to become a paid subscriber, please reach out, and I am happy to provide a subscription. As always, general posts are available to all subscribers, regardless of tier.

When we left off in Chapter 3, I had been prescribed stretching exercises to address the unusual dizziness and weakness episodes that were becoming increasingly more frequent. A general practitioner had assured me, “If there were something seriously wrong, you’d be in much worse shape.” A little editorializing: the end of this one. Whew! I went right there when I edited tonight. Thanks for reading. xx. <3 -a.

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Chapter 4. “STAT”

Just more than ten years before Whitney and I were married, sometime in 2009, we tucked into the back corner of the English brew pub just off the cycling trail in the quaint Broad Ripple village, six or seven miles north of downtown Indianapolis, where we lived together in the 650 square foot apartment, historically charming, or in disrepair, depending on your perspective.

One of the earliest bars in the Indianapolis area to brew beers on-site, a microbrewery, which now saturates the local market, the Broad Ripple Brewpub modeled itself after pubs in the United Kingdom, preserving the architectural tradition of the “snug”: a small, private room, with frosted windows to obstruct a clear view of the drinkers nestled inside. Traditionally, it is said, the snug was a quiet place, for a police officer on patrol, the town priest, or women, inappropriate to be seen drinking with the public, could sneak away for a pint.

Sipping an English-style pale ale, an “ESB” (extra special bitter), elbow-to-elbow with patrons at the crowded twelve-top bar, I told Whitney that I was ready to quit my nearly ten-year career at a Fortune 500 company, where I currently worked as an analyst in the newly formed workforce analytics team, to complete my undergraduate degree. I was not yet thirty years old. I had prior experience opening a new retail store, training new managers on the retail side of the business, serving in a multi-unit management role, and facilitating professional development workshops for experienced retail store managers and regional directors, throughout a fourteen-state region.

When the “Great Recession” crippled businesses and emptied 401k accounts, my company, like many across the United States, underwent several rounds of painful layoffs and restructuring efforts to find efficiencies and process improvements—shorthand for doing more, with fewer resources.

I survived the layoffs, and I was excited to lean into new roles, with new leaders, on new teams. After the third such restructuring, though, with the creation of the workforce analytics team—in fact, the team tasked with creating sophisticated workforce dashboards and scorecards to forecast labor cost and turnover trends for the current economic climate, ultimately to make workforce reduction and structuring recommendations to senior leaders, a lightbulb illuminated. I was creating a new position, on a newly formed team, reporting to a leader, with whom I had not yet worked, and not any of this had I actually applied or interviewed for! I was too thrilled with continuing to have a job that I had not taken pause to consider if that job was one that I wanted.

“I want to go back to school for philosophy, finish my undergrad, go to grad school, and be a college professor.”

Whitney agreed.

Whitney did not agree because she felt pressured or obligated. Whitney did not agree because, or despite, familiarity with higher education and the academic job market—which was crumbling, even in 2009-10, roughly around the time we were having this conversation. Whitney agreed because she, my best friend, my girlfriend in sixth grade who put a giant Hershey’s kiss in my locker for Valentine’s Day; my friend who I barely talked to throughout high school when she was a cheerleader and I was a skateboarder; my friend, Whitney, who I hugged several years after high school, when she and I both attended a celebration in recognition of my dad, prompting me to wonder what she was up to; my best friend who I sat with at an outside café table on a rainy July 4th, too rainy for fireworks, but not too rainy for a conversation, until three in the morning, discovering our compatibility all over again; and my best friend, Whitney, who I now asked to agree with me that I leave a successful career to begin again on the bottom rung of college.

Whitney agreed.

Whitney agreed because she loves me.

She believes in me.

She trusts me.

Throughout grad school in pursuit of my master’s degree, I worked late service industry hours. Student loan money ran out, and we had started a family. I received generous scholarships from the university in recognition of my strong academic performance. Still, a growing family, now a mortgage, mounting graduate school expenses, including course texts and travel to conferences, and application fees for doctoral programs, a prerequisite for tenure-track professorship in my chosen field; I needed to increase my earnings.

Seeking a job with a schedule to allow time for classes, I responded to an online ad for a bar back at a local craft cocktail bar. The resurrection of the proper mixed drink was well underway, starting in New York City, and eventually taking root in Indianapolis. We shook and stirred pre-prohibition-style cocktails in a dimly lit shotgun-style bar, served by tie-and-vest-clad bartenders. In a less than favorable Yelp review, someone described us as “extras at a Lumineers music video.” We all had a chuckle at that.

A bar back supports the bartenders: filing ice bins, polishing glassware, stocking and rotating beer, wine, and spirits, removing dishes and resetting bar top place settings, running food when needed, and taking a few beers back to the kitchen staff after dinner service on a busy night. The bar back role is a thankless, tiring, and liquor-soaked run through the gauntlet of a busy bar, but the bar back is also an apprentice. The bartenders respected my work, hustling to support them night after night, knowing that I often came directly to work from class and that after work, I was home with my tired spouse and a newborn baby. Bartenders started to pull me aside during slow moments to demonstrate techniques or shout out classic drinks with their recipes that I would scribble in my pocket-sized moleskin journal to memorize. I earned my spot by night, “behind the stick,” industry-speak for a person tending bar, and I earned my degree by day, attending classes.