Clarifying purpose

I find talking about creating software difficult. Unlike other fields of creation, depicting the experience of a software product without a demonstration of working software is near impossible. Without actually using software, any discussions about functionality or experience are subject to misinterpretation of language, misunderstanding of the needs of the user and attachment to ideas or specifics.

While we lack the ability to have fruitful discussions with stakeholders or potential users, we have something that is very valuable, the ability to change. It is this ability to change that gives us the ability to fail and recovery again and again. 

And the more we've invested in creating something, the more attached we become to the ideas. Our attachment leads to the resistance of admitting failure. In time, we close our eyes to the truth and it alienates our users. 

In reality it alienates ourselves because our hearts know the truth even if our brains resist. When we ignore our hearts because of attachment, we are unhappy, stressed and in a state of dis-ease.

The same is true if our stakeholders become attached to ideas or functions that do not serve the user or create unnecessary risk.

When we lose site of the original intentions because of attachment it leads to distress and struggle.

So, how can we change our mindsets so that attachment is easily spot and acknowledged?

I'd say we could all work on becoming enlightened so we are free of attachments, but we're on a deadline :)

Instead, we put value on something else. We spend our time and effort realizing the mission, vision and values of the project. We ensure we understand the big picture. 

In reality, we are creating a different attachment. One that is bigger, visible, purposeful and open. 

How can we do this? By understanding and buying into what we are creating and how we see it experienced. We can create a mission, vision and values to clarify and create distinction.

The mission statement is all about purpose. Its about the problem you are trying to solve, the information you are trying to share and/or the service you are trying to provide. Its about the long term goals.

On the other side, the vision statement is an abstraction of the experience. It can include words like fun, simple, quality, quickly, stable, reliable, responsive, etc. It does not include ideas like color schemes, mechanics, technology specifics or other implementation details.

Time can also be spent on value statements (users own their information, we strive to directly connect with and respond to user feedback, all user feedback is valid, etc)

Continue drilling down into these ideas until everyone knows what they are doing, are excited to work towards the goals and know in their hearts they are working on an effort they accept fully.

For new teams, taking time to manifest an understanding of team dynamics, quality and creativity with as much openness and honesty as possible can help ensure the best "good-enough" software gets created in a way that is enjoyable, sustainable and collaborative.

Finally, read these statements every morning. When discussions become long, unclear or hostile, refer back to them. Use them as a method to stay detached to what is no longer serving and focused on the underlying issues.

Upcoming birthday

This time last year I was preparing for unexpected surgery to remove what remained of the tumor in my sinuses.

My imagination was spinning with terror. This was not the plan.

The surgery was on April 13th and went very well. I was released the day before my 30th birthday.

Not quite the celebration I imagined.

The surgery went very well. I had very little pain and was released the next day.

I was officially cancer free, yet it would be months before they could tell if the surgery was successful.

Any sense of relief alluded me...

Its almost a year later.

I began writing with the intention of expressing gratitude and excitement for the change in my health since my last birthday.

Instead I am finding a deeper appreciation for last year's gift -- my life.

My birthday has become more than a celebration of my birth.

Where am I going?

As my body heals there is a voice in my mind.

It started quietly. Just a twitch. A moment that passed quickly and shallow.

No evidence remained of its visit.

Time passed.

Its become more persistent. More loud. More demanding. Lingering.

Etching itself deeper.

The people around me hear it too.

"What about work?" It asks.

In my journey, I've died and been reborn many times.

Each time I am more connected. Less attached. More open.

I have been given the time and space to become myself. To heal. To listen.

This insistence on work persists.

How do I "work" and continue on my path of healing?

Which passions do I share? Which do I keep private?

What gifts do I have to offer? What do I want to receive?

What is it that I am seeking?

Because its good to laugh

A year ago today, I began my life as a cancer patient. It sucked. And I'm glad its over.

Its been a long time since I posted... I am happy to report that I am cancer free and have completed treatment! It was a really long and difficult journey. The English language is limited in its ability to describe it. And I'd rather not relive it, at least not now.

My hair is growing in and my energy improves everyday! I am able to spend my days with my family and have been cherishing every moment.

I thank everyone for their support and encouragement this past year!

Finding Treatment

My ENT recommended a surgeon in the city and got me an appointment with him right away.

I was glad to have his help, but it didn't feel right going to a surgeon instead of seeing an expert in rhabdomyosarcoma.

Being so close to NYC, I felt obligated to search Sloan Kettering. There was a pediatric team dedicated to sarcoma and a doctor, Leonard Wexler, had Rhabdo listed in his biography.

I wasn't sure if they took adult patients, but I figured I had to try. I made the call to Dr Wexler's office and his assistant was very helpful. He told me they would treat me and needed my pathology.

I had to make a decision -- go to the surgeon or bring the pathology to Sloan.

I went with Dr. Wexler. It seemed to make more sense to find out more about this cancer than to jump into surgery.

Two days later I was at Sloan. Scheduled for scans and consultations.

The first thing Wexler told me was that my cancer is "curable." The next thing he told me is that Kaylee was safe from catching it from me when I was pregnant or through breastfeeding.

Then we went onto the more difficult parts.

I had to wean Kaylee immediately. This broke my heart.

I was at stage 3 because it had spread to my lymph nodes.

The scheduled scans would tell us if it had spread to distant locations.

I was diagnosed with embryonal rhabdo. Dr. Wexler was pretty sure it was Aveolar -- a more aggressive form.

I also had to have my bone marrow tested and a spinal tap. They would perform these when my mediport was placed.

We then went onto the treatment.

Surgery would be unlikely.

Chemo would be high dose.

I had two options for treatment. Standard VAC therapy (3 chemo drugs) or a clinical trial of 7 drugs.

Both were a year long and both would make me very ill.

One had a much better cure rate.

The standard treatment was available at the clinic not far from my house.

The clinical trial was only available at Sloan in NYC, about 1.5 hours from my house.

It would mean being separated from my family for most of the year.

It would be a nightmare in logistics.

It also meant a better chance of a cure.

So I decided to give up a year of my life to save the rest of it.

It took hours of crying to come to that decision.

My (Cancer) Story -- the diagnosis

On Friday August 14, 2009 I found out I had cancer.

I went to the ENT just days before for a persistent sinus infection, and cancer was the last thing on my mind.

One look in my nose and the ENT changed my life.

Well, cancer changed my life. The ENT happened to find it.

It was a Tuesday. I told my husband that morning I had never been so happy to go to the doctor. I had been dealing with a chronic sinus infection since June and my health was declining. I could barely breathe through my nose, my sleep was disrupted, and I could no longer smell.

There were other symptoms I noticed after I was diagnosed. Over the past few months I had lost weight and had occasional night sweats. In late winter, I had eye pain. In the spring, I had persistent sinus headaches.

Upon arriving at the ENT we discussed my symptoms and then went into the examination room. One look in my nose and his reaction was grim. He told me I had a polyp in my nose and said the word "cancer." Despite telling me cancerous growths in the sinuses were very rare, I was scared.

The doctor immediately sent me for a CT scan and told me to bring the slides back to the office that afternoon. He assured me it was just to alleviate any concerns and that in 35 years of practice he had only seen 3 malignancies in the sinuses.

I told him it doesn't matter how rare something is when it happens to you. He agreed.

By noon I had the CT scan.

I brought the scans back to the office and the receptionist told me he would call back.

Twenty minutes later my cell phone rang.

"The doctor would like you to come back to the office"

"Oh my god! Can't he talk to me on the phone?" The woman said hold on.

"Hi Wendy." The doctor was on the line.

"How does it look?"

"Your bones look good."

"What do you mean 'my bones look good?!!' I wanted to hear 'its not cancer.'"

I'm not really sure what he said after that. Something like it doesn't look like cancer, but the growth is very big and needs to be removed quickly. He asked me to bring my husband into the office so we can talk about the surgery.

Back to his office for the 3rd time that day.

In the examination room my CT scan was up on the wall. It was clear that my left sinuses were completely filled with something.

The doctor went on to say that they would do surgery. He said they would first do a biopsy and as long as everything came out okay they would proceed with surgery to remove the growth.

The biopsy would take 15 minutes. If they continued with the surgery it would take a few hours.

As I left the room, I picked up Kaylee, who had been happily playing. "There is always life." I said.

"Yes, there is." The doctor's reply made my stomach ache.

I spent the next day doing pre-surgical testing. Blood tests, chest xray and a special CT scan that would be used during surgery.

Thursday was a blur of anxiety, fear and playing with Kaylee. She really helped me get through the day.

That night I found myself thinking of a girl I hadn't seen since high school. I found out several weeks later she had a rare pediatric cancer when she was in college called Ewing's Sarcoma.

She has since become a source of support and inspiration.

By some magic, I slept well.

The next morning I woke up with a painful, swollen lymph node in my neck.

At that moment, I knew it was cancer.

I knew it had spread.

I kept this information to myself -- no reason to worry my husband and mother who accompanied me to the hospital. I may have been wrong.

I hoped I was wrong.

At the hospital I was started on IV fluids and met with the anesthesiologist and my ENT.

A few moments later I was getting wheeled to the operating room. As I said goodbye to my family I started tearing as I knew everything would be different the next time I saw them.

I awoke from surgery what seemed like moments later. My husband and mother were at my side.

My first question was to find out the time.

It was only an hour later.

I immediately started crying and my doctor told me it was malignant.

That moment changed everything. Even though I "knew" it was cancer, I hoped I was fine.

They had a nurse come talk to me who was a cancer survivor. At that point I had no interest in hearing about someone else's cancer, it had nothing to do with mine.

Upon arriving home, my husband told me they would have the diagnosis on Monday. It would be lymphoma or a rare pediatric cancer.

The weekend was difficult. I felt sick and weak from surgery. The mood was grim.

It was Kaylee's first birthday on Sunday. As she opened her gifts, I hoped I would be around for Christmas. I feared I would not be around for her next birthday.

I broke down, crying.

The day stretched on.

I had experienced cancer before. My father fought leukemia (AML) for 1.5 years before passing on. My sister's mother in law only had a few months with ovarian cancer.

My worst fear had become my reality.

I had cancer and it could kill me.

I went back to the ENT the next day. The final pathology had not come in yet. The doctor removed 6 feet of gauze packing from my nose.

He was going to call us as soon as he found out the results.

Matt and I went to breakfast.

Shortly after our meal the cell phone rang. Matt answered. I didn't feel up to the call.

He walked out of the restaurant to hear better. I waiting on pins. It seemed like hours before he came back.

He returned to the table and told me it was the rare pediatric cancer. Neither of us could remember the name -- rhabdo something was what we called it.

Believe it or not, I felt special. I was smiling cause I had this rare cancer; only 20 or so adults get it a year. I was always a bit unique, so why not have the odd cancer?

It was my mind's way of coping with the situation. I'm always happy to feel happy.

Matt and I finished our breakfast and went to the hospital to pick up the pathology slides -- we'd need them for the next step in the adventure, seeking treatment.