"Why Boys Fail"

A friend and I recently embarked on a 12 books in 12 days challenge. Oh my goodness it's been tough (and fun!), and I've been spending the past couple nights up way too late reading...and as a result sleeping in late. #12in12bookchallenge

Fortunately, today my dad ended up coming home early from volunteering--and we were able to head to the library this afternoon. (Sad but true: I was asleep at noon so did not make my morning trip to the library as planned

I picked up a nice stack of books...

...and I selected Why Boys Fail: Saving Our Sons from an Educational System That's Leaving Them Behind to dig into today.

When I was teaching, I admit that I often had to put individual behavior plans in place for boys more than girls. It bothered me immensely. When I led a professional learning community at my school last year around supporting students who were struggling behaviorally, socially, and/or emotionally, while we focused in on supporting two girls, the students we thought of as needing extra support were mostly boys. This was not unique to the school I worked at, because this was true of the first school at which I taught as well.

However, I'm cautious here to speak on behalf of anyone besides myself, and so I won't. I'm going to talk only about me as a teacher (and a young, learning teacher at that).

I often wondered: Am I doing something wrong? How can I better support these boys, and what am I doing to make learning more engaging and accessible for them? As I think back more carefully to being in the classroom, I actually think I only ever needed to make an individual behavior support plan for one girl. For boys? I made at least 3-4 a year. This is a jarring difference; why the boys?

Even though I was able to lead these students to academic (and for the most part social/emotional/behavioral) success in my class, what happened when they left my class? Oftentimes this success came as the result of individual incentives and consequences--was I actually giving them the tools and skills to be successful in first grade? Or in another school?

I don't have the answer here (never feel that I do when it comes to these problems in education), but I do think back to the things that helped these students be successful, and as with any individual behavior plan, I had to find out what my students liked and enjoyed.

So, what were their incentives? Well, when I asked their parents what their sons liked to do (or in general what their interests were), they had similar responses: playing outside, video games, sports, monster trucks. It sounds pretty typical and unsurprising--boys like cars, trucks, and video games. ...and as the author points out, for a sociologist, the why behind boys preferring these things vs. books, dress up, and drawing is fascinating. What leads to these differences? As a sociology major, I find this intriguing too--but as an educator, my job was not to figure out the root cause of their interests but rather to appeal to them.

I would get Star Wars and truck stickers; I began to search for books that appealed to my boys. Yes, we had a Star Wars A-Z book that was always quick to be selected in our classroom library. Our blocks center was a hot spot to find boys excited while talking, building, and yes even writing about what they built. I remember being purposeful in what I modeled during our non-fiction unit. On our criteria for success poster for non-fiction writing, though my students knew I loved penguins, I wrote about semis. Yup. I wrote about an 18-wheeler, because I wanted to pick something the boys in my class might find more appealing.

I'm hoping to finish the book tonight (I need to to be able to stay on track with this 12 in 12 challenge!), and I'm curious to read more about not only the context and data surrounding the gap between boys and girls in education...but also, ways to help ensure the teachers I work with take active steps to support their students equally. Though I'm "out of office" right now--not working, on vacation, email-free--I can't help but think about whether or not this gap currently exists in my teachers' classrooms, and if so, ways to support those boys who may be falling behind (or who may already be behind).

I'm a big proponent of preschool--and a strong preschool program at that, and I'm coming to believe even more firmly in the need for pre-k (and kinder for that matter) to focus in on supporting social, emotional, and language development. A time for all children to learn how to interact with one another--to learn what self-control and self-regulation are--and a time for reading to be presented in an exciting and engaging way that appeals to both boys and girls equally.

Much like there's a GoldieBlox to engage girls in engineering, we need something to engage boys in reading in the same way. It may very well exist, but have I seen something that gripped me in the same way the GoldieBlox videos have? Not yet. Are people fully aware of the gap for boys in education? I don't actually know that many are. So where to start? Well, I know I'll be buying all my friends who have kids books...and I definitely will be selecting some exciting, "non-traditional" books for those with boys.

Welp, my computer is about to die...and I have to finish this book, so to close, two lists of books to engage boys (one of my favorite books, The Phantom Tollbooth made The Art of Manliness' list) and an excerpt from Why Boys Fail.

• 10 Books to Help Boost Young Boys' Reading 

• The Art of Manliness: 50 Best Books for Boys and Young Men

This excerpt from: http://books.google.com/books?id=LGrw61_E5_0C

♥a

Last night I slept with...

...my phone. I woke up, looked at the pillow next to me, and my phone was staring back at me. A faint glow came over it as a text message arrived, and before brushing my teeth, making breakfast, doing anything a normal human being might do, I checked my messages, read some emails, and scrolled through Facebook.

Photo source

It's kind of alarming. I didn't have to get out of bed to know it was snowing or to learn what was going on in the world or to keep in touch with friends. This is equal parts awesome and scary.

Awesome: If and when my phone is charged, I can keep in touch with friends living all over the US (and my lovely friends who have moved abroad), with friends I haven't seen in years, and get news updated very quickly. I can work remotely and still keep in touch with not just the Chicago team but colleagues across our many sites. I can live far away from my brother (who's currently in Germany) and dad (enjoying warm weather in Florida) and still talk to them every day.

Scary: It's hard to cut myself off, and I'm reliant on technology throughout the day. I know a lot about other people's lives via Facebook, and I'm pretty sure people know a good amount about my life as well (particularly since I'm very open on this blog).

So I'm doing a cleanse. Disconnecting from Facebook for a week. Maybe Twitter and Instagram will be next. For now, Facebook, you're my vice...so I'm tackling you head-on and deleting you from my phone and computer (and iPad--perhaps there's another problem: too many devices!).

photo source

Dear Facebook,
It's not you; it's me. I can't give you what you need, and I just need space right now. I need to focus on my career right now, and you deserve better.

Maybe we can still be friends,
Alex

photo source

Here's to enjoying the beautiful snow (and finding out it's beautiful, because I walked outside not because I saw 14 posts about it online...),
♥a

P.S. Yes, I realize this is ridiculous. I'm breaking up with Facebook via a blog post. I get it. #lol
P.P.S. It was painful to hashtag lol.

...the 45th phone call of that day...

I have received some of the kindest messages the past couple days after I wrote and posted my letter where I tried to remember all that happened the day I found out I had cancer. (This still baffles me, that it took weeks and a different set of doctors to realize I wasn't a-okay. This also should explain why I am so very grateful for all my doctors, nurses, and hospital staff. Finally, my opening sentence=way too long. My apologies.)

Anyone who was on my giant email chain when I was going through chemo (or really anyone who has ever met me) likely knows I enjoy writing. I've found it incredibly helpful to attempt to process all that's occurred the past 11 years, and during chemo, it was my way of keeping in touch with everyone who wasn't my dad, my doctor, or my nurse. Before that, trust me, my journals were filled with melodramatic poetry written in gel pens as well as really deep thoughts about life, and I may or may not have listed the boys on whom I had a crush. I've always liked lists.

However, not everything always fits into a neat list.

December 1, 2006. It's not over yet, and it certainly didn't fit with the orderly to do list I created.

After many phone calls I don't remember, my guess is that it was roughly 4 pm when Evanston NW Hospital popped up on the caller ID yet again. This time, however, it wasn't about another prescription I needed to pick up or information from the nutritionist. Rather, it was the nurse calling with an update on my blood test from earlier in the day (I would like to emphasize the fact that no one had to hold me down for my blood to be drawn--a vast improvement from previous doctor's visits).

Now, as I went back to write all this down, I pulled out my "Medical Stuff" binder...

because yes, I have one, though it's embarrassingly not complete, and yes, it is hot pink and purple. In it, I have random printouts and things I received during and after chemo. One of these random things is the following little booklet:

While no tumor markers are definitive, on December 1st, my doctor ran many blood tests--one of which measured CA-125, another measuring my AFP level, both of which are proteins that one's body may produce in response to cancer. Now, what's important to know here is that the typical normal range for CA-125 is 35 or below, and for AFP, typically the result should fall below 10. (This all from my non-MD knowledge so take it with a grain of salt.)

The nurse shared with me my blood test results over the phone:

...and because of the crazy elevation, particularly with my AFP, the doctor decided I needed to start chemo sooner, and so that's how, seven years ago, I ended up going in for my first day of chemo on December 4, 2006, just 23 days after surgery.

10 hours before that call, I didn't know I had cancer...and after that call, I had about 2.5 days to prepare for day 1. I don't recall exactly what I did after I passed the phone to my dad, but I would not be surprised if I began prioritizing my to do list.

I called my dad the other day as I was flipping through that lovely medical binder...it was past midnight in Florida, but he's a cool man and was awake.
"Dad, seriously though...my AFP blood test was in the thousands...and by the end of chemo it was 4.8. My test result was literally 1000x what it should have been. How on earth is that possible?"

While I've definitely had seven years to think about the joyful experience that is chemo, writing all this down, flipping through my binder, and reading emails I sent, I'm realizing a couple things:

1. I knew I was sick, but I don't think I fully grasped just how serious it was. ...or maybe I did, and as my dad tells it, I just wasn't going to let it slow me down. Reading things like those initial blood test results or thinking about the stats my doctor gave me about the possibility of the cancer recurring, I just don't remember every feeling like it was that bad. Yes, chemo sucked...a lot...but it could have most certainly been worse.
2. I really like exclamation points, and I was shockingly happy during chemo. I find this slightly alarming and would probably find it jarring if someone sent me an email flooded with joyful positive things during chemo. You may think I'm exaggerating here when I say that I was really positive during chemo, and so if you do, I give to you the "Top Ten Great Things About Week 2 of Chemo." That email was written without sarcasm as well as without the aid of any type of medicinal herbs...
3. I had (and still have) the best friends and family. This is not a new realization, but something worth pointing out.

Still to come in future posts...

• My hair fell out. Past the awfulness of the day it happened, there are a lot of funny stories here.
• Celebrating my birthday with chemo. There's a good story here about Chris' venture into the hospital.
• My "Must-Haves" for chemo days (kind of like Oprah's Favorite Things...)

...and with that, I think it's time for me to take a break from writing tonight and nurse my bruises from my lovely fall post-shower. I may need to get a LifeAlert necklace...

♥a

Letter to 19-year-old me

Dear Alex,

Well, today's going to be a fun day. First off, I fully support your decision to take extra time on your hair this morning--it is vital that the doctor know just how important your hair is to you. You also are rocking your outfit today. Victoria's Secret Pink sweatpants and a blue ribbon tied in your hair=no one would ever know you had surgery a couple weeks ago.

In retrospect, I can assure you that the little fight you will have with Dad has nothing to do with how long it took you to get ready this morning. Though you have no clue what an oncologist is, trust me, Dad does, and he might be a little worried about his daughter and how quickly her doctor recommended she go meet with this oncologist. Right now though, the only connection you've made is that if chemotherapy might be involved here, chemo=no hair, and so it's very important that the doctor see just how pretty your hair is.

Fair warning, today's going to be a crazy one, and yes, you're going to get your blood drawn so just accept that. Now, when you arrive at the hospital, you're going to be handed a stack of papers to fill out before you head up to the doctor's office. I don't know about you, but if I were reading them, I'd find your jokes funny, so I say continue with them. Nothing says, "I'm 19 but clearly have the sense of humor of a 12-year old," like responding to the question, "Do you cook your own meals?" with "I try not to ever since I set rice-a-roni on fire." As you sit and answer all these questions, ignore the fact that most people will probably think you are there supporting your dad and that you are the youngest patient by probably 15-20 years.

Now, here's where things get fun, Alex. The doctor will see you now. You can go on up to the oncologist's office and bear with the fun that comes with every visit when you are dealing with a gynecological oncologist. Let's just say, you'll learn not to be shy very quickly with doctors.

Though this is only one of the first times you will recall this story, be prepared to share it now and take note of the pieces that all feel essential to include:

• I kept getting the "stomach flu" often, and I had these recurring fevers. (Be sure to use air quotes.)
• I tend to think I'm a hypochondriac so I was convinced I would go to the doctor, and he would tell me I was making it up.
• Finally, one day I realized I couldn't suck my stomach in...and I was nervous if I got on the metro someone would give up his seat for me and my baby, so I figured it was time to go to the ER.
• I ate a cheeseburger and chocolate ice cream the day after surgery, and it wasn't until after surgery that I realized just how awful I'd been feeling the past couple months.

One part you include that you will learn not to mention in the future: "It's so nice to know what it feels like to be healthy."

The oncologist will listen to your story, and he will explain how he reviewed your surgery report and feels it is somewhat incomplete which is why your doctor sent you to him. He will proceed to show both you and your dad a diagram of the female reproductive system (oh yes, he's going to do this with you and your DAD) and point out the ovaries. Don't forget, you only have one now so basically you should feel lopsided...just kidding.

Then, the doctor will begin to explain that he recommends a 9-week course of BEP chemo. He will write it down on a notepad, and he will show you how the cycle works. Bleomycin, Etoposide, cisPlatin. (The p is actually really because cisplatin has platinum.) You will have one shitty crazy week (he will not phrase it this way for you, but hey, I'd like to give you realistic expectations about this week) where you go to the hospital for roughly 5 hours a day to get pumped full of drugs; then you'll have two "off" weeks where you only go to the hospital on Mondays (you may think that on these Mondays the other meds will have worn off, but no, these weeks will also be pretty exhausting). Lather, rinse, repeat 3x, and your chemo treatment will be done. Sounds pretty easy and straightforward, hey?

When the BEP explanation ends, the doctor will look at you and ask, "Do you have any questions?"

...and you will ask the only question you can think of: "Yes, do I have cancer?"

At this, your doctor will pause, and say, "No one told you? Yes, yes you do." (This may make you regret saying, "I'm thankful I don't have cancer" at Thanksgiving. Don't worry, you'll laugh about this in the future.)

You, Dad, and the doctor will continue to talk a little as the doctor explains more details about the upcoming nine weeks. He'll share statistics that make it seem like a no-brainer for why you will definitely do chemo. Something along the lines of without chemo, the odds of the cancer coming back is 85%. That doesn't sound very good. He'll recommend you begin chemo in just over a week, and that time is of importance, so as much as a trip back to DC sounds great, you should put that on hold for now.

All of this sounds fine. 9 weeks. I can travel afterwards, and what was I going to do in cold Chicago for the next 9 weeks anyway?

Then, your dad will pause and tell the doctor: "She wants to know if her hair will fall out."

Get ready, despite the fact that you've read that some people don't lose all their hair during chemo, you're about to lose composure. Chemo? Sure. Hair loss? Nope. Not happening.

Doctor: "Yes. All of it."

...and the tears begin to fall. To be more specific, you will not just cry a little; this will be the kickstart of floods of tears. You should not have put mascara on today. Between this and the phone calls you will make later today, be glad you have no reason to see anyone today.

When Dad asks the doctor what he would do, if there are other treatment options, he will give you the answer you need not only to agree to chemo but to trust this doctor 100%: "I have a daughter, and if she were in the same position, she'd be starting chemo ASAP."

...and now the nurse will come in and give you all kinds of information about chemo, prepping for it, the appointments they'll be scheduling for you, and more. You will learn about the side effects of chemo (there are a LOT, and the fun ones include a higher risk for other types of cancer...). Remember to mention your extreme fear of needles--this will allow you to opt for a PICC line instead of a port which means you won't be dealing with needles every time you go into the hospital. As the nurse talks, you can begin mentally drafting your to-do list; that's totally normal.

Alright, so the doctor's appointment is over. Now, here's where I have to be honest, 19-year-old me, this is where things get fuzzy. I don't remember what happened in what order. As you're in the car, you will begin making phone calls. I'm not even sure who you called first. Was it Chris? That seems to be logical, but I don't remember how you told him. At some point in the next few hours (or maybe the next few days? I really have no concept of time here) the following things will happen:

• You'll go to Megan's house. She will immediately offer to shave her head with you.
• You'll make a to-do list with the items labeled "A" for Alex and "D" for Dad.
• Note: I'm still not sure this is a normal response to a cancer diagnosis, but hey, who am I to judge?
• Dad will be 100% convinced you're crazy when you explain to him that all of these things need to get done so you can be ready for chemo.
• You'll text your friends and family to ask them to call you when they are free. The first several times you say, "I have cancer," you'll cry. A lot. You may even pass the phone to Dad since you can't get the words out, but that's okay.
• Some friends will be very busy and ask that you explain what's going on via text. Despite your better judgment you will text the words, "I have cancer," once you've exhausted your attempts to get them in person on the phone.
• You will email your friends overseas and wake up in the middle of the night to talk to them. ...or maybe it's the middle of the night for them. Talking to Bobbie, Liz, and Becca will be slightly heart-breaking, but you'll also be so very grateful for them.
• You will try to go shopping at Nordstrom. Retail therapy. 
• New UGGs and Juicy sweatsuits=perfect options for the hospital. Your venture into the hat section? Too soon. 
• Dad's willingness to throw down his Nordstrom card without hesitation will tell you two things: 1. You have a wonderful father, and 2. This may be retail therapy for him, too.
• The phone will ring. ...and ring. ...and ring. Calls from the pharmacy (clearly noted on the to do list and labeled with a d? Go pick up Alex's 1400 new prescriptions), calls from family and friends, calls from nurses, and more calls from the pharmacy and doctor's office. Each time the caller ID says, "Evanston NW Hospital," you dread picking up. Eventually, you begin passing the phone to Dad.

...and that's where I'll stop today.

♥a