Like a Phoenix I Rise

The Egyptians called it Bennu; the Native Americans, the Thunderbird; the Russians, the Firebird; the Chinese, Feng Huang. The phoenix is associated with eternal life, destruction, creation and new beginnings. The phoenix mythos has been incorporated in many religions, not just in Greek Mythology. Even Christianity uses it as an analogy for Christ’s Death and Resurrection. In fact, its symbol could be found on early Christian tombstones.

Many societies continue to be obsessed with longevity and immortality or how to cheat death. I suppose that’s why the phoenix remains a symbol for the ages. History continues to repeat itself when wars devastate a population, and from the ashes, a new nation is reborn. We continue to play out this death and rebirth symbolically in everyday life, relying on our steadfast nature to survive even in the harshest of times.

For me, the phoenix represents something much more significant and personal as I’ve lived a warrior’s life, not a hero’s journey. I’m challenged every day to fight the good fight against those who would wish me harm. The battles at times have come from those closest to me; other times, it has been the outside forces beyond my control, like when I had a routine mammogram. I received a call from the doctor’s office asking me to come in for another test. The initial results they claimed were “inconclusive,” so I needed a follow up x-ray from a different angle. I recall trying to drive the speed limit to the hospital, hoping that whatever mass they found was just a calcium build up.

It was a very scary time for me, almost unbearable. I worried for two full days, wondering if I had breast cancer or not. I would lay in my bed at night, staring up at the ceiling with the covers pulled up to my chin, unable to sleep, mumbling to myself all the what if scenarios. I would purposely drink two cups of coffee to avoid falling asleep, afraid that my dreams would have the potential to manifest into some darker reality of chemo, radiation therapy or worse, a breast mastectomy. Precisely after I received the results of the second test that everything was okay, I went to my favorite tattoo artist to symbolically mark this moment in my life as I had done for many other experiences that I wanted to capture permanently. Nowadays, every time I look at the tattoo on my back of the mythical bird with colorful feathers of oranges and reds, shimmering in radiance like fire when the light catches it, the flames extending outward, I’m reminded of that April 22^nd, 2007, day of relief.

It’s human nature to re-examine your life after having a health scare. I know that moment when I felt the tattoo instrument do its magic, the needles leaving their calling card, all I thought about were the good and bad decisions I’ve made through the years, the things I’ve achieved so far, the mistakes I made and the stuff I have yet to do. It’s quite a humbling experience during the uncertainty of the unknown while you play life’s waiting game.

I’m reminded of the many blessings that have occurred after something tragic tried to cut me down yet again, like when I was in the hospital three years ago. I couldn’t do the most basic of things, barely able to breathe. I recall trying to walk to my car or taking out the garbage. Every step I took felt like I was a fish out of water, struggling to inhale and exhale and at times, feeling dizzy, stumbling, unable to finish the task at hand. Even going to work downtown felt like an eternity to get to Wacker and Randolph from Union Station. It was the middle of winter on a blustery day, and I would have to stop at each cross walk to catch my breath before the next block. I feared the worse because my father had died at 58 of congestive heart failure, and here I was at 50, going through the same symptoms that he had experienced.

I hoped it would be something simple like pneumonia, as I also had a horrible hacking cough. The next day, I called in sick to work and went straight to the hospital. They took a blood test, and it revealed my hemoglobin was dangerously low due to a bleeding ulcer. I was anemic. Hemoglobin helps regulate and produce oxygen which is why I couldn’t breathe. Reality hit hard when the nurse said I’d have to stay in the hospital. It was three long days. I received a blood transfusion: three pints. Unlike my father, I was lucky they caught things in time. I was released from the hospital on the fourth day, but it took six weeks before the outlines of the tape marks where the IVs were inserted disappeared, a reminder of the ordeal, but I was alive. 

I still have vivid memories of the horrible and angry fights I had with my mom for my choices and the emotional scars that were left behind, like phantoms. Even now when I visit her, she reminds me of those choices, whether it had to do with my weight, short hair, or living my life proudly as a gay woman. The yelling and screaming back and forth about what path she expected me to follow that would have been easier versus what I chose to pursue. I remember an overwhelming helpless feeling of not being able to quiet her unrest, taking her insults as punishment for crimes against nature for being different.

I can remember when she threatened to pack my bags outside the front door on the stoop where we used to sit and enjoy the beautiful weather and catch a little sun while watching the cars drive by. I couldn’t help but wonder about this thing called unconditional love I felt I deserved but wasn’t forthcoming. And needing to believe that my parents were right, just and true, but unable to reconcile the inconsistencies with my own individuality at such a crucial time in my development. An unsettling moment of pure terror, realizing that I could be forced to move out, wondering if the 9 to 5 job I had would be enough to cover my bills.

Despite it all, I have lived my life openly as a gay woman, giving up my family’s support to protect an unwavering choice to pursue a different path. I have survived -- unemployment, sleeping on friends’ couches, renting basements -- all to avoid my family’s predestined plan for me to live a life of wifely duties, motherhood and children. Against all odds, I have continued to flourish, just like that mythical phoenix who rises from the ashes again and again. I’m not alone in this struggle anymore, though. I’m part of a greater community now and have chosen a new family. They are like foot soldiers who scout ahead to see what’s on the horizon and report back to me so that I can prepare for what lies ahead. Their continued support gives me great comfort, helping me overcome any fears I may still have about the big bad world.

I’m still uneasy when things seem too perfect though, waiting for that proverbial other shoe to drop. The demons of the past continue to haunt me in the present as I navigate future relationships, hesitant about giving my heart or trusting others once again, but it’s getting easier. And I will keep trying to find that connection so that I can live freely without name calling or judgment and eventually find love.  Despite all the tragedies I’ve endured, I continue to rise in triumph like that magical phoenix, the one nicely etched in the middle of my back.

Update on Saturday, July 21, 2018 at 08:12AM by Lisa Lacriola aka T.Langdon Squire

First Published in Mosaic Anthology Issue XII, 2017

2017's recipient of the Natalie Kaye Manbeck honor