Sunday, May 23, 2010

CANCER SUCKS pink ribbons

CANCER SUCKS

that's a button slogan, used by the advocacy group Breast Cancer Action.
Some members of that group adamantly disagree with the belief that if you "...put a pink face on it...we'll all be great."


I can relate.

I've been on both sides: wearing the positive afterglow of the pink ribbon alongside the stomach-wrenching pull of cancer's suck.

For the record, I would have preferred to remain, like Switzerland,
NEUTRAL.
But since I've already crossed those borders and am preparing for LEG THREE of this race, here is the Yin & Yang of my cancer journey thus far:

Yin - 25+ rounds of daily radiation treatments ahead/Yang - 16 rounds of chemo behind me;
Yin - increased risk of blood clots/Yang - five years of Aromatase Inhibitors, daily;
Yin - monthly stomach injections that allow me to take a cancer-fighting drug/Yang - alternative hormone therapy decreasing the chance that my ER+, PR+ breast cancer will recur;
Yin - sacrifice my ovaries/Yang - significantly reduce my chances of ovarian cancer.

Why write about the "downside" of cancer, when it's a given?

Because this blog is intended for the woman who might be traveling along a similar path,
but who has reached a poin where she stops and wonders:
Is there something wrong with me?

Be assured.
There is nothing wrong with you.

Cancer sucks.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Perspective

"If I can just help one person, then it is all worth it."

How many times have you heard someone make that claim?

If you're like me, you may have questioned, not the sincerity of those making the statement, but the reality of the words: it is all worth it.
REALLY?

As I prepared for my 16th and final round of chemo,
I have spent the last few days, looking back -
rereading old blogs and reflecting on your comments;
scanning the photo diary on my I-phone; and
recalling how very different this journey looked, just five months ago.

Have I helped someone, inspired a friend, encouraged a stranger?
I sure hope so.


Since my diagnosis in October, four young women have contacted me, regarding their own diagnosis of breast cancer. Two of the women were strangers prior to this month. Now we are sisters, part of a sorority that doesn't judge or vote.

Funny thing about adversity of any kind,
if you're willing, you will find multiple opportunities to help others.

If you look around, you will see people, who need exactly what you have to offer.
There are instances,
where the only path to sharing an experience,
begins by first, living that experience.

So to answer the question on my mind this morning, as I steady my nerves before the chemo nurse sticks that needle into my port for the last time:
Is it worth it?



Hell Yeah!



Monday, May 17, 2010

Meet Ms. Preakness Pink Warrior

The Preakness has come and gone.

Many of you supported my efforts to become this year's Ms. Preakness Pink Warrior.
Thank you for voting for my essay.
Super Saver didn't win his race, and neither did I.

Another survivor was awarded this year's crown.
Her name is Charelle Barnes, and I'd like to tell you about her.

Charelle was first diagnosed with cancer the same year my sister received her initial diagnosis of breast cancer. That was sixteen years ago.
I'm sure that Charelle, like my sister, never expected that her cancer would return.
Both women were wrong.
In 1995, Charelle's doctor found a lump in her breast.
Following treatment, Charelle's cancer returned in 1996; she has been fighting to live ever since.

My sister's cancer returned in 2003, 2004, twice in 2007, and most recently in 2009 - the same year I was diagnosed. She too, continues her fight as she undergoes chemotherapy.

At age 36, Charelle currently has Stage IV metastatic breast cancer in her lung, bones and brain. Instead of succumbing to the disease, she continues to fight, to dream, to win.

I have never met Charelle Barnes, but I am inspired by her warrior spirit.

Friday, May 14, 2010

R.I.P. Miss Lenora

"Linda, have you seen Lenora?" I asked. "I haven't seen her in a while."
Linda was my very cheerful chemo nurse. She smiled; she usually smiles.
"Oh, you heard? Her daughter called Tuesday to tell us that she died."

Her words poured over me.
I'd met Lenora, shortly after starting the Taxol part of treatment.
(see 13 March blog)
I never met her daughter.
Since our initial encounter, Lenora and I would briefly chat about treatment, Jesus and fashion.
Funny thing about women: we can bond over a hat just as easily as we can over cancer.

"And she looked so good," Linda commented, while checking my IV pump.
I thought so too.
I knew Lenora's battle with pancreatic cancer would be harder than mine.
But I considered it too cliche' to be a patient who learns of another chemo patient passing away, while undergoing treatment.

Instead, I chose to play the DON'T ASK; DON'T TELL game.
I knew Lenora's schedule, and I should have seen her every two weeks. I chose not to ask
....until today.

"Yeah, we've lost a lot of good people over the last couple of months," Linda said, still smiling, but less cheerful. "At least we know they aren't suffering anymore."
Here we go with the cliche's again.
I said something about being sorry that Lenora had died and wondered if I would cry.
I didn't.

Instead I chose to pray for her family and loved ones who needed comforting.
And I prayed for those left behind to fight on.
Rest in Peace Lenora.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

My Belief

About two weeks ago,
I lost a gold earring.
It wasn't big or very expensive,
but the earring cradled the memory of my maternal grandmother, who had presented it as birthday present when I was a teenager.
Momo departed this life, 25 years ago.
With time, her reflection has settled somewhere in the recesses of my mind,
placed on one of life's shelves,
accessible from the back of the closet,
instead of from the front.

But each time I reached for that pair of gold hoops, I'd recall her hands, pale but strong; wisps of hair, cottony-soft; and the look in her eyes: a pool of love, warming me from the inside out.
A single year has not passed that I have not missed her.

Two weeks ago,
I was rushed and careless.
I didn't properly fasten one of the earrings before hurrying the boys out the door.
We were late for the bus that day; we have been late many times since my diagnosis.

When a neighbor noticed that one of my earrings was missing, she helped me look for it.
Later that morning, I searched again, inside and out.
I could not find my earring.

Ironically, I'd been learning about believing God, and the difference between faith and belief.
One day after my earring went missing, I witnessed Noah believe that God could make a bunch of dead weeds grow again.
I had faith,
now I wanted Noah's belief.
I prayed,"Lord help my unbelief." And in my mind, I could "see" my earring,
laying outside,
in the grass,
along the sidewalk near my house.
Most mornings or afternoons, I'd walk to and from the bus stop, looking down.
Other days, I forgot to look.
I never forgot to believe.

This morning, after posting my FB status about renewal and promises, I headed to the bus stop with the boys.
I wasn't wearing earrings, just a baseball cap.
We weren't rushed.
The kids boarded the bus and left.
I stood, chatting with neighbors, wearing the same GAP sweatshirt I wore the morning I lost my earring.

Here's where I'm supposed to tell you
that I found my earring,
laying in the grass,
along the sidewalk,
near my house.


Leaving the bus stop, I casually glanced down at my foot and saw it:
the earring my Momo had given me nearly 30 years earlier.


Two weeks ago,
I lost it.

Today I found it:
My Belief


Wednesday, May 5, 2010

The Great Pretender

For the past two days,
I've been walking around
pretending that I don't have chemo on Fridays.

It was actually my friend, Claire who put the idea in my head.
"You know, your hair looks really good like that. People could never tell from looking at you, that you're undergoing chemo. I think you should leave it (your hair) that way."

Driving back to Columbia, I replayed Claire's words.
Could I?

I put the theory to the test when I dropped Christopher at fencing lessons later that evening.
"Hey! You got a haircut," Gabrielle remarked, "a real haircut!"
I responded, "Yeah, thought I would try something new."
And just like that, I'd pulled it off. (Pun intended)

Pretending again today,
I headed for a meeting on base.
By the end of the afternoon, I'd received a half-dozen comments, like:
"I love your hair"; "I used-to have that haircut"; and "I like that."
What a difference a three weeks make. (Going Commando, blogged 19 April).

All of this just proves:
Chemo is no match
for a confident woman,
wrapped in a bit of swagger,
rocking a SUPER cut.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Every Three Minutes

According to organizers of the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer,
"A woman is diagnosed with breast cancer every three minutes."

That means that 48 hours from the time my Facebook friend "D"
asked her friends to support my efforts to become Ms. Preakness Pink Warrior -
until the voting ended today -
960 women learned that they have breast cancer.

Sadly, one of D's friends is among them.

I don't know much about HER or HER breast cancer,
but I know that if she's willing to fight hard,
she's a PINK WARRIOR too.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Pink Warrior

I am,
You know
...a Pink Warrior, a survivor.

To prove it,
I have entered an essay contest to be named "Ms. Preakness Pink Warrior" 2010.
This is no beauty contest. For the first time, Ms. Preakness will honor those who have survived or who are fighting breast cancer. Winners are selected on the strength of their essays. Since my blog has been such a uplifting outlet, I have decided to use it as the starting point for my essay. Because of all of you, I have inspiration.

If you have time,
between now and Monday, May 3rd,
I would appreciate your vote for my essay.
The winner, will be chosen in part through an on-line, interactive process.
After the voting, the rest is left up to a panel of judges.

To vote, please go to www.preakness.com. On the home page, you will find a pink ribbon and the Susan G. Komen name. Click there and look for the Ms. Preakness Pink Warrior; click to find the collection of submitted essays.
My essay is #10.

I hope to update you of my status,
Warrior-style.