I realize that I'm terrible at blogging. The good news is, blogging less means nothing exciting is going on and I am totally fine with that. Forever.
We left off with the end of radiation. It's been a month and a half now and that ugly radiation burn is fading to what looks like a permanent tan. I've continued going every three weeks to get my Herceptin infusions. I'm very optimistic about this drug and what it can do for me but I can't wait for the day that I don't have to go to the infusion room and sit there like I did during chemotherapy.
The newest development in my treatment plan is that I have started to get shots in my stomach of a drug called Zoladex which shuts down my ovaries and puts my hormone levels equal to that of a woman in menopause. The reason I started this is because while chemo does induce menopause, my ovaries "woke back up". This means that chemotherapy did not permanently harm my ovaries and if a cure were to be found, I could try to have another baby. The bad news is that with ovarian function comes an increase of estrogen which fueled my cancer. Yes, I have been taking Tamoxifen which should block the estrogen receptors on cancer cells from getting estrogen but I still wasn't comfortable with having that much circulating estrogen in my system. So I went to my oncologist and requested that I have ovarian suppression started, which she agreed to. There is currently a study going on called the SOFT trial. It looks at Tamoxifen alone, Tamoxifen and ovarian suppression, or an Aromatase Inhibitor and ovarian suppression and is trying to figure out which arm is the most successful at reducing recurrence. The data was supposed to be presented at the end of 2013 but the study has had fewer recurrences across the board than anticipated so the verdict is still out. This is fantastic news that seems to be pointing to more successful chemotherapy treatments. So if the data ends up coming out that ovarian suppression is no better than Tamoxifen alone, I can always stop getting the shots. In the meantime, hopefully it won't hurt. So far the only side effects I have are hot flashes galore. I'm having one as I type. If I even think of having one, it happens. It's ok though, I will hot flash all day long if it means that any remaining cancer cells (which hopefully don't exist) are shriveling up and dying of thirst.
In December I had a very uplifting appointment with my oncologist. When I met with her in December I told her about my commitment to exercise and diet to try to reduce my recurrence risk as much as I can. I asked her if there was any specific food she would recommend I eat or not eat, any specific supplements I should take or not take. She recommended that I completely cut out red meat or keep it to once a week, which is not a problem for me as I rarely eat it. She then said "And I would recommend not spending too much time worrying that the cancer will return. All of the time, patients do better than expected. We will power studies to show a high recurrence rate and it just doesn't happen." She then went on to say that my microscopic lymph node involvement is not very different from being lymph node negative and she felt optimistic about that. This was great to hear and really helped change my outlook and reduce some fear. Obviously recurrence is always possible, even in people with small tumors and negative lymph nodes, but there are plenty of people out there with poor prognostic factors who never recur. Everyday I'm trying to live without fear and have that hopeful optimism that I had before my cancer diagnosis.
I am back to work now and it has been a challenge to return to normal life. I have missed a lot of developments over the 10 months I've been on leave, so I've been training from home for the past few weeks. To be honest, I'm very nervous to get back out in front of customers. I feel like a new hire, unsure of myself and rusty. I'm also afraid to see everyone in the doctors offices who know what happened and will ask questions and those who don't know what happened, and will wonder why I have such a ridiculous hair style. I obviously have no problem talking about my story, but I just know I'll be reliving it frequently and probably get some looks of pity as well, and that is something I do have a problem with.
In hair news, it's certainly growing but it's certainly unruly. Tomorrow I have my first hair appointment with Morgan since she buzzed my hair in May. I am hoping she is able to do something to make it look like a more professional, more intentional hair style. Without taking too much off since I obviously want it to grow. Poor girl has her work cut out for her!
I'll post a picture of the finished product tomorrow. Who are we kidding, no I won't, I'm a terrible blogger.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
A Baby Story
In the minutes and days after Harper's birth, I told anyone who would listen that she was going to be an only child. My water broke late on a Tuesday night and she was born early on a Thursday morning. The time in between those events was painful and the act of pushing her out of my body lasted a grueling 2 hours. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. Even as they wheeled me out to the car with my perfect new baby in the car seat carrier, they asked "will we see you back here in a few years?" "Hell no!!" was my answer.
In typical fashion of my life, Harper's birth was anything but ordinary. I was induced right at 40 weeks, as they had discovered that my amniotic fluid was low and my blood pressure high. I was not at all effaced or dilated and it appeared that Harper was content to stay put. I went into Harrisburg Hospital in the evening of Tuesday, December 13th. There they administered a gel to my cervix to ripen it. They assured me that this probably would not work and that I would need to come back in the morning for more gel, followed by Pitocin to induce labor. Eric and I left and went to Jo Jo's pizza for what we would soon find out would be our last meal as a family unit of two.
I went to bed and woke up at 11:45 to a gush of fluid when I turned over. My water had broke. I remember being so excited that I got to experience water breaking like I always saw in the movies since many women do not have their water break spontaneously. We left for the hospital around 3 am and settled in for an unproductive 10 hours of no progression in my labor. Finally at 1pm they started the Pitocin and by 5pm I was in agony and chanting in tongues. I knew there was a way out--the celebrated epidural. The thing is, I took a birthing class and they teach you how to power through this pain without medicine. My back labor was terrible though, surely I was 8 cm now and gave it my best effort. The nurse checks my progress. 1 cm. It had been 5 hours of Pitocin on full blast and I was only 1 cm? And here I was, ready to ask for the drugs at 1 cm dilated. I was weak!
I go through with the epidural and it only works on half of me. I have no idea why but half of my back still feels every contraction. I suffer more and then somehow I manage to drift off. I wake up to the tell tale feeling of needing to push and the nurse checks me. I'm 10 centimeters. It's close to 1 am and show time. The nurse tells me to start pushing and I say wait a minute, where is the midwife? She tells me we push until right before the baby is ready to come out, and then my midwife will come in and deliver the baby. This horrifies me but I start pushing. And pushing. And pushing. For 2 hours I do the most physically demanding thing I've ever done and I feel like I'm going to throw up with every push. Finally the nurse comments on how much hair the baby has and says she's going to get the midwife leaving Eric and I alone in the room. I'm so afraid this baby is going to come out without a medical professional in the room. The nurse returns with my midwife, an awesome woman who delivered most of our friend's babies and 4 babies earlier in her shift. She sits down on the edge of the bed and says "let's have a baby!" I continue pushing, aware of everything since my epidural is only half doing its job. I'm in the zone and then I hear "Get a doctor, I need a doctor!" I'm jolted out of my baby birthing trance and filled with fear, what was wrong with my baby? Again she says "Somebody get a doctor, I'm going to pass out." My eyes fly open and there I see, on the edge of the bed, my midwife slumped over unconscious. What the hell did I have going on down there that made her pass out?! The nurse hits a button and every nurse on the floor comes running! They wave smelling salts under her nose and she comes to. They put her in a wheel chair but she insists she's ok, that she can deliver this baby. They tell her no and take her to the emergency room. The nurses turn to me and tell me to relax and not push while I scream at them to get a doctor in the room. They assure me that a doctor will be here soon. I apologize and tell them that I'm sorry, but I can't not push. A contraction comes and so does my perfect, drama queen daughter, on to the edge of the bed, with no one to catch her.
My midwife never found out what happened that caused her to pass out, and it had never happened before or since. I don't blame her for anything. Do I wish a doctor had been readily available to take over? Of course. But in the end, Harper was fine, I was fine, and we certainly would never forget that night.
But like all new moms, I somehow forgot the pain of childbirth within a few weeks time, and declared I was having another baby, maybe a few. I loved being a mom, I loved breast feeding, and I had loved pregnancy. I couldn't wait to do it again.
Two weeks ago I went to my first OBGYN appointment since the day I went in there with a lump in my breast. I closed myself in the bathroom and cried because the waiting room made me think of being pregnant with Harper, the signs promoting breast feeding on the wall made me nostalgic for a time when I felt my body was doing what it was made to do. If cancer had never happened, I would have been trying to get pregnant right now or perhaps I would already be pregnant. I might be coming in for my 12 week appointment, eager to hear my baby's heart beat and make guesses at the gender. Instead I sat in the exam room and spoke with my doctor about oopherectomies and hysterectomies and hormone tests to check that the hormones that make me a woman, were suppressed. I was never going to have another baby again and there was a possibility that in due time, every body part that made me able to grow and then nurture a child would be removed.
Growing up, all I wanted was a daughter. I always pictured myself having one child who was a girl but I assumed that it was because that is what my family unit looked like growing up and I couldn't picture what I didn't know. It turns out that our family will be what I always imagined. I can't even begin to think about what my life would be like without Harper and every day I am glad that I didn't find my tumor any earlier if it would have meant not having her. I am more thankful for Harper than I could ever put into words and know that I am beyond blessed with this little person who has such intelligence, personality, and spunk. But I'm still angry that cancer is taking away my ability to make another wonderful child.
My Harpy turns 2 years old in less than 2 weeks and I can't believe how much joy can fit into two years. Here is my miracle and biggest blessing:
In typical fashion of my life, Harper's birth was anything but ordinary. I was induced right at 40 weeks, as they had discovered that my amniotic fluid was low and my blood pressure high. I was not at all effaced or dilated and it appeared that Harper was content to stay put. I went into Harrisburg Hospital in the evening of Tuesday, December 13th. There they administered a gel to my cervix to ripen it. They assured me that this probably would not work and that I would need to come back in the morning for more gel, followed by Pitocin to induce labor. Eric and I left and went to Jo Jo's pizza for what we would soon find out would be our last meal as a family unit of two.
I went to bed and woke up at 11:45 to a gush of fluid when I turned over. My water had broke. I remember being so excited that I got to experience water breaking like I always saw in the movies since many women do not have their water break spontaneously. We left for the hospital around 3 am and settled in for an unproductive 10 hours of no progression in my labor. Finally at 1pm they started the Pitocin and by 5pm I was in agony and chanting in tongues. I knew there was a way out--the celebrated epidural. The thing is, I took a birthing class and they teach you how to power through this pain without medicine. My back labor was terrible though, surely I was 8 cm now and gave it my best effort. The nurse checks my progress. 1 cm. It had been 5 hours of Pitocin on full blast and I was only 1 cm? And here I was, ready to ask for the drugs at 1 cm dilated. I was weak!
I go through with the epidural and it only works on half of me. I have no idea why but half of my back still feels every contraction. I suffer more and then somehow I manage to drift off. I wake up to the tell tale feeling of needing to push and the nurse checks me. I'm 10 centimeters. It's close to 1 am and show time. The nurse tells me to start pushing and I say wait a minute, where is the midwife? She tells me we push until right before the baby is ready to come out, and then my midwife will come in and deliver the baby. This horrifies me but I start pushing. And pushing. And pushing. For 2 hours I do the most physically demanding thing I've ever done and I feel like I'm going to throw up with every push. Finally the nurse comments on how much hair the baby has and says she's going to get the midwife leaving Eric and I alone in the room. I'm so afraid this baby is going to come out without a medical professional in the room. The nurse returns with my midwife, an awesome woman who delivered most of our friend's babies and 4 babies earlier in her shift. She sits down on the edge of the bed and says "let's have a baby!" I continue pushing, aware of everything since my epidural is only half doing its job. I'm in the zone and then I hear "Get a doctor, I need a doctor!" I'm jolted out of my baby birthing trance and filled with fear, what was wrong with my baby? Again she says "Somebody get a doctor, I'm going to pass out." My eyes fly open and there I see, on the edge of the bed, my midwife slumped over unconscious. What the hell did I have going on down there that made her pass out?! The nurse hits a button and every nurse on the floor comes running! They wave smelling salts under her nose and she comes to. They put her in a wheel chair but she insists she's ok, that she can deliver this baby. They tell her no and take her to the emergency room. The nurses turn to me and tell me to relax and not push while I scream at them to get a doctor in the room. They assure me that a doctor will be here soon. I apologize and tell them that I'm sorry, but I can't not push. A contraction comes and so does my perfect, drama queen daughter, on to the edge of the bed, with no one to catch her.
My midwife never found out what happened that caused her to pass out, and it had never happened before or since. I don't blame her for anything. Do I wish a doctor had been readily available to take over? Of course. But in the end, Harper was fine, I was fine, and we certainly would never forget that night.
But like all new moms, I somehow forgot the pain of childbirth within a few weeks time, and declared I was having another baby, maybe a few. I loved being a mom, I loved breast feeding, and I had loved pregnancy. I couldn't wait to do it again.
Two weeks ago I went to my first OBGYN appointment since the day I went in there with a lump in my breast. I closed myself in the bathroom and cried because the waiting room made me think of being pregnant with Harper, the signs promoting breast feeding on the wall made me nostalgic for a time when I felt my body was doing what it was made to do. If cancer had never happened, I would have been trying to get pregnant right now or perhaps I would already be pregnant. I might be coming in for my 12 week appointment, eager to hear my baby's heart beat and make guesses at the gender. Instead I sat in the exam room and spoke with my doctor about oopherectomies and hysterectomies and hormone tests to check that the hormones that make me a woman, were suppressed. I was never going to have another baby again and there was a possibility that in due time, every body part that made me able to grow and then nurture a child would be removed.
Growing up, all I wanted was a daughter. I always pictured myself having one child who was a girl but I assumed that it was because that is what my family unit looked like growing up and I couldn't picture what I didn't know. It turns out that our family will be what I always imagined. I can't even begin to think about what my life would be like without Harper and every day I am glad that I didn't find my tumor any earlier if it would have meant not having her. I am more thankful for Harper than I could ever put into words and know that I am beyond blessed with this little person who has such intelligence, personality, and spunk. But I'm still angry that cancer is taking away my ability to make another wonderful child.
My Harpy turns 2 years old in less than 2 weeks and I can't believe how much joy can fit into two years. Here is my miracle and biggest blessing:
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Life on the Radiation Table
They really do try to make radiation as pleasant of an experience as it can be. The ceiling of the room is covered in stickers of planets and some of the ceiling panels have been replaced with a blue glowing constellation. The technicians are kind and personable. The whole experience, even as your skin is getting more and more burnt, is nice.
The radiation machine looks like one of those microscopic sea creatures. I had to google it to figure out what specific creature I meant and have decided that it looks like a Water Bear. I try to keep my eyes closed for the majority of the treatment since I have this irrational fear that if I open my eyes, all of the radiation in the room will burn them out of my head. On the occasion that I absolutely must sneak a peak, the face of that radiation water bear is right in my face, and if you look beyond the black tinted window, there are things that look like teeth. They open and close in order to take X-rays, shoot radiation beams, eat my flesh, I don't really know.
A water bear:
See?
I pride myself on knowing a lot about my disease and treatment but radiation is the one area I have not read up on. Frankly because it scares me. We spend our whole lives trying to avoid radiation: don't swim in the water by Three Mile Island, cover your body with metal blankets for dental X-rays, don't put your head in the microwave. After being told to avoid it your whole life, its strange to be strapped down to the table, just laying there and taking it, intentionally.
I'm in my last week of radiation therapy. Each evening my chest is bright red and it fades a little bit by morning. It is starting to get really sore on my side, the area of the lower axilla they are radiating because of the positive lymph node.
But as in all hardships, this too shall soon end. I can't believe I am a few days away from the end of my standard treatment. It's been a long 9 months and at the same time it's flown by. Because I've been blessed to be in the Herceptin arm of a clinical study I will continue to go to the infusion center every 3 weeks until the end of June. I will also keep popping my Tamoxifen each day, running 4 times per week, juicing, drinking the green tea, trying to lose this damn chemo weight, and of course lots of praying. It comforts me that there are things I can still do after treatment ends to make me feel like I'm continuing to kick cancer's ass.
The radiation machine looks like one of those microscopic sea creatures. I had to google it to figure out what specific creature I meant and have decided that it looks like a Water Bear. I try to keep my eyes closed for the majority of the treatment since I have this irrational fear that if I open my eyes, all of the radiation in the room will burn them out of my head. On the occasion that I absolutely must sneak a peak, the face of that radiation water bear is right in my face, and if you look beyond the black tinted window, there are things that look like teeth. They open and close in order to take X-rays, shoot radiation beams, eat my flesh, I don't really know.
A water bear:
I pride myself on knowing a lot about my disease and treatment but radiation is the one area I have not read up on. Frankly because it scares me. We spend our whole lives trying to avoid radiation: don't swim in the water by Three Mile Island, cover your body with metal blankets for dental X-rays, don't put your head in the microwave. After being told to avoid it your whole life, its strange to be strapped down to the table, just laying there and taking it, intentionally.
I'm in my last week of radiation therapy. Each evening my chest is bright red and it fades a little bit by morning. It is starting to get really sore on my side, the area of the lower axilla they are radiating because of the positive lymph node.
But as in all hardships, this too shall soon end. I can't believe I am a few days away from the end of my standard treatment. It's been a long 9 months and at the same time it's flown by. Because I've been blessed to be in the Herceptin arm of a clinical study I will continue to go to the infusion center every 3 weeks until the end of June. I will also keep popping my Tamoxifen each day, running 4 times per week, juicing, drinking the green tea, trying to lose this damn chemo weight, and of course lots of praying. It comforts me that there are things I can still do after treatment ends to make me feel like I'm continuing to kick cancer's ass.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
He Listens
I arrived at the medical center before 8 am for my radiation practice run. Medical students shuffled across the parking lot from the student housing, sharply dressed sales people wheeled cases of samples through the doors, and the female valet parked cars. I couldn't help but think that I should be any one of them instead of myself, preparing for 6 weeks of another potentially harmful treatment that while it may help rid my body of cancer cells, is not without damage to other currently healthy organs. I wore a pink ribbon baseball hat over my short hair and was in the cancer institute, so there was no mistaking my affliction. Many people that passed me said hi, the others stared a beat too long. I knew they were all thinking the same thing, that poor girl, she's so young. For some reason, this doesn't bother me as much as it did while I was going through chemotherapy. Maybe it's because I know that I'm about to reemerge as a new person, a hopefully cancer free person, who once again, looks healthy to the naked eye.
I will spare the details of the radiation simulation because they are boring. It was a bunch of laying, exposed breast pointing at the ceiling, techs calling out numbers, and X-rays being taken. A red marker draws a rather large outline of the radiation field and I am on my way, and told to return tomorrow for treatment # 1.
I went upstairs and found myself following my nose towards the Starbucks, and my heart, towards the chapel. I spent a lot of time in that chapel last summer, on my knees begging for my dad to get well. I wrote my prayer requests in the book specific to that days needs-end the fever, regain kidney function, wean the ventilator. On this day, I read over the prayer requests and felt the pain of every person who put that pen to paper. This time, I added one for myself. Afterwards I entered the worship area and took to my knees in the familiar spot. I asked God to give me strength to get through this next part of the battle with as much ease as He's allowed me so far. I prayed that I would be cancer free for the rest of my life, or at least long enough to meet my grandchild and dance at Harper's wedding. I asked that I be used for a purpose.
I felt moved to open the book of Psalms laying in front of me and read the first thing my eyes focused on. What do you know? The Lord may not have given me any answers yet, but He proved that He was listening. I read:
Jesus answered and said to him "What I am doing you do not understand now, but you will know after this."
I will spare the details of the radiation simulation because they are boring. It was a bunch of laying, exposed breast pointing at the ceiling, techs calling out numbers, and X-rays being taken. A red marker draws a rather large outline of the radiation field and I am on my way, and told to return tomorrow for treatment # 1.
I went upstairs and found myself following my nose towards the Starbucks, and my heart, towards the chapel. I spent a lot of time in that chapel last summer, on my knees begging for my dad to get well. I wrote my prayer requests in the book specific to that days needs-end the fever, regain kidney function, wean the ventilator. On this day, I read over the prayer requests and felt the pain of every person who put that pen to paper. This time, I added one for myself. Afterwards I entered the worship area and took to my knees in the familiar spot. I asked God to give me strength to get through this next part of the battle with as much ease as He's allowed me so far. I prayed that I would be cancer free for the rest of my life, or at least long enough to meet my grandchild and dance at Harper's wedding. I asked that I be used for a purpose.
I felt moved to open the book of Psalms laying in front of me and read the first thing my eyes focused on. What do you know? The Lord may not have given me any answers yet, but He proved that He was listening. I read:
Jesus answered and said to him "What I am doing you do not understand now, but you will know after this."
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Found: Lost Thing
It's easy to say that life has been a nightmare since I was diagnosed on February 15th of this year. But if I really stop and think about it, I find that some of the best moments of my life have happened in the last 8 months since cancer rocked my world. Some of them even happened because of cancer.
A few weeks ago there was a post by the Young Survival Coalition-Northeast Region on Facebook. They were requesting a young survivor to speak to a girl's athletic team at Cumberland Valley High School in Mechancisburg, PA. Was this for real? They needed someone to talk to some female athletes at MY high school? As soon as I read it, I knew it was the soccer team, the same team I played on 16 years ago. I felt chills at how this opportunity felt perfect and like fate.
On Friday night I had my opportunity to speak to the JV and Varsity soccer girls from CV and Carlisle for the kick off of their annual Breast Cancer Awareness Game that benefits the Young Survival Coalition. They briefed me that no detail was off limits and the girls were not afraid to ask questions. I began by telling story from diagnosis through treatment and then opened it up to questions. The questions went on for about 40 minutes. These girls were phenomenal! They asked so many questions, like how do you know what a lump feels like, what foods were good for reducing breast cancer risk, how has my faith changed since diagnosis, when should they start getting screened for breast cancer, and questions about my wigs, my surgery and my reconstruction. I had the time of my life! I took my wig off for them and showed them my fuzzy head and how easy it was to put the wig on, which amazed them. Afterwards, a group of these fabulous girls surrounded me and asked some more questions and they got to meet Harper. I got a couple babysitting offers too! Michelle, who was in charge of the event presented me with a Alex and Ani Young & Strong bracelet that I absolutely adore. I can't believe they were thanking me for being there when it was completely my pleasure and an honor. There was something so energizing and healing in speaking about the last year. In the time that I was up there I got to educate, make jokes, laugh, bare my bald head, and yes, even cry a little. It was therapy that was benefiting not only myself but all those girls. The night couldn't have been more perfect for me and I hope that in some way, I helped those girls and have made enough of an impact so that they do their self exams each month.
When I first got up to the podium, I was nervous. I freaking hate speaking in public. I'm a drug rep and I speak to groups of people all the time about my medicines and disease states. Those people, the doctors, are much smarter than me and I hope that I make it through the conversation without them asking me something that I don't know so that I don't lose any credibility. I hope that I make it out of the conversation without screwing up and looking like an idiot. But I couldn't mess this up. It was my story and nobody knows my story better than I do. Nobody knows what my experience with cancer has been like better than me, and I couldn't answer a question about myself incorrectly. The longer I stayed up at the podium, the shaky voice subsided and I felt more comfortable and I never wanted to leave. I realized that this is what I want to do. I want to share my story through social media, speaking engagements, the mentoring of cancer patients, and volunteering and fundraising for the ACS. It is what I'm going to do.
I always wondered what my "thing" was. What was I passionate about? A lot of people I know have a thing that sort of defines them...an obsession over a sport, TV program, musical group, a specific craft they are good at, or even an expert level of knowledge in regards to certain parenting techniques. Sure, I like a lot of things but I never had a fanatical enthusiasm for anything except taking bubble baths, shopping at Pier 1 Imports, and consuming pumpkin flavored food and drink. I've been searching for my thing for years and maybe it showed up in the form of a thing in my breast that stopped my heart that February morning. Since last Friday night, a flip has been switched inside of me and I feel a level of positivity that I haven't felt since the days before my cancer diagnosis when I felt like I had my whole life ahead of me. I found my thing. And it's more than just a Pumpkin Spice Latte. Thank God.
Speaking to the Cumberland Valley and Carlisle JV and Varsity girls soccer teams on Friday, October 4th, 2013.
Being introduced on the field with the varsity team for their annual Breast Cancer Awareness Game benefiting the Young Survival Coalition.
A few weeks ago there was a post by the Young Survival Coalition-Northeast Region on Facebook. They were requesting a young survivor to speak to a girl's athletic team at Cumberland Valley High School in Mechancisburg, PA. Was this for real? They needed someone to talk to some female athletes at MY high school? As soon as I read it, I knew it was the soccer team, the same team I played on 16 years ago. I felt chills at how this opportunity felt perfect and like fate.
On Friday night I had my opportunity to speak to the JV and Varsity soccer girls from CV and Carlisle for the kick off of their annual Breast Cancer Awareness Game that benefits the Young Survival Coalition. They briefed me that no detail was off limits and the girls were not afraid to ask questions. I began by telling story from diagnosis through treatment and then opened it up to questions. The questions went on for about 40 minutes. These girls were phenomenal! They asked so many questions, like how do you know what a lump feels like, what foods were good for reducing breast cancer risk, how has my faith changed since diagnosis, when should they start getting screened for breast cancer, and questions about my wigs, my surgery and my reconstruction. I had the time of my life! I took my wig off for them and showed them my fuzzy head and how easy it was to put the wig on, which amazed them. Afterwards, a group of these fabulous girls surrounded me and asked some more questions and they got to meet Harper. I got a couple babysitting offers too! Michelle, who was in charge of the event presented me with a Alex and Ani Young & Strong bracelet that I absolutely adore. I can't believe they were thanking me for being there when it was completely my pleasure and an honor. There was something so energizing and healing in speaking about the last year. In the time that I was up there I got to educate, make jokes, laugh, bare my bald head, and yes, even cry a little. It was therapy that was benefiting not only myself but all those girls. The night couldn't have been more perfect for me and I hope that in some way, I helped those girls and have made enough of an impact so that they do their self exams each month.
When I first got up to the podium, I was nervous. I freaking hate speaking in public. I'm a drug rep and I speak to groups of people all the time about my medicines and disease states. Those people, the doctors, are much smarter than me and I hope that I make it through the conversation without them asking me something that I don't know so that I don't lose any credibility. I hope that I make it out of the conversation without screwing up and looking like an idiot. But I couldn't mess this up. It was my story and nobody knows my story better than I do. Nobody knows what my experience with cancer has been like better than me, and I couldn't answer a question about myself incorrectly. The longer I stayed up at the podium, the shaky voice subsided and I felt more comfortable and I never wanted to leave. I realized that this is what I want to do. I want to share my story through social media, speaking engagements, the mentoring of cancer patients, and volunteering and fundraising for the ACS. It is what I'm going to do.
I always wondered what my "thing" was. What was I passionate about? A lot of people I know have a thing that sort of defines them...an obsession over a sport, TV program, musical group, a specific craft they are good at, or even an expert level of knowledge in regards to certain parenting techniques. Sure, I like a lot of things but I never had a fanatical enthusiasm for anything except taking bubble baths, shopping at Pier 1 Imports, and consuming pumpkin flavored food and drink. I've been searching for my thing for years and maybe it showed up in the form of a thing in my breast that stopped my heart that February morning. Since last Friday night, a flip has been switched inside of me and I feel a level of positivity that I haven't felt since the days before my cancer diagnosis when I felt like I had my whole life ahead of me. I found my thing. And it's more than just a Pumpkin Spice Latte. Thank God.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Pinktober
I'm not sure what I feel about my favorite month of the year being hijacked by a pink haze that serves as a constant reminder of what I've been through and what will always be a part of me from here on. In the past October was the start of cool and crisp fall weather, that smoky smell in the air, gorgeous scenery, the excitement for my birthday and Halloween, and in recent years, the celebration of our wedding anniversary. Now it takes on a whole new meaning for me, as we are only at day 1 and I am unable to escape the pink.
I'm two and a half weeks out from chemotherapy. I still have 9 months of Herceptin to go, 6 weeks of radiation that has yet to start, and 10 years of Tamoxifen. Breast cancer is still a large chunk of my world, and as much as I hate to say it, but it's still my identity at this time. Even so, on Saturday night we went to a preseason Hershey Bears hockey game and I was walking along the club level admiring the jerseys behind the glass. Every few jerseys would be one with a pink ribbon on it. And that moment, my moment of being a completely normal person looking at jerseys and not thinking about cancer, was interrupted by the reminder of the pink ribbon. And I thought about how last year I would have remarked at how pretty the pink ribbon jerseys were and this year looking at them, I saw scars, surgical drains, huge syringes of red liquid, a face in the mirror that I don't know, dark nights of despair, and mornings that were worse because it wasn't all a dream. That pretty pink ribbon took me out of my normal life and reminded me, made me aware, of the fact that life will be anything but normal for me for a while. But to someone who hasn't lived through this, or along side of this, it's just a pretty pink ribbon.
I'm not knocking Pinktober at all. I get it. Awareness is a good thing. If everything pink makes you feel your boobies for the first time or for the first time in a long time, then it worked. I like the idea that something I would normally buy, now donates a portion to breast cancer charities and research. I've even been known to, in the past, come home with a brand new pink tennis racket and pink tennis balls because 1.) They were cute and pink, duh and 2.) It went to a good cause. Did I play tennis? No. But I wanted to help end breast cancer! There is plenty of talk of "thinking before you pink" on the internet. I don't want to get into it in this blog, but make sure you know where your donation is going and make sure that it's going to research. Research will be what ends this disease. They've made amazing advances thanks to research. Awareness will not be the end of breast cancer. Money doesn't need to be spent on awareness. I'm sure any breast cancer survivor and we are a plenty (remember 1 in 8), will gladly make you aware for free. And I'm pretty sure that by talking to a breast cancer survivor and hearing their story, how they went from a completely normal healthy life to a life terrorized by cancer in the instant that their fingers brushed over that lump, or when the voice on the other end of the phone said something was seen on their annual mammogram...that will stick with you longer than seeing NFL football players wear pink cleats.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, breast cancer awareness already is my mission and I'll do it 12 months out of the year. I will talk to anyone about my story, and I won't leave out the gory details. Anyone who reads this blog or is friends with me on Facebook knows this about me. But believe it or not, there are times, maybe just a few minutes each day, where breast cancer is not on my mind. But this month, I won't be able to escape it and that's still hard. I long for the days when I thought I was healthy, when a pink ribbon was just a pink ribbon, and when I thought breast cancer was an old woman's disease. But now I'm aware and I've become aware in a difficult way. And I'm here to say this:
I'm two and a half weeks out from chemotherapy. I still have 9 months of Herceptin to go, 6 weeks of radiation that has yet to start, and 10 years of Tamoxifen. Breast cancer is still a large chunk of my world, and as much as I hate to say it, but it's still my identity at this time. Even so, on Saturday night we went to a preseason Hershey Bears hockey game and I was walking along the club level admiring the jerseys behind the glass. Every few jerseys would be one with a pink ribbon on it. And that moment, my moment of being a completely normal person looking at jerseys and not thinking about cancer, was interrupted by the reminder of the pink ribbon. And I thought about how last year I would have remarked at how pretty the pink ribbon jerseys were and this year looking at them, I saw scars, surgical drains, huge syringes of red liquid, a face in the mirror that I don't know, dark nights of despair, and mornings that were worse because it wasn't all a dream. That pretty pink ribbon took me out of my normal life and reminded me, made me aware, of the fact that life will be anything but normal for me for a while. But to someone who hasn't lived through this, or along side of this, it's just a pretty pink ribbon.
I'm not knocking Pinktober at all. I get it. Awareness is a good thing. If everything pink makes you feel your boobies for the first time or for the first time in a long time, then it worked. I like the idea that something I would normally buy, now donates a portion to breast cancer charities and research. I've even been known to, in the past, come home with a brand new pink tennis racket and pink tennis balls because 1.) They were cute and pink, duh and 2.) It went to a good cause. Did I play tennis? No. But I wanted to help end breast cancer! There is plenty of talk of "thinking before you pink" on the internet. I don't want to get into it in this blog, but make sure you know where your donation is going and make sure that it's going to research. Research will be what ends this disease. They've made amazing advances thanks to research. Awareness will not be the end of breast cancer. Money doesn't need to be spent on awareness. I'm sure any breast cancer survivor and we are a plenty (remember 1 in 8), will gladly make you aware for free. And I'm pretty sure that by talking to a breast cancer survivor and hearing their story, how they went from a completely normal healthy life to a life terrorized by cancer in the instant that their fingers brushed over that lump, or when the voice on the other end of the phone said something was seen on their annual mammogram...that will stick with you longer than seeing NFL football players wear pink cleats.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, breast cancer awareness already is my mission and I'll do it 12 months out of the year. I will talk to anyone about my story, and I won't leave out the gory details. Anyone who reads this blog or is friends with me on Facebook knows this about me. But believe it or not, there are times, maybe just a few minutes each day, where breast cancer is not on my mind. But this month, I won't be able to escape it and that's still hard. I long for the days when I thought I was healthy, when a pink ribbon was just a pink ribbon, and when I thought breast cancer was an old woman's disease. But now I'm aware and I've become aware in a difficult way. And I'm here to say this:
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Chemo Finale in Pictures
I can't find words to describe this day so I'd rather tell it with pictures. It was exciting, full of amazing surprises from amazing people, and very emotional.
The cupcakes I brought for the chemo nurses and my cheering section:
My neighbors surprised me in the biggest way: with a pink ribbon house!! I live in the greatest neighborhood!
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