Monday, October 11 – Go Time

I’m ready for tomorrow’s surgery. Almost everything is ticked off my list. I met with my plastic surgeon bright and early this morning. I was nearly euphoric as I skipped (not literally) down the halls at Swedish Hospital. I even forgot what floor she was on … it had been that long. When I saw the doc – I was tempted to give her a huge hug. Alas – a hugger she is not. So I refrained.

It was a quick appointment. Release forms were signed. Explanations given of what will transpire tomorrow morning during the 2 ½ hour surgery. Longer than some of my friends who have gone through this … but this surgeon is a perfectionist. Meticulous. She doesn’t mess around or scurry through things. All of which is fine by me. Take your time I say. She did share the sad news that the dreaded drains will be back in action. Again – my friends who have had similar surgery assured me – no drains. But my doc just went to a high falutin’ breast cancer conference this summer where everyone was all abuzz about the importance of drains. So – bring them on. Fine. They’ll only be with me for a week, she assured me.

On the way home I got a fancy pedicure to celebrate. It’s a “don’t mess with me” red this time around. Feeling like a warrior again. And I arrived home to a lovely bouquet of flowers on my doorstep – left by my thoughtful friend Sherry. The one who shepherded me around the hospital’s halls during my last convalescence.

I’m now waiting for a call from the Swedish Hospital intake nurses – the one where they tell me not to eat after midnight or take certain medications or use any hair product or … you get the picture. I’ll likely be instructed to shower with my “special surgical soap” tonight and tomorrow morning. Just like old times.

And that’s about it, really. I’ll likely gaze at the orbs on my chest after my shower tomorrow morning…wondering what I’ll look like tomorrow afternoon. And I want to give them the appreciation they deserve. These solid implants have served me well, despite my disparaging comments.

So, as always, onward. As a dear friend said, this is an important recovery milestone for me. BRING IT ON!!!

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Sunday, October 10 – Arms Wide Open

So I’ve written recently that I’m on the mend. My mind is clearing. My emotions are more balanced. I am feeling more, well, normal. But this past week has brought my good feelings to an entirely new height. A level of happiness that was previously unimaginable. And I think I have reached this state simply because I opened myself up to it. Finally. The past six months since my diagnosis (I cannot believe it’s been that long) have been torturous at times. But more than anything I feel like I’ve been given a new playbook. It seems like my fears have been smothered. Yes – they are still there – but they are muted to such a degree right now that I almost feel exposed. Bare. Frightening – a bit. Exhilarating – absolutely.

Last week I was offered the opportunity to help write a book. And not only a book – but one about a chef and cooking and recipes. I’ll be hanging out in the kitchens of some of this town’s best restaurants. Eating some incredible food. Interviewing culinary geniuses at the top of their game. And writing about it. I honestly could not have imagined this. I didn’t dare. At one point I said to one of the publishers “this is too good to be true.” She responded that nothing is too good to be true. I’m starting to believe her.

Another heady experience also transpired over the past week. A friend from elementary school reconnected with me. He is a dream. We’ve been writing back and forth, rapid fire, for days now. And I have no idea where this might lead. But it just feels really good right now. To connect with someone on this level. To just feel … vital.

I didn’t ask for either of these things to happen. I wasn’t out actively searching for them. But my mind and my heart are open now and I believe that’s why I have been so fortunate. So today, once again, I am grateful for cancer. It has cracked me wide open. A few weeks ago I was cursing my plight – literally telling friends that “this is no way to live.” And here I am today, walking around with a grin on my face that will not likely disappear any time soon. So – yet another lesson. Stay open. Be ready for anything. And when it comes – don’t let fear return. Believe that nothing is too good to be true.

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Tuesday, October 5 – Seven Days

In one week I’m going back under the knife. And I CAN’T WAIT! No trepidation or melancholy or a sense of loss this time around. Granted, the surgeon won’t be trying to excavate evil cancer cells during this operation. I won’t be waking to worry about whether or not the malignancy spread. Next week’s procedure will feature the removal of my current, temporary implants and the insertion of my “permanent” silicone girls.  I used quotation marks because they’ll need to be switched out over the years.  A little like tires, I suppose. But that’s fine. I’m just elated to rid myself of these softballs inside of me. The rock solid orbs have done their job, but I’m looking forward to the new and improved models. I’ve been assured that they will be more comfortable, more natural, more … me. Hallelujah!

So next week’s procedure is a welcome event. In many ways, this time around it will be “purely cosmetic.” But in so many ways – this trip to the hospital will be much more profound.  It is, for me, one step closer to normal. Or one step farther away from cancer. Regardless of the fact that it really has nothing to do with the C word. It just feels like I’ve been running a marathon and the finish line is finally on the horizon. Yes – I have almost five more years of hormone treatments and little white pills to swallow every morning. And regular visits with my friendly oncologist.  And there will be additional nips and tucks necessary to finish my reconstruction. But I’m viewing this procedure as a release.

I’ll once again be able to exercise in earnest. Not immediately, of course. Heavy drugs and a bit of pain and perhaps a loss of my range of motion will linger for a while following the operation.  But I’m hoping to get back down to the beautiful sandy beach for early morning boot camp work outs in the not-too-distant future. I will no longer have another invasive surgery looming – making me put my life on hold “until.” I am, in fact, more excited about this new freedom than the actual appearance of my chest. Rather than concentrating on the superficial I am blessedly focused on being alive and liberated. Which is quite a gift.

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Friday, October 1 – A Slice of Heaven

Today has been a perfect day. I honestly didn’t think I’d be saying this so soon considering how I felt only a few days ago. But the fog seems to have lifted. At least for now. And it has been glorious.

• An early morning walk with Fargo as the sun rose.
• Mount Rainier displaying her full grandeur, basked in a pink glow.
• A perfect bowl of Greek yogurt with sweet peaches and plums and slivers of roasted almonds.
• Walking happily through the halls of the Swedish Cancer Institute, fully appreciating how relatively healthy I am and basking in the fact that I feel so good today.
• A quick, nearly painless injection of my monthly hormone therapy treatment – topped off by a Bugs Bunny Band-Aid.
• A trip to my favorite store on Capitol Hill where I found the perfect – I mean PERFECT – birthday gift for a dear friend.
• Spotting a funky guy buzzing by on a vintage Vespa sporting a jaunty helmet complete with bunny ears – flopping in the wind.
• A stroll through the grocery store, collecting white beans and bay leaves and onions and stock and all the ingredients for the Kale & White Bean soup I’ll prepare tomorrow – using kale fresh from my garden.
• Tea with one of my favorite people. The one who says “phuck” a lot and sends me emails from her “iDesk” because she doesn’t (yet) have an iPhone.
• Inquiries about my availability to work on two new writing assignments – to work with people I admire and adore on fun and interesting projects.
• A trip to Molly Moon’s to pick up a pint of Salted Caramel ice cream – and a quick taste of their sublime Balsamic Strawberry. Dreamy.
• Driving with the sunroof open, gazing at the intensely blue sky and loving the crisp, autumnal air racing around me.
• Making plans for tomorrow’s escape to Whidbey Island with friends and dogs and convertibles.

The list could likely go on. I am just sitting here, realizing how very fortunate I am. And appreciating that the trials of the past weeks and months have only made me appreciate these “little things” that have made up today much more than I would have had everything been rosy.  Rather like how I feel when the sun finally appears after a long string of rainy days. Happiness achieved.

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Thursday, September 30 – Happiness

I’ve been reading about the subject of happiness a lot lately. And the thing that keeps jumping out at me is the recommendation to “refrain from comparing oneself to others.” A tall feat for me. I can’t recall a time when I wasn’t looking at myself in relation to someone else. My brother was always “the smarter one.” My friends always had “cooler” parents. Women are skinnier or more successful or happier because they’re married with children. Oy.

So I was thrilled this morning to be talking about the subject with my friend as we walked briskly around the lake, trying not to trip into each other in the utter darkness (ah, winter… here it comes). I mentioned to her that I am trying, really trying, to abstain from comparing myself to others. And my dear friend told me that she is working on this as well. A wise person in her life once shared the following: “If you compare yourself to someone who apparently has it better – you’re just going to feel worse about yourself. If you compare yourself to someone in worse shape – you’ll only be self-aggrandizing. And do you really want to be that person?” NO!

So what’s with all the comparing I’ve done throughout my life? What purpose has it served? The most recent, and blatant, example happened on Tuesday night. I was listening to my friend talk about his father’s recent passing. His father went quickly following a long and valiant battle with cancer. And my friend was talking about how grateful he was that hospice had taken care of almost everything for them. That his father had not lost his dignity. That he had been ready. And while I was happy – joyful – that his father’s experience was so blessedly peaceful, I couldn’t help but think of mom. And all she went through. All I went through. Thankfully the thoughts flashed quickly through my mind. They didn’t linger. But the selfishness that this kind of comparison brought was, frankly, embarrassing. And, ultimately, totally futile.

I think the onerous nature of this latest example of comparison created a welcome shift for me. I have since been extremely aware of my propensity for self-evaluation. And I have put a halt to it.Well, almost. Whenever I notice myself looking at others lives longingly, wishing I was this, that or the other thing, I stop. And I replace this internal gibberish with … gratitude. Because, really, I have a lot. More than many, I’d say. And I have not yet perfected this “happy talk.” I’ll likely never be completely liberated from holding myself up to others. Old habits die hard. But I hope, at the very least, that I can become more aware of it. I know I’ll be happier. And this, at least today, is my simple goal.

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Sunday, September 26 – Angels Among Us

Today is the last day of the Susan Komen 3-Day for the Cure. I didn’t realize it until I got down to Greenlake with Fargo. I had intended to just stroll for a bit. It’s raining out. I still have remnants of a cold. So a quick jaunt at the local lake sounded like a good idea. We had been sauntering along for a few minutes when I started seeing a little more pink than usual. Women with bright pink necklaces walked by – smiling more than the usual Seattleites. Saying good morning. This is abnormal. Then I noticed a “race number” on a woman’s back. Then I saw it. The sign with the 3-Day logo telling passersby that “breast cancer is the leading cause of death among women around the world.”

Now, I’ve disparaged all this pink and a lot of the “cancer hoopla” in the past. But this morning – this show of strength against this awful disease is just what I needed. You see, I’ve been feeling defeated of late. I’m tired of being tired. I’m sick of having my life put on hold while I try to come to terms with the physical and mental side effects of my latest treatment. I had high hopes that the anti-depressant and my vacation would “fix me.” Set me right. Snap me out of it. Sadly, I have spent the days since my return from my trip in a fog. No doubt I’m tired and achy from this stupid cold. Until this week, I thought I had been luckily spared of the night sweats associated with menopause. Alas – no. They have started in earnest. So sleep is, once again, evasive. And I feel muted – perhaps from the anti-depressant. But who really knows. And all of this had led to a feeling that cancer is finally conquering me. Not in any “I’m doomed and going to die” sense of the word. Just that, for the present time, I feel like I am powerless to fight it and I might as well just give in. Which has translated to watching an awful lot of mediocre TV and eating even more average junk food and looking forward to 8:30pm when I feel like I can head to bed without seeming totally insane.

I know in my heart that this is just a valley. That the peaks will return. I’m confident that I can turn it around. That I will feel better one of these days. I’ve just been hoping that one of these days would come sooner than later. So … this morning’s walk amongst these powerful women (and men) gave me hope. Seeing these 3-Day walkers reminded me that we have a choice. That I can fight. I might not feel like I can do it today. But I will one day soon. Of this I am sure.

Once I realized I was in the midst of “the Walk” – I got it in my mind that I wanted to stop one of these pink ribbon festooned women. To tell them that I am one of them. To thank them for their dedication to the cause. Naturally, as soon as I decided this – there was no pink to be seen. I continued to drag my tired dog around, searching for a Walker. Peering at women’s shirts to determine if they were part of my tribe. Alas – no one. So I finally headed toward my car to return home. Just as I turned the corner a large van emblazoned with pink paint started driving toward me. Here was my chance. As they slowed to pass, I asked, “Are you with the 3-Day?” A lovely woman sporting a pale pink shirt smiled and confirmed that they were. “Thank you,” I said. She responded that they were “only volunteers.” “Thank you,” I repeated, my eyes welling with tears. “I was diagnosed in April,” I added. I told her I had signed up to walk only weeks before my diagnosis. That I had to pull out. She responded with well wishes, her own eyes getting moist. And as I got to my car she drove by in the van – waving enthusiastically and calling, “good luck!”

I know in my heart that I will be amongst the 3-Day Walkers next year. And I know, too, that I will start to feel better. I don’t know when. But that’s OK. Because I also know, or at least I’m pretty sure, that I’m not going to die of this disease. I’m not going to be one of those statistics. And just realizing this, and feeling the appreciation, makes me smile. And sigh a heavy, grateful sigh.

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Tuesday, September 21 – Simplicity

Back home after a whirlwind vacation. My head is spinning from all that transpired over the past ten days. Or maybe it’s all the cold medicine I’m taking. My head feels fuzzy and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m sick … or if it’s because I’m trying to overthink things. Who me? Never…  🙂

When I think back over the trip I just took, I am filled with wonderful memories. While I originally planned this journey to “just get away” and spend time with those I love – I think in the back of my mind I was hoping I would return with some kind of new lease on life. That my travels and time away from home would have given me some insight into how I want to live my life. On what I want to be when I grow up. Alas, I am no closer to figuring this out. No revelations were unleashed. And that’s OK. A few days into my trip, as I witnessed my high school friend parent her children and looked forward to spending time with my other friends in Cape Cod and Montreal, I realized that I needed to eschew my desire to evolve. That I should just enjoy my time with my friends. So that’s what I did. And the minute I let go of my grand plan to figure everything out, I was bestowed with the ability to be present. And simply enjoy myself. Hallelujah.

Some of my favorite memories involve laughter. Giggling with Natasha’s two sons as we made pancakes early in the morning. Hanging out with her young daughter Megan as we played with their hilarious dog Max. Watching my friend Christine laugh until tears ran down her face as she told a story of her husband’s attempts to shimmy up a tree to fetch their daughter’s $7 kite. Huddling on a couch with Emma as we tried to stop laughing long enough to trim the dreadlocks off her tiny dog Leonard. And none of these stories sound particularly humorous in the retelling. But they were magical for me.

Perhaps even more precious are the memories of my friends with their families. To witness this woman I’ve known since gym glass in 7^th grade drive all over town to hunt down the perfect size cheerleading outfit for her daughter. And then shuttle her three kids to three separate soccer games the next day. And treat them to ice cream that night after a high school football game. It was mind-bending. These are the things our parents used to do for us… And then to see my friend on the Cape with her two young daughters. Not a minute to herself from the time the sun rose until it set. Yet she dotes on them patiently – bringing her 5 year old to horseback riding lessons and making sure her 2 year old is entertained as her older sister disappears around the bend on the back of a beautiful pony.  And finally, in Montreal, observing my fearless friend Emma with her Québécois boyfriend. The one she met on an “old folks” cruise and fell in love with and moved to Montreal to be with. The one who makes her lunch for work and whose family immediately embraced her. These two took a huge risk and it has paid off. Their life is simple and beautiful and awe-inspiring.

So … a wonderful time away. And though I didn’t return with a clearer picture of what I want to do next, I was terribly encouraged by my friends. These are strong, confident women. They have created meaningful lives and I could not be happier for them. I intend to reflect often on my time with them. To think back at the white chocolate lollypop Natasha’s daughter bestowed on me before I left. It was obviously a present she had received from someone else and I couldn’t stop grinning when she handed it to me before I left. To smile at the thought of Christine’s younger daughter as she reached out and held my hand as we gazed at some flowers (quite an accomplishment considering her rather reticent nature). And then to remember the sweet little sleeping area Emma and her boyfriend created just for me. Set up with all kinds of pillows and blankets and a special sheet to keep the sun at bay. All such seemingly little things. But I’ve realized that it’s just these simple moments that have the most meaning for me. Which is, in the end, a fine lesson to learn. I don’t need hoopla or grand gestures. Just a smile and a small hand to hold or a silly, dreadlock-festooned dog to make me laugh and I’m fine.

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Friday, September 10 – Escape

Yesterday marked the beginning of my liberation. I’ve been planning this getaway for over a month. But it seems to have come at the perfect time. What began as a desire to slip away – to leave the place that I’ve been shackled to since this whole cancer thing started – has turned into a bit of an odyssey.

After saying a heartfelt goodbye to my dear dad who is staying in Seattle to care for sweet old Fargo, I departed my house in the wee hours of the morning – getting a luxurious ride to the airport from my trusty friend Sylvia. A half a day later I touched down in Boston where my high school friend Natasha waited in the family minivan. During the flight I momentarily wondered about my plans. I’ll be staying in a sleepy suburb outside of Boston with Natasha, her hunky husband and her three toe-headed kids. And the family dog. Then I’ll head over to Cape Cod to hang out with Christine and her fabulous husband and her gorgeous young girls. Then I’ll traipse up to Montreal to stay with Emma and her dreamy, French-speaking boyfriend. And her dog. And her cat.

In days past, the thought of spending my vacation amongst so much humanity would not have entered my mind. I was the girl who headed for solitude on a far-away island. Or a relaxing cabin in the woods with my dog. Just … away. But today, my inclinations have shifted. I no longer crave being apart. Rather, I want to be “a part.” A component of a whole. I want to belong.

So as I sit here typing as Natasha yells to her husband about getting the younger kids to soccer practice and talks with her older son about what he’s going to wear to his first dance – I am smiling from ear to ear. We spent the day driving around in the minivan – visiting a country vegetable stand. Meandering through quaint bookstores and eating a leisurely lunch in a bucolic New England town. Walking along a stunningly beautiful beach on Plum Island searching for shells. We just spent five minutes oohing and aahhing over Natasha’s little girl’s brand new cheerleading uniform. I could have watched her prance around forever. And then I showed the kids the miniature star fish I found on the beach. No bigger than a dime. And the look of pure delight on their faces … priceless. Inspiring, too.

And throughout my day today I have noticed that my spirits are slowly lifting. Whereas I left Seattle in a bit of a fog – still reeling from my fatigue and moods and none too happy about being chock full of new medications – now it feels like the wet blanket that has covered me for weeks is starting to fade away. Laughter has been constant. I feel like a part of this amazing family. I am looking forward to attending not one but three soccer games tomorrow.

This is new territory for me. I feel like I’ve been given a gift. A new interest in being amongst. With. And it’s only the first day of this adventure. I can’t wait for whatever’s next.

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Sunday, September 5 – Check, Check

Despite the fact that my visit to the Cancer Institute on Friday was, ultimately, very relieving – it did remind me just how serious and potentially devastating this disease is. For some reason, I was especially struck by the men and women sitting amongst me in the waiting room. Ports were on prominent display – taped with thin, not-quite-transparent tape to a woman’s upper chest as she sat next to me waiting for her blood draw. So many women wore stylish head wraps with wisps of hair peeking out from beneath. As I waited in line to get weighed, the man in front of me gingerly stepped up onto the scale and I noticed his shoulders drop as he learned his weight. Obviously it’s going down. He was gaunt. And paler than almost anyone I’ve ever seen. The nurse who was waiting with me tried to lighten the mood by cheerily stating, “well – it must be time for more Hagen-Dazs!” The man turned to him with a glimmer of a smile, responding, “I just wish I felt like eating something. Anything…”

The reason I am writing about this is because, as women, we can actually do something about it. At least the breast kind of cancer. I’m talking about self-exams. And I don’t usually like to pontificate – but this is really important. At least to me. Because I found my own tumor. I felt it myself. I had countless tests and the poking and the prodding and the false alarms that resulted in numerable biopsies and just as many sleepless nights. But the simple, painless self-exam allowed me to be one of the “lucky ones.” Because my cancer didn’t have time to spread. To do a lot of damage. Sure – it did enough. But I am not living in fear today. There is a good chance that my cancer is gone now. Hopefully forever.

I know a lot of women don’t do self-exams. Apparently as many as 8 out of 10 don’t check their breasts regularly. We forget. It’s inconvenient. Not important. Or we’re afraid of what we might find. Luckily, a woman I met recently was so passionate about this issue she started “Check Your Boobies.” This non-profit’s mission is “to educate women about breast health in a frank, fun, and fear-free manner. They are dedicated to the prevention and early detection of Breast Cancer.” And they make it easy. There is a link you can check so they will send you a monthly reminder. And if you have questions about how to accurately perform a self-exam – they have classes and tips and even parties. I’ve started to get involved with this wonderful organization – writing a bit of copy every now and then. And recently, I was asked to share my story – which you can check out here.

According to the American Cancer Society, 1 in 7 women will develop breast cancer in her lifetime. And early detection makes a HUGE difference in survival. I really hope more women start to take control of their own exams. If you do – BRAVO! If you don’t – I hope you’ll consider starting. And, at the very least, please tell your girlfriends how important this is. Next month is breast cancer awareness month so we’ll be bombarded with pink ribbons and advertisements and all sorts of information. But if you take away this one message – to Check Your Boobies – I feel like it’s a step in the right direction. OK. I’m done now.

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Friday, September 3 – Help is on the way

I have four heads of lettuce in my refrigerator. At one point this week, I also had eight ears of corn – having bought four lovely looking ears without recalling that I had more than enough at home. I couldn’t remember where to turn to get to the Children’s Center yesterday. I drove my dog Fargo to a neighbor’s house for his “play date” earlier because I just couldn’t muster the energy to walk the four blocks. I think I fell asleep on the table as the nice aesthetician pulled my eyebrows out of my head just an hour ago.

I have not been myself for weeks now and my “out of sorts” status is manifesting itself in the most curious ways. It would be almost comical if I wasn’t so damn fatigued and blue. Hot flashes seem to come every hour once my head hits the pillow. Yet I am so tired I can think of nothing I’d rather do than pull the covers over my head – regardless of the fact that it’s only 1:30pm. At the same time, I have recently begun turning off the lights in the house before bedtime (around 8pm these days) with trepidation. I am now anxious to head into my bedroom because I know I will have a fitful night and, likely, wake up more exhausted than ever.

Thankfully, what appears to be the apex of the side effects of my hormone therapy coincided with this morning’s appointment with my oncologist. I was headed in for my monthly injection and today I also got to meet with my superstar doctor. So I was filled with hope as I entered the Cancer Institute. And as I sit here typing – crafting a blog post for the first time in a week and a half (writing has been completely unappealing) – I feel like there might be a solution.

I’m not thrilled that it’s in the form of yet another pill. Or pills, as it were. But my oncologist listened to my tearful explanation of my sleeplessness and understood immediately that my “quality of life”, as many in the medical profession like to call it, has been compromised. Taking some additional fish oil and calcium/magnesium tablets as recommended by my naturopath, while likely helpful, are not going to fix me. But, fingers crossed, a light dose of anti-depressants and a more powerful sleep aid will get me back on track.

I have resisted this route for a month now. I really don’t want to introduce more chemicals into my system. But I CANNOT COPE any more. Enough. It’s a brilliant blue day outside and I am not interested in sitting in the sunshine. Despite the fact that I know the bright light will do me good. And that our Seattle sunshine will soon become increasingly elusive. Something is definitely wrong with me. And, regardless of how much I wanted to “buck up” and try to control my emotions and moods, I have finally thrown in the proverbial towel. Bring on the drugs.

So I left the hospital this morning feeling some relief. But even more than the prescription slip I held tightly in my hand, I was thankful for the words of encouragement my oncologist shared as we parted ways. She told me that, a few years ago, she too had been diagnosed with breast cancer. That she has been through what I’m going through. That she GETS it. I had no idea. She explained that a lot of women experience this emotional turmoil after a bit of time passes following surgery and/or treatment. That a number of us muddle through on adrenaline for a time, only to crash or crumble a few months later. Crumble is, of course, my word – not hers. She was much more eloquent. Her exact words are elusive right now. But the acknowledgment she gave me is not. That I am not weak. That what I am feeling makes sense. That I am not alone. And for that – I am just so damn grateful. Give me a few pills and a bit of gratitude and I know I’m going to be OK.

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