My Blog of Thanks Giving

Happy Thanksgiving, readers!

I hope you are all snuggled up on the couch, catching up on sleep, reading a book, or enjoying a football game! For me, Thanksgiving took on a whole new importance after my cancer diagnosis. Prior to cancer, Thanksgiving for me was simply the dress rehearsal for Christmas. Now, after cancer, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I so appreciate this one day a year when I can sit back, surrounded by my loved ones who know me and my struggle best, and count my proverbial blessings.

Every year, my family goes around the dinner table and proposes a toast to his or her greatest blessing. Prior to cancer I always came up with something, but it was never anything that truly stirred my heart. Post-cancer, I was giving thanks for just about everything- from my health care insurance, to my co-workers who covered for me on sick days, to the plumber who cleaned a whole head's worth of my hair out of our shower drain. Everything, even the most inconsequential, took on a new importance post-cancer.

This year, for a moment back in October, that happiness, that ability to give thanks and mean it, even for the small stuff, the ability to count my blessings was taken away from me. I had trouble finding things to be thankful for when I was facing constant, aching back pain from my bone metastasis. It was hard to be thankful when my hair was falling out in huge clumps every time I took a shower. It was hard to be thankful when the Taxol started giving me daily nosebleeds. It was really hard to be thankful when, not only was I self conscious about my newly sheared head, but I also started breaking out in a hot red rash all over my face and bald head from the steroids. It was hard to be thankful when I missed a best college friend's wedding because I didn't have enough energy after chemo to make the cross country trip. But most of all, it was hard to give thanks for even the most constant blessing - my family and friends - when I looked around the room, remembered the terrible news my doctor had given, and imagined future Thanksgivings without me at the table.

I was running the risk of becoming jaded. I didn't like jaded Bridget. Jaded Bridget was not in line with my sunny personality. Had cancer finally won on every front? Had it taken away not only my health, my good looks, my physical ability to provide for my family, but even my happy personality?

I didn't know how to deal with this. I was having nightmares about visiting the pearly gates and being denied admission - very vivid dreams where I would be grilled by a scary looking judge about every piece of nasty gossip I had spread and every lie I'd ever told. I was petrified by and obsessed with the thought that we might have a vengeful God on our hands.

One Sunday afternoon, Big Man came home from a weekend away with friends. He asked me what I had done all weekend long in his absence and I did what so many wives would do. I lied. Did I tell him I sat on the couch all weekend and read that trashy chick lit novel I'd been meaning to get to since summer? Did I tell him I let the dog sleep in bed with me because I wanted some company while I ate popcorn and watched "Princess Bride" for the 50th time? No, I told Big Man that I spent the weekend at the grocery store, walking the dog, and "running errands" because Big Man wouldn't even know what errands exactly needed running. That beautiful fall Sunday evening, I fell asleep in our crisply cold room and woke up in a sweat at 4am from that same nightmare. Vengeful God had condemned me to an eternity in hell for lying to my husband about the dog sleeping and the book reading.

October was a tough month for me.

But then, without warning, hope and joy started peeking through in the most unexpected of places when I wasn't even looking for it.  Hope found me in the bathroom when I lost my hair.

The first time I went through chemo and lost my hair six years ago, I visited a fancy salon to have my head shaved. They took me into a private back room, and some woman I've never seen before or since shaved me in about 5 minutes. This time around, I was much more matter-of-fact about the whole hair loss. I was prepared. I had done this before.

Me in my wig the night after Big Man shaved my hair.
That's one good-looking wig & he's one good-looking hubby!

One morning, I woke up and I couldn't take the itching anymore. (Chemo kills your hair follicles so they itch and the hair shaving actually comes as a bit of a welcome relief.) I woke up Big Man. Without even a word of protest, even though it was only 7am on a Saturday morning, Big Man got up. He and I walked hand-in-hand to Walgreen's. We purchased a pair of clippers, I stuck my head into the sink, and my husband shaved off all my hair. He cried a bit, which made me cry. I thanked him profusely, which made him cry.  But in the end, a moment I had dreaded actually gave me hope. I will cherish that memory forever. After seven years together, shaving my head in the bathroom sink was certainly our most intimate moment. We were a scared young couple looking ahead toward an uncertain future, but at least we were doing it together. He had my back. He would take care of me. "In sickness and in health" we had told each other when I still had hair and boobs. Big Man proved he meant those vows when he shaved my head last month, slowly, carefully, and whispering soft words of comfort when I cried.

I also found hope that I was afraid to share with all of you. I'm still so afraid to share this news with you because I'm afraid next week the tide will turn. My heart and hope might be crushed again, and only God knows when. When this good news changes, I will be forced to explain the change to all of you, and then all of you will be crushed right along with me. I'm also so afraid that, by sharing my hope here with all of you, I might be jinxing it! I always prided myself on being factual, logical, grounded.... now I fear cancer is making me all religious and superstitious!

But I can't keep the news to myself any longer. If I jinx myself, so be it!

Taxol gave me hope. The most unexpected drug has given me hope for a future. Taxol was a drug that was given to buy me more time. It was meant to keep the "cancer at bay" and "minimize the pain from my metastasis." After years of enrolling in clinical trials and taking the latest, greatest, best, most touted new medicines, Taxol, first discovered back in 1967, has turned out to be "The Drug" that I was hoping for! At least for now....

When I last got scans back at the beginning of October, my tumor markers were extremely high. The most important tumor marker in my blood that my doctors look at each week is called CA 27-29 and it is a tumor marker that breast cancer cells leave behind in patient's blood. Normally, in a healthy person, CA 27-29 counts range between 0-38. My CA 27-29 count was 965! This critically high tumor marker number is what prompted all the discussion about getting my affairs in order and it's what prompted getting a CT scan earlier than expected, which is what uncovered the tumors in my lungs and bones.

Well ladies and gentlemen, I am happy to tell you that my blood work this past month has been steadily dropping! The first few weeks of Taxol, they didn't take any tumor marker bloodwork. They wanted my body to get used to my new drug before trying to measure its efficacy. November 2nd was the big day. November 2nd, I went in with Big Man and Mom to meet with my doctor to find out the results of my first tumor marker test on Taxol. I was petrified! I was so scared that the Taxol wouldn't have had an effect and we would be one more drug closer to death.

I was prepared to give you all an update on my hair loss and impending doom on November 2nd when, to my surprise, I was told my tumor markers had dropped from 965 to 587. I was shocked, I was thrilled,  I was completely unprepared for this foreign thing we call "Good News." However, I was still afraid. I realized then that I was afraid to hope. Cancer had left me jaded and afraid of hope.

Unable to share the news for fear of a jinx, I simply stayed silent. I stayed off the radar. As unused to good news as I had become, I continued planning as if the good news hadn't happened. I still want to schedule a meeting with my priest, but I no longer had nightmares about the pearly gates.

Then, at my appointment on November 16th, my markers fell to 300!

Then, at this week's appointment, my marker fell to 234!

I feel a little bit like I'm watching a Thanksgiving football game, and my team just got a first down. Improbable as it might be, we got another first down, and then another. The TD is now within my sites. I'm allowing myself to dream. I'm allowing myself to set goals. If I could get down below 100... 38 could be attainable. 38 means normal. How I would love to be normal! I'm right there in field goal range of normal. I can taste it.

November has allowed me to hope.

Back in October, my doctor told Big Man and me to go on a trip. We should take a trip so that we could take quality time away together while I was still feeling good, today. My bone pain was manageable with Advil, today. We needed to take advantage of our time together because we were together, today. So we did, we booked a trip to Europe at Christmas and we're so excited! But our excitement was also tinged with sadness. What was this trip? People take honeymoons. People now take "Babymoons." What was this a "Goodbye-moon?"

 Now with this good news, that trip has taken on such a more fun and exciting feel. What other good news might we celebrate come Christmas? Maybe we could finally be like other couples and truly leave our worries at home? Maybe in the New Year we could start imagining a new home in our future? A home where we had the room to host more than 6 people for Thanksgiving dinner? A home of our very own, not an 800 sq foot condo? A home that we could decorate as we see fit for the Christmas holiday? A home that we could call our forever home? A home with space for an office AND a nursery? A nursery.

At chemo on November 23rd, instead of blogging as I should have, or answering emails as I should have, I allowed myself to google adoption resources in Massachusetts. I bookmarked the Massachusetts Department of Children and Families. If I get those tumor markers down to 38, down to the normal patient range, I'm going to allow myself to call their 800 number and start asking questions. Then maybe in 2013, when we're in our new forever home, I could actually schedule a home study. Hey, a girl can hope can't she?

I may be bald and covered in acne. I might not recognize myself in the mirror. I may have daily nosebleeds. I may have to sleep 13 hours every night, but at least I have hope. Those are just inconveniences. I wouldn't even elevate them to the level of "side effects." They are a mere nuisance, and they are a small price to pay for hope.

I realize as I'm writing this that I am getting all excited about just one month's worth of results. I know this is a marathon and not a sprint. I know that things can turn on a dime. But this Thanksgiving, I'm so Thankful for hope. I'm so Thankful for just one more day; just one more year. I don't want to get too greedy. I don't want to get ahead of myself. But I do want to take a moment and enjoy that future so many people take for granted. Thanks, God.

OPP....Other People's Problems

It is hard to believe that we are already on our way into summer. I'm excited to share with all of you the news that my summer is shaping up to be my best summer in two years!

Why you may ask?

Well, as you all certainly know by now, my every happiness hinges on....

Scans!

Last week I received my latest scan results. These particular scan results were crucial as it was my first set of scans since starting the latest Tykerb/Xeloda regimen way back in January. And... 

my cancer has shrunk!

As a refresher, back in January I got the worst Christmas present ever, the cancer equivalent of a bag full of coal. I was told that scans had shown new cancer in the lymph nodes in my abdomen. Well fast forward 6 months and those very same pesky spots in my abdominal lymph nodes were cut in half by my Tykerb/Xeloda!!

 Gratuitous Big Man and Little Daisy Shot

Everyone raise a glass to Daisy's Mommy!

These past six months have been mentally tough because I've been struggling with the new drug side effects while also not even knowing if the drugs were working!  Over the past few months, the blood work I would get regularly was showing conflicting news. One week the tumor markers in my blood work would go down, the next they would go back up, the following week one tumor marker would go down and another go up. Until scan time, I was really driving blind. These were difficult pills to swallow not knowing their efficacy! (pun intended)

Now that I know these drugs will work for me, I can more graciously and confidently endure any and all side effects. Bring it on! I can handle it with a smile!

But more importantly, with this fantastic news, I am set free. I am finally able to focus on what matters most in this world- other people. The Bridget Show has taken a hiatus.There are so many beautiful things happening to my friends and family: marriages, babies, houses, jobs. There are also so many tragedies that I'm hearing about. There is so much cancer in this world. Others need my attention now while I can spare it.

 I am sick and tired of the Bridget Show. For six years now I've been hogging the spotlight. I've been taking away some of the joy from so many joyous occasions. My friends feel sometimes that they can't complain to me about the trials of their own lives since I have "The Big C" on my plate. In reality, I would give any amount of money to NOT be the center of attention and to lose myself in the stories of others.

These past few weeks have been glorious. I feel as though I've come out of hiding. For the first time in ages I am planning ahead. I am planning life. Things many of you might take for granted seem so brave and liberating for me, like the freedom to book a non-refundable flight to visit Mommy four months from now.

I'm calling friends in high and low places and making plans for visits. I am gossiping, offering advice, listening, and truly being able to listen. My mind is not elsewhere. I am not preoccupied with my own fears.

To that end, I have taken the big scary step of beginning that memoir I've always threatened. I have 50 pages now and I love where it's going. Writing this blog is so very different from taking all of you along on a journey through my past, encouraging the reader to feel what I feel, taste what I taste, see what I see. This blog skims the surface. I share news and thoughts with you. In my memoir, I want you to actually sit in the doctor's waiting room with me.  It's different writing and it's difficult emotionally to write, but it is exhiliarating. I realize now I never could have gotten these words on the page, I never could have looked back at the pain of my many diagnoses if all of my energy was focused on the latest set of bad news. This tiny little scan, the words "stable" have set me free. I can't wait to reach my full potential!

To kick off my memoir writing, I enrolled in a memoir writing class at night after work once a week. That class has again opened my eyes to the joys of hearing other people's stories. The woman fighting brain tumors, families with dirty little secrets, thrilling travel-logues, every one of my classmates is more eloquent than the next and every one has a story to tell. Each week we share 10 or 20 pages of our work and we offer critique. We tell our colleagues to "dig deeper here", or "I love this character", "hurry up", "slow down" - it is a beautiful creative experience.

At this class, I have learned yet again the lifelong lesson that every one has a story. Every one of us has a burden that she must carry, and so many of us carry these burdens silently. We put on a wig. We take the cell phone call from our sick mother from a bathroom stall. We tell little white lies to our children. We come to work everyday when life at home is imploding.

 I want to carry that knowledge with me everyday in every interaction, and I hope you will keep that in your minds as well. Give the bagger at the grocery store an extra smile, allow the car at the stop sign to turn in front of you, hold the door open, choose your words carefully in every interaction, don't let your hot head or busy schedule cause you to raise your voice or cut corners, because you never know what sort of news the person next to you received today.

I am so thrilled to finally have the wherewithal to listen. Over the years, cancer has turned my heart to stone. My mind and my heart have been slowly numbed over the years. It happened gradually. As cancer dealt me blow, after blow, after blow, I retreated further and further into my own brain and into my own close circle of family and friends. I had room for their feelings and needs, but couldn't quite open myself up to sharing in strangers' pain and stories. If I felt all of your pain while also dealing with my own tragedy, I wouldn't be able to go on. The cold hard reality of life would be too much to bear. These scans have thawed me out and freed me a bit from that prison of my own mind, my own fears and worries.

At my writing workshop, I've seen firsthand that the whole world has been built on sharing stories. The greatest stories of all time, from Hercules to Robin Hood, even all of Shakespeare's great works, were all passed down orally over generations. A story shared can create an overnight sensation in a community, or it can ruin someone in an instant.

This summer I will, of course, still share my journey when it is appropriate or necessary, but I'm done complaining about my side effects for the rest of this summer. This summer, these next few months in between scans are a gift. I want to take advantage of this time to turn my focus outward. I want to share other stories of survival.

I don't need to celebrate this scan with wine and an expensive dinner, or an extravagent purchase. I can celebrate this win in my own fight by focusing on and shining a light upon the plight of my friends and neighbors. After all:

"What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal.  ~Albert Pike"

My Blog of Thanks Giving

I am in the hospital today. I am hooked up to an IV right now getting an infusion of my TDM1. I've been here for 3 hours, but I am hoping I can wrap it up within the hour so I don't have to rush to the airport. That's right, I am truly the greatest multi-tasker in America. I am writing a blog post, while getting my chemo, before heading to the airport for Thanksgiving. Take that Martha Stewart!

After seven months, I now have this TDM1 down to a science. I can set my watch to the moment the side effects kick in. I usually can steal about two hours post-infusion. Once I hit 2 hours, my eyes start to feel heavy. My head hurts. Every little movement takes a little more effort. I'll need a bed. The flight to Baltimore is an hour and a half, so I should be safe in my mom's arms by the time the side effects get too unbearable...if my flight is on time.

While sitting at chemo for several hours, I've found a lot of time to reflect on my year and to reflect on my many blessings. This Thanksgiving, while I have so much to be thankful for, most especially my TDM1 miracle, I am instead choosing to focus on just one. I am thankful this year for my ability to savor the moment.

Last Thanksgiving, I was unable to savor anything. Last Thanksgiving, I was just 5 days post double mastectomy. I had left the hospital just 2 days before. I could barely lift my head off the pillow and was pale, tired, and in pain. My lovely in-laws came to the house with a complete Thanksgiving meal that they brought all the way to Boston from Syracuse, NY. They didn't want me to "miss" Thanksgiving. But last year, even though I had turkey, I missed Thanksgiving. Because at the end of the day, this holiday is not about turkey, stuffing, or cranberry sauce. This holiday is about taking a collective deep breath, reflecting on all of our blessings, and enjoying family and friends. I was not in any shape last year to enjoy myself or my family.

Norman Rockwell got it right!

Thank you, God, for giving me another Thanksgiving. Thank you, God, for giving me this opportunity to savor my life, my friends, and my family. Thank you, God, for allowing me this second chance, I promise that this does not go unnoticed. This year, I will take the time to savor the moment. As one of my favorite theologians, Father James Martin, SJ, said when discussing Thanksgiving:

"Savoring is an antidote to our increasingly rushed lives. We live in a busy world, with an emphasis on speed, efficiency and productivity, and we often find ourselves always moving on to the next task at hand. Life becomes an endless series of tasks, and our day becomes a compendium of to-do lists. We become "human doings" instead of "human beings." Savoring slows us down....(In prayer) we pause to enjoy what has happened. It's a deepening of our gratitude to God, and reveals the hidden joys of our days."

 Thanksgiving used to be a blip on my radar, but now that I am older and oh-so-much wiser, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday of the year. I know there are no gifts. I know there seems to be no "purpose" beyond just taking a day off, but life isn't about gifts and life shouldn't always be "for" something.  I think we all need a breather and some real quality time more than any gift. We all need to savor the "hidden joys of our days." Ideally we would give thanks every day, but thank goodness we do it at least once a year.

There are so many little things for which we should give thanks, and these little joys are often overshadowed by the big stuff.  How beautiful is a a baby's smile as they wake from a nap? Or the reflection of a morning sunrise on the skyscrapers downtown? How did we manage to miss the joy that can be found in the simple, but beautiful habit of a kiss goodnight? Give thanks for the smile from a stranger as they hold the door. This Thanksgiving, try to be thankful for the little things that are so abundant and so often overlooked.

I am thankful that I am not on painkillers. I am thankful that this year I am not overwhelmed emotionally with fear and anxiety. This Thanksgiving, I can appreciate the smell of a fire in the fireplace, the sights, sounds and smells of a family gathering. I can recall childhood memories without any tinge of sadness, only fondness. I can enjoy the company of new family members, like my sister-in-law and her family, and look forward to making new holiday traditions as our families grow.

Last year I was crushed by all the sorrow and anxiety that a cancer recurrence brings. This year I am thankful for freedom from that.

I hope that all of you are blessed enough to enjoy the luxury of a moment of peace. Please take advantage of that moment and appreciate it's glory. The rush of Christmas will be here all too soon and we need to ready our souls for it!

Fresh Fall Start

Here in Boston, the weather has gotten suddenly chilly and the days are getting noticeably shorter. For the Big Man, a high school English teacher, summer is officially over. It is a start to a whole new year. In our household, Labor Day weekend seems like a much more noteworthy holiday than even the hoopla of New Year's Eve.

In my metastatic breast cancer world though, I follow a different calendar. I start a new "year" every three months. Believe it or not, my past three month "year" has already come to a close! It's been only four blog posts, one fast summer, and two glorious holiday weekends since my last set of scans. In June, I celebrated my first real out and out victory in my fight against cancer. For years the words "no change" or "stable" were actually good terms. I hadn't realized what limbo I was living. For five long years, the cancer never actually shrunk. It either grew or it stayed the same. The status quo was a victory. I was simply keeping the beast at bay, I had never before sent it running for the hills.

Then my little silver bullet came along. In June, for the first time, with the help of this TDM1-GDC clinical trial I started winning!

But last week, I was facing a new question, a new challenge. If you remember, when I first started the clinical trial I was taking both TDM1 and oral chemo pills called GDC. That combination almost killed me. My platelet count fell to dangerous levels. I was breaking out with "spontaneous bruising", which might sound tame in medical terms, but was in reality the scariest thing I've ever been through. I also couldn't get out of bed because every step, every breath, every movement hurt from the inside out. So I threw in the towel and I was devastated. But when I got the good June scan results, my devastation turned to hope.

Last week, as I went in for scans and results, I was again filled with dread. I faced a new question: without the GDC pills, would the cancer shrink? Would TDM1 alone be enough to keep this cancer running for dear life (I think that phrase takes on a new, opposite meaning in this case, don't you??!)

Well, my friends, the verdict is in:

 I am kicking cancer's ass!

In the past three months, the TDM1 has shrunk the original tumor in my liver visibly. I quote from the Radiology Report:

"There is an ill-defined mass in segment 6 of the liver which is slightly decreased compared to prior examination and measures 1.4 X 1.1 cm. "

But here's the best part...drumroll please....the scan doesn't even mention the second, smaller, newer liver "lesion" that showed up in April and started this whole clinical trial drama!

That vile, nasty, evil thing that sent me to the hospital for a biopsy that hurt like hell, it just disappeared so quickly and so quietly. That liver lesion arrived with so much pain and hoopla, and then it disappeared without even a peep! Take THAT cancer!

The TDM1 is working. I love my little silver bullet.

Me heading off to pre-school,
I guess at that age you didn't need a backpack?
I don't know what I love more,
my pig tales or my blue big girl shorts! 

This September is truly a fresh start for me as well as for my husband. This morning, I drove past an elementary school on my way to Starbucks. I saw and heard dozens of adorable children with shiny new backpacks, new haircuts, vivid white polo shirts, and smiles of pure joy race to visit with classmates.

As I drove past, I felt a kinship with those elementary schoolers, not because I was reliving my own childhood, but more because I share in their joy. This week, every phone conversation I have, every time I see a friend, every morning when I see the Big Man, I am filled with unbridled joy and the excited flip flop in my tummy that comes with new beginnings.

Today is a shiny, new backpack kind of day! Who knows what sort of terrible challenges lie ahead for the rest of this year, but today as I embark on a new chapter, I am fresh, well rested, healthy and new. My liver is shiny and clean and the world is my oyster.


I hope that all of you can take a bit of my energy today and face this new week with some ounce of unbridled joy and optimism. To see that sort of unconditional trust, hope, and love in an adult is an unusual gift. I think if we faced each morning like a child the world would be a better place, and our day to day lives would feel just a little less painful.

I want to say one last final thought about my second liver spot. That evil creature kept my entire family and all of you, my blog friends, awake at night with fear, but we must also remember, it also united us all in prayer and in hope, and, now, our prayers have been answered. That's the beauty of life, the same thing that hurts us more deeply than we can imagine, also opens us up to more joy than could have been enjoyed before. A rollercoaster is only as thrilling as its scariest hills and loops.

Thank you all for helping me and encouraging me along this journey. I cherish all of your comments and support more than you can ever know. I deeply believe I wouldn't have made it to this moment without you.

Enjoy the View

Another weekend is upon us. I don't know how time has flown by so quickly!

My Fourth of July holiday was fabulous; everything we expected it to be and more. The Mount Washington Resort is spectacular, although I think if we went back we would choose not to go on the Fourth of July. It was slightly too busy on the Fourth. The Resort had arranged for some reenactments of the Revolutionary War and the Gettysburg address. Driving up to the resort, we thought our car was getting hit by a bevy of errant golf balls from the nearby course, it wasn't until we turned a corner that we saw men in uniform and on horseback setting off fake cannon fire that we realized the banging sounds we heard were the blanks from the cannon! My little Jetta made it back from New Hampshire unscathed. While sitting on rocking chairs with a cup of coffee looking out at Mount Washington, you truly think that you could be the only person on the planet. Seeing children in the other room sitting on Abraham Lincoln's lap taking pictures takes away a bit of the wonder of the mountains.  But other than the reenactments, the trip was perfect!

We could have stayed there forever. Every morning coffee and juice was delivered to our door so we could stay in bed as long as possible. The food was out of this world and the service was impeccable. No fewer than four people helped us out of the car and with our luggage. Our waitress was adorable and attentive and we had the same waitress and busboy the whole weekend. We spent a day at the spa, sitting together in robes with tea, and saunas, and whirlpools, getting a massage and a facial. We wandered the grounds together hand in hand. It was exactly what we needed.

It is actually not until those moments of total and complete relaxation that the enormity of our situation can be truly understood. When we are in the moment and in a doctor's office or waiting room, we are just trying to make it through the day. The stress we carry day in and day out can be so overwhelming that it is actually incapacitating. The stress actually takes away our ability to look at our situation as a whole. I believe that at those most crucial moments, like scan times, if we were to take a step back and truly comprehend the amount of stress on our shoulders, we would crumble.

It wasn't until we had been at the resort for two days, after the massage, when my husband and I were sitting quietly holding hands and staring at the majestic Appalachians that it washed over us. We looked at each other and had a new found respect for our relationship. We had made it. We made it through another trial, another roadblock, another test, and we have come out the other end and still found each other. We have found this magical place.

But we didn't just sit around and get pampered. We also explored the mountains. At a friend's suggestion (Thank you, Molly!) we took an afternoon hike up Mount Willard. Big Man was adorable. He stopped after crossing any rock or little dribble of water or slight incline and offered me his hand. He looked afraid that I would break. I just plunged forward, head down, eyes wide open, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Although we ended up at 2,800 feet when we reached the summit, the hike was only a mile and a half each way, but it was quite steep. That said, when we reached the summit, the view was absolutely breathtaking!

I was suddenly giddy! Can you believe it, people? This time last month I couldn't get out of bed. Just two weeks ago, my platelet count was at 15,000 and I needed blood transfusions. I couldn't walk from my bed to the kitchen for a glass of water let alone hike up a mountain!  I wanted to do it again. I wanted to do Mount Washington! I could totally do an eight hour hike up to the top of Mount Washington, so what that its the highest peak in New England. I'm totally healthy! When we got to the bottom, I was talking about hiking the whole Appalachian Trail!

Big Man laughed, shook his head, kissed my forehead, grabbed my hand and said, "Let's go put you to bed!"

Big Man knows me too well. He knows this journey too well. I fell asleep in the middle of fireworks.
 I could barely move the next day. I may be handling it well, but the silver bullet is still chemotherapy. But one day, one day, that silly little Appalachian Trail won't know what hit it! I'm scheduled to go in for my next TDM1 infusion on July 21st, but today, we are triumphant! Today our heads are clear and we can climb any mountain. It's amazing what summer vacations can do.

Happy Friday, everyone! Get out there and climb your own personal mountains this weekend.

I Think I Might Be Winning!!!!!

I wanted to start everyone's holiday weekend off on the right foot. Get the champagne out, people. Put away the Big Girl Pants and put on your prettiest pair of Party Pants because I am winning this battle.

That's right, you heard me. After months of set backs and pain and side effects and trying oh-so-very-hard to keep a smile, I finally got one piece of good news!

Yesterday, my scans showed that the cancer in my liver had SHRUNK!!!!!!!!!

This TDM1 really might be that silver bullet I had hoped for. Now, it isn't a cure, but it is clearly working.

For the past four years, one liver spot had been there, lurking. It hadn't changed size or shape in four years. It hadn't grown, but it certainly hadn't shrunk. Then, a few months ago, a second little bugger in my liver showed up. The scans yesterday showed that, after only two rounds of TDM1, both tumors had shrunk visibly. One went from 2.8mm to 1.3mm. The other had shrunk from 1.6mm to .8mm.

My Doctor was gleeful and I take my cues from her. I'm not planning for dozens of little pants babies quite yet, but I could have the year of quiet that I had hoped and prayed for. I might even have a couple years of normalcy and quiet. The goal is that these suckers keep shrinking and that the side effects remain manageable. My heart function dropped slightly, but it was still above the 50% mark, so we are not going to worry about that today. I am going to exercise and try to keep the ol' tinker in Lance Armstrong-style shape so that this drug can continue working its magic.

My cancer had been humming along in my body for the past four years and now its been hit with a new drug and it doesn't know what hit it! Here's hoping my little silver bullet keeps killing and keeps shrinking. But let's not hope for too much.

Today, I am going to take this news and stick it in my back pocket. I am going to enjoy a fabulous Fourth of July weekend. Big Man and I are going to let our hair down and let our breath come out in a big sigh of relief. We are going to start planning our futures as all 26 and 30 year old's should do. The world is our oyster today, and I must say, we earned it.

Cheers!

Milestones

TGIF! Today is a huge day for me. Well, actually, yesterday was a huge day for me, but the Big Man and I plan on celebrating tonight. He is taking me to see "The Great American Trailer Park Musical." I don't know what to expect, but whatever it is it sounds fabulous!

No, it is not my birthday. No, it is not my wedding anniversary. No, we did not get that puppy I want, although Big Man, if you're reading this, if you come home with a puppy tonight then you will automatically win every argument for the next five years!

Today is my "Cancer-versary". It has officially been five years since my breast cancer diagnosis! I am entering my sixth year of survivorship today! I am now officially on the winning side of that 20% statistic that I think about every second of every day. My goodness, gracious how far I have come in the past five years! I get a little bit shaky just thinking about where I was on June 3, 2005.

I was standing in line at Starbucks. I had graduated two weeks before.  I was bright eyed and bushy tailed. The greatest worry that I had was what to wear to my first day of work. I had just spent some time shopping on Newbury Street for cute shirts to go under my boring black suit jacket. I needed a coffee because I had been sadly unsuccessful.

Everything I tried on suddenly seemed so "juvenile". I suddenly felt the urge to shop at Anne Taylor or Talbots. I bought my first ever pair of shoes from Naturalizer. In college, I had never left hip, cafe-and boutique-filled Newbury Street, but post-college, I had the urge to drive out to visit a large suburban mall.

I hoped that ordering a skinny, double-shot caramel macchiato might wake me up from this real world induced fashion coma.

That is a long winded way of saying, I was a totally typical college student. I did not have a care in the world, but if you asked me I am sure I would say that I was suffering some sort of major crisis.

My phone rang. It was my mother.

Momma asked me where I was. I told her Starbucks. Without taking a breath, I started into my big thoughts on the joys of sensible Naturalizer pumps. She clearly wasn't listening. Whatever she had on her mind she was going to say and there was no stopping her.  She interrupted my Naturalizer monologue. She never told me, "Honey, you should probably sit down" or "Why don't you call me back when you get home", or even, "Go into the bathroom where it is quiet and you can talk privately."

No, no. Instead, while standing in line at Starbucks behind a young mother with a MacLaren stroller and several Burberry and Petit Bateau shopping bags, my mother told me I had breast cancer.

I hung up on her saying, "Listen, I just can't deal with this right now."

Now, five years later, I can deal with absolutely anything and everything.

This time five years ago, I was in my brand new Volkswagen Jetta, a graduation gift from my proud parents, driving eight hours home from Boston to Baltimore with my mom. I had, for some reason, packed only three outfits and a bathing suit. Who knows why I thought I needed a bathing suit for chemo. I had quit my first job before I had even started and instead of living with my best girlfriends, I was in the process of moving back in with my parents.

On the long, Batan Death March that was my ride to chemo, I was having a conversation with my oldest brother about why I should or should not tell my college friends about my diagnosis.

"Bridge, this whole cancer thing is going to be really quick. Just get this chapter behind you, and you'll want to go back to normal. If you tell everyone, you'll never be able to go back to normal. Bump in the road, Bridge, bump in the road."

"Dude, Bro, I'm going to lose my hair. How am I going to explain that one?"

Silence.

And just like that, my life was forever changed. Now, I tell my story to anyone who will listen.

Five years ago, my boyfriend of six months came to my parent's home for only the second time. He held my hand as my mother's hairdresser shaved my head.  Here I am sporting my new look next to my dubious younger brother.

Five years ago, the GI Jane look worked for a bit, but then my hair started actually falling out. It came out in big chunks. The Big Man actually left a hand print on the back of my head after watching a movie at one point. The Big Man was both mortified and feeling incredibly guilty. So I quickly invested in an amazing wig.

Looks like I got the soccer mom look I had been hoping for on Newbury Street!

Now, five years later, that brave young man who held my hand as I shaved my head is now my husband and my hair is long and fabulous.

The past five years have been a long and painful few years. Nothing has gone as I expected, but the greatest lessons of my young but eventful life haven't been learned in the college classroom; they were learned in the hospital room. So here is what I have learned up to this point. These thoughts are the legacy from my first five years:

Your parents are your best friends. Contrary to what many of you might imagine, they will not be here forever and their presence in your lives is a gift. Let go of any petty drama or family arguments. If caring for your ailing mother is grating on your last nerve, when you have the knee jerk reaction to speak sharply or get exasperated, instead take a deep breath and give a hug instead. Your parents are the only people on this earth who know you better than you know yourselves.

The best thing that ever happened me was moving in with my parents after graduation. I did not just live upstairs. I cooked dinner with them every night, my dad and I went on dates, I got to know my mom as a friend and not a mother. I learned about their first jobs and their graduate school experiences. I learned to turn to them for good and sound advice, and to actually listen to their advice rather than thinking I know it all. We became the best friends we always should have been for the first 21 years of my life because we found ourselves in the unhappy position where we were all clinging to each other like survivors to a life raft. Please, do me a favor and become best friends with your parents simply because you are lucky enough to realize how precious they are!

I’ve also learned to stop spending my time trying to plan my whole life and setting certain goals to attain. Do not measure yourself based on the accomplishments of your peers. Life is too short to wish it away.  Reflect on all that you have accomplished as opposed to planning for the next accomplishment. Focus on tonight rather than planning for tomorrow. Turn off your phone, computer, tv.....Instead, let go and enjoy where you are in this very special moment. I know I will really enjoy "The Great American Trailer Park Musical" this evening. What are you doing tonight? Whatever it is, put your heart and soul into it!

 When I visited a doctor and he ran his hands through his hair and said, “I just don’t know what to do with you.” At that moment, I was forced to take stock of my life.

I task all of you to spend some time today, in my honor, taking stock of your lives. Don’t take stock of your career goals or material possessions. Take a look at your character and at your relationships.  Take a look at the friends around you, because at the end of your lives, your relationships are what endure even after you are gone. Your relationships and your character are what matter and they are all that matter.

I have spent the past five years intensely focused on the relationships with the people I love. It has been the best five years of my life. I am looking forward to the next five.

Spring Has Sprung!

Last week, I got out of the car in the pouring rain and saw a glorious sight. The tree I parked underneath, which I initially cursed because it was dripping all over my head as I struggled with groceries, instead suddenly became a sign of hope. There, on that bare tree, were thousands of teeny tiny little pink buds. So easy to miss, yet such a glorious symbol. Every year around this time, the world starts getting a little bit louder. I have been hearing birds each morning outside my window, and I can almost hear the sound of the flower buds bursting through the soil in our back garden.

This morning, those very same birds put a little spring in my step as I got out of bed. I opened the blinds and smiled at the sight of my newly planted window boxes with happy little yellow and purple pansies blooming. I admired my newly flowering tulips as I sipped my coffee in the backyard and, then, as I opened my Outlook calendar, the spring in my step turned into a verifiable leap of happiness. Today is my final inflation!

That's right, people, spring has sprung here in Boston....and so have.... my boobs!

The Girls are growing! Just in time for bikini season, the body that was Bridget is back and better than ever. I no longer just need Big Girl pants, I now also need Big Girl Bras! Now I should hold my joy back a bit, there's still a long way to go in this process, but I did want to provide everyone with a boob update.

Probably one of the hardest things about having a double mastectomy, especially at the ripe old age of 26, is that when you tell people you are having "a double mastectomy and reconstruction" they assume that you wake up with new boobs. Far from it, my friends. I've had to work for these here little ladies. It's been slow and hard and painful.


Even though I had been dealing with scars on my breasts for five years before I ever had my double mastectomy,  and even though for five years I was taking hormone therapy that took my once C cup boobs and shrunk them down to a generous A, even though I had worked in breast cancer and seen mastectomy scars both in person and online, and while I was on some level afraid of all that my boobs had done to threaten my life, nothing can prepare you for that moment when you see your very own mastectomy scars for the first time.

Granted, my surgeon did an amazing job. Honestly, if there were a Heisman Trophy for mastectomy surgery, my doc would be a shoe in, but the sense of loss was unexpectedly overwhelming. It hit me in the gut...hard. I know in my heart I made the right decision, and since I've had the surgery, I've slept better than I have in years. I know I have done everything that I can do to keep this cancer at bay, but there are certain things with a double mastectomy that you can't prepare for. For example, in addition to the scars across your chest, you lose all feeling from your belly button to your collar bone. That is heartbreaking, and it serves as an everyday reminder of all that you have lost.

The grief I felt was particularly difficult over the past six months when I would try to resume my normal life. Behaving like a normal 26 year old is incredibly important to me. I will leave the chemo chair and go to a birthday party. I vividly remember leaving one of the most difficult appointments of my life where a doctor gave me some bad test results, and heading directly to a cocktail party. I could have canceled, but I figured, I don't know how much time I have left. I most certainly will not spend what precious time remains - be it 5 more nights or 5,000 more nights- in bed feeling sorry for myself.

Manicures, pedicures, shopping for the perfect dress or shoe, getting dressed up and being told you look great even though you just left the hospital, those moments have kept me hopeful and alive. Then, after the mastectomy, I didn't fit into any of my shirts. I felt ugly. I felt ugly, and no amount of make up was going to hide that.

Also, contrary to what the name of the procedure "double mastectomy with reconstruction" implies, I didn't wake up with boobs after my mastectomy. Instead, I woke up with expanders in my chest, empty balloons that will one day create boobs. A lot of my friends didn't understand that, at least not until they saw me.

Over the past six months, I have visited my plastic surgeon once a month and he has slowly stretched my skin and inflated those balloons in my chest. We have slowly recreated boobs. The process has been painfully slow, not physically painful, just mentally painful. I liken it to when you are growing out your hair- you just don't think it will ever happen.

My first inflation, I was scared about pain so when I got home from the plastic surgeon and surveyed the damage in the mirror, I wasn't bothered too too much. I was able to quell my disappointment at the fact that my chest was still just as concave as when I started that morning. But the next month, after the second inflation, when I still left the office feeling like a 12 year old boy, I started getting a little antsy.

I say I felt like a 12 year old boy in all seriousness. It was snowing that day, not fun Christmas snow but slushy, rainy, brown snow. I was wearing a gray newsboy kind of hat with a cute brim on the front. Kind of like what old men in Ireland wear. Except, when I arrived home after visiting my plastic surgeon's office that day, I made the mistake of surveying his handiwork in the mirror whilst wearing that very same cute gray hat. Instead of boobs, I saw pectoral muscles.

Instead of taking a deep breath like a sane person and realizing these are a work in progress, I saw my gray hat wearing, flat-chested body and saw myself as, for real, a 12 year old newsboy. Cue the breakdown.

 

But that was February. That was snow. Today is April. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, my boobs have bloomed. One day, I looked down as my doctor was slowly inserting the saline in my chest and I started to actually see boobs! Which brings us to my post today. It has happened! The Girls are back and better than ever! Today is a glorious day!

I still have to have two more major surgeries to finish my boobs, but today I just wanted to reflect with all of you:

Even though I should know this by now, life is a journey. Whenever you are having a bad day, take a deep breath and realize that tomorrow will be better. Spring will come. The sun will shine. And some day soon, you will have boobs.

Celebrations!

Put the big girl pants away for now; they aren't needed this week. Instead, everyone raise a glass and toast my good health! Yesterday I saw my doctor and she told me that my scan results came back. There is no evidence of any new cancer. I have been given a clean bill of health!

I will be getting my next set of scans three months from now, sometime in July, which means I get to party it up and have a fabulous spring and early summer.

I'll talk more in future postings about how I have learned to live a full life in three month increments in between scans, but today is all about celebrating.

I have truly been given a new lease on life! Life is good today.

Tonight I am taking off my big girl pants and putting on my party pants. Momma, the Big Man and I are going out for a celebratory dinner. I invite all of you to join us in celebration. Thank you for your prayers! They worked!