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"

An Ode to My Mother

I have been MIA for the past few weeks, recovering. I had my swap surgery February 9th and started my Xeloda pills last week. My new "Girls" are looking pretty good, but it's hard to get excited about them when they are black and blue. Luckily, the new Victoria's Secret catalog came in the mail the very same day as my surgery. I treated myself to three new bikinis as motivation for falling in love with this new body.

On the chemo front of things, the Xeloda treatment is going well. I'm pleasantly surprised. I haven't had to call my doctor in a panic or get rushed to the hospital. So far so good, although I guess my previous medical dramas have set the bar kind of low!

I am definitely fatigued, but I can learn to fit fatigue into my lifestyle. There's nothing wrong with an 8pm bedtime; I've got nothing to prove. I also need to learn to live with a constant stomach flu. Most women my age have to remember to bring a change of shoes in their purse (heels for the office or the bar, flats or flip flops for getting around town) or they have a purse stuffed with technology: a work blackberry, a personal cell phone, a digital camera, an IPod, or the young mom carries a diaper bag stuffed with toys, snacks, pacifiers, wipes, and, of course, diapers. Not me. I can't leave home without making sure my Immodium is in my purse. I root through my purse at dinner to pull out, not lipstick or a mint, but those Xeloda pills that must be taken with a meal. I am not turning into my mother, like some women my age. I skipped that stage completely. I'm turning into my grandmother!

That said, my face may be suffering from the Xeloda even more than my tummy. The hives have retreated  everywhere but from my face. I have the face of a 14 year old now. This is not my face. I turned to the Big Man the other day as we were brushing our teeth and pointed in the mirror saying, "Who the Hell is that woman in the mirror? That is not the woman you married!" He, of course, told me I was beautiful, but later that evening he advised me against ordering dessert because the chocolate might aggravate my "rash." Don't be fooled, blog friends, the Big Man is not perfect!

I suppose this is typical of my cancer journey. I check off one item on the "Cancer To- Do List" and another To Do pops right up. Just when I  had finally gotten over the major self-esteem issue that was learning to love my post-mastectomy chest, I now have to learn to love my chemo-induced acne and nausea.

Like the Victoria's Secret shopping spree, I am now pondering a trip to a make-up artist. Do any of you Boston-area readers have a recommendation for where to go? I get nervous about the stands in the mall. I'm not looking to get "hot" for a night out at da club. I just want to look fresh faced for a trip to, I dunno, the grocery store.

So, I apologize for my absence, but I've been a little under the weather and also I haven't been too full of self-confidence. Blogging requires a bit of chutzpah. I'm letting it all hang out here on this website. I have to be in the right frame of mind to blog. I might wake up ready to take on the world, but when I look in the mirror these days, that attitude quickly disappears as my cancer-acne stares back at me.

Which brings me to my topic for today. I want to take this opportunity to praise my Mommy. She is truly the only person in the world who can help me at a low self-esteem moment like this one. My swap surgery was surgery number 8. In 6 years, I've had 8 surgeries. Mom has dropped everything and run to my aide for every one. After spending the last 3 weeks together, I've realized that I always proclaim my love for the Big Man and I really have barely mentioned the other major player in my life.

Oh, Mommy, How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

Mommy and Bridge on my wedding day
Don't we look alike?

1) Mom is my biggest cheerleader. When I am feeling unattractive, she knows just the right thing to say. When I lift my shirt up above my head in the living room and say, "Mom, does the left one look slightly bigger than the right?" She takes my self-doubt seriously. She never tells me I'm being silly. She takes it seriously and she tells the truth! Mommy looks, critically, at both new breasts. She might even get out a measuring tape to take a closer, more scientific look. She asks me to turn to my left and turn to my right. Then she kisses me on the head and says, "They're perfect! I love them!"

2) She talks
and talks
and talks
and talks

When your life is a living soap opera, the best medicine is to forget about all the really huge life-changing stuff that's going on. People and US Weekly come in handy, but really the best medicine is a good, long conversation with mom. My mother will talk about anything. We talk about interior decorating and real estate, politics, and, of course, gossip.   My mother is like an elephant, she never forgets a face, a name, an occupation and marital status, or a child's name, occupation, and marital status. My mom loves to read the high school sports section of her local paper religiously. Why? She hasn't had a child in high school in at least 10 years. She reads the sports page because her friends and her neighbors have kids in high school. She likes to be able to personally congratulate them on their child's accomplishments when she runs into them in the grocery store.

You get the picture. Next to going out to dinner with the Big Man, talking to my mother is my favorite activity.

3) Last, but certainly not least, she does whatever needs to be done, no questions asked and with no expectation of repayment. Five years ago, I was bald as a baby's butt and just one week post-radiation. I wanted to move back to Boston to be closer to my boyfriend of one year. My mother not only allowed me to move, she moved me. I couldn't lift a thing. I was just a few months post-surgery. She drove furniture cross-country and then moved it all in for me. No questions asked.

Since that move, she has come up to Boston every three months to sit with me and hold my hand as I received my three-month scan results. She books flights. She books hotels. She takes me out to dinner. She takes me shopping and out for manicures to take my mind off my impending doom. She goes grocery shopping and cooks dinners that are frozen and ready to use after she leaves. All in all, she keeps my life running.

When I had my double mastectomy, Mommy moved to Boston for more than a month. She uprooted her life. She left bills and friends and the comfort of her own home. She found a long-term apartment down the street from my house and was at my disposal before I woke each morning until I fell asleep at night. She found a lovely B&B owned by an Irish couple that is three doors from my home that has become her second home. (if you ever want to visit Boston, I highly recommend it! www.aisling-bostonbb.com)  I owe my very life and all of my cancer fighting success so far to my mother's constant help. I couldn't have faced all that I have faced without her help.

Two Hot Girls on a Hot Summer Night

My mother is the ultimate portrait of a lady: graceful, selfless, smart, funny. She knows how to handle every situtation in exactly the right way, from talking to doctors to making career choices, from gardening to cooking & cleaning, from buying a house to renovating and decorating it. Mom has never steered me wrong and she is such a source of help, support and advice for me and for my three brothers. In fact, now that I mention it, how in the hell did she manage to raise four kids who were all a year and a half apart in age? Many women are exhausted by two, imagine raising four kids all under the age of five!

When I was growing up, my mother and I could barely speak without arguing; I believe it's because we were so much alike. We knew how to push each other's buttons and we couldn't help ourselves! I hate cancer, but I will forever be, on some level, very thankful for this nasty turn my life has taken. Cancer brought Mommy and me closer than we ever would have been otherwise. My mother is the port in this storm. This life would be unbearable and the situation would be untenable without her constant assistance. I can sleep soundly at night knowing that Mommy's got my back.

 Mommy can never be repaid. Saying "thank you" will never be thanks enough. Helping her move, taking her to dinner, remembering her birthday or Mother's Day, nothing I do could ever be enough repayment. This blog entry isn't enough. This ode could be a book.

The only thing I could possible do is take this opportunity to reassure her, to promise her, publicly: Mom, I promise never to put you into a retirement home. In fact, I think I owe you and all your best friends a very comfortable old age!

I'll close with my favorite version of a "Thanks, Mom" courtesy of Poet Laureate Billy Collins

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!

My Girls

I know I have waited too long to post because people have started asking, in hushed voices, "Is everything OK?" I apologize for the extended blog silence. Yes, everything is OK. I am here, I am happy, and nothing major has happened with my health.

Everything is actually fabulous! I have just been joyfully living life in-between scans. This blog is a wonderful tool for me, but it can also be quite emotional to revisit feelings and thoughts. For the past few weeks, I found I couldn't write anything. I just wanted to not revisit any cancer-fighting feelings. I just wanted to be "normal". The next set of scans are already coming up on September 1st, but for the past three weeks I have been happy,  relatively "healthy", and I have taken advantage of that time to visit my best friends.

From Boston to New York, New York to Baltimore, back to Boston, and then on to Chicago, I have been jet setting from city to city for birthdays, beach trips, and weddings. Basically, I have been enjoying life as all 27 year olds should! That time with My Girls has made me want to write a little ode. An Ode to My Girls. So I am breaking my silence with a love letter of sorts!

Since my diagnosis, I feel as though I am living in that movie "Groundhog Day." I am forever 21 years old. Whenever doctors talk about me to their colleagues they say something along the lines of "caucasian otherwise healthy female diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer at 21 years...". I also revisit the age and the big diagnosis often when I speak with survivors or at high schools and colleges or with the media about my diagnosis.

Since I am always stuck at 21, and since I now celebrate good scan results or cancer-versaries, my birthday has kind of taken a back seat. Often when I make big plans for a birthday trip or birthday party or birthday dinner, life has intervened. My 22nd birthday I was so frail and sick from starting chemo, I just didn't know if I could do much of anything. For my 25th birthday, my life had been thrown upside down just a few weeks prior with the sudden death of my father. When I turned 26, I was going every week for chemo treatment and my blood counts were dropping so I was pretty much celebrating in bed!

Long story short, since the big 2-1, many birthdays could have passed without my noticing! But...I say "could have" because I am blessed with the best group of girlfriends this side of heaven.

My Girls never let an opportunity for celebration pass without the appropriate amount of fun! My Girls always remember, and they always surprise me with plans. For example, I turned 27 in July (Happy Belated Birthday to me) and they set up a Birthday Rodeo complete with live music, BBQ, cowboy hats and a Dave Matthews Concert!

My Girls are family. They know me better than I know myself. They know me so well that they know what's best for me! When I am spewing objections about how everyday seems to be the Bridget Show. When I refuse to plan yet another special day to celebrate my life. When I object to visitors in the hospital claiming all I want to do was sleep, my girls show up with People Magazine in tow and they make me feel my age, which is a gift beyond anything I can ever give in return. For those few precious moments when I am giggling with My Girls, I am able to forget all of the cares and worries and responsibilities. Instead, I can just belly laugh.

They are not afraid when I turn green with nausea. It is not below them to spend an entire afternoon and evening snuggling in bed with me because I am too tired to go out. When I am willing to go out, they realize I can't drink a ton and so we do something special like bowling, riding bumper cars, or seeing a concert.

These women have taught me that thoughtfulness isn't showering someone with gifts. Friendship doesn't mean spending an exorbitant amount of money to spend time together at the latest and greatest hot spot. We don't even have to go out for a meal to have a good time.

True thoughtfulness, true friendship just means being there. My Girls don't expect me to "talk about it". There is no pressure. We pick up exactly where we left off, and, no matter what tragedies or huge changes have happened to all of us, we can always find one another to forget and to be surrounded with laughter. We laugh until we cry. But when the crying comes, and it does come, for all of us not just for the Sickie, we all know we are surrounded: surrounded with warm hands and long arms, shared tears and kisses.

I am blessed with so many true friends and with so much support. I don't know what I did to deserve it or how I got so lucky. As a child, I always bemoaned my lack of friends. I was always the kid at recess without any friends. Then one day, I woke up with this group of fabulous, successful, and funny young women.  Thank you, ladies, for supporting me when it is often you who needs support. Thank you for helping me feel normal and for keeping me sane, but most of all thank you for keeping me real. Living with breast cancer can make me narcissistic or keep me from seeing the forest for the trees. Spending time with each of you keeps me from getting swallowed by the big black hole that is "living with cancer." You help me to realize that all I'm really doing is living.

Thank You!

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you! Thank you from the bottom of my Big Girl Heart!

You all lifted me up on Friday. I was overwhelmed with kind words. I was overwhelmed, and I was humbled. I wanted to take this blog post as an opportunity to reassure you- your kind words and well wishes did not go unused.

As the only girl from a family of six, anyone will tell you that I am never alone. Also, in case you can't tell from the blog, I am slightly gregarious. Finally, I am Irish. I love telling or hearing a good story. There is no moment I love more than those fleeting moments when everyone is gathered around a table laughing together. Those are the moments when I can imagine that heaven really truly exists right here on earth.

So I rarely feel alone, is the point.

Except when I am in a sterile tunnel. In tunnels, be they MRI, CT, PET, whatever other acronym you want to name, it is cold. They have to keep the rooms cold so the machines run smoothly. Also, when they run those tests everyone clears out before the machine moves. That is when you know you're sick. You are left alone in the cold room and everyone else, everyone except the sickie, everyone healthy, gets the hell out of there.

I don't usually feel sorry for myself, trust me I don't, but this procedure marked my seventh major procedure in a year. I'm all set with sterile rooms.

So on Friday, as they wheeled me away from mom and wheeled me back into a sterile room, I could have felt alone. But I didn't feel alone at all. At that moment, I knew all of these people, some people I've never even met, were right there with me.

So, thank you.

The procedure is over, but it was a bit tough. The surgeon was very apologetic. Apparently, liver biopsies are not supposed to hurt, but it hurt like hell in my case. The spot was very near the surface, but was difficult to get to for some reason, so they had to keep striking the surface to reposition the needle. The surface of the liver is, according to the apologetic surgeon, a "pain center". That sounds very benign in doctor terms. In patient terms, I never want to have to do that ever again. I'm all set with that.

That said, the recovery was smooth as silk. The only real side effect was that I couldn't have wine with dinner. Instead, the Big Man and I helped ourselves to some sweets.

So thank you for making a difficult day bearable. Thank you for keeping me in your thoughts. No one wants to suffer alone. No one should ever suffer alone. I am lucky.

Now we wait. The doctors tell me I should have the results on Wednesday. And yet, I am amazingly calm.

I am calm because I am not alone. Thank you for helping me shoulder this enormous burden, sometimes carrying it all alone gets too hard.