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.

Scan Results

I knew something was wrong when my doctor came in and noticed my haircut. She was thrilled with the cut, but seemed uncomfortable gushing. She wanted to set a tone for the meeting and my smiling face and desire to be young, happy, and looking forward to a new year was something she was about to crush.

"We have good news and bad news."

My stomach sank, not to my toes, but all the way down the nine floors into the hospital lobby. Mamma grabbed my hand and clutched so hard it hurt, but I didn't dare pull away.

My latest scans showed that the tumors in my liver were stable. Not shrinking, but we were given the gift of stable. That was the good news.

The bad news was two-fold. The scans picked up on a new tumor: a dark spot in a lymph node in my abdomen, behind my liver, next to the celiac artery. Also, my tumor markers had increased markedly. Tumor markers, for my readers in the non-cancer world, are substances that cancer cells produce that can be measured in a blood test. When there is an increase in these substances in my blood, it is an indication of increased cancer cells in my body.

This new tumor and my tumor marker levels meant that I had stopped responding to the TDM1. I was removed from the clinical trial. I can no longer receive my precious silver bullet. Somewhere in the distance as I stared blankly out the 9th floor window, I heard a heavy door slamming shut. I could see my "case" being added to the clinical trial outcomes. My seven months before "disease progression," dragging down the drug's success. My performance dragging down every other patients' average.

I pictured somewhere, perhaps in another room in this very hospital, another metastatic patient was hugging her husband with joy, not fear, as she learned that there is a newly open spot on the TDM1 clinical trial. I probably know this patient. A dark part of me was struggling with my burning jealousy.

My doctor paused to let this news sink in before weighing in with her opinion.

"Bridget, we are disappointed. We are very disappointed. I know everyone in this room hoped that you would be on TDM1 longer, but you have to realize that, from a clinical perspective, this trial was a success. You are in a better place vis a vis your liver now than you were in May. Your liver lesions shrunk 22%. This is a success, and tumors in your lymph nodes, while hearing that is certainly scary, those are not vital organs. Better the lymph node than the liver or another vital organ. We are disappointed, but I am not worried about you. OK?"

I know my doctor is right. I find comfort in her words, and I relish her confidence. My doctor has confidence in me and in my chances.

But I also struggle with other facts. With every drug that is taken away, with every drug removed from my "arsenal," I get closer to running out. I am scared. I am angry at myself for not doing better. Was it something I ate? Too much red meat? Too much red wine? Too much stress? Late nights? Not enough exercise?

Over the past few days, as I have digested this news, I have felt like a spurned lover. I am recovering from a horrible break up. I thought TDM1 was "The One." I had visions of babies and suburban homes and years of happiness. When I was sent home on Wednesday without my scheduled infusion, I cried. I felt hit in the gut. I felt like a woman feels when she stares desperately at the phone and begs it to ring. When she picks up to make sure there's a dial tone. When she calls and hangs up without leaving a message and then yells at herself. Why can't I have him? I miss him! He was perfect! It all seemed to be going so well! What happened?

Just like with a bad breakup  I have to learn, "It's not you, it's me." There was nothing I could have done to prevent this. My cancer simply figured out TDM1's weakness too quickly. It found a detour to continue along its path of destruction. My cancer has some sort of as-yet undiscovered personality trait that makes TDM1 less than ideal.

And, just like my single girlfriends everywhere, I have to take a deep breath and say, "On to the next!"

Although I've been on 11 different drugs since 2005, and that might not seem "early" in the cancer journey, my doctor assures me I was actually able to grab a spot on this TDM1 clinical trial a little "earlier" than the other patients. Unlike many members of the trial who had exhausted all other standard therapies, I still have, according to Doc, many standard therapies still available to try. So now, we will try a standard therapy first approved by the FDA in 2007, the targeted therapy Tykerb with the chemotherapy Xeloda. 

In 2007, a clinical trial found that Tykerb plus Xeloda given to HER2+ metastatic patients who had progressed on other treatment regimens, gave patients 27 weeks without disease progression versus 18 weeks for Xeloda alone. While 8 months without another progression is certainly not a cure, some patients on Xeloda and Tykerb did see their cancers disappear and have been on the drug for several years. The 8 months is an average. We are entering an age of individualized treatment for breast cancer, my treatment over the last six years has certainly been individualized, and I am hoping to be one of those 'no evidence of disease' recipients of this drug cocktail. I am hoping that this combo will be "The One" for me.

My new drug regimen is all pills. I no longer have to visit the infusion room, which is fantastic, but also feels a little funny. I've gone to infusion every three weeks for the past six years. I feel like my nurses should have some sort of going away party. I know every receptionist, nurse, and clinical assistant. I know their kids' names. I know their upcoming wedding dates. Infusion was a social occasion for me, and those nurses answered a lot of my questions and laid to rest a lot of my concerns. They brought me warm blankets and sandwiches and drinks. They took care of me. They were caregivers. Missing infusion also feels a little like a break up. I know that this could be a great thing; it will just take some getting used to.

Instead of monthly infusions, I will be taking 11 pills every day. Talk about picking your poison! I've already started taking the Tykerb and I'm feeling....funny. I have problems with nausea and I just don't feel quite right, but I figure I can handle funny. We shall see what the Xeloda brings.

How am I doing? I am still digesting this news. I am torn. I have dual personalities here. I feel yet again like I am trying desperately to hold onto my life, grasping at straws, and I am concerned about the continued bad news we've been receiving over the past two years, but cancer can wreak havoc on my body, but it cannot take my soul.

If I've learned nothing in this cancer journey, I've learned that every cancer has a personality. My cancer has multiple personalities: when it dies, it dies quickly, but when it grows, it grows just as fast. This beast struck fear in my heart this week. In just nine weeks the news turned from "shrinking, shrinking, shrinking!" to growing. For cancer to turn on a dime, for a whole new tumor to appear in nine weeks....
This beast doesn't just die and stay dead. It has got a hold on my body and it will not go quietly into that dark night.

We have more dancing in the kitchen to do!

Regardless of cancer's intentions, I am adamant that I will continue to live the life I have made for myself. I will witness my best friend walking down the aisle. I will visit the beach with Mamma and Company this summer. I will write a book. Big Man and I are season ticket holders to our local theater and I am seeing every single show and having a pre-theater dinner to boot, even if I do feel a little 'funny.' Big Man and I want to take a trip to Wimbledon some summer soon, he's a tennis player whose never been to London, one of my favorite cities in the world that I can't wait to share with the man I love.

Let me be clear, though. We do not have a bucket list! I don't like the phrase bucket list. I might be aware and prepared for death, but I am certainly not racing toward the finish line while checking things off. Instead, I see the plans I've made as physical evidence of my fight. The battlefield is at the tissue level down in my belly, but I find symbolism from my actions every day.

As I'm swallowing the last five pills of my day, I smile with the realization that this is a physical act. "Take That!" I smile picturing the cancer cells running for the hills as the pill slowly dissolves. Like roaches scattering when you turn on a light. In the same way, if I were to get on a plane for London tomorrow, I would look out the window and say, "Not today, Cancer. Today, I am living!" After getting home from a fantastic party or double date, I think to myself as I kiss Big Man goodnight, "I am alive today."

I feel like, when the end comes, I'll know it. I have seen my grandmothers grow old. Dying from cancer is not like falling over from a heart attack or getting hit by a bus. It is a slow progression like the progression of old age. You slow down. Your plans get a little smaller and closer to home.

Hiking in the White Mountains this summer, crossing the finish line of the 3-Day this fall, planning babies and houses with Big Man at Christmas, yoga classes, dramatic hair cuts, I have very broad and ever broadening horizons. I have big plans.

This cancer might scare me, but I am going to stand my ground.

The Big Man and I went to church together today and left at peace with this news. At peace, but still clinging to one another. We can't seem to hold each other close enough, even while in church. Brushing elbows turns into me slipping my arm through his elbow and Big Man pulling me close. Brushing fingers turns into hand holding. One hand turns to both hands intertwined.

I laid my head on Big Man's shoulder today as Father John talked about the Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord. Father John argued that, while the babies who are welcomed into our church every weekend will certainly not remember their baptism, baptism is the most important sacrament. Symbolically, it is during baptism when God enters our world and makes His mark on our souls. We are His adopted children. He does not give us our eye or hair color, but He has given us all of our best qualities.

God gave me the Big Man

My strength and fortitude, my gift of gab. Big Man's ability to make me laugh when I feel instead like crying, Big Man's kind eyes and even kinder heart.  Those are the gifts we symbolically received at our baptisms. Those very qualities that get us through cancer and help us to actually grow with it. We don't remember baptism, but our souls remember.

God didn't give me cancer, but He gave me the tools I need to beat it and to carry on.

So, here we go, carrying on!

Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure

October has begun. The one month of the year when the entire world seems to join me on the crusade to which I dedicate every waking moment all year round.

I love and loathe October all at the same time. I love all of the pink everywhere I turn. I get joy from seeing pink toilet paper, although I don't buy it because the Big Man has forbidden me from bringing any more pink into the house. When I came home with a pink laptop, he drew a line!



My friend and fellow fighter Courtney
She lost her battle at only 25 years old

 Some detractors complain that companies use the pink color to increase sales without actually making any real commitment to the fight against breast cancer. Others argue that selling pink items gives individuals the idea that fighting breast cancer is easily done. These arguments don't bother me too much because I recognize that the world is made up all kinds of people.

As they say, it takes a village.

Not everyone will want to walk, run, or advocate. Very few people will write a letter to a senator or congressman. Very few people will write a check. Even fewer people will actually volunteer their time. But everyone can buy pet food, razor blades, chocolate and jewelry. I don't fault the shoppers for their lack of commitment. Perhaps they are lucky enough to have never been touched by cancer. Or, consider perhaps that they have been touched, but are so emotionally exhausted by the trauma that all they can bear to commit is an anonymous purchase thrown in with all the other week's groceries.

That is OK.

You choose your level of commitment, I've chosen mine.

To the detractors who say that some companies don't donate the sales from pink items, I say: yes! That is an issue that needs to be policed,  but regardless of the tiny amount or even complete lack of a donation, the pink toilet paper does raise awareness. It does get people talking, it does make a consumer pause, and it does make people aware. It also might be the first step in a longer journey. Perhaps the exhausted survivor starts by throwing pink razor blades into her cart. The next year she throws razor blades and goes out of her way to fly with an airline that supports Susan G. Komen for the Cure. This year, she takes it a step further and buys Nancy Brinker's new book "Promise Me." Then she is inspired. Next year, she runs a race. The year after that, she registers for the 3-Day and raises thousands of dollars.  All it took was one pink razor blade and time.

And so, I love October with all of its pinkness and overwhelming, hectic pace. I relish this rare moment when everyone rallies behind me, this entire month when I see people in front and people behind me in line at the grocery store all with pink items in their cart.



 Just as the Christmas season overflows with songs, family, and good cheer, I feel like October is ripe with opportunities for support, education, and hope. No matter male or female, young or old; no matter race, creed, socioeconomic status, or connection to the cause, for four short weeks every year, everyone is behind me in my fight.

My major problem with October is October 31st, when everyone stops rallying behind me while breast cancer keeps killing.

That is where the Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure comes in. That is where I get my fix of support and hope year round. Although the event is truly a sacred experience for me, and although Big Man and I have prepared all year for our journey, I have waited months to talk about my 3-Day for the Cure experience here because I worry that I will not do it justice. But today I will try.

2008 San Diego 3-Day Survivor Circle with Saralyn and Jennifer

I walk in the Komen 3-Day for the Cure every year. Even though I am a seasoned participant, and although some people dismiss it as just another fundraising event, I get deeply excited about the journey every year. I feel the kind of anticipation and nervousness that a small child feels on Christmas Eve waiting for Santa's arrival. My tummy does flip flops and feels like it jumped right up into my throat. My heart pounds fast enough to flutter my shirt-front. I have to abstain from coffee all week for fear of serious over-stimulation. I think about and dream about little else.

This one event has given me more hope than any scan result.

On the 3-Day for the Cure you are transported. Transported to a world where the cure is already a reality: a world without death, a world with only hope and love. You are transported from a place of helplessness to a place full of power. From a place of illness to a place of immense strength. From a place of disappointment, to a place of success. Surrounded by the sound of thousands of determined feet, you can't help but feel carried. When you cry, and you will cry, there are thousands of shoulders available for comfort.

Everyone has a story, one is sadder than the next, and you are no longer alone. I also think the sheer length of the walk, three days and 60 miles, makes every interaction more poignant. Like a summer love where two days can feel like two years, friendships formed along the 3-Day for the Cure feel like lifelong bonds after only a few minutes.

And the finish line!

Thousands of women and men line up shoulder to shoulder in their matching victory shirts and form a tunnel through which you are literally carried. When you cross the finish line, bandaged and broken. When you hobble across the finish and think, surely, I can not move another step. Instead of collapsing, you are greeted by thousands of high fives, deafening cheers, and are rained on by your fellow walker's tears of joy and sorrow. You are lifted up. Your limp is transformed into a confident stride. By being part of something bigger, you feel as though you could easily walk another 60.

If so many people can feel so strongly, can unite and create something so beautiful, no matter how dark the diagnosis, we must win. We will win. Alone, we can do nothing, but together, we can do anything.

The Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure weekend is one of the only times I have ever cried during my journey. I clearly remember the times I have cried outside of the 3-Day. Given my personality, they have been few and far between. I am not overly optimistic or fighting to keep from crying, I simply put my head down and continue to live.

I think this cancer diagnosis is so scary and so overwhelming, that my mind goes numb. My mind only allows me to see one step ahead, one day ahead, one small goal ahead. My mind prevents me from comprehending the full enormity of my situation. But on the 3-Day for the Cure, my mind is confronted by "shock and awe" and for a few precious days I let down my guard. I stop fighting and allow myself to be carried.

Big Man, mom and I will be walking 60 miles this weekend. This is Big Man's first. I get emotional just thinking about him there. I got him a t-shirt: "I wear pink for my wife." I have bought myself some sparkly pink Big Girl pants. We are ready!

I know I sound crazy, but I am looking forward to Opening Ceremonies and walking onto that route hand-in-hand with Alex just as much as I looked forward to seeing him at the end of the aisle on our wedding day.

Many of you non-walkers or non-crew probably think I am insane, but let me try one last time to explain. When you face death, you take stock of your life. You say, "What have I accomplished?"

This is my accomplishment. The $2,500 I have raised this year, the $8,000 I have raised over the past several years, the thousands of miles I have walked are my "last words." On my 3-Day, I am standing up and saying, "I was here. Today, I made a difference. Because of today, I am leaving this world better than I found it." The 3-Day for the Cure is my legacy.

If you live in the VA, MD, or DC area, come out and cheer on the Big Man and me this weekend! Visit one of the Cheering Stations or Closing Ceremonies listed here. If you live far away, register for your own 3-Day for the Cure or make a donation to our team, the Million Dollar Babies!

At the very least, get out there and buy some pink toilet paper, pink razor blades, pink Payless slippers, or a pink plane ticket!

But please, while you may start there, don't you dare stop there.

I thank you.