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!

Victory!

I hope my blog silence hasn't led you to believe that I dropped dead during my 60 mile walk! Far from it, in fact. The Big Man and I walked every step together. We crossed the finish hand in hand. We are victorious!

I am not sure how to sum up our 3-Day for the Cure weekend in a way that will do it justice. All I can say is that, over the course of those 60 miles, Alex and I fell in love all over again.

You see, the Big Man and I had only been dating about six months before my diagnosis back in 2005. We were still getting to know one another and then this huge cancer thing was thrown into our laps. Over the past six years, we have done a little dance when it comes to my cancer. I want him to be involved, but I also want to be independent. We want to communicate about complicated emotional issues and we don't quite know how. He wants to get involved and help, but at the end of the day, this cancer journey is mine.

The most difficult step to learn in this cancer dance has been that my man wants to make it all better and take the pain away. We are learning that is impossible. Every day is a new chapter in our relationship. Every day is a learning experience. It can be beautiful, but it is so hard.

The 2010 Susan G. Komen DC 3-Day for the Cure was the high point of our relationship, the culmination of all our hard work. We embarked on the journey still doing our little "figuring this all out" dance, but we left totally in sync. It could have gone either way. I was so nervous that he would hate the walk or wouldn't get the emotion behind it. I should have had more faith in my man's heart. I should have had more faith in how he understands my struggle and appreciated more that he is dealing with a struggle all his own. He may not come to every appointment because there are simply too many, but he feels deeply every ache, pain and every set back.

Each day we were both pleasantly surprised at how much we enjoyed walking and talking together and we were shocked that we could laugh until we cried and come up with brand new nicknames for one another. Our team, The Million Dollar Babies, was perfect. The perfect amount of support and encouragement and comic relief, and it was a large team so that we could have our own private journey as a couple, but we were never ever alone.

As we walked across the finish, Alex looked at me and smiled and said, "Congratulations, Little One." Next to the words, "I Do," that was the sweetest phrase I've ever heard. Alex was proud of me. I was proud of him. We were both in incredible pain!

When we left the 3-Day Sunday night we were no longer those two people traveling the same difficult road. Instead, we left as one person looking forward confidently toward the future.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so, without further ado:


The Big Man and Big Girl 3-Day for the Cure journey



music courtesy of Ingrid Michaelson: "Soldier." Everybody. 2009.

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 Am Radioactive Man!

I stumbled upon an interesting article this week. According to some recent studies, Americans get the most medical radiation exposure in the world: The Radiation Risk. While America is often considered a leader in the field of medicine, our reliance on high powered tests to diagnose serious medical conditions has some side effects. Specifically, too much radiation exposure increases your risk of developing cancer. Well, then what am I, Cancer Girl, worried about you may ask? Good question. You may recall in previous posts I lamented about how alone I feel in the hospital. When the nurse approaches you wearing a floor-to-ceiling sterile gown, sterile blue booties, and giant yellow plastic gloves that cover her arms up to her elbow, all to protect her from being exposed to the medicine that is about to go into your arm.... I'm just sayin', it could send the wrong impression! When I go in for a scan, the technicians don't just put on protective clothing or move behind a protective window, instead the entire room clears and they actually leave the room and go down the hall. So, yes, I might feel a little isolated! These moments of feeling like a guinea pig or lab rat were one thing in the beginning. In the beginning I was so focused on kicking cancer's butt that I didn't stop to worry about what exactly was going into my body. Just two weeks after my first chemo treatment, I could feel chunks missing from the giant hard mass in my left breast, so instead of worrying about any long term side effects, I said, "Bring me more!" But now, after five years of being poked and prodded with no end in site, I'm starting to feel a little sorry for myself and I'm starting to wonder what my end goal really is. Let's say I live until I'm 80, I know what otherwise healthy 80 year olds look like. What in the world will I look like? What other ailments might I have? What am I doing to myself? I've made myself feel better by reminding myself that many of my peers are out on all-night benders in New York City and I'm not. Ozzy Osbourne turned out relatively OK. I don't really have too much to worry about, but then this article came across my Google Alerts. Suddenly, that nagging suspicion that perhaps I was indeed a walking freak were suddenly confirmed. Said article discusses the issue mostly from the perspective of the average American, the average healthy American, reminding me that I am, in fact, not an average healthy American.  It argues that we should fight for doctors to rely less on tests like CT scans because too much radiation carries risk. Frankly, in reading the article and looking at the numbers they provide, you should all breath a sigh of relief. One CT scan to diagnose whatever brought you to the ER at 3am will not kill you. Instead, I am taking one for the team! The article compares our exposure to radiation from medical tests to the radiation exposure of survivors of the Chernobyl Nuclear Disaster and studies of the Japanese atomic bomb survivors. Those survivors had between "50 and 150 millisieverts of radiation. A chest or abdominal CT scan involves 10 to 20 millisieverts." Let's put those numbers into real life Big Girl measurements. For five years, I have gotten chest AND abdominal CT scans every three months. Those scans are unpleasant enough because I have to sit in the hospital drinking nasty pink fruit punch mixed with metallic tasting drugs for two hours (thank you, thoughtful readers who sent me flasks and Flamingo Shaped Beer Bongs to help make those sessions more bearable) but now we also have to do some Big Girl math.  4 CT Scans a year X 20 millisieverts a scan = 80 millisieverts a year X 5 years = 400 millisieverts of radiation Well goodness gracious, its like I lived through Chernobyl and both Japanese A-Bombs!!! This math also reminds me of another funny little test I get called a MUGA scan of my heart, which happens, coincidentally enough, in the hospital department called "Nuclear Medicine." After every MUGA scan, which I get every 6 months to make sure my heart is functioning properly, I am given a tiny little card that the technicians tell me I am to carry with me for approximately 48 hours. Basically, this little card tells officials that I am radioactive. Apparently, some poor patient left his MUGA scan and drove back to his home in New Hampshire, but on the way home he got pulled over by a state trooper who had some special bomb sniffing equipment in his car.  At this time, the little notification cards were not invented yet and the poor soul was dragged through quite a few hours of explanation.

So, thank you, Google Alerts for confirming that I am in fact, Radioactive Man! I'm even more of a survivor than I thought. But on a more serious note, as our country advances with medicine, more and more patients are surviving many years with serious illnesses like cancer and other ailments that 20 years ago would have been a death sentence. How do we, as a country, support these survivors? How do we even know what to do, or what we will need to do in the long term, to support one another?

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!

Rainy Friday

This weekend is shaping up to be a Big Girl Pants kind of weekend, and this weekend is one of the reasons I started this blog. Today I will be heading in for my first set of scans since October. Scans are at the heart of the metastatic breast cancer journey. The fact that I need scans every three months is what it means to not have a cure. My doctors do the best that they can. My doctors are the best in this field. As one of my favorites put it, "we carpet bombed you" with chemo. We do the most aggressive surgery. We consider all options. And then, we wait and we watch.

The hardest part of scans is not having my morning coffee. As soon as I get out of that tunnel I make a beeline for Starbucks! I have to starve myself for 4 hours before the scan. The other annoying part is the sheer time I must devote. I have to arrive 90 minutes before my actual appointment time. I've never understood why they don't just schedule the scan for the hour when I have to arrive, but I'm not in health care. There must be some bureaucratic explanation.

When I arrive 90 minutes early, I am given a lovely little cocktail of Crystal Light and Barium. They are so nice as to ask my preference- Iced Tea or Fruit Punch. I've tried Barium with any number of things and unless its a stiff alcoholic drink strong enough to overpower the metallic taste of the medicine, it is no difference. I sit there for 90 minutes and drink three whole bottles of this stuff intended to coat my insides with "contrast". The Barium tastes like a mixture of metal and dirty feet. It's not so offensive as to make you get sick, but there is a gag reflex.

Now you may recall, I was diagnosed as a senior in college. While some may think that is incredibly unfair, I actually see that timing as a gift from God. Why you may ask? Well...I bring my college drinking skills to the table at scan time!

While all the other old ladies are sipping their contrast with straws, I take a deep breath and throw that baby back. The nurses tell me my nauseousness after the scan is over would be better if I sipped, but I'm young enough to still have my eyes on the prize. I'm 26, I'm allowed to throw caution to the wind when it comes to thinking about the end results of my actions. And so I chug. I want to go to Party City one day and find a pink beer bong and bring it with me to my next appointment. I can picture it now, I am going to be going down on one knee in my gorgeous hospital robe holding the beer bong up high and downing that Crystal Light in two seconds. Then I'll teach the rest of the waiting room!

After 90 minutes of waiting, you would expect the actual scan to be a big deal, but it is actually like that roller coaster ride at the amusement park. You wait hours in line and then the experience is way underwhelming and only lasts for .3 seconds. I have timed the CT scan, and it is never more than 10 minutes long.

But then the real waiting begins.

At the beginning of my cancer journey, when I first moved to Boston in 2006 and began going to Dana Farber, I would spend a whole day at the hospital. I had my scan in the morning, break for lunch and then go see the doctor for results in the afternoon. But then one time, the results came back bad. I had probably only been in Boston for 3 months. My hair was just sprouting. I was joyfully cavalier that I had beaten it. This cancer thing was just one year of my life. Just one horrible year. And then, the scans. I came to the results appointment alone. That was the last time I ever spent scan-time alone.

Since my journey has been so unpredictable and outside of the usual realm of cancer patients, my doctors tend to get creative with my treatment plan. Many doctors weigh in on statistics and treatment options and then my doctor and I get together and usually end up with a plan that is some where in the middle of the whole spectrum. I really enjoy being a partner in my care and knowing all of the options and all of the pros and cons. Well that first recurrence back in 2006, they saw the tumor in my liver grow. My doctor had just gotten the results minutes before my appointment and she came in unsure of how we would proceed. She had not had ample time to think about a game plan. It was an all around unpleasant experience because the news was bad enough but leaving without a game plan is enough to send me over a steep cliff. I must always have a game plan. Knowing that I have options keeps me sane.

So now, I get the scans on Friday and get the results on Monday. It makes for a difficult weekend, but my mom flies up to play with me and we fill our time with all sorts of fun things. This weekend, mom is teaching me to garden. We are also going to get the usual mani-pedi action. We have a list of shopping we need to get into on Newbury Street. The Big Man and I will take Mamma to our favorite restaurants. The days with mom fly by and I find that I forget about the impending appointment that could potentially take this beautiful life and throw it all to pieces again.

I don't remember until I'm sitting in the waiting room.

So everyone, enjoy this weekend for me. Get out there and take a brisk walk. Go to a party. Go to a hip restaurant. Dance. Have an amazing weekend. Love Life. Because on Monday, my life could change. I will of course update everyone as soon as I know anything.

How Are You Doing?

Think about the phrase "How are you doing?" Everyday, in every city across the globe, hundreds of people are asking that very question. Mothers ask sons over phone calls, girlfriends ask over a glass of wine, long lost friends connect over coffee, doctors ask patients as they give a pat down.

Sometimes, like during high school reunions, people don't really care about the answer. Instead of listening to the answer, the questioner simply prepares for when the same question comes back her way. But every once in a while this simple question is posed in such a way that makes the heart sing.

I notice a lot when people ask me how I am "doing" because I never quite know how to respond. When I answer the, "How are you doing" with the expected, "Fine, thank you and how are you?" I am almost always lying.

Five years ago, on June 3, 2005, I was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer.  I was 21 years old. It was two weeks after my college graduation. I had no family history of the disease.

Five years ago, some people started to dread asking me 'the question'. Five years ago, some people I have never met and may never meet started asking how I was doing. And five years ago, for the first time ever, I noticed how wonderful and liberating it can be when someone asks, "how are you doing?" and really, truly wants to know.

As my new blog title implies, life with Stage IV breast cancer requires a pair of Big Girl Pants. If you're going to enter my world, you better put on a pair of your prettiest party pants and buckle them up tight, because my answer to "How are you doing?" is always long winded!

My long winded answers are what prompted this blog. For years, I've been filling people in on my latest adventures in cancer over coffee or dinner, at cocktail parties or in mass emails. I bring people up to speed in 500 words or less. Over five years struggling with recurrences, I am slowly realizing that my life will never be normal enough to sum up over dinner. Instead, life with Stage IV cancer means that every day major news is happening. Every month a new hurdle pops up. Every week a new drug is tried. Every evening we pray.

Sharing my story over dinner, over coffee, at weddings, is unfair for my friends and family and it is a disservice to the huge hurdles that I overcome every single day. I plan to use this blog to share those day to day struggles.

I plan to update this blog everyday, or at least once a week, with reflections on where I've been, updates on where I'm headed, and general thoughts about life and about facing down death.

In an ideal world, people will actually read this and share it as well. I am also giving birth to this blog because I want to raise awareness about living life with breast cancer. Not beating it, not surviving it, not closing that door, but truly, happily, sadly, thoroughly and completely living with it.

I joke sometimes about being scary. I really am not joking.

My story scares people, especially fellow cancer patients. I am the worst case scenario.

I was diagnosed way late. By the time someone sent me for a mammogram five years ago, the cancer had traveled from my breast to my liver. One doctor gave me a 16% chance of celebrating my 30th birthday. Over the past five years, I have had three recurrences and 5 surgeries. I have been on nine different types of drugs. My cancer just won't quit. The doctors can sometimes be quite grim about my "prognosis"

But I am living well. I am living fully. I am happy. I am one of the happiest people I know. I just got married in August (best wedding ever!!) and some days I call my husband in the middle of the day to just thank him for the amazing life that we have made together. I created a song that I sing (way off tune!) while cooking dinner about how much I love my little life. I think these facts can help people, even though my situation might scare you.

It is this happiness that keeps me motivated when life isn't very happy. This day to day happiness makes me a fighter.

So let's kick off this journey by sharing one of my most favorite-est pictures ever. This is me with Stage IV cancer.

Do I look sick to you?

Does it look like I might feel sorry for myself?

Now I'm off to a doctor's appointment and will update everyone shortly! I hope there will be someone reading.