Why? That is the question.

The million dollar question is why? Why me? Why at 38 years old? The inner scientist in me needs to know. If something caused my cancer that I can't control, then so be it. If something caused my cancer that I can control, I want to know.

In an effort to answer the question, I agreed to a genetic test. I just got the results. My report reads, "The personal history of cancer made the patient (me) a candidate for genetic testing for hereditary breast and ovarian cancer syndrome (caused by mutations in the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes). This testing showed NO MUTATION DETECTED by comprehensive gene sequencing of BRAC1 and BRAC2. Thus, the cancer diagnosis was most likely NOT related to a mutation in one of the genes."

This is good news for my relatives. I celebrate this news and rejoice. My mom, aunts, cousins, and future granddaughters probably don't have the genetic mutations in the breast cancer genes either. Yay! Fantastic. It means I and my kin are no more at risk for ovarian cancer than any other average woman...which is 2% in her lifetime. It means my relatives probably won't follow in my footsteps and get breast cancer.

While this is great news, I still feel unsettled. The bottom line is that if my cancer wasn't in the genes then non-hereditary factors caused my breast cancer. Hmmm. What? Birth control pills? Did I not breastfeed long enough? I should have exercised more. I ate too much meat/ junk food/ milk/soy. I drank too much wine. I worry too much and the stress caused it. The big question is do I now make radical changes in my life to keep these environmental factors from causing my cancer to resurface again? Probably. I mean I do intend to eat better, exercise more, drink less, but hell, we all intend to do these things with or without the cancer history. The thing is though that I should probably just concentrate on living right now. I should probably not blame my pre-cancer self for anything. I am letting that pizza-eating, wine-drinking, gave-her-kids-a-bottle woman off the hook. I can guarantee that I made bad choices. I can guarantee that I coulda/shoulda/woulda done things better, but no matter how much soul-searching I do, the fact remains that one day, I will die. There aren't choices that are going to prevent that.

However, I am not dying today! Today, I am going to do some yoga and I'm not going to stress about it. I just wanted to blog the news for my family. One thing I have relished through this process is information. I have scoured the internet for other people's stories and it is only fair that I provide mine. If we keep communicating, we can not only learn more about the causes and effects of breast cancer, we can overcome it. That way, even though we all will someday die, we won't have to die from breast cancer. We can use that damn pink ribbon for another cause.

Hurry up and wait.

Hi, cancer blog. It has been a while. What have I been up to, you ask? Well, healing. I had the surgery. I am done with the chemotherapy, all 16 treatments. I am done with the radiation, all 25 treatments. I am done with the cancer center. I am now busy forgetting about cancer. I don't want to talk about cancer really. I don't want to write about it. I want this entire year in my rear view.

Now, I am in the waiting place...the most frustrating place ever.

For one, I am waiting for my skin to heal so I can schedule my boob implant surgery and nipple reconstruction. (Right now, I have Barbie boobs, little round mounds with no nipple. I still have the expanders in...not the permanent boobs yet.)

I started my hormone therapy and am waiting to see if my body tolerates my new medication okay. I am a month in and so far so good. I have hot flashes every night and I break out in an itchy rash whenever I actually try to exercise. I am perpetually bitchy, but other than that, I am tolerating this estrogen-robbing Tamoxifen okay. I'm going to keep swallowing the pill every day. Estrogen causes my cancer to grow, and this medication keeps my estrogen low.

I am waiting to start a clinical trial. I soon will be adding either Metformin or a placebo to my list of meds. The medical peeps think insulin and estrogen and breast cancer could all somehow be related, and I have volunteered to be a guinea pig. Honestly, I only agreed to it because the only real side effect mentioned for Metformin is weight loss and well, that is one side effect I wouldn't mind. Knowing my luck, I'll get stuck in the control group with the placebo.

I am waiting to see if cancer stays away. Now my life turns into a series of diagnostic tests and screens to see if the cancer comes back. This fact, this waiting place, frustrates me the most.

So what have I been up to? Healing...and waiting...and trying to forget...and living.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I start radiation therapy today. I am not scared or anything. I have met my radio team twice now already- once to get positioned and another to get chest scanned and tattooed. I have four little freckle tattoos now to help them line up the beam. Not sure how I can turn those into something artistic later. Guess they will just be another souvenir of this awesome fun time. You know, because those crazy scars down my chest just aren’t enough. Honestly, I almost cried last Friday when I walked into the cancer center. I am just so sick of that place. I hate the stupid smiley greeter guy. I hate the receptionist people who keep asking for my $40. I hate the art work on the walls. I know that none of this is fair. This is the place that is saving my life. These are the kindest, sweetest people in the world. At least the radiation stuff is downstairs. The chemo stuff is upstairs and I hate that scene even more. And for all you folks that work there and may read this, don’t take it personally. I detest lots of places for no good reason. For example, I really hate the dentist office and Jiffy Lube and Chuckie Cheese.

So my vanity is really getting the best of me. I look in the mirror an insane amount of times during the day. I am constantly taking photos of the top of my head with my phone and then deleting them after I look at them. I am willing my hair to grow stronger and faster all the time. Right now, I have a small patch of fuzz. Is it dirty blond fuzz or gray/brown fuzz? I am afraid to ask. I return to work next week, and I am already feeling self-conscious. This post chemo thing takes the first day of school anxiety to an entirely new level. Do I continue to wear wigs? Do I face my students with my G. I. Jane hairdo, keeping in mind that I don’t have Demi Moore’s bone structure or slim frame? Do I draw on eyebrows even though it is obvious and ridiculous? I bet you are thinking who cares. You will tell me I am beautiful no matter what, and you will be right, but I still feel like a thirteen year old at a pool party whose body is uncontrollably changing and not necessarily for the better.

To top off my fuzzy hair that grows a micron a day, I also seem to be gaining weight. Great, right? No, people. I lost some weight courtesy of the red devil, but I want that weight to stay lost. Between the steroids and early menopause, my body is in survival, fat-storage mode. No matter how much I walk and swim and pretend I am a beach volleyball Olympian, and no matter how much I DON’T eat, the scales keep going up. Really, universe? This does not help with the body image issues afore mentioned.

All-in-all, though, I am getting my groove back. My energy levels are up. I am very excited about returning to work. I have done lots of back-to-school shopping for me and the kids. I actually skipped in Staples. I am so damn excited. I am excited for a new academic year, a new set of boobs, a new not-tired cancer free Anna. I am sad for my pets that have spent the last year napping with me in my queen bed nest for hours on end. I think Buddy, my loyal and cuddly Australian Shepherd, will miss snuggling with me and watching hours of bad reality television. Don’t worry, sweet animals. I hear radiation makes you tired so you and I will still have our daily naps. Only this semester, mommy (ß me) will get out of bed and actually cook her family dinner. Well, some of the time.

Let me call the wambulance.

Here is the truth. I feel pretty crappy. I constantly have a headache and my arms and legs hurt and I feel blah and tired and moody and well, you get the picture. My bathroom habits have not been normal since this junk began. (Too much info...I know.) I toss and turn at night. Always too hot. Sick of trying to sleep on my back. Sick of wearing hats and scarves and wigs. Sick of this cancer game, in general. The steroids they give me have me growing facial hair (ironic, I know) and eating entire tubs of ice cream. I am counting the days to normal.

And guess what? Thursday is the day. It is my last day of chemotherapy. Please, dear Lord, let it be my last day of chemo ever. Last few times I met my oncologist, I have reminded her of this impending milestone. She doesn't seem as excited. I am expecting balloons and confetti to drop from the ceiling on Thursday. I am expecting people to sing or at least a certificate of completion. I have a feeling none of these things will happen. Don't care. Celebration on Thursday even if it is just a double scoop from Dairy Queen afterwards.

My oncologist REALLY disappointed me the last two visits. When I asked her if I could take a little break between my last chemo and the start of the oral anti-estrogen medication I'll have to take for five years, she said it would depend on my radiation plan. Crazy doctor say what? She never, ever mentioned radiation to me before that moment. I would have preferred she just slap me across the face. I can't even figure out what the hell they will radiate. Under my arm, she says, where the positive lymph node was. Uh, Dr. V, that is where my boob expanders are. You know, the fake boobs that feel like air mattress plastic filled with water. Also, my heart is there. Ahem, do you people know what you are doing? And when, please tell me, am I going to get my *real* fake boobs? The ones that will transform me into the Baywatch beauty that I deserve to be.  Dr. V did not have answers for me. No, I have to meet another doctor, a radiation specialist who went to Harvard. I meet her tomorrow morning at 7:30am. Obviously, going by the appointment time, this new doc and I are not compatible. I'll let you know the final verdict on radiation.

Meanwhile, my bone scan showed no cancer in my bones. My latest CT scan showed no cancer in the brain. I have felt pretty lousy for the last six months so I am pretty sure the chemo took care of any remaining cancer in my lymphatic system. Yay! Radiation or not, I am many steps closer to fine. Thursday, I will have completed sixteen god-awful treatments. Here is me...patting my own back. I am, indeed, strong.

Yoga Mat Island

Ah, summer vacation. Even with this year, with my sleeping excessively and crazy schedule, I still both recognize and appreciate summer vacation. It is a time to relax, a time to be slow, a time to be still even.

I have started this summer with a series of spa appointments. It is my version of alternative medicine. Often while I get my facials and massages, Eastern music plays and my therapist uses lotions and potions that smell of eucalyptus and lavender and for me, this is as close to organic healing as it gets. I am not only comfortable with the human touch; I welcome it as long as it is in that little spa room. Oh sweet spa lady, please charm those toxins out of my body. Hydrate my skin with love and sweet smelling goodness. Even my pedicures and manicures have turned into necessary medical appointments, especially now that my nails have gone all funky with the chemo. I have weird rings on my nails. My oncologist threatens that some nails may just come off the nail bed…to not be alarmed. Oh hell, I think. So I go to my spa and have them painted bright corals and think I’ll appreciate these nails while I have them.

I also started going to a yoga class, too…yoga for relaxation. I have only been to two classes, but I know I am hooked. I love the poses. I love feeling the muscles in my body come to life. I love the slowness, the deliberateness of it. I feel so calm, so in control. When I am done with the class, I have the same feeling as after a massage, only I paid like $10 verses $100 and no one touched me. Well, that isn’t true. The yoga teacher has to touch me often to get my body in the right pose and sometimes there is partner stuff, but I don’t count that. I feel very isolated in yoga but in a good way. I feel like I am on my own little yoga mat island, where my body is a machine and not some defective effed up vessel. I feel so present, and I get to talk to God with my breathe and my consciousness and my spirit…and that bad mojo is just dissipating off of me AND it is dark so even though there is a mirror right in front of me reflecting my bald, uncoordinated self, I can barely see myself and in the low light and my all black outfit, I look strong. Plus, maybe, just maybe, this alternative Eastern medicine thing works, and I am cured!

Being a wanna be hippy myself, I have lots of friends and acquaintances recommend alternative medicine to me. Have I tried acupuncture/herbs/juicing/vegan diet/eating seaweed?...You get the picture. It isn’t that I am against it. I just trust Western conventional medicine as well. I goggled the latest chemo drug they are giving me, Taxol, and guess what? Taxol is a natural product, comes from the tree bark of the Pacific Yew. I think it must be synthetically manufactured by now. There are only so many Pacific Yews out there, after all. The thing is that it doesn’t get more natural than tree bark. So even my Western medicine is pretty alternative. Now who decided to go get tree bark and put it in a solution and inject it into my body twelve times is another story…and why this is seen as a good profitable idea (even though it is) and smoking marijuana is illegal is also weird to me. None the less, tree bark has bought me more time and now chemo doesn’t seem so brutal to me. It is just nature helping nature in a really weird, insane way.

Just like spa visits and yoga and chemo, good old Sunday morning church is also a part of my medicine. I really go almost solely for the Eucharist, truly believing that the little wafer and drop of wine are healing me. I figured I have covered all the bases. Meditation, reflexology, tree bark, and Christ’s body and blood. That should pretty much cover it. And as I lay silent and relaxed on my yoga mat, I hear the voice of the divine. “Be still and know that I am God.” I know, and now is a good moment. It is the best moment. 

OM.

The Watcher

Caleb wrote this for school. He is my son and 10 years old.

THE WATCHER

Hi, I'm the watcher; I watch all that moves and stays.

The most interesting thing I've seen was the battle of disease, it's always the disease verses hope. If anything the most dreadful battle is cancer verses hope. I remember when I first saw them both. I saw cancer first; he was like an invisible man wearing a cowl and tunic. The tunic was all black with smoke trailing around it; the black smoke was the souls he killed. His cowl reached down to a cape that was completely black except for the symbols in the middle, it was a purple ribbon with a circle around it and a cross slashing through it. When I saw him he was choking on an innocent civilian, he was begging for mercy but no one helped.

Then hope came, light came out of the clouds and it came down as a big circle of light and it absorbed cancer. Ever since then hope won most of the time. And I hope that he will absorb all of cancer and there will be no more.

I am the watcher, I watch all, and I have hope.

Sunny Side of Life

Yesterday was a great day. It was one of those memory days. You know, years from now when my kids think of their family, they will think of this day. My oldest son had a small awards ceremony in a beach town. We toured a beautiful college campus, went to his ceremony, took ridiculous amounts of photos and then checked in at a beach hotel. We swam in the pool. We walked on the beach. We ate a delicious gourmet dinner and got ice cream later. We swam some more. Everyone was so happy. Later, at night, when we went for our final 9pm swim in the pool, Caleb asked me to race him underwater. When I told him I didn’t want to get my head wet because of my scarf, he told me to just take the scarf off. His words, “Mom, nobody cares if you wear something on your head. Nobody even cares.” That was a great moment. Another was when Levi commented walking down the beach, “I’m glad I won that award so we could have this great day.” Modest one, that kid.

Caleb’s comment about my bald head got me thinking. Here I thought cancer had robbed me of something, stripped me of my true identity. It turns out though that my family has always seen the same me. Cancer has allowed me to truly seize the day- to take insane photos of my kid getting a certificate, to relish a late night swim, to savor that scoop of mint chocolate chip. Thank you, cancer.

I am in such a good mood that I am not even dreading tomorrow, chemo day. They graciously moved it a day later for me so I could have my mini-vacation. It’s okay though. While I am looking on the sunny side, I am going to think of all the good things this situation has delivered to me.

1.      I get ridiculous amounts of mail and mostly, this is a good thing. I will single handedly keep the United States Postal Service in business. Every day I open my mailbox, I get a few medical bills, yes, but I also always get a few get well cards. I have been saving all my cards and get well letters in a box. Someday, when this over, I will make a collage or something of all the sentiments. For now, I just open the box periodically and marvel at all the people that love me. Thank you, cancer.

2.      Last year around this time, I was visiting Jenny Craig every week and buying overpriced, reduced calorie frozen food. Last week, when my old Jenny Craig lady called to see if I wanted to start the program again, I was able to tell her, nope. I vaguely told her that I was able to lose that final fifteen pounds “on my own.” I am down the weight and my foobs look perky. Thank you, cancer.

3.      Because I am spending every week in the cancer center getting several hours of chemo, I get a lot of reading time. I am very up to date on ALL the latest magazines. The cancer center has them all, too. I also have been able to watch lots and lots of Netflix. Thanks to cancer, I have watched some great television that I might have otherwise missed including Samantha Who, Downton Abbey, Hot in Cleveland and most seasons of Lost. That is $8 a month well spent.

4.      Because of all the meals my friends have so graciously prepared and delivered to me, I now have an insane amount of Tupperware. I also have some great cooks as friends.

5.      Chemo makes you super dry. For the first time in my life, I have actually been through entire tubes of lip balm. I don’t like wasting things so for whatever reason, this makes me very happy. For all you friends that gave my Burt’s Bees and the like, I used them all completely. Thank you! AND I now know my signature scent is peppermint. (Not Chanel No. 5 or something from Estee Lauder…just peppermint). I have always wanted a signature scent.

6.      Because of cancer, I have met some fabulous people. From my doctors to survivors to fellow patients, I have connected with people that I might never have known. I used to ride by all those medical buildings and wonder who goes in there. Now I know. I go there and so do some wonderful people with their loved ones and magazines and crocheted hats. I am so much more aware now of other people…so much more compassionate. Thank you, cancer.

Last night, my family all slept very tightly in a hotel room in two queen beds. I loved it. I loved having Ken so close. I loved being able to watch my boys sleep. In a weird way, we have been lucky. If cancer hadn’t entered our lives, I might not know how much my husband loves me. I am in awe of his great big heart. There are nights that I fall asleep holding his hand and when I wake, he is still holding my hand. I am calling my parents more often. We are taking the time to really talk to each other. I am so conscious of all the love and support I get from my friends and family every day.

I’m so silly. Cancer didn’t take away “Anna” at all. It unveiled me and has revealed to me this wonderful world. So there’s the silver lining. Let’s see if I am still celebrating cancer tomorrow…

Passing

So I have a step father-in-law that is a professor. Years ago when he was teaching African American studies, he wrote a chapter for some book. We were at the beach that summer, enjoying family and summertime. He asked me to read his chapter. I remember it was on “passing.” I had never heard that term before then. “Passing” refers to a person classified as a member of one racial group but attempting to be classified by another. In the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, some people of mixed race “passed” themselves off as solely white. While reading his chapter, I immediately thought of an old movie Imitation of Life. I had watched that movie sometime in my childhood. VCRs had just come out. My family had gotten one, and we found ourselves in the video store picking movies every Friday night. My mom directed me to all the classics. I watched all the Gidgets, Where the Boys Are, and…Imitation of Life. It was fun to see the old movies with my mom. I distinctly remember Imitation of Life. It was about a light-skinned daughter that spends her life trying to pass as white, much to her mom’s shame. I cried and cried during that movie. All of these memories- reading the chapter, the movie, the idea of passing- came back to me today. They came back to me with a huge wave of melancholy.

I am on my sixth month of living with cancer. Much of this time, I have concentrated my efforts on just showing up. The months after surgery and of the red devil, showing up took all I had, but the good news is that I am feeling better and better every day. This second round of chemo is much easier to handle. (I am done with the red devil and am now receiving a drug called Taxol.) Because I am feeling better, I have graduated to wanting more than to just show up.

Saturday, my kids were invited to go to a water park all day to celebrate their service as acolytes to the church. Temporarily forgetting myself, I committed my entire family to go. I want things to be normal. I want to celebrate my children. I want to see them laugh and run and come down a waterslide, but when I got there and faced a full day in a sunny, crowded water park, I had second thoughts. I probably spent an hour in the changing room. I had my bathing suit and rash guards and scarves and big floppy sun hat. I had my big sunglasses. I quickly found a chair in the shade, under an umbrella and I got through the entire day, trying to “pass” as someone healthy. I hoped that my big gigantic hat hid the fact that I have no hair. I slathered SPF100 on me with hopes that the sun wouldn’t react with the chemicals in my body. I tried not to rub my leaky, runny left eye and I let Ken and my sons fetch me multiple cups of water…and we had a fabulous day.

Sunday, we went to church. I put on a nice dress and I actually wore my wig. I hate the wig, but again, I was hoping to appear healthy. I was hoping that this Mother’s Day we could forget about this stupid sickness and its aftermath. I wish I had picked out a more subtle wig from the onset to be honest. (I bought two very red-haired wigs, one short and one long). In the beginning, I was thinking I’d be very Samantha-Sex-in-the-City with a pink wig and flamboyant scarves, but these days, I just want to go to the Olive Garden without everybody looking at me. I just want to pass. Every day for the last couple of weeks, I have just wanted to pass. I don’t want to appear tired. I don’t want to be bald. I don’t want to be late to things because I got tied up in the bathroom. No, I don’t want that.

I hated that girl in that movie. How dare she shame her mama like that. She should be proud of her race, proud of her mama. I feel like a hypocrite now. My hatred for pink ribbons is another way I am trying to pass for healthy. I lie to myself. I am a girl with breast cancer. This Friday, I will go with my son to Lakeland’s Relay for Life. His entire class is going. They have raised awareness and money for this disease. They have done this for me and others like me. On Friday, I will walk the laps and I will not hide. I am hoping I have the courage to go bald. The truth is that it is exhausting, this “passing”. It is exhausting and it makes cancer something shameful, and it isn’t shameful at all.

People Watching

So here we go again. As I sit in the cancer center waiting room, it strikes me how similar it is to an airport. First you check in, and then they take your blood. If your lab work comes back okay, they give you a ticket to ride, literally. They give you a slip of paper with your chemo orders on it that you pass to a nurse, then you sit in a waiting room and wait for a chair to open up in the infusion room. Not much to do except read House Beautiful, glance up at Price is Right and people watch...unless you are Ken, who kills his time in the puzzle corner. Then they call your name and you are assigned a recliner and plugged in for the long ride.

I am going to describe my fellow cancer patients to you. In order to protect their privacy, I'll speak in stereotypes. It is the same sort of crowd every time.

There are the old married couples. One member of the team is the cancer patient and the other is the loud, busy advocate- making sure their sweet honey bunny has plenty of warm blankets and their favorite starlight mints and a word search book. They discuss common everyday matters. Did you remember to turn off the coffee maker? So and so called and will meet us at Perkins for lunch. I love these folks. They always bless my heart and ask about my kids.

There are the single ladies. Characteristically, these ladies are also the I-embrace-the-pink-ribbon types. We are talking head to toe pink- pink shirts, pink hats, "Save the ta-ta's" buttons, pink bags. They sort of remind me of Gator fans only they are Team Komen all the time. They talk loud on their cell phones and chat up the social worker. God bless them, too, because they hand knit me pink hats right there on the spot and make me spell my full name so they can add me to their church prayer list. I imagine they lead their ladies auxiliary group, too, given the courage they have to wear their cancer like that.

Occasionally, there are the young hipsters with cancer. They spend the entire time texting or whatev on their cell phones. They wear flip flops and are quiet and get every look of sympathy in the room. I particularly appreciate one young guy last week who was next to me. Because he wore flip flops, I was able to study his feet and noticed he, too, had dark areas on his toe knuckles. (I am not sure "toe knuckles" is the correct terminology.) Here I was thinking I just had really dirty feet or spending too much time in cheap Payless shoes. Turns out, toe ridges are a side effect of chemo. Thanks, random Abercrombie guy.

The saddest cases are the fight-for-my-right to party types. I see a lot of super skinny people denied chemo because their blood counts aren't good or something. Contrary to what you might think, most people fight hard to get the chemo anyway. One, the crap is saving your life and two, you are already there and mentally ready to go. They had to already stick you to get the blood work. Who wants to come back and do it all again tomorrow? Uh...nobody. One time this guy got all plugged in and quickly asked for a coke and some Cheetos. He was scarfing those delicious orange snacks down when the nurse returned and snatched them away, telling him that his blood sugar was sky high. Poor guy was begging for that damn coke, just like I've heard some beg for the chemo. Most of the time, when it gets confrontational like that, the nurses get the doctor. The oncologist will chew your butt right out in front of everybody. If you keep at it though, they'll give you your chemo, Cheetos, coke, anyway. We own these bodies after all. Hell, I think if you demanded it enough, those nurses would bring you a Bud Light and a cigarette.

What do we all have in common? Well, besides cancer. Just like a long flight, all us patients got our eyes on the bathroom. You have to stake out the bathroom right away. There are two restrooms for like thirty people. We are all hooked up to fluids, we all get our soda and snack, and we are all here for a couple of hours at least. It takes a lot of planning. You have to get the nurse to unplug your iv, and then you have to be ready to roll your drugs and it's stand through very crowded recliners and bags and people to the bathroom...and you have to beat your competitors. Otherwise, you could be waiting fifteen more minutes. Sometimes people get stuck in there for whatever reason. Oh the drama.

Today, I am among another stereotype- the cancer patients with their iPads. All of us in the "green" group today are busy touching away on our screens. We got one sleeper in our group, today. (I call them sleepers...they are the ones that get Benadryl in their iv). I opted out of Benadryl today, too much going on in the infusion room...plus it slows down my fast break to the bathroom.

We are one motley crew here. Bless our hearts.

Me, Myself, and I

I am here at the cancer center receiving my fifth chemotherapy treatment. This time I decided to come alone. Many, many friends volunteered to come with me. Ken, of course, wanted to come. No, I told them. I wanted to be here alone. I didn't want to fill the space with distracting talk. I didn't want to share the cold, sterile walls of the infusion room. I wanted some me time.

After this one, I have eleven more chemo treatments. I will have X-rays and bone scans and more tests the rest of my life. I will have more surgeries. This is a given. This is a life once cancer enters it. Even without cancer ever entering the picture, I still have more hardships and trials in my future. We all do. It is time to deal with my codependency issues and tap into my inner warrior. I need to know that if I need to, I can do it alone, and believe me, I know that because of my awesome support team, I never have to do it alone.

As a mother, I often have to send my kids into battle, "toughing them up" as we sometimes say. I have dropped my kid off at summer sleep away camp, knowing full well he hated being away from home and his own private bathroom. I have listened to my boys play badly in violin concerts, watched tears fall from their eyes onto their violins, felt their humiliation and regret for not preparing adequately enough for the performance. I have seen my son strike out at a tournament baseball game. I have seem them not get a call back after auditions, after painfully singing solo in front of strangers. Just this past September, I had to send my oldest son to a new school. I watched him with his new clothes and backpack board a school bus that was taking him to a new experience, full of new faces, locker rooms, and long bus rides. This family...we know how to do hard.

My mom must have said to me a million times since my diagnosis , "I would sure do this for you if I could." I know you would, mom. I know because you love me and that's how people feel about the ones they love, but mom, I have to hold the bat myself. I have to be the one at home plate, but don't worry. I have been watching you. I have seen you get through tough times- most notably the death of Derek. I watched you plow through the pain with grace and courage. My mom is one steel magnolia.

And now, my kids are watching me.

Fear and Loathing.

There is a line in Hunger Games (the movie) where Peeta says, "If I am going to die, I still want to be me." Or something like that. He is talking about how the games may change him, how he may have to kill people, etc. The quote occurs very early in the movie and it had me crying through the rest of it. Cancer is my own "hunger game." I am fighting so hard, and cancer will change you. It changes you physically. It changes you emotionally. I have lost myself in this fight.

For one, my body ain't mine anymore. Whose "boobs" are these? I have no freaking hair. I told my friend the other day that I was going to ask my doc about all these damn freckles. I am sure chemo is causing a massive freckle outbreak. My friend laughed her butt off. She tells me I have always had freckles. I have?

I have headaches all the time. I am sure the chemo is wreaking havoc on my brain. I can't think of words. My sentences get stuck in my throat. Where was I going with that thought? I tackled my college's math problem of the week a few days again and got stumped. What if this medicine is making me stupid? Who am I without my mind? I feel like I am living "Flowers of Algernon." Remember that book? Does the fact that I remember it make me less stupid? I think it does and am temporarily relieved.

I am tired. So tired. You aren't a good warrior when you are tired. The "me" I want to be isn't lazy. (I am sure like the freckles though that I have always had a little lazy in me.) I can't have this cancer situation turn me into someone else. I guess the truth is I never really thought about "me" before this. I am not talking about Anna the teacher or Anna the mom or Anna from eastern North Carolina...just plain old me. Who is Anna? She isn't her boobs. (I once was! I had a good run with that rack.) I am more than a thinker, more than a feeler.

I remember in a college ancient philosophy class, my professor talked about the concept of a university. What made a university? Was it a group of buildings? We all agreed that it wasn't just a group of buildings. My professor looked right at me in that class and asked me what made me Anna. When I was a little baby in a crib, was that still me? Yes, I replied. Still me. I think of that scene all the time now. This body with my poor excuse for boobs and no hair is still me. This body will change many times before it ends. My mind will go through its own transformations. Still me.

Also recently, I watched another movie- "Rum Diaries" which besides giving me Johnny Depp eye candy, gave me more to contemplate. Mainly, I've been thinking about Hunter S. Thompson. What a weird dude...weird when he was sober, weird when he wasn't. Yet this guy had some essence that certainly made him Hunter S. Thompson. So do I. So do you. I can't help but like crazy old Hunter S. Thompson.

Here is Hunter S. Thompson's suicide note (and don't worry, I am NOT in danger of that. Please.)

"No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax -- This won't hurt."

I feel the weird guy's pain. My changes are no fun and boring, too, but I, unlike crazy man, I got hope. I am not out of rum, and if this blog post seems looney-tune and incoherent to you...well, blame it on the chemo.

Friends Forever

The following was written by my true treasure of a friend, a friend that has seen her own troubles and came out the other side. I hope she doesn't mind me sharing it. It made me cry...and then it made me smile.

How Did You Do It?
The question most often asked when someone learns of my past.
This is all I know to tell you my friend- you can.
I didn’t do it for the team,
I didn’t do it for the boys.
I didn’t do it for his memory,
I didn’t do it with His help.
I didn’t do it for myself.
I slowly extended my big toe- it wiggled.
I flexed my foot back and forth.
I rotated my ankle…
Then I put my foot down.
The other one followed, they’re attached you see.
After many of such exercises, I made it to the end of the street…then the month…then the year.
I don’t know why it worked- but I was in motion
Still am.
So are you.
I’ll see you at the end of the street.

Written by CM

Chemo Eve

I think the day before chemo is really almost as bad as the treatment itself. The impending suckiness of the treatment just ruins anything good in the day. It is all I can think about. Chemo Eve gives me an instant case of Tourette's. I cuss like a sailor, taking on the most sour mood. Nobody takes it personally. They count the days left in this cancer prison just like I do. I know I will live through this, yet I wonder what the cost will be to my spirit, my relationships and my family.

Today's top bad side effect of this cancer crap...apathy. As in- frankly, my dear, I just don't... care. This is exceptionally sad in my case, as I have always been proud of my advocacy. The pre-cancer Anna expended so much energy on her kids, her career, her social and political causes. That old Anna would already be researching summer programs for her kids. She would be finishing her dissertation, running for school board, drilling her son on SAT vocabulary and planting her flower garden. I am a shell of that woman these days. On my lowest days, it takes all I have to get out of bed. My kids do their own laundry, make their own meals, answer their own homework questions. I go days without answering emails and texts, grateful for people that care when I so often don't. On those days immediately after treatment, I plead to just be left alone in my dark room. It matters little to me that there is no milk or clean towels. Nothing matters.

In the beginning, I was sure I would care. I sometimes see these super polished ladies in the cancer center. They have on full makeup, dressed in their best. Their bright red lipstick outlines a super smile. I was going to be *that* woman, and yet, here I sit. I am still in the same yoga pants and fitted tshirt I wore yesterday, an outfit I purchased ironically so I could actually practice yoga and get well. Yesterday, I ate three ice cream sandwiches and a handful of potato chips. This from the girl that was going to juice her way to health. I mostly forgot how to care. Almost.

Right now I am going to find just enough energy to take a shower and put on real clothes. I have a meeting on campus this afternoon. I had originally thought I might try to shop this morning before the meeting. My kids have outgrown most of their dress clothes. Caleb has no good belts or dress shoes. I hear other mothers chatter about new Easter dresses and the like. I want to care about that, too. I want us to have new Easter outfits. Right now, I think I might have it in me to shop... as long as it is an all-in-one store with a cart...maybe Target or Marshalls. I do, however, know what is coming. I know I have chemo tomorrow. I know Sunday that I will be back in my apathy cave. Keep praying for us, folks. Pray that on Sunday, I care enough to get out of bed. Pray that I care enough to make my kids shower and put on new clothes that fit. Oh Chemo Eve...I really hate you.

Three men and a bald lady

So it has been five days since my last treatment. I intended to write more frequently when I started this blog, but the truth is you probably don't want to know about the bad days. Hell, I don't want to describe the bad days. It involves lots of stomach issues and headaches and sleeping. What we can do is play a game. Each blog post I'll tell you about the side effect I hate the most that day. Today, it is smells. Bet you thought I'd say hair loss. Nope. More on that later. No, I hate many, many smells...particularly the smell of alcohol which is unfortunate considering when people see me, they immediately rush to their hand sanitizer and/or wine. The other night, Ken came to bed and I started gagging. "What the hell is that smell?", I said. "Have you been drinking whiskey?" No, he commented. He had just had milk. He had brushed his teeth. I snapped at him and told him to brush them again, convinced that he had been drowning his cancer sorrows in a bottle of Jack. Turns out what I was smelling was Listerine. It's a revolting smell, a I-can't-lay-here-next-to-this-stench smell. My poor husband.

I started losing my hair about two days after the second treatment. It was so very disgusting. Hair on my pillow. Hair all over my shirt. I always thought I would let it just fall out on its own, but my hair is so thick and it is just so gross. Plus my head hurt like crazy. All I wanted to do was rub it, yet every time I rubbed my head more hair would come out. So Sunday morning I suggested I just buzz it, and my husband basically raced to get his clippers. You know, men, I think, have this serious power thing concerning hair clippers. They just love them. Even my once long-haired hippy husband has always had good hair clippers. He loves buzzing the kids' hair...a little too much if you ask them. He wasted no time.

So there we were...all four of us (me, Ken, and two big boys) out on our lanai porch instead of at Sunday School buzzing my hair. Took a matter of seconds and I didn't cry. How did everyone react, you ask. Were the kids okay? Uh yes. They are dudes after all.

Ken: Pretty cool. You look like a Star Trek lady. Who is next? Should we all buzz our heads?

Caleb: I don't want to buzz my head. Is that okay, mom?

Levi: Are we going to a restaurant today for lunch? We normally go out to eat on Sunday.

And there you go. The world of hair according to guys. No biggie. Just wear a hat. It is, indeed, very liberating. The only drawback (besides my aesthetics, of course) is that now I have a big neon sign flashing at me, pointing out the sick girl. Every outing from taking the kids to school to going to the grocery store involves looks of sympathy and condolence. I just know the Publix lady is pitying me with my silly hair turban and cart full of Stouffer's lasagna and ice cream bars.

Since my treatment began, I have been tutoring some on campus in our learning center. Yesterday, I went to help a young male student with his math. He said after glancing at my hair turban, "What? Are you going through chemo or something?" Yep, I said. "Well," said dude, "That just sucks." And then without skipping a beat..."Can you help me with this? I just can't seem to be able to figure out this oblique asymptote here." This guy summed up this whole hot mess pretty well. Chemo sucks, but let's get back to living. These rational functions are not going to graph themselves.

Pity Party

Today I am sad. I am so sad. Tomorrow I have to go back to do chemo again and I know the medicine is better these days. I know that I have it so much better than the many, many women that have done this before me. I know I am lucky to have the anti-nausea stuff. I am lucky to have insurance. I am blessed to have this great support system of family and friends, making me laugh and spoiling me. I am lucky to have a great job with freedom to take my time with this tough journey. I am so lucky and yet I cry. I dread tomorrow. My husband and sons dread tomorrow. The dread masks all these blessings surrounding us. I hate cancer so much.

Sympathy for the Red Devil.

It has been a while since an update. What a crazy time, too. I have had x-rays, bone scans, and outpatient surgery to put a port under my skin. I have cut my hair super short and shopped for headwear and it all has been very fast, very emotional, and exhausting. Last Thursday, I had my first chemo infusion and all the reading and conversations in no way prepared me for what it was like. Let's just say that I understand the looks of pity now from breast cancer survivors. I get the hugs and the vague descriptions and all that. It sucks pretty bad.

My mom and Ken went with me. It started with lab work. They drew all this blood from my new easy access port- which is creepy by the way, how I now have this direct line to my major vein where things can be injected and withdraw at record speeds. They checked my blood and then I met with Dr. V who smiled and acted like this was no biggie. She went over the expected side effects one more time. She chatted about her upcoming vacation and always having her cell phone. She joked about Ken and his motorcycle. (They are trained actors, these oncology folks, and thank God for that.)

After that, I went into the infusion room. I was with the "yellow" group. The infusion room is a big room filled with hospital recliners. Each recliner has an iv stand and a television. They are all in a circle and facing one another. There are colored pillows on them. They know how long you have been there based on your color. We "yellows" consisted of me, a couple of older men and a woman. Almost everyone had a buddy. They had heated blankets and drinks and snacks. Just so you know where your donations may go, while I was there, the American Cancer Society made a delivery of chips and such. People try to eat a little while the chemo is going on because you feel sick almost immediately.

They started me with an iv of Benadryl and some steroid. I think they do this to pretty much get you drunk before the evil comes. I felt loopy and light headed almost instantly. My mom can verify because I am pretty sure I was talking sloppy nonsense to her. It took about 45 minutes for this concoction to drip out, then came the "red devil." The "red devil" is Adriamycin and it is super red which freaked me out to begin with. The nurse did an iv push with this- meaning she just plunged two big syringe-fuls of it straight into my port. As soon as it entered my blood, I got super Spidey senses. I smelt every smell in that room- the plastic, the Sprite, the metal- and it all turned my stomach. The good news is that I was drunk, sleepy, and with an incredibly chatty oncology nurse (who distracted me with chatter about my kids.) I love that nurse but I hate that red devil.

After the push, I got an iv drip of the second drug, cytoxan. It took about another 45 minutes to drip out. I am glad it took a while because I felt so out of it the entire time, I was wondering how I was going to be able to walk out of there. Turns out at the end, I felt almost normal again. In fact, afterwards, I felt fine. I had lunch with mom. I met my plastic surgeon. I bought a wedding gift and picked up C from school. It was all fine until that night when the worst case of nausea hit. I took all the medicine. It just sucked...and it continues to suck off and on. My appetite is shot.  Almost everything turns my stomach, and I am so, so, so tired. My head aches. I keep thinking I have a tight ponytail in. I am considering just sleeping through the next five months if I can.

The up side...my mom putting cold rags on my neck, my boys laying beside me on my bed and holding my hand, Ken telling me he loves me every second. When I have a moment of normal, I walk with my family. We went for lunch yesterday and laughed. We went to a wedding and swayed to music. We sit out on our porch regularly and smile at the Florida sunshine. Currently, while I write this, my father in law has the boys on an adventure. It is ironically Spring Break for us- a surreal one.

Until now, I have asked you all to not comment about me being brave, but I tell you, when I walk back into that cancer center on 3/22 to do this crap again, you have my permission to compliment me on my bravery. It will be very hard to do it again...and again, but I will. I believe the science even if it does involve bright red chemistry.

Chances are.

So yesterday was the big day. I met my oncologist, Dr. V, and got a chemo plan. She began our meeting by entering all my cancer specifics into some computer program. Age: 38....General Health: Good....Estrogen Receptor: Positive...Tumor Grade: 2....Tumor Size: 2.1-3.0cm...Nodes Involved: 1-3. <Insert fake computer sound here.> From this program, out popped my odds. If I do nothing, I have a 41% chance of being alive and cancer-free in 10 years. If I do this chemo and take these crappy hormonal drugs, I have a 79% chance of being alive and cancer-free in 10 years. Okay, I think, I teach statistics. This is easy. I pick treatment.

Despite knowing statistics and weighing these odds, there were a couple of moments yesterday that bothered me. For one, 10 years. Hello? I'd like to live past 48. For another, when you get cancer, you have to fill out a questionnaire a day on your family history. Dr. V saw from my questionnaire yesterday that I had a deceased sibling. She naturally asked how did he die. Car accident, I say. Her reply was "Your poor parents." I'll translate this seemingly cold statement. (I speak fluent doctor now.) What she meant was the probability of having a child die in a car accident at 30 AND having a child diagnosed with cancer at 38 is crazy low. How unfortunate for them. Which shows you looking at numbers means nothing when the house wins. I mean there was a 1 in 10 chance I'd get breast cancer in the first place and well, I lost that hand. (You're welcome, other 9 women. I took one for the team.) Is there such a thing as I have had my fair share of bad luck?

Here is another thing that bothered me. They don't phrase your odds by speaking in probabilities or percentages. Instead, the report says 79 out of 100 women are alive and without cancer in 10 years after combined therapy. So do I celebrate the likelihood that I'll be alive after all this? No, I don't. I think about the 21 other ladies that won't... because when you sit in an oncology waiting room, 100 people translates into a lot of real human faces. Get busy, genius science children, and cure this problem now.

So what will my chemotherapy entail? Well, months of crap. Specifically, I will get 4 treatments of the "bad" stuff (adriamycin and cytoxan). Side effects include nausea, mouth sores, hair loss, weight GAIN (seriously, universe!?) and fatigue. These treatments occur every two weeks, then I get 12 treatments every week of taxel. I don't know how bad that round is. At this time in the meeting, I was still thinking about the weight gain part. So that's 20 weeks. 5 months. March, April, May, June, July. That's my summer...the summer of my discontent. I could be in a clinical trial that would extend my chemo potentially six more months. Still thinking on that.

My treatment is scheduled to begin March 7th, but there are a lot of variables. My plastic surgeon has to give me a green light for anesthesia so a chemo port can be put into my chest. The chemo port surgery has to be scheduled with my favorite breast doc, Dr. D, and she's a popular gal. I need a MUGA scan (no idea...heart thing?). I need an x-ray. I need blood work done. Meanwhile, my boobs are in holding. I'll have to just keep these expanders until all this is over. Three weeks after chemo is done, I can schedule my implants. I want those foobs super bad. All in all, it will be a crap time, but I'll be okay. I shook the Magic 8-Ball and "It is decidedly so."

But Doctor...I'm a lover not a fighter.

Turns out that I didn't imagine that Dr. D and I had a bond. She did want to be my hero, and I knew as soon as she sat down with my folder yesterday why she never called. I get why she waited to tell me the results of the surgical biopsies in person. I get it and not only do I forgive her, I love her for it. I love her for placing the report in my lap and immediately hugging me. I love her for sighing "Oh Anna." I wanted her to be my hero, too.

When she removed my breasts, Dr. D took six lymph nodes. The report placed in my lap yesterday just as clear as day read that 5 of the 6 were benign, but one single node, one traitor of a node, tested positive for metastatic carcinoma, and "metastatic" is a word I never ever wanted to see. It means I still have cancer. It means they didn't get it all, and now that there is this little piece that got away, I have to engage in chemical warfare with my body. Now that this spooky stuff has invaded my lymphatic system, Dr. D so sweetly told me that she can't cut it out. I am now placing my trust in the next hero, an oncologist, who will develop the chemotherapy cocktail to save my life.

Because of my denial then anger then tears, I was immediately led into a small room after the news. They fetched Ken from the waiting room and a social worker. The social worker was a cancer survivor and she worked her magic, a magic that only someone who has been through it can do. She explained how chemo will work, how I may be nauseous but they have medicine to help, how I will definitely be tired but could work part-time, how my hair would go, how it won't be forever and the hair grows back. She showed us photos of herself in various wigs, some cheap, some not. She looked great by the way. She explained that I probably wanted to get my hair cut pixie style short pretty soon, get accustomed to seeing myself differently, and then, yes, I would want to buzz it eventually. She told me where to shop for wigs and gave me brochures for support groups. I left her with hope but still in a fog. I left in a hope fog.

I won't lie. Last night was tough, but today, I am okay. It isn't bravery that gets me through this crap. It isn't inspiration or even my faith (forgive me, God). I tell you what gets me laughing in the face of this disease...two boys, ages 10 and 12, and a man that vowed to love me in sickness and in health. We have a great family. I am not even joking. You'll be jealous when I describe how happy we are, how we get the best of everything without even trying, and damn if I am going to spoil that for them. To see them smile is all the ammunition I need to fight. I might wear a big, bright pink Britney Spears style wig during this. I just might do that, but please don't say I am brave. Don't comment how positive I am because sometimes I am not. What I am is a good damn mom. I am, and I am a pretty big partier. I have no intention of letting cancer rain on my parade. Watch me come out of this with better boobs, skinnier and an awesome wig collection...and no cancer. I know that's what will happen because things just work out for me like that. Don't be a hater.

I meet with my oncologist a week from Monday. Bring it. Meanwhile, I still have these damn drains.

Mastectomy Hangover, Part II

I went to the plastic surgeon yesterday. They did take the pain purse away. The nurse just pulled that tubing out like she was pulling dental floss. One side came out fine, but the tubing on the other side got hung up on something in my chest. I could feel it all coiled up in my boob patty. I was very snappy with the nurse. Poor thing went and got the doctor who charmed that tube right on out, thank the Lord. So the pain system is out and I aint missed it one bit. The drains, however, and that tubing are still attached to me. At first I was disappointed because I really am sick of looking at my boob spaghetti sauce and hauling around an external plumbing system, but after the pain tube trauma, I now know that removing that drain system is going to hurt like hell and I need a bigger warning (and a couple of valium) before I endure that. They won't pull the drains until I am exporting less than 30mLs in 24 hours for two days straight. Currently, I am logging in at 50 or more.

As long as those 'blood grenades" are there (thanks for the term, Ranny), I can't shower and that really, really, really sucks. Ken set up the pool lounger system again today and washed my hair. He also gave me a sponge bath. Poor Ken...hair washing, bathing, and emptying blood. I bet past items on the hubby to-do list are looking better now.

On the up side, my plastic surgeon, Dr. K, was able to add more saline to my expander packs. Meaning- I have little boobs! She said I was healing well and looking good. They will add more and more each time until I am expanded enough for the implants.

I am super disappointed in my breast doc. I thought she and I shared something. She gave me the pink shirted teddy bear and in recovery, she kept her cold doctor hands on my burning forehead to keep my cool. She always rubbed my arm in conversation and she freaking removed my cancer. What happened, Dr. D? You said you'd call as soon as you knew the results of the path report from surgery. You said it would be about a week. Well, guess what? It has been a week and I need to know if you got it all. I need to know if those lymph nodes are cancer free. I need to know if this is over. I have watched my phone all day. Please call. I feel like a teenager...wearing my training bra and sitting by the phone.

Mastectomy Hangover, Part I

Well, it's done. The boobs are gone. I won't lie. The whole recovery thing hurt like hell for the first few days. I have waited this whole time for the worst part and have recently decided that the worst part is the summation of a lot of little crappy parts. For example, immediately upon awakening from surgery, I had oxygen tubes up my nose and I was crazy, crazy thirsty and all I got was ice chips. Then I finally got to a hospital room where I could get some icy water only there were a million tubes connected to me. There was an iv for antibiotic and pain meds. There were the drainage tubes collecting what looked like thin spaghetti sauce from my boob area and there were tubes connected to my legs. They put these tight stockings on my legs and some contraption that gave my calves a massage every five minutes to prevent blood clots. Sounds nice, huh? No, the stockings were awful. I was so hot and those nurses would not remove them. One particular nice nurse almost did late into the night but changed her mind...even after I promised her I would do the "bicycle" or whatever every few minutes to keep my legs going. This was the same nurse that after I asked for a scrunchie and my roomie, Lois, asked for an orange sherbet replied, "What do you think this is... The Holiday Inn?" She turned out to be my favorite because of her awesome sarcasm. Sincerely, she was the first to help me pee. All those tubes made it a MAJOR ordeal to get up and go to the bathroom. So there you go...the worst part was having to really pee and waiting for the nurse army to get you unattached and rolling to the toilet.

I am home now. I still have the drainage tubes leading to little bulbs that collect my boob spaghetti sauce and I have a pain pump that I tote around like a purse, but I don't have that iv or the stockings so I am much improved. It is weird to not have boobs. It is weird and I look spooky in the mirror. I look homeless and pasty. My home health care team (Ken and my parents) have been phenomenal. Ken figured out how to wash my hair without getting the rest of me wet and my mom cleaned and packed lunches and managed food intake. My dad got the kids on and off the bus and fixed my light switch and my vacuum. My friends have pampered me with food and treats and so, so much love.

My chest hurts...feels like muscle spasms. It hurts just enough and the tube situation was so traumatizing. All I can think is please let this be over. No more surgeries, God, please. I will do it if I have to, but I hope I don't. And please, God, no chemo. I am tired of the medication already. I have no appetite and don't feel myself. I feel like I was okay and cancer broke me. I don't know the answer to these questions. I have to wait for the path report from the surgery, but my surgeon smiled and I just feel it deep in me that it is over. Soon I will get my new implants and my life will return to normal, God willing. For others though, like my hospital roomie Lois (I'll have to blog about her later), the cancer story continues. I feel a new sense of purpose to bring orange sherbet, sweet ice chips and scrunchies to all... because somebody did it for me.

Thanks to all my community of care. I will remember every single one of you and the love and kindness you have given me and my family. There, indeed, is a special place for compassionate souls in heaven. Get ready. Sarcastic Anna is coming back. I return to the plastic surgeon tomorrow who hopefully will remove these drains and pain purse. Then I can tell you all about the flat-chested life. So far, so good. I am down ten pounds in probably boobs alone.

Surgery went well, Anna is waking up:)

Here is your "C" card...and don't forget your gift bag.

Prompt: Write about something you learned how to do.

An excerpt from my 10 year old son's recent school paper:

"Tip! Tap! Here, I'll give you a hint...if we didn't have it, we would crawl. It's walking. It starts with standing. You need to stand before you walk, and you stand by sitting down first and then putting two feet on floor. Now, balance yourself upright. It's easier than it sounds!"

Here's mine. Recently, I have learned how to accept peoples' kindness and support. I'll echo C and tell you that it's easier than it sounds! For example, today, I had my second opinion appointment at the big cancer center, a place I secretly call in my head Cancer R Us. Ken had his first day of classes today and he has to be tired of being my rock so I didn't want to ask him to go to yet another appointment with me. I totally prepared myself to go alone, but several friends offered to go with me and I am super glad I let one of them. For one, she knew how to get to it. (Cancer R Us is about an hour away.) For two, in the waiting room, there were lots of couples...mothers and daughters...husbands and wives...mothers and sons...single women with ipads. Let's just say, I was glad to be a woman and her friend and not lady in corner with her Kindle. (Thanks, Nancy!)  It's emotional. Many of the women have no hair and unlike my local car care center, they don't have People's Court blaring on the television. It is quiet and sad.

I got checked in. I got my cancer gift bag. (Seriously, they give you one packed with flyers about living wills and counseling. It's the kind you might would use at the grocery store to be green. Only it is pink and screams cancer. Don't want my food touching it.) After much wait time and lots of good girl conversation, I met with the big super cancer doctor...who basically reiterated everything my first local breast surgeon told me a month ago. I still have cancer. It is still three distinct "islands" in my left breast. It is still lobular and stage 2 and yes, the boob has to go, and no, we can't definitively tell you if you'll need radiation or chemo. Won't know until surgery. Same, same, same. Still good to know AND two more unknown people got to see my boobs. Winning yet again.

I reflect on how great it was to have Nancy there. I just started this journey and already I have lots of cards, flowers, a massage gift certificate (!), a house cleaning gift certificate (!), itune gifts, casseroles promised, and many, many prayers. I have been given a mixed CD (the modern version of a mixed tape) and a peach package and I receive at least ten well wishes a day through email and text. Ken jokes about the "C" card and how it certainly has its benefits. This morning as he was ironing his shirt, we joked about all the things we could have people do for us. For example, Ken needs all his shirts and pants ironed, and Caleb needs a costume by next week so he can be Johannes Gutenberg in his school's historical timeline.  Buddy needs to be groomed, and next time he pukes which could be now, someone needs to come clean that. The baseboards are disgusting and I wanted to repaper my bathroom, and the kids need to be picked up and dropped off and Caleb needs someone to tell him how to spell "enchanting" or whatever every few minutes...but all these things have to be done in an "Anna" disguise so I still have a presence in my kids' life. That's it, right? I need someone to live my life most days (even when I am not sick or depressed), but the thing is that I want to live my life. That's the point of all this treatment. Still, I appreciate all the love. Thank you, thank you, thank you.  I appreciate every phone call, every text, every Facebook note.

Now...I need someone to write thank you notes for me...with my handwriting.

What would Kelly Bundy do?

As I wait for my surgery date (1/27) and other appointments, I research. What do I research? Well, naturally, I find myself googling celebrities that have had breast cancer. I figure that here is a group of people with unlimited resources and a big set of eyes on them. What did they do and how did it work out for them?

I have compiled a list for other curious minds…

Cynthia Nixon (known to me as Miranda). Miranda, the lawyer and my alter Sex and the City ego, was diagnosed at 40 and had a lumpectomy and radiation. Winning.

Sheryl Crow (because every day is a winding road) was diagnosed at 44. Winning. Just ordered her cookbook from Amazon on foods and spices rich in cancer-fighting nutrients. You know I will share…as much as copyright laws allow.

Edie Falco (Nurse Jackie that was married to a Soprano) was diagnosed at 40. She never told anyone because she didn’t want a pity party. No kidding…she is Carmela Soprano. Winning.

Elizabeth Edwards (wife of butthead) had an unhappy ending. She was a Carolina girl, like me. She is an inspiration for her winning spirit.

Christina Applegate (Kelly Bundy and my favorite celebrity story) was diagnosed at 36. She chose a mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. I like her the most because she is currently on a cute new show called “Up All Night.” I think it is funny but mostly, I just study her boobs which look fabulous.

Melissa Etheridge (Come to my window…) was diagnosed at 43 is winning and describes her cancer experience as a spiritual awakening. Sing it, sister.

Julia Child, who survived breast cancer, later died of natural causes and not from eating too much butter.

And the list goes on…Betty Ford, Erma Bombeck, Bette Davis, Juliette Gordon Low, Linda McCartney…some made it and some didn’t, but they all have stories to tell. We all have stories to tell. Winning. See. My People magazine subscription is totally worth it.

By the way, my slides have been located.

"Hi. Medical Records Division. How may I help you?"

Well, the good news is that those “areas of concern” on my right side appear to be a bunch of cysts. The bad news is that the cancer on my left side is more extensive than they originally thought.  Looks like my choice of lumpectomy or mastectomy is off the table. Mastectomy it is.

Since my last posting, it has come to my attention that we have this awesome cancer center in Tampa. Why not utilize it, right? I think I want a second opinion. So first I call my insurance and make sure that’s covered. While I am cruising my insurance policy online, I get a glimpse of my outstanding claims. Holy smoke.  It is already buckets of money and I see that I got charged twice for MRIs. Now granted I had two MRIs but supposedly I had to get the second one because the machine messed up. Uh, is that my $8000 fault?  I mention this to a friend of mine and he says, “Oh yeah, you will probably need to hire someone, a like consultant person, to get the billing straightened out. We did that with my wife’s illness and it saved us like $50,000.” I’m sorry. Say what?

Anyway, a second opinion is covered. So I call them to set up an appointment for a second opinion. No problem, nice lady (and my new best friend) says- Just get all your records sent over. Get the paper faxed to this number. Get the film mailed to this address, and get the slides sent to this address. So I drive around town, signing release forms, and submitting requests. There is a problem with the slides, however.  My biopsy samples were sent to two labs (for two opinions on the pathology). Neither lab can locate my slides. So I got my patient care nurse harassing the lab. I got my new cancer center best friend harassing the lab. I’m harassing the lab. All this got me thinking. It got me thinking about nice little old ladies that don’t have someone to advocate for them. Gave me an idea…

When all this is over, I’m going to start a consulting business. Let’s call it “Rent a Bitch Agency.” Our services will include hiring out experts to fuss at others on your behalf. We can even have branches. There will be a patient advocacy branch of course, and one for medical records (need that one asap). We’ll have a branch for medical billing since there is a documented market for that. You know, we could really expand this thing, say have a branch for parents, too. You could rent a bitch to negotiate your kid’s education plan with the guidance counselor. (I would totally work in this area. I’d be a great “bitch” for that.)  Parents could rent a bitch to heckle the soccer coach- “Come on, coach, it isn’t like you guys are winning, and little Johnny paid $45 to play just like the rest of them!” I’m telling you that this idea will make me millions. Maybe even enough to pay all my medical bills.

The nitty, gritty details.

I will start from the beginning just in case there is some woman out there who is ignoring a situation that just doesn't feel right. For me, I have felt a lump in my left breast for probably eight months now. Crazy, right? Well, maybe not so crazy when you are only 38 years old with big lumpy boobs and no immediate family history of breast cancer. Finally, due to my husband's nagging (Thanks, babe.), I got it checked out by my ob/gyn. He scheduled me a mammogram...which then lead to a follow-up ultrasound...which then lead to three roto-rooter style biopsies and two cyst aspirations...which then lead me to here- a diagnosis.

Specifically, all three of my biopsies came from my left breast and all three samples came back positive for invasive lobular carcinoma. Don't worry. I have already googled those three words a million times, and ILC is a type of cancer that begins in the milk-producing glands. Only about 10% of all invasive breast cancers are of this type. (Crap...I hope that people still want to research it.) The biopsies also indicate that I am Estrogen and Progesterone Receptor positive. According to my doctor, this is a "good" cancer. It means after the cancer is removed, I can take medication for five or more years that will suppress my hormones, and all will be well. When I met with my doctor a couple of weeks ago, she indicated I could go with a lumpectomy and radiation or with a mastectomy. Either way, I get new boobs due to a law passed in 1998 that says insurance must provide for that. (God bless America.)

Since my conversation with the breast surgeon, I have met with a plastic surgeon that explained the procedures associated with each type of surgery. Also, I have had two MRIs. Unfortunately, I have recently learned that the MRIs indicate more "areas of concern." This time on my right side. With this new knowledge, there may be no choice of treatment plans. To tell the truth, I am leaning toward a double mastectomy anyway. I want these puppies off. Give me fake fun bags. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder the rest of life waiting to do this all over again. Turns out, I'll be paranoid anyway though, as the path report indicated that I may be at increased risk for signet ring gastric carcinoma. (Googled that one already, too...stomach cancer). Sucks, sucks, sucks. So where am I now? Well, tomorrow I go in for yet another ultrasound to investigate these "areas of concern." I am hoping there is no need for another biopsy because that has been so far the absolute worst part. After the ultrasound, I'll meet with the breast surgeon again. This whole process seems awfully slow. Jeez...isn't there cancerous crap growing exponentially in my body?

Let me add that comments are appreciated. While I don't want any sympathy, I do want to keep my friends and family updated and informed. Plus, I love when people tell me survivor stories. Getting cancer is sort of like getting a new car. All of a sudden you realize how many people have that same car out there. Lots of women have been through this and came out the other side. Can't hear enough of those stories.

Not so pretty in pink.

First of all, don't let my blog title offend you. I am super grateful for the Susan G. Komen Foundation and all the research funded by them. Those pink ribbons raise awareness, provide support, and bring in a lot of research dollars. Thank God for that. When I say "I hate pink ribbons", I mean just that...literally. I hate the color pink. In fact, if you look in my closet, you won't find one pink item (unless you count the few pink t-shirts I obtained from breast cancer awareness walks- ironic, I know.) Moreover, I am not a huge fan of ribbons. I am the type of low-maintenance person that wraps gifts in comic paper and doesn't even put bows on them.

It isn't just that. I learned I had breast cancer in the beginning of December. I was totally shocked. I didn't feel sick. I didn't look sick. It was freaking Christmas, people. Considering this, I did what any number of normal people would do, I pretended it just wasn't so. Pretty easy to do actually. I went to holiday parties and taught my classes. I smiled a lot and fussed at my kids about their dirty socks on the floor. It would have been even easier if those damn pink ribbons weren't everywhere. Now, everywhere I look I see them- a big pink slap in the face that I do indeed have breast cancer. While I reserve the right to temporarily return to the land of denial every now and again, I am ready to face the music.