Fight Like a Girl

Happy October y'all. Slipping in here at the end of the month, here's my nod to Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I wrote it a few years ago. The children have grown and the shirt has shrunk. But the sentiments remain.

The majority of little boys like to fight.

Don't get me wrong, my toddler daughter is something of a scrapper, too. Try to take her toy, or worse, her food, and you're sure to be pounded with a high-pitched scream and perhaps an assaulting little fist to go with it. I wouldn't say this makes me proud, but I am glad she is learning to daily hold her own against her 5-year old brother.

It's her brother, though, who takes joy in fighting - or rather, the idea of fighting. Books and shows on karate, ninjas, warriors, or soldiers are pretty much a guaranteed win with him. He and is father are often practicing Krav Maga or Jiu-Jitsu moves together or spending some time with the heavy bags in the garage. Er, make that 1 heavy bag + 1 air-filled balloon in the shape of a heavy bag. My son also proudly has his own set of boxing gloves, like his daddy's, and can't wait to also start taking fight classes.

It's my son who is growing up with the aspiration to be tough. While my husband and I are struggling to raise him into a man of character, I'm pretty sure he just wants to be strong and able to fight off bad guys.

So, my Little Ninja is particularly interested in a shirt I occasionally wear that reads, "I Fight Like a Girl." I tried to explain to him what this shirt means... How I am proud to be counted among the group of women who have had to surmount a cancer diagnosis and treatment. ...How difficult it is to fight against a disease, when the fight is for your life. (Try explaining that in Kindergartner, non-scary language.)

Little Ninja has never heard, "fight like a girl" in it's original, negative context. Rather, it's quite a compliment. I, of course, am quite pleased by that. And it's got me pondering all the emotions wrapped up in this one shirt I sometimes wear.

I hope that my son will grow up maintaining this understanding of girls/women that is free from assumptions of inferiority and instead latent with respect.

I hope my children will grow up to have compassion for the suffering and gratitude for the blessings that befall them. I hope they will learn to daily recognize and appreciate the good things - starting with their health.

I hope they will continue to have good health.

I hope that my daughter, that my nieces - that no one in the generations to come - will ever have to grow up and find themselves having to fight like a girl against cancer.




The many women who have lost their lives to the disease, the women who have been fortunate enough to treat it successfully: they have all faced a host of terrible, have endured and coped - for however long they did. That's tough.

Pets

Pets.

I love them. Well, sort of.

Sometimes I see someone squatting on the side of the road picking up their dog's poop with a plastic sack and I think to myself, "Humans are so strange."

Yet I, myself, have picked up many a bag of dog poop in my day.

Those little 4-legged friends can be such sweet companions. Plus, there can be benefits to pet ownership even beyond relational joys and therapeutic effects:

Dogs are great for security... Cats are great for rodents... Chickens are great for eggs... Sheep are great for fields of grass... Fish... uh, decorating dentist waiting rooms...? Birds, bunnies, hamsters, snakes... ... ... I don't know, but people enjoy having them in their home. 

We innately like to cohabitate and share our homesteads not only with other humans but often also with critters. Or sometimes with critters instead of other humans. 

My dear pal wrote a post, "October: For Breast Cancer Not Pit Bulls" and received dozens of angry replies at her suggestion that human life should invariably take precedence over animals' lives and welfare. As I read through the comments of mostly-illogical highly-emotional arguments, one sad person's reply in particular has stayed with me. She said people had let her down but her dog never had.

I read that as an example of the harshness of life. How tragic that we are a people who hurt each other and are so disconnected from each other that animals rise in standing on par with or above other humans.

I firmly believe pets hold a valuable role in our lives. That's not in question here. (Okay, so now would NOT be a great time to go back and read the entire piece I wrote on the pointlessness of rabbit ownership.) But also - and much more so - we need human relationships. Healthy ones.

I find it curious that often, instead of nurturing and serving others, we anoint our pets with souls and diamond-studded collars. We humanize our animals.

Graph source: www.fool.com

Currently, we're between pets in my household.

Well, that is, if you don't count the hairy caterpillar living in an atrium box in the center of our dining room table.

My 7-year old has been pining for a pet for a couple of years now. I am, however, pretty sure his motivation is primarily born from a peer group of 2nd graders who view pets as status symbols. Plus, he forgets to drink water routinely and is not very good at wiping his own butt, so he surely can't be relied upon to be a responsible pet owner.

And then there's my 3-year old daughter, who has literally made friends with every dog in a 1-mile radius; it feels a tad cruel not allowing such an innate affection to cultivate. She, however, forgets to put the lid on her caterpillar (which I feed and give water), and so hunting for "Wooly" in our very large dining area is becoming about as common as finding streak marks in my sons underwear. I'm just hoping she doesn't "pet" the poor thing to death.

So, as you can tell, we (meaning I) am pretty primed for a pet. After all, we do own our home and have a good size yard, so there aren't a lot of excuses that remain. Well, other than that my sick body already struggles to keep up with the demands of the two mini-humans (and one husband-sized human) I take care of. And that pets are expensive. They are a commitment for many years. They require a lot of attention and care. Right, not much to stop us now.

But more to the point, even if I find myself back to taking walks with sacks of steamy dog poop in my hand, or even branch out to get my very own bunny to wake the neighbors, any pet of ours will remain simply and firmly-situated in their status as a pet -- an animal with limits on the time, money, and love they will receive.

Oh, I'm sure the time, money and love afforded it will be aplenty. But I hope that "plenty" will fall short of what we are willing to devote to other people in our lives. Helpless and innocent or not, people need our time, affection, and sympathy far more than any pet needs to be treated like a human.

If this makes you want to angrily argue about the value of animal lives, 

post on my friend's blog. She likes that sort of thing. 

I just noticed "die" is the first part of diet.

It has been a nightmare. It is sapping my energy and depressing me into states of melancholy and self-loathing. I can’t stop thinking about the pure misery of it.

It is a diet. A terrible, spawned-from-the-devil, diet.

I’m on day three.

Yes, I just said three. That is “all” you say? Oh, don’t you dare! I will punch something angrily! I will cry despairingly.      ...For the love of God (who I do love), let me have a cup of coffee. With lots of cream. Or a hunk of bread. With lots of butter. 

Alright look, I might be getting a little dramatic. And perhaps ever so slightly delusional. But I’m really hungry.

Did I mention I'm on a diet? Yes, so it’s day three of no: wheat/gluten/yeast, dairy products, eggs, almonds, oats, corn, beans, bananas, pineapple, coffee, chocolate… or, roughly classified as: food.

My blood recently tested as having a reaction to all of those foods and so this is a couple month to perhaps a lifetime, cold-turkey... bah, turkey: one of the few foods I can eat... elimination to help with some residual arthritis/post-cancer problems.

On day one of said diet I was very late for work because, instead of getting up to face the day – mainly the task of trying to find something to eat, I laid in bed hungrily instead. You don’t have to eat if you’re (pretending to be) asleep, right? Later in the morning I indulgently went to Whole Foods to console myself with a $7 (gross) hemp smoothie to go with my frighteningly expensive one bag of groceries – only to realize the smoothie had banana in it and so was off my list. I almost slumped down onto the eco-friendly floors and cried out from my knees, “whhhhhhy?”

I have slogged through some pretty horrendous things in life, (like many people.) If I wasn't so hungry right now, it might be amusing that a very restrictive diet is undoing me. Plus, I have been dragging an aching body around for five years now; the immobility and painful hobbles this diet is meant to help should be bolstering my resolve. I should be standing on my mountain of earned badges of fortitude, pumping my fist into the air while chanting, "I got this too. Yeah Baby!"

But really, I’m just hungry. (Sorry, did I already mention that?) And I’m tired of a body that I don’t understand and can’t keep up with me.

It used to bother me that I had become an emblem to incite gratitude in others – as in, “At least I’m not her.” I don’t mind that so much anymore. (But, Dear Husband, please drink your coffee somewhere else before I strangle you to merely get a good whiff of that deliciousness.)  Right, so to the contrary, I’m glad I can help. Because, all jokes aside, I can help you. And so, not for the sake of garnering your sympathy but for brightening your perspective, I tell you this story. (And all the others.) I can help you realize your day is not so bad, your problems not so big. Your pain is not so deep. And when it is or when they are, you too will survive.

You might not be pumping your fist through it, but you will wake up again tomorrow – and maybe then the smoothie won’t have banana in it. Or even better, someone will make some bacon.

If you have any tips, favorite recipes, or comments, please share!

Love Foundation

This Thanksgiving, I had the honor of being selected to share my story at The Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation “Week of Thankfulness” blog.

Same story. Retold anew. Because, yes, I have a lot to be thankful for.

 

Check it out at:

WTF?

I kind of like the expression "WTF?"

I don't curse. I think it's ugly. Okay, sometimes it sounds both appropriate and comical from certain people, I admit. But I am not one of those people, and I would not actually say the words that WTF stands for. I do however find myself typing the acronym occasionally. Sometimes, it's just succinctly appropriate.

The other day I opened the mailbox to a hefty bill for one of the chemo infusions I received ---- IN 2010, nearly THREE years ago. This, my friends, just might be an occasion for WTF.

I only recently have stopped holding my breath as I open the mailbox. The constant flow of medical bills blissfully subsided some time ago now. As our lives normalized so too did our financial obligations. So I was caught a bit off-guard by a such a large bill from an era of indebtedness I thought to now be long-closed.

Who takes three years to send a bill? Why is that even legal?

I let the drastically tardy bill sit on my desk for a month. I see it many times over the 4 weeks it collects dust next to my stapler and cup of pens. I'll eventually call and make the payment; it just doesn't feel right to do so right away. The billing office took roughly 30 months to send it to me; I figure they can wait a few weeks while I stew over the injustice of their inefficiency.

Then, like clockwork, I receive another bill the following month, this one now states, "Your account is past due." Really? I want to call and tell them my payment is hanging out with their competency; they should let me know if they find either one.

WTF?

And that my friends is a small peek inside survivorship life.

Pink Out: 5 Ways to Show Support for the Cause

Need I tell you that October is breast cancer awareness month? This might be inspiring. Or it might make you want to throw something at the next pink ribbon you see.

Breast cancer awareness has taken off in the last couple of decades, hugely in part to the efforts of the Susan G. Komen Foundation. Today, we see pink ribbons on everything from our yogurt to NFL player’s uniforms.

A lead breast cancer researcher in the Los Angeles area once explained to me that the funds and attention are behind breast cancer research because, unlike other cancers, it widely spans age-groups and outcomes. So, in short, all kinds of research can be conducted within the breast cancer field. The key to curing all cancers will probably first come from a breast cancer cure.

This makes me feel better. At least there is good reason for all the attention.

After doing a guest post at TheMomIWantToBe.com on ways to show support this month, I was inspired to compile a Top 5. If you too want to show your support for breast cancer awareness and the quest for a cure, the below are this survivor’s top suggestions:

1.) Join Army of Women

You can actually participate in studies to help eradicate the disease. All types of women, with/without cancer, all parts of the country can join and be a part of the research.

2.) Go 1-on-1 with Your Support

There are millions of women with breast cancer. Chances are you will know someone who is diagnosed at some point. As you should toward anyone undergoing a tragedy, have enough compassion to go out of your way to help them meet their everyday demands during an overwhelming time. And expect nothing in return.

3.) Give

Research takes money. Give to a reputable organization you can trust. Definitely check them out first; there are a lot of marketing gimmicks out there that actually give so little of your spending dollars to breast cancer research that they are not worth your time or money.

For example, if you’re buying Yoplait yogurt (which, before public outcry, was made with dairy stimulated by the hormone rBGH) and mailing in your lids so that 1 cent per lid will be donated (and paying 46 cents for a stamp), perhaps your efforts would be better directed elsewhere.

Really, countless causes and organizations are vying for our attention, support, sympathy, and of course, money. Within breast cancer research or breast cancer awareness alone, there are thousands upon thousands of organizations claiming their utility. Like everything in life, we have a responsibility to sift through the information available to us and make smart choices.

Here’s a helpful article on vetting nonprofits in general: Make Sure Your Donation Counts.


4.) Promote awareness

I want to say we all know there is such a thing as breast cancer. But reminders why you should be checking yourself, getting recommended mammograms, and seeing a doctor if you feel something unusual never seem to be unproductive.

Wearing your support for the cause is an easy way to do this. Plus, on a personal level, there is something really moving about someone making a statement on your behalf with a shirt, a bracelet, whatever it is that says, “I love this person enough to wear this pink thing, thinking of them.”


5.) Walk

Komen and Revlon and whoever else is doing walks these days are great. I like that people physically push themselves and therein are taking a measure to be healthier themselves. I like that money is raised. I like that hurting people have a constructive place to go and DO something in the name of their hurt (e.g., “I walk in honor of…”).


 

I feel a little like a minority being asked a question in which the answer is supposed to represent an entire race’s views. But I think most would agree these are some basic, constructive suggestions.
 

Happy October. Here's to finding the cure.

Anniversaries of a Different Sort

Beautifully done comic from: xkcd.com

A Story Shared

This week, telling a piece of my story for our local magazine:

There's a Grandma in my Bones

photo by Little H, age 4

I’m 31 years old. Sort of.

I mean, I've been alive for 31 years. But I’m an awfully lot like the 60-70-somethings I occassionaly attend a restorative yoga class with.

I roll up in my CR-V, car seats and cracker crumbs and all, and squeeze right in with the Cadillacs and Mercedes, parked ever so slightly crooked in their spots. I inevitably meet my instructor at the parking ticket machine and once again help her through the process of purchasing an electronic parking pass. And, also once again, I attempt to dissuade her from saving the receipt until kingdom come because I’m pretty sure “technology” is in fact not going to fail her and result in a retroactive ticket she doesn't deserve.

As we make our way from the parking lot back to the yoga room, there’s a lot of chatting and slow ambling. I want to speed things up and get us started. Actually, I generally want to speed things up the entire 1.5 hour class.

There is a lot of sitting, breathing, and stretching. Did I mention it was a yoga class? Anyway, not my favorite way to spend 90 minutes. I rarely break away from the responsibilities of my job and my two young children to do anything by or for myself. This is holy time I don’t want to waste. (And, okay, I'm kind of a Type A personality.)

I don’t like meditating. I have found that I breathe just fine without devoting thought to it. And I prefer my stretching to be a warm-up for some sort of strenuous exercise to follow. But I come here because I need it, because I know that it is good for me. It helps my troubled body feel a tad bit better, even if only for a few hours.

So much of me wants to be outside running, to be fast and free. To be 31. But that’s all in my head, because my body fits right in with grandmas around me. You see,

    * Inflammation rolls around in my hip and rib joints, making me ache and creak and move gingerly.

    * I lack hormones and thereby the ability to regulate my own body temperature appropriately. To compensate, I habitually under-dress and am cold 95% of the day, because the other 5% is flashes of torturously hot.

    * I take a medication (to help keep the cancer away) that causes bone density loss.

    * And, the water balloons on my chest and chunk of lymph nodes cut out of my underarm really put a damper on my agility. High impact exercise is generally not reasonable.

So, like I said, I fit right in here. I am a 31 year old, trapped in a 70 year old body, that is actually 31 years old.

We’re stretching slowly from side to side. We’re balancing. We’re breathing.

(Sigh.) I was never a very good runner anyway.

 

Scars

Two months after giving birth, I return to the operating table.

The ordeal is smaller this time. It will be outpatient; not even worth mentioning to my friends. Just two small surgeries.

The first surgery will be to replace the temporary implants inserted at the time of mastectomy with more permanent ones. I will be opened up along the existing scars for the implant exchange.

I am tasked with selecting either silicone (more life-like) or saline (zero health risks; zero maintenance until the time of replacement ~ which is roughly every decade with either option.) Not wanting to give any fuel to the arthritis that racks my ribcage, I choose saline. I would prefer a rippling, wrinkly, sloshing water-balloon chest to the pain – or even the possibility of sustaining the pain – of the arthritis. I’ll take weird and ugly over incapacitated any day.

Also while under, I will be having a surgery to remove my ovaries, a laparoscopic bilateral Salpingo-Oophorectomy. Blah, blah, blah-blah. Because I tested positive for a BRCA I gene mutation (what’s up Angelina Jolie), my risk for ovarian cancer is high. Removal of the ovaries greatly reduces this risk and is recommended by age 40.

Silicon or saline? Oophorectomy now or in 10 years? These are weighty and highly nuanced decisions. I will second-guess them for years.

The oophorectomy in particular will have pervasive, unpleasant side effects that make me question this decision many, many times. But these decisions are about survival, or bettering odds for survival.

Health problems birth a need to make difficult, monumental decisions that are often a roll of dice amongst a table of bad options. You can only do the best you can with the information available to you. I’m pretty sure that’s the advice my Dad gave me anyway.

The surgeries put me in bed for a couple of days and I can't lift my tiny baby for the first week. But once again, my mother is here to lend her hands, and I'm bouncing back before the week is up. Onward we move.

To match the scars curving across both sides of my chest and the pair of small ones below, where the JP Drains exited, I now have two bubbly little slits on either side of my belly button, plus another healing slash across the top of my belly button.

Scars; blazing-forever-imperfections across my deeply imperfect body for my imperfect self to lament.

Mother of Two

In the coming days and weeks, I will learn how to be a parent of two.

The first morning I'm home with both children starts bright and early - of course. I've just given my daughter, Baby L, her first bath (after a throw-up incident), fed her tiny tummy an astounding third bottle in four hours, and have her on my shoulder to burp when she lets out a little grunt and a loud gargle of poo fills the back of her diaper. Nearly simultaneously, Little H hollers from the bathroom, "Mommy, I'm done." In other words, Mom, I've just pooped; come wipe my butt. My hands are full and I'm surrounded by multiple needs - and poop. Yes, I am a mother of two now.

I quickly learn to juggle tasks and make quick judgments of priority. I learn to sleep on demand, disregarding noise, light, or any other disturbances, because otherwise there might not be any sleep. I change my clothes, and the bed sheets, only when an inordinate amount of pee or spit-up has soaked into them.

I notice that my first baby, my son, will also need a daunting amount of attention and love as his understanding of his family is changed.

And, I am reminded of my husband's quality of character by how many middle-of-the-night feedings he takes on.

Amidst these suddle lessons, I am completely calm and simply happy. (So happy!) I cuddle that precious, tiny baby and am daily filled with awe of her.

 ~ ❤ ~

Two weeks after Baby L's birth, I start Tamoxifen, an anti-estrogen therapy for hormone receptive breast cancer. I know, that sentence just had a lot of words that don't mean much to the average person. In brief, Tamoxifen works at slowing, stopping, or preventing the growth of a specific type of cancer cells, such as mine.

My start of Tamoxifen was delayed by the pregnancy. So just as soon as the post-partum spotting ceases, I unleash this next phase of treatment on my body and begin the once/day pill regime. 

Side effects include: hot flashes, vaginal dryness, decreased interest in sex, blood clots, overgrowth of uterus lining, ovarian cysts, stroke, endometrial cancer...  But because Tamoxifen has been shown to be effective at lowering the risk of breast cancer recurrence - because it will help me survive - I will take it every day for the next 5 years.  

Gratefully.

Acceptance

It’s Sunday afternoon. We’re out running errands before our upcoming summer vacation. And I am smiling - smiling at the day, smiling at the future, smiling.

A sense of normal has returned. Cancer is a nightmare that I just may live through. Arthritis is a misfortune that will fluctuate in degree of disturbance. I will live, and live in happiness. (Or, at least for now.)

I’m walking down the sidewalk holding my little boy’s hand. He’s wearing an unbecoming outfit, born partly of the majority of his clothes being packed for our trip and partly of my granting him autonomy in the selection process this morning. The strange-fitting jeans, outdated hand-me-down loafers, and ugly red and green toolbox sweater do not diminish his handsome little face. 

In the time we walk from one block corner to the next, he manages to get in a steady stream of questions that includes, “Is coffee healthy? Why do we have to go to bed every day? Where is a bee's stinger?”

I laugh softly at his constant stream of words. As I look down at his little body next to mine, I hear my mother-in-law telling me how his daddy too was a jabber-box, and then one day, right around puberty, just stopped talking near bouts altogether. I know that day will likely come with Little H too. He’ll reach an age when he wants independence from us, where he’s not interested in sharing his thoughts or questions with Mom or Dad. He’ll go into his room a growing boy, who raids the refrigerator with regularity and who cares deeply about his friends’ opinions, and then he’ll come out a young man. With a deep voice and a broadening interest in his girlfriend, he’ll emerge and turn into the person he’s going to be. Oh, that I long to be there to see it. 

While I often ache over the possibility of missing his life, a part of me has begun to accept that he will be okay even without me - he and my daughter. My husband is a man of utmost character, and he is an excellent father; he would raise my children into beautiful people even without my help. And the love and support that our families would surround them with would help him along and keep them afloat.  

I squeeze Little H’s hand. I want to tell him I will be here to keep answering his questions, to clip his fingernails and hold him when he cries. I want to tell him that I will still be here to fill the fridge for him as he grows, to drop him off at the movie theater a block away, safely out of sight of his friends, to cheer on the sidelines of his sports games, to meet his girlfriend, to wait outside the door when he shuts himself inside. I am proud of you already Little H; I believe you have what it takes to become a great man.

“What are snails made out of?” he asks. I kneel down next to him to tie the lace of his ugly, brown shoe. His huge hazel eyes with long, curled eyelashes that make me jealous, stare expectantly at me. “Snails are slugs inside a shell,” I answer. And then, “I love you so much, son.” 

“I love you too Mommy,” he replies easily, "up to the moon and back." 

As I’m standing back up, I feel my baby girl kick hard inside me, as she frequently does. She is strong and healthy.

The world is right.

Clipped Wings

A Christmas where I couldn’t quite lighten my heavy heart came and went. I tried not to let my family see the pervasiveness of my sorrow, but this is clearly shaping into a season of darkness. Hope and gratitude are slipping out of my tired fingertips.

With the passing of the holidays, we return back to our quiet house with bags to unpack and a fridge that needs filling. My medical appointments resume and welcome us right back into the fold that is our lives.

I meet with one doctor and discuss the recommendation that I have my ovaries removed. I reluctantly dismiss lingering hope for a future pregnancy and plan an oophorectomy (surgery to remove my ovaries) for the coming months. I meet with another doctor and have blood drawn from my ankle, because once again, my damaged veins will not spring forth for the prodding nurses. I revert back to my safety chant, “one, two, three” to help me through the failed attempts. 

I ask the Oncologist my odds for survival, in a grasping attempt for as much information as I can attain. After a long speech about the meaninglessness of odds, he tells me the numbers. I can’t stop hearing them: 80/20. 

The survival rate, the chance I will still be alive and cancer free in ten years, is estimated at 80%. Conversely, statistics indicate there is roughly a 20% chance this will not be over for me. Aggressive treatment and preventive measures aside, there remains a 20% chance breast cancer will show up somewhere else in my body over the next decade. 

I am trying to understand that I might die soon, and that I have to live with that.

Meanwhile, my friends’ lives are moving on. They have gone on to have second and third children. They are having baby showers and buying houses, changing jobs and taking trips. The contrast between life carrying on normally for them and my sphere of challenges is a painful reminder of what might have been. 

I long to be one of them again, to associate mortality with old age, to live without prevalent fear or pain, to be able to take things for granted. 

Instead, I find myself skittering around like a wounded bird. I can’t lift off the ground and empathy weighs heavy on my back, as though I’m suddenly in-tune with any suffering around me. The sadness of the world is too much to ache for.

I walked across the lobby of a medical building today behind a little girl wearing what was clearly a wig. She couldn’t have been but five or six, walking lightly toward the infusion suite and holding the hand of what must have been her daddy. How does any man deserve the pain that father must endure watching his baby go through chemotherapy? 

…How do I hold it together when I lose new friend after new friend from my support group?  …How do I continue to understand God as loving and gracious amidst trying to teach myself that the allowance of suffering is necessary on earth?

I’m just a little bird, fluttering around on the ground. It’s okay if I leave this life, I attempt to convince myself. Because I’m not sure how else to cope with 80/20 yet.