Can I get an Amen?!?!?!?!

Now I understand you wake up in the morning and you think to yourself, "I wonder if Courtney will do something ridiculous today?" We know about the pole dancing, the sky diving, the dogs... what next? Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, I do not disappoint.

Recently, I joined a gospel choir. As in robe-wearing, Jesus-lifting, not-so-white, gospel choir. But not just any choir. A choir composed entirely of breast cancer survivors. Yep... like 50 of us. We wear pink robes. What else? It's powerful and supportive and fun - even if it is a little different. For me at least.

See, I spent 12 years in Catholic school. I sing with my Cathedral Choir here in Atlanta. I'm used to ... how do I say it... "restrained" faith. Mindful prayer. Chants. Organs. It's the difference between singing in a choir loft in the back of the church to being right there up on the altar, if you get my drift.

I have never raised my hand in prayer, never shouted out in agreement when the priest spoke. Instead of lifting anything up, I bow my head. I sneered if there was clapping. Well, all that's out the window, folks.

My first rehearsal, we lifted ourselves up more than I could count. We trusted in Jesus more than I'd even thought of. Granted, there are a few white women in this group, but we're by far the minority. I am also the youngest member. This is something I'm used to by now. I'm not, however, used to singing without sheet music. This is all by ear. It's a whole new world for me. But I figured, "Hell, I'm in the South now - when in Rome..."

But I tell you, I walked into that room and was immediately embraced - physically and otherwise. I was welcomed. They promised to give me rhythm. And hope. They've done both. We share what we have in common, not what's different. Sure, we sing about Jesus. But we also sing about cancer, encouragement and love.

What is this magical group, you ask? It's called Shades of Pink. It's the only group of its kind in the country. And I'm thrilled and honored to be a part of it. This group has not only taught me the about the value of sisterhood, but of faith -in whatever you believe.

I have big news to share with you on this front, just wait -- it gets more ridiculous. You'll just have to keep reading.

State of the Union

Today is September 11th. Some of you may remember my entry written last 9/11. (For those of you who cannot quote my blog by date - and really, who can't? - Here it is)

A year ago today I finished active treatment for breast cancer. 1 year already. Wow. I say active treatment because I'm still very much in treatment. I see a doctor or a nurse every month for my clinical trial, I take drugs, I have side effects. For those of you who might think that cancer's over once treatment is done, here's a little insight. (I swear, I tried not to make that sound snarky... don't think I succeeded.)

1 year after treatment...

My hair is still uncomfortably short. Still VERY curly. Still looks like Ronald McDonald. Now approaching an odd mullet stage. Still brown - although I've started a gradual step down approach to becoming blond again.

My eyes are still a little off. I can thank chemo for giving me astigmatism, now I can thank Tamoxifen for continual effects on my eyesight. For those of you who don't know, I was already pretty damn blind. Didn't know it could be worse.

My back is still a problem. We're not quite sure exactly why, but doctors credit the lack of estrogen to bone issues and chemo and tamoxifen to disc problems.

I am in menopause. Still. Will be for a few more years, thanks to my clinical trial. With that comes hot flashes, sleep problems and a spare tire that I can't seem to get rid of.

I am still 30 pounds too heavy. Although the mere fact I've done the whole menopause thing and not GAINED weight makes me happy... but I've now bought fat girl pants for a few seasons now and it's uncalled for.

My joints ache all the time. That's tamoxifen. Every morning when I wake up, it's like I'm walking on pegs for a while. I can't sit still for too long. I'm constantly stretching. Awesome.

My big toe has finally grown out from when I almost lost it... 14 months ago.

I bruise way too easily. This is a common complaint after treatment.

I am sensitive to the sun. If I'm out in it for too long, I get itchy rashes all over.

I take 5... count 'em five... pills every day.
Tamoxifen - hormone therapy
Ambien - for sleep issues
Effexor - for the hot flashes
Prescription Anti-Inflammatory - For the back
Muscle relaxer - also for the back

Once we get my back under control, I might be lucky enough to only take 3 pills a day.

I go to the doctor once a month for a shot that keeps me in menopause. I usually can't sit comfortably for a day or so after it.

Cancer is still a part of my everyday life.

Stepping off the crazy train...

Okay, so I got the call from my doctor. While I very well could have real back problems, "We're pretty sure it has nothing to do with cancer. You're all clear, baby girl."

Yep, I was called baby girl. After a discussion of what my pain could be, I was referred to an internist. I haven't had a doctor that wasn't cancer related in a long time. I don't even know what they do :)

So long story short. I'm nuts. But fingers crossed, still cancer-free.

Fear...

Fear is an ugly monster. It sits in your closet and waits until you are dressed and ready to go before it jumps out and scares the shit out of you. It's the little voice in the back of your head that you cover with fun or booze or love or activism. It's the fine line between being naive and proactive. If you've had cancer, fear is something you learn to live with every day. Some days are worse than others - the day of a check up, or getting your boobs smooshed in square holes. Some days you forget about fear altogether. But it's never gone. It just hides bakc in your closet behind your winter sweaters.

I am not one to revel in the fear. I'd rather do something ridiculous - use my fear as adreneline. There have been a few times where I have wrestled with fear and it won. And when fear wins, it leaves behind that girl you hate. The girl who's insecure, emotional, pathetic. The girl who worries too much and doesn't do enough. The girl who trades her grace for weakness.

God, I hate that girl.

In the past year and a half, there are a couple times where I've lost my battle with fear. One time was watching friends lose their fight. It made the reality of cancer - the fact that people actually die from this - crystalize in my mind. See I'm not really afraid of cancer coming back. In fact, I sort of beleive one day it will. And if it does, I'll deal with it. Stage IV cancer, however - scares the shit out of me. We can be politically corrrect and look to all the Elizabeth Edwards in the world, but the truth is, right now, stage IV cancer is not curable. It's treatable. Meaning it can buy you time. Hopefully that's enough time for people to figure out how to cure you. But right now, they can't. Stage IV means you don't live until you're 80. When I was diagnosed, I never thought about dying. It was only after digging myself deep into this disease, that the statistics became people. People who died.

So you become afraid. Afraid of getting the call when "we saw something unusual in your scan." Or feeling pain that just doesn't seem to go away.

I'm losing my fight with the fear monster as we speak. See, I've been having back pain for about a month. Now, it could be the fact I've been working out more lately. Unfortunately, the muscle pain is a whole different issue. But it's on my spine - like a bruise on my bone that hasn't gone away. It's bothering me enough that it wakes me up at night sometimes. It's bothered me enough that I moved up my annual PET scan because of it. I went in on Monday. And to be perfectly honest, I didn't get the best feeling from the scan. Little red flags... another tech coming in to look, the tech who tells me I "should call" my doctor. All in all, if I was nervous going in, I'm even more nervous waiting for results.

And I've gone to that dark place. The place I'm not sure I've ever been to. The fear monster squeezes all rational thought out of me. I've thought about living wills and who would get my stuff and what would I want at my funeral. I've thought about the children I may not have or leaving Alan alone. In essence, I've fallen off my rocker with fear. What if this bone pain is bone mets? Could I do it? Could I face it with the same "Strength" everyone tells me I have? I'm really not sure. And then of course, I tell myself not to be stupid. That I'm fine. Stop freaking out for nothing. Except we hear all the time to listen to our body. That we can tell if something's off. And my body is screaming at me. That same yell when I first found the lump.

So I'll sit by the phone. Hope for arthritis or a herniated disc or some other issue that can be solved. Hoping I'm nuts. Overreacting.

Here's to hope beating the shit out of fear.

Link to the Cancer Blog

I was featured the other day on the Cancer Blog....

Check it out here...

The Cancer Blog contains the latest news, stories and reserach on all sorts of cancer.

Pretty cool, huh?

Tag, you're it!!!

I’ve been tagged to participate in a meme … to share seven random facts about myself with all of you. I've seen it relate to breast cancer, but that's not my current mood, so these will be regarding just about anything....

1. When I was 18, I sold knives. Cutco, to be exact. I went into the homes of my parents' friends and cut pennies and leather. That job didn't last. But I still think Cutco knives are pretty damn great.

2. My first performing opportunity came in third grade, when i put on my jean skirt and my mother's patent leather heels and lip synched to "Let's Hear it for the Boy." The St. Thomas More talent show was never the same.

3. In high school, I was president of the National Honor Society. I was also on the math team, JETS and speeach team. I was not a huge nerd. I promise. I threw fantastic keggers.

4. Thanks to working on cruise ships, I've seen like 60 countries or so. My favorite place - Buenos Aires. Or Tahiti.

5. Sometimes, if I'm up too late after takng my Ambien (helps me sleep through hot flashes) I get a little "ambien drunk." It leads to conversations I don't remember, impulse online purchases and lots of laughs from my husband.

6. One day, I'd love to live on the water. I miss the ocean.

7. Okay, one breast cancer fact- my surgery scar is on the lower part of my breast, like 6 o'clock. It's a little half circle - leading my boob to look like a one-eyed smiley face.

Those are my facts … what are yours?

The rules:
If you are tagged, you need to start by posting 7 random facts about yourself on your blog. Then list these rules and tag 7 others people (figuratively, obviously). List their names on your blog with a link to get your readers there. Then comment for each of the tagged, letting them know they have been tagged. Get i

I tag these survivors:


PJ

Cindy

Dave

Sami

Ruth

Janet

Dawn

Check under your couch cushions...

...Dig in your pockets, grab that jar of change sitting in your junk drawer/dresser/closet.

Open your hearts and your wallets people.

It’s time for the Breast Cancer 3-Day!

Here's a copy of the email I just sent out...

When I found my lump a little over a year ago, at the age of 28, I had no idea this was my future. I was told that it was probably nothing. That it’s “so very rare for women your age.” I was diagnosed on February 16, 2006. About a month later, a packet came in the mail for the 3-day. Last year, I walked the 3-day at the age of 29, only 5 weeks after my last radiation. I was bald, chubby, tired- but I did it. A couple of friends flew down to walk with me. It was hard and there were times when I wasn’t sure if I could do it… but I did. And I raised over 7,000 dollars. It was hard to see the remembrance tent, to see the t-shirts for those we had lost, to walk through the pain and the anger and the grief. But I did. And I met women who inspired me, who supported me and who laughed with me. I saw examples of how to live after the disease. I saw reasons to start your life after cancer, to find a new normal. I cemented relationships with close friends. I made new ones. I found a way to give back to a community that had given so much to me.

So that’s why I walk. Because for me, cancer took away so much, but little by little I’m getting it back. And I’m giving back. To show others that breast cancer can hit anyone. But at the same time, you find a way to live again. You have to. And that being a part of this new “club” has given me so much. My first 3-day was one of the most moving experiences of my life. And something I plan on doing for all the women who have blessed my life, shown me how to handle it with grace and given me reasons to celebrate. I will walk until we find a way to beat this. Because I have to.

In October of this year, I will be participating in my second Breast Cancer 3-Day. I'll walk 60 miles over the course of three days with thousands of other women and men. The net proceeds will support breast cancer research, education, screening and treatment through the Susan G. Komen for the Cure and the National Philanthropic Trust Breast Cancer Fund.


I've set the personal goal to raise at least $10,000 in donations. Yep, you read that right. Ten grand. So I need your help. Would you please consider donating to this cause? Any little bit helps. Just Follow this link to go to my personal fundraising webpage and donate online.


DONATE NOW!!

Y-Me

One of the things that has kept me busy the last couple of months is my new involvement with Y-Me, a national breast cancer organization. Y-Me provides information and support for anyone affected by breast cancer. I am now an on-call and peer match counselor. What does that mean, you ask? It means that I volunteer from home, taking shifts on their 24 hour a day hotline. The hotline is only manned by survivors. For this, I went to Chicago to be trained for a weekend. I swear, I travel so much for breast cancer now, you'd think I was working for some consulting firm or something. Anyway, I've done some shadowing work on the hotline itself and I've answered a few specific calls where they match people up to survivors with similar characteristics. You guessed it. I get the young ones.

I started the training for this right when all hell was breaking loose with my friends and I've only recently gotten all the technical stuff so I can begin from home. I wasn't sure how I'd feel about all this. I mean, talking to the woman who was stage 4 hit home. Or what about the woman who's afraid she won't have children? In the end, though, it's the people who end their call with, "Thank you. You've made this easier." If only for a day, I made a difference. And while you know I'm not really down with that cheesy shit, it feels good.

Plus, I have to say, the idea of volunteering and helping others, while grabbing a drink from the fridge and sitting in my pajamas is pretty great.

So, have you been affected by breast cancer? Do you need someone to talk to? Bitch, vent, ask questions? Give Y-Me a call.

Who knows? Maybe I'll be on the other end.

T-shirts

Who here hasn't been lured into some activity with the free t-shirt? It's up there with free pizza or "punch and pie." Much better than the key chain or "soda koozie." I think I have 3 credit cards due to this very ploy. You'd think the free t-shirt would lose its charm once you're old enough to legally enter the bar you've been going to for 3 years, but no. If it weren't for those t-shirts, what would you
a. work out in,
b. mow the lawn or
c. sleep in?

When I was younger, I had tons of t-shirts from high school activities. Student groups, sports, various community theater productions. I earned my t-shirts through sweat and watching 16 year olds make out in the hallway during "play practice." By the time I was ready to leave my parent's nest, I had amassed a ridiculous quantity of these pre-shrunk cotton wonders. In fact, my mother made me a queen sized quilt of my teen glory.

Ahh, college. The land of visa shirts and discover bottle openers. My high school shirts were replaced with numerous sorority shirts. Alpha Chi Omega shirts for dances and philanthropies and rush. T-shirts supporting our pledges, our football team, our intermural sports teams. (I myself was a three sport intermural player... I digress.) Then there were t-shirts of quotes when I was on the Student Funding Board (yes, I was a student government dork, too.) Or perhaps you'd like a zippered hoodie from "Guys and Dolls?" I always had something to wear when watching Dawson's Creek in the TV room or listening to Ace of Base while studying.

About a year after college, I worked on cruise ships. Alas! Another source for free shirts! I crossed the equator and kissed the fish, little kids tie-dyed ones for me, we launched a new ship, I promoted t-shirts that changed color in the sun. Slowly but surely, as my college shirts got faded, ripped, painted on or otherwise nasty, I had an MS Amsterdam shirt to take their place in my drawer.

So here I am, out of school, off ships - in the "real world." Just as my ship shirts were yellowing and I could no longer justify wearing the "AXO pledge class is GRR-RR-EAT!" shirt, another beacon of free clothing entered my life. Just when I was telling my husband, "What the hell will I do... I'm running out of t-shirts. Am I actually going to have to go to Old Navy and BUY one?" Just when I thought I would have to actually purchase said items, the t-shirt gods shined their light upon me.

I got breast cancer.

My drawer is now full of shirts from walking, racing, living. I have an abundance of pink. Shirts that tell me to "feel my boobies" or "get involved." Survivor Shirts. Remembrance shirts. In the course of a year, I think I've gotten like ten shirts.

Thank God. My Fall Fest 1999 t-shirt was getting lonely.

Sure, some of these "Free t-shirts" were actually free. Some were a "gift" for my participation. But a free survivor t-shirt? Free?

It only cost me thousands of dollars, half my boob and my dignity. Sure, I'll take two. Do you have them in extra large? What if they shrink?

Can never have enough t-shirts.

Shark Week

Okay, after watching
all together too much
Discovery Channel Shark Week,
I've come to a conclusion:


While living with cancer and dying from cancer are horrible, scary, shitty things, it could be worse:


I could be eaten alive by sharks.


Seriously, way worse.


Or bears. Bears effing freak me out.


I know I've been a little MIA. It's been a combination of being very very busy with some super exciting things, as well as "taking a little break." But I'm back.
To be continued...

Ruby

My friend Ruby passed away last week. She was 33. Her breast cancer story is one that strikes fear in many of our hearts. Fear, sadness and a whole lot of anger. Ruby was finishing her radiation treatment when I moved to Atlanta and joined the young women's support group at Emory. She was one of the first people I met in my new town. With a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye, she talked of working out, living healthy, not letting this get in the way of living. A few months ago, she was talking about having a baby. Man or no man. Buying a new townhouse. She was one of the original members of this support group, started only about a year and a half ago.

Then in February, as I celebrated my one year cancerversary, Ruby - just about to finish herceptin - was diagnosed with a recurrence to her bones, liver and lungs. Except it probably wasn't a recurrence. The cancer had probably been there the whole time. She had no symptoms and it was finally found in a scan she pushed for. She asked for the scan for 6 months. So off she went, to start the whole ordeal over again - chemo, clinical trials.... she was only on them for about a month and a half before her body started to shut down and she was too sick for anything. There was nothing else to do. She had gone from a stage IV diagnosis to hospice in 3 months. She passed away in a friend's home, surrounded by family and friends. Members of our support group had visited just the day before, bringing a candle we had lit in her honor at our last meeting.

One of our group reminded us, "If you hang around people with cancer, some of them will die. It is cancer, after all." Doesn't make it any easier. And while I think I was better prepared because of Candy, this is was a different level of involvement. I saw it as my job to make sure the other people in our group were okay. As I mentioned before, I've been pretty active in visiting her and taking the lead in helping the rest of my group... phone calls, updates, daily check-ins. While it came as no surprise and in some ways was a blessing, it still sucks. It still scares the shit out of this small group of strong women who have been made stronger through this battle. There are a few things I've learned from Ruby's life and her death.

- Life is for living. At one point in the hospital, Ruby looked at me - all jaundiced and weak - and smiled, "If I had known this would happen, I would have eaten more cheeseburgers and fried chicken." Not that we should all run out and give ourselves heart disease, but if my time on this earth is limited, I'm going to have a damn good time.

- Some shit just doesn't matter. Ruby had some people who had hurt her in her life. As the end was near, she looked at me and said, "When you're dying, that stuff doesn't matter. Save your energy for what does." Wise woman. You don't have to be dying to live like that.

- Be your own health advocate. If that means pushing a doctor, then by all means, push. If it means you raise hell and bitch to get what you want, then do it. Or get someone else to do it for you. If it doesn't feel right or you're not happy with your care - find someone who will take care of you the way you deserve. You should trust them with your life. Because, in fact, you are.

What is Ruby's legacy? To me, it is the gift of friendship. Our group at Emory went from a small gathering of women with something in common that met every month to a truly close knit group of friends who had more in common than we ever realized. Through Ruby's crisis and her death, we became bonded in a way we never expected - but at least for me, am so grateful for. I not only have some "cancer friends" but real friends. And a group of amazing women who prove themselves up to the challenge - circling the wagons at a moment's notice. And a group to share margaritas with every month after the regular meeting is over. Ruby gave us that. Months from now or even years, we will sit around the table and tell stories of Ruby. She is the first member of our group to pass - watching over those women in that room. Those who join us will hear tales of Ruby and her mango margaritas. Or Ruby declaring she'd walk back into Emory a miracle.

She was. And she still is. We are lucky to have known her. And we will honor her memory but continuing to be there for each other. By still cracking jokes. And cracking skulls. And drinking mango margaritas.

Here's to you, Ruby.

Freaking out

I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but upon reflecting upon the whole drama that is cancer, it's occurred to me more than once that not one person freaked out in front of me. The sad eyes, sure. Maybe the extra squeeze in the hug. Or a little vocal wavering on the phone. But outside of the, "okay, I have cancer, I'll be fine," I never had to deal with someone else's emotions really. Not one person cried in front of me. No one got hysterical. No one really made it about them.

At least not in front of my face.

My mother teared up when I came out of surgery. I was too drugged up under the wonders of anesthesia to notice. Alan told me he'd cry while he watched me sleep. (A collective sigh of cuteness.) I'm sure friends got off the phone with me and proceeded to call their mommies. A friend recently told me there were a lot of freak outs on her part.

Of course there were. Your friend has cancer. Fuck. I flipped out a little when my friend Dave found out he had cancer. "What does that mean?" "Why the hell did it have to happen to such a nice kid?" I didn't really go there - but I'm sure the thought of my possible mortality struck somebody's mind. People do die of cancer, after all.

This same person now regularly points out that I had cancer, and shit- that was major stuff. It's like it's just hitting her now. The lifetime of tests and scares and menopause and can I eat soy? (The answer is no, btw. Soy is an estrogen. Estrogen is bad.) It's not unlike my own realization. See, when you're doing it, after the initial "Are you fucking kidding me?" you just put your head down and do it. What else can you do? It's only when you have a chance to breathe that the enormity of the situation strikes you.

I have to give my friends credit. Thank you for not flipping out. One drama at a time. Thank you for calling and emailing and sending me presents. Thank you for never asking, "Are you going to die?" Thank you for never putting me in the position to have to make you feel better. At least not a lot. Even though I'm getting further out, thank you for realizing cancer is still very much a part of my life. Thanks for still reading.

In an effort to be "interactive," I will now cast an informal poll. Those of you who know me personally, did you freak out at any point? Did it involve tears? Drama? Booze? What did you do? Scream, call a friend, call your mom? Enquiring minds want to know. Post comments here.


Thank you for bucking up and being good little campers. Now go eat some cake.

Krusty the Clown

Wow, you have an online nervous breakdown and people come out of the woodwork! Comments and emails and phone calls, oh my! Thank you all so much for your kind words. While I'm not sure if "inspirational" and "hero" are words I'd use to describe myself (more like loudmouth and bitch) but hell, at least six people read my blog.

In the effort to :

A. not be such a Debbie Downer and
B. Inspire some fabulous comments,



I am adding a picture. Everyone loves pictures. People ask me how the hair's going. I try to tell them - as they look at my very product filled curls - that it's actually out of control. I now have a new respect for those of you with curly hair. I may not have enough hair to use a brush, but I have plenty enough for gel, mousse and Aveda's "Be Curly." I had my last chemo about 11 months ago now. My hair grows very slowly- that's one thing that HASN'T changed. I have a few friends that finished about the time I did, and they are clearly "lapping me." I can look forward to short hair for a LONG time. It's hard to tell how long it is because it's corkscrew curly, but when I wake up in the morning - watch out! It's probably as tall as my head. The question is, will it calm the fuck down? Chemo curl is widely referred to as "Ronald McDonald" hair, but Alan prefers to call me "Crusty the Clown." Upon taking this picture, he told me,


"You're not keeping your hair like this, are you? If you do, we'll never have sex again."


There you have it.



Ignore the crazy eyes!

Crying in the closet...

Back when Alan and I lived in Middle-of-Nowhere, USA, we hit a few rough patches. I had a hard time finding a job in our little corner of the world. Apparently, playing bingo for a living and hosting karaoke on cruise ships were not marketable skills for a small town. We had money problems. I occasionally asked myself what I was doing moving to this place so Alan could finish school. I was getting chubby and couldn't fit into my size 4 BCBG formal dress. All in all, I felt inexorably out of control. I used to walk into our closet- which was disproportionately big compared to our apartment- and I would cry. Just sit in the dark and sob among the pile of footwear. Occasionally, the offending garment would be spread across my lap. Alan and I had more than one "discussion" which led to him searching the apartment to find me in my little corner. A few friends knew of this odd habit... "was it bad or crying-in-the-closet bad?", they'd ask.

Funny enough, even with cancer, I haven't cried in the closet in a long time. Not even my big brand spanking new closet. And I haven't felt compelled to...

Until today.

A few people in my life have expressed concern over my still very active stance in breast cancer support groups, organizations, etc. I'm guessing they probably wonder why I'm not "moving on with my life." A couple have expressed worry that by still being so involved, I'm setting myself up for more pain. Sick friends, drama, recurrences, etc. That perhaps my time would be better served with non-cancer related things. That the longer I stay in the trenches, the harder it will be to dig myself out.

A friend read me something recently. She described finishing treatment for cancer as like coming back from a long, horrible trip and getting off the plane. You walk out only to find your friends and family have already left the airport. Just when you're done, and you need support almost more than you ever did, many in your life will assume it's over. That it's time to grab some dinner at Chili's and talk about other things.

I consider it my duty - actually, my honor, really - to be there waiting for people when they get off that plane. It has become so much a part of who I am that I cannot imagine my life without this. But for every blessing this gives me, there's a struggle.

Then there are days where that double edged sword cuts right through you. Today has been one of those days. I have a friend from my young women's group who is fighting this battle. And she's losing. As members of her group, we have visited her a lot this past week or so. And every time we walk out the door, our hearts are a little heavier, the grief a little closer. We get a drink. We process. We get mad. Mostly we just look at each other and say, "this sucks."

Cuz it does. It fucking sucks.

I have another member of my group who is having a hard time with her chemo. She is also stage four. She's currently in the hospital. I'm sure this scares her and she feels like shit and I wish there was more I could do to help her. And, yes, I could be "moving on" and maybe then this wouldn't be so hard, but this is our life. This is who we are. And while some might say they'd sleep better at night if they weren't around cancer, I couldn't. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror each morning if I wasn't offering myself to those people who have been there before me. Or those who come after.

This is by no means a slam to those who aren't capable of giving more. Not at all. I just know I am. I am able to offer medical knowledge that many don't have. I am able to offer a bit of humor to otherwise crappy stuff. And unfortunately, in the case of this group, a group that has never lost a member before, I am able to offer my still very fresh experiences with losing Candy. And I am happy to offer all this and more.

But there are moments, and I'm sure there will be more in the coming days, when it gets hard. When it seems so out of control. When it's just so damned sad. These moments have me walking to the door of my closet... These are the moments when I look inside, thinking that corner looks so inviting. Wishing my husband hadn't installed that damn motion light thing that makes it impossible to sit in the dark. And let out some tears. Take care of my fears, my worries.

Then it's time to strap on the big girl pants and check on my friends...

Blessings...

There are a few times in life where you know you are in the presence of something magical. If you're into the "big JC", you may think of it as feeling God or whatever. For me, it's that moment when you look around you and feel something bigger than yourself. You are blessed to have those moments. It is something so special, it should be treasured.

For me, one of the blessings I have found through this process is the ya-yas. For those of you who don't know, the ya-yas are the women in one of my cancer support groups. This very unusual group of amazing women have been meeting every week for years... some of them 10 years. That's right. Every week for ten years. I have been with them almost a year now. I have spent more time with the ya-yas than I have with my friends and family.

I know some young women with breast cancer do not like traditional support groups. "Those old ladies have nothing in common with me, " they say. Well, I couldn't disagree more. I am the youngest in the group... by more than a few years. I am the only one "of my generation" so to speak. And I know they think I'm crazy and they love to hear stories of pole dancing and all the other crazy things "kids today" may do. From them, I learn about the good doctors or where to get great cakes intown. That's just the beginning.

I'm not quite sure how they realize how much they've given me. Every Thursday, I learn from their experience, soak up their wisdom and bask in their support. They make me laugh and cry. They tell me stories that make me feel better. Sometimes they make even me blush. It gives me such hope to see these beautiful, talented women who have faced the beast and are years out. It makes me feel lucky that they still care enough to share their journey with others.

This is the one appointment I have every week and will do everything I can NOT to miss. It's become such a part of my life here. My friends will call my cell at 1pm on a Thursday, leaving a message like, "I know you're at the ya-yas, call me, etc. etc."

When I describe the ya-yas to my young women's group, it is almost with this sense of mysticism. Like the ya-yas are some fabled great goal that we could all aspire to. "Every week?" they ask. Every week. Sure, some miss and some fall away for a while, but they are always a part of the group. "Even people who haven't been in treatment for a long time?" Those are some of the most valued.

At my first meeting ever, I saw firsthand how rare this sisterhood was. I was amazed that someone had a doctor's appointment and a half dozen people volunteered to take them or call the nurse or crack some skulls. When I walked for the 3day, some ya-yas were there at the finish line. When Candy died, I got a phone call Friday morning saying, "We just wanted to be together." So these women took off work, drove from far away, dropped everything to share with each other. I spent all Friday afternoon talking, sharing stories, drinking wine.

This weekend, I spent time with some ya-yas and we dedicated a garden to Candy at one member's house. And we laughed and gossiped and caused all sorts of trouble on a lake. There was a boat. And a scene. Long story.

It was time like this where I look around at the faces of these women. Women who have seen more than their share of pain, but smile nonetheless. You can't help but feel blessed to be in their presence. In this age of emails and text messages, the power of human contact is stronger than ever. When people grow more cynical , it is even more rare to be a part of something so unconditionally generous. These women truly love one another. A love and a friendship that I don't really see very often. Just being in the room with them, I know that I am a part of something that most people don't have. A community that is so good to me.

This group of women is an example to me of how to live my life. How to love more willingly and how to listen better. How to worry about me a little less and others a little more. How to laugh. How a hug actually can make it better. How cancer doesn't go away when the treatment is over. But it doesn't have to be everything, either.

I am truly blessed.

Deadliest Catch

Let's say you called me on the phone. Among discussing such important issues as Lindsey's drug abuse or the finer arts of blowing off a MySpace stalker, we would discuss television. What about McDreamy and Meredith? Whatever, I fucking hate her. What the hell is up with Juliette? What is it about pregnancy on the island? How hot is Hugh Laurie? You know, like "hot dad" hot, not "Friends top five" hot. How many fucking pop culture references can I put in one paragraph? If you didn't understand any of this, A. you are living under a rock or B. I need to get a life.


Then I would ask you about Captain Sig. Do you like king crab or opi season better? Is it me or have they upped the crisis quotient? Have no idea what the hell I'm talking about? You are missing out. Let me sell you on my absolute favorite show, Deadliest Catch on the Discovery Channel. Like a basic cable Jehovah's witness, I will tell you how this show will change your life. Okay, maybe not change it, but alter it in some meaningful way.

Deadliest Catch follows a half dozen crab boats off the Alaskan coast. We watch as they navigate the Bering Sea, setting crab pots, working their asses off. There are mechanical malfunctions, rescues at sea, even some guy who had to get back so he could meet a court date or go to jail. Maybe it's my years at sea myself that draws me to it. Like some sort of WT cruise. Instead of bingo, they stuff raw fish into plastic jugs. Maybe it's that narrator guy that does all that Discovery Channel shit. Maybe it's the fact they use Bon Jovi for their theme music. It's all of the above, really.

How has this changed my life? I will tell you. And as it happens, it has to do with cancer. Last April when I was going through chemo, I used to have problems sleeping... before I discovered the wonder of sleeping pills. I was all hopped up on steroids and would watch TV in the dark, the volume on low as not to disturb my blissfully ignorant snoring husband. I watched more episodes of Law & Order than I care to count. I secretly wanted to buy the Magic Bullet or that crazy Gazelle thing from the guy with the ponytail-mullet. However, one fateful night, I happened upon the Discovery Channel and Deadliest Catch. I was inexplicably sucked in. And because it was replaying a bunch of episodes, I probably stayed up until 4am watching.

The next day, I raved about the wonders that I discovered the night before. Like I happened upon some oasis in the desert or saw a unicorn. Alan didn't understand. But he would. Later that night, when of course more reruns were playing, he sat down and watched. 2 and a half hours later, Alan agreed it was addictive. Alan and I cuddled in bed with the puppies and watched some fishermen in 30 foot seas drop like 1 tonne steel cages in the ocean. Hot, I know. From then on, I watched late night loops of the show every time I couldn't sleep. And I think they did a replay at like midnight every Thursday, because it was usually when I had just gotten chemo.

So this spring, Deadliest Catch returned. The moment I heard Bon Jovi's "Dead or Alive" it was like the year hadn't happened. I was bald and sick all over again. But strangely enough, it wasn't a bad reaction. It was almost comforting. Like a cancer security blanket. As opposed to the smell of Sally, which make me sick, the sight of my friends on the Bering Sea was kind of a cancer warm fuzzy. It was a sort of good memory about chemo. Lots of treatment are a blur of needles and pain, but these moments in the dark are clear in my hazy mind.

I've been getting a bit nostalgic about my treatment lately. I don't know. Maybe it's like a breakup... after a while you can look at the good stuff and smile, forgetting how goddamn horrible it was going through it. I gave a recommendation for my doctors at Northwestern, finding myself thinking fondly upon my time at the Cancer Ritz-Carlton. Thinking of my private penthouse chemo room, my funny queen patient rep, my oncology nurse. Never mind the mind-numbing bone pain, the nausea, the tears in the shower. Instead, it was like, "aw - Northwestern. You'll love it there." Like some fabulous life threatening bed and breakfast.

I don't think I will ever watch Deadliest Catch without thinking of being in chemo. And for once, that's not a bad thing. As I get further and further from active treatment, the bad memories are fewer and the funny stories become more prominent. Like my television obsession. Even puking in the McDonald's parking lot seems sort of humorous. When I so know it was actually miserable. There's a fine line between nostalgia and wanting to go back and do it over again.

I'll meet you 95 miles northwest of Dutch Harbor.

Survivor

It's been over a year since I was diagnosed and I'm still not very comfortable with the term, "Breast Cancer Survivor." You remember "The Scarlet Letter"... yes, I do read. That Scarlet "A" burned into Hester's chest. She could feel it. Could feel people's eyes boring that "A" deeper and deeper. Sometimes I wonder if I will be wearing a Pink "C" the rest of my life. Forever marked. Forever changed. Forever labelled.

People have differing opinions on when you become a Survivor- some say the day you're diagnosed. Some say when they cut the cancer out. Or maybe it's when treatment ends. I sure as hell know I didn't feel like a survivor for a long time. I was just trying to make it through each day. I still am. If I had survived a car accident, say, I could go about my business, not afraid that same car will run me over again. Cancer? Not so much.

I feel a bit like "survivor" is a term those who haven't had cancer use to make those of us "in the club" feel better. Like saying, "You're so strong, you'll beat this." Calling us survivors makes others feel better. That we can get over it. That we'll be "cured." That it will be over. Everyone back to their respective business.

It was very hard for me to say, "I HAD cancer,"... had, as in past tense. It's still hard for me to say. Cancer is still a part of my life. Some of that is by choice, so maybe I'm gluing that pink "C" on myself. But I squirm a bit at "survivor." I'm not sure why. I'm proud to be an example for others. I'm happy to share my experience. I guess I just don't feel like I've survived anything yet. If I die of a heart attack at 75, then maybe I'll have survived breast cancer.

When I was at the YSC conference, there was a woman who spoke about what it means to be a survivor. (I don't remember her name- damn chemo brain.) She said something like this:

You go from patient to survivor when you stop saying, "Why me?" and start saying, "What can I learn?"

(Pausing for dramatic moment of revelation...)

I guess in that respect, I've been a survivor for a long time. I was never really the "Why me?" kind of girl. Shit happens. And I've been trying to learn from this for a long time. Maybe that's all we can really ask. Take what you can. Learn from it. Try to do your best. Take all the support you get - no matter how it's labelled.

Hi, my name is Courtney Bugler and I'm a breast cancer survivor.

Sally-Sass-a-lot Sucks

I've been debating what to do with my wig, Sally. She's been sitting on her Styrofoam head with her perfect dye job for months, just staring at me. There's a part of me that says I should donate her. Then again, I keep thinking, "What if I need her again?" She's like my cancer woobie. When I was a little kid, my brother threw my blankie out a car window. At least that's how I remember it. I'm not sure if I'm ready to do that to Sally.

Today I was talking to my friend about Sally. She asked if I ever put her on. Like a drag queen before a night out. I reminded her there's a difference between donning some pink mylar and grabbing some glow sticks and wearing a wig because you HAVE to. But while on the phone, I thought about Sally. Maybe she was lonely. It would be nice to see long blond hair again. I proceeded to take Sally off her head and put her on. "Hold on a sec," I told Hope. Point four seconds later, she heard me mutter, "Nope. I'm done." I put Sally on and immediately took her off. Why?

Because Sally smells like Cancer.

The mere presence of Sally near my nostrils and I'm taken back to chemo. Nothing else I own smells like Sally. That combination of hair dye and god-knows-what. But it's still there. And I'm not doing it. No fucking way. My mouth automatically went dry and I put Sally back. I'm thinking my relationship with Sally is over. I may keep her long enough to show a colorist the exact shade of blond I'd like if I ever go back. But that's it. If I get cancer again, I won't ever wear a wig. Too much work. And I can only take so many Sallys smelling up my closet.

Vacay!

I've had some requests for some photos from our vacay...

Here's me on a zip line through the forest in Jamaica


Formal night

Alan decided to be silly and do a glamour shot

Scuba diving in Grand Cayman

On the beach in the Bahamas

This is my favorite. It's ridiculous and fun.

Touch yourself up

Last week Atlanta's CBS affiliate ran a story on me and young women with breast cancer. It was pretty fun to shoot. They came and set up chairs in my backyard, like I was important or something. The story is pretty well done, and I don't sound too stupid. I learned the following things:

1. It's very hard for me me talk for any length without saying something inappropriate or swearing

2. Damn, I've gotten chubby. They rolled in all these "before" pictures and wow- time to get my ass to the gym!

3. When asked what young women should do, my answer was "touch yourself up. get your partner to help." I was very afraid this might be the soundbite. Thankfully, no. Best in print only.

So check me out.

Young Breast Cancer Survivor Raises Awareness