Move over Norma Rae!

Courtney goes picketing!

Since I was in New York anyway, you know - singing with Jon Secada and all - I figured I'd stay an extra day and do my union duty and picket. As if the WGA had consulted my very own calendar, they scheduled picketing outside my studio the very next day! Woo hoo, freezing my ass off in front of my own office, where cast and crew happily continue working in their cozy warm offices supplied with scripts written by also very warm scabs.

Now, I'm live south of the Mason-Dixon line now. I am not accustomed to the "chill" of December in New York. But I busted out my puffy North Face jacket like the midwestern kid I am, grabbed the gloves, hat and scarf that hadn't seen the outside of my closet in a couple of years and I was good to go.

Here's what I learned from my day of picketing. Picketing sucks. It's boring. People are bitter and angry. And apparently, no one in New York chants those cute "stick it to the man" rhymes like I've imagined. Maybe in L.A.

Walking in circles in the cold is horrible. And I don't care how many donuts Whoopi Goldberg sends out from "The View," it doesn't make up for the hours of walking in that little marked off section of sidewalk, knowing you're getting screwed.

And I only did it one day. One crappy day before flying home to my 70 degree southern oasis where no one requires me to do much of anything. It left me feeling a little bit guilty. After all, what's a WGA writer who doesn't live in New York or LA to do? Spread union propaganda, I suppose. So, if you're interested at all in the strike, check out these sites.

Deadline Hollywood Daily - written by a reporter for LA Weekly... it's the site for news and updates.

United Hollywood - started by union writers

$10 to the person who can name a Jon Secada song!

I just returned from singing with Jon Secada. Who the fuck is he? I know, a valid question. You know, we could all remember the name, but not one person could think of the one hit wonder that made him an early 90s superstar. So I thought I would help you. According to Wikipedia, the bastion of all important knowledge, Jon Secada was launched into the latin pop scene (think pre Ricky Martin, Lou Bega) by Gloria Estefan and had the following mildly successful hits:

1992 "Just Another Day"
1992 "Do You Believe In Us"
1992 "Angel

What most people don't know is that if you a. get breast cancer, b. join a gospel choir and c. get invited to sing at the New York Stock Exchange Christmas Tree Lighting, you too could back Jon Secada up in "Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

Where am I, you ask? Middle Row, third from the left. Rocking out. To "A Holiday Classic with a Latin Flair."

Who says breast cancer isn't fun?

Here's the choir.



My friend Joy and me under the tree.

What are you up to, Courtney?

I've been on strike for about a month now. Being on strike blows. Yep, there's some eloquence for ya. Hey big studios - give this out of work writer a job! What have you been doing while on strike, you ask?

Well, my kitchen cupboards are amazingly organized.
The drool is wiped off all the walls.
I've managed to only call my husband and annoy him about 4 times a day.
I check Deadline Hollywood Daily religiously. Like every other minute.
Did you know that there are these amazing systems to organize your garage?
Donna Martin graduates.
Sewing curtains. They're still not done, but more of a "work in progress."
There's this fabulous little pen that cleans your grout.
Maybe now's the time to finish my book proposal... oh, look - "clash of the choirs" is on!
I've finally made some itunes playlists.
Have you heard about this thing called Facebook?


Actually, the first couple weeks were great. Now that the news isn't good, and I've run out of free household tasks to accomplish, it's getting harder. Although I'm doing a ton of traveling in the next couple of weeks, so that will help. And I've been doing a whole lot of breast cancer stuff. I feel like I was a "trophy wife in training." Lots of volunteer work. Only no trophies to show for it.

Going back to work... that would be even better.

There I go again!

It wouldn't be an interview with Courtney if she didn't say something PG-13 or above. Let's see, I've been quoted in print saying bitch, damn, ass, bastards... hmm. No shit or fuck yet. That I know of.

So I was mentioned on this month's MAMM Magazine. It's a magazine dedicated to cancer and women's issues. I know, a real page turner. But important.



Anyway, the article is titled I Can't Believe You Just Said That! by Sherry Baker.



Here's an excerpt with my perspective on what to do when people say something stupid. Like the person who said, "Well, at least I don't have cancer." to my face. My bald headed, chemo filled face.


Appalled at the thoughtless remarks she heard, Rosanne Kalick researched what people should say and do when interacting with a cancer survivor. She compiled the information in her book Cancer Etiquette: What to Say, What to Do When Someone You Know or Love Has Cancer. “I don’t think boneheaded remarks are said to be malicious. Instead, I think they mostly are the result of fear, shock and concern. Too often the first thing people think is spit out of their mouth,” says Kalick. “Words you might fluff off if you were well, hit you like iron if you have cancer. Compassionate communication is what is needed. What people say and do really does matter.”

Hankins says there isn’t one “correct” way to react to hurtful remarks. Instead, a woman has to find ways of coping that are natural and comfortable for her. “Some people can answer with a zinger, some ignore stupid comments or can laugh at them,” he says. “But some women are so devastated, they can’t make light of inappropriate remarks and may feel devastated for weeks.”

Not Courtney Bugler, 30, of Atlanta. “People speak before they think, but I don’t think I’ve ever gotten genuinely upset. So as hard as it is sometimes, I’d advise people to blow it off. You have more important things to worry about than someone’s stupidity. It’s not worth it,” says Bugler, who was diagnosed with stage II breast cancer in February 2006. “I do appreciate my support group because they do understand. When I share a story, you can see that understanding in their eyes. And you can bet your ass humor helps me deal with it.”



There we have it people... blow it off and swear.

Philanthropy

It's very funny considering how my life is going, but it may surprise you to know that philanthropy hasn't always been my bag. In fact, it's pretty safe to say I never really gave a shit. When I was in college, I was the social chair and the rush chair... facts that probably don't surprise you. I planned parties. I judged women in .4 seconds. When the time for the sorority philanthropy rolled around, I conveniently had something else to do. I did not toss watermelons, cook chili or whatever other bullshit there was to raise money for charity. I did do the Dance Marathon my senior year, but that was only because I was sleeping with someone on the committee. Who was sleeping with someone else - but... I digress.



Point is, me and philanthropy don't really make sense. Not like ham and eggs, or Will Farrell and the jazz flute. So, imagine my surprise when Northwestern University called and asked to profile me for their annual report of donors.


Now, I will start by saying I am not a big donor. Not at all. I think maybe that at my age I donate at all is a big plus. I'm not quite sure why the development office creams their pants about me, but they do. Actually, I do know. One of college roommates works in the office. In fact, many of them read this blog. Hello, NU. I apologize for using the words Northwestern Development and "creams their pants" in the same sentence. Go Cats!



Okay, so Northwestern sent out this photographer... Jeff Gartin for those of you who'd like to know. We did a whole glamour shot photo shoot. We did all this stuff outside by my car. With lights. And umbrella things. My neighbors must have loved that. My profile picture is from this shoot. NU interviewed me for the donor spotlight. Wrote a whole big long thing.


So a couple months later, the annual report came. I found my page. I laughed out loud. For a long time.



A. They made me seem awfully adult. I mean, they somehow make partying and not having a real career seem totally normal.

B. I still managed to reference things mildly inappropriate.

C. They used the term "service and philanthropy." That's what got me. Ha! If the other co-hosts of Halloween pumkin gut wrestling could see me now.



So, here... reprinted from Northwestern for your reading pleasure. I will say, if you're an NU alum, you should really throw them a bone. You get glamour shots!



“If I think of a period in my life that has shaped who I am, what I do with my life, who I go to for advice … it’s my four years at Northwestern,” says Courtney Relihan Bugler.

As a theatre major in the School of Communication and as a member of Alpha Chi Omega sorority, Bugler became acquainted with a diverse group of friends. “What I gained at Northwestern was exposure to many different people I would not have met otherwise. Some of my best friends in the world are the ones I met through Northwestern. And then there are all the stories that go along with them! My favorites ones … those probably wouldn’t be appropriate for print!”

Following graduation, Bugler took a circuitous path to pursue her love for performing arts. While working in Los Angeles as an event planner, she kept her theatre skills honed by producing a review for Northwestern in her free time. She then served a stint working as an activities director on cruise ships, before returning to her native Illinois where fellow alumna Megan McTavish (Communication 71) hired her to write for ABC Television’s All My Children — the daytime soap opera created by alumna Agnes Nixon (Communication 44).

Now that she’s back in the industry she loves, Bugler uses her free time to advocate for young women with breast cancer — a disease with which she was diagnosed a few weeks after her 29th birthday. She originally received care at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, then completed her treatment in Atlanta, where she relocated with her husband, Alan, for his new job. She is currently training to become a crisis counselor for the Y-Me National Breast Cancer Organization. In October 2007, with two Northwestern friends by her side, she participated in the Breast Cancer 3-Day walk benefiting Susan G. Komen for the Cure.

Bugler’s life experiences inspire her service and philanthropy. “I’ve been very fortunate, and I feel it is my duty to support others in pursuing similar opportunities that were available to me,” she says. “Why wouldn’t we, as alumni, give what we can to provide other students the same opportunities?”

Bugler has supported the School of Communication Annual Fund, the Theatre/Interpretation Center, and the Student Life Gift Fund — all areas in which she participated while at Northwestern. “Giving to the areas of Northwestern that influenced me the most is my note of thanks and appreciation.”





Freaking hysterical.

Breast Cancer Caucus

I've become something of a single issue voter. Health Care. Breast Cancer and Health Care. That's why I've become so involved in the National Breast Cancer Coalition. Hence why I'm passing on one of my greatest tools for voting this season.

It's called the The Breast Cancer Caucus. Go to the website. Read what each of the candidate has to say on important issues of health care and eradicating breast cancer.



What I thought was even more telling than the statements, was who wrote them and who didn't. Who took the time to make a video and who had some low level communications flunky write it. For example, not one republican made a personal video. Some didn't even respond. Some had very specific plans and goals; others.... not so much. Now, you can be liberal, conservative, independent, whatever. I don't care. But if this is an important issue for you, you should check out this site.

Chemo Angels

In my effort to be all things breast cancer to all people, I recently took part in a wonderful program called Chemo Angels. What's that? Well, you sign up to be an angel to someone going through chemo. You volunteer to send 2 things a week... cards, little gifts, funny pictures, whatever. Sounds great, right? Well, in theory it is. And I was so super excited about it. I was assigned to another young woman with breast cancer. I eagerly gathered little journals, bath salts, snacks and whatever to send to my new charge.

Here's the problem. I realized that I am not a good chemo angel. Aside from the inevitable mailing things twice a week, which - if anyone knows my family - is not really a strong suit, there's the whole "no expectations" thing. Chemo angel recipients are told they are under no obligation to respond. This isn't pen pals, mentoring or anything remotely two way. In fact I was sending things for about a month before I even heard that my person had received anything. I guess in my mind, I was hoping there would be an email or a note saying thanks and that would lead me to helping walk her through her treatment. Not so much. I got 2 short notes from my person. 2 notes in 4 months with me sending things twice a week. And when her chemo was over, I got a note from the program saying she had graduated. No "I'm done... thanks for everything!" Nothing. Nada.

Now, I know this is what I signed up for. And I should still feel good. I mean, who doesn't love getting flowers? or cookie bouquets? So I know I probably helped her through her experience. But I've realized I'm a little selfish. I'm not quite a good enough person to do it just for them. I guess I want to feel good about it, too. And I can't do it anonymously. Not that I need recognition, but I was hoping it would be the beginning of my path to guiding others, and I never got the chance to do that. And I guess there's a part of me that's like, "really? Someone sends you hundreds of dollars in stuff and you can't send a little more than a tiny card?" Maybe cuz if it were me, I would have reached out desperately for another young woman... I didn't know any when I started treatment. But then again, it's not about me, is it? But I have realized I want to be someone more like a mentor.

Now, I still think this is an awesome program. And for those of you who are better people than me - go for it! But I'm no longer a chemo angel. I don't think I could do another person who didn't respond. I'm just not that nice, I guess.

Frosted Pink

So you all know I sing with this gospel choir - a breast cancer survivors gospel choir. If you don't remember, you might want to click here. Well, we recently returned from a trip to L.A. where we were featured in the event, Frosted Pink. It was thing oddly amazing combination of figure skating and music. It was dedicated to the fight against women's cancers. There was Kristi, Nancy, Kurt, Oksana. Who the frick are these people? Fancy figure skaters... hello? Have you never watched ice skating on a Sunday afternoon? Turn off the Lifetime movie people! The musicians were Rascal Flatts, Heart (Man, did I love me some "barracuda"!), Joss Stone, Natalie Cole and others.

And us.

Little ol' Shades of Pink sang with Joss Stone. Little ol' Courtney was featured in a vignette on national TV. Granted, it was Sunday afternoon, but it was national. ABC. And man, the camera must add like 30 pounds!

It was fun. Check out the website. Some of our stuff is on there. And apparently, we'll be taking part in next year's event... Frosted Pink with a twist. This time with gymnasts...

If you'd like, you can also watch the YouTube performances. I have a little ditty before one of them. The joy of being the youngest and white... I'm the "diversity" baby!

Here's our Signature Song Performance




And our stuff with Joss Stone, including the interviews of me and other members of the choir.

Why you shouldn't go drinking in the middle of the day

So I went to Connecticut to visit my aunt a few weeks ago. She just had a litter of Bernese mountain dog puppies. Well, not my aunt specifically... but you get the point. They were flipping adorable. And you know I just HAD to have one. Except there's a small problem. I already have 3 dogs. Three LARGE dogs. All logic and reason says I should not sign up for another 100 pound dog.

But who ever called me reasonable?

After telling my aunt how she should entrust one of her prize show dogs in my care, I proceeded to call my husband, plotting how I would ask/beg/trick him into agreeing to this silliness.

I called him at 4pm. He had apparently spent the afternoon at a bar with his neighborhood boyfriend - a friend of ours who lives down the street. He was - well, inebriated would be generous.

The conversation went like this.

ME: Honey, these puppies are so freaking cute. I need to have one.

ALAN: Sure.

ME: What would you do if I brought one home?

ALAN: Puppies are great! Do it!

ME: You mean it? I can bring home another dog?

ALAN: Why not?

The next day, after calling the airline to confirm our new friend's travels, I call Alan again.

ME: You sure you're okay with the puppy?

ALAN: Huh?

ME: You said I could bring home a puppy.

ALAN: I did?

ME: Yes, you did. And his flight is booked.

ALAN: Shit.

So, that's what happens when you're too drunk to tell your crazy wife no.

So... presenting... RUGBY!!! He's adorbs. And a little stinker. He'll fit in just fine :)

Perspective

As many of you know, I'm a writer. Like - for reals, ya'll. I write for television. And while I sometimes roll my eyes when yet another character goes into a coma or isn't really dead, I enjoy what I do. I enjoy sitting at home, working in my yoga pants, while 90210 is on in the background. I like being creative. I love the people I work with. I like getting a paycheck for said employment. I love health insurance.

As some of you may or may not know, The Writer's Guild of America is about to go on strike. Power to the Unions! I hear some of you cry. And I believe in my union. My union made sure that when I was "nobody, wanna be writer #3 on the left" and negotiating my first contract, the studio didn't fuck me in the ass. My union makes sure I don't get taken advantage of. Most importantly to me, my union, after only 3 months of membership, responded to my cancer diagnosis by paying over $300,000 in bills. I gladly write that dues check once a quarter.

However, this strike may be long. And I am of course not really prepared. A few weeks, sure. A month, probably. Six? No way in hell. All around me co-workers are freaking out and "the industry" is buzzing. A strike is sad. It's not just the writers... it's actors who won't get those day player gigs that feed their families, it's caterers who won't have regular jobs delivering lunch to the set, it's sound guys and grips and drivers who will possibly be out of work. It sucks. It's scary. It's scary to sit on thousands of dollars in bills and not really be sure where the money will come from. To think to yourself, "Wow- Christmas is coming and I have no idea when I'll work again." To look around your house and think, "What can I do that costs NO MONEY?" (the answer - not a whole lot)

But yesterday, as the news of the impending strike started trickling down, I was with a friend who was getting her brain scanned. She was sitting absolutely still, saying nothing, pushing away the fear that after 2 years of being cancer free- it was back, and I was outside talking about turning in scripts early to avoid the strike. My friend and I joked how the morphine the doctors has given her that morning wasn't working. While she was getting a prescription for a drug that most associate with terminal patients, I had gotten a couple of "man, I need a drink" emails from writer friends. My friend had been having dizzy spells, headaches, coordination problems. I was frantically figuring out just what I could cut out of my budget. She had looked for hours on the internet - searching for reasons other than "breast cancer metastases to the brain." I had been looking for latest news on whether we'd get 6 or 3 cents a dvd.

Is a strike scary? Damn right it is. Is cancer scarier? Fucking unbelievably so. And I did that. So If I have to, I'll get a temp job or Discover the advantages. My husband works, I have family I could trun to if it got really bad. I'll survive. Not everyone is that lucky.

So while everyone else is praying for a short strike, I'll be praying for my friend - hoping that whatever's wrong isn't cancer. And if it is, that she has the strength for the fight. After all, my union keeps telling me to be strong in the face of a battle.

It's all about perspective.

Why I walk...

For those of you wondering what this mythical speech was... Here's my nearest recollection of it. I didn't write it in advance or anything - just had some notes. I'll try to piece it together for you. In order to experience the magic, you must imagine me, Ronald McDonald head and all, in track bottoms and a t-shirt. Probably a little sweaty and gross from twenty miles of walking. Perhaps a little tipsy from the celebratory drink at the bar on the end of that day's route. Talking to a group of 2000 or so walkers and volunteers. Trying to be eloquent. Trying to toe the line between funny and - my favorite word - inspirational. This is what came out.

My husband and I rang in 2006 with a kiss. We brought in the New Year with promises of a wonderful life together. We had recently bought our first house and would be moving in the new year. My husband was about to graduate and had a great job lined up. I was finally doing something I loved. We were planning to have a baby. In fact we were trying - very hard - for that baby already. My husband looked me in the eyes, gave me a kiss and told me, "To 2006 - the best year of our lives."

We had no idea that lump I felt a month before would change everything.

On Valentine's Day 2006, I was in the hospital getting tests and a biopsy. Because nothing says "I love you" like the clamp of a mammogram machine and core needles. Two days later, our world collapsed.

"You have breast cancer."

It was a month after my 29th birthday. And I have no family history.

In the midst of phone calls and doctors appointments and freaking out, a package arrived at our apartment. It was information for The Breast Cancer 3 day. My husband had requested it. Like any man, he was looking for a way to "fix it", to do "something." He signed us up for our first 3-day for October of 2006. It would be something to work toward, a reason to get my butt out of bed during chemo, a celebration of victory.

My journey continued. I had surgery. I harvested and froze eggs to protect that family we had planned for. I had chemo. Halfway through chemo I moved from Chicago to Atlanta. Nothing gets you out of moving heavy boxes like cancer. I underwent radiation treatments. I started hormone therapy. I'm currently in a trial that keeps me in menopause in the hopes of keeping the cancer away.

And in October of 06 I walked my first 3-day. I was bald and chubby, only a month after my treatment ended. I was tired. It was hard. People asked me, "How can you do it?"

My response... "How could I not?"

Since being diagnosed with breast cancer, I've met wonderful groups of people who show me each and every day what courage really means. I've made friends and found new sisters. And last Valentine's Day... instead of laying on a cold, hard hospital table, I jumped from a plane at 14,000 feet. Since breast cancer, I've posed nude for photos, swung on a trapeze, taken pole dance lessons, joined a survivors gospel choir... there is nothing too wild and too crazy. I am living proof that breast cancer can hit anyone, anywhere. I am proof that you can find a new way to live.

Because you have to.

So that's why I walk. And I will keep walking:

Until doctors stop saying, "You're too young for breast cancer."
Until women everywhere get access to the same care I was lucky enough to receive.
Until research doesn't just find a cure, but the cause of breast cancer.
Until no one, and I mean not a single person, faces cancer alone.

I walk for Ruby and Candy - beautiful strong women who lost this fight. Who taught me more about grace and dignity than I could ever imagine.

I walk for members of my support groups. For the women who take the time to share their stories and help those of us following them on this path.

I walk for survivors everywhere.

I walk for all the names on those signs on everyone's backs.

I walk for the names on those tents outside.

I walk for the names on the signs at the cheering stations.

And for the people who took the time to make them.

I walk for the woman who is sitting at home right now, waiting for that life changing phone call.

I walk for every person whose life has been changed by breast cancer.

For the families and friends. For my own nieces. And for hopefully one day my frozen babies that I have waiting for me.

And I walk for me. Because, dammit, I deserve a lifetime.

The 3-day

Heather, Me & Jill

I walked my second Breast Cancer 3-day this weekend. This year, I was joined by my husband and two friends from college - Heather and Jill. I've lived in Atlanta a little over a year, so this time; I actually knew others on the walk. One of my closest friends in the ATL, Jenn, joined us as well.

How was the second one, you ask? Was it any less meaningful? Had it gotten old?

Nope.

Me, Jenn, Jill and Heather at Opening Ceremonies

Jill, Heather and Me walking over the Chatahoochie River

Sure, I knew about some of the "pref nite pitfalls" - the times when tears were pretty much a given. Opening ceremonies, cheering stations, closing ceremonies. And I had hair this time, so I wasn't quite the walking ad for cancer I was last year. Not nearly as many people came up to me and gave me the sad eyes, which I was grateful for.

Alan was a champ. Although he was pretty grumpy the second day... he hadn't slept well. We found a bar at the end of the route on Saturday and got Alan a pick me up beer. Or three. Apparently, about 200 other walkers had the same idea.

Here we are at the bar.

Saturday night, I was also chosen to "tell my story" for the group of walkers and crew. I had to get up and rehash a whole bunch of cancer stuff. I attempted to keep any stray tears and not to drop the "f" bomb. I managed to keep from sniffling for the most part - and I only said "dammit" once. Not bad.

Funny though, once you put your life story out there on display, people feel the need to come up and talk to you about it. And I encourage it. However, in my speech, I did mention the whole frozen babies thing... and as only happens in the south, I'm convinced... that's the part people listened to. So I got a lot of "you'll have those babies, honey," randomly in all parts of camp and on the route. That wasn't really the point of the aforementioned speech, just what some people heard.

I swear, nothing gets a collective gasp from the audience like saying you're 30 years old and in menopause.

One thing that did move me greatly... a couple of women that I walked with into closing ceremonies last year found me. We made an annual date to walk each year together. So here's a shout out to the Dixie Cups!

Alan & Me in Piedmont Park

I am so very glad I did this. And I plan on doing it as long as I'm able.

Mama's Got a Brand New Bag... I mean doctor

Those of you who talk to me regularly, or who read this blog, know that I loved my treatment at Northwestern in Chicago. Loved it. If you have to get cancer, get it at the Ritz, I thought.

Then I moved. Down to the South. And I finished my treatment at a big fancy academic university setting down here. Same thing, right? Same Ritz, different flavor.

Not so much.

I was never really happy at said treatment facility. I didn't click with my doctor, the infusion center was a bloody nightmare, and I had some questions about the care others were getting. But I was lazy. Tired. Didn't feel like doing the research. Figured they didn't kill me so I'd be fine.
This was until I was getting monthly shots for my clinical trial. Confused? See here. Anyway, I'd go for my monthly shot in the ass... one that takes all of .5 seconds - and I'd be waiting for 2-3 hours. The orders weren't in, they didn't know I was coming, they were just slow. It was the biggest crock of bullshit I've ever seen. This was the same place where friends of mine went months between seeing their oncologist - friends who were stage 4 and seeing the nurse instead. The same place that had you go to 3 different places in one appointment.

Yada, yada.

Anyway, recently, I decided I'd had enough. So I switched oncologists. And hospitals. I went with an overwhelming recommendation by the ya-yas. We all know how I trust the ya-yas. Funny enough. Those ya-yas... representative of money, power and families of Atlanta - only one of them was treated where I was. 80% were at the hospital where I was considering. I'm not into math right now, but at sounds good to me. So off I went. Not before I wrote a scathing letter to previous facility - (one I'm told did some good as changes have been made.)

Okay, back to the new hospital. Let me tell you. It's not the Ritz, but hot damn, it's a really great Sheraton.

I went in for my first appointment.
1. I waited for less than 10 minutes.
2. They did my blood work in the same place where my appointment with the doctor was.
3. The oncologist spent 45 minutes with me. Probably more than my other oncologist down here had spent with me total. He asked questions. Told me I sounded like I was a doctor. (I have an internet MD)

When I asked him about a PET scan, he said... "now, I could tell you why they're not necessary, or I could shut up and order the scan." I said, "What do you think?"
His reply? "I'll just order it, then."

I loved him. It was like having a cancer dad right here in Atlanta. I couldn't be happier.

Moral of the story? Sometimes, the "best" place isn't where you'll get the best care. If you're not happy with your doctors, then get new ones. Trust me, it was one of the best decisions I've made since I got cancer.

Multimedia, baby...

You miss the sounds of my dulcid tones? You want something to lull you to sleep at night? You think maybe I got a little of that throaty, sex line kind of voice? Well, here's your chance to listen to me. In preparation for the Breast Cancer 3-day, I did a series of interviews on Star 94 FM here in Atlanta. I am their "Breast Cancer correspondent," if there is such a thing. We've been talking about Breast Cancer, life, the 3-day. I even take questions from callers! Come on, you know you're bored.

You can also click here to see the page on the station's website about me. Nothing like putting it all out there, huh?

S.A.D.D.

Sit back, grab a cup of tea - maybe a blankie, and let me tell you a story. No, it's not about drinking til 4 am with crazy dutch cruise ship officers or how my husband used to have his tongue pierced (yes and yes to both, thank you)... this is about a simpler time. A time when we were involved in things that we felt were VERY important. You know, who will go in the limo post prom or why did they light that soccer ball on fire and kick it around?

I'm talking high school, people. And the reason I look back to a young-mc, daisy duke inspired era is because I find the lessons of high school still relevant upon occasion.

Those who know me now might not believe it, but when I was a teen, I didn't drink. Not a drop. I think I liked being the one kid at the party who wasn't trashed, rather than one of the dozens who did. I also was a big fan of activities that would look good on my college application. So my senior year, I was the Vice President of SADD. But I swear, I made sure everyone who left my keggers had a designated driver. I wasn't opposed to the drinking, per se. Everything in moderation.

Needless to say, I was probably the coolest kid in SADD. I don't say that because I'm actually cool, but most of SADD was full of people who actually didn't attend a party... not one I'd want to go to, at least. I was convinced I was going to make SADD more relevant, so the people who actually needed to hear the message would listen. I had big dreams for our little group.

Long story short (I mean it, I swear)... there was an "incident." There was a dance, people showed up possibly drinking, our moderator wouldn't let them in. (Disclaimer: they were friends of mine) But did she call their parents? Call the cops? No, she sent them away... you know, back to their cars. To drive. After she accused them of drinking. Anyone see the problem here?

So I questioned the decision. I went to her and said I had an issue with the message we were sending, that I wanted to have a discussion with the group and its officers about how we handle things. Well, that didn't sit well with our moderator. After "staying up all night thinking about it" (as an adult, I have a serious problem staying up all night for anything high school related) she SENT ME A NOTE during my fifth period English class. In the note? She kicked me out of S.A.D.D. For possibly poisoning the minds of the younger members. For questioning the logic of sending drunks off to drive. Basically, for saying "Why?"

After some tears (you bet your ass I still put that on my college application) and perhaps an angry parent-teacher meeting, my time with S.A.D.D. was over.

What the fuck does this have to do with real life, you say? Jesus, get on with the story.

So recently, in my current role as "little miss breast cancer" I've had the chance to be a part of numerous organizations. I was contacted by a local group, which shall remain nameless - to be a part of their unique way of reaching out to younger women. I was pretty excited about it - after all, it was just up my crazy alley. They were starting to have meetings to discuss their mission, etc. In one of these emails, the founders told me all about how their primary goal was to teach young women self exams, yada yada yada.

Now, I'm pretty knowledgeable on the whole young women thing. I emailed back, saying I was excited to be a part of it and help shape the group. I did want to talk about the BSE - the breast self exam - I wasn't so sure about it. Why, you ask? Well, there's evidence that shows doing self exams doesn't affect survival for young women. Plus, young women have distinct hormonal issues that means they shouldn't be checking once a month... they should be touching themselves up at different times each month, etc. etc. I wanted to talk about getting to know your body more than anything. Or what to do if you find something and a doctor blows you off.

Well, that put a bee in their bonnet. I was told

1. She wasn't a fan of the phrase "touch yourself up." (How they hell they'll get 16 year olds to listen if they don't speak their language, I don't know. I know at 16 I didn't listen to 30 years olds, much less almost 50.)
2. Their goal was teaching the BSE. Period. (never mind the lack of evidence based research that proves their effectiveness. See this link for example.
3. If I couldn't get on board... "If you are comfortable with that, then we would love to have you. If not, we certainly understand and respect everyones' efforts in the fight against this disease and to be honest........if we are all attacking from different angles then I'm sure that they will get the message. We both are extremely positive and motivated people and we feel very strongly about XXX and we want to make sure that everyone involved with XXX supports our mission.

Does this sound familiar? Well, I replied that I just wanted to raise the discussion. Not change necessary, just open it up. (Not even mentioning the average age of the group was about 45... 30 years older than their target audience.)

Well, I never got an email back. I emailed about a meeting. No one responded. I stopped getting all the announcments about getting together. I was shut down, kicked out, black listed, kicked to the curb.

Just like SADD. Just like the moderator who was too emotionally invested to listen to anything other than her view. Just like the small minded students that were out of touch with the people who needed to hear the message. There's me, only I'm 12 years older but just as mouthy. And I still think that asking questions is important.

So I wish this group all the best. I have other organizations to give my time to. That want open an frank discussion. That value people who think outside the box. Who think awareness if more than dressing in pink.

(stepping off soapbox)

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?