Best of Times, Worst of Times

I've been a little MIA the last couple of weeks. I've started and deleted dozens of posts. Nothing seemed right. Nothing was enough. Usually, when I don't write for a while, it's because I'm either out having a fucking good time or I'm covered in shit.

This time was no different.

It's been a particularly rough month to have breast cancer. Cancer recurrence has been all over the news the past few weeks. Of course, it coincided with struggles in my real life. I've dealt with other people's recurrence, illness, misdiagnosis . One incredibly amazing woman I knew personally lost her battle. It's been a little scary and to be perfectly honest, I haven't exactly gotten an handle on my anger and my frustration.

On the flip side, Alan and I went on vacation last week. It was good. Just what I needed. And if anyone doubts our ability to spend hundreds of dollars on booze, I will offer up the tab from our seven day cruise as an example.

It has also been a month of activism. I've signed up to be a hotline operator for BC people, I've joined the board of a young adult survivor group, I'm going to D.C. to lobby for breast cancer research funding and health care.

So I have lots to tell you. Lots. Check back often in the next week or so. I'll catch you back up.

Moving on to more important things...

Okay, so as you can see from the post below, I am now a full-fledged brunette. Again, I could have been a natural brunette before, but it had been so long since I saw my natural hair color, it's hard to tell. I will stand by the belief that it is darker than before cancer. With more gray than I'm comfortable with. And it's curly. The chemo curl is out of control. I have to use some hard core product to make the front stay down. Otherwise it just looks like a 'fro.

I am debating whether I go back to my original blond or stay "au naturale." It's so weird that there is a whole world of people - well, not a world, but my current metro area- who only know me with my short, brown hair.

My biggest problem? I have a closet full of clothes in pinks and purples and light blues... very blond haired, blue eyed kind of colors. Summer colors, if you will. I think my current hair color makes me more of a winter. Or maybe I'm talking out of my ass. I just know my 3 different hot pink dresses don't look quite as good with my brown hair. Then again, I can't fit into those dresses right now, so it's moot.

But some people say they like it. I'm not sure. So I put it to you, the public. Or the 4 people who read this. To dye or not to dye? Do blonds actually have more fun? For those looking for a reference, check out this post.

If I knew how to do a poll on this, I would. Comments?

I'm a Model, you know what I mean...

And I do my little turn on the catwalk.
Yeah, on the catwalk, on the catwalk-
yeah, I shake my little tush on the catwalk.

Yes, I just quoted "I'm Too Sexy." And yes, I knew all the words without looking them up. 1992 was a great year.

These are some cropped pictures from my naked photo shoot. You heard me- cropped. I will pose naked but putting my tits and my snatch on the internet for every freak who googles naked or cancer? No thanks. Again, I must credit my photographer, Christine Benjamin for her amazing work. Perhaps one day I will be a page in her "I of the Beholder" book, my girls out on your coffee table.

How was that photo shoot, you ask? Well, it was many things. Liberating, uncomfortable, fun, sad, moving, fucked up. I was more comfortable with bearing my body than bearing my soul. See, as Christine snapped away, she asked me to go into my thoughts about cancer, my body, whatever. It was so hard for me not to crack jokes and put on some cheesy smile. In fact, when I tried to dodge some of her questions with an inappropriate crack, she wouldn't let me. Before I knew it, I was talking about how uncomfortable I've become with my body. How I've lost a bit of myself. And then the tears came. Fucking tears. I kept thinking to myself, "cry pretty." I do not cry pretty. I have a very unflattering picture of me sobbing from my wedding, mascara streaming down my face. When the shoot was over, I asked, "Does everybody cry during this?"

"Pretty much," she said.

I am in fact, NOT a model. I had no idea what to do with my hands or how to stand. I felt forced. It was harder than I thought. It was hard not to "pose" or to stand purposely to hide certain flaws or accentuate the positives. It was hard not to think about the 30 pounds I'd gained from cancer that I haven't shed yet. Or how to put my hand where I had earned some cancer stretch marks. Christine had me just talk, and move my hands accordingly.

How do I feel about the finished product? They're beautiful. And moving, I think. However, it's hard not to focus on the flaws. My lopsided boob is much more prominent than I thought it was. The spare tire around the middle is not so pretty. I have a wicked double chin. Then again, I had a double chin 20 pounds ago so there's no surprise.

I know, this is shitty to think of these things, as the whole point of the photos is not to focus on them. That we are beautiful despite them. That we are strong, wonderful women. It's easy to think that when looking at someone else.

I guess my problem is that I look at these pictures and it feels like looking at someone else. It doesn't look like me. In my mind, I'm still athletic and blond. I have long straight hair. I'm smiling. Or laughing. I radiate a little bit of sex. A me I'm not quite ready to give up, yet. Not only do these photos not match my own image, they show a vulnerability that I'm not quite comfortable with. A vulnerability I can thank cancer for giving me.

Perhaps that's why these photos are so good.

Spring has sprung.

It's spring down here in the south. You know that whole March going in like a lion thing? Well, when I lived near Chicago, it was pretty much a lion all month long. A cold, rainy, not very cute lion. Not here in the land of peaches. It's 75 degrees today. Perfect. I'm enjoying my first spring in the south by having a mojito. You may notice the time stamp. It's noon. It's happy hour, somewhere, right?

Amazing how the weather can have such a profound impact on your mood. Alan and I spent the weekend mulching and planting flowers. I planted my first flowers ever. Around my mailbox. Yeah, we live in suburbia. Get over it. It felt so good to be outside, doing active things. At the risk of sounding cheesy, I just felt really alive. See, I missed all the good weather last year. Spring and Summer and Fall came and went. I couldn't be outside in the sun and I felt like shit. Way to live, huh? This spring I vow it will be different. If I have to live in a land where people think evolution's only a theory, at least I can enjoy the sunshine.

I think about spring a lot right now. For SATC fans (Sex and the City, for those of you not in-the-know), you may recall when Samantha got breast cancer. Some have told me, that of all the Sex and the City characters, I remind them most of her. I choose to believe it's for her spunk, her loyalty and her no-nonsense approach to most problems - not just because she's a dirty whore. See, Samantha's identity was very much tied up with her sexuality. She was dating this HO-OT man about 15 years younger who turned out to be the greatest guy ever. Anyway, when she was going through chemo and menopause and lost her sex drive and didn't feel like herself, her boyfriend told her it was like winter. It may look and feel dead, but it's just waiting for spring. He then proceeded to send her daffodil bulbs with a card that said, "looking forward to spring." You know by the end she got back her mojo and fucked the shit out of him. Good girl.

I guess that's how I feel. That most of me has felt dead and gone the past year, but it's just a matter of letting it bloom again. Not just sex, but me- all the things that make me feel myself. Maybe that's the reason for the mid-life crisis dancing, diving, buying or photo taking. I feel like it's time to peel away all the dead bark, rake up all the nasty leaves, and pulls some weeds. Prune some of those insecurities and repot some self-confidence. Aerate some fun. Put down some fertilizer and water daily. Watch for the gorgeous blooms that have been hiding all winter. Those blooms of fearlessness and sex and humor and mojo. Look at them one sunny day and remind yourself just how fabulous they are and how wonderful you are for cultivating them.

I'm looking forward to spring.

I'm a human guinea pig

When Alan and I worked on cruise ships, we spent 6 months in South America. One of my most vivid memories, however, was not seeing Evita's grave or the Tierra del Fuego. It's not even the dirty whores in Rio who grabbed Alan's hand out of mine and put it on their crotches. No, it's sitting in some sketchy restaurant in Ecuador as a friend ordered guinea pig. Yep, you heard me. As in one of those little furry creatures that inevitably escapes in your house and no one ever finds him. The best part of this delicacy? It arrived at the table with tiny bits of hair still visible.

Why, you ask, do I tell this story? You are, after all, trying to eat your lunch while trolling through your staple of procrastination websites. Well, I am now a guinea pig, served up at the table of science.

Those of you who think that finishing treatment for breast cancer actually ends, au contraire. In many ways, I still feel very much like I'm actively in treatment. My breast cancer is Estrogen positive, meaning I was prescribed tamoxifen to take daily for 5 years. Nothing like a constant reminder.

What about the little hairy guinea pig? This is where the fun begins. I volunteered to be a part of probably the most important clinical trial for premenopausal women. Okay, put on your thinking caps, it's time for a bit o' biology. In some women, estrogen feeds their breast cancer. Premenopausal women traditionally have a poorer prognosis than women who've already undergone "the big M." Menopause is a big divider for breast cancer treatment. Post menopausal women get different drugs, different treatment, etc. There are drugs out there that are proven to be better than tamoxifen, but only in post-meno women so far. Because younger women usually have so many more years where our little ovaries are pumping out the cancer juice called estrogen, it's a fine line.

Here's where the trial comes in. It's called the SOFT trial... Suppression of Ovarian Function Trial. The premise being- if we can make premenopausal women POST menopausal, perhaps their outcomes will be better.

What does this mean for me, kiddies? It means that I get to go through chemically induced menopause. Every 28 days, some nurse jabs a shot in my ass. It burns like a mother, most likely due to the fact, "it's like shoving glue through there." Apparently it's thick. Awesome. Makes my left butt cheek feel all sore. That's not enough. Oh, no. I'm currently in full blown menopause. Hot flashes, night sweats, the occasional touch of crazy- you name it. I'm still on tamoxifen which adds to the party.

Is this permanent? No. Well, I'm on the trial for 5 years, but after that, once they stop the shots, theoretically my period should come back. Good thing I got those frozen babies- just in case. Another option is to take my ovaries out surgically, but we won't go there until after the baby factory officially closes for business. Let's get it open first.

Why did I sign up for this, you ask? After all, Aunt Flo's good time gang was just coming back after my last bout with chemopause. In short, studies lean toward the fact this could very well keep my cancer from coming back, and could help save my life. Sounds good to me. Also, this is such an important subject of research, and I am honored to be a part of it. I have been so blessed with great care- I feel a bit of a need to give back whatever I can.

What's it like to be on a clinical trial? Well, I get more tests done. They're concerned about bone density and hormone levels. They watch me a little closer. That can't be bad, right? And they ask me a lot of questions about quality of life. After all, if this treatment makes us miserable, what's the point of prolonging a shitty life? So I get asked a lot of questions about my mood, and sleep and sex. Lots of questions about sex. Losing most of your hormones can really fuck that up. Something you mere mortals can look forward to.

Is it fun? Nope. But then again, none of this has been fun. Well, maybe the good drugs. Those are dreamy. But I feel like I'm actively doing something, and that makes me feel better. Sweaty and on fire, but better.

So I'm a guinea pig. Pass the salt.

Unacceptable

Getting cancer allows you to see the yin and yang of what human beings are capable of. You see people's true colors- what they are truly made of. And while I am awe inspired by the love and generosity of some people, others were simply unacceptable.

Now, I can hear those of you with bleeding hearts and open arms talking already, "Everyone handles crisis differently. It doesn't make it bad, just different." Well, I will take the unpopular stand. I think that's crap. Total crap. Sunshine up your ass bullshit to make weak people feel better. Like telling a bride, "It's good luck to rain on your wedding day." You're just telling her that so she doesn't think about her ruined outdoor pictures and spots on her $2k dress.

Cancer's a scary thing. It forces us to face our own mortality. It scares us to think about losing people. Or seeing them suffer. Guess what? Sucks even more if you actually HAVE cancer.

Every single person I've talked to who's had cancer has a story about someone they've lost because of the disease. People who just didn't step up. Or people who simply stopped calling. People who couldn't handle it. And they all wonder if they should forgive this egregious lack of support. I can hear the leader of my support group now. "Courtney, it's not that they don't care. They just weren't capable of dealing." Since when is being weak an excuse? Yes, I said it. Weak. And as I once heard around my own family's Thanksgiving table, (albeit after a few too many drinks), "We spit on the weak."

What sparked this rant, you ask? Nothing in particular. I've been thinking about this a while. Ever since I lost someone I thought was a close friend. Someone who just stopped calling. Someone who was so self-absorbed they could only think about their own life. Someone who lied to me. Someone who wasn't necessarily a shitty friend because I was sick. I think they would have been a shitty friend anyway. It's just that once I got cancer, I lost all respect for that kind of crap. I saw who my real friends were and I gained more. If I lost one... well, it's not like they were helping me anyway. As a woman, we constantly over analyze why someone did this and someone did that. Getting cancer made me realize- I don't give a shit why. Doesn't make it acceptable.

On another note. I'm not stupid. I am, in fact, smarter than not just the average bear, but most bears. Don't be so dumb to think you can lie to me and I won't know. I can piece it together. Your excuse of blaming your doctor? I can add up that your appointment you told me about actually was on a Saturday. And doctors don't see people on Saturday. All that raising money you said you did? I can go online and see it was zero. Don't insult my intelligence. If you can't come, have the courtesy just to tell me. Don't' make up shit to "save my feelings." You'll just piss me off.

If it seems that I've gone into a bit of a personal call out. Perhaps I have. Just as me getting cancer does not make it acceptable to openly hurt people, it also doesn't make it acceptable for you to hurt me.

My thoughts for anyone who doesn't know "what to say" so they don't say anything? Or the person who drops off the face of the earth until their friend's cancer is easier from them to deal with. Or the person that thinks their relative or friend getting cancer is about them:

I seriously hope that you are lucky enough to have more friends like me and less friends like you.

My dirty mouth is famous!

Okay, they may not mention me by name, but there's an article in the Washington Post today about the conference. Read towards the end. See if you can guess the part that sounds like me. Yeah, I swore in the Post. Awesome. I was part of the photo shoot discussed in the article. (Not to be confused with my own shoot... more on that later.) I'm pretty sure I'm the last quote as well. On the website, however, you don't get the beautiful half naked pictures of us. Well, you do, but you have to look for it. What the article doesn't tell you, however, is that I was bitching cuz my pants were falling down. I just wanted to take them off. Or that the "disco pose" was actually very Charlie's Angels-esque. Or that halfway through, the Post photographer was all up in my business as I made high school senior picture poses (topless, of course)... putting my head in my hands, leaning against the pole, getting all "soft focus." Perhaps she's using those photos for her personal collection. Who knows. She was right, though. There was something just cool about standing around topless with a bunch of women, all scarred. Some without nipples, some with big dents. Some with what I liked to call my "blueberry muffin tops." (Hello, my pants fall down precisely to avoid muffin top). And it was fun. As was the rest of the conference.

For your viewing pleasure... can you find me here? This one's a little harder :)

In Real Life

I am back from the boob conference. It was good. Can't say I learned a ton of new stuff, but oh, well. I have done more research than the average bear. 850 breast cancer survivors under 40. That part was cool. I also learned that Washington D.C. shuts down if there's an inch of snow. Seriously, they told me it would be 2 hours to get a cab. You kidding me? I digress...

So, I'm fairly active on a few message boards. Some having to do with cancer, some not. It isn't uncommon to see the phrase "IRL" - in real life. Not to be confused with "url," as in a website. On the Young Survival Coalition board, you can read frequent comments on how "irl, people don't get it." "irl, i can't talk to my friend/husband/mom/dog" Okay, maybe I can, but you get the idea. Before this conference, about 40 of us discussed how excited we were to meet each other IRL. Women we only knew through signature pictures and diagnosis statistics. Women we only knew through written text: where humor, sarcasm and truth are deeply intertwined.

Off I went to the conference. And I recognized some of these women immediately. Some had different hair than in their pictures (myself included) but I recognized their smiles. Or their eyes. When you don't have hair, your eyes become bigger. Or at least they look bigger. Even though I don't post all the time, I immediately felt a part of this "family." We shared stories, jokes, rants. We laughed and made inappropriate comments at the sex toy party. We were from all over the country. Some were shy. Others, uh-hem, were not. We were single, married, gay, straight. IRL, one would argue if we would be friends, or even run into each other. But this isn't real life. It's cancer life. And in the world of the "big C," once you're in, you're in.

What did I learn? I learned that women are beautiful no matter if they have boobs or hair. I learned that a good laugh can make you feel worlds better. I learned that there are amazing, strong awesome women who have this disease. And they don't deserve it. I learned the value of a community and unconditional support. In spite of hot flashes and side effects and our own problems, there are women willing to reach out and help others. Give what is left of themselves. Where else can you get that many women together and not have it be a cat fest? Maybe cuz most of us have no hormones left.

I am in awe of these women. Stage IVs who refuse to give up. Women just diagnosed who have to go through all that shit. Shit that I'm so glad to done with. Although we all travelled back to our homes, our families, our lives - I now have a bit more of an insight to these women. When they offer advice, I will think of their presence. Or their hug. Or the fact that one went out on a date with a dwarf. Most importantly, I will think that I am proud to be a part of them, IRL or otherwise. I am honored to consider myself a member of this fucked up sorority.


Here's a group picture of women from the YSC board. Can you find me? It's like "Where's Waldo?"

Ridiculous, Party of One - your Table's Ready

So I've jumped from planes, taken up pole dancing (which by the way, I can now go upside down)... what next?

This weekend I will be attending the Young Survivors Conference for young women with breast cancer. Think 600 women under 40... I'm sure there will be crying involved. And some bitching. And I sure as hell hope some drinking.

This in itself is not extraordinary. Although I am told there will be a Pure Romance party. Also known as a sex toy Tupperware party.

"Hi, honey. I'm home."
"How was the conference?"
"Great. I brought you home some lube."
"I love presents."

This is also not the crazy part. Here goes. I will be posing nude for a photographer. WHAT! Yep, me in my "30 pounds overweight, I'm not comfortable in my body" glory. What the hell? There is this awesome woman, Christine Benjamin, who's doing a photo project for breast cancer.


Here's her website. The project is called "I of the Beholder." Her work is beautiful and inspiring. She's at the conference and some of us have volunteered to be a part of it.

Why am I doing this? Well, it's nuts. I love that. More importantly, it's part of my life now. And it's impoartant to see younger women with scars, etc. For me, it's also about learning to love my post cancer body, chubby and all. It's not to say that I'm not trying to drop those pounds, but for now, they are my badge of courage.

I will give you all the details when I get back. Wish me luck!

Breast Conservation

Back in the dark ages of breast cancer treatment, a woman would go to sleep on an operating table and wake up without her breast. Or her chest wall muscles. And some male doctor would shrug his shoulders and say, "at least you're still alive."

Thankfully, medicine has come a long way. Breast conservaton is all the rage. A lumpectomy (as in taking out the tumor and some surrounding tissue) plus radiation has a similar survival rate to a mastectomy. Recurrance rates may change, but it's comparable. Many women feel lucky to even have the choice. In turn, many doctors, especially women doctors, have been educated on the huge effect losing your boobs can have. They are eager to encourage breast conservation.

If you have been reading this little tale from the beginning, you would recall that I labored over this very decision. In fact, it is the one element to my treatment that I still debate with myself in my head. My very well respected, head of a major breast center, female doctor felt a lumpectomy was the way to go. Unless I wanted a mastectomy, that is. My tumor was small, it would have the least cosmetic downsides, etc. Finally I decided to do the lumpectomy, figuring I could cut them off later if I needed to.

Problem is, no one really tells you that a lumpectomy does NOT mean your breast will be conserved. Not in the way you thought, that is. My tumor ended up being larger than they thought. And it was in an odd position. It was at 6 o'clock. Most tumors are in the upper half. And no one told me that this is the worse place for a good cosmetic outcome. In conserving my breast, I now have 2 lopsided ones. One nice and normal and one with a huge dent on the underside. The plus side- it doesn't droop. Not enough tissue. And from the front, it's not too obvious. But from the side....

The first time I really noticed the dent, I was looking at the mirror in our bedroom. I was admiring the little half moon of my scar, thinking it was healing nicely. Thinking my boob made a cute little face... a one eyed smile, if you will. Then I turned to the side. And my face fell. There was a huge hunk gone. It was like a canyon, or a plateau, or a butte... whatever those abrupt drop offs are. I turned to Alan. "Did you notice this?" His look told me yes. Thankfully, put those girls in a bra and no one knows the difference. No one but me.

Then I had radiation. And the skin tightened. And lost some senstation. And if I ever do get pregnant, my regular boob will become ginormous while my radatied, "conserved" boob will remain the same. And when those pregant boobs shrink, they will be all sorts of messed up. That may be the time to just cut them off and start again.

I tell this story for the women who may read this. Do I wish I did a mastectomy? Got a matched pair? Gt a tummy tuck while I was at it? I'm not sure. It is what it is. But ask questions. Ask for pictures. And for the people who think that someone "just got a lumpectomy" so it can't be that bad, I would argue it sucks no matter what.

However, I revel in the fact that I got breast cancer, thus gaining a bunch of weight, thus getting HUGE BOOBS. Serously, these girls are out of control. Under a shirt or with a v-neck, they look great. Just don't take off my shirt.

Irony.

Better Living through Chemistry

I was never a drug user. Nothing more than a Tylenol here or there. In fact, I was crap at taking pills. When I broke up with my boyfriend in college, I threw my birth control pills out the window. (that may have had more to do with the fact I hated sex with him, but that's a story for another day...) I've never been able to take vitamins. I did have a brief affair with Flintstones, but they were so chalky especially the purple ones. When I worked on ships, when everyone thought that buying prescriptions of Xanax in Cozumel was a good idea, I took a pass. Even more so when they chased a few with some vodka. (Seriously, it's amazing any of us made it to 30) I have never been offered so much pot as when I was in treatment. I swear, I had no idea so many people had "someone they could hook me up with." The idea of putting a hot, smelly bowl in my mouth when I already felt like puking wasn't my bag. Although some have told me maryjane got them through treatment... good for them. I missed out, I guess.

Because of cancer, I did have to make friends with pills. Pills before chemo, pills for 3 days after chemo, pills "as needed." Pills for pain, pills for my nausea, pills for my pooper. I got better at taking pills. I even threw back a couple at a time. In the beginning, Alan would laugh at me as I made faces and occasionally spit pills back up. He's one of those guys who can take pills with no water. Not me. I need flavor in my chaser. I eventually became friends with my pills. I learned that drugs were my friends. God gave us modern medical science for a reason. And pharmaceuticals. I learned to embrace cancer as my excuse to ask for medication when needed.

One of the cabinets in my kitchen is known as the "Magic Cabinet." Feeling anxious? Take an Ativan. Nauseous? Compazine. Pain? Norco or vicoden or percoset? I have all three. Trouble sleeping? Have an ambien. What about hot flashes? Effexor. I am my own one-woman pharmacy.

I now look forward to my minor medical procedures as chances to enjoy the wonders that are anaesthesia. Bring on the port removal, the colonoscopy! Twilight sleep? Yum! Ooh, I'm getting sleepy. I feel like I've had 6 martinis. When someone tells me they are taking this new med, I say, "Ooh, I love that shit." Or they're going in to get their port put in... "Versed. Get the good stuff!"

I currently take 3 pills a day. And another "as needed." More than I actually took some days during active treatment. Eventually, I may not need these pills. Until then, I'm going to take my drugs. Think of it as all the bad behavior I never displayed as a young adult. (I had pelnty of other vices, don't worry.) Only this time, I get to do it with a doctor's prescription.

Public Displays of Attention

Yeah, I said attention. Not affection, like 14 year old making out in line at Great America. Now that I have some hair, I no longer get the looks in public that I used to. No more sad eyes, double takes, or subtle acts of kindness. I also no longer get the random bursts of inappropriate questions or comments. My favorite? Walking through an airport, bald and in a baseball hat, my big ol' port showing. Some woman randomly yelled at me, "You go girl. We're behind you." I totally did that look around, is-she-really-talking-to-me thing... she was. I felt strangely embarrassed and proud at the same time. And much to my surprise, I felt tears welling in my eyes. How is it that one person's words can affect me so much? I felt a lump in my throat. Everyone knows, don't they?

Or at the checkout, a woman just flat out asked, "so, you have cancer?" Yep, I said. "Good luck." That was nice. Random that she just asked a total stranger, but nice. Another woman asked me that in Jo-Ann fabrics in October. Then proceeded to tell me about the Pink Ribbon fabric they had in stock. No thanks.

Since I stopped wearing my wig earlier than most, I got quite a few funny looks when checking my ID. Yep, that's me. I spared them the whole story of my Driver's License nervous breakdown. Speaking of, maybe it's time to "lose" my ID.

Instead, I now get the occasional, "Your hair is so cute." Funny, since I feel like Ronald McDonald. I say thank you, although sometimes I say, "Well, I didn't choose this hair, but it's what I got." The woman at Panera, where I go for lunch every Thursday before the ya-yas, comments on my hair all the time. "Wow- it's really growing." I'm not sure what I'm more concerned about- my hair or the fact I'm at the Panera enough for the woman to know me.

Most of all, though, I don't get noticed at all. And I can't decide if I miss that or not. Right now, I'm thinking not. I've had enough attention. Blending in ain't so bad.

Post-treatment mid-life crisis, chapter 4

Remember when I talked about my mid-life crisis? My desire to do any and all things ridiculous? That involved buying silly cars, adopting dogs, trapeze swinging, pole dancing... general craziness. I took suggestions and that was when it occurred to me that I needed to jump out of an airplane. I told Alan of my desire to skydive. What says, "I already did cancer and this can't be nearly as bad" as much as jumping from miles above the earth's surface?

Alan, the smart boy that he is, remembered such declaration and surprised me last weekend with an adventure for us. For Valentine's Day, he said. Because nothing says "I love you" like jumping together to your death.

So off we went. Unfortunately, we picked a pretty cold day down here in the South for it. I would guess it was below zero at altitude. We were jumping tandem with an instructor, so I wasn't too worried. I went first. Off to 14,000 feet I went. While I was nervous, the fact that some other jumpers were putting together a Mister Potato Head while falling through the sky made me relax. How hard can it be? I wasn't quite sure what falling at 120 miles an hour would feel like.




The scariest part? Right before the jump. I had to put my feet over the edge of the plane and count to three. Thankfully, I was attached to someone who was actually going to jump on three, so I was going no matter what. One- two-

THREEEEEEEE-

Off we went. We fell upside down for a second and righted ourselves. I have to say, once that first second went by, the fear was gone. Probably "terminal velocity" shenanigans... - yeah, I took high school physics. I had no idea that it would feel like such a long time up there. I felt like we Had forever. Time to pose for the camera guy, grab hands and spin in a few circles, My ears felt like they might fall off and my cheeks were pushed up to my forehead, but it was great.

Awesome. Totally awesome.


Notice Alan has the "rock quotes."



There wasn't a cloud in the sky and we could see everything. After a free fall for about 8,000 feet, we pulled the parachute. A bit of a yank and it opened. Then I heard my instructor say, "oh shit." Oh, shit, you say? I can't imagine "oh shit" is a good thing. Turns out, a part of our chute was still wrapped up in itself a bit. After a couple more shits and some tugging, all was right with the world. Again, I was struck with how long you had up there. Time to play, time to fix things, thing to just sit back and have some fun. Me, I just enjoyed the ride. We sailed along in the parachute for a while, making circles and turns. My instructor announced, "Welcome to my office." You know he says that line every time. Just as I used to make the same jokes at bingo.

After a fun parachute ride, we landed gracefully on our feet.



And I was hooked. I will be going back. One of my best ideas ever. I am now taking suggestions for the next challenge.

Happy Cancerversary!

Happy Cancerversary to me-
Happy Cancerversary to me-
Kick the shitty year to the curb-
Happy Cancerversary to me!

You betcha. One year ago I was diagnosed with cancer. One year of doctors and surgeries and needles and drugs and side effects. One year of pain and fear and fatigue and anger. But here I am, one year later.

Last February 16th, I was waiting in my parent's kitchen cracking jokes with Alan and my mom when the doctor called. The doctor calling personally at 5:30 is never a good sign. With five words, my life changed forever.

"I'm so sorry, it's cancer."

After that, it was all sort of a blur. There was crying. There was wine. We went out to dinner that night. Get my mind off things. All I remember is spilling wine all over the table and laughing. That sort of hysterical laugh you get when it's really not funny.

The hardest part of February 16th? Saying the words, "I have breast cancer" aloud. I made some calls that night, and every time the words caught in my throat.

"I have something to tell you. Now don't freak out. But it's cancer."
"We got the results. Not good. It's cancer."
"Remember when you told me it was nothing and not to worry? Not so much. It's cancer."

Hearing other people's gasps or expletives or generally trying not to flip out on the phone with me was the hardest. I would love to say it was the hardest part of the trip, but there was a lot in store for me.

But here I am, one year out. How will I celebrate my Cancerversary, you ask? I will run errands, I will work out, I will be normal. I still have cancer stuff to deal with all the time. There are trials and hormone treatments and drugs, but normal isn't that far off. I've never wanted to "just be normal" so much in my life.

Vacay

Yes, it's been awhile. For those of you wondering if I dropped off the face of the earth, I did sort of. I was on vacation - and by vacation I mean a few days in Sedona, Arizona. For some girl time. There's nothing better than girl time.

Why Sedona? One of my friends works for NASA and was there for her some sort of engineering-aeronautical- space conference thing. Science nerds. So I crashed the party. We drank. We got massages. We ate good food. We sat in hot tubs. We drank. Oh yeah, and Jill went to some presentations. So did I, in fact. I understood some of it, although I struggled with my urge not to giggle at words like "thrust". In fact, I felt a bit like the cast of friends when they wen to the Bahamas for Ross' dinosaur conference. "Dino-week" as Rachel called it. Complete with the rain. I struggled with my urge not to wear a "Science sucks" T-shirt or streak naked through a room full of geeks. But I did neither. I behaved myself. Sorry.

Things I learned while in Sedona:

1. Sedona is not beautiful all the time. In fact, the only day it was mildly nice outside was the day we left. So bad, in fact, was the weather that I have no pictures to show for my trip. Besides, you all know what a Mojito looks like.

2. Aerospace engineers on the whole are not the most sparkling of personalities. No offense to engineers out there. But conference with 400 people with only 3 at the hotel bar at night? What are you all doing - working, watching the discovery channel, what?!?!

3. A 90 minute massage is one of the best things in the universe. Better than just about anything. Yes, anything.

4. Drinks taste better when shared with friends.

5. When I'm away for even a couple of days I miss my dogs horribly.

6. Oh, yeah, I miss my husband, too. :)

7. The ride from Phoenix to Sedona is not pretty. Not until the last five minutes that is.

8. The average age in Sedona is 70 and that includes us.

9. People like to drive 5 to 10 miles under the speed limit in Sedona. (See number 8)

10. I don't ever want to live in the Southwest. All the houses are the same color. Or the same range of earthtone stucco. Where the blue house or a yellow house, or a green house? Now I sound like Dr. Seuss.

11. I do not like southwestern art. I am not the least bit interested in dream catchers.

12. New age hippies also live in Sedona. In fact, I almost visited a metaphysical department store for all things crystal and tarot.

13. Saving some money on the ticket doesn't sound so good anymore when you're stuck in Detroit for 3 hours.

It was great to get away. Great to spend time doing nothing but enjoying myself. But it's good to be home.

Hanging by my boobs...

First of all this is my one 100th post to this blog. Imagine the confetti and balloons. Now I can go into syndication. Right after Oprah.

I recently had my post treatment follow-up mammogram. I have to say, it was way more traumatic than I thought it would be. And also funny in that "ha, ha let's laugh at another's silly pain." A little back story- I was telling the ya-ya's about my upcoming mammogram and one graciously told us all about her fear that she would pass out. And she would hang there, by her boob, unconscious and trapped in the vice like grip of the Mammomat. Thank you for that image.

Off I go, to the diagnostic mammogram. This is more involved than a standard one. Sitting in my hospital gown, open to the front of course, I looked around the waiting room. I was younger than everyone by easily 25 year. Great. This is what I get to look forward to.

A very nice woman walks me into the room and proceeds to smoosh my tits into a little machine. She tried to be all discreet.. moving my gown, etc. I finally stripped the thing off saying, "Really, are we going to worry about modesty? You just got more action in the last 2 minutes than my husband's gotten in a week."

My first set of films was fine. Sort of. See, I hadn't eaten all day and it was now about 3pm. I was feeling a little hot and a little woozy. But I sucked it up. I then had to sit and wait for someone to read the films. Whammy! I had to do a few more views. Another tech, another room, another wicked boob smasher.

This is where things get a little crazy. And funny, in retrospect. Imagine me, with not a lot of hair, and topless. Well, maybe you don't want to imagine my topless. After all, you could be reading this around lunch. My tech squeezed me in and all of the sudden, I was hot, I had a horrible taste in my mouth. And all I could think was, "Oh, shit, I'm going to pass out and hang by my boob." I tried to hold it together. Finally, I had to tell her to stop. I was a second away from hitting the floor. Only I wouldn't hit the floor, I'd swing like a monkey from a million dollar torture tree. After a break. I thought I would be fine. Not so. We didn't even get to the "okay, I'm just going to add a little pressure" before I had to stop again. By now, my tech, who was so nice, was really worried. I think she believed I was having some sort of anxiety attack. Really, I think I just needed a sandwich. So third time's a charm, right? This time, my tech wouldn't let me leave the chair.

Yes, I completed my mammogram sitting down. And I will ask to do it that way every time forward. It's so much more comfortable. I highly recommend it.

Once she finally got some extra films, she left me in the room to wait while they were read. This is where the comedy of the absurd got a little sad. I sat there, waiting in the little room, waiting for some doctor to come and tell me something. This is my life. My life is waiting in sterile rooms being poked and prodded and waiting for someone else to take the bottom out.

The nurse came back and we had to do some more films. This did not give me confidence. And I saw some of them. There was definitely a spot on the film. Probably scar tissue from surgery and radiation. My internet radiology degree wasn't enough to diagnose this. But it did look awfully suspicious.

Especially when the tech said, "Where's your husband?"
"At work," I replied.
"Is he there right now?"
"Um, yeah."

Huh? Did I need to make a call? Did I need to tell Alan to come right away? That the whole thing was starting all over again? The tech left me alone in the room again and I cried. All of the sudden, I was back in the ultrasound room at Sherman Hospital in Elgin. I was alone. I was scared. I didn't know what was happening. I wanted my husband. And my mommy. Shut up, you would too.

I was the last person to leave the imaging center. They had shut off lights, turned off the waiting room TVs. After all that, they had to wait because they didn't have my old films. At least it wasn't a "hey, sucks to be you. You still have cancer." I take every trip to radiology when I'm NOT told I have cancer to be a small victory.

In the end, everything looks fine. I will get to do it all over again in six months.
Instead of dwelling on what sucked, I prefer to focus on the ludicrous image of passing out, hanging by my boobs. At least it makes for a good cautionary tale. Eat before your mamogram. And do it sitting down.

Lucy, I'm home!

Now say that title again, using your best Ricky Ricardo accent. That's what my new doggie hears when I walk in the door. Yep, new doggie. Bringing the total canine count to 3. And the total poundage to 330. Not a typo. We have 330 pounds on dog in my house. Shedding, drooling, licking, sniffing, jumping, chasing dogs.

See, right around finishing treatment, I clearly had a mid-life crisis. Mid-life you say? Come on, you're 30. Yeah, well when you face the "big C" you have no idea what's mid-life and what's not. Evidence of my midlife crisis- buying my impractical MINI, taking pole dance classes and signing up to rescue a dog. There are other more ridiculous ideas I come up with- that's a story for another day.

One could argue that I was dealing with my inability to have babies by taking on furry creatures that would love me unconditionally. And I wouldn't deny it. I had nested and was ready to nurture. Plus, you can yell, "What the fuck are you doing?" to a dog and not get in trouble. So if nurturing dogs allowed copious amounts of inappropriate behavior, then sign me up.

Goldilocks and the two bears.

Lucy is the one with the white on her chest looking right at the camera.

We had two wonderful dogs already. Two dogs that we paid a lot of money for. Two dogs that get treated better than most people. I felt compelled to bring this life of luxury to a dog who was less fortunate. All the toys you can chew! Left over pieces of steak! Sleep on the bed! Drink out of the toilet! (Yeah, not a fan of this last one, but you gotta pick your battles.)

So off I went to sign us up to rescue a Newfoundland. I informed Alan of this after the fact. Screw it, I'm the one home. I'm the one that will be taking care of it. (I am hoping this logic will apply to child care decisions as well. Don't want my kid running off to play cricket.)

And we heard nothing for months. Until the day before New Year's Eve. There was an emergency rescue needed. A family was moving and they couldn't take the dog. There were "issues." And the dog had to be taken that weekend. Could we help? Of course we could. So off we go, driving 3 hours to pick up Lucy from a trailer park in the middle of Georgia. A 120 pound dog in a trailer. It was very sad. Thankfully, this wasn't a case where Lucy was abused; just the opposite. Her owner was sobbing as we drove away. Lucy, on the other hand, was happy as can be. An adventure!

Dogs are amazing creatures. Their ability to adjust amazes me. Lucy and Harry are best buddies. You would have thought they grew up together. This is awesome until I'm awoken at 3am to the sounds of barking and chasing. Lucy's almost 3 and she still acts like a puppy. She's the most mushy, lovable thing ever. All the cuddles of Kylie with Harry's big ol' Newfie body.

Lucy and Harry taking a break from playing.

What you don't see? Every dog toy we own strewn about the yard.

Unfortunately, Lucy's had some health problems. She had fleas, tapeworm and arthritis that seems to have come from a broken leg that didn't heal properly. And she has heartworm, which we will have to treat with pretty rough treatment. But you'd never know it. Lucy will be a permanent member of the Bugler family for years. Think of the Christmas cards!

The 3 dogs have settled in nicely. Although I think I've hit my puppy limit. Even nuts have limits.

Flashback time...

Some people have asked why I took some time off from my blog. To be perfectly honest, I struggled a bit as I was finishing treatment. I had a ton of side effects, was going through menopause, and wasn't quite sure what to do. Everyone expected me to be happy I was done - I was "cured". In reality, they don't use the word cure when it comes to breast cancer. The fears were still there. And to be perfectly honest, I felt like I had lost something. So I took some time off as I dealt with my issues. And in a series of flashbacks, much like an episode of Cold Case (imagine some summer of 2006 song blaring as you read), I will try to let you all in on what finishing treatment for breast cancer is like. I had a bunch of half written entries, so here's the first one: (clearly written on 9/11)

"Where were you on 9/11?"

If I had a nickel for every time I've heard this in the past couple of days... okay, well, maybe I'd have like... a dollar. It's everywhere- TV, Radio, the Internet- pretty hard to ignore. Don't worry, this isn't a post attention whoring over September 11. I didn't know anyone who died, who saved someone. The closest I got is relatives and friends who are New Yorkers. Where was I? Well, I was working on a cruise ship. I had DJ'ed the night before. (Yep, you could say I was a professional DJ- one of the many funny hats I've worn. Ahh, the era of the "Thong Song" and Shaggy.)

Anyway, I was sleeping in. All of the sudden, my cruise director was banging on my door, telling me I had the keys to the DJ booth. He needed them. As I sleepily handed over the keys, he said, "Oh, and turn on the TV- some crazy shit is happening. Planes flew into the World Trade Center." I woke up and stared at CNN. I then went downstairs for payday, where I proceeded to wake up my friend Dave (not the first of last time I would wake a musician up before noon.). Dave is Canadian. He was appalled but not as affected. After collecting the twelve cents we had earned for a week's work, Dave and I sat in silence in his dark room watching TV.

We were scenic cruising through Glacier Bay, Alaska. My job was to be social and fun on the decks of the ship. I felt neither social nor fun. Neither did anyone else. Our crew was probably 80% Indonesian (home to the largest Muslim population in the world) and there were rumblings of some celebrations and/or smart ass comments. "Why don't you take off your Nike's and stop collecting your American dollars?" I thought to myself.

What I remember most? Alan. We had just started "dating" if you could call it that. For those of you who don't know, we were on a ship together for 6 weeks when we met. Then apart for 4 months. We were about 2 weeks away from finally seeing each other. I called Alan- willing to spare the dollar a minute it cost to call him. Funny how I spent 9/11 closer to "foreigners". Anyway, Alan and I were talking- I noticed it had been much longer than the 20 minutes my phone card would allow. We realized our call was free. In all the craziness, apparently, the satellite phone company was giving free calls so people could contact family, etc. Alan and I spent about 5 hours on the phone that day. Much of it was quiet, as we watched TV. I spent the day blowing off work and watching CNN.

This year, 9/11 is a different anniversary. I finished treatment today. And while I should be happy and excited, all I can feel is... lost. When I walked out of my final radiation treatment, I got in my car and started to cry. And when I say cry, I mean, sobbing, wailing, shaking uncontrollably. I really have no idea why. I should feel great - I'm done, for fuck's sake. This is the day I've waited months and months for. So why did I feel so alone? Why do I feel like I lost my best friend? What do I do now? And I still feel like shit so how's it any different?

After a good few minutes of emotional outburst, I put the keys into my ignition and drove off. I went home. I took a nap. It was like any other day. Except it wasn't. I turned on the TV and 9/11 stuff was everywhere. Great, I will always have a reminder. Every 9/11 I will think to myself, "This was the day I finished treatment." It's like my parents remembering their anniversary because of the Manson Murders.

And every 9/11 I will be reminded of the day when I sobbed in my car. The day that, instead of getting easier, things got more complicated. The day I went from cancer patient to survivor.

My new favorite website

Calling all online shoppers of all things random! I have to tell you about my new favorite website. It combines two of the biggest parts of my life - breast cancer and shopping.

www.designhergals.com

On the website, you can create your own "gal"- hair and eye color, what she's wearing, her accessories, and things that she carries. Then you can save your gal and use it in e-cards or printed stuff. You can order notecards, stationary, return address labels, invites, anything! It's super cute! Plus, it gives money to its own foundation for Stage IV Breast Cancer programs. With all the talk about prevention and catching things early, I sometimes wonder if these women with very special needs sometimes get lost in the shuffle. Not here!

Here is a gal I did for fun:

First of all, please note her wonder woman outfit. Completely appropriate for a day out. She has short brown hair and big earrings. I'm learning big earrings are the secret to rocking the short hair. She has 3 dogs (I couldn't get dogs that look like bears) in one hand, a martini shaker in the other. Really, what else do you need?

So design something fun, buy a gift, anything... and know you're supporting an awesome cause.

I'd like a pair of stripper shoes, size 8, please

About the time I was finishing chemo, I was struggling with some body image issues. I had lost my mojo, if you will. I searched everywhere for my mojo - I got drunk (always worked for me before), I tried to pour myself into some hot clothes, I wore some make-up. I worked real hard to bring sexy back. Sexy was not listening. So, one of my first "holy-shit, you must be a little bit crazy, but that's totally awesome" moves was signing myself up for pole dancing lessons. Yep, you heard me. As in a big stainless steel pole and 8 inch heels. Lucite heels.

There's a studio in Atlanta that specializes in pole and exotic dancing for fitness and fun. http://www.polelateaz.com/ (yes, POLE- LA- TEES). I enrolled in Level one and off I went. If you go to to the website and sit there while the pictures scroll through, you will see a group photo with me all bald and shit right there in the middle. That was our Level one recital. And no, no one I know does this in real life or is learning for a "job".

My first class was amazing. It was full of these fun, outrageous women of all kinds: a mother of two, a recently divorced woman, a 40 year old trying something new. We introduced ourselves and said why we were there - get in shape, try something new, feel better about ourselves. I told these ladies about my lost mojo. Tears welled up as I described how I hoped to become comfortable in my own skin again.

As the first class progressed, it became obvious to me how self conscious I had become. I never used to give a fuck about anything- what, the blinds aren't closed? Hell, here's a show. You wanna do it with the lights on? Here's my ass.

Not anymore. With just a simple walk around the room, all I could think of was how I couldn't run my fingers through my hair (the hair is still a problem... everyone loves a big ol' hair flip) or that my ass l was umpy or my belly was out of control. I couldn't just relax. I couldn't feel the music. I couldn't enjoy my body. No one was looking, and I was in the most supportive environment ever, but I was unhappy. And it pissed me off. So I struggled through that first class, put on my big girl pants, and sucked it up. I pushed down my desire to burst into tears and I learned how to spin.

At the end of each class, we danced around the pole in a circle, free-styling it, if you will. At the end of that first class, my teacher declared, "I think she found her mojo."

I'm still working on my pole. I have just begun level three and am starting to learn to go upside down. I have learned moves like the fireman spin, the roly poly, the sidewinder. I stir the pot and do the butterfly and play peek-a-boo. I'd like to say it's all sexy and stuff, but much of the time I'm saying, "wheee!" like a little kid. Although I do believe in slapping my ass at the end.

For my thirtieth birthday, my wonderful husband got me my very own stripper pole. It's currently in my living room. Yes, the room right in the front of the house. I have no furniture in the room so it's like my very own strip club. Except I'm usually wearing a t-shirt and yoga pants. I had to talk my husband out of getting me a stage and lights and a smoke machine- you get the idea. I think he just wanted toys.

So every Saturday morning, I go to pole dance class. Sometimes, I take chair dance class. Sometimes, we go on field trips to a martini bar or a strip club or trapeze class. For a short time, I focus on what's good about my body- how I do an awesome merry-go-round or that my arms are getting stronger by the class. I have found new friends, a great hobby and a really fun way to get in shape. Plus I have an amazing story for a bar or cocktail party. And yes, with every spin, every dip, I'm that much closer to getting back to who I was. But better.