DON'T SURVIVE CANCER. THRIVE CANCER.

From April 2013 to November 2014

To quote Lorde: "We will never be royal." We, the hoi polloi, have neither the birthright, heritage, endowment, press-coverage or Kate Middleton's hair to make a successful career in: Drawing Attention To Causes. We can't just hop on a plane to play soccer with underprivileged kids, in heels, to highlight global poverty. We can't ride a golden coach and, with a slow turn of a majestic, bejeweled hand, bring cognizance to global warming. We can't strip naked to raise awareness that what happens in Vegas certainly doesn't stay there. So what can we do? We the people. We who fill the hospital beds, we who battle cancer, we who struggle through Chemo, we who survive? What can your average Big C Joe do? We can thrive.

Yes we can write personal blogs, post pictures, share stories, #cancer and load our trollies with a hundred pink-ribbon products but nothing says Survive like Thrive. It's how we lend hope. How we spread optimism. How we shine that light so brightly that others can't miss it. When we thrive, we inspire. I'm not talking about an inspirational message with a photograph of a cat on your Facebook page. I don't see anyone reclaiming their lives because Sam the Siamese says to do so. To truly motivate you have to set out to actually do something. The week after I finished chemo, I decided that, in order to inspire others to believe, to know, to feel it in their aching Neulasta-injected bones, that there is not only life after Cancer and Chemo, there's A Life, that I would run a marathon. When it came to my Cancer experience I had a personal motto: Get through it and move on. I didn't just move on, I ran on, Kenyan style. 

Of course this did not happen overnight. My brother, my dog and I hit the trail that first week. It was not a glorious moment. I did not hear trumpets, there were no Katy Perry songs about my sports bra. My running comeback went about as well as Anthony Weiner's 2013 return to politics, embarrassingly dismal in a what the fuck are you thinking way. I managed a half mile, walking. Then I slept the rest of the day.

Writing allows me the benefit of time-travel and spares you the mundane training schedule I stuck to (on and off, with another reconstruction operation in between) for months. I worked on my strength, built endurance with snail-like slowness, ate as vegan as possible and always believed my little engine could. 

On November 2nd 2014 I ran the NYC marathon. 26.2 miles in 4h45. 

My aim had always been to run for those about to go through and come out of Cancer/Chemo. I always knew I'd blog about it, spread the word. But, just before the race, I had moment's misgiving that I was really just running for personal attention. I questioned my intent, was I narcissistically using my Cancer ala Lance Armstrong for personal glory? Now that the race is over, I can honestly say that, while I obviously received immense personal joy and gain from it, I genuinely ran as proof that we, as humans, are capable of so much more. Our bodies can be trained to overcome even the worst odds. There is a more noble reason why we physically push our bodies to the brink, and it is to validate human ability, endurance and spirit. I learnt this not from within, I learnt it reading the backs of my fellow runners.

So many people ran the marathon for a cause, in memory of, or for someone else. "I'm running for uncle Jack, 9/11". "I'm running for my mother/father/brother/sister". The messages were abundant and heart-breaking. I wondered: "Why run for the dead?" And then I understood. They weren't running for those passed, they were running for those living. A testament to survival. Thousands of these runners were running for the exact same reason I was. We are here to thrive.

You know that feeling when you’re almost in a car accident? A moment’s shock, a shake of your head at how short life is, the rest of the ride vowing to change everything wrong in your life. And then you get to work/school/wherever and all is forgotten. Things carry on exactly the same. It can be like that with Cancer.

When you have finished treatment and your Oncologist tells you that you’re the healthiest person she’s seen all week, things go back to normal. You can go days without thinking about Cancer, weeks even. And all those things you were going to do when you got well, fell by the wayside. You will not go live on a tropical Island. You will not quit your job. You will not hold up a boom box to your now married high school sweetheart and blast out Peter Gabriel. 

Life takes over. And it’s the same. It shouldn't be. 

Now I'm not insinuating that every cancer survivor should run a marathon. I think if I had known what those last 6 miles of pain, freezing wind, tornados of gatorade cups, banana-peel-covered roads and more pain would be like, I would have opted for a half-marathon. But here I am, having finished a marathon, living proof that we can. We can win. I am suggesting, prodding, provoking everyone to maximize their living and show those just diagnosed we can get better. We can get better than better. We can get greater. We can thrive. 

I wanted to just shout out to my dear friend Lex. She was the reason I finished this marathon. We ran together and she literally pulled me at some points. Thanks Lex, you are an inspiration to every mom who says: "Oh I just don't have the time." Check her incredible life out at http://iamfancypants.com

HAVING A BAD HAIR DAY.

HAIR UPDATE: 
As you can see there's not much to update. Funny thing is those hairs you see are actually new ones.  My hair is growing back, even through Chemo. But as my oncologist brutally said: "Don't get too excited, they'll also fall out." That's cancer summed up for you. Don't get too excited. 

RECURRENCE RATE OF WORRY: 99.999%

My final Chemo session is next week Thursday. I've never looked forward to nausea, fatigue and pain with so much enthusiasm. I can't wait. One more time in that chair. One..last...time. Final. Done. Hasta la vista Cancer. You won't be baaaack. 

Or at least I hope it won't come back. I wonder if there's a cancer survivor out there who doesn't worry about recurrence? Will I forever question every ache and pain I have? I suspect the answer is yes. For one thing I have a Jewish heritage. All that persecution has made us nervous wrecks. We worry because it's ingrained in our genetic make-up. We are because we Oy. Jews are why webmd.com is so successful; why doctors drive Porsches; why your mother will make the following comment: "I can't believe you have cancer, I've probably got it." Ashkenazi Jews (my tribe) can one up their fellow yids in the "I'm probably dying" stakes. Turns out we may carry a genetic mutation of the BRCA1 and BRCA2 (tumor suppressers on a good day) genes linked to an increased risk of breast and ovarian cancer. I'll cross that desert next year. 

Then there's the internet. They've got my number. I used to have pop up mommy and Gap ads, now I have cancer ads. It's so hard not to click onto an article titled: "Cancer, what are your chances?" (Not good if you don't take their product)  or "Soy/alcohol/ dairy (whatever is the latest cancer link to be discredited later) linked to breast cancer recurrence." Too much of anything isn't good, even information. 

Then there are people. And you can't avoid those. Well meaning folk who, the second they hear you have or have had cancer, just have to tell you the story of their uncle/aunt/brother's girlfriend's sister who's cancer came back. Like the Cat. 

Having cancer should come with the following disclaimer: Warning being cured from cancer may cause worry, sleepless nights, paranoia and anxiety. Some patients report an overwhelming feeling that cancer is stalking them. If you experience any of these symptoms you are probably completely delusional. 

My grandmother (who passed away from breast cancer in her late 80s) had this to say about life: "It all goes so quickly." And it does. 
Cancer had taken enough of my precious time from me. I can't let it take anymore. When worry and neurosis creep in I'm going to find a way to block them. Like you would an unwanted Facebook friend, you know the one who is always posting pictures of gerbils in tutus. I'm pressing that button in my over-thinking, over-analyzing head. Cancer you are officially de-friended. 

  







    

THE BLACK NIPPLE AND OTHER GRUESOME STORIES

I forget that not everyone who reads this blog knows me personally. I now have readers as far away a Poland. Pretty awesome or should I say dosc niesamowite. I've been asked about my history before Chemo. So here is the not so short and bitter version. A prequel so to speak. 

Cancer Biyatch. 

My journey.

I turned 40 very reluctantly (and somewhat miraculously seeing as I was only 35 the year before) last year in August. At the insistence of my gynie I went for a 40th mammogram. My breasts were squashed, squeezed then screened and a mass was detected in my left boob.

So I went for an Ultrasound. There they found a lovely, oval, smooth lump. The doctor practically pranced into the room saying: "It's a Fibroadenoma don't worry." But of course I worried. I checked about 1000 articles and images on the internet. And indeed, you can clearly see the difference between a Fibroadenoma and a cancerous mass. The cancer has uneven edges, it's no smooth operator. 

Next step was a Core Needle Biopsy Ultrasound because that's what they do when they find any mass.
I wasn't worried until lying on the table, I turned to the screen and saw 2 lumps. Oh shit. And the one looked like all the pictures I had seen of cancer. Double shit. "What's that?" I asked panicked. Nurse: "Oh that's the other lump, we're doing two biopsies you know?" I did not know. No one had told me. I looked up at the nurses and doctors and saw 3 pity smiles. Shit Trifecta. 

My biopsy was on Oct 29th. At 5pm on the 31st, while I was dressing my kids for Halloween, the phone rang. Trick, not treat. A doctor I had never met, in a very happy, matter-of-fact voice told me I have one benign Fibroadenoma mass and one Classic Cancer tumor. Classic cancer? What's that? Does the tumor wear Chanel, pearls and a Hermes Birkin?

The next month and a bit were spent choosing a surgeon to remove the cancer; a plastic surgeon to reconstruct my breasts; an Oncologist to find out what type of cancer I have; setting up a plan, doing an MRI and waiting for results. And waiting for more results. And waiting for other results. 

I had a double mastectomy with tissue expander nipple sparing surgery (I was taking no chances it would come back in my other breast) on January 18th. I was in hospital for a few nights. During that time one of the spared nipples turned black. It looked mummified. So I had a white nipple and a black nipple. I could have been a Stevie Wonder song. Ebony and Ivory, living in perfect harmony. The breast remake. 

Eventually that nipple was removed as it was declared oxygen deprived and dead. So I became a one nipple wonder. 

I hate my tissue expanders. They are hard, turtle-like, saline shells that train your pectoral muscles to handle the eventual weight of your silicone implant, by filling up slowly with saline until they're big enough. They are medieval torture. 

I went home to recover from my op with bloody drains dangling from my fake I-must-I-must-increase-my-bust breasts. Now this is the value of a good man: my husband milked my drains like he was going for gold in a cow milking competition. He did it faithfully everyday, despite his aversion to blood or paper cuts, and he didn't once complain. This was the 'for worse'. 'For better' is coming soon.

The rest of the story is, give or take a painful recovery, more tests, more waiting and some more waiting, in my blog. 





  

SAVING ENERGY

I had my 3rd round of Chemo a week and a bit ago. The side effect that gets to me the most is the utter exhaustion one feels. Pre-cancer I was that twitchy, fidgety person who couldn't sit still for a second. Now all I do is still. I'm still-life with a remote control. TV is about all I can focus on; even reading seems tiring. It's newborn-colic-screaming-baby meets just-run-a-marathon tired. And then some.

Before I started Chemo I remember the nurse telling me to use my energy wisely. She was obviously a Chemo Yoda because she knew. A normal person can throw energy around like it's free. A Chemo patient knows that energy costs you. If you spend it unwisely you won't have any left when you need it. So a trip to Target, for example, may cost you in owie empathy later: "Child, the Neosporin is in the bathroom drawer with the band-aids, fix yourself. Mommy loves you." 

It's my daughter's 8th birthday coming up. We're doing a small tea party. Usually I go full Martha on birthday parties. I make cakes and cookies from organic scratch, I put together elaborate crafts and games. Not this year. This is the year I met Little Debbie. Her pastries and cakes come off a grocery shelf and there's nothing homemade about them. I'm serving up large doses of corn syrup, artificial flavor and red 40 in exchange for kid noise levels. I'm buying whatever is pink and edible from the Kroger Bakery in exchange for "Happy Birthday to you." You do what you gotta do.