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

HOUSTON: WE HAVE HAIR

I'm one week short of 3 months post Chemo and I can finally see some real hair growth progress. Unfortunately the hair growth is not limited to my head. My leg hairs, nose hairs and down-there-hairs have all begun to grow. It's like spring on my body. I might just sprout some Magnolias under my armpits. I have to admit not shaving, waxing, tweezing, lazering was the best part of Chemo. Now, if scientists could somehow harness the power of Chemo to just to the areas of hair we don't want, they'd find a cure for Cancer.

My wig still sits in my closet, never once worn, all forlorn. I'm not not a wig girl. I wear scarves when in company and go Godiva when I'm not. I'm so sick of these scarves. Nothing says Cancer Victim quite like a head scarf. I'm so weary of being blatantly stared at. I'm tired of that sad look people throw my way, the one that says "Poor you". And then I have to give them a wry, half smile to reassure them I don't mind their invasion, when all I want to do is give them the finger. Children are the worst transgressors. They have no shame. I was once in an elevator on the ground floor with my then 4-yr-old when an obese man stepped in and pushed 18. Floors 1 to 5 I was praying: "Please, please, please, please don't say anything." Floor 5: "Mommy why is that person so fat?". Floor 6: "Mommy why did you pinch me?". Floor 7 to 18 red-faced, please-let-me-disappear silence. To that man, I am deeply sorry. I know what it feels like to look different, to be starred at, pointed at. I know even though it's often children who are just being children, it still hurts like crap. And crushes. And makes you stay home rather than go out anywhere. 

When you are going through Chemo you really don't care. You are in a fight and all that matters is getting through. When you're coming out of the exhaustion and the draining psychological and physical 100 pound dumbbells on your shoulders are lifting, you suddenly care about how you look. So you check your head every day for new hairs, you count your eyelashes and scrutinize your eyebrows. They say a watched head never grows but I'm seeing progress. 

I went back to gym yesterday. Another milestone. I walked for 30 minutes at a snail's granddad's pace and thought I was going to faint. But I did it. And I'll go back today. For those just starting Chemo know this: you will get your life back. It doesn't happen overnight. It doesn't happen 3 months later. But it will happen. At least that's what I keep telling myself. 


For those who read this blog often or have followed it throughout, I have a feeling I might have repeated some of what I've just written. It's like deja write. But my chemo brain is worse than ever.   I was at Target yesterday and found myself staring at baby shampoo for 20 minutes wondering:"Why?". I still don't know. 

DONE

Apologies. I know I should have updated this blog sooner. As my dear friend Duckie pointed out my readers need a happy ending. You absolutely do. You have been wonderful, supportive, caring readers. You've left me messages of hope, encouragement and strength. I've survived this surfing on waves of positive vibes.

Here's the thing. Chemo has short circuited my cerebrum. This is about the 9th time I'm trying to write this. Words are not flowing freely. I mean "I've survived surfing on waves of positive vibes". Who writes that badly? Turns out I do. Me and aging hippies doing that free writing course in Haight-Ashbury.

My chemo fog is bad. Very, very, very bad. (Insert your own adverbial phrase please 'very' is all I can muster.) Please forgive me if my wit is witless, my sarcasm lost on myself and my sense of irony so literal that, unlike Alanis, it's not ironic, don't you think? Where were we? I have no idea.

I'm done with chemo. I had my last round just under 2 weeks ago. The usual side effects, plus some lovely new ones: My feet are constantly freezing cold, my finger nails look like crinkly potato chips and my skin has gone so thin that my temporary breasts have shifted to almost under my armpits. Attractive right?

But I'm done. So from here on I can focus on recovery and move on. I still have one more operation where they'll replace the afore mentioned underarm boils with Grade-A, Hollywood tittys. I'll also be on Tamoxifen for at least 5 years. Side effects include night sweats, hot flushes and mood swings. So it's essentially menopause. Great. 

I'm moving from cancer victim to cancer survivor. And that, my lovely, loyal readers, is the Happy Ending. I'm riding into the sunset with my bald head slathered in SPF100. Yeeeha.

DONE

I will be updating the blog from time to time to let you know how I'm doing and to post pictures of my slow growing hair.  

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. 

  







    

LUCK OF THE CANCERISH

I've been thinking a lot about luck. My thinking was triggered by one of the woman I've meet on a cancer website. These boards are where we go to get help, advice, support and friendship based on the common denominator that we're all down on our luck. Which is pretty much the understatement of the year. We're black cat crosses as you walk under a ladder onto a crack breaking a mirror in the process bad luck. My comrade in breast cancer commented that, after all she has gone through, luck has to start going her way. I couldn't agree more. We're overdue some pot-o-gold, marshmallow-charms-in-a-cereal-box, 4-leaf-clover luck. 

When I first got diagnosed every one of my doctors, family and friends told me how lucky I am that they found it early. They failed to understand how unlucky I was to get it in the first place. There you are, happily going about your life, when THUMP a piano falls on your head in the shape of a 2.2cm, stage 2, grade 3, invasive tumor. And I'm lucky?? Fuck you all. And I say that in the sweetest possible way. 

I think that people try to see the positive in your situation. Yes you got cancer but it could be worse. You're lucky it wasn't bigger, badder, in the lymphs, in the margins. You Chemobiyach (Not my real name) are the luckiest person alive. But, after pondering this wisely with hand rubbing chin, I've come to the conclusion that it's a backwards way to think. Something crappy still smells like crap no matter how much Febreze you spray around. For me it's obviously the cancer, but this goes for every really horrible situation out there. It is what it is. Bad life luck. Don't let anyone tell you any different. 

And, once you accept that, it's easier to feel that you are indeed due some of the good stuff. Not just due, owed. The universe owes you, and me, a small, green Leprechaun hand-delivered by Fedex. It doesn't have anything monumental, although winning the lotto would make up for the high Oncoytpye score if you're reading this Lady Luck, I'd settle for a day where my toast doesn't burn, the sun shines and my cancer is a distant memory.

PS Happy St. Patrick's Day for the 17th. This blog has nothing to do with the fact that it's around the corner. Lucky coincidence.  

ROUND 2

I had my second round of Chemo last week. It wasn't as bad as before but that's like saying Stalin wasn't as evil as Hitler. Still one has to celebrate the small things. The days following Chemo you do feel like you've gone a few rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson. You're knocked out before the ref counts to 1. But this time I think I got in a small punch of my own. I've bounced back a little quicker and the side effects haven't been all that life-squashing. 

My taste buds seem to be the hardest hit. I simply cannot taste deliciousness or yumminess of any kind. I can taste onion. So that's what I've been eating. Last night I had 3 roasted onions for dinner. My brother tells me onion is good. It  prevents cancer. Smiley face. 

I do have some news. 
When I first started this blog I mentioned that I'd had an Oncotype test. Basically, minus the scientific mumbo jumbo, it tests the chances of your cancer returning and how your cancer will respond to Chemo. When I was first tested my score was low. A mere 10. I chose to do Chemo anyway because my doctors questioned the result. My Oncotype score was retested. And it came back high. 32. Turns out one can have a Sybil of a tumor. A cancer with multiple personality disorder. Luckily she's already on the couch, having therapy with Dr Chemo. 

I'm doing 4 rounds of Chemo. So I am halfway through. Whoop. And nog a pip. I would have celebrated with Champagne and a funny hat but bed, sleep and pain meds seemed a better party. I can sort of make out a hazy light at the end of a long, dark, Annus Horribilis of a tunnel. To those who endure 6 or 8 rounds of this poison. I tip my cancer cap to you all. Respect. 

http://www.breastcancer.org/symptoms/testing/types/oncotype_dx

ALMOST BALD

Joan Rivers is one of my all-time favorite comedians. She has a documentary called: "A piece of work" which highlights just how much work being funny actually is. She works her ass off at funny. Ok, she gets it surgically worked off, but that would be a joke to her. She writes down every single joke she has ever written on a card and catalogs them in an extensive, alphabetized, wit-filled cabinet. P being her largest section. 

I bring this up because it's hard to be funny or make light of a situation that is gut-wrenchingly painful. You have to work at it. 

My wrecking ball to the heart came last night. I was forced to shave down my hair to a near bald becuase it was falling out everywhere: bed; cushions; towels; tables and food. Campbell's Vegetable and Hair soup is not my favorite flavor. Andy Warhol may have missed the ultimate social commentary there, but I digress. 

Knowing this blog is meant to be light-hearted and uplifting I'm choosing to channel Ms. Rivers. She would take one look at my picture and make some wildly uncomfortable, inappropriate joke like: "She looks like she just got liberated from Auschwitz." Oh come on, it's what you're all thinking. Or: "She looks like Justin Bieber age 50."

I really do look like a cancer victim now. Full victim. Not the tough/hot chick with a number 2. And so, when I look into the mirror I have 2 choices: cry or think of a fabulous Ms. Rivers quote: "Kelly (Pickler) shaved her head to fight breast cancer. Britney shaved her head because the Slurpee machine broke. (Just something to think about.)" 

OFF WITH HER HAIR

Women are obsessed with their hair. I think it's fair to make that a statement and not an assumption. A strong statement. Up there with: The earth is round. Men take their hair semi-seriously, sure, but they know, because they've seen it on their grandfathers, fathers, teachers, coaches, sports heroes and movie heroes that they may lose it. Bruce Willis is why men do not stress their hair.

It's different for woman. We see no bald. We see femininity and hair perpetually linked in a knot of perfectly-coifed updo. When woman on the screen shave their hair it's to come across as androgynous and macho (Sigourney Weaver in Alien; Demi Moore in G.I. Jane) or it's to shed them of every ounce of their femininity and person (a bawling Anne Hathaway in Les Miserables; every hysterical America's Next Top Model girl chosen to receive the buzz chop). Long, flowing, Botticelli locks are THE definitive beauty standard for women. It therefore comes as no surprise to me that some women opt out of Chemo because they fear losing their hair. It's that important to us. 

This brings me to my recent buzz cut. In order to have your wig fitted properly you have to have your hair short enough. Half an inch to be exact. I did it a few days ago. Did I crumble? Did I lay down and die? Oh no not I. Break into massive musical song and dance hair-shearing number. Fade back to blog. I survived. I didn't shed a tear. And when all was said and shorn; I really like my shaved head. I feel tough. I feel cool. I turn up JZ in my Volvo and peace-up sideways to my homegirls in carpool. This mama's got swagger. Whatever that means. 

Of course I'm going to lose the little I have now. It's already started to come out when I towel dry my scalp. Chemo's not letting me off that easy. But when that happens I have a long, flowing, gently-highlighted, thoroughly feminine, JAP wig to don. But that is another blog.  

CHEMO IS NO PICNIC.

I had my first day of Chemo yesterday. I don't know why I expected it to be a walk in the park. I think that I had read up so much that I had myself scheduled for IT to hit on day 3 and gradually reduce by day 10, then I would be fine until the next infusion. I even packed a frikkin picnic basket for the day. Such was the extent of my delusion. I was there from 8.30am and last to leave at 6pm. Halfway through the first lot of Chemo drugs I developed an allergic reaction. Watering, sore, red eyes and elevated heart rate. They had to stop the Chemo, give me antihistamines and even more steroids, wait until I was ok and continue on. I developed a chalk-like taste in my mouth and was not hungry in the slightest. My husband and mom throughly enjoyed the picnic lunch. Once home I went straight to sleep and have felt nauseous, crappy and exhausted ever since. On a better day I'll describe the big social scene Thursdays at the Chemo ward are and how loudly Southern families like to talk about their pie and dogs. But not today. Today Chemo is the clear winner.