Love is in the Hair

Yesterday, I trekked to the upper east side in the middle of the snow storm to the Sally Hershberger Salon to get my hair colored.  I finally met Michael, my new hair colorist.  The man who, through my friend and his client, has been my hair advisor for the past year.  

Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat . . .

I sat down in the chair next to my friend, and Michael and I talked about what my hair used to look like.  I brought pictures from the old blond highlighting and straightening days, the highlighting and low lighting days and the wavy and gray days.   And, we talked about what it looks like now--I made my standard attempts at humor with references to Jay Leno and Bea Arthur.

And, he said, "you know, that's funny, you see Bea Arthur, but with all these waves and curls, I see something more like Halle Berry."

Halle Berry.  Okay, I know that I do not look like Halle Berry in my before or in my after photos.  But, who am I to question a man who works with hair for a living?

I have met some amazing people on this crazy ride.

Before

 After

Maybe not Halle Berry.  But, pretty great.  Thank you, Michael.  

Happy Birthday . . .

to the man who smiled (and helped me smile) through the good, the bad, and the ugly of last year.

No Gray Area

There’s no gray area here.  My hair has reached a critical mass—a gray mass, that is.

My soft, straight, new hair of November has turned into my mess of thick, wavy, curly hair of January. 

Think Jay Leno, no, actually think Jay Leno, Lyle Lovett and Don King.  If I could morph all of their hair into one look, you would have a pretty good idea of what I wake up to every morning.

The Tonight Show

I’m not complaining.  It’s my hair, and I’m happy that it's growing back.  I just don’t know what to do with it. 

I started highlighting my hair in college.  A few foil highlights every six months. Once I started to see more than just a few gray hairs, my hair colorist (who had hair the color of Malibu Barbie—so, maybe she wasn’t the best choice for a colorist when I wanted subtle, blond highlights) tried to camouflage the gray with highlights.  It was a slippery slope.  Before I knew it, I was a blond—not in a good or even natural way.  A blond.  (For Wicked fans, think of Elphaba describing Glinda in Loathing as, “blond”).

Now my hair is wavier, grayer and thicker than it was before chemo.  Another one of the many ways that cancer is the "gift" that keeps giving.  Really?   Isn’t it bad enough that I had to lose my hair?  Couldn’t it just grow back the way that it was before?  

I miss my old brown and gray hair. 

As it grows in, I'm walking around with hair that looks like Jay Leno’s or maybe more like Daniel Boone’s coon skin cap.  I try to tame it with products and clips and hats.  They’re really no help.  I know that it has to go through the awkward growing out stage to get it to its pre-cancer length.  But with the curls and the gray, this growing out is more than awkward.  

There’s no gray area here.  It’s awful.

Maybe I need a coonskin cap like Daniel Boone

After years of not coloring my hair (partially because I was worried that hair color may be linked to cancer, ha!) and going gray gracefully, I have an appointment to have my hair colored next week.  I feel a little like I’m betraying my going gray gracefully friends.  But, I have to do it. 

I’m going with a friend to her hair colorist.  Her colorist who she has gone to for years.  Her colorist who once colored her mother’s hair.  Her colorist who referred me to my wig place.  “It’s where all the girls go,” he told my friend when she first told him about my cancer.  Her colorist who also told her to remind me way back last year that my hair loss “would only be temporary.”

He was right.  I can’t wait to meet him. 

I know that it really isn’t--but sometimes it still feels like it’s all about the hair.

He Had Me at OUTSTANDING

I had a follow up visit with my reconstructive surgeon last week.

My surgeon is head of the reconstructive surgery department at Sloan Kettering and is thought to be one of the best in his field. 

However, what he excels at in technical skills he lacks in bedside manner. 

He looks a little like Stanley Tucci.  A Stanley Tucci who makes little eye contact, talks quickly and rarely smiles. 

He is informative, abrupt and seemingly unsympathetic.  Interesting qualities in a surgeon who chooses to work at a cancer hospital.  He could easily use his expertise doing boob jobs and face-lifts with patients who need a little less hand holding and support.

At our first meeting last year, he explained the surgical options available for my reconstruction, and he quickly examined me.  Then he sat down at his desk and drew stick/circle figure breasts with slashes and stitches to further illustrate the types of surgeries available to me. And, he ended many statements with, “follow?”  As if he knew he was talking too fast, and he wanted to make sure I was keeping up with him. 

He draws fast, he talks fast, and he’s out the door fast.  Follow?

That first consultation with him was one of my my difficult appointments. My surgeon told me that my reconstructed breast would never look like my unaffected breast.  And, he told me that there was little chance that he could create a breast the same size as my unaffected breast.  To illustrate his point, he drew those awful cartoon pictures of breasts.  Slashes and stitches.

not outstanding

Up until that appointment, I was okay with my mastectomy.  I was at peace with being rid of all the potential micro cells still hiding in my left breast.  But, I was also somehow under the impression that my reconstructive surgeon would reconstruct my breast to match the other breast.  "Not possible," he said. 

Now months later, I understand that there is no way to reconstruct the effects of age and gravity and forty months of nursing with a brand new silicon implant.

Now, a breast reconstruction expert, I know that following a mastectomy, a tissue expander is put in place behind the chest muscle wall to stretch the muscle and create a pocket for the silicon implant.  The expander is inflated every other week to slowly stretch the chest wall. (My son called this "pump up the boob.") 

My surgeon told me that he would make the new breast look as good as he could—but it would not look the same. 

The thought of being asymmetrical for the rest of my life AND looking at his many cartoon breast drawings with slashes and stitches got me down.  And, at that point I was pretty unflappable.  Breast cancer, PET scans, MRI, surgery, drains—I was powering through it all. 

I emailed my yoga friends and asked them what positions I could do to help further stretch the chest muscles.  If I couldn’t have a match in breast shape, I definitely would have a match in breast size. 

I had my mastectomy.  My breast surgeon opened and removed all of my breast tissue, and the reconstructive surgeon put in the tissue expander and closed. 

After all of the chemo and expanding, in my last surgery my reconstructive surgeon took out the expander and put in my silicon implant.  My chest wall was expanded enough to put in a perfect size match.  Thank you, chest opening yoga positions.

So now all these months later, I have my old, 41-year-old breast.  And, I have a brand new reconstructed breast.  My kids lovingly (mockingly?) refer to them as Flopsy and Mopsy. 

I had been planning for months that at my follow up visit, I would thank my surgeon for doing such an amazing job.  Mopsy is a beautifully reconstructed breast.  He was right.  My reconstructed breast does not look like my old breast, but it looks pretty good.

I don’t know if it’s because my results are good, or because I really tried to understand him better, but I have come to respect, and even like my surgeon.

I wanted to thank him, but I also wanted to tell him that the slash and circle drawings at our initial visit were scary (actually, terrifying), and he might consider a different approach when he educates new cancer patients to the reconstruction process. 

He is very good.  He's even great.  I know that he can be better.  I want him to be better.

My husband thought I was crazy.  My husband reminded me that I am a patient and not a patient advocate.  He told me that I am not my surgeon’s mentor.  And, he was also sure that my reconstructive surgeon had heard all of it before and didn’t need or want my constructive criticism. 

So as I sat in the waiting room to see my surgeon, I debated if and how I would share the constructive criticism.

My surgeon dashed in through the door, said a quick hello, made no eye contact, and asked me how the implant was.  I told him I thought it looked and felt pretty good.  He opened my exam gown, examined me and agreed.  In fact, he said the implant looked “outstanding.” 

At this point, we made eye contact. 

Outstanding.  I know that he was complimenting his own outstanding surgical work.  But, outstanding?  He thought my breast, formerly full of cancer, was outstanding. 

I agreed with him.  And, thanked him.  And, I decided not to share my constructive criticism.   I decided I’d let him keep on doing what he does. 

And, I’ll keep on doing what I do--with my outstanding breast. 

When Negative is Positive

In December I was tested for the breast cancer genes:  BRCA 1 and 2.  I don't have a family history of breast cancer.  But, because I was diagnosed with breast cancer pre menopause and because I have a daughter, the genetics counselor at Sloan Kettering thought it was a good idea for me to be tested. Testing positive would have meant that I was at a higher risk for a second breast cancer or ovarian cancer.  And, testing positive would have meant that E. and A. were at greater risk for breast cancer or ovarian (for E.) cancer. 
The results are in (all the way from the lab in Utah, drumroll please). I am negative for both the BRCA 1 and BRCA 2 genes. My breast cancer is most likely sporadic (occurring without known genetic link).  Statistically, the genetics counselor wasn't thinking that I would test positive.  My husband, the actuary and the optimist, was certain that I would not be BRCA positive.  But, waiting for any/all test results from Sloan Kettering makes me anxious.
So, it is so nice, oh ever so nice, to have negative lab results and positive news at the beginning of a new year.

What's it all about, Alfie?

There are knitting blogs.  I follow a few.  There are parenting blogs.  I used to follow many.  There are cancer blogs.  I followed some.  Although, when I was diagnosed, I knew enough young women who had been treated for or were currently being treated for breast cancer that I had my own instant support group. 

So what is my blog about?  What's my tag line?   

"musings on knitting, parenting, yoga and life after cancer?" 

I promised myself that even though I had breast cancer, I wouldn't let it define me--or my blog.  So I wanted to keep cancer out of the subtitle.

Although, I've found that keeping the cancer out is not that easy.  Since I officially ended treatment in October, I know two women who have been diagnosed with breast cancer.  Since I ended treatment, I have read or started to read at least three novels that mention breast cancer.  I think that the Susan G. Komen Foundation should get that pink ribbon put on all books that mention breast cancer, women dying of breast cancer, and children whose mothers have died of breast cancer.  That would be a good place for the pink ribbon.  Buyer beware.   

The Cookbook Collector--Allegra Goodman; The Widower's Tale--Julia Glass (breast cancer survivor); By Nightfall--Michael Cunningham.  It's not that they weren't good books (I couldn't get through the first one, but I liked the second two just fine).  I just might have chosen something different if I had known they had breast cancer in the plot lines.

Or, maybe that's just what life is like after breast cancer.  You don't find the books about breast cancer.  They find you.  And, maybe you hear about women with breast cancer, because they need to find you.  Because, they need to know one person who's done it before--one person who made it through the whole year and came through on the other side.

So, what's it all about?  I don't know yet.  I don't have a subtitle.

I do know that this blog won't be all about cancer.

But, I also know that part of me will always be about cancer.

Moving forward

“I write to find out what I think.”  Joan Didion

As I copied (and reread) my CaringBridge posts to this blog, I realized that that’s exactly what I did this year.  Initially, I wrote to share all of my medical updates.  Then, I wrote to share all of my experiences, doctors’ names and resources.

But, really, as I was writing, I was figuring out what I was thinking—and feeling too.  Who knew? 

Who knew that writing would help me process the past year and help me find my own voice?   

So this is it—this is the last CaringBridge post.

From now on, it’s just Being Me . . . moving forward

December 2010

Wednesday, December 29, 2010 3:08 PM, EST

I Gotta Feeling

I've known for a long time that I wanted my last CaringBridge post to be today. 

A year ago today I was at a friend's house, and I got a call from my radiologist at Mt. Kisco Medical Group with the news that I had breast cancer. 

I knew that after today I wanted to keep writing and move onto something else. But what?

I'd like to think that I have a New York Times "Modern Love" article or a Times Magazine "Lives" article in me.   I'd even like to think that I have a one woman show in me.  CaringBridge--The Musical, maybe? 

And, maybe I do. 

But, for now, I'm leaving CaringBridge and taking my posts on the road to, dare I say it, a blog.  Yes, a blog.  I know, I know, I can hear the groans--another blog.  But, the truth is, I've been blogging all year.  I was just calling it posting journal entries. 

I'm coming out of the CaringBridge closet.  From today on I'll be writing at:

http://beingmemovingforward.blogspot.com/

My first entries are going to be a back up of all of my entries from the past year.  The organizing, card catalog part of my brain needs all of my posts to be living in the same place together. 

And, from there . . . I'll truly move forward.

Happy and healthy new year, everyone!

moving on,
with gratitude and love,
Barbara


And, one last time, the song in my head is I Gotta Feeling--The Black Eyed Peas

I gotta feeling that this year's gonna be a good year . . . let's live it up!

Eat Pray Love

Wednesday, December 22, 2010 8:46 AM, EST

Warning:  if you didn't like the book by the same title written by Elizabeth Gilbert, you might want to skip this one.

As the anniversary of my diagnosis, December 29th, approaches, it's unnerving to be doing all of the same things that I did last year at this time.  Last year, as I was writing out holiday cards and wrapping gifts and finishing knitted gifts, I was also waiting for my biopsy results.  And, this year I'm writing out holiday cards and wrapping gifts and finishing knitted gifts, and I already know I had cancer. 

To celebrate the end of this year and the beginning of a new one, Jay and I went to the Berkshires last weekend.  A weekend of delicious food, exercise, spa services, time together and quiet time to reflect.

Eat.  I bought the "Canyon Ranch Cookbook" years ago knowing it would be the closest I would get to Canyon Ranch for a long time.  And, the recipes are good.  They're very good.  But, when they are prepared for you, they are heavenly. 

Although, it doesn't take a lot to impress me these days.  Any meal that I don't have to food shop for, prepare, cajole Andrew into eating and clean up after is an amazing meal to me. 

There were so many delicious, healthful choices--soups and salads and flat breads and fish and whole grains and kale.  All delicious--and all on "The Anticancer" diet (kale is at the top of the list).  As an extra treat, after every lunch and dinner, the staff asked if we wanted extra cookies to take away--ginger (our favorite) or macadamia nut or orange pecan or chocolate chip--all not on the anticancer diet.  Delicious.

Pray.  Jay and I took a lot of classes.  Canyon Ranch was at low occupancy last week--so every class felt like a personal training session.  Jay did more cardio.  I did almost all yoga.  And, we met up for a few classes together.  In yoga--yin yoga, Canyon Ranch yoga, restorative yoga, and meditation, I had a lot of time to think about the year behind me and the year ahead.

In my last yoga class on Sunday I started to think about my body--before and after I was diagnosed with cancer.  I thought about how certain I was last year that my biopsy results would not indicate cancer.  How sure I was that I might potentially have other things, but breast cancer was not going to be "my thing."  Of all the things I used to worry about, breast cancer was not even top ten.

As I was lying on the yoga mat in the final resting savasana pose, I realized that for a lot of this year, although this body has gotten me through surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation, I felt betrayed.  I played by all the rules of good breast health.  And, still my body found a way to let a tumor grow in my breast.  And, not just a pea sized tumor that a lumpectomy could have removed--but a cancer so big that I needed a full on mastectomy.  Really, body?  We couldn't have handled breast cancer micro cells?  What happened?  Where did I go wrong?

My oncologist tells me that statistically I am now at only a slightly higher risk than the general population for developing breast cancer again.  But, it's hard for me to trust this body again.

Since my active treatment ended in October, I sometimes wonder what the next betrayal will be.  What's next?  I had a cough a few weeks ago.  I get a cough every year in November.   Every year, every November since I went to the Harvard-Yale football game in 1987, I get a dry hacking cough.  I go to the doctor.  I get a nose spray and a cough suppressant, and the cough goes away.  But, this year when I got "the cough" and my ribs hurt from coughing, I thought that maybe, possibly, the cancer had spread to my ribs--or my lungs.  I've been making myself and, by association, Jay a little crazy.

Love.  Sunday afternoon, lying on my yoga mat in savasana, I decided that I couldn't move forward if I can't trust this body.  Lying on the yoga mat, I decided to forgive this body.  I decided that if I'm truly going to "move forward," it's time to make an effort to forgive my body the cancer betrayal, start to trust it again and move on.

So I got out of resting pose, chanted "om" three times with the class, rolled up my yoga mat, left the yoga studio and looked for Jay. 

Jay who reminds me everyday that I am fine.  That the worst is behind us.  And that I will be okay.


moving forward,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara


* "Anticancer A New Way of Life" by David Servan Schreiber

Good Morning, Starshine

Monday, December 20, 2010 10:25 PM, EST

I went for my BRCA1/BRCA2 (breast cancer) genetic screening at Sloan Kettering today.  It was a lot of genetic counseling and a blood test.  I met with a genetics counselor, and a technician took three vials of blood.  They send my sample to a lab in Utah.  And, I'll have the results in two weeks.  I'll meet with the genetics counselor again, and then I'll know if my cancer was BRCA related or "sporadic." 

All the samples go to Utah unless you're an Ashkenazi Jew--then the samples are tested in New York.  "To where, Borough Park?" I asked the doctor.  Back when I was looking for a wig, all of the women at the wig places in Borough Park, Brooklyn told me they were the "Wig Capital of the World."  I wondered if they were the genetic testing capital of the world for Ashkenazi Jews too.  "No, those samples are just sent to the upper east side," the doctor said, laughing. 

There is a very low probability that I carry the BRCA1/2 gene.  But, because I had breast cancer before menopause, and because I have E., it makes sense to test.  Due diligence.  Another test.  Another set of results to wait for. 

After the genetic counseling and the testing, I walked my usual walk from Sloan Kettering back to Grand Central--first down Third Avenue and then cutting over to Lexington.  I didn't feel very cold at first, but with the wind I was freezing.  The wind chill factor. 

And then waiting at a windy corner for the light to change, I realized for the first time since April 10th, I could feel my own hair blowing in the wind.  

And, I smiled.  It's been awhile.


moving forward,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara

And, for the record, the song in my head as I walked the rest of the way to Grand Central was "Good Morning Starshine" from, you guessed it . . . Hair.

Rest in Peace, Elizabeth Edwards

Tuesday, December 14, 2010 5:36 PM, EST

 
It's been a tough and very sad breast cancer week. 

There are so many breast cancer survivor stories.  Betty Ford, Shirley Temple Black, Olivia Newton John, Gloria Steinem, Suzanne Somers, Sandra Day O'Connor, Kate Jackson and Jaclyn Smith (what is going on with the Angels, Charlie?). 

And, so many people walking and running and buying pink things and wearing pink things and raising awareness and money for breast cancer treatment. It's hard to hear that someone like Elizabeth Edwards, who had access to the best health care died of breast cancer.  And, for me, it's terrifying.

This past week, I've been thinking a lot about what it might be like to have breast cancer and not have children.  Every time I heard about Elizabeth Edwards--first about the end of her cancer treatment and then her death, I thought about her children--Cate and Emma Claire and Jack.

I know that Elizabeth Edwards had been writing letters to her children for years (because in my spare time I still google every public figure who has or had breast cancer--has anyone heard from Teresa Heinz Kerry, lately?).  Elizabeth Edwards wrote her children letters filled with her thoughts and opinions on everything.  Advice for the future.  Letters they could read when she was gone.  In her eulogy to her mother, Cate Edwards mentioned that her mother had already shared some fashion advice with her.  Elizabeth told Cate to avoid wearing prints, you might regret wearing a print, you'll never regret wearing solids, she said. 

For years, Elizabeth Edwards has been undergoing treatment for breast cancer, and she has also been preparing her children for her death.

What would it be like to have breast cancer without small children?

I know that Elizabeth Edwards was not my cancer twin.  But, when we were diagnosed, we both had small children. 

For me, I know that if I didn't have E. and A., I would probably not have put on such a brave face everyday.  I know that I would have stayed in my pajamas on more days.  And, I definitely would have had more time to feel sorry for myself. 

I also think that I would worry about the future less--much less.

Breast cancer is scary.   As the anniversary of my diagnosis approaches the end of this month, I remember how scary and dark and unknown it all seemed last year. 

A year ago today I had my second mammogram and the sonogram that indicated that I had an enlarged and asymmetrical lymph node and a lump.  "Probably nothing," my radiologist said.  But, she wanted to biopsy both just in case.

This whole crazy year started a year ago today.

Breast cancer is scary.  Breast cancer with small children is terrifying.  Nothing has been as scary; nothing has made me cry more (mostly in the shower or in the car alone--where no one could hear me) than the thought that I might die of breast cancer while Elizabeth and Andrew are still young. 

Emma Claire Edwards is 12 and Jack Edwards is 10.

What would it be like to have breast cancer without small children?

I don't know.  And, I try not to think about it a lot.  But, in this very sad Elizabeth Edwards week, I think about it. 

I do know that if I didn't have Elizabeth and Andrew I would not be researching (and buying) a new camera (with recording capability).  I suddenly want lots and lots of pictures and videos of all of us.  And, I also know that I wouldn't be as vigilant (some might say compulsive) about yoga and exercise and the "anti-cancer diet."  Kale and brussel sprouts and low glycemic
foods . . .  

And, I wouldn't have to think about my hair as much (it's always about the hair).  An hour ago I made an appointment for my "first" haircut.  After the call, I heard E. crying in her room.  She hates my short hair.  I think she just wants everything to be the way it was a year ago yesterday.  And, she thought I was betraying her "I want everything to be like last year campaign" with a haircut. 

So I sat with her on the floor in her bedroom, I held her close, and I told her I want everything to be the way it was a year ago too. 

As "great" as this short hair may seem, like Elizabeth, I want it to be long again too.  But, it needs a little help in the awkward, growing out stage.  I need a trim--so that someday I can look a little bit more like I did a year ago.

I will never know what cancer without small children is like.  When I was diagnosed, A. was six and E. was turning 10. 

But, I'm doing everything I can to know what life post cancer with children is like for many, many years. 

And, I'm hoping the odds are with me, because, after all, I had access to the best possible health care, and I have J. at my side every day--not John Edwards. 

Rest in peace, EE.

moving forward to 2011,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara

Celebrate!

Being Me . . . moving forward

Getting closer . . . to a complete CaringBridge back up.   

Monday, October 11, 2010 9:04 PM, EDT

After living through five surgeries, eight chemotherapy treatments, and twenty-eight radiation sessions, my Family celebrated this weekend by seeing "The Addams Family" and having dinner at Landmarc, a family favorite (see new photos).

I like Landmarc, because the food is always good, and the kids' menu has some grown up choices.  My kids like it, because they get cotton candy with their meals.  The big question is what color will the cotton candy be.  Andrew asked our waitress the color of the cotton candy as he was ordering.  She said "pink."  I said, jokingly, "for breast cancer awareness month?" Really, I thought it had to be a coincidence.

And, she said "actually, yes."  I said "that's funny, because we're here celebrating the end of my breast cancer treatment."  And, the waitress said "my mom was just diagnosed--she starts radiation on Monday."  I asked where her mom was being treated, and she said "Cleveland."  And, she started to cry a little.  Oh man!  Could there just be a little less breast cancer? 

I tried to normalize the situation, and said to E and our waitress "you see, her mother has breast cancer, your mother has breast cancer."  But, really, there is nothing normal about this whole crazy thing. 

1 in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetime. That statistic is staggering and truly so insane to me.

When we ordered coffee, I asked if we could see the dessert menu too, and our waitress said that one of each dessert was coming out for us--on the house.  She brought us cotton candy and more dessert than any four people should have.

As we were getting ready to leave, I took my Playbill and wrote down the name of the cream I used through most of my radiation to treat and protect my skin on it (Weleda Calendula Baby Face Cream--thank you, Nadine and Dr. Pusic).  I told her that her mom could get it at Whole Foods.
 
The waitress from Cleveland brought us a tray of desserts, and I gave her a breast cancer radiation tip for her mom.  Totally insane.

moving forward,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara

Thursday, October 14, 2010 10:01 PM, EDT

An Ounce of Prevention is Worth a Pound of Cure 

(or Awareness)

My breast cancer treatment ended on October 1st.  October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  Isn’t it ironic . . .

I have mixed feelings about the words breast cancer awareness, the way the fundraising is spent, and the pink ribbons.

Here's the thing -- I was already aware of breast cancer.  I'm not sure that we need more breast cancer awareness.   Christiane Northrup, in an article in yesterday's "Huffington Post," said she would rather the month be called “Breast Health Awareness Month.” 

The month, the awareness, and the fundraising are all important.  Awareness.  Of course, women should be reminded and encouraged to get whatever screenings are right for them--mammograms, sonograms, and Northrup references thermography. 

And, the fundraising.  The tremendous fundraising supports the advances in treatments and the treatment centers that many women (now, I am one of those women) benefit from. 

Breast cancer treatments have come very far.  I am lucky to have been treated by some of the best specialists in the field.

But, really, I would do anything to not have needed the treatments at all.  The treatments, for all of their advances, are brutal.   I lost a breast.  I lost my hair.  I was sick for four months.  My body is burned inside and out from radiation.

Breast cancer treatment consumed ten months of my life.  Ten scary and painful and exhausting months.

The majority of breast cancer fundraising is spent on researching treatments--not causes or prevention. 

What if October were Breast Cancer Prevention Month?  Or, like Christiane Northrup, Breast Health Awareness Month.

Breast Cancer Awareness Month makes me angry.  Guess what?  Given the staggering statistics, I was already aware (and afraid) of breast cancer.  I needed more than breast cancer awareness. 

Here's the randomness of the disease.  I am not in a risk group.  I do not have a family history of breast cancer.  I am not overweight.  I exercise regularly.  I am not vitamin D deficient.  I nursed both of my children--20 month each.  I do not eat food heated in plastic.  I drink filtered water.  I try to eat organically grown food.  I eat little red meat.  I do not typically drink more than two alcoholic beverages a month.

I only had a mammogram, because I was 40.

I was aware.  I was very aware.  And, still I was scared that someday I would have breast cancer.  I had cancer, and I'm still aware.  But, now I’m scared that someday I’ll have a recurrence. 

So awareness, no.  I don't need awareness.  More money spent on research that finds the causes and the prevention of breast cancer.  That is what I need. 

I need to know what to do prevent a recurrence.  Research indicates that regular cardiovascular exercise helps prevent a cancer recurrence.  My oncologist told me that a strong immune system would suppress any (if any) remaining micro cancer cells.  (Was my immune system weak before?)  And, that’s it.  After your treatments, the specialists schedule your well visits and send you on your way.  Fingers crossed there will be no more cancer.

Tomorrow I go back to the Evelyn Lauder Breast Center at Memorial Sloan Kettering for the first time since July 1st.  I'm having a follow up (unilateral) breast MRI.  

I am optimistic that there will be “no evidence of disease,” but I am also incredibly anxious.  And, I am dreading the idea of walking through the doors of Sloan Kettering again.  Even if it is to the “Spa.” 

Awareness, good.  Finding a cause, better.  Prevention, the best.

moving forward,

and very aware,

Barbara

And, the pink ribbon, that pink ribbon makes me angry in a completely different way.  I’ll save that for another post.

Saturday, October 23, 2010 2:38 PM, EDT

The MRI indicates NED (no evidence of disease)

I had my first follow up MRI and first well visit with my breast surgeon this week.  And, the MRI indicates No Evidence of Disease.  I told Dr. Heerdt (who I still love almost as much as Jay) that the cancer people need a more upbeat, catchy term (maybe they can get Mad Men’s Don Draper or Peggy Olson on the public relations team).

And, she said, "Really, that's all that we want to hear, no evidence of disease." 

You know, she's right.  “No evidence of disease sounds” very comforting to me right now. 

moving forward,
with gratitude and love
and a calendar full of follow-up "well" visits,
Barbara

Sunday, October 24, 2010 8:17 PM, EDT

Think PINK?

Pink.  It's everywhere this month.  Ribbons, scarves, sweatshirts, socks, jewelry, mixers -- yes, even mixers.  Pink might be a great color for marketing campaigns to raise money for breast cancer awareness.  And, for some, I even understand that it might signify a color of hope and survival. 

To me pink is soft and gentle. 

For me, breast cancer was never pink.  In fact, for me, using pink to symbolize the color of breast cancer awareness month is insulting.  A slap in the face.  Pink softens the danger of breast cancer.  Pink discredits the incredible strength needed to fight breast cancer -- even with excellent care and treatment.  And, pink puts "pink" colored glasses on a disease that is not rosy.

On my best days, breast cancer was never pink. 

I understand that the color red is taken by the American Heart Association.  And, that other colors might not be as uplifting.  Pink sells.  Would people buy maroon Kitchenaid mixers to support breast cancer?  Would Ralph Lauren promote a purple pony campaign?  Would people "Race for the Cure" wearing gray?  Probably not. 

For me, on most days, breast cancer was gray.  All shades of a very scary, exhausting gray.  Biopsies -- gray.  Fear -- gray.  Surgery -- gray.  Chemo fog -- gray.  Fear of recurrence -- gray.

Someday I might feel differently.  But, this year, this month, every time I see pink, it makes me angry.  Breast cancer is not soft.  Breast cancer is not gentle. 

Breast cancer is not pink. 

Moving forward,
with a new understanding that breast cancer
is not only personal but very political,
Barbara

It really was all about the HAIR

 Being Me . . . moving forward

It is really amazing to me how much of the cancer experience has been about my hair.  But, it really was.  11 out of my 41 CaringBridge entries were either all about hair or had a significant hair mention.  

More amazing to me, is how much "the hair" still seems to play a role in my life.  It takes some serious hair products to tame this hair as it is growing out.   And, even with all of the products and care, some mornings I wake up and feel like I'm looking less like Annie Lennox (I wish) and so much more like Jay Leno, maybe Lyle Lovett, maybe Don King.  Sigh.  

Ah, the hair . . . may she grow back quickly and slightly, just ever so slightly less gray.  

From the pages of the CaringBridge archives:

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Good hair day, bad hair day, no hair day, good wig day . . . It’s always about the hair. 

Surgery, chemotherapy, nausea, brain fog, radiation set up, tattoos, radiation (two sessions down, 26 to go) are all nothing compared to the “hair.”  Especially when you have cancer and a ten-year-old daughter, or you are a ten-year-old girl who has a mother who has cancer.  It really is all about the hair.

My hair is slowly starting to grow back in, and if I didn’t have a ten year old with long, beautiful brown hair, I would very soon be whipping this wig off as quickly as Julie Andrews did in Victor/Victoria (1982) when she played a woman playing a man playing a woman. 

The reality is that my hair is not entirely ready for the big public reveal.  It still looks a little Schindler’s List (1993).  E is horrified that I’m even considering going out of the house without one of the wigs.  I explain that it’s almost time for me to lose the wig.  It feels silly to put on a long, straight hair wig when I have an early stage pixie cut like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby (1968) growing in.  I explain that going wigless makes me a little (a lot) nervous too.  I explain that I’m not totally comfortable with the new hair look yet.  But, I explain that I’m more uncomfortable with the wig on.  The wig is beginning to feel a little bit like a disguise at this point.  It really feels like the right thing to do--soon.  So far, E’s not buying it.  She gets very quiet and a bit weepy whenever I bring up the “no wig” talk. 

School starts in our town on September 8th.  I’d love for my whole family to be comfortable with my new hair by then.  New beginnings . . . and all that. 

If not then, I finish radiation (and all cancer treatment) on October 1st (10-01-10).  I love that number, by the way.  So many ones balanced and standing alone, but with others.  There’s something very powerful in those collective ones--the sum of the whole being greater than its parts.  It seems so strong and symbolic of a year that I have experienced on my own but shared with so many.  So that might be a good day too.

For now, I’m not entirely sure when I’ll stop wearing the wig—or rather when I’ll start wearing my new hair.  But, I know that it will be a big day for E and for me.  I know that she’ll be nervous, and I’m sure that she’ll be a little angry.  But, I hope that she’ll also (someday) be a little proud.

moving forward,

with love and gratitude (and movie references),

Barbara

Thursday, August 26, 2010 9:52 PM, EDT 

thirtysomething 

This entry has little to do with my cancer or my cancer treatment (although, for the record, three radiation treatments down, 25 to go).  It’s actually a bit self-indulgent.  If you watched thirtysomething (1987-1991, Tuesday nights on ABC), you might appreciate it.  If not, you might want to pass.  Sorry.

I loved thirtysomething.  It ran the four years I was in college, and I loved it.   I loved watching the lives of Hope, Michael, Elliot, Nancy, Gary, Ellyn and Melissa every Tuesday.  I loved that they were ten years older than I was.  I loved that they over examined the minutiae of their lives.  I couldn’t wait to be thirty.  Marrying, working, not working, mothering, being friends, repairing friendships.  I loved the relationships—marriages, friendships, and the group dynamics. 

I (over) related to Hope, the non Jew, married to the dark haired, handsome, Jewish, Penn grad, Michael. 

I especially loved the episode when Hope and Michael work out their interfaith Christmas/Hanukkah dilemma.  They argue and disagree the whole episode.  But, in the end Hope lights a menorah with Janie, their daughter, as Michael watches through their front window as he holds a Christmas tree he just carried home in the snow.  I loved that interfaith couple and their daughter.  Art imitating life imitating art?

I loved how Hope’s struggle between working and staying home with their daughter played out.  I loved their leaky roof and all of their "real life" issues.  I loved watching Hope and Michael and their friends together—the community of friends who were their family. I loved the show so much that I bought the soundtrack CD--twice (just in case one broke). 

By now you know that music is always playing in my head, playing so loudly that it sometimes overflows to humming.  I used to hum songs from the soundtrack all of the time.  On happy days, the show's opening instrumental that ends with “and dance by the light of the moon” or Ellyn’s wedding song, Ray Charles’ “Come Rain or Come Shine.”  Or, on sad, rainy days, the music from Nancy’s cancer episodes.  I’m not kidding.  Cancer soundtracks in my head and humming on my lips.

Plot /life twist—I was supposed to be Hope—not Nancy.

Nancy was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in season three.

I remember an episode after Nancy was diagnosed, and she and Hope went  to an airport parking lot, and they laid on the hood of one of their cars.  Nancy and Hope yelled and cried and screamed together about how angry and sad and scared they were, and no one hears their screams.  The airplane engines drowned them out.  I don’t remember how Nancy talked to her children about her cancer, and I don’t remember a lot about her treatment.  I remember the screaming; I remember the fear; I remember her headscarves (it really is all about the hair); and I remember Nancy's cancer went into remission in season four.

Like Hope, I married a dark haired, handsome, Jewish, Penn grad.  We had a daughter.  Like Hope, I became a stay at home mom.  And then a few seasons /years later, we had a son.  Like Hope, I over examine the minutiae of my life.  Like Hope, I have great friends and friendships.  Plot/life twist—I got the cancer.  Stranger plot/life twist, the sad music that played during Nancy’s big character arc (and used to play in my head on sad days) didn’t play in my head this year.  Not even once.  

Funny how that happened. 

Looking forward (to my season four, I mean to fall),

With love and gratitude,

Barbara

Saturday, September 4, 2010 9:45 AM, EDT

Today is a big day for our family.  Actually, a big day for E and me.  Today I am wearing my own hair for the first time in a very long time.

I had a deal with E that I would wait until after Rosh Hoshanah to lose the wig.  But, I can't wait.  I'm done.  Today is the day.  And, E is angry.

I asked her what makes her so upset.  She told me that she is worried that her friends will say that my hair looks weird.  While I'm sure that this is part of what she's worried about,  I  also know that this hair thing is is related to many of her fears and anxieties about me and my cancer.  I don't think she thinks I look unhealthy, but I do look different.  And, when you're 10 (or 41) hair is a big deal.

You have all been so kind and supportive throughout this whole year--and so have your children.  I have an additional request.  If you think it is appropriate to discuss with you children, please mention to them that my hair is going to look different for a while.  And, E is very sensitive about the new look.  Maybe you can encourage them to be thoughtful about what they say or don't say to her.  Maybe nothing at all would be best.  I'm not sure.

Wow.  As I'm rereading this entry, it sounds super controlling.  In a year that I haven't had a lot control, I really am trying to control this.  I'm trying to protect Elizabeth.  My girl, my girl with the long brown hair. 

It really is all about the hair--for now. 

Wish me luck.

moving forward,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara

For the record,  J and A think my hair looks great.

And, if you're keeping track, nine radiation treatments down, 19 to go. . .

soon after the cranial reveal

Saturday, September 18, 2010 3:39 PM, EDT

Membership has its Privileges

Radiate.  Radiation.  Radiant. 

Radiation is the last third of my cancer treatment triathlon.  I chose to have my radiation treatment at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center satellite at Phelps Memorial Hospital in Sleepy Hollow. The treatments are everyday, Monday through Friday (not including Labor Day).  As much as I love the Sloan Spa, the trip in to the city everyday for 28 days would have been more exhausting than the actual treatments.  The treatments are quick. I'm in and out in 30 minutes on most days.  And, it turns out, the Sloan satellite is a pretty great place.  It's no Sloan Spa, but I really like my oncology radiologist, Dr. Borys Mychalchak, and his nurse, Debbie ( she happens to be a knitter). And, I've grown to like the receptionists too. 

There are parking spots reserved for the Sloan Kettering patients—see new photos. 

Membership (even in this club) has its privileges.  

Phelps is on the Hudson River.  The view is amazing.  Everyday as I drive up to the hospital, I am in awe of the beauty of that river.  A “Sloan with a View.”  

I remember the first time Jay and I went to the Sloan Kettering Breast Center in January to meet my breast surgeon.  I knew that I had cancer.  I knew it had spread to my lymph node. I knew that I would have surgery and chemotherapy.  

We got out of the cab, and I saw the building with the words--Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Breast Center. I was a person with cancer, and I was going to be a patient at Memorial Sloan Kettering.  It still takes me back. Cancer, really?  Sloan Kettering--that's where sick people go, that's where people with cancer go.  Cancer. I was a person with cancer getting out of a cab, walking into the Memorial Sloan Kettering Breast Center, meeting a breast surgeon. Like many of the milestones of this process, my memory of that day is super clear.  The building, the doorman, the elevator ride, the waiting room, my breast surgeon.  It was eight months ago, and it feels like yesterday. A lot of things in this whole journey have become “normal.”  The calendar full of appointments, the doctors, the nurses, the side effects.  But, every time I see the words Memorial Sloan Kettering, I'm taken back a little.

I am (still) a patient at MSKCC. And will be for a long time.

I have 10 radiation treatments to go. Then I will continue to have follow up appointments--every six months with my surgeon and my oncologist.  After a few years I graduate to the survivorship program. 

Survivorship.  

I am soon to begin my transition from patient to survivor.  

And, I’m ready. Very ready.

Moving forward,

with gratitude and love,

Barbara

Somewhere in the middle of all of the radiating and school starting, A had a birthday.  My boy who still kisses my head goodnight turned seven.  Happy birthday, baby.

Cheeseburger (cake) in Paradise

Saturday, September 18, 2010 3:51 PM, EDT

Ding Dong!  The Wig is Dead

 I stopped wearing my wigs two weeks ago.*  They still sit exactly where they were when I wasn’t wearing them.  One sits on a wig stand on my dresser.  The other two both hang on a short coat rack in my bedroom.  This week I realized I could put them away. 

 

It made perfect sense; they’ve done their jobs.  It’s time to put them away.  I picked up “Twiggy”—the wavy, more ceremonial wig from her stand, and I began to cry, really cry.  Crying in that completely flooded and overwhelmed way.  Overwhelmed by how much energy went into choosing that wig—finding the right wig place (should we go to Borough Park—the self proclaimed “wig capital of the world” or the wig place on the upper west side “where all the girls go?”).  Flooded by the anxiety of preparing my children (and me) for the wig and the nervousness of wearing the wig in public for the first time.  (Is it on straight?  Does it look “wiggy?"  How’s my hairline?).  Wig talk.  

Back in December, I had no idea what this journey would be like.  I had all the facts.  I knew I had cancer.  I would have surgery.  I would have chemotherapy.  And, I would lose my hair.  Looking at and holding the wigs made me so incredibly sad for the woman I was nine months ago who was so innocent, unknowing and afraid of what was ahead of me.  The big cancer treatment abyss.  I tried to take one day at a time.  But, I knew there would be so many days.  

I had the surgeries.  The chemotherapy is over.  The radiation is soon to be over, and I have hair my own hair.  I don’t need to wear the wigs.  I still think “Cancer, really?”**

It has been a long year.  And, I am tired.  I am.  I just am.  I am tired of cancer and cancer treatments.  And, I am tired of the treatments that have made me so tired.  I am ready to not be tired.  So very ready.  A friend and breast cancer survivor recently told me that I probably don’t even realize how tired I am.   A month from now when this is all over, she said, I’ll look back at September and think, “wow, I was really tired then.”  Guess what?  I am tired, and I really know it.  I am ready not to be tired.  

* Much to E’s credit, she quickly got over the big cranial reveal.  She has since been embarrassed and angry about other things that I have or haven’t done.  Ah, the mother and ten year old daughter dynamic.  How lucky I am that we made it through this year and that she will have many years to be embarrassed and angry about things I say or do or things I don’t say or do. 

I am looking forward to every minute of it.

** I still haven’t put the wigs away.

For those keeping track of Project Radiation, I have completed 18 treatments.  Ten to go.  And, by October 1st, I will be positively radiant. 

Moving forward,

With love and gratitude,

Barbara

Monday, September 27, 2010 9:07 PM, EDT

Family

I have a cousin who is generous and also a computer genius.  A great combination if you happen to be his cousin and are lacking in computer skills.  I am both.
We haven't seen each other in a long time.  Last time we were together, I was just getting used to wearing my wavy, more formal wig.  I was feeling uncomfortable and very self-conscious, and he managed to take a candid picture of me.  It turns out, one of the best pictures I have of me in the wig.  And, he emailed it to me.  I don't have many pictures of me in any of the wigs.  It was so interesting to see myself as others (or at least his camera lens) saw me.  And, it was good to see that the wig was on straight and that it didn't look "wiggy."
Anyway, my cousin came to our house yesterday to install a new computer for us.  Good bye PC; hello Mac.  Soon after he walked in, we were chatting, and I held up a picture of Annie Lennox (I have pictures of short haired celebrity women all over the house--Annie Lennox, Gennifer Goodwin, Maura Tierney*) and asked "what do you think about my new hair?  Very Annie Lennox, huh?"  And, he said without missing a beat "you know, I was going to say that, but I was thinking more Annie Lennox, The Bare Album."
My cousin, the photographer, the computer genius, made my week.  (And, for those of you keeping track, this is a big week.  T minus four days until the end of my radiation treatment).   
He made my week, not because I long to look like Annie Lennox--although I am a fan--and so is he.  He made my week, because I am really missing my old hair.  I'm doing my best to work with what I've got.  Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful that it grew back so quickly.  And, I'm thankful that my friends have been so kind and tell me often how great the super short, gray, straight hair looks.  One friend even went so far as to buy me new earrings to celebrate the new "do."  (Note to self, earrings are a great gift idea for anyone in my situation).  But, really, I miss my old hair. 
So yesterday, my cousin really made my night (and my week) by telling me that I looked like Annie Lennox (The Bare Album).
And, he also did me the most amazing favor of setting up our new computer with ease.  I'm telling you, he's a genius.

moving forward,
with much love and gratitude,
Barbara

*Maura Tierney, recently treated for breast cancer, is now starring in "The Whole Truth" on Wednesdays--ABC at 10 pm.

Sunday, October 3, 2010 11:18 PM, EDT

10-01-10
I finished my 28th radiation treatment on Friday. 
The marathon of cancer treatments is over!
Let the "well" visits begin.

moving on,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month--make your appointments and get your mammograms (and sonograms) ladies. 

Reconstruct and Restore

Being Me . . . moving forward

(Still CaringBridge entries--bear with me)

Visiting Day

Sunday, July 26, 2010

No references to celebrities (with or without breast cancer) or to the song that is currently playing in my head today--just a general update.

We just got back from visiting weekend with E. in Maine. She looks great (so tall), has a nice group of girls in her bunk, and seems to be having a great time--lots of girls laughing and singing at camp.  But, saying goodbye after a one day visit is really so hard.  Hardest on A.--he's always the first to cry, and then like M. family dominoes, we all start to cry.  Then E. (hopefully) goes off to fun evening activities, and I worry about how she is the rest of the night.

I strategically planned to have my reconstructive surgery after visiting day.  So tomorrow is the big day.  It's an outpatient procedure--so as soon as I'm feeling well enough to walk from the post-op bed to the recovery chair, they'll feed me a few graham crackers, offer me a cup of coffee, and they'll send me home.

While I'm not looking forward to the surgery, I'm not as nervous as I have been before all of the other surgeries--how's that for desensitization?  The woman who still passes out at the sight of blood (or the thought of the sight of blood) is not nervous about surgery-- curious.

And, honestly, reconstructive surgery sounds so much better than mastectomy.  Reconstructive sounds like when I'm done there will be a better, stronger, healthier me.  Reconstructive almost sounds restorative.  I will be restored.

It also sounds like the beginning of the end of this wild ride of 2010. 

(And, for the record, the song playing in my head is The Beatles, "Here Comes the Sun."  Andrew watched "The Bee Movie" on the way home from Maine.  And, somehow it fits).

Moving forward,
With love and gratitude,
Barbara

Monday, July 26, 2010

I'm home.
I'm tired.
I'm medicated ("I Wanna Be Sedated"--The Ramones).
And, I'm DONE!
(with surgery). 

The next phase is radiation--starting the end of August.

Thank you so much for all of your emails, snail mail and phone messages.  I am truly getting through "Cancer 2010" with the support and love of family and friends.  [And a whole lot of knitting (a great new project with my favorite yarn), lots of TV (hello again and again, Weeds DVD's; welcome back, Mad Men;  and my new favorite, Bethenny Getting Married?) and late night reading (currently, Cutting for Stone--next in queue, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet )]. 

moving forward,
with love and much gratitude,
Barbara

  

July 2010

In an earlier post I may have mentioned that reconstructive surgery sounded restorative to me.  I'll admit that was a great attitude to have the night before surgery.  But, the reality of my reconstructive surgery is that it was more construction than restoring.  More cutting and suturing; less namaste and savasana.  I had this image of coming out of surgery and feeling mentally and physically restored (and somehow restorative yoga factored into my image). 

I also had myself convinced that this surgery was simply a "swap."  Swap out the tissue expander (that's been in place since my mastectomy), and swap in the permanent implant.  I kept telling a friend "this procedure is not a big deal, just a swap, one foreign object out, one foreign object in." 

Good attitude.  Nice try. 

The exchange procedure (as it is called in the cancer business) is "simply a swap," a routine procedure for my surgeon.  And, I will ultimately feel and look restored.  But, the reality is that surgery is surgery.  And, recovering from a routine surgery is uncomfortable and exhausting.  And, I was uncomfortable and exhausted all last week.  Not even close to feeling restored.  And, since E. is away at camp, and A. is at day camp all day, I took full advantage of resting and sleeping and healing all week.  It's hard to know if I was as uncomfortable and exhausted following each of my other previous procedures.  I didn't have time for that much sleeping and resting with the others.  So last week was uncomfortable.  But, it was also a luxury to be able to rest and heal--and truly start to restore. 

I have my post-op visit with my surgeon tomorrow--and once my surgical drain is removed (sorry for the graphic detail, but drains are a big part of this whole process--so much so that I could (and still might) write an entire journal entry on the drains), I will really be up and about again.  Back to yoga and exercise (research indicates that 30 minutes of cardio a day is a key factor in the prevention of a breast cancer recurrence) and errands and packing for our family vacation.  E. comes home from Camp Walden on the 13th.  And, on the 14th we are driving to Quisisana, a family resort in Maine (30 minutes from Camp Walden), to spend a week together as a foursome. 

And, that, I know, will be restorative. 

Moving forward,
With love and gratitude,
Barbara

Quisisana (Italian)--"a place where one heals oneself"

Tuesday, August 10, 2010 6:41 PM, EDT

If I were writing a screenplay for a dark comedy about life with cancer--oh, what's that?  Showtime is already producing a dark comedy series on "The Big C" starring Laura Linney (premiering Monday night, following Weeds)?  Damn.  They must have a few writers who were "lucky" enough to have had the cancer experience years ahead of me.  Okay, so I'm a little late to the game.  But, really, it's genius.  Life with "The Big C" is often a dark comedy.

Anyway, if I were writing a screenplay based on life with cancer, I would include the hair loss, the wig(s), the doctors, chemo, surgery, drains and all of the usual cancer details and anecdotes.  But, I would also include eyebrow and eyelash loss.  Hair loss is easy to disguise--somewhat traumatic in the actual losing of the hair, but very easy in the disguising.  I get compliments on my straight wig everywhere I go.  I've even started telling people that it's a wig instead of just saying thank you.  I can't take credit for the seemingly keratin-treated straight hair anymore--it seems dishonest.

And, as it turns out, hair loss is even relatively easy to adapt to.  I've never covered my head when I'm home with my family.  In the beginning, E. needed me to "cover up"  with a hat if we were in the same room.  But, a few weeks in, even she got used to the "at home" look.  Right from the start, A. told me that he knew that E. didn't like seeing my bald head--but, he was "okay with it."  With him, he said, I could have a bald head "like when E. goes to art class."  In fact, in this wild year of cancer, my six year old boy with the big blue eyes has created a new bedtime routine.  Every night he kisses me good night--and then he insists on kissing my bald head.  My boy--I often wonder how much of this his six year old brain is taking in and how much he'll remember.

But, enough about the hair, the lack of hair and the hair substitutes.  The eyebrows and eyelashes--they are another story.  Mine held on for a long time, but four weeks after my last chemo treatment they really started falling out.  Yes, there are eyebrow pencils and fillers and stencils, and there are eyeliners to give the illusion of eyelashes.  But, when there are only three, maybe five, eye brow lashes hanging on--I do not have the skill or the interest in building a better brow.  I don't have it in me.  I have a great eyebrow support team, my aunt (a bc survivor) gave me all of the best tools--eyebrow brush, eyebrow definer color (in "soft brown"), eyebrow stencils and articles on the best way to create and shape an eyebrow.  She taught me how to "make an eyebrow" long before it was necessary.  Still, I can't do it.  I look like a clown--or at best one of the actresses from the '20's who painted on dramatic, better brows. 

E's one reference to cancer on visiting day at her camp was "your eyes look freaky."  Damn the eyebrows!  Funny, though, I thought my eyebrows were looking pretty good that day.  I had been resisting the urge to cry--just to preserve the few remaining eyelashes and bits of eyebrow--just for E. 

So I mentioned my inability to build a better eyebrow to my friend (who just finished her cancer treatment), and she told me to try Laura Mercier's brow powder instead of the brow definer.  Who knew there were so many options? 

So, this is what I know.  I hate this cancer.  I can make the best of it, and I can often make light of it.  I can put a smile on my face and get through every day and every treatment since I was diagnosed in December.  I can even pretend that I'm writing a screenplay (that someone has apparently already written) about life with "The Big C" (premiering Monday on Showtime, following "Weeds").  And, sometimes, I can even find the humor in it.  But, really, I hate the cancer that used to live in my body.

But, what I love is the sisterhood of breast cancer.  I love the aunt and the friend who made sure I had all of the best eyebrow tools to help me look like the best me.  I love the friend of the friend who lent me the aforementioned straight hair wig.  I love the woman I met at the radiologist's office yesterday who wished me luck on my first appointment.  I love the survivors in my town who check in on me to see how I'm doing.  So for the record, the cancer truly sucks--BUT the sisterhood of women who have had or currently have cancer is amazing. 

I got the eyebrow powder last week, and my eyebrows have started to grow back in.  I must say these eyebrows are not looking that "freaky" anymore.  Just in time, E. comes home on Friday.

moving forward,
with gratitude and love (and "eyebrows"),
Barbara

Who is that woman with the light eyebrows and the Brett Michael's hair?

Quisisana (Italian)--a place where one heals oneself

Summer 2010--we all really needed a little healing, and Quisisana (Center Lovell, Maine) did not disappoint.  It was the greatest week.  We were together.  We had a beautiful cottage on the lake.  The entertainment, staff and food were amazing, as always.  We all got to do a little hiking, a little reading, the kids did a lot of swimming, and BOTH E. and A. learned how to water ski.  

For one whole week we were just a family on vacation.  No one knew our cancer story.  No doctors, no procedures, no treatments.  We had a vacation from our real life for just one week. 

Thank you, Jane.  See you next year!

Water skiing on Lake Kezar