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
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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
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