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.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, January 7, 2011
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'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!
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
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
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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