Inquiring Minds Want To Know

After learning of my diagnosis with cancer, the first thing that many people wanted to know was how I found out. Was it a lump that I found during a self examination that landed me on the doorstep of my physician's office or was it during an annual routine screening? As women, we've been lectured from a young age to feel our ta-tas regularly to detect any lumps or abnormalities and given the technologies that are available today to spot breast cancer at such an early stage -- why was I diagnosed so late in the game? Well, in light of it being Breast Cancer Awareness Month -- I figured it would be appropriate to share with you how I discovered the lump...or I should say lumps...that forced me into the ring with the big "C".

The detection of the lump in my breast was not a recent discovery. That mass of uncontrolled cell proliferation had been hitching a ride on my right boob for over a decade. It started with tinges of pain that would run through my breast. Not all the time, but enough that it became noticeable. One day while showering, I felt a small, hard lump on the side of my breast. As I dried off, I frantically tried to think back to my middle school sex-ed classes on the proper way to administer a self exam. Although, it didn't matter if I was performing the exam correctly or not...the lump was easy to detect whether I was laying down, standing up or doing a handstand. Surprisingly, the discovery of that tiny mass didn't send me into a complete panic -- my reasoning, breast cancer is for old people, not thirty-somethings -- but it caused enough concern for me to make an appointment with my gynecologist to have it checked out.

Ah, yes, the visit to that Newport Beach gynecologist's office so many years ago...I can remember it like it was yesterday. My doctor had an odd bedside manner. First off, he was one of those annoying uptalkers, which was disturbing coming from a physician rather than a teenage girl..."My name is Dr. Uptalker? I'm like, totally going to feel you up right now to see what's going on, like for sure?" (okay, he didn't really say that - but in my mind, that's how it played out) The second peculiar behavior was that he asked and then answered his own questions. The prognosis went something like this:

   Doc: Do you have a lump in your breast?
   <pause>
   Doc: Yes.
   Doc: Are you a 30-something with breast cancer?
   <dramatic pause>
   Doc: Absolutely not. 
   Doc: Is this probably just a calcium deposit within the breast tissue?
   Doc: Yes.
   Doc: Should you follow-up with annual mammograms in your 40s?
   Doc: Absolutely.
   Me: Phew, that's great news. Now can I get my legs out of these
          stirrups?!  
   ***30 minutes had passed since a certain test and I still had my
       legs in those things (guys - you don't want to know; gals - you 
       know what I'm talking about)

Three kids and 10 years after that doctor's visit, the lump in my breast remained...and grew...and changed shape. Sure, I had doctors over the years question the mass during my pregnancies but they seemed satisfied with the findings offered by good ole' Dr. Uptalker - just a calcium deposit. I must give credit to the gynecologist who delivered my youngest child -- she went above and beyond the mere verbal suggestion from my other gynecologists to schedule a mammogram -- she actually wrote a referral. "No hurry," she said while handing me the prescription for a mammogram, "Once life settles down a bit with your newborn and two, young children  -- go have it done." Music to my ears...she wasn't too concerned over the lump in my breast, which at that point had definitely gotten bigger, so why should I be? She's the doctor, after all, not me. And so, life went on...while I waited for it to settle down a bit. Before I knew it, six years had passed and that prescription still wasn't fulfilled.

It was over the course of the nine months prior to my diagnosis, that I began to notice significant changes. The once mobile mass had adhered to the tissue surrounding my breast and was pulling in the skin around it causing it to pucker. What started out as mild discomfort to the affected area was now causing consistent pain. The words of advice to have annual mammograms in my 40's were spinning in my head...there I was 41 years old with a large mass in my breast that was causing noticeable alterations to my skin and I STILL had not been in to have it checked out. I tried to convince myself that the changes to my breast were attributed to getting older, just like some of my other 'no longer twenty year old' body parts -- even though my gut feelings were telling me something different.

Then, came that frightful day when I discovered the other lump...this time, not in my breast, but, in my armpit. Prior to detecting the second mass, I was blessed to have one of those after-Thanksgiving colds that always seems to come just in time for the hustle and bustle of the holidays. You know the one that I'm talking about --sore throat, fever, congestion...but this particular cold came with the additional benefit of an achy armpit. One early December morning, I was massaging my pits to try and ease the discomfort that I was experiencing when I felt it...the other lump. It was the discovery of that pea-sized mass that sufficiently freaked me out and had me on the phone with my doctor demanding a mammogram STAT. 

The rest of the story is history...one week after having the 4x4cm mass in my right breast x-rayed and biopsied -- I heard those dreadful words, "You have cancer." Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, Stage III, grade 2 -- to be exact.

I'm sure that some of you might be shaking your head as you read this post (even I cringed as I put my story to words). Why didn't I schedule a mammogram when I began to notice the changes? Well, the answer was simple -- there was no need to have that lump checked out. I already had the right diagnosis that was provided to me years ago by an uptalking doctor in Newport Beach who examined the mass and said,"Are you a thirty-something with breast cancer? Absolutely not." So why would it be necessary to have it checked out again? -- who cares that I was now a forty-something with a mass that tripled in size to the one that he examined a decade ago.

Here I am today, almost at the end of my treatment, and I'm going to let you in on a little secret -- all of those changes to the mass and skin around my breast in the months leading up to my diagnosis -- deep down inside of me, I always knew something was wrong. Truth is, I was scared -- actually terrified about the possibility of a life dealing with cancer. I remember asking myself time and time again, what if I was diagnosed? How the heck would I survive that? I have three kids - no time for cancer. I have a wonderful sex life with my hubby - no time for bald & boobless. The awful scenarios of life with cancer kept playing out in my mind but instead of having the mass checked out to put my mind at ease or validate what I was thinking...I chose to look the other way.

I've always taken comfort in knowing that God has a plan for me. Sure, I don't know exactly what that plan entails and I certainly have cursed Him many times for allowing cancer to be a part of it. But, being plagued with this insidious disease has allowed me the opportunity to use the power of words to share my story with you. Perhaps that was part of His plan, for me to not be afraid to put myself out there. By making myself vulnerable, maybe it might help one woman to not make the same mistake that I did -- ignore the signs of cancer.
 

What's In Your Closet?

Now that fall is right around the corner, I figured it was time to begin the seasonal task of rotating the clothes in my closet. As I began to clear the back shelves to make room for the Lilly Pulitzer summer tunics and Ralph Lauren swimsuit cover-ups that are no longer needed, I came across, what I can only think to refer to as, the "pink" section -- this is the section of my closet that contains everything a breast cancer-ridden gal needs in order to look her finest. As I thumbed through the stacks of clothing graffitied with pink ribbons and catchy phrases such as "Save the ta-tas," I was transported back nine months. I teared up as I thought about the grueling details of the emotional and physical hurdles I've jumped since those pink items were hastily stored behind my cashmere sweaters months ago. I think Jerry Garcia said it best, "What a long, strange trip it's been." 

I thought back to the beginning of this long, strange trip when I first heard the words, "you have cancer." I was blown away by the outpouring of love and support that everyone was so eager to give. Along with offerings of prayers for healing and strength came beautiful gifts -- journals, scarves, books, t-shirts and more. As my closet began to fill with pink items, so did my hopes that adorable shirts with kick-ass phrases like "Fighting Like A Girl" printed on them were going to carry me through this battle. I mean, what more motivation does a girl need in order to kick cancer's butt than dressing herself head to toe in her team's colors? -- it certainly worked at the pep rallies that I attended back in school. So off I went, with credit card in hand, hitting all the breast cancer websites. 

You name it, I bought it -- from North Face fleece jackets to Swarovski crystal bracelets to Nike cross trainers. Before long, my closet became something similar to a "white out" at Beaver Stadium (only in this case -- a "pink-out") which was about the time when I thought, "How are a pair of anklet socks with pink ribbons on them going to give me the strength to get through 16 rounds of chemotherapy? or a pair of yoga pants blinged up with boxing gloves on the hip going to provide comfort when the last hair falls from my head?" The answer was simple -- they're not. There I was outfitted to be the mascot for team breast cancer -- only how do you rally behind a team that, not only forces you to join but, wants to destroy you? I certainly don't remember attending those try-outs. Suddenly, I loathed pink...especially for the reason why it had taken over my wardrobe.

The ONLY redeeming feature of being forced to join team cancer...

...the cheerleaders were pretty darn cute!

I remember feeling nauseous -- not from the sight of the brightly-colored fleece jackets that were now lining my closet wall but from the constant, nagging reminder that came along with wearing them - that I was now plagued with the insidious disease that everyone dreads: cancer. I quickly gathered all of those "pink" items and relocated them to the back of the closet, replacing my shelves and drawers with all of the black sweaters, shirts and turtlenecks that I could get my hands on...by the time that I was done there wasn't a trace of pink in sight. And it was there, buried in the dark shadows of my closet, where those items with promises of "Kicking Cancer's Ass" on them have remained since I stumbled upon them the other day.

Some women measure their path to healing in terms of days, others by the number of inches that their hair as grown, but for me, my road to recovery can be measured simply by walking into my closet. The cancerware essentials that I relied upon so heavily during my treatment have now been put back in their proper places -- like my husband's leisure shirts used for post-op recovery after my mastectomy or the zip up hoodies that I wore religiously for easy access to my port during chemotherapy. Other necessities have been rotated entirely out of my closet -- like the bandanas and scarves that were used to cover-up my bald noggin when my wig wasn't in use. 
Speaking of the wig...

...it's official -- Chemo Dora has been relieved of her wig stand duties.

What...
You didn't think that I was going to let Dora keep her long tresses as my hair was falling out, did you??? 
Ha, ha

Yep, my closet is pretty much back to looking like any other healthy woman's closet -- shelves stacked high with autumn-colored wool sweaters and shoe racks overcrowded with sheepskin and 3-inch heeled boots. Man, does it feels great to have my 'old' closet back. And, I think it goes without saying but I'll say it anyway -- all of the attributes that I needed in order to get through this battle weren't hidden in a pair of pink sweatpants. The strength and courage needed to get me though this arduous journey already existed inside of me...they just hadn't been called upon in quite some time. 

So, while this long, strange trip isn't over yet, it's nearing the end (just a mere 30 rounds of radiation and I can, fingers and toes crossed, put this whole cancer thing behind me). I'm excited to see what items will take center stage in my closet this cancer-free season. Don't be surprised if you see me sporting one of those kick-ass cancer items that I discovered the other day. I will now wear those shirts, jackets and hats proudly -- not for the hopes of gathering strength from wearing them, but for what those pink-ribboned items represent -- the hope that my daughters, my daughters' daughters, mother, sisters, nieces, cousins and girlfriends will never have to travel down this road...the anticipation for the day when the cure is no longer a "hope" but a reality.

 Woo-hoo, no more wig!

Pump Up The Volume!

Here we go, c'mon

do it 

do it

do it

pump up the volume

pump up the volume

pump up the volume

dance

dance

Recently, I read an article that discussed intriguing scientific evidence: listening to music improves your blood oxygen capacity and is a performance enhancement. After watching Olympian swimmer, Michael Phelps, with his medal winning, world record setting, performances at Beijing and London -- I'm definitely a believer. 

Then it occurred to me that perhaps music is the performance booster that I need, not to set the world record in the 100m butterfly, but, to handle the 100cc's of saline injected into my breast every week. I'm not generally a fan of late 80's house music...but, without a doubt, my motivational song would have to be Pump Up The Volume by M/A/R/R/S.

While under the knife, my plastic surgeon positioned a tissue expander beneath the muscles of my chest wall. The purpose of the expander is to stretch the breast skin and chest wall muscles in order to make room for the permanent breast implant. 

Most days, I think the purpose of the expander is to make you feel like you have a turtle hibernating in your chest (well, my daughter always wanted one for a pet...but instead of the usual tank aquarium that most pet owners would purchase for its home, ours is residing under my reconstructed breast). Anyway, the incision from my mastectomy has healed and it's now time to pump that bad boy up. So every week, I go to see Laura, the nurse at Johns Hopkins Breast Center, to have a large syringe filled with salt water injected into my turtle shell, I mean, tissue expander until we get to the desired cup size...or until the skin looks like it's being "compromised" (i.e. like it's going to pop) -- whichever one comes first.

put the needle on the record (oops, I mean 'in the expander')

put the needle in the expander

put the needle in the expander

put the needle in the expander

put the needle in the expander

when the song beats goes like this 

pump up the volume

pump up the volume 

breathe breathe

 

Let me tell you, as alluring as this whole process may sound -- I mean, what's not appealing about having your breasts uplifted? -- it's painful. I'm talking muscle relaxers and narcotics needed to relieve the pain kind of painful. My niece said to me when I was first diagnosed, "Boobs are such an annoying part of the body anyway." You're not kidding. Even more annoying than the usual pre-mastectomy breast inconveniences, such as trying to keep those unsightly bra straps tucked inconspicuously inside of your sleeveless dress, is the removal and then reconstruction of them. Phew, the things that I'm willing to go through in order to salvage next year's swimsuit season.

 While I was lying down after the first expansion visit and the second round of pain meds were finally kicking in, I cursed myself for not giving further consideration to the prosthetic breast forms -- just pop them into your post-mastectomy pocket bra and go. Although, that option would not work for this beach-loving gal. I can see the scene now: I'm leaving the beach with my three kids and instead of the usual flip flop or broken clam shell falling victim to the sand, something of greater importance dropping...my boob. Then, the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching with the person shouting, "Excuse me, Ma'am. Wait!" I turn to see what the ruckus is all about when I notice the man approaching me. His face reddens from embarrassment as he extends his hand out to reveal the silicone breast form, "Um, you dropped this." Yikes -- no thank you. I'll stick to the permanent solution. So bring on the muscle relaxers and crank up the music...

pump up the volume

pump up the volume

brothers and sisters

pump that baby

  

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall Who Is The Unfairest Of Them All?

It's been three weeks since my visit to the O.R. and, I'm not going to lie, the road to recovery has been a lot bumpier than I had anticipated. Let's just say that the combination of my oncological surgeon having to perform an "aggressive" mastectomy followed by my plastic surgeon having to do some clever "manipulating" in order to implant the turtle shell, I mean, tissue expander under my reconstructed breast doesn't make for a great combination. But, no surprise there, the removal of any body part, essential or not, is going to cause aches and pains. That's what pain medications are for...lots and lots of really good pain medications. Although, it wasn't the physical pain that was causing the set back in my recovery, it was the mental anguish. Which, unfortunately, there is no amount of Dilaudid to ease that kind of pain.

A few days after surgery, I was getting out of the shower when I caught a glimpse of the woman looking back at me through the foggy bathroom mirror. I wiped the condensation to get a better look and...

...AAAAAHHHHH!!!! Who is that woman who snuck into my bathroom and overtook my reflection? Sure, we speak the same, have the same brown eyes and the same freckle on the tip of our nose but the person staring back at me is certainly no one that I know.

The first thing that came to mind was the famous question from the classic fairy tale, Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs. Only this time the question wasn't being asked to seek the answer to who is the fairest of them all, but the unfairest.

Mirror, mirror on the wall who is the unfairest of them all?
"Thou, O Lisa, art the unfairest of them all."

No kidding. And, unfair is being generous more like hideous. I couldn't take my eyes off of the image staring back at me. For a brief moment, I tried to take comfort in the words that have always provided ease during one of cancer's perilous blows, "It's only temporary." Only this time, that wasn't the case...that boob is never growing back. I could feel my eyes starting to well with tears. I thought to myself, "Keep it together. Whatever you do, do not cry. Do NOT...." Too late I could no longer hold back the tears as I grabbed my chest certain that my stitches were going to burst open from my sobbing.

I know what you must be thinking, pathetic, right? After all the miseries that I have withstood these past months and this is what brings me to my knees -- vanity. I don't know if it was the shock of the railroad track incision that replaced the spot where my right breast once resided or the exhaustion of dismissing the mental strife that I was experiencing from the procedure but the words of warning from my plastic surgeon no longer provided comfort in the reality of the moment -- "Just remember, don't freak out after surgery. Reconstruction is a process that will take place over the course of several months - you have to be patient." Well, my patience had run out and I was definitely freaking.

After a few more minutes of crying and cursing God for allowing this insidious disease to take one more thing from me, I finally lifted myself off the floor, dried off and manipulated my way into one of my husband's shirts...loose garments are key to post-op recovery.

Later that evening when my husband got home from work, he handed me a package that came in the mail from one of my dearest friends. Here is the little gem that was inside:

Amen to that. Here I am breaking down like a beauty pageant contestant who lost her chance of winning the crown due to tripping on stage in her six inch heels sending her falsies and hair piece flying into the face of one of the judges. Well, this latest physical change to my body has nothing to do with winning a beauty pageant, and everything to do with ridding my body of a serious disease. A disease that is looking to claim more than just a breast...a disease that is looking to claim my life. Go ahead, take my breast -- it's a small sacrifice to make for the gift that I get in return, my beautiful life with my beautiful husband and children.

One week after the melt down, I was brushing my teeth when my eyes lingered on the woman looking back at me in the mirror. Instead of noting the usual pre-cancer criticisms, like it's time to slather some Olay Regenerist on those small creases gathering in the center of my forehead or pull out one of the Crest Whitestrips to brighten that dull smile, I made just one observation - "Lisa, you are beautiful." Sure, I'm not waiting for a call from Disney begging to cast me as one of their "fairest" princesses. But, for the first time, in a long, long time, I like -- no, love -- the woman looking back at me. Not because of the brows and lashes that have finally started to fill in but for the beauty that radiates from within. The beauty that comes from knowing that from this point forward a healthier woman continues to emerge. Wounded? Sure. But no longer sick. I told you, cancer, that you didn't stand a chance.

Order Up!

As I prepare for surgery, I can't help but feel like I've just pulled up to the drive-thru at a fast food restaurant. Only the choices on this menu are quite different than the usual artery choking options that you find on those big illuminated boards.

"Welcome to Surgery King. May I take your order?"

Me: "I'll take the #2: Lumpectomy with a side order of a few removed lymph nodes."

"Oh, sorry ma'am, that item is no longer available."

Well, no real surprise there, a lumpectomy was taken off the menu months ago due to the grade of the tumor and stage of the cancer -- but, it was worth a try. Not to worry, there are still plenty of available options to choose from. Immediate or delayed reconstruction? Implants or your own tissue? Tummy (TRAM flap) or back (latissimus dorsi flap) tissue to rebuild? Perhaps some of the newer types of flap procedures...DIEP, GAP or TUG? Whoa, slow down...I'm still trying to figure out if I want "fries with that." Silicone or saline implants? Whopper or double whopper?...oops, I mean...single or bilateral mastectomy? The choice to the last question IS a whopper (no, a double whopper) of a decision -- not to be made lightly. The choice will ultimately decide the following: a) needless additional surgery now; b) having to go through this all again years later; or, c) none of the above.

To make the decision even harder, I'm not ordering from the high-risk menu. Meaning: there is no family history of breast cancer or existence of those notorious BRCA 1 or BRCA 2 cancer genes -- just to name some of the risk factors -- which would make the decision for the bilateral mastectomy a no-brainer. My doctor said, "How a woman makes the choice of having a single or bilateral mastectomy is a gray area." No kidding... also I don't do well with "gray" areas. I'm a numbers kind of gal. Give me the cold hard facts. Will I cut the odds of cancer returning by 10% if I have a double mastectomy? 5%? 1%? C'mon doc, I'm young, have a husband and three kids to consider -- give me a number. Hell, tell me that there's a 0.5% chance that I don't have to go down this road again and I'm sold...take the second boob.

Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way -- there are no guarantees when it comes to cancer. I knew, no matter how hard I pushed, my doctor wasn't going to and, for that matter, wasn't able to commit to any of the percentages that I was throwing around. There are no assurances that removing my healthy breast will avoid any further matches in the ring with the big 'C'. So, there you are left in that gray area forced to make a major decision that you hope, at the end of the day, will allow you to sleep at night.

Obviously, it would be a lot simpler if I knew what caused my cancer -- just cut out those unhealthy foods and/or life style choices and move on. But, of course, nothing is easy with cancer. Who knows what I can attribute mine to...the more than occasional glass of wine that has passed over these lips? a decline in exercise over the years? the consumption of one too much prime rib? or maybe it was a smorgasboard of them all? Or perhaps it was just a case of:

Whatever the cause(s), the long term and permanent choice to hack off a healthy breast doesn't seem like a choice that should be determined by a person who questions her short term decisions minutes after they are made -- like ordering the quarter pounder as the option least likely to have me crouched over with indigestion hours later...which, by the way, I should have went with the chicken sandwich. But, thanks to my husband, after much discussion, we were able to come to a decision that I feel is right for me.

"Would you like that order super-sized?" Hmmm, now that's an interesting question. Years ago, a friend of mine said to me, "Lisa, if you had boobs (referring to the kind that spill out of a plunging neckline) you would be dangerous!" Here I am decades later and those words are spinning around in my mind. After four and a half months of chemo, the stronger woman who has emerged may not be feeling dangerous but definitely a bit spunkier. Maybe I should go with the triple Ds:

One day at chemo, a nurse overheard me joking around with a friend about monstrosities like these that I was threatening to get. "Oh Lisa," she cried, "You would topple over!"

Ouch!

Ha, ha - yes, she's probably right. Plus, I can see the disapproving look on my plastic surgeon's face now. No, this isn't the route for me...but it's fun to think about nonetheless.


And, I'm not going for the happy meal either...

I have outgrown the child-sized portions and toys that come along in those boxes.

*I couldn't resist including the Hello Kitty training bra as a shout out to my youngest who loves everything about this cat -- not sure if she's going to be humored by the tribute years from now. ;)

Yep, let's just say, when this is all said and done, I will be left with a set of jugs, that as my blog name suggests, are "uplifted". And, more importantly, ones that are, fingers and toes crossed...cancer-free.

After a bunch of scheduling problems, the wait is finally over. I have a date with the O.R. to put the decisions that I have made into action. At long last, the person behind the headsets is instructing me to pull up to the next window...

Order up!

  

Cancer you don't stand a chance....

Humor vs. Humorous

The other day I called to check up on a friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer a few months back and is having a pretty rough time handling the physical and mental side effects of chemotherapy. She recently downed her third round of chemical cocktails so I asked her how she was holding up. She paused before answering and then broke down into tears and blurted out, "I can't do it anymore! I try to joke about being bald or laugh about the absence of my left breast. But, the bottom line is that I don't find anything humorous about cancer. How do you do it?"

Whoa, hold the horses! Who said anything about finding cancer humorous? Let's be clear, there is nothing, I repeat, nothing humorous about cancer. Cancer sucks - plain and simple. And while there is nothing humorous about it, I certainly rely on my humor to help get me through this battle. This may sound contradictory -- but there is a huge difference between finding something humorous and drawing on one's humor to help get them through a difficult situation. Let me explain...

A few weeks ago, I was sitting by the pool when I saw that some fresh ivy vines were beginning to creep beneath the siding of the house. "Ugh," I thought to myself, "it's time to rip those vines out again." Because if left untended, those vines become destructive and will smother neighboring flowers and plants, suffocate shrubbery and trees, spread under the siding of your home and coil around your electric meters and telephone boxes. So I spent a good part of the morning yanking and shearing those out-of-control vines to prevent the other residents of the garden bed from being evicted. And that's when it hit me--cancer is just like those neglected ivy vines.

You see, cancer not only takes over the physical part of your body but it weaves its way into the mental part as well and, just like those vines coiling around the branches of your azalea bush, it can suffocate you if left untended. So I use mental garden shears, otherwise known as humor, to keep cancer's destructive vines under control.

Now before you start brushing up on your stand-up comedy routine, let's be clear -- I'm not suggesting that one of those "so a priest, a rabbi and cancer walk into a bar" jokes is going to lift you up when you've been knocked down by one of cancer's perilous blows. And the fact that I joke about the perkier set of ta-tas that I'll get when this battle is over doesn't mean that I take the mastectomy in my near future lightly. I would gladly hold onto these size 34As if it meant not having to enter the ring with the big 'C'. I have learned to laugh at the temporary miseries that cancer has thrown my way because I refuse to let it weave its noxious vines through my brain. I mean, it's not like you get any time off for serious behavior, otherwise those bald jokes would be thrown right out the window.

According to the American Cancer Society, a woman in the United States is diagnosed with breast cancer every three minutes. Every 13 minutes a woman in America dies of breast cancer. And that's just breast cancer...the numbers are astounding when you include all the other types of cancers. {Pretty funny stuff, huh? I don't know about you, but I'm not laughing} In the short amount of time since I heard those words "you have cancer," seven girlfriends of mine have been diagnosed with cancer and three have lost loved ones to this insidious disease. Yep, I think we can all agree that:
(1.)

(2.) There is absolutely nothing humorous about it.

But, I will continue to find humor in the exaggerated sighs of relief that my kids let out when I stub my toe and discover that everything is still intact (Taxol wreaks havoc on your nails...thankfully it hasn't claimed one yet) or how my "Beckham" hairdo has now become the most rubbed head in the household (oh, how soft those new hairs on my noggin are) because I refuse to allow cancer to suffocate my spirit, drown out my laughter and overtake my life with its misery.

Cancer you don't stand a chance...

Time To Put Away The Germ-X

For the past five months, these bottles of 99.99% germ killing power have fashioned their way throughout our home. They have replaced Pottery Barns vases and flea market knickknacks on side tables, been camouflaged behind picture frames, been placed on night stands and sink counters. Pretty much anywhere in the house where an unexpected sneeze or cough could leave little hands (or big ones) stranded with a hot mess of germs...you could find a bottle for it within a 3 step radius. I even considered performing some minor surgeries on the kids favorite stuffed animals to stash a trial-sized bottle for those midnight cough attacks....a bit extreme, I know and in case you are wondering whether or not I actually did it - let's just say that no stuffed critters were harmed during the 'degermification' process.

At long last, it's time to reclaim my decorating accessories and put away the Germ-X bottles. The fear of landing a night in the ER from catching a common cold or stomach bug no longer remains...16 rounds of chemical cocktails downed and this girl is done with chemotherapy.

June 21, 2012

It's a date that has been etched into my brain since the very first chemical cocktail - my last day of chemotherapy (yet I didn't dare write it down on the calendar). In the words of Michael Scott from The Office, "I'm not superstitious, but I am a little stitious." I wasn't willing to jinx the date by marking up my calendars with that monumental event. There were too many opportunities for things to go wrong, a feisty liver acting up or those germ-fighting cells not bouncing back to a treatable level. Oh no, regardless of how silly my superstitions may have been, I was not going to take the risk of scribbling those 4 little words "Last Day of Chemo" on my calendar. Any delay to that highlighted occasion would be too crushing.

It wasn't until three weeks before my last chemical cocktail that the calendars were not only marked but doodled, highlighted and starred. At that point, I invested too much time and suffered through too many cocktails for any delays. I determined that, short of not having a pulse, nothing was going to keep me from this chair:

Let me tell you, on that faithful morning it felt like my superstitions were being validated...we were running 25 minutes late by the time that we finally got on the road to Hopkins, my husband missed the exit to the hospital and I had an infection developing under my fingernail....appropriately located on my middle finger.

But, despite cancer's lame attempts, my date with that chair was kept. And thankfully just like the previous 15 rounds...it went down uneventfully.

Good to the last drop

Last bag in and that's a wrap, folks. This part of my treatment is done...over...complete...finito! I think it goes without saying how relieved I am to be getting off this emotionally straining and physically exhausting roller coaster ride. 

So, what will I miss most about chemo?
 Hmmm...uhhhh...let me think...give me a second...oh right -
ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!

 Well, that's not entirely true.

 Admittedly, 

there is something...

 that I might miss

 just a little

bit...

...the blanket oven.

Hands down one of the best inventions EVER! Totally was trying to figure out a way to get that bad boy out of the hospital without being noticed.

But, in all seriousness, I do have to give a shout out to these amazing ladies. Can't imagine a more caring and compassionate group of women that I would rather be "stuck" by...they made this difficult part of the journey a heck of a lot easier:

A big, heart-felt thanks to Debbie, Fran, Linda, Colleen & Kelly (not in pic) for all that you do for your patients!

Of course, I can't even imagine getting into the ring without the love and support of my husband and these 3 monkeys cheering me on along the way: 

Alex expressing his thoughts on cancer

 And it's because of them that there's no way I'm coming out of the ring without a KO under my belt. Some day, years from now, when they're all grown, I hope they realize how much they were in large part the reason behind my fight.

And so, this chapter in "The Battle With The Big C" has come to an end...hopefully, never to be revisited. Next up, surgery. But, before that happens, I'm going to need some time to allow the white cells to bounce back. In the meantime, I will continue to replace those Germ-X bottles with vases of freshly picked flowers and enjoy this time with family and friends.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Lisa has left the building. Thank you and goodnight."

Cancer, you don't stand a chance...