Welcome

Welcome to the blog that saved my life. Kind of. Finding the humor in my breast cancer experience certainly made a huge difference.

The easiest way to navigate my posts is to follow the menu on the lower right hand side of the page (also known as "blog archive") from bottom up. OR, if you are only interested in the breast cancer content, you can begin with my Breast Cancer FAQ page and move forward in time from there. 


Wishing you good health and laughter. And thanks for visiting.

The SNL Skit You Won't See Tomorrow

I often wonder how my life might have turned out had I not received such a crushing rejection at the age of ten when I sent off my first skit idea to Saturday Night Live.

Forget that crap Carol Gilligan writes about girls' confidence automatically taking a nosedive shortly after that age....I'll tell you what caused my nosedive: this rejection. This FORM rejection. Ann Beats - would it have killed you to at least put a little note of encouragement in there?  Writer and teacher friends - you know what I'm talking about, right? A  little "Came close, but no cigar" - or "This wasn't quite for us but we really like the phallic take on the noses...?"  Anything for all this hard work?
(and yes, Ms. Beats - I'm spelling your name wrong on purpose, just as you spelled mine wrong on the envelope.)

I know what you're probably thinking now, readers: So NO ONE ever scooped up this genius idea? Seriously? 
That's right folks. I gave up after that first rejection, joined a Jewish girl gang led by an Irish Catholic chick and became a mean girl, and this little gem has sat in an envelope collecting dust for the past 36 years. So if you're in show biz and you're interested in creating an Amazon series or a podcast about the trials of life for a family with big noses, let's talk. 

Remembering and Wondering about my Mother

I had a mother once.

She’s been gone for 12 years, and sometimes I forget what it’s actually like to have a mother. To have someone (if you’re lucky) who cares about everything you do. I mean every single stupid thing that happens to you. Who will care for you without question when you’re sick. And continue loving you even when you’re, regretfully, a bitch.

There are times, many I bet, that my mother didn’t like me. She once called me the "black sheep" of her three daughters. But I always felt she loved me. Truth is, I remained a selfish “adolescent” daughter for a long time. I was 32 when she died, and our relationship remained similar to when I was 16…meaning I still showed little interest, patience or appreciation toward my mother. She died before I got married, although was alive long enough to see me get engaged and to look through one wedding magazine with me. She died before I had children, which is the biggest loss, for everyone. For my boys because I witnessed how much she loved her other grandchildren. 

For my mom because she would have adored Ethan and Jonas. 

And for me, because as a mother myself,  I now get it. I get her, and how she felt about me. And with that knowledge, maybe our relationship would have been different.

I think of my mom, whose name was Carol, more frequently these days. And not just because of Mother’s Day. But because of cancer.  For one, with my new shorter hair, I look more like my mother. When my sister recently posted old photos of my mom, Facebook tried to tag them as me. 

We also finished treatment in the same season. My was mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in the fall of 2001, right around the time of the terrorist attacks.  She was 68. That November, she had a hysterectomy. I remember sitting in her hospital room while she was recovering. I remember her saying “I want to be a little old lady one day,” and me reassuring her,“You will, mom."

She did her chemo treatments through the winter, and was pronounced “in remission” that spring, in May I believe. It didn't last long. She died on August 26.

I’m pretty sure I’m not on the same trajectory as my mom; But it’s hard not to think about this similarity. She felt safe, and then she wasn’t. She wanted to volunteer and help other ovarian cancer patients, but she wouldn’t.

I think about this, but I don’t dwell on it.

The thing that bothers me the most right now, however, is how little I knew my mother. I mean as a person. Who was she really? What was she was like as a child? Or growing up? Or as a young adult who went to Israel, the Promised Land, and met the man who would later become my father?

my mother as a child

on her wedding day

Maybe this desire to know more about her is happening now because I’ve reached (gasp!) middle age. Or because I just had a brush with my own mortality and I wonder: what will my children remember about me? Will they care who I was, other than just their mother, when I’m no longer around? 

So, after seeing my friend Betsy’s wonderful tribute to her first husband Joe, I am stealing her idea. She asked people to tell their favorite stories about Joe, and it was just such a lovely and funny and powerful way to bring him and his memory “to life” again, that I wanted to do it too.

I’d like to invite any of you who knew her, who remember her to share a word, or a funny story, or something about her that I might not have known, something that happened before I was born, or after but was too young to know (Kevin, feel free to make something up).

I’lll start with this:

She was kind. 

That is the first word that comes to mind, the one I added to this cool Mother’s Day Cloud.

She loved Billy Joel.

And Engelbert Humperdink.

And the Mets.

She once got pulled over for speeding with me sitting in the front seat of the car. I was maybe 7,  but it was like the wild west in the 1970s, B.C. (before carseats). I was holding the frog bulletin board she had just purchased for me and  she begged me to cry so she wouldn't get a ticket, but I couldn't do it. I tried this with my kids a couple of years ago and they couldn't do it either.

When I was in my twenties and a friend of mine (whom my mother had never met) had surgery, she delivered a gift, a stuffed animal, to the woman’s hospital room. For some reason I always loved this story. Maybe because it was a stuffed animal, but also that she went out of her way for someone she didn't even know. And she did it because I asked. Thanks, mom.

Eva, my father's mother

One of my great grandmothers (on my father side). Name unknown.

Grandma Yedda (sp?) My mother's mom

I Had a Port Once

An Ode to My Port 

Oh port oh port oh port
Our time together was short
but imPORT
(ant)
you saved my veins
and caused few pains
but now it's time to abort.


Bye bye....

It's February 1st! Happy New Year!

I started writing this blog at 5pm on December 31, 2013. In my adolescence,  I'd sit on my bed at this hour with a  clunky Sony boom box and listen attentively for my favorite songs of the year to come on the radio so I could make the ultimate mix tape (raise your hand if you did this too). Now thanks to MP3's and iTunes, I no longer have to waste my time listening for Chaka Khan and Brian Adams. I can write blogs instead (although if you must know, my favorite song of last year was a tie between Another One Bites the Dust by Queen and Basketball by Kurtis Blow, which means I'm officially middle aged and out of touch w/ today's music).

Trying to sum up 2013 for me is like trying to boil eggs with no water. It's like trying to tie your shoe while someone's tickling you. Or perhaps, more simply, it's like trying to play chess if you're me. It cannot be done. At least not yet. So instead, I'll just offer up this unoriginal but fitting sentiment: "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times."

If you require  more specificity, I give you my 2013 Best of Times "mix tape" of sorts.  What follows are my top 10  moments/events from last year in chronological order:

• Waking up from surgery on February 12th and looking at my Facebook page. You guys know who you are, and you rock. I was blown away by the number of people who checked in on me and offered prayers and positive thoughts, and who wrapped me in my moldy green pig -in-a blanket of luv. I think all that luv had something to do with my fast and nearly pain-free recovery. I felt similarly supported and cared for when I posted  my very first I Had a Boob Once entry. I could barely sleep for fear of the reactions of putting myself "out there." I was still working for Lahey Clinic at the time and thought I might lose my job for talking about my boobs and my childhood glue sniffing habit but instead, the Human Resources Director emailed me about how much she loved the blog (and she's close to 70 I think...). So I felt much better. Then I left my job anyway to spread the gospel of family dinners, but I digress.

• Having my head shaved.  I've already written about this in detail, if you want to review. Oh what a relief it was....

• The Mother's Day Red Sox game.  I seriously wasn't expecting to enjoy that game as much as I did. Ben got us great seats and It was a beautiful day and despite feeling a little "off" from chemo and the kids getting really whiny by the 4th inning and getting in a near fist fight in the eighth, I had an awesome time. And I'd never been a baseball or a Red Sox fan. Now I am.  Red Sox games were a close second to Will Ferrell movies as the best entertainment during my crummy chemo days. 

• Listening to my kids talk about baseball. Another fabulous yet free and simple form of entertainment this year. Mostly it was Ethan, the 7-year-year old "expert" trying to teach Jonas, the rookie. Here's what was overheard as the boys watched baseball this year:

Jonas: If we’re voting for them, we clap.

Jonas: Big Papi’s really good. He’s hit a lot of home runs.

Ethan: Actually he’s not that good.

Jonas:  What number was Babe Ruth?

Ethan:  50. (real answer: 3)

Jonas: Is Justin Pedroia dead?

Ethan: Yep. (real answer: uh, no. And his name is Dustin).

Ethan: "Yoshi" Berra was an MVP for both the American and National Leagues.

• Finishing Chemotherapy. 

• The Vermont College of Fine Arts writing conference. In 2012 I passed on this conference, citing guilty feelings about leaving my family and money as the reasons. Last year, shortly after learning of my cancer diagnosis, I emailed Ellen, the conference director, and said, 'sign me up.' I went away  for one week in August and had an amazing, soul-enriching time and I met some incredible people! (you know who you are if you are reading this). That conference gave me something to look forward to during treatment - But the real thing was even better. 

• Our one trip to the Beach this summer. In Gloucester and despite the $45 parking ticket.  

• Similarly, this one day with my family and my friend Jeanna at the lake house. 

• Finishing Radiation.

• The Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. I never wrote about this, but in October, our friend Sara walked in my honor in New York (her mother had also been a breast cancer survivor).  It's touching and also very strange to have someone walk for you when you're still alive (i can't really comment on what's it like when you're not). What is an  honoree supposed to do, exactly? We  went down to New York and met Sara and her family at the finish line. Her father, who I had never met before, gave me a great big hug. He'd read my blog, so he knew I was neurotic. Listening to the survivor stories, I cried. Quietly, behind my sunglasses  I heard variations of my own story. Those stories and the incredible number and diversity of people at the walk made me feel part of something much bigger than myself...even if I didn't want to be part of it. There was no getting out of it. I was now a life-long club member. And I found some comfort there.

What I realized most looking while back at the last year is how things or events that I'd taken for granted before or may have been just a blip in my mix tape the previous year, stood out the most. A trip to the beach and standing in the water up to my waist. A baseball game with ice cream. A boat ride with family and friends on a beautiful day. Just feeling good. It would be nice to hold onto that appreciation in 2014 (although not nice to have to go through treatment again to do so...). 

Wishing you all a healthy and happy new year (and hope your January was lovely). xo

The Winner of the 2nd Annual Never Announced I Had a Boob Once contest! (and a hair update)

I know what you're saying.
What contest?

I apologize that I never announced this one. I planned to have a 2nd annual contest. I've had this book The Stench of Honolulu by Jack Handey of Saturday Night Live  fame sitting on my desk for months. Remember his "Deep Thoughts" series? Here's one I live by:

"The first thing was, I learned to forgive myself. Then, I told myself, "Go ahead and do whatever you want, it's okay by me."

(BTW, this is where you can just skip to the hair update if you're really not interested in anything else I have to say)

My friend Martha (the very same Martha who bought me the Anchorman DVD I gave as a prize in the first annual I Had a Boob Once contest because I already owned it) gifted me this book after I'd already bought it on my Kindle. And here was the crazy thing, folks: she bought it on the very same day that I bought it on my kindle! Wowee, right? 
And when Amazon sent it to me, they sent it without a gift card, which could be Amazon's fault or it could be Martha's ...I'm just sayin Martha. So when I got it, I was very confused. I called Amazon and they were of no help. Together,the dumb person at Amazon and I surmised that Amazon had accidentally sent me the book twice, once virtually and once hard copy, so I should send the hard copy back.
Fortunately, I am a lazy person and the book continued to sit on my desk for a couple of weeks until I actually talked with Martha and she asked, "Did you ever get the Jack Handey book I sent you?" and then we laughed until we cried and it was the best moment I'd had since the  Star Wars original release in 1977 (there's no fact checker here so don't get on my case about the date).

So, I finally decided to have contest #2 to give away this gripping adventure tale for the ages, which includes prose passages that make you go hmmm, such as this one:


I pretended to be perfectly relaxed and even interested in what Doctor Ponzari was saying. Then I threw my drink in his face. He screamed in pain as I ran to the door. It was locked. Desperately I fumbled at the latch, until finally I got it open. "This is the stupidest party I've ever been to!" I shouted as I ran out into the night. 

But then, instead of having an actual contest because as I stated earlier I'm lazy, I decided to just give this book away to my my friend and loyal commenter, Kevin!!!!! 

I decided Kevin deserved this honor: a) because he commented on every post I wrote through my treatment AND always made me laugh (if you haven't read his comments I urge you to go back and read every one of them right now because they are better than my blogs and I know you are looking for something to do), and b) his mind works similar to that of Jack Handey with a little bit of Lucille Ball or Liza Minelli rolled in...take your pick.

So let's all congratulate and celebrate Kevin today!! Here he is in action when I met him back in the eighties. Go Kevin!

If you have any special words you'd like to share with him, please put them in the comments.


And now, finally, what you've really been waiting for: a hair update (did I mention that this whole hair growing back thing is very awkward?) Now i'm entering the heat miser phase:

Happy birthday to me.

A year ago today, my phone rang.

A woman on the other end said , " Can you come back in this Thursday, just so we can take some more pictures? Don't worry about it, though. It's probably nothing." 

I hung up the phone slightly rattled, as I'd never received a call back after a mammogram before. Still, one tends to go with what one has already experienced. And the majority of my health scares (except for a little white pimple on my nose that wouldn't go away and turned out to be a basal cell carcinoma) had turned out to be nothing. At 1pm, I picked my boys up from an early release day at school and took them to the movies, where we documented the moment in a photo booth. I definitely remember feeling a little spooked at the theater. Still,  I really had no concept of awaited me just around the corner.

Yesterday I dug back into an old journal to see if I had written about this time. Here's what I found:

"One week and the world has done a sort of tilt on me. A simple test, a mammogram, the day before my birthday. Well, who planned that, you might ask. I did. Bad plan. Bad, bad plan. On my birthday, I got a call. Calcifications, she said. "Probably nothing but want to take more pictures." On Thursday, I'm back in the one-sized fits all pink robe that barely covers my upper body nakedness, waiting in a room with a bunch of strangers, my comrades in their matching pink robes watching a TV show called "Steve." Steve is  wearing tall, springy shoes on his feet - some sort of new fitness device. Another man is also wearing these strange shoes and is bouncing around rhythmically in them, doing something akin to aerobics on steroids. They are jumping , laughing, looking ridiculous, when a woman calls my name.

I follow her into the mammography room. I stand before the machine and the nurse begins contorting my boobs and arms into all sort of unnatural positions, like a Gumby toy. When we're done, I thank the woman (what I am thanking her for? I think. But it's automatic). 

I'm back out in the waiting room now. Even though it's just been a few minutes, some of the faces have changed. New soldiers in the ranks. This time I don't watch TV. This time I dig through the bounty of outdated magazines on the table for something recent and find the October issue of Vogue. Other women get called and disappear behind the door. For some, it's judgement day; others will never even remember being here. A blip.

A woman I remember seeing and smiling at during the Steve show comes back from the abyss and takes a seat again in the waiting room. She's my soul mate for the moment, the two of us waiting for the radiologist to read our results while others simply come and go, onto the next thing on their to-do list today. The door, the gateway, opens again. A nurse calls my soul mate, who stands up and walks toward her. 

"You can get dressed and go," the nurse says. The woman smiles, then escapes. 

For some reason, this makes me think the odds are not in my favor. She got off, so I won't. I text my husband, "This waiting is getting to me. " I try to watch TV again. And then I'm called. The nurse does not say "You can go now." Instead I pass through the gateway into the first circle of hell--a small, sparsely furnished room that smells like antiseptic where I'm left to wait. Shit.

The radiologist appears with a young a man, a medical student. I know the radiologist. Her name is Betsy. She looks a little bit like Big Bird. I'd interviewed her before, many years ago, for the newsletter when I was still a Lahey rookie. She tells me about the findings, microcalcifications that look suspicious. Could be a sign of early cancer. Or not. She explains about the biopsy. How it's done

I ask lots of questions.

"We've got a journalist here," Betsy jokes to the medical student. He's still smiling. I wonder what he's thinking.

                                                                      

This is where the entry ends. Fast forward through biopsies, genetic testing, MRIs. It's before my surgery and I'm sitting in a room with a doctor at Lahey who is telling me what I might expect moving forward. Surgery. Chemo. Radiation. Maybe Herceptin.

It's just a year of your life, she says.

And so here I sit, one year later.  I'm somewhere between who I was in that movie theater a year ago, and who I want to be. Mostly I'm stunned how quickly a year can pass.

My friend Rachel used to joke with me when I complained about my birthday, about getting older: "It's better than the alternative."  A sentiment that has never felt more true.

Yet how does one celebrate such a momentous birthday? I'm not really sure, but I think I'm going to stretch it out for a while. It may involve a massage, a new wardrobe, Anchorman 2, and a 2nd annual I had a Boob Once contest. I'll keep you posted. It will involve starting Tamoxifen,

When I was 11, I wrote my father a b'day card with a poem, or rather rhyme, inside. 

"51 and still having fun," it read.

I must have been very proud of that card to still remember it all these years later. So, leveraging that complex rhyming structure, I write myself a similar "card" today:

"45 and still alive."

Hooyah.

Wow. What now?

Wow.
I'm speechless. Almost...






Remember this anxious person?
I can't believe I'm now on the other side of all this.Today I finished the last of the three big hurdles:
Surgery. Chemo. Radiation.
To celebrate, I hoped to post a video clip of Will Ferrell in the beginning of Kicking and Screaming. He's got big hair circa 1970 and wears a thick sweatband and short shorts. He's jumping over these hurdles and he's knocking every one of them down, but he charges on, however awkward and idiotic he looks, which I thought was a good metaphor for my experience.

But since I couldn't find that clip, I'm posting this other gripping excerpt from the same movie. (It reminds me of my husband on a bad day in Starbucks ).

So what now? I'm told that people tend to have a hard time after treatment...that the feeling is like walking off the side of a cliff and free falling. A friend who'd had that experience sent me the book After Breast Cancer by Hester Hill Schnipper (fun name to say five times fast). Looks good, but haven't read it yet because I'm not totally done. I still have a mini-hurdle called Herceptin to finish. Herceptin isn't a bad deal, however. Herceptin has no side effects. Herceptin is like a heat seeking missile targeting those bad ass HER2 positive cancer cells (thanks to my 7 year old for helping me think of my treatments in weaponry and video game terms).

Herceptin is also a major breakthrough, and hopefully works well. Herceptin means I remain safe in the womb a little bit longer, going to Oncology every three weeks, which to be honest, is kind of nice. Particularly if my treatments are on Thursdays, when Lauren* the massage therapist is there to rub my feet. Last time I also met Ginger*, a 60-something-looking volunteer manning the beverage cart.  She struck up a conversation with me, asking me about my family, my cancer, my work. I told her I was a writer and she seemed genuinely interested. She asked me what I'd written, if and where I'd been published, and  I wasn't hating talking about any of this, ya know what I mean writer friends?  I told her I had nine more radiation treatments to go, but I'd be back here, to Oncology, for a good few months. She said, "Well, I'll be here. I'm 83..." (this is where I cut her off, saying, "No way Ginger! You look 20 years younger!") and I have all sorts of aches and pains, but I'm healthy. I come here to volunteer, but also to keep things in perspective."
Yeah, me too.
*Names are made up not to protect the innocent but because I'm still working on my name remembering skills...she did look like Ginger from Gilligan's Island, however

This morning, when my nurse handed me my radiation discharge papers, she offered me the same survivor poem that she gave me the day of the breakdown/breakthrough. I reminded her that I already had one
 "Maybe you want another for your car?" She asked.
"One's good," I said.
With or without a poem, I know things are different now. But I fear anything I write right now
about how I've changed and what I've learned thus far will make me sound like a cliche. Like the skin around my right breast, everything is still so raw (ick. sorry.). And as any writer worth her own salt knows, best not to poke around in there too much when the experience is still so very fresh.

But one thing I will say is this: I'm high on life today. I love everybody and everything. The squirrels in my backyard: I love you guys! The slow drivers on route 3: I love you too! My family and friends and old ladies on the street, and the color of the leaves, and the lady who sold me my muffin this morning (although she was kind of gloomy but I love her anyway). I love the radiator in my living room, the person who invented hydrocortisone cream, and my shoes.

I'm so very joyful that someone really needs to smack me.
xo

A Layperson's Guide to Radiation (featuring partial nudie photo!)

Although I've had many people ask me in person 'what is radiation actually like?' I have to yet write about it any sort of detail beyond my radiation "breakthrough."

Thankfully, only 4 more days remain...and Wednesday was my last day of whole boob radiation.* The next few  days they will target only my surgical scar in a process called a boost, and the rest of my skin will be spared (although I'm told my skin will continue to disintegrate for about five to ten days, as the effects are cumulative). I'm very thankful that the whole boob radiation part is over because my skin is pretty fried right now, particularly the skin under my right armpit, which is the color of your worst sunburn minus any pleasant day at the beach beforehand. I'm tempted to walk around with my right arm up in the air at all times but then people might keep calling on me for answers and I'd never get any work done.

*whole boob radiation is NOT the technical term.

So before these days are completely behind me (yay!) I've put together this Layperson's Guide for anyone needing breast radiation. As for them other body parts, ask your doctor:

• When you arrive stamp your parking ticket first, and do it correctly. This is important because otherwise you will get stuck at the parking gate trying to get out and looking like an idiot.
• Then change into your rose-pink, thankfully easy-to tie-gown (some of those hospital gowns are a bitch!). Say sorry every time the changing room door slams shut behind you  because it's very loud and everyone in the waiting area will turn around and look at you.
• Join those in the waiting room watching The Queen Latifah show. Say a quick "Good Morning" to anyone you make eye contact with. Talk to the woman sitting next to you about her horrible hot flashes and feel thankful you do not yet have hot flashes. Overhear the conversation a few chairs over between the young man escorting his elderly father (who reminds you of your own father) and a middle-aged woman. Hear the young man say, "Yes, I bring him here every day. It's hard, but he was a really good father to me..." and feel thankful, again, for good human beings.
• When your name is called, walk with the technician down to the radiation room. Enter the darkened room and witness a machine that resembles a cross between some sort of CT scan machine, and the table aliens place you on when you are abducted. Have the technician ask you to lie down on the "couch" and stare at the metal "couch" in front of you thinking "that ain't no f'ing couch."  

Couch.

Not a couch (and not me)

• Do what you're told. Lie down on the "couch". Slip your right arm out of your  robe to let it all hang out. Lie back and put your arms up above your head. Keep your head turned toward the left.
• Surrender as the technicians move the couch around with a remote control and write on your chest and boob with a permanent marker. Listen as they speak in numbers: 92, 75, 23, (Hike!) Wonder why they became radiation technicians. Was it because they loved science? Or math? Or  writing on bodies with permanent marker? Or football? Debate asking them, but don't so you can get out of here faster.
• When the machine is ready and they leave the room, try to imagine you are lying on the beach. Then notice the image in the ceiling panel above you is of an icy looking mountain. This is the scene you will see every day for six and a half weeks. Ask them to turn off the overhead fan and wish you had gotten the  room with the beach view instead.

  

  Brrrr....

• Listen for the beeping noise that tells you radiation is about to begin. Notice the red laser light across the wall and ceiling and across your boob. Think of Dr. Evil and how you'd like to watch Austin Powers again some time. Listen for the buzzing noise to start, and then maybe 30 or seconds or so later, go off. 

• After two "treatments" like this, prepare mentally for the bolus. The first time they mention that they will put a "bolus" on your boob to protect the skin, recall your 10th grade science teacher Mrs. Lobdell and imagine they are going to put a mass of chewed up food on your body.
  
  Feel thankful when they pull out a sheet of fake skin with the consistency of one of those Boo Boo Buddy ice packs. Gasp when they put it on your body as it's soooo cold. Accept their apologies and check with them every appointment thereafter to make sure they wrap it in a warm blanket before placing on your skin. They do. (actually, not all breast cancer patients get the bolus. I  grew to like it. Found it soothing on the skin....)
• After two zaps with the bolus on (did I mention that you really don't feel anything during radiation - except arm fatigue some days), wait for the last buzz to announce the end of your session and then put your arms down. Wait for the technicians to come back in and lower "the couch" and then discreetly pull your gown back up over your right arm and around your body. Thank the technicians and say "see you tomorrow." Wish you could better remember their names. Try to look at the blonde woman's name tag but it's turned the other way. It's been six weeks. You should know the names of these good people. Note to yourself to try again tomorrow. Note to get better at remembering names, period.
• Go home and smear Gene's Cream or Aquaphor or hydrocortisone cream over your damaged skin. The next morning, remember to wash the permanent marker off or they will think you don't shower (some days, you don't). Try not to accidentally shave your right armpit. I did it once while in a trance, didn't die, but bad idea as it increases your risk of infection. Put deodorant on your left armpit, corn starch on the right, but be very careful with the corn starch! It can explode all over your bathroom and cleaning it up is a bitch. Put on your comfy clothes, including the fashionable Genie Bra you bought at Bed, Bath and Beyond (Sorry, no more underwire ladies...and toward the end you will likely be wearing no bra), a cotton t-shirt and a baseball cap and go do it all over again the next day, and the next, and the next, until it's over.

And yes, my friends, it will be over. Sooner than you think.

p.s.

I wrote this post before I went to my first boosting appointment yesterday. The technicians went crazy drawing football plays on my skin. I finally asked them, So what brings one to this line of work? Were you math or science people in high school? Or into football? (They thought my football joke was funny - then showed me a whole notebook of drawings that looked like football plays, now to include my own ) Anyway, the overall response was physics, which I got a D in senior year in high school (my only D ever might I add), which means I'll never be a radiation tech. But I'm extremely thankful they exist.

Football Play

My Skin. (I think I'm onto something here...)

Just my 19th nervous breakdown (Via an open letter)

An open letter to the student driver who was in front of me on Wednesday:

Dear Student Driver,

Yes, I wanted to kill you. You were in front of me on the way to my radiation appointment. Perhaps you remember? That was me, tailgating your nervous novice ass. You were going anywhere from 10 to 15 miles per hour, and I was in a rush to get to my radiation appointment, running late again. Of course, it wasn't your fault what happened. You were just doing your best, so I apologize for running you off the road (thank you for finally pulling over. That was a smart driving move on your part! ).

The things is, I'm losing my mind right  now. Until recently, I was the woman who, like the cocky little engine that could, would take on a lot. Even if my plate was full, I'd say Bring it On! to one more freelance writing job, or social engagement, or volunteer commitment. And this worked, sort of,  up until this past Wednesday, when my little engine finally crashed and burned.
It happened in the nurse's office, after my 13th radiation appointment out of 33 1/2.
Oh what a nice radiation nurse I have! She's so kind and attentive it makes me a little bit uncomfortable, but that's better than the opposite, don't you agree student driver?
She said, "How are you doing?" and I started to tear up just a little and then she said, "Can I hug you?" and in my mind I was shouting "NO NO NO!" (see Blanket of Luv entry to understand my intimacy threshold), but I said, OK and she hugged me and I was a puddle.
"What going on?" She asked.

"I'm completely overwhelmed," I managed to get out, between sobs."I can't manage my life anymore. I can't get my work done, and get here on time every day and  take care of the kids. I have no time to work out, or take care of myself. I can't remember things like I used to; I completely spaced on an important work call this morning  and didn't even think to look at my calendar. I tried to break into my neighbors car recently while she was in there,  and on my way here, I ran a woman off the road (that's you!). I think I'm falling apart."

My nice nurse explained that this happens to a lot of high-functioning women who do radiation after chemo. "You're overwhelmed and you're also likely experiencing some symptoms of chemo brain right now but you're still trying to do everything you could do before. You need to find ways to compensate."

I nodded. Yep. I'd heard this before from my dear friend Dr. Robin, a radiation oncologist. In those 3 weeks between my chemo treatments, Robin and I took many walks together. She'd told me about the high-functioning women she saw in her practice who fell apart mentally during radiation because they continued to work at full speed ahead through their entire breast cancer treatment. I remember thinking then, "That won't happen to me. I only work part time. I am not an idiot like those women!"
Turns out, I am totally that idiot.
I work a demanding part-time job on top of my already demanding full time job as a parent, not to mention other things like mentor and teach creative writing students.  Do you have kids and a job, student driver? Let's say you do. Now imagine losing your multi-tasking mojo. You'd be feeling frustrated and aggressive too, possibly enough to run someone off the road, maybe?

Anyway, the nurse and I talked about ways I could compensate for my losses, such as writing things down, which I do anyway, but writing things down everywhere on sticky notes so if I forget to look at what I've written down it's right there in front of my face. We talked about the importance of taking daily walks to clear my head  and not sitting down to work at my computer first thing in the morning (which i'm doing right now. Bad Amy). We talked about asking for help, again. We also changed my radiation appointment time to 9am every day instead of 11:30am, so I would have the rest of the morning and early afternoon without interruption until I had to pick my kids up from school.
Then she said, "I want to get something for you," and left the room. She returned with a little laminated card in her hand.
 "I want to read you a poem,"  she said.
In my mind I again shouted, "NO! NO! Please NO!" but my always-so-polite head nodded "OK cool," and she read me a poem called "I am a Cancer Survivor" and I wanted to barf. I didn't know how to respond so I said, " Oh, Wow."
Then she handed the poem to me. I didn't want it, but I put in my pocket and brought it home with me. One line reads, "And although I may get down and worried at times, I forge ahead each day and take better care of myself." That's the part I've gotta remember; the part I would underline if the card wasn't friggin laminated. Oh, and I suppose the part about being a breast cancer survivor is important, too. But right now I still feel more a cancer patient than a survivor. And I'm not sure I'm mentally ready to belong to the breast cancer survivor club - although I've apparently already paid the dues.

Are you still with me, student driver? Because there's just a little more. After the nurse finished her job of triggering my nervous breakdown, I heard the sound of high heels coming down the radiation hallway and I knew what that meant: my doc had arrived! My radiation oncologist is brilliant and barbie-doll beautiful, always dressed and coiffed to the nines, which can be a bit hard on a cancer patient who comes in sweats and whose hair currently looks like Curly's from the Three Stooges, but I digress.

My radiation oncologist

Curly

Me

She examined my boob and then mentioned that the nurse had filled her in on my cognitive difficulties. "Can you give me an example of one of these time you felt very confused?" So I shared with her the story of trying to break into my neighbor's car with my neighbor in it. How in some sort of mental fog I didn't recognize the car as my neighbor's car and convinced myself it was my friend's car from which I was going to retrieve a diaper bag, and that I had accidentally turned on said car with the keys in my hand (all of this seems ridiculous to me now), and I went so far as to try to put the key in the lock without noticing that my neighbor was in there, talking on her cell phone.
It's a funny story, really, kind of, or so I previously thought.
"Well, we could do a brain scan just to rule out anything serious going on up there." she said.
Yikes. I shook my head. "No more scans please."
I told her I'd rather just see how I do with the positive changes I was about to implement. She agreed and I left feeling a little bit lighter than when I'd arrived (although I was now slightly worried about a brain tumor...)

Anyway, thanks for reading all this, student driver. I do believe in karma and I think your brief presence in my life last Wednesday was a sign for me-- you were trying to tell me to slow down. I get it now. You are a wise, wise woman.

P.S. One request: please, if you can avoid driving on route 3 from Arlington to Burlington between the hours of 8am and 9am on Mondays through Friday mornings, that would be awesome. Many thanks in advance!