Dear Right Implant.

Dear Right Implant,

This is a tough letter to write.  We have been through so much.  For 18 months, you have lived at my side, sort of.  I have treated like you my own.  But the time comes when a gal has to know when to cut her losses and call it a day. I think you and I are there.

I suppose I could take some responsibility for the demise of our relationship.  I stood when I was supposed to be laying, did a little lifting on the side, and watched HGTV when I sensed  you were more of an MTV implant.  But Right Implant, you should know that you are really quite needy.

When you fell from your perch, so to speak, I bumped you back up. When you exposed yourself to the outside air, we covered you.  Twice.  When you decided to start internally bleeding on my San Diego vacation, we made you our first priority.  When you broke out in hives, I ate Bendaryl like candy even though it made me walk into things. And last but not least, when you decided my own skin was not adequate for your needs, we offered you the skin of a perfectly lovely cadaver.

Now, really, Right Implant, I think I have done my fair share to make you comfortable.  (I hate to compare, but Left Implant didn’t need a Welcome Wagon basket to feel at home.)  And now, after 18 months, you decide to thank me with an infection.  A raging bacteria infestation that is causing your home’s temperature to rise and ache, and frankly, makes you look ugly and distorted. It’s not a good look, my friend.

Well, you’ve cut off your nose to spite your face.  This is it.  Adios Right Implant, I have had enough.  You just can’t make some implants happy.

Becca

Narinda.

Hi Readers. I took a small break from my own blog. I am sore, sore, sore, but so far, Hannibal the Cadaver Skin seems to be taking to me.

This time, my mom came into town to help.  She came out, woke up at 5am with my son, took him to school, took him to therapy, and played and played and played.  My child Never Sits Still.  Thus, neither did she.  While I laid in bed, watching 100 hours of Say Yes to the Dress, my mom took care of my life.

I have a list that is entirely too long of friends who don’t have their moms because of cancer.  This hit home when I got my friend, Narinda’s, email.  I sort of took it for granted that my mom would leave lovely San Diego and come to Hot as Hell Phoenix to help me.  I do not take it for granted any more.  Thanks Mom.

Narinda’s Email:

I was going to e-mail you earlier about your blog, I truly love reading it.  Sometimes it brings me to tears.  Cancer is near-and-dear to my heart too.  My mom passed away in January from lung cancer.  While I know you blog about breast cancer, cancer in any form is devastating to families.  So I relate to so much of what you say.  My mom was diagnosed with lung cancer on December 8, 2010 and she passed on January 9, 2011.  She only lived with it for one month (actually she probably lived with it much longer but she didn’t know) but it was an excruciating painful month.  It’s still hard to come to terms with what happened.  One month is not long enough to prepare for the news and one month is not long enough to attempt to heal and one month is not long enough to say goodbye.  So I read your blog and think about my mom and then cry.  Then I keep reading and laugh… happy tears.

Narinda and her family got one month.  ONE MONTH.  How do say everything you need to say in a month? How does your mom pass along a lifetime of memories about you to her new grandson in a month? How do you sort through and cherish your life experiences in a month? How do you digest that an integral, a necessary, part of your family will be gone in a month?

You do not.  Cancer steals people.  It steals families.  It steals memories and lifetimes, and it can do so in a month.

I am walking for Narinda.  And for her mom, who deserved so much more than a month.

The Pitbull by Teammate Susan Karber.

Another guest blogger!  Uber-Teamate Susan (read about Susan here, paragraph 2), with her Massachusetts accent, is subtle – something I long to master.  She is rarely the center of attention, is soft-spoken and supporting. Frankly, I thought she was too nice to hang with me. But then…you get to know her…and Susan is freaking hysterical.  Her subtle wit creeps up on you. I love that kind of unexpected humor. And here she is, poking a little fun at someone I like to call ME.

SUSAN’s TURN

You know that song..”Whatever Lola Wants…Lola Gets?”

Let’s just say Rebecca reminds me a lot of Lola.  She needs a Guest Blogger.  Well, then, that’s what Lola, um, Rebecca, gets.  Not because she is a taker, but because she is a giver.  She deserves to rest that body of hers, read books and eat Entenmann’s Glazed Donut Holes until her body catches up with her amazing generous spirit.  I have titled my Post : The Pit Bull.  For those of you who know her, you already know where I am going with this…

The Pitbull

Shortly after I signed up and became a member of Team Hope Chest, Rebecca suggested we meet at a nearby coffee house to toss around fundraising idea.  As walkers, we are each required to raise (gulp) $2300.00.  So, after dropping off our kiddos at pre-school, Shannon, Rebecca, and I headed to the Coffee Grind to come up with a game plan.

Let me just say I knew Rebecca as one of the fun mom’s at school.  I adored her son.  My sons adored her.  We were Facebook friends, but I didn’t really KNOW Rebecca until I sat across from her at a coffee house latte in hand.   In the span of 30 minutes, she talked about raffles and trunk shows;  t-shirts , jewelry, and purses.  She had commitments and sponsorships lined up. I heard of amazing businesses like Flipped Bird, Dos Fannies, Poor Little Rich Girl, Jewel Ya, Blair B Designs (just to name a few) who had already agreed to support our  walk. She had calls into different aspects of the media.  There was talk of a Facebook page and a blog.  If all this didn’t leave me feeling slightly inebriated, she leans in, looks from me to Shannon and says, “Oh yeah, one other thing” pauses for effect…”Thriller.”

“Thriller?” we both questioned.

“Thriller!   Think of it …A Flash Mob to Thriller during the walk!  We’ll learn the moves, teach our kids, and  break out our dance routine on Day 2.  It will be great!”

I’m not sure if it was me or Shannon who squeaked out a “Really?’

As she continued to talk an image began to form in my mind.  As it took hold, I blurted out, “Has anyone ever told you that you remind them of a pit bull?” (famous for locking it’s jaw and not letting go)

Unfazed, she said, “Yes, once in court opposing counsel referred to me as ‘the pint-sized pitbull.’”

I nodded my head slowly and let the realization seep in that not only was I training for a 60 mile walk, but I also needed to learn the dance moves to Thriller.

Me & My Treadmill by Teammate Holly.

Hi Team Hope Chest Readers.  I have to pretend that my right arm is broken, per my doctor’s orders, and I’m not sure I would be able to type with a broken arm.  Even though I am doing so now.  So guest blogger time!  First up is Teammate Holly, who we call 0-0-1 around here. Like 007, but way better.  6 spots better, to be exact.

xoxo

Becca

HOLLY’s TURN:

Our Team Captain asked for volunteers to guest blog.  Apparently, her blogging has interfered with her healing process after her second reconstructive surgery and she is under the knife again today, for the third or fourth time – she has had so many surgeries I cannot even keep track.  So here I am.

Shannon, one of our teammates, requested a blog on treadmill motivation.  I am far from an expert in this field, but some days it is just easier than others.  Sometimes it is easy, when my hot boyfriend also wants to go to the gym and I RUN, not walk, on the treadmill, because even though he is on the other side of the gym, I feel like he is watching me, and I don’t want to look like the total wuss that I really am.  So I run.  And I don’t get off the treadmill until he comes over to me because he is ready to leave.  That works.  So, while I am not suggesting you married ladies go find a boyfriend as a gym partner, the buddy system works.  A partner in crime makes you accountable.

Today, I woke up motivated, well not quite.  First, I watched last night’s Bachelorette.  And now it is after 10:30 and I still have not made it to the gym, but I am dressed for the gym and ready to go and I WILL GO today, even without my gym partner/BF, who is otherwise occupied today.  Why?  Well, for one, Rebecca, whose boobs tried to kill her, is getting a dead person’s skin put into her body today.  So, I can’t drive my fat ass and blubbery belly to the gym and make nice with the treadmill for an hour?  At least I have that option.

Another, Maya, Rockstar Ronan’s mom.  I read her blog last night.  She refers to cancer as a F*%kwad.  Love that word.  Hate cancer.  In whatever form it takes, be it in adults or children, in the boobies or the organs, or whatever, it sucks ass no matter what.  How can we make it stop?  We can walk 60 miles.  And if it means I have to train to be able to complete 60 miles.  So be it.

Last but not least, it’s for Juicy.  My mom.  Also a rockstar.  Cancer killed her.  It, in a way, has killed me.  But, I still have to get up every day and keep on living, which is much easier said than done some days.  I try like hell to focus on the good, on what I can do to help stop this stupid F#$kwad of a disease.  I can walk 60 miles, but not without training.  And on that note, it’s off to the gym.

Holly

A pic of Holly’s mama.  We miss you, Juicy.  

Skin. Eeek.

Ah Peeps. Guess what??  Back under the kuh-nee-fay. (Get it? Knife?) And here’s the best part.  My surgeon is using EFFING CADAVER SKIN. Oh My Lort, as Jana used to say.

Or as my brother, Andy, said just this evening… “It puts the lotion on its skinnnn.”  Barf.

As a tribute to my brother, I have decided to name my new cadaver skin Hannibal.  When I do something stupid, I will blame Hannibal.  For example, trip and fall?  Oh Hannibal, stop screwing with my equilibrium.  Drink too much? Hannibal, you moron, you know I don’t like tequila.

But Really.

I am pretty grossed out by this.  In the spirit of denial, the American Way, I am watching The 40-Year Old Virgin, drinking a little iced tea (no beer for me this surgery eve – that didn’t work out so well last time), and trying very, very, VERY hard not to think about the person whose skin I will incorporate tomorrow.

Eeesh.

WORSE THINGS THAN CADAVER SKIN:

- Bedbugs.

- Having to hang out with that weird guy on My Strange Addiction who is “married” to a doll.  Creeper.

- Clowns.

- Being allergic to Mexican food.

- Cancer.

See ya on the flip side.  Again.

Becca

Closing the Gap.

I’m $1388 away from Sandra Sutter, the #10 fundraiser!  I’ve closed the gap by a few hundred bucks.  Saweet!  I wonder if Sandra Sutter googles her name and sees that I’m ranting about catching up to the fundraising machine that she is. That would be awkward.

Sandra has walked the 3-Day FOUR TIMES.  Hmm.  I think I will wish that Sandra Sutter moves up to #9, and I bump out someone who isn’t quite as nice.  I think I might like this Sandra Sutter.  I wonder if she wants to dance Thriller?  I’ll ask.

Speaking of….THRILLER FLASH MOB.  Do you people think I’m kidding? C’mon, picture it, Day 2, tired, sore, with nothing but the thought of another day of walking, and…Hey, what’s that?  Do I hear MJ?  Why is that tall, moustached cowboy with a little Chinese kid holding an old school stereo on his shoulder playing the Thriller Intro?

WAIT, what’s this? The 3-Day walkers & their friends and family are starting the Zombie Dance.  OMG Thriller Flash Mob! Happy Happy Joy Joy, how festive!

This only works if I get more than the 12 people I have recruited.  (And in that 12, I’m including Cat from Poor Little Rich Girl even though she didn’t really commit.  Cat – don’t think I didn’t notice.)  Who is in?  Be in, it’s fun. Walkers, friends, kids – come one, come all.

In the meantime…. If you donate any sum of money to the Team Hope Chest jar / wine carafe, Poor Little Rich Girl will give you 15% off.  ENDS TODAY. I bought a D&G belt  that you will all want. While you’re there, recruit more PLRG dolls to the TFM (Thriller Flash Mob.)

Becca

When you go to PLRG, check out this dress and tell me if I should buy it.

 

 

17 Weeks and A *Trunk Show*

Egads, 17 weeks until the day Team Hope Chest starts trekking 60 miles. 120 Days.  I believe I have walked one time since I registered.  A few months ago.  Shannon, when was that? May? Uh-oh.

If I were following the 24 Week Training Schedule, which I am clearly not, my week would have looked like this:

Instead, my week looked a little like this.

Monday – surgery. Tuesday – vicodin haze. Wednesday – A lot of itching & benadryl before I retired to my couch to watch Glee. Thursday – laundry.

As you can see, I might be in a little bit of trouble.

BUT, good news!  There is a 16 week Training Program!  I am all about the 16 week Training Program.  I really couldn’t be more excited about the 16 Week Training Program.  As the Team Captain, I am rallying behind the 16 Week Training Program.

Here’s what I learned about cancer today:  Nancy G. Brinker watched her sister fight  and fight and fight BC. When cancer took all the fight out of her,  Nancy made a promise to her sister. She promised that she would do everything in her power to end breast cancer. Forever.  Nancy is my kind of people.  Nancy’s sister was Susan G. Komen.

I am so moved by that story.  I am moved by the passion of Nancy Brinker, moved by the sincerity of her promise, the depth of her love and commitment, and by what a community can accomplish when they rally together.

Sandra Sutter, Top Fundraiser #10 (who looks to have a pretty cute haircut), has raised $4770.  I have raised $3182. Watch out Sandra Sutter. My haircut needs help, but Drain has left, I’m up and about, and really motivated.  And I have awesome friends, like Cat at PLRG and Anne and Kim of Dos Fannies.

Come raise some money by shopping!  Holla, what’s not fun about that??

Tonight, 4 – 7 pm.  PLRG, 16th St & Bethany Home.

POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL / DOS FANNIES TRUNK SHOW

Days Like This.

Days like this are not blog days. On days like this, I stay away from mopey movies, I check to make sure my son is safe in bed a few too many times, and for the love of God, I avoid the pictures of adoptable children in China.

(I can’t help myself.  Here’s one photo.  Makes you want to get on a plane to China right now, doesn’t it??)

Upside – days like this make me appreciate the idea of tomorrow. And I am reading a really, really good book.  So I will go to bed.  Tomorrow I’ll be clever.  I promise.

 

A Day of Thanks.

Ay readers, another surgery today.  Don’t even ask. I’m so tired of this that I’m boring myself.  I will say that a few beers the night before a surgery does not make anesthesia sit well.  But I’d do it again because those Coronas were divine going down.

THANK YOU.

I have a Village of people who don’t think, they just act.  They inspire me to be better. They believe in random acts of kindness, and I am too often the lucky recipient.  A few shout-outs today:

To Jill. 

Who let me bitch yesterday about all this. And she let me bitch and bitch and bitch. She let me bitch, and listened to it all, while I forgot that her sister, Janet, also has BRCA2.  And Janet got to find that out by getting ovarian cancer.  I am ashamed of myself. Jill, being Jill, said nonsense, brought me food, helped with my son, and then served me beer.  Good friends know when you need a drink. And when I woke up to a medical emergency, Jill knowing my husband was out of town, rearranged her work schedule, came over, and got my butt to the hospital. Note – while I was typing this, Jilly popped over with some ginger ale.  See? What else do you say about a friend like this? (And let me tell you, after the time I’m having with the anesthesia, the ginger ale is much appreciated.)

To Holly.

Holly 001.  The 1 and only.  Who lets me text her gross details, lets me get frustrated, and always provides perspective.  Holly lost her mama, Juicy Lucy, to cancer just a few short months ago. Perspective.  My running theme.  This might be a breast cancer walk, but I’m walking for Lucy first and foremost.  Lots to say about Holly, but it boils down to this – when my son is proud of something he does, he always wants to show “001.” Kids see into your soul, and Holly’s is pure as snow.

To Andy.

Mi hermano, my brother.  Who, when faced with a decision, will undoubtedly take the craziest option.  But when faced with a family crisis, will rearrange his life.  Like he did when he picked me up from the OR today, got me food, demanded numerous times that I stop using my arm (eeek, the meds make me forget) then took my son to his house for the night so I could rest. Andy’s priorities are usually pretty much in the perfect order. (And he just taught Xia to say, “Uncle Andy is the best!”)

To the Two People in the Moving Truck.

In a frenzy yesterday morning after my doctor’s appointment, where I found out, alas, I was not quite finished with all this, I started crying. In anger, really.  Because I know that, in the scheme of things, this is not a big deal.  I escaped cancer, I should be dancing.  Instead, I was frustrated and irritated, and that made me even more frustrated and irritated.

While I was in my hyper state, I ran a red light.  Not a yellow light, not a close call, a full on RED LIGHT.  Wide-eyed and shocked, I swerved to avoid the cars, just missed them, then heard screeches and brakes behind me.  OMG.

I turned off and pulled over.  BREATHE.

I’d like to thank the people in the moving truck who followed me and pulled up along my driver’s side.  I am sure the man in the passenger seat intended to make a few unkind remarks, but when he saw my mascara-smeared-teary face, changed his mind, and asked if I was ok. Not in a mocking, I have to do this because she’s crying sort of way, but in a sincere way with a sincere look.

I didn’t know how to respond.  I almost caused complete vehicle mayhem, and you’re asking if I’m ok?  All I could do was apologize for running the light, to which he shrugged, smiled and said “things happen.”

Thank you. You’re a nice man.  I hope you stumble upon this so you know your good deed made me smile.

Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying.

A little clarification. I don’t have breast cancer. I probably should have started the blog with this, but my story telling doesn’t usually start at the beginning.  I tend to start at a random spot that took place somewhere along the path of a story, and branch out from there.  I don’t live linearly, I live like a spider web – tangly and confusing with lots of overlapping, but cohesive and strangely pretty in the right light.  So this is how I write.

This blog’s starting point was the 3-Day Walk.  (I’m an Ambassador, remember?) Anyway, I don’t have cancer.  I have the cancer gene.

In 1999, my sister, Jodi, was diagnosed with breast cancer.  She was 37.  In 2005, our Dad was diagnosed with breast cancer (yes, you read that right, my dad).  The combination of these two was enough for the geneticists to say Come on in, pull up a seat, let’s chat.

So in 2006, we went to chat it up with the gene people.  My dad went first, and they found the BRCA2 mutation, the “breast cancer gene.”   Once my dad had the gene, the 4 kids needed to get tested.  No surprise, Jodi has it.  Jana and Andy do not.  I was the other lucky winner. The odds for us kids were 1 in 2 – what a statistically perfect family I have. 2 mutants, 2 non-mutants.  (Those of you that have met Andy are thinking hmmmmm.)

(FYI, my dad, brother and I went to the Virginia Piper Center in Scottsdale for the genetic testing, results and education process.  I can’t imagine a better place to go. These people know their stuff and convey it without the stuffiness so commonly associated with smart medical people.)

A little education – BRCA2 = BReast CAncer susceptibility gene 2. Everyone has these genes.  In normal circumstances, my understanding is that these genes are pretty helpful.  In abnormal circumstances, they are not helpful at all.  With the BRCA2 mutation, chances of breast cancer goes up to about 80%. Yikes. Chances of ovarian cancer increases dramatically, too.  And not that any cancer is exciting news, but ovarian cancer is one you really want to avoid.

I was 32 when the geneticists read my blood results and had a love-in with me.  The next step was to head to a breast surgeon and weigh your options.  My surgeon is Dr. VICTOR ZANNIS, and I will scream his name from the hilltops because he is good people.  He is GREAT people. I love him. In fact, I just decided to add him to the blogroll on my home page.

Dr. Zannis gave me two options: 1) wait and see, or 2) cut everything out.  He is not an unbiased man, and strongly favors Option 2.  As he told me, he spends his days with people who already have cancer, providing the best treatment plans he can. Can you imagine?  Day after day, telling people they have cancer.  Over and over again.  One of the many reasons I love Dr. Zannis is his compassion.  He is not bitter, desensitized or unapproachable.  I can not fathom the toll his job takes on him when he sincerely feels for every single patient he sees. I heart him.

But with me, Dr. Zannis got to say, “If you do nothing, you will probably get breast cancer. Let me operate, and I can prevent it.” Preventing cancer.  Big stuff.

To me, it sounded a lot like get busy living or get busy dying.

Get busy living I did. First was the hysterectomy. Adios ovaries, uterus, fallopian tubes and cervix.  It’s been nice knowing you, but apparently, you don’t have much to offer me except a game of Russian Roulette with lousy odds.  With this came the decision of whether to freeze my eggs and all that jazz.  We had long before the discovery of my crap-ass genes decided to adopt, and by this time, we had already brought Xia home.  If we loved a child more, our hearts would explode. I took a pass on frozen eggs.

The hysterectomy was easy.  Wam, bam, thank you ma’am (now, hello, you are a man?? Not quite, but this topic might see the light of day). No one pretended the mastectomy would be easy.  And I’d seen it a few times before, and it wasn’t pretty.  So I waited.  And waited.  And hey, we had an awful lot on our plates so I waited some more.

While I waited, there were a lot of mammograms and ultrasounds.  That’s what you do when you have the BRCA2 mutation and sit around doing nothing. And voila, they found a little something called calcification – little calcium deposits in your breasts. Normally these little calcium clusters are nothing to lose sleep over…unless they’re irregular in shape.  If they’re irregular, start losing sleep.  In fact, just stop sleeping altogether. Irregular calcification + BRCA2 = I don’t care how full your plate is, move a side dish over because this calcification here is an entree. And it will take over your plate with a little something we call cancer – maybe it already has, maybe it will in a month, maybe it will in a year, but you are not likely to beat the bad gene odds. Game on.

Near miss, my friends.  An MRI showed that I was still ok, and I was cleared for the surgery that I now could not sign up for quickly enough.  They must have found this calcium spot on about the day it made an appearance. Call it karma, call it God, call it good freaking luck, but I got myself into an OR right before Christmas of 2009. Let’s getterdone.

I am told that I am, in fact, a cancer survivor. I disagree (although it’s an easier thing to say than this lengthy explanation for why I’ve had 4 surgeries since December of ’09).  No chemo, no radiation, no hair loss, and here’s the biggie, no threat of death – I’m not a survivor.  I’m a lucky mofo is what I am.  I might start a new term. Under Cancer Survivor will be Cancer Lucky Mofo. With my smiling Ambassador face.

I believe that research saved my life. At the very least, research certainly improved the quality of my life. One of the many reasons I choose to support Susan G. Komen is their commitment to research. Want to support, too?  I happen to be collecting donations. DONATE. I can’t walk right now so I have decided to try to get into the elite group of Top 10 Fundraisers.  Seems like an Ambassador-like thing to do, and I like a project.

Becca

One of the reasons I love this image is the spelling error. I wonder how many people have taken this to the tattoo parlor?  I like this almost as much as I like people who pick Chinese symbols thinking they mean “love, faith, believe,” but really translate to “I eat fish heads for lunch.”