Truth = I don’t think Jenny has started walking at all.  She did just buy a big house in the middle of somewhere far so maybe she’s getting miles walking from guest room to guest room.  She tried to claim training credit when she cleaned her carpets. We joke that Jenny might show up to the 3-Day on a Vespa.  I can easily picture Jenny flying by us on her scooter saying “Let’s Go Team!” doing the Humpty Dance.  And I’m not entirely sure we’re joking anymore.  And ohhhh, I think she has raised $100 so far.  $2,200 to go, Je-Nae!

I can mock because I freaking love this girl.  Jenny doesn’t have cancer, didn’t lose her mom or have a scary mammogram. I am walking because hello, I’m UniBoob, and two people in my immediate family are breast cancer survivors.  This is a personal, personal issue to me.  Jenny  just said, Hey, my friends are doing it, sounds fun!  Good cause, good times, and here she is.  Heart of gold, this one.

Jenny is our team Tivo – we will say JeNAE we need some entertainment, and she will rock that road with hilarity. She is with me on the awesomeness of Thriller, and word, she speaks slang like P-Diddy.  She will entertain us – naturally, without effort, and our stomachs will hurt as much as our feet from laughing.  I simply can not wait to walk with Jenny.

Want to love her more?

Jenny and her husband, Aaron, (who, by the by, is in Afghanistan) are trying to adopt a baby.  Guess how I feel about that? Tears, people, tears. And not because I’m a force-feeder of adoption, but because this girl is so, so full of love.  The world is a better, funnier, happier place because of the Jennys.  Holla girlfriend. Let’s get you a baby!

They have a blog.  Read it and pass it along.  Word-of-mouth is how this process works.

www.meanttobethree.wordpress.com

And with that, another friend has cancer.

And now I’m pissed. Is this the right reaction?  What exactly is the correct response here?  Sadness? Sympathy? Compassion? I feel like any one of these would be more appropriate.  But what can I tell you, I’m just angry. I’m angry that this good, good person has to lay there without sleep, tonight and tomorrow and the next night, wondering about the tumor eating at her insides.  Wondering if it is growing, if it is treatable, if it will go away. Wondering about her family and her kids and her finances. Wondering how her life will now be changed. Because it will be.

I am pissed.

I guess I just don’t get it. We put a man on the moon, for the love of God.  We can inject botulism into your forehead and make you wrinkle-free.  I can send you a message from my phone, and like magic, through the air, you’ll get it in a second.  But Cancer? The Big C?  Sorry, no can do, amigos.  This one has us stumped.

I have no answers.  Manalive, do you know the questions I get from this blog?  People asking for my secret to good humor, to wit, to living. People I don’t know asking me what to say to their friends, their loved ones. I am now the Emily Post of cancer. Yay me.

Here is what I say – and I will say it to my friend – you fight.  You fight like a mofo.  You fight like you’ve never fought before because Sweet Jebus, this can not beat you.  It can not take who you are and what you’re made of.  You will find every ounce of courage you have and every shred of BRING IT ON attitude you can muster.

Other friends will cook for you and bring you books and encourage you.  Good for them.  I’m going to tell you to fight. Because you, my friend, are as tough as goddamn nails.

I really can not tell you how much better I feel Minus Infection.  Being Minus Infection means Minus Nausea, Minus Headaches, Minus Constant Low-Grade Fever.  And now, FINALLY, I can blog about the Walk.  And not my surgeries. Although, looking back, those 9 fun-loving surgeries gave me a lot of food for thought, didn’t they? Alas, there will be more.  We will save that for another day.

We digress.  The walk.  My training.

Two days ago, Teammate Shannon had the perfectly glorious idea to walk 5 miles after we dropped the kiddos off at school.  What Shannon neglected to mention was the Extreme Heat Warning here in Phoenix. I thought I was going to pass out, and I am not lying.  9:30am, 5 miles, 100 degrees, and I, in my brilliance, opted for pants and a sleeved shirt.  And, of course, water was too much of a hassle to carry so I left it in the car.

Lesson learned.  So as Shannon walked at mach speed down down the Bridle Path, I ran through the sprinklers of the private lawns on Central Ave, and prayed that it would start snowing as a cosmic sign that yes, I can walk 60 miles.  It did not snow.

But I made it.  And the reality that I would be walking 60 miles hit me.  And it hit me hard.  And it said YOU MORON, WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?

60 miles is the distance, literally, from Sunnyslope High School at Dunlap and Central to the Casa Grande Mall on the I-10.  In other words, I am walking halfway to Tucson.  Let me be clear about something – the most I have ever walked in one effort is 5 miles.  And that was two days ago with Shannon.  And now I’m going to take a jaunt down to Casa Grande? And take 3 days doing this?

Enter paralyzing self-doubt.

I shared this doubt with Shannon, who in her non-abrasive, read between the lines, gentle, yet direct way, reminded me that Hello Amiga, this walk is a sacrifice.  For me, the fundraising was easy, the organization is fun, Thriller Flash Mob? Downright divine.  The walking?? Eeek.  And therein lies my sacrifice.

Enter lightbulb above my head.

True Statement: I really do not want to walk 60 miles.  At all.  But I will because I  can.  Because I have the luxury (and it IS a luxury) of walking.  I will be walking while some husband is entertaining his wife while she gets chemo.  And while a mom gets diagnosed and struggles with how much to tell her kids. And because 39,520 women will die this year from breast cancer.  Let’s bold that up.  39,520 women will die this year from breast cancer.  And thanks to research, I’m not one of them.

So yeah, I’ll walk.  I’m going to whine about the heat and the time the training takes and the blisters.  And I will continue to ask why the Phoenix walk couldn’t be in February so the training months aren’t 100+ degrees.  But I’ll walk. Because life is in the sacrifices, and amen sisters, I’ve got my life.  Time for a small sacrifice.

Post Script: I wonder if Aline, friend and inspiration, even remembers telling me this.  Aline, do you?  We were sitting at LGO years ago, both embedded in the international adoption process at this time in our lives, and both very frustrated with the paperwork, the red tape, the time the process takes, etc.  And out of your mouth came this little jewel of a thought.  I have carried this with me mentally for years – every time things get hard, actually.  Thanks for being the kind of gal who utters genius quotes off the top of your head.

Let’s back up – Drain left me yesterday.  Nothing bittersweet about the departure.  All sweet, no bitter.

As you may or may not have noticed, I have not mentioned my plastic surgeon by name.  This is for no reason other than I am not sure he is the sort of guy that would appreciate being featured in a blog of this kind. Actually, I am quite sure he is not that sort of guy. But I have to mention that yesterday, as the clock ticked 5, 10, 15 minutes after my appointment time, I wondered what was going on as he is never late.  Turns out that my doctor was playing his new guitar in his office.  Odd, right? But on the other hand, sort of human. I guess I like that he likes music.  I looked at his assistant, and said “uhhhh, it’s not like I have a drain ready to be removed or anything.”

I went into his office and asked if he knew Freebird.  And he replied that everyone knows Freebird.  Well, yes, that was sort of the joke.  (My humor is hit or miss.  With him, it is almost always a miss.)  Anyway, Doctor Six String, his assistant (who I love) and I had a nice musical bonding moment.  Then I managed to get him away from James Taylor long enough to take out my drain. And we discussed that the next procedure would involve taking skin from another part of my body.  He said that as calmly as I might say, “let’s have chicken for dinner.” Bonding moment over.

Tina’s Treasures.  With the drain out, I was free to get my falsie.  Hoorah!

Again, the nicest people in there.  My appointment was with Jodi, and she is delightful. (My last fitting was with Nada – also delightful.)  It was actually fun.  And really, let’s think about what I’m saying here: I am in a hospital shop, in a fitting room, in front of a large mirror, staring at stitches & scars where my right breast used to be and getting fitted, at 38 years old, for a fake boob.  This should not be fun.  And yet it was.  Got myself 5 new bras that look like they came from the “I am 100 years old” catalog and the prosthesis.  And I even tried to recruit Jodi to dance Thriller with us.  She didn’t seem sold.  She will be.

Falsie and I then did a little shopping (“new” Tylie Malibu from Poor Little Rich Girl, cute magnets by the fabulous Donna Biggers, Williams Sonoma dish soap), and THEN, when I was at Luci’s for iced tea, I ran into Teammate Shannon and her kids!  Guess how she spotted me from well across the street?  My Team Hope Chest Flipped Bird bag!  (A few left, buy one now.)  So instead of doing anything on my list, I got to chat with Shannon and her girls for a bit.  And really, is there a better way to spend time?  The to-do list will always be there.  New motto.

Got home just in time, Xia found Falsie, brought it to the living room and threw it at me.  And laughed and laughed. And that, Dear Readers, is called karma.

Becca

You know you’re curious.  So here’s Falsie.

My first instinct, was blahhhhhhh, stupid drain, nothing in my closet fits and, oh yeah, OneBoob. How do I disguise that?  I can’t wear a falsie yet, and I do, in fact, look very lopsided.  Socks?  Tissues? A scarf?  Ah well, perhaps I will get a mani pedi another day.

Then I came to my senses. Why do I need to disguise?  Ok, the drain I get because that’s just gross, but the OneBoob? What better way to raise awareness than by rocking it singular style?  And Hell-to-the-O, I want my nails done.  I am woman, hear me roar.

This sounds good in theory. But, truth, I needed a little back-up in the form of a gal pal. My roar was more of a meow with an attitude. Who do I know that’s up for this?  It took me about a nano-second to yell “Holly 001!” To which my son yelled, “I am a big tomato!” (I have no explanation for this.)

Left to her druthers, Holly would swagger into the nail place with a “What’s up, my BITCHES! Boss here has OneBoob. Anyone got a problem with this? Anyone want to stare? No. I didn’t think so.”  And with this, I would be shown to a perfect pedi chair decked in pink and diamonds.  I am a OneBoob Princess.

So Holly didn’t have to do that, but just knowing that she totally would have made me hold my head up high. Truth is, I don’t think anyone even noticed.  1 trip out in public down, 1 million more to go.

Holly, the more sensible, went with the standard buff & manicure.  Not me, I went for the bright red shellac, which has to be removed with a blow torch.  Shallac has to be dried in this weird hand machine, and as I’m sitting there, I look at the machine.  It says UV all over it.  UV??

Dudes!  UV! I am sitting with my hands basking in a freaking Cancer Box!  I alerted Holly to this madness, and we joked that perhaps we should go tanning and smoke a few ciggies when we were done.  GOOD GRIEF.  I’m worried about looking goofy with OneBoob so I let my hands simmer in a little Insta-Skin-Cancer.  Duh. Sometimes I amaze myself.

All in all, a fine day.  Thanks Holly.  You’re a big tomato.

Becca

Yesterday was a faith-losing day. A give it up, throw in the towel sort of day.

Today is not.  Today is a kick some ass sort of day.  Get busy living or get busy dying, right?  I have stitches, a scar and weird skin folds where my right breast should be.  So what?  If I have learned anything from this, it’s that it could always be worse. Way, way worse.

This little light of mine is going to rock 60 miles.  Walking isn’t everything, but it’s something.  And I am pretty sure that everything starts with a little bit of  something.

This morning, I offered up all I had that was good to two moms who lost their kids.  And then I blared some music and had a Dance Party.  Xia and I broke it DOWN.  I spun my drain around like it was a fire baton while Xia demonstrated his expertise at Train Hip-Hop.  And while we were dancing like maniacs, I laughed in the face of 9 surgeries, a drain and some cadaver skin.

Take that, Silly Universe.  I’m going to Thriller in your face.

Becca

p.s. I would like to point out that the Reno-Tahoe Open is going on right now.  The RTO is the only PGA tournament that has a woman as a director.  That is an obscure fact.  Unless that director happens to be your FREAKING SISTER!  YOU GO, JANA!!!  See?  Not all my genes suck.

Annika & Jana

This morning, I found out that a friend’s 4 year old son died yesterday.  Another friend called me, a friend who has been gone all Summer, and I was excited to see her name on my caller ID.  I missed the call, and listened to the voicemail, expecting a playdate idea, a lunch, a project. Nothing in me was prepared for this news.

I sat on my bed, legs crossed, in silence and without moving for several minutes.  Then I grabbed my car keys – drain, stitches and concave hole on my chest be damned – and went to Xia’s school.  Three hours early, I took my son out of class, kissed his head, and gripped his hand.  Today, he doesn’t get to stray too far from me.

Some things are bigger than we are.  Some things show us what’s important. Some things shove so much damn perspective down your throat that you come up dry heaving and sobbing.

Becca

I do not miss you, Right Implant.  Peace the F out.

A few thoughts today:

1) Do you know I had a breast reduction in 1995?  This seems very ironic to me now.  Oh Universe.  You’re funny.

2) There is a place in the Piper Cancer Center that, God Forbid you end up needing clothes, bras, or a wig following a mastectomy or some such procedure, is wonderful.  Tina’s Treasures.  The name makes me want to shoot Tina a little bit (TREASURES??), but aside from this, they are lovely, helpful women who have tons of experience helping you look and feel better after all this crapola.  I will be going in (again), this time for a right breast-type-thing. (They even make a tank-top with pockets for my friends, the Drains.)

And this reminds me.  I know exactly what this gel-like thing is because we used to “borrow” my sister’s and toss them around her living room like bean bags.  It seemed entertaining at the time, and her kids really liked it. The best part was when we were going somewhere and Jodi would start yelling for us to help her find her boobs.  They were usually behind the couch or on top of the TV.  I want to feel bad about this, but the memory still makes me laugh. Turnabout is fair play, and maybe Xia will enjoy a game of beanbag toss with mine.

3) My Doctor mentioned something about me not having enough tissue for another reconstruction.  He went on to say something about taking the skin from my back.  Shut the Front Door, Dr. Silence of the Lambs.  From that point on, I started LA LA LA-ing in my head. I can’t hear youuuuuuuuuuuu.

4)  I have very little recollection of writing the entry I posted yesterday.  I just re-read it, and it sort of seems familiar…but only vaguely.  Ahhh anesthesia, I love you. Maybe I should try medicated posting a little more because yesterday’s post was a new record.  Thanks readers.

5) August in Phoenix, and I’m not allowed to shower.  Enough said.

6) My 3-Day Team, Team Hope Chest, has a Facebook page.  Please like us.

7) We now have LOTS of people who want to THRILLER FLASH MOB!  I knew it, this idea is genius.  Details coming soon.  Tell your friends.  What do you think about pink gloves?  A little twist on MJ?

Becca

Took the noon surgical appointment yesterday, instead of my tried-and-true 6am.  Bad call. Left a little too much time to fill. Took Xia to school (Discovery Tree, best ever), went to the grocery store, lifted too much (but we seemed a little past that point), and headed home.  Bad headache, took a few tylenol, and threw up a few times.  Not eating was not a problem.

Then John took me to the hospital to lose a breast.  Again.  How tired he must be. We sat in the corner, our “regular” seats. With the air vent on full tilt, the two TVs blaring and the other waiting room waiters chatting, I folded over in my chair and put my forehead on John’s legs in front of me. And that’s how we stayed until the nurse came to get us 30 minutes later.

I’ve got Pre-Op down, amigos. They just copy my chart from last time and off we go. Lynn, Bonnie, you are both lovely.  Thank you. Nurses rock.  Dr. C., your anesthesia is, I’m sure, the bomb.  But it’s your humanness I like the most.  When they wheeled me into the OR, I was trying very hard to be a grown-up, and said, “I don’t know why I’m crying.”  Dr. C said, “Rebecca, with what you’ve been through, I’d cry too.” Thanks Dr. C.

And then I was out.

At home, John set me up with Saltines, Susan sent pizza our way (after hosting Xia for a swim date), and Dawn dropped off ginger ale and my favorite cookies. Yum.  While I was out, Xia drew a collage of a school bus, a fire truck, a train, Dora, and the featured piece, President Obama.  Then he taped it to his bedroom door.  That made me laugh.  For those of you who know my husband, you are laughing, too.  If you had told me a few years ago that John would let a picture of a Democrat hang in our home, I would have suggested you consider a crack pipe intervention.

Today, I feel better. I am trying to ignore that Right Drain is back. Instead, I am thinking of the endless t-shirts I can make for the walk:   I Walk With ONE.   Reconstruction Zone.  I’m a Little Lopsided.  Or how about my new friend, Mastectomy Barbi, screened onto a T?  Too much?

Becca

Tomorrow I lose the right implant. Tomorrow will be rough. Looking in the mirror is not going to be fun for a while, clothes will not be fun for a while, and the thought of starting over with reconstruction on my right side will not be fun … ever.

So I am focusing on nice things today.  Puppies. Brown paper packages tied up with string. Natalie Merchant in the 90′s. Shannon’s post.

Thanks Shannon.  I knew I was holding on to your post for a reason.  I read it and remember that we are all more than what we look like.

(I don’t know who this woman in the picture is, but sweet Jebus, I wish I did.)

-Becca

******

From SHANNON:

Our Team Captain is on a surgery marathon–far too many in the past month. So many, that when I mentioned to my daughters that Rebecca was having another surgery, Journey looked at me wide-eyed and said, “WOW”– Marley, forever the realist, stated, “She’s always having surgery”. During this go-around, Rebecca has asked for volunteers to step up as guest bloggers-Hmmmm, having been deemed as “a private gal”, which I am, I’m at a loss as to what to blog about. So, I thought I’d blog about someone else–easy enough.

Last September/October-ish I was headed into school and ran into this woman. I introduced myself, she did the same. Come to find out our kids had become fast friends. With that, we decided to get together after school for some park time. I liked her immediately. She was easy to talk to, easy to laugh, had a wry sense of humor, didn’t fllinch at “inappropriate comments”, and loved coffee. One day, over a cup of coffee at Luci’s, she directed this guy, who was looking for the milk, to the milk. Yes, it was a minute gesture, but kind nonetheless. We laughed about the notion of helping, even if it was not expected nor wanted–annoying help, if you will. She must have an altruistic gene, because helping is what she does. It’s like she never got the message that you can’t change the world by yourself.

In casual conversation I mentioned that it would be nice to put together a care package for our “troops”. Within 24 hours, she had emailed our kids’ teacher that “we” were interested in putting a care package together for the other teacher’s son, who was in Afghanistan. I’m a ponderer, not a doer, and socialize primarily with “ponderers”, so this caught me off guard. A “doer”!!! What the hell is she thinking, making promises that we may not be able to keep. I was feeling anxious about the logisitcs of getting it there, what to put in it, pretty much all those “w” questions put me in a tizzy. Needless to say, it all came together perfectly.

Come to find out, this was simply a splash in the bucket of “help”. She was so moved by the Rockstar Ronan blog that she wanted to help. So with 8 other women and a unwavering spirit, they put together an AMAZING fundraising event to honor/help Ronan and his family, as well as get the word out about neuroblastoma and the havoc that it wreaks. A phenomenol feat in 3 weeks time.

Just prior to that, she recruited 4 women to walk 60 miles in 3 days with her–all in the name of Susan G Komen, breast cancer research, and a cure. She volunteered to be a Susan G Komen ambassador. She has been blogging about her own experiences, as of late–probably because it will find it’s way into the hands of somebody who really needs to read it, “helping” them cope with whatever they are going through.

Rather then walk around the elephant in the living room, she invites him to sit a spell and have some coffee–I am in awe of her and happy to call her a friend.

Her name is Rebecca.

-Shannon