If there's one thing I've learned from the many things I've learned this past year, it's that a mother's love can run very deep! My mom, as you can see from these pics, went on a journey with me, that neither one of us anticipated but she hopped on board the crazy-cancer-train a year and a half ago and continues to do all the things we hope a mother will do for a daughter in a time of need.
From changing drains, holding my hand during so many procedures, buying me 'mastectomy pajamas,' gardening, sitting next to me in that chemo room, wearing crazy hats on Halloween (still sorry I made you do that mom - you're a good sport!), sleeping next to me on the couch because I couldn't make it upstairs and to cutting my short hair - she has been right there by my side. I never asked for any of it (except for the hair cut - I trusted NO ONE else!) and she just continued to dish it out day, after week, after month.
On top of all of this, she has done it all in love, gentleness, and an open heart and no complaints! And I'm not a mom, but I can't imagine her journey of watching her 'baby' go through this third round of cancer. But instead, she was steadfast in her sweetness and love and forged on in the most motherly way possible.
So, this is my promise to you mom. I will ALWAYS be there for you, be by YOUR side and love you with open arms. I will be forever grateful for you and to you, for your love and for your friendship. And I hope in some small way, you will feel my love, kindness, gentleness and friendship in return. But, most of all, I will always love you "two biggers and a whole lot!"
My chemo-comrad-cousin Chris (say that 3 times!) and I seem to have a lot in common these days. For one, we're clearly relatives. But this last year has brought us together in a different way - through cancer, surgeries, side effects and treatment. Me with a 3rd breast cancer diagnosis and him with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma at 15. AND, recently, we finished our last treatments on the EXACT same day - March 26th! A day to remember! Woot! Woot!
His amazing mom (my first cousin) Deidre and I ritually texted each other this past year on treatment days with pics, "Chris ROCKS!" and "Number 12 - DONE!" texts! A year of closeness, perspective and cancer cheerleading that this disease has brought on.
And while Chris and my cancer journeys have been a mix of both similarities and differences, Chris and I mostly connected through cancer comparisons. With a quick hug and a head nod, we often and quickly fell into chit chat this past year about neuropathy, numbness in our toes, what foods grossed us out, our sleeping habits and of course remedies for nausea. One time, as we were sitting in his house on the couch while our band of caregivers were chatting it up and comparing OUR stats, I leaned over and whispered "Don't you like how they all talk about us like we're not even here?" He nodded and we both chuckled. But they all needed an outlet too as Chris and I forged on with hair loss and high-fives over our new fuzzy hair growth along with treatment and testing milestones.
Chris' cancer stats still blow me away (48 rounds of chemo, 1 surgery, 17 radiation treatments) even though I was deep in my own cancer trenches and stats. Deidre and I talked for months like we were medical personnel: "What are his blood count numbers this week?" "Can he take a Zofran with some crackers and water?" "When's his PET scan?"How many days will he have for his radiation boost?" "Who's your chemo nurse today?" A new world of communication that brought us two cousins closer together after years of intermittent visits and updates through family.
We laugh at our new cancer language yet often cursed it when we were angry or frustrated. But then quickly, we reminded each other to take a deep breath to refocus ourselves on what we now call our 'gratitudes' - our health, our caregivers, our newfound perspective and treatments for a cure.
Chris also helped inspire us as usual as we watched his ongoing and quiet determination! As I struggled with fatigue and headaches, Chris quietly said he wanted to go back to school the day after his last treatment. And 2 days after his last radiation at Stanford, that's exactly what he did and showed up to baseball practice with his buddies as they watched him struggling to run around the bases. "Throw the ball down, Little Chris has no wheels!" But his first day of practice was done in usual Chris style as he played 5 innings while Deidre texted us his play-by-play action. We were all picking up our jaws as she was describing the return of Chris' 15 year old life and his favorite sport - baseball.
Oh how I sometimes wish I were a 15 year old boy!
In the meantime, Deidre, Hil and I talk endlessly about 'What now?' and how we are supposed to feel now that treatment is done. But as we have learned over the past year-and-a-half, we could all use a little 'dose of Chris' as he hops back on the train of life. A boy of few words just carrying on with his teenage life, computer gaming, going to school when he can and catching the last fly ball of a recent game for the win!
Wow...I don't even know where to begin on this one. I walked into the chemo room sick, with a fever and unprepared for the words "This is your last treatment." Thinking that I had one more according to my calendar schedule from Dr. G. it was evident that this was the alarming reality. The nurse liason quickly checked with my oncologist before coming back into the room with her proclamation as we all stared at her and waited with bated breath - "Yes, it's official, this is your last treatment!"
Silence. Gasp. "What?" Tears.
I couldn't believe it and reacted immediately by slapping the chemo chair arm and demanded that the nurse go back to Dr. G. with a message from me - "You go tell Dr. G. that I am NOT prepared for this!"
But as the Herceptin scheduling Gods would have it....this was indeed the end of the treatment road for me. Not knowing at all how to feel, the tears just started to slowly stream down my face as I looked into Hil's eyes. She knew that I had been dreading this day as it would be the transition to cancer independence. Along with the band of 'Purple Angels' chemo staff around me, I simply couldn't contain my tears, but thankfully and strangely, the ambiance was quite peaceful during this not-so-frequent occurrence - an empty chemo room.
Never in my year of treatment have I walked by or into that room being the sole patient as it was usually filled to the brim with people, yet this day I was. This further added to the somber and lonely feeling I quickly had when I received the news of this last treatment. Was the universe conspiring with me on this last day? I frankly didn't know how to feel as a flood of emotions welled up inside of me. Happy. Sad. Surprised. Shocked. Frantic.
Hil immediately started taking pictures, filming and hiding behind the camera as she too didn't know how to take the news. The chemo staff didn't blink an eye as they have become used to her filming and documenting my journey, but this day had her privately retreating behind the lens. The only thing she said she knew to do.
I was, as I professed at the onset of my treatment, utterly unprepared for this. All I wanted to do was to curl up into Martha's lap and cry my eyes out and never open them up again. The best chemo-purple-angel-humanitarian in THE world! AND...so happened that my last day of treatment was her birthday - a day I will never forget.
Then came a ray of sunshine that walked through the door by the name of Lorena, one of my new 'breast friends' that I've had the great pleasure of getting to know these past few months. Going through a second breast cancer diagnosis herself, I felt as if my reinforcement showed up just in the nick of time. LUV this gal and her spunky attitude! So we spent the remaining time, just the two of us in those chairs, laughing, crying and sitting in silence. Exactly what I needed.
Then, my other 'breast friend' Marion came in briefly to bring Hil and I some sweet treats - flourless, sugarless, dairy-free cookies. Wow, I was overcome by more love and support. A surprise visit, this other lovely is a special one too and someone I immediately connected with at her first chemo appointment a couple of months ago. More reinforcement in the form of love. Couldn't ask for anything more.
As for my final exit out of that room with hugs, love and tears, I held my new chest up high and walked out that door. Promising to come back as a 'Chemo Concierge' to pay it forward, I looked at the lovely Martha who said with her beautiful big smile - "Now get out and stay out!"
'We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us'
vul·ner·a·ble [vuhl-ner-uh-buhl] 1. capableoforsusceptibletobeingwoundedorhurt,asby a weapon; 2. opentomoralattack,criticism,temptation
BUT...let me help you right off the bat by scrapping this dictionary reference above and instead, go straight to Brené Brown's meaning as you'll hear in the video.
vul·ner·a·bil·i·ty [vuhl-ner-uh-buhl-i-tee] 1. our most accurate measurement of courage;
2. the birthplace of innovation, creativity and change (Brené Brown)
Now that we have that out of the way, I must again give an honorable nod to Brené Brown for her brilliant, straightforward and wholehearted work that continues to inspire me. Because let me tell you, if going through cancer, once, twice or three times doesn't make a person vulnerable, then I don't know what does. There's so much vulnerability that correlates with a cancer diagnosis that I frequently don't know up from down. And I'll even go out on a vulnerability limb and share with you that I continue to feel exposed as I embrace the new changes about myself, my new perspective on life, friendship, my scarred body, my numb chest and my numb fingers and toes from the chemo. I frequently fall over from a standing position as if I were intoxicated and always joke it off with a 'no worries, I'm not drinking.' Walking around bald for months on end while looking like a ghostly, ashen version of my former self left me in one of the most vulnerable states of all as I endured stares, name calling and wide-eyed looks from children. And now my current struggle with vulnerability is focused on the end of the treatment road for me. There, I said it... well some of it. Enough for now.
And as I continue to question myself through this process, my writing and interactions with others about how vulnerable I 'should' be, my head often spins at an accelerated rate. How much do I tell her? How should I say this? Should I gloss over this news? Can they handle it? And the biggest question of all, can I handle it?
My answer...HELL YES! This whole cancer gig has brought up a bundle of adjectives for me to chew on. And as a language therapist, I then typically start heading down the linguistic road of lexicon: exposed, tender, humbled, delicate. And then fleeting and flitting in and out of a Noun - Shame! (pause for reaction....). Yes, I said SHAME!
Because I felt such significant shame during my first diagnosis that I held 'it' in secrecy, swore people to secrecy and stopped telling people that I had breast cancer. I didn't quite grasp why I felt so shameful, and after watching Ms. Brown today on Super Soul Sunday, I realized how consumed I have been through each diagnosis with vulnerability and shame...until now.
So, twenty years and a third breast cancer diagnosis later, I will purposefully choose to forge ahead and confront the 'Big C' in spite of feeling blemished, scarred and flawed. No more shame for me. I will go as far as to say that I will 'dare greatly' as Ms. Brown suggests.
I believe, that the path for me will continue to be full of vulnerability as it allows me to embrace my sometimes fragile self. It's the only choice I know.
So who's on board the vulnerability train with me?!
Unexpectedly, this fundraising breast cancer event threw me for an emotional loop and I felt as if I needed a life raft the second I met the sponsor's daughter, Kathy Ireland. With my initial intention of simply thanking both she and her mom for such a wonderful event and cause - The Barbara Ireland Walk for Breast Cancer Research, I barely uttered my name to Ms. Ireland when I felt tears starting to roll down my cheeks. "Hello Kathy, my name is Dee Anne and..... (oye, here come the tears!)....thank you so much to you and your mom for this wonderful event....(damn, more tears!)... so sorry....I'm crying... please, if you could just tell your mom thank you....(geeze, more tears?!).... I was diagnosed with my 3rd breast cancer a year and a half ago (Really?! More tears?)..... and....." (thank goodness, she started to speak so I could get it together!) "How are you doing?" she asked with a very present and compassionate look. "I'm OK, thank you. Again, if you could please thank your mom on my behalf....(freakin' tears!)... and thanks to you too." We hugged, stared at each other's faces and eyes for a few extra seconds, hugged again, snapped a quick pic and then parted ways.
Ah! Why did I cry? Not like I was diagnosed yesterday....unexpectedly....for the first time. This was round freakin' 3 of the 'Big C!' What was wrong with me? Get over it, I thought! But my emotions were colliding inside of me like the perfect storm.
But really, what is there to get over? Will I ever be over this crazy disease? I feel forever changed and like a fish out of water. I don't know up from down sometimes. What's normal? How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to act? What do I say for the 1000th time when someone asks how I'm doing but I can tell doesn't really want to hear about it because it's too painful for them. Oh, I'm so tired of saying how tired I am. Should I minimize my feelings to spare others instead? Or, do I just say that I'm feeling great and beyond excited that I'm finishing my treatment next month as everyone expects me to say, even though I'm not? But I kind of am. But not really. I'm just not so sure how I feel.
All I know is that there are some damn good people in this world like Kathy Ireland, her mom Barbara, our friends Sydney and Susan who we went out to cheer for this morning and all of the other walkers with their pink shirts on, bald heads and 'Team Jani' on the back of a group of black shirts.
I cry for me. I cry for them. I cry for the ladies (and men) who will be diagnosed on Monday. I cry for the 39,000 plus woman (and men) who will die from breast cancer this year alone. I cry for Lisa Lynch, a woman whom I've never met but one who took her angel wings on Monday in her 30's after being diagnosed at age 28. I cry for my Aunt Charlotte and my Aunt Henrietta. I cry for Gammy, my partner's sweet grandmother. I cry for Kelly and all of the 'Angel Girls' that all passed away in their 30's when I was first diagnosed at 31 myself.
But as I shed my tears, I also salute the many warriors and organizations determined to find a cure like the Barbara Ireland Walk for Breast Cancer Research. I celebrate Ann Marie of Stupid Dumb Breast Cancer who refuses to stay silent and hide her pictures of her scars on her Facebook page. I honor the Cancer Center of Santa Barbara and all of my 'Purple Angels,' staff, nurses and Dr. G. I applaud the Busted Foundation for their fundraising efforts to support breast cancer patients. I bow to TalkAboutHealth for their online support to help people like me. I praise too many people to list here but whom I will try to mention and honor as time passes.
So that's why I cry! So what. Let's just find a cure!
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