Turn, Turn, Turn

Today is Janet’s birthday. I ‘ll celebrate her by carrying on her memory and life’s mission. She wanted more, much more, for folks living and dying of stage 4 metastatic breast cancer.

Just last week Paul and I were on a kinder open house tour – and I saw a lady with a beanie on. Clearly no hair underneath (this wasn’t for fashion or style – this was chemo). I made a point to join her tour group so that I could talk with her and let her know I’m in her tribe. I was ready to flash my freshly revised port scar and all! As I approached her from behind, she turned around and faced me, I was taken aback, it was my friend Julie (was it a badge of honor that I knew the cancer lady on the school tour? Ugh, I dunno, maybe?…probably not, I’ve lost all sense of perspective at this point).

Julie is living with metastatic disease. She’s my age (ish) and has a daughter Nora’s age. Her life is very different from mine, yet exactly the same. She’s a mom. She’s going on kindergarten tours. She’s trying to figure out the lottery system for her child — same as me. BUT, she has to do all this planning wondering how long she’ll be on this earth – will she be here to watch her child go to kinder? 1st? 2nd? 3rd? You get the point. I want to scream, kick and shout for her.

So then, we continue on with the tour. Paul and I trying to picture our kid(s) at the school, marveling at the dance studio and art room – but I couldn’t stop putting myself in Julie’s shoes. The pit in her stomach as she walked the halls wondering how long she’d get to see her child grow and learn.

It’s GD heart wrenching. I hate it. I hated stealing glances at her on the tour knowing exactly what she was thinking. I wanted to scream like both of my toddlers do every.single.day. THIS IS NOT FAIR. ITS NOT FAIR. SHE’S BEING CHEATED. HER FAMILY IS BEING ROBBED.

All I can say is stage 4 needs more. It’s not just a cute hashtag. Please please please do what you can. No matter how little, because it matters. If you’re able, donate HERE.

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven
A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together
To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven
A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing
To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven
A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late

 

IRL

 

You are exposed. And unconscious. And it must be difficult to trust. I honor you, Dear One.

My job is to help your surgeon take away the cancer. I get a bird’s eye view of the process. The surgery begins and I feel your warm skin through my gloves. I wonder what stories you already have and the ones that are yet to come.

We carefully remove your breast. It never gets easy to see or to do. You must know this. It never feels natural, it never feels cavalier. It feels sacred to me. Every. Single. Time.

Julie posted this amazing article from a nurse in the OR during a mastectomy. It feels appropriate to re-post in celebration of all of us who have undergone this trauma. Breast cancer is not the easy cancer. We are cut up, amputated, re-amputated, disfigured, chemo’d, radiated and on and on and on. Some of us die. Some of us live. Whatever the outcome, the disease is forever seared into us, our bodies and our loved ones.

It’s a really hard road to walk. I’m forever grateful for my community of amazing BAYS folks who hold me up (and who I try my very best to return the favor to). NONE of this is cosmetic. NONE of us elect to do this.

This article is a beautiful tribute to all of us who have had to chop or slice our boobs and/or breast tissue off and deal with the aftermath. I don’t want to speak for all of us, but my chest is forever changed, Not in a good way.

I’ll post more about my surgery and recovery in the coming days. I find it easier to talk about when I have some distance — so bear with me!

For all my new non-cancer friends, NOPE. Saying crap like “oh you’re so lucky, you got a boob job” or “you get a new new rack” is SUPER OFFENSIVE – please just bite your tongue and stick to “I’m holding space for you”  or “sending you love and light” or “I’m so sorry you’re dealing with this, how can I support you?” – those are the most non offensive things you can say – BUT pah-lease don’t say shit about “how lucky I am to get boob job” (sic), for the love of christ. It’s super ignorant. So sad that 7 years in I’m still dealing with these IGNORANT comments. UGH. BLECH. BARF.

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10.11.19

On 10.11.12 I was launched onto a new and different path. Not a good path, not a bad path, just my path. I’m not mad at it.

Happy 7 year Cancerversary to me!

“What’s up y’all, what’s it gonna be? Who’s on the line for your homie Al B.?”

Anyone? Test 1,2 – is this mic on? Who gets my title reference? My east coast peeps? My Bucknell peeps? Link HERE if you don’t get it!

OK – so: “What’s up y’all, what’s it gonna be? Who’s on the line for your homie Al B.?”

Hey Al B., my name is Andy
Please sit back and check this rhyme…
The worldwide recall of my implants
Made me feel crazy in the head
So I talked to Roy – my boy
And we’re gonna swap that shit out
October 21st is the day
2 weeks to recover is what he says
The new implants will be round and smooth
But they aren’t anatomically shaped
So we’ll do a lot of fat grafting
To try and make them look normal
I’ll probably look like a porn star at the end of the day
But at least I’ll have peace of mind
That the new implants (probably) won’t lead to another cancer

Harumpf. I don’t think I’m the next Eminem….

 

10.11.18 – 6 years later.

6 years later. It seems long, but not distant. Does that make sense? The pain memory has faded, but the muscle memory holds it all. Strange, isn’t it?

6 years later and I find myself in another conference room. On this particular morning, I don’t receive a call from Dr. Huo (thank God!), instead, this conference room is where I busily work away at my new job as a People Partner at a cool company, working with, and supporting, really smart and motivated people. I feel really happy on this particular 10.11.

4 weeks ago I started a new chapter and went back to work. The adjustment hasn’t been that bad. Paul’s been a great support and has taken on a lot more kiddo duty so that I can ramp up. I really love working and I think I’m doing a good job keeping it all in perspective and maintaining balance in my life between the kids, the hubs and self care time. That said, I’m only 4 weeks in, so the train has plenty of time to come off the tracks!

In all seriousness though, things are good, really good. Life seems to have reset itself. This will never be something that I forget, that I don’t think about often. In fact, I continue to take cancer booty calls from PAMF on a regular basis. But, it’s sort of become woven into my fabric. My close friend circle is filled with so many BAYS pals. The lines are all blurred and I love that. I love it. It’s who I am now, and I kinda dig the new me.

This is what 6 years later looks like for me – a full head of hair – lots of chaos – never a perfect family photo – and most importantly, crazy fun with Paul, the kiddos and Maisey, Maise…..

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STATS:
6 years
1 amazing hubs
1 amazing Maisey dog (whose namesake is now pretty well known – Maisey Hirono)
2 beautiful, amazing kiddos
1 amazing new job!…..

 

Janet

It’s hard to believe I was just sitting with you on your couch 72 hours ago. Talking about deep and heavy things, as well as perfectly mundane stuff.  You taught me so, so much. In the way that you lived and the way that you died.

Your memory is a blessing. I’m privileged to have known you. May you rest in peace.

In a Hurry
Janet S.
I want to see, touch, do, taste, smell, feel everything. I want to go everywhere, walk the earth, climb the mountains and snowboard down. Try everything at least once.
Lots to do, I’m in a hurry. Not much time left. How long do I have before the cancer makes it impossible? Narrows the world to just my room, my doctor’s office, the hospital? I don’t know, I can’t know.
Time wasted planning for a future I don’t have. Working to save for a family I will never have. No more, I’m here now to experience everything. To dance and sing and laugh around the world and at home.
But, I can’t do it all. No lifetime is enough to experience everything. To watch the sunrise from space.
I will see, touch, do, taste, smell, feel everything I can. In my lifetime, however long or short it may be. And it will be enough.

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Life’s Difficult Lesson

5.1.2017

We all die. That’s the one universal truth, I suppose. Nobody approaches this topic better than my friend Janet (see all my links below to her talk, music video and article). I met her through BAYS and boy am I glad I did. She is a spitfire and she is wise. She is a bright light and she is intense emotion. She is alive and she is dying. She is a contradiction. She is…..well, she just is.

Janet’s been metastatic for many years. She’s enjoyed periods of non-treatment and periods of intense treatment on and off for 10 years.  The first time Janet and I hung out one on one a few years ago, we talked about her reality. She’s the first Stage 4 metastatic person I’ve ever been close to. She told me that she’ll be in treatment for the rest of her life until the treatment simply stops working or she decides to stop treating.  Plain and simple. Black and white.

See, that’s what I adore about her. No bullshit. When she paid me a surprise visit early on during my bedrest stay with Peter. She didn’t mince words. A pediatrician herself, she knew the shit we were up against. I told her some of my naive thoughts, and she calmly, yet gently brought me back to earth. Preparing me for the potentially devastating outcomes that might’ve been for Peter. I’m so grateful to have someone like that in my life. A straight shooter who cares and comforts at the same time. Perhaps its the cancer club that makes us this way? I dunno. But it’s a sisterhood beyond anything I’ve ever experienced in my life.

Now, it’s my time to be there for Janet.  She’s at a crossroads and her treatment is diminishing her quality of life — which until this point — has been exceptional. When I sat with her at her house last week, she shook her head and told me “This isn’t living. How I feel — this sick and weak– this isn’t a life.” I read between the lines, but she went on to be very clear. She’s seriously contemplating stopping any further treatment. Chemo isn’t working. Isn’t going to extend her life measurably and is making her feel like shit. Rendering her useless on the couch all.day.long. For someone who scales mountains on the regular — she is down and out.

In the non-cancer world, we’ve all been conditioned (for some odd reason) to rally and cheer and champion someone who is dying. “keep fighting” “don’t give up” “you got this” “are you sure?” “just a little while longer” “keep going”.

Now that I live in the cancer world, I intrinsically know that when someone tells me they’re done — I get it. It’s not something to decide on a whim. It was extremely heart wrenching for me to just nod my head at my friend, blinking back my own tears, while holding her hand and telling her it’s ok if she wants to stop treatment. Make her *feel* my support for her decision. Don’t put her in position to comfort me. Don’t put her in position to defend her decision. Selfishly, of course, I want her here on earth as long as possible. But realistically, at what cost to her? It’s not worth it. I love my friend and I want what she wants. Only she knows what’s best for her. I’m just here to support and love her.

Oddly, when Janet visited me in the hospital when I was on bedrest with Peter. I remember making a joke that “surely this penance will buy me out of any cancer recurrence or metastasis, right?!” I went on to say that if I were to get cancer again, I wouldn’t have the strength to enter treatment again. Having been knee-deep into bedrest at that point I was physically and emotionally spent.  I was tapped out. Janet didn’t say what most would….. “oh don’t worry, you won’t get cancer again!” She didn’t shy away from it. She simply said “you’ll find the reserves to do it. you just will.”

Knowing that’s how Janet approaches life. I fully respect her decision to be done. I know she found her reserves and she’s tapped them to the max. Damn, has she ever lived. I am truly honored and privileged to know her and hug her and love her. I will continue to do so for as long as I can.

Below are links of Janet’s speech, music video and an article about her. Janet I LOVE you and insist on celebrating your great, big, bold life NOW.