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!…..

 

Hello, I Have Cancer….

I wrote this two years ago and just came across it in my draft posts. I added a little bit at the end to bring it up to date. Enjoy:

So I was watching the Tig Notaro Netflix documentary and I decided it was high time for me to write my own reflective story. So here goes:

Hello, I’m infertile.  I thought the very worst thing in my life was that I couldn’t get pregnant.  For years my husband and I tried. We tried the old fashioned way. We tried the least invasive way. We tried the middle of the road invasive way We tried the most invasive way, multiple times over. Yet no pregnancy and no baby.  I wept and I wept every single month that we failed to get pregnant. And I say “we” loosely.  When you struggle with infertility, it quickly becomes an “I” game, not a “we” game. I had to do all the shots, I had to take all the hormones I had to check my underwear everys single time I went to the bathroom praying that my period wouldn’t show her nasty face. Sure, my husband was also infertile in a way — but he wasn’t physically going through anything. It was all on my shoulders and I was failing, miserably.

And after three years of infertility treatments, including 10 IUI’s with and without injectables and 4 IVF rounds including a few frozen embryo transfers, we still were without a child.

It was the worst kind of hell a person could be asked to live through.  I was working full-time at a very demanding start-up company.  I was juggling my personal hell with my professional goals.  It was horrible. I was miserable. I thought it was the very worst thing that could ever happen to me in my whole entire life. And then I was diagnosed with cancer.

If I could go back and whisper in my own ear, here’s what I would tell myself.

Andrea, hold tight to Paul even though you’re mad that he doesn’t feel “in the mood” and your ovulation window is closing. Hold tight to him because you can’t have a baby anyway. Hold tight to him and love him purely. You are about to find out that having a baby the old fashioned way isn’t an option for you. So hold on to this connection as long as you can. Nobody really talks about it, but having sex “on demand” is horrid — it can break a couple in half quickly. So hold tight to this loving man who appreciates you and your body, even though it hasn’t yielded a baby.

Andrea, you’re now 8 months into your fertility journey. Keep your head held high. You’re doing the right thing. It sucks to have to give yourself shots and that you cringe every time a friend posts her ultrasound to Facebook announcing her pregancy. Remember, she doesn’t know what you’re struggling with infertility because you’re intent on keeping it a secret from the world.

Andrea, why are you still keeping this a secret? It’s now been 3 years since you started this journey. your medical expenses have topped out over $100,000 and you’ve given yourself over 1,000 shots to the belly. Don’t you think it’s time to share this complete fucking hell with somebody?

Andrea, don’t you feel so much better now that you’ve told your family what you’ve been struggling with. Honestly, this has been the WORST thing imaginable. But it’s been really nice to have their support. You feel a new sense of energy and sticktuitivness, Ready to conquer the next hurdle.

Then you feel the lump. You talk to Paul about it but try to brush it off. You talk to your fertility nurse about it and try to brush it off.  Then the lump persists. You can’t ignore it. You go to the doctor and she fells it and orders some follow-up tests. Still, in your mind, you brush it off. What.could.be.worse.than.3.years.of.infertility?

Breast cancer.  It was laughable to me when it happened. Fucking hilarious. Seriously, for real?

After all that’d I’d been through, I got cancer. Wow.just.wow.

Andrea, just hold on a little while longer. 2 more years. You can do it. You can handle having your breasts amputated. You can handle surgical recovery. You can handle chemotherapy. You can handle your body being reduced to a lump of shit with no muscle definition or endurance. You can handle testing your marriage, yet again. You can handle it all.

Andrea, you can handle it all — but you will have your moments. You will have those times when you dont want to be the superhero. When you don’t want to smile through the tears. When you dont feel like asking another person how THEY feel. When you want to be selfish and cry. and weep. and weep. and weep. and wallow.

Andrea, your beloved dog will die unexpectedly just as you are feeling like yourself after chemo is finally done. This will knock you an on your ass. You will question everything that you thought you understood in this world. You will become angry. More angry than when you found out you had cancer, You will be sad. So sad. Sadder than when you couldn’t have a baby month after month after month.

You truly thought you’d been dealt the worst of the worst. First the infertilty, then the cancer, then your fucking dog died. What next? How much lower can you go?

Andrea, you will look up through your tear-drenched eyes and see the love that your husband has for you. You will realize he is all you need in this world. Baby, no baby. Dog, No dog, Cancer, no cancer. He is your salvation. Stop taking him for granted. He is incredible. Look no further. He’s been at your side the whole time. Quietly and not so quietly rooting for you. Whether you know it or not. He’s been your biggest fan.

Andrea, you’ll get the type of cancer that’s incerdibly aggressive — BUT it’s the kind with no aftercare for 10 years. You can hop yourself up full of hormoes and still carry a pregnancy.

Andrea, you will become pregnant and enjoy every single second of it, including the birth.

Andrea, all of your wishes and dreams WILL come true and you will be happier than you could’ve ever imganined. You will want to bottle the emotions because they’re like crack. You could make a fortune selling this feeling to other people.

You are one lucky son of a gun. What a long strange trip it’s been.

Post script – you get pregnant for a second time and almost lose the baby at 22 weeks. Life seems likes it’s at another all time low.

Andrea, hang in there. After an emergency surgery and nearly 8 weeks of hospital bedrest, you’ll get to go home and serve another 7 weeks of bedrest. But at the end of the day, you’ll get a second baby who is perfect.

In the end, you’ll end up with a daughter and a son. They are perfect in every way.

Andrea, your marriage is still intact and strong. Hopefully the shit show the past 7 years will become a distant memory very soon…..

xoxo.
Me

#TBT – Full Circle

Throw back Thursday — I wrote this piece when we were on vacation last month:
Here I am, once again, blogging by the pool on the magical island of Kauai.  My absolute favorite place on this earth.  We came here on our “cancermoon” in 2012 to center ourselves before my surgery and chemo.  The island worked its magic and we got back to San Francisco ready to face my cancer head on.
We were also here on Kauai that dreaded day when Dr. Smith called to tell us that IVF didn’t work.  Earlier today we walked by the store and bench we sat on in Hanalei when the sad news was delivered to us. We got a little emo remembering that day – then looked down at Nora in her stroller and felt like we won the lottery!
This trip, we’ve come full circle.  It’s been 2 years since I finished treatment, I have a full head of hair again and my beautiful, perfect daughter is here with us (only piece missing is crazy Maisey).
It feels so nice to be reclaiming those sad times and to *finally* rewrite our story.
But I can’t help but wonder and feel scared when Paul says things like “we have our whole lives to watch Nora grow and take her on adventures”.  Last night at dinner he said something along those lines again (a perfectly natural statement for any new parent to marvel about) and I quietly whispered “what if I don’t have my whole life to watch my baby girl grow and thrive?”  And told him that I feel scared and sad when he makes grand, long-term statements like that. I could see Paul processing my statement and; for the first time in a long time, he just sat quietly and looked at me with love. Normally he’s so quick to say “You’re fine now. And you’re going to be fine” but this time, he didn’t give me a canned answer. He just accepted my feelings and didn’t try to fix the situation or dismiss my fears. His eyes were sad, I could tell part of him wanted to be the cheerleader and dismiss my negative nelly thoughts — but I’m so glad he didn’t.  It was only a 2 minute exchange, but I felt closer to him than ever.  The reality is that I might get cancer again. or I might not.  That’s it. There’s nothing more to it. It may or may not happen. But having already been there, I really don’t want to go back.
I also think that all new parents feel a sense of mortality when they bring a baby into the word.  I think it’s natural to want to be there for your child no matter what and to wonder what would happen to your child if you weren’t there.  It’s scary to think about whether you’ve had a history of cancer or not.
I look forward to every milestone with my precious, gorgeous, smart Nora. But I don’t allow myself the luxury of looking too far into the future. I just enjoy every single moment of every single day with her and my wonderful husband. Life is damn good right this very second and I am so thrilled to be living it!