Recently one of Bernie’s (favorite) patients was diagnosed with recurrent, metastatic breast cancer. He’s been at this job for nearly a decade but this news is always a punch in the stomach. And now, we can’t possibly distance ourselves with a we’ll-keep-her-in-our-prayers-and-now-there’s-laundry-to-fold way. Nancy described it like this:

“It must be surreal for the two of you to be pressed so close to the glass between what man can do and God’s plan.”

I keep returning to Hester Hill Schnipper’s* mantra for those diagnosed with disseminated Cancer: “it’s not curable, but it’s treatable.” While I focus on the hope of that statement—that medicines (poisons) can keep this vibrant, beautiful mom around for a long, long time—Bernie reviews the entire case for reassurances that The Team didn’t fail her. Did the surgeons, oncologists, and radiologists have the best plan? Is her cancer unusual, receptor negative, aggressive, (or in all ways unlike mine)? But the real nagging question is, “Why didn’t anyone cc God on the plan? Why isn’t God on the damn Team?” Zealot Sister may have answers for this… but I don’t.

I met her in Costco. Only days after the pathology report sentenced me to months of surgeries and baldness, Bernie and I took our prepare-for-the-Armageddon shopping list to the superstore. Bulk buying has never failed to improve the mood of my husband, and grocery preparedness seemed like a better plan for the day than putting on the brave face for the kids. As our carts met mid-aisle at the canned corn, Bernie’s former patient recognized her doctor, and after introductions I was given the usual spiel of Bernie-gratitude that I never tire of hearing. But she could sense something was wrong. So right there, under the eyes of a hundred Jolly Green Giants, I told this complete (to me) stranger, that I was about to be a patient in the same office that treated her. More hugs, tears, and assurances that life would eventually return to normal. She had long, gorgeous hair. She pointed to her over-sized cart that was brimming with all of the provisions for a teenage sleepover at her house. She was Survival in Skinny Jeans, proof of a fun-filled life down the road. And now for this lively, pretty lady who was so quick to share this-is-scary tears with me at Costco… all of that surgery and chemo didn’t keep her Cancer away.

I think all of us here in Pink Ribbonville try (and often fail) to keep tears at bay when someone new is diagnosed. It’s part of our Welcome Wagon package. The news dredges up all of the terror, pain, cold, and loss I don’t want anyone else to experience. Now as a new Cancer Veteran, I occasionally entertain the notion that a cosmic card has already been punched. At the very least I have a two-year Jury Duty served kind of exclusion? But the real possibility of recurrence, or (in Hester’s case) a second primary tumor, or the death sentence of metastatic disease looms for all of us. Recently, as this crappy news cast a large shadow over Bernie and me, and Maria, and the rest of the Team of Doctors who are caring for this lovely lady, I need to believe that God is on the Team. Of course he’s in on the plan: He scripts The Plan. And maybe Zealot Sister has answers for the then why? Why? WHY?… but I don’t.

*http://bidmc.org/YourHealth/BIDMCInteractive/Blogs/LivingwithBreastCancer.aspx

Nancy says the site needs an About Me section. Really? I think you know all about me at this point. The mere notion brings to mind that famous college essay published in some literary rag and passed around in the early 90s (via photocopies as there was no email or internet, youngsters). Do you remember it? The applicant eschewed all formality and just told a whole bunch of whoppers. It was endearing and entertaining; unfortunately Ivy wannabes have been plagiarizing it for years so it has lost its spark. But whenever I’m asked to pen a blurb about myself, the most ridiculous things come to mind.

My crowning achievement in 10th grade was winning an award at the Regional Typing Championship (ahem, First Place, Region 9). As the quickest typist in school, I was sent to some remote locale to represent Unionville High amongst the other, future Girl Fridays with this silly talent (I recall no boys stationed at any of the IBM Selectrics). The contest was on the weekend, and I remember mom dragging her feet to drive me to the outskirtiest township for the dubious honor of being asked to type competitively. I can’t remember how well I did against the rest of the state, but it was enough for a loudspeaker shout out by the Principal during the Morning Announcements. I was kind of proud. I mean, seriously, 60 wpm without errors? Yeah, beat that.

Lisa, my best friend, came barreling down the hall after homeroom and I prepared myself for congratulations and accolades.

“YOU DORK! Oh my GOD! I can’t believe they announced that. Are you SO embarrassed?”

Um, now I am.

So I am reluctant to write the About Me section because even though writing little essays might be something I can do quickly (and with some style… or at least my style), maybe this “talent” is a touch embarrassing in my willingness to over-share it.

As I grappled with blog design and cutting and pasting (ooh, and putting fun pictures into the posts!) last week, I got a phone call from good old Lisa Taylor (Pfeufer). She recently passed her 5-year cancer free anniversary and wanted to let me know that she was still keeping up with my story over here. She assured me that although there are thousands of breast cancer blogs out there, I need to keep writing—that this aftermath-y time is unique, that these feelings pass, and that it’s important to document them in the moment. And also, that I’m not a total DORK for having a blog.

This still won’t suffice as an About Me section (will it Nancy?). Hmmm, I also do a spot on seagull imitation, can still recite all of the prepositions in alphabetical order, and as mentioned before, I fold a mean fitted sheet. Seriously, you’d never know if it was flat or fitted from my dexterously folded stack. It’s a gift. Multiple publications in scientific journals (one in Aquatic Botany!), two graduate degrees, oodles of honor societies, Master Gardener, wife, mom, and fried-rice slinging breast cancer survivor is probably what Nancy had in mind. But isn’t the Typing Champ story more fun?

Holding on to this trophy all of these years probably says more about me than any About Me section ever could.

After months of over-sharing on the CarePages, I think that a startling number of you have become familiar with All Things Lee. But maybe a new site warrants a one-time explanation of how someone who kind of loathes the whole idea of blogging ended up doing just that? When Nancy urged me to write a synopsis for the faraway editor, I was able to sum up the experience with my usual, AP English, five paragraph style (Mrs. Byrne would be so proud of me).

With a devoted husband, adorable children, steadfast friends, and prayer circling Episcopalians, I don’t know anyone who marinates more happily in Love than this formerly blonde girl. How boring: mom with Cancer has fantastically supportive network. But my story is more than mooning over my near perfect children and prince charmy husband. This blog is also about my Taiwanese in-laws, deep love of champagne, shameless vanity, and blossoming Faith. As a former physician and immunologist, I’ve confronted the scientific, technical, and emotional aspects of mastectomy and breast reconstruction from both sides of the operating table and found that in the end, no matter what you know, it’s all about prayer and hair.

I was a forty-year-old stay-at-home-despite-a-bunch-of-diplomas mom when I responsibly scheduled that first (and last) screening mammogram and came home with Cancer: the invasive, drastic surgery, go bald kind. In my past life as a surgical resident, I’d looked at oodles of mammograms and assisted an attending physician on many lumpectomies, lymph node biopsies, and mastectomies. Coincidentally, my darling husband, Bernie, is a plastic surgeon, and his practice focuses almost exclusively on reconstructive breast surgery. Bernie does exactly this for a living, and has treated over a thousand women like me. Bernie is not only a surgically skilled perfectionist, he is also widely published in this field, associate editor of a major plastic surgery journal, co-founder of the largest DIEP flap center in New England, and currently the Acting Chief of the Division of Plastic Surgery at his hospital. For the pair of us, this was very familiar territory; and we largely ignored the made-for-the-movies irony of a premier breast cancer surgeon’s wife getting breast cancer. But even a well-connected, unusually well informed couple can be quite pedestrian in the scared shitless department. However, we had the warm blanket of knowledge, and complete trust in the people who are caring for me. Nearly all of the experts in this field are Bernie’s colleagues, they are our friends. Unfortunately this not only robbed me a healthy bit of denial, but also meant I had to stand naked and scared in front of people I’ve known for years.

In the teary panic that followed my diagnosis, and the following days awaiting results from scans and biopsies, Bernie sanctioned and my friends established the CarePages (http://www.carepages.com/carepages/BrittLeeCarepage). This was intended to keep well-wishers in the loop, and away from the phone and my front door. It was such a good idea… and I wanted no part of it. I insisted it should be left wide open to anyone who wanted to join it because, ewww, email INVITES to ask otherwise happy people to share in my current terror? Blech. Also, I’d never post anything, you know, PERSONAL. But what began as a simple site to announce test results and casserole preferences to a handful of mommies and cousins evolved into a real blogging (ewww) sort of thing. Very quickly it became vital for me to compose these little essays to assuage the fear of my family and friends, and to make some sense of the “why me?” of it all. Also, there was another story that kept leaking into those 3am postings: my life as a dutiful daughter-in-law in my husband’s Taiwanese family. Their wacky superstitions, foods, advice, and energy audits were even more magical, ridiculous, helpful, and hilarious once Cancer entered the picture. I also kept writing because aside from the pink books that told me I wouldn’t die, I couldn’t stand what I was reading.

As I organize these essays into some sort of readable story, I realize that I’m a bit of a Jesus girl. Although I was a relative newcomer to our Church, I found myself on a handful of committees and had just wrapped up co-chairing our annual fundraising event when I got the bad news. These faithful people, some who I had only ever met briefly, mobilized an army of parishioners whose prayers I swear I could feel. The support of my Church community has been my crutch. Even better than VIP status at the hospital as Mrs. Dr. Bernie Lee was the knowledge that my fellow parishioners were out there, sending me cosmic healing messages of Love.  The God I’ve come to know is an ever-present, ever-loving gift. My prayers still smack of kid-who-wants-a-pony, but at least now, as a result of this ordeal, I feel like there’s a deeper conversation happening.

East Meets Breast: wife of Taiwanese plastic surgeon gets breast cancer, hilarity ensues, God appears. Ultimately, though, it’s a love story… a love story between two people who just happen to know a good deal about breast cancer and its treatment. And though I have chronicled the fallout of this diagnosis on my family and small children, I hope that I did that with love and a greater deal of humor than the dry and terrifying cancer blogs I cruised to find survival stories. If they are like me, women struggling with the terror of breast cancer are eating these up like salted caramels. All of us are looking for stories with better endings. Or barring that, just stories that are better stories.

The Family Lee at our silly best… (photo credit: http://www.drewwiedemann.com)

I still haven’t decided if all of the CarePages entries should be shuttled over to provide the background for East Meets Breast. I’ll probably leave them behind and sally forth with stories of The Aftermath: short hair styling, strapless dress fears, meditation with A-Gong, and very soon, A Road Trip With Steve Safran!

December 2011. The mammogram was suspicious, the biopsy was conclusive. Reeling from the news that I was now the one in the 1-in-8, that I would lose my hair and maybe die anyway, it was necessary to tell the girls. Ever since the days of bang-curling and boy-calling, sleepover-snubs and friendship pins, we gals need each other in the know. For those I find to be kindred spirits (all of you dear readers), I’m a fast friend and you’re IN. I’m a sharer. And now a blogger (ew). But it all started here with this email to my oldest girlfriends, my favorite mommies, the Churchy-do-gooders who also smoke and swear, and the fierce Stockton cousins.

Hi pretty ladies, my dearest friends, the ones who know all of my secrets…

I’ve been incompletely texting/emailing some of you during this stressful week, but here’s the news: I have breast cancer. The high grade already invasive kind. We just told the boys and chemo’s got to be easier than that. I’m a mess. No amount of waterproof mascara can help. But Ativan is getting me through this day so far. I have an amazing husband who is one of the world experts in this exact area, and is still the love of my life. I have local friends who will take my kids at a moment’s notice. I already have casseroles on the doorstep. And the twin grandmas arrive today to be a flurry of cute activity. We’ve prepared the boys for lots of tears.

I plan to be positive, upbeat, witty, and not dead. But I may be texting you at odd hours so I can hear, “it’s OK” again.  And I don’t plan to keep this hush hush… especially when I could be spending Spring Break fashionably bald. So I’d appreciate if you could tell the people I haven’t. So I don’t have to explain why I’m drinking all of this green tea instead of my usual bubbles.

I will call all of you eventually… but right now, doing that makes me cry and I don’t want to terrify the children any more today.

I LOVE ALL OF YOU!

Britt

My willingness to go public was the inspiration for the CarePages which netted me a prayer circle of 200 faithful followers and over a thousand heartfelt and hilarious messages about God and Love, Beauty and Strength, Boobs and Hair. But now that the wigs and hats have been shoved into the back of the closet it makes sense to move my little musings over to a site that doesn’t really insist that you Care in a casserole-cooking, care-package crafting kind of way. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still take those prayers in my steadfastly superstitious need to ward off the evil eye of recurrent cancer. But this site is primarily for fun. And because it’s not edited for content (or filth) it’s open to all sorts of literary shenanigans.

Welcome to East Meets Breast.

Autumn at the Lees: cords that go weenk-weenk, carrying the one, Way to Go! stickers on spelling tests, pumpkin muffins, and boys (all three) piled on the couch to watch football and grind potato chip crumbs into the cushions. The kids weren’t interested in fall soccer (hooray!) so weekends can be spent mum-planting, apple-picking, and nothing-doing. I adore this stretch of time from the first yellow bus sighting leading up to the decking of halls. It’s an optimistic time of year that feels very hug-your-neighbor to me. I feel so strong and hopeful that I took my biggest leap of Faith to date: I told Laine to remove my name from the Redeemer prayer list.

Of course this felt all sorts of jinx-y to me, not to mention ungrateful. What’s the etiquette here? Britt Lee heartily thanks those who have been chatting up God on her behalf. I owe all of you a dinner out, a scented candle, a pretty card, a bottle of wine, free Botox. Your prayers are responsible for my Peace. I know that I’ll still have a steady stream from Zealot Sister and family and other do-gooders, but coming off the list was another page turned in my Book of Cancer as I write my way to the end of it.

The penultimate chapter happened last month when April invited the boys and me for an afternoon on the boat. I love the fact that April has a boat, an actually kind of big boat that supports deep-sea fishing and sleeping-of-four and peeing. I love even more the fact that I had no idea April owned a gigantic boat until I’d known her for two years, and even then didn’t know it could cocktail cruise us to Martha’s Vineyard in 20 minutes time. All of you know the myriad reasons April and I are buddies, but I’ve got to say… everyone should really get herself one of these boat-owning friends. (She’s absolutely cringing at this.)

It was a day I’ll never forget because it was a turning point for me alongside my brave little boys. The Ridiculously Athletic Anderson Family tradition is to anchor really quite far from the beach, swim to shore, and then voluntarily jump off of a really quite high bridge made famous for cinematic shark attacks. There was a little part of me that wondered why I did all of that surgery and chemo if I was going to die in the open ocean trying to keep up with the aquatic shenanigans of this towheaded team of Andersons. But I did it. I strapped a boogie board to my wrist and swam my boys to shore. I helped Brodie hurl himself into (shark-free) waters from the No Jumping Allowed Bridge. My boys saw me swimming strongly, sanctioning risks, and having fun with a glass of Sancerre in my hand and the wind in my short hair. I’ve come a long way from the trappings of Sick Mommy.

But the boys haven’t put this on the out-of-reach shelf yet. Just a few days after the boating excitement, the boys witnessed me arguing with CVS staff about tamoxifen refills. Then, because it was a rainy, chilly day at the Cape, my stolen afternoon reading time morphed into zzz’s under the covers. Teddy found me snoozing in the afternoon and asked, quite devastatingly, “Mommy, did you have chemo again today?” Ugh. Guilt. A thousand reassurances about what tamoxifen does and does not do. I may never nap again.

So although I am fine and well and fully encourage the return to regularly scheduled prayer programs, maybe you’ll keep Brodie and Teddy in mind for a little longer. Although bridge jumping kinds of days assure them that I’m better, I cannot know how large their catalog of bad memories looms. But just when I needed it, I was given a little hint of angels in their midst. Teddy returned from his first day of school and described his 2nd grade teacher: “She’s nice. And she’s REALLY good at keeping secrets.” Every grown up should strive to inspire that summary from a child. As Teddy continues to make sense of that nutty time when mommy slept through afternoons, I know he’ll keep us posted with heartbreaking and hilarious journal entries to his trusted teacher. Certainly his self-confidence hasn’t been tested by any of this. When I asked him what kinds of secrets she’s so good at keeping he was quick to tell me, “… she’d never tell the other kids how good I am at math.”

First Day of School