Tag Archives: Breast Cancer

December, by Steve Safran

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December. This is a notable month for me and Britt. It was two years ago that we shared our respective big news, albeit on markedly different fronts. I moved out of my home, in the first step toward a divorce. Upstaging me considerably on the Oh Crap meter, Britt told us, her friends, that she had breast cancer.

It took years to work up to a divorce. Britt stole all my thunder with one mammogram. I have yet to forgive her fully.

So, for both of us, December 2013 marks the second anniversary of our reorganizations. Britt’s changes involved an unplanned physical assault on her body and peace of mind, a year’s worth of rotating relatives, hair loss, hair growth, and a blog. My reorg was self-imposed, required the packing and unpacking of many boxes, job changes, post-marital dating (and a blog). Within a span of three months, I’d lived in three different locations, finally settling into an apartment near Nordstrom’s. I hardly expected that years of domestic disharmony would lead to the mall. But for me, Black Friday simply means I can’t get out of my driveway.

The second part of my reorg was my mental health. I had suffered years of depression and anxiety. Although I have regulated the depression, the anxiety remains. I suspect it always will. A visit a couple of years back to Dr. Drug Dispenser yielded this diagnosis: “You’re fucked.” Not kidding. Direct quote. Let it be noted that I, like Britt, do not approve of candy-coated health information. “Fucked” was an excellent diagnosis, accurate and pithy.

In what now seems an absurdity, one year into my reorg in December 2012, I became a producer on a series for the Discovery Channel called “Amish Mafia.” The highly rated “reality” show was a lot of fun. The pay was good and the hours, though long, were tolerable. But the commute blew. It meant weekly trips to New York City, coming back to Natick on weekends to cram in a week’s worth of quality time with the kids. And the awesome paycheck was largely wasted on overpriced New York sublets. After two seasons, I’d had enough, and announced The Amish would have to keep being Amish without my guidance.

Reorganization needs support, and I had plenty. My family and friends were there. Last December, when I was at a particularly low point, I arranged a “grownups cocktail hour” over here above the mall so I could spend an evening drinking and laughing and reminiscing with Britt and our other college cronies. When reorganization leaves you feeling adrift and lonely, seeing old friends in their holiday finest and reminding you that you are loved and occasionally funny… well, that helps.

You know what else helps? Fate. Luck. Love. Britt would call it the Holy Spirit (and there she goes, wielding her editorial power), but I wouldn’t. This December also marks a year since my first date with a woman I met on Match.com. She billed herself as “Agent 99” and, as I am a huge “Get Smart” fan, drew my attention immediately. After a few exhanges, 99 and I took our virtual relationship into a nice restaurant. I met this smart and funny and pretty woman. I also love the fact that she found a typo in my Match.com bio describing myself as an annoyingly fastidious writer. My life turned on a typo, unearthed by Agent 99.

This December, I don’t have a job and Britt has chin-length hair. Our reorganization continues. But as the pair of us head into another holiday season that evokes all sorts of bad memories, an intervening year creating better ones makes it all seem like there are many reasons for drinks to be poured. And next week is the second annual Grownups Cocktail Hour.

HELLO DECEMBER

Master Gardening

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Master Gardeners take master gardening quite seriously. They are masters, after all; and those who have earned merit badges usually insist that others endure a similar amount of torture to acquire theirs. Many of these fanny-packing, rubber-clogging, organic-everything conservationists log countless hours pulling weeds in public gardens and manning the HelpLine. I didn’t. I was content to remain a Master Gardening “intern” indefinitely. After completing the 13-week course with its myriad lectures and homework assignments and volunteer gardening shifts, I was content with my newfound knowledge, binder of notes, and soil testing results. I didn’t mind how my bright yellow intern badge contrasted with the forest green of “certified” gardeners or the venerated gold badge of “lifers.” This is just gardening… so… um… (very quietly)… does anyone really care?

Yes. Yes, they do. Yesterday I received a curt email informing me that my “status” was about to be switched to “archived” for my inability to log 60 volunteer hours since graduation. This, from a gang of reusable tote-toting, composting cat-lovers to whom I’ve devoted 48 hours of free work:

…sadly only 25 of them count towards the Certified collection– you can only use 6 of the Admin hours so the others are banked until you have your green badge. So you need:

12 hours HelpLine

11 hours of approved Outreach

3 hours of approved gardening

1 hour of Continuing Education

Plus 8 more hours of any combination of gardening and outreach

They were kind enough to honor my Big Cancer Excuse for failing to check all of these green badge-worthy boxes in a timely fashion.

If you are of this world, recognize an entity call The Internet and its effective little encyclopedia for the universe called Google, you might wonder why a HelpLine staffed by Master Gardeners exists. But it does. And three years ago, when graduation required we waste a certain number of hours replying to inane emails and fielding questions from bored elderlies, I wondered that, too. One morning, the only phone call was from an octogenarian requesting tips for freezing basil. Emails to the HelpLine are usually to-pull-or-not-to pull soliloquies, and include fuzzy pictures of overgrown common weeds. And every single scintillating exchange must be documented longhand in a gigantic binder as if some future historian might want access to Official Garden Emergencies of 2013. Another dozen hours in that cinder block cell is varsity level hazing of the nerdiest kind.

I’m less focused on completing an additional 35 hours of volunteer garden grunt work than learning which clickety-clack meeting-knitter ratted me out to the administration. Is there some seditious faction of sober gardeners who want me “archived?” It’s quite possible I don’t really fit in, being rather fond of fancier footwear, and being mostly indifferent to cats. But in order to earn the green badge of this lofty class of shear-wielders, I’ll have to follow their rules. Anticipating twelve hours addressing your most pressing plant problems with Girl Scout enthusiasm… just as soon as I run out of excuses (and master gardener stereotypes).

I may not be "certified," but I can grow a lovely flower.

No green badge required to grow this beauty.

A new kind of awareness

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Today, this made a lot of people really happy.

I’m in awe. I want to meet her and hug her and be her (millionth) best friend. Look at her all adorable and smiling sunbeams and effectively preventing everyone in that room from crying! But I’ll bet you a Beyonce hair extension that tears flowed after the camera stopped and anesthesia started. A woman this spectacular is a woman adored. And no one wants what happens next to happen next. To anyone. To her. In addition to the millions who “like” this, there are thousands more sobbing atop their restructured parts (please pass me a tissue).

Roughly one in eight of us is thrilled October and all its yammering awareness is over. After Halloween, we were relieved that daily reminders of our personal demons had stopped polluting our newsfeeds, and tote bags, and cereal boxes. I wonder if, like me, they watched this gem of a video and thought, “This. This is ‘awareness.’” A beautiful, groovy gal in a backless gown shows us one way to plow through the terror of it all: with love… and a bit of Beyonce.

I’ve been quite vocal about championing Angelina Jolie for her spotlight on breast reconstruction after mastectomy. She brought awareness to the triumph of reconstructive surgery over devastating mutilation. Famous for being stunning before and after her mastectomies, she provides compelling evidence to women with this distressing diagnosis that the road to recovery isn’t necessarily the autobahn to ugly. Bravely sharing the nitty gritty of her medical treatments, she effectively outlined what women should expect as a “standard of care” faster than any number of 5K runners in tight, pink clothing. Today, I applaud Dr. Deborah Cohan for putting a groovy spin on awareness, for showing us the triumph of spirit over fear.

I hope today’s viral, feel-good story will be famous for longer, and for so much more than her johnnie jamboree. Deborah Cohan hijacked “awareness” like a John Malkovich movie cameo, showing us it can be quirky and cool. (For all of the good they do, Komen has become a bit of a Kardashian.) Don’t you want to know Dr. Cohan and her fun bunch of boogying buddies? What a gift to the people who love her: to show them joy when they feel dread, to give them Beyonce when they’re expecting dirges, to share herself (with the world!) when they (we!) need to know desperately that this isn’t breaking her. While I’m preoccupied with Pink-tober backlash rants, here is this brave woman reminding us of the big picture in a tiny space. She marshaled six minutes on the scariest day of her life to show everyone who loves her that she knows she’s loved, that joyfulness hasn’t died with this diagnosis, that it’s going to be OK. And in our hearts, we’re all dancing with her.

Twirly Fabulous

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Modern Cancer-acquiring girls have the gift of social media, and if you’re comfortable being blab blab blabby about it, you don’t have to endure the disease alone. I now have dozens of virtual friends in this Crap Sorority of the Previously Bald and Possibly Dying. I’ve met most of these gals through friends-of-friends because, for whatever reason, people who know people who have Cancer want you to know they know other people who have Cancer, too. And because all Cancer-y girls will certainly be besties, they feel adorably obligated to broker the introduction. And even though I wrote that as if it’s annoying… it’s not. At all. (Although maybe take a moment to wonder if you have ever uttered, “Sally had Cancer… you should call her!”) I have texted, phoned, emailed, written, and blog-messaged with at least 100 women who found a lump, who can’t get out of bed, who are still doing CrossFit, who can’t choose a wig, who didn’t know how to tell the kids, who like their hair and hate their hair and grew their hair or love it short, and who want a sympathetic soundboard to blame those extra ten pounds on Tamoxifen.

Tara is one such internet-derived friend-of-friend. A decade my junior, there are still many similarities to how we slog and blog through the aftermath, although she does it with teeny children underfoot while continuing to work at her smartypants job. She’s a do-gooding lawyer and wicked brave and brutally honest. To point, she recently posted her weight. Few people are this honest. I get on the scale, sway, lean, inhale pointlessly, and round down. When subjected to the Balance of Shame in the doctor’s office, I console myself with the delusion that my flippy skirts are, really, rather quite heavy. But Tara posted her weight to disarm its Debby Downer reality and embrace it as a sign of her health. Most of us enjoy a temporary svelteness when the terror of a Cancer diagnosis makes us vomit and forget to eat. Surgery and chemo serve well as a weight-maintenance plan. But just as we’re feeling all groovy with our new parts and hair, hunger and Tamoxifen bring us right back to where we were (or a little ahead of that). Tara posted her weight as an in-your-face, here-I-am, suck-it-Cancer announcement, and by doing so, robbed a silly number of its power. This makes her kind of awesome.

As someone less awesome, I’m flabbergasted as to why that damn slide weight is still being coaxed to the right after an entire summer of liquefied veggie meals. It might have something to do with Prosecco… but c’mon metabolism, give a girl a break. Normally, I don’t focus on numbers, because I always assume that I look fabulous, and a digital judgment from an Amazon.com appliance shouldn’t interfere with my good common sense. But a handful of recent Cancer follow up appointments had me standing on scales in my (heavy) flippy skirts, wondering why I drank all of that kale. Happily, my faithful, on line Crap Sorority friends will always chime in to commiserate, and blame it on obviously very thick clothing or chemo-edema or Tamoxifen in spite of research which suggests that cupcakes might part of the problem.

This week, I chose to combat my anti-estrogen fueled liposomes at the barre (as my favorite belly-up version isn’t helping). Because I adore sitting still or only gracefully moving my appendages slowly, I’ve been doing yoga for two years. But I’ve grown bored with the ohm-ing, so maybe I can twirl myself to skinny? Pure Barre was the intended topic of this collection of paragraphs, because I am walking so funny today. After two classes repeating exercises shamelessly designed to tame jiggly bits—a refreshing departure from thumbs-to-third-eye yoga, for sure– I realize Pure Barre is only loosely informed by ballet. I had envisioned a morning doing mini back bends in fifth position accompanied by Mozart, but instead found myself staring into full length mirrors at my jiggly bits as we plié-d and tucked and lifted at Macklemore speed until our thighs wiggled with exhaustion. And there was no twirling. Nothing about this summons the loveliness I associate with ballet… except the instructors… who are interchangeably pretty and perfect and can do all of these drills without the slack jawed, holy-fuck-torture face. I may have mentioned once or twice how much I loathe exercise, in general, so you can imagine my disappointment that a ballet class was actually cardio. Bah.

But I’m going back. First of all, I already paid for a month of classes. And also, there was a noticeable dearth of jiggly bits in that room. Maybe Pure Barre is onto something. Or not. Certainly Tara is.

If I were as brave as Tara, I’d insert my weight here, followed by a quip about how twirly fabulous I feel. And honestly, after an entire summer slurping salad through a straw, I feel pretty twirly fabulous. But it would also be nice if this skirt wasn’t so heavy.

I didn't get to do this once at Pure Barre...

I didn’t get to do this at Pure Barre…

The Juicer

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I bought a juicer. For Bernie. For his birthday.

This was the lamest birthday present of all time since 1) it suggests we are fat and unhealthy and in need of liquid veggies we’re too lazy to chew, and 2) Bernie would never, ever go to Williams Sonoma and just buy the most expensive model, and also 3) my dear husband’s Asian sensibilities make him averse to cold veggies in a that’s-been-growing-in-compost-so-should-be-annhilated-with-heat kind of way. So, really, a lame ass birthday present all around. Couple the expensive kitchen appliance with my mother’s adorable notion that Bernie would ever pair these with his new tuxedo:

"Pumps" with bows. Yikes.

“Pumps” with bows. Yikes.

…and we have a banner birthday haul for my Yankee Doodle Bernie.

To be honest, I wanted the juicer. The near quarterly weigh-ins at routine physicals, specialty appointments, and biannual oncology checkups are an annoying reminder that if I don’t stay svelte, I’m not giving my all to the Big Cancer Fight. A recurrence would be devastating. But thinking I barbeque potato chipped my way back to chemo could possibly make it worse. So, I’m juicing and I’m skinny and feel healthy and look fabulous. But here’s another bit of honesty: it’s sort of gross, it’s a pain in touchas, and I’m fucking hungry.

All that aside, dear Stevie recently bought a juicer, too. Now that he’s a (part-time) New Yorker, this was de rigeur. Although no one thinks he’ll actually, really–like ever– use the vegetable pulverizing product (Steve being a man more commonly associated with beer and grilled meats on sticks), here’s how he summed it up:

I’m pleased about the raw food craze. At last– something I can cook.

He also admitted that it was a bit of a social pressure purchase. I mean, isn’t everyone juicing? Ginger infused kale drinks have replaced our soy mocha latte afternoons as sneakily as Macklemore lyrics have infested my 8 year old’s daily lexicon. And as long as “The Popeye” at the local juicing joint costs as much as an hour of babysitting, we’ll all find ourselves at Williams Sonoma asking ridiculous questions about pulp… and then we’ll stare at the ridiculous appliance that is now the kitchen counter equivalent of the NordicTrack. Because it’s a bitch to clean. And no matter how organic, vegan, honeybee-defending healthy you might be, at some point (if you’re like me) you will grow tired of liquefied salad… and will crave grilled meat on sticks.

But for now, I’m still juicing. Because I am vain, and drinking all of these cucumbers and spinach and parsley and carrots and celery and apples and peppers has me glowing with health and smug superiority. “Oh, me? I have a Breville. OH MY GOD, it’s life-changing. Yes, so easy to clean. Have you tried Swiss chard?” Lies… all lies. Also, completely unsustainable, because 40 years of habit and million years of evolution require that I… at least occasionally… need to eat grilled meats on sticks. Drinking all of these veggies has me skinny-fabulous, but also feeling like a huge phony… because I totally know all of the words to Macklemore songs, spend untold hours on Candy Crush Saga, and can finish a bottle of Prosecco without any help at all. The juicing, Cancer-defying,Facebook-game-addict-wino is about as congruent as Bernie in a pair of bow-adorned flats.

hee hee

Bernie’s opinion of bow-adorned flats…

My adorable husband, who received no real birthday present at all, is oddly supportive of the juicer purchase. Although he has no interest in green, pulpy beverages, he is happy to imbibe fruitier options: mashed pineapple and orange and mango are met with yummy noises and great enthusiasm…

… but also the slightest suggestion that these fruity, healthy juices might be improved with Meyer’s Rum. I married the right boy.

Prayers and Swears

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On Friday, I was honored to join a particularly devout bunch of swaying, singing, lovely Jewish ladies to witness a mikveh. My friend Kathy, a newer member of the Shitty Sorority, had completed a brutal round of chemotherapy and wanted to mark the moment with this beautiful, traditional “cleansing” ceremony. There were songs (lots of dye-dye-dyes, a Hebrewish-y shoo-be-doo-be-doo), there were bagels (natch), and there was Sharing. We surrounded Kathy and offered her our wishes for health and healing and happiness. And when the prayer circle landed at me, I looked at my small friend, took a deep breath to reaffirm all of the other messages of hope and inspiration, and then just sort of dissolved into a blubbering mess of mascara.

“ENOUGH!” I wanted to shout. And not about the dye dye dyes, although those were plentiful. Kathy has been through enough. Although her neo-adjuvant course of chemotherapy has obliterated her tumor, she still has a bilateral mastectomy on the calendar, and another round of chemo after that. It’s not even close to over for my tiny, pretty friend. And looking at her in her adorable birdie scarf and lovely little shoes, I was mad at Cancer. Fuck you, Cancer. Awash with guilt for angry thoughts in a sacred space, I lamented showing up at the synagogue without even one Ativan coursing through my Christian veins. My anger/fear/PTSD was kindly interpreted as moved-to-tears, and these swaying, dye-dye-dye-ing women held me tighter. I left the mikveh thinking Kathy is going to be fine. These women invoked The Holy Spirit right there in a tangibly Fuck Cancer kind of way. It was pretty awesome. Dye dye dye dye dye dye dye!

The first Sunday in June is National Cancer Survivors Day. I didn’t know this, but suspect Hallmark and the makers of pink things will have this printed on calendars and beeping as Google alerts soon enough. We have a day. And celebrations. Very good people organize the whole scarred, damaged, wigged, but still living lot of us to assemble under tents to laugh and cry with each other, to share our stories, and to marvel at the mere fact our still-here-ness. These Celebrations of Life took place on thousands of campus lawns on Sunday. And on the Harvard Medical School quad, I joined a panel of veterans under a hot tent and spoke (out loud!) about Cancer for the first time.

You’d think after Friday’s Look At the Crying Shiksa debacle, I’d have brought an Ativan to the forum. You’d also think speaking about cancer would be easy peasy for a girl who cannot stop writing about it (and hardly shuts up in general). But it’s not. I get all boo hooey, and then blotchy, and then I’m worried about the mascara, and then I’m chastising myself for worrying about the mascara when last year I didn’t have eyelashes. I was ridiculously nervous, and when the first panelist was a no show, I was up first.

I had planned to read an excerpt from Cancerland, thinking this audience would laugh at those jokes, but at the last minute I added a preface about me, my diagnosis, and a bit of what it’s like to be Mrs. Dr. Bernie Lee. Stupid, stupid Britt. There was no chance of getting through this speech without crying. But when I said Bernie’s name, there was a scattered whoo hooing from different pockets under the tent, which made me so proud to be attached to him, that then I forgot to be nervous. I also forgot to be brief and went way over my allotted time. But this is a crowd that doesn’t care, that wants to hear your story, wants to know your odds and how you’re beating them, wants to celebrate survival, and will tolerate a few extra minutes listening to a short haired girl gush about her husband. The Holy Spirit was there under that hot tent, too… in a tangibly Fuck Cancer kind of way. And it was pretty awesome. Dye dye dye dye dye dye dye!

For those of you who think these sorts of things help (or even that they can’t hurt), please remember Kathy in your communion with The Big Guy. Although poisons are doing a bang up job killing her tumor cells, Cancer wrecks havoc on the soul. But prayer and kindness and love—from a tight circle of Jewish ladies, from hundreds of sweating strangers, from faceless blog readers—these things heal the soul in a beautiful, Fuck Cancer kind of way. If we cannot escape it, at least we can shout potty-mouthed insults at it, and kill its power with prayer and love. And the effect can be pretty awesome. Dye dye dye dye dye dye dye!

Isn't it lovely?

A lovely rendering of a mikveh…

Hair: a Reprise

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Is it too soon for another post about hair? I cannot avoid it. There it is atop my grateful head, making me look exactly like… a mom. I have mom hair. April, who is the sort of friend who will tell me these things, counseled me to commit: either keep growing, or abandon the effort and aim for an edgier ‘do. At this point, I’m waiting out many more months sporting too-cutesy-for-40 barrettes and headbands until my bangs reach ponytail nirvana. In the meantime, I’m your go-to girl for bake sales, playdates, orange quartering, and quinoa recipes. I’m the woman-most-likely-to-get-out-of-the-minivan. No one doubts for a soccer halftime second that I have Purell and granola bars in my purse. And unless I pledge another four inches of hair growth, I’ll be trapped under the Mommy helmet, wearing the duck boots, holding the L.L. Bean tote bag.

This isn’t entirely about hair, I suppose. Anything that incessantly reminds me of my mom-ness, robs me of a bit of Britt-ness. In my mind, I’m swinging my little skirts all over town, brightening mundane errands with witty zingers and a hair toss. When completely preoccupied with mom duties, I forget to look in the mirror. I once spent an entire day with a gummy apple affixed to the butt of my unflattering jeans. (No one told me… because dowdy mommies with small children are invisible.) When entirely–gleefully!– busy with the exhilarating and exasperating day to day doings of small boys, I am fulfilled and smart and brimming with love and gratitude. But, for me, these moments, no matter how sweet, don’t Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman. Only a swish of long hair, a full glass of bubbly, and a child-free evening in expensive shoes has me seconding that emotion.

Back in college we used to tease Jason that he was “living his hair.” Freshman year, Jason had the cascading ringlets of a mall-lingering girl wearing neon.

Somehow, it was even wilder and redder than this.

Somehow, it was even wilder and redder than this.

Jason was loud and always singing and loud and playful and loud and brilliant and loud. LOUD. Even his hair was loud… all red and curly and all over the place. But by senior year, Jason had mellowed a bit, now a Phi Beta Kappa Philosophy major, New York Times tucked under one arm, a cup of black coffee, up all night in the computer center, punctuating his deep thoughts with scotch breaks. It was time for Jason’s hair to match, so he engaged a gaggle of girls to tame his mane in a pictorial that now looks a bit drunk and hedonistic… just like Jason. (In fact, I’m reluctant to post it here even with his permission. Never has a haircut looked so… naughty.)

Today, Jason is shave-it-all bald, sporting only a yarmulke as his head coordinates with the self-discipline of his Orthodox Jewish faith. Jason is the very passionate director of a theatre company, all serious and successful, and now his hair matches this.

Too busy, handsome, and important for hair

Too busy, handsome, and important for hair

Unlike Jason, I’m not living my hair. I’m nostalgic for the locks I lost instead of embracing the evidence that I’ve made it this far. This isn’t to say my hair isn’t fabulous. Oh, it is. At the airport a few months ago, a woman sidled up sort of embarrassed with her odd request: could she take my picture? She wanted her stylist to see my hair. She wanted my haircut… as if this were a real, on purpose, not cancerous feat of fashion. I let her snap 360° iPhone images of my head, and when she left, Teddy had a theory.

“Do you think one of your friends told her we were here? And that she should say that? So you feel good? I think that’s nice.”

It was nice, but my boys couldn’t quite believe that someone wanted to look like this. Because this hair still haunts us with memories of why it’s not long. This hair, this mom hair, is blonde and adorable and ready for its close up. But I’m not loving (or living) it. I’m growing the hair that matches the girl in the swinging skirt, the one who has shelved the terror, the one who is ready for a mighty fine time. (Because we always had a mighty fine time.)

Jeremiah, in sexy blonde splendor

Jeremiah totally gets me.

The Importance of Angelina Jolie

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The Breast Conservationists are on full alert. Angelina Jolie bares everything but her new rack, and now responsible scientists and doctors are scared that stupid, stupid women will be lining up for bilateral mastectomies like it’s the wedding dress sale at Filene’s Basement. Otherwise healthy women will be demanding expensive genetic testing, insisting on amputations, and requesting Jolie Boobs from their plastic surgeons. If Angelina Jolie did it, then it’s possible that stupid, stupid women will start shopping for their own, Celebrity Cancer-Preventing Surgery.

Have we demonstrated an uncontrollable need to Be Like Angie? Do we all have slit-up-to-there dresses in our closets and a gazillion babies? (To be fair, I do have my own, Asian Brad Pitt… but I had mine first.) I have to believe that we’re smarter than this. Most of us aren’t Golden Globe-winning UN ambassadors. And most of us don’t carry BRCA mutations: only about 5% of us with breast cancer have the unlucky genes. Angelina Jolie’s story is one of access to superb health care, intelligent, informed consent to risk reduction treatment, and bad-ass, story-sharing bravery. The Breast Conservationists worry that her boldness will undo years of work informing women that they do not need to suffer barbaric surgery to live. But I think Angelina Jolie has done more for breast cancer awareness than all of the pink crap in the world. Angelina heralded the possibility that breast cancer isn’t a dreaded path to ugly.

Perhaps we are all a bit more informed about BRCA mutations and statistics and recommendations than we were on Monday. But what this beautiful woman did in one day was to put a spotlight on breast reconstruction after mastectomy. Living in Boston, and specifically in the same home as someone who does this sort of surgery every single day, (and personally with my own set of silicone bags), it is impossible to believe that only 30% of women are offered or encouraged to seek breast reconstruction options after body mutilating surgery. Despite many, many studies showing that quality of life is significantly improved with breast reconstruction, many women are still discouraged from “unnecessary” or “cosmetic” or “long, painful, and risky” operations that would restore their sense of self. They are (ill-) advised that reconstruction will delay their cancer treatment. Of course I need to insert all sorts of disclaimers that some women are not eligible for current reconstructive efforts because of radiation or extent of disease or other underlying conditions, that some opt out of reconstruction and live comfortably with that choice, that there are always more risks with more surgery. However, everyone should have the information about and access to breast reconstruction. And although there are thousands of cancer bloggers cheerfully over-sharing about their bikini-rific , gravity-defying post-Cancer boobs, you know who they’re really going to believe? Angelina Jolie.

Because Angelina went public with the story of her reconstruction, it’s possible that she has inspired other women to advocate for their right to restore their bodies, to feel empowered, to feel whole. While any diminishment of her hotness was always impossible, she explains how it is also surgically preventable. She writes,

“On a personal note, I do not feel any less of a woman. I feel empowered that I made a strong choice that in no way diminishes my femininity.”

Of course, those of us in the shitty sorority know what she’s not telling us: that she is changed, she’s scarred, and where there was once sensation, there is now the numb reminder of an ever-lurking Cancer. Strong, indeed. And she’s more beautiful than ever.

Bringing sexy badass to the Big Cancer Fight

Bringing sexy badass to the Big Cancer Fight

(Not) Tossing Tatum

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I have one year of hair. It’s my Hair-iversary. Since my shorn-like-Sinead debut last June, all wigs and hats have been stuffed unceremoniously into boxes and bags, cluttering the dark closet corners where I keep other things I’m too sentimental to toss: the original draft of my PhD dissertation, my prom dress, the typing trophy, and squeezy skinny jeans. Last year I must have written a dozen times how excited I was to burn and banish Tatum (wigs have names: mine was a Tri Delt), but one year later, she’s still on the shelf with other fears I’m too superstitious to toss.

Those of you that read the informative, well balanced, and (let’s face it) bleak essay by Peggy Orenstein learned that we “survivors” (blech) never really get away from fear and superstition. For us, there is no such thing as remission, much less a Cure, no matter how many people run and walk and row and shop and throw money at it. And now with the Pinking of America, none of us is spared from these ubiquitous, bubblegum-hued reminders to remain vigilant. With the best intentions, Komen has made breast cancer the sex offender in the neighborhood: as long as we’re aware (and incessantly imaging and chipping away at our breasts), we will be safe.

But that’s not true. Not at all.

Instead, this crazed awareness browbeats healthy women into an anxiety-riddled, breast-smashing exam as a 40th birthday rite of passage. And it’s quite possible that the only significant result of all of this awareness is earlier detection of cancers. But because this disease is still killing us with the same, disturbing frequency, it’s quite possible that much of that early detection wasn’t entirely necessary. Instead, it just means that girls like me get to live with this Survivorship status for an extra decade. But you won’t find disgruntled grumblings from this set of hairless amputees. Nope, we’d do it all over again. And then blog about how freaking lucky we are to be alive to clean the house with a pink vacuum.

I have one of these.

I have one of these.

I’m quite interested in any data that suggests I completely over-reacted to my breast cancer. Maybe my little cluster of rogue cells had already been there for a decade, and like her homebody host, never had any interest in travel. But maybe an evil, cellular dictator crossed the basement membrane in the six months between my 40th birthday and actual appointment for my slightly tardy (life-saving?) mammogram. Right now, scientists have no crystal ball to discern which breast cancers linger around like an unemployed college graduate and which ones are plotting for total body domination. And since they don’t know, girls like me mix superstition and treatment like cocktails, and then toast each other that we did everything we could.

It might be going a tad too far to call the removal of my non-cancerous breast “superstition.” However, as a scientist, I knew that drastic surgery wouldn’t change any statistics related to my survival. My breast surgeon and oncologist urged me (as they should) not to conflate cancer treatment with prevention, but reading Ms. Orenstein’s story—and knowing scores of others—I wonder if there is any kindness in extending the anxiety of yearly mammograms (for decades!) to save a breast? If there is NO CURE, no widely applicable tests to predict recurrence, and the only tools we have are imaging and butchery… shouldn’t we attempt to limit body-deforming procedures and radiation?

When her cancer recurred, and Ms. Orenstein considered a bilateral mastectomy, her doctor argued that an “average woman” wouldn’t cut off her breast to prevent an unlikely cancer. And yet, the “average woman” might not need four Ativan to get through a yearly, breast-flattening reminder of a disease that already tried to kill her. And a very, very low threshold for biopsy of any suspicious densities puts the “survivor” right back under the scary knife more often than the “average woman.” The remaining breasts of women with a history of cancer (or radiation) are treated like the heads of a family of vigorously nitpicking monkeys. The breast may be saved, yes, but it also may be bruised and biopsied at regular intervals for a lifetime. A bilateral mastectomy might not have been medically necessary for me, but it was psychologically crucial. Also, being unfailingly vain, I wanted a matched set right off the bat. There’s something you won’t read in the New York Times: mastectomy as a means to obtain the best post-cancer rack.

The latest “news” in breast cancer wasn’t really news to me. I know that statistics are on my side, that my complete surgical annihilation of cancers known and unknown won’t improve those numbers, that I might never have needed the treatment I got, and also that this might be the exact thing that kills me. Awareness isn’t helping us survive, but including more in our ranks. (And truth be told, the world hardly needs another blogging breast cancer survivor… plenty in my own family wish I would stop already.) But as we continue to shuttle more and more women at earlier and earlier stages into Survivorship, is the charge to Save The Breast the kindest dictate for these women? Should psychological and aesthetic reasons for a bilateral mastectomy be discussed, or will this continue to be touted as unnecessarily brutal “prevention?” I have no idea. Though I worship science, I’ve approached my own disease with fear and superstition: you’ll never hear this breastless girl say she’s “cancer-free,” nor will she ever tempt the fates or jinx her luck by tossing out Tatum.

The only badge of “survivorship” I’m willing to flaunt is One Year of Hair. It’s my Hair-iversary. I’m expecting presents.

Ask and ye shall receive...

Ask and ye shall receive…

Ten Awesomely Wonderful Things to Say to Someone With Cancer

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with ,

These messages made me cry and giggle, made me feel warm and loved. And even if these bon mots never find your lips or keyboard at the right time, “I’m sorry this is happening to you… and I love you” never misses the mark.

“Steel yourself for the hurdles before you, take strength from the ardent support of those around you, seek communion with the Lord’s will and His peace, and keep plowing forward through the awfulness.”

“Whatever it takes. I support you and all you do. Unless you crochet. I can’t get behind that.”

“…with so much love, there is no choice but to come out the other side whole and well. I know this to be true. And will be one of the ones who knows this for you if you ever need reminding.”

“Please know that you’ve made us one community and we will always want to know how you are doing. We are all here for you. Forever.”

“Long hair, short hair, or no hair at all, you will be a tough-as-nails badass camouflaged in Lilly Pulitzer dresses beating the shit out of cancer.”

“I am in awe of your strength, your support system, and your ability to put together a good outfit.”

“Hello God? I am a bit pissed off. Stop fucking with my sister. She has done nothing but support you despite our innate human inability to understand your mysterious ways. Enough is enough. Thanks in advance.”

“Yup. You’ve gotten my husband to pray. Look at the power you have!! We’re going to be thinking about you obsessively tomorrow. With crazy adoration.”

“I send you much love and am figuratively wrapping you in one of those shiny silver post marathon blankets.”

“Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!  Should we go get drunk?”

A picture worth even more: a dear friend's "alter" sending my whole family sweet aloha breezes.

A picture worth even more: a dear friend’s “altar” as a portal to send my whole family sweet aloha breezes