breast cancer – Betches Guide to Cancer

4 years later

The amber skyline inhales it’s last breath of light and exhales a nuclear ash glow into the expectant mouth of nightfall. One last gasp of light before the moon’s nefarious smile watches over the dark-side of Earth. Darkness so still and weightless is contrasted by a diligent symphony of tiny vampire insects that conduct an evening score with robotic transmission. Limbs moving fast and mechanically. Rhodopsin molecules regenerate and reconfigure in my retina as my vision adapts to the absence of light. Rods and cones realign; darkness fades to shades of grey. Shadows and highlights. Smoky wisps of just-snuffed candles dance with pleasure as the evil creatures of night emerge to lurk around in this dark underworld.

I sit alone on my parent’s deck in rural Maryland, eavesdropping on the screeching dialogue between cicadas that bounces erratically off the thick wet trees much like my mind does in this moment of reflection. Four years ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer, but it honestly feels like 20 years ago. I have trouble remembering things coherently from that period in my life; I was barely present most of the time due to a shitload of legally prescribed drugs in addition to my overwhelming anxiety which hardboiled a shell around my brain like a protective fence to keep all records of my innermost horrors from wandering out and scaring the shit out of me. My brain still has trouble remembering what I did two days ago, and sometimes I actually have to think and count out how old I am. Recently, I accidentally ate a fucking dog tranquilizer pill instead of a Xanax on a 3-hour plane ride because my cognitive brain function gave up a long time ago so now my frayed synapses communicate by whistling between two tin cans connected by a string.

I still struggle every single day to reconcile with post-traumatic stress and I probably will the rest of my life. I’m not a role model, I’m a realist. I’ve learned to ignore the waves of sadness and fear for my future until they occasionally drown me and I have to come up for air and face them with a painfully ugly cry and a few days spent drinking wine in my pajamas at 3pm. Then I’m good for a month or two. Writing down my deepest fears is a cathartic thing that I sometimes do—when I first began typing them out I was sobbing in self-pity, but I’ve continued to address my fears until they become infinitesimal and somewhat comical.

Fear: I may never have children.

Me: But I’m children, so do I really have any business raising a child of my own?

I dive deep into these dim cavernous tunnels of panic and anxiety, lost in a maze of nothingness, and when I come back up to the surface it is always humor that saves me, and my mind that forsakes me. Like a werewolf anticipating the moonlight, these feelings creep inside my brain during the waning hours of evenings drowned in wine until the darkness of night infects my conscious like a spreading virus that consumes my thoughts like flesh in the teeth of monsters.

Why did I survive, what did I learn, why do I feel sad on a day when I should be grateful, what if I have cancer again right now in this moment, when are these feelings going to subside? I ask myself over and over ‘how did I get here’ to the point where no answer is the best answer and the question itself becomes white noise in my head like the muted woosh of a fan blade hoovering quietly on the ceiling.

But I am here. My changed appearance and mutated cells mirror the transformed person who occupies them. I am nothing like the person I was four years ago, and I am grateful. I see things differently, I think differently, I prioritize differently; with each passing year.

I have an unpublished journal entry from last year on my 3^rd cancerversary and it reads like a different person wrote it. Who is that girl? I went through a phase where I hid my raw emotions in shopping bags or I buried them beneath the sand that I sat upon while drinking Modelo Lights and Instagramming pictures of myself or my scars with the ocean in the background just to show everybody how happy and carefree I was. I am still happy and quite carefree, but the difference now is that I don’t care who knows about it, and my most prominent cancer scars are the long, deep gashes into my psyche. And yeah it makes me feel really fucking stupid that four years later I still cannot fully grapple with the emotional side effects of one phone call from my doctor who nervously fumbled his words saying “Well, I don’t know how to tell you this. I was 99% sure that what I removed during surgery was not cancer, but the results came back positive. You have breast cancer.”

I can keep writing these same stories about how cancer changed me and I’m grateful; I’ll reword it using different metaphors and bullshit prose intended to stir emotion, but it’s not where I am right now. My life vacillates disproportionately between overzealous recklessness and flinching fear due to the ill-fated reality that I have a loaded gun named cancer pressed to my temple that begs to expel its willpower in a cruel game of Russian roulette. Everyone encourages me to write about cancer because I know how to write those “feel good” words that inspire people going through their own personal battles. My hope is that this different view of my story—the one where I’m more honest about my struggles—will help people just the same. I’m not a role model, but I want to be a testimony to living your life however the fuck you want, and that we should be talking about all of the good and bad feelings that come with it. So this is me: a dark, sulking, emo mess on my 4-year cancerversary. It’s my 4^th birthday of feeling truly alive.

It’s been a while…

Hi! I’m still here! And yes, that’s me wearing a banana clip.

It’s been a while since I’ve written on my blog. Social media has once again rendered me slightly apathetic; I’ve gone dark passing behind the moon in my seasonal orbit. Lately, Instagram is a heavy, gray cloud saturated with depressing news of cancer colleagues having recurrences or passing away. People are sick. Cancer still has no cure. I try to avert my eyes from these daily reminders—the Devil’s malevolent propaganda—as I scroll over the irritating fluorescence of my iPhone screen.

Call it self-preservation. I refuse to accept that death or relapse may someday happen to me too…eluding the scientific realities of my Oncotype-DX score which contrarily reminds me of the extremely high probability that I will, in fact, get cancer again. But who wants to talk about that? So, I try to go on Instagram and Facebook minimally to avoid the terrifying reminders of my immortality. Not in a head-in-the-sand kind of way, but more like peeping through the doorhole occasionally, just to see who’s out there long enough for me to recluse myself inside and shut the blinds.

This is where my insecurities and anxiety—the “What if’s?” and “Why not me?” chasms uproot themselves in the catatonic feeds of social news. Where I’m reminded that I had cancer; a fact that I’m intentionally trying to rescind to the back of my mind. Where I feel suffocating guilt that I survived while others have not.

I find myself immersed in this sad, parallel social media universe where the majority of the world is healthy, flourishing, rich, beautiful… and the latter portion is sick and dying. The uber highs of social elitism where solipsism is the reigning religion, and the radical lows where only the sick can see the laurel-crowned healthy.

Scrolling IG… women having babies, couples on vacation in Monte Carlo. People in bathing suits posing in a mirror, filled up by their own narcissistic fascination which spills over the brim of their Fit-Tea shaker bottle that they were paid to advertise. I continue scrolling with mechanical engrossment. Not in a cynical way, but in an envious way as I absorb myself senselessly, mindlessly, and scroll through the lives of strangers. Social media is supposed to connect people, but more-and-more I feel like I am an extraterrestrial who is enrolled in the study of cultural anthropology via Instagram.

It’s unnatural, to observe people like we’re bird watchers. Like internet surveillance officers without boundaries. But I still do it. Posts about recurrences and deaths become a horrifying obsession because it feels like I’m living it with them. That could be me. My innermost horrors sustained in this fixation.

Recently, I found two small lumps on my collarbone lymph nodes. Don’t Google it, they’ll tell you you have cancer. I spent a few days maniacally Googling and obsessively Instagram stalking for any relevant circumstances. Drowning in panic. It happens to all of us. After calming down, I remembered that the internet is a dumpster fire full of shit and fake information which can not diagnose anything except stupidity. I obediently sought out my oncologist’s opinion, who was confidently unalarmed. The cervical lymph nodes support the mouth/salivary glands, and my recent cold was likely why they felt swollen. We all crave those sweet, saccharin words of consolation from our doctors. I’ve requested a PET scan; although, I can’t bring myself to actually schedule it because any notion of truth that my worst nightmares may actually become reality has left me frozen in apprehension. Maybe it’s not cancer, but I know my body better than anybody with three degrees hanging on their office wall.

The anxiety of a recurrence never leaves a cancer survivor. But I’ve found ways to placate these fears by avoiding social media—one of my triggers. I realized that my valuable time spent alive—which is a gift— was being occupied by the lives of strangers. Wasted on the scrolling. Wasted on memes, celebrity gossip, political banter. Idle time spent malnourishing myself on social media was becoming a crutch for procrastination.

So that’s where I’ve been: circumventing the growing hedonistic obsession with Instagram. Avoiding the captivating allure of all social media. All for my own sanity. Not because I don’t kind of love it… in a grossly self-indulgent way, but because it’s side effects –emotional anemia, phony confidence —attempt to mold me into a creature detached from reality. I’ve recently given more time to things that I value. Like, talking to real people in person (not on social media or text.) Writing. Although, I recently went 2 months without opening my laptop. Traveling. Reading. Making crafty shit. Stuff we used to do before the internet was invented. Riding bikes, going swimming. Remember that Oregon Trail floppy disk game? Those were the days. All of the people in your wagon have died of dysentery. Please press spacebar to continue.

Thank you to the people who have reached out to me and noticed that I haven’t posted much on social media and asked how I am doing. I’m doing great. I’m doing actual life stuff! Like… I got my motorcycle license—ya know, incase there’s ever an end-of-the-world post-apocalyptic scenario where a motorcycle is my only way to escape flesh-eating zombies. Time wisely spent, if you ask me. I’m using this phase on the dark side of the moon for more “me time.” More mindfulness. More praying for a cure. More holding the door for strangers. More talking… to actual people.

Less Google. Less social media. Less comparison. Less fucks given.

7 Things I Wish I Knew Before Starting Chemo

Chemo drunk is a feeling I can’t justly describe with words and adjectives.

I’ll take you back a bit: It’s December 21 and I’ve just finished my last chemo session at the hospital. I’m home, trying to have a conversation with my mom, but my eyes keep fixating on the velvet glow from a Yankee Candle. She says something funny and I laugh, a few seconds too late.

My mind is soupy and slow, like bisque that’s started to congeal. I hear words but my thoughts are lost in the emptiness of space. I meticulously toil over sentences, calculating each one through my head with the speed of an early edition fax machine. Something metallic catches my eye, the hardware on my mother’s purse, and now I’m hypnotized by how the silver reflects the flickering candle. It feels like my eyes are lost. They don’t know what to look toward, so they find light and drift to it drunkenly. My body is buzzing inside. I’m an old noisy refrigerator.

This feeling is nothing like alcohol intoxication. This is what it feels like to be dying. My cells, both good and bad, are being devoured as the poisonous cocktail of chemotherapy drugs flows through my veins. I’m being brought to the brink of death, just so I can rebuild. It’s war; destroy the enemy with brute force, but the victor suffers the casualties of battle as well.

You don’t want to be left wounded on the battlefield. Chemo is an experience we’re mostly unprepared to handle. My first few times were terrifying and I didn’t know what I was doing or what to expect. So, I’d like to share seven things I wish I had known about chemo before I started.

You should drink so much water during chemo that you will feel like a water balloon. If you can’t drink water, try Gatorade, juice, or popsicles. I suggest you pack a lunch like you’re in third grade and your mom has just let you buy anything from the grocery store. Chemo is time-consuming and boring; knowing that you will have a few hours to sit around and eat whatever you want is something to look forward to.
Ice your feet and toes! I’m shocked at how many hospitals don’t practice this method to prevent neuropathy. My infusion nurse would bring me two buckets of ice water and rubber gloves before chemo. I’d soak my hands/feet for one long, miserable hour during Taxotere (docetaxel) treatment. It’s not fun, but I never had any neuropathy or damage to my nails.
You’re toxic. Your pee and saliva are toxic. The nurse will tell you that you need to flush the toilet at least twice and don’t share food or drinks with people.
Chemo isn’t the only drug you’ll be getting. Steroids, antihistamines, anti-nausea and anti-anxiety drugs are just some of the usual pre-chemo meds. I took Emend (aprepitant), which is a three-day pack of pills that prevents nausea. I never threw up
Dress warmly; hospitals are cold. Bring fuzzy socks or slippers for after your feet get an ice bath.
If your hair falls out, it will start on the 14th day following chemo. And it kind of hurts. It felt like dull needles digging into my scalp. By the time I shaved my head, I just wanted it gone. I also was a little drunk (champagne), because I had a head-shaving party. … Which leads me to my last point. …
You can still have a normal life. I had a party two weeks after my first chemo. I got drunk. I shaved my head. I cried. I sang Elton John songs with my friends until 3 a.m. I was alive. I was grateful. And I’m still alive because I never once let cancer or chemo stop me from living. You’re going to be fine. Drink the martini. Buy the fancy shoes. Keep on living your life, but with a tad more moxie.

My Love-Hate Relationship with Social Media

It’s 8:47 p.m. on a Monday. I flip open my personal laptop and the bright screen practically blinds my eyes in the evening light. Annoyed, I dim the screen’s light and go to Facebook. To be honest, I loathe Facebook, but I feel obligated to give it a brief scan to make sure I haven’t missed anything important like National Chicken & Waffles Day.

One headline jumps out at me. My heart starts beating steadily faster and I can’t decide if I’m going to cry or throw my laptop off the balcony. The post says that cancer isn’t real. Cancer is actually caused by a vitamin deficiency and is a government hoax. Vitamins. Well, Holy Shit Balls, I guess the answer has been under our noses all along?

The sins of social media are flourishing in an already credulous time. I’ve considered taking a break from it recently; it’s just all too much. I’ve seen people with GoFundMe links asking for money who will also post photos with their $4,000 handbag casually in the background. I’ve seen spineless comments made on Facebook that cancer is population control and we shouldn’t fight it. The lies, the negativity, the advertisements, the duck lips. And WE ALL DO IT, in some way or another. I don’t post an ugly picture of myself because I don’t want people to think I’m ugly. However, I DID look ugly in that photo. It’s social manipulation.

I try to project honesty through my social media, but I’m not always straightforward. I’m not as strong or healthy as I portray myself. I’m not as witty in person — I’m better at writing than I am at speaking. Social media is amazing, but lately, I find it leaving me emotionally exhausted. Why do I keep doing it?

I check my phone probably 80 times a day. I rapidly double-tap my screen on as many cancer survivor’s Instagram photos as I can. I make comments, responses, hearts. As I was clicking through my phone on Monday, I decided to check up on a young breast cancer friend whom I hadn’t seen post in a while. I searched for her name and looked at her Instagram. She died one month ago. My heart feels like broken glass scraping through my chest.

Those moments are the worst aspects of social media, but also the most honest, unadulterated ones. Because, I had never met her, but I felt so connected with her and some of these women that it doesn’t matter. We share an intangible bond that was manifested through the internet, with people we’ve never physically met. This is the pure, beautiful part of social media that keeps me encouraged. The relationships we build with other kindred souls is what gives meaning to life.

It doesn’t matter if your relationships are made through social media or real life. They don’t need to be defined by anything other than their value, because physical proximity is increasingly invalid in a globally connected world. Cultivate the ones you care about and spread virtue.

We tend to sit behind our glowing screens and become separate, and sometimes worse, versions of ourselves. As children, we’re taught to think before we speak. But today, we need to think before we post. To the people out there who spam me with unsubstantiated articles that cancer is fake, I invite you to come to Florida and tell me that cancer isn’t real to my face. I’ll take you on a field trip to the oncology wing of my hospital.

Social media is a blessing and a curse, but I’m challenging myself to live with less of it and with more integrity. Last weekend, I had so much fun going on adventures with my friends that I forgot to take any pictures! I encourage you to do the same this holiday weekend, because I’m going to wear a unicorn costume and light fireworks off the roof and not take a single picture. When it’s not on social media, you’ll never know if it really happened.

P.S. Put your phone down and go outside. Namaste.

Why You Should Never Ignore Your Intuition

I’m sitting in a dimly lit massage room, waiting for the masseuse to come back. A large clap of thunder explodes outside as the lights start to flicker between varying degrees of brightness. Aren’t massages supposed to be Zen, relaxing? This feels like the start of a horror movie. Oh God. How do I leave a note for somebody to please relocate my body to a dressing room at Neiman Marcus instead of the Massage Envy in a shopping center?

My thoughts are interrupted when the door opens. It’s the masseuse lady; she’s holding an iPad, reading over my health questionnaire I filled out moments ago. She has a slightly puzzled, sad look on her face as she reads about my colorful life as told by yes/no/fill-in-the-blank questions. It’s the same look I always get when people see that I had cancer: long puppy dog face.

I smile in an attempt to disrupt this pity party. “Yeah I had breast cancer, I’m fine now. Do you have one of those boob-pillow things? I can’t lay on my stomach very easily with these foobies.” The conversations that follow are predictable. The first question is almost always: “How did you know you had cancer?” Well, I didn’t know. I think that people ask me that because there is a preconceived notion that breast cancer makes you feel sick or it hurts. Like when you know you have a cold because you’re coughing and sneezing. Anna says she assumed that cancer made you feel sick, and that it mainly only happened to older, unhealthy people. Right now, take all those ideas you may have about who gets cancer and bury them. Let them be as dead as Juicy Couture tracksuits.

For two years I unknowingly had cancer. It was 2013 when I discovered that pea-sized lump. I sat paralyzed on the couch, Googling breast cancer for hours as waves of fear washed over me and made my body numb with anxiety. My intuition immediately told me I had cancer. I begged my gynecologist to squeeze me in for a sonogram. After the breast sonogram, I got a call from a very chipper woman “There’s nothing there, you got all worried about nothing!” Her voice was filled with phony enthusiasm, like saccharin and crushed Prozac. But I craved those reassuring words so much that I swallowed every promise she told me and buried the fear deep inside. After my second sonogram 6 months later, and again at 12 months I was told “You’re fine!” Did she really think I was fine, or did she just brush me off as a 28-year old hypochondriac? Was I crazy to question her about why a non-cancerous tumor was getting bigger? Why didn’t she recommend a biopsy? We trust these people with our lives, but in reality they don’t enjoy unearthing bad news just as much as we don’t enjoy hearing it. Maybe that’s why she didn’t dig, and neither did I. I now realize that a framed piece of paper saying that someone is a doctor will never trump a gut intuition.

Finally, I went to a different doctor who biopsied the lump, and well, you know the rest. I guess I had to grow a backbone and stand up for my intuition. It was either that, or start digging myself a grave. I could have buried my head in the sand, and listened to my doctors who all told me that I couldn’t get breast cancer because I was too young, too healthy, and had no family history of the disease. I’m not saying don’t listen to your doctor; I’m saying listen to yourself first and foremost and find a doctor who agrees.

I’m sure I’ll still get asked all of those questions a thousand times more, and I’m happy to answer them. But please educate yourself on the signs and symptoms of breast cancer. It could just save your life.

Namaste, ladies.

It’s 2017: Where is My Flying Car and Cancer Cure?

To infinity and beyond!

I dream of a future where we can take a pill and our cancer will be gone forever. Of a world that doesn’t have disease, and if we’re feeling sick we can just “reboot” our body like it’s a laptop. And when we need a new organ, we can teleport over to the hospital where a cyborg doctor zaps us with a space zapper thing to replace our old pickled liver with a fresh one that was grown using our own stem cells. Who’s coming with me?

Right now, we’re at the dawn of a paradigm shift where artificial intelligence and technology govern a future that we can’t even fathom. The distant reality of what’s in store for our world may actually look a lot like The Jetsons with flying cars and robots (minus the racism, sexism, and kitschy futurism). But The Jetsons can’t even comprehend some of these absurd advances in science. Like, a cancer vaccine. The technology is close; Gardasil^® and Cervarix^® are HPV vaccinations that prevents certain gynecological cancers already. Or what if a bra could monitor our breasts for early signs of cancer? Well shut the front door, because the technology already exists! Medical and scientific research is on the brink of discovering remarkable technology; so get excited.

The World Health Organization predicts the amount of new cancer cases will rise 70% in the next two decades. It’s a terrifying number, and also the reason money is pouring into startup companies focused on developing oncology technologies and advanced cognizant search algorithms.

A.I. or artificial intelligence is the future of diagnosing and possibly curing cancer. The development of safe A.I. has given us as a more powerful, efficient human brain that can search thousands of sets of data using context and reasoning. I can barely walk and talk at the same time; but Watson–IBM’s “Jeopardy” winning supercomputer—can read through the equivalent of 1 million books in 1 second to generate a personalized, evidence-based treatment plan for my specific cancer. Watson can find new treatments and clinical trials that your oncologist may not be aware of. And it’s available to you now, your physician can request a report through Quest Diagnostics.

The applications for A.I. are endless. CureMetrix is a startup company using algorithms for image analysis to detect anomalies in mammograms and X-rays that have been missed by the human eye. While these technologies can’t and won’t replace a doctor’s human instincts, they do increase the patient’s care and prognosis.

In the future, maybe we’ll just rewrite our DNA? CRISPR-Cas9 is a controversial technology that allows scientists to do just that; edit DNA in a gene sequence by using two key molecules to cut into specific parts of the genome to forcefully mutate it. Theoretically, this could be used to reprogram cancer cells, although we still don’t understand why cells turn cancerous. That’s where Microsoft’s big brain is coming to the rescue – they have announced a plan to “solve” cancer by identifying exactly why cells become cancer. If we can understand how a cancer cell mutates, we can probably fix it.

This all sounds wonderful, but A.I. and genetically modified cells is how the zombie robot apocalypse starts, right? According to Hollywood, yes. The same Hollywood that also made five Sharknado movies about a tornado with sharks in it, and like, thirty-eight movies about sparkling vampires. It’s possible that this technology could be used to create terminator robots, but many smart, rich people like Elon Musk are not going to let that happen.

In our lifetime, we may not have flying cars, or the ability to transfer our conscience into a robotic Chihuahua—but we will find a better solution for cancer. Chemotherapy and radiation will become antiquated treatments. I doubt humankind will achieve immortality anytime soon; but at least there will be a lot less suffering and disease. So, thank you to the scientists, doctors and smart people for your amazing work. 2017 is a strange time, but I am optimistic of the future. Also, I’d like to thank them ahead of time for my freshly grown liver, because this bottle of rosé isn’t going to drink itself tonight.

This article first appeared on breastcancer-news.com.

A Surgery Guide from Your Breast Reconstruction Sherpa

Get ready betches!

It’s no secret that I’ve had a few surgeries in the last two years (eight!). I guess you could call me a professional surgery-taker, a mastectomy aficionada, a reconstruction sherpa. Well, I’m here to share some of my do’s and don’ts of surgery so you can plow through the ordeal like you’re Michael Phelps at the Olympics.

If you don’t have breast cancer, you can still use this surgery guide because it mostly applies to all hospital procedures.

Be prepared before surgery. This is the most important point. I had major “chemo brain” once and forgot to pick up my prescriptions, pre-register at the hospital, check the time I needed to show up, set out extra clothes for changing at the hospital, etc. The morning was absolute chaos, and I spent the majority of it running around like I was being chased by a swarm of wasps. Take a few hours the day before your surgery to take care of business.

Get to know the nurses and hospital staff. Be kind to them, they literally have your life in their hands. Being nice goes a long way: an extra pillow and more attention.

Get comfy. You need to be prepared after your surgery with a cozy little recuperation spot at home. Do this ahead of time. Have your pillows, blankets, meds, books, etc. all in your little recovery nest so you can lie down and go to Sleepytown once you get home. My lifesavers after surgery were a neck pillow (those ones you wear on airplanes) so you can sleep sitting up and a back scratcher. The scratcher may seem ridiculous, but pain meds will make you itchy, and when you can’t move your arms very good, it’s torture. I also recommend a pad of paper so you can write down when you take your medication. Plus, you may want to send out notes via carrier pigeon or fly paper airplanes at your television, because why not?

Listen to the doctor’s orders. When you’re discharged from the hospital, you’ll usually be given a packet of papers from your doctor that look very unexciting. You need to read them! I’ve made the mistake of throwing them away once (because I’m real smart). The stack of papers will contain specific post-surgery instructions such as when you can eat, shower, return to work, go base jumping in your wingsuit, etc.

For a mastectomy, I have a few extra bits of advice. After surgery, you’re going to have drains that are sewn into your skin to collect fluid and blood. Yikes, I know. I suggest having a few dark-colored button up shirts on hand; that way you can change easily when you need to tend to the drains, and the dark clothing is for any spills. The drains will need to be pinned to your mastectomy bra, or you can buy little pouches that will hold them comfortably under your clothes, such as Drain Dollies.

The first surgery is always the most difficult, but I promise you it gets easier. You will have some setbacks along the way, but just remember that your pain and suffering are temporary. Happiness, joy, pleasure – these things do not leave behind a scar, but pain does because it is transformative. We grow and learn from distress. When I look down at my scars, I’m reminded of the torture that cancer generously imparts on the physical body, but I can’t help but smile because of the inner strength it gave me.

You’ve got this, ladies. Surgery is tough but we’re tougher. Now raise that back scratcher up in the air like a sword!

Namaste, pink sisters.

This article first appeared on breastcancer-news.com.

A Rising Tide Lifts All Boats

Go ahead, insult me. I dare you.

There is a disheveled little karaoke bar that is walking distance from my old address. It’s across from a strip of beach that’s lined with predominantly vacant snowbird condo buildings that are older than me. Inside the nautical-themed bar, it’s a sea of peppered gray and balding heads bobbing above a tide of Tommy Bahama button-ups and sun-bleached T-shirts advertising various Key West bars. It’s the least pretentious bar you could ever imagine visiting.

The South Florida city where I live is famously pretentious. It’s a place where money and beauty are common, and deciding whether to drive the Bentley or the Maybach to the grocery store is an actual choice for a lot of people. Where the hard-bodied weekend warriors masquerade through the sleek nightlife in their designer camouflage to atone for their insecurities. They’re peacocks fanning out their Chanel feathers.

The karaoke bar is a sanctuary away from the peacocks. After chemo, I sought out these safe places where I could avoid the size 0 birds and their irrationally beautiful skin and hair. Girls can be cruel, and when you don’t have hair, eyebrows, or eyelashes, the thought of being caught in the sightline of a Regina George-type (Mean Girls) will make you sweat like a polar bear on South Beach.

That evening, I was wearing a long, brown wig and a floppy, black hat. I had on fake eyelashes and stenciled eyebrows. It always was quite exhausting to get my face ready for public view, but I did it wearily because I needed a liquid remedy with friends after my week. Upon ordering our drinks at the bar, I overheard a male voice near me say, “Why would she wear a hat indoors at night? It’s dark out. You’d look better in that hat, anyways, babe.”

I froze. I came here to escape those exact words that he spoke, and yet here I was in my secure little nest being judged. The peacocks had infiltrated. I could have pretended that I didn’t hear it. But I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t stand up to this pejorative frat boy in the name of all of those who have been victims of the mean girls and boys in life.

So, I turned slowly to him with squinty eyes and said,“Oh, you don’t like my hat? If you want to know why I’m wearing a hat indoors, then you should just ask me. Because this is why.” I dramatically ripped off my hat and wig to reveal my bald head. “I had cancer. So, NEXT TIME … before you open your mouth to judge someone, you’d better think about me (insert expletive).” Drop mic.

The horrified faces of the frat boy and the girl almost made me feel bad for what I had done. Almost.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only time something like that happened. Cancer can make you fragile, but its moments like these that will ignite a fire deep within. We have a confidence that is unshakable because it does not rely on our outward appearance. Go ahead, insult me. I dare you.

By condemning each other, we’re only breaking ourselves and submerging our own insecurities — women, especially. We need to stick together. We need to empower each other instead of condemning, because a rising tide lifts all boats. I encourage you to strip away your own intangible veils the way I ripped off my wig. If we remove the façade, we’ll realize we’re all just men and women fighting the same struggles.

Bury the gossip, the office chatter, the neighborhood rants. Who are you really competing with or trying to impress? Think about it. And then go watch Mean Girls for a good laugh.

This article first appeared on breastcancer-news.com.

White Lies, Rainbows and Puppies

White Lies, Rainbows and Puppies: Sometimes We Just Need a Good Cry

Sometimes I get really sick of talking about cancer. I get sick of hearing my own voice, of talking about wigs and boobs, of posting photos of my chemo-hair updates with the inflated enthusiasm of an elf on crack. At times, I want to pretend that it all never happened. To never speak the word cancer again. To never write a single syllable or utter a single breath on the topic. Sometimes, my overzealous optimism becomes too full and embellished; it collapses beneath the burden of its own weight. It’s a difficult job to always be a cheerleader.

Sometimes I just want to talk about cat memes and tacos. Like, what’s cancer?

When a person asks about my cancer experiences, it can be an out-of-body experience. I am standing right next to this human who looks like me, watching her talk. “Chemo didn’t even make me sick. Me and my friends went out to a beach bar and drank vodka martinis a few days after my second chemo!” Remember that show VH1 Pop Up Videos? A white conversation bubble pops on the screen. “True Story: She had one drink, 8 days after chemo and had to leave the bar because she was nauseous and had unbearable heartburn! LOL.” That info nugget indicts me of my white lies. Of my cancer propaganda that narrates an altered story.

I will never outwardly admit that things weren’t all rainbows and puppies. It’s the big sister in me who is being intrinsically protective. I’m hiding the callous truths from my friends and family who may get cancer at some point in their lives. I’m guarding my own ego. Because, as bad as things may get, I am the type who never will admit to it. It’s mind over matter.

As a cancer survivor, we all have a myriad of internal struggles about coming to terms with what we’ve been through. Everyone will say “You’re so strong, you’re so brave.” In truth, we don’t feel that way. We try to act fearless for everyone else’s sake. Brave? Me? Bravery is when you run into a burning building to save a baby. We’re not running head-first into cancer. We didn’t choose this. We’re running head first into survival. And it can be exhausting.

So, forgive me and forgive us, when we’re not always standing tall with our hands on our hips and projecting a rainbow beacon of bravery like a pink Care Bear. As much as we wish we were a magical cartoon with superpowers, we’re mortal humans who still put on our unicorn yoga pants one leg at a time.

So, if you’re a friend or family member aboard this ugly rollercoaster with us, just know that sometimes we just want stillness. Sometimes we don’t want to talk about cancer like it was an educational summer camp we attended and came home adorned in badges and medals. Sometimes we just need to hide in a closet and cry.

We are grateful and happy to be alive, but it’s equally gratifying to occasionally have a good ugly-faced cry and think about how far we’ve come. We recall those little white lies that we told our friends and family, “Oh, I feel great! Surgery was a breeze.” Because, unless you’ve been there, you’ll never be able to handle our horror stores of physical pain and aching despair.

But we know the real truth. The stories we tell others may have a fake sparkly tint to them, but it’s not without reason. We rewrite them to selflessly protect you. And that’s what I believe makes us brave.

*Article first published 4/28/17 at Breastcancer-news.com by me, duh.

Did you miss me?

Shalommm bitches! I’m still here. Don’t worry. I have been asked to write a weekly column about breast cancer (from a young survivor’s point of view) for another website…. which is why I have been MIA from my regular blog. So check out my posts here: breastcancer-news.com

They’re considerably more G-rated than this website (cause fuck is a bad word I guesssss). So the new posts are something you could show your grandma and not feel bad about. I’ll begin updating my blog every week as I write my column for Breast Cancer News.

Oh yeah PS — I have pink hair. Incase you don’t follow me on one of my numerous social media channels. Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat. Ok ciao!

It could never happen to me.

Everybody thinks that it will never happen to them.

Cancer is a shady bitch like that. Imagine you’re just jogging (or walking) along your usual proverbial path… it’s such a routine that you could probably do it blindfolded. Except this time you slam into an elephant. “Wait, how the HELL did I not see that elephant?! Elephants aren’t even native to this country, why the fuck is it here?! Hello did somebody lose their …um… pet elephant?” You had your head down and you were flying down the path like a loose puppy with your ears flapping in the wind. You never expected to run into an elephant because, seriously, that only happens on an African safari or something right?

That’s exactly how cancer is. You didn’t see it coming, you weren’t looking for it, and you NEVER thought it could happen to you. It happens to other people maybe, but not you. You’re heathy and you’re heading down your path full speed into life’s bliss. Just heed my warning betches and don’t be naïve and dumb like I was.

Over two years ago I started following a girl on Instagram who was 24 and had breast cancer. I remember once I found her I was paralyzed on the couch, stalking her pictures for about an hour saying “what the fucccckkkkk” about a hundred times under my breath. As I scanned over images of her bald head and scarred body I remember exactly how I felt; terrified, horrified, amazed, despondent. How could somebody so young have breast cancer? In my lifetime, the few people that I knew who had cancer were older; in their 50’s and beyond. I couldn’t imagine being a young girl and having to put your life on hold to FIGHT for your life. I was even terrified to have my blood drawn (I used to pass out) so I couldn’t comprehend going through chemo and multiple surgeries. I was completely heartbroken going through her pictures. But as I continued to follow her story I realized that she was not sad or miserable, she was optimistic, happy, grateful. Amazing! How could somebody who has been dealt a shitty hand of cards in life be so content and cheerful?
Keep reading…

I know that God was looking out for me back then. Somehow in the divine tapestry of the universe I found her Instagram account and was given a foreshadowing into my own future. Of course, I had no idea back then, but now I am certain of this. When I was diagnosed, I remembered her and it helped me to know that I wasn’t alone, and that I needed to be optimistic and unafraid. At the same time I discovered her Instagram, I had the small lump in my right boob. Even after seeing the 24 year old girl with breast cancer, I was still disavowed with the notion that I might have cancer also. I used any excuse available. “Well my doctor said it looks like a fibroid, and so I trust the expert’s opinion.” I didn’t trust the gut feeling that was nagging at me. Also at that time, my mind was clouded as I was divorcing my ex-husband so I didn’t even have a spare brain cell left to consider the possibility of cancer. I was just certain that those things don’t happen. Nobody gets dealt a hand that includes an unfaithful, narcissistic husband AND breast cancer at 28. That shit DOES NOT happen… right?

Well, whatever boo-hoo it happened. I tripped over the elephant because I didn’t believe that elephants existed. I ignored the signs. I didn’t listen to my body or my intuition. My point is: don’t let that happen to you, safeguard your life. You can still run full speed ahead, like I am doing, just keep your head up and pay attention to the signs along the way. If you have family members who have cancer, you especially can’t think that it couldn’t happen to you. My father’s side of the family carries the ATM genetic mutation, which we only recently found out in light of my cancer diagnosis. I’ve encouraged them all to get tested for this mutation. If you carried a cancer gene wouldn’t you want to know so you could prepare and defend yourself from this horrible disease? I wish I had known before it was too late, because now I’ve lost my boobs and my hair. So please don’t be naïve and think it can’t happen to you, cancer can happen to anybody. Please visit your doctor regularly and speak up about any pains and issue, no matter how small. And please for the love of God get a mammogram if you’re over 40 and a biopsy on any breast lumps no matter how old you are. Either way, when you get those results you’ll either be relieved that you’re in the clear or relieved that you’ve caught the cancer before it can do any damage.

Also, the Instagram profile was @NalieAgustin if you’d like to follow her!