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 3rd 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 4th birthday of feeling truly alive.

What doesn’t grow back.

Your hair will grow back. What doesn’t grow back readily, are the brain cells that were killed by dense-dose chemo and the feeling of belonging in a cancer-community ravaged by constant death. What doesn’t grow back right away, is self-assurance in a world governed by the appearance of our physical assets. But what I have learned is that those things, although intrinsic to our nature, need watering to propagate.

Cancerous weeds that poisoned our bodies were ripped out and we’re left as shells, vacant in the stale soil remains that cultivate little growth apart from fear and apprehension. Slowly as sun and rain returns in waves, we toil in our new dusty surroundings and plant seeds of love and evolution. We stare longingly at the vast green meadows in the distance, sometimes neglecting our own efforts to rebuild the broken land we stand on.

Our recovery comes in seasons, just like the Earth. Sometimes I’m Spring; energized by the sound of birds and the flowers blooming around me. Sometimes I’m Winter; exhausted from the banal platitudes of adult life, so I let my flowers rot back into the Earth under the heaviness of cold wet snow. Cyclical like the seasons.

But each Spring plants more drops of hope into the soil that eventually grow into trees that withstand the winters and tower over the snow. Time and careful upkeep, brings unflinching boldness and beauty to a once-broken ground.

So be gentle with us, we’re relearning to live after we’ve been told we may die.

I often neglect my springtime because I am too busy looking across the pasture, coveting an oasis in the distance. It disorients me and I can’t see that I’ve ignored my own pasture in the peripheral. So I struggle to keep up. Staying focused is one of the most difficult things I’ve struggled with after cancer.

I’ve written things like:

“We are taught to drive a car by looking ahead of us in our own lane. If you are constantly staring to your right and left at the nicer cars going faster than you, you’ll inevitably crash.”

And I can’t follow my own advice. I crash, all the time. I set goals for myself, I’m not very good at keeping them. Distractions are my worst enemy, and I often consider it failure. But this morning—as if struck by a lightning bolt from God—I realized that I’m not failing. I can’t keep punishing myself. It’s a cycle of growth; embryonic at times, but still progress. Failure comes in all forms; forward movement, however slow it may be, is not failure. I may be wading in the water, but my head is still above it.

I have an overly sensitive spirit, and I live in an overstimulated world. How do I focus when there’s so much distraction? Often times, I have days where I can’t do anything. I wake up, drink coffee, and I am sucked into a vacuum of social media and internet nonsense. My optimism is shrouded in the daily humdrum of just being alive. I don’t possess a fear of failure, or a fear of death. Perhaps my fear is of life. Of living a life so extraordinary and then having it taken away in death. Sometimes I think we’re all waiting to die, wherein lies an underlying lack of motivation for great success.

In the past, two things that I’ve used to help keep me moving (slowly) forward are self-love, and unwavering optimism. I’ve always been an overly optimistic person, oftentimes and recently using it as a crutch that “everything will be ok” regardless if I do anything about it. But I bore myself, because my past few blogs have been written on precisely the same struggle that I have now. I’ve let my optimism bankrupt me, like I’m buying too many lottery tickets because I just KNOW that someday I’ll win.

I need to shift my blind enthusiasm and self-love towards coveting a fear of failure and having self-motivation. Enthusiasm is only a means to achieve real life success, it’s not successful in itself.

I’ve measured my success in my survival for so long, but it’s time to go beyond surviving and start living. Living, is being responsible. It’s being productive and actively working to change your life and achieve goals. It’s having fun, when it’s felt rewarded. It’s waking up early and setting goals in the magical, energetic light of morning. It’s not being blissfully happy and waiting around for someone to contact me with a million dollars advance to write a book.

Money doesn’t motivate me, helping people motivates me. So I’m going to use that, YOU, as my motivation going forward. If I let my friends, clients, and readers down, then I’ve let myself down. I’m not going to be a stay-at-home girlfriend, I’m going to be the bread-winner. I am done struggling, I am done being lazy. This is my time to create the oasis I’ve always been admiring from afar. I will be consistent. I will get organized. I will surround myself with people who hold the same goals and positivity as myself. I can fucking do this, I beat cancer.

And when I’m inevitably fading into the winter, I’ll remind myself to come back and read this and remember where my motivation lies. I won’t punish myself and wither beneath the weight of a setback, I’ll remind myself that I am allowed to experience the cold sometimes because it reminds me of how much more I enjoy warm weather.

“Although you feel small and helpless now, she is evidence that miracles are being planted in the ashes that surround you, and they will grow into oak trees with roots so deep they do not fear the changing seasons.”

I wrote that…about one year ago. Making me realize that nobody else can truly motivate me like myself. <3

A change of tide

The tides are a changin’.

“Would you like to try that on? Can I help you find anything? Can I start you a fitting room?”

The worst thing about shopping is the nagging sales pitches that every dutiful employee is required to engage in. I hope that they hate doing it as much as the customer loathes hearing it, but it’s part of the job. Most would buy an article of clothing based on their partiality to the look or brand, but occasionally there are innate tangibles that persuade us to purchase something for more sentimental reasons. Such was the case with this sales pitch.

“This company is amazing, the founder’s father had cancer and died when he was very young, so now he has this line of shirts that say encouraging things on them.” She picks up a shirt and unfolds it to reveal the words Mind Over Matter.

Continuing her plug, “Cute, right? And on every tag there is a story from a different cancer survivor, or someone who has lost somebody to cancer. It’s really moving because it affects everybody. I mean, you probably know somebody like a friend or family member who has gone through cancer. So everybody can relate. It’s for a good cause.”

I looked down at my wrist and calmly put my hand over it to cover my tattoo. It says Mind Over Matter, but I didn’t want to show her. I self-consciously wanted to conceal my intimate knowledge of the same subject that she was passionately trying to sell me shirts through.

Why couldn’t I speak up and tell her that I was one of those people who had cancer? Lately, I just don’t feel like talking about it; I know the subsequent questions I would be asked as her happy sales-promoting face converted into a pouty lip and furrowed brow. She would look at me like I was an abandoned little puppy that needed to be adopted.

We all choose to hide certain things about ourselves in an effort to remain likeable. Although, in this case I’m certain she wouldn’t have changed her opinion of me either way, had I divulged my secret. But it wouldn’t have got me a free shirt either.

There have been countless times that I’ve been in a similar situation where I have to decide if I speak up or keep quiet about “the cancer thing.” There was a time when I couldn’t hide it because of the physical evidence of cancer—being bald for example. But my hair grew back, and there is increasingly less proof of the sick girl that I once was. Faded scars are the last trace of a bygone era.

I associated myself with my disease for so many years; it became who I was and what people knew me by—the young girl who got breast cancer. I grew fond of the label because it gave me a peculiar new sense of empowerment that I had accomplished and beat something. Now, as the years have passed, I find myself wanting to disassociate myself with my former label. I don’t want to be like that high school football player who still talks about the glory days and can’t move on in life. Stagnant. Unevolved. Those who cannot change or adapt, have already convinced themselves that they are unable to because of their current situation. “This is as good as it gets.”

As my environment is evolving away from cancer, I adapt, not to survive but to continue to improve upon myself and my understanding of the world. By changing my thinking from “sick cancer girl” to something more like “fucking badass” I’m leaving no space for excuses (although I still make them). Each experience in life is a means to get us to the next place in life; woven together to create a beautiful, intricate story that is as unique as the very DNA that flows through our veins.

What most people fail to understand is that you can write your own story—with intention, purpose, and foresight—your own paradigm shift is there for the taking if you’re willing to navigate yourself out of the prevailing winds.  This is something that I’ve struggled with recently.

I quit my job right before Thanksgiving. After cancer, it’s common to feel lost. We’re left wading in the water, surrounded by the fiery wreckage of a crashed airplane. I wanted time to decompress and find myself, but recently I feel like my time off has left me indolent and idle.

My lack of framework is mostly to blame for my barren ambition. I wrongfully assumed that when I quit my job I’d be swimming in creativity and a flurry of new projects to conquer that I’d previously never had time for. I was waiting for the “moment to strike” to want to write, but it rarely has happened. I assumed that once I was free from the daily burdens of my corporate job, that all my good ideas would flood my mind and I’d jump to it and get to work. I’ve waited around for something to strike. And here I am, nearly 8 months later in the Sahara desert of a creative drought.

How does one break free from the doldrums of complacency and zero motivation? I frequently feel ashamed and self-critical of this insidious helplessness that crept into my life like a weed slowly suffocating my garden of roses—and the neighbors have begun to notice my ill-manicured lawn. The deeper I get into this apathetic life and the less I mold structure out of my days has caused me to be a person that I hardly admire. I spend my days going to the beach and playing the role of a stay-at-home-girlfriend.

How did I get here? And am I becoming a millennial? Based on the year I was born, I am classified as a millennial. A self-interest seeking and unapologetic species who think memes are religion and marriage is outdated.

I talk shit about millennials but my ironic fate has turned me into that which I abhor. I have a short attention span. I usually write two paragraphs and excuse myself to the kitchen to go make a snack and forget about what I was originally writing altogether. Motivation = poof. I expect things to be handed to me when I know they won’t be, but that doesn’t stop me from sitting around and waiting. I procrastinate, my favorite word is tomorrow, and I spend way too much money on shoes and handbags because somehow this makes me feel like I’m worth something and hopefully convinces strangers that I’m mildly successful and I’ve got my shit together. Which, I do not. But that’s OK, there is always a low-pressure drop in the air before a hurricane approaches.

Women frequently express jealousy of my “stay at home girlfriend/dog mom” status. Nah, girl. It’s not all that great once you find yourself getting excited about a sale at Michael’s craft store, or a new season of Girlfriends Guide to Divorce that you can binge watch all night while drinking your new case of White Girl Rosé. It’s not all that great when you realize that you don’t have anything interesting to talk about except meaningless gossip. It’s not all that great when someone asks you that impending question “So what do you do for work?” And my response is usually something like “I’m a stay at home dog mom and I’m also trying to become a drug lord but it’s been really difficult breaking into the biz.”

I’ve discovered that thoughts don’t necessarily lead to generating action; contrarily, premeditated action and good habits are what generates productive thoughts. So I’m making a change. I’m placing stability and structure back into my life. I’m not going to go shopping at 1 pm followed by drinks on the beach at 3pm followed by happy hour with friends at 6 pm. I retract that—I’m not going to do that every day, but still maybe once in a while. It’s been a fabulous run, but Robert Frost had it right when he said “Nothing gold can stay.”

There is undermined value in doing absolutely nothing for a while, but I’m pushing it’s limit so I’m trying to abide by my own new rules which I’ve neatly outlined below. 🙂

I don’t try to be better than anybody else, I just try to be better than the me I was yesterday.

 

  1. No one owes you anything.

Although, we’re taught to believe otherwise. My parents did an excellent job raising me and my two sisters, but yes, we were a bit coddled and spoiled. My first car was a BMW which they paid for. Was it a mistake on their part? No, they love me and just wanted the best for me, but it made me subconsciously believe that things would probably be handed to me without working for them. College too—I wasn’t paying for it so I didn’t value it as much as I should have. I mistook college as a chore. Another obligatory thing in life that I didn’t really want to do. We tend to mistake love for indebtedness—like we are owed some magical credit card fueled by the love we have for each other. Case in point is our cultural obsession with grandiose weddings and marriage proposals. My engagement ring should reflect how much my fiancé loves me. We’re going to have a huge expensive wedding because we’re so much in love that we want everybody to know. A show of money is not a show of love. LOVE should be manifested in physical and verbal acts of admiration, respect, emotional empathy, and commitment. Be kind, support each other’s mental needs, hold hands. The only thing we are owed in life, is kindness and love.

 

  1. Value your real relationships in life.

Shift your values. What do you want people to remember you by, when you die? That you had 100K followers on Instagram, or that you were a genuinely nice person who sought to help others in need? Sure, you can do both of those things. But our generation places increasingly too much value on the narcissistic fueled spectacles of a fake universe we call social media. If you have a strong influence on Instagram or Twitter, use it wisely, be helpful and encouraging to your followers. Think about the message you’re sending when you post an obviously-set-up-but-looks-candid photo and pretend to have a perfect life/perfect children/perfect ass, etc. I try to post the good with the bad, but sometimes I need to step away and not post anything at all.

 

  1. Stop complaining.

I wouldn’t trade places with anybody in the world. If you’re feeling sorry for yourself—that’s okay—you’re allowed to feel that way. Verbalizing your unhappiness in the form of bitching and projecting it on other people is not okay, and PS—nobody cares, so STFU. Instead of complaining, ask somebody you admire for advice regarding your situation. The only person who can help you is yourself.

 

  1. If you keep letting down yourself, you’ll eventually let everybody else down.

I struggle with this one a lot. It’s something I have to remind myself of daily. When we keep procrastinating and putting things off, that has an impact on who we are perceived as a person. If I can’t rely on myself to do something in a timely matter, why would anybody else rely on me for anything?

 

  1. Work fucking harder for the life you want.

Nobody is going to do it for you. I worked and saved money so that I could quit my job for up to a year, because that’s the life I wanted. I don’t regret it; I learned from it.

 

  1. Pray more.

God is real and wants to help you.

 

  1. When the vodka runs out, your problems are still there.

Sure, I like to drink just as much as any other young person, but drinking should be a reward to celebrate your accomplishments, and not a crutch for when your life isn’t going as planned.

 

  1. Take more risks.

The world is scary and we’re afraid to fail because we’ve been handed participation trophies our entire lives. High risks = high reward.

 

  1. Get the fuck off Facebook.

This is mostly for everybody else, because I’m hardly ever on Facebook. If you’re posting more than one time a day, then you’re on there too much. Go back to my #2 point.

 

  1. Stop comparing yourself to others.

We are taught to drive a car by looking ahead of us in our own lane. If you are constantly staring to your right and left at the nicer cars going faster than you, you’ll inevitably crash. You are unique in your own way, and nobody deserves comparison to you. It’s natural to be competitive and compare ourselves with others, but instead of thinking “I’m jealous of that person because they have (insert desirable attribute here),” try to think to yourself “I’m happy for that person, good for them.”

 

I’m at the point in my life where I don’t know what the hell I REALLY want to do. I got my real estate license, along with a slew of other useless licensees and laurels that are unprofitable additions to my repertoire. Like, a motorcycle license when I don’t own a motorcycle.

It took me thirty three and a half years to realize that I don’t always have to be DOING something. Sometimes, being alive is an accomplishment in itself. Sometimes we need time to reinvent ourselves. I’m not the same person that I was three years ago, so why should I be doing the same things as my old self?

I am resetting my life. I still don’t know what I want to “do” after my fun-employed life reboot. I’d like to find a way to comfortably exist with a job that doesn’t make me want to put my laptop in a panini press. Some people search their whole lives for that. But I have new goals, and I’ll be out there like Christopher Columbus with a wine glass in hand searching for my next conquest in life.

“The more you see yourself as what you’d like to become, and act as if what you want is already there, the more you’ll activate those dormant forces that will collaborate to transform your dream into your reality.” – Wayne Dyer

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.

To the girl on the left…

Two years apart.

Same Lululemon hoodie; different body and soul occupying it.

I’m not here to bullshit with all the champions who are going through chemo right now and tell you “everything will be ok!” because we all know that’s not always true. And in those daunting hours, days, months of treatment we often can’t see the light because we’re literally confined indoors to our homes and hospitals under the stale fluorescence of fake lighting and saccharin enthusiasm.

I found my light by observing others who had walked the path before me. They have hair! They are going on vacations! They have cleavage! I was bald and puffy. I felt left behind and sorry for myself. But I saw my future in the other cancer survivors who were years ahead of me in remission. I realized that my new normal—crushing exhaustion as I would draw on my eyebrows every morning and glue on fake eyelashes just so I could look halfway decent and avoid sneers and stares if I even dared to venture into the outside world–would not be my forever normal.

So, to the girl on the left, I’d like you to meet the girl on the right. She is one of those future cancer survivors that you’re going to enviously admire. Let her be a testimony to all of the doubts and insecurities you’re feeling right now. Let her show you how life can be normal again. Although you feel small and helpless now, she is evidence that miracles are being planted in the ashes that surround you, and they will grow into oak trees with roots so deep they do not fear the changing seasons.

She is proof that –although you cannot see the plan God has for you—you are right on track.

To the girl on the left: I know you nearly had a panic attack before you posted that picture of yourself bald on social media.  You were flustered and frightened by what the response would be because you cared what other people thought. And you will be criticized but not in a way you are prepared for. You will be judged for wearing wigs to “hide” your cancer. You will be condemned for saying the word “fuck” in your blog. You will be chastised for posting photos of your mastectomy scar and surgeries. You will get fusilladed by a sea of eye-rolls as you perpetually forget important dates and can’t even recall what you said in a conversation two hours ago.

The girl on the right is proof that as time passes and people pass judgement, you’ll learn to care a little less about those things. She is proof that you can and should do whatever the hell makes you happy because by the time you’ve caught up to the girl on the right, you’ll have earned every ounce of that happiness.

She is proof that one day you’ll become a stranger in the oncology department which now seems so familiar and where everybody knows your name. She is proof that there will be weeks that go by before the word “cancer” is spoken. And when it is, that word will slip from your mouth like a vase full of flowers tumbling to their demise while you flinch at the piercing explosion on the cold marble floor. It will rattle you. But also remember that the girl on the right is a fucking badass so she asks someone to grab a broom and everybody laughs because she says “I hated that ugly vase anyways.”

She is proof that as your life changes, you will learn more about yourself than you could ever imagine.

She is proof that you are not alone in your fight. Stay strong, whatever you’re going through now is just the test before you learn the lesson.

 

 

 

Fear and Loathing in Allergy Season

The incorrigible villain known as pollen is once again plundering my lungs of breath, scorching my throat, and welcoming me into its lukewarm arms with dual ear infections. Post-cancer, I’ve had a difficult time finding antibiotics and medicines that respond to my body in a satisfactory way. My immune system is now an extremely callous, obstinate version of what it used to be. In some ways this is good—I generally am sick less often—but when germs and infection do invade, they tend to have a competitive advantage. Chemo changes the body considerably; I never used to have any allergies and now I’m allergic to numerous things including pollen and most of the human race. Cancer hollowed out my old body and refilled it with new contents.

Human nature encourages us to act bitter to these misgivings in life, but what if we decided to embrace the terrible things that have happened to us? Is it wrong to celebrate my sickness as I sit here freezing in two sweatshirts with tissues and various bottles of antibiotics and pills in front of me? I rejoice in these reminders that my health is not guaranteed, because it means I’m alive. Cancer taught me to appreciate the best and the worst of life; the worst sometimes being the more valuable experience.

After cancer, one battle ends and a new war starts. We’ve been dragged and burned through a nuclear war zone and then thrown back onto our trembling legs and told to run back into the world’s unfamiliar embrace. We stumble to recognize this new world we live in, where fear and worry are trivial words for which we no longer recognize their express meaning because they are now intrinsic to our character. We are made of fear, but we’ve internalized it so we can control its power within our conscious and rearrange where it dwells. We conquer fear and vanquish it to the attic in our minds until a small beam of sunlight illuminates its silhouette and exposes the curled up corners of a chilling satisfied smile veiled in the shadows. But we grin back, because when you’ve seen that menacing face, you’re no longer controlled by it. We control the beast. It no longer dictates us; we are free because death does not frighten us.

New beasts may inhabit the darkness: anxiety, depression, hopelessness; but their power is limited to the shackles we place on them. They are defeated in the acknowledgement of them and the ability to govern their size and influence. The moment you stop fearing death is when you can live unadulterated in your lust for life and be present to every raw emotion that unearths from the shadows.

That is where you find the confidence to finally write your own destiny.

This is where you learn to embrace your new post-cancer body and unlock the healing power contained within your mind. It’s how you learn to be the most enthusiastic girl in the world with a recurrent double ear infection and a throat that feels like I’ve swallowed a fucking razorblade.

So feed the beasts you want to grow: confidence, happiness, appreciation, love; in turn, this will starve the ones you wish to die.

 

 

7 Things I Wish I Knew Before Starting Chemo

Hands and feet in ice!

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.

  1. 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.
  2. 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.
  3. 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.
  4. 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
  5. Dress warmly; hospitals are cold. Bring fuzzy socks or slippers for after your feet get an ice bath.
  6. 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. …
  7. 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.

Buy the Good Shoes and Don’t Take Your Arms for Granted

Change (v): Make or become different.

Cancer will change you. It will become a catalyst of transformation, a revolution of your existence. It separates your life into two versions of yourself: You before cancer and you after cancer. My before-cancer self is someone who took things for granted; who was blindly unaware of many things, including her health and the delicate brevity of life.

When I was three days post-mastectomy, I couldn’t lift my arms to wash my hair or brush my teeth. I had tubes that dangled under my armpits; they were sewn into my skin and collected blood from the inside of my chest. I laid back over the bathtub as my boyfriend Jeff washed my hair, and I couldn’t help but think how ludicrous this was. At that moment it dawned on me – I had taken my own arms for granted my entire life. Arms! What I wouldn’t have given to be able to use my arms in that instant. Then, a few months later, as I raised my arms to touch my cold, bald head, I thought: What I wouldn’t give to have that hair again, even when I was unable to wash it with my T. Rex arms.

After things are taken from you, you miss them. We sulk and reflect back to the “old days” with sad, polar eyes. When familiar comforts, like working arms and hair, are no longer there, you realize how you’ve foolishly been unaware of their importance. As Joni Mitchell sang, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”

With cancer, you’ll gain more than you lose. Sure, I lost some physical attributes, but I gained confidence, acceptance and wisdom. When all of my material crutches were taken – pretty hair, long eyelashes, breasts, a skinny body­ – I was left with only my mind and soul. It’s a blank slate, a clean canvas, a new birth, a reawakening. Cancer will make you hit rock bottom, but it’s never felt so good. You may think you were left for dead and buried in the soil, but you’ve actually just been replanted. I was buried so I could grow again.

The saying is true: The healthy wear a crown that only the sick can see. I wear that crown now, but I can see it, and I kept the receipt to remember how much I paid for it. Nothing is to be taken for granted. I have lived, I have learned, and now I upgrade. All of those things the pre-cancer me said she was going to do … I’m actually doing them. I had preventive surgery this week to remove all my moles, something I said years ago I was going to do (because I’m not trying to get skin cancer, too). I took a real estate class last week to get my license in Florida. I am currently writing a book. I dyed my hair lavender. I’m doing ALL THE THINGS because I can. I will always strive to be a better me than the day before. A healthier me, a stronger me.

If you’re waiting for a catalyst of change in your life, don’t wait until you hit rock bottom. Make this that day. Complacency is an ugly weed that will slowly suffocate your roses. Nothing will grow in the stagnant dust of your comfort zone. So, get moving, young grasshoppers! Seize each day, because tomorrow you might not be able to wash your own hair. Grab your life and elevate it like you’re Rafiki holding up baby Simba in The Lion King, screaming something in Swahili. BAHHHHHH-SOWHENYAAAAA-BABABISH-KIBABAAAAAAA.

There is plenty of time to make mistakes, but there is no time to be average. Death may stalk me, but I’m skipping around and waving my middle finger back at him saying, “You can’t catch me!” Because, newsflash: We are all going to die. He will catch me one day, but until then I’ll be that girl who is out there buying the good shoes, dying her hair like a rainbow, changing jobs, moving cities, and never ever settling in the dirt.

Namaste, pink sisters.

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!

Gettin Wiggy With It

 

Howdy! So I’ve been getting a lot of requests recently for information about my wigs. I posted below all of the wigs that I have that I can find a link to. If I get new ones, I’ll update the list, and if you have questions about a specific one just let me know! I also have a gallery of my wigs that I scrapped together from my Instagram and Snapchat pics. So here ya go, babes! 

Ones currently available online:

Cheap-o wigs (under $50). 

Black red/purple ombré wig: http://a.co/aWCivRP

Red hooker wig: http://a.co/h0vLIns

White/grey wig: http://a.co/4mUVdow

Blonde/Brown ombré: http://a.co/3ZGYCfl

Black/Grey ombré: http://a.co/eERbUHF

Black/Mint Green ombré: http://a.co/4et5dRB

Long wavy light brown/blonde wig (I call this my princess hair wig): http://a.co/gMYwFeE

Paramount Wigs on Etsy: I’ve bought a few off here, a long blonde one, an ombré curly brown/blonde one, and a brown/red long one. The wigs she sells are all different, so you can’t buy the exact ones that I have but check her shop out! https://www.etsy.com/shop/ParamountWigs

 

Fancy wigs: ($300+)

Drew HD Monofilament Lace Front Wig by Jon Renau

Cherry Crème (32F) and Fudgesicle (6) — $306.20 each

http://a.co/3KlhEFH

Alessandra HD Monofilament Lace Front Wig by Jon Renau

ALMONDINE (10RH16)  and Dark Brown (6) — $326.00 each

https://www.wigs.com/products/alessandra-smart-lace-front-wig-jon-renau

 

 

If cancer were a person.

If cancer were a person.

If cancer were a person, they would be a sadistic sociopath with a vile heart. They would be cunning and sarcastic, laughing at your accomplishments and gloating about their own. They would be tasteless and tacky, cocky and offensive.

But cancer has another side. A Hyde to their Jekyll. They are brutally unbiased and non-judgmental; making no opinion on a person based on their race, age, gender, lifestyle. Cancer accepts everybody with no discrimination. It won’t stereotype you. It has an endearing work ethic, and doesn’t accept defeat readily. It’s productive and skilled at it’s craft. Cancer wants to be friends with everybody, no matter who you are.

Recently, a friend in our cancer community was given a devastating blow; it had returned. She had been in remission for a few years. Her hair grew back; enviously beautiful and long. She moved on, but cancer came back. It’s like an abusive ex-boyfriend, but worse. This news sent a shockwave through her community of followers and cancer survivors.

She is the epitome of health and hope. She did everything right and took every precaution to protect herself from cancer. If it came back for her, it will surely come back for me. But the ugly truth is that cancer doesn’t care. It’s not fair and it fucking sucks! It doesn’t care if you smoke two packs of cigarettes a day, or if you are a Vegan who drives a Prius. Sure, one of those two are statistically less likely to get cancer, but seriously who the hell knows anymore? If we all didn’t eat/drink/use the things that science claims cause cancer then we would all starve, smell, and be bored as fuck.

I’ve settled into a happy medium this past year, I try not to let cancer scare me. I do certain things to keep my cancer recurrence at bay… Tamoxifen, Tumeric, CBD, exercise, less sugar, less meat, less dairy, less alcohol (def not around the holidays though). But I also have my vices. I’m not giving up alcohol for good. I do, however, think that the years while I was drinking wine every single night and on birth control for like 10 years probably unleashed my genetic cancer mutation. But, again, who the hell knows. See previous post “Did wine give me cancer?” And occasionally when I’m a little drunk, I bum a cigarette from a friend. Bad, yes! But I am owning it. If you’d like to send me an email about how perfect YOU are, by all means do it. He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone at her. 

Blah blah sugar is bad and I need to try an alkaline vegan diet and start taking activated charcoal and smoking weed every day. **Sighhhh** Everything causes cancer and is bad. Pollution is bad, should we stop breathing? Stop driving cars? No. Well maybe if we could all ride unicorns instead.

We’re all doing our best and I think that’s enough. We are enough. We’re held hostage in a game of Russian roulette with cancer. We really don’t know. So go on and live your life as healthy as you can. We all have our little weaknesses, but we know our bodies. I truly think that the best defense against cancer is optimism. Visualize your future without cancer. Manifest your positive thoughts into existence. THAT shit actually works pretty good. Pray for your friends and family’s health. PRAY for my friend who had a recurrence. Send her your positive vibes, prayers, energy. She’s got this! We’re all behind her.

We’re all going to be okay. I know a lot of people are freaking out about a recurrence. I did too. I still do. But I am actively making a decision to stay positive and encouraging to all my cancer warriors. Be vigilant in your journey but stay calm and know that it’s really not in your control. Surrender your fear; free fall into the peaceful energy of the universe and let it catch you and take you where you’re meant to be. Namaste betches.

Advice to the newly diagnosed

Advice to the newly diagnosed

Recently, I had a close friend who was diagnosed with cancer. This was actually a first for me. This is a real life friend who has cancer – like, not a friend who I met on social media after my diagnosis. I have plenty of friends who have fought cancer, I just haven’t met 99.9% of them!

(Side note: My social media cancer friends — can we all get a cancer conference together? Or maybe we all just meet in one city and go out for a weekend where we drink cocktails and look hot AF and show the world that cancer doesn’t have shit on us?!? Seriously, I think this needs to happen.) (Update–We’re also burning our wigs in a giant bon fire.)

Back to the main topic – I told my friend “welcome to the club!” because he’s now my cancer buddy! Also, he’s the same age as me so he’s joining the young cancer club which is an elite few 🙂

So we pow-wowed a bit and talked about cancer. He told me that his diagnosis was very eye opening, because before it happens to you personally, you kind of tend to make broad generalizations about cancer. When I say personally, I mean either YOU have cancer or your close family/friend does. And when I say “broad generalizations” I mean that most people don’t know jack shit about cancer. The unknown is what causes panic, fear, anxiety. The panic causes us to Google. The googling causes us to panic more.

So in light of our realization that most people don’t know shit about what it’s like to have cancer, I wanted to share a few things. For the newly diagnosed (whether it’s you, a friend, or family member) 7 little tidbits of advice and what to expect — because I wish that I had somebody who told me these things.

  1. First of all, when you’re first diagnosed you’re fucking scared. (Duh, you know that) You basically start planning your own funeral.
    I want everybody to wear white, not black, drink vodka sodas, eat Royal Farms chicken, and have Elton John play Tiny Dancer. Oh, and blast my ashes into outer space in a pink sparkley rocket.
    As cool as your funeral plans may be, just stop it. You probably went on the internet and found the worst-of-the-worst cancer diagnosis scenario and are now convinced that you’re going to die. Stop it. Step away from the Google machine. Questions? Call a doctor, not WebMD. The internet is not your friend; the internet is the boy in 2nd grade who stole your Lunchable.
  1. Secondly, Cancer is (usually) more emotionally taxing on your loved ones than it is on you. Why? Because YOU (as the cancer patient) know that you’re inherently going to be fine. Sure you will freak out at first, but eventually, after you have sat with the doctors, after you know what a PET scan is, you know what your options are. You already threw those imaginary funeral plans in the invisible trash because – guess what— today more people are living from cancer than dying. But most people don’t really seem to grasp that. Especially your crazy [insert emotionally unstable relative here] who is so completely incapacitated with worrying about you that you find yourself always calming them. HELLO?!… This crazy relative doesn’t have cancer, but that doesn’t stop them from hyperventilating in Home Goods because they found napkins with pink breast cancer ribbons on them.

    So the neurotic relatives are one thing — but whoever your caretaker is during this time (husband/wife/mom/etc) — be extra nice to them. It’s the hardest on these people. They may not be the ones that are sick, but they see you at your worst. The burden that they carry as your lifeline during your darkest hour is heavier than they are ever obligated to endure. It’s an emotional crusade to stay strong, to be the rock, to tell white lies to family when they ask how you’re doing (Doing great!). When really… you spent the past two nights throwing up like you did in your high school/college party days after you drank enough “jungle juice” to drown an elephant. The caretakers are our unsung heroes.

  1. Third, prepare for a shitstorm of questions. You’re going to get questions and comments from anybody and everybody you’ve ever met (like that annoying girl you sat next to in freshman Poly Sci who now has enough babies to start her own little league team), and they are going to be so stupid/invasive/absurd that you’re going to whisper to yourself “whatttt the fuuucck” more times than you can count. Because they will ask things like: “Oh, so I guess now you can’t really have kids, because you can’t breastfeed right?” I’m not sure this person knows how a baby is born. Perhaps an anatomy lesson is due. “So what does cancer FEEL like? You could feel it right? It hurts?” If I could feel cancer… I would have been diagnosed a lot sooner, ya genius. I had a tumor, and yes I could feel that, but cancer doesn’t really have a feeling. Its symptoms are rarely noticeable which is why it goes undiagnosed in most people. “Oh you’re not going to die, the prognosis is good, right?” Just… never, ever ask a cancer patient about their life expectancy unless you are a doctor. Well, even if you are a doctor, you’re still running a high chance of getting crane kicked in the face because nobody wants to talk about an appraisal of their time left on Earth like we’re chit chatting about sports statistics. If they aren’t talking about it, don’t ask about it. Don’t mention dying. Ever.

    So like I said earlier… please understand that most people are just misinformed, not malicious. Think about it… before your diagnosis, did you know that there were different combinations of chemo? Did you know that not everybody needs chemo, and that not every type of chemo makes your hair fall out? Did you even know what radiation is?

    I admit. I didn’t know any of this. In my stupid brain I thought that people who got cancer usually died, or else it must not have been that bad. I thought that there were “good kinds of cancer” that were easy and similar to getting a virus treated with a Z-pack. I thought that people got cancer as a result of living an unhealthy lifestyle. Wrong Wrong Wrong.

  1. Fourth — know that no matter what kind of cancer you have/had… the psychological effects remain the same whether its stage 1 or 5. Maybe you had stage 1 and the cancer was removed with minor surgery and no further treatment. Maybe you had stage 4 and cancer riddled your bones and the crevices of your insides. The self loathing and guilt that comes with a cancer diagnosis can be crippling. It fucks with your mind. Why did this happen to me? Was it because I [insert any bad vice/behavior here]? Did I cause this? Too much bacon? Not enough green tea?
     
    You will constantly ask yourself “Will it come back again?” With a cancer diagnosis, you also get the pleasure of the grim fucking reaper snagging a permeant home in your subconscious. This grim reaper visits in seasonal times. He’s lounging next to you at the pool or standing across from you at the bar waving — as a friendly reminder that  you could die. “Howdy ho neighbor! Just here to ruin your day!”
     
    The fear of cancer returning. The anxiety of it recklessly colonizing and disabling your body in an unexpected homecoming. It’s a paralyzing thought that can hit you at startling moments. Death stalks you.
  1. You don’t have to tell everybody. Refer to point 3. It’s up to you. I thought I had to tell everybody. You don’t, and not everybody needs to know you have cancer.
  1. Time will fly during this scary period in your life. Which is good. It’s not one of those times you really want to “stop and take in the moment” like they tell you at your wedding. Your diagnosis will be a flurry of appointments and treatments. You’re constantly looking towards the next date on the calendar, next doctor, next chemo, next follow up. Before you know it you’re sitting here 1.5 years later with actual hair on your head, eyelashes, and new boobs. If you had chemo like I did, you’ll probably not remember a lot of the specifics during the hectic times (chemo brain – see previous post). The memories will float in your brain like a clouded drunk memory. Pretty neat-o!
  1. You’re going to be okay. Cancer taught me that even if I do…die…someday from cancer… that will be ok too. I’m not afraid to die. It will make you brave in weird ways you can’t understand. It makes your family brave. It makes relationships stronger. It makes your faith stronger. You’re going to be fucking fine! Calm your tits.

If you’re newly diagnosed, or just have questions feel free to ask me. I have plenty more unsolicited advice! Even if your questions are weird and hopefully just mildly offensive that’s fine too. I want to educate people. There are too many things that we don’t ask or don’t say to each other because we’re afraid or embarrassed. Get over it, talk about it. Put an end to this stigma that cancer is a death sentence or that it’s contagious (oh yeah, forgot to mention I’ve heard that question too).

Be nice to each other, stay healthy. Ciao betches.

The Struggle is Real AF

Chemo brain is a real thing.

It’s 3:40 and I have an appointment at 4, and it’s going to take me at least twenty minutes to drive there in traffic this time of day. I grab my Louie bag. Toss in a bottle of water, my wallet and my makeup bag as I run out the door and hop into my car. Turn the car on. Put the car in reverse. Go to grab my phone to look up directions to my appointment. FUCK. I left my phone on the kitchen counter. Park car. Turn off engine. Run into the house like a crazy woman with a swarm of bees chasing her.

Just a normal moment in my life. This type of stuff happens every day. I. Forget. Everything. I would forget my own birthday if I didn’t have to write it on doctor forms all the time.

I’m not going to just any appointment either, I’m going to see a psychiatrist. Because I literally can’t deal with this sorry excuse for a brain anymore. I give up. I gave up. I tried for about 9 months to tell myself that chemo brain wasn’t that bad and that it didn’t affect me. In those months, I forgot birthdays. I forgot important doctor appointments. I forgot which airport I was flying out of. I forgot to pay a hospital bill. I forgot to call people back. I went to the grocery store to buy coffee and I came back with a cart full of food except for the coffee.

The last straw came when I started to notice that my forgetfulness could sometimes hurt other people. I was a half assed friend and person in general and I’ve never been that way until now. I knew it wasn’t who I was. My brain was like a generator being powered by a single potato.

I keep saying that I was going to see a psychiatrist for a few months, and again, I kept forgetting to make an appointment. Or I’d yield an anemic attempt to look up a local psychiatrist and get frustrated and give up. I tried taking “brain pills” like focus factor. I tried green tea, green caffeine, normal caffeine, gingko biloba, B vitamins, unicorn tears, vampire glitter, etc.

I was still driving the struggle bus all the way to struggle city. Sippin’ on that struggle sizzurp.
(sorry, you get the point)

But I finally got an appointment (which was not covered by insurance of course) and saw a psychiatrist. I am not a huge cheerleader for ADHD drugs like Adderall and Vyvanse but I knew I needed something. I was so frustrated. I knew I needed something to help me focus.

I met with the psychiatrist. I had never been to one before this moment in my life. It was literally verbatim like the movies. I was kinda excited! He had a mahogany paneled office with a large full-wall bookshelf stocked with leather-bound books, encyclopedias and old airplane figurines. He had a large leather couch and one of those chase lounge/bed thingys that you’re supposed to lay down on and cry and tell your life story. So chic! His desk was a huge solid mahogany one like the Prezzy has in his oval office. He didn’t have a computer or a laptop or even a phone on his desk. He had a pad of blank unlined paper…and …. get this… a fountain pen and an ink well. He dipped his pen in the ink and started writing his notes in cursive on blank paper. Fancy as fuck huh. He was old school. (he was also just plain old — he has been in practice for 57 years)

After I told him my life story and history, he said that it appeared like I had the inattentive type of ADHD. He thinks I probably had always had it, but that chemo had just exacerbated the symptoms. I figured that much. Growing up my friends didn’t exactly call me “Snoozin” for my sharp attention span. I had always been the type who quietly listened to other people speaking as I daydreamed about something else and their words fluttered in one ear and out the next.

Friend: Beep Boop Bap Zing Ping Pong Potato Tomato

Me: Wait did you just say you’re allergic to broccoli?

Friend: ……. What? No I said my son just stared playing hockey. And his allergies are terrible.

My brain: [ ting-tong-ching-chong fa lalalala ]
Me: Oh yeah ha-ha I was just kidding… Hockey, sounds neat-o. **insert awkward smile emoji**

Inattentive ADHD is descried as having at least 6 of these symptoms:

• Not paying attention to detail
• Making careless mistakes
• Failing to pay attention and keep on task
• Not listening
• Being unable to follow or understand instructions
• Avoiding tasks that involve effort
• Being distracted
• Being forgetful
• Losing things that are needed to complete tasks

So I left Doctor McFancy’s office with a written prescription for Adderall time release. Has it been working? Yes! Do I feel different? YES! Doesn’t Adderall make you feel jittery or hyper? No, not if it’s prescribed correctly and it’s working the way it should be. I feel great. It doesn’t keep me up all night. I take it when I wake up and it starts wearing down at around dinner time. Will Adderall work for everyone? I have no idea, I’m not a doctor although I’d like to have a doctor’s salary.

So it’s Monday and I’m just starting my second week on it. No complications or side effects so far. I’ll let you all know how it works long-term. There are no known side effects or interactions with Tamoxifen or any increased breast cancer risk.

I feel like I am normal. I am no longer a lazy slug with a potato-powered brain!

I want to note that medication may not be the best solution for everyone experiencing chemo brain. Certain chemotherapy drugs are also shown to have more damaging effects on cognitive function than others, as are certain hormone therapy drugs. Chemotherapy given in higher, more concentrated dosages (which is what I got) also has shown to have worse long term effects on cognitive functioning.

Hopefully, in my lifetime, we will see the day when chemotherapy is an outdated treatment. Although it does save lives, chemotherapy’s negative affects are garnering more attention and causing people to turn away and seek alternative therapy.

It’s just an endless cycle of pharmaceutical drugs. Doctors administer outrageously expensive chemotherapy medicine to kill cancer. Patient needs more pharmaceutical drugs to cope with chemo. Nausea drugs. Anxiety medicine. Pain pills. And then the long-term effects present a need for more expensive drugs to treat lymphedema, chronic pain, chemo brain, etc. Doctor visits, private psychiatrist sessions, surgery, hospital stays, physical therapy, expensive lab tests and scans.

Money, money, money.

I don’t know. If you regularly read my blog, you know that I’m usually very optimistic. But I do sort of feel a little bit defeated because I had to turn to another chemical to make myself feel normal again. It seems to have solved my problem for the time being, though. So for that, I am grateful. It just makes me think, what the fuck is taking so long with this cancer cure? If nobody profited off of all this medicine and treatment, would we have found a cure sooner?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

Deep thoughts. Thank you Adderall, I guess.

For more information on symptoms of chemo brain click here:
http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/chemo-brain/home/ovc-20170224

S

Do Not Disturb

THERE IS HOPE AFTER A MASTECTOMY!

Most people don’t even KNOW that I had a mastectomy. While walking through a beach bar last weekend, there were plenty of mouth-breathing, sweaty, men who were checking out my fakies. One man in particular, who smelled like bud-light lime (vom) and failure, even gave me the old “heyyyyy yurrrr pretty whatsss yurrrrr nameeee” (he didn’t even look at my face) to which I gracefully replied by not speaking and instead tipped my floppy sun hat down and pointed out that it said “Do Not Disturb” … and kept walking. Boy bye.

But on the inside I was actually dancing and doing jazz hands in the air at the realization that I LOOK OK. I look better than OK? Fake boobs for the win!

Newsflash: most men don’t care if they’re fake… most don’t really care if you have nipples either. And if you don’t have boobs, I don’t think men are going to be too upset about that either. Because you have a vajay-jay so the rest is just an added bonus.

I’m still struggling with my scar from the mastectomy, but in a bathing suit or bra you can’t see it. I use BioCorneum silicon scar cream and frankincense oil on my scars and it’s been working pretty well! BioCorneum

I asked my plastic surgeon if I could get scar therapy/laser therapy on it and he said I should wait at least one year from now until doing that. He said in a year I probably won’t even need or want it, and that it will be expensive anyways so it may not be worth the price.

So if you’re reading this and you were recently diagnosed and you’re freaking out about having a mastectomy. Don’t be! Don’t let your boobs define you. Use this as an opportunity to get an upgrade if you want! Say FUCK YOU to cancer by coming out of this looking BETTER than you did before and blossoming into a god damn SUPERWOMAN who beat cancer and has a new pair of boobs to show for it!

Nipples! Allergic reactions! Strippers!

Are nipples overrated?

8/10/2016
We live in a society where everyone wants what they can’t have. After my double mastectomy, I didn’t have nipples so I found myself wanting them back. Honestly, I didn’t mind the way my boobs looked without them… Barbie doesn’t have nipples. Either do manikins. But I just wasn’t totally satisfied with the way I looked in the mirror. I’m 31 and I have a long life to live with these counterfeit boobs; so, I figured I might as well make them look as real as possible. If you can’t get your hands on a real Birkin you would at least want a really good fake, right?

I tried to find statistics on the percentage of patients who get nipple reconstruction after a mastectomy… but I couldn’t find a single thing. I Googled the shit out of it, and all I really learned is that less than 50% of patients who get a mastectomy go through with reconstruction. Which is a shockingly low number! Reasons listed for not getting breast reconstruction include fear of implants and complications, high costs, and older age. Women who are older are more likely to just say fuck-it and not get any reconstruction. (More power to ya girl! YOU DO YOU!) So I imagine that of the 50% who DO get new boobs, a lot less will go through with nipple reconstruction.

Also, 3-D tattooing is a really popular choice these days, and does not involve any surgery. It can be done by a doctor or a tattoo artist. The nipple is tattooed over the flat skin but shaded to look three dimensional. What I got (nipple reconstruction) is different, because it’s recreating an actual dimensional nipple and THEN I can get the tattooing of just the areola around the nipple.

So, I had surgery a few weeks ago to do nipple reconstruction, remove my port scar, and remove moles. I’ve been really slacking on this blog. It’s taken me a while to sit down and write. (Also, keep reading, post-surgery pictures to come below….)

Side note – I’m actually sitting in an airport right now because I MISSED MY FLIGHT to my BFF Samantha’s bachelorette party in Charleston, South Carolina. I, Susan Sheffield Miller, showed up this morning to the wrong fucking airport. Because I’m just awesome like that. And I also blame chemo for frying my brain cells. But seriously, I’m in Maryland and there are three airports all within an hour vicinity of each other so it was bound to happen??? Ugh. FML.

So yeah, I’ve got a few hours to kill before I catch the next flight down there.

Good news is that Sam was neither mad nor surprised… Probably because one time in college, after Sam’s father passed away, I showed up to the wrong funeral. Natalie (other BFF) and I somberly walked up to the casket and realized there was as unfamiliar looking dead elderly person in there.  We exchanged hysterical glances as we stuck our heads down and hauled ass out of there. Super awkward.

Back to surgery.

At some point this weekend I have to be in a bathing suit, which is terrifying because I had every mole on my stomach and chest removed two and a half weeks ago. So I look like I have chicken pox or leprosy. Oh and I also had an allergic reaction to bacitracin which is the main ingredient in Neosporin. (NEAT-O)

My surgeon went a little aggressive removing all my moles. But I get it. I mean, I already had cancer… so he wanted to remove all those moles which could also potentially be skin cancer. And I just happened to have a shit ton of them. I didn’t bother counting them, but I’d say it’s probably around 20 that were removed.

During surgery they slathered those spots with bacitracin, and SURPRISE, I’m allergic to it suddenly with no warning or previous episodes. I’ll add that to the list of stuff I’m allergic to:

Bacitracin / Neosporin

Keflex (antibiotic)

Most Neutrogena face wash

Most of the human race

Sweat pants

Walmart

Axe body spray (vom)

Crocs shoes (just, why?)

My entire stomach and chest broke out in itchy hives. It was literally absolutely brutal. I was taking so much Benadryl that I’m probably allergic to Benadryl now. My doctor finally put me on a steroid pack and it cleared up in about a week.. then came back for a few days… so I chugged a couple more bottles of liquid Benny… then it finally went away again. Sickness and disasters seem to follow me like toilet paper stuck to a flip flop!

I’m back to my fantastic self again though, and I’ve got fake hard nipples to prove it! It’s actually been quite an interesting few weeks because I have permanent hard nips… and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. And yes … you bet your ass that men stare at them and it’s annoying as FUCK. I can’t wear a bra for at least another week per my doctor’s instructions, so I have to do my best to hide them under clothing. But men still somehow notice. They can spot them from a mile away with one eye open.

Just walking through the airport gave me a new found aggravation for the grotesque mind of the male specimen. Put your eyeballs back in your skulls dudes. If only they knew what my boobs REALLY looked like under the shirt.

8/19/2016
Sorry that was a while ago I wrote that. (God I suck at posting things.) Well, I then commenced a 4-day drinking binge in Charleston, South Carolina with my friends for Sam’s bach party. Which was amazing and hysterical all at once. Maybe one day I’ll write about all the things we saw that I can not unsee. Like meth-faced strippers. Oh God never again.

Also, read my OBLIGATORY SALES AD:

I am starting to sell the Hair/Skin/Nail vitamins that I used to get my hair growing back fast. They’re from a brand called itWorks. Weird name for a company, but I guess they named it that because everything they sell REALLY DOES WORK. Kinda cheesy though. But I have a website if you wanna buy stuff. I promise not to bombard you with messages to buy! Don’t unfriend me! I just had a lot of people ask WHERE TO BUY those vitamins I took, so I figured I could be a distributor and earn some side money for all those lap dances at the strip clubs!

(kidding)

(gross)

(there’s no strip clubs in Fort Lauderdale anyways)

http://betchesguidetocancer.myitworks.com/shop/

Ok and now for the NIP PICS!

Click to expand the NSFW NIP PICS…

The first picture (top left) is about 24 hours after surgery… pretty gross. and THEN it gets more gross because the next picture is when I had the full-blown allergic reaction. Then the next few pictures show it healing and then what my nips look like today!

Reflecting on my Boobtastic Journey – 365 days ago

One year ago today, I woke up at the ass crack of dawn to get my boobs amputated. I wasn’t really nervous, I was tired and hungry. I was hangry. You’re not allowed to eat or drink anything like 12 hours or something before surgery and it literally feels like 12 days.

I really just wanted to get it over with. I guess my impatience was overshadowing any anxiety and fear that I had. Nobody really wants to make that decision to get a double mastectomy. So once I had decided it was the right thing to do, I just wanted to get it over with before I could comprehend that I had just signed consent papers for a surgeon to cut off my breasts.

It’s not an easy surgery, I’ll warn you. I was blissfully unaware of the magnitude of pain that I would be in for the weeks following that day. My doctor did warn me that most women claim it’s worse than childbirth. Yikes. But I had never had children, sooooo I really didn’t understand that comparison. When I woke up, the pain was a 12 on a 1-10 scale. I could barely talk because any movement in my body or my lungs and chest was excruciating.

It was bad.

But you know what…. In those few hours following surgery I thought life would never be the same… and then in those few weeks following surgery I thought that it would take an eternity before I would feel whole again. Well here I am, one year later telling you that time has flown by, and I feel amazing. It got better. It always gets better because when shit is really bad there is really nowhere else to go but up.

My journey isn’t QUITE over. I still have one more surgery on July 21st. This is the last step of my reconstruction. The surgeon will recreate nipples, remove my port scar, and remove a few “questionable” moles on my body while I’m knocked out. So three procedures in one surgery. It’s like a BOGO sale! It’s funny to think that a year ago, I had foolishly planned out in my mind that I would have all of my surgeries complete by Christmas of that year. HA! This was before I knew I needed chemo, before I ended up in the hospital twice, before my port got infected and I had to have more surgery. Oh well, I was never good at planning anyways.

But the end is finally in sight. Three hundred and sixty-five days ago, I never imagined that the finish line looked this way. I thought I was going to be one of those girls who got cancer but only had to have surgery and ended up with some great boobs out of the whole deal. Like Giuliana Rancic or Hoda Kotb. Expectations are the root of all heartache I guess.

I’m alive (cancer free), I have hair (some), and I have boobs (fake). Not a totallyyyyy bad deal, right?! I feel like those people who didn’t win the “showcase showdown” on Price is Right, but they still went home with a set of garden tools, and a 50 lb bag of raisins! It’s SOMETHING! So I’ll take it for now. God, I fucking hate raisins by the way. What a wasted use of grapes that could have been wine.

I want to write a quick thank you to everyone who has helped me over the past year. Especially my parents and my boyfriend Jeff. I couldn’t have done it without you. My parents visited me multiple times this past year to help with surgeries and chemo appointments. And my sisters who sent me awesome care packages, drawings from my nephews, and kept me laughing when I was high on Percocet’s. I miss Percocet. Oops I mean… I MISS YOU GUYS, my sisters.

Thank you to all my friends and extended family who sent me funny cards and gifts! I really appreciate the love and generosity. Thank you especially to Cindy who visited me numerous times this past year as well. I know she’s always on the next flight down here if I ever need her.

Thank you to Jeff who puts up with me every single day. With my freakouts and insecurities through this whole Hellish order. Thank you for taking care of me and being strong, optimistic, and encouraging me to write this blog and start my t-shirt business. I ain’t your sugar momma yet but I’m trying!

OK that’s all the sappy stuff I’ve got for today. I was never good at ending these heartfelt talks so I’m just going to awkwardly run away now. Cioa betches.

pre-mastectomy
Me and Jeff right before my mastectomy.

Eyelash extensions can go to Hell

It’s a love-hate relationship. Like, right now, I hate them. I got eyelash extensions the first week in April, when my eyelashes were presumably long enough to have extensions. The salon I went to was overjoyed to have me, and my $210. YES, that’s right: $175 plus I gave a $35 tip. Plus… I went back twice to get them “filled” for $80 each time. Round of applause for me. Again, I’ve found something stupid that I’ve wasted my money on. If you haven’t noticed, I am suffering from extreme buyers remorse at all the things I could have spent my money on instead of dead eyelashes.

I am going to refrain from listing the salon’s name, because truthfully I don’t think it was THEIR fault. I don’t think that the lash technician had actually ever put eyelash extensions on a chemo patient, so I don’t think they knew what to expect. I think that they just hoped for the best and swiped that credit card faster than a vegan at Whole Foods.

The first time was great, she placed small, thin individual lashes on my lashes. It basically just made them longer, which is what I wanted! Four weeks later, I had them filled and there was a new lady… she put on larger cluster lashes because she wanted to give me a “cat eye” look. I didn’t ask for this cat-eye look, but when she said “all finished!” in her upbeat Ukrainian accent and popped a mirror infront of my face, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Hot damn, momma’s lashes looked good!

Those lasted about a week before they started rapidly falling out and taking out my real lashes with them. Soon, I had large gaps and awkward chunks missing in my lash line. Hot damn, momma looks like a HOT MESS.

I went back in to get them filled by the same girl who originally did my lashes. She explained that the reason they were all falling out is because eyelash extensions are basically “like putting a really heavy backpack on a really small kid… the weight is too much for him to carry and he can’t grow if he’s carrying so much weight.”

**Sighhhhh**

Well since I was already there, I figured I’d try it one more time. So she tried to help me out. She put on really small, thin lashes very sparingly and tried to just make them look normal again. I barely lasted three days before over half of them had fallen back out. My lashes had clearly had enough. They were exhausted from carrying these heavy fake spears of vanity and gave up on life.

**Moment of silence for all of my fallen lashes**

By day 6, the extensions were all gone. Every. Single. Lash…. was now somewhere in my Dyson vacuum laying solemnly in a grave of gray dust and pet hair.

The point of my sad sob story isn’t to make you feel sorry for me and my stupid fleeting eyelashes_before_afterattempts at vanity. I actually just wanted to send out a warning signal out there into the cancer community to anybody considering doing this as well. I really didn’t know this could happen. I thought I did enough research prior to my decision to get the extensions… but I didn’t look hard enough or talk to enough people. So heed my warning betches considering the pros and cons of these fluttery felons!

Yesterday, I told my plastic surgeon about my sad eyelash story. Without sympathy or regard, he told me to take Latisse like he had prior advised. OK I get it, nobody feels sorry for me. I impatiently sabotaged my normal, healthy growing eyelashes with these fake lash-slaying harpoons on my lids. Whatevsssss. LIVE and LEARN people. Live and learn.

My next plan of action is that I am trying castor oil on my lashes… which has been advised by numerous other cancer patients… and I’m going to suck it up and buy the Latisse. Which actually costs less than the extensions. For those wondering… castor oil is not motor oil! It’s from some sort of bean… a …castor bean? I assume. Yes. I Googled and it’s a bean. Also, my Google search revealed that these beans are also commonly used by children in Brazil as slingshots. Soooo there’s that.

If anybody has any other things you advise, please let me know! I am open to LITERALLY ANYTHING. I am even rubbing slingshot bean oil on my eyes for fuck’s sake!

I just wanted to end this post on a side note about hair. I’m really missing my long hair lately. Many of you who know me, know that I also like to “twirl” my hair while I’m working or thinking. Can’t do that now, and it’s driving me bananas So if you’re having a bad hair day, or think you hate your long hair and want to “pull a Britney Spears” and shave it all … Kindly shut the fuck up and go rub some oil in your eyes. HA! Ok ciao betches.

Happy Cancer Anniversary to Me

One year ago.

I literally can’t believe it’s been an entire year since I was diagnosed with CANCER. Guys, I. LITERALLY. CAN’T. EVEN. <— I don’t really talk like that. If I ever do… shoot me

But to be honest, I can’t believe an entire year has passed because it’s gone by really quickly. Maybe it went by so fast because a majority of it was spent waffling between a foggy state of mental shock and an actual drug-induced fog from chemo and pain killers. My murky gray memories are laced together by the highlights of my disease like a constellation in the sky. Diagnosis. Mastectomy. Recovery. Chemo. Renewal.

This day feels bizarre. Should I be happy? Should I be upset? Should I just say “FUCK this day” and go to Target and buy stuff that I don’t need? Probably.

The real question I am curious about is this….. How would my life be different today if I never got cancer?

I think it would be enormously different. Would it be better? I don’t know. Getting cancer is not a GOOD thing. But I’ve really learned so much from the experience that I kind of feel like the good outweighed the bad. And when I consider what I lost… my hair and my boobs… I didn’t really LOSE them. They’re just different now.

I wouldn’t have got a dog. I wouldn’t have started a blog. (hey that rhymed!) I wouldn’t have started making bracelets. I wouldn’t have seen my parents as much as I got to in the past year. I wouldn’t have gotten over my fear of needles. I wouldn’t know what it’s like to feel truly grateful that I’m alive. Like really REALLY thankful. I wouldn’t know what it’s like to stare death in the face and tell him to go fuck himself. I wouldn’t have learned to love myself, regardless of how I looked or felt.

I wouldn’t have been able to help other people with cancer.

But I DID get cancer. And I was able to do all of those things. For that, I will be forever grateful. Even if cancer takes my life eventually (which it better fucking not), I’m going to be thankful for what this disease did give me.

So thank you cancer. Thank you for talking my boyfriend into getting me a French bulldog that I’m obsessed with. Thank you for my bad-betch attitude. Thank you for my new, sweet, lesbian haircut. Thank you for my nipple-less circus boobs. Thank you for showing me just how awful hospital food is. Thank you for introducing me to numerous wonderful nurses and doctors. Thank you for showing me what an amazing, patient man my boyfriend Jeff is. Thank you for showing me how fucking awesome my friends and family are. Thank you for inspiring me to write this blog and to help others on their cancer journey. Thank you.

 

Triumph over the UNIBOOB

Hayyyyy betch. First, check out my Etsy shop. (Is this how I sell stuff? Am I adulting now?)
CLICK HERE TO BUY COOL SHIT

Second, I got some life updates.

I had to cancel my next surgery today. It was supposed to be May 12…the final step of reconstruction. I also didn’t blog about the fact that I spent a week in the hospital in April due to a boob infection. WHO gets a boob infection… when you don’t even have real boobs??!! This lucky girl. It started with a really painful feeling in my chest and ribs. I woke up on a Monday and it felt like I had cracked my right ribs. OK cool. I was trying to recall the weekend and if I did anything that could cause this. Did I get drunk and wrestle the Hulk? Hmm no… so I assumed I had just slept wrong and… crushed my ribs in the process? Is that a thing? I don’t know.

Then fast forward to later that afternoon. I suddenly got violent chills and I literally couldn’t stop shaking. I called Jeff and told him to take me the emergency room. UGHHHHH! I am SOOOOO not looking forward to this. I knew something was wrong. Luckily for me, I still get to play the “cancer card” when I go to the hospital… so I was rushed to my own private room immediately without waiting. VIP yo!

When the on-call doctor saw me, he said I had a breast infection in the right side. I also had a 103.7 fever and was shaking and sweating like a hooker at church. After blood work and a sonogram confirmed my infection, I was stashed away upstairs in the cancer ward for the night. The next morning, a parade of doctors came to see me; my oncologist, my oncologist’s assistant, my plastic surgeon, my breast surgeon, and an infectious disease doctor. I still had a fever of 103, which didn’t go down until Tuesday night. All of the doctors told me the same general thing: if your infection doesn’t improve or go away in the next 48 hours, we will have to schedule you for emergency surgery to remove the implant.

OH COOL, so you’re telling me that I may have ONE FUCKING BOOB? I couldn’t stop crying. Imagining myself being uni-boobed. The Lone Boob. Boob Solo. Me, Myself and My One Boob.

So, fast forward through the next 5 days of boredom and agony I spent in the hospital. Some of you may have seen my Snapchats (Susansheffield – add me!) expressing my extreme disdain for hospital food and the lack of Bravo tv. I received antibiotics, fluids, and magnesium, (I have no idea why I got magnesium) intravenously during my amazing vacation at the hospital. I also got some morphine, which was kinda cool, but it was short-lived because it gave me a throbbing headache once it wore off (I requested Percocet instead). Yes, I was in a lot of pain. My right boob was swollen, red, and angry. Heyyy…. Kinda like Donald Trump! (zing!)

So as it turns out, I got really lucky. Super lucky actually. On Friday the doctors released me from the hospital with a two week supply of antibiotic pills, and some sweet hospital socks (you know, the tube ones with tred marks?). I was in the extremely rare 10% of breast cancer patients who overcame a breast infection without having to remove the implant. Thank you God. Seriously, thank you thank you thank you thank youuuuuuuu! NOOOOooooo UNIBOOB!
**jazz-hands**

My plastic surgeon canceled my surgery because he said he wants to wait two more months to make sure I’m “out of the weeds” after the infection. I’m totally okay with that. Because of the infection, I’ve been super boring lately. Wanna know what I did last weekend? I sat on my couch, ordered Chinese food, made bracelets, and watched reruns of Sons of Anarchy. I’ve only drank alcohol one time in the past 5 weeks. WHO AM I? I am trapped in the body of an 82 year-old woman who enjoys tea and crafts in her recliner on a Saturday night. I rock.

I feel perfectly fine now. It’s been a month since my hospital stay, and my infection seems to be clear. SO that’s what I’ve been up to lately. I’ll update my blog when my next disaster strikes! I kid, but seriously… universe… please give me a break (insert middle finger emoji).

Buy my Fuck Cancer bracelets!

www.etsy.com/shop/BetchesGuidetoCancer

By popular demand, I’m selling my bracelets on Etsy! I also can do custom bracelets. Want something crazy? Is Pizza your BAE and you want everyone to know it? I can make you a “I <3 Pizza” bracelet to show your love. Or maybe you hate everyone and want one that says “I hate everyone.”  Whatever your sweet little heart desires, my darling! I got you betch!

I’m also in the process of getting some fun tank tops and t-shirts made. They will be available soon!

Fuck Cancer Screen Shot 2016-05-02 at 11.26.29 AM

 

 

 

PET Scan Update!

Cancer free still, bitches! My doctor called me this morning and said my PET scan was clear and showed no signs of cancer. Thank you God!

Also, I scheduled my next surgery today. May 12 will be the last step of the reconstruction. During that surgery I am getting nipples, a revision on my port scar, and a few moles on my back will be removed while I’m out. I’ll post more details about how I get nipples because it has a lot of people confused.

Have a great day, I know I am! 🙂

Life updates!

Time for life updates and shit!

So I haven’t written on my blog in about a month! I guess I’ve been busy living life, which is probably a good thing. I am THREE months post chemo now so it’s time for an update!

I’ll start with the hair. The hair on my head is growing, but at a glacial pace. And it looks like I have early male pattern baldness because it’s really sparse and patchy on the top of my head. It’s very Prince William-esq. But on the bright side, I bought a fab new wig that is very Kate Middleton-esq, so it’s a royal win! The hair on the rest of my body seems to have no problem growing. I’m seriously going to invest in laser hair removal soon. I went 4 months without having to shave anything and now that it’s growing again, I feel like Chewbacca. BTW, can you imagine how many sessions Chewbacca would need to laser all his hair off? Just putting that out there.

My eyebrows are back! The eyelashes are back also but they’re really short. I can’t even curl them, so I’m still rocking the falsies when I go out with friends. If you want some amazing ones, check Sephora for their Luxe collection. Mine stayed on overnight and they look fluffy and real.
sephora.com/luxe-false-lash

Also, I’ve had some not-so-cool updates. Last week, when I met with my oncologist we found a lump in my right breast (the one that had cancer) right under the skin. I had it sonogrammed twice and looked at by three different doctors and ALL of them agreed that it was NOT a cancer recurrence. My breast surgeon, who performed the double-mastectomy last year, said it was actually “fat necrosis” which he said was common in women who have had mastectomy operations. Basically, he said that there was a pocket of fat (ew) in my boob and it “died” when they removed all the tissue because it couldn’t get enough blood circulation. So it shriveled up into a ball and died.

So actually, I found the lump first. The morning of my oncologist appointment, I felt my new circus boobs out of curiosity because I knew that she was going to do the same thing at my appointment. Well, fuck. I found that lump and the gates of hell opened up. I was hysterical, hyperventilating, couldn’t breath, couldn’t stop crying. I was a hot mess. HOW could this happen again?? Jeff insisted on going with me to my appointment after he saw how hysterical I was. As soon as my doctor walked into the exam room I burst into tears and screamed with a squeaky, quivering voice that I found a new lump. She quickly assured me that it was nearly impossible that I would have a recurrence this soon after chemo, but nonetheless she scheduled a sonogram, appointment with my breast surgeon, and a PET scan.

I had my PET scan today. My surgeon and oncologist both told me that it probably wasn’t necessary, but since it was already scheduled and approved by my insurance it was up to me if I wanted to do it. To me, it is necessary. Last year when I had the first lump in my boob, I was told by half a dozen doctors that it probably wasn’t cancer and that a biopsy wasn’t necessary. Well I’m fucking done with doctors saying whishy-washy shit like “probably” and “not likely” so I need hard proof these days. I’m not saying I don’t trust the doctors; but, if my health is in question I need actual test results to show if I’m healthy and not an opinion or observation that I’m healthy.

In other news, the PET scan that I insisted on getting was a disaster. For those who have never had a PET scan, what they do is inject you with a radioactive tracer first (which is supposed to detect any cancer cells in the photos), and then you lay down in a big tube thingy that looks kind of like a tanning bed and it scans your body for about 15 minutes. Science. It took three nurses and eight different stabs in my arm to get the tracer IV injected into my arm. EIGHT. Three on the bend in my arm, two on my wrist, and three on the top of my hand. The winner-winner-chicken-dinner was… a vein on my knuckle. Holy shit balls of fire, if someone ever tries to inject a needle into your knuckle you need to stop them and then karate chop them in the throat. I actually almost passed out during the whole ordeal because you also can’t eat food for 12 hours prior to the exam. And yesterday I was forced to eat a carb-free, sugar-free, caffeine-free, alcohol-free prison/torture diet that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. So basically the whole experience sucked a big bag of dicks. (sorry mom)

Afterwards, I stormed out of the hospital godzilla-style, shooting lasers out of my eyes and eating anything in my sight (all while looking like a heroin addict with track marks all over my arms). Seriously though, as soon as I got home I probably ate 3,000 calories worth of food because I was so hangry. I don’t understand how celebs deal with not eating carbs and sugar.

I am told that I’ll get the results on either Friday or Monday. I have a good feeling about this though! I don’t think the cancer is back! But please send good vibes, say prayers, do an Indian dance, pray to your Justin Beiber shrine, whatever. I need that shit. It’s still rattling my nerves hard core that I even need a PET scan, and that I found a lump in my stupid fake boob. Ugh. I’ll update my blog when I get my results so stay tuned. Check those boobs ladies. Ciao betches. Xoxo

Did wine give me cancer?

Alcohol and Breast Cancer.

I like to drink. But I want to have a serious convo with everyone about alcohol and breast cancer. Because I really do feel that alcohol probably played a part in causing me to get cancer at an early age.

I used to drink every day. I wasn’t an alcoholic, but every night with dinner I had probably 2-3 glasses of wine. I did not NEED to drink, it just sort of became a bad habit. I didn’t get drunk, I did it to relax after work and unwind. And I just like wine! I still do! It’s fucking delish! My daily wine habit started when I got married in 2008. I would make dinner for me and my (now-ex) husband, and we would open a bottle of wine to pair it with whatever I made. Every. Single. Night. For about 5 years. Yikes.

I didn’t see anything really wrong with it back then. Looking back, I honestly can’t believe how I managed to drink alcohol every night and not look like Honey-Boo-Boo’s mother (google it). Also, what a waste of money! I don’t drink cheap shit ya know.

When my husband and I separated I didn’t really drink as much. I was living on my own (plus my two cats) so the idea of drinking alone every night was about as pathetic as a Backstreet Boys reunion tour (LOL just go away guys, you had your time in the sun). I also wanted to keep a clear head and focus on yoga and get a hot revenge body. I still drank, just on the weekends when I was out with my friends doing betchy things like brunch and Sunday boating. But the damage had apparently already been done. I had cancer and I didn’t even know it.

So drinking 2-3 alcoholic drinks daily (which is what I did) has about a 20% increased risk for breast cancer. There are a few reasons. First, because alcohol changes the way women’s bodies metabolize estrogen. In studies, women who drink (in that 2-3 drinks a day range) had higher levels of estrogen in their bodies. My cancer is estrogen-receptor positive. Meaning, the extra estrogen cells hopped on the cancer cells like they were a free Uber ride, and they joined together and took the Uber to the hottest club in town (my tumor). The estrogen cells increased the cancer cells. Partayyyyy! So my tumor was basically LIV on a Saturday night when Calvin Harris was deejaying. I don’t know the science behind WHY daily alcohol consumption increases estrogen, I just know that it’s been proven in women. See resource links below.

In addition, alcohol lowers women’s levels of folic acid, which helps DNA repair itself. For this one I’m going to quote from an actual breast cancer site because I dunno how to explain this shit.
“Drinking alcohol can reduce blood levels of the vitamin folic acid. Folic acid plays a role in copying and repairing DNA. Low levels of folic acid may make it more likely that DNA is incorrectly copied when cells divide. Such errors can lead cells down a pathway to become cancer. “

I believe that those 5-6 years of daily drinking probably cracked my cancer genes open. I tested positive for the ATM mutation which is a cancer gene. Just because I have a “cancer gene”, doesn’t mean I HAVE cancer. My dad also has the ATM mutation, but he doesn’t have cancer nor has he ever had cancer. What this means is that I have a mutation in my genes and when it’s flipped “on” it produces cancer cells. Nobody really knows what flipped it on. If we did, fewer people would have cancer. But my theory is that drinking, along with numerous other environmental factors (pesticides and hormones in food), low immune system, and genetics caused my cancer.

I still drink alcohol. Just not every day. I usually go out one night a week. And if I’m not going out on a Friday night, I’ll crack open a bottle of wine and fall asleep on the couch watching Bravo. It all depends on how busy my social life is (… did I just hear crickets chirping? I guess my “social life” is sorta slow lately!) I want to be careful but I still need to enjoy life. These days, I will open a bottle of wine, have a glass, and then forget about the wine and have to throw it away because it goes bad. It’s definitely a waste, but I’m okay with that! I’d rather throw away the wine. I also take Tamoxifen daily which stops nearly all estrogen production, so I like to think that I have a little bit of drinking insurance. (Is that how that works? No? I don’t know either.)

If you are a women and you drink alcohol every day, I am not singling you out and saying you are going to get cancer. You probably don’t have a genetic cancer mutation like I did, and you probably won’t get cancer like I did! But I am saying that there is a slight risk. So calm down, and don’t pour out that Pinot Noir or margarita you’re sipping on. Life is all about balance. We can’t live our lives being worried about cancer all the time. These days it seems like everything gives us cancer. Bacon, hot dogs, popcorn, non-organic produce, farmed fish, red meat, soda, food coloring. Like, whatever! What the hell am I supposed to eat? Organic, gluten-free, non-dairy, non-GMO, vegan …lettuce? And every ache and pain we have these days is a potential for cancer apparently. Just go to WebMd’s website.

Me: I have a stomach ache (from eating too many Oreos but I’ll leave that part out)
WebMd: Stomach cancer.

Me: I have a sore throat.
WebMd: Throat and/or tongue cancer.
Me: But I’m pretty sure it’s just a cold. I have a headache too.
WebMd: Brain cancer.

I am just telling you my story. And I’m also trying to reflect on my past and what happened and what I can do differently in the future so this doesn’t happen again. Some people may be thinking, “Why don’t you just quit drinking, forever?” I don’t know. Maybe I should. I certainly cut back. But do I KNOW if my former boozy wine habits caused my cancer? No. Of all the doctors I currently see, not a single one has even brought up restricting alcohol — except during chemo — but even then, they said it was fine to drink alcohol on occasion! I could have never had a single drink of alcohol in my life and STILL got breast cancer eventually. That’s what is so frustrating. We really just don’t know what causes cancer. So you know what? If I feel like having a cocktail or glass of wine, I’m going to. Just not every day. Everything comes with it’s risks. Find your own balance. Listen to your body and your intuition, have no fears, blah blah blah! You know the drill. If you do enjoy drinking every day, just be extra aware of any changes in your bodies. Feel those boobies often for lumps! Bottoms up. (or not) Xoxo

Resources:
ww5.komen.org/BreastCancer/DrinkingAlcohol.html
www.cancer.gov/about-cancer/causes-prevention/risk/alcohol/alcohol-fact-sheet

2 Months Post Chemo

So it’s been almost 2 months since my last chemo and I’ve had a few interesting developments to share. Weird body changes happening here guys. I think menopause and puberty joined forces and formed an evil axis of power set to self destruct my sanity.

First of all, all of my eyelashes and 90% of my eyebrows fell out. WTF! That completely blindsided me. I was extremely excited that my sparse lashes and brows would start growing back but instead, they started falling out despite my liberal application of expensive eyelash serums. (Sigh… what a waste of money too.) I even bought a Groupon to get eyelash extensions! (which expires in March, again WTF/FML)

On the bright side, I am now slowly mastering the art of drawing on eyebrows and applying those defiant fake eyelashes. For any men reading this, applying fake eyelashes is the worst. It’s tedious. It takes multiple tries. We will probably cry at some point, and yes you can literally poke your eye out or glue our eye lids closed. I’ve done both. Men, the next time you consider going out on a date with a wrinkled shirt because you’re too lazy to iron it, please think about the horrors of fake eyelashes and remember that this is the kind of shit girls go through to get ready. Now go iron your damn shirt.

Some parts of my body are losing hair, and others are regrowing hair. Like, the top of my head is not really growing hair yet, but my legs are (cute). The new hair growing on my body has also created a super-neat phenomenon called Kertosis Pilaris. This is a skin condition caused by a buildup of keratin in the hair follicles which result in tiny red bumps all over your skin. It looks like a rash or rosacea and it’s all over my legs and arms. Just regular lotion is supposed to help, but I haven’t noticed any difference yet.

I know, I’m painting a very attractive picture of myself: hairless, sweaty-from-hot-flashes, rash-covered-alligator-skin, hairy legs. Hot.

Oh yeah, and can’t forget about nails. I had a pedicure last weekend and the nail technician said he thinks my big toe nails are about to fall off. So I’ve got that going for me.

Lastly, I have one small good side effect post-chemo! Since I started taking Tamoxifen last month, I’ve had a decreased appetite. Nothing drastic, but I don’t have the urge to stuff pizza in my face all day. So I think that’s a win. So far, the only downside to Tamoxifen is that it gives me crazy hot and cold flashes.

Oh God, I’m essentially describing myself as a hideous, disgusting monster. I’m not self-hating on myself; I’m not really that bad. And I do maintain my dignity: I never go outside of the house without at least doing my eyebrows and throwing on a wig. I don’t wear fake eyelashes every day, and somehow I still manage to pass as a somewhat attractive member of the female race. (I think my new cleavage helps considerably.)

Although I’m having some annoying post-chemo side effects, I’m incredibly grateful that they are POST-CHEMO side effects. So can I really complain? Hells to the no. It feels so free and refreshing to be finished, that nothing can dim this minty-fresh-outta-chemo-plus-I-got-new-boobs feeling. I am cancer free and I’ll take that any day over a full set of real eyelashes. 🙂 Ciao betches!

Hide yo kids, hide yo wife… BOOB PICS

Alright, the moment of truth… boob pics!

My new boobs are almost a week old! Happy birthday you sassy ladies! In their one week of life, they’ve had one plastic surgeon visit, one visit to Victoria’s Secret, 7 showers, 5 new bras, and been stepped on about 20 times by my dog and cat. When I saw the surgeon for my follow-up visit, he said “Woah look at that, you’ve got cleavage!” and I was like “I KNOW. HALLELUJIA! (insert hands raised to the sky emoji)”

So without further adieu, BOOBIES!

 

New boobies! Fresh outta the oven!

Update: I have new boobs! They’re squishy and they don’t look like two baked potatoes!

I had surgery yesterday, February 4th, which coincidentally was World Cancer Day. Honestly, I have no idea what World Cancer Day is, soooo let’s skip talking about that. Plus, I’m very aware of cancer and its effects so I don’t need some government awareness day to tell me that I need to educate myself about cancer. K BYE.

My surgery was to remove the tissue expanders (bagel boobs as I call them) and replace them with silicone implants. So yesterday started at 5:00 am when I rolled out of bed, hopped in the car with Jeff, and went to the hospital. I was excited and nervous too. I kept having flashbacks of the mastectomy and the pain that I felt after that surgery and I was scared I was going to feel that way again. That pain was a 10. Eh, no it was probably more like a 12. It fucking hurt and I was afraid that this surgery was going to hurt like that too. (spoiler: it DIDN’T!) I’m not going to recount the surgery because that’s boring. If you really want all the juicy in depth deets, just send me a message. But I will give you my surgery highlights:

1. When my plastic surgeon asked if I wanted “circus boobs.” My surgeon is a cool guy, his name is Chance and he is ex-military and he has a good sense of humor. Before surgery, he was marking my bagel boobs up with a sharpie and our joke is always that he’s going to give me giant ridiculous boobs like Dolly Parton so I can join a circus in a traveling freak show. Hmmm… new career move?

2. When the nurses are required to ask if I’ve done any drugs that morning. Yes, prior to my surgery I smoked crack with a homeless man in the parking lot.

3. When I laid on the operating table and they put the gas mask over my face and I yelled that it wasn’t working.
Me: “I don’t feel anything! I’m not asleep yet, ahh don’t operate.”
Nurse: “Just keep breathing, take a few deep breaths.”
Me: “I’m trying, It’s seriously not working” **Takes a few deep breaths** …And goodnight.

4. When the nurses try and have actual conversations with you in the recovery room. Like, what? I just barely opened my eyes which I literally can’t even focus on your face… why are you in the middle of telling me some story about your aunt who is BRCA+ but never got cancer. Chill. You and I both know I’m not remembering this conversation. Sorry nurse friends — are you all supposed to do this? To make sure my brain didn’t turn into a fried zucchini?

5. Coming home and getting waited on. My boyfriend Jeff has been great. Amazing, actually. He is sweet and patient and would probably go get me anything I want. Chipotle burrito bowl and a side of Chick fil-a nuggets covered in hot fudge? He would go get it. But I don’t abuse his niceness, so I settled for some good old Kraft Mac-n-cheese and a Percocet. Mmmmmmmm. Cheese. Mmmm Percocet.

6. My sweet new Velcro mastectomy bra. Be jealous. It’s the Croc’s of bras.

7. Cancer free boobs that look normal again! I apologize if I didn’t make this clear before. But I am cancer free. I was told I was cancer free after my mastectomy which was on June 29, 2015. BUT I did all the chemo and other stuff just to be extra sure. Because there may have been a few stray cancer cells lurking in my body, doing shady shit like selling fake Louis Vuitton bags and exotic animals on the black market, but we caught those bastards faster than an episode of Dateline. So now I am cancer free and I have new, slightly bigger boobs! I went with a D cup size, which was a little bigger than my natural size.

For all those interested, I’ll post some post-surgery pictures next week. I can’t take my bandages off until Saturday so for now the new girls are wrapped up like a mummy. And I will be wrapped up on my couch watching HGTV and Bravo all day with my snoring, farting dog (he’s a frenchie) and my hairless cat (she got her hair shaved and she looks ridiculous).
Ciao betches!

Now what?

Now what?

That is the question I get asked the most lately. “So you’re finished chemo… now what are your plans?”
Well next I plan to win the lottery, adopt a unicorn, cure cancer, and live happily ever after.
I mean, I don’t know. I don’t make plans. I don’t even know what I’m eating for dinner tonight.
I don’t have plans. But I do have goals.

2016 Goals:

1. Get fantastic new boobies. Now this goes without saying. The ones I have now aren’t cutting it. They’re like the Gary Busey’s of the boob world; they went through some rough shit and they sorta look like they belong in a circus. Right now I have tissue expanders. They feel like you’re touching stale bagels or Tupperware (so sexy). They’re temporary though, because soon I’ll have those removed and replaced with normal silicone squishy boobs. When I say silicone, some people get nervous, but the silicone boobs they make now are nothing like the leaky ones you hear about on the Real Housewives shows. They are not “filled” with liquid, they’re one cohesive piece… kind of like a gummy bear. So the ETA for these fantastic boobies is still TBD but I’ll find out soon. Hopefully surgery will be within the next month. YASS! (I’m excited for surgery, who am I!?)

2. Grow some hair so I don’t look like Vin Diesel anymore. I’m taking hair, skin and nails supplements and using two different eyelash serums on my eyes. Please grow. PLEASE. (Peter Thomas Roth Lashes To Die For Turbo and Dior Lash Plumping Serum)

3. Make my dog and cat become friends. Why do they have to be such assholes to each other? UGH.

4. Get a new job. This is no secret. I work from home, which has been lovely during my illness, but it’s not what I always planned on doing. I had planned on getting a new job about a year ago, but then I got cancer and that halted things. My job is wonderful and they have been amazing to me, but I know that working remotely isn’t ideal for either of us. I need co-workers who don’t have four paws and pee on my laundry. Is that too much to ask for?

5. Become super fit and healthy. Become superwoman! I see all these people on Instagram who have 42 abs and butt cheeks that could crush walnuts. If I ever get that strong, I’ll totally post a video of myself crushing walnuts with my super woman muscle butt. Is that something people even want to see? OK maybe not. Scratch the video. I’m sorry I gave you that visual. Anyways, I’m going to eat healthier, workout more… and get back into yoga! I haven’t done yoga since having cancer because I can’t lay on my stomach (bagel boobs), and doing certain stretches hurts my chest.

6. Do more adulting. As much as I would love for my life to be all about drinking cocktails, late nights at bars, and brunching off hangovers; it’s not sustainable in my 30’s. And it’s not very fulfilling. Whatever adults do on weekends, that’s what I should be doing. If anybody has any idea what that is, please email me susansheffieldmiller@gmail.com. K thanks.

7. I’m going to stop at 6 things because this is getting exhausting thinking of all these self improvements. Six is totally enough for right now. These aren’t my “New Years’ resolutions” either because those things never last past February. These are my new LIFE resolutions. Because of cancer, I am fortunate that I’ve had the chance to reevaluate a lot of things in my life. I can’t take things for granted anymore. So Namaste bitches, go write out your goals for 2016. I hope yours don’t include growing hair 🙂

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!

This is what cancer really looks like…

It’s not a pink sparkly ribbon. It’s not pretty. It fucking sucks.

I had my port removed on Tuesday and it’s gruesome. My plastic surgeon removed it and he was going to sew it shut and make the scar look pretty, but when he got in there he had to remove a lot of scar tissue and infected skin. He wasn’t able to close the wound because he was worried that the infection would essentially be sewn shut in there and it would cause an abscess. FUN.

So now I have a gaping hole in my chest where I can literally see my own flesh. To be honest, it looks worse than it feels. It doesn’t really hurt, it doesn’t bleed. I just slap a giant band-aid over it every morning and that’s all I’m supposed to do for now. It’s supposed to take about 6-8 weeks to heal completely. So without further adieu… if you’d like to view these pictures please click the link below. Warning: if you’re a weak bitch and you’re grossed out by blood then don’t look!

View the pics…

infected chemo port removal

chemo port infected

Chemo is over…

My last chemo: 12/21/2015.

Last week I laid in my bed, the night before my last chemo unable to sleep well. There is this fear that grips me; it tightens my throat and waters my eyes like an icy cold blast of air. What if this isn’t the end? What if I haven’t done enough? I’ve spent the past 6 months in defensive mode against cancer. I’ve exhausted those months always doing something; chemo, mastectomy, pills, exams, diets, needles. Now it’s all over with. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to be that dove that is freed from it’s cage and flies right into a glass window.

I had read about and anticipated this emotional feeling on cancer websites, but it hasn’t stopped me from feeling this way. I am definitely SUPER FUCKING HAPPY and excited that my chemotherapy journey is over, but it’s not without mixed emotions. Of course I don’t want anymore chemo, but it’s a little scary knowing that I’m not receiving the cancer-killing drug anymore.

In the past, I let my fear control me. It manifested itself in anxiety, self-doubt, and denial in my life. Now I’m choosing to control my own emotions. It actually did take me 30 years to realize the simple fact that I can manage my own emotions and create my own destiny. Better late than never I guess? I anticipate that this post-cancer anxiety is going to feel like a dark cloud over me some days, but I’m choosing to stay in the light and believe with all my heart that this is the end of the road for cancer in my life. I will love every gorgeous breath that I inhale and be forever grateful that I was given a chance to stare death in the eyes and tell him to fuck off.

People often say to me “You’re so brave! You have so much courage!” and every time I hear it, I tend to nervously laugh it off because I’ve never considered myself brave. And you know what, honestly I was NOT brave, I was scared shitless every second. But when you’re faced with a situation in which you could actually die, you choose LIFE, not because you’re brave but because surviving is inherent in each of us. I didn’t run towards danger, I ran AWAY from it! I’m not a hero! Instead of saying I’m brave, I’d like to think I was just lucky enough to be in a situation where I could confront my deepest fears and learn from the experience. I’ve learned the emotions and mentality that it necessitates to be brave, and from here on out I will be that way with a grateful heart. Everyone has bravery in them so I challenge you to do something brave! Go skydiving, admit when you’re wrong, pursue an impossible dream, sacrifice something of yours for someone else, face your phobias and fears! You are in control.

“Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” – Christopher Robin to Pooh

Read more about anxiety, fear, and depression after cancer on cancer.org

#chemoprobz

As if chemo didn’t have enough side effects…

News flash: it can also make you fat. There are numerous different types of chemotherapy drugs and MOST of them will probably have the opposite effect and make you lose weight from lack of appetite. (I don’t want to be insensitive because losing a lot of weight from chemo is awful, but hey a few pounds couldn’t hurt right?) But me, oh I was lucky because apparently my chemo is not the type that makes you LOSE weight. It makes you fucking fat. Ha ha ha, Satan is laughing somewhere.

So I’m not qualified to explain the exact science of it, so I’ll give you laymen’s terms. The weight gain is caused by a number of factors actually. First, the specific combination of chemo I’m on (docetaxel, doxorubicin and cyclophosphamide) is particularly harmful to the ovaries. In order to prevent harm, I’m given a hormone therapy shot, Zoladex, which causes medical menopause. FML I’m having hot flashes as I type! Anyways, Zolodex stops my body from producing estrogen; and in turn, sends my ovaries away with their bags packed on a nice little vacation. (I’d like to think they went to the South of France because they’re so chic.) Meanwhile, while my ovaries are ignoring their duties of producing estrogen and are instead sipping mojitos in Saint-Tropez, my whole metabolism slows down without the estrogen. And we all know that a slow metabolism means gradual weight gain. Secondly, the chemo drug docetaxel (Taxol) notoriously causes water retention. So you’re bloated and puffy. Third, the drugs that I am given to combat nausea are steroids, which also cause weight gain and increased appetite. These three factors combine to make a perfect storm for weight gain.
Keep reading…

Thankfully, I haven’t actually gained a ton of weight. It fluctuates between about 5 and 10 pounds extra at the most. I try and workout when I can, but going to the gym is not always easy. I usually can’t go to the gym until about a week after my chemo day. Normally I would be going to the gym on a day like today, except my port is infected so I’m terrified of germs right now. And everyone knows that gyms are cesspools for germs and sickness, (and dad bods, and girls taking mirror selfies, and basic bros…) which doesn’t bode well for a person like myself who has no immune system.

On a side note, I wanted to talk about the fact that my port is infected and it sucks! So my port, which is located under the skin right below my collar bone, has had a hard time healing from the start. My lazy immune system strikes again; because the incision where the port was put under the skin never was able to fully heal. After my second chemo session, one of the dissolvable stitches came loose and fell out of my skin. Somehow that shitty little stitch let in an infection. It burned and was painful, but the doctor gave me antibiotics and it seemed to clear up. Well that was two months ago, so fast forward to today and the infection is back. And once again, it burns and is painful and I’m put on antibiotics. I went to my plastic surgeon yesterday and he took one look at it and said “Oh boy, yeah I’m scheduling you for surgery to remove that thing.” So December 29th I’m having it removed and he’s going to try and work his plastic surgeon magic to make the scar not look ugly. I still have one chemo left on the 21st, and the nurse said they’ll have to make a game-time decision if they can use the port for chemo. They may just need to do it the old-fashioned way and stick a big needle in my arm.

Okay, sorry for that gross update. Back to talking about getting fat! So the 5 to 10 pounds that I’ve gained is not so bad, by my doctor’s standards. She said I could expect to gain up to 20 pounds! ….So you’re telling me that I’m going to look like I had a baby, except there is no baby? Get the fuck outta here. No. bye. Not happening. I’d rather starve. Ok, well maybe not.

My advice is to try meal prepping. I’ve recently started doing that with my boyfriend Jeff and I find it helps. We make a bunch of healthy meals on Sunday and Thursday and portion them all out in plastic containers, and eat that for the next few days. It’s also an awesome plan because I never know when I’m going to feel sick, so on my sick days I don’t have to worry about making lunch or dinner. My doctor also says that a few weeks after my last chemo I can expect to start losing the weigh because most of it is water weight. SO here’s to hoping I’ll be skinny enough to squeeze my ass into a cute New Years Eve dress! I can’t wait to get back to normal and see how my body recovers from all this poison. Xoxo

Cheers to 31 today!

So today I’m 31.

A few years ago I would have thought 31 looked much differently than it does today. A few years ago, if somebody had told me that by the age of 31 I would have cancer, be divorced, live in Florida, have a DOG (as a former crazy cat-lady), and be as hairless as a dolphin…. I would have said, Hey FUCK YOU, that sounds really awful! But honestly, it’s the best time I’ve ever had in my life and I don’t regret anything that has happened. The past few years have seemingly been laced with unfortunate events that have created my most fortunate, grateful self yet.

So I’ll share with you a few pieces of advice that I have learned along the way. I’m OLD and WISE now, right?!

Live your life for you, and nobody else.
Just a few years ago, I was a very different person in a very different point in my life. I was married to a man who I, unfortunately, lived my life for. Everything in my life; from my hair color to my job, revolved around him and making decisions that were best for “us.” It was just what I thought you were supposed to do when you’re married. And when the marriage went to shit, I felt as though I was stranded. I was on an island alone by myself because I had built my life around another person.

No, my advice is not to “never get married” because, whatever, you can do what you want. My advice is to live your life for YOU and nobody else. Don’t loose sight of your own goals and your own happiness. Don’t become that “we” couple. Be independent, travel alone, make weird friends, quit your job, start your own business, dye your hair green, and please never ever once think about what your husband or boyfriend might think. If they are the right person for you, then they will will allow you to be yourself completely.

I cringe at today’s obsession over marriage now. I’m jaded. I know. But ladies let’s stop being so thirsty for that perfect fucking wedding that we’re willing to shrug off the fact that that the groom may actually suck at life.
Keep reading…

When you look good, you feel good.
Truthfully, I’ve learned that when I look like shit, I feel like shit. Some days I need to remind myself that just a few short months ago after my double mastectomy, I couldn’t even get out of bed without assistance. I couldn’t lift my arms up to wash my face. I had an excuse to look like crap. Today, I don’t have an excuse. So I wake up, shower, and put on makeup, clothes and a wig or scarf, even if I know I’m not leaving the house. Why? Because it makes me feel good. Also, what if the house started on fire and I had to run outside with a robe and a bald head? (HELL NO)

Health is wealth.
There are some days when I am literally stopped in my tracks by this sudden realization: Nothing hurts… no stomach ache, headache, bone pain, fever, infection, or bandages! Savor your good days and your good health. Take care of yourself and listen to your body. Exercise, eat healthy, drink lots of water.

Toughen the fuck up.
Expect the best but prepare for the worst. Toughen up. Be brave because shit is inevitably going to go wrong somewhere in your life. I used to be very emotional; like if I burnt toast, I might cry. Crying and worrying are as beneficial as a white crayon.

Comparison robs us of joy.
I used to compare myself to everyone. Ok I still do a little (don’t we all?), but it’s not nearly as bad! My clothes, my jewelry, my handbags, my car. I sized myself up to other people. I looked at other women and their fabulous handbags, manicured lawns and personal trainers and I wanted that. Then one day a few years ago I asked myself “Why do I want that?” and I didn’t have a real answer. I actually decided to cleanse my life of the material possessions I owned. I sold all my expensive jewelry like David Yurman and Tiffany’s. Then I just started just giving my shit away. I gave away stuff like Gucci handbags, designer sunglasses, expensive dresses and nice shoes to friends and family because I really just didn’t want it. IT FELT SO GOOD. I still love all those fancy, sparkly, designer extravagances, but now I have less of it and I appreciate it more. Less is more 🙂

So goodbye 30. You were a really fun but fucked-up year. Cheers to 31, and I’m looking forward to a year that is hopefully drama free! 

One more to go!

Chemo for Christmas

So I haven’t wrote on my blog in a while, since my last chemo. I had my 2nd to last chemo on Monday (yesterday) and I have to say I’m feeling it pretty hard today. My doctor warned me that the last two chemo treatments will be the worst. My last one is on December 21, so I can expect to have a not-so-jolly Christmas. YAY. But I’m not delaying anything, To quote Clark Griswold (he gets me) from the movie Christmas Vacation:

“Where do you think you’re going? Nobody’s leaving. Nobody’s walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We’re all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We’re gonna press on, and we’re gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he’s gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.”

Also, my parents are coming here on the 22nd so there’s no way I’m backing out of Christmas shenanigans! With only ONE MORE CHEMO LEFT, I have to say; the hot flashes are epic, my anxiety is erratic, my stomach, appetite, and emotions are all unpredictable, and the headaches are the worst I’ve ever had, but I DON’T CARE I’M ALMOST DONE!

It’s like they say, every cloud has it’s silver lining; or always look on the bright side. No, it’s like sorting through 100 pounds of hand-me-down-clothes because you know there’s a perfect vintage Chanel bag in there somewhere. Basically, what I’m saying is that I endured these past 6 months with a positive mindset because I know it will all be worth it when it’s all over. So for now I’ll keep my head held high and say “Fuck you chemo, Fuck you cancer, you’re not ruining my Christmas spirit!”
Keep reading…

Jeff and I on Thanksgiving

This literally makes me sick just looking at it.
Getting the “Red Devil” chemo. This literally makes me sick just looking at it.

During Chemo #5, I wasn't feeling too good.
During Chemo #5, I wasn’t feeling too good.

Best movie ever.

7-Day Chemo Diary

I often get asked how I feel after chemo, so in order to help people understand I’m going to do a 7 day chemo diary with a synopsis of my physical and emotional status on each day.

Day 1: Chemo day!

Physical activity level: Normal. No exercise. A little sleepy after chemo.
Hunger level: Normal.
Pain/discomforts: None
Emotional status: Anxious to get it over with! Give me my poison and get it over with!

Keep reading…

Day 2 Post-Chemo:

Physical activity level: Normal. Usually the steroids give me a boost of energy.
Hunger level: Normal. The anti-nausea meds are working and make me want to eat pretty regularly.
Pain/discomforts: None
Emotional status: Good. Relieved another chemo is down!

Day 3 Post-Chemo:

Physical activity level: Normal, medium.
Hunger level: Normal, but I find that I usually feel “full” faster from all the anti-nausea medicine.
Pain/discomforts: This morning I get my Nulasta shot. I feel pain at the injection site, and slight bone pain and discomfort later in the evening. Occasionally if it gets bad, I take a half a Vicodin prescribed by my oncologist.
Emotional status: Feeling good!

Day 4 Post-Chemo:

Physical activity level: Slowing down. Went to sleep at 9pm.
Hunger level: Low. Stuff tastes bland. I had soup for lunch, a quesadilla for dinner.
Pain/discomforts: Pain is rising! The Nulasta shot usually makes me feel like I’ve been hit by a bus, or ran a marathon. It’s a full-body all over aching. It feels like you’ve had a really hard workout and your bones feel like they’re going to shatter.
Emotional status: Good but feeling drained.

Day 5 Post-Chemo:

Physical activity level: Low. I put on workout clothes but did not actually workout.
Hunger level: Hungry actually. I ate a double cheeseburger and parmesan onion rings for lunch and felt like a fat, happy pig!
Pain/discomforts: Nulastaaaaaa you kill me. Feeling rundown and achy. Slight headache. Also, my eye keeps twitching. WTF is up with that?
Emotional status: Good. Feeling a little useless though. Feeling like a blob with no energy.

Day 6 Post-Chemo:

Physical activity level: Low. Running a slight fever of 100.
Hunger level: Low, but still eating fairly normal.
Pain/discomforts: Major headache. Like clockwork, on day 5-6 after chemo I get blinding headaches and a slight fever. It’s from the over-production of white-blood cells due to Nulasta. My body is producing all these white blood which signals to my body that something must be wrong. My body is like: “There’s an infection somewhere! All these white blood cells! OMG! Signal the fever! Let’s get cookin!” I found this out by going to the emergency room on day 5 after my 2nd chemo and they ran all sorts of tests to see why I had a fever. Nothing was wrong, just Nulasta being a nasty little bitch. Now I basically live on Tylenol every 6 hours during these Nulasta attacks. I wish I didn’t have to get Nulasta, but it helps me bounce back after chemo and also protects my immune system.
Emotional status: Blah.

Day 7 Post-Chemo:

Physical activity level: Good, better!
Hunger level: Good, improving!
Pain/ discomforts: The headaches have subsided but that’s probably due to me popping Tylenol like tic-tacs. (Err, jk. I take them as directed)
Emotional status: GOOD. Actually feeling like I can get shit done today. I might even go to the grocery store. Or Target?! I don’t know! Yaaassss!

So I have cancer. Now what?

So I have cancer. Now what?

Once you’re diagnosed with cancer, you probably have the insatiable urge to Google everything about your new condition. That’s fine, I did it too. I mean, I even DEEP Googled like 13 pages into my search, scouring obscure blogs from 2007 with any insights. For me, it was a coping mechanism and something that sort of calmed me down. I wanted to know all the horrific details that may or may not happen to me. That brings me to why I created this blog… there’s a lot of bullshit out there. If you’re looking for trustworthy facts, stick with the websites that end in .gov and .org.

There is not a lot out there on the Internet that prepared me for this. Cancer is a disease that typically affects an older generation, and those people also not the type to blog about it. My grandfather is a cancer survivor (colon) and I am pretty sure he doesn’t know the first thing about creating a blog. He might not even know what a blog is, actually.

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After your diagnosis, anticipate a LOT of doctor office visits. Typically you’ll meet with a team at your chosen cancer care center that includes breast surgeons, medical oncologists, radiation oncologists, plastic and reconstructive surgeons, radiologists, pathologists, oncology nurses, genetic counselors, and psychological support. You can also anticipate a LOT of tests: CAT scan, PET scan, blood work, EKG, mammogram, sonogram, echocardiograph, genetic screening, yadda yadda.I started with the mastectomy, because at the time chemotherapy was still a “maybe” and we were awaiting tests to decide if chemo was going to work for me.The day of surgery I was actually very calm; I just wanted to get it over with. We got to the hospital at the ass crack of dawn because the doctors wanted to do … MORE tests. A nurse injects me with a “tracer” and then my body is scanned (similarly to a CAT scan) so the surgeons are able to identify the main sentinel lymph nodes in my armpit area. That took nearly two hours. Meanwhile you’re not allowed to eat starting the night before surgery so I’m literally going insane from the hanger (hunger + anger). I couldn’t wait to get surgery over with so I could eat again!

pre-mastectomy
Me and Jeff right before my mastectomy. Cute hospital gown, I KNOW.

Ha-ha, little did I know eating would be the last thing on my mind when I woke up from surgery. The only thing I can think of is the pain. In the recovery area the nurse asks me what my pain level is on a 1-10 scale. I can barely speak, talking actually hurts. Breathing hurts. I mumble that it’s a 12 and she immediately gives me some sort of injection in my IV to help me out.

The first night in the hospital, my boyfriend Jeff stayed with me in my room. I vaguely remember watching “Minions” on his laptop. I was on a lot of drugs. The first time I had to get up to go to the bathroom I threw up in my little puke bucket. Fun times!

But, it does get better. It always does. By the second day I was feeling much better. My parents and Jeff alternated keeping me company in my room, and I was feeling good enough to eat some Chick Fil-a! Yaaassss!

Six days after surgery I was up walking around and I even went to the beach with my sister (for about 15 minutes because it was hot as Satan’s balls out). Don’t push your recovery though and expect to be Superwoman. You still can’t drive, shower, or cook for yourself, so sit your ass down on the couch and enjoy this time. You’re also going to still have drains, which severely limit your life. I mean, you have open holes in the side of your chest with tubes sewn into them and they’re extremely susceptible to infection.

The mastectomy was definitely the hardest part of this whole process so far. If you can make it through that–and trust me you’ll make it–you can make it through anything. Plus you’re on your way to some new boobies! For more info on having a mastectomy see my Mastectomy Survival Guide.

How it all started.

How it all started.

We will start in April 2015. So I have a lump in my right boob. It’s small; it feels about the size of a grape. The thing is, that I’ve HAD this lump for a while, about a year and a half. I first noticed it in the summer of 2013 and back then it was the size of a pea. My gynecologist said to not worry about it, I was 28 and had no family history of cancer but nonetheless she referred me to have a sonogram of the little pea in my boob. The sonogram couldn’t even detect the lump so they said “See ya in a year!” and I was off. During that year and a half time, I had a pretty rough personal journey starting with me leaving my husband of 5 years who was having an affair, then moving, and getting divorced. More on that later (maybe) but even though it sucked at first, it really was a great time of personal rediscovery and new found freedom. During that time I probably partied a little bit too much, worked a little bit too much, and cared a little bit LESS about everything. I noticed the lump was growing, but I thought “I’m too young to get cancer and I’m too overwhelmed to deal with it right now.” It wasn’t until the encouragement of my boyfriend Jeff that I went to a breast surgeon to get the lump removed. The doctor felt the lump, looked at my sonograms, and said he was about 98% sure it was a fibroadenoma but because it was growing, it should probably come out. So I scheduled surgery — it was considered an incisional biopsy, not a lumpectomy — for May 7. A few days later, on May 11, 2015, sometime in the afternoon the doctor called me with carefully chosen words. He was hesitant, “I don’t know how else to tell you this. The pathology report showed that the mass we removed was… Cancer… I’m so sorry”

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The emotions were similar to that of a divorce, actually, so in some strange sense I felt that mentally I had already gone through these steps.

Complete shock/horror/self pity.

“[Crying] Oh my God, what am I going to tell my parents? Why me? CANCER, SERIOUSLY GOD? Am I going to die? How sad is my life! Divorce followed by cancer, people are not going to fucking believe this and how tragic my life has become. My life is pitiful.”

Denial.

“Ok it’s not that bad. It’s just stage one. I barely have cancer. I basically don’t have cancer. I mean, they got it all out in the surgery right. I’m FINE and nobody will even know.”

Seething anger.

“Seriously. Why the fuck is this happening to me. I just went through a Hellish divorce, and now I have fucking cancer. What did I do to deserve this shitty of a life. I’m a good fucking person, I even donate monthly to the Humane Society for God’s sake! FUCK FUCK FUCK.”

Determination.

“I am a strong woman, I can do this. Anything God puts in front of me I’m going to overcome it like the bad-ass BETCH I am. Lance Armstrong won 5 Tour de France titles with one ball, I can beat cancer with no boobs! Cancer you’ve met your match! Let the battle begin!”