100%

I've heard the expression "it's all about the numbers" many times since I started battling breast cancer. There's a lot of numbers during treatment - like how high your white blood cell count is, how many more chemo sessions to go, how many days left until I get my life back again. There's also numbers involved in the everyday - like feeling just 90% of myself in terms of energy, enthusiasm, and well-being. As with most types of adversity, there's usually little mention of 100%. For example, you never hear "we are 100% sure", or "there's a 100% chance", and certainly, it's hard to ever just feel 100%. Except today...

Today, surprisingly, of all days - I felt 100%. Really. I felt I had 100% energy, and that I was 100% positive, and even 100% normal. That's the oddest part. Because of all days to feel normal, today was the day I least expected it. I started this day nervous and borderline petrified. I was going to shave all my hair off. I was taking the bull by the horns and not waiting for my hair to fall out - it was coming out on my terms. But despite the bravado I wanted to run for the hills. I told myself it would be OK to cry as the hair came off. I gave myself permission to cry. But I wasn't prepared to feel the exact opposite emotion. I wasn't prepared to find my bald self pleasing to look at. I certainly wasn't prepared to feel liberated. I've heard many gorgeous, brave women say to me - bald is beautiful and bald is liberating. Deep down a part of me thought they only said that to boost my spirits. But it's true. They were right - it truly is liberating! And the part of my identity that I thought was tied to my hair... well, funny, but when I look in the mirror I actually find myself fascinatingly beautiful without hair. (And I've actually never said, let alone thought that about myself - even when I had a full luscious head of hair!)

I had a day that started out anything but normal: my friend and stylist Tony shaved off all my hair with my husband full of love and support looking on, and my friend Paula - a survivor and successful warrior who came with liquid luck (mimosas) and croissants to toast the experience. And then I drove Dennis to the airport for a business trip. Came home to have lunch with the baby and my Mom. Worked and then late afternoon had the car cleaned, met up with Paula again for coffee and girl talk, and then bought some groceries. The latter half of my day was composed of mostly mundane yet blissfully normal events. And as I sat in my car waiting at a red light as I drove home with my groceries, it just hit me - for once, I felt great. I felt normal. I felt 100%. Wow. Today, I felt 100% truly me.

Down Days

Soon after I was diagnosed with breast cancer a very good friend said two very important things to me: the first - "You will be fine, and even in the worst case scenario, you will still be fine!" The second - "You will get through this; it will be hard, and there will be some dark moments, but you will get through this."

I take those words to heart and hug them close to me on good days, and down days... like today. I feel fine today. I went to the gym, went to the office, I have an appetite, and I'm able to work. But my brain is fuzzy, my stomach is queasy, and I'm tired too. And as the day wears on I feel more and more tired. I don't like this. I don't like not having energy. I don't like not being focused. I don't like the thought of months and months of treatment still stretching out before me. I am definitely having a down day.

But then I think a down day for me could very likely be a really good day for someone else. I can think of two people in particular. On the news this morning I heard that Rep. Gabby Giffords (the Congresswoman from Arizona who was shot in the head weeks ago) was being moved to rehab. Hooray for her for getting to leave the hospital, and yet for her, recovery is going to take longer than a few months - it may take years. But undoubtedly, today was a good day for her. There's also this guy at the Fullerton Avenue on-ramp towards downtown Chicago that I see almost everyday. He wears a full orange jumpsuit over what seems to be many layers of sweaters underneath. He wears a dingy beard and cap and carries a sign asking people to spare him some change. I don't know what his story is, but on the occasion I've reached out to give him something it's occurred to me how hard it must be to ask for money from strangers holed up in their heated vehicles, many trying to avoid his gaze. Whatever his story is, that's no way to spend a frigid winter day in Chicago. And yet, when someone does roll down a window to hand him some change, he smiles and politely says thank you and have a nice day. That would be a good day for him.

I know I'm entitled to my down days. I know it's OK for me to let myself feel down on my down days. But it doesn't really help to sulk; it doesn't make me feel any better. So instead, I'll tell myself that my down day is a good day for many people in worse situations than I'm in. Because really, in a couple of hours I'll be sitting next to my husband, my best friend as he picks me up from work; I'll be hugging my giggling, squirmy, beautiful princess of a daughter; and I'll be coming home to my Mom who has put her life on hold to be with me during this time. Bit by bit, I'm sure this down day will start to turn into a good day for me too.

"Who Wouldn't Love a Diva?!"

"Who wouldn't love a diva?" were the parting words of my IV therapy nurse, Victoria, as I finished my first session of chemo today. The whole experience was so normal it was surreal. Dennis, my Mom and I arrived at the hospital shortly after 8am. First thing I did was run to the restroom as I'd been drinking water like crazy all yesterday and this morning. Before they even started my chemo meds I had to go again! Everything happened as they said it would - they took my vitals (they base how much meds I get on my height and weight); they poked me to start an IV line; then they led me to a comfy chair along with Dennis and Mom (who proceeded to bust out the computer and Harry Potter book, respectively); they gave me anti-nausea meds (in pill form) and then we sat around and chatted for a half hour or so. Finally, the medication (two kinds) came in a total of six syringes (three of each). They were manually pushed through my IV line by Victoria - the whole time we were chatting and having fun. I chewed on ice chips for the first fifteen minutes and then switched to a popsicle for the last fifteen. Victoria and I were joking around so much other nurses joined in the fun.

We talked business of course - things like what I'm doing to cope and all that - which is how we came to talk about this blog. I mentioned starting this as an outlet, among other things I had in place. Victoria gave me tips on what to expect in the coming days. Amazingly though I did not experience any of the immediate side effects: no puffiness, congested feeling around my nose and forehead; no immediate nausea; no feeling of warmth running through my body. Oddly, what I did experience right after we wrapped up was: hunger (which is why I had a huge bowl of seafood fried rice soon after); sustained energy (enough that we stopped by Whole Foods after lunch; St. John Berchmans for a brief visit; came home, chilled for a bit, then changed into work out clothes and went to the gym for half an hour); and then stopped by Target before picking up Alyssa at daycare. Tonight though after this quite full day, I feel tired and my tummy feels like I've drunk too much water (which is entirely possible as evidenced by more visits to the bathroom than when I was pregnant!).

So how am I coping? Pretty well for day one I think. There's a few more days to go of course and I'm projecting that I will do well. I'm projecting, as my friend Paula said to me this morning, that the meds are a magic potion that's coursing through my body cleansing and healing me. I'm projecting that I've taken great strides prior to today to help my body be healthy and cope with the effects of chemo. I'm projecting that I will be OK. After all, I'm a diva and who wouldn't love me? Even cancer fighting meds will hopefully give me a break, right?!

The Cost of My Care

I could turn this post into a lengthy rant about our healthcare system (since that's the current favorite topic on the news and talk shows right now), but I won't. Instead, I'll share some information with you about my treatment: On the day after each session of chemo (for the first four sessions) I will be receiving a shot that will tell my bone marrow to make more white blood cells. This shot is meant to keep my immune system from weakening. That is one talented type of medication - and for it's price, it had better darn be! I almost fell out of my seat today when the pharmacy person I was speaking to told me that the shot costs $3,000! Three thousand dollars! For one shot. Yeah.

So where am I going with this? Well, just that I am one lucky lady to have health insurance. I'm one lucky lady to work at an organization that chooses to provide its employees with the best health insurance it can afford (yes, that's right, I'm plugging my office). I'm one lucky lady to be in a location where I can get the best treatment around - and that I don't have to move or temporarily relocate in order to get it. I'm one lucky diva. And I don't say that tongue in cheek. I mean it. The cost of my care - just looking at what the insurance company is covering - is enormous. So I feel truly blessed that I don't have to worry about it. Others, however, are not so fortunate.

Back home in the Philippines, my Mom volunteers for the local hospice organization - the Madre de Amor Foundation. For years now she has served cancer patients who have no means to afford their care. One patient's story stands out for me - a young woman named Evangeline Clemente. She had breast cancer too. When she found out, she was only a stage I. Stage I is super early. But she had no money; no insurance; no way to cover the cost of her care. So she went about her life, living with the cancer growing inside her. By the time she became a hospice patient, under my Mom's care, she was stage IV and didn't have long to live. When I first heard about Evangeline, I was heartbroken. No one, and I repeat no one should die from breast cancer when diagnosed at stage I. 

So what do I take away from Evangeline's story? She helps me put things in perspective. She helps me realize that here I am - one very lucky cancer-fighting-take-no-prisoners-diva: I have all that I need to fight back and succeed. I have NO EXCUSE to feel defeated, to lose hope, to lose faith. I do have EVERY EXCUSE to fight, to have faith, to have hope, to live. The cost of my care isn't just what the insurance company covers. The cost of my care is the investment of every single family member, friend and countless brave survivors in ME. You have all put your love, hope, and faith in me. I cannot fail. I will not fail. For you, for Dennis, for Alyssa, for my Mom, and for Evangeline and other women like her - I will succeed. I promise.

My Hair... My Identity?

Today I am finally even - in the boob department, that is. Let me explain: I got my prosthetic boob today, complete with two new bras! I love my fake boob. It's heavy, like a boob should be heavy. It's squishy, like a boob should be squishy. And in the mirror I look even, like having two boobs should look. (Insert requisite *sigh* here.)

So I feel good. I've got my fake boob. I'm regaining my range of motion for my right arm with the help of my physical therapist. I feel energetic, upbeat, and ready to tackle the next phase of my treatment: chemo. So why then am I so anxious about one side-effect? Why is the prospect of my hair falling out so upsetting to me? Mind you, I have taken steps to prepare for this. I took the bull by the horns and cut my hair short about two weeks ago. I bought my very realistic, very expensive wig (even wore it to the office a couple of times this past week just to get used to it). I've even got girlfriends throwing me a hat and scarf party at the end of the month (ironically, on the day my hair is supposed to start falling out according to my doctor). And yet, here I am, deep down; honest to God truth; lay it out there for all of you to see - really dreading hair loss.

At the heart of it all is the understanding that for the longest time my hair has been a big part of my outward identity. I love my hair. I love taking care of it. I love having it styled, cut, coiffed, you name it, I love it. But that's a very small part of my identity. And yet, it's a part that a lot of people see. People who know me, and those who don't. Am I bothered by the fact that people who don't know me and who'll see the bald head will know I'm battling cancer? Why should I be bothered? It's a mark of a warrior in a worthwhile battle. Am I bothered because I don't want to see pity in other people's eyes? But what is wrong with pity? When I feel sorry for someone my heart goes out to them. I don't look down on them. I fervently wish that they didn't have to go through whatever it is they are going through. I feel for them. So am I bothered, as a fellow survivor put it, because I will finally look the way a breast cancer patient looks? Maybe that's it. I have overcome some of the most emotional aspects of being diagnosed with breast cancer by mentally battling this disease. I have learned that ninety percent of this battle is in my head. I have looked myself in the mirror many times and had many honest conversations - but always the person who looked back at me never looked like she had breast cancer.

The truth comes out: I do not want to look like I have breast cancer. And I don't. Instead, I look like I am battling cancer so that it can never have a chance to come back. I am fighting. So, standing in front of that mirror again, I say to myself these words: My hair is not who I am. It is not the core of me. I am happy and hopeful. I am caring and loving. I am optimistic and positive. I am resilient and strong. I am a fighter. I am all these things; these things are my identity... with or without my hair.

No Choice But to Be Amazing

I have no choice but to BE amazing. That's the conclusion I've come to as I battle breast cancer. Everyone has been so supportive of me; everyone has been telling me how amazing I am - to be so brave, to be so strong, to be so resilient. Thank you, thank you, thank you! But really, I literally have NO CHOICE other than to be amazing! I have to be brave... for Alyssa, for Dennis, for me. I have to be strong... for Alyssa, for Dennis, for me. And I have to be resilient... for Alyssa, for Dennis, for me.

Little did I know when the 2010 holiday season came around that I would be facing the biggest challenge of my life. And here I am - in the thick of it. How have I been dealing with it? How do I plan to deal with it? I will write about it. I will express how I feel. I will chronicle the ups and downs of this battle - this battle that I consider to be already WON because that's where I want to be, that's where I am. A good friend, and a fellow survivor said to me, it's like climbing a mountain: it's tough as hell to get up to the peak, and along the way there will seem like moments when you don't think you can go on, but then you push just a little bit more and are rewarded with the most beautiful sight for all your trouble. And what do you have to look forward to afterward? The amazingly wonderful and easy trip back down.

I hope you'll follow me on my trip up to Mt. Amazing. Thank you in advance for reaching out a helping hand; for cheering me on; and for standing at the top waving to me, reminding me how beautiful the view is up there!