tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74164393939681661142024-03-13T14:28:47.801-04:00Rica's LIVESTRONG AdventuresHome of the Fairfield/Westchester County LIVESTRONG Army leader, Rica. What goes on in the life of a LIVESTRONG Leader? Raise funds so Rica and her kids can represent at the Austin, TX Challenge again & bring some friends to kick cancer with us!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.comBlogger226125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-63028804146586090442014-09-30T13:04:00.001-04:002014-09-30T13:04:58.939-04:00Days Like TodaySo, I'm in school and instead of guest artist, we are doing a call-a-thon to kick off Breast Cancer Awareness Month. We, as a school, are raising funds for #pinkoutloud, and I'm calling folks in my phone in alphabetical order.<div><br></div><div>As I'm online with my friend, Lisa (who is still filed under "B," and half and hour after I thanked my peers in advance on behalf of us survivors and my sisters whose time ran out, keeping Mary Caprio in my mind, whose name do I see next in my contacts but Mary's. </div><div><br></div><div>Lisa can tell you, I couldn't even make it through the call. I can barely make it through typing this note. I'm flooded, yet again, with why me - by why did I get cancer, but why did I survive? Why did Mary, and Suzy and Tiffany and so many others die? How does this make sense? My doctor says I'm in the clear, but for how long?</div><div><br></div><div>How many more of my beautiful friends will have to suffer and ensure surgery after surgery, chemo and radiation? And how many after that will still die?</div><div><br></div><div>How many more of my nearly 100 young, thriving classmates here at Paul Mitchell hear those words?</div><div><br></div><div>I looked at so many of their faces today, and after that call, all I think about is, "Will it be her? Will it be her?"</div><div><br></div><div>I can't even bear to be in the building right now because I feel like a pink Grim Reaper, trying not to look them in the eyes looking for a sign, a hint as to who will be the next one. </div><div><br></div><div>One of those days.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-49262200457022361432014-08-12T08:00:00.001-04:002014-08-12T22:49:28.097-04:00Shazzbot.Chemo is a bitch. Depression is too. For me, now, they have one common thread. Robin Williams.<div><br></div><div>I was a little kid when I used to watch "Happy Days." And I remember watching an episode where the Fonz was being antagonized by this weird alien named Mork. Soon after, I was mesmerized by television show about an alien and this woman that he lived with. And I would sit, crosslegged with jeans, rainbow suspenders, and a plaid shirt, hanging on every moment of this crazy show. I greeted people, with my fingers spread, saying, "Nanu Nanu." I still have those rainbow suspenders. And I still remember watching every moment, waiting for the end when Mork would be talking back to his home planet, giving them the observations and words of wisdom that he gathered.</div><div><br></div><div>I couldn't believe that this alien that came out of an egg was the same man speaking fluent Russian that defected in the middle of a department store. A teacher inspiring his students to deliver a giant, "Yawp." Or that he became a doctor helping children with cancer with laughter with one of my college classmates in the cast. Or a doctor that could awaken people from trance like states, and then break as they returned to their previous conditions. I never imagined that somebody so hairy and so crazy could transform into a proper British woman. </div><div><br></div><div>Above all else, this man made me laugh. And it wasn't because of fart jokes, it wasn't because of anything accidental. He was so smart. The breadth of the resources that the man had in his brain from which he could pull was astounding. One of my classmates recently labeled me as being "intellectual." But the brilliance of Robin Williams with that he could make children laugh using references, information and comedy that was based on such highly intellectual subjects that it boggles the mind. His comedy was intelligent. It made you want to learn more about what he was referencing. But at the same time, you really didn't give a crap, because your eyes were tearing, your stomach was seizing, and you might just have peed a little.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-GJ0TsP1DD_c/U-p10sing7I/AAAAAAAABJY/YWnbkzg5k7c/s640/blogger-image--1425629872.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-GJ0TsP1DD_c/U-p10sing7I/AAAAAAAABJY/YWnbkzg5k7c/s640/blogger-image--1425629872.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div>September 29, 2011. First chemo. I was scared out of my mind. I sent my kids to school, and my dad came to pick me up. I was putting together my chemo bag. A friend told me I must bring an iPod, so I had that packed. And DVDs. I had "Princess Bride" and "Wizard of Oz." But those didn't feel like enough. I then remembered my Robin Williams Live DVD. I hadn't watched it yet, so I grabbed that. Thinking of Mork, I chose my rainbow socks, an homage to Mork's rainbow suspenders. A little bit of in innocent childhood joy to brighten my mood.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">When my dad and I got there, we were cracking jokes, and giggling. But it wasn't because anything was funny. It was awkward. It was forced. I think we both felt like if we didn't make each other laugh, the alternative would be too unbearable for the other to witness. That's why my mother couldn't come. I didn't want her to, and I don't think she could have handled it. She takes too much too seriously to just let it go, even for a moment, and laugh. I wish she would learn to do that. To laugh at the worst of things. To let go of things out of our control. I always thought she'd lead a happier life.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">But my dad, aside from just being funny, was always able to laugh at anything. Perhaps that's why he loved Robin Williams. He is intelligent, raucous, a little bit of a fart joker, but brilliant.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">So, when we finally got the DVD player working, we put in Robin Williams. And we laughed. We laughed from the bottom of our feet to the hairs on our heads (as short lived as they were). We laughed loudly enough that nurses came in to see what was going on - belly laughing and guffawing are not common for a chemo room. Then, when they saw what was happening, they stayed. And laughed with us. Throughout that day's treatment, our nurse, Clarissa, and her colleagues popped in for relief. Before I knew it, chemo was done. My veins weren't sore, my stomach was. The tears streaming down my face were of joy and exhilaration, not of pain or sorrow.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Particularly funny was his bit on Lance and cancer. Perhaps it was because I had just met Lance, or was meeting him again in a few days, or because we now shared cancer and chemo as well as bikes, but it was like Robin was saying outloud all the snarky things I would never dare say, and he made it ok to think. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">My kids had the chance to see him live at the LIVESTRONG 15 Celebration. Thank goodness.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="http://youtu.be/ra786sYkQj4">http://youtu.be/ra786sYkQj4</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="http://youtu.be/lTywy7k4vi4">http://youtu.be/lTywy7k4vi4</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="http://youtu.be/nDeck8sraiM">http://youtu.be/nDeck8sraiM</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The thing with Robin Williams is that he gave us a vocabulary to laugh at cancer. Maybe that's why so many of us at LIVESTRONG feel so connected to him, aside from his friendship with Lance, his involvement with the organization, and the fact that he rode with us. Robin gave us the wherewithall to laugh at cancer. To laugh in cancer's face. He helped us find the absurdity of the situation. He helped us face death and laugh. Not spitefully, but with joy - unabashed joy.</span></div><br></div><div>I am devastated at his loss. I am saddened to the core. The world has lost a bright, brilliant star that was too smart, too funny, too emotionally connected for this world. </div><div><br></div><div>Perhaps that was his greatest gift next to his laughter - his ability to connect and feel what others were feeling. <br><br>As we said at my friend Ari's funeral, who died of a heart attack due to a congenital heart disease,his heart was too big for his own good. He felt too much. Which was his blessing and a curse.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><em>"You're only given one little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it</em>."</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-22887266354458705382014-05-16T13:25:00.001-04:002014-05-16T13:50:52.378-04:00180 DegreesYou may or may not know this, but I have a career outside of being a cancer fighter. I started as an executive assistant and working my way up to being a project manager. The position sounds very impressive and important, and it is. And I gave it my all, and I was pretty good at it, but in my heart, no matter how hard I tried, and I <i>tried</i>, something was missing.<div><br></div><div>Over the years, I found all kinds of outlets - from my Mary Kay business to painting to sewing to DIY - you name it. But the reality is that my passion always lay in the creative realm, not the corporate realm.</div><div><br></div><div>Perhaps it is a closer-to-midlife-than-I'd-like-to-admit crisis, or a post-Cancer epiphany, but I decided after much debate to abandon my corporate life and go into a completely different direction.</div><div><br></div><div>I am a full-time student at the Paul Mitchell School of Danbury. I'm biting the bullet, getting my cosmetology license and seeing where I take it.</div><div><br></div><div>Wish me luck!</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0Paul Mitchell The School Danbury 2 National Pl, Danbury41.396374 -73.451828tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-33776938234286722532014-04-08T07:52:00.000-04:002014-04-08T22:17:57.454-04:00Aunt CarolWhen one thinks of the typical family, and you begin to picture what an "aunt" looks like, one might picture floral couches, a female version of your father, with a similar lifestyle. Or a kooky, eccentric version of your parent. For my generation, your father's older sister might bring up images of a lady, wearing dresses, gardening, etc.<br>
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As a child, when I would talk with classmates about my visits to Aunt Carol's house, I'd describe the barbeque Uncle Elliot would make, how my parents would joke and tease that the meat was overcooked, though I liked it, playing with some of the other nieces and nephews in the backyard - wiffle ball was a favorite, with one of my golden retriever cousins chasing the ball, and Aunt Carol's strawberry rhubarb pies made with rhubarb grown in her own garden.</div>
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And then I would talk about the piece she had made that was a collage of homemade paper, string, rusty wires and her dog's tooth that looked like a shriveled human heart. Or the sky-high black paper sails she constructed made out of her homemade paper. Or the frustration my father felt when he learned she had cut apart original family photographs again for a collage. Or the trip to NYC to the art gallery to see her uncharacteristically sleek sculpture that looked like a pyramid with geometric shapes hollowed into it, but were really painted illusions.</div>
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My Aunt Carol was an artist. She was a contemporary artist. She was talented beyond description. She had an obsession with morbidity that I dug as early as I can remember. And my father was oblivious to said obsession until, not that long ago, I asked Aunt Carol why she was obsessed with death, and my dad said, "No, she's not," and Aunt Carol and I answered, "Yes, she (I) is (am)," in unison.</div>
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15 years ago or so, Aunt Carol survived breast cancer. I thought she was amazing.</div>
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Aunt Carol and Uncle Elliot didn't have any children of their own. Instead, they had golden retrievers. One at a time. They were my cousins. It isn't that they didn't like children - they did - from afar. But Aunt Carol seemed to dig me. I was a child just like any other, but being around her and Uncle Elliot, and around her work, I somehow instinctively connected and "knew my place." Immaturity was left at the end of the driveway after the long drive down to Califon. My parents never had to remind me to "be on my best behavior." I didn't have to be told.</div>
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"Colonial elegance" comes to mind when trying to describe their home. I imagine their home is what it would be like if an artist living in SoHo inherited their grandmother's fully-furnished farmhouse and decided to move in. From the exterior, it's a charming, red country home, with a stepped garden. And when you enter, at first, it looks like a dark, wooden framed farm home as one would expect to find in Califon. But as you venture further in, behind the quaint, cushy "aunt-like" sofa, hangs the earlier mentioned collage reminiscent of a human heart, with hairs woven into the paper cluster. In the dining room, with an innocently patterned wall paper, sits a bassinet, an antique bassinet that has an eerie look about it. It looks too antique to be "normal."</div>
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Climbing the staircase by the innocent yellow guest bathroom, you would expect to walk into a storage room. Instead, usually at the end of our visits, Aunt Carol would lead me and my father into her vast, white studio, to show us her latest pieces - finished and in process. Aunt Carol, for some time, would have to get regular tetanus shots, as her work led her to local dumpsites to retrieve the heaviest, rustiest, gnarliest pieces of wire and metal. She and Uncle Elliot had to have the side of her studio above the garage cut open, and have barn doors and a hoist installed because Aunt Carol's art drove her to construct work that was simply impossible to get out of the house without the need of serious equipment and being hauled out of the side of the house.</div>
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Of course, she and my father were Jewish, and I recall them coming to a seder once, but she and Uncle Elliot weren't "overtly" Jewish in their presentation. I honestly don't know what their worship or observance was like, and while they had travelled all over the world, it wasn't until after I'd visited Israel for the last time that they went to Israel. This surprised me, as my father, mother and I had gone multiple times. But I would tell Aunt Carol all the time to go. When she surprised me with sending spending money while I was there, I wrote her letters and postcards about what she was missing.</div>
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So imagine my surprise when I learned that her last major collection, which started several years ago, was centered around the Holocaust. She began with collages, which led into collections of poetry and her pieces and she created art books - some of which are now housed at the world's most renowned Holocaust museums, including Yad VaShem. Those pieces then led to stone engravings, where she had to engage tombstone makers to be able to etch her work into the stone.<br>
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I facepalmed myself when I heard she decided to bring one of the artbooks and lecture at Oberlin College - <i>after</i> I'd graduated, and after the fact! I called her and said, "Aunt Carol! Why didn't you tell me! I'd have visited campus!" and she replied, "It wasn't that big a deal. No biggie."</div>
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But that was typical of Aunt Carol. Nothing ever seemed to phase her. She had a reserve about her. She wasn't uptight in the least- she was very relaxed. You knew you were speaking to a lady, so she wasn't crass, but she was relaxed. Aunt Carol had a lovely laugh and sweet voice, when you were blessed to see that break in her usual friendly, but poised conversation.</div>
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My dad brought that out in her the most. Dad could bring that childlike twinkle to her eye. He could make her giggle. I don't even know if he meant to do that. Being her younger brother, it was natural. Underneath the grey-speckled bangs, was the face of a 12-year old observing her goofy, baby brother. I even witnessed the occasional eyeroll as she would say, "Oh, Richard."</div>
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I loved my Aunt Carol. Seeing her was such a treat. She was so uber cool. I remember, when I was more actively studying art in high school, she kept pestering Dad to take me to the Guggenheim. My dad isn't exactly a big modern art buff, a trait she couldn't tolerate. We'd go to see her joint exhibits, and we spent half the time teasing the work of her peers (quietly, of course. I thought it was for my benefit, but looking back, it was likely to ensure Aunt Carol didn't scold him later). Finally, Dad gave in, and we went to the Guggenheim. In retrospect, we probably should have looked up who the featured artist was, because, let me tell you, it was an exhibit that embodied everything he and I loathed about contemporary art. Just approaching the Guggenheim, the taxidermied reptile and neon lights sketching out the Fibonacci series along the side of the building prompted us to stop, stare blankly, look at each other, and bust out laughing. Aunt Carol would have been utterly horrified and beside herself had she been a fly on the wall as my father and I cracked jokes about how stupid the stuffed desert critters with florescent numbers shooting out of their butts were, with the crowning jewels of the exhibit being a faucet stuck into a wall called "Mother" and a room full of huge wire igloo-domes made out of what looked like sheets of earwax and dripping snot.</div>
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While my father and I probably never laughed so hard for so long, my Aunt Carol was <i>not</i> amused when we recounted the day over the phone. I know I heard her yell, "Richard!" a few times over the phone while she gave my dad an earful. Hence, when I got the phone, I feigned interest and waxed philosophical with her, impressing her with my maturity, while I stuck my tongue out at my dad.</div>
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I suspect that's why Aunt Carol seemed to like me, even though I was a kid. I knew how not to act like one around her - sometimes, even at my father's expense.</div>
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There is nothing twinkling, or charming about today, though. Early this morning, around 6:15, I had a sinking feeling in my heart. I posted on Facebook for friends to pray for Aunt Carol, as last night I learned she only had days left in her battle against pancreatic cancer. I was just about to start baking cookies and cakes for her (if she could eat - which she couldn't on Sunday when my parents went to visit), my Uncle Elliot, and my parents. The phone rang, just as my daughter went to catch her bus. I knew. I knew that I wasn't going to Califon today. And, just hearing my father's voice, he didn't have to say a thing. I knew.</div>
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Aunt Carol ran out of time today.</div>
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There will never be a slice of her rhubarb pies anymore. I'll never hear stories about what my father was like as a kid, and the trouble he'd get into with his Aunt Bettina. I'll never have the chance to collaborate on a piece with her, and my daughter. My daughter, who only met her once this past year, who fell in love with her, will never develop the relationship she wanted with my aunt. She'll never have the chance to share artwork she did based on photographs Aunt Carol sent her with her mentor. I'll never be able to ask her why she was so obsessed with death, and how she made her paper. She'll never smile when I present her with another candy mold to add to her collection.</div>
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And I'll never see the twinkle in her eye, and her smile again.</div>
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But now, I have to see my father, who lost his big sister. Whose only blood relatives, other than me and the kids, are now gone. I'll have to see a man who turned into a boy whenever he was in her presence, and I'm terrified of seeing the loss in his eyes. I fear the twinkle that they both shared will be dimmer now. My heart aches for a man that I love so much and I cannot imagine what he's feeling right now.</div>
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And then I think about my Uncle Elliot. He's alone in that house that he built with Aunt Carol with my latest golden retriever cousin. He had to watch her fade. He's so far away, we can't just stop in and bring him muffins, or check in, or spend time with him with ease. He spent so many years with her - how is he going to be?</div>
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My only consolation is that I know the past few weeks were so unpleasant for her. At last, she's at peace.</div>
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Pray that the rest of us can find peace in her passing, now. Pray for my father. For my Uncle Elliot.</div>
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Gosh, I'll miss her strawberry rhubarb pie.<br>
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To view her work, please go to <a href="http://carolrosen.net/">http://carolrosen.net/</a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-63283616610532268702014-03-24T13:53:00.001-04:002014-03-28T16:16:45.557-04:00That which won't kill me can only make me STRONGER...Ugh. Kanye West. What a loathsome individual. G-d complex. Caused a Kardashian (and not the uber-cool Khloe) to reproduce. Vile geopolitical opinions.<div><br></div><div>But... If the man has one salvageable action in his life, it's releasing the song, "Stronger." </div><div><br></div><div>Monday morning. Stuck behind cars, rushing to get to the YMCA in New Canaan, I revel in the fact that I found my Sony Walkman (thank you, Klout) - already loaded with workout music I hand picked from my Riding playlist with some new additions (thanks to a binge in Israeli, Mizrachit and Ladino dock), ready to attack my LIVE<b>STRONG </b>at the Y programs and, mindful of traffic law, pop it onto one ear and start playing. And what's the first song to play? "Stronger," by (stupid) Kanye West. And I start to feel pumped. I start to not only emotionally, but physically, get excited and revved. My mind focuses from hating the cars and buses in front of me to the anticipated rush and burn. My shoulder muscles, usually tense with stress, begin to feel looser, my face begins to warm, and I'm nearly drooling to sweat.</div><div><br></div><div>I park, jump out of my car, throw my cardigan in the drawstring bag, flash my badge, and run (yes, run) up the stairs - something I haven't been able to do in years. I'm a couple of minutes late, so the trainer tells me to do 10 minutes of cardio. No problem.</div><div><br></div><div>You would think I'd leap at the bikes, but if you've been following my blog for any time frame, you'd know that I can't just do 10 minutes on a bike - indoors or out. No, I'll save that for a spin class I hope to take, or, dare I say it, a ride in the next week or two. I hop on the treadmill, repeating "Stronger," and start out. I'm going to make the most of my 10 minutes. I start my pace at 3.5, and amp the resistance. And I pound out a fast walk. I was in "the zone" the minute my feet hit the driveway thanks to that song. My heart rate leaps up to 160. Time to rev up the speed. 3.8. Next song up. Ramp it up to 4.0 with Duran Duran's "Planet Earth." I'm feeling such a rush, I'm about to crank it up to a jog.</div><div><br></div><div>Crap. Stupid endorphins brainwashing me into thinking I can run. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!</div><div><br></div><div style="direction: ltr;">Newly-found moderating brain cells remind me of the hell that 5k LIVE<b>STRONG</b> Challege did to me - and though I'd started treatment by then, I was still in better shape than now. Ok. Back to walk. My trainer must have noticed the idiotic move I was on the verge of making, tapped the machine, and asked how I was doing. I smiled and said fine. In my head, I was grinding the treadmill to shreds with my prowess. I was making it my bitch. Good thing 10 minutes just wound down - treadmill lives another day.</div><div><br></div><div>We get to work on our big muscle circuit before venturing to The Zone, a new set up. I hit the circuit. First, leg presses. I start where I left off - 2 sets of 12 at 140. The machine flies and I feel zero resistance. After one set of 12, I bump it up to 165. That's better. Not painful, but resistant. 2 more sets of 12.</div><div><br></div><div>I move onto the next leg machines - and I can do 3 sets of 12 with no pain - compared to the 2 sets of 12 last week. Legs are feeling like my own, again. Stronger.</div><div><br></div><div>Onto the pectoral fly machine. My arch nemesis of the gym. You see, it always was, but when you have your chest sliced and diced, expanding water balloons forced under your pectoral muscles, and then lumps of silicone permanently put into place where squishy, attached and organic breasts used to be, any activity that uses those now overly stretched-out pectoral muscles feels... <i><b>WEIRD</b></i>. There really isn't another word to use. It's just weird. You can't control the fact that your pseudo-boobs pop up and down, almost waving at the crowd, with every fly motion. They flap in the wind like two tops of tea kettles when you push down on huge button to pour out the water. Only with perma-perked nipples on top. Aside from the physical weirdness, there is an emotional sadness and moderate humiliation. But by now, Eminem is rightly advising me to lose myself in the music, and that's what I do. I lose myself, in the music, the moment, I own it, and I can't let go - I have to push through every rep. Failure is not an option - not now. I have to push through to move on. And just like that, I'm done. Moving on. </div><div><br></div><div>Next thing I know, I'm on more upper body machines, but this time, I'm upping the weight a notch. I'm starting to do 3 sets of 12 reps on some, not all, but some. And then I'm done. I did it. And I can still walk. My back hasn't buckled. My shoulder bursitis is less painful than it was while I tried to sleep.</div><div><br></div><div>Dare I say it? Week #3 and I'm finally feeling... <b><i>STRONGER</i></b>.</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="direction: ltr; clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-HhhGGdBmcso/UzBxGKwgJJI/AAAAAAAABHA/_2dIO9nrhYE/s640/blogger-image--23265399.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-HhhGGdBmcso/UzBxGKwgJJI/AAAAAAAABHA/_2dIO9nrhYE/s640/blogger-image--23265399.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QjAem-0g6_E/UzBx5PRCW1I/AAAAAAAABHI/IJJq60cyujc/s640/blogger-image-1448308246.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QjAem-0g6_E/UzBx5PRCW1I/AAAAAAAABHI/IJJq60cyujc/s640/blogger-image-1448308246.jpg"></a></div></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com1New Canaan Community YMCA 564 South Ave, New Canaan41.128701 -73.484998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-30276385046739506352014-03-05T12:37:00.001-05:002014-03-05T12:42:34.936-05:002 down, 3 to go...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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March 5, 2011, I was preparing for my 2nd Rock the Ride & Run benefiting LIVE<b>STRONG</b>. I was unwittingly incubating two cancers in my right breast.<br />
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March 5, 2012. My friend, Mary, and I got the news that, so far, our chemotherapy and her radiation worked - we were now N.E.D. - No Evidence of Disease.</div>
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March 5, 2013. It was less than a month after Mary's funeral. I was declared one year N.E.D.</div>
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Today. It's been less than a month since Suzy ran out of time against breast cancer. I'm out of full-time work, currently back to teaching Hebrew School again, and midwifing a stray mother cat, Ahavah, as she labors to deliver her<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> kittens today. And I celebrate 2 years N.E.D.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-74679916949734980022014-03-03T15:03:00.001-05:002014-03-03T15:03:26.756-05:00Starting from ground zero...After long last, the universe is finally letting me start to rebuild my body again - not with silicone implants or skin grafts, but with muscle, strength, power and flexibility. My back injuries that flared up due to atrophy have eased just in time for me to start a new LIVE<b>STRONG</b> at the Y program at the New Canaan YMCA. Last Wednesday, we had a group orientation. Monday was our evaluation. Today was our first introduction to the machines.<div><br></div><div>On Monday, I left feeling pretty good about myself. I did my 6 minute walk with ease. My flexibility was great (though I was surprised at how different my right and left arms were!). I could let press 265 with ease. My arm strength was 3x better than I'd anticipated. I went into today's session excited.</div><div><br></div><div>Of course, when asked if I wanted to go on the treadmill vs a bike, I chose the bike. The trainer wanted me to try a recumbent, but it didn't feel right, so we went to the spin bike. Ah! Cleat friendly pedals! A saddle! Home!</div><div><br></div><div>I jumped in and adjusted the seat height like an old pro. I picked the 3 mile coastal ride - they said to keep it easy and quick. No problem!</div><div><br></div><div>I start off, and I'm passing the other digital riders. I'm spinning at 75 rpm and 15-17 mph. While I miss the wind on my face, I'm feeling comfortable. I'm shifting gears. I'm rolling. I'm catching up to the pace setter. I start chatting with the trainer. But, soon, the hills hit. A bit of strain. A bit out of breath. A little burn. Finally, a challenge.</div><div><br></div><div>But then, though I'm passing other digital riders, the phantom pace setter is pulling farther ahead. I push harder I'm on a downhill and I try coasting to let the burn ease off. What!?! No coasting on a spin bike? Ugh. Fine. I keep churning, but even though I'm going I downhill, I'm burning. I'm slowing. The pace setter is getting away. I'm starting to sweat. I figure I've got to be near the end of the 3 mike mark. </div><div><br></div><div>Then my heart sank. I was at 1.3 miles with 1.7 to go. And I'd already hit the wall. The trainer approached to tell me it was time to move onto the weight machines. Saved by the bell.</div><div><br></div><div>I think she could sense my disappointment as she reminded me, "Baby steps. You're doing great."</div><div><br></div><div>I kept telling myself that was true. That it was a spin bike. That there was no wind. But it still hurt to the core.</div><div><br></div><div>The rest of the workout was uneventful - I felt good about the weight levels, the pace, etc. Stretches were a surprise, though - pangs on the back and knees hit so I have to rely on alternates for now. But that will come in time.</div><div><br></div><div>I guess that's the hardest lesson of all to learn - it will come in time. I'm not used to that mantra.</div><div><br></div><div>But I'm relearning my body, my strength, and eventually my power.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-19477215272678188352014-02-18T23:23:00.003-05:002014-02-18T23:41:20.358-05:00People are Stupid<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yes, yesterday was one of those days.<br />
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I got a call from a recruiter - not a recruiter with whom I've ever done business - who found my resume somewhere online. She wanted to get some more information about me about a possible job in an area to which, out of desperation, I'd travel, but I wasn't thrilled. So, as we were reviewing my resume, she had a few questions.<br />
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She said I had excellent credentials, and then she asked me why I was not PMP certified. I explained that the jobs that I had simply didn't allow the extra time to study and take the test. As we were talking, we discussed my last full-time, permanent position. I was telling her about the ups and downs experienced, how there were periods where we weren't getting paid, and how I was being scrutinized, even though I was a full-time, salaried employee, over hours I had worked at home and things just degenerated from there. She asked why I had been working from home. I explained that I had breast cancer, and some of that time was between when I was laid off and rehired, so I got some procedures done as part of my cancer treatment.<br />
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At that point she said, "Well, why didn't you take advantage of your time 'time off' and go get your certification since you weren't doing anything?"<br />
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Since this was over the phone, I couldn't simply reach across the table and smack her upside the head. Nor could she glean from my eyeroll that she asked an utterly stupid, obnoxious and foul question.</div>
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Golly, lady, it might have been that I was too busy having my breasts lopped off, poison injected into my body every couple of weeks for a few months straight, and then having all kinds of infections, skin grafts and other organs removed on a whim.</div>
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So, I grit my teeth, smiled, and explained that I think she needs further sensitivity training.<br />
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She asked, "Why?"</div>
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<i>Really? </i>I explained that her response was callous, ignorant, more than likely illegal, surely a form of harassment and discrimination. She said I was overreacting. I asked her if she would like to find out when I contacted LIVE<b>STRONG</b> for their best legal referral, and the lawyer and I would file to sue her ass.<br />
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She told me she couldn't represent me because I was too unprofessional. I told her she was damned right she couldn't represent me - she was clearly too incompetent.<br />
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Then I called her boss.</div>
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I haven't heard back from her boss, or from whomever she directed my call (it could have been to the janitor, for all I know). I kind of wish that I did, so I could let him know that he hired a complete moron, and even though I don't have formal recruiting experience, I, or my cat, Samson, could do a better job than this woman, and I certainly know what is an appropriate response to a candidate explaining that they were getting cancer treatment and working from home during their "time off" and what isn't. I'd love to tell him a few other things while I was at it, as well.</div>
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Sadly, it appears all I can do is vent here on the blog.</div>
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So there it is.</div>
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What frightens me, though, is how many recruiters from the past couple of years have been equally as ignorant? How many, in discussing my resume, credentials, survivorship, etc, or even Google searches, actually think what this woman was thinking?</div>
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How many hiring managers learn about my cancer and think that I could have been more "productive?"</div>
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How many are apprehensive because they wonder if I'll need treatment again? How many somehow think that the cancer is contagious, or was brought on by something I did? Are recruiters and hiring managers still that backwards in their thinking that I'm a pariah? Really?</div>
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I don't hide my cancer past - I wear it as a badge of honor. I'm not going to hide it. It doesn't own me, It's not who I am. It's not my work history or my capabilities. I still worked daily in my hospital room, from my bedroom, my loft office, and even my office office, when I had work that required my attendance in-person. And it was 2 years ago.</div>
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So who cares? What's the problem? Why make me feel "less than" because I fought a disease and came out the other side, stronger, more intent on working a job for which I'm passionate?</div>
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Funny, I thought those were good things to have. Bottom line, to all recruiters and hiring managers that have a problem with the fact that I'd had some sick leave, took some time off a couple of years ago, and used my time between gigs to address some of my health issues...</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-56111576208491135332014-02-16T19:12:00.000-05:002014-02-16T21:07:17.243-05:00Jewish Guilt is bad enough... but Jewish Survivor's Guilt? FuggadabouditImagine you're in a car. Someone else is driving. You and your friends are all in backseats. There is absolutely no difference between how you are sitting or they are. You all have your seatbelts on. You're all doing what you're supposed to do. Hell, we'll even throw on helmets, knee pads and shoulder pads for extra protection. And the driver suits you all up with bubblewrap suits. You're all equally taking the same exact precautions.<br />
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Now, cars hit your car simultaneously - you and your friends are struck with the same amount of force, and the car rolls. By the time it is all over, the car settles. You open your eyes, and no one else but you and the driver make it out alive.<br />
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Why?<br />
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And, just to make it worse, as you sit in your hospital bed for mere observation while your friends funerals are being planned, you see on your social media feed that several other friends, who were also in cars, with the same gear you had on, and the same impact, didn't survive. And your friend's wife. And another friend's wife. All of whom you've spoken to about all the precautions you were taking in the car.<br />
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Why?<br />
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That's pretty much how this week has been. Past month. Past year. Cancer fighters in my life, LIVE<b>STRONG</b> related and not, that I was surrounded by in one way or another, that shared breast cancer specifically, have been dropping like flies. And I'm starting to feel like last man standing. And I don't like it.<br />
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My friend, and fellow LIVE<b>STRONG</b> Leader's wife, Judy, broke my heart. Scott is a cancer survivor himself, and his wife was diagnosed and taken within what seemed to be a breath. Ashleigh Moore, an amazing man, cancer survivor, and fighter, and an International LIVE<b>STRONG </b>Leader who accomplished more than any leader I know has for the cause, was taken from us last week.<br />
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Those losses are difficult to bear, as it just seemed some of the most amazing people run out of time. And seeing your friend is pain, losing a colleague, sucks. But their cancer was very different from mine.<br />
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But Suzy's loss...<br />
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Suzy Zeffren Rauch was a firecracker. She was full of life and <i>ruach</i> (spirit) going back to when I first got to know her in Young Judaea. I admired her from afar, as to me, she was like the sun - as much as I wanted to be her, not like her, but <i>be</i> her, I feared that if I got close, I couldn't withstand the amazingness of Suzy. She was popular (far more than I), she was talented in voice and ability, she was charismatic, she had a way of capturing attention from everyone in a room and making them smile and feel good about themselves. She was a leader. She was an example. She was clearly an amazing friend to everyone around her. She intimidated the bejeezus out of me because I so wanted to be like Suzy when I grew up within the movement. She was the embodiment of what I thought female Judaeans should be.<br />
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Fast forward several years, and I have just gone through diagnosis and my double mastectomy. I get an encouraging post from... SUZY ZEFFREN RAUCH! I had friended her, because I loved her so much back in the day, and I was sure she'd accepted my friend request on Facebook out of courtesy. But <i>she</i> was posting to <i>me</i>. And then I got a private message from her (I have to paraphrase, as Facebook seems to have obliterated some of my conversation history, but... ):<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Rica, I was wondering if I could ask you a question?</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Of course, Suzy, what is it?</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I've been following your journey on Facebook and your blog. I just found out that I also have breast cancer. What do I do?</blockquote>
After the initial shock of seeing that Suzy Zeffren Rauch followed my story and my blog - she liked me! She <i>really</i> liked me! - the fury of knowing that someone as amazing as Suzy was being touched by this evil disease made my blood boil. And then, I knew I could finally do something that I'd wanted to do years ago - be Suzy's friend.<br />
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From that point on, we weren't Judaeans anymore. We weren't just people with lots of mutual friends. We became members of a secret sisterhood. We shared anxiety and tips and support when hair was lost and came back. Ironically, my hair has grown in just like Suzy's - from very loose waves and/or pin straight to dark blonde, rich ringlets.<br />
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We seemed on parallel paths at one point in our chats, and then the chats stopped. I wasn't seeing her in my newsfeed as often. Correspondence came to a trickle.<br />
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I, honestly, had assumed that she'd fallen into the same communication rut that I had post-treatment - when you come out the other end, you have to suddenly play catch up with reality.<br />
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Then, on 2/5/14, I saw an earth-shattering post from my friend pop up that Suzy was going into hospice. (Any children reading this, cover your ears.) What the <i>fuck</i>?! <i>Hospice?!?</i> It has to be for a longer-term recovery from a procedure - they almost put me into hospice after I'd been in the hospital for 4 weeks with the infection because I was taking up a bed in the hospital and required longer-term care vs. hospital care, but once my condition turned around, I was able to just go home.<br />
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I messaged our mutual friend, Benji Lovitt, to find out what was happening. He responded very simply, "She just went on hospice care. I think people are now fearing the worst. Hope you're well." (Kids, you'd better still be covering your ears.) Holy shit! Yes, Benji, I'm fine, thanks for asking, but HOLY SHIT! What in the <i>hell</i>?!?<br />
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I went to her page to make sure I was reading Benji's message right, and sure enough, we were being asked to post photos and stories about Suzy for her. Her timeline, and her husband's, was ticking nearly every other second with a new photo, and a new story being posted as I was reading. Dozens, and dozens, and dozens were coming out of nowhere with an outpouring of memories and encouragement.<br />
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I messaged her, simply, "Sending you LOVE!" praying to get a response. But none came.<br />
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Just a week after I sent her that message, on February 12, Suzy was gone.<br />
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I haven't been the same since. I'm going to address her loss momentarily, but allow me to reflect here a moment. Aside from the grief associated with her loss, there is an overwhelming guilt that hits me every time I learn a friend or loved one has died of cancer. That, "Why me?" but worse - "Can't you take me instead?" I know I have many more people out there who would be happy if I were, and even benefit in my death. But no one "wins" with Suzy's death. No one benefits. It rips people apart. She was so much more than I ever was. And, it's ok, that many of our mutual friends think the same thing - I get it. And I'm not writing this to have a flurry of, "Don't say that! You're special, etc." I know the reality. I'm half the woman, mother, leader, educator and friend that Suzy was on a bad day. She has a husband who adores her. She has two, young daughters that benefit far more than my son, for example, whom I've failed time and time again. At least if it were me, my son might not remember everything that he hates about me, but remember the good. I have no husband to widow. Of course, I know I have my daughter, and family and others that would be hurt, but I'm seeing those same people devastated by Suzy's death.<br />
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Don't read into this as a suicide note - that's not what it is, either. But I can't bare the idea of walking into a room with some of our mutual friends, and Ron, now, having survived the same disease that killed his wife, our friend, and look anyone in the eyes. I'm marked with shame and guilt that I lived and Suzy died.<br />
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Oh, and Suzy's voice. In my mind's ear, I remember how beautiful her voice was. I would listen intently as she, and Kera Rennert, could weave harmonies at camp. I would mimic and memorize their melodies, not daring to upstage them, but to learn from their knack for finding the angelic sound in the gaps, so I could do the same when they weren't at camp anymore. Suzy's voice. Wow.<br />
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I was just getting reacquainted with her, this time as equals, and I'd begun to fall in love with her as a younger sister does an older sister, all over again. And then it stopped. Short.<br />
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I hate this disease. And, in many ways, I hate surviving it. I hate outliving people like Suzy.<br />
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I look to Suzy to remind me to be thankful. Bless whoever it was that posted this amazing version of Modeh Ani sung by Suzy.<br />
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As a tribute, expect to hear my daughter and me singing this at her Bat Mitzvah.<br />
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<i>This</i> is the voice of an angel.<br />
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A fund has been set up in her memory at the camp that she loved, and where she was wed:<br />
http://cyjtexas.org/suzy<br />
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By Ilana Zeffren:<br />
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Read more about Suzy here:<br />
http://thelilmamas.com/in-loving-memory-of-suzy-rauch/<br />
http://motherblogga.com/just-between-us/2014/2/14/for-suzy.html<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-60948837876298461102014-01-14T00:12:00.001-05:002014-01-14T00:12:59.159-05:00MisdirectionIf you follow any number of higher profile cancer warriors - from bloggers to doctors to celebrities - you may have heard about the articles that appeared in The Guardian (now down) and the New York Times by a married couple of "journalists" - a term I use very loosely for the Kellers. The wife got information from a cancer blogger via private messages with or without full disclosure that they were not only the subject of an editorial, but that it was using her blog as a means to "debate" the "ethics" of blogging about one's cancer journey, particularly if the end is sooner, and more grueling, than one might hope. It was a despicable piece. What was worse was that the "author's" husband then, in the New York Times, essentially re-wrote his wife's article, even admitting to loosely "perusing" the cancer fighter's blog, and stating that because his father-in-law died one way, it was "unethical" and "unbecoming" to share one's journey any other way.<br />
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I lost my mind. I really did.<br />
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I'm not going to speak for all of us cancer fighters that choose to share our journeys and fights through blogs and the like. I'm going to speak for myself, because I know there are a lot of folks out there who feel the same way, and to educate the morons like this husband/wife pair who, rather than ask <i>why</i>, suppose they know best and then impose their beliefs as the moral standards.<br />
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First, I was a LIVE<b>STRONG</b> Leader first, which meant that my involvement in the cancer community was that of a leader publicly. So, it was natural that I share my fight in the same manner - it would have been hypocritical of me to be asking those fighting cancer in my community to come out and talk about their journeys when I was silent about mine.<br />
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Second, from a practical standpoint, I have friends, families and colleagues all over the world. However, I only have one set of hands, one mouth, and two phone lines. Unless I had absolutely nothing to do all day but to call, email, write and Skype with every individual that wanted to be kept up to date, I had to find a more universal means of letting folks know what was going on - my blog accomplished that. My fellow LIVE<b>STRONG</b> Leaders, high school friends, college buddies, family, colleagues etc, could simply check out my blog if they couldn't connect with me, and I could rely on that one outlet to share the basics. Obviously, I spoke with folks in other forums as the relationship and events dictated, but this was a resource for anyone to check in and catch up.<br />
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Third, there were days when I didn't want to talk to anyone. There were days I didn't want to see anyone. There were days when I didn't want a dialogue - I wanted a monologue. I was too uncomfortable to have the patience to deal with responses. I wanted to just get things off my chest, share my thoughts, and that was it.<br />
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Fourth, I didn't know if I was the only one who was experiencing what I was experiencing. I shared things I lived through hoping to get more experienced cancer fighters to respond with advice, information, etc. And it worked.<br />
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Fifth, I did it to share so that other women who were diagnosed similarly knew what the general path could be like, in a non-clinical fashion. I wanted to share the funny experiences and thoughts I had in hopes that I could make someone going through this farcical situation laugh when they needed. I wanted to share the absurdity so that I could waylay someone else's fears.<br />
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Lastly, I honestly wanted to lay down in writing what I was thinking in case a) I forgot what my journey was years from now, b) the cancer and treatment didn't go well and affected my memory, c) I needed to document what tests and treatments I had in case I had to provide a doctor my medical history for future treatments and d) in case I didn't survive my cancer, my children could read in their mother's words what her journey was. I wanted to leave a legacy of my voice. I wanted to tell my own story so they wouldn't have to try and remember on their own.<br />
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I assure you, if my tale ended grimly, I would have continued to write just the same.<br />
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You do not have the right, however, to judge how I share my cancer story. You have the right not to read it, you have the right to say that you wouldn't do the same. But you do not have the right to tell me that what I am doing is not "ethical." Keeping silent is unethical. Judging a woman who is dying and is reaching out for support is unethical. Talking about the realities of this disease is not.<br />
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Good for you, <a href="https://twitter.com/AdamsLisa" target="_blank">Lisa</a>. So many of us have your back.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-62030479759292001542014-01-09T00:28:00.001-05:002014-01-14T00:32:40.415-05:00Is there such a thing as "Cancer Free?"<a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-HaNYf7U8nKE/Us4zWw9UoJI/AAAAAAAABEA/UoXm9Hi6q-Y/s640/blogger-image-2145915301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-HaNYf7U8nKE/Us4zWw9UoJI/AAAAAAAABEA/UoXm9Hi6q-Y/s200/blogger-image-2145915301.jpg" width="200" /></a>In the week or so it's taken me to recover from the emotional roller coaster my "Big C" Marathon caused me, I think about what a friend reminded me when I expressed my reborn anxiety - "But, Rica, you're 'Cancer Free.'"<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6VGhfftHfkM/Us4zfTGHyOI/AAAAAAAABEM/OxtBqJGLnkA/s640/blogger-image--1264766642.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6VGhfftHfkM/Us4zfTGHyOI/AAAAAAAABEM/OxtBqJGLnkA/s200/blogger-image--1264766642.jpg" width="132" /></a>Is there ever such a thing as being "Cancer Free?" It's not like I'm a can of soda - when I have zero sugar in my ingredients, and there is a governing body that approves of the label, and I'm declared "Sugar Free," therefore I feel sugar free. I would just BE sugar free. </div>
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The trouble is, I remember what it was like to truly BE Cancer Free.</div>
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Maybe it's a little more like being decaffeinated coffee - I once had caffeine, but it has been stripped out of my being. Caffeine was inherent to my being coffee, but after an extraction process, I'm now lacking my caffeine, left a sad, watery shell of who I used to be.</div>
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So would that really make me "Decancerated Rica" as opposed to "Full Strength Rica?"</div>
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Still, no. Because the coffee only went through two states - Caffeinated, then Decaffeinated.</div>
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I actually went through FOUR states - 1) Rica 2) With Cancer, Blissfully Unaware Rica, 3) Full-on Cancer Rica, 4) Now "Cancer Free" Rica. But, note, State 1 does NOT equal State 4.</div>
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I will never, EVER be "Rica" - with no state of cancer at all. State 1 will never exist for me again.<br />
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I have been permanently changed. I have the scars to prove it. There isn't a morning that goes by when I am not immediately reminded of the fact that I had cancer in my body. Reminders surround and are within me. From the fact that the house has been under 60 degrees every morning I awake this week since the polar vortex came into effect and, while I have goosebumps all over my body, my breasts are just there and my nipples no longer react nor do they perk up - because they are numb chunks of thigh skin, tattooed in a faded pink. When I rub my eyes, and begin to scratch itches on my shoulders, and I brush against my cleavage, the skin on the top of my right breast senses my finger tips normally, but on the left side, there is an irritating tingle, barely cognizant of the fact that it's not an unpleasant scrubbing action triggering a response, but a gentle touch.</div>
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<a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-JSyHq7s3aX0/Us4zTze22DI/AAAAAAAABDw/GzXG7WdY7Uo/s640/blogger-image-1444275574.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-JSyHq7s3aX0/Us4zTze22DI/AAAAAAAABDw/GzXG7WdY7Uo/s200/blogger-image-1444275574.jpg" width="179" /></a>My bones and joints ache more than ever in this chilly weather. I cannot tolerate cold the same way I used to before chemo. While I was always a "Summer Baby," and I hated Winter, I could endure it. My elbows didn't ache from the core. My knuckles didn't stiffen. My spine wouldn't surge with prickly cold. But it does now.</div>
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Once in the shower, I realize that I really don't have to do a self-breast exam anymore, even though it's become second nature. Instead, as I begin the futile, and irrelevant exam, I feel the horrible horizontal scar that I had assumed would have completely disappeared on each breast where my areolae used to be. I feel the strange pucker around that line, so the breast skin doesn't hang correctly on the lower right half of the right breast, and there is still a tough, thickened patch of subsurface scar tissue on the inner side of my left breast.</div>
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kDqoNGP9nNc/Us4zjeI7ZGI/AAAAAAAABEk/EYZ-R1TzFvQ/s640/blogger-image--2073521464.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kDqoNGP9nNc/Us4zjeI7ZGI/AAAAAAAABEk/EYZ-R1TzFvQ/s200/blogger-image--2073521464.jpg" width="138" /></a>As I sit on the commode, facing the cabinet with glass doors in which I kept my feminine products, I see the package of maxi pads I'd picked up right before my oopharectomy, out of habit, forgetting that just a couple of days later, would become irrelevant and would sit dormant unless a visitor needed one, or my daughter has her first "visit from her cousin." I see the last of my tampons, which haven't budged since April.</div>
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When I make it back to my room, and I sit at my vanity, I measure the length of my hair. Now, it's just tickling my shoulders. I pull at the longest piece and measure to see how long the curl now unfurls, and to see if it hits my shoulder blades yet. I shake my head, as I still have a way to go. I reach back and see if I can reach the back of my hair. It's nowhere to be found. I have at least another year to grow my hair to the length where I felt comfortable.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-z-sDvWU_e00/Us4zYAzsw2I/AAAAAAAABEE/2Uz4cc88zxo/s640/blogger-image--233610753.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-z-sDvWU_e00/Us4zYAzsw2I/AAAAAAAABEE/2Uz4cc88zxo/s320/blogger-image--233610753.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />Before</td>
<td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-LAFq_ahuaOc/Us4zVm-pK1I/AAAAAAAABD4/jNOimETZ_0Q/s1600/blogger-image--1164039297.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-LAFq_ahuaOc/Us4zVm-pK1I/AAAAAAAABD4/jNOimETZ_0Q/s200/blogger-image--1164039297.jpg" width="150" /></a><br />After (Straight)</td>
<td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-EpalFKLO0PQ/Us4zhtt9fII/AAAAAAAABEc/Cz-mj-wJrkg/s640/blogger-image--1996316121.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-EpalFKLO0PQ/Us4zhtt9fII/AAAAAAAABEc/Cz-mj-wJrkg/s200/blogger-image--1996316121.jpg" width="150" /></a><br />After (Curly)</td></tr>
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<a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-0YqwrGB1kVc/Us4zkre34iI/AAAAAAAABEs/dywrV_m2184/s640/blogger-image-1449751013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-0YqwrGB1kVc/Us4zkre34iI/AAAAAAAABEs/dywrV_m2184/s200/blogger-image-1449751013.jpg" width="200" /></a>I try and remember what tasks I have to do today, and I find that I can't remember what they are. I take a minute and try and remember what day of the week it is. I have to resort to peeking at my iPad or iPhone to check the calendar. Since chemo, I still find that I have trouble remembering which day of the week it is. (Sorry, Dr. Tepler, you can't tell me there's no such thing as chemo brain.)<br />
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I look in the mirror. My eyebrows have grown back, and they are starting to get unruly. But I'm scared to tweeze them. And, now that they are back, I find I can't pencil them in as well as I used to when there were no hairs there. Ironically, my eyebrows look far less realistic now when I try and do them than they did when I had no eyebrows.</div>
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I see a double chin where there wasn't one before. I see a puffy version of myself. When I started chemo, I was told to eat when I could, as likely, I would lose my appetite. Ironically, of all the cancer patients I knew, my appetite never died. In fact, I ended up gaining weight. Whether it was from the steroids I was put on heading into chemo, the fact that I was pretty much "benched" from physical activity after I tore mastectomy souchers and gave myself an infection, and never recovered from the atrophy that induced, or that my energy post-chemo has never recovered, I am in a terrible physical condition.</div>
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For the first time in my life, I'm not physically fit. I was never a twig, but I was always fit. Not since chemo.</div>
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And, at this point, it isn't even a full hour since I've awoken, and I've recounted how many reminders that I had cancer?</div>
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How can that be called "Cancer Free?"</div>
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This year, I will be "Cancer Free" in March. Oh really?</div>
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So, here's what I've realized:</div>
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I don't care if you survived the surgeries and treatments a day, a week, a month, a year, or a decade ago - we are never "Cancer Free" again. We may be "Decancerated," but we'll <i>NEVER</i> be "Cancer Free" again.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-73939339211643182822013-12-29T11:27:00.001-05:002013-12-29T11:27:29.744-05:00A Big C-ancercationI'm now discovering that it has been too long since I blogged. Or put together a LIVE<b>STRONG</b> event, for that matter. I'm a bad blogger. I'm a bad LIVE<b>STRONG</b> Leader.<div><br></div><div>I've had myself convinced for the past few months that it was due to family matters that had to be addressed, which is true. I've told myself it was because I'm not in chemo, so there is nothing else to share. I've used the excuse of a new job, busy life, new hobbies, etc.</div><div><br></div><div>But, early this morning, as I wrapped up a binge on the Showtime series "The Big C," which came out almost a year earlier to the day that I had my double mastectomy, I had an epiphany. Well, I had a few epiphanies.</div><div><br></div><div>Epiphany #1: I needed a C-Cation.</div><div><br></div><div>Subconsciously, I think I "took the year off" of cancer, particularly after Mary was rediagnosed with Stage 4 and then when she passed away. By no means do I blame her, but I think I had to take a break from all things cancer-related, aside from my mandatory surgeries and appointments. But why?</div><div><br></div><div>Epiphany #2: Fear</div><div><br></div><div>Yes, I'm a "survivor." Yes, I acknowledged guilt over surviving when friends like Mary, Ryan and others ran out of time and died. But I either never wanted to or never realized just how (pardon my French) just how fucking scared I am of cancer. I'd numbed myself to the anxiety of going back to Dr. Tepler's office time and time again. It creeps out every time I second guess Dr. Tepler's report that my counts and blood work are fine. Every time Dr. Tepler tells me that my requests for an MRI and scansare unnecessary because all signs are positive that I'm cancer free.</div><div><br></div><div>Epiphany #3: Hypocrisy</div><div><br></div><div>Throughout this blog, and my cancer journey, I have stated and restated that you have to trust your gut. But have <i>I </i>trusted my gut? Lately?</div><div><br></div><div>Here's the reality. I don't know that I <i>can</i> trust my gut right now. I can't decipher between Fear and My Gut anymore. Why do I say this? My Gut keeps telling me to tell Dr. Tepler to wake up and give me a godammned body scan because I "know" the cancer is back. But at the same time, isn't that a natural Fear for cancer survivors? That terror-inducing nickname, "Mets." Not the second-best New York baseball team (Yankees rule), but metastases. See, if you get Mets, you're automatically Stage 4. Plus, my chances of survival plummet from the 80% or better to numbers that aren't even worth putting out there.</div><div><br></div><div>I've been in complete denial of this. Of the fear. Of my gut.</div><div><br></div><div>All of this has resulted in my LIVE<b>STRONG</b> apathy this year. Guilt of hypocrisy and not living up to the STRONG in LIVE<b>STRONG</b>. I was afraid. I felt weak. I felt like I betrayed the message of LIVE<b>STRONG</b>.</div><div><br></div><div>But worse, I have been terrified of the cancer returning.</div><div><br></div><div>Blogging, for me, was a means of expressing what I was feeling and sharing how I was feeling. But I had made myself numb to how I was feeling. I had to be. Right now, I don't want to leave my bed. I'm paranoid about my cats' affections - is Samson just maturing from kitten to cat and less restless, more affectionate, and that's why he is sleeping with, next to and sometimes on me? Or is his instinct kicking in like "Death-enny" in "The Big C?" Why has Schmooie, who has been like Sean - living outdoors for weeks, even months at a time, despite having a home, decided to stay, not only <i>indoors</i>, but within inches of my head - either behind my pillow or dwelling on my nightstand at eye level, with little interest of going outside, where she loves? She's 15 years old - and now she decides to be an indoor cat? Or is it the same instinct Thomas had?</div><div><br></div><div>How could I write my blog when I couldn't even acknowledge what I was feeling? If I wrote it, it was real. If it was real, I'd have to deal.</div><div><br></div><div>So, I blame "The Big C." How dare you expose us like that? To the world? To ourselves? Did you have cameras set up in my home? My head? Is Adam modeled on Zach, who may not have acted out sexually as Adam did, but in other ways? How dare you make your character the same age as my son? Why couldn't Cathy have been single? I'm now furious I had to be my own Cancerierge - I had to be my own Paul, with a splash of my Dad and My Rock in the mix.</div><div><br></div><div>And worse, how <i>dare</i> you film in my backyard? Sometimes within yards of me while I was going through chemo? Filmed on backroads that I know like the back of my hand? And did you base some of Dr. Sherman on Dr. Tepler? Seriously?</div><div><br></div><div>Sometimes, we project a lot of ourselves on shows and things we are watching on TV and on screen. But this... how could I not? Particularly when so much of the footage was filmed where I would go for treatment, for recreation, etc? When Cathy experienced chemobrain at the Stamford Mall, I felt sick to my stomach. The minute that the elevator went up in the background - the elevator I had been riding since I was 8 and the Mall first opened - my stomach fell. When they shot the vertigo shot on Cathy's way up to the 7th floor, I got lightheaded. As she was speeding down Long Ridge Road near the old GE headquarters, my first instinct was to blurt out, "If you're going to hospice, you're facing the wrong direction - the fastest route is in the opposite direction - you missed your turn."</div><div><br></div><div>But this show, even though Cathy had a very different cancer, a very different treatment, this was too close to home - literally and figuratively. I'm very confused, outraged, appreciative and terrified now.</div><div><br></div><div>Clearly, I'm going to be calling Dr. Tepler tomorrow and fighting to have a full body scan, if possible. I'm going to call a dermatologist. I'm questioning every mark on my body, every ailment, every ache, every pain, every dream, every thought... is any of it an indication that the cancer is back?</div><div><br></div><div>I know so many people who I know have remarked that I'm so strong, that I've inspired them, etc, but when I said months ago that I'm just me, I wasn't kidding. I'm terrified. How can I inspire others to be strong when I feel so weak right now? And I'm not even in active treatment?</div><div><br></div><div>So, thank you, Laura Linney, Oliver Platt, Gabriel Basso, Phyllis Somerville and Darlene Hunt, for fucking me up. Thank you for holding up a mirror that I feared as much as death. Thank you for last night's night sweats, fear and anxiety induced dreams, and forcing me to second guess every, "You're cancer free," report I've gotten from Dr. Tepler.</div><div><br></div><div>And thank you for making me blog again.</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ORuIPBOm23Y/UsBNb-vbRJI/AAAAAAAABDg/h7qN1dM5b6s/s640/blogger-image-2092116796.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ORuIPBOm23Y/UsBNb-vbRJI/AAAAAAAABDg/h7qN1dM5b6s/s640/blogger-image-2092116796.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-50954887686450321002013-06-19T00:18:00.000-04:002013-06-19T00:18:07.628-04:00Life's full of surprises... as is your abdomen.So, yesterday was the oophorectomy and the reconstruction continued (part 5?). I think at least 4 prep nurses came in, which was fine, since Dad and I are old hands at the pre-op prep. My name is Rica Mendes, I was born on June 20, and I'm here for thus-and-such procedure. I so wanted to tell one of the nurses, "My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die," but the last nurse to come in didn't seem like the "Princess Bride" type.<br />
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As always, Dr. Nordberg came in, on time, looking dapper in his suit and tie, pleasant demeanor, purple marker in hand. I felt like a road atlas after he was done with me - circles and squiggles all across my chest, under my arms, and a bit below. Dr. Ratner never came in - she had a procedure earlier in the morning that was running late. The anesthesiologist came in and explained he'd give me a TAP block, and additional local anesthesia to my abdomen to ensure the least amount of pain.<br />
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I never get over the walk into the OR. Not the actual walk through the hallway, but the entrance into the OR. The room is never as dark and calming as on "Grey's Anatomy." It's bright, you can see the sound-proof ceiling tiles, the floors are white with minimal splatters of iodine staining. Various nurses are attending to tons of trays, and the operating table is there, with arms out, a Hannibal Lecter looking mask sitting where your head goes, and the blue cloths all around. I get that flash of, "Why do I feel like I'm being mounted on a horizontal cross?" when the nurses help me up onto the table and put my arms out to my sides and tell me not to move. There is nothing to do but to stare at the ceiling and the four operating room lights with those weird handles in the middle of the bulbs. This anesthesiologist didn't play music like the others, so I can hear the clanging of tools and the tell-tale, "Ok, we're going to give you a little something in the IV and then some gas and you'll fall.... " And that's about it. I lose all sense of time. I lose all sensation. And I wake up in that awful fog.<br />
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I hate coming out of anesthesia. As a result, I'm usually fast to come out - once I start waking up, I'm <i>up</i>.<br />
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But not yesterday. I was in that loathsome fog for way too long. I was too sleepy for too long. I had no compunction to move. I couldn't stay awake. I was too unaware of where I was, and what was going on around me. I hated it. I forced myself to try and snap out of it. I saw my friend's little sister, Kara, a recovery room nurse, and called her over. I made her talk to me. But that wasn't enough. I felt bloated - like the blueberry girl in Willy Wonka. I was sore. Something wasn't right. I was parched. The saliva glands in my mouth were in pain. My lips were sticking too much to my teeth. My throat felt way too dry and scratchy. My dad and son kept coming in and out and I couldn't keep my eyes open long enough. I felt clammy. I felt sweaty.<br />
<br />
I felt like shit.<br />
<br />
Something wasn't right.<br />
<br />
I asked to go to the bathroom, and I was walked to the bathroom. I could barely feel my feet. I didn't know if I was upright. I was overly disoriented,. This wasn't right. I got to the bathroom, and all I felt was cool. I started to feel a bit like myself. I didn't even have to go - I just needed to <i>move</i>. Walking back to recovery felt better.<br />
<br />
It was too hot in the recovery room. It was too cozy. It was like a womb. I had to get out. Finally, we left, but I still couldn't wake up fully. I dozed off in the CVS parking lot as my dad and son got my meds. The warm, summer breeze felt good and lulled me back to sleep repeatedly.<br />
<br />
Ironically, once home, I couldn't sleep. Percocet, Ambien and more, and I couldn't sleep. It was awful.<br />
<br />
And today, forget about it. I felt inflated - still. My stomach hadn't been this rounded since I was pregnant. Something was just <i>off</i>. I spent time in the hammock. I couldn't go to the bathroom. I couldn't move without pain - pain focused on the right.<br />
<br />
Finally, it got to be too much. I broke down and cried. I called the doctor's office, furious, that I still wasn't "right," that I was still bloated, that I still couldn't go to the bathroom after 2 days, and that she didn't bother to see me before or after the surgery. I was neglected and something was <i>wrong.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
After too long, earlier this evening, the surgeon called me. She explained that they inflated me with gas to be able to see my abdomen clearly, and that the gas would pass. She also explained that she <i>had</i> come to see me in recovery - she even drew me a picture. I have zero recollection. That sent me into a panic.<br />
<br />
But then, the fun part - they removed a 3-4cm cyst along with my right ovary. That's not small. That's big. They were going to biopsy my ovaries anyway, but holy crap! I cyst! I panicked again.<br />
<br />
Dr. Ratner explained they decided to check out my liver and other organs. All was clear. But that cyst on the right side was not easy to remove (hence, the extra pain). But the good news - it was benign. Everything was benign.<br />
<br />
So I am further in the clear. But far less than whole.<br />
<br />
Good? Bad?<br />
<br />
Right now, I'm on Percocet, so I'm in no position to make any sound judgements.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-25873563590507181572013-06-14T14:11:00.001-04:002013-06-14T14:15:19.738-04:00Stop riding my coat tails, Ms. Jolie!Just like she copied my voluptuous, succulent lips, she had to go ahead and lop off her perfect breasts, just like I had to a couple of years ago. Granted, she decided not to wait until she heard the words, "You've got cancer," to do it, but still. I guess imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so I'm flattered.<br />
<br />
But, now, she's going all "Single White Female" on me with getting an oopharectomy.<br />
<br />
Oh, no, Angelina-chica, this is where I draw the line.<br />
<br />
I was due to get spayed months ago, it's just that my insurance got all ferkakta. And now, you come along, and you think you're getting your ovaries removed before me? No way. Get in line sista!<br />
<br />
So, just to make sure you don't keep trying to lay claim to territory I've already staked, I'm having my ovaries removed on Monday.<br />
<br />
Oh. And I'm having my boobs tweaked, too.<br />
<br />
Beat that, Miss-Right-Leg-Show-Off!<br />
<br />
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Stupid BRCA genetic defect... #FUCANCERAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-57054056359531324412013-04-29T19:26:00.001-04:002013-04-30T07:25:15.957-04:00It's been too long.Oh, my readers and those that accidentally chance upon my blog, it has been too long. It has been too long since I've blogged. It's been too long that I've reflected on LIVE<b>STRONG</b>. It's been too long since I've explored what this disease has brought onto my life. It's been to long since I've shared. On some levels, I feel like a champagne bottle shaken and ready to burst. On others, I feel like a sleeping lion about to be shaken awake. So, forgive the ups and downs of this blog entry, but it's time I spill.<br />
<br />
So, do you want the good news, the bad news or the status quo? Let's start with the good.<br />
<br />
<b>The Good News</b><br />
<br />
I've landed a job. A <i>great</i> job. Yes, it's a contractor position, but this is different. There are benefits - even a 401k. The commute is brilliant (though me thinks not one I can bike to and from, but we'll see as I get stronger this year). It's for a company that I don't think is going anywhere - anyone ever hear of this little known beverage, "Pepsi?" Yeah. Pepsi. <i>I know</i>! I couldn't be happier! My boss is awesome. Our bosses are awesome. The stuff I do is awesome. Am I saying this because I'm new and someone from Pepsi may be reading this blog? You want me, expect me, to say, "Yes, duh." But the answer is, "<i>NO!</i>" I really mean it. (Ok, two flaws. First, I may end up a diabetic, as my friends, particularly my college friends, should remember I'm a cola addict. Second, I <i>am</i> only a contractor, which is kind of like being a Permanent Resident, but not a Citizen. It's fabulous, don't get me wrong, but I'd really like to be a permanent employee. But, maybe, someday, that will happen.)<br />
<br />
My hammock is hung up. My summer last year was made most relaxing with the addition of a hammock. While last year's rope hammock rotted over the winter, it's been replaced by another. Next to the hammock I've also added a drink holder, as the cocktails need someplace to reside and not get knocked over.<br />
<br />
Son got a job at the local nursery. Very happy for him.<br />
<br />
My forget-me-nots are running wild. Literally. Which makes me <i>so</i> happy, as I've tried to grow them for years, and this year, they have taken off - so much so, they are growing like weeds in my yard, so I have to transplant them all over my rose and flower beds.<br />
<br />
I have hair. I can officially pull it back into a ponytail. It's a teeny ponytail, I call it more of a bunnytail, but it's <i>there</i>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U6a-cZaH6P4/UX73H9mw9TI/AAAAAAAABCI/dkghm0M2tcE/s1600/32338_10152250310751091_1509934039_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U6a-cZaH6P4/UX73H9mw9TI/AAAAAAAABCI/dkghm0M2tcE/s320/32338_10152250310751091_1509934039_n.jpg" width="194" /></a></div><br />
Lots of hair. It officially hit my shoulder the other day. That is wicked cool. And it's <i>curly</i>. Not wavy, not with a bit of curl, I mean corkscrew from root to tip. I have a ridiculous Hebro. See below (and this is <i>straightened out!)</i>.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mHJN652-eTI/UX7yO0BKdNI/AAAAAAAABB4/X2hSyU4NzrQ/s1600/922568_10152247750051091_577744811_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mHJN652-eTI/UX7yO0BKdNI/AAAAAAAABB4/X2hSyU4NzrQ/s320/922568_10152247750051091_577744811_o.jpg" width="240" /></a> </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://img.spokeo.com/public/900-600/william_katt_1981_03_24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://img.spokeo.com/public/900-600/william_katt_1981_03_24.jpg" width="218" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's me in the middle. Well, from the hair roots up.</td></tr></tbody></table>We're looking towards more reconstruction. Why is this in the "Good News" section? Because part of the procedure includes liposuction. Yep! Those spare boobs I've been growing that could be mistaken as being a large butt or a beer belly are going to be put to use! Dr. Nordberg is going to suck fat out and graft it into the areas formerly occupied by breast tissue and around the implants to give a softer look, fill in some gaps, etc. I told him that if he's going to be supplementing the reconstruction with fat, I wouldn't mind being a FFF cup size. I think he thinks I'm kidding. So, we'll see where I end up in a few weeks. Hopefully, I'll end up with an itty bitty butt and waist and REALLY big boobs. If so, you'll know how that happened.<br />
<b><br />
</b><b>The Bad News</b><br />
<br />
I'm having an oopharectomy in the near future. Essentially, I'm getting spayed, which is going to turn me into a reclusive, territorial kitty with a penchant for sitting on open magazines and open window sills. At least, that's been my experience when I've witnessed other critters getting their ovaries removed. I'm not yet 40, and I'm being put into permanent menopause. For the good news to this procedure, see the last Good News.<br />
<br />
Just to make things even more exciting, while my status is still officially NED, during the exam, which included a sonogram which prompted the technician to tell me I have a BEAUTIFUL uterus - hey, I'll take any compliment that comes my way, they saw a "something of no concern" on my right ovary. Why is it of no concern? Because the ovary is coming out anyway and it can be biopsied then. Here's the problem: When I had the mammogram, those innocent looking salt-crystal sized spots were "somethings of no concern" until I got the letter to come back for a follow up. Those spots that I was told would be nothing ended up not only being something, but a <i>really bad </i>something. So, I'm chalking off the "something of no concern" as "something to be terribly concerned about which I can't do a damned thing at the moment." I'm preparing for the worst just because preparing for the best got me a double mastectomy.<br />
<br />
The IRS seems to have forgotten that they were not only in receipt of my 2009 taxes, but, if I recall, I even got a refund for 2009. So, now, I have to find my 2009 1040s and resend them. So, here's to hoping they don't decide they didn't get 2010, 2011 and, well, they acknowledge receipt of 2012, so I guess we're good. Actually, it's more amusing than <i>bad</i>, but it's a pain in the butt.<br />
<br />
My children are adolescents. My son is 14. I think that's the most catastrophic news. I have a 14-year old boy. Save me. Somebody. And he attends a school with an administration run by morons and a school board reminiscent of an insane asylum - a most untrustworthy, corrupt, power-hungry group of stubborn asses. (Can I say that outloud? Yes, I can. It's my blog and I'll say what I want.) I've had to deal with them in the past, but now they have gone above and beyond all reason. I can't get into specifics, as much as I would love to, as there are open issues in the process of resolution, and by resolution, I mean they are giving themselves a platform upon which to pontificate the most ridiculous parallels and dictating the most absurd rules and regulations. I don't say that loudly. Some of you know all the details, some of you know this isn't the first time that I've come up against this administration of pathetic power mongers who clearly have to compensate for something by asserting authority in all the wrong places and ignoring the actual, hard issues.<br />
<br />
My daughter is a willful pre-teen. She has my stubbornness, is too smart for her own good, and seems determined to drive me insane. And wear makeup to school behind my back.<br />
<br />
Draco, the bearded dragon, died on Saturday. Funeral services will be Friday.<br />
<br />
Had a most unpleasant experience happen with someone whom I've long admired for being a consummate professional. I've done business with them years and now, I wonder how I can.<br />
<br />
I had to lock the chocolate chips in the safe to keep the kids from getting at the chocolate chips. I set the combination to the safe and made sure not to write it down anywhere in case someone found it. Now, I can't remember the combination and cannot figure out how to override the combination. So, now, I can't get at my chocolate.<br />
<br />
My house is a money pit. Just as deal with a septic tank crisis, I have a water filter crisis. Now, I have a water pressure crisis.<br />
<br />
Oh - shoot - I forgot - 4 foot long, 4-8" in diameter limb from our oak tree fell about 2-3 stories onto my head and neck yesterday. I was gardening with my daughter in the morning before taking care of stuff inside. She was next to me, and we were bent over planting bulbs. All of a sudden, there is a sharp pain on my neck, it feels like I've been hit by a baseball bat and I'm seeing black. Once I realize the object I assume my daughter must have smacked me with is still in front of me and my daughter is telling me that I'm bleeding. I stand up and look around. She points down at the limb, now in 3 pieces, and she tells me it fell from the tree. A concussion, a bandage and a bump the size of a grapefruit later, I'm hoping I'm clearheaded and recovered enough to be able to get behind the wheel. The problem? I have a 14-year old boy and a pre-teen daughter who have been driving me <i>nuts</i> today. Somehow, stress doesn't seem to be helping the concussion, as I've had headaches all day - and they are <i>not</i> from the skyfall.<br />
<br />
<br />
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</b><b>The Status Quo</b><br />
<br />
Some projects have been on hold because of the insanity of my life. My LIVE<b>STRONG</b> efforts are kicking in, though late this year. I'm in the process of opening May 19th's ROCK the RIDE & RUN registration. Painting class is going well, though we've missed the past couple of classes. I'm still trying to get to a point where I can ride again. Not there yet. I have my dress form, but I have yet to sew again.<br />
<br />
<b>Other</b><br />
<b><br />
</b>I'm still feeling somewhat lost. The new job is fantastic, do <i>not </i>get me wrong. But, other than that, and my garden, I feel like I'm not getting anywhere, and I'm not sure why. Some of it is just that as much as I seem to I <i>want</i> to get things moving, I'm just <i>not</i>. This isn't like me. I mean, I can procrastinate, don't get me wrong, with the best of them. But something else is going on and I don't know what, which is just frustrating the bejeezus out of me. There is a lot going on with my kids, but I've just felt somewhat lost and foggy. I don't quite get it. I've been told this is kind of normal for survivors, but I just don't get it.<br />
<br />
Anyway, there it is.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-56349200765211464592013-02-28T10:33:00.001-05:002013-02-28T12:01:01.724-05:00My Chemo BuddyIf you've followed this blog during my treatment, you may recall references to someone to whom I referred as my "Chemo Buddy." I shared with you that she was a couple of years younger, we'd known each other for some time, but we were diagnosed around the same time with breast cancer. We started the same chemotherapy regiment on the same day. We lost our hair the same day and shaved our heads the same day. We finished chemo the same day. We celebrated our chemo "graduation" together at Mary's Place by the Sea.<br />
<br />
But we weren't identical in our cancer stories. Her cancer was triple negative - far more resistant than my cancers. I had 2 forms of breast cancer, one highly aggressive. I had the BRCA 2 gene mutation which commanded a double mastectomy. She opted for a lumpectomy and radiation with chemo. My cancer was estrogen responsive, so I had to go on hormonal treatment, she did not. <br />
<br />
I revealed that while I was very vocal about my cancer journey, she, in my opinion far more bravely, remained relatively silent. While I worked from home, she hid her disease and went to work with little time off to the extent most co-workers has no idea of her battle. <br />
<br />
On a personal level, she was never married and had no children. I had been divorced with 2 children. She looked forward to building a family. I looked forward to when my kids went to college so I could romp and play.<br />
<br />
Our joint cancer journey, however, tool a drastic turn this fall. She was ripped from the No Evidence of Disease path when she discovered a lump in the same breast which has been radiated - a feat with shocking odds against recurrence. That was bad enough. She and I talked about her getting a double mastectomy as I had and that was what she was considering. <br />
<br />
But, then, she was drawn further off-path when they found that the cancer had spread. Each exam revealed another site. Liver. Back. More.<br />
<br />
Her doctors no longer spoke of cures, nor treatments. They stopped speaking in terms of years or months.<br />
<br />
She was less connected. We went from phone calls to text messages to Facebook messages to the occasional like to a post. I was lucky if I got a one or two word response. <br />
<br />
Hospice wasn't an option. She went home where her mother and aunt cared for her. Her sister kept in touch from out of state, and the friend that introduced us and I got updates from her sister, but we couldn't visit or see her. Communication died down.<br />
<br />
Then, the phone rang on February 10 as I was wrangling my daughter and her friend who was over for a slumber party. She was gone.<br />
<br />
Mary Caprio died at home on the Jersey Shore. This beautiful, vibrant, young woman was gone. My friend, Nadine, lost her baby sister. Lisa lost her friend who helped her recover from the death of her fiancé, one of my dear friends. And I lost my Chemo Buddy.<br />
<br />
I'm relieved, now, to be able to name her. I hated to speak of Mary with a label because she was so much more to me. She was my friend. She was my sister with whom we could connect and speak frankly about our cancer and chemo and side effects in a way we could not speak to anyone else. <br />
<br />
Her funeral was over a week ago. I'm here in Chicago at the LIVESTRONG Assembly in a room of survivors and supporters in an exercise where we were handed sealed envelopes with a fake diagnosis to role play. My throat choked up because my diagnosis was normal. Mary was recovering better than I was. Even in this fake diagnosis, I was devastated that I am still alive and Mary is gone.<br />
<br />
As much as Mary's death hurt me, perhaps the heartbreak that her time ran out so early and mine is still going, but I'm doing it alone without her scares me. The guilt that I, who has been taking longer to recover while she looked better than ever, was embracing life, who hadn't yet experienced the joys of motherhood and marriage, survives is overwhelming. More than anything, the fear that I'm next is too much to bear.<br />
<br />
But this is about Mary. A beautiful woman. A devout woman. A loving daughter. A devoted friend. My Chemo Buddy. <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-tN7-RtYsa_w/US-ANieRJhI/AAAAAAAABBI/jJNLegeLDkQ/s640/blogger-image-609500494.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-tN7-RtYsa_w/US-ANieRJhI/AAAAAAAABBI/jJNLegeLDkQ/s640/blogger-image-609500494.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZfZ5SsVEBO4/US-BZ-kIIBI/AAAAAAAABBQ/LYJr7QToQcY/s640/blogger-image--1047463704.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZfZ5SsVEBO4/US-BZ-kIIBI/AAAAAAAABBQ/LYJr7QToQcY/s640/blogger-image--1047463704.jpg" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-668301273868078832013-01-29T14:19:00.002-05:002013-01-29T14:19:51.231-05:00Choices? Or a roll of the dice?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was brought to my attention that I seem to be preoccupied
lately. Honey, you don’t know the half of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.geneticsandsociety.org/img/original/rolling-dice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="http://www.geneticsandsociety.org/img/original/rolling-dice.jpg" width="400" /></a>I’m dealing with the typical, and atypical dramas of being a
divorced mom of a pre-teen and a teen. I have an ex-husband who fights doing
the minimum for his children and is causing them constant angst. I’m still
forced to make COBRA payments to a former employer that are higher than many
mortgages monthly as I’m still contracting and not receiving benefits. And, oh
yes, I’m still contracting and not working in a full-time, permanent post. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, in keeping with my previous candor regarding my
situation, I’m faced with an even more perplexing situation: to remove or not
remove my ovaries right now. If I choose to, do I opt for a hysterectomy or
not? Do I voluntarily put myself into an irreversible menopause, or do I gamble
on my chances with ovarian cancer? And do I permanently, without question, kill
any chance of carrying children ever again?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.cougardrinks.co.uk/img/cocktailGirl.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.cougardrinks.co.uk/img/cocktailGirl.png" width="186" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me make one thing clear. I already have 2 children. Two
children that, though I love them with every cell of my being, I had too young
(at least, too young for me). I’d had every intention of not having children
until I was older, after I’d done much more traveling, established my career,
following more dreams, etc. So, the fact that my son is only a couple of years
away from graduating high school and with my daughter nipping at his heels,
means that I’d have my freedom from parental responsibility that much sooner.
The notion of having a baby, and having to delay my second shot at my 20s,
isn’t high on my to-do list.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://topnews.ae/images/Pregnancy-Test_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="http://topnews.ae/images/Pregnancy-Test_0.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps it’s the concept of no more conceptions: That I may
never experience that surge of adrenaline, fear, nerves and excitement when you
see the window on the stick I just peed on change from blank to life-changing,
nor will I ever have the joy of playing “poke the baby” with my own stomach and
have my stomach poke back. Or, more likely, I’ve already had my breasts carved
out, replaced with plastic goo, and the final remaining body parts that define
me as female will be butchered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok, so I may be going a little OTT, but I’m kind of not. I
already removed one breast for the sake of prevention. Now, I’m venturing south
in search of new organs to remove for the sake of prophylaxis.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My oncologist wants me to have my oophorectomy yesterday. My
gynecologist says it isn’t an immediate need, but it should happen soon. I know
I have a short window of time to make the decision before the alleged time runs
out. I can’t figure out why I’m hesitating!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it’s that word, “menopause.”</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.menopausethemusical.com/wp-content/themes/menopausethemusical/images/home.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="376" src="http://www.menopausethemusical.com/wp-content/themes/menopausethemusical/images/home.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.susangaddis.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Crazy-old-lady-on-Holy-in-the-Daily-200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.susangaddis.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Crazy-old-lady-on-Holy-in-the-Daily-200x300.jpg" width="132" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I mean, we women all face it. But I’ve barely got my head
wrapped around the fact that I won’t be going to anymore proms let alone that
menopause is closer to me than my high school graduation <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">naturally</i>. Can you imagine how mind-blowing it is that, something I
thought I had another 20 years to dread is knocking on my door <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i>? Will I grow a beard? I don’t want
hot flashes! Can you imagine me even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">more</i>
unpredictably moody and bitchy? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Holy
crap! I WILL turn into my mother!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But seriously, folks, it’s like when I was rock climbing in
Colorado and I was faced with having to jump off the cliff to go rapelling –
and I opted out, against my protest. I could make sense of the mastectomies. I
could make sense of the chemo. I could make sense of losing my hair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why can’t I get myself to just have the oophorectomy? Why am
I hesitating?!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(And, I gotta say it, why the hell is this procedure given
such a ridiculous sounding name? Is that the problem? I can’t take this
operation seriously because it sounds like something a cartoon character would
blurt out when punched in the gut?)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CQ1qxqwLGVk/UQggQjJZTRI/AAAAAAAABAg/KNAXF0E-oq8/s1600/Ooph.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CQ1qxqwLGVk/UQggQjJZTRI/AAAAAAAABAg/KNAXF0E-oq8/s320/Ooph.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-35757484847440076212013-01-21T18:39:00.001-05:002013-01-21T18:40:31.498-05:00Let them without sin cast the first stone...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Never, in my life, have I been ashamed of being Jewish. Nor
have I ever been ashamed of loving the state of Israel – I proudly call myself
a Zionist. In my lifetime, I have been faced with international issues with
Jews & Israel – from Bernard Madoff to expansion of settlements into the
Shtachim, from scandals involving corruption in Israeli government to terrible
behavior by Jews in community leadership positions. Yet, still, my devotion to
Judaism and Israel is unwaivering.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There have been leaders in my life that have met with
challenges. I proudly voted for Bill Clinton, not once, but twice. So did the
majority of the country. Were we all saddened and ashamed, personally, when the
Monica Lewinsky scandal came to light? You betcha. But when foreign media
attacked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our</i> President, we,
communally, defended the office. We defended our President against critics, sometimes having to acknowledge personal wrong-doing, but reminding them not to throw the office under the bus, regardless of our
personal views.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As a mother, I often take a non-traditional approach to apologies. I'm constantly telling my children that I would much rather they never say, "I'm sorry," if they don't mean it <i>and</i> they will repeat the wrong-doing. I don't want false apologies, I want to see that they are willing to change their ways. I want to see action speak louder than the "I'm sorry."</div>
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<br /></div>
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So, after watching both episodes of the Lance Armstrong interview on Oprah, here's my take:</div>
<ul>
<li>Lance messed up. He made some really lousy choices during his cycling career to feed ambition. However, it <i>should really be noted</i> that Lance was hardly the only one who made that poor choice. In fact, it was the minority that <i>didn't</i> make the bad decision not to take performance enhancing drugs/treatments.</li>
<li>He's got an ego. Tell me something I didn't know. What celebrity, politician or athlete <i>doesn't</i> have an ego? I mean, to be a competitor at that level, you can have some humility, but you have to have enough of an ego to say to yourself, and everyone else, "I am so much better than everyone else that I can win." </li>
<li>Lance has an Achilles Heel: Pride & being stubborn. Rather than admit to being wrong, in his younger (and perhaps more immature later) years, he'd rather deny his transgressions than confess that he did something wrong.</li>
<li>Unlike all the other athletes that have admitted to, voluntarily or otherwise, Lance took his fame and fortune and did something remarkable with it for the good of humanity. He took on cancer survivorship with a vengeance like no other person has to date. He leveraged every opportunity to promote the need to raise awareness for prevention sake, to strip cancer fighters of any stigmas, and to inspire those battling the disease to live strong. This does not mean that the ends justified the means, but there is a good man and a good heart there, who had his ego bungle a lot of great things up for him.</li>
<li> Critics complain that Lance was not genuine in his apologies and it was
all lip service. While I will hardly call him my BFF, I've had the
opportunity to see him speak in person several times now, and I've had
the chance to chat with him one-on-one. I think people were expecting a
far more emotional tone in his voice or facial expression. That wasn't
my take at all. He's a very matter of fact kind of guy. Yeah, he can
laugh, get emotional, etc. But he was absolutely in his, "I'm not
bullshitting about this," mode. He was dead serious. (And, FYI, that "I
didn't call her fat" line, IMHO, wasn't meant a s a dig or anything. My
guess is that he was trying to lighten the mood and it just came out all
wrong. Something, I am guessing, we have all done when we try and
insert some humor into something to break up an awkward moment.) </li>
<li>He's finally allowed himself to be aware that:</li>
<ul>
<li>His doping cost him the rewards, victories and triumphs that he doped for in the first place.</li>
<li>Denial was not the best idea.</li>
<li>It may very well be too little, too late to recover trust and admiration as he'd had before.</li>
<li>He betrayed fans and others by refusing to suffer the consequences earlier on when he might have been able to salvage his career, his position and his reputation much earlier. </li>
<li>He has suffered a <i>terrible</i> loss - his ties with LIVE<b>STRONG</b> - and he very clearly is devastated by that loss. </li>
<li>He needs help. And he's getting it, with this admission a first step.</li>
<li>He wants to be a good father. </li>
</ul>
</ul>
My son refused to watch the interview. He dug his heels in and refused. I was so shocked, as typically, any mention of Lance in any media outlet has him obsessively riveted. Lance is one of Zach's heroes, without question. Without a doubt, the highlight of his life was meeting Lance in 2011 at his house and then riding with him and Team RadioShack during the LIVE<b>STRONG</b> Challenge. He wouldn't tell me why he wouldn't watch it, but angrily said he'll <i>never</i> watch it.<br />
<br />
I finally got him to break down yesterday and tell me why he didn't want to see it. He said that Lance had let him down. He said that Lance was a liar and a no-good-cheat. He said he never wanted to see Lance Armstrong again.<br />
<br />
I have to tell you, I was furious, and I lashed out at him. I can't recount the number of times my son has been caught red-handed breaking rules - some large, some small - at home, at school, etc. My son will go to the <i>grave</i> before he <i>ever</i> confesses, and it is short of waterboarding that will get him to finally admit his wrongdoing. So when he<i> dared</i> criticize Lance for coming clean, trying to start to make amends, on top of all the charity work and kindness he, personally, has shown me, our family, <i>and my son</i>, I lost it. In the past 3 years, Lance has done more positive things and been a far greater role model to my son than his own father. Lance screwed up big time. But he's now openly admitting to what he did and is paying the consequences. He's not lying anymore - he has no reason to cover anything up anymore.<br />
<br />
I turned the tables on my son and I told him that I <i>wished</i> he could behave the way that Lance is now - admit to the wrongdoing, show remorse, get help, try and make amends, and make himself a better person - than to sit there and brew with anger, conceal mistakes and never admit to anything.<br />
<br />
We continued to debate for almost an hour. I asked Zach how he would feel if, after losing everything, and then apologizing, people treated <i>him</i> the way that he was treating Lance. Finally, by the end of the conversation, both of our anger waned. Zach understood what I was trying to explain to him. He sees that what Lance did on Oprah should be seen as a real-life lesson on how <i>not</i> to handle getting caught doing something wrong in the sense that Lance waited too long to be able to make half the reparations he would have been given the opportunity to much earlier on. That admitting guilt as soon as your caught often means a punishment that pales in comparison to that which comes after trust is lost.<br />
<br />
But, even then, Lance is still showing enough remorse that he's trying to apologize and put actions to those words.<br />
<br />
Zach is going to watch the interview. And he, like many others, may become angry and sad and disappointed throughout.<br />
<br />
But I'd like to think that my son, and many others, including you adults who read this blog, can be enlightened and mature enough to see that he may have done some pretty disappointing things in his past, but this is a man who did a hell of a lot of good, and that he's <i>trying</i>. Perhaps instead of trying to beat the man while he's doing, we should all let ourselves, and Lance, lick the wounds a bit, and when the time is right, be ready to support him when he needs us, just as he supported millions of cancer fighters when we needed him.<br />
<br />
Am I disappointed? Sure. His dope-free story was amazing. But even with the doping, his story is still incredible.<br />
<br />
And in some senses, I have even greater admiration for Lance than I did before the interview. In his own unique Lance-Armstrong-way, he is showing great humility, he's showing remorse, and he's <i>trying</i>, even when he knows it may be too late to recover, he's still <i>trying</i>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-61900417307581911602013-01-15T15:30:00.002-05:002013-01-15T16:18:12.871-05:00Lance, Oprah & Heroes<a href="http://frankgrauillustrator.files.wordpress.com/2012/08/50_shades_of_grey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://frankgrauillustrator.files.wordpress.com/2012/08/50_shades_of_grey.jpg" width="200" /></a>I know one reader of this blog, who keeps insisting on posting as Anonymous, feels that I am a <strike>blond</strike> blind follower of Lance, feeling that he can do no wrong, and I will do nothing but defend him even when he's wrong. A lot of people choose to see everything in black and white and not in the realistic shades of grey the world we live in is portrayed.<br />
<br />
For some of us, those lines are clearly delineated based on subject matter. I confess that there are certain topics where my feelings are purely black and white - which isn't always the most realistic way of looking at something. I am a very stubborn human being - when I dig my heels into something, I don't budge. But I do so with a tremendous amount of consideration - even stances that may come off as "knee jerk" are, in fact, not. You are not always privy to the man behind my curtain, though this blog should reveal he exists as I explore the behind-the-scenes workings of my thoughts and actions frequently.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.iris.org.il/blog/uploads/EntebbeYoniNetanyahu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.iris.org.il/blog/uploads/EntebbeYoniNetanyahu.jpg" /></a></div>
So, for the record, I do not, have not, nor ever will defend Lance Armstrong blindly. I may do so vigorously, passionately, etc when the task is at hand, but never, <i>ever</i> blindly. I do not see heroes as infallible. And I do not know if I've ever seen Lance as a "hero" in the first place. A "hero" in my mind has a very specific connotation - a "hero" must be of the same cloth of the Greek gods, extraordinary in many, many means. To me, Yoni Netanyahu was a <i>hero</i>. Do<span class="st">ña Gracia Mendes was a <i>heroine</i>. My grandparents on my mother's side were <i>heroes</i>. This doesn't mean that Lance <i>can't</i> be someone's hero, for their own reasons. But he was never mine. This also doesn't mean that Lance - the man and what he stands for to me - doesn't matter to me, either. He does tremendously.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tEX-_VIlG48/T5b5bKK8U_I/AAAAAAAAAts/agayD3wOOAg/s1600/LanceSmile100K.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tEX-_VIlG48/T5b5bKK8U_I/AAAAAAAAAts/agayD3wOOAg/s320/LanceSmile100K.JPG" width="272" /></a></div>
<span class="st">(This is when one of my kids would interject by telling you all that I think he's cute and that's why he matters to me. While, admittedly, he's a good looking guy, in fact, that's not the reason why.)</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">There are many pundits, on both sides of the Lance Armstrong aisle, that have their theories as to why he's going on Oprah now. Some say it's a sly legal move because the statute of limitations is up and he can't be brought to task for perjury. Some say he's been licking his wounds since his failed Don Quixote-like fight against the USADA and had to regroup. Some say his ego is hurt that he's not in the headlines and is now making, yet another, tactical PR error. Well, I hate to break it to you, but unless you are Lance Armstrong himself, and even if you ARE Lance Armstrong, you may not know what is driving him to do this interview right now. Speculate all you want, but let's not forget, it's <i>all</i> speculation. And quite a good part of it is speculation by those who feel burned, or are taking this situation way too personally when they really don't have a right to do so.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">The cycling world always seemed to be divided into Lance Lovers and Lance Haters. And the Haters are having a field day while the Lovers are questioning themselves, re-evaluating, and being put on the constant defensive where they, like many allege Lance has done in many cases, have had to stand their grounds just to save face because, after years of taking one stance, it's unbearable to admit they were wrong.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">I'm just as interested out of sheer curiosity about the Oprah interview tomorrow evening. Would I love the answers? Yes. Because I become rather obsessive over unanswered questions. Do I need to watch the interview to determine whether or not my feelings about Lance will change? Absolutely not. In fact, I can assure you that they won't change. and here's why:</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">Because I could give a rat's ass whether or not he doped. I don't care who he bullied to keep quiet. And I don't care that the haters may have their day in the light. With very, <i>very</i> little exception, I gain no joy by anyone's downfall. But there are two things that I <i>do </i>care about when it comes to people who have made poor choices in the past: 1) Do they understand the severity of what they've done? Are they willing to bear the consequences (assuming the punishment fits the crime)? 2) What have they done to make amends? (Note: Not, "Have they publicly admitted to doing anything?")</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">Ideally, of course, those amends would be directly related to the transgression. An eye for an eye, yes? However, that's not the real world. And that's simple to presume when you speak of the simplest, least complicated situations. Lance is hardly in a simple position, <i>no matter whether or not he is truly innocent <u>or</u></i> <i>guilty!</i> Public opinion has deemed that he's guilty. If he protests his guilt, he's talking to a wall. The judge and jury made their decisions and there isn't a damn thing the man could say to undo what has been done. If he admits guilt, truthful or not, then he's just a liar as "we all suspected." He's damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. So now, he has to deal with the least of all evils presented before him, as well as the damage this whole situation may have caused a movement he cares deeply about - cancer survivorship.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">Only the most troll-like haters can say that he doesn't believe in the cause of </span><span class="st"><span class="st">LIVE<b>STRONG</b> </span>with every thread of his being. You can fake sincerity to a degree, but the lengths that I have <i>witnessed</i> this man go to connect with people, share their plight and improve the lives of cancer survivors around the globe is only matched with the likes of Doug Ulman, Chris Brewer and other professionals in the cancer non-profit world - <i>maybe</i>.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">Is it possible that part of his drive to do good wasn't just out of survivor's guilt, the responsibility of the cured, but in fact a means of trying to wash his hands of the guilt of suppressing bad choices made in his cycling career? Well, unless you are Lance himself, or his psychotherapist, you will not know. Even if he says it on Oprah, you won't <i>know</i>. You may hear what you want to hear tomorrow, you may not.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">Some have compared Lance to Madoff, saying that Madoff was considered a "hero." Hardly. The man has showed <i>no</i> remorse. He <i>gleefully</i> bankrupted hundreds, destroyed businesses, and caused family members to choose suicide over facing what took place. There is no comparison in that regard. </span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CPiZOEWn2vA/TrbLnIIbkQI/AAAAAAAAAVk/Y1ZUJJjWeLE/s1600/319115_10150347589766091_558676090_8754162_617625930_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CPiZOEWn2vA/TrbLnIIbkQI/AAAAAAAAAVk/Y1ZUJJjWeLE/s400/319115_10150347589766091_558676090_8754162_617625930_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span class="st">To me, however, actions speak <i>volumes</i> louder than words. I challenge <i>each and every Lance Armstrong critic</i> to spend <i>one day</i> performing the tasks that Lance has done on behalf of LIVE<b>STRONG</b> before opening their fat yaps about what a scumbag Lance is. For starters, try to do this: Remember <i>every single cancer fighter</i> with whom you've <i>ever</i> interacted, and, when you randomly run into them, make them not only feel like the most important person in the room, but remind them about details from your original meeting - details that are so unique that the cancer fighter doesn't even remember that accurately. In 5 minutes, say something so heartfelt and motivating that you encourage that fighter to strive even harder than they were before. Give that person, and their family, hope. Genuine hope - not in a cure, a drug, a medicine - but in <i>themselves</i>. And make them feel like a rock star because of the encounter - a feeling that should last their lifetime. Then, spend another 5 minutes looking into the eyes of someone terminal. Someone whose time to fight is dwindling down to hours and tell them that their choice to die the way that they chose is alright, too. Make them believe that they made no mistakes because they are handling the disease the way that they wanted do. Give them dignity, <i>not pity</i>. And make sure that the family has someplace to turn from which to derive strength when their loved one perishes.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">Had Lance spent 1 week doing as I described above, in my opinion, he'd have made the amends necessary to balance the injustice. But the man has been doing this for 15 years. Around the world. For cancer fighters of all ages, sexes, races & creeds.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">He did that for me. He did that for my children.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rODwB4teZmE/UH7TZO6HiUI/AAAAAAAAA7g/067SjSHwBHg/s1600/LanceAndFamily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rODwB4teZmE/UH7TZO6HiUI/AAAAAAAAA7g/067SjSHwBHg/s400/LanceAndFamily.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">And, let's face it. We all have skeletons in our closets - some great, some small, and all of which could sink our careers, our public face, etc, should they leak out. Mistakes from college, adolescence, in business dealings, relationships, financials - you name it, we all have <i>one</i>. And, more often than not, it's one that we've publicly denied - either when filling out applications to being asked directly at a party or someplace more formal. We've denied them one way or another, adamantly.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">Think about your most shameful mistake in your life, which you may or may not have denied publicly, and imagine it brought to light, to all your co-workers, loved ones, family & friends, and in your face constantly.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">What would you do? Note: I'm not asking, "What would you like to imagine that you would do?" Nor am I asking, "What is the right thing to do?" I'm asking you, human being to human being, made up of many shades of grey, What would you <i>really</i> do?</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">Be honest with yourself.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">And <i>then</i> cast the first stone at Lance Armstrong.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">Is he a hero? Perhaps.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">But he's a man who has accomplished an extreme amount of good, has influenced many more to hope and strive for a better future one way or another, and, whether for good or for bad, has the ability to remember damn near every person he has ever met.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">Not many of us can say any of those things. So, until we can, maybe we should silently watch what unfolds, withhold judgement, and let the man make amends for whatever he needs to make amends in peace. And maybe, just maybe, we should offer him some slack, forgiveness even, if that's what he needs, to get back on his feet and continue to do good in a way that many of us only dream we could do in our lifetime.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-11614015687781128162013-01-09T13:39:00.001-05:002013-01-09T13:39:47.634-05:00KITTYSTRONG<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]-->Last night, I was lying down on my sofa, with one cat,
Malka, behind my head, another cat, Motek, in my right arm and a third, Sammy,
in my left (that is until he lept out of my arms as captured on my phone by my
daughter as he was in mid-flight).
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quite a picture, yes?</td></tr>
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I looked up at my father, who had come over for dinner, and
said, “Holy shit! I’m the Crazy Cat Lady!” He smirked and glibly said, “You
always were,” as he left for his home.</div>
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I’m really not, though. I’ve been accused of being one by an
ex-boyfriend, but that’s because he didn’t like cats. And being a single woman
with cats doesn’t automatically put you into that category. I don’t have ramps
and all kinds of weird structures to accommodate the cats in every room. I don’t
have kitty houses all over. Yes, I do have 2 kitty litters on each floor of the
house, but that’s because when you have four cats, you need to have two.</div>
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Yes. Four cats. It’s not what you think.</div>
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I have a 15-year old cat named Schmooie (Schmooella
Daniella). (No, I didn’t name her “Schmooie,” she came with that name.) She’s a
breast cancer survivor – no joke. In 2005, she had a quadruple mastectomy. She
was my ex-husband’s cat – we got her when she was 6-months old. Until recently,
she would spend 75% of her time outside – it was agony to keep her indoors.
Lately, she’s been relatively content being an indoor cat, thank goodness. So
she was kind of an absentee cat. So, yes, while I own four cats, I never really
considered her ours – she was very much her own cat.</div>
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Malka was “gifted” to us a couple of years ago. A former
friend, who was a little more than psycho, decided she had to get a kitten to
keep her solitary cat and her young son company. I urged her to reconsider, as
it seemed to come out of left field, but she insisted. She asked me to accompany
her to pick out a kitten as someone who has had cats all her life. I found a
kitten in the litter with an amazing personality, with great potential to be a
loving lap cat and one that got along with the other kittens. She, however,
chose to ignore my recommendations altogether and went for the psycho kitty,
who seemed to show great disdain towards all the other cats, and was female.
Her logic? This kitten was the only one who didn’t have six toes (which I
thought was kind of cool – the entire litter but this one was six-toed). I
warned her one last time that I didn’t think this was the best companion kitten,
but she didn’t listen.</div>
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Sure enough, 48-hours later, she was on my doorstep, handing
the kitten to my daughter saying, “Here! Look! It’s a present for you!” and I
was stuck with her. Malka was now my daughter’s kitten – and my daughter is the
only person whom this cat adores. She despises my son – his mere entrance into
a room can cause her to hiss and growl and even attack his ankles.</div>
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Motek is the newest addition to the family after Hurricane
Sandy. His story, as it was told to us, was that he was abandoned by his former
owners and left in the hurricane. When we learned about his plight, and saw his
sweet personality, we had to adopt him. Since Malka is my daughter’s cat, Motek
became my son’s, though he seems to have claimed my bedroom as his domain.</div>
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And that leaves Samson. My Samson. (Well, technically, He’s
Samson the II. My grandmother had a pair of cats - Samson & Delilah - Samson being a red tabby, Delilah a grey. Samson I became my cat when she passed away. There was something, when Samson II was a kitten, that was so much like Samson I, that I knew I'd mistakenly call him Samson, so I decided, "The hell with it, I'll just name him Samson II after Samson I.") A little more than a year ago, my big, grey, teddy bear of a cat, Raouw, had to be put
down. I was trolling the internet just looking for places in the area from
which we could adopt a cat when we were ready. Then, I saw this photo:</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What a shayna punim?!</td></tr>
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I wasn’t planning on getting a new cat immediately – I wanted
time to mourn Raouwsiebear. However, when I saw this face, I was in love. Super
Bowl Sunday, we went to a pet shop to meet the woman coordinating the
adoptions, and went into the large bathroom with her, the kids and a pet
carrier. The minute she opened the carrier doors, this lovely lion of a kitten
walked out, with the confidence of someone who just won the Presidential
election, and he marched into my lap, purring loudly, and curled up and looked
me in the eyes. Within minutes, we were buying him food, a collar and toys.</div>
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Why is this relevant?</div>
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When people say that I’m a “Crazy Cat Lady,” I know in my
heart that I’m not. If anything, I’m a very sane person because of these little
four-legged (five-toed) furry family members.</div>
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In case you hadn’t seen the reports, the kindness and
healing that these purring bundles of joy provide to people is remarkable, so
much so that after the Newtown shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School, <a href="http://newtown.patch.com/blog_posts/helping-heal-the-hearts-of-newtowns-families#photo-12790243" target="_blank">an organization brought kittens to provide therapy to the children and anyoneneeding support</a>. <a href="http://animals.howstuffworks.com/pets/question394.htm" target="_blank">Cats are the only animal on the planet that have a functionthat is strictly meant to express happiness – purring</a>. And <a href="http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/98432.php" target="_blank">studies show</a> that
those with cats tend to have lower levels of stress and fewer heart attacks than
those without cats. The act of simply stroking a cats fur has a healing ability.</div>
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There is no question, whatsoever, that my ability to
recovery from the blow of hearing that I had cancer would not have been handled
as well had it not been for the affection of my cats. When I came home from the
hospital after my mastectomy, as I’ve described previously, my cat Raouw didn’t
leave my side for days – all he did was curl up with me, purr, kiss me, and
sleep. Even Malka slept with me. Schmooie would curl up on my pillow behind my
head. Collectively, they all cared for me in their own very unique ways.</div>
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During chemotherapy, when I felt at my worst, I could tell
that Malka sensed something was wrong with me, but she was confused. Raouwsie,
however, wouldn’t cease contact with me, going so far as to keep me lying down
when I was tempted to get up so I could rest.</div>
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Once Raouw was gone, Sammy, in his own clumsy, bad ass way,
cared for me. Though he doesn’t have half the patience Raouw had to sleep in my
lap, or sit still for long cuddle sessions, he’d pay attention to me, clown
around, and keep me entertained. And Sammy still showered me with loud purrs
and sloppy kisses when I had various reconstructive surgeries and, when I wasn’t
looking, would curl up and sleep next to me so I would wake up with a face full
of ginger fur and the soothing vibration of his purr.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-71154992144061381952013-01-02T09:43:00.001-05:002013-01-02T09:43:10.928-05:00One way or another...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.aceshowbiz.com/images/wennpic/blondie-performing-live-at-the-paradiso-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="528" src="http://www.aceshowbiz.com/images/wennpic/blondie-performing-live-at-the-paradiso-10.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
I love Blondie. She was blonde, gorgeous, feminine but lethally fierce. She was untouchable. Would that we were all that indestructible.<br />
<br />
But we aren't. This medical parasite keeps eating its way into our lives and silently strikes harder and faster the more chances it gets. Cancer is voracious. Unless you put a stop to it right away, it seems to not relent until it has consumed you.<br />
<br />
My chemo buddy, whom I've mentioned had a recurrence and metastases, took a terribly sudden turn during the Christmas holiday. I heard from her sister that the cancer has seemingly spread. Discussions of hospice are arising.<br />
<br />
There is nothing more than I'd like to do than to visit her, but we, her friends, are being asked to remain supportive from afar.<br />
<br />
How can we? What can we do from a distance while she is in a hospital bed? I want to hold her hand, make her smile, tell her jokes, reminisce with our friend and give her comfort. From afar, what I can I do? Send her a card? Flowers? We're even advised not to call! <br />
<br />
I've begged her family to reach out, to build a support network - for her and for themselves - but they refuse. If I could drag Doug Ulman personally to her bedside and Chris Brewer to her family's home, I would. But they don't want the support.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g4yojJjPGi4/SGJQSChH_EI/AAAAAAAAAJM/wPCNKREc8KY/s400/goodvibesBlogPic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g4yojJjPGi4/SGJQSChH_EI/AAAAAAAAAJM/wPCNKREc8KY/s320/goodvibesBlogPic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I find this terribly perplexing. Why would they want to fight this battle without anyone there? Without any support or guidance? Is it denial? I don't get that sense. Is it fear? Fear of accepting my friend's illness? I could understand that with her first bout, but this is a different animal.<br />
<br />
I know that I'm the LIVE<b>STRONG</b> Leader, but that doesn't mean that I have all the answers. Aside from praying, "sending good vibes," and continuously asking if it's ok to visit yet, what more can I do?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-47679481455752605782012-12-21T15:22:00.000-05:002012-12-21T15:41:11.652-05:00Struggling to find my "What's Next?"As many of you know, several months ago, I parted ways with my previous employer in Stamford. Things were just spiraling on a number of levels, and a change was necessary. I'd begun freelancing with the hopes of finding the "right fit" for a permanent position, and that journey is still continuing as I'm still working on contract. Needless to say, that takes a lot of time. And, as many of you also know, my previous employer's "situation" allowed me quite a bit of freedom during treatment and the standard work day, so my apologies that my blog hasn't been more consistently updated.<br />
<br />
The whole cancer thing, as previously discussed by me and others, forces one to reflect upon their life. You ponder what could have been. You examine what you're currently doing. You explore the possibility of the future, if and when, you come through the cancer experience.<br />
<br />
This is often riddled with the insecurity of the unknown, particularly as you learn that friends and peers that joined you in your Class of 2011-2012 Cancer University have had to fight again, or worse, have died. These were your lab partners, your study buddies, your lunch mates. Some were the girls down the hall you run into once in a while brushing teeth, while others are that girl you buy your coffee from every morning. But to think, when you go back to your reunion, that they never graduated, had to go back, or are just never going to be there again, forces you to wonder about yourself.<br />
<br />
In the past couple of months, I learned that my Chemo Buddy is fighting again. Today, I learned that an amazing fighter, Tiffany Costa, whom I tried to help find access to an elusive drug thanks to the stupid pharmaceutical shortage driving her to the international Doxil black market, died last week.<br />
<br />
These women are, were, my age. We were fighting breast cancer together, in very different ways. No amount of money, resources or effort seemed to dictate success. Tiffany raised over $50,000 to help her with her medical situation when I first met her. And she had a long fight ahead, including figuring out how to transport the drugs she managed to secure overseas before the seller raised the fees again.<br />
<br />
My other friend has a supporting family, but has chosen to continue her fight quietly.<br />
<br />
And here I am. Alive. No signs of metastases. Declared NED.<br />
<br />
But I'm uneasy. I'm uneasy about my status. I'm uneasy about bills. My job. My career.<br />
<br />
So, I've been exploring. I joined First Descents this summer and rediscovered physical strength. I'm going to go to Hawaii in the Spring with Athletes For Cancer to surf - fulfilling two dreams - to go to Hawaii and to learn how to surf. I pulled out the sewing machine for the first time in years to make clothing - to finally put all those sketches, ideas, fashion wish-lists to the test and throw my anxiety about crappy sewing skills to the wind. So, almost every day for the past 2 weeks, I've created a new garment. Nearly every day I've worn at least one of my creations. (After all, it's only fabric. If I screw up, who cares? I make it a few sizes smaller and give it to my daughter, or I rip the threads and go again.)<br />
<br />
I'm finally taking out the sketchbook and I'm building and making the things I'd put off for a rainy day.<br />
<br />
Here's the rub, however... Unless I get onto Project Runway and win, I doubt I can make a living making clothing. And, unless Martha Stewart dubs me her successor as Queen of the Crafts, all the candles and plaster work in the world isn't going to pay the bills.<br />
<br />
And, as long as I am trapped in a COBRA plan that costs significantly more than my mortgage, that offers sub prime coverage, and I receive no benefits from work, I'm just malingering in my career.<br />
<br />
I proverbially drop to my knees and <i>beg</i> someone to just bring me on full-time already. Enough with the freelancing. Enough with the contracting. It ain't for me. I have enough instability to deal with. I can't stand not knowing at the end of the month whether or not I'm being "renewed," if I have to choose between COBRA and mortgage again. I refuse to withstand further interviews where I rock them, but one moment in haste as frivolous as sneezing in the wrong direction can cause the employer to opt not to make the offer they were going to a second ago.<br />
<br />
I ask you, what's next for me? Because I'm still lost. And the more I'm lost, the more scared.<br />
<br />
And, as irrational as it may seem, I often wonder if I don't get hired full-time soon, with a permanent job, will the cancer come back first?<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-37393384079149998682012-12-03T15:59:00.000-05:002012-12-03T15:59:00.618-05:00SamsonPerhaps it was inheriting who was the world's sweetest cat in the world, Samson, from my grandmother once she died, or maybe it was the notion of a woman being able to captivate someone to the point that they could be entranced without magic and fall victim to her, but the story of Samson & Delilah always intrigued me. I still remember reading the story over and over again in the children's bible my parents' got me when I was young.<br />
<br />
A little over a year ago, it took all my strength to shave my head after watching my own personal Delilah, breast cancer, start to rip the hair from my head. I'd grown my hair to be the longest it had been for several years. I'd had the intent to never cut it again, let along shave it ever. But I had to. It was too heartbreaking to see it fall out like withered, fallen soldiers going into a suicide mission.<br />
<br />
Unlike when one usually cuts one's hair, the expectations of having significant length more than a full-year from when you shaved your head, my hair is struggling along. I have "cute curls." I can flat iron my hair to make it flat and spiky, but I still can't pull it back into a proper pony tail. I can't feel it on the back of my neck.<br />
<br />
And there seems to be an uncanny correlation between the day I cut my hair, at the LIVE<b>STRONG</b> Challenge 2011, and the last time I felt strong <i>and</i> fit. Now, I feel weak. I'm too easily winded. My energy is shot, and hasn't been anywhere close to where it was, no matter what drugs and supplements I take.<br />
<br />
Is the growth of my hair directly related to my strength and energy? Perhaps. With short hair, on the bike, outside, I just feel cold. I can't stand cold air hitting my head. But I look forward to feeling the wind rustling my full head of hair.<br />
<br />
My hair is just below my ears now. I only have 2-3 feet to go, now. I'll see you in 5 years.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-53843329372082239652012-10-17T16:46:00.000-04:002012-10-17T16:46:00.504-04:00Statement<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">This is my one and only statement regarding the events of this week. I will stand, as I have always stood, with</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=64263459777" href="https://www.facebook.com/lancearmstrong" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">Lance Armstrong</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">in his global fight against cancer. This man, and the foundation he began and built, has stood by me and my family, when I needed support the most. He instilled an amazing devotion in the employees, volunteers of</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=6195089915" href="https://www.facebook.com/livestrong" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">Livestrong</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">and his</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=100001481008761" href="https://www.facebook.com/livestrong.leaders.1" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">Livestrong Leaders</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">. While his title may have formally changed, to me, and many others, he will always be "Boss" in our initiatives to support and raise awareness for cancer survivorship.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rODwB4teZmE/UH7TZO6HiUI/AAAAAAAAA7g/067SjSHwBHg/s1600/LanceAndFamily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rODwB4teZmE/UH7TZO6HiUI/AAAAAAAAA7g/067SjSHwBHg/s640/LanceAndFamily.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7416439393968166114.post-3537697326100009882012-10-04T15:07:00.000-04:002012-10-04T15:07:03.364-04:00I have a second chance. Cancer isn't always as kind.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://perfectlypunctuated.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/everyone-deserves.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">Some of you know that I had a deadline the other day to meet a $5,000 goal for my LIVE<b>STRONG</b> fundraising. I didn't make that goal. As it prohibited me from being able to fulfill a promise to my daughter, I was pretty disappointed.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">On a personal level, and <i>please</i> do not take this the wrong way or as me being ungrateful, it was most disappointing to have worked so hard this year, while fighting cancer actively, running 2 major events that beat last year's numbers, and to have still fallen short. Previous "angel" donors weren't able to give me a boost this year, and I'd made the mistake of thinking that one of my events would have been bigger than expected, and I didn't run with a couple of smaller events.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">In the past, I would have beat myself up into a pulp, cried my eyes out, and second-guessed every decision I made that caused me to fail. I'd have then turned my self-loathing into anger and lashed out at every single individual like a petulant child.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">You do realize that when I say, "In the past," I'm referring to just over one year ago, right?</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://static-l3.blogcritics.org/11/04/12/157129/screaming-child.jpg?t=20110412075012" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://static-l3.blogcritics.org/11/04/12/157129/screaming-child.jpg?t=20110412075012" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">Don't I look like myself?</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">That bratty single child in me <i>is</i>, at this moment, lying face down in her bed, kicking and screaming, tearing at pillows, refusing to come down for dinner and making the lives of all around her a living hell. But she's a much smaller part of me.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">Well, maybe not. This goal was a big one. I was resigned to the fact that $25,000 was going to be out of reach and gave in to the $15,000 goal. As time ticked away, and the donations just didn't come in the way that they did last year, I started to panic, but LIVE<b>STRONG</b> set a special incentive at the $5,000 mark that made it "ok" to "settle" for $5,000.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">I assumed, making an ass out of you and me, that the money would just come in effortlessly. Until the deadline passed, and I was still short.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">Unlike cancer, which rarely gives second chances, LIVE<b>STRONG</b> gave an extension to those of us reaching for the $5,000 mark.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">I now have until 5pm Friday, October 5, 2012, to finish raising $5,000.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">As of right now, I am $1,500 away from the mark. That seems like a lot, doesn't it? But, here's the way I see it.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YaLXJQG4w3I/UG3dnNzIVQI/AAAAAAAAA60/2ly0Wnrryew/s1600/FriendCollage.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YaLXJQG4w3I/UG3dnNzIVQI/AAAAAAAAA60/2ly0Wnrryew/s320/FriendCollage.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">I have 1,716 Facebook friends. I have 678 connections on LinkedIn. I have 1,212 Twitter followers. Of course, there is quite a bit of crossover, so let's figure that there are 500 "real" people all told.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">If I do the math correctly, if all of the 500 "real" people I presume are, in fact, "real," that means each would only have to donate $3 in the next 24 hours in order to meet the goal.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">That's it. It's totally do-able.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">So, now, I just have to figure out how to reach those 500 "real" people.</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank">Are you one of the "real" ones?</a><br />
<a href="http://laf.convio.net/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012" target="_blank"><br /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YaLXJQG4w3I/UG3dnNzIVQI/AAAAAAAAA60/2ly0Wnrryew/s1600/FriendCollage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="333" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YaLXJQG4w3I/UG3dnNzIVQI/AAAAAAAAA60/2ly0Wnrryew/s640/FriendCollage.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13966106722361747353noreply@blogger.com2