Rica's LIVESTRONG Adventures

My Contact Submission to Susan G. Komen in response to their withdrawal of funds to Planned Parenthood

2012-02-01T10:03:00.001-05:00

To say that my reaction to Susan G. Komen's foolishly dangerous withdrawal of grants to Planned Parenthood, which was primarily used for breast examinations, was strong is an understatement. I've never been a fan of Komen, but this had me seething. If you follow me on Facebook, you've already seen some of my reactions.

My friend, Liza, pointed out that sharing the article isn't enough, but that we should make our opinions known directly to Komen. And she was right.

So, I went to http://ww5.komen.org/Contact.aspx and selected "Report Improper Conduct" as my reason for contacting them. I uploaded a copy of the NPR article, and wrote the following report:

----------------------------

I am horrified to report that, apparently, Susan G. Komen has employed individuals capable of damaging the ability for women to get aid with breast examinations. It appears that President Elizabeth Thompson, and others, made the decision, and stand by the notion that cutting funds to Planned Parenthood, which provided me with women's healthcare several times while I was in financial situations that prevented me from going to a doctor's office, and provided (until NOW), thousands of other women with breast examinations and other crucial screenings in preventing breast and other cancers that affect women, is a good idea.

I write to you not only as a woman, but as a breast cancer fighter myself.

I acknowledge that, yes, my initial mammogram was in a bus that received funding from Susan G. Komen, but I'm quite certain that the hospital could have received that funding from any number of other organizations had Komen said, "No." And I'm also very certain there is a huge level of "buyer's remorse" now by the folks that accepted that grant.

I was never a fan of Komen, to be truthful. As a marketing professional, and non-profit advocate, I've long had a distaste for the manner in which Komen has glamorized a most unglamorous disease and battle. And the manner in which Koman has laid claim to the phrase, "for the cure," and the color pink itself, has made my stomach churn.

Komen was already on my black list when I was first diagnosed, and I called and emailed repeatedly and never got a response from a single soul, when seeking help and resources. Well, that isn't entirely true - you added me (without permission) to your solicitation list.

But this takes the cake.

No, you aren't going to get any donations from me. And I will very happily explain to any friends or family that ask me to donate to their walks, runs or "whatevers" "for the cure" they are participating in why I refuse to give Komen one red cent, as much as I may love them. I will happily convert them to another cancer non-profit that, regardless of my stance on abortion, women's rights, etc, has been steadfast by my side.

But I will take this one step further. I will be calling meetings, writing, and meeting with every single entity that I'm involved with - from the largest women's organization in the world to the smallest boutique in town - that have an affiliation with Susan G. Komen to show them what hypocrites you are and present them with alternatives.

You cannot say that you support women and withdraw support from such a vital organization like Planned Parenthood.

Welcome to the Boy's Club. And enjoy the fall.

Rica's Kick Cancer's Butt Super Bowl Pool

2012-01-21T15:11:00.001-05:00

I'm not too much of a risk taker when it comes to money. I'll usually only buy one square in the office Super Bowl pools because I'm afraid to lose out. (Of course, the year I bought 2, I won a couple of hundred dollars, but that's a whole other story... )

I had to take a huge gamble in this season of cancer, and I'm waiting for my Super Bowl ring when I am officially declared cancer free in five years. So, until then, I'm rallying friends and family to help LIVESTRONG support cancer fighters as they struggle to reach their touchdown moments.

Make a $10 donation made to my LIVESTRONG Challenge account laf.convio.net/goto/RicaRocksAustin2012 for the Lance Armstrong Foundation, and I will send you an email with the link, password and instructions so you can pick your squares on Rica's Kick Cancer's Butt Super Bowl Pool online grid.

Prizes for pool winners will not be cash, but LIVESTRONG gear, instead. Prizes will include t-shirts, hats, and more, and the knowledge that you did something great for the 28 million living with cancer today.

The pool will close at 5:30 pm on February 5th and, then, numbers will be posted.

Sh*t Girls Say to Girls with Breast Cancer

2012-01-21T12:22:00.001-05:00

My friend, Jody, posted this video on Facebook this morning, and what was scary was that the number of things that have been said to me absolutely outnumbered the things I'd never heard before.

The sad thing is that, more often than not, it's me that mispronounces everything. LOL!

Enjoy!

Jennifer does some great work! And it looks like she'll have a web series on her website, www.HappyCancerChick.com

Of course, I'm thinking of a sequel... "Sh*t GUYS say to girls with breast cancer."

White Plains/New Rochelle is not the center of the non-NYC universe!

2012-01-20T10:51:00.001-05:00

I'm going on the record, here, in a plea to all cancer organizations who claim to "service" Westchester County, NY.

THE WORLD DOES NOT REVOLVE AROUND WHITE PLAINS!

There is a large population of people in Northern Westchester that is unable to use public transportation, who are screaming for assistance! Mount Kisco, Lewisboro & Bedford have significant populations, and, unlike the Lower Westchester residents, we are left isolated!

For many of us, our Connecticut neighbors are far closer and accessible by public transportation than White Plains! But, because we are New York residents, we can't use them!

Please set up some satellite offices! And just because we are getting treatment in Connecticut, do not assume that we're "taken care of" or doing so to deny our New York roots!

And to those that provide the services, learn the geography of the county you serve! And I don't just mean looking at a map, I mean take a long look to see what it takes to get to White Plains! If I look at a map, it may look like, going from the border of one Northern Westchester town to yours, it's just a quick jaunt. But actually map out the route and you'll see it can be an ordeal, especially when you're in treatment.

Having Faced Chemo: The Cons

2012-01-18T16:33:00.000-05:00

As a follow up to my October post, "Facing Chemo: The Pros," I felt that it was only fair that I include this companion piece.

So, here is the list of cons to chemotherapy:

The Obvious

You lose hair. Perhaps you'll just thin a bit, but you'll lose hair. Not only the hair on your head, but everywhere. From head-to-toe, you lose hair. You may not lose ALL of your eyelashes, or arm hair, or eyebrows. Though, it could be considered a pro - you don't have to shave your legs, or your armpits. And, ladies, let's just say that my "Hello Kitty" (as Nene Leakes puts it) has never been hair-free and smoother for this long before. Brazilian Waxes can't hold a candle to chemotherapy in that regard. (Though, I don't recommend holding a candle to anything in that general region... unless you're into that kind of thing.)
Crap will be an understatement when people ask you how you feel. You will be forced to come up with a whole new vocabulary of synonyms for crap, each one getting worse as they go.

If you choose to eat when you feel you can, consuming as many calories as possible for fear that you may not be able to eat when nausea kicks in, and the anti-nausea meds never wear off, you will realize at the end of treatment, that you have gained so much weight that you could give the Stay Puft man a run for his money, and rue every day that you ate because you could.
Chemo brain messes with your mind. As a result, you can not remember the names and faces of all the kind nurses and technicians that take care of you and have to resort to writing notes somewhere (which you'll undoubtedly forget) so you can remember and not look like a moron when you come back in for your next appointment.
Even if you've had 20/20 vision, expect some fuzziness. So, you'd better invest in some anti-aging/anti-wrinkle treatments because the squinting will age your face 30 years by the time you're done with chemo.
You have absolutely no clue, if you've lost all your hair, what color, texture, or condition your hair will grow back in. You could have been a brunette, and, voila! 6 weeks after chemo, you have seedlings of ginger hair growing. You could have had pin-straight hair like Janice in the Muppets, and it will grow back curly like Little Orphan Annie!
No, that ridiculously expensive, fine wine hasn't turned. And, no, that fois gras hasn't spoiled. That gnarly taste in your mouth, as though you've been sucking on rusted bike chains, is a result of chemotherapy. Now isn't the time to go fine dining, folks, unless you've given your taste buds a test run. Money down the toilet.

The Not-So-Obvious

If you are a blonde and bald, you are now capable of getting brainfreeze from the outside in.
When you finally get the clearance to move again, and you're not feeling like a sack of leaden bones, you may find simply walking to and from your mailbox as exhausting as running a marathon (or whatever you might imagine it might be like if you've never run a marathon.)
You stare at the first, single, isolated sprout of "real" hair, vs. the weird chemo peach fuzz that grows in its place like a transparent mold, and ponder if you should pluck it or not.
You fear the impending itchiness as hair grows back. Anywhere and everywhere. I'll leave it at that. You can figure out the rest.
You miss your oncologist and the regularity of the appointments and are not quite sure what this "daily grind" thing is anymore.

When you start to dip your toes back into the "daily grind," you realize it's the wrong roast and are no longer sure you survived in order to get back into it.
You will have to give up your yoga and pajama pants.

You put mascara on, hoping to make your lack of eyelashes not quite apparent. Unfortunately, you only have 3 eyelashes per lid long enough for the mascara to adhere, so you end up looking like Spongebob Squarepants.
You can't touch your toes. You see, apparently, for some of us, our organs react to chemotherapy negatively. (Duh.) They may swell, giving you a lovely bloated feeling that isn't just around for a couple of days a month. If you also put on some weight, you will find you have to get your children to help you take on and off your socks. So, if you're currently healthy and don't have cancer, treat those rugrats well. They may be taking care of you sooner than you thought.
Invest in a hemorrhoid pillow. Not because you'll have hemorrhoids, but because you may find yourself frequently getting intimately close with your toilet seat, so why not make yourself comfortable? And make sure you have some disinfectant wipes nearby just in case you forget which side is up.
Your oncologist is going to put you on a stool softener. Don't think that the minute you finish chemotherapy that you're home free. As you start to venture out of the safety of your home or hospital, make note of where all the bathrooms are wherever you go and just how long it takes to get there.

Registration now open for the 2012 ROCK the RIDE & RUN

2012-01-16T11:15:00.002-05:00

Not sure that I'll have as much hair this year,
but I'll try!

We're still getting approvals on the courses, but registration is NOW OPEN for the 3rd Annual ROCK the RIDE & RUN!

Choose to ride your bike, run or walk to kick cancer with me, the kids and the community!

I'm also seeking volunteers and businesses to sponsor expenses like the insurance, t-shirts, etc! If you're interested, please contact me at rmendes.livestrong@gmail.com.

My response to Outside Magazine's article "It's Not About the Lab Rats"

2012-01-12T17:35:00.001-05:00

Mr. Gifford,

I read this article just 1/2 hour after returning from my oncologist's & plastic surgeon's offices reviewing the next steps of my post-chemotherapy treatment. My heart is racing, I have tears in my eyes and an adrenaline surge that could get me up the Alpes d'Huez, despite having endured 5 months of chemo and off the bike. A chemotherapy treatment that was scheduled around my participation at the LIVESTRONG Challenge in October. You see, I've been a LIVESTRONG Leader and fundraiser for going on 3 years, now. Long before my diagnosis in July. Ironic, I know, that I'd be such an ardent advocate when I hadn't fought cancer myself. But I was a new cyclist, I had a mentor who was diagnosed a second time, just as Lance was launching his comeback, so I got involved.

And then I met the people in LIVESTRONG. Not just the staff, but the people who were moved by LIVESTRONG. The ones who had survived cancer. And the ones who supported those whose time ran out in their fight and were carried on the backs of LIVESTRONG Leaders, the staff and others affiliated with the organization. It was clear that, yes, as a marketing professional, I recognize that the organization is incredibly savvy, creating buzzwords and catch phrases that stick. But there is a reason they stick. Because they have meaning to us.

Do you want to know why every dollar donated toLIVESTRONG is so important, as opposed to pure clinical research? And why your arrogant article is worth nothing more than bird cage lining to a survivor? Of course, cancer needs to be eradicated, and the only way that the disease itself will disappear is through medical advances. But the effects of cancer on the people who have it, who have fought it, and those that surround that individual can never be erased by a new chemotherapy, a new surgical procedure, or a berry in the rainforest. The only way that kind of healing can happen is empowerment. Hope. A sense that there is something one can do when you're not in a research lab. When all you have are two legs, a heart, and the desire to do something.

Awareness. If it weren't for their awareness campaigns, I would have never gotten that mammogram in June. You see, I'm well below the 40-line. It would have been a few years before I had a routine mammogram. But it was reminders about taking care of myself, early detection etc, thatLIVESTRONG promoted that made me, as aLIVESTRONG Leader, feel obligated to take the opportunity to have a free mammogram when the office park where I work held a health fair. Had it not been forLIVESTRONG's awareness campaigns, I wouldn't have done it. And the very tiny, but highly aggressive invasive breast cancer that was set so deeply in my breast, that no manual or routine breast exam would have detected until it was dangerously too late, would have never been detected in time for my relatively "simple" treatment. A treatment which included a double mastectomy (as I also discovered I had the BRCA II genetic mutation), a 2-week stay in the hospital with an infection and another surgery, 5 months of chemotherapy, and now, two more reconstructive surgeries and 5 years of hormone treatment.

That's whereLIVESTRONG plays, in my opinion, the most valuable part in the fight against cancer. Lance never said, "I'm going to cure cancer." Find me one pamphlet thatLIVESTRONG has issued that says, "Our mission is to find the cure for cancer." But it does say, and it does achieve, that it will give the cancer fighter, and those around them, the support, navigation, and motivation to find a reason in themselves to survive.

There is no doubt in my mind that if it weren't for EVERYTHING thatLIVESTRONG does, from the silicone wristband I wore throughout every surgery, and gave very clear instruction to all nurses and techs that over my dead body were they to remove that band from my wrist while I was unconscious, that reminded me to be strong throughout this hellacious experience, to a Tweet from Lance and others who have been through this the day after my double mastectomy, that I would not have been able to come through this fight sane, hopeful, and with the tenacity to live on beyond cancer.

How DARE you write this, as thoughLIVESTRONG were nothing more than a whimsical revenue stream for a selfish man? Mr. Gifford, if you had seen the smiles on my children's faces in October when we met Lance, smiles like I hadn't seen on their faces since before I told them I had cancer in July, you wouldn't be questioning the work thatLIVESTRONG does. Lance and the organization promises hope, drive, fight, and survivorship. And they deliver on that promise. My 13 year-old son, who has been through hell and back, rode 90 miles in October. Do you know why? Because, after seeing so many people fighting so hard throughout the Challenge, who had been through so much, and knowing how badly I wanted to ride beyond the 10 mile mark but couldn't, he explained, "I rode the 90 miles for my mom because she can't."

My 10-year old daughter was scared every day that cancer was going to kill me, despite reassurances from doctors, friends, family and me. It wasn't until she met Lance, she spoke with the staff atLIVESTRONG, who treated her like gold, and saw all those other mommies who had breast cancer, too, ride through the Yellow Mile and collect their yellow roses, that she realized I wasn't going to die, and that I'd be riding my bike, and living and loving life just like before. And that she didn't have to worry that I was going to die. That weight on her shoulders was too much, but it wasLIVESTRONG that helped her lift that off of her shoulders and see how strong she, and I, were and that we'd make it through this.

Komen, by the way, whom you laud in the article, did NOTHING for us. I've long been skeptical of their "pinking" tactics, but when I was diagnosed, I decided to let bygones be bygones and reach out to my local office to see what support they might have, programs, etc. I called, left messages, emailed repeatedly. What was the response? They turned a blind eye to me when I reached out to them, looking for help, advice, and hope. All I got was a barrage of emails asking me to donate to them.

I pray that you never have to face this disease head on, personally. But if you do, try it without Lance, LIVESTRONG or the programs and materials that they provide by your side for just one day and see how well you do. I guarantee you that not long after that day, you'll be wearing yellow silicone on your wrist soon enough. And, hopefully, publishing a retraction and an apology to those of us who feel so incredibly grateful forLIVESTRONG and to the 28 million living with cancer today that Lance and the good people at the LAF work so hard for every day.

- Rica Mendes

South Salem, NY

Reflections from my bed

2012-01-11T12:53:00.002-05:00

Not that I ever imagined what it would be like to have cancer, so I can't say, "I always thought that when I fought cancer, I'd... " but, once I got involved with LIVESTRONG, I assumed that if I had cancer, I'd either be in a hospital bed the entire time or be one of those amazing folks whose life would be completely uninterrupted, and working out/exercising more than before. Hell, I'd entered into this adventure racing during diagnosis, determined to ride the LIVESTRONG Challenge, doing pilates, etc.

And yet, since October and the infection, I've put on weight, I am heeding my doctors' advice and not doing anything, and nervous about going outside to walk, spend too much time out of the house, etc. I've become a reclusive Pillow Pet. With the exception of a few days to the office, an excursion or two, I've pretty much just been in bed or on the sofa. It's gotten to the point, between the lack of exercise, chemo, etc, where simple things like walking a block or two down the street, going up and down the stairs, etc, leaves me absolutely winded.

For a while, it was just affecting me physically. But, now, I'm finding it's affecting me mentally. Other than day-job work from home, I'm finding myself struggling to put the effort into doing other things. I'm so mad at myself for not doing more. I should be able to make more phone calls, write more letters, etc. And, yet, I can't quite seem to get myself out of my mental bed.

The good news is that I'd have to imagine that this is a temporary situation. Perhaps this blog will be enough to jar me into activity.

I need to find some motivation, here, folks. Part of me wishes I had a dog so I'd have to walk it. Or someone other than the kids in the house to force me to go for walks.

One of the pluses of living here on the lake is that it's quiet and secluded. One of the minuses of living here on the lake is that it's quiet and secluded.

It is beautiful, though. If you could only see the sunset view I have from my room night after night, and stunning vista of the sweeping flights of the swans over the lake throughout the day is remarkable.

"What's Next?" - President Jed Bartlet (The West Wing)

2012-01-07T07:10:00.002-05:00

My final day in "The Chair."

It's just under 24-hours since I completed what is supposed to be my final chemotherapy session. I say, "supposed to be," simply because I don't want to count my chickens before they hatch. My oncologist, Dr. Tepler, reassures me time and again that this will be it. Perhaps it's the paranoia of having cancer; the same auto-pilot reaction to any ailment or ache that immediately causes a cancer fighter to assume the worst, or the fact that Murphy's Law has had a nasty habit in the past for playing the "Oh yeah? I've got a curveball for YOU!" game with me. But regardless, I'm cautiously optimistically celebrating.

My father came by at around 8:20 to pick me up and take me to Stamford Hospital's Bennett Cancer Center. We loaded up the car with the usual suspects: My laptop/briefcase, a couple of DVDs including Robin Williams' "Live on Broadway," "The Shining" (my father's never seen it) and "Clockwork Orange" (he's also never seen this, so I figured I'd bring it just in case), my iPod, the yellow blanket my cousin Jon's mom used when she had chemo and has subsequently passed onto various cancer fighters to keep them comfortable during their treatments, a couple of Naked Juices and my laptop lap desk. It seems like I was packing for college, but let me tell you, each and every item serves a purpose.

First, I hadn't had anything to eat or drink all morning. It was another one of those, "Rush, get the kids ready for school and then take care of yourself," mornings, and I was just ready in the nick of time. So, I had to bring the Naked Juice for nourishment. The iPod was meant to bide the time in the waiting area, distract me while I had my finger stick, and fill in some boring moments with some motivational music.

After the finger pricking, Dad and I were walked to the room - in fact, it was the same private room I had with my first appointment. We were full circle. Dad started setting himself up while I set up the laptop to play the DVDs. (We know from experience that most of the DVD players don't work.) The nurse, thankfully, listened to me (unlike last time), and didn't try and go spelunking for veins never tapped before, but went for "Old Faithful." Either the veins have begun to recover, or my nurse continued her magic touch, because I didn't feel a sting from the saline, nor did I taste the metallic-saltiness on my tongue. I didn't even notice the Decadron.

We popped the Robin Williams DVD into the laptop and thus began our laugh-fest. Thank goodness we had a private room with a door, because the profanity spewing from my laptop had me a bit red in the face - not that I, personally, am that sensitive, but there are so many demographics represented in the halls at the hospital, and folks, undoubtedly, who do not feel that chemotherapy is a fun thing, I didn't want to offend anyone.

At one point, Clarissa, my first nurse at my first appointment, came in and saw Robin Williams. Just as she says, "What a great DVD to watch!" Robin begins a riff about how his friend Lance is in France riding in the Tour after going through chemotherapy. Needless to say, they knew I'm a LIVESTRONG leader, and this got a big giggle from everyone.

Chemo went smoothly, and, now it's post-chemo recovery mode.

One of the next steps, in my case, is going to be hormonal therapy. Typically, that means Tamoxifen. Here's the catch. I don't want to take it. I mean, I really don't want to take it. It will likely put me into early menopause, which isn't exactly a prospect I'm jumping at. I've had enough thrown at me to put my femininity into play this year, had my boobs lopped off and replaced by square-shaped Ziploc baggies while I wait for silicone jelly beans. Not to mention, the side effects of menopause doesn't exactly excite me, either.

I was going to participate in a clinical trial incorporating Metformin, which is a drug used in treating diabetes that has been successful in helping prevent some of the problems with Tamoxifen and menopause. I was really looking forward to it, after being told I was an ideal candidate. That is, until I was told that my tumor was 0.175cm too small to participate with the new guidelines for the trial.

So, now I'm screwed.

What's next? A long, hard talk with Dr. Tepler to figure out a way to get me involved with Metformin, because I am not going onto a regiment that will put me into early menopause, with all the bells and whistles that accompany it.

My body. My cancer. My treatment.

So, what's next?

When I grow up, I want to be a Superhero... Who knew?

2012-01-04T12:53:00.000-05:00

When I was a really little kid, I wanted to be Spiderman. When I was a little girl, watching Linda Carter week after week, I wanted to be Wonder Woman. And when the movie came out, I wanted to be Supergirl. In high school, when I saw Michelle Pfeiffer don the latex, I wanted to be Catwoman (of course, meeting and selling Eartha Kitt muffins every morning for a summer contributed to that fantasy). In college, I was thrilled to dress my friend Charity, who was playing Princess Ida, like Xena in our production of the "Three Princess Project" And I always tell my kids not to make me angry, as they wouldn't like me if I got angry...

Ok. So I DO own Wonder Woman/Supergirl boots.
I bought them the day I was diagnosed - I was already
channeling my inner super heroine. Glad they followed
in my footsteps.

I never, sadly, developed any superhuman strength, or super powers. I shared nothing in common with any of these heroines. They were unattainable beacons of womanhood. Good examples, of course, but they existed on a plane that was far beyond reach.

Or were they?

A brilliant ad campaign is launching in, of all places, Mozambique, promoting self-breast examinations as a means to increase early detection of breast cancer. Associação da Luta Contra o Câncer in Mozambique is launching the following campaign of super heroines giving themselves breast exams in, what I think is, one of the most eye-catching, powerful campaigns I've seen in a long time.

It doesn't play on fear, shock, sentimentality, or the color pink. It focuses on powerful women. Strength. It humanizes these super heroines that so many of us grew up looking up to, and generation upon generation admire at some point in their lives, and shows us that, despite all the supernatural powers in the world, cancer can touch us all. Despite the cloaks, spandex and genetic mutations, we are all still women.

Today, I feel like Wonder Woman. I may not break out the starry bloomers and tiara, but I realize that I faced a dubious super villain, and I'm beating it down.

Chemo Round 3 Day 18: Embracing My Inner Sloth

2012-01-03T14:49:00.003-05:00

Ah, yes, post-surgery/chemo couch potatohood has struck, and my waistline, ability to move, etc, has paid the price. I'm on the verge of becoming one of those people who has to be surgically removed from their sofa as their flesh has interwoven with the upholstery. Help me! Help me!

As always, feel free to donate to my fundraising efforts benefiting LIVESTRONG: http://laf.convio.net/goto/RicaRocksAustin2012

Wish I'd thought of that...

2012-01-03T13:38:00.001-05:00

My cousin, who took those lovely portraits the day before my surgery, sent me the following cartoon:

I've since emailed it to Dr. Nordberg and informed him to stock up on pink Mardi Gras beads...

(Cartoon is on xkcd.com)

Start 2012 off on the right foot!

2012-01-01T17:33:00.001-05:00

If there was one lesson I learned last year while organizing events, it was how important sponsors have been with expenses, promotion, etc. I am incredibly grateful to all of our sponsors from last year, and we are now looking for our 2012 sponsors!

Of course, our 2011 supporters are invited to participate again this year, but some of our events are getting bigger, and that means we need more assistance!

In order to ensure that the bulk of the registration fees for these events go to LIVESTRONG, we are not only looking for sponsors who will make a large donation to our Lance Armstrong Foundation Challenge account, but businesses that might be willing to cover some of the expenses like insurance, t-shirts, etc.

If you are an individual, but know of a company that might be interested in this opportunity, please direct them to this blog. Or, you can sponsor us in honor of a loved one or anonymously - however you feel comfortable!

Sponsorship Opportunities are as follows:

Title Sponsor for the Season - $3,000 Cash Donation
(1 sponsorship available)

Title sponsorship. The (INSERT NAME) ROCK the RIDE & RUN Benefiting the Lance Armstrong Foundation and The (INSERT NAME) ROCK the RIDGE Benefiting the Lance Armstrong Foundation
Logo on all printed materials including: t-shirt, handbills, course maps, registration forms
Extra Large Logo with link on web site and welcome message on home page
Recognition in all e-communications from January to October
Headline recognition in media and advertising (press releases, fact sheets, etc). Must be secured by January 31, 2011
Prominent event day signage including
2 mentions per month from January to October on Facebook fan page
Promotional item in goody bag
Free registration for all employee participants from your organization at all events
Vendor booth at event
Announcement recognition
Race day start speaking opportunity

Seasonal Platinum Sponsor - $1,000 Cash Donation

Presenting sponsorship opportunity at all events
Large Logo on printed materials including: t-shirt, handbills, course maps
Large Logo with link on web site
Recognition in six e-communications from January to October
Company feature in one newsletter
1 mention per month from January to Oct on Facebook fan page
Company included in media and advertising (press releases, fact sheets, etc). Must be secured by January 31, 2011
Opportunity for event day signage at vendor booth and victory party tent
Vendor booth at all events
Promotional item in goody bag
Free registration for employee participants

Event Gold Sponsor - $750 or Pay for the Cost of Event T-Shirts

Large Logo on printed materials including: t-shirt, handbills, course maps
Large Logo with link on web site in the 3 months leading up to the event
Recognition in three e-communications regarding the event in the 3 months leading up to the event
Three mentions on Facebook fan page in the 3 months leading up to the event
Vendor booth at event
Opportunity for event day signage at vendor booth and registration tent
Promotional item in goody bag
5 Free registrations for employee participants

Event Silver Sponsor - $500/Pay for $500 of Expenses (Insurance, Port-a-Potties, etc)

Medium Logo on printed materials including: t-shirt
Medium Logo with link on web site in the 3 months leading up to the event
2 mentions in e-communications regarding the event in the 3 months leading up to the event
2 mention on Facebook fan page in the 3 months leading up to the event
Vendor booth at event
Opportunity for event day signage at vendor booth
Promotional item in goody bag
5 Free registrations for employee participants

Event Bronze Sponsor - $250 or $250 In-Kind Donation towards Raffle

Small Logo on printed materials including: t-shirt
Small Logo with link on web site in the 3 months leading up to the event
Vendor booth at event
Opportunity for event day signage at vendor booth
Promotional item in goody bag
3 Free registrations for employee participants

Event $100 Cash or $100 In-Kind Donation towards Raffle

Extra Small Logo on printed materials including: t-shirt
Extra Small Logo with link on web site in the 3 months leading up to the event
Promotional item in goody bag
Vendor booth at event

Event $75 Charitable Contribution

Business Name on t-shirt
Promotional item in goody bag

To become a sponsor, please contact us and let us know which sponsorship package you are interested in.

Chemo Round 3 Vlog Digest...

2011-12-24T16:15:00.001-05:00

Chemo Round 3 Day 9

Chemo Round 3 Day 6: Stiff but hopeful

Chemo Round 3 Day 3 Part I

Chemo Round 3 Day 3 Part II

Chemo Round 3 Day 1 Part I

Chemo Round 3 Day 1 Part II

Organizing My Life's Timeline... on Facebook

2011-12-24T02:48:00.000-05:00

Recently, Facebook upgraded/downgraded their format (up or down depending on how you feel), and now you have the option of displaying a Timeline. In classic form, events are marked in a running timeline from birth until the present. Facebook has tried to automatically take status updates and photos that were uploaded/posted to the timeline, but of course, there are some photos that may have been from events much earlier in life that need to have their dates updated.

While waiting for some emails from work, I decided to hop onto Facebook and start going through my albums, updating photos with places, dates and defining "life events." In so doing, I ran across photos from the first LIVESTRONG Challenge I participated in - the 2010 Philadelphia LIVESTRONG Bike Ride. Some of those photos were tagged with the name, "Ryan Weiss," my friend whom I was supposed to meet at the Challenge, but he'd just left the hospital and was unable to attend. Sadly, Ryan passed not long after thanks to a tumor that came back with a vengeance. It was the first time that I'd seen Lance in person, it was my first time riding in a peloton of that size, and my first taste of what the LIVESTRONG organization was capable of doing.

As I click through photo after photo in my Facebook album, I'm struck by the final photo, with the caption, "I gots me a secret LIVESTRONG admirer."

As I've blogged about in the past, the yellow roses are handed out to cancer survivors as they cross the finish line. Survivors go through a designated chute so that they can receive this honor and an extra special welcome. In August of 2010, I did not go through the Survivors Only chute, as I was riding in honor of my friend, Ryan Weiss, and I had not had cancer. So I thought.

But, as you can see in the photo above, when I returned to my bike after, what had been a most wet afternoon, someone had very purposefully woven a yellow Survivor rose in my front wheel. And, I highly doubt that they could have gotten my bike mixed up with someone elses. My bike has bright purple tires and brake/shifter cables, deep purple water bottle cages, and "I Ride For" stickers for Ryan and my grandmother up and down the frame.

At the time, if course, I was tickled by the idea that someone wanted to give me a rose. Was it from an admirer? A LIVESTRONG friend who was a Survivor but hadn't had the chance to say goodbye? Someone who thought my bike was cool?

But, now, part of me wonders, "What could this person have known or sensed that I didn't? Do Survivors somehow have a magical 'cancer detector,' and were somehow warning me of what was to come one year later?"

There has been no question that, in many ways, the universe was sending me many messages over the past year, and, looking at this photo, perhaps this was the first visual 'sign' that I was destined to earn a rose.

Without question, I would not have gotten that fateful mammogram last June had it not been for LIVESTRONG.

For that, I ask that you consider making a donation to LIVESTRONG.

To do so, simply go to http://laf.convio.net/goto/RicaRocksAustin2012 and click on "Donate to Rica!" on the left. If you need to mail in your donation, just click on "Read More" towards the bottom of the screen and then you'll see a link for a printable form.

I hope to bring in 100 donations for LIVESTRONG by end of day Sunday, 12/25/2011 in my effort to raise $25,000 for the Lance Armstrong Foundation. Donations of any size are very welcome.

Thank you and happy holidays!

Giving Back to Crickett's Answer for Cancer - Join me!

2011-12-22T09:57:00.003-05:00

I am teaming together & raise money for Crickett's Answer for Cancer & the fast growing number of women who benefit from this non-profit organization!

Want to know why? The wig in the photo was granted to me by Crickett's Answer for Cancer. I'm not just a supporter, I'm a client. And now it's time for me to give back.

Shop online at www.marykay.com/ricamendes

20% of EVERY order (excluding tax) will go to CAC
Shipping is FREE on orders $50 or more!
EVERY order comes with a Re-usable shopping bag

In order to participate, simply place a “CAC” after your name on your order, and 20% will automatically go to CAC, except for our signature Good Housekeeping seal approved Miracle Set starting at $90, for which $25 will be donated!

~ All products are 100% satisfaction guaranteed ~

~ For any questions to customize your order, simply e-mail me at Rica Mendes, ricamendes@marykay.com, and I’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have about any products, or about your skin or color preferences.

Gift sets are also available!

This will run through December 31, 2012!

Interested in joining my team or learning more about this amazing business opportunity? If you hear my story and allow me and my director to chat with you, I will donate $1 to CAC! Decide to join my team? I will donate $18 to CAC for every new team member that is introduced to me through CAC!

For more information email or call Rica Mendes at 914-384-3648 or CAC’s co-founder, Bonnie Julius, at 717-843-7903.

Crickett’s Answer for Cancer is a 501 (c) (3) breast cancer non-profit, providing cost-free wigs, mastectomy & lymphedema products, & pampering services nationwide to women with breast cancer, & was founded in memory of Crickett J. Julius, a vibrant, loving young woman who passed away at age 39 just 4 months after diagnosis of metastatic breast cancer. Her mom, Bonnie Julius, & cousin, Carole Trone, are committed to helping women facing the breast cancer diagnosis with dignity, hope, and keeping their identity & self-esteem.

Random thoughts as I go through Round 3...

2011-12-19T10:17:00.000-05:00

The other day, I had my appointment with my plastic surgeon, Dr. Nordberg. The good news is that not only did I get the all clear for chemo on Friday, but we were able to "do a fill" on the left implant, so now the temporary boobs are the same size. Small victories. I'll get to that in a moment.

While I was in his chair, he commented on the wigs I wear - I think I'd worn a different look each time I've come into his office. He remarked that I had an unusually upbeat approach to my cancer, and I told him that, quite frankly, the whole thing was so ridiculous, so it was very hard to take it seriously. Of course, there are moments of terror, depression, etc. But then I sit back and think about how stupid the whole thing is. And I said there are two ways to approach cancer: Either you can get depressed, fearful, scared and get so overwhelmed at what a terrifying ordeal it is, or you can treat it like your own personal fart joke - something so absurd that you can't help but embrace it, temporarily, and then rid yourself of it as soon as possible.

For example, you can't help but smile when you realize that...

In fact, this iddy biddy cactus
has more "hair' than I do.

Chemo (if you lose your hair) makes you look like a dog with a bad case of mange. Any treatment that can do that to you is G-d's sick sense of humor rearing its ugly head.
Cancer does not make you immune to stupid people. Though it should.
Cancer turns you into a 4-year old child with the flu.
I've evolved into a cactus. I get potted, I'm left with only a few spikes coming out of my top, and they are sharp and off-putting.
Some mornings I wake up and wonder if G-d, or my body, has used a Magic 8-Ball to determine how the day will go just for giggles. That's how predictable cancer is.
All of a sudden, body parts are addressed as things that can be disposable. And I don't mean like the obvious things like "breasts," "testicles," etc and other body parts that identify the cancer. I mean things like nipples, eyebrows, finger nails, etc.
You can tell when you're dehydrated, not because you feel thirsty, but because you can see how sunken-in your temples get when you look in the mirror.
When watching a hospital program on television, you no longer wince, in fact, you laugh at the feeble whimpering the mock-patients express when getting a single needle stick, thinking, "Wimps... "

Anyway, I'm sure more of these little odd observations will arise as I continue this journey... Feel free to share any other gems you've come across along your way.

Help Me Get 100 Donations Benefiting LIVESTRONG for the Holidays

2011-12-17T10:58:00.004-05:00

Before you put away that checkbook (actual or virtual) for the holidays, give a gift that will help impact 28 million worldwide living with cancer, in memory of those whose time ran out before they could beat the disease, and in honor of those actively in the fight, like me.

Dedicate your donation to someone you know and love, and I will hang a bib in their honor and send you a picture of that bib hanging in Austin.

Any donation is welcome - big or small.

My goal? To have 100 donations by the end of Christmas Day - 1 for every mile I've pledged to ride in Austin, TX in 2012. I have no idea if I'll be able to do it, but that's my goal.

Remember, even though the fundraising is for my 2012 efforts, your donation will be tax deductible for 2011!

http://laf.convio.net/site/TR?px=1006281&fr_id=1182&pg=personal

This fundraising drive ends December 26, 2011 at Midnight!

Absent friends

2011-12-15T07:43:00.001-05:00

Annually, December 15 brings dread. It has since 1992. 20 years ago, at just about this time, there was an interruption in the universe that so many people were unaware of, but shattered life as I knew it. One man's poor choice in life ended my best friend's life. It wasn't in a flash, his demise was a drawn out circumstance. A series of poor decisions. One that could have been prevented a thousand ways.

He was a suicide survivor. He'd faced death and found a new life once he lived again. He discovered a new mission. His future was laying at his feet, and it was so ridiculously bright and full of light. He had a heart, a mind, a smile and a relationship and work ethic that inspired so many around him.

And, just like that, his light was snuffed out.

He didn't get to have a diagnosis. He didn't have the chance to consult with doctors. He didn't have the opportunity to have surgery. He wasn't lucky enough to have chemotherapy as a tool.

All he had time to do was to get hit head on by a drunk driver at an intersection, then sit in his car, legs pinned by a steering wheel, wait for emergency services, ask for help getting out, and, with one person's turned back, he and the car were gone in a flash.

As I've been fighting my fight, as grateful as I am for the support network that has emerged, largely out of the woodwork, I'm just as aware, and mournful, of absent friends. Those that I'd give anything, absolutely anything, to hold hands with, consult with, laugh with, and share with.

Aaron comes to mind immediately. I swore to myself I wouldn't forget what his laugh sounded like, but as time passes, I'm starting to have to sit down and think hard, and then, I struggle to remember. Then I remember his smile, which is marked indelibly in my mind, and his laugh makes me smile. I remember the first time we danced. I remember the close friend I had. The hugs and embraces, awkward and loving, we shared.

Aaron was my guardian. He made that abundantly clear, not only because he told me repeatedly, but because he showed that in his actions. Even after he was gone, his protection was apparent. He's still here, even though he's not. It's a curse and a blessing.

But when I close my eyes, it doesn't matter, because I can see his face, his smile, and I feel safe again, if only for that moment. I know his presence is here, keeping me safe.

Tomorrow, I go in for Round 3. I won't see him. I can't talk to him. But I know he'll be there, by my side, watching over everything. After 20 years, I know that much hasn't stopped.

Aaron is the one who taught me not only how to LIVE STRONG, but that I had to LIVE STRONG.

Single Parenting and Cancer

2011-12-09T11:46:00.007-05:00

Parenting a 13-year old boy is a struggle for any parent. It's rough for a divorced mom when the father is absent and has been for years. Parenting a teen boy with learning challenges and an elementary school age girl with advanced academic abilities provides a challenge. Being a full-time working parent, let alone a single parent, is stressful. Throw all of that together, along with a couple of part-time jobs into the mix, and you're talking about a heart attack waiting to happen.

Now add cancer.

Welcome to my world.

As if my life weren't stressful enough, strictly based on being a divorced mom who is lucky to get the minimally state-allowed child support from the father who, for all intents and purposes, financially and emotionally, abandoned the children years ago, trying to handle my cancer diagnosis and treatment has been a trip.

Financial

Financially speaking, being a divorced mom of 2 kids age 9 and 13 is terrifying. The boy eats barrels of food, thank you very much adolescence. His growth spurts mean new clothes every other day. His shoes grow faster than I can keep track. Plus, a Tween girl's fashion demands are high, and difficult to resist the desire to indulge their mini-fashionista demands just to keep them quiet. Plus, she's outgrowing her wardrobe, which means a switch-over.

And, oh yes, like too many of us, I'm stuck with an upside down mortgage on a house with some big maintenance issues. Again, day-to-day under "normal" circumstances, not easy. But the cancer diagnosis and treatment, got me sidelined big time financially.

Fortunately, I have health insurance provided by my employer, although Connecti-I-Don't-Care doesn't really understand that the reason they exist is to actually pay necessary medical bills, not pre-approve procedures, tests etc and then slap me with a co-pay that equals the "retail" billing amount. So, aside from the frustrations of knowing that I'm going to have to fight that battle when dust settles a bit more, I don't have to panic about my immediate medical bills.

However, given the unpredictability of the bumps in the road cancer presents, and the various side effects of cancer, I'm finding it difficult to maintain regular in-office/on-site hours. This means a) I have to manage work-at-home time with in-office time at my day job, b) I haven't been able to be put on a schedule on the sales floor at the bike shop c) I can't book parties and work my Mary Kay business the way that I'd been hoping to this year (before the cancer, my secret hope was to become a Mary Kay Director by June 2012).

What does all of this mean? My income is significantly reduced. My income, before, just barely covered the bills and absolute necessities. I'm a frugal individual, and quite scrappy when it comes to being able to do things financially. I'm an exceptional bargain hunter, I work hard at re-purposing as much as I can, whenever possible, and, since I'm a good cook, I can take almost anything and make a really high quality meal.

But now? Oy vey. Income is not reliable, and without the reduced supplemental hours with the bike shop and the challenges I'm facing with my Mary Kay business, it's even harder to manage. I'm constantly looking for one-off gigs that I can do from home that doesn't interfere with my day job, nor is something I can't manage along with my treatment. It's a challenge.

It's a strange and difficult thing to have to seek supplemental funds. It's not impossible, but with this economy, it gets harder and harder. There are great organizations, like Patient Advocate Foundation, that have programs, like the PAF's Co-Pay Relief program. I know I'm applying. But be prepared for almost any grants, aid, etc to get a lot of information from doctors, request letters, etc. Sadly, there are a lot of people who will fake cancer for the attention, money, etc (as a fellow LIVESTRONG leader discovered as early as this morning!), and the organizations have to protect themselves. It's a hassle, but do understand, it's a necessary evil. I have to think that times have become absolutely that desperate that people have to resort to faking this disease.

But there are still "regular" bills. Mortgage, heat, gas, car maintenance, insurance, utilities, etc. And the state aid programs are problematic. Cancer does not mean you're disabled. You can't realistically look for work while you're in active treatment. You're home more, which means your budgets change. More electricity is used. And the income flow is reduced to a trickle. What do you do?

I'm still trying to figure that out.

Academically

There is no question that my kids' academics have suffered this year. I think it's inevitable. I do my best to keep that from happening, and there are some great days. But the organized chaos of my cancer journey is reflected in how they do/do not perform in class. As a parent, it's really hard to help them keep focused when, thanks to chemo and being pulled in 800 directions, you're having a hard enough time keeping yourself focused. And it's a fine line between using the cancer as an excuse vs a valid explanation to the situation. Yes, it's affecting the kids, but, no, that doesn't excuse the problems.

It's also difficult because I'm home more than usual, which means that the kids have me around more to help them, and I've been able to go to the school a bit more than usual, but at the same time, my availability isn't free enough that I can go in to do PTA-related programs, etc. If it's a "down" day, I am screwed. Which means the kids are screwed.

I'm also finding my son, specifically, is all over the place. If he has a great day at school, he's impossible at home. If he's had a challenging day at school, he's brilliantly wonderful at home. Not only is there zero balance, but he can't grasp the idea that it doesn't have to be one or the other - having brilliant days in both places, or even just good

My daughter, on the other hand, has gone from being diligent in getting her work done to being terribly scattered. She forgets things constantly. She's more distracted than ever. She'll use keeping me company, making me grilled cheese sandwiches and other care-taking tasks from doing her homework. That "just 5 minutes" too easily becomes a 1 hour procrastination exercise.

And, the fact is, there really are days when I am too tired/unfocused to help the kids with their schoolwork. I can't pick up and run out to buy craft supplies at the 11th hour. I'm not always right around the corner from Staples so I can grab what they need on my way home. And I don't always have the funds available for random project materials.

Housework

Between the infection, surgical recovery, etc. I have to take it easy. And not just light housework, I can't even do light Pilates. And the fact is, when I tried to do housework and other activities, even modified, it proved to be too much and enabled a nasty infection and healing problem - hence 2 weeks in the hospital. I can't afford to have that happen again. There's no way.

This means very little activity in the house - I can cook a little, I can shop (though I still have to be careful and not push/carry too much), a little bit of laundry duty, and that's about it. This means the kids have to pick up the slack and really step it up. Laundry, dishes, vacuuming, sweeping, etc - it's all on them.

There is no question they hate it.

But they have to do it.

And, frankly, I don't feel entirely badly about it, either. For the past couple of years, since we moved back into the house after all of the construction debacles, the kids have totally abused this home that I literally slaved over. They've consistently trashed the room that I built for them. They have shown little or no regard for any of their belongings and what I've had to do, and continue to have to do, for them to have. So, it's hard time that they learn how to take care of things around here. So, as unfair as it may seem, I see this as much as necessary because I can't do it as I do chores backed up from the past few years. Again, they can't use the "Our Mommy Has Cancer" routine with me to get out of this.

Hence, the earned title, "The Mean Mommy."

Emotionally

Draining. The stopper is out and everything is down the pipes drained. Cancer sucks the emotions and life out of you, anyway. It can strip you of so much of what you know and thought defined you. You are broken down to your bare bones, which is an emotional and psychological feat. You find yourself stripped and, as you go along the journey, dropping a lot of dead weight in the form of fair weather friends, unreliable time suckers, etc. And, when it comes to your children, there are days when, if you were spoken to or treated the way that they do, particularly as they enter their teen years, numerically and/or with their attitudes, you'd drop them like dead weights. But we can't.

No, that doesn't mean that I don't love my children. But, there are moments, when I simply do not like them. Every parent understands what I'm talking about. That flash when you think, "That's it. I'm locking them out of the house and they can sleep in the backyard with the raccoons and the squirrels for all I care. I'm done." But then you realize, it's not that you adore them that much, but that you can get into serious legal trouble if you did that. Kind of like when you contemplated stapling their clothing to the wall, with them still in them, to keep them still for 2 minutes and get something done. In theory? Yes, it would accomplish what you need, but the authorities frown upon that sort of thing.

My son is in your face about his wrath, at least, when it reaches a boiling point. He gets in my face. Not cool. Not because it shakes me to the core and I fall apart, but because that does nothing more than cause a surge of adrenaline inviting me to get back into his face and remind him that I'm bigger, meaner, and I'm the BBOC - Big Bitch On Campus. That's the stress that breaks me down. That energy burst and reaction.

And his passive aggressive nature of defying direct instruction, or popping on his iPod or staring you down instead of verbalizing responses are enough to make me want to strangle him. In the back of my mind, all I can hear is Cher yelling, "SNAP OUT OF IT!" and the sound of the satisfying slapping of Nicholas Cage.

My daughter, on the other hand, has decided that despite my son trying to help get things together, to take every opportunity to bug the bejeezus out of him and starting shoving/smacking contests. She doesn't understand the concept of, "No!" and "Leave him alone!" And, though she looks like a Disney character that should be herding small woodland creatures to do her bidding, she has zero concept of "pick things up/put things back after you use them." While she wouldn't litter outside, she'll just drop wrappers wherever she is. She leaves her hair brushes, clothing, socks, underwear EVERYWHERE. And then, when you ask her to follow up, or do her share of the chores, she immediately points at her brother, declaring, "IT'S NOT FAIR!" and whining.

I'm sure many of you are reading this and saying to yourself, "Nu? That's my everyday life." Well, it's mine, too. But when you factor in that you're not feeling well, it's not the normal situation where you can step in, and while they are asleep, clean up after them, etc. you have to depend on your kids to do the right thing. You can't let emotions and stress get in the way of your treatment, because it really can prohibit progress.

And, at the same time, you also have to be emotionally ready to handle when their fears and feelings of uncertainty about you hit them. Which compounds your own fears.

I'm going to talk about other emotions facing a single mom with cancer, later... and it may not be appropriate for all audiences. Yes, I'm going to go there. Yeah, I have needs. What of it? Wink...

You find you get a LOT of help & support at the very beginning, but then, I think, it gets "old" to the people around you. I know people are thinking, "Alright, already. You have cancer. But, come on, seriously? You're still not better? You still need help?"

The answer is, "Yes." A cancer patient needs help/support for a really long time.

It's hard enough to ask for, accept or know what kind of help you'll need in the best of circumstances.

It's a rocky road. It's a scary road. And very few people in your life will be able to comprehend the kind of aid, help, support and assistance you'll need.

But when you're raising a family on your own, which is a path filled with obstacles already, it's virtually impossible.

So jazzed about this, have to share it! I LOVE repurposing within the cycling world!

2011-12-09T06:57:00.000-05:00

NYC DOT Announces Commuter Biking has Doubled in the Last Four Years and Conversion of Parking Meters into Bike Racks to Meet Growing Demand for Bike Parking

Commuter bike riding nearly quadrupled in the last decade, growing 8% in the last year

175 decommissioned parking meter poles repurposed as bike racks, 6,000 more planned citywide

New York City Department of Transportation (DOT) Commissioner Janette Sadik-Khan today announced a continued steady increase in commuter bike riding in New York City, with an 8% increase in bike riders counted at commuter locations this year compared to last year’s record number. According to counts of bike riders made at six commuter locations, bike riding has increased 102% compared to 2007 and by 289% compared to 2001. In that time, safety has increased for all street users, with fatalities at their lowest levels in the century that records have been kept, while serious bike injuries and fatalities have remain unchanged despite the near-quadrupling in bike riding. DOT also announced the installation of 175 of the city’s first parking meter bike racks, using an innovative design that allows hoop-shaped bike racks to be securely fastened to former parking meter poles. The City currently is reviewing responses to a Request for Proposals for a vendor to manufacture 6,000 additional racks to be installed at meters citywide to help meet the city’s growing demand for public bike parking.

“Our infrastructure needs to keep pace with new demands on city streets,” said DOT Commissioner Janette Sadik-Khan. “By transforming obsolete parking meters into off-the-rack bike parking, we are recycling old facilities to meet this growing need.”

DOT estimates changes in bike riding through counts of bike riders at six commuter locations: the City’s four East River bridges, the Hudson River Greenway at 50th Street and at the Whitehall Ferry Terminal. An average of 18,846 cyclists per day was recorded this year, up from 17,491 in 2010; 9,327 in 2007; and 4,927 in 2001. The growth in commuter bike riding and increase in safety come as DOT has brought an unprecedented campaign to engineer safer streets citywide. In the last four years, the agency has added some 260 miles of bicycle lanes to streets in all five boroughs to enhance safety for all users, especially pedestrians. In its landmark Pedestrian Safety Report and Action Plan, DOT found that streets with bike lanes are 40% less deadly for pedestrians. The complete Commuter Cycling Indicator can be found at nyc.gov/dot.

175 decommissioned parking meter poles have had a hoop-shaped bike rack secured to it to provide new bike parking, eliminating the cost of removing the obsolete poles and installing an entirely new rack.

Made from galvanized, durable ductile iron, meter racks easily slide on to former parking meter posts that have had their heads removed following DOT’s installation of new, user-friendly muni meters. By taking advantage of already-installed infrastructure, the meter racks eliminate the cost of removing old posts combined with the cost of installing an entirely new bike rack. DOT completed initial installations this year, with 175 meter racks now complete on Columbus Avenue from 68th – 85th streets and Amsterdam Avenue from 66th -86th streets in Manhattan; on Seventh Avenue from Garfield to Fifth streets in Brooklyn; on 37th Avenue from 73rd-77th streets in Queens; and on Johnson Avenue in the Bronx.

The new meter rack’s design is based on the standard “Hoop” rack designed by Ian Mahaffy and Maarten De Greeve, which was selected as the winner of a DOT and Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum-sponsored competition in 2008. The design also reflects time-tested methods pioneered by DOT to secure the racks to the poles in a way that improves durability, reduces the need for maintenance and helps to prevent theft and vandalism.

Through its CityRacks program, the DOT has installed more than 13,000 city bicycle racks citywide to date, providing parking for more than 26,000 bicycles, most of which were installed within the last four years, and with a record 2,700 racks installed in the last fiscal year. New Yorkers can also request rack installations at nyc.gov/dot.

For more information, visit nyc.gov/dot.

"Wow, this round isn't treating you well, is it?"

2011-12-04T02:38:00.002-05:00

You know it's bad when you walk into your doctor's office, and the first staff member that meets you takes one look at you and says, "Wow, this round isn't treating you well, is it?" First thing in the morning, I had my Neulesta shot at Dr. Tepler's office yesterday. There was a mix up when I left Friday after my chemo with scheduling my follow up shot, so it was delayed. My daughter, who was still sick, was with me, and Diane, the nurse, came out to bring me to the back. She put one arm around my shoulders, pulled me in, looked me in the eye and said, "Wow, this round isn't treating you well, is it?" I smiled and said, "No, how'd you know?" She sat me down and told me she could see it in my face.

Despite wearing my wig, my Mary Kay, etc, the exhaustion I'd been experiencing all weekend came through. I looked stiff, my eyes were red, and I guess it was just apparent through my smiles and jokes. I shook my head and she asked me to tell her what was going on.

I told her about the pain after the Aloxi, and the fact that there was still green swelling on my right hand. Even before the Neulesta shot, which is notorious for making bones ache, my joints felt terrible. I was bloated, with heartburn, so tired, and experiencing blurry vision. I felt scrambled and run down. I had no focus. I was just off.

The Neulesta shot done, and I went out to the reception area to book my follow up with Dr. Tepler. Bonnie, the scheduler, looked at me smiling at the desk and said, "This round isn't treating you well, is it?" I looked around - was I wearing a billboard? I was smiling. I was giggling. I was trying.

My daughter had wandered off a bit waiting for me and she came back to get me. I realized that time had dragged on, and I didn't have enough time before my appointment with Dr. Nordberg for a fill to go back to the office, so we headed to the hospital cafeteria. I had to get in touch with the anesthesiologist to get the name of the protocol he used on me (paravertebral block) because a friend of mine wanted to know for her mother. Sure enough, as we're sitting at the table, Dr. Park, the anesthesiologist, walked into the cafeteria. We had a quick chat, which included, "I hope you're feeling better," even though I hadn't said I wasn't feeling well.

After a small excursion, we headed back to the Jeanne S. Rich building to Dr. Nordberg's office and sat in the waiting area. Theresa, Dr. Nordberg's assistant, was out, so he was handling his own front desk duties. Dr. Nordberg came out to call me in, took a look at me and said, "Wow, this round isn't treating you well, is it?"

I was now suspicious that I was being punked. But, without much ado, Dr. Nordberg declared that there would be no fills, as he wanted to see me feeling better. I was a bit disappointed, as with every week without a fill, that delays the final reconstruction a bit, but I've learned not to expect any of this process to stick to any kind of timeline.

So, the bottom line? I guess this round isn't treating me well.

The Rainbow Connection

2011-11-28T17:57:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, I promised to take the kids to see "The Muppets," after spending much of the day curled up on the sofa watching Star Wars on SyFy network. It was a slow day. A slothy day. I haven't been feeling great with this round of chemo. Of course, there was a mix up with the oncologist and my Neulesta shot. I was told Friday that I'd get a call with the time to come in Sunday morning. Of course, they meant to say Saturday morning, and no one had called. What's the significance? Well, there are a few issues: 1) This isn't the first time there was a scheduling oversight that was chemo related. 2) The Neulesta shot, which boosts immunity to prevent infection and other complications while your resistance is as its lowest, is supposed to be administered within 24 hours of the chemo and 3) My daughter had the sniffles. So, late yesterday afternoon, just as "Return of the Jedi" was starting, I had to pile the grublings into the car to drive them to the pediatric urgent care center to spend $50 to get an ointment for my daughter's rash and to get the doctor to essentially confirm that she has the sniffles. The fun part? The rash prevents her from using hand sanitizer, as it burns, which creates some difficulty making sure she's "sterile" enough to be around me while I am going through chemo. Even more fun? She wouldn't be able to go to school the next day.

Since I'd clearly been exposed to her for hours on end, with this sniffle and rash, it seemed like it didn't matter anymore if I exposed myself to more grublings at "The Muppets," so, as planned, we went to Clearview Cinemas in Mount Kisco for the 6:45 pm show. We sat down, and, it was somewhat comforting to know that the reason the screen seemed so small isn't because I've outgrown the mystique of watching the Muppets on the big screen, but because they have slashed the screen sizes. I was pleasantly surprised by a greeting by an usher - kudos to the Mt. Kisco Cinema crew! - and the movie began.

Now, as someone tapped into pop culture, marketing, etc, I know as well as anyone that part of the reason this movie is going to be successful is that not only does it entertain kids, but it will appeal to those of us who grew up with the Muppets. It will play on our sentimentality, especially since our generation seems to still think that it was just yesterday we were watching "The Muppet Show" in our footie pajamas sitting on the floor of our living rooms on Thursday night. I anticipated being taken back to that time. I looked forward to having the feeling that I was joining my kids as one of their peers and getting lost into the magic of Jim Henson and Frank Oz.

Here's what I wasn't expecting: A complete melt down during interactions between Kermit & Miss Piggy, nor was I expecting the weeping session that followed "The Rainbow Connection."

There are certain groups of friends, brought together by various circumstances, that you envision will be cohesive, unified and together forever. High school classes, camp friends, work groups, etc. There are so many circumstances in life that bring people together, but we've all experienced those few that just "click" with us in such a way that a family is formed, rather than born, without any genetic ties. Just like The Muppets - a collection of critters and monsters from all walks of life - we assumed, as innocent children, that even long after we stopped watching The Muppets in turn to watch The Cosby Show, FRIENDS, and other shows, that they would carry one as one happy family, just for another generation. But we never imagined they'd break up. Who on earth would have ever conceived of the idea that Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog wouldn't speak for decades?

And so, as I'm watching this clearly painful rift between Kermit and Piggy, my heart broke, thinking of friendships damaged, a family I always thought was impenetrable split, in my mind, and missing people that should still be in my life.

As if that weren't difficult enough to sit through, while the child in me was still enthralled by The Muppet Magic, those first strums of the banjo brought the water works back. Not only was I reflecting on this particular friendship, for which this song has meaning, but I started listening to the lyrics. Listening really hard. And, as I sat back in my seat, feeling the itching of my short, red wig against my scalp, feeling achy from the chemo, and getting frustrated with some of the blurriness I'd been experiencing since my last round of chemo on Friday, I realized that I wasn't sure there was still a Rainbow Connection anymore. I never thought that Kermit doubted the rainbow, but was just questioning its mystique. But, as I fight cancer, as I feel like I'm losing control, and definitely not like an innocent child anymore, I found myself questioning anything and everything magical. I was questioning hope. Can there be any? Is it worth it?

WWKD? What Would Kermit Do?

No, I was one of the lovers and the dreamers. I always was. But, wow, it was a scary moment when I started questioning the hope that I always thought was inherent in me.

Snuggies

2011-11-26T22:59:00.000-05:00

You know it's one of those days when you're bundled up in a Snuggie. Not to knock the Snuggie - I think it's one of those things that many of us could never imagine owning, but once we do, we "get it." Yes, it's the modern day equivalent to a moo moo, but it's like a fuzzy hug when you feel like poo.

My friend, Robyn, got me one from an online special. It has monkeys on it. And it arrived in the mail today.

It couldn't have arrived on a better day.

This round of chemo is not treating me well. First, the Aloxi reaction, then, I have to wonder, it's effectiveness was compromised by the reaction, because I've been feeling so rundown and off. I haven't been nauseous to the point that I couldn't eat - I haven't really been hungry today, though when the kids ate near me, I wanted to eat with them. But I've just been off.

So, it's been me, the Snuggie, the cats, the kids, the TV and the sofa. And I've moved maybe 3 inches all day.

Deadly sin of the day? Sloth.

Chemo Round 1 ends tonight. Chemo Round 2 starts tomorrow morning...

2011-11-25T00:17:00.000-05:00

And that's why I'm thankful. Bizarre, isn't it? But it's one more step to beating the crap out of cancer, and moving on with my life. Every delay has meant keeping me from finishing off my chemo treatment. Which delays my reconstruction surgery. Which delays my hormone treatment. Which delays my 5-year of being safe. Which delays my ability to say that I am officially cancer-free.

Here's what else I'm thankful for...

My Valkyrie knit hat by my cousin, Adina
For the first time in my life, we had a conflict-free family Thanksgiving. And I wasn't even drunk, nor did I have a significant other at the table to distract me
The morning steroids I had to take for chemo that got me zipping around the house like a maniac to get the turkey done, clean the house in order to make up for the fact that the cleaning lady didn't make it yesterday
The strength that it took for me not to kill the children this morning
Shower-free cleansers stolen from the hospital on a morning when I wasn't able to take a shower this morning
My Aunt Susie's rendition of my grandmother's potato kugel
My son's pumpkin pies (thought he gets a negative point for having eating a quarter of the pie tonight when he was supposed to be washing dishes, which I discovered he ate when he was on his way to bed)
My mother's rendition of my grandmother apfelkuchen
The wine my uncle brought in abundance
Scented soy candles
Southern Living's accessory line that makes me look professional
My nickname - Martha Jewart
Vacuum cleaners
My father washing the dishes

And, now, for your video-watching pleasure...

And, just for you... one of the more humiliating moments in my Thanksgiving life...

The latest and greatest: Hospital release, long weekend, new look, planning 2012

2011-11-18T09:39:00.001-05:00

To cover what wasn't covered in the video persay...

It's been a long week. Of not much of anything. Sure, things started off with a bang with my friend's daughter's Bat Mitzvah - it was a wonderful affair, a great reprieve from being in the hospital (though, my only regret was that I couldn't have alcohol thanks to the antibiotics, damn it). It was especially cool to see the mythical city of Vineland, which Billy had talked about for years. It was far from what I'd imagined, but an interesting place. It was a bit like Oberlin times 10, a bit of the "wrong side of the tracks," a dash of Eastchester, mixed with a Southern/Midwest twist.

I have to send a BIG kudos to the Joyce family, for finding that perfect balance between made-from-the-heart, handmade affair with professionally catered and semi-formal reception. Everything had a personal touch - everything - and yet, the amount of food was incredible, the decor was so much fun, and the DJ was great (and I'm not a big fan of your typical Bat Mitzvah DJs and games). THANK YOU, again, for a wonderful time! My only regret? I missed the majority of the service as we got a late start driving down to Vineland, and we got terribly stuck on the GWB to boot (I hate that stupid bridge).

The next morning, we had a farewell breakfast with the Joyce family, and then we stopped by my friend Lisa's house. We thought we were stopping by for a quick cup of coffee and maybe a nosh, but we walked into her husband, Scott's, birthday party. To make things even more exciting? Our kids got along smashingly. Instead of 2 sets of siblings, they acted like 3 brothers and 2 sisters. It was awesome.

I knew it was going to be a week of recovery at home after the hospital stay and the New Jersey trip, but what ensued was unexpected. I was quite content doing nothing but lying still for 99% of the day. I didn't clean. I didn't do laundry. I didn't do dishes. I resisted the urge to say, "Screw the stitches, I'm cleaning this damned house and doing what I always do," and I sat still. I stressed, yes. I cried and yelled at the kids, yes. I asked my doctor to put me back into the hospital.

But I didn't take part in any activity that would strain the surgical wounds, or encourage an infection.

Yesterday, however, was my big day out. I had a doctor's appointment in the morning. Dr. Nordberg agreed that things look really good, that it looks like the infection has cleared, the swelling is reduced, and the draining is at a place where we could remove the drain, but, we're keeping it in to make sure that we don't have a repeat of the seroma. The target drain removal date is Monday, which allows for chemo to continue next week. I decided that while I was in the building, I'd run over to Dr. Tepler's office to make an appointment for my chemo session next week, as I had a hunch there wouldn't be a lot of available appointments. Sure enough, there was one opening on Friday. That visit led to returning the art supplies to the art enrichment program at the Bennett Cancer Center at Stamford Hospital, which became a 15 minute chit chat. Then, it was a restock the refrigerator after the Snoctober Storm Blackout session at Fairway Market, which led to lunch with My Rock. Talk about a good man, after 2 weeks of free lunches at the hospital (I was allowed 2 guest trays a day, so he would come every day for lunch to visit me, though I think it really was the turkey sandwiches and brownies), he offered to meet me at Fairway during his lunch break to treat me to lunch, finish pushing the now fully-loaded cart around, and then to load my car so I didn't have to lift anything heavy.

After that, I went to the Hair Bow to pick up some wig stands, which evolved into me trying on wigs and finding my final, spunky wig - so now, I have a complete hair wardrobe to suit every mood and situation I find myself in: My professional wig, my sexy night out wig, my errand-running hat-friendly wig and now, my fiery badass wig. It's shorter than I'd ever cut my real hair, it's a fierce red (Molly Ringwald red), shaggy, highlighted, and just so much fun!

I had to pick up my Madone from Danny's Cycles, and the new wig (which, yes, I wore out of the store because I looked so fierce), really confused the guys there. I had a nice conversation with Dave, the mechanic, who is my rock star, and then I was off to Regina's house to pick up the product from a holiday fair on Friday night. I was greeted by a very pleasant surprise - I knew that I had been named Miss Go Give for our Mary Kay unit in 2011, and I'd been given my certificate. What I didn't know is that I was also given a diamond necklace for the honor! Talk about a pleasant surprise!

Of course, Starbucks was having their 2-for-1 holiday latte giveaway, so I made a pit stop for two gingerbread lattes to celebrate, dropped of the tongue at my mother's house I picked up at Fairway, and then got home. I was thrilled for a night in, when My Rock called again, asking to stop by. That was a welcome intrusion to the evening, until my daughter pointed out that the painting class for cancer fighters and their families was happening at the Bennett Cancer Center. So, instead of the nice steak, green bean and yam dinner I had planned, we cracked open a couple of cans of soup, cup up the cornbread, and shared a quickie soup and bread dinner with My Rock, kicked him out, and then hustled to Stamford Hospital.

Fortunately, I was able to finish my two paintings (photos to come soon), and the kids did a couple of paintings, as well.

So what have I learned from all of this?

I am a neat freak trapped in a slob's body.
Hiding from mess makes things all better.
It's worth paying someone else to clean your house so you can get what you need to get done done, especially when you suck at it in the first place.
It's especially worth paying someone else to do it when you can't.
When the doctors tell you to stay put and rest, do it. Otherwise, you're facing 11 days in the hospital and going under the knife.
My base temperature has dropped to the high 96-low 97 range for no particular reason.
I look like Charlie Brown when I don't shave down the few hairs that refuse to yield to the chemo.
I don't always look like Jabba the Hut with a short haircut (though I'm not convinced enough to cut my real hair that short. I'll just keep the wig for future reference).
My Rock is possibly the most incredible man I've met. Ever. And I think I'm the only person who can make him blush.
Fairway Market rocks. Duck and steak in chimichurri sauce for $7.99 a pound at their hot buffet. Who else does that?
Diamonds make the day that much better.
Being a good team player and giving from the heart really does get recognized by people.
You really can drink 2 Venti Gingerbread Lattes in one sitting. Just make sure there is a bathroom nearby about an hour later, because it goes right through you.
Painting is fun. I'd forgotten that.

So, what's next while I'm homebound today? Aside from work, I'm putting together the calendar of 2012 LIVESTRONG Events, the sponsorship plans for local business to get on board and kick off 2012 fundraising, and preparing for tomorrow's EFTA Promoter's Meeting, where I expect the ROCK the RIDGE to become an EFTA NECS points-qualifying race!

Video Updates, including today's trip to the operating room...

2011-11-11T01:54:00.000-05:00

Chemo Day 39

Chemo Day 41

Chemo Day 42: Unplanned trip to the operating room

Triumph... and paying the piper with the help of some friends. (With friends like them, who needs enemies?)

2011-11-06T13:06:00.000-05:00

The LIVESTRONG Challenge changes you. It just does. On an emotional level, a physical level, and dare I saw, on a molecular level. The experience, the Challenge itself, the people, and every moment become indelible.

For me, this year, it was a mix of emotions. I was exhilarated that we'd achieved Ride for the Roses status. We'd met that goal, still leaving the goal of Yellow Jersey for the future - it's not often that you can achieve a huge goal and still have a further goal within the same genre, but LIVESTRONG sets many bars to reach. Along with all the amazing dinners, receptions, experiences, and swag comes the opportunity to challenge yourself in both the ride and the 5k run.

I am not a runner. I can proudly say that I never have been. Yes, I can sprint, at least I used to, in basketball. Such is the life of a forward - you have to sprint from one end of the court. I always prided myself on always being the first to be where I needed to be, much to the surprise of other players, as I was typically twice their size. But that was as far as I would go, and that did my knees in years ago, along with too many years of advanced ballet too young.

I decided to do the 5k. I knew I wouldn't be running all of it - forget training for the run, I hadn't managed to train for the bike ride. I had no business "running" it. But, I wanted to run some of it. So, I brought my only sneakers, my Reebok Reetones (yes, the ones that were recalled), got a firm sports bra (LIVESTRONG, of course) to wear under my t-shirt, and got ready. I was going to walk all of it except the last bit to the finish line.

But the adrenaline got to me at the start, and I decided that I had superwoman powers, and I decided to run. I turned to my kids and said, "Ok, let's go." And they both started whining. I reminded my daughter that she's the one who decided to participate in the 5k in the first place, long before we got the complimentary entries. And I reminded my son that he kept wanting to do triathlons, so a 5k was nothing. My son and I started to jog, and my daughter just pouted and walked. I told my son to go ahead, and I let her catch up to me. So we walked together and enjoyed the walk. We did silly walks uphill on Congress, we stopped to see the sights and pose for pictures. Until my son was back in sight and we were on a flat going downhill. And then it was game on. I jogged a bit, and then went back to walking. I encouraged my son to continue so he could had me my rose at the finish line.

Just as I was turning a corner, my son's iPod that he loaned me played, "Fix You." As the melody turned to a driving beat, I upped my pace. I ran for the remainder of the song. I meant to fast-forward through the next song, and somehow, I ended up locking the song that forced me to run into a repeated loop. So, at this point, everytime the beat picked up, I started running. The words of the song struck me, as I passed some LIVESTRONG staffers that had been sending words of encouragement through my treatment were on the course and started cheering me on. I couldn't stop running in front of them, and I started crying a bit.

My son was a good couple of blocks ahead, jogging, and my daughter was starting to catch up again. She stopped and gave me a flower, and the music turned from mellow to driving, and she ran with me, as we sang out loud together. I got through another few blocks, and then, I could see the finish line in the distance. As the song started over again, I told my daughter I was going to run the rest of the way. She pouted, and said she couldn't, so I kissed her and told her I'd meet her at the end.

And I ran. And it hurt. But I kept moving forward. My run became a jog as the reality of the incline of the bridge came into sight. This was an incline I would suffer riding up, let alone running up. But I pressed forward, and as I did, the tears became more frequent. I saw my son cross the finish line and move over to where the volunteers were with the roses. He was in place, now all I had to do was to reach him.

I started to hear the announcers, see the black-shirted staff members come into view, and Doug Ulman's figure up ahead. And then I saw the split - between the masses and the survivors. I started to weep. I was in disbelief this was happening. I was running in a 5k. I would have to go through the survivor chute, not the general chute. I'd be getting my first yellow rose - a prize and a symbol that I really had cancer. Doug Ulman greeted me as I tried to run, and I don't even think I responded - I was blubbering and sobbing. I saw my son, who had my rose reached out. I passed by all the other volunteers, and, with one hand, I took the rose, and with the other, wrapped my arm around my son, hugged him, and started to cry uncontrollably, as he moved me across the finish line. It was over. I had done it. I got my first yellow rose. And I ran in a 5k.

The next day was the bike ride. Again, I didn't want to anger my still-healing wounds from my double mastectomy. Not that I felt much of anything other than tightness and some swelling, but my doctor kept telling me I was healing. Fellow survivors kept telling me I was healing. So, I had purchased another serious sports bra. It compressed, provided support, nothing moved when I moved. I kind of overdid things on the 5k, though.

My legs weren't "there," as we say in cycling. I didn't have my legs. I struggled on every incline, not just the big first uphill that declared several casualties, sidelining us and forcing us to walk. Every incline hurt. I didn't have my groove. As much as it felt from the waist up that I hadn't accomplished much, my legs weren't happy, and it seemed that this year the course was hillier than the year prior. And, I found the tightness in my chest made it more and more difficult for me to breathe. I kept trying to breath into my back, as my pilates instructor had advised me to do. But it wasn't happening. I wasn't getting enough air. I had to stop.

Over the next day or two, I'd noticed that my left breast was still a bit pink and slightly swollen, but it wasn't alarmingly different from the right.

But it was on the trip home, as American Airlines directed us all over the Chicago Airport from gate to gate, running all around with bags, a regular bra, and after a long, extended flight from Austin, that my left breast started feeling really sore. By the time we arrived in Newark, it was clearly inflamed. It was now a bright pink, and I could see that my shirt was being pulled to the left thanks to the swelling. By the next morning, it was almost a full cup size larger than my right.

I went to Dr. Nordberg, my plastic surgeon, to look at the redness and swelling and to see if I was still on course with Round 2 of chemo. Instead, chemo was postponed and I was sent for a sonogram. The sonogram showed nothing more than edema - it was just swollen - with no obvious source. We determined that I'd possibly overdone things a bit in Austin, and that the entire American Airlines debacle had sealed the fate of the irritation, literally blowing it up out of proportion. I was put on a rest program, no pilates, no nothing. Just light movement/work, no housework or anything strenuous.

I did what I could to keep to that. For a week, I kept low. However, then the freak snowstorm hit. I was taking it easy, lounging on my sofa, working on my blog for the Journal News, going over some stuff for Danny's and for my full-time job, and the power went out. For 2 nights, the kids and I cowered under the covers of my bed as we watched the temperature indoors plummet from 68 degrees to just over 40 degrees on Monday afternoon. I was feeling sicker and sicker. I developed a fever, just over 99 degrees, by Sunday night. I kept calling NYSEG, pled for help from NYSEG, etc, for someplace to go other than a warming shelter. This wasn't snob appeal, but I knew that my immune system was already suppressed from the chemo, and again with whatever irritation was developing in my breast - I couldn't afford to be in big crowds for an extended period of time of folks that also may be sick. Something as simple as a cold or a flu could prove to be really problematic. I kept trying to get a hold of NYSEG to explain this, but they kept blowing me off. I asked if they could at least contribute towards a hotel, as they clearly weren't reacting responsibly. They didn't even reply.

I saw the redness in my breast get even worse, and now, there was discomfort. I saw Dr. Nordberg again, after the kids, cats and I relocated Monday night to my aunt and uncle's house in Hamden, CT, for what was going to be a check-in to see if I could proceed with chemo. Instead, I was admitted to the hospital. A second sonogram revealed big pockets of infection around the base of my left breast.

I've been in the hospital since, on an antibiotic cocktail prescribed by Dr. Adler-Klein, the infectious disease guru of Stamford Hospital, that can only be administered via IV. It's likely I won't be released until at least Monday, depending on how the infection is doing. It's plateaued, in my opinion, from the other day.

One drug, in particular, leaves a horrible aftertaste, plaguing the back of my tongue, as though I have terrible chronic halitosis and I haven't brushed my teeth for days. Fortunately, no one can smell that.

But, just like American Airlines and NYSEG, that made what was a surmountable mole hill into an infectious mountain, I'm left with a bitter taste in the mouth.

NYSEG, this one is for YOU!

Chemo Day Catch up...

2011-11-05T23:41:00.002-04:00

Chemo Day 36

Chemo Day 37

Chemo Day 38

Chemo Day 35: In the hospital...

2011-11-02T22:25:00.000-04:00

Yes, I've been admitted to the hospital. Nothing like a good infection to turn your boob pink.

Chemo Day 25: Westchester Region of Hadassah's "Hand of Healing" Lunchon - Before & After

2011-10-24T12:41:00.002-04:00

I Am Living Strong.

2011-10-21T15:42:00.000-04:00

When my oncologist, Dr. Isadore Tepler, told me that my Oncotype test indicated that I scored a 21, my heart sunk. If I had scored an 18, the Jewish number standing for life, and only 3 points away from my score, I would have been able to avoid the recommendation for chemotherapy. However, as it stood, the 21 was far enough over the line, and into the “Maybe Chemo Will Help” category, plus given my age, health and cancer, that he said that if it were his own wife, he’d suggest chemotherapy. The good news was that the Taxotere-Cytoxen combination meant very few side effects. In fact, there was only one guaranteed side effect: Absolute hair loss. Complete baldness.

I’d be a hairless, 2-legged, tail-less cat.

As if this stupid cancer weren’t content with taking my breasts, it had to strip me with the last visible sign of femininity I had left – my long, curly ash blonde hair. The irony? My hair hadn’t been in such good health for years. After having highlighted it for some time, I’d decided to let the highlights grow out. Imagine my surprise when simply by going out in the sun, the highlights re-appeared on their own. Sure, there were a few grays up front, nothing that a little hair color couldn’t cover up with ease in my bathroom. But other than that, there weren’t split ends, my hair developed a lovely, natural curl, and I was saving tons of money to boot.

“But I’ve heard there are chemotherapies out there that can spare my hair. Can’t we use those?”

“Sure. There’s one that will give you a 50% chance of keeping your hair.”

“Great. Sign me up.”

“Absolutely. So, instead of 4-5 rounds every 3 weeks for a total of 12 weeks of treatment, we’ll set up twice as frequent, longer rounds for several months.”

“But I can keep my hair?”

“Like I said, you have a 50/50 chance of that. Oh. Did I mention that you’ll be nauseous, in pain, throwing up constantly, and you’ll probably lose your hair anyway?”

“But… “

“Rica, trust me on this. It’s not worth it. And while I’d heard of the statistics, I have only seen a small handful of my patients keep their hair. And the toll on your body of the other option, known as the ‘Red Devil.’ Is brutal. I won’t administer it. You can go to New York City for it, but it’s not the responsible thing to do and I won’t do it. Hair will grow back. Pain won’t be permanent, but you’ll be miserable. Please reconsider.”

I sat, thought about it, and said, “OK, doc, when do we start.”

Maybe it’s because I was able to somehow justify the double mastectomy as merely a severe boob job, or because I was cocky from dodging the radiation bullet, but something about losing my hair meant, to me, that this was really cancer. This was it. The Big “C.” I couldn’t hide behind the swelling from the reconstruction to mask the fact that my breasts were almost cube-like rocks inside of saggy, empty skin balloons. Even looking at the scars, and the dropping skin, I knew that the solution was within a few weeks.

“What about the polar cap? The oncologist at Dana Farber mentioned something about that.”

“You mean that dry ice thing you wear on your head?”
“Yes.”

“It’s medieval. And I’ve never seen it work.”

“Ok. But have you had patients try it? Was there any success?”

“Yes, I’ve had patients try it. And by round three, they all quit and said it was more painful than it was worth. And it didn’t’ always work anyway. Rica, face it. You’re going to lose your hair. But that only means it’s working.”

I tried. I tried to find out a way to avoid looking like a cue ball. To look like I had cancer. To do what I chickened out of years ago at Oberlin when my friend Callan & I decided we’d shave our heads like Sinéad O’Connor. Callan went ahead with it, and she looked lovely. I chickened out and just went with burgundy hair dye instead. I was terrified that I had a bad “bald head.” For me, you have to have a long, swanlike neck, very round head, lovely décolletage and big, bold eyes to be able to carry it off. I, at the moment, had none of those. I was quite sure that the back of my head sloped back terribly, as my hair always flattened out back there. I had a couple of bumps from sebaceous cysts. My neck is thick and stocky, and, with the lack of exercise, my clavicle was filled with fatty tissue. I was no Callan.

I did know one thing – I hated cancer. I hated this cancer for doing this to me. And I was starting to feel terribly helpless. I wanted to do something.

I went home and started Tweeting about it, at a ridiculously early morning hour. My friend, @twowitwowoo is a breast cancer survivor, and she direct messaged me that when she did it, she got people to sponsor her to shave her head.

I immediately hopped onto Facebook. I was desperate to reach the Ride for the Roses fundraising status for the LIVESTRONG Challenge. I was a couple of thousand dollars away. This was perfect.

I created an event, “Donate to Support Rica’s Head Shaving,” scheduled from mid-September through October 16 – the day of the bike ride in Austin. For $18, a swipe of the clippers would be dedicated to the sponsor. For $50, for those who would be present, you’d be able to shear me yourself. My kids created a poster to take with them when they fundraised at Scotts Corner Market that had my picture with the headline, “Our Mommy is Shaving her Head on 10/16… Ask us Why!” They raised a few hundred dollars over a weekend. By the time October 16 came, I’d raised well over $1,300 and we passed the Ride for the Roses White Jersey Incentive Status, which meant we had V.I.P. access to events, ground transportation, reduced travel arrangements, an invitation to an exclusive “Welcome to Texas Dinner.” And the kids would be treated as my guests and enjoy the same amenities.

That left one thing: To shave my head.

As my video blog entry on Day 13 showed, my hair started shedding. Dr. Tepler had told me it wouldn’t happen until between Round 2 & Round 3. My “chemo buddy,” however, told her it would happen on Day 17. On Day 13, as I was videotaping my blog, I ran my fingers through my hair, and clumps, small, came out. This wasn’t just innocent shedding anymore, this was just the beginning.

Soon after I set up that event, the Gannett had reached out to me to write for their Breast Cancer Awareness October Blog, which I happily did. When I explained to Mary, the editor, what I was planning, she reached across her desk and handed me a Norelco clipper set. There were no barriers left.

Friday night, October 14 was the Welcome to Texas Dinner for Ride for the Roses achievers, according to the agenda, at a “secret location.” My kids were convinced it would be at Lance Armstrong’s residence. I laughed at them, assuring them Lance wouldn’t be so foolish as to invite 300 perfect strangers to his home, and that, perhaps, it was at Juan Pelota’s Ranch – a ranch he’d purchased and hosted many public events, like mountain-bike races. We learned, however, that he’d sold the ranch, which encouraged the kids to think it would be in Lance’s backyard.

Inconceivable.

As we boarded the white buses, we were joined by Chris Brewer, Chief Operations Officer, friend of Lance’s, all-around good guy and cancer survivor. My daughter sat next to him in the front, and, as soon as the doors closed, Chris said, “Ok. Y’all want to know the secret location? We’re going to Lance’s house.” Inconceivable! The kids were right!

"Can Lance be my new Daddy?"

Though the clumps of hair falling from my head were growing, I opted out of wearing a wig. I wanted to let my hair have its last hurrah. But as the evening went on in Lance’s yard, I found larger clumps of hair falling into my hands and onto my clothing. As the evening progressed, I must have discreetly dropped at least 4 or 5 sizeable hairballs on the grass or into napkins and into my purse. Later on, we had the chance to meet Lance and speak to him. He remembered meeting me a month earlier at Gracie Mansion where I told him about my chemo treatments. He asked how I was doing with Round 1, and I explained by apologizing for the clumps of hair he may find in his grass the next morning. He smiled, knowingly, took my hand and said, “It’s ok. I understand. It’s all good.” He asked if I was still going to shave my head, as when we met at Gracie Mansion, I’d told him about the shaving, and he remarked that he’d heard about it. I nodded, and he said, “More power to you.”

During the next day’s 5k run, the back of my neck itched, as the gentle brush of the t-shirt’s collar was enough to rub the hairs out of the back of my head and onto my nape. Taking my backpack on and off drew more follicle casualties. That night was the Fundraising Awards Dinner, and, after I got dressed and passed a mirror in the lobby (I’d opted out of “styling” or washing my hair, as I was afraid I wouldn’t have any hair left for the night), I noticed a bald patch forming along the part of my hair. I dodged into the gift shop and bought a hairband to try and Trumpify the patch by arranging and securing some comb overs. I prayed that the headband itself wouldn’t cause more damage.

At the dinner, the Team RadioShack riders that were there for the weekend were dining a couple of tables away. My son, Zachary, endeared himself to champions Chris Horner, Levi Leipheimer (both bald) and Ben King. At the end of the evening, he went to Chris Horner and asked if he’d be willing to come between 7 and 7:30 to the start point, where our team, Team CCC, would be starting with Team RadioShack and Lance, and help shave my head. Chris looked at me, and Zach explained why we were shaving my head. He looked at me with sympathy, and I responded, “Actually, Chris, it’s because I’m such a huge fan, I decided to get your haircut.” We hugged, he said he’d try to make it, but couldn’t make any promises, but that he was there in spirit.

The next morning, I prepared the Norelco Shaver as a matador does his swords, dagger and cape. I ceremoniously unplugged the Norelco, laid out all the parts onto a towel, and packed it away. I looked in the mirror and tied my hair back into a pony tail. I didn’t care, at this point, if any hairs loosened. They were tied tightly in the ponytail – they weren’t going anywhere. I packed a LIVESTRONG bandana in my backpack to keep my head covered under my helmet to protect the newly exposed skin from rubbing and sunburn. We got kitted up and headed to the busses taking us to Dripping Springs. En route, a couple of people, and the kids, asked me if I was ready, etc, and I told them I was. I was sure that I was going to burst into uncontrollable tears as I had during the video blog from Day 13. But it had to be done. Just as we went on the bus, I could feel that eerie sense of the “chills” creeping across my head, which was a predictor of the next set of hairs to loosen. It was like the burps of gas in the Fire Swap in “The Princess Bride” preceding the bursts of fire from the ground.

We arrived, and we rushed to the Ride for the Roses V.I.P. tent to get our bikes, grab some food, and zip over to the Start/Finish line. My friend, Laurens, fellow breast cancer and bald survivor, was there and helped us carry our stuff to the Start/Finish line. My dear friend, and fellow LIVESTRONG Leader, who’d been my cyber-teddy bear throughout the ordeal was there, and he followed us to the Start/Finish point. Chris Brewer was there prepping to ride, and we invited him to join us. He bowed out, and advised me that he wasn’t sure it was a good idea and not to cause a scene. I promised that I wouldn’t, that I’d do it discreetly, but that Doug Ulman, the CEO, was aware of it, and even said, if he was early enough, he’d join us. Chris watched from afar, as a couple of Team CCC friends came around with Erik and the kids, and we took out the clippers. Liz Kreutz, the sports photographer responsible for some of the most recognizable portraits of Lance, and the sole photographer of the book “Comeback 2.0” asked if she could document the process. I was flattered, and said, “Of course!”

With that, I reached into my bag and got the clippers. Erik, being the tallest present, held the pony tail, and the buzz of the clippers began. Before I knew it, as I was nervously cracking jokes, I felt the clipper guards running along the back of my neck. It seemed like nothing was happening, as no weight was lifting, and that the hair felt like it was getting tangled, not cut. I asked if everything was ok, and Erik assured me it was coming along. A blonde woman approached with a video camera and microphone and asked what was going on. I explained to her what was happening, and she asked if she could interview me. As the clippers buzzed, I got miked, and she asked her questions. I noticed a videographer was also videotaping the experience, in addition to the lady in the crowd manning my camera. (Sadly, she neglected to record the first half.)

More friends came by and helped. As I started to feel the breeze against the back of my neck as I’d never experienced before, the kids asked if they could have a turn. I kneeled down so that my daughter and son could take a whack at their old lady. They enjoyed themselves way too much. What I didn’t realize was, as I bent down, Erik was still holding my ponytail, which essentially just lifted off my scalp with ne’er a tug. If there was any doubt that the end was near, that sealed the deal. The kids and Erik continued to shave me down as closely to the skin as possible so I didn’t look like a Guernsey cow, with dark, stubbly and white, bare skin patches. It was time for our team photo, so I grabbed the ponytail, shoved it into my Ziploc baggy and handed it to Laurens, who kindly checked our bags. Chris Horner wheeled up to me and said, “I’m so sorry I missed it – we were tied up over there!” and gave me a big, warm hug. I smiled, told him, “No worries,” and took our places. We took our photos, and mounted up.

Not a tear was shed.

Or watch a local news report... http://austin.ynn.com/content/280949/livestrong-challenge-continues-with-bike-ride-through-hill-country

(You can also see us start the ride at the head of the pack on the left-hand side in this news clip: http://www.kvue.com/news/Lance-Armstrong-is-celebrating-15-years-of-being-cancer-free-131960548.html)

As LIVESTRONG Tweeted later, “This is #LSCAustin” - LIVESTRONG Challenge Austin - and shared a photograph of the event. And it was. Between not wanting to let down Chris Brewer, and the outpouring of support, with the excitement of the ride and being where I was – yards away from Lance, and all these notables, and fellow survivors and fighters, many of which had it much worse than I did, I felt empowered. I felt strong. It was as though I’d just given cancer a swift kick to the “Pelotas" by taking my hair myself, and not letting chemotherapy slowly, and cruelly, strip my head. And my children joined the fight with me – hands-on. It was a strong message to others, and a strong embrace for me.

Game on, Cancer. Game on.

Chemo Day 20: Fatigue & Morning of Gilad Shalit's Release

2011-10-18T09:39:00.001-04:00

Is it the wrangling of the little uns? Having run in the 5k? The pitiful attempt at riding Sunday? Or the chemo? Who knows, but I am BEAT.

Chemo Day 19: Wrapped up with a pretty bow

2011-10-17T12:39:00.002-04:00

Wrapping up the LIVESTRONG Challenge Weekend...

Chemo Day 18: The Shearing & the Challenge

2011-10-17T05:33:00.001-04:00

Shave and a hair cut... 2 bits!

YNN's coverage of the head shaving can be watched here:
http://austin.ynn.com/content/top_stories/280949/livestrong-challenge-continues-with-bike-ride-through-hill-country

Bit #2

Chemo Day 18: Prepping to go ride and go bald

2011-10-16T06:12:00.000-04:00

Baldly going where no Rica has gone before...

LIVESTRONG Challenge Vlogs...

2011-10-15T08:12:00.000-04:00

Chemo Day 15: Herding Cats

Chemo Day 16: The Eagle Has Landed

Chemo Day 17 Part 1: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

Chemo Day 17 Pt 2: Lance Grass

Chemo Day 14: Whistle While I Work

2011-10-12T17:16:00.002-04:00

The reality of working while going through chemo. In part, I know how lucky I am. In part, I know how risky job security is.

Chemo Day 13: Reality Bites.

2011-10-11T11:42:00.000-04:00

I have nothing to say beyond watch until the end.

Chemo Day 12: I don't like Mondays

2011-10-10T23:30:00.001-04:00

A visit from Cantor Sally Neff Greenberg, close friend, fellow Oberlin graduate, and avid knitter perks up a particularly difficult Monday. Experiencing first hair loss of treatment, Sally brought the perfect gift. Also, meet Schmooie, the amazing feline breast cancer and quadruple mastectomy surviving kitty.

I have breast cancer. That's why I riding tomorrow with Danny's Cycles & Trek Women

2011-10-08T11:59:00.000-04:00

Chemo Day 10: Dedicated to Anonymous

2011-10-08T08:38:00.002-04:00

Part 1:

Part 2:

Chemo Day 9... I think?

2011-10-07T12:05:00.002-04:00

It’s my story. Not yours. Mine. All mine. & Chemo Day 6

2011-10-04T08:57:00.000-04:00

(Reposted from http://breastcancer.lohudblogs.com/2011/10/04/its-my-story-not-yours-mine-all-mine/)

I've always been a very open person. I don't know if it's because I'm a latent exhibitionist, a single child that demands to be the center of attention, or simply because if it's happening, and it's a part of who I am, there's no point in hiding it. That's why I had no qualms working with the Journal News on this project, writing this blog, being open about my cancer diagnosis and journey, etc. Sure, there are things that I won't reveal publicly - ever. I won't admit to my actual jean size. I won't admit to my exact weight. It will be a cold day in hell when I publicly admit to my real age in newsprint. And I'll never reveal my true secret crush from grade school. (Ok. That was hardly a well-kept secret. Anyone who went to Bi-Cultural with me from 3rd grade until graduation knows the answer, including him.)

In today's video blog, I address a strange situation that arose yesterday. Linda Lombroso, the reporter who wrote the story, "Meet Rica Mendes," emailed me to tell me that a person called her, specifically stating that she wouldn't reveal her name, but that I should explain that "the reason I had the double mastectomy was because I was BRCA positive." Linda and I both remarked at how strange this was for a number of reasons.

First, I don't remember making my BRCA status a secret (though, it should be noted, it is, in fact, a very personal, private medical fact that, I'd imagine, most would not share as openly as I have). I honestly couldn't remember at the time if Linda chose to publish that fact in the story. I know we'd discussed it in the interviews and subsequent conversations. Secondly, how did this person know about my BRCA status? And the fact that my genetic test results was a factor in my surgical choice? Lastly, given the fact that there are only a few ways as to how this person could have known this information - by either being a personal friend or contact, by having followed my story/personal blog for sometime, etc - why would this person feel the need to go to the reporter who wrote the article instead of just dropping a line to me personally and pointing out that perhaps that wasn't clear? Why hide behind the anonymity of a nameless phone call to a third party asking that I state, for the record, that's why I had my double mastectomy?

Now, before anonymous gets defensive, please don't take this as an attack. First off, you're still anonymous - I have no idea who you are (though curiosity is killing this cat, and I've been running my Facebook friends, Twitter followers and blog readers through my head since the email trying to figure out who you are, control freak that I am). Secondly, I'm going to use this as part of a bigger point, so bear with me.

This raises a few issues, within the scope of dealing with cancer and beyond.

I have a lot of gay friends. My cousin is an openly gay activist. I went to Oberlin College. I don't say this to make myself seem cool. I say this because I've witnessed, or been a part of, the coming out process for many, many people over the years. From people who came out at birth to those who eeked out of the closet, and those whom I suspect are still in denial of their own identity after all these years, it's a difficult process to go through, with a tremendous amount of consideration taken, etc. It's not done on a whim. I've likened going public with cancer with coming out of the closet. (I don't mean to belittle coming out, but that I have a new understanding of the kind of debate one has with oneself about how to reveal what, when, etc.)

If there is one thing that I've learned from my brave gay friends about revealing something private publicly, it's that you let the person do it at their own pace. Even if you know the absolute truth, straight from the horse's mouth, you do not put it out there for them, or go to a third party requesting/demanding that the individual reveal more than they already have. There are several reasons for this.

Sexuality, and medical status, are, by law, considered private information. There is no obligation to share this information. Therefore, if the individual chooses to share it, it's a big deal, and not something that you're entitled to know unless they choose to share it with you.
You may very likely scare that person back "into the closet." If this person has chosen this time to go public with something that they aren't obliged to share, let them do it at their own pace. You don't know the reasons why they are choosing the method or timing with which they are employing.
You betray their trust. Even if it was part of a semi-public conversation, it's not your information to share. It's theirs. And if you choose to be the authority on them, and take something that they chose to share with you and pass it onto someone else, they will not be able to trust you.
In a longer-term project, like this one, you don't know if there is a bigger communication plan.
It's simply not polite.

One of the issues that LIVESTRONG works very hard to explore is the notion that a cancer diagnosis creates a stigma. In different cultures and parts of the world, you may as well have leprosy. In the film screening I recently attending for "Delivering Hope," a man in Africa explained that being diagnosed with cancer in his village was worse than being diagnosed with AIDS. It was seen as fatal and causing you to be treated as being an untouchable. While, I, personally, do not see this experience as being brave, for others, I know that it is a huge step to go public with their cancer diagnosis. My "chemo buddy" will not be named, for example, only mentioned in passing, because, for her, it's not for public consumption. I don't judge her for that decision, I won't push her to be as public as I am, and I'll never tell her what to do with the information she's chosen to share with me, because, for her, this isn't up for public scrutiny. This is a private matter. When, and if, she's ready to talk more openly about it, I will support her. And if she never does, I'll support her, too.

As it happens, there are a number of reasons why my BRCA status wasn't revealed. First, well, you'll have to ask Linda as to why she didn't include it in the initial story. My only assumption is because she knew I'd be addressing it at some point. Second, it was because this blog, this project, is not to commemorate Rica Awareness Month. It's meant to be an exploration for Breast Cancer Awareness Month. As much as I love the spotlight, even I know this isn't the Rica Horse & Pony Show. I know that my story is just that - my story. It's just one breast cancer fighter's story. It just happens it's the story of a woman who is willing to expose pretty much everything about that journey. But there are other more relevant tales to tell right now that I wanted to focus my posts on, for the moment. I didn't want the first batch of blogs to be all about me. (Well, ok, the only child in me would love nothing else, but the responsible adult knew that the editors that invited me to participate in this would likely frown upon that.)

So, not to worry - I'll tell my story. If you're really antsy and can't wait, you're invited, as always, to read up on my personal blog, which I've been keeping this whole time, at ricalivestrong.blogspot.com. If you want a preview on the BRCA status situation, read the original blog post where I discuss the genetic factors that played a part in my decision, "Welcome to Our Ool," that I'll be using later this month for the specifics.

But, as I've stated in so many of my posts already, my cancer journey, my treatment choices, my surgeries, my doctors and providers are just that - mine. While I may share tips, offer practical advice, share resources, suggest people and organizations to speak to, I will never state that my, personal choices are universal, the be all end all for everyone with breast cancer, etc. Our cancer diagnosis is like our fingerprints - while we all share the basics, they are still incredibly unique to every one of us, and every single one must be considered individually. Even when the test scores and results are identical, the path towards survivorship that we all choose cannot be empirically defined. What I find is "right" for me is just that - right for me. It may not be right for you. And that's ok. Consider this blog post as my universal disclaimer, if that makes you feel better. This breast cancer story is strictly my own. The views and opinions expressed on this web site are soley those of the original authors and other contributors. Thou shalt not assert any other breast cancer stories before me. No animals were harmed in the making of this film.

I don't want to be the Breast Cancer Poster Child for the Hudson Valley. I just want to be Rica's Breast Cancer Journey Poster Child. Again, maybe it's the diva in me, but I don't want my story to be your story. It's my own.

You have to find your own story in your own breast cancer experience.

The difficulty with being told you're an "inspiration" or "so strong..."

2011-10-03T12:05:00.001-04:00

Chemo Day 5

I know I'm a LIVESTRONG Leader, and that implies that I have found some strength in things. That I'm in a position to lead that is more unique than others.

Yes, I've always loved leading things, helping to run events and programs, I'll say it, being in the spotlight. But I'm most comfortable being in that position when I feel like I've earned it. Or that I deserve it. Do I love being in the spotlight because of a great performance? You bet. Do I like being acknowledged as a leader when I have achieved something great? Absolutely.

But here's the thing. I'm hardly an inspiration. I'm a stubborn control freak who is either too hard-headed or stupid to accept the fact that cancer can have some control over me. Is it divine strength or sheer blondeness that I "conquer" through this stuff?

And I'm fallible. I'm so fallible. I have a terrible temper. I can shriek and curse like a truck driver when pushed too far. I say things to my kids that I regret after the blood has cooled and I realize how terrible they were. I can be a tyrannical, screaming banshee in my house. Who knows what terrible things the neighbors think happen in my home? In fact, the poor things witnessed one of my rants as I reamed out a service-provider who was pretending that there wasn't work that had yet to be done and was trying to squirm out of acknowledging the fact he was paid to do things. And that was after a hissy fit because I didn't want anyone in my house.

I spend more hours than I'd like to admit crying, being bratty, and being mopey. I can kvetch, bitch and moan like nobody's business. It's practically an art form. When it comes to certain topics, I am most unforgiving and nasty (just ask my ex-husband and other former friends).

Yes, I say things aloud that, I think, a lot of people feel or wish or need to hear. But that's because I have no filter. That's not because I'm special. It's because I observe things and say them like they are. Yeah, I have a knack for being quippy and putting things in a funny way.

If being just like anyone else, but just more extroverted and willing to blurt things out that would make others shudder inspires you, so be it.

But understand it's not false-modesty when I say, "no, really, I'm not an inspiration, etc," it's genuinely that I just don't see it. I'm glad that things I say and do push others to do good things. I'm happy that LoHud.com has decided that my story, and manner of expression, are helping them spread the word and raise awareness. And, while I would not object to a statue or painting of my likeness (a much thinner version of my likeness that is), don't be offended if I ask or question praise.

I have skeletons in my closet just like everyone else. In fact, I have some pretty gnarly ones. Which is why I don't clean my house.

Chemo Days 3 & 4...

2011-10-02T12:22:00.000-04:00

Chemo Day 3: Same as it ever was

Chemo Day 4: And it was evening...

Chemo Day 4: LIVESTRONG Day

Chemo Day 1 & Day 2...

2011-09-30T14:13:00.000-04:00

Getting ready in the morning...

At the end of Chemo Day 1

And now, today.

Best. Email. Ever.

2011-09-28T23:32:00.000-04:00

Dear Rica,

Congratulations! You have hit the $10,000 fundraising mark, and we are thrilled to invite you to participate in the 2011 Ride for the Roses Weekend as a White Jersey member. We cannot thank you enough for all of your hard work and we look forward to celebrating your accomplishments.

This year’s Ride for the Roses Weekend will take place in conjunction with the Austin LIVESTRONG Challenge (Oct. 14-16). We’re looking forward to a wonderful event and we have many exciting activities planned to thank you for your efforts in the global fight against cancer.

As a White Jersey member, you are now eligible for the following Ride Weekend incentives:

Ride for the Roses Jacket
Ride for the Roses White Jersey
Bus transportation to all Weekend Events (to/from the Downtown Hyatt)
Friday Welcome Dinner (plus 1 guest)
Saturday 5K Entry (plus 1 guest)
Saturday Awards Dinner (plus 1 guest)
Sunday Ride Entry (plus 1 guest)
Sunday Hospitality Tent Entry (plus 1 guest)

*snip*

Again, we send our sincere thanks for your support of LIVESTRONG and the global fight against cancer. We are excited to welcome you to Austin and to celebrate your remarkable fundraising accomplishments.

We’ll see you in October!

Psych!

2011-09-27T20:46:00.001-04:00

This is what I think my docs were doing since the sonogram done on my right breast on Friday. This is how I picture them deciding whether or not to move forward with the chemo this morning, and how they decided who would call me.

As last night's blog explained, I was supposed to start chemo this morning. The only thing that might have interfered was if the slight redness of the right breast and the swelling was a sign of infection. So I had a sonogram done Friday, which showed no problems. My last conversation with Dr. Nordberg was that the sonogram looked good and it didn't appear to be an infection, but it would be Dr. Tepler's call. I called the doctor's office all day yesterday to confirm that chemo was starting this morning. I spoke to staff. Left messages, etc. Finally, I was told if I didn't hear back, to assume chemo was on. This was late in the afternoon. I was assured a call back from the doctor that evening. I'd already taken the morning steroids, and since I hadn't heard back from the doctor, I had to assume chemo was on as scheduled, and I took the evening steroids.

I spent a huge chunk of the night on the internet chatting with the (amazing) Jody Schoger, fellow LIVESTRONG Leader and sherpa extraordinaire, about the chemo. I spent the rest of the night fretting. I didn't get to sleep until 3:30 am. I got up at 6:15 am, as I was getting picked up at 7:15. I got my son out the door, and was just about to hop into the shower when I decided to check my Blackberry. I like to delete morning emails about weather and traffic as soon as they come in so that I know new email is much more important.

At that point, I see an email from Dr. Nordberg, my plastic surgeon. In short, he apologized but wanted to let me know chemo was being postponed. The email was stamped at 6:15 am.

I was livid. Why is my plastic surgeon telling me my chemotherpy session is cancelled? Why didn't my oncologist call me? Or email me? And why did no one tell me anything until after 6:00 am? My oncologist was supposed to call me back the afternoon before!

In a sense, as angry as I am, I'm more disappointed that simple, administrative issues are interfering and angering me with a practice in which I was very confident. The oncology office was, bar none, confidence building. I didn't have a flicker of worry about whether or not it was the write practice for me. But can you imagine if I hadn't gotten that email? The office staff still had me down for chemo! Had I shown up, they would have administered the chemo!

So I was 'roided up enough that I could have lifted Andre the Giant over my head, I was jittering and shaking all day, and my entire week has been thrown off.

I'd finally gotten to the point where I was as ready as I'd ever be, but, then the doctors completely missed the boat! And, even now, the oncology practice has yet to return my call and actually rescheduling my chemo!

I want to ride my bicycle...

2011-09-27T01:41:00.000-04:00

I start my first round of chemo tomorrow morning, in just a few hours. While the time from diagnosis to surgery went pretty quickly, and it was rather extreme surgery, it was absolutely black and white what surgery was necessary. Between the Grade 3 cancer and the BRCA2 genetic test results, it was a no brainer. No regrets.

But this, this took all month at which to arrive. It was a bevy of appointments, hurry up and wait weeks, in-bed recovery, breaking that rule, swollen breasts, irritated drain sites, stubborn fluid, and random fires to put out. And then, when the tests came back, the results were showing nasty cancer, but radiology was ruled out. I thought I was in the clear. That I wasn't going to be the "typical" breast cancer patient. I was a survivor out the gate. Lop off the bad tissue, get the new girls, and defy the stereotype of bald hair, no eyebrows, scarves and wigs.

And, just when I thought I could pull out my bike and start to ride again, I found out I'm having chemo. Which meant more days stuck inside making calls, preparing, and just curling up in my bed.

All I wanted to do was to ride my bike. Just load it up, kit up, find a quiet, straight, long road and ride. I just wanted to start pedaling and get lost in the motion. I needed to feel the wind against my face, hear the whirring of the wheels, the clicking of the shifters, and to feel like I was flying, weightless. I wanted to get lost on those roads for hours, with just enough water, snacks and road that could take all day, from sunrise to sunset. I'd block out the cars. I'd forget that I had cancer. I'd blow off the doctors. I'd have a truly "cancer-free day." The word "cancer" wouldn't come up, because it would just be the sun on my skin, the forced wind through my hair, me, my music and my bike.

But, just like not avoiding chemotherapy and hairloss, I managed to not have a single day to ride my bike. To be free, again.

I'm feeling like a caged bird. A lark. "Nothing there sings, Not even my lark. Larks never will, you know, when they're captive..."

So, I sit in my damask cage, tonight, trapped. I step foot out of my house in the morning and I really become a cancer patient.

I don't even think I can call myself a cancer "fighter" anymore. I can't fight the chemo. And it's fighting the cancer.

I'm just the pin cushion.

Tonight is Yellow Night at Danny's Cycles to benefit LIVESTRONG! Check out the Silent Auction Items!

2011-09-22T09:19:00.000-04:00

Tonight is the Yellow Night at Danny's Cycles to benefit LIVESTRONG! It is looking like it will be a fantastic evening of wine from Zachys and cheese, dessert, and raising awareness and funds for LIVESTRONG! All of our Silent Auction items are listed and you can place a bid online for your favorite item! This will be a true silent auction, so you won't know if you win until the end of the evening, but as long as you live in the United States and are willing to pay the shipping fees, it's all yours!

A tremendous thank you to Danny's Cycles!

Item 1: Wine Basket from Zachys ($1,000 value)

Graciously donated by Zachys, this basket has 5 fine wines. Reds and whites of the highest quality are included. Estimated value of $1,000.

Item #3: "28" Poster signed by Levi Leipheimer

This framed limited edition 28 poster is a mosaic of LIVESTRONG supporters that RadioShack issued in 2010. Pro cyclist, Levi Leipheimer signed this poster in Austin, TX during the 2010 LIVESTRONG Challenge Weekend. Levi Leipheimer has been a Tour de France podium winner, Leadville 100 champion and was the 2011 first place winner of the Tour of Utah. Estimated value of $75.

Item #5: Trek Travel Jersey & Socks

This set of size X-Small Trek Travel jersey and pair of Trek Travel socks is exclusively for participants in one of Trek Travel's cycling tours. Estimated value of $100.

Item #7: Tour of Utah Polo

Another exclusive item from the Tour of Utah, this navy polo features an embroidered UCI logo and was brought back from the Tour of Utah by a Versus producer. Estimated value of $60.

Item #9: Purple Glass Heart Necklace & Earring Set

Stunning hand-crafted purple glass heart necklace and earrings sparkle in gold flecks. The pendant features a lovely flower. Estimated value of $35.

Item #11: Ramona Singer Signed Pinot Grigio

Ramona Singer, cast member of the Real Housewives of New York, not only autographed this bottle of her signature Pinot Grigio, but knowing this was to benefit the Lance Armstrong Foundation, Ramona also signed the bottle with LIVESTRONG.Estimated value of $40.

Item #13: Autographed Team RadioShack Poster

Framed Team RadioShack poster signed by 6 team members of the 2010 roster, including 2010 U.S. National Road Champion Ben King, Jani Brajkovic, Markel Irizar, Yaroslav “Popo” Popovych and Jason McCartney. Estimated value of $100.

Item #14b: With the Band
Signed LIVESTRONG Wristband by Gary Fisher

Known as one of the founding fathers of mountain biking, Gary Fisher was one of the first to get on board with the With The Band project! Nab this piece of cycling history! Estimated value of $55.

Item #14d: With the Band
Signed LIVESTRONG Wristband by Tim Johnson

Tim Johnson is one of America's best professional cyclocross racers, currently with Cannondale's pro team. Johnson has won United States Cyclocross National Championships on six occasions. Tim signed this wristband at a rest stop on his Bikes Belong Ride on Washington, DC for this auction. Estimated value of $55.

Item #14f: With the Band
Signed LIVESTRONG Wristband by John "College" Korioth

"College" may first be recognized as one of Lance Armstrong's closest friends, but don't let that fool you. John's accomplishments include palmares that would impress any competitive cyclist, opening and running two of Austin's hottest hot spots and a history of fundraising an unprecedented support for the Lance Armstrong Foundation. Estimated value of $35.

Item #14h: With the Band Signed LIVESTRONG Wristband by Sergio Paulinho

The 2004 Olympic silver medalist made an international name for himself once again when he won Stage 10 of the 2010 Tour de France for Team RadioShack. A generous domestique, well-liked by team members and fellow members of the pro-cycling peloton, Sergio autographed a set of wristbands to benefit LIVESTRONG. Estimated value of $55.

Item #14j: With the Band Signed LIVESTRONG Wristband by Dave Wiens

David Wiens is known most for his six consecutive wins in the Leadville Trail 100 MTB mountain bike race including defeating both Floyd Landis and Lance Armstrong of Tour de France fame. Last year, his "Tombstone" belt buckle in autographed box sold for a $750 donation to LIVESTRONG. Estimated value of $55.

Item 2: "Vampire Diaries" poster signed by the stars

Signed by Nina Dobrev, Ian Somerhalder & Paul Wesley, this framed poster was autographed and sent specifically for this auction to benefit LIVESTRONG. Donated by Nick Wauters. Estimated value of $200.

Item #4: Watercolor Print

Donated by a local art lover, this lovely piece of framed art depicts a butterfly, a sign of life and loveliness. Estimated value of $100.

Item #6: Team RadioShack Tour of Utah T-Shirt

Donated by a producer at Versus, this limited edition Team RadioShack t-shirt was designed specifically for the 2011 Tour of Utah, which was won by team member Levi Leipheimer. Estimated value of $40.

Item #8: Handlebar Mustache "Pedalin' Squares" T-Shirt

Every cyclist has had that moment where we feel like our wheels no longer want to turn for us. Handlebar Mustache has cleverly depicted that feeling in this baby-soft, 100% cotton t-shirt.Estimated value of $26.

Item #10: Aqua Glass Heart Necklace & Earring set

Stunning hand-crafted blue glass heart necklace and earrings sparkle in gold flecks. The pendant features a lovely flower. Estimated value of $35.

Item #12: "Secrets of a Jewish Mother" signed by Jill Zarin, Lisa Wexler & Gloria Kamen

This must-have guidebook, with a touch of family reality and humor, was autographed by the three authors, cast member of the Real Housewives of New York, Jill Zarin, sister, radio personality and attorney, Lisa Wexler, and their mother, beloved guru of practical guidance, Gloria Kamen. Also, knowing this was for the Lance Armstrong Foundation, Jill wrote the message, "LIVESTRONG." Estimated value of $40.

Item #14a: With the Band
Signed LIVESTRONG Wristband by João Correia

This inspirational cyclist, who rejoined the ranks of professional cyclists at 35 after being in the publishing world for at least a decade, João generously autographed a LIVESTRONG wristband for the cause. Last year, his wristband sold for over $50. Estimated value of $55.

Item #14c: With the Band
Signed LIVESTRONG Wristband by Richard Fries

A highly respected journalist, marketer, and ambassador for cycling, Richard Fries signed this wristband as he accompanied pro cyclist Tim Johnson on their ride from Boston to Washington, DC for Bikes Belong. Estimated value of $35.

Item #14e: With the Band
Signed LIVESTRONG Wristband by Ted King

An American road racing cyclist from Brentwood, New Hampshire, King rides for Liquigas-Cannondale, a UCI ProTeam. Last year, Ted and João had a bidding war on eBay. Both wristbands sold for over $50 - all for LIVESTRONG. Estimated value of $55.

Item #14g: With the Band
Signed LIVESTRONG Wristband by Elizabeth Kreutz

Accomplished sports photographer, Elizabeth Kreutz has has traveled around the world and been granted exclusive access to photograph Lance Armstrong and the Discovery and Astana cycling teams. She has also photographed the 2006 Winter Olympics in Torino and the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing. In 2009, Liz co-authored Comeback 2.0: Up Close and Personal with Lance. Estimated value of $35.

Item #14i: With the Band Signed LIVESTRONG Wristband by Nate Weston

Nate Weston is an exciting, up-and-coming cyclist who has ridden in Under-23 development squads, has had the opportunity to ride with cycling greats like George Hincapie, and has developed a following of young cycling fans. Estimated value of $35.

Item #14k: With the Band Signed LIVESTRONG Wristband by Jill Zarin, Ally Shapiro Zarin, Gloria Kamen

Entrepreneur, author and New York Housewife and staunch supporter of cancer survivorship., Jill Zarin, her daughter and also guest on the Real Housewives of New York, Ally Shapiro Zarin, and her mother and author, Gloria Kame, autographed one LIVESTRONG wristband specifically for this auction. Estimated value of $55.

Well, ain't that a kick in the pants...

2011-09-16T19:02:00.001-04:00

Met with Dr. Tepler yesterday afternoon to go over the Onctotype score and what it means. As previously mentioned, if I scored 18 or under, it would mean that I wouldn't benefit from chemotherapy. A score higher than 18 would mean that I should benefit. And, wouldn't you know, instead of just being able to vote, I'm legal to drink. Yes, I came in at 21. Which means enough to make chemotherapy beneficial.

Shit.

The chemo I'm being put on is only administered 4 times over 12 weeks, which isn't too bad. It's called TC - Taxotere & Cytoxan. The good news is that there's not much nausea, no real big pain problems. The immune system booster may make my bones "ache," but that's it. Except for one side effect.

I will, 100% for sure, lose all my hair between the second and third round of chemo. Which means between October 18 and November 7, I'll be as bald as a coot.

I was able to rationalize the double mastectomy has merely a really extreme boob job. Not ideal, nothing I'd ever planned, but that's the net result, right?

But chemo? 3 hours of sitting in a room with a needle in my room, poison being injected into me. (I'm going to be bored to tears. I mean, can I have my laptop with me? I'd better be able to have my laptop... focus, Rica, focus... ) Even though TC doesn't have too many side effects, what if I'm the 1 in 300 that does? Odds have been all over the place with me.

Chemo alone would be one thing.

But losing my hair? I've been so depressed over having a short haircut that, at the time, felt liberating but, upon restrospect, had me quarantined in the house for weeks. I love my hair. I mean, I genuinely love my hair. Ironically, it hasn't been this healthy since I was a child when I had my Laura Ingalls braids. When all I had to do was swim in the pool and play in the sun and I would go from rich, ash blonde hair to Barbie blonde wisps. When I could grow my hair to my waist. When I used to take baths just so I could submerge my head and watch my hair move around me like a mermaid's hair, swirling around my face.

And, now, after years of trying to make my hair stay straight, I'd finally learned that my hair was curly, and the frizzy insanity that had plagued me when I tried to style my hair tamed into what my hair stylist called "Mermaid hair." I'd let the processed hair grow out, and I'm now left with my virgin hair, my original color, which, after some bike rides and time in the sun, was just starting to get sun-kissed as it did when I was a kid. And I was finally getting some length.

As if my ego weren't frail enough after losing my bosom, which I didn't have much to complain about prior to the mastectomies, I am now leaving the last remaining (visible) sign of femininity. Can a wig really replace that? Will a wig ever feel like it's a part of me? I'm concerned enough that the silicone will always feel like a foreign body and not a part of me. And now, until at least May or June, I'm going to have to have a wig to replace my hair?

I do not have a good bald head, either. The one styling complaint I've had is the fact that I have a slope in the back of my head. Fortunately, the curly hair and layering has covered it, as have elastics and barrettes. But bald? I'll have no way to hide it.

And the scarf? The tell-tale scarf? The, "WOW, that lady is bald - she must have cancer!" scarf? Yes, I used to wear a bandana on a regular basis at camp and in school. But with my hair flowing out the back, with just the right curl of hair at the front poking out. But this will not be a Johnny Depp homage. This will not be a kefiyah to ward off the sun in the Israeli desert. I'll have no hair poking out the bottom. I'll have no eyebrows. No eyelashes.

Yes, I know, I won't have to shave my legs, or my armpits. I won't have to worry about a bad hair day, as I stated in that last blog. But, honestly, I wrote that last blog thinking that the chemo plan wouldn't be as harsh and I'd have a chance to save my hair. I didn't realize that the shorter, easier chemo plan Dr. Tepler spoke about had only one real side effect - the hair loss.

Now, I'm going to look like Kim Zolciak, only without real eyebrows or eyelashes. And that's really bad. I can't imagine that a wig can look like it grew from my scalp. On-stage? Sure. For Halloween? Absolutely. But look at this. You can see it's a wig a mile away.

I can't help but remember teachers from Bi-Cultural who were so painfully obviously wearing wigs. I could never understand why anyone would voluntarily wear a wig. They stand so much higher above where they should. You don't have a natural hair line. It just looks wrong.

And my hair is never overly-styled. It's always tousled, unless I really go all out and straighten and style it for an event. And even then, it falls into its natural position.

How can a wig fall into anything natural? Even human-hair?

Anyway, to make matters worse, when Dr. Tepler and I figured things out, he told me very simply that I won't be able or alright with going wigless for months - not until May or June! Are you kidding me?!

How am I going to do this?

I am going to shave my head. I have to. I can't bear to see clumps of hair disappear. I get upset enough after the shower when, thanks to my Hashimoto's Disease, I see more hair than others normally see wash away. At least there aren't bald spots. But this? The random spots of scalp? I can't do it.

Besides, I'm an all-or-nothing kind of girl. And this way, I can donate my hair to someone else.

So, I'm shaving my head. On October 16. At the LIVESTRONG Challenge with my LIVESTRONG friends and family, my children at my side. I'm taking charge. I'm going to take my hair before the chemo does.

I'm asking you to be a part of it. My kids are making me a big card, which will be with us on Sunday at ROCK the RIDGE benefiting LIVESTRONG and Yellow Night at Danny's, and everyone who donates $18 or more to my LIVESTRONG Challenge Account from now until September 23 (the last day for Ride for the Roses qualification) to sponsor the head shaving will get to sign the card. (We'll sign your names for online donations.) The kids' idea is that the card will remind me, when I get depressed about not having my hair, that there are people who support me, who can see past the baldness when I can't. (If you're going to be in Austin for the Challenge, donate $50 and you can physically help shave my head and take a swipe with the clipper!)

Donate today. LIVESTRONG.

Facing Chemo: The Pros

2011-09-13T13:28:00.003-04:00

I got word yesterday that I'm going to need chemo. I don't know if I'm going to lose my hair, for sure, but with my luck...

So, I'm putting together a "pro" list of chemo...

I will finally make Chabad, the ladies in Meah She'arim that spat at me, and all the Orthodox Rabbis that taught me that once I was married I had to cover my hair proud that I'm finally covering my head, wearing a shaidel, a big hat and/or a scarf, with not a single strand of natural hair will be seen in public
No such thing as a "bad hair day"
I won't have to worry about how much it costs to get my hair done
I won't have to pluck my eyebrows
A valid reason to buy those ridiculously lush false eyelashes that all the Real Housewives wear
I'll be my own case study for how amazing Mary Kay's skin care and makeup is
I can impersonate my cousin if I get a long, deep auburn/brown wig and chemo makes me lose a lot of weight
My hair won't get smushed under my bike helmet anymore
The kids and I can dress as the Three Stooges for Halloween, and I can be Curly
APPLE FRITTERS (an homage to Lance Armstrong)
Can you get a Handicapped Sticker for chemo?
If I'm lucky, I fall on the weight-loss side of chemo, not the weight gain

And, I can wear wigs... I already have these from various costumes:

I have this in glow-in-the-dark filament!

I have a MUCH better version of this one

And this one from my Morticia
Lillian Vernon costume

But... now, if I lose my hair, I can wear THESE...

Flash to 3rd Grade!

Bratty Punk

Severe Israeli

My inner goth

If I get the new boobs, I can pose on a plane's wing
(unless my Rock gets to it and drops
a bucket of nails through it.)

Pitti Sing! "Three Little Maids Are We!"

Last, but not least, if I am afraid of the dark!

Challenge Yourself Off-Road Sunday to Benefit LIVESTRONG: ROCK the RIDGE at West Rock Ridge State Park

2011-09-12T15:40:00.000-04:00

Much of my summer blog entries are dedicated to mountain bike race reports. Tales of absurd victories (When getting first place doesn't feel like such a win (Chal-lange 2011) - July 2011), health mishaps (NECS #2 Race Report: Like, oh my gawd! Gag me with a spoke!), riding through hurricanes (Let the LIVESTRONG Rumpus Begin.. and end... dear gawd, end!), and facing challenges and fears ("Chal-lange!" (Part I) & "Chal-lange!" (Part I)). That's because I find each race to be so different from one another, and, unlike the charity rides, the competitive spirit in me comes out. I'm not at a point where I can realistically race others, but I'm working at it.

Mountain biking comes with some many ups and downs. Not only do you have elevation and climbing, as you do with road biking, but you've got terrain, unstable ground, obstacles, things whipping at you, mud, and all kinds of other challenges that road riding doesn't present.

Road riding can be challenging too, don't get me wrong. And I love it. But mountain bike racing, I'm finding, is much closer to what I've been experiencing fighting cancer. Not only do you have the everyday up and down, but as soon as you start the race and leave the clarity of the start, you venture into the woods of the unknown. When you concentrate on all the things that could go wrong, all the trees you may crash into, you doom yourself to crashing. And when you crash, you have to get back up and ride. You don't have much of a choice. There aren't SAG wagons, or cars that can give you a lift. You're on your own. Bleeding, or muddy, you have to ride on. And while you're recovering from the first blow, you're likely to suffer another. Your machine may get damaged, but you have to continue on. Fellow racers who have "been there" pass you by, offer their support, "love on you," and encourage you to move on. And then, as soon as you leave the woods, and back onto the open field, you realize you have to go back in again - you have another round to go.

This Sunday, I am asking each of you, and your friends and family, that are up for the challenge to ride for me. I am running an EFTA-sanctioned mountain bike race, close to home, but I can't race it. I can't ride it. I'm still fighting my own cancer. And I just found out today that I'm going to need chemo. It's going to be tough enough to get back on my bike for the LIVESTRONG Challenge in October. But I know that I will not be strong enough to do this race.

That's where you come in. Register Today! Ride for me. Ride for someone you love. Ride for yourselves. CHALLENGE YOURSELVES! And bring friends. Lots of friends.

FYI, if you come, and present your race bib to SBC in Hamden right after the race, we'll be treated to a small buffet, a FREE beer or soda AND 1/2 price entrees!

Post-Treatment Bucket List

2011-09-08T11:35:00.001-04:00

Despite some contraversy on Facebook a couple of years ago, a Bucket List was bouncing around. There have been things on my life-long bucket list, but now, I'm putting together a new Bucket List. A Post-Treatment Bucket List.

Race the Tour d'Israel as a member of Team LIVESTRONG and make it an annual LIVESTRONG opportunity
Go back to Israel. And do so with great frequency
Do a Warrior Dash for LIVESTRONG (AND WHO IS GOING TO JOIN ME?!?!?!)
Do a Muddy Buddy for LIVESTRONG (again, WHO IS GOING TO BE MY BUDDY?)
Do a Spartan Race for LIVESTRONG
Do a Death Race for LIVESTRONG (Ironic, no?)
Become a Mary Kay Independent Sales Director, already!
Build my bike garage under the porch
Build that lawn furniture I've been sketching for years
Go on an all-inclusive cruise & vacation, without the kids or with serious child care, to the Caribbean and then visit Oaxaca, Mexico and hike the wilderness and have custom-made chocolate bars
Treat the kids to a no-holds-barred Disney Experience
Ride the Leadville 100
Fight the insurance industry's obnoxious belief that they are smarter than anyone else and can use legal loopholes and the finest of print to screw people who are too afraid to fight them out of procedures and healthcare that they are entitled to
Finish my house
Hire a regular housecleaner so I never have to waste a second of my life cleaning the house, which I suck at anyway
Get a Gary Fisher 29er and finally become the mountain-biker I know I have somewhere within
Ride alongside Lance Armstrong
GIVE BACK

You can help me reach 2 of these goals right now - without me having to complete treatment. If you help me with #18 and give back to LIVESTRONG, I'll be able to achieve #17 and I can ride alongside Lance Armstrong in October.

Please make a donation today. Any amount is welcome. And, if you can't donate yourself, please ask friends, family and employers if they would consider sponsoring me. If the kids and I can raise $20,000 by September 23, I'll be able to ride with Lance on Sunday, October 15 in the Ride for the Roses.

My cups underfloweth...

2011-09-08T00:37:00.000-04:00

Maybe it's the mostly uneventful days in bed (well, save the hurricane), or the fact that I still have drains in, a surgical vest on, and still can't pick stuff up, but it seems like only yesterday that I was leaving the hospital. As I threw out the last of the floral arrangements (save the single sunflower my friend, Sara gave me), I realized it's been 2 weeks since the mastectomies. It just seems like such a long time and I haven't seem to have done much.

My house is still a mess. I haven't gone in to work, save a couple of hours 2 days. I haven't done anything with my bikes, save move the mountain bike over so I could clean up a kitty litter spill. I feel like I've lost time. So much time.

My doctors assure me that I'm coming along well. We got the pathology - all lymphnodes were clear, so no radiation - yay! It was Stage 1, and the "tumor," if you can call it that, was less than 0.8 cm. Turns out the left breast tissue was 100% clear, but no regrets given the odds of recurrence. Dr. Nordberg, my plastic surgeon, and Ana, my visiting nurse, are ecstatic about "how well I'm healing." Except Dr. Nordberg did spank me for doing too much - we were hoping to remove the final 2 drains this week, but we'll have to wait another week. Apparently, moving too much and doing too much causes more fluid and swelling.

And I got more saline put into the expanders. Now, that's an experience. I'm not sure if I explained what expanders are or how they work. Contrary to what most people thing "reconstruction" is, you do not leave the operating room after the mastectomy with new boobs. It's a long process, explained pretty well on breastreconstruction.org, which includes inserting temporary, underfilled saline implants called "expanders" underneath the pectoral muscle to stretch the muscle to accommodate the final implants. They initially have a modest amount of saline, and, as the doctor assesses progress, more and more saline is injected into them. The expanders themselves look like sunny-side up eggs with silver yolks. Those silver yolks are the valves into which the doctor injects more saline. And now comes the fun part...

Then the fun begins...

A week or so after the surgery, you go in to see the plastic surgeon. That silver valve is magnetic. The surgeon uses a metal device to locate exactly where the valve is. The surgeon then marks that spot. And then the really disturbingly amusing part...

The first time, Dr. Nordberg told me to turn away. I made the mistake of looking.

Because the skin above the expander is so thing, and nerves are damaged, you don't feel much of what the doctors does. Which isn't a bad thing considering the doctor thrusts an enormously long needle with an even bigger plunger filled with saline into your breast.

That's right. All of a sudden, I went from mastectomy patient to Uma Thurman. But not the tall, glamorous, red carpet walker, but the drug addict, needing adrenaline shot into her heart Uma Thurman (sans the nosebleed and overdose, of course). I was looking down at a large needle sticking out of my chest (and the needle is EXACTLY the same size/proportion as depicted in "Pulp Fiction," with liquid being shot into the right, but feeling it on the left. Yes, another fun factoid: Since the nerves have been messed with, sometimes, as they try and reconnect and rebuild their bridges, sometimes wires get crossed.

And, lest folks think that the last injection of saline that brought me to a b-cup is exciting, yes, it's nice that I have larger breasts than a pre-teen girl again, but the expansion process hardly leaves a round, smooth bosom. You can see the ripple of muscle underneath the skin, and not in a hot athletic manner. It's not evenly spread, and the post-operative swelling makes it look like I have fat pouches bulging just below the armpit. Knots form in the pectoral muscles that I can't do much about, while kneading the knots in my shoulders actually seems to aggravate my chest aches.

Coughing and sneezing is exceedingly difficult, as there is already pressure across my chest. Every once in a while, as my allergies flared up and then settled in my lungs, when I cough, it feels like the expanders are trying to push their way through the muscle tissue. It's like an internal noogie.

Walking up and down the stairs and the street leaves me absolutely winded. I hate having to answer the phone after I've come in from my daily stroll to the mailbox around the corner and back, having to apologize for the fact that I sound like a horny prank caller instead of the lady of the house.

I'm getting sick of not being able to do the laundry. And I'd like to cook my own dinner. I want to weed whack. I want to mow the lawn. I want to pull weeds. I'm tired of feeling like a jelly-fish with these drains flapping about under what few tops I can wear that don't pull on the tubes projecting from my rib cage.

And I want to ride my bike.

It looks like I won't get the remaining drains removed this week. Which means another week of these things which have to be milked and emptied, that prevent me from showering like a normal person, that I accidentally yank whenever I have to take off my pants, or roll over in my bed. I've already pulled one almost half an inch out, and now it seeps.

I have way too much to do than to worry about what my drainage is for the day, or what angle at which my arm's rotation causes a sharp cramp in my chest that freezes my arm temporarily. I have fundraisers to plan and run. I have almost $9,000 to raise by September 23rd so we can reach our Ride for the Roses goal for the LIVESTRONG Challenge.

Cancer has already robbed me of most of the month of July and the entire month of August. Cancer's now eating into the month of September, the way it invaded my breast.

I deserve some time back.

The Yellow Roses

2011-08-29T09:32:00.049-04:00

I rode my first LIVESTRONG Challenge in Philadelphia last year. I rode as a supporter - not as a survivor. I was touched by cancer only by losing my grandmother when I was 5, my aunt, who kept her battle distant and relatively silent, who survived breast cancer, and a series of friends and mentors who fought cancer. Neither of my children, nor my parents, fought cancer themselves. And I was cancer-free. (Spoiler alert: So I thought.)

I was challenging myself physically, more in the spirit of LIVESTRONG as opposed to the literal mission. I pushed myself, but didn't make the cut-off to continue the 100 mile, as it was cancelled due to rain, and my back was giving out. But I crossed the general public line, and cried, because not only did I feel I failed my mission of 100 miles, but because I knew I'd achieved something. I was so moved by all the people cheering on the finishers, and I crossed the finish line at the same time as a survivor. I watched how he was treated, and handed a single yellow rose from a volunteer - a stranger - and in exchange, he embraced her like a long-lost family member and cried. And it was beautiful.

Ironically, after lunch, I returned to my bike, and someone had very purposefully woven a yellow survivor rose into the spokes of my front wheel - and there was no way anyone could mistake my bike for theirs - it was the only bike there with solid purple tires, Bianchi Celeste handlebar tape, and an obnoxious pink fuel box. Perhaps this person knew something I didn't.

My second LIVESTRONG Challenge was in Austin, where my son joined me, and we volunteered. I was to ride for my friend's father, who died of pancreatic cancer the day before the ride. And my heart ached for him as I had to get an "In Memory Of" bib for him. And I rode for friends and sponsors, dozens of them, who'd had me bring almost 50 bibs for the Tribute Wall. Again, in Austin, I didn't complete the 90 - we cut our rides short as we began to bonk and dehydrate more than halfway through - but we both put in 70 or so miles (not bad for a 12-year old on his first real road ride). And, again, we both were moved as our names were called and we were cheered for our fundraising efforts, even though we'd fallen short of our goal. And I saw the line of volunteers with yellow roses.

This year, we're already registered for the Austin Challenge. And I was hoping to volunteer on Saturday at the Philly Challenge. I knew I'd have to miss the ride itself, as that was the day I had to pick the kids up from camp. However, in July, I learned there was a more pressing matter I'd have to attend to Challenge weekend. I'd been diagnosed with breast cancer. My bi-lateral mastectomy was scheduled for Friday morning of the Challenge Weekend, and it would be a remote possibility that I'd get out on Sunday in time to get the kids from camp. Thankfully, I did achieve that goal - I'd was able to show the kids that I was okay, that I'd survived surgery, and that I was back on two feet. And, while in the hospital, I'd been sent yellow roses.

In October, I'm going to be riding with a very different mission, and one that I'd never DREAMED I'd be doing, let alone this early in life. I'll be riding for myself. Lord help me, I'm going to have to have one of the "Survivor" bibs on my back. And I'm going to be going through that Survivor chute, where my daughter (who is signed up to volunteer to pass out yellow roses, anyway) will be giving me my yellow rose.

I love roses. I always have. It's my birth flower. It's my favorite smell in the world. But it's the one rose that I never wanted to be given. And, at the same time, I know I'm going to be so proud to accept.

----

Please help me and my kids reach our goal for LIVESTRONG. We are trying to raise $20,000 by September, 23 so that we can achieve Ride for the Roses status, have the chance to ride with Lance on Saturday, and have one of our airfares & our hotel covered. If we meet the $15,000, we won't have the opportunity to ride with Lance on Saturday, but we would have one of our flights and our hotel stay paid for. This is a financial burden on the family, at the moment, (though one that, I think, we as a family need to do together) and being able to raise that kind of money for LIVESTRONG, as well as being relieved of the stress of how I'd have to pay for all 3 of us to fly to Austin would be tremendous.

Not to mention the fact that the money goes to a cause that has been invaluable to me since prior to my diagnosis, through to my surgery, and now as I face breast reconstruction surgeries as well as further treatment with my oncologist.

Again, please consider making any donation you can - large or small - it all helps and goes to a life-changing organization.

What I did over Summer Vacation...

2011-08-26T14:29:00.001-04:00

(The soundtrack you hear when you first read this entry is Debbie Friedman singing "Mi Sheberach." Into the blog, you'll appreciate the significance.)

I had anticipated posting more frequent blog updates from the hospital, but I apologize - first, I slept through much of the time I'd have spent blogging, second, my laptop never left my hospital closet. In fact, this is the first time I've had the laptop on with a reliable internet connection.

So let's catch up... I think we last left off around Thursday. My cousin, who arranged for the beautiful rogueing ceremony described in my blog, "Adieu Sweet Amaryllises," happens to be a very talented photographer. She was also my birth coach for the birth of my daughter, so medical-related situations that involve embarrassing exposure of body parts is nothing new. I'd asked her to help me document this process. As some have suggested, I'm exploring the idea of expanding many of these blog entries, adding photographs, and putting together a book about my cancer journey. But, with or without the possibility of publication, it felt "right" that I document this process creatively. And that meant leaving a lasting memory of what had been two of my greatest assets that were being taken from me by cancer. Since my cousin had the equipment at home, I asked her to take a series of tasteful photographs the day before my mastectomy so that there was some kind of testimony that the real ones weren't just diseased bags of tissue, but worth missing. Obviously, since this is blogger, I'm not going to share the "Full Monty" shots, but I'll share two of the more publicly acceptable shots.

After the last photo was taken, I had to race back to Stamford Hospital as on the way up to New Haven, I'd gotten a call that a batch of lab work still needed to get done, including the injection for the sentinal lymph node procedure. Let me just say that any intimidation or fear about being topless in front of my cousin was joyous compared to the painful pre-op injection. I don't understand why, but there is no topical anasthetic applied before a large needle, with dye and lidocane mixed in, is injected at two depths into the nipple. There's the sharp pain of the metal, and then a burning surge. Suddenly, I didn't feel quite as badly about missing the nipples after the mastectomies as they were on fire. I think I'd been relieved if they'd removed them on the spot. I then had to massage my sore breasts and wait for 45 minutes to ensure the ink flowed well. I think they gave me the placebo lidocane, because it was not only very awkward, but I was not really that numb. Finally, I went in for the scans, and at first, I freaked out because it looked like a bunch of grapes was lighting up on each side. The tech explained not to worry - what I was seeing were the injection push sites and the route to the affected lymph nodes. In fact, as my surgeon confirmed after the surgery, only 2 lymph nodes on one side and 3 on the other had to be removed, which I understand is a remarkably low number.

After the procedure, I had the urgent need for ice cream. I called my Rock, and he and I went to the Dairy Inn at Stamford and I got a triple scoop waffle cone with chocolate, espresso and chocolate and pecan praline ice cream covered in chocolate sprinkles. I wasn't holding back. I needed cold, rich, decadent, childish and innocent comfort food. And I needed a big, manly hug. I just needed to be held. Those shots, and looking down at the swelling, and the enlarged and now darkened veins in my bosom finally made this experience real. It was going to be 12 hours before my breasts were being removed. There were no more appointments to make, doctors to meet, administrators to chase. There were no other known barriers between me and the surgery, now. I tried to make stuff up - I made up chores for myself at home that had to get done before I could step foot in the hospital.

My Aunt Susie stepped up and offered to take me on a pre-operative shopping spree - we went to Kohl's to pick up a bunch of inexpensive, light-weight, button-up shirts and comfortable pants that I could wear in the weeks following surgery that weren't restrictive and I could sleep in. I didn't want to look dowdy, as I knew I'd feel pretty blah and not quite sexy after the surgery, but I didn't want to get anything that was so good I'd feel badly about possibly bleeding on them. Thank goodness, we found a set of tops, and a nice loose bottom, that suited the needs perfectly, including two tops that were also presentable enough in case I had to leave the house to go to the office for a meeting or go out and didn't want to wear "house clothes." We grabbed dinner at a great little Asian-fusion restaurant, and then Aunt Susie took me home.

I walked into the doorway of my home - hardly clean enough, with major work to be done still, dishes in the sink, laundry still to be done - knowing I was going to have to see my dad at 5:15 am to get to the hospital by 6:00 am for the surgery. I went into the living room to hit the chores, but the next thing I know, I was waking up at 5:00 am and it was time to shower up. I hadn't even packed, yet.

I rushed to the shower, washed up, dried off, gave myself my full Mary Kay skin care regiment because I knew I'd be feeling grody after the surgery, so the fresher I went into it, the better, and got to packing. My dad showed up, and we hustled through the house, getting my stuff together and into the car and we were off.

We arrived, and despite the serious lack of coffee (I told the nurse it was cruel and unusual treatment, and surely a violation of the Geneva Convention, to force people to check in at 6:00 am and refuse them coffee), I was cracking jokes and in good spirits. Strength? I'm sure Doug Ulman and the LIVESTRONG folks would love to hear me say, "Hell yeah!" but realistically, it was procrastination and my last attempt to be in denial. I turned to my dad and said, "Fight or flight response is in - let's go to Aruba. NOW." Those were my last words as a civilian as I re-emerged from the changing room donning my paper operating johnny coat, nubby sock-slippers and hospital bracelets with my identification and allergy warnings. They told me to remove my jewelry, and I told them the only way my red string bracelet with my protective stones and my LIVESTRONG wristband were coming off was in the morgue. The nurse nodded understandingly and worked around the yellow silicone and spiritual strands. IV port was put in, questions were asked, pulse and blood pressure were taken, and then the doctors came in.

First, I met with Dr. Lief Nordberg, my plastic surgeon. He came in to "mark and measure" me for the reconstruction plans. I felt like a side of beef. This wasn't because of how he treated me, but I realized that every press of the marker indicated another area where I'd be sliced, have a cavity made, be contoured, etc. I was a person and an art project all at once. And right now, I was in the "You can't make an omelette without cracking some eggs" phase. Dr. Nordberg is very soft-spoken, very smart, and very sharp. He made his markings, exchanged some light humor with me, said he'd work to try and get the new cleavage the way I like my bras fit.

I was dressed, my father came back in, and Dr. Nordberg continued to explain a bit about what would happen. At this point, Dr. Donna Marie Manasseh, my breast surgeon, came in, looking incredibly fashionable and put-together for 6:45 am and about to head into surgery, to check in on me, meet the team, and greet me. She was polished, sharp, professional, but with a kind and warm smile. As we chatted, I think it became apparent to my dad why I fought so hard to have a team with whom I had 100% confidence. I wasn't looking for the "designer label" docs or facilities - but as the surgeries involved were described, and the complexity was revealed, the team had to work seamlessly and I had to entrust them with not just cutting out the cancer, but literally forming how I'd recovery physically, aesthetically and emotionally. This is the team with whom it all starts. You can't settle.

Even the anesthesiologist, who was the last doctor to come into the pre-op room, proved himself to be a rock star. Dr. Park introduced himself and explained that he'd be using a newer technique to put me under (forgive me - I can't remember the name - I'll get it and update the blog), but instead of traditional narcotics, the anesthesia is administered via two blocks on either side of the spine, and by using Dilaudid via IV during the procedure, following the procedure and then via pill as part of my release, not only would I not endure a long recovery from general anesthesia, but I wouldn't experience the nausea and many other side effects patients complain from, not to mention that there are some reports that this technique helps specifically with cancer patients in "killing" cells and reducing recurrence rates. And, if that weren't confidence-boosting enough, he then asked me what I wanted to listen to in the Operating Room as I went under and as I was waking up. I requested Sarah McLachlan's "Angel."

I said goodbye to my dad, toddled off to the O.R., which I remarked looked nothing like "Grey's Anatomy," and was a bit taken aback as I watched one nurse count what appeared to be hundreds of metal torture devices, a small, blue vinyl-covered table with a sheet over it, lots of light, and a step stool. Dr. Park excused himself, leaving me with nurses with no faces - only masks, who told me to take a seat. I reluctantly tried to follow their instructions, but part of me felt like it was my first time jumping off the high dive, and I wanted to climb down despite any possible teasing I'd endure. Dr. Park returned with his iPod and speakers, smiled, and said he was all set. The music started, I relaxed, and I leaned over the table next to the bed as I felt them clean part of my back.

And that was it. I don't remember the injection, I was never asked, that I was aware, to count backwards. That's all she wrote.

The next thing I remember was being on my back, in a room with light, under lots of warm blankets, being told by another mystery nurse that my father was in the waiting room with my friend, Sally, and if she could come in, since she had to leave. I didn't even remember that she was coming! When I tried to say, "Yes," nothing came out of my mouth - I had no voice! Which scared me, as I'd told Dr. Park that I sing, and I started to panic. The nurse put her hand on me and said, "Don't worry - there was a breathing tube - it's totally normal - your voice should come back soon."

I tried to look at Sally when she came in, but I don't remember being able to do that. But I heard her voice, and I saw her face in my mind's eye. She explained she had to leave, as surgery ran a couple of hours longer than planned. I guess she and the nurse saw the concern in my face, as it was explained that nothing went wrong - everything was fine - it just took a little longer than they'd planned. Sally asked me what she could do, and I was able to ask her to sing Debbie Friedman's "Mi Shebeirach" to me. As I came into further clarity, I was welcomed by Sally's voice. With that, Sally had to leave, and I started to fall back asleep. My father, and my Rock, came back to visit me, and soon, it was time to get to my room.

I got word from my friend, Lisa, who manned my Twitter and Facebook pages while I was unconscious, that there was a flood of messages and posts for me. I was jonzing to start Tweeting and texting, so I did.

I was wheeled into a single room right near the elevators, and the first thing I thought of was how grateful I was not to have any roommates. Clearly, the only child in me was waking up. I was wheeled in, and my parents, my Aunt Susie came in, and there were already some flowers in the room. I noticed a big digital clock on the wall, which I knew was there to call out times of death, but instead it confused me - it was almost 5pm! I was supposed to be out of surgery by 12:30pm and in my room closer to 2 or 3! Then I remembered the nurse telling me in recovery that things ran late.

My spelling wasn't perfect yet, though.
But enough people knew where I was coming from.

I turned to my father and asked him where my Guinness and DiNardo's pizza were. He explained the Guinness was in the drawer of the nightstand, but the pizza wouldn't have lasted. I was also immediately reunited with my Blackberry, which I was told, must have missed me terribly as it had been crying and wailing for hours. I don't even remember the exact number of posts, emails, Tweets and texts I had, but there were a lot.

Nurses came in and out, checking me, poking me, injecting me, putting information up on the little white board. I was told I could only have a liquid meal for dinner, and that it would be right up. I'd been eating ice chips, though I don't remember how and when I started eating them. I still wanted chocolate, though.

My Rock came in, and with his deep, soft voice, tended to me, asked how I was doing, told me how great I looked (a lot of people remarked that I didn't look like I'd just come out of surgery, to which I gave thanks to Mary Kay), and held my hand. The doctors came in to see how I was doing, give me a report - the lymph nodes didn't set the Geiger Counter off, which is a good thing - doesn't rule out chemo/radiation yet, but a step in the right direction - and to check my wounds. The doctor took off the bra and removed the dressing. I couldn't look down. I asked my Rock to tell me how bad it was. He told me that the incisions weren't as bad as he'd envisioned them, and that I wasn't as flat as he'd expected. The doctor said all looked good, and that he'd dress me back up and let me get to sleep.

Dr. Park came in and said all was well, and if I was nauseous or anything. I said, "Nope! I feel pretty good!" And clearly, he was very pleased with himself. Job well done.

After my drugs were administered, I'd been walked to the bathroom in an attempt to pee (failed, I might add) and wash up, I fell asleep. For an hour. When another nurse walked in with beepy things and druggy things, poked, prodded, pumped and who knows what else, until I fell asleep. For an hour. Wash, rinse and repeat, and my first night in the hospital yielded virtually no sleep, nor did it yield pee. Until the morning nurse advised me that if I didn't pee soon, they'd have to administer a catheter. No hand in a warm cup nor running water could have had me peeing so fast. I was given a sponge bath, had my drains drained (weirdness) and I was told I could order breakfast. I excitedly ordered french toast, 2 fruit cups, chocolate milk (finally - my chocolate), and cranberry juice. Sadly the french toast wasn't much to write home about. But that chocolate milk hit the spot!

I took a long walk, and upon my return, my nurse said that my Blackberry had chirped. I picked up my Blackberry, and saw there was a new mention on Twitter. I knew some friends had been mentioning to Lance that I'd been ill and to give a shout-out, but I figured it was a sweet attempt. But this was unreal.

And the weeping began. I was crying so hard. I was overjoyed. I was inspired. And I was terrified, as the reality hit again that I'd obviously endured a serious enough surgery with serious enough cancer that Lance Armstrong took a moment to think about me and send me that Tweet. I was honored and touched. But terrified. I let the fear subside, thanked him for his graciousness, and told every living creature I encountered in-person and online that Lance Armstrong tweeted me. Cancer, what?

My parents came back, bringing with me my framed LIVESTRONG Manifesto that the kind folks at LIVESTRONG Headquarters in Austin had signed for me. It was to stay with me wherever I went for treatment, rehabilitation, etc as a reminder of who I have behind me. We set it up on a chair, and then on the foot of the bed, so I could see the words that make up the mantra, and the names and signatures of all those that devote their lives to help people like me fight. (It is now at the foot of my bed at home.) While there, the case manager from the hospital came in and congratulated me that I'd be discharged. I thanked her and asked what time in the morning on Sunday I should be picked up. She shook her head and told me, "No, no. You're being discharged today." The nurse was in the room, along with my parents, and we looked at her and asked what in the hell she was talking about - I'd just had my IV pain medication administered, and it was less than 24 hours before I was even close to being wheeled into recovery. She said that's what the doctors and insurance company told her. I called my breast surgeon and she said that there was no way in hell any of the doctors who worked on me told the case manager that. Turns out, the insurance company asked to have me discharged on Saturday, as soon as possible. But, clearly, that wasn't going to happen. (They wanted to, though... ) Doctors and nurses came in and out, and it was confirmed that I'd be discharged sometime Sunday morning, in time to be driving with my Rock to pick up the kids from camp.

My parents left, and I was left alone for a bit, though some visits from a friendly nurse helped. Then, my friend from summer camp the summer before 4th grade, Sara, came to visit with her mom. She brought a lovely sunflower arrangement, chocolate (thank goodness!) and a big smile and hug. Originally, Sara's mom was going to work some Reiki, but I guess I was "up" enough, and there was enough hustle & bustle, that we didn't get to that, but that was ok. I was still riding very high on the Lance Tweet, and I was just so glad to see Sara again. Aside from the amazingness of having someone from so far back in my life coming to see me, someone whom I always very highly regarded and was grateful for, it was the 2nd time in a year that we saw each other. Coincidentally, we were both on the same flight to Austin last October when Zach and I were flying down for the LIVESTRONG Challenge. I'd FourSquared that we were at the airport, and Sara responded that she was there, too. After some tail-chasing, we ran into each other in the food court and met up again in the waiting area at the gate.

We caught up, chatted, laughed, and smiled - Sara is expecting, which was so exciting - another full-bred Young Judaean! After some time, my mom came back, and Sara and her mom had to head back home. We hugged again, knowing we'd see each other the next day at camp as we picked up our munchkins.

"Orderly's great! Gimme chocolate cake!"

My aunt came to visit, too, and stayed after my parents had to leave - they were helping to finish clear up some things in the house that I didn't get to do before surgery. While my aunt was there, the nurse came in and reminded me to order dinner. Now, breakfast and lunch had kinda been disappointing. (Note to self: As good as it looks in the menu, remember you are in a hospital and avoid ordering lemon salmon as a meal while staying in the hospital. The drugs didn't cause nausea. The salmon? Different story!) She and I toiled over the menu, and we figured that there were two meals that could either really be stinkers or be safe. So we ended up ordering one meal for me, and the second as a visitor's tray. That way, she could snack on something, and if one meal were too sorry to eat, I'd have backup. One thing we knew was to order the chocolate cake. Which, of course, when it came to placing the order, I had forgotten. So when the trays arrived, we sat down (well, I sat up) to eat, and we had to call them back. As two die-hard chocoholics, there was no being polite and just happily chalking it up to forgetfulness. There would be chocolate cake. Or someone would die. And there was chocolate cake. And it was good.

My nurse, Lorna came in, and recognized from my aunt from her tenure at the hospital. Not that Lorna wasn't nice, but I think having a more personal connection from that point made her even more attentive and a little more pleasant. After the cake, my aunt had to head home, and I was on my own, with my Blackberry as my connection outside of my room, my Manifesto at my feet, and the pain meds by my side. As I'd discovered the night before, the hospital is the worst place to get a good night's rest. I decided to plug myself into my Blackberry and play my "Cancer" playlist I'd started a couple of weeks earlier to ease nerves in waiting rooms. Sure enough, the music lulled me to sleep, and I slept through most of the night, save a couple of blood draws and a port switch (Unfortunately, the port put into my left hand pre-op had become inflamed and painful. Still is - it's the only part of me that genuinely hurts.).

The next morning, I was jonzing to move. I woke up, and before any nurses drew fluids, checked vitals, or did anything, I slipped on my second johnny coat so I didn't pull a Sipowicz and flash folks in the hall, and I started toddling through the hallway. It was the morning of the LIVESTRONG Philadelphia Challenge, and I knew a number of friends & LIVESTRONG Leaders were thinking of me. I know that as I prepped for my walk, they were lining up in the chutes. And as the Tweets started flooding in about listening to Lance give his pre-ride speech, the century riders setting off, as I did a year ago, I started my Challenge. The Stamford Hospital Surgical Ward LIVESTRONG Challenge. My nurse, Lorna, sat in the hallway doing paperwork and raised an eyebrow as I chugged past her with a "Good morning, Lorna!" The custodian saw I was on a mission, and he moved the garbage bin out of my way as I turned the corner with a, "Looking better than yesterday," to which I responded, "It's the LIVESTRONG Challenge today! And I'm walking with my friends!" as I raised my Blackberry to him. I cruised into the elevator bay and decided to add a "hill" to the mix. Instead of turning right back towards my room, I turned left down the Stamford Hospital's skyway, connecting the surgical ward to the pediatric ward. I walked down the hall, feeling the light and warmth of the sun beaming on me, and I touched the door. I turned around and walked back up the hall (and, yes, it has an incline), past the elevator bay and stood in the doorway my room. I got another Tweet of excitement from another friend in Philly.

I smiled, and turned away, continuing to put in a second lap.

This time, my first nurse with the cute top and Lisa Loeb glasses gophered up from the nurse's station and said, "Go, you!" and I walked a little faster. Lorna was still sitting doing paperwork and she said, "You're going for another lap?" I said, "Yep! After all, what would Lance do?" She smiled and said, "You're still high from that Tweet from yesterday, aren't you?" I said, "It's either the Tweet or the drugs, but either way, I'm flying." I turned the corner as the guy who weighed me the day before, who had to practically tape me into place on the oversized scale, was leaving another room. "Damn, you're up and about today!" I smiled from ear to ear and said, "I'm going home today!" and I kept going. I did another sky walk lap and this time I didn't hesitate at my room. I just walked past my door and back past the nurse's station. "You feeling a bit out of breath?" Lorna asked. "A bit. But that's ok. My friends are going to ride in the rain today." She said she'd meet me at the end of my walk to help me clean up and get ready to go. I thanked her and kept going.

By the time I got to the elevator bay. I was a bit breathy. But, I figured, "What the hell," and I threw in a last sky walk lap. I took it easy, as it was becoming very hot in the walkway, and I shuffled back into my room. I plopped down and ordered breakfast.

Lorna had gotten caught up with other patients, and I got impatient, so I went to the bathroom and washed myself, washed my face, got my clothing out of the closet and changed out of my hospital kit and into my civvies. By the time Lorna came in, all I needed was to have my hair done, as I couldn't brush my hair or reach the back of my head, and wait. My breakfast came, and I called my ride, aka my Rock, and he was on his way. We were going to get the kids from camp and then settle in at home. Breakfast arrived (I'd smartened up - I know even the hospital couldn't mess up eggs, and baked goods), I chowed down, and just in time for my ride to arrive.

He warned one last time that he thought it was a stupid idea to pick up the kids from camp and to have someone else do it, but after the hell and grief the camp gave me, even knowing all my cards, this year, I didn't want to ask anything more of them aside from the ability to park on-site because I knew there was no way I could do the school bus. I was not up for fighting for favors and being beaten down by a bunch of administrators on über ego trips. They'd already been awful leading into camp starting. With that, we packed up, I was wheeled down to the car, and we hopped in, headed to our first destination - a pharmacy so I could get my pain drugs and other meds as by the time we got to camp, it would be time for my next dose of Dilaudid. We went, and after some time, the prescriptions were filled, and we were on the way.

Let me explain something about my Rock. He drives a big truck. He actually needs it, it's not a compensation thing, but it really is too big for him to handle. We tease him about the wake of dead mail boxes and run-over landscaping light fixtures that trail behind his truck. He probably needs to wear glasses, but he refuses to because he doesn't look cool. So asking him to be careful of potholes was dumb. I should have taken the tact that you do on mountain bike trails - keep your eyes ahead and do not think about the obstacles like trees and things you might crash into. Wouldn't you know, he managed to find every single pothole to drive over between Stamford, CT and Poughkeepsie, NY.

Finally, we pulled up behind 2 school buses, which I knew were from the parental parking pick up spot, and we entered camp. Unfortunately, the pharmacy stop took a little longer than planned, and we arrived 45 minutes later than we'd wanted to, but we hadn't missed the BBQ yet. We pull in and park near the tents, and the kids charge the car. I'd warned them in advance I probably couldn't hug them, but we'd do air hugs. They helped me out of the car and immediately tried to pull me in 30 different directions to show me every inch of the camp and what they did there. I had to remind them that I was still doped up, and, oh yes, I'd gone to the camp for 4 summers, several year-round programming events, and worked there for a session. My son went with our ride to get his and my daughter's stuff while my daughter escorted me to the "chorshah" (grove). Of course, it had rained, and I didn't see the mud below the grass, and within a couple of yards of the truck, I slipped. Fortunately, I didn't fall. Unfortunately, it meant flailing my arms about like a motorboat, causing My Rock to come running back, scolding me for coming to camp as it was a stupid idea after my surgery, etc. I grit my teeth, blurted out, "I'm fine," and let me daughter walk me to the crowd. There was Sara, and her husband whom I also know from our YJ glory days, and her mom. We chatted a bit, but I knew we couldn't stay too long, and my Rock really just wanted to get the hell out of dodge.

My daughter explained that all of her arts and crafts stuff were still in "Omanut" (arts & crafts) in the old staff house. This was a building that I lived in, hid in, and know very well. I also know the road to the staff house. It's a long, dirt then semi-paved, windy, hole-riddled steep path that even on my mountain bike would make my teeth rattle. I asked my kids to see if a staff member on one of the "gators" could get her crafts projects. My son came back and the director apparently, said that if one of the gator drivers felt like it, I guess it would be ok. (Of course, the correct answer would have been, "Sure, let me just buzz them on the radio." But, chas-v'chalilah that should happen, right? I'm just saying... ) My kids went to one of the gator drivers, who were simply sitting, chit-chatting and chowing down on BBQ on the edge of the field, and she said, "Well, you guys have legs." My daughter came back, and I'd had just about enough. So, I calmly hobbled over to the other side of the field, with my daughter in tow, and said, "Excuse me, am I correct that you said that you weren't going to be able to drive down to get my daughter's craft projects?" She said, "Yes, I mean, it's just a short walk." (It's not - I want to say it's at least a mile round-trip, including a shifty uphill). I nodded, and calmly explained, "Because, (lifting my top enough to reveal the 4 drains now filled with blood and liquid and part of the compression vest) you see, I just had both my breasts removed on Friday thanks to cancer, and I made arrangements to be released this morning so I could drive almost 2 hours when I should be in bed so that my kids wouldn't have to worry about how their mommy was and to bring them home. So it would be a real help if one of you guys with the gators could drive down to get her stuff. I mean, you wouldn't want me falling, blowing incisions, and having to explain to my friends who are here who know what I just went through, that I have to go back to the hospital, sans the kids, because I slipped and fell getting to the staff house, would you?"

The staff member I was speaking to was silent, but the other gator driver stood up and said, "I'd be happy to. What's your daughter's name and where's her bin?" I thanked him graciously, turned and walked back to the BBQ to get food for the road and for my Rock, leaving the staff member who suggested that we have legs behind, with head hung.

Yeah. I played the "cancer card." Shoot me. Wouldn't you have?

We loaded up the car, after some accidental "hide & seek" between the boy child going to get his lizard, the girl child getting a bag she forgot, the boy child going to the bathroom, the girl child disappearing, etc., and headed home.

Finally, we pulled into the driveway, and I walked up the stairs, into the front door, where I was greeted by two overly-loving kitties, purring, and rubbing my legs so feverishly, they almost tripped me. I plopped down on the sofa, watched the kids and my Rock fill the space I'd cleaned so hard with mildew-stinking camp gear and other stuff.

The 'rents came by, my Rock kissed me goodbye (I was sorry to see him leave, frankly), and we ordered in. I trudged up the stairs to my bed, which had formerly been something out of the show, "Hoarders," made myself a nest of pillows, and was tucked in by my kids. At which point, my cat, Raouw, who hadn't been farther than an inch from me since I returned home, set up his vigil in my bed, which he keeps to this day.

And that's what I did for my summer vacation.

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I'll post updates in a bit, but this post was long overdue. In the meantime, please support my goal to reach $5,000 by end of day today, and $15,000 by end of September by considering a donation to my LIVESTRONG Challenge Account: https://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=442672&supId=291580630

Adieu, Sweet Amaryllises...

2011-08-16T12:30:00.004-04:00

On Thursday, after hours of calls, shuttling back and forth, fighting with office administrators and insurance lackeys, I finally made it to a plastic surgeon for my breast reconstruction consultation. Just before I went into the appointment, I called my cousin to chat a bit. Aifa Cat, as she goes by, helps to run a booth at the New York Renaissance Faire, and she mentioned that if the kids were home, this past weekend was a kids-go-free weekend. Unfortunately, the kids weren't home yet, however, a thought crossed my mind. I've always enjoyed displaying the corseted girls at the Faire. I've been going to the NYRF since I was 10 years old, and I've spent close to 18 years showing them off. So, I mentioned to Aifa Cat that it would be fun to take the "girls" out for a last "Huzzah!" at the Faire. Kind of like taking a dog for a final walk before putting them down for old time's sake. Aifa Cat thought it was hysterical, and it was a done deal - especially since I was just told I wasn't needed at the bike shop on Saturday.

Friday night, I got my favorite Renn Faire costume together - a costume I'd designed for myself when I was 21 with leftover material from my recital ball gown I'd had made for my Senior Recital at Oberlin and from 50 or so costumes I'd had to make for the Oberlin Gilbert & Sullivan "Three Princess Project." It was based on Spanish/Portuguese Rennaisance Costumes and portraits of Dona Gracia Mendes, the personae I adopted for it and based on my relative.

I last wore it 3 years ago for my son's birthday party, adapted with accessories which took it from a royal costume to a pirate queen. He was really into pirates, and the Renn Faire had a bunch of newer pirate-based features. My cousin helped us with a place to leave stuff, group tickets, and permission to bring our own food, as we had to bring kosher food with us. One of my son's friends came, which meant a tremendous lot to him, because his father was fighting cancer. That afternoon, his father came to the Faire after spending a very long hospital stay. It was one of his first, and ultimately his last, days out of a hospital bed. It seemed right that I take that costume with me.

The costume had served me well, earning me Best Costume at Faire awards, as well as many A+ grades for my cleavage.

I made the drive, and chose to wear a t-shirt and jeans in the car with the intent to change in the parking lot. I'd figured that changing into the costume wouldn't be any more difficult than changing in and out of a cycling kit. I was wrong. Especially when the costume that had served me so well all these years decided to literally break while I put the corset on. The corset itself cracked and several of the hooks and eyes were damaged in the last cleaning, and the loops which held the lacing that covered the hooks and eyes broke. So there I was, lying in the backseat of my car, topless. And alone. Thankfully, I'd had my LIVESTRONG yellow pashmina, and I wrapped that around my top and rushed to the Faire. I texted Aifa Cat to find out which boutique had the absolute cheapest corsets so I could get a top and, as soon as I entered the gates, I rushed to C.S. Designs.

Thank goodness, they had a great black velvet corset and a top that worked very well with the skirt and my costume. I finished getting dressed and headed to my cousin's booth, Lundgaard Productions - Guild Hall & Guild Pins. I realized, after chatting with her and her friends, that this was the absolute first time that I'd gone to Faire alone. I'd never gone without family, a boyfriend or a posse of friends. I remembered going with a group of high school friends - some of my favorite people from Fox Lane. My best friend, who just moved to Chicago, another dear friend who now lives in Boston, another who now lives in a very different world in Los Angeles, and Aaron Cass, four months before he'd be dead. I remembered the picture of us we had taken, arms around each other, the girls and one guy wearing costumes & accessories, Aaron smiling awkwardly. I remembered the drive we took down, where we got lost, and my costumed male friend hopped onto the roof of a car while everyone else stared at a map, ignoring my directions from memory.

Then, I remembered why I was there. This wasn't about hanging out with friends. This was about bidding farewell to my bosom. This was about parading the girls, soliciting awe, head turns, and one last chance at my natural endowments to turn heads. Not any scars that might be coming my way. Not because chemo may take away my hair and leave me bald and eyebrowless. Not out of pity. It was my last chance to grasp the attention of strangers, forcing girlfriends and wives to smack the arms of eye-wandering boyfriends and husbands, with my natural D-cups overflowing. So, with that in mind, I set off through the Faire.

Sure enough, there were at least 3 "boyfriend slaps," a number of "Huzzahs" from merchants, a handful of cast members who, passing by, bowed their heads to me, greeted me, but with eyes very clearly focused on the chesticles, and several remarks from women who were aghast, but secretly jealous, that they simply couldn't understand why anyone would wear a corset displaying that much cleavage. I so badly wanted to turn back, call them on their remark, and say, "No, you can't understand. But allow me to explain..." But I didn't. I kept walking, smiling at the irony that these women weren't really horrified, but, after assessing them, they were upset they couldn't create the "shelf" (though they were trying with what they could pull together as a costume) and yet, secretly, I knew that they wouldn't want my ill-fated cleavage. I was displaying sick breasts, with the right one already invaded with an alien batch of cells consuming it. They didn't know what was below the surface.

Aifa Cat had told me to meet her back at her booth by 5:30 for a special show. I figured maybe she'd gotten us seats at the joust in the stands instead of where the crowd usually sits, or something. I grabbed a "Beesting" - a combination of mead and hard cider, and saw a large group of Ren Rats hanging around the booth. Aifa Cat then told me to follow her to the back of the booth, and there, I was greeted by a large circle of men, which was strange, especially since one had his hand on a grill. Then, one by one, each rogue walked towards me with a rose or two (a mix of fresh, yellow roses and yellow or black feather roses - for LIVESTRONG), seductively paying me compliments, and handing me the rose. This continued until every, very sweet man, had presented me with a rose. As you can see from the photos, I wasn't entirely sure how to react. It was rather warm, and I was so embarassed, in a good way, that I was perspiring and just really didn't know what to say, so half the time I had a very strange look on my face.

But, inside, I was so blown away that Aifa Cat had arranged this, that these guys were doing this, and how sweet the whole rogueing ceremony was. I'll let the photos speak for themselves.

If you'd like to celebrate by proxy with me as I defy this disease by riding in the LIVESTRONG Challenge in Austin, TX in October, please consider making a donation to LIVESTRONG here: http://austin2011.livestrong.org/faf/donorreg/donorpledge.asp?ievent=442672&supId=291580630

Brian presents his rose

As does Eric...

And John...

Atreides made quite an impression

Huzzah for the Stripper!

Geof presented a very heartfelt message with his rose

Raith's eyes and smile just made me happy

As did his presentation

Aifa Cat presents me with a custom made "F*CANCER* pin she had made for me

A closeup of the pin

Getting pinned

And then the signings began...

And for some, continued...

And went on...

"Eat At Joe's"

Geof asked if he was signing too low... Did it matter at that point?

Robin was so sweet...

As was John

I bent over so John had some more material to work with...

Finis!

Let the cousin-on-cousin fantasies begin! LOL!

So that's how we bid Adieu to the girls.

Back to our regularly scheduled Fundraising...

2011-08-14T13:34:00.000-04:00

I've got a blog post brewing about my own personal cancer journey - just waiting for some photos - so in the interim, let's steer back to why I started this blog in the first place.

Here's what's up and coming with events in Fairfield & Westchester Counties to benefit LIVESTRONG:

Thursday, August 25 - 7:05 pm - We have 50 TICKETS TO SELL to the Bridgeport Bluefish game vs. the South Maryland Blue Crabs! It's blue-sea creature vs. blue-sea creature! Let's see who wins! Scaled fish vs. shell fish! But the bottom line is this - if we don't pre-sell all 50 seats online, the Bridgeport Bluefish donates nothing to LIVESTRONG! If we sell 50 or more? The Bluefish will donate $3 per seat! So, let's fill the arena!

Buying Tickets is Simple (and only cost $10 per tickets):

Go to http://bf1.glitnirticketing.com/bfticket/web/logingroup1.php?&refresh=1269894264
Enter Fundraising Code: LIVESTRONG
Click “BUY” next to the 8/25 Game
Select your seats and complete your order

Sunday, September 18 - ROCK the RIDGE Mountain Bike Race
On Sunday, September 18, we will be riding an EFTA Sanctioned Race & Fun Ride at West Rock Ridge State Park to fundraising for the Lance Armstrong Foundation (LIVESTRONG) in honor of 28 million people across the globe living with cancer and in memory of those who have been lost to this terrible disease.

Pre-Registration is strongly encouraged so we can secure some of our vendors, so please, pre-register today and help spread the word!

If you cannot attend, please let your friends and family know! If you would also like to support our fundraising efforts, please make a donation here: http://austin2011.livestrong.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=442672&lis=1&kntae442672=87672E5A8C7340EE9BFDF85BE97BC591&supId=291580630#