Shazzbot.

Chemo is a bitch. Depression is too. For me, now, they have one common thread. Robin Williams.

I was a little kid when I used to watch "Happy Days." And I remember watching an episode where the Fonz was being antagonized by this weird alien named Mork. Soon after, I was mesmerized by television show about an alien and this woman that he lived with. And I would sit, crosslegged with jeans, rainbow suspenders, and a plaid shirt, hanging on every moment of this crazy show. I greeted people, with my fingers spread, saying, "Nanu Nanu." I still have those rainbow suspenders. And I still remember watching every moment, waiting for the end when Mork would be talking back to his home planet, giving them the observations and words of wisdom that he gathered.

I couldn't believe that this alien that came out of an egg was the same man speaking fluent Russian that defected in the middle of a department store. A teacher inspiring his students to deliver a giant, "Yawp." Or that he became a doctor helping children with cancer with laughter with one of my college classmates in the cast. Or a doctor that could awaken people from trance like states, and then break as they returned to their previous conditions. I never imagined that somebody so hairy and so crazy could transform into a proper British woman. 

Above all else, this man made me laugh. And it wasn't because of fart jokes, it wasn't because of anything accidental. He was so smart. The breadth of the resources that the man had in his brain from which he could pull was astounding. One of my classmates recently labeled me as being "intellectual." But the brilliance of Robin Williams with that he could make children laugh using references, information and comedy that was based on such highly intellectual subjects that it boggles the mind. His comedy was intelligent. It made you want to learn more about what he was referencing. But at the same time, you really didn't give a crap, because your eyes were tearing, your stomach was seizing, and you might just have peed a little.

September 29, 2011. First chemo. I was scared out of my mind. I sent my kids to school, and my dad came to pick me up. I was putting together my chemo bag. A friend told me I must bring an iPod, so I had that packed. And DVDs. I had "Princess Bride" and "Wizard of Oz." But those didn't feel like enough. I then remembered my Robin Williams Live DVD. I hadn't watched it yet, so I grabbed that. Thinking of Mork, I chose my rainbow socks, an homage to Mork's rainbow suspenders. A little bit of in innocent childhood joy to brighten my mood.

When my dad and I got there, we were cracking jokes, and giggling. But it wasn't because anything was funny. It was awkward. It was forced. I think we both felt like if we didn't make each other laugh, the alternative would be too unbearable for the other to witness. That's why my mother couldn't come. I didn't want her to, and I don't think she could have handled it. She takes too much too seriously to just let it go, even for a moment, and laugh. I wish she would learn to do that. To laugh at the worst of things. To let go of things out of our control. I always thought she'd lead a happier life.

But my dad, aside from just being funny, was always able to laugh at anything. Perhaps that's why he loved Robin Williams. He is intelligent, raucous, a little bit of a fart joker, but brilliant.

So, when we finally got the DVD player working, we put in Robin Williams. And we laughed. We laughed from the bottom of our feet to the hairs on our heads (as short lived as they were). We laughed loudly enough that nurses came in to see what was going on - belly laughing and guffawing are not common for a chemo room. Then, when they saw what was happening, they stayed. And laughed with us. Throughout that day's treatment, our nurse, Clarissa, and her colleagues popped in for relief. Before I knew it, chemo was done. My veins weren't sore, my stomach was. The tears streaming down my face were of joy and exhilaration, not of pain or sorrow.

Particularly funny was his bit on Lance and cancer. Perhaps it was because I had just met Lance, or was meeting him again in a few days, or because we now shared cancer and chemo as well as bikes, but it was like Robin was saying outloud all the snarky things I would never dare say, and he made it ok to think. 

My kids had the chance to see him live at the LIVESTRONG 15 Celebration. Thank goodness.

http://youtu.be/ra786sYkQj4

http://youtu.be/lTywy7k4vi4

http://youtu.be/nDeck8sraiM

The thing with Robin Williams is that he gave us a vocabulary to laugh at cancer. Maybe that's why so many of us at LIVESTRONG feel so connected to him, aside from his friendship with Lance, his involvement with the organization, and the fact that he rode with us. Robin gave us the wherewithall to laugh at cancer. To laugh in cancer's face. He helped us find the absurdity of the situation. He helped us face death and laugh. Not spitefully, but with joy - unabashed joy.

I am devastated at his loss. I am saddened to the core. The world has lost a bright, brilliant star that was too smart, too funny, too emotionally connected for this world. 

Perhaps that was his greatest gift next to his laughter - his ability to connect and feel what others were feeling. 

As we said at my friend Ari's funeral, who died of a heart attack due to a congenital heart disease,his heart was too big for his own good. He felt too much. Which was his blessing and a curse.

"You're only given one little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it."

That which won't kill me can only make me STRONGER...

Ugh. Kanye West. What a loathsome individual. G-d complex. Caused a Kardashian (and not the uber-cool Khloe) to reproduce. Vile geopolitical opinions.

But... If the man has one salvageable action in his life, it's releasing the song, "Stronger." 

Monday morning. Stuck behind cars, rushing to get to the YMCA in New Canaan, I revel in the fact that I found my Sony Walkman (thank you, Klout) - already loaded with workout music I hand picked from my Riding playlist with some new additions (thanks to a binge in Israeli, Mizrachit and Ladino dock), ready to attack my LIVESTRONG at the Y programs and, mindful of traffic law, pop it onto one ear and start playing. And what's the first song to play? "Stronger," by (stupid) Kanye West. And I start to feel pumped. I start to not only emotionally, but physically, get excited and revved. My mind focuses from hating the cars and buses in front of me to the anticipated rush and burn. My shoulder muscles, usually tense with stress, begin to feel looser, my face begins to warm, and I'm nearly drooling to sweat.

I park, jump out of my car, throw my cardigan in the drawstring bag, flash my badge, and run (yes, run) up the stairs - something I haven't been able to do in years. I'm a couple of minutes late, so the trainer tells me to do 10 minutes of cardio. No problem.

You would think I'd leap at the bikes, but if you've been following my blog for any time frame, you'd know that I can't just do 10 minutes on a bike - indoors or out. No, I'll save that for a spin class I hope to take, or, dare I say it, a ride in the next week or two. I hop on the treadmill, repeating "Stronger," and start out. I'm going to make the most of my 10 minutes. I start my pace at 3.5, and amp the resistance. And I pound out a fast walk. I was in "the zone" the minute my feet hit the driveway thanks to that song. My heart rate leaps up to 160. Time to rev up the speed. 3.8. Next song up. Ramp it up to 4.0 with Duran Duran's "Planet Earth." I'm feeling such a rush, I'm about to crank it up to a jog.

Crap. Stupid endorphins brainwashing me into thinking I can run. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Newly-found moderating brain cells remind me of the hell that 5k LIVESTRONG Challege did to me - and though I'd started treatment by then, I was still in better shape than now. Ok. Back to walk. My trainer must have noticed the idiotic move I was on the verge of making, tapped the machine, and asked how I was doing. I smiled and said fine. In my head, I was grinding the treadmill to shreds with my prowess. I was making it my bitch. Good thing 10 minutes just wound down - treadmill lives another day.

We get to work on our big muscle circuit before venturing to The Zone, a new set up. I hit the circuit. First, leg presses. I start where I left off - 2 sets of 12 at 140. The machine flies and I feel zero resistance. After one set of 12, I bump it up to 165. That's better. Not painful, but resistant. 2 more sets of 12.

I move onto the next leg machines - and I can do 3 sets of 12 with no pain - compared to the 2 sets of 12 last week. Legs are feeling like my own, again. Stronger.

Onto the pectoral fly machine. My arch nemesis of the gym. You see, it always was, but when you have your chest sliced and diced, expanding water balloons forced under your pectoral muscles, and then lumps of silicone permanently put into place where squishy, attached and organic breasts used to be, any activity that uses those now overly stretched-out pectoral muscles feels... WEIRD. There really isn't another word to use. It's just weird. You can't control the fact that your pseudo-boobs pop up and down, almost waving at the crowd, with every fly motion. They flap in the wind like two tops of tea kettles when you push down on huge button to pour out the water. Only with perma-perked nipples on top. Aside from the physical weirdness, there is an emotional sadness and moderate humiliation. But by now, Eminem is rightly advising me to lose myself in the music, and that's what I do. I lose myself, in the music, the moment, I own it, and I can't let go - I have to push through every rep. Failure is not an option - not now. I have to push through to move on. And just like that, I'm done. Moving on. 

Next thing I know, I'm on more upper body machines, but this time, I'm upping the weight a notch. I'm starting to do 3 sets of 12 reps on some, not all, but some. And then I'm done. I did it. And I can still walk. My back hasn't buckled. My shoulder bursitis is less painful than it was while I tried to sleep.

Dare I say it? Week #3 and I'm finally feeling... STRONGER.

2 down, 3 to go...

March 5, 2011, I was preparing for my 2nd Rock the Ride & Run benefiting LIVESTRONG. I was unwittingly incubating two cancers in my right breast.

March 5, 2012. My friend, Mary, and I got the news that, so far, our chemotherapy and her radiation worked - we were now N.E.D. - No Evidence of Disease.

March 5, 2013. It was less than a month after Mary's funeral. I was declared one year N.E.D.

Today. It's been less than a month since Suzy ran out of time against breast cancer. I'm out of full-time work, currently back to teaching Hebrew School again, and midwifing a stray mother cat, Ahavah, as she labors to deliver her kittens today. And I celebrate 2 years N.E.D.

Jewish Guilt is bad enough... but Jewish Survivor's Guilt? Fuggadaboudit

Imagine you're in a car. Someone else is driving. You and your friends are all in backseats. There is absolutely no difference between how you are sitting or they are. You all have your seatbelts on. You're all doing what you're supposed to do. Hell, we'll even throw on helmets, knee pads and shoulder pads for extra protection. And the driver suits you all up with bubblewrap suits. You're all equally taking the same exact precautions.

Now, cars hit your car simultaneously - you and your friends are struck with the same amount of force, and the car rolls. By the time it is all over, the car settles. You open your eyes, and no one else but you and the driver make it out alive.

Why?

And, just to make it worse, as you sit in your hospital bed for mere observation while your friends funerals are being planned, you see on your social media feed that several other friends, who were also in cars, with the same gear you had on, and the same impact, didn't survive. And your friend's wife. And another friend's wife. All of whom you've spoken to about all the precautions you were taking in the car.

Why?

That's pretty much how this week has been. Past month. Past year. Cancer fighters in my life, LIVESTRONG related and not, that I was surrounded by in one way or another, that shared breast cancer specifically, have been dropping like flies. And I'm starting to feel like last man standing. And I don't like it.

My friend, and fellow LIVESTRONG Leader's wife, Judy, broke my heart. Scott is a cancer survivor himself, and his wife was diagnosed and taken within what seemed to be a breath. Ashleigh Moore, an amazing man, cancer survivor, and fighter, and an International LIVESTRONG Leader who accomplished more than any leader I know has for the cause, was taken from us last week.

Those losses are difficult to bear, as it just seemed some of the most amazing people run out of time. And seeing your friend is pain, losing a colleague, sucks. But their cancer was very different from mine.

But Suzy's loss...

Suzy Zeffren Rauch was a firecracker. She was full of life and ruach (spirit) going back to when I first got to know her in Young Judaea. I admired her from afar, as to me, she was like the sun - as much as I wanted to be her, not like her, but be her, I feared that if I got close, I couldn't withstand the amazingness of Suzy. She was popular (far more than I), she was talented in voice and ability, she was charismatic, she had a way of capturing attention from everyone in a room and making them smile and feel good about themselves. She was a leader. She was an example. She was clearly an amazing friend to everyone around her. She intimidated the bejeezus out of me because I so wanted to be like Suzy when I grew up within the movement. She was the embodiment of what I thought female Judaeans should be.

Fast forward several years, and I have just gone through diagnosis and my double mastectomy. I get an encouraging post from... SUZY ZEFFREN RAUCH! I had friended her, because I loved her so much back in the day, and I was sure she'd accepted my friend request on Facebook out of courtesy. But she was posting to me. And then I got a private message from her (I have to paraphrase, as Facebook seems to have obliterated some of my conversation history, but... ):

Rica, I was wondering if I could ask you a question?

Of course, Suzy, what is it?

I've been following your journey on Facebook and your blog. I just found out that I also have breast cancer. What do I do?

After the initial shock of seeing that Suzy Zeffren Rauch followed my story and my blog - she liked me! She really liked me! - the fury of knowing that someone as amazing as Suzy was being touched by this evil disease made my blood boil. And then, I knew I could finally do something that I'd wanted to do years ago - be Suzy's friend.

From that point on, we weren't Judaeans anymore. We weren't just people with lots of mutual friends. We became members of a secret sisterhood. We shared anxiety and tips and support when hair was lost and came back. Ironically, my hair has grown in just like Suzy's - from very loose waves and/or pin straight to dark blonde, rich ringlets.

We seemed on parallel paths at one point in our chats, and then the chats stopped. I wasn't seeing her in my newsfeed as often. Correspondence came to a trickle.

I, honestly, had assumed that she'd fallen into the same communication rut that I had post-treatment - when you come out the other end, you have to suddenly play catch up with reality.

Then, on 2/5/14, I saw an earth-shattering post from my friend pop up that Suzy was going into hospice. (Any children reading this, cover your ears.) What the fuck?! Hospice?!? It has to be for a longer-term recovery from a procedure - they almost put me into hospice after I'd been in the hospital for 4 weeks with the infection because I was taking up a bed in the hospital and required longer-term care vs. hospital care, but once my condition turned around, I was able to just go home.

I messaged our mutual friend, Benji Lovitt, to find out what was happening. He responded very simply, "She just went on hospice care. I think people are now fearing the worst. Hope you're well." (Kids, you'd better still be covering your ears.) Holy shit! Yes, Benji, I'm fine, thanks for asking, but HOLY SHIT! What in the hell?!?

I went to her page to make sure I was reading Benji's message right, and sure enough, we were being asked to post photos and stories about Suzy for her. Her timeline, and her husband's, was ticking nearly every other second with a new photo, and a new story being posted as I was reading. Dozens, and dozens, and dozens were coming out of nowhere with an outpouring of memories and encouragement.

I messaged her, simply, "Sending you LOVE!" praying to get a response. But none came.

Just a week after I sent her that message, on February 12, Suzy was gone.

I haven't been the same since. I'm going to address her loss momentarily, but allow me to reflect here a moment. Aside from the grief associated with her loss, there is an overwhelming guilt that hits me every time I learn a friend or loved one has died of cancer. That, "Why me?" but worse - "Can't you take me instead?" I know I have many more people out there who would be happy if I were, and even benefit in my death. But no one "wins" with Suzy's death. No one benefits. It rips people apart. She was so much more than I ever was. And, it's ok, that many of our mutual friends think the same thing - I get it. And I'm not writing this to have a flurry of, "Don't say that! You're special, etc." I know the reality. I'm half the woman, mother, leader, educator and friend that Suzy was on a bad day. She has a husband who adores her. She has two, young daughters that benefit far more than my son, for example, whom I've failed time and time again. At least if it were me, my son might not remember everything that he hates about me, but remember the good. I have no husband to widow. Of course, I know I have my daughter, and family and others that would be hurt, but I'm seeing those same people devastated by Suzy's death.

Don't read into this as a suicide note - that's not what it is, either. But I can't bare the idea of walking into a room with some of our mutual friends, and Ron, now, having survived the same disease that killed his wife, our friend, and look anyone in the eyes. I'm marked with shame and guilt that I lived and Suzy died.

Oh, and Suzy's voice. In my mind's ear, I remember how beautiful her voice was. I would listen intently as she, and Kera Rennert, could weave harmonies at camp. I would mimic and memorize their melodies, not daring to upstage them, but to learn from their knack for finding the angelic sound in the gaps, so I could do the same when they weren't at camp anymore. Suzy's voice. Wow.

I was just getting reacquainted with her, this time as equals, and I'd begun to fall in love with her as a younger sister does an older sister, all over again. And then it stopped. Short.

I hate this disease. And, in many ways, I hate surviving it. I hate outliving people like Suzy.

I look to Suzy to remind me to be thankful. Bless whoever it was that posted this amazing version of Modeh Ani sung by Suzy.

As a tribute, expect to hear my daughter and me singing this at her Bat Mitzvah.

This is the voice of an angel.

A fund has been set up in her memory at the camp that she loved, and where she was wed:
http://cyjtexas.org/suzy

By Ilana Zeffren:

Read more about Suzy here:
http://thelilmamas.com/in-loving-memory-of-suzy-rauch/
http://motherblogga.com/just-between-us/2014/2/14/for-suzy.html

Misdirection

If you follow any number of higher profile cancer warriors - from bloggers to doctors to celebrities - you may have heard about the articles that appeared in The Guardian (now down) and the New York Times by a married couple of "journalists" - a term I use very loosely for the Kellers. The wife got information from a cancer blogger via private messages with or without full disclosure that they were not only the subject of an editorial, but that it was using her blog as a means to "debate" the "ethics" of blogging about one's cancer journey, particularly if the end is sooner, and more grueling, than one might hope. It was a despicable piece. What was worse was that the "author's" husband then, in the New York Times, essentially re-wrote his wife's article, even admitting to loosely "perusing" the cancer fighter's blog, and stating that because his father-in-law died one way, it was "unethical" and "unbecoming" to share one's journey any other way.

I lost my mind. I really did.

I'm not going to speak for all of us cancer fighters that choose to share our journeys and fights through blogs and the like. I'm going to speak for myself, because I know there are a lot of folks out there who feel the same way, and to educate the morons like this husband/wife pair who, rather than ask why, suppose they know best and then impose their beliefs as the moral standards.

First, I was a LIVESTRONG Leader first, which meant that my involvement in the cancer community was that of a leader publicly. So, it was natural that I share my fight in the same manner - it would have been hypocritical of me to be asking those fighting cancer in my community to come out and talk about their journeys when I was silent about mine.

Second, from a practical standpoint, I have friends, families and colleagues all over the world. However, I only have one set of hands, one mouth, and two phone lines. Unless I had absolutely nothing to do all day but to call, email, write and Skype with every individual that wanted to be kept up to date, I had to find a more universal means of letting folks know what was going on - my blog accomplished that. My fellow LIVESTRONG Leaders, high school friends, college buddies, family, colleagues etc, could simply check out my blog if they couldn't connect with me, and I could rely on that one outlet to share the basics. Obviously, I spoke with folks in other forums as the relationship and events dictated, but this was a resource for anyone to check in and catch up.

Third, there were days when I didn't want to talk to anyone. There were days I didn't want to see anyone. There were days when I didn't want a dialogue - I wanted a monologue. I was too uncomfortable to have the patience to deal with responses. I wanted to just get things off my chest, share my thoughts, and that was it.

Fourth, I didn't know if I was the only one who was experiencing what I was experiencing. I shared things I lived through hoping to get more experienced cancer fighters to respond with advice, information, etc. And it worked.

Fifth, I did it to share so that other women who were diagnosed similarly knew what the general path could be like, in a non-clinical fashion. I wanted to share the funny experiences and thoughts I had in hopes that I could make someone going through this farcical situation laugh when they needed. I wanted to share the absurdity so that I could waylay someone else's fears.

Lastly, I honestly wanted to lay down in writing what I was thinking in case a) I forgot what my journey was years from now, b) the cancer and treatment didn't go well and affected my memory, c) I needed to document what tests and treatments I had in case I had to provide a doctor my medical history for future treatments and d) in case I didn't survive my cancer, my children could read in their mother's words what her journey was. I wanted to leave a legacy of my voice. I wanted to tell my own story so they wouldn't have to try and remember on their own.

I assure you, if my tale ended grimly, I would have continued to write just the same.

You do not have the right, however, to judge how I share my cancer story. You have the right not to read it, you have the right to say that you wouldn't do the same. But you do not have the right to tell me that what I am doing is not "ethical." Keeping silent is unethical. Judging a woman who is dying and is reaching out for support is unethical. Talking about the realities of this disease is not.

Good for you, Lisa. So many of us have your back.

A Big C-ancercation

I'm now discovering that it has been too long since I blogged. Or put together a LIVESTRONG event, for that matter. I'm a bad blogger. I'm a bad LIVESTRONG Leader.

I've had myself convinced for the past few months that it was due to family matters that had to be addressed, which is true. I've told myself it was because I'm not in chemo, so there is nothing else to share. I've used the excuse of a new job, busy life, new hobbies, etc.

But, early this morning, as I wrapped up a binge on the Showtime series "The Big C," which came out almost a year earlier to the day that I had my double mastectomy, I had an epiphany. Well, I had a few epiphanies.

Epiphany #1: I needed a C-Cation.

Subconsciously, I think I "took the year off" of cancer, particularly after Mary was rediagnosed with Stage 4 and then when she passed away. By no means do I blame her, but I think I had to take a break from all things cancer-related, aside from my mandatory surgeries and appointments. But why?

Epiphany #2: Fear

Yes, I'm a "survivor." Yes, I acknowledged guilt over surviving when friends like Mary, Ryan and others ran out of time and died. But I either never wanted to or never realized just how (pardon my French) just how fucking scared I am of cancer. I'd numbed myself to the anxiety of going back to Dr. Tepler's office time and time again. It creeps out every time I second guess Dr. Tepler's report that my counts and blood work are fine. Every time Dr. Tepler tells me that my requests for an MRI and scansare unnecessary   because all signs are positive that I'm cancer free.

Epiphany #3: Hypocrisy

Throughout this blog, and my cancer journey, I have stated and restated that you have to trust your gut. But have I trusted my gut? Lately?

Here's the reality. I don't know that I can trust my gut right now. I can't decipher between Fear and My Gut anymore. Why do I say this? My Gut keeps telling me to tell Dr. Tepler to wake up and give me a godammned body scan because I "know" the cancer is back. But at the same time, isn't that a natural Fear for cancer survivors? That terror-inducing nickname, "Mets." Not the second-best New York baseball team (Yankees rule), but metastases. See, if you get Mets, you're automatically Stage 4. Plus, my chances of survival plummet from the 80% or better to numbers that aren't even worth putting out there.

I've been in complete denial of this. Of the fear. Of my gut.

All of this has resulted in my LIVESTRONG apathy this year. Guilt of hypocrisy and not living up to the STRONG in LIVESTRONG. I was afraid. I felt weak. I felt like I betrayed the message of LIVESTRONG.

But worse, I have been terrified of the cancer returning.

Blogging, for me, was a means of expressing what I was feeling and sharing how I was feeling. But I had made myself numb to how I was feeling. I had to be. Right now, I don't want to leave my bed. I'm paranoid about my cats' affections - is Samson just maturing from kitten to cat and less restless, more affectionate, and that's why he is sleeping with, next to and sometimes on me? Or is his instinct kicking in like "Death-enny" in "The Big C?" Why has Schmooie, who has been like Sean - living outdoors for weeks, even months at a time, despite having a home, decided to stay, not only indoors, but within inches of my head - either behind my pillow or dwelling on my nightstand at eye level, with little interest of going outside, where she loves? She's 15 years old - and now she decides to be an indoor cat? Or is it the same instinct Thomas had?

How could I write my blog when I couldn't even acknowledge what I was feeling? If I wrote it, it was real. If it was real, I'd have to deal.

So, I blame "The Big C." How dare you expose us like that? To the world? To ourselves? Did you have cameras set up in my home? My head? Is Adam modeled on Zach, who may not have acted out sexually as Adam did, but in other ways? How dare you make your character the same age as my son? Why couldn't Cathy have been single? I'm now furious I had to be my own Cancerierge - I had to be my own Paul, with a splash of my Dad and My Rock in the mix.

And worse, how dare you film in my backyard? Sometimes within yards of me while I was going through chemo? Filmed on backroads that I know like the back of my hand? And did you base some of Dr. Sherman on Dr. Tepler? Seriously?

Sometimes, we project a lot of ourselves on shows and things we are watching on TV and on screen. But this... how could I not? Particularly when so much of the footage was filmed where I would go for treatment, for recreation, etc? When Cathy experienced chemobrain at the Stamford Mall, I felt sick to my stomach. The minute that the elevator went up in the background - the elevator I had been riding since I was 8 and the Mall first opened - my stomach fell. When they shot the vertigo shot on Cathy's way up to the 7th floor, I got lightheaded. As she was speeding down Long Ridge Road near the old GE headquarters, my first instinct was to blurt out, "If you're going to hospice, you're facing the wrong direction - the fastest route is in the opposite direction - you missed your turn."

But this show, even though Cathy had a very different cancer, a very different treatment, this was too close to home - literally and figuratively. I'm very confused, outraged, appreciative and terrified now.

Clearly, I'm going to be calling Dr. Tepler tomorrow and fighting to have a full body scan, if possible. I'm going to call a dermatologist. I'm questioning every mark on my body, every ailment, every ache, every pain, every dream, every thought... is any of it an indication that the cancer is back?

I know so many people who I know have remarked that I'm so strong, that I've inspired them, etc, but when I said months ago that I'm just me, I wasn't kidding. I'm terrified. How can I inspire others to be strong when I feel so weak right now? And I'm not even in active treatment?

So, thank you, Laura Linney, Oliver Platt, Gabriel Basso, Phyllis Somerville and Darlene Hunt, for fucking me up. Thank you for holding up a mirror that I feared as much as death. Thank you for last night's night sweats, fear and anxiety induced dreams, and forcing me to second guess every, "You're cancer free," report I've gotten from Dr. Tepler.

And thank you for making me blog again.

Stop riding my coat tails, Ms. Jolie!

Just like she copied my voluptuous, succulent lips, she had to go ahead and lop off her perfect breasts, just like I had to a couple of years ago. Granted, she decided not to wait until she heard the words, "You've got cancer," to do it, but still. I guess imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so I'm flattered.

But, now, she's going all "Single White Female" on me with getting an oopharectomy.

Oh, no, Angelina-chica, this is where I draw the line.

I was due to get spayed months ago, it's just that my insurance got all ferkakta. And now, you come along, and you think you're getting your ovaries removed before me? No way. Get in line sista!

So, just to make sure you don't keep trying to lay claim to territory I've already staked, I'm having my ovaries removed on Monday.

Oh. And I'm having my boobs tweaked, too.

Beat that, Miss-Right-Leg-Show-Off!

Stupid BRCA genetic defect... #FUCANCER

My Chemo Buddy

If you've followed this blog during my treatment, you may recall references to someone to whom I referred as my "Chemo Buddy." I shared with you that she was a couple of years younger, we'd known each other for some time, but we were diagnosed around the same time with breast cancer. We started the same chemotherapy regiment on the same day. We lost our hair the same day and shaved our heads the same day. We finished chemo the same day. We celebrated our chemo "graduation" together at Mary's Place by the Sea.

But we weren't identical in our cancer stories. Her cancer was triple negative - far more resistant than my cancers. I had 2 forms of breast cancer, one highly aggressive. I had the BRCA 2 gene mutation which commanded a double mastectomy. She opted for a lumpectomy and radiation with chemo. My cancer was estrogen responsive, so I had to go on hormonal treatment, she did not.

I revealed that while I was very vocal about my cancer journey, she, in my opinion far more bravely, remained relatively silent. While I worked from home, she hid her disease and went to work with little time off to the extent most co-workers has no idea of her battle.

On a personal level, she was never married and had no children. I had been divorced with 2 children. She looked forward to building a family. I looked forward to when my kids went to college so I could romp and play.

Our joint cancer journey, however, tool a drastic turn this fall. She was ripped from the No Evidence of Disease path when she discovered a lump in the same breast which has been radiated - a feat with shocking odds against recurrence. That was bad enough. She and I talked about her getting a double mastectomy as I had and that was what she was considering.

But, then, she was drawn further off-path when they found that the cancer had spread. Each exam revealed another site. Liver. Back. More.

Her doctors no longer spoke of cures, nor treatments. They stopped speaking in terms of years or months.

She was less connected. We went from phone calls to text messages to Facebook messages to the occasional like to a post. I was lucky if I got a one or two word response.

Hospice wasn't an option. She went home where her mother and aunt cared for her. Her sister kept in touch from out of state, and the friend that introduced us and I got updates from her sister, but we couldn't visit or see her. Communication died down.

Then, the phone rang on February 10 as I was wrangling my daughter and her friend who was over for a slumber party. She was gone.

Mary Caprio died at home on the Jersey Shore. This beautiful, vibrant, young woman was gone. My friend, Nadine, lost her baby sister. Lisa lost her friend who helped her recover from the death of her fiancé, one of my dear friends. And I lost my Chemo Buddy.

I'm relieved, now, to be able to name her. I hated to speak of Mary with a label because she was so much more to me. She was my friend. She was my sister with whom we could connect and speak frankly about our cancer and chemo and side effects in a way we could not speak to anyone else.

Her funeral was over a week ago. I'm here in Chicago at the LIVESTRONG Assembly in a room of survivors and supporters in an exercise where we were handed sealed envelopes with a fake diagnosis to role play. My throat choked up because my diagnosis was normal. Mary was recovering better than I was. Even in this fake diagnosis, I was devastated that I am still alive and Mary is gone.

As much as Mary's death hurt me, perhaps the heartbreak that her time ran out so early and mine is still going, but I'm doing it alone without her scares me. The guilt that I, who has been taking longer to recover while she looked better than ever, was embracing life, who hadn't yet experienced the joys of motherhood and marriage, survives is overwhelming. More than anything, the fear that I'm next is too much to bear.

But this is about Mary. A beautiful woman. A devout woman. A loving daughter. A devoted friend. My Chemo Buddy.

Choices? Or a roll of the dice?

It was brought to my attention that I seem to be preoccupied lately. Honey, you don’t know the half of it.

I’m dealing with the typical, and atypical dramas of being a divorced mom of a pre-teen and a teen. I have an ex-husband who fights doing the minimum for his children and is causing them constant angst. I’m still forced to make COBRA payments to a former employer that are higher than many mortgages monthly as I’m still contracting and not receiving benefits. And, oh yes, I’m still contracting and not working in a full-time, permanent post. 

So, in keeping with my previous candor regarding my situation, I’m faced with an even more perplexing situation: to remove or not remove my ovaries right now. If I choose to, do I opt for a hysterectomy or not? Do I voluntarily put myself into an irreversible menopause, or do I gamble on my chances with ovarian cancer? And do I permanently, without question, kill any chance of carrying children ever again?

Let me make one thing clear. I already have 2 children. Two children that, though I love them with every cell of my being, I had too young (at least, too young for me). I’d had every intention of not having children until I was older, after I’d done much more traveling, established my career, following more dreams, etc. So, the fact that my son is only a couple of years away from graduating high school and with my daughter nipping at his heels, means that I’d have my freedom from parental responsibility that much sooner. The notion of having a baby, and having to delay my second shot at my 20s, isn’t high on my to-do list.

Perhaps it’s the concept of no more conceptions: That I may never experience that surge of adrenaline, fear, nerves and excitement when you see the window on the stick I just peed on change from blank to life-changing, nor will I ever have the joy of playing “poke the baby” with my own stomach and have my stomach poke back. Or, more likely, I’ve already had my breasts carved out, replaced with plastic goo, and the final remaining body parts that define me as female will be butchered.

Ok, so I may be going a little OTT, but I’m kind of not. I already removed one breast for the sake of prevention. Now, I’m venturing south in search of new organs to remove for the sake of prophylaxis.

My oncologist wants me to have my oophorectomy yesterday. My gynecologist says it isn’t an immediate need, but it should happen soon. I know I have a short window of time to make the decision before the alleged time runs out. I can’t figure out why I’m hesitating!

Maybe it’s that word, “menopause.”

I mean, we women all face it. But I’ve barely got my head wrapped around the fact that I won’t be going to anymore proms let alone that menopause is closer to me than my high school graduation naturally. Can you imagine how mind-blowing it is that, something I thought I had another 20 years to dread is knocking on my door now? Will I grow a beard? I don’t want hot flashes! Can you imagine me even more unpredictably moody and bitchy? Holy crap! I WILL turn into my mother!

But seriously, folks, it’s like when I was rock climbing in Colorado and I was faced with having to jump off the cliff to go rapelling – and I opted out, against my protest. I could make sense of the mastectomies. I could make sense of the chemo. I could make sense of losing my hair.

Why can’t I get myself to just have the oophorectomy? Why am I hesitating?!

(And, I gotta say it, why the hell is this procedure given such a ridiculous sounding name? Is that the problem? I can’t take this operation seriously because it sounds like something a cartoon character would blurt out when punched in the gut?)

KITTYSTRONG

Last night, I was lying down on my sofa, with one cat, Malka, behind my head, another cat, Motek, in my right arm and a third, Sammy, in my left (that is until he lept out of my arms as captured on my phone by my daughter as he was in mid-flight).

Quite a picture, yes?

I looked up at my father, who had come over for dinner, and said, “Holy shit! I’m the Crazy Cat Lady!” He smirked and glibly said, “You always were,” as he left for his home.

I’m really not, though. I’ve been accused of being one by an ex-boyfriend, but that’s because he didn’t like cats. And being a single woman with cats doesn’t automatically put you into that category. I don’t have ramps and all kinds of weird structures to accommodate the cats in every room. I don’t have kitty houses all over. Yes, I do have 2 kitty litters on each floor of the house, but that’s because when you have four cats, you need to have two.

Yes. Four cats. It’s not what you think.

I have a 15-year old cat named Schmooie (Schmooella Daniella). (No, I didn’t name her “Schmooie,” she came with that name.) She’s a breast cancer survivor – no joke. In 2005, she had a quadruple mastectomy. She was my ex-husband’s cat – we got her when she was 6-months old. Until recently, she would spend 75% of her time outside – it was agony to keep her indoors. Lately, she’s been relatively content being an indoor cat, thank goodness. So she was kind of an absentee cat. So, yes, while I own four cats, I never really considered her ours – she was very much her own cat.

Malka was “gifted” to us a couple of years ago. A former friend, who was a little more than psycho, decided she had to get a kitten to keep her solitary cat and her young son company. I urged her to reconsider, as it seemed to come out of left field, but she insisted. She asked me to accompany her to pick out a kitten as someone who has had cats all her life. I found a kitten in the litter with an amazing personality, with great potential to be a loving lap cat and one that got along with the other kittens. She, however, chose to ignore my recommendations altogether and went for the psycho kitty, who seemed to show great disdain towards all the other cats, and was female. Her logic? This kitten was the only one who didn’t have six toes (which I thought was kind of cool – the entire litter but this one was six-toed). I warned her one last time that I didn’t think this was the best companion kitten, but she didn’t listen.

Sure enough, 48-hours later, she was on my doorstep, handing the kitten to my daughter saying, “Here! Look! It’s a present for you!” and I was stuck with her. Malka was now my daughter’s kitten – and my daughter is the only person whom this cat adores. She despises my son – his mere entrance into a room can cause her to hiss and growl and even attack his ankles.

Motek is the newest addition to the family after Hurricane Sandy. His story, as it was told to us, was that he was abandoned by his former owners and left in the hurricane. When we learned about his plight, and saw his sweet personality, we had to adopt him. Since Malka is my daughter’s cat, Motek became my son’s, though he seems to have claimed my bedroom as his domain.

And that leaves Samson. My Samson. (Well, technically, He’s Samson the II. My grandmother had a pair of cats - Samson & Delilah - Samson being a red tabby, Delilah a grey. Samson I became my cat when she passed away. There was something, when Samson II was a kitten, that was so much like Samson I, that I knew I'd mistakenly call him Samson, so I decided, "The hell with it, I'll just name him Samson II after Samson I.") A little more than a year ago, my big, grey, teddy bear of a cat, Raouw, had to be put down. I was trolling the internet just looking for places in the area from which we could adopt a cat when we were ready. Then, I saw this photo:

What a shayna punim?!

I wasn’t planning on getting a new cat immediately – I wanted time to mourn Raouwsiebear. However, when I saw this face, I was in love. Super Bowl Sunday, we went to a pet shop to meet the woman coordinating the adoptions, and went into the large bathroom with her, the kids and a pet carrier. The minute she opened the carrier doors, this lovely lion of a kitten walked out, with the confidence of someone who just won the Presidential election, and he marched into my lap, purring loudly, and curled up and looked me in the eyes. Within minutes, we were buying him food, a collar and toys.

Why is this relevant?

When people say that I’m a “Crazy Cat Lady,” I know in my heart that I’m not. If anything, I’m a very sane person because of these little four-legged (five-toed) furry family members.

In case you hadn’t seen the reports, the kindness and healing that these purring bundles of joy provide to people is remarkable, so much so that after the Newtown shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School, an organization brought kittens to provide therapy to the children and anyoneneeding support. Cats are the only animal on the planet that have a functionthat is strictly meant to express happiness – purring. And studies show that those with cats tend to have lower levels of stress and fewer heart attacks than those without cats. The act of simply stroking a cats fur has a healing ability.

There is no question, whatsoever, that my ability to recovery from the blow of hearing that I had cancer would not have been handled as well had it not been for the affection of my cats. When I came home from the hospital after my mastectomy, as I’ve described previously, my cat Raouw didn’t leave my side for days – all he did was curl up with me, purr, kiss me, and sleep. Even Malka slept with me. Schmooie would curl up on my pillow behind my head. Collectively, they all cared for me in their own very unique ways.

During chemotherapy, when I felt at my worst, I could tell that Malka sensed something was wrong with me, but she was confused. Raouwsie, however, wouldn’t cease contact with me, going so far as to keep me lying down when I was tempted to get up so I could rest.

Once Raouw was gone, Sammy, in his own clumsy, bad ass way, cared for me. Though he doesn’t have half the patience Raouw had to sleep in my lap, or sit still for long cuddle sessions, he’d pay attention to me, clown around, and keep me entertained. And Sammy still showered me with loud purrs and sloppy kisses when I had various reconstructive surgeries and, when I wasn’t looking, would curl up and sleep next to me so I would wake up with a face full of ginger fur and the soothing vibration of his purr.