Is there such a thing as "Cancer Free?"

In the week or so it's taken me to recover from the emotional roller coaster my "Big C" Marathon caused me, I think about what a friend reminded me when I expressed my reborn anxiety - "But, Rica, you're 'Cancer Free.'"

Is there ever such a thing as being "Cancer Free?" It's not like I'm a can of soda - when I have zero sugar in my ingredients, and there is a governing body that approves of the label, and I'm declared "Sugar Free," therefore I feel sugar free. I would just BE sugar free. 

The trouble is, I remember what it was like to truly BE Cancer Free.

Maybe it's a little more like being decaffeinated coffee - I once had caffeine, but it has been stripped out of my being. Caffeine was inherent to my being coffee, but after an extraction process, I'm now lacking my caffeine, left a sad, watery shell of who I used to be.

So would that really make me "Decancerated Rica" as opposed to "Full Strength Rica?"

Still, no. Because the coffee only went through two states - Caffeinated, then Decaffeinated.

I actually went through FOUR states - 1) Rica 2) With Cancer, Blissfully Unaware Rica, 3) Full-on Cancer Rica, 4) Now "Cancer Free" Rica. But, note, State 1 does NOT equal State 4.

I will never, EVER be "Rica" - with no state of cancer at all. State 1 will never exist for me again.

I have been permanently changed. I have the scars to prove it. There isn't a morning that goes by when I am not immediately reminded of the fact that I had cancer in my body. Reminders surround and are within me. From the fact that the house has been under 60 degrees every morning I awake this week since the polar vortex came into effect and, while I have goosebumps all over my body, my breasts are just there and my nipples no longer react nor do they perk up - because they are numb chunks of thigh skin, tattooed in a faded pink. When I rub my eyes, and begin to scratch itches on my shoulders, and I brush against my cleavage, the skin on the top of my right breast senses my finger tips normally, but on the left side, there is an irritating tingle, barely cognizant of the fact that it's not an unpleasant scrubbing action triggering a response, but a gentle touch.

My bones and joints ache more than ever in this chilly weather. I cannot tolerate cold the same way I used to before chemo. While I was always a "Summer Baby," and I hated Winter, I could endure it. My elbows didn't ache from the core. My knuckles didn't stiffen. My spine wouldn't surge with prickly cold. But it does now.

Once in the shower, I realize that I really don't have to do a self-breast exam anymore, even though it's become second nature. Instead, as I begin the futile, and irrelevant exam, I feel the horrible horizontal scar that I had assumed would have completely disappeared on each breast where my areolae used to be. I feel the strange pucker around that line, so the breast skin doesn't hang correctly on the lower right half of the right breast, and there is still a tough, thickened patch of subsurface scar tissue on the inner side of my left breast.

As I sit on the commode, facing the cabinet with glass doors in which I kept my feminine products, I see the package of maxi pads I'd picked up right before my oopharectomy, out of habit, forgetting that just a couple of days later, would become irrelevant and would sit dormant unless a visitor needed one, or my daughter has her first "visit from her cousin." I see the last of my tampons, which haven't budged since April.

When I make it back to my room, and I sit at my vanity, I measure the length of my hair. Now, it's just tickling my shoulders. I pull at the longest piece and measure to see how long the curl now unfurls, and to see if it hits my shoulder blades yet. I shake my head, as I still have a way to go. I reach back and see if I can reach the back of my hair. It's nowhere to be found. I have at least another year to grow my hair to the length where I felt comfortable.

Before

After (Straight)

After (Curly)

I try and remember what tasks I have to do today, and I find that I can't remember what they are. I take a minute and try and remember what day of the week it is. I have to resort to peeking at my iPad or iPhone to check the calendar. Since chemo, I still find that I have trouble remembering which day of the week it is. (Sorry, Dr. Tepler, you can't tell me there's no such thing as chemo brain.)

I look in the mirror. My eyebrows have grown back, and they are starting to get unruly. But I'm scared to tweeze them. And, now that they are back, I find I can't pencil them in as well as I used to when there were no hairs there. Ironically, my eyebrows look far less realistic now when I try and do them than they did when I had no eyebrows.

I see a double chin where there wasn't one before. I see a puffy version of myself. When I started chemo, I was told to eat when I could, as likely, I would lose my appetite. Ironically, of all the cancer patients I knew, my appetite never died. In fact, I ended up gaining weight. Whether it was from the steroids I was put on heading into chemo, the fact that I was pretty much "benched" from physical activity after I tore mastectomy souchers and gave myself an infection, and never recovered from the atrophy that induced, or that my energy post-chemo has never recovered, I am in a terrible physical condition.

For the first time in my life, I'm not physically fit. I was never a twig, but I was always fit. Not since chemo.

And, at this point, it isn't even a full hour since I've awoken, and I've recounted how many reminders that I had cancer?

How can that be called "Cancer Free?"

This year, I will be "Cancer Free" in March. Oh really?

So, here's what I've realized:

I don't care if you survived the surgeries and treatments a day, a week, a month, a year, or a decade ago - we are never "Cancer Free" again. We may be "Decancerated," but we'll NEVER be "Cancer Free" again.

One way or another...

I love Blondie. She was blonde, gorgeous, feminine but lethally fierce. She was untouchable. Would that we were all that indestructible.

But we aren't. This medical parasite keeps eating its way into our lives and silently strikes harder and faster the more chances it gets. Cancer is voracious. Unless you put a stop to it right away, it seems to not relent until it has consumed you.

My chemo buddy, whom I've mentioned had a recurrence and metastases, took a terribly sudden turn during the Christmas holiday. I heard from her sister that the cancer has seemingly spread. Discussions of hospice are arising.

There is nothing more than I'd like to do than to visit her, but we, her friends, are being asked to remain supportive from afar.

How can we? What can we do from a distance while she is in a hospital bed? I want to hold her hand, make her smile, tell her jokes, reminisce with our friend and give her comfort. From afar, what I can I do? Send her a card? Flowers? We're even advised not to call!

I've begged her family to reach out, to build a support network - for her and for themselves - but they refuse. If I could drag Doug Ulman personally to her bedside and Chris Brewer to her family's home, I would. But they don't want the support.

I find this terribly perplexing. Why would they want to fight this battle without anyone there? Without any support or guidance? Is it denial? I don't get that sense. Is it fear? Fear of accepting my friend's illness? I could understand that with her first bout, but this is a different animal.

I know that I'm the LIVESTRONG Leader, but that doesn't mean that I have all the answers. Aside from praying, "sending good vibes," and continuously asking if it's ok to visit yet, what more can I do?

Samson

Perhaps it was inheriting who was the world's sweetest cat in the world, Samson, from my grandmother once she died, or maybe it was the notion of a woman being able to captivate someone to the point that they could be entranced without magic and fall victim to her, but the story of Samson & Delilah always intrigued me. I still remember reading the story over and over again in the children's bible my parents' got me when I was young.

A little over a year ago, it took all my strength to shave my head after watching my own personal Delilah, breast cancer, start to rip the hair from my head. I'd grown my hair to be the longest it had been for several years. I'd had the intent to never cut it again, let along shave it ever. But I had to. It was too heartbreaking to see it fall out like withered, fallen soldiers going into a suicide mission.

Unlike when one usually cuts one's hair, the expectations of having significant length more than a full-year from when you shaved your head, my hair is struggling along. I have "cute curls." I can flat iron my hair to make it flat and spiky, but I still can't pull it back into a proper pony tail. I can't feel it on the back of my neck.

And there seems to be an uncanny correlation between the day I cut my hair, at the LIVESTRONG Challenge 2011, and the last time I felt strong and fit. Now, I feel weak. I'm too easily winded. My energy is shot, and hasn't been anywhere close to where it was, no matter what drugs and supplements I take.

Is the growth of my hair directly related to my strength and energy? Perhaps. With short hair, on the bike, outside, I just feel cold. I can't stand cold air hitting my head. But I look forward to feeling the wind rustling my full head of hair.

My hair is just below my ears now. I only have 2-3 feet to go, now. I'll see you in 5 years.

When one door closes...

... another door opens. I cannot tell you how many times I've heard this from my LIVESTRONG peers. And, in many ways, it's true.

A door slammed shut last week, and is locking shut today. As a result, I am planning on spending the next couple of weeks training my body back into some semblance of being fit in preparation for my cancer survivors' rock climbing expedition with First Descents.

I look to canoeing around the lake every morning, throwing some bike rides into my days, doing housework, and getting back into the day-to-day, physically. Yes, I have a couple of minor residual procedures to complete reconstruction, but, for the first time since last August, it should not interfere with physical efforts.

I look to my rock climbing trip in Colorado as a restart. (Though, I'm most unhappy at the prospect that I may break some nails - I've been working very hard to regrow them since Chemo - and they are splendidly long now!)

I won't lie - I've been terrified that this ending would put me in dire financial straits - more than before. But an interesting thing has been happening - I've been getting more and more interview requests, and from corporations that I've been trying to get into for years. Better than that, they are such interesting positions!

The coming months will be telling ones.

Will I find that "dream job" that will solve my career, and financial, needs? Will the best thing for my son be to continue high school here or in Boston with his father? Will I be able to regain my strength and athleticism and be able to ride 100 miles in Austin in October? Will I be able to get back on the mountain bike again?

Stay tuned...

It's the small victories...

The past several weeks have been relatively boring, I must say, with relation to my cancer survivorship. With chemo over, surgeries almost done, etc, I struggle as I straddle the line of being bed-ridden and being "better." I mean, what the hell does that word, "better," mean anyway? Technically, I'm totally better than I was when I had my last bout with chemotherapy. But does that mean that I'm "better?" I feel better than I did a month ago, but I don't feel better, or the same, as I did prior to the cancer.

But enough philosophizing - I can do that ad nauseum. Onto celebration.

I can officially declare that I have more hair than my father.

Point of reference

I also have more hair than My Rock. (Although he cheats. He started to grow his hair longer, so while I have a full head of longish stubble, he has a fringe of longer hair.) But he's got more greys than me, so neener-neener.

Here's the latest!

What? I have a cowlick? Can my hair pick ONE direction?

On a completely different note, I decided to take some artwork, a phrase from my friend, Nikol's husband, and put together a Zazzle shop. Take a gander! Percentage of all sales will be donated to LIVESTRONG, Crickett's Answer for Cancer or both!

Meling Pot Wrap Up and Take THAT stupid cancer...

Well, last night at the Melting Pot in Darien was a blast! We were joined by a former colleague from my agency days, and a nice group of people who came in to celebrate life and contribute to LIVESTRONG with their meals and raffle tickets. My daughter, bless her little soul, kicked butt selling raffle tickets! She collected $125! We're waiting for the final tally and check from the event from The Melting Pot, but I'm guessing the event brought it a total of $350-500! Not bad for a night out on the town!

Oh, and FU chemotherapy... ask me if it's that time of the month. Yes, it is. HA! Thought you killed it... but you didn't! (Yes, this is going to be the only time where you will EVER see me declare that it's that time of the month.

Understand, in my case, it's a cause for celebration - there was a good chance that it would never come again. You see, chemotherapy is known for killing a woman's ability to have a menstrual cycle. I didn't have that problem until my last round. I was kind of bummed, actually, as Dr. Tepler remarked that I was one of a few patients he's had that didn't have any interruption - until the last. I was sure that was it for me, especially now that I'm on the hormonal therapy. But, leave it to my stubborn body, it's back. Which is good. I think. Not that I'm chomping at the bit to expand the family any time soon - but it's something that I seriously didn't even want to deal with/address/cope with on top of everything else. I know we have to look at things in a couple of years, as an oopharectomy (talk about an SAT word!) is recommended with my BRCA status, but, despite my doctor's regular urging to make a decision now, I know I have some time and I'm going to take it.

So, cancer, how's that for a big PBTHTHTHTHTHTHTTHTHTHTHTH!

Of course, now I have to deal with having my period again... I hear there are some great products out on the market for that kind of thing...

No, really, I'm out to get me...

I've been accused of being paranoid in the past. When I told my parents that the kids in grade school were ganging up against me when I was first labelled "corroded" by David Breakstone in first grade after fishing out something of mine that had fallen into an empty garbage can to when I was in 5th grade, and I was asked out by Marc Leferman, and it all turned out to be a prank, they reacted with, "No they aren't out to get you." When, in high school, my "ethics" teacher would leer at me, and make terribly offensive jokes in class, I was certain he was targeting me and my sensitivities, but I was assured he wasn't out to get me. (Of course, when he called me a "Spic Shikse" in front of the class because I'd gotten higher grades than the more observant kids in the class, I think I proved my point.)

But, this whole cancer thing has brought in a whole new reign of paranoia. If my ring finger on my fight hand itches at the tip, is it a breast cancer cell the chemo missed? Is it a side effect of one of the drugs I'm taking? Is it post-chemo detox? Or is it just an itch?

I used to laugh with my survivor friends before I was diagnosed as they spoke about this fear that a cold was the cancer coming back. And, in the back of my skeptical mind, I thought they were exaggerating. Now, I fear, I'm far worse than any of them.

Perhaps it's because my cancer was detected randomly, and not because there were any symptoms, that I'm even more aware of things that feel out of place. My equilibrium for what is "normal" and "just a " is completely thrown off. The fact that my lips are chapped and skin flaky must be because of the chemo, right? Or is it because I'd forgotten to drink water all day? Wait! I forgot to drink water all day! That must mean that I've got chemo brain! Or the cancer is making me not thirsty! Or, I've gotten obsessive about the task at hand and I've just forgotten to eat or drink. Wait a minute... I haven't eaten anything all day. Oh, no! I've lost my appetite! No, you're just an idiot.

These are the thoughts that run through my mind, in between the urge to call my doctor anytime there is a pang of discomfort, or a pea under my proverbial mattress.

Of course, that really is the question - What is serious enough to tell the doctor?

All kidding aside, when you've been diagnosed with cancer, you start reading and learning about all these insidious, benign little symptoms that we either brushed off for months, leading up to the diagnosis, or that could be a sign of cancer returning, or located someplace else. Additionally, if you're in treatment with chemotherapy, drugs or any combination, you've had to read warning labels, side-effect listings that make the Manhattan White Pages look like Cliff's Notes, and stories about people who had a nail split and was diagnosed with terminal cancer as a result.

I ask this question not because I have the answer, but because I'd like to know.

I had a 30-minute coughing fit for no particular reason yesterday. It was so bad that I nearly rear-ended a car, and, when I pulled into a parking lot, continued to be so bad I nearly lost bladder control, came close to throwing up and I think I burst a blood vessel. Do I call the doctor? And if so, which one? My oncologist, as it could be a drug/chemo side effect? My plastic surgeon, because I could have pulled something? My primary care physician (with whom I've had all of 2 conversations in the past year) because it could be something else? Who do I call? What the hell was that?

Every little thing, now, seems to be a result of the cancer, a side effect, or, in the mind of a cancer fighter, a symptom of something that will prompt another series of frightening tests in large machines that beep, chirp, flash and whir.

What do we do? And when does it get better?

Why is my body out to get me?

Rica's Kick Cancer's Butt Super Bowl Pool

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

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."

Having Faced Chemo: The Cons

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.

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

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 to LIVESTRONG 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, that LIVESTRONG promoted that made me, as a LIVESTRONG 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 for LIVESTRONG'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 where LIVESTRONG 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 that LIVESTRONG 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 that LIVESTRONG 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 though LIVESTRONG 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 that LIVESTRONG 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 at LIVESTRONG, 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 was LIVESTRONG 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 for LIVESTRONG 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

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

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?

Chemo Round 3 Vlog Digest...

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

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

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...

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.