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.

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!

Do I have enough cancer for you?

This week I've been struck by the notion that some survivors look at other survivors and judge them by how bad their cancer was. Now, I will never deny that depending on the diagnosis, other people's journeys will be more, or less, traumatic and challenging than others. Just like pregnancies, some women experience easier or more difficult pregnancies. However, pregnant is pregnant, no matter how you got that way and what your journey was. It's still a life-changing event, regardless of outcome.

It's the same thing with cancer. There is no such thing as "good cancer" or "bad cancer." There are good and bad prognoses, there are subjectively more difficult treatment plans, etc.

And yet, some people feel the need to look at some of us and say, "Well, you didn't suffer for as long as I did, so your cancer 'doesn't count,'" to which I say, "Bullshit."

That sounds harsh. I know. That sounds incredibly insensitive. But the minute you belittle another person's cancer experience, you kind of negate any willingness to be open to your plight.

Having cancer doesn't automatically turn us into saints. Jerks are simply jerks with cancer. Yes, there is the chance that being faced with something as significant and mortal as cancer may prompt us to rethink our approach to life, etc. But sometimes, it really doesn't.

The notion of judging another person's cancer as being "less than" is so insulting, too, because it presumes that the person who has the "lesser" cancer isn't aware that others have gone through hell and back. I am very well aware, for example, that I am surrounded by people who have endured things for many more months and years, who have had chemotherapy for much longer, etc, and that their cancers have a much higher mortality rate than mine. But that doesn't make me, or anyone else, any less of a survivor, and that doesn't mean that I'm less qualified than someone else to say, "I'm a survivor," have an opinion on the matter or work for the cause.

My opinion? Accept that everyone has their own cancer journey, and that for that individual and their family, it is (hopefully) the most disruptive, challenging and difficult experience of their lives, no matter the time span, prognosis, etc.

Perhaps, rather than reserve judgement about another person's treatment and cancer, leave it at "I have cancer," and provide support. Or walk away.

A blanket statement: If I have ever made anyone feel that I've made their cancer experience seem insignificant, my sincerest apologies. I hope I've never done that.

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...

LIVESTRONG FONDUE-Raiser at the Melting Pot next week!

LIVESTRONG FONDUE-Raiser, March 14, 2012 Take action to fight cancer by joining Team LIVESTRONG and the Melting Pot for a special FONDUE-Raiser on 3/14/2012. During the event, you will have the opportunity to meet Fairfield county's LIVESTRONG leader, Rica Mendes. Rica is not only raising money and awareness for the not-for-profit organization, she is also a gifted cyclist who is currently undergoing chemotherapy to fight off breast cancer.                                                Dine with us and you will enjoy a special four-course fondue feast for just $44.95 per person. A portion of the proceeds from each meal purchased ($10.00) will go to the Lance Armstrong Foundation. Reservations are recommended and be sure to wear yellow to show your support! http://www.opentable.com/the-melting-pot-of-reservations-darien?rid=61915&restref=61915  The Melting Pot 14 Grove Street, Darien, CT 06820  203.656.4774

No more Dr. Octopus! Just call me NED!

Thank you, Dr. Nordberg.

Thursday, March 1 was my surgical liberation day. After 15 days of wearing the same surgical vest (ok, I alternated between a couple, but when you wear a garment for 24-48 hours or more in rotation with an identical garment for another 24-48 hours, does it matter?), 2 drains sticking out of both sides, and surgical pads being held in place by sheer will, I'd had it. I was grouchy. I was angry. I was in pain (when I wasn't on pain killers). I felt that the drains owned me, and had a mind of their own. Yes, folks, I'd turned into Dr. Octopus - down to the sad little hair. I was a grimacing mastermind, who desperately wanted to sever my inorganic appendages as much as I was a master to them. But, on Thursday, after some Lidocaine shots, I was rid of these stupid drains. No more tubes sticking out of my sides that I could accidentally yank, no more strange things tugging at my insides, no more draining icky yellow fluid and praying there weren't any surges. The drains were out. And I could bathe again. (My apologies to those poor souls who, knowingly or unknowingly, were subjected to my rather Elizabethan sanitary standards.)

But, that was just the beginning.

Today I met with my oncologist, Dr. Tepler. Sometimes, it's a hard read with him. There are a lot of strange silences, unspoken questions, and a lot of moments where I wonder, "Should I say something? Is he going to say anything? Are we done talking? Did we start?" It was one of those days.

First, I walked into the Hematology & Oncology practice at the Bennett Cancer Center at Stamford Hospital, and was completely confused. The entire reception/office facility was planted firmly right in the waiting area, with their office space blacked out - renovations. But I didn't see the signs about pardoning any one's appearances on my way in. I was running a bit late, but with Dr. Tepler, that should have been fine as I'm usually waiting a good half-hour. But, to my surprise, he was standing by the desk, as though he'd just called my name. With a surgical mask on. I assumed that either he was sick, or he really didn't like the dust and muss of renovation. Turns out, he was sick.

While I was waiting to check in, he grabbed a paper and sat with us patients in the waiting area. I awkwardly sat next to him, unsure whether or not I should say hello or let him read his newspaper in peace - perhaps this was his way of relaxing? We sat, silently, next to each other for a moment, and I asked, "Should we head into your office?" He looked at me and asked if I'd had blood work done yet. I shoot my head and asked, "Am I supposed to?" He said that I am supposed to and that I was supposed to fast. It was news to me. I went to the desk to inquire about it, and Briana said, "Yes, you need to have blood work done." We both looked to Dr. Tepler, who stared back at us. After another awkward lull, I asked if we should wait, and he said to just skip the blood work. Then we did our usual shuffle back to his office - I start out following him, he stops/slows down along the way so I'm in front of him, I feel strange leading him to his office, so I stop and we end up staring at each other for a moment, then he steps forward, I step forward, and eventually, we politely allow one another to lead the other into his office.

I'd go into further detail into our appointment, but, it's patient/doctor privilege and, frankly, it was a lot of short questions and answers, silences, me staring at his computer screen as he clicks buttons and reviews my chart, quietly, and us looking at each other blankly.

You have to understand, as strange as this ritual seems, I appreciate it a great deal. First, it's terribly amusing. Second, I get why Dr. Tepler is so quiet and introverted. The man is a genius. He's that kind of quiet genius that, on some level, I have to wonder if he just forgets about the verbalizing step in the process because his mind is moving so quickly forward.

Anyway, after I felt that I had counted all the pores on what face was exposed beyond the surgical mask, I asked, "So am I in remission? I know I'm not cancer free for 5 years, right?"

He smiled (I could tell - his ears lifted the surgical mask off the bridge of his nose and the corners of his eyes wrinkled), clicked his tongue, and said, "Well, no, Rica, you're not in remission. You're in a much better state."

I looked at him quizzically, waiting for the punchline, forgetting with whom I was speaking, and grunted, "Huh?"

Dr. Tepler said, "Rica, your status is better than remission. You are 'No Evidence of Disease.'"

I asked, stupidly, "Well, I get that that's good, but that's better than remission?"

He smiled again and said, "Yes. It means that not only do all your tests show that you have no more cancer, but that we don't expect any recurrence. You have no evidence of the disease left in your body."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"But is that until the next body scans?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because does it make any sense for me to scan you, increasing your chance of new cancers, when I can tell you don't have any cancer left in your body?"

"So you can see that in my blood work? I don't have to have annual or quarterly scans?"

"Not unless you really want them."

"Oh."

"Yes. You're in good shape, Rica."

And that was that.

So, time to celebrate. I'm N.E.D.! Woo-hoo!

Would you consider making a donation to LIVESTRONG of $18 to help me celebrate my N.E.D. status?

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?

Why do I do this to myself?

I had a friend that resurfaced after several years and visited me and the kids a couple of years ago. I've always been the queen of self-deprecating and sarcastic humor, so calling me, or a loved one "stupid" isn't an insult, it's a term of affection. He, however, took great offense when I called my son stupid. Said friend, it should be noted, has never been one to pick up on social cues or tone very well, so I had to explain that my son knew I wasn't actually calling him stupid, or that he knew I didn't think he was actually a dummy, but that the affectionate tone I used, etc, was inclusive and a term of endearment.

That said, I can honestly tell you that I am stupid. Or stubborn. Or delusional. Here's why.

It's been just under 1 month since my last chemotherapy treatment. It's only been about a week or so that I've been able to touch my toes. I've only just begun pilates and some form of organized movement, outside of rolling in and out of bed, toddling in and out of the car, etc.

And yet, I've committed to not only raising $1,000 by May 1 for Team LIVESTRONG, but to ride the 43-mile TD Bank 5 Boro Tour as a V.I.P. with my son. No, I haven't learned, I'm still banging my head against that wall.

If you've been following my blog for some time, you'll know I rode it last year. I had a rather unfortunate mishap involving the tip of my saddle, my "delicate parts," and gravity which made the final stretch of the ride most exciting. And I went on, at length (ad nauseum) about how out of shape I was last year.

Well, never one to underperform, I'm entering into this venture even less in shape than I was last year. (Huzzah for me!) I have to tell you, despite that unfortunate collision, this was a tough ride. The ramp leading up to the Queensboro bridge is my NYC Kryptonite, as it nearly broke me before I'd even made it onto the bridge. And the approach to and the ride over the Verrazano is nothing to sneeze at.

But, I'm committed. (Or perhaps I should be?) Why?

Because cancer can't stop me. Chemotherapy isn't going to stop me. It may slow me down, it may force me to struggle harder to regain whatever "normal" feels like. But it's not the end of me. I've got fight in me, still, and now I've got one more weapon in my arsenal when attacking a Challenge like this one: REVENGE.

I'm taking revenge out on cancer. I'm taking revenge for losing my breasts. For losing my hair. For losing my eyelashes. (Though, I was thankful about losing leg hair, etc, allowing me to retire the razor and body wax for a while.)

Back this Cancer Vigilante, would ya? $1,000 by May 1 sounds like a lot, but let me tell you, a little bit every day helps tremendously. Please make a donation today - any amount is appreciated.

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

Reflections from my bed

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)

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?

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

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

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.