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.

First Descents Days 1

If anyone is wondering why I'm not online much, nor answering my cell phone, it's because I'm in Colorado climbing the Rocky Mountains. No, you didn't misread, I'm climbing the Rocky Mountains. I'm participating in an adventure trip for fellow cancer survivors called "First Descents." My friend, Tal, kept raving about this organization, and I think he would have boiled my kitty if I didn't ultimately go. (He's not a demanding kind of guy, but this he was pretty stern about.)

Saturday morning I boarded the flight and landed in Colorado a few hours later (during which I completed the entire first book of The Hunger Games and started Catching Fire once I got to Dallas). When I arrived in Denver, I followed the directions towards Baggage Claim where I was supposed to meet the First Descents crew. Instead, I wandered around in circles, eyes enlarged, completely lost. I had no idea where to go. An unfamiliar number called my cell, but I ignored it - I didn't have a clue. All of a sudden, I hear people calling and I look up - there is the First Descents sign. I head up to where they were bunked out, but I soon had to "Hit & Run" (which became my camp nickname - we don't go by first names - not yet), and catch up with my friend & fellow LIVESTRONG Leader, Erik Pearson, and his wife, Lynne. Erik was at the US Pro Challenge, so I didn't get a chance to see him right away (and I was quite jealous, as he was hanging with Chris Horner, possibly the chillest pro cyclist I know!). His wife picked me up, and we went to her dad's home, into which she & Erik are moving, and headed out to lunch with her sister, brother-in-law and waited for Erik and his son to join us.

Once we were all in one place, and we were regaled with tales of the US Pro Challenge, we piled into the car and headed out to Estes Park. Our destination was, first, to hit the Stanley Hotel, the most haunted hotel in the country and the inspiration for The Shining, and the remake with Steven Weber (the Nicholson/Kubrick original movie was actually filmed in Oregon). I got a couple of fantastic souvenirs (will reveal later - can't spoil the surprise!), had gelato, and took some obligatory photos. Then, we were off to Narrow Trail Ranch, our home for the next week.

Wow - what a place! This is a stunning 5-bedroom log cabin, with plenty of extra space for more beds to be set up to accomodate all of us "campers" and staffers. The kitchen is a tremendous chef's kitchen, an amazing set of decks, including one that has a hot tub, a fireplace, etc. One of my fellow campers and I share the loft - I'm sofa-couching it, but I'm happy! This place is palatial. We had a meet & greet over "Happy Hour" and then a splendid dinner of tacos - fillings included all kinds of vegetables, bison, homemade guacamole, and this incredible green rice. After dinner, we chilled out, we all got to know each other and then got to bed.

The next morning, I got up very early (as, apparently, many East Coasters do), and I helped Antelope Jamboree & Chamomile, our cooks/camp mom, make stuffed french toast. The group filled up on breakfast and headed to Mary's Lake for our first climbing outing.

The night before, the 13 of us shared that most everyone, but me, had climbing experience. I really had none. I'd gone bouldering locally years ago, but that was about it. So when I saw what was being set up for us to climb, the fear built up. The "easy" climb had a large, round piece of rock jutting out of the side. I'm sorry, but I thought that sheer, flat rock was going to be tough, let alone rocks that were convex! I started to climb, but it was not happening. The panic of climbing set in. I was way over my head. Everyone else seemed to be flying up these rocks with very little struggle. I couldn't get higher than 4 feet in the ground.

Defeated, I went to as quiet, removed part of where we were as possible, pulled out Catching Fire, determined to finish reading it, which I did. Our camp dad, Two Dogs, came over to chit chat. While talking, I explained my hesitation. Not only was I afraid of heights, but I'd been out of commission, physically, for too long. I was stressed over the expectation of being affiliated with LIVESTRONG as a leader to be the one cancer survivor in the group who excelled in athletics despite teh disease and treatment, and that I felt lost because I couldn't meet those expectations. And the fact that I hate quitting, but it was too much.

I honestly felt that I was going to miserable all week - that I'd be sitting for hours on the ground watching everyone else, just as I had on Monday. I just wished that a guide had set up a real beginner rock to work on. I started to cry, once alone, as I saw that there was such demand iun the group that the guides set up additional climbs to keep up with everyone's pace while I sat, watching, without the ability to climb anything but in and out of the minivans.

Then, Little Bits came up and told me that he'd set up a climb just for me. It was on the same rock as the most advanced climb, plus, it had a tree. I was a bit intimidated, but he assured me it was easy. I harnessed up and I started climbing. And climbing, but he assured me it was easy. I harnessed up and I started climbing. And climbing. And climbing. I hear people shouting, "You go, Hit & Run!" "Kick that rock's ass, Hit & Run!" Little Bits told me to look down, and I did. I was high up in the air. Not a little, but a lot. And I was inches away from touching the caribiner in victory. When I reached up to that metal hook upon which my life-line was hooked, I couldn't believe it. I had climbed this rock. My confidence was up.

I came down and saw that everyone was charging back to the "beginner" rock. I followed suit and discovered that Spare Parts had set up some rappelling. I decided that I would go for it.

I go on belay again, and start my descent. I'm doing fine until I get to a roof. I cannot see anything below this rock. I cannot see where to set my foot. Panic sets in. Spare Parts keeps reassuring me that he has me. He tells me to just do it. At this point, all eyes are on me. And the hysteria sets in. I'm cursing at Spare Parts, screaming, crying, snot bubbles blowing out my nose because I realize that I'm trapped. I can't go up, I can't go down. My legs won't move. I'm shaking, I'm terrified, and I'm paralyzed with fear. I can't see where my feet should go. I don't trust the equipment. This guy who weighs as much as my thigh is literally holding my life in his hands, and I've got a big drop to go.

"Trust your feet" starts echoing through my head, the mantra my old friend, a climber, taught me when we were sixteen - that same friend who got me into cycling and that hasn't spoken to me for 2 years and won't because he can't get over his anger. This makes things worse - now, not only am I hanging over a precipice, but now I'm flooded with grief and longing for a friendship that is overdue for repair that I miss terribly. So now, I'm friend-sick, terrified of the drop, feeling out of control, weighing way too much than I should, with the harness digging into me leaving what I'm sure will be wicked welts. I'm low enough to the ground and far enough from the top that I really only have one choice - GO DOWN. I'm trapped. With all eyes on me, cheering me on. "GO HIT & RUN! You can do it!" I can't type out what I said because I'm too much of a lady, but let's just say that I threw curses at the man handing the rope keeping me from falling - probably not the wisest move - and throwing profanities that would shock Robin Williams.

Then, there's a scramble at the top. Two of my caribiners clack together and there's a shift. I feel a small rock fall on me. I start panicking even more, but Spare Parts explains it was just the rope adjusting, nothing was falling, it was ok. He was cool as a cucumber (earning him the second nickname "Ice Man"). Another guide, Little Bits, rushes over with another rope and some gear. I just close my eyes, now shaking because my arms are so tired and my hands are burned from holding the rope in a death grip. Next thing I know, Little Bits is next to me, with his leg below mine guiding me below the roof. All of a sudden I feel rock beneath my toes. Slowly, we go down together and I make it to the ground.

I have no other reaction but to laugh hysterically. And I start cracking jokes.

I did it. I was done for the day.

After that, we went back to dinner and our campfire. I was floored that so many folks brought up my breakdown as their favorite moment - not because of entertainment value - though it must have been quite spectacular - but because I conquered my fear.

I don't know how much of that was me conquering a fear, but just doing what I had to do. If it helps someone else, though, that's awesome.

My, how time flies...

Sometimes, it's weird how time flies.

Sunday, 1 year ago, I had my double mastectomy. 1 year and 2 days ago, I still had my breasts, nipples, normal sensation, etc. Now? I have foreign parts installed, tissue that's technically my own flesh and blood, but feel nothing, let alone hardly feel a part of me, and a strange numbing feeling in my chest.

I think Sunday, far more than my cancerversary, signaled that it's been a year since I felt "normal." Even knowing I had cancer in my body, I still felt whole. I still felt like myself. Once the scalpels invaded my skin, once parts of me were carved up and discarded, replaced by synthetic prosthesis, I became something... someone... else. I think the question still looms, who or what have I become?

The obvious response, given the context of this blog is, "SURVIVOR." But I'm not so sure about that. "Recoverer," yes. I recovered from surgery. I recovered from the infections.

But I didn't survive - at least, I'm not sure that I have. My breasts didn't survive. My hair didn't survive. My feelings and senses didn't survive. Most of the skin in my chest area survived.

My strength didn't survive. My cycling and athletics haven't survived... not yet. My ability to find ways to bounce back better than before hasn't surfaced, yet. I'm struggling to do it.

And I can't find a way to embrace the new boobs, yet. Perhaps if my nerve endings were still functional, I could. Or if everytime I flex a muscle, they didn't ripple and bounce around like a freakish body builder, I might be able to start. They still don't look like breasts.  One is larger than the other, one is fuller than the other, the horizontal scars are still visible, and have left some strange sculpting. They nipples still look like Frankenboob. Forget the cancer: If I had breasts like this before, I'd be seeking reconstruction.

By no means am I saying that Dr. Nordberg did a bad job - not at all! He did a great job, given what the task at hand was. The left side that is fuller and bigger is that way because of the scar tissue, etc - it was problematic from the beginning. The right side just settled the way that it did. And he's trying to fix things, but this is going to be a long time until it's close to where I envision being able to begin to accept them as being a part of me.

And my hair, oh, my hair. Yes, I'm not bald. But bald was a "cooler" look than what I have going on now. I look like a retarded Little Orphan Annie. Yes, it's great that I have the curls that I paid (well, my parents paid) for when I was in high school and didn't quite get. But they don't go anywhere. They curl in on themselves and don't grow down. It's like having a head of ingrown curly hairs. I touch my head and I feel a sheep, not my hair.

So, neither my breasts nor my hair feel like "me."

I don't know.

One year later, and I still feel so far away from really recovering, let alone surviving.

For my personal journey, the cancer was the easy part - it was caught before it caused any pain. Yes, I survived the cancer, I suppose. But what I'm really struggling to survive is the surgery, the treatment, the chemo, the after-effects, the recovery, the butchery.

@rica620 hang in there Rica. We're here for ya and all pulling for you. - @lancearmstrong

I've now been lucky enough to have received 3 Tweets from Lance Armstrong in the past year. The first came the day after my double mastectomy.

Thinking about @rica620 and wishing her the best! #LIVESTRONG
— Lance Armstrong (@lancearmstrong) August 20, 2011

That Tweet sent me reeling. I'd Tweeted Lance many times before, as many fans and LIVESTRONG followers do, with no response. This was unsolicited. It was touching and moving to think that I crossed his radar and he chose to speak up. I was flattered. And inspired.

The second was when Alberto Contador & team made some futile attempt to sway those determining whether or not he'd be stripped of his Tour de France title by starting a school in Israel. All of a sudden, he developed a keen interest in Israeli-Palestinian politics - coincidentally while he was being judged by an Israeli. I tweeted, "@velonews @lancearmstrong  What's your take on Contador's & Saxo Bank's 'project' in Israel this week?" Lance's response?

@rica620 haven't seen it but I'd like to go to Israel!
— Lance Armstrong (@lancearmstrong) December 1, 2011

I will go on record that I consider this exchange an official acceptance of my invitation to give Lance Armstrong a personal tour of Israel as his tour guide. We now, obviously, have a strong personal relationship. (Ok, well, maybe not a strong, personal relationship, but at the very least, I'm a repeat Tweet offender.) After all, I met him at Gracie Mansion, only a month later, I was having dinner at his house in Austin. (Ok, well, me and, like 300 other people during the Ride for the Roses festivities during the LIVESTRONG Challenge.)

But his last Tweet to me (and the title of this blog entry) this week meant a lot. And, to me, it is a big reminder of why LIVESTRONG is just such an important organization.

You may have noticed that my blog has slowed to a trickle. Yes, I've been busy, that's a big part of it. Between appointments, trying to get back into the swing of a regular schedule, and all the LIVESTRONG events I've been putting together, finding time to write is challenging.

 But there's a bit of a confession I should make.

My surgery to replace my expander implants with the silicone implants took place 3 months ago. I was excited. The way it seemed, I'd have the nipple reconstruction by end of March, early April, I'd be back on my bike, and progressing rapidly towards recovery. Normalcy. Putting the whole active cancer "thing" behind me and moving forward. Of course, I could never leave behind the journey I took, but I saw the hardest part of the journey as being almost behind me.

I've spoken before about cancer's sick sense of humor. Even when you have "No Evidence of Disease," medically, the damage it causes with primary, secondary and tertiary treatments never seem to go away. I am the evidence of disease.

Take my fingernails, for example. My significantly altered hyponychium (quick), with the whites of the nail drifting closer and closer to my cuticle, is just one reminder of this. Every time my still-brittle nails break in an awkward or dumb way, and I can file my nail down much farther after than I ever thought I could, I'm reminded of the chemotherapy. Every time I simply try to clean under my nails when I give myself a manicure, and the skin attaching my nail to my finger flakes and separates in odd ways, I know it's a result of the chemotherapy. Which is because of the cancer.

That's a small thing, I know. But it's constant. As is the fact that here I am, 3 months later, and the nipple reconstruction is still weeks away. Why? Because my left breast isn't healing properly. In a sick twist of déjà vu, my left breast is not healing right. It is swollen, not quite as badly as before, and not quite as pink, but still bad enough that my doctor doesn't want me to exercise, still. I mean, it's only been since October that I've been back on the bike. That's not so bad, right? (Tell my ever-expanding waistline and rear end that.) How to put this delicately? Um... the wound was still seeping along the incision from the last surgery in a couple of spots. No matter what I did, nothing was making it heal faster. Sadly, my surgeon was out sick for a long time, so I couldn't see him until recently.

So, for the past few weeks, I've stuck in this stupid limbo. And I couldn't get any closer to putting cancer behind me. There really wasn't much to report. Had I kept up my blog, it like would have read along the lines of, "Got the kids out the door for school. Went to my loft, logged in for work, went down into my room to change, put on yoga pants and a t-shirt, as they are the only things that fit. Too lazy to make coffee, so I drowsily got my work done. Kids came home, started their homework, kept working, made dinner, slinked back to bed." Wash, rinse and repeat, with a few aberrations. I didn't think it was noteworthy.

Nor did I think it was something a LIVESTRONG Leader should admit publicly. There's a tremendous guilt when you put yourself forward as a leader in an organization like LIVESTRONG, and that strong face you put forward is concealing something very different. You feel like a hypocrite. Like a failure to the organization and the people you address.

Then, when things were getting really depressing, I saw my doctor who decided I needed to get a sonogram on the left breast and I was put on the same antibiotics I was put on right before I went into the hospital with the infection. I was terrified that I'd have the same thing happen again. That I'd have to go into the hospital, that the implant would have to be removed and replaced again, that I wouldn't heal any faster, or worse, the reconstruction wasn't working and I wouldn't be able to have reconstruction at all.

The terribly clear sonogram. Top slides present day, bottom slides,
from before. This is a good or a bad thing? Who the hell knows.

So, yet again, I found myself at the Tully Center having another sonogram on the left side. I had to explain to the technician that this wasn't my first time I was at the rodeo, no, we aren't looking for cancer, we're looking to find a reason for the swelling and to rule out a seroma or infection.

My left breast was tender and painful enough that even just the gentle pressure of the sonogram's transducer on my side and along certain areas was enough to make me flinch and wince. It shouldn't be that painful anymore. I sat there, looking at the screen, seeing the vast black half of the screen where breast tissue used to be and is now occupied by silicone and foreign matter that the sonogram no longer considers a part of me, seeing nominal lumps of mystery along the horizon. There was, once again, a reminder that there isn't a honeycomb of breast appearing on the screens. It was dead, alien crap filling that void, now.

The depression grew as, after the technician was done and went to consult with the radiologist, I attempted to wipe off the gel from my breast, but struggled as gobs of it had fallen into the valley of the 4-inch incision across my breast where a nipple used to be. It hurt when the towel brushed against the top half of my breast, where the nerve endings were still trying to figure out what the hell was going on, and only sent a half-burning half-itching sensation to my brain. Finally, I gave up. Who cares if the crap was still on my breast? No one was going to see it, touch it. I didn't feel it the way I did before. It didn't matter. It wasn't a part of me anymore. It wasn't something I was proud of, nor did I see it as beautiful or attractive. So what's a little dried up goo?

The technician came in and said that there were signs of necrosis, but nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about? Necrosis isn't something to worry about? Necrosis is the premature death in living tissue. Nothing to worry about? She further explained that the necrosis wasn't as bad as what they saw in November, the last time I was there. I asked if it was normal to see necrosis like this. She said it was as normal as could be expected.

What did she mean by that? How should any of this be expected?

I came home feeling defeated. The week before, a night that was supposed to be wonderful and romantic, etc ended up a disaster because my patience was shot, as well as my self-esteem, and I couldn't at all enjoy the evening because I hated the way that I felt and looked. I'd been looking forward to this getaway for months, and anticipated it to be a wonderful time. Instead, I left the evening angry, disgusted, disappointed and sad. Then, I was back in the very place that detected my cancer, and the previous infections, seeing images on a screen that just got more depressing every time I walked into the facility.

Now, my left breast has dying tissue, it's painful, but it's not enough of a concern to admit me, but enough of a concern to continue to ground me, delay reconstructive surgery several weeks, and leaving me in this god-damned limbo. I went to change out of the clothing that I see as presentable to wear outside the house and into my torn up, stained yoga pants, soft t-shirt and sweatshirt. As I got out of one set of clothing, I looked down at the body that I no longer saw as mine, that disgusts me, and, as soon as it was covered up with volumes of fabric, I got into bed and cried.

I still had the ROCK the RIDE & RUN to finish prepping for on Sunday. In the back of my mind, I kept telling myself, "Who the hell do you think you are to represent LIVESTRONG when you don't even know how to do that yourself? What does LIVESTRONG mean anymore, anyway?" The guilt that I was even asking myself those questions made me even more depressed.

But, I'd made a commitment, and I don't back down from my commitments. So, I got ready for the weekend. Saturday was the Sustainability Fair at John Jay High School - not only a last chance to recruit runners, riders and walkers for Sunday, but also to talk about how LIVESTRONG sees their commitment to sustainability as a means to make the world better for cancer survivors as demonstrated by our Headquarters - and Sunday was the ROCK the RIDE & RUN.

Instead of making more flyers for the Sustainability Fair, which is not exactly the most "green" option, I decided to put together a PowerPoint presentation with information about LIVESTRONG's headquarters, features of the building that promoted green living, etc. While gathering information, photos and slides for the presentation, I decided to include the Manifesto at the tail end to remind people of what LIVESTRONG was all about. It was about 4:40am, and I was alone on the sofa.

I was running the slideshow, making sure the automation and loop worked, going into the other room to get our stuff ready to load into the car, and then I heard the intro to the Manifesto. I heard Lance's voice speaking, with authority, about all that LIVESTRONG believed in. I walked into the room and saw my friend, Ashleigh Moore, on the screen. I sat back down on the sofa, fixated on the screen. And then I wept.

"That's right," I thought. "That's right."

So, I Tweeted Lance. At 5:16am EST. I knew it was too early for him to read anything. But, in my hazy, insomniac thinking, I felt that I needed to thank him, and LIVESTRONG.

Bad post-chemo day emotionally. Watched #LIVESTRONG Manifeso 2 prep for tomorrow. Reminded me what it's all about. Thank you @lancearmstrong
— Rica Mendes (@rica620) April 28, 2012

And then I got my third Tweet from Lance.

@rica620 hang in there Rica. We're here for ya and all pulling for you.
— Lance Armstrong (@lancearmstrong) April 28, 2012

Now, of course, in 20/20 hindsight, I realize that my Tweet may have made it seem that I had just had chemo they day before or something, so I was going to post a clarification Tweet saying, "Just so you know, it's been a LONG TIME post-chemo, so forgive me for intruding." And, then I stopped myself.

The cancer experience doesn't end with the last chemo treatment. The pain, stress and struggle doesn't stop when they remove your port, or stop radiation. It can linger for years or days. It can be absent from your life until months, even years later.

But, unlike most other organizations who cease all support and care for you when the chemotherapy & radiation stops, that's where LIVESTRONG picks up. Yes, LIVESTRONG does a tremendous amount during what most consider as "active treatment," but, like no other organization, LIVESTRONG doesn't drop you as soon as "active treatment" ends. They still care. They still do.

And I shouldn't feel guilty, as a LIVESTRONG Leader, for feeling weak, being depressed, etc. Just because I'm a bit more tapped into the innerworkings of LIVESTRONG doesn't make me immune to cancer and the struggle it presents. (Hell, if that were the case, I wouldn't have gotten cancer in the first place, right?) Do I get special treatment or support because I'm a LIVESTRONG Leader? I don't think so. I mean, yes, I got to attend the LIVESTRONG Assembly, just as a Mary Kay Consultant, I can attend Seminar. So, in that sense, I was treated just as any other LIVESTRONG Leader would have been. And, yes, I have a more personal, direct relationship with some of the amazing folks at LIVESTRONG, so I have a more direct line to them. I don't get to "skip the line" as a LIVESTRONG Leader fighting cancer.

But as a cancer fighter, I need & get the same support that anyone else does. Lance needed it when he was going through treatment, as he reminded us in Austin in March. Cancer is status & title blind. As such, the need for support during and after treatment is still present.

Lance & every single one of you at LIVESTRONG, the partner programs, and fellow Leaders that are pulling for me and have given your support, if I don't say it enough, I'll say it again: Thank you. I try and do my best to make you proud, to represent, to raise awareness and funds, and be a good leader. But you also remind me it's ok to just be me, take some time and take care of myself with you by my side.

Thank you.

The LIVESTRONG Manifesto.

Worth the watch.

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!

Choose Your Own Adventure

Not everyone can ride a bike like Lance Armstrong. Not everyone can run a marathon. But we can all do something to fight cancer on Sunday, April 29. For those that choose to run, walk or ride their bikes, gather at the Trinity Corners Shopping Center on Westchester Avenue in Pound Ridge, NY to participate in the 3rd Annual ROCK the RIDE & RUN.

"Although I prefer to ride my bike, I know so many people that want to do something to join the fight against cancer, so 3 years ago, the kids and I put this event together," Rica Mendes, LIVESTRONG Leader explains. "We wanted to make sure that everyone - regardless of their athletic ability - had the chance to participate and help us raise awareness and funds in the fight against cancer."

This year is different for Mendes for a number of reasons. First, she has added a Virtual Participant category - this way, you register for $36, and you can choose to join the ROCK the RIDE & RUN anywhere - your home, your gym, the beach - anywhere in the world - and raise funds and awareness. Second, this is her first year participating as a cancer survivor.

Only 3 months after last year's ROCK the RIDE & RUN, Mendes got the word that she had breast cancer.

"I was floored. It came out of left field completely. Fortunately, I was already established within the LIVESTRONG network that it was much easier for me to build my support system. But it was still a struggle. I can only imagine how much more terrifying it is for people who don't already have that system in place.

"That's why this event, and support for the Lance Armstrong Foundation is even more important to me now. I don't ever want to hear about a cancer fighter feeling lost and like they have no place to go for any kind of resource - emotional, practical, physical, etc. LIVESTRONG does not discriminate - if you have cancer, you're automatically part of the family. It's just a matter of figuring out what we can do to help you and your family through your fight."

Registration is now open for the ROCK the RIDE & RUN. Go to http://www.active.com/5k-race/pound-ridge-ny/3rd-annual-rock-the-ride-and-run-benefiting-livestrong-2012 between now and April 28, 2012 at 11:59pm EST in order to register.


If you cannot attend, but you would like to contribute to Rica's fight against cancer, please feel free to make a donation at http://laf.convio.net/goto/RicaRocksAustin2012.

It's a beautiful day...

It's not secret that I hate winter. I make no bones about it. If I had my druthers, I'd be living in Austin, Jerusalem or San Francisco - cities where winter is but a passing thought - nothing more than a novelty. That's not to say I'm not a proud New Yorker - any Bostonian can tell you that I'm very proud of my pinstripes and being from the empire state. But I loathe cold weather.

So, days like this weekend ordinarily have me jazzed. I'm out on the bike, I'm out with the kids, I'm outside.

But not this year.

As much as I've been jonzing to get back on the bike, get back into a normal physical routine of any kind, part of me is scared. Well, scared is the wrong word. Apprehensive. Of what? I don't know. I've always been a bit of a tomboy. I've always loved getting down and dirty, getting physical. I've never been afraid to sweat.

And yet, I find myself coming up with every excuse not to go outside.

Perhaps last night's grilled dinner on the deck was my first step outside of my house since the cancer diagnosis. But my doctors have me so nervous about straining myself too much, causing another infection, pushing it, going against my natural instinct to ignore pain and discomfort and power through things that I don't trust myself.

I don't trust that mowing the lawn isn't too much work. I don't trust that doing the desperately needed chicken pick of trash collection (months of garbage being poorly tossed into the garbage cans, raccoons raiding bags, etc, has left bits and pieces of junk on my property) is going to pull the muscle just so, and cause injury.

But I want to go outside. I want to romp. I want to garden. I want to do all the fix-it jobs around the house again.

And I want to ride again.

At what point does the patient truly become the survivor?