Misdirection

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

I lost my mind. I really did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

A Big C-ancercation

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

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

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

Epiphany #1: I needed a C-Cation.

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

Epiphany #2: Fear

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

Epiphany #3: Hypocrisy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And thank you for making me blog again.

Life's full of surprises... as is your abdomen.

So, yesterday was the oophorectomy and the reconstruction continued (part 5?). I think at least 4 prep nurses came in, which was fine, since Dad and I are old hands at the pre-op prep. My name is Rica Mendes, I was born on June 20, and I'm here for thus-and-such procedure. I so wanted to tell one of the nurses, "My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die," but the last nurse to come in didn't seem like the "Princess Bride" type.

As always, Dr. Nordberg came in, on time, looking dapper in his suit and tie, pleasant demeanor, purple marker in hand. I felt like a road atlas after he was done with me - circles and squiggles all across my chest, under my arms, and a bit below. Dr. Ratner never came in - she had a procedure earlier in the morning that was running late. The anesthesiologist came in and explained he'd give me a TAP block, and additional local anesthesia to my abdomen to ensure the least amount of pain.

I never get over the walk into the OR. Not the actual walk through the hallway, but the entrance into the OR. The room is never as dark and calming as on "Grey's Anatomy." It's bright, you can see the sound-proof ceiling tiles, the floors are white with minimal splatters of iodine staining. Various nurses are attending to tons of trays, and the operating table is there, with arms out, a Hannibal Lecter looking mask sitting where your head goes, and the blue cloths all around. I get that flash of, "Why do I feel like I'm being mounted on a horizontal cross?" when the nurses help me up onto the table and put my arms out to my sides and tell me not to move. There is nothing to do but to stare at the ceiling and the four operating room lights with those weird handles in the middle of the bulbs. This anesthesiologist didn't play music like the others, so I can hear the clanging of tools and the tell-tale, "Ok, we're going to give you a little something in the IV and then some gas and you'll fall.... " And that's about it. I lose all sense of time. I lose all sensation. And I wake up in that awful fog.

I hate coming out of anesthesia. As a result, I'm usually fast to come out - once I start waking up, I'm up.

But not yesterday. I was in that loathsome fog for way too long. I was too sleepy for too long. I had no compunction to move. I couldn't stay awake. I was too unaware of where I was, and what was going on around me. I hated it. I forced myself to try and snap out of it. I saw my friend's little sister, Kara, a recovery room nurse, and called her over. I made her talk to me. But that wasn't enough. I felt bloated - like the blueberry girl in Willy Wonka. I was sore. Something wasn't right. I was parched. The saliva glands in my mouth were in pain. My lips were sticking too much to my teeth. My throat felt way too dry and scratchy. My dad and son kept coming in and out and I couldn't keep my eyes open long enough. I felt clammy. I felt sweaty.

I felt like shit.

Something wasn't right.

I asked to go to the bathroom, and I was walked to the bathroom. I could barely feel my feet. I didn't know if I was upright. I was overly disoriented,. This wasn't right. I got to the bathroom, and all I felt was cool. I started to feel a bit like myself. I didn't even have to go - I just needed to move. Walking back to recovery felt better.

It was too hot in the recovery room. It was too cozy. It was like a womb. I had to get out. Finally, we left, but I still couldn't wake up fully. I dozed off in the CVS parking lot as my dad and son got my meds. The warm, summer breeze felt good and lulled me back to sleep repeatedly.

Ironically, once home, I couldn't sleep. Percocet, Ambien and more, and I couldn't sleep. It was awful.

And today, forget about it. I felt inflated - still. My stomach hadn't been this rounded since I was pregnant. Something was just off. I spent time in the hammock. I couldn't go to the bathroom. I couldn't move without pain - pain focused on the right.

Finally, it got to be too much. I broke down and cried. I called the doctor's office, furious, that I still wasn't "right," that I was still bloated, that I still couldn't go to the bathroom after 2 days, and that she didn't bother to see me before or after the surgery. I was neglected and something was wrong.

After too long, earlier this evening, the surgeon called me. She explained that they inflated me with gas to be able to see my abdomen clearly, and that the gas would pass. She also explained that she had come to see me in recovery - she even drew me a picture. I have zero recollection. That sent me into a panic.

But then, the fun part - they removed a 3-4cm cyst along with my right ovary. That's not small. That's big. They were going to biopsy my ovaries anyway, but holy crap! I cyst! I panicked again.

Dr. Ratner explained they decided to check out my liver and other organs. All was clear. But that cyst on the right side was not easy to remove (hence, the extra pain). But the good news - it was benign. Everything was benign.

So I am further in the clear. But far less than whole.

Good? Bad?

Right now, I'm on Percocet, so I'm in no position to make any sound judgements.

Stop riding my coat tails, Ms. Jolie!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid BRCA genetic defect... #FUCANCER

It's been too long.

Oh, my readers and those that accidentally chance upon my blog, it has been too long. It has been too long since I've blogged. It's been too long that I've reflected on LIVESTRONG. It's been too long since I've explored what this disease has brought onto my life. It's been to long since I've shared. On some levels, I feel like a champagne bottle shaken and ready to burst. On others, I feel like a sleeping lion about to be shaken awake. So, forgive the ups and downs of this blog entry, but it's time I spill.

So, do you want the good news, the bad news or the status quo? Let's start with the good.

The Good News

I've landed a job. A great job. Yes, it's a contractor position, but this is different. There are benefits - even a 401k. The commute is brilliant (though me thinks not one I can bike to and from, but we'll see as I get stronger this year). It's for a company that I don't think is going anywhere - anyone ever hear of this little known beverage, "Pepsi?" Yeah. Pepsi. I know! I couldn't be happier! My boss is awesome. Our bosses are awesome. The stuff I do is awesome. Am I saying this because I'm new and someone from Pepsi may be reading this blog? You want me, expect me, to say, "Yes, duh." But the answer is, "NO!" I really mean it. (Ok, two flaws. First, I may end up a diabetic, as my friends, particularly my college friends, should remember I'm a cola addict. Second, I am only a contractor, which is kind of like being a Permanent Resident, but not a Citizen. It's fabulous, don't get me wrong, but I'd really like to be a permanent employee. But, maybe, someday, that will happen.)

My hammock is hung up. My summer last year was made most relaxing with the addition of a hammock. While last year's rope hammock rotted over the winter, it's been replaced by another. Next to the hammock I've also added a drink holder, as the cocktails need someplace to reside and not get knocked over.

Son got a job at the local nursery. Very happy for him.

My forget-me-nots are running wild. Literally. Which makes me so happy, as I've tried to grow them for years, and this year, they have taken off - so much so, they are growing like weeds in my yard, so I have to transplant them all over my rose and flower beds.

I have hair. I can officially pull it back into a ponytail. It's a teeny ponytail, I call it more of a bunnytail, but it's there.

Lots of hair. It officially hit my shoulder the other day. That is wicked cool. And it's curly. Not wavy, not with a bit of curl, I mean corkscrew from root to tip. I have a ridiculous Hebro. See below (and this is straightened out!).

 

That's me in the middle. Well, from the hair roots up.

We're looking towards more reconstruction. Why is this in the "Good News" section? Because part of the procedure includes liposuction. Yep! Those spare boobs I've been growing that could be mistaken as being a large butt or a beer belly are going to be put to use! Dr. Nordberg is going to suck fat out and graft it into the areas formerly occupied by breast tissue and around the implants to give a softer look, fill in some gaps, etc. I told him that if he's going to be supplementing the reconstruction with fat, I wouldn't mind being a FFF cup size. I think he thinks I'm kidding. So, we'll see where I end up in a few weeks. Hopefully, I'll end up with an itty bitty butt and waist and REALLY big boobs. If so, you'll know how that happened.

The Bad News

I'm having an oopharectomy in the near future. Essentially, I'm getting spayed, which is going to turn me into a reclusive, territorial kitty with a penchant for sitting on open magazines and open window sills. At least, that's been my experience when I've witnessed other critters getting their ovaries removed. I'm not yet 40, and I'm being put into permanent menopause. For the good news to this procedure, see the last Good News.

Just to make things even more exciting, while my status is still officially NED, during the exam, which included a sonogram which prompted the technician to tell me I have a BEAUTIFUL uterus - hey, I'll take any compliment that comes my way, they saw a "something of no concern" on my right ovary. Why is it of no concern? Because the ovary is coming out anyway and it can be biopsied then. Here's the problem: When I had the mammogram, those innocent looking salt-crystal sized spots were "somethings of no concern" until I got the letter to come back for a follow up. Those spots that I was told would be nothing ended up not only being something, but a really bad something. So, I'm chalking off the "something of no concern" as "something to be terribly concerned about which I can't do a damned thing at the moment." I'm preparing for the worst just because preparing for the best got me a double mastectomy.

The IRS seems to have forgotten that they were not only in receipt of my 2009 taxes, but, if I recall, I even got a refund for 2009. So, now, I have to find my 2009 1040s and resend them. So, here's to hoping they don't decide they didn't get 2010, 2011 and, well, they acknowledge receipt of 2012, so I guess we're good. Actually, it's more amusing than bad, but it's a pain in the butt.

My children are adolescents. My son is 14. I think that's the most catastrophic news. I have a 14-year old boy. Save me. Somebody. And he attends a school with an administration run by morons and a school board reminiscent of an insane asylum - a most untrustworthy, corrupt, power-hungry group of stubborn asses. (Can I say that outloud? Yes, I can. It's my blog and I'll say what I want.) I've had to deal with them in the past, but now they have gone above and beyond all reason. I can't get into specifics, as much as I would love to, as there are open issues in the process of resolution, and by resolution, I mean they are giving themselves a platform upon which to pontificate the most ridiculous parallels and dictating the most absurd rules and regulations. I don't say that loudly. Some of you know all the details, some of you know this isn't the first time that I've come up against this administration of pathetic power mongers who clearly have to compensate for something by asserting authority in all the wrong places and ignoring the actual, hard issues.

My daughter is a willful pre-teen. She has my stubbornness, is too smart for her own good, and seems determined to drive me insane. And wear makeup to school behind my back.

Draco, the bearded dragon, died on Saturday. Funeral services will be Friday.

Had a most unpleasant experience happen with someone whom I've long admired for being a consummate professional. I've done business with them years and now, I wonder how I can.

I had to lock the chocolate chips in the safe to keep the kids from getting at the chocolate chips. I set the combination to the safe and made sure not to write it down anywhere in case someone found it. Now, I can't remember the combination and cannot figure out how to override the combination. So, now, I can't get at my chocolate.

My house is a money pit. Just as deal with a septic tank crisis, I have a water filter crisis. Now, I have a water pressure crisis.

Oh - shoot - I forgot - 4 foot long, 4-8" in diameter limb from our oak tree fell about 2-3 stories onto my head and neck yesterday. I was gardening with my daughter in the morning before taking care of stuff inside. She was next to me, and we were bent over planting bulbs. All of a sudden, there is a sharp pain on my neck, it feels like I've been hit by a baseball bat and I'm seeing black. Once I realize the object I assume my daughter must have smacked me with is still in front of me and my daughter is telling me that I'm bleeding. I stand up and look around. She points down at the limb, now in 3 pieces, and she tells me it fell from the tree. A concussion, a bandage and a bump the size of a grapefruit later, I'm hoping I'm clearheaded and recovered enough to be able to get behind the wheel. The problem? I have a 14-year old boy and a pre-teen daughter who have been driving me nuts today. Somehow, stress doesn't seem to be helping the concussion, as I've had headaches all day - and they are not from the skyfall.

The Status Quo

Some projects have been on hold because of the insanity of my life. My LIVESTRONG efforts are kicking in, though late this year. I'm in the process of opening May 19th's ROCK the RIDE & RUN registration. Painting class is going well, though we've missed the past couple of classes. I'm still trying to get to a point where I can ride again. Not there yet. I have my dress form, but I have yet to sew again.

Other

I'm still feeling somewhat lost. The new job is fantastic, do not get me wrong. But, other than that, and my garden, I feel like I'm not getting anywhere, and I'm not sure why. Some of it is just that as much as I seem to I want to get things moving, I'm just not. This isn't like me. I mean, I can procrastinate, don't get me wrong, with the best of them. But something else is going on and I don't know what, which is just frustrating the bejeezus out of me. There is a lot going on with my kids, but I've just felt somewhat lost and foggy. I don't quite get it. I've been told this is kind of normal for survivors, but I just don't get it.

Anyway, there it is.

My Chemo Buddy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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