Let Us be Something Every Minute: Growing Past Cancer

“Dear God” she prayed, “let me be something every minute of every hour of my life.  Let me be gay; let me be sad.  Let me be cold; let me be warm.  Let me be hungry…have too much to eat.  Let me be ragged or well dressed.  Let me be sincere- be deceitful.  Let me be truthful; let me be a liar.  Let me be honorable and let me sin.  Only let me be something every blessed minute.  And when I sleep, let me dream all the time so that not one little piece of living is every lost.” - from A Tree Grows in Booklyn by Betty Smith, 1943

Cancer is as much a disease of emotional struggle as it is physical. I read this book recently, and the excerpt really resonated with me, moving me to joyful tears. I re-read the paragraph over and over in the quiet of the night, the noisiness of the ballet studio, and aloud to each member of my family..  These words so reflect the internal bargaining that many go through when battling cancer.  "Please let me survive," we plead, "and I promise to appreciate every moment of every day,"  Then, when we are finally out from the dark tunnel of treatment, our faces once again in the sun, there is a deep and eternal appreciation of living, of feeling the seconds, the moments, and hopefully compiling them into years of grateful survival.  

Sometimes fears of recurrence pull cancer survivors to a panicked place, inciting desperation to validate one's alive-ness by living, even over-living.  I know this first hand.  For those that have been stricken with cancer and struggle in those moments of recurring fear, those that support loved ones that are dealing with cancer, and even those that have survived 50 years past cancer but still have occasional fear, I assure you that you are not alone.  These emotions are not all bad.  Cancer survival, and its associated gratefulness for life, lead many to explore a new hobby, take on a new challenge, love a little deeper, be more forgiving, loosen up.  Our perspective changes and we not only see the forest for the trees, but the trees for the leaves, and the life-giving air and sun. 

To live ones life with an authentic appreciation for living is, in a sense, like living it from death backwards.  Facing off our mortality makes us realize the gift that is time.  How wonderful to more fully value and feel watching our children sprout and branch out, opportunities to learn and lead, our ability to share and impart, and time to just breath..  To be "above ground" consciously experiencing and engaging in the full breadth of what it is to be part of humankind is to be truly alive.  To smell the ocean and earth, feel the biting cold, cry at our losses, celebrate our joys, laugh out loud, help others in need, and learn something new every day is like the unwrapping of gift after gift after gift.

Perfect or not... how blessed we are to be something every minute of every day.  The quote above says it all and more.  

Here's to the adventure called life, the medical and scientific communities that afford people like me the chance to live, and generous souls everywhere that support research and care.  May our combined philanthropic and humanitarian efforts afford more people struggling with cancer the chance to survive, and touch all the wonder that is "life".   

Crayons and Tears: My Breast Cancer Diagnosis

I shall never forget the heavy and humorous circumstances surrounding my second, and hopefully final breast cancer diagnosis.

On a beutiful day in May of 2003, I drove with my precocious 1-year-old daughter to the office of Breast Surgeon Dr. Yvedt Matory at Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston. A few weeks prior, I had undergone an excisional breast biopsy of a suspicious mass. Despite having had early breast cancer removed from the same breast just 4 years prior, I approached this appointment with confidence. I'd had two other breast lumps biopsied in the two years prior, both of which had been benign (non-cancerous), and expected this news to be the same. So, when both my husband and mom offered to come with me to this spring 2003 appointment, at which I was to have the biopsy incision checked and receive pathology results, I incessantly declined their offers. "I'll be fine!" I very stubbornly insisted. I suppose, in hindsight, I had taken my optimism a bit too far.

The long drive into Boston for that appointment was lovely. I remember it well. My toddler daughter Victoria and I sang nursery rhymes along the ride. Having had very early breast cancer 4 years before and, therefore, being at elevated risk, I truly treasured and celebrated out loud the fleeting, rhyme-singing days of motherhood. Victoria was (and remains) innately musical/artistic. We arrived on time, but, as usual, were stuck in a crowded waiting room for over an hour. Still, my cherub sang on, much to the delight (for some, annoyance) of our fellow "waiters".

I (we) were finally called in to the exam room, with its sterile aroma, crinkly exam-room tissue, single magazine, and muffled calcaphony of bustle and voices. We were way past nap time now, my cheerful toddler growing restless in the confines of the blank blah-beige walls. Ahh..those blank walls. We were two minds with nothing to occupy us while waiting for the familiar chart retreival from the door bin, click of the door handle, and appearance of our beloved Dr. Matory. My toddler wriggled in my lap, bored of the magazine we looked at, and getting generally "antsy". I recalled the crayons and paper I had in my mom-bag-o-tricks. Thank you Crayola! My little Picasso got earnestly to work.

I have a way with people, tending to easily establish meaningful connections. Such was the case with Dr. Matory; we shared an interest in music, education, patient communications, and had children of similar ages. (Dr. Yvedt Matory has since sadly passed away, a young victim of skin cancer). Despite having a ridiculous overload of patients, as is the case for surgeons at most of Boston's teaching hospitals, I do believe that she had a particular love for me. In the years ensuing my first cancer, what I perceived as Dr. Matory's personal interest in my well-being inspired my faith and helped allay my cancer recurrence fears.

As Dr. Matory entered the door that fateful day, her demeanor was different than what I had ever before experienced. Strained emotion showed on her cocoa colored face, and a serious furrow appeared between her beautiful deep brown eyes. "Hello Donna," she said. Hmm. No gregarious smile? No quick interest in the progress of my adorable attention-craving baby girl? "She looks really tired," I recall thinking about Dr. Matory. In the years since I had been seeing her for cancer follow-up appointments, every 3-6 months, she had shared with me the difficulties of finding balance - being a top surgeon, and being a commited, involved mom. Tired. Yes, that's why the long face. She's tired. "We have some things to talk about," were her next words.

So, I pulled up a chair next to her, as we reviewed the biopsy results. Me with a polite smile on my face, legs crossed, sitting up straight, listening intently. What followed was a bit of a teacher-from-Charlie-Brown experience, with just random words bouncing around in the frozen parts of my brain. "We found more cancer....waaaa.waaaa.waaaa." "Invasive, aggressive.....waaa...waaaa" "Mastectomies...waaaaa..chemo...waaaa...radiation...waa,waa,waa,waaaaaaaa." And still, I smiled politely, nodded, cheerfully agreed to make the necessary appointments with the secretary for more surgery and medical consults, etc. "Wow, you are handling this very well!" Dr. Matory added. More polite smiles.

I was not truly able to process what I was hearing. By that point she may as well have been speaking to an alien going through programmed responses, but not really emoting. I was like "Data" from Star Trek. My intellegent, multi-dimensional neural network suffered complete gridlock. Only one brain path stayed open for processing; the one that deals with just basic functioning and survival. It was all so surreal.

And then something happened that I will never forget. We both turned around, Dr. Matory and I. Those boring walls? The ones that drive patients crazy with their blankness? Well, my 18-month-old Picasso had found a perfect canvas, and outlet for her boredom!! The walls now featured my daughter's first-ever "public showing" of her budding artisitc talent! God works in some very strange ways indeed. No more boring walls, a distraction for both physician and patient, a happy toddler, and a well-timed moment of comic relief shared by two working moms - all provided at once by my darling daughter in my moment of need. "Oh my!" I exclaimed with raised eyebrows. "Don't worry about it," said Dr. Matory as we smiled at eachother.

What happened next? I remember making some appointments, leaving the hospital, securing Victoria in her car seat (where she promptly fell asleep), and driving down Memorial Drive, along Boston's Charles River, bound for home. At some point, the neurons were released from their bondage, my brain turned back on, and....the dam of emotions broke. About mid-way down Memorial Drive, I started sobbing like I have never sobbed before. I realized the impact all this would have on my husband, 6-year-old son, mom and dad, brothers, and all those that love me, and dreaded sharing the news. I pulled over in a random Cambridge parking lot, unable to see beyond my tears. Looking back at my precious sleeping daughter snug in her carseat, and with her whole wonderful life ahead of her, I resolved to fight the ugly cancer monster again and win. I would be there to watch my son and daughter grow up and add their own unique "Crayola colors" to this wonderful world.

Seven years, lots of beautiful "artwork", and many great memories later, I'm thriving, happy, and blessed in so many ways.

Pink pot scrubbers and buckets-for-the-cure

Breast cancer is big business in America. No, I am not being cynical, jaded, overly critical. We all want "the cure" to be found. It's just that the ubiquitous bubble-gum-pink "ribbon" is so darn prevalent, so pervasive, there is no escaping it. It's in the supermarkets, throughout magazine ads, on apparel - a thick fog of "pink soup". As a breast cancer survivor, I find this both fascinating and appalling. As a marketing specialist, I find it interesting that corporate decision makers fail to realize the potentially deafening effect of pink ribbon noise.

I have a few problems with the pink ribbon conundrum. First, breast cancer is not the only disease that takes lives. It's hard not to respect famous grieving sisters raising billions for "the cure". I want to point out, however, that many people suffer and die from lung, colon, ovarian, and uterine cancers as well. In some ways, the pink-ness draws attention and resources away from these cancer types. Second, too many companies are too quick to "slap the ribbon on the container" with only a shallow understanding of the various breast cancer support organizations. These organizations vary widely in how they ACTUALLY benefit real people struggling with the disease, and in how the funds managed specifically benefit productive research. (My favorite is the Avon Foundation for Women/Avon Breast Cancer Crusade, which supports specific, tracked research, access to disease screening, AND real patient support.)

Lastly, and speaking on behalf of thousands like me, the visual assault of pink breast cancer ribbons has the potential to negatively impact quality of life - for survivors trying to move on, for those traumatized by the loss of a loved one, and thousands that justifiably live in fear of developing the disease.

So, what "inspired" me to share these thoughts today? Me, the breast cancer activist, fundraiser, counselor, and crusader? A friend recently gifted me with a pink "pot scrubber for the cure". A pot scrubber for the cure? The gift, a sweet gesture, was intended as proof by this individual that "See. I support you and the cause." Under other circumstances, a pot scrubber would not be deemed an appropriate "friendship" gift, would it? But, alas, it was..pink! Corporations use the same mentality as my dear friend. "See? We care! See the little ribbon on our product? It makes our company somehow worthy of your "friendship", somehow demonstratively "good."" Ugh.

Then, I saw the new Kentucky Fried Chicken ad, announcing the "buckets for the cure" program. What! No! Not the KFC bucket!!! Is there no end to the pinkness? Please, KFC. Don't just tell me you care. Tell me why! Tell me how you believe the money you'll donate per bucket purchased will really HELP, beyond adding to the coffers of an already ENORMOUS mega-charity. Put your creative team to work on that! I have to believe, with their combined salaries, that they are capable of more.

Lest I sound ungrateful for all the research that will hopefully spare my daughter and son from the suffering caused by breast cancer, I must add that breast cancer awareness, done right, really does save lives. The research for breast cancer cures will shed light on other diseases, as well. And, some charities make All the difference to individual patients and their families. I celebrate my survival every day, made possible in part by the pharmaceutical industry and improved chemo drugs. But, I know I am not alone in hoping for the pink bubble to deflate, please, just a bit.

The Year of the Colorful Pants

The Year of the Colorful Pants.

I hereby designated 2010 "The Year of the Colorful Pants”.

I came by the above trio on a recent trip to a store named DELliAs, where my objective was to return a not-so-colorful Christmas gift from my husband, a “soft” and “fluffy” sweater that nearly swallowed me up. Not a shopper, I intended to accomplish the return in a matter of minutes, receive cash back, and put it to practical use. Call it an epiphany, foreshadowing, a sign from a higher power - I was actually seduced by a pile of colorful pants! Like a bee to honey. The "SALE" sign may as well have been flashing neon. In collusion, the fitting room mirror encouraged me along. A quickened heartbeat later, I exited the store as the proud owner of boldly colorful pants! It was the first week of January, and things were looking very bright.

Why on earth was I so emotionally charged by a few pairs of cotton pants? I found myself singing the whole car ride home! ("I can see clearly now, the rain has gone.....I can see all obstacles in my way................it's gonna be a bright, bright, bright, sunshiney day....)

I brought the pants home, tried them each on again, my husband serving as a very willing audience (smile). My son and daughter both looked surprised and nervous. What alien had taken their normally conservative mom and plunked down "Donna with the Amazing Technicolor Pants"? Had I made a mistake? Been intoxicated in the store by the overwhelming hue? No, no. The pants arrived in my life right on time. Life, I have learned, does put things in our path in very timely ways.

How wonderful, how metaphorical that these pants ended up in my closet, otherwise filled with tailored styles and safe, classic hues. The boldness, the infusion of color, felt like a celebration of joy for "living". These pants declare out loud what I am compelled to do - to inspire others affected by cancer to their best possible outcomes. On the days I wear them, I feel a little brighter. On the days that I wear them, sometimes consciously on days of self-doubt, I am reminded that change happens by engaging, doing, acting. "Go, girl, go," they say.

To understand how my life became color-deprived is to understand the psychological burden of breast cancer. You see, from the time I was diagnosed, a shadow hovered over me, a little dark cloud of anxiety that followed me like an unwanted friend.

For me, the bright spectrum of living did not return all at once, but in steps forward that helped me move entirely beyond a serious diagnosis to a state of normalcy. What helped me to move forward? First, the personal support of my oncology team, treating me and my family with compassion and individualized care. Then, participation in some social programs that got me thinking outside my “cancer” box. (Oncology social workers are truly unsung heroes in the universe of cancer care.) Yoga classes and a “Day of Beauty” offered at my cancer clinic, archery classes with my son, learning to play golf, playing my piano and violin - these activities helped my re-engage in "living", got me thinking forward again to a life full of possibilities. Breast cancer fundraising, advocacy and motivational speaking offered tremendous purpose to my days, delivered the rare gift of "meaning", and heralded my future.

Finally, breast reconstruction moved my post-cancer life a giant step forward, helping put the sun back high in my sky, and the color back in my rainbow.

The darkness, the draining of color from the lives of those affected by breast cancer is something I hope to address not only in this blog, but through actions and associations I hope will lead to a more holistic treatment of cancer patients. I feel compelled to help others like me move from grey back to colorful lives. Perhaps this starts with the donning of colorful pants! They certainly have inspired conversations, and dialogue is an important start.

I think I can, I think I can…life is again operating at full steam. The wheels stopped turning turning for awhile, but the engine has restarted. The schedule no longer controls me, I am the engineer. Cancer taught me that.

Yes, this is "The Year of the Colorful Pants".

MANGE VENTER MIG (Much Awaits Me)

Mange Venter Mig (Danish). Much Awaits Me. Self-confidence, possibility, faith, and hope – these unyielding elements have propelled me to achieve many things in my life about which I have been proud. Leadership of my high school class; first college degree in an extended second-generation American family; a distinguished graduate degree; a corporate career; the launch and successful management of a small business; civic leadership; elected public office; marriage; and the birth of two amazing children. All highlights in a forward life continuum. Striving, multi-tasking, and juggling were my lifestyle. Overachieving, I was driven by the belief that always there is a next step in life, more rewarding than the last. Ridiculous optimism? Perhaps. Innate determination? Most definitely. Foolish? Perhaps. Much awaited me, just around the next bend… and the next.

Practically from birth I was out to prove something – to the world, to anyone that doubted, and mostly to myself. I am woman. I can do it all. I can run a business full time with my beloved mom, while concurrently working in marketing for Alpha Software company, while maintaining a 4.0 GPA working full-time towards a Masters in Communications at Emerson College. Happy? I think. Tired? Extremely. Stopping to smell a single rose? Never. Much awaited me. I was a “mover”. My beautiful baby boy had captivated my heart, motherhood adding a new and amazing dimension to my complex and exciting life. What I did not realize then was that far too much, too many things that mattered, eluded my appreciation and understanding along the way. On I marched, projecting my future, laying out plans, acccelerating the spinning wheels in my personal “Habitrail”.

Then, cancer happened. It happened to me. It happened in the prime of my life, at just 34 years old. With a four-year-old marriage and an adorable three-year-old son, this was not supposed to happen to me. I was going forward, not staying still. Mange Venter Mig. This was not time for cancer. It was time for loving, learning, sowing, and growing. No, this was definitely not in the plan, this stopping to deal with cancer. I had no family history of cancer in my enormous, extended Italian family, nor in my extended Polish/Danish clan. I breastfed my son, I was not overweight, I did not smoke or drink. No time for this. I’m going places.

The diagnosis stunned me. It hurt my loved ones, and reflected their sorrow back to me tenfold. Relief came; the cancer was early stage. The first surgery was unsuccessful, leaving some cancer cells behind. The next surgery, weeks later, got all the cancer and left me with 1 2/3 breasts. (I shall share in a later post the humor and the challenges of having two thirds of a breast). My surgeon, God rest her beautiful soul, advised that since so much tissue had been removed I may not need radiation therapy. If cancer were to return to that breast (she noted I had about a 35% chance of recurrence over the first few years following the surgery), I would be unable to have radiation treatment to the same area later. So, the decision was made against radiation treatment. Would this have prevented my recurrence? I suppose I will never know.
Forward. Think forward. No looking back. Self-confidence returned and my crazy optimism. The faithful “Donna” engine was refueled, the determined little engine that propels me over the hills and valleys of my life.

The “cancer” chapter was over, or so we thought.