The Upside of Down

Sometimes the world feels upside down. It can be scary, but a friend once told me scary isn't always bad. There is fear in letting go, in going beyond the edge of what our minds tell us is safe, in exposing our deepest vulnerabilities, our soft bellies.

Photo by Quinn. My holding a handstand, like me, is a work in progress.

My world has certainly felt upended -- over the last few years since my diagnosis changed, yes, but also very acutely over the past few months. Is it the alignment of the planets? A midlife unraveling a la Brené Brown?

'Many scholars have proposed that the struggle at midlife is about the fear that comes with our first true glimpse of mortality. Again, wishful thinking. Midlife is not about the fear of death. Midlife is death. Tearing down the walls that we spent our entire life building is death. Like it or not, at some point during midlife, you’re going down, and after that there are only two choices: staying down or enduring rebirth.' -- Brené Brown

I suspect the latter is closer to the truth. Having already faced my mortality head-on, the remains of my walls feel as if they're crumbling, and the question staring me in the face is what is it that you're going to DO with your second chance? How are you going to SERVE? As I begin to re-engage with the advocacy community, I have felt a yearning for something...more. A greater impact and deeper meaning to the work I do, which, let's face it, most days just involves laundry, meal-planning, and entertaining a nap-resistant toddler. There is purpose in that, don't get me wrong. But I am exploring options for shifting the balance outward a smidge.

Balance doesn't always come easily. Case in point -->

I can dissect all I'm doing wrong here as far as form goes, but at least I'm laughing.

I have also been intensely focused on the mental health side of my cancer recovery these past few months. And HOLY SMOKES, you guys. I mentioned that I was exploring EMDR, a type of trauma therapy, and I promised to write about it...four months ago.

The sessions have been nothing short of intense. This work is not for sissies. Each hourlong appointment passes in what feels like just a few minutes. Every single time I am jolted back down to earth when my therapist tells me it's time to wrap up. I keep feeling like we're just getting started. Then I have weird dreams and cry at random for a few days, and I call my closest friends and ask why adulting is so damn hard sometimes. DM me if you know the answer to that.

In our first session, she asked me about my trauma, and I talked about cancer. I mentioned in passing how the sound of our bathroom exhaust fan makes my chest feel constricted and my heart race, and THAT is the snippet she wanted to focus on. I still don't know where that angst comes from, but my therapist asked me when else in my life I have felt that way. And some things came up. BOY, DID THEY COME UP. We are working through anxieties that have nothing to do with cancer yet. The unraveling is happening.

In an effort to augment my therapy appointments, and in light of Quinn's existential concerns of late, I've been meditating regularly, hiking a couple of times a week, and trying to make it to yoga on Sundays. My kids have started their own at-home practice.

This weekend, the yoga instructor, Beau, started off the class as he usually does, by imparting some wisdom, some food for thought. He said he wanted to talk to us about sharing. How he gets to know his students pretty well, that we share things with him. He said he had been teaching a class earlier in the week and two of his students were in the front row, next to each other. And he knew they were both facing some pretty tough things in their lives, and the kicker is they were both going through the same hardship but neither one knew it because we don't always open up to the people around us. Then Beau talked about a video circulating in the CrossFit community about one of their own coming out as gay, how the response to the video shows humanity and love at its greatest and most accepting, and how sharing can lead to that. I've seen that here, in this space, how a community can lift a person up when they feel at their most terrified and exposed.

Beau ended his little talk by asking us to share, if not our fears and vulnerabilities, to at least share our gratitude.  I haven't talked about my mental health much here because so much of my recovery is still in process -- but then I'm realizing it may always be, so I should get to discussing it sooner rather than later. I should share, trusting in this community, and that the ground won't be as far away as I think. If I fall, I will stand up again. You guys will help me.

On Aging

What the heck, September? PTA meetings and a conference in NYC and turning THIRTY-EIGHT went and sucked up all of my time this month. Thirty-eight -- how did that happen?  PTA MEETINGS! Ha! Who am I?!

A friend wrote a Facebook post the other day about how time is a contortionist. I spent the other night looking at old videos of Quinn, crying my eyes out because where did my sweet toddler go? Who is this five-year-old who thinks it's hilarious to send his dad poop emojis in a text?

And then I looked at those puffy eyes of mine and realized I am super overdue for investing in an effective eye cream. And possibly also some botox. Five years of cancer has aged me and mama is tired.

About a week before I was diagnosed, 2011.

I recently commented on a blog post written by my college friend and author/mom/cook/all-around-badass Amelia Morris. Its themes are something I've been giving more thought to lately (maybe because suddenly I'm old enough that my child is SCHOOL-AGED and also because he regularly tells me I have a squishy belly. "Uh, because of you," I want to respond).

Amelia, a former gymnast, reflects on the Olympic sport of women's artistic gymnastics and the pressure we women feel to have it all and look good while doing so.

She writes:

"And while I agree that our ideas about the female body and its power are, indeed, unresolved, perhaps the gymnasts themselves have it figured out. Aly Raisman is performing world-class gymnastics; she looks good doing it; and (bonus points?) seems to have a really strong sense of self. As for me, as confused as I am—as torn between appreciating my body and criticizing it, between feeling endlessly grateful for motherhood and feeling trapped by it, between wanting to appear effortlessly pretty and wanting to literally put no time or effort into that aim—I remain hopeful for the future."

***

I didn't used to think of myself as high-maintenance, but between my eyebrow tattoos and eyelash extensions to give me a semblance of what I had pre-cancer, the occasional mani/pedi to mask the spot where I'm missing a toenail -- thanks again, chemo and five years of Avon Walks -- and actually having to do something with my hair for the first time in five years (NOT that I'm complaining and even though that something is often a ponytail), I feel decidedly higher maintenance than I'd like. I care about how I look. I wish it were effortless but it just is not any more.

New eyebrows (about 8 months ago)!

And don't even get me started on fillers and lip plumping and teeth whitening. I am not there yet. Yet. But the immobile foreheads of every twenty- and thirty-something in my yoga classes reminds me that I am in the minority. I have a plastic surgeon, yes, but for far more terrifying reasons.

Or maybe this focus on our looks is just a phenomenon where I live? But having read Wednesday Martin's Primates of Park Avenue as part of a book club last year (and every cover of every Star or US Weekly at the newstands ever), I don't think so. Also, Amelia doesn't live in Arizona, either.

Still, as much as I lament the scowl lines in between my tattooed eyebrows, or wish I didn't have such extreme bags under my eyes, as much as I'd love to have Kerry Walsh's washboard abs, my comment on Amy's post was about how it took cancer to allow me to -- almost -- stop criticizing and spend much more time appreciating my post-baby body. How crazy is that? That it took being told I had a deadly disease to learn to pump the brakes on being an ass to myself.

Now, Quinn is 5 (and a half), I have purplish scars across my reconstructed chest, a softer belly than before pregnancy, neuropathy in my right hand from radiation or surgery or both, and an inability to move or stretch in ways I could before cancer because of those surgeries and radiation. So much for the cover of Yoga Journal. 

But I appreciate what my body can do. Hike mountains. Show up to volunteer with a class of kindergarteners. Dive into a late-September pool to the delight of my boy, who knows it's going to be too cold for me (it is). I appreciate what my body has done. Recover from surgeries and radiation. Run marathons. Give birth. Breastfeed. I mean, how awesome is that?! I grew and sustained a LIFE with this body.

I watched this video a while back with tears streaming down my cheeks, and then it showed up again in my Facebook feed a couple of months ago.

I hadn't remembered the part about the women who'd lost their boobs. Pay attention at 2:50. Actually, pay attention to all of it. You are amazing, and beautiful, and strong. All of you. Even at 38 years old.

I'm sure I'll be a better mom in November

WE'VE ALMOST DONE IT!!! October is just about done. And thank god, except it means my November scans are right around the corner.

Since my diagnosis, not a day has gone by that I haven't thought of breast cancer, at least a little bit, but that is amplified SO LOUD in October, and not always in ways that help. Then scanxiety sets in (albeit on the early side AGAIN this time around) and I start popping Xanax every night like it's a vitamin. I am so lucky in so many ways, but also so tired sometimes. This disease can wear you out.

In my frustration with things like the NFL fining one of its players for trying to honor his dead mother and my general October-and-scan-induced edginess, I've found myself having to explain to Quinn what it means to have a short fuse because mine has been downright itsy-bitsy. 

I haven't felt like the best mom, and this blog post about swearing in front of your children hit very, very, very close to home.

In front of Quinn, I try to say "sugarfoot" or "son of a gun" or "fudge knuckle" or some other hokey variation on actual swear words but I don't always get it right because that is not always what I actually deep-down WANT to say. And I don't ever swear at Quinn, so much as say things like, "You're smart. USE YOUR BRAIN," when he's asked me why he has to use his napkin instead of his shirt for the twelve-thousandth time. So that's not exactly nice parenting. And then I might swear AT traffic when Quinn is in the car with me, and I don't know if that's any better. 

I've also found myself crying real, actual tears when Quinn told me a couple of weeks ago that Loki (our cat who frequently scratches at our dining room chairs and occasionally throws up all over our fabric couch but never on the hardwood floors) is his favorite "person" in our family. Oh, how that boy loves that cat. I might have been a little offended, which is of course a little ridiculous.

Sometimes I think I need my therapist on speed-dial. (Is there even such a thing as speed-dial anymore?)

***

I had a dream the other night that Quinn was as tall as me, and I got to see him -- even in the haziness of my dreams, as a 65-inch-tall boy who was almost a young man. He was perfect and handsome and pure goodness. 

I woke up with a tightening in my chest that hasn't quite gone away the last few days. Am I over-doing it at Pilates? Is my anxiety giving me near-constant panic attacks? Are there tumors growing in my chest wall again? 

Will I get to see my boy be as tall as me in real life?

photo by the uber-talented Jodi Lynn

***

I have had so many friends find out they have progression this month -- in their brains, lungs, stomach, spine, skin, the list goes on and on -- and the truth is, I am scared shitless that the boogeyman who is cancer could show back up in my life again at any moment. Metastatic breast cancer is THAT unpredictable, and as amazing as some treatments are, there is still no cure. My fear has been acting out this month, and maybe it does every October. It's a spooky fucking month.

(Sometimes substitute words are just not at all adequate.)

***

I wrote all this, and then I went to a yoga benefit class tonight for City of Hope, a cancer treatment center and research facility. I dragged myself there, is more like it. I didn't want to go, didn't want to navigate my way downtown and to the venue and deal with traffic and find parking and all of the STUFF that goes with getting somewhere on a Friday night. (Hello, middle-age, nice to meet you!)

My worlds collided tonight and it was pretty awesome. Yoga in the outfield at Chase Field for @cityofhope with @spiritualgangster and a beautiful community of yogis. @nikmeier #YogaforHope #spiritualgangster #namaste #phoenix

A photo posted by Nicki Adair (@nickiadair) on Oct 30, 2015 at 9:45pm PDT

I practiced yoga with a bunch of other people on the field where the Diamondbacks play, did my forward folds and crow poses and shoulder stands under the stadium lights, which was totally surreal. I slowed down a bit. I was reminded to breathe. And you know what? It helped. I might not need a Xanax tonight.

Why I Won't Be Toasting My Clean Scan This Time Around

I don't even know where to begin, except we have received exceptionally great news this month (my scan was clean, marking twenty months of no evidence of disease), but the occasion was bittersweet, because on July 10th Chris's mom passed away due to complications from advanced Parkinson's Disease. Damn that disease. And this one, too (cancer is not off the hook, no), but mostly that one right now.

Maryann was a beautiful woman, and bitingly funny even toward the end.

The last time I saw her, just before Father's Day, I asked her how she was feeling. She said, "You want the vacation answer or the real one?"

"The real one," I said.

"Like shit," she responded. Those of you who knew her will chuckle a bit at this. She still had so much fight and spunk and spirit, even as her body was failing her. I won't go into details, but the enormity of her spirit was evident in her last few weeks, as she held on for longer than hospice said was possible. In the end, she passed away at home with both her boys and her two favorite nurses there with her.

I loved her deeply, and worried so much about her these last couple of years as her symptoms progressed and her condition seemed to worsen. I tried to cajole her into eating green muffins (made with spinach) along with Quinn, but she couldn't get past the color. Nutrition was easily her least favorite topic as her appetite declined. But she'd smile widely when I would give in and take her to the Dairy Queen drive-thru for "lunch": always a peanut buster parfait. At least there were calories, I reasoned.

I always tried to reassure Maryann (and myself) that the two of us would get through our illnesses together to watch Quinn grow up. "You and me, lady," I used to tell her.

God, how I want to watch Quinn grow up.

***

Quinn told me earlier this week he's going to be an astronaut and fly to the moon, then asked me what I'm going to be when I grow up, when I'm a grandma.

"I don't know. What do you think I should be?" I asked.

"A nurse!" he proclaimed. "To help people."

I just want to be a grandma, but I don't tell him that.

***

Last year, we turned our one-car garage into a mother-in-law suite in the hopes that Maryann would start spending the cooler months here with us (where it is decidedly not cool.) Together with Chris's Aunt Kathie, Maryann and I picked out furniture, decided on bathroom tiles, and went rug shopping together. We bought a painting of a pig to decorate the sitting area.

This week Quinn announced matter-of-factly that Grandma's room is now the "overnight room for when we have other guests."

"I guess you're right, buddy." I tried not to let my voice crack.

It will be awhile before I get around to clearing her toiletries out of the medicine cabinet or taking her robe down from the hook behind the bathroom door.

***

As a family, we are navigating the end-of-life closure, eventually the going-through-and-then-selling the house she'd lived in for 35 years, a memorial service, and down the road, the spreading of her ashes with Chris's dad's (who died of pancreatic cancer six years ago) over the Pacific ocean.

I am trying again to be there for my husband through unthinkable grief. I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing.

***

I am trying to not worry too much when my oncologist tells me: "Your scan was clean, so no cancer, which is great, but..."

... But what?

"Your liver enzymes are a little elevated. We need to take some more blood. Are you on any new medications? Antibiotics?"

No and no.

WTF.

"We had more wine than usual over the weekend?" Chris offers.

"That could be it," my doctor says.

So this happened (extra blood work) because even though my CT was clear, my liver enzymes are mysteriously elevated. Dammit. #scantreatrepeat #stage4needsmore

A photo posted by Jen Campisano (@jencampisano) on Jul 22, 2015 at 4:33pm PDT

I blush and feel like a kid caught sneaking cookies from the cookie jar because in the last four years, I hardly ever drink more than a glass or two of wine, but last week I drank more than I should have while visiting my brother because I wanted to be normal again. I wanted to forget everything we have going on for a minute. I wanted to enjoy a glorious summer night in the northwest, breathing mountain air and curled up under a blanket while visiting with some of my favorite people and not worry about saying no when my glass got refilled more than once.

My older brother and I celebrating another clean scan in January 2013.

I'm trying not to worry too much. My oncologist doesn't seem concerned and he is one of the most cautious physicians I've ever known.

But when you google "elevated liver enzymes" and one of the first results is "metastatic cancer," it's hard not to freak out. Especially given my history. So now I wait, and will try to quell my nerves with yoga and deep breaths and probably a Xanax at night. The plan is to retest next week and see where things stand.

***

I also have, I think, a tendency to panic when I should be grieving. My brain gets emotionally confused -- or something -- and with Maryann's passing I can't help but feel vulnerable myself. I feel it every time a friend goes into hospice. As another blogger and friend put it, "Every time one of my online friends dies and I'm still here, I go through this combination of guilt that I'm here and fear that I'm next."

Is this an actual documented phenomenon? If anyone with a psych degree can explain my extra worries to me, I will pay you (in wine if you want. It looks like we won't be needing so much of ours).

***

I'll keep you guys posted on my liver enzymes. And if I'm posting a little less here lately, this is why, in a nutshell: we have entirely too much shit going on. Please bear with me for a little bit.

In the meantime, there will definitely not be any champagne toasts to celebrate my clean scan this time around. It looks like a peanut buster parfait is in order instead.

Around the Web: Like Clockwork

I've been chewing my nails something fierce lately, and I haven't been able to put my finger on why (no pun intended). Then it hit me when the scheduler from my oncologist's office called this morning: I am due for my three-month scans.

Except this time I'm not having three-month scans. I got bumped to every four months, which apparently in my world is just going to mean an extra month of anxiety. My body is that well-adapted to this cycle. My brain knows just when to start acting on-edge, when nightly Xanax pills might be in order once again. After all, I've been doing this for almost four years now.

{photo credit}

It's like clockwork over here.

Except it isn't.

So now I'm all thrown off schedule, my right thumbnail is bitten to the quick, and I do have scans on the books five weeks from now. So I better figure out how to get this anxiety under control because I can't take five weeks on high alert. I will literally run out of nails.

I also made the mistake of mentioning this article from last week's round-up to my doctor by way of his assistant, and so my doctor promptly ordered a bone density scan for me. I've never had one, so this will provide a baseline. It is also, predictably, adding to my anxiety. I don't know if it's cancer, or parenthood, or just being in my mid-thirties, but my mind worries about every possible thing that could go wrong, and not just when it comes to scans (from our toaster catching fire, to getting car-jacked at a stoplight because of course, to sinkholes even though we live in Arizona not Florida. The list goes on.)

Anyhow, here's what I saw around the web this week (but I'm not asking my doctor about any of them, lest he order any more tests for me).

At Long Last, Answering Some Questions about 'Exceptional Responders'

"Silva is what researchers call an “exceptional responder,” the rare patient who has a surprising, dramatic response to a drug. . .

Silva’s story, and those of other exceptional responders, have led to an intriguing set of questions: Could researchers use technologies such as genetic sequencing to figure out what made Silva’s tumor respond to treatment? Could they mine that data for clues that might help other patients? Could they ultimately find a way to make the exceptional more routine?"

Actually, I'd happily submit to more tests if it was to figure out why I've been so lucky, why I've responded to drugs the way I have, and maybe lead to answers that could pass some of that luck on to someone else. 

Last Week it Was the Bones, This Week the Lungs?

"Scientists at the University of Edinburgh said they have discovered a “trigger” that allows breast cancer cells to spread to the lungs. . .

Prof Jeffrey Pollard, the centre’s director, said: “Our findings open the door to the development of treatments that target the tumour microenvironment, which may stop the deadly progression of breast cancer in its tracks.”"

Will the Breast Cancer Test Kit be Next to the Pregnancy Tests at the Drugstore?

"Researchers at the Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology of the Medical Center -- University of Freiburg have developed an approach for detecting breast cancer by means of urine samples. The method involves determining the concentration of molecules that regulate cell metabolism and that are often dysregulated in cancer cells. These molecules, referred to as microRNAs, enter into the urine over the blood. By determining the composition of microRNAs in the urine, the scientists succeeded in establishing with 91 percent accuracy whether a test subject was healthy or diseased."

A Case of Two Steps Forward, One Step Back (Or Sideways...)

"Countering previously held beliefs, researchers at The University of Texas MD Anderson Cancer Center have discovered that inhibiting the immune receptor protein TLR4 may not be a wise treatment strategy in all cancers. This is because TLR4 can either promote or inhibit breast cancer cell growth depending on mutations in a gene called TP53. . .

"This looks like a promising avenue to develop drugs for the worst kinds of cancers," says Brown. "However, if we wish to target this immune pathway, we better pay attention to the TP53 status of the tumor.""

Finding Relief from Post-Mastectomy Pain

Mine is not so much pain as it is a significant tightness throughout my right pectoral muscle and armpit region (to use the anatomically correct term, I'm sure) that no amount of stretching seems to alleviate (although yoga helps tremendously). Chris, if you're reading, I think monthly spa massages would help, too.

My goal {photo credit}

"“Pain is a psychological trigger for worry about cancer recurrence,” said Julie Silver, an associate professor at Harvard Medical School who specializes in cancer rehabilitation. “Treating PMPS really helps to relieve that anxiety.”

PMPS is generally defined as nerve-related pain that persists for at least three months after breast cancer surgery, though it can take up to six months to develop. It tends to occur in the upper chest or the underside of the arm, causing pain that women often describe as burning or shooting, and it sometimes presents, as it did in my sister, as an unbearable itch."

I Might Have to Ask My Doctor About A Daily Aspirin Regimen

He can't order any tests based on a question about aspirin, can he? 

"A daily dose of aspirin may be effective at blocking breast tumour growth, Indian-origin researchers have claimed.

Dr Sushanta Banerjee, research director of the Cancer Research Unit at the Kansas City Veterans Affairs Medical Center, and his team found that aspirin may be able to ensure that conditions around cancer stem cells are not conducive for reproduction."

And How Law School May Have Led to My Cancer Diagnosis*

"“People really should elevate the importance of sleep to the same level they do diet and exercise to improve their overall health and well-being,” he said."

On that note, I'm going to bed. 

* Allegedly.

Meaning To Unite or Join Together

Over the weekend, close to seventy-five people showed up to practice yoga at an event my friend Jenn and I put together to raise funds for the Avon 39 Walk to End Breast Cancer. In addition to the donation-based yoga class, we held a silent auction, with donations from local artists, salon owners, yoga teachers, health coaches, and one of my favorite (non-local) wine makers. 

Jenn led us all in a beautiful flow emphasizing our prana, or life force. After all, we were there to celebrate life, to raise money that will fund research to extend people's lives and improve the quality of their lives, and help others live easier lives in the midst of a cancer diagnosis by providing meals, transportation, and treatment options. 

We were celebrating my clean scan from earlier in the month, too. I smiled with every breath and gave my little guy a kiss with every chaturanga. I am so fortunate.

{Quinn watching me practice}

In Sanskrit, yoga means "to unite" or "to join together." In practice, we often think of it as joining our breath and our movements, our minds and our bodies. But it is also about coming together as a community. About supporting each other and the world around us in little, meaningful ways. 

On Saturday, the roomful of us breathed together, moved together, sweated to some great music together and then ended the class with one of the most powerful experiences I've ever had in a yoga class. It was simple. All Jenn did was ask everyone to form a circle around me and send good energy my way. We all touched the shoulder of the person in front of us, or held hands with someone next to us, some of us praying, others of us thinking positive thoughts for healing and love and growth. We sat there for several minutes in sweaty, happy peace, and then, in tears, class was ended. 

{After class, with the incomparable Jenn Chiarelli and her daughter, Grace}

When all was said and done, we raised more than $2,000 for breast cancer research and support that day (our team is above $46,000 as of this writing). Almost equally as important, we raised our awareness of one another, of the struggles we all face, and how to ease that burden for each other just a bit, sometimes simply by holding one another's hands.

To everyone who came out to support me and this cause on Saturday, who donated your time, your art, your t-shirts, your space, or your goods or services: thank you. I can't thank you enough. I know I say it over and over, but I am so lucky. My heart is so full.

As I said on Saturday:

"Medicine is making huge strides these days, and I know chemo has saved my life.

But I also believe in this community, in the power of community. You all practicing next to me, or inviting my son for playdates when I can hardly get off the couch, or gifting me Reiki sessions because there is healing power in touch has absolutely bolstered me up over the past few years. I wholeheartedly believe I wouldn’t be where I am today if not for yoga, if not for this community, if not for all of you."

It Takes a Village

As my dear friend AnneMarie said to me recently, I'm spinning like a top lately. We all seem to be. Is it that it's going to be 95 degrees in Phoenix this weekend, so we're all scattering like ants about to be scorched? Is it the swarm of spring breakers here, so traffic is unrelenting lately?

Except it's not just confined to Phoenix. Life seems to be moving at breakneck speed for just about everyone I know, and suddenly I'm thrown back to Quinn's statement that we are "the busiest people EVER" and reminded that I need to slow things down a bit. I need to relax. I need to breathe.

Just as soon as I've gotten everything ready for this silent auction and yoga event on Saturday. (Will you be there?)

I'm so looking forward to being able to practice alongside the lovely Jenn Chiarelli and this entire community -- my village -- that has bolstered me up over and over again over the past several years.

Many local and regional businesses, artists, designers, healers, and yoga practitioners have donated their goods and services to make this event a huge success. I feel confident saying that before it even happens, and I wish there was a way all of you could come participate, too. I promise to take lots of photos and do my best to sum up the day while I'm still basking in the glow of it early next week.

To all of you who've donated, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Or as I'll be saying on Saturday, namaste: I bow to the divine in each of you.

Sorry, Honey, My Warranty Is Expired

I haven't had strep throat since I was in middle school, the year I had my tonsils out. The surgery was preceded by seven (yes SEVEN) bouts of strep and/or tonsillitis, so at the first sign of health, I was scheduled for surgery. I didn't have another surgery (or even hospitalization for any reason) for TWENTY years.

Then, as Chris says, I started falling apart. Ha. Hahahaha.

Case in point: I had chemo this week, which was fine. I even went for a hike on Wednesday. I was feeling great, I thought!

Then that night I was hit with a fever, chills, and inability to swallow without feeling like I was being stabbed. I've got fatigue that has me winning sleep trends on my Up24 (not so much actual fitness, alas). And a self-diagnosis of strep (confirmed as "likely" by my oncologist's assistant) led to my second Z-Pack in as many months.

I no longer have the fever or chills, but am still holding on to the fatigue and sore throat. Why is there no place to put "I'm sick" in my Up tracking? Instead, my "smart coach" keeps encouraging me to take more steps if I want any chance of reaching the suggested 10,000 per day. I'm not just sitting on my ass because I'm lazy, guys.

Still, I am the worst at being sick, whether my smart coach is goading me to move or not. I want to go to yoga, but won't, because I don't want to get anyone else sick lest my antibiotics haven't kicked in yet. Also, who am I kidding? Down dog when you have a headache is decidedly NOT fun. I should probably just take a nap, but keep thinking there must be something I'm not marking off my to-do list that I should while I've got a quiet day.

I want to do a tutorial on my eyebrows but haven't figured out the logistics yet. I thought about talking about capsule wardrobes, but here's the gist: I cleaned out my closet, which isn't all that exciting. I love to cook and was thinking of doing a series on foods to help you get past chemo but then our stove broke (again) and I haven't had an appetite this week because it is so very, very painful to swallow. Maybe I'll do a series on smoothies?

Or maybe I will just nap, after all.

Kidding. Off to the grocery store. Because someone in this house still has an appetite.

What is Team Booby and the Beast All About, Anyway?

Today is a chemo day for me. This means I take Quinn to school, try to get in a workout because I know I won't be feeling up for one for another few days, have a little lunch, and then drive to the infusion center about half an hour away from my house.

Kathy or Wes will gather my vitals: weight, blood pressure, heart rate and oxygen levels, and temperature. Then I'll choose which recliner to sit in and wait for a nurse. Nickole or Angela will access my port as we chat about what we've been up to the past three weeks; mostly, we talk about our kids. "Take a deep breath," one says as she swabs the raised area on my chest with an alcohol pad. "Okay, now exhale," and I do, as a needle goes in and she takes a few vials of blood to test my blood counts, my electrolytes, my liver enzymes, my tumor markers.

Mostly, my labs look good. Then they hook me up to the infusion of pre-meds. I get anti-nausea drugs and steroids. By the time these are finished, I've been at the center about an hour. Then chemo starts. It doesn't feel any different. It takes about thirty minutes. Afterward, they monitor me for another thirty minutes to make sure I don't have any adverse reactions. A week later, I have to return for more blood work, just to make sure I still have enough platelets, still have enough white blood cells, still am not anemic. Mostly, I'm okay.

My routine has been exactly the same, every third Monday and then again the next week, for nearly two years. I've been visiting this infusion center at least as often for three and a half years, since I was first diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer in August 2011.

I know how lucky I am to have the care I do. I am lucky that my infusion center visits only take a couple of hours (plus driving time), that I am able to drive myself to treatment, that my insurance pays for nearly everything, that I have a dear friend who comes to visit with me most treatment days, that my nurses know me and my family and take an interest in our lives, that my treatment is working. I could go on and on. I am so, so lucky.

Not everyone has these luxuries. Too many people don't have ready access to quality healthcare. It's too far to drive or too expensive, or the medicine doesn't work because we still need more answers about more types of breast cancer. I know too many people who've died because of this disease, and many, many more who are hoping their next chemo combination will work so they can have a few more months (or, God-willing, years) with their loved ones.

***

If you've been following my blog for a little while now, you know I've been walking in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer since 2012. I was bald that first walk and in the middle of some intense treatment, but Avon asked me to be the Survivor Speaker at the opening and closing ceremonies. I'd never spoken in front of 3,000 people before, but that crowd of people gave me courage.

{after my first walk, Santa Barbara, 2012}

As I crossed the finish line that year, holding hands with my unofficial teammates Ginelle, JT, and Sheryl, I was overcome by such a rush of emotion that I immediately signed up for another walk in 2013. And then another.

{after my second walk, San Francisco, 2013}

Why Team Booby & the Beast?

Last year, the three women who walked with me and I decided to form a team, Team Booby and the Beast, which allows us to fundraise together or individually. Mostly, though, it is a way to show our solidarity with one another, to stand and walk and cross finish lines against this disease as a unit.

{following walk number three, San Francisco, 2014}

This year, SIXTEEN of us are on this team: Alana, Amy, Beth, Beth, Daurie, Ginelle, Ginger, Gretchen, Jess, Jessica, Kacey, Leslie, Nora, Rashmi, Shelby, and myself. We have already raised more than $20,000. We are aiming for $50,000.

We will all walk more than 39 miles over the first weekend of May in Washington, DC. We will probably wear obnoxious amounts of pink and undoubtedly there will be signs cheering us on that say things like: "Save the Tatas." I will want to remind those people that it's not about tatas, it's about lives but I won't say anything because after all they're cheering us on on a Saturday when they could be running errands at Costco.

Undoubtedly, some people will walk for a mom or sister they've just lost, and I will start crying, right there on the trail, when I see the emotion on their faces. Most likely, the volunteer who hands out shirts at the end of the walk will be surprised when I ask for a survivor shirt. "You're too young!" she'll say, and I'll think I wish.

I will be reminded over and over again how lucky I am.

Why do I walk?

I was recently asked if my fundraising was to help with my personal medical expenses. It is not. I am remarkably, unquestionably fortunate in that regard. I thank my lucky stars every single day. My husband's job at Arizona State University provides us with exceptional healthcare benefits, and our out-of-pocket expenses over the last few years have been relatively minimal.

Even after I had to leave my career as a lawyer, even given the loss of my income and the inconvenience/nightmare (depending on who you ask) about how we would repay my student loans, we are okay. We don't always repair what needs repairing in our house right away, but we have a house. In a safe neighborhood. We have two cars and a garage to park them in. Our cupboards are full. I can afford to take Quinn to school while I get treatment. This is no small thing.

We also have a strong community of friends and family who've stepped in over and over and over again to support us as we coped with the shock of my diagnosis, navigated less daycare/preschool after I left my job, my ongoing treatment, and a surprise surgery while Chris was on his way to a conference in Tennessee so that he can keep his job and we can keep our healthcare.

So I walk because I owe it to the Universe. I'm not trying to be trite or flippant. I walk because I have been luckier than I ever could have imagined, and this is the best way I know how to give back right now. I walk to help women who are not as fortunate, to raise money for research funds -- for a cure someday, yes, but also for more advancements where they're terribly needed right now, so that more women can have more years with the ones they love. So they can raise their children and love their spouses and drink a glass of wine with their best friends. So they can worry about work deadlines or meal planning or other minutiae instead of cancer and all its devastation.

Why the Avon Walk?

There are many walks/runs that support breast cancer research and education. I chose Avon because of their commitment to funding care for women who wouldn't otherwise have it. Because they give millions of dollars in grants to research. And because they didn't shy away from featuring my story of living with Stage 4 breast cancer; instead, they asked me to tell it to 3,000 people while I shared a stage with Fergie.

Since 2003, the Avon Foundation for Women has organized several walks each year in select cities around the country. The money raised funds local research facilities, services for women in underserved communities (including screening and treatment), and provides support for the families of those affected by breast cancer.

In Washington, DC, grants have been awarded to recipients that include the Johns Hopkins University (my alma mater), the Capital Breast Care Center, and Food & Friends, which provides meals, groceries, and nutrition counseling to people living with life-threatening illnesses such as cancer.

***

I know this has been the longest post ever, but this is important to me. It's my little tiny way of paying it forward. If you'd like to support me or my Team, you can click here, or stay posted for details on an upcoming fundraiser in the Phoenix/Scottsdale area this spring which will be headlined by my friend Jenn, a woman and friend whose generous spirit I strive to emulate. Stay tuned.

{my friend Jenn Chiarelli, photo source}

And thank you. I couldn't do any of this without you all, and I love you all for it.

Getting Off the Hamster Wheel

I came down with a cold this week -- or maybe last, but it really hit this week as I was recovering from chemo. Perfect timing! Then Quinn spent Tuesday night feverishly whimpering in bed next to me. He woke up sick to his stomach Wednesday morning, which made two of us. The last few days have been kind of a blur. In traditional denial-ist fashion, I've been telling myself I just have terrible allergies, even as my head has spent most of this week feeling like I got run over by a reindeer.

I managed to make it to yoga earlier in the week (or late last week?), hoping to sweat out some of the gunk that's been plaguing me. I ran into a friend and mentioned that I've been feeling like I'm on a hamster wheel lately, with the decorating and shopping and cards and laundry and cleaning and baking and school activities and I just hadn't been feeling very festive. "Oh my God, me too," she said.

She told me she'd been feeling the same thing but had had a session with a local woman who is part therapist, part energy healer. And I might normally roll my eyes, but this friend is especially grounded and I've had some pretty remarkable sessions with people doing energy work myself. Also, my friend told me something that really struck home. Her therapist/healer suggested looking at the items on the hamster wheel from a slightly different perspective, shifting her gaze just a tad so things no longer feel like chores. Hearing this, it was as if I was suddenly given permission to be okay with the chaos, to embrace it even, to possibly find some kooky sort of joy in it. I feel like my friend got a two-for-one deal because this was EXACTLY the nudge I needed to get my head out of my ass.

Then, another woman I didn't know too well -- but who was also rejected by The TODAY Show before she was invited (and attended) on the Plaza with Joan Lunden -- passed away this week. We'd sent each other congratulatory notes on our TODAY appearances. A few weeks later, she suffered a stroke from which she never really recovered. Despite all that, in October, she tweeted this, which is a perfect little nugget of wisdom. Thank you, Annie.

I beg of the world. Stop complaining. Find ways to be happy. Seriously. Dig deep. Even in my worst times, I still try. No matter how hard.
— Annie Goodman (@annieg917) October 28, 2014

This Crushing Fatigue

I had chemo last Monday. Every three weeks, indefinitely. 

Last Wednesday, I went to a yoga class and ran into one of my regular instructors in the studio's lobby. She asked how I was doing. "Okay, just a little exhausted from chemo this week," I told her. "Oh, is this just maintenance stuff?" she asked me. "Sort of like that," I replied. Most people don't understand that my hair could be growing, I could be in remission, and still need chemo. Most of the time, I don't get into it.

Until scientists find some better detection methods and can tell me definitively that there are no breast cancer cells left, I will probably be on some sort of drug to keep this at bay -- just in case. As well as I'm doing right now, I am not willing to risk taking this safety net away, even if I have been flattened -- crushed -- by the fatigue of it.

According to the website www.chemocare.com, cancer-related fatigue is common: 

What is fatigue?

Fatigue can be confused with tiredness.  Everyone gets tired.  In fact, it is an expected feeling after certain activities or at the end of the day.  Usually, we know why we're tired and a good night's sleep will solve the problem.  Fatigue is less precise, less cause-and-effect.  Fatigue is a daily lack of energy; an unusual or excessive whole-body tiredness, not relieved by sleep.  It can be acute (lasting a month or less) or chronic (lasting from 1 month to 6 months or longer).  Fatigue can have a profound negative impact on a person's ability to function and quality of life.

What is cancer-related fatigue?

Cancer-related fatigue (CRF - sometimes simply called "cancer fatigue") is one of the most common side effects of cancer and itstreatments.  It is often described as "paralyzing."  Usually, it comes on suddenly, does not result from activity or exertion, and is not relieved by rest or sleep.  It may not end - even when treatment is complete. 

What I'm on is not as harsh as the toxic chemo-chemo I used to be on. This is no Taxotere or Carboplatin. But it is still cumulative (or I am just getting older and less adept at recovery). After 14 months of Kadcyla and almost three years since my diagnosis, I am wiped out. 

I don't have the words for how tired this chemo makes me. I was never much of a morning person before cancer, but now I am groggy until mid-afternoon. I am cranky and ornery and feel decades older than my thirty-five years. I feel like I'm moving through mud. I am irritable and short-tempered and I cry at the slightest frustrations because I don't have the energy for a more measured reaction.

Anemia isn't to blame; my blood counts consistently look okay, which was confirmed again this morning. I'm getting what most experts say is enough sleep per night: about 7.5 hours, give or take, depending on steroids or Quinn's sleep gymnastics or my anxiety levels. It's too hot to hike, but I'm still making it to a fairly intense yoga class three times a week, most weeks. (Though sometimes I think I go to yoga to spend most of my time in child's pose, resting on my sweaty mat.) I finished my 39.3-mile walk.

{Photo credit}

Am I overdoing it when I feel well? Is it being a parent to the energizer bunny? Is it the heat of the Phoenix summer? Am I not drinking enough water? Enough coffee? And the worst: is the cancer growing again?

I'll feel better in a couple of days. I'll make it to yoga again this evening and spend less time in child's pose than I did last Wednesday. Quinn and I will have the day together tomorrow, inventing new ways to beat the heat (I'm thinking ice-skaing lessons for both of us might be in order soon). We'll go to California for Chris's 20-year high school reunion.

And then I'll have a week and a half of feeling nearly normal before this cycle begins again. Just enough time to almost forget how sluggish I'm feeling now. 

Are you sidelined by chemo-related fatigue? How do you combat it? What other side effects do you take on in order to keep on keepin' on?

Heavy Stretching

I knew I was supposed to have chemo this week, but I couldn't for the life of me remember what time it was scheduled for. So just after 8 a.m. on Monday I called my oncologist's office to find out, and it turns out I'd forgotten to make the appointment at all. Chemo brain strikes again.

Luckily, they were able to squeeze me in on the infusion schedule in the early afternoon, which also gave me time I wouldn't normally have in the morning to make it to a yoga class. Nothing like a little getting centered (or heavy stretching, as Chris calls it) before poison--ahem, chemo. THIS is what I do with my days, you guys.

And side note, I have a scan next Monday. As much as I'm trying not to be anxious, I'm still a little on edge this week. Pre-chemo steroids don't help. (They don't call it 'roid rage for nothin'.) But I didn't realize how on edge I was until yoga on Monday.

At the beginning of class, my teacher started talking about how yoga is a spiritual practice as much as a physical one, how we come to our mats to create space for good as we release what's no longer serving us--physically, emotionally, or spiritually. None of this is particularly new or earth-shattering, but then he began talking specifics. How feelings of fear or guilt or anger or jealousy can take root wherever there is an absence of love. "So," he said, "the way to drive those emotions out is to breathe in love." Easy for you to say, I thought. You don't have a PET scan next week.

I was irritated with the idea and found myself actually getting angry. What was I supposed to do? I thought. Send some love to my scarred, radiated chest that won't move the way I want it to? Feel love toward my never-ending appointments, scans, and follow-up visits? Love cancer? As I began to move through the postures, though, to stretch and strengthen my body, to marvel in what it could do, I realized my instructor was on to something. As I began to sweat, as my muscles burned in warrior pose, as the familiar calm began to seep in, I realized how frayed my nerves were and how much these scans still hijack me--yes, physically, emotionally, and spiritually--in the days leading up to them.

As much as the stubborn side of me didn't want to admit it, it does help to be more loving with myself. And wasn't that what I'd resolved to do this year, anyway?

I don't have quite as much flexibility in my right pectoral muscles as I do on my left side since I had four lymph nodes removed and five weeks of radiation. But slowly, muscle fiber by muscle fiber, the scar tissue is breaking up and poses I'd figured were out of reach for me are becoming available again. The pain is lessening (although there is still significant discomfort, but I have learned to tell the difference between the two) and my range of motion is improving.

It doesn't take away the fear or anxiety completely, but coming to terms with my body, appreciating it for its strength and--yes, sometimes even grace--helps me accept the scan next week, helps me find peace with where I am today, helps me forgive all that my body and I have been through the last two and a half years.

As we relaxed in shavasana at the end of class, my teacher reminded us to let go of fear, and I realized maybe it's not so easy for him, either. I don't know what struggles he's up against. We all have our burdens to bear. I don't know what anyone else is bringing to their mat. I only know that every time I come to mine I let go of a little more of what holds me back.

Yoga can't help me control what my scan will say next week. And I don't know if my chest muscles will ever open up enough for me to get into king pigeon pose.

[photo credit]

But yoga does remind me to find peace with my body--myself--either way.

My Anti-Resolution

2014 is well underway, and I feel like I'm lacking in resolutions. How about you? I think January naturally lends itself to moderation after the excesses of the holidays, but I don't know that the month needs to turn into a let's-all-feel-guilty-about-gluten, -dairy, and -alcohol party. Because a) that doesn't sound like a very fun party, and b) we carry enough guilt around with us without setting ourselves up for failure at the start of the year, right? Or maybe that's just me?

Yes, there is something incredibly rewarding about the post-holiday fridge clean-out, but that has less to do with giving-up-the-pie-for-breakfast habit and more to do with being able to find the milk on the shelf again. What does any of this have to do with cancer? Not much, unless you believe pumpkin pie gives you cancer.

{Photo credit}

On that note...

Since my diagnosis, I have gotten scores of advice regarding what to eat (or not), supplements to take, whether it's okay to have dessert or a glass of wine, all in the name of curing my cancer. There have been studies saying drinking more than three glasses of wine per week increases one's risk for breast cancer, and then studies saying survivors who drink slightly more are at a reduced risk for death from cardiovascular disease. No one tells you how any of these applies to Stage 4 patients. There are also studies suggesting higher starch intake is associated with increased breast cancer recurrence rates, so maybe I should resolve to avoid potatoes?

I used to get in a panic about it, because what if I did this to myself? What if I could make this go away based on what I ate? And maybe that is a possibility, but as a cancer patient, I've also had to balance my diet choices with what is actually palatable and with maintaining my weight, which I'm afraid would drop dangerously low if I cut out all carbs. For those of you keeping track, I'm proud to say I'm up 13 pounds from my lowest point last year. The holidays had their work cut out for them and they didn't disappoint.

I also struggle with the idea of how moderation fits into any diet that omits any food group in its entirety. Then again, if I knew going dairy-free or gluten-free or potato-free would cure cancer, I’d sign on in a heartbeat. For now, I just try to limit my intake of processed foods, drink 3 glasses or less wine a week (most weeks), and eat lots of organic veggies. For now, it seems to be working. For now, my blood work and weight and energy levels are pretty good.

After hearing it enough from various sources, though, I brought up the question of whether I should avoid all sugar to my oncologist. He told me, "All things in moderation." He explained he'd be more concerned about my sugar intake if I was obese, since fat cells produce estrogen. Because estrogen can fuel some breast cancer, including my own, excess weight can be dangerous. Otherwise, nothing wrong with a little pumpkin pie now and then.

So I haven't come up with much in the way of resolutions, but I am a sucker for a clean slate (or fridge, as the case may be), which for me is the beauty of a new year. That we get to let go--of excess, of guilt, of whatever isn't serving us or helping us be our best selves. To a small degree, we give ourselves the freedom to start over.

For me, this year anyway, my goal is to be gentler with myself. Think of it as an anti-resolution. (I'm starting a trend here, I can feel it.) My goal is to not feel guilty about having a scone for breakfast or sharing a quesadilla with Quinn for dinner--in fact, to enjoy it for who I get to share the meal with. To not beat myself up for not writing as much as I'd like, since it would often come at the expense of putting Quinn to bed and I don't want to miss that time, although I am trying to finish my book this year. To not feel so abnormal when I get fed up with my two-year-old's defiance or lose my cool and yell. Turns out, other moms feel this way (and yell at their kids sometimes), too.

I've only been at it a week, but somehow, by being gentler on myself, I've found more space to breathe, which in turn (I think) is helping me be a kinder, gentler parent and maybe even spouse. After years of practice, I'm finally, finally able to carry a little more of my yoga off the mat and into my everyday life (the trick is in the breathing, really). I have a feeling 2014 is going to be a good year.

Tell me, what are your resolutions (or anti-resolutions) for the year?

Merry + Happy

I'm not the only one feeling the madness these days, right? Christmas is over, our cards made it out the door on time, there are no more presents to wrap or cookies to bake, and I still feel like I hardly have a minute to breathe, let alone string together coherent sentences. There's probably a New Year's resolution hiding in there somewhere.

Part of the non-stop nature of the season is that Quinn's daycare takes a two-week break this time of year. And Quinn does not take a break, ever. I mean, would you be able to nap if Santa had just dropped off a sleigh-full of new toys at your house? No, neither can my little guy.

So I have been busy engineering train tracks and launching rockets and traveling to the moon and going on pirate adventures the past week. My life could be worse. I am immensely grateful for this time.

But I've also been trying to find time to sit and reflect, to write down some of that reflecting here, to remember and take note of all--or at least some of--the things that make the holiday season so wonderful. Because if I take note of it, in some small way, it will last. Right?

I have so much to be grateful for, and what better time to reflect on that than year's end?

There is Quinn, of course. Quinn, with his "Merry Chris'em!" and "Yook! Chris'em yights!" and "It's Chris'emtime!" We may never speak English the same again in this household. (Have I told you about the "rainis bars"? We haven't used the word "raisins" since Quinn introduced us to "rainis-es.")

I love that he giggles when he hears "Santa, Baby" playing on the radio, and responds with, "Awwww, that's so cute!" because he pictures Santa in diapers.

I love that he adamantly says, "Santa Claus is NOT coming to town! Santa is."

I love that he marvels at peoples' Christmas lights as much as I do, sees the magic in them, is already witty enough to make a joke about how it must've hurt to wrap lights around the Saguaro cactuses.

There is Chris, stringing lights so I won't have to, reading dinosaur Christmas stories to Quinn before bed, mostly keeping his cool even though his important research trip to Ethiopia in January fell through (for the time being), warming my cold feet with his under the covers at night, and burning a wish with me in our fireplace just before midnight on the solstice because I'd wanted to continue the tradition his colleague started for us a few years ago. I don't know what Chris wished for, but I'll admit I wanted to do this ritual again to ensure my wishes keep coming true.

There is my health, obviously. No news is good news, and for now, all is quiet on the cancer front. I had chemo on Christmas Eve, so I wasn't feeling particularly well on Christmas day, but what better holiday to stay in your pjs until 3 in the afternoon, sipping tea and staving off nausea with comfort food? I can't think of one. I even cheated and had a glass of wine with Christmas dinner.

There is what my body is able to do, and I don't just mean cancer-wise. I can hold a handstand in yoga for a few breaths (next stop, "chin pose"). I can play hide-and-seek with Quinn. I can go hiking less than a week post-chemo. I don't take a second of that for granted, and am usually the one on the trail grunting "Fuck you, cancer" under my breath the whole way up. Last weekend, even though I didn't make it quite to the top of the mountain, I got to see this incredible view along the way.

There are our friends and family, who encourage us daily. We are so fortunate. Our lives are so filled with love. The giant stack of holiday cards we've received is a testament to that. I love the mailbox this time of year.

We have been through the ringer the last few years. We have grieved the death of Chris' dad, witnessed the unraveling of my parents' marriage, and dealt with my cancer diagnosis and its repercussions. But we also had Quinn, bought a new house this year, and Google+ just sent me this video, an eerily timely reminder of what a great year it's been.

Happy 2014, you guys. 

Choosing What's Helpful

Do you all remember how I had to take a break from working out because of my broken arm back in January? And then how it healed just in time for me to have my expanders swapped out for implants in March? And who could forget my surgery incision opening up just four weeks after that??

I finally got clearance to return to exercise near the end of June, which means I spent HALF of 2013 recovering from one injury or another.

It was one long string of sitting on my ass, is what it was.

I know how lucky I am that I even have the desire to exercise, let alone the ability. After what I went through the first half of this year, I don't take that for granted. I have metastatic breast cancer; there are a lot of people who get so sidelined by this disease and the drugs required to keep it at bay--through no fault of their own--that exercise is the last thing on their minds. I am lucky that my metastases are small and confined to my lymphatic system. I am lucky that all of my side effects have been related to chemo, not cancer itself. I am lucky that, for now, the chemo I'm on has relatively few physical side effects.

It's amazing what you find to be thrilled about when you have cancer.

Since the end of June, I've been trying to get back in shape, walking here and there (although not as much as I should, since I signed up for this Avon Walk and 39.3 miles is no joke, but neither is summer in Phoenix, so I'm picking my battles) and going to yoga a couple times a week. I'm getting stronger, but my body is different than it was pre-cancer.

That might be the understatement of this entire blog.

This is a work-in-progress. My goal is not just to get in shape for the sake of my cardiovascular and mental health, not just to strengthen my muscles and increase my stamina, but also to stretch out scar tissue, figure out how to re-train chest muscles that have been pulled and shaped in ways they were never naturally meant to go, and prove to myself that my body is still capable--capable of hiking a mountain at 6 a.m., of keeping up with a toddler, of finding stillness and peace while completing a series of sometimes uncomfortable poses in a heated room, of walking a marathon and a half over two days to raise money so that maybe, someday we can end this terrible disease that accounts for nearly twenty-five percent of cancers in women.

I'm planning on walking a half-marathon this weekend with my good friend (and fellow Avon walker) Ginelle. Last weekend, I went on a two-hour hike with a couple of other friends who are also walking with me in San Francisco next month. Today, I'm going to try to hold a handstand in yoga for more than a half second.

My disability claim was probably just revoked, but I promise doing handstands has nothing to do with my abilities as a lawyer.

I don't exercise every day. Some days I'm too exhausted or my head hurts too terribly. But on a daily basis, I'm trying to prove to myself that I am capable of living with cancer. Exercise helps me with that. Sitting on my ass for extended periods does not.

Tell me, what does exercise help you accomplish?

Fake It Til You Make It

I had treatment yesterday, so all I feel like doing right now is online shopping for things I don't need and can't afford. Do you do that too? Fill up shopping carts all over the web, just to look at pretty things you're not really going to buy? I'm not sure what the point is in this particular time-waster, but please say I'm not the only one.

Yesterday also marked four months since the end of my last chemo, or, for those of you keeping track, four months of hair growth. And it appears I'm going to get to keep my hair on this new drug. Hallelujah.

I get far more compliments on my pixie cut than I ever did being bald (or having long hair, for that matter).

During my infusion yesterday, the woman sitting next to me was in her seventh year of treatment for metastatic ovarian cancer. She said she hoped she wasn't depressing me. I told her not at all; her story gave me hope. We got to talking about side effects and how we feel like old pros at chemo now. She said she didn't mind losing her hair, that it seemed like such a petty thing in the grand scheme of things. I sort of nodded and feigned agreement, but admitted that part was hard for me.

It might be petty, but I simply prefer to have hair. It's easier to pretend I'm not sick if I don't look sick.

And it's growing in as thick as ever. Unfortunately, my eyebrows are not. I still have to draw those on. Here's me getting ready for pre-chemo yoga yesterday morning (which turned out to be pointless, since I sweated so much all my makeup came off). Listen to me and my first world problems.

But eyebrows make a big difference, don't you think?

And yes, I went straight from yoga to chemo. I was a sweaty mess in the infusion room, but at least I got my workout in. My surgeon finally gave me clearance to exercise about a week ago after four months of not being able to, so I'm trying to get strong again. Because being strong also makes me feel not sick.

Between exercise and my hair, I can almost pretend there's no cancer in my life. Almost.