On Death + Healing + A Little Bit of Football

I haven't talked to many kids about death. But kids, I find, are generally equal parts curious and blunt. My six-year-old, Quinn, casually asked me last weekend: "What if my baby sister stays in your belly until my birthday, in March?"

"Then I'd be in some kind of record book," I said. "I promise she'll be here in the next couple of weeks."

"What if a mom was pregnant for 5,000 years?" he wanted to know. Then, quickly, "I guess then both the mom and baby would be dead by then."

In the abstract, death is a concept that isn't yet scary to him -- or wasn't, until very recently. He wants to know how old the oldest person on Earth is, why people can't live to be 600 years old, and very occasionally, he'll tell me he's worried we might need to move to another planet because ours is getting too hot. To be fair, we live in Phoenix, where it was still hovering around 100 degrees the week before Halloween. AND his dad is a climate scientist/geologist who studies the correlation between climate change and human evolution, so that could contribute.

Quinn is curious about our collective mortality, but death hasn't seemed imminent in his life (other than my bout with metastatic breast cancer, which he doesn't remember very well, and my mother-in-law's passing away more than two years ago -- also not a strong memory for him).

If you follow me on Instagram, you might have seen that Quinn had his first stitches three weeks ago. Because October wasn't awful enough already.

There's no filter that makes this less heart wrenching. 💔 He's okay but the fear of seeing my baby's head split open is something I don't know if I'll ever forget.

A post shared by Jen Campisano (@jencampisano) on Oct 24, 2017 at 8:36pm PDT

Chris was at a geology conference in Seattle, and Q and I were watching Monday Night Football. Quinn wants to be an NFL player when he grows up.

He loves everything about the game, and cheers for teams as wide-ranging as his flag football team the Patriots to the Seahawks because they're my team to the Cardinals because Arizona to the Eagles because his favorite color is green. Three weeks ago, Mack Hollins, a rookie wide receiver for the Philadelphia Eagles, caught his first career touchdown pass, and in Quinn's estimation, nailed his end zone celebration.

Quinn tried to recreate the dance on his knees, on our couch, and, in a rare moment for him, he lost his balance. In what seemed like slow motion, he fell, head-first, and smacked into a leather-covered ottoman storage cube, then landed head-first on the floor. I didn't think it would be that bad because the cubes are padded on top. But he hit the unpadded, stitched corner, and when I scooped him off the ground, his forehead was gaping open and blood soaked my t-shirt. While I quickly set him down and assured him he'd be okay (as I tried not to show him how terrified I was and ran to the kitchen for an ice-pack and a towel), he kept repeating through his tears, "I'm so scared, I don't want to die."

My heart felt like it was being twisted and wrung out like an old dishrag in that moment.

I promised him he wouldn't die. I called 911 and just a few minutes later, several firemen stood in our living room and assured me he would be fine but also that he'd need stitches. "Can you do them here?" I asked, naively. They don't offer that service, apparently. We went to the emergency room at Phoenix Children's, where several hours later, Quinn got five stitches.

I'm not sure at what point he calmed down -- though it came more quickly for him than me. I was still  sobbing about his head and the wrenching ache in my heart days later, always at night when the house was quiet and my brain started racing again. I am more okay now, though Quinn's words have been replaying in my head the past few days.

***

My friend Beth Caldwell died ten days ago. Her daughter is Quinn's age, give or take a few months. Beth's husband, J, has been posting updates (up until his FB account was blocked because of a troll). Their kids are having trouble sleeping. As someone who still snuggles with Quinn every night until he falls asleep (and lately, I'm falling asleep with him), I get it.

How can you assure children that there's nothing to be afraid of after dark when their world has just imploded?

I haven't known how to write about Beth, but at some point I figure I needed to, whether I know what to say or not. In the last ten days, as Beth's husband points out on Twitter, this country has lost another 1,130 women like Beth to metastatic breast cancer. 113 every damn day. In the last ten days, Beth's husband had to live through their fifteenth wedding anniversary without his lovely bride.

And while we in this community are all too sadly familiar with grieving and death and losing our friends, there are some people who are just different in their scope and impact and the vast vacuum of emptiness felt in their absence. Beth was one of those women, and even now, it is so hard for me to write about her in the past tense. I told her husband that she and I used to joke we wished we'd met in law school, or over bourbon -- anywhere but because of cancer. Stupid fucking cancer.

Yes, you've seen this photo before, but - regrettably - it's the only one I have with Beth. Note to self: take more photos.

I know I'm not the only one who feels this way about Beth. She was a friend to so many of us, and a fierce advocate who led by example. She was whip-smart, even when she thought she was at her worst. And as I advocate in the years to come, I will always ask: would this have helped Beth? Will it do more to keep the Kelly's, April's, Danya's, Dana's, Rebecca's, Jennie's, Nicole's and Kisha's in my life alive? In other words, does it live up to Beth's standards?

I don't know what else to do to carry the torch she lit.

***

I woke up at 5:30 this morning to our meowing cat scratching at our temporary bedroom door. Temporary since we are still in the throes of a remodel because... I don't know? Paint is more complicated than I could have imagined? Even without the hungry cat, I'm not sleeping well. I'm 39.5 weeks pregnant. Waking up forty-five times a night is nature's way of preparing you for the sleeplessness of a newborn, blah blah BLAH. Whatever. I just want to stop peeing every two hours (or every time I sneeze).

This morning, I read through the news and my Facebook feed. I noted that the forecast has us at 86 degrees today. I saw that Beth's husband's Facebook account has been suspended because some terrible person reported him for who knows what... Grieving too hard? And I don't know how to stop being angry.

But then Chris woke up and we had coffee together. And Quinn woke up and I remembered him singing "Hush Little Baby" to my belly last night, how my heart finally felt un-corkscrewed. There was no longer a tornado brewing in my chest. Instead, it swelled to the fullest it has felt in weeks. As the Grinch would say, it near tripled in size, and love poured down my cheeks.

***
Quinn's head is healing. There is a pinkish scar that extends for about an inch above his left eyebrow. I massage it gently a couple of times a day. He's no longer asking me about death. His flag football team has their playoffs this weekend, and baby-willing, I'll be there to cheer him on.

I wish some calendula or coconut oil and a weekend of football could heal every kid's pain and scars so easily.

So Long, 2016

A lot of people in my circles can't wait to see the end of 2016. And it's not just my circles, is it? By so many accounts, 2016 was a dumpster fire of a year:

So ingrained had 2016-cum-terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-year become in our broader consciousness that it came to stand in for something larger than itself: 2016-ness. On Election Day, British writer Owen Jones captioned a GIF of a mushroom cloud: “Just how 2016 is 2016 prepared to be?” He added later, when the early results were favoring Trump: “2016 currently thinks there is ample 2016 to go. 2016 is currently saying ‘heyyyyy! Look how 2016 I can possibly be!’ ”

Other people are all over Twitter talking about celebrity deaths, which were exceptional in 2016, I'll give you that. George Michael, Carrie Fisher, Prince, David Bowie. Us children of the '80s grieved the stars of our childhoods. But every year, women I know and love are dying, too.

This year started out for me as so many Januaries have since my diagnosis, with the death of my friend and advocate extraordinaire, Holley. At the time, my nurse told me that deaths tend to spike in January, patients having held on through the holidays. Without giving it much reflection, I can immediately think of five other good friends of mine who died of metastatic breast cancer in 2016: Colleen, Amanda, Michelle, Lesley, Jody... And the mushroom-cloud GIF embodiment of 2016 doesn't seem that far-fetched.

Holley & me at the opening of A Story Half Told in NYC, in October, 2015, 3 months before she passed away

On the other hand, a hand I envision rising out of the ashes of the bomb that was this year, I can't close out 2016 without reflecting on what a miraculous one it was for our family. 2016 will always be the year I was told I don't have metastatic cancer. 2016 was the year I got to celebrate my 20-year high-school reunion and had my port removed after almost five years of chemo infusions. This year I got to see Quinn start kindergarten, learn to ride a bike without training wheels, and lose his first tooth. 

And this was the first holiday season of Quinn's life that I haven't constantly wondered if it would be my last. 

***

For the past several years, we've participated in a winter solstice ritual introduced to us by our friend Kaye. Some years, she hosts a gourmet, multi-course meal at her home, and over after-dinner drinks we write our wishes for the coming year on scraps of paper. We don't share our wishes with each other, though I suspect everyone in the room always knows what my wish for the coming year is. Some years, I was bald. (Hint: I never wished for hair.) Kaye would say some words about the significance of the solstice and the coming of the light, and we would all light our wishes on fire, unspoken, rising to the heavens to be doled out from there.

I've had some setbacks over the years since my diagnosis, but my wish always seemed to hold. I imagine it is the same wish of most people with a diagnosis of metastatic cancer. This year, we didn't get together with Kaye, but we had friends visiting from DC and shared our new tradition with them. We lit our wishes on fire on our back porch, laughing that some didn't seem to launch far from our patio table. Of course, I hope they still come true, whether they made it to the heavens or not.

The winter solstice was my in-law's wedding anniversary. My father-in-law died of metastatic pancreatic cancer in the fall of 2009, just shy of what would have been their 35th anniversary. Six years later, my mother-in-law died of complications from Parkinson's disease. Sometimes, when we light our wishes on the winter solstice, I wonder if my in-laws aren't still looking out for us, granting us another chance to wiggle a loose tooth or play Santa for our boy.

***

On December 23rd, I paused to remember that same date in 2011 when I was told for the first time that the chemo had worked and there was no evidence of disease. Earlier this month, I was officially re-staged. After a clean scan mid-month, my oncologist told me I'd probably been stage 2B. My sister-in-law commented that I was probably the only person ever to be happy about a stage 2 cancer diagnosis.

2016 was the year I got to wipe the slate clean and say I've probably been in remission since December 2011 -- 5 years now. While that number doesn't hold much meaning for me in terms of magical cancer milestones (I've seen far too many people recur after reaching five years "cancer-free"), I am in awe that I'm still here. I pinch myself nearly daily at the twist my life has taken this year, at the new chances I've been given. 

It was just the three of us -- Chris, Quinn, and me -- this Christmas, we spent it in our pajamas until dinner, playing with new toys and eating Santa's leftover cookies. It was a pretty perfect celebration of life and re-birth, even if we're not churchgoers.

Tonight, we'll ring in the new year and say good-bye to 2016 with some friends and champagne. I'll make a toast to what a crazy, mixed-up, sweet, miraculous, dumpster fire of a year it was. I'll hope for many more miracles in 2017. Cheers, my friends. I love you guys.

Photo by the exceptional Lara Agnew

Gobs and Gobs (Rhymes with Sobs) of Emotions

Hey, there. Remember me?

I realize I've been away from here for awhile. That I've taken my annual summer vacation, and then some. I've missed you guys, but my words have not been working. As one blogger put it, "when I can't write everything, I somehow can't write anything." And no, before you even wonder, Chris and I are not getting a divorce (like the blogger I quoted). But there has been some stuff going on that I haven't been ready to write about. I've had what you might call a needle-scratching-across-the-record moment, and I've had to regain my bearings and catch my breath. I'm still trying to find my voice again.

I considered writing a whole post about going to my 20-year high-school reunion in July, which if you'd asked me last summer I would've said optimistically I'd be here to attend, but truthfully, I wasn't so sure. Not in the I'm-not-sure-I-want-to-do-one-of-those-things kinds of ways, because I get reunions are not everyone's jam, but in the I-might-be-dead kind of way. And then here it was, and there I was doing the small (and not-so-small) talk. I reconnected with old friends and wondered why we'd lost touch. Later, after we'd left the party, I sobbed with my oldest girlfriend because it was monumental. Because we've been through so much these past five twenty-two years.

Five years.

This summer has felt like I'm on the edge of a precipice. It could be the aura of magic and mystery I've superstitiously (stupidly?) placed on my five-year cancerversary coming up later this month, like it's some sort of expiration date for cancer, even though I know CANCER DOESN'T FOLLOW THE RULES. I am lucky as a leprechaun that I get to be here to wrestle with my emotions about this date again this year. Do I pop champagne to mark the anniversary of one of the worst days of my life? Write a letter to my younger self about what I wish I'd known? I will probably take a yoga class and cry in child's pose.

When I was diagnosed, the statistics said I had a 20% chance to make it to five years.

TWENTY PERCENT.

I am grateful, above all else. But there is also a healthy (and really, that's questionable) mix of fear and guilt as well. Every day another friend writes of the pain she's in, or has to have a port placed on her BRAIN to deliver chemo directly to it, or has to have her liver biopsied to see whether her cancer has jumped the fucking shark. Or died. This weekend, I learned of another friend who lost her life to metastatic breast cancer. And a fellow participant in the Story Half Told project has entered hospice. This is my tribe, and I want them all to be as lucky as I've been. But that is just not the way it goes with cancer.

My therapist has suggested I give myself a break this month, that I take it easy while my brain's emotion centers do a lot of processing. Except writing is kind of how I process, so here I am.

Even bigger than 5 years of cancer is the fact that Quinn started kindergarten today.

KINDERGARTEN.

How's that for a precipice? I can't even look at my sweet child without tears welling up in my eyes lately. How incredibly fortunate am I, that I was able to shop for new clothes and school supplies with him, that I could relish in those last few days of summer with my favorite person, that I held his hand at meet-the-teacher day and helped him locate his cubby? So fortunate. So emotional.

In fact, these emotions are too big to contain. They are spilling right down my cheeks as we speak.

As I tucked him into bed last night, I felt a strange knocking in my chest and throat, like my heart was actively trying to escape my chest through my neck. I audibly sobbed as I choked on it, and Quinn wordlessly handed me his current favorite stuffed animal to comfort me. Quinn lay across me, with his head on my belly. I held his foot in my hands, measured it against my palm and wondered how the last five years have passed in a blink.

And he's off. 😭

A photo posted by Jen Campisano (@jencampisano) on Aug 8, 2016 at 9:22am PDT

For so much of his life, I wasn't sure I would be here for this. I've spent so long preparing for the worst, and hoping down to the core of my being for a chance at the best. Driving last week, as Quinn played a game on my phone and giggled in the backseat, I listened to Damien Rice singing Leonard Cohen's iconic song. Suddenly I understood exactly what it meant for something to be a cold and broken Hallelujah.

I don't remember who said it, but there's a quote about how children will break your heart, just by the simple act of growing up. And it's glorious, but, oh, how it aches. Still, for now at least, I get to be here for the best of it. How lucky am I?

Five

My Love Love,

How has it been a year since I wrote the last one of these? How are you FIVE? Time is a funny thing, isn't it? A couple of weeks ago, on the way to school, you asked me what makes today a new day. I explained that the earth rotated one full turn, that every morning is a brand new day.

"But what makes it different?" you wanted to know, after you figured out that we're always spinning in space -- too slowly to feel, too quickly now that I'm a mom.

"Today we get to choose to be awesome!" I said, apparently having gotten a good night's sleep the night before and doubled up on my morning coffee. "I'm going to try to be an even better mom to you. What are you going to try today?"

You said something ridiculously sweet, like, "You already ARE a good mommy!" Because that's who you are, how big your heart is.

A few days later, we heard this song on the radio about trying everything.



"How is that even possible? For one person to try everything? I don't get it! What does that even mean?" you said, your inflections slaying me. I basically want to carry around a recorder and catch your voice all the time lately. You talk almost incessantly around your dad and I, and I still can't get enough of it.

That morning, we talked about living an adventurous life, about exploring and traveling, about being open-minded. I don't think you'll have any problems in this regard (except maybe when it comes to trying new vegetables). I love seeing the world unfold through your eyes.

For weeks, I'd been filling out family information forms for kindergarten, with questions along the lines of "describe your parenting style" and "what are your child's strengths" and "list anything you would like to keep out of your child's early childhood experience."

I would say my parenting style varies between nurturing -- perhaps to a fault, if that's possible, because I've always loved you with the fear of cancer lurking in the background, wondering how long my luck could possibly hold, so I dote on you a bit -- and freaking out because we're running late yet again and no one can find their shoes or sunglasses and I forgot it's my day for snacks at preschool. I am not quite sure how we're going to get to kindergarten by 8:30 a.m. come August.

But I'm at the point where I can pretty confidently say I think I'll be here to see you start kindergarten (knock on wood), so I'm not really going to sweat it if we're a few minutes late the first week or if your socks don't match.

Your strengths are easy. You are creative, helpful, thoughtful, empathetic as they come, curious, adventurous. I ran out of space on these forms to say all the wonderful things about you. In one of my favorite birthday cards you received, a friend of yours wrote that what he loves about you is how funny you are, then included a story of you standing in front of a mirror at school, saying, "Why are you copying me?" Please don't ever lose your goofiness.

What do we want to keep out of your early childhood experience? Bullying. Violence. Meanness.

What I didn't write: cancer. I wish I could have kept that out, but no one asked me about that one. What goes without saying: death. I really don't want that to be part of your childhood any more than it already has been.

Two days after your birthday, the three of us boarded a plane to Kauai, where your grandparents had requested their ashes be spread. Our second day there, we found a guy who would take the three of us out on his boat to scatter the ashes in the Pacific. You wanted to know why Grandma and Grandpa wanted their ashes spread at sea, what it meant to be cremated, whether it hurt them, where their bodies are now, what happens to us when we die. "What is heaven?" you queried, the end of a long line of questions to which I have only vague answers. I may not have all the answers, but I love the richness of our conversations lately.

I am still scared for the day when you start asking more questions about cancer.

I write these letters to you as the time comes, to reflect on the last year. I don't write them in advance, and I haven't done one of those "cards for every potential occasion I might miss as you grow up" kinds of things. If I died tomorrow, this would be it: whatever I've written for you here, plus snippets in your baby book. I haven't wanted to go down that "just in case" path. I've wanted to believe I'll be here to dance at your wedding instead.

But honestly, I wasn't really sure whether I'd be here for your fifth birthday when I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer four-and-a-half years ago. The statistics aren't great, but as your Grandpa Jim would have said, "Statistics don't mean a thing for the individual." You'll have to forgive me if I was a little emotional when you woke up last Sunday and found me in the kitchen drinking coffee and looking at baby photos of you. You declared, "I'm five!" and have said it intermittently over the last week. Riding your bike with no hands yesterday, you stepped it up with, "Being five is AWESOME!" because, obviously, no hands.

Four was pretty magical, too. My heart already aches at how much I'm going to miss our days together when you're in school full-time, busy with activities and friends and all the exciting growing-up stuff on your horizon. But the flip side is that my heart swells with gratitude and hope that I might be here for more and more of it. That you might get to know me like I know you.

How did I get so lucky, little one?

"It's hard not to be happy in Hawaii." -- my very astute 5yo

A photo posted by Jen Campisano (@jencampisano) on Mar 9, 2016 at 3:30pm PST

You question everything, want to see the proof. "Just trust me," or "because I said so," are never going to be enough for you. Some days it makes me batty, but at the same time I love your insatiable curiosity, your not being satisfied with the easy answer, your constant desire to hear the full truth.

I slipped and told you to keep track of your shit the other day, after you'd asked me for the gazillionth time where something of yours was. You stopped, because you knew somehow this was a word I shouldn't have said.

"What's 'shit'?" you asked, a half smile spreading across your face. "'Shit' is a funny word," you went on.

"It's a mommy word, and you shouldn't use it," I said.

"Tell me what it means, and I promise I won't say it," you bargained.

"It's basically poop," I said, hesitant. What had I gotten myself into?

You laughed, and looked at me funny. "Mom, you just told me to keep track of my poop!" Ha ha hahahahaha. Ha. Mommies are hilarious.

To your credit, you haven't repeated the word since (knock on more wood).

***

At night, when I'm tucking you in after we've read your three stories to you -- or lately, you reading to us! -- I tell you I love you more than anything. "I love you more," you say most of the time.

"I doubt it, but tell me how much," I say. I love to hear where your imagination goes.

"I love you to the end of space, past all the galaxies, times infinity," you say, "then back into your heart for you to keep forever." Then: "What's after space?" Of course.

"That's SO much!" I say. I wonder where you come up with this stuff. "I love you that much, too, buddy. And I don't know what comes after space. It's a mystery."

You ask me if I'll still love you when I'm dead. "I think a part of me will, even after I die." What do I know? Anything is possible. I hope that won't happen for a long, long time.

"I think so too. I'll miss you so much," you tell me. I try not to cry. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes not. And you lean in for a bear hug. You're so great at those, and I'm amazed at your strength.

I'm amazed at you. You're five!

Love,
Mama

Life is Amazing

I am in the throes of planning Quinn's FIFTH birthday party, by which I mean I'm browsing Pinterest to see if there's a chance in Hades I could pull off a Star Wars cake (or cupcakes), or if I'm better off ordering them from a professional. I can bake, but pastry decoration is a whole other level of domesticity that I do not possess. Also, do Quinn and his friends really need "Yoda Soda"? Or light sabers made of frosting-dipped pretzel sticks? Who am I kidding???

I'm also trying to make sure he's signed up for the right soccer camps but not too many because I don't want to overdo it. I'm still pretty sure we're over-doing it. And every preschool mom I know is debating kindergartens right now, figuring out where our children have been waitlisted or accepted, attending "meet-the-teachers events," waiting to be interviewed (yes, interviewed), determining which environment will be the best fit for our kiddos, and wondering WHEN THE HECK KINDERGARTEN GOT MORE COMPLICATED THAN CHOOSING A COLLEGE.

In the midst of this beautifully normal life, I've been scheduling doctor's visits -- scans next month, the follow-up with my oncologist, and another for me with my dermatologist last week for something on my elbow, the biopsy of which came back as "needing treatment," although not cancerous. It turns out it probably just needs some steroid cream, but I'll have a follow-up in 3-4 weeks to be sure. 

Because more doctors were what was missing from my life. 

❤️ #itsamazing #itsawful #itsbeautiful #quote

A photo posted by LAYLA GRAYCE (@laylagrayce) on Sep 22, 2015 at 6:29pm PDT

So I'm worrying (just a little) about my elbow, which I should have more info about at the end of this week, wondering whether our puppy is getting enough exercise, trying to teach Quinn about eating the RAINBOW, and occasionally it hits me how lucky I am to be able to worry about things that are not cancer. (Side note: the rainbow thing is legitimately working. He tried red bell peppers, purple sweet potatoes, cauliflower tots, and ants on a celery log and only balked at the red pepper.)

"I LOVE sweet potatoes!" even came out of my son's almost-5-year-old mouth. Parenting for the win.

***

Last week, I finished reading Room, about a 19-year-old woman who is abducted and locked in a room. (The film has been nominated for a few Academy Awards). The woman is repeatedly raped by her abductor, gets pregnant, and has a little boy, who is five years old as he narrates the story. This room and his mom (and the occasional visit from their captor) are all of the world he's ever known. It is a story about how they manage, and eventually how they escape. But more than that, it is about the love between a mom and her son and how that carries them through, how it saves them both.

This book hit my emotions like a ton of bricks, and I can't recommend it enough if you have a five-year-old (or nearly there) in your life. They're pretty special people, and I'm pretty sure their love could save the world. So maybe there will be homemade light sabers at Quinn's party after all.

The Season for Hope

Many of you know my good news already, that my scans last week before Thanksgiving continued to show no evidence of cancer. What a way to go into the Thanksgiving holiday. And that sound you may have heard? That was Chris and me finally exhaling after 48 hours of holding our breath waiting on results.

As the stress started to dissipate, I came down with another sinus infection and had chemo last week (plus a lunch with Arizona's Governor -- a story for another post, maybe -- and hosted a cookie decorating party with a dozen or so preschoolers over the weekend), so I've disappeared a bit from this space. I've been busy living, which is pretty wonderful. I am so very lucky for this beautiful life.

Incredibly thankful for this goofy and handsome dude (who could almost not stop saying "turkey!" today). From our family to yours, happy thanksgiving. This life is such a joy. 🍁🍾😊

A photo posted by Jen Campisano (@jencampisano) on Nov 26, 2015 at 9:24pm PST

But I've also been hesitant to talk about my good news too much, in part because so many of my friends are facing disease progression, chemo regimen changes, or the unknown of clinical trials over the last couple of months. These friends post photos from hospital beds of them with their children, and my heart aches for them. Or they post that they have to leave their families -- now, at this time of year, just to emphasize the magnitude of the injustice of it -- to take part in clinical trials to try to put the brakes on their particular form of breast cancer.

Maybe this drug will be the one that finally stops it. 

Maybe this won't be my last Christmas with my kiddos. 

Maybe I can walk today, despite the pain in my bones from cancer's spread. 

I've become a part of this community. These women are my friends. My diagnosis wasn't terribly dissimilar to many of theirs. In some ways, it was worse, since I was metastatic from the outset while many of them thought they were safe with an early-stage diagnosis. My luck could change at any moment, and their stories could be my story. But for now, I'm relatively healthy.

That is no minor thing. As the saying goes, when you have your health, you have everything. I am so very, very lucky. I try to remember that every day.

***

As Quinn and I were putting up Christmas decorations the other day, listening to Holiday Classics on iTunes, "O Holy Night" started playing. We are not a religious family, but it's still my favorite Christmas song. I choked up, watching my son choose where to put ornaments and feeling beyond fortunate that I get to be here to see it.

And then I started crying as I strung the lights, thinking about my friends whose cancer situations are worsening or who are spending this season without family members because of cancer. The music wasn't helping. I'm blaming you, Mariah Carey.

Is this survivor's guilt? Can you really have survivor's guilt when you've been diagnosed with an incurable cancer? Do the holidays make everyone more emotional? Or is it just the sugar highs (and subsequent crashes)? Maybe I just need a break from Chex Mix.

***
Chris is in the town where he grew up the first half of this week, wrapping up things with his mom's estate: a visit to the DMV, a meeting with her accountant, closing of bank accounts, that sort of thing. We have had our own significant loss this year, and it is going to be a tough holiday without my mother-in-law around.

Later this week, I am headed to San Antonio, to attend a program as part of the annual breast cancer symposium there. I am hoping to learn about advances in research and new ideas in the pipeline for eradicating this disease. I am hoping to bring some more good news back to this community of mine, some more reasons for hope.

After all, it is the season for it.

A Million Thousand Hundred Times

The other night, as I was tucking Quinn into bed, I overheard him whispering to his favorite stuffed animal, Bunny.

"Mom, I was telling Bunny how much I love you."

"I heard..."

"I love you a million thousand hundred times," he said. Sometimes it's "to Pluto and back" or "to the Milky Way and back" or "to all of the planets in all of the galaxies." We have a theme.

"I love you that much, too," I replied, my throat catching. Some nights, his sweetness just floors me. Especially when I've got another scan around the corner and he is seeming to grow up more with each passing day. Can I freeze time? Keep that one tender moment locked in the safe space of my heart forever? Keep all of them there?


Quinn Tornado from Jennifer Campisano on Vimeo.

When I was diagnosed, I wasn't entirely sure I'd get to be here right now. In fact, I had a dream shortly after -- sometime in the fall of 2011 -- of  a toddler Quinn holding someone's hand at a funeral I was pretty sure was my own. The statistics said I had a one in five chance of living to see Quinn turn five, let alone see him start kindergarten. Only twenty percent of women in my situation would make it to the five year mark.

This week, Chris and I have toured three different elementary schools trying to decide where to send Quinn for kindergarten next year. For another time: when did choosing a kindergarten get so complicated?

But kindergarten. My boy.

And me. Maybe just maybe going to get the chance to buy him a new backpack next summer, go school supply shopping with him, see all that he has to show us as he learns even more clearly how to express himself.

It could happen.

"How DID you get sick, Mommy?"

To be honest, I'm surprised it took this long. Quinn is a pretty observant four-year-old. He'll often notice the expression on a truck's face in one of his library books and ask me why the truck is angry/sad/has "its face scrunched up like that." He's a master at those find the differences games in his Highlights High Five magazines. And last time I got my hair colored, I joked with my stylist that Quinn would probably notice before Chris. He's an astute kid.

As I was drying him off after his bath Saturday night, Quinn put his finger gently on one of my radiation tattoos, a pin dot in the middle of my chest.

"It's bluish-green, Mommy," and I waited to see what he would say next. Would I correct him if he called it a freckle? How much information should I give?

"How did that happen?" he asked, not quite what I expected to hear, the concern in his face breaking my heart just a bit, but also making me incredibly proud to be this perceptive, empathetic boy's mom. He knew it wasn't something natural.

"It's a tattoo," I said. And I showed him that I have at least three more, two under my armpits and one at the top curve of my right breast. He wanted to see if I had more on my back.

"No, honey," I told him. "There aren't any more."

He didn't ask anything else, so I didn't give him any more information.

***

Quinn and I are preparing for our trip to New York this week (still more on this as soon as I'm able!), for an event at which I've been asked to speak. (By preparing, I mean I've been doing laundry and he's been packing his coloring books and Hot Wheels cars.) I've been asked to share a bit of my breast cancer story at this thing, with Quinn by my side, so I've also been preparing by trying to let him know what to expect.

I've told him I got really sick when he was a baby. That medicine called chemo made me bald, and now I still get medicine to -- we hope -- keep me from getting sick again. I've told him I'm going to talk about that a little.

I haven't told him more because he's only four. I don't want him to know some things yet, if I can help it. I try to only answer the questions he asks. I'm trying to craft a short talk that's appropriate with him by my side but also conveys to a roomful of people the devastation of this disease. I also have chemo tomorrow, so I will be portraying a very real version of what life is like after a metastatic breast cancer diagnosis when I get up to talk two days later.

Please wish me luck.

***

Last night, Quinn and I were looking at pictures of when he was a baby, and came across a couple in which I am bald.

"How did you get sick, Mommy?" Quinn asked, a variation on a theme, apparently.

"I don't know, buddy. They don't know that yet."

They don't know.

Here's to More Birthdays

Birthdays post-cancer are a funny thing. I mean, of course they're great and we want more of them, but being diagnosed with cancer doesn't mean you don't notice the lack of collagen as the years pass. Or get irritated by grey hairs you-know-where when another part of you remembers you should just be happy to have hair.

Cancer doesn't give you a free pass when it comes to being weirded out about all the things that happen as you get older. For example, I have what I thought was the makings of a pimple on my chin, but now I'm pretty sure is just an ingrown hair. On my chin. Why? WHY ARE HAIRS GROWING THERE BUT NOT ON MY EYEBROWS!!!

So, I'm ecstatic to have more birthdays but also not going to pretend I don't notice the fine lines around my eyes or the fact that I can't eat peanut butter straight out of the jar (sometimes with a spoon) without then having to get raised eyebrows from the nurse at my oncologist's office as he weighs me in and sees I've gained four pounds. Sigh. But also? I don't really care. Because you only live once, and sometimes peanut butter is worth it.

I'm talking about getting older because my 37th birthday was last weekend. Somehow, that makes FIVE birthdays since I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. SO, YES, I HAD A CUPCAKE. And a bourbon drink. What can I say? I celebrated.

I celebrated with friends and my husband who arranged a small gathering at a local...speakeasy? Hipster dive bar? There was skee ball and air hockey (at least I think. Us parents sat and visited the whole time. We were just happy to have a night of uninterrupted conversations. Even though, sure, ninety percent of those conversations were about our kids.)

We were clearly the early crowd, arriving at seven and ordering menu items like charcuterie and arugula flatbreads. Then around 9:30 things shifted, and we were easily the oldest, quietest, least collagen-ed people in the place. I vaguely remember a time when Chris and I used to leave to go out for the night around 10 p.m. (Here's photographic evidence.)

{circa 2006, celebrating Chris's 30th birthday}

But last weekend, we were home by 11, in bed shortly after, and I was still tired for two days because of it. And here's where I don't know whether to blame cancer treatments or aging or possibly even just being a parent to a little boy who wakes up ready to run and wrestle and do all of the things at seven a.m. But life is short, so why not do all of the things?

Here's to more birthdays and more doing and more celebrating (but maybe less peanut butter).

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

Summer's are for leaving Phoenix as much as possible, it's true, but we are outdoing ourselves this year. Quinn is fond of saying we have to leave or we'll burn up (which might not be far off of the truth). One friend on Twitter asked me if I was moving based on this photo I posted about leaving northern California.

Flamingo Hotel (aka the Dirty Bird), Santa Rosa. Leaving town today and I'm not sure when we'll be back, which is weird for me... but must be completely surreal for my husband, who's called this town home for 34 years.

A photo posted by Jen Campisano (@jencampisano) on Aug 13, 2015 at 8:59am PDT

No, is the answer. We don't have any plans to move anytime soon. As much as I love northern California, we were there to say farewell to my husband's childhood home, not put down roots (although I have to say those Santa Rosa roots look good on us).

In Santa Rosa, we cried and reminisced and told stories about my mother-in-law's giant heart and proclivity for ice cream and possible hoarder tendencies. We hugged family and old family friends and I tried not to think of how many memorials I've attended in the last several years (too many). We packed up memories and memorabilia stored in a house full of love and a lot of pigs (we could have started a pig museum). We sent a few items with sentimental value home to Phoenix and helped Chris's brother get the house ready to be sold. We said good-bye.

Before Santa Rosa, Quinn and I traveled up to Seattle for some healing time in a place that always soothes my soul, with people who never fail to fill our hearts to overflowing. Chris had a work trip to Mexico so I took the opportunity to leave town as well. We hiked to a waterfall where Q accidentally took a dip in a creek and told me the water was "as cold as that time we went to the snow with Grandma Maryann!" How's that for the opposite of Phoenix?

We rode the ferry up to Vancouver Island, where we built castles out of shells and identified whale bones on the beach and made brownie sundaes with Chris's Aunt Kathie (who always knows how to cheer us up).

Photo taken by Quinn!

We went to the top of the Space Needle, and I fell in love with my home state all over again. I drank a lot of coffee (I've heard it's good for the liver). And we roasted marshmallows to make s'mores and celebrated my best friend Alana's birthday as she and I realized we've been leaning on each other and reading each other's minds for more than two decades now. 

I came home practically begging Chris for a place in Seattle (even despite this article). He said I just need to sell my book. I'm working on that. 

After a blissful week in the northwest and an emotional week in Santa Rosa, we drove south east, my husband tells me, to Sacramento for my college friends' reunion -- which this year included 25 of us, eleven of whom were preschoolers ranging in age from eleven months to five years old. It was blissful in its own way, filled with the giggles and cries and overall adorableness of children who are forging the next generation of friendships amongst my tribe. It's pretty special to see.

I've been absent here because I've been really present among some of my favorite people, something I've learned the importance of over and over again the past four years. There is nothing quite like bookending a memorial service for your mother-in-law with separate visits with your best friends and their children for helping your heart heal.

I am so lucky to have such special people in my life (and fortunate that I've been healthy enough and have the means to travel to see them). I hope I don't take that for granted. I hope you all know how much joy and peace and promise you bring to my life. Thanks a million times over for that.

We got home Sunday night, in time for me to return to reality (and chemo) yesterday. As I put it on one Instagram post, "Home from a beautiful, soul-restoring trip to California that broke our hearts and then mended them in the most beautiful way, surrounded by the love of family and friends who are basically family. We are so blessed."

And today, I got to see Quinn off to his first day of his last year of preschool. Maybe it's the steroids, but I was pretty choked up this morning. I am so grateful to be here, to witness this. Four years ago, when I was diagnosed (cancerversary coming up tomorrow), I didn't quite think it would be possible. I repeat: I am so very lucky.

Let's Talk About Sex (After a Cancer Diagnosis)

“If you’ve had chemotherapy, your sexual function has been impacted.” -- Dr. Sage Bolte

Most of us are pretty reluctant to talk about sex and intimacy in the wake of a cancer diagnosis. We think we should be focused on getting rid of cancer, or staying alive, so quality of life issues often take a back seat to the urgency we feel to be well. During active cancer treatments especially, sex is probably the last thing on many of our minds.

But at some point, most of us want to touch and be touched again.

I talked to one friend recently, who was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was twenty-five. She is in remission, but takes ovarian suppression medications as well as an aromatase inhibitor. She isn't even thirty and she's in menopause.

She described it as “life-altering,” to go from being a 25-year old with a healthy sex drive to basically not thinking about it for long stretches of time, and then only because she would start to feel twinges of guilt for physically ignoring her live-in boyfriend (whom she describes as a saint).

"It's never addressed," she said. "Oncologists don’t typically bring it up, unless you have the courage to talk about it first, and it’s hardly a comfortable topic. It’s mind-boggling."


Dr. Bolte, who spoke at the conference I attended at AstraZeneca about intimacy issues and about depression and anxiety after cancer, says this hesitance to discuss our sexual selves with our care team is unfortunate, because there are solutions.

One of the primary reasons patients give for not bringing up intimacy with their doctors is they fear there's no way around the loss of it during (and even after) cancer treatments. But sexual dysfunction is one of the top quality of life issues concerning cancer patients. And according to Dr. Bolte, the incidence of altered sexuality can persist for years.

Obviously, my experience is with breast cancer, treatments for which can cause a litany of side effects, including:

• mouth sores
• fatigue
• dry, cracked skin and mucous membranes
• often, loss of or damage to a major sexual organ (breasts) due to surgeries and radiation
• vaginal stenosis (narrowing) due to chemically-induced menopause
• hair loss
• weight gain (or loss)

Other cancers can lead to similar side effects, and my guess is that no one who's been through cancer treatments has been left unscathed.

In addition to debilitating physical effects are the pschyo-social and emotional ones. Partners often take on the role of caregivers, and it can be tough to transition between the caregiver/patient and lover relationships. It can also be tough to maintain a sense of peace about your body when you might feel it betrayed you by "letting" cancer happen. Or you might be self-conscious about a new appearance.

After active treatment ends, for those of us who are lucky enough to be able to move on to targeted therapies, sexual function may lag behind. According to Dr. Bolte, most of us want healthy, active sexual relationships, but many are reluctant to bring up the topic with our healthcare providers. Not helping is that most oncologists are just as reluctant to bring it up with us, their patients. 

So what can you do? What are the solutions?

• Discuss your concerns with your doctor. If not your oncologist, then maybe your gynecologist who may be able to recommend strengthening exercises or non-hormonal lubricants that can help. There is also this, which "can be done in lunchtime." How's that for innuendo?
• Talk to your partner about expectations. Sex during chemo is probably not a priority, but maintaining intimacy should be. Hold hands or cuddle during marathon episodes of Orange is the New Black. Make time for date nights (or afternoons, since us cancer patients are often exhausted by the end of the day.) Dr. Bolte said one couple she knows of started reading erotica to each other and arrived at their next therapy appointment with shit-eating grins on their faces.
• Communicate about desires and needs. This seems so straightforward, but things change so much after a cancer diagnosis. I'm noting it again because it is so true for me: we are often exhausted at the end of the day. Rethink when you might be more willing to connect. And certain areas might be too sensitive or painful to touch. Share these things with your partner before you're fooling around so that feelings don't get hurt if you recoil when your scar tissue accidentally gets grazed. 
• Go back to some of the basics. Make out like you're in your parents' basement in high school. Wear pretty lingerie if that's your thing. Write each other love notes. Take a bath together. The goal doesn't need to be sex as you once knew it. 

For additional resources, Dr. Bolte recommends the following books: Men Cancer Sex, Women Cancer Sex, and Sex Matters for Women: A Complete Guide to Taking Care of Your Sexual Self.

The Color of Forgiveness

I'm sitting here looking at my Mother's Day cards from Quinn -- one store-bought that starts "Dear Mommy, Thank you for tucking me in...", one handmade with a crooked heart drawn on the front. And I'm crying all over my kitchen table. I hugged Quinn extra hard at preschool drop-off today, his last day before the school year ends.

***

In the last few weeks, our family has been facing the continuing decline of Chris's mom's health, which has meant Chris has been traveling up to northern California to spend time with her every other week. Between Chris's travels and my time in DC, we've hardly spent any time together as a family in a month.

Quinn and I FaceTime with Grandma Maryann a bit, when she's feeling up for it, but Chris doesn't want how she's doing now to be Quinn's memory of her, so it's unlikely the two of us will see her in person anytime soon.

At school, Quinn drew a picture for me for Mother's Day, two stick figures holding hands. He tells me, "Mommy, that's me and you!" But on closer inspection, I realize both faces are frowning.

"Why do we have unhappy faces, buddy?" I ask.

"Because we're sad about Grandma."

Oh.

***

All of this apart-ness and upheaval and emotion has certainly taken a toll on Quinn. He's alternately sweet as can be or acting out, defiant about every single thing I ask him to do lately, whether it's brushing teeth or turning off the TV or not running away from me in a crowded grocery store.

Yesterday, as I was driving Quinn to a new park to play with his friend Sydney, I was trying to focus on where the map was telling me to turn, trying to find parking, trying to communicate with Sydney's mom about where to meet without taking my eyes off the road, and Quinn -- in his utter and complete excitement about seeing Sydney -- would not stop asking me, every thirty seconds, how much longer we had until we got there. "Quinn! Can you please be quiet so I can focus on the road?" I asked him more than once, then felt a stab of guilt for being an asshole.

At school drop-off and pick-up the last few weeks, I find my conversations with other moms gravitating toward how tough this age is. This age being 2 to 4? 5? We wonder when it gets easier, joke that we need happy hour at three in the afternoon, talk about pulling our hair out. And even as I participate, I know better. I know how precious this life is, what little (if any) time any of us are guaranteed, how -- difficult or ornery we might all be on occasion -- my time with my boys is everything.

***

This morning, with Chris back in town, I went for a hike. I was heavy-limbed and clumsy. I twisted my ankle (it's fine) and felt unsure of my steps a good portion of the way. Eventually, battered and out of breath and frustrated, I made it to the top.

The top.

A photo posted by Jen Campisano (@jencampisano) on May 18, 2015 at 8:17am PDT

Back down the mountain, my head clearer than it had been in days, I checked my phone and got the punch-to-the-gut news that my friend and sorority sister Jenny's six-year-old son Michael died last night. It wasn't so much a surprise as it was a stark reminder of the brevity of our lives.

Michael had been diagnosed with a rare brain tumor a week before he started kindergarten last fall. Kindergarten.

That one pretty much takes the cake for cruelty, Universe.

And yet, Jenny and her family did not approach Michael's cancer with anger or bitterness. They celebrated his life. They spoke out to raise awareness about (and a lot of money toward) childhood brain cancer. They made to-do lists and checked them off every day, a tally of their accomplishments together as a family.

At his memorial later this week, they're encouraging everyone to wear yellow, Michael's favorite color. Yellow, the color of sunshine and hope, optimism and new beginnings. The color of forgiveness.

So, in Michael's honor, forgive yourselves, parents, for the occasional times when you're not doing your best. Then go hug your kiddos a little closer, a little tighter. You could probably both use it.

You can read more about Michael's inspiring story here and I encourage you to make a donation to the fund created in his honor by clicking here. 

And I'll close with Jenny's own words from that Huffington Post article:

Jenny said she wants to remind parents to "enjoy every precious moment" with their children.

"The truth is that I often complained about how hard it is to be a parent," she said. "I do not back away from that sentiment -- I still think it is hard -- but I wish that in some of the moments when I was feeling overwhelmed or frustrated, I had the perspective to know that I was the luckiest person on the planet to have those kids driving me crazy."

My Teammates In Their Own Words (Plus A Few of Mine)

I've mentioned once or twice that I'm about to lose the second toenail on my left foot. The same one on my right foot is in questionable territory. For about a week after the walk, every time I pressed down on my left toenail, a stream of blister liquid would squirt high into the air like the fountains at the Bellagio. The erupting has finally subsided, but my toe still throbs at the end of the day, a steady drumbeat bringing me immediately back to the 39.3 miles in Washington, DC the first weekend of the month. Plus another 4.8 miles criss-crossing Capitol Hill the Tuesday afterward to advocate to whomever would listen for an end to breast cancer. My feet were not entirely pleased, but they will recover.

A few of us in front of President Obama's house.

As my friend and veritable co-captain Ginelle says, it's not like I'm losing another body part. The blisters are painful. But as many shirts and temporary tattoos over the weekend read: "Blisters are temporary. Fierce is forever." And toenails grow back. Breasts, sadly, do not.

Ginelle brings me to near tears every time she describes the metaphors surrounding the walk: the pain and frustration when you don't think you can keep going, but then you remember it's temporary. It's only two days. The walk certainly isn't chemo, but it gives a peak into the determination necessary to push through when the going gets rough. Looking around, there are women and men in far worse shape, forging ahead despite their obvious limping. There are kids who've recently lost their mom and who stop at every mile marker to wipe away their tears and take a proud selfie. So you see all these people marching onward, and it pushes you to keep going, too.

I asked my teammates, many of whom were first-timers, for their thoughts on the walk. I am beyond flattered by what they had to say about me, and largely because of them I'm inspired to do this all over again next year. Here, in their own words, are some of their descriptions of our weekend in Washington.

Amy: Being part of it was simultaneously so difficult and so meaningful, and feels at the same time like a big accomplishment and yet also such a tiny drop in a giant bucket for what is needed. My main feeling seems to be thanks - thank you for letting me walk with your team and your friends, and thank you for letting me lend the support I can. The idea that maybe a few dollars that I helped raise will give women with no health insurance access to mammograms, or feed a few families when they are wanting to do anything but cook for themselves, is such an important one for me. And the hope that this foundation supporting mets research so that women like you can continue to be such amazing role models, mothers, and writers is just more than I can think or even talk about very eloquently.

Ginger: I now have an appreciation for the number 39. One of the most painful but rewarding experiences of my life. Despite my mental resolve to keep going, I kept feeling like my body was failing me--a perfect illustration for what survivors endure. Thank you to everyone who has supported us--you were all with me yesterday and today.

My 39 miles were dedicated to my mom, Betsy Elliott, who is a survivor of DCIS breast cancer (that is, ductal carcinoma in situ and caught early, thank goodness). She is recovering fully after a unilateral mastectomy in March of this year.

Now that my feet have begun to recover, I'm already considering next year's Avon Walk.

The 16 of us crossing the finish line on day 1.

Jess V.: It's amazing how many tears and thoughts that come over you as you walk this long walk. I feel so honored to have been a part of this team. Thank you, Jen, for leading us through a wonderfully rewarding weekend, yet again.

As I told [my husband] and the others who asked me how the walk went - this one was harder. I didn't train. I bought the wrong shoes (without much support). I said with confidence "I never get blisters" and got several epically huge blisters. By mile 10 on the first day I started to have significant tightness in my legs and difficulty walking with a normal stride. But it's really easy to get over that pain when you walk by a woman clearly in the process of fighting cancer. Suddenly your legs don't hurt as much and you realize how easy your pain is versus theirs.

I can't wait to do it again next year. I'll be signing up tomorrow just because I'm too wiped out to do it right now.

It was such a wonderful experience walking with you all. Looking forward to Avon Chicago!

Beth V.: You people are all so amazing, not only for participating in this amazing walk, but also with the fundraising. For a team of 16 to raise as much money as we did is incredible (obviously a testament to the smarts and savvy of our team, and especially our team leader, Jen!) As for the walk itself, I appreciated the collaborative nature of our team and how we stuck together. I didn't expect that a group our size would--especially in light of the many potty breaks--and was pleasantly surprised. Our solidarity as a team and commitment to an important cause so close to all of our hearts made this weekend particularly special for me.

Thank you all for a fun, positive, successful and memorable experience.

I look forward to seeing everyone again soon!

The kids who brought me to sobs on the trail, with a photo of their mom holding them as toddlers hanging from their capes. She died of metastatic breast cancer last year.

Kacey: My impressions from this weekend all come down to community. I was so moved by how many people came together to make this walk happen for us. I was completely blown away by the donations I received. The number on my personal page is a little off because I shared a lot of the donations I received with team members who were under the minimum a few months ago, but I think I raised a total of close to $8,000. Most of my donations were small amounts - it was a very grassroots effort! And many donors gave more than once.

When Nora and I organized our wine night fundraiser, we ended up with more silent auction prizes than we knew what to do with because businesses and friends were so generous. We were so worried that the night would be a bust and we'd end up giving away these amazing prizes. But we were shocked by how many people came out and the volume and amount of bids we received. It was truly inspiring.

The weekend of the walk, we had so many supporters. Dan and Sarah hosting us for a pre-dinner walk, Tim traveling down from MD to walk a few miles with us, my own husband trekking all over DC to find us so my kids could hold up a sign for a few minutes (and the baby could eat!), plus all the husbands behind-the-scenes who watched little ones for the entire weekend so their Moms could do this. That doesn't even include all of the strangers who stood on street corners, dressed in crazy outfits, cheered, handed out candy, high-fived, and generally kept morale up.

By mile 10 on Day 1 (just 1/4 of the way done), I really didn't think I would be able to keep going. Everything from my waist down hurt. But I thought about everyone who supported my efforts to be there and everyone who was relying on me and I just kept going. It was only two days of my life and nothing some ice and an epsom salt bath couldn't cure.

If being out there and being a part of the community that made this walk possible has in any way helped put an end breast cancer, then I'd walk it a thousand times over (perhaps after training a bit more, though?). Thanks so much for letting me be a part of this incredible team, I really do consider it my privilege to have been there.

Too many names.

Jessica D.: I was inspired to sign up for the Avon 39 in D.C. right after Jen and Team Booby and the Beast completed their 3rd walk in 2014 in San Francisco. I continue to be amazed by Jen’s strength, as well as the advancement of breast cancer treatment, and wanted to do all I could to raise money to continue research efforts in the field.

As I tend to do with any trip, event, or race (guess it’s the engineer, or now the ‘mom’ in me), I plan, make lists, check them twice, and worry about the little details. I set out on a training plan walking miles and miles around Tempe before dawn, rallied lots of support among my family, friends, and co-workers, and made sure I had all the right gear for the big weekend.

However, nothing can quite prepare you enough for how incredibly moving this event is. The support of honking car horns; the spectators providing countless high-fives, candy, baby wipes, and some tunes to put a beat in our steps; and most importantly, the bond among our team members that was solidified throughout the journey were more motivating than words can even describe. I am truly thankful for being a part of this memorable experience, and can’t wait to do it all over again! Thank you, Jen, for letting me be a part of it all!

Shelby: Every year I'm amazed by the impact this walk has on me. To say that walking alongside Jen and an incredible group of amazing women and men, for the third year in a row, is a remarkable experience feels like such an understatement. The weekend is absolutely amazing, emotional, inspiring, challenging, empowering, and rewarding as we raise money for breast cancer research and to fund access to care for those without the means. As soon as we cross the finish line, hand-in-hand with our awe-inspiring Team Captain, I look so forward to next year's walk. Thank you Jen for continuing to share your story, for inspiring so many, and for allowing us to share this incredible experience with you. I feel honored to have been a part and to have walked alongside each and every one of 2015's Team Booby and the Beast. Here's to Chicago 2016!

Gretchen: There isn't much to say that hasn't been said. I just wanted to say THANK YOU, Jen for inspiring us and for the opportunity to walk with you. Team Booby and The Beast is a powerhouse! This amazing group of men and women surrounding you is a testament to the absolutely fabulous person you are. Team, I was honored to walk with each and every one of you.

At the finish line on the National Mall.