What Are Breasts For?

As October winds down and we prepare for Halloween celebrations tonight, I thought I'd share some final thoughts on the month. And on breasts in particular.

***

The librarian at Quinn's school is a friend. She was his music teacher in preschool, and now I see her when I'm volunteering as garden mom or at PTA meetings. All of which to say that we're Facebook friends, as well as real-life friends, and we often get fired up about similar things. Yesterday a few weeks ago (because I'm spending all my energy right now on growing a human and also a remodel project to add a nursery so these unfinished posts get stuck here for a month), I saw a post on my friend the librarian's Facebook page regarding a book.

The book seems to be about talking to boys about puberty and other coming-of-age concerns. Another mom had seen this, was rightfully pissed, and was asking whether our librarian knew anything about this series or why the editors had been such dolts (I'm paraphrasing).

Here is a screenshot.

First - girls have breasts to make milk for babies? No. Women do. Girls shouldn't be having babies, and we shouldn't perpetuate that notion in a book aimed at BOYS. But that is hardly the only thing that makes this page offensive. The second reason for girls having breasts, according to Alex Frith for this Usbourne series, is "to make the girl look grown-up and attractive," and virtually all breasts can do this. 

Hold on while I pick the keyboard keys off my forehead. 

Am I the only one offended? Is it because my real breasts have been gone for nearly six years now? DO I NO LONGER LOOK GROWN-UP?!

I've been thinking so much about my breasts this month. Not only because it's October and WE ARE ALL AWARE OF BREAST CANCER ALREADY, but also because I'm going to have a baby sometime in the next few weeks. Side note: both Pinktober and this remodel have seemed to drag on FOREVER, which is weird because at the very same time, this pregnancy has zipped by in what seems like an instant. 

When Quinn was born, I breastfed from the start, right up until I had to begin chemo a few days before he was six months old. I loved that bonding time with my baby boy, his little face turned up to mine as he slurped and suckled. I was lucky. Nursing didn't hurt. My nipples weren't cracked or sore. I craved Blue Moon and was thirsty all the time, but nursing was relatively easy for me. It's part of why I knew it was bullshit when my doctor told me the lump in my right breast was mastitis. 

I was in awe of my body and what it was able to accomplish. I GREW a human! And then made food for him for HALF A YEAR! It blows my mind what women can do. 

And again, I'm growing a human! I have the fatigue and tell-tale waddle and peeing my pants every time I sneeze to prove it. 

But my breasts aren't tender as they prepare to feed my baby this time around. I no longer have nipples. Even my doctor occasionally forgets and asks me about breastfeeding, but short of me regrowing a boob like a lizard regrows its tail, nursing from my fake boobs is not going to happen.

I have heard that there is a possibility some milk will still come in in the days after I give birth, and I might have painful lumps in my armpits where a few milk ducts may remain. If that happens, I'm tempted to ask for more surgical drains to be placed -- like I had after my mastectomy -- to collect some of that liquid gold. Brilliant, right? I am also so grateful I was forewarned. That would be one terrifying surprise to wake up to, a whole bunch of painful lumps in my armpits after five years of thinking I was going to die of cancer.

I've had some wonderfully generous women step forward to offer me their extra breast milk, and the hospital has assured me our baby will have breast milk while we're at the hospital. Also, while I know "breast is best" when it comes to feeding newborns, plenty of babies do just fine on formula. Still, it saddens me to my core that I won't be able to feed this baby girl the way I was able to feed Quinn. 

On the other hand: no excuses, Chris. Those middle-of-the-night wake-ups are FAIR GAME for both of us. Mama just might get some sleep this time around. 

***

Beyond my own breasts, October has been full of the usual tired pink crap, though I have a lot of adorable pink stuff coming into my life right now so I can't totally hate on the color itself.

Yesterday, my dad sent me an article about the frivolity of the pink culture that emerges every October, even as it is meant to say to us with or beyond breast cancer that we are celebrated and supported. The whole article is worth reading, but two lines in particular struck me:

"The association of femininity and breast cancer is pernicious, because it genders the disease, meaning that a diagnosis of breast cancer marks patients as women first, people second. It implies that our womanliness is diseased, not our bodies."

Like the article's author, I didn't initially associate my diagnosis and the ensuing surgeries (and chemically-induced menopause, and hair loss, and days on the toilet post-chemo, et cetera, et cetera...) with a loss of my womanhood, though as time went on, there were certainly periods when I felt less than feminine. Instead, like most people facing CANCER, I was worried about my life. Thinking I was metastatic for years didn't help, since stage 4 is the only stage of the disease that kills.

Being surrounded by the color of Barbie dolls and bubble gum doesn't feel helpful. I am so thankful for black, purple, and orange today. And chocolate.

As you all know, I have lost a LOT of dear friends to breast cancer. Chris lost his dad to pancreatic cancer. My dear friend and fierce advocate Beth is nearing the end of her life now, which is devastating our MBC community and ripping a hole in her young family.

This, I think, is the biggest rub when it comes to Pinktober: it's not about our breasts.

They might be fun for a bit or serve a very special purpose for moms who are able to nurse when they're healthy, but when our lives are on the line (and they are -- 113 American women STILL die of breast cancer every damn day), our breasts are the last thing we're worrying about. And they definitely aren't what defines us as women -- healthy or not.

Reclaiming October

In case you missed it, October is right around the corner is here. (One of these days, I may sit down and write a whole post at once, but that day is not today.) It's even feeling like fall (i.e., below 100 degrees) here in Phoenix. Break out the freaking Uggs and pumpkin spice lattes already.

September has been was a whirlwind, though luckily in Arizona, not a hurricane. Please go click that link to help if you can.

Over Labor Day weekend, I went to Spokane to celebrate my grandmother turning 80; I had a birthday, too; I walked more than I probably should have at 7 months pregnant in another Avon 39 walk; my mom and a few dear friends flew in from out of town while some phenomenal women here threw me a baby shower, where I realized just how much PINK is about to come into my life, whether I'm ready for it or not; and I'm still managing a remodel so we have a place to put this little child when she arrives in the world. Since windows and floors are on backorder until mid-October, my god I hope she doesn't come early.

My dad, me, my 80-year-old grandma, and my "little" brother. Life goals now include living until I'm 80, and looking half this good doing it.

Team Booby & the Beast 2017.

We've raised a lot of money.

These women spoiled me rotten and my heart is so full.

My stunning mama & me. We felt all the emotions.

So when I say October kind of snuck up on me, it's because I've been really, really distracted loved and celebrated over here. I've missed you guys, but at the end of the day, I can barely keep my eyes open to catch up on what madness our Tweeter-in-Chief has been up to, let alone put thoughts together here.

But with October I feel an extra responsibility to speak up. My friend Beth is struggling to keep her platelets high enough for whole brain radiation every day so she can have a bit more time with her two kids and her husband, J. Knowing Beth, also so she can yell at Congress advocate to get more research dollars funneled toward metastatic breast cancer so moms (and others) can stop dying of this disease by the thousands. On that note, if you're able, please donate blood -- especially important given the tragedy in Las Vegas today.

I walk the Avon Walk every year, but I struggle with the pink-ness of it all. With the "save the ta-tas" slogans and "free breast exams" signs held by men along the route, to which I want to scream, "Sure, take a look at these scarred and purple, cold and numb ones, you disease-sexualizing ass." And then I wonder whether my own blog (this one right here!) is part of the problem with Booby in its name. Am I also a disease-sexualizing ass?

In the Avon walks I also always see a teenager or two walking for their deceased mom or a man honoring his late wife or a woman in the midst of treatment, bald and reminding me that DAMN, WOMEN ARE STRONG.

At the end of the day, I walk because of Avon's mission to provide for both research and support for underserved communities. Because they lift up those at the margins who would be further marginalized by the bad policies our government seems to threaten on a daily basis. Because women of color -- particularly black women -- fare far worse than white women do when it comes to breast cancer outcomes, and I believe organizations like Avon can make a difference when it comes to these disparities. I was so moved by the speaker they chose at this year's walk, I wept as she spoke about her Stage 4 diagnosis that so closely matched what my story used to be. Her reasons for walking are worth hearing.

And now I also walk because I'm about to have a little girl, and while men can and do get breast cancer, it is primarily a disease affecting women's bodies. IS THIS WHY WE DON'T HAVE A CURE? If testicular cancer killed 40,000 men a year (it kills around 400), would we have this problem solved?

***

Quinn had "pink day" at his school last Friday, presumably to mark the (near) beginning of October. When I asked him if anyone had talked about breast cancer at school, he said, "No." Then added, "Well, let me put it this way. I didn't hear anyone talking about it." Later, I realized it's probably because they don't want to use the word breast at an elementary school.

On the way to school, I had asked Quinn if he ever talks about me having had breast cancer. He does not. "I don't even remember it!" he tells me, as if I'm ridiculous for asking. Oh, the sass of a six-year-old. And so I dropped him off looking like this, then cried a good portion of the car ride home.

I cried because I'm pregnant, partly, but also because something that was such an enormous weight for our family is but a blip in this little guy's mind. Because if all continues to go well (knock on so much fucking wood), his sister won't have experienced my cancer at all. I cried because we are not the norm; most families do not get a reprieve from metastatic breast cancer unless you count death. Because we can do better -- in so many ways -- as a country.

Please think of all that as we go into this "awareness" month. Please donate responsibly. Please learn about the devastation of metastatic breast cancer. Please understand this disease is about so much more than saving some tatas or the color pink, unless you're six and get to dye your hair fuchsia for the first time.

Don't Ignore Stage Four

As I do two out of every three Mondays, after dropping Quinn off at preschool this morning, I headed to my oncologist's office. I had chemo last Monday, so today I was due for lab work. The office is on the other side of town, about a half hour drive from our house even when there's no traffic. More and more, I find myself getting irritated that I still have to check in so often, even after nearly two years on this drug and mostly great blood work (even if I did just have a bloody nose, which are fairly common in my post-chemo-chemo world.)

It's a small thing, this having to check in and have blood drawn from my port every third Monday. Chemo is less of a small thing, but I can justify those visits. The drive is worth it because I'll be there for two to three hours. Plus, chemo is working. I can visit with a friend or catch up on my emails. Labs, on the other hand, take only ten or fifteen minutes, but I still spend an hour in the car.

And yet -- it is such a minor complaint in the grand scheme. Other women in my circle spent the holiday weekend having seizures or being hospitalized from complications of metastatic breast cancer. I have no right to feel irritated about an hour in the car for blood work.

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Today is the first Monday of the month, and there is a movement afoot to spread the word about what it means to live with metastatic breast cancer (MBC). And eventually, we hope, to get more research funding aimed at halting this disease. In my life, right now, living with MBC means feeling cruddy every third week while I recover from chemo. It means a lot of driving to and from the oncology center for labs and check-ups. It means bloody noses about once a week. And it still means scans every 3-4 months. But all of that is mostly manageable. (After all, I have good people around me to help.)

For many people with this disease, side effects and treatments and the cancer itself take a much harsher toll. And after everything we go through to extend our lives, only 1 in 5 of us will live five years after our initial Stage 4 diagnosis. It is such a harsh statistic that the American Cancer Society warns readers to skip ahead to the next page if they'd rather not see the statistics that they put in a chart much further down the webpage.

Despite these odds, I think I've made it abundantly clear that I find so many reasons to have hope. Hope I will be one who makes it way, way, way past the five-year mark. Hope that more and more people with MBC will start having outcomes more like mine, and that doctors start calling this a chronic rather than terminal illness. Hope that the next generation of women won't have to worry about breast cancer at all. Wouldn't that be nice?

If you want to help advance this cause, please consider writing your representatives in Congress, donating to groups like Metavivor (which only funds Stage 4 research), and spreading the word that there is more to breast cancer than early detection.

Around the Web

Just when I start to think most of my anger toward cancer has dissipated, a dear friend sends me an email about her colleague's wife who just learned that her early-stage cancer is now metastatic. Meaning, it has spread to bones or vital organs. It is incurable. I don't know this woman's health history, but I do know her cancer was first diagnosed in 2007. So, more than SEVEN years later, after I'm sure she figured she was done with this disease, barely a speck in her rearview mirror any longer, it rears its hideous head again.

Then I learned of another woman, a mom to two young children, who died this weekend after battling triple negative breast cancer for a little over a year. One year. If you want to contribute to her family as they try to navigate through life in the absence of their wife, mom, daughter, best friend, the link to do so is here.

And if you've ever been tempted to say (as I was and did, when I was first diagnosed) that, well, everyone beats breast cancer, please think again. As the first article in this week's round-up reminds us, we still have so much work to do. Also, if you find anything you think I should include here, please shoot me an email. I'd love to hear from you.

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Pretty in Pink? A Reminder That We Still Have Work to Do in the Fight Against Metastatic Breast Cancer

(Full disclosure: I'm quoted a couple of times in this article.)

"According to the American Cancer Society, the 5-year survival rates for stages I, II and III breast cancer are 100 percent, 93 percent and 72 percent respectively, and not all early stage breast cancers will advance to stage IV....

In contrast, 75 percent of people diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer will die of the disease within five years."

But There's Reason (in the form of Personalized Medicine) for Hope

"Even more tailored treatment is on the horizon. In the next few years, patients with breast cancer can expect increasingly detailed diagnostic tests, tests that may predict side effects of treatments like chemotherapy or radiation, and better guidance in choosing the drug, or drugs, most likely to eradicate their disease. Genomic discoveries may also help patients with advanced, aggressive cancers, a group for whom even the latest treatments often fail. In these ways and many others, breast cancer prevention, treatment, and care are a microcosm of the slow but inevitable shift in healthcare....

'We are at the beginning of a revolution,' says the American Cancer Society’s Lichtenfeld. 'Breast cancer, as with many others — lung, melanoma, etc. — has a number of therapies in the pipeline, and that number is increasing dramatically. What does the future hold? Some successes, some failures. Will it lead to a cure? I can’t say that. Will it lead to control of breast cancer? That’s a real possibility.'"

A "Novel Platform" for the Treatment of Pancreatic and Breast Cancers

"Scientists from the Florida campus of The Scripps Research Institute (TSRI) have identified a novel synthetic compound that sharply inhibits the activity of a protein that plays an important role in in the progression of breast and pancreatic cancers.

In the new study, to be published in the February 2015 print edition of the journal Molecular Pharmacology, the scientists showed that the compound, known as SR1848, reduces the activity and expression of the cancer-related protein called "liver receptor homolog-1" or LRH-1.

In fact, the study showed that levels of LHR-1 in a cell's nucleus began to diminish four hours after treatment with SR1848, and the compound repressed specific target genes as early as two hours after administration."

Rates of Diagnosis and Survival Vary by Race

"A new study published in JAMA finds that among women in the US, the chance of being diagnosed with breast cancer in the early stages of the disease and the likelihood of surviving after such a diagnosis may be influenced by race and ethnicity, and this may be down to biological differences."

Around the Web - Mets Edition

Today, October 13th, was National Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day. Metastatic (or Stage 4) breast cancer is what happens when tumor cells leave the breast and set up shop elsewhere in the body, usually the lungs, liver, brain, bones, or skin. Of course, I'm weird and had spots in my lymph nodes and spleen.

My links today are primarily focused on metastatic breast cancer. Consider this a dose of true October awareness. And if you're feeling so inclined, a great place to donate (even $5) is www.metavivor.org, which allocates 100% of its grants to funding research on metastatic breast cancer.

Want to Learn More about MBC? Here's a Good Starting Point.

"While MBC claims the lives of 40,000 women and men in America every year and 20-30% of those diagnosed with early stage breast cancer will go on to develop recurrent, metastatic disease, awareness remains low and only 7.1% of breast cancer research investments over the last dozen years were focused on MBC." 

Thank You Over and Over Again, Joan Lunden

"As hard as it would be to hear, metastatic cancer is not a death sentence. Survival rates for people with metastatic cancer varies from person to person, but a large study found that 15 percent of women lived at least five years after being diagnosed. Some women may live 10 + years beyond their diagnosis and since these studies were conducted, newer metastatic breast cancer treatments have become available. This leads us to believe that the survival rate for a metastatic patient has improved since these studies last occurred."

Pfizer Has Also Launched an Education Campaign

"FACT: Breast cancer progression can occur regardless of treatment or preventative measures taken – Half of people surveyed said they believe breast cancer progresses because patients either did not take the right treatment or the right preventative measures, signaling the potential stigmatization of people with metastatic disease. In reality, breast cancer can spread quickly and inexplicably, regardless of treatment or preventative measures taken."

Have You Heard? Young People Can Get Breast Cancer, Too. 

Prior to my diagnosis, I didn't realize women my age could even get breast cancer. Sadly, I was sorely mistaken. 

"According to the American Cancer Society, there are an estimated 250,000 breast cancer survivors living in the US who were diagnosed at 40 or younger, with around 13,000 new cases expected annually. While that accounts for less than 6 percent of cases in a given year, studies show that young women are more likely to have aggressive forms of the disease."

People Weigh in On What Breast Cancer Awareness Month Means to Them

Brought to you by the good people at Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center in Seattle. 

Finding Clues in Genes of 'Exceptional Responders'

The profile of one woman who beat the cancer odds -- "And The New England Journal of Medicine published her story on Wednesday as a case history in the new genetic era. It concludes with a lesson that may help doctors treat thousands of patients with more common cancers, like breast and bladder cancer, and even find an alternative when a drug stops working."

Increasing Survival Time for Her-2-Negative Metastatic Breast Cancer

"As reported in The Lancet Oncology by Gligorov et al, maintenance capecitabine/bevacizumab improved progression-free survival and overall survival vs bevacizumab alone in the trial."

A New Kind of Awareness

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I'm all for wearing pink if it brings some research dollars in or encourages a young woman who didn't think breast cancer could happen to her to push her doctors for more answers. But yes, yes, yes on the gimmicky and commercial.

"For those of us who advocate for the “cause” – as I see it: the need for more breast cancer research and better care for all affected – a calendar-based theme feels gimmicky and commercial, even manipulative. At best, it’s useful for fundraising. In some parts of the world, including a few U.S. communities where believe-it-or-not stigma about having cancer persists, NBCAM may lead a few women who are hesitant to seek care for breast tumors to go and get it."

Not Bald Enough

Last week, I stumbled across this article about Joan Lunden daring to appear bald on the cover of People magazine. How incredible of her, I thought. I wish her the absolute best. She has a rare and aggressive form of breast cancer and certainly has a grueling few months ahead. I applaud her for doing what is right for her and not shying away from the iniquities of this disease.

At the end of the article, it noted that Ms. Lunden would be kicking off Breast Cancer Awareness month (that's October, in case you've been living in a cave) with a special on the TODAY show. Specifically, it said: We're kicking off Breast Cancer Awareness Month on Oct. 1 on the TODAY plaza — and Joan wants you to join! If you have undergone treatment that resulted in hair loss, please join us for what we hope will be an empowering moment for women. Email todaypinkpower@gmail.com for more information.

So I did. I emailed todaypinkpower and -- after praising Ms. Lunden for her bravery -- gave a brief snippet of my history, that I was a 32-year-old new mom when I was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer, that I've been bald twice, that I'd love to participate in an empowering moment for women (never mind that men get breast cancer, too).

To my surprise, I heard back pretty quickly. My email from todaypinkpower said, in part: We are looking for survivors or women living with cancer to share in our bold and bald empowering moment. Would you be interested in joining Joan on the TODAY Plaza next Wednesday, October 1? Where are you located? Could you make it to our Rockefeller Center Plaza in New York City? She then asked for more information: my age, location, and phone number. Oh, and could I also send a current photo.

In my crazy head, I started wondering how we could get coverage for Quinn if I was going to the TODAY show NEXT WEEK. What would I wear? Could we afford a plane ticket? Would NBC pay for that? I was getting ahead of myself, I knew, but I was caught up with the idea that a platform as huge as TODAY might start to pay attention to stories like mine. At the very least, I thought the photo might be used in a montage of some sort about women who've "undergone treatment that resulted in hair loss." An "empowering moment," if you will.

So I sent in this photo, from earlier this year. I admitted it wasn't the most recent and made a joke about what a camera hog my 3-year-old is. (He's not.)

And then I got another reply email from todaypinkpower. It said: Thank you so much for your response. We are specifically looking for women who can be bold and bald on the plaza for an empowering moment to support Breast Cancer. (emphasis mine)

My heart sank. I'd been bald twice. That wasn't enough? Had I not been through enough shit to merit the "bold" stamp of approval from TODAY? I wasn't welcome because I wasn't BALD? What. The. Everloving. Fuck. I was saddened and livid and frustrated and then humiliated that I'd gotten my hopes up. I checked the message boards for the online support groups I belong to, and I wasn't the only one.

You see, many, many people with metastatic breast cancer do not lose their hair. For many patients, especially if their tumors are fueled by hormones (which is the majority of breast cancer patients), broad spectrum chemo is a last resort used only after bone-strengthening treatments, anti-hormonal agents, and other targeted treatments stop working. None of those other treatments cause hair loss. Neither do newer, targeted chemotherapies like the one I'm on. A lot of us with Stage 4 have our hair.

That doesn't mean we won't die from this disease unless researchers come up with something better soon. We face our mortality every day, live with side effects that range from mildly annoying to debilitating, and an estimated 40,000 people will die of MBC in the U.S. this year, and yet, metastatic breast cancer gets less than FIVE PERCENT of breast cancer research dollars.

I tried to look at it from a producer's point of view. A sea of bald heads would surely make a far greater impact on television than a group of people wearing pink. And of course, this seemed to be more about ratings than actual support or empowerment or -- God forbid -- education. That didn't make me less upset about it.

Maybe this was about solidarity with Joan Lunden. I tried to put myself in her shoes. How would I have felt if a bunch of women with hair came out to support me while I was bald? Oh, wait. I experienced that. It felt fucking amazing.

Fueled by our frustration and heartache and, yes, fury over the responses we were getting because we weren't BALD, a lot of us wrote todaypinkpower back to explain how gutted we felt by her response, by TODAY's approach to October, by the fact that a lot of women are getting left out of the conversation, by the media perpetuation that you must LOOK sick in order to BE sick. Here we go again and the month hasn't even begun yet.

In what I think counts as a teensy tiny victory, on Friday many of us non-bald "metsters" received follow up emails from todaypinkpower letting us know they would still love to have us join after all, and if we were interested, here were the updated details. We just had to wear our pink.

I get it that this is television. I do. And not everyone wants a segment on metastatic disease with their morning coffee. It's not entertaining. I know that. I live it.

As much as I love New York, I won't be able to make it to the Plaza next Wednesday. But I would fly on the next plane out to NYC if they'd talk about stories like mine for even a minute.

The Bravest Thing

Chris and I started watching Season 2 of House of Cards last night, and there was one line of dialogue where a guy is talking about grief after losing his wife (not a spoiler, I promise). He says something along the lines of, "I mean, who dies of breast cancer at 31?" Chris and I both laughed awkwardly. It isn't funny.

But it means that -- little by little -- word is getting out about the possibility of death from breast cancer at a young age. It's mentioned in a Netflix TV series, for crying out loud! Maybe, little by little, people are waking up to the reality that this disease is not a "good" cancer, not all pink and happy, not something to be trifled with or taken lightly.

In that vein, I want to do my part to give some recognition to metastatic breast cancer. That's what this blog is about -- shedding some light. But this blog is not quite enough. So I wrote this piece, which was published here. Please take a peek.

I don't know why I'm so nervous to share this here, but I think it relates to how weird I feel about self-promotion. But then, I think if I really want to be brave, I should tell my story to anyone who will listen. I should find as many outlets for it as possible and then do my best to make sure it reverberates. I hope you'll help me by sharing it far and wide. Shout it from the proverbial rooftops.

Then I'd love to hear your story, too. Tell me how cancer affects you. As Sara Bareilles says, "I wanna see you be brave..."

October 13th

In case you missed it, October 13th (yesterday) was National Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day. I thought about doing a post on the reasons this day is so important for women like me with metastatic disease, but instead I got bogged down in watching terrible local news coverage of the Komen Race for the Cure here in Phoenix, which focused so much on victory over cancer and the racers' fun costumes that I wanted to scream.

I'm becoming an old curmudgeon well before my time.

* Full disclosure, I've done the Komen race, and it makes me just as uncomfortable in person.

As far as I noticed, there wasn't a single mention of advanced disease--or even the possibility of it--in the Komen coverage. Yes, early detection increases the odds you'll beat breast cancer, but it's still no guarantee that mets won't show up later. In fact, 20-30% of everyone diagnosed with breast cancer will at some point down the road develop metastases. It may even be after the magical 5-year mark.

Sound too crazy to be true? Read more about the facts here.

At some point, we need to stop the madness of packaging this disease in pretty pink ribbons and talk about what's really happening: approximately every 15 minutes a woman dies in this country because of breast cancer. All of those deaths? From metastatic disease--like mine. And the numbers haven't changed much in the last 30 years, despite more hype, more awareness, more pink.

I guess I am writing a post about why Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day is so important. But as my friend Nancy puts it--really, just one day?

And I've griped about the pinkification of October before, but in case you need more reasons to be grumpy on a Monday, here are some interesting articles I've come across recently.

- Why I almost can't turn on the t.v. on Sundays anymore.

- Apparently this also happened yesterday?

- This blogger's reaction pretty much sums it up perfectly.

- And if you think bras are uncomfortable, try blind consumerism.

- Finally, a controversial argument by one of breast cancer's most ardent researchers and fighters that all cancer is metastatic.

If I can please implore you, if you're going to give, please donate to breast cancer charities that fund research, not awareness. We are literally dying for it.

Want a few suggestions? My friend Carolyn put together a list, below, and of course I also support the efforts of the Avon Foundation because they put real dollars toward research and have never shied away from the realities of this disease.

Here are some organizations where you may consider donating a few dollars; all receive "A" ratings for using most of their profits towards funding research and support rather than fundraising.... Breast Cancer Research Foundation, National Breast Cancer Coalition Fund, Living Beyond Breast Cancer, Young Survival Coalition, or Breast Cancer.org.

One final, less grouchy, note: if you're going to be aware, be aware of your own body. Any changes that don't seem right to you? Get them checked out, and press your doctors to take you seriously. Breast cancer in younger women tends to be far more aggressive than the disease that strikes women who are post-menopausal.

My primary tumor was literally the size of a walnut under my skin, and my doctors were still insisting it was mastitis. So I switched doctors. And then a week later, my new doctor was calling to tell me it had already spread to my lungs, my lymph nodes, and my spleen.

Another Finish Line

I'm a little over three months out from my last round of chemo now, which means I'm also supposed to be due for my every-three-months PET/CT scan to make sure things are still clean. That's been postponed a few weeks because of my surgery last week. According to my oncologist, if we scanned me now, the surgery site would light up like a Christmas tree because my cells are working so hard at repairing the tissue there. We certainly don't want any false positives, so I can hold off on chewing my nails down to the quick for another few weeks.

In the meantime, here's the status of my hair, which honestly doesn't look all that different to me than the photos I posted of it a month ago. Do you guys see a difference? And, yeah, yeah, I know I need a better photographer. I'll admit I'm not very good at self-portraits. Vogue will not be knocking down my door to grace their cover anytime soon. And I'm fine with that.

Difference or not, I've started going au naturel, at least for walks around our new neighborhood, which happens to be exactly the kind of neighborhood I always dreamed of, a place where Quinn rides his tricycle up and down every single driveway as we make our way around the block -- and the people are overwhelmingly happy to meet us, to introduce themselves, to welcome us into our new home. 

We are settling in, figuring out which light switches control which lights, slowly picking out new furniture that works with our existing things, and unpacking the last of our boxes (which is a seemingly endless process with a two year old around). 

And it turns out our next-door neighbor is also a breast cancer survivor and a mom to a couple of boys a few years older than Quinn. She finished up treatment very similar to mine just over a year ago. It continues to astound me how common this disease is. She is also a personal trainer, which might be exactly what I need in the coming months.

I haven't really been able to work out these past three months, since I broke my arm just three days after I finished chemo and just as I was recovering from that, I had my swap-out surgery; last week, my recovery time for that got pushed back another six weeks. My ass is going to be the shape of our couch soon. Don't laugh. I'm serious. Be happy I'm not posting pictures of that every month.

This has been a very long-winded way of letting you know I've signed up again for the Avon Walk, this time in San Francisco at the end of September. (Also, I have no idea what's going on with the fonts on my participant page, so apologies about that.) I have the five hottest months in Phoenix to train for this trek, but if I did it while on chemo last year, I'm fairly certain I can find a way to make it to the finish line this year. As of now, I've managed to walk the 1/2 mile loop around our neighborhood almost every day this week. Athlete extraordinaire over here, let me tell you. Watch out, San Francisco.

Making Strides

I spent all weekend recovering from a 3-mile walk. I napped when Quinn napped, went to bed at 9:15 Saturday night, and developed a spasm in my lower back that lasted for two days. At least I wasn't winded during the walk? It's little consolation for how old I'm apparently getting. Let me explain how a noncompetitive morning stroll turned into a total-body workout.

Quinn and I participated in the American Cancer Society's Making Strides 5K walk in Tempe on Saturday morning. My little - and I use the word "little" only because he's young - snuggle monkey insisted on being carried for the first half of the walk. Every time I tried to put him in his stroller, he'd arch his back like it was filled with snakes, or worse - broccoli. When I tried letting him walk beside me, knowing it would slow my pace but thinking it would at least give my upper body a break, he'd sit down in the middle of the road. Chris and I call this his "riot police" move - his whole body goes limp like he's protesting the 1% and resisting arrest. I'd bend down to pick him up again, apologizing to the walkers who almost tripped over us as we broke their strides. All the carrying, wrestling, and bending to pick up my wiggle monster took its toll.

My chest and shoulder muscles were on fire, but I couldn't resist his cheek on my shoulder, even if we were making awful time, even if I was spoiling him rotten. And then my hat blew off in the wind, but I didn't even mind displaying my bald head to the world. I was hugging my little boy - and we were at a cancer walk, after all.

A few coworkers and friends joined us, including Quinn's best friend from daycare, Sydney. We had to pause often for snack breaks. No joke, I think we walked at about a one mile-per-hour pace. 

Which was good, because the hour leading up to the walk was intense. Chris was out of town, I had to drop my best friend off at the airport for an early-morning flight prior to the walk, and it was also ASU's homecoming on Saturday, so traffic was a nightmare, even at 7 a.m. I was the team leader for my company's team, but showed up fifteen minutes late because I might have bitten off more than I can chew by promising to meet anywhere with a toddler at 7:30 a.m. 

As I was running down Mill Avenue with my bright green stroller and shoeless toddler, trying to catch up with my teammates before the start, a guy in a pink shirt asked me if I was okay. "Just running late," I said. "This'll probably be the most competitive part of my day."

I caught up with my team a couple of blocks up the road; we weren't late for the start, and it probably wouldn't have mattered much anyway, it was such a laid-back event. The guy in the pink shirt came up to me and handed me an extra t-shirt from his team. "Good luck to you," he said, a seriousness in his voice letting me know he wasn't just talking about the walk. This is the shirt he gave me; it was so perfect after the sprint of a morning I'd had...