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.

What Does the Beast Mean to You?

From left to right is Sheryl, my friend from college JT, me wearing a reminder sash that someone is diagnosed with breast cancer every 3 minutes in this country, and Ginelle, just after finishing our first Avon Walk in Santa Barbara in 2012. 

I was on a training walk with my friend and team co-captain Ginelle a few weeks ago while visiting her in San Diego. It was Mother's Day, and our conversation ran the gamut from our kids' friendships  and education in public schools to taking care of our mental health to the upcoming election, god help us.

This is how these types of walks tend to go when you're on the trail with a woman who has seen you at your literal worst, who has filled your freezer with homemade chicken pot pies and made pureed organic baby food for your 8-month-old, whose friendship has grown out of an openness and willingness to talk about issues that sort of surprised me when was first getting to know her.

Several miles into our walk, she said to me, "You know, I've been thinking about what the beast means to me." At first, I didn't know what she was talking about. It took me a second to catch up. Then it dawned on me. We call our team "Team Booby & the Beast."

"You mean, beyond cancer?" I asked.

"Well, yeah," she said. "Since you're doing better, it's taken on a bigger meaning to me. It's not just about your cancer or anyone's cancer. I think of it almost as the struggles we face as women. The burdens we carry, particularly with the election we're facing. Don't get me started on that."

I did get her started on that. We talked about Trump and the setbacks his presidency could mean for women. We talked about her daughters and my son and what we want them to know about their bodies, their abilities, the people they share this world with, and how to teach them respect for all of it. We talked about women who work, and women who -- like us -- stay home with our kids but used to have careers outside of motherhood. We talked about how lucky we are for the healthcare we have. We talked about privilege. And the disadvantages that still exist for women.

Recently, in two separate posts on social media, I was brought to tears about the struggles women still face in our society, not to even mention other societies. One was about a book on evolutionary biology with contributions from some of the top experts in the field, which failed to include a SINGLE female voice, even though I know plenty of women scientists and I am not even one. Second was this video that just speaks for itself about where women are in the world today.


***

This weekend, I am in Chicago with Ginelle and seven other teammates -- men and women -- to walk in my fifth Avon Walk, 39.3 miles over two days to provide funding for both research and underserved communities affected by breast cancer. I am pinching myself that I get to do this, that I am still around 5 years after my diagnosis, that we have so many supporters we have raised more than $32,000 and are currently ranked third for team fundraising in all of Chicago. I'm a little proud.

As I was packing for our trip, Quinn turned to me and said, "I can't wait to see you walk in Chicago, Mom!" I was surprised by the tears that poured out of me. I walk for him, after all, and this is the first time he'll be around to cheer me on. I pulled him in for a big hug and wiped the wetness from my cheeks.

Cancer, specifically metastatic cancer, will always be my beast. It is the thing against which I rail -- in whatever small way I can make a difference -- until my friends stop dying.

And I love that my son gets to see this side of me. He is old enough now to understand a bit of what it means to give back, to do something greater than yourself, to start to understand how breast cancer changed our lives. Earlier in the day, he had asked me if everyone in the world knew about the Avon Walk.

Ha. Not yet. Not even everyone knows about metastatic cancer, but we are working on that.

***

A number of patient advocates and friends of mine are also in Chicago this weekend, gathering to share their stories and insights with researchers at ASCO, the American Society of Clinical Oncology's annual meeting. I wish I could do both. Instead, I will be checking my Twitter feed regularly for updates on precision medicine, immunotherapy, advances from the Broad Institute, and quips from the brilliant women I get to call my friends.

Here we go, Chicago.

How to Tour Italy with a Four-Year-Old

A little over three weeks ago our little family set off for Venice, Italy. I'd never been, and Italy was at the top of my list. You could say I pulled the cancer card when planning our family vacation. I may have said something along the lines of, "You've been three times. What if I never make it there at all?" Cue the violins, right? And so Chris indulged me, with the caveat that he gets to choose the next trip (which very well might be camping in Utah's canyon lands. Our vacation choices pretty well sum the two of us up.)

We toured between Venice, Florence/Tuscany/Sienna, and Rome over the next thirteen days. It was every bit as awe-inspiring as I'd hoped. Everyone keeps asking me what my favorite part was, and to be honest, I have to say the absolute sense of community -- the life lived in squares, enjoying the company of friends and family, lingering over dinners and a bottle of wine, the lack of smart-phones. It gave me a lot to think about with regards to how we live and interact with our neighbors and friends. The focus on togetherness -- without rush or to-go cups -- left me longing for more of that in my own life.

Also, I am deeply in love with Rome, especially its food. Next time, I might just do a culinary tour and forgo the museums entirely. Yes, I believe there will be a next time.

We'd been nervous about taking Quinn -- who turned four just three months ago -- to Europe for almost two weeks. Because how would he do on the plane? How many museums would we have to skip because he wouldn't have the patience for them? How much gelato would we have to bribe him with each day? These were the pressing questions we asked ourselves, never mind my energy levels or health concerns.

Tangent, sort of: I did get my doctor's permission to leave the country for two weeks. Since I'm on an every-three-week infusion schedule, it didn't interfere (much) with my treatment, and since my blood work has looked relatively okay for two years now (as long as I've been on Kadcyla), my oncologist wasn't concerned.  I will say that traveling for this long made me realize I probably can't ever live in another country, or even leave here for more than a couple of weeks, tied as I am to my infusion chair and the insurance that pays for it. Small gripe in the grand scheme of things, but it's just one more way cancer limits your choices.

But I can't complain, not right now. We just got back from Italy, after all. And as for our concerns about Quinn?

We clearly forgot who we were dealing with. 

Here's how to tour Italy with a four-year-old. Step one: make sure he's not on a nap schedule (ding ding ding!) We had that one down like two years ago.

Step two: Show him incredible views.

And put him up to the task of spotting all the lions in Venice. He will want to count them. In every language he can think of. "Mom, how do you say three in French? How do you say five-hundred in Italian?" "I'm not sure, honey," I had to say more than once. Or: "Let's ask Google."

Step three: Carry him in a backpack if necessary (walking six to seven miles a day is exhausting, after all, even for the energizer bunny himself).

Find more lions.

Let him go at his own pace once in awhile.

Show him extraordinary beauty (and make sure he knows he's part of it).

Look at the world through his eyes.

You might see incredible sights!

Let him slide on the bridges (so long as he promises not to fall in the water).

Take breaks.

Let him do some of the navigating.

Try not to have a heart attack as your husband picks him up higher than the railing when you're on top of the world (or on top of Il Duomo di Firenze).

Let him find some magic.

And chase some pigeons.

And more pigeons.

Take more breaks.

Carry him some more. Hey, he's a cute forty pounds!

This might be the most useful tip (and I've lost track of my steps): give him his own camera.

If all else fails, ply him with lots of gelato.

And pasta.

And hugs.

We are settling back in to life where we aren't saying, "Ciao!" at passers-by out our windows in the evening, where we don't have prosciutto and pasta and prosecco nearly every day, where we have doctors appointments again, and scans on the horizon, and temperatures in the triple digits.

But we'll always have Italy.

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.

Lobby Day 2015

It's not every day you get to sit down with one of your state's Senators and watch as his shiny happy demeanor suddenly shifts -- his jaw visibly drops -- as you tell him your story about being diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer at the age of 32, as you tell him you'd like to see an end to breast cancer so you can watch your son grow up. It's not every day you get an audience with that much influence.

But that's exactly what happened on Tuesday, as I logged another 4.5 miles walking all over Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C., advocating on behalf of the National Breast Cancer Coalition, yes, but also on behalf of myself and all of us living with a diagnosis of metastatic breast cancer. After all, NBCC's goal of seeing an end to breast cancer is the same as mine. It is all of ours. And what were a few extra blisters in the name of ending this disease? My feet this week are getting their own post. Stay tuned for that.

I don't know exactly which of the seven offices we visited from the Arizona delegation will support our legislative requests, which included signing on to the Accelerating the End of Breast Cancer Act (H.R. 1197 / S. 746) and maintaining current funding levels for the Department of Defense's Breast Cancer Research Program, neither of which should be partisan issues, but you just never know in DC.

The Act creates a commission to take a look at the various research efforts happening around the country and recommend a way to fast-track those that are most promising while reducing duplicative efforts. It would be a finite commission, ending in 2020. It would require no congressional funding. It seems like it would be an easy ask, but amazingly, it has struggled to get signed into law.

The DoD program provides grants to people like this innovator here in Arizona, who is working on a breast cancer vaccine, among other things. Think about that for a minute. Can you imagine a world in which no one has to worry about developing breast cancer? In which generations to come might only know breast cancer as a disease their grandparents had to contend with? The idea gives me goosebumps.

We asked our delegation to co-sign the legislation before Mother's Day, as a gift to moms (and their kids) everywhere. We've already gotten notice that a few offices want to cosponsor and will be doing so today. I hope our advocacy efforts pay off and this legislation gets signed into law. I hope this commission gets formed. I really hope we see an end to this disease in my lifetime. Now that would make these blisters worth it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

{after my first walk, Santa Barbara, 2012}

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

{after my second walk, San Francisco, 2013}

Why Team Booby & the Beast?

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

{following walk number three, San Francisco, 2014}

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

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

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

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

Why do I walk?

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

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

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

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

Why the Avon Walk?

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

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

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

***

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

{my friend Jenn Chiarelli, photo source}

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

Team Booby and the Beast Goes to Washington

As Breast Cancer Awareness Month comes to a close, I thought what better time to announce I'll be walking again in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer? Because if I'm going to advocate for action, this is an act I can take. I can still walk. I can write about my experiences. If that helps one other woman speak up in her doctor's office when she might have otherwise ignored the twisting in her gut about a lump she'd found? If I can do that, I've at least done something.

I choose this walk because Avon provides funding for women who can't afford treatments. I've talked before about how earth-shatteringly lucky I am to have the insurance I do. To have friends who've told me to go ahead with treatments and I can pay them back later (an offer I haven't yet had to take). Not everyone is so lucky, and Avon helps bridge that gap. Avon also funds life-saving research, and you know how I feel about research. You can read more about their mission by clicking here.

Next spring, I'll be flying back to my old stomping grounds -- Washington, DC -- to walk with a team of women, old friends and new from all over the country, to raise money for this organization that has done so much for people facing this vile disease. While I'm there, I'm hoping I can brush up on my lobbying skills and take my message -- that this can and does happen to young people, that we need more research funding -- to Congress (starting with my state representatives, but to anyone who will listen, really).

Do you want to join us? Support our team with a donation? Make signs to cheer us along as we wind our way through the halls of Congress? We welcome the support. I appreciate it more than I can express.

This will be my 4th Avon Walk, and to date, I've raised more than $30,000 for the cause. Last year alone, our team was able to donate more than $16,000. We're hoping to blow that number out of the water this spring. If you'd like to help us do that, please click here. And thank you. It means the world to me.

And We Walked . . .

We did something a little different this year: we formed an official team for fundraising, Team Booby and the Beast. It was so official, we had shirts made.

My team included my best friend in the world, Alana, who reminded me we've been friends for going on twenty years; Shelby, another amazing woman I've known half my life; and Ginelle, who's married to my husband's best friend from childhood.

The four of us raised an impressive $16,065.29. Yep, that's me tooting our own horn. What can I say? I'm proud of us. Thank you to all our generous supporters for making this happen. The San Francisco walk alone raised $4 million this year for research and support services, including chemo and diagnostic tests for those who can't afford it. 

I want you to know a little more about these teammates of mine, these women who come out year after year to wreck their feet with me and beg their networks for donations so that one day, we can say we helped end this disease.

Alana came to visit me when I had my last round of chemo #1, and got my news that Christmas that my first post-chemo scan was squeaky clean. She is the only person who's been with me to the dingy part of the hospital where I used to have my PET scans (lucky her). On the walk, Alana is the one who will suggest jogging for a bit to change up the muscles you're using (and the thing is, it actually works). She spotted the girls handing out mimosas at mile 24, and made sure we all stopped to grab a cup. When we realized the buses to the start left at 5 a.m. on day one, she suggested we Uber it to the start instead, which meant we got to sleep in until 5:30. Also, she designed our team shirts. In short, she makes my life easier and more fun and far more beautiful.

Shelby is a friend from college, one of the women who cut off her hair to make a wig for me. She is also a researcher at Genentech, and was the first person who made me feel at all better about the fact that I had Stage 4 breast cancer. She talked to me about Herceptin and gave me confidence that I could do this. Shelby is as emotional as I am, and wept with me as we crossed the finish line, the four of us holding hands. We were saved by the guy handing out free It's-its, a San Francisco ice cream cookie treat I'd never experienced but now crave daily. Shelby still reminds me that I'm doing this thing, this beating cancer thing, and almost more than anyone she makes me feel okay about my diagnosis. I'll write more on Shelby and Genentech in another post soon.

Ginelle hardly knew me three years ago, beyond the fact that I'd married her husband's best friend, but when I was diagnosed she left her family to come visit and cook meals for our family. Last fall, she treated me to a weekend at Canyon Ranch, which has to be the most relaxing place on earth. I'm pretty sure we'd have been friends regardless, but cancer sped up that process. Some people run away from the burning building; Ginelle is the type to run straight into it carrying ice water and oxygen masks.

Ginelle is so prepared, we dubbed her the team girl scout. She kept us supplied with electrolyte powders and gummies, bandaids, body glide to prevent blisters, mole skin when we got them anyway, scissors, foam rollers, Advil, Epsom salts, and things we'd never even heard of, like silicone toe caps that I probably should have used, given the state of my toenails right now. She kept us on schedule in the mornings and ahead of the pack so that we were even the first to use some of the port-a-potties on day two.

All four of us, our feet hurt. We had blisters and bruised toenails, sore bunions and throbbing arches. We were chafed where our sports bras rubbed too tightly. Our hips and knees ached, especially walking down those steep Marin County hills. We were so exhausted we were delirious and punch drunk.

Which may explain why we immediately signed up for another year. We'll be going back to my old stomping grounds and walking in DC the first weekend of May, 2015. We'd love it if you'd join us, too.