Abundance

Last weekend marked six years since my bilateral mastectomy. I still remember waking up from surgery feeling like I'd done a thousand push-ups, like an elephant was sitting on my chest, like a hole had been carved where fullness once had been. I remember tightness and pressure and emptiness more than pain. I remember being terrified to peek under the bandages. I remember feeling numb. Feeling devastated. Feeling relieved (because, I thought, maybe I was done with this disease. Spoiler: I wasn’t.)

***

If you’ve been with me here long enough, you’ll recall there was an outpouring of support when I was diagnosed with cancer more than six years ago. Of course there was. People, I still believe, are at their core generous and kind and wanting to help in a crisis (or when miracles happen, too) . There were meals delivered and organized for months, and I still crave my sister-in-law Tracee’s stuffed shells — which is saying a lot considering my memory of them is tied to recovering from chemo. Friends and family dropped in to babysit baby Quinn, sometimes dropping everything on a moment’s notice just so I could lie in the fetal position on my couch, trying not to vomit, memorizing the pattern in the charcoal fabric. Other friends flew in for cross-country visits, and then there were those special women who cut off and donated their hair to make the wig I wore for all of 2012 and a good part of 2013. I was blown away by all of it, by all of them.

And then four -- ha! I was feeling ambitious about getting this post out -- ten weeks ago now, I gave birth to a baby girl. The magic of that in itself is for another post, probably after I’ve gotten more than four hours’ sleep in a row. But in my wildest dreams, I never imagined this kind of miracle could be possible after my diagnosis, after two years in chemically-induced menopause, after having my breasts removed that January six years ago. Our friends and colleagues have again swooped in to lift us up, to help us create a nest for our baby girl, to keep our older child entertained, to give us love and food and diapers in almost equal measure.

You'd be weeping on a daily basis, too.   

We named her Noelle. We think she's perfect.

Also? These photos are everything. My talented, beautiful friend Danya offered this photoshoot to me as a gift at my baby shower. I can't stop staring at them.

And you know how I met Danya? Stupid, stupid cancer. She read my blog, realized we lived near each other and have boys about the same age, and after months of intermittent messaging, one night we randomly sat next to each other at a pizza restaurant in my neighborhood and finally made solid plans to hang out. Our boys hit it off immediately, and so did we.

Check out her widely-shared video telling her story about being diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer in an effort to save the Affordable Care Act last summer. Thankfully, she's doing well right now and we are overdue for a champagne toast to celebrate both of our recent clean scans.

***

Even before Noelle arrived, my friends Jenn and Christine rushed over with breakfast one Sunday morning to help me launder baby clothes and set up the nursery when I thought I was going into labor two weeks ahead of schedule. Turns out I’d just peed my pants a little, and I will always blame it on: I was carrying low and Noelle's head was pressed into my bladder for weeks on end. The silver lining was that I finally got my hospital bag packed and figured out where in the house the newborn diapers had been stashed during our construction of the nursery.

Chris's colleagues gave us a hand-me-down rocking chair, bassinet, baby carriers, and an infant bathtub. Other mom friends passed down their little girls’ gently used clothing. A pediatrician friend pulled together a sampling of baby meds and ointments we might need in the coming months.

But far and away the thing that bowls me over day after day (and night after night) is the donated breast milk we’ve been able to feed our little girl. A friend with a 4-month-old gave me a few bags of extra milk; a couple of women who read my story in Facebook groups sent a few hundred ounces from Chicago, North Carolina, and Texas; another breast cancer survivor mom put me in touch with one of her former donors who passed along 50 bags worth of frozen pumped milk; and my pediatrician friend secured a couple of other local donors for us. The hospital where I delivered gave us donor breast milk while we were there and a few bags to take home with us.

Because of the infinite generosity of moms and their hours of pumping (so that women like me can feed our babies what's best for them), for six weeks my daughter’s primary source of food was breastmilk. Another box arrived from my college friend Katie today, and so baby girl will have another immunity boost, right in the heart of flu season.

A couple of times in the early weeks, when baby girl would turn her head into my chest, seeking food from me and my absent breasts, I wept. I felt inadequate. I cried to Chris, "I can't give her what she needs," which is ridiculous because we can still afford formula. But my hormones were running amok and a part of me will always carry some guilt that my body did this -- did cancer -- to itself.

My occasional feeling sorry for myself (and my daughter) notwithstanding, we have been abundantly fortunate. (Understatement of forever.) This village of women in my life, this band of mothers, has collectively pumped for hours upon hours and generously passed along their liquid gold so that my baby can sleep better, have fewer allergies, and maybe even avoid many illnesses. Perhaps between that and some Congressionally-funded research, she won't have to worry about breast cancer in her lifetime. One can hope. The future is female.

For now, we are mesmerized, in awe of our new family member, and beyond grateful for the abundance this community gives to us.

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.

What Can We Do Now?

Well, that didn't go as I had hoped. I am still troubled by Republican plans to gut the Affordable Care Act, phase out Medicare, and -- in all likelihood -- reduce spending on cancer research. But those are not my only concerns, not by a long shot.

Maybe I should give you some background on me. 

I think I mentioned way back at the beginning of this blog that I grew up an Army brat. I can't find the reference, but trust me on this. It happened. My family moved, on average, every two years. 

I went to three different high schools, two of which were majority minority. Having lived on military bases -- which were very racially diverse, maybe still are -- until late in middle school, I didn't think much of it. I took that diversity for granted.

Here's a page from my yearbook in 1995, the second high school I attended. Don't ask me what I was thinking with that hair. But you see the faces of my classmates? This is the bubble I grew up in. We also had the benefit of not much socioeconomic adversity, since most of our parents were in the military. 

Growing up, I took acceptance of our differences for granted. For years, I naively assumed that racism was pretty much gone in this country because I didn't see much of it in my early life. I lived in Korea and Alabama twice and Florida -- and because us kids were mostly getting along (except for that tiff between the Puerto Rican students and Mexican students at my high school in Orlando that one time), I wrongly assumed adults were mostly okay with each other, too.

Even as I witnessed with horror the killing of Trayvon Martin, Terence Crutcher, and SO MANY others, it didn't dawn on me that racism was still prevalent enough in this country to elect Donald Trump. I still held out hope that we would collectively stand up against an openly racist and inflammatory candidate. 

I'm not sure that military diversity bubble was the most productive for my worldview, since it meant that I was surprised and gutted by this year's election. I am heartened only by the fact that more of the electorate voted for kindness and inclusion, but that doesn't change the outcome.

I was blind, but now I see. 

I still don't understand or begin to make excuses for the 53% of white women who voted for Trump. If you are one of them, can you please explain your decision to me in a way that doesn't belittle Hillary? I can wholly understand how reasonable people could not like Hillary's policies, but to choose a man who would "grab 'em by the pu**y" to represent women's interests? Our daughters'? Did you hate Hillary that much? Can you not see past the end of your noses? Are you -- my neighbors -- really supremacists? I'm trying to understand, and I just don't.

So what now? What can we do to keep hope alive in this country? SNL this week helped. If you're one of the few people who haven't seen it yet, Kate McKinnon's rendition of Leonard Cohen's iconic song is beautiful: 

"I'm not giving up, and neither should you."

And A Tribe Called Quest has always been one of my favorites.



In that vein, I'd like to point you to a few women- and minority-run businesses that are doing good things, mostly in the breast cancer space, but not exclusively. (Note: I don't know how all of these people voted, but their work is impressive enough for me to put it here.)

1. The Brobe by Allison Schickel: I wished I'd had one of these when I had my bilateral mastectomy nearly five years ago. The material is incredible, it has a built-in bra and internal pockets for drains. I do have one to give away. If you're interested, please leave a comment and I'll send it your way. It's black, size large, and comes with some jewelry from...

2. Kendra Scott, who donated $100,000 to...

3. MetaVivor.org, which is committed to funding metastatic cancer research.

4. HealinComfort by Cherie Mathews: similar to the Brobe, above, but meant to be worn out of the house, too. I think I used safety pins to keep my drainage bags hooked to the inside of my zip-up sweatshirt. But I had Chris to help me with fastenings, and this shirt would have been so much easier.

5. Tigerlily Foundation: helping young and underserved women get through cancer.

6. Shay Sharpe's Pink Wishes: granting wishes to terminal breast cancer patients.

7. PAL Experiences: opening up new worlds for children living with autism.

8. Kerry Burki: a catalyst for positive change in our world.

9. Lara Agnew: my talented friend who reveals the beauty in our world.

10. Farmyard: local CSA serving Phoenix

11. AnaOno Intimates: beautiful lingerie by and for breast cancer survivors.

12. HulaBelle Swimwear: bathing suits for women who've had breast cancer.

13. Cat & Owl Co.: fun games to play with your young children that also teach them math concepts. Quinn LOVES these games.

14. Brim Papery: cards, mugs, and paper products that make great gifts.

15. Emily McDowell Studio: best known in my circles for the "Please let me be the first to punch the next person who tells you everything happens for a reason" card.

Also, here is a list of organizations that need our help right now.

This week, my family and I have also donated to Planned Parenthood, contributed to the ACLU, and I'm going to find ways to give back to my community, here in still red Arizona, that don't simply involve writing a check or canvassing in neighborhoods that apparently turned out to vote for Hillary in much larger numbers than my own. What will you do?

On Aging

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

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

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

About a week before I was diagnosed, 2011.

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

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

She writes:

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

***

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

New eyebrows (about 8 months ago)!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.