Photo: Oldmaison, Flickr
There was no mention of Farrah Fawcett last night at the Oscars. But the “In Memoriam” tribute did include Michael Jackson. I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking that’s just wrong.
Now, I know Fawcett was mostly a “Charlie’s Angel” TV sensation, but she did star on the big screen, too. Just ask my husband, whose all-time favorite flick “Logan’s Run” features the blond beauty. And there were others: “Extremeties,” “The Cannonball Run,” “Man of the House,” “Dr. T and the Women,” “The Apostle” and more.
Oscar boss Bruce Davis, the executive director of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, says: “It is the single most troubling element of the Oscar show every year. Because more people die each year than can possibly be included in that segment. You are dropping people who the public knows. It’s just not comfortable.”
Still, the girl who fought a horrible cancer with grace and grit, documenting it every step of the way, deserves to be honored. So, here’s to Farrah Fawcett, her contribution to the world of film and, of course, who can forget that great hair!
Photo: Sunfox, Flickr
This post is not exactly about cancer, it’s about death (sorry for the somber subject). It’s about my husband’s dad, who died suddenly of a pulmonary embolism 11 years ago on this very date (February 9). It was a Tuesday way back then, too. I remember that as clearly as I recall the early-morning phone call announcing his collapse, the drive to the hospital an hour away, the vision of him on a bed, not breathing, gone.
Maybe this post is kind of about cancer, because, sadly, people do die of cancer. But people die from all sorts of things (like pulmonary embolisms) every day. My aunt just told me that a co-worker and friend passed away the other day — she was 34, a single mom of a 15-year-old daughter, and she just didn’t feel well, then she died. It all makes me so aware of my own mortality. I mean, who says I won’t die far before I should? No one. We’re all fair game in the death department, I’m afraid, and that makes me think that we have a very critical mission before us: we must, must, must live each day as if it’s the last, because, well, it just might be.
I know, somber.
But true.
What will you do to celebrate the gift of today?
http://jennlyon.com/
Former “Survivor” contestant Jennifer Lyon died on Tuesday night. Breast cancer. She was 37.
And this is exactly why I can work myself into a tizzy about the disease: because very young and otherwise healthy women die from it, and since I’ve had it, and there’s a chance it will come back, it’s pretty hard to not get all worked up about it. Mostly, I have hope, though, and I’m pretty sure I will survive for the long haul. I figure if I have more hope than worry, then life will be a whole lot more fun.
More about Jennifer: According to PEOPLE.com, the reality TV star, who placed fourth on “Survivor: Palau” in 2005 and passed away in her home in Oregon, was first diagnosed with stage-three breast cancer a few months after her “Survivor” season ended. She had a modified, radical bilateral mastectomy, then chemotherapy, then she took Tamoxifen. (Tamoxifen is a drug used to prevent recurrence for those who qualify for it. I don’t.)
Jennifer apparently found something suspicious in her right breast in the summer of 2004, but she chalked it up to scar tissue related to breast implants, and she let it go — for a long time.
Don’t do that, people! Don’t let anything go — if you find something, find a doctor. Right away. Then demand a mammogram, an ultrasound, an MRI — just don’t self-diagnose. The results can be tragic.
If you can remember just one thing about breast cancer, make it this: if caught early, this disease can be stopped. It doesn’t have to grow and spread and take over other organs. Small tumors can be removed, your body can be treated, and you can survive. Really, you can. So check your breasts (forget those who tell you self-exams are unnecessary and mammograms can wait) and report anything — anything — that just doesn’t feel right.
OK?
OK.
Photo: amazon.com
I should be working — editing nine posts for That’s Fit so they can publish tomorrow — but I’m too sad at the moment, because I just heard that 57-year-old Patrick Swayze has died of pancreatic cancer. He battled the disease for 20 months, which is a lot longer than many folks get (the survival rate for this type of cancer is just 4 or 5 percent for five years), but still, 20 months is not good enough. And so my mind is scattered by the news of his death, and the realization (again) that cancer is a nasty and evil opponent. And while I’m lucky that my chance of surviving breast cancer is 93 percent (November 2009 = five years), I feel more vulnerable right now than I do on most days.
Doesn’t help that I also just read that former “ER” actress Maura Tierney just had surgery for breast cancer and has dropped out of NBC’s new show “Parenthood.” The star’s spokesperson says that 44-year-old is “deeply disappointed” not to be participating in the show, and that “Ms. Tierney and her doctors remain confident that the outcome of her treatments will be positive.”
I’m confident too, because really, my hope is a lot stronger than my fear, and so I just need a bit to recover from the sadness. Then I can get to work.
Rose on chemo day
Reader Jessica shared that she was left speechless after seeing the photos of 44 women and their breast cancer scars. Ditto for me. And after spending some time touring Jessica’s Strength of a Rose blog last night, I realize I’m at a loss for words again.
You see, Jessica lost her 54-year-old mother Rose to breast cancer seven months ago, and this is her space for telling a story of love, loss and healing. It’s a powerful journey — with a passage from Rose, posts from Jessica and photos that capture family and cancer in ways both beautiful and raw. Truly touching.
And if you really want to be inspired, hop on over to The Rose Run, and check out Jessica’s efforts to raise cash for the cure. The first run scored more than $10,000, and the next one is scheduled for July 17, 2010 in Petersburg, Michigan. Now, you might not be able to participate in this local event, but stay tuned, because you could be a virtual runner.
The day after his mom passed away from lung cancer in 2007, my friend Rob started to run. He’s been running ever since. Of his early days as a runner, he says: “During the next year I ran some 300 miles. I ran a series of races: 5k, 5mi, 10k, a half marathon and on what would have been my mothers’ 60th Birthday (January 13th) I ran 26.2 miles across the mild Arizona desert in my first marathon. I ran on sand, on pavement, on dirt, on gravel and even through Camp Pendleton’s mud.”
Rob runs in the morning, in the rain and in bitter cold temperatures. Clearly, the guy is hooked. And he’s starting to write all about his love for the run. “I wanted to start a blog to help others understand how to find their passion and get as much out of life as I do,” he writes. “It took a series of major events for me to find the focus I have today. I’d hope that through sharing my stories and advice that the world will be a better place for you.” Here is where his story begins.
There’s nothing fair about the way it happened, the way Amy died just 15 months after a breast cancer diagnosis seemingly similar to mine. She heard the same string of chilling words—you have cancer—as I did, just months after a doctor hurled them at me, over the phone, a day before Thanksgiving. Both in our early 30s with husbands and small children, Amy and I felt like two peas in a pod, situated in what we believed were almost identical positions. We were both young, both with early stage breast cancer. We both knew our cancers, while caught early, were considered aggressive because of our age—young women tend to have aggressive forms of the disease—but we also knew we had a high likelihood of survival, about 93% for at least five years.
Amy and I had common hopes, fears, and worries, and on several occasions we cried tears we were sure flowed from the same well. We also shared an instant urge to reach others with our breast cancer stories. Amy welcomed local newspaper reporters into her world and allowed them to capture through words and photographs her most intimate cancer moments. I began authoring my own breast cancer blog and then ventured into the world of freelance writing. We both wanted to make our experiences matter. And judging by the flood of reaction we received from our combined efforts, it’s clear we did.
Amy and I shared victories—we both managed to escape the threat of lymph node involvement—and we shared cards and e-mails. Thank you for holding my hand through this journey—it would have been pretty lonely without you, Amy wrote in one e-mail.
Amy and I also shared care packages, family photos, even hats. If misery loves company, then Amy and I were in love. And in celebration of our love, we basked in the glory of our most important similarity—our cancers had not spread. This was key to our survival. Or so we thought.
A mutual friend—her high school buddy and my college roommate—matched Amy and me. Ericha was one of a few close friends who after my diagnosis offered to hop on a plane and come to my rescue in Florida. I never accepted her offer—I was sure I could handle cancer all on my own—and so she stayed in Ohio where Amy, also an Ohio girl, welcomed her assistance. It worked out well this way.
Ericha helped Amy as she recovered from surgery, reconstruction, chemotherapy, and countless physical and emotional twists. She watched Amy’s kids—ages four and one at the time—and cleaned her house and drove her to appointments and selflessly assumed some of the burden drowning this young wife and mother who continued working as a nurse while managing a life with cancer.
“I quit my job,” Amy told me just after she announced her cancer had returned. She said she should have quit after her first diagnosis. She should have taken better care of herself. She should have played with her children, spent time with her husband, given up the chore of work. She would do it right this time, she said. She would crush cancer. She was sure if it.
I wrote and published a post about Amy on The Cancer Blog just after she told me how cancer had shown up in her brain and lungs, just five months after her chemotherapy for breast cancer ended. I wrote about my shattered hope, my fear this would happen to me, my complete and total sadness. And then Amy left a comment on my post. She wrote:
Jacki, I am not giving up. I will beat this again. Don’t you give up yet. I have Luke and Ella and they alone are worth fighting for. Just everyone send me your prayers and positive vibes. Quoting the cancer crusade couple, “Setbacks are a chance to pause and review the lesson of life.”
Amy, the one staring down death—doctors said she had two to 12 months to live—was comforting me. Amy, with her spunk and spirit, convinced me she would annihilate this evil disease. I believed her.
Amy lived for only five weeks after she wrote these words. Ericha called me with the news of her death just as I was leaving my house one Saturday morning to run in a race. I stopped in my tracks when Ericha told me—Amy passed yesterday—and I felt nothing but shock and sorrow for the duration of the run I struggled to finish. I finished for Amy, though. If she could fight cancer—twice—then I could surely pound out a few miles in honor of a friend whose face I never did see.
Amy and I talked about meeting at the beach with our families one day after we’d survived cancer for a few years. We dreamed of going on the Oprah show and proudly announcing our survivorship. We talked about a lot in our short 15-month friendship. What we didn’t talk about was that our situations really were very different. Perhaps we weren’t aware of it at the time. Perhaps we subconsciously chose to find common ground in the midst of our harrowing journeys, to ignore the fact that we were not traveling the same path at all.
Amy had a family history of breast cancer. I did not. Just after Amy completed her chemotherapy, her mother was diagnosed with the same disease that now has affected four generations in her family. Additionally, Amy’s tumor was slightly larger than mine, she received a different chemotherapy protocol than I received, she was not eligible for a year-long drug treatment I accepted to keep cancer at bay and because she had chosen the radical route of removing both of her breasts—I had a lumpectomy—Amy was not a top candidate for the radiation therapy that zapped me five days per week for seven weeks. She wondered if she should have demanded this treatment. She wondered if it would have made a difference in her survival.
The final and perhaps most significant difference in our diseases is that while Amy’s cancer, like mine, had not spread to her lymph nodes, it had found a way to penetrate her bloodstream and was spreading in a secret, silent, and deadly fashion. My oncologist, who dried my tears when I sobbed about the unfairness of Amy’s death, said some young women have a very aggressive disease right away. Amy was one of these women. I, apparently, am not.
There’s nothing fair about the way it happened, how Amy died just 15 months after a breast cancer diagnosis I have now survived for almost four years, how Amy died so quickly and I didn’t, how there is no cure for this mysterious disease that strikes far too many women and some men too.
Amy’s husband sent me an e-mail just after she died. He wrote:
You were a great inspiration to Amy. Your quote ” Fight the Good Fight” was front and center on our fridge. Please don’t let this news get you down, Amy would want your chin up, would want you to keep fighting. Thanks for all your support.
My chin is up. I am fighting. And Amy—thank you for your support.
Yesterday, Joey asked me: "When I'm daddy's age, will daddy still be alive?" I gave it some thought. John was 33 when Joey was born so when our 7-year-old is 40, like his daddy, John will be 73.
I don't really know if he'll be alive then—who can tell what might happen in a span of so many years—but I sure am counting on John being around, so I said: "Yep, he'll still be alive."
"So, I've got like a million years to spend with him then, right?" replied Joey.
"You've got lots of time," I assured him. And then he told me about his grand dream.
"I wish I could do magic and make everyone I know who is dead come back to life," Joey told me. "Then they would never die again, and I would get to see them. But if they wanted to go back to being dead, I'd let them go back. You know who would definitely want to go back?"
"Who?" I asked.
"Riley, because Riley never really liked kids." Riley was my mom's dog. He died several years ago. Joey is right—Riley didn’t seem to like kids.
I like Joey's dream. I like that he'd get to see his great grandma again—he only knew her for a short two and a half years. He'd get to meet John's dad too, his grandfather who died two years before he was born. And yes, he could see Riley again. Maybe Riley would like Joey better, now that he's a bigger guy.
Such a simple idea—just bring back the people we miss and keep them alive forever, unless they want to go back—from a simple little boy who has no idea just how complicated life can be, a little boy who just wants to spend time with the people who belong to him, forever. I like how he thinks.
Photo: Joey, a million years ago.
I'm one of the lucky ones—I'm surviving cancer, have been since November 2004. That makes me three and a half years invincible, and I must say it feels good to go to bed each night knowing I've survived for 1,277 days.
My neighbor is not so lucky. She was diagnosed with breast cancer—my same disease—a little more than six months ago. She had it removed—both the cancer and her breast—and already, the disease is back. It’s back in her breast tissue. It's made its way into both lungs too. Doctors are calling it stage IV. Hospice is calling on her already.
"She's no young girl," her husband told me last night when we passed each other in the neighborhood. But she is. She's 73. In my book, that's young. I don't want to die at 73. She shouldn’t need to either. But it's happening. And there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.
1,277 days. I'm one of the lucky ones.
Just three and a half short years ago, I was wondering if I'd live long enough to baby my babies. They were almost four years and 18 months old when I was diagnosed with breast cancer and more than anything in those early cancer days, I feared for my life—which made me fear for theirs. Who would hug and kiss them, snuggle and cuddle them? Who would make their favorite snacks, pick out the best-fitting shoes, cut their little finger and toe nails, and dry their little boy tears when skinned knees and scary dreams made them cry? Surely, I was the only one who could stay home with them all day, the only one who could help them become social beings, the only one who could help them manage the days leading up to their solo journeys into the world. OK, I admit: their dad would do a pretty good job in these areas if left on his own. But I was—still am—selfish. I want to be front and center in their lives. Thankfully, three and half years later, I am.
Breast cancer hasn't taken me away from my boys—but something else threatens our togetherness. That something: Joey. It's not his fault he's separating from me. It's his age—he's seven.
Today, while driving into his elementary school parking lot, Joey said, "Mom, can you just drop me off at the curb tomorrow?" Gasp! I always walk him into his classroom, talk with his teacher, wish him a great day, and kiss him goodbye. A few months ago, I wondered if the kiss was a bit much for a first-grade boy. I asked Joey if it made him uncomfortable, and he told me it did not. Now, however, he has apparently decided the kiss is too much and so is my presence in his personal school space.
“Yes,” I told Joey. “I can drop you at the curb tomorrow.”
I knew this day was coming. And here it is. My baby is no longer a baby. He's growing up, becoming independent, plotting his departure from my grasp. It makes me sad. And it makes me happy, happy because I am alive and present and I get to watch my first-born guy wiggle his way out of my care. How sweet it is.
Today, I ran two miles for Bob, my grandfather who passed away from cancer just recently. My sister ran too. And so did Joey, my six-year-old who announced just before the Gator Gallop—the kick-off to the University of Florida Homecoming parade—that he’d be racing. I think he liked the idea of pinning a race number on his shirt, and he loved the prospect of wearing a sign on his back stating, “This is for you, Bob!”
Joey made his own sign, with his signature first-grade writing, and he wore it with pride. Tracy and I also wore signs. John and Danny, not official racers, wore them too. We were quite a group, decked out in our orange construction-paper signs. And we got a lot of attention, Joey especially. You see, Joey amazingly—with no prior training or preparation—ran all two miles. When he crossed the finish line and plopped down on the curb to catch his breath, it was clear the guy had mastered a major feat—for himself, and for Bob. One passer-by came up to him and said, “Good job, buddy. I’m sure you made Bob proud.”
No one in the crowd of runners knew exactly why we were running for Bob. But we knew. We knew that when we finished our race in Florida, Bob’s funeral would be starting in Ohio. Our running was a tribute to him, our own kick-off to an event not as happy as a university homecoming but a ritual of sorts nonetheless. We thought it needed a proper introduction. And so we ran. It made us proud. We hope it made Bob proud too.
You are currently browsing the archives for the Death & dying category.
