What would the holiday season be without a screaming baby on the lap of Santa? Here, cousin Tori refuses to tell the big guy what she wants for Christmas. Classic.
I love this one too: Danny feeding a happier Tori some of his flavored shaved ice. “She’s had like 11 bites,” he declared, after announcing he was done serving her.
I am writing in honor of my mom, my most loyal reader, who can’t read what I’m writing today because she’s in the hospital.
It was unexpected, the pain in her belly on Thursday night. And it was unfair, how the ER staff made her wait four and a half hours before examining her. And it was lucky, that she had surgery when she did because had one more hour passed, the results could have been tragic.
My mom is recovering now, in a hospital room that is void of all things personal and warm, with a tube in her nose that makes talking and swallowing difficult, with an incision running up and down her midsection. All for a health scare no one saw coming, which has happily been fixed by the steady hands of a surgeon who deserves lots of praise for a job well done.
Today, I am writing in honor of my mom, who will hopefully be reading these very words before too long.
I once asked a breast cancer husband how he helped his wife—who happens to be a friend of mine—survive her disease. I offered him this statement:
Surviving breast cancer can be a long haul. Be prepared for . . .
This was his response:
Battle. This is nothing short of the fight for your lives. Of course you need to be compassionate, caring, and all those other important things your wife will need, but you need to turn into the meanest, most determined, pushy, and unyielding SOB, all very politely of course, so your wife will feel there is no one doing more to help than you. Example: I have called Dr.’s offices every hour until I was able to get my wife the appt. she needs. Or, calling again and again until instead of voice mail, I get a real nurse to get a script my wife may need. You gotta be a pit-bull, see what I mean?
I’ve read her book, The Middle Place, and I tell you: It’s the best. Really, a touching story of her life with cancer, her dad’s life with cancer, and her relationship with one husband, two kids, a mom, brothers, and others. Read it if you can. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll be inspired, by the one and only Kelly Corrigan.
Corrigan also has a cool website, called Circus of Cancer. I’m just starting to find my way around this magical place. Want to join me? Click here and you’ll find all sorts of great stuff—photographs of Corrigan during her cancer days, tips on how to help friends with cancer, gifts and free e-cards, and the latest on Corrigan’s writing endeavors. Even her little girl are getting in on the writing gig—check out this picture book, pictured above, written for mommy’s with cancer.
I wrote this essay on December 4, 2006 for Orato.com. It still appears on this site in its original published format. Keep in mind that it’s a two-year-old story. My boys are not four and 18 months anymore. They are seven and five. It has not been two years since my diagnosis. It’s been almost four.
Two years ago, I told my two little boys—then four and 18 months—that I had cancer. I told them cancer meant I had a boo-boo in my boobie. I told them doctors would take it out, I would take medicine, my hair would fall out, and I would get better. They heard my words, translated them into their own meanings, and have been caring for me ever since that November day in 2004 when my life suddenly appeared anything but a guarantee.
My breasts have been abundantly front and center in my life for dozens of years. First they were too big—34 DDD—and I tried valiantly to disguise the bulk on my chest with large shirts, harness-type bras, and rounded shoulders to shelter others from my most obvious feature. Then came a breast reduction surgery to remove four pounds of dense tissue and to augment my waning self-confidence. Cute bras, tight shirts, and better posture became staples in my life. My breasts made me happy—finally—despite surgery scars, occasional numbness, and an eventual inability to breastfeed my babies.
My small, perky breasts made me happy for eight years. Then I found a lump in the left one—a hard, pea-sized lump that presented itself right beneath my fingertips one day while I was in the shower. It became my obsession for the days leading up to my official clinical examination. I touched it and maneuvered it and examined it until I was sure it was growing with each moment.
And so was born the boo-boo in my boobie—the boo-boo my family and friends and doctors predicted was nothing to worry about. The boo-boo that was in fact cancer—housed in a tumor 1.1 centimeters in size, which had not yet spread to my lymph nodes and was considered stage I.
I found my lump early, and my prognosis was good—in some ways. In other ways, I faced a not-so-good prognosis. I was young—34 years old—and tumors found in young women are typically aggressive. My tumor also contained too much of a certain protein that made it wildly aggressive. So for the 24 months that have followed my diagnosis, I have been receiving intensive treatment for a mass that appears treatable and at the same time threatens to take my life.
A lumpectomy took my tumor and four lymph nodes. Four doses of chemotherapy—given every two weeks in a dose-dense fashion— took my hair and my energy and my overall sense of wellness. It landed me in the hospital twice due to fever and a suppressed immune system and was cause for a blood transfusion during one hospital stay. Radiation took hours of my day—five days per week for seven weeks—and left me with temporary burns and ten tiny permanent blue tattoos. And then one year of targeted drug therapy took me back to the chemo room for every-three week infusions of a new wonder drug intended to block that same protein that made my tumor so deadly.
This whole journey, complete with stops for physical therapy, counseling, and treatment with an anti-depressant, is winding down. With surgery and treatment behind me, I have just one final counseling session remaining. And when the session ends and my case is closed, I will begin a new version of my life—free of constant medical intervention and with just a touch of monitoring.
I will visit my medical oncologist every three months for the next five years—when, if cancer has not returned, it will be safe to say I am in remission. For five years, I will also see my radiation oncologist every six months. For the rest of my life, I will receive a mammogram and ultrasound every six months, will report for a breast MRI once every year, and will conduct my own breast self-exams every month. And while there is no comprehensive blood test or can available to offer me peace of mind that cancer is not taking up residence in my body again, I will closely monitor every bit of pain and discomfort, every bump and lump that gives me reason to worry. And I will pursue it all—with a vengeance—so I can catch anything that creeps up on me with enough time to conquer it.
If cancer must enter my world, I will only allow it to stay for a short time-because I have a lifetime of joy and happiness ahead of me, and I cannot be distracted for long. I have two little boys—now almost six and three and a half—whose lives I must witness. They are the boys who propelled me through my darkest days and have touched me deeply with their unwavering love and concern and simple wisdom.
When radiation zapped every bit of energy I possessed and caused me to unintentionally fall asleep in my living room recliner, Joey—my oldest—would ask me when I opened my eyes, “Mommy, did you have a nice rest?” One day when I felt terribly ill, he said, “Mommy, you go to your bed and I’ll bring you a banana.” He worried that my port—or stone, as he called it—might hurt me and when I told him it did not hurt, he replied, “Won’t you be so happy when you can be on your own without cancer?”
I’m not sure Joey has ever really understood the magnitude of cancer. Still, he sensed I needed him during my battle with this mysterious condition. He assured me the day he and his daddy shaved my head prior to my chemotherapy fallout that I should not cry. “It’s only a haircut, mommy,” he said. “You are not going to die.”
He was right. It was only a haircut. And Danny—my youngest—may not even remember that my hair, now dark and curly, was once blond and straight. He has just recently started catching on to the series of cancer events unfolding in our household. A few months ago, he asked, “Why you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?” I asked him.
He replied: “Going to the doctor.”
I told him I go to the doctor so I can stay healthy.
Two years ago, I told my two little boys I had cancer. I told them cancer meant I had a boo-boo in my boobie. I told them doctors would take it out, I would take medicine, my hair would fall out, and I would get better.
This is exactly how it happened.
John thought the folks at the University of Florida should hear my breast cancer story. I’m a Gator grad, so is he, and he works for UF’s College of Education. Clearly, we have a connection to the place. Enough of a connection, John said, that I should be featured as one of three spotlighted people on the University website.
So John made a call, then I received a call and did an interview, then I met a photographer on campus for a photo shoot one September afternoon.
And now, here I am. On the website. Just like John wanted.
Yesterday, I ran a few miles, turned over a couple thousand dollars, and made some strides against breast cancer. My sincere thanks to those who contributed to my cause and came along with me on my run—see your name on my body? It’s there, somewhere.
Special thanks go to my three guys and my mom who keep life happy; Tracy, my sister, best friend, and running partner; Jack, my other best friend and photographer; Miriam, my friend and neighbor who joined us today, sporting a pink ribbon on her face and pink braces on her teeth; and Ms. Griffith, Joey’s teacher who walked and ran for me too.
On Sunday, we were silly. It was John’s idea. A family pyramid—yes, that’s what we’ll do, he decided. Not my favorite idea at first. I mean, it was nearly 90 degrees outside. I was freshly showered after a double workout—bike ride and run—and kneeling on the ground with one 75-pound boy and another 45-pound boy on my back didn’t emerge as my top-ranked activity (strolling the landscape and watching my guys run wild in the grass were my picks).
Call me a good sport, though. I complied with the pyramid idea. And here I am, with my three loves. And while the group arrangement was a tad painful at the time of dismount (see below), it was, yes, fun—especially now as I look back on what was captured on film.
On Sunday, we were silly. So glad we were.
Last week, Joey was crowned Greatest Gator in his second-grade class. One child gets this honor each week, a boy or girl who practices good behavior all week, works hard, and generally goes with the flow of all things school-related. Joey was this boy on September 19 and for the whole week following, he was the man. We made a photo collage he took to school and displayed for all to see. He wrote a page in the Greatest Gator journal, about how happy he was to have emerged victorious. He completed a special questionnaire, won the gift of a pencil and pencil gripper—pencil grippers are, like, all the rage in second grade—and was lucky enough to have a stuffed alligator sit on his desk for five whole days. Now, Joey’s reign is complete—his pal Lauryn is the new Greatest Gator.
Things are still exciting here in our household, though, because yesterday, Danny came home wearing a Shining Star construction paper hat. Second grade has Greatest Gators. Kindergarten has Shining Stars. And this week, Danny is it. He too was awarded a pencil—with a heart-shaped eraser, no gripper—and he brought home his own borrowed journal (he dictated and I wrote all about his family and what he likes to do). He gets to take in photos on Monday, which will be displayed for his week-long tenure, and he’s borrowing two books we’ll read at home and then return. He’s a proud boy. Yesterday, after I scolded him for doing something disruptive, he asked if I was still happy he’s a shining star. You bet I am.
I’m happy my guys are off to a good start this school year. I’m thankful they model their good behavior at school and save their bad choices for home. I’m proud, simply proud to be the momma of a Great Gator and a Shining Star.
Joey's new mantra: It could be worse. He uses it to excuse his questionable behavior—like when he was playing at the dinner table recently, waving his arms all around like we tell him not to do, and he knocked over his cup of milk. "It could be worse," he announced after locking eyes with my frustrated gaze. Not exactly my preferred response—"I'm sorry, mom, I know I shouldn't have been horsing around and it won't happen again" would have been my pick—but hey, the kid is seven. How much can I expect, really? Besides, he's right. It could be worse.
Sometimes Joey is wise beyond his years. The kid always gives me something to think about. Once Joey told his dad about the grandfather he never knew (he died before Joey was even born): "Don't worry that your dad can't see you anymore. He's in the sky now and the clouds are his eyes." He told me three years ago that cancer is "medicine and love." Pretty good way to sum it up—I got lots of medicine and lots of love. I'm not sure in hindsight that I'd describe it much differently.
It could be worse. I keep thinking about this and realizing Joey is right on with this perspective.
Back to cancer.
I found a lump—early. It could have been worse. It could have spread. It could have been larger.
I had a lumpectomy. It could have been worse. I could have had a mastectomy.
I had chemo, and it made me sick. It could have been worse. My cancer could have been so bad chemo wouldn't have worked.
I was hospitalized twice during treatment. It could have been worse. I could have been hospitalized three, four, five times.
I had radiation, and my skin burned slightly. It could have been worse. My skin could have been left sizzled and scorched. I could have been in pain. I wasn't.
I had more drug therapy. It could have been worse. I could have been a non-candidate for the treatment (Herceptin), which could be the very thing saving my life.
I went to counseling for more than one year and took an anti-depressant too. It could have been worse. I could have denied these forms of help and could be battling depression and anxiety at this very moment. I'm not. I'm happy.
I could go on and on, but I think you get my drift. I hope you get how this applies to your life too. Try this next time you’re down in the dumps: Tell yourself: It could be worse. See if it makes a difference. It does for me.
And Joey too.
Cancer takes away control. I hate that, because I like to have control—not necessarily over people but over my surroundings, my space, my schedule. I like a neat house, a manageable calendar, a semi-clear view of what's ahead. Losing control makes me nervous. Image my anxiety, then, when I had to wait weeks to learn about my breast cancer pathology—the stuff that determines a treatment plan. Consider how wacky I was waiting for my hair to come tumbling out of my head. Think about my mental anguish over the foggy head I developed after my fourth and final dose of chemotherapy—talk about literally losing control—or my two unexpected five-day stays in the hospital. Cancer was out of my control.
I hate that.
But losing control taught me something. It taught me to chill—a little bit—which is why the state of my kids' beds is not driving me completely bonkers.
My boys, ages 7 and 5, are making their own beds now. I figured it was time to charge them with something more than playing, eating, sleeping, watching TV, and occasionally dragging a trash can from the street to the side of our house. So I told my guys one morning to make their beds. I gave them a simple how-to on the whole process, and I set them free. Now they make their beds every morning, often before I even ask for compliance. I love it. I love the initiative they take, the pride they feel for their accomplishments, the fact that it's one less chore for me. What I don't love: The end result—the lumpy, bumpy comforters that are not nearly as smooth as I'd make them, the crooked pillows, the stuffed animals thrown on top of it all. They do far from a perfect job. Gosh, how I wanted at first to control it all, run in their rooms once they finished to straighten and fix it all. But I didn’t, and I don't, because it's their work, it's age-appropriate, and it's something I no longer need to do. They'll become more skilled with time—and maybe with a refresher course taught by me—but for now, they are doing a beautiful job.
Yes, my boys are in control. I'm not. And that's OK.
Chill.
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.
This pink gear arrived on my doorstep today. It was neatly packaged in a box, mailed all the way from Nevada by my aunt who each year runs the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure and each year sends me the goodies she collects. This year: A pink hat, a pink survivor t-shirt, a pink tote bag, the cutest pink rubber gloves, and the pink sign she wore as she raced against breast cancer. The best part: Her handwritten note, with these words:
I ran the Race for the Cure this past weekend in Aspen. When I picked up my race packet, I asked if I could buy an extra shirt for you and explained you were a breast cancer survivor. They told me NO, I couldn’t buy one but they would give me a shirt, a hat and bag for you. Wasn’t that nice?
That is nice. I am so touched.
I am touched by the generosity of the race people.
I am even more touched by the kindness of my aunt.
Thank you, Sue.
Helping others helps me. Knee-deep in breast cancer treatment a few years ago—yes, it's been years—I found it soothing to my distressed soul to reach out to people in need, mostly cancer folks who needed guidance, sometimes others in tough life positions. Helping always puts my personal scenarios in perspective, teaches me there are bigger issues than my own, makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I think my little boys know how I feel.
"Aren't you so happy Froto got to go outside for a walk?" Joey asked about the big black dog we'd walked at the Humane Society the other day. "Yes, I am," I told him. I meant it. It does make me happy to know we're helping abandoned and neglected animals. What makes me the happiest is the fact that Joey is the one managing this volunteer project of ours.
Spurred on by his passionate pursuit of a pet—and his parents' definite rejection of such an endeavor—I spearheaded this animal venture. I made a phone call and took the three of us to an orientation session. Joey has done the rest. He determines when we visit the run-down location that cares so lovingly for its rescued dogs, cats, and kittens. He plots our course while there—we always hold kittens first, then visit with and brush the big cats, then walk a few dogs, then head back to the kittens—and he determines how long we stay. We've been there for as long as three hours. Some days, an hour, tops. Danny goes along with the whole plan, never complains, and just today asked if we could go back. We'd already chosen a movie for this afternoon—Journey to the Center of the Earth, the 3D version—so I told him we'll go another day. He can't wait. He's in the process of picking his new favorite kitten—the scrawny little one he chose first was just recently adopted.
Joey has a favorite too—a cute tabby kitten that seems to know him already. Joey is anticipating how sad he'll be when we arrive and find the kitten is no longer there. I told him it will be a good thing, it will mean the kitten has found a home. It's not sad, I told him. It's happy.
Helping makes me happy. I think it makes my boys happy too.
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.
"Sometimes having surgery is a good thing," seven-year-old Joey told me yesterday.
"Oh Yeah," I said. "Why?"
"Because you get to sit around and do nothing," he answered.
Wait. It gets better.
Joey went on to tell me: "You are always driving us around and doing things for us and now you get to sit and rest."
I love that guy.
Sitting is exactly what I've been doing ever since my tummy was tucked on Wednesday. I've been sitting in my living room recliner, sitting at the kitchen table, sitting in my mom's car traveling to and from post-op appointments, sitting in my back yard watching Joey and Danny splish and splash on their new Slip-n-Slide. I can't yet recline in a flat position, and I can't stand for extended periods of time. Sitting. That's what I've been doing. That, and taking pain medication. And emptying drains. And sleeping. And writing. And doing quite well, I think.
I'm not in horrible pain. I'm tight, and hunched over, and I feel a bit of pressure and pulling. But I'm not miserable. I predict, in fact, that before too long, I'll be back to my routine—the one that involves driving my boys around and doing things for them. For that, I can't wait.
Miss Melanoma wrote recently on her blog about how she sometimes misses her pre-cancer self. She wishes she could go back, could let go of the pity that surrounds her at times, could feel free to think of nothing but having fun for a whole evening. It’s getting better, she writes. “I’m so happy I’m starting to see that ME that was here before melanoma. I really liked that girl. She’s finally coming back.”
Cancer has a way of changing a person. But while there are times when I think back to my former self with fond memories (if only I could have my straight hair back), I tend to like the post-cancer me better than the me who knew nothing of this vicious disease. Of course, it takes time to get past the darkness of diagnosis and the terror of treatment. Surviving takes some practice too. But when the fog clears and the dust settles, life can turn pretty darn bright.
Cancer was my wake-up call, my “watch out, your days may be numbered so make every day count” reminder that helps me focus on what is truly important. For me, it’s family and writing and anything that causes virtually no stress. Cancer makes me appreciate every sunny day, every cool breeze, every laugh that roars from the mouths of my little boys, every accomplished task. I’m not sure I fully comprehended the beauty of every moment before cancer. I do now.
I never really grasped the importance of health before cancer either. I now know cancer is likely caused more by lifestyle factors than anything else and so it has become my mission to eat right, exercise right, and fuel my body so that it outlasts any disease that tries to invade it. Today, my body is leaner than it’s ever been, my heart allows me to run distances I never could have previously conquered, and I wake each day with a spunk that is invigorating.
Cancer makes me want to be better, do better, live better. And this is what makes me happier to be the me after cancer than the me before cancer. It’s a personal preference, I guess. Some people long for days past. I long for days present and future. I thank cancer for that.
I’m calling our holiday travels both fun and miserable. Our excursion to Virginia to see family was fun because we saw loved ones we hadn’t seen in nearly two years. Cousins played, adults visited, and memories were made. Our trek to Washington DC was fun because Joey, at almost seven years old, was primed for dashing up and down busy streets, posing by monuments, exploring museums, and splashing in the hotel pool.
Both trips were miserable because a flu bug tore through our family of four. It didn’t hit all at once but took its time infecting us one by one, so that our entire vacation was consumed by illness. Sickness drove us home days earlier than planned so we could get Danny to the pediatrician. Turns out he not only had tummy troubles but a raging ear infection too. He’s so happy to be home. So are the rest of us.
The photographs we collected on our road trip tell the story well. They depict both the joy and sorrow leading up to a year we hope begins better than its preceding one ended.
Cheers to a happy and healthy 2008!
Two fierce forces are plaguing me at this very moment. They have been for one entire week.
It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s been two and half years since the last drops of toxic chemotherapy drugs made their way through my veins, hopefully putting a halt to any cancer cells trying to divide and multiply throughout my body. Still, all this time later, they can be recalled and can continue to poison me. That’s exactly what the force of chemotherapy is doing to me: it’s poisoning my skin.
The force of the hot Florida sun is chemotherapy’s partner in crime. When the two interact, my skin suffers. My dermatologist calls it UV Recall. She explains it like this: the sun has the ability to recall the toxicity of the chemotherapy drugs, even years after treatment, causing a severe reaction on my already-sensitive skin. Severe is no understatement. My skin is a mess.
Our family of four went to the beach last weekend. Despite my efforts to stray from the sun, I try with all my might to prevent skin cancer after years of basking in the dangerous rays, I still got burned. I was slathered in sunscreen, sat under an umbrella, and made only two brief appearances in the sun, once to cool off in the pool; once to walk on the beach. Somehow, though, I ended up with not only with a sizzling burn but with small little bumps all over my chest.
The bumps are nothing new. I’ve had them three or four times before, each time a result of the sun. They start small and cover a defined area of my body, then they spread, burn, itch, cause pain, and drive me virtually crazy. That’s what they’ve been doing for the past week. Today, they are just beginning to fade. Relief is in sight.
I’m not sure what I’ll do about future visits with the sun. Sunscreen obviously doesn’t work. It seems completely ineffective in fact. And seeking shade doesn’t always prove wise either. Trips to the beach? I’m not interested. Extended periods of time outdoors? No thank you. I think my last resort is to invest in some good ultraviolet protective clothing. I may end up covered from head to toe but as long my skin is safe in all areas in between, I’ll be happy.
Tonight as I tucked four-year-old Danny into bed, he said, “Can I feel your bumps?” There’s no missing them, and Danny has been an attentive observer of my growing rash. He’s watched them as they’ve appeared on my arms, legs, tummy, and back. “Yes, you can feel them,” I told him and so he proceeded to run his little fingers over the bumps, now dried-out and flaking. “Ewwww!” he exclaimed upon feeling their coarseness.
My sentiments exactly.
Ewwww!
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