Blame It on the Chemo --- or How I Came to Sign Up for a 200-Mile Bike Ride

Chemo damaged my brain.

Those who have known me long enough would say, “You mean, ‘Damaged it more?’” Yeah, well, screw you if you’re thinking that! Anyway, it’s true: Chemo has affected the part of my brain responsible for rational decision-making. Exhibit A: I signed up for a 200-mile charity bike ride, despite the fact I haven’t been on a bike in more than 30 years (it was Pepto-Bismol pink and had a green frog on the banana seat), despite the fact I was pretty sure I'd be a slacker when it came to training, and despite the fact that when I registered, I didn’t own a bike. 

Those who have known me long enough would say, “Charity bike ride? What is the charity? You?” Yeah, well, screw you if you’re thinking that!  Anyway, Tour de Pink East Coast benefits a wonderful organization called Young Survival Coalition, which provides education and resources to young women diagnosed with breast cancer, like me. I would never consider doing a ride of this nature unless it benefited a cause very near and dear to my heart, and unless I could ride with a whole bunch of awesome people. I suppose I also did it because I could; 2016 marks the first year since my diagnosis that I haven't had any part of my body removed or worked on. I suppose it also helped that the chemo damaged the part of my brain responsible for recognizing my athletic limitations. 

I was so worried about raising the minimum $2,500 for this ride that I sort of forgot to concentrate on training. Then I focused on securing my team some super awesome custom jerseys and kinda let that consume me. Then I was like, what about accessories? We must have the proper accessories! ...Shhhh! Did you hear that? It's the sound of training falling to the wayside.

I'll get this bike-riding thing down eventually.

Now I find myself 17 days before the ride and probably only having racked up about 40 miles over the course of a few infrequent excursions. Those who have known me long enough would say, “40 miles—really? Didn’t think you had even that in you. Did you accidentally get stuck to the back of someone’s bumper and get dragged?” Yeah, well, screw you if you’re thinking that!  Anyway, my goals for the ride changed: I’ve gone from “I want to complete as many miles as possible” to “Please don’t let me die.” Believe me, the irony of dying during a cancer bike ride isn’t lost on me. But hey, if I face-plant or get hit by a truck full of hot garbage, I’m going to look good when it happens, thanks to a stellar custom jersey and killer accessories.

Luckily, I’m also teamed up with some pretty great gals (and fellow slackers): childhood pal Tara and fellow survivor and “BRCA sister” Mollie. We’re the ride’s equivalent of the kids who sit in the back of the class, passing inappropriate notes back and forth and competing to see whose farts are the loudest. Not coincidentally, at the back of the pack is where we plan to ride (due to lack of training and, more importantly, out of concern for the safety of our fellow riders).

We won’t be the fastest, won’t be the most stable on our bikes and won’t have road rash on anything less than 90 percent of our bodies by the time this is done, but we will be surrounded by amazing (and inspirational) Tour de Pink riders and we'll be having fun. Those who have known me long enough would say, “I never doubted that.”

*****

Make a tax-deductible, totally secure donation here

I have a thing for nice, round numbers and I’d love for my team to hit the $10,000 mark. If you’re reading this and can identify with slacker underdogs like me and my teammates, please consider making a donation to the cause. Seriously, it can be, like, $5. No amount is too small. And you can keep your donation amount hidden, then go around and brag to everyone about how you donated a king’s ransom. We won’t tell.

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Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Tuesday was my last “date” with my oncologist. 

Ever since I had heard he was leaving to practice in Florida, I had been trying to compile a list of reasons he shouldn’t go. All I had so far was 1. It’s too humid down there and he’ll have to live with frizzy hair and 2. The most insane news stories come out of Florida. Did he really want to be a part of that? (No offense, Florida.)

Dr. Asim Aijaz’s practice has always been insanely busy, something I chalked up to him being an awesome oncologist. Every time I left his office, I felt like my concerns had been heard, and I knew exactly why treatment was proceeding the way it was. I never doubted the path I was taking. Yes, the wait to see him could be interminable, but that’s because he took his time with you. Funny thing, I never heard other patients complain; they knew that they, too, would get his undivided attention when their names were called.

But the typically buzzing office is quiet today. In preparation for his departure, Dr. Aijaz has stopped adding patients to his calendar. My butt never touches a waiting room chair as I’m sent straight into the back office for my blood work. As the nurse is trying to find a functioning vein in my battered circulatory system, I spot the good doctor walking quietly down the hall.

“You! I’m going to have words with you,” I say sternly, pointing a bony finger at him. He pretends to duck into an exam room. “You’re lucky I’m getting my veins prodded right now!” I yell.

Something tells me my oncologist will have no shortage
 of interesting patients in Florida.

After I’m patched up from three attempts to get blood, and I've lied my way out of getting weighed ("I weighed myself not that long ago and here is the weight I wish I was"), I make my way down to the exam room to wait for the doctor. Finally he appears. “You,” I say again and trail off. I had been prepared to chastise him for breaking up with me. How could he do this? I’m young and need many more years of follow-up. I hate change.

He perches himself on the end of the exam table, and I’m reminded of the first time I met him in December 2013. “I know a lot about you,” he had said then, leaning against the exam table. He had studied my chart, my lab results and everything else in my folder, which at that point was the thickness of “The Grapes of Wrath” and about as equally depressing. He knew me, and he knew what course of action we needed to take. He was very methodical in describing why my tumors were ugly, and why chemo would be needed to reduce my risk of recurrence.  

He uses this same methodical manner now, to break up with me. It wasn’t me. It was him.

He carefully explains that he received a great opportunity in an Orlando health system. It's a step up in many ways. As the only oncologist in this New York office, his current workload is insane. He has kids almost the same age as mine. He’d like to spend more time with his young family, and Florida presented the best opportunity for this.

How the hell was I supposed to argue with that reasoning? Me, who wanted nothing more than to spend more time with my family? It was at this moment that I really began to think about the personal lives of those who work tirelessly to fight cancer and extend lives—the missed family dinners and the children's bedtime stories that go unread because patient appointments ran long that day.

Everyone always focuses on how much doctors make, but you know what? You couldn’t pay me enough to be a doctor. Not that I’d have that opportunity anyway. No way could my attention span see me through med school, fellowship training and whatever other hoops they make you jump through before you're allowed to look after humans. But I’m thankful for those people who do make this sacrifice, for putting in years of training to help people like me. (This includes those unsung heroes of cancer care, the oncology nurses, as well.) And kudos to the all the healthcare practitioners who are able to finally achieve a work-home balance.

I ask about what I do now. Do I stick with the practice, and his replacement, or go elsewhere? In his usual honest manner, which always gave me the sense he was looking out for me and not the business side of medicine, he advises me to go elsewhere. Did I mention I hate change? He hands me the contact information for recommended oncologists—my confirmation that I have to start all over again with another doctor.

With that, we exchange “good lucks,” and shake hands.  He’s sad, I can tell. After all, how could he possibly get lucky again and find another patient as endearingly crazy as me? Then I remember where he’s headed and I smile. Where he’s going, he won’t need luck.