HOTDP: Survivor-Rider Rachel Kelley

This is part of a continuing series chronicling "Humans of Tour de Pink"--the amazing survivors, co-survivors, supporters, volunteers and others who make up this rolling family.

 
Rachel Kelley would often receive compliments on her road bike from strangers. It was sleek and black and adorned with fierce pink flames. “I would tell them it was an expensive bike—I had to be diagnosed with breast cancer to get it,” says Kelley, who’s a 12-year survivor. 

Kelley’s bike is part of a Liv Cycling program that each year donates limited-edition road bikes to breast cancer survivors participating in the Young Survival Coalition’s  three-day, 200-mile Tour de Pink charity rides. She received her survivor bike in 2014 and is riding in her sixth Tour de Pink West Coast this year as captain of her team, Zen Pedalers. Last year, the team raised more than $51,000 for the Young Survival Coalition, a nonprofit dedicated to providing support and resources to young women diagnosed with breast cancer.

It’s a cause near and dear to her heart, and Kelley recalls the road leading up to her diagnosis:  On March 29, 2006—her 9^th wedding anniversary—she showed up for her first day of work and immediately went to her new boss to ask for time off. Diagnosed with breast cancer in her right breast just the night before, Kelley had a whirlwind of medical appointments ahead of her. “I met with my breast surgeon on March 31 and on April 6, I had my surgery,” she says. Seven weeks of radiation, five days a week, followed.

The Cypress, Calif., resident quickly discovered that breast cancer was a disease assumed to strike only older women. “The local support group I was referred to was made up of women who were in their 50s, 60s and 70s,” says Kelley, who was 42 when she was diagnosed. “And it met at 10 a.m. on Thursdays, so not exactly the most convenient time for those who are working. But at the time I didn’t think to look for other resources.”

Cycling for a cause

Breast cancer wouldn’t be the only health issue to beset Kelley. A back injury in 2010 left her using a walker. During this time, she began accompanying her husband, Christopher, on his cycling trips.

Reclaiming life, on a bicycle built for two. Photo: Rachel Kelley                   

In 2012, he rode in his first Tour de Pink West Coast. The benefit bike ride is actually part of a cycling trifecta that includes not only the West Coast, but South and East Coast rides, as well. The Tour de Pink rides are the major fundraisers for Young Survival Coalition, raising more than $1M for the organization. This money helps fund endeavors that include support groups, research advocacy and conferences such as the Young Survival Coalition’s National Summit.

Still recovering from her injury and on the sidelines for 2012, Kelley met for the first time Tour de Pink co-founder Lisa Frank, who is also a survivor. “I remember her standing in front of me and asking, ‘Who are you?’” she says, laughing at the memory of the interrogation. When Frank discovered Kelley was a survivor, she got excited. “She told me I had to be out there at the beginning of each day’s ride to have my picture taken with the survivor-riders. The survivor-rider photo was a tradition. I told her, ‘But I’m not riding.’ She didn’t care. She made sure I was out there every morning for the picture. We got such a welcome from her, and I thought, ‘Now this is an awesome organization.’”

With the proper rehabilitation, Kelley was able to ride with her husband the following year on a Co-Motion tandem bicycle. In 2014, she rode all 200 miles on her Liv survivor bike. It was quite the feat for the previously casual bike rider.

This year, as Kelley marks 12 years of survivorship, it’s a particularly poignant time for her: 12 years was how long her mother went before she had a recurrence of breast cancer. As Kelley and any other survivor can attest to, the fear of recurrence never quite goes away. But she doesn’t dwell on it long before she moves on to what challenges she looks to tackle next. 

“I want to do the Tour de Pink East Coast and South rides one day,” she says. “I don’t have a bucket list. I have a bike-it list.”

For more information about the Zen Pedalers or to help support Young Survival Coalition by donating to Rachel Kelley’s ride, please visit: https://west.ysctourdepink.org/Rachel .

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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The new girls

The inside of the waiting room was nothing like I had pictured. I mean, this was a plastic surgeon’s office, so shouldn’t it be crawling with Kardashians or something?

But no, as I settled into my seat, I noticed the only other people in the waiting room were a woman clearly undergoing chemotherapy, staring down at the carpet, and the woman with her, on the edge of her seat, staring at her. That woman in the kerchief could be me in a couple of months, I thought. Try as I might to avoid it, I kept seeing her in my peripheral vision.

And that’s when two things hit me: 1. This shit just got real. And 2. I should probably stop my daughter Nora from tearing up pamphlets and un-potting the potted office plants.
             Erasing the years off of one woman’s face or plumping up another’s lips—plastic surgeons do that, too, and it’s probably their bread and butter since they don’t have to deal with a-hole insurance companies. But then there are people like me and this woman in the waiting room. Not here by choice, but perhaps by chance or, in my case, a bad game of genetic roulette. Though I had certainly interviewed enough plastic surgeons and their patients over the course of my writing career, somehow the scope of the profession had slipped my mind. Probably because what’s focused on in the media are the hapless celebrities—male and female—who keep pushing the limits of plastic surgery till  they all look Blanche from “The Golden Girls.”

Decisions, decisions

I was called into the consultation room ahead of schedule and waited nervously while Nora destroyed the pamphlet displays in there. Right on time, a man in a really nice suit came in. I’ve done my fair share of time in hospitals and such, and I could always spot the surgeons. They were higher up in the doctor clothing hierarchy. 

I had actually met Dr. R. Michael Koch almost a decade before, in my previous life as a health reporter for the local paper. I had collaborated with him on a piece about leeches and their usage in modern-day trauma centers. I wondered if he’d remember me, Leech Girl. He did. Although, at no time during that leech interview did we discuss my breasts. What a difference 10 years makes!

Motherhood had really taken a toll on the old girls.

Dr. Koch is a native of Great Britain and he’s got a calming, soft accent—almost as if hippie painter Bob Ross mated into the royal family. Seriously, people with British accents can easily convince me that whatever they’re saying is the most academic thing ever uttered. Dr. Koch could have persuaded me to hollow out my chest and turn it into a Panera bread bowl, filled with delicious cream of broccoli soup, and I totally would have been like, “OK. That makes complete sense.”

We painstakingly went over my options for surgery; his ink renderings of my torso looked a hell of a lot better than the post-Nora reality. We talked about what procedure might be best for my situation, almost as casually as discussing options on a new car. Should I go with upholstery or leather? Did I need those all-weather mats?  Given my age, I wasn’t keen on implants. The shelf life for those was about 10 years. God-willing, I hope to have a long life ahead of me and I didn’t relish the thought of having to trade them out every decade. I settled on the DIEP flap. Though it had a lot more recovery time up front, the results would be more natural and I wouldn’t need as much following afterward. (Implants require more frequent follow-up visits to slowly plump them up with saline and typically require more revisions.)

Another great thing about the DIEP flap, and here comes that silver lining again: I had permission to bulk up the 'ol gut before surgery, and yet I’d still get a flatter stomach out of it. Essentially, DIEP procedures start out as tummy tucks, but instead of throwing away all that good meat, it’s transplanted to the chest and sculpted into mammary masterpieces. As for fattening up, I couldn’t go totally crazy, but a little extra padding would give Dr. Koch more to work with. I accept your challenge, doctor! And so does Five Guys Burgers.

Following the consult, “before” pictures were taken of my breasts. Good lord! Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any worse about myself, I saw the havoc Fio and Nora had wrought in all its digital glory. I wanted to yell, “Dr. Koch, I can't bear to look at these wonky bazongas one minute longer! Please give me a capital set of knockers!” You know, something to lighten the mood and in a language the good doctor could understand. But I can never totally read surgeons, especially a Brit, so I kept my mouth shut.

As I was sitting with the office care coordinator, describing all the various ways my insurance company would likely try to dick everyone over, Dr. Koch came in and handed me a printout on the Young Survival Coalition, urging me to get involved with the global group dedicated to women diagnosed with breast cancer before age 40. “It’s a great organization. They’re actually having a benefit concert with Katy Perry, but maybe you’re a little too old for her,” he said. I am an old fart, but I couldn’t think of a proper response. “You have to admit, from a plastic surgeon’s perspective, Katy Perry has some pretty spectacular boobies,” I blurted out. Annnnd the filter's off. Damn it! I waited for his response. He gave a little laugh and fled the scene.
             As I left the office that day, in my wake a trail of Hurricane Nora-related destruction, I was at peace with my decision. I wasn't delighted by the thought of a seven- to nine-hour surgery, a night in the ICU to monitor for blood clots, or the long recovery I likely faced. But I just wanted to get my life back. And this was one of the first steps to achieving that goal.