Notes from a recliner...

I could say I’m not sure why it’s taken me this long to update my blog, but that would be a lie. I haven’t had the energy because chemo is kicking my ass and I didn’t want to admit it. That’s more truthful. And just to give you some perspective on that: The surgery in which they cut off my breasts, then sliced into my abdomen, from hip to hip, in search of fat to use to for stuffing in an 8.5-hour Build-A-Boob Workshop marathon—THAT was a cakewalk compared to chemo.  

On a psychological level, a part of me struggles with all of this because I was declared “cancer-free” after surgery. My chemo is preventative treatment. No big, bad boogey man tumor to target and destroy. Though my lymph nodes were negative, my biopsy and subsequent surgery showed evidence that the barrier to my blood vessels had been breached by the cancer, so we’re shooting in the dark at any rogue cancer cells that may have escaped into my bloodstream. I keep telling myself I’m doing all I can to ensure I’m here for my family as long as I can be, and that’s what keeps me going across the Bear Mountain Bridge every two weeks to continue the vicious cycle.

But let me back up a bit…

It's easy to be super smiley BEFORE treatment.

My first chemo treatment was on New Year’s Eve. Though the anti-nausea meds were supposed to carry me through the typical three-day rough patch, I was sick to my stomach within three HOURS of getting the infusion. This triggered a lot of medicine tweaking. So, the first couple of treatments were really kinda torturous.  Right now, I’m recovering from my third infusion.  I’ve developed sores in my throat, which make swallowing trickier but are eased by a prescription mouthwash. The nausea wasn’t nearly as bad (special shout-out to the drug Emend!) but the fatigue and bone aches related to my white-blood-cell booster shot, which my husband gives me the day after each treatment, were worse this time around. In fact, I have yet to get out of my La-Z-Boy recliner today.

By now you may be wondering, “YES, but what about the HAIR?!!” In between treatments two and three is when les follicles started to unburden themselves. I’d run a wide-tooth comb through, in a vain attempt to detangle the matting, and that’s when I’d feel the sickening release of not only the knots, but the rest of the hair, too. In huge clumps. Till the bathroom sink looked like a small sea of brown waves. It physically nauseated me, and that’s when I shipped the kids off to my in-laws and told my husband that we had a date with the shaver.

If you ever want an intimate bonding experience with your spouse, I highly suggest letting that person shave your head. I sat hunched over in the bathtub, listening to the snip-snip of the scissors and watching lock after lock fall into the stark white tub. To be honest, I didn’t even know I had THAT much hair still attached to my head. And did I really let it get that gray?  Then came the buzz and Sal gently keeping me updated as he changed the guards on the shaver to get closer and closer to the scalp.

Me and my wonderful husband-barber, Sal

Pretty soon there was just stubble.

After 37 years of trying to cover what I presumed to be a massively deformed Irish head—‘tis true, it’s why Irish people are typically “blessed” with full heads of hair—I was now confronted with my very bald noggin. And it was actually normal shaped.  Thank the lord! My fontanels had gotten their shit together!  I got teary-eyed, but I didn’t all-out cry. It actually wasn’t as traumatic as I thought it would be. My hair was crappy anyway.

I have two wigs on hand to cover up the cue ball, and I only wear them occasionally. Wigs just aren’t my thing. I’ve spent my life with flat hair, and to suddenly have volume? Freaky. Mostly I wear them because Mother Nature, bitch that she is, decided to make this the most friggin’ freezing winter ever.

Anyway, I’m holding out hope for treatments five through eight, which will contain only one drug, supposedly less brutal than the duo I’m taking now. In the meantime, I think I’ll get up from this recliner and get my smoothie from the fridge. You want anything while I’m up?

 

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 I'll be participating in the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life on June 7 in Pine Bush, NY. Will you consider supporting me?
For more information, click here to visit my Relay page.

Here are your New Year's resolutions. You're welcome.

This year, my New Year’s resolution is to live. It’s a deceptively simple concept, one that is not easily accomplished. For me, living means cutting out the bullshit and focusing on what’s important: actually enjoying every day I am able to get out of bed and be with my family.

                Lately, I’ve also been feeling very generous, which is why I have taken it upon myself to make some New Year’s resolutions for you. You can thank me later, because I’m sure whatever your resolutions were, they were complete rubbish. So without further ado…

Heather’s top 5 resolutions for YOU

1.       Don’t say “next year.”

Epcot France is EXACTLY like France (EXACTLY!),
without the pesky euro.

As in, “Well, maybe we’ll do that next year.” Quite simply, because there may not be a next year.  Life is fleeting.

My husband, Sal, has always teased me about my desire to cram an insane amount of activities into an insanely small window of time. It’s just the way I’ve always been and happens to be a good fit for someone who has faced mortality at a young age.
            And don’t let money be a hindrance.  Can’t afford that dream vacation to France right now? Go to Quebec. Go to Epcot. Go to the local library’s “Amelie” movie night, for fuck’s sake. But don’t put off exploring new places and making new memories. Don’t put off living.

2.       Allow photos.

Crimped hair be damned!
Let the picture be taken!

No, you do not look a Victoria’s Secret model. 99.9999 percent of the population doesn’t. But don’t approach every picture as if it’s going to be posted on Facebook and viewed by your sworn enemies from high school.  Oh no, I can’t be in the picture. I haven’t lost the baby weight. Oh no, I didn’t have time to do my hair and make-up.
            Whatever. Just get in the God damn picture so your family has some photographic evidence that you existed. If you look like crap, TAKE THE PICTURE ANYWAY, just don’t post it on Facebook if you’re that sensitive. But if you have kids, I’m guaranteeing they don’t think you look like crap. No, you look like the lady who kisses their boo-boos, reads them their favorite bedtime story and watches “The Polar Express” with them for the 8,000^th time.  
            I tend to be the picture-taker in my family, so I’m absent from a lot of shots. This probably also describes a lot of moms. Let go of your OCD about getting the perfect shot and hand the camera to your significant other or a technologically competent relative, if available (NOT Drunk Uncle).

3.       Lose weight for yourself and your health. No one else.

Don't you just love clip art of athletic women
measuring themselves?

And for the sake of everything that is good and holy, don’t fixate on a number. Yes, you were a size 4 through your 20s, but guess what? You got older, maybe created some humans, and your body changed.

 I remember this past spring fixating on losing those last few postpartum pounds. Obsessing over it, actually. Now I feel like an asshole; I just want to live, damn it! I was striving for some number I had determined I needed to get to, even though I was already a healthy weight.  Oh, but it wasn’t the same weight I was in high school and college. Back then, I was probably 110 pounds soaking wet, with about 10 pounds of that being the Rave hairspray holding up my bangs. Whatever. That is not a healthy weight for me now.

By the way, this is not a phenomenon reserved for women. I recall my days working at Dick’s Sporting Goods, where some guy would ask me if I had these Levi's in a 30 waist. He’d be wearing his current pants belted somewhere down around his upper thigh, the waistband forced into a U shape by his belly. It couldn’t be comfortable, trying to wear what appeared to be the same jeans he did back in 1987. I wanted to yell at these guys, “Fuck it! You’re older and you don’t wear the same size! It’s OK. You’ll actually look trimmer if you wear the size that fits you. Wear pants that haven’t seen all the original members of warrant on tour!” 

Yes, obesity is not good for your health. Yes, it’s been tied to a host of cancers, including breast cancer. But exercise and eat right for your betterment, not a lame attempt to squeeze your ass into your friggin’ high school pants.

4.       Schedule regular exams or doctor’s appointments for the year in January.  

Schedule regular checkups with your physician from the '80s.

You know there are certain annual appointments you have to make: the hoo-ha doctor, maybe a physical with your primary care doctor or eye exam with your ophthalmologist. Ahem, YOUR MAMMOGRAM. Schedule them. I am living proof that a regular ‘ol doctor’s visit can save your life.

And don’t say you’ll get around to it. You often won’t because life gets in the way and before you know it, everyone is singing all that "fa la la la la” crap again and Bam! It’s the end of the year, and you’re left scratching your head and your ass, wondering where the time went. Some doctors also have schedules that are booked far out, so get in there while the getting is good.
                Take care of yourself, please. Or I’ll come find you and beat the shit out of you. Then you really will need a doctor.

5.       Re-evaluate.

Just smile, a-hole.

Figure out what sucks in your life and find a way to make it better. Life is too short.

Call a truce with that co-worker you want to kill (rather than leaving a dead squirrel on his/her desk with a note that reads “This is you” stapled to its head), find a way to do more of the stuff you enjoy. Don’t be afraid to ask for assistance from friends and relatives to help you accomplish the goal of getting more “me” time. Whatever the hell it is, you can make it work.

You know how I know? Because I had a dream last night and Oprah told me so. She also gave me a recipe for beef stroganoff then rode off into the sunset on an ostrich.  But getting back to my point, you can do it. Trust me.

Merry Christmas, Gran

           Almost 30 years ago, I bought my maternal grandmother a cookbook for Christmas, a gift acquired from one of those holiday shopping events held in the library of my elementary school during school hours. Too young to drive to the mall to get your family presents? Then we're bringing lots of "#1 Mom" mugs and ugly frosted vases directly to YOU!
           No matter how ghastly the gift, my grandmother always loved it. She was just that sort of person. But being an avid baker, she especially loved this cookbook, which was part of a PTA fundraiser. I wrote a special little message to her on the inside cover, wrapped it up and never thought much about it again.
           In the early 1990s, my grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was caught very early and successfully treated. The following year, "Gran," as she was affectionately known, began exhibiting signs of Alzheimer's.
           Unbeknownst to me, she continued to write me little messages on the inside of the cookbook, just below my original inscription. The last ones were penned when her mind was well into its slow descent. She had handily beat breast cancer, but it was Alzheimer's that would claim her life in a 12-year, one-sided battle. She passed away on New Year's Eve, 2005.
           That cookbook has long since fallen apart, but I kept its front cover, tucked inside my recipes binder. Whenever I open that binder up, I'm forever reminded of my grandmother's generosity, her limitless love and how she struggled, but never lost her grace in the face of adversity.
           Thank you for this lesson, Gran. I need it now, more than ever.
           Merry Christmas.

My New Year's Rockin' Chemo Eve

           
           I have a date this New Year’s Eve.
           With a dude named Chemo.
           (Funny how that sounds like a real name—perhaps the shady guy who hangs around the registers at ShopRite, hitting on the baggers, but doesn’t actually seem to be employed there.)
           Anyway, this is the official start of my 16-week regimen. Because I plan to work during my treatment, Tuesdays were apparently the way to go. I’d get my infusion that day, theoretically be fine for a couple of days, then crash Friday afternoon, suffer the worst of any effects over the weekend, then climb out of the hole at the start of the new work week. Actually, it sounds not unlike my college years. In any case, I’m sure it will be simply delightful—or, as the oncologist so delicately put it, “You’re going to want to forget all about these next few months.” He also warned me that Christmas would probably be miserable if I started before then. So New Year’s Eve it was. Although, that meant I’d be out of it for my birthday. But if it meant I got many more birthdays, so be it.

                                                  ********
           The receptionist in the doctor’s office noticed the start date as she set up my appointment. “Wait. That’s New Year’s Eve. Do you want me to see if you can start the following Tuesday?” I stared at her. Clearly she was one of those people who made plans on New Year’s Eve. Having two children under the age of 5, I was not. If I showered and brushed my teeth that day, it would be more of a miracle than if Dick Clark showed up to host another “New Year’s Rockin’ Eve” special.
            “No,” I said. “That’s fine. Really.” If allowed, I might keep putting it off. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t start that day. It’s the Epiphany. I'm sorry, what? Actually, January is out for me. It’s National Polka Month and I’ll be on the road a lot with my band. I’m the lead accordion player, you know.”

I will not be partaking in Times Square festivities this year.
But then again, I never do. So take THAT, cancer. BAM!

My double mastectomy was a big deal, physically and emotionally. But chemo—this was a whole other enchilada. While I could conceal relatively well the scars from surgery, it wouldn’t be so easy to hide chemo’s effects. I could wear a wig to keep my cue ball head under wraps, but in reality, you can still tell when someone’s undergoing treatment. It’s there, on that person’s face.

Waiting to be called in to see the oncologist, I saw a couple of women who I could only surmise had advanced cancers. Their legs were painfully thin, their faces gaunt. But still they smiled and wished the oncology nurses and fellow patients a merry Christmas and happy New Year. They had obviously grown very familiar with each other. I felt like the new kid on the block.

Whenever I walk into that waiting room, I do get some curious stares. Face devoid of makeup, I still look kind of young. And the reality is, I am too young to be there, at least by the law of medical averages. The average age of breast cancer diagnosis was 64, and I beat that by almost three decades.

During this recent appointment, the oncologist told me to be prepared for what women find the most challenging: hair loss. I would officially snag the title of “Baldest LaBruna” from my daughter, Nora. That would happen at about three weeks out from the first treatment, so I needed to start thinking soon about wigs or head coverings. From what it sounds like, many insurance companies make you pay up front for the pricey wigs, then reimburse you. It's adding insult to injury, shelling out the dough as you attempt to pretend everything is completely normal, like you’d normally be sporting a hairstyle borrowed from “The Facts of Life.” (I know there are better wigs out there, but the Jo Polniaczek line is probably more in my price range.)

I’ll have my ovaries removed not too long after chemo ends, which will prompt menopause and all its hair-thinning glory. So now I’m wondering whether my hair will grow back at all. Will I be relegated to looking like a baby ostrich for the rest of my life? I guess if it’s a long life, looking like a washed-up ‘80s sitcom star or a strange bird wouldn’t be such a raw deal.
Perspective, people, perspective.