My Life in Pink

I've had six boobs.  No, seriously.  Six.  I always wanted to be an overachiever.  No better way to beat my female rivals than to have more tits.  I was flat-chested in high school (and college...and when I got married...). But if I could talk to all those high school boys who went for the well-endowed girls instead of me, oh man.  I would love to tell them, "She may have big boobs, but I have six of them." Course, that's a bit of an exaggeration.  I've had six breasts, but not all at once.  It actually went more like - Two boobs.  Cut off two boobs.  Two new boobs.  Lost a boob.  Lost the other boob. Prosthetics.  Prosthetics suck.  Two new boobs.  I've had six boobs.  But only two nipples.  Miss those babies.  Yet, no nipples and implants means I haven't worn a bra in six years.  With a sheer shirt I wear one, but otherwise, no bra.  My tits are perky and have no embarrassing erect nipples. There has to be some perks to this disease.  (Ha, ha,

I promise my next post will be sarcastic and funny.  Scouts honor.  (I was never a scout so I may be lying.) This post is very raw.  You've been warned. I wouldn't say I've planned my funeral. But I have ideas of how it should go.  I mean, I've been given a death sentence.  Shouldn't I have the right to plan my own funeral?  Shouldn't we all?  (The answer is yes, by the way.) I have a song list.  Some can be sung at the funeral.  But, in the end, I want people to leave the funeral with a soundtrack.  Literally a soundtrack. (My God, I'm vain.)  Yes, I'm that awesome. (Again-vain.)   I want people to remember me.  (Selfish bitch.)  Oh let's be honest, we all want to be remembered.  We all deserve to be remembered.  Even the assholes who voted for and still support Trump.  And Bob Kraft.  But I digress. We all have songs that define us.  If you're like me, these songs encompass all genres of music and cut across time.  As mus

You ever been blind sided?  I mean REALLY blind sided.  T-boned in a car accident?  Caught your spouse in a wicked lie?  Had your life change in an instant? The first time, while it was a shock, the days and appointments led up to an inevitable diagnosis.  When my nurse called, I knew what she'd say.  Dave and I were, in a manner, ready for it. The second time. May 30, 2018.  I got punched in the face.  Or I guess more accurately I got punched in the head from behind.  Never saw it coming. In winter 2018 I threw my back out brushing my teeth.  (I know, ridiculous.)  But when I brush sometimes I go too far to the back of my mouth and I gag, like when you dry heave or vomit.  And yup, that seizing of my mid-section threw my back out.  I think I missed two days of work and anytime I moved a certain way I would yelp like a wounded puppy. Throughout the winter and early spring my back was in and out of pain.  I missed 5k races, barked in pain at work meetings, missed more days o

It was November 6, 2012.  Presidential election day.  My daughter, Elin, her 3rd birthday. My youngest child, Van, is and always has been a lover.  A snuggler.  Yup.  Dave and I defied every parenting rule we had been taught in child-rearing classes and books.  Van spent the first year of his life sleeping with us in our bed.  So in October 2012 when he was 11 months old, I found myself on a Saturday afternoon doing our usual - lying in bed for a midday nap, Van snuggled up against my chest.  No lie, I dreamt that my breast hurt and woke to find a lump at 11 o'clock on my left (your right) breast, where Van's head had been resting. I thought nothing of it, and yet, looking back, I must have thought something of it.  It was a large lump, very near the surface.  Something analogous to a clogged duct when breastfeeding.  What it wasn't was a small, pea or marble sized mass that I had to push deep into my tissue to detect.  I was 35 years old. From October to April (somet

My Life in Pink.  So cliche, right?  Oh, she had/has breast cancer.  How cute the pink reference, blah blah blah. I don't believe in coincidence.  I believe in fate.  I believe in "meant to be".  Some of you believe in God.  I believe in fate.  It's all the same.  Believing in something you can't see or touch, but in your soul, you know.  That is religion. Fate is my religion. So, how did I arrive at a blog entitled My Life in Pink that isn't cliche? Fate. I have yet to find another person that was as enamored with the TV show, How I Met Your Mother , as I was.  The writing was brilliant.  The humor was perfection.  And the long-term vision for the show was flat-out smart.  They planned the ending of a show before it started!  And banked on it being successful!  Smart. The final season, which was highly criticized, takes place over one single weekend.  You meet "the mother" and get a lot of answers.  None of this detail is a spoiler and none

Welcome to my inaugural post on my blog My Life in Pink (La Vie en Rose). This blog is about my life living with stage IV breast cancer and being a woman. It will be full of my liberal rants.  Read and share with a friend if you like what I have to say.  Read and share with two friends if you hate what I have to say.  I love the challenge. Happy International Women's Day!  I know white privilege.  I was born a middle class, WASP in the northeast of the United States of America.  I have a college education.  Hell, I have a graduate degree.  My only undoing?  A vagina. That's right.  I'm not Jewish or Muslim.  My ancestors hail from exotic countries like England, Scotland and the Netherlands.  My skin is so white you can practically see through it.  I don't have an accent.  Not even a southern one.  My voice is the one on the radio or featured on television commercials.  I went to an affluent public school where our teachers encouraged us to be whatever we wante