My Life in Pink

Two days ago, May 30th, marked the one year anniversary of my re-diagnosis.  The day I learned that my cancer had metastasized to my spine and pelvic bones. I threw myself a party.  A really cheap party. I invited friends to our local bar for happy hour and told them that my husband and I weren't paying for their drinks or food.  Just asked them to join us for a toast to the last 365 days.  How cheap and self-serving was that invitation? Aside from saving money, and having decided on a whim to have this happy hour, there was a bit of superstitious logic (oh man, what an oxymoron!) to the "everyone-pays-for-themself" celebration.  I'll get to that. When I was diagnosed the first time, I was texting my friend, Christine, frequently.  She was battling stage IV.  I was in warrior mode - "this shit isn't gonna take me down."  I had visions of coming out the other end of treatment and having the two of us throw a huge black tie bash to celebrate our cure

I'm always happy to share my breast cancer journey with you, but the last two weeks I have been all-consumed with a visceral rage.  Not about breast cancer but about women's rights.  I can articulate my cancer journey with eloquence, but this war on women in our country has left me with the lack of eloquence.  I have the words, but I cannot fathom how to string them together.  Thank goodness I have a blog.  I'll practice on you. Here's the thing.  I'm gonna be really pissed if I leave this earth and this megalomaniac is still president.  And I'm gonna be beside myself if I die in a world where my daughter isn't afforded the same reproductive rights that I was afforded over 30 years ago.  Shouldn't we be moving forward, or is it horrifically true that history repeats itself and we're just at the shitty end of the repetitive cycle? I could go on, and on, and on about the unreasonable laws that are sweeping the nation. And I do mean, on and on

Even after my first diagnosis, I didn't get it. Come on.  Everyone gets breast cancer.  Well, at minimum every woman.  (Side bar, it's not EVERY woman, and more importantly, men get breast cancer, too). I thought, no big deal.  It's breast cancer.  Everyone gets it (see previous side bar). Everyone gets it and they survive.  It's the "good cancer."  Do we really need NFL players wearing pink every October to "raise awareness"?  Don't we all know about breast cancer, know the pink ribbon, loathe the overexposure?  I did. In a way, I still do. Pink isn't only for women.  But I do feel for the men diagnosed with the disease who show up to events and have to sport bright pink paraphernalia and read the signs that say "Save the Ta-Tas." Stage IV didn't immediately change my mind about the importance of breast cancer awareness and research.  Every October, I still recall the scene from the movie Steel Magnolias: Shelby: &qu

I live blood test to blood test.  It's a horrible way to live. Every month I need to get my numbers checked.  And to be honest, I have no idea what they mean.  I know what constitutes a low white blood cell count, but only because my nurse or oncologist tells me it's low. And I've learned enough to attempt to beat the system.  (My nurses are totally ratting me out to my doc right now).  I know not to get my blood drawn after a night when I've had alcohol.  I double up on the broccoli before a blood draw.  I dial down the stress and try to enter a "zen mode".  I go on a full stomach, look for a solid stool, and pray. I was re-diagnosed on May 30, 2018.  I spent the summer of 2018 rejecting a drug meant to save my life.  By the fall, I was put on a new drug that IS saving my life.  In December, my PET scan showed that all of my cancerous lesions had either disappeared or were greatly reduced.  That's damn good shit. Since the new year, I've had s