My Life in Pink

I don't believe in a cure. I'm not sure I have ever said that out loud or admitted to that belief, but it's true. I don't think there will ever be a vaccine or magic pill to cure us. I do hope, not believe, but hope, that there will be a medication that will let us live chronically with breast cancer. Something akin to the meds for HIV. But no, I don't believe in a cure. I don't see myself at 70, because the reality is, I won't see 70. And yet, I am not without faith. Whatever that word may mean to each of you. I live with faith. I don't attend church, and frankly I don't care for it. I will pray and talk to my given "God" on my own terms and my own schedule. I don't need to dress up to speak to that "God" and I don't need to chant biblical sayings to be in my "God's" good favor. (Our father, who art in Heaven...) To be clear, I bear no ill feelings for those who attend church, temple, pray in a mos...

I hate myself. Loathe may be a better word. I loathe myself, but I'm not talking about my human being, my soul, my character. I'm talking about my appearance. I wish I had looked in the mirror more. I wish I had been more aware of my beauty before it all. I'd love to backtrack my life. I'd love to backtrack my body. You know, the old adage - "If I knew then what I know now..." It sounds very vain, but until you've walked this journey, please don't judge. My hair is never coming back. It's brutally thin. I wash it only once a week and never comb it because the hair just pours out in clumps. The first time, I had chemotherapy for four months and then my hair started to grow back. Now I take a chemotherapy pill everyday and will for the rest of my life, or until there's a cure. My hair is never going to rebound. I paint on my eyebrows. I search for lashes upon which my mascara might adhere. Granted I barely ever have to shave my legs. ...

Today is my birthday. In truth, it's my daughter's 10th birthday. Every year since she was three, I have watched my only daughter, blow out her candles and consume a cupcake for breakfast. It's the annual, birthday breakfast of champions for the O'Brien children. Seven years ago, on Elin's third birthday, our snot-nosed (literally - you should see the photo), daughter asked to eat one of her, prepared-for-preschool, cupcakes for breakfast. It was a simple request. As upstanding parents, who don't feed our children desserts for breakfast, we responded without hesitation. Uh, hell, no. The cupcakes were for daycare and it would be ludicrous to let her to eat one for breakfast. I'm not sure how it happened. It may have been outwardly expressed thoughts of my husband and me. Perhaps they were words telepathically sent across the kitchen. I may have protested. Maybe my husband protested. I have no clear recollection. But somewhere in that kitchen, in ...

It's Breast Cancer Awareness month.  (Just in case the pink on the NFL field didn't make that clear.) November 6th will mark my seventh year battling this disease.  My husband and I "joke" that I have been sick nearly half our marriage (15 years).  We're taking that "in sickness and in health" vow to heart. Let me tell you about my husband. He is the WORST gift giver.  At the beginning of our marriage he would gift me with moo-moos from Kohl's.  And then after A LOT of wife-y education he once decided to give me diamond earrings for my birthday.  Thing is, I was wearing my grandmother's diamond earrings, which my husband accompanied me to the jeweler to reset and which I wore on our wedding day, when he gave me those diamond earrings.  He does NOT get birthdays or anniversaries or Christmas.  If I want it, I send the photo and a VERY unsubtle email/text to my husband - these are my sizes, favorite colors, GET ME THIS EXACT IMAGE. Let me t...

Here’s the thing… I know I should be grateful.   I’m alive.   I say that to myself, 90% of the time.   I am grateful.  I’m alive. The other 10% of the time, I am mad as hell.   This is my second time around. So, yeah, I am bitter. Here’s why... Cancer - I gave you everything the first time.   I shaved my head like a boss.  I endured dose-dense chemo. I worked a full-time job throughout treatment.  I sucked up a double mastectomy. And then another surgery to remove all the lymph nodes on my left side. Did I mention the five weeks of radiation?  Or the loss of my first reconstructive breasts, t hen prosthetics and then reconstruction AGAIN.  CANCER, I gave you everything the FIRST time.   Screw you, cancer, for thinking you can come back and take any of it again.  And yet you try. You try to take my bones and my liver. And everyday you st...

Y'all miss me?  It's been a while.  (And now I have that horrific song, "It's Been Awhile" by Staind in my head.  Mother f#$%er.) It's been a while for a couple of reasons.  One, my family and I were gallivanting around Paris for two weeks, watching Women's World Cup games, eating baguettes, sweating our asses off and making memories of a lifetime.  Two, I've been in a funk. I suffer from depression.  That's generally par for the course with stage IV cancer.  Can't say that I have ever met anyone who was diagnosed with a terminal disease who wasn't, at minimum, a little depressed.  "Stage IV, you say?  Well that's fucking fantastic!  That's the bees knees!  I'm gonna pee my pants with excitement!"  Not so much. Truth is, I was diagnosed with depression long before I was diagnosed with cancer.  I've been on meds for nearly 19 years.  I used to have really high, highs and very low, lows.  I am not bipolar, bu...

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 o...