Biography of Breast Cancer

Tori Spelling and the Boston Globe

2008-08-27T13:09:00.001-04:00

Hey all... and don't worry, there's a bunch of posts coming in the next couple of days. I'll be caught up to April!!! Woo hoo!!!

Meanwhile, I'm famous... in Boston, anyway.

http://www.boston.com/news/local/articles/2008/08/20/cancer_blogs_become_part_of_treatment/?s_campaign=8315

It's an article all about blogging. Figured it'd be stupid not to post it here.

Good morning...

2008-08-05T00:01:00.002-04:00

Hello, faceless internet reader. Sitting down at your desk with your starbucks in hand. Not quite yet ready to go to work, yet not quite able to advertise it either. You've checked your email. Gone to cnn.com. Maybe perez hilton. "Ooh, what do we have here?"

Yep, procratinators around the globe, unite. Tons of posts below. I'm caught up almost to March now!!!!

I'm alive! I'm alive!

2008-07-02T16:20:00.002-04:00

Okay, so if you're still peeking in on this wondering, "Where the fuck is Courtney?"

I'm here.

What have I been doing all this time?

I've been on strike
I've procrastinated
I've had my ovaries removed
I've been on vacation
I dealt with major damage to my house
I got knocked up
I got very much UN-knocked up
I rediscovered my love of Little Debbie Zebra Cakes
I've been training to bike 200 hundred miles
I've been on the radio and TV
I've lost my job
I've been happy about said job loss
I got a new job
I switched careers
I did tons of breast cancer stuff
I experienced girl on girl action at a family wedding... (well, not me personally, but still)

What? WHAT?! WHAT?!?!?!? You say... Back the truck up, mack. Hit the tape deck and rewind, Casey Casem.

Relax, internet readers... all will be explained.

Over the next couple of weeks, I will be FINALLY posting all the posts I'd only half written this whole time. In order for it to make sense for any Susie Breast Cancer who stumbles upon this tome of wisdom, I wll be posting them according to their original dates. Starting all the way back in October/November. So what do you do if you're trying to catch up?

Scroll the hell down until you get to the first post you don't recognize. Read. Repeat.

Happy reading :)

Benign Neglect

2008-03-02T21:38:00.000-05:00

If you talk to my little brother, the youngest of 4, he'll tell you he suffered from benign neglect. By the time he rolled along, my parents were too tired and too busy to pay as much attention to him. He'll tell you that's not always a bad thing. He got away with a whole lot more.

Some of you have been asking me for more pictures! Well, here's some pictures of our little case of benign neglect... Rugby. As opposed to the other dogs, our picture taking has gone from zillions with Kylie, our first, to just a few of Rugby. I think we went about 6 months without nary a candid. But anyway, he's turning into quite the nice dog. He's about 9 months old here.

Yes, he sits on the couch. Kind of like a person. He's not really into boundaries.

The oldest and the baby... he's bigger than Kylie already.

The hazing's a bitch

2008-02-27T22:56:00.000-05:00

You want to cause a ruckus at an event? Wear a t-shirt with swear words on it. When I was in college, I was on the student activities funding committee... I know - sounds like a ton of fun. We were charged with giving out hundreds of thousands of dollars to student organizations. We read dozens of grant proposals, and in a two week long marathon, we heard proposals and made recommendations. And got a little slap happy. After groups would leave after making their sometimes ridiculous proposals (I'm sorry, but I am SO not giving the Young Republicans 50 grand for Charlton Heston to come and spew his garbage. That bitch is an alum. Get him to come for free) we would talk amongst ourselves...

"Well, when we fuck this group up the ass and deny most of their proposal, will we do it with a little lube or no lube?"

Answer: No lube. Denied.

We got so feisty and we had bonded so much, we made t-shirts to wear at our presentation to the student government. "SAFB: Free the money bitches!"

You would have thought we spun those hefty tees ourselves from looms of gold. Pictures in the paper with BITCHES splayed prominently across my (unbeknown st to me cancer growing) chest.

It began a long history of me and inappropriate words in print.

So, as I grow older and "ahem" wiser... it came time to design a t-shirt for the Atlanta contingent of the Young Survival Coalition to wear at our annual conference. A few women had joked about never being in a sorority. Well, drawing on my sorority knowledge as well, I made up t-shirts with big greek letters on the front standing for Atlanta Young Survivors.

And on the back?

Initiation Sucks and the Hazing's a Bitch.

But this sisterhood is for life.

Never mind the cheesy sisterhood closer... it was all about the naughty words. We wore these bad boys to the conference - all 12 of us, and again - looms of gold.

It's like Beevis and Butthead...

hu hu hu. You said "sucks."

hu hu "and bitch"

I recently returned from the 8th Annual Conference for Young Women Affected by Breast Cancer. Famous t-shirt aside, it was a great conference. But different. Last year I was mostly alone and just getting into this "Cancer" thing. I took tons of notes, I soaked it all up. This year, I shepherded a dozen women from Atlanta. I didn't learn as much as I made sure the people I helped bring were getting something out of it. I met up with "cancer friends" who I now see regularly at these things. Instead of it being this whole world I had only discovered, it was a bit like coming back to your hometown for a reunion. Well, one full of people you actually like, that is.

Check us out, bitches!!!

Y-Me

2008-02-22T20:00:00.000-05:00

When I was on strike and I had a lot of time on my hands, I decided to take on some more volunteer work. See, when I was diagnosed, I didn't do any "support" stuff. I did go online at breastcancer.org and chatted in a chat room. But other than a couple very wonderful women who emailed me through my initial steps, I didn't do support groups, go to Gilda's club, contact Komen, race or make strides for anything. I just did my thing.

And upon reflection, it was pretty fucking isolating. I mean, I lived 3 hours from where I got treated. I didn't have close friends anywhere near me. In fact, I didn't even have a friend I could call where I lived. I knew no one who had had breast cancer - no one I knew well, that is. And I sure as hell didn't have any exposure to anyone my age with breast cancer.

I had my husband. And my family. Well, most of them, at least. And I had a good friend who had recently finished treatment for lymphoma. Both he and my aunt were good for commiserating about chemo. Neither of them had disfiguring surgery. Or hormonal therapy for 5 years. On the whole, I didn't really have a "community" belong to - people to connect with. Nothing.

And I never realized how much I needed that until I finished treatment. Ironic, huh?

So as I get further and further out from treatment, it's occurred to me how much I want to help other people along the path. So I've been doing that in numerous ways... one of them is currently my favorite way to volunteer.

I am now a trained Y-Me peer hotline counselor. What? Well, let's say you have breast cancer. Or think you might. Or have a friend who does. And you have no one to talk to. You go online and search for breast cancer support. You might find the Y-Me website. Y-Me is the oldest breast cancer support organization in existence. Anyway, you see on their site that you can call this hotline anytime, 24-7 and speak to a breast cancer survivor. So you pick up your phone and call 1-800-221-2141 and...

"Hi, this is Courtney. How can I help you?"

Insert imaginary conversation here.

So yeah. I flew to Chicago where they trained me in everything from basic cancer knowledge to how to deal with crank callers. I am currently in the process of setting up my home network to accept calls via VOIP. As in, I sit in my jammies and answer calls through my computer.

Yep, that's right. Volunteering from your house. In your yoga pants.
Helping people from the comfort of your own home.

Fan - freaking - tastic.

So if you have breast cancer and need help, give us a call. I just may be on the other line.

Why, oh why do I open my big mouth?

2008-02-19T19:41:00.001-05:00

I know, I know... it's a question you've been asking yourself now for years.

Even in grade school, when I got straight A's in subjects such as spelling and handwriting, I got 2s and 3s (scale of 1-4) on effort and conduct.

In short, I'm a slacker with a big mouth. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

So what's the most recent incident? Well, when I was at the YSC conference, someone was talking about the Tour de Pink, a 200 mile bike ride from Hershey, PA to New York City. It's the Young Survival Coalition's annual event to raise funds and awareness for young women with breast cancer. Sounds cool, I said. Wow - 200 miles.

Shit, I'll do it! Sign me up.

Never mind the fact I haven't been on a bike since I got my driver's license. Or that I'm not in great shape. Or that I have a serious problem with full body spandex, for charity or otherwise. Sure, let's do it.

So I'm going to ride 200 miles on a bike. Over "rolling hills." In cycling shorts.

I'm a fucking moron. Seriously. I should have jumped from another plan if I wanted to prove anything else.

Thankfully, I'm not the only one. I'll be one of 150 riders. Two of which will be my husband and my father. I know, a collective sigh of cuteness for my daddy riding with me. My dad's into cycling. He'll be fine. Alan has a bike we bought when we first moved back to the states.

He's ridden it 4 times in 4 years.

But Alan's super excited. I think it's just an excuse for more toys. Shoes and clippy things and jerseys, oh my!

So Alan and I recently went out and purchased two road bikes They are much fancier than my schwinn 10-speed. We bought them on the one day it snowed in Atlanta. And Alan insisted that we put on hats and gloves and ride in freezing cold.

Great. This will be so fun.

Will there be drinks at this thing?

Strike's Over!!!!

2008-02-17T00:01:00.001-05:00

So.... I'm back to work. The strike's over. I should be happy, right? Well, I am. Yes, yes, I am. But I can't help feeling this overwhelming - hmm, I don't know. Anger, maybe? Anger because we were on strike for so long for a deal that wasn't all that great. Anger because I'm back to working with and for people who scabbed while I spent my savings and went into debt. Anger because there was a clause about protecting daytime jobs that we lobbied for that wasn't included in the final deal.

So yeah, I guess I'm still angry. Shut up, Courtney! At least you have a job!! Well, sure... for now. Because coming back to work now is a different story. It's a land where "the strike taught us we don't need as many people." and "expect changes." and "if anyone thinks of giving your (scabbing) headwriters grief, you might as well leave. They saved the show."

Well, I guess you can imagine it's not all sunshine and rainbows back at work. Things are tense. And I've only been back a few days. There's drama. And the one thing I LOVED about my job before was that there was very limited drama... off the screen that is.

I found I've lost some of my love of the genre. See, one of the arguments for scabbing is that a prolonged break would kill soap operas. That is they went off the air for 3 months, no one would come back.

I was sort of that girl. While on strike, I didn't watch the show. That would be part of what I'm paid for. No work, no watch. And it's hard to catch up. Hard to care about stories that played out without my involvement. In a way, that makes me like any other viewer.

On the flip side, I'm glad to get a paycheck. But maybe part of the problem is that in the past few months I've realized just how ridiculous my job is. Fuck, I write for soap operas. Not exactly changing the world, you know? So maybe my healthy respect for my profession has tarnished a little.

Maybe I need to stop sounding like a little bitch. And get back to work.

Happy Cancerversary to me!

2008-02-16T17:02:00.004-05:00

Where's my cake? I love me some cake. Exactly 2 years ago today I was diagnosed with cancer. How am I celebrating said important day, you ask? Well, I'm trying to catch up on the tons of scripts and shows that someone else wrote while I was on strike. I'm cleaning up my house. I'm doing some laundry.

Business as usual.

How fucking great is that?

Since my last cancerversary, things have been pretty up and down in cancerland. I've lost people. I've celebrated triumphs. I've run the gamut of emotions. But if anything could describe this past year, it might be that I began my transition from my own cancer experience to guiding the way for others. And with each cancerversary, I celebrate. For me and for them.

Again, cake.... anyone? Anyone?

Super Tuesday

2008-02-08T12:43:00.001-05:00

Dude, rarely in Georgia do I feel like I'm in the mecca of political happenings - the hotbed of the democratic process, if you will. But today? Today was a great day. Today I stood in line with my neighbors and took part in the political process. Today I waited for almost an hour to touch that screen and have my say. Today, I stood with people of all colors, languages and backgrounds - I live in what is commonly referred to as an "up and coming" or "diverse" district. We stood there and not once did I hear someone bitch about the wait. Or about needing to get back to their job/kids/life. We had a job to do.

So I cast my vote And collected the "I'm a Georgia Voter" sticker. Here in Georgia, the sticker has a little peach on it. And wore it proudly in a way I never wear my Ash Wednesday Catholic ashes.

And this evening, as I grabbed some popcorn and watched "the best political team on television," I smiled. As Georgia closed their polls 1 hour before any of the other states, I watched as Wolf and Lou and Anderson (yum!) broke down my state, county by county. I held a certain amount of pride as they analyzed Georgia for an hour. And when they put up that Georgia map and talked about the 1400 votes just received from a district in Cobb County, I was satisfied that I had done my part.

Because in all this politics... and sure, there's a lot of bullshit too , it all comes down to this.

Standing in line with my neighbor, doing our civic duty. One by one.

No matter who you vote for, you can't say it doesn't matter. You can't say it's not important. You can't say it doesn't count. Not this year.

And that feels pretty damn good.

Dance Dance Party Party

2008-02-08T12:14:00.002-05:00

Okay, cuz I either
a. Don't have enough to do
b. Have too much time on my hands
c. Spend too much time listening to the 80s and 90s channels on XM radio

I'm embarking on a new adventure.

It's called Dance Dance Party Party

It was originally started in New York by a couple of kick ass twinkies. A friend of mine saw it in a magazine and we contacted them and, VOILA! We are starting the official DDPP chapter this month in Atlanta.

I know, kinda of a crazy name, but it’s a cheap and easy chance for women to get together and break it down. Think the all the fun of dancing with your girlfriends at a club minus the steep cover and sleazy guys bumping and grinding on you. Seriously, just put on some music and go to town. Roger Rabbit anyone? Electric Slide? Whatever!

"What is this again? I don't get it."

Well, for $5 on a Sunday afternoon, chicks get together and dance their asses off. No, it's not a “class.” No instruction, just great music and your own personal rhythm. Any woman is welcome. You can have zero “dance experience” or you can do triple pirouettes in the corner. Each session, someone else will dj... imagine itunes playlists full of your favorite old school hits. Here's an example playlist...

Yes, that IS the song from the end of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun."

This is totally something that’s sweeping the country right now – just look at all the other locations!

The first party is February 17th at Gotta Dance Atlanta. MARK YOUR CALENDARS! Then run, do not walk to your email contact list and pass it on to anyone you know!!!

If you don't live in the ATL, go to the site and see if there's a DDPP near you. If not, contact the ladies in New York and start your own.

Leg Warmers and Slap Bracelets optional.

Politics make me hot.

2008-02-05T14:26:00.002-05:00

Anyone who's known me long enough knows I dig on politics. I get jazzed about the speeches, the debating, the ass kicking. Growing up, I never saw a campaign I didn't like. In the sixth grade, I ran as Michael Dukakis in our mock presidential debates. In our school wide vote, the Duke got his ass kicked. But not in the sixth grade. The Duke in '88, baby.

In high school, despite running for class and student body president every year (and getting repeatedly beaten by some drunken boy), I was voted "Most Likely to become President." How's that for irony? Apparently, my class felt that regular losses would better prepare me for a future in politics.

During the infamous election of 2000, I was on cruise ships, desperately clutching my donkey beanie baby a friend had sent me. Instead of socializing in the piano bar, I sat in front of the casino television... waiting up for hours. We all know how that ended.

4 years later, I told my then new husband that there was no way I could get it on after election night. We had spent hours in front of CNN. I just wasn't in the mood. Nothing's a cock block more than a Bush in office.

In my cancer journey, it was my first trip to the National Breast Cancer Coalition's Advocacy weekend in D.C. where I realized I could combine breast cancer AND politics. I came home so fired up I was burning.

This year, Alan knows that a broadcast debate means no cuddles on the couch, no "quality time." Quality time means debating the issues. Watching the pundits. Occasionally throwing something or yelling at the screen like it's the Super Bowl. Explaining to my fiscally conservative husband that yes, taxes are necessary. And if hates them so much, he can move back to England and pay even more.

So, when I heard that Bill "Slick Willy" Clinton was speaking only 45 minutes from my house, I had to go. Even if no one else could go with me. I drove by myself. I spent 20 minutes parking. I waited in line outside - in what could only be described as a New Kids on the Block concert circa 1989. (okay, so it could be described differently, but that's now how I saw it.) Seriously, SWARMS of people. A line around the building. I struggle to believe that Kennesaw State University ever had that kind of crowd for a basketball game.

I actually got a seat and waited for the former President to speak. And he did. He looked old. I wondered about that "charisma" everyone talks about. Then again, sitting behind a desk in the Oval office would make almost anyone hot. The best part of the evening? When he stopped for a beat and said,

"You know, it's easy to get distracted when you're President."

Snicker, snicker.

Bill spent a lot of time talking about health care. And the ideas made sense. Electronic records saving billions of dollars. Opening the congressional health plan to everyone. I liked that, too.

Above all, I got fired up. About the ability of people to make a difference. About "change"... or whatever that means. It made me want to run out and run for office myself. And when the rally was over, I talked to members of the Hillary staff. (A staff that did not email once during the next few days even after I volunteered to help... hmmm) I chatted as throngs of people waited for a quick word with Willie. Like he was a fucking rock star.

Cuz you know what? Even now, even a little too old, tired... Bill had something. I have had many conversations with my father about "poor Monica" and how she must have been taken advantage of. That's what he thought. Then I told him if the President gave me the opportunity to get on my knees in the Oval office, I'd be running under the desk so fast, Bill wouldn't have time to unzip his pants.

My father was mortified.

Tee hee.

What can I say? Politics get me hot.

Why We Write...

2008-02-02T17:30:00.002-05:00

I've had some time to reflect on my work in the months that I haven't had any. In my constant pursuit to do what I can from my tiny little corner of the world, I submitted this piece to Why We Write, a blog started to rally the troups in the union and beyond. Every day, a different (and usually more important) writer is featured with their take on why we do this whole crazy thing and why it's worth it. Me, of course, because I have a pretty strong opinion on my union, I had to submit something involving the "big C."

Oh, for fuck's sake, you say. Does EVERYTHING have to be about cancer?

Well, if you're going to have that attitude, you should probably stop reading this cancer blog.

Besides, what doesn't scream "Norma Rae union propaganda" like telling the poor story of a woung woman with cancer.

I am SO not done playing this card.

Okay, so long story short, Why We Write published my essay today. I strongly encourage you to check out the site and read all the other essays. If you're too lazy, here's mine... (ps, yeah yeah, I know they spelled my name wrong. I'm over it.)

Number 36

Today’s piece is written by Courtney Bulger, a writer on “All My Children.” Her blog can be found at www.biographyofbreastcancer.com.

I never thought of being a writer. When I was young and blissfully ignorant, I thought I was going to be a star on Broadway. After all, I did have the lead in the high school production of “Oklahoma!” I attended college and found that acting wasn’t nearly as interesting as being in charge. Besides, I wanted to eat cheeseburgers and I didn’t want to spend my life always looking for a job. So I did production. Then I graduated. I worked on cruise ships. I was Julie McCoy. I can call one mean game of bingo. When I moved back to the real world, it was time to be an adult. Sort of. A very wise woman said to me, “You know, I do this writing thing. You might be good at it. Why don’t you give it a try?” So I did. I worked on soap opera scenes late at night after a long day of selling cars. Yep, I sold cars. After all, my resume of ass kicker and professional partier wasn’t exactly 9-5 material.

I wrote scenes about someone coming back from the dead, someone in a coma, someone stealing someone’s baby… you know – soap opera stuff. And after each draft, I would send it off to this very smart woman who would in turn tear it to shreds. More red than my current bank account. And I’d try it again. And again. Until little by little, I got better. Good enough to show people. And not to embarrass her. And I realized I liked it. No one even had to say these words aloud. Just the mere process… it was creative, it was challenging and it was fun as hell.
And lo and behold, the very day after I quit that job selling cars, I was offered a writing gig. My first. For real. Like they would actually pay me money to put words down on paper. And I would work from home. In my yoga pants! With episodes of 90210 on TV in the background. And for the first time since I graduated from college, I might actually be able to pay my bills.

Life has a funny way of smacking you back in your place the minute you think it’s all together. Only a few months after I joined the Writers Guild of America, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. One month after my 29th birthday. Suddenly, my job was the least of my worries. Instead of worrying about deadlines and story arcs, I was worrying about chemo and radiation and… well, living. Suddenly, Erica Kane’s latest man or Kendall’s current drama were inconsequential. I had bigger fish to fry. Big huge tumor sized fish. Incidentally, the only thing I didn’t worry about was my job and insurance. The WGA picked up over two hundred grand in bills. After I had paid maybe a whopping six hundred dollars. No questions asked. It was the first time I had even had health insurance since graduating from college. My boss and my team cut me slack, gave me support and reminded me that we aren’t always the cynical bastards we say we are.

I started writing more. Not just witty dialogue and lines to pluck the heartstrings. I wrote about me. About life. Cancer. In the short time I’d been a professional writer, I’d realized the way I could communicate to my friends, my family and the world… I would write. I blogged all through my cancer treatment and beyond. What I couldn’t say aloud, I wrote. Writing allowed me to vent, to process, to be scared. And it made me laugh. Writing gave me an outlet for all the emotions I was too “tough” to say out loud. Writing was healing.

Oh, my God. I really was a writer.

And that spilled over into my “day job.” When Erica sat by Kendall’s hospital bed, I thought of my own mother, and the look on her face when I came out of my own surgery. When Greenlee talked about not having a family, it was me. Soap operas weren’t just plot and grand schemes and ridiculous twists. It was life. It was messy. It was scary. Those characters on the page – on the screen – they were more real to me than ever. It sounds cliché, but believe me, if I had an actor to read this article, it would sound good, I swear.

And I formed an allegiance to my job. My team. My union. The people who made my horrific ordeal tolerable. The people who made it possible for me to be treated and treated well. There are too many people in this world who don’t have insurance or job security or understanding headwriters. In essence, being a writer saved my life.

So that’s why I write. I will gladly make sacrifices to make sure that twenty years from now, when some other first time writer finds themselves in my position, they have health insurance to take care of them. That they have a union to protect them. And that they have the same opportunity to find themselves that I did.

(STEPPING OUT OF THE TEXTILE MILL)

Taking the eggs out of the basket...

2008-02-01T14:01:00.002-05:00

So it's decided. I'm yanking these babies out. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, I suggest you read this first. Literally, yanking out babies. Or possible babies. I am signing up for permanent menopause at 31. All my friends' moms - let's chat about hot flashes together. Or that post menopausal ring around the middle.

Only, I'm doing it by choice. Put me in coach, I'm ready to play. Never one to do things halfway, you know.

Is it also wrong that I'm so looking forward to that little IV of heaven they'll give me before surgery? Delicious. I haven't had a good hospital procedure in a while. I miss my opportunities to get legally high.

I'm going to meet a surgeon at Northwestern in March. Probably having the procedure the end of that month. While college kids around the country will be spring breaking, I will be hanging out on my parent's couch, vaguely reminiscent of my first surgery in this drama two years ago.

Only this time, I'm doing it on my terms. I like that. I'm in charge. I'm being proactive. I'm taking the bull by the fallopian tubes. (okay, I know a BULL doesn't have fallopian tubes, excuse the mixed metaphor.)

Some people may say it's extreme, some won't understand. I will bet you if you talk to any young woman who's faced breast cancer, it doesn't seem that crazy. And I don't know a woman yet who's regretted it.

You ever see that "Friends" episode where Phoebe is convinced some old dead woman is in her body and needs to see everything? Think first season. Well, I think perhaps I'll spend the next month or so showing my ovaries everything. We'll toss out that box of tampons sitting under my bathroom sink. We'll use up the last of any birth control we'll ever use. (well, it won't me "just" me and my ovaries) We will take that "Taking charge of your fertility" book and burn it in some weird ceremony that might involve interpretive dance. We'll look up to the gods of fertility and hormones and wish them the best of luck in the future.

I'll tell my ovaries stories of this tumor named Maria. And how Maria wasn't really doing me any favors either. So I had to kick her to the curb. And my ovaries, we'll call them Natasha and Svetlana (for some reason, I'm thinking my ovaries are Eastern Block) - my ovaries will one day visit Maria in the great pathology lab in the sky.

If anyone has ideas on what else my ovaries should see before I let them go, let me know.

Red, red wine...

2008-01-31T20:17:00.003-05:00

Here's a funny image. No, it's not CSI: Atlanta. No, there's no body.

What is that? You say. It's my carpet. My light neutral, cookie cutter subdivision carpet covered in red wine. A LOT of red wine. Like about 15 feet of red wine.

What you're viewing is our first attempt to save the carpet - covering the stains in salt. You know that $10 buys a SHITLOAD of salt?

Needless to say, it didn't work. Neither did professional cleaning. In fact, the carpet guys laughed when I showed them the room. Ha. Yeah, real funny. I'm pissing myself.

Just what I needed only a couple of weeks after the infamous tree incident. Oh, and did I mention I still don't have a job? Awesome.

How did this happen, you ask? Well, Alan was trying to "save money" by purchasing wine in a box. There's a family debate here at the Buglers about who left the box on the counter. We arrive home to this. And dogs who look oddly guilty. But not drunk. No, they spilled more of the wine than they drank.

Remember how I was trying to be zen about the whole "no job" thing? Well, this is a challenge, even for me. I spent the day looking at new carpet. Oh, well. Freaking great.

On the flip side, you know the Friends episode where Rachel freaks out about spilling spaghetti on Joey's carpet? "Don't worry, we're at Joey's!"

I'm having spaghetti tonight.

Professor Bugler

2008-01-29T21:41:00.003-05:00

When I was in college, I had a group of friends from home. We had all met doing "West Side Story" in some ridiculous community theater production. As we went through school and found careers, etc., I was struck by one thing. Somehow, we all ended up on jobs that put us center stage. One is actually a real working actor. I worked on cruise ships and had my own shopping channel. And one friend was a teacher. We all secretly agreed that this friend became a teacher because he reveled in being the cool teacher. The one you could talk to. The one who said the occasional off color joke. Essentially, this person became a teacher because he loved the idea of being adored by a group of people. He didn't just teach, he performed.

Me, I never wanted to teach. I don't have the patience. Oh, grading papers. That just sounds horrific to me. I come from a family of college professors... in fact, my parents were both college teachers before they gave up the world of academia for the "real world." In fact, I don't have the discipline to deal with kids. Of any age. However, if teaching meant just hanging out and shooting the shit with students, then maybe.

That's what I've done the past couple of weeks. In my effort to do my part for the WGA and spread union propaganda, I've gone to a few local universities and talked to classes about writing and the strike. It's been pretty fun, actually. They're so young and into it. Looking out into the classroom - as a visiting "artist" no less - reminds me just how far I've come. For better or worse.

Then again, it's all the same. Someone's falling asleep, a couple look hung over, someone's taking WAY too many notes, some dork is asking too many questions... college doesn't change. But they asked some pretty good questions. And I felt good when I left. Like I had done something for the cause. Or maybe it's just being in front of a group of people. Or maybe it was doing something that didn't have to do with cancer. Whatever.

Although here's the funny thing. One professor asked me if I'd ever thought about teaching. I just laughed. He told me he'd contact me about possibly teaching a seminar class for a semester. Now that's funny. What? Lesson plans, syllabi, papers... oh, I don't think so. Then there's the whole mentoring, shaping young minds bullshit. Maybe. Can I have classes at the bar? How can you be in the "business" without booze?

Considering I once attended a midterm for a class I had not even once attended, maybe I'm not the best role model. Really. I didn't even have the book.

The class - human sexuality. I got a B. Real world training, I suppose.

Professor Bugler. Seriously, I'm still laughing.

Still on strike

2008-01-14T19:00:00.001-05:00

Here I go... week 8 or 8 or 10 of this strike. Still no job. Collecting unemployment. Yep, on the dole. Blowing through savings, racking up debt. And you know what? I'm not that unhappy. Stressed and worried, but not unhappy.

I've been doing tons and tons of cancer stuff. Lots of volunteer work. Traveling. Who knew this cancer thing would turn into my greatest social outlet?

God, I would make a freaking great trophy wife. Hear that, Alan? Trophy wife. We are in the south, after all. Unfortunately, that's not in my future anytime soon.

The thing is... this being off from work has made me realize I'm not sure I love my work. What my work gives me, sure... work from home, autonomy, a creative outlet - and a good paycheck. Ooh, and don't forget insurance. But I don't exactly change the world, you know. Writing for television - especially daytime TV is a good gig. But it's a gig. It's like when I started spending time with professional actors out of college. And I was sad that they seemed to have lost the fire for the "art" they once had when they did it for free. Maybe I'm that girl? Or maybe it's just been so long since I've worked I'm getting bitter.

So maybe the strike will end soon. A girl can dream. Cuz you can only eat Kraft mac and cheese so much.

Seriously.... trophy wife. Think about it.

Young Survival Coalition

2008-01-12T17:04:00.001-05:00

The spring of my junior year in college, all hell broke loose in my life. I had recently broken up with my college boyfriend of 3 years... "beret boy" as my brothers called him. (It wasn't a beret, per sae, but an unfortunate late nineties, boy band-esque fashion choice) Anyway, my grandmother died, I had just taken on a very large student project. A very intense acting partner tried to sleep with me after 2 bottles of wine. Then never called when I didn't. In other words, I was overtaxed and overstressed.

So what do you do when you're spread thin? Shit, grab a knife and keep spreading!

Back to my junior year... it was the last sorority chapter meeting of the year. I was enjoying my new found non exec position and a bit of a breather. I had recently finished a successful rush season. Yep, I wore my cutey petutie scarves and jackets and judged women in about .4 seconds.

The best laid plans...

See, my protege, the woman I had groomed to take over my rush legacy -- shut up, that shit seemed VERY important when you're 21. Anyway, she decided to carry on my legacy by quitting not only the position, but the whole organization at the very last meeting. Perhaps she was pissed we had disciplined her best friend for giving a blow job in the front room of the sorority house in front of the big window for everyone to see. And they did. I digress...

Mon dieu! 100 college women with no rush leader?! What's a girl to do? With a room full of people freaking out, I decided to suck it up and take one for the team.

"Me. Sign me up. I'll be rush chair again."

Never mind I had already done it. Or that it was a fucking recockulous amount of work. Or that sorority rush happens three weeks before the huge show I was producing opened. Whatever. I'll do it. Some of my closer friends were worried I was taking on too much. Too much? That's fucking silly. It's rush, not rocket science. I saw the look in people's faces when I said I'd do it. Relief. Crisis averted. Courtney knows what the fuck she's doing. Hey, school's out for summer.

And you know what? I don't think I slept for 6 months. I didn't attend winter classes until the midterm. It was nuts, crazy and fucked up.

And I loved every minute of it.

So what does this have to do with my life now? Well, you know, the more things change, the more they stay the same. So... I told you I went to the YSC affiliate conference, right? Well, you're looking at the new president of the YSC Atlanta chapter. Our previous leader was tired and had given so much of herself... it was time for her to have a life. And me? A life is overrated. And I'm super excited to help the organization grow. And help more woman. Different time, same expectant faces. But hell, this sorority needs a leader. So put me in coach, I'm ready to play!

To ooph or not to ooph...

2008-01-08T10:36:00.001-05:00

Ooph? Aren't those the little orange guys in Willie Wonka's chocolate factory?

It's short for oophorectomy. And no, that's not some STD i caught working on cruise ships.

Oophorectomy - the surgical removal of the ovaries.

Huh? Ovaries? Aren't those, like "necessary" to the usual workings of a premenopausal woman? Don't you need them for those babies you were just talking about?

Funny, enough... no and no.

Here's the deal. You wouldn't think these go together, but with all this talk about babies, I've also started thinking about taking out my ovaries.

Let's talk cancer for a second, shall we? My breast cancer was highly estrogen positive. Cancer eats it up like stove top stuffing after a night at the bar. (Funny how I keep using alcohol analogies for cancer) The current clinical trial I'm in is looking at how depriving your body of this estrogen would help prevent recurrence. It's looking like it might. We don't know. I do know however, that many people have already had this procedure. Seems a little extreme, you think. Fuck, maybe it is. But I've already been in menopause for a year and a half... what's the difference?

Wait, wait... Courtney, how can you get knocked up, then? Ah hah, Danielson... remember what I taught you. You recall the harvest? The frozen kidcicles? Those 18 snow babies waiting on ice? We'd use those. Hell, when I spoke to my fertility doctor, his response was "you'd still have a uterus, right? That's all I need."

So, I'm thinking about taking out my ovaries to put me in menopause, then using my frozen embryos to get me pregnant, post cancer. No ovaries. Like some fucked up science project.

What's the point? Why not do it "the old fashioned way" and then yank them? Well, as some of you might remember, Alan and I were "trying" very hard before I got diagnosed. No love. The longer it takes to try, the longer I am off my anti-cancer drugs. Then I'm off them for another 9 months, time to breast feed (there's a post for another day.) If it takes us 6 months just to get pregnant, that's 6 more months I'm not on tamoxifen.

Also, I guess yanking the estrogen factories from my body makes me feel like I'm doing SOMETHING to fight recurrence while I try to get pregnant. Sure, while I'm baking that bun I'll be hopped up hormones, but that will happen no matter what. I guess it's the pre-knocked up-post baby phase I'm concerned with. And if I'm using the frozen variety, then why the hell do I need the other ones? Doesn't frozen from concentrate taste almost as good as fresh squeezed?

So anyway, with this in mind, Alan and I made a visit to our friendly local reproductive endocrinologist over Christmas. Well, not local really. My kidcicles are parked in Chicago. He seemed to be all for it. I've scheduled an appointment with a gynecologic oncologist to talk more about an oophorectomy... yay! another doctor!

So.... decisions, decisions... Stay tuned!

Happy Effin Birthday!

2008-01-02T20:30:00.001-05:00

So last night, as Alan and I were winding down our New Year's Day, we heard this tremendous noise. Like a bomb went off, or a jet engine flew by. The house rattled. Our very sleepy dogs all looked up. Alan and I opened the bedroom window and looked outside.

Nothing.

We looked at each other, shrugged and went to bed.

So this morning, I woke up - bright eyed and bushy tailed - it is, after all, my 31st birthday. Downstairs I went.

Man, it's fucking cold. Even for Atlanta. I go into my office to check my email, cuz, after all, I'm still not working - and

BAM!

That's the noise we heard last night. That's why the house was cold. Oh, wait... because a tree fell into my it. Apparently, trees are heavy and put holes in roofs, windows and air conditioning units.

Yes, that's my 2 a/c units. looking much like cups of coffee with cinnamon sticks coming out. Only it's $6000 of coffee.

Did I mention I'm still not working? Or that my dog Lucy has to have a $3000 knee surgery? Or than I'm not working? Or that unemployment SO DOES NOT cover these types of things?

Trying to be zen here. Trying to be zen.

When it rains, it pours. In this case, it rains branches and sticks. Happy Fucking Birthday.

Christmas is ruined!

2007-12-28T18:19:00.000-05:00

Ask a member of my family for some family lore, and they will utter the following phrases...

- "we spit on the weak!"
Said by a fairly tipsy aunt about the strength of the family members and the lack thereof of others

- "the golden child"
Referring to my older brother - the one whose shadow we all live in

and the all time favorite -

CHRISTMAS IS RUINED!!!

Why is this so vividly burned on our brains, you ask? Well, according to family history, one fateful Christmas eve, while the three youngest children slept, my oldest brother was helping my parents put presents under the tree. Somehow, and in my mind, it plays out in slow motion like the changing of the tire in "A Christmas Story" - the Christmas tree fell down.

As in over. With the ornaments, lights and all.

And my father doesn't deal all that well in crisis. So he proceeded to flip his shit out.

"Christmas is ruined!" he exclaimed.

Whereas my oldest brother, home from his freshman year of college and quite the smart ass, replied by saying something to effect of

"What do you mean, Christmas is ruined? It's not like anyone stole the presents!"

Way to keep your eye on prize, big guy.

My father, not one to let someone rain on his melodrama parade, didn't appreciate the musings of some 18 yr old punk, especially one who might have a point. So there was some escalation and some yelling. I'm pretty sure at one point, my father told my oldest brother to get out, my brother grabbed his coat. Perhaps my mother stood on a chair and screamed to get them both to listen. It's all legend at this point.

A few hours later, by the light of Christmas morning, the other children crept downstairs to check out the loot. There is was, heaped in all its glory, under a perfect Christmas tree.

Only I noticed the very tiny threads of fishing line securing the tree to the wall.

"Christmas is ruined!" reminds us all that while things look bad, dude - there's still presents. Helps us focus on what's important. And when another Christmas disaster strikes, we can call keep our mind on the loot in the morning.

Like this Christmas, when there was a minor dog scuffle at the parents house which ended in me taking Alan to the emergency room. On Christmas Eve.

Really, combining family tipsiness and dogs who don't know each other that well - hell, it was bound to happen, right? In fact, as my mother was demanding that Alan put his head between his legs to prevent fainting, my drunk little brother exclaimed, "Christmas is ruined!"

Actually, Alan only had a minor hand wound. But it was deep enough and Alan was pale enough to warrant a little trip to the ER and perhaps a tetanus shot. So off we went, over the river and through the woods, only grandmother's house looked a lot like a hospital waiting room.

Things I've learned about the ER in my hometown on Christmas eve:
-Speaking English is helpful but not required.

-Someone will remind you when you present your insurance card that
the last time you were there was February 14, 2006. No shit. Like I forgot about that.

Alan and I spent a surprisingly short time at the ER, thankfully - since Alan's buzz had worn off and the pain from his hand was pretty intense.

But you know what, I didn't go to the hospital for cancer and there were presents under the tree when we got home.

Fractal Patterns

2007-12-18T17:48:00.000-05:00

For those of you who didn't know, when i was just a wee one, I was quite the math and science prodigy. I was so far ahead in math in high school, they had to make an independent study for me. One where the teacher admitted I was smarter than her. That was the last day I paid attention to a word she said. I was a state science fair champ for like 6 years. My 6 years of work on fractal patterns caused a judge to ask if I was going to be a mathematician or perhaps go into science. I laughed.

Nope, going into theater school. Never to take math or science again. Except "the solar system" and biology for football players. Those don't count.

So many years later, after numerous career paths that never once included math or science, (unless you count calculating 20% interest rates on a used car) I find myself drawn to the science of breast cancer. In fact, I joke that I have an internet oncology degree. When I was diagnosed I spent hours on the web, researching everything I could find. After I finished treatment, I realized I only truly understood MY breast cancer. I was woefully uneducated in the other different types. How could I guide someone else if I didn't understand? How could I help them read their pathology reports, their treatment plans - anything?

So little by little, I researched. I learned about side effects, drugs, treatments, genetic tests - hell, I can even tell you the generic name of most chemo drugs. For any woman going through treatment, I could probably rattle off at least a couple clinical trials they could enroll in. And you know what? I found I really liked it. I don't know if it's that whole right/left brain thing or what. Or if I was so used to people coming back from the dead or some love triangle that it was refreshing to flex my cranial muscles.

So, the pinnacle of science nerdom, the epicenter of all things breast cancer is the San Antonio Breast Cancer Symposium, held every year in - you guessed it - the alamo city. Now, when I think of the Alamo, I think of Pee Wee's Big Adventure, or perhaps William Shattner in Miss Congeniality - but off I went on another trip to Texas for breast cancer.

It was like the ultimate science fair. It's the largest event for doctors, researchers, clinicians - really anyone that does anything with the big BC. 8000 professionals... yes, that's thousand. From all over the world. And only about 150 advocates. That's me. Every 15 minutes a new paper was presented, a new study discussed. Every 15 minutes from 8am-6pm. Then there's the mentor sessions where docs help us common folk understand the findings. Don't forget the working lunches, the symposium dinners, the stroll through drug company lane... all in all, it was breast cancer all day, all the time. For 4 straight days. It was exhausting. And exhilarating. I learned so much. And I was amazed at what I understood.

And the swag! If you want a mousepad, flashdrive, travel blanket, laser pointer... I have one for you. With the obligatory drug company logo, of course. That doesn't even count the pens, post its - you know, "lesser" gifts. All that money... it makes your head spin.

So I came home from San Antonio with a greater knowledge of breast cancer and a even greater desire to learn more.

But seriously, I could wow you with my work on fractal patterns and chaos theory :)

Baby Talk

2007-12-17T23:00:00.002-05:00

Alan and I have been having a pretty serious discussion lately. It revolves around babies. As in having them. For those of you hip to the beginning of this whole pink ribbon tale, you know that my world was pretty much ovulation kits and pee sticks before I was diagnosed.

Then the "big C" hit. And any and all plans went right out the window.

So here I am, almost 2 years out from my diagnosis, and so far so good. What does that mean for the fetus factory?

Well, it's a complicated thing. See, I'm hormone positive. Meaning, my cancer fed on estrogen like a high frat boy eats doritos. And pregnancy usually means skyrocketing hormone levels. At the same time, there's no real evidence that shows pregnancy has an adverse effect. Why don't we know for sure? Well, there just aren't enough hormone positive women who have babies after breast cancer to really show us anything. The perks of being special. Some doctors say absolutely no pregnancy. Thankfully, I don't see those doctors. Mine tend to go for a cautious optimism. If it's really a priority of mine, and they can't prove it will hurt me, then they can't stop me.

Pregnancy could very well raise my risk of recurrence. Or not. We just don't know. I guess I could be uber cautious... adopt, get a surrogate, go kid free. But I just can't. And yes, I know it's a risk. I guess it's a risk I'm willing to take. Why?

Because cancer has already taken enough from me, dammit. I refuse to let it take one thing more.

Now, the current thought it that I should continue on my hormonal therapy for 5 years. In fact, I'm in a clinical trial for just that. But all my doctors have told me I could take a "break" after 2 years and try for a kiddie. Pop out one or two, then close up shop for good. I could move to permanent menopause and take another kind of drug - one that's been shown to be a bit more beneficial in post menopausal women. Sounds like a plan to me.

I will say, however, that Alan and I are toying with the idea of stopping tamoxifen and my monthly menopause shots before the 2 full years of hormonal treatment. This seems totally against my usually harsh medical advice I dole out to others. Part of it is life stuff... it's just easier to do it sooner. Then there's the "if you're stopping the drugs early, what's a couple of months?" And maybe the prevailing thought for me is that breast cancer is a crap shoot. You can do everything right and it will come back. You blow off treatment and it never does. There's a bit of "shit happens."

So maybe I have the fatalistic approach of "if I'm going to get breast cancer again, I'll get it again."

Sure, could I get pregnant, get breast cancer again and kick myself? Yep.
But could I do everything right, never get breast cancer but not have a child either? Yep.

I guess I'd rather go through door #1.

I think a lot about getting breast cancer again with small kids. What it would do to them... and I suppose we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

Needless to say, Alan and I have a lot to think about.

Don't Mess with Texas!

2007-12-16T22:45:00.000-05:00

I recently embarked on my first real trip to Texas. Houston to be exact. The other other experience I had was driving through the panhandle on my way back from a brief stint living in L.A. Texas panhandle + hot car = not happy Courtney.

I traveled to Houston for the Young Survival Coalition's annual affiliate leadership conference. Yep, somehow in the middle of all these shenanigans, I've managed to become an "affiliate leader" here in Atlanta. Actually, I've somehow ended up in charge. I'm reminded of the "Friends" episode where Chandler falls asleep in a meeting and ends up going to Tulsa - you know, the "Paris" of Oklahoma.

In reality, I did offer to take this on. The current leadership needed some fresh blood... and there's a sucker born every minute. And I do have some tremendous experience leading a group of women to greatness (Welcome to Alpha Chi Omega, I'm Courtney, your Rush Chair.)

So off I go. To learn more about the organization, the only national non profit dedicated to the needs of young women diagnosed with breast cancer. Funny enough, that's me! And I really had a great time. Met awesome survivors from around the country, got some great training and left fired up about all the great things we could accomplish for women here in Atlanta.

And I got to to to a Tex-Mex bar complete with line dancing and a giant sparkling armadillo out front.

The Circus is Coming!

2007-12-15T18:19:00.002-05:00

READER: What are you doing lately, Courtney?

ME: Well, seeing as I have a little time on my hands, there's no better time to try something ridiculous!

READER: What would that be?

ME: What flies through the air with the greatest of ease?

READER: Um, I don't know... (insert some sort of circus freak joke here.)

ME: The answer is ... ME!!!!!

I've begun taking circus classes. Yes, that's in addition to the pole dancing. And no, Alan has not installed a trapeze from my two story family room ceiling... (but man, would that be cool!)

What does it involve? Well, there's the easy stuff, like juggling. I suck at juggling. Like SU-UCK! Alan's tried to help me. So far, no bueno. We do exercises in balance and stuff. We walk a tightrope... so far, it's only about 6 inches off the ground.

Then there's the good stuff. I've been working on the trapeze. I can now do this... this of course, is not me, but my teacher. I'll work on pictures another time.

In addition, I'm working hard on the Spanish web. That's the long rope that hangs from a very tall place. Eventually, I'm supposed to climb to the top, have it spin while I do all sorts of limb tangling tricks. Right now, it sort of reminds me of climbing to the top of the rope in junior high gym class. And I'm currently trying just to make it to the top. Apparently, breast cancer isn't great for upper body strength.

I'm still getting used to the almost full body spandex we're encouraged to wear. Pants get tangled in stuff when you try to climb. I've always believed that spandex is a privilege, not a right. And it is one I currently have not earned.

So while others do holiday shopping, send Christmas cards, and you know... work - I will swing upside down on stripper poles and fling myself on the trapeze.

Lions and tigers and bears! Oh, My!

Move over Norma Rae!

2007-12-12T16:46:00.001-05:00

Courtney goes picketing!

Since I was in New York anyway, you know - singing with Jon Secada and all - I figured I'd stay an extra day and do my union duty and picket. As if the WGA had consulted my very own calendar, they scheduled picketing outside my studio the very next day! Woo hoo, freezing my ass off in front of my own office, where cast and crew happily continue working in their cozy warm offices supplied with scripts written by also very warm scabs.

Now, I'm live south of the Mason-Dixon line now. I am not accustomed to the "chill" of December in New York. But I busted out my puffy North Face jacket like the midwestern kid I am, grabbed the gloves, hat and scarf that hadn't seen the outside of my closet in a couple of years and I was good to go.

Here's what I learned from my day of picketing. Picketing sucks. It's boring. People are bitter and angry. And apparently, no one in New York chants those cute "stick it to the man" rhymes like I've imagined. Maybe in L.A.

Walking in circles in the cold is horrible. And I don't care how many donuts Whoopi Goldberg sends out from "The View," it doesn't make up for the hours of walking in that little marked off section of sidewalk, knowing you're getting screwed.

And I only did it one day. One crappy day before flying home to my 70 degree southern oasis where no one requires me to do much of anything. It left me feeling a little bit guilty. After all, what's a WGA writer who doesn't live in New York or LA to do? Spread union propaganda, I suppose. So, if you're interested at all in the strike, check out these sites.

Deadline Hollywood Daily - written by a reporter for LA Weekly... it's the site for news and updates.

United Hollywood - started by union writers

$10 to the person who can name a Jon Secada song!

2007-12-11T16:03:00.000-05:00

I just returned from singing with Jon Secada. Who the fuck is he? I know, a valid question. You know, we could all remember the name, but not one person could think of the one hit wonder that made him an early 90s superstar. So I thought I would help you. According to Wikipedia, the bastion of all important knowledge, Jon Secada was launched into the latin pop scene (think pre Ricky Martin, Lou Bega) by Gloria Estefan and had the following mildly successful hits:

1992 "Just Another Day"
1992 "Do You Believe In Us"
1992 "Angel

What most people don't know is that if you a. get breast cancer, b. join a gospel choir and c. get invited to sing at the New York Stock Exchange Christmas Tree Lighting, you too could back Jon Secada up in "Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

Where am I, you ask? Middle Row, third from the left. Rocking out. To "A Holiday Classic with a Latin Flair."

Who says breast cancer isn't fun?

Here's the choir.

My friend Joy and me under the tree.

What are you up to, Courtney?

2007-12-06T15:18:00.002-05:00

I've been on strike for about a month now. Being on strike blows. Yep, there's some eloquence for ya. Hey big studios - give this out of work writer a job! What have you been doing while on strike, you ask?

Well, my kitchen cupboards are amazingly organized.
The drool is wiped off all the walls.
I've managed to only call my husband and annoy him about 4 times a day.
I check Deadline Hollywood Daily religiously. Like every other minute.
Did you know that there are these amazing systems to organize your garage?
Donna Martin graduates.
Sewing curtains. They're still not done, but more of a "work in progress."
There's this fabulous little pen that cleans your grout.
Maybe now's the time to finish my book proposal... oh, look - "clash of the choirs" is on!
I've finally made some itunes playlists.
Have you heard about this thing called Facebook?

Actually, the first couple weeks were great. Now that the news isn't good, and I've run out of free household tasks to accomplish, it's getting harder. Although I'm doing a ton of traveling in the next couple of weeks, so that will help. And I've been doing a whole lot of breast cancer stuff. I feel like I was a "trophy wife in training." Lots of volunteer work. Only no trophies to show for it.

Going back to work... that would be even better.

There I go again!

2007-12-05T17:32:00.001-05:00

It wouldn't be an interview with Courtney if she didn't say something PG-13 or above. Let's see, I've been quoted in print saying bitch, damn, ass, bastards... hmm. No shit or fuck yet. That I know of.

So I was mentioned on this month's MAMM Magazine. It's a magazine dedicated to cancer and women's issues. I know, a real page turner. But important.

Anyway, the article is titled I Can't Believe You Just Said That! by Sherry Baker.

Here's an excerpt with my perspective on what to do when people say something stupid. Like the person who said, "Well, at least I don't have cancer." to my face. My bald headed, chemo filled face.

Appalled at the thoughtless remarks she heard, Rosanne Kalick researched what people should say and do when interacting with a cancer survivor. She compiled the information in her book Cancer Etiquette: What to Say, What to Do When Someone You Know or Love Has Cancer. “I don’t think boneheaded remarks are said to be malicious. Instead, I think they mostly are the result of fear, shock and concern. Too often the first thing people think is spit out of their mouth,” says Kalick. “Words you might fluff off if you were well, hit you like iron if you have cancer. Compassionate communication is what is needed. What people say and do really does matter.”

Hankins says there isn’t one “correct” way to react to hurtful remarks. Instead, a woman has to find ways of coping that are natural and comfortable for her. “Some people can answer with a zinger, some ignore stupid comments or can laugh at them,” he says. “But some women are so devastated, they can’t make light of inappropriate remarks and may feel devastated for weeks.”

Not Courtney Bugler, 30, of Atlanta. “People speak before they think, but I don’t think I’ve ever gotten genuinely upset. So as hard as it is sometimes, I’d advise people to blow it off. You have more important things to worry about than someone’s stupidity. It’s not worth it,” says Bugler, who was diagnosed with stage II breast cancer in February 2006. “I do appreciate my support group because they do understand. When I share a story, you can see that understanding in their eyes. And you can bet your ass humor helps me deal with it.”

There we have it people... blow it off and swear.

Philanthropy

2007-12-01T21:48:00.005-05:00

It's very funny considering how my life is going, but it may surprise you to know that philanthropy hasn't always been my bag. In fact, it's pretty safe to say I never really gave a shit. When I was in college, I was the social chair and the rush chair... facts that probably don't surprise you. I planned parties. I judged women in .4 seconds. When the time for the sorority philanthropy rolled around, I conveniently had something else to do. I did not toss watermelons, cook chili or whatever other bullshit there was to raise money for charity. I did do the Dance Marathon my senior year, but that was only because I was sleeping with someone on the committee. Who was sleeping with someone else - but... I digress.

Point is, me and philanthropy don't really make sense. Not like ham and eggs, or Will Farrell and the jazz flute. So, imagine my surprise when Northwestern University called and asked to profile me for their annual report of donors.

Now, I will start by saying I am not a big donor. Not at all. I think maybe that at my age I donate at all is a big plus. I'm not quite sure why the development office creams their pants about me, but they do. Actually, I do know. One of college roommates works in the office. In fact, many of them read this blog. Hello, NU. I apologize for using the words Northwestern Development and "creams their pants" in the same sentence. Go Cats!

Okay, so Northwestern sent out this photographer... Jeff Gartin for those of you who'd like to know. We did a whole glamour shot photo shoot. We did all this stuff outside by my car. With lights. And umbrella things. My neighbors must have loved that. My profile picture is from this shoot. NU interviewed me for the donor spotlight. Wrote a whole big long thing.

So a couple months later, the annual report came. I found my page. I laughed out loud. For a long time.

A. They made me seem awfully adult. I mean, they somehow make partying and not having a real career seem totally normal.

B. I still managed to reference things mildly inappropriate.

C. They used the term "service and philanthropy." That's what got me. Ha! If the other co-hosts of Halloween pumkin gut wrestling could see me now.

So, here... reprinted from Northwestern for your reading pleasure. I will say, if you're an NU alum, you should really throw them a bone. You get glamour shots!

“If I think of a period in my life that has shaped who I am, what I do with my life, who I go to for advice … it’s my four years at Northwestern,” says Courtney Relihan Bugler.

As a theatre major in the School of Communication and as a member of Alpha Chi Omega sorority, Bugler became acquainted with a diverse group of friends. “What I gained at Northwestern was exposure to many different people I would not have met otherwise. Some of my best friends in the world are the ones I met through Northwestern. And then there are all the stories that go along with them! My favorites ones … those probably wouldn’t be appropriate for print!”

Following graduation, Bugler took a circuitous path to pursue her love for performing arts. While working in Los Angeles as an event planner, she kept her theatre skills honed by producing a review for Northwestern in her free time. She then served a stint working as an activities director on cruise ships, before returning to her native Illinois where fellow alumna Megan McTavish (Communication 71) hired her to write for ABC Television’s All My Children — the daytime soap opera created by alumna Agnes Nixon (Communication 44).

Now that she’s back in the industry she loves, Bugler uses her free time to advocate for young women with breast cancer — a disease with which she was diagnosed a few weeks after her 29th birthday. She originally received care at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, then completed her treatment in Atlanta, where she relocated with her husband, Alan, for his new job. She is currently training to become a crisis counselor for the Y-Me National Breast Cancer Organization. In October 2007, with two Northwestern friends by her side, she participated in the Breast Cancer 3-Day walk benefiting Susan G. Komen for the Cure.

Bugler’s life experiences inspire her service and philanthropy. “I’ve been very fortunate, and I feel it is my duty to support others in pursuing similar opportunities that were available to me,” she says. “Why wouldn’t we, as alumni, give what we can to provide other students the same opportunities?”

Bugler has supported the School of Communication Annual Fund, the Theatre/Interpretation Center, and the Student Life Gift Fund — all areas in which she participated while at Northwestern. “Giving to the areas of Northwestern that influenced me the most is my note of thanks and appreciation.”

Freaking hysterical.

Breast Cancer Caucus

2007-11-15T17:14:00.006-05:00

I've become something of a single issue voter. Health Care. Breast Cancer and Health Care. That's why I've become so involved in the National Breast Cancer Coalition. Hence why I'm passing on one of my greatest tools for voting this season.

It's called the The Breast Cancer Caucus. Go to the website. Read what each of the candidate has to say on important issues of health care and eradicating breast cancer.

What I thought was even more telling than the statements, was who wrote them and who didn't. Who took the time to make a video and who had some low level communications flunky write it. For example, not one republican made a personal video. Some didn't even respond. Some had very specific plans and goals; others.... not so much. Now, you can be liberal, conservative, independent, whatever. I don't care. But if this is an important issue for you, you should check out this site.

Chemo Angels

2007-11-07T22:16:00.002-05:00

In my effort to be all things breast cancer to all people, I recently took part in a wonderful program called Chemo Angels. What's that? Well, you sign up to be an angel to someone going through chemo. You volunteer to send 2 things a week... cards, little gifts, funny pictures, whatever. Sounds great, right? Well, in theory it is. And I was so super excited about it. I was assigned to another young woman with breast cancer. I eagerly gathered little journals, bath salts, snacks and whatever to send to my new charge.

Here's the problem. I realized that I am not a good chemo angel. Aside from the inevitable mailing things twice a week, which - if anyone knows my family - is not really a strong suit, there's the whole "no expectations" thing. Chemo angel recipients are told they are under no obligation to respond. This isn't pen pals, mentoring or anything remotely two way. In fact I was sending things for about a month before I even heard that my person had received anything. I guess in my mind, I was hoping there would be an email or a note saying thanks and that would lead me to helping walk her through her treatment. Not so much. I got 2 short notes from my person. 2 notes in 4 months with me sending things twice a week. And when her chemo was over, I got a note from the program saying she had graduated. No "I'm done... thanks for everything!" Nothing. Nada.

Now, I know this is what I signed up for. And I should still feel good. I mean, who doesn't love getting flowers? or cookie bouquets? So I know I probably helped her through her experience. But I've realized I'm a little selfish. I'm not quite a good enough person to do it just for them. I guess I want to feel good about it, too. And I can't do it anonymously. Not that I need recognition, but I was hoping it would be the beginning of my path to guiding others, and I never got the chance to do that. And I guess there's a part of me that's like, "really? Someone sends you hundreds of dollars in stuff and you can't send a little more than a tiny card?" Maybe cuz if it were me, I would have reached out desperately for another young woman... I didn't know any when I started treatment. But then again, it's not about me, is it? But I have realized I want to be someone more like a mentor.

Now, I still think this is an awesome program. And for those of you who are better people than me - go for it! But I'm no longer a chemo angel. I don't think I could do another person who didn't respond. I'm just not that nice, I guess.

Frosted Pink

2007-11-05T21:07:00.002-05:00

So you all know I sing with this gospel choir - a breast cancer survivors gospel choir. If you don't remember, you might want to click here. Well, we recently returned from a trip to L.A. where we were featured in the event, Frosted Pink. It was thing oddly amazing combination of figure skating and music. It was dedicated to the fight against women's cancers. There was Kristi, Nancy, Kurt, Oksana. Who the frick are these people? Fancy figure skaters... hello? Have you never watched ice skating on a Sunday afternoon? Turn off the Lifetime movie people! The musicians were Rascal Flatts, Heart (Man, did I love me some "barracuda"!), Joss Stone, Natalie Cole and others.

And us.

Little ol' Shades of Pink sang with Joss Stone. Little ol' Courtney was featured in a vignette on national TV. Granted, it was Sunday afternoon, but it was national. ABC. And man, the camera must add like 30 pounds!

It was fun. Check out the website. Some of our stuff is on there. And apparently, we'll be taking part in next year's event... Frosted Pink with a twist. This time with gymnasts...

If you'd like, you can also watch the YouTube performances. I have a little ditty before one of them. The joy of being the youngest and white... I'm the "diversity" baby!

Here's our Signature Song Performance

And our stuff with Joss Stone, including the interviews of me and other members of the choir.

Why you shouldn't go drinking in the middle of the day

2007-11-03T17:44:00.001-04:00

So I went to Connecticut to visit my aunt a few weeks ago. She just had a litter of Bernese mountain dog puppies. Well, not my aunt specifically... but you get the point. They were flipping adorable. And you know I just HAD to have one. Except there's a small problem. I already have 3 dogs. Three LARGE dogs. All logic and reason says I should not sign up for another 100 pound dog.

But who ever called me reasonable?

After telling my aunt how she should entrust one of her prize show dogs in my care, I proceeded to call my husband, plotting how I would ask/beg/trick him into agreeing to this silliness.

I called him at 4pm. He had apparently spent the afternoon at a bar with his neighborhood boyfriend - a friend of ours who lives down the street. He was - well, inebriated would be generous.

The conversation went like this.

ME: Honey, these puppies are so freaking cute. I need to have one.

ALAN: Sure.

ME: What would you do if I brought one home?

ALAN: Puppies are great! Do it!

ME: You mean it? I can bring home another dog?

ALAN: Why not?

The next day, after calling the airline to confirm our new friend's travels, I call Alan again.

ME: You sure you're okay with the puppy?

ALAN: Huh?

ME: You said I could bring home a puppy.

ALAN: I did?

ME: Yes, you did. And his flight is booked.

ALAN: Shit.

So, that's what happens when you're too drunk to tell your crazy wife no.

So... presenting... RUGBY!!! He's adorbs. And a little stinker. He'll fit in just fine :)

Perspective

2007-11-02T13:48:00.001-04:00

As many of you know, I'm a writer. Like - for reals, ya'll. I write for television. And while I sometimes roll my eyes when yet another character goes into a coma or isn't really dead, I enjoy what I do. I enjoy sitting at home, working in my yoga pants, while 90210 is on in the background. I like being creative. I love the people I work with. I like getting a paycheck for said employment. I love health insurance.

As some of you may or may not know, The Writer's Guild of America is about to go on strike. Power to the Unions! I hear some of you cry. And I believe in my union. My union made sure that when I was "nobody, wanna be writer #3 on the left" and negotiating my first contract, the studio didn't fuck me in the ass. My union makes sure I don't get taken advantage of. Most importantly to me, my union, after only 3 months of membership, responded to my cancer diagnosis by paying over $300,000 in bills. I gladly write that dues check once a quarter.

However, this strike may be long. And I am of course not really prepared. A few weeks, sure. A month, probably. Six? No way in hell. All around me co-workers are freaking out and "the industry" is buzzing. A strike is sad. It's not just the writers... it's actors who won't get those day player gigs that feed their families, it's caterers who won't have regular jobs delivering lunch to the set, it's sound guys and grips and drivers who will possibly be out of work. It sucks. It's scary. It's scary to sit on thousands of dollars in bills and not really be sure where the money will come from. To think to yourself, "Wow- Christmas is coming and I have no idea when I'll work again." To look around your house and think, "What can I do that costs NO MONEY?" (the answer - not a whole lot)

But yesterday, as the news of the impending strike started trickling down, I was with a friend who was getting her brain scanned. She was sitting absolutely still, saying nothing, pushing away the fear that after 2 years of being cancer free- it was back, and I was outside talking about turning in scripts early to avoid the strike. My friend and I joked how the morphine the doctors has given her that morning wasn't working. While she was getting a prescription for a drug that most associate with terminal patients, I had gotten a couple of "man, I need a drink" emails from writer friends. My friend had been having dizzy spells, headaches, coordination problems. I was frantically figuring out just what I could cut out of my budget. She had looked for hours on the internet - searching for reasons other than "breast cancer metastases to the brain." I had been looking for latest news on whether we'd get 6 or 3 cents a dvd.

Is a strike scary? Damn right it is. Is cancer scarier? Fucking unbelievably so. And I did that. So If I have to, I'll get a temp job or Discover the advantages. My husband works, I have family I could trun to if it got really bad. I'll survive. Not everyone is that lucky.

So while everyone else is praying for a short strike, I'll be praying for my friend - hoping that whatever's wrong isn't cancer. And if it is, that she has the strength for the fight. After all, my union keeps telling me to be strong in the face of a battle.

It's all about perspective.

Why I walk...

2007-10-16T15:11:00.006-04:00

For those of you wondering what this mythical speech was... Here's my nearest recollection of it. I didn't write it in advance or anything - just had some notes. I'll try to piece it together for you. In order to experience the magic, you must imagine me, Ronald McDonald head and all, in track bottoms and a t-shirt. Probably a little sweaty and gross from twenty miles of walking. Perhaps a little tipsy from the celebratory drink at the bar on the end of that day's route. Talking to a group of 2000 or so walkers and volunteers. Trying to be eloquent. Trying to toe the line between funny and - my favorite word - inspirational. This is what came out.

My husband and I rang in 2006 with a kiss. We brought in the New Year with promises of a wonderful life together. We had recently bought our first house and would be moving in the new year. My husband was about to graduate and had a great job lined up. I was finally doing something I loved. We were planning to have a baby. In fact we were trying - very hard - for that baby already. My husband looked me in the eyes, gave me a kiss and told me, "To 2006 - the best year of our lives."

We had no idea that lump I felt a month before would change everything.

On Valentine's Day 2006, I was in the hospital getting tests and a biopsy. Because nothing says "I love you" like the clamp of a mammogram machine and core needles. Two days later, our world collapsed.

"You have breast cancer."

It was a month after my 29th birthday. And I have no family history.

In the midst of phone calls and doctors appointments and freaking out, a package arrived at our apartment. It was information for The Breast Cancer 3 day. My husband had requested it. Like any man, he was looking for a way to "fix it", to do "something." He signed us up for our first 3-day for October of 2006. It would be something to work toward, a reason to get my butt out of bed during chemo, a celebration of victory.

My journey continued. I had surgery. I harvested and froze eggs to protect that family we had planned for. I had chemo. Halfway through chemo I moved from Chicago to Atlanta. Nothing gets you out of moving heavy boxes like cancer. I underwent radiation treatments. I started hormone therapy. I'm currently in a trial that keeps me in menopause in the hopes of keeping the cancer away.

And in October of 06 I walked my first 3-day. I was bald and chubby, only a month after my treatment ended. I was tired. It was hard. People asked me, "How can you do it?"

My response... "How could I not?"

Since being diagnosed with breast cancer, I've met wonderful groups of people who show me each and every day what courage really means. I've made friends and found new sisters. And last Valentine's Day... instead of laying on a cold, hard hospital table, I jumped from a plane at 14,000 feet. Since breast cancer, I've posed nude for photos, swung on a trapeze, taken pole dance lessons, joined a survivors gospel choir... there is nothing too wild and too crazy. I am living proof that breast cancer can hit anyone, anywhere. I am proof that you can find a new way to live.

Because you have to.

So that's why I walk. And I will keep walking:

Until doctors stop saying, "You're too young for breast cancer."
Until women everywhere get access to the same care I was lucky enough to receive.
Until research doesn't just find a cure, but the cause of breast cancer.
Until no one, and I mean not a single person, faces cancer alone.

I walk for Ruby and Candy - beautiful strong women who lost this fight. Who taught me more about grace and dignity than I could ever imagine.

I walk for members of my support groups. For the women who take the time to share their stories and help those of us following them on this path.

I walk for survivors everywhere.

I walk for all the names on those signs on everyone's backs.

I walk for the names on those tents outside.

I walk for the names on the signs at the cheering stations.

And for the people who took the time to make them.

I walk for the woman who is sitting at home right now, waiting for that life changing phone call.

I walk for every person whose life has been changed by breast cancer.

For the families and friends. For my own nieces. And for hopefully one day my frozen babies that I have waiting for me.

And I walk for me. Because, dammit, I deserve a lifetime.

The 3-day

2007-10-15T12:33:00.000-04:00

Heather, Me & Jill

I walked my second Breast Cancer 3-day this weekend. This year, I was joined by my husband and two friends from college - Heather and Jill. I've lived in Atlanta a little over a year, so this time; I actually knew others on the walk. One of my closest friends in the ATL, Jenn, joined us as well.

How was the second one, you ask? Was it any less meaningful? Had it gotten old?

Nope.

Me, Jenn, Jill and Heather at Opening Ceremonies

Jill, Heather and Me walking over the Chatahoochie River

Sure, I knew about some of the "pref nite pitfalls" - the times when tears were pretty much a given. Opening ceremonies, cheering stations, closing ceremonies. And I had hair this time, so I wasn't quite the walking ad for cancer I was last year. Not nearly as many people came up to me and gave me the sad eyes, which I was grateful for.

Alan was a champ. Although he was pretty grumpy the second day... he hadn't slept well. We found a bar at the end of the route on Saturday and got Alan a pick me up beer. Or three. Apparently, about 200 other walkers had the same idea.

Here we are at the bar.

Saturday night, I was also chosen to "tell my story" for the group of walkers and crew. I had to get up and rehash a whole bunch of cancer stuff. I attempted to keep any stray tears and not to drop the "f" bomb. I managed to keep from sniffling for the most part - and I only said "dammit" once. Not bad.

Funny though, once you put your life story out there on display, people feel the need to come up and talk to you about it. And I encourage it. However, in my speech, I did mention the whole frozen babies thing... and as only happens in the south, I'm convinced... that's the part people listened to. So I got a lot of "you'll have those babies, honey," randomly in all parts of camp and on the route. That wasn't really the point of the aforementioned speech, just what some people heard.

I swear, nothing gets a collective gasp from the audience like saying you're 30 years old and in menopause.

One thing that did move me greatly... a couple of women that I walked with into closing ceremonies last year found me. We made an annual date to walk each year together. So here's a shout out to the Dixie Cups!

Alan & Me in Piedmont Park

I am so very glad I did this. And I plan on doing it as long as I'm able.

Mama's Got a Brand New Bag... I mean doctor

2007-10-05T15:19:00.001-04:00

Those of you who talk to me regularly, or who read this blog, know that I loved my treatment at Northwestern in Chicago. Loved it. If you have to get cancer, get it at the Ritz, I thought.

Then I moved. Down to the South. And I finished my treatment at a big fancy academic university setting down here. Same thing, right? Same Ritz, different flavor.

Not so much.

I was never really happy at said treatment facility. I didn't click with my doctor, the infusion center was a bloody nightmare, and I had some questions about the care others were getting. But I was lazy. Tired. Didn't feel like doing the research. Figured they didn't kill me so I'd be fine.
This was until I was getting monthly shots for my clinical trial. Confused? See here. Anyway, I'd go for my monthly shot in the ass... one that takes all of .5 seconds - and I'd be waiting for 2-3 hours. The orders weren't in, they didn't know I was coming, they were just slow. It was the biggest crock of bullshit I've ever seen. This was the same place where friends of mine went months between seeing their oncologist - friends who were stage 4 and seeing the nurse instead. The same place that had you go to 3 different places in one appointment.

Yada, yada.

Anyway, recently, I decided I'd had enough. So I switched oncologists. And hospitals. I went with an overwhelming recommendation by the ya-yas. We all know how I trust the ya-yas. Funny enough. Those ya-yas... representative of money, power and families of Atlanta - only one of them was treated where I was. 80% were at the hospital where I was considering. I'm not into math right now, but at sounds good to me. So off I went. Not before I wrote a scathing letter to previous facility - (one I'm told did some good as changes have been made.)

Okay, back to the new hospital. Let me tell you. It's not the Ritz, but hot damn, it's a really great Sheraton.

I went in for my first appointment.
1. I waited for less than 10 minutes.
2. They did my blood work in the same place where my appointment with the doctor was.
3. The oncologist spent 45 minutes with me. Probably more than my other oncologist down here had spent with me total. He asked questions. Told me I sounded like I was a doctor. (I have an internet MD)

When I asked him about a PET scan, he said... "now, I could tell you why they're not necessary, or I could shut up and order the scan." I said, "What do you think?"
His reply? "I'll just order it, then."

I loved him. It was like having a cancer dad right here in Atlanta. I couldn't be happier.

Moral of the story? Sometimes, the "best" place isn't where you'll get the best care. If you're not happy with your doctors, then get new ones. Trust me, it was one of the best decisions I've made since I got cancer.

Multimedia, baby...

2007-10-02T13:23:00.002-04:00

You miss the sounds of my dulcid tones? You want something to lull you to sleep at night? You think maybe I got a little of that throaty, sex line kind of voice? Well, here's your chance to listen to me. In preparation for the Breast Cancer 3-day, I did a series of interviews on Star 94 FM here in Atlanta. I am their "Breast Cancer correspondent," if there is such a thing. We've been talking about Breast Cancer, life, the 3-day. I even take questions from callers! Come on, you know you're bored.

You can also click here to see the page on the station's website about me. Nothing like putting it all out there, huh?

S.A.D.D.

2007-10-01T23:23:00.000-04:00

Sit back, grab a cup of tea - maybe a blankie, and let me tell you a story. No, it's not about drinking til 4 am with crazy dutch cruise ship officers or how my husband used to have his tongue pierced (yes and yes to both, thank you)... this is about a simpler time. A time when we were involved in things that we felt were VERY important. You know, who will go in the limo post prom or why did they light that soccer ball on fire and kick it around?

I'm talking high school, people. And the reason I look back to a young-mc, daisy duke inspired era is because I find the lessons of high school still relevant upon occasion.

Those who know me now might not believe it, but when I was a teen, I didn't drink. Not a drop. I think I liked being the one kid at the party who wasn't trashed, rather than one of the dozens who did. I also was a big fan of activities that would look good on my college application. So my senior year, I was the Vice President of SADD. But I swear, I made sure everyone who left my keggers had a designated driver. I wasn't opposed to the drinking, per se. Everything in moderation.

Needless to say, I was probably the coolest kid in SADD. I don't say that because I'm actually cool, but most of SADD was full of people who actually didn't attend a party... not one I'd want to go to, at least. I was convinced I was going to make SADD more relevant, so the people who actually needed to hear the message would listen. I had big dreams for our little group.

Long story short (I mean it, I swear)... there was an "incident." There was a dance, people showed up possibly drinking, our moderator wouldn't let them in. (Disclaimer: they were friends of mine) But did she call their parents? Call the cops? No, she sent them away... you know, back to their cars. To drive. After she accused them of drinking. Anyone see the problem here?

So I questioned the decision. I went to her and said I had an issue with the message we were sending, that I wanted to have a discussion with the group and its officers about how we handle things. Well, that didn't sit well with our moderator. After "staying up all night thinking about it" (as an adult, I have a serious problem staying up all night for anything high school related) she SENT ME A NOTE during my fifth period English class. In the note? She kicked me out of S.A.D.D. For possibly poisoning the minds of the younger members. For questioning the logic of sending drunks off to drive. Basically, for saying "Why?"

After some tears (you bet your ass I still put that on my college application) and perhaps an angry parent-teacher meeting, my time with S.A.D.D. was over.

What the fuck does this have to do with real life, you say? Jesus, get on with the story.

So recently, in my current role as "little miss breast cancer" I've had the chance to be a part of numerous organizations. I was contacted by a local group, which shall remain nameless - to be a part of their unique way of reaching out to younger women. I was pretty excited about it - after all, it was just up my crazy alley. They were starting to have meetings to discuss their mission, etc. In one of these emails, the founders told me all about how their primary goal was to teach young women self exams, yada yada yada.

Now, I'm pretty knowledgeable on the whole young women thing. I emailed back, saying I was excited to be a part of it and help shape the group. I did want to talk about the BSE - the breast self exam - I wasn't so sure about it. Why, you ask? Well, there's evidence that shows doing self exams doesn't affect survival for young women. Plus, young women have distinct hormonal issues that means they shouldn't be checking once a month... they should be touching themselves up at different times each month, etc. etc. I wanted to talk about getting to know your body more than anything. Or what to do if you find something and a doctor blows you off.

Well, that put a bee in their bonnet. I was told

1. She wasn't a fan of the phrase "touch yourself up." (How they hell they'll get 16 year olds to listen if they don't speak their language, I don't know. I know at 16 I didn't listen to 30 years olds, much less almost 50.)
2. Their goal was teaching the BSE. Period. (never mind the lack of evidence based research that proves their effectiveness. See this link for example.
3. If I couldn't get on board... "If you are comfortable with that, then we would love to have you. If not, we certainly understand and respect everyones' efforts in the fight against this disease and to be honest........if we are all attacking from different angles then I'm sure that they will get the message. We both are extremely positive and motivated people and we feel very strongly about XXX and we want to make sure that everyone involved with XXX supports our mission.

Does this sound familiar? Well, I replied that I just wanted to raise the discussion. Not change necessary, just open it up. (Not even mentioning the average age of the group was about 45... 30 years older than their target audience.)

Well, I never got an email back. I emailed about a meeting. No one responded. I stopped getting all the announcments about getting together. I was shut down, kicked out, black listed, kicked to the curb.

Just like SADD. Just like the moderator who was too emotionally invested to listen to anything other than her view. Just like the small minded students that were out of touch with the people who needed to hear the message. There's me, only I'm 12 years older but just as mouthy. And I still think that asking questions is important.

So I wish this group all the best. I have other organizations to give my time to. That want open an frank discussion. That value people who think outside the box. Who think awareness if more than dressing in pink.

(stepping off soapbox)

Can I get an Amen?!?!?!?!

2007-09-20T12:18:00.000-04:00

Now I understand you wake up in the morning and you think to yourself, "I wonder if Courtney will do something ridiculous today?" We know about the pole dancing, the sky diving, the dogs... what next? Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, I do not disappoint.

Recently, I joined a gospel choir. As in robe-wearing, Jesus-lifting, not-so-white, gospel choir. But not just any choir. A choir composed entirely of breast cancer survivors. Yep... like 50 of us. We wear pink robes. What else? It's powerful and supportive and fun - even if it is a little different. For me at least.

See, I spent 12 years in Catholic school. I sing with my Cathedral Choir here in Atlanta. I'm used to ... how do I say it... "restrained" faith. Mindful prayer. Chants. Organs. It's the difference between singing in a choir loft in the back of the church to being right there up on the altar, if you get my drift.

I have never raised my hand in prayer, never shouted out in agreement when the priest spoke. Instead of lifting anything up, I bow my head. I sneered if there was clapping. Well, all that's out the window, folks.

My first rehearsal, we lifted ourselves up more than I could count. We trusted in Jesus more than I'd even thought of. Granted, there are a few white women in this group, but we're by far the minority. I am also the youngest member. This is something I'm used to by now. I'm not, however, used to singing without sheet music. This is all by ear. It's a whole new world for me. But I figured, "Hell, I'm in the South now - when in Rome..."

But I tell you, I walked into that room and was immediately embraced - physically and otherwise. I was welcomed. They promised to give me rhythm. And hope. They've done both. We share what we have in common, not what's different. Sure, we sing about Jesus. But we also sing about cancer, encouragement and love.

What is this magical group, you ask? It's called Shades of Pink. It's the only group of its kind in the country. And I'm thrilled and honored to be a part of it. This group has not only taught me the about the value of sisterhood, but of faith -in whatever you believe.

I have big news to share with you on this front, just wait -- it gets more ridiculous. You'll just have to keep reading.

State of the Union

2007-09-11T11:55:00.000-04:00

Today is September 11th. Some of you may remember my entry written last 9/11. (For those of you who cannot quote my blog by date - and really, who can't? - Here it is)

A year ago today I finished active treatment for breast cancer. 1 year already. Wow. I say active treatment because I'm still very much in treatment. I see a doctor or a nurse every month for my clinical trial, I take drugs, I have side effects. For those of you who might think that cancer's over once treatment is done, here's a little insight. (I swear, I tried not to make that sound snarky... don't think I succeeded.)

1 year after treatment...

My hair is still uncomfortably short. Still VERY curly. Still looks like Ronald McDonald. Now approaching an odd mullet stage. Still brown - although I've started a gradual step down approach to becoming blond again.

My eyes are still a little off. I can thank chemo for giving me astigmatism, now I can thank Tamoxifen for continual effects on my eyesight. For those of you who don't know, I was already pretty damn blind. Didn't know it could be worse.

My back is still a problem. We're not quite sure exactly why, but doctors credit the lack of estrogen to bone issues and chemo and tamoxifen to disc problems.

I am in menopause. Still. Will be for a few more years, thanks to my clinical trial. With that comes hot flashes, sleep problems and a spare tire that I can't seem to get rid of.

I am still 30 pounds too heavy. Although the mere fact I've done the whole menopause thing and not GAINED weight makes me happy... but I've now bought fat girl pants for a few seasons now and it's uncalled for.

My joints ache all the time. That's tamoxifen. Every morning when I wake up, it's like I'm walking on pegs for a while. I can't sit still for too long. I'm constantly stretching. Awesome.

My big toe has finally grown out from when I almost lost it... 14 months ago.

I bruise way too easily. This is a common complaint after treatment.

I am sensitive to the sun. If I'm out in it for too long, I get itchy rashes all over.

I take 5... count 'em five... pills every day.
Tamoxifen - hormone therapy
Ambien - for sleep issues
Effexor - for the hot flashes
Prescription Anti-Inflammatory - For the back
Muscle relaxer - also for the back

Once we get my back under control, I might be lucky enough to only take 3 pills a day.

I go to the doctor once a month for a shot that keeps me in menopause. I usually can't sit comfortably for a day or so after it.

Cancer is still a part of my everyday life.

Stepping off the crazy train...

2007-08-29T16:22:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I got the call from my doctor. While I very well could have real back problems, "We're pretty sure it has nothing to do with cancer. You're all clear, baby girl."

Yep, I was called baby girl. After a discussion of what my pain could be, I was referred to an internist. I haven't had a doctor that wasn't cancer related in a long time. I don't even know what they do :)

So long story short. I'm nuts. But fingers crossed, still cancer-free.

Fear...

2007-08-29T15:34:00.000-04:00

Fear is an ugly monster. It sits in your closet and waits until you are dressed and ready to go before it jumps out and scares the shit out of you. It's the little voice in the back of your head that you cover with fun or booze or love or activism. It's the fine line between being naive and proactive. If you've had cancer, fear is something you learn to live with every day. Some days are worse than others - the day of a check up, or getting your boobs smooshed in square holes. Some days you forget about fear altogether. But it's never gone. It just hides bakc in your closet behind your winter sweaters.

I am not one to revel in the fear. I'd rather do something ridiculous - use my fear as adreneline. There have been a few times where I have wrestled with fear and it won. And when fear wins, it leaves behind that girl you hate. The girl who's insecure, emotional, pathetic. The girl who worries too much and doesn't do enough. The girl who trades her grace for weakness.

God, I hate that girl.

In the past year and a half, there are a couple times where I've lost my battle with fear. One time was watching friends lose their fight. It made the reality of cancer - the fact that people actually die from this - crystalize in my mind. See I'm not really afraid of cancer coming back. In fact, I sort of beleive one day it will. And if it does, I'll deal with it. Stage IV cancer, however - scares the shit out of me. We can be politically corrrect and look to all the Elizabeth Edwards in the world, but the truth is, right now, stage IV cancer is not curable. It's treatable. Meaning it can buy you time. Hopefully that's enough time for people to figure out how to cure you. But right now, they can't. Stage IV means you don't live until you're 80. When I was diagnosed, I never thought about dying. It was only after digging myself deep into this disease, that the statistics became people. People who died.

So you become afraid. Afraid of getting the call when "we saw something unusual in your scan." Or feeling pain that just doesn't seem to go away.

I'm losing my fight with the fear monster as we speak. See, I've been having back pain for about a month. Now, it could be the fact I've been working out more lately. Unfortunately, the muscle pain is a whole different issue. But it's on my spine - like a bruise on my bone that hasn't gone away. It's bothering me enough that it wakes me up at night sometimes. It's bothered me enough that I moved up my annual PET scan because of it. I went in on Monday. And to be perfectly honest, I didn't get the best feeling from the scan. Little red flags... another tech coming in to look, the tech who tells me I "should call" my doctor. All in all, if I was nervous going in, I'm even more nervous waiting for results.

And I've gone to that dark place. The place I'm not sure I've ever been to. The fear monster squeezes all rational thought out of me. I've thought about living wills and who would get my stuff and what would I want at my funeral. I've thought about the children I may not have or leaving Alan alone. In essence, I've fallen off my rocker with fear. What if this bone pain is bone mets? Could I do it? Could I face it with the same "Strength" everyone tells me I have? I'm really not sure. And then of course, I tell myself not to be stupid. That I'm fine. Stop freaking out for nothing. Except we hear all the time to listen to our body. That we can tell if something's off. And my body is screaming at me. That same yell when I first found the lump.

So I'll sit by the phone. Hope for arthritis or a herniated disc or some other issue that can be solved. Hoping I'm nuts. Overreacting.

Here's to hope beating the shit out of fear.

Link to the Cancer Blog

2007-08-20T13:41:00.000-04:00

I was featured the other day on the Cancer Blog....

Check it out here...

The Cancer Blog contains the latest news, stories and reserach on all sorts of cancer.

Pretty cool, huh?

Tag, you're it!!!

2007-08-13T11:57:00.000-04:00

I’ve been tagged to participate in a meme … to share seven random facts about myself with all of you. I've seen it relate to breast cancer, but that's not my current mood, so these will be regarding just about anything....

1. When I was 18, I sold knives. Cutco, to be exact. I went into the homes of my parents' friends and cut pennies and leather. That job didn't last. But I still think Cutco knives are pretty damn great.

2. My first performing opportunity came in third grade, when i put on my jean skirt and my mother's patent leather heels and lip synched to "Let's Hear it for the Boy." The St. Thomas More talent show was never the same.

3. In high school, I was president of the National Honor Society. I was also on the math team, JETS and speeach team. I was not a huge nerd. I promise. I threw fantastic keggers.

4. Thanks to working on cruise ships, I've seen like 60 countries or so. My favorite place - Buenos Aires. Or Tahiti.

5. Sometimes, if I'm up too late after takng my Ambien (helps me sleep through hot flashes) I get a little "ambien drunk." It leads to conversations I don't remember, impulse online purchases and lots of laughs from my husband.

6. One day, I'd love to live on the water. I miss the ocean.

7. Okay, one breast cancer fact- my surgery scar is on the lower part of my breast, like 6 o'clock. It's a little half circle - leading my boob to look like a one-eyed smiley face.

Those are my facts … what are yours?

The rules:
If you are tagged, you need to start by posting 7 random facts about yourself on your blog. Then list these rules and tag 7 others people (figuratively, obviously). List their names on your blog with a link to get your readers there. Then comment for each of the tagged, letting them know they have been tagged. Get i

I tag these survivors:

PJ

Cindy

Dave

Sami

Ruth

Janet

Dawn

Check under your couch cushions...

2007-08-03T16:24:00.001-04:00

...Dig in your pockets, grab that jar of change sitting in your junk drawer/dresser/closet.

Open your hearts and your wallets people.

It’s time for the Breast Cancer 3-Day!

Here's a copy of the email I just sent out...

When I found my lump a little over a year ago, at the age of 28, I had no idea this was my future. I was told that it was probably nothing. That it’s “so very rare for women your age.” I was diagnosed on February 16, 2006. About a month later, a packet came in the mail for the 3-day. Last year, I walked the 3-day at the age of 29, only 5 weeks after my last radiation. I was bald, chubby, tired- but I did it. A couple of friends flew down to walk with me. It was hard and there were times when I wasn’t sure if I could do it… but I did. And I raised over 7,000 dollars. It was hard to see the remembrance tent, to see the t-shirts for those we had lost, to walk through the pain and the anger and the grief. But I did. And I met women who inspired me, who supported me and who laughed with me. I saw examples of how to live after the disease. I saw reasons to start your life after cancer, to find a new normal. I cemented relationships with close friends. I made new ones. I found a way to give back to a community that had given so much to me.

So that’s why I walk. Because for me, cancer took away so much, but little by little I’m getting it back. And I’m giving back. To show others that breast cancer can hit anyone. But at the same time, you find a way to live again. You have to. And that being a part of this new “club” has given me so much. My first 3-day was one of the most moving experiences of my life. And something I plan on doing for all the women who have blessed my life, shown me how to handle it with grace and given me reasons to celebrate. I will walk until we find a way to beat this. Because I have to.

In October of this year, I will be participating in my second Breast Cancer 3-Day. I'll walk 60 miles over the course of three days with thousands of other women and men. The net proceeds will support breast cancer research, education, screening and treatment through the Susan G. Komen for the Cure and the National Philanthropic Trust Breast Cancer Fund.

I've set the personal goal to raise at least $10,000 in donations. Yep, you read that right. Ten grand. So I need your help. Would you please consider donating to this cause? Any little bit helps. Just Follow this link to go to my personal fundraising webpage and donate online.

DONATE NOW!!

Y-Me

2007-08-02T14:47:00.000-04:00

One of the things that has kept me busy the last couple of months is my new involvement with Y-Me, a national breast cancer organization. Y-Me provides information and support for anyone affected by breast cancer. I am now an on-call and peer match counselor. What does that mean, you ask? It means that I volunteer from home, taking shifts on their 24 hour a day hotline. The hotline is only manned by survivors. For this, I went to Chicago to be trained for a weekend. I swear, I travel so much for breast cancer now, you'd think I was working for some consulting firm or something. Anyway, I've done some shadowing work on the hotline itself and I've answered a few specific calls where they match people up to survivors with similar characteristics. You guessed it. I get the young ones.

I started the training for this right when all hell was breaking loose with my friends and I've only recently gotten all the technical stuff so I can begin from home. I wasn't sure how I'd feel about all this. I mean, talking to the woman who was stage 4 hit home. Or what about the woman who's afraid she won't have children? In the end, though, it's the people who end their call with, "Thank you. You've made this easier." If only for a day, I made a difference. And while you know I'm not really down with that cheesy shit, it feels good.

Plus, I have to say, the idea of volunteering and helping others, while grabbing a drink from the fridge and sitting in my pajamas is pretty great.

So, have you been affected by breast cancer? Do you need someone to talk to? Bitch, vent, ask questions? Give Y-Me a call.

Who knows? Maybe I'll be on the other end.

T-shirts

2007-08-02T13:51:00.001-04:00

Who here hasn't been lured into some activity with the free t-shirt? It's up there with free pizza or "punch and pie." Much better than the key chain or "soda koozie." I think I have 3 credit cards due to this very ploy. You'd think the free t-shirt would lose its charm once you're old enough to legally enter the bar you've been going to for 3 years, but no. If it weren't for those t-shirts, what would you
a. work out in,
b. mow the lawn or
c. sleep in?

When I was younger, I had tons of t-shirts from high school activities. Student groups, sports, various community theater productions. I earned my t-shirts through sweat and watching 16 year olds make out in the hallway during "play practice." By the time I was ready to leave my parent's nest, I had amassed a ridiculous quantity of these pre-shrunk cotton wonders. In fact, my mother made me a queen sized quilt of my teen glory.

Ahh, college. The land of visa shirts and discover bottle openers. My high school shirts were replaced with numerous sorority shirts. Alpha Chi Omega shirts for dances and philanthropies and rush. T-shirts supporting our pledges, our football team, our intermural sports teams. (I myself was a three sport intermural player... I digress.) Then there were t-shirts of quotes when I was on the Student Funding Board (yes, I was a student government dork, too.) Or perhaps you'd like a zippered hoodie from "Guys and Dolls?" I always had something to wear when watching Dawson's Creek in the TV room or listening to Ace of Base while studying.

About a year after college, I worked on cruise ships. Alas! Another source for free shirts! I crossed the equator and kissed the fish, little kids tie-dyed ones for me, we launched a new ship, I promoted t-shirts that changed color in the sun. Slowly but surely, as my college shirts got faded, ripped, painted on or otherwise nasty, I had an MS Amsterdam shirt to take their place in my drawer.

So here I am, out of school, off ships - in the "real world." Just as my ship shirts were yellowing and I could no longer justify wearing the "AXO pledge class is GRR-RR-EAT!" shirt, another beacon of free clothing entered my life. Just when I was telling my husband, "What the hell will I do... I'm running out of t-shirts. Am I actually going to have to go to Old Navy and BUY one?" Just when I thought I would have to actually purchase said items, the t-shirt gods shined their light upon me.

I got breast cancer.

My drawer is now full of shirts from walking, racing, living. I have an abundance of pink. Shirts that tell me to "feel my boobies" or "get involved." Survivor Shirts. Remembrance shirts. In the course of a year, I think I've gotten like ten shirts.

Thank God. My Fall Fest 1999 t-shirt was getting lonely.

Sure, some of these "Free t-shirts" were actually free. Some were a "gift" for my participation. But a free survivor t-shirt? Free?

It only cost me thousands of dollars, half my boob and my dignity. Sure, I'll take two. Do you have them in extra large? What if they shrink?

Can never have enough t-shirts.

Shark Week

2007-08-01T14:18:00.000-04:00

Okay, after watching
all together too much
Discovery Channel Shark Week,
I've come to a conclusion:

While living with cancer and dying from cancer are horrible, scary, shitty things, it could be worse:

I could be eaten alive by sharks.

Seriously, way worse.

Or bears. Bears effing freak me out.

I know I've been a little MIA. It's been a combination of being very very busy with some super exciting things, as well as "taking a little break." But I'm back.
To be continued...

Ruby

2007-07-02T16:29:00.000-04:00

My friend Ruby passed away last week. She was 33. Her breast cancer story is one that strikes fear in many of our hearts. Fear, sadness and a whole lot of anger. Ruby was finishing her radiation treatment when I moved to Atlanta and joined the young women's support group at Emory. She was one of the first people I met in my new town. With a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye, she talked of working out, living healthy, not letting this get in the way of living. A few months ago, she was talking about having a baby. Man or no man. Buying a new townhouse. She was one of the original members of this support group, started only about a year and a half ago.

Then in February, as I celebrated my one year cancerversary, Ruby - just about to finish herceptin - was diagnosed with a recurrence to her bones, liver and lungs. Except it probably wasn't a recurrence. The cancer had probably been there the whole time. She had no symptoms and it was finally found in a scan she pushed for. She asked for the scan for 6 months. So off she went, to start the whole ordeal over again - chemo, clinical trials.... she was only on them for about a month and a half before her body started to shut down and she was too sick for anything. There was nothing else to do. She had gone from a stage IV diagnosis to hospice in 3 months. She passed away in a friend's home, surrounded by family and friends. Members of our support group had visited just the day before, bringing a candle we had lit in her honor at our last meeting.

One of our group reminded us, "If you hang around people with cancer, some of them will die. It is cancer, after all." Doesn't make it any easier. And while I think I was better prepared because of Candy, this is was a different level of involvement. I saw it as my job to make sure the other people in our group were okay. As I mentioned before, I've been pretty active in visiting her and taking the lead in helping the rest of my group... phone calls, updates, daily check-ins. While it came as no surprise and in some ways was a blessing, it still sucks. It still scares the shit out of this small group of strong women who have been made stronger through this battle. There are a few things I've learned from Ruby's life and her death.

- Life is for living. At one point in the hospital, Ruby looked at me - all jaundiced and weak - and smiled, "If I had known this would happen, I would have eaten more cheeseburgers and fried chicken." Not that we should all run out and give ourselves heart disease, but if my time on this earth is limited, I'm going to have a damn good time.

- Some shit just doesn't matter. Ruby had some people who had hurt her in her life. As the end was near, she looked at me and said, "When you're dying, that stuff doesn't matter. Save your energy for what does." Wise woman. You don't have to be dying to live like that.

- Be your own health advocate. If that means pushing a doctor, then by all means, push. If it means you raise hell and bitch to get what you want, then do it. Or get someone else to do it for you. If it doesn't feel right or you're not happy with your care - find someone who will take care of you the way you deserve. You should trust them with your life. Because, in fact, you are.

What is Ruby's legacy? To me, it is the gift of friendship. Our group at Emory went from a small gathering of women with something in common that met every month to a truly close knit group of friends who had more in common than we ever realized. Through Ruby's crisis and her death, we became bonded in a way we never expected - but at least for me, am so grateful for. I not only have some "cancer friends" but real friends. And a group of amazing women who prove themselves up to the challenge - circling the wagons at a moment's notice. And a group to share margaritas with every month after the regular meeting is over. Ruby gave us that. Months from now or even years, we will sit around the table and tell stories of Ruby. She is the first member of our group to pass - watching over those women in that room. Those who join us will hear tales of Ruby and her mango margaritas. Or Ruby declaring she'd walk back into Emory a miracle.

She was. And she still is. We are lucky to have known her. And we will honor her memory but continuing to be there for each other. By still cracking jokes. And cracking skulls. And drinking mango margaritas.

Here's to you, Ruby.

Freaking out

2007-06-28T11:16:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but upon reflecting upon the whole drama that is cancer, it's occurred to me more than once that not one person freaked out in front of me. The sad eyes, sure. Maybe the extra squeeze in the hug. Or a little vocal wavering on the phone. But outside of the, "okay, I have cancer, I'll be fine," I never had to deal with someone else's emotions really. Not one person cried in front of me. No one got hysterical. No one really made it about them.

At least not in front of my face.

My mother teared up when I came out of surgery. I was too drugged up under the wonders of anesthesia to notice. Alan told me he'd cry while he watched me sleep. (A collective sigh of cuteness.) I'm sure friends got off the phone with me and proceeded to call their mommies. A friend recently told me there were a lot of freak outs on her part.

Of course there were. Your friend has cancer. Fuck. I flipped out a little when my friend Dave found out he had cancer. "What does that mean?" "Why the hell did it have to happen to such a nice kid?" I didn't really go there - but I'm sure the thought of my possible mortality struck somebody's mind. People do die of cancer, after all.

This same person now regularly points out that I had cancer, and shit- that was major stuff. It's like it's just hitting her now. The lifetime of tests and scares and menopause and can I eat soy? (The answer is no, btw. Soy is an estrogen. Estrogen is bad.) It's not unlike my own realization. See, when you're doing it, after the initial "Are you fucking kidding me?" you just put your head down and do it. What else can you do? It's only when you have a chance to breathe that the enormity of the situation strikes you.

I have to give my friends credit. Thank you for not flipping out. One drama at a time. Thank you for calling and emailing and sending me presents. Thank you for never asking, "Are you going to die?" Thank you for never putting me in the position to have to make you feel better. At least not a lot. Even though I'm getting further out, thank you for realizing cancer is still very much a part of my life. Thanks for still reading.

In an effort to be "interactive," I will now cast an informal poll. Those of you who know me personally, did you freak out at any point? Did it involve tears? Drama? Booze? What did you do? Scream, call a friend, call your mom? Enquiring minds want to know. Post comments here.

Thank you for bucking up and being good little campers. Now go eat some cake.

Krusty the Clown

2007-06-28T10:30:00.000-04:00

Wow, you have an online nervous breakdown and people come out of the woodwork! Comments and emails and phone calls, oh my! Thank you all so much for your kind words. While I'm not sure if "inspirational" and "hero" are words I'd use to describe myself (more like loudmouth and bitch) but hell, at least six people read my blog.

In the effort to :

A. not be such a Debbie Downer and
B. Inspire some fabulous comments,

I am adding a picture. Everyone loves pictures. People ask me how the hair's going. I try to tell them - as they look at my very product filled curls - that it's actually out of control. I now have a new respect for those of you with curly hair. I may not have enough hair to use a brush, but I have plenty enough for gel, mousse and Aveda's "Be Curly." I had my last chemo about 11 months ago now. My hair grows very slowly- that's one thing that HASN'T changed. I have a few friends that finished about the time I did, and they are clearly "lapping me." I can look forward to short hair for a LONG time. It's hard to tell how long it is because it's corkscrew curly, but when I wake up in the morning - watch out! It's probably as tall as my head. The question is, will it calm the fuck down? Chemo curl is widely referred to as "Ronald McDonald" hair, but Alan prefers to call me "Crusty the Clown." Upon taking this picture, he told me,

"You're not keeping your hair like this, are you? If you do, we'll never have sex again."

There you have it.

Ignore the crazy eyes!

Crying in the closet...

2007-06-19T19:08:00.001-04:00

Back when Alan and I lived in Middle-of-Nowhere, USA, we hit a few rough patches. I had a hard time finding a job in our little corner of the world. Apparently, playing bingo for a living and hosting karaoke on cruise ships were not marketable skills for a small town. We had money problems. I occasionally asked myself what I was doing moving to this place so Alan could finish school. I was getting chubby and couldn't fit into my size 4 BCBG formal dress. All in all, I felt inexorably out of control. I used to walk into our closet- which was disproportionately big compared to our apartment- and I would cry. Just sit in the dark and sob among the pile of footwear. Occasionally, the offending garment would be spread across my lap. Alan and I had more than one "discussion" which led to him searching the apartment to find me in my little corner. A few friends knew of this odd habit... "was it bad or crying-in-the-closet bad?", they'd ask.

Funny enough, even with cancer, I haven't cried in the closet in a long time. Not even my big brand spanking new closet. And I haven't felt compelled to...

Until today.

A few people in my life have expressed concern over my still very active stance in breast cancer support groups, organizations, etc. I'm guessing they probably wonder why I'm not "moving on with my life." A couple have expressed worry that by still being so involved, I'm setting myself up for more pain. Sick friends, drama, recurrences, etc. That perhaps my time would be better served with non-cancer related things. That the longer I stay in the trenches, the harder it will be to dig myself out.

A friend read me something recently. She described finishing treatment for cancer as like coming back from a long, horrible trip and getting off the plane. You walk out only to find your friends and family have already left the airport. Just when you're done, and you need support almost more than you ever did, many in your life will assume it's over. That it's time to grab some dinner at Chili's and talk about other things.

I consider it my duty - actually, my honor, really - to be there waiting for people when they get off that plane. It has become so much a part of who I am that I cannot imagine my life without this. But for every blessing this gives me, there's a struggle.

Then there are days where that double edged sword cuts right through you. Today has been one of those days. I have a friend from my young women's group who is fighting this battle. And she's losing. As members of her group, we have visited her a lot this past week or so. And every time we walk out the door, our hearts are a little heavier, the grief a little closer. We get a drink. We process. We get mad. Mostly we just look at each other and say, "this sucks."

Cuz it does. It fucking sucks.

I have another member of my group who is having a hard time with her chemo. She is also stage four. She's currently in the hospital. I'm sure this scares her and she feels like shit and I wish there was more I could do to help her. And, yes, I could be "moving on" and maybe then this wouldn't be so hard, but this is our life. This is who we are. And while some might say they'd sleep better at night if they weren't around cancer, I couldn't. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror each morning if I wasn't offering myself to those people who have been there before me. Or those who come after.

This is by no means a slam to those who aren't capable of giving more. Not at all. I just know I am. I am able to offer medical knowledge that many don't have. I am able to offer a bit of humor to otherwise crappy stuff. And unfortunately, in the case of this group, a group that has never lost a member before, I am able to offer my still very fresh experiences with losing Candy. And I am happy to offer all this and more.

But there are moments, and I'm sure there will be more in the coming days, when it gets hard. When it seems so out of control. When it's just so damned sad. These moments have me walking to the door of my closet... These are the moments when I look inside, thinking that corner looks so inviting. Wishing my husband hadn't installed that damn motion light thing that makes it impossible to sit in the dark. And let out some tears. Take care of my fears, my worries.

Then it's time to strap on the big girl pants and check on my friends...

Blessings...

2007-06-12T21:35:00.000-04:00

There are a few times in life where you know you are in the presence of something magical. If you're into the "big JC", you may think of it as feeling God or whatever. For me, it's that moment when you look around you and feel something bigger than yourself. You are blessed to have those moments. It is something so special, it should be treasured.

For me, one of the blessings I have found through this process is the ya-yas. For those of you who don't know, the ya-yas are the women in one of my cancer support groups. This very unusual group of amazing women have been meeting every week for years... some of them 10 years. That's right. Every week for ten years. I have been with them almost a year now. I have spent more time with the ya-yas than I have with my friends and family.

I know some young women with breast cancer do not like traditional support groups. "Those old ladies have nothing in common with me, " they say. Well, I couldn't disagree more. I am the youngest in the group... by more than a few years. I am the only one "of my generation" so to speak. And I know they think I'm crazy and they love to hear stories of pole dancing and all the other crazy things "kids today" may do. From them, I learn about the good doctors or where to get great cakes intown. That's just the beginning.

I'm not quite sure how they realize how much they've given me. Every Thursday, I learn from their experience, soak up their wisdom and bask in their support. They make me laugh and cry. They tell me stories that make me feel better. Sometimes they make even me blush. It gives me such hope to see these beautiful, talented women who have faced the beast and are years out. It makes me feel lucky that they still care enough to share their journey with others.

This is the one appointment I have every week and will do everything I can NOT to miss. It's become such a part of my life here. My friends will call my cell at 1pm on a Thursday, leaving a message like, "I know you're at the ya-yas, call me, etc. etc."

When I describe the ya-yas to my young women's group, it is almost with this sense of mysticism. Like the ya-yas are some fabled great goal that we could all aspire to. "Every week?" they ask. Every week. Sure, some miss and some fall away for a while, but they are always a part of the group. "Even people who haven't been in treatment for a long time?" Those are some of the most valued.

At my first meeting ever, I saw firsthand how rare this sisterhood was. I was amazed that someone had a doctor's appointment and a half dozen people volunteered to take them or call the nurse or crack some skulls. When I walked for the 3day, some ya-yas were there at the finish line. When Candy died, I got a phone call Friday morning saying, "We just wanted to be together." So these women took off work, drove from far away, dropped everything to share with each other. I spent all Friday afternoon talking, sharing stories, drinking wine.

This weekend, I spent time with some ya-yas and we dedicated a garden to Candy at one member's house. And we laughed and gossiped and caused all sorts of trouble on a lake. There was a boat. And a scene. Long story.

It was time like this where I look around at the faces of these women. Women who have seen more than their share of pain, but smile nonetheless. You can't help but feel blessed to be in their presence. In this age of emails and text messages, the power of human contact is stronger than ever. When people grow more cynical , it is even more rare to be a part of something so unconditionally generous. These women truly love one another. A love and a friendship that I don't really see very often. Just being in the room with them, I know that I am a part of something that most people don't have. A community that is so good to me.

This group of women is an example to me of how to live my life. How to love more willingly and how to listen better. How to worry about me a little less and others a little more. How to laugh. How a hug actually can make it better. How cancer doesn't go away when the treatment is over. But it doesn't have to be everything, either.

I am truly blessed.

Deadliest Catch

2007-05-30T23:23:00.000-04:00

Let's say you called me on the phone. Among discussing such important issues as Lindsey's drug abuse or the finer arts of blowing off a MySpace stalker, we would discuss television. What about McDreamy and Meredith? Whatever, I fucking hate her. What the hell is up with Juliette? What is it about pregnancy on the island? How hot is Hugh Laurie? You know, like "hot dad" hot, not "Friends top five" hot. How many fucking pop culture references can I put in one paragraph? If you didn't understand any of this, A. you are living under a rock or B. I need to get a life.

Then I would ask you about Captain Sig. Do you like king crab or opi season better? Is it me or have they upped the crisis quotient? Have no idea what the hell I'm talking about? You are missing out. Let me sell you on my absolute favorite show, Deadliest Catch on the Discovery Channel. Like a basic cable Jehovah's witness, I will tell you how this show will change your life. Okay, maybe not change it, but alter it in some meaningful way.

Deadliest Catch follows a half dozen crab boats off the Alaskan coast. We watch as they navigate the Bering Sea, setting crab pots, working their asses off. There are mechanical malfunctions, rescues at sea, even some guy who had to get back so he could meet a court date or go to jail. Maybe it's my years at sea myself that draws me to it. Like some sort of WT cruise. Instead of bingo, they stuff raw fish into plastic jugs. Maybe it's that narrator guy that does all that Discovery Channel shit. Maybe it's the fact they use Bon Jovi for their theme music. It's all of the above, really.

How has this changed my life? I will tell you. And as it happens, it has to do with cancer. Last April when I was going through chemo, I used to have problems sleeping... before I discovered the wonder of sleeping pills. I was all hopped up on steroids and would watch TV in the dark, the volume on low as not to disturb my blissfully ignorant snoring husband. I watched more episodes of Law & Order than I care to count. I secretly wanted to buy the Magic Bullet or that crazy Gazelle thing from the guy with the ponytail-mullet. However, one fateful night, I happened upon the Discovery Channel and Deadliest Catch. I was inexplicably sucked in. And because it was replaying a bunch of episodes, I probably stayed up until 4am watching.

The next day, I raved about the wonders that I discovered the night before. Like I happened upon some oasis in the desert or saw a unicorn. Alan didn't understand. But he would. Later that night, when of course more reruns were playing, he sat down and watched. 2 and a half hours later, Alan agreed it was addictive. Alan and I cuddled in bed with the puppies and watched some fishermen in 30 foot seas drop like 1 tonne steel cages in the ocean. Hot, I know. From then on, I watched late night loops of the show every time I couldn't sleep. And I think they did a replay at like midnight every Thursday, because it was usually when I had just gotten chemo.

So this spring, Deadliest Catch returned. The moment I heard Bon Jovi's "Dead or Alive" it was like the year hadn't happened. I was bald and sick all over again. But strangely enough, it wasn't a bad reaction. It was almost comforting. Like a cancer security blanket. As opposed to the smell of Sally, which make me sick, the sight of my friends on the Bering Sea was kind of a cancer warm fuzzy. It was a sort of good memory about chemo. Lots of treatment are a blur of needles and pain, but these moments in the dark are clear in my hazy mind.

I've been getting a bit nostalgic about my treatment lately. I don't know. Maybe it's like a breakup... after a while you can look at the good stuff and smile, forgetting how goddamn horrible it was going through it. I gave a recommendation for my doctors at Northwestern, finding myself thinking fondly upon my time at the Cancer Ritz-Carlton. Thinking of my private penthouse chemo room, my funny queen patient rep, my oncology nurse. Never mind the mind-numbing bone pain, the nausea, the tears in the shower. Instead, it was like, "aw - Northwestern. You'll love it there." Like some fabulous life threatening bed and breakfast.

I don't think I will ever watch Deadliest Catch without thinking of being in chemo. And for once, that's not a bad thing. As I get further and further from active treatment, the bad memories are fewer and the funny stories become more prominent. Like my television obsession. Even puking in the McDonald's parking lot seems sort of humorous. When I so know it was actually miserable. There's a fine line between nostalgia and wanting to go back and do it over again.

I'll meet you 95 miles northwest of Dutch Harbor.

Survivor

2007-05-22T14:09:00.000-04:00

It's been over a year since I was diagnosed and I'm still not very comfortable with the term, "Breast Cancer Survivor." You remember "The Scarlet Letter"... yes, I do read. That Scarlet "A" burned into Hester's chest. She could feel it. Could feel people's eyes boring that "A" deeper and deeper. Sometimes I wonder if I will be wearing a Pink "C" the rest of my life. Forever marked. Forever changed. Forever labelled.

People have differing opinions on when you become a Survivor- some say the day you're diagnosed. Some say when they cut the cancer out. Or maybe it's when treatment ends. I sure as hell know I didn't feel like a survivor for a long time. I was just trying to make it through each day. I still am. If I had survived a car accident, say, I could go about my business, not afraid that same car will run me over again. Cancer? Not so much.

I feel a bit like "survivor" is a term those who haven't had cancer use to make those of us "in the club" feel better. Like saying, "You're so strong, you'll beat this." Calling us survivors makes others feel better. That we can get over it. That we'll be "cured." That it will be over. Everyone back to their respective business.

It was very hard for me to say, "I HAD cancer,"... had, as in past tense. It's still hard for me to say. Cancer is still a part of my life. Some of that is by choice, so maybe I'm gluing that pink "C" on myself. But I squirm a bit at "survivor." I'm not sure why. I'm proud to be an example for others. I'm happy to share my experience. I guess I just don't feel like I've survived anything yet. If I die of a heart attack at 75, then maybe I'll have survived breast cancer.

When I was at the YSC conference, there was a woman who spoke about what it means to be a survivor. (I don't remember her name- damn chemo brain.) She said something like this:

You go from patient to survivor when you stop saying, "Why me?" and start saying, "What can I learn?"

(Pausing for dramatic moment of revelation...)

I guess in that respect, I've been a survivor for a long time. I was never really the "Why me?" kind of girl. Shit happens. And I've been trying to learn from this for a long time. Maybe that's all we can really ask. Take what you can. Learn from it. Try to do your best. Take all the support you get - no matter how it's labelled.

Hi, my name is Courtney Bugler and I'm a breast cancer survivor.

Sally-Sass-a-lot Sucks

2007-05-17T00:28:00.000-04:00

I've been debating what to do with my wig, Sally. She's been sitting on her Styrofoam head with her perfect dye job for months, just staring at me. There's a part of me that says I should donate her. Then again, I keep thinking, "What if I need her again?" She's like my cancer woobie. When I was a little kid, my brother threw my blankie out a car window. At least that's how I remember it. I'm not sure if I'm ready to do that to Sally.

Today I was talking to my friend about Sally. She asked if I ever put her on. Like a drag queen before a night out. I reminded her there's a difference between donning some pink mylar and grabbing some glow sticks and wearing a wig because you HAVE to. But while on the phone, I thought about Sally. Maybe she was lonely. It would be nice to see long blond hair again. I proceeded to take Sally off her head and put her on. "Hold on a sec," I told Hope. Point four seconds later, she heard me mutter, "Nope. I'm done." I put Sally on and immediately took her off. Why?

Because Sally smells like Cancer.

The mere presence of Sally near my nostrils and I'm taken back to chemo. Nothing else I own smells like Sally. That combination of hair dye and god-knows-what. But it's still there. And I'm not doing it. No fucking way. My mouth automatically went dry and I put Sally back. I'm thinking my relationship with Sally is over. I may keep her long enough to show a colorist the exact shade of blond I'd like if I ever go back. But that's it. If I get cancer again, I won't ever wear a wig. Too much work. And I can only take so many Sallys smelling up my closet.

Vacay!

2007-05-15T21:55:00.000-04:00

I've had some requests for some photos from our vacay...

Here's me on a zip line through the forest in Jamaica

Formal night

Alan decided to be silly and do a glamour shot

Scuba diving in Grand Cayman

On the beach in the Bahamas

This is my favorite. It's ridiculous and fun.

Touch yourself up

2007-05-15T20:48:00.000-04:00

Last week Atlanta's CBS affiliate ran a story on me and young women with breast cancer. It was pretty fun to shoot. They came and set up chairs in my backyard, like I was important or something. The story is pretty well done, and I don't sound too stupid. I learned the following things:

1. It's very hard for me me talk for any length without saying something inappropriate or swearing

2. Damn, I've gotten chubby. They rolled in all these "before" pictures and wow- time to get my ass to the gym!

3. When asked what young women should do, my answer was "touch yourself up. get your partner to help." I was very afraid this might be the soundbite. Thankfully, no. Best in print only.

So check me out.

Young Breast Cancer Survivor Raises Awareness

Racing for the Cure

2007-05-15T19:44:00.000-04:00

This past weekend, I walked in Atlanta's Race for the Cure. This was my first one, as I was in the middle of treatment last year. Did I actually run? Hell, no. I walked that 5k. Alan joined me this time. We spent out morning helping out the local chapter of the Young Survival Coalition. Then off we went.

I only have the Breast Cancer 3-day to compare it to. They're very different events. The 3-day is a national event, while the Race raises money for local outreach and research. Everything stays in Atlanta. You have to raise $2200 to walk the 3-day, most people in the Race only pay a $25 participation fee. So there's like 15,000 people vs the 2,000 at the 3-day. And of course, it's three days and 60 miles, a much bigger commitment.

I guess I'm saying I was disappointed by the Race for the Cure. It was so big and so commercial. And everyone wandered around tents just getting their free stuff. And there was no real ceremony per se, no sense of communion. People showed up, walked their 5k, got their t-shirt and left. There were awards and stuff but it was done on stage in front of maybe a couple hundred people while others paid no attention. I guess I was hoping it would be meaningful and it wasn't really.

On the flip side, did it raise a shit load of money? Yep. Did it involve people that otherwise wouldn't be? You bet. Did people perhaps get information along with their free koozie? Uh-huh. So in that respect, it was valuable. And will I do it again next year? Sure, it was a nice way to spend a Saturday morning. But I look forward to another 3-day in October.

Backing it up with Dr. Susan Love

2007-05-15T17:53:00.000-04:00

If you are diagnosed with Breast Cancer, one of the first books that someone will recommend is Dr. Susan Love's Breast Book. "It's the Breast Cancer Bible," I was told. So of course, a day after I was diagnosed, I run my little cancer ridden ass out to buy it. And read it from cover to cover. Take notes, turn down pages, freak the fuck out. As do thousands of other women.

I recently met Dr. Love. She's one of the top researchers on breast cancer and women's heath. Like Mr. Smith, I too went to Washington. I was at National Breast Cancer Coalition's Advocacy training conference D.C. recently. This was my second BC conference this year. Aren't I the little joiner?

The conference was awesome. I learned a lot. This organization is the largest breast cancer lobbying organizations on Washington. The conference was a great combination of science, politics and kicking ass. I very much enjoy kicking ass. It was a weekend of action culminating with a day spent on Capital Hill lobbying our congressmen. That was pretty fierce.

Presenting an award to a congressional staffer.

What did we lobby for? Funding for a Department of Defense program that gives research grants. Funding for research on breast cancer and the environment. Health care for all. Fortunately and unfortunately, I lobbied 3 liberal democrats (the perks of living in a very blue part of a red state) who had already signed on to these. Why is this bad, you ask? Well, I wanted to crack some skulls. Show some old rich white man my scars and my short hair. Make him dare to ignore me. But I didn't get to. There's always next time.

I've begun my road to being an advocate. I'm not sure if this is the direction my "giving back" will lead. I have volunteered for other survivor support programs. But this was so valuable and empowering. While there, I did come up with a brilliant idea to be shared soon. I do know I will attend this conference again. And I will send money. And encourage others to. The research money that NBCC fights for has enabled discoveries that save lives. Drugs like herceptin were discovered though the Department of Defense program. It is a group I am very proud to be affiliated with.

So please, join the NBCC. go to the website. Become a member. Donate some cash. Be a part of the thousands of people fighting for health care and research.

What does this have to do with Dr. Susan Love? Well, there was a party. With dancing. I vowed that I would "back it up" with a very famous author and head of her own foundation. As I spoke to her, I asked if she should sign my tits or my book. She laughed and said "As long as this doesn't end up on YouTube."

Tee hee.

Candy

2007-05-15T17:08:00.000-04:00

Where was I during part of this hiatus? Dealing with the loss of one of the ya-yas. Some might argue the ultimate ya-ya. Candy passed away after a 10 year battle with Breast Cancer. In many ways, she beat so many odds. She was diagnosed with a stage IV recurrence about 5 years ago. Stage four, as many who've watched Elizabeth Edwards on the news, means the cancer has spread to parts of the body. Candy spent years in chemo after chemo, hormone therapy, drugs for colon cancer or HIV or whatever she could get her hands on. Candy kept fighting to the end. Now she's at peace.

Candy is one of the first people I remember from my original trip to the ya-yas. She was the first one to tout this amazing drug. She knew everything. She had done research, talked to doctors. She was in complete control. And she did not suffer fouls. I loved that about her. I'm not really a "sunshine up your ass" kind of girl. And Candy was totally type-A. She planned everything. And well. She even planned her own funeral. And it was beautiful.

One of my favorite stories about Candy was when I was assigned to bake something for a recpetion the ya-yas. Cancdy was in charge, as she usually was and I had strict instructions on how to cut the bars into 1 inch squares. I recevied my recipe in the mail, complete with directions to garnish it with mint springs. And a silver tray, not cheap plastic shit. I hadn't been a part of the ya-yas for very long, and while I was concerend with the depth of detail, I was also scared to death of doing any way other than what Candy told me to do. I had visions of the wrath of a Southern lady. And Candy was a lady in a way many aren't anymore. Accomplished, grcious - hiding a backbone of steel.

When Candy was starting to go downhill, I offered to be her personal bitch. She enjoyed that, I think. I told her I would be more than willing to pick up her pain dugs for her- for a small cut, of course. When I saw her for the last time, she looked and me and plain as day said, "I feel like shit." No excuses. No blowing smoke. She was who she was. A women who loved as hard as she fought. A woman who took no prisoners and no bullshit. A woman who planned a party as well as she planned her life. On her own terms.

Candy showed me how to live and how to die. With such grace and dignity. At her funeral, the catherdral was packed. Hers was a life well lived. A life where she led by example. A life that affected so many people. That can't be bad. Candy showed me how to do it right. She was right about almost everything.

While I didn't know Candy veyr long, she is forever in my heart. She was the general in our group of soldiers, leading us to live our lives better and fuller. Not to let cancer win. Ever.

We miss you.

Beer Goggles

2007-05-07T22:06:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, I was bit a drinker. Okay so I closed down the bar, but that is besides the point. A few amaretto sours or some other fruity chick drink made otherwise dull people more entertaining, stupid people seem smarter and some so-so guys seem absolutely spectacular.

Yep, I'm talking about the beer goggles. Before I was married and boring, I had quite a few mornings when the beer goggles made Friday seem way better than it felt Saturday morning. It was a world where I drank a lot and never got hangovers, where drinking beer upside down seemed perfectly natural. A land of tube tops and body glitter. A land I'm pretty glad I'm out of, but it was fun while it lasted.

What does this have to do with cancer, you ask? Apparently, there's some research that says alcohol feeds breast cancer cells. It's always been acknowledged that the sauce isn't GOOD for you, but feeding my cancer? Wow- that blows.

"We've known for some time that even moderate amounts of alcohol increase the risk. What's new is that this study shows alcohol speeds up the growth of any breast cancer cells that exist."

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/portal/main.jht.../ftdrink102.xml

Then again, almost everything we do can "cause cancer." Our air, food, cars, yada yada yada. I could go on a whole environmental rant. But don't take away my mojitos. Please!

It's a tough line to walk- that enjoying your life thing while doing all you can to prevent recurrence. It's a line we walk every day we decide to grab the regular milk cuz $5 for a small carton of organic milk is ricockulous. Or when we have that cheeseburger or take a nap instead of hitting the gym. There's a happy medium somewhere. A place where you don't have guilt over what you could have done differently. If I didn't toss back dozens of body shots off that random guy in Mexico, maybe I wouldn't have gotten cancer. Then again, I wouldn't have the great story that makes me chuckle even now. (it involves dancing on a bar, and a head injury, but trust me- it's freaking funny)

Thankfully, I don't drink nearly as much anymore. I prefer to remember when and who I fell asleep with. Treatment made me a lightweight, anyway. But I'm not going to turn down that strawberry daiquiri on a hot afternoon, or the Christmas morning mimosa. I want to live beyond breast cancer, but I still want to live, you know. So raise a glass and toast.

"To saying fuck you to cancer. And not letting it get in the way of having a life."

Gulp.

Thank you, Cancer...

2007-05-06T22:32:00.000-04:00

Some people can have cancer, get treated and go about their business. More power to them. I'd like what they're smoking. Most of us, however, tend to think of the "big C" as the gift that keeps on giving. There are others that truly look upon their cancer diagnosis as a gift - something that made them a better person, gave them a new outlook on life, etc. And yeah, I guess it's done that for me. But call me Bitter Betty, but I will never see Breast Cancer as a gift. I don't care how many "survivor" t-shirts you give me or pink ribbons you wrap me up in - cancer blows. Cancer's like getting a vacuum or a dishwasher for your birthday. Sure, you find uses for it, but your life would have been just fine without it. And those leather pants would have been way more fun. You can think of a lot more creative opportunities to celebrate your life. Or when you get a winter coat for Christmas - hello, you needed a winter coat anyway. If it weren't Christmas, you'd still get one... so instead of that karaoke machine you wanted, it's a Columbia parka... -

Sorry, that's my own personal problem :)

But cancer has given me many things. So here, I go -

Thanks, Cancer, for almost taking my big toenails. It's almost a year later and that weird little lifted part is much smaller, but it's still there. Saying hello every time I put those little footsies in shoes. Thanks for giving me something to explain every time I get a pedicure.

Thank you for making me bruise easier. Cancer, I love looking like my husband tossed me down the stairs when I simply bumped my knee against the couch. Or that my three dogs ravage me like wolves when I do some crazy new trick on the pole.

Thank you for utterly fucking up my hair. Everywhere. It's curly where I don't want it to be and patchy where I'd like it to be thick and curly, if you know what I'm saying. My landing strip would be more like a gravel path. (If you don't understand the "landing strip" reference, you're probably related to me in some way that you don't want to know.)

Thanks, cancer, for giving me lymphadema, a condition that makes my left hand swollen and gives me pain in my arm. Thank you for making me resize my wedding ring. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to wear a "compression sleeve." That's hot. H-O-T.

Thank you for making my skin still sensitive to sun even after a year. I love rashes and itching. I love love love not being able to tan. Pasty's the new black.

Thank you for screwing up my eyes. Getting an astigmatism in one eye was a real perk of the treatment, thanks. Thanks for making me pay more money for contacts that I used to. You're a real gem.

Thank you, cancer, for giving me diverticulitis. I thoroughly enjoy any and all problems you can give me with my pooper. Where should I send the thank you card- the one with my colonoscopy pictures on the front?

Thanks for the pounds. Thank you for giving my the opportunity to try new styles in all sorts of sizes. I so would rather buy size 12 clothes than furnish my living room. Thank you.

Maybe one day I'll have less to be "thankful" for. However, I'm inclined to believe Cancer is that guy that stays way too long at the party.

Best of Times, Worst of Times

2007-04-07T22:22:00.000-04:00

I've been a little MIA the last couple of weeks. I've started and deleted dozens of posts. Nothing seemed right. Nothing was enough. Usually, when I don't write for a while, it's because I'm either out having a fucking good time or I'm covered in shit.

This time was no different.

It's been a particularly rough month to have breast cancer. Cancer recurrence has been all over the news the past few weeks. Of course, it coincided with struggles in my real life. I've dealt with other people's recurrence, illness, misdiagnosis . One incredibly amazing woman I knew personally lost her battle. It's been a little scary and to be perfectly honest, I haven't exactly gotten an handle on my anger and my frustration.

On the flip side, Alan and I went on vacation last week. It was good. Just what I needed. And if anyone doubts our ability to spend hundreds of dollars on booze, I will offer up the tab from our seven day cruise as an example.

It has also been a month of activism. I've signed up to be a hotline operator for BC people, I've joined the board of a young adult survivor group, I'm going to D.C. to lobby for breast cancer research funding and health care.

So I have lots to tell you. Lots. Check back often in the next week or so. I'll catch you back up.

Moving on to more important things...

2007-03-21T23:14:00.000-04:00

Okay, so as you can see from the post below, I am now a full-fledged brunette. Again, I could have been a natural brunette before, but it had been so long since I saw my natural hair color, it's hard to tell. I will stand by the belief that it is darker than before cancer. With more gray than I'm comfortable with. And it's curly. The chemo curl is out of control. I have to use some hard core product to make the front stay down. Otherwise it just looks like a 'fro.

I am debating whether I go back to my original blond or stay "au naturale." It's so weird that there is a whole world of people - well, not a world, but my current metro area- who only know me with my short, brown hair.

My biggest problem? I have a closet full of clothes in pinks and purples and light blues... very blond haired, blue eyed kind of colors. Summer colors, if you will. I think my current hair color makes me more of a winter. Or maybe I'm talking out of my ass. I just know my 3 different hot pink dresses don't look quite as good with my brown hair. Then again, I can't fit into those dresses right now, so it's moot.

But some people say they like it. I'm not sure. So I put it to you, the public. Or the 4 people who read this. To dye or not to dye? Do blonds actually have more fun? For those looking for a reference, check out this post.

If I knew how to do a poll on this, I would. Comments?

I'm a Model, you know what I mean...

2007-03-20T11:18:00.000-04:00

And I do my little turn on the catwalk.
Yeah, on the catwalk, on the catwalk-
yeah, I shake my little tush on the catwalk.

Yes, I just quoted "I'm Too Sexy." And yes, I knew all the words without looking them up. 1992 was a great year.

These are some cropped pictures from my naked photo shoot. You heard me- cropped. I will pose naked but putting my tits and my snatch on the internet for every freak who googles naked or cancer? No thanks. Again, I must credit my photographer, Christine Benjamin for her amazing work. Perhaps one day I will be a page in her "I of the Beholder" book, my girls out on your coffee table.

How was that photo shoot, you ask? Well, it was many things. Liberating, uncomfortable, fun, sad, moving, fucked up. I was more comfortable with bearing my body than bearing my soul. See, as Christine snapped away, she asked me to go into my thoughts about cancer, my body, whatever. It was so hard for me not to crack jokes and put on some cheesy smile. In fact, when I tried to dodge some of her questions with an inappropriate crack, she wouldn't let me. Before I knew it, I was talking about how uncomfortable I've become with my body. How I've lost a bit of myself. And then the tears came. Fucking tears. I kept thinking to myself, "cry pretty." I do not cry pretty. I have a very unflattering picture of me sobbing from my wedding, mascara streaming down my face. When the shoot was over, I asked, "Does everybody cry during this?"

"Pretty much," she said.

I am in fact, NOT a model. I had no idea what to do with my hands or how to stand. I felt forced. It was harder than I thought. It was hard not to "pose" or to stand purposely to hide certain flaws or accentuate the positives. It was hard not to think about the 30 pounds I'd gained from cancer that I haven't shed yet. Or how to put my hand where I had earned some cancer stretch marks. Christine had me just talk, and move my hands accordingly.

How do I feel about the finished product? They're beautiful. And moving, I think. However, it's hard not to focus on the flaws. My lopsided boob is much more prominent than I thought it was. The spare tire around the middle is not so pretty. I have a wicked double chin. Then again, I had a double chin 20 pounds ago so there's no surprise.

I know, this is shitty to think of these things, as the whole point of the photos is not to focus on them. That we are beautiful despite them. That we are strong, wonderful women. It's easy to think that when looking at someone else.

I guess my problem is that I look at these pictures and it feels like looking at someone else. It doesn't look like me. In my mind, I'm still athletic and blond. I have long straight hair. I'm smiling. Or laughing. I radiate a little bit of sex. A me I'm not quite ready to give up, yet. Not only do these photos not match my own image, they show a vulnerability that I'm not quite comfortable with. A vulnerability I can thank cancer for giving me.

Perhaps that's why these photos are so good.

Spring has sprung.

2007-03-14T12:31:00.000-04:00

It's spring down here in the south. You know that whole March going in like a lion thing? Well, when I lived near Chicago, it was pretty much a lion all month long. A cold, rainy, not very cute lion. Not here in the land of peaches. It's 75 degrees today. Perfect. I'm enjoying my first spring in the south by having a mojito. You may notice the time stamp. It's noon. It's happy hour, somewhere, right?

Amazing how the weather can have such a profound impact on your mood. Alan and I spent the weekend mulching and planting flowers. I planted my first flowers ever. Around my mailbox. Yeah, we live in suburbia. Get over it. It felt so good to be outside, doing active things. At the risk of sounding cheesy, I just felt really alive. See, I missed all the good weather last year. Spring and Summer and Fall came and went. I couldn't be outside in the sun and I felt like shit. Way to live, huh? This spring I vow it will be different. If I have to live in a land where people think evolution's only a theory, at least I can enjoy the sunshine.

I think about spring a lot right now. For SATC fans (Sex and the City, for those of you not in-the-know), you may recall when Samantha got breast cancer. Some have told me, that of all the Sex and the City characters, I remind them most of her. I choose to believe it's for her spunk, her loyalty and her no-nonsense approach to most problems - not just because she's a dirty whore. See, Samantha's identity was very much tied up with her sexuality. She was dating this HO-OT man about 15 years younger who turned out to be the greatest guy ever. Anyway, when she was going through chemo and menopause and lost her sex drive and didn't feel like herself, her boyfriend told her it was like winter. It may look and feel dead, but it's just waiting for spring. He then proceeded to send her daffodil bulbs with a card that said, "looking forward to spring." You know by the end she got back her mojo and fucked the shit out of him. Good girl.

I guess that's how I feel. That most of me has felt dead and gone the past year, but it's just a matter of letting it bloom again. Not just sex, but me- all the things that make me feel myself. Maybe that's the reason for the mid-life crisis dancing, diving, buying or photo taking. I feel like it's time to peel away all the dead bark, rake up all the nasty leaves, and pulls some weeds. Prune some of those insecurities and repot some self-confidence. Aerate some fun. Put down some fertilizer and water daily. Watch for the gorgeous blooms that have been hiding all winter. Those blooms of fearlessness and sex and humor and mojo. Look at them one sunny day and remind yourself just how fabulous they are and how wonderful you are for cultivating them.

I'm looking forward to spring.

I'm a human guinea pig

2007-03-14T01:57:00.000-04:00

When Alan and I worked on cruise ships, we spent 6 months in South America. One of my most vivid memories, however, was not seeing Evita's grave or the Tierra del Fuego. It's not even the dirty whores in Rio who grabbed Alan's hand out of mine and put it on their crotches. No, it's sitting in some sketchy restaurant in Ecuador as a friend ordered guinea pig. Yep, you heard me. As in one of those little furry creatures that inevitably escapes in your house and no one ever finds him. The best part of this delicacy? It arrived at the table with tiny bits of hair still visible.

Why, you ask, do I tell this story? You are, after all, trying to eat your lunch while trolling through your staple of procrastination websites. Well, I am now a guinea pig, served up at the table of science.

Those of you who think that finishing treatment for breast cancer actually ends, au contraire. In many ways, I still feel very much like I'm actively in treatment. My breast cancer is Estrogen positive, meaning I was prescribed tamoxifen to take daily for 5 years. Nothing like a constant reminder.

What about the little hairy guinea pig? This is where the fun begins. I volunteered to be a part of probably the most important clinical trial for premenopausal women. Okay, put on your thinking caps, it's time for a bit o' biology. In some women, estrogen feeds their breast cancer. Premenopausal women traditionally have a poorer prognosis than women who've already undergone "the big M." Menopause is a big divider for breast cancer treatment. Post menopausal women get different drugs, different treatment, etc. There are drugs out there that are proven to be better than tamoxifen, but only in post-meno women so far. Because younger women usually have so many more years where our little ovaries are pumping out the cancer juice called estrogen, it's a fine line.

Here's where the trial comes in. It's called the SOFT trial... Suppression of Ovarian Function Trial. The premise being- if we can make premenopausal women POST menopausal, perhaps their outcomes will be better.

What does this mean for me, kiddies? It means that I get to go through chemically induced menopause. Every 28 days, some nurse jabs a shot in my ass. It burns like a mother, most likely due to the fact, "it's like shoving glue through there." Apparently it's thick. Awesome. Makes my left butt cheek feel all sore. That's not enough. Oh, no. I'm currently in full blown menopause. Hot flashes, night sweats, the occasional touch of crazy- you name it. I'm still on tamoxifen which adds to the party.

Is this permanent? No. Well, I'm on the trial for 5 years, but after that, once they stop the shots, theoretically my period should come back. Good thing I got those frozen babies- just in case. Another option is to take my ovaries out surgically, but we won't go there until after the baby factory officially closes for business. Let's get it open first.

Why did I sign up for this, you ask? After all, Aunt Flo's good time gang was just coming back after my last bout with chemopause. In short, studies lean toward the fact this could very well keep my cancer from coming back, and could help save my life. Sounds good to me. Also, this is such an important subject of research, and I am honored to be a part of it. I have been so blessed with great care- I feel a bit of a need to give back whatever I can.

What's it like to be on a clinical trial? Well, I get more tests done. They're concerned about bone density and hormone levels. They watch me a little closer. That can't be bad, right? And they ask me a lot of questions about quality of life. After all, if this treatment makes us miserable, what's the point of prolonging a shitty life? So I get asked a lot of questions about my mood, and sleep and sex. Lots of questions about sex. Losing most of your hormones can really fuck that up. Something you mere mortals can look forward to.

Is it fun? Nope. But then again, none of this has been fun. Well, maybe the good drugs. Those are dreamy. But I feel like I'm actively doing something, and that makes me feel better. Sweaty and on fire, but better.

So I'm a guinea pig. Pass the salt.

Unacceptable

2007-03-09T16:54:00.000-05:00

Getting cancer allows you to see the yin and yang of what human beings are capable of. You see people's true colors- what they are truly made of. And while I am awe inspired by the love and generosity of some people, others were simply unacceptable.

Now, I can hear those of you with bleeding hearts and open arms talking already, "Everyone handles crisis differently. It doesn't make it bad, just different." Well, I will take the unpopular stand. I think that's crap. Total crap. Sunshine up your ass bullshit to make weak people feel better. Like telling a bride, "It's good luck to rain on your wedding day." You're just telling her that so she doesn't think about her ruined outdoor pictures and spots on her $2k dress.

Cancer's a scary thing. It forces us to face our own mortality. It scares us to think about losing people. Or seeing them suffer. Guess what? Sucks even more if you actually HAVE cancer.

Every single person I've talked to who's had cancer has a story about someone they've lost because of the disease. People who just didn't step up. Or people who simply stopped calling. People who couldn't handle it. And they all wonder if they should forgive this egregious lack of support. I can hear the leader of my support group now. "Courtney, it's not that they don't care. They just weren't capable of dealing." Since when is being weak an excuse? Yes, I said it. Weak. And as I once heard around my own family's Thanksgiving table, (albeit after a few too many drinks), "We spit on the weak."

What sparked this rant, you ask? Nothing in particular. I've been thinking about this a while. Ever since I lost someone I thought was a close friend. Someone who just stopped calling. Someone who was so self-absorbed they could only think about their own life. Someone who lied to me. Someone who wasn't necessarily a shitty friend because I was sick. I think they would have been a shitty friend anyway. It's just that once I got cancer, I lost all respect for that kind of crap. I saw who my real friends were and I gained more. If I lost one... well, it's not like they were helping me anyway. As a woman, we constantly over analyze why someone did this and someone did that. Getting cancer made me realize- I don't give a shit why. Doesn't make it acceptable.

On another note. I'm not stupid. I am, in fact, smarter than not just the average bear, but most bears. Don't be so dumb to think you can lie to me and I won't know. I can piece it together. Your excuse of blaming your doctor? I can add up that your appointment you told me about actually was on a Saturday. And doctors don't see people on Saturday. All that raising money you said you did? I can go online and see it was zero. Don't insult my intelligence. If you can't come, have the courtesy just to tell me. Don't' make up shit to "save my feelings." You'll just piss me off.

If it seems that I've gone into a bit of a personal call out. Perhaps I have. Just as me getting cancer does not make it acceptable to openly hurt people, it also doesn't make it acceptable for you to hurt me.

My thoughts for anyone who doesn't know "what to say" so they don't say anything? Or the person who drops off the face of the earth until their friend's cancer is easier from them to deal with. Or the person that thinks their relative or friend getting cancer is about them:

I seriously hope that you are lucky enough to have more friends like me and less friends like you.

My dirty mouth is famous!

2007-02-28T01:41:00.000-05:00

Okay, they may not mention me by name, but there's an article in the Washington Post today about the conference. Read towards the end. See if you can guess the part that sounds like me. Yeah, I swore in the Post. Awesome. I was part of the photo shoot discussed in the article. (Not to be confused with my own shoot... more on that later.) I'm pretty sure I'm the last quote as well. On the website, however, you don't get the beautiful half naked pictures of us. Well, you do, but you have to look for it. What the article doesn't tell you, however, is that I was bitching cuz my pants were falling down. I just wanted to take them off. Or that the "disco pose" was actually very Charlie's Angels-esque. Or that halfway through, the Post photographer was all up in my business as I made high school senior picture poses (topless, of course)... putting my head in my hands, leaning against the pole, getting all "soft focus." Perhaps she's using those photos for her personal collection. Who knows. She was right, though. There was something just cool about standing around topless with a bunch of women, all scarred. Some without nipples, some with big dents. Some with what I liked to call my "blueberry muffin tops." (Hello, my pants fall down precisely to avoid muffin top). And it was fun. As was the rest of the conference.

For your viewing pleasure... can you find me here? This one's a little harder :)

In Real Life

2007-02-28T00:24:00.000-05:00

I am back from the boob conference. It was good. Can't say I learned a ton of new stuff, but oh, well. I have done more research than the average bear. 850 breast cancer survivors under 40. That part was cool. I also learned that Washington D.C. shuts down if there's an inch of snow. Seriously, they told me it would be 2 hours to get a cab. You kidding me? I digress...

So, I'm fairly active on a few message boards. Some having to do with cancer, some not. It isn't uncommon to see the phrase "IRL" - in real life. Not to be confused with "url," as in a website. On the Young Survival Coalition board, you can read frequent comments on how "irl, people don't get it." "irl, i can't talk to my friend/husband/mom/dog" Okay, maybe I can, but you get the idea. Before this conference, about 40 of us discussed how excited we were to meet each other IRL. Women we only knew through signature pictures and diagnosis statistics. Women we only knew through written text: where humor, sarcasm and truth are deeply intertwined.

Off I went to the conference. And I recognized some of these women immediately. Some had different hair than in their pictures (myself included) but I recognized their smiles. Or their eyes. When you don't have hair, your eyes become bigger. Or at least they look bigger. Even though I don't post all the time, I immediately felt a part of this "family." We shared stories, jokes, rants. We laughed and made inappropriate comments at the sex toy party. We were from all over the country. Some were shy. Others, uh-hem, were not. We were single, married, gay, straight. IRL, one would argue if we would be friends, or even run into each other. But this isn't real life. It's cancer life. And in the world of the "big C," once you're in, you're in.

What did I learn? I learned that women are beautiful no matter if they have boobs or hair. I learned that a good laugh can make you feel worlds better. I learned that there are amazing, strong awesome women who have this disease. And they don't deserve it. I learned the value of a community and unconditional support. In spite of hot flashes and side effects and our own problems, there are women willing to reach out and help others. Give what is left of themselves. Where else can you get that many women together and not have it be a cat fest? Maybe cuz most of us have no hormones left.

I am in awe of these women. Stage IVs who refuse to give up. Women just diagnosed who have to go through all that shit. Shit that I'm so glad to done with. Although we all travelled back to our homes, our families, our lives - I now have a bit more of an insight to these women. When they offer advice, I will think of their presence. Or their hug. Or the fact that one went out on a date with a dwarf. Most importantly, I will think that I am proud to be a part of them, IRL or otherwise. I am honored to consider myself a member of this fucked up sorority.

Here's a group picture of women from the YSC board. Can you find me? It's like "Where's Waldo?"

Ridiculous, Party of One - your Table's Ready

2007-02-23T10:58:00.000-05:00

So I've jumped from planes, taken up pole dancing (which by the way, I can now go upside down)... what next?

This weekend I will be attending the Young Survivors Conference for young women with breast cancer. Think 600 women under 40... I'm sure there will be crying involved. And some bitching. And I sure as hell hope some drinking.

This in itself is not extraordinary. Although I am told there will be a Pure Romance party. Also known as a sex toy Tupperware party.

"Hi, honey. I'm home."
"How was the conference?"
"Great. I brought you home some lube."
"I love presents."

This is also not the crazy part. Here goes. I will be posing nude for a photographer. WHAT! Yep, me in my "30 pounds overweight, I'm not comfortable in my body" glory. What the hell? There is this awesome woman, Christine Benjamin, who's doing a photo project for breast cancer.

Here's her website. The project is called "I of the Beholder." Her work is beautiful and inspiring. She's at the conference and some of us have volunteered to be a part of it.

Why am I doing this? Well, it's nuts. I love that. More importantly, it's part of my life now. And it's impoartant to see younger women with scars, etc. For me, it's also about learning to love my post cancer body, chubby and all. It's not to say that I'm not trying to drop those pounds, but for now, they are my badge of courage.

I will give you all the details when I get back. Wish me luck!

Breast Conservation

2007-02-20T23:35:00.000-05:00

Back in the dark ages of breast cancer treatment, a woman would go to sleep on an operating table and wake up without her breast. Or her chest wall muscles. And some male doctor would shrug his shoulders and say, "at least you're still alive."

Thankfully, medicine has come a long way. Breast conservaton is all the rage. A lumpectomy (as in taking out the tumor and some surrounding tissue) plus radiation has a similar survival rate to a mastectomy. Recurrance rates may change, but it's comparable. Many women feel lucky to even have the choice. In turn, many doctors, especially women doctors, have been educated on the huge effect losing your boobs can have. They are eager to encourage breast conservation.

If you have been reading this little tale from the beginning, you would recall that I labored over this very decision. In fact, it is the one element to my treatment that I still debate with myself in my head. My very well respected, head of a major breast center, female doctor felt a lumpectomy was the way to go. Unless I wanted a mastectomy, that is. My tumor was small, it would have the least cosmetic downsides, etc. Finally I decided to do the lumpectomy, figuring I could cut them off later if I needed to.

Problem is, no one really tells you that a lumpectomy does NOT mean your breast will be conserved. Not in the way you thought, that is. My tumor ended up being larger than they thought. And it was in an odd position. It was at 6 o'clock. Most tumors are in the upper half. And no one told me that this is the worse place for a good cosmetic outcome. In conserving my breast, I now have 2 lopsided ones. One nice and normal and one with a huge dent on the underside. The plus side- it doesn't droop. Not enough tissue. And from the front, it's not too obvious. But from the side....

The first time I really noticed the dent, I was looking at the mirror in our bedroom. I was admiring the little half moon of my scar, thinking it was healing nicely. Thinking my boob made a cute little face... a one eyed smile, if you will. Then I turned to the side. And my face fell. There was a huge hunk gone. It was like a canyon, or a plateau, or a butte... whatever those abrupt drop offs are. I turned to Alan. "Did you notice this?" His look told me yes. Thankfully, put those girls in a bra and no one knows the difference. No one but me.

Then I had radiation. And the skin tightened. And lost some senstation. And if I ever do get pregnant, my regular boob will become ginormous while my radatied, "conserved" boob will remain the same. And when those pregant boobs shrink, they will be all sorts of messed up. That may be the time to just cut them off and start again.

I tell this story for the women who may read this. Do I wish I did a mastectomy? Got a matched pair? Gt a tummy tuck while I was at it? I'm not sure. It is what it is. But ask questions. Ask for pictures. And for the people who think that someone "just got a lumpectomy" so it can't be that bad, I would argue it sucks no matter what.

However, I revel in the fact that I got breast cancer, thus gaining a bunch of weight, thus getting HUGE BOOBS. Serously, these girls are out of control. Under a shirt or with a v-neck, they look great. Just don't take off my shirt.

Irony.

Better Living through Chemistry

2007-02-20T11:20:00.000-05:00

I was never a drug user. Nothing more than a Tylenol here or there. In fact, I was crap at taking pills. When I broke up with my boyfriend in college, I threw my birth control pills out the window. (that may have had more to do with the fact I hated sex with him, but that's a story for another day...) I've never been able to take vitamins. I did have a brief affair with Flintstones, but they were so chalky especially the purple ones. When I worked on ships, when everyone thought that buying prescriptions of Xanax in Cozumel was a good idea, I took a pass. Even more so when they chased a few with some vodka. (Seriously, it's amazing any of us made it to 30) I have never been offered so much pot as when I was in treatment. I swear, I had no idea so many people had "someone they could hook me up with." The idea of putting a hot, smelly bowl in my mouth when I already felt like puking wasn't my bag. Although some have told me maryjane got them through treatment... good for them. I missed out, I guess.

Because of cancer, I did have to make friends with pills. Pills before chemo, pills for 3 days after chemo, pills "as needed." Pills for pain, pills for my nausea, pills for my pooper. I got better at taking pills. I even threw back a couple at a time. In the beginning, Alan would laugh at me as I made faces and occasionally spit pills back up. He's one of those guys who can take pills with no water. Not me. I need flavor in my chaser. I eventually became friends with my pills. I learned that drugs were my friends. God gave us modern medical science for a reason. And pharmaceuticals. I learned to embrace cancer as my excuse to ask for medication when needed.

One of the cabinets in my kitchen is known as the "Magic Cabinet." Feeling anxious? Take an Ativan. Nauseous? Compazine. Pain? Norco or vicoden or percoset? I have all three. Trouble sleeping? Have an ambien. What about hot flashes? Effexor. I am my own one-woman pharmacy.

I now look forward to my minor medical procedures as chances to enjoy the wonders that are anaesthesia. Bring on the port removal, the colonoscopy! Twilight sleep? Yum! Ooh, I'm getting sleepy. I feel like I've had 6 martinis. When someone tells me they are taking this new med, I say, "Ooh, I love that shit." Or they're going in to get their port put in... "Versed. Get the good stuff!"

I currently take 3 pills a day. And another "as needed." More than I actually took some days during active treatment. Eventually, I may not need these pills. Until then, I'm going to take my drugs. Think of it as all the bad behavior I never displayed as a young adult. (I had pelnty of other vices, don't worry.) Only this time, I get to do it with a doctor's prescription.

Public Displays of Attention

2007-02-20T11:06:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I said attention. Not affection, like 14 year old making out in line at Great America. Now that I have some hair, I no longer get the looks in public that I used to. No more sad eyes, double takes, or subtle acts of kindness. I also no longer get the random bursts of inappropriate questions or comments. My favorite? Walking through an airport, bald and in a baseball hat, my big ol' port showing. Some woman randomly yelled at me, "You go girl. We're behind you." I totally did that look around, is-she-really-talking-to-me thing... she was. I felt strangely embarrassed and proud at the same time. And much to my surprise, I felt tears welling in my eyes. How is it that one person's words can affect me so much? I felt a lump in my throat. Everyone knows, don't they?

Or at the checkout, a woman just flat out asked, "so, you have cancer?" Yep, I said. "Good luck." That was nice. Random that she just asked a total stranger, but nice. Another woman asked me that in Jo-Ann fabrics in October. Then proceeded to tell me about the Pink Ribbon fabric they had in stock. No thanks.

Since I stopped wearing my wig earlier than most, I got quite a few funny looks when checking my ID. Yep, that's me. I spared them the whole story of my Driver's License nervous breakdown. Speaking of, maybe it's time to "lose" my ID.

Instead, I now get the occasional, "Your hair is so cute." Funny, since I feel like Ronald McDonald. I say thank you, although sometimes I say, "Well, I didn't choose this hair, but it's what I got." The woman at Panera, where I go for lunch every Thursday before the ya-yas, comments on my hair all the time. "Wow- it's really growing." I'm not sure what I'm more concerned about- my hair or the fact I'm at the Panera enough for the woman to know me.

Most of all, though, I don't get noticed at all. And I can't decide if I miss that or not. Right now, I'm thinking not. I've had enough attention. Blending in ain't so bad.

Post-treatment mid-life crisis, chapter 4

2007-02-16T09:11:00.000-05:00

Remember when I talked about my mid-life crisis? My desire to do any and all things ridiculous? That involved buying silly cars, adopting dogs, trapeze swinging, pole dancing... general craziness. I took suggestions and that was when it occurred to me that I needed to jump out of an airplane. I told Alan of my desire to skydive. What says, "I already did cancer and this can't be nearly as bad" as much as jumping from miles above the earth's surface?

Alan, the smart boy that he is, remembered such declaration and surprised me last weekend with an adventure for us. For Valentine's Day, he said. Because nothing says "I love you" like jumping together to your death.

So off we went. Unfortunately, we picked a pretty cold day down here in the South for it. I would guess it was below zero at altitude. We were jumping tandem with an instructor, so I wasn't too worried. I went first. Off to 14,000 feet I went. While I was nervous, the fact that some other jumpers were putting together a Mister Potato Head while falling through the sky made me relax. How hard can it be? I wasn't quite sure what falling at 120 miles an hour would feel like.

The scariest part? Right before the jump. I had to put my feet over the edge of the plane and count to three. Thankfully, I was attached to someone who was actually going to jump on three, so I was going no matter what. One- two-

THREEEEEEEE-

Off we went. We fell upside down for a second and righted ourselves. I have to say, once that first second went by, the fear was gone. Probably "terminal velocity" shenanigans... - yeah, I took high school physics. I had no idea that it would feel like such a long time up there. I felt like we Had forever. Time to pose for the camera guy, grab hands and spin in a few circles, My ears felt like they might fall off and my cheeks were pushed up to my forehead, but it was great.

Awesome. Totally awesome.

Notice Alan has the "rock quotes."

There wasn't a cloud in the sky and we could see everything. After a free fall for about 8,000 feet, we pulled the parachute. A bit of a yank and it opened. Then I heard my instructor say, "oh shit." Oh, shit, you say? I can't imagine "oh shit" is a good thing. Turns out, a part of our chute was still wrapped up in itself a bit. After a couple more shits and some tugging, all was right with the world. Again, I was struck with how long you had up there. Time to play, time to fix things, thing to just sit back and have some fun. Me, I just enjoyed the ride. We sailed along in the parachute for a while, making circles and turns. My instructor announced, "Welcome to my office." You know he says that line every time. Just as I used to make the same jokes at bingo.

After a fun parachute ride, we landed gracefully on our feet.

And I was hooked. I will be going back. One of my best ideas ever. I am now taking suggestions for the next challenge.

Happy Cancerversary!

2007-02-16T08:51:00.000-05:00

Happy Cancerversary to me-
Happy Cancerversary to me-
Kick the shitty year to the curb-
Happy Cancerversary to me!

You betcha. One year ago I was diagnosed with cancer. One year of doctors and surgeries and needles and drugs and side effects. One year of pain and fear and fatigue and anger. But here I am, one year later.

Last February 16th, I was waiting in my parent's kitchen cracking jokes with Alan and my mom when the doctor called. The doctor calling personally at 5:30 is never a good sign. With five words, my life changed forever.

"I'm so sorry, it's cancer."

After that, it was all sort of a blur. There was crying. There was wine. We went out to dinner that night. Get my mind off things. All I remember is spilling wine all over the table and laughing. That sort of hysterical laugh you get when it's really not funny.

The hardest part of February 16th? Saying the words, "I have breast cancer" aloud. I made some calls that night, and every time the words caught in my throat.

"I have something to tell you. Now don't freak out. But it's cancer."
"We got the results. Not good. It's cancer."
"Remember when you told me it was nothing and not to worry? Not so much. It's cancer."

Hearing other people's gasps or expletives or generally trying not to flip out on the phone with me was the hardest. I would love to say it was the hardest part of the trip, but there was a lot in store for me.

But here I am, one year out. How will I celebrate my Cancerversary, you ask? I will run errands, I will work out, I will be normal. I still have cancer stuff to deal with all the time. There are trials and hormone treatments and drugs, but normal isn't that far off. I've never wanted to "just be normal" so much in my life.

Vacay

2007-02-06T12:49:00.000-05:00

Yes, it's been awhile. For those of you wondering if I dropped off the face of the earth, I did sort of. I was on vacation - and by vacation I mean a few days in Sedona, Arizona. For some girl time. There's nothing better than girl time.

Why Sedona? One of my friends works for NASA and was there for her some sort of engineering-aeronautical- space conference thing. Science nerds. So I crashed the party. We drank. We got massages. We ate good food. We sat in hot tubs. We drank. Oh yeah, and Jill went to some presentations. So did I, in fact. I understood some of it, although I struggled with my urge not to giggle at words like "thrust". In fact, I felt a bit like the cast of friends when they wen to the Bahamas for Ross' dinosaur conference. "Dino-week" as Rachel called it. Complete with the rain. I struggled with my urge not to wear a "Science sucks" T-shirt or streak naked through a room full of geeks. But I did neither. I behaved myself. Sorry.

Things I learned while in Sedona:

1. Sedona is not beautiful all the time. In fact, the only day it was mildly nice outside was the day we left. So bad, in fact, was the weather that I have no pictures to show for my trip. Besides, you all know what a Mojito looks like.

2. Aerospace engineers on the whole are not the most sparkling of personalities. No offense to engineers out there. But conference with 400 people with only 3 at the hotel bar at night? What are you all doing - working, watching the discovery channel, what?!?!

3. A 90 minute massage is one of the best things in the universe. Better than just about anything. Yes, anything.

4. Drinks taste better when shared with friends.

5. When I'm away for even a couple of days I miss my dogs horribly.

6. Oh, yeah, I miss my husband, too. :)

7. The ride from Phoenix to Sedona is not pretty. Not until the last five minutes that is.

8. The average age in Sedona is 70 and that includes us.

9. People like to drive 5 to 10 miles under the speed limit in Sedona. (See number 8)

10. I don't ever want to live in the Southwest. All the houses are the same color. Or the same range of earthtone stucco. Where the blue house or a yellow house, or a green house? Now I sound like Dr. Seuss.

11. I do not like southwestern art. I am not the least bit interested in dream catchers.

12. New age hippies also live in Sedona. In fact, I almost visited a metaphysical department store for all things crystal and tarot.

13. Saving some money on the ticket doesn't sound so good anymore when you're stuck in Detroit for 3 hours.

It was great to get away. Great to spend time doing nothing but enjoying myself. But it's good to be home.

Hanging by my boobs...

2007-01-23T11:13:00.000-05:00

First of all this is my one 100th post to this blog. Imagine the confetti and balloons. Now I can go into syndication. Right after Oprah.

I recently had my post treatment follow-up mammogram. I have to say, it was way more traumatic than I thought it would be. And also funny in that "ha, ha let's laugh at another's silly pain." A little back story- I was telling the ya-ya's about my upcoming mammogram and one graciously told us all about her fear that she would pass out. And she would hang there, by her boob, unconscious and trapped in the vice like grip of the Mammomat. Thank you for that image.

Off I go, to the diagnostic mammogram. This is more involved than a standard one. Sitting in my hospital gown, open to the front of course, I looked around the waiting room. I was younger than everyone by easily 25 year. Great. This is what I get to look forward to.

A very nice woman walks me into the room and proceeds to smoosh my tits into a little machine. She tried to be all discreet.. moving my gown, etc. I finally stripped the thing off saying, "Really, are we going to worry about modesty? You just got more action in the last 2 minutes than my husband's gotten in a week."

My first set of films was fine. Sort of. See, I hadn't eaten all day and it was now about 3pm. I was feeling a little hot and a little woozy. But I sucked it up. I then had to sit and wait for someone to read the films. Whammy! I had to do a few more views. Another tech, another room, another wicked boob smasher.

This is where things get a little crazy. And funny, in retrospect. Imagine me, with not a lot of hair, and topless. Well, maybe you don't want to imagine my topless. After all, you could be reading this around lunch. My tech squeezed me in and all of the sudden, I was hot, I had a horrible taste in my mouth. And all I could think was, "Oh, shit, I'm going to pass out and hang by my boob." I tried to hold it together. Finally, I had to tell her to stop. I was a second away from hitting the floor. Only I wouldn't hit the floor, I'd swing like a monkey from a million dollar torture tree. After a break. I thought I would be fine. Not so. We didn't even get to the "okay, I'm just going to add a little pressure" before I had to stop again. By now, my tech, who was so nice, was really worried. I think she believed I was having some sort of anxiety attack. Really, I think I just needed a sandwich. So third time's a charm, right? This time, my tech wouldn't let me leave the chair.

Yes, I completed my mammogram sitting down. And I will ask to do it that way every time forward. It's so much more comfortable. I highly recommend it.

Once she finally got some extra films, she left me in the room to wait while they were read. This is where the comedy of the absurd got a little sad. I sat there, waiting in the little room, waiting for some doctor to come and tell me something. This is my life. My life is waiting in sterile rooms being poked and prodded and waiting for someone else to take the bottom out.

The nurse came back and we had to do some more films. This did not give me confidence. And I saw some of them. There was definitely a spot on the film. Probably scar tissue from surgery and radiation. My internet radiology degree wasn't enough to diagnose this. But it did look awfully suspicious.

Especially when the tech said, "Where's your husband?"
"At work," I replied.
"Is he there right now?"
"Um, yeah."

Huh? Did I need to make a call? Did I need to tell Alan to come right away? That the whole thing was starting all over again? The tech left me alone in the room again and I cried. All of the sudden, I was back in the ultrasound room at Sherman Hospital in Elgin. I was alone. I was scared. I didn't know what was happening. I wanted my husband. And my mommy. Shut up, you would too.

I was the last person to leave the imaging center. They had shut off lights, turned off the waiting room TVs. After all that, they had to wait because they didn't have my old films. At least it wasn't a "hey, sucks to be you. You still have cancer." I take every trip to radiology when I'm NOT told I have cancer to be a small victory.

In the end, everything looks fine. I will get to do it all over again in six months.
Instead of dwelling on what sucked, I prefer to focus on the ludicrous image of passing out, hanging by my boobs. At least it makes for a good cautionary tale. Eat before your mamogram. And do it sitting down.

Lucy, I'm home!

2007-01-21T19:55:00.000-05:00

Now say that title again, using your best Ricky Ricardo accent. That's what my new doggie hears when I walk in the door. Yep, new doggie. Bringing the total canine count to 3. And the total poundage to 330. Not a typo. We have 330 pounds on dog in my house. Shedding, drooling, licking, sniffing, jumping, chasing dogs.

See, right around finishing treatment, I clearly had a mid-life crisis. Mid-life you say? Come on, you're 30. Yeah, well when you face the "big C" you have no idea what's mid-life and what's not. Evidence of my midlife crisis- buying my impractical MINI, taking pole dance classes and signing up to rescue a dog. There are other more ridiculous ideas I come up with- that's a story for another day.

One could argue that I was dealing with my inability to have babies by taking on furry creatures that would love me unconditionally. And I wouldn't deny it. I had nested and was ready to nurture. Plus, you can yell, "What the fuck are you doing?" to a dog and not get in trouble. So if nurturing dogs allowed copious amounts of inappropriate behavior, then sign me up.

Goldilocks and the two bears.

Lucy is the one with the white on her chest looking right at the camera.

We had two wonderful dogs already. Two dogs that we paid a lot of money for. Two dogs that get treated better than most people. I felt compelled to bring this life of luxury to a dog who was less fortunate. All the toys you can chew! Left over pieces of steak! Sleep on the bed! Drink out of the toilet! (Yeah, not a fan of this last one, but you gotta pick your battles.)

So off I went to sign us up to rescue a Newfoundland. I informed Alan of this after the fact. Screw it, I'm the one home. I'm the one that will be taking care of it. (I am hoping this logic will apply to child care decisions as well. Don't want my kid running off to play cricket.)

And we heard nothing for months. Until the day before New Year's Eve. There was an emergency rescue needed. A family was moving and they couldn't take the dog. There were "issues." And the dog had to be taken that weekend. Could we help? Of course we could. So off we go, driving 3 hours to pick up Lucy from a trailer park in the middle of Georgia. A 120 pound dog in a trailer. It was very sad. Thankfully, this wasn't a case where Lucy was abused; just the opposite. Her owner was sobbing as we drove away. Lucy, on the other hand, was happy as can be. An adventure!

Dogs are amazing creatures. Their ability to adjust amazes me. Lucy and Harry are best buddies. You would have thought they grew up together. This is awesome until I'm awoken at 3am to the sounds of barking and chasing. Lucy's almost 3 and she still acts like a puppy. She's the most mushy, lovable thing ever. All the cuddles of Kylie with Harry's big ol' Newfie body.

Lucy and Harry taking a break from playing.

What you don't see? Every dog toy we own strewn about the yard.

Unfortunately, Lucy's had some health problems. She had fleas, tapeworm and arthritis that seems to have come from a broken leg that didn't heal properly. And she has heartworm, which we will have to treat with pretty rough treatment. But you'd never know it. Lucy will be a permanent member of the Bugler family for years. Think of the Christmas cards!

The 3 dogs have settled in nicely. Although I think I've hit my puppy limit. Even nuts have limits.

Flashback time...

2007-01-19T13:33:00.000-05:00

Some people have asked why I took some time off from my blog. To be perfectly honest, I struggled a bit as I was finishing treatment. I had a ton of side effects, was going through menopause, and wasn't quite sure what to do. Everyone expected me to be happy I was done - I was "cured". In reality, they don't use the word cure when it comes to breast cancer. The fears were still there. And to be perfectly honest, I felt like I had lost something. So I took some time off as I dealt with my issues. And in a series of flashbacks, much like an episode of Cold Case (imagine some summer of 2006 song blaring as you read), I will try to let you all in on what finishing treatment for breast cancer is like. I had a bunch of half written entries, so here's the first one: (clearly written on 9/11)

"Where were you on 9/11?"

If I had a nickel for every time I've heard this in the past couple of days... okay, well, maybe I'd have like... a dollar. It's everywhere- TV, Radio, the Internet- pretty hard to ignore. Don't worry, this isn't a post attention whoring over September 11. I didn't know anyone who died, who saved someone. The closest I got is relatives and friends who are New Yorkers. Where was I? Well, I was working on a cruise ship. I had DJ'ed the night before. (Yep, you could say I was a professional DJ- one of the many funny hats I've worn. Ahh, the era of the "Thong Song" and Shaggy.)

Anyway, I was sleeping in. All of the sudden, my cruise director was banging on my door, telling me I had the keys to the DJ booth. He needed them. As I sleepily handed over the keys, he said, "Oh, and turn on the TV- some crazy shit is happening. Planes flew into the World Trade Center." I woke up and stared at CNN. I then went downstairs for payday, where I proceeded to wake up my friend Dave (not the first of last time I would wake a musician up before noon.). Dave is Canadian. He was appalled but not as affected. After collecting the twelve cents we had earned for a week's work, Dave and I sat in silence in his dark room watching TV.

We were scenic cruising through Glacier Bay, Alaska. My job was to be social and fun on the decks of the ship. I felt neither social nor fun. Neither did anyone else. Our crew was probably 80% Indonesian (home to the largest Muslim population in the world) and there were rumblings of some celebrations and/or smart ass comments. "Why don't you take off your Nike's and stop collecting your American dollars?" I thought to myself.

What I remember most? Alan. We had just started "dating" if you could call it that. For those of you who don't know, we were on a ship together for 6 weeks when we met. Then apart for 4 months. We were about 2 weeks away from finally seeing each other. I called Alan- willing to spare the dollar a minute it cost to call him. Funny how I spent 9/11 closer to "foreigners". Anyway, Alan and I were talking- I noticed it had been much longer than the 20 minutes my phone card would allow. We realized our call was free. In all the craziness, apparently, the satellite phone company was giving free calls so people could contact family, etc. Alan and I spent about 5 hours on the phone that day. Much of it was quiet, as we watched TV. I spent the day blowing off work and watching CNN.

This year, 9/11 is a different anniversary. I finished treatment today. And while I should be happy and excited, all I can feel is... lost. When I walked out of my final radiation treatment, I got in my car and started to cry. And when I say cry, I mean, sobbing, wailing, shaking uncontrollably. I really have no idea why. I should feel great - I'm done, for fuck's sake. This is the day I've waited months and months for. So why did I feel so alone? Why do I feel like I lost my best friend? What do I do now? And I still feel like shit so how's it any different?

After a good few minutes of emotional outburst, I put the keys into my ignition and drove off. I went home. I took a nap. It was like any other day. Except it wasn't. I turned on the TV and 9/11 stuff was everywhere. Great, I will always have a reminder. Every 9/11 I will think to myself, "This was the day I finished treatment." It's like my parents remembering their anniversary because of the Manson Murders.

And every 9/11 I will be reminded of the day when I sobbed in my car. The day that, instead of getting easier, things got more complicated. The day I went from cancer patient to survivor.

My new favorite website

2007-01-16T23:17:00.000-05:00

Calling all online shoppers of all things random! I have to tell you about my new favorite website. It combines two of the biggest parts of my life - breast cancer and shopping.

www.designhergals.com

On the website, you can create your own "gal"- hair and eye color, what she's wearing, her accessories, and things that she carries. Then you can save your gal and use it in e-cards or printed stuff. You can order notecards, stationary, return address labels, invites, anything! It's super cute! Plus, it gives money to its own foundation for Stage IV Breast Cancer programs. With all the talk about prevention and catching things early, I sometimes wonder if these women with very special needs sometimes get lost in the shuffle. Not here!

Here is a gal I did for fun:

First of all, please note her wonder woman outfit. Completely appropriate for a day out. She has short brown hair and big earrings. I'm learning big earrings are the secret to rocking the short hair. She has 3 dogs (I couldn't get dogs that look like bears) in one hand, a martini shaker in the other. Really, what else do you need?

So design something fun, buy a gift, anything... and know you're supporting an awesome cause.

I'd like a pair of stripper shoes, size 8, please

2007-01-16T22:25:00.000-05:00

About the time I was finishing chemo, I was struggling with some body image issues. I had lost my mojo, if you will. I searched everywhere for my mojo - I got drunk (always worked for me before), I tried to pour myself into some hot clothes, I wore some make-up. I worked real hard to bring sexy back. Sexy was not listening. So, one of my first "holy-shit, you must be a little bit crazy, but that's totally awesome" moves was signing myself up for pole dancing lessons. Yep, you heard me. As in a big stainless steel pole and 8 inch heels. Lucite heels.

There's a studio in Atlanta that specializes in pole and exotic dancing for fitness and fun. http://www.polelateaz.com/ (yes, POLE- LA- TEES). I enrolled in Level one and off I went. If you go to to the website and sit there while the pictures scroll through, you will see a group photo with me all bald and shit right there in the middle. That was our Level one recital. And no, no one I know does this in real life or is learning for a "job".

My first class was amazing. It was full of these fun, outrageous women of all kinds: a mother of two, a recently divorced woman, a 40 year old trying something new. We introduced ourselves and said why we were there - get in shape, try something new, feel better about ourselves. I told these ladies about my lost mojo. Tears welled up as I described how I hoped to become comfortable in my own skin again.

As the first class progressed, it became obvious to me how self conscious I had become. I never used to give a fuck about anything- what, the blinds aren't closed? Hell, here's a show. You wanna do it with the lights on? Here's my ass.

Not anymore. With just a simple walk around the room, all I could think of was how I couldn't run my fingers through my hair (the hair is still a problem... everyone loves a big ol' hair flip) or that my ass l was umpy or my belly was out of control. I couldn't just relax. I couldn't feel the music. I couldn't enjoy my body. No one was looking, and I was in the most supportive environment ever, but I was unhappy. And it pissed me off. So I struggled through that first class, put on my big girl pants, and sucked it up. I pushed down my desire to burst into tears and I learned how to spin.

At the end of each class, we danced around the pole in a circle, free-styling it, if you will. At the end of that first class, my teacher declared, "I think she found her mojo."

I'm still working on my pole. I have just begun level three and am starting to learn to go upside down. I have learned moves like the fireman spin, the roly poly, the sidewinder. I stir the pot and do the butterfly and play peek-a-boo. I'd like to say it's all sexy and stuff, but much of the time I'm saying, "wheee!" like a little kid. Although I do believe in slapping my ass at the end.

For my thirtieth birthday, my wonderful husband got me my very own stripper pole. It's currently in my living room. Yes, the room right in the front of the house. I have no furniture in the room so it's like my very own strip club. Except I'm usually wearing a t-shirt and yoga pants. I had to talk my husband out of getting me a stage and lights and a smoke machine- you get the idea. I think he just wanted toys.

So every Saturday morning, I go to pole dance class. Sometimes, I take chair dance class. Sometimes, we go on field trips to a martini bar or a strip club or trapeze class. For a short time, I focus on what's good about my body- how I do an awesome merry-go-round or that my arms are getting stronger by the class. I have found new friends, a great hobby and a really fun way to get in shape. Plus I have an amazing story for a bar or cocktail party. And yes, with every spin, every dip, I'm that much closer to getting back to who I was. But better.

The smell of cancer

2007-01-11T14:21:00.000-05:00

Long after my hair grows, the acid reflux goes away, I lose some pounds, parts of cancer will stay with me. For some people, the smell of baking forever reminds them of their grandmother. Lilies remind others of weddings. For me, there will always be the smell of cancer. Certain smells that create such an immediate visceral reaction that can only come from the connection to that crappy part of my life.

I went to the hospital yesterday for bloodwork. The hospital. Man, it gets me every time. I am immediately transported to the chemo room or the radiation bed. It's like walking in a door and walking into 4 months ago.

Alcohol pads. The smell of alcohol swabs makes me almost gag, even now. Alcohol swabs came out before any shot, chemo or port draw. Especially the port. They would crack this wand like thing that dispensed the alcohol. Then they'd essentially shove a pushpin into your artery. The smell of alcohol is so ingrained with cancer in my mind that I react, even when out of the hospital. On my big cancer walk, they had disposable hand wipe things outside of all the port-a-potties. The first morning, I walked out of the toilet and Hope handed me the packet. I opened it and BAM! the smell hits me like a truck. The smell of alcohol swabs. My mouth started to water, I felt woozy. More than anything, I just wanted it away from me. No more potty wipes for me. I'll take my hand sanitizer instead.

When I first began treatment and we realized I would be driving pretty much every week to my parents, Alan decided to be the cutest husband ever. He put together this package of fancy shampoo, lotion, bath gel - all my standard necessities. "To keep at your parents. So you don't have to always be packing stuff." He was the cutest. Now granted, after about a month, I didn't need the shampoo anymore. So in a box of random crap it all went. And somehow it got moved to Hotlanta with us. Fast forward to recently, when we ran out of shampoo. My husband grabs the pretty aromatherapy shampoo he had purchased months earlier. So there I am, in the shower... reach for the fancy shampoo. Open the top and ARGH! The smell knocks me back. The mint is too much. I can't use it. All of the sudden, I'm back in my parent's shower in their basement, trying not to get my surgery site wet. I'm washing the blue stuff off my arm. I'm feeling light-headed from the medication. I shut the bottle and haven't used it since.

I hope, with the passage of time, these memories will fade. Until then, they are reminders of what I've been through. At least now I can throw the bottles away.

Everyone loves house pictures!

2007-01-06T15:45:00.000-05:00

I've had some requests for more updated house pictures. Life can't be about cancer 24-7, you know. Very important decorating has to be done. So this was my house at Christmas. Yes, Santa did take a crap all over the joint. Yes, I was way too excited to have a whole house to decorate. Yes, I've been paying too much attention to Pottery Barn catalogs. Yes, my tree was big. About 12 1/2 feet big. Yes, I need another hobby.

Our Dining Room. We finally got some furniture. And finally I could take all those wedding presents out of their boxes.

Our family room plus tree. That molding going up from the fireplace is Alan's latest project. He's really quite handy. I think I'll keep him.

I'd include an outdoor picture, but I don't have one right now. My father-in-law took them. Another installment then.

Finally...the Breast Cancer 3-Day

2007-01-04T15:24:00.000-05:00

It's been over 2 months since I walked my 60 miles for the Breast Cancer 3-day. I didn't write about it immediately after it happened- probably because I was exhausted and I was still processing it. Even now, when the sorority rush, cry and hug, estrogen filled camp feeling is gone, I still count it among the things that I am most proud of doing.

I was only about 6 weeks out of treatment, and while I had to take painkillers to get me through, I did it. I still had a fair amount of joint pain left over from Taxol (my chemo) and some fatigue, but nothing a little vicoden couldn't cure. It was life affirming and cathartic. It was hard and sad. It was fun and ridiculous. I saw more boob jokes than I'd ever thought I'd witness.

The first morning of the walk. We look so rested.

Rather than bore you with an hour by hour playback, I thought I'd share a couple of key moments with you.

First of all, I have to say- I wish they didn't talk about cancer so much. Every time they gave some inspirational blah blah blah or gave some statistic, I cried. Couldn't we just talk about the bras hanging from people's tents or the old lady wearing plastic boobs on her head? I was reminded this was a walk FOR cancer, and that cancer-chat would be obvious. I guess in some ways I wasn't ready. I had done so much talking on the phone about cancer, writing about cancer... I did very little talking about cancer in real life. To real people. Who could look into your eyes and get it.

After Day 2. Not as bad as we feared.

But we still had one more day.

At camp boobs, there was a tent dedicated solely to the remembrance of those who had died. I was also not quite prepared for this. See, I don't think until the moment I walked inside that I actually considered I might die from this. Did I think it was crappy? Sure. Was I scared of recurrence? Heck yeah. But it never truly occurred to me I might die. Until I entered this tent. There were pictures of women who had lost the battle- from walks they had done or their wedding or with their little kids. There was a tent you could sign and there were all these messages. After a few minutes, I couldn't breathe. It was like everything I had never thought of hit me all at once. I started to sob. Sob in a way I had not done in a awhile. Standing outside of that tent, crying, two of my closest friends who were walking with me, held me. After a few minutes, I pulled myself together and vowed I would go back in that tent later in the weekend to prove to myself I could do it.

I never went back.

One of the many wonderful signs and cheers
that lined our route.

Stretching.... Ow!

At one of the cheering stations

whre Alan came to clap and yell.

I can't say for certain how my friends processed the weekend, but I'm sure there was a part that was jarring to them. I had the unusual process of going through chemo and radiation rarely seeing a close friend. I had a wonderful dinner the night before I had surgery, but because of where I lived and where I moved, very few people, aside from my husband and my parents, saw me without hair or saw me "sick". The two people who walked with me- my friends Chris and Hope... neither had seen me since I had started chemo. And while I had started to grow a little peach fuzz, I was still pretty damn bald. And 30 pounds heavier. And while I was still pretty damn cute and funny, there were moments where I struggled. Or I almost passed out. I think it scared them to see it actually happening. Like the stuff I had talked about for 6 months was all of the sudden very real. As real as the t-shits we wore covered in pictures of women who had breast cancer under 40.

Finally, a part of the walk that I will never forget was the closing ceremonies. Alan greeted us with a bottle of champagne as we finished. Leave it to Alan to somehow bring liquor to the party. We got our t-shirts... Hope and Chris got blue, I got pink- survivors wore a different color. There were a little over 200 survivors out of about 2000 walkers.

Toasting to our success... Thanks Alan!

People at closing ceremonies

We marched into the ceremonies separated. The crew, the staff, the blue shirts.... and finally all survivors in our pink shirts. I wasn't with the people I had come with, instead I walked hand in hand with a new family I had made that weekend. I was one of the newest out of treatment and one of the youngest... I think there was only one girl younger than me. So I was kind of special even in a group that was already so full of stories. As we walked into the huge park in downtown Atlanta, I cried. Like a freaking baby. Alan said he didn't even take pictures of that part because I didn't "cry pretty." As we walked in, a saw a couple of the Ya-Yas who had come out to support me. One stopped me, a "Courtney" sign in her hand. She was crying as well. She hugged me for as long as the marching allowed.

The most moving part of it all had to be the shoes. As we ended our march in, we walked into the middle of all the walkers. No one said a word. Suddenly, one person held up her shoe. Then another, then one more. Until 2000 people were quiet and holding up the shoes they used to walk those 60 miles in our honor. They did it for us, those shoes said. Chris and Hope told me they had no idea what was going on at first, but they saw a bunch of people take off their shoes and hold them up, so they did too. Then they got it. I suppose it's done at every 3-Day every year, but I'm not sure if I will ever forget that overwhelming show of support- the visual sign of a group of people standing beside you.

When I caught up with Hope and Chris after the closing ceremonies, they both said to me, "Oh, God. No one prepared us for the shoes." "Once, the shoes happened, it was over. Oh, the crying." I'm glad it moved them as well.

"The shoes"

So here I am, 2 months later, still crying when I think of these moments. There were fun times, like the earliest frost on Atlanta's record... yes, I moved to the South and we camped out when it was 30 degrees. Oh, wait, that wasn't so fun. There were funny t-shirts and conversations and costumes. I met new people, shared stories, gossiped. Most importantly, I realized that I had endured something pretty major and come out the other end. The walk AND cancer itself. And it's something to be damned proud of.

I only wish they wouldn't talk about cancer so much.

I raised almost $8000 for breast cancer that weekend. The three of us raised almost $13000.

Alan and I have already signed up for next year. This time, he's walking.

Happy Birthday to me!

2007-01-02T16:01:00.000-05:00

I turn 30 today. Holy Shit. I'm thirty. Remember the eighties, when that show "thirtysomething" was on? They were all so fucked up. I remember thinking how old they all looked. Shut up, I was like 12, so cut me some slack. Now I'm that thirtysomething. How am I celebrating, you ask? Nothing too crazy (see previous post on my drunken new years). Plus I have ebola. Now when I say ebola I don't mean the appendage falling off, bleeding out your eyeball ebola. More like a bad cold. Hell, it could be worse. I could be puking in a Mcdonalds parking lot after chemo.

I will celebrate my birthday. When I say celebrate, I don't mean the open lots of presents and eat a shitload of cake (although i do love me some cake) I mean celebrate as in v. To observe (a day or event) with ceremonies of respect, festivity, or rejoicing

I respect life a lot more than I did. I rejoice in every birthday I am blessed to count. I observe where I was and how far I've come.

Enough touchy feely crap. Pass the cake. And the sudafed.

Kissing 2006 Good-bye

2007-01-02T15:32:00.000-05:00

Last new year's eve- December 31, 2005, my husband and I were at a bar in our little town in Illinois. I was decidedly underdressed, as I forgot New Year's meant putting your girls out on display and picking yourself up some drunken ass. I'm sorry if I didn't think $3 pitchers were an occasion for sequins and tube tops. As the clock struck midnight, I looked into my husband's eyes and smiled, excited for all our plans for the new year. Alan had received an awesome job offer. We had signed a contract to build our first home. My job was stable and well paying. Alan was graduating this year and we would be moving to start our "real life". (At least to a place where you pay $10 a drink to wear your tube top). We were trying to get pregnant. I kissed my husband, clinked our champagne glasses and toasted to 2006- a year of change and amazing opportunities and hopefully a baby. I had tears in my eyes- tears of joy, anticipation and excitement. We toasted to "the best year of our lives." Yep, we actually said that. Might as well have put a big ol' target on our backs. Or on my tits as the case may be.

See, as I was kissing and clinking and toasting and poking fun, I had cancer. I had already had the lump looked at. Told to keep an eye on it but it wasn't anything serious. We had no idea that this beast of a disease would swoop on in and piss all over our party.

So here I am, one year later. Alan and I went to a big New Year's party. I wore a fancy dress. We were incredibly overserved. I probably drank more vodka in one night than I had had in a year. We danced. And sang along to an eighties band. And danced some more. At one point, my tipsy ass said out loud... "and to think, I had cancer this year. '

And this year, when I clock struck midnight and the balloons fell on our heads, I kissed my husband again. And I cried. We kissed this past year good-bye. A year that in so many ways was the wonderful year it was supposed to be. We were so very lucky in many ways. Except one. I asked what Alan wished for 2007. He just looked at me and said, "a healthy wife." I cried some more - for the plans for a baby that didn't happen, for the cancer that made what should have been the best year the worst, for my husband whom I loved even more than I thought possible.

And you know what. A year later, I'm still here. And that does make 2006 the best year of my life. Doesn't mean I'm not glad to see it gone.

A healthy and happy 2007 to you all.

I'm back!

2007-01-02T15:22:00.000-05:00

Happy 2007 everyone.
Yes, I'm back.
Yes, I've had a little hiatus.
No, I didn't get sick.
I was busy having a life.

I have many things to tell you. Thank you for all the comments, emails, etc. asking where I was. It made me feel like people read this thing. Even if it was only by about 6 of you. Apparently, people used this site for some much needed procrastination. I'm sorry I let you down. I will do better in the future. Check back here often as I will be back to writing here almost daily.

Since last I wrote I:

Finished Treatment
Walked 60 miles
Raised over 8k for breast cancer
Went on antidepressants (for hot flashes, not cuz I'm nuts.. at least not medically)
Went into menopause
Came out of menopause
Slept 15 hours a day
Grown some hair back
Realized I'm no longer a blonde
Lost a little weight
Haven't lost enough
Adopted another dog
Spent too much money decorating my house of Christmas
Took pole dancing classes
Have a pole in my living room to practice aforementioned pole dancing
Tried not to think about cancer
Didn't succeed most of the time
Took lessons on the trapeze
Had a post-treatment midlife crisis

Signed up for the biggest clinical trial for young women out there
Turned 30

It's been very busy. And I will tell you all more... especially the pole dancing. I know everyone wants to hear about the pole dancing. And pictures of the dog, and the house... and the hair. Got it.

It's good to be back. I'm feeling much better. And cancer still sucks.

How Cancer is like a wedding...

2006-10-16T19:12:00.000-04:00

At the height of my chemo, I attended a wedding of a friend. It was beautiful garden affair and of course, it brought up reminders of my own nuptials. I sat at the toile covered table, watching the dancing. "Shout!" anyone? I was too tired to partake. I popped a painkiller, tugged on my wig, and thought:

"Cancer reminds me of a wedding"

Huh? You ask? One of the shittiest things to happen to you is like one of the best? Yes, my friends it is.

1. They are both expensive.
2. You get presents.
3. You get behind in thank you notes.
4. You obsess over every detail.
5. Sometimes you wish you could just hop a plane to Vegas.
6. You have a binder detailing every expense.
7. You have the obligatory nervous breakdown.
8. Your mom thinks she knows what you want.
9. You find the most amazing things to buy on the internet.
10. You talk to relatives you haven't seen in years.
11. You haven't worried about your hair this much since prom.
12. You wear gowns. Sure, one "opens to the front", but who cares?
13. You look at your husband and tell yourself how lucky you are.
14. It's all about you.
15. When it's all over, you think to yourself, "How will I fill the time?"

Shenanigans aside, the real reason I thought of this is because of the surprises, pleasant and otherwise, these two situations bring. Some people will surprise you with their generosity. You will be overwhelmed and touched. They will go out of their way to make you feel special, loved. You will consider yourself lucky to share this with them.

And some people will disappoint you. They send a crappy gift (shut up, you know you've all thought about it, too.) Or better yet, no gift at all. Or they don't RSVP in time, or they just plan don't show up to the party. I think every person I know had one relationship change over their wedding- jealousy, priorities, schedules- they all make it hard. You think to yourself, "How could they not come to my wedding?" You realize as much as you want it to be, your wedding is not the center of people's universe. Doesn't make it hurt any less.

Cancer's just like my wedding. I have grown closer to some people. more distant to others. I have seen the true colors of people. Some relationships are forever changed. Some people have reached out beyond my wildest imagination. Some people plain haven't shown up to the party. It sucks, but it doesn't mean I'm not dancing with everyone else. And they definitely won't get an inivitation to our raging anniversary party one day. Or to my 10 year cancer free blow out bash.

Another reason why they're alike? Once it happens, your life is never the same.

The Cost of Cancer

2006-10-09T17:20:00.000-04:00

When I first joined my union, I complained a bit about my dues... or the fact they collected dues on earnings I made before I even joined. Sure, it included things like health insurance, but come on! I joined my union last July. I was diagnosed in February. I have not only bitten my tongue, I have swallowed it completely. *not saying a word as writing current dues check*

Cancer diagnosis: (scans, biopsies, etc.) $4,671.25
Genetic test: $2,975
Surgery: $26,668.85
Port: $26,820.50
Frozen Baby Harvesting: $8,582
Harvest Drugs: approx $5,000
Chemo: $38,690.18
Radiation Planning: $24,483.71
Radiation Treatment: $77,925

Total Cost to Date: $315,723.27
(not including prescription drugs)

Insurance Payout: $219,945.72
(negotiated discounts/hospital adjustment/my out of pocket)

Future Costs:
Tamoxifen: Approx $200/month X 12 months X 5 years = $12,000

Cancer ain't cheap. Thank God for my insurance. I didn't have insurance for 5 years out of college. If you don't have insurance for the following reasons: (all are mine)

-you are too lazy to look into it
-your company doesn't offer it
-you don't want to pay premiums
-you think you're invincible

Please, please, please- you have no idea how important it is. And if you are lucky enough to have decent insurance and blessed enough to have enough cash to cover any deductibles, please do something to help the millions of Americans who can't afford insurance. Do something about the f-ed up system that drives people into the poorhouse if they're unlucky enough to get sick. Or poor to begin with.

I will write my dues check with pleasure. I will donate time and money to help those less fortunate. I will vote my conscience.

Easier than writing a $300,000 check.

(stepping off soapbox)

Think Before You Pink...

2006-10-02T15:12:00.000-04:00

It's October 2nd. Two days into Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Everywhere I turn there is something pink. Pink wristbands, pink koozies, pink Dyson vacuums (yes, I said vacuum). You can buy something "for the cure" wherever you go. Everywhere I go I am constantly reminded of breast cancer. At least I got the socially popular cancer. The one that looks so good on a teddy bear. It's two days into this month and I'm already sick of pink. I have finished treatment and I am trying to move on. It's pretty damn hard when I can buy something off the "pink stuff" table when I'm buying milk and juice.

I go back and forth between rage at the commercialism for a cure and being grateful that it may help someone. That if someone gets checked or pays attention to their body it was worth it. Funny thing is, there have been plenty of Octobers before. And plenty of pink crap. And I don't remember any of it. I wasn't "aware." It didn't stop me from getting cancer. Maybe I'm just bitter. At the same time, I do have the cliched pink ribbon magnet on my Mini. I think to myself someone may see me and my bald head, check out the magnet and put it together. Maybe they'll feel themselves up later. Or someone else.

I have a feeling it's going to be a long month. I have a feeling I will be happy and sad, angry and blessed... every day. It's a crapshoot. So every day, I will steel myself for the magazines, commercials, spam email, TV specials, etc. etc. I will count the days till October is over. At the same time, I will accept every pink gift as a gift of love. I will still be tempted by the pink thermos at Starbucks. It's cute. I will probably buy a few pink items myself. Life's about contradictions. C'est la vie. I will get through October, hoping I get to see many more Breast Cancer Awareness Months.

I haven't written in a while. I'm sorry. Please check back later. I have a ton of posts I've half written- it's been an up and down few weeks and I haven't quite been in the mood to let it all out yet. But I promise brilliant, witty, poignant, sarcastic posts in the future.

Bye bye brows!

2006-09-14T17:13:00.000-04:00

I lost my eyebrows yesterday. Yep, looked in the mirror and said, "What the funk?" They are completely gone. They had thinned out when I began chemo- almost nicely I thought to myself. "I'd like an eyebrow wax with my poison, please." But now, 8 weeks after I finished chemo, my eyebrows decide to play hide and seek. Some hairs are hiding well in my sheets, others not so well on my bathroom sink. I did have about 3 eyebrow hairs over one eye, but that just seemed wierd... like a horrible eyebrow comb-over. So I put them out of their misery. Pluck, Pluck, Pluck. I then proceeded to powder them in... drawing a line is so over. I still think I look like someone's 75 year old grandmother up close. Drawn in eyebrows. Like I should be putting on hot pink lipstick and maybe some clown blush. As if my vanity hasn't been assaulted enough. People look funny with no eyebrows. Real funny. Just when I was finding uses for my razor again. God has a real sense of humor. As if I don't have enough reminders... still bald, peeling skin from radiation, scars, daily pills.

Perhaps I could take some shedding fur from my dogs and weave me some brows. Or a sweater.

Could someone pass the aloe?

2006-09-10T21:03:00.000-04:00

Seriously. Aloe. Or an ice pack. I'm done with radiation tomorrow. That's good, because any more and I think my armpit might burn off. 28 Radiation treatments down, and no- I never could taste burning flesh, but yes, I have one hell of a sunburn. It only showed up about a week and a half ago and fucking hell, does it hurt. My breast itself, while rosy, feels fine. The problem, my fair skinned and SPF protected friends, is my armpit. Yep, I wasn't really expecting that one, either. They radiated the armpit because of my lymph nodes. The problem is exacerbated (yeah. I said that. Triple word score.) by the fact the skin under my arm rubs against each other. They say it happens a lot also with the fold under the breast. They tell me I'm lucky cuz I don't have a lot of tissue folding over. Thank you, I don't have big tits. Not sure if it's a good thing or an insult. Right now, I'll take what I can get- this burn is a bitch. The skin is peeling and it's leathery. It's also very discolored. That could last months. Probably a step away from blister. Awesome. I should wear a lot of tank tops.

Wave your hands in the air, and wave 'em like you just don't care.

Except I can't wave my hands in the air. I can't raise my arm much. I can't really wear a bra and I wear cotton t-shirts so I can tuck the cotton in the crook of my armpit so it doesn't rub together. I've taken to spending my days with an ice pack under my arm. When I showed it to my doctor (before it even got bad) he asked me what I had been putting on it. "the prescription gel you guys told me to." He made a face and told me not to bother. Thanks. Thanks for that. I'm not putting hydrocortisone cream on. And aloe. It could get infected. That's hot.

So I'll be thankful I'm almost done. Cancer Rocks.

Breast Cancer Barbie

2006-09-04T18:02:00.000-04:00

For those of you who don't know, October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. I know, I know, it's not October. But if you look around, you'll see pink retail items sprouting up faster than drunk boys at a frat house. Pink Ribbon Breast Cancer shit is everywhere- companies that make everything from yogurt to scissors want to cash in on some of our charitable shopping action. Of course, all portions of the proceeds are donated to XY/Your Mom's Breast Cancer Charity. Why they couldn't just write a check, I don't know. Granted, it is partly because of these retailers that there is research money, I just find it hard to swallow breast cancer awareness spatulas.

The new target of my concern is the Pink Ribbon Breast Cancer Barbie. She's beautiful. And glamorous. And ready for the next black tie charitable function. She is everything that real breast cancer isn't. It's an insult to me- a bald, chubby, oh so not ready for primetime, actual cancer patient. Yes, I know, I'm still beautiful. Yeah, I'm beautiful on the inside, whatever. As if Barbie hasn't messed with the self image of tons of little girls already with her huge tits and tiny waist. As if Barbie already misrepresents real women everywhere.

Now, before you call me a raging femi-nazi, complete with my butch bald head, I loved my Barbies. I played with them, had the Barbie dream house, played Barbie store. I'm sure I even grabbed my Barbie's face and slapped it up against Ken's and made kissing sounds. My brothers cut off Barbie's hair. I wanted to be Barbie. Go get over it.

That was before I had breast cancer and mattel decided the best way to rasie awareness is to make the most elaborate-pink-big haired, "I belong in beauty pageants" Barbie.

I've been spending a fair amount of time lately on the discussion boards of the Young Survival Coalition, where outrage ensued when this was announced. One poster went so far as to post a picture of the "Real" Breast Cancer Barbie.

Straight from the YSC:

From the photo you can see that Barbie has gained weight considerably, predominantly in the hips, ass and pooch area. She is sporting a paper "modesty vest," two drains and a gauze wrap tube-top bandage. She also has her lymphedema wrap, IV drip, port and has had some blood work done. Her toe nails and finger nails are unfortunately turning black and there is some concern that she may lose a nail or two. She is leery of going too far away from the toilet, can't remember if she took her pills today and is depressed that she doesn't have ovaries and can't have a baby. Her path report is looking OK but the bills are piling up and she is too sick to work, but has to keep working to keep medical insurance. Hot flashes are keeping her up all night and she wonders if she should call her old flame GI Joe when he comes home on leave from Iraq- but will he still want her? Her sex drive is gone, she's scarred-up and bald and twenty pounds overweight. Her body hurts, she feels as if she is losing her mind. She doesn't want to go anywhere or do anything. Yelled at Skipper for asking her if she wanted to go to the Townhouse this weekend for a party, then cried afterwards. Drove pink Corvette to Jack in the Box for drive through burgers and a chocolate shake for dinner. (Thanks Linnea)

Unfortunately, reality isn't as pretty. And it doesn't sell Barbies.

Bad Hair Day

2006-08-29T18:55:00.000-04:00

You know how you take a look at some people on the street and you wonder how they walked out the door? I mean, did they really look at themselves in the mirror and say to themselves, "I look good?" Or were they looking at their reflection in the back of a saute pan? Bad clothing choices aside, everyone can have a bad hair day. That I must learn to forgive. After all, I've had about 5 months of bad hair days. And while my hair is starting to grow back, I'm told it will be months before it's long enough to style. And probably even longer before it actually looks like something other than Ronald McDonald. At least now I have an excuse for my bad hair. It's not the 80s or the early 90s. At least I don't have bangs, or a perm, or was attacked by the Crimp Monster.

However, like everyone's bad hair choices, my current bad hair will pass. It will grow out. I will discover what color it really is. (Although it can grow back a completely new color and texture.) I may get to experience curly hair without chemicals or heat. And I will look back on my Cancer bald head with the same sort of nostalgia as I do all my previous not-so-great choices. After all, I thought I looked good back then. And I had no excuse.

So, in honor of bad hair everywhere, and because I know you all LOVE pictures, I will now take you on a magical tour of my childhood hair styles. Grab your jelly shoes, slap bracelets, curling irons, flannel shirts- here we go!

Here I am in Kindergarten. I am cute. I mean, really. Fucking adorable. I'm not sure about the ruffle. I think this dress came with a jacket. The only time in my life bangs have been okay. This is probably my best look for about 15 years.

I can honestly say this is where things started to go horribly wrong. This is third grade. Let's not talk about the glasses, or the teeth, or the unfortunate collar. It's the hair, man. My first perm. And first BAD haircut. I'm not sure what my 9 year old self was going for here. I do know that thanks to this hair, my classmates called me Dolly. As in Parton. Not because of my tits- because of resemblance to her awesome 80s style. I'm not sure if I see it. But they did.

Look closely. I've been attacked by the Crimp Monster. This is circa fourth or fifth grade. The morning after a sleepover. This look took over an hour. An hour I'll never get back.

Why couldn't I just put this hat on my head? Why another perm? Why? Why? Why? Why do my bangs for softball? Why does it looks like I have roots? I had never dyed my hair. Why is there a waterfall falling from my forehead? One Curl up, one curl down. Blend. Spray.

Here we go again. May hair is definitely getting darker. Kinda like someone washed it in pond water. My permed hair is like a bell. Ding ding. And those bangs. Like I said. I spent time to look like this. No wonder Matt Minor wasn't into me.

Who told me that cutting my hair short on one side and longer on the other was cool? Oh yeah, someone else had their hair like this and she was cool. She also had really fine straight hair. Not my lion's mane. I don't have anything else to say. I really can't. It hurts me.

Oh, Lord. The perm was growing out at least. I think maybe my bangs started in the middle of my head. Are they feathered? What happens when a bad haircut grows out. I look scarily like my little brother here.

PS. Do you notice the smiley face big earrings? I had one that were peace signs, too. 1990 was a good year. The sweater went with these plaid pants. Public school boys told me I had a nice ass when I wore them. Nice.

Speaking of public school. This is what happens when your public school friend does your hair. This is the era of really really long bangs that you couldn't see out of. This is when I was in San Francisco for the cheerleading Nationals. Yes, I said cheerleading. Get over it. And one of my teammates wanted to do my hair. I thought it was a bit much even then. But they all thought it looked fierce. Fierce as in scary.

More growing out. My eighth grade graduation picture. At least the bangs are gone. But the color... yuk! The day I took this picture is coincidentally the first day I swore to my parents. No one told me we were leaving school early. I hadn't done my hair. I was working on it in the front seat of our Starcraft conversion van. My father, probably trying to be helpful, but only coming off as a patronizing jackass, told me I looked fine. In my stress over my graduation picture, I told him to fuck off. He was so shocked he shut up. Hey, that shit was a big deal when you're 14.

Why did I get another perm? Why do I look strangely like a poodle? Why did everyone think shoulder pads make you look good? Why does my dad look high? But dudes, check out his dark hair.

Homecoming 1991. I went with the fishizzle of boys. It was major social coup. It established my place in the upper echelon of high school order. I celebrated by wearing velvet and taffeta. And shoulder pads. And a LARGE matching taffeta bow on my head. Matches my corsage. BTW- that pose rocks. Teal is so eighties/early nineties. I could have been in the wedding party of the opening scene of "the Wedding Singer."

The poofy bangs up look stayed with me for a couple of years. Come on girls, you remember it- You grew out your bangs and proceeded to pull them back in a barrette. Then you stick you fingers in it and pull. Make it bigger. Make sure to strike a delicate balance between the top and the sides. Pull out the "tendrils" on the sides. Occasionally you'd curl those with a curling iron- again finding a balance between ringlet and stick straight. On the whole, this look wasn't horrible. I think I'm struck most by oh-so-fake smile and pink eyeshadow. Look closely.

Why do people think posing with a piece of sporting equipment like a supermodel looks acceptable? Just plain silly. This is the beginning of my Sun-In phase. I lightened my hair without dying it. In the process, I fried it. But for some reason, I stood on some highlight high horse, like I was above it all. Meanwhile, I spent two hours in my pink bathroom with peroxide in a bottle and blow dryer. The torture we put our hair through. I'm lucky it didn't fall out back then. And I have a really big mouth here.

WARNING! WARNING! SUN-IN OVERLOAD! HAIR COLOR NOT FOUND IN NATURE!

This is what I would look like with dark hair. And Jewish. In Russia. Long ago. Of note: You will see my ears are tucked behind my bandana. Our wig guy, also our choreographer, this amazing chain smoking gay man, put my wig on and saw my ears. He proceeded to say, "Oh, my. Those are some ears. We have to tuck those in." Ouch.

Mexico, Summer of 1995. My senior class trip. That's a margarita. Yes, I'm eating it with a spoon from a pitcher. I am very drunk. I was drunk for a week. The only time in my life beer tasted good. Then again, I didn't drink all of high school so rubbing alcohol would have tasted good. I am also very sunburned. And my hair is fried. Too much Sun-In. Too much Chlorine. Too much product. Nasty.

Same summer. Prepping for my role in "West Side Story." That's my best friend Chris. I had the most bitchin' beehive ever. It involved mucho ratting. And apparently, at the age of eighteen in a community theater production set in the fifties, the more blue eyeshadow the better. On the flip side, I'm in awe of how tiny I am. Oh, to be eighteen again. And not have hips. In terms of my hair, it's a wonder it survived.

A cast party. You can tell I'm pleased. We decided to dye our hair fun colors. Mine was supposed to be red. It was punk rock orange instead. I came home this day and my mom looked at me and said, "God made you blonde for a reason." Thankfully it was washable. I was only red for about a month. Then strawberry. My hair wasn't happy. I should have cut it all off and started from scratch.

My college years are not far enough away yet for the trends to look ridiculous. Give it time.

I'd like to look upon this time, my bald head, as a chance for me to start over. All my horribly damaged hair is gone. I will start over. My current look is not pretty. But then again, neither were these. And I grew up. I'm fine. I've recovered from them. I'll recover from this.

This too, shall pass.

Wonder Woman

2006-08-27T14:14:00.000-04:00

One of my strongest memories of childhood is being Wonder Woman. I was around 5 or so, and we were living at my grandparents. Maybe I remember it so well because I've seen pictures, or maybe I just truly believed I was a superhero. I had Wonder Woman underoos. Yes, I said underoos- an amazing invention of the early eighties that made it okay for small children to run around in their underwear. I wish I had underoos now. I hate pants. Anyway, back to my story...

My very cool Aunt Megan was visiting, and she took the time- as only cool aunts will- to help make my transformation into Linda Carter complete. She took the time to help fashion the gold cuffs for my wrists and a very excellent tiara- all with their requisite red stars. I had the boots and the attitude. In fact, I'm pretty sure we made a truth lasso as well. So there I was, able to fight crime, catch the bad guys, and generally do whatever I wanted. I had super human powers. I was invincible.

See, aren't I cute? Let's not comment about the amazing blue shag carpet and lime green bedspread. It's best left alone.

Perhaps the reason I remember this so well is because, even at a young age, there was a part of me who believed I could do anything. There was no obstacle I couldn't conquer. Even in my underwear. Some might argue that in my early twenties I conquered most of my challenges in my underwear, but those are stories best told over martini's. And I still have a good pair of Fuji me Boots.

At one point during chemo, I was taking to my Aunt- the very same one who helped me become superhuman. I remember the conversation well. I was standing outside of Old Navy, and I was bitching about how I was too fat for my clothes, my shoes, my wedding ring. I was bitching about how it was hard to work AND fight cancer at the same time. My aunt, a very wise woman, not so subtly told me I was in fact not Super Woman. I should stop trying to do everything. I should prioritize. I should ask for help. I should surrender to the fact that some things that I could do before cancer would just have to wait.

This was a blow to me. What do you mean, I can't do everything I used to do? I don't understand. Doesn't that make me weak? There is NOTHING worse than weakness. Everyone tells me how amazing and strong and inspirational I am. Yada, Yada, Yada. If I am all these things, shouldn't I be able to handle it all? Isn't that what we're taught as little girls, as we're dressed up as Wonder Woman- that we can handle anything?

This is something I've struggled with the entire time I've had cancer. I have continually done too much. Other than the week of my surgery, I haven't take any time off work. I've moved across the country, I've painted a house (okay, Alan, I've painted some of a house). I've probably run myself more into the ground at times. I thought that by giving in to exhaustion sometimes, I was giving in to Cancer.

This past month, it's really hit me. I'm not Wonder Woman. I've been exhausted- so exhausted, its made it almost impossible to do anything sometimes. So I've given in. Some things don't get done. I've prioritized. I get the stuff in that's good for ME- I walk, I sleep, I do things that make me happy. If that means there's dog hair on the floor- then too damn bad. Even better, I hired a cleaning company. They come every two weeks. I've stopped berating myself for not doing everything. I like to call it "delegating." In the time it took me to clean the bathroom, I can now take a nap, or catch up on other things. And I'm not going to feel bad. Maybe I'm not Wonder Woman, but then again, they never showed Wonder Woman scrubbing hardwood floors.

Happy Anniversary to me

2006-08-26T15:33:00.000-04:00

Well, to us. This week was our 2 year wedding anniversary. Yep, those of you reading this blog, it was only 2 years ago. In some ways, it feels like a lifetime ago. We celebrated our anniversary by working late. Both of us. Not to fear, we're going out for nice dinner tonight.

Only a year ago, Alan and I were walking around downtown Chicago, excited about the promises our second year of marriage would bring. We had no idea where we'd be the next year. Alan hadn't interviewed for jobs yet, and he had another year of school. We had just gotten our little puppy- Harry, now the monster dog. We were starting to talk about when we'd have little kiddies. Perhaps more importantly, we had no idea I had cancer. I hadn't felt the lump yet. We were blissfully ignorant.

Now, a year later, there are so many wonderful things about your life. We have a beautiful house, good jobs, a fun new car. We're getting settled in a fun new city. We no longer live in the stixx. In so many ways, it is exactly the life we hoped we'd have a year ago. We are so very blessed in many ways.

On the other hand, I thought I'd be fat from baby growing, not chemo. I thought I'd have the wind blowing through my hair when the top was down. I didn't expect to get up at 6 am every morning for toxic radiation. Cancer wasn't even in our vocabulary. Not even a possibility. No one plans for this- especially when you just get married. I never thought saying, "in sickness and health" at my wedding two year ago would be so relevant so soon.

I am so very lucky. That man who stood before me 2 years ago has stood by me every single day of this whole journey. He had no idea he was signing up for this, and has loved me unconditionally every step. When we got married, I specifically said I had no idea where the road would take us, and I was so happy he would be there beside me. And he is. I look forward to fifty some more years...

If we can do this, everything else should be cake. Yum, cake.