Breast Regrets?

Disclaimer: If you don't want to hear about my nipples, stop reading.

My bilateral mastectomy with immediate reconstruction is now about six weeks behind me and I'm not sure I made the right decision. The pain from surgery wasn't as bad as I expected, the fluid draining from my body into mini turkey basters wasn't as bad as I expected and the time out of commission wasn't as bad as I expected, but I don't think I was prepared for the emotional detachment from these new space invaders. I am wondering if these lumpy, stiff blobs of silicone will ever really feel like a part of my body. Should I have chosen to forgo the implants? Some days that answer is "yes". Currently when I look at them, completely lined with scars of this disease and nipple-free, I question my desire to even consider nipples in the future. I don't know if it is because I do not care about them enough to give them nipples, which apparently can be fashioned three different ways depending on what I prefer, or if I just need to move on. I was never a fan of nipples in the first place. They can be a source of irritation and embarrassment at the wrong time. And never did I really find them to be a source of pleasure. I would have rather had someone put his finger in my bellybutton, which irritates me just as much, than to have had my nipples touched! Anyway, I am leaning towards leaving them the way they are. The scars and the lack of nipples reflect the journey. I'd rather be reminded of the journey than reminded of my breasts.

So Long, Old Friends

I think I got lucky with my breasts. I really like them. Even though I always wished they were as big as my sister's, they have served me quite well. In high school, I was flat-chested. I was recently looking at a photo of myself wearing my senior prom dress. It was turquoise with fluffy sleeves and a fitted bodice that did not really fit my bodice. Let's call it "gappy". This was all fine with me because they did not get in the way of running up and down the field hockey field or around the track, two things I was way more concerned with than boobs during those years. I was too skinny anyway and big boobs would have been weird. However, along with college came the dreaded freshman 15! And, luckily for me, most of that weight went straight to my flat chest . . . and my hips. I definitely filled out my slutty "clubbin' clothes" much better. Right, girls? Anyway, they were cute . . . until post pregnancy and I didn't even torture them with breastfeeding. I knew long before I ever had a child that breastfeeding was not something I could ever do . . . way too sensitive . . . and as much as that was frowned upon by society, and seemingly gasped at in the circle of breastfeeding warriors of 2004, I did not succumb to the pressure and my son is pretty healthy and somewhat normal. Now, ironically,those sensitive parts will no longer be a part of me, but replaced by tattoos instead. Again, ironically, something I always wanted, but not exactly the location I had in mind. Anyway, in the past six years my breasts have changed location, but still fill out a sweater or bathing suit fairly well, as long as the suit has some tough underwire. And although I uttered the idea of getting them lifted at some point, that will no longer be needed as I say 'so long' to these friends this evening. Breasts are like snowflakes, right? I mean, no two (or four) look the same, but they are all beautiful . . . beautiful parts on God's creations. I would much prefer the 40-year-old, drooping ones that God gave me now, but that was not part of his plan. So, I will go along with that plan tomorrow and tonight just remember He is in control.

Chemo Has Left The Body

I can tell it's gone because all the things I took for granted are slowly coming back. And now I am really paying attention to them. 1. Let's take my taste buds, for instance. Food has never tasted so good as it has over the past couple of weeks. Coffee, I missed you. Chocolate, I adore you. Although I have to tighten the reins on my eating habits for my health's sake, I have thoroughly enjoyed pigging out lately. However, my jeans may not agree. 2. "Unwanted hair". Of course, all the hair I didn't miss in the first place is coming back fast and oddly patterned, but I am not complaining. I shaved my legs today for the first time in a few months and it was nice. Only, Bob's razor needs a new blade. He surely will not appreciate sharing with me again. There's just something about his razor . . . I like it better. Don't judge me. 3. "Wanted hair". Slowly but surely the fuzz is darkening and looking more like hair. Bob says it is getting long. I guess compared to his bald spot it is getting "long", but I can be patient. It's my eyelashes and eyebrows causing me strife. I never lost them completely, just have vacant spots here and there. So I spend a lot of time obsessing over the growth while examining them in a magnifying mirror hourly. Eyebrows are filling in, but eyelash holes are slow to respond. 4. Energy and pain. Energy level has increased and the burning pain in my legs . . . vanished. I even ran two miles last Sunday and felt good! Joy. I feel joy from the inside out. With surgery coming up, I still feel like I am over the hump. The worst is behind me. And that is where I'd like it to stay.

Competitive But Realistic

I'm extremely competitive. A game of Guesstures turns me into a nail-biting, answer-shouting, seat-bouncing freak. Lost field hockey games in high school would leave be seething under my mouth guard and cranky for hours after. And a bad run on the track, forget it . . . devastated. While training for races throughout my adult life, although my mouth is saying, "It's not about my time, it's about having fun", my competitive spirit is screaming, "It's totally about my time!" I was broken-hearted during my training for my first (and last) marathon seven years ago, when just a few weeks before the big event, I injured my knee, causing pain that should have prevented me from going forward with that run. But there was no way I was going to come that far and not go all the way. That day it was truly NOT about my time. It was about finishing. And I did. But cried almost the whole way home from Burlington, VT in pain. Stupid, you say? Yup. It kept me from running for a long time. Last June, I decided I was ready to get back out there. A half marathon this time. Doable. Even though I struggled some days while training with my two girlfriends, when the run came, it was the best I felt in a long time. The runner's high was in full effect. And crossing the finish line with a respectable time and no injuries at 39 left me feeling pretty proud of myself. Running is important to me. A lot of people don't understand it. But I love it. There is a feeling that comes with running that is tough to explain, but anyone else who is a runner knows exactly what I mean and you are shaking your head right now.

So, this cancer thing has put a bit of a damper on any running regimen. My leg muscle have collapsed to the intense build up of chemo . . . deteriorated from the shapely, strong pillars they used to be to these jello-like logs that burn from just walking up stairs. Last week I decided to get out there and try to run a mile and get in shape before the Race For The Cure 5k this weekend. I felt great mentally, so I went for it. The minute I began, I knew I would not last. The feeling was like nothing I had ever experienced. My legs literally didn't work like that anymore. In fact, not only did they feel like they were 400 pounds each, but they couldn't even "move" like the legs of a runner. I likened myself to a woman 9 months pregnant and possibly 10 cm dilated, trying to run. It was impossible. SO after about 200 yards, I stopped. I realized running a 5k was not going to be possible. I cried. I want my body back. I want so badly to run this race with my amazing supporters, some are people who have never run before and have trained for this event. I want to run with them, to show them how proud I am of them for working so hard and reaching their goal. I want to run with my old running mates and my new running mates and my friends and family and all the people who have showed me so much love and warmth and pure, beautiful goodness through these long six months. But I can't. Tough for this competitive girl to admit, but I am just not strong enough yet. I guess I have been using that strength in other ways lately, so I can wait until next year to "run" this race when I am a one year survivor. And I will be running for fun . . . and for time :)

Rock Star? Not Me.

Tomorrow the last cycle begins: take my steroids, get my levels checked, chat with oncologist about my progress, pack my chemo bag with magazines and silly games, and pray that it's not so bad on Friday. In my head I'm thinking, "Toni, how can it be bad when it's your last one?!" But having now experienced the dreaded "cumulative effects" I was warned about in May, I have some trepidation. Seriously, my first three treatments left me feeling like a rock star! I could not believe how well I was handling it all. Sure, I had a few days where I felt drugged and unlike myself, but I would rebound quickly and look forward to getting the next one behind me. Heck, I even ran a 10k the day after my second treatment. Rock star.

But this rock star has fallen. I feel like I was misrepresenting chemo. I mean chemo is supposed to make you look thin, pale and sickly, right? But the only thing different about me was absent hair and maybe some dopey eyes from time to time. Until treatment 4. And that was nothing compared to 5, the one I have still not fully recovered from with 6 only two days away! So the face (my face) of chemo has changed. In the three weeks between treatments, my body has transformed. The "face" of chemo has changed for me over the last month. Want to know the truth about chemo? Day 1: infusion. Day 2-5: drugged feeling, need for sleep and lots of it, but muscles so sore it is difficult to get comfortable to actually enjoy the rest, inability to get out of bed or off the couch in the morning, opening eyes even hurts, interest in food dwindles as the taste of metal takes over, mouth becomes dry and unable to be refreshed, certain foods completely gross me out (dairy products and coffee), while others are a staple to nutrition (watermelon and grapes).

Day 6-17: I am not becoming sickly and thin because the steroids have made me retain water, so my complexion is plump and maybe I even look a little bit younger as my wrinkles are somewhat filled in. However, my pants don't fit because that water I am saving like a camel has appeared in my legs. My cankles have turned into thankles and feel like they could explode if I make one wrong move. The taste in my mouth, unbearable at times, have to keep brushing my teeth. Still tired, but outdoing the fatigue is the extreme muscle burning in my legs even from walking up and down stairs. Now, I have to admit, when I had my chemo class months ago I watched a video of people discussing how chemo affected them. One woman said she was winded just making the bed! I turned to my husband in shock. I could not imagine that could be possible. Even though I have not gotten winded making the bed, I understand. I totally understand.

Day 18-20: Coming around! Just starting to really taste things again. Energy level is increasing.

Day 21: Infusion 6. Yup, the last one. So, I am thrilled, elated, proud, emotional . . . and dreading the next 20 days, especially as school starts on Day 5. Can't let my students down. Gotta be "on".

Over the past several days I have thought a lot about people I have met through this chemo journey, people who have had to endure chemo a lot longer than I, people who are having setbacks, people who are facing cancer a second time. It breaks my heart. To have had chemo behind them, celebrated, had their hair grow back only to find out months later the cancer is back? Devastating. I can't complain, not out loud (well, maybe only to my husband). I've only had to endure three and a half months, six total treatments, three of which left me feeling like a rock star. I do not need that title. Chemo has humbled me. My body has given in but not my mind. I am climbing my way back each day to the woman I remember pre-diagnosis. There are so many people that go through so much more than I, so much more. My journey has been short in comparison, my effects . . . minor. And although I will be tearfully celebrating Friday, I will be taking with me the stories of every woman who filled with chairs next to me and shared the good, the bad and the ugly with me, a complete stranger, but a sister to any woman with breast cancer. Forever on my mind . . . the women who have endured and keep enduring this disease. They radiate strength. They are the rock stars.

When Nothing Is Happening

My son talks incessantly. Really. He can't stop. It is a constant stream of thoughts and ideas, a running narrative of absolutely everything or complete nonsense. He can talk about very intriguing things like what "webbins" Mario and Luigi would use in a battle with Darth Vader and Darth Maul. He can convey his life plan as if it is happening tomorrow: to own his own Silly Bandz store, not get married, but adopt a little girl and homeschool her, so she can work at the store and because he can teach her lots more things than school. Or he can just ramble endlessly. The mean kid at school might want to turn to him and yell, "Shut up for five seconds!" But I'm his mom, so I can only think that in my head on these long summer "no-plans" days.

So last night I decided to treat him to a stargaze while Dad was working late. We put on our jammies, squirted on some bug spray, searched for our favorite "Magic Blanket" and headed across the street to "Cemetery Hill". Now, in my mind, stargazing is supposed to be a calm, quiet, peaceful look at the stars. Apparently, in Ethan's mind, it was an excuse to run around like a lunatic howling at the moon and creating the most nonsensical knock-knock jokes, which then put him into a fit of fake laughter. "This is so fun, Mom. We should do this more often." Look, I'm not totally insensitive. I love that he was having fun, and I did a little real and fake laughing myself. But this was not in my mind's eye when I imagined our evening together. So, I sat him down on the blanket and asked if we could just be quiet and watch the sky. Sometimes, as a parent, I will say something to Ethan and then be so grateful no one else heard it because it made no sense whatsoever, but at least HE didn't know. Last night was one of those moments. In my frustration I said, "Ethan, sometimes the best moments in life are when nothing is happening." It is not profound in anyway and definitely needed some explanation. But, upon explaining, it even became more clear to me.

Amidst all the summer hoopla, when I think of my best summer moments two things come to mind. First, it doesn't get any better than waking up each morning to a kiss on my bald head accompanied by a "Good morning, Mommy". Next, one afternoon I am standing in the kitchen sneaking a chocolate chip off the top of a magic bar and I hear "Mommy?" with a slight panic in his voice as if he is not sure where I have gone, yet I am only a few feet away from him. I return with a quiet "Yeeessss?" And since he really doesn't need anything, just wants to make sure I am close, and the best part is I know exactly what he is doing, he replies with, "I love you." Best moments.

So, when we finally sat still and listened to the crickets and smelled someone's fire burning and made wishes on the stars, even though he wished for Star Wars Mighty Beans, he also wished we could do this every night. Best moment.

Top Ten Good Things About Crappy Genes

Upon discovering that my sister also carries the BRCA gene causing her now to have to undergo the same surgeries as I, I felt the need to come up with a "cheer up" top ten list for our situation. And here it is:

Tina,

I'm sorry! This gene sucks. It is forcing you to make decisions you should not have to make and it sucks!

But let's look at the good things about this:

1. We will have no place for breast and ovarian cancer to grow which puts us in a pretty good spot!

2. We will be watched like hawks by our doctors and screened regularly, so if we ever do get cancer somewhere else, it will be caught early, and it will be survivable.

3. When we have our surgery, our husbands will not be able to complain about anything and must wait on us hand and foot!

4. We get to have those tattoos we always wanted . . . right on our nipples! Ok, that's not a good one.

5. We are going to have some nice boobs! No sagging! No bras! Our friends will be soooooooo jealous!

6. We get to tell people our story and encourage people with histories like ours to get tested and maybe even spare someone the heartache of cancer!

7. We finally can confirm that I was NOT left by gypsies like you always told me when we were little.

8. We can pose naked in Playboy for an informative article on gene testing!

9. No more periods!

10. We will always have someone else who knows how we feel. We are in this together, and it is going to be ok. We are both cancer-free and we are going to stay that way!!

I love you!

Good Morning, Leg Hair

Good Morning, Leg Hair!

I don't fully understand your growth , but I will not challenge you! Shaving will never again be a complaint from these lips. You have been diligent in growing back despite two impending treatments on the horizon. I commend you for your efforts and realize you must be exhausted from your trip. I will happily lather you up today and send you into the depths of Bob's razor blade, allowing you the rest you truly deserve.

Thanks,

Toni

PS-On your way back, could you encourage your friends on my head?

If You Really Knew Me

I am a self proclaimed reality show junkie. I have just come upon my latest MTV addiction following years of The Real World and Road Rules and all of the challenges in between. Now sucking me in is, If You Really Knew Me, where high school students are put to the test to break down stereotypes and social barriers by bringing students together and finding a common ground: pain.

I'm a teacher. I've seen this great change attempted. The result is very empowering . . . at first. So I am intrigued to see how it is done and if the long-term effects will be seen. Don't get me wrong, it is a great intervention! Anything to get teenagers to really "see" each other and understand where people "come from" can promote a much more positive and united environment, which is lacking in the clique-filled schools. I know, I was a part of these cliques in high school and nothing has changed. But, if people really knew ME in high school they would have seen indescribable pain from my parents' divorce and the more jarring aftermath, dealing with having very little supervision around my house, pressure to keep up appearances with my popular friends who grew up in wealthier families, the shame of feeling responsible for my best friend ending up in a hospital one night, the insecurities about my looks, my sports, my boyfriends. In high school so many of us buried the pain, put on the face we think others expected us to have and moved forward.

I admit to doing this in my adult life as well over the years, even though I know better, even though God has given me the strength and courage to not compare myself to others like I used to and to be grateful and happy with what He has blessed me with in my life because those things are endless. If you really knew me, you'd know I am not sitting around devastated about cancer every day. If you really knew me, you'd know that I may not feel great but I feel great. If you really knew me, you'd know when you use words like "inspirational" to describe this cancer thing it makes me uncomfortable because I am just doing exactly what you would do. Because just like in high school, we are all way more alike than we ever even knew.

Forced into Perspective

A tragedy in our town puts my cancer in perspective. On Saturday, one of Ethan's classmates was killed in a fire that claimed not only her life, but the lives of five of her siblings, leaving two parents and one child to comprehend this extreme loss. It leaves behind a pain in this community and forces us, as parents, to explain the unexplainable to our children. We left for vacation the day the fire occurred and received word of the deaths through a text on our way down. The numbness that followed, the shock that still lingers, and the realization that my little boy, snuggling his lamby in the backseat, was going to have to wrap his brain around death on a level that he has not had to concerned me and raised questions: Will he now be afraid of our house catching on fire? Would he perseverate on how his friend lost her life? Would he be mad at God? Would he connect her senseless death to the fragility of life and begin thinking our deaths, fearing them? We decided to wait until after vacation to tell him. I solicited advice from my friends. Bob and I agreed telling him that God saw his friend and her siblings were in trouble, so he sent angels down to save them from the fire and bring them safely to Heaven was the best way to explain it. He knows that once we are in Heaven we do not come back to Earth because God needs us more, and that Heaven is a beautiful, fun, carefree place where all our dreams come true. This is exactly how I ended up breaking the news to him days later on one of our last walks to the beach. Starting the words was the hardest, but he made it so much easier, sensing what I had to tell him was important, he stopped me and said, "Mom, don't wait, just tell me. I want to know now." So he took my hand and we kneeled down on the sidewalk where I proceeded to tell him in an emotional and not so eloquent way. I will never forget his wordless reaction. He bowed his head, shaking it up and down and let out a sigh that broke my heart. He was silent for a moment, then asked a lot of questions. And in true "kid form"he said, "I'm really sad about Mackenzie but I am so happy you didn't say it was Catlin (his best girlfriend in class)." We immediately, still kneeled there on the sidewalk, just prayed.

Kids are amazing! They take in the information and deal with it in their own way whether they fully understand it or not, they find a way to deal with it and surprise us each time. He is processing each day, mentioning her during many quiet moments, praying about her daily and nightly, healing in his own way. I am proud to watch him throughout his processing. It comforts me. Because sometimes when I think 3-5 years down this cancer road, I get worried. I am not so worried about my own mortality, as I feel the same way Ethan does about Heaven, but I worry about him. I think if God's plan is to take me earlier than expected, he will process and teach others and surprise us all.

Pep Talk

Listen up, eyebrows and eyelashes! You guys have been underestimated all season. I'm sorry. You are hugely important to this team. You frame the face, help give expressions, and you have the ability to change an entire look. You are doing a fantastic job hanging in there, and I appreciate your determination and your heart! Look, I promise not to take you for granted ever again. Eyebrows, I will not wait too long before grooming you when you are back to your full potential. Eyelashes, I will not keep makeup on you overnight. You guys need to fight. You're strong. You will not be erased from this face. I need you, buddies! Are you with me? Let's go out there and fight this thing!

My Best-ies

I awoke at 5 this morning after a night out with my birthday club girls, quietly turned on my laptop in the kitchen, slipped in the disc of photos to music Teri gave us all last night and wept. These four women . . . my best-ies. Although only five years together, the life hurdles we have overcome together bond us like no other: births, loss of family pets, miscarriages, marriage problems, moves, the near collapse of friendships, the death of a mom, the death of a dad. . .the cancer diagnosis. Through it all, we've been rocky, but we've stayed strong. These are the friends who drop everything and show up on your doorstep with chocolate and wine to cheer you up. They call you on your 50 minute drive to work at 6am to keep your mind off your cancer. They are in the waiting room while you undergo surgery. They take the day off and drive hours out of their way to play silly games with you during your first chemo treatment. They show up at your second treatment wearing a bridesmaid gown to make you smile. They pray. They offer time and time again a retreat for your son so you can rest. They remind you that God is in control. They paint their bodies with "Lyngstrong" in support of you and run a 5k. They go pick out wigs with you and make it fun. They are solid. Their grand gestures and their daily emails. The looks on their faces mean more these days. Their hugs are longer. It is not easy to be the loved one of someone with cancer. I get that they don't always know what to say or what to do. These four women are special beyond the meaning of the word. I will watch those pictures fade in and out on that DVD and listen to those lyrics hundreds of times this weekend . . . and weep.

Faded Genes

For better or for worse, there comes a time in our lives when we accept the nose we got from grandma or the feet we got from Aunt Ruth. In fact, we might even be thrilled we received dad's great skin or mom's fast metabolism. Genes. Some genes we do not expect will put us face to face with some life changing decisions and not just for ourselves, but for anyone who shares our genes.

Last week I found out I carry the breast cancer/ovarian cancer gene. I guess I wasn't surprised. The good news is I will not need radiation after my four more rounds of chemo. The bad news is I must now have a bilateral mastectomy, and while I'm at it, it looks like I will be saying goodbye to my ovaries as well. But God gave me one perfect blessing with these ovaries. And I don't need them anymore. Breasts can be rebuilt and I would prefer ones that do not come with cancer, so God is taking care of that.

In the grand scheme of things, everything we have gotten really comes from God. He's just using me to further this story, this story that started off seemingly uneventful, but has now taken a few turns along the way. He is strengthening me, making me humble, making me grateful for what I do have.

So Long, Hair

"Mom, put your wig on. You look more beautifuler with it on." He's right. For all of you liars who said "if anyone can pull it off, you can." That was a really sweet effort at making me feel better about being bald. But let's be honest ladies, none of us can really pull it off. It's ok. My new look is way better than spending one more morning in the shower holding handfuls of hair. I noticed it last Saturday, strands and strands, so to combat the fallout I went to get it shaved. However, my sweet stylist said she could not do it. She, like so many other foolish optimists, said, "but what if it doesn't fall out?" So she cut it shorter. I should have demanded she do it. I had a gut feeling it would happen before I made it back to her. Day 13-a drain full and losing by the minute. I wore my first bandanna to work to contain the mess. Day 14-handfuls. We have no clippers. I call my neighbor. She brings clippers. Some say they are very emotional when they shave their heads. I couldn't wait to get it off. I felt free from waiting. And I knew I was not going to spend one more morning in the shower holding my hair. So, I threw on my wig and went to work . . . my new hair . . . my temporary hair because the great thing about hair is it grows back.

Let Me Tell You Something About Kids Today

. . . they are chomping at the bit, full of desire to change the world, make a difference, have their voices heard, make a statement, be individuals and part of the crowd at the same time. To organize a group of people to do anything substantial is difficult for adults, let alone for kids. But the 8th grade students of Houston Hall at Shaker Junior High School succeeded. They started a movement that caught on to many and captured hearts throughout the hallways and spilled out onto the track and the bleachers today as we took part in our annual hall competition: The Big Track Meet. To describe it in words would not do it justice, so I leave you with photos, photos of how our futures are in great hands because kids today know how to problem solve, how to think critically, how to encourage people, how to join together for a cause, how to show compassion and concern when they feel helpless. Houston 8 . . . remarkable!!

A Stranger Takes Over

Chemo. Hmmmm, not sure how to describe it. I guess surprisingly uneventful the first couple of days is a good start. I went on with life as if there were no poisonous liquids traveling through my body. Then Tuesday came. Not completely sure how I got to work. I suppose I drove the 50 minutes as I normally do because no one beeped at me or gave me the finger, but I honestly don't know how I got there. When I walked through the doors of the junior high I could hear all the chatter around me and see the faces, but no doubt, I was not there. A stranger had taken over my body. I felt withdrawn, having no affect, trying to force smile but knowing inside I could not bring one to the foreground. It was a little scary. To think that this was the person I was going to be for the next several months was frightening. This was not the person I came to know and love. One of my friends at work asked me how I was feeling and I thought I would break down and cry. I think I just answered, "Not myself"and even focusing long enough on her to form those words seemed a chore. As the day went on, people looked more concerned. I faked my way through teaching and took solace in a trip to Stewarts for a bowl of rainbow sherbert on my lunch break to get away from the voices and find something that made me feel normal. The rest of the day went much like the beginning. Coming home and plopping on the comfort of my squeaky couch while watching Ethan and his friend play Mario Brothers was a relief, when oftentimes it can get annoying. Bed came early Tuesday along with the fear I would wake up the same way today.

NOPE! Today was shockingly 100% better. I felt like a cloud had been lifted from my brain in my dreams. I remember the drive to work. I was singing to Fergie. I walked into school with a real smile and had conversations I remember. And I did not try to escape during lunch to avoid people. Today I was Toni again. Now, I understand, that is not necessarily always a good thing, but I kinda like her.

Wrapped In Support

I'm sitting here wrapped in the most precious quilt, a quilt created through the generous hands of some of the most thoughtful people in my life, including people who never even picked up a needle and thread. An idea born in the mind of one friend and carried out by many more. I see the concern in their faces. Cancer is something people do not know how to respond to. People don't know if they should talk to me about it or not. They aren't sure of what to say or how to say it. This quilt speaks loud and clear the hearts of so many people. People who gave up their time and talent, whether they thought they possessed it or not, to speak their hearts. This quilt will go with me to chemo on Friday and stay with me often throughout my treatment and beyond. I will feel the warmth of the material, but mostly I will feel the warmth of the individuals who made it wrapped around me.

Just An Accessory

When the door closed to the wig room of the Jean Paul Salon and the "wig lady" said, "So why are you here?" my only response was to cry. I am not even sure why. Maybe mostly because I felt the closing of the door symbolized the end of my femininity for a while. On the other side of that door were women getting their beautiful hair washed, cut, colored and styled, so many of the things that make us feel girly. On my side of the door, girly was about to be stripped away by synthetic hair. Thankfully, I wasn't in there long before my girlfriends showed up and turned that room into a celebration of synthetic (except for the one that looked like a mullet). That little room became a safe place for an hour. Then the door opened and I became nervous again, passing by some long highlighted layers, a blond high ponytail, a head full of curls for pre-wedding approval. By the time the stylist started cutting I knew it really didn't matter how it turned out because if it was awful, I wouldn't have to deal with it very long. By the time the stylist stopped cutting I knew it would be a while before I sat in that chair again. Bittersweet. But when I saw the final product I felt relieved. It's not so bad. And losing it in a few weeks will not be so bad. My femininity is going to be compromised but not depleted. I don't need hair to make me feel beautiful. At the salon, my girlfriends made me feel beautiful. When I got home, my husband and son made me feel beautiful. And reading all of your comments make me feel beautiful. Hair is just an accessory. And I've got lots of accessories.

A Class Act!

Remember when you were in 8th grade? I was exactly like most of the 8th graders I currently teach: more concerned about my hair than my grades, more concerned about walking "the long way" to see a boy I had a crush on than getting to class on time, more concerned about what the five page note my best friend gave me before class said than the notes my English teacher was rambling about.

Yesterday I stood before about one hundred generally rambunctious, giggly, chatty 8th graders in an auditorium where you could have heard a pin drop when I shared with them the news. These 8th graders transformed before my eyes. There is the one boy with whom I struggle each day to find a new approach to subdue his behavior and distractability issues who stopped me in the hallway and said, "Mrs. Lyng, you really scared me today when you started talking, but when you were done I felt better." There are the sweet ESL girls who secretly left the most thoughtful, incredibly well written, emotion-filled letters on my desk. There is the one sweetheart who pulled me aside with tears in her eyes and had the courage to tell me her mom is going through the exact same thing. And now, I hear of two other self-less young ladies who are organizing a hall "movement" to show their support and solidarity as we go through this journey together.

People will often roll their eyes when I tell them I teach 8th graders and comment that is takes a special kind of person to teach middle school. Yesterday I had never felt so special, indeed! These 8th graders can change the mind of any skeptic. These 8th graders forgot about their hair, their crush and their notes and left on impact on me so huge I will never forget them.

Shaker pride!

People have asked me on various occasions why I want to continue to work at Shaker when I could get a job so much closer to home. I have had the same answer every time: It IS home to me. This experience has solidified my reasons for always coming back to Shaker Junior High even after having left and moved 60 miles away four years ago. It is at Shaker where I met one of the best friends I will ever have, someone who has been there with me through some memorable life experiences for nine years and who was sitting in the hallway waiting for me when I came back to work the day I was diagnosed. It is at Shaker where I met my two beautiful girlfriends with whom I shared the concern of the lump I found in February. They wasted no time telling me to get my butt down to the office and call my doctor immediately. It is with their reaction that I saved my body months of continued tumor growth. It is at Shaker where I have encountered tremendous support, honest to goodness love and genuine concern from people who have known for weeks about this fight, who are constantly checking on me and letting me know they care. It is at Shaker where I shared my news to the remaining faculty today. It was time. Changes are coming. I do not want people to look at me in shock when they see me in the copyroom with no hair. I do not want conversations to stop when I walk into a room with the obvious scramble for a good cover-up conversation. And I do not want people to treat me like I have cancer. I am the same person I was pre-diagnosis: generally happy, positive, sarcastic, silly, and overly concerned about fashion, as shallow as that may sound. This will not change when chemo sets in and my hair checks out. I am not fragile. I am strong and ready to fight this wearing a cute outfit, sexy shoes and a great pair of earrings!

Shaker is my home away from home. I never even looked for a job elsewhere. And now I know why. Again, thank you, God. Your plan is more clear with every step.

Dear Chemo,

Dear Chemo,

You are going to suck. But you are going to help save my life, so thank you. See you on May 21.

Cancer: An Emotional Rollercoaster

Last week that rollercoaster was sitting at the very top of the first steep incline, but as of today, I feel that coaster car creepy down . . . albeit slowly.

Tell me something. Why do doctors get our hopes up only to have another doctor snap us right back down to reality? Looks like chemotherapy for me. Not what I expected, but I can roll with it. See, it wasn't even that which slapped me across the face so hard, but it was when the doctor examining me today felt a lump in my other breast that sent the coaster heading full speed into a brick wall. What?! Now, he told me not to worry, the MRI I had two weeks ago would have picked this up if it were something to be concerned about. Really, Doctor?! Don't worry? I will know more tomorrow.

The up side is, now I know a little more about the seriousness of the word "aggressive". It means if there is even one cell that broke off my tumor when they removed it, it could metastasize somewhere else quickly. My tumor is also not a candidate for hormone therapy. Hence, chemo. I will know more in a week. So many appointments, so much confusion. But it's all good. Don't get me wrong, it'll suck for a while, but I have to believe the end results will be "all good".

Stage 1, Baby!!

Who would have thought one could get excited about cancer? Today I found out I am Stage 1; therefore, I must unleash the excitement! Yes, I am aware that treatment is no cake-walk, but I am prepared. My plan will be to undergo radiation for what will most likely be five days a week for about six weeks. Chemo has yet to be determined, but there is a chance I may not have to go that route. I will cross that bridge if and when I get to it. Until then (and even then) I actually feel blessed and elated!

Dear hair, I owe you an apology.

Countless times I have left the salon thinking my hair didn't quite come out as I expected. It's been too blond, too dark, too short, too layer-y, too poofy, too "something". In fact, on Friday, one day after my lumpectomy, I found myself sitting in the chair getting my roots done because I figured if I was going to have cancer, I sure better look my best. Let's be honest, even though it never looks quite right, it's a fabulous accessory and I'd like to keep it around. But as I sat in that chair, it dawned on me that I might be losing the hair I have so easily cursed some mornings when I am desperately trying to do "something" with it. No question I have even uttered these words: "I hate my hair!"

Dear hair, I owe you an apology.

Even though I will not know for a few days whether or not I will undergo chemotherapy, I know the side effects. I will miss this hair and our love/hate relationship, but hair grows back. If it increases my chance that cancer will not, then so long hair.

God Rocks!

Let me tell you a little bit about God in a non-preachy, straight forward way. He knew this would happen. He never said we weren't going to have struggles. But he prepares us in ways we could not imagine. One of the things I have noticed in the past two weeks is that for 39 years he has engineered the placement of the most loving, supportive, and genuine people in my life. Close friends of mine will tell you I can't let people go. I feel strongly that once I build a relationship with someone, he/she is in my life forever. Facebook has been a remarkable outlet to be back in touch with so many people who have impacted me throughout my life. Even though I am not "friends", in the true sense of the word "friendship", with everyone on my friend list, I can tell you a story about each person without hesitation. I can tell you how giddy I was to see them join my list. It's not about numbers for me, it's about connections. To see people re-enter my life at a time when I need them the most is God's work. You are all continuing to impact me with your touching concern and your huge hearts!

It's True: Never, Never, Never Check The Internet!

Within a few days, life became a whirlwind of emotional phone calls and emails. At times I felt positive and strong. At times I felt cheated and scared. But what would terrify me most was the appointment with the surgeon who used one word, one word that plagued me for days, one word that put me in the darkest place, one word I thought would completely change the course of my life. The word: AGGRESSIVE. Now, I'm an English teacher, folks. I know what the word "aggressive" means, but I felt the need to look up what it meant in "cancer speak". Big mistake. It was defined as "growing and spreading rapidly". Then I continued to read about stories of women with aggressive breast cancer. I think I lost ten pounds that weekend.

My advice:

1. Never, never, never check the Internet.

2. Always call your doctor with questions.

Cancer Goody Bag

On March 29, 2010 I was told on my lunch break that the lump I found in a self exam was, in fact, positive for breast cancer. I was in complete shock, as I was certain, based on the radiologist's reaction to my biopsy, that this appointment was simply going to be an inconvenience in my day. I could not believe I had to leave work to get my results, especially since I was convinced it was merely a cyst or, at most, a benign tumor. I saw my biopsy. I saw the tissue floating in the test tubes. She said, "Cancer sinks to the bottom. I am sure you do not have cancer." So, when we sat there in her dark office surrounded my breast films, I did not expect her response to mine. She said, "Are you alone?" And I got nervous. When she told me, I felt like I had been hit in the stomach with a fast moving ball I didn't see flying at me from across the gym during a dodgeball game in elementary school. I could barely hear the other words coming out of her mouth as they were all being drowned out by the word "cancer" screaming in my head. Then she did something that left me even more speechless: she handed me a goody bag. That is the best way I can describe it. This woman just told me I have breast cancer and then handed me a bag complete with: Cup of Comfort book, a journal, a candle, a piece of chocolate, and tissues. Seriously.