Rack 'em up!

Let's talk about racks. There are coat racks. Hat racks. Rib racks (yum!). Clothes racks. Pool racks. Towel racks. Deer racks. Bike racks. Ski racks. Rack rates. And racks of lamb (yum again!).

Merriam Webster provides this definition of rack (among others):

     Main Entry: ³rack

     Function: noun

     Etymology: Middle English

     2: An instrument of torture on which a body is stretched.

Anyone who's gone through breast reconstruction would probably agree with at least the torture part of this definition. Yes, I'm talking about THE rack ... you know the one. It's had dozens of websites dedicated to it ... none of which can be published here (just type "rack" into Google and you'll find them ...). 

For the thousands of women who've gone through mastectomy and reconstruction, it takes on a whole new level of meaning. Not everyone chooses reconstruction. It's a very personal thing. I remember sitting in my surgeon's office for my pre-op appointment before my bilateral (double) mastectomy. There was a much older woman in a chair near mine, and she had just taken up a conversation with the patient next to her.

"My second husband left me," she said, "when I agreed to the mastectomy and decided against reconstruction. He couldn't see past my boobs to the rest of me."

I shuddered and chuckled to myself. It was sad and hilarious at the same time. She had so much spunk and was so confident in her decision. Fortunately I knew my husband loved me for me, rack or not. So the decision to undergo reconstruction was 100% mine.

Now I had never been particularly well-endowed. At most I filled a B-cup (except when I was nursing, but that doesn't count). Then of course after nursing I shrank down to barely an A-cup, like many of us do (that does count). Not being a big fan of plastic surgery for vanity's sake, I had resigned myself to live out my days sans-cleavage. Then breast cancer came along.

Opting for the mastectomy was a slam-dunk decision for me. I wanted to be as aggressive as possible. I knew I had two different kinds of cancer in one breast. One of those types (lobular carcinoma) made me predisposed to cancer in the other breast. Then there was the radiation I received to my entire chest area 25 years earlier. Yeah. Just take 'em both. My decision was a good one as I ended up showing cancer in both breasts. Phew. Bullet dodged ...

But back to racks. Having never really had one, and knowing I had a ridiculously flat blank slate and could pretty much do whatever I wanted, I began to stare at women's breasts. Awkward, I know, but productive. If I've been forced into doing it, I may as well get the rack I want ... that will make me feel not only whole, but also (dare I say) sexy?

One afternoon while sitting outside at a restaurant in Carlsbad, I noticed the waitress. She looked great in her mini skirt and fitted t-shirt. "I like hers," I said to my friend, Jen. Having been on this journey with me every step of the way, Jen knew exactly what I meant. But while staring wasn't a problem, I had not yet addressed the challenge of asking these women how big they were ... "I can't," I said with exasperation. "Ugh."

Then off to the bathroom I went. Arriving back at the table, Jen said "Full C." That's my girl ... she asked while I was gone. "Full C, huh?" I replied. "Never thought I'd be vain enough to do it, but that's what I want. Done."

And so I once again have a rack ... a new and improved, bigger and better rack. Lovely shape. Looks great in a tanktop. My headlights aren't too bright due to all of that radiation I had back when, but that's another story for another post.

My pal Susan, who's also in the last stages of reconstruction and will be walking in the 3-Day with me in October, sent this note on Saturday after her first training walk ...

So I walk out of the door with my pedometer attached to my shorts, my ipod with a great playlist attached, a hat, sunscren, my pink bracelet and promise ring on ... you know the deal ... I'm going to walk 5 miles because Page told me to. The weather was great. I was singing to Katy Perry at the top of my lungs, feeling good, when I came across a male jogger. He held out his hand and gave me a high five! THEN he said, "Nice rack!" Normally I would have been offended, but under the circumstances I laughed out loud, gave the girls a squeeze, and walked even faster with a spring in my step."

Therein lies the difference between those that do it for vanity and those who do it to become whole again. Those in search of external approval want to be noticed because they look different ... somehow better than everyone else. Those of us forced into it as a matter of survival and wholeness do it so no one notices how different we really are.

Rack 'em up!

It's been nearly a year ...

... since I've written in this blog. Why, I don't know. I have thoughts all the time about things I should write about, but just haven't had the time or inclination to sit down and get it done.

Now I'm inspired. I had wanted to send out a Christmas card, but the holidays came and went. Then it was a New Year's card. Followed by Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, and even Easter. Still didn't happen. When I got an email from a friend asking me to just confirm that I was OK, I realized I'd better get something out to the world. So here it is ... the Donovan Family Spring Greeting. Enjoy!

Another digital slideshow by Smilebox

Three-Peat!

Third time's a charm, right? Well I figure if I've beaten cancer three times, I may as well celebrate by walking 60 MILES three times! But I'm going to mix it up a bit, and will be doing this in Seattle with two of my best friends in the whole world. How lucky am I?

I did the walk for the first time in 2003, after my 40-year old cousin, Karen, died from breast cancer and left behind three little girls. Bill and I did it together the next year, and it was wonderful to share such an emotional experience.

This year, I have a whole new reason to walk. I used to joke that just being a cancer survivor wasn't good enough for the 3 Day walk and that to get the "pink shirt" you had to be a breast cancer survivor. Well, be careful what you wish for but I'm finally going to get that pink shirt!

And so I will walk. For my three daughters, that they may know a world without cancer of any kind. For my mother, who beat breast cancer only to lose her courageous battle against lung cancer in November. For all of my girlfriends ... because they were there for me every step of the way and if I can walk a few steps for them so they don't have to endure this disease, then I will walk miles. For the numerous family members who have battled and won, and battled and last. Because even though The 3Day is all about raising funds for breast cancer research, the truth is that the research done for breast cancer will inevitably have a huge impact on other types of cancers as well.

And I walk for myself. To get in shape, to set and achieve a goal, and to show myself that I can do it, in spite of the continuing pain that results from my chemotherapy.

I know times are tough, but I hope you will support me in this journey. No amount is too small, and the payoff will be so big.

Click the link below to go to my personal Web page.


Thank you!

Moms Rock!

My 1st grade daughter gave me a hand-made card today, along with a hand-painted pot with a tiny seedling sprouting in it. The card said "Thanks for being so helpfol. YOU ROCK! Yore ono an omilion. Waht wood I do with out you. Yore so cool." (She's in a Spanish immersion program so is still working on spelling in English, but how sweet!).



Last night, on my pillow, was a card from my 10 year-old. "Mom, thanks 4 always being there for me."



My oldest daughter made a beautiful card with similar sentiments that can't be shared publicly.



I am so blessed, and yet today is bittersweet. For the first time in 44 years I can't look into my own mother's eyes and say "Thanks, mom." I can't hear her sweet voice, saying "Hi Page" with sincere endearment as she always would when I would call. As my oldest daughter moves into adolescence, I can't pick up the phone and ask "Did I do this? How on earth did you deal with it?"



But what I can do is pass on her memory to my own girls. We talk often about things grandma loved, especially as we've been moving my dad into his new home here in San Diego. Every single thing in every one of those seemed-like-a-million boxes has a memory attached.



What I can do is rely on my many friends and family who are mothers themselves. We really are a special club ... we share the joys, the pride, the frustation, the how-tos of every facet of motherhood. In many cases we become second mothers to each other's children - extending the network of support and providing such wonderful examples for our own children to learn from. Motherhood is friendship. Friendship is motherhood.



I recall shortly after my mother's passing, I was sitting in my office at work. I overheard a coworker talking on the phone, and she abruptly said "Mom, I gotta go," then hung up. I then heard her say "Oh my gosh, my mom's going to drive me crazy! She calls me at work all the time!"



Then another coworker chimed in. "I know, mine does too and I can never get her off the phone."



I couldn't resist chiming in myself. "Ladies, take a deep breath and remember how lucky you are to be able to have those conversations. Cherish them."



Happy Mother's Day!

A Hair Braising Experience

So I spent last weekend in Northern California with my dad and my brother. Dad had a cataract surgery on Thursday and wasn't able to drive, so Jim and I spent the weekend with him, cleaning out some of mom's things, and helping plan dad's move to San Diego.

On Sunday afternoon Jim and I left Bodega Bay to head for the Oakland Airport. On the way we planned to stop at Jim's new bachelor pad in San Leandro. The weather was horrible. Pouring down rain, loads of wind, and cold.

Jim's pad is perfect for him. Just the right size with enough room to live but not too much to take care of. It took about 5 minutes to complete the grand tour. I mentioned I was cold so Jim turned on the tall, narrow wall heater.

Because of the dampness in the air I was still cold. While Jim was at his computer I wandered over to the heater and turned my back to it. I stood there for a couple of minutes enjoying the warmth as it took the chill off. Then I felt a strange sensation on my head.

"What was that?" I wondered, reaching my hand back to touch the back of my head.

"Uh oh. Oh no. I did not just do that!" I yelled.

My brother came running. "What's wrong?"

"I don't believe it," I said, then showed him what I was talking about.

I pulled it off my head and turned it around to look at the frizzie strands. The only thing missing was the unforgettable smell of singed human hair. The flyer had said "Heat is your only enemy." Oh no.

Yep. It's true. I melted my $300 wig!

"Bummer," Jim said, in that "Oh geez I don't know what to say to that" tone that only a big brother with a little sister can have.

So what happens to a wig when it melts, you ask?

It shrivels. It frizzes. It sort of explodes. In my case, the front, top and sides were still perfectly (and thankfully) intact. The upper part of the back, however ... not so much. It was shrivelled. I immediately grabbed my special wig brush, thinking I could brush away the mess. Not so much. All I succeeded in doing was amplifying the frizz factor.

And now I had to get on an airplane. As if I weren't already self conscious enough. Ugh!

We headed to the car and I immediately opened my suitcase and grabbed one of my handmade, bamboo yarn beanie hats (thank you Carol!). I put it on over my wig, pulling it over the back of my head to hide the telltale signs of wig meltage. I felt like a dork but it did the trick.

But it was H-O-T! Especially while sitting on the plane waiting for the doors to close. You know, the time when there's NO air and a LOT of body heat? Oy!

So what does one do with a melted wig? Well, if one has a place called A Greater Hope (the most wonderful place in the world if you're a cancer patient), she calls the owner Ofelia and says HELP! Of course this was Monday morning of President's Day, and of course Ofelia wasn't open on a holiday, but I booked an appointment with her for today at noon.

I had been thinking of having my wig trimmed anyway. The long locks in the back tend to tangle and are kind of a pain. I figure this little incident is the universe's way of kicking me in the behind to get it done.

I arrived at Ofelia's place at noon, wig secure inside my quart-size ziplock bag.

"Let's see it," she said knowingly.

No sooner was it halfway out of the bag than she said "What on earth did you DO?"

I humbly recited the entire story, then muttered "Please tell me you can fix it ..."

Let's see what we can do. She took the wig and disappeared into the other room. After about ten minutes I had run out of things to do on my Blackberry so went in search of her to see the magic behind the curtain. There she sat, with my wig on a stand in front of her, using a curling iron and a steamer!

"But ... but ... Heat is the enemy!" I said.

"Only if you don't know how to use it," she replied with a smug confidence.

And so my hero, Ofelia, smoothed my wig. It didn't look perfect, but it was so much better.

"Let's trim it a bit and it'll be good as new," Ofelia said.

Who knew you could give a wig a haircut? Is that like giving a pig a pancake?

And so I was seated in the comfy stylist chair, adorned with my black smock, and Ofelia worked her magic. She snipped. She thinned. She trimmed. And then she took the wig off my head and disappeared again.

Once again I followed her, eager to see what new tricks were up her sleeve. Turns out they weren't tricks at all, just a teflon-coated curling iron. She used it to give some shape to the blunt ends she had just cut. Then, Ouila! A perfectly coiffed head of hair.

And the moral of the story? Heat is the enemy. Ofelia is the ally. And the universe? And the universe will still never cease to amaze me.

Putting a Halt to the Hiatus

Here I sit. Staring at the screen. My last post was November 28, 2008. It seems a lifetime ago. Since then, I've survived the holidays, completed my last chemotherapy treatment, returned to work full-time, and continued to grieve the loss of my mother. It wasn't that I didn't want to write. I just got busy, living my life. That's a good thing. So many of you have expressed concern that I haven't written, and have even said you missed reading my entries. I've missed writing them. Rest assured my health is fine. All reports are excellent from my oncologist and I'm enjoying some doctor-free time for another month or so. In early March I'll begin the reconstruction process, which will take a few months, and a couple more surgeries, as I understand it.

Not a day has passed where I haven't paused and thought, "I should write about that." I've made a mental list of all of the topics I want to cover. Some are happy. Some are sad. Some are hilarious. I'll be posting and dating some of these things retroactively in order to keep the chronology in sequence. I do hope someday to parlay this little blog into a book so want to keep it as organized as possible. So, be sure and check for new entries ... they may not always be at the top.

10 Things I'll Miss About Chemotherapy

1. Not having to do my hair


2. Not having to shave


3. Not having to wax (there's a trend here)


4. Wonderful head rubs from my 6 year old with yummy smelling lotion and soft little hands


5. An excuse for naps. Every day.


6. A valid excuse to be lazy. And selfish.


7. Knowing that I was launching a full "Shock and Awe" assault on the cancer. There's something unnerving about laying down arms.


8. Being spoiled and pampered by everyone.


9. Feeling young, vibrant and healthy compared to the other patients.


10. Hearing from dear friends, old and new. I've promised myself I'll keep the contact going.