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.

The Chemo Finale

December 4, 2009. My last chemo treatment. My best high school friend had flown down to be with me and keep the house running. The kids were on winter break. Thankfully my friend stayed with the girls so that Bill could be with me.

We arrived right on time, as usual. It was rush hour in the infusion suite, as usual. I seemed to be on the same schedule with the same group of patients. One woman, in particular, was there every single time I was. She was quite a bit older than me and only spoke Spanish. Her wig was horrible. Most days it was crooked and helmet-like. We exchanged glances and knowing smiles. I wondered if today was her last day too.

I'd been lucky with my first two treatments. The infusion "suite" was full and there were no available seats. So I got a private room. That was a good thing. It was the same barcalounger chair with the TV in front of it, but there was something very comforting about not having to make eye contact with any of the other patients. It made it easier to stay in my own little bubble, not think about mom, or what could wait for me in my future.

This day, however, I was not so lucky. The suite was a busy place. The private rooms were all taken, by patients already hooked up to their IV pole with the telling bags of chemical cocktails hanging in order of delivery. The red ones were the worst. Adriamyacin. They gave me that one when I had Hodgkin's so many years ago. I nicknamed it "The Red Death." It made me sick as a dog, burned as it went in, made me pee red, and did a number on my heart. After just two cycles, the oncologist changed my regimen as he didn't like the affect The Red Death had on my heart. Today I wonder if that was the cause of the mitral valve regurgitation for which I take a daily pill.

Back to the suite. The nurse had me sit in an uncomfortable chair to start. I was hopeful that this was my "on deck" chair and that I would move to one of the more comfortable loungers before they started my drip, which took 3+ hours start to finish. Bill had to stand.

While in the on-deck chair I got my IV hooked up. Thankfully the oncology nurses know their way around needles and veins. Most often it took just one stick, thankfully. Have I mentioned I'm not a big fan of the whole needle thing? Sometimes when getting blood drawn it will take 3 and 4 tries. I've gotten pretty good at being able to tell which ones will have a problem. It's a confidence thing. Plus the size of the needle. I've gotten very adept at saying "please use a butterfly. I've got chemo-fried veins."

Not long after an elderly gentleman in the big green lounger to my right got up to leave, and I was ushered to his chair. There was a chair for Bill too. We both settled in. Me watching All My Children on the TV above my head (in such a group setting there wasn't really an option of changing the channel), and Bill opened his school books.

John, the Nurse Practitioner and guy-in-charge-of-chemo, came over to chat. "How are you feeling?" he said. We exchanged pleasantries then he connected the bag of my first cocktail. The Happy Juice. And thank God for it. Keeps the nausea at bay amazingly well. I'm happy to report that I did not vomit once as a result of my chemotherapy. Happy juice. Rock on!



Next came the Taxotere. Derived from the French Yew tree (not to be confused with Taxol, my mother's cocktail of choice, which was derived from the North American Yew tree). Soonafter he came back on hung the next "on deck" bag. This one was Cytoxan. Derived from who knows what or where.



Bill and I both settled in. The chemo didn't hurt going in. I didn't feel any different. Modern medicine had come a very long way in the 24 years since my last chemotherapy experience. In fact, it was almost boring. I alternated staring at the TV, reading my book, and dozing in the big comfy chair.



Prior to my first treatment I hadn't eaten anything for fear I was going to be nauseous right away. After a couple of hours Bill was hungry and went to grab a sandwich. He came back with a tuna sandwich and a smoothie. "Do you want some?" He said. At first I thought "No, I shouldn't just in case." But as I watched him eat, and I smelled the tuna, I thought "That smells really good." And so began our chemo tradition. A lunch date featuring tuna salad sandwiches and a smoothie. Today was no different, so Bill set out for Henry's Market, and came back with our lunch, which we both enjoyed.



Before too long John came and switched the IV over to the Cytoxan. One more hour to go. One more hour before I could say "It's all moving forward from here." "The worst is over." "I can get on with my life."

"I need to call mom and tell her," I thought to myself. "Oh yeah, I can't." Bill was there, holding my hand and studying his books. "I so want to talk to my mom," I said. As John came over and removed the IV, he began to review all of the things that would happen next. Follow-up appointments, blood work, etc., etc., etc. All I could think of was my mom, and how much she would have reveled in celebrating this milestone with me. So I cried, alone. Another one down. Another chapter nearly finished. I was assuming at this point that the reconstruction process would begin a new chapter, for this marks the end (we hope) of yet another illness. The rest is just window dressing.

As my mom always said, "this too shall pass." And so it did. Next?

Giving Thanks

Some may think that it would be difficult for my family and I to find things to be thankful for this particular year. Quite the contrary. Even my mother, in her final days, was thankful and acknowledged how very blessed she was. Yesterday we had a lovely day filled with great food, loving family, and shared memories of those not with us. We ended our evening with karaoke. Sofia and I sang "our song," The Wind Beneath my Wings.

I am thankful for my family. These last few months have brought us closer than ever. The time spent with my mom, dad, and brother during the last days of mom's life was excruciatingly painful, but also brought with it an unbridled intimacy that comes only through shared tragedy, but will endure for our lifetime.

I am thankful for my father. His indomitable spirit and will to go on are an inspiration. I am thankful he has his health, and I look forward to welcoming him to San Diego as a permanent resident. I am thankful that my girls will know him as Grandpa, who makes coins appear out of ears, can ace any geography quiz, and is an amazing musician.

I am thankful for my brother, who I've grown to know as a fine man, a goofy uncle, and a terrific dad. I am thankful that I can now call him not only my brother, but also my friend.

I am thankful for my husband, who loves me unconditionally, with or without hair, or breasts, or energy. He's my biggest fan and largest supporter. He sits with me at chemo, encourages me to rest when I'm resisting. Has endless patience in managing the household and the girls on the days when I'm just not up to it. He's also a fine man, and my best friend.

I am thankful for my beautiful girls, who have embraced my experience as their own. Who encourage me to shed the wig to be comfortable. Who like to rub the peach fuzz on my bald head, sometimes even with wonderful smelling lotion. (More on that in a future post, The Benefits of Baldness.) Who proudly keep their friends up to date on the latest with mom. Who aren't afraid to say "Mom, why are you frustrated right now?" Then will listen intently as I share my feelings and return to the happy place.

I am thankful for my amazing friends, who really are an extension of my family. The thoughtful phone calls, endless meals, late night pep talks, shared tears, and love for my children are remarkable, unforgettable, and genuine.

There is so much more to be thankful for, but in the end it is the people we love, not the things we have. I am thankful because I know I am not alone, and will never be. I have my family and, by extension, my friends. I know now, more than ever, that in the end, at the end, family and friends are really all you've got. I am thankful, though bittersweet, to have learned this lesson early enough in life to cherish the important things and gain perspective on the rest.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

H.O.P.E.

This past weekend was the Susan G. Komen 3 Day Walk, described best by a friend who participated. "It was like a combo Bay to Breakers, Club Med, and a big street party. Fun, outrageous, inspiring and heart melting."

I know this is true as I've done the walk twice in years past. First in 2003, then again with Bill in 2004. My neighbor, co-Troop Leader, and dear friend Arlene did the walk this year. Four weeks prior, our Girl Scout Troop hosted our own "walk," at a Saturday Brownie encampment. Arlene and the girls, unbeknownst to me, created the theme "Walking for H.O.P.E." as the activity we would lead that day. The girls write the below.

Health ... Walkers have less incidence of cancer, heart disease, stroke, diabetes, and other killer diseases. Increase your heart rate by walking regularly for 20 or more minutes seversal times a week and you'll do wonders for your heart's health.

Opportunity is a chance you have. Everyday we are given the opportunity to live. We should live our life to the fullest by making the most of each day with people we love and care about.

Page. We are doing this walk for someone very special. She started our Girl Scout roop 5902. Her name is Mrs. Page. She takes our troop on outings and helps us be good citizens for our community. We thank her for bringing our troop together and everything that she does for us.

Energy. It's not so much the energy that you have, but the energy you give off. Making people aware is simply giving off energy. There are all types of energy, like health energy, or simply being positive about your health, and possibly your cancer. Energy is passed on from person to person, bringing awareness for the cure.

With the Girl Scouts we took groups of girls on a short, 1/2 mile walk. Each then traced their footprint and wrote a message on it. Those footprints were then put on a poster. It was very moving and inspirational.

As we've done every year since 2004, the troop goes out and cheers on the real walkers. This year and last we were able to cheer for one of our own, Miss Arlene. We all had shirts made with the H.O.P.E. story on the back.

The girls made posters, and pins (safety pins with pink and crystal beads, plus a pink ribbon charm) to give away. We also blew bubbles ... "Bubbles for Boobies" was the mantra. It was such fun to see how much the walkers appreciated the girls' efforts, and the fact that we were out there cheering them on. It also had an even more special meaning for the girls, as they are all aware of my own battle.

At one point, a family walked by and they were all wearing the Stand Up to Cancer T-shirts (you may have seen the television fundraiser). I was so inspired by that event that I said"Love your shirts, where'd you get them?"

"Online," was the reply. Then a woman, probably ten years older than me, wearing a "Survivor" shirt, stopped and looked at me. She studied my bright pink bandana, wrapped pirate-style around my head. "Are you a survivor?" she said (because from the day of diagnosis we're all called survivors ... love that!).

"Yes," I replied. "Going through chemo right now." She called to her son, who was in front of her. He came back, and as he opened his fanny pack to retrieve something, the mother said "I've been looking for you for two days. I have something for you. Last year someone gave one to me and I wanted to do the same." With that her son pulled out a T-shirt. Yellow, with the word Survivor emblazoned in red across the front. It was one of the Stand Up to Cancer shirts that the celebrities wore on TV.

At that point, I had to fulfill my urge to hug her, her son, her daughter, and anyone else who would have one. I will save that T-shirt forever. What a testament to the amazing sisterhood that is breast cancer. Actually, strike that, as it's not just a sisterhood. When my family and I returned to cheer the walkers on and walk the last mile with Arlene on Sunday, as we were cheering a very large man in a bright pink shirt with a bright pink hat on also noticed my telltale bandana. "Survivor?" he said?

"Yep, and proud" I replied. At that point he left the stream of walkers, ran over to me, and gave me a giant, loving bear hug. "I'm getting ready to go through it myself," he said, tearfully. Oh yeah, I thought. This is not just a woman's disease.

This year's walk included more than 4,000walkers, each of whom was required to raise a minimum of $2,200. The simple math equates to a minimum of $8 million raised by this race alone. Factor in that this is one of 14 walks this year alone and you've got more than $100 million, all for breast cancer research.

As a benefactor of that research, I am thankful. Having just lost my mother to lung cancer, a woefully underfunded and far more deadly disease, I am envious. In both cases I have, and will always have, hope.