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.

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?