Cancer chic and silver linings

         True confession – one of my first thoughts upon being diagnosed with stage two invasive breast cancer was, “I’m going to get skinny from being sick from chemo – winning!” Ok so I wasn’t rejoicing at the thought of a bilateral mastectomy and aggressive chemotherapy and baldness, but weight loss was one of my first thoughts.  I mean, of course I was stressed that I could die and worried my kids would grow up motherless. After all, I’m not a monster- just an eternal optimist who looks for silver linings. But guess what else? That stress and worry magically wiped away fifteen pounds in under two weeks. While I wasn’t seriously overweight or anything, I was in my thirties and, after two kids, had fifteen pounds to spare so it wasn’t like the quick loss left me emaciated or anything. Dammit.

Anyway, upon consulting with my plastic surgeon about reconstruction options, the obvious to me being implants, he described another type of surgery known as the TRAM-flap procedure. This involves taking fat from my stomach and rerouting it to my breasts for a more natural reconstruction. Sounded overly complicated as well as a much tougher recovery, but guess what? As Dr. R patted my (now concave) stomach he declared, “I don’t think you have enough tissue for that procedure.” Don’t you mean not enough FAT? I wanted to shout with glee. Not having enough fat has never been a problem for me.  I blithely selected saline implants from a catalog, already nicknaming them my “Baywatch boobs” and looking forward to downsizing from my overflowing double D’s to a Madonna-sized C cup.

After my mastectomy and initial reconstruction was complete, I had to find an oncologist to treat my cancer since it had metastasized to my lymph nodes. I cheered myself going into these chemo consults by imagining my cancer-chic cheekbones and bony ribs a la Kate Moss.  “Don’t be jealous of these cheekbones, bitches! I had to suffer for them,” I would tell my imaginary fans. Because the chemo I was prescribed was extremely harsh and my veins always difficult to access, I needed a port catheter surgically implanted through which the poison could flow more easily into a high traffic vein. At this consult the surgeon explained where the catheter could go. Near my clavicle was one option, though it leaves a small scar and looks like the head of a stethoscope under your skin while it’s in there. He explained that the thigh is another option and less visible. As I sat on the table he began to squeeze down my thigh with his thumb and fingers, moving dangerously toward that sweet spot at the top of my knee which, regardless of circumstance, makes me chortle like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. My dad used to do that to me all the time. Before hitting the giggle point, though, he said, and I quote, “Your thigh is too thin for that procedure.” So distracted was I by hearing that I’m too thin for something that I missed the rest of the explanation and danced out to my car forgetting my copay.

I enjoyed the heck out of my fifteen minutes of thin fame, but all good things end. The concoction of poison infused into me also had steroids and – are you sitting down? – appetite stimulants to counteract the nausea! I begged the nurses to take that part out and replace it with top shelf hallucinogens but it’s all premixed into a big chemical stew and there’s no getting around it. Soon I had packed on a whopping twenty pounds despite being violently ill the first few days after each treatment. No cancer-chic cheekbones for this girl. Dammit. Now I was fat, bald, and my reconstruction was only partially complete so I didn’t even have my Baywatch boobs.

            I still found silver linings, though. Because my resistance to infection was so low, I was not able to work and got to be a stay-at-home mom for the first time other than maternity leaves. My kids were too young to be bothered by my bald head in a ball cap and enjoyed my expensive wig for dress-up. Friends with whom I’d lost touch reconnected and I discovered the immeasurable kindness of my colleagues, family and neighbors. The weight eventually came off and I save hundreds of dollars not buying bras anymore. I now wear all sorts of little tops I never could. Best of all, cancer taught me that I’m tougher and more resilient than I imagined and gave me the courage to leave an unhappy marriage and make positive changes in my life. I may not have the cheekbones of a supermodel but I continue to find silver linings every day.

My girls, then ages 2 and 4, are now 15 and 17. 

College send-off: Letting your baby bird fly

Nostalgia is defined as a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time. As parents, there is no end to the list of things for which we are nostalgic.  I’m not just referring to childhood milestones – first steps, first day of kindergarten, first lost tooth, and graduating high school.  After dropping my oldest daughter at college this weekend, I found myself nostalgic driving past the ER were only last week I had taken her for her third round of rabies shots after being exposed to a bat that had made its way into her room.  While we sat around the ER I had seized the opportunity to retell her birth story yet again since we were at the same hospital.  I’m only human. Walking through our house I’m nostalgic for the crack in the bathroom floor where tiny baby spiderlings had once hatched a la the ending to Charlotte’s Web. My daughters, very young at the time, were horrified and insisted I kill them immediately with ant spray, which I did. Seeing them die made both girls erupt into fresh tears that I had killed all the cute little baby spiderlings. Ah, motherhood.

I can’t bring myself to clean her room that she tore apart as she packed for school because she won’t be here to mess it up again for quite a while.  I never thought I’d be nostalgic for the mess, but passing by her room in its usual state makes it feel like she’ll be home any minute.  This is the room that was once a playroom where she and her sister had endless tea parties in the play house and where she had her first sleepover party in first grade. It was the room where she lost her first tooth when her best friend accidentally knocked it out while they played.  Once it became her bedroom, it also became the site of various teen dramas, many slammed doors and fights through the locked door over me being the “worst mother ever!” over some privilege I denied or other maternal transgression.  It was the room where her boyfriend staged a senior prom-posal that involved a lot of balloons and decorations and I had to do a cleaning blitz fifteen minutes prior to his arrival so it would be photo-worthy after all his efforts when she walked in.

Leaving her at college was not easy and it helped that I stayed a couple of nights in a nearby hotel so it was a gradual release. We arrived a day early and did some shopping and had a lovely family dinner. Friday was move-in day and a bustle of activity, unpacking and setting her all up.  I was in and out running errands for her then returned to the hotel and dinner with my younger daughter.  Saturday was the last day. I took her to the bookstore to buy all her books (and the lovely bracelet pictured) and then the three of us went to lunch.  Back in the dorm parking lot we said our final, tearful good-bye and group hug. The time had come.

There is not a single spot in my house or town that doesn’t spark some memory of her growing up, and it’s all the small, silly everyday moments, both happy and sad, that string together like beads on a necklace and add up to a childhood. The little ordinary moments add up to an extraordinary little life. Cheers to the next chapter of mine. 

Failing Motherhood: College prep

Subject: College Prep 

Grade: F 

Comments: A complete lack of understanding about the college admittance process has been demonstrated. Additionally, there is also no evidence of comprehending the cost of financing a college education, subsequent loans and related fees throughout the four undergraduate years. Worse than these shortcomings are the promises that were broken throughout the application and enrollment period. 

The above is the imagined grade I have been given by the Universe in the real-life college preparation phase for my oldest daughter. Not only should I have insisted she apply to more than ten schools, I should have insisted she remain completely open-minded to all of them until the financial aid awards have been given. I did the opposite, naively believing that she would be awarded financial aid. I know, I know. Rookie mistakes.

Not only did I not foresee the above events not happening, I assured her that one way or another I would make her dream school happen. I paid the enrollment fee, housing deposit and even took out a half page ad in her senior yearbook naming that school as “just the beginning.” It was with a very heavy heart that, after receiving the letter that we were granted zero financial aid, I had to break the news to her that this school is not affordable to us on any level. Then, in a last-ditch attempt to make her dream come true of going to Dream University, I began co-signing a huge student loan on her behalf. Private student loans, for those of you not in the know, have astronomical fees and payments. For example, I was in the process of borrowing twenty-four thousand dollars in an effort to send her to Dream U. When we came to the disclosure page, three boxes were at the top in bold print. Box 1: Loan amount, $24,000. Box 2: Finance fee, $39,400, Box 3: Total payments (on a 15 year repayment period), $63,400. Multiply that times four, as we would have to take out a similar loan each of her undergraduate years, add the $22,000 in federal student loans ($5500/year) that were already added to her account, and we have a grand total of $275,600 she will owe beginning six months after graduating. That is a dream we cannot afford. As a single income, minority family I never dreamed we would be receive no aid, especially when other schools were offering her so much. I did not sign that loan – I cancelled the application. Thankfully she was offered a huge scholarship to another great school which, although her safety, is where she will attend, albeit with complete lack of enthusiasm.

I am relieved that she will still attend an excellent university that will cost less than a state school, but I am having a difficult time getting over my role in this huge disappointment. As much as I try to let go of mistakes I make, this one is proving hard for me. No, I never should have assured her that one way or another I would make her dream come true. Yes, I should have told her that while Dream University seems wonderful and I will do my best to make it happen, we cannot fully commit until we hear from the financial aid department. When she was awarded the huge scholarship from the other school I did insist she consider accepting (before we had learned of the zero aid from Dream U) but she had her heart set elsewhere. She happened to be sitting next to me when the loan disclosure boxes popped up and she saw the astronomical payments she would be making until age thirty-seven and realized that there was no way we could do it.

Despite my complete incompetence over this entire process, she has now accepted the scholarship and we will visit the newly chosen school over the break. I remain incredibly grateful that she had this other option and that she will graduate debt-free. I hope that she will forgive my massive rookie mistakes in this process and that she has a wonderful experience at the other school. Maybe one day I will forgive myself.

Thank you, Cancer: Lessons learned

Thank you, Cancer! Without you I wouldn't have decided to leave an unhappy marriage and travel the world. 

Much like a wedding, a cancer diagnosis is less about you than how everyone in your life is dealing with your illness. Here are some things that may help you as you navigate the early stages (whoops – didn’t mean to throw a C word around), days of your diagnosis. 

 1) Conversation stopper: Once your immediate family is told, you may experience many hushed conversations ending abruptly when you enter the room. Everyone’s faces will be instantly transformed into false cheer and jovial conversation will erupt to reassure you that everyone is perfectly confident you’ll be fine and nobody is worried. Still, your mom’s eyes will well up with tears every time she looks at you, belying her attempt to look casual and unafraid. Your illness will take her a while to process and her tearfulness will actually get worse, especially when you lose your hair, before it gets better. But she will come around – give her time. If your kids are really little, you will have to explain that even though it doesn't look like it, you’re sick, but not the kind with germs that are catching. Your mom will buy them picture books like Our Mom has Cancer and you’ll feel simultaneously grateful and sad such books exist. 

2) Your colleagues: If your colleagues are like mine, they will offer unwavering support and immediately start delivering meals to your house. You will be incredibly grateful because not having to cook really is a huge help. You can plan to not cook for a good six months. If you’re really lucky they will even throw you a “boob voyage” party and you’ll get all sorts of cools gifts like fancy PJ's to wear during your hospital stay, spa-type stuff you love, and gifts for your kids. They’ll even make cupcakes that look like boobs. Even after you leave that job, those awesome people will be your lifelong friends.

3) Preparing for chemo: You’ll need to explain to your kids that you need really strong medicine that will make your hair fall out but that it will grow back. They will process this news with mild curiosity because they don’t really get it, but that’s ok. Your very generous sister will pay for a really expensive wig that will even fool your oncologist who has experience with this look. The salon where you bought your wig will offer you a private room and, if you're lucky, a stylist who will make you laugh by giving you all sorts of decade-specific silly hairstyles until he’s finally forced to take out the razor. His good humor and playfulness will help you cope as what’s left of your hair gets buzzed off and you run your hand over your stubbly scalp. It’ll feel really weird for a long while, but your getting-ready time will rival that of a guy. You’ll promise yourself that when your hair comes back – and you’ll panic that maybe it won’t, but it will – that you’ll never complain about a bad hair day again. And you won’t. 

4) Preparing for reconstruction: The anxiety of your diagnosis may cause you to lose eighteen pounds without trying. When you go to your plastic surgery consultation and he is explaining reconstruction options besides implants, such as using your own belly fat to create new boobs, he will tell you that you’re too thin and lack enough tissue to create boobs even close to the size you have now. He’ll elaborate but you won’t process any of it, so elated are you that you're “too thin” for anything besides gastric bypass surgery that nothing else registers, and you’ll temporarily forget you have cancer. You’ll happily pick new boobs from an implant catalog, seeing as how you’re too thin and all. 

5) Preparing for your mastectomy: It’s best not to think too hard on this one. You know you’ll be in the hospital for a week so focus on leaving endless lists all over your house as random things occur to you that nobody else will think of or know how to do. You’ll fill your house with your kids’ favorite foods and attack all laundry with ruthless efficiency. You’ll have another big party with your family the night before your surgery and arrive at the hospital hung-over (though you drank nothing after 11:59 pm) at the crack of dawn, reminiscent of when you went there to have your babies. Your sister, who is a doctor at that hospital, will have arranged for you to have the hottest anesthesiologist you’ve ever seen, even on TV, and as you're on the gurney about to enter the OR, he will hold your hand, his head inches from yours, and tell you that you’re beautiful and always will be. Even if this is his standard pre-op pep talk, you'll get cartoon heart eyes and imagine he's your boyfriend. Despite, or perhaps because of, your dire circumstances, you’ll have an overwhelming urge to lean in and kiss him right there, but you won’t., you’ll just have wild fantasies about him. This will be the last you see of your libido for some time so enjoy this moment. Don't worry- it'll be back. Trust me on that one!

You’ll soon learn that there are so many people that love you and want to help that having cancer can make you feel like George Bailey at the end of It's a Wonderful Life. Your attitude will set the tone for how people react to you and your natural inclination to reassure everyone in your life that you are totally cool with the whole cancer thing will actually help you cope. You can and will get through this and life on the other side will be sweeter than you ever imagined. You may even be grateful for this entire experience and find yourself saying, "Thank you, Cancer."

My first fake boob

     Self-acceptance is the key to happiness. 

Thirteen years ago this week I found myself flipping through the pages of a breast implant catalog, ironically about the size of a Victoria’s Secret Catalog, marveling at the array of shapes available. Who knew there were so many? Round, oval, teardrop and, of course, every size imaginable. I glanced down at my soon-to-be-removed double D’s and it was hard for me to envision a new look. Much like when my breast surgeon had flipped through her day planner and asked, “How’s next Thursday for your mastectomy?” as though I were making a hair appointment, though she was not insensitive at all, this entire experience felt surreal. I wanted to say, "Sorry, but next Thursday's not going to work. I'd planned on waking up, going to school, and continuing life as I know it."

My phone buzzed. 

Text from my sister: How’d it go w plastic surgeon? 

Me: Still here – picking out new boobs from catalog. 

She: haha 

Me: Not kidding – have to order them. Thinking about getting boob tattoo Made in Taiwan. 

She: Hahaha 

No matter your circumstances, a sense of humor is essential. In all seriousness, I was definitely downsizing to a C like my teen idol, Madonna, and that’s when I remembered feeling my first fake boob. 

At seventeen I started working in a lingerie and swimsuit shop near Vassar College. This was in the days long before Victoria’s Secret was a mall staple. No garish colors or prints, this shop featured muted shades with names like ecru, buff, and opal and the fabrics were creamy silks and softly woven lace. From the moment I walked in amid the finely stitched pieces and faint scent of lavender, I felt like I was in a museum of femininity, though the swimsuits were too matronly for my taste. As I followed the owner, Barbara, who was the epitome of elegance, through the store my first day, I fingered a tiny, handwritten price tag attached with a tiny gold pin, and when I saw the price my eyes widened. Who in late 1980's Poughkeepsie pays $68 for a camisole? (Vassar girls, my mother later told me.) I quickly realized I had much to learn. I didn’t know what tap pants were, envisioning tap dancers and wondering why they sell them there, and while I recognized a teddy, until then I’d had no idea it had a name. 

She showed me a room in the back where she said she met with “private clients.” She didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask, too busy mentally shopping for fancy lingerie that a)Even with my discount I couldn’t afford, and b) I had nobody for whom to wear. 

Occasionally somber-faced women came in and headed straight to the back, barely glancing my way. I wasn’t overly curious though. I liked waiting on customers, eager to showcase my new knowledge that you wear a nude-colored bra, not white, under white shirts. When the men came in I imagined a future husband or lover picking out expensive lingerie for me someday, though it would have depressed me to know then that when I did marry, my husband would only ever bring me a cheap thong with the logo of his brother’s flooring business on it and some pun about “laying it right.” Good riddance there.

One day I noticed a bathing suit had been left in the private fitting room. Then I did a double take. The left side was fully popped out like a ghost boob was filling it while the right side hung limply. I squeezed it and sure enough there was something in the cup. I felt around inside and there was a flap under which I could feel something cool and rubbery which I removed and studied. It looked like a chicken cutlet. I stared down at my own chest trying to envision one real boob and the other side flat, with one of these stuffed into a pocket inside my bra. None of my bikini tops would successfully pull off this look. Did having fake boobs mean you have to wear matronly one-piece swimsuits with two inch wide straps? 

As I brought my attention back to the implant catalog I realized they looked just like the prosthetics, the only difference being that these would be surgically implanted rather than stuffed into the pockets of bathing suits and bras. Thank God for modern medicine and plastic surgeons! 

I can honestly say I love my new boobs. I can wear all sorts of tiny little tops and I haven’t worn a bra in thirteen years. I do resent people that ask me or anyone well-built if their boobs are real. A former boyfriend had this to say about the topic, “Babe, if you can see them and touch them, they’re real.” With that in mind, they’re real, and they’re spectacular!

Layover mayhem: Why getting there is half the fun

Who better to kick things off with than a bunch of crazy Scotsmen pregaming 😊

I came across this photo recently of a particularly memorable layover and was reminded that wherever I’m headed, getting there is always half the fun.  I was at London’s Heathrow Airport at 11 am as I traveled from NY to Greece and my flight to Mykonos wasn’t leaving until 2:30 pm.  Groggy after flying all night, I was in search of coffee when I saw these two guys drinking beers.  Well played, I thought. 

What the hell, I'm on vacation, and into the pub I go. So I'm next to the old guy at the bar and he turned and said something to me that sounded like complete gibberish, yet somehow I knew was English spoken in some thick, heavy brogue.  The inflection in his voice indicated that it was a question, so I smiled politely and sort of nodded in what I hoped was a non-committal way, and he promptly handed me the beer he’d just been poured and got himself another.  Aha! So that was the question. 

It really is true that the universe brings me exactly what I need the minute the thought enters my mind. I thanked him and we clinked glasses. Then he asked me something else (still couldn’t make out a word) and this time I gave a sort of shrug/nod combo (which I’ve found to be effective communication in foreign conversation) and he smiled enthusiastically while I returned to my table.  Suddenly he and the other guy were gathering their stuff and heading over.  Evidently I'd invited them to join me.  Ok, now it's a party! 

As I moved over to make room for them I learned that Connal (older, unintelligible guy) and Graham were in town for the Glasgow/Arsenal game. Evidently this is the only pub in London open and serving beers by 9am so this is something like their tailgate party.  This is their routine, Graham explained, and more friends are en route, nine (!) in all. This day just keeps getting better.  

I could understand Graham fairly easily but was still not catching ANYthing of what Connal was saying, so Graham was interpreting and mocking his friend's heavy accent.  As more of their friends began arriving, we began rocking out that tiny pub.  They were some good fun!  They asked all about New York and my travel plans, repeatedly suggesting I abandon Greece and hang out with them. They told funny stories that involved a lot of shouting, insulting one another and slaps on the back.  Who doesn’t love shouty stories over beers? Before I knew it, though, I realized I needed to get to my gate. Where had two and a half hours gone? Regretfully I announced, “Aw, fellas it's time for me to go.”  

Collective sounds of disappointment ensued, along with cries of, “We'll get an extra ticket and bring you to the game,” and, “You don't really want to go to Greece -stay with us!” and similar. Lots of hugs all around and they seemed genuinely sorry to see me go (especially Graham...).   

But Mykonos beckoned, as did my final boarding call, and though the sounds of their merriment grew fainter as I made my way toward my gate, the warmth of camaraderie stayed with me.  Next time you can't get a direct flight, don't lay over plugged into a wall checking your messages- make some friends!