The Hard Questions

I went out with a friend tonight and was confronted by the impact of my situation.  The vastness of the word CANCER.  The fear.  The sadness.  The inextricable link to death.  Tonight, when I reached out to a friend for comfort unrelated to my illness, I realized that though I've begun to heal my wounds, escaping the impression this disease has left on me and those around me will be much more difficult.  No matter how much I try to ignore it, pretend it didn't happen and move forward, I am bound by the scars this process has left on me and the questions that linger in the air around me, unspoken, like silent veils subtly obscuring the person I really am.  These are the questions that the people who care about me are afraid to ask.  Frankly, these are the questions that we are afraid to ask ourselves.  So here I go.  I'm going to ask them for all of us and get them out of the way.  

Will the cancer come back?  Has it spread?  Will I have children? If I do have children, will I live to see them grow up?  If someone loves me, will they be left lonely?  In a nutshell, will I die?

Well, the truth is, I don't know.  Just like everyone else, there is no way for me to predict the answers to these questions.  All I know is that I've done everything in my power to prevent it from coming back, and that's all that I can do.  But does this mean that now I shouldn't pursue a normal life?  That I should be afraid to love and be loved for fear that I may not be around as long as other people?  Should I stop dreaming and striving and envisioning my future because of the possibility that it may be cut short?

There are no right answers to these questions, but if there is anything this experience has shown me is that I cannot sustain an existence clouded by death.  I have to believe in the possibility of love and life and a future or all my hard work will have been in vain; and if having cancer means that these basic elements of life are no longer available to me then the question no longer is will I die, but when.  

The reality is that the only thing that separates me from everyone else is that now there is a visible threat to my life.  Most people my age get to blissfully ignore how delicate our bodies are, living life with a sense of immortality, which allows us to take the necessary risks to succeed.  My biggest flaw is that I, because of my age, confront people with their mortality, reminding them that if I can die, so can they.  Unfortunately though, that innocence is no longer available to me.  I cannot ignore the fact that my body can and will at some point falter.  So what's the remedy?  What do I do?  I cannot go back and erase what has happened.

The only answer is I have to live, and not just live, but live well.  Otherwise, I'll never be able to lift the veils that have hung themselves over my spirit this past year.  So 2009, here I come, 'cause frankly, I'm freakin' tired of this shit! (I know, I know, really poetic, it's the menopause, I swear).

Thanks as always for reading.

Crawling out of the trenches,

DT

Foobs, Hormones and Me

Well friends. It's official. I'm officially foobilicious, and you'll be happy to know that they are nice and smooshy. Just ask one of my parent's friends who actually reached out and touched one (amazing how many people want to fondle you, especially women, after a boob job). Even my medical team is giving them rave reviews. As for me, I'm just happy that my PS stuck to the plan and held himself back from giving me triple Ds. Now I just need to get some nipples (why do I feel uncomfortable writing that word???), and I'll be good to go (in case you were wondering, this process involves some tattoo artistry, so maybe instead of a nipples I'll just get Betty Boop and Jessica Rabbit, the animated queens of voluptuousness, tattooed on my chest).

So what's next? Well, fortunately, the hard stuff is done! My hair is growing in, my blood count is going up and my scars are starting to heal, so watch out normal life, I think I'm getting my mojo back. Unfortunately, my treatment is not completely over. In order to explain this, we need a little pathology lesson. You see, within every large category of cancer (i.e. lung, breast, etc.), there are different types of cancer, manifesting themselves differently from person to person. This is why, when you start hanging around women in the halls of the Cancer Club, you'll start hearing terms like triple negative, triple positive, high grade, low grade, Stage I, IIA, IIIB, Her2+, ER+, PR+, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. All of this is enough to make your head spin, so I'll try to break it down as best I can from a lehman's point of view (please visit one of the many cancer sites or your medical professional if you want the accurate professional explanation).

The stage, as many of you know, indicates how advanced your disease is. For instance Stage I cancer is a tumor smaller than 2 cm with no lymph node involvement. The grade indicates how close your cancer cells look like normal cells, so Grade 1 indicates cancer cells that still look somewhat like normal cells, whereas Grade 3 indicates cancer cells that have extreme mutations and have stopped looking like normal cells (i.e. no nucleus, etc.). ER+ means your cancer cells have estrogen receptors, making them sensitive to estrogen levels in your body, and PR+ means your cancer cells have progesterone receptors, making them sensitive to progesterone levels in your body. Finally, if you're Her2+, it means you have an over-expression of the Her2/neu proteins on the surface of your cancer cells. From what I understand, on normal cells, the Her2/neu proteins communicate with the nucleus of the cell to let it know when to divide and regenerate itself. If your cancer cells have an over-expression of these proteins, it essentially makes your cancer more aggressive because these proteins keep telling your cancer cells to divide and grow. So if you're triple negative, it means that your ER-,PR- and Her2-. A triple positive would be ER+, Pr+ and Her2+. Did you catch all that? I think I just went cross-eyed just writing this.

So what am I? I am a Stage IIB, Grade 3, ER+, PR- and Her2+ (how lame is it that I have all this memorized), which means, I had a 2.2cm nasty little tumor that looked very little like normal cells, had some estrogen receptors and an over expression of the Her2/neu proteins. So what does this all mean and why is it important with regard to treatment. Well, here is your answer. You see, if your cancer is triple negative, the only treatment options you have are surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. If you are estrogen and/or progesterone positive, it means that you can add hormonal treatments to your toolbox, and finally, if you're Her2+ you can add this fancy wonder-drug called Herceptin to your arsenal (Herceptin specifically targets the Her2/neu proteins, making it one of the most targeted cancer drugs on the market). So, since I'm ER+ and Her2+, it means, on top of surgery and chemo, I have to continue taking Herceptin and start my hormonal treatment (I didn't have to do radiation, thank goodness).

Now luckily for me, Herceptin, unlike chemo, doesn't have so many side effects. The only real effect I've had is that I get a little tired the day I take it (oh yeah, and I have to check my heart every three months because it can cause heart damage, but we try not to think about that). So like chemo, I have to go in every three weeks to get an infusion of this drug, but other than needing to pass out early that night, it's no big deal. Like I said, wonder-drug!!

So all we have left is the hormonal treatment. Well this is a little trickier. The good thing about hormonal treatment, is that it reduces your chance of recurrence by 50%. This is huge because, let's face it, who wants to go through all of this again. The bad thing is, like any hormonal treatment, there are side effects (ladies, I know you know what I'm talking about). Now usually, pre-menopausal women, like myself, are given Tamoxifen. Unfortunately for me, studies have shown that Her2+ cancer is resistant to Tamoxifen, so I clearly need a different solution. Unfortunately, all the other hormonal breast cancer drugs on the market can only be given to post-menopausal women, so what is a girl like me to do?

Well, drum roll please, PUT THE GIRL INTO MENOPAUSE (cue in marching band and confetti)!!!! Um, wait, excuse me??? Put me into what??? You mean that thing that causes women hot flashes, mood swings and general craziness in their fifties??? That phase that takes you from being a child-bearing dynamo, to um, well, barren?? And I have to do this for five years, and then I may, or may not come out of it, meaning I may or may not be able to have children naturally and I may or may not have to go through MENOPAUSE TWICE!!!!!! Um, EXCUSE ME. I know I joined the cancer club and membership comes with its entrance fee, but I'm pretty sure that this is not what I signed up for. I mean, I thought I just had to get through the surgeries and chemo, and that was it, hasta la vista Big C, welcome back mojo.

Oh well, I guess its worth it so my hypothetical children can have a mom who lives long enough to see them out of the nest, walk down their own aisles and have their own hypothetical children. And I guess it's somewhat a relief to have your biological clock put on pause when you're a single girl in your 30's. Kind of takes the pressure off, but STILL! Just makes you want to stomp your feet, hold your breath and just....aargh. Ok, ok, at least it's not chemo and it's not cancer and there's no knife involved. But honestly, aren't I allowed a temper tantrum? Well I guess being that I'm now officially a mature adult (you get to say that when you're in menopause, you see), that would be unseemly. But just in case I break out into a childish rage, or accidentally snap at you, please be kind, I'm just going through menopause. In the meantime I'll just wait with bated breath for my first hotflash.

Thanks as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches (surrounded by preemptive fans),

DT

New Foobs

So, the time has come.  I'm officially off to get my new boobs tomorrow (often also called Foobs: Fake + Boobs = Foobs, get it?).  Now if you had ever asked me whether I'd ever be choosing between silicon or saline, I would have called you crazy (I chose silicon by the way, they're more smooshy).  But here I am, going in to get a boob job.  Ok, ok, I didn't really choose.  I mean I guess I could have chosen not to do a reconstruction, but is it really a choice?  I mean, I wouldn't have chosen to get a boob job had they not been lopped off in the first place, and now that I've gone through all this stretching... well, it's just the logical thing to do.  Not to mention, what's wrong with wanting to have a perky pair until I'm 85.  So move over Pam Anderson.  I'm joining the ranks, except, well, smaller and with some visible scars, and oh yeah, no breast tissue. But I'll never have to wear a bra again!!! Well, at least not for functional purposes.  Take that suckers!! Maybe this isn't so bad after all.

Alright, alright, now for all of you who are wondering what this surgery is all about, I have to take you back to April 1, 2008 (yes April Fools Day, hilarious, hilarious).  So on April Fools Day 2008, I DT, went in to have my Boobs, not to be mistaken with Foobs, chopped off.  Now I know that sounds morbid, but that's what happened.  One day I had them and the next day, they were gone.  Now here's where the biotechnology gets really cool.  So you would think that once they chop 'em off, you would simply just replace the tissue with implants then and there.  The problem is, to ensure that they get ALL the cancer, they take away some skin along with the breast tissue.  So unfortunately, you're left with less skin, which would make putting implants in very painful, and potentially impossible, since you may not have enough skin to cover them.  So what do they do?  If you're eligible, they put these uninflated implants called tissue expanders in to slowly stretch your skin so that it becomes stretched out enough to fit a regular sized implant in.  These expanders have self-sealing magnets so that the plastic surgeon can inject the expanders with saline every few weeks without puncturing the implant, allowing you to stretch your skin over time.  I'll tell you, going in for a fill has taken on new meaning.  Imagine watching someone stick a syringe in you and watch your breast just blow up in front of your eyes.  Crazy!!!!  

Anyway, you can imagine that having plastic implants with magnets in them doesn't feel, shall we say, natural.  So once you're stretched out to your heart's content, they go in and exchange the expanders for permanent implants.  The permanent implants are either saline or silicon and are contoured to look like a natural breast and are much shmooshier.  I know that in the land of real boobs, smooshy is a bad word, but in the land of Foobs, the smooshier the better.  Don't want people rebounding off of you everytime they get a hug.

So, tomorrow I get my magnet free, smooshy, contoured, silicon Foobs, and how do I feel about it?  Honestly, I'm freaking out.  I mean, they say that this surgery provides almost immediate relief from the discomfort caused by the expanders, but the last three times I was in the hospital, let's just say, those visits didn't inspire confidence.  First there was the time that I sat in a hallway in my hospital gown, with no underwear for 6 hours, waiting for surgery (even the nurse on duty left for the day, and there I was still sitting), causing a nationwide search because my friends thought I'd passed out in my apartment (at least I know my network works).  Next, I had a surgeon try to force me to take my appendix out even though I didn't have appendicitis, causing my Dad to get shingles from all the stress.  Finally, the last time I was in the hospital, it took two nurses, three doctors and an ultrasound machine to find a vein and get an IV in me.  Let's just say, that my faith in hospitals and surgeons, is well, a little shaky.  So even though I know that my plastic surgeon (PS for short) is one of the best in the city, particularly known for his Foobs, I'm well, pretty much thinking of calling the whole thing off.  The only saving grace is that my first surgery, the big one on April Fools, went off without a hitch, and my PS was at that one too, so maybe, just maybe, this visit will be less eventful.  

Anyway, the next time I talk to you, I'll be a new woman.  In the meantime, here's a picture of me from halloween.  I officially have fuzz on my head.   Wish me luck!!

Thanks as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

So much to say....

So little time.  I admit, I am a few posts behind.  I got a dog, I started work last week, dressed up for halloween, and tonight I watched history unfold before me as the United States elected an African American president.  What can I say, change is amiss.  So what do I write about amidst all of this activity.  Do I write about myself as the world watches this historic moment?  Seems somewhat insignificant in light of the less palatable changes we've seen over the past weeks.  Do I write about my job, as thousands continue to lose theirs everyday.  All I can say is that I'm thankful for the support my law firm has offered me throughout this chaotic time in my life.  Do I write about politics...well, frankly, there are people much better equipped to write about this subject, and my small words would get lost amidst the largess of this moment, so for now, I'll write about halloween.

To be honest, I wasn't looking forward to halloween this year.  As an adult, halloween is about confronting your inhibitions and facing your fears... and for single girls, its about dressing as sexy as you can, because it's the only occasion that allows ladies to put a mask on and dress like a tart.  Well, for me, this year has been about confronting my fears.  For me, sexuality has been redefined, forcing me to allow other parts of me to shine through, and find comfort in allowing people to see the person, rather than the body, the hair or the face.  So when faced with halloween, it seemed unusually empty and inhibiting.  You see, as everyone put their masks on for the evening, to take on the character of somebody else, I longed to take mine off and finally allow people to see myself.  For months I've been applying my makeup, wearing my wigs and hiding my disease.  Well this halloween, as everyone put on their wigs for the night, I decided to take mine off.  I walked out of my door onto the streets of new york with a fuzzy head and no hair to hide my face, and with every stride, I felt beautiful.  And yes, people asked, and the subject came up as I silently shared my secret.  And none of it mattered.  Because the one night where I could have been anyone else... I chose to be me.  I chose to me.

Now since halloween, I have put on my wig and continued to mask the battle wounds.  But as I said at the start, change is in the air, and for the same reason that the United States elected Barak Obama, even with my wig I feel less burdened.  Eventually, I will permanently shed my masks, but in the meantime, I finally feel hope.

Thanks as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

Identity

A few weeks back, when I talked about the exclusive Cancer Club, my prodigious young cousin, "Prodigy", asked me what my identity was among this community.  What nickname would I get from my fellow fighters amidst our common experience.  My flippant response is, "I'm DTintheCity dude!! Haven't you been reading???"  But this is no answer for Prodigy's thought provoking question, so I started to ponder who I really am in light of my recent experience.

The reality is this is a difficult question to answer.  Am I the same person that I was before this happened?  Probably not.  Am I a completely different person than I was before this happened?  Probably not.  Perhaps I am a more saturated version of myself, candidly revealing both my strengths and weaknesses unapologetically.  Perhaps, in an idealistic sense, this experience has brought out the best in me, but anyone who has been around me knows that while I may have had my bright moments over the past few months, the reality is that it's been more of rollercoaster and my character has equally ridden those rails.  So who am I in this process, and more specifically, who am within this community.  

Well, I hate to be a copout, but this is impossible for me to define because just as the nicknames I give to others on this blog represent how I see these individuals, any moniker that might be given to me would be colored by the way the person naming me views me.  Now I could attempt to figure out how people see me, but the closest I would get would be how I hope I'm perceived by others, which would shift, depending on the gaze of the individual naming me.  So all I can do is name myself as I either think people see me, or hope that people see me.  So here it goes, divided by category.

Nicknames reflecting how I think people see me:

*Crybaby

*Control Freak

*PseudoShrink

*Optimistic Pessimist

*Baby (Remember though, "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!")

Nicknames reflecting how I hope people see me:

*Cancer Ninja

*Optimist

*Truthteller

*BadAss

*SuperFriend

*ChemoKiller

*Muscle Mama (metaphorically, not physically)

*Water Roller (i.e. I let things roll off me like water)

*Sexy Sister

*Survivor

Now I have no idea if any of these truly fit, so I invite all of you to cast your votes or potentially even provide nicknames that I haven't thought of.  In the meantime, I'll continue using the name that I think does embody me, both pre, during and post-cancer.... DTintheCity

Thanks as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

A New Year, Repentance and Renewal

Hey all.  Sorry for the hiatus.  I guess I just needed a break from the Big C and all it means to you and me (sorry, couldn't help myself, so cheesy).  Anyway, so to catch everyone up, on September 22, 2008, I, DT, had my final chemo treatment, which was appropriately celebrated with an invisible parade dancing through my living room with all the bells and whistles, including confetti.  A week later, my little parade was doused with honey as those of the Jewish persuasion (which includes me) celebrated our new year, otherwise known as Rosh Hashana (in case you didn't know, Jews replace champagne toasts with apples and honey to ring in a sweet new year).  10 days later came Yom Kippur, Judaism's most somber day, during which we repent our sins and promise to do better in the coming year while fasting for roughly 26 hours (even water is off limits).  Two days after Yom Kippur, I was dancing at a wedding, celebrating my friend, "Sexologist's", wedding.  Needless to say, although all of this activity was somewhat exhausting, it's hard to miss the unusual timing and symbolic importance of all of these events amidst my circumstances this year.  In fact, all the major dates related to my journey through cancerland have been somewhat auspicious, verging on the ridiculous.  So let's do a recap.

• Diagnosis - March 11, 2008 (My Birthday)
  
• Bilateral Mastectomy Surgery - April 1, 2008 (otherwise known as April Fools Day)
  
• ER/Hospital Fiasco (which I still need to tell you about) - June 13, 2008 (otherwise known as Friday the 13th)
  
• Last Chemo Treatment - September 22, 2008
• Rosh Hashana - September 29-October 1, 2oo8 (1 week post-treatment)
• Yom Kippur - October 8-9, 2008 (2 weeks post treatment)
• 10th Anniversary of Mother's Passing - October 19, 2008 (exactly 4 weeks after my last treatment)

Now to many of you, this may seem absurd; but the link to life, remorse and renewal is undeniable, even to the most cynical person, including myself.  Accordingly, I spent the Jewish holidays celebrating the end of this difficult treatment and contemplated the experiences I have endured throughout this year.  I have to admit, as trite as this may sound, the apples and honey I ate tasted sweeter this year and, although I didn't fast this year (a ritual which I observe every year religiously), this was the first Yom Kippur that I can remember where I was reduced to tears and actually mourned for the losses I have incurred throughout my life and throughout the past 7 months.  Now admittedly, it is likely that the effects of chemo made me more sensitive when facing themes such as sin, loss, remorse and renewal, but the reality is that I think that this entire experience has simply torn open a sadness and loss that I was previously unwilling to share or embrace.  When your body is weakened, it is difficult to hold up the defenses that usually shield the rest of the world from your inner sensitivities and inner emotions, so after 6 and a half months of accumulated damage to my body, I have been laid bare, exposing my fears and emotional volatility.  So this Yom Kippur, I let go of my facade and allowed my private emotions to fall out of me into the palms of my loved ones, a position which makes me extremely uncomfortable, but is also freeing at the same time.  To allow one's inner soul to be reached by others enables of a level of honesty that relieves you of the strain of navigating the image you think people want to see.  It's a humbling experience for someone like me, but in the end it has made me lighter and more able to embrace the person that I have become throughout this journey.  

So with my lighter self, it is somewhat fitting that two days after Yom Kippur, I headed up to the Colorado mountains to celebrate a wedding, one of the most universal symbols of new beginnings.  Although people treated me with kid gloves, unsure what to say to me and whether to completely ignore the fact that I had cancer or confront this fact and make sure I was feeling ok, in the end, like any other wedding, I ate, I drank (at one point accidently mistaking a shot of tequila for a glass of champagne... quite shocking to get tequila when you're expecting champagne!!!), and even managed to have some young guy who didn't know me or my situation ask me out on the dance floor.  Maybe there is life after the Big C!

Tomorrow marks the 10th Anniversary of my mother's death and to commemorate this day, I am doing a walk in support of the American Cancer Society with my oncologist and some of her other patients.  I was unsure whether I wanted to do this walk, considering how emotionally charged the environment will be, but then I thought, what better way to commemorate and honor both my mom and her sister, and begin the healing process for myself.  So tomorrow, I will not walk in honor of myself, but I will walk in memory of my mother and my aunt as a symbol that old patterns can be broken and life can prevail over cancer.  Admittedly, I still have a long road ahead of me (I still have other non-chemo treatments and surgeries over the next few years), and I'm sure I will have moments where I won't feel as strong.  But the time to fight is over.  It is now time to heal and resume my life as a "Cancer Survivor".

Thanks as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

CHEMO...DONE!!!

So today I went to my last and final chemo treatment.  Yes folks, you heard it here first, after a night of impetuous behavior (I blame the steroids... will tell you about this later), I made it through my final chemo cocktail party and celebrated my last round with some cupcakes and good conversation.  So before I get back into the throes of the chemo doldrums, I figured I would share my excitement with all of you.   Yup you guessed it, my invisible parade is marching through my living room again and this time they've come with confetti.  I would pop open some champagne but unfortunately I'm not allowed, so instead I'm toasting with gingerale.  

Have a great night everyone!!

As always, thanks for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

5 Down

So 5 down and only one to go!  Hooray!!!  You'd think I'd be doing cartwheels around my apartment.  (Ok, ok, I can't really do cartwheels.  I mean I live in Manhattan.  Manhattan apartments aren't really cartwheel material.)  Unfortunately, the chemo doldrums have taken over and have stopped my acrobatic celebrations in their tracks.  Superhero and I call these the bathtub moments.  The moments where the drugs make you so crazy that laying in an empty bathtub seems like the only sensible solution.  This happens with every cycle.  You accidently veer off the path leading out of the chemo cave and the darkness crowds out the light at the end of the tunnel.  Unfortunately this symptom isn't physical, but like all the physical ones, it gets worse every time.  The head nurse at my oncologist's office warned me about this.  In fact she sent me to a psychiatrist after my first treatment to help manage my drug madness.  The problem is, like most people with mental health ailments, when you're in the thick of it, it's hard to admit or even understand that you need help, or even have access to help.  

The other unfortunate aspect of the chemo doldrums is that your friends and family have to deal with your lunacy, which can range from sheer happiness, to uncontrollable rage, to inevitably a puddle of tears (this is when the empty bathtub comes in handy), and you end up hurting those whom you love the most by turning all the lemonade they give you straight back into lemons.  These are the moments when people throw their mothers out of their homes, break up with their boyfriends, throw a gift that was given in the trash, or in my case, stop answering the phone, stop writing your blog and tell all my well meaning friends and family to stop telling me the end is near because that doesn't help me right now (all of these are true examples).

The good thing is, just like all the other symptoms associated with chemo, once the drugs finally leave your system and the symptoms go away, the chemo veil is lifted and just as quickly as you as you wandered into the chemo cave, you find your way out. It's as if you wake up in the bathtub and wonder how you ever got there.  Except when you get out, there's collateral damage to clean up, and like any tough mess, there is always a bit of residue, which is where the second to last chemo leaves you kind of shaky.  You see, for months, you're in fight mode.  You keep your attitude up because you have to, and frankly, to think of the alternative is too frightening.  Like a dutiful soldier, you trudge on with the clear focus to maintain your body, ignoring the true emotional impact the process has on your mind and spirit, even if you are dutifully going to a therapist or psychiatrist.  And suddenly, as the light at the end of the tunnel becomes so clear, you suddenly realize, you are not the same person you were before.  Your vulnerabilities bubble up to the surface and the reality sets in that you've been amputated, sheared, scarred and worn, and now, this new person, who looks and feels nothing like the person you knew yourself to be, has to return to a life belonging to a different person.  

Now on one level, you feel stronger than before.  This experience quickly puts everything into perspective, and priorities line up right into place with an unusual clarity and order.  Nevertheless, at least for me, the experience has left me shaken, and as I walk toward my last chemo treatment, I question whether I am capable of filling the shoes of the person that I left behind on this journey, and even if I am capable of filling my old shoes, I question whether those old shoes would even fit.  Cancer has confronted every aspect of my own sense of beauty, intelligence and spirit and has challenged me to redefine how these elements come together within myself to make me the person I am and aspire to be.  Hopefully, once the chemo haze finally lifts for good I will walk tall in my old, even though I may wear them now with different accessories and a new shade of sunglasses.

Thanks as always for reading and for seeing me through my bathtub moments.

Straight from the trenches.

DT

What Keeps Me Up at NIght

In Mexico, when we toast we say "Salud, Amor y Pesetas," which translates to "Health, Love and Wealth," always said in that exact order.  The order of the words is particularly telling because without your health, you cannot enjoy either love or wealth, and without love, wealth can become empty.  In fact, the toast usually becomes shortened to simply "Salud," a wish that is also echoed in France, and even an Israel, where people toast "to Life."  It is no accident that health is one of the few universal issues which binds all of humanity together.  It is also no accident that one of the major issues facing our country as our presidential election comes closer is our nation's healthcare.  

Since I started this journey I have spent many nights laying awake, wondering what all the uninsured people in this country do when they are diagnosed with cancer or any other disease that requires long-term, expensive treatment.  Now luckily I'm a girl with resources.  I have a good job with good benefits, and a family who would support me even if I didn't have the good job with good benefits.  But the reality is that many people in this country face financial ruin and potentially lesser care when diagnosed with cancer.  In fact, statistics show that the uninsured have around a 50% greater chance of dying from cancer than those who are insured.  This means that many people could have survived had they had access or finances for better care.  It also may reflect the fact that the uninsured do not get diagnosed until later stages because they do not take advantage of early screening processes and consistent medical care. Whatever the case, this statistic means that people are not receiving basic preventative care and potentially dying unnecessarily in a country housing one of the best medical systems in the world.  This frankly makes my stomach turn.

Another statement that continues to echo through my head is what my OBGYN told me the day she broke the news that I had cancer.  I remember sitting in her office, just waiting for her to tell me my fate (which I had already guessed... doctors never ask you to come into t.heir office to tell you good news), when she said, "Well, the bad news is that it's cancer.  The good news is that you're in New York."  Does this mean that everyone else in the country is out of luck?  Now obviously this isn't the case, but when you start thinking that some people have to drive upwards of two hours to their nearest oncologist, and even people who have insurance can't get appointments for months before getting an initial consultation... well, I'll let you do the math.  

Now, I am not so naive to think that fixing these problems is an easy task.  In fact, at this moment, I am not convinced that any of the proposals being offered by our presidential candidates are viable solutions, especially in light of all the issues this country is presently facing.  That said, the discussion needs to be had, and in order to obtain a solution that maintains both the quality of our healthcare system and ensures that every citizen has access to basic care, we must participate in the discussion.  For now, our strongest voice can be heard at the ballots in November.  Whatever your vote, I hope that everyone who is eligible makes themselves heard.  In the meantime, I will toast to all of your health and hope that you will joining me also toasting to the health of our communities, no matter what your culture, language or nationality.

Thank you as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

Thanks again for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT 

Cancer Friends

So one of the perks of finding out you have the Big C is becoming part of a new network of people (aka the "Survivors").  From the moment you are diagnosed, you are given a VIP card to enter into one of the most exclusive clubs in the world, the Cancer Club (CC).  Now, now, I know you all want to join, but I warn you, membership comes at a hefty price.  So I suggest you stick with Facebook or Linkedin even though I'm sure you'd like to see what happens behind our little velvet rope.  I have to admit, I was tentative to join.  People tried to recruit me by giving me countless numbers and emails of various sisters, cousins, friends, friend's dog's cousin's owner's friends, etc., but I resisted until one fateful night around a week before my surgery I broke down.  Now you would think that I would call one of the wonderful referrals that I received from people I knew, but being part of the age of technology, I opted for the anonymity of the online world.  Yes, little did you know that the Big C has all kinds of online networks for both young and old, male and female. Websites like planetcancer.org and youngsurvival.org let you link up with all kinds of people who have also received their VIP card in the mail and are waiting to give you an e-hug.  So there I was logged on to youngsurvival.org (the Young Survivors Coalition's website), which caters to pre-menopausal women diagnosed with breast cancer, frantically seeking someone to share my insanity with.  I don't remember exactly what I wrote that fateful night, but it was some tearful, panicked note about being overwhelmed and not having any idea what was going on.  As promised by the bylaws of the CC, this little note sent callously into the online universe was met with encouraging words and gentle reminders to remember to breathe (funny how you seem to forget to do that the first few weeks after finding out).  Now since my first foray behind the velvet rope of CC, I have since made some wonderful real-life friends who have proven to be an invaluable resource throughout my treatment, so please let me introduce you.  First, there is History Buff, a history PhD student at Columbia who finished her treatment over a year ago, and has always answered the phone to reassure me that I'm not in fact going crazy.  Next, there is BadAss, a fellow smart mouthed (she is smart mouthed, I am only mouthed) single girl who manages to continue doing social work in a retirement home even though her treatment is making her sicker than her 80 year old patients.  And finally there is Superhero, my chemo buddy (she changed her treatment schedule to match mine so that we can sit and gossip while we're hooked up to the drugs), who despite having the lowest blood count on the planet, manages to have more energy than my 6 year old brother.  Now I ask you, please don't be jealous.  These friends are actually crucial to helping me maintain the relationships that I already have by relieving some of the burden on my loved ones and keeping me from abusing those who care for me.  You see, these are the people I can be brutally honest with because they understand that my snippiness is not directed at them, but at my disease, and they can't take it personally because they snap right back.  We can also laugh together through our baldness, the scars and the spaciness, and pretend that our chemo sessions are cocktail hours.  Now I know what you're thinking, after all this, you desperately want a tour of CC's central clubhouse.  All I can say is I'd rather not show you.  You see, this is one of the few clubs in the world that welcomes you by saying, "I'm so sorry that you have to be here, but since you're here, welcome."  Frankly, that's a welcome speech I'd rather not give to you.

Thanks as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

Positively Optimistic

Ok, ok, I know... It's been a while, but I have to admit that this week I've been struggling to decide what to write about.  The complete truth is that frankly chemo weeks suck, and every time I sit at my computer to type something out, I seem like a blubbering idiot, or maybe that's just how I look (but I digress).  So this blubbering idiot was trying to figure out how to describe chemo to all of my friends and family without infecting everyone with the blubbering disease, and causing sadness across my network because, if you haven't heard, I'm going to be fine, right?  So for like ten minutes, I decided a funny way to describe how I feel would be to rewrite "We Didn't Start the Fire" by Billy Joel, and make it a list of chemo symptoms...but as I started to do that I realized that my chemobrain wouldn't really let me focus for so long and frankly, it started sounding kind of gross, so I decided to spare you my creative genius.   So here I am on Sunday night, just writing you guys, and asking you to bear with me.  I promise I have lots of stories to tell.  But for today, I just have to confess that I just don't feel very good.  There I said it.  CHEMO SUCKS (I know, not very poetic). I know I'm supposed to be optimistic and keep a good attitude, but the reality is that with each chemo treatment comes a wave of self-doubt, mood swings and good ol' irrationality as your body decides to join the olympic gymnastics team in its quest for gold without your permission, which sometimes, to be frank, makes you want to hurl your good attitude out the window.  I wish I could say it was different, but the truth is that by the end of the week, your nerves are shot and you're just exhausted.  So it's no surprise when the blubbering idiot makes her grand entrance and starts shaking every tear right out of you.  Now here's the thing.  Just because blubbering idiot has decided to park herself on my sofa and sit there and feel sorry for herself does not mean that all of you have to worry.  You see, my good attitude, which I admit took a bit of a beating today, has climbed back through my window is staring at me right this very minute from across the room, planning its strategy to jump back in (resilient little sucker).  So don't worry about this blubbering idiot.  She's just getting rid of some toxins while her good attitude recoups its energy and stages a comeback.

Thanks as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT (aka the Blubbering Idiot)    

Two Trips to L.A. (Part II)

So after much deliberation, negotiation and discussion, I finally made it to L.A., on one condition, that I fly first class (twist my arm dad).  You see, even though my oncologist gave me the green light, my family was fearful that I'd contract a rare disease from the recycled air on the airplane.  Disregarding my family's concerns, last Friday, I made my second trip West this year to say goodbye to David.

Now, considering my state the last time I went out to L.A., I promised myself that this time, I would hold it together and actually cheer up my grandmother.  Learning my lesson from my last trip, instead of watching Celebrity Rehab, I watch two comedies on my way out (thank you first class), and dug deep to pull out my sunniest personality (for those of you who know me well, you know this cynical sarcastic chic has to dig pretty deep for sunny).  Also, using the tricks that I learned from Mademoiselle FACE on the day I shaved my head, upon my arrival, I spent 20 minutes meticulously applying makeup so that I would arrive at my grandmother's house looking naturally refreshed and healthy (let's just say that I have a new found respect for blush).  Finally, in order to be positive that the Big C did not cast a shadow on this trip, I booked myself a hotel so that no one would have to see me bald or popping any pills (admittedly, my grandmother initially resisted this, but in the end, I think she knew this was best for both of us).

Now, since I'm now officially a first class traveler (thanks dad), I booked myself a room at the swank new hotel, The London.  For anyone traveling to L.A., I highly recommend it.  Every room is equipped with a large seating area, balcony, table and desk, and boasts a bar with fine liquors such as Patron, Belvedere and Bombay Sapphire.  Unfortunately, even though I was treated by the staff like a first class guest, I just couldn't seem to mask my coach class etiquette.  Not only did I insist on taking my own bag up to my room (brilliant for someone who is in physical therapy and is not supposed to carry more than 10 pounds), but I also forgot to tip the valet the first time I picked up my rental car.  Now all of this I blame on my grief and preoccupation with my family, but then my lack of first classiness (yes, that's a technical term) came pouring through.  Now I only tell you this for the sake of full disclosure (and because things have gotten a little heavy lately), but you have to promise not to judge me.

So most of my trip I spent hanging out with my grandmother, listening to her muse over her life filled with memories.  Nevertheless, I managed to squeeze in a couple of dinners with some friends, since my grandmother's only desire was that I enjoy myself during my visit (I swear, those were her words).  So at her bequest, I got all dressed up to meet Lawless for dinner at AOC (great tapas restaurant with an eclectic wine list).  There I was, waiting for the valet at my hotel to pull the car around.  Now, I promise I hadn't take any pills, had anything to drink or done anything impair my judgment or ability to handle heavy machinery, and I swear, it was dark outside, so when I noticed that the car I had gotten into wasn't mine, well, I mean it could happen to anyone.  Yes, you guessed it.  I got into the wrong car.  As I turned on the ignition, I noticed that something was off.   I didn't remember that the dashboard backlight was red... wait a second, I didn't remember drinking a Diet Coke... WAIT A SECOND... I NEVER DRINK DIET COKE.  Can you imagine?  Thank God I didn't drive off.  That's all I needed.  I can imagine the headline now.  IDIOT DRIVES INTO THE SUNSET WITH STRANGER'S CAR... INCARCERATED FOR GRAND THEFT AUTO.  Well, as I got out of the car, I put on my widest smile, as I told the valet about my teeny tiny mistake.  The valet was very nice (very first class) and said, "Don't worry, you're not the first person this has happened to.... actually... I think you are."  Um... is it TMI to tell valet guys about chemobrain?  Anyway, all's well, that ends well, since amidst the confusion, I forgot to tip the valet AGAIN!  Hey, I'm coach class and proud of it!

Well, I would love to tell you that my story ends there, but the following night I truly hit the jackpot when I arrived at Foxtail (new L.A. hotspot opened by Top Chef's very own Antonia) to meet my friends Sports Diva and Cartoonist.  I swear I left my hotel thinking I looked very chic in my white Seven jeans and black and white striped top (very mod).   WHO KNEW OUR SERVER WOULD BE WEARING THE SAME SHIRT!!!  Now luckily, they didn't make me get up and start running dishes from the kitchen, but as the server smirked at me, I couldn't help but feel my first classiness slip away.

Overall, even with the little embarrassments, my second trip to L.A. was a success.  Not only did I manage to relieve some of my grandmother's anxiety related to me, but I was able to return the favor she gave to me back in March... the feeling that you're not alone and even if the worst happens you can get through it.  Suddenly you can cope.

Thanks as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches.

DT

Two Trips to L.A. (Part I)

So the last time I tried to catch everyone up, we left off with me standing at the radiologist office next to a suitcase, grappling with the realization that I probably had cancer.  Oh yeah, and I had just callously and coldly told the radiologist that my mother was not ok, after she had tried to comfort me.  Ok, my response was a bit cold, but honestly woman, READ THE FILE!!!  Ok, ok, honestly, I'm not angry.  That's the last I'll say of it, but honestly.....

Anyway, I digress.  So there I was, on the street, crying on the phone with my cousin explaining to him, well, trying to convey that I was ok through my tears (he saw right through it), with my suitcase, waiting for a cab to go to L.A.  My cousin, Dr. D, tried to convince me not to go...to stay with him and his wife, Mamasita, so that I wouldn't be alone and so that we could hang out.  Well, since I was so ok, I decided to go anyway.  I mean, that's exactly what I needed.  To get away, as fast as I could.  To go to Lalaland, frolic in the cancer causing sun and just forget that I had just been told that I probably had cancer.  Yup, that's what I was going to do.  And that's what my brilliant self did.  I got in a cab with tears the size of grapes and made my way to JFK.  As I got to the airport, I managed to calm myself down and convince myself that this little excursion would be the best thing for me.  I would hang out with my grandma (who I absolutely could not tell, will tell you why in a sec), and then see some friends.  the perfect distraction.  Well, the one thing I didn't calculate into the equation was that a 5 and 1/2 hour plane ride was the perfect amount of time to let my thoughts fester and percolate so that I could conjur up every possible permutation of tragedy and convince myself that at this very moment, I had cancer in my pinky toe and was going to die.  (Keep in mind that no one had actually told me that I had cancer yet.)  On top of that, my genius self decided to tune my little satellite tv to watch the Celebrity Rehab marathon on VH1.  Umm....hello numbskull.  Sitting in a confined space in the sky, watching other people weep and moan about their addictions and personal problems is not the way to make yourself forget your problem. (Cancer tip #1:  When trying not to freak out and stay calm, watch Comedy Central)  Nope, basically, I was sitting having a nervous breakdown right in front of the Asian couple sitting next to me, trying to act like I wasn't a basketcase by looking out the window and occasionally smiling at them.  I'm sure my red eyes and mascara running down my face didn't give me away at all.  Anyway, to make a long story short, when I landed in L.A., I had officially made myself sick.  

When I arrived at my friend, Lawless', apartment, I was in a complete state.  I was so benevolent that I greeted her by running to her bathroom to get sick and then unceremoniously blurting out that I think I had cancer.  Now normally I stay with my grandmother when I come to L.A., but this time, she asked me to stay with someone else because David (my grandfather) wasn't feeling well.  Well, as I progressively deteriorated in front of Lawless, I finally made the fateful call to my grandmother and meekly asked, "can I stay with you tonight?  My stomach's not right and I just need to be with you."  After convincing everyone that I could drive (funny how psychosematic symptoms can be turned on and off at your mind's whim), I sped my way to my grandmother's house to see if maybe, being near her, I could pull myself together and silence the voice in my head that kept repeating over and over again that I was going to die.  

Now to take you back a bit.  The original reason that I had booked this trip to L.A. was to cheer up my grandmother, who was feeling a bit down since her husband hadn't been feeling well.  Instead, I arrived a complete disaster, needing to share this enormous weight that had suddenly landed on my shoulders, but knowing in my heart, that my grandmother was one of the two people that I absolutely could not tell, at least not until I knew for certain what was happening.  You see, my grandmother's life has been marked with loss.  Not only did she lose my mother to cancer, but she also lost my aunt and grandfather (whom I never met) to cancer.  More specifically, although my mother managed to conquer breast cancer, my aunt met a different fate.  After years of sparring with her disease, my aunt finally faltered the same season that my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer.  Fun right?  Well, considering the history, I simply didn't have the heart to tell my grandmother, that me, the one who had flown out to cheer her up, had been marked with the same disease that took her two daughters and her first husband.  I mean, honestly, how much can one woman take.  But there I was, a nervous mess, standing in her bathroom shaking, repeating over and over again, "I can't tell you grandma, I can't tell you what's wrong.  I just can't..." until finally, I gave into her gentle coaxing and said, "I had a test, and I may have cancer."

Now I don't know where my grandmother gets her ability to stay calm and collected in a crisis, but rather than joining me in my nervous spiral, my grandmother simply put her hands on my shoulder, looked me straight in the eye and said, "Dalia, you don't know anything yet, and even if it's the worst, we'll get through it.  Now calm down and let's have a cup of tea to calm your stomach, and just know, you can always tell me anything.  That's what I'm here for."  And that's all it took.  Suddenly, I was calm again.  Suddenly, I could cope

As always, thanks for reading.

Straight from the trenches.

DT

The Blue Wig

I've been trying to write this post for days now and for some reason the words keep getting trapped.  I guess the hardest part for me to share with you is the sadness that comes with this journey, and, unfortunately, last week was a sad week.  You see, as I was imagining my little parade in my living room to celebrate my chemo milestone, my grandfather's (step-grandfather to be exact, but that's just a technicality) life faded away.  Surrounded by all of his children and grandchildren (save me), my grandfather, David, took his last breath at the age of 88.  In some ways, you could say that his last moments were somewhat poetic.  He waited for all of his grandchildren to fly in from various parts of the world, and after meeting his newest great-grandchild, he quietly passed; a kind of affirmation of the cycle of life and the process of death and rebirth.  And yet, all I can dwell on is the fact that I couldn't be there.  I couldn't say goodbye, I couldn't hold my grandmother's hand to help quell her grief and loneliness, I couldn't do all the things that I would have done if it wasn't for my disease.  Instead I was paralyzed and isolated far away from my family unable to do anything at all.  I couldn't believe it.  At my age, I'M the one that's supposed to be strong and supportive, not the other way around.  But there I was, sitting on my couch, a complete chemo basketcase wishing I could fly out of my body to give my family the ginormous hug that my spirit was longing to give.   Well, unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, I still haven't mastered the art of out of body experiences, so I decided instead to spend a day wearing a blue wig.  Now I know what you're thinking.  What on earth does wearing a blue wig have to do with my grandfather dying.  Well, honestly, and I realize that I'm taking lots of drugs, and that I may have started to lose my mind, but I thought that maybe, just maybe, it would make my grandfather laugh, and frankly, I could use a laugh as well.  So out I went onto the streets of Manhattan in a bright blue wig, with one hot pink highlight, to show the universe that I could keep laughing through the sadness, and you know what I found out???  The universe started laughing with me.  Ok, maybe not the universe, but the people of Manhattan.  Amidst the stares and occasional confusion, for the most part people met me with grins and smiles.  As I timidly walked through the streets with tears running behind my sunglasses, my fellow Manhattanites fed me with their laughter and even cheered my bright blue bob.  Now I'd be lying if I told you that I wasn't still sad about losing my grandfather, but I find comfort, that maybe, just maybe I made him laugh with me amidst our distance and our mutual loss.  

I loved you very much David.  Thank you for filling in for my grandfather all of these years and giving my grandmother such unwavering love, support and affection for 25 years.   You will truly be missed.  May you rest in peace.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

PS Funny, I started out sad, and now I'm happy again.  Freakin' chemo.  I'm such a basketcase! 

Three down, three to go

So, three down, three to go.  Yup, if you've done your math right, you have figured out that I'm half way done with chemo!!!  Woohoo.  You can't see it, but there's a little parade running down my living room with confetti and balloons.  Ok, admittedly, the little parade may be a result of the various drugs I'm taking (yes, there are even more this time, even one with a sexy name "Bella Donna"), but as long as I see the parade, it's a celebration to me.  So now that I'm half way done, I can officially say... you ready for this??? Chemo Sucks.  Yes, that's the word, the only insight.  Just like alcohol, the more chemo you take, the worse your hangovers get.  I won't get into the details, but just as soon as you think you're feeling better, the chemohangover creeps up on you and introduces another fun adventure.  To that end, I'm presently having a serious discussion with my body, trying to remind it that it's Saturday, and I should be on the upswing so that we can go out on the town.  Unfortunately, my body is using it's cleverist tricks to outsmart me.  So here I am, on a Saturday night, hanging out on my sofa with my little parade.  I will be honest and tell you that I have more to tell about my week, which I promise I will do, but I figured, at least for now, we should all just toast that I'm half way done with this journey and will hopefully be heading toward the finish line soon.

Thanks again for reading.

Straight from the trenches.

DT

So...

So I survived another cycle of chemo and my first few days back at work.  Hooray!  It's a good thing I went back to work because I arrived to find out that they were moving my office in a week.  Would have been a little embarrassing if the movers had found the business suit and panty hose that I had stuffed in a drawer and forgotten before I went on leave.  You see, that fateful day when I went to the radiologist for my ultrasound, I had changed out of my suit and into my jeans in my office in order to be comfortable on my flight to Los Angeles.  Of course, with everything that happened in the next few hours and days, I totally forgot about my poor little suit that was crumpled in a drawer, along with some panty hose.  So luckily I found out about the move just in time to salvage my suit from it's drawer and hastily fold it into a cardboard box so that it can be moved in secret, without the trusty movers seeing.  I know, I know, this is no way to treat a suit.  All I can say is that I promise that one day, that suit will make it to a dry cleaner and resume its rightful place in my closet.  The reality is that my office is a venerable closet.  You see, I always keep a dress there in case I need to do a magic, presto, changeo to greet an unexpected client, and about five pairs of shoes to accommodate any shoe emergency (and to let me use flats to and from work).  So my suit you see is in very good company.  The problem is, due to recent events, these items have been sorely neglected, as has been my job an career.  On the other hand, three little days of work (in which I did very little work to be honest), left me exhausted.  So, the big question is, how do I take care of myself, without leaving a little crumpled suit and my career stuck in a drawer?  No really, how?  Any thoughts?  Honestly people, this is supposed to be interactive!!! (just kidding).  But seriously, how do I do this?  Well.... I honestly don't know the answer yet.  I guess just take it one day at a time and hope the wrinkles iron out as we move along.  For now, my suit has upgraded from being crumpled in a drawer to being folded in a cardboard box.  Although it will be neglected for yet another week while I get another round of chemo, eventually it will make it out of that box and onto a hanger... and then, maybe I'll be able to put it on again, and feel comfortable in its fabric.  In the meantime, I'm going to focus on taking care of myself and slowly remind myself of the person who used to fit into that suit.

Thanks as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

Back to Work

So the time has come to stop lounging on the couch and go back to work.  Yes friends, I finally made the decision that it might be good for me to reconnect with society and remember how to be a lawyer.  Could be a challenge with all the drugs, chemobrain and general listlessness, but I'm sure I can hack it....right??? (If you work with me, please ignore this.  I am perfectly lucid, drug free and focused, promise...except for the chemo, steroids and other assorted drugs of course, they're forcing me to take that)  So I have to admit, I'm pretty nervous.  I mean, most doctors and studies say that you should continue working to the extent you're physically capable of doing so, but that's the thing... what exactly does physically capable mean?  Now, if I was a construction worker, the answer would be clear.  I absolutely would not be physically capable of doing my job.  I can barely lift two pound weights, let alone aim a hammer in the right direction (not that I ever could aim a hammer in the right direction... does anyone else find that surprisingly hard?).  Anyway, unfortunately, I'm not a construction worker.  I am a lawyer, who for the most part, does very little heavy lifting or physical labor.  My primary tool is my brain, which one would think, now that I'm off narcotic pain killers, should for the most part be fully functional (of course, one could argue that my brain was never fully functional, but I digress).   The problem is that when the body is failing you, the mind usually follows suit, so how do you know whether you're physically capable of doing your job?  Well in my case, the realization that I could possible go back to work (on a limited basis) came when I was sitting during one of my off weeks from chemo and realized for the first time in months that I was bored of sitting in my apartment.  In spite of my newly acquired anemia, digestive issues and general fatigue (is this TMI??), I found myself wanting to rejoin the world and find something different to talk about than the Big C.  Unfortunately though, because of the newly acquired anemia, digestive issues and general fatigue, my physical capacity is somewhat diminished.  So what is a girl to do?  Definitely don't want to impose my "issues" on my co-workers, but I also don't want to be BORED (nor unemployed).  Well, I've decided to give it a go... part time.  Now for anyone who has ever worked at a New York law firm, you know that "part time" is tricky.  Clients don't really care whether you're part time or full time, they just want want they need done, which on top of the "billable hour" is why many lawyers are up until 2AM doing their clients' bidding.  Well in my diminished state, I CLEARLY can't work until 2AM, I mean, I have cancer people!  Ok, ok, fair enough. No one will make me work until 2AM (I don't think).  But if something needs to get done, what will I do?  Well, the answer my friends is balance.  Yes, my job (on top of doing my job), is to find the pot of gold at the end of every lawyer's rainbow and achieve B-A-L-A-N-C-E.  I need to do what every lawyer fears doing, which is stop communicating at a certain hour and be comfortable letting my voicemail fill up after 5PM.  Now to normal people, this may be no big deal, but as my fellow lawyers know, not checking your voicemail when your bberry tells you that you've received a voicemail is as anxiety inducing as finding out that you need to keep a gas mask at your desk in order to protect you in case of a fire or terrorist attack.  So this is my challenge.  Gotta become the Tibetan monk of the legal world and achieve the Nirvana of balance (without of course pissing off a client or unloading work on already way too busy coworkers).  So I bow to you all, as I pack my lunch box and rejoin the corporate jungle.  Wish me luck!!

As always, thanks for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

PS This post in no way represents the views or opinions of a the law firm where DT works, which will remain unnamed because as aforementioned, these are not the opinions of such law firm.  (Hey, I am a lawyer. Had to be done. Maybe I can do this!)

PPS If I work for you, please ignore this post.  As mentioned above, I am completely lucid, drug free and focused, ready to take on anything you throw at me. :)

UMMMM.....

So I wanted to post a link to the song that I mentioned in my last post and make sure that I spelled Rascal Flatts correctly, which I didn't (sorry Rascal Flatts), and it turns out that the song they were singing was "BOB THAT HEAD," not "BALD MY HEAD."  Honestly, how self-involved and obsessed am I!!  Anyway, still think it was funny, even if I did subconciously change the lyrics to serve my own selfish purposes.  Sorry about that everyone.  It was the chemobrain, I swear!!!

Thanks as always for reading.

Bobbing her head in the trenches,

DT

Quick Thought

So I don't have much time to write right now, but, I just had to write and share what just happened with all of you.  So I know you're probably sick of me talking about my hair (or lack thereof), but this morning, as I was sitting there lint rolling my head, Rascal Flats (the band) got on tv to sing a song called "Bald my Head."  I nearly fell over laughing.  Picture me, sitting there on my couch, watching the Today Show, casually rolling my trusty lint roller over my head, when a band starts singling live on tv "BALD MY HEAD" in a southern twang.  I couldn't stop laughing.  who knew I'd have a theme song for my cancer!  Hilarious.  I suggest everyone download the song and play it while you read my post.  You will crack up.  Honestly, it's good to cut the tension sometimes.  Anyway, have to run.  Will write more in my weekly update later today.

As always, thanks for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

My Mother

So as promised, I sat down today to continue to catch you up to the present and as I started trying to a write a witty little blurb about my family history, I realized that I simply cannot be honest with you, nor truly discuss the journey that I am traveling without talking about my mother.  Though not a day that goes by that I don't think of her, I rarely talk about her.  Yet today, as I was getting my Herceptin treatment, she quietly revealed herself into a conversation.  I was talking to my nurse about how much treatment had changed since my mother went through cancer treatment, when she asked me whether I missed her... especially now.  When answering my nurse's question, I found myself drowning in my words, unable to speak.  I realized this evening how frightened I am to confront the depth of the gap I feel without her... especially now.  

As many of you already know, my mother died in 1998 of lung cancer.  What many of you don't know is that more than a decade prior to that, my mother also battled breast cancer, which was totally unrelated to the lung cancer that ultimately took her life.  Ironically, my mother is actually a breast cancer survivor.  You see, my mother had breast cancer before chemotherapy existed; before radiation began to beam through cancer cells; before reconstructions and implants; before there were pathology reports to tell you how your cancer behaved; before there were any options.  Though cancer ultimately defeated my mother's body, my mother's story is one of a woman not only fighting and surviving cancer, but thriving after it, and this is the example that I'm carrying with me as work my way through this battle.  That said, I would be lying if I told you that the synchronicity of our circumstances isn't paralyzing.  In many ways, I am reliving my mother's own battle and reconnecting with memories and emotions that I have buried and suppressed for many years.  With every step I take through my treatment, I am retracing the steps she took down the same path, and all the missteps I took during the most difficult period of her life.  At the same time I am longing for her support, wishing I could hear her calm, even voice disarm and diffuse all my fears.  Nearly 10 years after my mother's death, I am standing here face to face with her killer, and my only wish is that she were here to shield me from its menace.  Yet my reality is that there is only an empty space in front of me and the only way to vindicate the emptiness is to fight my cancer with every part of my being, and hope that in fighting, I can feel her strength and learn her grace for myself.  So for her sake and mine, I'm going to put on my ninja gear, look cancer in the eye and take it down for the both of us.

October 19, 2008, almost exactly a month after my last chemo treatment, marks the 10th anniversary of my mother's passing.  I hope that all of you will join me on that day to toast both of our lives as I move from a cancer fighter to a cancer survivor.  

I miss you and love you mom.  Te extrano mas que puedes imaginerte.  I promise to fight this for us and for all the people who have fallen to this disease.

As always thanks for reading.

Straight from the trenches

-DT

PS I promise it will be lighter next time. 

The scariest day

So one of the first questions I get when I'm asked about the big C is how did I know; what was it that made me think twice about how I felt and get myself to the doctor.  The answer, I'm lucky and I just felt something wrong.  The reality is that I originally went to the doctor because of a stomach bug, but while I was there, I took the opportunity to tell my general practitioner (GP) that I felt something strange.  She checked it out, but because of my age, she didn't think it was anything.  Now let me be clear, my GP is a fine doctor, and unfortunately her response is a common among the medical community.  The reality is that most women who get breast cancer are above the age 50, so the medical community often ignores signs of cancer in younger women because it's an unlikely prospect.  This is why it is crucial for women (and men for that matter) to be aware of their bodies and react when something just doesn't feel right.  For me, that's essentially what happened. I wasn't sick, there wasn't anything wrong with me, but I just felt that this lump in my breast wasn't right.  Since my GP didn't think it was anything, I went to my OBGYN to get checked out.  She's the one who checks me every year, so I figured, if she said I was in the clear, then I was in the clear.  Unfortunately, I wasn't.  "Just to be safe," my OBGYN sent me to get an ultrasound, just to check out what was "probably nothing". (For all you younger (i.e. under 40) women, you should know that mammograms are not always capable of detecting breast cancer in younger women.   The reason is that the mammogram works by spreading out the breast tissue as thinly as possible.  Younger breast tissue is generally denser, making it difficult to get an accurate reading on a mammogram.  Therefore, if you are under 35 and need a mammogram, insist on getting an ultrasound as well, just to cover your bases.)  So off I went and made my appointment to check what was "probably nothing" and went about my business.  Because it was "probably nothing," I didn't tell anyone about this appointment, and went alone to find out my fate.  As soon as the ultrasound began, I knew something was wrong.  This was taking way too long, but it's "probably nothing," so I shouldn't panic.  Once she had taken enough measurements, she told me to go back to my dressing room and wait.  A few minutes later, another radiologist came to my dressing room and told me, "so we're just going to do a mammogram, no big deal".  NO BIG DEAL!!! Are you kidding me?  Now, I don't know much about medicine and I'm definitely not a doctor, but I'm pretty sure that getting an appointment in NYC is nearly impossible and doctors never rush you into additional tests unless something is SOMETHING.  Even so, I tried to remain calm, thinking, this is "just to be safe," they're just covering their bases.  Nonetheless, as I was shuttled into the mammogram room, the tears start to roll down my face, at which point, the technician who was going to give me the mammogram looked at me kindly and said "don't worry honey, you just cry.  Cry as much as you want, and let me do all the work."  "EXCUSE ME, JUST CRY??  DON'T TELL ME TO JUST CRY!!! TELL ME THAT I'M OVERREACTING, THAT I'M AN ANNOYING HYPOCHONDRIAC WHO'S JUST WASTING EVERYONE'S TIME AND RESOURCES!!!"  Of course I didn't say this in the middle of all my blubbering.  I think all I mustered was an "um....o-o-o-k-k-k..," as the technician put me in position to squash whatever dignity was left in me.  Now for those of you who have never had a mammogram, the idea is to pretty much take you chest and turn it into a pancake.  You're basically manhandled, fondled, shifted and lifted in order to squash the bejeezus out of your breasts.  All I can say is take a deep breath, and just think "this will save your life, this will save your life, this will save your life."  That's all I got for you, sorry I don't have anything better.  Anyway, I digress.  As the mammogram continued, it became very clear that I was not an overreactive, annoying, hypochondriac.  In fact I was just the opposite.  So opposite that I was told to go back and wait in my little dressing room for the radiologist to come talk to me.  Within minutes, the radiologist came by my dressing room and sealed my fate.  "Great news Dalia, I talked to the other doctor and she said she could do the biopsy today!"  As I looked at her dumbfounded, she looked down and saw my suitcase next to me.  "Wait, are you coming or going?"  "I'm going," I responded, "I'm flying out to L.A. right after this."  "Oh," she said, "you can't travel after the biopsy.  Hmm. Well, why don't we just schedule it for Monday when you come back.  In the meantime just try to enjoy your weekend."  EXCUSE ME??? ENJOY MY WEEKEND?  YOU'VE BASICALLY JUST TOLD ME THAT I PROBABLY HAVE CANCER, BUT JUST GO ALONG AND ENJOY MY WEEKEND???  Of course I didn't say this.  I can't remember exactly what I said, but I think it was along the lines of "um...o-o-o-k-k-k..."  She of course saw my distress, and in an attempt to be compassionate she put her hands on my shoulders, looked in my eyes and very sweetly said, "Don't worry Dalia.  Just think, your Mom is ok, she survived."   "She's not ok," I responded.  And there was the problem.  The "probably nothing" had in 45 minutes turned into a huge SOMETHING, and I was not ok.

From the beginning...

So I promised in a couple of posts that I would update you on what has happened with me until now.  I have also had a lot of questions about the type of cancer I have, my pathology and my prognosis, so in the spirit of full disclosure, I have decided to start at the beginning.  It might take me a while to catch everyone up, as a lot has happened since I was diagnosed, but eventually, I will get there.  Read as much or as little as you want and please don't hesitate to ask questions, post comments or email me.  I'm still getting the hang of how to respond to people through the blog, but I will do my best to get back to everyone.  Also, I just wanted to thank everyone who has posted from as far as Israel, Mexico and Canada.  I do read the comments and am thrilled that people are digging my new do.  Maybe one of these days, I'll have the guts to wear it out of the house!  As always, thanks for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

Second Chemo DONE!!

So it's 4th of July and I'm sitting here in my living room typing away rolling my head with a lint roller.  Yes, you read that right, one of the many rights of passages for a person with the big C is buying a lint roller to help you catch your hair before it sheds all over your pillow or favorite shirt.  The reality is, that rolling the adhesive tape all over your head is actually quite soothing to your head.  Helps eliminate the itchiness and tingles that come with the hair loss.  Admittedly, I would rather be out watching some fireworks or hanging at a barbeque, but for this 4th of July, I'll settle for my lint roller massage.  I know, I know, exciting right?  Not as spirited as you would hope from a girl sporting a GI Jane look.  Unfortunately, 4th of July has fallen day 3 from my chemo treatment, which means that all the wonderful side effects start to peak.  Yes, the 8 day hangover is in full hilt and though my ingenious nurse has tweaked my drugs to make the hangover more bearable, it still lingers over me, making me want to hide from the world.  Couple that with the steroid crashes and I'm basically the last person that should be surrounded by pyrotechnics and enthusiastic patriots.  I'm a little jumpy, to say the least, so for the sake of any innocent bystanders, I have chosen to stay in tonight.  In the meantime, I thought you might enjoy a couple of pictures taken by Paparazzi the day of the big shear.  Amazing what some good makeup, lighting and a good photographer will do, right?   Anyway, I promise that I will sit down and write about more than just hair loss and lint rollers, but just thought I would give you an update until the hangover gives me a break.  Thanks again for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

Bzzzzz

Well, it's official.  I'm officially bald.  On Saturday, June 28, 2008, surrounded by a small entourage (ok, so I invited three friends, one of which is a professional photographer), I went under the clippers.  Now one might think that a bilateral mastectomy would be much scarier than a pair of shears, but to a girl who has always flipped, curled and whirled her long locks, the head shave is, well, completely and absolutely NERVE WRACKING!!!  Ok, ok, I admit, going under the real knife is scarier, but to a person living with cancer, the loss of hair is the most visible reminder that you are sick, not only to the patient, but also to the rest of the world.  Basically, it's like getting on a megaphone and announcing, "Hello everyone, everyone, everyone (those are echoes), in case you were wondering why I occasionally walk slow, sometimes look green and am often losing my keys, I have cancer, cancer, cancer (more echoes).  Hope you enjoy the show!!!"  To that end, my friend Memphis (I am giving everyone nicknames to protect the innocent) and I decided to medicate ourselves with Mimosas, before being joined by Curly at FACE Stockholm (the makeup boutique), where Mademoiselle FACE (the makeup artist) caked on the makeup as she wondered why any self-respecting Manhattanite above 14th street would go and shave their head.  She kindly waved her makeover fee after announcing to all her customers that I was shaving my head, which is one of the many benefits of having the big C.  Yes, get the big C and you too can get free makeovers, makeunders, makeup and the occasional tears from your friendly skincare specialist (will explain in another post).  The big C has even gotten me a free facial. :)  Anyway, I digress.  So once I was officially beautified (i.e. spackled and frosted with 10 layers of makeup in order to get that natural look), my girls and I were joined by Paparazzi and we headed to the wig salon.  The moment had officially come.  After Paparazzi very professionally shot some before pictures, the clippers starting buzzing toward my head as I closed my eyes and felt the first row of hair fall off to the floor.  I was about to tear up, when Curly or Memphis (don't remember who said this) exclaimed "Dalia, you would make the best punk rocker!!!"  After that, the punk rocker that's been sleeping inside me my whole life, exploded out of me, mugging to the camera with a mohawk, and then just bangs, and finally....are you ready....TOTALLY BALD!  Yes, I'm ashamed to admit that I even did the Billy Idol lip curl (first introduced into rock by Elvis Presley) with rock and roll hands.  Then, as quickly as my inner punk-rocker emerged, the WigMaster subdued it by putting on what he calls the Rolls Royce of wigs.  Suddenly, within seconds, I looked like myself again, at which point my inner diva unveiled herself and started posing for Paparazzi like a true tabloid queen.  We even took pictures outside in front of the Time Warner Center, which made me feel like a true star.  Well, at least some people on the street thought I was someone important due to Paparazzi's fancy camera and big flash.  Unfortunately they were sorely disappointed when they walked by to get get the closer look and found out it was just me.  After that, I just turned back into me, wig and all, and escaped the rain by going to a movie.  When I got home, I took off the magic wig and hung out for the first time as just DT without hair.  The truth is, it's not so bad.  My head is cooler, don't get hair in my eyes, and my bathroom is a lot cleaner now. Up top is a glimpse of my baldy self after playing with my Wii Fit (courtesy of the A Team and D), so please excuse the outfit.  As soon as I have the pics from Paparazzi, I'll make sure you get to see those too.  Thanks again for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

1st Treatment

Well, my first cycle of chemo is almost over and I'm celebrating by going to the salon tomorrow and shaving my head.  (FYI, when I say cycle, I mean the three weeks from the chemo treatment until the following chemo treatment, hope that makes sense).  Yes, the time has come.  For the first time in my life, I can actually say that I'm literally pulling my hair out.  Actually doing it right now.  Going to have a lot of vacuuming to do tomorrow.  Anyway, I've decided to make my GI Jane transformation a mini event, and have asked a friend of mine who is a photographer to come document the moment, so as soon as I have the pics, I'll take a deep breath and post them on here for everyone to see.  Of course my vanity is also compelling me to go get my makeup done and potentially follow up my new style with a pedicure, which admittedly diminishes the tough girl image my new do is supposed to convey, but what can I say, you can take the hair off the girl but not the girl with the hair, umm....or something like that.  I swear that was supposed to work.  

As promised, here is my weekly update.  Basically, I felt normal this week.  Was a extremely refreshing after months of not feeling well (promise to post updates explaining the not feeling well soon).  I have to admit, I didn't really enjoy my 1st chemo treatment.  Not sure if you want to know how it felt, but since we're going for full disclosure here, just picture your worst hangover, take it up a few notches and then have the hangover last for 8 days.  Of course a little unexpected hospital fiasco didn't help the situation (will explain this in a separate post), but overall, I highly recommend avoiding chemo at all costs.  The one good thing that I can say about this is that I finally have a fool proof reason to take a nap in the middle of the day, and I am absolutely taking advantage of it.  Warning to those who call me around 3 in the afternoon.  If I don't answer, or I answer, but don't seem to remember the conversation, probably called me during a nap.  Anyway, this glorious week, I actually was able to make it through the day without any naps.  Only wrinkle this week was that I had a test to do that was left over from the unfortunate hospital fiasco.  Now I won't describe it in detail, but if any doctor runs up to you and tries to tell you that you need sigmoidoscopy, run the other way as fast as you can.  Just trust me on this one.  It's very unpleasant. Anyway, I'm sure I've pretty much ruined your next meal, or your falling asleep after reading this rambling message, so I'll sign off.  Will drop in tomorrow to let you know how the shearing event turns out.  The mantra tomorrow...bald is beautiful, bald is beautiful, bald is beautiful.  Keep that in mind while you're eating your cornflakes.  Anyway, thanks again for reading. 

Straight from the trenches,

DT

Welcome

Welcome everyone to my blog!  Yes, after three months of talking about it, thinking about it, pondering and general hemming and hawwing, I have decided to join the blogosphere to talk about the C word.  Yes, if you are reading this, you are aware that have the big C; breast cancer to be exact.  I thought about starting a blog about all of my romantic escapades in the big city, but since there are already so many of those single girl in the city blogs out there (and because my dating life is temporarily on hiatus), I have decided to devote my ramblings to talk about my adventures with breast cancer. Aren't you excited?

Anyway, welcome to my blog.  I promise to catch everyone up on what has happened so far and will post every Friday to keep everyone informed about what's happening now.  Feel free to post comments.  The whole point of this is to open the lines of communication and help everyone stay informed.  I appreciate you taking time out of your busy day to read this.  I hope you find the experience worthwhile. 

Straight from the trenches,

DT