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)