Giving Thanks… For These Folks

I, like many, spent the weekend giving thanks: For my family, for my health, for my friends, and for public servants far and wide who sacrificed their holiday protecting civilians like me.

But some police and firefighters go beyond simply trying to contain crazy, tv-deal-grabbing discount hounds on Black Friday at Walmart, and for them I am especially grateful.  These brave souls have to hit the streets in vehicles decked out like this:

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And this:

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And even this:

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I am a BC veteran and even I bow my head in sincere admiration; I know I couldn’t do it.

These folks work every day to ensure our safety. They rush in when others rush out, putting themselves and their lives at risk when we need them the most. Like at Walmart on Black Friday. Whether it’s an accident, medical emergency or a fire, they are there in a hurry to keep us safe.

My body has often felt like it was burning from the inside out, I might even say it was on fire, all courtesy of my hormone-fueled hot flashes. Perhaps someday there will be a separate firefighting unit dedicated to only this issue, and when you call 911 this guy would show up:

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Imagine the goodwill and smiles he would spread to the bc sisterhood; I certainly think I’d feel better. I’ve always said it takes a real man to wear pink —  or in this case a real hot man.

Man-oh-man, nothing says community helper like breast cancer!

 

Chickening Out

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My friend Jared and I have known each other for nearly twenty years. I have watched him morph from an 18-year-old college kid into a man with a wife and a son of his own. I think it’s fair to say that there are few people on this earth who make me laugh as much or as hard as Jared, so I always look forward to his texts. I can thank him for this gem.

I love it. I truly love it. It makes sense, it’s funny, and Boar’s Head was even kind enough to slap the ribbon on the low sodium version of their product; I could’t be more appreciative. Thanks to Jared, I don’t have much work to do on this one.

I mean seriously, nothing says chicken breasts like breast cancer!

Deal With It!

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I asked my friends to send me pics of items and I have to thank Melissa for this little gem. This is the first time I have ever seen a deck of cards adorned with the pink ribbon.

At least this item is novel and fun. So many other pink ribbon products range from head-scratchers to downright insulting. (More on those in posts to come.)

Now the hard part: Picking a tag line for this product’s bc campaign.

  • Nothing says getting dealt a bad hand like breast cancer!
  • I hoped my doctor was bluffing when he told me I had breast cancer!
  • Nothing says “I’ve got a great pair,” like breast cancer!
  • With genes like mine, boobs were always a gamble!
  • But with my shiny new pair, strip poker is a little less scary – thanks breast cancer!

Ok, I came up with those in about 5 minutes — now it’s your turn!

What a Hair-brained Idea!

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I would safely file this under “painfully ironic,” except someone actually had to approve this marketing plan.

As a quick reminder:

1. Most patients with anything other than early-stage breast cancer disease will probably require chemotherapy.

2. Chemotherapy kills quickly growing cells like cancer and…HAIR.

3. Patients who are receiving chemotherapy will lose the hair on their head and their face.

4. Therefore, they will have NO hair on their head to dry NOR eyebrows on their face to tweeze!

Good. Lord. People. Think before you pink!

I guess nothing says reminding patients how much they miss styling and plucking more than breast cancer!

Ribbon on the Edge

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For the last month or so, I have been posting pics of random pink-ribbon adorned items, generously forwarded to me by my friends, on my Facebook page. I have decided to add a handful to my Bets and Pieces site as well.

I actually saw this product for the first time last year but they went back for seconds, so I felt the need to give them a shout-out. Allow me to break down the multiple reasons why this pink ribbon campaign is so wrong it’s right:

1. Tears. I know, duh. But these are sweet onions. I can’t even claim the obvious “they both made me cry” line. Plus, who’d let me get away with anything that lame anyway?

2. The company is called Bland Farms. Bless their hearts. No wonder they need a pink ribbon on their onion bag to jazz things up – ’cause there isn’t much about breast cancer that I can think of that qualifies as bland!

3. They could have picked a more colorful red onion, but BLAND farms held true to their name and stuck with yellow. I mean seriously, can you imagine the marketing meeting on this one?

“I think we should really stick with sweet onions as opposed to the traditionally flavored, even if we can get the more colorful ones, otherwise we may send the wrong message.”
“Um, we’re selling fucking onions here.”

4. The fact that these onions have a FRENCH translation on the label! What the what???!! Guess Bland farms is a little saucier than I thought.

Oh sweet onions, thank you for once again making me smile. And for making me shake my head in sheer confusion at the same time.

Nothing says onions like breast cancer!

Breast Cancer’s Longest-Lasting Side Effect

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When I was asked to contribute a piece for Huffington Post’s series in recognition of Breast Cancer Awareness month, I thought about the myriad ways I could address the topic. I have tried to find the levity in the situation and have a running list of “Top Ten” this and thats regarding what it’s like to have had the disease and to have been treated for it.

I feel like it is important to highlight parts of the breast cancer life that others might not get to see or appreciate without someone else revealing it. I struggle with my own fear about the impact of cancer nearly every day in one sense or another.

Attached is the piece I wrote for Huffington Post. I hope that it may serve as an explanation for some, about the ongoing nature of what it feels like to wear these genes.

I Survived Breast Cancer, But Now I’m Afraid For My Kids

The One Vehicle I Never Wanted to Drive

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I don’t recall my first views of MD Anderson Cancer Center’s pink stucco exterior, or its halls lined with huge photos alternating between patient success testimonials, physician quotes of confidence about research and facility innovation, and picturesque beaches from across the globe. Salty tears and deathly fears quickly washed away any initial impressions.

What I do remember is feeling completely overwhelmed with the responsibility of keeping my husband, George, alive. That, the lobby, and feeling like all I saw around me was death and wheelchairs.

George is a doctor, a really good one. But when he was diagnosed with recurrent metastatic melanoma, he needed to disconnect from the reality of what he faced and allow me to vet the medical options available. He just wanted to play golf and escape, to bury his head in the sand pit.

He had been initially diagnosed with stage IIIA disease five years earlier and had done quite well on a drug called Interferon. It was a treatment meant to utilize his immune system to seek out and destroy any remaining, floating cancer cells in his system that weren’t cut out during surgery. He made it five years without incident, but there must have been a few crafty ones left that evaded the Interferon and took up residence because the cancer came raging back.

Melanoma is unlike any other cancer I know. You can never, ever relax your guard once you have been unlucky enough to be diagnosed with an advanced stage. It can resurface at any time, in any place and often, just when you think you are in the clear, it rears its head and proves just how silly and naïve you were to imagine you had any control at all. If cancer is evil, which I believe it is, melanoma may in fact be the devil.

Breast cancer, on the other hand, is like the minivan of the disease. It tends to be obvious and follow a relatively predictable pattern; there are lots of the same kinds and they’re pretty easy to spot. Sometimes breast cancer can fool you and stealthily hide a super-charged motor under the hood. Or it can occasionally house lots of friends behind its tempered glass, waiting to unload and create havoc in multiple parts of your body, but because breast cancer is so common, there are lots of places to have it treated and many options to try.

It may not be an accident that, as a breast cancer patient myself, I own an Odyssey. I guess it also might not be a coincidence that, as a notorious lead-foot, my cancer turned out to be pretty aggressive.

I certainly consulted MD Anderson (which is based in Houston, Texas) when I was diagnosed, especially given George’s successful experience there. But my case didn’t warrant traveling half way across the country to get the same treatment I could receive in my own backyard.

People can be directed to a place like MD Anderson because their case is highly unusual, but most often it’s because they have run out of options; their disease won’t allow them time to take more than one shot at killing it before it kills them.

These individuals need the best medicine our country has to offer, and they get it there every single day. But the initial walk through the place can make your stomach turn from the sight of so much discomfort, sickness and pain.

When George and I arrived for our first visit we had no idea what to expect. Our only hospital experiences to that point had been in rural or regional settings, and we knew no one else our age with cancer.

We were terrified of what we might hear, but also hopeful that the doctors there were ones who would be able to provide the options we were so desperately seeking. After a prognosis from another very reputable institution of approximately six weeks of life for George, I knew that this was our first (and last) stop.

I remember nothing about the drive to the hospital on the first day of our first visit; my recollection begins after handing the keys to the valet in front of the main lobby. It was a particularly hot early summer day, even by Texas standards, and getting into the building felt good after standing outside for just the few minutes it took to hand over the keys and a tip.

George and I walked toward the information desk, past the multiple seating areas filled with oversized upholstered chairs in muted blues and purples, with clusters of individuals in hushed, intimate conversation.

Some people had smiles, but most dotted their bloodshot, glassy eyes with tissues.

Streams of bubbles worked their way from the bottom up in straight lines in several floor-to-ceiling tanks of water the length of the wall, creating a watery, white noise backdrop I would come to count on. The air was a mix of fragrance over alcohol, no doubt from the hand sanitizing stations at every corner, replete with signs encouraging all visitors to use them regularly.

As George and I tried to get our bearings, wheelchairs rolled in a constant flow from one end of the lobby to the other. I couldn’t help thinking, as I looked on, that those patients carried in these shiny, chrome vessels could only be classified as passengers, not participants, in life.

They appeared so close to death already, their faces gaunt, skin gray with illness. Most were bald and wrapped in blankets or sweatshirts, while just outside the sliding glass doors the mid-June sun blazed so hot and so high it created a shimmer just above the sidewalk surface. Some wore masks, guarding them against any airborne infection that could prove too much for their weakened immune system.

I would later learn that, for those who went to a place like MD Anderson, a common cold could mean the difference between an ordinary interval between chemotherapy treatments and a delay; a luxury no longer afforded to patients this ill.

Time is, perhaps, the most valuable drug major cancer hospitals have to offer. Time and hope. Many people would pay any price, tolerate any discomfort and sacrifice everything in their personal lives to get both.

I guiltily avoided any eye contact with those riding in the wheelchairs. It went beyond wouldn’t—I couldn’t look at them in their eyes because, in their deathly gaze, I saw George’s future.

Up until then, cancer had been simply a term in the ether, a concept. The minute we stepped into that lobby it became an actual disease capable of killing my partner in life and in love. Even as George walked in pace and step next to me, the picture of health and vigor, I knew under his skin and within his organs with every passing moment his cells were dividing and spreading, attempting to take over.

As the months passed, I learned how to spot the veteran wheelchair “drivers,” the ones who can manage to simultaneously push both handles of the chair, drag an IV pole and avoid crashing into furniture or other people.

I would also get smacked with the reality that those who looked closest to death were often the ones fighting the hardest to avoid it. And that those sitting in the chairs weren’t hollow shells of their former selves, they had simply been leveled by the grind of disease, surgeries and treatments.

I discovered all of this because, eventually, George became the gaunt, gray passenger, and I became the veteran driver.