Legacy

My siblings and I would spend the whole summer at the rural library, subsisting on air conditioning and literature.  We would ride our bikes up to main street, park our bikes in the rack, and read book after book in the underused, over-firm stuffed chairs.  When we tired of the Babysitter's Club, we'd turn to the nonfiction section and let loose our imaginations.  The book about the Presidents was one of my favorites.  When opened on the table it was the size of a newspaper, with full-page images of painted portraits of each President, and short descriptions of their presidential terms.  I loved to reconcile the portrait with the term, imagining how Tyler's chin-length up-do contributed to his legacy or lack thereof.  Or how the weight of the Civil War seemed to be captured in the portrait of Lincoln.  I puzzled over the presidents who were nearly or actually assassinated, uncomprehending of the passions that could lead to such extreme violence.

Tonight I listened to President Obama's farewell address, and I couldn't help but think about this book of presidential portraits.  What will his portrait look like in the book?  What will the overview say to my grandchildren?  I imagine him smiling on the last page, his legacy not yet defined, having led with an idealism unmatched by any previous president.  If only Michelle could be painted at his side to complete the portrait of his leadership and grace.

In November I was in DC for work and spent an evening with two dear colleagues on the National Mall.  It was a cool, clear night with a full moon, merely a week after the election.  I had felt confused by the election, both by its outcome and by what it would mean for the future of all citizens and would-be citizens.  I also worried about what it would mean for my job, my healthcare, and my childrens' education.  The Mall, however, lifted me up.  I felt grounded by the monuments that Americans have made to commemorate the truly great people and accomplishments in our history.  We have suffered many low points, as any great nation does, but in the end we celebrate the high points.  We will continue to have high points to celebrate.

Me, on the approach to the Washington monument

The moon and the monument

Me, reaching for the top although I cannot see it.  Always reach for the top although you cannot see it.

The monument reflecting on itself as I reflect on it, by the light of the moon

After our fill of the Washington monument, we made our way through the World War II memorial.  With intention I walked around the pond, placing each foot on the stones around the perimeter.  So much fighting to free the oppressed and to protect democracy.  And a turning point for women, who were essential for the war effort.  

Inscription on the WWII memorial

 Then we walked the steps up to the Lincoln memorial.  The hall was solemn despite the 50-odd tourists who occupied the space.  People arranged photos in hushed voices, not wanting to disturb the meditations of others.  Lincoln, who for all his imperfections held this country together and laid the foundations for freedoms that we are still working to perfect.

What is he trying to say?

 It was getting late, and we had walked a great distance, but I felt that I needed to visit Martin Luther King Jr.  One of my colleagues had never seen his memorial, and it felt wrong to skip it on what by now felt like a pilgrimage to renew our faith in our country.  Dr. King's memorial is my favorite because I find it incredible that his statue is displaced from the mountain of rock behind him despite a chunk of the mountain remaining attached to his back.  The symbolism is overwhelming.  This was my first time beholding it at night.  I hope to always behold it at night.

What would he say now?

The next morning was absolute perfection, and I had discovered that the Iwo Jima memorial was just across the street from my hotel.  An impulse I couldn't ignore beckoned me to the statue that morning, so I skipped breakfast, checked out, and dragged my roller suitcase to the memorial with only 17 minutes before my shuttle was to arrive.  I regret not waking up an hour early so that I could sit with it for awhile.  Perhaps I am biased because my husband was a U.S. Marine, but I was awed by the statue.  It is bigger than I imagined, bigger than it looks in pictures.  It's as tall as my 2-story house, plus the flag.  And the faces of the men at that scale.  Their faces.  My eyes mist over thinking about it.

For their country, even though they might not ever see it again.  

All of these monuments to commemorate freedom from monarchy, freedom from oppression, freedom from slavery, freedom from authoritarianism.  Do we remember our history enough to avoid repeating it?  The monument makers urge us to remember.

In summary, which I say only to trick you into thinking I actually have some way to summarize my thoughts, tonight the President said that, "...presuming a reservoir of goodness in other people is a risk..."  I am ready to go forward and take that risk.

I suppose that this post is ill-placed on a cancer blog, but I guess I had something to say.

Advocacy overload

The same person who presented me with the opportunity to write an essay for Living Well magazine hooked me up with a few more projects near the end of September.  I gave a live interview at the local NBC studio regarding cancer survivorship and patient advocacy, and I recorded a public service announcement for a local radio station for breast cancer awareness month.  It was all quite a lot of fun!  I can't remember ever being in either a TV or radio studio before, and both were different than I expected.  The TV studio was spacious; the radio studio was closet-like.

TV interview on breast cancer awareness

Video interview on breast cancer awareness recorded at the radio studio

I have copies of the radio PSA clips, but I'm not sure how to post them.  I suppose you'll just have to listen to the radio this month and hope you hear it.  :)

The weight of gratitude

It's just a random Thursday in December.  It's not an anniversary of anything joyous or tragic.  Perhaps it's the joy that my kids brought to our activities this evening, or the successes at work today, or the excellent playlist I put together on Spotify, or the family I'm missing, but my heart is really full.  And I felt like writing about it.

After work I took my student out for a beer to celebrate the submission of his first manuscript.  It's a big accomplishment in a graduate student's career, and I wanted to mark it with a social outing.  We were joined by our collaborators after we had all bashed some code in a 2-hour bioinformatics sesh.  Everyone was feeling accomplished and merry.

Before the beers arrived, my colleague, S., started a conversation with me by saying, so, how's everything going?  This is always a loaded question for me because I never know if the person is asking about normal things or cancer things.  People often want to know about cancer things but don't know how to ask about them directly, so I have to infer from the way they ask if they're inquiring about my holiday shopping achievements or my PET scan results.  You can imagine the difference:  "How are things going?" in a light, skippy tone, vs. "How are things going?" with emphasis and gravity.  I don't see S. very often, so it was hard to distinguish what type of "how's it going" she meant.  I opted for a response of, "Really great, thanks!  I have treatment tomorrow, but last year it fell on the day after Christmas so tomorrow's a pretty good deal...".  I felt ridiculous and wished I had gone the route of discussing what Santa is bringing my kids.  Fortunately she's great and saved my lousy conversationalist self by diverting the conversation elsewhere.  I suppose the positive spin on this is that my cancer is a normal part of my upbeat existence, but I do feel badly for all of the innocent friends, family, and colleagues who fall under my cancer-accepting bus during normal conversations.  Please know that it's something I'm working on.

This brought to mind the news that I had yet another clean PET scan in November, on the Monday after Thanksgiving.  I've lost track now--is that three or four clean ones in a row?  Perhaps five?  It's a small mountain of clean PET scans.  You should know that I do not take any of them for granted, although the result of each one is a bit surreal.  In my mind I have stage 4 breast cancer, but the scans seem to be taunting, "no you don't".  Then my treatments say, "yes, you do".  Then the scans say, "no, you don't."  This argument can go on for the next decade as far as I'm concerned.  Whatevs.

Speaking of 10 years, my Medical Oncologist was on the radio a week or so ago because her research study made the popular press.  She was the principal investigator on an analysis of data from women who had stage 4 breast cancer between 1988-2011.  The part that I keep hearing on the news is that of these stage 4 patients, the 10-year survival rate for those who had surgery to remove their primary cancer was almost 10%.  The survival rate of those who did not have surgery was only 2.9%.  This news got me all excited because I of course chose to have surgery, so I have the potential to fall in with the 10%-ers.  My decision to have surgery was a big deal because none of the medical professionals could advise me on whether or not to keep or remove the breast.  All four surgical oncologists at the fancy hospital discussed my case at Tumor Board said that my case was a medical gray area, and so the decision was mine.  It was clear to me and my gut feelings that the breast had to go, and these new data seem to validate my decision.  10%!  That's a fantastic number.  As I have sometimes complained about when it comes to experiencing a rare side effect, I've rarely fallen in with the majority in my activities, so this is one time I'll be elated to be a part of the minority.  #bethe10%    

All of these thoughts were in my mind tonight as I was running the sewing machine on Calvin's Christmas present in between dance breaks with my daughters.  Azalea was choreographing an elaborate duet in the kitchen, sketching diagrams on the whiteboard for Eleanor and I to follow.  I sewed while she drew the next position, then she'd call me in to run through the dance with Eleanor.  Eleanor was my sewing buddy, pushing the pedal on the sewing machine at my instruction.  We finished both the gift and the dance, leaving all of us feeling full of creativity and productivity in equal measure.

They are such treasures, my daughters.  I am so grateful to be here to dance and sew with them.
      
Then Bruno Mars starting crooning over the bluetooth speaker, "You can count on me like 1, 2, 3, and I'll be there..."  I started thinking about all of the people who have been "there" for me.  I started to worry that I haven't been "there" for all of my loved ones in this year of recovery.  Have I been too selfish?  Have I spent enough time tending to the needs of others?  I don't think so.  So many people are in my heart to reach out to.  Hopefully I can improve the balance as I continue to survive.  
  
In the meantime, I have a few more nights with the sewing machine in my future as the Christmas holiday approaches, and hopefully the dance parties will continue in tandem. My heart is filled with gratitude for this life.

Flattopper pride

I have two offerings from the internet in honor of breast cancer awareness month.  First, my sister found this website by a woman who, like me, chose no reconstruction and does not wear a prosthesis.  I've written about my choices previously, which can be found here and here.  The writings and the images on the Flattopper Pride website are pretty incredible.  I love that so many of us are rocking the flatness that is our new, original self.

http://www.flattopperpride.org/

Also, a friend of mine sent me a recent article from the Washington Post on having hidden cancer.  Like me, the author of the piece is living with a terminal diagnosis but outwardly appears to be a healthy human.  She has brain cancer, I have lung cancer.  She was given 2-18 years to live, my prognosis is "optimistic" with continued treatment indefinitely.  She and I both live each day to its fullest potential with infrequent thoughts of our disease, until the quarterly scans remind us of our precarious position between sickness and health, inflicting doubt about our ability to live.  It's a lovely article.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/i-have-cancer-but-i-sometimes-forget/2015/09/17/244dec30-5bca-11e5-9757-e49273f05f65_story.html

Tomorrow I am going to walk in the Race for the Cure with my family.  I walked it for the first time last year only three weeks after my mastectomy.  I'm excited to be a part of the excitement again this year, and this time with a clean bill of health.  Maybe I'll see you down there!  :)

Legendary

How can it be that summer is over and today is the first day of school?  Summer went by too quickly, and I have not properly documented my comings and goings.  That's because I've been out living instead of in blogging.  I have begun many stories, and I hope to finish them and post them in the coming days.

Today's story is going to cover several things that happened in the month of July.  At the beginning of the month was my hiking trip in the Olympic Mountains.  It was every bit as incredible as I imagined it would be!  Walking in the woods was a restorative activity after a somewhat stressful year of recovery.  Taking one step at a time, over logs, under logs, and around logs, helped me truly realize just how strong I am.  In addition to the physical achievement of hiking 10 miles per day for 3 days, I had the personal satisfaction of getting away from the routines for awhile.  I forgot how unscheduled a couple of grown-ups could be for a couple of days, and it was rejuvenating.  Plus, my brother was a wonderful host, guide, and companion.  He cracks me up.

A few days after I returned to the office from my backpacking trip, I got a phone call from the Big Boss (my boss's boss's boss in the district office).  He was calling to congratulate me because I won a really big award!  I am an Early Career Scientist award-winner for 2015.  I get to go to Washington D.C. in September to receive the award.  Woo hoo!  I'm so excited!  All sorts of loved ones are going to accompany me to D.C.:  my daughters, dad, stepmom, grandparents, and mother-in-law.  What on earth am I going to wear?  Don't make me buy a pantsuit!!

I was beginning to feel rather legendary when two weeks later I found myself once again in that dark little room, meditating with my yellow paintbrushes while the radioactive glucose worked its way around my cells.  This time I got my PET scan results on the same day as the scan, and guess what?  All clear again!  Boom!  The legend continues!  That's the third clean PET scan in a row, friends.  Well, in the interest of full disclosure, the current PET scan did show a tiny bit of activity on one ovary, but a follow-up ultrasound revealed that there is nothing abnormal going on. So again I say, clear PET scan!  Huzzah!

Two weeks ago, in August, I had a 6-month follow-up with Dr. Medical Oncologist at the other cancer center.  This is my Her2-cancer expert.  She couldn't have been more thrilled with the PET scan results (in fact, I daresay she had a look of disbelief on her face).  I asked if we could stretch out the PET scans a bit, now that I've had 3 clean ones, and she said yes but just a bit.  Her proposed PET scan schedule is every 4-5 months.  Ugh, that's still awfully frequent scanning, but I'll take it.  It'll be 3 PET scans a year instead of 4, which I suppose will make a big difference in terms of my schedule and exposure to radioactivity.  She also still plans to keep me on the Herceptin and Pertuzumab treatments indefinitely, as previously planned, as long as my heart holds up.  I get echo cardiograms of my heart every 3 months to make sure it's not being adversely affected by the treatments.  Again, I'll take it.  Finally, she mentioned that if these drugs ever stop working for me, there are already new treatment options available for Her2 cancers.  Wow!  That's incredible!  I hope I don't have to explore those options for a long, long time, but it's nice to know that they are there.

Two days ago, on Aug. 22, was my one year anniversary since my last hard chemo.  I can't believe that it's been a year already.  Time flies when you're feeling well, I guess.  I am so grateful to have had this year, and I feel ready to snag another one.  Dr. Medical Oncologist said that when I make it to my 10-year survivorship, she can retire.  Thanks for giving me a new survivorship goal, Dr. MO.  Here's to sending you into early retirement!  

The last goodbye

With conviction I called my dad last night to cancel our trip to see Dr. Surgical Oncologist today.  The first snowstorm of the season struck yesterday afternoon and evening.  Area schools were delaying morning classes, and so it seemed like the rational choice to avoid the extra driving by rescheduling my appointment with Dr. Surgical Oncologist.  My dad, however, had a different opinion.  He was confident that the roads would be better by morning, and that we'd be fine in his extended-cab, 4-wheel drive Ford F-150.  I deferred to his expertise and driving abilities in favor of keeping the appointment.  

He picked me up just after 8am.  I tossed my snowpants in the cab just in case we had to hike out of a snow-filled ditch.  Once we hit the interstate he disclosed that the southbound traffic had been plugged up earlier, but hopefully it's cleared now?  Between this question and the thick layer of snow beneath the tread, I began to question our decision.  Fortunately my 511 road-condition app revealed that traffic was indeed flowing up ahead and that road conditions were improving by the minute.  Indeed, by the time I closed the app the packed snow had given way to pavement.  I breathed a sigh of relief and settled in for another pleasant drive with my dad.  

Dad has been my chauffeur to all of my distant appointments this entire Cancer year.  He has been gamefully unemployed approximately since my diagnosis, which I selfishly admit has been glorious.  I don't think he's missed a single distant appointment.  He packs snacks for the car ride.  In the exam room, he remembers to ask the questions that I forget to ask.  He asks me things the doctors and I forget to think about.  He thanks the doctors and nurses while I'm still reeling from whatever news has been delivered.  After the appointment, we do lunch, and we've discovered some delicious food.  Sometimes we get a chocolate shake, if it's been that kind of appointment.  Usually we just hit the road.  He makes me laugh.  

It's fitting that just as my Cancer year is winding down, Dad has found a new job.  He starts on Monday.  Congratulations, dad!  I'm glad you have an exciting new job, and I'm so glad that I have fewer appointments, but maybe we can keep the regular lunch dates?  I'm going to miss them.  <3

Today's appointment with Dr. Surgical Oncologist was a simple surgical follow-up.  Everything is still healing well.  I took this opportunity to describe my only concern, which is that when my right arm is at my side I have a sensation that there is something wedged under there.  You know how it is when you wear a shirt with too-small armholes, and the sleeve hikes up and gets bunched in your armpit?  It feels like that, all the time.  This led to my concern, which was not about the sensation itself, but perhaps I was having swelling that was causing the sensation?  She checked me out and determined that I do not have swelling (huzzah!).  She also said that although the surgical team tried to avoid damage to major nerves, microscopic nerves were certainly damaged.  She has had other patients complain of this full-armpit sensation, and she thinks that it's due to damage to these microscopic nerves.  She expects that the sensation will go away with time.  

Then the appointment turned a sad corner.  As long as I stay healthy for the next eight months, this is the last time that I will see Dr. Surgical Oncologist.  She is retiring in October, but now I only need yearly check-ups at the clinic's survivorship center.  I suppose even if she weren't retiring I would probably be graduating to the survivorship clinic and out of her purview since I no longer bear the subjects of her profession--she is a breast surgeon, after all.  Although I am sad to know that I will have to find a new surgeon should the occasion arise, I am truly happy for her at her retirement.  I am grateful to have been her patient and to have benefitted from her expertise.  I hope that she will do everything that she enjoys.  

We parted with a hug, then another hug.  There was so much I wanted to say that I couldn't say any of it.  I thanked myself for sending her a thank-you note in November and I hoped that I had said everything in that.  There's no way to fully convey my sentiments, and yet they can be summarized in eight words or less.  Thank you, Dr. Surgical Oncologist, for my life.                      

Forward

I'm done.  I'm done with the painful, sickening treatments for the second time.  I've fought breast cancer twice, and for the time being I've won.  Again.

I think it will be a few more days before the full magnitude of these statements sink in.  I'm done!!!

The appointment today was perfect.  Dr. Surgical Oncologist snipped my stitches and pulled out my J-P drains.  Whew!  It wasn't quite as ticklish as last time.  I think it was due to the fact that the drains were shorter--she said that she trims the length of the drain tubes based on how many lymph nodes she removes.  Since I only lost two lymph nodes, the drains were relatively short, perhaps about 6-8 inches each.  I had gotten so accustomed to having the drains in that all day I've been having to re-learn how to live without them.  No, I don't have to clutch my elbow to my side and lift slightly to relieve the pressure on the stitches.  No, I don't have to make sure I'm not slamming them in the car door.  No, I don't have to avoid laying on them while I'm sleeping.  Oh!  Sleep!  It will be so sweet tonight!

She also gave me the results of the Tumor Board's discussion.  Based on the favorable pathology results, the consensus is that I do not need radiation for either my lymph nodes or my lungs.  Huzzah!  They do still recommend that I remain on Herceptin + Pertuzumab "indefinitely".  That's fine with me.  I'm so lucky that there is something to help control my disease.

I still have so much recovery ahead of me, but I'm thrilled to know that it won't be undone for awhile.  For the first time in months my recovery will be exclusively forward.  No backward steps due to do further treatments.  Just forward.    

Going the distance

Saturday marks my two-year anniversary from my inflammatory breast cancer diagnosis at age 29.  It has been almost one year since my last treatment.  It has been five months since my last mammogram on my remaining breast.  It has been two months since my last and final PET scan.  And here I am.  Cancer-free.  Just another standard-issue vegetarian midwesterner once again.

Ever since my last PET scan I have been suffering from unexplained bouts of anxiety.  All sorts of normal things cause these flutters of anxiety:  picking up the kids from pre-school, grocery shopping, checking work email.  This has been very strange for me because I am usually a relaxed person with a good grip on stress control.  I figured the anxiety originated in my last appointment with Dr. Oncologist because she said I no longer had to have more PET scans.  This is of course glorious news because I hate PET scans (false positives are my nemesis), but also scary news because no one will be watching what's going on inside my body.  My rational self is not afraid at all, but I think my heart flutters mean that I have a subconscious, irrational self who harbors fear.

Turns out it's hard to control the subconscious, irrational self.  (Perhaps you knew that already?)  However, I am pleased to announce that I have gained the upper hand!  I have forced the anxiety to occur much less frequently, like maybe once or twice a week, and it no longer happens around my heart.  Now it is something like butterflies in the stomach, which I find to be much more familiar and manageable.  The mental aspect is not as easy to explain, but it seems to be correlated to the act of surviving.  Since I intend to survive a bit longer, I will continue to work on killing those butterflies.

By the way, happy breast cancer awareness month!  Oddly enough, breast cancer awareness month celebrations have contributed to the butterflies.  Today there was a presentation at work by a local oncology nurse.  I couldn't hardly handle the first few slides about the statistics of breast cancer occurrences and survival rates.  Luckily she didn't go into IBC-specific stats, otherwise I might have left the room.  Soon she got into the importance of self breast exams and my heart slowed back down to a reasonable beat.  Statistics are a bummer unless you're on the good side of them.  You just never know which side you're going to be on.  

This whole month puts survivors on a pedestal, and I am not yet comfortable on that pedestal.  Surviving breast cancer is indeed an amazing achievement.  But it's also a lucky achievement.  Because of this luck I am struggling to be comfortable as a victor of a fight.

Who needs to be a victor, anyway?  I am normal, and my new normal is becoming more and more comfortable.  Life is great.  And I am cancer-free.  Yippee!!  I will work on my pumping up my victor spirit in time for the Race for the Cure next weekend.  The survivor in me will attend in spirit if not in person.        

Hasta la vista, baby

On Friday I met with Dr. Oncologist for what was called my Survivorship meeting.  This meeting occurred exactly one month after my last herceptin treatment.  We reviewed all of the bodily changes that have occurred since the discovery of inflammatory breast cancer in October 2010.  We also discussed the (or what should be my) primary concerns moving forward:  the possibilities of recurrent cancer, heart problems, and lymphedema.  (Note:  I don't have heart problems, but any heart that has been through what my heart has now been through should be scrutinized and carefully maintained, apparently.)

These possible problems are just that--possibilities.  I have none of these problems today, and I probably won't wake up with these problems tomorrow.  So I'm just going to go about my life as usual; turns out I'm really really good at going about my life as usual.  Dr. Oncologist has only four instructions for me to follow to try to maintain today's health status:  no smoking, no drinking alcohol, keeping the body mass index (BMI) below 25, and exercising.  These things should be no problem for me, although when I mentioned my new fondness of yoga and she said that that isn't the kind of exercise she's talking about.  She means the type of exercise that gets my heart rate up.  I guess I'd better find a way to start biking to work again.    

Also at the survivorship meeting I met with the outreach nurse, who gave me 12 CD's full of tips for cancer survivors.  I'll be sure to play those at our next house party.  She also gave me a spiral-bound booklet of written tips for the survivor.  These tips include many what-to-expect-when-you're-surviving tidbits like pre-menopausal symptoms, months of lingering fatigue, and emotional difficulties.  Um, thanks, but this information would have been useful yesterday (in July).  I physically and emotionally processed the bulk of my cancer treatment recovery and survivorship issues months ago.  The booklet probably could have been useful at some point, but its delivery was poorly timed.

Needless to say, I am not suffering any cancer treatment separation anxiety.  I have read that some patients are very sad to be done visiting the place that saved their lives, where they now have lots of friends and a fixed routine.  They also get nervous that now they are back on their own with their bodies and are expected to find a recurrent cancer all by themselves.  Maybe my separation from cancer treatment is too recent, or conversely maybe I went through this months ago when I was done with the hard cancer treatments, but currently I am not suffering any of these emotions at all.  Indeed, when I walked out of my last herceptin treatment a month ago, I don't think I've ever held my head higher.  I waved at the receptionists, all on their phones with actual cancer patients, and I strutted out of there, no longer a cancer patient.

So I'm officially a survivor now.  I will miss my clinic cancer friends, but I'll still see them around.  Indeed, I still get to go in every three months for PET scans, but eventually that will be every 4 months, and then every 6 months, until finally I just have a PET scan once per year.  Like getting my eyes checked.  

It's been a long time since I posted a song.  I don't know why I haven't posted songs lately; I still love music.  But this post is begging for a song.  Only one song, really.  In this song, I think the "I" is me, and the "you" is the oncology waiting room.  Hasta la vista, baby.              

I've said it before, and I'll say it again.  Cancer can suck it.  

Myself

As I danced through the best weekend ever, I didn't think about how lucky I was not to have cancer.  I didn't think about how un-tired or un-sore I felt.  I didn't think about how I should be appreciating and savoring every moment.  I was my normal (which is arguably abnormal), active self.  I simply rocked my weekend.  I'll spotlight a daily highlight below.

Ian had organized a man's camping weekend and Lori took the girls, so Friday night I had the house All To Myself.  This was, in a word, fantastic.  Some people might have watched movies til 3 a.m. or invited friends over, but not this girl.  I rearranged my house.  Well, not the whole house, but those quadrants occupied by 2- and 3-year-old squatters.  In preparation for my Big Night In, Ian took down Eleanor's crib.  As you'll recall she turned 2 two weeks ago, and she actually hasn't slept in the crib for 6 months or so.  So I converted the crib room to an upstairs toy room.  The downstairs toy room was minimized and optimized.  A donation pile was created.  A good time was had by all.  Epilogue:  the girls love their upstairs toy room, and the parents love the banishment of small or overly vocal toys to the upstairs.

The girls and I went to visit Aunt Jacque for the weekend.  Anna watched the girls for a few hours while Aunt Jacque and I went to a day spa.  Oh my goodness, we all had such a great time.  The girls were delighted by Anna in the life-sized doll house in their backyard.  Meanwhile, Aunt Jacque and I had  full-body massages, exfoliation, and sea weed wraps.  We went to the beauty school in town and thus got an excellent package deal.  I had never experienced either of the latter two services, and both were...interesting.  The problem with the exfoliation was that it was awfully close to painful.  In contrast, the sea weed wrap was divinely soothing and moisturizing.  The problem with the sea weed wrap didn't manifest until about 20 minutes after we had left the salon.  We picked up 11-year-old Brielle and she immediately pinched her nose at us.  Closer olfactory investigation revealed that our skin emanated a stink like a dog that had swam in the ocean yesterday and wasn't quite dry yet.  Oh man, it was a hard-core stink.  But it was all part of the experience.  I'd definitely do it again, I'd just bring some perfume along next time.  The best part of all was having a date with Aunt Jacque.  Everyone needs an Aunt Jacque.   

On the way home, we stopped by to visit the triplets and company.  I know, they live in Columbia, but they were in the area visiting family this weekend.  It's only been a month since I've seen them, but they all have new tricks.  Lucy is walking, Eva is talking, and Alex is tipping over things three times his height.  The best part is that I think they remember us Allens.  Well, at least a little bit.  The girls and I got tons of smiles and even a few cuddles.  Ooo I just love the triplets!  

I put an exclamation point on the weekend when at nine o'clock on Sunday night I baked a beet cake.  That's right you heard me.  Indeed, 1) it was awfully late for baking, 2) it was awfully hot for baking, and 3) I baked beets into a cake.  The cake is topped with cream cheese frosting; the fact of this cake really speaks to the power of cream cheese frosting.  

Welcome back, hbomb.  

Beautiful survivors

Maybe you've already heard, but former first lady Betty Ford passed away last Friday.  She overcame some remarkable difficulties in her lifetime, including breast cancer and drug addiction.  She founded a center to help people overcome their addictions.  This of course is an excellent contribution to society, but I am naturally drawn to her courage in the face of breast cancer.  She was a model for how high to hold your head during and after breast cancer treatment.

Another beautiful survivor I recently encountered is Matuschka.  She became famous in 1993 when her self-portrait appeared on the cover of the New York Times magazine.



Isn't she amazing?  Apparently this was a highly controversial photograph, and I am interested in reading more about the controversy because I don't see any place for controversy.  I see nothing but beauty.  Clearly I am biased.  I'm guessing that the "damaged" part of her body is just more than most people want to see.  I'd be interested in hearing what you think.

I was pleasantly surprised by her choice of wearing white.  If it were me, and it might be someday because it would be fun to replicate this photoshoot, my instinct would have been to wear red.  Red isn't even my color, but it would be dramatic and angry and representative of how I felt for a long time.  In contrast, I love that the white dress represents purity despite the damage.  The slim, angular dress adds an element of sexiness, and the flowing scarf invokes femininity.  Yep, red would have been totally wrong for this image.  I guess that's why I'm not an artist.        

The whole article published with the above image is an interesting presentation of the status of breast cancer awareness up to 1994.  One of main things I took away from it is how very personal breast cancer is:  all of the main supporters of awareness and research have been touched by breast cancer.  Tom Harkin, still a senator of this great state, was the champion of a huge increase in funding for breast cancer research in the 90's.  It seems that he was driven by the loss of two sisters to the disease.  This blog and I are certainly an example of breast cancer awareness driven by personal experience.  I suppose this is not surprising, because people care about what they know about.  I think I just never thought about it before.

Cheers to you survivors and supporters out there!  You are all beautiful!