Jennifer's Journey

A Time to Heal

2012-02-10T13:44:00.013-05:00

October 18, 2011 I started physical therapy for a strained Achilles tendon. I remember the moment the exact moment I hurt myself. I was participating in the Ribbon Run 5k for breast cancer (April 9, 2011) with my friend Colleen and I remember my Achilles making a pop sensation and then becoming very tight. I stretched it using the curb and then finished the race. The discomfort persisted on and off for several months, but I have a pretty high tolerance for pain, so I ignored it.

This discomfort/tightness started at the arch of my foot where a knot had formed, ran along the outside of my Achilles tendon and up the outside of my calf. I didn’t really mention it to anyone because in the scope of everything else in my life this seemed inconsequential.

It wasn’t until my six month follow-up with my oncologist Dr. Heyer that it became a bigger concern. At the end of my appointment, Dr. Heyer asked if there were any other changes with my body.

Me: “No … well, I don’t know if this is relevant …”
Dr. Heyer interrupted, “Jennifer, it’s all relevant.”
Me: “Well, I’ve been in physical therapy for my Achilles tendon.”
Dr. Heyer: “Tell me everything.”

I explained how I injured my tendon and what types of therapy I was getting for my right leg. He then explained that Tamoxifen (the post-cancer therapy I am on for five years) has some nasty side effects, including deterioration of tendons and blood clots. Who knew!?!? He advised me NEVER to use a brace because that would create the perfect place for a blot clot. I explained that my physical therapist didn’t agree with braces because they limit the range of motion and don’t help strengthen the muscles around the tendon. He told me to continue with physical therapy and make this a high priority for the wellness of my body.

(Men, feel free to stop reading here, because I’m going to talk about “lady troubles” next.)

October was the last month I had “lady troubles.” This sent me into a complete panic since I was scared I might be perimenopausal again (from the chemo dosage I incurred back in 2008). I felt my hopes of every being able to get pregnant slip out from under me. I felt nauseous and my anxiety shot through the roof. I felt like I was spiraling chemically in my body. I kept telling Matt, “I just don’t feel right. I don’t know how else to describe it.” Women who have already been through menopause, I want you to know I feel your pain. This blows! The night sweats I have been having since 2008 became more intense and I would find myself wide awake between 1-3am in a full blown panic attack.

I called my nurse Brenda at Dr. Heyer’s office to ask her opinion about why my “lady troubles” had stopped abruptly.

Me: “What’s wrong with me?”
Brenda: “Nothing is wrong with you. Take a deep breath. This is a common side effect of Tamoxifen. Your [“lady troubles”] might come and go over the next two years of your therapy.”
Me: “But why would my [“lady troubles”] just stop at year three on this medicine? Is that normal?”
Brenda: “It is very normal since the therapy builds in your body and suppresses the estrogen being created since your cancer was estrogen positive. We have to keep it suppressed.”
Me: “What about my heightened anxiety?”
Brenda: “I would advise you make an appointment with your family medicine doctor to discuss changes in your anxiety.”
Me: “Ok.”
Brenda: “Jennifer? Two more years, kiddo. I know the side effects suck, but you only have two more years on the Tamoxifen and you have to push through it.”
Me: “I know. I just don’t feel right.”

The holidays came and went. Jasper got sick, then healthy, then sick, then healthy. Matt lost his Uncle Bob unexpectedly on Christmas Day. And my anxiety just kept building, while I kept using Xanax to maintain a normal balance in my everyday life.

It wasn’t until one of my best friends, Jennifer Campbell, was diagnosed with stage 4 triple negative breast cancer that my anxiety spiraled and reached a breaking point. It was back to the severity that I felt in 2005 and again in 2008. Traumas in my life create spikes in my anxiety. The nausea became severe and the weight loss began again. The lowest weight my anxiety has driven me to was 87 pounds back in 2005. I could feel myself starting to isolate from Matt and wanting to be left alone.

Matt: “Jennifer, I really think you need to go talk to someone. I love you with all my heart, but you know I’m a horrible listener. I don’t know that I can help you with this. You know I love Jenn, and you and I will do everything in our power to help her, but you can’t stop living your life. You have to keep eating. You have to spend time with your friends. I’m really worried about you.”
Me: “I love you. Thank you for being honest with me. I know I get completely consumed by these traumas in my life. It has taken me four years, but I think I am finally ready to talk to someone. I know that I have seeded emotions and even blacked out experiences from my cancer treatment that I need to work through.”
Matt: “I love you and I am here and support you in whatever you want to do. I am scared for you and I want you to be OK.”
Jenn: “I love you, too. I need you to reign me back in when I start to spiral because I don’t always know that I am. I promise I will talk to someone.”

Today I went to see my doctor Toni Nelson. She is one of the best women I know. I started my story from October and shared with her everything that had transpired that led me to her office. She hugged me and validated that my experiences over the past couple of years have been incredibly taxing. She said, “You just never get a break do you?”

(Toni diagnosed my anxiety back in 2005 when I ended up in her office 87 pounds and with horrible digestive issues—all stemming from stress, anxiety and trauma in my life.)

She told me that she loves Matt and is so happy that I have someone in my life to remind me that I need to continue living my life and that I deserve to be happy.

Toni: “Jennifer, I think it’s good that you are going to talk to someone and plan to try acupuncture. I think you are suffering some from Posttraumatic stress which is common after cancer, especially as you are reliving it with one of your best friends. Just because you are going to talk to someone doesn’t mean that you failed at resolving this on your own. I know how you think. You’re not a failure. It’s OK to need help sometimes and say that you don’t have the resources to handle this.”

I lowered my head and began crying. She knew me all to well and the internal struggle of not wanting help or to admit that I can’t fix this.

Me: “I’m just so tired. I try to be strong for everyone else and at the end of the day there is no fuel left for me—I’m drained. I feel like there’s something wrong with me.”
Toni: “Baby Doll, there’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve had some serious traumas in your life and all we’ve given you to deal with it is 75mg of Effexor XR and .25mg of Xanax. With that low a dosage all you are getting is the serotonin value with no norepinephrine. Your resources are spent on the lowest dosage of medication possible. How you’ve coped to this point on barely any medicine is beyond me. We’ll bump up the dosage to give you some help and then reevaluate when you are done with the Tamoxifen and life calms down.”
Me: “Thank you so much for being so kind to me.”
Toni: “You can’t be everyone’s rock and white dove 100% of the time, Jennifer, and no one expects that of you. There is no shame in saying I don’t have it all figured out and I need some help. We’ll get you back to feeling like yourself.”

For some reason today, of all days, I remembered to bring with me a copy of 'The Shack' that the author William P. Young had sent me in the mail before the book actually came out. Toni and I had discussed the book a couple of years back when her mother had passed away and she was grieving. Young sent me a copy of the book while I was going through treatment and written me a personal message inside. I reread the quote he had written to Toni and my voice caught in my throat. Toni finished reading it for me:

"There is a wind that knocks you sideways, a rain that only leaves you cold ... but there is another storm of unrelenting grace in whose embrace you are now surely held."

OK, how on Earth did this man know that I love the rain and storms!? Almost every piece of artwork or photography I own has rain or people holding umbrellas. It is when I am most creative and I feel the most centered. Who would have guessed that a fire sign (Sagittarius) would be drawn to water. Might explain why I fell in love with Matt the Scorpio (water sign). What a perfect quote so well suited for my life.

I have been seeing a masseuse named Mimi monthly to help with the increased numbness in my fingers and toes. She has also been doing aromatherapy for anxiety which is amazing. I start therapy in a week and am planning on trying acupuncture. I guess there really is beauty in the breakdown.

Thank you to my family and friends for reaching out to me over the last few months, concerned about my health and wellness. Some of you in tears upset that I had lost myself. Your concern and kindness about my well being is touching beyond words. I am so blessed to be surrounded by such amazing individuals. I promise to take really good care of myself and keep you updated on my journey to healing myself.

A Little Story of Faith and Hope

2012-02-02T09:59:00.003-05:00

It was just this week that I realized that I have never shared the story of Hope and Faith. Now is as good of a time as any, I suppose.

When I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of Stage III breast cancer four years ago at the age of 26, I received two little stuffed bears from my mother along with a letter. These bears had been given to her by someone who worked with her at Lees Corner Elementary School.

The letter explained that these bears were purchased while this woman’s mother was battling breast cancer. The woman lived locally in Northern Virginia while her mother was in New York. Because of the distance and inability to be with one another during imaging, doctor’s appointments, chemotherapy treatments and so on, they used these bears, which they named Hope and Faith to give them a sense of connection. For over a year they would carry the bears wherever they went, no matter how silly the circumstance and that kept them connected, so they never felt alone.

I was so moved by the kindness of this gesture. Since my mother is a teacher, she was unable to take the time off to be at ever appointment of mine, so my mother and I carried these little bears throughout my journey … for almost two years. My bear, named Faith, would sit in my chemo chair with me, slept in my bed after my mastectomy and even laid on the floor with me in the bathroom on nights I was sick and having severe panic attacks. I knew my mother (“my rock”) had her bear and that kept us strong and together.

When my godfather Bill was diagnosed with bladder cancer I knew it was time to pass on our bears. When I told my mom my wishes I remember her crying and saying, “I don’t know if I can. I continue to talk to my bear and pray to her. She keeps you healthy.” I hadn’t realized how important her bear Hope had become to her over time. It is amazing how we cling to certain objects, like me being unable to part with my wigs because I feel like they keep the cancer away. But after thinking it over, she agreed and both my godfather and I carried our bears when he had treatments and doctors appointments. It never left my side – it kept me connected to him.

The bears were returned once my Godfather was cancer-free. But it wasn’t long until they would be needed again. My friend’s mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and the bears were called on again. My friend and her mother used the bears to remind themselves that they were always with one another and now her mother is cancer-free. They are discussing getting tattoos of “hope” and “faith” as a constant reminder of their relationship and connection during such a difficult journey. The power of hope and faith.

On Monday before Jenn’s mediport surgery I told her the story of the two bears. Both she and her friend Amy listened as I told the story of their amazing little journey and healing powers. They both were moved by the story. Amy told me that her children’s middle names are “Hope” and “Faith.” Jenn chose the bear “Hope” and once again I was reunited with my dear friend “Faith” which we will carry with us until Jenn is cancer-free.

Now, I know in my head that these are just two little stuffed bears, but I believe they symbolize what I am finding is essential to all of us, especially during a time of need. Connection. Validation. These are what give us Hope and Faith. That someone is there even in the darkest of hours or have been there and made it out alive. You don’t necessarily need a bear, but I believe talking to my bear, praying to my bear and knowing that someone else was doing the same made all the difference during my journey. Nothing is too silly if it makes our heart happy and gives you a sense of hope in the darkest of hours. Because regardless of pain, illness and loss, there is always faith, hope and above all else, love.

Mama Said There'll Be Days Like This

2012-01-22T19:55:00.001-05:00

Mama said there'll be days like this.

I remember during my treatment that my mother told me that one in eight women would face breast cancer in her lifetime. She said, "Look at all your incredible and beautiful girlfriends and start counting off to eight. You will become the rock for your friends. This is your calling."

At the time, this notion seemed as though it was so very far off. I was reminded of those words this past week. This time of year is always unsettling since four years ago I received my diagnosis of stage 3 breast cancer January 19, 2008. My life was forever changed.

I was spending Martin Luther King, Jr. day home from work and tending to Matt due to a recent cold that I very kindly shared with him. The phone rang. The words were quiet and jumbled on the other end. I was able to make out two words "Ridgetop" (a location) and "cancer." My entire body tingled and I lunged off the couch. I threw my hair in a ponytail, grabbed a hoodie and put on my boots. I turned to Matt, "Jenn called and needs me. I don't know what's happening, but I'm going. Watch Jasper. I love you."

My heart was racing and I felt the heat surging through my body ... I was sweating even though the air was painfully cold against my skin. I drove as fast as I possibly could through Loudoun to Ridgetop Circle. Luckily, I knew the location well since this was the building complex my company used to be in. I found Washington Radiology by looking at the listings of the companies in each building on my iPhone. I ran from my car into the waiting room.

Receptionist: "Can I help you?"
me: "I'm looking for Jennifer Campbell. I believe she is here."
Receptionist: "What is your relation?"
me. "I'm her friend. She called me."
Receptionist: "We don't let just anyone back there."
me: "Good thing I'm not just anyone. FIND HER."

It got ugly, but I didn't really care. This receptionist knew I was not messing around. I needed to get to Jenn ... and fast. An older woman with gray hair and glasses came out to meet me. She reminded me of the fairy godmother from Cinderella. She took me back to a small waiting room. My breath escaped me when I turned the corner and saw Jenn. She was sitting in a chair wearing a sterile white robe shaking while a young technician was casually walking her through the risks of am emergency biopsy.

"Considering the location of the tumor against the chest wall, we risk possibly puncturing the lung ..." blah blah blah

I looked at Jenn's face. Her eyes were red, swollen and glazed over. She was void of emotion -- she just continued nodding. Her body had gone into survival mode. She was reacting to the trauma of the news by retreating subconsciously. She blacked out. Instead of reacting by having a panic attack, which is my standard M.O., I went into what I refer to as "mom mode." I paid attention to everything the nurse said and Jenn's doctor -- I took notes and asked a million questions knowing that this was not something Jenn could do right now.

I sat in the room with Jenn while her doctor took four biopsies of tissue from the tumor and extracted fluid from her lymph node. She laid on the table motionless. I told her when to take a deep breathe and when to look away -- rubbing her arm and reassuring her that she was doing a good job. I know the procedure was painful, but she was not present. Thank God for that. My scar across my chest started aching during the exam. STOP IT, JENNIFER. I knew my mind was playing tricks. My whole body hurt for her. I could do nothing but be there for her and make sure I asked all the questions I wish someone would have asked when I was diagnosed four years ago. Feels like it was a lifetime ago.

Jenn: "What are the chances this is just a bad infection?"
Dr. Floerke: "The chances this is just an infection are very very slim. I am very concerned. I'm pretty sure this is cancer considering how hard the lump is, the lymph nodes being irregular and the positioning."

Before leaving I sat in a room with the older woman with gray hair and glasses while Jenn called and made a breast MRI appointment. I watched as tears ran down the woman's cheeks -- I realized that she probably experiences this every day. Before I walked Jenn out into the lobby I hugged the fairy godmother and thanked her for taking such good care of one of my bestfriends. She said, "She's just so young. Breaks my heart. Please take care of her."

We walked into the lobby and stopped. I enveloped Jenn in my arms while she kept repeating, "Please don't let me die." I took her face in my hands and said, "You are not going to die. Do you hear me in there? I won't let you. You are going to beat this and I will be by your side every step of the way. I promise you that. We can do this together."

I got in my car and sobbed the entire ride home.

Her pathology report came back three days later (on the four year anniversary of my diagnosis) confirming our worst fears ... this was breast cancer. It was in the milk duct, lymph nodes and tissue and the 5cm tumor is sitting against the chest wall. It is aggressive and she will need to start chemotherapy immediately to stop the cancer from spreading, especially into the lung.

Jenn became a survivor the moment she was diagnosed. And my mom was right, I have been called.

You can follow Jenn's journey by reading her blog, Not Jenn's Cup of Tea.

We All Have Something

2011-11-10T09:32:00.000-05:00

Standing there in my swimsuit I anxiously awaited the technician to come into the room. I had never had an airbrush tan done, but I wanted to have a little color done safely before Matt’s cousin’s wedding in Connecticut. So, doing something new like this and exposing my scars to someone I didn’t know was unbearable. I dreaded the thought of someone asking me what the scars were from and how did it all happened. *deep breath*

There was a knock at the door and a soft voice asked, “all ready?” My pulse quickened.

The woman that entered the room was stunning. She was a tall African American woman in her thirties with long straight hair and a gorgeously toned body. I instantly felt self-conscious. She moved through the room with confidence and poise--she was truly magnificent.

“You can go topless if you want,” she started in, “a lot of my customers do. Or if you want to wear the disposable thong that works, too. Whatever you are most comfortable with.”

Here came the cancer word vomit ... I felt it building up inside me surrounded with a heap of panic.

“I don’t want to alarm you, but I need to tell you something before we start. I have a lot of scars because I am a breast cancer survivor.”

The technician was incredibly attentive and sympathetic to my story. But to my surprise, she had her own.

“I have a two year old son. I had a hard pregnancy and gained over 80 pounds. They did a c-section. My stomach was such a mess with excess skin and scarring that my father said he would get me plastic surgery ... like a tummy tuck to get rid of the bad part. The plastic surgeon was bad and botched what was supposed to be my flat stomach. Now I have to live with this forever.”

She pulled up her shirt to expose the scarring and gaping sections of her stomach that still remain.

She continued, “You are so beautiful. Look at you. You’re a fighter and now have this healthy, curvy body. God is great and look what the doctors were able to do for you.”

The anxiety I felt coming into the tanning salon subsided and before I knew it we were laughing about her adding some color to my booty.

The experience wasn’t about comparing myself to someone else or her scars being worse than mine, but about understanding that we all have something. Maybe some more severe than others, but we have all been through challenges and perhaps don’t like certain things about our bodies. It is a personal journey of acceptance of one’s own self and loving who you are despite sickness or injury.

Pink Rocks the Runway

2011-10-22T10:00:00.000-04:00

Being asked to participate in Pink Rocks the Runway has been one of the most fulfilling and fun events of my remission. Pink Jams! is an amazing organization that is local to Washington, D.C. and was started by the amazing Christa Floresca in honor and remembrance of her friend Jen.

I, along with 13 other survivors under the age of 40, had dresses designed by local designers. I was paired with the brilliant Ginger Carlin of Booshie Designs. There could not have been a more perfect pairing. Ginger and I were truly two peas in a pod. Her vision and creativity are awe inspiring and I would love to get to work with her again.

The evening of the event was emotional, but celebratory. Walking the catwalk and hearing the crowd roar and my friends and family cheer me on made the night so special. I felt like this was my moment. I did it. It took every ounce of me not to cry at each intimate moment I had with friends, family and even strangers.

Walking along side me were two of my girlfriends and sisters in survival, Jami (pictured center) and Liz (pictured right). Afterward, I found Matt and my family in the audience. People I didn’t know were coming up and hugging me and asking to have their photos taken with me. One woman even asked for my autograph. I was incredibly humbled by the love and togetherness felt from the event.

Christian Siriano, in all his fierceness, headlined the show and did not disappoint. I want all of his clothes. Behind-the-scenes Christian is very hands-on from the hair and makeup of his models to the actual clothing and lineup. He is quite a visionary.

That night $30,000 was raised and donated to Capital Breast Care Center in D.C. helping women get mammograms who otherwise would not be able to afford the imaging. I have always said that if my story can impact or help one other person then it is a story worthy of being shared. That feeling and drive is even stronger now. I hope to be invited back for other Pink Jams! events and perhaps down the road become a volunteer and continue to grow Christa’s vision and outreach.

Forgiveness

2011-09-01T09:36:00.000-04:00

“Have you forgiven your body?”

This question has lingered in my mind for weeks now since I had dinner with one of my girlfriends. She told me a very personal story about losing her baby during pregnancy. After some time, she and her husband tried to have another child and she was not getting pregnant. It wasn’t until she went to an acupuncturist that she was asked the question: "have you forgiven your body?" She burst into tears as she realized the importance of the question. She was finally able to let the anger and guilt subside. And wouldn’t you know … she has a beautiful family now. Amazing grace.

We talk about forgiveness when it comes to our relationships, but what about our bodies? We are so terribly critical of ourselves, myself included. We get angry and embarrassed about baby weight and stretch marks ... but did we stop to thank our body for the ability to give life? Joint injuries stole our athleticism away at a young age and plague us with chronic pain ... but did we stop to thank our body for still having the ability to walk and ride a bike? Which left me thinking, had I forgiven my body for having cancer?

I spent several weeks thinking about the question and allowing myself to go back into that dark place of sickness and feel all those difficult feelings again. I looked back through my photos and reread my blogs and felt the anger, confusion and hurt boil back to the surface again. I HADN’T forgiven my body. Why should I??? I was only 26 years old when I was diagnosed.

Once the knee-jerk feelings settled, the anxiety subsided and the tears dried, I was able to think more clearly about how amazing my body truly is. My body beat stage-3 breast cancer. It bounced back from ten surgeries. Survived 18 weeks of chemotherapy without my blood count ever plummeting. It healed after six weeks of intense radiation therapy leaving me with third degree burns. It gave me the strength and mental capacity to work through the psychological pain of losing my breasts, being covered in 18 scars and dealing with body self-consciousness for the first time in my life. It gave me the courage to love unconditionally despite the fact that I no longer viewed myself as a long-term investment for another person. My body gave me a new appreciation for life and taught me patience and true compassion. My body is amazing and I am truly grateful and appreciative for the experience of learning to love myself.

10 Lessons Cancer Taught Me

2011-08-25T15:45:00.001-04:00

I found this article called ’10 Lessons Cancer Taught Me’ by Donna Davis on a senior care website of all places. As I read each lesson I found myself responding aloud, “yes,” “absolutely,” “couldn’t have said it better.” It is rare for me to lift this much of someone else’s text, but I honestly could not say what she did any better. I think Donna is brilliant and a gift. I hope her words inspire you as much as they have me.

1. There is no someday. There’s only now. There’s a story called “Precious Present” which talks about a mysterious man telling of an elusive present. The point of the story is that being “present” by enjoying the moments in your life is the best gift of all. It’s good to plan for the future, but remember to LIVE TODAY. Don’t put off playing with the kids, using your best china, doing all those things you want to do “someday.” We truly do not know what tomorrow brings. Be aware of what’s happening, really listen to others and trust your instincts. Your life can be so much richer by learning to be present even for just a few minutes each day.

2. Own and express your true feelings. For most of my life, I would do things I didn’t want to do. I always worried about saying no to others. When I got the leukemia I knew that the fatigue wasn’t just from the disease. It was also from 20 years of pent-up resentment for doing things and going places because I felt I “had” to. I’ve learned to express my feelings. Now I say no to things that I don’t want to do. But I also tell people I love them more often. I tell my kids “I’m sorry” when I’ve made mistakes (and I make plenty!) I talk to others about my fears, my depression (which plagued me for years) and my failures as well as my successes. Being honest has lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. Interestingly, in the process of becoming more direct, I’ve become kinder. There’s no resentment when you speak from the heart.

3. I’m not a victim. I choose how I react to situations. Sometimes people ask “Why me?” Except for a brief moment, I didn’t travel down that road. I knew there were lessons I needed to learn. Yes, some days just plain sucked with nausea and fatigue, but I also knew that many others have symptoms 1000 times worse than mine. When you’re open to the lessons, you can move through your situation so much easier and faster.

4. Take care of myself first. When traveling on airplanes we always hear that in case of emergencies to put on our oxygen mask first, THEN take care of others. That’s a major life lesson. If we don’t take care of ourselves first, then we have nothing to give others. I had excellent doctors, but I’ve learned that I need to know my body and what it needs. All aspects of our life are our responsibility. Get to know you. If you feel better after eating protein, eat it. If you need 8 hours of sleep a night, find a way to get it. You’ll function much better because that’s what YOU need…not what a book recommends. It’s the same with emotions (see #2). Speak from your heart. And spiritually, find the path that’s right for you. It all comes together to make a wonderful YOU, and then you can be there for others.

5. Ask for help. Sell the SuperWoman cape on ebay! Asking for help gives others a chance to share their gifts and love. Plus, you’ll weigh less because the “I have to do everything” cape is really heavy.

6. Watch your words and especially your thoughts. I believe that our “thoughts create.” With my cancer, I KNEW I was going to be cancer-free. But earlier in my life I was very critical, judgmental and negative. Watch your words and thoughts for an hour. Did you say or think thoughts like “I’m always tired,” “We can’t afford that,” “I could never do that”? If you keep thinking or saying those things, guess what shows up in your life? Yep…You are tired, you can’t afford that item and you’ll never do that. I challenge you to eliminate the negatives. Guard your words. They are powerful.

7. There is a reason for all things. Many times things happen in our lives and we don’t understand. We are a small cog in a much bigger picture. Just trust and stay positive. As you get older, you’ll smile at how you’ve weaved this beautiful tapestry called “My Life.”

8. Get rid of stress. Stress is toxic and it can lead to serious health problems – physically and emotionally. If you are in a stressful situation, GET OUT of it -- whether it’s an abusive relationship, a terrible job, or living in a place or city you don’t like. Stress eventually wins by wearing you out. So read #9.

9. If you don’t like your life, change it! This and #8 are easier said than done, but if you want a happier and healthier life, start making some changes. If you are thinking defeating thoughts, work on creating more positive affirmations. If you’ve always wanted to learn how to play the piano, start taking lessons. If you’ve always wanted your own home business, find something that sounds fun and start it! As the saying goes, “Life is like a buffet table. You can have whatever you want, but you’ve got to get up and go get it.” And go back and read #5 and ask for help from people you trust.

10. Laugh often. Don’t take life so seriously. All of us have challenges. Don’t get upset and angry. Laugh more and know that “This too shall pass.”

Source: Davis, Donna. ""10 Lessons Cancer Taught Me"" Senior Care Services and Information. Senior Care Psychological Consulting, 2004. Web. 25 Aug. 2011. http://seniorcareservices.org/cancer_10_lessons_learned.htm.

An Unexpected San Francisco Treat

2011-07-20T20:30:00.002-04:00

San Francisco Treat

I met the most amazing man. (I know that sounds so silly.) I know why I was meant to come to this PMI Conference in San Francisco. I have confirmed that I am meant to be doing the role I am doing. Everything my Dad ever said about managing people was true. And now I want to grow and eventually get my PMP certification post-masters. In addition, I have met someone who I instantly connected with, which I never expected.

His name is Jose (pronounced Joe-say) from Montreal. He is French-Canadian. He is here with his VERY pregnant wife and their two children. He is the GM of a startup in Montreal called Haka Solutions. My first day at the conference he told me, "Jennifer, you need to learn to disconnect sometimes and relax. There wouldn't be the need for project managers if projects were perfect." Ah, I'm not alone ... I felt validated.

Today my buddy and I sat together for our new session and then walked to lunch together. I was asking about his wife and babies (since they are out and about in SF during the day while he is in class) and in return, he asked if I want children. I paused and then, after some hesitation, decided to share my cancer journey. To my surprise his reaction was a smirk and then encouragement to continue sharing. He reassurend me that he would share his story when I finished.

Unbeknownst to me, he was diagnosed with stage-3 Hodgkin's at the age of 20 and was told he would never have children. He turns 40 this year and is expecting his third child next month ... a little girl. Just when he and his wife had started to consider alternative options to have a family, she got pregnant. I cannot believe I met him at a work conference. He is a new friend that I will have for a long time to come. I think I will send him an announcement when I have my first child ...

Buh-bye Dark Cloud

2011-05-05T13:37:00.004-04:00

Annual doctor’s appointment & blood work: Normal
Annual eye exam: Normal and now eligible for LASIK
Annual retinal scan: Normal—no signs of side effects from the Tamoxifen
6-month oncology check-up: Normal
6-month dentist appointment: Normal
3-month Pap: Normal

It’s been a LONG time since I have had normal test results. I don’t know what to do with myself. I guess I’ll finish my Masters, focus on getting stronger and healthier and plan my wedding.

It is nice not having a dark cloud following me around anymore.

This time, when I went to visit my oncologist, Dr. David Heyer, I took Matt with me. It was important to me that he meets Dr. Heyer; after all he is the man who saved my life. If Matt is going to marry me, I want him to understand that this will always be my reality. We can’t ignore it, or hide from it … we need to face it head on … together.

Dr. Heyer: “If this is completely out of line, please tell me.”
me: I smiled knowing exactly where Dr. Heyer was headed.
Dr. Heyer: “Do you two intend to have children?”
me: Without hesitation I replied, “Yes.”
Dr. Heyer: “Four years ago when all of this began I never thought it would be a possibility for you to get pregnant. I was certain that with the amount of chemo we were giving you that I would push you into menopause permanently.”
me: I interrupted, “Right, but I only missed three months and started right back again consistently every 28 days.”
Dr. Heyer: “I know, and it’s pretty remarkable, even unheard of. Now, in the past people worried that when a woman got pregnant that change in hormones could cause cancer to return. I am telling you that this assumption is NOT true. Getting pregnant will not give you cancer.”
me: “OK.”
Dr. Heyer: “Also, a woman with breast cancer WITHOUT lymph node involvement runs a risk of getting cancer later in life, so there would be a long gap between the first and second diagnosis. However, a woman with breast cancer WITH lymph node involvement, like yours, runs a risk of getting cancer within the first couple of years of remission. So, once we get you past a certain point, we shouldn’t need to worry as much. But you and I have decided it’s never coming back, right? We’re done with this.”
me: “Right.”
Dr. Heyer: “Jennifer, I see absolutely no reason why you can’t get pregnant. You have surprised me and beaten the odds on everything else. However, I want you to finish the Tamoxifen … it’s essential that you have a full 5 years.”
me: “I understand. So, how soon after I’m off the Tamoxifen can I start trying?”
Dr. Heyer: “That’s not really my area of expertise, so I’d defer to your Women’s Physician, but I’d say 3 months.”

The Eyes Have It

2011-04-15T11:07:00.000-04:00

So, who knew that cancer could impact your vision!? I certainly didn’t until this morning.

I visited a new eye doctor today and expected to be treated like cattle … after all; this is The Eye Center that always has those iLASIK advertisements on HOT99.5.

With my new VSP insurance in-hand and a recommendation from my friend Kelli, I decided after two years of no eye exams to try a new practice and doctor. Diem Nguyen, O.D. was simply amazing. She spent time discussing my medical history with me and the side effects related to the chemotherapy, radiation, and the medication I am now on called Tamoxifen.

She did a normal exam, checked my contacts and vision, but then she did a medical exam of my retina. Apparently, a side effect of Tamoxifen is damage to the retina. She said that my vision was still 20/20 (with my contacts), nothing had changed, and my retina looked healthy. However, unlike a non-cancer person, I should have my yearly exam, but also a medical exam (covered by health insurance, not eye insurance), and have x-rays of my retina done. This way, they can compare over the years to make sure my retina is not compromised from the medication.

I will be going back to visit Diem Nguyen, O.D. next week to pick up my contacts and have x-rays of my retina done. She tells me that it doesn’t hurt and all they do is put drops in my eyes, but after several years of procedures and surgeries I still get a bit anxious. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

The good news is that I am a great candidate for LASIK surgery! It’s something I have thought of a lot over the last few years and perhaps it’s something I’ll have done in the next year or so. Makes me nervous (although everything does these days), but it’s something fun to consider doing for myself.

xo,
Jen

I Hereby Adhere to No Funny Business

2011-04-07T18:07:00.000-04:00

So here’s the latest … after consults with both my women’s physician Dr. Ivey-Crowe and my oncologist, Dr. David Heyer, I am going to start taking a prenatal vitamin. (I’ll wait a moment to let the awww’s and squeals of my loving friends run their course.)

Now before you get all baby-crazy on me and start monogramming onesies (love you, Kere!) the purpose for this is for three reasons:

My body is lacking some vital nutrients from going through chemotherapy, so I take a lot of pills (multivitamin, C, iron, probiotics, etc.). Taking a prenatal vitamin will boost my vitamin and iron intake. Probiotics should help my digestive track resume balance since I suffer from horrible IBS attacks and nausea nowadays.
It should make my hair, skin and nails look amazing for my wedding day. Let’s be honest, that’s reason enough.
And lastly, IF I decide after two years to try and have children I will have given myself the best possible chance by getting really healthy with vitamins, nutrition and exercise. I will do my part as best I can and God-willing, Matt and I will have a family in the future. If not, we will do a lot of babysitting for our amazing friends.

Tamoxifen

(I think my mother has timed it all out that between coming off of the Tamoxifen at age 32 and my next surgery around the age of 40, I could comfortably have two children. At which point she will be retired and can provide daycare. You have to love the optimism of my family.)
So between both of my doctors and a little bit of research I have decided to try Trimedisyn. The reason for this is because it is all natural and has all the ingredients that I am missing. I’m going to sound like a spokesperson for a second, but most prenatal vitamins have increased folic acid, calcium and iron. Trimedisyn is packed with 19 other essential vitamins and minerals, 10 probiotics, CoQ10, DHA, ginger root, inositol, and choline. Ginger root eliminates morning sickness, but also nausea that typically accompanies both IBS and iron supplements. And after reading some reviews women are reporting their asthma and allergies significantly improving or disappearing completely. *fingers crossed*

I’ll keep you posted on how the Trimedisyn works.

Love After Cancer

2011-04-03T10:36:00.000-04:00

Matt: “Are we going to be together forever?”

As we walked down the quaint streets of Killarney, Ireland Matt and I chatted while enjoying the street- lamp lit scenes of historic statues and a beautiful, old cathedral built back in the 1300s.

me: “I sure hope so.”

Although I had to admit, his weird nervous behavior and biting attitude was concerning over the last few days and the fact that he wouldn’t give me his jacket on the bus when I was cold was just plain strange. I was a bit aggravated with him to say the least.

Matt: “Why don’t we make it official?”

Matt had stopped walking and I felt the hand he was holding pull me back.
I turned and saw Matt on bended knee.

me: “Are you kidding?”

About a month earlier Matt had gotten down on his knee in the kitchen of our home which set my heart racing. Since Matt is over a foot taller than I am, he occasionally will get down on his knees to hug me in a joking manner, so I figured this was another one of those silly moments. Since I had just kissed a statue of Johnny O'Leary (renowned Irish accordion player in Killarney) and sang Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’ to a statue of Jesus, I figured this funny gesture made perfect sense for us.

Matt: “No. Will you marry me?”

Matt pulled the little square box from his jacket pocket and opened it to reveal my mother’s engagement ring. It just so happened at that very moment an old Irish man drove by seeing Matt’s proposal. He continued circling until he saw that I responded, “Of course” and hugged Matt. The old man began honking his horn wildly and giving us repeated thumbs-ups.

We walked a little ways and once the proposal set in and I asked to sit on a bench outside a row of shops and pubs.

me: “You know, I did this before once and it didn’t go so well.”
Matt: “I know.”
me: “So, I’m sorry if I didn’t respond right …”
Matt: “Jennifer, relax. We are still just Matt and Jen. Nothing has changed other than I have given you a ring promising you that I will always love you. We will go home at the end of the week to our little condo with our little dog … we are still the same people.”
me: “I know. But, you know I’m really sick …”
Matt: “Jennifer, I know. Whether I have 2 years with you or 20, it’s more time than I would have without you. You are perfectly imperfect and I want to be with you.”
I began crying … the anxiety melted away.
me: “I know you know all these things, but I hope you understand I just needed to say that.”
Matt: “OK. Is everything OK now?”
me: “Yes. Let’s go find a pub and celebrate.”

Being Awakened at 30

2011-03-01T08:32:00.000-05:00

Me: “Matt, I just want to say something that I’m thinking without judgment or any insinuation. OK?”
Matt: “Um, OK.”
Me: “I’m turning 30 this year.”
Matt: “WHAT? You’re going to be 30?”
Jen: *smiles* “I’m trying to be serious. Just let me get this out.”
Matt: “You’re no fun. OK.”
Jen: “I just realized that I am only on my Tamoxifen for another two years.”
Matt: “I didn’t know you were a Tamoxipro.”
Jen: “Tamoxifen. It’s an estrogen suppressor … a pill I take every night.”
Matt: “Um, OK. So that’s a good thing, right?”
Jen: “Just let me finish … it’s both good and bad. It means that, if we want, we could try to have children in two years when I’m 32. Not that I am implying that we have to …”
Matt: “I get it, Jennifer, you don’t have to peddle.”
Jen: “… OK, well, it also means that the chances of a reoccurrence are greater. It also means that I need to talk to my oncologist about other proactive treatments. I don’t know how to feel about going off the medicine. I guess mixed.”
Matt: “Well, if you want to try and have children we can always try and if you don’t that’s OK, too. If you still want a family, there are plenty of babies that need a loving home. We’ll do what’s best for us when the time comes.”
Jen: “I just can’t believe it’s been three years. I guess it just surprised me when I started thinking about turning 30 and what that meant treatment-wise.”
Matt: “I understand.”
Jen: “That’s all I wanted to say. No insinuations, OK? We just better travel our hearts out the next two years.”

I remember shortly after I was diagnosed with cancer my oncologist told me that there was no time to waste freezing my eggs because the cancer was too aggressive. We needed to start chemo within the week. I was sad and angry. My mother said to me, “Are you upset because the chances of you having children are slim, or because something is being taken away from you?” Such a wise woman. At the time I lashed out at her in anger rambling about always wanting to be a mother, but looking back I know it is because I was being told that I couldn’t have something. I was infuriated. I hadn’t even thought of having a family, but someone telling me I couldn’t (or that the chances were significantly less) enraged me.

This is such a weird statement to make, but it wasn’t until Matt and I decided to raise our puppy, Jasper that a strange maternal feeling swept over me. (I don’t mean to compare my dog to your children—I know logically the two are significantly different, however it was an emotion and instinct I was not accustomed to feeling.) I don’t know what the next few years hold for me, or what my body is even capable of at this point. I do, however, know how strong my spirit is and I am open-minded to the possibility of happily ever after … and even a family.

My Crippled State of Mind

2011-02-24T11:15:00.000-05:00

The pain shot from the outside of my left breast up to my shoulder as I pulled myself out of bed. My breath escaped me. I cranked up the heating pad and laid back down in bed. My tears soaked my hair to my cheeks and left tiny puddles on my pillow case. Jasper became anxious and whimpered running over to lick my face. My little peanut knows me all too well. He’s seen this time and time again.

Some people’s joints act up when the weather changes in an arthritic-nature. When the air pressure changes drastically, I collect fluid where my lymph nodes have been removed and swell to the point of excruciating, piercing pain. The fluid is pleuratic in nature and will move from my lower back, to my breast and then my shoulder and then move again—all up-and-down my left side.

I managed to pull myself together and stepped into the bathroom. I stood facing the mirror in my long-sleeved white Alpha Omicron Pi Alumni shirt that my parents bought me for Christmas and my underwear. I lifted my shirt and looked at my chest to see if I noticed anything different. Running my finger tips along the edge of my left breast I winced in pain. I needed a second opinion.

Matt was sitting in the office writing a paper for class. I approached him saying, “Matt, can you to do me a favor and look at my boobs?” He turned and faced me smiling a little deviously and responded, “Is this a trick question?” After Matt reassured me that the redness was just a result of the heating pad, I laid back in bed with Jasper. It didn’t take long for my jaw to lock and the rush of anxiety to come over me again. I began to shake and Jasper whimpered softly tucking his nose beneath my neck.

Matt came into the bedroom sensing something was wrong, catching me in a panic attack. This caused me to cry even harder.

“I’m scared.”

“Jennifer, take a step back and don’t jump to conclusions. This happens once in awhile, you know what it is.”

“But it’s miserable.”

“I know, but it’s going to be ok.”

“I’m mentally crippled. I don’t want to be like this the rest of my life.”

“Babe, it’s all going to be ok. Trust me. Just relax.”

Sure enough, just a day later the pain and swelling has subsided. Life has resumed as normal. But I know when the weather changes again I will spiral into my crippled state of mind. My good friend Stephanie put it best in a message to me, “Just because the “cancer” is gone doesn’t mean the cancer is gone.” I still can’t seem to escape it.

My Safety Blanket

2011-02-14T20:35:00.000-05:00

Jennifer: I am trying to find a place to donate my wigs.
It is a really hard thing for me to part with them.
I want them to go to a cancer patient.
Matt: That’s good.
Why don’t we take a trip to a hospital and do it in person or something?
Would that mean more?
Or be more meaningful?
Jennifer: Um, well, there was a "wig bin" at my oncology office.
I may contact them and see if they know of any patients that are having financial issues or who are having a difficult time finding a wig.
Matt: Yea
That works too.
Jennifer: I don't know.
I am just weird about it.
I feel like if I get rid of them the cancer will come back.
Matt: No baby.
That’s not true.
Jennifer: I know in my head that it's not true, but I can’t help but feel this horrible anxiety about giving them away.
They were like a safety blanket for so long.
It was like they hid the sickness and I could be normal.
And if I get rid of them my hair will fall out again and I won’t have my disguise.
Matt: Yea.
Everything is going to be ok baby :)

… and to this day I make the effort to research homes for my beautiful wigs, but I still find a reason not to part with them. They continue to keep me safe.

I have cancer again, don’t I?

2010-09-11T13:52:00.000-04:00

Toni: Deep breath, Jennifer. I am telling you that I’m 99% sure this is NOT cancer. This is what we call folliculitis. It is basically an infected pore where a hair is.
me: It sounds like cancer. But my lymph node…
Toni: Yes, the infection has backed up into your lymph node and that’s why it is swollen. Use some hot compresses over the next few days and I’ll give you an antibiotic to take if it does not go away.
me: But what if it’s cancer. (*tears started pouring down my eyes*)
Toni: Jennifer, look at me. I will not lie to you. It is NOT cancer. (*Toni wrapped her arms around me and let me cry while having a panic attack.*)

I blushed and glanced down at the ground in embarrassment as I finished telling my oncologist, Dr. Heyer about my hysterical visit to my primary care doctor, Toni Nelson. Right before I left for Stone Harbor over Memorial Day weekend I found a dime-sized swollen lymph node on my leg and demanded an emergency appointment.

Dr. Heyer looked at me with sympathetic and honest eyes and said, “Do you want to know if this feeling and reaction ever go away?”
I nodded.
“It never goes away, Jennifer. I have patients that have been in remission for decades who come into the office with a bump, scar tissue or other anomaly on their body and their knee-jerk reaction is always cancer.”
“I don’t want to always have this reaction.”
“Jennifer, it’s normal. Now the anxiety you feel when waiting for test results will get easier over time …”
Doubtful, I thought to myself.
“… but the other reaction won’t. And that’s ok. That’s why we are here. If you ever want me to just look or check out something you are concerned about, you can always pop in here. We understand and, believe it or not, it happens often.”
“Well, at least I know I’m not the only crazy patient with in grown hairs.”
Dr. Heyer smiled in a very non-judgmental way, which I appreciated at the moment.

My exam ended with Dr. Heyer believing that I had no need for any imaging since I seemed to be in superb physical health and no oncology appointments for six months. What am I going to do with all my free time!?

Train Screeching to a Halt

2010-06-30T21:05:00.000-04:00

There is a plan we all have in the back of our minds for how our life will unfold. I am still always surprised when the train derails and I have to regroup and face a new life challenge to get back on track.

I had an abnormal pap smear (which I have never had before) and it didn’t find cancer, but it DID find high-risk, suspicious cells. After a colposcopy and a very painful biopsy the cells were found to be concerning, which the doctors felt needed to be eliminated immediately to avoid the cells developing into cervical cancer.

Several weeks after healing from the colposcopy and biopsy, I had cryosurgery, which was one of the most painful and strange experiences of my life. The procedure basically freezes and kills all the cells in your cervix, a lot like freezing off a wart. Once all the skin is shed, I will go back every three months for a repeat pap smear.

After speaking with my primary care physician, oncologist and women’s health specialist, I realized that these high risk cells are not in anyway related to my breast cancer, but because of my history, they wanted to be aggressive and stop these cells in their tracks. (And, yes, I should be able to carry a child still if I choose to in the future.)

I hate always having these medical concerns popping up, but I sure am blessed to have great doctors who are so in touch with my body and professional care. So … I shall wait for my next test in three months in the hopes that my train is running smoothly and back on the track.

Out With the Old and in with Jasper

2010-01-24T18:47:00.004-05:00

I don’t know that I am necessarily “nesting,” but I am completely redecorated my condo and Matty and I are having a baby … well, we bought a puppy.

Two weeks ago, I had my condo painted professionally. I went from warm beige to a cool and contemporary grey blue called French Silver. I love how my home looks brand new and nothing like the place I spent two years being incredibly ill, sleeping on my bathroom floor and fighting for my life. It feels like a new beginning – a place for Matty and I – and it feels amazing.

For several months Matty and I have been looking a puppies online. Twice we fell in love and were disappointed when the puppies we liked had deposits or applications on them already … then we found little Jasper.

Jasper was born on November 14 and is just 10 weeks old. He is a black and tan longhaired Chihuahua that is expected to be 4-4.5 pounds when fully grown. We will travel to the animal rescue farm in Bristol, VA over Valentine’s Day weekend to pick up our baby boy and bring him home.

Now I need to hustle and finish redecorating my home so tiny Jasper doesn’t have to deal with the changes. Matty and I are ecstatic and think this represents a new beginning for our new little family.

01/01/2010: A Couple That Pukes Together, Stays Together

2010-01-01T18:25:00.002-05:00

After spending two days in the ER and tossing nausea pills back and forth with Matty as we laid motionless on my couch, I can honestly say that the swine flu was no joke.

I was shocked that with my compromised immune system that I had not gotten the flu this season. Just when I thought that I had escaped its wrath, Matty and I got incredibly ill. Having just had knee surgery number 14, Matty was unable to drive me to the hospital, so after calling 911 and the EMTs carrying me to the ambulance, I spent New Year’s Eve in the hospital with an IV … just like last year.

Let’s hope this is not the theme for the remainder of the year. My resolution is to take the best care of my body as possible and be healthy. Starting the year with the flu is not making me very optimistic. :(

12/5/2009: Porn Star Nipples

2009-12-17T13:17:00.002-05:00

"Wow, those are like porn star nipples."

My fat grafting and nipple reconstruction was on November, 19, 2009 at Georgetown University Hospital and took about an hour. I woke up from surgery with VERY sore legs. This is where they did liposuction and removed fat to transplant to my breast. I wasn't able to see what they had done to my nipples because I had these cones on to protect them. I felt like Madonna. I, of course, was in normal silly mode and making jokes about the situation and being able to poke people's eyes out with my massive nipples.

It was my boyfriend, Matt's, birthday the day of surgery and waiting in the car I had a cake, candles and plates. Despite the circumstances, my parents and I lit three candles representing past, present and future and sang happy birthday to him in the emergency parking garage. People must have thought we were crazy, but I didn't care -- we needed to celebrate.

I spent the weekend at my parents recovering and nursing my legs that were black and blue from the back of my knees to my hips. I knew it would end up being my legs that would cause the most issues. It was difficult to sleep on my side or even sit for a long period of time because I was so bruised. On day three I was allowed to remove my cones. My nipples were HUGE. My surgeon tried to warn me that they would be big because your body will reabsorb 50 percent of transferred tissue. It was difficult to get used to, since I have been without nipples for a year and a half, but slowly I started to like them. Once I had my stitches removed two weeks later they shrunk and softened.

I now have an appointment on December 28, 2009 to have color matching done for my tattooing. Everything is skin-tone right now, so I am going back to my original plastic surgeon, Dr. Wendy Gottlieb, to have my color(s) selected and then will have that done in February or March 2010 as the nipples need time to heal. I am looking forward to having everything done and being back to "normal." (Whatever that means.)

My friends who have seen my new nipples think they are porn star worthy since they are quite "perky" still. I am told that they will soften more over time, but they will stay pretty alert. I think I can deal with that ...

12/15/2009: A Night to Remember

2009-12-15T18:12:00.001-05:00

“Remember taking the Neulasta shots after chemotherapy and how badly your joints ached? I think that was the worse part for me.”

“For me it was the pain of my hair falling out – no one told me it would HURT.”

It’s interesting how life let’s you go in different directions, but occasionally it will tug you back and force you to reflect on past experiences. This week our Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure team was honored with a dinner at Café Atlantico in D.C. We were ranked number three for fundraising for the month of October due to my friends and family aggressive fundraising over the last year. I was truly honored and grateful. Joining me at the dinner was my girlfriend Sarah.

The evening honored the top teams, which meant I was surrounded with fellow survivors of all ages and life experiences – but all amazing women with heroic stories. There were also national and international representatives from Susan G. Koman there and a young woman who works for the company that does all the advertising/registration for Race for the Cure in D.C.

The two women from Susan G. Komen were intrigued with my story and asked me many questions about my experience, specifically focusing on how young I am. Sarah spent some time retelling the hilarious and ironic stories that surrounded my journey – falling down the stairs at work, having her feel my expanders in the handicapped stall at work, getting hit by a car in the Harris Teeter parking lot, dropping my congratulations cake at my last chemotherapy treatment, and so on.

One woman I met, I instantly gravitated toward. Our timeframe for diagnosis and treatment was similar and I could tell that she, much like me, was still struggling psychologically. I explained that a lot of the events that transpired I couldn’t remember. She said there isn’t one moment that she forgets.

“But is there a day that goes by that you don’t think about it?” she asked.
I stopped for a moment as my throat and jaw gripped tightly … “No. I think about it every day,” I responded with a broken voice.
“Me too,” she said. “I can’t wait until I can go a whole day and feel normal again.”

I dropped Sarah off after an enlightening and emotionally evening. I called my mom (still my rock) and recounted the events of the evening. The tears streamed down my face as I told her about the friends and family members who attended the event and how they shared how difficult it was to watch a loved one fight through cancer – the feeling of helplessness. I continue to remind myself that this didn’t just happen to me, it happened to US. My story was not just my own, but one that was shared over and over again by friends and family. I hope that as I continue to heal and become stronger that my story will continue to help others.

11/16/2009: Eiffel in love with Paris

2009-11-16T22:40:00.006-05:00

“Who just picks up and decides to go to Paris?” asked Meghan and Jorie.
“I guess I do,” I responded with a sly shrug.

There are a number of experiences in our lives that feed our soul. These experiences or moments can be counted on one hand and will forever be imprinted on our memory. Paris marked one of those moments for me.

All my life I have dreamt of visiting Paris. I even took five years of French in school learning about the language and culture. Yet I was always waiting for the right time, or for my finances to be in order, or to have a significant other to share the experience … until I finally woke up one day and thought to myself, what am I waiting for? I deserve this. I have the time, the money and friends who would go with me.

As fate would have it, one of my closest girlfriends, Sarah, needed to escape town just as badly as I did. So we literally booked a trip and took off to Paris on an adventure.

In the midst of lighting a candle for my grandmother in the Sacre Coeur, standing in amazement in front of Notre-Dame, speaking my rusty French with some amazing people I met, riding a statue of a lion at Luxembourg, walking dwarfed in the hall of mirrors in the Chateau de Versailles and sipping cappuccinos in Montmartre with my incredible friend, Sarah, I realized how badly I needed this vacation.

I had taken my summer off from surgery and I thought that would be enough time to give me the psychological and physical break I desperately needed -- but I was wrong. Paris was certainly a welcomed diversion from my surgery this Thursday, but it does not change the fact that I am scared to death. Not just scared of surgery -- it’s much more complicated than that.

You see, every time I go through surgery (and this will be my tenth surgery in 23 months) I have to recover which takes weeks or months. Additionally, I have to learn to accept my deformed body all over again. I understand that I am moving toward a more “normal” state with my physical appearance, but it doesn't change the fact that it is scarring beyond the physical incisions. It is a growing process.

Life is all about learning and growing. I finally took that dream trip that fed my soul and once again I am desperately trying to learn to see myself as imperfectly perfect.

Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers as I go through surgery on Thursday morning at Georgetown University Hospital. I'm calling on angels ...

10/21/2009: Saddle Bags?

2009-10-21T22:51:00.005-04:00

*deep breath* I rolled the piece of gum in my mouth into a ball with my tongue and pressed it against the inside of my top molars. *deep breath* I walked across the room barefoot and breathed in the smell of the stinging alcohol in the antibacterial hand sanitizer. *deep breath* I reached the pastel pink wall where the sun rays danced along the scuffed surface. *deep breath* I turned my back to the wall, looked straight ahead and dropped my medical gown to my wrists. *exhale*

Dr. Nahabedian and his medical assistant Michael spoke to one another in excitement as they reviewed their “work” from my surgery in May. They have never seen an S-Gap procedure long-term and are pleased with my amazing progress. I shared with them that now that my breast has settled I have a dent that runs horizontally across the top of the left breast.

I stood in front of my surgeon and his assistant in my black and white striped panties (which have been coined my “breakout” underwear since I wear them every time I get out of the hospital). They proceeded to pinch my stomach and thighs looking for fat that they can use to transplant into the dent. It is called fat grafting. Dr. Nahabedian ran his finger in a circle around the outside of my thigh.

“You have a little saddle bag we can use.”
“Do you know how offensive that is to say to a woman?”

Dr. Nahabedian laughed and Michael looked very apologetic. (Michael takes everything super serious and doesn’t really get my sarcasm.) Dr. Nahabedian told me to think of fat grafting as a mini liposuction. I basically can choose different places on my body to have him suck out fat, like my (ahem!) saddle bags and that fat will be transferred into the dent in the breast. Amazing process! I was told that I am not allowed to lose any more weight since I am now a whopping 100 pounds. Dr. Nahabedian said he would actually love if I could gain a couple of pounds prior to surgery.

I am having surgery on November 19.

I am told that your body reabsorbs 50 percent of the fat that is transplanted, so sometimes you have to have this procedure twice. (Hopefully mine is a one-time deal.) At the same time that I have my mini liposuction/fat grafting, Dr. Nahabedian is also doing nipple reconstruction. I should get more details in the coming weeks which I will share with you all as I have every other step of the process.

My friends have asked if I am excited or nervous about the upcoming surgery and honestly, I am indifferent. After each surgery I go through a difficult phase of coming to terms with my body again and making peace with the changes – and it is emotionally and physically exhausting. I know I am moving in a positive direction, but it is still hard. The journey continues ...

9/19/2009: The Fuzz

2009-10-21T21:30:00.004-04:00

Standing in the shower I ran my finger across the round white scar next to my left breast. My lips pursed and my forehead crinkled as I desperately searched for the memory that would reveal the reason for this scar. Where did you come from? And why do you look like a shiny pearl now that my golden tan has faded?

At gatherings with my friends we talk about how I have been feeling and my recent health. My response lately has been, “I’m great. I’m on a surgery break.” Other people who don’t know about my journey are quickly brought up to speed and are told that I am a cancer survivor. They listen to stories of my treatment and how strong I was through the process. Words like hero and brave are used to describe me. I find myself listening to the stories as though I am hearing them for the first time -- as though I am having an out of body experience. These stories no longer belong to me ...

I haven’t written in awhile because I wasn’t quite sure how to explain what I have been experiencing. There are huge gaps in the last 21 months that I don’t remember at all, or it takes time to recall the specific events that occurred. I’m not quite sure I really want to remember all of it, to be quite honest.

I know that when people experience trauma in their lives that they subconsciously can block out experiences. I don’t think I necessarily have repressed memory, but there are certainly some moments in my journey that are very fuzzy. Now, the fact that I was on really strong pain pills over the course of nine surgeries can be blamed for some of that “fuzz,” but I honestly believe it is deeper.

Now don’t start worrying, please. I have done some research and am not falling into any of the bad side effects of repressed memory, which can be anything from substance abuse and eating disorders to depression and suicide. I am very happy and am slowly coming to terms with the whirlwind of my journey. Actually, I am taking a vacation to Paris at the end of October. I am so incredibly excited. It is a destination I have wanted to go for a very long time and I deserve it.

I have come to realize that my journey is much bigger than I am. My friends and family retell my stories, because my stories were theirs, too. We all experienced my fight against cancer together. I was never alone ...

8/27/2009: The Result

2009-08-27T22:18:00.003-04:00

With my head against my steering wheel I listened to the sound of my tears hitting against the paper on my lap. *Pat, pat, pat*

I took another breath and no sound came out of my body as another wave of emotion rushed over me. It was as though I was screaming under water and the noise was encapsulated in each tiny bubble that rushed from my mouth up toward the surface of the water.

I crumpled the piece of paper and clutched it to my chest. I repeated the last sentence aloud three times – No evidence of metastatic disease. No evidence of metastatic disease. No evidence of metastatic disease.

I had once again threw cancer the middle finger, ran like the gingerbread man, passed “Go” and collected $200 and cheated death – my PETScan was normal. For once being normal is more than good enough for me.

I had my PETScan last Friday at Reston Hospital. It was supposed to be two weeks ago, but there were some miscommunications and approvals that needed to happen with my new health insurance. Thanks Blue Cross Blue Shield PPO for the complication! So for the last two weeks I have been unable to eat or sleep well due to my anxiety over the pending test. So, I finally had my test on Friday and it was the same routine I have gone through time and time again – fasting, IV, blood sugar check, radioactive injection, wait 45 minutes, under the machine for 25 with my arms over my head in a freezing trailer.

The test showed no cancer and no significant change from my last “clean” PETScan. It did find a new postop change in the left buttock (from my bypass and transplant surgery in May) simply indicating a new surgical site. One finding I was not expecting was that the radiation damage to my left lung has “decreased significantly since prior study.” This is the area my oncologist wanted to keep an eye on to make sure it healed properly.

Who knew my little body had so much vigor after all these months of treatment!?

8/6/09: Practicing My Poker Face

2009-08-06T20:38:00.002-04:00

The past few weeks it has been a challenge to keep my poker face. I notice that I am having trouble eating, sleeping and controling my emotions. Just this week I became very biting in conversations with two people close to me – annoying and confusing them. I try so hard to control what I am feeling, or express it in a coherent way, but I never seem to get it right.

I have a friend who battled testicular cancer over the past month. He is athletic, vibrant, young and successful – but not safe from cancer. I met him the night he was diagnosed and talked with him until the early hours of the morning while he suffered from insomnia leading up to the beginning of his radiation. He had surgery and three weeks of radiation and is healing beautifully. He still is baffled by the fact that he had cancer. I told him that would never go away.

Two other friends I met via my blog while going through treatment have both been diagnosed again with cancer. One friend has colorectal cancer and recently they found nodules that were abnormal. He has started chemotherapy again. And my dear girlfriend who kicked cancer’s butt and was growing out the most beautiful brunette locks found another lump. Despite aggressive chemotherapy and a bilateral mastectomy – residual cancer remained in her body. She will undergo radiation and then additional chemotherapy. She is one of the most amazing women I know. As I listened to her news over the phone I wrapped my other arm tightly around my heaving torso. I listened to her complain about having a new scar and not being able to wear slutty tops anymore and how she was going to be sad if she had to “shave her mullet and start from scratch.” We grasp to those things which are easiest for us to wrap our thoughts around – unfortunately this isn’t something that can be wrapped neatly with a bow placed on top. She continues to say that she has three reasons for doing all this again – her husband and two beautiful children. She is such a beautiful person.

I ache for my friends, but selfishly I fear for my own future. It is easy for me to block out pieces of the last nineteen months and blend in with all the other almost-30-somethings. You can’t see my scars and my short bob (now filled with sunkissed red highlights) does not show evidence of ever having had chemotherapy. I look normal – but I am far from it. I survived breast cancer as a 26 year old and I continue to deal with the physical and psychological scars. I am still anemic, my arm swells from lymphadema, my nails are still discolored and brittle, any injuries take SO much longer to heal, my left breast has a dent, my tastebuds are different – but I am alive and no longer look sick.

Tomorrow I will have a PETScan. It has been four months since my last one and I am extremely nervous considering the recent news of my friends. I continue to think positively, because that’s all I know how to do, but it doesn’t change the fact that the fear still exists. Just because I look healthy, doesn’t mean that this is over for me. My journey continues ...

7/6/2009: Nothing Short of Butterflies

2009-07-06T19:45:00.004-04:00

I know I haven’t written in awhile and I am sorry for that. Several people e-mailed me concerned that something bad had happened. It didn’t – actually just the opposite!

The last eighteen months have been challenging to say the least and I continued to try to advance professionally and academically while fighting for my life. Although I was challenged in my position at Gannett the passion was missing. However, you have to remember that the week I started at Gannett I was diagnosed with breast cancer. The relationships I made there were so vital to my positive attitude and survival. When I needed to vent or cry my co-workers were there to take a walk or console me in the bathroom. That is what made it so hard to leave. In addition, I had spent 18 months emersed in the development of the video product and strategy for the company and wanted to see it through implementation.

My passion has always been in media content development and strategy. I am a firm believer that things happen for a reason and that when one door closes a window opens. As soon as I read the job description sent to me for the Web Content Developer position at Perfect Sense Digital in Reston Town Center my heart started racing. I have told my friends and family that it feels like I am finally home. I love what I am doing, the fast pace, the people (most I worked with at AOL), and the location. I am so incredibly happy!

Around the same time I was contacted by AOL Shopping about coming back as a freelancer and blogging for their website. I write about anything I want, like brands, products, tips and tricks, trends, dating, advice – there is no limit. I have already had four of my features run on AOL.com which is pretty exciting. I find that having this creative outlet has made me feel more fulfilled.

I know this may seem aggressive, but life is too short. These days I refuse to settle for anything less in my life than butterflies and my heart pumping fast.

6/01/2009: Time for a Break

2009-06-01T20:55:00.001-04:00

“Wow I did a good job,” said Dr. Nahabedian.
“Your work doesn’t even come close to your modesty,” I reboked sarcastically.

Both Dr. Nahabedian and I broke into laughter. He began gently moving his fingers around the edges of my left breast. He was surprised by how quickly the scar was healing from the DIEP procedure and that my skin and tissue had softened considerably from the six weeks of radiation I endured last fall.

“So when are we outfitting you with some nipples?” asked my doctor.
“I need a break. I have had so much done to me and I would really like to just enjoy my summer,” I replied.
He responded with a sympathetic nod and wet eyes as he sensed the exhaustion in my response.

I proceeded to show him what had happened now that the tissue and breast has dropped into place. The new tear drop shape is completely symmetrical with the right side, although it left a bit of a dent across the top where it initially sat. My right side is definitely more round and full on top. I explained that the issue is resolved when I wear a bra and everything is pushed into place, but I want it to look better. He suggested fat grafting, but said we should wait three months to see if I drop anymore. We didn’t speak anymore about it since he could tell I was over the topic of an additional procedure for now.

He finished the appointment by taking photos of his “good job” and telling me that I could resume my normal workouts and exercises. I was ecstatic and pleased that he and I seemed to be on the same page about the break I needed so badly.

5/12/2008: DIEP Procedure

2009-05-12T20:38:00.001-04:00

“If I am not allowed a Frappuccino I will surely die,” I said dramatically to my surgeon, Dr. Maurice Nahabedian, while I covered my face and let the warm tears of frustration run down my cheeks. “I haven’t been able to eat or drink anything for over 36 hours and I am losing it.”
Dr. Nahabedian smiled, looked at my mother and said, “Go across the street and get this girl Starbuck’s.”

I don’t think I had fully prepared myself for the severity of this surgery, nor had I realized how big of a deal it is in the medical field. My surgery is called the Superior Gluteal Artery Perforator Breast Reconstruction more commonly called the S-GAP. S-GAP reconstruction uses tissue from the top of the buttock, which contains the upper gluteal artery. During this surgery, a rounded section of skin and fat (and occasionally muscle) is removed from the top of the buttock. After being transferred to the breast, the tissue is shaped to create the breast mound and is attached to the remaining breast tissue. Using complex microsurgical techniques, the blood vessels are reconnected to existing vessels in the area. Only two surgeons on the east coast perform this type of operation, and Dr. Nahabedian is one of them. A modest man with a strong handshake and a compassionate tone to his voice – he is one of the best plastic surgeons in the United States and he is right here at Georgetown University Hospital. How lucky am I!? I know, weird thing to say coming from the girl diagnosed with cancer at the age of 27.

I was prepped for surgery by three eager medical residents who looked at me like a medical miracle. They asked me all sorts of questions, each taking notes in their notepads and studying “my case.” I felt like I was on an episode of ‘House.’ They explained that all the medical students were excited about my procedure and said, “A lot of people are going to see you naked today.” Hilarious! My assistant surgeon was named Michael Cohen and was one of the chattiest doctors I have ever met. He genuinely enjoyed talking to me and was quite concerned that I remain calm.

My surgeon met with me prior to surgery and drew out the plans with a black marker along my body. I shook from the sterile nature of the room and cold air. Cohen reassured me that it would all be OK. Dr. Nahabedian finished prepping me by drawing the blue prints along my butt. Cohen asked questions about the artery Dr. Nahabedian would be removing and what would be landmarks internally when he opened me up. I turned my head around and asked, “Will you be able to reach into the right butt cheek and pull some fat over to fluff my left cheek?” Cohen thought very seriously about the question while Dr. Nahabedian laughed knowing that I was breaking the serious tension and explained that the right side would not be touched in case it ever needs to be used in the future.

So, I was rolled into an 8-hour surgery with my surgeon, assistant surgeon, three medical residents, two anesthesiologists, oh, and just the rest of Georgetown University.
I woke up very quickly and realized I was in the ICU. My Mom was crying asking the nurse to please let her stay (which she did the entire duration of my recovery), the residents and Cohen were in my room rubbing a wand across my breast, and the only thing that hurt was the catheter which no one warned me about! There was so much activity and all I wanted was to eat and sleep -- neither happened for a long time. (I didn’t know until several days later, but Cohen slept next door that night on the ICU floor incase I needed him.) The nurses had to use this tiny machine called a Doppler Radar (I though that was only for weather!) and rub it across the new section of my breast every 15 minutes. You could hear the blood pulsing through the blood vessel they had sewn together.

Dr. Nahabedian explained to my parents after my surgery that they removed the skin, tissue, artery and fat from my left butt cheek and it took three tries to finally get the bypass created in my left breast. The arteries and blood vessels were not the same size so it took some magic from “the plastics” (Georgetown University Plastic Surgery) to make it all work. The first 48 hours are the most critical and you can usually tell whether or not the transferred area will take.

Between visits from my dad, brother, Uncle Chuck, co-workers, friends and boyfriend I was in pretty good spirits. They had to keep reminding me that it was only one to two visitors at a time. I even had an old girlfriend from high school come surprise me who works at Georgetown University Hospital as an oncologist RN. I was enveloped in love and compassion that I felt incredibly strong. My nurse Jenna even sat at the end of my bed at 3am and talked to me for hours about becoming a nurse and how she’s never seen a surgery like mine. Eileen was my other nurse who spent too much time in my room chatting about dogs, so she was moved to the other side of the floor the next day to care for another patient. She would still stop by to chat though. I believe that these young nurses truly connected with me and my journey. They saw themselves or their friends and sisters in me and it made the 1 in 8 statistic all more real. And quite frankly, I was the most fun person on the floor! One of the technicians on my floor was huge like a football player with a deep, soulful voice. His station was right outside of my tiny private room and he would sing me love songs anytime my door would open or he would bring in a tray of food. It was like something out of a movie. When I took a lap around the ICU floor (part of my physical therapy) with my friend Laurie, the technician yelled, “if you run by the pool I’ll kick you out” followed by a loud outbursts of laughs from the whole unit. I think they appreciated my spirit and survivor mentality.

Tuesday I was able to have the catheter removed which I HATED, then the physical therapist started working with me on walking and learning how to use my leg again. This was something else I had NOT prepared for in advance. I choked back tears as I reached for her hand and drug my limp leg as I tried desperately to walk again. I felt humiliated and defeated. My physical therapist was patient and my mother was strong while watching me struggle. I know it could not have been easy for her. I gritted my teeth, pulled my dark locks behind my ears, took a deep breath and pushed myself. It is going to take a hell of a lot more to keep me down.

The medical residents came by each morning at 5:30am with their notebooks to do their checkup. When Wednesday came around “the plastics” still wouldn’t let me eat or drink anything in case I had to go back into surgery quickly. I officially lost it -- I started crying. They must have notified Dr. Nahabedian, because he came in and told me that he had heard how great I was doing and that he would let me have coffee and food. Additionally, he said he heard that I was doing really well with physical therapy, even doing stairs without help, and if I chose to go home Wednesday night he would let me. I stayed until Thursday enjoying my coffee and hospital meals (with my boyfriend sneaking in some funnel cake) and made a pillow nest for the bumpy ride home.

It wasn’t until I got home to my parents that I got to really look at my incisions. I was disgusted with myself (as I always am initially) and even got close to fainting while taking my first shower. The pain goes beyond physical and challenges me psychologically. It took seven days for me to finally look at myself in the mirror and make peace with my new body. (Although now I am back to hating my hair and calling myself Keanu Reeves and pretending to dodge bullets like in the ‘Matrix.’) Despite my family and my boyfriend reassuring me that my butt doesn’t look lopsided and that the lines of my new breast incision were done so incredibly well – I needed to believe it myself.

Tomorrow I see Dr. Nahabedian for my post-op appointment where he will remove the drainage tubes from my armpit and hip that are irritating me and we will discuss my “touch-up” surgery planned for 3 months (August). He believes that he can make my breasts more symmetrical, but

I am operating on little victories for now …

4/27/2009: PETscan Results

2009-04-27T20:37:00.002-04:00

"Jennifer, your PETscan looks amazing ..."

Over the past couple of weeks I have fought a nasty case of bronchitis, gone to several concerts and festivals, took a trip to the beach with my friend Heather, and had my pre-surgery PETscan.

My PETscan was on Friday and the following Monday after work I drove to Reston Hospital and picked up the report without telling anyone. Through the medical “mumbo jumbo” I continued to see the word “normal” repeated. The report talked about my mediport, my “collapsed implant” (which is where they removed my breast on the left side), and something about the top of my left lung. I called my Mom waking her from a nap. “Hello,” she said. “My PETscan was normal,” I said calmly. Silence fell over the phone, and then I heard sniffing. This was the first test I had received that was normal. My family was moved to tears – only this time they were joyful.

The following week I went to see my Oncologist, Dr. David Heyer, to review my PETscan results and get my mediport flushed. (Even though I am no longer receiving treatment I still have to have my port accessed and flushed once a month to avoid infection.) Dr. Heyer entered the exam room with a big smile and a sturdy hand shake. He immediately commented about how long my hair is getting and how he likes it dark.

Opening my huge medical folder he looked over my PETscan images. “Jennifer, your PETscan looks amazing,” he said. I choked on the tears and swallowed hard. He brought the images over to me and sat down. He showed me visually the different things that the report was referencing so that I could see what they were referring to on the images. “So does that mean I can get my port removed on May 4 during my reconstruction?” I asked. “It does,” said Dr. Heyer smiling. “And you know what else? I don’t need to see you back for four months.”

Dr. Heyer did point out in my images a section at the top of my left lung that lit up. Apparently, the six weeks of intense radiation has damaged the top section of my left lung. This will never go away, but should heal and eventually scar inside my body. Dr. Heyer told me to be very aware in case I get a cough or any issues breathing. He said that the intensity of the radiation was necessary and that we will just have to keep a watchful eye on the left lung as we continue with my imaging.

Dr. Heyer listened to my chest and my back focusing on my left lung and said that he believed everything sounded good. In four months we will redo the PETscan and see how it has healed.

Leaving the doctors office the nurses and administration all came out to congratulate me with hugs, kisses and huge smiles. I had forgotten that they have been fighting right along side me in this battle and were experiencing emotions similar to mine. I left the doctors office feeling as though I had been given back some of my independence – some of my freedom. I called my boyfriend and my Mom sharing the good news and my sense of renewal. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and rejoiced in the positive news. Finally!

3/25/2009: Lady's Got Back

2009-03-25T20:35:00.001-04:00

Standing in front of Dr. Nahabadian I removed my gown as directed exposing my beautifully reconstructed right breast and my indention with darkened skin on my left side. His eyes immediately moved to my stomach and his lips curled to one side as though he was puzzled. He rolled forward on his stool and proceeded to run his fingertips down my stomach – as though he were performing a tummy tuck. “Nope, that’s not going to work. I’d have to cut you under the belly button from hip to hip to get the amount of skin and tissue I would need,” he traced imaginary lines with his fingers across my stomach. “You are just so tiny.” He instructed me to turn around where he performed the same kneading strokes over my left shoulder blade. “There’s not enough tissue to work with here either,” he said aloud even though we both knew it would be the case since he could barely pinch any tissue. “Go ahead and pull down your pants,” he asked. With my jeans around my ankles Dr. Nahabadian grabbed at the inside of my thigh. “Eh, still not enough,” he said. I looked at him with desperate eyes. I repeated over and over in my head, “Please find something – ANYTHING to make me whole again.” His eyes squinted in deep thought as his lips tightened. “Turn around for me,” he said nodding as though he had figured out the riddle. Lifting my thong strap he squeezed two handfuls at the top of my right butt cheek. “I knew you had it hiding somewhere,” he said as he gave me a little shake. I couldn’t help but laugh.

My surgery is scheduled for May 7. The procedure takes five hours. I will then spend three days in the ICU, have to take two weeks off of work and will need to take it easy for six weeks as I recover. Ugh, another surgery – but at least this one is making me whole again. The surgery is very tricky since I am so petite and my skin has been severely compromised due to the six weeks of radiation I endured. Dr. Nahabadian will have to reconnect each of the blood vessels in order to ensure that the tissue and skin has healthy blood flow. Unfortunately, five percent of these procedures are failures and I have to understand that the new skin and tissue may not take to the damaged area.

Prior to surgery I have to have another PETscan to make sure that I am cancer-free. It is hard to believe that it has already been three months since my last one. If the scan comes back clean, then I will have my mediport removed during my May 7 surgery, which makes me ecstatic. I hate my stupid port. I also need to talk with the Infectious Disease doctors, who saw me both times in the hospital when I had infections, in order to determine which antibiotic I need to go on prior to my surgery – that way we hopefully can avoid an infection.

The purpose of this surgery is to successfully transplant my skin and tissue. I am trying to prepare myself mentally that the new tissue and skin may not initially resemble a breast. In three months I may need a “touch up” surgery in order to tweak Dr. Nahabadian’s work and make sure that I am as symmetrical as possible.

Who would have thought that my butt would make a great breast? So now what are we going to do to reconstruct my butt? Ah, the plot thickens.

To be continued ...

3/9/2009: The Specialist

2009-03-09T20:32:00.002-04:00

“I want you to meet with Dr. Nahabedian at Georgetown University Hospital,” said my plastic surgeon, Dr. Wendy Gottlieb. I went to visit Wendy last Friday to have my stitches removed and didn’t realize that I would come out of her office with another big decision looming.

Once my stitches came out and I was bandaged back up, we chit-chatted some about my hospital stay. Wendy said that all the nurses still ask her how I am doing and were so incredibly touched by my story. She said, “You sure do make an impact on everyone you meet.” She then asked me about “this boyfriend” that all the nurses were talking about who would come to my room and curl up on my bed with me every day. “Well, I think you deserve something happy and positive after all that you have been through. Let’s get you reconstructed before the summer … or the wedding gown for that matter,” she said. I shot her a dagger-look that quickly turned to a smile.

My reconstruction is more complicated than other women, because I am very petite. There are a couple of different options: (1) latissimus dorsi myocutaneous back flap procedure which involves taking skin and tissue from my back, cutting the muscle and wrapping it through my armpit to my left breast, (2) TRAM (transverse rectus abdominis musculocutaneous) flap procedure which takes the muscle as well as the skin and fat from the abdomen to sculpt a new breast. However, this can cause complications like abdominal weakness and future back pain because the patient is left with no abdominal muscles, or (3) a procedure that Dr. Nahabedian performs called the DIEP (deep inferior epigastric perferator) flap procedure. The surgeon separates the artery and vein from the muscle in the stomach and then attaches the tissue to the breast site with sutures that are thinner than a hair. Less than one percent of women have this kind of reconstruction, but it ensures that the fresh skin/tissue has a good supply of blood, which has been an issue in my previous reconstruction.

I asked Wendy which surgery she would suggest for me. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot over the last three weeks and going back and forth with the pros and cons for each. I honestly don’t know,” she responded. “I just hate to think about you having a huge scar across your back when you can hide the one on your stomach under most swimsuits.”

So, I am either going to have a large scar across my back or my stomach in order to create a new breast. The idea of having another surgery makes me ill, but to then think about another part of my body being sliced and diced makes me want to just quit all together. I want to be whole again, but this process is exhausting mentally, emotionally and physically.

I meet with Dr. Nahabedian on March 20 to determine if I am a candidate for the DIEP surgery. I have until late April or early May to weigh my options and decide what I want to do with my body. I feel like Humpty Dumpty and that it is taking all of NOVAs plastic surgeons and doctors to put me back together again.

3/2/2009: Prosthetic Shopping

2009-03-02T20:30:00.001-05:00

Looking around the lingerie section at Nordstrom’s it didn’t take long to realize that they didn’t have any prosthesis on display. I was approached by a woman in her late thirties with long black hair that ran down her back. She had rosy cheeks and a sweet smile. She asked how she could help me. I looked around and once I realized that no one was in ear shot I responded.

"I had a mastectomy and need a prosthetic," I said in a quiet voice.

Not missing a beat she asked, “Did you have a single or double mastectomy?”

“Well, my story is complicated. I had a double, but I have one implant, so I really just need one. Do I have to buy them as a set.”

“No, not at all. You can purchase just one.“

She escorted me into the dressing room to the largest room in the back. Before going into the room she turned to me and said, “Oh, and my name is Angel.” I smiled and introduced myself. I thought to myself, what are the chances!? She ushered me into a room wallpapered in toile with luxorious seats. It was beautiful. My heart was beating fast and I wasn’t sure what to expect next.

She asked which type of prosthesis I was interested in while she listed off a few options. I shrugged and told her I had no idea since I had never done this before. She gave me a genuine smile and said, “I will bring back a few options for you to try.” Before leaving she asked if I prefered trying on the prosthetic privately, or if I wanted her help.

“At this point everyone has seen my deformed body. If you can stomach it, you are welcome to stay.”

“I understand and please know that I have been doing this for many years and have fitted many woman who have had mastectomies. I will take good care of you.”

She left and I took my clothes off. I ran my fingers along my incision and grew more anxious and nauseous. Looking at myself in the mirror was disgusting. In addition, I had huge bruises on the sides of my waist from the shots I was given while in the hospital.

Angel returned with a box and a bra. I stood infront of her with my single breast exposed and tons of scars and bruises. She never diverted her eyes from mine. She was amazing.

"I am going to guess that you are wearing a 34B … you should be in a 32C.”

“Really!?”

“Try this on and you’ll see.”

The bra she had brought me was a full-coverage 32C and it wasn’t an ugly bra either. It had beautiful lace straps and lace across the back. I put it on and it fit like a glove. She handed me the prosthetic and showed me how to position it inside the cup of the bra. Like putting in contacts for the first time, it took a little practice. She left to find a fitted t-shirt so that I could see how it looked underneath clothing. Once I had the shirt on I began looking at myself sideways in the mirror and admiring my perfect, curvy body.

“I don’t mean to offend you, but you look so young to have battled cancer.”

“That’s beacause I am. I found my tumor when I was 25.”

Angel shook her head and said, “It makes me so angry.”

I bought two bras and my left breast prosthetic that evening from a woman named Angel who treated me with the utmost compassion and understanding.

Angel walked me down the hallway to the escalator. Once we got there the tears swelled in my eyes and my heart felt so renewed. Angel put out her hand and I wrapped my arms around her in a full embrace. “Thank you for making me whole again. You will never know what your kindness has meant to me.” I pulled away and a single tear ran down Angel’s face. I will never forget her.

2/9/2009: The Nightmares

2009-02-09T20:27:00.001-05:00

Submerged in cool water the sheer white gown clung to my skin. My long black ringlets danced in front of my face. My ears filled with water and buzzed calmly giving silence to everything around me. I looked to the surface of the water where I saw angels and demons circling vigorously above. I released all of the air from my mouth watching the tiny bubbles dance quickly toward the light. I closed my eyes and was peaceful.

Opening my eyes I was engulfed in the darkness of my room. I waited a couple of seconds, and then gasped for air. My dreams were becoming more vivid and I knew this meant that things were about to change significantly. I noticed a severe pain in my left breast. Sitting on my bathroom floor I held my knees to my chest and rocked myself back and forth. I was dizzy and nauseous from anxiety. I knew something was wrong. How could I get sick the day before my biopsy?

Within a couple of hours I was admitted to Reston Hospital and was started on a series of antibiotics through my IV. That evening my plastic surgeon, Dr. Gottlieb came to see me. She reviewed a couple of options for surgery. It only took a couple of minutes and I told Wendy to remove my implant and not replace it. My mother looked at me wide-eyed and reiterated what the surgery meant. I nodded with a knot in my throat and said, "I know -- I will lose my breast." I asked Dr. Gottlieb to also remove the scar tissue and lymph node on my right side while she had me under anesthesia. I figured it made sense to just get it all over with at once.

The infectious disease doctors noticed a murmur in my heart beat and so following surgery I had an echogram done. I cannot even stomach explaining this test even now. It was truly excruciating since they had to rub and push against the crater that was now my left breast. The doctors were worried that the infection had moved to my heart. Luckily they reported back that my heart was "so incredibly strong." My parents burst into tears hearing the news.

My body was not so lucky though when it came to the infection. The tests found that I had a bacteria much like an intestinal infection (urinary track infection) in my breast. I asked my oncologist if this meant that I touched my vagina then my boob. He laughed and said no, but that it was good to see I hadn't lost my sense of humor. I then proceeded to tell everyone who entered my room that my vagina had made me sick. Stupid vagina! Additionally, the tests found that I had a contaminant infection in my mediport. I am now on a series of strong antibiotics for the next couple of weeks to bring my body back to life.

Dr. Gottlieb removed two areas of scar tissue from my right armpit area. I have a teeny incision about an inch long that itches like crazy! My doctors believe that the smaller piece of scar tissue is what was reported as a "questionable lymph node" on my PETscan. Both pieces of scar tissue were dissected and tested. NO CANCER WAS FOUND. I am elated. I will be tested again in a couple of months once my body has bounced back from this surgery and the inflammation has gone down. I will have check-ups every three months to ensure that I remain cancer free.

I was in the hospital four days and despite the cancer-free news, endless love and support of friends and family and the compassion of my nurses and doctors there was a looming sadness for the loss of my left breast. My last day in the hospital, Dr. Gottlieb arrived to my room to check my incisions and remove my drainage tube. She was bandaging me back up and the tears started rolling down my face. She sat on the edge of my bed. I said, "I know I am cancer-free and that I should be so happy, but I am consumed with the loss of my breast." Dr. Gottlieb said, "Jennifer, I am reconstructing one of my patients breasts this month and she is 50 – vanity is real no matter the age. It doesn't matter if you are 27 or 50 – you are a woman and you have lost something that defines you physically in that way. Don't be ashamed for feeling the way you do … you are entitled. And believe me that every woman working on this floor who has been changing your bandages, administering your medicine, or checking your vitals aches seeing what you are going through." It will be two to three months before I will have surgery to reconstruct my left breast. This will entail taking skin, tissue and muscle from my back or stomach to create a new flap for my breast and putting in a new implant. The good news is that the new skin will respond much better than the radiated skin, it will be done by swimsuit season … and I will be able to upgrade.

Leaving the hospital my nurses cried and hugged me. Many of them remember me from my other stays. Like Dr. Gottlieb had described, I saw the pain in their eyes -- they ached for me. Perhaps they were happy it wasn't them or imagined themselves or their daughters in my place. Regardless, I just hope I made an impact. Once I arrived home I unpacked my things.

Dr. Gottlieb had left two pink Victoria Secret bags in my hospital room. One bag contained prosthetic inserts for my bra. They other bag … two sets of beautiful lingerie and Godiva chocolates. As a woman, Dr. Gottlieb also understood the pain and the loss I was experiencing. She is a class act. I was moved to tears by her kindness and compassion.

Despite my pain, I am not ready to stay submerged in the cool waters of my subconscious. As long as my heart is strong, my spirit is vibrant and my vagina is kept clean, I will continue to fight. Keep circling angels and demons above the thin surface that currently separates us ... for my work here is not done.

2/2/2009: New Lump

2009-02-02T20:22:00.000-05:00

I unbuttoned my blouse, took his hand and slipped it under my bra. I guided his fingers to the lump and said, "What the f&%k is that?" His eyes got bigger as he started pressing on the lump and pinching it between his fingers. "It feels like it is sitting on your rib. I'm going to need you to undress and put on a robe so I can examine you," said my oncologist, Dr. Heyer. He left the room and I crumbled into the chair. My jaw clenched with the onset of an anxiety attack and I could feel my heart surging out of control.

I was in the oncology office for my second to last Herceptin treatment and had not intended to talk to Dr. Heyer about my new found lump until I saw him in the hallway speaking to his assistant. I passed by making idle chit chat with the nurses and doctors. They all marveled at my thick black locks and gave me lots of loving hugs. They had all experienced my journey and were elated to see me healthy. Dr. Heyer must have noticed that I was acting different. He said, "Do you need to talk to me?" as he walked toward the conference room. I said, "Yes, but I need you to feel me up." He said, "Oh – then we'll need an exam room." (Is everyone just so used to my inappropriate comments that they just ignore them now?)

Dr. Heyer pulled my gown open and moved my implant away from the lump to ensure that it wasn't just the edge of the implant. He said, "This doesn't feel like a tumor, Jennifer. This feels like scar tissue or part of the implant. I can move it around. Talk to Wendy [my plastic surgeon] on Monday and have her look at it." He left the room and the tears ran down my face. Thank God I don't have cancer again.

Today I went to see Dr. Gottlieb (my plastic surgeon) to have my stitches removed from my left breast. I took her hand as I had Dr. Heyer's and laid it on the lump next to my right breast. She looked at me concerned. "I think we should biopsy this. With you, we'd rather be safe then sorry." I was shocked. I told her about my recent PETscan and her office called over to get the results. At the same time Dr. Gottlieb called my surgeon, Dr. Mason to get a second opinion on the biopsy.

"I have your PETscan results and I want to go over them with you. I am not good at reading these things, so I need for you not to freak out when I tell you what it says." I was numb and staring blankly at Dr. Gottlieb. Her lips were moving but all I could hear was the high-pitched horn of a truck running me over. "… newly enlarged right axillary lymph node measuring 13mm with abnormal FDG uptake with SUV of 2.6 is suspicious …" WTF was happening? I have cancer again … but on the other side??? But I did everything right, even giving up my right breast to prevent this. How did this test know that I drove an SUV? How could this happen twice to the same person???

I heard nothing else she told me besides the fact that I have to have a biopsy on Thursday morning in Arlington to test both the mystery lump (which everyone thinks is scar tissue) and now my "newly enlarged right axillary lymph node measuring 13mm." Walking alone to my car at Reston Hospital I called my mother. "I have bad news and I have bad news. The lump needs to be biopsied and I think I have cancer again." Silence. How many times must my family bend before we eventually break?

Dr. Heyer called me to review the report. I was in a meeting with my team at work and scrambled, stumbling over a chair to exit the room quickly. My voice shook on the phone with him while my throat tightened to keep me from bursting into tears. "Did you see the report? What is going on? I did everything right. How could I have cancer again? What do I do?" He waited patiently for me to get out everything that had built up for the last two hours.
He explained that he hadn't received the actual images yet (just the written report) so he doesn't exactly know what we are dealing with. He said that this lymph node had an SUV of 2.6 and my previous tumors had an SUV of 17 and 18, so this one is not 100 percent identifiable as cancer. He said it is very possible that the lymph node is simply inflamed from the surgeries I have had and that he isn't convinced that it is cancer. I told him how confused I was due to the fact that I never had cancer on my right side. He said that cancer is always a possibility for me but that he finds it highly unlikely. Even so, it needs to be tested so that we know for certain.

Thursday I will have my biopsy …

1/27/2009: Done

2009-01-27T20:20:00.000-05:00

I'm done.

It's hard to believe that a year ago at the age of 26 I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I have had six surgeries, 18 weeks of chemotherapy, six weeks of radiation, four heart scans, two PETscans, intense anxiety attacks, vivid nightmares, more blood work than any one person should ever have to get done (how is there even any left?), six implants (and to think – most people are content with two), too many sleepless nights to count, pillowcases soaked with tears, moments of surreal clarity, people moving in and out of my life faster than my hair growing back in and tremendous growth work. This is a journey that shook me to the core, opened my eyes to true love and beauty and changed me forever.

This week is an important one for me. Not only does it mark my one year cancerverary, but I will have my second to last cancer treatment and a PETscan to ensure that I am still "clean" and there is no reoccurrence. (Don't think for a moment that my stomach doesn't turn when I think about the PETscan results.) If my PETscan goes well, then my next surgery will be the first week of March to have my mediport removed since my treatments will be over. I told my oncologist last week that I wanted it out as soon as possible. He responded with a huge smile and said, "You are like no other cancer patient I have ever dealt with. Usually patients want to keep it in until they have a couple of tests and get a little … further out." He said, "I am just in awe of your drive and passion for life." I smiled and said, "If cancer were my boyfriend we would have broken up a long time ago. I'm done."

The phrase "I'm done" has been used a lot in my life lately. I'm done living in the gray -- everything is now falling very clearly into blacks and whites. I described to my friends that I did a little clean sweep of my life and relationships. I took a step back and logically (yes, Steve, I can be logical) and systematically categorized things that were positives and negatives in my life. Those things that I deemed positive I will invest more time in. Those things that were negative that I cannot change, I developed a new way to approach them and those that I could change, I cut. I'm done.

I have made a decision about my reconstruction – I am taking a much needed break. Since my stint in the hospital over the holidays, I had another surgery a couple of weeks ago where my plastic surgeon swapped my implant (again!) and redid my incision since it wasn't closing properly. This means that I was also put on two more weeks of strong antibiotics since I still have an open wound which can get infected easily because of my immune system. Blah! The skin on my left side is having such a difficult time healing where it was radiated. I get my stitches out February 2 and I am praying that this time my skin will cooperate and stay closed. This year I am going to focus on getting my body healthy and giving it some time to heal. In a year, I will then finish my reconstruction and make any necessary "tweaks" to the girls at that time. I have been through so much and am exhausted on all levels. I'm done.

My healing is just beginning. I pulled my wigs out the other day and was prepared to donate them when I broke into tears clutching them to my chest – I am not ready to part with them just yet. They serve as something more than just wigs. I know it sounds ridiculous, but there are a couple of things of that nature that I still need to work through, like eating asparagus again (the smell still makes me violently ill like it did during chemotherapy). I know time heals all wounds, but this little 98 pound body is torn and tattered for fighting for an entire year. I'm done.

1/3/2009: I'm a Survivor

2009-01-03T20:17:00.000-05:00

I was going to write a blog entry about how my holidays sucked because I spent five days in the hospital and then a couple more at my parents house recouping from a horrible infection and yet another surgery -- until last night.

Referring to myself as a survivor and believing that I am a survivor are two totally different things. For the last several weeks (and possibly months) I have been caught up in my very own pity party instead of staying focused and continuing to fight. My priorities shifted and I wanted to pretend like none of this ever happened.

Last night I played a game called "Would You Rather … ?" (Seriously fun game!) and when my friends all responded differently then I did to a question, I immediately knew why. I was asked if I would rather die in an airplane crash or survive and eat the dead passengers. I immediately answered that I would eat the dead passengers despite my other friends agreeing that they would all rather die. My argument was that I have fought too hard and would do whatever it took to survive. (A bit of a stretch? Eh. Would I really eat a dead person? I don't know … maybe. After all, my mom insists that I look like a vampire now that my blood count is low, my skin is pale and my hair is coal black. This is just another reason why Edward Cullen and I should get married. Sorry, I digressed. Am I a little mentally unstable? Perhaps. But I found my own response quite interesting.) These last couple of days have tried me to my core and the sassy spirit I once had has returned. Cancer picked the wrong bitch.

Let me explain what happened over Christmas. I awoke Christmas morning at my parents' house in horrible pain. I figured perhaps I overdid it at Pilates or yoga that week, or that the gifts were too heavy that I carried down three flights of stairs at my condo complex. I popped two Vicodin and went into the bathroom to survey the damage. My left breast was swollen to my collarbone and was the size of a soccer ball. My skin was severely black and blue. After opening presents and eating breakfast I returned to bed and slept in to the afternoon. I couldn't even wear the outfit I brought because of the swelling. After dinner I asked my Mom to take my temperature, which registered twice at 102. I called Dr. Wendy Gottlieb (my plastic surgeon) who was on holiday in Pennsylvania. She asked a number of questions and then told me to go immediately to the ER. It only made sense that my family end our year the same way we began it … at Reston Hospital with our hearts in our throats.

The doctor in the ER examined me and quickly pointed to my belly button ring indicating that he had found the problem. (We all had a much-needed giggle.) After showering me with compliments about how beautiful my eyes are and how gorgeous he thinks I am he began running all the necessary tests – blood, urine, ultrasound, x-ray, swab of my nose and breast incision … everything but the colonoscopy. (Darn -- perhaps next time.) My blood work came back with my white cells elevated, and low iron (hence the pale skin) and potassium. The ER doctor called Dr. Gottlieb and they decided to start hitting me with the strongest antibiotics they had in hopes that the left breast would react positively. I was admitted into the hospital and told that I may lose my breast for the second time. I was seething inside, but too sick to even complain.

I spent several days bleeding out of my incision and getting pumped with antibiotics through my IV. I barely had enough energy to lift my head. Dr. Felice who is the head of the oncology practice at Reston visited me daily with magic tricks to lift my spirits. I quickly fell for him. My room was constantly occupied by friends and family … and always my Rock (Mom) who never left my side. It was that Saturday that Dr. Gottlieb called me and told me she was returning from vacation to "sort me out." Upon her arrival, she quickly examined me and determined that she needed to "go in, clean things out, and swap the implant." That night I went to bed and with plenty of Vicodin in my system had a conversation with my body, which unbeknownst to me, my mother overheard. I promised my body that I would fight hard and take good care of it if it could just kick into gear and help me out. I can only do so much from the mind, heart and soul – sometimes you need the body to play a part.

Sunday I was in surgery. A bleeder was found with a large hematoma. It was removed, cleaned up and a brand new implant was put in place. It wasn't until 48 hours later, and watching plenty of 'SpongeBob Squarepants' and 'House,' that we found out that the hematoma had group b strep inside of it. Luckily the infection had not moved to my blood stream or anywhere else in my body or breast. My parents left the room after receiving the news and cried in the hallway with my nurses. (I don't think they thought I knew.) I was finally released on 12/30 with pain pills, iron pills, a strong antibiotic – the list goes on. I spent several days at my parents house recouping. The last night I was there I awoke to our little Yorkshire terrier sleeping on my belly with her head resting in my cleavage. (It pleases me that someone is enjoying the fruits of Dr. Gottlieb's labor.)

Now, I am not out of the woods just yet. I have two weeks of strong antibiotics, four weeks of no physical activity and my blood will be tested again at the end of the month. My blood count being bad leaves me open to more infection and even the return of the big C. It is imperative that I get my body strong and back on track. I am on lots of pills (gag!) and eating tons of greens and red meat. I saw Dr. Gottlieb this past Friday and she said that my recovery is simply incredible from a cosmetic standpoint. She reminded me how bad my blood work was and that I need to fight hard now to get strong so that I don't have to lose my breast for a third time.

In my most vulnerable hour I asked my friend JB for the humor in all of this and his response just about sums it all up … "Well, here's the humor. You get laid off and then hired but then you get dumped but then you find independence but then you get cancer and lose a boob but then you get new boobs but then you get sick but soon you'll get better." Life goes on and I can only fight for a healthier and stronger new year. Just know that if we're in a plane crash and you die … I will eat you. I'm a survivor!

12/16/2008: Infection Strikes

2008-12-16T20:15:00.000-05:00

I am convinced that the world is a rollercoaster and that I am not strapped in. I thought my emergency surgery last Tuesday was going to be a breeze. I imagined that I would wake up from surgery, have some tightness in my chest with a little discomfort, be reunited with my family, order a semi-edible meal and sleep in a semi-comfortable bed, then head home the next morning. I was sorely mistaken.

Before my surgery several nurses came into my room to prep me. They used these sanitizing wipes to wash my entire body before I got into the bed. They said because of my compromised immune system from chemotherapy that they had to take every possible precaution. Shortly after I was cleaned my plastic surgeon arrived and marked my body to get me ready for surgery. My parents sat with me in the final moments before they took me back. Once I was in the room a large man entered. It was my surgeon, Dr. Kenneth Mason who originally diagnosed my cancer. He was there doing other surgeries but wanted to see me before they put me under. We chatted briefly about how far I had come in my journey and my black hair. The anesthesiologist started my drip. The room started to swirl, Dr. Mason leaned over and kissed me on the cheek telling me that it was all going to be okay and I felt the tears swell.

I woke up in recovery with horrible pain in my left breast and side. I had a huge, white blow-up contraption lying on top of me that looked like a floatation device for the pool that you use to float around and sunbathe on. It was pumping in hot air. The nurse explained that my temperature was incredibly low and they had to get it back up quickly. She continued checking my temperature and stayed with me in order to gage my pain. She explained that my plastic surgeon Dr. Wendy Gottlieb had done a lot of work on my left side and said that I would be very uncomfortable when I woke up. I continued asking for pain medicine and inquired as to when I could go to my room. She said not until I could go longer than eight minutes without asking for painkillers.

I watched as the woman across from me who had just had a mastectomy tried desperately to pull out her drainage tubes. Several nurses ran over and strapped her arms down as she screamed. My heart ached. Another nurse came into my curtained-off area and said an acronym starting with ‘S’ and ending in ‘D’. I proceeded to respond to her in a loud voice explaining that I was clean and did not want any STDs. I told her to “keep her bugs to herself.” Then the nurse next to me mentioned something about a scrotum which made me laugh like a 10-year-old and I then yelled “scrotum” at the top of my lungs. I’d like to say that most of this was due to the medicine, but honestly who knows. I decided I needed to pee and was given a bucket to sit on. My attempt was unsuccessful as my bladder was not cooperating, so when I laid back down I noticed the whole left side of my gown was covered in blood. I screamed for the nurse. She ripped my gown off, applied a folded gauze pad and told me to apply pressure. I was pressing on my breast as the pain pulsed through my whole body. The nurse ran to call Dr. Gottlieb. The gauze pad was reinforced with lots of sticky plastic tape to keep pressure on the leaky incision and I was given a new gown and a warm blanket.

Once I arrived in my room I was given a morphine button which allowed me to administer pain medicine once every 10 minutes. My pain was now under control. I had two contraptions strapped to my legs that continued to fill with air then deflate in order to keep me from getting blood clots. I must have been allergic to them because I broke out in hives and welts all over my legs and could not stop scratching them. I finally ripped them off that evening and tucked them under my covers. I finally had to pee and called the nurse. She told me that I needed to go in the bucket in my bed. I assured her that “my cup would runneth over,” but she insisted. I was right and she was wrong. The nurse told my mom not to make a big deal about me peeing all over my bed since she didn’t want to embarrass me. My mom laughed and said, “You don’t know my daughter.” We all had a pretty good laugh about it. The next time I told the nurse I had to pee she helped me out of bed. Guess she learned her lesson. When you gotta go you gotta go.

It is no surprise that I am cranky and miserable being slowed down and achy only a week after surgery. Not to mention that the results are not to my liking at all. My surgeon opted to go with the smaller size implant that I had picked out, however my skin is still very tight so the implants are smooshed. My left breast is very swollen and black and blue. The swelling runs all the way down my left side to my hip bone.

On Friday I had a follow-up appointment with Dr. Gottlieb and she informed me that when they went into my left breast that there was a lot of “gunk” that had built up between the expander and my skin due to the radiation. She said they had to scrap and clean and scrap and clean again. I told her about how unhappy I was with the results and she told me that I need to wait 1 to 3 months for the implants to settle into place. She said that if I am still not happy in 3 months that we will revisit the issue but right now I have to heal. I am devastated by the way I look physically and am trying desperately to be patient, but I am wearing thin at this point.

Thankfully my family was there by my side and my friends came to visit me. They all dealt with my Percocet infused blabber and tear-filled rants about how I am miserable and hate my body. Just like my mastectomy, this surgery has brought with it insecurities, psychological challenges, anxiety and depression. I’m not going to create an illusion that this is all easy and that I am happy. I am all out of faith at this point and that’s simply how I feel. I am not sure how much more I can endure.

12/7/2008: Surgery Moved

2008-12-07T20:13:00.000-05:00

Update: Surgery has been moved to tomorrow (Tuesday) at Virginia Hospital Center at 2:40pm. I will be spending the evening in the hospital due to my skin complications. I will most likely stay with my parents Wednesday evening since I won't be totally mobile still.

I fear that things have gotten worse. As I was getting ready for a party on Saturday night I noticed that my incision across my left breast was black and blue and the blood vessels were bright red. I called my plastic surgeon on her emergency line and she told me that my skin was compromised from radiation and that my incision was starting to open.

I went to Reston Hospital Sunday morning and my plastic surgeon, Wendy Gottlieb was there in sweats with her three-month-old little girl in tote. She checked my incision and then placed a large needle through my breast into my expander. She removed 25cc of saline and then while pulling the needle out stopped outside the expander and pulled out fluid that had built around my expander. She removed 35cc of fluid total in order to alleviate pressure on my incision where my skin has become incredibly thin.

My plastic surgeon and I selected two sizes of implants and most likely I will have to go with the smaller size due to the fact that my skin is so compromised. Dr. Gottlieb says that the fact that my boobs are retaliating now is odd, but not completely unheard of. She said that radiation breaks down the skin over time and that mine is apparently happening now. Just in time for surgery … lucky me! In the interim, if my incision opens further I have to pack it with Neosporin, keep it covered and start taking an antibiotic. I am keeping my fingers crossed that it will hold up one more day.

I have real mixed emotions about this surgery. I wish I could say that I was in a great frame of mind, but I'm not. I feel deafeated although I know that is not the full story when looking at the big picture. I am simply exhausted from fighting and I want so badly to be done with all this. These expanders have been incredibly uncomfortable and I long to be able to sleep on my stomach or even my side comfortably. It is hard to explain how they feel. I guess the best description is that they feel like bricks sitting on my chest. They are hard, don't move and are incredibly heavy. But I have also grown accustomed to them and finally accepted the way my body looks. Now I have to fight that vanity battle all over again.

Keep me in your thoughts tomorrow and I will write a blog entry when I am on the mend.

12/5/2008: Thankful List

2008-12-05T20:09:00.001-05:00

Thanksgiving marks some difficult moments in my life, such as when my grandmother passed away and when I found the tumor under my arm that resulted in my cancer diagnosis. It was only a year ago that before going to bed I rolled over on my left side and felt a sharp pain in my armpit. I knew at that moment that something was seriously wrong with my body, but I never expected it to be cancer. It is hard to believe that I have been sick and fighting for my life for over a year. It is overwhelming, even now.

My friend Bronwyn said it best when she texted me on Thanksgiving morning and told me to try and celebrate how far I’ve come and all of the Happy Thanksgiving memories I have made in the past. Despite the difficult moments in my life, I took this holiday to relax and truly reflect on all the wonderful things in my life. If you know me, you are aware that I am not one to mope and be negative, especially with so much yummy food beckoning me. So on Thanksgiving I ate, drank, watched football, texted my friends Happy Thanksgiving, laughed as our tiny Yorkie, Abigail Marie barked at herself in the fireplace and curled up in my parent’s big comfy chair while my Mom played with my hair.

I decided to make a list of the top 10 things I am thankful for in my life. I shall not leave you in suspense any longer for this list is quite epic.

10. FaceBook: I know, being thankful for an online social network seems ridiculous in theory, however FaceBook has brought so many good friends back into my life or simply gave me access to their pages where I can stalk them for hours at a time. Either way, it has been entertaining, consuming and satisfying. Thank you Mark Zuckerberg for creating FaceBook from your Harvard dorm room.

9. Dancing & Singing: I have attended weddings, birthday parties, going away events … you name it, and I have done it over the past few months. I have even gone so far as to sing for four hours straight and lose my voice playing Rock Band at a party. I belted Tina Turner ‘Private Dancer’ and ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’ from Evita karaoking. I have been out with my girlfriends dancing until 4 a.m. and even breaking it down in my underwear in the living room by myself. I have a new lease on life and I am partying like a rockstar.

8. Traveling: I can’t sit still for too long and being grounded in Northern VA during treatment and surgery was painful for me. Not that I don’t like it here, but I get bored easily and require a change of scenery. I blame it on being a Sagittarian. One weekend in November I visited my sorority sister Nicky in New York City and the next I was in Los Angeles with my friend Bronwyn. These trips reinforced that I am not a victim, but instead am a survivor. I was renewed, although I came home and got a terrible sinus infection. It was totally worth it!

7. Yoga: I started taking yoga about three years ago with my friend Marisa and never before has it been such an important part of my life. On days when I could barely walk or talk, I would lie on my yoga mat and follow some simple breathing and stretching exercises. I was able to meditate and from time to time would even cry during the sessions from letting negative energy and thoughts go. I was focusing solely on healing my body, empowering my mind and strengthening my soul. It made me feel better and for those moments I was able to leave cancer behind and connect with myself.

6. Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwiches: I didn’t realize how bad my taste buds had become from the chemotherapy and all the testing. Everything had this weird vegetable-like taste or metallic flavor. It wasn’t until the afternoon I arrived home from New York that I had my first peanut butter and jelly sandwich in years. I drooled down my face as I relished in the powerful texture and sweetness that the sandwich possessed. I know it sounds stupid, but imagine everything tasting like brussels sprouts for six months and then all of a sudden you can taste a PB&J. It was amazing! I have had seven PB&Js since.

5. Jurassic Park: Now I know this seems completely absurd and especially listed over PB&J, but Jurassic Park heals all my wounds. If you know me well, then you know that I am psycho for JP. “Clever girl” gets me every time and although I have watched the movie 50-some times; I still sit on the edge of my seat and yell at the TV for the kids to hide in the kitchen while being stalked by the velociraptors. Without Jurassic Park, I don’t know where I would be. (Kori, Lord of the Rings is right behind JP. I am psycho for it, too.)

4. Hair: I HAVE HAIR … and just in time for winter!!! Although I believe that I look like a fourteen year old boy, I cannot begin to tell you how thrilled I am to have soft, thick, dark brown hair. I have about 2.5 inches of hair now and it is growing really fast! Not only that, but my eyelashes and eyebrows have returned and although they are not as thick and long, they are so much better than having nothing. The vanity issues are finally resolving themselves and I am so thankful.

3. Friends (laughter): It’s like in the movie ‘Sex and the City’ when Carrie is certain that she will never laugh again after her saga with Mr. Big. “You will,” Miranda assures her, “when something is really funny.” Although not as dramatic, my inner comedian lay dormant and I wondered if she would ever come back. Oh, she certainly did. There were a couple of times that I even tried to fight it, but laughed so hard I piddled. (Yes, piddled.) Like Carrie, my friends brought me back to life with their quick wit, making fun of me unrelentingly and holding my hand every step of the way … even when I was too proud to grab for it first.

2. Family: How can I possibly make this list without including my family? I am thankful for my Cheerleader (my father) who has been at every single appointment (except for the boob ones, because that’s just too weird). I am thankful for my Rock (my mother) who from day one assured me that “it’s ok” and even on days when it wasn’t, she made it feel like it was. My Sweetness (my brother) who always told me how beautiful I am even with a bald head, no eyelashes, swollen face, five drainage tubes and the ugliest bra you’ve ever seen. My peanut (Abigail, our Yorkie) who kept me entertained while in my darkest of hours by stealing my glasses off my face and hiding them throughout the house. My family is my everything and with their love and support we beat cancer.

1. Being Cancer Free: It is one of those things you really cannot understand unless you have lived through it. Hearing the word “remission” and knowing that death had you in his grasp and you fought like hell and won is the most incredible feeling. Cancer is the worst thing I can possibly imagine. And it isn’t simply what it did to me physical, psychologically and emotionally, but how it affected my family, friends, work, school … my entire life. Cancer pulled the rug out from under me and without my team of doctors, a strong will power and endless support … I would not be here today. I am thankful and truly blessed.

11/24/2008: Lymphedema

2008-11-24T20:07:00.000-05:00

When Laurie and I drove up to the store we joked that the name sounded similar to "rectal." That should have been our first clue. Nothing good can come from a store that sounds similar to anything having to do with your butt.

I was referred to Vienna Rexall Drug to be fitted for a sleeve that I have to wear when I fly. There was some urgency to get it soon because my trip to Los Angeles was quickly approaching. The sleeve comes in different compressions in order to keep your arm from swelling due to lymphedema. My compression is 20 percent and it is TIGHT! Sleeves are cotton, but are made with a thick microfiber. I don't have lymphedema, but as a preventative measure I will have to wear one on my left arm any time I fly on an airplane for the rest of my life.

After checking in, Laurie and I waited for the woman who would be fitting me for my sleeve. This means that we proceeded to find the most ridiculous and inappropriate items and make fun of them while giggling like ten-year-olds. What else can you do when you are dealing with cancer? … Hold up a hernia belt and make gestures that our mothers would frown upon. A woman approached us wearing jeans and a denim button-front shirt. Holy double denim! This was clue number two.

She ushered me back into a small area that looked like their storage room. Laurie stood outside the curtain with her eyebrows raised waiting for me to give her the okay to join me. I ushered her in referring to her as "my lady." The woman reviewed my prescription and looked at me in confusion. She said, "What are you, like 12?" "Um, no. I'm 26," I responded annoyed. Just like everyone else, she was shocked at the severity of my cancer at such a young age. With that came a series of questions, such as "Did you find it yourself?" "How big was the tumor?" "How were the lymph nodes involved?" Then out of nowhere she asked, "Do you have any children?" "No," I replied. "Well, I hope you have a good support system then," she said next. I looked over at Laurie and her expression encompassed my frustration and annoyance.

After a call to my plastic surgeon to verify the necessary compression, the denim clad lady returned to take my measurements. I slipped my arm out of my sweater and with a small measuring tape; the woman carefully measured my wrist, forearm, bicep (which I flexed for her amusement) and the length of my arm. I fell into the tiny end of the small sleeve bracket on the back of the package. Surprise! Surprise! I was given two sleeve options: one with a silicon grip at the top and one without. I tried on both with the denim clad lady's assistance. The sleeve is extremely difficult to get on without help. Once I made my decision (which was the sleeve with the silicone grip at the top) I was then instructed to try to put the sleeve on myself. She explained how you can use a trash bag to help roll the sleeve on. It was ridiculous. I just looked at Laurie and tried not to giggle as this woman demonstrated putting a bag on her arm. This should have been clue number three.

You have to put sleeves on a certain way because all of the compression can't be in one place at once because it can cause trauma to the arm. Of course putting on the sleeve for the first time was a challenge, but I managed to do it without the silly trash bag. The visit to the butt store was successful, but let's just say Laurie and I were happy to finally leave and return to normalcy.

11/3/2008: Fellow Survivor

2008-11-03T20:05:00.000-05:00

When I was a freshman in college and a new member of Alpha Omicron Pi I was learning about some of my older sisters. In doing so, one of them shared with me her favorite quote.

"In the depths of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." -- Albert Camus

I loved it so much that I used it as MY favorite quote from that moment forward. And as new AOIIs came through the chapter I shared with them this quote. I believe that it is only in our darkest hours that we truly see ourselves for who we are at the core and embrace the beauty that lies within each of us.

As we dined over fajitas and enchiladas, Jennifer and I spoke of our survival with cancer. Jennifer is still undergoing chemotherapy and has an indescribable passion about life and helping other women facing breast cancer. I listened as she recounted her story and the traumatic experiences, like losing her hair. She and I both agreed that losing our long, beautiful hair was one of the most difficult parts of the journey. We were planning our hairstyles while we grow our locks back out and discussing how many years we think it will take to get it back to the length it was pre-cancer. We thought three to four years seemed about right.

Jennifer and I had only spoken over e-mail and this was the first time we had met face-to-face. After a lunch that lasted over four hours, we were old friends. We talked about the most personal of topics, including intimacy after a mastectomy, weight gain from steroids (holy bloating!) and even our inner most fears about the cancer returning. (I even give myself daily breast exams even though I know I don't have breasts anymore.) However, our conversation wasn't all consumed with the horrible aspects of our cancer. Instead we continued to say, "Cancer is the best thing that has ever happened to me."

I know, it seems like such a strange sentiment, but with all my heart, it's true. Jennifer spoke about how she would drive in the car with her children while on the phone with her friends. She realized that no one was getting 100% of Jennifer's time. This disease has afforded her the opportunity to re-evaluate her life and put her priorities back into place. She is more present in the moment. She believes that cancer has made her a better daughter, mother, wife and friend.

I shared with Jennifer that I have taken a step back and really looked at my life. What do I want? I feel as though I have been given another opportunity at living my life and I am so excited about what's to come. I still have so much growth work, but who doesn't? Instead of following a timeline set by society, I am taking the yellow brick road less traveled (thanks Jana) and enjoying my journey … wherever it may lead. I have never felt more centered in who I am and what I deserve. I am genuinely happy.

My journey is far from over and just because my reconstruction ends in February/March it doesn't mean that cancer is no longer a part of my story. The depths of winter have unveiled an invincible summer that will guide me in helping other women who face this same journey. Because like Jennifer, I can show them that cancer can be the best thing to happen to them, too.

10/13/2008: Surgery Scheduled

2008-10-13T20:02:00.001-04:00

MY SURGERY IS SCHEDULED FOR DEC. 17. That's right … two days before my 27th birthday!

Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me! I finally will have boobies that are big and squish-y.

This past week I met with my oncologist, Dr. David Heyer and touched base with him now that my radiation is over. He examined my expander implants, lymph nodes (neck, groin, armpits and stomach) and how my skin is healing. He was shocked at how well my body is bouncing back. He still calls me his Bionic Woman.

We discussed a multitude of options for my preventative regimen and the medications I am currently taking. The problem is that most studies that have been conducted have been done on women who are twice my age. I am only +2 estrogen positive, which is extremely low, however it is enough to constitute hormone therapy. My situation is so different and my doctors are doing everything in their power to take all the necessary precautions and read between the lines when it comes to my stats. The next phase of my journey is a 5-year regimen of Tamoxifen. This is a hormone therapy that suppresses estrogen in my body. I always knew I was way too girly!

So now I have night sweats again, severe mood swings and basically feel nauseous 24/7. Let's just say that I'm a real joy! Additionally, Dr. Heyer and I had a mini-therapy session where I told him about how in 2005 I went through a traumatic experience and went on an anti-anxiety medication to help me gain weight. Coincidentally, my current medication does not mesh well with the Tamoxifen. So, he switched that medication to something new and cut it in half (eventually wanting me off the anti-anxiety medication completely). It's difficult to tell what medication is causing what side effect, but I feel pretty crummy.

I suppose the only good side effect is the fact that the seven pounds I had gained during chemotherapy has literally melted away over the course of last week. Let's just hope it stops and doesn't continue the drastic plummeting. I know I have the Victoria Beckham haircut (Or rather she has mine. I'm such a trendsetter!), but I don't want the skeletal frame.

Other than the medication side effects, brick-hard boobs, doctors appointments, imaging, two-toned skin, curling hair and the fact that my new clothes don't fit now … I am doing well. I am reclaiming my life by throwing myself back into work and my thesis. I am surprisingly happier than I have been in a long time. I know that the road is still long, but instead of dragging my feet with my head hung and kicking pebbles, I find myself skipping with my face upward toward the illuminating sunshine.

9/29/2008: The Outer Banks

2008-09-29T20:00:00.001-04:00

Twenty-foot high white waves crashed into the shore of the Outer Banks. With my feet buried in the sand I felt the cold water engulf my ankles and shoot up my legs. I sucked in air as the icy cold water caused goose bumps to form all the way up my body to my scalp. I watched as the waves would swell into intimidating walls of water and then crash in a spiral of fury with a large rumbling roar. I thought to myself how appropriate that Jennifer should mean white wave. I opened my arms, arched my back and looked to the sky. I embraced the strength and beauty of the ocean in that moment and felt more centered then I have in years. A gust of warm air wrapped itself around my neck and trickled down my back like a sun-lit scarf. A warm tear ran down my cheek.

A seagull limped along the foamy edges of the sand. He had a broken foot that faced backwards which made it difficult for him to walk, so instead he hobbled uncomfortably. He finished sunbathing, lifted both of his feet and soared above the waters break. Despite his deformed foot, he flew with no problems and gracefully dove and spun in delight. He was magnificent.

The recent storms had eroded the beach and left some of the homes on shaky foundation. These homes take so much pounding storm after storm. How many times can they break before they shatter? Instead of throwing their hands in the air and giving up, these home owners placed new foundational beams next to the old one’s and reestablished the base of the home. A new foundation was laid in order to face the next storm.

This was a trip for my family to get away and regroup. We laughed until our bellies hurt chasing our Yorkshire terrier puppy, Abigail around the house. We yelled at the TV and cheered on our Skins as they defeated the Cowboys. We were shocked to find out about the death of Paul Newman and talked about his life over breakfast. We discussed the presidential debates. We reminisced about beach trips in year’s past. We ate amazing food, drank sweet martinis and complained about not getting our bread fast enough. (Well, that last one was just me.) It was just a normal vacation without cancer looming over us. I think my mother said it best, “The glow in your cheeks was not from chemotherapy and radiation … but from Carolina sun.” We will never be the same, but we will move on and embrace that powerful and beautiful white wave, soar high despite a crippled foot and lay a new foundation.

9/24/2008: Radiation is Over

2008-09-24T19:57:00.001-04:00

Multi-vitamin, Aquaphor, Vicodin, L’Oreal day and night cream, vitamin C, emu oil, Ambien, Mary-Kay firming eye cream, protein powder, Aveeno body lotion, Lexapro, Aveeno skin brightening daily scrub, Visine, Pepto, Burt’s Beeswax Balm, organic aloe, Neosporin, Cortizone 10, IBS stomach powder … and occasionally Xanax with a small glass of orange juice with no pulp.

If I were to watch someone else lay out this evening routine night after night, I think I would be concerned that perhaps they are overdosing, or psycho. I suppose I wouldn’t be too far off in my judgment.

I have finished all twenty-eight radiation treatments and now suffer from severe third degree burns on my chest, breast, back and underarm. I am doing everything in my power to ensure that I am healing from the inside and outside. This is my new focus now that treatment is over. My last week of treatment was incredibly intense. I had quarter-sized blisters on top of other blisters that popped and bled. The skin under my armpit burnt and quickly dried causing it to bleed when I moved. I couldn’t eat, sleep, or function, and all the doctors could advise me to do was use my creams and take pain pills. Luckily, the pain has subsiding and my skin is improving. The doctors said it could take 4 to 6 weeks just for the redness to subside.

My plastic surgeon said due to the severity of my radiation reaction, she won’t do my next surgery (swapping the expanders for the permanent implants) until early January. At least the whirlwind slows and I am able to take a breath and enjoy the holidays. I have one more fill to get me fully expanded (scheduled for Oct. 3) and I must say … my cups runneth over. I am really pleased that I had reconstruction done immediately following surgery. I am beginning to embrace my new body and appreciate the work that my plastic surgeon has done.

I head to the Outer Banks next week and I think it will be the perfect time to start working through some of the psychological damage caused by cancer and my bilateral mastectomy. I don’t plan to have it all figured out and packaged up for storage in the life experiences section of my closet, but at least I can start the process and get myself in a better state of mind. If only packing all my medications and lotions was so easy.

9/15/2008: First Haircut

2008-09-15T19:55:00.000-04:00

"STOP IT!" My whole body shook and my eyes widened. I wasn't expecting to scream out loud or, for that matter, for my voice to be so high pitched. I sounded like a 12-year-old girl throwing a tantrum because her Mom wouldn't let her go to the mall with her girlfriends. My pulse was racing, the beads of sweat were forming on my nose and cheeks and my ears started ringing. I felt sick to my stomach and dizzy … a panic attack set in. I looked to my left and noticed that the man sitting in the blue Corolla next to me in traffic was staring at me. I managed a smile and envisioned the scene he must be witnessing inside of my car. "Jesus, he must think I am a nut!" I thought. Well, aren't I? Who gets this worked up over something SO stupid!? Ugh. I propped my elbow on the edge of my car window and covered my face with my hand. I tried to convince myself it was to protect my eyes from the sunlight when in actuality I was hiding from the man in the Corolla. Traffic started crawling again and the driver witnessing my tantrum moved ahead of me. Whew.

I arrived at my destination and sat in the waiting room. My stomach was now in my throat and my foot shook intensely making my thigh jiggle under my charcoal-colored dress. The minutes dragged and I sat there thinking of excuses to leave. "I feel sick… or my Mom just called and I need to rush home … or my friend is having a baby … or simply, I just can't do this." I kept ignoring the urges to run for the door and kept myself planted. "You can do this. You can do this." I kept repeating these words over and over in my head. Mandi turned the corner and saw me. Without thinking she ran, grabbed me and squeezed me as hard as she could. "Not too hard!" I yelped and she quickly apologized, calling me Baby Girl and loosened her grip. "I haven't seen you since …" her voice trailed off. "It's just so good to see you. Are you healthy now?"

As soon as we started chatting the fear and anxiety washed away and I was completely at ease. I shared my feelings of reluctance and Mandi quickly sympathized telling me that she has two other cancer patients and can understand. The appointment only took about 45 minutes. Once it was over I stood up and surveyed the floor. I saw my hair laying there in a little 'C' around the base of the chair … and I didn't freak out. I felt nothing. Psychologically, this was a huge feat for me. When I left the other women in the salon were gathered around me, sharing in my story, suggesting I wear large earrings, calling my new haircut "fierce" and even rejoicing in my health and praising God openly. Once again, I survived.

These past few weeks, my family and friends have recounted my story. They remember so many distinct details, both good and bad. I am simply shocked at how my story has affected others, especially those close to me. We will forever be changed. Some of the things I have said and even blogged about surprise me now that I can look back objectively. I cannot believe how completely erratic I was over the silliest of things. I know now that psychologically, I chose to focus on my weight gain, not having a boyfriend, my hair and things that were tangible rather then the fact that I was fighting for my life. I needed to control something and "cancer" was much too big. Now I am focusing on the big picture and trying to come to terms with the whirlwind I have experienced the last eight months. I keep living by my mother's words. She said them the moment I was diagnosed and I will never forget them … "It's going to be okay. We will get through this together."

I have only five more treatments of radiation which means by next Thursday I will be finished. I have second degree burns on my chest and my skin is blistered, peeling and bleeding. Treatment has been excruciating. I noticed yesterday during my radiation treatment that despite working with the same technicians daily, I don't know their names. As that thought crossed my mind, I looked at the woman's nametag. Darlene. Everyday she has been examining my skin, complimenting my shoe collection, pushing and pulling on my body to get it centered under the radiation rays … and all along I have distanced myself. It's not that I am oblivious; it is that I purposely am trying to not get personal. I keep my interaction minimal in hopes of blocking this out of my memory as soon as it is over. I even plug my nose when I put on my layers and layers of skin cream to not recall the smell.

Subconsciously my mind has determined how much I can handle and has created these little barriers to keep me safe. I am amazed at how astonishing my body and mind are. Whether it's getting through my first haircut or separating myself from treatment … I have come to learn that in addition to my spirit, my mind and body are just trying to survive the best way they know how. And you know what? It's going to be okay. We will get through this together.

9/2/2008: A Day in the Life ...

2008-09-02T19:52:00.000-04:00

At happy hour I ordered a mojito from a young, attractive female bartender. She asked for my ID and after reviewing it, handed it back to me and said, "This looks nothing like you." I paused for a moment and said, "I know, right? But this fake ID's been working for years." She gave me a stupid laugh and went to make my drink.

Walking to my car at Reston Hospital after just having had my sixteenth radiation treatment, an old woman parked next to me in a handicap spot was getting something out of her passenger seat. She said, "You sure do walk well in those heels for being handicapped." I unlocked my door and thought for a moment about what she was implying. I turned to face her; she wouldn't look me in the eye. I said, "I have cancer." Still not looking at me, she closed her door and locked it. She started shaking her head back and forth in disgust and said under her breath, "It's a shame they give handicap spots to people who are sick." I refrained from physically hurting the woman. As she wobbled off I said, "You are rude and ignorant. I hope you don't ever have to endure what I did these last seven months." She continued up the path still shaking her head. I choked back the tears as the anger boiled inside my stomach.

Shopping with my mother at Banana Republic we quickly acquired a rockstar sales woman. She continued taking my handfuls of clothes to the dressing room and helped pick out items she thought would look cute on me. I explained that any dress or top with a built in band under the bust would not work for me since I was still under construction and not at my final size yet. As I continued browsing the gorgeous fall clothes, my mom shared with the woman that I had breast cancer. I am not sure exactly what their conversation entailed, but when I turned around the woman looked at me completely different. She asked if she could hug me and I agreed. I could feel her chest convulsing against mine … she was trying not to cry.

At the check out line at Harris Teeter I purchased a ton of fruits and vegetables to start my 10-day detox regimen. The young man scanning my groceries was pimple-faced with a head covered in dread locks. As I was paying for my organic selections the boy asked, "Are you a hippie?" I tried not to laugh and responded as serious as I could with, "Yep, I sure am." He said, "Righteous." I barely held myself together and upon leaving I turned to the boy, threw a peace sign and said "Make love, not war." He responded just as I expected … with a peace sign. Righteous!

Finishing my treatment I clinched the hospital gown at my waist and headed back to the changing room. I hadn't noticed the woman sitting in the chair. She said, "Oh, I was hoping I would get to see you today." This woman (whose name I do not know) has treatment right after me, so sometimes our paths cross. I noticed she wasn't wearing her wig today, although most of us don't when we are being treated. Her blonde, fuzzy hair stood about a half-inch off her head and went beautifully with her porcelain skin and rosy cheeks. She looked at me with such conviction and said, "I want you to know that you gave me the courage to go without my wig today. It's certainly not as long or thick as yours and because it is so light I still look bald." I was stunned and truly touched. I sat down in the chair next to her and said, "I am so proud of you. What happened to us isn't our fault and you shouldn't be ashamed of it. You are absolutely stunning." Her eyes were swelling. I smirked a bit and asked, "Do you know what the best part is? You don't have to worry about the rain messing it up." She laughed and instantly the mood was lightened. The technician came back to get her and we said our goodbyes. I stood in the changing room and cried.

8/27/2008: Refresh

2008-08-27T19:49:00.001-04:00

Refresh. That is precisely what I have done. I have clicked the refresh button on my psychological state and although it hasn't wiped clean the issues, it has put me in a better position to handle them. My mindset and spirit are in a much better place and the chaos that controlled my mind and caused such turmoil feels organized and manageable … just the way I like things.

I don't claim to have it all figured out, or to feel at peace with what has happened over the past seven months of my life, but I also refuse to let it control me. I said early on that I live by my father's words that when you wake up in the morning and your feet hit the floor you make a choice how you want your day to go. It takes just as much effort to be negative as it does to be positive … I choose to invest my time wisely.

This past week served as a turning point for me. While I experienced a heavy heart being contacted by four young women who are embarking on my same journey, I felt intense vitality and vibrancy through the happiness of my friends. One of my closest friends, Marisa, gave birth to her son, Brady Patrick Shea on Wednesday. As I received the minute-by-minute updates throughout her labor I trembled with anticipation, prayed for her and Brady's safety and my heart soared with the purest of loves. Once the news came that Brady had made his grand entrance, I felt elated and rejuvenated.

My friend Kandi, who is also fighting breast cancer, made it through her mastectomy on Friday with clean margins. She is cancer free and I am so incredibly thankful. She and I both conquered chemotherapy, surgery … and now cancer. She is such an amazingly strong woman and I am blessed to know her.

At a concert Saturday night I danced with my best friend's two-year-old daughter, Hadley. At the end of the evening she reached up for me to carry her. Walking to the car I spun her around singing the lyrics to Tommy Tutone '8675309 Jenny' that was being sung by the '80s cover band, The Reflex. She looked up and pointed to the sky saying 'plane.' I told her that they were stars and they were far away. She repeated the word, 'stars' over and over. In that moment, I was completely present and treasured every step I took down that gravel path with Hadley perched on my hip.

I find these days that I allow myself to get lost in the moment and am much more present when with my friends and family. Every minute counts. This weekend I organized a family outing to see 'The Lion King' at the Kennedy Center. Doctors appointments, surgeries, treatment sessions and medicated comas stole family time from us these past seven months. It was time to finally create a new memory of our family being together … one that was positive. As I looked down the row at the Opera House and watched their expressions I knew this would serve as the new memory of togetherness.

It's just my luck that as I start to get myself together psychologically, my body starts to fail me. I now have radiation poisoning on my chest. Basically, it is a severe form of sun poisoning/burn, but, according to my radiological oncologist, my skin is not red enough yet. My skin is pinkish red and I have broken out in a rash that is EXTREMELY itchy. (And wouldn't you know that scratching the rash makes it itch more.) Supposedly, this is all normal. I have completed 12 days of radiation and have 16 more to go. My radiological oncologist cut back my treatment from 30 to 28 days. I will continue treatment the way I have been until Sept. 12, then Sept. 15-17 they will increase treatment by 25 percent and focus it just on the center of my chest. I am counting down the days, keeping my mind healthy and taking lots of Benadryl. Ahh so itchy!!!

8/22/2008: I Miss My Hair

2008-08-22T19:46:00.000-04:00

"How often do you have to cut your hair to keep it looking like that?" a woman asked me on the elevator. I was completely caught off guard by her question. I stared at her for a moment, and then said, "I haven't had to cut it yet, so I don't know. I had cancer so I was bald." She responded, "Well it is gorgeous and you are absolutely stunning." I miss my hair today.

I look at pictures of myself from last fall and over the holidays and I cannot believe how a couple of months can change you so much. I look completely different. I don't even recognize myself anymore. I have gotten many compliments on my new super-short 'do and plenty more stares. It's the staring that I can't stand. When I wore my wig I was camouflaged. I was able to be just one of the crowd without drawing attention to myself. Now I stand out and I wonder what people are thinking when they look at me. The weird thing is, I always loved standing out and getting attention, but this time I hate it. Maybe it's because it's not something I had control over. I wonder if people know that I had cancer. Do they assume that I am a lesbian? Do they think I am just trying to be trendy? Hmm … I wish I knew.

Perhaps if I had more strength and was rested none of this would even bother me. Radiation has quickly become very challenging. I am absolutely drained to the point of tears and find it hard to focus on anything of any importance. I meet with Dr. Moulds every Tuesday and he assures me that this is all very normal. He said he would leave my level of activity to my discretion, but that I may find that I need to cut back on some of my "social outings" due to fatigue. He wasn't kidding! Not only am I exhausted, but I am becoming irritable and cranky. Frankly, I'm a real joy. The fact that I cannot exercise to the extent that I'd like doesn't help either. It just feels like a vicious cycle. As soon as I finish one phase of this journey and start to feel better, I begin another and crash again. I am experiencing a loss of appetite, reliance on sleeping pills and an increase in caffeine intake, so my body is totally off. I need things to be normal and balanced again.

Luckily my skin has held up to radiation so far. The area that has been radiated is slightly pink, but I have no pain or discomfort. Apparently the visual effects don't surface until week three or four. I am hoping that with my vitamin C intake and using the suggested creams and ointments I will be able to avoid the burns and blisters.

If the exhaustion doesn't drive me off a cliff, perhaps my psychological state will. I was talking to my girlfriend Laurie over lunch the other day and was expressing some desires, such as traveling, losing weight, moving, and wiping clean my wardrobe, along with other things. She is so smart … she was able to see through my whirlwind comments and decipher that what I am trying to do is "start over." After a life-changing event people seek to wipe the slate clean, go where no one knows them and start anew. I have this unrelenting desire to start over and it consumes me. I feel as though I have been dropped into a void and that my recovery is still just beginning (which it technically is). It's almost as if when I went into remission people were saying, 'oh, you must be so relieved you're getting well, this is so great.' However I just cried a lot, and thought, 'I can't believe what I just went through.' I've read a lot about the grief experienced after breast cancer treatment and realized I suffered from something similar to posttraumatic stress disorder. It didn't all hit until it was already over. I believe things will get better in time, but that I greatly underestimated the psychological effects of this journey. However, I will continue to let God be my compass and celebrate my tiny victories.

8/12/2008: Radiation

2008-08-12T19:42:00.000-04:00

"Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!" I screamed in the phone. My mother's voice responded in sheer panic as she listened to me going ballistic on Saturday morning. "What's the matter? Are you okay? What happened?" she said flustered. "I started my period!" I exclaimed. The tears rolled down my face as I jumped up and down on my mattress. Ah yes, the tiny victories...

I had been sick all last week with horrible stomach pain, vomiting, loss of appetite, pure bitchiness (which wasn't too abnormal, haha)... and I was absolutely perplexed as to what was wrong. But everything became clear Saturday morning when I awoke to the lovely visit of "aunt flow" who had been missing since chemotherapy began. Some women never have their period return after chemotherapy and stay in a state of menopause for the remainder of their lives. Other women take 6 months to 2 years for it to return ... for me, it only took 2 months after I had finished chemotherapy. My body is absolutely amazing and it isn't going to go dormant without a serious fight. Thata girl! The fact that my period returned means that my body is resuming a healthy state and that my fertility may have been saved. Now, I am sure I won't be on a normal schedule for awhile, but at least my body is fighting hard, and that is great news!

This morning I had my first radiation treatment. Many people have already asked me what it was like and I will try my best to describe it.

I was very anxious this morning arriving at the radiological oncologist office and my Mom had not arrived yet (due to horrible traffic) to see me before treatment. I started getting nervous, so I reached into my purse and withdrew my little bear. My mother and I have little breast cancer bears that keep us connected when we are not physically together. The bears are named Hope and Faith and I would take my bear to chemotherapy when my mother would have to work.

When my name was called over the loudspeaker I took a deep breath, clutched my bear in my hand and walked through the door. I was ushered back into a small changing room. I undressed from the waist up, locked up my clothing and purse in a locker, put on a robe and sat in a smaller waiting area for the technician to come get me. I still had my little bear in hand. Part of me was pretending that I was going to get a hot stone massage or facial. Mmm ... that would have been a wonderful treat! Once in the treatment room, I sat my bear on the ledge with my locker key around its neck. I unrobed, laid on a slender table, and the technicians (there were two) put my arm, wrist, shoulder and head into the proper position.

The machine that is attached to the table is shaped like a 'C' with two round plates on each side. The lights dimmed and the machine sprayed a green grid across my chest. I could watch the grid's reflection on the glass face of the plate above me. The technicians pulled on the sheet underneath me to put me in just the right position. They used the stickers that were placed on my skin last week as markers for the green grid. Dr. Moulds entered the room prior to beginning the radiation to give the final "line-up" his approval. We were given the go ahead.

The technician soaked a towel in warm water and molded it to my breast. She explained that they fool the lasers into thinking that the towel is skin, so it penetrates the tissue deeper. I wasn't even listening to her. My heart was racing and I tried desperately to slow my breathing. All I could think was 'What if I am breathing too hard and they radiate my heart by accident?' They exited the room, I glanced to check on my bear saying a little message to my Mom and radiation began. Inside the plate metal pieces moved shifting and contorting into different shapes shining light onto my breast. The noises the machine made sounded like a robot over the big band music they were playing in the room. What was with the music choice? I thought to myself, 'Joey would love this machine because it reminds me so much of Transformers.' The technician came into the room and removed the wet towel which had turned cool now. The machine then circled around me and began radiating my back. Radiation only lasted about five minutes and the 'C' moved around my body as the shapes continued to change and dance across my skin. You know the feeling you get right before a limb falls asleep, like a numb/vibrating/tingling feeling before it starts getting intense? That's how radiation feels ... a mild case of a limb falling asleep.

Before I knew it, radiation was over, I was back in the small room getting dressed, joining my mom in the waiting area (showing her that I braved the treatment with my bear and knowing that she was right there with me) and heading off to work. Well, one radiation treatment down and 29 to go. I know that radiation is cumulative and that it will get harder, but I feel like nothing can stop me now. With God as my compass and my little bear, I am ready for anything.

8/7/2008: Simulation

2008-08-07T19:36:00.000-04:00

Monday was my "simulation." I wasn't sure what to expect from my radiological oncology team, but the process was pretty painless. Two technicians had me fill out paperwork and consent forms to begin my radiation on Monday, August 11. Once I was undressed they took many pictures of my newly reconstructed body. I then laid on a CAT scan machine and they spent almost a half hour trying to find a position with my left arm raised, neck bent, shoulder rotated and wrist slanted that was comfortable enough to hold for several minutes each day of treatment. Once we found the right balance, they wrote down all the information of the angles and positions in order to put me in the same spot each time I receive radiation. The beams coming off of the CAT scan machine lined up onto my body. They centered me with the beam by taking the sheet under by body and just pulling me where they wanted me. Then they took a red permanent marker and made three tiny x's. One x was drawn between my breasts, and the other two along the sides of my rib cage. The radiological oncology technicians worked with such professionalism and precision. I was beyond impressed with how thorough they were and how kindly they treated me.

Once they had me all lined up, they did a CAT scan which lasted about 10 minutes. I closed my eyes and imagined myself lying on a secluded beach with a warm tropical breeze and the heat of the sun invigorating my body. Just as the cabana boy walked up with my Bahama Mama in hand, the technicians re-entered the room and slowly brought me out of the machine asking me not to move. They gave me two options for my radiation marks. I could either have three tiny permanent tattoos done that would look like freckles, or if I promised to be really good, they would place small, clear stickers over the three red x's and I would need to keep them on for the duration of the radiation treatments. Once I received confirmation that the technicians didn't care which option I chose in order to do their jobs, I quickly opted for the stickers. I have been wearing them for two days and so far so good. I feel like I should be in some espionage or pirate movie with these three red bulls-eyes on my body.

Friday I have my heart scan that I have repeated every three months to make sure the Herceptin isn't affecting my heart too severely, and then I have to go back to the radiological oncology office to have "films" done. I am not sure what all that encompasses, but we will find out soon enough. Monday is the start of the third phase of my journey. I am excited to begin and be completed in six short weeks.

8/6/2008: Filled to Capacity

2008-08-06T19:29:00.002-04:00

Having just been "filled to capacity" my friend was enquiring about how my newly inflated left breast looked. (Just a reminder, my plastic surgeon could only fill my left breast due to the need of radiating the center of my chest.) We snuck into the bathroom and once inside the handicap stall I lifted my shirt revealing my newly stretched breast. "Holy crap, Jen, that's huge!" she said. "I know, right? Look at it from the side." I turned showing her my newly defined profile. "I cannot believe how great it looks," she responded. "You can feel it if you want," I offered. She raised her hand, and then drew it back in hesitation, and then she lifted her hand again and touched my breast. "Oh my God, it's hard as a brick. It doesn't feel like my other girl friends that have had implants," she said. We both laughed and I explained that it was "brick-like" because the expanders are made with hard, thick plastic unlike the final silicone implant that will be squishy and breast-like. Not only that, but my skin had just been stretched an hour before so everything was extremely tight and sore. I then took my friend's hand and pressed it against the side of my right breast that hadn't been filled. I felt the implant ripple under my skin and pop in and out. She quickly jerked her hand back and said, "What was that?" I think she was worried that she had hurt me. I laughed and told her that's what the implant feels like when it hasn't been completely filled. When I roll over in my sleep at night the implant that hasn't been filled dips and pops continuously ... it is the weirdest feeling in the world.

I think more than a dozen people have been privy to checking out my "transitional pair." I consider it a learning experience for my family and close friends. They have had to experience and endure a lot of this journey with me and I want them to know that I am really okay. Most people are surprised with how good my "transitional pair" looks. I think we all expected it to be much worse than it is and they really do look good.

Although being lopsided is not ideal, it is just temporary and not the end of the world. I have learned how to work around it and no one else can tell besides me, anyway. It is just not that important in the scope of things. I need to get through this third phase of my journey, and then I will be evened back out again. I look forward to that, but I am not obsessing about it. I finally feel like the old (but improved) Jennifer is resurfacing and I really must admit that I have missed her.

7/29/2008: The Fill

2008-07-29T21:59:00.000-04:00

"Is this going to hurt?" I asked my plastic surgeon. "Most people don't feel a thing," she responded as she steadied the metal detector over the top of my breast. The metal pendulum steadied … it found the port beneath my skin. She picked up the large needle on the table. She was moving quickly and I was trying to stall her with chit-chat. She said, "Here we go." I looked away, bit my index finger and filled my mind with a lovely beach scene. I exclaimed, "I didn't feel that at all." Dr. Gottlieb smiled and asked, "What does it feel like?" as she slowly filled my expander with saline. I could feel the edges unraveling while filling up and it felt as though someone was pushing against my chest. My breast grew tighter and tighter. It was like watching National Geographic when they speed up a bud turning into a flower. How on Earth do you describe that feeling?

I had horrible anxiety about having my first fill and it was a piece of cake. Life's little annoyances seem to just be a walk in the park these days. It's hard to complain about anything after going through 18 weeks of chemotherapy.

I have one more fill on my left breast before beginning radiation. Yes, they are only filling one side because I am developing too much cleavage. Agggh … so exciting! I have never had "too much cleavage." On Friday my left breast will be filled to 250cc while my right will only be at 150cc. This way, during radiation they will be able to get "a good line" to treat the membrane and lymph nodes in the center of my chest. I don't mind being lopsided for six weeks if it means preventing cancer from returning.

My radiation begins August 11 and ends September 19 and I have it every week day at 8:30 in the morning. I have a couple of pre-radiation appointments over the next two weeks where the nurses will permanently tattoo my skin (the spots will look like freckles) and run "films" to prepare me for radiation. I don't know what all of that entails, but we will learn together.

Once radiation is over, my plastic surgeon can resume filling my right breast with saline (creating amazing cleavage), so both breasts will be at 250cc. But that doesn't mean that's the size I will end up with … that is just the maximum size of the expander my plastic surgeon used. I'll leave the final size a secret for now. The implant surgery won't be done until sometime in November.

Other than making appointments, I have been busy resuming a somewhat normal life. I am back to work fulltime, working out daily (physical therapy exercises, walking and static bike), spending time with friends, resuming work on my thesis and enjoying each day to the fullest. My hate list still exists, however it is quickly dwindling. I do know that the hardest part is over, but I still have seven more months of treatment and surgeries to go. I now move into phase 3 … radiation. I am summoning all my strength, yet again, and mentally preparing myself for this next task at hand. And so my journey continues …

7/23/2008: Drive Home

2008-07-23T21:57:00.000-04:00

Driving home my mother and I sat in silence watching the sun pulse through the tree line as the roads were winding closer and closer to my front door. I knew exactly what would happen if I tried to speak. I could already feel the lump swelling in my throat. How do you properly thank someone for taking on your fight along with your pain, fears and insecurities as though they were her own and devoting her life to your caretaking? I don't know that it is truly possible. I had stayed with my parents for twenty days following surgery and they drove me to every doctors appointment, participated in my pity parties, made sure I ate well, cleaned my wounds, encouraged naptime, took care of my condo, dried my tears, told me when I needed to slow down and endlessly cheered me on, even when I could see the pain in their eyes.

Life works in mysterious ways and I continue to be amazed with how mine unfolds. I wanted so desperately to have normalcy and jump back into my life, but there was also a part of me that wanted to curl up in the safety of my parents lap and not have to think, or worry anymore. I want them to wrap their arms around me, tell me it is all going to be okay and protect me from the darkness. Someone very close to me who had cancer mid-life told me that despite being an adult, she still desperately desired being close to her mother during her journey. I don't think we ever grow out of wanting our parents to make it all better.

Despite the conflicted emotions, I did return to my normal life on Sunday. My parents prepped my condo for my return by filling my refrigerator with groceries and cleaning it from top to bottom. Monday I went back to work fulltime and had my first expander fill. I have seen several of my friends already and although I thought I had missed out on so much over the course of two weeks, I really hadn't. My hair is about an inch long on my head and is BLACK! My eyebrows and eyelashes are coming back in also and are itchy. I have lost five pounds and am using the exercises suggested by my plastic surgeon to regain some mobility in my arms, especially on my left side where they removed the lymph nodes. I have now returned to my regularly scheduled program.

I have one more fill next week, and then I will begin radiation. Radiation lasts for six weeks and I will have to go five times a week. I met with my radiologist, Dr. Jefferson Moulds, last week for the first time. He is a brilliant doctor who used to work at Georgetown. He told me how pleased he was with my chemotherapy regimen and how well my surgery went. Since he is a radiologist of oncology he was able to speak about several different aspects of my treatment and I was blown away by his knowledge. Radiation will start early August. I cannot wait to get started and cross one more piece of the journey off my list.

That drive home in the car with my mother, I reflected on the last six months of my life and how far I have come. My girlfriend Shana told me weeks ago that I have been given a second opportunity at life and that didn't really sink in until this weekend. I have the chance to reinvent myself and work towards being happy and hugely successful in all aspects of my life. Is that too much to ask? I don't think so anymore. The fact that I am now in remission completely blows my mind. I don't think I could have done it without my family and friends constantly thinking about me, tirelessly supporting me and praying for my health and strength. I want to thank my family for their endless sacrifice. I realize now that besides me, my caretakers truly take on the most difficult part of this journey. Despite the helplessness and exhaustion we feel, we continue learning, living and loving. It is a growth process that has changed us all forever.

7/15/2008: Hate List

2008-07-15T21:55:00.000-04:00

I haven't written in a couple of days because I have been an emotional wreck … to say the least. It's much safer to write a happy blog then to open myself up and become vulnerable with airing my difficult and insecure days. But I promised you from the beginning that I would be honest with you and I intend to stick to my word. So, I welcome you all to my pity party. (No need for presents at this occasion.)

I was diagnosed with cancer back in January and for six months I have been fighting like hell for my life … FOR MY LIFE. (It still doesn't resonate completely with me.) Cancer is the second leading cause of death in the United States and I kicked its butt in six months. Part of me is exhausted and the other part is still trying to grasp the fact that I had cancer. Several years ago I went through a horrible personal ordeal. For those of you who know me, you remember this well. Driving to my parent's house that night, I remember being on the phone with my mother and screaming through my tears, "Things like this don't happen to someone like me." I know that probably sounds like the most diva comment anyone can possibly make. You must understand, though, that I take great pride in who I am, my accomplishments and the way I live my life. However, hardships and diseases do not discriminate. I know now, that I was being prepared to take on the hardest fight of my life … cancer.

For the past two days I have been crying hysterically, venting to my family, avoiding friends and visitors, refusing to leave the house … and just all around being a real joy. (For the record, I have called myself a brat several times, and my parents told me that I deserve to have bad days, too. Otherwise, I wouldn't be normal, especially with what I have been through.) I have said several times to my Mom (while venting) to "add" certain things to my "list" of complaints. Finally, today she told me that she believed I should truly make a written list of the things that I claim to hate. So, here it is … (Prepare yourself!)

List of Things I Hate

Cancer (Did you expect anything else? The week I had my mastectomy two women who are friends of friends were diagnosed with breast cancer. They are both under the age of 35. Cancer will always top my "hate" list for the remainder of my life.)

Bad Hair Days (This includes eyelashes and eyebrows, too, since those have thinned considerably. I hate that my hair is not growing faster. I also hate the fact that ADULTS stare at me in public. Children, however, don't seem to care. Just another reason why I adore children.)

Dreaded Drains (I started out with five and am now down to two that are being extremely stubborn. They stick out from under my armpits and are extremely uncomfortable. I am unable to sleep on my side because of them and my muscle aches from sleeping on my back for two weeks. Not to mention, the bulbs at the ends of the drains hang at my stomach and make me look pregnant. I blame them for my dependence and cannot wait to get them out and reclaim my life. I hate them.)

Losing "The Girls" (My mastectomy was actually much easier than I initially presumed. The physical healing is cake, but the psychological impact is only cut out for the true varsity players. I like to think that I am pretty tough, but this has certainly been a huge challenge and one that will continue to be for some time. I wonder if I will ever be normal again.)

Potential Suitors (I know I am going to regret putting this on the list, but so be it. It's my party. Short term: How do I even engage with a guy with C-A-N-C-E-R written across my forehead? My boobs are currently "under construction," so physically I am not comfortable or confident … um, so how does THAT work? Even if I can keep the C-card off the table, as soon as things escalate to a more "romantic" level, there will come a time where I will need to interject that information about my body. Long term: Having had cancer, I would assume most guys would consider me a "high risk investment." I certainly cannot imagine that my medical history would really be all that appealing. And forget about discussing having a family, because I am currently in menopause and who knows if my fertility will ever return and even so, I wouldn't be able to try until I am 32 and off hormone therapy. Whew! Yeah … I sound incredibly appealing and like a real attractive option for a long term investment. Who am I kidding!?)

The Comparison (Please don't take this the wrong way. I love my friends, family and sisters in survival dearly, but my situation is not like everyone else's who has cancer. I am only 26-years-old. I didn't have a boyfriend or husband by my side supporting me and telling me that I was beautiful and he would be there for me when it was over. I mean, there wasn't someone there who saw my boobs before and after and still loved me, regardless. Nor did I have the opportunity to have children or even freeze eggs because my cancer was too aggressive and they needed to start chemotherapy immediately. So, NO, my situation is very unique and no one knows how horrible it was to go through it missing those key ingredients. It was beyond devastating and continues to be.)

Body Issues (This is going to sound egotistical, but I don't intend for it to be. I have always liked my body and been pleased for the most part with the way I look. However, cancer, and especially chemotherapy, did things to my body and confidence level that even I am too embarrassed to admit. When I started treatment I weighed 99 pounds. Because of the steroids and lack of exercise during chemo I gained almost ten pounds. Again, I know this sounds trivial, but for someone who loved her yoga and palates regimen and took pride in her tone body, this is a difficult reality. My clothes don't fit the way they used to and I hate that. Additionally, chemotherapy did a real number on my skin, and I swear I look years older. I foresee many emergency facials in my near future to get my skin back to glowing and smooth again.)

My Lifestyle (I have been told that I have to "take it easy" now that I have had surgery. Um, do these people know who I am!? I am trying not to scratch my eyes out lying low and recovering for three weeks at my parent's house. I am on my Blackberry every minute of my waking hours starving for normalcy. I have to see a physical therapist in order to regain strength and feeling in my left arm. It will probably take close to six months before I am fully healed internally … not to mention emotionally and psychologically. Lord, give my patience.)

The Timeline (I honestly feel like Humpty Dumpty and it is literally taking FOREVER for the doctors and surgeons to put me back together again. I have never claimed to be a patient woman and this whole ordeal is truly taking much too long. I like to believe that I live every day to the fullest and I typically pack my schedule tight and this cancer does NOT fit in nicely. It is irritating to the point of tears.)

I could honestly continue "the list" and I intend to, but I thought I would at least share some of my current headaches with you all. After all, you have made the decision to join my journey for the good, bad and bald and I made a promise to you to share it all.

Before this party ends and I retreat to lick my wounds, you must know that despite my "hate list" I know how very blessed I am. I know that I have beat cancer and now have a second chance at life. I understand that my hair will grow and I will feel it lightly dancing across my shoulders once again. I will lose weight and complain of achy, over-worked muscles. Happily ever after still exists and if I should be so luckily, so does my prince charming (who will love my new boobs). The pesky tubes will most likely come out this week and my life will jump back into action. I will soon forget the peaceful afternoons on my parent's back porch where I cursed the sky and felt the surge of panic thinking that I had been standing still and missing out on two weeks of living. How could I have wrestled with my list and done personal growth without this valuable time? This list is how I feel in the moment and represents some of the things I think about on a daily basis. The "hate list" unfortunately (or fortunately) is a part of my journey and overall growth. Welcome to my remission … it may not be as physically taxing, but it will test me nonetheless.

7/14/2008: Remission

2008-07-14T21:53:00.000-04:00

My ears were ringing. My oncologist's mouth continued to move, but the buzzing was enough to cast over his words. The heat rose from somewhere in my back and I felt it surge quickly to my face. Clutching my jaw tightly I tried desperately not to cry. Did I just hear him correctly? I took a deep breath and interrupted my doctor. "I apologize, but I am trying not to cry. You have no idea what wonderful news that is," I managed to say as my voice cracked.

I am cancer free and officially in remission. Let me write that again simply to gloat. (After all I have been through, I deserve it!) I am cancer free and officially in remission. Can you believe it? I can't.

My mother and I visited my plastic surgeon's office for the second time this week to have another drain pulled. I had three drains pulled this week and only two left. Once they are all removed I can begin radiation and have my expanders filled. Hopefully next week the two remaining drains will be ready to be removed and I can continue my journey. At this point, I just really want a freaking shower.

After that appointment, we went to my oncologist's office to review the pathology report from surgery. The report showed that my surgeon removed thirteen lymph nodes from my left armpit and four still had residual cancer. The tissue removed from the breasts had no remaining cancer. Dr. Heyer explained that the chemotherapy was partially successful in that it got rid of the cancer in some areas and shrunk the lymph nodes considerably, but not completely. We discussed next steps, which consist of radiation for six weeks, Herceptin treatments every three weeks until February 2009 (one year), and five years of hormone therapy as a preventative measure to ensure that the cancer does not come back.

Once we had discussed some of my next steps, I asked Dr. Heyer, "So when am I officially in remission?" He responded, "Now." Obviously, I was elated and extremely thrown off by his response. He explained that the cancer is completely gone now from the chemotherapy and surgery. The radiation, Herceptin treatments and hormone therapy are preventative measures to eradicate any microscopic "leftovers" and ensure continued health. As far as he is concerned "our work here is done," however the journey is far from over.

I ended our appointment by unzipping my top and showing Dr. Heyer my new breasts. He looked at them and said, "Dr. Gottlieb does great work, but you need to lose those drains," … implying that the drains weren't particularly attractive. We all laughed. I zipped my top back up and we exited his office.

Mom and I met Dad back in Gainesville at our favorite restaurant called El Tio's. I find it interesting that our evening ended at the same restaurant that Dad celebrated his retirement and that we frequent on birthdays, holidays and special occasions. I could not have thought of a better place to enjoy my exciting news. Mom said, "Tonight you owe God a BIG thank you." Indeed I do. I am incredibly thankful and blessed.

7/9/2008: The Championship

2008-07-09T21:51:00.000-04:00

Written by my best friend, Kere Knapp:

Since I created this website and update it weekly by posting the blogs, the pictures and the messages (and because Jen’s my best friend), I figured I would attempt to write a blog while Jen is in recovery. I can’t guarantee that it’s going to be as well written as Jen’s are, but I can always give it a shot. (If none of this makes sense, I apologize now...)

This whole experience has been a shock, for lack of a better word. I keep trying to find a way to understand what has been going on and my mind keeps coming back to relating it to one thing: a lacrosse championship. If you know me, this probably isn’t surprising that I find a correlation between lacrosse and cancer. Maybe you have just thought to yourself, how in the world is a lacrosse game remotely related to cancer? Well, let me explain the way my mind has grasped this disease and the fight against it… (and if you don’t know the game, maybe you’ll learn a thing or two about it along the way. Imagine Jennifer’s whole cancer experience of a year or so being played in a 50 minute game).

Let me start by setting the scenario of the championship day and who is playing whom.

Preface:
Lacrosse is a team sport. It’s played by 12 players on a field. It’s broken down into three sections: attack, defense and goalie. A game consists of 50 minutes. Obviously, the main goal is to win the game, and to do that your attack has to continuously shoot the ball into your opponents’ goal, beating their defenders and goalie.

Team Black: Cancer
Cancer is a team sickness. They are a team of nasty fighters working together to break down their opponent. In this case, Team Cancer is known for their phenomenal offensive players with their unstoppable shots. (Team Cancer is black because it’s dark, cold and unfriendly).

Team Pink: Jennifer
Team Jennifer is Team Cancer’s opponent. Of course Jennifer has a team! Have you ever met someone that has cancer and that DOESN’T have a “team”? It’s never just one person fighting the disease. It’s everyone they know and love that fight with them. Jennifer’s on-field team consists of her family and closest friends. Team Jennifer is known for their defensive strategies. They work together in the toughest of times to come out on top with the win. (Team Jennifer is pink because frankly, she loves pink and it’s the color of breast cancer).

Fans/Spectators
As with any sporting event, you have spectators/fans. Our spectators consist of Team Jennifer’s network outside of the closest friends and family who are playing on the field. It’s everyone who wishes her prayers and sends their thoughts to her; everyone who knows her and stands beside her. It’s everyone who is rooting for her to win.

Just as a side note: I, personally, would not want to be playing Jennifer’s team. Knowing Jennifer, she’s like a repeat state title winner. Team Jennifer is like Northwestern who has won the NCAA D-1 championships 4 years in a row. No one can stop her willingness to overcome, achieve, and win. For this reason, Team Cancer is the underdog. They are coming into the game shaking in their cleats, knowing that they are going up against one of the best. Who wouldn’t be afraid playing against Team Jennifer?!

Let the championship begin…

The whistle blows and Team Cancer gets the first draw. Team Cancer gets the first goal. Team Jennifer came in not knowing about Team Cancer and therefore, underestimated their skill. Team Cancer won the first draw, beat down the defense and slipped one past the goalie (Jennifer is playing in goal). Team Cancer has made itself a name and walked right in the front door. “Welcome to the Jungle ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a ballgame”! Team Jennifer is now awake and aware that something isn’t right. Team Cancer is not going down without a fight. So begins the journey of 50 minutes.

For the next 49.5 minutes, the goals are going back and forth. Team Jennifer is putting up a great defense and Team Cancer is putting up a great offense. The spectators want to join in and help, but all they can do is sit there and scream their encouragement. They can’t jump in the line of fire and play the game, all they can do is watch. Their words of encouragement and screams of joy and luck are being heard. They are keeping Team Jennifer pumped up and roaring to win.

Each of Team Cancer’s goals are a set back for Team Jennifer, but that doesn’t bring Team Jennifer down, it just pushes them to play harder and work harder. They are in shape. They’ve gone through the whole season of strenuous workouts and tough games. Each day has been a building block for this moment. Now is when it counts and now is what they have been working so hard for.

30 seconds left on the clock and Team Jennifer is up by 1. It’s been a whirlwind 49.5 minutes. Team Cancer is slowing down and you can see they are getting tired. They aren’t running as fast as they were 45 minutes ago and they are starting to bicker at each other because they know their chance at beating Team Jennifer is slimming down. The nerves are acting up as each player on their team is getting worried about what the outcome will be. They know it’s their last shot at beating Team Jennifer.

Team Jennifer is holding in strong. The fans have stuck with them for the entire 49.5 minutes and are stronger than ever. Their ranting and raving is breaking down Team Cancer. The field players have gotten a second wind and are ready for more. Team Jennifer is excited and ready to win this championship. They know it’s the last few minutes of a game that really count and when the energy is needed the most to win. They hear the bickering of Team Cancer and know they have broken them down. Only 30 seconds left…

The whistle blows and the draw is taken. Team Cancer gets the ball. They run it down the field past the offense, whittling past the first line of defense and make it to the 8 meter arc where the last few defenders are. Jennifer, in goal, can see everything going on. She is aware of the whole scenario of what can happen if they lose and what will happen when they win. She’s ready to win and gets fired up! They might have gotten through the defense, taken a couple shots, and gotten a few goals. They might have made a few setbacks to Team Jennifer along the way, but she and the team have worked too hard to get this far. She’ll be damned if Team Cancer wins this battle!

There are 10 seconds left… The fans start chanting: “9…8… 7”… Team Jennifer’s defenders force Team Cancer into a double team…”6… 5… 4”… Team Cancer breaks free… “3… 2”… Team Cancer takes the shot, high right corner… “1”…

A hush grows over the crowd. The field players have stopped moving. Goosebumps have made their mark on everyone’s arms and a lump has jumped into throats. Not a breath is being taken. It’s up to Jennifer in goal, to make the save and win the championship. The goalie is the last line of defense, and that is Jennifer…

JENNIFER MAKES THE SAVE! There’s the whistle and the game is OVER! The fans are jumping wild with screams and tears of joy. There is a mad rush to the field and Jennifer is swept up on the shoulders of her teammates and friends. Jennifer made the save and saved the game. Team Cancer was defeated.

Honestly, though, did you ever think it would have any other outcome? I didn’t think so….

Stupid Cancer… don’t you know that offense wins games, defense wins championships?! You chose the wrong team to play for this championship!

7/8/2008: Pain Sets In

2008-07-08T21:49:00.000-04:00

Is it possible to have a day that you feel absolutely miraculous followed by a day that just the effort of breathing leaves you frozen and wincing? Unfortunately it is possible and this is how my last two days have progressed.

Monday was one of the best days I have had during my recovery. I woke in the morning in good spirits. I was, however, without my parents since they took our new puppy, Abagail Marie to the vet for a meet and greet. Their absence threw me into a full-on panic attack. I realize how dependent I have become on them in so many ways. Once they arrived home, my mother and I drove to my plastic surgeon's office at Reston Hospital to have my dressings changed over my drains. The ride was a little rough for me, but I clutched my pink pillow to my chest and yelped over a couple of big bumps. On arrival, to my surprise, Candi (my doctor's assistant) told me that although it has not even been a week since my surgery, two of my drains were below 30cc and could be removed. This consisted of taking a deep breath once she counted to three and then blowing out as she yanked the tubes free from my skin. It was not painful, but very uncomfortable. I wasn't sure what to expect and my anxiety was at an all-time high, but I figured if I could survive 18 weeks of chemotherapy, I could handle tubes being pulled out of my skin. They placed band aids over the holes left by the tubes and sent me on my way. (Today the holes are the size of a pen top.) Two tubes down and three to go now … yay!

Today was the worst day since my surgery. I started weaning myself off of my pain pills simply because I hate taking them. Then I spent the majority of the night sleeping on my left side. When I woke up at 4:00am I could barely take a breath or move. I took half a Percacet and went back to bed. When I awoke again at 7:30am the pain was excruciating along the base of my left breast. I called my Mom into my room and sobbed and whimpered hysterically. (The look of helplessness on her face just crushed me. She barely ate the rest of the day.) I took a full pill which didn't even seem to take the edge off the pain. I couldn't find a comfortable position. I didn't want to eat because I was nauseous from the severe pain.

The worst part was, my poor friend Andrew spent the day with me and I was definitely not fun to hangout with. We had plans to venture out of the house and possibly see and movie, and instead he was stuck laying on the couch playing with Abagail and watching Animal Planet. He didn't complain a bit though, because he is just that good of a guy.

Was the pain due to the removal of the two tubes the day before? The bumpy ride to the hospital? Sleeping on my left side? The new camisole I wore to bed with less support? Cutting back on my pain medication? Ugggh … whatever the culprit, the pain was beyond agonizing. I upped the pain pills to two, took a muscle relaxer, a warm sponge bath, ate a little dinner and the excruciating pressure and pain became much more manageable.

I have to keep reminding myself that my body has been through a major surgery and I will have both good days and bad days. Hopefully more good then bad though. My spirits are high and my nurses are shocked at how quickly my body is healing itself. I think it's due to the walks with Abagail, my multi-vitamin, being in good physical shape and lots and LOTS of vitamin C. (Apparently vitamin C is known for helping skin and tissue.) You just wait … I will be back to myself in no time. Please keep the warm thoughts, love and prayers coming. My family and I are incredibly grateful for all of your endless support.

7/5/2008: Recovery Begins

2008-07-05T21:47:00.001-04:00

My dearest friends, today is the first day I feel well enough to write. The last five days I have endured anxiety attacks, severe muscle spasms, intense pain, leaking tubes and draining pumps ... I have been beyond frustrated. However, it was the constant e-mails, phone calls, text messages, flowers and fruit baskets that have given me the strength to continue my fight. Thank you to all of you who have reached out in some way to support me. Please know that it has made all the difference in pulling me out of my darkest moments.

My mother and I have been a team the last five days. She has once again stepped forward as my rock. She sleeps outside my room in a sleeping bag and if I dare make a peep she is by my side. She has constantly been on "drain check" to empty them as they get full. She has given me daily sponge baths and even today shampooed my ever growing dark hair. She sat with me and helped as we changed my dried and bloody gauze pads to replace them with clean ones. Today I was able to remove a wire that stuck into both of my breasts administering pain medication. Once I had pull them both out of my skin, I sat on the toilet and sobbed. Mom gently took a tissue, wiped the tears and said "I know baby. It sucks." It is all so overwhelming at times, although I do my very best not to complain.

I had another first today. I finally went poop. I know, insignificant to most, but since I hadn't gone since Tuesday this was a HUGE accomplishment. I yelled the good news from the bathroom and both my brother and mother praised me like a new puppy. It was hilarious and we all had a good laugh about it.

Speaking of a new puppy ... this week we also welcomed Miss Abagail Marie into our home, which has made recovery so much more manageable. This has probably added more complications for my parents, but it is great for me. Haha! She is a year old Yorkshire terrier weighing only four pounds. She follows me everywhere I go and has become my little companion through my healing process. We even take daily walks, which helps ensure that I do not get an upper respiratory infection. She is an absolute doll and the impact she has made on me during this time in my life is one that I cannot explain. We love her so dearly.

My spirits are high and I am pleased that my body is getting stronger each day. My drains are collecting less fluid which means they can come out sooner. So far, everything is going according to plan. I will call my plastic surgeon first thing Monday morning and hopefully go in for a follow up and possibly have one of the drains removed for good.

Typing is making my muscles strain some, so I must end this note here, but please know that your warm wishes, prayers, kindness, thoughtfulness and support have truly worked. Now that I am feeling better, I am definitely up for visitors so please feel free to stop by and visit if you would like. I'd love some "entertainment."

7/3/2008: Mastectomy

2008-07-03T21:42:00.001-04:00

Written by my mother, Judi Kwiatek:

Tuesday, July 1 was perhaps one of the worst days of my life. When Jennifer was diagnosed with Breast Cancer I never realized the steps that needed to be taken to lead us to July 1. We knew she needed a bi-lateral mastectomy and lymph node surgery, but it was always in the distance. Work and things at home kept me busy and my mind away from it all, but only for a time being. Tuesday was a nightmare for me. Jennifer and I made a promise to not cry until it was all over, but when they began to slowly wheel her to surgery, I completely lost control and the nearest person to me to grab and hold me back was my sister. I think had she not been my sister I would have "beat her up", but instead I cried and screamed and simply could not breathe for quite a while.

Surgery lasted about 4 1/2 hours and then another hour in recovery. She arrived off the elevator to her floor at Virginia Hospital Center in great spirits asking for a cheeseburger and how wonderful her breasts looked. She remained in good spirits and I stayed the night with her. She was uncomfortable, but never in severe pain. Sleep escaped her (so naturally it did me as well) and finally at about three in the morning she asked for a sleeping pill. We slept only until five o'clock. As the day went on she made the decision to come home the next day (she had the option to remain a second). The trip home was horrible as we were driving from Arlington to Gainesville in semi-rush hour traffic and terribly bumpy roads. She cried and clutched a blanket the entire trip home and we could not pull into the driveway as it was too bumpy. She settled in and was able to finally sleep.

Every four hours is spent emptying the five drains she has coming from her breast and under her left arm. This has not been a challenge, but keeping her pain at a bearable level has been. She is not really in pain, but tremendously sore.

Today was the day to call the general surgeon Dr. Kenneth Mason, as he said he might have the pathology report. Bright and early the phone call was made and finally this afternoon about 6:00 he called. His report was as such: There was NO cancer found in either breast, although out of the 13 lymph nodes removed from the left arm, four had residual cancer. He indicated that the testing of the tissue and cells was not complete nor had they found the primary source, but he seemed confident that information would come once all the testing was completed. It appears, at present, that Jennifer has escaped Lymphadema in the left arm which is a blessing. She will still need to be fitted for a "sleeve" that she will need to wear when she travels on an airplane.

Thanks to each and everyone of you who have kept her in your thoughts and prayers and have kept our family in your thoughts as well. Her journey is by far not over, but Joe, Joey and I continue the path with her and our thoughts are with the many women who are being diagnosed daily with this terrible disease. Just today Jennifer heard from a friend that her best friend was diagnosed TODAY! This is horrible and must be stopped. We must find out what is making our young women sick. These seemingly healthy women are being diagnosed with breast cancer and the vast majority are under the age of 35. Is it the antibiotics being fed to the animals? Perhaps the radiation of chicken and eggs? Have we become too clean? Something to think about as I am off to take care of my precious Jennifer.

6/30/2008: Weekend at the Beach

2008-06-30T21:41:00.001-04:00

Hot sand billowing up between my toes made me smile. The warmth of the sun upon my face lifted my heart. The cool breeze trickling over my skin made my pores stand at attention. And the sound of the waves crashing, married with the giggles of children left me peaceful. A weekend at the beach was exactly what I needed to regroup for the next phase of my journey.

It appears that my oncologist was right … he strongly encouraged me to take some time before surgery and get away. This was just what the doctor ordered! Don't get me wrong … it wasn't all G-rated for goodness sake. The weekend consisted of swimsuit malfunctions on the beach, losing credit cards, cell phones in the cooler, doing the robot, plenty of interesting storytelling, hugs when I broke into tears, 'Napoleon Dynamite'-style tetherball, getting knocked over and scraped up by waves, beach yoga, joining the lifeguards in their run, feeding Herman and Simone (our seagulls), walking like an Egyptian and plenty of other memories that will always be held near and dear to my heart. Friday night I danced non-stop with Rita and Annalisa for almost four hours to the tunes of the '80s at Rusty Rudder in Dewey Beach. Then Saturday morning I could barely walk. This poor body had very little exercise throughout chemotherapy. Even today my tummy aches from the weekend full of laughter.

Tomorrow is the BIG DAY … surgery. Quite frankly, I have mixed emotions. I have already said goodbye to "the girls" and am confident that the surgery will go well; however, it is the days that follow surgery that I dread. This will be my last blog for awhile, but my best friend Kere and my Mom will be keeping you all informed on my progress until I can type again. I promise I will write as soon as I am able to. I will be at my parents' house for the next three to four weeks and would LOVE some company to keep me "entertained." Please call me or my parents to see if I am up for visitors before stopping by. Just don't be offended if I don't get too dolled up for you. Haha!

People have been asking what they can do for me, and now I have an answer … please keep my family and me in your thoughts and prayers over the next couple of weeks. This is the second hurdle of my journey and one that I need your help to overcome. This is difficult emotionally, mentally, physically and spiritually for me and I really need your help to summon all the strength possible to get through this battle. I want to thank you in advance for your love, devotion, selflessness, compassion, understanding and endless thoughtfulness. It means so much more to me than you know.

6/25/2008: Ode to the Girls

2008-06-25T21:38:00.000-04:00

"Girls," you've known for several months that we would eventually need to have this talk. You have been there for me through thick and thin (literally) and now you have made me quite ill, for which I feel extremely hurt and betrayed. We haven't always gotten along, but I have always taken good care of you and dressed you in the prettiest of garments. I even allowed you to be the star of several Halloween and late-night outfits. In the last five years or so, I really feel like our relationship has matured and that I started to accept you and embrace your small, yet adorable nature. Isn't it ironic that it's when we start getting along that you stab me in the back? (Well, technically, the stabbing happened under my left armpit.) This is why we need to end our relationship and part ways for good.

I think maybe I put too much pressure on you in the past and that's why you made me so very sick. I remember in fifth grade being so jealous of my bestfriend Mehgan's boobs that I cursed you "girls" and covered you with tissues. I wonder if Mom and Dad ever realized why we needed to buy Kleenex more often in those days. I even named you Wayne and Garth after my favorite party-time movie 'Wayne's World,' don't you remember? Can you recall the day when I ran home crying from the pool in middle school when a girl sang, "Roses are red, violets are black, your chest is as flat as my back?" What a dumb girl, violets are blue! I cursed you then too, "girls" and wished that you would grow faster. I know I was demanding, but you didn't need to be this extreme in getting back at me.

I have said many things over the past five months that were out of pure fear, frustration and exhaustion. One comment was that I would rather go through 18 more weeks of chemotherapy then lose you "girls." First of all, that is ridiculous, because chemotherapy is pure hell. Second, no offense, but you "girls" made me sick and I am actually looking forward to an "upgrade." I know we have had some special moments over the years and, yes, even some chats in the mirror over the past couple of months, but it is time to finally part ways. You have hurt me deeply and for that I cannot forgive you. I will move on with my life as a healthy and strong woman and I will find a better pair of "girls." You, however, will be tortured for making me sick by being dissected into tiny little pieces.

Goodbye "Wayne and Garth," "Barbie and Stacy," "Laverne and Shirley," "Thelma and Louise," "chi chis," "taa taas," "my girls." I'm sad things had to end this way, but I will be better off without you. I need to take care of me now and I realize that you are only holding me back from being healthy and happy.

Jennifer's "Girls"
December 19, 1981 -- July 1, 2008
Here rests my "girls"
Once perky and plump
Replaced by a health new pair
That runneth over my cup.

6/19/2008: Big Little Victory

2008-06-19T21:36:00.000-04:00

Today I met with my oncologist (Dr. David Heyer) to review my PETscan and go over the recommended strategy post-chemotherapy. The PETscan showed that the cancer is GONE except for one tiny lymph node under my left armpit. My oncologist was extremely pleased with the way my body and the cancer responded to the aggressive chemotherapy regimen. He explained that during the operation my surgeon (Dr. Kenneth Mason) would remove all of the breast tissue along with the lymph nodes under my left armpit. He said, "We're going to get it all. You're going to be fine."

This is just the reassurance I needed to hear from my medical team as I am still struggling mentally and emotionally with the thought of losing my breasts. I had the same problem prior to chemotherapy, but I think in time I will make peace with the decision I have made. This is not the simplest path, but it is the one I have chosen and will need to embrace it over the next week. I seek clarity and peace in the coming days. Perhaps my trip to the beach next weekend with my friends will give me just that. Right now, my nightmares and 3 AM panic attacks consume me. Somewhere and somehow, I must strike a balance.

My oncologist said I will begin radiation a month following surgery. Radiation is Monday through Friday and lasts six weeks. This is shorter than I originally thought, so I was pleased to hear the news. Once that is over, I will most likely have to go on a hormone regimen, which does not make me happy. Dr. Heyer said he didn't want to review those options just yet. I need to continue celebrating little victories and taking baby steps. These times that I feel darkness and a sense of defeat, I listen to the CD my friend Sarah made me. There is a song on there called 'Little Victories' by Matthew Nathanson. It helps me gather my strength.

Although I know the purpose of all of this is to get healthy, I am concerned about my future in wanting to one day have a family. Chemotherapy threw me into early menopause and Dr. Heyer told me this morning that some women don't bounce back and remain there permanently. With my young age and the chemotherapy drugs they used, I run a better chance of resuming a normal "cycle." I find it ironic that I am now praying (begging and pleading) for my period to return. Who would have thought a year ago that I would have been praying for my period? Life is such a quirky thing!

So now I ask for your help in praying for a successful surgery, NO lymphedema (1 in 20 women develop this from having a mastectomy) and for my period to return. I know, I am being quite demanding these days, but I sure would appreciate all the help I can get. I need you in order to make it through this second phase of my journey.

This week, I will try and focus on my great PETscan results, which according to my friend Andrew "is quite a BIG 'little victory.'"

6/18/2008: PETScan Results

2008-06-18T21:34:00.000-04:00

"There is physiologic accumulation of FDG in the myocardium, liver, bowel and excretion tracer in the kidneys and urinary bladder," I read the PETscan results aloud to my mother as we stood outside my surgeon's office embracing the gorgeous sun for a moment. We looked at each other, both scared to say aloud what we were both thinking. Dear God, had the cancer spread?

My mom suggested I go talk to my surgeon about the test results. My stomach turned, my vision became blurry, my eyes swelled and I shook. I wanted to know what those words meant, however part of me could not bear hearing more bad news. I talked to Dr. Mason's assistant and she said that I could sit in the waiting area and Dr. Mason would be with me shortly. Sitting in the waiting area my heart raced with fear and panic. Do I have to have chemotherapy again? Will I spend the rest of my life fighting cancer? Am I going to die?

Dr. Mason entered the waiting room and said, "Everything looks great!" I jumped into attack mode. "What does that last line mean? What is FDG?" Dr. Mason smiled kindly and said, "Come on back, Dear." Dr. Mason ushered me into one of the examining rooms and I asked my questions again. I know Dr. Mason could see me shaking violently and my eyes swelling with tears. He said, "Everything looks great. I cannot remember what FDG stands for, but the G is glucose, which is sugar."

(Note: FDG stands for Fluorodeoxyglucose. When you have a PETscan they take your sugar level first, and then give you an injection of glucose. Cancer cells metabolize faster than normal cells, so the imagining can tell where the cancer cells are in the body.)

I said, "Does 'physiologic accumulation' mean that the cancer has spread." I couldn't believe I was able to actually craft the words. Dr. Mason looked at me with kind eyes, "I need you to take a deep breath and try and relax." He reached out touching my armpit, "Your cancer is all right here. It hasn't spread anywhere and I assure you that we will get it all. We're going to get it all, Dear" He repeated himself again in order for his words to resonate. I felt my body grow less tense. He told me that his only concern is the two lymph nodes still left in the armpit. However, they have shrunk and will be taken out during my mastectomy. I thanked Dr. Mason for being so wonderful and told him that I would see him on July 1 for surgery. "I expect your best work on surgery day," I joked as I walked through the door.

PETscan Findings
There is an abnormal enlarged left axillary lymph node with abnormal FDG metabolism and maximum SUV of 9.9. This mass is smaller than prior study. Smaller left axillary lymph node demonstrates a maximum SUV of 1.9. Left axillary seroma is smaller. Other axillary lymph nodes do not demonstrate abnormal FDG metabolism.

Previously seen left internal mammary chain lymph node is smaller and also demonstrates no abnormal FDG metabolism.

Left anterior 6th rib also no longer demonstrates abnormal FDG metabolism.

Findings are compatible with marked response to chemotherapy.

There is physiologic accumulation of FDG in the myocardium, liver, bowel and excretion tracer in the kidneys and urinary bladder

6/13/2008: B or C?

2008-06-13T21:32:00.000-04:00

"Hi, can I talk to you for a second?" I asked nervously. The beautiful brunette with bronze, sun-kissed skin propped herself up on her elbows as the sweat ran down her tummy and stopped at her belly button. She was probably the most stunning young woman I have ever seen and I had been debating whether or not to speak to her all afternoon while I sat in the comatose heat at my condo's pool.

I spent my Sunday afternoon doing something I never thought I would. I went to the pool, despite the crippling heat, and did a bit of "window shopping." I know it sounds ridiculous and even slightly perverted, but looking at balloons filled with liquid really doesn't give me a sense of what I want my new breasts to look like. Do I want to be a B or C? Round or tear-drop? Saline or silicone? I feel like this is the one choice in this whole journey that I actually get to make for ME. No one else has a say (unless I ask for opinions) and I can have anything I want. It's exciting.

Luckily, one of my closest girlfriends, Marisa, has been investing time in doing my research for me. She found out that silicone is actually the recommended choice for women who have reconstruction done because they are now FDA approved to be incredibly safe. Another plus is that they are gel-filled so they give you a much more natural look and feel without any rippling (which can happen due to the thin layer of tissue and skin that is left over after the mastectomy). She also found two websites that you can enter your height and weight and see women's breast of all different sizes on your body type. AMAZING! How else am I supposed to know what I want without seeing actual breasts on my body type? My lovely friend, who I am so bless to have in my life, has taken my worry and anxiety away by doing this research and helping me find "the perfect girls" for me. Thank you, Sweets!

"Sure thing," said the beautiful brunette. "I don't want this to be awkward or to offend you in anyway ..." I responded. With that opening her boyfriend quickly sat up in his chair and looked at me defensively. Great, I thought to myself. "... My name is Jennifer and I am battling breast cancer." Both of their faces turned sullen. "I am preparing for breast surgery and don't know what I want, but I love your boobs." As though he had created them himself, her boyfriend sat up a little taller and looked so incredibly proud. Typical male reaction, I thought. A smile came across her face and she thanked me for the compliment. She said she was a C, but recently they have gotten bigger and she could even fit into some D-cups. Hmm ... a little bigger than what I was anticipating. Obviously I need to pay better attention to the boobs in my life. I thanked her and apologized again if I made her uncomfortable. She said, "No, not at all. I'm happy to help."

I spoke to two other women at the pool that day, approaching them as though I was inquiring about needing a tissue. One woman was a small B and the other a full B/small C. I felt like Goldilocks that afternoon searching for the perfect porridge. My beautiful brunette friend was too big, the small B was too small and the full B/small C looked just right. The good news is, I have time to think about it and continue my "window shopping" and research. So beware while sunbathing, because if I am in your vicinity I may approach you and inquire about your lovely girls.

6/9/2008: Race for the Cure

2008-06-09T21:28:00.001-04:00

"My name is Jennifer Kwiatek and I am 26 years old and battling an aggressive form of breast cancer," I mustered up the energy to say, "And I just finished 18 weeks of chemotherapy." Cynthia Nixon, also known as Miranda from 'Sex and the City,' looked at me with warm eyes. She reached forward taking both of my hands in hers and said, "I am so incredibly proud of you."

The Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure started a day early for me, since I attended the kickoff cocktail reception at the Newseum in D.C. with Andrew. The event was done with such class and elegance. I was feeling really good for only being seven days out from my last chemotherapy treatment. I drank my pink cosmopolitan, did frequent wig checks to make sure "I was straight," divulged in pink rock candy, did the robot (my signature dance move), and met several sensational women.

In addition to meeting Cynthia Nixon, I also had the opportunity to speak with singer Vanessa Carlton. I told her about my journey and thanked her for being an ambassador for the Race for the Cure. Her mother who was there with her was moved by my story and began to cry. There was another woman who approached me who had heard me talking with Cynthia. She told me about her personal battle and shared words of encouragement. I was truly touched. Two women from Evansville, Indiana shared a lounge ottoman with Andrew and me. They both traveled to Washington, D.C. with several other friends who are all survivors to participate in the race. One woman told me that she was 25 years old when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She is now and 18-year survivor with no reoccurrence and was blessed with a beautiful baby girl. They gave me a Susan G. Komen ring and their hometown RFTC pin.

I realized that I have now been initiated into a new organization. Just like being a cheerleader, a sorority sister, an alumnus … I am now part of a new chapter of sisters (and brothers). The support and understanding I feel from this group is one that I cannot find the words to express.

Race Day was one that I will cherish forever. The National Mall was a sea of pink with over 40,000 participants. Walking down the mall and seeing my friends standing under our designated area decked in pink, holding signs and high in spirits, was all it took to move me to tears. It was such a hot day, yet that didn't stop the love and support of my dear friends.

During those three miles my friends constantly checked in on me to make sure I was continuing to brave the sticky and humid weather. It was this unselfishness, awareness and support that truly warmed my heart. We stopped at several points to take photos and wait on others who were following close behind which gave my tired little legs a nice break. Finishing the race was a magical moment. The announcers saw Kelli jumping up and down with our team sign and they said "Team Jen" over the loud speaker as we crossed the finish line.
For those of you who participated in the Race for the Cure and helped us raise our $5,000 goal, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I am so incredibly blessed to be surrounded by such amazing people. Thank you for being you and loving me unconditionally. It is you that has made all the difference in my journey … please know that.

6/6/2008: The Dance

2008-06-06T21:27:00.000-04:00

I have been going back and forth debating about whether or not I should write about this, but since I have been brutally honest with you to this point, I do not see why I would stop now. Something pretty astonishing has occurred in my life and I still do not know what to make of it all.

I have been swept into this dance where I am being spun in a light twirl one minute then swooped heavily grazing the floor the next. It is in this graceful, yet intense embraced that I conjure the nerve to analyze my raw emotion and find my rhythmic balance. Have I completely lost my footing? Not in the slightest. I feel as though I have already seen the steps played out in my head and I am now trying to envelope the routine to a science.

I have been reading a book called 'Pretty Is What Changes' and although my personal life and battle with cancer does not mirror Jessica's perfectly, I am able to notice some psychological similarities between her actions and mine. She and I are very similar in our drive, career, the way we wish to be perceived, even down to the relationships we find ourselves in. It is almost eerie. In reading her story, I began thinking about my own. I started analyzing the growth work in my life and how I have changed over the last five months. Is it possible to experience a lifetime of growth in five months? I don't know, but I know I have changed significantly. I have spent so much time really embracing the raw emotions I have felt instead of trying to ignore them, or just coast through this experience. I have psycho-analyzed the way I feel and how I react to certain things in order to determine what it is I am seeking internally. Do I lash out because I am angry about my cancer? Do I engage in negative conversations because I seek the normalcy I knew from before? Would I really want to go back to being the person I was previously? I'm not sure I have fully fleshed out all of these answers, but I do understand how I have changed psychologically. I am acknowledging the madness that lies there and am putting each graceful motion into its appropriate place in my dance.

I am sure I sound like I have completely lost my mind at this point, but I truly believe that I am the very best version of myself possible right now. I was always told by my mother that I would do so very much growth work in my mid-to-late twenties and little did I know that with this whirlwind dance I would do just that and so much more.

6/2/2008: Chemo is OVER!

2008-06-02T21:25:00.000-04:00

IT'S OVER! It's difficult to be excited about the end of chemotherapy right now when I am sleeping more than sixteen hours a day, but I know when my body toughens up I will be beyond ecstatic never to have to go through this again. I wish I could just bounce back immediately after chemotherapy and be "normal" Jen, instead I just shift from my couch to my bed shaking and panting in pure exhaustion. Just lifting myself in and out of my bathtub takes every ounce of strength in my shaky muscles. It's not a pretty site and typically I cry in frustration, but I continue to remind myself that this too shall pass. My oncologist warned me that by the time I got to round six of treatment I would feel as though I had been run over by a truck. He was certainly right.

My final chemotherapy treatment consisted of family and friends surrounding me, a beautiful Coach handbag, gorgeous flowers, balloons, Panera breakfast pastries, a beach bag full of goodies, a thoughtful cake that my shaky hands could not hold on to and landed upside down on the floor, text messages and e-mails, hugs and kisses, and yes, even laughs.

We have made it through the first phase of this journey together … eighteen weeks of chemotherapy. I cannot begin to express my love and gratitude for your endless prayers, warm thoughts and support. There is no way I could have done this without you. Now I must gather all of my strength and positive thoughts in order to readjust my focus. My main objective now is to get my body healthy and strong for surgery scheduled on July 1. Surgery will be tough, with three to four weeks of recovery, and I know I will need to summon all of my mental, physical and emotional strength to get through it.

Here is my schedule for the month of June:

June 16: PETScan and Pre-Op with my plastic surgeon (Dr. Wendy Gottlieb)
June 18: Pre-Op with my surgeon (Dr. Kenneth Mason)
June 19: Review PETScan with oncologist (Dr. David Heyer)
June 20: Herceptin Treatment (Every three weeks)
June 26-29: Weekend at the Beach
July 1: Mastectomy and Reconstruction at Virginia Hospital Center

It is time to head back to bed. I will try to write again later this week when I am, hopefully, feeling significantly better.

5/27/2008: Wedding

2008-05-27T21:24:00.000-04:00

Somewhere this weekend in the midst of getting hit in the crotch with a wedding bouquet, my legs shaking from exhaustion at the end of girls' night and becoming incredibly nauseous from the smell of asparagus in a buffet line I realized that I crave normalcy.

I find it so incredibly easy to envelope myself in the moment and forget that I am fighting for my life every second of the day. It is so easy for me to shut off my mind and allow myself blissful ignorance, but do I truly gain anything to strengthen who I am by doing that? It was this weekend that embraced friends, soaked up the sun and allowed myself a break … I experienced several windows of ignorant bliss and it was magnificent.
On Friday I went out with my girlfriends to my favorite Japanese steakhouse. I laughed until my belly ached and ate until my heart was content. I made jokes about my cancer and separated myself from the fear, pain and hollowness of the actual disease and talked about it as though it were an ex boyfriend. It was an interesting experiment. It wasn't until later that evening sitting at the bar that my body began shaking and I knew too well what that meant. I had pushed it to its limits and it was time to go home and rest. I embraced my friends and kissed them all on the cheek goodnight. The first night of ignorance was successful and I slept through the entire night peacefully.

Saturday I faced a new challenge … a wedding. I was surrounded by a few close friends, but many people who did not know about my cancer. For one evening … I was just another 20-something woman. It felt nice to just be part of the crowd. I drank, laughed and danced like a robot. It was a beautiful wedding. Once the servers began bringing out the food I felt sheer panic deep in my chest. Oh God … I smell asparagus. My friends quickly ate their food as I felt myself retreat inward. Was I going to throw up? Were the guests looking at me? Could they tell I have cancer? My head was spinning. Within only a couple of minutes I talked myself through the fear that had set in and was back on the dance floor. When it was time for the beautiful bride Christy to throw the bouquet I stayed seated. My friends forced me to go out on the dance floor. I stood off to the side in hopes that I would simply just be one of the crowd and go unnoticed. The bouquet was tossed and veered in my direction. Before I could move out of the way it hit me in the crotch. (Yes, in the crotch!) The girl next to me said "It hit you, so it's yours." I picked it up and thought to myself I wonder if I will live long enough to be married. Am I going to die? I quickly shook that thought. Instead I returned to my friends who joked that perhaps it takes six bouquets to find your prince charming. (Yes, I have caught six bouquets now. I feel like Katherine Hegel in '27 Dresses.') Always a bridesmaid …

This weekend taught me a lot about finding the balance between escaping and engulfing cancer. I need to allow myself both in order to get through this journey mentally and emotionally. The negative thoughts do creep up every once in awhile and I think they come with the territory. I am ok with that since they are in my control. I have come through 18 weeks of chemotherapy and I can face nine more months of surgeries and radiation. No asparagus, bouquets to the crotch or shaky legs will define me. I shall be triumphant, embrace normalcy soon enough and I will find my happily ever after. This I am certain of.

5/20/2008: Timeline

2008-05-20T21:20:00.000-04:00

My friend Bronwyn summed it up best when she said "I guess feeling the worst you have felt emotionally on this journey is to be expected when the end is so close yet in many ways seems so very far." I reached my breaking point yesterday when I had my appointment with my plastic surgeon, Dr. Wendy Gottlieb, and I am finding it so hard to mentally get myself back on track. I feel lost and I hope for my sake it is temporary.
Let me explain. I met with Dr. Wendy Gottlieb (my plastic surgeon) yesterday and I LOVE her. She was incredibly compassionate and optimistic … exactly what I need. She told me that things may change during the process, but whatever happens we will roll with it and she will be able to fix it or make it work. I saw her work and she is truly an artist. I have complete faith and know that I will end up with an amazing end result. What I did not anticipate was that I will have three surgeries over the course of almost a year before I am put back together again. I feel like Humpty Dumpty.

WARNING: If you are sensitive to surgical information, do not read the information below!

Here is my timeline:
(1) Surgery #1: Either June 18 or July 2. Dr. Kenneth Mason (surgeon) will go in through the nipple (the only incision, other than the drains) and remove all the tissue in the breast back to the pectoral muscle. Then Dr. Wendy Gottlieb (plastic surgeon) will then cut the muscle and place the filled expander behind it against the ribs. (The expander looks like an implant, but has a port on it.) She then places the muscle over the expander. On top of that she will line the inside of my skin with donated skin/tissue in order to give the breast a smooth look, instead of the skin looking thin and cottage cheese like. Then they tie me up where my nipple used to be and I head into recovery. I should wake up about the same breast size as I am now. She said she would fill the expander as much as the skin would allow for.
(2) Recovery: I only stay in the hospital 1 to 2 nights. The drains are removed week 1 to 3 depending on my body. I will probably end up with 4 to 5 drains depending on how many lymph nodes they remove.
(3) Once the drains come out (week 2 to 3) they do the first expander fill. Filling the expander consists of a visit to my plastic surgeon's office where they take a long horse-sized needle and stick it through the center of my breast. (At this point I don't feel it since I no longer have nerves in my breast.) It is able to seek out the metal port in the expander and connect. They fill me until I have been "stretched to capacity."
(4) Week 4 to 5 they do the second expander fill (which my plastic surgeon says is usually all it takes to reach the desired size)
(5) Radiation: I cannot start until I have finished my expander fills. Typically radiation lasts 8 weeks, although I won't know how long mine is until they dissect the tissue from my mastectomy and determine how much cancer is left … if any at all.
(6) I then have to wait two months for my body to heal from radiation and the tissue to start rebuilding itself
(7) Surgery #2: Then I get my implants
(8) I wait 2 to 3 months for my breasts to settle into place.
(9) Surgery #3: I have flesh-colored nipples constructed from donated tissue
(10) I have my nipples tattooed to a pink color and am finally finished!

The task before me seems daunting and I am not sure where I will find the strength to continue on this journey. I feel overwhelmed and uneasy about my surgeries. I am not a patient woman and embracing this timeline is difficult for me. I am at a point where I am tired from chemo (on many levels) and am having a hard time mentally and emotionally preparing for an operation that will take almost a year to complete. I understand the mission of this journey is to get healthy, but the 26-year-old woman in me is mourning the loss of her youthful physique.

I opened the gown as I stood topless in front of Dr. Gottlieb. She told me that I was in an excellent starting place with very symmetrical breasts. I stopped her and told her to look at my nipples. I said, "See how little they are? I want them exactly the same." I think she could sense the concern in my voice and see my eyes starting to swell. She stopped measuring my breasts and smiled at me. She said, "We'll make it happen then." Let God be my compass … my journey is so very far from over.

5/18/2008: Doctors Orders

2008-05-18T21:17:00.000-04:00

"You're my hero," said one of my friends last night. "You've made this situation into an amazing opportunity to better yourself and inspire others," said my other friend. Last night was exactly what I needed. One of my best friend's, Marisa, celebrated her birthday and I felt well enough, despite the week I had, to make it out to her party. I am so happy I did, because being surrounded by my friends really helped give me the strength to shake this horrible sickness and continue fighting.

Friday I was even sicker than Thursday and missed another day of work. I headed back to the hospital to meet with Dr. Heyer (my oncologist) in the morning. He examined me and said one of three things is wrong: I either have a nasty stomach virus (which is most likely), my body is now saying "enough" with chemotherapy and is reacting back, or I have developed CDF from my treatment. He said he wanted to start me on antibiotics for CDF in case it is that, but they won't know for certain until my stool sample comes back Monday or Tuesday. (Yes, I had the luxury of pooping in a cup. Oh joy!)

I asked Dr. Heyer to review with me my midway MRI and heart scan. The MRI showed that the lymph nodes, diseased tissue and even the 3cm hematoma (blood clot and fluid pouch) from surgery had ALL shrunk. He told me that the MRI showed an area of increased brightness (Does that mean the hot spot got hotter!?) and he said that too will not be fully understood until they can dissect the tissue after surgery. My heart scan came back excellent, which pleased my doctor greatly. He said my heart was previously pumping at 62% and now it is at 64%, so there has been very little damage or change.

Dr. Heyer did an exam of the lump under my arm and told me that he is 99% positive that is the hematoma from surgery, but that they won't know 100% what is going on in my body until they do surgery since MRIs and PETscans are too sensitive on breast tissue. That was frustrating for me to hear, but I understand the limitations of imaging. I concluded my appointment with Dr. Heyer by asking permission to go on a weekend get away with my friends at the end of June, prior to surgery. He told me he understood my need to "escape" and supported it 100%. Now I have something to plan and look forward to! YAY … sun and surf here I come!

After my appointment with Dr. Heyer I was put in the treatment room for my weekly Herceptin treatment and a bag of fluid due to my dehydration. My godfather, Bill showed up to surprise me. It was such a wonderful visit and gave me a second wind of energy. I am so very blessed to have such amazing people in my life. I feel incredibly loved and supported. It is a wonderful feeling. Please know how much I appreciate all of you.

I woke up Saturday morning feeling significantly better. I am not sure if it is the antibiotic that is working on my body, or that the virus I have is leaving my body. Either way, I am just SO happy to be feeling more like myself and able to attend some of my friends events. My friend Jessie hosted a Pampered Chef party on Saturday in my honor. A portion of the sales went to benefit the Avon Foundation. The event was so much fun and I am so happy I could attend. And last night I concluded the day celebrating Marisa's birthday. It appears that being surrounding by loved ones is just what the doctor ordered.

5/16/2008: Wearing Sick Well

2008-05-16T21:15:00.000-04:00

"… well, you wear sick well," said Mike. The tears rolled down my face and my whole body shook as I listened to my pulse pounding in my ears. "I feel like I am crashing … I haven't felt this badly before," I managed to say choking back my tears. Mike handed me a tissue and I looked away as he drew my blood. Oh God, what is wrong with my body? Please just let me get through one more treatment.

Yesterday I woke up gagging in my sleep, nauseous and dizzy. I spent my morning in a cold sweat lying on my bathroom floor. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears as the sweat beaded on my nose and cheeks. Despite being perplexed by my body's reaction, I managed to pull myself together and make it into work. It didn't take long and the smells and sounds started making me incredibly sick and I could barely read the words on my computer screen. After lunch (which I didn't eat) I drove myself to my oncologist's office at Reston Hospital. I didn't have an appointment, but due to the way I was acting (shaking, sweating, dizzy) they took me back immediately. It didn't take long and I started crying out of fear and frustration.

My blood pressure was very high (which is odd for me), but my temperature, blood work and exam were all excellent. My blood work actually showed the anemia improved, although Melanie (my nurse) thinks that could be due to the fact that I was so dry (dehydrated). I told Melanie about all of my aliments. She said the fatigue/weak body is due to the fact that chemotherapy is cumulative and that my body is growing weaker and weaker each round. The nausea she gave me new medication for which I am hoping will help significantly. The cold sweats I keep getting are due to chemotherapy throwing me into a pre-menopausal state. (Now I understand what Mom went through.) As for the stomach pain/discomfort, the doctors still are not sure. They did a urine test thinking I may have a UTI and that should come back today. Apparently, Taxotere causes the organs to swell, especially the bladder. Melanie hugged me and told me she knew how hard I was fighting and how tough all of this is. It didn't take long and the tears were falling down my face again. She told me to hang in there and that it was almost over … just 14 more days until my last treatment.

I was then taken back to one of the treatment rooms and given a bag of fluid for my dehydration and nausea medication through the IV. Unfortunately, I had not used my numbing cream on my port, so when the nurse accessed it … let's just say it was very tough. I told her how tired I was of getting pricked all the time … and started crying again. She handed me a tissue and gently touched my arm telling me that I was so strong and brave and was almost at that finish line. Why was I so emotional today? Ugggh! I called my Mom crying on the phone and within minutes she was by my side. I felt so much better having her there with me. We ate crackers, chatted and watched HGTV (my guilty pleasure). Sheesh … what a day!

Today my stomach is even worse. I will spare you the details, but I have spent almost my entire morning from 4 AM on in the bathroom. I am incredibly dehydrated. I have an appointment with Dr. Heyer (my oncologist) at 11 AM, then my Herceptin treatment, so hopefully they will be able to examine me again and figure out why my body is so sick. I will be sure to update you all once I know more.

I will leave you with some good news … my heart scan was "excellent" according to my nurse Melanie. She said they saw "some decrease" but not even enough to really mention. The doctors and nurses continue to comment on how well I am doing and how strong my body is. My heart is strong and handling these horrible drugs like a champion. I have only 14 more days of this terrible treatment, my friends. We are almost there.

5/13/2008: Weaker and Weaker

2008-05-13T21:12:00.000-04:00

The rainy weather has finally subsided and my soul feels renewed. So many wonderful and positive things are happening in the lives of those I care about that I cannot help but be completely ecstatic. I had a conversation with my Mom last night about all the wonderful things happening with my friends and how it gave me strength to see them so happy. I have friends who are finding success in job searches, are growing more pregnant by the minute, planning their weddings, finishing school and more. It finally feels as though the tides are turning and 2008 is not such a loss in the long run. And just think, only 17 days remain until my chemotherapy treatments are over and my life can resume as normal. How can you not be psyched when you are that close to reaching such a HUGE milestone?

Round five of chemotherapy was a trying one. I feel my body grow weaker and weaker each round. This time, in between treatments, I was unable to even enjoy my basic yoga DVDs from the comfort of my home. Stupid cancer. My symptoms are actually not as severe as last round, however I am not making light of how horrible they still remain. I slept a lot after treatment this round and my parents simply woke me up to eat or take my medications. I am back at work today, but with a body that won't budge, a mind that won't focus and feet that are too swollen for anything other than my beloved J.Crew flip-flops. The noises and smells in my office are bearable with an occasional Xanax or nausea medication. Every sense is heightened and my frustration with my physical state has led me to choke up several times throughout the afternoon already. But … I can do this. I am the strongest person I know and if I have done this five times already, what's one more, right? Bring it! It just gets me one more step closer to having surgery where they can cut out any remaining disease and sickness.

Tomorrow is a big day for me. I have my three-month heart scan in order to gauge how much damage the Herceptin and chemotherapy drugs have done to my heart. I was told none of the damage would be permanent, but that the doctors would need to continue monitoring my heart in order to make sure they are protecting it during the process. It is kind of scary when you stop long enough to really think about it. I have my heart scan first thing tomorrow morning, so be sending me your positive thoughts please for a healthy heart. I would not want to get to this point then have to delay treatment or surgery from happening. Next Monday, May 19 is my first pre-surgery appointment with my plastic surgeon, Dr. Wendy Gottlieb. I have already started looking at pictures of celebrities and getting opinions from friends and family about my "new" body. I cannot wait to see what Dr. Gottlieb will suggest for me.

5/11/2008: Round Five

2008-05-11T21:10:00.000-04:00

Well, five down and one to go. YAY! Can you believe it!? I can hardly believe that in three weeks I will be finished with this horrible chemotherapy. That thought alone gives me strength and hope. I stopped by my pharmacy to pick up all of my pre-chemotherapy medications and the woman behind the counter told me that I only had one more refill. I beamed telling her that I ONLY had one more treatment left. I seriously don't think she cared, but I went on and on about it as she rushed to ring me up. Leave it to me to talk someone's ears off that I don't even know.

Yesterday was Team Jen at its finest. Andrew, Bronwyn, Jenn, Rick and Daddy all sacrificed their Friday morning to sit with me during my treatment. Unless you have been through something like this, or a surgery of some kind, I don't think you can truly understand how much having the support of your friends and family means. It can be embarrassing and very vulnerable to have people see you in such an awful state, but I don't think they cared in the slightest. I found a pink wig in the donation box at my oncologist's office that seemed to entertain the group. Haha! My friends were so understanding and supportive of me during my treatment, even giving me a foot rub to take my mind off of the poison being pumped into my body. It is the visits, e-mails, text messages and even the smallest gestures of support that mean so very much to me. I don't think I could ever truly express my gratitude.

I got through the pre-medications, Herceptin and Taxotere during treatment, but then started to have a reaction. I got really flush in my face and neck, started sweating and had some trouble breathing. They flushed my IV immediately with saline (which helped considerably), then prior to my last medication, Carboplatin, they put me on a saline drip for fifteen minutes to try and dilute the Taxotere that was already in my system. That is the roughest of all the medications and rarely have I been able to squeeze by without it giving me some kind of issue. Once I got to the end of my treatment I grew very tired. I slept almost all day yesterday, last night and this morning. My poor little body is just pooped. I have a feeling in the coming days my body will remain pretty run down. The nurses told me that the fatigue will build and I could become more tired this round. At this point, I don't even care because I am almost done with this nightmare and can move on with my life again … well at least to the surgery stage. I just want this cancer out of my body for good.

My blood work was wonderful, my sinus infection gone and the lump under my arm did not concern my nurse. She told me she is almost positive that now that my incision has healed I can feel the blood clot/fluid left over from my surgery more prominently. She said as it heals it will go back and forth between being hard and soft and to please quite poking at it. She said that you do not grow tumors while on chemotherapy, but if I was still emphatic about having something done about it, they could schedule an ultra sound. I told her I would wait a week and make a decision. She said my MRI was great, but that she can understand my concern and they would do whatever I want to help ease my mind. I am just so paranoid these days about my body. I just want so desperately for it to all be okay.

Please know that I am fighting hard physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually with you all surrounding me with your love, support, compassion and prayers. This is one fight I do not intend to lose. Thank you all so very much and I will keep you posted on my progress in the coming days as my body tries to repair itself.

5/6/2008: Psychological Burden

2008-05-06T21:07:00.000-04:00

I felt an overwhelming surge of panic in the center of my chest and was enveloped with a wave of fear. I could feel the heat in my face and the beads of sweat swelling on my cheeks and nose. It was in that moment that I realized how much of a psychological burden I now face. My battle is not just a physical one, but one that truly challenges all aspects of my being. This is a journey that may leave some life long scars that lie much deeper than the surface.

This weekend I decided to shampoo my wigs. I have had them since early February and let's just say that they were getting a little funky. My brother, Joey purchased shampoo for my wigs as a gift. I know in my heart that he is trying so desperately to make this all better. He feels helpless, as do many others who love me, and does whatever he can to continually shower me with gifts. I appreciate his gestures of love and kindness more than he probably realizes. Once my wigs were washed ("funk free") and had dried I placed them on my head to style them again and brush out the tangles. Several strands broke free from the woven scalp and I immediately started having a panic attack. I know it sounds stupid, but there is no way to truly express what it feels like to lose your hair. It is a surreal experience that there is no way to prepare yourself for it. It is one of the most horrible things I have ever experienced and to see those strands falling out effected me in a way that I cannot describe. Psychologically, when I see hair fall out, I panic now. I wonder if this behavior will continue when my hair grows back and it sheds. How will I overcome this fear? These are implications I had not prepared myself for.

This weekend I was showering and as I do almost every shower now I was doing my daily breast exam (yes, it's totally psychological) and feeling my incision under my arm. I felt a lump. I became faint and nauseous, so I sat on the floor in my shower and let the water continue to fall over me. I was crying hysterically and breathing hard. I continued to tell myself over and over that I JUST had an MRI and it said everything shrunk. I know that I have some fluid still under my incision, so I am sure that is what I am feeling, but it doesn't stop me from being paranoid. This is MY body and I want so badly for it all to be okay. After I had talked myself through the situation, I stood and resumed my shower, but that feeling only subsided temporarily. When I was visiting my family this weekend I made sure to have my mom feel the lump, too. I will ask my oncologist about it on Friday, but I almost certainly know that he will tell me not to worry. How can I not? Am I going to be like this forever? Am I going to live in fear of cancer returning for the remainder of my life? These are not things a 26-year-old should have to battle with daily.

Right now I see these psychological challenges as such a burden. I am trying desperately to find a positive and optimistic angle, but am coming up empty. This Friday is round five of chemotherapy where Andrew, Bronwyn, my Dad, Jenn and Rick will all be joining me. I am so blessed to have such wonderful friends who don't mind seeing me in my darkest and ugliest of hours (useless, slurring, grumpy and unable to remember what I am talking about mid-sentence). I know I only have two more treatments left, but then that tiny, negative voice creeps up and says "I can't believe I have to go through this two more times." Treatments are getting harder and harder as the poison builds in my body. I am so tired and weak. I am counting the days until May 30. Please God just help me get through this month.

5/3/2008: Pink Martini Night Fundraiser

2008-05-03T21:05:00.000-04:00

Pink Martini Night is what it is all about for me. What an amazing evening of compassion and love to support me not in cancer, but in survival.

My family members came out in droves to be there for me in my biggest time of need. Close family friends who were there the day I was born came to celebrate my journey. Sorority sisters truly practiced what our foundation is based on by showing faith, hope and charity. Girls who I used to cheer with at Chantilly High School and George Mason University showed how deeply our bond went by stepping up when I needed them the most. My new and old co-workers were there with endless laughs. High school friends who I have not seen in over eight years were there reminiscing over memories and offering endless hugs. Even my dear friends from Lees Corner Elementary School didn't hesitate to show their love. Other friends who are so dear to me, and even acquaintances were there offering their warm words of affection. And even people I did not know who have followed my journey through my website were moved enough by my story to show their support. I think I may be the luckiest girl in the world. With this much love and support there is no way that I can lose this battle. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

One of the most amazing moments of the evening was that my dear friend, Kandi, who is also fighting breast cancer, traveled to come to my event with her husband and wonderful friends. You may have see her, or been lucky enough to have even spoken to her. She is breathtakingly beautiful and was wearing a lovely black dress and gorgeous pink wrap on her head. Despite her battle and the sickness she was feeling, she was there to show her support for me. It was the first time we had met face to face and I was choking back the tears. I cannot begin to express how much her friendship has meant to me.

I am amazed by my friends and all the hard work they put into planning this event. My good friend Andrew Waters came up with the idea for the fundraiser and solicited help from my brother Joseph Kwiatek, my sorority sisters Kere Knapp and Megan Sinks, my aunt and godmother Patty Campbell and my high school friend Ashley Wallace. Thank you to all my friends who volunteered their time to help with the event, promoted it, or who acquired donations for the silent auction. I am incredibly grateful.

My friend Chris Ciccone was at Pink Martini Night encouraging people to join Team Jen for the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure on June 7, 2008 in D.C. If you did not have a chance to sign up or donate, you can visit our website and join today! I plan to be there participating despite the fact that it is only a week after my last chemotherapy treatment. YAY! They have a 5k run/walk and even a 1 mile walk, so it is something everyone can participate in. This is the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure's 25th anniversary, so it is sure to be a memorable fundraiser to participate in.

There were approximately 350 people who came out to Pink Martini Night. I am hoping I was able to at least say hello to each of you and thank you for coming. If I did not, please know how much I appreciated it. My body was not cooperating since I had my Herceptin treatment yesterday afternoon and am now fighting a pretty brutal sinus infection, so there were a couple of times I needed to take a moment and sit. I wish I could have spent more time with each of you. It was such a wonderful evening having all of my friends in one place. If only we had more time.

We are still finalizing the donations, but it looks as though we were able to raise close to $9,000 with your generosity. There are no words to express how this will help elevate my financial burden. Now that the financial stress has been lessoned I can focus all of my attention on healing myself. Just think … 29 days left until I am finished chemotherapy. Please know that it is because of YOU that I have been able to fight so hard.

I love you all dearly. Thank you, thank you, thank you …

4/30/2008: My Core

2008-04-30T21:03:00.001-04:00

I've reached a very important pinnacle in my life … one that I am finally able to express.

I spent time this week reconnecting with a dear friend of mine. I have changed so much internally over the last three months, yet I have not actually been able to wrap my head around it and truly express it, until he and I spoke. He has always been the kind of person who simply "gets" me and understands me to the core of the person I am. He never passes judgment, or points out fault … he embraces me for the person I am, totally and completely. It was one of the most profound conversations I have had in a long time.

Having cancer has been the greatest gift. I do not wish for a moment that I was not faced with this. I have been taken on a spiritual journey that has been challenging, satisfying, eye-opening, scary, profound, clarifying and cleansing. I am renewed. I have started to take a really hard look at my life, past the surface of the day-to-day conversations and routines, to truly see how I can continue my growth work and enrich my life. I want and deserve better than what I am currently settling for … we all do.

My dear friend has also been on a spiritual journey over the past few months that has changed him. I am so incredibly happy for him. I was in awe of the peacefulness he embodied and the balance he had acquired in his mind, body and soul. It was so nice to truly open myself up to him with no reservation and in the most honest of ways share my inner thoughts and feelings. So often we close ourselves and operate in this unfulfilling, surfaced world that leads to internal isolation, negativity, resentment and lack of realization and accomplishment.

I have said it before, and I mean it, this experience does not define me and I refuse to look at it in a negative way. I choose to invest my time in bettering myself through life's challenges, helping others, cherishing my fulfilling relationships, eliminating negativity and embracing life to the fullest.

My friend told me "The real core of you is vibrant and rock-solid – you really must have been some kind of warrior in a former life because you certainly are one now." My oncologist calls me Bionic Woman and told me that my Dad being a Marine must have rubbed off on me. My Uncle Ron calls me his Real Trooper. I don't think these are all coincidences. I am a fighter and beating cancer is just the beginning. I have learned the act of patience. I have embraced not being able to control this situation, only my mindset. I have faced my vulnerability and handed myself over to God to guide me. I have never liked me this much before … and it can only get better with a new set of boobs. Haha.

In all seriousness, I challenge you to take a look at your core and start your growth work today. Who is more important than you? Why are we so scared to truly look deep inside ourselves? Demand more from life and eliminate negativity ... free yourself. Make yourself your top priority and make this day one of a new you.

4/27/2008: Farting in the Tub

2008-04-27T21:00:00.001-04:00

"You know when you fart in the bathtub …" I asked Melanie (the head doctor at my oncologist's office). She was trying so hard not to laugh as my dad smirked and rolled his eyes. "… that's the feeling I have in my knees and ankles." Melanie said, "Hmm, well, that's not good."

I met with Melanie this Friday during my weekly Herceptin treatment. I always have to meet with my oncologist, Dr. Heyer or Melanie the week following my chemotherapy to report back my side effects, how I am feeling and any changes in my reactions.

I explained how different this round was and that the side effects came later in the week lasted a shorter amount of time. I also have had pretty severe nausea the past two rounds, which I previously never had. Although I have never thrown up, it certainly makes me not want to eat. Melanie explained that the chemo builds up in the body and it could be just now that my body is saying "NOOOOOOOO!" and getting nauseous. As long as it can be managed with medication, the show goes on. So basically, I just have to suck it up and deal with it. The "farting" knees and ankles however is fluid building up in my joints due to the Taxotere (one of the ingredients in my chemo recipe). Not fun! Melanie asked me to watch this and report back if it did not subside or grew worse.

Surprisingly, my blood work came back and was worse than usual. The white blood cells (immunity) were in a good range; however, my red blood cells had dropped considerably. They were already low, meaning that I am anemic, but now I am even worse. They said they would check it again next Friday in hopes it had improved, but the only number they really care about is the white blood count. I never understood how people with anemia feel, but basically my organs are not getting the oxygen they need and it makes me feel wiped out. Ugggh!

I FINALLY HAVE A TIMELINE!!! I am so excited! Once chemo is over on May 30, I will have my PETscan on 6/16, meet with Dr. Heyer to review my PETscan on 6/19 or 6/20, then have my appointments with my surgeon, Dr. Mason, and the plastic surgeon around 6/23. Melanie said surgery can happen within days of that meeting … it is just up to the surgeons. YAY! Looks like June is going to be a super busy month, but I am ready for it. I cannot wait to get my new boobs. I just want all of this to be over so I can move on with my life and take a much needed vacation.

4/25/2008: Moved to Tears

2008-04-25T20:58:00.001-04:00

Ever heard the phrase "moved to tears"? I am the kind of person who is genuinely touched by things ... the smallest, yet most significant of kindnesses. I see the way a man looks at a woman and is captivated by her every word and feel my throat tighten. I hear the passion in Irish music and cannot help but feel my soul come to life. I receive gestures of love and compassion and am moved beyond words. This is primarily why I found myself crying the other evening to a complete stranger.

In the evenings after dinner and before Wheel of Fortune (right up there with Milano cookies and frappuccinos) if the weather is nice and I feel strong enough, I take a walk around my neighborhood. The fresh air is invigorating and I love seeing all my neighbors out with their young children and dogs. It makes me think of my sweet Carly Anne and how much she loved this time of year. Her little nose would twitch like a bunny as she would smell all of the looming flowers.

This particular evening I was in my black yoga pants, a gray hoodie, my black flip-flops and my pink breast cancer ball cap that Michael gave me. I didn't even bother to throw on a bra figuring I looked rough enough that no one would bother talking to me. I was wrong. I was concluding my walk when one of my neighbors who I have never spoken to before pulled into her driveway and waved to me. She gestured to me in a way that I knew she wanted to speak with me. She is probably in her early thirties with the cutest blonde bob I have ever seen. She told me that she was so happy to see me. I had to think for a moment if perhaps we already knew one another and tried desperately to figure out her name. Once she gathered herself she explained that she has seen me walk each evening and hadn't seen me the last few days and was worried. She told me that she can tell when I am not feeling well by the way I walk. She continued by expressing how much she admired me and how she couldn't believe how beautiful I am close up. She was a blunt woman, but her words were so genuine and refreshing. (Although a bit stalker-ish, here was this woman who I had never spoken to, or shared my story with, yet I had touched her life from a distance.) And as though we were old friends she gave me a hug. I was shocked, overwhelmed and incredibly touched. I started crying ...

I never came out and told her that I have cancer, although I didn't need to. I don't know if she has had experience with cancer, or why she felt the need to say all those warm words, all I know is ... I needed to hear them. For some reason we were put in a position where our lives were supposed to intersect that evening and she had these thoughts and feelings she needed to convey.

And without missing a beat, she asked if she could see my head. What an odd request, I thought. I removed my hat. She asked if she could touch my head. Again, I thought "this is strange." So, I, of course, said "sure." (I guess that is how pregnant women feel when random people feel their bellies.) She apologized in advance for her curiosity and hoped not to offend me. I assured her that it would take a lot to do so and I felt privileged to be able to share my experience with others to help them better understand cancer. The questions kept coming, especially about my port. I showed it to her and she was astonished that it was all INSIDE my body. Most people think it is like an IV that is on the outside. I took her hand and placed it on my chest where my port lies. I have done this with many people now. (Here is what a mediport looks like) We talked for maybe twenty minutes and I was just so moved by the kind words of someone who I didn't even know. I can only imagine what our show-and-tell will entail after I have my implants put in. Haha.

Please don't ever hesitate to ask me a question. I will talk about almost anything with you. I want this to be an open experience where we can learn together. There are no secrets ... I promise to be as open and honest as I possibly can. I have heard just about everything from "What size boobs do you want?" to "Did you lose ALL your hair?" and even "Has your sex life changed?" I know some of my friends have tried to be cautious of what they say around me, specifically when complaining about their hair and boobs. Trust me, I am not like that and, like I said, it will take A LOT to offend me. Cancer doesn't make people more sensitive, or kill our humor ... promise!

4/24/2008: I Hate Cancer

2008-04-24T20:56:00.001-04:00

I have finally decided that I hate cancer. I know hate is a strong word and that you should only use it when you mean it ... and I DO mean it. It is one thing for me to be sick and suffering over these past couple months, but now I have been touched by stories of the people who read my website. Please know how much it means to me that you have shared your stories. I shall cherish your thoughts and feelings and keep them close to my heart always. When I get e-mails from my friend Kandi (who types to me while her baby sleeps in her lap) who now throws up every Thursday out of anxiety of her upcoming treatment I become so angry and my eyes swell with tears. I don't care what cancer does to me, but I want it to leave everyone else alone. I don't want to see anyone go through this ... I don't think I can possibly bare it. It needs to stop. And maybe you are following my story because you know me, or feel a connection having known someone who had cancer. Or perhaps you don't even know me at all, but have followed my journey and feel like we are friends having a conversation through my written word. Regardless of why you come to my website, you must know this ... you are not safe from cancer.

Before I was told the news that I had cancer, I knew of one person who had fought cancer ... my aunt. I remember it being winter and her coming over for the holidays. She seemed tired and weak, and we knew she had on a wig, but she still had such a glorious spirit about her. That was my knowledge of cancer and I am ashamed that I did not understand more of the severity of it at the time. Cancer is a word like pneumonia, or the flu ... everyone throws it around and yeah, people get it, but they get better, right? Wrong. And yeah it is horrible for people that have it, but I have no history of it in my family, so I am safe, right? Wrong. I always thought cancer was a disease older people got, so why should I worry about it? Thank God I am in touch with my body and knew that the lump under my armpit was not normal. Thank God I pushed my doctors to do testing to find out why I was so sick last fall. Thank God I found my cancer when I did before it made its way into my bones and blood. Others have not been so lucky.

Cancer stats for young adults aged 15-39 in the US ...
- annual diagnosis: 68,000
- percent increase since 1977: 100%
- annual deaths: 10,000
- improvement in 5-year remission since 1977: ~0
- current national efforts to change this: 1 ()
Bitter irony that young adults raise money for cancer research with charities that don't actually benefit them: priceless.

My friend has asked me to come on her radio show April 30 to talk about my journey and try to help bring awareness to others. (I will post the details of the show when I have them so you all can tune in.) Please don't read by website and not see yourself as a statistic. I am not just some random girl who was dealt a crappy hand of cards. I am one in eight women who will battle breast cancer in her lifetime. Encourage the women in your life (of all ages) to please be in touch with their bodies and do their exams. Life is much too precious and we need to find a cure for our daughters and granddaughters. Please, please find a way to help and don't see this as just another cause that won't effect you, because if you have more than eight girl friends ... I can assure you it will. And that's why I hate cancer!

4/21/2008: White Dove

2008-04-21T20:53:00.000-04:00

I lay on my belly in my bathtub last night. I tried standing in the shower, but my little legs shook too much, so I opted for a bath. (You should see my nasty bruises from my fall down the stairs at work last week. Eeek!) I played with my hair that had fallen out on the side of my tub. I made about five hearts from my dark blonde locks before I ran out. I really do miss my hair today. (Yes, my hair grows back in between treatments, and then I have to watch it fall out all over again.)

For some reason this treatment (round four) has been different than the others. Some side effects kicked in quickly and I was not as fatigued at the onset. I said several times this weekend, "I cannot believe I have cancer." Is the fact that I have cancer just now setting in? I have no emotion towards it, meaning I am not upset or angry … just annoyed and frustrated at being slowed down. Just when I thought I had escaped the wrath of the chemotherapy side effects, they hit last night. My fingers are not cooperating and are swollen today. I have to really concentrate just to open a container. My gums are swollen and my mouth is raw and peeling … I have no taste at all. This is the first time that I have no appetite. (Don't fret … I promise to keep eating.) Just walking from my bedroom to my kitchen leaves me exhausted. I hate feeling this way. My senses are working hard. I can actually hear my blood pumping in my ears. Besides the fatigue (which is the lamest word to describe this sensation), the heightened senses are a close second to my least favorite thing in the world.

My mastectomy won't even happen until the end of June and already the nightmares have begun. I keep dreaming that I wake up and have size 'I' boobs. I tell the doctor that this is not what I wanted and they assure me that I look "so good." I need to stop watching plastic surgery shows on TV, I think. Haha! Once chemotherapy treatment is over (May 30), I will have to wait a few weeks then have my PETscan redone. (Chemo can cause false negatives and positives if the PETscan is done too close to your treatment.) Then I will meet with the surgeon and plastic surgeon. They have to do surgery within 3 to 4 weeks after my last treatment. They want to wait a little so my strength can get back up, but not too long in case there are any cancer gremlins (Sarah's term) still left, because they will start growing again. When I meet with Melanie (head nurse at my Oncologist's office) this Friday I plan to try and nail down some dates. They usually just tell me to be patient and get through chemotherapy first, but you all know me … I want a plan and to have this whole thing organized into a neat little package.

I have a white dove that has been coming to spend time with me over the past few weeks outside my bedroom window. I was getting some sun at my parent's house this weekend after treatment and my beautiful dove landed not even a foot from me in the grass. I cannot believe she found me. She cocked her head and cooed at me. We chatted for a bit and off she went. I did not see her yesterday, which saddened me greatly; however, this morning when I was probably feeling my worst I heard a coo outside my window. When I opened my blinds my little white dove sat perched on the back of my balcony chair … as close as she could get to my window. She was not frightened by my opening the blinds. She is glorious and for some reason puts me at such ease.

4/19/2008: Round Four

2008-04-19T20:52:00.003-04:00

Round four of chemotherapy has been my best one so far! My nurses hooked me up and drew my blood first. My blood work came back better than it has any of the other times. I am still anemic, but my number was much better. And my white blood count (immunity) is higher than they expected, which means my body is making itself better on its own.

My nurses gave me my pre-meds (steroid for allergic reaction and another medication for nausea) which they always do as a precaution, then an IV of Benedryl. By the time my company got there (Aunt Patty and Ashley) my speech was slurred and mid-sentence I would forget what I was talking about. My guests were patient with me and understood that I was just dopey from the medication. They changed the order of my chemotherapy medications this time, however. They started with Herception, then Taxotere, since I have had allergic reactions to them in the past and wanted to give them to me following the Benedryl. Lastly, they gave me the Carboplatin. I had no allergic reactions, or any issues at all for that matter. The nurses also confirmed how great my MRI results were that I got back last week. This just lifted my spirits even more!

When I got home I was not my typical sleepy, cranky self. I laid out in my parents front yard and sunbathed. (Don't worry my nervous Nellie's, I asked my nurses for permission and wore sunblock to protect myself.) It felt so good getting some ray. I found myself in great spirits yesterday and pretty spunky. By dinner time I started having my typical side effects that I usually don't get until Monday (sensitivity with my hearing and sight, crankiness from starting to feel slowed down, numbness in my fingers and arms, shaky legs, etc.) ... two days ahead of schedule. Last chemo treatment my side effects came one day in advance, this time I am two days ahead of schedule. I am hoping this means that I will feel better sooner, too. Wouldn't that be nice for a change!?

All in all, I am doing better than I have with all my other treatments. I actually feel pretty good. Maybe I will layout a little this afternoon and try to sweat out some of this icky medicine. Sounds like a good plan of action to me.

Thank you all for your texts, e-mails, phone calls and gifts. It means the world to me. Four treatments down and only two to go. YAY!

4/16/2008: The Stairwell

2008-04-16T20:51:00.001-04:00

Laying at the bottom of the staircase this morning, sprawled out on my back, I thought about the conversation I had with my Mom earlier this week. I wonder how this journey will change me.

I sat in traffic for two hours this morning trying to get to work for a 9:00 meeting. There were three accidents on the toll road, so I did not arrive at my office until 9:15 and was rushing to get to the conference room to meet with my boss and VP. I took my pre-chemotherapy medication (uppers) this morning, so I was sweating and shaking, in addition to my heightened anxiety. As I was rushing down the stairs with my laptop, BlackBerry, frappuccino and notebook, my right heel slipped into the cuff of my left pant leg and I found myself tumbling in slow motion. I fell down the flight of stairs and my frappuccino bottle smashed into the concrete floor. My left shoulder and head hit on impact. (Yes, my left side is where I had the hockey puck-sized tumor removed and my port placed under my skin into my artery.) There was a man in the stairwell above me who was cleaning. He ran down to see what had happened. He was staring at me, not out of concern, but in another way that I didn't like. I realized that my wig had fallen off and was laying against the wall. There I was completely vulnerable and this man who didn't know my story was looking at me in disgust ... like I was a total freak. He finally managed to ask if I was okay. I said yes and to leave me alone, please.

I laid back down looking up at the stacked rows of stairs above me. I was choking back tears and contemplating telling this stranger (who stayed there staring at me for what seemed like an eternity) my story, not because he cared, but because I felt that I needed to defend myself. I said "screw him" in my mind and realized that I had nothing to defend. I already see the changes that my Mom told me would happen. I have been so conflicted and confused for the last couple years about life in general. What do I want and deserve? What is the right path for me? The clarity is just around the corner ... I can feel it now more than ever. My mother told me that this experience would make me stronger and perhaps make me into that woman that I longed to be. A woman who knew what she deserved out of life and refused to settle. A woman who had crawled through the trenches of life, lived to tell about it, thus loved unconditionally and whole-heartedly and lived every day to the fullest. I believe I already had those qualities, although they needed some dusting off. This experience is an opportunity to be shoved in the right direction, the path of becoming the woman I have always wanted to be and had the ability to become.

I picked myself up off the ground, dusted off my black slacks, said "have a good one" with a smile to the ignorant man in the stairwell, scooped up my wig and shook it off and carried it down the hall to the bathroom as my heels clicked loudly along the marble floor. I stood up as tall as I possibly could and smiled. Yes, I, Jennifer Kwiatek walked down the hallway bald in my office building and didn't care. I have no reason to be embarrassed or ashamed of what is happening to me. I never asked for this. And with that, I can say that my Mom was right in her theory. I am becoming a better, more vibrant woman and I have to admit that I wish I could have met her sooner. I really like her!