Diane M. Simard's Blog, page 7

What Exactly Are You Saying?

What a confusing, frustrating, challenging crossroads we find ourselves at this summer.

I am exhausted and short-fused, yet I remain optimistic. I believe we are once again at the precipice of an opportunity to address some of our country’s deepest, darkest wounds. Are we going to make meaningful progress this time?

Wouldn’t it be extraordinary to witness reconciliation and the rebirth of a nation that finally decides to collaborate on solutions instead of dictating them, charting a new course for a more-unified, open-minded, compassionate union? A nation willing to listen and understand ideas, then gather the facts before jumping to conclusions? A nation that embraces the concept of differing viewpoints and agrees to disagree as mature, respectful adults, not like politicians who continue to behave like third graders feuding on the playground?

I am so ready for our society’s centuries-old physical and psychological gashes to heal.  

The late Dr. Maya Angelou continues to influence and help me process my thoughts. Fortunately, one of the leadership organizations I follow on LinkedIn posts one of Dr. Angelou’s quotes in my news feed every week. Her timeless grace, wisdom, and optimism help me maintain perspective and provide the guidance I need to keep moving forward.

My career calling has been to determine the most accurate and expressive words to leave memorable impressions and generate clear understanding for the receivers. Words are the instruments I use to explain and vent and dream and plan and learn and heal. I have been particularly busy with words so far this year! My attention span seems to have shrunk since mid-March, and I am communicating in smaller soundbites. 

Here are a few one-liners that came to me during some of my most challenging moments:

Never finished. Never enough.

Life never stops. Stay alert and diligently learn from every experience.

Learn to love taking care of yourself.

Boldly live you.

Emulate but differentiate.

Never stop seeking the good.

Make every day better.

Resilience must be learned before happiness is earned.

Seek truth.

Embrace—don’t dread—change.

Don’t just show up. Be present.

What now?

Happiness or misery. Choose wisely.

Happy birthday, America! May you live and thrive in peace.

Inspiring Thoughts from the Nebraska National Guard’s First Female General Officer

Although it feels appropriate to launch this post with a whiney pandemic intro, I won’t. You have heard all those rhetorically clever and incredibly annoying color commentaries by now, so I will spare you the eye roll.

Instead, I’ve got a fabulous surprise. Two guest blog posts in a row!

Am I getting lazy? Fresh out of ideas? Sorry, but no. When I outlined intentions for my 2020 blog posts back in late December, the thought never crossed my mind that our world would be thrown into the deep end of the pool with no lifeguard in mid-March. Nor did I imagine we would once again be experiencing anger and unrest over such unthinkable acts. My plan was that by May I would be so focused on my next writing project that I would appreciate a break from composing a blog post. That has actually turned out to be true.

Yes, I have started a new book, which is as eerily therapeutic as the last one. Here’s a sneak-peak at the first sentence of Chapter 1:

“I have had many worst days.”

On page 2, I introduce a medieval warrior character, then go from there to referencing The Brady Bunch to emphasize a point.

I am cooped up, healthy and actually sober, channeling my boredom into some bizarre repertoire.

In the meantime, I wasn’t kidding about the fabulous surprise part. Some of you got to meet my dear friend, Wendy Johnson, from Elba High School (Nebraska) at Rene’s and my birthday bash at Launchpad Brewery in Aurora over Labor Day weekend last year. A couple months before, I asked if she would write a guest post for me sometime in 2020, and she agreed.

For those who don’t know Wendy, she is actually Air Force Brig. General Wendy K. Johnson, the first female member of the Nebraska National Guard to achieve the rank of General Officer in 2016. Then, she became the first woman to lead the Nebraska Air National Guard when she assumed command at National Guard Joint Forces headquarters in Lincoln two years later. As you would suspect, her list of hard-earned achievements is extensive and well-deserved.

Just think, she and I were part of the Class of 1983—all 12 of us—from little ‘ole Elba High School. I am deeply honored by our life-long friendship.

Please enjoy her thoughts about this unprecedented time. In return, I promise I won’t do any more off-loading for at least another month.

Optimism, Old Places and COVID-19 Dreams

I travel for a living. In a typical month, I will spend one week in Washington, D.C. working at the Pentagon in one role of my part-time Air National Guard duties. I work in the Air Force Logistics Directorate in what I describe as my “national level” assignment. I typically spend another week each month in Lincoln, Nebraska, working in another part-time position with the Nebraska Air National Guard. I describe this as my “state level” assignment. Some months I travel a third week to other locales as part of duties related to either my “state” or “national” jobs.

But nothing is typical this spring and I have not left home in almost three months.

My dreams have been exceptionally vivid. Am I alone in this? I dream of attending a conference where I am a guest speaker, but the conference center is large, and I can’t find my way to the meeting room. I dream of walking the halls of the Pentagon with a co-worker and realizing I left my hat in my office. I know that if I go back for the hat (which I am required to wear when I am outside to comply with proper uniform wear) I will be late for the meeting. In one of my dreams, I am trying to get to my parents’ house – a mere quarter mile down our shared driveway – but there are tree branches blocking the road and I can’t seem to get around them.

Home for me is in what was once my grandparents’ house on a small farm on the North Loup River, about a mile east of Elba, Nebraska. I grew up in Elba (a town kid) and went to school from Kindergarten through my Senior year at Elba’s consolidated public school. “Consolidated” referred to the fact that kids from neighboring towns, like Cotesfield, came to Elba for school. In most cases, the neighboring towns had their own schools, but over time and dwindling populations, scaled back to Elementary-only schools, consolidating instead with Elba for junior and senior high school.
















I met Diane at a 4-H meeting in Cotesfield. I don’t remember the exact year, but I do recall it was before we entered 7th grade and “junior high.” We were sitting next to each other in a group circle in the Danczak’s living room. It may have been a newly formed 4-H group, or maybe I was just a new 4-H member. I was nervous because I didn’t know many of the other attendees. Diane turned to me and said, “Hi, I’m Diane.” Friendly, welcoming.

Diane and I were good friends throughout junior and senior high school and our young adult years and have remained in contact for the decades (eek!) of our ensuing lives and careers. We did not go to college together, where many people form the close relationships that endure into adulthood. We live miles apart, have pursued our respective careers, and exchange annual Christmas cards. Some might describe this as “drifting apart,” but I contend we have a shared history bound by early friendship that endures and shapes who we have become as adults. We are part of each other’s history. Aren’t we all shaped by the relationships and experiences of our past?

Fall is my favorite season. I think of fall as “the past;” reflective, looking back and interpreting the present through the context of the past. Historical, in some weird sense. The smell of burning leaves and brisk autumn nights make me think of my high school years, fall football games and marching band. I think this is consistent with who I am. I am an historian at heart. I can get lost for hours in genealogy research; I love old places and treasure the stories they hold (known and unknown). I revel in reading historical fiction…best if I am sitting in front of my fireplace…the fireplace my Dad built in my grandparents’ – now my – living room. Old stories in an old (comforting?) place.

If fall is the past, spring is most certainly the future. Diane stated it well in her April blog describing spring as representing “feelings of change, hope, rebirth, optimism, and growth.” In addition to the early spring flowers in my grandmother’s flower bed edging the hog pen (a poor camouflage, but I give Grandma Jean high marks for effort!), memories of new Easter dresses and dying eggs with my cousins mark my spring memory card. My cousins lived in western Nebraska, but from Easter forward they would visit with increasing frequency (my aunt and uncle were both teachers) throughout the remainder of spring and into the summer. We would help(?) our grandparents plant a large garden and catch up on our each other’s winter activities, with all the optimism of youth anticipating summer months of swimming, camping and evenings of croquet in the setting sun of the west lawn.

Summer. No school. Unstructured days filled with unscheduled, unplanned activities. Bike rides to the river to swim. Picking mulberries to eat with the thick cream skimmed from the top of freshly milked cow’s milk. Hand cranking the old ice cream maker until I thought my arm would fall off. Spring may be the future, but summer for me is the “now.”

And what of winter? There is such beauty in fresh snow. Have you ever noticed the quiet that comes with a heavy blanket of new snow? There is a stillness reminiscent of a paused video; until man and nature move, disturbing the smooth, clean whiteness with footsteps and tracks. Before that moment, though, nature quietly sighs contentedly. Some may see winter as the dark, dreary interlude between fall and spring, but I see winter as a calm, restorative slumber.

What is your favorite season? Does it reflect your personality? Maybe, like me, you have a favorite, but you relate to elements of all four seasons. After all, just as a year is comprised of all four seasons, many experiences and relationships have and continue to form the seasons of my life. I have favorites, but I am grateful for them all.

The 2019 spring was hard for many Nebraskans impacted by massive flooding. Spring 2020 is proving another difficult season for people across our states, the nation, and the world. I hope you can find gratitude for all of life’s seasons. Spring doesn’t have an exclusive lock on hope, growth and optimism. Spring 2020 will ultimately be relegated to a piece of our history.

My dreams likely reflect my current circumstances. I cannot travel for work. I am stuck in place. It is stressful and frustrating. But I know summer is around the corner and I am optimistic about what the change in seasons will bring. In the meantime, I look to Diane’s example. Be friendly, persevere, and be grateful.

~ Wendy K. Johnson

“The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not reflect the official policy or position of the Air National Guard, DOD, or the U.S. Government.”

 

Moments of Reset

Living and working from home through Covid-19 feels like the movie, Groundhog Day, except Rene and I don’t wake up every day to Sonny and Cher singing I Got You Babe.

We are maintaining our daily schedule, but since our commute to work is a 20-second walk downstairs instead of a 20 to 30-minute drive, we get up at 4:59 instead of 4:44. Call me a slacker, but those extra 15 minutes of sleep give me a mysterious jolt of energy that lasts until early evening. That, plus we stopped watching the news before falling asleep. These days, we watch a few minutes of Hogan’s Heroes on MeTV before turning out the light.

Since transitioning into work- and stay-at-home mode on March 16, I have worn yoga pants every day, started playing the piano again, am determined to master one-armed push-ups, and am neck-and-neck with hubby in our Covid-19 ping pong tournament.

For the first time ever in our 13-year relationship, a couple weeks ago Rene and I went out for a drive. A drive! It wasn’t my idea—the idea came to me after catching up over the phone with a dear friend and co-worker at Bye Aerospace, who said he and his girlfriend had recently taken a long drive in his Tesla X (he’s a retired Navy Captain and F-18 driver, so he appreciates the need for speed). Rene and I decided to drive to Centennial for our outing. Along the way, we sang along to the radio, stopped at Sonic for burgers, and waved hello to other drivers

Speaking of waving, even our neighbors in the Highwoods are waving! Whenever Rene and I are out on a long walk or a short jaunt to get the mail, everyone who drives by either initiates or returns our greetings. That has never happened before.

Are you seeing a pattern here? I’m doing the stuff I did as a kid again, and I’d like to believe we humans are realizing how much we need and appreciate each other. Despite not being able to see or hug friends and extended family in person, I am focusing on the activities that bring me joy.

Life got unimaginably complicated and upsetting over the past six weeks. The resulting fallout from job losses, furloughs, layoffs, salary cutbacks, business closings, and bankruptcies is already being called an economic downturn of epic proportion—like nothing we’ve seen since the Great Depression. Payments to qualifying taxpayers and business bailouts from the U.S. government are providing some short-term relief now, but the rout has hardly begun.

In his daily Freditorial several weeks ago, our dear friend and Rene’s high-school buddy, Fred Ford, reminded his readers of this quote by Dr. Robert Schuller:  “Tough times never last, but tough people do.”

I would gladly give up my extra 15 minutes of sleep and more if I could somehow share it with the exhausted healthcare workers, first responders, government leaders and the others who are on the front lines of this pandemic.

So how do we help bring healing to those who are hurting or drowning in the depths of depression and hopelessness?

I believe we should love and care for one another in creative, human-centered ways. I’m not talking about posting a link for a Zoom webinar on mental health. I’m talking about personal, individualized, sincere attention, the same type of psychological care and support I advocate for all cancer patients, survivors, and caregivers to receive.

A few weekends back, I reached out to eight of the young professionals I have had the honor of mentoring over the past 10 years. Many of them now are in their 30s. I asked them to respond to these questions, followed by samples of their most intriguing responses:
























How are you doing and feeling?



These life events have been powerful, and the pandemic has been a blessing in some ways. Through self-quarantine I have been able to spend valuable time focusing on myself through journaling and self-reflection.
I’m simultaneously doing just fine and on a downward spiral. My coworkers are showing their anxieties in destructive ways. While my family is healthy and safe, they’ve all been one by one losing their retirement funds and their jobs. I’ve never felt so isolated and so connected at the same time… but on some level, this isn’t anything new to people in our demographic. Our earliest memories involve 9/11 and the fallout thereafter, so we either entered or exited college during the 2008 financial crisis. Is it any real surprise that 2020 would bring a new, catastrophic event?


Is there anything you wish you had done differently to prepare for what you are currently experiencing?


Not directly. I do wish I had trusted our government’s response to this less. I did not personally think it would get this far after watching other countries react. Because I trusted the US to put forth a competent response, it left me under-prepared.
Personally, I feel I prepared as well as I was able to be when the quarantine came about. I have been fortunate to avoid The Great Toilet Paper Shortage of 2020, and was even able to give away toilet paper, hand soap, and food to others in need.


The only thing I wish I would have done differently was to be more strict with myself and my schedule. I feel like the last few months have completely flown by because early on I allowed myself to relax into a near-catatonic state. I didn’t get dressed, I slept in, I ate all day long and a piña colada was never outside of arm’s reach. Crawling out of that lifestyle and establishing routine was incredibly challenging.


Are you more or less optimistic about the future than you were in February 2020?


Honestly, about the same. I survived the recession of 2008-2011, so know that this too shall pass.


(More) optimistic. The whole field was turned upside down and those who were willing to adapt and shift focus were able to survive. I’m trying to figure out what my shift in focus will be, but I’m finding more and more confidence and hope as I examine what’s happening on the cutting edge of my field.
I feel I am slightly less optimistic about the future than in February of this year. How can your spirits not be dampened by the sickness and loss of life in our community and all around the world? However, I still have hope and optimism for the future despite the challenges we are all facing.


This is a huge year for me, virus or not. Getting married, competing in big contests, a new job, AND a deep dive into my career as a speaker is on the books and happening for 2020.


What makes you happy these days?


Honestly, reminding myself that I’m in my 20s in every way possible. It’s hard to remember because of my mortgage, upcoming wedding in a few short months, and all my financial obligations, but trying to connect the silliness and goofiness in my heart every day helps. My fiancé and I learned the dance moves to a scene in our favorite cartoon movie from when we were kids, we stay up late playing video games and laughing over pizza, and we try to stay active as much as possible.
Take trail walks outside (when it’s not snowing), do yoga, read, drink wine, shower, zoom happy hours with friends and family.


To find moments of joy I remind myself that there are many, many bright spots in the world. I am fortunate to live in a neighborhood where inspiring messages in chalk adorn the sidewalk reminding me, “We are all in this together!” and “We will get through this!” Individuals and families are donating time and resources to help their fellow Coloradans, and across all types of social media I have seen so many friends and family members are making more masks than I think (hope) will be used.


Is there anything I can do to help you?


I think in times like these, businesses finally realize how important a good banking relationship is and if they don’t have that it’s a good time to have that conversation about making a move.


My number one priority right now is surviving work and this speech contest on Saturday. After that ends, one way or another, I would love to sit down and do a catch-up call. Get your advice on what I’m doing with students.

These responses helped me realize that we are on the initial fringes of a “moment of reset,” an opportunity to clear out the junk, develop a new plan to keep moving forward, and re-launch. Adversity is no fun, but I always learn and grow in creative ways when faced head-on with unimaginable challenges.

Along the way, we will grieve for those lost to this frustrating pandemic, shake our heads in frustration, pout for a bit, then clean out another closet, watch Netflix, do another Zoom call, and end each day marveling at our resiliency. And we will remember not to take ourselves too seriously. Watch for “Rene & Diane’s Excellent Stay-at-Home Adventure” video to be premiering soon on our Facebook pages!

In closing, I once again credit Fred Ford for sharing these words from M. Kathleen Casey:

 

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.

Sending you strength, love and hugs!

My Favorite Spring (is NOT 2020)

Spring. What a lovely word. When used as a noun or a verb, spring represents feelings of change, hope, rebirth, optimism, and growth.

This year, I will add perseverance to the mix. Yes, the early days of spring 2020 will be remembered by our patience being tested in unthinkable ways. The behavior pendulum ranged from gracious to childish as we painfully realized we are STILL not in control. Since this chapter in our lives is far from being over, I am curiously and closely watching the (unfortunately few) leaders who are leading from the front, trusting their followers and providing guidance and instruction with confident, distinct messaging. Not to mention patience, dignity and compassion.

Pandemic notwithstanding, I can see spring in my mind. It is a mixture of pale yellow, light lavender, baby blue, mint green, and—oh yeah—that gag reflex-inducing shade of pink. Actually, pink gets a pass from me this time of year, because it reminds me of Easter bunny ears and tulips, not that other vile thing.

Growing up, springtime meant my Catholic friends would be giving something up for Lent, only to be taunted by Protestant heathens like me who waved chocolate candy under their noses. In my hometown circles of Cotesfield and Elba, Nebraska, you were either Catholic or you weren’t. There were so many Catholics that at our high school’s graduation on Mother’s Day weekend, every other year a Catholic priest gave the invocation. In the off years, we switched between the other “big three,” usually Lutheran, Presbyterian, or United Methodist, ministers.

For two springtimes in a row, probably starting in 1975 when I was nearly 10, my father decided it was time I gained some additional responsibilities that stretched beyond my daily paper route. It was also time for me to learn about business and earn some serious coin. By raising calves.

Now, what did this princess know about raising livestock? Less than diddly. I knew that dad “bought” half a cow (yes, that was possible), or sometimes a whole cow, plus a pig, at each year’s county fair. A few weeks later, he drove his International Scout home full of laundry baskets filled with frozen meat. Which were then transferred to our three—yes three—chest freezers in the basement. One year I counted all the 2.5 lb. packages of hamburger he brought home, and I stopped counting at 50.

The first year I raised calves, dad took me to the livestock sale in Ord, where I picked out a Holstein (soon to be) steer and a Hereford heifer with a sweet white face. Weeks before, I had helped him put up wire panel fencing around a barn next to a house we owned across the road from our house. The house, full of cobwebs and salamanders, was used for storage, and we called the place “Green Acres.”

Dad also took me to the Cotesfield grain elevator to purchase a 50 lb. bag of powdered milk for the calves, called milk replacer. He had already bought me two two-quart bottles with red nipples. Topping it off was a 50 lb. bag of regular calf food and another 50 lb. bag of alfalfa pellets, which he told me to feed the calves sparingly, because it was rich for their stomachs.

For the next several months, I woke up to the sound of calves a half-block away bawling for their milk every morning at 6:30. I thought their crying was cute on Day 1, but by Day 2, it was annoying.

Just like powdered milk for humans, milk replacer is exactly what it is intended to be, a cost-effective alternative for calves that have been weaned from their mothers. But it reeks—a distinct odor that rivals fresh vomit, or at least it did forty-some years ago. After I spooned the proper amount of milk replacer into the bottles and filled them up with water from the garden hose, I held my breath as I secured the nipples on the bottles, then gave each a good shake. I carried a bottle under each arm through a half-acre alfalfa field, trying not to scratch my legs on old alfalfa stalks, to get to the calves’ pen. The closer I got, the louder they bawled. I slid each bottle into the metal bottle holder that hung over the fence, then the calves abruptly stopped bawling and started furiously drinking their fake milk as though it was a timed contest. The Holstein calf was bigger, and always sucked harder on the bottle nipple, creating foam bubbles that streamed sideways out of his mouth in a perfect drool line to the ground. In less than 60 seconds, both bottles were empty, so the calves started butting the bottles with their heads, hoping more milk would appear. As I attempted to pull the bottles out of the holders, all that milky drool flew everywhere and usually ended up on my t-shirt and in my hair.

Sticky, stinky milk replacer aside, I miss those days of innocence this year more than ever. Forget about a delayed baseball season and no college basketball tournaments—spring 2020 is upsetting and unsettling. Life became unimaginably complex over a handful of days, and some leaders are proclaiming we are once again at war, being asked to sacrifice, to put others’ needs above our own, and to respond to an extraordinarily high calling.

Along the way, just like in the now “good old days” of four weeks ago, I cringe whenever I read or see bad behavior, and I rejoice when someone creates, then implements, cost saving/efficient/win-win ideas. Ideas that would never have seen the light of day when the Dow Jones Industrial Average was knocking on the door of 30,000 in mid-February, barely six week ago when the world seemed invincible.

I believe trying times bring out the best in some of us, and the worst in others. Our government leaders remind us to be flexible, which means be sure to stay updated on the “you can do this but not this” list because it likely changed from yesterday. My work-from-home Bye Aerospace workspace has taken over my sacred writing space in the home office, so I have relocated my writing place to the Tommy Bahama bedroom.

Take that, COVID-19! You can force me to work from home, force me to temporarily relocate my creative set-up, and make me cringe at examples of poor leadership, but you haven’t come close to shutting me up.

By the way, I didn’t have the heart to go with dad when he loaded up my calves in the horse trailer and took them back to the livestock auction late in the summer of 1975. But I sure loved depositing the check he brought home in my savings account.

Please continue to take care of one another!

5 Years a Survivor. Now What?

Well, I did it! I reached THE milestone. Yep, on February 11 I reached my five-year anniversary as a breast cancer survivor.

Rene was at a work-related conference in San Antonio, so I was home alone, which didn’t creep me out; however, his absence reinforced how it takes a village of two for the Simard household to function properly. Since it snowed (again!) during the night before the big day, I got up 45 minutes earlier than usual, then ventured outside to shovel sidewalks. After pulling on my furry white snow boots and gearing up to face Mother Nature’s wrath, I walked out the garage service door, dreading the task ahead.

Much to my stunning surprise, though, when I closed the door behind me, I realized the world was completely still as I shuffled across the driveway through what felt like 4 inches of baby powder. I felt at peace in the pristine beauty of freshly-fallen snow, and I wished the epic moment of tranquil darkness could last forever. I said a silent prayer of thanks while I effortlessly glided the snow shovel along, remembering the queasies of chemo nausea whenever I smelled coffee or jet fuel, the stare-downs with strangers over my baldness, and the creepiness of the closed suction drain that hung from my side under my left armpit for two weeks after lumpectomy surgery.

Although I am committed to remaining positive, let’s face it. My 2015 was unpleasant. Okay, it sucked. But it changed my life. On the day after I was diagnosed, I had my first-ever MRI, a breast MRI to determine the exact number of tumors. After plopping face-down on the MRI table and being pushed backward into the tube that reminded me of the inside of an irrigation pipe, I gave myself the first of many pep talks to help me cope with trauma-induced anxiety. During my ponderance of the opportunity to wallow in perpetual self-pity, I decided to embrace the opportunity to be brave. That’s right, from Day 2, I viewed breast cancer as an opportunity.

This photo is of me at my second opinion consultation with the cancer docs at the UCHealth Diane O’Connor Thompson Breast Center in March 2015, unhappy about the stereotypically ugly pink smock and tired of being poked and prodded. I had already had half my hair cut off because I thought it would help make the thought of losing all my hair easier to accept.

Who was I before February 11, 2015? Those who knew me then say I was the one behind the scenes, getting things done, making others look their best. “I think you exceled at putting the chess game together — in work and in your charitable pursuits — but you weren’t the person necessarily holding the microphone,” says one of my dearest friends.

During treatment, I was annoyed, achy and fatigued 90% of the time, elated or confident 9% of the time and “fine” 1% of the time. More feedback from another cherished friend:  “I’ve literally never met anyone more resilient than you, and this came across so purely during treatment. You were informed, you were determined, and you were always optimistic. I distinctly remember sitting at lunch with you during treatment and you endeavoring to poke fun at the process and make me laugh!”

Rene says that before cancer I was a quietly strong and committed woman. “During and after treatment, it was Diane’s resilience, passion and determination that came bursting to the surface,” he says. “I am in awe of how she has embraced life and inspired by the positive impact she continues to make on me and others.”

These days I ponder what might have happened if my mammogram in early February 2015 had not picked up on something in my left breast that appeared to be “clustering.” My oncologist has admitted I likely had breast cancer for several years, but the tumors were too small to be detected during my annual mammograms. What if the largest 2 cm tumor hadn’t been noticed five years ago? Then what?

Many have told me to focus more on gratitude than pondering the unthinkable. But I am a realist, so spending time on “what if” is a priority. I haven’t blogged on my weird dreams lately, but I still dream at least once a week about being lost in a shopping mall or cruise ship with no way out, facing an approaching tornado, standing in an imploding house while walls start crumbling, or watching in frozen horror as floodwaters begin to rise.

The difference in my dreams after surviving cancer is that I now attempt to avoid the pending danger. I walk up and down staircases, attempting find a way out, or I begin screaming for help (thankfully not out loud), usually calling out my oldest brother, Randy’s, name.

I have become a fighter, doing everything in my power to live a healthy life in peace, to be tactfully candid in my messaging, and to offer insight, love and hope to others. Most important:  I have finally stopped trying to be perfect and accepted myself for who I am.  Warts and all.

 

—

In other news, Rene and I are in the final phases of home upgrade hell, and this year our basement is getting a makeover. When the house was built in 2004, homebuilders were in the “paint all the walls beige” phase, which I can no longer stomach. “I’m a different person now. I need color!” I pleaded to Rene three years ago when the project launched. Our painter, Josh, is now re-painting the walls of our guest bedroom. I’m calling it the Tommy Bahama bedroom, because I chose a deep coral for the walls with white on the trim and ceiling. He started by painting the oak bedroom furniture white.

The day Josh started painting the guest bedroom walls, I worked late and got home after dark, well after he had left for the day. After throwing down my purse and office gear in the mud room, I raced downstairs to have a look. I smelled fresh paint as I entered the bedroom and turned on the light.

The walls were pink. Not dark Pepto-Bismol pink, but breast cancer pink with a tint of peach. Tears began to well in my eyes. Rene got home a few minutes later, and we stared at the walls for several minutes, trying to decide whether we could live with it.

Finally, I decided to text Josh and ask whether he could switch to a darker shade for the second coat that was more coral and less pink. He responded right away. “Oh hey, I meant to leave you a note. “What’s on the walls is a pre-primer, and yeah it looks really pink. I’ll start with the coral color tomorrow.”

Mild panic attacks still happen, but life goes on. And yes I still and will likely always hate pink. The traumatic triggers from the color I call “breast cancer pink” have taken up permanent residence in Diane Simard’s brain.

And oh by the way, I have never dreamed about cancer.

Salute!

P.S. The cover photo for this blog post is of my family back in Grand Island, Nebraska, who attended a cancer fundraiser soon after I was diagnosed. From left to right:  Judy and Leonard Williams (he’s a fellow survivor); my sister-in-law, Lisa Faaborg; my sister Marilyn Williams and her husband, Russell; my niece, Kayla Peters; my nephew, Eric Williams; and my brother, Lee Faaborg. Aren’t they awesome?

Here’s What to Love about February

Greetings from the front lines of world event overload.

Over the past month, I have:

been frightened by the escalated run-up to another potential war involving the U.S. that was averted (for the time being).become numb to the term “impeachment hearing.”gotten teary-eyed over pictures of koala bears’ burned paws.wondered whether to cheer or jeer another jolt to the British Royal Family.

Thanks to my restricted attention span, I experience world news in soundbites. During journalism school at Kearney State College (now University of Nebraska-Kearney) in the late 1980s, I desperately tried to become a news junkie by faithfully reading four Sunday newspapers and watching CNN Headline news for hours at a time instead of 30 minutes at a time, which seems dumb now. That’s me here in my “Newspaper” sweater my thoughtful mother got me for Christmas my last year in college. Eventually, I gave up on being a news junkie after failed attempts to comprehend the complexities of the Iran-Contra affair. Which wasn’t an “affair” in soap opera terms, so I was confused from the start. What do I remember now about the scandal? That it launched Lt. Col. Oliver North’s post-Marines career as a military commentator and author who collected expensive speaking fees. He’s now the head of the National Rifle Association of America (NRA), by the way.

Speaking of news, February is a big month in the Simard household. I get to celebrate my Valentine, my Marlboro Man, the guy who stole my heart, the only person I know who is more obsessed with schedules and order and doing laundry than me. He is also the only person I know who has ever asked, “Can we wait to have dinner so I can go hit the weights first?” Um, gee….well…okay!

February is also Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show time. My faves are the 13” Beagle, Golden Retriever, Lab Retriever, and German Shepherd breeds. My least favorites are the Terriers and any size, shape or form of Poodle. I can’t stomach a Poodle. Yes, I realize they are off the meter on the intelligence scale, but they aren’t for me.

You know what else happens in February?

National Freedom Day (February 1):  The day to celebrate Abraham Lincoln’s signing of the 13th amendment to the U.S. Constitution that outlawed slavery.

National Bird Feeding Month:  In 1994, John Porter, an Illinois congressman sensitive to the thousands of miles birds must commute from their winter homes, recognized the entire month of February as bird feeding month. I love bird watching, but we have learned the hard way to keep our feeders far from the house because of that whole birdseed-attracts-mice consequence.

February 29 – Leap Day:  Leap year occurs every four years to help synchronize the calendar year with the length of time it takes the earth to complete its orbit around the sun (solar year), which is around 365 ¼ days. Since the length of the solar year is less than 365 ¼ days by about 11 minutes, leap year is omitted three times every 400 years. A century year cannot be a leap year unless it is divisible by 400. In other words, the years 1700, 1800, and 1900 were not leap years, but 1600 and 2000 were.

 

I will close by transitioning back to a reference about Black History Month, also known as African American History Month, in February. If I were to pick the individual who influences my writing the most, it would be the late Dr. Maya Angelou, a distinguished American poet, singer, memoirist, and civil rights activist. Her ability to put the reader in the moment through her detailed descriptions of sights, sounds, smells, and scene-setting details is enthralling. She was not angry. She was grateful. And she didn’t just live a full life, she experienced life, discovering its rich beauty and multifaceted meaning along the way.

One of the most meaningful gifts I ever received from my Rene Valentine was for my birthday in 2016. It is a framed poster of my favorite Maya Angelou quote, and it hangs above my home office computer where I write:

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said,


people will forget what you did,

but people will never forget how you made them feel.”


-Maya Angelou

May we all strive to have such profound impact,

Clink! Let’s Get This Party Started!

Here we go. Another year, another decade, another rambling mash-up…

Before I launch, though, thank you for the fierce outpouring of support after last month’s blog post. My sweet friend, Deb Suss, mailed me a card intended to help get me out of my December slump. If someone asked me to develop a list of the nicest people I know, Deb would absolutely be at the top. She is a delightful, loving, kind soul.

“[We] hope this card helps warm that December chill,” she wrote. “And hoping that your loving memories of Enzo warm your heart.” But it was the last two sentences of the card that turned on my faucet of tears:

Not everyone can handle things the way you can. While you wonder sometimes if you’re doing okay…the rest of us are just watching in WONDER.

Thank you to Deb and her husband, Paul, for their kind-hearted gesture. I am extremely grateful for our friendship.

***

Rene and I were fortunate to have the week between Christmas and New Year’s off from work again this year. We started off our magical week by attending the children’s service at St. Luke’s United Methodist Church in Highlands Ranch on Christmas Eve. Afterward, we went to Outback Steakhouse, intending to share our once-a-year Bloomin’ Onion, also known in our household as a cholesterol IV. Instead, we went the healthy route, opting for salad, steak and veggies at 2:30 p.m. and didn’t feel a need to eat the rest of the day. That night, after driving around our neighborhood to view Christmas lights in our pajamas, we watched The Homecoming, the Christmas Eve movie that launched The Waltons TV series. Middle age rocks!

Over the past few days, I reflected on a fast-paced year. Here are some highlights:

In June, Rene and I had a wonderfully long-overdue visit from my best friend from Elba High School, Wendy (Ingerle) Johnson, who is the first female in the state of Nebraska to achieve the rank of Brigadier General (that’s one star) in the Nebraska Air National Guard. Wendy has already been recommended for her second star, to be a Major General. She is still as thoughtful and pleasant and wicked smart as she was when we were in high school, and I am incredibly honored to call her a dear friend.

Interest in psycho-oncology continues to rise at a feverish pace. The lack of training resources and mental health services available to those experiencing cancer-related trauma was disappointing and infuriating to me five years ago. So, I lit my little match and continue to fan the flames as time permits.

Each of my three siblings experienced major health-related events—all in one three-day stretch in August. Thankfully, they are doing well now.

My first book was released in early February. Seriously? Enough already. Even I am tired of hearing about it.

One of many positive outcomes of the book is the ongoing opportunity to meet amazing survivors who live like never before, advocating and expressing themselves through a lens that a cancer experience uniquely offers.

Through all this, the love of my life was a trooper, taking photos, carrying boxes, coordinating the repair of the latest failing house appliance, or putting gas in my car. Thank you, Rene, for your patience, support, and encouragement that helps me to keep moving forward.

As we clink our virtual champagne glasses, a final farewell to a few individuals to whom we said goodbye over the past year:

John Singleton, who directed Boyz n the Hood, a timely movie released in the early 1990s that provided a prolific look at coming of age in drug- and gang-infested south-central Los Angeles. The movie is shocking, raw, tender, and significant.

Doris Day, America’s girl next door, who my father-in-law, Pop, adored. She seemed to set the example of “wholesome” during her heyday. Later on, she became an advocate for animals, establishing the Doris Day Animal Foundation. During our New Hampshire trip in October, we talked about Doris Day with Rene’s parents, and Rene’s mother, Josie, recalled that Doris Day’s son was a record producer who had a brief association with Charles Manson before the Manson murders were committed in August 1969.

Daryl Dragon, who was The Captain from Captain and Tennille. They provided us with some corny songs, but he was a talented musician. Try keeping Love Will Keep Us Together out of your head for the rest of today.






























Larry Garron, who played professional football for the Boston Patriots from 1960 to 1968 and still holds several team records for today’s New England Patriots. Larry was a fullback who studied various forms of martial arts and later earned a doctorate degree. My brother-in-law, Andre, is Larry’s son who is also a former NFL player (KC Chiefs). In April 2016, Rene and I attended the wedding of AJ (Rene’s nephew and Andre’s son) and Kelsey Garron in Chichester, New Hampshire. After the ceremony, I was honored to meet and sit next to Larry at the reception. My hair was about two inches long, and Larry congratulated me on finishing treatment four months before. We chatted at length about his post-football career, particularly his love of education. I will never forget his words that will forever inspire me. “Diane,” he said, “never stop learning. Never, ever stop learning.”

Happy all year,

Racing to Christmas: Why I Advocate

This year, the amount of time between Thanksgiving and Christmas is about as short as it can possibly be.

The race is on. All the fall decorations are down in our house, except for five mini-pumpkins from my garden that have not yet shriveled and died. Rene and I hovered around the mini-pumpkins and a lighted Macintosh Apple Yankee Candle for our Thanksgiving meal. Poor Thanksgiving! Snubbed again.

Although the homestretch to year-end is a green light for me to breathe deep, to analyze what went right and not-so-right this year, and to make to-do lists for 2020, I dread the sense of loss that accompanies December. This month’s chilly air and sentimental carols remind me of our dear, long-departed, lovable chocolate lab retriever, Enzo. He was more than a dog—he was the closest thing I will likely ever have to a child, given that whole decision-not-to-have-children thing.

My brain is an expanding hard drive of memories, sweet and sorrowful. Enzo lived out the final months of his life from September 2010 to early January 2011 with cancer in his spleen, and I could never shake a chill that took over my body during those heartbreaking months. As difficult as that Christmas was, though, we were blessed to have my siblings and their families here with us in Colorado for Christmas 2010. Everyone said their goodbyes to Enzo before they headed northeast for Nebraska on I-76, and Enzo was gone two weeks later.

I recently felt that same December chill as I was sorting Christmas decorations, and I plummeted to a sad place. The same sad place I was when my father spent the winter in the psych ward at the Veterans Hospital in Lincoln, Neb., when I was five.

Triggers. My triggers are like on-off buttons that ignite dark landmines buried in my mental catalog of experiences. I had not experienced bone-chilling cold since I went through cancer treatment in 2015, thanks to hot flashes. Nowadays, unless I guzzle more than a sip of red wine or eat an entire cookie, I thankfully maintain a stable body temperature.

Speaking of my father, Rene and I visited my dear Aunt Erma Lauritsen in early November when we were back in Nebraska to visit family and my alma-mater, the University of Nebraska-Kearney. During our visit, Erma reminded me of a story about my father (Erma is my late father’s sister). Hearing her story again prompted me to reach out to Helen (Kment) Lassen, who I connected with through Facebook. She grew up and still lives near my hometown of Cotesfield, in central Nebraska.

Helen and I talked by phone recently, and she said for several Christmases in a row, likely in the late 1960s, my father and his brother, Uncle Frankie, delivered gifts to her and her siblings. Dad dressed up as Santa Claus, and Uncle Frankie was a reindeer, wearing antlers that his wife, Aunt Eleanor, sewed for him to put over the top of the neon orange insulated ballcap he always wore in winter. “Your dad always stopped in to check on us to see if we needed anything,” Helen told me. “Your Grandpa and Grandma Moravec, Uncle Frankie, and many others were also willing to help out. We always had good neighbors. People helped each other back then.”

Not long after the Christmases when dad dressed up as Santa Claus to deliver gifts to the Kment children, he was overtaken by a deep depression that I now believe was post-traumatic stress (PTSD) from his time in the Korean War. He remained friendly and helpful to neighbors when they needed a hand, but he lost his joy. I don’t remember seeing him smile between 1970 and 1997 when he died, and I was never Daddy’s Little Girl again after he returned home from the Veterans Hospital late in the winter of 1970.

I write about such a dark topic during what should be the most wonderful time of the year because I can’t shake December’s chill. This year, when you watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” on Christmas Eve with a mug full of frothy eggnog in hand, pay close attention to the disturbing scenes of Jimmy Stewart as he portrays an unraveling George Bailey. His hands shake, he perspires, his eyes are haunted, he is angry, and he gradually becomes unlikeable. Until he is saved by those he cares about most.

The reality is that Jimmy Stewart wasn’t acting during some of those scenes. He was experiencing the resulting PTSD from his experience in World War II, where he flew B-24 Liberator bombers over Germany. As the story goes, after he was sent home from the war he was depressed, he couldn’t focus, and he refused to talk to anyone about his war experience. Fortunately, the filming of “It’s a Wonderful Life” proved to be therapeutic for the combat veteran, and he went on to become one of Hollywood’s most beloved actors.

Although I have delivered a dose of not-so-pleasant memories of holiday seasons past, all is not Scrooged. For example, in mid-November I received a clean bill of health at my six-month oncology check-up. My blood pressure was a stunning 110/75, a healthy reading I haven’t had since the early 2000s. On February 10, I will hopefully become a five-year survivor, a sacred milestone for the Mighty Many who experience breast cancer. And a delightful young woman who attended a presentation I gave at the University of Colorado Cancer Center’s Lunch & Learn in late September read my book and was so moved by the need for more mental health resources for cancer patients, survivors, and caregivers that she has decided to pursue a PhD, focusing on psycho-oncology.

How blessed am I? Are we? Um…very. We are very, very, very blessed. Life is a balance of joy and sorrow, and I am grateful for both.

The two things I love most about Christmas are the joy of giving and the opportunity for renewal. I schedule time in November and December to check in with the dear friends who support my insatiable drive to make impactful change, who relentlessly encourage me to keep moving forward, and who accept me for the strategically dorky, schedule-driven, analytically-inquisitive-with-a-quirky-sense-of-humor person I am. Those lunches, breakfasts, and phone calls help me counter-balance my end-of-year gloom.

This December, I am racing to Christmas, but I am also reflecting on life’s challenges and rewards while listening to Christmas carols that remind me of younger days. Rene and I are loving the Jackie Gleason Christmas albums from the 1950s. I am spending more time in prayer, contemplating life’s gifts, marveling at Colorado’s seemingly-endless falling snow, and planning for a new decade. I need to continue discovering new ways to bring attention and acceptance to the ways the traumatic events of our lives bring unexpected psychological challenges for a lifetime.

Our haunting memories may never leave us, but there are healing tools available that deserve a try. I remain committed to pushing hard on our government, our educators, and our leaders to recognize the needs of those of us who need improved access to mental health resources.

We’ve got this!

May your holiday season bring you renewed peace and hope,

Changing Seasons

Is it me or was everyone geared up for a spectacular autumn display of colors on the front range of Colorado? I thought sure the leaves would absolutely ROCK this year. But, we had one shocking blast of cold temps and snow in early October and—poof—most of the green leaves froze, died, and dropped. Unfortunately, Rene and I didn’t make it to the mountains in September to see the leaves, but I heard that Mother Nature put on quite a display.

We did, however, spend a glorious five days with the Simards at Lake Winnipesaukee in central New Hampshire during the first week of October. I love going back to New England, because I feel like Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, John Adams, John Hancock, and the others are still alive, tucked away somewhere in a community of remote cabins in the woods. To me, New England feels and smells like the late 1700s—ground zero of an amazing democracy. “Live Free or Die” seems perfect for New Hampshire’s gritty love of country.

On the morning of our second full day at Lake Winnipesaukee, Rene and I went for a classic New England autumn walk. I ranked it a 9 on my 10-point runny-nose meter; my way of judging an epic walk. We breathed in brisk, crisp, clean air highlighted by a faint trace of pine sap. No wind, full sun and a few fallen leaves on the sidewalk. I stuffed two perfect pine cones and a handful of acorns in Rene’s pockets and vowed I would make whatever sacrifices necessary to get them home safely.

The night before our perfect autumn-in-New-England day, Rene, his siblings, their families, and his parents and I stayed up late to visit, eat pizza and drink local craft brews. I learned about a vicious creature called a fisher cat from my brother-in-law Bill, the Simard family’s resident outdoorsman. Fisher cats are omnivores—members of the weasel family. Fishers are one of the few animals able to prey successfully on porcupines (Bill explained how they do that, but I’ll spare the details). They don’t look anything like cats, and they rarely eat fish. Another creepy bonus is the shrieking sound they make.

The day after we arrived home from New Hampshire, I developed a whopper of a chest cold and have since been hacking, draining, and wheezing. One morning a few days ago, I tried to think of the best way to describe how I sounded when I spoke, and Rene nailed it. He said I sounded like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer in the scene where his father puts the black cover over his flashing red nose.

Although I hate being sick, I have also been saddened—put on notice, if you will—by the reminders of how life is nothing short of a privilege. The Lord called another valiant servant and friend home nearly two weeks ago. Diane Holmes, whom we met through St. Andrew United Methodist Church, and whose husband, Jim, has been a personal training client of Rene’s for years, passed away from complications from Glioblastoma, a ruthless form of brain cancer. We attended Diane’s touching celebration of life service and remembered her exactly as she wanted, with smiles, chocolate cake, and references to the Rolling Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” She reminded us that we can’t always get what we want, but we always have what we need. As Jim, accompanied by their family, carried her ashes and exited the sanctuary, John Denver’s “Sunshine on My Shoulders” played in the background and I sobbed uncontrollably.

Amidst all the sorrow, for two days straight last week, one of the Denver classic rock stations made announcements that reinforced my grief, yet reminded me to persevere with an attitude of gratitude. The first sad news was that Peter Frampton recently played his last live concert. He was diagnosed earlier this year with Inclusion-Body Myositis (IBM), a muscle disorder that causes inflammation, weakness and atrophy, and he wanted to conclude his touring career while he was still healthy enough to play guitar. Like many of you, I grew up in the 1970s, and in 1976, he released “Frampton Comes Alive,” which, to this day, is one of the all-time best-selling live albums. I especially remember the album’s seemingly-endless jam titled “Do You Feel What We Do,” which exceeds 14 minutes.

The same classic rock radio station announced the following day that Toto, the jam/back-up band that scored several chart-topping hits in the late 1970s and 1980s, was going to stop touring (again) because life on the road has become too difficult for many band members.

Those announcements, on top of Diane’s death, hit me where it hurts. We are aging, a dizzying contrast to the music and the musicians who helped me feel young for so long. I treasure the memories, but I feel melancholy. I am aging, too. My entire day today was spent at the computer, and early in the afternoon, a very quiet gnat kept flying in front of my screen. Then I realized it wasn’t a gnat. I have eye floaters, or spots in my vision, caused by age-related changes as the vitreous inside my eyes becomes more liquid. Now, a black ant/seahorse-like creature flies across my computer screen (I have named him Zippy), followed by a half-dozen black hollow circles. They are my new best annoying friends.

I make light of the mystery of life, I bask in the joyous glow of a perfect autumn day, I weep, I mourn, and my heart breaks for friends and idols facing health challenges much greater than anything I have ever experienced. And I am grateful.

Grateful, even, for fisher cats and floaters.

Love and blessings,

Welcome to Breast Cancer Awareness Month… And How Does That Make You Feel?

October is finally here! All our houseplants are back inside, so if you visit us be careful where you walk so you don’t get stabbed by a cactus needle.

It has been a while since I whined about cancer, so let’s chat about the elephant in the room. Pinktober, aka Breast Cancer Awareness Month, those 31 days of hell where I am traumatized by Pepto Bismol-colored ribbons, socks, shirts, bumper stickers, lapel pins, and pocket squares.

No need to be alarmed–I am joking for the most part. As a survivor who is five months away from reaching the “5 Years a Survivor” milestone on February 10, I am melancholy, yet determined to keep bringing attention to the ongoing psychological plight some cancer survivors and caregivers face, which include anxiety, depression, fear, and even post-traumatic stress.

Last week I was honored to meet with some of the doctoral students at the University of Denver’s Graduate School of Professional Psychology (GSPP). Health Psychology is one of the graduate courses in the Center for Oncology Psychology Excellence (COPE) track at GSPP, and it is being taught this quarter by dear friend and COPE Director, Dr. Nicole Taylor-Irwin.

Guess what? The Health Psych class is completely full—like jam-packed full! We’re talking there are 30 students (originally 32) taking Health Psych in a school where the average class size is much, much smaller than 30.

Why such an interest in how and why the brain plays a significant role in our physical health? I think it’s because the brain IS part of the body after all, and unlike a body wound that heals and possibly leaves a physical scar, a traumatic health experience like cancer can leave a permanent emotional scar.

Those emotional scars caused by cancer are the reason I came up with this:

“Cancer is never invited, and cancer never leaves”

Enough about how I feel, but what do other survivors think? I polled several women friends who are breast cancer survivors, asking them to respond to two questions:

How long have you been a breast cancer survivor?
What is your reaction/opinion about the concept of Breast Cancer Awareness Month?

Their stories! I promised to keep their identities anonymous, but my heart is warmed to share some of their most memorable responses:

2-Year Survivor

“I initially feel a sense of pride and accomplishment that I am a survivor. It reminds me to keep the priorities in my life at the forefront and to focus on what’s important as we don’t always know how much time we have left. That being said, I also feel a sense of guilt sometimes that Breast Cancer gets more focus than other types of cancer. In the past, Breast Cancer Awareness Month has not led to significantly more anxiety or distress as I think it is important for me to remember the ways in which it impacted my life and family. However, I just had my first child and now the mention of breast cancer impacts me differently. Now when I think of it, I wonder what it would be like if I got sick again and had to leave my child. Overall, Breast Cancer Awareness month reminds me that I am a strong woman who can deal with adversity and stress!”

15-Year Survivor

“I am a 15-year survivor from the first incidence and an 11-year survivor from the second incidence, a recurrence in the same breast, same pathology.

I am grateful for Breast Cancer Awareness Month because I believe it attracts dollars for research and advancement of the cure. I had a moving experience one year participating in a parade in which I marched with a fellow survivor–who was six years old. There is something comforting about the “fellowship” of survivors. On the other hand, I don’t want Survivor to be my ‘brand.’

And, yes, it is also hard. I was diagnosed with a recurrence in October during the Breast Cancer Awareness Month. But somehow it inspired the “Fight Back” in me and reminded me I am not alone.”

2.2-Year Survivor

“I do appreciate the worldwide acknowledgement, but sometimes wish it were a terrible nightmare.”

27-Year Survivor

October for Breast Cancer Awareness Month is important. We are each responsible for our reactions to anything in life and how we choose to see something. I say, let’s not throw out the baby with the bath water because without awareness, many of us would not have known to get suspicious or concerning lumps or bumps in our breasts checked out. Without the declaration of the Breast Cancer Awareness Month of October, the crusades for raising money for research might not have ever happened, genetic testing might not have come to the forefront as it is today, and because of this awareness month, women feel less lonely as they face the many challenges of breast cancer.

It does not warm my heart that many are still fired from jobs when it’s discovered they have breast cancer or overlooked for promotions or career advancements or that many mothers have to choose between buying their prescriptions or buying food for their families.

Once diagnosed, it’s not a month of awareness, it’s 365 days of awareness every single year.”

4-Year Survivor

“While I am grateful for the awareness and advocacy in October for women to get checked and do self-exams, it is the way in which business and consumerism has taken over the month that frustrates me.

In October a couple of years back, I was in Safeway and walked by a display of pink breast cancer ribbon cakes, cupcakes and cookies. I thought to myself, ‘Breast cancer itself is nothing to celebrate. What are these about?’ I thought for sure that Safeway would donate profits to a cause if folks purchased one of these desserts. I couldn’t find a sign indicating this. I went to store management and was informed that the sales weren’t linked to any charity. I found this appalling. I was very angry that day. I shared that story on social media.

So, I guess I have a problem with the commercialization of something that is so hard for so many. Survivorship should be celebrated, money should be raised for research, but I don’t need an artificial cake full of chemicals and dye with a pink breast cancer ribbon on it to do that. Shame on the companies that profit from others’ pain. This is happening all over the county with so many companies. A year later I saw a drink on the menu at BJs to ‘pink your drink.’ Again no proceeds donated to charity, so why does this company do it? Is it selfish of me? Should I be grateful they are creating space for those who have been affected by this disease to be thought of and celebrated? Does adding pink food dye to a drink do that? Perhaps it inspires conversation? And that is good. To discuss advocacy and awareness.

For me, I don’t wear my survivorship on my sleeve by wearing pink and donning myself in ribbons or drinking or eating pink inspired treats in October. I do, however, speak up more so in October about self-exams and mammograms. I share my story about how I waited nine months before I got my lump checked that I had known about and ignored. I share the documentary I made to help inspire other young survivors to find joy through their journey through cancer. I share how grateful I am to be here today because that is not the case for so many who wait and don’t act on minor symptoms or ignore lumps thinking cancer can’t happen to them. Or to those who had no signs of the disease in the first place until it was too late…”

My sincere thanks to all of you who participated in the poll. By the way, is it me, or do some of the longer-term survivors have differing—call it “evolving” views—from more-recent survivors? Is it wisdom? Maturity? Healing?

I’m not here to tell you what to think or how to act. I am here as a storyteller, a conduit for the humorous, the infuriating, and the future. As far as I am concerned, every month is any-type-of-cancer awareness month. Fighting and living beyond this wretched disease is up to each of us.

To healing and living,