Sheila Flaherty's Blog, page 4

The Second Sunday

Today is Mother’s Day, and, as much as I enjoy being celebrated for being a mom, the day is bittersweet for me—as it is for most of us who have lost our moms. The loss of your mother brings both a unique and universal sorrow.

When I was a little girl, there was a tradition on Mother’s Day. At church, carnations were available for all the women. Those whose mothers were still alive got a red carnation, and those whose moms had died got a white one. As a child, I never thought about how that would feel—to get a white carnation. I could not have imagined.

This September, my mom will have been dead for fifteen years. Even though so much time has passed, and I’ve written about her death, it is still incomprehensible to me. As I grow older, I miss Mom in different ways. So much has happened that I’d like to share with her—things about me and about my life—things about my kids. I still have her name and phone number in my contact list.

It’s true what they say about how much more we appreciate our parents as we grow up and navigate being parents.  More and more I realize what I put Mama through. How she supported me, even when I made appallingly bad decisions. How she cheered me on and was happy for me, even when what I was doing (or where I was going) scared her to death. How she sacrificed so much for me, even when it must have cost her dearly. Everything I know about being a mom, I learned from her. From Mama, I learned the true meaning of unconditional love.

I also realize, more and more, how much I’m like her. Not only my face in the mirror—the shape of my mouth and my green eyes. Also, my quick and sometimes inappropriate laughter, that often gets me into trouble! I still have Daddy’s restless, gypsy soul, but I have Mama’s steady sensibility. I have her staying power—both in my career and in my relationships. Since I was named for Mom and go by my maiden name, we even have the same name. And, we shared a passion for writing.

I would love to talk to Mama about writing. She and I both were “late-bloomers.” And we both had dabbled in it early-on—short poems, half-page ponderings. Mom got serious when she was in her fifties. She started taking classes at her local community college and enrolled in writing workshops. Mama wrote personal essays, short stories, and poems, and even submitted on rare occasion. I remember her joy when her poem, Rejection, was published in the January 1984 issue of Cat Fancy magazine.

Mom’s community college ID

Over the years, I read some of her work, but not a lot. Despite the positive feedback she got from her teachers, publication of her poem, and honorable mention in a competition, Mama never believed in her own talent enough to share her words with many others—even me. I first wrote East of Mecca as a screenplay in the early 90’s, so she was able to read it in that format, but I never got to share it with her as a novel. And the greatest volume of my work has been written in the years since her death.

Among Mom’s belongings that I still have, are pages and pages of her writing. Personal essays and short-stories. Half-filled notebooks of prose and poetry. Journal entries in which she examined her life and relentlessly questioned the worth of her words. Even scraps of paper with brief quotes and the notes she kept as reminders of what she wanted to write about— someday. The same kinds of scraps of paper I collect.

Mama and I shared both a passion for writing and the pervasive self-doubt that plagues even the most accomplished writers. (Anne Lamott being the perfect example!) But I’m different from my mother, in that I’ve dared to go public with much of my work. So, on this Mother’s Day, in honor of my mom, I am posting two of her pieces—her poem, Rejection, and a personal essay, The Red House, which is one of my favorites. I hope you like them, and I think she would be pleased.

Mother’s Day is bittersweet for me, but, for many, it is the most emotionally loaded holiday of the year—for all kinds of reasons. If you are being celebrated today, and/or celebrating a special woman in your life, I wish you joy. If this is a painful day for you, for whatever reason, I wish you peace.

 

Rejection  (Sung to the tune of “Auld Lang Syne”)

‘Twas time to oust the tired old year

And welcome in the new

I planned our evening with such care

A quiet rendezvous.

 

I served him all his favorite food

And poured myself Chablis

We shared one chair, a loving mood,

My dark-haired friend and me.

 

He snuggled close — I felt content

And so, I thought, did he.

As madness swept the continent

We watched the revelry.

 

I’d known he was the roving kind,

But surely New Years’ Eve

He’d put rambling out of mind,

And wouldn’t want to leave.

 

Well, wishing doesn’t make it so,

No matter what they say.

With yawn and stretch, he rose to go

Meowed, then walked away.

 

The Red House

Behind a grove of sugar-berry trees, barely visible from the red clay street, sat the house I lived in when I was very young. The address was 110 Flamingo Drive and the adults called it “the old Sinclair place.” My brothers and I called it the “red house” for it was red, barn-red with white windows.

Except for its color it was an ordinary house much the same as most of its neighbors. Five rooms and bath, not arranged for beauty or convenience, just for shelter.

When I look back to my childhood, it’s the red house I remember and particularly the porch that extended across the full width and down one side. You might think of that porch as a forerunner of today’s family room. Much of my early life as I recall it was spent there. It was the scene of happy times, sad times, triumph and defeat.

By day the porch was our playground. Mother kept the gray floor washed and waxed. Brother and I played train and polished the floor at the same time, pulling each other back and forth on an old army blanket.

The highest side of the porch was a perfect launching place from which to take off in an old tire hanging by a rope from one of the trees.

On the side porch, between the door to the back hall and the back steps, was the permanent home for two paper-doll families. My friend, Marydel, and I spent many hours there. A wallpaper sample book provided material for furniture as well as room partitions. When we tired of playing with the paper-dolls, we put them to sleep on their wallpaper beds and left them.

Charlie’s red tricycle was as much a part of the furnishings as the two heavy rockers and the padded swing Daddy had fashioned from two iron cots. That trike was there a long time before it was ever ridden. Charlie had had Polio or Infantile Paralysis as it was called back then. Every day Mother put him on the tricycle seat and sat on the floor before him urging him to pedal. At first he cried and said, “I can’t” but Mother insisted. Once when Charlie was howling in protest, Daddy came out on the porch and said, “Emma, leave him alone, you know he can’t do it. He’s cripple.”

Mother whirled around and snarled like a wild dog protecting her pup, “By God, he will do it! He is not cripple! I won’t let him be!” And she didn’t. The practice sessions went on with Mother commanding over and over, “Push, Charles, push” as she held the pedal in place. When he finally managed to force the pedal forward, Mother grabbed him up and hugged him. Then with tears streaming down her face she said, “That’s my big boy! I knew you could do it!”

It still pains me to remember sitting on the top step crying while Daddy tried to explain that he was my stepfather and that my natural father had been killed shortly before my birth. The well-meaning aunt who told me my father was dead couldn’t possibly have known the effect that knowledge would have on my relationship with the only father I ever knew. Poor Dad. I’m sure I hurt him by my reaction. At five I just couldn’t understand. I jerked away from him and ran sobbing to my hideout under the back steps.

On summer evenings after supper and after Charlie was in bed, Mother, Brother and I escaped the heat by gently swinging back and forth. The air was sweet with honeysuckle and the night sparkled with stars and lightning bugs. Mother’s voice blended with the summer sounds of locusts, crickets, and frogs as she sang songs so beautiful and so sad, a lump would rise in my throat and tears would well up in my eyes.

I can’t remember wondering then why Daddy never joined us on the porch at night.

 

At This Moment

If we own the story

then we can write the ending.

~Brené Brown

I am sitting in a circle of a hundred women, all wearing white. We pass a small woven basket containing a microphone into which we each speak in turn. We have been asked to share our experiences of the previous three days using the prompts, “At this moment…” followed by, “Moving forward…”

It was 6:00 p.m. Isla Mujeres, Mexico time, on Sunday, March 8, 2015— International Women’s Day. It was the closing ceremony for the We Move Forward women’s conference held that weekend at the MIA Reef Hotel.

Moving around the circle, “I feel blessed” and “I am grateful” were the phrases spoken most often. Insights were shared and commitments made to move forward with the intention of creating our best possible lives. There were tears and laughter, touches and hugs—as there had been the entire three days.

We Move Forward was founded by Janeen Halliwell, who believes “We are all ordinary women that are capable of doing extraordinary things. Taking time to get clear on our desired future brings us closer to experiencing it. Believe in yourself and pay attention to those who believe in you too.” Janeen created WMF to bring kind-hearted, like-minded women together in a supportive, affirming community—where there is the time to focus on their deepest desires—and where tools are shared that can empower them to create healthy, happy, authentic lives.

I arrived at WMF feeling emotionally and physically battered and bruised—from my work, from the brutal Chicago winter, and from my previous three months of doctors’ visits and surgeries. I had great hopes for the conference: To meet lovely people, to gain valuable insights, to rest and heal. I was not disappointed.

I believe in divine timing and know it played a part in my journey to We Move Forward. The initial conference was in March 2012, but I first became aware of it in 2013. My husband and I were vacationing on the Mayan Riviera that February and I knew WMF was going to be held in nearby Isla Mujeres soon after we left. I felt a pull—and I imagined staying on in Mexico and crashing the conference!

Fall of 2014, I felt the pull, again. I went to the WMF website so often that the music stayed on my mind. I studied pictures and read about the speakers and Janeen’s mission. In October, I entered a WIN Wednesday book giveaway and on October 14th Janeen messaged me that I’d won! I wrote her of my interest in attending WMF and got her address so I could gift her with a copy of East of Mecca. On January 14, 2015, East of Mecca was featured for Win Wednesday!

By early December, I knew I had to attend the 2015 conference. But then there was the funky mammogram and biopsy. Monday, December 8th, I got the (false) “all clear.” I’d been following airline prices to Cancun and December 10th they dropped to an all-time low. I purchased them and registered for WMF that day.

It was a good thing I didn’t know of the roller coaster I was already riding—that I would have a lumpectomy on January 28, receive a cancer diagnosis, and have a second surgery February 12. For the second surgery, my primary concern was scheduling around WMF. “I’m going to Mexico the first weekend in March,” I announced, more than once. “I either have the surgery well before or schedule it for afterwards.” There was no debating—no considering NOT going.

I had wanted to attend WMF so long before I knew how much I would need to attend, that by the time I boarded the plane for Cancun, Thursday March 5th, the wanting had turned into an urgency—a physical and emotional longing. Like the instinct driving a homing pigeon in flight.

My flight was smooth, and walking through the doors of the Cancun airport I was greeted with welcoming Mexican heat and entrepreneurs selling tours, cold beer, and icy margaritas. It was a festive atmosphere. My transportation was pre-arranged through WMF, and I was happy to see my name on a placard.

By the time I was on the ferry from Cancun—crossing the exquisite, clear, turquoise water to Isla Mujeres—all my senses were awakened. There were blue skies and soft, salt-scented breezes. The sun was warm on my winter-white skin. A Mexican couple sang and played guitar. Emotions welled and soon I was crying with gratitude and happiness. I felt like I was coming home.

At the MIA Reef Hotel, I checked into my room on the sixth floor, with a balcony overlooking the Caribbean. Then I immediately ran across the bridge to where a pre-registration Happy Hour Meet & Mingle was in progress. My first image of the women of WMF was at the Fenix restaurant where they were posing for a group photograph. I rushed up breathlessly, was welcomed, given my badge, and immediately gathered into the group for a picture. Immediately gathered in could well describe my overall experience at WMF—welcoming and inclusive.

Some women had attended before and some of us were first-timers. Some came with friends and many came alone. We were all ages and backgrounds. Mostly, we were strangers to each other, but we already had much in common—hearts heavy with burdens both similar and different. There were recent widows and divorcees. Women struggling with their own medical issues or those of loved-ones. Those grieving private losses evidenced by distant stares and frequent tears. I felt war-torn and weary from my surgeries and the previous months’ stress.

At the mixer, I met Janeen and her lovely mom, and Joyce Hamilton (who had won East of Mecca), and a number of other women—including Michelle Collier, who would become a friend I hope to see again in my life outside of WMF.

That night, there was a full moon over the Caribbean. I left my drapes open and slept soundly with the ocean breeze blowing into my room. The next morning, I awakened to a beautiful sunrise.

Friday, the first full day, was amazing and jam-packed. Janeen’s moving welcome address set the stage for all to come. We were encouraged to set daily intentions and listened to powerful speakers. In a breakout exercise we were randomly assigned groups where we shared personal information. I was in the pink group. There were movement breaks throughout. There were also musical interludes featuring the hysterically funny, irreverent singer/comedian, Lisa Koch. Some of her songs were moving, but most left us laughing uncontrollably.

A group of us ate lunch in a local restaurant, and that night I was swept into a golf cart by a group of women for a long ride to the Bahia Tortuga Performing Art Centre to see Lisa Koch and Jeff (the WMF sound guy) perform. About fifty of us ate dinner under the stars. There was lively conversation, laughter, and many margaritas. Afterwards, a crowded taxi ride got me back to the hotel.

Friday night I wrote in my journal, “I never want to leave.”

Saturday was another full day, with fabulous speakers, music and laughter, meaningful movement. I loved it all. Again, a small group of us went out for lunch, and later there was a scavenger hunt. My pink group gave it our best shot, but we didn’t win. Dinner that night was at Fenix.

In Saturday night’s journal entry, I was plotting ways to reschedule my Monday morning flight for another day.

Sunday, March 8th was International Women’s Day. Our last day of WMF had arrived so quickly. Our first speaker was Almas Jiwani, President of United Nations Women Canada National Committee. She spoke eloquently on the importance of women’s empowerment, gender equality, and “The Power of One.” Following Almas was Cathy Cleary, whose inspiring stories about her work with Tchukudu women and children in the Congo had us in tears.

And then Jerusha Akatzin, a Mayan priestess, performed a Mayan blessing. After a short sermon she created an altar from cloth and candles and the elements. Jerusha asked us to think of what we wanted to let go of, as well as what we need to embrace in our lives moving forward—to consider carefully when asking for these things. With belief, she said, our prayers would be answered.

I asked for healing—to regain my physical and emotional health. To experience vitality that had gone missing over the past number of months. We were each blessed individually while touched with roses and greenery that had been dipped in holy water. After being anointed, I was so overcome with emotion that I had to move away, cover my face, and sob. Two separate women came forward with strong, comforting hugs. Thank you, Deanne and Merlyn. I am forever grateful.

After more music and a lovely mini-massage, Michelle and I went to Fenix for lunch. We ate ceviche and shrimp, talked while live music played in the background then returned to the MIA for a global dance party on the terrace. The dancing was so much like Zumba that I felt I was home!

That afternoon, I resisted two tempting workshops and chose to spend alone time on the beach. I waded deep into the clear, turquoise waters of the Caribbean, immersed myself in the warm, salty water, and imagined my healing had begun. Then I spent the next hour basking in the sun and enjoying a piña colada.

From 5 to 6, there was a happy hour on the terrace. By that time, we were all attired in white for the closing ceremony. We drank wine, margaritas, or the popular “Miami Vice” made of piña colada and strawberry puree—and we toasted Janeen and the entire WMF team that had made the conference so wonderful. And then, it was time for the closing ceremony.

*****

I cannot remember exactly what I said when the basket reached me. I know at that moment I felt blessed, grateful, and aware of my miraculous journey to WMF. Moving forward I vowed to stay on my emotional and healing path—and to stay true to the promises I’d made to myself.

After more hugs and tears, we celebrated at a banquet and dance party. There was abundant food and wine, conversations and laughter, and great music. The weather was sultry, but there are few things I love more than dancing. A sweat-drenched group of us danced all night, with the party ending at 11:00.

It has taken me longer than usual to write this post, because describing the spiritual and emotional experience of We Move Forward has been like trying to describe the majesty of the Grand Canyon to someone who has never seen it. Neither words nor pictures can clearly convey how and why it is so life-changing. Its magic exists in what is unseen; the nurturing, validating energy of one hundred women gathered together—accepting, loving, crying, and laughing. Coming together as strangers, parting as friends.

~My final journal entry, Monday March 9th, 2015, 7:30 a.m.

Today, I move forward. I’m sitting on my balcony on Isla Mujeres having watched the sunrise. There is a lone red and white fishing boat out on the choppy water, and waves crash on the rocks below me. The sky is blue and the sun is already warm on my face. I feel at peace and at home here. I must come back.

* For more information on We Move Forward, please visit their website, www.WeMoveForward.com I encourage every woman I know to consider attending WMF2016. I promise you won’t regret it. I’ll be there!

 

Cancer Redux

Time has been lost to me for a while. It has been over two months since my last blog post on December 8, 2014. It’s been a busy two months, and reading back through my journal, I catch glimpses of much that has transpired.

…a heavy work schedule, lunches, dinners, and movies with friends, dates with my husband, Zumba, working on Orchard Road and adapting East of Mecca back into a screenplay, signing up for an international women’s conference in Mexico the first weekend in March, buying, decorating, and taking down the Christmas Tree, holiday parties, a weekend visit from my oldest son, Christmas with my youngest and his wife, Winter Solstice, a quiet New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day resolutions, snow angels, a vortex, and a blizzard, the deaths of an aunt, Joe Cocker and Rod McKuen, the closely watched pregnancy of a dear woman, wonderful reviews of East of Mecca…

Such is the value of a journal—to be able to look back and remember. Especially when time is a blur, not just because of the busyness of life, but also because of a pervasive fog of worry and uncertainty—a preoccupation with uncertainty. I have been in a fog.

After getting the “all clear” on my biopsy on December 8, I had exactly one week of relief, gratitude, celebration, and unadulterated joy. I was still a twelve-year survivor. I could breathe again. And then, a week later on Monday, December 15, I received a message from my internist, Dr. N. Upon further review of the biopsy results, the pathologists recommended I consult with an oncological surgeon. There was no urgency in the message. It felt more like a safeguard because of my high-risk status. In a way, I felt relieved. A year seemed a long time to wait-and-see.

Dr. Sener, my previous (much beloved) oncologist has moved to California, so I made an appointment with his replacement. Her name is Dr. Y, and she is accomplished and well-reviewed. Her next opening was for January 19.

In the meantime, I had my yearly physical with Dr. N. Everything was okay, for the most part. We talked about the upcoming appointment with Dr. Y. Dr. N’s feelings echoed mine—it was only precautionary. We talked about the bizarre original delay in biopsy results. Dr. N thought it might have been due to the time they took with the culture. In any case, neither of us was worried.

On January 19, I arrived for my appointment with Dr. Y. Her office is located in the Kellogg Cancer Center in Evanston. There is a separate parking lot for the center and a large waiting room and check-in desk just inside the entrance. The woman behind the desk looked at my identification and insurance card, typed all my information into her computer, and took my photograph for the records.

When you’re a patient at the Kellogg Cancer Center you’re required to wear a wristband. She printed one out, asked me to verify my name and birth date then initial it. She taped it on my wrist.

“Does this mean I can buy a drink?” I asked.

The woman behind the desk barely smiled. Clearly, there’s not much humor to be found in the Kellogg Cancer Center. She directed me to take the elevator to the second floor where Dr. Y’s office is located in a suite of offices. I was to get off the elevator and follow a long maze of hallways to get to the next waiting room.

Minutes into my appointment, I was blindsided with the news that I needed surgery. The diagnosis was “Intra-ductal papilloma-benign.” My history of breast cancer put me into the high-risk status—thus the recommendation for surgery. A major missing piece was the diagnosis, which had never been conveyed to me or to Dr. N. The surgery was scheduled for as soon as possible, both to prevent having to have another “pre-op” physical, and to get it over with.

Wednesday, January 28, I was at the hospital at 10 am. I first reported to the Breast Center where I had an ultrasound-guided wire placed at the exact surgery site. I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say that it was extremely uncomfortable. After that I was wheeled to ambulatory surgery.

There was a long wait, during which time I was hooked up to an IV and prepped and asked a million questions and signed multiple documents. I was asked if I had an advanced directive on file. That was unnerving.

And then, show time! Thanks to a gentle pre-sedative and “twilight” anesthesia, I have only vague recollections of being rolled into operating room and scooting onto the table. I remember the surgery as being loud—like there was a party going on. And then I was back in my recovery room being offered juice and graham crackers. I was home by late afternoon.

The rest of the day was spent in a Norco haze, as I was warned not to wait for the anesthesia to wear off before taking one. My major discomfort was the “binder” they put me in. I called it a “corset-bra” because it zipped up the front, also had hooks and eyes, and made breathing next to impossible. I had to wear it 24/7 until my post-op exam, which was scheduled for February 4.

On Monday, February 2, I got a call from Dr. Y’s office with the biopsy results. Not great. Once again, like twelve years ago, they found DCIS—ductal carcinoma in situ. I was told they got it all, and the clean margins were good. I survived twelve years without recurrence of cancer—but the count begins again.

That week, I indulged in extreme self-care. Tuesday, I had a manicure and pedicure. Wednesday, I got an amazing new haircut from Kelly, my stylist and friend. And Thursday, I had a facial. When feeling powerless, control whatever you can!

On Thursday I also met with Dr. Y’s main nurse Kathy, to have the bandage removed, and then I met with Dr. M, the same radiologist I had twelve years ago. This time I was blind-sided by the assumption that I would be scheduled for radiation therapy. Turns out the margins were not “clean” enough. They like at least 1mm, and on one side, there was less than 1mm. They could not be sure that all the DCIS was removed.

We discussed my history, on which Dr. M was well-versed. It included my abbreviated radiation therapy, 18 sessions instead of 32, for which I would again qualify. And there was the fact that I had made the decision to discontinue taking Tamoxifen. Dr. M reassured me (twice!) that my stopping Tamoxifen had nothing to do with a recurrence of cancer. That it wouldn’t have mattered. (Comforting news for me, but alarming to think of all those women who might be unnecessarily at risk for uterine cancer—one of Tamoxifen’s major side-effects!)

I am proud of how calm I remained during that meeting. I questioned the biopsy findings and all the possible ways I could choose to go. Dr. M gave me one option: Start radiation. Through deductive reasoning, I alone came up with Option 2: Have another surgery to excise more tissue to see if all the DCIS has been removed. There was no third, “do nothing,” option.

I chose Option 2. I knew it was a gamble. If they found more cancer, I would still have to have radiation. But if not, I would be treatment free until my next diagnostic mammogram. I would not have to have radiation therapy.

Radiation was a terrible thing. It was exhausting and all-consuming. It (temporarily) impaired my sense of taste and smell. I prayed I made the right decision—that the margins would be clean and I will not have to have radiation. I prayed that I’m now counting down at least another twelve years of survivorship.

*****

My second surgery was Thursday, February 12 at 7:30 am. There was no need for another pre-op or placing another wire, and the surgery took less than an hour. Afterwards, Dr. Y checked in and said she felt it went well. Still, we would have to wait for the pathology report. I was suspended, once again.

That afternoon, despite having a second surgery and wearing another corset-bra, I felt good. I felt “light.” Intuitively, I knew I was going to be okay. I knew I would not be having radiation.

Monday, February 16, at 4:30 pm, Dr. Y’s office called with the final results. There was no cancer found. No need for radiation or further treatment. I was to have the bandage removed and meet with Dr. Y one last time on Thursday, February 19—exactly two months and sixteen days from when everything started with my yearly “routine” mammogram. (Women, get your mammograms!!!)

Now, I am grateful to be able to breathe again! When in physical and/or emotional pain, I throw my energy into my work, and spend the rest of my time being reclusive and private. Those who know me well understand and are patient and kind. I told only a few people, and have received much love, care, and prayers from that “inner circle” of family and friends—for which I am also grateful.

Now, I get to go to Isla Mujeres, Mexico the first weekend in March to attend the women’s conference and celebrate International Day of the Woman. The conference is called, “We Move Forward.” The theme and timing couldn’t be more perfect.

*****

My story continues in “Moving Forward.”

Moving Forward

This is the second part of a two-part posting. You can find the first post titled “Cancer Redux” here.

*****

This past Thursday was the coldest day of winter and the Kellogg Cancer Center parking lot was completely full. I waited ten minutes then gave my car to the valet. Inside, the waiting room was crowded. I stopped just inside the entrance and looked around.

There is something uniquely nondiscriminatory about the waiting room of a cancer center. Every age, gender, ethnicity, and religion is represented. People are waiting for treatments, are in-between treatments, or are waiting for people who are having treatments. Mostly, it’s easy to tell who’s who. As I looked around the room, eyes met mine. There’s an assessment going on. Are you one of us?

I walked across the lobby to check in. Only two women were working behind the desk, and there were several of us in line. Within moments a woman who had been checking in turned to walk past me. She wore a heavy red coat and several knit hats layered over her bald scalp. There was a bandage on her neck and she looked pale and tired.

“Sheila!”

When it was clear I didn’t recognize her, she said, “It’s Rosemary.”*

“Rosemary!” We hugged each other.

The last time I’d seen Rosemary was late last October. We had shared a bottle of Côtes du Rhône while dining at a local French bistrot with Judette, a mutual friend. Rosemary had just been diagnosed with breast cancer and Judette had suggested the dinner so Rosemary could ask me questions about what I’d experienced. That night, in the candle-lit restaurant, eating delicious food with French music playing in the background, Rosemary had appeared robustly healthy. She was a beautiful woman with long wavy blonde hair and a hearty laugh. After talking about the hard stuff, the three of us shared Paris stories, and talked and laughed for hours. When we parted that night, I told Rosemary I would be happy to be part of her team, if she wanted. I’d never heard from her or seen her again, until Thursday.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Well.” I explained what I’d been through and that I was better now. “Ironic, huh?”

Rosemary hugged me again. “I’m so glad for you.”

“How are you?” I asked.

“Today’s not a good day,” she said. “I’m exhausted.”

After a few more words we hugged again, and she walked away. Fighting tears, I had just turned to face the check-in desk when the man behind me asked where I was in line. I told him I thought I was now second, but there was an older woman standing just off to the side. I asked her if she was in line.

“No, I’m waiting for her.” She pointed to a woman being checked in.

The man behind me said to her, “Oh, you’re one of the lucky ones.”

When it was my turn, I got my wristband then rode the elevator up to Dr. Y’s waiting room. There, a Hispanic woman was waiting with her elderly mother. The mother was in a wheelchair, holding a cane, and looking gaunt and tired. A tiny blond boy wearing a Chicago Bears jacket wove in and out of the chairs. When I sat down, he came close to me, watching.

“Hi, Cutie,” I said, and smiled at him. He looked suddenly shy. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t move away.

“Wow, that’s something,” his mom said. “Usually he bursts into tears and runs away when strangers talk to him.”

“How old is he?” I asked.

“One and a half,” she said.

“What’s his name?”

“Christian.”

“Pretty name.” I smiled at the boy. “Hi, Christian.”

Christian ducked behind a chair, but didn’t run away and didn’t cry.

A moment later, two more women walked into the room. They also appeared to be mother and daughter. They were Muslim and wearing hijabs. The youngest smiled and waved at Christian. I wondered if she was going to ask his name. How interesting that would be. But she didn’t.

Soon, the Muslim women were ushered into the office suite and the Hispanic women and Christian left. I was alone in the quiet room when it hit me—a wave of gratitude. I felt so blessed. This, I knew would be my last appointment for a while. I gazed out the windows and cried softly.

My appointment was brief. The bandage was removed. There is still a scab, so the incision looks like a curved line drawn with a fine-point marker. But soon it will be pink. Over time it will fade to a silver crescent—matching another scar on the same breast.

I saw Dr. Y maybe for a total of five minutes. She confirmed that all is well. I have a follow-up appointment in six months, and will keep my regular mammogram appointment in December.

Since Thursday, I’ve had three sessions and attended two Zumba classes. I’m sore and emotionally fragile, but a pervasive feeling of gratitude surrounds me like a warm cloak. Tears come easily, but I don’t struggle with issues of “fairness” or “why me?” It’s a bummer to no longer be a twelve-year survivor, but I’ve reset the stopwatch and I’m already working on year one.

I’m looking at the past two-and-a-half months as a wake-up call. Time to take another close look at how I take care of myself. Time to reassess what’s important and what’s not. Time to remember how sacred our time is here on earth, and recommit to valuing every second. Time to spend more time with loved ones. Time to commit to joy.

I cry often, but when I cry, I don’t cry for myself. I cry for Rosemary and all those who are still struggling. For those who have lost their fight. Thursday, after giving the parking valet my ticket, I again glanced around the crowded waiting room of the Kellogg Cancer Center as I was leaving. I heard the man’s voice from earlier in the afternoon, and I realized—I am now, again, one of the lucky ones.

*Rosemary is not her real name

Suspended

A huge part of how I define myself is survivor. I’ve survived a lot in my life, but the thing most present in my mind when I say “survivor” is breast cancer. Up until last Wednesday, December 3, I was calling myself a twelve-year survivor. Now I don’t know. Now I’m just pending. Now I’m suspended like the tiny pieces of my flesh gathered for the biopsy.

Last Wednesday was my yearly diagnostic mammogram appointment. I scheduled it for as early as possible, 8:45, and showed up even earlier, before 8:30. I was wearing my exercise clothes, thinking if I got in right away I’d be able to make my 9:30 Zumba class.

Even though it’s been twelve years, I’m always anxious before having a mammogram. I don’t know a woman who isn’t. The procedure itself is embarrassing and torturous, and they are looking for cancer. On the day you need it most, you’re not allowed to wear deodorant.

A diagnostic mammogram is different from a standard one, in that the radiologist is scheduled to read your films during your actual appointment—while you wait in the mammography room still wearing your hospital gown—just in case they want more pictures. It can be a long wait.

After my technician, Nancy, left the room the first time I took a picture of the torture machine and posted it on Facebook with the caption, “Ladies! Guess where I am this morning.” I also took a picture of the machine’s inspection certificate dated March 11—my mother’s birthday. Somehow that date always reassures me.

When Nancy came back in, she didn’t make eye-contact. “The doctor wants more pictures. Of your right breast.” I felt myself start to sweat. This time, when she left, I sat down to wait. I breathed slowly. I prayed. Suddenly the room felt chilly and I was shivering.

When Nancy came back, she announced that the radiologist wanted an ultrasound. Still wearing my gown, I gathered my clothes and purse and coat and followed her down a long hallway and into an ultrasound room.

Dr. Choate, the radiologist, was there in a flash, along with another technician, Kelly, and the breast imaging department nurse, Peggy. Dr. Choate explained what she had seen that caused concern. Already films from my visit the previous year were on the screen for comparison.

The ultrasound seemed to take a long time, and Dr. Choate’s final conclusion was that she wanted to do a biopsy of a particular area she showed me on the screen—dark gray with undefined edges. Different from the concise black ovals that were fluid-filled benign cysts. Different from the light-gray healthy breast tissue.

Peggy told me to come with her. Again, I gathered my stuff and followed. This time I was told to wait in a room called the “gowned waiting room” where there are changing rooms, and lockers, and deodorant removal pads in case you’d forgotten, and piles of magazines. There were also chairs filled with women wearing stricken and terrified looks on their faces. Crying women. This was not a happy place. This was the room where those of us not having a routine mammogram waited for the next procedure or piece of news. Praying for the good—fearing the bad.

I jammed my clothes and coat into locker number two, and put the stretchy cord around my wrist. I waited.

Peggy came and got me and took me to her office. She explained the whole procedure to me. How, using the ultrasound as a guide, they would use a hollow needle to collect the cells. I’d be well-numbed, but would be sore for several days afterwards and unable to lift things, do housework, or exercise. Once she made sure I’d not been taking anything that acted as a blood-thinner, I was approved to go ahead with the biopsy immediately.

They were trying to get hold of my doctor, because without an order I wouldn’t be able to have the biopsy that day. There was a time crunch, and another patient had cancelled so there was a 9:15 spot if we got the order. If not, I would have to wait at least a week for the next available appointment. My doctor is never in her office on Wednesdays, but she responded immediately to her page and put in the order. I was taken back to the gowned waiting room while they set up.

By the time I was back in the ultrasound room, I was freezing. Peggy got me a warm blanket and they started the biopsy. The most pain I felt was from the initial shots, and then there was just a sensation of tugging and pressure, accompanied by a loud vacuuming noise from the biopsy machine. Dr. Choate placed a marking clip at the biopsy site and flushed it with saline solution. By the time she finished, I was seriously sweating.

“Do you want to see them?” Dr. Choate asked.

“Yes,” I answered

She held up a clear glass container with a black top. The container was about the size of a prescription bottle. “Can you see?”

Mostly I saw water, or whatever the clear solution was. But when I looked hard I saw one tiny, ragged speck of white tinged red with blood.

Dr. Choate told me there would be three possible outcomes from the biopsy: One, the results are benign and they will check it again next year. Two, the results are benign, but the cells will be such that they will want to remove the mass. Three, the result are not benign and we will see where we go from there.

Kelly took one more mammogram film to record the image with the marking clip in place then I got dressed and went home.

All too aware of the irony of my most recent blog post, I put another status report on Facebook. “Ummm…note to the UNIVERSE: Just because I’ve FINALLY found extreme gratitude for something really awful doesn’t mean I’m asking for MORE!” Only five people caught on, that I know of—including my son and my best friend Tanya.

I was told I would have the biopsy report by Friday afternoon. I checked in with my doctor’s office twice on Friday and was told the results were still pending. It’s now Sunday afternoon and I’m still waiting.

Last night about 10:30 I checked my phone one last time before bed and saw a new email from NorthshoreConnect. “New test information is now available. To review, simply login.” I told my husband I needed to go check and he followed me downstairs to my computer. “I don’t want you to be alone when you read this,” he said, and I appreciated his company.

There were three reports from the morning of December 3: One of the initial mammogram, one of the ultrasound, and one from the hollow-needle biopsy. All three referred to the “suspicious mass” in my right breast. I scrolled through the final report for results, and there were none. Histology pending, it read.

So, I wait. Tomorrow I should know something. I’ve tried to stay busy and I’m trying to be hopeful, but I’m feeling seriously unhinged. After tomorrow (I HOPE!) I will know what my immediate future looks like. Will it go on as planned, or be seriously disrupted? I don’t worry about dying, and I do. Since I go for my diagnostic mammogram every year, chances are slim that I have Stage 4 cancer. But am I still a twelve-year survivor? I don’t know. Histology results are pending and I feel as suspended as that tiny piece of bloody flesh.

Monday afternoon, December 8, 2014:

I am thrilled to announce that I am still a twelve-year survivor! Both times I called my doctor’s office today the results were not in. I finally got my results at 3:20 PM.

“You’re good!” Joan, from my doctor’s office delivered the news, sounding as relieved and happy as I feel.

Will my life go on as planned? Maybe—only with much more reverence. I’ve done a lot of thinking and praying (and begging and bargaining) and talking over the past five and a half days. I realize how much I am loved and how much I love and how valuable my health is. My take-away lesson from this whole life adventure is not to take any of it for granted.

What Shrinks Know (#19): The Gift of Extreme Gratitude

“In the silence you don’t know, you must go on,

I can’t go on, I’ll go on.”

~ Samuel Beckett

Though I’ve never read Samuel Beckett’s novel, The Unnamable, I recognize the above quote as describing a place I’ve been all too many times in my life. It is that place of loss or illness or tragedy where, despite the support of loving people, you feel totally alone. It is that place of darkness where screamed and whispered cries of “Why?” are met with deafening silence—because there are no answers. It is that place with no road map out. It is that place you feel is impossible to survive—and yet, you do.

It is in places such as these, where the seeds for extreme gratitude are sown.

Last week I wrote about the power of mindful gratitude—how a practice of intentionally seeking out experiences for which to be grateful can bring us peace in stressful times. In previous posts, I’ve written about the value of perspective. It is in looking back that we often see the gifts that our disappointments and losses eventually brought us—valuable experiences and relationships that we would not have had without going through the pain—and which we would never choose to give up.

Just recently I had an epiphany about what I’m calling extreme gratitude. More than only being grateful for a lovely gift or delightful experience, it is discovering ways to be thankful for experiences we usually wish had never happened. Extreme gratitude requires much more than thought and action to accomplish, and takes perspective to another, higher level.

Since this idea is so new to me, I’m still in the processing phase myself. But I want to share two examples of extreme gratitude from my own life.

My epiphany occurred two weeks ago, on a Friday. I was at my bank, talking to a young woman who had just discovered that her identity has been stolen. Naturally, she was scared, confused, and overwhelmed. I listened to her story then told her mine—about my purse being stolen in July. I told her what has helped me, and what I know she can do to protect herself. I was able to reassure her that the feelings of shock and violation do start to fade—that she would be “okay.” I offered to be there if she needs me and gave her a hug. She was smiling when we said goodbye.

As I walked away, I felt the first tiny twinges of gratitude that my purse had been stolen. It felt good to have been able to truly empathize and help someone who so needed my comfort—but did I actually feel grateful that my purse had been stolen? I mentally poked at the feeling to see if it would go away, and it didn’t. Huh!

I decided to deliberately explore a more major event in my life—breast cancer. A diagnosis of breast cancer, twelve years ago, earned me membership in a club I never would have chosen to join. Since my diagnosis, I’ve supported the cause in every way possible. I’ve met many other survivors and strugglers with whom I’ve shared wisdom and commiserated losses. I’ve urged women I know to get suspicious lumps checked out and celebrated with them when the diagnosis was benign.

But, around this time last year, a woman very dear to me received a diagnosis that was not benign. Although the stage of her cancer was the same as mine, her treatment was much more complicated. With every development and new piece of information, I was able to help her sort through and ask the next question, make the next decision. Together, we cried and prayed and asked “Why?” Our questions were met with silence, but, ultimately, she triumphed over her cancer.

I was able to support her through her experience, and I was able to do it from an entirely different place than if I had never gone through it myself—for which I am grateful.

On a related note, November 7, I attended the gallery opening of my friend Sandro Miller’s exhibition, Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich: Homage to Photographic Masters. I met Sandro Miller in 2003, the year after I had been diagnosed with breast cancer and received (an innovative) radiation treatment. Sandro was photographing an ad campaign for Evanston Hospital’s innovative therapies, and I had been asked to participate. Because I knew my participation could possibly help other women who were struggling with treatment options, I agreed. The ad campaign took me totally out of my comfort zone, but at the shoot, Sandro was respectful and kind and made me feel totally safe and relaxed.

When I finished East of Mecca a few years ago, I reached out to Sandro to ask if he would photograph me for my cover. But I had just discovered that Sandro is wildly famous, and I worried that he wouldn’t be interested in a small project like mine—or that I wouldn’t be able to afford him! Sandro not only said “yes,” he gifted me with his valuable time and talents. The shoot was a lovely experience, and now I have the most beautiful portrait of myself on my book—taken by one of the best photographers in the world!

Recently, Sandro came back into my life again. While I cannot disclose why just yet, our friendship has once again resulted in an incredible opportunity for me. On November 7, after the gallery opening, my husband and I were invited back to Sandro’s studio for an amazing party where we danced the night away. During those hours, I was acutely aware of being grateful for all the circumstances that brought this incredibly talented, generous, and lovely man into my life. Please visit Sandro’s website to learn more about him.

I never thought I would say this, but I am grateful I have had breast cancer. This, I call “extreme gratitude.”

As I said earlier, I am still processing this very new practice of extreme gratitude.  Already, I know it will not apply to all the negative things that have happened in my life. I will never be grateful that my daddy died when he was only fifty-eight. That profound loss will never make sense to me, and I will forever mourn. And there are so many other experiences I know I will never be able to reconcile—in which I will never find even a glimmer of gratitude. But I now have another strategy for looking back over my life—another possible way of reconciling tragedies and losses—like panning for gold in a muddy stream.

In last week’s post, I promised a possible strategy for beginning the practice of extreme gratitude. What I plan to do is draw a timeline of my life, thus far. I’ll mark important milestones and highlight joyous celebrations, but I’ll also note mistakes I’ve made and things I’ve long thought best forgotten. And, in the process, I’ll try to be kind to myself. If you embark on this journey, I recommend that you do the same—look back in kindness and be self-forgiving. This is all part of the gift of extreme self-care.

At some point in the future, I will write again to tell you what more I’ve learned and share my progress. In the meantime, I encourage you in your own quest for the peace and empowerment found in the practice of extreme gratitude—and I would LOVE to hear your stories.

I’m offering a personally-inscribed copy of my novel East of Mecca from December 1st, 2014 to  December 15th, 2014 for just $15.00. More information can be found here.

What Shrinks Know (#18): The Power of Mindful Gratitude

“Gratitude can transform common days into thanksgivings, turn routine jobs into joy, and change ordinary opportunities into blessings.” —

William Arthur Ward

The week of Thanksgiving has arrived, ushering in the most stressful and emotionally complex season celebrated in the Western world. Already, my patient load has risen!

None of us reaches adulthood without carrying baggage from childhood. And disappointments and losses continue to accumulate over the years. It is inevitable—we cannot live and love in this world without experiencing pain. And although we would so love to be able to neatly compartmentalize the different seasons and stages of our lives, it is not possible. The truth is, no matter how circuitous our life’s path, our lives are lived on a continuum. Every joyful memory remains to be triggered by something in our present. And it is the same with every loss. Even wounds we think have healed nicely can be ripped open without warning during the holidays.

Navigating the next couple months can be particularly challenging for those who have fresh wounds. And for those who are lonely, isolated, in troubled relationships, or have extremely dysfunctional families, even the anticipation of the holidays can be stressful.

It may take the patience of a Saint to get through the holidays emotionally unscathed, but for those of us who are merely human, a gratitude practice can help. I know, because I practice gratitude. I will forever be a novice, because it is not always easy. Especially when times are extremely hard or there is no sense whatsoever to be made of a loss or tragic event. That’s why it is called a practice—because, like learning another language, or a musical instrument, or yoga, it must be consciously done on a regular basis to become part of our lives in a meaningful way.

Mindful gratitude is all about intentionally creating and recognizing incidents for which we are thankful as they occur—not only upon reflection. By being present in the moment, we learn to be grateful in the moment. And our gratitude brings more grateful-worthy moments into our lives.

I first began my practice using a gratitude journal, and this is what I suggest for everyone in the beginning. Your journal doesn’t have to be fancy, just a tiny spiral notebook will do. At the end of every day, I jotted down at least three things I was grateful for. And I committed to doing it daily for at least three weeks—the minimum time required to create a new habit.

Some days, I could easily fill a page, other days I found myself grasping to note anything at all. On the hardest of days, I learned to be kind to myself. Sometimes I repeated simple things—water on demand, food, a warm bed. The beauty of noting these seemingly “trivial” gifts is that in doing so, we recognize and express gratitude for fundamental necessities of life that are not easily accessible for most of the world’s population. Wow!

During the next stage I began intentionally watching for things for which to be grateful—a convenient parking space on a rainy day, a short line in the grocery store, finding the glove I thought I’d lost. Being intentional transforms a fleeting relief into a recognizable feeling of gratitude. Uttering a “thank you” into the universe cements the experience, and can’t hurt!

Moving into the next phase, I added the creation of grateful moments. I now open my eyes in the morning and whisper “thank you” because I am alive—even when I wish I could sleep another three hours and it’s cold and my feet hurt the first few steps I take. Whenever I call a friend, I’m grateful to have someone to talk to and laugh with. I love smiling at a somber passing stranger and feel grateful when they smile back.

For an experiment, I suggest saying “good morning” and asking harried Starbucks baristas how they are doing. Watch their faces light up, because no one ever asks! Then be grateful—you might have made their day.

Just recently I have discovered another phase I’m calling extreme gratitude, because it takes much more thought and action to accomplish. It is more than just being grateful for a gift or wonderful experience. It is finding ways to be grateful for experiences we usually wish had never happened. In many previous posts, I have written about the value of perspective. Extreme gratitude takes perspective to another level. My next post will be on my own experiences of extreme gratitude—including suggestions on how to reach it.

In the meantime, I’m on day twenty-four of a thirty-day challenge on Facebook—noting something for which I’m grateful with an accompanying photo. Posts have included my family, hubby, friends, and cats; parties, nights by the fireplace, and Zumba; nature and my home; gifts of flowers; SleepyTime tea in a treasured mug; and my loving, supportive, writing group.

This Thanksgiving week, like the upcoming holiday season, already feels bittersweet. I look forward to the friends and family I’ll be sharing it with, while I’m acutely aware of those who will be missing. My heart is aching for a dear high school friend who lost her precious son last week, and for both my husband and daughter-in-law who have just lost long-time friends.

Personally, I have much to be grateful for, but I have also had a wild ride of a year with many ups and many downs. Practicing both mindful and extreme gratitude allows me to be thankful for most of the events in my year, as well those in my entire crazy life. I am also grateful for all my readers! Happy Thanksgiving to each and every one of you.

To show my gratitude to the world, I’ve decided to reduce the price of East of Mecca to $4.99 Kindle / $12.00 for the paperback book. Remember, when you purchase the book or Kindle version, 20% of all profits are donated to the YWCA Battered Women’s Shelter.
Visit Amazon.com to purchase my book now. 

What Shrinks Know (#19): The Power of Mindful Gratitude

“Gratitude can transform common days into thanksgivings, turn routine jobs into joy, and change ordinary opportunities into blessings.” —

William Arthur Ward

The week of Thanksgiving has arrived, ushering in the most stressful and emotionally complex season celebrated in the Western world. Already, my patient load has risen!

None of us reaches adulthood without carrying baggage from childhood. And disappointments and losses continue to accumulate over the years. It is inevitable—we cannot live and love in this world without experiencing pain. And although we would so love to be able to neatly compartmentalize the different seasons and stages of our lives, it is not possible. The truth is, no matter how circuitous our life’s path, our lives are lived on a continuum. Every joyful memory remains to be triggered by something in our present. And it is the same with every loss. Even wounds we think have healed nicely can be ripped open without warning during the holidays.

Navigating the next couple months can be particularly challenging for those who have fresh wounds. And for those who are lonely, isolated, in troubled relationships, or have extremely dysfunctional families, even the anticipation of the holidays can be stressful.

It may take the patience of a Saint to get through the holidays emotionally unscathed, but for those of us who are merely human, a gratitude practice can help. I know, because I practice gratitude. I will forever be a novice, because it is not always easy. Especially when times are extremely hard or there is no sense whatsoever to be made of a loss or tragic event. That’s why it is called a practice—because, like learning another language, or a musical instrument, or yoga, it must be consciously done on a regular basis to become part of our lives in a meaningful way.

Mindful gratitude is all about intentionally creating and recognizing incidents for which we are thankful as they occur—not only upon reflection. By being present in the moment, we learn to be grateful in the moment. And our gratitude brings more grateful-worthy moments into our lives.

I first began my practice using a gratitude journal, and this is what I suggest for everyone in the beginning. Your journal doesn’t have to be fancy, just a tiny spiral notebook will do. At the end of every day, I jotted down at least three things I was grateful for. And I committed to doing it daily for at least three weeks—the minimum time required to create a new habit.

Some days, I could easily fill a page, other days I found myself grasping to note anything at all. On the hardest of days, I learned to be kind to myself. Sometimes I repeated simple things—water on demand, food, a warm bed. The beauty of noting these seemingly “trivial” gifts is that in doing so, we recognize and express gratitude for fundamental necessities of life that are not easily accessible for most of the world’s population. Wow!

During the next stage I began intentionally watching for things for which to be grateful—a convenient parking space on a rainy day, a short line in the grocery store, finding the glove I thought I’d lost. Being intentional transforms a fleeting relief into a recognizable feeling of gratitude. Uttering a “thank you” into the universe cements the experience, and can’t hurt!

Moving into the next phase, I added the creation of grateful moments. I now open my eyes in the morning and whisper “thank you” because I am alive—even when I wish I could sleep another three hours and it’s cold and my feet hurt the first few steps I take. Whenever I call a friend, I’m grateful to have someone to talk to and laugh with. I love smiling at a somber passing stranger and feel grateful when they smile back.

For an experiment, I suggest saying “good morning” and asking harried Starbucks baristas how they are doing. Watch their faces light up, because no one ever asks! Then be grateful—you might have made their day.

Just recently I have discovered another phase I’m calling extreme gratitude, because it takes much more thought and action to accomplish. It is more than just being grateful for a gift or wonderful experience. It is finding ways to be grateful for experiences we usually wish had never happened. In many previous posts, I have written about the value of perspective. Extreme gratitude takes perspective to another level. My next post will be on my own experiences of extreme gratitude—including suggestions on how to reach it.

In the meantime, I’m on day twenty-four of a thirty-day challenge on Facebook—noting something for which I’m grateful with an accompanying photo. Posts have included my family, hubby, friends, and cats; parties, nights by the fireplace, and Zumba; nature and my home; gifts of flowers; SleepyTime tea in a treasured mug; and my loving, supportive, writing group.

This Thanksgiving week, like the upcoming holiday season, already feels bittersweet. I look forward to the friends and family I’ll be sharing it with, while I’m acutely aware of those who will be missing. My heart is aching for a dear high school friend who lost her precious son last week, and for both my husband and daughter-in-law who have just lost long-time friends.

Personally, I have much to be grateful for, but I have also had a wild ride of a year with many ups and many downs. Practicing both mindful and extreme gratitude allows me to be thankful for most of the events in my year, as well those in my entire crazy life. I am also grateful for all my readers! Happy Thanksgiving to each and every one of you.

To show my gratitude to the world, I’ve decided to reduce the price of East of Mecca to $4.99 Kindle / $12.00 for the paperback book. Remember, when you purchase the book or Kindle version, 20% of all profits are donated to the YWCA Battered Women’s Shelter.
Visit Amazon.com to purchase my book now. 

Repost: Hope and Action

With October being Breast Cancer Awareness month, I want to once again share my personal experience.  I am now a twelve-year survivor… for which I am grateful beyond words. It is my wish that my story bring comfort and HOPE to those who are struggling with their own diagnosis, or who love someone who is.

I didn’t realize what a daunting task it would be when I decided to write my very first blog in October on the topic of breast cancer.  The original idea came from a celebratory place—on Friday, September 28, I had my yearly diagnostic mammogram and was declared cancer free.  I am now a 10 year survivor—which puts me in the 82nd percentile of women who make it this long.

Evanston Northwestern Hospital Breast Cancer Treatment Advertisement. Photo & Advertisement © 2003, ENH

In the past 10 years I’ve walked for hope, run for hope, spoken about hope, and even been in an ad campaign about hope.  And now, I want to write what may inspire hope— for those going through what may feel like the scariest and loneliest ordeal of your life.

I have much to say, but there is already so much out there.  There is certainly no need to remind anyone that October is breast cancer awareness month—everything is festooned with ribbons the color of a new scar.

As survivors our stories are all unique and all similar—the terror, the tears, the pain, the awkwardness in ourselves and others.  I’ve learned that when you tell people you had breast cancer most of them reflexively glance at your chest!  Although many women would argue that every month is breast cancer awareness month—as the fear is always in the periphery of our minds—there is a need for it to be so in our faces that we cannot hide beneath layers of fear and denial that it can happen to us.  We cannot just hope it won’t happen to us or to women we love, we also have to take action.

I have long known I was at increased risk for breast cancer.  It was 1972 when my mother sat me down to talk.  I was 24.  Mom was pale and trembling, and I had never seen her eyes so desperately sad.  The story was that she had been pregnant once before me and she had miscarried.

During her pregnancy with me, mom was prescribed diethylstilbestrol (DES), the first synthetic estrogen hormone.  DES was created in 1938 and was regularly prescribed for “problem pregnancies” until November 1971, when the FDA told doctors to stop prescribing it for their pregnant patients.*

We, the female children born of those pregnancies, are called “DES Daughters.”  We are at increased risk for a number of health issues including cervical cancer, structural changes of the reproductive tract, infertility, and depression.  Those of us over 40 are almost twice as likely to get breast cancer, and the relative risk is estimated to be even higher for DES Daughters over age 50.

By 1972, articles were being published describing the outcome of long-term studies of the effects of DES.  Mom had read one of those articles.

“I’m so sorry I did something to put you at risk.”  Her eyes filled with tears.  “I was so afraid I’d lose you.”

Of course I understood.  1948 was a time when no one, especially women, questioned their doctors.  DES seemed like a miracle drug—the answer to prayers for those longing for babies.  I comforted Mom with gratefulness at being alive and reassurances that I would be just fine.  Four years later, at age 28, I was diagnosed with cervical cancer and successfully treated with conization surgery.

In my early forties I developed fibrocystic breast condition, characterized by lumpy, painful breasts.  Self-exams became an exercise in terror.  Around that time I had a patient who also had the condition.  She raved about her breast specialist, a surgical oncologist, exclaiming, “I will pay him to examine my breasts for me.”  I thought, “This is my man,” got his name, and made an appointment.  Dr. Stephen Sener turned out to be the man who saved my life.

Over the next ten years I had a number of fine needle aspirations of suspicious cysts, two hollow-core needle biopsies, and the surgical removal of a lump.  Every time I waited with dread for the nurse to call with the pathology reports—which always came back benign.

In October 2002, that wasn’t the case.  My routine mammogram found a suspicious area and another hollow-core biopsy confirmed malignancy.  On Friday afternoon, October 25, Dr. Sener called with the news I had always feared—and I came undone.

The following Tuesday, October 29, I had a lumpectomy.  After the pathology reports came back, my final diagnosis was ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS)—the most common type of non-invasive breast cancer.  The cancer was microscopic and therefore would not have been discovered without a mammogram.  The chances of recurrence of DCIS are 30% and most happen within 5 to 10 years after the initial diagnosis.  DCIS isn’t life threatening in itself, but having it increases the risk of developing invasive breast cancer later on.  To lower that risk I was advised to have radiation therapy.

I qualified for and chose the option of the brand new (at that time) Intensity-Modulated Radiation Therapy (IMRT).  Since this radiation focused exclusively on the cancer site, I only had to go 16 times, instead of the usual 32.  I went to the Kellogg Cancer Center at Evanston Hospital where a team of lovely women—my “radiation angels”—measured where the radiation beams should go, permanently marked my chest, and worked hard to save my life while I stared up at the picture of a Ragdoll kitten taped on the machine.  They kindly scheduled my appointments at 7:30 a.m. so I could keep my usual work schedule.  I never missed a beat, and none of my patients knew what I was going through until long after the fact.  Working was what kept me (relatively) sane.

There were months of extreme fatigue and distorted sense of smell and taste—all the usual side effects of radiation.  Not to mention depression, abject terror, self-pity, and many, many sleepless nights.  But the total love and support from my husband, family, and friends helped get me through.

After radiation therapy was completed, I was prescribed Tamoxifen which is supposed to prevent breast cancer.  I stopped taking it when the immediate and long-term side effects began to outweigh the potential benefits.  I figured that twice a year diagnostic mammograms would be enough to catch any cancer that might return.  Fortunately, I was right.

After 5 years, my diagnostic mammograms were reduced from twice to once a year.  After 10 years, I’m left with a scar that has faded to white and one tiny black dot in the middle of my chest that I refer to as my tattoo.

In the intervening years, I’ve exercised and focused on a healthy diet, choosing mostly organic fruits and vegetables and dairy.  I have limited meat and stayed away from anything that has hormones or additives of any kind.  I drink gallons of green tea in a week, and still enjoy red wine in moderation.

I admit that my yearly mammograms still fill me with terror and dread.  And I find it ironic that I’m not allowed to wear deodorant on the one time a year I need it the most. But during the actual procedure I find comfort in focusing on the date of inspection on the mammogram machine—March 11—my mother’s birthday.

Because psychologists know that hopelessness combined with helplessness is an often lethal combination, I professionally and personally contend that when all else seems out of our control, it becomes our responsibility to do whatever is within our power.  To my women readers, take action!  Know your risk, including your mother’s possible use of DES.  Do self-exams and have regularly scheduled mammograms when recommended.  (Remember, a mammogram saved my life!)  To all my readers, action in the form of good self-care and education to increase awareness is the only way to create more hope—for ourselves, the women we love, and future generations of women.

Since, for me personally, the wolf will always be at the door, I will keep doing what I have been doing—it has worked so far.  On September 28, 2012, I became a 10-year survivor!  On October 6, 2012, I danced at my son’s wedding!  Life is beautiful.

*Although doctors were told to stop prescribing DES in 1971, it wasn’t banned for use with humans until September 2000. Therefore, an estimated 5-10 million people in the United States were exposed to DES, including pregnant women and the children born of those pregnancies. DES sons and grandchildren are also at risk for health issues caused by DES. Read more about DES to find out about your risk or the risk or someone you know at www.desaction.org.

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The SIMPLE Quest for Simplicity

Yesterday I drove past a sign that said “Senior Crossing.” My second impulse was to take a “selfie” in front of it. But my first impulse was to riddle it with buckshot. Back in my Texas wild-west days, I would have pulled out my rifle and done just that. (Not that I ever drove around with a rifle. But I was damn good at the shooting range!) That bright yellow sign would make for excellent target practice.

God, I hate the term “senior.” I’ve learned to let it trip off my tongue when buying movie tickets, but find myself only able to ask for senior rates when booking hotel rooms online or over the phone. To ask in person feels like only calling attention to the obvious. It feels redundant seeing that most people behind counters are so young they would automatically assume I was ancient enough to qualify for senior rates.

And then there is the assumption that, because I am a woman of a certain age I’m retired, or planning to retire sometime soon. With my profession, I’ve long had the luxury of creating my own schedule so I can hit the gym midmorning and run errands during off-times. It’s only lately that I’m often asked, “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” (I hear “dearie” inherent in that question!) “Going to work!” I answer. Maybe a conversation follows about what I do—mostly not.

After these incidents I study myself in the rearview mirror. What do they see? No makeup, damp hair pulled into a ponytail, exercise or yoga-wear, Zumba-colorful athletic shoes. Maybe not my best look, but retired?

I know the “look” of retirement varies greatly! Just peruse all the glossy ads for upscale “retirement at its best” featuring smiling, gorgeous, well-dressed models toasting each other with champagne flutes. I know people who have retired to condos in the city for half the year and travel to warmer climes the other half. Or those who have found lovely homes on quiet lakes in golf communities. But my question is “what would I do on a day-to-day basis?” I don’t play golf, or tennis, or bridge. I don’t fish or knit. I’m far too restless to even imagine a life of leisure.

And I hate being asked when I am planning to retire. “Never!” I answer. The tiny little financial detail that I cannot afford to retire is really a moot point. This isn’t to say I wouldn’t love to have the option of retiring. But what I know in my soul is that I would wither away in no time flat if I were to quit working. I’d be like the guy given the gold watch after fifty-years who drops dead the week after retiring. My meager savings would long outlast my broken heart!

Being a psychologist is my greatest passion. I love making a positive impact on people’s lives. Helping them move through challenges with grace and ease. And, I was born to it. People have always found me easy to talk to. Even as the shy, perpetually new girl in school, I was the one other girls confided in about their problems.

I have also long been a magnet for those troubled, or in need. When, as a young adult, I worked at the phone company in downtown Dallas, several of us went to lunch once a week. The standing question was how many people would approach me during that hour. These were not casual encounters—often strangers touched my hair or shoulders while trying to engage me in dialogue—following me for blocks. The thing was, I never felt threatened, was never afraid. Creeped out, sometimes, but mostly I felt compassion.

After many years of education and training and clinical experience, I’ve come to understand the long, circuitous route that eventually landed me on the path to becoming a psychologist—always the beauty of perspective! And I’m grateful for a career where I can continue to practice, long after I would be forced to retire from another profession. I’m in a field where age equals experience equals wisdom equals value. Unless I have a head injury or develop dementia, I can keep practicing!

Writing is my second greatest passion. Late-bloomer that I am, I plan to keep on going—utilizing my years (and years!) of life experiences to do something I’ve come to love. And in the case of writing, dementia might actually make interesting reading.

All said, I realized how doubly blessed I am. I’m not writing in hopes of running from a career that has become intolerable. And I know that my two careers are perfect complements. Instead of looking at how to retire, I’m looking at how to reconfigure. What I’m searching for now is a different kind of balance in my life—one that is mindful and deliberate. For years, I wrote on stolen time. Now I want it to be dedicated.

As part of my overall plan, I have embarked on a quest for simplicity. I am finally emotionally ready to surrender my lovely Victorian home to another steward. I’ve lived here for 31 years this month, and (to put it delicately) every room reflects the abundance of experiences and gifts and treasures I have accumulated over my sixty-six years. More bluntly put, I have a shit-load of junk I need to sort through and get rid of!

Over these past thirty-two years I’ve helped others navigate their journeys, but I’ve been too close to see my own path. I knew I needed a roadmap to get to my place of self-discovery. Overwhelmed to the point of inertia, I decided to sign up for a nine-week course called “SIMPLE” that combines life-coaching with feng shui. Each week is dedicated to a different area of the home and a different principle of simplicity.

Because my house has four floors, my “homework” each week is a bit more complicated! To simplify, I’ve chosen to do a little bit on each floor, instead of tackling everything—which would have set me up for failure.

The course began two weeks ago and already it is working. The first week I focused on the area representing knowledge and self-cultivation. Now I have a lovely, clutter-free, corner of my bedroom dedicated to meditation, quiet contemplation, and writing—a place to nurture inner-contentment.

The second week was dedicated to the portion of my home representing family and health. The spiritual message was one of forgiveness. I already practice forgiveness, but took more specific, purposeful actions, which paid off within an hour. I’ve continued to eliminate clutter and follow guidelines to create stronger, happier energy in my guest and dining rooms—the main corresponding areas.

What I hadn’t done, though, until this weekend, was the very first assignment. It was to set my three intentions for the nine-week course. Anyone who knows me well knows that I have a knack for turning a simple assignment into a dissertation. Three intentions? Only three? I’ve been setting daily intentions, but what did I want to come from the nine-week course? I was pondering constantly, taking notes, journaling the process. And the answers finally came Sunday afternoon, in my writing group.

On Saturday, I had wanted to bake apple pies for friends—from scratch. Something I haven’t done in years. I have a favorite recipe, typed on an index card labeled “Candy’s Apple Pie.” I could see it, but I couldn’t find it! I have three recipe boxes and several folders I dug through while looking. Mindful of my new resolution to throw out stuff I no longer need, instead of just shoving everything back into a box or folder, I carefully sifted through index cards, clippings from magazines and newspapers, recipes from friends. It was a collection that spanned decades!

I’m proud to say I was (fairly) ruthless. Most of it wound up in the trash. I saved a few old favorites, and some I kept for sentimental reasons—those in my grandmother’s exquisite handwriting. But what I discovered in the process was that a huge important part of me has gone missing over the years. I used to love to cook! It was one of my passions and I was an excellent, even gourmet cook. I started cooking when I was thirteen, and the very first thing I made on my own was a cheese soufflé. The recipe was in the red and white-checked Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook and, because I didn’t know soufflés are notoriously temperamental, I didn’t know to be afraid. It turned out perfectly.

How did that part of me go missing? (I have my theories!) I still have a wall of cookbooks in my kitchen and a rack filled with copper pots I found at a flea market in the south of France. I have a collection of Saveur, and habitually clip recipes from magazines and newspapers, but I rarely follow through. I eventually found the apple pie recipe, stuck between food-spattered pages in Joy of Cooking. My pies turned out perfectly.

And there are my art supplies! Moving through my house, I’ll get to them soon. Boxes and boxes of brushes and pencils and pastels. Oils and acrylics and water-colors. A beautiful full-sized wooden easel I’ve had since I was nineteen and have carried around the world with me—but haven’t used in years. Drawing pads and portfolios full of my sketches, now crumbling and yellowed with age. I began college as an art major. Where did I go?

Writing about my desire to reconfigure my life and talking to my writing group about my recipe-box experiences helped me discover and articulate my three intentions for the class—and beyond. I might never again fully embrace my missing chef and artist, but I’m certainly going to try. My intentions are to:

Discover and jettison whatever holds me down and steals my joy.
Rediscover and reclaim parts of myself that have gone missing.
Create a roadmap leading to a reconfigured life—in which there is space and time for all my passions.

All my life I’ve been a caretaker to others. Now, I am also taking better care of myself. Engaging in extreme self-care! It feels scary and exhilarating all at once—and I highly recommend it to all my caretaker friends!

To learn more about the 9-week program, check out www.kristenfinch.com/simple.

And to better understand the concept of feng shui, go to www.simpleshui.com.