I’m more than a little irritated, as I’d written an entire post, did something odd, and it hadn’t auto-saved the draft. Of course, I’m sure I was much more eloquent the first time. Sorry to short change you. 🙂

The one thing I can give you, buzzed post. Not as much as either the day my hair fell out, or the big 40… but my glass of wine is not empty yet.

So, back to the point. Monday I had my second, and likely last, tattoo session. No, it wasn’t touching up something fun, or a memorial of my fight.

I was getting more pigment added to my nipples.

Even to people I’ve explained this to before, this sounds horrible & painful. I assure you, it is not. Not only are we talking about tattooing normal skin, but since when they do a mastectomy, they cut most of the  nerves to the skin, I have less sensation in my “boobs” than almost anywhere else in my body.  It’s still a strange sensation, as the muscles that are between the deadened skin & the non-organic implants still have feeling, but even without the numbing cream that they give me, I don’t feel much of anything. I’d say the feeling is kind of surreal, but after two years it’s become pretty familiar.

That’s right, two years today, I lost 8.5 lbs in 12 hours. If I could figure out how to do that again with out the whole surgery & cancer thing, I could make a LOT of money.

Anywhodle- the stone cold sober post I wrote the other day had nothing to do with the two year anniversary of my bilateral mastectomy. Which is probably the day I should recognize as my cancerversary, but the sidekick doesn’t want to celebrate.

My post that I wrote the other day was about Robin Williams. And my former colleague who killed himself after a long battle with depression a couple months before the whole cancer thing rocked my world.  Both amazing people. Both would do so much for a friend, and even though they were both public about their fight, no one would have known.

Mental illness is one of those dirty secrets that no one talks about.  Like cancer used to be. Like domestic violence. Child abuse. Racism. Hate.

SO MANY THINGS that we just don’t talk about.

One of the things that really pissed me off this week was that anyone said ANY mean things to Williams’ family in social media.  WTF? I mean really?

And then I wonder, what horrible experience must they have had in their life that would make the thought to be so cruel even enter their heads. It’s something that I can’t even wrap my own head around.

I’ve always loved the Plato quote, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting hard battle.” I’ve seen additions to it, “that you know nothing about” but I don’t think that’s needed. It’s kind of implied.

I haven’t done such a great job with hiding my battle, and that has been both for me, and in my head, I justify the idea that it MIGHT help someone else.

But if you didn’t know me two years ago, or I didn’t open my big mouth, you’d never know that under my flowing top or dress, I had healing tattoos this week. I babble here, not really knowing if anyone reads the words that help me sleep at night. And then getting embarrassed when people praise them.

I know I pointed you to Stuart Scott in my last post. But I think it bears repeating, although this time, replace “cancer” with any kind of hidden battle:

“When you die, it doesn’t mean that you lose to cancer. You beat cancer by how you live, why you live, and in the manner which you live.” – Stuart Scott

But the next line is even more important for folks like Robin Williams, who are fighting a different invisible battle, “So live, LIVE. Fight like hell, and when you get to tired to fight, then lay down, and rest and let somebody else fight for you.”

I know that Robin fought and fought for years. And it sounds like a recent diagnosis just became too much. But I’ve known others fighting depression who use alcohol or other drugs to “self medicate.” Everyone has their own way to cope.

Tonight mine involves a couple of large glasses of wine and a keyboard.

But do all of my ninjas out there, when you need an ear, or a hand. Please know that although my fight goes on, if you need to lay down, I’m happy to help you continue to fight.

That’s what ninjas do.

I’m doing it again. Writing a post that I have no intention of hitting “publish” on until I have updated test results.

Sigh.

I’ve been doing this blog thing for two years now, and I considered letting go of my vanity URL, but evidently I’m still vain enough to keep it.  I put it up for a FB “vote” a month or two ago, and people still seem to be interested in my continued writing, but there was one reaction, from my Dad, that I haven’t publically addressed.  (Although I have had this convo with him)

He said, “…it’s time to move on. I’m sure you’ll find a new cause.”

The thing is, although I’m sure I will continue to find causes that I’m passionate about, there is no chance I am now, or possibly ever will be, ready to move on.

My point to him was that I’m still dealing with Tamoxifen & it’s nasty side effects every day… and I will be on some kind of hormone treatment for at least three more years.

Once I AM fully in menopause, I’ll still be years earlier than my friends. I’ve said for a long time that my favorite kind of baby is someone else’s, because you can give them back, but it still makes my heart hurt just a little sometimes knowing I won’t have another kid. We’ve always said we don’t want to screw this one up, but having hit the lottery of awesome children the first time, there’s always the, “what if,” factor. Would another one have been as awesome as this one? We’ll never know.

And then there are the risks that are still out there.

Wednesday morning, I had a pelvic MRI. So if we’re counting, we’ve MRI’d the boobs, the head, and now they’re looking at my ovaries.

Earlier this month, the same week I met with my usual medical oncologist for the northern lady parts, I also met with the gynecological oncologist, Dr. Hipps. (Seriously, that’s her name!)

I’ve seen her a few times, as she’s been helping me deal with the Tamoxifen side effects in my southern lady parts.  Last year she had me do a transvaginal pelvic ultrasound, and this year we did a follow up. This year they noticed something they missed last year, a 1.4 cm hypoechoic lesion on my left ovary. They went back to last year’s imaging, and it was there then as well, and since it’s the same size, shape, etc. as one that was harder to see last year & has no evidence of blood flow, it’s not likely that it’s just part of the normal menstrual cycle.

My doc actually called & told me since it was so stable it likely wasn’t a big deal, but that she wanted an MRI to be safe. I didn’t need to cancel my trip to Washington DC for work, but could schedule it when I got back. So it’s now 20 days since it was seen on the ultrasound, and I wait.

And as I write this post on Wed afternoon, I got a call from the nurse, saying that I may not even hear back until tomorrow… although Dr. Hipps has called me in the evening before, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed that even if the result comes in late, I’ll hear today. <NOTE: Heard back in the middle of a meeting on Thursday AM- they are just functional cysts, actually on right AND left ovaries, nothing to worry about! WHEW!>

But this will likely not be my last scare.

Once a cancer survivor, always a survivor. It’s not something from which most people can simply move on.

Today’s line from a song has little to do with the title, but the opening lines of Love Song still fit:

• Head under water, and you tell me, to breathe easy for a while.
• Breathing gets harder, even I know that.

The thing is, I’ve found something or had pain & been told “probably not a big deal” twice before. My “sounds like gall stones” turned out to be a ruptured appendix that I walked around with for a week. And everyone here knows how the “probably a cyst” lump I found turned out.

So although I will hope for the best, I will prepare for the worst.

One more thing in case you missed it, Stuart Scott gave one of the best acceptance speeches in the history of ever as he received the Jimmy V award at the ESPY’s a few weeks ago. And one line will likely live on for survivors and their co-surviving loved ones for ever.

• “When you die, it doesn’t mean that you lose to cancer. You beat cancer by how you live, why you live, and in the manner which you live.” – Stuart Scott

So with that as a measure, I’m just going to have to find more and more ways to win.

For years, I’ve known. Chocolate makes me sneeze.

Worth it.

Now, a glass of wine causes hot flashes… Or just feels like it raises my body temp 20 degrees.

Also worth it.

Found out I’m even less in menopause than 6 months ago, so the headaches, hot flashes & southern lady part issues will continue.

Sigh.

How do you measure, measure two years?

Much like the life of my little dude who turned 11 yesterday, it both feels like forever and moments ago that I found Lefty’s lump. But it’s neither. It was two years ago this week.

I’ve started this post at least 5 times in the last two months. This is somewhat good for you, as it means that I will give you the straight up elevator pitch on most of the posts I’ve started, and you get to read like, two months worth of thoughts in one post.

One is the loneliest number: This one was Mother’s Day. The sidekick & I never planned to have more than one. But as I watch so many of my friends having kids, high school & college friends, so they are just as elderly as I am… it’s hard to know that I absolutely can not.

What the Hell: The Avril Lavigne song that was stuck in my head.  All my life I’ve been good, but now, I’m thinking what the hell.

What Doesn’t Kill You: I’m not a huge Komen fan (too political, not enough $$ for research), but did my 1st “Race for the Cure,” and it was pretty cool. Also walked the Seattle Rock & Roll 1/2 marathon.  Took me longer than my 2nd 13.1, but not as long as my first. I was not that impressed with the music… I’d rather carry it myself. But support along the way was awesome. And it was my first real endurance event as a survivor.  Which just means that I can do anything I could do before the big C. Which still feels like a worthwhile lesson.

Momma Said Knock You Out: Signed up for a groupon for kickboxing. LOVE it. I end up sore, but in the best way. Remembering muscles that I’d long forgotten… And the pecs that have implants under them don’t hurt that much more than all of the other muscles.  Got pink gloves & shoes from my boys for Mother’s Day. They are awesome.

Pooper Scooper: I’ve been joking that I need to go out and pick up dog poop because I’m finding it really hard to give a shit about things. Sometimes I feel like I should be doing something more with my 2nd chance. But I’m at a loss as to what I should do. So I’m just going to keep on keeping on.

The other thing that happened yesterday was my quarterly visit with my oncologist. Good news is that he feels like I’m doing well enough to only see him twice a year. Bad news is that I got a call today and the blood test I took yesterday says I’m not yet in menopause, so I have to keep taking Tamoxifen. I know I’m “tolerating it alright” but I was hoping for less hot flashes and less headaches.  Sigh.

It’s amazing how much has happened in the last two years. And in so many ways, I still get down on myself. I haven’t lost the weight I wanted to lose. I feel like I’m stuck in a rut at work. I’m not nearly the mom, and especially wife, that I think I should be.

But no matter what I have or have not done in the last two years, I am an continue to be a work in progress.  The likelihood of being perfect in the next two years. Pretty much nil.

But if you measure a year in smiles, or in hugs, or just love, it makes sense that the last two years feel like they have been longer than the 38 that came before them. Because I’ve had an embarrassment of riches in those terms.

Despite the limbo I still feel like I’m in now, I’m continuing on looking forward to the next 48 years.

A couple of weeks ago, the best thing that could ever happen to my son happened.

He lost.

Before you call the crappy mom police, let me clarify a little.

The kid does know about losing.  He played pee-wee football for 3 years, without one single winning season.  He may have seen the Red Sox win more series than his grandmother (S-3, G-0) but he’s had his heart broken by the Pats in the Superbowl. Twice.

Even academically, his team didn’t do nearly as well as they should have in the Battle of the Books, because they refused to read a couple of the books.  It’s hard to answer questions when you haven’t done the work.

This was a competition called You Be The Chemist, for 5th-8th graders. We know for sure that he was not the youngest kid there, because his best friend is a week younger than he… but at 10, they are young 5th graders.  But for the last few months, that best friend’s mom took a group of 5 5th graders, and taught them basic chemistry. One of those kids was a really sweet kid who I know worked hard at reading and I have a feeling put a lot more time into it than S. He did the reading, and showed up for the “group instruction” with his friends, but I’m pretty sure the other kid actually STUDIED.  My kid was the only one from his group to advance from the 100 or so kids to take the written “local” round, and into the electronic “state” round of 30 kids.  {{Pause for maternal pride in my smart kid}}

The next cut was from 30 to 16. And that’s where he was eliminated. But he actually handled it SO well. I think I may have been just as proud in that moment as I was when he advanced.

All of the other SES parents told me that “My kid always talks about how smart S is! I’m sure he’ll do great!”  And although I was polite, smiled, said, “Thank you!” But what I WANTED to say was, “Yes, he is smart. But can you ask your children to stop telling him that?”

I am proud of his brains, but much like my years of being “smart,” I don’t think that’s the best compliment. We do nothing to earn our ability to learn. I would rather hear that he is a hard worker, which is hard when so much comes easily.

For me, and I believe for him, things are so much more rewarding when they are earned, not simply given.

And this weekend I heard from another parent whose son has only met mine a couple of times. “S is the nicest boy I’ve ever met!”

There’s a compliment that a mom can be proud of!

I had to go back and see exactly how long it’s been, and I’m now at 14 months and counting since I took my mom to a doctor’s appointment and the resident obviously mistook me for a 62 year old, because I was the one who looked like a cancer patient. (Yes, this still smarts, likely wrapped up with the part where I just turned 40) It’s funny, because at the time, I was starting to forget that I looked like I’d had chemo, because it had been long enough since my last session that I felt like I was past it.

Now, however, I seem to have the opposite problem.  I keep forgetting that with my normal looking (unless you know that I never had curls) hair, and boobs, that not everyone looks at me and thinks, “Oh, she’s a breast cancer survivor.” In general this is a good thing, but in the last month or so, I find myself inadvertently dropping the “C-bomb” on people.

I use phrases like, “when I was bald” or “with my new boobs” or even, “when I was going through chemo.”  I mentioned that I enjoy writing and I’ve found that a focused message leads to better engagement… “Oh, what’s your blog.” Me: “I’m at BreastCancerNinja.com”

Wheeew, ka-pow.  (Imagine a whistle & explosion noise… as a boy mom, I make the sounds better than I write them)

I don’t mean to drop bombs, I really don’t. But I just see this as a matter of fact for me.  And my oversharing tendencies may exacerbate this.  I’m an open book.  So when I feel like you can tell things by looking at me, like the fact that I’m 40, been married forever, mom of a genius, struggle with my weight, super slow triathlete, breast cancer survivor. It’s all tattooed on my forehead, right? Because if you don’t find out by me opening my mouth, it’s not because I’m not willing to share, it’s that I don’t think you give a flying rip.

On the FLIP side (or is it the flip-flip side since I was talking about the opposite problem before?) those people who DO know, still seem much more worried about me than I think they should be.  I’ve been having more problems with an upper respiratory thing that I’ve been fighting for the last 3 weeks than I have with any other health issues lately.  When I saw my doc over the kid’s spring break, we couldn’t even think of any good questions for him.  He explained what’s going on with the menopause (I’m literally on the line, so I’ll likely go back off of Tamoxifen when he checks my blood again in 3 months) and otherwise, there’s just not much to say.

Although I will always have to be careful in the future, it’s not totally wrong for me to talk about cancer in the past tense. And it’s a pretty good bet that I’m going to keep talking about it, whether it feels like I’m dropping bombs or not.

One last cool thing to share, my awesome friend Kristin shared this with me last week, and since touching myself likely saved my life, I’m totally behind #ITouchMyselfProject.  Like the Bright Pink Lipstick day, it’s Australian in origin, but so easy to get behind here in the US, and all over the world.  Do click the link. It’s really pretty awesome.

This is at least the 6th time I’ve started to write in the last month.  Most of the time I’ve gotten as far as the punny title of what’s rolling around in my head.  Sometimes I’ve had a whole line, but in general, there just hasn’t been much to share, or at least that I think anyone wants to talk about.  Here’s a smattering of what I would have written, if I had taken the time, over the last few weeks.

Invested- So one of those totally random things that no one mentions, but that makes sense.  Silicone implants don’t retain heat the way actual boobs do. So I have a new favorite jacket- a hot pink fleece vest.  It keeps the boobs warmer, but still allows me to regulate my over heating moments.

Siezed up- This was a week where I was tired of carpe-ing every damn diem. I just wanted to let someone else go seize the day for a while. I’m over it, but for a while, I was over trying so hard to live out loud.

Flow? No, Pause! So this is likely the biggest piece of news.  Back in December I went off of Tamoxifen, and started taking Arimidex. We were trying to help me with the headaches & hot flashes. And it totally did.  Less headaches, less hot flashes. The other thing that I knew going in to the switch, aromatase inhibitors can not block estrogen created by the ovaries.  We did a blood test to see if I was in menopause, and thought that I was. Nope.
So then I had a REALLY bad period. No need to go into details, just know, it was horrible. And did another blood test. I was out of menopause. So now I’m back on Tamoxifen. And just in the last couple of weeks, have been having headaches again. Along with the hot flashes.

All the, Small Things– This one is particularly ironic today. I was writing about how great the sidekick (aka my husband of 17 years) is, and how he may not always do big flashy things for me, but he does the little things that mean so much in a long term relationship. Lets me sleep in one morning. Takes care of our taxes. Doesn’t play a video game that he knows distracts me when I’m working from home.  The last couple of weeks I’ve been referring to myself as “the bad cop” at work.  Not a favorite role of mine, but one I’m capable of when needed. So he ordered the mini-figure from the Lego Movie, “Bad Cop.” And on a day when I joked that I should just start drinking at 8:45a, my day was completely made.

But this weekend we went to Olympia, to help my mom clean out my old room. I’d say only 10% of what was in there was mine anymore, which makes sense, since I hadn’t slept there since 1996, but I brought home a big box of pictures & letters from my mom & friends when I used to spend 6 weeks in the summer with my dad in Alaska. I’m kind of looking forward to looking through it, but it was another reminder of the most recent blog I’d started in my head.

Sometimes I feel like I’m looking in a funhouse mirror.  My chest is almost as big as it was before, but it’s almost like I’m always wearing a minimizer. They’re not shaped like they were for the first 38 years for my life. It had been years since I could see my tummy, or my feet for that matter. That is no longer the case.

Growing up, I always thought I was fat. I wore hugely loose clothes whenever I could. But in those pictures I found this weekend, there was a healthy looking kid.  Was I as thin as some of my friends? No, but I also never felt the need to stuff my bra.

We all have body issues. I did before my boobs tried to kill me. But even when I’m having a tough day, and I don’t really feel like seizing anything, I can remember one small thing.

I am loved, no matter what mirror I’m using. And that is no small thing.

It’s ironic.  It’s been less than a month since I declared 2014 the no-cancer-one-upmanship, and already the Guardian and the NYT have broken my pact.

Don’t they know they should all be listening to the Ninja?!? 🙂

This week some people, questioned the choice of Lisa Adams, a mother of three who has been fighting stage 4, metastatic breast cancer for more than six years.  She started to write, much like I did, almost privately.  As her disease has progressed, she has shared more, about her treatment, about the loss of her mother-in-law, about the congenital issues of her son.  Her writing evolved into a blog, and a hugely popular twitter handle.

The tweet she sends out each and every morning speaks to me on so many levels:

Jan 10, 2013

One year later, actual hair, flat iron needed

I’m drunk.

And right now I’m so in love with you. And I don’t want to think too much about what we should and shouldn’t do.

Okay Ninjas, I think this is my second drunk post.

I feel like I should feel guilty, but I’ve decided not to.

For more time than I’d like to admit, I’ve been freaking out about what 12-28-13 signifies.

The big 4-0.

And when I REALLY think about it, I KNOW that I should be thankful. My good friend Tricia Moen, didn’t even get to 40. Colon cancer got there first.

And when I realize how many of my friends who are having babies now for the very first time, I have to be thankful that I’d already given birth to the only child I was planning to have BEFORE I found the lump in Lefty and menopause set in. Sully even picked out pink, dangly, Kate Spade earrings for me for my birthday this year.  Does my son know me or what?

But the fact is, for weeks, it has felt like there’s something missing.

Like there is SOMETHING in my cosmic checklist that I was supposed to have done before 40.

Career of my dreams in news? Check.

Then career that lets me be a mom? Double check.

Marry the love of my life? Check.

Give birth to the most amazing child ever? Check again.

Have super-awesome-amazing friends? Super check.

Kick some cancer ass. BIG OL’ FREAKING CHECK.

So I haven’t figured out what it is that I was that I haven’t done yet.

And as The Bloggess (who is evidently exactly one day younger than me) says: “40 is the new I-don’t-really-give-a-shit-about-how-old-I-am-because-I’m-finally-learning-how-to-be-a-bad-ass-so-get-out-of-my-way-or-I-will-shank-you-thank-you-very-much.”

So a) thank you to all of my super-awesome-amazing friends. And b) I’m finally learning to be a BAD ASS. So when I figure out WTF it is that I haven’t checked off yet, watch out.

You have been warned.

And thank you for coming along for the ride!