Pink

When was the last time you checked in and did something nice for yourself? I suck on that front. I'm quick to do something thoughtful for others and neglect doing something just as kind for myself. "Later," "I don't need to waste the money" and "Too lavish" are just some of the excuses I give myself against stopping and saying, "F it, I'm worth it."

It's Breast Cancer Awareness month and I haven't really taken stock on what I've survived in exactly one year. Two surgeries, including a double mastectomy, with a third to go. Radiation every day for five weeks. Hormonal therapy as monthly injections that will continue for years to come. Osteoporosis from medication that made my joints ache whenever I moved. And a reconstruction process that feels like a pile of bricks on my chest. What don't I deserve again?

The past few weeks have been trying to say the least, a sad mental state compounded by a physical pain that took me out for days. At times it's been overwhelming, but usually I just keep it moving. Again, without taking stock.

I was recently gifted a treat to a spa, which I'd foolishly scheduled for its expiration date right smack in the middle of a crap storm. The last thing I wanted was to be felt up by a stranger who might freak out at my scars or feel the stiff expanders embedded in my sore chest. She was kind though, and I was happy to have a towel covering my eyes so she wouldn't see me tightening them in fear each time her hands crept closer to that area. I still feel damaged.

But I survived. That innocuous 60-minute massage and the past year. To celebrate I bought a small bouquet of flowers. Ramos de flores, you say in Spanish. Pink ones, of course, and I kept those stems clutched tightly in my fist all the way home.

I haven't looked at them since. Later. I just haven't made the time.

What It Was Like to Have a Double Mastectomy [Part 1]

I never wrote about my mastectomy surgery and recovery. Probably because I wanted to put it behind me as quickly as possible instead of explaining how difficult and terrifying it was to approach it. Funny enough, it was my reluctance to sit and face the change that made it all the more frustrating. When I couldn't do certain things on my own, I wanted to kick things or break down and cry. I hated everything about this.

In the week leading up the surgery, I was an emotional mess. I'd hide and cry on the bathroom floor, heaving because I was scared and I didn't want to go through with it. Deep down I knew it was the right choice, but that didn't offer much comfort—this was all a gamble in the hopes that the cancer wouldn't come back a third time, possibly, maybe, in the future, fingers crossed. It's not like I'd know then and there that it worked, and before all that I'd have to go through the pain of recovery and learning to accept my body's changes from here on out. I was scared of looking mangled and ugly, as superficial as it was. Everyone would remind me that my health and being alive was more important. Some people get to have that without giving anything up though. Why did I have to?

The night before the surgery, my sister asked me over to her place and when I got there, her and her boyfriend presented me with the most heartfelt gift I have ever received: a compilation of video messages from friends and family near and far. Each time a new face would pop up on the TV screen my eyes would well up all over again, completely floored and amazed that these people would take time out to wish me good luck and tell me they loved me. That was seven months ago and I haven't been able to look at it since because I know that big lump in my throat will come right back. Just thinking about it is enough to stir up the feels.

On surgery day, December 2, 2016, I woke up, climbed into the shower, took one last look at my breasts, and just lost it. Alex came and gently pulled me out, helped me get dressed and we headed down to the hospital.

My family was already there in the waiting room. When I'd gone in for my last lumpectomy, I'd had time to sit with them and settle in for a few moments. This time, I was taken in immediately. I changed into my gown, brushed my teeth as required before surgery to minimize risk for infections, and tried to pee into a cup. I was way too nervous to do so, way too nervous to have drank any water and after all that crying, I was way too dry. Vitals were taken, forms were signed and more tears were shed. I kept waiting and asking for my family to be let into this area because I couldn't handle being alone. My parents came in first, they kissed me and reassured me that everything would turn out fine. Then my sister and Alex came to spend those last few moments with me.

Except I couldn't pee. And they couldn't operate on me until they knew for sure that I wasn't pregnant. (I wasn't pregnant.) So they had to rush blood samples to a lab and wait 20 minutes for the results to come back. I don't know if it was better or worse to have that extra waiting time. On hand, I calmed down a bit as my sister and boyfriend joked around, but I also wanted to get it over with; if they'd told me to go home, I might have never returned. Luckily for them, the test came back negative and it was time for the show to go on.

I kissed them both goodbye and when I started panicking, Alex held my face in his hands so that I could really look at him as he told me that I would be alright. A mixture of no's and mhhmm's was all I could muster between shaking my head and wanting to be brave. I was pleading at him with all my silent might to please take me away. I didn't want to walk down that hallway a third time, I didn't want to lie down on that scary table as the surgeons swarmed around me, I didn't want them to console me or dab at my temples as the tears dripped into my ears, I didn't want them to cut into me. In my past surgeries I might have stifled the sobs so as to not embarrass myself in front of these doctors, but this time I didn't care—I didn't want to hold back how scared I was.

But five minutes later, I couldn't care about anything anymore. It happened and I was asleep.

Image: pixabay.com

New Leaves

Hey all! I know I keep popping in, disappearing for six months and then coming back in, but things are getting better…

Health

I’ll start off with a health update since that was still in topsy turvy mode when I last checked in. After my mastectomy in December, I underwent radiation for five weeks ending in February. I remember struggling with it much more the first time I went through this in 2013, but the fatigue set in strongly about midway through. I could hardly stay awake during my commute into midtown for my daily sessions and then I was staying up too late come nighttime. Thankfully, it didn’t last terribly long and towards the end, I was feeling much more rested and alert throughout the day.

What did hit me like a bomb was the skin discoloration around the radiated area. DAMN did I get fried. Hormonal therapy injections are still going on, but I’m almost done and after this week’s injection, I’ll have just three left to go. That’s a hooray!

You know what’s not a hooray though? The fact that the hormonal therapy plus the new medication have led me to develop osteoporosis. Fantastic. Moving on because this crap is depressing.

Work

A few weeks ago I finally jumped back into the office/full-time magazine life. That’s right! After six years of freelancing, I'm now the associate editor for Time Out New York Kids! I’d been freelancing for them since last fall and for Time Out New York for the past year so the transition has been pretty smooth—I just have to get used to the commute again. Here’s a positive point for the commute though: I’ll have time to write blog posts again! Those of you who’ve read Dry As Toast since its early days back in 2008 remember how often I’d publish (Every. Single. Day.) and how many ideas I’d generate from traveling to and from work every day. So there’s that! Plus, maybe I’ll have time to read all these books I keep collecting on my Kindle. Has anyone read The Handmaid’s Tale yet?

Porcupine Hugs

There’s also a HUGE bit of news I wanted to share with you. I exhibited at the National Stationery Show last week!! As some of you might remember, I was set to make my tradeshow debut with Porcupine Hugs at the National Stationery Show in 2015. It had been a longstanding dream of mine, to showcase my cards and my art at the Jacob Javits Center here in New York City alongside big greeting card companies and smaller business I’d come to know and respect. After five or six years of walking the show and befriending so many in the community, I felt ready to take the leap. Unfortunately, a few weeks before the show, life exploded and I had to back out. It took me a long time to feel confident enough to try again. Funny enough, it was while I recovering from my mastectomy in December that I decided I wanted to exhibit this year. I figured if I’m not going to be living in Europe, I might as well make the most of my time here. So NSS 2017 it was! More on that journey later, but I’ll just say that I’m so proud and thrilled that I finally accomplished that goal.

Life

As for the rest of life...I feel like that's only just about to start back up now. My time and energy has been consumed by surgeries, treatment, and recovery and it overlapped with preparing for the stationery show. Now that the most stressful parts are behind me (I hope!), I'm looking forward to tackling my next business and career goals, becoming social again, and enjoying my summer. More goodness to come as I get the writing juices flowing again...

Gone Girls

Tomorrow, I’ll be going in for a double mastectomy and hopefully get closer to putting this breast cancer chapter behind me. It took a month after my doctors asked me to consider the procedure to get a date for the surgery and in that time, I let myself drift into this space of false security where I knew that ordeal was hovering around somewhere out there, but nothing I needed to worry about for now. But then "somewhere out there" became “a week from now,” which turned into “this week,” “in a couple days,” and now, “tomorrow.” Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

After weeks of holding it together pretty well, I finally broke down a few days ago when the terror hit me. I will never look this way again - ever. When I look at myself in the mirror, I will look completely different, for better or for worse, and I will never be the way I’ve come to know myself. To those who’ve joked and noted that “Dorkys, you hardly have anything there!” (myself included), the loss goes beyond that. I’m not only grieving over losing actual pieces of myself, but also how I’ve come to view myself. This image of what Dorkys looks like, what she’s always looked like, will be completely different starting tomorrow and that horrifies me because I don’t know what that new image is going to be. What will my relationship with her be like? It took me decades to become comfortable with this body, and now I have to start over?

Just typing this is difficult…because I don’t want to say goodbye to this me.

See, this me has been pretty good to me for the most part if you don’t count that whole getting cancer in the first place thing. Yeah, she always got me carded at the bar because I looked like a “Girl Scout” and made shopping for adult clothes a stressful experience, but that’s all been part of my identity for the past 34 years: petite, small-breasted, curly-haired, feisty, tiny, cute. How am I going to feel when I wake up from surgery and my chest is bandaged up, gauze and tape where my breasts used to be? How am I going to feel a week later when the bandages finally fall away? When I look down and see a blank slate where my dark nipples used to be? Birth marks and freckles all chased away by a deep scar racing across my chest.

I know I’ll still feel like this me inside and when I close my eyes, I’ll still see this me as she’s been my whole life. Maybe someday the me in my head will slowly morph into the actual me as time goes on. And while I hope that acceptance comes sooner than 34 years from now, I’m also expecting a profound sense of loss to wash over me when I wake up the following day and many days after that.

Starting Breast Cancer Hormonal Therapy – Lupron: Month 1

fter being diagnosed with breast cancer this second time around, my doctors decided to up the ante to make sure that it wouldn’t come back again. I’d already had a lumpectomy in 2013, underwent radiation, and then started on a five-year-long plan of Tamoxifen pills. Because my cancer cells were estrogen receptor positive and fed off the estrogen hormone to grow, the pills were supposed to block that hormone from reaching the cancer cells and thus significantly lower my chances of recurrence. But turns out it wasn’t enough. I’m not even four years in and I’m battling this monster again.

Now not only did we remove cancer cells with a second lumpectomy, hopefully clearing out the area entirely with a bilateral mastectomy scheduled for December 2nd, possibly zapping the spot with a second round of radiation, and continuing a daily intake of Tamoxifen (for the time being), but I’ve also started monthly hormonal therapy injections of Lupron. The Tamoxifen might keep estrogen hormone from reaching the cancer cells’ receptors, but the Lupron will completely lower the amount of estrogen I have running through my body. In essence, I will be going into a fake menopause for the next year in the hopes that any traces of cancer still left in my body will be starved to death. Should be a fun ride.

As with most things prescribed to fix one medical issue, this one can mess you up in other ways. For example, a rare side effect of Tamoxifen is uterine or endometrial cancer. Meanwhile, Lupron can lead to a thinning of the bones and worsen depression, two side effects I’m highly wary about because of my petite frame and mental health history. Other common side effects include hot flashes, vaginal dryness, mood changes, decreased libido, and forgetfulness. And because this drug is typically prescribed to manage endometriosis, a disorder in which tissue that normally lines the uterus is found outside it, a woman’s period will be spotty or stop entirely for the duration of the treatment. Anyone’s who experienced menopause will probably tell you that it highly sucks and that’s basically what I’m expecting out of this journey. When I started on the Tamoxifen, the most common and hardest side effect to deal with was the hot flashes and it took at least two years before my body temperature was able to regain some stability.

The Lupron injection itself wasn’t totally painful, but I was incredibly anxious leading up to it because I hate needles. I went into it thinking it would be a shot on my arm, but they went with my tush instead. This was fine because I think the needle might have poked right out the other end of my tiny arms; I actually have some fat stored in my ass. Some soreness followed for the next couple of days, but Advil helped me handle that.

While my mood has been bouncing around the past month, it’s hard to tell what’s caused by the hormonal change and was is just natural considering this stressful situation.

I kept waiting for the hot flashes and mood swings to immediately take over, but nothing was really noticeable for the first two weeks. By the end of the third week though, I started to get hints of a hot flash when laying in bed. I like to sleep completely covered from head to toe and I’m sure that paired with the heat going in the apartment didn’t help. The first full-fledged hot flash happened towards end of week four. Alex and I were cuddling in bed under the covers. We were both fully clothed and I had on a sweater because his apartment is usually chilly. After a few minutes of nuzzling, I felt my body temperature start to shoot up and when I couldn’t handle it anymore, I sat up, threw the covers off of us, zipped my sweater off, flung the T-shirt up over my head, and sat there wiping my forehead waiting for my body to cool down. It just sneaks up on you so quickly.

“Wait, I have something for you,” Alex said from behind me. I thought he’d go grab me a cup of cold water, but instead I felt his icy hands up against my back.

“Yes,” I moaned before exposing the back of my neck to him so that he could warm his hands on my skin. I usually shriek in pain whenever cold hits me, but this time? It was such a relief.
 
Damn hot flashes, I thought. And so it begins.

Image: dailydropcap.com

More Decisions, More Surgery

Three weeks after September’s surgery, I was scheduled to have yet another lumpectomy. The pathology results had shown that the margins weren’t clear for one of the two tumors removed, meaning some cancerous cells might have been left behind. Two days before that surgery, my doctors called. They had presented my case at a weekly conference to the hospital’s surgeons, radiologists, and oncologists who collectively felt that I should consider a mastectomy because of the tumor’s weird behavior. They were concerned that it will spread or creep up again despite radiation and medication like it did this second time around. One minute, I’m feeling on top of the world, paying bills, pushing money into my savings account, on track with work, and texting my friends about my wonderful start to the day and the next I’m a sobbing mess. After receiving the day’s fun assignment from my Time Out New York Kids editor, I actually texted, “This is awesome!” Yeah, that kind of morning.

And then this call comes in and just devastates me. I tell the girls. “I’m about to burst,” I reply to their attempts to soothe me via Whatsapp. I run into the bathroom, close the door, and slump into the carpet. Muffled hysterics ensue.

A mastectomy. Everything gone. Mangled. Broken. Ugly. No longer sexy. Or pretty. I’ll look disgusting. No one will ever want me. The pain. It’ll hurt. What if it comes back anyway? F'ing surgery again? More intense. Will I feel an emptiness in my chest? The shock. Waking up and finding nothing there. Just gone.

The suggestion had come up in conversations before. My mom brought it up after I told my parents I’d have to have a third lumpectomy. “Mira a la Kardashian! Y Adamari López!” I corrected her that it wasn't Kim Kardashian but Angelina Jolie who'd had a mastectomy and then shut that suggestion down real quick. That’s way too drastic and never anything I would voluntarily sign up for, I told them. Even when I wrote about Jolie’s preventative double mastectomy in 2013, it still felt so distant from what I’d ever had to go through. My case didn’t feel that serious. It wasn’t even genetic!

And now, three years later, here I am. It feels so unfair to have to consider this decision. I still feel little.

I showed up at my surgeon’s office the following day and asked her a list of questions my therapist helped me write down. She put me in touch with a patient of her’s who was more than happy to chat on the phone with me for an hour, share her experience, and address any concerns I had. I researched and read about the procedure online. What to expect. The benefits and risks. I met my potential plastic surgeon and cried when he told me the process would take so much longer than I had anticipated. I thought I’d be OK by next summer, but no. A year, maybe more. I thought I could put most of this behind me in a matter of months, but because I’d already received radiation once and am supposed to go in for another round, he just didn’t want to risk complications by acting too quickly.

On one hand, this whole situation f’ing blows and quite simply, I don’t want it. Nope. I’ve only just started feeling back to normal after my last surgery and now I’ll have to go through the process all over again. The being physically helpless, the discomfort, the not being able to just do things like wash my hair and shave my arm pits or wear anything other than a button-down shirt. And don’t get me started on taking time off work. But this time around I have to accept that I’m going to need help and I simply cannot do all the things. The big-deal week-long Holiday Handmade Cavalcade I was helping organize for the fourth year in a row? I decided to back out of that along with two other markets coming up in the next month.

But here are the silver linings I’ve been clinging to since deciding that yes, I’m having a double mastectomy.

- If I do nothing, my chances of breast cancer recurrence is 30 percent. After a double mastectomy it would - supposedly - go down to 1 percent. I won’t have to look over my shoulder waiting for this to return (although I can’t front, I’m still scared something will show up somewhere else so I don’t know if that total ease will ever fully return.)

- I won’t need to go in for regular MRIs and mammograms twice a year anymore, which is great because a) those MRIs are so damn loud and obnoxious and b) fewer blasts of radiation, which just cannot be good for me.

- I can turn my lifelong insecurities about my small breasts and the turmoil this cancer has caused me into something better. After seeing the possibilities that breast reconstruction can offer and how some women have reclaimed their body by challenging society's perception of femininity by going flat, getting an amazing chest tattoo, and other feats of “I am still woman, hear me roar,” I’m hoping that I can come out of this journey appreciating my body more than I have before.

It’s been a week and a half since I made my decision and I’m still waiting for this surgery to be scheduled. This is a problem because I’ve slowly slipped into a mental space that feels like it’s not really going to happen. I’m finally feeling physically better from the last surgery. My left arm is no longer in chicken wing mode. I can wear my backpack, sleep comfortably, and be social again. I can relax because I'm good, right?

But I know as soon as I get that damn call that my surgery has been scheduled, it’s going to get way too real all over again.

And Then Life Kicks You Right in the Face Again

Since being diagnosed with breast cancer in December 2012, I’ve had to go in for regular check-ups with my lumpectomy surgeon and oncologists. In the span of nearly four years, I’ve had eight mammograms and ultrasounds, PET and CT scans, and five MRIs along with doctor’s appointments every three months until I finally graduated to every six in 2014. When I asked my surgeon how long I’d have to keep going in for check-ups, she said, “The rest of your life.”

Ha, ain’t no way I’m sticking around this city for that long, I thought. I still had dreams of living elsewhere and the idea that I’d have to keep seeing these people every few months year after year didn’t sit very well with me. The only comforting thing was that there were so many eyes on me, radiologists, physicians, gynecologist, and oncologists that should anything else pop up, you’d better believe someone would be on it immediately.

During a typical check-up with my surgeon two and a half weeks ago, she discovered a lump under my arm. It was one I’d felt before, but neglected because there was a similar lump of scar tissue, which was being monitored closely, where the previous tumor used to be. This new lump was right under the scarred spot where a lymph node was removed during that lumpectomy and even though all my previous imaging had come back clear, she wanted to have it biopsied then and there.

What is usually a quick appointment in which I get felt up for all of two minutes before being sent home to go on with the rest of my day, turned into an unexpected emotional blow. I have cancer again.

The tears had already began pouring out by the time the needle first pierced my side during the biopsy. Yes, it hurt enough for me to yell out, but I was also terrified. I’ve walked into every single test with my head in a cloud, telling myself it’s just this fact of my life, no grand deal, let’s just get this over with. But then after every test, when I’m still waiting in my oversized gown for the radiologist to give me the all clear, I cannot breathe and a tiny voice inside asks, "What if it’s back?"

Since my first diagnosis, I knew that I would get it again. No doubt in my mind that it would return perhaps as a way of preparing myself for the eventual fall. I was in my early 30s and in all the years I hopefully have left ahead of me, I imagined that something would happen again. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon. I still haven’t even finished my five-year-long run with medication and my radiation treatment should have lowered my risk of recurrence to less than 10 percent. What the hell did I do wrong? Did I think about it too much? Did I stand in front of the microwave too long? Was it something I ate? Did I spend a year breathing in carcinogens at my last place? Did I miss one too many medication doses? Was it all those mammograms? It didn’t make sense. What was it??

If I thought 2012’s situation was incredibly quick - a week between lump discovery and diagnosis - then this time was dizzying. I was undergoing surgery just five days after that appointment and while I’m grateful for my medical team’s quick response, it left very little time to process what the f was going on. So I turned to my usual coping mechanism: I cried and then I plowed on.

In the last couple of days I got a few more answers as to what was going on and what’s happening next:

1. Cancerous cells were found in this new lump as well as where the first lump used to be. So much for benign scar tissue.

2. It's recurrent breast cancer and both lumps were caught in early stages and with characteristics identical to the previous lump.

3. A swollen lymph node was removed, but no cancer was found there. Cancer in the lymph nodes = really bad.

4. Unfortunately, pathology results from the surgery showed that the margins for one lump was not clear, meaning that not all the cancerous cells were removed. Today, I find out if I'll need to have surgery again.

5. I’ll have to undergo radiation again and to reduce complications that could arise from going through radiation a second time around in the same area, I’ll either have to go in twice a day for 15 days or once a day for 25 days. Either way it’s going to suck.

6. My medication, Tamoxifen, is meant to keep estrogen from reaching the receptors of these cancer cells because it uses the hormone to grow and spread. Clearly that wasn’t enough in my case so beginning today I’ll also be receiving monthly hormonal therapy injections to suppress my estrogen levels. Basically, my body will be slipping into menopause for the next year. I’m more nervous about this than surgery or radiation. I’ve been through both, I know what to expect. This? God...

So with the exception of chemotherapy, we’re pretty much throwing everything we can at this. I’m just tired of having to deal with one blow after another and when I think I’m just starting to finish a plate full of crap, I get dished another. I won’t be able to live abroad for an extended period of time next year. Whatever money I was hoping to save up by giving up my apartment will now go towards paying for my treatments. It’s a chance to reassess, I’ve been told, go back to the drawing board, prioritize what matters. Thing is I thought I had, but it feels like life just served me one big Nope.

On Camera: My Breast Cancer Story for BET.com

Earlier this month, my editor at BET.com asked if I'd be interested in talking about my breast cancer story for the site and on camera. I jumped at the opportunity to experience something new, but then as the date approached I grew nervous. My story isn't that exciting, I thought. What if I'm not that interesting to listen to and I come off totally lame? Still, I went for it because I wasn't going to let fear keep me from trying. If they wanted my story then all I could do was just give them me. At the very least I could be good at that, right?

My breast cancer story doesn't contain much frills. It's not some epic drama about a girl who was diagnosed at a late stage, sold all her worldly possessions, and became one with the universe. It's a bit more...I don't even know what word would describe it. Normal? Everyday? Practical? I was thrown this wild card against my will and what was I going to do? Stop living over it? No, thanks. I still have a few things on my to do list.

So even though I don't think my story is at all remarkable (1 in 8 U.S. women will develop invasive breast cancer in her lifetime), I wanted to share it anyway and show how I decided to face this. Simply put, this is me and what you see is what you get.

To listen to me recount my story, click here.

Video Interview on Juggling Cancer, Life, and Growing a Creative Business

Earlier this summer, Vanessa Laven of MixedMartialArtsandCrafts.com and Survival Organs launched a video series in honor of her birthday and I helped her kicked things off! As a young cancer survivor herself, Laven wanted to interview other creatives about their personal journeys through "worst case scenarios" and how they juggled a small business with all the craziness of diagnosis, treatment, and recuperation. Watch my interview below to learn how I handled the rollercoaster of being diagnosed with breast cancer soon after creating Porcupine Hugs, how I struggled to reconcile my ambitions with my new limitations, and why I was too stubborn to let cancer change me.

{Monday Inspiration} Lesson Learned

The past year was a crazy one, there's no denying that. I found myself fighting battles I never even dreamed about and in spite of it all I managed to not only survive 2013, but accomplish some really wonderful things. Being diagnosed with breast cancer and then managing treatment, the emotions, and just life was more than I could handle sometimes. If I was complaining about juggling work and a social life before, this year turned made that struggle sound like a vacation. I was constantly exhausted and still, a year later, haven't fully recovered from surgery and radiation. Sharp shooting pains and sensitivity still occur and my medication gives me hot flashes that makes it hard to get a good night's rest.

I could have driven myself into a hole, but I had a life to continue living. It's funny, I handled cancer so much more calmly than I handled my breakup with Mr. First nearly six years ago. Maybe you do learn a thing or two as you grow older. Maybe I realized how silly it was to spend so much energy focusing on what went wrong rather than throw my hands up and reach for the next rung.

In the beginning, I was dead set against crediting my cancer to any good in my life. I didn't want to justify it or have anyone calling it a "blessing in disguise." I was too stubborn to let it change me even if it would be for my own good. In fact, a part of me would deliberately refuse to make changes (say to my diet, fitness, stress levels, etc.) just so that no one could say that cancer made my life better. Cancer sucks through and through, but it did turn out to be a giant lesson for me. I might have accomplished the things I did regardless of what my health was this past year, but the fact that I did the things I did while fighting cancer just proved that I can handle much more than I thought I could. I'm not really the sensitive weakling I keep portraying nor will every bump in the road throw me out of the race. I launched and grew Porcupine Hugs; traveled to the Dominican Republic, Burning Man, Cameroon; confronted the negative relationships in my life; had my income slashed in half just as the medical bills started piling up; struggled financially all year until I landed a new gig; worked on a struggling relationship over and over until we finally learned to live, let go, and love. It's an amazing realization to discover that you have this big capability to thrive in disaster when you've no other choice.

This past year might have been full of tears, but I think I still laughed more than I cried. I experienced some powerful moments, ones made all the more important to me because of the cloud looming over my head. I think it's because of that darkness poking about my life that I relished those rays of light even more. That's something I hope I never forget. And now when someone finds themselves in the same shoes I wore a year ago, my heart hurts in a way it couldn't before because it's a familiar terror.

In the next months, I want to keep carving new paths in my brain, ones that reinforce that I am strong, that I am capable of doing so much, that I don't have to succumb to the fears and the doubts that try to creep into my mind. I want to continue creating joyful moments for others and at the same time be okay with creating them for just myself. I'm important, I'm deserving, and I need to remind myself of that every day until it's no longer met with hesitance.

Image: thefreshexchangeblog.com

My Breast Cancer Essay in Latina Magazine

When I was approached to pen an essay for Latina's October issue about my journey with breast cancer, I said yes, but also felt nervous about taking on the assignment. I'd covered breast cancer awareness and survivors' stories for the same magazine in the past so it was a bit surreal that I had now become the subject of a topic I'd written about so many times before. I wasn't sure how I felt about shining the spotlight on myself after knowing how many others had fought before and are still fighting now. What happened to my initial refusal to become a banner woman for this disease? I accepted anyway. More good will come from sharing and giving of oneself than from withholding every bit of you - even the not so pretty parts.

My life is a fairly open book, which is evident through this blog, and I function under the hope that my thoughts and stories somehow inspire someone else walking down a similar path. So maybe my personal essay will bring a little bit of kickass positivity and hope to another trudging through the dark days because as I write in those pages, "You will eventually smile again and focus on your goals, and life just keeps moving on."

Angelina Jolie Undergoes Double Mastectomy

Sharing this for the few of you who might not have heard. Angeline Jolie penned an Op-Ed piece for the New York Times in which the actress reveals that she underwent three months of surgical procedures to remove both breasts as a preventative measure. Jolie, whose mother passed away from breast cancer at age 56, tested positive for the BRCA1 gene which increased her chances for the disease to 87 percent. Her risk dropped to five percent after the double mastectomy.

It's a powerful one that hit close to me. I was surprised that someone so praised for her sexy looks would go through a mastectomy just like that - for the sake of her health and for her children. I more than commend her for her bravery and for opening up about her experience so others can break their own silence and fears. Luckily, I tested negative for the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes that increase your risk for developing breast and ovarian cancers so I got away with a lumpectomy and radiation. Right now, I'm on Tamoxifen pills for five years to lower my chances of recurrence to about nine percent.

I don't know how I would've handled removing everything. I probably wouldn't have normalized as quickly as I have. Or maybe I would have, who knows? I feel that no matter how big or small your breasts are...they're still such a big part of femininity or at least that's what society has raised me to believe. I find myself dreading any trips to the beach just because I don't want to wear a bathing suit that'll reveal that my left boob is still slightly larger than the other, that the skin is still considerable darker as it continues to heal from the radiation treatment months ago, that I feel mangled and slightly damaged. But I'm still here, complete save for a small cancerous lump that foolishly tried to do me in.

"On a personal note, I do not feel any less of a woman," Jolie writes. "I feel empowered that I made a strong choice that in no way diminishes my femininity."

Reading Jolie's piece also made me think about health care access and how many can't afford treatments or the reconstructive surgery that could accompany a mastectomy. Genetic tests - conducted through blood samples - can be a huge help when deciding how to proceed and allows you to be proactive with your health instead of just getting swept away by the tide. It also costs several thousand dollars and it saddens me to think of those who'll be taken by surprise simply because they didn't or couldn't know. Had I not made the decision to seek individual health insurance coverage a year before being diagnosed (I'm a freelancer and therefore not under my employer's coverage), I would be drowning in debt right now. The monthly premiums and out-of-pocket maximums are still astronomically high, but if I didn't have that, I would be adding medical payment plans to the student loans I already have. Cancer is costly in so many ways.

Typically cancer stories fill me with dread because the disease typically comes out of nowhere or there's news that it's spread or somebody finally lost their war, but this one was positive despite the drastic measure. It was good, it was strong, and it showed that breast cancer can be overpowered and any whisper of a risk can be decidedly stomped out. Here's hoping that everyone - regardless of socioeconomic status - will someday have the ability to be just as decisive and proactive about their own health without needing to choose between providing for their family's immediate needs and ensuring they'll be alive and well for many years to come.

Image: nytimes.com

My Weekend in Instagrams

You know those days when it starts off just right and you feel great the whole day through? That was my Friday. I was in such good spirits I finally returned to the gym after going AWOL for four months. I'm still sore from that workout, but am determined to keep at it now that my body and mind can handle the efforts. Still riding the high, I asked A. out on a date, enjoyed a delicious Italian dinner at Tony's Di Napoli, and then walked over to Starbucks for a cup of hot chocolate because I simply didn't want the evening to end.

I'd been wanting to check out the CONFETTISYSTEM: 100 Arrangements exhibition at Museum of Modern Art PS1 so badly that despite the snowy weather, A. and I trekked into Queens to visit the museum Saturday afternoon. While the décor was festive and pretty, I have to say I was a bit disappointed by the installation. I'd expected grander! More interactive! What the hell I thought I'd be able to roam around and find myself surrounded by sparkling fringes and tissue paper in this "immersive environment." Instead, I found that the space was occupied by a pop-up shop for a new nail salon offering manicures for 50 bucks with the lovely things hanging overhead and just out of reach. After hyping it up so much, I felt slightly embarrassed. "So...how was this sold to you?" A. asked while I just stood there with a fake smile plastered on my face. Blah.

It was my first time at PS1 and from an architecture standpoint I liked the idea of converting a former school into an art space. Even the caged staircases were left untouched and took me right back to my childhood days. (A., who's from California, found them depressing and I can't say those were my favorite details in my own schools.) As for the exhibitions, well he and I share similar opinions about contemporary art ("So, um, why exactly is this in a museum again?"), but it was fun to wander around and stumble upon some real oddities: a cucumber phone, a mouse peeking from the staircase wall, video clips of an artist interview taking place in a tub at The Standard hotel, some trippy abstract paintings that left A. mesmerized and me plain cross-eyed, and lastly, discovering that a teeny nude woman had fallen into a sea of lava through a hole in the lobby floor. I felt like Alice. Even the giant tinted windows framing the snowy outside seemed like a video installation of an eternal winter.

Afterwards, we walked a couple blocks over to 5 Pointz, an iconic warehouse that's completely covered in graffiti. I'd taken photos of the place for last year's Souvenir Foto School and was surprised to learn that some of the art gets painted over so the building keeps changing. After all that work, I'd want my stuff plastered on there forever.

It's 3 in the afternoon, we're covered in snow, but nowhere near wanting to end our adventure so we decided to seek warmth and sweets at Doughnut Plant, where the donuts are absolute heaven. My new fave: a peanut butter square doughnut filled with blackberry jam. I order a second. The snack was good, but we had another treat while sitting in the bakery: a random conversation about New York City bookstores and print versus digital with a Brooklyn man sitting next to us. It was such a pleasant conversation, I almost didn't want to leave, but felt badly for the other patrons waiting to sit with their own snacks. It did make me wonder just how many wonderful conversations could be passing me by just because I don't let strangers burst into my personal bubble too often.

Two hours were spent at Barnes & Noble perusing every floor and countless aisles, grabbing books, holding them tightly hoping it'd be the one that would come home with me only to let them go at the sight of another more interesting title. In the end, Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica was the day's chosen one.

Din din was at Vanessa's Dumpling House near Union Square and because, once again, we still didn't want our day to be over, we caught a showing of Silver Linings Playbook (trés bien, by the way), and then laid in bed in the dark talking about the movie, mental illness, and motivation until I finally fell asleep.

For some reason, on Saturday morning I'd woken up teary-eyed and, knowing full-well that I cannot, that we cannot for quite some time, my first words to A. as I rolled over to nuzzle my face into his was "I want a baby." It's not like we'd ordinarily have one anytime soon, but to have that choice taken away from me - no matter if temporarily - has been one of the hardest things to accept about battling the cancer. So I let that moment come, I let him comfort me, and then I let it go knowing that in order to fully normalize, I have to accept this reality of mine with all its chinks and strengths.

So when A. decided to master the art of the French toast on Sunday morning because his future children needed to know the beauty of a well-made batch, I smiled and cheered. I hope that when our time comes around, we'll be happy and ready. That we'll take the next five years to uncover all the bits of us and add found pieces to our collection of awesome. I'll be a nurturing and eager mom and I know he'll be an attentive dad. Or at the very least good at distracting them with breakfast while I sneak in a few more hours of sleep on mornings after a full day spent exploring.

Saying What I Need, Shunning What I Don't

Since coming out with my diagnosis, some people have taken it as permission to chime in with opinions and advice I never asked for. On one hand I can understand the need for them to dish it out if the feeling of helplessness is too uncomfortable to bear. Instead of sitting in silence, they'll say anything in the hopes of being useful. But on the other hand, shove it? I'm sure it comes from a place of good intentions, but instead of feeling better I actually feel worse when my lifestyle is suddenly under your microscope.

"Stop cooking fried stuff." "Why are you eating that?" "Drink this cancer cell-killing tea." "It's because you don't eat enough."

Yes, I got cancer because I don't eat enough. Good God.

I'll laugh and smile and hear them out of politeness, but once I'm back home I'll realize that wow, that didn't help me at all!

As I've been bringing this annoying phenomenon up in conversations, there's a good suggestion that's been made several times, one I'm going to heed as I enter the treatment stages: saying what it is I need and being clear about what isn't helpful. You'd think common sense would keep friends and family from coming at me with say, "hurry up and get pregnant" or "see, you always said you didn't want to have kids" after I've mentioned several times that being on Tamoxifen for five years means no pregnancy until I'm 36, but alas. So to protect myself from crying every time someone offers up an insensitive comment or medical advice that's more quack than fact, I letting them know where I'm drawing the line.

What I Need...

1. Understand that no one wants to talk about their sucky bits 24/7. I sure don't. While I'm happy to give updates, I don't want it to be the sole reason why you're reaching out. If we had good conversations about deep stuff, life, silly randomness, our hopes, our goals, the whole lot, I so need to keep that in my life.

2. All this has made me realize how tired I am of difficult friendships. You know, the ones that take Herculean efforts to arrange a meet-up because everyone's too busy, too broke, too lazy to put in the effort. So lately I've been nurturing the ties that are healthy, genuine, good, wholehearted, fun, where everyone's equally invested into strengthening those bonds. That's where I want to spend my time and mental space. More happy, less anxiety.

3. If you can or are interested, read up on what I'm going through. It's such a nice relief to talk with someone who has an idea what I'm referring to when I mention BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes or what the side effects of radiation will be.

And What I Don't

1. Random health advice that comes from hearsay and what I like to call woo woo shit. Before you suggest something I should try, do some homework and know that just because someone else did it, doesn't mean I have to do it or that it will produce the same results with me. Run everything through a bullshit detector. Ask questions - especially if it sounds too good to be true.

2. Criticisms on personal and medical choices, past or present. You're free to ask questions about how I came to my decisions, but there's really no place for judgment here.

3. Don't overwhelm me with info, stats, or questions about freezing my eggs. I can only handle one step at a time and any more could just freak me out.

But I think the following applies when trying to comfort anyone going through a difficult time: when in doubt, ask before rushing in.

Ayla Nereo's "Feathered Bow"

A few days ago A. sent along a link to Ayla Nereo's "Feathered Bow" and I've simply fallen in love. The effortless quality behind the harmonies, the playful nature of the beat, how hope seems to weave its away through the song like a dream...it is beauty.

Today I'll be at the hospital for a CT scan, radiation planning, chats about drugs, and to finally hear what the oncologist has to say about chemo versus no chemo. I'll be holding onto these lyrics when what I'd really rather do is transform into liquid, into vapor, and flow out as fast and as far as I can from this corner, to leave behind all this heaviness.

And she sings:

"There was a flame, there was a flame, drawn deep within her chest, rest and rise, praying burned every moment. 

There was a spark, there was a spark, come from the same place, billions and billions of years ago, and she knows it. 

There was a while where it was wide, there was a wide waterfall down, water fall round her, only just born. 

There was a light, come from her eyes, there was a light, let it come in, choosing her sin every morning. Choosing to be saved, saving herself every morning... choosing her name, naming herself, every morning... And she sang, 'Don't unstring the arrow, I'm a feathered bow, I've got a long long ways to go still, long long ways to go…'"

Have a listen:



Image: aylanereo.com

Thoughts of Grandeur

When I went in for my lumpectomy on Friday I decided that I was going to put on my tough girl outfit and face this like a superhero. Although I was extremely nervous (and my morning injection for an axillary sentinel lymph node biopsy burned like hell), I wanted to pew! pew! past the fear, joke around with my mom and sis, and let everyone keeping tabs know that they could relax. Homegirl's got this.

I needed to act all "boom pow!" and put people at ease because in turn I needed them to be strong for me. If I showed them that this was no biggie, then they could feed that idea right back to me. And it worked. Through Facebook comments, text messages, and phone calls, I had a steady flow of kickass positivity that kept me going until those final minutes when I was ushered into the creepy operating room and laid out like Jesus on the table. My body shook from the nerves and cold, but before I could even start counting from 10, I was waking up, in tears, and looking up at my family.

This stage was finally over. I didn't have to pretend anymore.

How Do You Nurture Yourself?

If there's something that I've learned since my surgery on Friday, which supposedly went well even though I woke up crying and feeling like crap, it's that an anesthetic is one hell of a drug and I'm incapable of giving myself what I need. Instead of resting up like I was ordered to do, I spent my weekend getting up early, shuffling around in my PJ's doing randomness around the house, and then getting so annoyed when I was physically incapable of doing certain things. Laying in bed all day is such a waste, I'd protest, until Monday came along and found myself so exhausted during work I could barely stay awake.

This week, I was a total grumpkin and there was very little anyone could do to improve my mood. I was taking my frustrations out on others and the more they tried to help the more I dug my heels into the ground in absolute hmpf! I was a walking thundercloud surrounded by electric triggers and all I wanted was to be left alone. Why couldn't they understand that I had no time for music and peace when life sucks and then you die?! Or better yet, why couldn't I see my emotions for what they were and pull a U-ey right back to normality?

"You have absolutely no love for yourself sometimes. No allowance to indulge yourself. No headspace to fall into and relax," A. said to me today.

I don't allow it because I don't believe I deserve it. The kind gestures I offer others I rarely tuck away for myself. I don't nurture my soul or fiercely embrace the things that bring me joy as if life danced along the strings that tie those moments together. After being asked to write down what soothed me or took me to my happy place, I thought of one thing…and then drew a blank. Here, I'm giving it another shot because I need to remember that there are many, many more:

doodling with abandon • writing/receiving letters • hot baths • my curls the day after I've washed them • classical music • fireworks • and for that matter, orgasms • oil massages • other people's babies • flowers (by the way, did you know ramos is Spanish for bouquet?) • Ferrero Rochers and itty bitty cupcakes • being the little spoon • fruit smoothies • really good fiction • candles • sleep

So tell me, how do you nurture yourself? Do you treat yourself to little indulgences from time to time to keep your spirit on fire?

A Bad(Ass) Perspective

They say with major life change comes an inner awakening, a shift in priorities, and clarity when it comes to distinguishing the negligible from what truly matters. Well guess what? Still waiting! I still shook my fist at the gods when I lost my left hand glove. Perspectives gained from health scares be damned, I paid a lot for that pair.

While the idea of this glowing Zenful Dorkys suddenly emerging from this batch of bullshit like a lotus in the swamp sounds lovely, let's be real. I'm not about to contort my body into pretzel poses under the sun or start toasting with wheatgrass shots for good health. A vegan lifestyle sounds as appealing as a jog through the frigid cold at 5 in the morning and if I can't enjoy a glass of Riesling or a juicy burger when I'm out with my friends, then you might as well just go ahead and hook a perma-IV to my arm.

To be honest, it also feels silly and clichéd to ride on the coattails of cancer and completely turn my life around simply because I've been diagnosed. Plus, it's hard to bust out all doot-doo-doo! with my superhero cape flying in the wind when inside I feel more like a womp, womp wreck. My stubbornness is also what keeps me from buying into the Sudden Metamorphosis scenario. I refuse to have cancer steal my thunder in any subsequent self-improvement that might occur and Lord help anyone twisted enough to say that this was some sort of gift that changed my life for the better.

When my iPhone broke its face making out with the pavement yesterday, I spewed out a cocktail of vulgarities before finally trying to reason with myself. "Okay Dorkys, it really sucks that you'll have to pay a lot to get the screen replaced, but isn't it better than the $5,622 the hospital was trying to charge you for Friday's surgery?" Psh, better believe I still fumed for most of the day.

When will the natural tendency to let things go kick in? And how can I be calm, forgiving, and wanting to take on the world when I'm still so angry and sad about what's happening to me? "Be a badass." A. said to me today. "Life sucks and can really fuck you up sometimes, but you have to be better than that. You have to be a bigger badass than life."

I wonder what will be left standing in my place when all the dust settles down: a badass or just bad luck personified?

P.S. Here's A.'s take on our new motto.

New Year's Wishes

This morning, A. woke me up and asked me, "Do you remember where you were a year ago?"

"In Thailand, surprising you for New Year's Eve."

Standing here on Dec. 31st, I can honestly say that despite all the sucky bits, 2012 was a good year. I traveled to Asia, San Antonio, Alabama, California, Virginia Beach, Miami and drove around the U.S. in an RV with four friends and a stranger. I played with white tiger cubs and busted my ass to make A. a wonderful birthday present. I turned 30 and started my own stationery company. I developed a liking to new bands, new friends, and fun hobbies. I took burlesque and photo classes and discovered that gambling simply isn't my thing. I cut my hair! I said I liked girls. Toby popped back into my life and 20 years after she made a beautiful mark on my childhood, my fifth grade teacher found me again.

I pushed myself. I stumbled. I dusted myself off. I grew.

As the clock strikes midnight I'll be wishing for strength and acceptance. I'll be wishing for light when the hopelessness arrives and the reminder that while this new weirdness is now a piece of me, it is not my entire existence. I hope to finally learn how to be gentle with myself and realize that it's okay if I put myself first, if I treat myself kindly, if I laugh while I cry, if I yell, if I squeal, if I do nothing. I wish for patience with those who only seek to love me in whichever way they know how. I wish for peace with whatever comes next.

Here's hoping the mountains we currently find ourselves up against turn out to be nothing but hills in the rearview mirror. Happy 2013. Here's hoping it is so.

Images: weddingchicks.com

And the Battles, They Are Never-Ending

My family seems to have the worse luck with this holiday month. Seventeen years ago, we lost our grandmother due to complications from her diabetes. Last year, we woke up one morning to discover that we had lost a young cousin due to a shoot-out and two years ago, I landed in California on Christmas Eve to spend my first holiday with A.'s family only to receive the call that my last living grandparent had passed away. Still, we manage to celebrate life, to enjoy the time we have while lifting those who are mourning. Initially, I'll struggle with what's okay to share and what's too personal to release into the world, but ultimately I'll concede to writing because no matter how raw it might still be, this is simply how I've learned to deal with my emotions when they can no longer be contained.

Two weeks ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Getting that phone call after a week of questions, lab visits, a biopsy, and "it's highly unlikely" was devastating and surreal. I took down the surgeon's info, shaking and fighting back tears, to then fall apart on A.'s lap as soon as the call was over. I kicked, I screamed, and cried into my hands, wondering what the hell did I do to deserve cancer at 30 years old. I clung to his neck afraid to let go and face that this was real. In the days that followed I let myself believe that perhaps I'd heard wrong, that maybe there was simply a possibility that needed to be vanquished with a few more tests. A visit with my gynecologist days later dashed that delusion and since then, the waves have kept coming and going, sometimes suddenly, leaving a jumbled pile of hope, helplessness, determination, ambivalence, and fear strewn upon my days. One night I'm twirling around the room with complete abandon and the following morning I'm being handed my bib for a race I never even knew I'd entered.

Dealing with cancer has become a whole new full-time job and I haven't even begun treatment yet. Between back-to-back trips to the hospital, MRIs, mammograms, PET scans, and giving out more vials of blood in two days than I have in years combined, my veins and I are exhausted. Maintaining an actual full-time in between all these visits has been a struggle, but I refuse to let this become my whole life. While I welcome the distractions of work and social outings, I can't deny that I also wish I could allow myself time to grieve and come to terms with what could happen down the line, but the silence of being alone and what lurks in those quiet hours scares me.

The cancer is in stage 1, which is "good," they say. I can think of better things to have. Two whole boobs for instance. The final step is discovering if the cancer is genetic, which will determine whether a lumpectomy or a more aggressive double mastectomy will be the surgery of choice for my "pea-sized" lump. Produce: good for juicing and indicating tumor size. I can't fathom losing my breasts over such a tiny thing. Then again, I think I've already begun losing my mind. Being handed my options as if I'm simply deciding between soup or salad isn't exactly comforting either.

What other little lumps could be hiding in my gut? If I beat it this time around, will I someday go in for an annual and receive news that it's returned? What about the increased risk my mother, sister, and my future children will now face? And once I go on drugs for treatment, when could I finally have a baby?

"I love you," A. says to me.
"I'm sorry," I reply.

I'm sorry that this has now become his fight, too. That after years of pulling through one issue after another, petty fights, personality differences, multiple lay-offs, and dwindling finances that nearly had us moving to Los Angeles, we now have to weather through this, too. He, along with my family and friends, has been amazing through this ordeal, my mood swings, and the questions that still have us all in limbo. The not knowing is prime recipe for panic attacks as my overeager mind will swoop in and fill in the missing parts. Staying in the present has proven to be difficult when all I can think is "What if? What if?"

I'm terrified, I'm sad. I'm still slightly detached because that's what's helping me to take on each day and joke about this absurdly ridiculous and shitty thing that I have to deal with now. I have to look at my films and laugh at the odd grey blobs on the sheets. Otherwise it's just too unbearable and the crying won't ever stop. I'll be fine one moment and the next I'm bawling into A.'s chest or my father's shoulder, blubbering on about wanting to hold it together, but being so tired of pretending that I'm strong. I never asked for this fight, I never wanted to be the face of anything, wave banners, or be anyone's inspiration. I don't want to have to pull through anything, but now everyone's expecting me to do so. The walks, the pink, the "survivor" title, I don't want any part of it. I just want my life to go back to how it used to be, mine and unconsumed by fighting for a healthy future.