So this is 29...

Most people fear getting older. After 25, the subsequent birthdays are just a countdown towards gray hair, wrinkles, and death.

But not for me. Today is my birthday, and I'm 29. It's my last year in my 20's, and I'm actually really looking forward to it. For me, life has only gotten better after 25. Yes, you read that right. Life has only gotten better.

Don't get me wrong, I've definitely struggled. I've agonized over the "why me?" of getting breast cancer at 27. I've had my heart broken several times over. I've gone back and forth with my decision to quit grad school. Life hasn't always been easy or kind to me, but I'm at this place now where I am immensely happy. I know I've typed this before, but I wake up every single day with a smile on my face, grateful to be alive. Every single day is something new and amazing, and I'm so incredibly thankful to be able to experience whatever life has in store for me.

27 was supposed to be my golden year. I thought everything was falling into place. I had several interviews lined up for the job I wanted in a tough field. I was madly in love with someone who I thought I was going to have a future with. I was making every effort to live a positive lifestyle, and be grateful. Then I found a lump, and got diagnosed. I feel like life dealt me the shittiest card, and from there it was a domino effect. I held onto that positive outlook for as long as I could throughout treatment, but it was hard. My doctors and nurses were all impressed with me, because I was determined that this was only one chapter of my story. I refused to let it define me. I refused to think that my life was over, even though, some days, that thought admittedly did slip through the cracks. I lost that person I loved. Or rather, he abandoned me. In a time where I needed someone to step up to the plate, he threw in the towel. I did eventually get the job I had worked so hard towards, but it was incredibly difficult working and going through treatment.

28 got better. It started with me joining CrossFit WIT and getting my health back on track. I got my ass handed to me for that first workout, and then I kept showing up for more. I lost 10 pounds of my chemo weight, I finished radiation, I finished my herceptin infusions, and got my portacath removed. I started to use my story to advocate for young women with breast cancer. I won a contest with the Young Survival Coalition and a video of mine was highlighted. I won a local essay contest for Bay Area Cancer Connections in which the essay I wrote was published in their newsletter. A picture of mine has been highlighted on breastcancer.org, and also by Barbells for Boobs. Breast cancer helped me find my voice. It has helped me try to do some good in this shitty situation, and I've had people from all over the world reach out to me about my experience.

This year, I've also had the opportunity to travel more than I ever have before. I went to Atlanta in March for the YSC conference, then Disneyland in April, then Maui for a cancer retreat. I'm heading back to Atlanta this weekend, and then the biggest trip of the year is Costa Rica in September!

I look back at all this and I realize that without my struggles, I wouldn't have stumbled across my strengths. I am so proud of the person I've become. I look in the mirror and I'm happy with the reflection. Every single day is a gift, and I plan on savoring and appreciating each moment. 29 is going to be the best year yet. I can feel it.

Moments of hesitation: when you break

Sometimes, I think I'm capable of being a lot stronger mentally than I actually am. I wish I could say that I no longer think about cancer on a daily basis, but that's absolutely not true. What I can say is that I think about my life much differently after having had cancer. I am happy and alive and breathing, and every day that I wake up is a gift that I don't plan on wasting. That counts for a whole hell of a lot in my book. So, yeah, I still think about cancer daily, but it's in a much more positive way than it previously has been. I will never be one of those people who says that cancer was the best thing that ever happened to them, because I wouldn't wish that hell on anyone. But it's made me stronger. Happier. More open to new opportunities. My whole life has been reshaped in an incredibly positive way because of the experiences I've had. I used to be incredibly angry at cancer. Now, I'm at peace with it. It happened. It's part of my story. But it's definitely not the entire book.

Yesterday morning as I was typing away about my bowel movements, I had my tv on, which is a rare occasion these days. I don't watch it much, preferring to read or be outside or at the gym in my spare time. But, I've been waking up a lot earlier before work lately, so as I typed, I decided to put on a movie. And I'm not entirely sure why, but I settled on "50/50". If you've never watched that movie, it stars Joseph Gordon Levitt and Seth Rogen (IMDB page here). It's about a 27 year old who gets diagnosed with a sarcoma on his spine. He goes through the awkwardness of counseling, the chemotherapy, the relentless side effects, the pain of someone he cares about walking away from him in the middle of his treatment, his best friend doing what he could to hold it together, and his family struggling with how to deal. Literally all things that I experienced, including the heartbreak. Especially the heartbreak. Honestly, I thought that the heartbreak aspect of it was going to be what stood out most to me and would tug at my heartstrings, but it actually didn't bother me.

I've watched this movie before and enjoyed it, but that was before my own cancer experience. I literally only put it on for background noise as I clicked away on my keyboard, but after I posted the last blog post, I went downstairs, made myself breakfast, and then came back upstairs to finish the movie before having to get ready for work. And then, a scene came up that caused one of the most intense flashbacks I've had regarding my cancer. There are spoilers below, so if you haven't seen the movie, I don't recommend continuing to read on.


Near the end of the movie, Levitt's character goes in for surgery. He's in a hospital gown, laying on the gurney, and has an IV hooked up to a portacath in his chest, and at one point signs a waiver for being an organ donor. All things that I remember incredibly vividly. I was looking at the tv, and I knew it was Levitt's character that was on the screen, but all I was seeing was my face. All over again, it was me on that gurney. Me in the hospital gown. Me with an IV hooked up to fluids. Me signing the medical releases. A nurse and an anesthesiologist come up to him and start to administer the anesthesia, explaining that they were going to be wheeling him into surgery. And Levitt breaks down. He starts to panic, asking how long it's going to take, whether they're giving him enough anesthesia to keep him asleep, what would happen if he woke up during the procedure... All while his mom is by his side and trying to reassure him the best she could that things were going to be okay. That she would see him in a few hours. That it would all be over soon. They embrace in a hug and start crying, and I just lost my shit. I started bawling, unable to control my tears, and the feelings of fear rushing back practically knocked the wind out of me. I couldn't stop crying or gasping for air.

It was like I was back in that hospital. The four walls of my room transformed into the one wall and three privacy curtains of the hospital where I waited for my table time for surgery. I easily remembered my mom and I sitting there, waiting and waiting, and me trying not to move because I was in pain. I had a wire sticking out of my left breast, and an IV in my right hand. I knew my blood pressure was over the roof. I had brought a book to read, but I couldn't focus on anything, so I turned on the small tv at my bedside table while my mom and I made small talk. I had started crying in the car on the drive over, telling her I was afraid. She put on her brave face, and told me everything would be okay. That we were in it together. So, while we waited in that room for the surgeon to come up, I held back the tears, and reminded myself that everything would be okay. It had to be. I was strong enough to make it through this. I didn't exactly believe it, but I had to keep repeating it. Eventually, my surgeon came into my little "room" and marked my left breast with his initials, a precaution to make sure they operated on the correct side. How they could possibly get it wrong since I had a wire sticking out of the breast, I had no idea. But better safe than sorry. Not too long later, my nurse came by asking if I needed to use the bathroom before I went in. I said yes, so she and my mom helped me unplug my monitor that had me hooked up to the IV, and the nurse followed me to the bathroom and waited outside the door. I was still trying not to move too much because of the IV and my grave dislike for needles, so it was difficult getting my underwear down. It took me longer than it should have to go pee, but I was taking my time, still trying to stay calm. When I came out of the room, the nurse informed me it was time to go. I went back to the area my mom was sitting, and sat back down on the gurney. My mom took my belongings, and followed us partway down the hall. It was when the nurse told my mom that she had to stay behind that I absolutely broke down and started crying hysterically. I didn't want my mom to see me cry like that. I didn't want her to see me so broken. I wanted to be strong for her. She had been so strong for me in the month of doctor's appointments and biopsies and consultations prior to that moment. But, at that moment, I couldn't help myself. I needed her at that moment more than I ever have. Just like in the movie, my mom hugged me tight as I cried, no longer holding back the fear and panic I was feeling. She told me she loved me and that she'd see me soon. Eventually, we separated, either because she pulled away, or the nurse told her we had to go, I'm not really sure. I cried the rest of the way into the operating room, and had to choke back the tears as the anesthesiologist administered my drugs and the surgeon did the walk-through, asking me my name, date of birth, what surgery I was in for... And all I could think about was my mom sitting alone in the waiting room. Other family members had wanted to come to sit there with her and be there for me, but I asked them not to. Not just because I didn't want anyone else there, but because my mom was the only one I needed.

My mom and I have had our differences, but I can say she has been the most amazing support system through all of this. I remember her sitting on my bed after I casually told her about my diagnosis, telling me we would figure it out. I can only imagine how devastating it was hearing that her daughter had cancer. I know that she would've happily taken my place if possible, but I would never have let her. Despite being in school and working a full time job that had her traveling on an almost weekly basis, my mom was there for every single doctor's appointment that I wanted her there for. Every test result she wanted to know about. She was there as I agonized over whether or not I should save eggs through IVF, telling me in the most heartbreaking way that she didn't need to be a grandmother and that the choice was mine alone to make. She came to every single chemotherapy appointment, and helped me carry in the 100 lb cooler of dry ice and cold caps, which was quite a feat for my small framed mother. She helped me change the bandages on my wounds when I practically passed out in the shower from pain. And on one of the days where I had a huge panic attack regarding the IVF, she injected me with hormones when I couldn't bring myself to do it.

So, this less than 5 minute scene of this movie had this effect on me. It opened the floodgates of memories, and I couldn't shake it for a few hours. It wasn't the best start to my day. In the midst of my tears, I texted my mom to tell her I loved her. Not only because she needs to hear it more often, but because I just really needed to say it. And, as moms do, she asked if everything was okay. My mom always knows when something is wrong, which is something I love about her. The fear and anxiety that had built up regarding these memories lasted for a few hours, causing me to randomly break out in tears while getting ready for work, and while at work. Eventually, my day got busy enough to where the feeling passed. But it served as a reminder that at any given moment, the walls I've built up to protect myself from these memories could come crashing down. Most often when I least expect it. Granted, I should've known better than to watch a movie about cancer, but I honestly didn't think it would have any effect on me. I thought that I was far enough removed from my cancer that I could hold those memories at arm's length. Today, I learned that's definitely not the case. Just as I wrote a few days ago, I'm always going to be living in these moments of hesitation. Of being wary of living too much for fear that something might knock me back down.

I refuse to live in fear. I let the feelings come, because they deserved space and recognition. I couldn't stop them, so there was no point in trying to push them back into the recesses of my heart. I allowed myself to feel my feelings, and then, slowly as the day passed, I was able to move forward. It didn't ruin the rest of my day. It just made me realize that much more how much life I have left to live.

My text to my mom.

Joseph Gordon Levitt as Adam in 50/50 - the scene that made me lose it.

Bittersweet

One of the most common things you hear after cancer treatment is people trying to find their "new normal". It's a kick in the ass, really. I remember all through chemo I was desperately wishing for things to go back to normal, but only with the vague realization that the normal I was imagining was no longer going to be within my grasp. My old life that I had cultivated was out of reach. But here I am, two years later, after thinking my life was perfect. I'm standing. I'm breathing. I would argue that I'm the happiest and most content and most comfortable I've ever been. I see beauty in the small things, like waking up to the sun shining and feeling the warm air on my skin. And it's not that I didn't see or appreciate those things before, it's that now they carry new meaning. Each and every day I'm grateful to be alive. And even if I'm having a bad day, I know that tomorrow is a chance to start over. Occasionally struggling is part of the process of life, and that in itself holds beauty.

But then the reality of what my "new normal" is sets in, and I remember that some things can't, or won't, come as easy as they used to. Such as..

I'm finalizing my trip to Costa Rica in September, and it dawned on me the other day that I should contact my oncologist to make sure all of my vaccinations were up to date and make sure it's safe for me to travel out of the country. So, cue me sending off an email to good ol' Dr. Shek, following his instructions, and setting up an appointment with a travel nurse to make sure my vaccinations are up to date (dear god, I really hope they are. Nearly two years closely associated with needles has not gotten me over my grave fear and dislike of them).

I've been having this pretty significant chest pain for almost four months. After a month of it persisting, I finally conceded to seeing my oncologist. We agreed on a chest X-ray, me taking Prilosec, and an EKG. It wasn't until the results came back clear that we discussed a CT scan. My doctor has been adamant that my screenings won't include scans because he doesn't want to expose me to any more radiation. So for him to suggest the CT scan, I knew where he was headed, but I didn't believe it until the words came out of his mouth. "We have to rule out the possibility of recurrence." And my thought was, "Holy fuck. What if it's back? What if they didn't get it all the first time? What if I have to go through this all over again even though it just ended?" What if, what if, what if... I went to the hospital the next day for the scan, and of course I had to go to the same department where I went for my lumpectomy. Anxiety and fear set in as I waited. I tried to stay calm, but that rarely works when it comes to me and hospitals. I got an IV put in, and then the CT was relatively quick and painless. The results came in the next day - everything looked normal. No recurrence. No heart abnormality. Just some scar tissue buildup. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. But only for a moment. Because it's still happening. I've now seen my general practitioner, and she doesn't believe anything is wrong - just scar tissue breaking down, and inflammation from my workouts. I'm not convinced, so I'm keeping a close eye on it.

My memory isn't what it used to be. Now, I know that people say as you get older, your memory doesn't hold up to the test of time. But, let's be realistic here, I'm only 28 (at least for three more weeks). I shouldn't be struggling to remember simple things, like a conversation I had two days before. Or a word that I've used in everyday jargon for years, but suddenly forgetting what that word was. I can't tell you how many conversations I've just given up on because I've gotten so frustrated at myself for not being able to spit out a simple sentence. Luckily, this has improved since chemo has ended, but it still happens occasionally.

I'm more fatigued than I used to be. I'm always tired since I pretty much don't sleep, but it's a general lingering exhaustion that holds steady through most days. It's incredibly frustrating, because when I actually attempt to sleep, I don't. This one, I can't entirely blame on after effects of chemo, because the poor sleep has been an ongoing issue for years.

I know that healing and recovery aren't linear. There are going to be highs and lows, and I'm doing my best to accept that and deal with each new issue as it comes. At least it's making life a little more interesting....

Life after Radiation

Radiation wrapped up last Friday, and I couldn't have had a bigger smile on my face handing over that shitty paper vest and walking out the doors for the final time. I bought myself a red velvet bundt cake from Nothing Bundt Cakes, then went home and slept for pretty much the rest of the afternoon. I haven't been able to take a nap since treatment started - fatigue and insomnia have been my biggest foes throughout this process, so being able to just veg out for the rest of the day was great.

I had a good weekend, too. Saturday night, I went to dinner and spent time with Paulina. And then Sunday, my friend Chris and I made use of my christmas presents he and Becky gave me last year and went to the shooting range. I'd been asking to go for a while, and we finally had time. It was both nerve-wracking and fun! Shooting is much harder than it looks, and I need more practice to work on my aim. Luckily, Chris is a patient teacher. Then we had dinner with Becky and spent the evening watching American Pie. Which, by the way, came out in 1999, and people who were born the year that movie came out can now drive. WHAT THE HECK?! Where has time gone? If that doesn't make you feel old, I don't know what does.

But then Monday came around, and I felt incredibly lost not having to get ready for a mid-day trip to the radiation center. I had to force myself to get out of the house and just go somewhere for a little while, so as not to get too wrapped up in the panic about what's next as far as treatment is concerned.

Yesterday, Teresa and I spent the day at the Monterey Aquarium, and had a good time. I started to realize earlier today that I was feeling a sense of calm and peace for the first time probably since before diagnosis. I felt light and free and content. The word fluffy came to mind for whatever reason. It has been an incredibly long time since I've felt this way, and I honestly didn't really know if I'd ever get to feel like this again. Some people might brush that off, saying that this is only temporary, and while that's true, I have a say in how I let it effect my outlook on the future. And I really didn't know if I'd be happy again. The last time I was truly happy, something bad happened (uh, cancer), so in my mind, those two things are mutually exclusive, even though they shouldn't be.

Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of things I'd like to change about my life and make different, but I'm happy. I can finally accept people's commendations, and agree with them. I am strong. And I am proud of myself. I look back, and see how far I've come, and I'm amazed. In December, surgery followed by 18 weeks of chemotherapy seemed like a life time, and tomorrow is my birthday and I think, where has all the time gone? All of these treatments already seem like a distant memory.

A week ago, if you'd asked me if I was excited about my birthday, I would've told you no. In fact, when Becky asked me that very question last Thursday, and my answer was "No, because I'm afraid I'll never be as happy as I was when it was my birthday last year again." She responded by slapping my arm and telling me to snap out of it. But that was my thought process. Today, I'm not necessarily excited for my birthday tomorrow, but I'm accepting of it. There's going to be anxiety and fear laced in with survivorship, but at least I'm alive, able to celebrate another birthday. For that I'm grateful. If that's the silver lining to putting myself through all this treatment, then I'll take it.

I'm not done living.

Never Hide

Check out Nalie's TedTalk about being true to yourself.

"Never hide your imperfections, because that's what makes you beautiful. Never hide your weaknesses because that's what makes you strong. Never hide who you are because there is no one out there in the world like you, and someone out there needs you. The real you."

http://www.nalie.ca/tedtalk/

I'm being published!

About a month and a half ago, Alicia and I were lounging about her apartment. She was working, and I was reading on my kindle and also playing and snuggling with Sam, the dog that she and her roommate were watching that week. I needed a distraction, and to just be anywhere but my house, and Alicia offered her couch, despite her having to work. I promised not to distract her.

If it's not yet clear from my writing about her, I love, adore, and admire Alicia immensely. She once sent me an e-card for my birthday that said "Happy birthday to a friend of a friend that I now like more than the original friend." She's been with me through several relationships, watched me grow as a person, engaged with me in doorstop banditry (I know you're reading this, and this seriously needs to be revived), and she's still loved me along the way. In fact, when I first told her about my diagnosis, she sent me this long, heartfelt email of things she thought I should do at the start of my experience with cancer, offering her company whenever needed. She even took me up on my offer to sit in with me at one of my chemo sessions, getting to witness me looking like Strawberry Shortcake with the cold caps on my head.

But, I digress. At this lounge day at her apartment, every now and again, we'd talk about my writing. I admitted that I wanted to do something with it, but I didn't know where to start. On more than one occasion in the past, I've said to her, "I'm not a writer." and every single time, she counters with, "Whether you think you are or not, you're a writer." Alicia is an incredibly talented writer. I've followed her various blogs ever since I've known her. We share this passion for the written word that I think bonds us together in a way that only other bibliophiles could understand. We also have this intense love of love that makes us complete kindred spirits. So, this afternoon hangout that slowly whispered its way into evening, had us very minimally brainstorming what I could do with my writing. We didn't really come up with a solution that night, but a few days later, she emailed me a link to a writing contest. It was being put on by Bay Area Cancer Connections, a nonprofit for women facing breast and ovarian cancer based in Menlo Park, and it was a call for essays about your cancer experience. This was the perfect place to start, right?

But as soon as this opportunity was in front of me, I got cold feet. Having to relive the fears, anxiety, pain, heartbreak, and frustration of the last 8 months suddenly seemed terrifying. I spent the first few months of my experience trying to compartmentalize it from the rest of my life, choosing to act as though it was just a thing I was dealing with rather than a major life event. Then I embraced it, admitting that it was something that I couldn't ignore, and wanted to find a way to make an impact. I would attempt to write something, and then stop. A paragraph here, a sentence there. Alicia would check in on me to see if I'd made any progress, and I continued to promise her I'd send something soon. Finally, I decided to sit down and just write. I typed and typed until I hit 1,000 words, and then I sent it to her. But, within an hour, I emailed her again, saying that I felt like what I'd written was too vague. I tried to condense my ENTIRE cancer story in a measly two pages. I told her it seemed like maybe I needed to be more focused on perhaps just one issue that had come my way through treatment - relationships, sex and dating, body image, egg harvesting, and mortality, to name a few. I knew in my heart which topic would be the most interesting, but I asked Facebook instead. And, of course, they chose the topic that I wanted to write about the least. It was the most personal, the most heartbreaking because of what happened to me during the decision process, but, it was the most real. My experience with IVF. And what's real is what's interesting. It's never been my goal to sugarcoat my cancer experience. Being raw and real is what makes me who I am. And it's a topic many people don't talk about.

So, again, I put off writing about the topic, because my heart ached every time I even thought about my experience with egg harvesting. The back and forth of trying to make the decision. The anxiety I felt at the instructive class on how to administer injections - with my mom there by my side. Desperately missing the security and support of a partner. But, the deadline was fast approaching, and I didn't want to follow my past (in where I'd say I wanted to do something, but I'd let the opportunity pass me by because I was too afraid). I was going to submit something to this contest. So, I finally started typing again. It was hard to do, because I could tell the story about my IVF experience a thousand different ways, and it would be a different story every time. I sent off my draft to Alicia, and she artfully edited it in a way, that when I read her revisions, I cried as if I was reading someone else's story. But, it was mine, just made so much more raw and real by Alicia's talented hand.

I found out yesterday that my piece WON the contest! At first I was excited, and then I started to down talk myself, thinking "The only reason they picked mine is because no one else submitted anything." But, I realized that wasn't a nice thing to say about myself, so I let that thought go. And so what if that's the truth, I'm still going to be published! My submission will be published in the Bay Area Cancer Connections September newsletter, and I'll be doing a reading of the piece at Kepler's books on September 1 at 7pm.

This is just a small step in the right direction to trying to turn something negative into a positive. I couldn't be more thrilled! Keep an eye out for a post with the submission that won.

And to my dearest, darlingest Alicia - you astonish me at every turn. Your love for life, for love, for words, and your passion for wanting to help others find and follow their dreams are just small parts of what make you so incredibly amazing. From our doorstop banditry days, to you bringing me cookies after I just had my heart broken (or more like put into a meat grinder. that's probably a more apt description), you've been through so many of life's important moments by my side, and I can't believe I've had the pleasure to call you a close friend for almost a decade. I wouldn't change any of it, except maybe less heartbreaks for both of us. I love you with my whole heart. Thank you for turning my words into something amazing.