I [Heart] My Life

Scars Make a Life: Happy Birthday to Me

Today is my birthday. I used to think such declarations were a bit self-centered. Now, I want to shout it from the roof-tops: I LIVED ANOTHER YEAR!! I'M THIRTY-FUCKING-EIGHT!!

It was a rough year, for sure, as my dad's diagnosis was just a couple of weeks after my birthday last year, and so I spent much of my 37th year grappling with his sickness and passing and the aftermath. But still, I am here, earthside. So, yes, I'm a fan of birthdays and while I don't neecessarily want to live to 100, I do want to live a good long time yet.

Take that cancer! 

As a nod to my cancerversary, which is coming up next week, I thought I'd post a snapshot of 30-something post-breast-cancer life, starring my buddy the foob*...

My 4" Scar: All That Glitters is Not Gold

"Turns out," he said, and then laughed awkwardly, perhaps wishing he hadn't spoken, afterall, we didn't really know each other that well. "Turns out, if you cough with dentures in, sometimes the top bridge shoots out of your mouth and flys acrosss the room." He reddens at this admission while I laugh at the image of this shy man so betrayed by his teeth.

I think to myself: Turns out, if you have your breast removed and stuff your bra each day with a tan, silicone blob, you could be walking downtown one day and feel a soft plop on your shoe, only to look down and see your breast lying there. On the ground. Just right out there in the open, for anyone to see. 

But I don't say this. Afterall, we don't know each other that well.  

Sometimes the foob betrays me, and other times I say to myself, F--- it! Fly that flag!

And so there is the night I drink too much and say, "Does anyone want to see my foob?" My party trick. I reach into the armpit of my shirt and whip it out. It looks obscenely real, this flesh colored dome of silicone. It's sexy for maybe half a second and then it's confusing because what is a breast without a body on which to perch? My friend's eyes widen and then she sets her wine glass aside and takes it in her hands like something sacred. She bobs her hands, weighing it, poking at it. We both laugh at the little nipple-like protrusion and ask, "Why?!"

More laughing and then I push it back into my bra, and I go back to being symetrical. 

The soft form warms to my body quickly, hugging the purple scar that stretches 4" horizontally across my rib cage, sternum to armpit. My ribs poke out tenderly where the surgeon scrapped away the cancer, all the way down to my chest wall. It's the thinnest part of my body now. A sharp valley in a landscape of curves and hills.  

This scar.

What to do with this scar. Tattoo it? I'd like to eventually. I thought I would right away but now the idea of taking a needle to those tender ribs makes me cringe. 

When my daughter was four and the scar was still new and healing, she ran her fingers along its raised edge and cried and cried. This breast was hers. It fed her, nurtured her, comforted her when nothing else could. And what had I done? I'd cut it off and flung it as far from my body as possible. The loss of this breast was a loss my daughter morned pitifully. 

Not long after my last chemotherapy treatment she picked a fluffy dandilion and blew on it, scattering the seeds, and as she did so I heard her wish quietly for the cancer to be gone. "Oh, but honey, it is gone!" I rushed to say, thinking somehow she hadn't known the good news. "But... when will your breast grow back?" she asked sadly.

And that's when I knew my decision not to pursue reconstructive surgery didn't just impact me. I thought I didn't care about breasts. I thought having my life was enough. The whole "save the ta-tass" campaign had always seemed a bit shallow to me. But in this moment, comforting my daughter over the loss of this breast, I could see they do matter, just not in the way I thought. It mattered tremendously that when my child cried and I hugged her to me that my chest didn't feel against her cheek the way it once had. And so I went and got a replacement, which was more than just a pillow to stuff in my bra. It turned out to be an almost life-like prosthetic, which my daughter now adores. In a way I'll never fully understand, she has bonded with the foob and will lay with it any chance she gets.

Despite her obvious joy over the thing, for awhile I still thought I didn't care. I thought I could take it or leave it. I thought, it'll just be my sometimes foob. My party foob. My dancing foob. My dress up foob. But in the two years since I've had it, it's become my every single day foob. I feel strange without it now, acutely aware that nature favors symetry. As my daughter as, I've also bonded with this tan lump. It is my armor. It stands between the world and my scar: my tender spot, my cancer story.

That is, unless it falls out on the sidewalk. Plop!

*Faux boob. If you'd like to more foob, here is the tale of the foob coming home with me and Nia's first impressions of it. And here is more on Nia's deep, deep sadnesss over my mastectomy, and the first time she touched my bandages.

Would I Want Nia to Do What Angelina Jolie Did?

I never thought I'd be writing about Angelina Jolie on my blog.

Beyond us both being mothers, there are few people I have less in common with than the actress. But after her announcement this week that she had a proactive double mastectomy to avoid the breast cancer that killed her own mother at the age of 56, well, here we are courtesy of cancer, the great unifier.

Jolie wrote about her decision and the radical mastectomy-followed-by-reconstruction procedure in an OpEd piece for the NY Times. After it went viral, Facebook and Twitter were full of people discussing her & her decision -- people with a cancer connection, as well as the general public. I even turned on NPR at lunchtime yesterday and heard Tom Ashbrook discussing it with callers (again, some with a cancer connection, and some without).

Some people were shocked she'd undergo such a radical procedure. Others applauded her for not only taking the step, but also sharing her decision publicly. Still others thought her move highlighted the divide between those with money and those without.

A few people asked my opinion, so I thought I'd take a few minutes to react.

First and foremost, if your family has no history of breast or ovarian cancer, you don't need to consider this surgery anymore than you'd consider removing any other body part. Jolie writes that her decision to remove her breasts was motivated by testing positive for the BRCA1 gene. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer at 35, this was one of the first tests my oncologist ordered. It would be nice to have a smoking gun, to say, "There! That's why I have cancer so young!"

But for me, the test (a simple saliva swish test) came back negative. It doesn't mean that I don't have a gene mutation somewhere in there that caused me to have cancer. After all, we all have cancer cells in our bodies, we just won't all develop cancer. I suspect that probably some day down the road, a test will be developed and the gene mutation I do have will be discovered.

And then my daughter may find herself facing the same decision Jolie faced this year: Would removing her breasts give her a better chance of survival?

Would I recommend she do it?

Deciding to remove a body part is drastic, and not to be taken lightly. Jolie writes that removing her breasts reduced her chances of getting breast cancer from 87% to 5%. It doesn't mean she is no longer at risk for another type of cancer, but at least she can cross this one off her list.

I suspect that her mother's fight with cancer and her subsequent death has haunted her. I bet that every day she looked into her childrens' eyes and felt the shadow behind her, wondering if she'd be alive to see her children grow up, to see her grandchildren. If that was the case, then removing her breasts has given her back an immeasurable quality of life. And you have to weigh that in this decision. Everything with cancer is balanced against quality of life, not just quantity. Tests, treatments, procedures -- and even the decision not to act -- it comes down to, what can I live with, day in and day out?

For comparison, your chance of dying in a car accident today is 47% higher if you are not wearing a seat belt. I'm betting it is a no-brainer for you to buckle up. But buckling a seat belt doesn't cost us anything. A mastectomy, particularly with no personal cancer present, is a hard decision and involves  body image issues, sexual function (remove the breasts, and you remove a large erogenous zone), childbearing concerns (done breastfeeding forever?), the risk of the surgery itself, the added risk of complications with the implants (though not all women who undergo this surgery will opt for reconstruction).

And there is the cost to consider, however I think this is one of the most misunderstood pieces of the Jolie story -- insurance will cover the cost of the BRCA test if you have a higher chance of having the gene (breast cancer history in your family, for example). And insurance will help with the cost of a mastectomy due to BRCA results and/or cancer. Insurance will even help with reconstruction.

In the end, it is a very personal decision.

I considered it myself. I considered removing my healthy breast at the time of my single mastectomy. But for me, the time was not right: I still hope to need that breast to feed another child. However, once that possibility or opportunity passes, I will be back to considering it. If removing it would mean I don't feel like I have a ticking time bomb strapped to my chest, then I'll do it.

And if Nia faces this choice one day, and asks my opinion, I will tell her this:

It is a deeply personal decision. You have to weigh both sides -- how you will feel with your breasts, and how you feel without them. If removing them, no matter how important they are to you, makes you feel safer, do it. Maybe it is something you do at twenty because you are more terrified of breast cancer than you are of not being able to breastfeed. Maybe you have your own children, and remove them at forty. Either way, it is completely up to you. And if you choose to keep your breasts, that is your choice too. I would not judge you for either decision.

For more information about BRCA and more analysis of Jolie's decision, go here.

And for a beautiful photography project collecting images of women who've had mastectomies, visit the ScarProject.

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Yes, It's Fake... The Real One Tried to Kill Me.

Yes, It's Fake... The Real One Tried to Kill Me.

I got fake boobs on Friday.

Actually, it was just one fake boob. Foob I've dubbed it. (Or "shoob" seeing as how it is actually a second-hand boob, but more on that later.)

The fact that I only needed one contributed to my decision to go with a prosthetic; I opted not to have reconstructive surgery after my mastectomy last September.

The reactions I get to this are mixed.

Doctors understand for the most part, but the general public (and my daughter) are a little confused. Wouldn't I want to look normal again? Totally. And while they would have put spacers in immediately following removing the cancerous breast, I was skittish about all the follow up surgeries (at least two additional) and the risk of complications.

Also, a little known fact: If you only need reconstructive surgery on one breast, they still cut and shape the healthy breast in order to better match the fake one. Anther obvious-if-you-think-about-it but seldom mentioned fact: If your weight changes over the years following your surgery, the fake one stays its same perky self, while the other one changes, which can lead to lopsided-ness -- which I already have, thank you very much.

By the time I walked into the little store in Los Gatos with the foobs and the wigs, I'd been walking around with one breast for more than six months. I was surprised how little this asymmetry bothered me. Before the mastectomy, I'd imagined I'd want to have a prosthetic ready and waiting for immediate use. It turns out, though, that having something pressing on that area when it is healing and during radiation treatments is unpleasant. And so time went by and my incision healed, and so did my feelings of discomfort.

And honestly, I didn't really feel like people noticed the mismatch.

Two things led me to the prosthetic shop: 1. The same radiation treatments that delayed my getting the prosthetic -- radiation causes the skin to contract and want to pull the shoulder in toward my sternum. Putting pressure on that area via a prosthetic reverses the contraction. But more than that was reason number 2: My daughter.

A month or so ago she and I were walking to the park when she stopped to pick a dandelion. She blew the seeds and almost immediately went from happy to sad. After a bit of prying she told me that her wish would never come true. I pried a bit further and she finally blurted out that she always wishes for the cancer to go away. I quickly told her -- somewhat relieved that this was all that was bringing her down: "But honey, I don't have cancer anymore! It's all gone!" Phew! Crisis adverted! But she was still sad. She mumbled, "But your boob hasn't grown back yet."

While I was comfortable being lopsided, there was an E-cup shaped hole punched in her universe.

So I made the long-awaited appointment at the foob shop. I got two special mastectomy bras -- they have little pockets in the cups for prosthetics (which range from silicone breast "equalizers" to light-weight foam breast "forms"). Some people need full prosthetics, some need fillers. Either way, the pocket keeps the thing from sliding out and plopping on the sidewalk.

In addition to the bras, I walked out with a two-pound silicon equalizer.

And equalize it did. I was really surprised how similar the fake one looked to the real one. So surprised, I just keep staring down at it all afternoon.

See?! You can't even till which one is fake can you?

And it wasn't as hot and heavy and awkward as you'd expect a two-pound blob of silicone stuffed in your bra to be.

But was Nia sold? We had friends with us in the bra shop and she seemed happy enough. Later at the park, she was over the whole foob thing and just ready to play. I tried to ask if she liked it but she didn't want to talk about it. It wasn't until we got home and I took it out of my bra to show Joe that she got really excited. She wanted to hold it and when she did, she literally lit up. For about an hour that night she walked around with it, cuddled it, slapped it (?!), played dress up with it (it looks like a little pregnant belly on her), laid it over one of her stuffed animals and declared it "pork." (Later when I was looking for it, she said it was cooking...??!)

The foob made her really, really happy. Now she wants to hold it all the time.("No, honey, you can't hold it now. Because I'm wearing it!")

I never in a million years expected that.

Nor did I expect to like it as much as I do. Like I said, I was pretty comfortable being lopsided. I had no idea what I'd gain by strapping that thing on. But the thing is, nature favors symmetry. It's obvious: My clothes look better with two matching boobs. But what was less obvious was how confident I'd feel wearing the foob. I feel... visible again. I thought that people didn't notice the asymmetry before, but maybe in our society that is so breast-centric, not having two matching breasts (and two big ones at that) made me not so much conspicuous as invisible. People were not only not noticing, but I'd swung to the opposite side of the dial into a-sexual.

I'm not planning to wear it every day, but it sure is nice to have the option. It is pretty funny getting out of the shower and seeing my stack of clothes now.

Suddenly I'm 13 again with brand new boobs -- only this time I'm emotionally prepared for it, and my friends aren't jealous. And if they are, they can come over and take the foob for a test drive. Like Nia.

A Tiny, Peeping Spring Chick -- Just What the Doctor Ordered

I went to sleep in Santa Cruz last night and woke up in Montana!

Just kidding. Sorta.

I'm actually just there virtually, guest blogging at The Birds and the Bees. It is an awe-inspiring urban homesteading blog hosted by my brother and sister-in-law, Kyle and Whitney. They write about gardening, chicken-farming, and beekeeping in their neck of the woods in Wild Horse Plains. To fit in, I put on my chicken farmer hat and wrote a piece about our own urban homesteading venture, aka 3 hens in Santa Cruz.

Check it out: Guest Blog: A Tiny, Peeping Spring Chick -- Just What the Doctor Ordered

(This little cutie is 10 months old now & lays 5-6 eggs a week!)

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Looking Back: My Cancer Year in Photos

It's been one year since I found that fateful lump.

One year of discovery, diagnosis, treatment, and recovery. Between finding the lump and being diagnosed, Joe, Nia & I took a trip to Tahoe to celebrate my 35th birthday. Tomorrow, we are heading to Tahoe again. A bookend to the cancer year, and a kick-off to my 36th year. Cheers!

~~~

The lump...

Getting the port for chemo installed; my first surgery...

 

The day before my first chemo treatment...

 

And now, growing my hair back; getting used to the new me; getting stronger every day...

So long cancer year!

 

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Parenting with Cancer: The Sugar That Helps the Medicine Go Down

Everything is Normal Again... Sorta

Parenting with Cancer: The Sugar That Helps the Medicine Go Down

Last week, on a cold, gray morning, I stood on the playground side-by-side with another mom, arms folded across our chests, watching our girls becoming friends (via lots of growling and gnashing of teeth and pretending to be monsters). This mom and I didn't know each other, but we'd agreed to meet, ostensibly so our children could play, but so we could try each other on for size, too. 

All we knew we about each other at that moment could be summed up on one hand: 1) We both have daughters, 2) who are 4, 3) who go to the same preschool, 4) in the same town. That's it. Before I had Nia, I might have thought that was enough upon which to build a friendship. Now I know that is basically the same as having brown hair in common (which we do). 

But the lack of information about each other was refreshing, too.  

Here was someone who didn't know me before I had cancer -- running into people who I used to know who I now had to tell I had cancer was very awkward mostly because I'd end up consoling them. Here was someone I didn't meet me in the midst of cancer (with the neon sign that is a bald head). Here was the first brand-new person I was meeting post-cancer. 

Do I tell her?

Over the next two hours, we discovered many similarities between us -- a love of photography, attachment parenting beliefs, husbands who work over the hill, natural birth tendencies.

And so I decided to share with her that I'd had cancer last year. 

Her eyes grew wide for a second, during which time she flicked her gaze to my short haircut, and then she looked at Nia. 

"Wow," she said. "That must have been so hard as a parent."

Oh. My. God. She got it. *happy sigh*

~~

One of the hardest parts of parenting with cancer is knowing when to shield Nia, and when to include her. I've always  been as open as possible with her -- talking about the illness, the treatment, the side-effects. Letting her see me cry, but also showing her what makes me feel better, too.

But I've always been careful not to scare her, and have only given her what I thought she could handle. Sometimes we talk about cancer a lot, and other times it only comes up once or twice a week. 

Most of the time, when Nia has come to the doctor with me, it is because I think she needs it: She needs to see where I go, to see who is taking care of me, that it is a safe place and that I'm not in pain there.  

But yesterday I took her with me for me. 

I had yet another echocardiogram yesterday (an ultrasound of my heart). I don't know why, but this is my least favorite procedure. It is just tedious. It is at the hospital, so I have to first check in with the main hospital registration. They give me a piece of paper that I then have to carry all the way to the cardiopulminary department. I check in there, and then sit in the surgery waiting area (which is usually populated with stressed out people). Then I get called into the exam room where I don a hospital gown and lay on a bed. Electrodes are connected, gel is squirted and then my heart is viewed and recorded from various angles. Sometimes it takes 20 minutes, other times it takes an hour -- I always have a different tech.

Like I said, it is just tedious. (And it is hard not to worry about what is being seen or not seen on that ultrasound screen.)

So yesterday I invited my sidekick to join me. She was delighted! 

I passed her my camera -- a rare treat -- and she documented the whole thing. Afterward she got 2 chocolate kisses from the hospital gift shop -- another treat. And we skipped all the way to the car.

Because she had fun, so did I -- and we turned a tedious hospital/doctor visit into something I'll remember fondly. 

Lesson 792 in the Parenting with Cancer Guidebook: Oftentimes having a kiddo on this journey is really hard, but sometimes -- some truly glorious times -- it can be the sugar that helps the medicine go down. 

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Be Here Now... No, Really: Right Here, Right Now.

Living in Santa Cruz, it is not unusual for me to find myself at red lights reading the bumper stickers on the Prius car in front of me. More than half the time, there is a "Be Here Now" sticker there in the mix of "Obama 2012," "Santa Cruz" mermaids, and the Dalai Lama being "stoked."

Be. Here. Now.

It's a cliche, of course. And yet it resonates with me.  (You know, post-cancer and all).

Right here. Right now.

There is another phrase I often think along with it. It's one I started saying to myself when I was in college to remind myself to stop amid the hustle and bustle of classes and working and homework to smell the roses: "This is the perfect moment."

It's New Years once again and we are all making resolutions (even if we I adamantly refuse to acknowledge them as such). It is common for mindfulness to be high on my list of New Year's... um, promises, which is maybe why I'm thinking of these two phrases more often lately.

However. (Yes, there is a however.)

However, these phrases that used to give me comfort have recently taken on a slightly morbid tinge. I find myself thinking "Be here now... because you might not be here next year."

I don't mean that I might not be here, on the planet. I mean, I might not be here, at the Christmas Parade. I might not be here, making cookies. I might not be here, ice skating.

I can't help but think it. I might not be here because I might be back on chemo. I might be recovering from surgery. I might be too fatigued from an on-going battle to be out of bed.

I'm not trying to sound self-pitying. It's just a fact: Once cancer comes knocking -- once cancer knows where you live -- it never forgets. There is no moving without a forwarding address. There is no witness protection program.

Cancer is the mob. Once it knows your name, it always knows your name. With that comes awe, in the truest sense. And fear.

And trying to enjoy every God damn moment, just in case it comes roaring back.

So you live your everyday life -- working, pre-schooling, grocery shopping, house keeping, dinner making, comforting a sick kiddo, watching Downton Abby -- but you also try really hard to be present, to be right here. To laugh, to feel the sun on your face, to feel that growing-bigger-every-day hand in yours...To push the fear aside, yes, but to also let it be a lens that focuses your every waking moment into something a little bit shiny. Something ever so extraordinary.

Nia and I went ice skating together for the first time this week and I was present -- really present -- and I enjoyed it every so much, even though I'm terrible at it, and my feet hurt, and it was freezing. All I had to do was look at my child and all that slipped away. She was loving every second and I was so happy to be there to witness that.

I don't know if we'll get to ice skate together again next New Years. I hope so. I hope it becomes a long-standing tradition. But I have no idea.

Maybe we get to do it just this one New Years.

And maybe that's ok because unlike so many other moments in this life that I participated in only in so much as I was physically there, for this moment, I was really there and now I have this memory of our first time skating together in which we were both ever so happy.

No matter what this year brings, I think that is a darn good start.

....

(Two videos of our skating adventure can be found here and here  -- the second one shows the hip hop dance classes are paying off!)

So proud... both of us!

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This Year, I'm Staying in the Picture

Lately, my child goes to preschool with two bits of precious from home: a picture of our family and her beloved koala "Rose Petal." Rose Petal goes into the office and spends her preschool time in a basket with the other lovies. Our picture goes into Nia's cubby.

I'm not sure that she looks at it throughout the day, but it is there. Just in case. This reminder that we love her, that we are present -- even when we are apart.

That's a hard one for kids: this idea that we exist even when we can't be seen...

But maybe it is hard for adults, too. I look around me, and I don't see many pictures of myself and it begs the question: If a tree fell in the forest, and no one took a picture of it (and posted it on Facebook), did it really happen?

So often over the years, I'm not in the picture by personal choice. As the family photographer, I prefer to capture my bright-eyed little one. I love the actual act of shooting the picture. But that's only half the story. Honestly, I stay out of the picture because I wish I was thinner, more photogenic. More this, Less that... I love all my women friends on Facebook who post pictures of themselves, be it solo or with their significant others, but it just isn't me. 

Till now.

I'm not putting myself all over Facebook, but I'm putting myself around the house. Around the blog. I was here.

The annual tradition of taking & sharing a Christmas card photo is upon us once again. I always look forward to our Christmas photo shoot: Me with my camera and a few props, putting Nia up against beautiful backdrops, and letting her shine.

But this year, I'm coming out from behind the camera. This year, I'm staying in that picture, too.

I'm putting aside my pride and doing this for me. And I'm doing it for Nia.

If something should happen to me, I want there to be a photo record of my life, especially our life together. But also, while I'm here, I want to put aside silly notions that I'll be in photos when I've dropped a few more pounds, when I've closed the gap between my teeth, when I've grown more hair.

There is no then. There is only right now.

I am beautiful now. I'm part of your life now. I am here now.

 

 

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My Oncologist is My Homeboy

It's 6:30 in the morning. The sun has not yet risen, but the sky is slowly brightening. It's cold out. I pull on my hat and my slippers, and turn on the heater. I have my hot water with lemon. The house is quiet except for the low hum of the laptop.

It's the perfect time to sit down & write.

OK, write! Now! Do it! Go!

....

And yet the words are not coming.

The blank page stares back at me, the cursor blinking...

I find myself typing "Chemobrain" into Google instead.

I learn that this feeling of cognitive "slowness" could go on for years (!). I believe the radiation treatments I'm currently receiving are aggravating the condition. I feel foggy most of the time, but especially right after treatments (did I tell you I put regular gasoline in my diesel car minutes after my first treatment?).

~~~~

My radiation appointments are becoming routine:

Arrive at 11:40a and change into my hospital gown (everyone else has white or pink; I feel pretty cool in this one, even though I have to wear it backwards for easy access).

By 11:43a I'm sitting with a magazine in the little waiting area. (The other day I found myself reading this article, which was a little surreal, especially this part: "Since patients who undergo radiation to the chest have a somewhat higher risk of later developing breast cancer and other health problems, avoiding radiation would be a big plus for Christina.") Awesome.

Thanks, Good Housekeeping.

Around 11:45a, the technician calls me back to the treatment room. I begin to untie my gown on the way. By the time I get there, I slip my left arm out of the sleeve of the gown, hoist the fabric up over my jeans and lie down on the metal "bed." I'm a model of efficiency. I lift my arms over my head and hold the plastic handles there for this purpose.

The techs adjust my head so I'm looking slightly right, then using calipers they line up my little tattoo marks with the green laser lines and then tape a layer of "fake skin" to my chest (that's what they really call it; it fools the machine into radiating my body to the correct depth). Once I'm all set up, they leave the room.

For ten minutes the machine buzzes and rotates around me. I close my eyes and work on a to-do list in my head. The time passes quickly.

The techs come back in and un-tape the fake skin and offer me an arm up off the metal bed -- something they do automatically for the older patients. I slip my arm back into the hospital gown and re-tie the side as I'm already walking back down the hall. Back in the dressing room, I slather my skin with calendula lotion. I look in the mirror. My skin is warm and looks somewhat sunburn. It is getting more and more sensitive. I barely have to shave that arm-pit anymore.

By 12:05p I'm exiting the building.

~~~~

You froze your eggs, right?!

This question keeps coming up lately. For the record, no, I didn't freeze my eggs before I began chemo. There was no time: Within two weeks of my diagnosis, I had my first chemo infusion. The cancer was too aggressive to wait.

Now, the months go by and my chemo-induced menopause ("chemopause") persists. Fingers crossed it reverses. I believe the body longs for health, for homeostasis. I imagine all the little healthy cells are trying to find their way back to "normal." To "well."

I know I'm lucky to be alive, to be cancer-free. Ever so lucky for modern, Western medicine. (My oncologist is my homeboy, for realz.)

But the truth is, it is hard having cancer as a young person, in the midst of having children. I don't know what it is like to have cancer at 45, or 55, or 85. I only know what it is like to have it at 35.

This is my cancer story: I had cancer when my daughter was 4, right when we'd decided to go for baby #2.

We thought we had the luxury of time. We thought it was up to us.

~~~~

As my brain continues to stay foggy, my house is getting cleaner and cleaner.

I'm drawn to cleaning these days. Maybe if the toilet was a little cleaner, my brain would be less fuzzy...Maybe if the corners were dust-bunny-free, I could keep a train of thought...

I finally learned how to properly clean & season my cast-iron skillet (3 steps: scrub (hot water, no soap), dry, apply a little veggie oil); I made my own kick-ass soft scrub (baking soda + peppermint Castile soap + tea tree oil + enough water to make a paste) which makes my sinks attractively shiny; and I've been cleaning my toilet with science (baking soda + tea tree oil + vinegar --- oooh, toilet volcano!).

Nia's been helping with all of this. It's fun to clean when you get to follow a recipe -- and get all wet!

Last night we tackled the shower. First I had her get in and spray the whole thing down well with water ("This is more like playing than cleaning!"), then we filled the tub up about 6" with warm water and added 1/8 c. dishwashing soap + baking soda. Then we got to work scrubbing. At the end, we drained the water and she got back in to spray the whole thing off again.

She got to play with water & I got mildew-free grout (and a clean kid).

Win-win-win!

(As I'm typing this, Typepad wants to suggest a link to somewhere in the Interwebs titled "Curing Cancer With Baking Soda." I heart baking soda, and it is doing some wonderful things for me right now mentally, but I don't think I'd trust it to literally cure my cancer. Just sayin'.)

~~~

I don't know much these days, but I can tell you this:

1. The dishwasher door is a great place to do things like kneed bread dough because when you/she is done, you can just close it and all the mess goes inside.

2. Slow down & start your day by reading aloud to your child in the still-warm bed. You'll both be thankful.

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... this moment: Our Chicken's First Egg

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single  photo -- PLUS A VIDEO - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. Inspired by SouleMama. You can play, too!

Yesterday, our 25-week-old Americana, Sweet Cicely, layed her first-ever egg. She is the first of our 3-hen flock to start laying. I'll let Nia explain: 

We are ever-so-proud of this moment!

 

In case anyone is wondering, yes, getting chickens in the midst of my health crisis this summer was one of the best decisions we made to keep life moving forward, and to bring a little distraction to our home. Chickens, in turns out, make wonderful pets! If you had the pleasure of seeing Nia carrying a chicken around the backyard, then you know how this process has enhanced my girl's life!