My friend Deb called me last October.  I hadn’t seen her in about seven years.  Our 35^th high school reunion was coming up and she wondered if I’d want to go with her.  I was thrilled to hear her voice although I’d been hurt and confused during the past several years, wondering why she’d let our friendship wither.  I’d long considered her one of my closest friends, but calls and cards had gone unanswered for a few years before I’d stopped contacting her. 

Toughest to digest was that our friendship moved from the slow lane to the exit ramp when she was diagnosed with breast cancer at age forty-four.  I so wanted to support her through her treatments but she did not need me.  She had her husband, her sisters and other friends who lived closer.  I heard enough to know she’d survived, but her not needing or wanting my support forced me to realize our friendship had eroded more than I’d been willing to admit.  A few years later, my holiday card was returned with a red stamp of No Forwarding Address.  I took this as the final signal that I should let the relationship go.

The high school reunion was a blast.  Deb spent the weekend at my house.  We gabbed for hours.  She made no mention of her silence over the years and I’d decided beforehand that I would welcome her back, no questions asked.  I honestly don’t think the years of silence were anything personal – probably more to do with living one-hundred miles away, raising two teenagers and finding time with a husband who worked long hours.  I can’t say I felt no resentment but mostly I was glad to have her back.

And she is back.  She initiated my family’s spending a weekend at her home.  We’ve met for lunch.  She sent me a lovely bouquet of pink roses when I hit a tough patch at work along with a card saying how happy she is that we’re back in touch.

She also asked me to join her this July in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.  We’ll trek twenty-six miles in San Francisco over two days.  We met for a twelve-mile training walk last week.  We exchanged fundraising tips, sock recommendations and organic snacks.  I’ll be there for her on July 11^th and 12^th.    We’ll walk together to honor her ten years as a breast cancer survivor and our thirty-eight years of friendship.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: Avon Walk for Breast Cancer, breast cancer, Breast Cancer Survivor, By Marianne Lonsdale, close friends, high school reunion, lost friendship, reunited, San Francisco, survived

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Labels: artistic daughter, Bravo, breast cancer, By Dawn Yun, clinical medical trial, ego boost, first grade, hugging, kindergarten, Parents' Night

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I had just returned from our first writing salon of the year. I listened to Jay complain about the unfairness of algebra homework, while Mimi held onto my leg as I tried to walk down the hall.

She asked if she could sit in my lap and I said of course. Mimi hesitated, than leapt onto me. I wondered why she thought before acting.

Mimi felt heavier. I tried to put my chin above her head, but it didn’t fit.

Something was odd. Something was different.

As I put my arms around her, I realized what it was -- she had physically outgrown me.
There was a gap between us. A distance apart.

Almost nine months earlier, nearly the time it takes to give birth, I labored with the delivery of a very different kind of announcement: I was told I had cancer. Just that word. . . 

I had no idea how unbelievable it would all become. How sitting still for even a few minutes would be a major accomplishment. How senior moments would became EVERY moment. How much I would change.

There were times I would lose it and my husband and children would just stare because they were not used to seeing me this way.

Early on, during a three-month wait for a definite diagnosis, in my mind I journeyed to my own funeral. It was difficult for me to look at my family because then I would have to consider that possibility.

Now I know it’s in an early stage, but the disease is chronic and unusual. There is no net.

For some two-hundred nights I have applied a topical chemotherapy drug that smells like a bomb and is derived from one. I’m in a clinical trial, so the experimental agent comes in a yellow and black bag that looks like police tape, and my bathroom hutch resembles a crime scene.

Each tube of medication is plastered with warning labels.

In psychedelic pink: Caution: CYTOTOXIC DRUG. Dispose of properly.

In neon yellow: CAUTION: New drug limited by Federal Law to investigational use.

In bright orange: HIGH ALERT MEDICINE.

I feel like a spotlight is on me and a helicopter hovering above.

But then seriousness sets in. I know my situation has affected my children emotionally. My son will come into my daughter’s room while I stare off into middle distances that are never far enough away. “You’re OK, right?”

Mimi will move toward me but then face away with her back. She reminds me of a pissed-off cat. She wants to love, but she is afraid.  Mimi has asked me not to die.

Today, when my husband dropped me off at the Cancer Center, my daughter began to cry as hard as the rain outside pounded. “Wait!” I pleaded to the valet. “I need to hug my daughter.” I felt her hot tears mingle with my own. Her body was warm and enveloped me as we clung tightly. 

Labels: algebra, breast cancer, clinical trial, cytotoxic drug, Dawn Yun, diagnosis, homework, labor, senior moments, topical chemotherapy

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My favorite authors are those that invite you into their lives to become one of their family members, friends, or loved ones for the duration of the book. For me, Kelly Corrigan is one of these authors. I had the pleasure of hearing her speak at Book Passage, an iconic independent bookstore in the San Francisco Bay Area, recently. She is even funnier, smarter, and wittier in person, with her book The Middle Place having already set a very high standard.

Because her book magically weaves tales of cancer, being a parent while also having parents, and lots of humor, she had us all crying and laughing. The majority female audience continued to grow as she spoke. At one point I counted ninety people or so, but more kept arriving (and staying).

She asked those who have had or currently have cancer to stand so we could support them, and at least fifteen people stood. One was a woman, thirty years old or so, sitting in front of me with a knit black hat covering her bare head. All I had to do was see her wiping tears, and then I was done for.

When Kelly read, she kept interrupting herself to tell us back stories, or follow-ups, which were just as hilarious or touching as the material she was reading. It was like getting the director’s commentary on a movie.

But overall, from hearing her talk and reading her book, what I came away with is the optimism that she shares with her father. It’s contagious, and you come away wanting to be a better person.

“I’m so lucky,” she says, and you can’t help but believe her.

See what I mean by watching her touching video that has gone viral. Just click here.

By Kristy Lund

Labels: Book Passage, breast cancer, Kelly Corrigan, Kristy Lund, optimism, San Francisco Bay Area, The Middle Place, viral video

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Making the bed is a metaphor for my life.

If I make it -- the day will go well. If I don’t -- bad things can happen.

I make my bed.

Since I can’t reach my son’s top bunk bed, I leave it undone. But I figure that since it’s up so high, I get a metaphoric pass.

I stop in front of my daughter’s bed. Her Hello Kitty! sheets and blanket are askew.

The bed must be made.

I arrange her stuffed animals at the end, tuck the sheets tight into hospital corners and take care to evenly spread the blanket.

As I sit on top of the bed, near the headboard, this is where the sheets and cover really need to be evened out.

But I am overcome with the thought that rather than make them, I want to go under them.

I don’t have time for this. I have too many things to do. This is too much of an indulgence.

I lie on the bed and tuck the covers all around me up to my neck, and then I draw them over my head.

This is nice.

I have time alone. Nobody knows I’m here. I don’t have to deal with my son not doing his homework. I don’t have to explain to my daughter why I won’t buy her something/anything new. I don’t have to tell my husband why it was necessary for me to buy Orgins skincare products from Nordstrom's rather than ones at Walgreens. I don’t have to throw the ball to my cat. I don’t have to worry about my cancer. I don’t have to answer the phone. I don’t need to return e-mails. I don’t have to feel guilty about not writing.

I -- can -- just – be.

“Mommy?”

Or maybe I can’t.

“Why are you under the bed like that?” my daughter, Mimi, says. “Are you hiding!”

“Yes.”

“Can I climb in with you?” she asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. Together we snuggle, in the dark, under the covers.

“I like to hide,” she says.

I do, too, but when you’re a mother -- it's not often that you get the chance.

By Dawn Yun

Labels: breast cancer, bunk bed, By Dawn Yun, cats, daughters, Hello Kitty, hospital corners, Norstrom's, snuggle, Walgreen's

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October is breast cancer awareness month, and rightly so; in the U.S. this cancer affects 250,000 women every year.  To increase screening and raise money for a cure there are pink ribbons and wristbands to wear, pink products to buy, and pink races to run.  But you may not know that is October is also domestic violence awareness month and purple is the color representing the 1.5 million women victimized every year. 

Purple, like a bruise.

For me, all this pink highlights the absence of purple.  Domestic violence gets very little public recognition and I want to know why? 

It is certainly an epidemic of grave proportion. It weakens the fabric of society. Not only does it kill, wound, and demoralize, but also it teaches children that violence is normal and that angry words and hurtful actions bring power.  The cost is also born in sick days; the need for more police, social workers, and jail cells; and higher costs of health insurance.  We are all paying in one-way or another.  As violence begets violence, we collectively give birth to the next generation of batterers, ensuring the perpetuation of the cycle of violence.

So why can we talk so freely about breast cancer, while domestic violence generates innuendo and hushed conversations?

Is it because domestic violence is ugly and scary?

Well, so is breast cancer, but because of hundred of thousands of women who have walked and advocated we have become became aware.  And when they were silenced by their cancer the voices of their families and friends continued, screaming to ALL who would listen, “Get screened!” So breast cancer survivors have been empowered, and in turn have empowered us all.

How has society empowered victims of domestic violence?

After years of demoralization many victims cannot see the danger or have simply resigned themselves to their fate because they simply can no longer visualize a different life.  Some are financially dependent on their batters and children make a complete separation almost impossible.  Many more simply have nowhere to go.   But all are afraid to leave.  Holes in the wall serve as a potent punctuation to what might await those who try.

Our attitude towards domestic violence is not just a crime of omission.  If we were to really hold up the mirror we would also see that we assign blame to the victim, sometimes subtle and other times not so much.  “Why can’t she just leave?” “Didn’t she know?” or “She went back to him, again?”

If we heard that someone we loved had breast cancer we would probably say, “I am so sorry, are you OK?”  “Can I help you in anyway?”  We might also silently offer a prayer, both for her and for ourselves, and then quickly book our own long overdue mammogram.  We would never ask our friend how her gene malfunctioned, why she didn’t get screened sooner, or if she likes a drink or two.

So who will start this empowerment? Who among us will break the silence and chip away at the cycle of violence? Does domestic violence only happen to other people?

We must remember few victims are able to raise the standard, to speak up and be heard.  Never mind shouldering the sordid societal connotations, but victims, past and current, are afraid to speak out, because of what that attention might bring.  It is hard to do a 5k while you are looking over your shoulder.

We remind our sisters, mothers, daughters, and friends to get their mammograms.  Can we not turn that same light on their relationships?  Can we not routinely ask, “Are you safe?” “You seen stressed, tell me about things at home,” or “I am concerned how your were spoken to.”

This weekend I was amazed and empowered by the wall of pink at the grocery store.  On Monday I booked my overdue mammogram.  But it also made me cry, because I wondered if there had been a sea of purple when I needed it if I would have left sooner?

By Jennifer Gunter

Labels: breast cancer, domestic abuse, Jennifer Gunter, pink, purple

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