Making Strides Against Breast Cancer

As readers of this blog may know, last year my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She fought like a trooper and with the help of amazing doctors, nurses, and medical treatments she beat it (none of us doubted that she would).

The relief at that news was overwhelming for all of us and that's why I'm walking in this year's Making Strides Against Breast Cancer event on October 24 at Roger Williams Park in Providence. Other women and other families should all be given every chance to experience the relief and joy that comes at the end of the fear and heartache that appears when cancer steals stealthily into their lives.

I encourage those of you in the region to come out for this walk. If you can't make it, I hope you'll consider making a donation to support our efforts to raise awareness and funds to support breast cancer research and treatment for our mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, aunts, friends, and coworkers.

The real reason the Internet was created

YouTube might not make any money but really, does it matter so long as it keep providing access to videos like these? Creative and fun and NOT involving cute kittens...

The Pink Glove Dance to raise awareness of breast cancer:



and the world's greatest "Save the Date" wedding announcement:

Farewell to the Grey Bullet on the Eve of Thanksgiving

We lost one of our cats yesterday. Annabel, our lovely 19-year old and perhaps the sweetest cat I've ever known, became suddenly ill and we learned to our dismay that it was a fast-moving cancer. It was a tremendously hard thing to do but for her sake and her comfort, my wife and I sat gently stroking her fur as she purred quietly and finally went to sleep for the last time in the vet's office.

The last 36 hours have been so strange. She's been a central part of my everyday life for more than 9 years and I first met her when she was just a kitten. For my wife, Annabel was a beloved companion since she was 4 weeks old, almost half my wife's life. I walk in the house expecting to see her. We still have her pill schedule on a white board in the kitchen and I can't bring myself to erase it. She was doing so well, perhaps a little arthritic, maybe suffering from a bit of kitty senility most notably when she'd forget where we were, but for a cat who was 19 years, 4 months old, she was in pretty good shape and we thought we had more time.

Sadly we didn't. It happened so fast that I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. I tried to put it in words earlier today on my other blog, on which I'm recording our progress toward the hoped-for adoption of a little girl. It didn't help with my grief. In fact, my efforts simply reinforced how important Annabel was in our life. Until we made the decision to try and adopt earlier this year, our cats and any future pets were our children. They were as close as we were going to get. The act of losing one creates a void and an aching feeling of incompleteness around the house and in my view of my world.

This has been, in many ways, a dreadful year. My grandmother passed away, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, my folks lost their wonderful dog Maggie to a fast-moving cancer, and now we said goodbye to Annabel.

In a matter of days, we'll be celebrating Thanksgiving and happily, my mother will be there bustling about my sister's kitchen helping with food prep, doting on her granddaughters, and mercifully cancer-free following her final radiation treatment in just 72 hours. My grandmother won't be there and we'll all feel her absence. But with my grandmother, Annabel, and Maggie, I'll be so thankful this Thursday to have had them in my life for as long as I did. They added color and humor and just a bit of slobber (Annabel and Maggie, not my grandmother) and won't be forgotten.

It doesn't make up for their loss but it's a start.

May you, your families, your friends, your pets, and all of your loved ones have a very happy and healthy Thanksgiving next week.

She Won

Right now, I'm absolutely drained, relieved, ecstatic. My eyes hurt from crying and it's all OK.

My mother called tonight. Seven months after being diagnosed with breast cancer, six months after starting an aggressive regimen of chemotherapy, and one week after her final infusion, she was told this afternoon by her surgeon and oncologist that they can find no trace of the cancer following a full body MRI.

Mom still needs surgery to remove and test the breast tissue and lymph nodes that had been affected followed by 6 weeks of radiation but, according to her surgeon and oncologist, today's news is the most spectacular result possible.

Of course it is.

She won.

She'll need to be vigilant for the rest of her life but now it looks to be a long and happy one alongside her family and friends, all of whom are in awe of her strength and courage. I know I am.

I love you, Mom.

A good end to a long, miserable day

If there was one silver lining about today's miserable, failed attempt to get out of TF Green airport, it was that we were able to join my mother, the rest of our family, and some of our closest friends to celebrate her final chemo infusion. For the last 26 weeks, Mom has undergone various types of chemo on varying schedules. Now, she's done with that. While it's only "the first finish line", as our friend Patti described it, it's a huge one and Mom looked fantastic and was loving the fact that we were all together, even if she felt sorry for our failed travel plans.

Slightly sore after walking in the dark

24 hours after it started, I'm home from participating in the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life and recovered/awake enough to write about.

First, I want to thank everyone who made a donation to support my walk -- I surpassed my personal goal of raising $500 and our company team, the KVH Cancer Crusaders, raised more than $1,500 along with donations of materials for Hope Lodge in Boston. Congratulations also to everyone on the team (especially our awesome team captain Nicole Chevrette) who took time from home and their families to set up tents, walk more than 50 miles through the night, and then pack everything up amidst a pretty steady and moderately heavy rain this morning.

The KVH Cancer Crusaders, 2009 Edition

While I wasn't sure what to expect, it turned out to be a pretty special event. Kicking off with a celebration of survivors, including my mother, the field at Gaudet Middle School in Middletown, RI, was packed with people. Almost our entire family was there and together, we all shared a lap for survivors and their caregivers before beginning the long task of walking through the night.

Mom and her granddaughter Lorelei looked great as they came on to the track at the start of the Opening Ceremonies

Mom and the rest of the family circles the track together in a celebration of Survivors and their Caregivers

Lighting our way were more than 1,200 Cancer Society "luminaria", each decorated in memory of a loved one lost or in support of someone currently fighting or recovering from cancer. There wasn't a dry eye in the house when the stadium lights were turned off and a bagpiper slowly circled the track playing "Amazing Grace" and followed by all of the participants.

Watched by an-almost full moon, 1,200 luminaria stood vigil through the night and guided the steps of Relay walkers

Ensuring that there was always a member of the team walking, we were able to take breaks, catch brief naps here and there, grab a bite to eat, or just chat quietly amidst the tent city (well, tent village might be more accurate) established by the participating teams.

The Relay for Life "tent city" as seen from the bleachers at 2:30 AM

When the rain came, first just as a light sprinkle at 1:30 AM and then as heavier rain at 4 AM, the walkers were undeterred. None of us got much sleep -- by the time we returned home this morning, I was operating on about 90 minutes of light napping -- we were all moderately sore, and the rain made us all squelch like sponges as we bundled up soaking tents and hauled gear to our cars, but it all felt worthwhile.

In the grand scheme of things, the amount of money we raised is a drop in the bucket compared to the funds directed to cancer research and treatment but the real value for us came in the solidarity and sense of community engendered by the experience. The look on my mother's face as we stood alongside the track clapping and cheering for her and the other cancer survivors made it absolutely worth the effort, the lack of sleep, and the sore feet.

My stepfather John, accompanied by my colleague Angela, finishes his 60th lap and 15th mile at 3:10 AM

Walking for a Good Cause

Perhaps I was lucky when I was younger. I didn't really know too many people with cancer. Now, almost every friend I know has been touched with it in some way and it has reached into my own family again and again. That's why I'm participating in the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life in Middletown, RI, in 10 days as part of a team generously supported by my employer -- because the list of people lost to this disease doesn't need to go on.

• We lost my aunt last year to lung cancer
• my mother is facing the challenge of breast cancer:
• we lost an old family friend, only 43 years old, to cancer not long ago
• my grandmothers are survivors
• the mother of one of my best friends is recovering from lung cancer

and it seems like the list just goes on.

But it doesn't have to. I'm walking in this Relay to join others to raise funds that could bring a cure closer, to raise awareness among others, to raise a cry of joy and support for the survivors, and to raise hope that those who follow us won't have to face this particular challenge in the future.

I hope you'll join in this effort. Join a team for a Relay in your area, donate your time to advocate, make a contribution toward my walk and help fund research and the quest to find a cure, but don't stay on the sidelines. It's too important.

Thanks and good health to you, your families, and your loved ones.

This isn't supposed to be happening

We learned this week that my mother has breast cancer. The news came from out of the blue during what I thought was going to be a quick "hi, how are you" visit last Monday, or perhaps a "we've got some news about your 93-year old grandmother" conversation since my mother and step-father were coming over following a brief stop at the nursing home.

The initial news was that yes, there is definitely something there but test results weren't expected until Friday so we wouldn't know what it meant until then. Instead the news came in stages -- Wednesday: yes, it's confirmed and it's not benign. Friday -- yes, it's in a few more places than the initial lump that raised the alert, it's in Stage 2, perhaps edging farther, more tests are needed to discover how far it has gone, the probable initial course is 16 weeks of chemo, get a really cool short haircut because it's easier to bear as the chemo takes affect.

For someone whose exposure to cancer had been extremely limited (my grandmother had it 20 years ago but at 93 is still cheering on the UConn Huskies) I find myself writing about it for the third time in this still relatively new blog. That it's my mother who I'm writing and worrying about, that's even more shocking.

I think your perception of your world doesn't always match your chronological position. Internally, you lock yourself into a particular time and place and age. In my mind's eye, I think I'm younger than I am (probably thinner too) and sometimes get caught by surprise as I spot a new batch of grey hairs insinuating themselves amidst the dark brown that I've always had. My parents are young, only 20 years older than me. That's not old. But then I remember that I am now my parents' age when I went off to college and my perception changes again. They're verging on 60, my father suffered a stroke almost 1 year ago to the date of my mother's announcement, and now she's facing a battle like this. The sense of mortality becomes palpable. The desire to fight for every day that's potentially ahead becomes intense.

I can't imagine what she's going through right now, consumed by the knowledge that something inside her is trying to strip those days away. I know she's scared -- who wouldn't be? I know she's angry -- what did she do to deserve this? If it was me, I think I'd be clawing at my skin, crying "get it out, get it out" to anyone who would listen. But I also know that she's determined. She's strong. She's a fighter. She has excellent doctors who have help thousands of women successfully face this same challenge. She has a loving family and a close knit circle of friends, all of whom will be there to provide support and encouragement and to celebrate when it's over. And that gives her something to fight for -- time with those people who love her, time with her family, and most of all time for herself.

Finding the time

I met Lisa Flaxman when I was very young. Her brother, David, and I were in the same Cub Scout pack and our moms became close friends when they served as den mothers. Lisa was four years older and I didn't know her all that well because we only hung out when our families got together or I slept over at David's.

The last time I saw her I was 8th grade and we went to see her in a production of "Guys and Dolls" at her high school. Lisa had a fantastic singing voice and eventually went on to perform professionally. I think she was playing Miss Adelaide in that particular show. I remember her coming down into the audience during one song and sitting in her alternately embarrassed and proud father's lap like an actual chanteuse, crooning into a microphone. It's strange what sticks in your head after 25 years.

I received regular updates from my mother and from Lisa's mom about what was going on with Lisa and the rest of her family over the years. She went to Brown and then got a law degree from Georgetown. She married and had three children. Then, she focused on music, both performing as well as launching and nurturing a music program for kids in Maryland and the District of Columbia in an effort to provide an early music education for her son and other children. She learned that her youngest sister had breast cancer and as a result, was tested herself, learning that she too had the disease. She fought it and wrote a book of poetry inspired by the experience.

I found out today that she died.

The cancer came back. She began suffering headaches and the doctors discovered that she was afflicted with a brain tumor. And then she was gone at age 43, surrounded by her husband and children and parents, drifting off to sleep and not waking up last Wednesday.

I knew her only fleetingly and yet I grieve. I grieve for her children and her husband who are experiencing a loss I could never imagine and whose time with Lisa was far, far too brief. I grieve for her siblings and her parents who were so proud of her. I grieve for her friends and all those she touched. I grieve for a world that needs more people like her, a person who worked so hard to enrich the lives of others whether by sharing her experiences with others, by communicating her love of music to children, by bringing arts programs for other cancer patients, or by performing to entertain and bring joy to friends and strangers alike.

I feel a bit odd writing this, like I shouldn't because I haven't seen her in 25 years and didn't know her all that well, as if I'm making this all about me when I have no right. I guess, in a way, I am, spurred on by what I've learned about her in the last day. A loss, even if it touches you only peripherally, leads to a certain amount of introspection, I think.

I suppose that, as I reach the cusp of 40, after my uncle's wife lost her battle with lung cancer, as I see my sister's two lovely children and the joy they bring, as I see friends and relatives growing just a bit older, as I realize that I've spent almost a quarter of my life with my wife and am amazed and frightened at how quickly it has gone, and as I look back to just a year ago as I sat holding my father's hand in the emergency room while he suffered a stroke, I take the concept of mortality a bit more seriously than I did when I was younger.

I see what I've accomplished but also what I still hope to do. I regret that I allowed people I cared about to move out of my life and want to reach out to them as well as to new friends. And I value the time and experiences we have so much more.

I read Lisa's obituary and a heartwrenching remembrance from a friend of hers. I listened as my mother read to me the words that Lisa's mom spoke at the memorial service and I see how full Lisa's life was -- with her children, her husband, her school and her non-profit organization, and her efforts to enrich other people's lives. In reading about her book and her music education program, I stumbled across Lisa's blog on a health site. There aren't many entries but the ones that are there are powerful, honest, and so full of joy in things we take for granted -- watching her child sleep, getting a hair cut. I'm sorry I didn't know the person who wrote these words better:

"Now, when I hear people say, "I wish I could stop time, " I know exactly what they mean, but I know they are wrong. They don't know that when time slows down and seems to stop, we are not living life, we are waiting to live. That's the thing about having cancer: you have to find way to live while going through the treatments. Whether that means writing every day, taking a walk around the block, calling someone or just simply getting out of bed and looking out the window, you can't wait. Time is all we have." -- from Lisa's blog entry, "The River of Time"

So to Lisa's friends and family, I want to say how sorry I am for your loss. I hope that you find the strength to move through this difficult time together.

And to those of you who took the time to read this, please take the time to make sure that you or the ones you love are screened regularly for breast cancer. Don't take a chance and don't lose any more time.