Five Years

March 24. It's been five years to the day since the good doctors cut out my cancer, put my left girl into an early grave, and started to grow a new girl in her place. As a cancer survivor, you hear a lot about the "5-year mark," the supposed milestone that everyone wants to reach: the rate of recurrence drops significantly, you can rest easy, you're golden. Yeah, well, I don't believe it.

Just like I don't really believe spring is ever going to come. But it will.

The vernal equinox came and went four days ago, ushering in a snow storm, colder temperatures and a wind that cut its teeth back in January. I've been waiting for the red-winged blackbird to return, the crocuses to burst through the soft snow, the snow to melt in circles around the bases of the trees, fill the streams with a throaty roar, and then, just go. But, no. Not yet anyway. Winter is hanging on. Sometimes, it just happens that way.

For now, the sap is flowing, and that will have to be enough. Isn't that how it works, after all?

Statistically, it seems good news abounds about breast cancer, its treatment and rates of recovery and survival. And yet, we all have friends and loved ones whose stories run against the tide and say otherwise: cancer is a tricky, sneaky little devil of a disease, after all, and why we'd like to claim full understanding of how it works its black magic, we can't possibly make sense of why more and more young women are being diagnosed, why metastatically, it remains insidious and powerfully destructive, and why the rate of occurrence is so staggeringly high across the board. Cancer kills, and it does so indiscriminately. There is little rhyme or reason to it. Kind of like our weather these days.

NED, or No Evidence of Disease, is what the folks in the medical-lingo-know call this state of being "cancer-free." Given all the different types of breast cancer there are, NED and all its possible rates of recurrence after the five year mark, are achingly complicated.

Since my surgeries back in 2008, I've seen my breast surgeon and oncologist on an alternating six-month schedule. They've been upbeat, brisk, even, suggesting that they have patients who need their time and attention much more than I do. While my time with my oncologist typically feels unrushed, sequestered, even, my visits with my breast surgeon have often felt more like a speed-screening session, five minutes of catching up over a quick breast exam, any changes?, an exchange of smiles, everything is great, a send-off with some sense of security in this mad world. The mammogram--digital now, thanks to advances made at Mass General with the 3D imaging called breast tomosynthesis--takes another five minutes. A few quick squeezes of my left girl in the pancake-machine, hold your breath, the inevitable kink in my neck, the bruised rib that mistakenly gets claimed as breast tissue, thin, flat-breasted women are indeed a special challenge, and you're so tall!, and it's done. The visits, however quick, seem to swell into long, drawn-out days. The anxiety that maybe this time they'll find something starts to creep in days, sometimes weeks, before, and there's the long drive into Boston, the red line to Charles/MGH, the precipitous wait in my johnny gown, to fill out, again, the electronic questionnaire (the question about smoking still stumps me: what if I never bought my own pack of cigarettes? does that count?), simmer in my worry, fashion magazines on my lap, and then, the pancake-session, and then, again, another wait, for the results, that all-too-familiar dread rising to fill my hollows with its stink. 

I have sought reassurance from my docs, but clearly, they have patients who need it more than I do. After all, I've been healthy, I'm walking, I'm strong, a model of survivorhood on the outside, right? Eh. My reassurance has come mostly in the form of having screenings done--first every six months, now once a year--and receiving good test results (read: your mammogram showed nothing new that looks alarming, abnormal, or cancerish. your right breast is still dense and cystic and a little wonky, but it's not necessarily wonkier than it was the last time, so all's good). When I graduated to annual screenings, it freaked me out a bit. I had come to depend on getting that reassurance every six months that I did not have cancer. The cancer is still gone. It has not come back. Your right girl is healthy, cancer-free. It gave me a new lease on life, every time. To go a full year in between screenings felt like torture, the dread and fear rising and swelling and stinking up my better sense, but because it had been presented as something to be proud of, I felt as if I was obligated to make the most of it: suck it up, cupcake. this is how it is. 

What, exactly, happens at the five-year-mark? What, exactly, was I expecting? I see my oncologist sometime this spring. I don't remember when. I am still taking my Tamoxifen. I don't intend to re-fill the bottle that I have but rather, let it run out. Good riddance, right? Five years of Tamoxifen has been enough. Or has it?

As much as I am looking forward to letting my body recover from some of the side effects that the Tamoxifen has wrought--hot flashes, especially early on; severe leg cramps; erratic, unreliable periods; brain fog; yadda yadda--I wonder (ok, I worry) about how else my body might "recover" after I stop taking Tamoxifen. I know it is protective. I know it is an amazing drug. Will the five years offer enough protection as I head into the six year mark? The ten? The twenty? What happens now?

I took a walk today. It is good tonic for me in every way, to get out in the fresh air and sunshine, take in a changing landscape (though, I would argue that it is not quite changing quickly enough), take notice of the natural world that seems, at times, so distant, given how freakin' busy I've become, fill my lungs, get the heart going, swing my arms, relax my addled tech-neck, let my faraway eyes land on something other than a screen for awhile, clear my musty head, and hope that my dog's unabashed joy for such serendipitous walks is contagious, even if it just a bit.

Whatever happens, I suppose, I'll walk on. After all, it has become my religion, my good tonic, my reassurance. Reassurance comes from living my life the way I see fit, from taking care of myself, for making time for those regular cathartic walks in nature, leaving behind the overload of responsibilities every now and again, taking some chances on something, anything, and write, write it all down, here I am. This has been much, much harder to do than I expected, more difficult to sustain. It takes time and love and acceptance and a field of fucking daisies, and sometimes, it's just not there. It's been a battle, most days, to take care of myself, to believe that I am worthy of such care, of a love that comes from the ground up, that seeps into every fiber of my being, a sinewy strength to carry me every step of the way. The shadows are with me, always. But that's not where I want to live. 

After all, I should never have gotten cancer in the first place. There is no reassurance in statistics for me. I don't feel reassured by having hit my 5-year mark. Happy, yes, but reassured that it's all smooth sailing from here? No.

"My oncologist tells me that the longest he has personally seen a woman go before a breast cancer recurrence is 21 years.  Using five years to measure success in the fight against a slow growing cancer may be giving us a false picture of progress." ~ Phyllis Johnson, Health Central.  

My cancer was Estrogen Receptor +, or ER+. There's a lot we don't know about this particular kind of cancer, but I suspect it is in cahoots with all the endocrine disruptors in our environment, working as a tag team of sorts to bring the house down. Can we truly get away from it --the BPA in our plastic, the pesticides in our food, the hidden chemicals in our day to day? And what of the sedentary-electronic disease that has gradually taken hold of so many of us? What will become of our collective nature-deprived spirit, overloaded by information, overwhelmed by social media, desperate for a real connection? How does it all factor in? I believe all the toxicity in our environment plays a giant role, interacting with our particular brand of genetic and emotional vulnerabilities to work that black magic, a wretched malady, a special kind of malaise. Just exactly what is the disease? And what is the cure? 

There are no formulas, despite our desire to find reassurance in them. Shit happens. It just does. You can get cancer even though you were in a "low-risk" group. You can get hit by a car and find yourself in a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Or you might die. I won't even go into all the freak things that can happen. We could all get hit by a meteor, or the Big One. The cancer could come back. Or a new cancer could appear. Or MS. Early Parkinson's. The Plague. Whatever. Anything is possible. The good and the bad and everything in between. We all know that.

ER+ breast cancers are no exception. I remember when I got my pathology report that having ER+ breast cancer was considered the "good kind" of breast cancer to get. Oh, the irony. The thing about ER+ breast cancer, is that it can recur at any time after five years. And I wonder: what happens when we go off the protective Tamoxifen? Does it have a lasting effect? Is it enough? Is there something else (flax seed?) that does what it does without the side effects, and that can be taken indefinitely? What are those cancer cells doing now? Lying in wait? And what will they be doing once the estrogen blockade wears off? Revert to out-of-control party mode? Hoping they've learned their lesson. Don't mess with me. I'll kick your ass if you come back. And I mean it.

 I counted on not getting cancer, but I got it. The only thing I can count on is the unpredictability of life, and because of that, I have to live each day as if it were a milestone. To open myself to the gratitude that springs eternal in each and every step, that warms these cold, early spring days, and that offers reassurance that whatever happens, I will have lived each of my days... 

"So, not to be philosophical or anything, but I think every year is a milestone. Two years, 4 years, 5 years, 7 years...if we have invasive ER+ breast cancer, we can't ever really be considered "cured," But every year is, well, ...one more year." ~ Otter 

Five years = five years. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. A handful. I'll take each and every one of them. And many more, too, please, if I may. Spring will come, but for now, I'll walk through the last remnants of winter's last gasp and enjoy the expansive light and growing warmth, the treble and touch of every step a prayer for many more years to come. I'll celebrate these five years and continue to try to find the nuggets of joy in each and every day. 

"There are different goalposts of certainty. We could be killed by a meteor, but we don't count on that. Some us (specifically me) need more help with dealing with uncertainty than others. But we can only take care of ourselves the best we can, and try to live our lives the best we can." ~ Leaf

Amen to that.

Intellectual Disabilities

Found this old, unpublished post languishing in the dusty drawers of my blog today and thought I'd share it, uh, anyway.  This was written four (four!) years ago, when we were all trying to get our heads around the fact that McCain had chosen Palin as his running mate.  I had written a longer, more politicized version that gathered several scathing nasty comments from fans, not of the Flip Side, but of Palin, and I chose to scrap it, wanting to keep the focus on generating positive vibes and juju, and not feeling armored enough to deflect so much negativity.

It's fun to laugh about it now, thinking about that insidious, strangely sublime pairing (after all, the brilliant Tina Fey would not have been able to trot out her own brilliant "you betcha" version of Sarah Palin had she not been catapulted into the spotlight), and how much fun it was to make fun of her despite our absolute terror that she just might get elected.  And it's a little wild to remember how we thought that it couldn't get much crazier than this.

And now, four years later, we learn that it can get crazier.  It can always get crazier.  And thank god for the funny people out there who offer up some much-needed comic relief during election season.

I'm a tad bit worried that I might have inadvertently contributed to the McCain/Palin campaign yesterday.

Dominick and I were walking into our local Stop and Shop yesterday afternoon. There was an older man standing outside, wearing a bright yellow vest emblazoned with "Helping God's Special Children." He held a canister in one hand for donations, and a bag of tootsie rolls slunk on the ground next to him. As we passed him, he shouted out to Dominick, who was wearing his Red Sox hat, "Do you play ball?" Dominick looked at me, as if to ask, "Mom, what kind of a question is that?" I raised my eyebrows. "Ah, yeah," Dom said, still unsure as to why this total stranger was asking him such a seemingly obvious question. The guy tossed Dominick a tootsie roll, his reward, apparently, for answering correctly. "Thank you!"

On our way out, I gave Dominick a dollar to put in the man's handy canister. And of course, after he did so, he was awarded with yet another tootsie roll, and as we crossed the street to our car, the man called him back and asked him if he had any brothers or sisters. Dominick did not miss a beat this time. "Yes, I have fourteen of them." (Actually, he wouldn't have thought of lying; he dutifully answered with a simple yes, and a thank you, when handed a third tootsie roll.) Score!

When we got to the car, I inspected the tootsie rolls, which I quickly noticed were covered in customized "The Knights of Columbus Thanks you for your Support" wrappers. But it was when I read the other side of the wrapper that I thought that perhaps I had just given a dollar to the McCain/Palin campaign:

"Helping People with Intellectual Disabilities."

Oh well. I'll double my usual donation to Obama, and maybe I'll get a box of junior mints.  ;)

Heavy Boots

"Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than those you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from safe harbor. Catch the wind in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." ~ Mark Twain

Strange energy afloat the last few days, leaving me unable to sleep, melancholic, restless.  Sails luffing.  Must be getting ready to come about.  Hard-a-lee!

Night arrives earlier and earlier each day as fall continues to pull the curtain on summer's light show, and with each pressing, lovely shade of darkness, it's all I can do to stop myself from climbing out of my own skin, head outside for some night-swimming, leave it all behind. But there's no lake here, just endless fields of corn and barley, and I walk the long roads looking for something to lighten these boots, fill these sails...

Or perhaps, it's the opposite: the need to climb back into my skin, trust in my body again, spend a little less time in my head, and more time surrendering to the sentience of living aflush, here, and now, nerve-endings awake and alive and electric with connection, a little passion, flow.  Please?  I don't think I can wait another day, another night.

I walk until I find some moonlight, and fill my hollows with the stillness and the shimmer of the stars above.  And yet, it is not ever enough.

Sleep seems intangible, something of an other world, something that no longer belongs to me.  As if my days cannot end, as if those missing pieces are indeed starting to talk to me, demanding that they be dealt with, polished and examined, loved, again.  Don't you forget about me.  

What will it take?  Why is it so hard to make a change?  To trust that it will be okay?  Why can't I break free, gather the winds from the skies above to power my own sails and passage through stormy seas?  This is, after all, no longer a safe harbor.  It's time to throw off the bowlines.  Have an adventure.

"I am not afraid of storms for I am learning to sail my ship."  ~ Louisa May Alcott

Sometimes I think I want the big storm to roll in, as if I will respond only to the catastrophic with a force equal in thunder and verve, to take action, my fight or flight instinct taking over, and harvest the glad tidings and joy that wash in with the tide.  But things remain puddle-stuck, unchanging, stat-quo, blue gloom, in this little spit-spot, and I don't intend to languish here for too much longer.  That there are still things and people here that get me through, that feed me, that I love, is not lost on me, and I am grateful: just this morning, walking through this wind-swept day, noticing that change is all around me, in the burnished tops of grass and corn stalks catching the light, the periodic dance of flocking birds, the sudden shifts in light and air and even the way the earth-smell has deepened with a richness of a slowly rotting, forever cycling world, I was reminded that change is what makes us, keeps us, alive, echoing the force, the beauty, the necessity of unbridled, seasonal tack that lies deep within us, and without.

And this, too: walking through a shiver of Saturday morning comings and goings, happy for a few serendipitous face-to-face connections and real conversations with friends, and starkly aware of the absence of others, I am, by turns, encouraged and disheartened, the ache deep and palpable, the swell and tilt of emotion rising to the surface to find release in this gently blustery day.  I hear you.  I know you're there.  There is a sharpness to the emptiness, an expansiveness to the loneliness that fills the space, and I don't trust it fully; my breath restarts again, and I am transported back to the slow burn of fear and dread, where my mind takes me to all the worst possible conclusions, and then back again, to the searing, soaring hope, above all else, for something better.

Something better.  I've imagined it, letting the possibility roll on my tongue, the kernel of promise split into an anticipation huge and luminous and a-shimmer with the dance of heartache.

Heavy boots.  Pulling in the sails.  Just going to luff it out for awhile, sit with the tears spilling salt on my cheeks, listen to the wind moving through the trees, whispers of my heart, my hollows.

We fill those hollows as best we can, with star dust and sunflowers and sweet, unexpected kindnesses that smooth out the rough edges, and it's all we can do, over and over again.   Fill it up again, restock the shelves, prepare for stormy seas, and then, when we're ready, when we can't stand it another day, trust that our strength and light will see us through, and go.  Go.

Katie Daisy original

Humpty Dumpty: Picking up the Pen to Pick up the Pieces

Hello out there!

I have missed you.

Life has swallowed me up, and I've been unable to spend any time here for a long while.  I find myself this  morning with a lovely little stretch of time while I wait for my mother to have a bronchoscopy at Mass General Hospital in Boston, and well, without the usual distractions, I am tempted to do a little writing.  I'm not sure if just being here in this gargantuan bee hive of workers and drones and Queen bees at MGH has reminded me of the times when I myself have been the patient and needed to process, dismantle, defuse the building, encroaching shadows, or if just simply watching my mother navigate the increasing menacing terrain of aging has triggered this sudden need to examine where I am with it all, but whatever the reason, here I am, eager to fill the blank space with a few words.  Not for work--where I write the same kind of email, have the same kind of  conversations on the phone, over and over again, the repetition bordering on the inane dripping from fingers, paralyzing tongue.  Not on Facebook--where I slice and dice snippets of my overlapping worlds and force them into tiny little boxes of intrigue and wit--the status update.  Sigh.  No, this kind of writing is just for me, perhaps, and for you.  A bit of sublime, self-directed, creative play with words.  An expression of this moment.  A look back, a new perspective.  A romp through my sleep-deprived brain.  Do bare with me. (yes, pun intended)

I was up early, after all.  5 am.  Thanks to a wake-up call full of sweetness and unexpected humor from a friend and neighbor (a farmer who is up even earlier than that most mornings), I was able to ease into the dark morning with a smile ("Front desk," he deadpanned on the other end), offer my mother some reassurance with my own wakefulness, and look forward to the day.

Long drive into Boston aside, I often think that early morning time is the best part of the day, if you can get it.  The kids are still asleep, the dog and cat are full of sweet, sleepy love, and the world is quiet, save for the morning doves cooing in the thick fog.  Of course, I can't get it all that often, given how late my teenagers keep me up (and recently, all those fiery, get-up-and-do-something speeches from the DNC), how sleep has become such a necessity, how exhausted I usually am at the end of a full day.  But wouldn't it be nice, to wake up long before the fog starts to climb the distant mountains, catch the ripeness of the moon setting every now and then, sit with a cup of tea and write those morning pages.

Strange to think that nearly every day for many, many months I shared, here, so much of what was going on with me, my internal landscape laid bare and brazen for the picking.  At the time, it was all I could do: share my story, process all the muck before it destroyed me, and let it go.  Faced with an unexpected breast cancer diagnosis, blogging became a matter of survival.  Without it, the sheer weight of the uncertainty and ludicrousness of the initial diagnosis--that blasted, spitfire bitch--would have toppled me.  Without it, the insidiousness of the fear and dread would have hooked its barbed teeth into me, eaten me alive, spit out my bones.  Without it, I never would have realized that the 'bitch, as with most difficult, life-altering experiences, offered unexpected opportunities and lessons in wisdom, clarity, gratitude.  Without it, I never would have experienced my own sense of rebirth--back into a light and love through reaching out and connecting with all the shimmering juju that is ours for the taking, if only we ask.  The best thing that came out of all my earlier blogging was hearing from so many women who were going through similar struggles with breast cancer, who were re-experiencing the world with fresh eyes, and rediscovering what really mattered to them.

(as an aside, I just went to the bathroom down the hall; it seems my 5 am wake up time has left me with dark circles reminiscent earlier days of nursing my babies through the night, and still earlier, staying up several days in a row, for marathon study sessions, or, more likely, rugby-banquet-inspired 3-day drinking-round-the-bonfire binges)

We make our choices: we can swim in the dark, brave our murkiest depths to shine the light on our two-headed, cross-eyed monsters, and bring them to the surface for refashioning; we can stay in the light, and never venture below, staying close to the surface and denying ourselves rich opportunities for getting to know our truest selves, the unplumbed dreams, hopes and fears that make us who we are.  The sun rises for us each and every day; cancer taught me that we must never lose sight of that chance for renewal, growth, change, even when, especially when the darkness threatens to overwhelm.

There's a great Aimee Mann song (there are many), Humpty Dumpty, about the push and pull of depression, and particularly, being in that stasis state when nothing, it seems, is working to "bring you back to zero":

"Say you were split, you were split in fragments
and none of the pieces would talk to you
wouldn't you want to be who you had been
well, baby I want that, too..."

Life does that--over and over again, shattering your world into bits and pieces that suddenly make no sense to you, or to one another.  Parents suddenly announce their impending divorce.  A cancer diagnosis comes out of nowhere, and four years later, an over-sized pick-up truck does the same, slamming into you with the same kind of force that leaves you grappling for meaning and purpose amid the wreckage and gasping for the breathy lightness of gratitude.  Another blip, another reminder: it is good to be alive, after all.

And there are times when we are the masters of our own destruction, for good and for bad.  We end a long time relationship with someone who used to mean everything to us.  We switch jobs.  We take a hiatus from the rush 'n go and hibernate, a forced sabbatical to deliberately re-set our balance, reclaim what matters most.

Our task, after all, is to constantly engage in that ongoing rich, creative process of dismantling and re-assembling the pieces that make up our lives, to intentionally deconstruct, take apart, surrender to the natural falling away; accept the sudden, unexpected decimations; consider the pieces, through close, careful examination, and decide which are worth saving, and which must go.  Our task is to listen.   It all comes back to the central question:

Katie Daisy print:  http://katiedaisy.com/

Starting at a young age, we develop tools that provide critical support for getting us through.  I started writing at an early, early age, and there was great power in that: to recast something unsettling in a more manageable light, to edit and revise my life in a way that allowed me to listen, reflect, let go, move forward, forgive.  It was a way to stake my claim in a life that sometimes seemed beyond my control, to reassert my own presence in directing its course, to make sense of it all.  And when everything was blasted to bits, and I had to gather up the pieces and get on with it, writing often proved to be the best way to get those wayward bits and shards and pieces to talk to me, to make peace with their dark beginnings, put myself back together.

If you've read any of my other Flip Side of Forty posts, you know that Walking, and all its wonderful charms, has always proven to be just as therapeutic, and healing for me as Writing.  I walk so I can stay grounded; I am instantly transported back to what gave me strength, heart and hope as a child: our undeniable inter-connectivity to nature, and to each other.  Walking fine tunes my sense of all that I love about the world, hooks me into the rhythms of the natural world, and forces me to be here now, take notice, listen and learn.  And the combination of Writing and Walking has been especially powerful: a delicious, cathartic tonic to whatever ails me.

http://www.etsy.com/listing/72526245/plaque-john-muir-quote-made-to-order 

So, I encourage you: Go find what it is that works for you, and whatever it is--that allows you to connect to your best self, discover and get to know all the fragments that make up your mosaic self, change your course, decide your next step, and inhabit your "one wild and precious life"-- that's where your time and energy has to go.  Be disciplined, be dedicated, be relentless in your pursuit of what keeps you well.  Set those boundaries and prepare to fight for what you need.  It's your right--don't let anyone ever tell you differently.

I'm trying desperately to do the same, to get back to my Writing, make more time for my Walking, count on more quiet and stillness in my day, surround myself with the good vibrations of intentional practice and let myself, my life, breathe.

(funny, all this talk about breathing while Mom comes out of her bronchoscopy)

I don't want Life to swallow me up.  I'd rather air out legs, head, and heart on the lovely back-country roads that surround me, spread my wings on the pages of my writing, and fly...

I wish you well.

Eight Minutes

I want to write.  I want to write everyday.  I've always wanted to write.  When I haven't written for a while, I feel all clogged up, ready to spew, or so bogged down that I can barely drag myself about.  So, why has it been so damn hard to find the time--and take it--to write?  I've realized that I've been waiting, quite foolishly, for those long stretches of quiet time to arrive and buffer me from the usual brouhaha before settling in front of the 'puter, uninterrupted hours that have not been mine for many, many years now, and may not come at all.  So, why wait?

Like now, for instance.  I have exactly eight minutes before I must hop into the car and drive about 15 miles south of here to pick up my younger son at soccer camp.  I just arrived home from working several hours about 20 miles north of here--not quite yet a regular gig, and only part-time, but it seems to be consuming a large part of my day--and tossed aside the usual fillers to instead take a stab at an eight minute post.

You know the drill--you arrive home, in between trips, errands, jobs, yadda yadda, and instead of doing anything meaningful, or something that you really want to do, you fill the time with a succession of ridiculous little tasks designed to make you feel more in control of your Time, and, consequently, your Life.  Sweep the porch.  Rearrange the jumble of shoes on the front porch.  Make your kid a sandwich.  Ask him, again, to clean up his room.  Give the dog fresh water.  Brush out the burrs that she's collected during her morning amble.  Switch the laundry.  Fold a few towels.  Flush the toilet (a problem in my house).  Move some papers around.  Pay a bill.  Check Facebook.  Wipe the crumbs off the kitchen counters.  Put the cat out.  Again.  Pull a few weeds around the front patio.  Brush your teeth.

Of course, we need to spend some of our time grounding ourselves in our daily rituals, whatever they may be.  And sweeping the front porch has always been one of mine.  But much of the domestic oddities I preoccupy myself with are nothing that I really want to be doing.  I'd much rather shift gears entirely, re-establish writing as a daily ritual, and start giving myself permission to write--whatever, however long--as a filler.  Leave the dishes in the sink.  Forget about trying to start dinner early--I've never been able to do that anyway.  Say this a little bit more often: "Busy!  Make your own sandwich, please!"

My eight minutes are up.  Time to get back in the car, drive over hills and rivers and under stormy skies (am expecting to see the Dark Mark at any second), and back again, jiggety jig.  Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to grab another eight minutes.  It's a worthy goal.  I've got to start someplace.  Might as well be here.

A Salute to the Boobies, Past, Present, & Future, 2009-2010

Another one in the works for 2011!   Enjoy!

Record Heat No Match for the Blue Footed Boobies: Boston 3-Day 2011

Boobies B.J. (Before Jeannie)

We did it!!  WOOT!!  The Blue Footed Boobies got it done!!  Last Friday-Sunday, we blazed through 60 steamy, sweltering, blistering miles, navigated a hazardous heat index, unexpected delays, and logistical minefields, and successfully completed the 2011 Boston 3-Day for the Cure.  It was epic.  Fueled by a constant diet of water, sports drinks, shot blocks, bananas, Gu, salty peanuts, and most importantly, the spirit of Ubuntu and moxie that Boobies are well-known for, the team—including our newest member, Jeannie Gray, who found us at 5 am during the first morning, and never looked back—did amazingly well.  Yes, the Boobies showed some true grit, kicked ass, and rocked the walk (and quite literally, too; thank goodness for that cheap little battery-operated purple portable speaker that hooked up to my iPhone, blasted out such old-school favorites as Funkytown & You Dropped a Bomb on Me, & kept us going!). Linda, Roxanne, Lydia, and Jeannie gutted out one of the toughest 3-Days on record.  I am so proud of my Boobies!  

Thanks to our rigorous training regimen, which began in January, and included steamrolling hills, interval training, and logging more than 700 miles each, 3 pairs of running shoes, and many, many hours of twalking (that is not a typo: walking + talking = twalking), cross-training, and constant stretching, the Boobies were able to soar through those 60 miles.   But we couldn’t have done it without YOU.  Thanks to all of you, who gave generously, sent encouraging messages of love and support, came out to cheer us on, and infused the experience with good juju, we were able to not just survive but thrive.  The Blue Footed Boobies suffered only minimal blisters, no injuries, no bad tempers, no heat sickness.  We enjoyed ourselves, made new friends, and deepened friendships.  We danced through the streets of Boston.  We raised over $22,000, earning Power Team pins for our efforts.  And--thanks to some last-minute donations, and in particular, a $56 contribution from Dominick to put me over by a dollar, I cleared, for the first time, the $10K mark in my own personal fundraising goal.  Woot!  It felt great to be amongst the top ten fundraisers for the third year in a row.  Thank you all so much for making that possible.

Exactly a week ago today, the Boobies stood amidst throngs of other walkers—over 1700 in all—and, in this sea of pink, watched the sun rise and burst through the morning skies above Farm Pond in Framingham, the site of the Opening Ceremonies for the 2011 Boston Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure, and the kick-off to the 2011 season that will include walks in 14 cities.  It would be a premonitory sunrise, fair warning of the heat that would build throughout the day to unprecedented levels, forcing the organizers to implement contingency plans to minimize heat-related mishaps, emptying Friday’s cheering sections and challenging even the most well-conditioned athletes on the walk.  

Lydia, Liz, and Linda

The night before, we had gathered for dinner, shamelessly putting away pizzas and salads proportioned for giants (or 3-Day walkers).  Roxanne, veteran walker and captain of a gigantic team in San Diego, and Linda, at 71, the most experienced member of the team (ie, the most kickass), had come from the OC rehearsal, where Roxanne would carry the “Friend” flag in honor of her buddy Carol.  Lydia and I had driven in together from out this way, feeling emboldened by the new henna tattoos that Kelly Flaherty had given us a few days before.  After dinner, I wrote the names of many of the people I would be walking for on a long Boobie-blue ribbon: Cindy, Betsy, Jeanne, Barb, Rima, Rosalinda, Gabrielli, Maribeth, Mimi, Katie, Joy, Sarah, Anja, Karen, Judy, Corky, Molly, Tony, June, Judy, Suzanne, Betty, Kit, Henry, Liz ….  It was a long ribbon. 

After managing to wrest a few hours of sleep from the dark night, we awoke at 4 on Friday morning, Day One, to step outside and greet the already impressive, oppressive heat.  Taking our places on the shuttle bus that would take us from our Natick hotel to the Opening Ceremonies, we felt instantly and hooked into that powerful 3-Day magic, that collective spirit of courage, resilience, and tenacity that brought us all together to “Share Our Courage” with its Obama-esque promise of “Together We Can…Go Further Than Imagined.”   It would be a deep wellspring of love and compassion and ice cold water that lined the route, and we dipped frequently, and it made all the difference.

Fill me up, fill me up, I’m a long way from home

And I don’t have a lot to say

Fill me up, fill me up, ‘cause you’re all that I’ve got

And I traveled a long, long way

The popular pink mohawk

A vision!

Intrepid crew

The first thing I noticed at the Opening Ceremonies, aside from the pale moon and the fiery sun sharing sky space above, and the fact that my Boston accent was quickly returning, were the men.  So many more than last year--and wearing such (wicked) awesome get-ups!  There is something about the 3-Day that compels the men to air out their Priscilla, Queen of the Desert fantasies, and go all out.  Not that they are competitive or anything, or trying to outdo each other, no, no.  Beards and mustaches and hair dyed pink.  Ginormous, bright pink, bling-bras edged in fur—faux, I am certain.  Kilts.  Skirts.  Dresses.  Knee socks.   Spiky pink Mohawks.  Team Men with Heart in their orange-yellow shirts, backpacks filled with things walkers might need, singing their songs.  The 60 Mile Men, calendar pin-ups, walking with beauty pageant ribbons across their chests and well-muscled calves.  The men, in particular, dress for the occasion.  I have my theories (haha).  And I appreciate the way so many of them put so much thought and effort into the appearance.  Really.  William Wallace meets Frank-.N- Furter.  There is nothing better.  

My war paint--under wraps

We all, men and women, wear our own particular brand of battle gear—matching team uniforms, henna tattoos, pins and buttons and beads and bandannas—declaring our readiness, our resolve, that fire in the belly that’s going to see us through those 60 miles.  Plus, it’s all part of the show, the spectacle, that shimmering river of hope and love that winds its way through Boston and its ‘burbs, to make people sit up and take notice:  “We are here, and we are walking to find a cure, and to make breast cancer history.  Are you with us?”  It’s the reason why they don’t hold the 3-Day out here in the sticks, where the walking is as fine as it comes, with hills, views, and fresh air, but alas, not enough people to take it all in.

Veteran Walker Roxanne showing us how it's done!

The indomitable Linda Batty

There is no place to hide on the 3-Day.  There is no escaping the cycling through of emotions that range from deep sadness and a profound sense of loss to intense gratitude, pure joy and a sense of hope that is as much overwhelming as it is exhilarating.   And why hide?  The whole experience is wonderfully cathartic—a mixture of blood, sweat, and tears, with a whole lot of laughter thrown in for comic relief.  I’ve described the Opening Ceremonies before as a Pandora-like, pulsating, interconnected sea of focused intention, energy and good will, and this year was no different: we were packed in like sardines, eager to begin the first of 60 miles, full of anticipation, music blasting, making us bounce, beach balls zipping about.  Good cheer, civility, and compassion at its absolute best, a force field lighting up the breaking dawn.  Everyone was here for their own reasons, some universal, some incredibly personal.   And the stories presented themselves everywhere, etched on the lines of the faces surrounding us, on team t-shirts and buttons emblazoned in the pink light of the morning, on the ribbons and beads and homemade signs festooning fanny packs and necklines, along the route, in cheering sections, in the faces of young children who stand in the hot sun to thank us for walking.  One girl of about seven held a sign that said “My mother died from breast cancer. Keep walking for a cure.”  Another older girl passed out her story to walkers on pieces of paper that asked us to remember her mother, taken from her when she was eight.  And there are the survivors and the fighters, out to thank us for doing what they cannot.  “Thank you for saving my life.”  “Celebrating 30 years of survivorship.”  At times, it is almost too much to bear.  And yet, it is the manna of the Walk.  The reason we do what we do: the faces behind the stories, the stories behind the statistics, the one in eight.  This girl is why we walk.  However heartbreaking, we need to see her.

Team Boobie

Bolstered by the addition of Jeannie, who graced us with her warm, sweet spunk and fine sense of humor, the Boobies set off Friday morning to walk the first several miles along smog-infested, morning rush-hour congested, traffic lanes, which made us pine for the clean, country air we had trained in.  I can’t imagine what we were breathing in.  Such was the perfection of the addition of Jeannie that at lunchtime I pinned an I Love Boobies pin on her and dubbed her an honorary Boobie.  I warned her: “Once a Boobie, always a Boobie.”  She accepted.  Hooray!

Welcome to the Boobies, Jeannie!

The heat roasted us like smooth little chestnuts on the route, and on several occasions, the organizers were forced to shut the route down, detaining walkers with a military-styled “You’re not going anywhere,” and bussing the sweaty, heady throngs from one pit stop to the next.  Ambulances careened past every now and then, sirens filling the air, and we’d say, “Uh-oh, that’s not good,” and keep on walking.  The medical tents were filled with overheated people on cots, getting ice and fluids and medical attention of all kinds.  But, God bless ‘em, the cheering sections were full of brave souls who were not going to let a little heat wave get in the way of coming out to show their support.  

 Med tent overflowing

I won the hula hoop contest at lunch, just sayin'

We were five of just a hundred or so walkers who actually walked most of the route the first day, having been detained at lunch for a short while, then allowed to walk to pit stop 4.  This particular 4 mile trek through unrelenting pavement in Waltham center (or was it Woburn?) was brutal.  No trees, no shade, no grass.  And no people—the heat had sent everyone running in search of A/C.  We could have really used the extra watering stations the organizers had promised us, but even they were not to be found.  As strong (and indignant that we were forced to climb into the bus for a 2 mile ride to lunch) as we were feeling when we set out after lunch, by just a mile or two into this leg we had developed a healthy respect for the heat.  I remember thinking, “I totally get now how this could kill someone.”  I could feel my heart, big and busy, trying to keep up with the cooling process.  I thought, maybe I shouldn’t have hula-hooped at lunch.  We were drinking constantly, and staying energized with frequent nips of Gu.  We wore our bandannas around our necks filled with ice, which all too quickly melted to drip, drip down our backs.  We wore hats, slathered on the zinc oxide, walked in the shade—however paltry--when we could.  I knew we had to keep on, otherwise risk melting, quite literally, into the asphalt, to simmer and stink amongst the rotting garbage that seemed to lurk on every corner.  So, we kept on.  Keep walking for a cure.  By the time we got to Pit Stop 4, there were hundreds of walkers—maybe even all 1700 minus us—already there, having been bused from earlier pit stops en route.  The course was absolutely and officially closed for the day.  The heat index was just too high.  We would be bussed to camp.  Some were pissed that they couldn’t finish, others were plainly relieved, and still others were too dazed and depleted to register the decision.  We endured a long wait in long lines to sit in an overly-air-conditioned bus that rocketed and jittered its way to camp—once there, the driver got lost, and after several near-misses with other buses, finally let us out.  Hallelujah.  We were baked.  And I don’t mean that in a good, hey-I’ve-got-the-munchies kind of way.

At camp, we had time to kill before they allowed us to shower or set up our pink tents on the heat-soaked artificial turf fields that would be our home for the next two nights, so we took advantage of some of the camp offerings before dinner, getting foot and back massages at the Bank of America tent, charging our phones, looting the post office for lovely letters and chocolates, and all the while constantly drinking more water, refilling our water bottles, and draining them again and again. It cooled off sufficiently to get some Zombie-land sleep, even though my air mattress deflated in the middle of the night and I woke up with my butt on the ground and pinched in on all sides. It was already 3, so almost time to get up anyway.  (yes, really).

The next day, while still in the high 90’s and a hazardous heat index to boot, felt immensely better.  The organizers had hoped to open the route at 6 am instead of 6:30 so we had a better chance of beating the heat, but their ice vendor refused to get up a half hour early, so we all had to stand and wait at the start for a good 45 minutes before they would let us go.  I tried to reason with the head honcho, but she would not be swayed.  There was a moment when I thought the walkers would erupt into a MLK-Ghandi-Alice Paul-inspired protest, and there was some synchronized clapping and chanting “Let us walk!” for a few minutes, but it faded quickly, and before we knew it, we were slip, slapping the pavement once again, high-fiving the Pink Angels, and rushing to those porta potties at every pit stop.  With the exception of some thunder and lightning that closed the route for a short spell in the morning, forcing us into our clingy, plastic, cheapo ponchos to dodge puddles and truck sprays, we cruised through our 20+ miles, meeting up with family and friends and favorite dogs along the way.  

The final day dawned cloudy and cooler, and we were glad for the light rain that followed us for the first few miles down Brattle Street and into Harvard Square.  We were happily surprised by BFB Gretel and her three kids, who jumped out of a coffee shop to see us, inspired us with their signs (“Little Girls Thank You!  You make the world better!”) and 3-Day attire, and later, by a happy hatch of Boobies—and walkers in the 2010 3-Day—on Comm. Ave.  Such a wonderful treat to get to see so many beloved Boobies along the way--my mother and Dominick, and Gretel, Meg, Marggie, Barb, and Cindy.  So, so glad to see everyone, but especially Cindy, whose smile proved to be the best shot block around.  We took turns carrying the Blue Footed Boobies banner, filled with all the names of the Boobies: Angie, Ursula, Jeanne, Damon, Marggie, Rachel, Meg, Gretel, Barb, Cindy, Gail, Dominick, Katie, the very latest Booby, Jeannie, and yours truly, Captain Booby.  

On Boston Common, we very nearly followed groups of tourists—not walkers—off the course, finding that those little understated black and white arrow signs were easy to lose in the rush and splendor (well, that’s one word for it) of the urban landscape.  We bounced along to music coming from my mini-boom box that screeched and swung from my hip like a howler monkey.  It seemed perfectly suitable for the theater district in particular, and by the time we got to the Seaport section of Boston, we were flying along.  Roxanne’s friend, Carol, and Jr. Boobies, Dominick and Lydia’s two boys, Noah and Pierre, joined us for the final stretch along the Harborwalk in South Boston, and represented exceptionally well.  Blue Footed Boobies in training, indeed!  Noah and Dom wore their “Save Second Base” pin, while Pierre relished being a “Pink Man.”  They got in the spirit even more at the finish, where Noah and Dom sprayed their hair, fingernails and toenails pink, and they all took it upon themselves to commandeer a water station, filling cups with ice water for parched Closing Ceremonies-goers and keeping the coolers filled.  Next year: Youth Corps!

It felt great to have finished.  The first day was particular grueling, which made it all the more awesome. Boston walkers—about 1700 in all—raised an astonishing $4.8 million!  Komen is launching some exciting new initiatives, and has now sunk $1.8 billion into breast cancer research and community outreach and education programs.  YOU should be proud.  YOU made this possible.  Thank YOU so much for your support, for being a part of this, for taking up the banner and holding it high.  You ROCK.

A few special thank yous: to my incredible teammates, Roxanne, Linda, Lydia, and Jeannie, who invented a new kind of BFB-mojo (better than cajones!) to kick some heat wave ass; to the walkers, who smoothed out the belligerent bad-itude of the weather with grace and civility and humor; to the 3-Day crew, who took such good care of us during what must have been an incredibly difficult, potentially litigious time; to friends and family who took the time to send encouraging letters and messages, hugs, and good juju; to our families, for keeping us strong, walking with us, and holding the Boobie banner high; to Kelly, our team henna tattoo artist, for adorning us for battle; to all the Boobies, for being there, always, for each other (BFBF!); to all our family and friends and all the folks who braved the heat to cheer us on, offer up frozen grapes, and spray us down with water; to those who have lost loved ones to breast cancer and shared their stories and made us cry; to my fellow survivors who inspire me to keep walking year after year; and to all the men who squeezed themselves into bras and skirts, walked with us this year, and made me laugh.  THANK YOU!

The fight isn’t over.  Not until Cindy doesn’t have to keep looking over her shoulder to try to figure out where her breast cancer will show up next.  Not until all cancer is curable, and not just treatable.  Not until those little girls lining the route with their hand drawn signs can rest easy, knowing that there is a cure for the breast cancer that took their mothers.  Not until all women have access to mammograms and free screening and treatment options.  It is within our reach.  But there is still work to be done.  I have my eye on Boston 2012.  The hatch is expanding for next year.  Let me know if you are interested in joining us.

Thanks again.  And thanks for listening to my story.

With love & gratitude,

BFBF,

Liz, aka Captain Booby