Brenda's Blog

Stage IV Breast Cancer & The Will to Survive

Sun, 13 May 2012 21:37:00 GMT

My lower back has been in excruciating pain since Thursday, and I can't get in to see "Dr. Magic Hands" until Monday afternoon. I hesitate to even mention this because many metastatic cancer patients endure far more than I am. In comparison, my back is not even a blip on their pendulum of physical and emotional pain.

I think about friends, like Donna Peach, who are enduring unimaginable pain and suffering due to Stage IV metastatic breast cancer treatments, and I wonder how they do it? Their will to live must be far greater than mine. Perhaps if James were still alive or if I had children, I would do anything to be with them, but James isn’t here, and I don’t have children, so I’m left wondering... What would I do in their position? Would I keep fighting and taking treatments that don’t give me a good quality of life?<PREVIEWEND>

I’d already begun writing this blog when I read “Your Silence Will Not Save You” by Katie Ford Hall at UneasyPink. She writes that when someone dies, we rarely know whether it was the cancer that killed them or the complications from treatment. She thinks it’s in everyone’s best interest to know how effective Stage IV treatments are, plus we should know more about the risks. I second that.

In 1987 my first husband, Philip, died from complications of an experimental Stage IV Lung cancer treatment. Even though it was administered daily, on an outpatient basis at the National Cancer Institute in Bethesda, Maryland, no one verbally told us what to expect. I’m certain complications were mentioned in the fine print on the treatment release forms Philip signed, but no one suggested any downside to treatment other than it might not work. Since it was experimental, I have to wonder whether his doctors even knew the risks? Of course none of that consoled me as I watched Philip die in the back of an ambulance after treatment.

At the suggestion of a mutual friend, I recently spent the afternoon with Alana Stewart, actress, Emmy-nominated producer and best friend extraordinaire to Farrah Fawcett. Alana’s book touched me deeply as she described nearly three years of accompanying Farrah to Germany for what would be numerous painful chemo embolizations, laser and ultrasound surgeries, radiation and blood clots, interspersed with marathon sessions of projectile vomiting. Soldiering on with an unflinching will, Farrah was courageous and hopeful, nearly to the end.

Perhaps I know too much about the odds of beating cancer to do what Farrah did; to be hopeful that I’d be the one in a zillion, megaball, Stage IV lottery winner who’s cured of their cancer. The will to do whatever it takes to survive and protect ourselves and our family is the strongest will there is, and yet, I'm not sure I would endure what many Stage IV cancer patients go through. It would be my fervent hope that a compassionate oncologist would tell me all the facts surrounding my options and quality of life. From what I know, palliative care may be the most loving and humane course of action, and in many cases, can prolong life better than experimental treatments.

If I’m faced with metastatic breast cancer, I know I will be hopeful about some things: that the lives of those I love will be blessed, and that Dr. Susan Love and her Army of Women will find the cause of breast cancer and develop a way to prevent it. We all desperately want a cure, but wouldn’t it be better not to worry about getting breast cancer in the first place? For me, that’s the ultimate survival.

Where I Go to Meditate

Sun, 06 May 2012 22:23:00 GMT

If you’re a regular reader then you know I embrace hypnosis, meditation and Guided Imagery as some of the most powerful weapons in our cancer-fighting arsenal. A recent dinner conversation with my friend, Nick, reminded me of one of my favorite places, Tulum. It’s where I frequently “go” when I need to get calm and centered and gather my strength. I found this piece about Tulum I wrote in 1992, that I was going to email Nick. I know it’s long, but I thought I’d share it with you as well. Where do you go when you meditate?

"The Place Where the Sky Was Born"
Sian Kaan is magical and mystical. The ancient Mayans said it was the place where the sky was born, ascending from the sea, soaring upward like a giant bird in flight. With each flap of its wings, the great bird painted broad strokes through the air, taking the blue from the sea and the white crest of the waves. Sian Kaan, together with the toucans and herons, the howler monkeys and jaguars, surround and protect my ancient Mayan city of Tulum.

Even the name, Tulum, fills me with wonder and reverence. The energy here vibrates in waves from the temple Castillo and rises and joins forces with the sea and the sky. It’s not a coincidence I’ve discovered Tulum. In some ways, I think it’s part of my past, part of who I am, and who I hope to be.<PREVIEWEND> Like a small sapling, I gather strength and nourishment from the sun and the sea. I’m drawn like a magnet, and I come here every day, preferably alone. When I return home to our villa, Tulum dominates my dreams where I go in meditative prayer to sit on the edge of temple Castillo to watch the sea and fill my soul with rapture.

I remember the first time I saw Tulum. We battled the dense geography of a three-canopy jungle, enduring mosquitoes so thick they hovered in clouds around our eyes and ears and filled our nostrils with a buzzing sensation that felt like a mild electrical shock. We worked most of the morning, chopping and hacking our way through vines as big around as our waist. Soaked to the skin with the salty taste of sweat and an insect repellent that served little purpose, we would turn around to look at our progress, only to find the jungle had removed all signs of our passage. It was as though nature was reminding us of our insignificance: Mere mortals, here for a fraction of a millisecond of God’s time.

At some point, the jungle gave way to a series of small lagoons and meandering palm trees. A cool breeze began to dry our skin, leaving small crusty patches of salt on our arms and legs. And then there it was, perched on the edge of a cliff; a small Mayan temple, towering above the sparkling white beach and azure blue of the Caribbean. Like a small child runs to the outstretched arms of a loving parent, I ran toward Tulum, momentarily stopping to trace the carved relief images in the stone with my fingers. Then inexplicably, I was drawn to the top of the temple.

I watched a native emerge from the jungle. Barefoot and brown skinned, he climbed to the top with ease and grace, then sat down next to me on the ledge overlooking the sea. His eyes were yellowed and smiling, playful and wise, welcoming me like he would an old friend who'd returned from a long journey.

Pretending to strum a guitar, he softly hummed an exotic melody. "The Murder of the Jaguar," he called it. A two-headed serpent sat on the rocks next to us, its tongues darting in and out of twin throats, hissing in a syncopated rhythm with the native's song. Perhaps the serpent was a descendant of the feathered snake god, Quetzalcoatl. Perhaps it was there to remind us of the beauty of its Mayan ancestors and the power of Tulum.

Twenty years later, I sit on the edge of the same temple Castillo as a barracuda cruises back and forth in Sian Kaan, the ocean waters below. I say the name over and over in my mind like a mantra. “Sh’an Ka'an.” The place where the sky was born. Overhead, a bird lets out a startled human-like cry. “The invaders are coming.” Behind me, bus loads of pale-skinned tourists with disposable cameras and fanny packs approach like bargain hunters at a garage sale, and I am reminded of a Joni Mitchell song, "Find paradise. Put up a parking lot."

I watch as a man and woman walk past the painted frescoes on a nearby temple. They ignore the faded colors that depict Itzamná, the sky god, and the rain god, Chac, together with the moon, the stars and the fish below. As the couple moves on, bits of their conversation drifts upward on the wind.

"You think they sell margaritas here?" the man asks. He’s wearing a Dallas Cowboys cap and a New Zealand Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt.

"I don't know," the woman replies, "but I hope they have someplace I can buy one of those little ceramic frogs."

I watch them hurry past and wonder if they “appreciated” the beauty of New Zealand as much as they appear to appreciate Tulum. I’m sad and somewhat depressed by the changes since my first visit, and I wish the jungle would close in around me, leaving only me, Tulum and Sian Kaan.

Like a time traveler, I would gather the energy around me and become part of the painted histories of warriors and virgins, princes and priests. I would enter hidden rooms filled with cups of hammered gold and necklaces of jade and obsidian, then emerge into the sunlight and ascend upward from the sea like a giant bird in flight.

Off to the Races!

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 00:42:00 GMT

©Ramborella, LLC. All rights reserved.

Last week I shot the pilot for a national television talk show with me as the host, and I must say, it all went by in a blink. Months of work and planning were over in no time. My day began with an early hotel wake-up call and ended with removing my false eyelashes, then falling asleep seconds after I turned out the light. My friend, Celina, was worried I might have a “blue slump” when the big day was over, but there’s been no time for a letdown. As I told Celina, “I’ve bitten off something really big, and there’s no time to do anything but make this talk show a reality.”<PREVIEWEND>

Oh, how I wish I could tell you every detail, but we’re in a “blackout” period until the show’s “a go” or “no-go.” Either way, you can’t imagine what’s crammed into our relatively short timeline, a critical path designed to turn a pilot into a full-blown talk show. We’ve begun something akin to an Olympic track and field event. The starter pistol has already fired, and we’ve come out of the blocks as fast as our legs will take us. While we’re not on the course with other racers, we do have to achieve a winning criteria. Then, if it’s “a go,” like being flung from a sling shot, another frantic race will begin: researching shows, booking guests and developing interview questions; finding clothes to wear and shoes narrow enough to fit my skinny feet; filling the audience with lots of wonderful women and men and shooting back-to-back shows till our first season is taped, edited and “in the can.” If it’s a no-go, then I’ll smile and cherish this wonderful, crazy experience and know that I gave it my best. As winning Super Bowl coach, Mike Ditka, said, “Success isn’t permanent, and failure isn’t fatal.” Either way, I will be fine.

One of the things I can tell you is that from the moment Dr. Susan Love walked into the makeup room, everyone fell in love with her. Word she was on set spread like crazy, and the director and crew came to meet her. Quite simply, Susan Love is a phenomenon! She radiates openness, enthusiasm and a curiosity laced with intensity, excitement and more than a pinch of mischief. Even to the casual observer, it’s apparent Susan Love does everything with her entire being. She is the real deal!

When we’d finished taping her segment, Dr. Love was mobbed by women who had more questions for her or who wanted to have their picture taken with her. I finally had to have one of the production assistants rescue her and take her to a car, waiting to whisk her to the airport. I would walk across hot coals for Susan Love, and I owe her a debt of gratitude for coming to do this pilot. I’ve already heard from so many audience members; women who’ve told their friends what they learned from the show and have passed the ArmyOfWomen.org website on and urged them to join. Others have sent word they’ve bought Dr. Love’s breast cancer and hormone books. This is so gratifying, because I consider myself a recruiter for the Army of Women. Regardless of whether you’ve had breast cancer or not, we’re looking for a million women to join, so Dr. Love’s research teams can find the cause of breast cancer and develop a preventative vaccine.

That’s about all I can tell you for now except, I did cry. As I was ending my interview with Dr. Love, I looked into the camera and said, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we were the ones who made it possible so that our granddaughters and their daughters never get breast cancer?” By the time I got to “our granddaughters,” my voiced cracked, big time, and I bit my lip and had to pause before I could continue. The thought of what those of us who’ve had breast cancer, our family and friends have been through, lodged in my throat like it was the sum total of all of our pain and heartache. The thought of the great women who’ve already died, and the ones who are fighting with all their might, hoping against hope to be one of the ones whose Stage IV responds to treatment was more than I could verbally articulate.

The good news about a pilot is that everyone learns a lot about what we need to do next time. If given a next time, I’ll keep a better eye on the makeup artist and stop her before she turns my eyebrows into Frida Kahlo lookalikes.

Me, a Talk Show Host?

Sun, 15 Apr 2012 23:52:00 GMT

©Ramobrella, LLC. All rights reserved.

Who would have ever thought I might have my own national TV talk show? Stranger things have happened... I believe little men with big heads from a galaxy far, far away, may have landed in the desert outside Roswell, New Mexico, and that Sasquatch, the furry ape-like creature with big feet may exist or, he’s just a hairy guy in desperate need of an understanding woman and a good body waxing. But me... a national talk show host?<PREVIEWEND>

While I can’t tell you about it, or even the name, I can say the focus is not breast cancer. However, you can be assured that all things “breast cancer” will be discussed as frequently as possible. As a matter of fact, my first guest is Dr. Susan Love. Among other things, we’re going to talk about the difficulty in finding “the cure” and why she thinks the Army of Women have a better shot at preventing breast cancer from happening in the first place. We’re going to learn lots of new things about her as well, like did you know she speaks fluent Spanish, like it’s her native language? Actually, she does everything well, and she’s funny, and those are things I want people to know about her.

One of the reasons this opportunity has come my way is because of this blog and all of the conversations I’ve had with you. We talk about intimate, life and death issues, online and off, and we cheer each other on in good times and bad. You’ve been here for me since James died, and I can’t begin to tell you how much your support and friendship has strengthened me. You’ve prayed for me when I’m down--and when Goldie ate 20 square feet of lace--and you’ve allowed me to get to know you and for that, I’m grateful.

So, who knows if this talk show will actually make it on the air? A lot of things, I have no control over, have to happen. In many ways, the stars need to align before I have a close encounter of the television kind. Either way, the fact that I have a shot at something like this is remarkable, and I’m grateful and excited.

I’m not afraid to standup in front of people and speak, or be on camera, but in all of this, my biggest fear is that I will get emotional, over relatively nothing, cry on camera and look like an idiot. You, more than anyone, know how easily I cry at simple things like dog food commercials or the mere thought of what we, and our families, have been through with breast cancer. I’m told a certain vulnerability is appealing, but what if the powers that be say, “What kind of a nut job is she?” If asked that question, my response will be, “Just your average nut job, I guess.”

So dear ones, think of me this week, as I stand in front of a live studio audience. Once again, I will appreciate any prayers and hugs you send my way. I’ll keep you posted. Have a great week, and take care of yourselves....... I wish James were here to share this with me.... That made me cry.

I've Aged Since James Died

Sun, 08 Apr 2012 23:33:00 GMT

©Ramborella, LLC. All rights reserved.

The other day I caught a glimpse of myself in a restaurant mirror. For a split second I thought the woman staring back at me was my mother. I spent another split second hoping it was my mother, only to painfully acknowledge it was me. I was shocked to see how much I’ve aged since James died. I know what Nora Ephron meant in her book, I Feel Bad About My Neck, when she said her friends had begun dressing like “a white ladies’ version of the Joy Luck Club.” In addition to my neck, I need to add my jowls and my forehead to the list of visible body parts in need of camouflaging. It’s not like I haven’t planned for this day, when my face goes south, because I have.<PREVIEWEND>

When I was 21, I began buying expensive French skincare creams designed to ward off the aging process: a light moisturizer for day, something a little richer for night and an eye cream that had the texture of vanilla mousse. Since I had insanely youthful, flawless skin, I rationalized the expense by putting the creams in the same category as Social Security: Someday, when I reached a “certain age,” they would pay off.

By age 30, I started buying wide-brimmed Frank Olive and Patricia Underwood hats to protect my skin from the sun; hats that were so big, they needed their own airline ticket when I traveled. I remember a particular trip to Central America to dig for Mayan artifacts. The locals kept pointing to my head and smiling. I smiled back, thinking they were admiring my hat, until I saw my shadow on the ground and realized a bird had perched on my hat. While the bird may have decided she’d found a ready made straw nest, the locals probably thought I was a crazy lady with a satellite dish on her head.

Recently I saw Jane Fonda on television. She’s 73 and looks great, for any age. Ms. Fonda’s admission to having had plastic surgery made me think, yet again, about having a facelift. Ten years ago, I had an appointment with a well-known Beverly Hills plastic surgeon that had “done” a friend of mine. While I didn’t have anything done, his outer office was well worth the price of the consultation. It was lined with young women with gold fish lips and old women in wheelchairs, wearing their granddaughter’s face and short shorts. At the time, I didn’t really need anything done, but now I sympathize with their desire to turn back the clock.

How many of us haven’t thought about having a facelift, or a nip and tuck, more than once? Sometimes I see people who’ve had plastic surgery and who look like another species, or like they come from the planet Restylane. If I were to have plastic surgery, I’d want to look like my makeup artist friend, Sandy Linter, who, at 64, is achingly beautiful. I have the name of her plastic surgeon, but there's no guarantee I'd wind-up looking perfectly natural like she does. What if I didn't look like myself, or what if everyone said, "She's had work done, but it looks pretty good?" I don’t want to be a walking neon sign that screams "Plastic Surgery on Board" although I have had 10 breast surgeries because of breast cancer, but that's different. Sandy gave me some great advice, however. She said have the one thing that bothers you most fixed and live with it for a while, then decide if you want anything else done.

Since I was the last woman in her 50s to get her ears pierced, the odds of my getting anything “done” are slim to none. Besides, I first have to deal with whether to try Rogaine or not. Also, when people see me, if they notice that my eyes are crossed and my tongue juts out, they're probably not going to think about how much I've aged.

PS: I realize that talking about losing James and finding humor in my vanity may not go together, but I think James would say it's a good sign. That I have any humor at all after this last year is reaffirming that I'm finding my way without his physical presence. His love and his spirit will reside in me always.

Neuropathy and Shopping for Shoes

Thu, 29 Mar 2012 01:37:00 GMT

The other day my friend and I went to one of those no-frills shoe stores. You know the kind, those warehouse-looking buildings that sell every shoe imaginable except the ones in your size. Rows and rows of sample shoes were displayed on tables that ran the length of the store, while all available sizes were stacked under the tables and generally consisted of two medium-size eights, one size 12 and five pairs of wide-sized twos. Since I wear a 9.5 shoe with a 6AAAAAA heel, and have neuropathy in my feet, nerve damage caused by chemotherapy, I was pretty sure this was not my kind of shoe store.<PREVIEWEND>

Against the far wall of this warehouse emporium were running shoes, walking shoes, sensible flats and open-toed sandals, while the middle of the store displayed stacked heels, high heels and spandex ankle boots with styles called Santa Fe and Sandstone, names probably chosen by the same people who name paint colors. On the other side of the store were fashion forward shoes with wireframe, six-inch heels that looked more like scale models of Lady Gaga’s outrageous piano shoe.

Since this was a no-frills store, and there were no mirrors, women were asking total strangers what they thought about the shoes they’d picked out. A woman with big hair and shaved eyebrows--I imagined she ran an establishment called “Ruby's Beer, Wine & Setups”--asked if I thought her shoes would "drive Wayne wild." I ask you... What can you say to a sixty-five-year-old woman with hair the color of overripe mangos, who’s wearing clear, plastic Cinderella want-a-be's? Then there was the portly woman who found a pair of “breed-me, don't feed-me” shoes and who asked if I thought pink and gold snakeskin would go with white stretch pants?

I realize drag queen/pole dancer/platform stilettos are--pardon the pun--the height of fashion, but let’s get real, girfriends: How many of you actually own a pair of these stratosphere stilts, and if you do, when’s the last time you fell off your shoes? Don’t get me wrong, I love beautiful high heels, but my chemo-damaged, neuropathy-ridden feet can’t tolerate most heels for more than a walk to the car and back before the balls of my feet are in agony.

For those of you who don’t know, neuropathy is the medical term for painful nerve damage, usually to the peripheral nerves in hands and feet, caused by chemotherapy, radiation, excessive alcohol, diabetes, kidney problems or poor nutrition. While there are several studies on preventing neuropathy caused by chemo, none appear to be “the” solution, however there has been some success with the drug, Amifostine (Ethyol), as well as calcium and magnesium given before chemo begins. If you already have neuropathy from chemo, you might try soaking your hands and feet in cold tap water. DO NOT USE ICE WATER. As always, ask your oncologist what he or she suggests. Unfortunately, after neuropathy starts, many women are forced to stop treatment because the pain and/or numbness is so intense. The good news is that for most of us, neuropathy gradually gets better after treatment stops, although in my case, some residual symptoms seem to be permanent.

As the number of aging Baby Boomers continues to increase, millions more women will be diagnosed with breast cancer and chemo-related neuropathy, not to mention that we lose the fat pads on the bottom of our feet as we age. If only shoe manufacturers would realize there’s millions of women who need shoes other than ones that appeal to Snooki! So, all of you shoe designers, how about making stylish, comfortable shoes that don’t look like “Janet Reno does the lobby of the MGM Grand?”

PS: I love the comment Hollywoodlife.com said about the above photograph, “What’s more frightening: a purple dog or a pregnant Snooki in six inch heels?”

The Healing Power of Music

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 00:38:00 GMT

The other night I watched a rerun of Diane Sawyer’s interview with former US Congresswoman, Gabby Giffords, and her astronaut husband, Mark Kelley. The interview was the first time the public had seen Giffords since she’d been shot in the head at point blank range. Watching her radiant easy smile, I realized her healing journey has been nothing short of miraculous. Near death when she arrived at the hospital, Gabby Giffords suffered a major brain injury that necessitated temporary removal of a piece of her skull. The injury also forced her to learn to talk, walk, read and reason all over again, and surprisingly, the tool her therapists found to be most helpful was music.<PREVIEWEND>

According to scientists, nothing activates the brain like music, especially in the case of severe brain injuries like Gabby Giffords. Music has a unique multi-dimensional power to change the way our brain strings words together; it helps us learn to walk again, and it increases the dopamine levels that produce a positive affect on our sense of well-being.

Sometime last Fall, I remember singing along to Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Want to Have Fun on my car radio. At first my voice was tentative and soft, but it wasn’t long before I was singing with everything I had, and in that moment, I forgot James died. I forgot that most every area of my life was drenched in grief and betrayal, and in that moment, I wasn’t a widow or a breast cancer survivor, I was my usual happy upbeat self. Amazed at my happy outburst, I remember thinking that on some level, my healing had begun.

For many of us, healing is an ongoing process. Whether it’s physical or emotional, cancer, betrayal or grief, the torn and fractured pieces of our mind and body continue to knit themselves together, again. We gain strength and draw comfort from the prayers of those around us, the compassion of our medical team and from the examples of those who’ve gone before us like Gabby Giffords and Mark Kelley. Gabby and Mark underscore what many of us already know: When the life we planned is not the life we’re living, we must dig deep and summon the courage and determination to map out a new life.

In Diane Sawyer’s interview, Gabby Giffords and her therapists sang Girls Just Want to Have Fun, and in that moment, Gabby was radiant and whole. It made me think back to that day in my car when I sang the same song with joy and abandonment; how the healing power of that happy song lifted me out of my grief.

Music makes new pathways in the areas of the brain that control memory, emotion, even movement. Our body naturally wants to align itself with the rhythms of our environment. What rhythms are part of your environment? Are they the stories on the news about murders and robberies or, like Gabby Giffords, do you surround yourself with music and examples of courage and survivorship?

If you can’t remember the last time you sang at the top of your voice then it’s been too long, my friends. Like Gabby Giffords, we may be beaten up around the edges, but we’re not beaten.

Sing, dear ones, and heal well!

What Are Breast Cancer Previvors?

Mon, 05 Mar 2012 02:25:00 GMT

After testing positive for the hereditary BRCA2 breast cancer gene, Marion, one of my readers, recently made the brave decision to voluntarily remove both of her healthy breasts in an attempt to prevent breast cancer. When she subsequently contacted the American Cancer Society (ACS) about mastectomy/breast cancer support groups, they told her that since she wasn’t a breast cancer survivor, she wasn’t eligible to attend their groups. Needless to say, she was disappointed and outraged. As she put it, it’s almost “like the ACS thinks I had my breasts removed as a fashion statement!” While I wish the ACS had been more helpful and compassionate, I can suggest a great website, FacingOurRiskOfCancerEmpowered (FORCE), which which refers to women like Marion as previvors.<PREVIEWEND>

Previvors are survivors of a predisposition to cancer. Previvors have their own needs and concerns separate from those who’ve already been diagnosed with breast cancer. In fact, September 29 is Previvor Day and recognizes the unique challenges faced by those at high risk for cancer. Before any of you become overly concerned, over 90% of cancers are not caused by inherited genes, and not everyone who carries inherited cancer genes will get cancer. However, if you discover you carry one of the BRCA breast cancer genes, how far would you go to prevent the disease itself?

Since some inherited genes are also related to ovarian cancer, in addition to having a prophylactic double mastectomy, would you voluntarily elect to have an oophorectomy (removal of the ovaries) or a complete hysterectomy? Not surprisingly, many previvors are young women of child bearing age who face tremendously difficult reproductive decisions. It’s important to remember that none of these “risk-management” procedures eliminate all cancer risks, plus it’s of paramount importance you consult with an expert in hereditary cancers and risk assessment.

I didn’t discover I carried the BRCA2 gene until four years after my diagnosis, original mastectomy and six rounds of chemo. I also went against my oncologist’s recommendation that I not be tested for the BRCA genes because there was no history of breast or ovarian cancer in my family, plus he discouraged me because the test was expensive. Since my “little voice” has never let me down, I followed my instincts and was tested. When I learned I was BRCA2 positive, I didn’t spend much time wondering why I had the gene or which side of the family it came from. Instead, because there was an 87% chance I’d get breast cancer in my “good” breast, I had a prophylactic mastectomy two weeks later. Because one breast was reconstructed with a DIEP Flap procedure and the other has a silicone gel, my breasts are a bit mismatched, but I’ve never looked back or second guessed my decision.

If you or a loved one has been found to have a hereditary breast or ovarian cancer gene, or you’re a health care provider who treats high-risk patients, you might consider attending FORCE’s 2012 Conference this October 18-20, 2012 in Orlando, Florida. The conference features general sessions and workshops conducted by leading BRCA and hereditary cancer researchers, and it gives previvors the opportunity to meet and share their experiences with other previvors.

Yes, Marion, “you are accepted here,” because there are many ways we are survivors. I hope this has been of help to you.

Stories We Tell Ourselves

Fri, 02 Mar 2012 18:44:00 GMT

©Survivorship Media Network, LLC All rights reserved.

Regardless of where we are in life or, what we do for a living, we each have our own stories that have played in our heads since childhood. I’m not talking about fairy tales and fantasies, but our versions of our own lives. In some ways, we make sense of ourselves and our lives by the stories we tell others about ourselves. This is a recent photo of my mother, an unhappy woman who’s always painted herself as the victim. If mother has a choice between “I’ll give it a try” or “I can’t do that,” she’s always chosen the one that leaves her the most pitiful. Mother doesn’t know it, but her stories have played a huge role in the stories I’ve told myself and the woman I am.<PREVIEWEND>

One of my earliest stories was that I was an overprotected only child, raised by an unloving strict father and a mother who tried to keep me wrapped in swaddling clothes until I was old enough to collect Social Security. As I got older, I told myself new stories like I was a daredevil who wasn't afraid to do anything. Even in the early days of living my new story, I was aware that my somewhat blind disregard for my own personal safety was a facade, designed to make me the polar opposite of my mother.

Almost immediately, my wanna’ be tough girl story became a self-fulfilling prophesy. My determination to tough-girl my way through any situation was also the same bravado that saved me from succumbing, numerous times, to things I shouldn't have done in the first place. When I escaped from my ordeal in Honduras, my brave, keep-on-going girl kept me from telling anyone what really happened to me there. I had become the antithesis of my mother and the overprotected girl who wasn't allowed to go barefoot. I could go to Hell and back and keep on going. I now know the stories we tell ourselves can be our saving grace or our own worst enemy. Either way, we sometimes need help processing them and crafting new ones.

The last year has been the worst year of my life, full of grief, heartbreak, betrayal, financial terror and depression. You might think the story I now tell myself is one of woe, my life will never be the same, but you'd be wrong. I may be embarking on one of the most exciting chapters of my life, one that will use all of the experiences, hard knocks, survivorship skills, love and the grace of God I've learned, earned, endured and been given, but if it doesn't materialize, I know I'll be OK.

What are the stories, the inner dialog you tell yourself that have shaped your life? Perhaps they served you well in the past, but now it’s time to let them go. Or like my mother, do you tell yourself “you can’t” or “you’re afraid?” What’s stopping you from writing a new story? Where do you see yourself a year or 10 years from now, and what kind of inner story will it take to get there? If you're struggling with cancer treatment or maybe your prognosis, what are you telling yourself day after day, and is it helping or hindering? Do you need help writing a new story and if so, who will you turn to?

Writing this piece has made me wonder where our stories stop and our identity begins, or are our identities more than just a story we tell ourselves?

Join the Army of Women

Sun, 26 Feb 2012 21:33:00 GMT

Like my friend and fellow breast cancer blogger, AnneMarie at Chemobrain...In the Fog, I am a fan of Dr. Susan Love, breast surgeon, author of “the” bible on breast cancer, frequent medical contributor to NBC News and president of the Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation. Dr. Love’s foundation is working to eradicate breast cancer and improve the quality of women's health through innovative research, education and advocacy. In addition, her foundation joined forces with the Avon Foundation to form the Love/Avon Army of Women to discover ways to prevent breast cancer. As Dr. Love said in her recent New York Times essay, the “real race in cancer is finding the cause.”<PREVIEWEND>

Because it’s harder to find women to study, researchers use mice, but as Dr. Love told me over lunch recently, “mice don’t get breast cancer.” Therefore, Love has created an innovative research initiative designed to recruit real women of every age, ethnicity and breast cancer risk to participate in a wide array of clinical studies. In effect, the Army of Women gives all women, with or without breast cancer, the opportunity to partner with researchers and take breast cancer awareness beyond a cure to prevention.

Some of the Army of Women’s current research studies include:
• Developing an inexpensive and easy to use band-aid-like test strip that can assess whether a premenopausal woman is at risk to develop breast cancer
• Low-dose anti-estrogens & Omega-3 fatty acids to prevent hormone-independent breast cancer
• Using specially trained dogs and a chemical test on exhaled breath markers for early detection of epithelial ovarian cancer
• How bacteria in the intestines metabolize estrogen & other female hormones
• To see if there are differences in breast cells found in the breast milk of healthy women & those who have cancer
• Whether wake/sleep cycle disruptions in women who work the night shift may increase their breast cancer risk

Another Army of Women study is trying to determine whether DNA cell damage in normal breast tissue could be an indicator of future breast cancer risk. Initially, researchers at MD Anderson recruited women with benign breast biopsies who went on to develop breast cancer. Now they are looking for women who had benign biopsies but did not develop breast cancer. By studying both categories of women, scientists are looking for markers in breast cells that may be indicators of future breast cancers.

Researchers aided by women, not mice, are a powerful combination. We already know what happened when researchers, with the help of women, focused on the cause of cervical cancer. Thirty years ago, women were given hysterectomies after a single abnormal Pap smear, but now our daughters have the opportunity to be vaccinated against cervical cancer. Once again, we have the opportunity to make a full-scale invasion on another cancer that kills women.

Please join me and the other 360,000 plus women who’ve already become a member of the Army of Women. Whether it’s your book club, Bible study group, sorority, friends and family or the women in your office, forward this blog to ALL of the women in your life, whether they’ve had breast cancer or not, and urge them to sign up.

If you’re a cancer researcher, tell your colleagues, medical professional associations and include in your newsletters that researchers can submit a research proposal to the Army of Women.

If you’re an individual or a corporation and the Komen controversies have left you jaded about raising and donating money to breast cancer research, you might consider donating to the Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation. The Army of Women needs ALL of us to fund the search for the cause and prevention of breast cancer.

Should Komen's Nancy Brinker Step Down?

Tue, 14 Feb 2012 19:44:00 GMT

You may be wondering if there’s anything left to say about Komen and Planned Parenthood? The anger and outrage over last week’s events have prompted countless newspaper articles, television news stories, blogs, Tweets and emails from every news outlet, Komen affiliate and breast cancer advocate who’s semi-conscious. Therefore, I will not rehash the specifics of whether Komen’s decision to halt breast cancer screening grants to Planned Parenthood had anything to do with abortion, politics or Komen’s new grant guidelines; why Komen rethought their decision, or whether Komen’s differing explanations portrays them as revisionists. However, to say Komen’s handled yet another incident poorly is an understatement.

While I consider much of my personal life fair game to write about, I steadfastly wear my journalist’s hat when reporting treatment modalities, current thinking about the causes and possible cures, along with ways to lessen risk of recurrence and lead healthier lives. Until now, I’ve also tried to keep my journalist’s hat on about Komen, only reporting the “who, what, when, where and why.” I’ve even gone out of my way to provide Komen with a public forum on this blog, in hopes they would reach out to the breast cancer community, say a few mea culpas and use it as a way to mend fractured relationships and some of their own policies. While I wasn’t holding my breath, I’d hoped for a small step forward, but that was not to be. Actually, there was a lot that went on behind the scenes I haven’t told you.<PREVIEWEND>

For starters, the national office of Komen approached me last August. While the reason for their call was never clear, I seized the opportunity to invite Leslie Aun, National Director of Marketing and Communications for Komen for the Cure®, to openly address the breast cancer community on my blog about the rage and anger over “Pinktober,” the endless stream of questionable pink products for sale, as well as Komen’s ill-thought-out perfume, Promise Me, and it’s carcinogenic ingredients. I suggested a post from Komen could

“be the first in a series of open dialogs with the goal of uniting breast cancer advocates and bloggers on common ground, while voicing our disagreements and working, together, to implement clearer fundraising and search for the cure mechanisms.”

Leslie Aun was receptive. I went on to tell her that in order for this dialog to have a chance of being successful, she couldn’t defend Komen. She would need to own up to their having made some poor decisions, like partnering with Kentucky Fried Chicken and Mike’s Hard Lemonade as fundraising partners. How could Komen lead the search for the cure while taking high profile dollars from corporations that produce alcohol and greasy processed foods, both proven risk factors for breast cancer and poor health in general? At the very least, I told her Komen would need to say something like “if we had it to do over again, Komen would have made different choices.” Ms. Aun liked my idea and agreed to write something to that effect in her post on BRENDA’S BLOG. While she did write a post, it was a rah, rah, Komen’s not done anything wrong.

Ms. Aun also agreed to engage in a dialog with readers of my blog by responding to their comments. She did not. This was to be the first in a series of regular dialogs with the breast cancer community that we would eventually move to Twitter or Facebook, to which she agreed. She has not returned any of my calls since my readers posted their unanswered comments.

When I told a blogger friend Komen had accepted my invitation to write a post on BRENDA’S BLOG, she suggested Komen was using me to disseminate their party line and that letting them write a post on my blog would make me look bad and ruin my credibility. I respectfully disagreed, saying any failure on Komen’s part to respond appropriately would only hurt Komen, not me. That is exactly what happened.

Time and again, Komen has failed to make well thought-out decisions. The Susan G. Komen Foundation began as a promise to a dying Susan G. Komen, by her sister, Nancy Brinker, to find a cure for breast cancer. What started off as a lofty goal has morphed into a three-ringed circus with pink money mania in the center ring. The Planned Parenthood debacle is merely the latest in a string of insensitive high-profile failures. If nothing else, we should learn from history, but Komen seems to repeatedly ignore their history of missteps, followed by repeatedly defending them.

Some Komen critics say Komen is arrogant and out of touch. Regardless, their repeated fiascos have let everyone down who’s ever lost a loved one to breast cancer; every breast cancer survivor who prays for a cure; everyone who’s ever participated in a Komen walk for the cure and every fundraising partner who’s ever donated money to Komen and other charities that raise money for a good cause. In short, Komen has lost their credibility among more than just the breast cancer community.

Most organizations plagued with serial failure to learn from their own history ask their leaders to step down. Perhaps it’s time for Nancy Brinker to relinquish her reigns and let Komen rebuild their image. This weekend, Komen sought the advice of an executive vice president at the tony Ogilvy public relations firm as well as Ari Fleischer, former White House press secretary to George W. Bush. However, in order to rebuild their image, it’s crucial for Komen to have the support of breast cancer advocacy organizations and top breast cancer social media mavens.

Make no mistake, breast cancer bloggers have the ear of millions of survivors and their families, oncologists, surgeons and researchers, corporate sponsors and the media. While the Planned Parenthood story may have originated with traditional media, it’s gone viral because of social media. If Komen wants to rebuild their image, they must gather breast cancer bloggers into their fold, listen to our concerns and once again, gain our trust. Perhaps Komen should consider giving a breast cancer blogger a seat on their advisory board. The lives of our mothers and daughters and future sisters, named Susan, may depend on the strength and credibility of Komen. Please, Komen, don’t let them down, again.

Dying in Cancer's Wilderness

Mon, 30 Jan 2012 03:19:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Every week I hear from lots of women. They tell me stories that inspire and some that make me question the nature and future of mankind. This is one of those stories. "Rhonda" is 44 years old and has late Stage IV metastatic breast cancer. "Mike," her husband of nine years, has gone as far as he wants to go as her caregiver and has asked his girlfriend to move in with him and Rhonda. It seems as though Mike is “tired” of cancer; tired of having a wife who doesn’t feel well, a wife he’s no longer attracted to and one who’s not interested in sex.

On the other hand, Mike’s girlfriend is healthy, younger and seems to have given Mike a new lease on life in the bedroom. But wait... There’s more. Mike has moved his wife into the guest room where she can hear her husband and his new girlfriend making love as she lies in bed alone, in pain, waiting to die. There is no delicate way of describing this demeaning end to a life and a marriage that at one time, had love and promise, but Mike and his girlfriend have given new meaning to the word “scum.”<PREVIEWEND>

Over and over I’ve asked myself what kind of man does this; what kind of girlfriend gets involved with a man like Mike, and how did Rhonda windup being so vulnerable that she feels she has no other option? I know what it’s like to be without my husband and to literally have no family, except for my mother who has dementia, but I have dear friends who would be there if I needed help. I’ve tried to put myself in Rhonda’s position. What must it feel like to be so lost and alone and without resources? What must if feel like to have your self worth thrown out like yesterday’s trash?

Sadly, there are endless variations to Rhonda’s story, women who are alone and in less than ideal settings as they go through breast cancer treatment and cope with end of life issues. My friend and fellow breast cancer blogger, Terri Wingham at A Fresh Chapter, recently wrote a blog about meeting women in Vietnam who’ve been abandoned by their husbands and left to fend for themselves with no money for food or treatment for their breast cancer. Another friend and breast cancer survivor, Philippa Kibugu-Decuir of Breast Cancer Initiative East Africa, has told me similar stories about women in her home country of Rwanda.

What must it be like to be treated as though you are to blame for your breast cancer, told that you are no longer wanted or valued? Some of this heartless behavior is a result of an uneducated populace in countries where survival of the fittest defines the basics of everyday life. Mike, however, lives in the wealthiest country in the world where he has a college education, a car, a job, a modern home and food in his refrigerator. So, how do the “Mikes” of the world come to be that way? Where does their lack of respect for life and family come from?

I wonder if the actions of other men influence them, men like John who ran for President of the United States, whose girlfriend gave birth to his child while his wife, Elizabeth, was fighting Stage IV breast cancer? Yes, these men give new meaning to the word “scum” along with “shallow,” “selfish” and “cruel.”

An Educated Life

Wed, 29 Feb 2012 04:15:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

I know an extraordinary amount of things most people would find trivial, boring or shocking. For instance I can discuss, in depth, tertiary yaws, those microscopic survivors from the Cenozoic Era that bore into the soft tissue of human feet and cause spontaneous amputation of the toes; I can give a scientific dissertation on how a basket of discarded tomato, potato and eggplant peels, when treated with 2-4-6 dimethyloxytropinone could make every man, woman and child in a small town hallucinate and swing from street lights like monkeys, and I know far more than I care to about the sexual appetites of some of America’s favorite rock stars. It’s not what you think, but I’m sworn to secrecy. Sorry.<PREVIEWEND>

My formal education has taken me from being able to read a book by myself at the age of three, play Rachmaninoff’s piano Concerto in D Sharp Minor when I was nine, come close to flunking my senior year of high school and finish college after two aborted attempts. None of the teachers I encountered along the way made much of an impression on me or imparted anything of real value, except for my college journalism professor. He forced me, against my will, to compose my thoughts at the keyboard and then to convey them in an inverted pyramid style, skills for which I am forever grateful.

My informal education is full of unorthodox and often outrageous teachers who taught me how to corner a 2000-pound, three-liter, rear engine car at 120 miles-per-hour without losing control; how to tether myself to a helicopter in flight, sit on the landing skids and take pictures without falling off and how to hang by one arm from the back of a moving train, then hoist myself successfully back on board. Unfortunately, none of my instructors are still among the living.

All in all, the variety of subject matter to which I’ve been exposed, as well as my learning curve, has failed to fit the profile of any standard curriculums. I am just now learning how to be still in the moment, how to talk to a mother I’ve had for nearly 60 years and how to recognize and give thanks for my many blessings. Before James died, my life was fuller and calmer than it had ever been. I had a husband who nurtured and loved me more than either one of my parents and who, daily, showed me the meaning of true character.

I’ve learned how to relate to women, to have girlfriends I look forward to spending time with and to talk about feelings, as opposed to power-to-weight ratios and return on investments. No longer am I looking for approval from, or am anchored by, the man in my life, and I’ve finally learned to live what most people call a “normal life.” I’ve learned what real love is, the giving of self, the grace of God, come to terms with the duplicity of man and I've realized that ego can be all encompassing.

Cancer has been one of my greatest teachers. Aside from giving me an up close and personal look at mortality, it has nurtured the deepest parts of my spiritual side; made me realize that while I’ll never have the mother I want, I can be the daughter she needs, and it’s helped me separate the people who matter from those who don’t. Cancer has made me more compassionate than I thought possible, has made me cry over something as simple as an apple pie and and made me determined to live my life out loud.

What are the most profound lessons you’ve learned in your life? Has life or cancer changed you; has it made you less judgmental and more open to try new things, or has it made you more fearful of the future? Since we don’t know whether we have a day, or a decade, I hope you: postpone death by living, eat pie, extend a hand, put yourself out there in ways that make you uncomfortable and become acquainted with God.

Parabens: Do They Cause Cancer and Do They Prevent Chemo From Killing It?

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 20:31:00 GMT

Parabens and their links to breast cancer are in the news again. Widely used as preservatives in many cosmetic and toiletry products like antiperspirants, parabens have been found to have an estrogen-like effect in the body, and estrogen is an established risk factor for breast cancer. Numerous studies have questioned whether parabens can be linked to the development, growth and progression of breast cancer. Most recently, the University of Reading, in England, studied 160 tissue samples from 40 women who underwent mastectomies between 2005 and 2008. This month, the findings were published online in the Journal of Applied Toxicology.<PREVIEWEND>

Ninety-nine percent of tissue samples were found to contain at least one paraben and 60 percent of samples were positive for five of the most common parabens (methylparaben, ethylparaben, propylparaben, butylparaben and isobutylparaben). Most importantly, women who said they never used deodorant--most deodorants are known to contain parabens--had measurable parabens in their breast tissue. The implications of this study seem to indicate that parabens are entering the breast from sources other than deodorant.

The study’s chief researcher, Dr. Philippa Darbre, did a similar but smaller study in 2004. The levels of parabens found in her most recent study were four times higher than the 2004 study. "Since 2004, many manufacturers, although not all, have been removing parabens from the underarm deodorant/antiperspirant products and so I was rather surprised when we found higher levels of parabens in these (more recent) breast tissues," Darbre said. Dr. Michael J. Thum, vice president emeritus of epidemiology and surveillance research for the American Cancer Society was quick to point out that just “because parabens were detected in the majority of the breast tissue samples cannot be taken to imply that they actually caused the breast cancer.”

So, where does this most recent study leave us? Should we avoid products that contain parabens or should we wait until more and larger studies are conducted? Dr. William Goodson, principal researcher at the California Pacific Medical Center says that methylparaben can also interfere with the effectiveness of drugs used to fight breast cancer. Goodman took noncancerous breast cells from high-risk patients, grew them in a laboratory and found that once the cells were exposed to methylparaben, they started behaving like cancer cells. Tamoxifen, a drug designed to prevent or treat cancer, slows down the growth of both healthy and cancerous breast cells and ultimately leads to their death. However, when tamoxifen was introduced in the lab, the cells exposed to methylparaben kept growing and didn't die. “Methylparaben not only mimics estrogen's ability to drive cancer, but appears to be even better than the natural hormone in bypassing the ability of drugs to treat it,” Goodson said.

Clearly more paraben/breast cancer studies need to be conducted. The FDA believes that “at the present time there is no reason for consumers to be concerned about the use of cosmetics containing parabens.” If parabens are winding up in breast tissue in ways other than deodorant, and parabens can interfere with chemo's ability to kill cancer, I’m not waiting for “the ultimate study” to tell me to avoid parabens.

There are lots of great body care and cosmetic products on the market that don’t contain parabens. If you have a Whole Foods in your area, ask the sales clerk to advise you. I’ve bought, and used, almost every deodorant, shampoo, facial cleanser and moisturizer Whole Food’s carries and have found my personal favorites that work best for me.

Old Friends

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 20:34:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

I spent the weekend with three of my girlfriends from high school. Once again, our time together confirmed my belief that there’s no friend like an old friend. Old friends are a lot like your favorite pair of shoes: comfortable, yet supportive, and with just the right amount of pressure in all the right places. Each time my girlfriends and I see each other, we pick up the conversation as though no time has elapsed since we were last together. More importantly, we unconditionally accept one another, warts and all. While we’re still the same girls we were in high school, our common experiences have bonded us together above and beyond that of casual friends, and in the last year, those bonds have deepened in ways none of us could have predicted.<PREVIEWEND>

It was just a little over a year ago the four of us and our husbands got together to eat, drink and celebrate life. If a fortune teller had stepped into our midst that day and predicted what lay ahead, we would have told her to pack up her gypsy wagon and go sell crazy someplace else. Unfortunately, crazy happened, and to say it caught us all off-guard would be an understatement. Four week later, James died unexpectedly and his family painfully dissolved; three months later Bonnie’s husband died unexpectedly; six months later parts of Bonnie’s home was caught in the most destructive wildfire in Texas history, and the month after that, Gayle was diagnosed with breast cancer. This weekend though, none of us shed a tear over the events of last year. Instead, our tears were because at one time or another, each of us has set aside our own pain to reach for the other’s hand and pull her up.

Friendship is one of the intangibles in life. It can’t be measured or quantified, but it’s found in the laughter and the unspoken words of a compassionate heart. A real friend steps in when you need help the most, when everyone else doesn’t know what to do or say. One special friend in particular, my friend Joan, called me every single night, without fail, for six months after James died until she was certain I was in a better place.

As I made my way home, today, I listened to Paul Simon’s Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes and got to thinking: My girlfriends are the diamonds on the soles of my shoes. While the great girlfriends in our lives may never walk in our shoes, from time to time they stand in the same space with us and help us through things we never dreamed we could face.

When was the last time you called, not emailed, a girlfriend who helped you through breast cancer or another tough time and told her how much you love and appreciate her? When’s the last time you encouraged her or said a prayer for her? Or, perhaps there’s someone you’d like to be friends with. If so, it takes a long time to become an old friend. What are you waiting for?

Beginnings and Opportunities

Mon, 02 Jan 2012 13:32:00 GMT

One of my favorite words is "beginning." No words are more powerful than “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” I am humbled and awestruck every time I contemplate the power of God. Perhaps for me, that’s why the word “beginning” conveys such strength and hope. In the beginning, everything is shiny and new, and we’re brimming with hope, good intentions and lots of can do attitude.

Beginnings are opportunities for us to start over, to begin again,<PREVIEWEND> whether it’s with a diet, a relationship or New Years’ resolutions. We don’t have to wait until New Years, however, to begin, again, because the dawning of each new day brings us the opportunity to recharge ourselves mentally and physically. I think most of us look forward to new beginnings because each one comes with the promise of something that has the power to change our lives. For the most part, we are the one who can change our lives, not a new job or a new year, but what we, and only we, do with the opportunities they present.

Beginning again is what our bodies do automatically. Without our being aware of it, with each new breath, our bodies refresh our brain and our other organs. It’s part of what God thoughtfully set in motion when He created man in His own image, and it’s one of the keys to our survival. Every breath is an opportunity to start over, to forgive, to love, to learn, to let go of the things that don’t serve us well and to consciously make an effort to seek out those things that refresh and stimulate us.

This weekend I was looking at television programming aimed primarily at women. I tried to watch a couple of Bravo’s “Real Housewives” reality series, but they only made me feel sorry for the women involved. Whether they’re from New Jersey, Atlanta or Beverly Hills, I’m saddened by their foul mouths and the disrespect they show themselves and one another. Granted, there’s a certain shock value and train wreck quality to them, and who isn’t curious about how other people live, but aren’t you afraid you’ll get some of “it” on you, and it won’t come off? I think it’s been a long time since any of these “housewives” were brimming with hope and can do attitude unless it involves tearing one another down, or having one too many drinks from the illusive fountain of youth.

We are what we eat, what we read and with what we surround ourselves. I don’t know about you, but life’s too short to spend it on things that just fill me up without nurturing anything other than an idle curiosity about the bad behavior of others. Instead of consuming mindless filler, what if we look for ways to renew and strengthen ourselves each and every day? Even if it’s for five or 10 minutes a day, every day, what if we make, and take, time to go within ourselves and be still; to breathe and find our little voice and then think about what it’s telling us? Just start there. We don’t need a long list of New Year’s resolutions we won’t keep, just a promise to be still and breathe for five or 10 minutes a day.

All of us have lived through painful life lessons. Some of us are dealing with depression or that we have cancer, and we’re scared; we’ve lost a significant someone, or we’re wondering how to reinvent ourselves and become the person we’d hoped to be? With every thing you battle in life, start with the knowledge that you are loved by God, and you are made in His image. Regardless of where you are in life, He’s blessed you beyond reason. The other thing I want you to know is that you are important to me.

With this breath, and the next, I hope you'll take this opportunity to begin, again.

A Year Ago Today

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 20:41:00 GMT

Today is the one year anniversary of James’ death. I’ve tried to let the day unfold naturally, to let it be what it will be, but the circumstances and the aftermath of his death are still as surreal as they were a year ago.

I remember every detail of that day: the sound of the screen door as our neighbor stepped onto our porch and the anguished look on his face. His countenance delivered his message before he’d even said a word, and I remember feeling sorry for him that he was the one to bring me this news. Since then, I've run the gamut from numb to an eerie calm, punctuated by anger and depression over losing this special man, along with feeling the same anguish and crushing disappointment James felt the weekend he died.<PREVIEWEND>

There have been times this last year I thought the same disappointment would kill me, too. While his congenital heart problem would have eventually killed him, all of his doctors agreed the events of that last weekend most certainly hastened his death. On top of everything else James saw and heard that weekend, his daughter-in-law's words were further confirmation, and it was all more than he could take. I now understand when people say you can die of a broken heart.

Not a day goes by I don't tell James how much I miss him, how much I love him. I talk to him a lot, especially in the car. On my daily drive into town, I start by talking to God, thanking Him for the blessings He’s bestowed on me and my family, for His gift of grace, for walking beside me this last year and for sending James into my life. Sometimes I tell James about his “winter trees,” the cluster of oaks he loved because of their stick-like silhouettes against the late afternoon winter sky.

James had a special humor, a way of making even the most mundane things fun and interesting. He had an appreciation for all things living, for the way the birds made nests in the trees and the almost serendipitous effort it took to make bluebonnets bloom in the Spring. Nothing delighted him more than spending the day raising the skirts on an oak tree, cutting away dead limbs until an unnoticed tree became a thing of beauty. He could read animal tracks in the dirt and knew whether it was a big cat, a buck or a doe, or if it was running or walking and how much it weighed. He taught me the names of every grass and plant in Texas and long before anyone else, he recognized subtle signs that his beloved trees were beginning to suffer from the drought.

When James was alive I used to pray, twice a day, that God would wrap His protective light and love around James Daniel Coffee and keep him safe and free from all harm and return him safely to the Little House. God did that. He took James to work and back and kept him safe on the freeways, safe from all physical harm and illness, but I now think my prayers fell short. I should have asked God to keep James safe while he was here on the ranch, because it was here that James died.

The other night I sat outside and watched the moon rise. I could see glimpses of the far path James liked to walk and jog on, and I imagined him walking there and waving to me. I waved back and shouted, "I love you," and for a moment, I could almost see him waving back.

"Talk big," I hollered. My voice carried across the canyon. "I can't hear you."

In the moments before dusk melded into dark, I imagined him standing there, waving back. I wondered if some kind of parallel universe might somehow unfold between us. What if this time, every night, I could catch what I thought was a faint glimpse of James? Would it be enough to sustain me, and for how long?

I’ve driven to that side of the canyon, but someday I need to again resume my walks on this familiar path, to make my way to where he died. The Little Blue Stem and the other native grasses have now grown up to where they cover the road James cut, but no amount of tall grasses can hide the fact that under those trees is where his soul left his body, and that he'll never stand there, again, waving to me.

My prayers have changed since James died. I now pray that all is well with James Daniel Coffee's soul, that he's with God and that he knows how much I love him.

"Thank you for loving me, James. Other than God and His precious Son, you are the best thing that's ever happened to me."

The Year's Top 10 and More

Sun, 26 Feb 2012 21:38:00 GMT

As the end of each year draws to a close, the news media publishes their Top 10 lists of the most important, most newsworthy, the most beautiful, the best movies.... The lists go on and on. While they are mildly interesting and usually remind me of events and people I’ve already forgotten, most of the things on these lists don’t matter a whit in the grand scheme of things.<PREVIEWEND>

For most of us, our families’ and friends’ health and well being is what matters; whether we have a job or enough money to keep our house and pay the taxes; whether we're good parents; whether we have the right words to comfort someone who’s dying or has lost someone dear to them, and whether our country is headed in the right direction. For me, I find myself thinking about so many of you who are fighting cancer, missing loved ones and coping with the blows life throws you. You, and so many others, are my top 10 and more. Daily, I lift each of you up in prayer.

In no particular order:
1. Christine S: Fighting recurrence of breast cancer and participating in a clinical trial.
2. Jacqueline J: Recovering from extensive complications from reconstruction surgery.
3. Lisa P: Breast cancer survivor & grieving the loss of her son.
4. Cindy TC: Her precious husband died Christmas Eve, last year.
5. Jan H: Two-time breast cancer survivor & recently separated from her husband.
6. Bonnie C: Her husband died early this year.
7. Ann L: Has gone through breast cancer alone.
8. Norma M: In hospice care.
9. Ruth G: Her cancer is Stage IV.
10. Linda H: Battling a long-term, incapacitating and undiagnosed immune problem.
11. June McD: In treatment for Parkinson’s.
12. Cheryl R: In hospice care & I can’t reach her.
13. Gayle H: Bravely participating in a clinical trial to treat her breast cancer.
14. Deb T: Has battled depression and recurrence of her breast cancer.
15. Marie O’C: Lost her unborn child and her mother.
16. Anna R: Living with metastatic breast cancer.
17. Glenn M: Recently diagnosed with three separate cancers.
18. Joanie F: In hospice care.
19. Norm H: Stage IV cancer.
20. Philippa K-D: Breast cancer survivor & advocate, recovering from back surgery.
21. Lee C: One of the strongest, wisest women I know.
22. Single working mothers everywhere.
23. Loving, faithful husbands and fathers.
24. Those who’ve been diagnosed with cancer.
25. Those who’ve lost loved ones.
26. Every member of my church.
27. The United States of America.

28. Role models of every age and sex.

Help for Vaginal Dryness

Sun, 26 Feb 2012 21:38:00 GMT

It’s no surprise that Diane Keaton’s and Jack Nicholson’s film, Something’s Gotta Give, resonated with women of a certain age. The movie portrayed a 50-60ish woman who, after having sex for the first time in a while, was ecstatic to discover she wasn’t “closed for business.” Women who are involuntarily closed for business are not having intercourse. More than likely they've had their ovaries removed, are post menopausal, have had chemotherapy or are taking estrogen blockers like Arimidex. For many women, estrogen can restore their sex lives. If you can’t take estrogen, however, there may be several things you can do, but before we go there, let's talk about the relationship between estrogen and sex.<PREVIEWEND>

Without estrogen, the vagina atrophies: It becomes shorter, narrower, dryer and has less elasticity, plus the walls of the vagina can tear easily, and sex can be extremely painful. The vagina may also be more prone to infections. A lack of estrogen can also contribute to a waning libido as can stress, having a baby and some medications. If you have vaginal problems or a low sex drive, you should first see your gynecologist to make sure nothing else is going on.

Last week I took Dr Susan Love to lunch, and we talked about estrogen and women who've had breast cancer. She was quick to point out that research on decreasing vaginal dryness has only been done on women who've not had breast cancer. Those studies found that estrogen creams appear to have a higher absorption than the low-dose Estring or Vagifem. If you've had breast cancer and your doctor approves you for estrogen, talk to him or her about prescribing Estring or Vagifem. Also, be aware that bioidentical hormones are still hormones, so don’t let anyone tell you they’re safer or better for you because they’re not.

If you can’t or don’t want to take hormones, Andrea Bradford, Ph.D. psychologist and instructor of Gynecologic Oncology at MD Anderson suggests using a combination of techniques. For starters, use a vaginal moisturizer several times a week and a lubricant each time you have sex. Check the labels on non hormonal over-the-counter products and avoid those with alcohol, propylene glycol and parabens. For some women, personal lubricants that are oil or silicon-based can cause more friction and therefore more pain, and lubricants with glycerin are known to promote yeast infections, so water-based products are preferable. My favorites are Replens applicators and Replens liquid and Wet Naturals Barely Bare. Replens and Barely Bare may be harder to find, but you can purchase them at the RETAIL THERAPY store on BreastCancerSisterhood.com. You may also want to read my blog, Breast Cancer, Vaginal Dryness and Sex for more information about lubricants and exactly where and how to apply them.

You might also want to find a specialist who treats painful intercourse and vaginal dryness. They may suggest a set of vaginal dilators that, over time and with lubricants, can stretch your vagina, plus you can order them online. The specialist will probably have you start with the smallest dilator you can comfortably fit into your vagina. Try to progress to a new size each week with the understanding that each new size will be uncomfortable. Take it slow.

Changes in self-image due to breast cancer and the natural aging process make some women less comfortable with their bodies. One of the biggest factors in a post menopausal woman’s sex life is her relationship with her partner and whether she’s comfortable talking explicitly about what works and what doesn’t work to get her aroused. Most women require more than hugging and kissing. They need direct stimulation to the genitals and more than they needed before menopause. Perhaps we should rename “foreplay” to “men-o-pause.” Men, oh pause here, longer!

What Your Oncologist Doesn't Tell You About Sex

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 02:01:00 GMT

Libido and/or lack of libido was a major topic of conversation at the recent Life Beyond Cancer Foundation’s Retreat in Austin, Texas. Many of the women there were angry at their oncologists for not telling them about the side effects breast cancer treatment might have on their sex life. While we know a diagnosis of breast cancer may result in the loss of our breasts, few of us know we may also lose our sexuality. As one of the women at the Retreat asked, “Why didn’t my oncologist warn me that after cancer treatment, I would no longer have any desire for sex? I do it for my husband, and I know he wants more sex, but since menopause, it’s painful, and I’m just not interested anymore. Why didn’t my oncologist tell me that?”<PREVIEWEND>

Many oncologists tell their estrogen positive breast cancer patients that cancer treatment may push them into premature menopause--hot flashes, night sweats and weight gain--but they fail to tell us menopause may cause our vaginal tissues to become dry and paper thin. As a result, our vaginal opening may atrophy and become smaller, and our tissues become less pliable which results in painful penetration by our sex partner. What’s worse, we feel guilty that we’re not interested and don’t want sex like we used to, and we worry our partners may look elsewhere to satisfy their needs. Could menopausal libidos and painful sex be a contributing factor as to why some men have historically taken up with younger and juicier women?

If we deconstruct the word “menopause,” we get “men-o-pause,” which implies we’ve reached a point in life where we’ve pushed men, and perhaps sex, to the sidelines. Our mothers’ generation suffered through menopause and any resulting lack of sexual desire in silence, but we are not our mothers. We’re not prepared to go through the rest of our lives as female eunuchs. We’re not only conscious of the effect our lack of libido may have on our sex partner, but we miss our sexuality. We’re not afraid to say that we like sex; we like pleasing our partners, and we like having orgasms. Sex feels good, and it’s fun! What a dirty trick that just at the time when our children have left the nest, and we have more time and money to travel and enjoy our partner, mother nature saddles us with men-o-pause.

For years men have made it clear they want to remain sexually active until the day they die. Whats more, their sexuality is often more important than whether they survive their cancers or not, as exemplified by one of James’ ski buddies, who was diagnosed with prostrate cancer and chose not to receive any treatment. In other words, he chose his sexual health and a shorter survival as opposed to living longer with the very real possibility of sexual impotency and/or incontinence.

Trust me, I’m more than OK with the fact that men can sire children ad nauseum while my days of having babies are behind me, but I’m not OK with the fact that I don’t have a good sexual libido/self-moisturizing alternative except for hormone replacement therapy. Before James died, I decided to look into solving this problem. I spent countless months talking to gynecologists, oncologists, researching alternatives to estrogen and meeting with prominent chemists around the country. Just when I caught a glimmer of hope, a way to moisturize my dry and withered vaginal tissues, the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) stepped in and crushed my bubble.

Because the FDA defines a personal internal moisturizer as “intended to affect the structure or function of the body,” such a product must go through the FDA. Unless I was willing to spend years and years and millions and millions of dollars taking my product through clinical trials, it would never be anything more than a fantasy... and not one of the sexual ilk. If I didn't go through the FDA, no reputable laboratory in the country would develop and/or manufacture such a product and if I somehow found one, here or abroad, the FDA could slap us with an injunction, shut us down and sue us for all the tea and orgasms in China.

So for now, we must make do with less than perfect herbal and over-the-counter remedies while we take a page from our male counterparts and raise our voices until we have a safer solution than hormone replacement to our problem.

PS: You didn’t really think I was going to leave it at that, did you? Next week, we’ll talk about some practical things you can do to help the situation.

PPS: To all of you who emailed and called, asking about Goldie, I thank you for your kind wishes and prayers. I’m over the moon to report she seems to have gotten rid of the incredible, mind-boggling amount of lace she consumed, but it wasn't easy. We'll leave it at that. From now on, I’m going to put her in the bathroom when I leave the house and take away all the towels and bathmats and soap. Goldie girl will only get a bare tile floor and a stainless steel bowl full of water until I feel like I can trust her again, but then again, hello! She's a dog! That's what they do... Oy vey!

Dogs and Old Lace

Mon, 28 Nov 2011 00:52:00 GMT

FRIDAY: I’m preparing the Barefoot Contessa, Ina Garten’s, recipe for Boeuf Bourguignon. For the first time in almost a year, my tiny house is alive with the smells of chopped garlic and yellow onions, simmering in bacon fat. I know... Not exactly the beginnings of a meal designed to lessen my risk of recurrence, but it gets better, or worse, depending on your point of view. I still need to add a bottle of Cabernet, half a cup of Cognac and two pounds of red meat.<PREVIEWEND> Because this inspired dish rises to the ‘Heaven on Earth’ category the second day, I’ve invited my friend Rob for dinner tomorrow. Rob and I’ve been buddies since college. It was Rob and his friends, I affectionately call them ‘the River Oaks Boys,’ who inspired me to learn to cook well. Give any of the River Oaks Boys a bag of random ingredients, and they’ll deliver you a gourmet treat.

SATURDAY: This isn’t where I saw this blog, or this day going. I didn’t sleep last night because I’m on “poop and vomit patrol.” I wasn’t going to mention it, but while I was having Thanksgiving at a friend’s, my dog Goldie ate 15 square feet of a 150-year-old sheer lace summer spread that hangs behind my bed. The logistics of how this big girl got behind my bed is still a puzzlement, but her life is now in danger.

The vet says I must monitor Goldie’s bowel movements until she either passes the lace and/or begins to vomit and moan in agony. If the lace becomes entangled in her intestines, she will need emergency surgery, and because of her advanced age, there’s no guarantee she’ll survive surgery or the weeks of needed rehab. To do surgery now will further put her life in danger, so for the next few days, it’s wait and see. To help her pass this massive quantity of lace, I’m feeding her small meals every four hours to which I’m adding Metamucil. Every hour, or so, I take her outside and poke through her now frequent feces with a stick, searching for remnants of lace. If the lace doesn’t kill her, I fear she’ll explode from all of the food I’m feeding her. Other than watching me watch her, for the time being, Goldie seems to be fairing better than I am.

It’s been 11 months, today, since James died, and I’m not ready to lose another loved one. I never had children, so my dogs are my kids, my family. James always said, “Goldie’s our smart dog,” and she is. I wish she could talk because, clearly, she knows she’s in trouble. My vets are on call, but I worry her situation will ratchet up another notch in the middle of the night. I read a book on my iPad, then pull the bed away from the wall, yet another time, hoping against hope the bulk of the lace is stuck somewhere under the bed.

My Boeuf Bourguignon has become a casualty of the poop patrol. In between looking for lace in the cold rain, I lost tract of how much salt I added, so my gourmet feast is inedible. I call Rob and cancel dinner. After describing Goldie’s crisis, Rob tells me he’s having a crisis of his own. Bozo, his clownfish, is listing to starboard in Rob’s new salt water aquarium. Just when he thinks she’s a gonner, she rights herself for a time, only to list to starboard again. We vow to keep one another posted.

I try to remember all the odd things my vet says dogs consume, and survive, like garden hoses, corncobs and jump ropes, but I’m still worried. While a few remnants of lace are beginning to appear, 98 percent has not. I dread tomorrow. We’ll be closer to resolving her problem, but what if that resolution kills her?

SUNDAY: I didn’t go to church today so I can continue to feed and monitor Goldie. She’s my dear friend, my best girl, and she trusts me to take good care of her. I hope she knows how much I love her. She’s smart and funny, with a great sense of humor, something neither Sam nor Molly have. I ask God to “Please let her be alright.” She’s a major part of what’s made me and my tiny house come alive again. I still need this precious girl in my life.

Thyroids and Mammograms

Sun, 26 Feb 2012 21:46:00 GMT

Do you visit your dentist once a year or get an annual mammogram? Did you know that thyroid cancer is the fastest growing cancer in women? At first glance, teeth and mammograms don’t seem like they’d be related to thyroid cancer, but according to a story from Dr. Oz that keeps circulating on the Internet, there is evidence that exposure to radiation from dental x-rays and mammograms may contribute to thyroid cancer in women.<PREVIEWEND>

The thyroid is a small, butterfly-shaped gland located in the front of the neck and below the voice box. The thyroid makes hormones that control heart rate, blood pressure, temperature and the rate at which our food is turned into energy, but sometimes, it can go awry. We know that women who received moderate levels of radiation during the 1950s and 60s to treat acne, tonsillitis and other head and neck problems, or from radiation therapy used to treat Hodgkins Lymphoma, have a higher risk of developing some types of thyroid cancer. In Eastern Europe there’s an even higher risk of thyroid cancer among people who, as children and adolescents, were exposed to excess radiation from the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. But do most of us really have to fear thyroid cancer from x-rays and mammograms?

Dr. Mehmet Oz, surgeon and TV personality, suggests the next time our dentist wants to take x-rays of our teeth, we should ask for a lead thyroid guard, a flap that can be wrapped around the neck to protect the thyroid. Dr. Oz also informs us that radiologists who routinely do mammograms have thyroid guards, but since most of us have never heard of, or asked for one, it may be in a drawer somewhere and not readily available. While a thyroid guard sounds like a simple solution, the plot unfortunately thickens. There are drawbacks to using a thyroid guard during mammograms because guards can obscure part of the breast tissue or can produce shadows, thereby causing us to need another mammogram, which in turn, exposes us to double the dose of radiation.

In April 2011, the American College of Radiology and Society of Breast Imaging issued a statement disclaiming the notion that mammograms expose women to enough radiation to raise concerns about thyroid cancer. Even so, the Dr. Oz story continues to circulate on the Internet, raising concerns among women. So what do we do?

An argument can be made that even though our radiation risk is small, albeit cumulative over our lifetime, perhaps we should err on the side of caution and ask for a thyroid guard. On the other hand, the benefits of a mammogram shouldn’t prevent us from getting one annually, and since poor dental health can be a contributing factor to heart disease and strokes, let’s not forgo our visit to the dentist either. In the meantime, the controversy continues. Will you ask for a thyroid guard?

Guided Imagery and Healing

Sun, 06 Nov 2011 20:39:00 GMT

Most of us know what it's like to grieve the loss of a job, the loss of a loved one, or the loss of our healthy selves to a disease like breast cancer. Sometimes, however, our grief runs so deep that it’s difficult for us to heal and move on. An external force has made it nearly impossible for me to heal after James’ death and regain my footing. Guided Imagery, however, is helping me turn my darkness into light. For the first time since our family dissolved, I think I’m finally able to let go of my hurt and my anger.<PREVIEWEND>

Guided Imagery is a powerful relaxation technique that helps us engage our breathing while we create healing images in our mind. This technique has been clinically shown to help reduce stress, anxiety, depression, pain, the effects of chemotherapy, to promote healing and more. Thanks to a blog written by Britta Aragon, I remembered what Guided Imagery did for me this time last year when I was the target of a sinister, high speed chase down 10 miles of a dark, deserted, dead end country road. After 10 days of drowning, reliving the terror, I sought the help of a certified Guided Imagery therapist who helped me create a mental shield to stop my recurring thoughts and to reassure myself I was safe. From that moment on, whenever I began replaying that terrifying night, the mental shield came to mind, and within days, that night no longer held any fear for me. Once again I am using Guided Imagery to help me stop reliving every sentence of my hurt, the same hurt and disappointment James felt and cried over in the days leading up to his death.

Thank you, Britta, for introducing me to Belleruth Naparstek, psychotherapist, author and Guided Imagery pioneer. Belleruth Naparstek is the creator of the popular 55-title Time Warner Health Journeys Guided Imagery audio series, and her first book, Staying Well with Guided Imagery is widely considered to be the primer on imagery and healing. Her materials are used by the Veteran’s Administration and the Department of Defense as well as mainstream health companies like Aetna and GlaxoSmithKline and nearly 2,000 hospitals, mental health centers and recovery clinics that distribute her Guided Imagery recordings.

I’ve been using one of Belleruth Naparstek’s Guided Imagery audios, Heartbreak, Abandonment & Betrayal, that I downloaded from her website as an MP3 file onto my computer. Her voice is soft, yet strong and steady, as she evokes images of generations of my family that have gone before me; ancestors and loved ones who form a deep circle of protection around me. James is there as is his father and my grandmother, Mamie, her brother and even my father who I don’t think much about. They are my tribe, invested in my well-being because parts of them reside in me.

“We will stay with you as long as you want. You can come and go, but we will be here. We will hold you in our hearts while your heart heals, for as long as it takes.” Belleruth Naparstek guides my breath, instructing me to “breath out, bit by bit, slowly letting the pain go, breath by breath, sighing to acknowledge the longing and the yearning, the hollow emptiness, the fear and the aloneness, searching for what's been lost, the shame of feeling you've been thrown away, discarded, unlovable somehow, destabilized and wobbly, sighing to relieve all the pain you've absorbed from taking this injury so deep into your heart and holding it there."

By this time, tears are flowing down my cheeks, onto my pillow. “The pain within your heart feels as if something has been ripped from there, leaving a gaping hole, heart tissue all tender and torn. I promise you, this pain shall pass. Even this pain shall pass.”

Sleepless in the Hill Country

Tue, 01 Nov 2011 02:57:00 GMT

How many of us take a good night’s sleep for granted? For the first half of my life, I didn’t have a clue what it was like to lay in bed, desperately hoping for sleep. I always went to sleep within seconds after my head hit the pillow. Since then, however, sleep seems as illusive to me as finding Bigfoot in my backyard. While I know the root cause of my chronic insomnia, finding a way to fix it may be more impossible than turning lead into gold.<PREVIEWEND>

My first husband, Philip, was an electrical engineer, physicist, organic synthesis chemist and National Security Agency operative who couldn’t stop problem solving and was unable to get to sleep without taking Valium. Neither of us knew that the day he ran out of Valium would change our lives forever. We had no idea that after a few days without Valium, he would begin to rock back and forth and beat his head against the wall, or that it would land him in a straight jacket in a psyche ward.

The morning after Philip was placed in lockdown, I went to see him. His doctors were speechless. They’d never seen a case like his. Philip was fine and was demanding to be released. When I asked the doctors what they did after I’d left the night before, they told me they’d given him an injection of Valium. Giant light bulbs should have gone off for all concerned, but none of us had even a flicker. It was before anyone knew of the dangers associated with Valium. Philip was released and promptly plunged into the depths of depression and stayed in a darkened room for the next six months while I made excuses to employees and investors about his mysterious “ailment.” I wish I could say getting off of Valium was the end of his problem, but instead, it was the beginning of our nightmare.

Over the next year Philip saw two psychiatrists, who were both intimidated by his understated, matter-of-fact brilliance and wound up thinking Philip knew more than they did. One briefly put him on a lithium cocktail that gave him slurred speech, while the other one suggested he take a drink or two to relax him before bedtime. A drink or two eventually turned into mass quantities of alcohol, and in time, the fascinating Dr. Jekyll I married turned into the maniacal Mr. Hyde. Because I never knew what terrors the night would bring, I never felt safe to let my guard down and go to sleep.

When he got home from work, I tried to lay low in hopes he wouldn’t find something to pick a fight about. The fights seemed to give him permission to roar down the driveway, into the night, sometimes disappearing for days at a time, or he would go down to his chemistry lab on the first floor of our house where he would lock the door. For me, both actions were equally terrifying. How could I sleep when I expected either a phone call telling me he’d been in an accident and had killed someone else in the process, or that he’d accidentally do something in the lab that would blow up our house?

Some nights I’d crawl into bed and play possum. I was good at mimicking the changes in my breathing rates so Philip would think I was deep asleep. Most nights I laid there for hours until, if I was lucky, he passed out. One night, while I was in the bathroom, Philip fired a pistol through the bathroom door. Without hesitation, I opened the second story bathroom window and jumped, grabbing onto a nearby tree with one hand. The tree broke some of my fall, but I fell hard through the branches as they tore at my flesh.

Fast forward to men in suits who broke into our home and Philip’s lab while he was passed out in bed and I had to defend myself alone (from what country or government agency I never knew) his death, my involuntary time with the Honduran Military Commandos, my GI Jane journalist phase where I flew, drove, submerged in and landed on every piece of military equipment known to man and the subsequent boyfriend from Hell. It’s little wonder I continued to have trouble sleeping. Adrenaline was always coursing through my veins. I was perpetually on high alert for any and everything. Like a soldier who’d been to war, I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and began taking sleeping pills.

I was blessed when James entered my life. He was my lifesaver in every way possible. He loved and valued me unconditionally, and I no longer had to be what often felt like the sole survivor in a foreign outpost. But because I had been programmed for so long to be on alert, that it wasn't safe to let my guard down, my chronic sleep problems continued. Breast cancer, the death of James, the dissolution of his family, financial matters and my mother’s dementia have only made my sleep problems worse. Because a side effect of the long-term use of sleeping pills is poor memory, six weeks ago, I weaned myself off of the sleeping pills I’ve been taking for over 20 years and now, I can’t sleep.

I saw what happened to Philip. In some ways I’m the victim of his sleeplessness, but I know better than to let myself repeat his destructive behavior. I pray, exercise, do Breathwork and have just downloaded what I hope will be some helpful Guided Imagery pieces. This week I’m seeing a therapist I hope can help me “detox” from my life of chronic stress and learn to sleep without help. Forgive me for not commenting on other blogs or for being absent on Twitter and Facebook, but I’ve had my hands full. At this point, I want nothing more than to sprawl out on the floor like a big old sleeping dog.

A Message From Komen

Sun, 23 Oct 2011 20:25:00 GMT

A few months ago I wrote, “The Komen foundation and its awareness campaign has come to symbolize our nation’s high profile effort to eradicate breast cancer, yet many critics are wondering if Komen has careened off course.” It’s now October, “Pinktober,” and the voices of dissent continue to rage against Breast Cancer Awareness Month’s endless stream of pink products. While Komen is not responsible for every pink item sold in the name of breast cancer research, Komen is the big dog on the fundraising block and has taken the brunt of the breast cancer community’s criticism. Many consumers are no longer confident Komen, or their pink product partners, are transparent and accountable for monies raised in the name of breast cancer research. Others wonder if this sentimental sea of pink has overshadowed the original purpose of the campaign: a cure for breast cancer. Regardless, neither bodes well for future fundraising.

In an attempt to help Komen and the breast cancer community see one another’s point of view, I have invited Leslie Aun, National Director of Marketing and Communications for Komen for the Cure®, to address the anger and concerns of the breast cancer community. Perhaps I’m naive, but my hope is that this will be the first in a series of open dialogs with the goal of uniting, on common ground, while voicing our disagreements and working, together, to implement clearer fundraising and search for the cure mechanisms.<PREVIEWEND>

While Komen and the breast cancer community has numerous disagreements, Komen has raised significant funds for breast cancer research and has made breast cancer awareness a household phrase. I think everyone will agree the awareness movement has careened off track, but I want us to be mindful we “don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.” This forum could be a unique and important opportunity for all of us to effect positive changes within the pink community, but we must work together and approach this dialog with the best of intentions. I hope we don’t use this as a forum to beat one another up or to be defensive, but to brainstorm constructive approaches to more transparent and accountable methods of fundraising for, and funding of, breast cancer research.

As far as the mechanics of this first forum, Leslie Aun will write something in response to the Pinktober backlash. Readers, I hope you will use the “Comments” section of this blog post to reply to Leslie and Leslie, you comment as well. I am only the moderator. No one has attempted to bring both sides of the breast cancer fence together until now. In a perfect world, we would be seated in the same room, but every first has to have a start. If this forum is deemed a successful first “toe in the water,” perhaps we could move our dialog to Facebook, Twitter or Skype.

Leslie, I give you the floor……

From Leslie Aun, Director of Marketing & Communications, Komen:

Yes we know that some people feel there is pink overload. But as long as a woman dies of breast cancer every 74 seconds, we don’t think there is enough pink. And despite the criticism that we often hear, most people are very comfortable with the amount of pink they see. In a recent study we conducted of the general public, 87% said there is not too much pink, while 85% say they are more likely to buy a product or service if they know it will benefit the battle against breast cancer.

In terms of Susan G. Komen for the Cure, that pink represents hundreds millions of dollars that go directly to fighting breast cancer. We funded nearly $70 million in research this year alone (including 18 grants looking at the causes of breast cancer) and another $93 million in grants to educate and provide help to low-income women in thousands of communities across the U.S. who are uninsured and don’t have resources for basic medical care, much less cancer care. Women who can’t afford things like wigs and co-pays and trips to the doctor—not to mention groceries and childcare. Despite those efforts, there is a tremendous amount of need that still goes unmet. It would be wonderful if we could raise that money by direction donations, but despite best intentions, not everyone will (or can) write a check, and will support the mission through their purchases. So we’re not going to apologize for the pink.

For those who say there is already plenty of awareness of breast cancer—sorry, again we must disagree. Not when women are still asking us if underwire bras cause breast cancer or when huge numbers of women fail to get regular screenings because they think they’re not at risk. Without constant reminders, people get complacent, and the recent spate of conflicting recommendations about mammography isn’t helping. We women are often so busy looking after our children, spouses and parents that we don’t always look after ourselves. We have new data from a survey of 1.5 million women that shows that 50% of women over 40 – with coverage -- actually don’t get regular breast screenings. One of my dearest friends died of breast cancer three years ago at age 42 because she hadn’t bothered to go to the doctor in several years and wasn’t diagnosed until Stage 4. She was just too busy with her career and her family.

We know that our approach doesn’t suit everyone—some people think we should spend all our money on research, while others say we need to focus entirely on environmental factors. Other criticize our corporate relationships—never mind that they enable us to raise major research dollars and bring awareness messages to vast new audiences. We do listen to those with different views, but at the end of the day, there is no single right answer, no breast cancer silver bullet—the battle against this disease must be waged on multiple fronts. No woman has ever been cured of breast cancer because one group spent time and resources attacking another. There is room for many approaches.

Despite what you might hear, real progress has been made in terms of detection, treatment and survival. The five-year relative survival rate for early-stage breast cancer (cancer that hasn't left the breast) is now at 98%. In just the past 20 years, breast cancer mortality rates in the U.S. have dropped by 31%. It’s not at all unusual anymore to meet women who are living strong and productive lives long after their diagnosis.

Leslie Aun, Director of Marketing & Communications, Komen National

Five Ways to Become Your Own Glue

Mon, 17 Oct 2011 13:03:00 GMT

After church today some of my girlfriends and I stayed to commiserate about the collective, catastrophic changes all of us have encountered this year. Like Queen Elizabeth, who publicly referred to her “annus horribilis,” we all agreed that in many ways, we too, have had a horrible year. In reference to a year of stress, one of my friends matter-of-factly stated that she’d “lost her glue” to which I responded, “My glue died.” While our individual stories prompted serious thought, the real question for most of us is how do we change what we don’t like about our lives? How do we get our mojo back, and perhaps most importantly, how do we become our own glue?<PREVIEWEND>

The glue that keeps us on the right track, or binds us together as a family, is one of the most essential ingredients of life. For me that glue has been James and God, but when I step back and look at my life before I really knew either one, I realize I’ve always been my own glue. From the day I was born, six weeks premature and the first Rh-negative baby to survive a complete blood transfusion, I’ve been a survivor. My friends have always said I have guts. My glue, or what strengthens me, is a combination of the ying and yang of guts and fear, a sassy determination and a moral code. Together with James, whose glue was God, country, family and doing the right thing, we were an indestructible team. Now that he’s gone, I know I’m still the same gutsy, determined woman, I’m just having a hard time writing the script for the next chapter of my life.

Before any of us attempt to write a new script, perhaps we should step back and take inventory of what is and isn’t working in our lives. A severe headache that resulted in temporary blindness forced one of my girlfriends to assess her life. When her doctor asked about her stress levels, she listed a litany of things that had backed her into an unhappy corner, things she complained about, but until recently, did nothing to change. After her doctor prescribed a mild antidepressant, she took a good look at everything from family problems to rush hour traffic and a diet dominated by sugar, fats and fast foods. Who would have thought that leaving the house a little earlier would allow her to not only miss her tortuous freeway commute, but give her time to work out in her company’s gym, which then motivated her to change her diet and lose 11 pounds in the last few weeks? While none of these things have changed her stressful family problems, they have allowed her to view them with fresh eyes and a renewed spirit. Bravo girlfriend! You are inspiring!

Stress is a reality of life, and believe it or not, it’s not always a bad thing. Stress can push us to be the best we can be. It can motivate us and makes us stronger. It's a fly in the ointment, an unwanted ingredient in our glue. The challenge, however, comes in managing our stress whether it stems from illness, death or our own personal soap opera. Here are some things that might help us to strengthen our glue.

1. Be your own best friend. Most of us instinctually know when we’ve gone down the wrong path. Don’t wait for permission before you make changes to your life. Instead, give yourself permission to act in your own best interest.

2. Focus on the solution not the problem. Step back and look at the big picture. How did you get here and what’s the best way to get out or lessen the problem?

3. Know when it’s time to ask for help. While we may like to think we’re Wonder Woman or Superman, none of us always manage to find our way out of the maze. Find a counselor or a trusted friend who can help you think through your options.

4. Don’t move on without healing the problem. Just because you don't work through your grief and anger doesn't mean it's not there. Resolve problems before they stack up and become cumulative.

5. This too shall pass. Visualize the life you want. While it may not come to pass, it may motivate you to make the changes necessary to move through this time in your life.

My girlfriends at church are a wonderfully supportive group of women. Our love of God and one another makes for our own powerful, healing glue. Thank you, sweet friends, for leading the way. You always manage to lift me up.

Estrogen and Breast Cancer Recurrence

Mon, 10 Oct 2011 19:12:00 GMT

“Sugar and spice and everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of…” The writer of this popular children’s rhyme forgot a key ingredient, estrogen, the hormone that turns sugar and spice into curvy hips and breasts. Estrogen is great until it runs out, as in “I’m menopausal, out of estrogen, and I’ve got a gun,” or when it turns on us and is linked to some breast and ovarian cancers.

Many breast cancers are fed by estrogen, so if you’ve been diagnosed with estrogen-positive (ER+) breast cancer, you may want to block all forms of estrogen. It’s interesting to note that women who have a recurrence of ER+ breast cancer have higher levels of estrogen in their blood, even if they’ve taken estrogen-blocking drugs. If you’ve been treated for ER+ early-stage breast cancer, here are some dos and don’ts to reduce your risk of recurrence:<PREVIEWEND>

• Because exercise lowers blood estrogen, be physically active every day. Try and walk 30 minutes, six days a week.

• Even if you’re past menopause, excess weight around a woman’s waist often turns into excess circulating estrogen in the body. Therefore be as lean as you can, within normal body weight, but not skinny. Chemotherapy and radiation treatment for breast cancer can often make it difficult to keep weight on, but do not use this time as permission to diet. Your body needs lots of healthy, colorful low fat foods to fight your cancer.

• Research has shown 30-50% of cancers are nutrition-related. Reduce consumption of high-fat meats, cheese, whole milk, fried foods, processed foods and fast foods. Trim fat and skin from meats.

• Limit red meat and processed meats as well as chicken, eggs and dairy that may contain added hormones. Look for products that say “Hormone Free.”

• Cancer is an “obligate glucose metabolizer” which means its preferred food source is glucose. Since sugar is 50% glucose, it seems logical to minimize refined sugar found in cookies, candy, soda and desserts. Limit refined white foods like bread, pasta and rice, which easily convert to sugar.

• Look for the word “whole” on the label when purchasing cereal, pasta, crackers, bread, tortillas and rice. Use brown rice instead of white.

• Eat a diet primarily of fruits and vegetables, including berries, nuts, seeds and “whole” grains, which provide powerful and important phytochemicals that protect cells and stimulate the immune system.

• A big portion of your immune system is in your gut. Keep it regular and running smoothly by drinking a daily probiotic. Whole grain breads also bring added fiber to the diet.

• We’ve all heard soy is a breast cancer inhibitor, but once you’re diagnosed with ER+ breast cancer, soy is thought to produce phytoestrogen effects, or they act like the hormone estrogen. While this is controversial, many oncologists suggest women with ER+ breast cancer avoid all soy products, soy supplements and soy isoflavones.

• Limit alcohol consumption. Alcohol has been shown to increase estrogen metabolism and circulating estrogen levels in postmenopausal women. Because research on the amount of alcohol consumed per day is mixed, it is suggested alcohol should be limited to 3 to 4 drinks a week.

• Avoid body and skin care products containing soy and all forms of parabens. Parabens are used as preservatives and produce possible estrogenic effects when absorbed by the blood stream. Unfortunately most of the shampoos, lotions, skin care creams and sexual lubricants on the market contain methyl, ethyl, propyl, butyl, isopropyl and isobutylparabens. You might consider shopping for all natural products at Whole Foods, or online at BreastCancerSisterhood’s Retail Therapy.

• This is probably obvious, but avoid all forms of estrogen creams, patches and yes, bioidentical hormones. As the Today Show’s Dr. Nancy Snyderman told me, “Hormones are hormones are hormones.”

And finally, don't become obsessed trying to follow, to the letter, all of these dos and don'ts. As with everything in life, do all things in moderation, including moderation.

My Best Friend Has Breast Cancer

Sun, 02 Oct 2011 23:40:00 GMT

This week one of my best friends was diagnosed with breast cancer, and I’m devastated for her. The news that she will be hurled into the same ugly fight I’ve endured has rocked me to my core. Naively, I hoped I’d taken the “hit” for all of the women I love, but cancer doesn’t work that way. Cancer is indiscriminate.<PREVIEWEND>

After two suspicious mammograms and an ultrasound, my friend had a needle biopsy. For the next three days we waited for the results. Thursday her doctor left a voicemail saying, “We need to chat. I’ll call you, again, tomorrow.” Tossed out like a line from a bad “B” movie, I wondered what kind of doctor leaves such a thoughtless message. Surely the doctor knew the implications of her words, that they would hang in the air like bold letters etched in stone. At that point it was hard for me to throw out positive lifelines, and even harder for my friend to catch, and so we steeled ourselves for the worst.

Since high school my two best friends have been Gayle and Lee. They are smart, funny women who’ve seen me through good times and bad. Today it’s my and Lee’s turn to be there for Gayle, because Gayle is the one who’s been diagnosed with estrogen positive breast cancer. To say we’re shocked is an understatement and to say we’re angry doesn’t begin to describe the anguish and devastation we feel.

At the same moment Gayle called me on my landline to tell me her biopsy results, Lee was calling my cell phone to see if I’d heard from her. In a weird kind of conference call, I put Gayle and Lee each on speakerphone, and held the two phones together, while Gayle told us the results. I think we were all prepared, but hearing it and having it confirmed was sobering. I stared at the phones, imagining each of my friends on the other end. I could see their faces, the same faces I’ve loved since we were 16. Our conversation was punctuated by silence, then tears, followed by laughter and more tears.

Yesterday when I told Gayle I might start writing blogs with information I wanted her to have, she suggested I go ahead and use her name. Perhaps by personalizing her breast cancer journey, it might help someone else in ways we have yet to imagine.

Next week Gayle is having a lumpectomy. This will tell us a lot about her cancer and the kind of treatment she’ll need. At this point, we believe her cancer was caught early; Stage 1, and she may need radiation but no chemo. I can’t help but think of when Gayle and Lee and I went to an outdoor Sting concert, in 100 degree plus Texas heat, eight days after my first mastectomy. I wore white linen and my turkey basters, as Lee called them, the temporary drains attached to where my breast had been. Our seats were in the last row and Carrot Top could have been lip-syncing Sting songs for all we knew, but I didn’t care. I was there. I was alive, with my two best friends, singing and clapping like my world hadn’t been condensed onto a glass slide two inches long and three-quarters of an inch wide.

As I looked at the thousands of women in the audience, I thought of the one in eight women who will be diagnosed with breast cancer. I looked from woman to woman thinking, “She’s had it, or she has it and doesn’t know it.” If each of these women had known about my bandages and my turkey basters, where the week before my breast had been, many wouldn’t have agreed with me that life doesn’t get any better than this. I wanted to hug each one of them and tell them to keep singing, keep laughing. Pull from each moment the things you want to remember. Savor them. Laugh at them. Live your life with joy.

So now I’m telling these things to you, Gayle. I love you, sister girl. This won’t be easy--I know--but you will get through this and emerge on the other side stronger than ever. You will be all right. Of that, I am certain.

And to Gayle’s breast cancer, “You’ve raised your ugly malignant neoplasm in the wrong breast, and we’re fixing to kick your ass to the curb!”

Apply Now for Life Beyond Cancer Retreat

Mon, 26 Sep 2011 00:02:00 GMT

If you’re a woman and a cancer survivor or a cancer provider, you have until September 30, 2011, 12pm CTS, to apply for the Living Well, Getting Well, 2011 Life Beyond Cancer Retreat at Lakeway Resort and Spa in Austin, Texas. Forgive me for not posting this sooner, because I want all of you to come and experience this life-changing event.

This year’s Retreat takes place November 18-20th, 2011. Because space is limited to 150 participants, you must submit your online application by this Friday, September 30th.<PREVIEWEND> Applications will be reviewed and those applicants who are selected to attend will be notified via email by October 7th. Here’s a link for you to APPLY TODAY. Did I mention I’m one of the speakers? Hurry, girlfriends, and fill out your application. I can’t wait to meet you!

Here’s the BRENDA’S BLOG about last year’s Retreat. Sunday, November 21, 2010: I just returned from four amazing days at the Life Beyond Cancer Retreat. Held at Lakeway Resort in Austin, Texas, 130 women with all types of cancer, as well as oncologists, nurse practitioners, social workers and world class speakers (many of whom are cancer survivors) met to recover, restore and reenergize.

One of the definitions of “retreat” is “a place of refuge.” To that I would add: A retreat is also the people who share the refuge with you. Together you “re treat” one another again and again, nourishing your spirits and inspiring your souls. I don’t know of another environment where total strangers become instant sisters who understand and mirror one another’s deepest hopes and fears before they’ve even said “hello.”

Women from around the country with all types and stages of cancer came to this retreat, and one, as she put it, was beyond her “expiration date.” There were women, who thought they were the only ones in the world with cancers no one could pronounce, who met other women with their exact same cancer. We shared our pain, our hopes, even our sadness that some of us may not be here this time, next year, but there was no pity; no loss for words. Each of us came from the same place of unspoken understanding.

We danced; we cried. We cried a lot, but there was more laughter in these four days than many people experience in years. How do I explain cancer humor? Perhaps by giving you a quote from cancer superheroine Heidi Adams, founder of Planet Cancer and Senior Director of Grass Roots Engagement for LIVESTRONG asked: “Is it OK to be buried in blue jeans?”

Each time we came together, whether at meals or to listen to speakers, we met new women and shared our stories. After dark, some of us gathered around an outdoor fireplace in our pajamas, made smores, laughed “samore” and talked with oncologists who, at that moment, were knowledgeable friends with answers. At the end of four days, our collective stories were as healing as any surgery, chemo or radiation. Each of us left with tears of joy and thanksgiving for having met others who shared “our same aquarium,” and who empowered us and gave us hope.

Started by US Oncology, Inc., the largest community-based cancer care and research network in the nation, the Life Beyond Cancer Foundation’s primary purpose is to financially assist cancer patients with many of their everyday living expenses. In addition, US Oncology, along with other caring companies, underwrites most of the cost of the Life Beyond Cancer Retreat, making it affordable for many women who want to come. I think I speak for everyone at this year’s retreat when I tell Dr. Lloyd Everson, Vice-Chairman and Board Member of US Oncology, that Living Beyond Cancer may be one of the best decisions US Oncology will ever make. The executive director and her planning committee created an event none of us wanted to leave. Even after we’d checked out of our rooms, we sat on sofas and chairs, camped out on the lobby floor, not ready to say goodbye.

If you’re female and have/had cancer, whether you’re Stage 1 or Stage 4, mark your calendars for next November and go to next year’s Retreat. If the Life Beyond Cancer Retreat doesn’t open a door in your heart that helps you embrace life, I’m not sure anything will.

Men Get Breast Cancer Too!

Sun, 18 Sep 2011 21:30:00 GMT

Do any of you know a man who’s had breast cancer? For the majority of you who answered “no,” please allow me to introduce Allen Wilson, this year’s Chair for the Houston 2011 Komen Race for the Cure®. A two-time breast cancer survivor, and an adventurer who embraces life in every sense of the word, Allen is a cautionary tale for every man. Yes men get breast cancer, too, and just like women, men need to do regular self-breast exams.<PREVIEWEND>

Even though Allen Wilson had been aware of the lump under his right nipple, it took colliding with his son while playing basketball to get his attention. “That really hurt,” he told me. “Two days later I had a mammogram. It’s amazing what those technicians can do with so little tissue to work with.” Shortly there after, in 2003, Allen had a mastectomy.

When Allen told a woman he worked with that he’d just had a mastectomy, she thought he said “vasectomy” until he raised his shirt, showed her his bandages and his drainage tubes and grinned. Like everything else Allen Wilson does in life, he’s handled his breast cancer with humor and determination. After his hair began to fall out during his first go-round with chemo, his sons, Robert and Michael, gave him a Mohawk and painted one side of it red and the other side green for their family Christmas photo.

After his mastectomy and prescribed rounds of chemotherapy were over, Allen began training for his climb to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro where, in 2006, he placed pink ribbons as summit markers. The same year, Allen’s breast cancer returned in the location of his mastectomy scar, and another surgery and some really “serious chemo” and radiation ensued. “Maintenance,” he calls it, with no reference to the word “recurrence.”

Allen’s cell phone is a breath-taking photo album of not only his climbs on world famous mountains around the world, but of he and his wife, Lisa, skydiving and their 2010 participation in the second Egyptian Komen Race for the Cure® around the Sphinx and the Great Pyramids of Giza. The same year, Allen also spoke at the inaugural Komen Race for the Cure® in Jerusalem.

Allen is only the second man I’ve met who’s had breast cancer. The first male breast cancer survivor I met was actor, Richard Roundtree, better known for his role as super-cop “Shaft,” the ABC miniseries Roots as well as Desperate Housewives and his recurring role on Gray’s Anatomy. In 1993, Richard found a lump about the size of a pencil eraser in the shower while filming a movie in Costa Rica.

“When I was diagnosed, nobody gave me any information about breast cancer or how to get through treatment. No pamphlets, no cautions about what to eat, what not to eat, how to take care of myself, nothing," Richard told me a few years ago when he wrote a piece for my book, Breast Cancer Sisterhood, A Guide to Practical Information & Answers to Your Most Intimate Questions. "I was only told I needed a mastectomy and six months of chemotherapy, so that’s what I did.”

Richard Roundtree and Allen Wilson are great role models and reminders for every man to do monthly self-breast exams. Even though less than one percent of breast cancers occur in men, the incidence is on the rise. Because men delay seeing their doctors if they notice a lump or something unusual in the breast area, their breast cancers are often diagnosed when the disease is more advanced. As a result, their prognosis may not be as good had they found it earlier.

To Allen and Richard, from the men you've helped, along with the wives, sisters, mothers and daughters who love them, we thank you.

Empire State of Mind

Mon, 12 Sep 2011 01:28:00 GMT

“In New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of,
There’s nothing you can’t do,
Now you’re in New York,
These streets will make you feel brand new,
Big lights will inspire you,
Let’s hear it for New York, New York, New York

One hand in the air for the big city,
Street lights, big dreams all looking pretty,
No place in the world that can compare,
Put your lighters in the air, everybody say yeah, yeah,
Yeah, yeah

In New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of,
There’s nothing you can’t do,
Now you’re in New York,
These streets will make you feel brand new,
Big lights will inspire you,
Let’s hear it for New York, New York, New York”

This moving tribute to the people of New York City and the 911 first responders has touched my heart in ways I couldn’t have predicted.<PREVIEWEND> It’s reminded me of the collective pain our nation still feels and the selfless ways total strangers put the lives of others before their own. It’s also made me think about breast cancer families and the strangers who became our caregivers, men and women we came to rely on to keep us alive. In no way do I mean to compare 911 to having breast cancer, or vice versa, but all of us have been touched in small every day moments by loss, illness, war and death.

Profound loss changes who we are: We approach the future with the knowledge our life will never be the same again; we realign the way we see ourselves not only in the context of our own lives, but in relationship to our communities and those who share our common experiences. While we can never return to the days before the terrorist attacks on our country, or the cancer that ravaged our bodies, these tragedies sharpen our determination to survive.

Where were you when you heard about September 11^th? Where were you when you were diagnosed with breast cancer? How did September 11^th change you? How did breast cancer change you? Did they make you stronger?

As a whole, Americans and those who gravitate to the opportunities and freedoms our shores represent are resilient. It takes a lot to get us down and on our way back up, we grab the hands of those next to us and bring them up with us. A loss of the magnitude of 911 or cancer is incalculable, but generations to come will bear witness and take inspiration from our stories. They will use the lessons we’ve learned as the basis and strength to survive their own crisis.

While my thoughts are of those brave 911 men and women and their families, as well as my breast cancer sisters and their families, I’m also thinking of my own recent loss. My precious James. May God bless you and your families each and every day, and may you take time out of each day to be there for someone else. I thank you for being there for me.

Breast Cancer Husbands, "I'm One of Those Guys"

Mon, 05 Sep 2011 00:11:00 GMT

©Scott Pratt. All rights reserved.

Other than James, I don't often get to meet other breast cancer husbands who are great caregivers, men who've stood by their wives through every step of their breast cancer. I want to introduce you to one such husband, Scott Pratt. I met Scott through his website, ScottPrattFiction, where I read a blog post he wrote about what he and golfer Phil Mickelson have in common: Wives who've been diagnosed with breast cancer. As I read his post, I knew Scott was someone special.<PREVIEWEND>

Scott Pratt writes legal suspense thrillers about a lawyer named Joe Dillard and his family and the relationship between a husband and wife during her long battle with breast cancer. Often compared to John Grisham, reviewers have said Scott Pratt is one of the most impressive writers to come along in years. “He has a way of drawing characters that make them real," "a must read if you love attorney and courtroom thrillers" and he "had me going from the start and put my life on pause until I finished."

Scott Pratt is the only person I've ever asked to write a guest blog. As one reviewer said, "I can't wait to read what life brings for Joe Dillard and his family in future novels." I feel the same way about Scott, his family and his wife, Kristy. I think you'll feel the same way after you read his post below.

"I'm One of Those Guys"

I recently learned that twenty-five percent of men whose wives are diagnosed with breast cancer pack up and leave. My first reaction was disgust, then anger. I asked myself, “How could a man do that?”

I’ve since thought about it a lot, and to be honest, I still can’t answer the question. Maybe fear drives some men away, maybe selfishness. Maybe they were just looking for an excuse to leave. I don’t know. What I do know is that if twenty-five percent of men leave, that means that seventy-five percent stay. I’m proud to be one of those guys.

My wife was only forty-four years old when she was diagnosed with breast cancer in May of 2007. Her name is Kristy. We’d been married for twenty years and had two children in high school, one about to graduate and the other a year younger. She owned and operated a dance studio and was beautiful and fit and energetic.

The news, initially, left all of us in a state of utter disbelief. There was no history of breast cancer in her family, and she seemed so… healthy. Within a week of the diagnosis, however, things got worse. We learned that the tumor was large, Stage III, and had already attached itself to the skin beneath her breast. The cancer cells had spread to her lymph nodes. She was in danger. The doctors told us that under the best of circumstances, Kristy was looking at a battle that would last for more than a year, that she would have to undergo chemotherapy and radiation therapy and that she would lose her breast.

I’ve never been one to cry, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I cried the night I found out how sick my wife really was. I walked down to the edge of the lake that bordered our back yard after everyone had gone to bed, and I cried alone in the darkness. I have no idea how long I was there, but when the tears finally played themselves out, I asked myself a question… Can you be strong enough? Can you be strong enough to help her through this? Can you be strong enough to help the children through this? I told myself that I was the husband and the father, that all of them would look to me for strength, and that I could not let them down. Right then and there, I made up my mind. There would be no more crying. There would be no more feeling sorry for myself. I would deal with the situation head on, and I would do whatever I had to do to help Kristy get through it.

The next morning, I took my son and daughter to breakfast, and we talked a good, long while. My son had just turned eighteen and my daughter was about to turn seventeen. They may have been young, but I was proud to discover that both of them had already come the same conclusion I had come to – Kristy was the one who was sick. There would be no outward displays of self-pity. We would remain strong and positive in her presence, and if any of us felt ourselves weakening, we would look to each other for help.

And that’s what we’ve done for the past four-and-a-half years. The road has been long and incredibly difficult for all of us, especially for Kristy. She has endured everything the doctors predicted and more. She has been poisoned by chemotherapy, burned by radiation, and cut with sharp instruments. Her hair has fallen out and grown back twice. She has had nineteen surgeries, one of which resulted in the use of leeches (yes, those slimy, wormlike creatures) to deal with excess bleeding. She has spent weeks in the hospital and months recovering. She has scars on her chest, beneath her arm, running down both sides of her back, and across her abdomen. Her body became a battlefield, and by necessity, I became the combat medic. I held cool compresses to her forehead while she vomited after chemotherapy. I changed hundreds, if not thousands, of dressings. (During one particularly rough period, I packed a large wound with gauze twice a day, every day, for six months.) I gave injections, treated infections, offered comfort, and spent many, many sleepless nights.

As I write this, one more reconstructive surgery is all that remains. Kristy is still teaching jazz, tap and acrobatics to the students she loves so much. Her thick, auburn hair once again falls to the middle of her back. She is beautiful, vital, and as sexy as ever. (In case you’re wondering, the answer is no – breast cancer will not end intimacy. You just have to be a little more careful.) I love her more than ever.

As for the rest of us, our son and daughter are both away at college and doing very well. Kristy and I have “replaced” them with four dogs.

I remain proud to count myself among the seventy-five percent of guys who stick it through. It wasn’t a conscious decision. In fact, I never even thought about it, because leaving never entered my mind.

Breast Cancer Families in the Eye of the Storm

Mon, 29 Aug 2011 01:14:00 GMT

©Survivorship Media Network, LLC. All rights reserved.

Breast cancer and Hurricane Irene have something in common: Families must cope with the fear and uncertainty of the approaching storm as well as the aftermath of the physical and emotional devastation. Hurricanes and breast cancer are life-changing times when families need to pull together for the long haul. They are times which call for selflessness and support, but unfortunately, not every family member responds well to a crisis or has the same needs.

Sadly, many breast cancer marriages split up because husbands don’t know how, or don’t want to be caregivers or, as one husband told me, he didn’t want to be “holding the bag if she died.” What he didn’t realize was that when he took the cowardly way out, he was the one who caused a death, the death of his family.<PREVIEWEND> A study in the journal Cancer reports that in families where one spouse is seriously ill, men are more likely to be the one who abandons their spouse. Soon after their diagnosis of cancer or MS, 21 percent of women became separated or divorced, while only 3 percent of men with a life-threatening illness experienced divorce. Marriages aren’t the only relationships to suffer during a crisis. As unthinkable as it sounds, children of every age are often left to find their own way. I was one of those kids.

Only one of my teachers, Mrs. Jeeter, even talked to me about my father’s death from cancer. At the time, I didn’t have the words to tell her how much I appreciated her compassion. She was the only person, in or out of my family, who acknowledged my pain. She asked me if she could tell the class why I’d been absent, and I agreed. This was back in the day, when the big “C” was only talked about in whispers, and families hid their dirty linen behind the public pretext of being a “Leave it to Beaver” family. While my teacher meant well, my classmates reacted to the news like I was someone who’d been exposed to something contagious like “cooties.” The only kid in my school who said anything to me was Gordon Downey, who appeared on my 13-year-old doorstep the next day with a condom in his hand. Because his father had recently died of a heart attack, I guess this was his pubescent way of comforting one another. Not!! My experience taught me how much kids need words of comfort, not just from adults, but from their peers.

As many of you know, at the beginning of the summer, Amy, who wrote BreastCancerSisterhood’s AMY’S BLOG, big sister to other kids and teens whose parents have cancer, decided to pass her blogging torch on to someone else. After two years, 111 blogs and a semester in Europe, Amy decided to focus on her Senior year in college. She and her mother Kathy, a breast cancer survivor, opened their hearts and shared their stories about Kathy’s breast cancer and how they moved forward as a splintered family. When I saw them at James’ memorial service, I can’t tell you how supported and loved they made me feel. They’ve become part of my family, and I love them both. While I understood it was time for Amy to move on, I knew she would be a hard act to follow. After much searching, I’ve found another special young woman I want to introduce you to... Alexandra.

Alexandra is 17, a senior in high school who loves to write Science Fiction and Fantasy and is taking creative writing in school. Like Amy, her mother’s breast cancer has made her wise beyond her years. Alexandra was 10 when her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. In addition, her mom was pregnant. Their family has experienced breast cancer’s storms and have weathered them, together, and are stronger than ever.

Alexandra and I are so exited she is joining me. I hope you will pass ALEX'S BLOG or our Newsletter along to other cancer families. Her youthful voice may be the only one out there who speaks to children and other teens who need to read her words and know they aren’t alone.

Welcome, Alexandra!!!

Boxes of Life, Love and Pain

Wed, 24 Aug 2011 01:01:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Just when I think I've gotten over the hump, something happens, or a series of some things happen to remind me James is not here. He's not coming back. Today I went to our storage units in search of things to put on my office wall, art we've collected and photographs I've taken of far away places. While I found the things I was looking for, I also found things I wasn't ready to see.

One of the storage units contained mostly boxes. It didn't matter what they were labeled, "Brenda's Office," "Fragile" or "Family Room," these stacks of uniform cardboard boxes held the contents of my life, a life spent with James. Would you believe I've saved every rose James ever gave me? I have boxes and boxes, big cardboard boxes of dried roses; dried when they were perfectly formed, beautiful buds still bound together, petal upon petal, like lovers' hands intertwined finger by finger.<PREVIEWEND>

James gave me roses for birthdays, anniversaries and for no other reason than because he loved me. I would always lay them out on newspaper on top of the refrigerator to dry. It seemed as though there were always roses there, some taking a month or more before they were perfectly dried. Afterward I put them in old wooden boxes, silver trays and crystal bowls. They filled the living room, the dining room, and my dressing room, even an old Lalique bowl in a nook beside the tub.

Today I didn't open the cardboard boxes of “Roses” because I feared they would be too hard for me to see, too hard to think about the candlelight dinner on the floor with the vase of roses beside us and yet, I would have been better off opening the roses because I already knew what was in them. I would have been prepared. It was the boxes marked "Fragile" that disarmed me, that made my heart beat out of rhythm and brought me to my knees. Unlike the "Roses," the contents of “Fragile” were unexpected. How could I have known the fragile things contained parts of my heart, our life and our love? They were full of James in the most unexpected ways: the inlaid box he bought me in Italy and surprised me with when we got home, framed photographs of ski trips with family and friends. I even found the place cards from the dinner after our wedding; a card with “James” and another with “Brenda” were written in black ink and an elegant script.

This week my online friend and fellow breast cancer survivor, Elaine Olsen, at Peace for the Journey, wrote about the various ways we can use our creativity to "solve the problem of pain." Her words made me think about the pain I’ve experienced since James died, the pain and sweet memories brought to life by the simple act of opening a box. Each of us have experienced pain after a cancer diagnosis or other serious health problem; the pain we feel when we lose part of ourselves to death, divorce or job loss. Pain is universal. While we express it in different degrees of fear, hopelessness and anger, how do we solve the problem of our pain?

Do you remember how you felt before your most painful moments? Can you remember your life before them, and have you contrasted them with your life since then? Have you thought about putting your feelings down in a journal? It doesn’t have to be a journal or a blog you share. It can be a healing tool for your eyes only. Maybe it contains words and photographs you can call on again and again. Today I’ve put my feelings down in my blog because it helps me make sense of the myriad of emotions I’m feeling because of half-opened cardboard boxes, glimpses of the life I had and the one I’ve yet to figure out. I hope my words resonate with each of you in positive ways you didn’t imagine. What can you do, or what have you done to heal your pain? What steps are you taking to make your mind and body stronger? What can you do to help someone else who’s embarked on a similar journey?

Here a box, there a box, everywhere a box-box. James will always be in all of them. I know he’d want me to make today a good day, to do everything intentionally, with love and compassion and reverence for God. I want that for you as well, sweet friends.

After Breast Cancer: A New Normal or a New Perspective?

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 01:23:00 GMT

Brenda Coffee photo ©Liz Garza Williams. All rights reserved.

Every Monday night at 9pm EST there's a terrific chat on Twitter about “the intersection of breast cancer and all things social media” (#BCSM). If you've never used Twitter, it limits users to 140 characters, including blank spaces, which forces you to make your thoughts concise and to the point. Perhaps the best thing about Twitter is that it allows you to have dialogs with people from all over the world, people you wouldn’t ordinarily meet.

For those of you who wonder if anything meaningful can come from writing a sentence or two, here’s a sampling of last Monday night’s Twitter chat about “finding our new normal after breast cancer treatment.” Participants in this conversation are listed below.<PREVIEWEND>

•Don't get frustrated - pace of recovery often much slower than you would like/expect.
•Still learning patience/faith but it’s all about letting the body/mind spirit heal @own pace.
•No such thing as normal…ever again. Still can enjoy life, tho.
•I happen to hate the word “normal.”
•Very hard to accept that things might never get back to “normal.”

•Patience is a good thing! Be patient as you adjust to post-treatment life.
•Getting back to relationships…sometimes it felt like I saw the world in color & everyone around me in b&w.
•You changed but no one else did-big problem with relationships after treatment.
•I savor life fully but am deeply traumatized by BRCA. 2 sides of coin.
•Did anyone else seem to bottom out AFTER treatments were over? Had to push… and then BAM!

•Very common to bottom out, so much energy put into just making it thru treatment, then over! You crash.
•For all of us, some days are better than others. For those who’re surviving something, those bad days play out in stereo.
•Our co-survivors probably want us to find our new normals more than anyone because they’re SO ready for life to move on.
•Treatment ages you, no one expects that. We’re all getting older but treatment seems to accelerate the process.
•Knowledge is power but also a burden sometimes.

•How can we help others see “new normal” as a chance for discovery? By sharing our stories.
•Some days I feel like I’m 90.
•Perhaps we could suggest to them that “new normal” is a chance to have a “do over.”
•Embrace the things you’ve put off or feared.
•I might be a little impatient and hard on myself.
•Help others understand that finding their new normal is an opportunity full of new insight others don’t have.

•The opportunity to have a new normal sure beats the alternative.
•Healing physically is only part of the process, emotionally can take much longer.
•Relationships do change and that can be a sad and frustrating consequence.
•Lots of husbands stray after breast cancer, perhaps because they’re SO ready to move on & their wife isn’t there yet.
•Fatigue huge problem. You look fine, people don’t understand why you can’t do what you used to, causes strain.

•Parents in major denial and didn’t wanna talk cancer.
•25% of husbands leave their wives after breast cancer. Most are thinking w/their little brains & some are just jerks.
•Disease is a psychological burden on the whole family.
•The “new normal” is a phrase I see over and over again… and never liked!
•Normal is what you think you are and no one else is.

•Cancer seems to bring out the best and the worst in us. Fear is natural but can be damaging.
•Why do I want to return to ‘normal?’ I had cancer when I was ‘normal.’
•The only thing standard about recovery is that it’s a process we each live through differently.
•It also assumes that treatment is over then & it’s all behind us, which it never is.
•When you’re done with treatment, it may not be done with you.

As you can see, there’s a lot of wisdom and experience in our Monday night Twitter chat. Since many people don’t care for the term “new normal,” toward the end of the hour, moderator, Alicia Stales, tossed out two new questions: “So what’s a better phrase besides ‘new normal?’ & How do you describe this different person that you are?” to which @fiestybluegecko from Thailand responded, “I see life through a different lens now.” I thought about Alicia’s question regarding a better phrase for ‘new normal’ and answered, “After treatment we look at things differently and we “gain” our “new perspective.”

Anyone who says Twitter is for “twits” or that you can’t have meaningful conversations in 140 characters or less is mistaken. I don’t know about you, but some of these responses are not only profound but good suggestions for those who are going through cancer or are in the process of “gaining” their “new perspective.”

PS: Some of the participants in our Twitter chat:
@Bethlgainer, Beth L. Gainer
@BCSisterhood, Brenda Coffee
@ccchronicles
@chemo_babe
@DrAttai, Dr. Deanna Attai
@drseisenberg, Dr. Steven Eisenberg
@feistybluegecko, Philippa Ramsden
@itsthebunk, Liza Bernstein
@JediPD, PDara MD, FACP
@jodyms, Jody Schoger, co-moderator
@nursefriendly, Andrew Lopez, RN
@regrounding, Lori Marx-Rubiner
@rsm2800 Robert S. Miller, MD
@stales, Alicia C. Staley, co-moderator
@strongsarah
@subatomicdoc, Matthew Katz
@westr, Robert West

Life After Breast Cancer

Mon, 08 Aug 2011 02:16:00 GMT

My girlfriends and I are talking about taking a trip to Paris next year, and we’re interested in staying in a “vacation rental by owner” as opposed to a hotel. I’ve found numerous websites that list Paris rentals by arrondissements, or neighborhoods, provide photographs and prices of fully furnished apartments and dates they’re available. Each arrondissement has it’s own distinct charm. For instance, the 8th Arrondissement reflects the quintessential glamour and elegance that is Paris. Cartier, Louis Vuitton, the Champs-Elysées and the Arc de Triumph all share the same streets as chi-chi apartments with high ceilings, windows swathed in pale blue silk, parquet floors and furniture worthy of Marie Antoinette. The 5th and 6th Arrondissements on the Left Bank, or Rive Gauche, is home to the universities of the Sorbonne and the more bohemian and intellectual parts of the city. Perhaps it’s the window peeper in me, but I like the idea of staying in someone else’s home, stepping into their shoes, if you will. It gives me the opportunity to abandon my life for a short time and try part of a stranger’s life on for size. While thinking about a trip to Paris, it occurred to me that at some point after finishing breast cancer treatment, it might be helpful if we all stepped into someone else’s shoes for a time.<PREVIEWEND>

Like little kids who know the number of days until Christmas or summer vacation, most of us count down the days until we’re finished with chemo and radiation. Even though we’re happy to have treatment behind us, it’s not uncommon to find it scary to be “on our own.” During treatment we had super fighters like chemo and radiation, while frequent doctors’ appointments kept a close eye on the rise and fall of cancer antigens and the state of our immune system. Even though we had no hair and no energy, both were tangible symbols that something was hard at work, killing our cancer. Soon after we’re finished with treatment, however, our hair grows back and we’re “on our own,” and it’s easy to let our fears take over.

It’s at that point that family and friends may question why we’re not embracing our life again, ecstatic to be free of doctors’ appointments and nausea. “Why aren’t you doing the happy dance?” they ask, perplexed by our insidious and seemingly illogical fears that our cancer will return. “You finished treatment a year ago… or you finished treatment five years ago… Move on already. Why can’t you just let it go?” Because our co-survivors have also looked forward to life returning to “normal,” they don’t always understand why we can’t leave cancer behind as easily as they can. While we know why we can’t, it’s often difficult to make others understand, plus sometimes, “stuff” happens along the way that makes it even harder.

I remember being at my first post treatment yoga class. Without warning, in the middle of a Sun Salutation pose, I dropped to the floor like a rock. I felt like I’d been flung from a Tilt-a-Whirl. The room was spinning, and I couldn’t orient myself or find a way to sit-up. Immediately I thought I’d overdone things; perhaps I should’ve waited another week, or maybe “it” had already metastasized to my brain. “It” turned out to be a persistent case of positional vertigo. You would have thought I would have been thrilled it wasn’t a brain tumor and that I would soon return “to normal,” but on some level, the vertigo made me feel even more vulnerable. For a short time, it took away my self-confidence about being able to successfully move forward after treatment. If in a blink, a microscopic piece of something in my inner ear could turn my world on its axis, what would cancer do if it returned that quickly and profoundly?

Whether it’s cancer, vertigo, death or divorce, all of us occasionally find ourselves in need of something to get us back on tract and help us focus on something or someone other than ourselves. If you’ve ever watched The Dog Whisperer on TV, Cesar Millan frequently rehabilitates dogs by jerking their chain. When he wants a dog to stop one kind of behavior and adopt another, he jerks the chain around their neck, forcing them out of their negative behavior. People are like that as well. If you’re having trouble getting your footing after something devastating and life-changing, perhaps you need a bridge to help you get you from the slump you’re in to your new normal.

I’m gradually finding my way without James, and without a family, but I won’t lie to you: It’s been hard, but I’m making progress. From time to time, we all need something like “vacation rental by owner” where we adopt someone else’s lifestyle, volunteer to help abused and abandoned children, take an art class or learn another language. Like Cesar Millan, we need to jerk our chains and jumpstart our brains to snap us out of our funk and keep us from worrying that we’re all on our own.

While my girlfriends and I can’t afford to step into most of the luxurious lifestyles in the 8th Arrondisement, we can stroll up and down the avenues, sip champagne and strive to find a little of the nonchalant chic French women seem to be born with. Personally, I think the mystery about French women has more to do with their bien dans ta peau, being comfortable in their own skin. Regardless of whether we ever try and step into a French woman’s shoes, we should try and adopt their passion for life. We shall only pass this way but once, so let’s make the most of it.

PS: About vertigo: Fortunately my doctor gave me a series of exercises designed to reposition the microscopic crystal in my inner ear that had become dislodged. By the way, you can find these exercises on the Internet. I did the exercises at least twice a day, over a period of a week or so, and my vertigo stopped. While it’s come back several times since then, consistently doing the exercises makes it go away.

Breast Cancer Bloggers Use Social Media for Social Change

Mon, 01 Aug 2011 12:45:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

The Komen foundation and its awareness campaign has come to symbolize our nation’s high profile effort to eradicate breast cancer, yet many critics are wondering if Komen has careened off course. In the last few months, numerous breast cancer advocates have used Social Media tools like Twitter, blogs and Facebook to voice their concerns. Many breast cancer advocates feel that while Komen has done an amazing job of single-handedly raising awareness about breast cancer, along with money for research grants and free mammography screenings for low-income women, Komen’s focus has changed. They have "sold out" for money. Breast cancer bloggers and their readers have said enough with the pink ribbon “awareness” campaigns and are using Social Media to challenge Komen to focus more on “the cure.” Some advocates believe this recent Social Media storm is responsible for Komen’s changing it’s traditional October Breast Cancer Awareness Month to Breast Cancer Action Month. Even though Komen critics want more than a name change, the breast cancer community is an example of how Social Media can effect social change. <PREVIEWEND>

Since Komen became the big dog on the pink block, its become almost un-American to criticize them. Many, however, believe the change in Komen’s campaign focus has them on the defensive, but what kind of “Breast Cancer Action” will Komen take? Will they continue to partner with unhealthy products like Kentucky Fried Chicken and M&Ms to raise funds? Will they still spend nonprofit dollars to sue local volunteer organizations that use Komen’s trademarked “For the Cure®” in hometown fundraising efforts even though the proceeds, often in the six figures, go to Komen? Not exactly the thank you note America’s philanthropic patrons expect from their favorite charity. From their critics’ perspective, Komen’s newly announced October strategy may simply be a new name for an old blueprint that has breast cancer bloggers and survivors seeing “red” not “pink.”

Even though I was one of the few breast cancer bloggers who had yet to write about the Komen controversy, I’ve read and posted comments about this Social Media outrage on other blogs. Last month, when I was on the Women's Health panel at TheNewFront conference in NYC, Ashton Kutcher spoke to the general assembly and asked if those of us "with brands were mobilizing community to our brands advantage?" “In order to do that, he said, "Social Media has to be disruptive." A few days later, I tossed his statements out on Twitter along with "WE are Social Media and BREAST CANCER is our brand." The response to my Tweet was overwhelming. I continued to think about Kutcher’s statement and on June 11th, contacted Liz Szabo, medical reporter for USAToday, who I met on Twitter, to see if she had any interest in doing a story about the swelling Komen anger in the breast cancer community. I also gave her links to all the bloggers, and their posts, who’d already spoken out against Komen. Not only did Ms. Szabo write a full page article, “Komen’s Pink Ribbons Raise Lots of Green, Many Questions,” in the July 18th USAToday, but it has attracted the support from other members of the press as well. The Gannett Blog said Szabo’s story “was hard-edged, newsy and nearly certain to capture a wider audience, given the emotional topic it took on.”

One of the breast cancer bloggers’ objectives has been to inform the public about how Komen, and other organizations that claim to be affiliated with Komen or are raising funds for Komen, actually raise money and exactly where that money goes. Called “pink washing,” the glut of products that display pink breast cancer awareness ribbons are designed to tug at our heart and purse strings while marketers do the “green” walk all the way to the bank. In other words how much, if anything, from the sale of pink ribbon keychains and coffee mugs actually reach Komen? As longtime breast cancer activist Barbara Brenner said in her recent blog, “If walking or shopping cured breast cancer, it would surely be cured by now.” Well listen up all you pink shoppers! Komen is selling a new product.

Komen’s founder, Nancy Brinker, recently appeared on the Home Shopping Network selling a new perfume, Promise Me,™ “the scent of compassion and courage.” The original “promise” was to Nancy’s dying sister, Susan G. Komen, that Nancy would find a cure for breast cancer. The aroma of Promise Me™ , however, has once again tipped the anger scales of breast cancer advocates on several levels. Most women undergoing chemotherapy become nauseated by familiar smells like fragrance and food. Many, like me, can no longer tolerate fragrance when treatment is over. As a result, breast cancer survivors find Komen's new scent to be insensitive, not to mention there is evidence the ingredients in fragrances may be carcinogenic. In addition, one blogger claims that only $1.51 from the $59 bottle of perfume goes toward breast cancer research. Promise Me™ is just one more product in a long line of “pinklash” products that has critics wondering where is the promise? Where is the cure?

A well-respected and credible source, who asked to remain anonymous, told me that “some oncologists say it’s impossible for them to critique Komen publicly for fear of losing funding or getting shut out of conversations and meetings.” It’s alarming when the biggest breast cancer advocate is the unspoken and problematic elephant in oncologists’ research labs and patient clinics. While many researchers and organizations are afraid to confront Komen, for fear of losing their meal ticket, those who’ve had breast cancer are not afraid of speaking up because their lives and the lives of friends and family depend on it. In fact, many breast cancer survivors and family members who’ve lost loved ones are wondering about Komen’s top heavy financial statements.

Komen’s 2009 IRS tax return, which is available online at GuideStar, shows that Komen took in $172 Million in revenue and spent $75 Million or 44% on grants to cancer research and "other organizations" while the other 56% went mostly to consultants, advertising, office expenses, salaries and other items. They spent $712,169 alone in bank fees. In addition, its 16 highest-paid executives all received six-figure salaries, including former CEO, Hala Moddelmog, who was paid $468,255. If 44% were spent on cancer research, many Komen critics would stay mum, but because it’s lumped together with “other organizations,” it’s nearly impossible to determine just how much goes toward the cure. The National Breast Cancer Coalition states on their website, "It's time to peel back the pink to see what's really happening in breast cancer research, treatment, prevention and cure."

A former director of a local Komen affiliate told me that most of the proceeds from local Komen affiliate walks and runs For the Cure® go straight to Komen national, leaving many local affiliates badly in need of operating capital. While I don’t know if that is true, many women owe their lives to Komen’s awareness campaigns as well as to local affiliate grants. According to Kathy LaTour, CureToday Magazine Blog, “The 127 races that are held by Komen affiliates around the world raise a lot of money-yes. And 75 percent of those funds stay in the community where they were raised to be used on all kinds of breast cancer related needs.” Clearly breaking down Komen’s numbers is an overwhelming task better suited to a sophisticated and impartial CPA.

I believe as women, we're doing our part: We’re aware; we’re doing self breast exams and getting mammograms, but as The Cancer Culture Chronicles’ Anna Rachnel posted on another blog, “where is the cure?” Many breast cancer advocates are also asking where are the treatment lifelines for those with metastatic breast cancer? The Komen website’s home page says, “WEAR PINK. HAVE FUN,” but lots of women who have or have had breast cancer don’t find the “fun” in Komen’s approach.

It remains to be seen whether Komen’s shift from Breast Cancer Awareness to Breast Cancer Action month will result in significant changes needed to appease Komen’s challengers. The power of Social Media may have at least forced Komen to respond in a way individual breast cancer bloggers couldn’t have achieved on their own. Bloggers have, as Ashton Kutcher suggested, used Social Media to be disruptive, but have they gone far enough? Ashton, you’re the Social Media branding wizard. Can you suggest a next step between Komen and the vocal Social Media breast cancer community? Perhaps a mediation is in order.

If you want to know more about Komen and their critics, please visit the following links. Forgive me if I have left out a valuable conversation from this list.

•Barbara Brenner
•Chemobabe
•Cancer Culture Chronicles
•Gary Schwitzer's HealthNewsReview Blog
•Gayle Sulik
•Nancy's Point
•Komen Watch
•MSNBC
•The Accidental Amazon
•The National Breast Cancer Coalition
•Uneasy Pink
•Women with Cancer

Role Models Are So Important

Mon, 25 Jul 2011 23:42:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

For the most part, this has been one of those weeks: I’ve had the bad back from Hell, taken two friends to the hospital to have cancer surgery, met with a deranged businessman and had a health scare of my own. The bright side of my week, however, has been the girlfriend who spent Friday night with me. <PREVIEWEND>

I first met Edith after I was diagnosed with breast cancer. One morning she introduced herself before church started and said, “I had breast cancer and a double mastectomy when I was 66 and that was 11 years ago. If I can do it, you can, too.” That was seven years ago, and Edith was right. I made it through 10 breast cancer surgeries and eight rounds of chemotherapy. I’m particularly grateful because Edith was the first woman I met who’d gone through breast cancer. She talked to me about things like tissue expanders and implants and thinning hair, but even more important, she gave me hope I would survive and live to enjoy my life. Sharing her story was a seemingly simple thing, but it may be the best gift I’ve ever received. Have you ever thought that each one of us has a unique gift, a story, that regardless what it’s about, can be priceless words of encouragement to those who come after us?

Edith has been a role model for me in so many ways. Over the last seven years, she watched her precious Jimmy slip away to Alzheimer’s, then die in her arms. At times, it’s been almost too much to bear, but she’s continued to move forward, embracing her inner Ramborella, the strong woman who still spends weeks at a time by herself at the ranch on which she was born, the woman who loves God and friends and who will do anything for either of them.

This weekend, Edith came to check on me, to see how I’m doing after losing my own precious Jimmy. One of the reasons I love her is her direct manner. No beating around the bush. She just launches into her concerns like whether I should continue to live in the middle of nowhere by myself.

“If you can do it, I can, too,” I told her, and she agreed.

How is Your Decollete?

Mon, 18 Jul 2011 02:49:00 GMT

"Judith" by Gustav Klimt

Did you know if you lie on your side, chest muscles and gravity can form creases in your décolleté while you sleep? Did you know women use Botox, dermabrasion and retinol to lessen the wrinkles in their décolleté? Or, how about décolleté harnesses that force your breasts to stay in place while you sleep, thereby keeping these unsightly vertical lines from forming in the first place? Do you even know what décolleté is? The International Federation of Associations of Anatomists calls it intermammary sulcus or intermammary cleft. Aren’t you glad they cleared that up? For those of you still in the dark, these are all terms for what most of us call cleavage.<PREVIEWEND>

It’s interesting to learn lots of women are concerned about wrinkled cleavage. Others are equally worried about scars left by their chemo port. To me, my chemo port scar is my “badge of courage” and wrinkled cleavage, a sign of aging, will be a gift I’ve been given because I’m still here. If we think about it, both are badges of courage, for if you’re old enough to have wrinkled décolleté, you’ve probably endured your fair share of heartache and grief.

Décolletage is a French word derived from décolleter which means “without a collar, or to reveal the neck.” Décolleté is the part of a woman’s body between her waist and her neck, but more often it refers to her cleavage. In the late Middle Ages, women’s clothing commonly revealed their cleavage. During the Renaissance, a woman’s bare legs and ankles were considered to be risqué, yet an open display of her décolleté was regarded as a sign of beauty, wealth and social position. I wonder what heiresses with small breasts and little cleavage used as status symbols? Poor things. They probably had to settle for diamonds.

Recently I spoke to a woman who’s breast reconstruction surgery left her cleavage more than an inch off-center. I’ve heard of implants that ripple, dimple and leak; reconstructed breasts that are too big, too small and too droopy, and in my case, an implant that dropped halfway between where it should have been and my navel, but I’d never heard of cleavage that was in the wrong place. When I asked her if she was going to do anything about it, she said, “Yes. I’m going to sue the son-of-a-(bad boob job).”

There’s no doubt a cancer diagnosis and the ensuing fear, treatment and the effect on family and friends, is one of the most traumatic things anyone can go through, but at what point do we let it go and get on with our lives? At what point do we say I’ve had enough chemo, radiation, breast cancer surgeries and reconstruction revisions? I don’t know what I would do if my cleavage wound up off-center, but I do know a lawsuit would bring even more trauma along with attorney fees not covered by insurance.

I believe women are the stronger sex, maybe not in pounds lifted, but in sheer grit and survivorship. We have survived giving birth in caves, covered wagons and third world unsanitary hovels; we’ve put up with sexual, educational and job discrimination, plus we’ve endured emotional and physical abuse because it was the only way to feed ourselves and our children. In some countries, women are bought and sold like goats; they’re victims of mass rape, clitoridectomies and are prevented from getting an education.

I hate aging just as much as the next woman, but surely living our lives so we remain cancer free is more important than Botox, lawsuits and repeated reconstruction surgeries in search of perfection. We weren’t perfect to begin with, so don’t let breast cancer focus our self-image onto our mammary glands instead of our strength, intelligence and determination. Getting older is not for the faint of heart. It takes guts and resilience to survive and bounce back from all the things life puts in our path.

Speaking of Botox, on my recent trip to New York, I learned some Hollywood celebrities get the bottom of their feet Botoxed before red carpet events so they aren’t seen hobbling before the cameras in their Jimmy Choos. Harnesses, Botox and more surgeries! Shouldn’t we be grateful to have two working feet and cancer free breasts?

Marriages in Trouble

Mon, 11 Jul 2011 17:52:00 GMT

©Randy Glasbergen. All rights reserved.

This week Ellen Christian asked me to write about how women can reduce their risk of breast cancer for her popular blog, ConfessionsOfAnOverworkedMom. Looking at her website reminded me that motherhood is an overwhelming job. Most of the women I know, regardless of whether they're going through breast cancer or not, walk a tightrope that stretches across a bottomless canyon of exhaustion. We're moms and wives; we work inside and outside the home; we're often caregivers to spouses and parents, plus we’re "the buck stops here" department for everything from scheduling the pest control man to getting the taxes paid. If that isn’t difficult enough, we’re often not on the same emotional page as our spouse, and many of us have lost sight of how to reconnect. Recently I’ve noticed a lot of couples who don’t talk to one another. They don’t touch, they don’t even look at one another. I’ve seen more passion from people pushing a pawn across a chessboard.<PREVIEWEND>

Sometimes life takes us hostage, and we have to find the right key to unlock our shackles and set ourselves and our families free. I wonder if these distant couples are hostage to money, lack of sex, jobs, children’s activities, teens who act out, disappointment, infidelity or cancer? Have they thought about setting themselves free whether it’s with marital counseling, individual therapy, antidepressants, a new job, vacation, empathy, forgiveness or role reversal? I wish I could tell them there are things worse than death, and subjecting yourself and your family to a troubled marriage is one of them. I know what it’s like to lose the other half of yourself. I’m still working to free myself from the grief of losing James. I would, literally, give anything to be able to see him again for 10 seconds… Make that even one second and you can have my house, my car… Everything!

I see couples who probably loved one another at some point in time but no longer acknowledge the spouse sitting across the table from them. I see mates of manipulative and controlling spouses who look like they're just trying to stay out of the line of fire. While couples may think the rest of us can't see how miserable they are, we can. What's worse, kids stuck in the middle of this marital discord may grow up to be just like their parents when they get married!

I wonder if couples have thought about what's stopping them from openly addressing their problems and trying to fix them? Perhaps they're set on punishing one another; maybe the one who blinks first is the one without the power, or they feel like a bad marriage is better than no marriage. If one spouse is afraid of the other, then that's another issue entirely. Tread lightly and get professional help from a counselor or a women's shelter. Your safety and the safety of your children are top priority. I realize leaving a physically abusive relationship takes thought and careful planning, but please, don't stay there. You deserve so much better. Draw on every ounce of strength available to you to protect yourself and your children.

Those of us who’ve had cancer or who’ve lost someone precious don’t have the opportunity to “fix it” short of giving our problems to God. I'm almost envious of couples whose marriages are in trouble because they still have time to try and fix their problems. This is where I ask one of my favorite questions: What are you waiting for? Did you know the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? Are you in a healthy marriage, and if not, how can you and your spouse fix it? Since this may be another "the buck stops here" question, you may be the one who needs to begin looking for the answer. One way or another, your life depends on it.

Women and Their Doctors

Tue, 05 Jul 2011 00:40:00 GMT

We all hope we’re lucky enough to find competent, compassionate doctors who spend time listening to us, then give us thoughtful answers and possible next steps. Most of my doctors are great patient advocates who write down complicated medical jargon and draw working diagrams of things like my hypothalamus. I’ve also stumbled across a couple of doctors who are bozos, or at the very least, unfeeling.

Take the doctor who, before even introducing himself, slipped my x-ray into the light box and said, “This will probably result in the amputation of your foot.” He refused to hear my suggestion that the marble-sized ball in the arch of my foot might have been caused by new cowboy boots I’d worn for nearly a week. Instead, he interrupted and proceeded to tell me if it were a benign “tumor,” it would have been located on the other side of my arch, but because it wasn’t, it was most certainly malignant. Thirty-five thousand dollars and a new doctor later, a blood clot, probably caused by an ill-fitting cowboy boot, was removed from the arch of my foot. Clearly Dr. Bozo didn’t listen to my “Yes, Doctor, but…,” which reminds me of last week’s post about women and their healthcare.<PREVIEWEND>

“Yes, Doctor, but…,” one of the core insights from the Digitas Health and Yahoo study of 40,000 women in their 40s and 50s, has generated lots of response. In addition to comments on my blog, I’ve received emails and phone calls from women who not only want to play a role in their healthcare, but want to deal with doctors who consult them when making decisions about their care. These responses have made me think about the differences between baby boomers and our mother’s generation and the way we interface with our doctors. If my mother had been told she might have her foot amputated, I’m not sure she would have gotten a second opinion, much less discussed it in-depth with her doctor.

My mother has always wanted to… pardon the pun… put her best foot forward, even with her doctors. While she makes doctors appointments to talk about specific physical problems, I’ve been with her enough to know she doesn’t always tell them the truth. I remember when mother was nearly doubled up in pain from diverticulitis, but when I took her to the doctor, she said something like, “It’s mildly uncomfortable.” When the doctor pressed on her abdomen and asked if that hurt, or if it was tender, she winced, clearly ready to bolt off the examining table but said, “It’s not bad.” A few days later, she complained her doctor wasn’t any good because he didn’t solve her problem. Duh! Garbage in, garbage out! I sometimes wonder if mother thinks good doctors should intuit her problems. Then again, she’s from the generation where “nice girls” don’t talk about sex, or problems “down there,” and where doctors are Gods not to be questioned. Even though most of today’s baby boomers are better informed and more proactive than most of their mothers, we still need to know how to establish good doctor/patient relationships, especially when it comes to certain issues.

As baby boomers age, we may develop embarrassing conditions like lack of bladder control, low libido or painful sex, issues many of us are hesitant to discuss with our doctors. On the flip side, many doctors aren’t initiating these conversations with us. If doctors don’t ask, and patients don’t speak up, then we may be suffering needlessly from manageable conditions. Girlfriends! We are the generation that fought for equality and the destruction of the glass ceiling, the right to say “no” and the right to an abortion. Now is not the time to withdraw into our nearly empty estrogen tanks and silence our voices. Please, speak up, and if your doctor is embarrassed to have these conversations with you, FIND ANOTHER DOCTOR!

In defense of doctors, I think most would prefer to have proactive patients. I also know many doctors silently groan when they see us pull out our 8 ½” x 11” printed pages because our information is often wrong, or has nothing to do with our condition. If you’ve done any symptom searches on the Internet, you already know you can find most any answer you’re looking for. Take diverticulitus for example: You can find information about this condition on websites that range from Johns Hopkins Hospital to a website about air conditioners and furnaces. Really! We need to limit the websites we frequent to credible ones, and steer clear of those that aren’t professional looking or don’t ever link to credible sources.

Taking mother to the doctor is kind of like watching someone who’s being tortured by Guido and Little Louie; someone who's deliberately not relating the right information and yet fears Guido and Little Louie will turn up the torture knob a notch. A couple of weeks ago, I took mother to the geriatrician for swollen, red wrists and hands that seemed to be extremely painful. She moaned all the way there, but when the doctor pressed on mother’s wrists, mother smiled and said, “It doesn't hurt.” When the doctor finally looked at me, I said, “Yes, doctor, but…”

Women's Health Styles Panel

Tue, 28 Jun 2011 21:53:00 GMT

Laura Lang, CEO Digitas; Alex von Plato, Exec VP & Chief Creative Officer, Digitas Health; Susan Manber, Sr VP & Exec Planning Dir, Digitas Health; Lesley Jane Seymour, Ed-in-Chief MORE Magazine; Laura Michalchyshyn, Pres & GM Discovery Fit & Health; Brenda Coffee, CEO BreastCancerSisterhood.com; Angela Matusik, Chief Content Exec, iVillage. Photo by Kelly Davidson.

Recently I was honored to be a panelist at a Fortune 100, invitation only event. The NewFront’s “Brands Meet Content” has become the premier event of Internet Week in NYC. At this event, NewFront and Digitas, the world’s largest digital ad agency, brought together Hollywood’s elite, leading content creators, distributors, talent and Fortune 100 marketers to develop the next big innovative ideas in worldwide online content.

Like the cowboys and settlers of the American West, Digitas and NewFront are successfully riding into a new frontier and taking the world's largest brands along with them. With the help of this year’s A-List speakers, this creative, high-tech wagon train is helping brands discover that online content is just as important as distribution, and that content doesn’t necessarily need to be created by the brand. The nuances, new rules, and no rules of this new world are unfolding everyday, but make no mistake. There's a new sheriff in town: Branded, digital content. <PREVIEWEND>

Just a few of the event’s A-List speakers included actor, online content developer and branding wizard, Ashton Kutcher, and his wife, Demi Moore; John Battelle, Founder of WIRED magazine and Federated Media Publishing; Beth Comstock, Chief Marketing Officer & SVP of General Electric; Clive Davis, Chief Creative Officer for SONY Music Entertainment and Richard Stengel, Managing Editor of TIME magazine. I was proud to be in the company of such talented trailblazers.

The NewFront's Women’s Health Styles panel I was on was an outgrowth of a study done by Digitas Health and Yahoo about how women in their 40s and 50s see themselves and how they make decisions about their health. The study wanted to steer clear of the stereotypical image of this age group: women who are somewhere between Super Moms and the Sandwich Generation who care for aging parents. One thing emerged loud and clear from this study. Today’s women are not their mother’s generation.

Women in their 40s and 50s are better educated, have more disposable income, take better care of themselves, look better and make decisions differently than any previous generation in history. We are the generation that grew up believing we could have it all but have since discovered that having it all is a balancing act of compromise, sacrifice and stress. We want to connect with other women who’ve walked in our shoes, women who are genuine and authentic, real women like ourselves.

The Digitas Health/Yahoo study discovered five core insights into this age group:
1.) Women mostly see mid-life as a “wow” followed by a good natured “ugh.” This age group is happier and more positive than women 20 to 30; they have more time for themselves; they’re less concerned with what others think, and their experience has given them wisdom and perspective.

2.) Gathering info about health is as much an emotional experience as a factual one.
Women want information from respected sources, and they want it easy to digest and understand. They also want a trusted source that has their best interest in mind and no hidden agenda.

3.) The Internet helps women “realize to decide.” Over half of the women in the study get their health information and support online, plus giving is as important as getting information. At some point, something happens between a woman’s research and her experiences that gives her an “ah-ha” moment and makes her realize she needs to do something “about it.”

4.) Our response of “Yes Doctor” has become “Yes Doctor, but…” Because so much information is available online, nearly half of the women surveyed believe they have more of a role in diagnosis and treatment. Women want, but don’t often get, a doctor who makes decisions with them, based on who they are and what their situation is.

5.) Five temperaments and approaches to making health decisions.
a. Optimistic & Proactive: She has a positive attitude and does everything she can to stay healthy.
b. Savvy Explorers: Digs and researches online to get a well-rounded understanding.
c. Connected Consensus Seekers: Wants to talk about it with friends and family, especially those who speak from personal experience.
d. Detached & Disinterested: Practically ignores the entire subject of health, including her own.
e. Constrained & Overwhelmed: Has problems coping with chronic conditions and illness and has negative outlook about this stage of life.

As a result of this study, advertisers are learning they need to reach women about their health in new and different ways other than banner ads or a generic Facebook page. Not only do we use technology, we use it for everything from researching our family’s healthcare, to connecting with one another. We look for authenticity and transparency from the brands we use. We want to know more than just the ingredients in our skin cream. We want brands that solicit our opinion and value their relationship with us. Social media allows us to be more than just nameless, faceless statistics. We’re a brand’s focus group; we reward quality brands with loyalty and word-of-mouth advertising, and if they let us down, another brand will take their place.

Thank you Digitas for inviting me to such an awesome event, for appreciating the “sassy strength” of BRENDA’S BLOG and for recognizing the relationships my readers and I have created. We are a team. They mean the world to me, and I hope they mean the world to all the products they honor with their purchases.

Tissue Expanders for Dummies

Wed, 06 Jul 2011 18:48:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Before my first breast reconstruction surgery, I stuffed socks into my bra so my flat chest matched the size of my other breast. Since I’m not big on carrying a purse, it wasn’t long before I started filling the empty bra cup with practical things like cell phone, money, driver’s license and keys. James compared me to a magician who retrieved rabbits and flowers out of a hat. While I did use rocks and raisins as nipple substitutes, I drew the line at lining my bra with living things.

Today I talked with a woman who’s had phase one of her reconstruction surgery: insertion of a tissue expander. So far, she’s not happy with the results. Compared to her other breast, she says the new one’s too high and too perky, but she knows when all is said and done, the new breast will look more like her natural breast. As we talked I remembered how involved the whole reconstruction process was, so for those of you who don’t understand how it works, here’s “Tissue Expanders and Breast Reconstruction for Dummies.”<PREVIEWEND>

Immediately following a mastectomy, or at some future time after the mastectomy incisions have healed, a tissue expander or temporary implant is surgically inserted under the pectoral muscle. Gradually over a period of weeks or months the surgeon, in the office, numbs your skin and inserts a needle into a port on the expander, then adds small increments of saline solution. This gradual increase in size allows the pectoral muscle to stretch over time until it reaches the desired breast size. Some women complain of tightness while the muscle is being stretched, a few say it’s painful, but for me it was more of an annoyance. You may be thinking, “Women get ‘boob jobs’ all the time, and they don’t need tissue expanders. Why do they need them with breast reconstruction surgery?”

With a regular boob job, or breast augmentation, the implant is placed between the existing breast tissue and the pectoral muscle so the implant is not as noticeable. However, because the breast tissue is removed during a mastectomy, an implant that’s placed on top of the pectoral has no place to hide. It would look like a grapefruit with skin draped over it. Actually, some bad breast augmentations look like that anyway.

Once the expander has been filled to the desired size, it’s then surgically exchanged for either a saline or a Silicone Gel implant. In 1992, the FDA halted the sale of Silicone implants due to safety concerns. In those older implants, the Silicone was in liquid form, which meant if the implant ruptured, the Silicone could potentially travel to other parts of your body, plus it was linked to a variety of autoimmune problems. Today the Silicone is in gel form so if the implant ruptures the Silicone supposedly remains intact. Silicone gel implants result in a more natural looking and feeling breast, as opposed to saline implants, which can often look and feel like a coconut shell. By the way, saline implants are Silicone shells that are filled with saline, which is sterile salt water. Saline implants have a greater likelihood of rippling along the edges where the silicone shell wrinkles and folds and may be noticeable in spots not covered by the pectoral muscle. Regardless of whether you choose saline or Silicone, both implants are subject to rupturing and may need to be replaced in the future. That’s just the nature of the beast. Also, some women are good candidates for a procedure that allows a permanent implant to be inserted immediately after their mastectomy without the need for a tissue expander, so ask your doctor. So that’s the basic one, two, three of tissue expanders. Revisions, nipple reconstruction and tattooing of the areola are optional.

When I tell people I’ve had 10 breast cancer surgeries they find it hard to believe, but after a lumpectomy, mastectomy, tissue expander, permanent implant and nipple reconstruction on just one breast, that’s five surgeries right there. For me, the worst part of any of my surgeries was mentally getting geared up for it. The hardest part of reconstruction is the fear and anxiety of the unknown: How will I react to the anesthesia; what could go wrong; is the surgeon and his team really top notch; will I be in any pain; what will my new breast look like and what if I don’t like it? I sometimes wonder if the reason many women elect not to have reconstruction is because of their fears. Except for the post surgery corset I wore for months and months that made my ribs hurt, the procedure itself wasn’t painful. However, as with any surgical procedure, there are always risks so ask questions and weigh your decisions carefully. You should also know that Silicone and saline implants can interfere with mammography screening and both are subject to breakage during the procedure.

Back to the woman who feared her reconstructed breast might be too high or too perky… After a certain age, can breasts ever be too perky? Oh, and in case you’re wondering, don’t even think about stashing Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in your bra. Don’t ask… It was chemo brain, I tell you, and that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Love Loss and What I Wore

Tue, 05 Jul 2011 03:29:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

While I was in New York last week, I saw Love, Loss & What I Wore, an off-Broadway play written by the ever-prolific Ephron sisters. Delia and Nora Ephron have an uncanny way of weaving stories that are universal to all women. The play focuses on five women who reminisce about different articles of clothing they’ve owned such as bathrobes, shoes, purses and bras, and the roles each one has played in their lives. One of my favorites vignettes was about bras that had balloon inserts and came with a plastic straw that allowed you to blow them up. When I was 14, I owned something similar only they were called “falsies.”<PREVIEWEND>

The summer of my 14th birthday, bikinis were all the rage. Everyone was talking about Raquel Welch’s animal skin bikini in the movie, One Million Years B.C. A few years earlier, Ursula Andress had emerged from the sea in a James Bond film, wearing a white bikini and a knife. The sizzle over that bathing suit had made her the quintessential Bond girl. When I asked my mother if I could have a bikini she said, “No. It’ll make you look like a prostitute.” She did, however, let me stuff falsies into a blue Jantzen one piece. Go figure!

The first week of summer vacation I wore my new bathing suit to a public pool. I remember the song Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini was playing through a speaker mounted over the ‘Lifeguard on Duty’ sign. Slowly I slipped into the pool, hoping all the boys, at least the ones over 12, were admiring my shapely new figure. As I settled into the pool, one of my falsies went floating past Greg Duncan, a guy I had a crush on, while my other falsie was being batted about like a volleyball by the older guys in the deep end. Humiliated, I drug myself out of the pool, vowing never to go out in public again.

I’ve more than survived the falsies episode. Now I have little to no modesty when it comes to disrobing or trying on clothes. After 10 breast cancer surgeries and a multitude of sonograms, MRIs and mammograms, plus being the focus of endless probes by doctors and surgeons, I’ve developed an “everyone in town’s already seen them” attitude. Breasts, however, are a big part of who we are. The female quest for beauty and positive self-image dictates what we eat, what we wear and how we feel about ourselves as women. We all know what it’s like to be obsessed with covering up a flaw we think we have, or feeling like we don’t measure up to the models in the magazines. Add the aftereffects of breast cancer to the ongoing conversations in our head, and our self-esteem sometimes gets left on the operating table.

Many of us feel as though our bodies betrayed us, leaving us bald, battle-scarred and shell-shocked. Make no mistake, we’ve been in a war, and what’s worse, the enemy is hiding in our body. No wonder we often emerge from breast cancer with something akin to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Like soldiers who’ve fought in other kinds of wars, we may need counseling, yoga or hypnosis to help us reclaim our self-image and remember the woman we were before we went to war.

As I was leaving the theater in New York, I noticed a young woman in front of me who had a huge Venetian Carnival mask tattooed across her back. You know the kind with the long white nose that looks like an anorexic duckbill? I had to wonder what made her choose that design, and what does it say about her self-image? Did it appeal to her because, on some level, she’s hiding something? I understand why some breast cancer survivors feel the need to hide their figures. I have mismatched mastectomy scars and reconstructed nipples; one has a faded tattoo while the other has no tattoo at all, but I don’t care. I’m still here. We must give ourselves permission to grieve for the things we’ve lost and work at becoming the new person inside us who’s waiting to be freed.

Has your self-image changed with breast cancer or age? Have you stopped wearing clothes you used to wear? Is there something you can do to feel better about your body? Makeovers don’t just pertain to makeup, hair and clothes. Are you ready to makeover the way you think about yourself? While we may not have the same body, hair or skin texture we had before breast cancer, we are alive. Find ways to embrace the new you; cut yourself some slack. We may or may not feel like wearing falsies or teeny bikinis, but then again, who says we can’t?

Life Outside of Cancer

Tue, 05 Jul 2011 03:39:00 GMT

Polaroid SX-70. ©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Last week Marie O’Connor, a sweet friend to all and a breast cancer blogger from Ireland, wanted her readers and fellow bloggers to tell her a little bit about themselves that had nothing to do with breast cancer. Many responded with comments on Marie’s blog while others have written their own blog posts. So far I’ve learned Jan was a patent attorney; Lauren is a pediatric psychologist who’s an expert witness in abuse and neglect cases that come to trial; Philippa advises and manages educational development programs and has lived in Nepal, Mongolia, India, Sri Lanka and Myanmar; Martine was once offered a singing gig in Las Vegas; Jody is an active cancer advocate who pedals 25 miles, several times a week; Beth is an oil painter; Kathi is a home care physical therapist and a closet Adobe software maven; Katie is a writer; Jackie works in media relations and is wild about the Nebraska Cornhuskers; Lani is a college mathematics professor and Anna is a writer and cancer advocate. And me? I’m an entrepreneur who’s done everything from run a greenhouse manufacturing company to doing a hostile takeover of a public company. The one thing, however, that’s always been a constant in my life has been photography.<PREVIEWEND>

I have always been a camera freak: pinhole, Polaroid SX-70, 35mm, panorama, underwater, 8, 16 and 35mm movie cameras and now, digital. The medium has never mattered as long as I could make images and document where I’ve been. Cameras have gotten me backstage passes, 50-yard line access, flights in fighter jets and landings on aircraft carriers. I’ve documented Paul Newman as he raced cars at Watkins Glen, Robert Mondavi’s 90th birthday party, Olympic Track & Field time trials and life on the road with the Harlem Globetrotters. I’ve captured images of buried treasure, bluebonnets in the Texas Hill Country and the heartfelt moments of life and death. The strange thing about being a photographer and a filmmaker is that even though my camera lens brings me up close and personal, it’s sometimes like I’m window peeping. When many of my experiences are over, I don’t feel like I’ve been there. I remember the quarterback dropping back to pass, one shot at a time, increments done with a high speed motor drive, but ask me what happened next, and I may not remember it clearly if I didn’t see it through my camera lens.

Since breast cancer, I’m more interested in where I’m going than where I’ve been. I’m more interested in where you’re going that where you’ve been. Do you have a life outside of having cancer, publishing a magazine or working in the home? What defines you as a person? Do you only see yourself as a doctor, lawyer, Indian chief? Married, single, widowed or divorced? Or do you see yourself as curious, persevering and a loyal friend? We’re not our cancer, our profession or our spouse. We are the sum of the total of our parts. We are the whole person. We are the little girl that got locked out of the house; the skier who likes to stay on the blue runs; the woman who wants to travel down the Amazon. As people, we are flawed, but as children of God, we are perfect in His sight. Are you living a life that will make God proud? Are you living the life you were called to live? Why not?

Tough Times Make for Tough Women and Dogs

Mon, 30 May 2011 23:17:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Molly’s been through a lot in her short life. Two months ago she had her tail amputated. Since then, she’s worn a plastic Victorian collar to keep her from chewing the remaining stub until it heals. In many ways, Molly and I are kindred spirits. We were both in search of someone who would love and value us, and we’ve both had big parts of us surgically removed. However the biggest thing we have in common is that both of us were rescued by James, and in turn, James was rescued by us.

When James first found Molly on the road near our house, she was miles from her last foster family. She’s had four foster families and all of them, for one reason or another, didn’t want her. From the moment James got out of his truck and walked toward her, I believe she knew she’d found Prince Charming. Molly fell madly in love with James, and he with her. She was emaciated and had a BB in the floppy part of her ear. I’ve never met a needier soul. Molly’s a great dog, made even better by James’ love and patience. She's part Lab and part Great Dane, and when she stands on her hind legs, she’s almost as tall as I am and that’s a whole lot of dog. She's young and rambunctious, and James worked hard to calm her down, teaching her to heal and to walk on a leash. They liked nothing better than going for walks together on the ranch. She was always at his side, content to bask in the afterglow of a kind word from him or a pat on the head. His death has changed her profoundly.<PREVIEWEND>

Almost immediately she became sullen and depressed, sleeping most of the time, her face and body toward the wall. For months she didn’t want any affection. She just wanted to be left alone. After she stopped dragging her bed in front of his chair, placing her paw on his seat and staring at me, she began chewing on the end of her tail. I was too wrapped up in my own grief to notice the damage she was doing until she began leaving blood trails everywhere she went. I cleansed her tail with hydrogen peroxide, applied Neosporin and tried to keep it wrapped. After two days of repeatedly tearing off her bandage and continuing to chew on her tail, the last four inches were without hair and had become dried and withered like beef jerky. The vet said that portion of her tail was dead, void of all blood supply. If we didn’t amputate it, the rest of her tail and the blood vessels along her spine would continue to die, ultimately causing paralysis and death. If that wasn’t bad enough, a fast-growing mushroom looking thing simultaneously erupted on her left rear foot, and the vet feared it might be cancer.

After the amputation and her foot surgery, we waited almost a week for the pathology report. Thank God, the out of control growth on Molly’s foot was not cancer. I don’t think I could have lost another family member. Since she’s been entombed in this Victorian collar for the last two months, she’s had a hard time navigating. As a result, this plastic contraption has chipped paint off door moldings, and my legs are scraped and bruised. I find myself running out of patience with her sometimes, and yet at the same time, I feel sorry for her.

Recently I found something I wrote back in February: “My heart breaks for this dog. No one wanted her, but James took her in and rescued her, and now that he’s gone, she’s grieving herself to death. Out of my three dogs, Molly is grieving James’ death almost as hard as I am. I know my grief hasn’t helped, nor has shuffling the dogs back and forth to the kennel when we didn’t have heat or water during the coldest days of winter. As I vacillate back and forth from disbelief, to the depths of despair, Molly stands guard over James’ chair. She’s so needy; she can’t bear it when I’m not in view at all times. Now she’s decided to stand guard over my chair, her paw on my lap, occasionally looking back and forth from me to James’ chair. I wish I could make things alright for her.”

Like all of us, Molly just wants someone to love her, and in return, she wants a family she can trust and love in return. I know how she feels. Except for my dogs, my church family and great friends, I no longer have a family I can trust.

Two weeks ago depression plunged me into deep despair. While driving down the freeway, my sobs made it nearly impossible for me to leave my phone number as I tried to make an appointment with a counselor. Looking back, I’m reminded of the depression I felt after learning I had breast cancer. I remember cowering in my car in PetSmart’s parking lot, crying hysterically, unable to pull myself together to go in and buy dog food, or get on the highway and drive home. It had been three months since my diagnosis, and the full impact of what it meant to have breast cancer had finally hit me. Now, the full impact of not having James, or a family, has finally hit me.

As breast cancer survivors, we battle fear, depression and disbelief, struggling with overwhelming concepts like life and death, self-image—who will love us with our scars—and the unsettling possibility of recurrence. It takes a very special person to love someone just as they are. James did that for Molly and me, and now we are doing that for one another.

Molly’s a survivor, conquering everything life has thrown at her. Until now, it never occurred to me that a dog could be a great role model, but Molly’s been one for me. She’s been shot, abandoned multiple times, is still suffering from the amputation and has grieved deeply for the most important person in her life. In true survivor style, she’s emerged on the other side, grateful to discover she’s still valued and loved and like me, is finding her new normal without James.

Hang On to Your Husbands

Thu, 29 Sep 2011 20:40:00 GMT

Did you know there are women who will try and steal your husband while you're fighting breast cancer, struggling with surgeries and chemo and trying to maintain some semblance of a normal life? Before a couple of these women lunged for my husband, it never occurred to me I knew anyone like this: women with no moral code, and more importantly, no concept of self-worth. Who does that sort of thing? A woman at my church, that's who.<PREVIEWEND>

One Sunday, because of chemo, I barely had enough energy to blink, much less get dressed and make it to church, I told James to go on without me. Moments after he walked into the church, one of these husband-stealing Jezebels leaned into him, gave him a full contact body hug and proceeded to grind her crotch into his leg. "If I can ever do anything for you," she whispered in his ear. "Call me."

Another time chemo zapped me of energy, I asked James to meet a woman, I thought was my friend, and a workman at our Little House so they could hang light fixtures. This hair-flipping floozy came-on to James bigger than Dallas. When her floor-length trench coat came off, she had on a micro mini skirt, cowboy boots and a thong. Repeatedly she bent over, as though retrieving something from her bag, fanny side toward James. James said each time he moved, so he didn't have such an up close and personal view of her derrière, she moved so that he did. The Little House is only 22 feet by 22 feet, so there wasn’t much room to escape her, plus there was a rain storm going on outside. When he tried to move toward the front porch, she cornered him.

"Has anyone ever told you what pretty eyes you have," she asked.

"Yes," he said. "My wife."

James never liked her because, as he put it, she was always looking to "better deal herself.” When he told me the “pretty eyes” bit, I knew it was true because she says that to most everyone she meets, men and women alike. Later I discovered some of the other women who knew her had a saying: "Don't ever leave your husbands alone with her."

While neither woman's true character surprised me, I was disappointed at their lack of compassion for me and for James. Women who brazenly offer themselves like that show disrespect for husbands as well. We all know husbands can be overwhelmed with their wife's breast cancer, even vulnerable in many respects. The statistics about marriages that breakup after a breast cancer diagnosis are well-known. I know how hard it is to be wife, mother, lover, housekeeper, and hold down a job while going through breast cancer, but hear me when I say this: Talk to your husband about his fears and yours and sex, or lack of sex during breast cancer.

A man’s “little brain” has a tendency to dominate his “big brain,” and while you may not be as interested in sex during treatment as your husband is, his sexual needs do not go away. Even if you’re not lucky enough to be best friends with your husband, this is a time to treat one another like best friends. Try to talk honestly and openly with one another about different ways you can handle sex, and other issues, over the course of your treatment and recovery. Perhaps a counselor can help. If your marriage is a good marriage, this is an opportunity to grow even closer. If your marriage is rocky, perhaps you can find a way to role reverse with one another. Work at becoming best friends, and seeing things from your spouse's point of view. James was a great husband who loved me beyond all reason and placed our marriage first and foremost. We both did. We talked daily about everything, and for the most part, we were usually on the same page.

Women who try and steal another woman’s husband, while his wife is fighting for her life, are contemptible creatures. At least vampires come out at night, but these desperate housewives brazenly do their best work in the daylight with no remorse or misgivings as to the consequences of their actions. They are sad pathetic women in search of an ego fix with no regard for anyone, not even themselves. These women are little more than pit vipers with the word, "Juicy," emblazoned across their butts. Watch out for them, girlfriends. I guarantee you; they’re closer than you think.

Do You Really Know Your Breasts?

Thu, 29 Sep 2011 18:38:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Years after my diagnosis, a self-breast exam reminder still hung in my shower; the same reminder that prompted me on Christmas Eve morning, 2003, to check my breasts. I knew the moment I felt “it” that something wasn’t right, but six-months and two mammograms later, doctors assured me “it” was okay. It wasn’t. This week, I spoke to a woman whose story is similar to mine. Like me, her breast cancer was found after she insisted the suspicious spot be biopsied, and like me, her cancer was hiding underneath a fibrocystic lump. Lump... Don’t you hate that word? Lumps are never good whether they’re in your breasts, the turkey gravy or they’re the dullard at work who only got the job because he’s the boss’s nephew.

Each week I meet women who had a suspicious spot their doctors opted to watch for a period of time. Not always, but many of those spots turned out to be malignant. If I had a “do over,” I would insist my fibrocystic lump be biopsied—NOW—as in let’s skip the waiting and the second mammogram. Go get your scalpel. I want to know what it is.<PREVIEWEND> Since many insurance companies are trying to keep costs down, and since doctors don’t always receive payments for services and procedures deemed unnecessary, I have to wonder how many breast cancers could have been caught earlier if they’d been biopsied instead of waiting? Even though early diagnosis doesn’t always translate into better survival rates, for those women it helps, it’s EVERYTHING and self-exams often lead to earlier diagnosis.

Think of self-breast exams as mapping your breasts. If you still have periods, choose the same time each month, preferably when your breasts aren’t tender, or if you no longer have a period, pick the same day each month and map your breasts. Most of us think we know our breasts when in reality, we don’t. The easiest way to examine your breasts is in the shower when your hands are soapy. Do you have a spot on one of your breasts that changes every month? Was it there last month? To help you remember where it is, think of that spot as the pointer on a compass or the hands on a clock. Is it north, northeast or maybe it’s at 10 minutes after 2. Do you know how it feels before your period and after your period? Is it sore; has it changed in any way? Get to know every lump and bump on your body, not just your breasts, so you’ll know when something isn’t right, and don’t be one of those people who say, “I don’t want to know.” If you find something you think is not right, call your physician and get it checked. Even if your doctor says it’s okay, listen to your little voice, especially if you regularly examine your breasts.

Even if you’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer and have had a mastectomy and reconstruction, regardless of whether it’s an implant or your own tissue, continue to do monthly self-breast exams just to be on the safe side. Odds are slim that a breast cancer will recur from any remaining breast tissue attached to your skin, but be vigilant. Just like your monthly self-exams before breast cancer, do them at the same time every month.

When I learned I had breast cancer, I wanted both breasts removed so I wouldn’t have to worry about breast cancer returning in the other breast. The surgeon, however, told me he couldn’t remove the other breast because “it's a perfectly viable organ.” Hello! What does that even mean? Capable of living on it’s own? Well so was the wart on the end of Aunt Gertrude’s nose, but she had it removed. I sometimes wonder if male surgeons think removing a healthy breast is tantamount to removing one of their testicles? Fortunately, in the last six years, more women are demanding, and getting, voluntary preventative mastectomies.

Four years after my first mastectomy, I discovered I was BRCA2 positive and had the other breast removed to lower my risk of recurrence. I shouldn’t have needed that surgery if the first surgeon had bowed to my request for a double mastectomy. Thinking back, I should have grabbed his scalpels and like the Karate Kid, assumed the “wax on, wax off” position and said, “No disrespect intended, doc, but these are my breasts and if I want them both removed, that’s what we’re going to do. Got it? Bonzai!”

How do You Feel About Death

Thu, 29 Sep 2011 18:51:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Death is something we try to outrun our entire lives and yet, ‘what happens when we die’ is the one question to which no one has the exact answer. In her award-winning book, This Republic of Suffering, Death and the American Civil War, Drew Faust, President of Harvard University, writes that people in the 19th Century talked about death more than we do, thereby keeping it in the forefront of their mind. She says we, in the modern age, avoid talking about death at all costs, and because we don’t keep our end time in sight, we don’t live the best lives we could. Since I have encountered the deaths of so many loved ones, I agree with Ms. Faust. <PREVIEWEND>

Last week the online cancer community lost a cherished friend and blogger, Sarah Sadtler Feather, aka “The Carcinista.” Her last post, less than two weeks before she died, informed her friends and readers that because she valued quality of life, she was stopping treatment to spend the time she had left with her family. Sarah’s last post has triggered numerous online and private discussions about death. I sometimes think those of us who’ve received a cancer diagnosis are not as afraid to talk about death as those who are healthy. I also believe healthy people don’t want to hear our thoughts about death, much less know what to say to us when that time comes. Perhaps people don’t want to get too close to death for fear they might “get some of it on them.” When I was in my 20s, I had a friend who was so afraid of death that he drove blocks out of his way to avoid an old cemetery near his apartment. He was the first person I knew who was that phobic about death. Now that I’m older, and death has crossed my path many times, I realize he is not alone.

Several years after I married James, I learned an ex-boyfriend was dying of lung cancer. I'd last seen “the boyfriend from Hell” when the police escorted him from my home after he violated a protection order. As fears for my safety increased, the Sheriff loaned me his shotgun and for several days, posted a bodyguard outside my door. Even though the last time I’d seen my former boyfriend, he was being stuffed into a police car, when I heard about his cancer diagnosis, I asked James if he would mind if I called him. I remember the first thing I said to the ex: "What have you gotten yourself into now?" He laughed and said he didn't know. The next day I went to the hospital where I learned his newly diagnosed lung cancer had already metastasized to his brain. When his doctors forbid him to drive, I took him to some of his chemo treatments, helped him grocery shop, and when he and his family couldn’t bring themselves to ask "How long does he have," I was the one who had that conversation with his doctors, then with him and his family.

The day before he died, his friend called and asked me to come. "You're so good with him," she said. "He's always better after you leave." When I arrived, his eyes were closed and the blankets were pulled up under his chin. His head was covered in a ski cap. I drew up a chair alongside his bed and sat down. For two hours I held his hand and talked to him, reminiscing about trips we'd taken and things we’d done.

"Remember when we drove to Memphis in that wicked rainstorm while we listened to Paul Simon’s Graceland?” His hand lightly stirred in mine. I wondered if it was a coincidence, or if he could hear me, so I kept talking. "Remember the time we windsurfed around the oil tanker, and the wind died when the sun went down? We paddled for hours in the dark. I wasn’t sure we’d ever reach that light on the beach." Again his hand moved, but this time, I was sure he’d heard me.

The night before, his brother and sister had arrived from out of town and some of his friends were there, but none of them were comfortable being in the same room with him. He was home, the place where he'd lived and where he would soon die, but all of them stayed in the living room as though his bedroom were the portal to the dark side. I remember thinking, ‘If I leave, who will stay with him until hospice arrives?’

"Remember the necklace you bought me in the Yucatan? I still wear it.” His eyes briefly fluttered. “Your family’s all here, and they love you. It’s OK if you want to let go.” I knew a minister had been to see him earlier in the week, when he was fully conscious, and had baptized him. “I know there’s a God,” I went on. “Of that, I am certain. It’s OK to let go and be with God." I felt his hand stir in mine for what would be the last time.

A couple of days later, James went with me to the memorial service. That night, as I removed the necklace my former boyfriend had bought me in the Yucatan, the clasp broke and grey stones and tiny gold beads hit the floor, rolling in every direction. As I crawled along the floor to retrieve them, I wondered if it was coincidental, or perhaps he was saying goodbye.

The decision to talk about death is not always ours. Sometimes we must take our cues from the one who is dying. Without rendering his own opinion, Philip, my first husband, told me to choose the treatment for his lung cancer. After that, he clearly didn’t want to talk about the future, his or mine. While I, and everyone around him followed his lead, I don’t think I will do that again, certainly not with someone close to me.

James and I often talked and joked about death. When he’d scrunch up his face at the vegetables I’d put on his plate, I’d say, “You’re going to miss these when I’m gone.” Because of James’ Indian heritage and his West Texas upbringing, his attitude about death was practical and straightforward. “When my time comes,” he’d say, “Just throw me in the canyon and be done with me,” a reference to the days when the Indians broke camp and moved on. It was not uncommon to leave the old and infirm behind so they wouldn’t slow down the rest of the tribe.

Fear dictates our feelings about a lot of things, especially death and dying. I’ve already realized my biggest fears—James is gone and I’ve had cancer—so death holds no fear for me. For those who may be thinking about stopping treatment, it doesn’t mean you’re not a survivor. Like “The Carcinista,” part of surviving is deciding how to live and how to die, what's best for you and your quality of life. For those of you who know someone who’s dying, at least for now, they are still among the living. While you may be uncomfortable about their impending death, please don’t ignore them. Don't be afraid to tell them what they've meant to you, what you will remember about them. It's OK to say "I'm heartbroken," or "I don't know what to say," or "What can I do for you and your family?" And so what if you cry? Big wup! At least they will know you care.

Last week Oprah said something that echoed Drew Faust’s book: "Every death is a wakeup call to live more fully, more completely and more presently." Let us not miss an opportunity to live our lives, and in the process, to lessen our fear of death.

Lifelines and Relaxation Techniques

Thu, 29 Sep 2011 20:22:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Since James is no longer here to help me, I am solely responsible for taking care of the land and the Little House. While I like to think of myself as a tough woman, able to deal with most anything, I must confess I had to call for help today. This morning I found two dead and bloated squirrels in a water tank we keep for the deer. The thought of those little squirrels, drowning in that tank, unable to climb out because the water level was too low, made me feel responsible and sad, and the thought of plucking them out of the water was more than I could handle. I had to ask for help. A neighbor graciously removed the squirrels from the tank, emptied it and then fashioned a ladder out of fencing material so the next little squirrels that come to drink can find their way out. From time to time, we all need a rope or a ladder that enables us to rise from our condition and gives us the hope of a better tomorrow. Goodness knows I’ve grabbed onto every rope I could find in the last four months.<PREVIEWEND>

My lifelines have come in the guise of prayer, friends, counselor visits, more prayer, Molly, Sam and Goldie, hypnosis, as well as crying until my face is red and swollen and I can’t cry anymore. I think that’s what Oprah calls “the ugly cry” because we wind up with a face that looks like Boris Yeltsin. On two different occasions I've shopped myself silly, only to return everything I purchased, except an outrageously expensive shawl (the shop in Santa Fe only gives store credit), that was hand-woven by blind Tibetan monks and made from 100% nearly extinct Mongolian camel hair. OK… so I exaggerated the blind monks, but what was I thinking? I didn’t even look at the price tag! No amount of new “things" will ever fix what’s ailing me, and I know that. I somehow got caught up in the momentary distraction of retail therapy, but my best therapy has been meeting many of you.

Every week I’m honored to meet new breast cancer survivors. Many I meet online, then subsequently get to know them better through phone calls and emails. Others are friends of friends, who’ve just been diagnosed. I call or email them, hoping I can help in some small way. I’m always amazed at how calm and together most of these women are; how well-informed they are about their cancer and how ready and determined they are to get on with surgery or treatment. Occasionally, however, I speak with women who are thrashing about like I imagine those poor little squirrels in the water tank were, panicking and drowning with fear. For a time, that’s OK because we all do it, but at some point, we must reign ourselves in while we create a different perspective through which to ponder our plight. Unlike the squirrels, most of us have several ladders we can use. In case you don’t recognize a lifeline, here are a couple of simple, yet powerful things you might consider while looking for one.

• Close your eyes, place your tongue behind your teeth and breathe in for a count of four; hold your breath for a count of seven, then slowly exhale for a count of eight. Repeat. If you’ve never done this kind of breathwork before, in the beginning, only repeat the cycle four or five times because it can make you dizzy. This is a powerful way to help us get focused and centered, and if we’re not focused, it’s harder for us to get our emotions under control. If we don’t have our emotions under control, we don’t make good decisions.

• Focus on something that has a positive meaning to you. For me, it’s the Twenty-Third Psalm. Every night, after I've gotten into bed and am gearing down to go to sleep, I close my eyes and repeat the Twenty-Third Psalm over and over until I’m not thinking about anything other than “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.” Like breathwork, repeating a "mantra" helps unclutter our thoughts and let's us focus on the needs at hand.

If you’ve never weathered a crisis, you might consider learning to still your mind before you find yourself drowning. Desperate and drowning are generally not conditions under which we make our best decisions. Like learning CPR, we should be skilled at staying calm before the need arises. What if you put a Post It note on your work phone with the numbers “4-7-8” and practice the breathing exercise several times a day, whether you feel stressed or not? The trick is to concentrate on your breaths and your counting, not concentrate on your breaths AND what you need from the grocery store.

By the way, the Mongolian camel hair shawl is still hanging in my closet. The price tag is on it. I'm thinking about auctioning it off. The winner could donate the proceeds to the charity of their choice as well as becoming the owner of an elegant new shawl. Now that would be empowering for all concerned. Anyone feeling generous? If so, hold up your auction paddles high enough for me to see them!

Skin Cancer, Fashion and Women Over Forty

Sat, 30 Apr 2011 18:18:00 GMT

Sandy Linter, Brenda Coffee, Lois Joy Johnson

I don’t know what I expected before I met Lois Joy Johnson, one of the founding editors of MORE magazine, but I was a bit wary. Perhaps it's because I’d seen The Devil Wears Prada. If you haven’t seen the movie, Meryl Streeps’ portrayal of the ruthless, cruel fashion editor made me wonder if other high profile editors had some of the same characteristics, plus what does one wear to meet a woman who’s spent much of her life developing and producing beauty and fashion features? Nearly immediately, however, my qualms were put to rest. Lois Joy Johnson is one of the dearest, most approachable women I’ve ever met. A couple of weeks ago, we sat down in a Texas mall to talk about Makeup Wakeup, the new book she's co-authored with makeup artist, Sandy Linter. We also talked about skin cancer and women of “a certain age.”

BC: “It must have been frightening when you were diagnosed with skin cancer.”

LJJ: “Well you find out how vain you are. You’re in your 50s; you’re a beauty editor and you’re having Botox, which is a vanity procedure, and you suddenly find out you have a basal cell carcinoma right in the middle of your face and you think, ‘Oh, well, we’ll just scrape that off and I’ll be fine.’ <PREVIEWEND>But then I went through Mohs surgery (microscopically controlled surgery) and I ended up having this whole part of my nose removed. They take a little; they examine it; you go back again; they take some more. I ended up in bandages, going to beauty events for three months, feeling like the ugly stepchild, but I kept saying nothing matters as long as I can have a nose again. Ever since, I’ve been pretty cavalier about a lot of things, but I do think it’s so important to wear sunblock everyday. I used to really be a Botox junkie, and two years ago I thought, ‘Should I get my eyes done’ and then I thought ‘You don’t need to get your eyes done. You’re healthy. Be happy.’ Cancer really rearranges your priorities. It makes you grateful for good health and encourages you to take care of yourself so that you’re healthy going forward. It’s great to look beautiful. We all want to be forever sexy and attractive. We’re the first generation of women in our 50s and 60s who look this way. I have nothing against cosmetic surgery or dermatological procedures. I think it’s wonderful to have the options. It’s more important to concentrate on nutrition and fitness and keeping healthy.”

BC: “Your experience with skin cancer and taking care of yourself comes through loud and clear in Makeup Wakeup, your makeup and beauty guide for women over 40. Because you and Sandy have such different approaches to beauty, you make it OK on either end of the beauty spectrum. I love that on so many different levels.”

LJJ: “I applaud Sandy for what she does, but we have very different ways of looking at beauty. I’m wearing makeup now, but I’m comfortable on days I don’t wear makeup. Sandy will not leave the house without makeup. For me, hair color is makeup. It’s more important for me to have my roots retouched than to be wearing mascara. I’m someone who’s been in the beauty/fashion arena for 30 years, but I’m comfortable throwing on an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt and putting my hair in a ponytail and going around without makeup.”

BC: “You’re more than someone who’s been in the business for 30 years. You’ve helped set the tone for this generation… how we think about fashion and ourselves.”

LJJ: “I was the beauty and fashion director of MORE magazine, and one of the founding editors 12 years ago. At that time, saying you’re 40 was such a dirty phrase. Advertisers, especially beauty advertisers, didn’t want to know about it. They still don’t want to really know about it, to be honest, which is why we see so little positive imaging of women in their 40s, 50s and 60s in beauty and fashion. I think that’s shameful. I’m a real advocate for women over 40 and now even more for women in their 50s and 60s. This age group can afford to buy luxuries. Why is it that when [they] show a dress, every model wearing it is in their 20s? Why aren’t they choosing models in their 40s and 50s? The models we used to book [in their 20s] are fantastic looking now and would love to work. Why aren’t all of these big brands like Victoria’s Secret using older models? Every woman who shops at Victoria’s Secret is not between 14 and 20!

I spoke at the National Retail Federation in January and my topic was older women and shopping and why the fashion industry is doing such a bad job of relating to us. I challenged the designers, who are in their 60s themselves, Donna Karen, Nicole Miller, Vera Wang… What’s this obsession with youth when the largest, richest segment of the population, who can really afford to buy clothes, are being ignored?

I had the best job in the world because I did both beauty and fashion, and it gave me a real perspective. I look at something on the runway and think ‘Can I wear that? Where would I wear that?’ I still think that way when I look at shows and clothes. There are a lot of women who are fed up with not finding clothes they can wear or finding dowdy, frumpy clothes that someone thinks are appropriate for them. I hate the term “age appropriate.” It really annoys me. Why not make skirts in two lengths, mini and above the knee or to the knee? Why not make shoes in a variety of heel heights so we can walk? We’re being forced into clothes that are being marketed to women in their 20s and 30s.

There’s a real difference in being youthful and looking young. The emphasis seems to be on looking young, not being youthful. That’s where the danger is. I have two daughters. One is 25 and one is 35. I know what 25 and 35 looks like, and I don’t want to look like my daughters. I know I have lines. I have brown spots. My hair is thinner. Hair loss is a big taboo for women. Nobody talks about it.”

BC: “Nobody tells you that you’ll lose the fat pads on the bottom of your feet as you age and high heels will hurt.”

LJJ: “That’s right! I’m so angry that we’re being ignored. I know a lot of designers would probably disagree with me, but I talk to real women all over America. Women fall into two categories: They’ve either given up on themselves or they they’ve gone toward the youth track. That’s because there isn’t anything for us to wear.”

BC: “Why doesn’t Taryn Rose really make more stylish shoes?”

LJJ: “Why doesn’t Jimmy Choo?”

BC: “Have you thought about your own website? You could call it Women of a Certain Age.”

In case you can’t tell, Lois Joy Johnson is a treasure. The only thing better than meeting her is reading her book, Makeup Wakeup, for sale on BreastCancerSisterhood.com. Thank you, Lois.

Makeup Wakeup Book Giveaway

Tue, 26 Apr 2011 21:08:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

The first floor of Neiman Marcus is on full tilt. Loud music blares as pouty Victoria Beckam-like models sit atop podiums in the shoe department, dangling stiletto Jimmy Choos from their slender feet, while A-list shoppers dine on finger food and sip from crystal flutes of champagne. The real show, however, is taking place in a small broom closet of a room near the cosmetics counter where iconic makeup artist, Sandy Linter, is giving private makeup lessons to the Dallas rich and famous. On tour complements of Neiman’s, to promote her new book, Makeup Wakeup, Sandy is fresh, fabulous and achingly beautiful, with nary a hint of her 63 years.

The first time I met Sandy Linter, we were both in our early twenties, and the memory of this angelic vision has stayed with me ever since. I remember she was dressed in a pale yellow chiffon, dropped-waist vintage dress, with chic short blonde hair. Even then, Sandy Linter was no ordinary makeup artist. <PREVIEWEND>She had an almost cult-like following, partying nightly with the Andy Warhol crowd at Studio 54, then slipping into the next day’s 5 am photo shoot still wearing the clothes she’d worn to “Studio.” Name a famous model, celebrity, fashion designer or photographer, and Sandy Linter’s makeup artistry has helped them set the tone for countless covers and fashion layouts for Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Cosmopolitan, and more magazines and runway shows that anyone can count. Her client list still has many of the same names, plus lots of new ones.

A couple of years ago Sandy, "Ambassador at Every Age" for Lancôme, helped me do a series of videos for BreastCancerSisterhood.com. I wanted to show women taking chemotherapy how to compensate for lack of eyebrows and eyelashes and how to give their skin a healthy glow. These videos turned out to be great makeup lessons for every woman, and have since become the most downloaded makeup lessons on the Internet. Today, however, I’m at Neiman’s to talk with Sandy, and co-author, Lois Joy Johnson, one of the founding editors and the former beauty and fashion director of MORE magazine, about their book, Makeup Wakeup. As we talk, Sandy can’t resist changing my lipstick. “It’s not quite the right shade,” she said, “But everything else you’ve done is perfect.”

BC: “One of the things I love about your book is that you and Lois have different styles and approaches to makeup. I think this gives women permission to find something that works for them and not follow a cookie cutter look.”

SL: “The book has two, different distinct flavors because Lois is a beauty and fashion expert, and I’m a makeup artist. I feel one way; she feels another, but we arrive at similar places.”

BC: “What made you and Lois decide to be so brutally honest about Botox, droopy skin and plastic surgery?”

SL: “I’m 63. All of the women I make up who are over 40, 50, and 60 have questions about eye surgery, lips and facelifts. They want to talk about surgery. Since this is a makeup book for women over 40, you can’t avoid talking about it. Lois and I wanted to write a beauty guide we’d read ourselves, one that solved the kinds of issues women face every day.”

BC: ”One of the reasons women are going to love this book is because you talk about yourself.”

SL: “I’m like you are with your readers. I tell it like it is. I’ve made mistakes, but I talk about Botox and surgery and what I did to make me feel better. It’s not for everybody.”

BC: “You’ve been doing little procedures all along. I’ve never done anything, not even Botox, so I’m afraid I’d windup with a drastic new look I wouldn’t like.”

SL: “You should be afraid of that, so you know what? You pick the one thing that bothers you most and do that first. Then you heal and live with it, and if you want, then you do the next thing that bothers you.”

BC: “What’s the most important thing women over 40 can do to take care of their skin?”

SL: “Sun protection. Women spend thousands of dollars on laser treatment to correct sun damage. Plus sun damage can cause cancer. In the book, Lois talks about her skin cancer. The entire tip of her nose had to be rebuilt because of it.”

BC: “What’s the worst mistake women over 40 make?”

SL: “The worst mistake is to give up and stop wearing makeup. Women say, ‘Oh, I have wrinkles, I can’t wear foundation,’ but there’s all kinds of new foundations with better texture, so keep up-to-date with your products. Don’t wear the same thing you’ve worn forever. Go to the makeup counter and try two or three colors on your jaw until you find the right one. Learn how to make the most of your eyes with eyeliner, mascara; get good brushes; learn the technique.”

BC: “As you know, I’m all about survivorship. What’s made you survive in an industry where so many come and go or succumb to drugs, ego and fame?”

SL: “When you first knew me, I was really involved in a rock ‘n roll lifestyle, and I wound up burnt-out. It’s a really weird feeling because you don’t know you're burnt-out until maybe a year after you’re burnt-out. You just have to start all over again. I blocked out all the people around me and just zoned in on my own little career. I rebuilt it from the days when you knew me as a star (gesturing from high to low), then went to there and no one knew about me for years. Then little by little, I got back.”

BC: "What would people be surprised to learn about you?"

SL: (Sandy dissolves into gales of laughter.) “People would be surprised to learn a lot of things about me, but I won’t tell them!”

Makeup Wakeup is more than a “how-to” book. It is like dishing with girlfriends only these girlfriends have helped define and launch the anti-aging of beauty and fashion. The book’s forward is written by Bette Midler and features “before” and “afters” of familiar faces like models Carol Alt, Patti Hansen and Cheryl Tiegs, “Behind the Velvet Ropes” Lauren Ezersky, actress Sigourney Weaver and rock star Debbie Harry/Blondie. Chapters include “I’m Obsessed with My…” and “Should I Have Some Work Done? Yes, No, Maybe,” plus interviews with the world’s top dermatologists and plastic surgeons. One of my favorite parts of this 288 page book are the specific brands and colors Sandy and Lois recommend, not to mention a “before” and “after” of Sandy doing her own makeup.

If you’d like to win an autographed copy of Makeup Wakeup, just put a comment on my blog, using the words “Makeup Wakeup.” I will then make a list of everyone’s name on a separate Post It, fold them, put them in my wide-brimmed sun protection hat, close my eyes and draw a name. Once I've drawn a name, I'll email you offline for your address, then send the book to you postage free. You have until next week’s BRENDA’S BLOG is posted, Sunday, April 24th, to enter, so get crackin’. For those of you who wish to purchase Makeup Wakeup at a special price, go to RETAIL THERAPY on BreastCancerSisterhood.com. Next week, I want to introduce you to Lois Joy Johnson. We'll talk about her basal cell carcinoma and her fabulous career.

Bioidentical Hormones and Breast Cancer

Tue, 12 Apr 2011 22:15:00 GMT

©TODAY Show. All rights reserved.

Last week the TODAY Show invited me to Skype in live and ask medical expert Dr. Nancy Snyderman a question about bioidentical hormones and estrogen positive breast cancer. Because bioidentical hormones are all natural and custom made by a compounding pharmacist, as opposed to a one-size-fits-all synthetic estrogen made by a pharmaceutical company, some women with estrogen positive breast cancer think bioidenticals are OK. I wanted to know if Dr. Snyderman agreed with their thinking.

According to Dr. Snyderman, “You can call them biodenticals, or you can call them the hormones you get from your pharmaceutical company, and hormones are still hormones are still hormones.” Dr. Snyderman went on to say that if she ever received a diagnosis of breast cancer, she would not take an estrogen that might in fact put her “at harm’s risk for fueling another breast cancer.” In other words, women who’ve been advised by their oncologists to avoid all forms of estrogen should pass on bioidenticals as well. <PREVIEWEND>

Most of us didn't hear of bioidentical hormones until actress, Suzanne Somers, began singing their praises in her 2006 book. Ms. Somers claims bioidenticals are not drugs and that by taking them, a 60-year-old woman can achieve the hormone levels of a 20-year-old woman, along with all the benefits that accompany a full tank of estrogen. It’s easy to understand why Ms. Somers loves bioidentical hormones. Because of estrogen, our skin and muscle tone is more youthful; we have a stronger libido; our vagina self-lubricates, and in general, we have more energy. In many ways, getting older sucks! I would love it if all of those areas of my body were still firing on all cylinders, but let’s get real, girls. Mother nature didn’t intend for us to have estrogen coursing through our bodies for most of our life.

Many medical professionals disagree with Ms. Somers and her beliefs. For starters, drugs are not just synthetic medications made by pharmaceutical companies. Drugs naturally occur in nature as well. The coca leaf, for instance, is all natural but chew on a few leaves and you’ll find yourself revved up on cocaine, the naturally occurring alkaloid found in the coca leaf. Regardless of whether you chew the leaf, or receive the synthetic version for medical reasons, both are drugs. To suggest bioidenticals are more “natural” and therefore better, is reckless and alarming, especially for women who want to lessen the risk of their estrogen-fueled breast cancer returning. For those of you who haven’t had breast cancer, there are a few things about bioidenticals you might consider as well.

Breast cancer is a disease of aging. Girls are starting their periods earlier, possibly because of the parabens they’re ingesting and absorbing into their skin. Add to that the fact that many women are taking either estrogen replacement therapy or bioidentical hormones. As a result, there are women who’ve had estrogen in their bodies longer than any previous generation, and subsequently, may be at an even greater risk of developing breast cancer as they age. Besides, who wants to be having a period when you’re 80? Advocates of bioidentical hormones lead us to believe they’re the fountain of youth, like Shangri-La, the mystical setting for James Hilton’s novel, Lost Horizon, where people remain young and vibrant and this side of immortal forever.

As Dr. Nancy Snyderman said, she’s not a big believer that “these things are safe for the long-term,” so for women who want to take bioidentical hormones or any kind of estrogen replacement therapy for the perimenopausal symptoms of hot flashes, etc., do it for a short period of time. “But no longer than five years because then we know the incident of breast cancer really goes up.”

Here’s a personal side note about our sex, estrogen and youth-driven society: Hollywood and the media have always made women feel the need to look younger and sexier. Let’s face it. Sex sells! Some retailers are even sending little girls the message they need to look sexier. Tom Cruises’ 5-year-old daughter, Suri, has been wearing “kitten heels” since she was barely old enough to walk and now clothing manufacturers are selling bikinis with push-up bras to prepubescent girls!

We’re too old. We’re not old enough! Yes, estrogen makes the world go ‘round, but sexualizing little girls? And yes, I know Barbi began flaunting her sexuality to little girls in 1959. I was one of those little girls, and it took me years to figure out my feet would never permanently affix themselves in the tiptoe position. However, like pouring fuel on a fire, estrogen, man-made or synthetic, it is a fire that should carefully and thoughtfully be stoked.

Opening the Door on Parabens and Breast Cancer

Mon, 04 Apr 2011 03:56:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Have you ever read the ingredients on the back of your shampoo bottle, your jar of moisturizer or the hand lotion you use? Chances are most of those ingredients you can't even pronounce. More importantly, most of them are chemicals you don't want in your blood stream. Regardless of whether you’re male or female, or if you’ve had breast cancer, you might consider avoiding a class of chemical ingredients called parabens.<PREVIEWEND>

Methylparaben, ethylparaben, propylparaben and butylparabens are commonly used as preservatives in most of our personal care products. Manufacturers use parabens because they allow everything from toothpaste, to makeup base, to stay on store shelves longer. As informed consumers, however, we should be aware that parabens are known to cause breast cancer cells to grow and proliferate in laboratory environments. Because parabens can mimic estrogen, a hormone known to play a key role in some breast cancers, women who’ve had estrogen positive breast cancer should avoid all forms of estrogen in an effort to lessen risk of recurrence. Many say that should include parabens.

Just as “we are what we eat,” we are also a receptacle for the chemicals we put on our body. According to Mercola.com, the body can absorb as much as five pounds of cosmetic chemicals every year. Parabens are absorbed through the skin and into our gastrointestinal tract and our blood stream. The January-February 2004 issue of the Journal of Applied Toxicology reported measurable amounts of six different parabens from biopsy samples of breast cancer tumors. Because of their estrogenic properties, parabens can also affect male reproductive glands. The January 2009 issue of Reproductive Toxicology reported a probable link between parabens and the possible decrease in sperm production in males.

Studies are beginning to show that a lifelong exposure to estrogen may increase our risk for breast cancer. Many scientists are wondering if the cumulative effects of estrogenic parabens in our personal care products may explain why more girls are reaching puberty younger and younger, some as early as eight, and why more girls are being diagnosed with breast cancer.

So now that you know about parabens, what do you do about them? For starters, read the labels on everything from deodorant to your favorite beauty products. If possible, only buy products that say “Paraben Free” on the label. Most paraben free products can be found in stores like Whole Foods, Sprouts and Trader Joe’s. If you don’t have a store that carries paraben free products in your area, you can purchase many of them through the RETAIL THERAPY link on BreastCancerSisterhood.com.

I thought I’d share some of my favorite all natural, paraben free skin care lines, and believe me, I’ve tried them all. I love, love, love Ann Webb’s Skin Organics. Her Unscented Body Cream and Olive Eye Cream are amazing! I also like a skin care line called MyChelle Dermaceuticals, particularly their Unscented Honeydew Cleanser & Makeup Remover. Another great product line is Dermaé Natural Bodycare, particularly their Microdermabrasion Scrub, Hyaluronic Acid Day Crème and their Hyaluronic Acid Night Crème. If you’d like a good paraben free shampoo, try Hugo Naturals Red Tea & Ylang-Ylang. I have fine hair and Hugo’s shampoo doesn’t weigh it down.

Since I go out of my way to avoid parabens, I am dismayed to learn methylparabens are also found naturally in plant sources like blueberries. Because blueberries are one of the richest sources of anti-oxidants, I eat a half pint of blueberries on my cereal every day. Even though blueberries only contain minute amounts of parabens, I am a wee bit conflicted by this information.

If we care enough about the land to be vigilant about toxic spills, separate our trash—aluminum from plastic and paper—then doesn’t it make sense to honor ourselves even more by avoiding harmful chemicals we put on and into our bodies? While everything in moderation is a good rule of thumb, I’ve never been a moderate kind of girl, so this blueberry thing has me considering… Oh, my stars! I nearly said moderation!

Elizabeth Taylor: A Breast Cancer Survivor's Role Model

Thu, 29 Sep 2011 19:57:00 GMT

When I was 11, I had coke bottle glasses, braces on my teeth and hair that looked as if someone had placed a bowl over my head and then outlined its shape with scissors. If those affronts to my self-confidence weren’t bad enough, my mother insisted I wear heavy cotton shirtwaist dresses that hung midway between my knees and calves. By the time I got to school, the dreaded olive green dress was usually wet under the arms, and for the rest of the day, the edges were ringed with dried sweat and deodorant. While I looked like I’d been hit with an ugly stick, I secretly longed to look like Elizabeth Taylor. The same year she’d begun filming Cleopatra and she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I was mesmerized. That was the summer I began my Cleopatra scrapbook.<PREVIEWEND>

Every move “La Liz” made, set magazine editors and paparazzi buzzing like overly ambitious mosquitoes. At the time, she made more headlines than the Cuban missile crisis. The press feasted in swarms over every detail of her life, loves and near death experiences, and every week movie star magazines like Photoplay, Screen Album and Modern Screen, along with Life and Look, featured Liz on the cover with more photos and articles inside. Carefully I cut out photos of Liz in her elaborate Cleopatra costumes, on the arms of famous men, basking on yachts and private beaches, then pasted them into an oversized book of wallpaper samples. Because the neighbor ladies gave me all of their magazines, I had duplicates that allowed me to use photos on both the front and back of any given page, and I used them all. Even then, I knew Elizabeth Taylor was more than just a physical beauty. She was a survivor.

As the years passed I’ve made mental notes about things other than her eight marriages to seven husbands, her fierce loyalty to friends, or pioneering a global campaign that raised awareness for AIDS. I’ve watched as she’s been transported on stretchers, airplanes and boats to more than 30 surgeries. She broke her back five times, had two hip replacements, survived a benign brain tumor, skin cancer, two life-threatening bouts of pneumonia, an emergency tracheotomy, osteoporosis, scoliosis, depression, addiction and a leaky valve in her heart. Ultimately, congestive heart failure was more than even Dame Elizabeth could conquer. To say she’s made an impression on me is an understatement.

When I was a young girl, Elizabeth Taylor showed me what it was like to weather storms, be they marriages or surgeries. She openly wore her tracheotomy scar in the middle of her throat as though it was another exalted jewel in her collection of legendary stones. Photographs of her in the magazines gave me a view into a world larger than the end of my street. Her story made me realize there were women, unlike my mother, who didn’t play the “poor pitiful me” card, but who kept charging at life again and again. In some ways, Elizabeth Taylor may have given me the courage, at 13, to become the mother, while my mother retreated further into mental illness and became the daughter.

As movie stars lose their luster, many of the world’s great beauties have deliberately faded from the limelight, but Elizabeth Taylor has never been afraid to let us see her bald, overweight, white haired, walking with a cane, or in a wheelchair. She showed us that surviving life’s storms is more important than the storms themselves. As breast cancer survivors, we know about storms, surgeries and scars, and the tolls they take on marriages and families. Like Elizabeth Taylor, we keep finding the strength to come back from the ravages of life’s adversities again and again.

For many of us, our surgeries have negatively impacted the way we view ourselves, which in turn, teaches others how to view us as well. I’ve always considered my chemo port scar as my badge of courage, the crown jewel of my scar collection. Even now, when I look at my naked self in the mirror, it’s not my 10 breast cancer surgeries or the scars I see, but the fact I’m still standing. Regardless of whether we have mastectomies and reconstruction, or C-sections and appendectomies, our bodies shift and change as we age. We are a work in progress, although sometimes I think the sculptor is a bit demented, but it’s not the outside that’s the work of art, but the person on the inside that’s the true beauty.

I love strong women like my friend June, who lost a child, has Parkinson’s and now uses a cane; my friend Joan who survived a plane crash; Ruth who lost her voice box to cancer and now speaks with the aid of an electronic device; Kathy who’s husband left her while she was battling breast cancer; Mary Jane and Sue have each lost a child, plus Mary Jane also lost a husband. My Internet friends, Chez and Alli are battling recurrence; Marie had breast cancer and has lost three unborn children; Jody is a breast cancer survivor and her husband has once again had surgery for melanoma, and Cindy’s husband died two days before James did. Part of what I liked about Elizabeth Taylor was her ability to persevere while living a life that was authentic. That’s what each of us, in our own way, is doing, so here’s to strong women, the men who love us, the children we raise and the bonds of friendship we forge. May we continue to empower one another and the world around us.

PS: When I left home after high school, my mother threw away all of my things before I had a chance to come back and get them. After all these years, the only thing I want is my Cleopatra scrapbook.

Our Family is Broken

Sun, 20 Mar 2011 23:09:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

This has been another difficult week, as all of them have been since James died. His autopsy report came back. In summary, his death was caused by an electrical wiring problem he’s had for some time—he had a pacemaker—along with the gradual death of multiple areas of his heart due to smoking. While I don’t think anyone was surprised, the autopsy has been yet another detailed piece of loss to read and process.

One of the basic laws of physics is that with every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and James' death has been no exception. Like dropping a pebble in a pond, the ripple effects of his absence have been felt by all who loved him, especially his family. Tragically, more than James died the day after Christmas. His family died as well. How sad and ironic for a man who valued God, country and family more than anything in this world.<PREVIEWEND>

Families are comprised of people who grieve in different ways and who don't always see things in the same light. Even under the best of circumstances our reasoning and recollections are often very different from someone else who witnessed or heard the same event. Add extreme stress and grief to the mix, and you have a recipe for the death of a family. As both our minister and the counselor I've been seeing have said, "James was the glue that held the family together, and the glue is gone." So who are we without James, and what will our relationships be with one another as we move forward? For now, it is torn and fractured. I'm reminded of a statistic that says approximately 25% of husbands leave their wives after they're diagnosed with breast cancer. I’m sure there are statistics about families that don't stay together after death, divorce and other kinds of tragedies.

As a result of every challenge we face in life, each family member is called on to find their new normal. In the case of a breast cancer diagnosis, I suspect some husbands say to themselves, "I didn't sign up for this," or in the case of a death in the family, a person’s grief can be so profound that it's easier to take their pain and anguish and make it about something else. Perhaps in doing so, it gives them a way to express their anger in a more tangible form, since it's hard to be angry with someone for dying, plus that anger has to go somewhere.

Under times of duress, I’ve repeatedly seen James put his feelings aside, not because it was what he wanted to do, but because it was the right thing to do. If James didn't like something you said, he tried hard to understand your position. If you were the one having the hard time understanding, more than likely he would say, "You might allow for the possibility…” thus giving you a way of role reversing or looking at any given situation from a different perspective. I find it heartbreaking, almost to the point of denying his very existence, that one of the fundamental codes by which he lived his life has not been learned by those of us left behind. I would have hoped his example would have propelled us all to become better people, to find ways of reconciling our differences, but so far, there are no signs of that happening. What's worse, James died, knowing there were huge cracks in a foundation he'd spent a lifetime building.

Aside from the anguish of losing James, the dissolution of his family unit has me wondering if any of these relationships were ever real to begin with? They were real to me. Grieving the loss of my husband has been the most agonizing and lonely thing I’ve ever done, but add to that the dissolution of James' family, and I am dealing with more than one death. Some days I pray God takes me sooner, rather than later, for I can't imagine being cutoff from every sense of family I thought I had. I think we would all agree that having James love us was a huge gift. I also think James would say what good was it to have had him in our lives if we’ve failed to make note of the backbone and focus of his life? Family.

Cancer Diagnosis and Diet Changes

Mon, 14 Mar 2011 02:33:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

This week I’ve been attending Expo West, the world’s largest trade show, featuring all things green, natural and organic. After two long days of walking up and down aisles full of organic food and beverage booths, visiting with health and beauty products and vitamin and supplement vendors, I’m reminded of a time when most of these products were not on my shopping list.

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, I felt like I was inside one of those snow globes where you shake the globe and the particles inside fall into random patterns around anchored stable objects. While my house and everything inside were in the same place, nothing about the way I lived my life would ever “shake out” the same again. Like most of us who are diagnosed, I began reading about what causes breast cancer, how to get through treatment and how to prevent recurrence. Much of what I read suggested I had been eating the wrong foods and using the wrong body care products. I was horrified to learn my lifestyle could have contributed to my breast cancer. Why didn’t I know that white foods like pasta, rice, potatoes, bread and sugar, along with high-fructose corn syrup and high glycemic foods, convert to sugar and contribute to inflammation in the body and can trigger cancer, heart disease, diabetes and stroke? I’m an educated well-read woman, but it took breast cancer for me to raise the bar on my “know better, do better” radar. <PREVIEWEND>

In the beginning I was defensive about my pre-cancer food choices. What’s wrong with pasta and salad? Plus, the thought of making drastic changes to my diet was somewhat overwhelming. Where would I start? I’ve talked with many women who tell me they’ve chosen to enjoy life over monitoring everything they eat, and I understand that. Change is inconvenient and often expensive, but because I wanted to do everything I could to have a long life with James, I felt it was worth it. However, I had no idea how difficult that change was going to be.

For starters, my post diagnosis diet was comprised of things James didn’t like to eat such as fruits and vegetables. My new diet also included more chicken and beans and less red meat. James lived on brown and white foods: coffee, red meat, anything chocolate, milk, potatoes and vanilla ice cream. His remedy for everything from a headache to heart palpitations was to ask me, “When was the last time you ate red meat?” While I’d hoped James would see the health value in my new diet and join me, it didn’t happen. As a result, we fixed two different meals: one for James and one for me.

As my new, even healthier than before diet took shape, I became the person at the table who only ate certain things and could only eat at certain restaurants. I know many people didn’t understand the logic behind my new way of eating and might have thought I was trying to be difficult, but I was eating to live, not living to eat. If for some reason you have a special diet, you already know eating out can be problematic.

Many franchised restaurants serve salads that are shipped to them with preservatives already sprayed on wilted, brown lettuce and mushy tomatoes; their chicken and beef contain growth hormones--not good for estrogen positive breast cancer--or they serve white bread, rice, potatoes and pasta, which turns to sugar and can feed cancer cells. In addition, cream sauce is ladled over everything, and cancer loves milk/cheese/mucus products. While everyone else at the table ordered red meat, mashed potatoes and chocolate cake, I ordered grilled chicken and salad with olive oil and balsamic vinegar on the side and asked for whole grain rolls… Forget about that one!

Believe me, I know how difficult it is to make drastic, overnight changes to your lifestyle, but what if you started with one change a week? The first week, perhaps you skip the afternoon soda and protein bar, chocked full of sugar, and eat fresh fruit and a handful of walnuts? Perhaps the second week you substitute bagel and cream cheese for spoon-sized shredded wheat, fresh blueberries and almond milk. Even small changes in our diet can make a big difference in our health and who knows? We may influence those around us to incorporate some of these changes as well, especially important if we want our children to develop healthy eating patterns.

While Expo West was eye opening and educational, it was hard to go back to my tacky motel and order junk food from room service. It’s a good thing I put lots of free samples in my bag, which reminds me... My favorite new discovery at Expo West is something called Metromint, 100% water with hints of pesticide-free mint, essence of cocoa and zero calories. I bet I stopped by Metromint’s booth half a dozen times for a bottle of their water. It’s not only refreshing, but makes you feel like you’re drinking something sinful. They also have goodberry mint, lemon mint and orange mint water among others. Yum!

Breast Cancer and Survival. Pass It On.

Mon, 14 Mar 2011 02:20:00 GMT

Brenda Coffee, age 21.
©Survivorship Media Network, LLC. All rights reserved.

While we reside on this mortal coil we call “life,” each of us is called upon to wear many different hats. While some fit better than others, and some people wear them better than others, have you ever thought about how many of these hats are related to our survival or the survival of someone else? In the last nine weeks I’ve worn several hats, not of my choosing. I’ve realized the roles I’ve played while wearing them are designed not just to teach me lessons, but to help others I meet along the way. In doing so, it has been a good way for me to cope with the unwanted events in my own life.

One of the recent bright spots in my life has been helping a friend through breast reconstruction surgery. We met online; she’s from out of town, and she reads my blog. When I learned she was going to be alone for this surgery and was going to take a taxi from a hotel to the hospital, then when surgery was over, take a taxi back to the hotel, I couldn’t let her do that. By allowing me to be her caregiver, she has given me a huge gift, because helping her has gotten me out of the midst of my grief, if only for a couple of days. <PREVIEWEND>

From the moment she and I arrived at the hospital, it was like I was watching a replay of a movie in which I’d already starred. If you count two lumpectomies, two mastectomies, one DEIP flap reconstruction and one implant reconstruction, two revisions and two nipple reconstructions, I’ve had 10 breast cancer surgeries and eight rounds of chemo. There isn’t a space in the pre-op staging area of this hospital I haven’t resided in more than once.

Take the first bed on the left: I remember James leaning on the bed rail, holding my hand, the one that wasn’t tethered to IVs, and bringing it to his lips. He grinned big and said, “While you're in surgery, don’t forget your Jimmy loves you.” The third bed on the right brought back memories of my friend Mary Jane with a video camera, and the bed on the end was where my friend Mignon reassured me they would find no more cancer. The other day in pre-op, while waiting with my new friend, I saw several of my former doctors and anesthesiologists preparing for other surgeries, as well as the surgical nurse from my breast surgery number nine. In fact, there’s a picture of the two of us on one of my previous blog posts.

Being a caregiver is not an easy job. Caregivers don’t get much sleep, are often left alone to worry, chauffeur, fetch food and generally feel helpless. Caring for my friend that day reminded me of what a great caregiver I had in James. He carried out every duty cheerfully and reassuringly as though he had nothing better to do than tend to my every need. What a special man he was. I can only hope I cared for my friend even a fraction of the way James cared for me.

Lately I’ve been wearing an additional caregiver hat. Another friend is watching and waiting for her husband Michael to die. Like James, no one saw Michael’s death coming, but unlike me, she’s had a couple of weeks, not just moments, to get used to the idea, not that it makes it any easier because it doesn’t. Even though I lost James nine weeks ago, and I know what she’s going through, I also know my words are of little comfort to her. Coping with Michael’s death will be something she has to do primarily on her own, and because I know the road she is embarking on, my heart breaks for her.

Grieving the loss of James has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Last Sunday night I literally dropped to my knees in sobs and, once again, begged God to help me through this pain. Missing James and not being to do anything about it except linger in this achingly slow passage of time has been agonizing. The day after my prayer I realized that while it doesn’t seem like it, I am beginning to move forward. I am moving though some of this pain.

While I’d rather be an expert in the splendors of the Byzantine Empire, or obscure Mayan botanical remedies, it seems as though breast cancer and caregiving is destined to be my area of expertise until it’s my turn to shuffle off this mortal coil. I believe every one who’s experienced pain and loss has a responsibility to help those around them in need. You may not feel like it, and you don’t have to take it on as an Olympic challenge, but I promise, it will be one of the most therapeutic things you can do for yourself and for someone else. We need one another in order to survive this life, so take what you’ve learned, a little or a lot, and pay it forward.

Talking to Kids About Your Cancer

Thu, 29 Sep 2011 19:16:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Part of being a good parent is setting good examples about decision-making, problem solving and handling the difficult curves life throws at us. Talking to your kids about your cancer diagnosis is one of those curves. It’s hard enough for adults to process a diagnosis of cancer, so it’s not surprising that it’s even harder for children and teens to wrap their minds around such news. Even though what’s age appropriate information for a six-year-old may not be what we would share with a 13 or a 17-year-old, it’s important for us to talk as honestly as we can with our children. I know of two teens who’ve become angry, distrustful and disconnected as a result of their parent’s breast cancer diagnosis. <PREVIEWEND>

One teen is a 17-year-old boy, who, after discovering his parents had waited two weeks to tell him about his father’s breast cancer, became angry and withdrew from the family circle. He decided that if they’d kept something that important from him for two weeks, how could he trust them to honestly keep him informed as his father subsequently went through treatment? Nearly immediately the boy began running with the wrong crowd, coming home later and later, failing in school and disrespecting his parents. Another teen, who’s now an adult, still can’t forgive her parents for keeping her mother’s breast cancer diagnosis from her for two weeks. The response of these two teens is not unusual, neither is it unusual for a parent to wait until they have all the specifics about treatment, etc., before talking to their children. Like us, children and teens are afraid of what might happen to mom or dad, and ultimately, what might happen to them as a result of their parent’s illness. Anger and acting out is often a mask for a child’s fear and paralyzing sense of helplessness.

Cancer is frightening and disempowering for everyone, something so big and scary that even small children, on some level, sense this “boo-boo” may be beyond a doctor or a hospital’s power to fix it. As a result of cancer treatment, kids may see a profound change in mom or dad’s physical appearance. No wonder they experience a host of terrifying feelings they’re not comfortable expressing. In addition, kids are generally not mature enough to view a parent’s illness through the right filter so it’s easier for them to get angry, angry at us and angry at life for letting them down.

When I was 12, my father was diagnosed with cancer and died a year later. Not only did no one tell me about his illness, my mother didn’t even tell me he died! Talk about an elephant in the living room! It nearly ate us alive and it changed the fabric of our lives to this very day. I didn’t have time to act out or get angry, like the teens I’ve mentioned, because mother and I role reversed. I became the mother, and she became the daughter, a role we continue to maintain. Because of her dementia, I still haven’t told her that James died. Talk about history repeating itself, although mother’s not any more capable of dealing with James’ death than she was of dealing with my father’s death.

If you’re a regular reader of my blog, perhaps you understand some of the reasons I started BreastCancerSisterhood.com. I know, all too well, the toll cancer takes on families; I know what it’s like to be the child, the caregiver and now the survivor. I wanted to reach out and empower each member of the family so they didn’t have to walk the same lonely and difficult road I’ve been down. If a friend or a family member has cancer, and kids, I hope you pass this website on and suggest some of BRENDA’S BLOGS along with videos from experts like Dr. Joel Marcus who offers advice for both parents and children.

Also, AMY’S BLOG may be the only support blog for children and teens. I strongly identify with Amy. She was 13 when her mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. Soon after, her parents separated, and Amy and her older sister became their mother’s primary caregiver. Today Amy's mom is healthy and thriving. Amy is 19, a college sophomore, a world traveler and the voice of experience, blogging about her own fears and anger when her mom was diagnosed, finding her new normal and how the experience has helped her grow as a person. Together, I hope we offer helpful voices in the midst of uncertainty about coping, coming together as a family and discovering strengths we didn’t know we had.

TED and Surviving Life

Tue, 22 Feb 2011 04:54:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

You many not be able to cure cancer, write a bestseller, or solve the problems in the Middle East, but there are many things you can do RIGHT NOW to make a positive, healthy change in your own personal world. This weekend I was honored to be among 500 people chosen from thousands of applicants to attend TEDxAustin. If you don’t know what TED is, you’re missing one of the basic building blocks of how people and ideas change the world. In one day, TED brings together thought leaders, entrepreneurs, scientists, performers and innovative doers who “shrink the space between action and actuality.” TED is designed to spark our curiosity and challenge us to go back to our communities and apply ideas worth spreading to our own personal tribes.

As the day at TEDxAustin unfolded, we were continually inspired by TED’s speakers, by one another and by the different ways we each approach life. Following in the spirit of TED, I want to take what I’ve learned, and share it with you, my tribe.<PREVIEWEND> As a result, I hope each one of us will think about ways we can jumpstart our lives, regardless of whether we’ve been diagnosed with cancer, lost a husband or a job, need to step over “stuff” life puts in our path, or perhaps we’re trying to figure out what to do with our newfound lottery winnings. No, that hasn’t happened to me, and yes, I think that would be a problem. Here’s my wrap-up of some of the things I heard at TEDxAustin:

• Sustainability is a survival skill.
• Are you living your life with joy?
• Forgiveness allows you to move forward and find your joy.
• Everyday matters.
• We must be the voice of change.
• What if you live to be 100 but you’ve been living like you were going to die tomorrow?
• Turn suffering into freedom. Has what you feared most already happened to you? If so, don’t be afraid of anything that awaits you, and grab life with both hands.
• How can you connect with people outside your circle?
• Purpose causes us to think long-term, but most of us have short-term “itis.” Businesses and people with short-term “itis” don’t last.
• You really are what you eat. Do you know what’s in your food?
• It’s a big job to transform your life. You need space—whatever that is for you—shared intentions and then you must offer it back to the world.
• Discipline is remembering what you want at a very deep level and then going after it with laser-like focus.
• We are our own zookeeper. Are you a good zookeeper? Do you take good care of yourself?
• Connecting is why we’re here. Stick out your hand and introduce yourself and then listen more than you talk.
• Let go of who you think you should be, and be who you are.
• Embrace vulnerability. Try new things; let someone into your heart.
• Let yourself be seen.
• Love with your whole heart.
• Believe you’re enough.

I’m wondering… Did you learn anything new from this list? Since I teach survivorship skills, thinking about sustainability as a survival skill gave me a whole new perspective.

We hear a lot about sustainability as it pertains to our environment—the oceans, the land and our power sources—but what if sustainability starts with our physical and mental health and that of our families, not a global effort that affects the survival of future generations? What if we think about sustainability in regard to things like surviving breast cancer, making a troubled marriage a great marriage, finding a job we love, or caring for a disabled family member? Where would we start, and what keeps us from doing it? Is it fear, apathy, laziness, complicity or maybe lack of knowledge?

As I learned at TEDxAustin, we are the start of everything, and with our front row center seats, we must be the change we want to see in ourselves and in our world. Everything I heard at TED plays a role in our survival and sustainability. What’s keeping you from starting RIGHT NOW?

Finishing Cancer Treatment

Tue, 15 Feb 2011 00:24:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

At church this morning I sat with a friend who’s also a breast cancer survivor. Her oncologist is “setting her free,” taking her off of her post chemotherapy drug, Femara. As he explained to her, more than likely, the Femara has already done all it will ever do to prevent recurrence. In addition, she will only need to see him once a year. If you haven’t had cancer, that may sound like good news, but if you’ve battled the big “C,” it’s a little scary to think you’re walking the survivorship tightrope all on your own. I know how my friend feels.

Not long ago I finished my five-year course of Arimidex. If my oncologist had let me, I would’ve taken Arimidex forever, achy joints and all. It made me feel like I had a superpower helping me. Of course I know God is the only superpower, and the weapons available to me are prayer, diet, exercise and avoiding stress, although I now seem to have accrued a lifetime supply of stress.<PREVIEWEND>

Whether you’re six months out and just finishing chemotherapy, or like my friend, six years out and finishing adjunct treatment to lessen risk of recurrence, you are gripping a double-edged sword. On one side, you're one step further away from your cancer, but on the ‘oh my stars this is really the sharp side' of the sword, you no longer have any of the "big guns" working for you like chemo, radiation or aromatase inhibitors. You’re all on your own.

Being disease-free does not mean being free of your disease. That statement cuts to the heart of what it means to have cancer. Cancer is our own personal terrorist. Even if we live to be 105, we are forever tethered to the mere thought of that one stray cell, waiting to strike again with a vengeance. While cancer is a force to be reckoned with, in many ways, it remains an intangible: Is it really gone, and if so, for how long? That uncertainty doesn't fit neatly into our statistic laden society that wants everything clearly defined with labels that say 98% fat free, 46% voter approval, 95% of households have a toaster, etc. It's no wonder cancer survivors cling to the five-year survival number like it's magic. It’s quantifiable, reassuring and soothes that part of ourselves that needs to hear "everything will be alright." Right now my need to hear I’ll be OK has been replaced by my grief over James’ death, and I’m not sure anything will ever be alright again.

The last six weeks have been an emotional roller coaster. While some days are a little easier than others, I have a hard time thinking about anything other than the fact that James is no longer here. In the last couple of weeks, the wind has rearranged the leaves where he died, revealing more reminders of the frantic life-saving efforts that took place there. Bright and shiny against the dry brown leaves was a small, silver alcohol swab package that had been torn open, along with the plastic protective cap from a syringe. With the exception of I’m 100% convinced James is with God, there are no statistics that can make me feel better. Nothing can take me far enough away from the fact that he’s not here, and like my friend who’s finished her cancer treatments, I’m all on my own, again.

Next Sunday I will tell my friend at church to take good care of herself, remain watchful and that “everything will be alright.” I imagine she will hug me and tell me the same thing, and I want you, regardless of your circumstances, to imagine you’re part of our hug and that everything will be alright for you as well. As Amy’s mom would say, “God, please don’t let go of our hand.”

Bubble Wrap, Stress and Recurrence

Wed, 23 Mar 2011 15:05:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

I think it would be an understatement to say that most of the country has been inconvenienced by last week’s wicked cold spell. While I didn’t have rolling blackouts, my rural electric company was struggling to keep the power grid on that services our middle-of-nowhere residence. Midnight, Tuesday, the power began coming on and off every few minutes. Actually, it was more off than on. Because my house is a 100-year-old ranch hand bunkhouse, with original doors and windows and NO insulation, the inside temperature instantly began to plummet. Quickly I made a fire in the fireplace and began throwing blankets, tablecloths, sheets and a cowhide over the few windows that have curtain rods (no neighbors, great views, no curtains), and covered my thin Oushak rugs and cold pine floors with comforters and a sleeping bag.

Twelve hours later, as I stoked the fire, dressed in three sweaters, a sherling coat, hat, gloves, ski socks and boots, waiting for the electricity to come back on, Molly put her paw on my knee and leaned toward me like she was going to tell me a secret. Poor girl. Her teeth were chattering! While it had been a three-dog night and day, Molly wanted no more of it, so I packed a bag, called a hotel, drove into town, boarded the dogs and checked into La Quinta. Who knew I’d have to change rooms twice until I found a room without bullet holes in the windows? <PREVIEWEND>

The next day, armed with 40 feet of bubble wrap and two rolls of duct tape, I returned to the Little House and covered every window and outside door, some of them twice. When the power and the central heat finally returned, I turned on three space heaters as well and waited as the inside temperature reached 40, then 50. It was dark outside, and way below freezing, and just as the thermostat crested 60, the house blew a major fuse. Frustrated, and feeling like I’d taken two giant steps backwards, I realized the longer I stayed, the more I ran the risk of being trapped, unable to get down our steep, soon to be covered in snow and black ice road. So once again, I left and checked back into La Quinta.

The skinny guy at the front desk was the same one who’d checked me out that morning. “Haven't I seen you before?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I checked out this morning.”

“Do you have a reservation?”

“Not this time,” I answered.

Looking slightly puzzled, he asked, “When did you have one?”

“For last night,” I said. “But I checked out this morning.”

He paused and peered at me, then pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and frowned. “And you don't have a reservation?”

“No,” I replied. “Do you still have rooms available?”

“Yes, but you don't have a reservation.“

Obviously my clarity and patience were wearing thin. “Excuse me,” I said. “But this is sounding like a ‘Who’s on First’ routine. I just want a room, without bullet holes in the windows, and yes, I know they’re from the punks next door… Do you have gin?”

After three days of fast food and no hairbrush, or working hotel blow dryers, I look like a bush baby, but my dogs and I are finally home. The bubble wrap seems to be helping because the temperature in the Little House is holding at 73. We’ll see what the morning brings.

During all of this, it occurred to me that stress is one of the causes of breast cancer recurrence, and the past six weeks have provided me with a lifetime of stress: my precious husband died unexpectedly; I ripped out the entire undercarriage of my car, searching for him that night; the pump motor at the bottom of the well died, leaving me with no water; someone I'm close to is in the midst of a serious life-altering snit; I’ve had no heat for three days, and I may have put my life on the line to stay in a sterile motel room with bullet holes, bad pillows and no working blow dryers. If I’m not an upcoming candidate for breast cancer recurrence, no one is.

Most of us work hard to get through cancer, prevent recurrence and survive the other adversities life puts in our path. We stay positive, eat right, exercise, pray and get support from our family and friends. I haven’t met anyone for whom giving in is an option. Even in our darkest moments, the resilience of the human spirit is remarkable. While I have great friends, the hole in my heart is huge, and I have leaned on God a lot during these last six weeks. Like a silversmith or goldsmith, God is refining us, tempering our metal and removing our impurities through life's tribulations and trusting in Him. At the moment, I think I should be nearing 18k gold… at least temporarily.

While bubble wrap works to keep the cold weather out, it won’t protect us from disease and loss. As my friend, Gayle, says, the hurt would still get through, plus then we couldn’t see out the windows. So for the time being, how about we find comforters whether they be God, or friends, or Twitter, and draw strength from all things empowering that helps get us through the night.

Where the Sky is Born

Tue, 08 Feb 2011 00:28:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

This week I went to a therapist to help me deal with James’ death. When I told him I’d practiced self-hypnosis for almost 25 years, he asked me “where I went” during hypnosis, what mental image I used and why I chose it. My answer was the ancient Mayan ruin of Tulum in the Yucatan Peninsula. From the top of the temple Castillo, the soothing blue sky seems to magically rise out of the sea. The Mayans called it Sian Ka’an, the place where the sky is born, and I go there in hypnosis because it is empowering, majestic and peaceful.<PREVIEWEND>

The therapist asked me to close my eyes and see the place where the sky is born. He then told me to imagine a big dial in the middle of the same sky, a dial I can turn from one to 10, and to imagine that sense of empowering peace as I turned the dial from one, to two, three and so on. With each turn of the dial, I took a deep breath and filled my lungs, and mind, with more and more empowering peace. He then asked me to visualize James. In my mind, I saw him standing in front of mountains and a blue sky, the same photo l used in my blog post “Who Will Catch You When You Fall?” The therapist then asked me questions about whether I thought James wanted to leave me, what I would say to James, what James would say to me, etc. He then instructed me to replace the dial with James’ face and to see James as my peace… my empowerment. Indeed, he has been that for me since our hearts first became intertwined.

Since my appointment with the therapist, the word “peace” has been part of my lexicon in everything I see, read online, in my email messages, plus peace is a huge part of the lesson we’re working on in my Bible study group. I shared that in an email with one of you, dear readers, and you said this recurring theme was a “God Deal.” My friend, Barbra Swanson, calls it a “God Thing.” While it doesn’t reach miracle status, it’s more than a simple coincidence, and I agree. At this moment, I am more at peace than I have been, and I want peace for James, peace for me and for my stepson. Like the familiar comforting effect a mother’s heartbeat has on her newborn, I am bathed in peace. For how long? I don’t know. While a couple of the sharp edges of my pain are dulled, I can’t begin to fathom how anything will relieve my profound grief and sadness that James is no longer with me.

I can’t stop wondering, “How did this happen?” I know it’s true, but it’s still so difficult to process. Regarding James, I question everything I’ve ever thought, said or done. I wonder if God thought I didn’t appreciate this extraordinary man enough and so he took him from me? James was my heart. I told him this every day. Surely God knew that as well, how much I valued, appreciated and adored James. Everyone in my life before James was just marking time on my calendar until he arrived, and I fear from here on, everyone else will be marking time until I’m with James, again. It’s quite possible I will live longer without him than I did with him. How do I do that?

The other day I cleaned out James' truck. His son wants his truck, but in these first early weeks, I've not been emotionally ready to let it go. While I had no problem throwing away old receipts for alfalfa and deer food, other items touched me deeply like the small tine from the rack of a young buck, or pieces of flint, that had been worked, James found in the dirt. James' Comanche heritage gave him an appreciation for all things in nature, including an unfinished arrowhead, discarded by its maker because it wasn't perfect.

Like an unfinished arrowhead, we are not perfect. On many different levels I think many of us have surrendered to God, again and again, especially if we’ve been diagnosed with a life-threatening disease like breast cancer. Since James died, I've told God that I'm as surrendered as a person can get; please show me the way, what you want me to do, how to help others and to please open the right doors and show me how to walk through them. I hope I'm not letting any of you down because I don't have all the answers, but I do know they all start with God.

Whenever I’m emotionally out on a limb, I will close my eyes and imagine the knob and turn it as far as it will go. I will see James’ face and know he is at peace. All is well with his soul. And while I don’t know if my peace will carry me over until tomorrow, I will turn the knob as far as it will go, hoping once more to feel His peace. I believe I will see James again. I will see God and His precious Son, and I will see the real Sian K’an—the place where the sky was born.

Don't Panic

Thu, 29 Sep 2011 19:25:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Molly has developed bare spots on her tail, right rear foot and around her neck. The vet suggested it’s from the stress of James’ death and gave her some oral and topical medications. I’ve developed an itchy patch on my back. It’s in one of those weird places you can’t see by standing in front of a full length mirror and turning your head around to look at it, or with the help of a hand mirror. To my great relief the urgent care doctor said it wasn’t shingles, but like Molly, my skin problem is probably due to stress. Goldie, our Shepherd/Collie mix, looks like she could use an antidepressant. She just lays her head on the floor and, without moving, her sad eyes follow me around the room. And then there’s Sam Dog, our Beagle mix, the shy one who’s emerged from the corner of the bedroom and has taken to sleeping on the rug on the other side of James’ chair. Dogs are so intuitive. I feel like they’re looking to me for a signal to be happy, but so far, the best I can do is let them run free of me, in the yard. <PREVIEWEND>

Last week I went to stay with my friend, Gayle, in Austin for a couple of days. It’s one thing to be alone at home, but being alone at someone else’s home is really being alone. Unable to get online or discover which of her clickers turned on the television, I opted for the nearest Starbucks. I’d never stayed in Starbucks for five hours before. Did you know at 2:30pm an instant line of listless looking office types materialize for their mid-afternoon caffeine fix, or that at 3:30pm a swarm of already hyper 12-year-olds come in for mocha lattes? I was amused by the geeky kid in the orange t-shirt who bought a second, double mocha latte. I’d be willing to bet his parents were later in need of a second gin and tonic, with extra gin.

While at Starbucks, I read a Vanderbilt University Medical Center study that said breast cancer survivors with a strong social network and a feeling of social well-being live longer. While the one person who made me feel safe is no longer here, I am surrounded by wonderful friends. My Bible study group has each taken a night to call and check on me, and while I’m touched and grateful, it’s not the same. I still feel alone. A friend who lost her daughter in a car accident said, “Even though you know they’re with God, and they’re doing better than you are, it’s just not enough. There’s a huge hole, and nothing can fill it up.” I’m wondering how my ever-changing sense of social well-being would rank in the Vanderbilt study?

I now understand what the elderly Rose’s character in Titanic meant when she said Jack Dawson saved her “in every way a person can be saved.” James did that for me. He brought meaning and unconditional love to my life, something no one, not even my parents, had ever done, and bigger still, he introduced me to God. As Rose and Jack were clinging to the floating debris in the icy water, Rose promised Jack she would survive and go on with her life. While James and I didn’t have those last moments, I remember we talked about what the remaining one of us should do: go on with our lives. Neither one of us wanted anything but love and God’s grace for the other, but right now, I’d like to know how the elderly Rose went “on and on.”

This afternoon I smelled James’ cologne and became obsessed with trying to find where it was coming from. It was most prominent when I sat at my desk, so I stayed put. For a moment, I wondered if his scent was meant to make me aware of his “presence,” but it wasn’t long before I realized the smell was coming from his iPhone. Earlier, a friend had called James’ number, and after we hung up, I placed James’ iPhone on my desk. Because he and I have the same black rubber protective covering, I’d assumed it was my iPhone laying on the desk. When I realized it was James’ phone and the rubber had absorbed his cologne, I was disappointed, but I know I’ll go there for a smell fix from time to time.

I know James’ love still blankets me, but right now, I’m feeling a bit lost. Every now and then I’m going to need to remind myself not to panic. James is alright. He’s where he’s supposed to be. Like Rose, I’m the one who needs to go on with life. I’m the one who needs to embrace my strong social network and rediscover some semblance of social well-being. James and God saved me for a reason, and I must go on and find it.

Today our minister delivered a great sermon about suffering. We all suffer. It’s a reality of life, but it’s how we view our suffering that determines the outcome in our lives. God gives us the power to endure. I think that’s another way of saying He doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle. I hope all of you are doing better than enduring. I hope you’re thriving, surviving cancer and life and, like me, finding your way. Please write and let me know when you’ve found it. I’ll do the same.

Surviving Life

Thu, 29 Sep 2011 19:39:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

If you think about it, most of us have been surviving something our entire lives. Maybe it started with a domineering parent, a bully on the school ground, sexual abuse, job, race or sexual discrimination, diagnosis and treatment of a serious illness, or losing a loved one. Eventually, most of us find our way through these things and find new ways to survive. I’m in that mode again, surviving James’ death, trying to figure who I’ll be without him, without us being James and Brenda, and someday getting to the point where I can make my way to my new normal. <PREVIEWEND>

This week I started a six-week grief class. So far all we’ve done is introduce ourselves and tell a little bit about the person in our life who died. There are some in the class who’ve actively been holding on to their grief for years, and that scares me: the thought of staying in this pain, forever. They are examples of what awaits me if I do the same, paralyzed people, seemingly lost and destroyed in webs of "what if's."

One thing I’m learning is there are no rules for grieving. Sometimes I’m scary calm and then, like last night, my loss is almost too great to handle. I buried my face in James’ leather recliner, sniffing it, hoping to find some trace of his familiar smell, but there was only a hint. Just enough to make me cling to his chair like a life preserver. Five days ago, Molly stood in front of the same chair, placed her paw on the seat and stared at me. Like Molly, I wanted to drag my bed across the room until it was positioned at the foot of his chair and lie down. Instead, I put my face where his head had been and curled into a ball. A primal cry started deep inside me, gathering my grief as it built, until a guttural sound came forth that made Molly get up and run to the other side of the room. Over and over, I asked James, I asked God, “Why? Tell me why? I need to know.”

My hardest time is in the mornings. The alarm goes off and the first thing that hits me is James is not here. I don’t even want to open my eyes. I called his office the other day, and as it rang, I noticed my phone said, “Calling James Coffee.” I loved seeing his name in print.

The other day I had a conversation with a friend about couples in restaurants that sit there, for the entire meal, not talking to one another. They might as well be at a table for one. James and I used to feel sorry for them. How terrible and desperately alone must it be to share a house and a table with someone and have nothing to say to one another? James and I never ran out of things to say or ask each other about, plus we had our own little comedy act. We laughed a lot.

I loved that he allowed me to be a bimbo. I’ve always been the smart girl, the capable girl, the woman who runs companies, confronts drug dealers and armed assassins, who at one point, drove, flew, landed on and submerged in, most every piece of military equipment known to man; the woman who can, and has, survived more than I ever thought possible. With James, however, I was his “girl baby,” his “Brenda baby.” I could relax and let my ditzy side show. He loved it and was entertained by it.

This survivorship thing… I know how to do this. I know this raw feeling will eventually pass. A scab will form over my wound, and along with the scar, I will begin to find my new normal. I also know many of you are hurting and grieving about something or someone in your life. You’ve lost loved ones, have been diagnosed with cancer, or have had a recurrence. You’re broken-hearted, and you’re scared. I also know the only way to get past our pain is to walk through it. We can’t deny it, and we can’t hide from it, because it will find us. We must let the tears go; call on God, family and friends, get counseling and second opinions, decide on a course of action, do all those things that are in our best interest to survive and move forward.

No one said surviving would be easy, but I’m here, with you, trying to find my compass and map out a new course, a way to walk through this part of my life and survive. Thank you, sweet friends, for being so caring and supportive of me during this time. Your response to my blog has been overwhelming and I pray, in some small way, I am there for you as you have been here for me. Life is in the here and now. We must find ways to live it!

May I Tell You About James?

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:12:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All Rights Reserved.

The numbness is beginning to wear off around the edges, but I am still in shock over James’s death. I vacillate back and forth from an outward picture of calm, to a slumped sobbing heap with snot running down my chin. Did you know grief could make you feel like you’ve been beaten up? Some mornings I wake to find I’m sore and exhausted. Instantly I look at the picture taken of us this Thanksgiving. I love that photo. It makes me think of our time together, talking, holding hands, hugging and kissing, not taking a single minute for granted.

We had more than a great marriage. A friend said, “You got what only a small percentage of people in this world get – a romance.” We were a powerful love story for all to see. Not long ago a young couple, we didn’t know, came up to us after church and told us they’d been watching us for a long time and talked about us frequently. They wanted to have the kind of marriage we had when they were our age. <PREVIEWEND> After 14 years of marriage, we adored one another more than ever. Not a week went by we didn’t talk about how blessed we were to have found one another, to love one another so deeply.

We were best friends and thrived on one another’s company; we left love notes and called each other numerous times a day. Most mornings James sang to me a well-known rock 'n roll song to which he’d rewritten the words. Instead of “Do you love me, do you love me, now that I can dance, dance, dance?” he would sing, “Jimmy loves you, yes he does…” He sang that to me that last morning in the shower as we were getting ready for church, and later in the car, he reached for my hand and brought it to his lips. I watched, utterly transfixed, as he slowly and deliberately placed ten, tender kisses on my skin.

Whenever anyone asks me about James, I always tell them he's a blessing from God. God sent me an angel. I adored James, but even more special, James adored me, telling me everyday not just how much he loved me, but how much he valued and appreciated me. James didn’t care who knew how crazy we were about one another. It’s a special man who always ends phone calls to his wife with “I love you,” or “Your Jimmy loves you,” no matter who was there in the room with him. Sometimes he would call and say, “Have you forgotten? Don’t forget! Your Jimmy loves you.” He could be in a business meeting or playing poker, but he never missed an opportunity to tell me how much he loved me, or to say, “Call me and let me know you got there alright.” And don’t think the other guys didn’t notice, because they did. He thought they’d rib him about it, but it was just the opposite. Some men said they wished they had that kind of marriage, while others flat out told him how great it was to see a husband’s open affection for his wife.

James would often say, “You look like you want your husband to hold you.” I can’t imagine a more loving, romantic man, but his words were not empty platitudes. He backed them up with deeds. He would go out of his way to do the laundry and vacuum, while I was gone on my many BreastCancerSisterhood.com trips, so I could come home and relax, and we could do nothing but revel in one another’s company.

Since the day I fell in love with James, I’ve talked to God twice a day about him. In each prayer I asked God to “wrap James Daniel Coffee in Your protective light and love and, if it is Your will, keep him safe and well and free from all harm and return James safely to our Little House.” I would say this prayer as I stood in the front window, or sometimes out by the gate, while we waved, blew kisses and pretended to argue about who loved the other one more. He would give two quick toots of the horn, and then I stood, watching his truck, only turning away when I could no longer see it. When we lived high on a hill in San Antonio, I would watch his truck get on the freeway and drive toward town until it disappeared from view. Sometimes I would rush to get the binoculars so I could see him even longer.

When James asked me what I wanted for Christmas this year, my answer was “time.” I wanted more time with James. The silence of his absence is deafening. In the time it takes a heart to stop, my world has changed forever. People wiser than I have tried to find answers as to “why.” I must hold fast to the all-encompassing words, “God’s will.” While James’s death was not my idea of “keep him safe from all harm,” perhaps God answered my prayer in that He interceded and took James before something worse befell him.

Losing James was what I feared most in life, but I didn’t see it coming. Maybe it was because I’d had breast cancer, but I always thought I’d be the first one to die. I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around this. It’s all so surreal. At least with a terminal illness you have advance notice your loved one will be taken from you. On some level you’re given a chance to prepare, if anyone is ever truly prepared for this, but when they go for a walk and you never see them again…

We all know something about grief and loss. When we're diagnosed with cancer, we go through a grieving process: the death of our former selves, followed by finding our new normal. That's what I'm doing, again, although this time I’m grieving the death of James and my life with him, and finding my new normal without him. I take comfort that James was respected by all. I stood in the receiving line at his memorial service for nearly three hours. “Integrity” was the word I heard over and over to describe him; whether he wanted to or not, he did things because they were the right thing to do; he was a fair man, a man’s man, and so many people told me how much he loved me. He was a man who put God, country and family and doing the right thing above all else.

That night, after the ambulance left with James, our neighbor brought in the camouflage jacket he'd been wearing. Inside were dried Post Oak leaves that had skittered to the ground and were caught in the lining. Carefully I took them out, one by one, and placed them on his dresser. Such small fragile things, yet in some strange way, they bring me comfort.

James, I will always love you, need you, want you, miss you and marvel at you. I know you are with God. Please call and let me know you got there alright.

The Death of My Precious James

Mon, 17 Jan 2011 06:03:00 GMT

James & Brenda Coffee, Thanksgiving, 2010.

As many of you know my precious husband, James Coffee, died December 26, the day after Christmas. He died the exact moment I was posting last week’s blog about the loss of loved ones during the Holidays. I can’t begin to understand the “whys” of his death and the finality of it all has yet to hit me. Frankly, I am numb. This last week I’ve been running on autopilot; for the most part, controlled, cutting off my highs and lows and living somewhere in the middle. A coping mechanism I know all too well.

Last Sunday when James didn’t come back from his walk when he was supposed to, I knew something was wrong. I grabbed my coat, a flashlight and a cell phone and made a fast drive down the walking paths he’d cleared on our ranch. I was looking for an upright figure, or one beside the road, so I didn’t see him laying on the other side of his tractor. On my first pass, I looked directly at the side of the tractor facing me, not knowing he was laying on the ground on the other side, hidden from view.

When I didn’t find him the first time down and back, I knew something was terribly wrong and called 911, then the neighbors and told them to bring flashlights and to hurry. My second trip was much slower as I repeatedly stopped, turned off the engine, took the key out of the ignition and called his name. “James. James. James.” My voice echoed his name across the canyon, but I heard nothing in return. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d passed right by him on both return trips but didn’t see him. Maybe it was because the light was fading or because of the camouflage jacket he was wearing, or maybe he was right when, teasingly, he used to tell me, “You’re not much of a noticer.”

I raced back to the Little House and quickly secured the dogs on the back porch, then drove along the rough, bolder strewn land behind the house that runs alongside another canyon, hoping against hope, he might have come back another way, but he wasn’t there. As I returned to the Little House, Molly, our Great Dane/Black Lab mix began to utter what may be the most plaintiff sound I’ve ever heard, a low mournful howl. Molly and James were a love story unto themselves and somehow, I believe Molly knew James was gone.

The ambulance arrived. Our neighbors told me to wait at the house. By now, 40 minutes had elapsed from when he should have returned from his walk. It wasn’t long before I heard the screen door open. Our neighbor, Trey, solemnly shook his head back and forth. His eyes were sad. “We found him,” he said. I wanted to howl like Molly, but I couldn’t summon even a whisper.

I have so many unanswered questions and “what if's.” What if I’d seen him on my first pass, or even my second? Was he still alive? Could I have saved him? Did he suffer? Did he cry out? My not seeing him, was this James’ or God’s way of protecting me from carrying that final vision of him with me always? With so many low lifes in the world, why James Coffee? Don’t say God needed another angel because the world needs more men like James Coffee. He was a prince, admired and loved by all, with an ability to connect with everyone from billionaires to day laborers who didn’t speak English. He was a man of integrity. “A man’s man,” as a friend said, who spoke at his memorial.

Last night I went outside at the approximate time he died. Within seconds, I was compelled to drive his truck to the place where he took his last breath. Dressed in the camouflage jacket he died in, I laid down on my back, next to his tractor, my right knee bent upward, the bottom of that foot flat on the ground, my right arm extended away from my body. The exact position they found him in. I laid there for a long time, staring skyward, through his favorite grove of trees, staring at the last thing he must have seen. I don’t know what I was hoping for, a message perhaps, a sense of being close to where his soul left his body. Tonight, at 5:45 PM, will be exactly a week since he died, and I imagine I’ll be laying there once again.

He died at sunset, the blue Texas sky ablaze with orange and red and streaks of pink. He died on the land he loved, next to his tractor, under his favorite grove of trees. His Comanche ancestors would have said, “It was a good death,” and James would have agreed.

I’m supposed to be the one with the Survivorship skills, but other than staying busy and cutting off my highs and my lows, I’m at a loss right now. How ironic that at the very moment he lay dying, I was posting last week’s blog about loss and the Holidays and how after a loss, we shouldn’t stop living and believing in life. Last week’s blog was also about the word “hope.”

Hebrews 11:1 says, “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” Faith is the foundation on which all of our hopes for the future are built. Without it, we would be limited to the very narrow world of only those things we can see, hear, taste, touch and smell. Because of my faith in God and belief in His Son, Jesus Christ, I believe in God’s word and that “we will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever and ever.”

James was a believer, a good and faithful servant, and as such, I have faith that James is with God. Since I am a believer as well, I have faith I will see James again. Hurry. Bring lights.

Holidays, Cancer and Hope

Thu, 29 Sep 2011 19:47:00 GMT

Over the years I’ve had my fair share of difficult holidays, like my first Christmas as a young married, expectantly waiting for family and friends to crowd around my dining room table which, in another life, had been a cable spool. You know, those huge wooden spools wrapped with reams and reams of thick, heavy telephone cables? My new mother-in-law, who couldn’t be there, wanted me to photograph my table setting before anyone sat down to dinner. Mind you, I was already behind the socially acceptable table setting curve because it’s nearly impossible to make room for 10 people around a wooden spool with a hole in the middle, especially when no one knows there’s a hole in the middle because the table is covered with a sheet. Forgive me… I digress… The disaster wasn’t with the dining table but the copious amount of laundry detergent I’d placed in the dishwasher. Who knew laundry detergent would behave so differently from dishwashing powder? Who knew I’d just triggered a laundry detergent tsunami that threatened to envelop the entire apartment building?<PREVIEWEND>

Five minutes before our efficiency apartment filled with holiday guests, the dishwasher began to belch bubbles. At first just a few bubbles spilled gently over the top, like a glass, overflowing with champagne. In a matter of seconds, however, it had morphed into something that seemingly had an endless life of its own, burying me and my tiny kitchen in bubbles. Bubbles spewed vociferously through the kitchen, past the dining table, toward the sliding glass door. An I Love Lucy calamity with no signs of stopping. “Ding, Dong!”

On the other end of the spectrum, the holidays sometimes remind me of my late husband’s three-day chemo marathons. For the duration of each chemo, he was hospitalized while doctors literally kept him unconscious in order to make chemotherapy easier on him. While Philip “slept,” I kept track of chemos, meds and the times he was supposed to receive them. We usually had a private room—the other bed was for me—although I rarely got more than an hour, here or there, of sleep. I remember standing in the dark, by the head of his hospital bed, the television on low, as Dick Clark counted down the remaining seconds to a shiny New Year with the promise of all things possible. As the ball dropped in Times Square, the crowd cheered, couples kissed, and Philip’s chemo pump announced it was time for a new bag of Cisplatin. “Be-deep, Be-deep” competed with the words to Auld Lang Syne as I stood silently, isolated and disconnected from the rest of the world, wondering what the New Year would bring. Over twenty years later, that memory is still with me.

The holidays are hard for people who are looking for hope, wondering if the New Year will bring answers to their prayers, if they’ll even be here next year, or if they’ll reconcile with estranged family and friends. Holidays, birthdays and anniversaries can be difficult, even for healthy people, especially if a particular date reminds us of the loss of a family member or perhaps the end of a marriage.

Perhaps we need to make a New Year’s resolution: Regardless of our circumstance, whenever fear invades our thoughts—notice I’m saying “our” because I need this suggestion as well—we must stop ourselves from going there. If you’re wearing a yellow LIVESTRONG bracelet, or a pink breast cancer bracelet, snap it against your wrist as a reminder to stop those negative thoughts. Negativity feeds on itself and before we know it, we’re mired in hopelessness instead of hopefulness.

Hope is not just a four-letter word. Hope is a very real and powerful thing. It begins like the bubbles from my dishwasher but eventually, can take over our dreams and our hearts. Hope is the belief that nothing is for certain. Hope puts ideas into motion, educates children and frees people from the shackles of illness and poverty. Hope enables us to visualize new things on the horizon and miracles yet to be created. What would we be without hope? Every time we surrender our hope, we stop living and believing in life, and as soon as we stop believing, we lose more than our hope. We lose a part of who we can become.

Hope is intangible but at the same time, you can almost reach out and touch it! I pray you wrap yourselves in blankets of hope this holiday season. Here’s a toast to hope and survivorship:Grab life with both hands and don’t let go! Do it intentionally and thoughtfully for it will never come this way again. Here’s wishing all of us a healthy New Year.

Great Cancer Books

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:14:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All Rights Reserved.

There are three terrific cancer books I’d like to share with you. The first book is Anticancer, A New Way of Life by David Servan-Schreiber, MD, PhD. Not only is Dr. Servan-Schreiber a dedicated scientist and researcher, who candidly discusses his 15-year battle with brain cancer, he’s studied what makes cancer cells thrive, what inhibits them from growing and explains it in a way laypeople can understand. <PREVIEWEND>

Dr Servan-Schreiber, clinical professor of psychiatry at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine, and cofounder of Doctors Without Borders, discusses why the traditional Western diet of sugar and white flour, along with a more stress proned lifestyle, creates the perfect environment for cancer. As a result of his own personal cancer quest, he advocates a science-based anticancer diet and a more positive, life-affirming way of living that boosts the body’s natural defenses. Dr. Servan-Schreiber is the first to say his advice should be an adjunct to, not a replacement for, conventional treatments like surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. As a side note: I meet numerous oncologists and have found it interesting that Anticancer, A New Way of Life is on most of their desks; several have said they agree with his thoughts on diet, exercise and the mind/body connection.

From Incurable to Incredible, Cancer Survivors Who Beat the Odds, by Tami Boehmer, is a powerful compilation of true stories from people who’ve found their way in the face of insurmountable odds. After celebrating her five-year, cancer-free anniversary, Tami was diagnosed with a recurrence of her breast cancer. In an effort to explain why some people, who are diagnosed with only a short time to live, survive, and others don’t, Tami began interviewing true survivors and found they shared numerous common traits. When I sat down with Tami’s book, I couldn't put it down. At first, I just opened it at random, but because every story resonated so deeply, I went back and read them all. I am overwhelmed by the strength and courage of every cancer survivor who shared their story.

The will to live is a powerful and amazing life force. In a world where most every story on the news is depressing, making us think the whole world’s gone mad, it’s uplifting to find so many people who are facing serious challenges with grace, determination and who are beating the odds. From Incurable to Incredible, Cancer Survivors Who Beat the Odds is a book for anyone who wants to be inspired to live a more authentic, courageous life. Even if you don’t have cancer, buy a copy, read it and pass it on.

The third book is Your Brain After Chemo, by Dan Silverman, MD, PhD and Idelle Davidson. As someone who still suffers from “chemo brain,” this empowering book gave me practical tips for improving my memory, dietary suggestions for maximizing brain health and inspiring stories from people just like me. The authors combine cutting-edge science and true stories along with a nine-step program to re-energize the brain. Anyone who’s received chemotherapy has joked about having “chemo brain,” but in reality, there’s nothing funny about it. Trust me, sometimes I think my 89-year-old mother, who has dementia, and I are not too far apart in the memory department.

In addition to being a scientific review of available evidence that chemotherapy has significant cognitive effects on patients, Your Brain After Chemo is also a helpful guide for family members and caregivers. In addition to giving them insights into the cognitive changes, and hopefully, steps they can take to help their loved ones recover, the book is strangely comforting for patients and caregivers alike.

In case you’re interested, all three of these books can be found on the RETAIL THERAPY link of BreastCancerSisterhood.com, which is an affiliate of Amazon.com.

Elizabeth Edwards, Her Oncologist & SABCS

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:15:00 GMT

©Survivorship Media Network, LLC. All rights reserved.

There is more than a little irony that the death of Elizabeth Edwards coincided with the beginning of the most prestigious breast cancer symposium in the world. “The death of Elizabeth Edwards underscores why we’re here,” said one of the first speakers at the 33rd Annual San Antonio Breast Cancer Symposium (SABCS). “We are winning the battle on breast cancer!” Tell that to Elizabeth Edwards’ family, I thought. I don’t think they would agree with that, and after sitting through five days of this symposium, I’m not sure I agree with that statement either.

I was fortunate enough to have crossed paths with Elizabeth Edwards a couple of years ago when I asked her to write an essay for my book, “The Breast Cancer Sisterhood: A Guide to Practical Information & Answers to Your Most Intimate Questions.” <PREVIEWEND> I identified with her on many levels: we were the same age, daughters of military pilots who, as Elizabeth said, “Gave us the ability to reach out to others and make life-changing connections.” We were diagnosed and began treatment about the same time and were professional women who’d been married to powerful men who’d let us down. To say Elizabeth Edwards was “amazing” would be an understatement.

At the SABCS, I interviewed Dr. Lisa Carey, Elizabeth Edwards’ oncologist for the last five years. “She uniformly demonstrated grace under the worst of circumstances and a remarkable desire to use her misfortune to help others,” Dr. Carey said. “Like many people, I was often surprised and always impressed by her resilience, which was as evident in private as it was in public.”

“One of the first things Elizabeth did as a newly diagnosed breast cancer patient was to participate in a clinical trial in which tumors were collected so that scientists could try to understand why some cancers respond to treatment, while others do not,” Dr. Carey said. “Her life was marked by many such acts of selflessness, but I mention this one in particular because only through this kind of partnership between patients and researchers will we finally end cancer.”

There wasn’t as much good news at this symposium as I’d hoped for, plus there was a significant lack of psychosocial research that addressed areas like depression and sexuality. Here are some of the understandable bits and pieces I’ve managed to cobble together from a small sampling of five days of nonstop presentations. Keep in mind I’m just a layperson with chemo brain, so forgive me for the things I’ve missed and/or misunderstood:

• Duration of survivorship with metastatic disease is increasing.
• A new cytotoxic, Eribulin, is on the scene.
• Biomarkers may predict how well drugs work in patients and compare different drugs to each other more quickly.
• Stress reduction may reduce recurrence by 20%.
• PARP Inhibitors may be a new way to target & repair damaged DNA in BRCA1 and 2.
• Circulating tumor cells can be a useful tool in metastatic breast cancer.
• Re-biopsy should be a part of metastatic evaluation so you know what you’re treating.
• HER2 has an increasing number of treatment options which have the potential to become too complicated and expensive for patients.
• Obese women and those with positive lymph nodes have higher risk of recurrence.
• One third of estrogen positive early breast cancers returns.
• Many oncologists view genetic testing as a hassle.
• 70% of doctors don’t understand genetic testing implications for the patient’s family members.
• Best outcome for women carrying BRCA genes is a mastectomy at age 25 and oophrectomy at 40.
• “Beam me home, Scotty!” Breast cancer tumors may send out signals that attracts growth mechanisms.
• We don’t know the difference between cure and dormancy.
• 65-70 percent of American women with metastatic breast cancer will spread to the bone.
• Avastin costs $90,000 a year, per patient, and does little to stop early or locally advanced breast cancer.
• Women with breast cancer need to pray and hope they’re one of the genetically lucky ones who’s cancer doesn’t metastasize.

Over the course of the San Antonio Breast Cancer Symposium, I’ve been hoping to hear something in plain English that would tell me where the war on breast cancer stands, hoping to hear that Elizabeth’s death and the deaths of everyone else has not been in vain. Elizabeth Edwards was more than a sister in our fight against breast cancer. She was the face of hope for everyone who’s experienced a devastating loss or a serious illness. In many respects, we lost part of our hope when she died, but like Elizabeth, I think most of us are resilient. We must embody some of her courage and move forward, regardless of what the statistics say, or maybe because of what the statistics say. I am going to leave you with some advice Elizabeth gave to me:

“Cancer doesn’t have us. We have cancer. Cancer doesn’t own us. We own us. We decide how we are going to face this disease, how we are going to live each day. Inspired by my marvelous family, by the doctors, the nurses, the technicians, the caregivers, and most of all by my brothers and sisters in this struggle, I decide that today I am alive, and I decide not to waste today worrying about tomorrow.”

Who Will Catch You When You Fall?

Sat, 27 Aug 2011 15:31:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Most of my adult life has been spent as an adrenaline junkie, searching for experiences that pushed me to the edge of my ability to cope and survive. Today, adventure travel is commonplace, but many of my trips were well before Indiana Jones became a household name. How crazy is it to deliberately seek out abandoned mine shafts, high in the remote Sierra Madre mountains of Mexico, then enter them in search of minerals and crystals, armed with nothing more than a couple of kerosene lanterns and some rock hammers? No ropes, no water, plus we didn’t even drop breadcrumbs so we could find our way out! That wasn’t crazy. That was just plain stupid, as in this gene pool doesn’t deserve to survive.

Or how crazy is it to go to San Cristóbal de las Casas, high in the mountains of Chiapas, Mexico, during the early days of the Mexican government’s murderous violence against the indigenous Indians, and spend Christmas Eve, 1985, navigating narrow rocky roads in the dark as gun fire erupts all around you, only to discover in front of and behind you, the Mexican Army has set fire to the mountains and you’re wondering if you can make it to the next switchback before the fire jumps the road and engulfs your only way out? <PREVIEWEND>I know… I know… It was beyond stupid, right, Turner? The really stupid part came later though, didn’t it?... Breathe…

You’d think I would have learned from some of these experiences and gathered a little wisdom along the way. Maybe switched to a nice beach somewhere; ordered a couple of Piña Coladas, read a good book... But no-o-o-o! It took marrying James Coffee and his overwhelming desire to do what’s right for his family, to protect them from the bad guys and to make me realize how lucky I was to have survived my former lifestyle that gave me the real survivorship tools I needed. As I look back on my life, it’s not the stupid stuff I’ve done, and somehow managed to survive, that scares me. It’s what if I’d never met James?

James has saved me in every way that counts: mentally, physically and emotionally. His love for me is inscribed on a tablet in my heart. But most of all, without saying a word about God, the way James lives his life made me realize I was missing a giant piece of the puzzle. The more I let go and trusted James, the more I realized I needed to trust in God as well. In Superman, when Lois Lane falls from the Daily Planet building, Superman swoops in from seemingly nowhere and catches her in his arms. “I’ve got you,” Superman says. Not totally reassured, Lois replies, “Who’s got you?” Because of James, I now realize God has always had us both.

That which influences us most shapes our perspective, and because of God, James and breast cancer, I’m no longer the same person I used to be. I’ve gained perspective and a smidgeon of wisdom, albeit not nearly enough, about life and the things that matter most. But most importantly, I’ve learned to trust in God.

Being diagnosed with a serious illness is kind of like when Lois Lane fell off the Daily Planet building. Doctors and surgeons may be there with an answer for you, but how do you know it’s the right answer? You may feel the need to get a second, or a third opinion, but eventually you need to let go and let God catch you. Like a little child who knows how dependent they are on their parent, God is our Father. In times of trouble, many of us are compelled to turn to Him for guidance and direction, only to drop Him when the storm stops. If you're one of those who only calls on God during hard times, what if you talk to Him on the other days as well? "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; and in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.” Proverbs 3:5.

Who's in Your Aquarium?

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:19:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

One of the books I’m currently reading is “Life,” by Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones. Keith grew up listening to everything from Mozart and Bach to Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. When he was 13, Keith used to walk around his bedroom, holding a tiny radio up to his ear, twisting the antennae just so until he could get an intermittent signal from Radio Luxembourg. According to Keith, the night he heard Elvis Presley singing “Heartbreak Hotel,” was “like an explosion,” and the next day, he “was a different guy.” Whether he knew it or not, Keith Richards had just found his tribe—the aquarium in which he wanted to swim. Rock and roll music and artists like Elvis, Little Richard, Buddy Holly and Fats Domino would forever change his life. He’d found his passion, that thing that gave meaning to his life.

One of the greatest gifts we can receive in life is discovering who we are. Even if we know we’re a shark, a goldfish, or a guppy, we still need to find what gives meaning to our life. Writer and teacher, Joseph Campbell, said, “Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors where there were walls.” Certainly that path held true for Keith Richards, but what about the rest of us, especially if we’ve experienced a brush with death? <PREVIEWEND>

After surviving a serious illness, some of us have a tendency to play it safe. While our friends and family have gone back to life as it was, we seem to be tapping our foot, waiting for “it” to return. We’ve disconnected from the rest of our life to deal with our illness, but when treatment is over, who are we? How do we integrate our healthy self with our new normal? How do we go from wellness to surviving and from surviving to thriving, squeezing everything we can out of life? The real tragedy isn’t dying, but failing to live our lives. As Joseph Campbell said, sometimes “we must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us.”

For starters, we can use our illness as an opportunity to become healthier by adopting a better diet and exercise plan. We can also use this transition time to integrate our mental, spiritual and emotional changes into our family life. We’ve heard about men who leave, after their wives have been diagnosed with breast cancer, but I’ve also heard of women who’ve been the one to leave after their cancer diagnosis. Their rationale is, “If I only have five years left, I’m not spending it with him!” Whether you’re prepared to leave an unhappy marriage and carve out a new life for yourself, or to create a life that has more joy and purpose, spend some time thinking about what makes you smile, what gives you purpose. Bring more bliss into your life, one experience at a time. Surround yourself with things, people and activities you love. In addition, step outside yourself and think about ways you can help other people; that’s the best way I know to stop focusing on yourself and move forward.

There is life after the darkness. Swim toward the light, and make it a good life.

P.S. Speaking of Keith Richards, I had a front row center seat to the Rolling Stones’ first American concert: Teen Fair, at Joe Freeman Coliseum in San Antonio, Texas. (You don’t want to know what year.) I went to swoon over Bobby Rydell, Paul Peterson and Bobby Vee, so I didn’t know what to make of The Rolling Stones. I took pictures of every artist there, except the Stones! Now, no one’s interested in my little black and white scalloped edge photos of singers the world hasn’t heard from since. It wasn’t long before I was the Stones' biggest fan, saving baby sitting money to buy their album “Out of Our Heads.” My mother hated it and kept throwing them away, but I bought another one and another one. I’m still a huge fan. You wouldn’t believe what I paid for two, front row center seats to the Stones’ 2002, AT&T Center concert in San Antonio. Really… you wouldn’t, and I would have paid twice that!! Am I crazy? Maybe, but I’m just squeezing everything I can out of life.

P.P.S. Keith, did you name the iPhone music Ap “Shazam?”

Life Beyond Cancer Retreat

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:19:00 GMT

©Survivorship Media Network, LLC. All rights reserved.

I just returned from four amazing days at the Life Beyond Cancer Retreat. Held at Lakeway Resort in Austin, Texas, 130 women with all types of cancer, as well as oncologists, nurse practitioners, social workers and world class speakers (many of whom are cancer survivors) met to recover, restore and reenergize.

One of the definitions of “retreat” is “a place of refuge.” To that I would add: A retreat is also the people who share the refuge with you. Together you “re treat” one another again and again, nourishing your spirits and inspiring your souls. I don’t know of another environment where total strangers become instant sisters who understand and mirror one another’s deepest hopes and fears before they’ve even said “hello.” <PREVIEWEND>

Women with all types and stages of cancer came to this retreat from around the country and one, as she put it, was beyond her “expiration date.” There were women, who thought they were the only ones in the world with cancers no one could pronounce, who met other women with their exact cancer. We shared our pain, our hopes, even our sadness that some of us may not be here this time, next year, but there was no pity; no loss for words. Each of us came from the same place of unspoken understanding.

We danced; we cried. We cried a lot, but there was more laughter in these four days than many people experience in years. How do I explain cancer humor? Perhaps by giving you a quote from cancer superheroine Heidi Adams, founder of Planet Cancer and Senior Director of Grass Roots Engagement for LIVESTRONG who asked, “Is it OK to be buried in blue jeans?”

Each time we came together, whether at meals or to listen to speakers, we met new women and shared our stories. After dark, some of us gathered around an outdoor fireplace in our pajamas, made smores, laughed “samore” and talked with oncologists who, at that moment, were knowledgeable friends with answers. At the end of four days, our collective stories were as healing as any surgery, chemo or radiation. Each of us left with tears of joy and thanksgiving for having met others who shared “our same aquarium,” and who empowered us and gave us hope.

Started by US Oncology, Inc., the largest community-based cancer care and research network in the nation, the Life Beyond Cancer Foundation’s primary purpose is to financially assist cancer patients with many of their everyday living expenses. In addition, US Oncology, along with other caring companies, underwrites most of the cost of the Life Beyond Cancer Retreat, making it affordable for all of us who want to come. I think I speak for everyone at this year’s retreat when I tell Dr. Lloyd Everson, Vice-Chairman and Board Member of US Oncology, that appointing Ann Wolford, as Executive Director of Living Beyond Cancer may be one of the best decisions US Oncology will ever make. Ann, and her planning committee, created an event none of us wanted to leave. Even after we’d checked out of our rooms, we sat on sofas and chairs, camped out on the lobby floor, not ready to say goodbye.

If you’re female and have/had cancer, whether you’re Stage 1 or Stage 4, mark your calendars for next November and go to next year’s Retreat. If the Life Beyond Cancer Retreat doesn’t open a door in your heart that helps you embrace life, I’m not sure anything will.

Pass Your Power Forward

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:22:00 GMT

A recent Newsweek headline proclaimed, “Women Will Rule the World.” Except for countries where women are abused and treated worse than livestock, I believe women already rule the world. The Internet and Social Media has harnessed our collective voices and given us the power to fly higher and faster than at any other time in history. Whether it’s in areas of health and wellness, or managing families and governments, hundreds of millions of female voices are converging daily, in solidarity. We’re long past the stage of burning bras as rallying cries of rebellion and oppression. We’re actively empowering one another with our voices, determination and most of all, choices. Personally, your voices have inspired and comforted me and given me more than I ever dreamed. <PREVIEWEND>

BRENDA’S BLOG has allowed me to make new friendships and nurture old ones. Your loving, supportive words uplift me, and I hope, in some small way, I give something back to you as well. Some of you have told me I’ve been a lifeline and, for that, I am profoundly grateful and humbled. I am so aware of the power of a single voice. I feel a sense of responsibility, knowing that I have come into your life, that you are reading my words and incorporating some of them into your daily lives.

Because of Social Media, I have a new appreciation for how strong and amazing women are. Whether we’ve lost a breast or a child, dissolved a marriage or a business, we find the inner strength to make it through life’s storms, sometimes one after the other. And when we’re physically crushed and emotionally crippled, unable to get our bearings and sort through the wreckage, we find a helping hand. As though sent by God, Internet friends, who once were strangers, help us view things in a different light and remind us we are stronger for having survived our trials.

Yesterday James and I, plus my two best girlfriends since high school and their husbands, traveled from different cities to a housewarming party given by yet another girlfriend and her husband in another city, both from our high school. It was a reunion of four strong, independent women whose lives have taken us in different directions. You would like them. It was a reminder that while we all have different families of origin, diverse political beliefs and our own unique sense of style, in many regards, we are the same woman. And like all of you, they empower me.

Difficult times breed incredible strength. Where did you get your superpower? Is it genetic; do you give credit to God; did you discover it when you birthed your children; did if flow intravenously when you had chemo, or maybe it came from a big zap of radiation? I want you to know how strong you are, help you find your voice whether it's at your doctor's office, day job, or speaking out about things that matter most to you.

We each have the power to make a difference, change a life, ask for forgiveness and make new beginnings. I challenge all of you to harness your strengths and pass them on to someone else this week, to encourage, support, compliment and even challenge them to do better. We all have choices to make; some are more complex than others: Should I have children, enter the workplace, retire or stop chemotherapy? It’s not the individual choices but what we do with them that matters most.

Step out of the shoes you've been wearing and into the pair you've always wanted to wear. Step out of your comfort zone, and become your new normal, then pass that ability on to someone else.

The Pink Dozen

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:23:00 GMT

During the past six weeks, I’ve had the pleasure of being one of Eggland’s Best Eggs’s “Pink Dozen,” 12 special bloggers interested in great food, healthy lifestyles and helping Komen find the Cure®. Chosen by Eggland’s Best, and stamped with Komen’s pink ribbon and Eggland’s Best signature logo, the Pink Dozen have showcased the best of everyone involved. <PREVIEWEND>

More complicated than executing the world’s largest Easter egg hunt, the search for the Cure® is taking place at top breast cancer research facilities around the world. For every new “egg” found, comes more questions and more avenues, which subsequently need pursuing, and that takes money. Lots of money and Eggland’s Best has contributed $50,000 to help Komen’s researchers find the Cure®.

As America’s Number One branded all natural egg, Eggland’s Best has been the 2010 recipient of the Good Housekeeping Seal from Good Housekeeping Research Institute; one of the 25 healthiest Foods for Women by Prevention magazine; one of the Top 125 Foods for Men by Men’s Health annual nutrition awards; one of the Top five “superfood” picks according to American Baby magazine, as well as a host of other nutritional awards this year alone. Since Eggland’s Best Eggs comes from all natural, organic fed, uncaged chickens, it was an easy “scramble” for Eggland’s Pink Dozen bloggers to get creative.

The Pink Dozen Blogs were over easy; videos were sunny side up, and some were even “yolk, yolk” funny:) Bloggers contributed their favorite recipes from omlettes and frittatas, to heart healthy pumpkin bread. One blogger made a breakfast burrito video of the Tiger Rock TaeKwonDo Academy before they walked in the Jacksonville, NC Veteran’s Day Parade and another had an Eggland party with fun egg games like an egg toss, eggs on a spoon race, an egg hunt and “pink the ribbon on the egg” all captured on video. As another Pink Dozen blogger put it, breast cancer “needs a swift kick in the Huevos!” Since eggs were the one food that didn’t send shivers up and down my spine during chemotherapy, I thought it was fitting I was chosen to be one of the Pink Dozen. In addition, Claire Robinson, Food Network chef and host of the 5 Ingredient Fix, also teamed up with Eggland’s to share the news about the Pink Ribbon eggs.

Just as Komen supports great researchers, Komen also embraces great financial supporters like Eggland’s, and in turn, the Pink dozen embraced what some nutritionists call the perfect food. Sounds like a winning recipe for everyone, especially anyone who wants to find a cure for breast cancer, and who isn’t on that list?

Husbands Who Leave During Breast Cancer

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:23:00 GMT

©Survivorship Media Network, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

We’ve all heard stories about husbands who leave wives who’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer. I heard one this week, and it’s broken the heart of every member of that family. To think you know someone so well, believing he was one of the finest men you’d ever met… Your family considered him more than a brother-in-law or a son-in-law. His children and the rest of the children in the family looked up to him as a role model. I don’t have the words to finish these sentences, to comfort this family. I am devastated for them, and I am ticked-off! <PREVIEWEND>

There’s always another side to every story. I wish I knew his side: why he left them, why he abandoned his wife and children when they need him most? Regardless of his story, there’s not a justifiable explanation for such betrayal. Today I called a friend who’s been in the same situation and asked, “What advice would you give this woman?” My friend said everyday, she asked God to hold her hand, repeating it like a mantra. “Please, God. Don’t let go of my hand. Then I had to make a conscious decision to find a way to move on with my life.”

I can’t imagine the grief this woman is feeling, but I do know, this is not her fault. Regardless of his story, she had no choice whether she got breast cancer or not. Her husband had a choice. Men, how do you justify this? What do you tell yourself when you’re alone with your thoughts? What will you tell your children or the next woman who comes into your life? What will you tell God? My husband says to tell you he doesn’t want you in the same foxhole with him. He doesn’t even want you on the same battlefield. He said if you’ll cut and run on your wife, you’ll cut and run on anyone.

Women, I know this is easier said than done, but don’t let yourself be the victim. Your grit, your will, your family, your faith in God, will get you through this. You have an innate strength and courage. Own it. Draw on it. Make it your own. Please consider finding someone to help you work through this; to help you get you through your shock and grief, and then your anger, until you’re on your way to creating your new normal.

The mind/body connection is as important as surgery, chemo and radiation. There is good science that indicates major life events like serious illness, death, divorce, a new baby, change of jobs, a move, even a promotion, can be taxing to our immune system. They can pile up, exponentially, and have a negative impact on our health. Perhaps the director of patient services at your cancer center can give you the name of a counselor who specializes in counseling cancer families.

Another thing that might be helpful is Guided Imagery/hypnosis. I’ve used hypnosis and Guided Imagery for over 25 years, and I know, firsthand, that it’s one of the best tools we have to deal with trauma and problems of any kind. Again, consider asking the director of patient services. In every way, you must make your healing a top priority.

You’ve heard this before, but drink tons of water each day and remember to eat a good diet. The simple act of walking in your neighborhood can fire up the right endorphins which can help counteract depression. All of these things will help flush the chemo from your system and make you stronger and better able to deal with this. ABOVE ALL, do not think you did anything to deserve this, because you didn’t! I don’t care what the back-story is. He had a choice. You didn’t.

If a serious illness teaches us nothing else, it should be that family is everything and with God, everything is possible. The celebrities of the month, and the media that splashes their stories so we see them on television, at the grocery checkout stand and on our computers, are sending us the wrong messages. Too many of us are listening and patterning our lives after these tinseltown train wrecks.

Marriages and families are not disposable. They are the very core that sustains us through every crisis and celebrates our every victory. We, as a country, have lost our moral perspective, and I pray each one of us stops to say, “Please, God. Don’t let go of my hand. Show me the way.”

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Cancer Cures Too Good to Be True

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:25:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

When you or a loved one are diagnosed with late Stage IV cancer, a mixture of panic, fear and grief ensues. Many of us aren’t ready for death, and we reach out to anyone who throws us a lifeline. In 1986, my late husband was diagnosed with late Stage IV lung cancer. His initial treatment was a lungectomy as well as the removal of 21 lymph nodes from the mediastinum, 19 of which were grossly enlarged and positive for cancer.

While he was still in intensive care, our friend, David, and I were at the University of Texas Health Science Center’s library, researching state of the art lung cancer treatment. It wasn’t long before David and I paused in our separate searches and looked at one another knowingly. We then began to cry because at the time, there were no good answers. No cures except for apricot pit therapies in Mexico. <PREVIEWEND>

In 1980, actor Steve McQueen had gone to Mexico in search of a miraculous cure for his lung cancer. In a seedy Mexican clinic, McQueen received an alternative and controversial apricot pit therapy. McQueen received the treatment from an American dentist who developed it and who claimed it had cured his own pancreatic cancer; the same doctor who’d had his medical license suspended in Texas, and whom the American Cancer Society had also blacklisted.

Cancer organizations were horrified, warning that McQueen’s therapy was a hoax, administered by a “quack.” The world was shocked but, at the same time, intrigued. A Mexican doctor in the same clinic claimed 85 to 90 percent of his patients had improved on the same therapy of apricot pits, coffee enemas, and a preparation made from sheep and cattle fetuses. While Steve McQueen died in Mexico, the day after surgery to remove his tumors, his search for a cure underscored our desperate interest in alternative treatments. Who knows? Perhaps those sheep and cattle fetus preparations might now be referred to as stem cells. While the use of apricot pit therapies has continued, the FDA has not approved it as a treatment for cancer in the US, but it’s still used as a cancer treatment in Mexico.

While David, and I nixed the apricot pits, we did fly to Houston to meet with a doctor who said, “For $50,000, I can cure your husband.” His sprawling, modern building was void of employees and patients, a questionable red flag even for desperate people like us, plus he was too "slick" for my taste. Something about him made me want to flee the building. The same doctor, however, is still delivering remissions and miracle cures. I hope he’s refined his new patient pitch, but most of all, I pray he’s really delivering on his claims.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, but desperate people may grasp at empty straws. I know. I’ve been there with my late husband. There are, however, simple lifestyle changes that may have a big impact on breast cancer survival. According to a 2005, Harvard study, 92% of women who exercised 3.5 hours a week were alive 10 years after their breast cancer diagnosis, compared to 86% of women who exercised less than one hour a week. The 2007, WHEL Study (Women’s Healthy Eating and Living Study) showed a 50% reduction in mortality for breast cancer patients who exercised an average of 30 minutes a day and ate at least five servings of fruits and vegetables a day. In addition, other studies have shown patients with positive attitudes, and who are proactive, fare better than those with negative outlooks who lose the will to fight.

Like my friend, Susan Pollack, who lived with Stage IV breast cancer for 14 years, many people respond well to conventional treatments and are said to be “living with cancer” as opposed to “dying from cancer.” I also believe some alternative treatments have been shown to be effective in some patients. I also believe in miracles and the power of prayer and hope.

If you’re considering cancer treatments, weigh your decisions carefully and, by all means, get a second or third opinion. Oncologists have heard it all, and the vast majority are well-informed and are recommending what’s in your long-term best interest. Listen to them; listen to your little voice and think twice about doctors and websites that promise miracle cures.

Wellness Centers Treat More Than Cancer

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:26:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

I didn’t think there could be anything more terrifying than hearing the words, “You have cancer,” but I was wrong. Two weeks ago I was the target of a sinister, high speed chase down a dark, deserted, dead end country road. For almost 10 miles of twisty road, I kept thinking, “This isn’t how I want to die.” I like to think of myself as a tough woman, able to handle most anything. Since then, however, reliving this terrifying night has consumed most every minute of my waking and sleeping life.

I’ve replayed every foot of this nightmare, unable to concentrate on anything else. I’ve gone through every phase of fear, terror and anger a person can experience. After 10 days of drowning in terror, I realized I needed professional help to reclaim my life and so I turned to Inspiritas. <PREVIEWEND>

Inspiritas is a wellness spa located on the ground floor of the START cancer center in San Antonio. In the midst of “pill hill,” Inspiritas is a refuge and a slice of calm that’s not just for cancer patients and their caregivers. Doctors and medical professionals, as well as people without cancer, come for facials, manipulative therapies such as pressure point massage and reflexology, as well as nutrition counseling, Reiki, mind/body interventions and acupuncture: treatment modalities that have been shown to reduce side effects of conventional cancer treatment and provide a host of benefits to patients.

The brainchild of START oncologist, Dr. Amy Lang, the aesthetics of Inspiritas rivals some of the most luxurious spas in the country. From the moment I entered this beautiful wellness spa, I was surrounded by water that cascaded down clear glass walls; other walls were curved and painted an ethereal blue or lined with iridescent glass tiles. Pots of blooming orchids and soothing lighting led to a beautiful private bath with a luxurious robe and thick towels. There are rooms for different types of massage, yoga and Guided Imagery. Another elegant room, that looks like it was torn from the pages of an interior design magazine, invites you to relax with a book from the Inspiritas library, drink soothing tea, eat fresh fruit and breathe in a general sense of well-being. It is not just a haven from cancer and other serious illnesses, but a place for everyone interested in integrative health practices to relax, be pampered and recharge batteries drained by the stress of everyday life.

Many of you know I’ve practiced self-hypnosis for over 20 years and am skilled at getting my conscious mind to relax and allow my unconscious mind to accept helpful input, but fleeing from that terrifying night called for more help than I could muster on my own. Inspiritas’s Ginger Kemmy, an oncology nurse certified in energy therapy and Guided Imagery, listened as I recounted what happened, then suggested we do a session to help me process my experience and stop me from fixating on it.

I kicked off my shoes, reclined on the sofa and closed my eyes. With her experienced guidance, I used the same techniques I’ve used over and over to cope with everything from the death of my late husband, to coping with the scary uncertainties of breast cancer. Ginger’s voice was warm and nurturing, but her words were empowering. She helped me create a mental icon, a shield to stop my recurring thoughts and reassure myself that I was safe, plus she gave me powerful emotional tools I can use in other situations. From the moment I left her safe cocoon, I was in a different frame of mind and had moved on toward a healing path. My session with Ginger was a reminder of how much hypnosis and Guided Imagery have helped me through every phase of breast cancer.

Afterwards, Kim Gilyard, a nurse and skilled massage therapist and esthetician, gave me a pressure point massage. I will be seeing lots of Kim. She is a miracle worker, especially for people like me who are position sensitive. I'd rather not lay on my stomach and take the chance my implant will pop out from under my pectoral muscle, again, so I must lay on my back during a massage. Words cannot express the positive difference these highly trained women helped me achieve in one afternoon. Whether you’re a cancer patient, caregiver, survivor, Superwoman or James Bond, do yourself a favor and make an appointment for one of the many services of Inspiritas, or of a wellness spa in your area.

Kudos to Dr. Lang and the other oncologists and hospitals that are thinking outside the traditional cancer treatment box and finding ways to bring substantive alternative therapies to their communities. Wellness spas like Inspiritas are more than the services they offer. They are tangible gifts of support, encouragement, inspiration and hope. Cancer wellness is routed in more than surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. Wellness also encompasses diet and exercise, along with inner strength and the powerful healing mechanisms of the mind/body connection. To that, add faith. Hebrews 11:1. “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Faith is the healing power of God.

Eggs and Nutrition During Breast Cancer

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:27:00 GMT

Simply Recipes

How many of your kids were finicky eaters? I doubt if their acceptable range of foods were as narrow as mine when I was a kid. My limited diet was the cause of many loud, continuous arguments between my parents. At one end of the spectrum was my father, the dinner Nazi, who was fond of forcing me to sit at the table, usually until 10pm, while I finished what by then was cold, grayish-looking liver. At the other end of the spectrum my mother was the enabler, giving in to my limited menu of Campbell’s bean soup and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

In an attempt to appease my father, mother started adding food coloring to scrambled eggs, hoping I would eat them. While I was not a “green eggs and ham” kind of kid, I would eat eggs if they were sky blue. This strategy worked well until mother’s color chart went awry, and my eggs wound up a sort of battleship gray. At that point, they looked like the cold liver I’d been forced to eat the night before, and the gig was up. <PREVIEWEND>

Now I love eggs, and from the host of emails I got in response to “What to Eat During Chemo,” so do you. So this week, I’m borrowing an idea from my friend, Marie, at Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer, and giving you a versatile recipe you can dress down for chemo, or dress up for a Mexican Fiesta.

SPINACH FRITTATA

INGREDIENTS
1lb spinach leaves cleaned, chopped
1Tblsp olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
9 large Eggland’s Best Eggs
2 Tbsp almond milk (or non fat milk)
2 Tbsp chopped sun-dried tomatoes
Salt & fresh cracked pepper to taste
3 oz goat cheese (if you eat dairy)

Preheat oven to 400°F.
1. Cook spinach in ¼ cup water in covered saucepan until just wilted. Drain & set aside.
2. Whisk together Eggland’s Best Eggs, almond milk. Add sun-dried tomatoes, salt & pepper. Set aside.
3. Sauté onions in olive oil in a cast iron skillet or Le Creuset (some nonstick surfaces gives off toxic fumes), until translucent, about 4-5 minutes on medium heat. Add spinach.
4. Spread spinach mixture evenly on bottom of skillet. Pour egg mixture over spinach. Lift spinach mixture along sides of the skillet to let eggs mixture run underneath.
5. When the mixture is about half set (if using goat cheese, sprinkle over top), put skillet in oven. Bake for 13-15 minutes, until frittata is puffy and golden. Remove from oven with oven mitts and let cool for several minutes.
6. Cut into pie-shaped wedges. Serves 4-6.

Depending on your dietary dos and don’ts, get creative. Serve with salsa, or add prosciutto, zucchini, asparagus, parmesan, fresh basil, or like my mother, blue food coloring. Bon Appétit!

Plastic Surgery and Breast Cancer

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:29:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

I know a little something about plastic surgery and breast cancer. After 10 breast cancer surgeries, I’ve become well-versed in lumpectomies, mastectomies, DIEP Flap reconstruction, tissue expanders, silicone gel implants, nipple reconstruction, chemo ports, plus surgery to repair a wandering implant that dropped midway between where it should have been and my navel. I’ve also learned cosmetic surgery is not as important as treating your cancer. While looking good is part of the healing process, it’s more important to kill those cancer cells first than it is to have a great pair of tits. <PREVIEWEND>

While each surgical procedure is fraught with it’s own down sides and recovery time, each of those surgeries, plus anesthesia, takes a toll on your immune system. Some surgeries are more difficult than others, but even if you’re doing better than you thought you would, don’t push yourself. Be conservative and follow your surgeon’s instructions. Just because you’re sure you can lean down and pick up Fido… If it’s not on the surgeon’s list of things you can do…. Don’t do it!

Breast cancer surgery is not my first encounter with plastic surgery. Fifteen years ago I met a well-known soap opera star through a mutual friend. I knew she’d had a facelift, and the results were fabulous! I don’t mean it was one of those facelifts where you say, “She’s had work done, but ‘it’ looks really good.” This was in another category entirely. Other than looking like she’d been on a relaxing vacation, maybe to a spa, and come back ultra refreshed, you couldn’t tell she’d had anything done, except she looked better than ever. No tightness anywhere, plus it wasn’t one of those facelifts that tried to make her look like she did 10 years ago. I felt like the woman at the table next to Meg Ryan’s character in When Harry Met Sally, who tells the waiter, “I’ll have some of what she’s having.” I promptly got the name of the soap star’s surgeon and beat a path to his la-de-da Beverly Hills door.

Just his outer office was worth the price of a consultation. It was lined with everything from young women with goldfish lips to old women in wheelchairs, wearing their granddaughter’s face and short shorts. Some were there hoping the super star surgeon could fix bad surgical procedures done by other plastic surgeons. There were women who’s eyelids didn’t close, or who now looked Chinese, and some looked like squirrels who’d stuffed one too many nuts into both sides of their cheeks.

As I look back on that day in the surgeon’s office in Beverly Hills, I realize I didn’t need anything done to my face—then. Even the surgeon discouraged me from having anything done, so I didn’t. Now, 15 years later, I have jowls that hang, a droopy forehead and creases around my lips, but I’ve had enough plastic surgery, on my breasts, to last a lifetime. My face will just have to stay the way it is.

The other day I saw an old friend who said, “It’s good to see you.” Without missing a beat, I replied, “It’s good to be seen.” I’m not sure she got my drift, but 10 breast cancer surgeries have rearranged my priorities. I realize perfect breasts, or the face I once had, are not as important as being healthy. Unfortunately, part of aging is looking in the mirror and realizing you’re not that foxy chick you once were and coming to terms with the woman staring back at you. Part of being a breast cancer survivor is realizing there are things more important, things like being alive and healthy and here to enjoy life. We need to see ourselves with different eyes and value the woman we've become. We can choose to judge ourselves and others by our physical attributes, or we can appreciate the depth, wisdom and character we've accumulated that we didn't have when we were younger.

If I’m to be honest, however, this doesn’t mean I don’t wish for my younger face. Maybe I’ll just become one of those women who draws their lip line well outside their aging, shrunken lips in an attempt to make them appear younger and fuller and more voluptuous again. What do you think? Am I ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille?

What to Eat During Chemo

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:30:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Just the thought of chemotherapy sends shivers down the spines of most of us. Before I started chemo, I considered super gluing my lips shut in an all-out attempt to prevent the infamous side effect, nausea. My reasoning was nothing “in,” nothing “out.” Fortunately my chemo nurse gave me some sound advice about what to eat the morning of chemotherapy: Eat light. An egg, a piece of dry toast and a little juice. It’s better to have a little something in your stomach than nothing, but don’t overeat, and don’t eat anything greasy or fried. During chemo you may be offered juice, water or peanut butter crackers. If you begin to feel nauseated, tell your nurses. Some saltine crackers or ginger ale may help. I followed my nurse’s instructions to the letter. That’s not to say everything was always peachy keen with my stomach, but I never threw up. <PREVIEWEND>

When I got home from each chemo, I ate a bowl of low salt chicken or beef broth, whole wheat crackers and drank copious amounts of water. I also began taking anti-nausea drugs my oncologist prescribed. For the first few days, I continued to eat light and drink plenty of water to flush the chemo out of my body. Ginger ale or ginger tea helped if I was nauseated. Eggs became my favorite food during chemo. Scrambled eggs, omelets, hard-boiled eggs—they gave me the protein I needed, plus they were more filling than broth and crackers.

Since eggs played such a prominent role in getting me through breast cancer, I think it’s fitting that Eggland’s Best eggs has chosen me and my blog as one of their “Pink Dozen” Ambassadors during Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I am honored to be part of their campaign because Eggland’s Best eggs are produced by hens fed an all-natural, all-vegetarian diet, and this month, Eggland’s Best is donating $50,000 to Susan G Komen. Each carton, and every egg, is stamped with “EB” and Komen’s pink running ribbon logo. While I want you to know this post is sponsored by Eggland’s Best, and I have received monetary compensation for my participation, have no doubts that my review and my opinions are my own. When are they not?

Don’t go overboard with food before, during or after chemo, even if you think you can handle it, but again, a little something in your stomach is good. After chemo, add more foods to your diet as you can tolerate, but stay away from things like cheese enchiladas and chicken fried steak. Fruit smoothies—fresh or frozen blueberries, peaches and low-fat yogurt in a blender—are great ways of introducing liquids and nutrition. If you’re losing weight, don’t buy low-fat yogurt. If you’re not nauseated, but just not hungry, eat anyway. Your body needs nutritious foods to fight your cancer. You don’t want to gain a lot of weight during treatment, but you also need to take care you don’t lose weight.

Ask your oncologist to recommend a dietician who specializes in cancer and make an appointment early in your treatment. This service was provided free of charge at my cancer care center, and the dietician helped me tremendously, plus I made a friend. Registered dietician Barbra Swanson, ND, RD, LD, and Doctor of Naturopathy, not only helped me with my diet, but she wrote the nutrition section of The Breast Cancer Sisterhood, my book for newly diagnosed patients. You can also view her smart nutrition videos on the BreastCancerSisterhood.com’s website.

I’m one of those people who prefers to dot all the “i’s” and cross all the “t’s.” However, I’m equally skilled at charging a bear, armed with nothing but my grit. Chemotherapy calls for a combination of both: Have an eating plan and follow it, but if it goes astray… Get up and keep charging. Keep fighting.

10 Tips For Breast Husbands & Caregivers

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:31:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

When it comes to cancer, most of the attention is focused on the patient or survivor, but have you ever thought how hard it is to be the caregiver? In many respects it’s as difficult as being the patient. I know what it’s like to be a caregiver. When I was 36, my late husband was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. Being a caregiver is a tough job. You don’t need a resume to get hired, and you are hired for as long as you are needed. You may not feel adequate or appreciated, but caregivers are the unsung heroes of cancer survivors and their families. While this message is aimed at all caregivers—life partners, significant others, friends and family—much of what I’m about to say is aimed at men. Caregiving doesn’t come naturally to most men, but it is a skill that can be learned, so listen up while I give you “Caregiving 101.” <PREVIEWEND>

“Heroism, at its essence, is when a man does that which is not fun, pleasant, safe, or fraught with
potential rewards. It is man doing what is necessary, under the existing circumstances, and doing it for no other reason than because it is the right thing to do and without regard for the consequences to himself.”
James Coffee

• My husband, James, would be the first to say fear and anger are heavy burdens, but deal with it. “It’s time to cowboy up,” he would tell you. “This train is taking off regardless of whether you are scared and ticked-off, so you need to get through this the best way possible.”

• Just be there: Take her to every doctor’s appointment, lab, surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. Ask her doctors the hard questions and remember them, because she may be too scared, scattered and drugged to remember them.

• Buy a notebook and write down both of your questions. Take the notebook with you to each doctor’s appointment. Keep asking questions until you understand the answers. Ask when the lab results, biopsy, etc. results will be back, and don’t be afraid to call the doctor if you haven’t heard anything.

• You don’t need all the answers. Just hold her hand; hold her, and listen to what she says. Acknowledge her fears, and your own, but don’t feed them. Sometimes just saying “I hear you,” is enough. When my fears got the best of me during treatment—usually the umptieth time I expressed the same doom and gloom outcome—James would say, “Stop it! You don’t know that,” or “We have no evidence of that.” Did I mention “cheerleader” as another requirement of being a caregiver?

• Make sure she eats low-fat nutritious meals, nothing fried, fatty or greasy. Many grocery stores have nutritious, prepared takeout salads, fresh fruits and vegetables, chicken and fish. It may be more expensive, but her body needs these nutritious foods to help battle the cancer and the effects of surgery, anesthesia, chemotherapy and radiation.

• Ask friends and family for help with meals, childcare and running errands. They want to help you; they just need you to tell them how.

• Cancer is a disease that affects the whole family. It’s not unusual for each member to feel angry, isolated and totally overwhelmed by the diagnosis. Talk to each other and seek counseling for you, your wife and children.

• It may be a good idea to visit with your children's teachers. If they are aware of your wife’s breast cancer, they can help with any related behavioral and learning problems before they get out of hand.

• She will be low on energy, the kind that lays you flat, unable to get out of bed. Don’t be alarmed if she can’t get out of the grocery store without help. Encourage her to exercise. It promotes lymphatic drainage, helps rid our body of unwanted toxins and fluids, relieves depression and reduces stress.

• Remember, this is not about you. It is about getting your wife and family through this crisis with love, support and optimism. I know you have a full-time job, and being a caregiver is a lot to ask, but she will not have the energy to do the usual things for herself. You are the hero, and she is fighting for her life. Help her. Rescue her with all the love and consideration you would want if you were in her place.

I’ve been in your shoes. I wish you, and your family, health and all good things you summon into your life. May God wrap you in His protective light and love.

Things Worse Than Death

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:32:00 GMT

©Dior. All rights reserved.

Last week my friend, Norma Field, died. In many ways, she was the mother I always wanted. Even though I’ve made it a point not to view the deceased or attend visitations, moments before Norma’s funeral began, I was compelled to see her one last time. As I looked at her, I thought of something I’ve heard most of my life: Our bodies are just a shell. It is our soul that identifies who we are, not the body that houses it. While she would have laughed at the girlish, bubblegum pink lipstick they gave her, she looked more beautiful than I’d ever seen her. Perhaps that was because she looked at peace, but I was so aware that Norma was no longer there. <PREVIEWEND>

Gone were the oxygen tube and the heavy oxygen canister that kept her tethered to each breath. Gone was the emphysema and the cancer, the radiation treatments and the pneumonia that finally claimed her. I prefer to think the pneumonia rescued her and sent her on her way to be with her husband, Bill, who’d already gone before her.

Norma was always more interested in “you” than you were interested in yourself. I was always saying, “I’m fine, Norma. I want to hear about you,” and she would shoot right back, “Oh, honey…” She loved to visit and often talked faster than you’d think an 87-year-old woman on oxygen could. “I’m the same ornery person I was the last time we talked.” Not only did she want to hear what was going on in your life, she remembered every little thing you’d ever told her, and long after, would ask follow up questions that made you realize just how sharp she was. Because of my chemo-addled brain, I always told her I was the stereotypical 80-something-year-old who didn’t remember squat, while she was the younger of the two of us.

Norma savored her friends and delighted in life. She was wise and funny and always made me laugh. Because James and I live in the middle of nowhere, it takes me 45 minutes, one way, to get to the gym, and I usually go three times a week. That’s 4 1/2 hours every week I spend on the road, getting back and forth to the gym, and every week, I spent a lot of that time on the phone with Norma. Over the years, I’ve learned a lot from Norma. Since our early days at church, she was more than a mother figure to me. We were girlfriends, sharing stories, keeping one another’s confidences and boosting one another’s spirits in times of despair. I could tell her anything and did.

As I looked at Norma, yesterday, it hit me like never before: While our physical body dies, we are truly what resides inside us. Norma’s sparkle, her wit and her stories were now stored inside of me and everyone who loves her. We are one another’s archivists, storing and passing along each other’s legacies. Have you ever thought about what part of you others will carry with them after you’re gone? Will you be remembered as the person who collects things; who owns the most bling? Will you be remembered as the person who makes life all about you, who can’t bring yourself to share in the success of others? I know a couple of women like this, and the blind eye they turn toward others is sadly more telling about them.

There are things worse than death like suffering, abuse, selfishness, silence, not being loved and not knowing God. I hope I can take a page from Norma’s book of life and hold the people around me as dear as I hold myself. And about Norma’s bubblegum pink lipstick, I can hear her now: “Oh honey… You know that color makes me look about 14, desperately hoping some boy will ask me to dance.”

Guides for Surviving Breast Cancer

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:33:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

The first day I met my oncologist, he sent me home with a three ring binder full of information and a stack of pamphlets from the drug companies. Some pamphlets were from competing companies, telling me why their chemotherapy drug was better than their competitor’s. They actually wanted me to make this important decision as though it were as easy as choosing one brand of detergent over another. I was horrified! In addition, nothing in that giant stack of stuff gave me any helpful information about what I was facing or the best/safest way to get through the next year. As a result, like most cancer patients, I fell into a lot of potentially life-threatening holes because no one told me what they were or how to avoid them.

I don’t want that to happen to you, or anyone you love, so I have written two books to help newly diagnosed cancer patients and their caregivers get through this time in their lives: The Breast Cancer Sisterhood, A Guide to Practical Information & Answers to Your Most Intimate Questions and Husbands & Heroes, A Guide to Help You & Thank You for all You Do. I wrote them while going through treatment, while every moment was still nauseatingly fresh in my chemo addled brain. <PREVIEWEND>

The real reason I wrote these books is because of my friend, Darlene. We were diagnosed the same day and began chemo the same day, but only one of us is still here to tell the tale. Darlene died from cutting her cuticles. You heard me! Her breast cancer prognosis was excellent, but she died from cutting her cuticles, however no one told her not to cut them. No one told me either.

As we went through chemo, Darlene and I would talk on the phone. She told me about a place on her finger that was red and swollen. Each time we spoke, it had gotten larger and larger, but she didn’t want to bother her doctor because he was busy. “Yes,” I told her, “busy taking care of patients like you. Call him,” but she never did. Because of chemo, her immune system was compromised, and Darlene died of a massive staph infection antibiotics couldn’t stop. Her death hit me hard. That’s when I began writing... all the things that even the best of doctors, on any given day, may not tell you. Every one of the topics in The Breast Cancer Sisterhood you absolutely must know. Here are just a few: What to do before, during and after chemo and radiation; critical precautions about hair, skin, nails, teeth, eyes and mouth, dangers of constipation and diarrhea, sex and/or lack of, reconstruction, important nutrition info written by a cancer nutritionist and letters written especially for this book including one by Elizabeth Edwards.

Because you are scared and your thinking is scattered, you won’t remember things like you normally do, so I’ve deliberately kept The Breast Cancer Sisterhood book short. It’s 82 pages. Short, concise and to the point with as many potentially life-saving tips as I can give you. It is the book I wish someone had given to me when I was diagnosed.

If you have a husband or caregiver, or know someone who’s going through treatment, my book, Husbands & Heroes, is even shorter and more to the point. Guys, this is not about you, but you need to pony up because your family needs you. I will take you by the hand and show you how to be a caregiver. You don’t have to have all the answers, just hold her hand, listen to her concerns, take her to all of her appointments and be there for her.

The Breast Cancer Sisterhood is a club that does not discriminate against age, race or gender. We are the sisters you never wanted; the club you feared joining. The cost of membership can be frightening and life-threatening, but it can also be one of the most rewarding experiences of your life. I wish I could hug each one of you, but I will tell you to keep singing, keep laughing. Pull from each moment the things you want to remember. Savor them. Cherish them. Live your life with joy!

The Breast Cancer Sisterhood and Husbands & Heroes are for sale on Amazon.com and from the RETAIL THERAPY link on BreastCancerSisterhood.com.

Bridges We Have Crossed

Fri, 30 Sep 2011 00:15:00 GMT

“I am where I am because of the bridges I have crossed.”
Oprah Winfrey

When I was a little girl, my mother wouldn’t let me go barefoot or play outside, and most of my life, I was told my asthma was so bad I couldn’t even take Phys Ed. My grade school report cards reflect a problem of some sort because they show I was absent far more days than I was present. Of course now I realize mother was obsessively overprotective. In all fairness to her, however, an asthma attack left me gasping like a giant dying dog. Had James been my parent, he would have said, “You’ve got to fight your way through that stuff, big boy,” and he’s right. If we give in to our weaknesses, we will never push beyond our boundaries and become the person we know we’re capable of being. Whether it was instinct, or in defiance of the way I was raised, I’ve spent most of my adult life in pursuit of that person. The strong one, not the one who went through childhood wrapped in swaddling clothes, gloves, a heavy muffler and one too many sweaters.

When I was in my 20s, I became one of the guys, learned to shoot everything from pistols to M1 Abrams tanks, raced cars, drank bad tequila that doubled as nail polish remover, hacked my way through three canopy jungles, scuba dived and took nearly every dare that came my way. Not related to taking a dare, but I’m the only person you know who’s been chased out of a store and down the block, by knife-wielding proprietors in two different countries. No… I didn’t steal anything. I just took pictures, and from what I gathered, one of my photos stole the soul of a pressed duck in a Chinese grocery store. The other photo captured my friend, Mary, as she ate a grape she didn’t pay for in a small Parisian shop. Neither photo warranted running for my life. <PREVIEWEND>

Ask my friend, Rob, about the night I hired a stranger with a pickup truck to take me eight miles, round trip, so I could photograph a 17th century Mexican church before it got dark. The priest was allegedly a serial killer who buried women under the floor of the church sanctuary. I mean really... How could I pass that up?

As a result of being jostled about for 12 hours in an old gold Chrysler as it zigged and zagged and hugged its way down a sometimes less than one lane mountainous dirt road, Rob’s back doubled up like a pretzel. He hobbled to the room, unable to go any further. Actually, he didn’t want me to go any further either. You might also ask Rob how angry he was when, at 11:30pm, I finally returned to the tiny Mexican village with tales of the truck breaking down and Indians on horseback who’d come down from the mountains to stare at me while my driver fixed the truck. Yikes! Rob was mad!! Worried. Frantic… Did I say mad?

While I’m not stupid, I can get caught up in the moment and fail to see when I’ve crossed the line between fun and fear. Adventurous and adverse. Like the time the Commandante of the Mexican Federal Judicial Police and his “assistants” stalked me for two days in Mexico, forcing me to take refuge in a Catholic church. He proved his point: I was asking too many questions, poking my nose into areas better left alone. Since James was against my going to Mexico to write a story about drug lords, I failed to mention the stalking thing when I called him that night from my hotel. Like Rob, James would have been mad, worried, frantic… Did I say mad? If that experience wasn’t bad enough, after I returned to the U.S., a Mexican man knocked on my door. While I can’t tell you what he said, I got that message... mainly because there wasn’t any story, or adrenaline fix, worth bringing that into my home.

I guess this is my way of saying, I’m lucky and grateful to have crossed these, and other bridges. They’ve made me a different person from the little girl who lay in bed with Vicks Vapo Rub and a hot towel on her chest; who had to imagine what it was like to build a snow fort and hole up with her friends until dinner time.

In case you’re wondering, I had no problem determining whether breast cancer fit into the fun or fear category. For the first few weeks, I was terrified! But like James says, I "fought my way through that stuff” on a bridge I never wanted to cross. All of these experiences have made me realize, I can do anything! While I may not want to, I can cross any bridge and deal with what’s on the other side.

What bridges have you crossed? Have you thought about the ways they’ve made you ready for the bridges yet to come?

Diagnosed by My Little Voice

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:36:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Other than Minnie Mouse, I was the last one anybody expected to get breast cancer. I was the woman who did everything right: worked out at the gym five to six days a week, rarely ate fast foods, mostly chicken and vegetables, was a perfect size eight, drank in moderation, got my yearly mammograms, and more often than not, did my monthly self breast exams in the shower. It was during one of those monthly, soapy tours that I found the lump: Christmas Eve morning, 2003. With 14 people coming for Christmas Eve dinner, I tabled it in the back of my mind until the next day when I performed a slower, more detailed inspection. Both breasts were dense and usually contained several fibro cystic lumps, but my little voice said this one was different. <PREVIEWEND>

My 2004 New Year began with a mammogram. The doctors said everything was fine. Just one of my usual cysts that came and went. Nothing to worry about… but I did, at every opportunity. I looked for it in the shower, laying down, bending over, at the computer, through the silk robe I sometimes wore while putting on my makeup. The maddening thing about all of my searches was, more often than not, they turned into a game of hide and seek. Yep! I feel it! Oops… Now where did it go? While my pursuits couldn’t be classified as a hobby, I spent much of the next six months obsessed with trying to find “it.” All the while, my little voice told me all was not well with my breast.

In July 2004, I scheduled another mammogram. When my doctor called and said nothing’s changed, it’s fibro cystic, I told him I didn’t care what the mammograms said. I wanted it out. Three days later, my husband and my wife-in-law (James’s former wife) Joy, and I all trooped to the hospital. Joy and I even joked with the woman at the admitting desk about the surgeries from Hell you hear about on the news where the wrong leg is amputated. We laughed as I marked an “X” on my breast with a ballpoint pin to make sure the correct breast was biopsied.

The next thing I remember, James, Joy and my doctor were standing beside my bed. “It’s breast cancer,” my doctor said. I was still semi-stupefied from the anesthesia, and James and Joy stood expressionless, frozen in time like familiar figures in a wax museum. My doctor had a concerned expression as he gave me the news. “I told her it was fibro cystic,” he’d told his assistants in the operating room. Then he cut out the cyst, and there “it” was… hiding underneath. I’ve never asked Joy, but I now wonder whether her little voice told her she needed to be there for James: to help him pull himself together before they told me.

Fast-forward to September 2008, a checkup with my oncologist. “Go live your life,” he said. “I think you’re going to do great,” to which I responded, “Do you think I need one of those tests to see if I carry the breast cancer gene?” Since I had no family history of breast or ovarian cancer, his answer was no. And so I went home, and like a dog with a bone, I couldn’t leg it go. My little voice told me I needed a BRAC Analysis test, a simple blood test to determine if I carried a gene mutation that would increase my risk of developing breast cancer in the other breast.

The day I went for the test results, I asked James to come with me, because I knew the results before they told me. Sure enough. I was BRCA2 positive, which meant my odds of getting breast cancer in the other breast were something like 84%. Unlike my diagnosis of breast cancer, this news did not scare either one of us. James and I looked at each other and in unison said, “This is a no-brainer!” And so, I had the other breast removed, and thank you, God, we were able to beat breast cancer to the punch.

I believe we all have an inner voice. Some of us are more in tune with it than others, but whether you call it intuition, gut instinct, or the voice of God, it’s there if you know how to be still and listen. My voice is there as surely as I know the sun rises and sets each day. Are you in tune with your little voice? How much time do you spend in silence, each day? No radio, no TV, no iPod tethered to your ears. How do you expect to hear it if you’re not listening?

“Be still and know that I am God.”

What Are You Looking For?

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:37:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

I’ve always been inexplicably drawn to old churches in the small, hard to reach villages of Mexico. There’s something about the simplicity of these churches that projects a profound poignancy I’ve experienced nowhere else. Absent are the shiny brass offering plates, the leather songbooks full of hope, and in their place stands people resigned to life’s hardships, yet armed with a quiet strength to survive. I used to enter these churches with wonderment and awe, wanting to hear the voice of God or to find some tangible sign God had left for me.

I loved to sit in the confessionals where musty secrets and clandestine sins still hung in the air like death and broken dreams. Countless times I’ve sat on well-worn wooden seats, my fingers rubbing the same edges where centuries of hands before me had asked for atonement and waited for forgiveness. But after a while, I always got up and left. The blatant signs I was looking for weren’t there, plus I didn’t know what to pray or how to ask for them. <PREVIEWEND>

Sometimes I used to watch televangelists like Jim and Tammy Faye Baker and wonder who’d I’d be if I let them bring God into my life. Would I speak in tongues? Would I wear my hair differently? Would I throw my arms in the air when I talked about God and Jesus, and who was God and Jesus anyway, and why did I need them in my life? Frankly, those people on television scared me. They were alien and foreign from anyone else I knew, and so I retreated further into my Godless stance, putting up walls as though giving my soul to Jesus was like surrendering to the Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I now realize I was missing the point. There’s no one “type” of person who believes in God, plus He has made me a better version of myself. I now know what everyone is looking for, that inner piece or inner meaning that is lacking from our lives. I now believe we’ve been designed like an intricate lock on a special door to which only God holds the key.

I’m sad when I hear people say they don’t think God or religion is relevant to their lives. Trust me, I understand. Until 10 years ago, well before breast cancer, I felt the same way. Like a battery winding down, life inherently robs us of our power and our balance, but it’s not a mystery how to find them. We don’t have to go off by ourselves to India in search of a mystic guru. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, we’ve always had the power. We just have to say, “Hello, God. I don’t know how to pray, but I want to begin a dialog with you. I need your help. I need your strength.” The rest will come if you open your heart; open your mind. Don’t be afraid of what you’ll find if you open yourself up to Him. Nothing is worse than not finding the one key that unlocks your soul. When we close ourselves off to the possibilities of God, we close ourselves off to all of the possibilities of who we can become and who we will be for eternity.

I have no doubt, there is a God, and He hears our prayers. While He may not answer all our prayers like we want Him to, He hears us. I don’t believe He micromanages our lives either, granting answers for some and nothing for others. I have an Internet friend who’s miscarried three times in the last year, and it would be so easy for her to say, “Why has God let this happen?” While this has rocked her world, I know she will find her footing with God. I also know not everyone is a believer, but regardless, I pray you think about God and the role He plays in your life.

In the Bible, the book of James, chapter 4, and verse 8 says: “Draw close to God, and God will draw close to you.” Like me, in the beginning, you may feel awkward and unsure, like sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, naked and exposed. He is more than God, however. He is your Father and your creator. He has seen you at your best and your worst, and He still loves you. Talk to Him, even if you’re not sure how. He wants to hear from you.

Attack of the 50-Foot Women

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:38:00 GMT

Original theatrical poster by Reynold Brown.

A number of people have asked me why I started BreastCancerSisterhood.com. It began in my friend and family physician’s kitchen while I was still taking chemo. I’d already learned, the hard way, there were many things even the best cancer treatment facilities forget to tell their patients, plus there was little to no support for husbands and children. As a result, I wanted to give newly diagnosed breast cancer patients products like cuticle cream, eye drops, soft tooth brushes and skin cream that would enable them to get through chemo without the problems associated with treatment like painfully dry eyes and bleeding gums, or like my friend who died from a staph infection, not breast cancer, because she cut her cuticles during chemo. That evening in Doctor Jim Martin’s kitchen, we named my idea “Brenda’s Baskets.” <PREVIEWEND>

Just the thought of giving a basket of products to all the newly diagnosed women in San Antonio was overwhelming, not to mention prohibitively expensive, so I met with women who chaired successful nonprofits as well as some of the women who’d brought the Komen affiliate to San Antonio. After months of meetings I was told there were already too many nonprofits with auctions, galas, rides and runs, plus I’d be lucky if I netted 10% from such an event. I was told I’d spend all of my time begging for funding, leaving little time to accomplish my mission of empowering women and families with basic, yet often neglected life-saving information.

Discouraged, I decided to raise money and start a media company to produce online, television and print content for newly diagnosed patients, survivors, husbands/caregivers, children and teens and make them available to everyone over the Internet. I know what cancer families need: I’ve been the child of a parent who died of cancer; caregiver to a husband who died of cancer, and now, I am the cancer Survivor. In addition I am a journalist, a photographer, a filmmaker and a business woman. More than anything, however, I felt like God had opened a door with my name on it. This was what I was supposed to do. The Breast Cancer Sisterhood was my mission.

I took my revamped business plan to a man who’d been a Wall Street corporate raider and had made several fortunes buying companies, breaking them apart and selling them off in pieces. After I’d given him my elevator pitch—he had a short attention span—he looked at me like I’d just tracked dog poop into his office and said, “What’s wrong with you people? I’m sick and tired of hearing about breast cancer. I don’t care about breast cancer! I care about prostate cancer. What are you doing about prostate cancer?” I gave him my best game face, swallowed what I really wanted to say and replied, “I have my hands full with breast cancer, but perhaps you’d like to do something about prostate cancer.”

The next man I talked to bellowed, “Breast cancer! There’s nothing sexy about breast cancer! I know 10 other men in this town worth over $100 million each, and they wouldn’t be interested either. We like to go out on the golf course and brag about our investments to our buddies. ‘Hey! Let me tell you about this great new high tech company. I got in on the ground floor.’ None of us want to say, ‘Let me tell you about this breast cancer company I invested in.’ Besides, we already give to Komen.” Unfortunately, these guys were the norm, not the exception.

That’s when the proverbial rubber met the road: I could wait until the stars and moon aligned themselves with the battered American economy, hopefully opening up more players, or I could do the BreastCancerSisterhood.com myself, and so I did.

I’m doing what I feel I’ve been called to do, and I’m doing it in the best way I know how. I hear from many of you, and I know you’re also doing what you’ve been called to do whether that’s loving one another, raising your children, loving God, blogging about breast cancer, looking for the cure, caring for patients or finding your way out of chemo brain.

Maybe I’m in a militant mood, but I think cancer needs to be attacked by the 50 Foot-Women. Fortunately there’s lots of women out there like Nancy Brinker and all the Komen affiliates and groups like the Mamma Jamma Ride in Austin, Texas. And let’s not forget Hollywood’s movers and shakers—Laura Ziskin, Sherry Lansing, Rusty Robertson and Sue Schwartz—who started the awesome StandUp2Cancer to bring the best cutting edge researchers together to find a cure for all types of cancers. September 10th, check out StandUp2Cancer's second celebrity-packed, music telethon on ABC, NBC and CBS. These are truly women who are 50 feet tall!

So if you’ve got a pocket full of money, but you don’t think there’s anything sexy about breast cancer, I’m praying one of these powerful women picks you up, and like King Kong, holds you in the palm of her hand and shakes some of those reluctant dollars out of your pockets. Then tell me breast cancer’s not sexy!! I’m feeling kind of foxy just thinking about it.

My Friend Susan Pollack

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:39:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

This week I called my friend, Susan Pollack, only to learn she died a few days earlier. Her husband was audibly grief-stricken. Stunned, and not wanting to invade this private time, I simply told him I loved her. He said, “I loved her, too. She was everything.”

I am devastated, like everyone is who loved and knew Susan Pollack far better than I did. Susan made it easy for you to forget she was living with metastatic breast cancer, that she’d taken chemo for 14 years, repeatedly responding to new chemos when the old ones stopped working. “As long as my doctor’s not worried, I’m not worried,” she would say. The last time we spoke, she was doing well. What I didn’t tell her husband was that I feel guilty, not knowing she was so close to the end; that I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye, or that for the last two weeks my “little voice” has been telling me to call her, but I didn’t. Not until now. Not until it was too late. <PREVIEWEND>

Susan and I met two years ago when she volunteered for a BreastCancerSisterhood.com makeover at Lancôme’s Upper West Side boutique in New York City. From the moment we began talking, I knew she was an extraordinary woman, and from that day on, Susan Pollack and I were friends. After her makeover, Susan and I began to email, and then call one another every few months. Susan was first diagnosed with breast cancer 25 years ago, and her only goal was to see her daughter, Jane, grownup, and she did that and more.

For 12 years, Susan was cancer free, but when given the news breast cancer had returned, she persevered with grace and lived life with kindness and a smile and never once asked, “Why me?” She played bridge and sometimes volunteered at SHARE, a survivors’ resource in New York City that counsels and supports breast and ovarian cancer survivors. She gave hope and inspiration to all who knew her. Words like that are usually said at funerals, tossed about freely like excess crumbs to a flock of hungry birds, but every syllable was true about Susan Pollack. She personified the qualities that make us pleasing in God’s eyes.

Today, one of Susan’s cousins sent me an email. She wrote:

“…The feelings you’re having happen so often when someone we love dies. I feel them about Susan. I, too, feel heartsick. I spoke to her about a week before she died. She was very weak, but her voice had the old Sue timber—rich and vibrant. She was plucky as always. She never complained, never even thought of complaining. She spent the last two months mentally going over in her mind how thankful she was to all the people who had given to her in her life. When told she would die, very soon, she was worried, but not for herself; she was worried for all the things she hadn’t gotten done, including knowing how the Yankees would do! As my mother said, she had greatness in the way she died. Since she lived her life the same way. She was incredibly generous and giving, loving and warm. She was a lovely, lovely human being.”

The day we filmed her makeover at Lancôme was special for all of us. When Susan saw herself in the mirror and, for the first time in 14 years, gave a nod of recognition to the woman she remembered who had hair, eyelashes, eyebrows and a cancer free sparkle in her eyes, everyone, including the cameramen, welled up with tears. Susan beamed from the inside out. Sandy Linter, the iconic and beautiful makeup artist, used to working with A-list top models, photographers and Hollywood stars, asked Susan to get up, turn around and “walk down the runway.” “You’re beautiful,” Sandy told her, and Susan was. Looking back, we should have had a limousine pick her up and whisk her through traffic, stopping along the way to show her new look to the women at SHARE, and then join them all for lunch at some chi-chi New York eatery.

Sue Pollack was a brave, gracious and precious friend. The ultimate role model for how to be a SURVIVOR. That first day we met, I asked her how she dealt with Stage IV breast cancer for so many years, dealing with lymphedema everyday, infections and hospitalizations. She responded, matter of factly, like it was no big deal. “I chose to live a life.” But it was a big deal. Could I do that? Could you? Are you?

Why didn’t I listen to my little voice? How long would a phone call have taken? It’s not like I wouldn’t have known what to say to her. Susan and I always ended each conversation with “I love you,” but somehow, that doesn’t seem enough now, but I do, you know… I love you, Susan.

To read more about Susan Pollack and “We Are Cancer Survivors, Not Cancer Victims.” To see some of Susan Pollack & Sandy Linter’s makeover videos go to “SURVIVORS” and “SELF-IMAGE” on BreastCancerSisterhood.com' HOME PAGE or visit BreastCancerSisterhood’s YouTube page.

Breast Cancer Fatigue

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:40:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee All rights reserved.

One of the biggest side effects of breast cancer treatment is fatigue. I don’t mean you’re going to be tired. I mean it’s the “I can’t even crawl across the room” kind of fatigue, which makes me wonder, who’s the goose who named it “fatigue?” I would have called it catastrophic exhaustion!

Fatigue is something that gradually develops over the course of chemo and/or radiation and is cumulative, which means the fatigue you experience early in treatment may differ from the catastrophic exhaustion you feel on the last day of treatment. Here’s hoping you’re Wonder Woman, and you can just shake those power cuffs in the air and fly through your day. If you can, please bottle it, sell it, and make a bloomin’ fortune. If not, you may need a little help. <PREVIEWEND>

Believe it or not, exercise helps fight fatigue, plus it’s one of the needed components for a healthy immune system. Yes, there will be days you don’t feel like doing anything and days you want to conserve your energy, but try and do a little something each day. If you don’t exercise at all during treatment, you may find it more difficult to resume normal activities when treatment is over. Exercise promotes lymphatic drainage, thereby helping your body rid itself of unwanted toxins and fluids; it relieves depression, reduces stress and rids the body of excess estrogens. IMPORTANT NOTE: For all of us whose breast cancer was estrogen positive, we need to make exercise a permanent part of our daily routine.

During treatment you may not be able to keep your normal schedule, so don’t push it. Listen to your body. There are days you may not feel like getting out of bed, and that’s okay. Sometimes it may help to conserve your energy if you’re planning to attend something important, or you might want to drop in only for a little while. Then there are other times, it won’t matter how much you’ve rested and stayed in bed, you’ll still feel like you’ve been hit by a gravel truck, and that’s normal, too.

One of those zero-energy occasions for me was Monica’s wedding, the wonderful friend who runs my husband’s office. James was walking her down the aisle, and I’d been looking forward to her wedding for months. When the big day arrived, I waited until the last possible minute to get ready, thinking I would conserve my energy all day, but I never even made it to the shower.

Usually my body didn’t give me any advance warning it was about to run out of energy. One of the few days I ventured to the grocery store during chemo, I was halfway down the first aisle when my energy ran out. I don’t mean I was just tired. My energy well was dryer than the Sahara Desert, and I was worried how I was going to get out of the store without crawling on my hands and knees (never mind paying for my things at the checkout counter) make it to the car and drive home. If this happens to you, don’t panic. Stay focused, ask for help if you need it, and know you will be fine. This, too, shall pass.

Sometimes I was so tired and out of energy, I was afraid to go to sleep for fear I wouldn’t wake-up. Seriously. If you’d told me I was about to take my last breath, I would have nodded in agreement. Each time, I’d ask James to lie down beside me and hold my hand, because I didn’t want to “go” alone. Each time, he reminded me this had happened before, and just like the other times, I was going to be fine, and he was right.

On another note, when I was 10, every afternoon the lady who lived across the street used to pay me to bring her bottles of Pepsi from the store. Her idea of exercise was pushing a rolling pin across her thighs while watching The Price is Right. I can only imagine how she’d exercise if she had breast cancer fatigue.

Dear Kirk

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:41:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee All rights reserved.

I’m taking a slight departure from my regular breast cancer blog, because our son is leaving for law school this week. I say “our” son, when in fact he’s my stepson, but my heart doesn’t know that. Last week I was telling someone about Kirk’s leaving, and my eyes filled with tears. My voice caught in the back of my throat, and I had to stop. Other than my relationship with God, few things make me cry and you, dear Kirk, are one of them. <PREVIEWEND>

I remember when I first met you: You were 10, bright-eyed, eager and excited about everything and even then, like your Father, family was everything to you. I feel like you have given me far more than I’ve given you, and I thank you. Those years of knowing what’s it’s like to host sleepovers, cheer you on at Little League games and our talks in the kitchen after school... You took me along, with your infectious grin and loving heart, to baseball games and ski slopes and just past “GO” on Park Place.

In no time you started college and then one day, came home and said you’d joined the Army. Like your Grandpa and your Father before you, who volunteered during their wars, we shouldn’t have been too surprised, but it was a scary time for all of us. Even you. Once again America was at war, and all of us were aware that more than likely, you’d find your way to Iraq, Bosnia or Afghanistan. The day you graduated from basic training was an electric moment for us, like my diagnosis of breast cancer. It was real. You were a soldier, and there was no turning back.

Your Company was a hundred strong, and we heard your voices that day before we saw you. “I don’t know, but I’ve been told. My DI’s heart is made of gold.” Your polished boots hit the pavement in unison, keeping time to a singsong cadence repeated by generations of soldiers before you. “Sound off. Sound off. One, two, three, four. Three four.”

Your Mom and Dad and I watched as the top of the American flag crested the hill in the distance. One by one, rows of nearly identical-looking soldiers came into view. Eyes forward, slim caps tilted at the same angle, trench coats buttoned and belted for warmth and freshly creased dress pants, all in the time-honored shade of Army green. The shortest led the march, while rows and rows of soldiers of ever-increasing height magically unfolded out of the cold mist.

I stood on the curb behind your Mom, my hands on her shoulders, as we searched a sea of determined faces chiseled by basic training, lack of sleep, relentless drill sergeants and hand-to-hand combat training. The Army turns pimple-faced youths into killing machines, and they were marching toward us in unison.

It had been three months since we’d seen you, and it was hard for us to control our emotions. Finally, on the outside back row, I saw your silhouette. Later you said you’d picked my shearling coat out of the crowd. The same coat I’d worn when we huddled together in the back of a darkened shuttle bus in Jackson Hole, drinking Baileys Irish Cream from the bottle. Like truant children, we scrunched down low, passing the paper bag back and forth, imagining lurid headlines like “Woman Leads 15-Year-Old Stepson Astray.” Now as you marched over the hill, I felt like I was the child, and you were the adult. My eyes filled with tears, and I whispered in your Mother’s ear, “He looks like a man.” Your eyes caught mine and for a moment, I thought you might cry, too.

Yes, you went to Bosnia and Afghanistan, serving with a multi-national Special Forces unit, but God brought you home safely. You are still bright-eyed, eager and excited about everything, and still value family, God and country. Those are the qualities I love about you, and they are the qualities that will see you through law school and all the days of your life. I love you, sweet man, and rejoice at the man you have become. I’m so proud of you.

Green Tea and Breast Cancer

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:42:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee All rights reserved.

When I was in my early twenties, I visited New York City for the first time and found myself in front of the famed Plaza Hotel, home to Eloise, the fictional 6-year-old girl who lived at The Plaza and who drove both employees and celebrated guests crazy. As I walked through the lobby, I decided to stop at the Palm Court, where “Afternoon Tea” is a daily tradition.

Seated under an enormous stained-glass ceiling, I sipped tea, dined on cucumber sandwiches and tried not to eavesdrop on Yoko Ono and her friend, while a nearby string quartet played Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert. <PREVIEWEND> That day I learned Afternoon Tea is a great way to take time out from our busy schedules, get centered and focus on something other than ourselves. If you’ve had breast cancer and want to prevent recurrence, or prevent breast cancer in the first place, you might consider developing your own tradition of Afternoon Tea. Taking time to connect with yourself, or disconnect, is good for your immune system, plus it strengthens your mind-body connection.

For starters, let talk about what kind of tea to drink and why: Instead of the traditional, Earl Gray, it may be more beneficial to drink green tea, preferably decaffeinated, and organically certified, Chinese green tea. While several studies have shown some of the chemicals in green tea have antioxidant properties that could be a powerful weapon in our fight against breast cancer, other studies are not as conclusive. I don’t know about you, but as long as decaff green tea doesn’t do me any harm, taking time to relax, listen to music, sit back and close my eyes, or read a few chapters in a good book, is a welcome daily practice. Since many of the teas grown in China have been sprayed with unsafe levels of pesticides, organically certified teas are the only way to be sure your tea is safe to drink.

TO MAKE GREAT TEA:
Bring water—the better the water, the better the tea—to a boil in a non-reactive tea kettle. Pre-heat your ceramic or porcelain tea pot, or cup, with some of the boiling water and let stand until the vessel is warm, then pour out the water. Simultaneously, turn off the heat under the tea kettle and let the water cool for 60 seconds before pouring it over the tea. If using tea bags, add one per cup. Some people cover their tea pot or cup with a tea cozy to retain warmth. Let the tea steep for a minute or two, then taste frequently, taking care not to leave the tea bag in too long or your tea may become bitter.

Serve with lemon slices, but skip the milk, clotted cream and substitute honey for sugar. Make your favorite zucchini bread or blueberry muffins. If you don’t eat white flour, try substituting whole-wheat flour, or spelt, along with applesauce or honey for sugar.

As I write this, I’m drinking a new organic, decaff green tea from Whole Foods and thinking about Yoko Ono and her unique, sometimes wacky sense of fashion. That day at the Palm Court, she had on a gentlemen’s Victorian top hat, with a purple veil that wrapped around the crown and dipped down across one side of her face. For those of you who don’t know, or don’t remember, Yoko Ono is an artist, musician and widow of former Beatle, John Lennon. As I sit here, I’m listening to John Lennon’s iconic song, Imagine, and adding a new line of my own:

“Imagine there’s no cancer (sic). It’s easy if you try. You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.”

Listen to John Lennon’s voice and imagine… Play song from iLike.com

Is There a Link Between Dairy and Breast Cancer?

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 20:43:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

Anyone who pays moderate attention to the news knows there are certain risk factors, like family history, that skyrockets our risk of getting breast cancer and our ability to control it. We also hear about certain “controllable” risk factors; simple changes in our daily lives that could lower our risk of breast cancer or our risk of recurrence. What if one of those changes entailed giving up all dairy products? Did you know that according to the Journal of the American Dietetic Association, over 70% of the world’s population is unable to digest the milk sugar, lactose, after infancy? http://bit.ly/beqodR What if Mother Nature is trying to tell us dairy is not a food we should eat? Milk’s great for baby cows, but what if it’s not good for man? <PREVIEWEND>

There’s a lot of information about the suspected link between milk and breast cancer. The science behind this link ranges from hideous stories of puss-filled cow udders, nutritionally perfect for only one purpose—feeding calves—to studies that say milk is the great savior of brittle bones, weak hearts and cancer cells gone wild. Notice I said the “science behind,” because whenever we read about a “study” or a “suspected link,” we need to see who conducted the study, as well as who paid for it.

According to the Los Angeles Times, a recent study done by nutritionist, Connie Weaver, head of food and nutrition at Purdue University, says “anything less than three glasses of milk a day, and you won’t get all of the nutrients you need.” http://bit.ly/b0lii0 While most of her funding comes from the National Institutes of Health, she is also supported by the National Dairy Council. On the other side of the science surrounding milk, PETA and the Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine says “cow’s milk is a nutritional nightmare that doesn’t belong in the human diet.” “Gross” and “bizarre” are words they use to describe the human practice of tugging at the udders of slow-moving livestock in order to benefit from the bodily fluids they secrete. Even Dr. Walter Willett, chairman of nutrition at the Harvard School of Public Health says of milk, “the benefits are unclear, and there may be some risk.”

Breast milk, whether it comes from humans or other mammals, contains all of the natural growth factors, hormones, infections, antibiotics, additional drugs, chemicals and pesticides in which mammals come in contact. Some studies say milk causes the body to produce mucus, and cancer feeds on mucus, and therefore, by eliminating dairy products, we starve cancer cells. However, according to breastcancer.org, “a dairy-free diet is not a miracle cure.”

As long as we’re talking about studies, there’s been a lot of hoo-ha about T. Colin Campbell, PhD’s book, The China Study, a massive study of the relationship between diet and disease in over 100 Chinese villages. http://bit.ly/btvUqe The Chinese don’t eat dairy, and their breast cancer rates are very low. Breast cancer is considered the “rich woman’s disease” because only rich women, who can afford to eat a western diet high in red meat and dairy, get breast cancer, but is that really a link between dairy and breast cancer? If you look further into the China Study, only three out of the 65 counties studied consumed any noteworthy amount of dairy. In addition, they weren’t eating the hormone and antibiotic-laden cows we find in most Western cows. This could mean drawing any conclusions from the China Study is a narrow and tricky path to walk.

Since the science is still out on the link between dairy and breast cancer, you must decide this issue for yourself. My oncologist says “everything in moderation, including moderation,” so an occasional dish of ice cream or a great cheese won’t kill you. Personally, I gave up dairy and use almond milk as a milk alternative. Yes, I know, I recently wrote that nobody really knows whether almonds are a good or a bad phytoestrogen food. http://bit.ly/bky79s Trying to map out the “whys” behind the “dos” and “don’ts” surrounding breast cancer is like trying to find your way out of a Harry Potter maze. What do you have in your “Goblet of Fire?” Got dairy?

Breast Cancer, Vaginal Dryness and Sex

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 23:18:00 GMT

Have you ever noticed sometimes Mother Nature plays cruel tricks on us? You and your spouse take a trip to that romantic island you’ve always wanted to visit only to discover, at the most intimate of moments, you have vaginal dryness and intercourse is painful. You are not alone. Over half of all women over 40 suffer from vaginal dryness, and more than likely, it may be due to lack of estrogen.

Many women experience loss of estrogen well before menopause, others after a hysterectomy. A drop in hormone levels also occurs if you’ve undergone treatment for estrogen-receptor positive (ER+) breast cancer. I can’t think of a single side effect of low estrogen that isn’t just plain rude and frustrating, and trust me… I’ve experienced them all. The one that bothers me most, however, is vaginal dryness. Physicians call it sexual dysfunction, but simply put, it is pain during intercourse due to vaginal dryness. So what do you do? Doctors are not always comfortable discussing this subject, and perhaps you’re shy about asking. Once again, I am your trusty lab rat. <PREVIEWEND>

Cosmetics companies are always telling women to “moisturize.” That doesn’t apply just to our face and hands. With age and lack of hormones our vaginal tissues become thin and dry. They no longer “self moisturize,” or lubricate with arousal, and need a little help to keep intercourse from being painful. As a result of intense pain, many women look for ways to avoid sex. That isn’t good for your marriage, or your immune system. A study by endocrinologist, Dr. Winifred Cutler, at Wilkes University in Pennsylvania, showed those who have sex once or twice a week showed 30% higher levels of immunoglobulin A, an antibody which is known to boost the immune system. Fortunately, there are a number of products on the market to soften and moisten vaginal tissues, but if you’ve had estrogen positive breast cancer, none of them may be the perfect solution.

While most of the following suggestions take a few weeks to see results, they are well worth the wait. Start by drinking eight large glasses of water a day followed by eating a balanced, healthy diet. Many women who eat a low-fat, high-carb diet don’t get the nutrients needed to make enough estrogen for vaginal lubrication. If, however, your breast cancer was estrogen positive, you want to avoid foods containing phytoestrogens like soy and flax.

For some women, Vitamin E oil works relatively well and for others, personal lubricants bring immediate relief. I have tried them all and Replens Long-Lasting Vaginal Moisturizer Applicators, Replens Long-Lasting Liquid and Wet Naturals Barely Bare (there are many Wet Naturals, but use only Barely Bare) work best for me. All are water-based, which means the products are not sticky and gooey, and are paraben and estrogen free, which is important for me to avoid since my breast cancer was estrogen positive. Our bodies turn parabens—methylparaben, ethylparaben, propylparaben and butylparaben—into estrogen. Start reading labels and avoid products containing parabens. Some personal lubricants, like K-Y and Vaseline may be your tried and true favorites, but can cause unwanted friction, which can lead to more pain. Replens applicators and liquid and Wet Naturals Barely Bare may be a little harder to find than other alternatives, but you can purchase them at the RETAIL THERAPY store on BreastCancerSisterhood.com. http://www.breastcancersisterhood.com/retailtherapy.htm

For best results, insert one Replens Long-Lasing Moisturizer Applicator before sex—the earlier the better—in order to give the moisturizer a chance to soften your vaginal tissues. The instructions say the moisture lasts for up to three days, but at that, I was still having painful intercourse. A female gynecologist told me to use a Replens applicator everyday, whether I was having sex or not, to keep the tissues moisturized. Also inserting the applicator at night gives tissues the chance to absorb the moisture without trickling out and wetting your clothes like it does if you insert one in the morning.

While the right lubricant does makes a difference, intercourse may still be painful. If this is the case you might want to pour, yes, I said pour, the lubricant directly into your vagina. Do not be shy about adding more as you go along, and make sure your partner stays well lubricated as well. If you find intercourse is still painful, certain sexual positions are better than others. Experiment.

Regular sexual activity has been shown to improve vaginal atrophy by stimulating blood flow to the area. If you have vaginal dryness and haven’t had estrogen positive breast cancer, ask your doctor about low-dose vaginal estrogen tablets, the vaginal ring or the cream. Also, there has been a lot of talk in the last few years about bioidentical hormones, but that is a lengthy discussion for another day. Bottom line, since my breast cancer was estrogen positive, I don’t want to ingest, rub or look at ANY form of estrogen.

What Are You Waiting For?

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 23:19:00 GMT

When I was 21, my late husband told me, “This is my train, and you’re welcome to ride it. If at anytime you don’t like the destination, you’re free to get off, but overall, you won’t find a better ride anywhere.” As I think back on his statement, I realize it was selfish, egotistical and often ignored what was in my best interest. If I’d been the tour director, instead of the passenger, we would have traveled a different route. Although I was offered a choice of stops along the way, the decision to stay on board, or get off, was always mine.

Much of the time we traveled the world in search of places where no one spoke English, you couldn’t get a cheeseburger, and a room for the night was a hammock with a skinned squirrel overhead that dripped blood onto our foreheads. He was a natural born teacher, and I was his Eliza Doolittle, encouraged to become a mixture of Barbarella, Margaret Thatcher and Sally Ride. In many ways, that journey has served me well, plus I’ve realized he was right, and wrong, about a great many things.<PREVIEWEND>

Recently I was interviewed by a young reporter, and one of her questions was what advice would I give to my 21-year-old self? Thinking about that young woman, who was often a passenger on someone else’s train, my answers were “don’t be afraid to say no,” “listen to your little voice,” “don’t be afraid to try something new,” and “what are you waiting for?” I believe those are sage words of wisdom, regardless of our age, but particularly if we hear a clock ticking somewhere in the back of our mind.

Everyone’s clock is driven by different things: money, ego, God, age, love, sex, health, and ultimately, death. What if, when we’re nearing the end of our lives, we realize we’ve spent our time worrying about the wrong things and missed all that was right about our lives? What if we’ve spent our time worrying about when, and if, breast cancer will return? Isn’t that focusing on dying instead of living, and if that is true, then we’re not really living. We’re simply marking time like a prisoner in a cell; only our cell is a self-imposed prison. The question then becomes, how do we get off the train we’re on and change destinations, or change our way of thinking and acting so it becomes an acceptable destination? Better yet, what happens to us, to those who love us, if we don’t do anything but stay on the same train that's already departed?

One thing I’ve learned from life is we should all be conductors of our own train. While our decision to stay, or get off, should also be determined by what’s in the best interest of those around us, and not just ourselves, we should still “listen to our little voice,” “don’t be afraid to try new things, and don’t be afraid to say no.” That brings us to the only other piece of advice I would give my younger self. “What are you waiting for?”

I Don't Get Out Enough

Wed, 06 Apr 2011 16:08:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

If you’ve ever gone through chemo and/or radiation, you know you barely have enough energy to breathe, let alone get out much or take a vacation. I marvel at cancer patients who continue to work while going through treatment. You are my heroes! I realize many of you have no choice, but where do you find the strength? I know paying the rent is a huge motivating factor, but for me, just going to the grocery store was more than I could handle. Now that I’ve recovered from 10 surgeries and eight rounds of chemo, James and I are traveling a bit more, but on this trip, I’ve decided I don’t get out enough. <PREVIEWEND>

Once again we’re in Las Vegas while James plays in the World Series of Poker, and I stay in the room and work on my laptop. Mind you, that’s not a complaint. Since I’m not much of a shopper, I don’t gamble, and it’s beastly hot outside, I’m quite content to occasionally go downstairs and people watch as I walk through the Esplanade, the shopping arcade that connects the Wynn and the Encore hotels. Also, last night I went to a Sting concert at the MGM Grand.

While Las Vegas has always been an adult Disney land, the adults seem to be getting younger—or maybe I’m just getting older—and their choice of clothes, or lack there of, is rather surprising. Men wear flip flops, shorts and no shirts at all, and women look like they’ve piled out of bed and put on the first thing they found on the closet floor. The real people watching, however, comes when the midnight crowd emerges from their rooms. Young carbon copies, jockeying for entrance to A-list clubs walled off by velvet ropes and burly bodyguards.

This is a different crowd than the ones you see in the daylight. The locals refer to them as the "Vampires." These guys wear jeans, straw fedoras and enough bling to open their own jewelry store. The chippies appear to be drunk and/or high and wear vacuum-packed strapless dresses, which barely cover their butts, and six-inch gladiator shoes in which they can barely walk. The girls are all self-conscious, constantly tugging at their outfits, pulling them up to cover their boobs, pulling them down to cover everything else while the guys treat them like they're steak on a plate. Sometimes I think today's young people are following Britney Spears, Milely Cyrus and the rapper d'jour straight off the edge of the cliff and into their hotel rooms with nary a thought to the consequences.

The world may still be spinning on its axis, but we seem to be going in a direction I don’t understand. Many of those directions are counter intuitive to having a healthy society. Sometimes I think we need better roles models, for males and females of every age, who will forge a more self-respecting path for all of us to emulate. I realize this isn't my typical blog about surviving breast cancer, but perhaps it's because I'm overwhelmed with the razzle dazzle of sin city. It's a lot to take in for a girl who lives in the middle of nowhere.

Like most of you, I’ve had to make a lot of physical and emotional changes and have come to terms with life the way it is, not the way it was, and that’s OK. It’s more than OK. I’m still here, and I’m blessed beyond reason. Like Dorothy, in the Wizard of Oz, I’ve battled my way through terror and enlightenment, and I realize there’s no place like home. While I’m not sure Las Vegas is part of my new normal, I am sure the bleary-eyed guy wearing the “Party Till You’re Homeless” shirt is not.

Finding Your New Normal After Breast Cancer

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 23:28:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

My mother used to say “normal is what you think you are, and no one else is.” For each one of us, “normal” changes as we age. Our 16-year-old self is different from our 26 or 46- year-old self. From a visual perspective it’s easy to look at old photos of what we were wearing, or how we did our hair, and approximate our age. However, aging is more than a physical process. We mature mentally and emotionally as well, and with each new chapter of our lives, we redefine what our normal is.

When I was a little girl, I wanted to twirl a baton and be the daughter of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, the King of the Cowboys and the Queen of the West. Every Saturday I was happy to share in their television adventures, marveling at the intelligence of Roy’s horse, Trigger, and the gentleness of Dale’s horse, Buttermilk. By the time I was in my teens, I felt out of place, the only one of my peers who had a mother to take care of at home. I made good grades and fixed dinner, but I was like a mannequin in a store window: head cocked to one side, arms up expectantly, waiting for what, I didn’t know. Normalcy, perhaps. <PREVIEWEND>

As the years went by, different window dressers changed my hair and put me in different outfits, but for the most part, I laid naked and in pieces in the storeroom, unable to become a whole person. From time to time, I got dressed and beamed, "fine thank you, and how are you," but my feelings didn’t go any deeper. I was a well-dressed mannequin in a storefront window, wearing pastels in the spring, a summer sundress and then a coordinated sweater set to ward off winter’s chill. All the while, my gaze was fixed, and I had the smile of a one-dimensional doll.

Mannequins do not shed tears or feel exhilarating joy. They have cut off their highs and lows, living somewhere in the middle in their safe storefront window. As I matured, I experienced the death of that hollow woman and reveled in the occasional tears as they streamed down my face and felt the emotional catch in the back of my throat that had never been there before. I stopped caring what others would think if I told them who I was, if I said no, and became a wholly formed three-dimensional woman.

Time and life experiences shape the person we become, and breast cancer is one of those experiences. The person who emerges on the other side is admittedly a different person than the one who began this breast cancer journey. When we look back on these different versions of ourselves, we see that “normal” is a relative thing. It is who we are and how we handle now that matters most. To assume we will go back to “normal” when we’re finished with breast cancer treatment is unrealistic.

Yes, there may be things about this time in our lives we’re not crazy about: I wish my body was full of estrogen, my libido was what it used to be, and my facial muscles didn’t look like they’d melted in the noon day’s sun, but like it or not, this is my new normal. I can’t mourn for my former self any more than I mourn for my six-year-old self. I have grown and changed as a result of breast cancer. More importantly, I’m still here to live my life. So when my husband says, “Don’t you remember? We talked about that the other day,” I just smile and say, “Chemo brain, Honey Bunny. It’s part of my new normal.”

Is Chocolate Good for Breast Cancer?

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 23:29:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved

Did you know moderate amounts of dark chocolate might play a role in preventing cancer? According to Sally Scroggs, MS, RD, LD at the University of Texas MD Anderson’s Cancer Prevention Center, compounds found in chocolate act as antioxidants and have been shown to help combat cell damage that can lead to tumor growth. One of the most concentrated natural sources of these antioxidants is found in the cacao bean—the basis for all chocolate. <PREVIEWEND>

Dark chocolate, at least 70% pure cacao, is not only rich in antioxidants; it lowers blood sugar, blood pressure and cholesterol and is an excellent source of potassium and magnesium. Dark chocolate has also been shown to work as an antidepressant: Phyenylethylamine, a compound in cacao, raises serotonin and dopamine levels, stimulates the nervous system and even raises libido.

For centuries healers have used cacao to cure everything from tuberculosis to shortness of breath, and cacao has long been considered a symbol for love and temptation. The great Aztec ruler, Montezuma, regularly used cacao beans as currency. In 1528, when Spanish explorer Cortez left Mexico for Spain, he took with him copious amounts of gold, silver and cacao, in addition to the recipe for hot cocoa.

Because it’s still a calorie-dense food that can be high in fat, we shouldn’t give ourselves permission to eat as much dark chocolate as we want. However a daily square, or one ounce, of dark cacao chocolate may be a good addition to our diet. Savor it. Let it melt in your mouth and think about what you’re eating. If you’re a breast cancer survivor, consider avoiding most of your favorite name brands even if they “support breast cancer awareness.” They’re not only low in cacao—antioxidants—but higher in calories, sugar and unhealthy fats.

Look for chocolate with at least a 70% or higher cacao content. Since 70% cacao doesn’t contain sugar and milk, like most traditional chocolate bars, dark cacao chocolate may take a bit of getting used to, but if you’re like me, you’ll soon find it decadently delicious. My favorite brand is Alter Eco Fair Trade’s™ 85% dark chocolate. It’s organic, gluten free, soy free, has no emulsifiers and can be found at many Whole Foods. Since Alter Eco Fair Trade™ buys directly from farming families in Bolivia, and pays them fair prices, we are also supporting a better way of life for them and their communities.

Did I tell you James prefers brown and white foods: steak, coffee, vanilla ice cream and chocolate? The most surprising thing about James and chocolate…? He loves the 73% cacao! I know! Mister slice and bake chocolate chip cookie man loves dark cacao, although I don’t think he heard me a little while ago when I said it was full of caffeine. It’s 8pm, and he’s had two squares of dark chocolate. Whoa… Zip, zip… There he goes, out the door for a walk. Wonder where all that energy came from? Duh! Hope he gets to sleep tonight.

Because of Breast Cancer, I Can't Eat What?

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 23:30:00 GMT

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

If there had been a 12-step program for peanut butter a few years ago, I would’ve found a meeting, plopped myself down in the front row and said, “Hi. My name is Brenda, and I am a peanut butter-aholic.” My habit was so bad, my husband and son would buy their own jars and hide them from me because I blew through at least one large jar a week. No pretense of a sandwich for me. I ate it spoon after spoon, straight from the jar while standing at the kitchen counter.

After my breast cancer diagnosis I consulted a nutritionist and learned about the various sources of protein and decided there was a chance I wasn’t a peanut butter-aholic after all. My copious consumption of peanut butter could have been my body’s way of screaming for more protein. My shame was lifted! <PREVIEWEND> I also learned peanuts were high on the list of foods containing phytoestrogens and were not a good idea if I wanted to lower my risk of recurrence. Because phytoestrogens are thought to bind to the estrogen receptors in our body, and because my breast cancer was fueled by estrogen, I went cold turkey on peanut butter and am proud to say I haven’t had a spoonful since. I have, however, discovered raw almond butter.

Unlike peanut butter, raw almond butter contains no added ingredients or preservatives and has less hydrogenated oils, plus no salt or sugar. Almond butter is full of monounsaturated fats, which are good for your heart and helps control blood sugar, plus it has more calcium, iron and Vitamin E than peanut butter. As my “Type A” self is inclined to do, I took this discovery one step further and became a connoisseur who decided the best raw almond butter was from England and could only be purchased on the Internet. The problem was, by the time I converted English pounds to American dollars, and added tax and shipping, my weekly fix was $30 a jar. A small jar. If that wasn’t bad enough, I recently discovered a terrible new twist to my nut butter saga.

Some phytoestrogenic foods may actually be protective by binding to our estrogen receptors, thus blocking estrogen, which sounds like a good thing, but nobody really knows which ones are the good phytoestrogen foods and which are the bad. Oh, but wait… The plot thickens. Some experts suggest almonds may be as bad for me as peanuts. That may, or may not mean they are on the list of bad phytoestrogen foods, but not knowing, once again, I have gone cold turkey on a beloved nut butter.

Addictions are tricky things: You start small, just a spoon or two, then before you know it, you’ve consumed a whole jar in less than a week. Where will it stop? Will I move on to more addicting things, and what might they be? Is this how addicts become thieves, selling stolen merchandise to supplement their cravings? Sometimes I long for the little girl who ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Campbell’s bean soup while she read Nancy Drew. I’m really glad she didn’t know about peanut butter-aholics and phytoestrogens.