Amy's Blog

My Mother and Michael Buble Taught Me to be Honest

Sunday, August 08, 2010

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For Easter my mom got me tickets to see Michael Buble in concert. The concert was a few weeks ago and it was one of the best experiences I have ever had with her. It was just the two of us and it was amazing. Michael Buble is disgustingly talented and hilarious to top it all off. Needless to say, I’m in love with the man.

What struck me the most about his performance, other than the hopelessly romantic songs he sang, was his final song. He sang “A Song for You” by Leon Russell with the full band and all the lights and drama, but halfway through it the curtain fell, the lights went out, and the band stopped playing. There was a pause and then a single spotlight shone on Mr. Buble who was standing on stage alone. He sang the second half of the song by himself with no music and no fancy effects. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Here was this man singing to a crowd of 14,000 people with no help. It was raw, pure, and honest. All I could think about was how vulnerable he was and how he was singing because it was what he loved to do and he wanted to share it with others.

This event made me want to be a more honest person and not be afraid to share myself with others. I dream of being a writer and sharing what I love with anyone who will listen. The only way I can do that is if I’m honest and I write what I feel. As cheesy as it sounds, I could feel what Mr. Buble felt because he was allowing himself to share it with 14,000 other people. If that’s not courage then I don’t know what is. It was one of the coolest things I’ve ever experienced, and I got to do it sitting next to the greatest woman in the world.

When Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer she waited two weeks to tell my sister and me. She just wanted to know for sure that it was real, and I can’t blame her. To me, however, those were two weeks she spent alone and I wish she would have told me so she would have had someone to hold her hand. I was there with her throughout her chemotherapy and recovery, but I can’t say I was there for the diagnosis and it bothers me on a selfish level. I want to be able to say I was with her through it all, feeling and experiencing it alongside her. I know I was, but I still wish I had those first two weeks.

One thing I’ve learned in the past six years, that was brought to my attention at the concert, is that we have to let ourselves feel. When we are afraid or feeling alone, we have to let ourselves experience that fear to fully move past it. We have to embrace it. That’s the only way we will be confident enough to let others in too. I think that’s what my mom was doing in those first two weeks. She had to be afraid and let herself accept her new reality before she could introduce it to anyone else. Then she shared it with my sister and me and it turned into an experience that changed our lives. In some sort of twisted way, the same thing happened at the concert.

There is something to be said about honesty. Whether you are a singer, a breast cancer survivor, or someone in between, never in your life are you more vulnerable than when you are being honest, and never in your life are you more beautiful than when you share that with someone who is waiting to hear you.

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People, Places, and the Things They Teach Us

Sunday, August 01, 2010

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The places in which we learn things are often random and unexpected, but they hold some of life’s greatest lessons. The people we meet in those places make it that much greater. My mom has always taught me that I can learn something from every single person I meet. I didn’t really understand that notion until I left for college, but I have discovered that there is so much truth behind it.

I met my best friend, Regina, in the bathroom of my dorm. The girls all shared a bathroom on our floor so there was a lot of mingling going on at all hours of the day- or night. I don’t remember the actual moment we became friends, but it seems like we just met and that was it, we were stuck with each other.

Regina’s brother is in the army. Before I met her, the war our country is in never seemed real to me. It was just a distant thing people mentioned over fancy luncheons or dinner parties. It was never something that I paid any attention to or had any feelings about until I walked into Regina’s room one day and found her sobbing. Her brother had just received his letter stating that he was being deployed. That was the first time I was ever afraid for someone I had never met, a soldier about to leave home without knowing if he’ll ever come back.

I can’t say I went through it all with Regina because I didn’t. I didn’t know what she was feeling. I do know that, had my sister been in her brother’s shoes, I would have been petrified and unable to make it through the day without thinking something had happened to her. I had no idea what to tell Regina, what to say to make her feel better, so I just listened. I still don’t know if that did any good, but I think that just being there with her while she was afraid was all she needed- another lesson I learned from my mom.

Regina’s brother came home six days ago, safely. She and her family were there to meet him. He got in at three o’clock in the morning and Regina sent me a picture of the homecoming. I looked at the picture and felt tears well up in my eyes. For the first time I was proud for someone. I was so proud for Regina and her family, that they had a son and a brother with that much courage and belief in doing the right thing and making a difference. I was proud to have Regina as a friend, and so grateful to have her in my life.

Seeing the picture she sent me at three o’clock in the morning, and being connected to it in even the smallest of ways, filled me with a pride I have never felt before. I kept saying to myself, “Here are all of these men who have been at war and their families are finally right in front of them and they have the dedication to stand in perfect formation and complete their duty to this country.” If that had been me, I would have run off the airplane and into my parents’ arms within seconds. But not these guys. They had a job to do, and in my opinion, they did it very well.

Looking back at it all, the lesson I took away is to learn from people and appreciate what they teach you. Be there for your friends even if you can’t understand what they are going through. And pray for the moment when you learn what it’s like to be proud for the family of a soldier- be it a man who is fighting in Iraq, a sister facing her fears of losing her brother, or a woman battling breast cancer. What they do is not easy.

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Cancer is Not Hot Pink

Sunday, July 25, 2010

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Someone recently asked me two questions that really struck me: Is there a difference between the reality of the breast cancer world and the way it is perceived? What advice would you give an outsider who is trying to help a friend get through breast cancer?

Oddly enough, these are the two most obvious questions I think someone might ask, but I never really thought to answer them. Is the breast cancer world different than the bright pink t-shirts and bows plastered across television screens and billboards? How do you help a friend battle breast cancer when you have absolutely no idea what they are going through? The answers might not be quite what you expect.

Answer 1: No. The breast cancer world that is painted, or rather spattered with pink, is not that way at all. In fact, a lot of survivors hate the color because of what it stands for. For them, pink represents a disease. It represents chemotherapy, hair loss, anger, fear, resentment, and pain blundering its way through every cell of the body. Pink is the color assigned to the worst time of these women’s lives.

Being the daughter of a survivor and not actually having been through cancer myself, I can’t quite understand where my mother is coming from when she refuses to wear a pink shirt, however, I do understand why she does not want to be defined by her past experiences with the disease. The experience of cancer is as dark as the spot on a mammogram. There is a stigma associated with it that a lot of survivors and families try to avoid. I don’t want my family to be defined by it. We are too talented, too diverse, and too wonderful to be thought of as “that family whose mom had cancer.” My mother is the strongest woman I know. I consider her to be the reincarnation of Wonder Woman. She is brilliant, amazing, and more driven than anyone I know. She is too special to be defined as a cancer patient. Breast cancer made my family stronger. It was an adventure, a challenge, and a blessing. It did not define us, but made our original definitions a little longer.

Answer 2: To help a friend get through cancer, you can’t try to pretend you understand because you don’t. I know that sounds awful but it is one of the best pieces of advice I can offer. I had no idea what my mother was going through, just as my friends had no idea what I was going through. When you have a family member battling cancer it feels as though you are the only ones in the world going through it. The last thing you want is for someone to tell you they understand. What the patient and family needs is someone to listen, someone to cry to, someone to hear them sob, someone to laugh with them, someone to sit in silence with, and someone to just be there. Don’t try to be anything but you, because you are the most normal thing in their lives and just being there will save them.

Cancer is scary. It’s not hot pink. It’s not something other people understand. It is a battle that requires an army, and ours was made of friends that turned out to be guardian angels. Cancer is the greatest battle anyone can ever fight, and it is worth every second of it.

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Normality and Surgical Drains

Sunday, July 18, 2010

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There are certain terms associated with the cancer world that any outsiders might not understand. One of these terms is “new normal.” It’s one of those that makes absolutely no sense when you first hear it, but it soon becomes your mantra and best friend. So what is a “new normal” and how can you get one?

When my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, our whole family went with her to the consultation before she began chemotherapy. The doctor explained to us, in a fairly blunt manner, that we had a choice to make: cancer would change our lives forever and it was up to us whether or not it would be a good change or a bad one. At that moment so much was being hurled at us that a choice like that seemed ridiculous. And yet, it was so true. Cancer was going to change our lives in ways we never would have predicted. What we did with those changes was a choice only we could make. The normal we had been used to for our entire lives was about to be shattered, so we had to find a new one.

There is no time line for when this new normal is set to arrive. For some it comes the moment they leave the doctor’s office. For others it doesn’t occur until after treatments are over and they are left saying “what now?” For me, this new normal arrived neatly bundled in my mother’s drains.

My mother made the decision to have a double mastectomy and reconstruction following her diagnosis. Both of her breasts were removed and the doctor took fat from her stomach and used it to rebuild new breasts. As part of the post-operation healing process, Mom was sent home with a drain on each side of her body from which the excess fluids from surgery left her and traveled down tubes where they were collected in little plastic sacks that were attached to her. These sacks had to be changed out daily. I distinctly remember the first day I saw them. I didn’t know they were there until my dad asked me for help changing Mom’s bandages. We meticulously pulled the gauze and surgical pads from around her torso and once we got to her skin, these little sacks filled with fluid of a disgustingly unimaginable color rolled out from under the final layer of gauze and I almost lost my lunch. Now, my Dad’s favorite movie is “The Fifth Element” and there is an alien opera singer with tentacles coming out of her head and down her sides- this is all I could think about when I saw my mother’s drains. It was gross and I didn’t want to help anymore. I quickly realized, however, that my mom needed me. Her recovery depended on my willingness to be there for her. My earliest recollection of ever having an epiphany was when I saw those drains hanging from the woman who brought me into this world. Staring at the puss, I realized that this was my new normal. Six months later, when my mother finished her chemotherapy treatments and the doctor told her she was cancer free, I realized again that this was my new new normal. It changes.

Normality is what you make it. It’s what you want it to be and what you decide it will be. It’s not a standard set by others that you have to live up to. After my mom’s reconstruction surgery, my uncle would jokingly ask if, because her breasts were made of fat from her stomach, they would growl when she got hungry. In my opinion, that is one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. To a lot of people, though, it’s morbid humor that might be deemed inappropriate. But that’s the normal I come from, and that’s the normal I have come to know and love.

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You Have to Get Back Up

Sunday, July 11, 2010

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Two and half years ago I lost my horse, Harriet. She had a microscopic hole in her stomach and could not survive the extensive surgeries needed to find it, let alone repair it. I never knew what a broken heart felt like until I lost her. She was everything to me. She was the one constant in my life during my mother’s cancer and my parent’s divorce. I raised her myself and trained her to become a brilliant dressage horse. Every time she hurt, I hurt, and vice versa. I knew her every thought and she knew mine. It was a bond unlike any I thought possible. As cheesy as it sounds, she was my best friend who somehow made everything ok.

I always thought it was too dramatic when I’d hear stories of someone quitting something they love because they’d suffered a loss due to it. I felt like that only happened in movies and wasn’t what real life was like. I was wrong. When I lost Harriet, I learned what it was like to feel empty, to be angry at God, and to think life was unfair. I cried for weeks, stopped talking to people, and stayed in my bedroom when I wasn’t at school. My chest ached and I felt like I had a hole in me. Part of me was gone and it burned. They say when you fall off of a horse you have to get back on so you won’t be afraid to ride again. That’s the most valuable lesson that life has taught me, to get back up. This time, however, I stopped riding. Until today.

I rode my first horse in over two years today. His name is Murphy and he belongs to my sister. When I woke up this morning I didn’t want to do it. I felt just as I have since Harriet passed- reluctant, and like I was betraying her. I thought getting on Murphy would be this dramatic event that you read about in novels or see in those horse movies where someone is hospitalized and it takes years before they can even walk again. It wasn’t. I got on Murphy and everything flooded back to me. Things just felt right. Never once did I try to pretend I was on Harriet because she moves differently than any horse I have ever been on, but it was nice just to ride again and have that familiar feeling that had been missing for so long.

I can’t help but notice tears welling up in my eyes as I write this, but riding today made me feel like a part of me has returned. It’s a part of me I haven’t had for a few years and wasn’t sure I’d ever have again. I miss Harriet more than I ever thought imaginable, but I know she lives in our horses, and I know she lives in me. Every night I look up at the stars and I pick the one that stands out to me most. I close my eyes, see her face, and whisper good night to my best friend who watches me from above. Tonight, when I wish her sweet dreams, I know she’ll smile back and be proud that I got back up today.

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Cancer is Like a Horse Race

Sunday, July 04, 2010

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About one year ago I decided I needed a motto. For some reason I felt as though I should have one, and so began my search. As corny as it is, I actually looked up quotes on the internet in hopes of finding one. Nothing seemed right. What I was unaware of was that a motto isn’t just a statement or quote you may like. It’s something that helps you through tough times and keeps you motivated. A motto has to work for you. It has to help you. Today I can finally say that I have found mine: Do things that make you uncomfortable.

This certainly is not the mecca of all mottos and it is not something I immediately thought I would pick up, but I have found that it is an extreme motivational tool that helps me do things I’m afraid to do. On the surface, many people are unaware that I am painfully shy. I was a sophomore in high school before I would even walk into a gas station by myself, and last year I finally began phoning in pizza orders. Today, however, I made a breakthrough. I got a job as a mutuel teller at the horse races my town hosts every summer. Today was my first day, and I spoke to about 200 different strangers. At first I was terrified and extremely uncomfortable. I kept repeating my motto and forced myself to get over my issues. As it turns out, I discovered that I am outgoing. I was chatting with people I had never seen before and actually enjoying myself. I did what made me uncomfortable and got over my fear.

As I reflected on this great self-discovery, I realized something even greater. Today I watched as the horses went galloping by, mud flying through the air behind them, and I saw courage in their eyes. Then I’d look at the jockeys on their backs and I saw a hope and deeply rooted trust in the animals that carried them. I thought about my mom and how I watched her go through her chemo treatments. I thought about how much it took out of her and how hard she fought for each day. I also thought about my family and the work we put into her recovery. This concept, I have found, is not much different than a horse race. A race horse and jockey are a team. So are a cancer patient and his or her family. When all is said and done, it is up to the horse, or cancer patient, whether or not he or she chooses to run the race and how hard they fight to win. But the jockey must learn how the horse moves and what the animal needs to perform at its highest potential. This is how the cancer family operates. Ultimately, it is the patient’s battle to win, but the family does everything in its power to make sure their loved one has everything they need to fight the fight. By no means is it easy but, like all things, the greatest rewards stem from the hardest of work. In the end, it is the horse who runs the race, but it is the jockey he relies on to keep him going when hope is running short.

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Unconquered

Sunday, June 27, 2010

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For Father's Day last weekend, my dad and I watched the movie, Invictus, starring Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon. This amazing movie is about the life of Nelson Mandela and his involvement with the South African Rugby Team during the 1995 World Cup. Dad and I both almost cried several times while watching it, not because it was sad, but because it was so inspiring. With a name that means "unconquered" in Latin, Invictus is truly one of those life-changing movies that spoke to me.

What moved me so much about this film was the poem that embodies its message. The poem itself is titled, Invictus, and was written by William Ernest Henley. It is the actual poem that helped Nelson Mandela keep going during his imprisonment when everything in life told him to give-up. This poem has become my inspiration and my mantra, and I really feel that it speaks for itself. It is a must-read for everyone, especially those who are in the midst of the fight for their lives.

"Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."

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Cowboys and Marathon Runners

Monday, June 21, 2010

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It seems as though the past few weeks have had some kind of ‘life lesson’ to teach me. Maybe we all learn something every day but are too busy to notice, and maybe I’m just more aware than normal. Whatever it is, I’m thankful for it. This week, my lesson has come to me in two parts, and it has been this: There isn’t anything the human body cannot do.

Part 1:
I met a man a few days ago with one arm. His name is Tim, and he’s one of my mother’s friends from high school. Unbeknownst to Mom, and most of his classmates at the time, he had an extremely rare form of bone cancer throughout high school. If I remember correctly, at the time of his diagnosis, he was one of 29 recorded cases. He graduated from high school, and that fall, his arm was removed because of the cancer.

What makes Tim such an extraordinary person, aside from the fact he beat his cancer when his chances were incredibly slim, and he only visits his doctor for minor heart issues, is that he is a dog-training cowboy. Now, when I say ‘cowboy,’ I mean a man who lives on a ranch, works on a ranch, rides and trains horses, and has the determination of someone who knows what it’s like to earn a living. He is also an extremely well known dog trainer with a love and understanding of animals unlike anyone I’ve ever seen. On top of that, he does it all with one arm.

Part 2:
I ran my first half marathon today. One of my “life goals” has always been to run a marathon, and I decided this was going to be the summer I would do it. I’ve been training for three months, and have come ridiculously close to giving up. Last week I ran 11 miles and got sick with half a mile to go. Knowing I had my half marathon in one week, I had absolutely no idea how I was going to be able to run 13.1 miles with 1,500 other people and not pass out. All day yesterday, and this morning, I was sick to my stomach, but once my race began at 8:00 am this morning, I felt like nothing in the world could stop me. I had so much fun, felt amazing, and never got sick. I was even laughing part of the way—I was reading the other runners’ shirts and some of them were hilarious.

The biggest thing I’ve discovered in all of my training, and in my meeting Tim, is the human body is an incredible machine. It has the power to fight what our minds tell us can’t be beat. It can do the work of a normal person, even when a major limb is missing, and can carry us farther than we ever thought possible. The most important thing is that when we know this, and when we believe this, incredible things can happen. I’ll be honest: I’ve been struggling with body image issues for a few months. Now, I’m a college soccer player and have played every sport imaginable throughout my life. I even fenced for two years. I have absolutely no reason to feel self-conscious about my body in any way, and I know this. But I also just left home for the first time and spent my freshman year of college in Boston. When you are surrounded by unfamiliar people in an unfamiliar place, you want to fit in, so you start to pick out things you think are “wrong” with you and need correcting. I didn’t develop an eating disorder or anything like that—I like food too much to go that far—but I wasn’t happy with myself. In the past few weeks, today especially, I can honestly say I am completely happy with myself. Three months ago I decided to make one of my dreams come true, and today, I got halfway there with the body I’ve had for 19 years. So incredible!

So how does this relate to cancer? Our bodies have the ability to conquer whatever we throw at them. The problem is, our minds tells us we can’t. So how do we solve this conflict? We get over it, and we do it. The only person who knows our body is us, and if we decide we are going to do something, our bodies CAN do it. We just have to believe it. It’s ridiculously simple, and I have spent all of this time writing about it, but it’s so true.

So I have a challenge for whoever might be reading this: Go out. Decide you are going to make one of your dreams come true, and do it. If you want to be a dog-whispering cowboy, a marathon runner, a cancer survivor, or whatever it is that makes you happy, do it. No matter how difficult it is, your body CAN do it. It’s an amazing thing you’ve been given, and you are the only person who has the chance to see what it can do.

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My Mom Went Through Menopause in Four Days, I'm Not Kidding.

Monday, June 14, 2010

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Menopause is the lovely event that occurs in women typically between ages 45 and 55. The best way to describe it is like puberty for adults- hormones change, dramatic mood swings occur at random moments, joints ache, the heart sometimes pounds, and my personal favorite symptom- the hot flash- makes its first appearance. For most women, this kind of adult puberty lasts five or more years. But not for chemo patients.

By no means have I ever gone through menopause myself—I am only 19 and often find myself with that awful puberty song they teach you in fourth grade stuck in my head—but I have had my fair share of being frozen out of the car when Mom has a hot flash. I was unaware that our car’s air conditioner could drop to such temperatures. Thankfully, these are the only remnants left of her chemo and her menopause.

One thing many people don’t realize is that chemotherapy drastically speeds up menopause in women. While everyone is different, for my mother, the four days that followed chemo treatment were the worst. While quickening the process of menopause, chemo also makes most patients extremely sick for a few days after treatment. For us, the magic number was four. During these four days, Mom would typically sleep most of the time, but when she was awake, it wasn’t pleasant. She would get sick, her skin would have a yellow tint to it, she hardly ate, and her mood… Let’s just say it was best to leave her alone and bring her anything she might need BEFORE she needed it. Survival, on my part, was all about anticipation.

When trying to get through those four days, it felt like they would never end. Honestly. They were some of the most difficult days I have ever faced, and all I had to deal with was a cranky mom. Seeing her so sick just killed me. I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like for her. But she’s a mother and the strongest woman I know, and she made it through as gracefully as possible. We joke about it now because Mom doesn’t even remember it. One of the blessings of chemotherapy is that it often causes you to forget those few days after treatment. I still tell her stories she has no recollection of, and we laugh about it. But at the time, I never imagined finding any form of humor in the situation.

Now I think it’s lucky Mom went through menopause so quickly. I just finished my freshman year of college and my roommate, who I love dearly, would always tell me stories of her mother’s menopausal ways. Just so you know, I have met her mom, and I love her just as much as I love my roommate. My response to my roommate’s stories was always a chuckle and “My mom did it in four days.” While chemo brutally shoved five plus years of menopause into four days for my mom, listening to stories of normal menopausal women now and looking back on it all, I’m glad my mom did it the way she did. It definitely wasn’t easy, but it’s just one more of those “blessings in disguise” that cancer has brought to my family.

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Because No One Told Me I Couldn't

Wednesday, June 09, 2010

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My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer on March 12, 2005, two days before my thirteenth birthday. My parents divorced in September of 2005 and my grandmother passed away from esophageal cancer that November. Mom retired from her job and bought her own business in a new town, fulfilling her lifelong dream of owning her own women’s clothing store. This meant that we were moving to this new town the summer before my freshman year of high school.
And my sister, who was the only normal thing in my life at that point, was leaving for college.

2005 five was the biggest blessing of my life. And 13 is not an unlucky number.

I choose not to tell too many people my story not because it is some dark, dramatic time in my life that I don’t like to talk about, but because it isn’t what is most important about me or my family. It doesn’t define us, and I don’t want what happened five years ago to be the only thing that people know us for. I like to refer to us as a “functional dysfunctional family,” meaning that yes, my parents are divorced, but they get along better now than they did when they were married; my mom owns the business she always dreamed of; my dad teaches at my high school helping emotionally disturbed children find the good in life; my sister is getting her PhD in molecular carcinogenesis; and I go to college in Boston just one block away from where Benjamin Franklin’s parents are buried. This is what makes us great- that through it all, my family hasn’t once taken on a defeatist attitude. And this is what I want people to know about us. Cancer was our blessing because we would not be where we are without it.

Cancer is taboo. Divorce is taboo. But I want to talk about it because most people don’t. It’s one of the scariest things life can throw at you, but only the strongest of people are blessed with it. Once you enter the “Cancer World” you meet the most amazing people who know what it’s like to fight. They know what it’s like to know that chemotherapy might not work, that the cancer might come back in a month or in ten years, that they will wake up in the morning with hair left on the pillow, and go to sleep at night with nothing but the black shadow of cancer growing inside them. And yet they fight anyway.

My mom has always taught me that there isn’t anything I couldn’t do. Whenever I question my ability to do something she says, “Who told you you couldn’t?” And I used to roll my eyes and think it was just one of those things mothers say to prove their kids wrong. But now that I think about it, while people may doubt me sometimes, the only person that can decide what my abilities are is me. No one told my mom that she wouldn’t survive chemotherapy or lose the fight to cancer. No one ever told her she wasn’t strong enough or couldn’t do it, because that decision was hers to make and no one else’s. That is what makes a survivor- fighting like you never thought possible because no one told you you couldn’t.

People assume that life ends when a diagnosis is made, or that kids will be forever scarred and damaged if their parents divorce. These things are horrible and difficult and they truly do test the strength of a person, but I am proof that these assumptions are merely words said by people who have never been lucky enough to go through it all. And I am telling you right now that you can survive anything that is thrown at you or your mother or your family. And if you ever have any doubt in your mind, because you will sometimes, just ask yourself, “Who told me I couldn’t?”

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My Mother and Michael Buble Taught Me to be Honest

People, Places, and the Things They Teach Us

Cancer is Not Hot Pink

Normality and Surgical Drains

You Have to Get Back Up

Cancer is Like a Horse Race

Unconquered

Cowboys and Marathon Runners

My Mom Went Through Menopause in Four Days, I'm Not Kidding.

Because No One Told Me I Couldn't

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