October 31: And Elsewhere on the Web

My story ran in other blogs as well this year.

First, there was Young Survival Coalition, which ran my story on their social media sites on October 13th, which is Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day.

Metastatic From the Start, featured on METAvivor's blog

I was featured on Telling Knots, in a two-part entry: Part I and Part II


* * *

There were a number of good blog entries elsewhere on the web this month too.

Think Before You Pink

Pushing Up Daisies

Let's Stop 'Dumbing Down' Breast Cancer Awareness Campaigns

When TODAY Said I Was 'Not Bald Enough' 

Why some women with breast cancer dread October

Attack of the Pinktober Sharks

A Day in the Life of a Stage IV Metastatic Breast Cancer Patient

Project Metastatic Breast Cancer

The Problem with National Breast Cancer Awareness Month  

Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer - the MBC Edition

Living with Stage 4: The breast cancer no one understands


Having breast cancer means being ‘aware’ every day, not just in October 

October 28: Guest Blogger Rachel Boullion Wickman

Guest Blogger Rachel Boullion Wickman is sharing with us the perspective of a young mother living with metastatic breast cancer.

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Being Cancer Mom (she’s like Super Mom, but on the couch)

When I was 32 years old, I became pregnant for the first time. I have always wanted to have kids, but seeing as how I was getting “old” and had been through a divorce a year or so earlier, thought it may never happen. Then I met my husband Chris in 2007, and immediately got pregnant with my son Riley. I was overjoyed! Never did I think I could love someone so much as I did that little munchkin. My joy at being a mother made me long for another child, so when Riley was 9 months old, in January of 2009, I became pregnant again. Things were a little more complicated this time around. I had gestational diabetes, so my go to drug of choice, chocolate, was off limits. I was super tired. I was achy. I attributed all these things to being pregnant again so soon after having a baby, plus the added stress of a 1 year old running around the house.

In July, 2 months before I was due, I found a lump in my breast. Not terribly big, but it was there. I showed my OB/GYN, who examined it manually and declared that it seemed triangular and it was probably a blocked milk duct. She advised me to put hot compresses on it, which I promptly forgot to do. Two months later, my little man Eli was born. I was super stoked, but super exhausted, and had a fairly rampant case of postpartum depression to boot. So when I went for my 6 week checkup after having him, never once did I even think to mention that the lump was still there. And never once did they ask about it.

Fast forward another year (!) to my annual checkup... the lump is still there. The alarmed look on my OB/GYN’s face did nothing to alleviate my anxiety about it. It’s now been a year and a half since the lump presented itself, and it’s begun to grow and cave in my nipple area a bit. They sent me for a mammogram and ultrasound, then a biopsy and PET scan. All showed cancer... EVERYWHERE. My skeleton was riddled with tumors. I was devastated. My thoughts immediately went to my boys, who were 1 and 2 at the time. Would they know their mother at all? Would they remember my laugh, my sense of humor, my fits of anger? Would Chris remarry and the boys think that this “new” mom was their mother, the one who carried them lovingly in her belly for 9 months singing to them? I just couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t.

Having had the BRCA genetic test done, I found out that I do indeed carry the BRCA 2 mutation. So now not only do I have myself to worry about, but my family as well. In my mind, I just kept thinking, “what have I done?” I decided then to have my breasts and ovaries removed to give myself a fighting chance. I had 16 rounds of chemo to stave off the monster. When I realized that my hair was falling out, we had a head shaving party and let my boys cut my hair off so it seemed like a fun time rather than a scary one.

Stock image. Photo credit www.candygibbs.com

They loved it! To this day they ask if they can do it again (hopefully not, but realistically it’s probable).

We just try to live one day at a time as a family, and take things as they come.

How does this affect the boys you might ask? Well, they’ve never known anything different. They’ve grown up knowing that Mommy goes to the doctor a lot, and sometimes has to have stuff done like surgeries to help the doctors fix her. They know I take my meds every day. They don’t really know what cancer is, per se, but I’ve explained to Riley when he asks that Mom has something inside her that’s messed up, but that it isn’t something he can catch, and we can still hug and give sugars all the time. I’ve learned to appreciate little things that most people take for granted... the first day of Kindergarten, first lost tooth, first “girlfriend”. I’m hoping to see a first date, first dance, weddings, and grandkids, but know realistically that it isn’t likely. As my boys grow up, I try to make life memorable. I am relieved that I’ve lived as long as I have, so I know they’ll have some memory of me now (they’re currently 5 and 6).

 It’s difficult sometimes knowing that I can’t do all the things “normal” moms can do. I can’t run in the yard with them for more than a minute or two without being completely exhausted. I suffer from serious fatigue, so much so that my patience is nil, and I’m known to yell at any given time, completely hurting their feelings. I hate that this is the life they’re living, and hate that they now have to worry if they have daughters that they too will get this shitty disease.

Please let there be a cure soon so this legacy I’ve imposed on them ends.

October 27: Guest Blogger Knot Telling

Guest blogger Knot Telling is sharing with us another perspective of someone else living with metastatic breast cancer. You can follow her journey at her blog, Telling Knots.

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Capital Punishment and Pink Rocks


Condemned prisoners in Japan are not told the date of their execution until the morning of the day itself. According to many experts, this is a contravention of the International Covenant on Civil and Human Rights. The parts of the Covenant that concern us here are Article 7 (“No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment”) and Article 10 (“All persons deprived of their liberty shall be treated with humanity and with respect for the inherent dignity of the human person”). In other words, not telling condemned prisoners when they will be executed until a few hours prior to their death is considered to be inhuman and an affront to human dignity. Torture.

I had an immediate visceral reaction when I first read a 2007 BBC News report about the Japanese system of capital punishment, and I have never forgotten it. Living with MBC is not unlike living under sentence of death and not knowing how long you have until the sentence is carried out. The stress can be a kind of psychological torture.

There are many kinds of physical torture. It’s been reported that regimes such as the Nazis in the 1930s and 40s, the gulag in the Soviet Union and North Korea today used forced meaningless labor as torture, tasks like carrying heavy rocks from one place to another and back again. Sometimes the stress of living with MBC feels like carrying around a load of rocks.

Yes. I sometimes feel as though an arbitrary authority is forcing me to carry large rocks from one place to another. Sometimes my load is reduced and I can breathe more easily, relax my muscles, sleep through the night. At other times, I have the sense that more rocks are being added to my burden.

Save the tatas!
A rock.

Early detection of breast cancer saves lives!
Another rock.

Breast cancer can now be cured!
Another.

If you have a positive attitude you won’t die of cancer!
And another.

Buy this pink teapot/garbage can/mouse pad for breast cancer awareness!
Yet another.

Every October my burden gets so much heavier. Listen:

*Breast cancer is not about breasts. It is a horrible disease that kills both men and women. It is not about saving sex appeal; it’s about saving lives.

*Early detection of breast cancer can mean the treatment is not as difficult, but it is no guarantee that it won’t recur. In fact, about 30% of everyone who has breast cancer—regardless of the stage at diagnosis—will have a recurrence and metastasis.

*There is no cure for breast cancer. None. There is treatment that can lead to remission or an NED (no evidence of disease) condition, but there is no cure. No one knows who will be in that 30%  and who will not. For the unlucky 30% there is no cure. We will have breast cancer until we die, probably of breast cancer and its complications.

*There is no scientific research that shows any relationship between mood or attitude and recovery from cancer. At this point, there is no way to predict with any degree of scientific certainty who will live and who will die. Some cheerful, positive people die. Some miserable, complaining, angry people recover. Some people who have variable moods live and some die. Mood and attitude do not correlate with, let alone influence, recovery.

*Pink merchandise has become a common marketing ploy, especially in October. Much, if not most, of the pink “breast cancer awareness” merchandise that is sold profit manufacturers and vendors and no one else. If you like pink, go ahead and buy it, but if you want to contribute to the fight against breast cancer be under no illusions. Unless you have verified that a reasonable portion of profits goes to a reputable foundation or charity, make your donation directly.

The pink rocks that are added to my burden are just as heavy as the others.

Even if I didn’t have those extra rocks to carry around, the stress of this indefinitely postponed yet certain death sentence is psychological torture. I am in my eleventh year of it, and I am tired.

I am tired of pain and I am tired of the narcotics that treat it. I am tired of having a permanently compromised immune system. I am tired of massive fatigue.

At the same time, I want to live every day that remains to me. It is the frustration at not being able to do that the way I’d prefer that makes me tired and angry. Nevertheless, I have taken steps to have the best quality of life I can. I have made arrangements for people to come and help me with the tasks I can no longer do (housework, garden work, errands in town). I enrolled in a distance learning course. I stopped exams and treatment, other than comfort measures like pain management.

In other words, I found the little power that is left to me in the face of the arbitrary “authority” (fate? genetics? environment?) that condemned me and sentenced me to the forced labor of carrying rocks until the unknown date of my death. I draw on that power as much as I can—some days more, some days less—in order to live as well as I can until MBC causes my death.

October 26: Guest Blogger Jennifer Eisenbart

A journalist for a newspaper in Wisconsin, Jennifer Eisenbart became active in spreading metastatic breast cancer awareness after it had an impact on her own life. Note: This column was originally printed by Southern Lakes Newspapers Oct. 2, 2014. It is reprinted with the permission of SLN, and should not be reprinted further without permission.

Additional note: Zanne is the nickname I go by with my friends. It's short for Susanne, using the Americanized spelling instead of the German spelling.

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      To me, breast cancer isn’t about statistics, or stages, about survival rates, or about October and the readiness of pink-ribbon items.

      For me, breast cancer is about names.

      Judy and Sharon – two friends who helped me through some of the toughest times of my life. Both died of metastatic breast cancer; one this year, the other more than 12 years ago.

      Then there’s my friend Zanne, who I met writing fan fiction and who just got married this past weekend. Earlier this year, she was diagnosed with stage IV breast cancer.

      As she constantly reminds me, in her case at stage IV, there is no cure. She’s fighting the cancer with everything she has, and there’s a good chance she will be around for a long time.

      But there’s also the inevitable fact that the cancer cannot be eradicated, and that sooner or later, it will probably take her life. And the real kick in the pants? It won’t be the breast cancer that kills her then – not technically. It will be cancer that will have spread to her lungs, her lymph nodes, her brain, or even her bone marrow.

      Cancer goes where it can to escape and survive.

      I get behind and support breast cancer awareness in October – and the goals of finding a cure and stopping this disease from taking the lives of people I know. I remain optimistic that, perhaps in my lifetime, we will find a way to take breast cancer from the scary, incomprehensible secret to just another disease.

      In the meantime, though, I want to spread the word about stage IV breast cancer – aka, metastatic breast cancer. According to Metavivor, a site dedicated to women suffering from stage IV breast cancer, here are the facts:

      • Metastatic breast cancer receives approximately 2 percent of the funds raised for research.

      • While only 6 to 10 percent of patients are diagnosed with stage IV breast cancer, 30 percent will eventually progress to stage IV.

      • The primary focus of breast cancer research is prevention and early detection. That does nothing for the women diagnosed with stage IV – either in the beginning or later.

      Metavivor is working hard to address that discrepancy. The organization says it believes that if 30 percent of the women with breast cancer are stage IV, then 30 percent of the funds that are raised should go to stage IV research.

      It’s not a bad thought. Breast cancer in and of itself is a devastating disease. To free yourself of the disease and to have it reoccur – which means it has automatically progressed to stage IV – or to be diagnosed in that stage makes it worse. To know that so little effort is being put into stage IV research is infuriating.

      I know what my friend Judy went through the final days of her life. I know, because I was there. I watched as she struggled to breathe, finally being put on a bi-pap machine and being placed on numerous drugs to stabilize her condition.

      Those drugs were discontinued, the oxygen switched to a nasal cannula the morning she died. The reason was because there was no hope. The cancer had invaded her bones – destroyed her bone marrow. The reason she had so much trouble breathing was because her body wasn’t producing the red blood cells she so desperately needed.

      Would Judy’s end have been any different with more research – with more funds put toward stopping cancer that has reached stage IV? I don’t know. Breast cancer isn’t alone in its stage IV challenge. Any form of cancer that reaches that point is difficult, if not impossible, to cure.

      But increasing survival rates? Extending survival time? Eventually figuring out how to get rid of Stage IV cancer or keep it from reaching that stage? I think those are laudable goals. And I hope, for everyone who has reached that point, that cancer research can take that step.

October 25: Guest Blogger Micchi

A dear friend of mine, Micchi's life has been touched by metastatic breast cancer several times over. I asked them to share their thoughts and experiences. This is what they wrote.

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When my best friend was diagnosed with breast cancer, it was a kick to the gut but a manageable one. Yes, we were all blinded by the pinkwashing, and convinced that she would beat this and be cancer-free before we really knew what was happening.

We learned pretty quickly that that was likely not an option, when the staging and the reveal that the cancer had spread came down. This was a terminal diagnosis. It might be next year, it might be next decade, but eventually, this would be her downfall.

I was lucky. I'd been dealing with my mother's slow progression of illness for several years by this point. I already knew that, with a terminal illness, one bad day could turn into a month of bad days pretty easily. I'd learned that even if that cold was easily treated, one misstep could mean pneumonia and a hospital stay.

It's terrifying, and it's heartbreaking.

On top of that, for someone affected by metastatic breast cancer, pinkwashing has done no favors. Any time I talk about my friend, there's the quiet, worried "Oh, what kind of cancer does she have? Breast cancer? Oh, but they're made so many strides on breast cancer!"

...Yeah, no, not really.

Metastatic breast cancer patients face a unique hurdle: erasure. Their fight, their struggle, their pain is constantly erased by races for The Cure! and how beatable breast cancer is!

And that erasure needs to stop.

October 24: Guest Blogger Jennifer Kraus-Dahlgren - Part 2

See October 23rd for Part 1 of Jennifer's guest post on metastatic breast cancer, and what it's like as the partner and caretaker of someone living with MBC.

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I remember that she started receiving care packages very shortly after that. Friends and family of hers stepped up and sent her little things, a card, some money, ginger-based products to stave off the normal nausea that'd come with chemo. Little things to brighten her day. I was almost never sent anything. I was rarely even mentioned as being kept in thoughts, prayers, hopes. Everything was about her. And it should've been, as far as I was concerned. She was the one that was ill. She was the one that needed to fight. She was the one that was loved.

But I started to feel forgotten. I was the one that'd help her get to a trash can or the toilet in time when the nausea hit. I was going to be the one carrying things for her, doing shopping and laundry largely by myself as chemo progressed and she started losing her strength. I was the one that'd have to go through her belongings and decide what to let go of, as if I were letting go of parts of her. I was the one that was going to stand at that grave as the grieving widow.

I never begrudged her the attention. She needed it. She was the one that was ill. And she never forgot me. She held me every day. She reassured me every time she saw me crying that she would beat this, that she wasn't leaving me. But she was the only one. Nobody else even talked to me about it. No one asked how I was doing, if maybe I needed a hug, or a day out to get away from the appointments and the material things I'd have to sort through, the things that I looked at every day and thought who they should go to.

I was braced to be alone, and in so many ways, I was already alone.

My reality had changed, and I didn't want to live there anymore. I desperately wished I could close my eyes, wiggle my nose, and tap my heels together and everything would change back to how they were. Back to her being able to work, to a time when our excursions out of the apartment could be for something silly, before the doctor appointments and chemo took over. Suddenly, leaving the apartment meant leaving my little bubble of denial, it meant looking Death in the face and begging her not to take the woman I loved. Begging for her to be spared. For more time.

I keep hearing stories of people who leave their wives and girlfriends after a Stage IV diagnosis. Leaving when that woman needed them the most. In some ways, I can't blame them. It's terrifying, to watch someone you love slowly die. Being a caretaker can be one of the most thankless jobs in the world. The only one who really seems to get that is the patient herself. It hurts when the people around you ask your wife "how are you doing?" but don't even give a nod to your own pain. I can't say that I blame someone for walking out on that.

But I couldn't personally fathom it. I couldn't imagine Susanne having to go through those treatments alone, having to someday lie in a bed and pass away without the woman she loved holding her hand. I knew what it was like to be alone when you needed someone the most, I loved Susanne too much to be able to do that to her. To even let it cross my mind.

But being a caretaker is a thankless job. Nobody else seems to see how hard the caretaker has it. Nobody but those of us who have been there know what it's like to watch someone die. To watch their time slip away, knowing that there will never, ever be enough time left.

That was the reality I had stepped into with that phone call, late in November. It was a reality I hated. All the dreams we had, the ones we'd been able to continue to hang onto, even after our lives had already been irreversibly changed, they were gone. Time was working against us, suddenly. That black, ugly void where nothing makes sense and everything hurts yanked the rug out from under our feet. That was my new reality.

Just a month before had been Pinktober, with its messages of hope, of cures. Like so many other people, it'd fooled me into thinking that breast cancer was beatable, that it didn't kill people. They told us to hope. They told us to pray, they told us to feel bad when we didn't detect it early, as if it was the patient's fault that her cancer hadn't been diagnosed until too late.

Our dreams were gone. Her career, her chance at becoming a nurse, everything. It was all gone. All that was left for us was doctors and illnesses and an inevitable separation. Behind us, all those pasts, all those what ifs, shoulda coulda wouldas, they were gone. They were torn. They were vandalized and ripped and torn and taken from us and left behind as nothing but a future that we could no longer look for.

My reality had changed. And all I could think that it was my fault. If I'd only gotten her in earlier, if I'd only outstubborned her, maybe we could've caught it before it became Stage IV, could've beaten it. Could've had that hope. If I lost her, I had nobody to blame but myself. That if she died, it was my fault. Not getting her in early had been me giving her a death sentence.

One day, I will be looking up at the urn on my shelf and have to apologize because I'd failed her in the one thing I was supposed to do. One day, I'll be saying "I miss you, I love you, please come back." One day, my own life will be over, and I'll be left behind again.

But I try not to think of that day. It'll come, in the meantime, the best thing I can do is hold onto each and every precious second, to keep taking care of her, to keep loving her. That's all anyone can ever do. Hold on and love.

Hold on and love.

October 23: Guest Blogger Jennifer Kraus-Dahlgren - Part 1

You, gentle readers, have met Jennifer before, as Jen in my previous entries. I asked my wife to pen a guest post on metastatic breast cancer, and what it's like to be the caretaker and partner of someone living with MBC.

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The Life of a Caretaker

By the cold and religious we were taken in hand,
Shown how to feel good and told to feel bad.
Tongue-tied and terrified we learned how to pray.
Now our feelings run deep and cold as the clay.
And strung out behind us, the banners and flags,
Of our possible pasts lie in tatters and rags.
-Pink Floyd

I remember the moment we received the news very clearly. I can't remember what the date was, not even what day of the week it was, beyond not a weekend. Susanne knows, but I don't. It was November, the stores already had Christmas decorations up and cards and gifts and music was playing. The season of giving. The season of brightness and light and for some, a holy season. A season of gifts.

I'd known, the first time I felt that lump in her breast, that it was cancer. Something deep inside me knew. She insisted it was a cyst, she'd had one exactly like it on the other side, and it'd burst and drained, just like she expected this one to. I knew better. But I let her prove me wrong. I dismissed my concerns as paranoia. I grew up in a family full of life-threatening and/or chronic illnesses, I was always ready to expect the worst when something was not right with someone I loved.

But she showed no other symptoms of cancer, and she was too young. So I let her confidence keep me floating along.

But I knew.

I finally got her to agree to go see the gynecologist I'd been seeing for my birth control for a basic evaluation. The place was mostly donation-run, so we could afford it. They referred her to a doctor here in town to have it biopsied, or drained, if it was a cyst, as Susanne thought. I sat there in the procedure room with Susanne and the doctor, looking away because I get squeamish about medical procedures, but I was there. I heard the doctor announce that it was solid, not a cyst.

The word cancer loomed in front of me. I knew. It was there for two years, and I knew every day and night of those two years. But there was the chance that it wasn't malignant, maybe just fibrosis, nothing to worry about, something that could be removed and life would go on as normal.

It was a few days before we heard the news. I think I had to call the doctor, instead of getting a call from her. I'd grown more and more nervous as we waited. That word kept whispering in my ear. Cancer. Cancer, it said.

Photo by Marla Austin Photography

Finally, we found out. It was cancer. Any shred of hope I'd had disappeared. It felt like I stopped breathing, like my heart stopped beating in my chest and my lungs couldn't take in air and I wanted to die. Susanne was worried, staring at me for the news. I told her. She panicked. She started crying. And all I could do was numbly listen to the doctor. She gave us a referral to an oncologist here in town. There'd be tests. Medicines. Possibly surgeries.

My reality had suddenly changed. And I hated it.

I grabbed onto one tiny thread of hope at that point. After all, everyone knows that breast cancer is beatable. There's hope. Hope For The Cure, Pinktober said. It was everywhere, everyone knew that it was beatable. As long as she hadn't advanced to mets, we could shrink and remove the tumor, and she'd be healthy again, even if she had to wear a padded bra to keep from looking lopsided because one breast was half-missing.

There were days of tests. She had a mammogram to make sure it wasn't in the other breast. A PET scan to look for any signs of mets. A surgery for her port for the chemo infusions, and a liver biopsy. There was something on the PET scan that we weren't sure what it was.

I knew. She didn't just have cancer. She had mets. It was Stage IV.

My soulmate, the woman who'd stood by me through so much, through my own illnesses, through family problems and money problems and any other problem life could possibly send my way. She was there with me.

I tried to hold my breath after we found out there was something on the liver. I tried to pretend that if I just held still enough, if we stood there and counted our heartbeats until the danger had passed, that it wouldn't come for us. That it wasn't mets. That it wasn't the deadly stage.

But that voice, that part of me that knew, I knew this, too. She was dying. I was going to be left behind. I was going to be staring at another grave, like too many times before in my life, and I'd be talking to the wind instead of her.

Her oncologist confirmed it. It was Stage IV. He stayed positive, didn't mention that the average lifespan after Stage IV diagnosis was three to five years. He pointed out how many women with Stage IV went on to live even decades after their diagnosis. Susanne held onto that. I tried. I'd never been able to see living without her, not until we were little old ladies, living in an assisted living home and wearing goofy t-shirts and being annoying to the other residents and people working there with our random outbursts of laughter over nerdy, silly things that everyone around us would wonder what the hell we were talking about.

Suddenly, I was facing the idea that I'd lose her before I even hit forty. That I'd be a widow before we even got to marry. Someone else was leaving me. I was being left alone again, and I honestly didn't know what I would do without her. I couldn't see a future anymore. It was gone. I'd lost my dreams and my life already due to a psychiatric illness that took me away from the possibility of work, of a career, of school, but I could deal with that, as long as I had Susanne.

Now, nothing was there. It was just me. Just me and an elderly cat with Stage I kidney failure. That's all that was left.

Every day, I cried. I panicked. I made plans for what to do when the inevitable happened. I started trying to figure out what of hers to give away, what to send to charity, what to keep. I started looking at her wanting to say "I'll miss you" instead of "I love you." I did my best to keep that thought to myself. I was her main support, I was the shoulder to cry on, I wasn't the person to be doing the crying.

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Tune in tomorrow to read the second part of Jen's powerful essay, The Life of a Caretaker.

October 22: Interview with METAvivor's Lori Marx-Rubiner

I interviewed METAvivor president Lori Marx-Rubiner via email. These are her replies.

When were you first diagnosed with Breast Cancer?

Tuesday, February 4, 2002, after the worst weekend of my life. I had my biopsy on a Thursday and waited 5 LONG days to find out. I later discovered (while reading my chart) that the doctor knew that Friday but never told me. He was fired.

When were you diagnosed with Metastatic Breast Cancer?

Interesting that this date is less memorable – late August 2011, just about 2 months before my son’s bar mitzvah.

What were your thoughts upon hearing the metastatic diagnosis? Was your perception correct? What has changed since then?

Honestly – relief. I had spent nearly 2 years watching a tumor marker rise, with scan after scan showing nothing. Without corroborating evidence there was nothing to do but wait. So when it finally showed up I was relieved and ready to get back into treatment.

How did you first learn about METAvivor?

NO IDEA! It’s always been there. I think I first bumped into CJ on the #bcsm twitter chat, long before I was diagnosed with mets.

When did you get involved working with METAvivor?

CJ and I met face to face at the NBCC Conference in 2011, I think. I started getting involved then, and became a board member about a year later.

How much progress do you think has been made for metastatic breast cancer research?

One of the biggest challenges is defining how we measure progress, and on what front. Women are living longer – this is good. There are some new-ish and emerging classes of drugs – also good. But as we move into genomic sequencing for patients, we’re finding how much more there is to know. We can test for genomic mutations, but in so many instances we have no idea what to do with the information. We aren’t funding MBC research at any greater a rate than we had been – still below a paltry 5%. And the system is pathetically cumbersome, with drugs taking a decade or more to get to market, despite our average life expectancy of about 2 years.

What's the one thing about metastatic breast cancer that you feel the public should be more aware of?

That you die from it.

I know a breast cancer diagnosis strikes fear in the heart of anyone who confronts it. It get it. I’ve been there. But early stage disease doesn’t kill. Period. People need to understand that metastatic breast cancer kills, and that one in three patients – including those who believe they were “cured” from early stage treatment – get it. Death, death by disease, is never easy to face. But sweeping MBC under the pink carpet isn’t going to change the numbers. We’re still losing 40,000 Americans a year, while the pink party continue. It’s shameful.

What was the hardest treatment you've been through to date? The easiest?

Probably my chemo – FEC100. It was a stronger dose than they are using now, I think, and it knocked my on my ass. I had a 3-year-old to keep up with at the time so the worst of it was the exhaustion. It also left me feeling like a failing, dying mother. (See comments about early stage treatment above…I drank the Kool-Aid too!)

Easiest? I guess my time on Tamoxifen. It left me hormonal and spacy, but it interfered less with daily life and easy living than the others.

Do you have any special tips or tricks that worked for you in combating any side effects of any form of breast cancer treatment?

Talk to your doctor! There isn’t a side effect too silly to address, and you don’t get points for suffering in silence. If your doc’s solution isn’t working, seek others. Don’t be afraid of complementary medicine. Things like acupuncture and herbal remedies have been tested in human subjects for centuries. But check with your doctor first!

Oh, and peppermint oil for hot flashes. Just a few drops on the back of your neck – it’s a miracle drug. It cools me off within a minute or two, lasts about an hour, and when I’m over-zealous in my use it leaves me so cold I need to put on a sweater.



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Thank you, Lori, so very much for taking the time to answer these questions.

Lori can be found at her blog, Regrounding, and on Twitter.

Watch her interview on Lifetime's The Balancing Act.

October 21: Interview with METAvivor's Kelly Boyd Lange

I interviewed former METAvivor president and current Secretary/Treasurer Kelly Boyd Lange via email. The following are her replies.

When were you first diagnosed with Breast Cancer?

I was first diagnosed with stage I BC in 1995. I was 32. I opted for lumpectomy/radiation, and chemo wasn't recommended (I think it would be now).

When were you diagnosed with Metastatic Breast Cancer? What were your thoughts upon hearing the metastatic diagnosis? Was your perception correct? What has changed since then?

Starting Herceptin, 2007

My first recurrence was in the lumpectomy scar 5 years out. After that I had several lumps under my arm, which were removed in two surgeries. I remember going to the pre-op evaluation for one of those  axillary dissections and seeing an oncologist's note describing me as "stage IV". The label surprised me - I was rationalizing that with involvement in the breast and under the arm I was more in line with stage II or III.

Of course, I knew it wasn't good that it kept coming back, but I didn't think of myself as metastatic since I had no involvement in lung/liver/bone/brain - or any other essential organ. That changed when it spread to my skin in early 2007. Even then I can't say I was devastated; I think the incremental progression towards mets prepared me emotionally. I'm not saying it wasn't hard, it's just that I dealt with it so gradually compared with how it happens for most people. At that point I started Herceptin, more than seven years ago now. After two treatments my skin cleared up considerably, and it is still clear today. I count my blessing every day. I know how fortunate I am that I have been so stable for so long.

How did you first learn about METAvivor?

METAvivor found me! I was fundraising for the Komen 3 Day. I was chatting with an acquaintance about the walk, it turns out she was CJ’s neighbor. As soon as CJ heard I was stage 4 she got in touch. It didn’t take long for CJ to get her hooks in me, and set me straight about the state of MBC research!

When did you get involved working with METAvivor?

I got involved right away. I stopped working in late 2006 because of progression, but I was feeling so much better on Herceptin, so I had some time and energy to give. The hard part is getting close to people and then losing them. I try to turn the grief into motivation to keep plugging away. I hope that METAvivor is making a difference.

How much progress do you think has been made for metastatic breast cancer research?

Not nearly enough! The process is painfully slow, and it breaks my heart every time we lose someone that couldn’t hold out for that next hopeful drug. But I am encouraged in some ways. It seems to me like awareness is growing, and our voices are getting louder.

What's the one thing about metastatic breast cancer that you feel the public should be more aware of?

After 2 Herceptin treatments

It’s hard to pick just one thing! I would say the public needs to realize that MBC can happen to anyone. It happens no matter how well you take of yourself, no matter how long you have been “cancer free”, no matter how good your health care team is, no matter how young you are. It just happens to 1 in 3 of us.

What was the hardest treatment you've been through to date? The easiest?

The hardest treatment by far was the Adriamycin/Cytoxan regimen that I was on in 2000. The nausea meds just didn’t work for me, and I struggled with blood counts. Compared to the AC, the Herceptin that I am on now is a dream. The worst part is driving to the infusion center! We need drugs like this for everyone – effective and easy to take.

Do you have any special tips or tricks that worked for you in combating any side effects of any form of breast cancer treatment?

I always recommend that people talk to the infusion nurses. They have seen everything, and they are really good at side effect management. It was a nurse who suggested that I try lorazepam for nausea during the AC cycles. It was the only thing that kept me from vomiting non-stop for 24 hours after treatment. The nurses are just full of helpful information!



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Thank you so much, Kelly, for taking the time for this interview.

Kelly can be found on Twitter, along with METAvivor. 

Watch her interview on Lifetime's The Balancing Act.

Your Singing Mammogram

Last night, I hopped onto Twitter just to check what was going on over there since Facebook was quiet and was boring me, and I caught a tweet made by Lori, the president of METAvivor.

I clicked on the link to see the video, and my jaw dropped. I'm deaf, I couldn't even follow what was being said, and even taking that into account, what I saw was so mind-numbingly offensive that all I could do was make incoherently profane sounds and anatomically-impossible suggestions for the people who thought it up. For your viewing "pleasure", it's below:

And of course, this comes on the heels of me bitching about the sexualization of breast cancer. I've been getting bits and snips of this travesty from other people, trying to formulate a post of my own about this. I seriously can't even with this video. Every line I learn, my brain hops back into incoherent rage mode. But this is what friends are for. Lori made an excellent post of her own, #AllKindsOfWrong, and Sara, the best maid in our wedding party, put together a line-by-line of what's wrong with this video.

Ooooh, wow. Where do I begin? First off, that was the longest, most annoying minute of my life so far today.

Right from the start, it annoys me. The nonsense-syllable intro? "Boobs, ba-boobs, ba-boobs, ta-ta tas, boobs..." Oh, -please-.

"Dudes and babies love 'em,/It's fun to squeeze and hug 'em..." Yes, thank you. Thank you for reducing my worth to a pair of breasts, on legs. Because the rest of me is not huggable at all--just my breasts. Thank you for reminding me that they have two purposes: For Being Groped, and For Feeding Sprogs. Because it's -certainly- not enough to just let them be 'a body part'.

I could be mishearing this one; it's a bit mushy: "Big cups or double-Ds, E and, we love 'em Gs..." Yes, because mammoth boobs are the ONLY ONES THAT MATTER, duh. Anything smaller than a D-cup? Apparently, you do not matter. (Note: the line is actually B-Cups, but the comment still stands. A-Cups are ignored, and oddly, C-Cups are only implied. The less common DD, E, and Gs are sung about because massive boobs.)

"They jiggle in loose tees/And extra-perky in the breeze!" I don't even. Again with the implication that breasts serve no other purpose than to please men, and we are -obligated-, as women, to entertain them with our breasts.

"Depending on the rack,/They sometimes hurt your back." I don't know. I just found this line, sung by a bunch of guys, who will never have to deal with that sort of issue, to be incredibly condescending. Almost along the lines of the "It's all in your head!" sympathy they give when women suffer from PMS: "How could you possibly SUFFER from something as awesome as BREASTS?! You must be imagining it."

Then there's this nonsense mumbled stuff about the pleasure of removing your bra after a long day. Whatever, dudes. It comes off as them chuckling and head-patting...oh, those women and their brassieres...more lady-sorcery we do not understand! BRAS. HOW DO THEY WORK.

"It's important and we're begging you, please.../Take care of those boobies!" If the sentiment was, 'Regular breast exams are a critical component of your preventive care regimen', then, okay. I can accept that. But the entire feel--no, I take that back--TAINT of this video gives the undercurrent of, 'If you get breast cancer, you'll have to get a mastectomy, and THEN what will we ogle and squeeze?! YOU OWE US, LADIES.' And maybe I'm just reading too much into this. But to me, the video -oozes- light-hearted "tee hee, look at us, we're so cute!" There is no 'serious reminder of health issues'. And it comes off as 'it's not THAT serious', too.

"And please don't forget to share this reminder to check your pair." Most women I know would be offended by this, why on earth would I share it?

Ugh. I feel dirty now.

 Another thought I had, after stepping away from that morass of everything tacky and tasteless: it ONLY concerns women who have not been diagnosed with breast cancer.

Maybe that's the whole point, and maybe I'm missing that point, and maybe it's just that, a year ago, I wouldn't have even given it a second thought. But, knowing you, and being here with you as you go through the treatment and the stress and the heartache of dealing with breast cancer? It kind of -cheapens- what you're going through. Turns it into a song-and-dance number, makes it sound like this funny, cool thing ladies should do. Oh, and if you get breast cancer? You horrible harridan, you DID NOT TAKE CARE OF YOUR BOOBIES. HOW. COULD. YOU. WE EVEN SANG AND DANCED ABOUT IT!

To me, Prevention, Treatment and Management should be bosom buddies (no pun intended). One should not be given the spotlight, while the others are overshadowed, because prevention is the fun one! It's the pretty one that isn't sick yet! What's the point of prevention, if no effort is made toward exploring treatment options and efforts to improve the quality of life for people (yes, men and women both) who suffer from breast cancer?

AND THAT'S ANOTHER THING I just thought of. This whole video COMPLETELY excludes the men, completely. It doesn't cover the fact that they're at risk, too, and makes early detection seem like Womany Sorcery Stuff, No Boys Allowed. And that's a crying shame, because what do these poor men do, when they find themselves adrift in a sea of pink, with no lifebuoys left out for them?

Susan G. Komen, you disgust me, in ways I never thought you could.

I couldn't have said it better myself. And in case an example is needed to prove that one doesn't have to resort to offensive, condescending, ninnyhammer claptrap to promote awareness, here's the video from METAvivor.