My friend. My sister.

I'd like to dedicate today's entry to my friend Britt who today went through surgery to remove a cancerous lump from her breast. When she called me with the news I remembered exactly how frightening the world was when I was told I had breast cancer. Your heart stops and you go into a numbness that you can't explain. "This can't be happening," you say to yourself. But it is. And when all is said and done, you've become a master in your illness and the true challenge begins: Moving on. There are so many things that can go wrong, so many factors that affect your life now, that you find yourself looking in so many directions until you go dizzy. And if you are like me, always anticipating and trying to be prepared for the future, the task is overwhelming. The options, the choices, the not-one-answer-fits-all routine, all is confusing and not helpful. Why did I chose to do a double mastectomy? Why other women don't? How does this affect the future – MY future? There are no standard answers. To me, it made sense to get rid of it all. To other women, breast conservation was a viable option. At the end, we are all left with the consequences of our own decisions. My reconstruction process has been going on since the mastectomy: two years in May. It is still ongoing. Last week I had a second hand of ink. Tattooing ink... And as much as I'd like to say I am going a little crazy getting a tattoo, the truth is that this is the cherry on the top of the reconstruction process. One more treatment and I will be officially done. At least for a decade or so, because the implants are not for life... But, as with anything else, at that point I will just have to do what I have to do and move on. So, despite the sour taste of surgeries and unexpected side effects, Britt, we only have one choice: To push through. You are my sister now, not just a friend. We will have each other to support and to cheer. We will compare notes and ask questions. We will overcome this challenge, no matter what, no matter when. Together we are stronger. Together we will survive.

Pumping Iron

So, this week I went to the gym for the first time since the surgeries. Big deal, you'd say, but really, it was a milestone. Since my latissimus dorsi muscles were repositioned, I had realized that now my chest was part of many movements involving my arms. I knew that, but somehow the weight exercises made me feel strange and were a clear reminder of how my body is no longer what it used to be. How could I explain this? Imagine that every time you do a pull or a push with your arms, a wide, tight elastic band around your chest would contract and release with each movement. Not only was I wondering, "Hm, should I even be doing this exercise?" but I was also hoping nobody noticed my chest pumping iron! You have no idea how weird this is. Before my surgery, one of the assistants at the surgeons office, who is also a breast cancer survivor, showed me how she could make her breast move on command (remember, now there is a muscle attached to the breast). We all laughed about it and made jokes, but now that I can do it myself, well, it's funny in a not so funny way. It's not like I can go around showing everybody my new trick, right? • Stuff like this still catches me off guard. Every time I think I am moving on with having had breast cancer something pops (no pun intended) to remind me that, if I am moving on, I am taking this along. No leaving behind, no forgetting about it. It's more like learning to live WITH it and learning to deal with all its byproducts. Sometimes I am okay with it, sometimes I am not. But, for the time being, I will continue going to the gym — who knows what other tricks I may learn!

Life is never easy

The death of a friend of mine yesterday struck me right in the middle of my heart. The fact that it was breast cancer what killed her makes it even worse. She was my age, we went to the university together and worked together at the local newspaper. She was a beautiful girl with big, bright eyes, whose innocent look had all the boys in love with her. Ah! how many times we talked about boys! • The last time I saw her was at the hospital. In México, if you are in a public hospital you cannot have visitors. So, a nurse friend of my family practically snuck me in to her room. After one year, the cancer had come back. The surgery was brutal, yet, there she was, smiling and happy that I was there. I was yet to be diagnosed myself, so I really didn't know what she was going through, as I would later. She was like: "Can you believe this?" No, I couldn't, and her husband couldn't either. A year before, the doctors had actually found a tumor in that breast first, but after a few months it had disappeared and appeared in the other. They decided to take out only that breast, instead of the two... • After that last meeting, we exchanged phone calls, emails and Facebook messages about alternative medicine, the power of staying positive, and about believing God would deliver. I seem to be having those conversations every other day with many other girlfriends now. We all wish we could hear our bodies when they tell us we are sick. Half the time we don't know why we feel ill, much less what to do to heal ourselves. My friend's death reminds me how fragile life is, and at the same time, of the fullness with which we must live all our days. We can't afford not to. • But for now, my heart aches. The sadness that invades me is like a cold draft that penetrates my bones. She is gone and, I am sure of this, in a better place. A place where there are no pills to take, no hair to lose, no bones that ache, no uncertainties, no questions unanswered. Be at peace, my friend. Your memory will always be with me.