Like a running back

Watching football today, with all the players wearing pink and the NFL pushing their breast cancer awareness campaign, made me want to write a special salute for my friends who have been dealing with breast cancer. We all have had different diagnoses and have chosen different solutions. But we all have had to face our fears and the uncertainties this illness brings. At the beginning, we are shocked human beings who can't understand what's happening and can't barely grasp what the doctors are telling us. Then, we become super humans who gather strength and energy from the depths of our hearts and souls to deal with it all. At one point or another, we are told our courage is admired, but we struggle to determine how doing what seems to be our only option is courageous. We simply do what needs to be done. Like those running backs, we hold the ball and push through, because moving forward is the only way. We are all at different stages of our journeys. Some of us are still dealing with medication's side effects, some of us have just finished chemo treatments and some of us have just done a double mastectomy. Some of us are finally getting hair to show! But all of us have leaned on each other. Even when some of you have never met in person, you have sent each other emails and made calls. You have offered solutions, alternatives, and tricks to get through treatments. You have offered encouragement and hope. We were thrown into an undesired vortex that now binds us forever. I am honored to be part of your lives. I can't say I hope the future is easy, because we know it won't. But I hope you never forget how strong you really are. I hope the determination that helped you made it through breast cancer helps you face your day-to-day challenges, realizing that every problem has a solution. The frailty of life, which was made so clear to us, is what makes each of us so precious. Let's never forget that.

Just when I thought it was all over...

A couple of weeks back I had a follow-up appointment with my plastic surgeon. I wanted to know if I was all done with this business of reconstruction. I mentioned I had noticed how the implants sometimes did ripple. This is a common thing to happen -- hard to avoid no matter how good your surgeon is. The silicon and the forces of gravity conspire against you. People can see the rippling when you wear a low-cut dress or a bathing suit, and my attitude was: "I had breast cancer. Too bad, so sad, if people think it's weird." But, when the surgeon told me he could do the procedure in the office and I realized I had met my deductible, I gave it a thought. I knew this was the only time I would actually consider doing this. I just wanted to be done. Leave it all behind. But, here I was, contemplating another surgery. • I decided to do it. If I could have it all "look" normal, I would. Why not. I showed up bright and early at the doctor's office. To tell you the truth, I didn't have time to stress out about this. I scheduled from one day to another and didn't give myself time to fret or agonize over it. When the doctor started injecting the anesthetic was when I started wondering: "What the heck am I doing?" The long story short, the whole thing was surreal. There I was, being performed on, wide awake and with my shoes on. At some point I told the doctor I felt like a CSI character playing a cadaver being autopsied! He laughed, even though he thought it was a bit morbid. But it was true. Was this really happening? The doctor cut two slivers of skin across each of my breasts. There was blood and he was masterly putting me back together. A friend asked me if I didn't pass out. But I truly wasn't feeling anything. It was like having an out of body experience! • However, that afternoon, when it was time to clean the wounds and apply antibiotic, as my husband cleaned and applied, I turned around and faced myself in the mirror. Then I almost passed out. For a couple of long minutes the last two and half years came rushing to my head. I did have breast cancer. My body was assaulted. My mind was challenged and tested. I thought it was all behind, but no. Here it was all in my head again. Rushing in every cell in my blood to my head. • I didn't pass out, and my husband just held me there. Both feeling the pain we had experienced and had thought was gone. But we, I, survived. The next day we went to California for our scheduled soccer game trip. By then, my brain had decided we weren't going to worry about it. The last two years were over. We were done. That's it. Clean this mess and pack your bags. We are moving. Tomorrow is another day.

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.

The cover

When Chris asked me if I would agree to be the October cover of Reno magazine my response was: "I don't think so." They were looking for a breast cancer awareness month cover. I told her I was sure there were other women out there who were much better cover stories than me. But Geralda called me and wouldn't take no for an answer. That's what friends are for! So, here I am, the October cover of Reno magazine. I had never been a cover story like this before, where a really cool photographer comes to your house and spends a good chunk of the day taking photos of you and the reporter sits to talk to you for a couple of hours. I really never know what to say when I am being interviewed. As much as I always have an opinion about stuff, I am not very good at speaking on the record. So, it really was a great thing that Geralda was writing the story, because she is an awesome writer who can make sense of anything, including me. • Besides the first OMG-reaction: I am on the cover of a magazine! — and after being thankful for Photoshop and airbrushing techniques, I was absolutely flattered and honored. I don't know if I am a good role model, or if I am courageous enough, but I know there are times when your only option is to move forward. And I so wish all women battling breast cancer (or any other cancer or illness, for that matter) are able to do what it takes to do so. We can't afford to think about ALL possible consequences and alternative case scenarios. We can only take one step at a time and imagine a world free of cancer and illness in front of us. I encourage everyone to not be afraid to ask for help, and to BE of help to a friend in need. A beautiful world is made of an accumulation of small, kind acts. Make sure you add your part.

Let the Race begin

Last night a friend of mine and I attended the team party for the Susan Komen Race For the Cure. It was very lively and the organizers did a great job rallying everybody. This year I registered a team called Life Curves, named, obviously, after this blog. And I would love it if you all decided to join my team! Last year's top fundraiser was Tim Jitloff. Some of you skiers from Nevada may recognize the name, he participated in the Vancouver Olympics last February. So, as of right now, we are only second to him! isn't that cool? I hold no dreams of being in this position too long. Last year he raised more than $7,000!
But I would be so honored and excited if all my friends, close and far, joined my team! 75% of the money raised stays in Northern Nevada and the rest goes to research. I hope some day cancer is no longer an illness we fear. Any type of cancer.

Also, I would like some suggestions for the team slogan. I was thinking something like "LIFE CURVES--Because you have to hit anything that comes your way, and win!" what do you guys think? I am not very good at this stuff, so I will gladly accept much more cool ideas!!

Thank you for your friendship and your support. Let's scratch year one down.

http://komennorthnv2010rftc.kintera.org/