Fake Boobs, Lipstick, and Stretching Myself

I'm about to work on the next video and realized I haven't shared with you this last one. Inching toward present time.... More of my videos here.

Things are happening!

Gifts for my Spark*Letter subscribers.
More on this (coming soon)
at LifeCraft (my art/design blog).

Between the books I'm writing, graphic design work for clients, the garden, the dog, and my over-the-top need to spend long hours on a bicycle (Jim and I rode 114 miles together yesterday—7.5 hours in the saddle—plus I went out for another 35 this morning) I'm busy, to say the least. I also started my Spark*Letter newsletter, the first issue of which was far more enthusiastically received than I dared imagine, which makes me eager to write the next one. Which is awesome. I'm inspired to inspire. What could be better?

Perhaps the biggest news is that I have a new job in the fall, teaching graphic design at a nearby university. I'm sure my feelings will change once I get into preparing my syllabus (I plan to start this week) but at the moment, I'll admit it—I'm scared! What if my students hate me? What if I'm dreadfully boring and can't get them to engage? What if I say something mean by mistake? It's not that I haven't taught before and done just fine. But in the past, I wasn't scared like this. Then again, I want to connect with and inspire and serve my students in a way I haven't before. It's going to be a stretch.

I'm convinced this is a good kind of scared, jumping off the high-dive kind of scared, expanding the parameters of who I am kind of scared.

I'm also planning to wear my prosthetic when I teach.

This was a difficult decision, still subject to change.

It's coming up on four years since my mastectomy. I didn't even consider reconstructive surgery (though the surgeon who did my mastectomy worried I'd regret the decision and made me promise to at least talk to the plastic surgeon—I never got around to it). In all this time, I haven't felt the slightest regret. I've worn my prosthetic breast in public for exactly one hour.

I like being my authentic self in the world. I've never been the can't-leave-the-house-without-lipstick kind of girl. In fact, I've never been able to leave the house with lipstick. I feel increasingly ridiculous in makeup, haven't worn any in years. I rarely shave. I feel so privileged to see how, to the people who know and care about me, my hairy legs and lopsided chest matter not in the least. And I'm constantly surprised and touched by strangers who are not repelled by my body. I wish all women had the opportunity to see that their true selves are just fine. We're all so tortured by the beautification industry exploiting and aggravating our insecurities to the point that we're convinced we're intolerably unattractive.

If we're ashamed of our bodies, no wonder we struggle to show our minds!

Don't get me wrong. I'm not immune to this conditioning. I notice people's reactions to my asymmetry. I'm vigilant around strangers. I hate when I'm caught off-guard, talking to someone who is unable to pay attention to my words, they're so busy frowning in confusion as they stare at my chest, trying to comprehend the enigma of my torso. (Come to think of it, this feels less bad than when I'd catch someone staring at my chest back in the day when I had two breasts. It's just that this new kind of staring happens more often.)

I don't want to deal with that while I'm standing in front of a classroom. I don't want to distract my students from the work at hand. I don't want to distract myself wondering if my body is a distraction. It's probably no big deal either way, but I'm ready to try a change of pace.

Just don't expect me to put on lipstick.

Trust and Dr Z

The latest vlog: Prosthetic Breast Show & Tell, Cancer Q & A. More of my videos here.

Every six months Dr. Z, the specialist who did my mastectomy, examines my remaining breast and the chest wall on the other side. It's not uncommon for breast cancer to grow back in the scar or just underneath it, but so far, thankfully, this has not happened to me.

Last week was my fifth follow-up with her to date, and I'm struck by how much less I worry. The rocky road of breast cancer has become much less rocky these days — knock wood.

It was Dr. Z who sat with Jim and I for two and a half hours explaining my diagnosis. She was a stranger to me then, a stranger who had the daunting task of impressing upon me that I required some major, life-altering and risky treatment, despite the fact that I felt just fine. Despite the fact that I didn't automatically believe she had all the answers.

I remember the tension in the room in that long first visit, and the suspicion I felt that the tension was not Jim's and mine alone, though she responded candidly, patiently, and respectfully to my ten thousand questions, reassuring me that she would give me all the time I needed.

It struck me then that this job can't be made any easier by the fact that she has to do it regularly. Perhaps there was an emotional burden for her. So I asked about this too, my ten-thousand-and-first question.

Too often, she admitted, a scared woman diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer and a good prognosis will simply walk away. In these cases, Dr. Z can only hope that the patient will go on to find quality care elsewhere. But sometimes she'll return at a later date, having risked it all on some unproven alternative therapy, or having done nothing but curl up inside herself in fear. Now the cancer has grown, sometimes right through her skin. She's stage four. What could have been a bump in the road has become the end of the road. "It's heartbreaking."

Last week, after completing the exam, my doctor confessed that she had worried, in the beginning, that I might join the ranks of these women. "But you trusted me," she said, her voice breaking just a little, her eyes moist. "You were very brave. And I want you to know, it really means a lot to me."

I like this doctor a lot. Jim likes her. My brother David, who came along to one of my appointments in the early days, likes her so much he named his cat after her. Dr. Z thinks this is a cute thing my brother did, that it has everything to do with how much he loves me and not much to do with how impressed he'd been by her.

That's what she does, this doctor of mine. She deflects compliments. But on my blog, I get the last word and I intend to use it. Because if it wasn't for the trust she extended to me, in all her patience and openness and devotion, my rocky road of breast cancer could have been a whole lot rockier.

The Inner Doubt Machine

After two years of procrastination, I finally get fitted for a prosthetic breast. More of my videos here.

I started this blog in hopes that someday I'd wrangle a book out of all my experiences around the question of pregnancy (at the time I was working as an abortion counselor, facing my own infertility.) 

Since before I could properly hold a pencil, I knew I wanted to grow up to become a writer and an an artist, that I wanted to make books. I've made swipes at it for years. I have several more-finished-than-not manuscripts and book proposals tucked away. And the few times I've put myself out there, I have had some encouraging small successes. 

This is not the first time I've bent myself to the task of being a writer, but this time, I can tell, it's different. I'm not sure I can put my finger on what has shifted. Maybe it's because of the cancer, which doesn't let me forget that life is a precious and fleeting thing. Maybe it's because I have reached critical mass to counteract the inner doubt machine - finally enough people in my life who consistently express interest in what I have to say. (How do you work through the hard parts of expressing yourself when you don't believe anyone will ever be interested in your vision?)

So if I'm not writing on the blog so much as I once did, and not making so many videos either, I hope you'll understand. I'm busy taking it to the next level.

And I plan to take you with me. Stay tuned.

My Latest Mistakes

More of my videos here.

Aside from the blunders depicted in this video, there is the delay posting this video to the blog. I've got another vid going up today, which I will probably delay posting also, but you can go directly to my Youtube Channel and see what's up in the meantime if you like.

I'm sure there are many more mistakes I could list but luckily none come to mind at the moment.

On a more serious note: Jim had hoped to run the Boston Marathon but a knee injury sidelined him this year. All our friends who were there (and there were many) are okay. Thank goodness.

Brainwashed

My latest video diary - it's a naughty one.

You can download the music from this video
for free: "Requiem for a Fish"
by The Freak Fandango Orchestra
is licensed under a Creative Commons
Attribution-ShareAlike License.

I got out of bed this morning and before I made it across the bedroom floor and into the bathroom I was already thinking that I am too fat. I bring this up not because it's an extraordinary occurrence but because it happens nearly every morning. Even at forty-two years old. Even after cancer and a mastectomy and third place in a half-ironman.

The thought did not upset or derail me any more than a mundane grumble about the weather. It's just a familiar refrain, a background track to my morning routine, like wallpaper that I gaze at daily and never really see.

But for some reason this morning I did see.

You know how they say men think about sex every six minutes? Well I think it's a good bet women worry about the attractiveness of our bodies in about equal measure. I am absolutely sure I am not alone in this. It's obvious - just look at us! The lengths that many of us go to with hair and makeup and diet and exercise, or, for some of us, the lengths we go to to avoid noticing we have bodies at all. But we're constantly measuring our bodies against the women around us, women in movies, and, worst of all, airbrushed Scandinavian teenagers on billboards and in fashion magazines.

Yet we don't admit the full extent of the obsession, not even to ourselves much of the time because either we're so used to it that it doesn't occur to us that it could be different or we're ashamed that we're at all insecure about our attractiveness, or both.

I mean, we are intelligent beings with far more important and interesting things to tackle with our brilliant minds, aren't we? It follows that we might wonder if the fact that we are occupied with hating our thighs instead of, say, ending global poverty or taking charge of the environmental crisis means we are not so smart after all.

But then again, we were brilliant children too, and we understood at a very early age that thinner bodies are more highly valued in our society, especially if those bodies are fair-skinned, blonde, and blue-eyed. We got it that as we grew into adulthood the ease with which we might hold a spotlight in the biggest and even smallest arenas would be tied in the overwhelming majority of cases to whether or not we were considered desirable.

It's sexism, people, and we've internalized it.

In other words, we have been unintentionally brainwashed.

It's time to reclaim our minds and free our bodies from the scrutiny. We are beautiful, incredible beings. Let's treat ourselves accordingly.

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Download the music from this video for free:

Cafe Connection by morgantj

is licensed under a Creative Commons license

I had a taste of fame on Wednesday of this past week when a producer from the Huffington Post contacted asking if I'd be a guest on a segment of HuffPost Live, which I did that very day. A couple of hours before the live broadcast, a famous Youtuber (Collette Butler aka Katilette) released a video in which she talked about me and this blog in the sweetest, most heartfelt way. As soon as that video went live, the messages and subscriptions to my Youtube channel surged, each generating an automated email to my inbox. Jim and I stood transfixed in front of my computer feeling overwhelmed in the best possible way as we watched the emails pile up, a new one appearing every few seconds.

And somehow, between all the autographs and paparazzi and the face licking (oh wait, that was Millie) I've managed to put together my weekly video. Now that's dedication! ;) Hope you like...

Platinum Day, Revisited

A few weeks ago I wrote Platinum Day, a post about my first Olympic distance triathlon (about half the distance I will do at September's Ironman 70.3 and twice what I'd done in the past.) Now you can watch all the action.

More of my videos here.

Crunch Time

Sorry for the lack of blogging lately, between training for the half-ironman coming up oh so very soon on September 9th and my solo show at Silver Circle Gallery, I am swamped. BUT somehow I'm managing to keep up with the video diaries! Enjoy these latest two...

Among other things: Me having a moment, Millie having a hilarious meltdown, and my exciting new toy.

A graduation, a reunion, great goal setting advice, and a decadent dessert to remember. More of my videos here.

Platinum Day

Today I raced my first ever Olympic distance triathlon. Some good advice (thank you D) led me to approach the event with a handful of goals rather than one make-it-or-break-it definition of success. My Gold-medal goal was to finish in under 3 hours 15 minutes; Silver, to complete the whole thing feeling strong throughout, no matter what the time; and Bronze, to finish in under 3 hours 30 minutes, even if I crossed the line delirious and staggering. Book-ending these goals were two outliers: first, my secret Platinum goal - to finish in under 3 hours. And on the other end of the spectrum, the simple hope that I didn't crash my bike, get a flat tire, or cramp up on the run.

In order to finish in under three hours I believed I would need to complete the mile-long swim in under 30 minutes (it took me 32) and the hilly 26-mile bike course with an average speed close to 20 miles per hour (I didn't quite make 18.) By the end of the bike leg, I was tired and discouraged, afraid I wouldn't have enough energy for the run. I consoled myself with the fact that I'd survived without a flat, without a crash. As I shucked my helmet and bike shoes and slipped into my running shoes, I noted that Jim was right there cheering me on regardless, happy and exuberant no matter what the clock had to say about it. Which reminded me that I am enough, that when it comes right down to it, achievement isn't the point, that it is amazing that I am doing this at all, that I am one of the lucky ones with a body, at age 42, able to do this at all. Who cares what my time is?

For the first time all morning, I was racing with a smile on my face.

The six-mile run was comprised of two out-and-back repeats, descending and then climbing the same long hill. Since even when fresh I generally don't run more than 11-minute miles on my own, I figured it would take me an hour and fifteen minutes to complete the run.

But I was wrong.

Cheering on friends as we passed each other along the way, I somehow managed the run in less than an hour, finishing the race – to my shock and delight – with a time of 2:57.16.

Icing on the cake. It absolutely made my day.

On top of that, I discovered soon after, I had registered as an "Athena." Since I weigh a bit more than 160 pounds I qualify for this special class of athlete, (the male equivalent is "Clydesdale" with a weight minimum of 200). Of all the Athenas, I came in second-fastest. So in addition to my personal Platinum, I also got my name announced, a round of applause, and an actual hunk of metal to call my own!

And then, best of all, I met Karen Newman, a breast cancer survivor and world-class triathlete whom I had just learned about last week. Just a few days ago I was watching her interviewed on national television for her triathlon success during chemotherapy. She is the first woman I've ever met in the flesh who, like me, did triathlons during cancer treatment, who, like me, goes out into the wide world without a fake breast to disguise her mastectomy, who, like me, is active and athletic and also has lymphedema. We compared arms, we compared chests, we compared stories, and when I walked away from that conversation, I felt like I'd had a moment of respite from a certain loneliness and vigilance about the reactions and judgments of others.

To oversimplify the point, when you are the only one you know meeting a particular set of challenges in a certain unusual way, it's not easy.

Meeting someone else walking the same path? It helps.

And it made my day all over again.

An Invitation

Easy and delicious: cut butternut squash into inch-thick rounds, bake on an oiled cookie sheet at 375° until soft and fragrant and brown around the edges. Shown here topped with hummus, cracked pepper, pickled red cabbage, and cilantro. Yum.

Christmas morning I could no longer deny the swelling around my right elbow. The tightness I'd been feeling all week, the stinging, aching pain up my arm, I finally understood, was my overtaxed lymph vessels, taut as guitar strings under my skin. "Cording" they call it, or, if you like to sound fancy, "Axillary Web Syndrome." It's considered a complication of breast cancer treatment and, some argue, a risk factor for lymphadema.

I have been dreading and fearing lymphadema since before my mastectomy, when I first read about it. The internet is fairly teeming with images of women with one arm bloated double in size alongside hyperbolic headlines calling the condition "breast cancer treatment's dirty little secret." Scariest of all, once the swelling comes, you spend the rest of your life trying to manage it. Sometimes better, sometimes worse, it never truly goes away.

Lymphadema is no secret. Before radiation, I was sent to a physical therapist to educate me about the condition, and to be fitted for a compression sleeve. I received two, which I tucked into the back of my sock drawer, just in case, hoping never to retrieve them. I was told that once surgery removed the cluster of lymph nodes under my arm and radiation damaged those remaining in my chest wall, my chances of contracting lymphadema would rise to 50%. In my gut, I believe I didn't need to have all my lymph nodes removed, (only two of the twenty-odd taken were cancerous), but modern treatment is still relatively crude, and my particular cancer scenario would not allow such half-way measures.

I was also told by oncologists and physical therapists alike, "You won't get lymphadema. You're young. You're fit. It won't happen to you."

But Christmas morning I could not deny it. I have lymphadema. I have been crying and raging about it ever since, wearing the compression sleeve intermittently, stretching against the pain to recover my range of motion, checking my arm as the swelling ebbs and rises like a tide. It's mild, but it's there. And I'm afraid that it will get worse.

For weeks I have not been able to bring myself to write on this blog, not in depth, anyway, as I knew I'd need to tell you. It's emotional for me to put my mind squarely on this new development.

But this morning I awoke to a message from my brother. After a long and valiant battle, cancer has claimed the life of one of his best friends, a fixture of my own childhood landscape as well, and a special person I was only just getting to know.

A few days before that, I got an email from another childhood classmate, requesting advice. She has just been diagnosed with breast cancer. She wants to know how long she can hide the news from her children.

Another childhood classmate is also fighting breast cancer, an advanced and aggressive form which has taken up residence in multiple organs, including her brain. Another old friend has been battling since she was twenty-five. The cancer is in her bones.

So today I practice the yoga of weeping. Today I am stretching to embrace the dead, the widowed, my friends fighting for their lives, my own life ahead of me, swollen or not, without guarantees.

Let us all stretch to be loving companions along this treacherous, beautiful, heartbreaking road. I hope we can walk it together for a long time to come.

Jugs

Cape Cod, gearing up for a half marathon (fail), and dogs, dogs, dogs. And yes, I do say those exact words in this video title and it is entirely appropriate. More of my videos here.

Life After Cancer

After breast cancer? Vacation! More of my videos here.

The Suspense is Killing Me

More of my videos here.

Here's the email I sent out to supporters yesterday:

Hello everyone,

In ten minutes I need to be out the door to go for my first mammogram and ultrasound followed by a visit with my breast specialist/surgeon since I was diagnosed with cancer a year ago. The appointment was scheduled a long time ago for next week, postponed until November because of scheduling conflicts by the doctor, then moved up to today as I’ve been noticing some thickening/swelling near my surgical scar. It might be scar tissue, it might be recurrence, and of course I’m scared out of my mind. Hopefully this is just the first out of what is sure to be many scares. Hopefully it is the first out of many that turns out to be nothing.

I’m writing to you all so that I can imagine you all crowded into the room with me as Jim and I get whatever news there is to get. It helps to think of you there.

Also, for those that don’t know, I ran the Hartford half marathon for my first time last year, just days before my diagnosis. I ran it again this past weekend after a year of cancer treatment which you all helped me get through. Somehow I managed to run it the second time almost twelve minutes faster than the first.

Whatever happens next, hopefully I’ll be back at it next year, improving my time yet again.

Whoever talks to me first tonight will post the update from today’s appointment, probably my Mom. More updates on the blog...

Love
Amy 

Thanks to everyone who saw me through this crazy horrible year. To all who said it was probably nothing, just the normal changes post-radiation, you were right! And my remaining breast checks out fine too. Hallelujah! Now, back to living...

Very Nervous

Somehow I skipped sharing this one: Millie's Birthday, among other things. More of my videos here.

I'm worried. Not so much for the half-marathon this weekend. Whatever happens with that, I know I'll be fine.

Mostly I'm nervous because just like last year, I will be getting checked for breast cancer a few days later. In this case, I'm much less certain that I will be fine.

In the last week I've noticed a thickening under the skin near my mastectomy scar. Not a lump exactly, and hopefully nothing of real concern. I showed it to Jim and he concurs. "Definitely puffier," he said, but he's also hopeful that it's nothing serious.

I called my doctor just in case and she moved my one-year-later follow-up appointment forward by two weeks.

I go in on Tuesday, October 18th.

Yikes.

Mastectomy and Beyond

Some wisdom in here (I hope) about apologizing, chocolate in the evening, and harboring refugees. More of my videos here.

I spent some time on the phone recently talking to a friend of a friend about her upcoming mastectomy. She was struggling with whether or not to have reconstruction. I was struggling to be a supportive listener rather than an evangelist for my one-boob life. But the truth is, if you're faced with this horrendous choice, I highly recommend skipping the reconstruction.

Yes, I am often hyper-vigilant to the reactions of strangers, and yes, sometimes it gets to be too much and I have to cry it out before I can resume my carefree unselfconscious day. And, to be fair, my life does not include board meetings or students or clients I meet with face-to-face, not right now anyway. And I have a supportive husband who thinks a missing breast does not impede my sexiness.

But I am so glad there is no foreign thing under my skin. I am pleased that I haven't gotten around to purchasing a prosthetic or any special bras to hold one. I am surprised and also pleased that there are moments where I find myself, like a tear-streaked child with a big bandage on a wounded knee, feeling proud of my scar. I'm proud of my ability to keep living and loving as fiercely as ever, that I can be an example that cancer and mastectomy and other life disasters don't take away the ability to find humor and pleasure in life. And I am relieved to look back over this paragraph recalling that, at the outset, I did not know it would be this way.

Yesterday while out walking Millie, I ran into a man I know who went through a grueling chemotherapy for throat cancer three years ago, only to begin competing in the arguably equally grueling sport of cyclocross during his subsequent radiation. During my own chemo, I wanted to speak to him, to be reassured that I would one day feel alive again, but I was too tired and too shy to make it happen. Yesterday he told me he had heard I wanted to talk with him and had dropped by my house one day during that period, but apparently no one was home. I was touched to hear this, to be reminded that we don't always know all the good moves people are making in our direction.

"I see they took your breast," he said to me yesterday, or something close to that. It's rare for someone to initiate a frank and direct conversation with me about my mastectomy outside of a doctor's office or a counseling session, especially someone of the male persuasion, so this caught me off guard, though in a good, bracing way, like a gust of November wind after hours in front of the fire. I shrugged and smiled and so did he. "Whaddaya gonna do?" I said, and we both laughed. When we said goodbye he hugged me, hard, without hesitation. And I walked away smiling.

Aftermath: Mastectomy, Radiation, Poodle

Still catching up on video backlog. More here.

Chemo Retrospective

Anticipation. More of my videos here.

The other day I came across a DVD someone gave me and thought, I should save this to watch with Jim at chemo. And then I remembered: There is no more chemo!

No more weekly weigh-ins, blood draws, killer bee-sting needles. No more poison injected into my veins. No more eyelashes falling out, fingernails lifting away from the nail beds and stinking, no more gradually worsening numbness and tingling in my feet. No more inexplicable exhaustion mid-week. No more terrible taste in my mouth or steroid-induced sleepless nights. No more dry eyes, dry mouth, unsettled stomach, and low low blood counts.

It's hard to believe.

At the same time, I'm worried about radiation, now officially scheduled to begin July 6th.

Some people get through it easily, without noticeable fatigue, with only a little bit of redness and dryness to the skin. For some the fatigue is profound. Some have painful blistering weeping skin, some experience scarring and pain underneath. And I'm just talking about short term issues. The long term issues are much scarier.

For now, I'm doing my best to savor three weeks of relative freedom.

Let's celebrate, shall we, with a little retrospective - a few photos I took with the laptop to document chemo treatments twelve, thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, and the morning after number sixteen.

I'll warn you right now, for those who don't want to see: the morning after sixteen I took another "here are my scars" picture. For those that do want to see, there are two other entries where I post pictures. The first was just days after surgery. The next was shortly before I began chemo. And this one will heretofore be referred to as the one between chemo and radiation.

Without further ado:

At chemo #12.

At chemo #13.

Chemo #14.

Chemo 15.

The morning after my final treatment, chemo 16.

Sharks

Thank You Steroids. (More of my videos here.)

I went to a fundraiser last night featuring a friend of mine from the pool, Marcy MacDonald, a dedicated swimmer who is about to attempt her eleventh crossing of the English Channel. We watched a documentary about her and others who've attempted this astounding feat, and afterward, Marcy answered questions from the audience. Very cold water, long hours, big boats, waves, oil slicks, salt in your throat, chafing bathing suits... To say the least, it's not easy.

Someone asked about sharks and I turned to the friend on my left,  P~ , and said, "I've been bitten by a shark." Her face registered alarm. She was beginning to compose a question when I went on to say, "It took my whole breast."

P~ laughed and slapped my leg. But was that funny? Can I make jokes about my missing breast? I'm never quite sure.

I was editing video the other day (the one below), and came across a section of footage filmed by J~ of myself in a tank top, chucking balls for the dog. It was the first time in a long while I'd seen my new body in three dimensional motion outside the confines of the mirror. In the same way it jars me when I happen upon a person with a missing arm, I was brought up short by the sight of my own chest. The thought was: I am asking a lot of people to take this in stride. I see that familiar moment of hesitation often, but still, I am amazed at how well people are doing it.

After Mastectomy: My Lopsided Life. More of my videos here.

Life with Millie (and Breast Cancer)

More of my videos here.

Shock and Garlic

Eight down, eight to go. That's what I keep telling myself about chemo now. Eight weeks remain of twenty, eight treatments of sixteen. Radiation looms sinister on the horizon, but lately I am daring to believe that—barring the dreaded specter of recurrence—the worst may be behind me now.

It's a happy thought, but also disconcerting, because once I am done focusing one-step-at-a-time on cancer, I will have to reemerge into a world where most everyone around me has not been through this ringer, where life goes on undisrupted. It must be something like surviving an earthquake and never quite trusting the ground beneath your feet again. You stumble unsteadily forward while the crowds dance nimbly by.

Perhaps this feeling will fade?

While dressing this morning, I caught a glimpse of my chest in a mirror and was surprised at how pale the scar is now. It hit me yet again that I've had a mastectomy, that it is permanent, that this is, indeed, really happening.

At this point, I'm still entirely shell-shocked. Hell, the shelling hasn't stopped yet, though the intensity has diminished.

Little by little, I am reclaiming my life. 

Exhibit A: After chemo on Friday, J~ and B~'s grandmother went to B~'s choral performance – a three-hour dinner cabaret I didn't think I'd have the stamina for. Instead I stayed home alone and made this meal of garlicky scallops with red onion, black-eyed peas, zucchini, tomato, kale, and nutritional yeast.

It was a big deal that I dared stay home alone after chemo, a surprise on top of that that I cooked for myself, elaborately no less, and a real shock and pleasure to note, I can once again eat garlic!

I don't know if it's a common reaction to Adriamycin/Cytoxan, my first chemo regimen, but for a while there, I couldn't touch anything garlicky. Toxic chemical mouth burn, loyal readers and vlog-watchers, you've heard me complain about it enough. But, like I said, little by little, I'm reclaiming my life, and what better place to start than my taste buds?

So bring on the garlic, I plan to indulge. Those of you who may see me in person, consider this your fair warning.