Another One Bites the Dust

And another one down and another one down... Seven more chemo cycles remain. I'm home now, on the couch, feeling Benadryl-dopey. Until I'm sharp and peppy and focused enough to write a real blog post, allow me to entertain you with two videos: last week's musical revue and my most recent Breast Cancer video Diary. Happy weekend everybody!

PS. Don't forget to order your t-shirt if you want one. Orders close April 17th.

The Edna Project: Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay set to music.
The band is a mother, father, and son. How old is that kid? He's good!

After Chemo #8. More of my videos here.

Five Down

My jam session didn't last long, but it felt good to try.

The worst part of the new chemo, so far anyway, is not so much the Taxol but the intravenous Benadryl and Decadron. The former knocked me out for the entire day, and it hurt going in, ached all the way up my arm. The latter has me worried that I won't sleep tonight. Both were given to ward off allergic reactions. None were forthcoming.

But this is nothing compared to what I felt with the last drugs. It's probably way too soon to be making any comparisons, so I will stop right there and turn my attention elsewhere.

In honor of the fact that I managed to pick up the guitar tonight, I'll use this space to inform you that my first and only album (so far?) Original Sins is finally available for download from CD Baby for $9.99. You can listen to snippets of the music and download a few of the tracks individually there too. The whole package coming soon to iTunes too. I'll let you know when that comes through.

"Ethereal voice, soulful grooves, emotionally potent acoustic originalia to change your life to."

ps. The needle went in on the first try today.

You Are Beautiful

In the six months preceding my breast cancer diagnosis, I figured out a few things about how I was caring for my body, made some changes, and lost about twenty pounds. Shortly after diagnosis, I remember a moment of comic relief in the midst of tears about my impending doom, when I told Jim, "Great, now everyone will think I lost weight because of cancer."

It wasn't until after I knew I had cancer that I had my first mammogram. I've always dreaded mammograms, partly because I have a perhaps overblown fear of radiation, but partly also because I feared seeing the silhouette of my squished boobs, figuring the image would burn itself on my retinas and color my already far less than perfect self-esteem.

In actuality it wasn't so bad. The technician handled me gently and I thought my breasts looked rather nice in those images. Cancer aside, of course.

As I anticipated my dreaded mastectomy, I caught myself staring at a lot of naked breasts (sorry locker room pals, hope I didn't make anyone uncomfortable.) It struck me that there was not a one that wasn't beautiful, regardless of age, size, shape, color, or symmetry, or lack thereof.

And then I found out that most women with breast cancer gain weight during chemo. Fat, pale, bloated, one-breasted, and bald, and then, just when the hair on my head is beginning to come back, goodbye eyebrows and eyelashes. That's what I had to look forward to.

If you know me, you may have noticed that I don't wear makeup, color my hair, paint my nails, or even shave my legs and armpits unless it's a very special occasion and I'm inexplicably in the mood to do so. Same goes for haircuts. It's not that I don't care how I look, it's just that I don't care to excess. And I certainly don't let what other people think about how I look dictate how I spend my time.

At least that's what I'd like to think.

I'm told by the media, just like all of us women are, that my appearance is my primary value. As much as I tell myself otherwise, the message seeps in around the edges, has been doing so all my life.

When J and I were a new couple and he told me how lucky he felt to be with me, launching into a list of compliments (smart, funny, talented...) I listened with bated breath, hoping with all my heart that the list would not end without some positive word about my looks. It surprised me to notice that I cared most of all that he thought I was pretty.

But why should this surprise me? Let's face it, we live in a world that gives very few women the time of day for being smart, funny, talented, unless they are, first and foremost, nice to look at.

When I recorded this second dance, I hesitated to share it. I drop some layers of clothing in this video, and my baldness and one-breastedness and a tad bit of extra-fleshedness are undeniable. I feared some of you who thought me beautiful would now change your mind. I thought maybe some would be upset to see the reality of my body post-mastectomy.

But then I recalled all those beautiful breasts in the locker room. Which reminded me that there is beauty in simply being alive. And that to be truly healthy and okay with ourselves, we need images of beauty that fall outside the bounds of fashion magazine standards.

I dream of a world where none of us feel the least smidgen of shame about our bodies. Where anyone can get up and dance whenever we darn well please, just to celebrate the beauty of being alive.

So here goes, bonus round: Dance With Me one more time.

The tune is "Rock on Hanuman by MC Yogi. Download it here.

Dance With Me!

I said I'd do it (here) and now there's proof:

Now it's your turn: Dance with me! (The music is Fatboy Slim, "Praise You." Download it for yourself, just ninety-nine cents!

Get Me Bodied

Yesterday's vlog. More of my videos here.

In "normal" life, too much time on the couch and too much junky starchy fatty foods is a straight-line prescription for the blues. Though chemo has everything to do with my dietary choices and my couch-potato nature of late, the result is the same. I've been feeling low today.

But then I came across the video April Capil posted on the day of and in celebration of her last chemotherapy treatment. In it, she dances sassy and silly to Beyonce's "Get Me Bodied." I was so touched by her exuberance, her shamelessness, and her implied messages, both that this too shall pass, and that life is to be lived.

So that's it! I'm putting on music now, right now and loud, and dancing around the living room. The teenager and husband in the house can scoff or join in, whatever they please. I will not be daunted. Life is now.

April's video.

I Dare You

The jacket was inherited years ago from an uncle who died of cancer. When I wear it I think of him. The scarf was a gift from dear friend M - thank you, love!

You won't catch me referring to cancer as a gift. No way around it, cancer sucks. There are many many more fun and exciting efforts I would rather be rallying my troops around instead of the effort to save my hide.

That said, it is quite amazing how people will come through for you if only you dare ask. These last few days I've been doing just that. I've decided to face this one last round of Adriamycin/Cytoxan and do it in style - with plenty of support of all kinds - hand-holders, soup-makers, distraction-deliverers, dog-walkers, etcetera. And I have been asking for all that I need and want. From everything I hear, this is the worst part coming up, so I'm pulling out all the stops.

I am a champ at facing challenges solo. It feels so hard to ask for help, and to be clear about what's helpful and what's not, I'm often so discouraged that I convince myself it's a fruitless pointless effort and I don't even try. It's easy to think that going it alone is better. But it's not. I promise you it is not.

This song was sent to me today by my friend G. It's a good one, don't you think?

Now, for those of you who aren't in my immediate world and are asking what you can do, here's something: join me in fighting for your own best life.

I dare you: whatever challenge is on your plate at the moment, ask for support. Even if you think you don't strictly need help, even if it feels embarrassing, even if you feel guilty doing it. Help is good. Not just for you, but for the helper too. We all need excuses to be closer to each other. Isolation sucks.

A few ground rules for the dare:

1. Choose something small - company on a long drive or a challenging hike, a follow-up "how was it?" phone call after a high-stakes interview, someone to go with you to the doctor's appointment you dread. Envision it exactly the way you want, and set out to fulfill that vision. Be very specific about what you want and when you want it. Make it a one-time thing (for now) with clear and realistic parameters.

Salad was my challenge today! It's not a pleasure to eat like it should be, but I found I'm well enough finally to almost enjoy it.

2. Ask someone special, and ask them specifically. A mass email plea for support is appropriate sometimes (hell, I sent out two today!) but in this instance, pick someone just right for the task, someone from whom a "yes" would be a thrill. Be sure to tell them why you picked them. This is a major compliment - be sure to give it. Allow room for no, and if that's what you hear, even if the person has trouble saying it, accept it graciously and go ask someone else.

3. Offer nothing in return but your undying gratitude. It doesn't mean you can't ultimately pay back, or that you won't one day pay forward, but challenge yourself to trust that whomever you're addressing will be pleased to do something for you, simply because it's you.

Mix and match soup: the last of my Mom's borscht plus a scoop of my own plain squash and mushroom concoction. Delicious!

4. Be gentle with yourself. If asking for help is a skill you haven't developed, don't expect to do it perfectly first time out of the gate. Consider this a practice round. You'll make mistakes, you'll feel awkward. But that's the only way to learn.

5. Share your experience, your failures and successes. When have you asked for support? How did you feel? What happened? Post a comment below. Do it anonymously if that feels better. Let's inspire each other!

If all of this seems overwhelming, you're thinking too big. Start with micro-steps. Ask for directions, for help carrying bags in from the car, a glass of water. You can do this!