Around The Sun

I have always loved the fall season, my favorite time of year. It traditionally signifies the close of a fun-filled summer, cooling weather, and upcoming family holiday celebrations.

But this year it also means revisiting what happened to me last fall, whether I want to or not. I didn’t love fall last year. And in fact, it may have even changed my love of fall forever.

Last year I had just returned from a delightful month’s stay during August in England and Portugal. I had my annual mammogram on September 19, something I remember reflecting upon as my 25th visit since I dutifully began getting mammograms as a forty-year-old.

A phone call from my doctor indicated there was something amiss and I needed some follow-up scans. I had been through this before so my engine light did not immediately kick on. Another imaging appointment occurred on September 23, another doctor phone call followed. Then my engine light did flash on with the news of a necessary biopsy, although that also had happened twice before in the past. On September 30th, I had a CT-guided needle biopsy and then headed to Cambria for our usual October couple of weeks. It is in Cambria that I had to wait several days for the results of the biopsy and where I received the confirmation of a breast cancer diagnosis on October 7.

Fall feels very different this year. It has never been marked by trepidation before.

I crawled out of a long dark tunnel that lasted eight months at the end of May when my chemo and radiation treatments were finally over, including the “lung cancer scare” at the last moment which, for a week, held the terror that maybe another nightmare was going to start before I even got to the end of the first one. Pneumonia then became my new favorite disease.

June and July were jubilant celebrations of light as I was finally giddily free from the tethers of cancer treatment schedules and back in the swing of life as I had once joyfully known it. August was filled with a return trip to England and a week in southern Spain after the despondence of cancelling last December’s England visit. Three wonderful months of living again, with a busy travel schedule still ahead to Santa Rosa, Cambria, Baja, and then back to England for November, December, and a new grandberry.

But first I have to get through the dreaded tests that will now forever mark September and fall for me. And with triple negative breast cancer, a particularly aggressive cancer with a greater likelihood of recurring within the first five years, it is a daunting obstacle to anticipate.

I cannot change the circumstances nor will I allow them to overwhelm me. And I am still profoundly grateful for my incredible medical outcome.

But fall feels very different to me this year. It has been a transformative trip around the sun.


“In the end, she became more than what she expected. She became the journey, and like all journeys, she did not end, she just simply changed directions and kept going.” — R.M. Drake

Following my final radiation treatment last Monday, I am beginning to savor the realization that eight months of total life disruption are finally over. I have reached a vantage point I had not yet had the nerve to imagine until now, but yes, it is incredibly true.

I am completely finished with all of my cancer treatments. It is my moment to exhale.

I feel like a champion in the extreme sport of cancer. And, although it was only the first, I feel like it was a personal best.

I did it.

Short and Sweet

As of tomorrow I will be 50% of the way through my microwave chapter. It is a quick daily ritual in the Windansea radiation room in La Jolla, watching green lines stretch across the ceiling and walls as I am aligned just right for each zap, guided by the micro-dot tattoos that I now have. I lie very still and count four specific sounds that come from further away, mixed in with other sounds of moving equipment. After the last, the machine rotates away and I am released. Once a week x-rays are included, which become six of the specific sounds. Since September with all the scans and treatments, it seems as if I have received a Chernobyl dosage of radiation.

But I now focus upon the reality that in less than a month, I will be DONE.

At times it is deeply surreal that cancer has happened to me and that I am now up close and personal with the frightening vocabulary of chemo and radiation. But then I only have to look in the mirror to be reminded that oh yeah, it did really happen.

I am still working on hatching hair. Although it did not fall out on my head, chemo affected the regrowth rate with the top now over two inches while lower areas are under an inch. But it’s really starting to kick in and feels like a carpet when I run my hand over it. I subsequently lost eyebrows and my eyelashes are now scarcer and crazily crooked, making mascara application a ridiculous mess. I hope they come back. And so far there has been little collateral damage with radiation.

I am finally closing in on an end to a nightmare that rocked my world.

It has seemed like forever but the impossible is nearing.

It is almost a wrap.

Trail of Tears

Four months ago today I received a diagnosis of cancer.

I will never be the same as I was before that fateful moment. Just follow the trail of tears that I have cried every day since.

Tears are an adjunct to cancer.

Initially, my tears were a response to the shock and denial of a medical nightmare. Within my new terrifyingly dark tunnel, they rushed forth, tumbling in the terror and confusion, waterfalls of tears for fears. It seemed as if they would never stop.

Soon more tears gushed as chaos defined my course ahead, with countless medical appointments, tests, frightening dialogues of possibilities and treatments, the loss of all control as daily events took a severe detour to the left.

My happily anticipated future plans had to be cancelled when life was hijacked. Cascades of tears followed, endlessly. Loved ones tried to console me but they were speaking from a sunlit perspective, a vantage point I no longer shared. Their regular lives were rolling along but I had no map where mine could one day be. The cancellations of cheerful events stripped the only light and air from my tunnel, wounding me like amputations.

Then new tears joined my mix, but now a different kind. Suddenly, as friends and family started reaching out with loving support, their generous actions brought waves of tears, thankful ones. Calls, messages, gifts, assistance offers, visits, they all made me cry glorious tears of courage and hope.

A successful lumpectomy and subsequent optimistic pathology report brought torrents of grateful tears. So did the news that I would only need four chemo treatments, spaced three weeks apart, rather than six cycles.

Tears of steel fell as I mentally prepared to shave off all my hair proactively. Tears of incredulous laughter fell as I realized the chemo treatments did not affect my hair after all. Tears of awe followed as the majority of anticipated chemo side effects failed to materialize.

Chemicals and steroids induced uncontrollable buckets of tears over everything and nothing. Then my proclivity for crying all the time made me cry because I seemed to no longer be the strong person I once knew myself to be.

I am now done with all of my chemo treatments with six weeks of radiation ahead, beginning in April. My family will be here in another month, their annual visit to San Diego. Tom and I already have our August tickets for England, and we are planning when we can get down to Baja, something we have loved doing together for forty-five years.

It seems that life as I once knew it is slowly returning. And it is.

But, I will never be the same person in that life, although I will certainly resume being a happy one. A cancer diagnosis has emotionally scarred me, something that only other cancer patients will understand. For the first time, cancer has introduced future trepidation as a permanent reality, something that has never characterized my life before. I now feel a new fragility, one that transcends the health unknowns all of us face. I am suddenly vulnerable. I know the visceral fear.

At the conclusion of my treatments, I will celebrate. I will cry tears of unfathomable joy and relief. My family and friends will join me, expecting me to continue along my yellow brick road, as if nothing ever happened. They will mean well.

However, something did happen, and I have the trail of tears to prove it. Now there will likely be new tears ahead, tears of anxiety, as I am medically supervised for the rest of my life. They will not define me, those years of tears to come, nor will I wallow in them.

But I know they will be there waiting for me, as the adjunct trail to cancer meanders on.

Shock and Awe

I am having an out of body experience, one that has now been ongoing for over a month. I am hovering over myself, witnessing what I thought would be a miserable nightmare but is actually a magical dream state. I was fully prepared to walk softly and carry a big stick beforehand, but now I feel as if I should be buying boxes of lottery tickets and handing them out to homeless people.

I am witnessing myself undergoing chemotherapy treatments, with almost nary a side effect. I simply cannot believe my good fortune. I am one lucky little chemo ducky.

For anyone who knows me well, they are familiar with my philosophy of life that has guided me for decades. I am what I consider to be the world’s happiest little pessimist. Unlike the Pollyanna optimists who always anticipate hopeful, positive outcomes and then are devastated and ill-prepared when gloom and doom occur, I always anticipate gloom and doom, firmly readying myself for every possible negative fork in the road ahead. Then, when gloom and doom occur, I am Girl Scout ready, not missing a beat as I navigate through any given morass.

But, in the event that a favorable outcome arrives instead, I am euphorically happy. A turnabout that was unforeseen and therefore I can gloriously celebrate. It is a fool-proof strategy for me, a win-win for one who hates surprises in life. I am always auspiciously spared from being caught unprepared, and possibly giddy with joy.

As to why this latest turn of medical good fortune is mine, I absolutely have no idea. Is it due to a cancer diagnosis that was so mild that only a chemo top-off was indicated, cutting edge medical advancement, or the astrological alignment of the stars? Regardless, you won’t hear wisecracks coming from my peanut gallery. Just a collective sigh of relief, charmed pennies landing in a fountain, and sacrificial lambs being laid on the altar. Never in a million years did I see this coming.

In typical fashion, I had done my extensive chemo homework prior to my first treatment on December 15. I had talked to my friends who had already traversed the poisonous chemical Oregon Trail. I had read countless books and blogs about the experiences of others, some numbingly devastating ordeals. I googled everything, notably my own prescribed cocktail.

I bought a bunch of head coverings and had my head shaved prior to my first infusion. I stocked up on foods and regimens to address nausea, vomiting, and debilitating mouth sores. I was prepared to say goodbye to favorite foods, not wanting to have a negative association result from a metallic mouth taste which might ban them from my palate in the future.

But, shock and awe. This is your lucky day. Look what’s behind Door #3.

I have now experienced two chemo treatments in over a month and no deleterious side effects. Let me repeat that. No. Deleterious. Side. Effects.

To date, I have not lost a single hair. My shampoo and conditioner are back in action as my hair is growing in from my buzz cut.

I still use mascara for eyelashes that have not fallen out.

I have no nausea or vomiting.

I have no metallic taste in my mouth that affects how foods taste so I am eating regular favorites and can skip salmon, okra, lima beans and pancakes.

I have no mouth sores.

I have no pain.

I have no complaints.

So, one asks, what do I have? How do I know it’s not a placebo?

For a couple of days following an infusion treatment, I have three symptoms. I am less-energetic. There is some intestinal laxity. And I have a weird mouth feel. Period. Then they go away. Back to pre-chemo normal.

I am diligent about avoiding germs, infection and populated public spaces and will continue to do so until the end of February. It is a small price to pay to not alter the treatment schedule ahead.

And, because of my life philosophy, I am fully prepared that my sparkling good luck could change at any moment. But, given that I have already experienced 50% of my treatments, I am starting to uncharacteristically wobble towards the side that thinks there may be two more chemo happy dances in my future.

I still have radiation ahead, but I will be ready. In the meantime, I am celebrating a chemo out of body experience, and gratefully humbled by shock and awe.


It has been one doozy of a week. I decided to take the very unsettling step of having my hair shaved completely off before my first chemo treatment yesterday.

When I learned I would need chemo, I cried buckets of tears thinking about losing hair. Who embraces that scenario, especially one who is not daring or characterized by making fashion stylista decisions for attention? I was already quaking in the tremors of a cancer diagnosis, and losing my hair was absolutely a gut-wrenching consequence ahead that for me would be tantamount to streaking across a field during Super Bowl.

But chemo was the given, and bald was the fact. And somehow a miraculous fortitude eventually was born inside me, mainly because I had no other choice.

I am a very strong-willed and practical individual who thrives on predictability in my life. That was the curse of a cancer diagnosis which suddenly threw me into a realm of no control, of stepping off the edge of Columbus’s flat earth into an emotionally dark free-fall. After weeks of flailing, reacting, and panicking, it was finally time to return to what I do best.

I had to take the first step to ward doom off at the pass because I really hate surprises.

Other women choose to wait until the undeniable hunks of locks fall out in bed or in the shower, at work, or shopping. Still others decide to negotiate taking baby-steps towards shorter haircuts. But, if it’s going to fall out a week or two following chemo, that was just too short-sighted for me. Practicality is my mantra.

Then the HOW emerges as to pursuing such a course. I had never seen myself without any hair before so there was a paralyzing level of surreal embarrassment ahead. I wanted to be in an anonymous setting for the quick and dirty deed and, initially, I didn’t even want Tom along for the ride. It was going to be terribly shocking enough to me, and foolishly, after 45 years of marriage, I didn’t want to be that shockingly naked for him.

But I finally needed him to be part of my emotional equation. I made an online appointment for a local chain salon on Monday morning with the hopes that few if any other patrons would be present. We walked in and there were two stylists, and another woman patron.

We sat as we waited for Sophie to clean up after her male client. Tom was getting emotional but I had to remind him to help me maintain my steel. When it was my turn, he sat in the empty chair next to me. I told Sophie I wanted it all totally gone. She clarified my decision and then she started in the back.

Tears dripped quietly down Tom’s face as he watched. He could see the jolt before I could.

I tried to maintain my composure as I asked Sophie about former customers she had serviced before chemo. She had just buzzed a young cancer-victim mother with three children the week before. Sophie’s experience has been that women typically choose to lose their hair while their men emotionally melt as they watch. And then the emotional-melt part hit me as she moved to my sides and top.

I sat frozen in the chair as chunks of kitten hair fell on the floor. Who was this person looking back at me? I stared as I tried to process this reintroduction to myself. I felt seismic fissures in the fault line of my persona.

I did not cry as I watched. But as Sophie finished, she said I had a beautifully shaped head and that I was brave. She asked if she could give me a hug. My tears came forth.

I threw on my hat as Tom and I held hands and walked to our car, silently. I felt so foreign to myself and unsure how I would be able to see myself in the mirror again. Thankfully, we had already made dinner plans for that evening as celebration of the courage that it took to get to that milestone. So the next step for me was to focus upon how to reveal the new me to myself and my life.

Thanks to a stash of pre-purchased hats and bling, I felt better that night. And I have to say that a day later was even easier and that now, it’s no big deal. I am more than my hair and it will all come back. The cancer is not invited.

What strikes me most in the five days since I departed my hair are the artifacts that have been left behind. They seem so strangely odd right now. They are tools of historical interest to my recent past, and I am now their curator.

My blue hair pick on the bathroom counter.

The headbands that I use to hold back my hair as I apply facial cream morning and night.

The bottles of shampoo and conditioner that are waiting in the shower. My hair caught in the tendrils of my shower mat.

My blowdryer.

The hairs that I pick off the shoulders of my sweatshirts.

My cooking baseball cap that I keep in a kitchen drawer when I prepare food for others. I made a batch of deviled eggs to take for lunch with friends, but no cap was needed and no errant hairs were found.

The archeological dig that is a reality of chemo. Thankfully, the historical past for all of my artifacts will someday again be alive and thriving.

The Letter C

I loved the simple old Sesame Street days when C stood for cookies. Not any more. The new C in my grown-up life is cancer and it has garnered my undivided attention since October 7. There is nothing fuzzy and blue about having C. And I’m about to add another unfuzzy and unblue C to my life.

My first chemo treatment is confirmed for Thursday, December 15.

It seems like it should be scary as hell but the oncologist and nurse tell me differently.

I need to believe they’re right.

Each day one goes without a terrifying medical diagnosis means one is closer to a better treatment alternative, and I know I will benefit from this exact scenario. The advancement in chemo chemicals and ways to ameliorate the grievous torture of yesteryear is profoundly improved. And I am lucky that my cancer was caught early and didn’t leave any detritus behind. I was dreading the anticipated six month duration but cried when I learned it would be only three months, with three-week cycles rather than two-week ones. My chemo journey will be easier than those that a few of my friends have known.

Once I had received the positive final pathology report, the frightening unknowns ahead were over. I have been able to process myself beyond the disease stage to the treatment phase, something I was not sure I could do. But I have. I feel empowered to enter this as a positive chapter, knowing that it is insurance against a possible dandelion seed puff of cancer that may have scattered to lurk and grow someday in another body part.

I have no time for dandelion seed puffs with four little grandberries.

So, the side effects. Fatigue is a big one. I am told I should function at 80% for a few days after an infusion, a number I don’t even think I achieve on good days without chemo now.

I will lose all hair but it will come back, and possibly even differently. Maybe I won’t end up with the kitten hair option I already have.

I have moved my head past the loss of hair. I will get it buzzed proactively before it starts to fall out about the second week following the infusion. I hate surprises and could not stand the shock of kitten hair hanks on my pillow. My beloved stylist wants to take care of it for me but I have decided just to slip anonymously into a cheap franchise for the whack. Whatever is left will likely be gone by the next week anyway.

I have told Tom that his offer to buzz with me in solidarity touched my heart deeply but it will not be necessary. I want to look at everyone in my life as they normally are and not as reminders that I have crossed the border into Cancer World.

Steroids are administered for three days to prevent any nausea and vomiting. They may cause insomnia but sleep aides will help for those days. I may develop a metallic taste or aversions to some smells. It is recommended to avoid favorite foods in this case so as not to establish a negative association, so it looks like I might be eating salmon, okra, lima beans and pancakes ahead.

Blood counts will be closely monitored and I return the day after each treatment for a healthy growth cells infusion. Fighting off infection is critical. If all goes well, I will be done by the third week in February unless treatments are waylaid by illness. I don’t want that to happen. Once I start this walk down The Green Mile, I just want to get to the end.

Wrong, the end won’t be the end after that. Then I will have six weeks of daily radiation. It’s hard to pack any more fun into this party ahead.

But I have come a long way and I accept that the poisons ahead are positive forces. I am getting there. And, I am even beginning to focus on the sound of laughter after, something that I know will again be fuzzy and blue.

[Author’s After Note: this post mysteriously disappeared months after it was posted but both it and the accompanying readers’ comments were luckily retrieved from an archive website; comments are shown in a format different from the original.]


10 thoughts on “The Letter C”
DECEMBER 2, 2016 AT 6:30 PM
Yes, “C” was much more fun with the Cookie Monster. The big “C” of cancer is life altering. But there is another “C” that is the season of Christmas with all the hope, love, joy and the peace that is part of this special “C.” 🎄🎄May the gifts of this season be part of your journey. You are loved! Susan

Liz Goldstein
DECEMBER 2, 2016 AT 6:41 PM
I hope everything goes smoothly for you and that I’ll see you back at Words Alive as soon as possible. I miss you and think about you often.

Lynn Buechler
DECEMBER 2, 2016 AT 7:15 PM
Be gentle with yourself, you have nothing to prove, except to keep going one step ahead. You have ONE thing to work on, yourself. This is the time to be a bit selfish and do what YOU want. We are all thinking and encouraging and loving YOU!
Love love love to beautiful, wonderful YOU!

Kathy Green
DECEMBER 2, 2016 AT 7:35 PM
Praying for your every need, for your strength and peace during this difficult time. Can’t wait to see you on the other side of this. One day at a time. Hugs and love.

DECEMBER 2, 2016 AT 10:43 PM
It”s a word I abhor. Cancer. Yuck! Ugh! No me gusta!!!! However, as I thought, knowledge is power and empowers. You are set. Great information. Great doctors. Fabulous and supportive family and friends. Prayers and positive thoughts enveloping your space. You are fully prepared. 😘😘😘😘🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾 Let’s kick some cancer ‘s butt!

Butch Elliott
DECEMBER 2, 2016 AT 11:12 PM
Your strength and courage, as well as the eloquent way you express those qualities, overwhelm me with gratitude for having such a wonderful friend.

DECEMBER 2, 2016 AT 11:26 PM
You are going into this with a positive attitude and the knowledge that there have been great strides in treatment. You have the upper hand. Your medical team is the best. The hair loss is sad but you will always be beautiful because beauty lives in your spirit. And you will one day be the inspiration for another woman facing this battle. Your strength will become her strength.

Barb Brooks
DECEMBER 3, 2016 AT 5:57 AM
Just think of this process as hurdles. You have gone through — discovery, diagnosis, lumpectomy,and pathology report. Now the journey begins on the downside. Chemo, radiation and freedom. Look at how far you have come. Cancer is a frightening word but you have the strength and support to tackle whatever comes your way. Know that your East coast family continues to think and pray for you. Yes, this is a life altering diagnosis but focus on the joys that lie ahead. Take one day at a time, as we have done for the past 25 years of transplantation. Love. Barb and

DECEMBER 3, 2016 AT 9:28 AM
Oooooo… Maybe THAT is the ‘hair’ I should crochet for you: fuzzy & blue!!! Sending hugs🙂

Valerie Stevenson
DECEMBER 12, 2016 AT 4:06 PM
As the date for chemo #1 nears, I have reread this post. Thanks for so eloquently sharing your journey. You seem well equipped for steady progress ahead. Adalante! (sp?)


Hit the Road, Jack

My cancer has left the building.

The surgical eviction of my squatter yesterday has left me euphoric, an emotion that I haven’t felt in weeks. I have crawled to what seems like a tortuous finish line since my diagnosis on October 7, waiting to be free of it. There is no hostess mentality when cancer decides to take up residence. Close the shades, slam the door, lockdown in progress. Call the police.

Oddly, I have wondered along the way how long this pernicious evil has been inside me. I have likely treated it to undeserved trips abroad to England, France, Portugal and Italy. It was lurking in the shadows as I have hugged my loved ones, especially my precious four little grandberries (a charming term that evolved when a former teaching colleague of mine intended to ask me one morning, “How are your grandbabies, Terri?” but it delightfully scrambled into, “How are your grandberries?”).

My laughter has likely rattled it whenever I am with my friends. It has serenely relaxed by the ocean in Cambria. I hope it has anguished as it was forced to pick up some Spanish along the way.

Maybe it was with me over the last year and a half when I lost forty pounds. Too bad it didn’t melt away in the goo.

The existence of this squatter in my life leaves me furious, not because of the months of unpleasant treatment I face ahead, but because it has for now necessarily robbed me of the upcoming holidays with my family, plans that had to be cancelled. I cry when I think of missing the magic of Christmas in England. Mollie says it is only a travel disruption for now. I know, but for me, it is a year’s moment in time that I will not be able to pack away in the memory box of my heart. Little girls are growing up so fast.

With its certain departure from the building for now, I can safeguard the premises. Chemo and radiation are the deadbolts and security systems to come. Frequent medical monitoring in the future is hope. And, the new soundtrack of my life:

Hit the road, Jack, and don’t cha come back
No more no more no more no more
Hit the road, Jack, and don’t cha come back
No more.

[Author’s After Note: this post mysteriously disappeared months after it was posted but it was luckily retrieved from an archive website. Sadly, the accompanying readers’ comments could not be retrieved.]


You just can’t make this stuff up.

I am scheduled to have a lumpectomy next week, on Election Day. I have undergone many surgeries since 1980. Hysterectomy, arthroscopy, osteotomy, capsulotomy, arthroplasty, capsulorrhaphy and synovectomy are just a few of the fluffy procedures I’ve had. None would be notable if they had occurred on Election Day 2016. and any other surgical procedure on Election Day 2016 would be rather unremarkable.

But not mine this time. When scheduled for a lumpectomy on Election Day 2016, you just can’t make this stuff up. And so, with great fanfare, I announce that I will be having a trumpectomy next week.

With a diagnosis of breast cancer, it’s not exactly a barrel of monkeys. But after the nurse called and I realized the date, I could not stop laughing. How many other surgical procedures would work with this happenstance? What are the chances? I can’t think of one that would rhyme with Clinton. Even if I could, I would not sign up. Nor can I think of one that would have rhymed with Sanders. Obama? Bush? Romney?  Gore? McCain? I hope there are no rhyming procedures out there that come my way in the future.

And doctors need not respond.

No, I am scheduled for a trumpectomy on Election Day 2016. And I didn’t even get to vote for it.

It’s hard not to run with the connections, once pushed into this campaign surgical corner. I have triple negative invasive ductal carcinoma and nothing could be more relevant descriptors of this campaign morass than triple negative and invasive. And nobody should have to deal with breast cancer AND this election at the same time. Cruel and unusual punishment comes to mind.

Unfortunately, this surgical confluence with Election Day means it’s going to be an election I will never forget. And, next to having a tumor cut out of your breast, followed by months of chemo and radiation, it’s hard to think of anything worse.

But, given my patriotic and cancerous fusion, I needed some levity. So, I am having a trumpectomy on Election Day 2016, she said with a smile.


My life has fallen into Friday markers.

Three Fridays ago, I went in for a biopsy. Two Fridays ago, I was in Cambria where I received a breast cancer phone diagnosis. Last Friday was the full frontal assault at Moores with the surgical oncologist. As of Friday today, I have traveled a lifetime on the human informational absorption rate timeline.

Last Friday, I felt as if my life was now a scattered box of checkers all over the floor. I was suddenly left with no prediction, no control, no organization. All I could do was pick up the scattered checkers and throw them to a jumble in the box.

But somehow, to get through the week to today’s Friday, I had to do something with the checkers. To survive in chaos is not a choice for me, a Type A totally organized specimen. So, following Jody’s serendipitous intervention on Sunday, I picked up a checker. And I realized I had to start moving it forward.

A pre-op day of tests on Monday found me crying with nurses at Moores. But then I came home and started searching online for some early head coverings and I ordered four. I began reading a breast cancer book that my doctor recommended. I made my first checker diagonal push to a forward square.

On Tuesday I had lunch with my dear friend Amy whose husband has both Parkinson’s and cancer. She is one of the funniest and zaniest people I know. She had me laughing out loud over the advantages of having no hair. She was bored that I had ordered safe coverings, wanting instead to go outrageous hat shopping with me. She wants to knit me some yarn curls to hang from my coverings. Envisioning, I pushed my checker forward again, this time with a smile.

Following Amy, I went to what will be my last regular haircut appointment for a very long time with Heather. She talked to me about good and reasonable wig sources she knows and that she would cut and style anything for me. She volunteered to come to my home when the moment comes to be bald. We talked about hair changes in the future, and hair regrowth and re-losses down the road. Again, I landed on the next diagonal square.

Wednesday found me at another close friend’s home who is herself a breast cancer survivor. Jan chose to fight future fear with the choice of double mastectomies and subsequent reconstruction. Her path was a difficult one with setbacks, but she is happy now. She showed me her chest wall, a previous prosthesis and its accompanying bra. Thanks to Jan, my checker went forward to a square in case I learned on Thursday that I would need a mastectomy. I felt stronger still.

After Jan’s, I went to my weekly Pura Buena Onda (PBO) Spanish conversational class, always a fun highlight. During my previous week’s absence (I was still in Cambria), they had talked about me. They love my laugh and miss it when it’s not in class. There are six of us students and our epic teacher, Danny, who handed me a card. I couldn’t open it until I got home but I knew it was initiated by Carolina, the stellar brains behind PBO. The PBO staff and students are like extended family to me. There were lots of hugs and in the parking lot my classmates told me that if I couldn’t get to class, they would come to me. Push. I cried at home while reading the heartfelt PBO staff and classmate messages. Push again. My cousin Joyce had sent a thoughtful blanket for future warmth. Push again.

Thursday was the radiation oncologist consultation at Moores, and more tests, and the pieces are falling into place. I will be having a lumpectomy, followed by 4-6 months of chemo (determined post-surgery), followed by a month of daily radiation. I continue to hear the good news of how tiny my tumor is, and how there is no palpable detection yet of any lymph node involvement. I am still waiting for a surgery date.

Then more mammogram slides, more ultrasound images. The radiologist underscored the miniscule size and the undetected lymph evidence, but he indicated there are some calcifications near the tumor, which might be a problem. Once compared against previous years of scans from my prior facility, either all will be well or a larger lumpectomy will be done.

My checker is still sliding ahead.

What I have not yet mentioned is all the ongoing support that I receive daily from my family and friends, who reach out to touch a heart that is numb. The emails, the messages, the cards, the calls, and the texts are reminders that I am still a part of my life.

I am grateful for the courageous sharing of cancer journeys, since they shine with blazing hope for me. I know that the coming months will not be fun, but the knowledge that so many others have done it before lets me know that so will I.

Finally, this is the best Friday that I have had in what seems like forever. And, along the way, I have learned that it takes a village to push a checker forward.


It is 1985 and I have just transferred to Rohr Elementary, the second school of my career and where I will remain for 26 years before retiring. I have been assigned a 3rd/4th combo class in Room B-9. It is here where a perfect story of serendipity will be born, thirty-one years later.

Her name is Jody. She is eight. And she is one of my third graders. She is the same age as my son, Eli. And she is now my guardian angel.

Because I taught for so long at the same school site, it was easy for my students to stay in touch with me over the years. Jody was one of those. A wonderful student, she grew into a lovely young woman who even became a teacher at Rohr for a couple of years before she had to leave because of staffing cuts.

She taught in the room next to mine, but she could never bring herself to call me Terri. I was still Mrs. Hamlin from her third grader point of view.

Following her short stint in education, Jody pursued a different career. And then at 34, Jody was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was 34, when I was Jody’s teacher.

Deeply concerned by Jody’s diagnosis, her bosses queried medical connections they had with Eli Lilly and Company to determine the finest breast cancer treatment center and doctors in San Diego. The singular response: Moores Cancer Center in La Jolla.

Jody had a lumpectomy, radiation, and aggressive chemotherapy because she was so young. She is a five-year cancer survivor today.

But because of her life-changing diagnosis, Jody decided to make a career change. She attended UCSD, did her internship at Moores Cancer Center, and she is now a radiation oncology therapist at Sharp Grossmont Hospital.

And here is the magic of serendipity. Because of a second Facebook account that I created in order to remain in contact with my former students, she learned of my cancer diagnosis and contacted me while I was in Cambria. And then on Sunday she read my first post that detailed my terror, and she knew she could help. She picked up her phone and texted me on Sunday: “Good morning, Mrs. Hamlin! Would you by chance have time to meet today? I also got treated at Moores. I also interned there so I wanted to give you info on the doctors, if you think that would help.”

I opened my front door and together we hugged and cried. I felt like a third grader in the presence of my teacher. We had come full circle, thirty-one years later, from B-9. The irony was, neither one of us was benign.

For the next several hours she calmly and lovingly helped Tom and me process our fears and our questions. Her doctors were the same. I felt the madness pause and I was able to breathe. The blizzard in my brain lightened. I allowed flashes of hope and peace.

I can do this, thanks to the heart of a third grader, who will be with me on this journey. We share an academic history, and now a story. It is a perfect story of serendipity.

Table For One

It is three in the morning and I am in my office downstairs, unable to sleep. Everything is spinning in my head since last week’s Friday’s diagnosis and since yesterday’s Friday’s meeting with the surgical oncologist.

A cancer diagnosis has necessarily brought me to a table for one.

It is a table where many before me have sat, including a lot of my friends. It is a place where numbingly scary words are heard, possibilities are discussed, and tears are shed. It is impossible to intelligently process the waves of information. I wish for the prescience to know what I should have asked, afterwards. It is hard to be brave.

During the technical meteor shower at Moores Cancer Center with Dr. Blair, I heard sparkles of good news: small (7 mm), Stage I, 90% cure rate. I heard shards of terror: triple-negative invasive ductal carcinoma, aggressive, recurring, probable chemotherapy, possible mastectomy because of complications from having autoimmune disease (rheumatoid arthritis). I only wanted to hear kittens and puppies.

The drip drip drip of waiting is going to continue. The surgeon will be gone next week. I have two medications that have to cease for two weeks before surgery can be done. The earliest likelihood will be in three weeks.

I will have molecular breast imaging just prior to the surgery during which a radioactive dye will be injected to better illuminate the tumor and start a lymph node sky show. Glowing nodes will be removed with the tumor.

I am awake because now I wish I had asked if having a mastectomy would make this all go away.

Whether I like it or not, I am at a table for one. I need to look ahead to Laughter After.