June 28, 2016- For lying in wait simply leaves us….Lonely

It’s so easy in this life to find yourself on any given day feeling rugged. It’s a ruggedness of being worn out, emotionally drained, emotionally conflicted, physically challenged, and on the verge of being out of time for the monstrosity of the never ending to-do list.  All while attempting to raise little ones with any chance of them being contributing members to society. All while wondering where our time goes when we are single and working hours on end. All while being married and trying to pull together 2 schedules into one. All while approaching mid-life, or passing mid-life, and looking back and wondering what we have to show for it all. There is nothing like navigating mid-life to get our attention around the value of life’s accumulations.

I’ll venture a guess to say that on top of this incredibly chaotic life we spend so much time building for ourselves surrounded with a calendar so overflowing that that no one would envy, a work ethic over shadowing our home ethic, and such a sense of imbalance that we don’t even know what comes next, that most, if not all of us, would describe ourselves as lonely. I ask myself how in the world we could ever be lonely with a calendar overflowing with tasks. How could we be lonely when we are surrounded by person after person in this place of work? How could we be lonely with the constant bombardment of events, and sound, and cohabitation? How could we be lonely with a spouse and 2.5 kids? Yet it is exactly what we are, isn’t it? Lonely. And burned out. And run-down. 

It’s evident as we navigate challenges, and we long to dialogue the experience with women that we trust. It’s evident when we are confronted with heartbreak, and we long for the phone to ring with someone calling to check in on us. It’s evident when we see fellow friends showered with attention during loss, and we long for attention ourselves as we mourn in silence. We don’t want more tasks or things. We don’t want more calendar commitments.  We don’t even want another acquaintance. Rather, we crave to our core people that bring value and who are willing to do the tough road with us. Doesn’t it really simply come down to the fact that we crave authentic relationship? And as we search this out we ebb and flow in this rat race of the American Dream in hopes of finding a reasonable substitute that will give us a sense of value, a value which we didn't realize was intended to come through relationship. But with that missing, we fill the void with a to-do list, one more vacation, another night on the town , just one more accolade for our children, or one more promotion while spending our days away in the cinder block lined hallways. We are shoving our lives so full with substitutes that instead of coming out on the other side purposeful and recharged as genuine relationship can bring, we come out in a perpetually starved substituted version of our selves. And there is no wonder we suddenly find ourselves worn out, emotionally drained, emotionally conflicted, physically challenged, and out of time.

So having pondered this for days/months/years on end, and as midlife has not only knocked on my door, but somehow been invited in, I find myself still floundering in finding the fix. Having accumulated all that this life can offer, how do I better focus myself on what life was intended to be and encompassing more of  relationship and less of things? It’s not as if we can snap our fingers and “poof!” genuine relationships are on your front porch. Yet we live our lives as if they do, sitting in wait for our best of friends to gather at our doorstep. And it’s not as if what genuine relationships we do have will meet every need of every circumstance, though we wait in anticipation of unsubstantiated proof that they do. After much churning of thought and reflection, I think the culprit lies in that fact that we have become passive in an active process. We sit in constant wait for something to happen TO us. We wait for people around us to prove their self-worth. We lie in the shadows of life and anticipate someone else coming to our rescue in our hour of need. And THIS is where I find that I have been fully in the wrong. And THIS is where Christ is growing my heart. It’s not a revelation of any sorts. You’ve heard me type similar words on similar pages. It’s my awareness that deepens as I continue to ponder and thus hopefully propelling me into action: I want/need/should/must model what it is that I think I want from other people. Instead of unrealistically setting a list of expectation of what I expect from people around me, I imagine I am much better served to place those expectations on myself in proof of their worth. It removes the focus off of what others are or are not doing for me, and instead pushing me to focus on what I am or am not doing for other people. For do genuine relationships come not from waiting for them to happen, but rather in my active pursuit and nourishment of those around me.

Loneliness is not a place I one day am surprised to find myself, but rather a place I most likely cultivated for myself by my lack of action and investment in others. This statement isn’t absolute, I know, but I would say it is a huge contributing factor at the very least. I know this that God will provide my every need, even in loneliness. His is a Hope that will anchor the soul (Hebrews 6:18). But God also created the value of earthly relationship that doesn’t replace His, but instead embellishes this life on this side of heaven. So while I can sit back in the Hope He offers, I can also nourish this life with the joys that genuine relationship here on earth can bring as well. And it deserves to be actively cultivated, sought out, and nourished (not to be replaced by an enticing substitute) for lying in wait simply leaves us….Lonely.

I’m asking myself how can I expect less of others around me and more of myself instead. How can I accumulate less tasks, things, accolades, and instead better cultivate myself for genuine relationship? How do I leave time in my life so it can be spent with people in a sense of community, and not running the rat race we set up for ourselves? It’s a long process of ups and downs, but it is certainly worth the pursuit. There’s proof in the pudding. I’m stirring my pot. 





To access previous blog posts - click HERE.

June 22, 2016 - It could change your everything

I was running late. The meeting would be starting in no time, so I really needed to hurry.  I grabbed up my stuff and out into the hall I went and soon after realized I had way too much stuff to carry having left my book bag back at my desk. I shuffled it all around in my arms over and over again and quickly realized the tiny stuff (the credit card, the note) simply had to go elsewhere. Up until now I’ve not been one to repurpose the bra for a pocket but when you find yourself in a bind and in clothes with no pockets… I reluctantly decided on my bra.

I stopped in route to grab a drink, a snack, and some napkins/utensils, and after paying for the items, I returned the card and now two more items (receipts and napkins) back to my bra for safe keeping and off I went to the meeting. Now mind you, this was mid-day and after the meeting I attended two more, finished out my day seeing patients, and then gathered all my belongings and made my way to the car and back home. I got home, fed the cat, made dinner, did odds and ends and then several hours later was ready for bed. I went to the bedroom and took off my clothes, took off my bra….and literally about scared myself to death when the now long forgotten items started tumbling out of my bra and noisily onto the bedroom floor.  Who walks around for 5+ hours having no memory or sensation of several items shoved into your bra during a moment of haste? See, I told you I couldn’t feel anything.  Four years later and I still have large portions of boob 1 and 2.2 that can’t feel a thing. It’s comical if you let it be. Lesson learned: Choose taking your bag, no matter how cumbersome, every single time.  

Today was simply a mastectomy kind of day. The forgotten items in the “bra stuffing”. Earlier in the day I ran into my surgeon who I haven’t seen around the office since my last surgery 9 months ago. After my meeting, a lady in the elevator asked me if I could point her in the direction of the breast clinic as she was running late for her follow-up mammogram.  Thing after thing today. Some days it’s nothing. Other days it’s like the whole world is there to remind you. I’ve decided both days serve their purpose.

A little nugget from today? My coworker brought a little nugget right to my doorstep for the taking: “I’ve decided I am going to start being selective about what I let in my home.” We had been talking about downsizing our lives. Purging our closets, uncluttering our drawers. I was thinking very literally about the discussion. Having just moved earlier this year, I was acutely in tune with the tasks, both emotional and physical, of unloading stuff from our closets. I simply didn’t want all the stuff I had collected over the years packed up in another box only to be stored once again in another attic. I wanted less. She had recently gone through a similar task of pulling things out of the closet and setting them aside for donation. We discussed a little while longer about duplicated items our cabinets held and the freedom found in tossing them in the donation box. The day got busy and then the conversation was abandoned.

Or so I thought. As the day went wound its way forward, her words hung close. “I’ve decided I am going to start being selective about what I let in my home.” Hum. Those were simple words uttered in benign declaration of a literal thought. You know, I need less sweaters. Who needs more books? A statement of the typical clutter of excess found in the American home.  But on my way home as I was navigating traffic (with credit cards shoved in my bra!) those words dug deeper. They started to eat at me in that maybe each syllable carried not only literal implications of this shoe or that kitchen ware tucked in the nook of that cupboard, but what if there was a deeper implication of that statement. And I found myself wondering if literal is what she meant. Was there a deeper meaning in her words? What if I truly did carefully dissect and evaluate each item (literally or figuratively) that came through the doors of my home. What if I carefully thought through in a way of saying “by bringing this item (or thought, or whatnot) into my home, what would the ramifications be”?  Do I care enough about my home and marriage that I assign this degree of thought to the things I introduce for each?  I know someone who took internet out of their home because the husband didn’t want the temptation of pornography in his life . If he has an email to send, he waits until he get into the office to send it. He needs to look something up online? His wife offers to look it up for him on her smart phone. To my knowledge, he doesn’t have a pornography addiction, but he loves his marriage so much that he doesn’t want to risk it. He cares more about protecting his vows than he does the convenience of life online in their home. Powerful, huh? I know plenty of other people who have a rule of not riding in a car alone with someone of the opposite sex. While there would be no mal-intent on their part, they value the appearance of their marriage more than they do the convenience of getting a lift to the meeting. They don’t want to risk someone else seeing them and starting the rumor of “I saw Johnny with Lucy….” We all know how the appearance of things can destroy a reality when placed in the wrong hands. So while you sit there reading saying to yourself “Sally, these are pretty drastic examples!”,  I find myself now wanting to reply with “are they?”

What are we bringing or allowing  into our homes (our lives, our minds, our hearts) that we shouldn’t be? What are we allowing to come in that is now an unintended risk to the things we hold dear? Got kids? Oh that list probably just tripled. What are we addicted to that are destroying our finances? One more pair of shoes? What words are we allowing to be said in the confines of our home that are destroying the self confidence of our pre-teen? What words are going unsaid that portray to our children that we must bottle up our emotions? Got teenage sons? I’d say we need to take heavy inventory. Do you really need cable TV? Got teenage gals? Yep, choose wisely! Are you single? How do you need to structure your home to preserve yourself?  I imagine each “risk” is going to be different for each of us, but I would say the “call for action” lies within us all and most often remains untaken.

If I were to search my heart and search the atmosphere in my home I know without a doubt that I could be more selective. More protective! It’s not always our intent that matters. It’s the outcome. The perception. The onlookers that can roll right over your reality, and I find that without being proactive to protect our home, we just may find ourselves in a place we never intended to be. You don’t usually see disaster coming your way. You just one day find yourself there. You also don’t always consciously choose with disaster in mind.  It’s a subtle temptation that one day plops itself from un-tempted to tempted in no second flat. I think we now live in a society and a cultural environment where we just may have to, at times, choose the drastic choice in order to protect our home and all we hold dear.  In what ways should I choose inconvenience in an effort to put my marriage to my spouse first? In what ways do I need to change thoughts and behaviors to uphold the sanctity of family? How should I better model what comes in and goes out of my home. We need to be proactive, not reactive, and we just may need to be drastic because everything could be hanging in the balance and we don’t even know it yet. And if you don’t know where to start, start where I am: Douse your home in prayer. Pray that you choose to be selective. Pray that you aren’t afraid to make the drastic choice, if need be. Pray that you are able to see the risks by looking through the eyes of your spouse and children. Pray that you don’t consider yourself immune to the risks. Pray, pray, pray! And then start evaluating your front door and what you are going to allow to come through it. Just because something knocks doesn’t mean you have to answer, and just maybe closing a door on it could change your everything.

“I’ve decided I am going to start being selective about what I let in my home.”

Psalm 51:10: Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.









To access previous blog posts - click HERE.

June 7, 2016- Dodged the bullet

I used to jokingly say “I need a lung transplant” anytime I got a nasty cold. The hacking fits that would double you over, you’ve been there yourself. Well tonight as I am sitting here feeling like crud and hacking up a lung, I say that no more.  Isn’t it interesting how something so benign and trivial said in jest totally takes a drastic turn to not so funny when faced with the real possibility? I dodged the bullet back in December (and “dodged the bullet” certainly wouldn’t be funny in someone else’s circumstances) and it left an impact. I no longer joke about my lungs. It’s too close to home. 

Interesting how we can go from being carefree/comical in tossing around colloquialisms about certain scenarios, and then drastically in 24 hours time with one brush of fear we can transition over instead to an advocate.  “I need a lung transplant”, “He rides the short bus”, “ we certainly dogged that bullet”, “it made me want to blow my brains out”, “I’d rather jump off a bridge”. Carefree, right?... until you have to face one of them for real.  You would never use these latter words so carelessly with someone who lost a daughter to suicide. Words carry a different meaning once you've been there. 

And take the advocate into play. Isn’t there always a story there? Who actually advocates for something they know nothing about? Chances are, I mean super high chances, if someone is speaking out for or against something, they’ve had a brush with it themselves.  I have a friend who is highly visible in the world of human trafficking. She’s had a brush with it herself. I work with parents who devote their lives to raising awareness for genetic diseases. They lost a child to its horrible grasp. I have another friend who lost a spouse in battle. They now serve on a foundation for helping widows of war. Think about the things you are passionate about. Are they not fueled by experience? We want women to be more open about infertility and miscarriage. If you advocate for that, I bet you’ve been there.  I advocate for women in mastectomy. Yep, I’ve been there. It’s so easy to care about issues we have traversed, either first hand or second hand), and in contrast it’s simply so hard to have lasting care for things we have not. Experience carries forward a motivation and a little tug at the heart strings. However, it’s very difficult to maintain a stance on something we know very little about. For example, it’s easy for me to feel care and concern for your battle with heart failure while you are there in the moment digging your way through the trenches, but that care and concern rarely morphs into a passion as we move further away from your event. A month or two later and I’m back to feeling something less than advocacy for your struggle.  My concern for your experience over time is replaced by the urging demands of my own life. This is why there is often loneliness in our plight after initial diagnosis. It’s just a reality of doing life with other people. By design, we simply care a whole lot about other people as they face the giant, but as the giant becomes familiar and yesterday’s news, the giant takes a back seat for the rest of us as we watch from the side lines. But give me a personal scare with pulmonary fibrosis and I quickly become an expert in everything fibrosis and that expertise will last for years to come.

I think God was brilliant in this design. We can’t all be advocates for everything. The pool would be watered down. Unbelievable. Un-motivating. If we all ganged up on raising awareness of absolutely everything, we would put less than 1% of our efforts and wisdom into each issue. Instead, don’t we become more relate-able, believable, trustworthy, impacting by advocating for issues having been there ourselves? For example, I truly do not think you want me to advocate for women on divorce. I simply know very little about it.  I’ve never been divorced, no one in my family had been divorced, I have very few friends that have been divorced. My knowledge is third hand, from books, from movies, from conversations. So what merit do I bring to the divorce table? In fact, instead of merit, if we all are going to be honest here, I more likely bring a little bit of judgement to that table. I am happy to support you, cry with you, pray for reconciliation with you, but I seriously doubt I would have any impact as the advocacy-face of women going through divorce, and because I haven’t been there myself, I risk coming to the table full of preconceived ideas and judgement that simply doesn’t pan out. And as someone looking for someone to advocate on my behalf for any topic I’m facing do I not want someone who truly knows ( not from books but from experience) my stance? I want to tell my deepest struggles to someone who has been there, someone who gets it and brings no judgement to the table, someone who I believe truly knows what I am fighting through and for. We are creatures of relationship, and we naturally navigate toward what we know, and we also want to be known by other people who have been there too. Our advocacy is a testament of our experiences.  And 24 hours, 6 months, 1 year from now, we have no idea what we might find ourselves suddenly an advocate for.

Full transparency? I used to get really frustrated with the Susan G. Komen platform. There, I said it, it’s out there on paper. If I had to guess, breast cancer (BC) gets the most research, financial backing, commercial propaganda, of anything else out there in the malignancy world (maybe even of any disease state). Make something pink and sell it in October and it will be bought. It wasn’t that I didn’t think BC was a worthy cause, it most certainly was, but working in oncology and seeing all the malignancies not advocated for…well, it frustrated me.  Take pancreatic cancer where the 5 year survival rate is a miserable 8%. Where is a month devoted to it (it does exist but I bet most of us don’t know when it is)? Where are all the football uniforms colored purple during pancreatic awareness month? I simply wanted the attention/finances/research to be spread evenly across the causes.  Breast cancer is worthy, but it totally overshadows other killers out there. Then….I got my mastectomy news. I can’t say my position on everything has changed, but it changed enough because now I wasn’t an onlooker looking in from outside but rather a women staring statistics in the face.  We simply care about what we have experienced, and that can change at a moment’s notice. I now realize it isn’t the Susan G. Komen Foundation that is at fault for the imbalance, she totally did her part to get the news out there and sets the bar very high. It’s the under representation of advocates for other areas of life. Liver cancer awareness exists, but it’s not so in your face. Same with depression, Alzheimer’s, Krabbe disease. ALS got a huge publicity projection with the recent Ice Bucket Challenges. It all came down to someone fighting the fight and then someone picking up the reigns and being creative in their advocacy. 

I need that creativity. I need that passion. I need to shout out for the scars of mastectomy and so many other things in life. I need to be empowered to fight for what I experience. I would have never even considered giving pulmonary fibrosis a single funding dollar before last December. I would have given breast cancer some funding because it’s so highly visible thanks to advocates that are hard core. So I ask myself, what should I be advocating for that I am not? What is going to happen in the next year of your life or my life that will suddenly change my awareness? What has already happened in your life that you now need to be a voice for? We won’t have the same passions. We aren’t designed to do so. We should all be passionate about some things at baseline (injustice, persecution, abuse, neglect, etc) and then we should individually become advocates for other things because God allowed events in our lives to change us, or change someone around us (malignancy, abuse, infertility, oh how the list goes on and on and on). In the former we carry commonality (it’s a mandate of being a moral and ethical humanity). The latter we sort of find ourselves in after we experience life unfolding. We very simply need to be an advocate…for something. Otherwise, what’s the point? Does it not instead become an experience and then an opportunity lost?  Do I not owe the next victim my voice and experience? I certainly can’t save the world from everything, but I certainly can use my individual experiences to do my best trying, in whatever way I can no matter how big or how small. I’d say I get a failing grade on this most days, but I’m hoping to one day be Most Improved.

Thank you, cleft lip, lymphoma, mastectomy, fibrosis, personal failure, insecurity, and everything else that is still to be determined. I hope to not let you down.


(As an update on my friend from my last post, her cancer has returned. Hers is not my story to tell, but I do ask that you pray for her as she navigates this again. We have been talking behind the scenes over the last 10 days and what a motivation her story is and will be to those she tells. God does great things, even in pain.)



To access previous blog posts - click HERE.

June 1, 2016 - The loss of We

Relapse. It’s a word that carries a lot of weight. Diagnosis carries some punch, but the gut kick of relapse carries something altogether different. It’s the knowledge that comes with Relapse that weighs it down. Been there. Faced that. Grueling memories of what comes back around.  The known is the shadow underneath the cheery day of normalcy. I have the badge of having kicked diagnosis in the butt, but that shadow, it’s always there. In contrary, with diagnosis, there is an unknown. It’s unchartered territories yet to be traversed. You are limited to trying to recall the story of a friend’s experience. “Wasn’t she nauseated all the time?” “Remember the time she threw up at the mall?” “Didn’t she have to quit her job?”  “How long did she get treatment?” Or you are left to conjure up the lines out of a celebrity newscast. “Stage 3 liver cancer”…”surgery scheduled for next week”…”she will fight the good fight determined to overcome”…”so brave so strong”…”Hollywood rallies around her”. It’s other people’s stories that give you a glimpse into what you may face with the same diagnosis. But with Relapse, it’s a whole different ballgame.

You have walked the lines yourself before. You vividly recall the gut wrenching heartbreak of hearing the devastating words heavily falling from his mouth, his lips moving in slow motion. And as the words tumbled off his lips they began to absorb every ounce of air around you making it harder and harder to breath as he detailed this scan and that.  Likewise, you can easily conjure up the pains of toxicity like the back of your hand. You can feel the nauseating bile creep up higher into your throat as your thoughts flow back to then. You are in constant notice of the single strand of hair sitting on your shoulder as in premonition of what could lie right around the corner without any warning at all. You can pull into focus that moment when your spouse got the news and the watery eyes that followed. You see, it’s all always there able to be pulled back from the periphery into center view at any moment. You already know most of what lies ahead. And therefore Relapse is weighted a little differently. It’s heavier. It’s the sorrow and fear of “what if” that can come with knowledge.  But if I were to be honest I need to dig a little deeper and ask myself what is that we are really afraid of?

I’ve never been plagued by the worries of a lymphoma relapse. I don’t know if that was my naivety of “lightening never strikes twice” (we totally know relapse is a daily occurrence in this now cancer-stricken world) or my simple perspective of been invincible. You would understand the absurdity of that statement had you truly known my track in life thus far. But it’s still there, this cape of invincible carefully placed across my shoulder and covering me with, well quite honestly, it covers me with stupidity. Whatever we want to call it I simply lived in this world where lymphoma would be a once in a lifetime moment never to be seen again. However, as I matured out of my teenage years and started traversing the knowledgeable days of adulthood and then accumulated the knowledge that comes with my career path, the worry that began to skim its way across my pond of stupidity was compiled not with fear of relapse, but fear of a secondary malignancy or unmanageable toxicity. I guess this was why I was so decisive and so seamless in my decision for mastectomy and so lacking in surprise at the development  fibrosis. I simply expected…something…to come. And I still do.

So while most sit mentally teetering on proverbial edge of the Relapse “what if”, I rather thumb-my-nose  in disregard to relapse as even an option. My alternative “what if” is of second malignancy or life-reducing toxicity, but let's face it. It floats in the very same pond as Relapse. They are joint in their outlook. Dismal some might say. A constant undulating wave of “right around the corner” pooling in the stomach of its owner, who is never quite at ease in the peacefulness in which we try to sit. “Too good to be true”. “It’s only a matter of time”. “I might be the one.” Once you successfully traverse diagnosis, you never fully find yourself back into the peaceful mindset of the un-diagnosed. “What is coming next?” is always there underneath. We constantly carry around in our pockets the reality of statistics. The odds are always greater than zero.  1% is not zero. That reality changes your decision making.  It blurs the edges of your clarity. It makes even the smallest of odds a subtle player in your everyday and can put a noticeable dent in your level of carefree. You find yourself a little more guarded. A little less confident in tomorrow. A nail biter when waiting for routine results. A single tinge of unexpected pain can propel you to a comprehensive and immediate mental regurgitation of your past experience. It’s there. “What if?” 

I’ve recently been pondering what is it that drives that apprehension of what if after a diagnosis? I don’t think it’s the inconvenience (rearranging our schedules for appointments, avoiding this or that with our lost immunity) that a diagnosis can bring that we loathe, nor do I think we fear the pains of financial burden that will come. They most certainly come, but they don’t hold us captive. Nor do we loathe the frustration of feeling our absolute worst, weak, at risk, less than.  That carries a ton of merit, but neither is that the source of worry.  Let’s face it, we know all the nooks and crannies that come with the diagnosis, and it’s not those that make us swell up with fear. These things make diagnosis complicated, a nuisance, a hardship, and something most certainly worthy of creating anger. But our fear is sprouted not of these worthy sources, but rather I more recently find myself discerning that this underlying root of fear is cultivated by the awareness of potential loss. The fear of not winning this time and losing everything we hold precious is the source of our fear and what keeps the “what ifs” of relapse or related complications in the forefront of our minds…for the rest of time.

We are created to love and to be loved. It all comes down to relationship. And in the diagnosis or the relapse we become acutely aware that we have great risk in losing what we have so carefully cultivated. Our children, our spouse, our family and friends. Not loss in that they will turn away from us, but rather loss in that we could potentially leave them behind. We are driven by our fear of outcome. There are other fears interwoven in the strand of worry as supporting actors, each not to be stripped of their own value, but at the core of the strand sits the knowledge that the next outcome might not be “remission”. This time our luck may have run out. This time we may get a different hand. This time…

I'm not afraid of relapse. I'm afraid of what relapse can bring….loss. And honestly, I don’t think there is a single thing we can do to circumvent that fear. It’s a normal response to a rational inherent risk. And it is not something you fully understand until you have been there staring diagnosis in the face, and then again, if you are selected, when you find yourself on the other side now dodging relapse and the other sister follies. But I am working diligently to instead focus on the comfort in what all of that means. I simply value what we were intended to value: We.  For in “we” lies our relationships with the people around us, and we want to be around forever to relish in what all those cumulative relationships bring us: joy, purpose, contentment, pursuit, love, value, focus…and oh so many other things. We is the core of our everything. 

As a friend of mine is facing potential relapse of breast cancer this week and as so many of us as survivors sit in the shadows of a constant awareness of “what if”, I wanted to mentally take a deep dive in to discern the heart of it all. Underneath it all, I don’t fear relapse or related mishap (fibrosis, secondary malignancy heart failure, or whatnot) in and of itself. I simply and very honestly down to the core of everything that I am fear the loss of “We”. And it motivates everything I am and do from the day after diagnosis, and after remission, and now I'm finally realizing it's also in the prospects of "what if". 



Click  www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts. 

May 23, 2016 - Ghost Boob

This week, we are back to mastectomy updates. At certain time points, I want to revisit the boob "status" so you have a concept of what to expect and when if you are in the middle of mastectomy. For this update, it’s been 9 months since surgery #6 and 3 years and 9 months since the mastectomy itself. Visually, Boob 1 and Boob 2.2 are pretty spot on. They do in fact mirror the former tenants, with the exception of a few scars. All and all, we have two boobs and therefore goal achieved. While visually, they pass inspection, there are other aspects that remain a wee bit (or a lot of bit) wonky.  I will start with sensation. We’ve touched on this topic before, but I wanted to update you on the timing in case this information is helpful to you in the future.

Let me introduce you to Ghost Boob. As a refresher, the breast is comprised of glandular tissue, ducts, fat tissue, connective tissue, nerves, blood vessels and lymphatic vessels. Those contents sit on top of the chest wall muscles. During the mastectomy procedure, the entire contents of the breast (+/- the skin itself and the nipple) are removed all the way down to the chest wall muscle. During reconstruction (as I had; there are several ways to reconstruct a breast) a pocket is created within the chest wall muscle and the implant is slipped into the pocket. This serves as a holster per se for the weight of the implant to be supported. While the implant is used to provide the breast structure, during reconstruction the nerves, blood supply, adipose, and ducts are not returned to the breast. As a result, women have a change in sensation, a sort of numbness due to the lack of nerve endings, in the new breast. I’ve mentioned before what a strange feeling this is to run your hand down your neck over the breast and onto the stomach. Feeling, no feeling, feeling. It’s identical to what you (don’t) feel when you touch your hand after it has fallen asleep. Ghost Boob! Overtime, some women regain some (though usually not all) of the ability to feel pain or the sensation of touch on the breast as nerve endings start to regrow in the area. So now, 3 years and 9 months later, I can feel about half (the upper half) of my breasts. The bottom half of the breasts are still Ghost Boobs. What I love about this is when I go swimming I don’t have to worry about that awful moment of slinking your chest down in to freezing cold water. I simply can’t feel it. What I loathe about this, well, is that it is just plain weird. I’m not going to go into great detail here, but there also is the impact on intimacy. You simply need to know that if you are headed toward mastectomy. It is just something you don’t realize going in. The good news is a year ago I truly could feel nothing, so we have some progress as times goes on. It took about 3 years to regain half of my feeling back.

Enter stage left - Frost Boob. The other wonky thing is also around the touch sensation. Imagine you just ran 3 miles (or for some of us 0.0 miles). Your body temperature is soaring as you attempt to dissipate heat. Touch your stomach and it feels very warm to the touch. There may be a cool sensation on top of the warmth as you sweat out fluid, leaving a clammy sensation overall.  So while your body is in temperature overload, if you touch your breast at the same time, it is cool as a cucumber. Frost Boob. This is a result of having a lessened blood supply to that area. Remember, the blood vessels were also removed during the mastectomy. Blood flow is what brings warmth to an area. Limited blood flow, cool to the touch. Over time, like nerves, blood vessels too start to regrow, but the numbers are less. At 3 years 9 months Frost Boob still prevails. It’s simply awkward, and quirky, and a good party trick??? Ok, no, but you get the idea. It’s just something, like Ghost Boob, that you don’t know about going in unless someone tells you. Now you know. This aspect of cold to the touch, unlike ghost boob, has not improved over time as of yet.

Ghost Boob and Frost Boob - the sensation twins. One aspect has improved, one has remained constant. Both were unexpected outcomes no one had fully prepared me for. They are trivial in many ways, but worthy of discussion so you know what to expect as I've learned challenges are usually a little better absorbed/embraced with a little warning.

Unrelated to sensation, enter stage right:  Boob Brain. Early on in this ongoing process of breast reconstruction, there wasn’t a single day (hour?) I didn’t think about the new boobs. I simply always had these boobs on my brain. Part of the all-consuming thought process was simply related to being in the middle of it. Day in and Day out. Early only your entire day is related to the boobs. Change the bandage, empty the drains, log the output, take your meds, keep your arms at your side, avoid looking at them, look at them, don't do this, do do that. It was 24 hours of boob brain! But as the weeks went on, the tasks became less, and then the thoughts would lessen too. But at any moment something would happen and Boob Brain would kick right back into gear. For me, every 6 months or so it was another surgery, so just when I would get out of the thought process and back to normal life, I would find myself right back where I started again. Even on a “normal month” early on you still have at least a daily thought of these boobs being what they are (or are not). Well now, with this being the first time that I have gone 9 months without a surgery, it is awesome to see that there are some days when they don’t even cross my mind at all. And to say that is progress would be an understatement, it’s triumphant really! I truly didn't understand going in how 2 little sacks of gel could carry so much punch...or thought. But they do. And maybe I can soon say "they did". I am getting there, past this. 

I guess the most recent months of having less boob on the brain is a testament that life does in fact eventually return back to normal. You can't rush it. You just have to wait until it suddenly arrives. You will get to the point where the breasts move out of your foreground and in to your background, only to be thought of when you slip down into the freezing cold water…and feel nothing. Or at other random moments when anyone would be thinking about their breast (Changing clothes? Or trying on new bras? Or what not). There is a time point when the reconstructed breast no longer defines you. Instead of defining you, it now merely designs you in that you are a changed being by its presence. Not so much the breast itself, but the journey of getting there. You hear stories of people who have a brush with death and how life simply looks different, more precious, altered on the other side. Mastectomy, when prophylactic/chosen, doesn’t necessarily carry the same weight as my brush with lymphoma did, but it did change me in ways I might not have expected. While an implanted boob is most certainly a boob,  it carries a different weight. Both literally and figuratively. More insight provoking.  More impressionable. More focusing. I see life with newly tweaked lenses which brings certain things into better focus with a better alignment of perspective. While the feeling of touch, the sensation of cold, and even the thoughts of the breast may transition over time, I hope my more finely focused perspective of mastectomy remains with me always. I simply appreciate Post-Mastectomy Sally and all she brings to my “after” life. I may be a little “off” at certain stages along the way, but I certainly carry a new depth. And with that comes an advocacy I didn’t carry before. Advocacy for empowering women with knowledge. Advocacy for loving your body where it is. Advocacy for the spouses of mastectomy. Maybe even a little advocacy for just doing life in general and doing it well with people in tow – mastectomy or not. But when there is mastectomy, just know it isn’t the end all, be all. But rather it is a starting point for what comes next in life. There is an “after mastectomy”. Three years, 9 months. I’m getting there with Ghost Boob and Frost Boob as my side kicks.


Click  www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts. 

May 17, 2016 - Horizontal stripes

I’m tired of these comparison games. I’m over women not measuring up. I’m seriously over women making other women feel as though they don’t measure up. It happens in the work place. It happens at home. It happens in our minds. It happens in our words. And I for one am simply over it!

Who set the rule and standard that we have to make sure the person next to us feels less? Who set the example that we have to use everything in our arsenal to appear to be more? Certain people come to mind, trying to make waves for other women co-breathing their air and carefully planting a jab in the most vulnerable of soil to ensure the feeling of inadequacy grows. Often, the attack sits unsaid to the intended target and instead flutters across the proverbial acquaintance pool of whoever else happens to be in the room. I absolutely detest this gossip mill that circulates the misfortune of being a target. Are you a participator? Are you a propagator?....More importantly, am I?

I’d say at first response “I am not.” But immediately, I feel that lie down in the pit of my stomach, and I can do nothing less but accept my role in this perversion. While I desperately try to find the good in any person that crosses my path and truly do want to foster a safe environment lacking in judgement or gossip, I can at times fall prey to the bad behavior that may plague my day. It’s so easy to get caught up in the rip current of shaming. If she is a little less, and I make it known, doesn’t this in turn make me a little more? Mercy! It is a lie of eternal consequence! There are a hundred kind words said to me in a given year, yet it is that one unkind rumor said out loud that forever comes back to mind 20 years later. One single sentence can result in huge consequences. And one missed moment to provide kindness instead of judgment can set the tone for that relationship for years to come. Nothing hurts the heart more than making someone feel inadequate or indifferent and it is a dangerous seed to plant. But if we want to falsely assume that we play no role in the routine detriment and shaming of another person, I most certainly am to blame for the shaming of myself where the ramifications are equally eternal.

There’s rarely a week (day?) that goes by that I don’t find myself in a liturgical play-out of inadequacy. I walk into a room of women and immediately notice what I have or have not in comparison. I can count out loud the number of potential “moments” I miss because I am too embarrassed to partake. A hike with friends where I am afraid my performance won’t compete. A cool dip in the pool where I am all too aware of this thigh or that. A dinner skipped out on because of nothing to wear or a result of my pudginess being too pudgy that week.  How many spectacular moments never came about because we falsely believe the lie that we are less? Or better yet, what are we instilling into the people around us (or our children!) when we make these subtle statements of inadequacy. I distinctly remember a dinner invitation I missed out on with a group of friends because I was standing in my closet trying to make something work. Instead of throwing on the jeans and t-shirt and letting reality be reality, I chose to miss the dinner. This was years ago, but the impact remains. My thoughts of “not being enough” cultivated a lie and resulted in missed laughter, missed fellowship, missed everything (they had the absolute best time at dinner that night!). My choice spoke that my perceived appearance mattered more than their time and friendship. And spoke the subtle words to them that they need to have it all together in perfection too.

Are we teaching our children to choose the lies of self-inadequacy over the joys of simply living life and all it brings? But you say, Sally, my legs really are too skinny. To which I need to reply, too skinny to have joy? Are the size of your legs more important than every single other aspect of life? There are some things to which we can reply “God made me this way” and therefore we need to embrace and get on with living life. Then there are other things I need to say “Sally, I made myself made me this way”, and I either need to take action to change, or embrace as being what it is and getting on with enjoying life. But either way, there is a crucial and urgent moment for conscious choice to choose which it will be. Will I perpetuate this self-deprecation, or will I pick up my flubber, or skinny, or scars, or bra size and choose the path of joy? The best example I can be to myself, my friends, and my daughter (if I were to have one) would be to take everything I have and call it precious. For that is exactly what it is: Precious, the bumps, bruises, lumps and all. Every single day, our chosen spirit of being gracious and kind will over shadow any perception of physical or emotional inadequacy. Alternately, we choose to be remembered for our spirit of shaming of self or others.

Give yourself permission to not be perfect. Allow yourself the occasional mistake. Embrace the less than and focus on the fact that we are already enough. For we truly are that! Enough! Enough to be the daughter, wife, mother, sister, coworker, friend, disciple, patient, introverted extrovert that anyone else can be. Enough to throw on the pudgy dress in the closet and go to the dinner! Enough to bring a kind word to the person next to you letting them know they are enough as well. But it takes a purposeful approach to lose the thoughts of being less. Remove ourselves from the unkind words of others. Surround ourselves with women who not only get this, but live it. And if you don’t have any of those. You start the trend! We have to go above and beyond to actively praise the women around us. They aren’t perfect either, but there is no reason on this planet that we can’t make them feel like that are. We have to consciously drown out (and correct!) the negative words being said around us. We have to lead the way by purposely speaking out loud the complimentary thoughts that come to mind. We have to quit fertilizing our disastrous need to feel like more by making her feel like less. And then we need to soak our minds in reading the truth that we are enough. It takes a permanent reset! We may not be able to change our self-perceived “less than”, but gosh darn it, we need to take our dimply thighs to the beach and make some incredible memories! Show the women around us that we value friendship and uplifting sisterhood over inadequacy at every single turn. We need to stop losing out to our inadequacies and to quit perpetuating the lies. Our role is two-fold: It is our choice to love others, and equally our choice to love ourselves. And I need to start at ground zero. This week, I am putting on the dress with horizontal stripes. I'm starting with me.







To access previous blog posts - click HERE.

May 6, 2016- The power of the stool cocoon

Tonight I joined a panel of powerful women. Not powerful in the way society tries to drive us to think, but powerful in the way God guides us to follow. These were women who had chosen (or been given) the challenging roads in life, but who knew how to find the beauty of it all while morphing it into a new way of being. Of thinking. Of surviving. They knew how to re-purpose a life moment and use it to propel their life into action and measurable outcomes. Ten minutes before, there were 5 empty stools absent of meaning. Ten minutes later the stools were holding up previously anonymous (to me) women of triumph! Each story had its own distinct details of how they arrived unexpectedly at a crossroads, how they captured that moment, and then carried it forward in outcome, but all of them sang the same song of hope, choice, and the reinvention of self.

Frustration with Corporate America -> reinventing a career to advocate for women through fair trade. 

Sexual abuse and exploitation -> changes in legislation and formal advocacy at the ground level for hope despite circumstance.

Discovering Faith and purpose in obstacle -> empowering women to not isolate or self-destruct in their circumstance.

Finding oneself in an ill-fitted employment-> grabbing a creative outlet to feed the artistic soul and trust God to take care of the rest.

Finding oneself a product of negative input -> choosing to gain control and change the course for self and for family.

As I sat there on the panel in front of a room of women, I was captured by the power of the collection. Sure, each story held its own power, but bundled together into five stools at thr front of the room created this force that overshadowed any feelings I previously had of inadequacy, or comparison of worth. Together, we formed this unit of interwoven strands of strength that could overcome anything life throws our way, and with grace, and dignity, and heads held high! We were a force to be reckoned with because together we were proof of push comes to shove, keep on shoving until you are on the other side!  In that moment, I felt as though there wasn’t a single thing we couldn’t do….together. I have no idea if this feeling was shared by the other speakers, or even to those in attendance, but the moment that hour was over the last thing I wanted to do was leave this 5 person cocoon of triumph. As an individual, I carry my self-doubt. I question the validity of my stories, of my strength. I see the limitations that lie underneath threatening to squelch it all. But in this cocoon of women (whom I had met for the first time only an hour before) carefully situation on 5 stools, my limitations/inadequacies/self-doubts/weaknesses were replaced by the powers of camaraderie. We were a unity pushing out from a single center into 5 directions of cumulative force. I was able to infer to myself the strength of her story to my left. I was able to believe I carried the same “gung ho” that she did to my right. I could encapsulate the strength from her crisis and bask in the soothing of God’s grace through her circumstance. It was the perfect illustration of the transference of strength that can come in surrounding yourself with motivating people.

It’s in the following moments as you climb down off the stool that you are acutely reminded of the absurdity of going about life in isolation. Once you feel the empowerment of sharing a story (no matter how different they each are) with a circle of women, you feel the emptiness of what lies outside the circle. Why do we continue to do life in silence? Why do we endure life events in isolation? Why are we so fearful of judgment and ridicule when every single one of us has the story, it’s simply the details that makes them differ? Do we really think we are designed to do life alone? Do we really think God created us to wear these carefully concocted masks of perfection? Be the sloppy mess that you are and surround yourself with women who don’t mind getting their hands in your mud. Because life is messy!

Well, I’m up on my soap box! And I plan on staying here for quite a bit. Gone may be the physical stool, but long lives the empowerment of unity collected on it. QUIT DOING LIFE ALONE! Quit waiting for someone to knock on your door (boy, am I ever guilty of that!). Get up, grab your story, and take it to the streets! Be the one to reach out to find someone who will do life with you, and you in return be someone worth doing life with. We need to quit hiding behind the circumstances, and instead be empowered by the potential outcomes. Life is going to happen to you, but we get to choose what to do with the life that comes. It’s in your hands. The “stool cocoon” of doing life together is sitting there waiting for you. Are you going to climb up on it? Boy, how awesome will it be to see who sits down beside you. You just may find yourself empowered by the beautiful mess they bring.

To access previous posts, click here.

April 25, 2016 - It is ok to visit

I really don’t sit around thinking about mastectomy all day. I really don’t though it may seem like it from some of these posts.  It’s been 3.5 years since my original mastectomy. Come on Sally, you say, move on! But six surgeries later, writing a blog, and then being surrounded by awesomeness in people and things, and also having friends going through a similar road, well, it sort of just comes up. Or other times, like now. I come across something and it puts me back into the moment.

“It’s ok to have a meltdown, just don’t unpack and live there.”  TobyMac

Hum. I mean ok, Toby, you sort of just opened up my mind here for a moment. You are actually saying it is OK to have a meltdown. You are giving us permission to be impacted and to feel.  Are you saying I don’t have to hold it all together and plant the smile on my face? Are you saying I don’t have to be “perfect Sally” and be the poster child for enduring chaos? You are….well you are going against a lot of what this societal life has taught me. And guess what? I love you for it!

When is the last time you allowed yourself to grieve? And when is the last time you let someone else know you were grieving? I don’t mean pass-me-a–tissue so I can dab the corner of my eye, but rather a get-out-of-the-way because Blubbering-Snotting-Sobbing-Sally needs not a moment, but rather a few hours, kind of grieve?.  Or when was the last time you were so angry that it propelled you forward into positive motion? Too often our angry drags us down into a place of negative outcomes. But when have you allowed yourself a therapeutic angry moment that produces forward motion for change? For can there not be healing that comes out of a few moments spent in Meltdown? We live in a society where we are constantly being measured against….well against absolutely everything. We are praised for holding our heads up high and conquering life. We have facebook pages celebrating our perfection and our ability to make life not only “easy”, but the envy of the faces looking in. We publish and post our story book days of our awesomeness all captured in one photo with all 2.5 kids (or cats!) smiling joyously under the perfectly aligned sunbeam, a husband refreshed from his most recent golf game, and ourselves plucked straight from the makeup table and designer closet  and now huddled together after family devotion earlier that morning posing in our “perfection”.  Don’t get me wrong, these things are great and surely those moments really do exists at times, and oh what a joy it is when that all comes together. But I would guess the majority of life is a little more down-to-earth trying to get little Charlie to sit still for just 3 seconds,  hoping husband Paul is relaxed enough to even want to be around us, all while trying to convince myself simply to get out of bed after an exhausted work week while juggling life at home. We inhabit a world expecting perfection and we subscribe to the theory that as long as you keep a smile on your face and positive thinking intact while presenting an “I can do it, and I can do it well!” mentality, well then you excel.

I have two childhood friends, who happen to be sisters, who unknowingly help keep my gut in check. Both excel at allowing their life online to be what it really is. A whole lot of joy and a whole lot of frustration all mixed into a 24 hour day. They have no qualms about positing a picture of disheveled hair, faces covered in flour as they try to squeeze in baking a cake needed for a school function  all while realizing they forgot Little Scotty an hour ago in the carpool line. They each give themselves permission to be real in a world of very real moments where we are expected to be everything someone else told us to be. Well, you know what? Real is something I really crave. And real is something that makes me love them more for being genuine. It’s also something that gives me permission to be disheveled Sally putting one foot in front of another.

So as I came across these words above tonight in my reading, I felt empowered to be real. I do this well in a lot of ways, but I’m also guilty of making sure I am setting the example of “get through life before life gets to you” mentality. I think back to days during mastectomy where it was really hard. I mean REALLY hard. And I wonder why I kept so many of those hidden. I wonder if there was this underlying expectation of myself to be “good at mastectomy”, “good at life”, “perfect without teetering”. Sure, I was transparent, maybe even more so than most, particularly as I did it on social media. But I painted only some of the story, a carefully selected some, not only to your eyes here but also to my inner circle of friends who walked beside me. By painting a half-baked perspective of my story, I also cultivated in you a half-baked expectation of what mastectomy could bring.  There are so many stories I have not told, some of which might have done some good by showing someone else it’s ok to grieve. It’s ok to not be ok. It’s ok to not have it all together.  It’s ok to hold your head high on the days you can, and hold your head down on the days you can’t. Even in turmoil, we feel the need to “live up to” everyone else no matter what life throws our way. Well, I for one am tired of living a life of comparisons. I want to live in an environment where it is ok to simply be where you are. The good, the bad, the meltdown. For this is where God can truly shine. There is where He equips you and others to bring yourself back up.  

I’m not saying we need to cover the world and our social media pages or personal conversations  with our struggles, I’m saying we need to give ourselves permission to be ok or when needed, to not be ok. We need to be ok to post a picture of chaos and to open our “perfect lives” to the imperfect world it really is. We see courageous battles played out at every turn celebrating heads held high, but we rarely see the real candid heart-retching moments we hide underneath.  We need to learn to embrace and celebrating enduring ( and then triumphing) over the hard moments. We must find people in our life who can go through the trenches with us, work to remove the stigma of imperfection, and create an environment to be exactly what we are, where we are, and how we are when going through this life. Give yourself and those in your inner circle permission to have the meltdown, and then let the inner circle of friends do what God created them to do… help pick us back up. It’s time to get real! It’s time to not be perfect. It’s time to be whatever you need to be while navigating your journey. Just remember, you don’t have to unpack and live there, but know it is ok to visit there while you heal.

To access previous posts, click Here. 

April 22, 2016 - So many discussions we simply aren't having

I’m convinced one of the most challenging aspects of mastectomy fall under how a woman perceives herself on the other side. I’ve had enough interactions now with enough women going through mastectomy to know the responses are vastly varied and in some cases the effects vastly profound. This was confirmed (and also discussed in a Previous Post) when Lead Breast Surgeon who did my mastectomy, not the reconstruction, followed up with me 6 months after my initial surgery. She wanted to inquire about my perception of self, my sex life and overall intimacy. Now, that was a shocker of a discussion let me say, but I was so impressed that she was choosing to think past the cuts and sutures of the skin and dig deeper into the cuts and sutures of her patients’ (and their partners) emotions. She was giving the woman the opportunity to be open and honest about the less thought about impacts of mastectomy. Well, 1000 cheers to her for going above and beyond (and one of the many reasons she was recently named one of Time Magazine’s Most Influential People).

Just this week, it came up again. I was speaking with a friend “Katie” who had recently undergone mastectomy and was inquiring as to how she was dealing with everything. Katie was saying how she simply didn’t feel feminine anymore. She is doing so well physically, but emotionally, she’s struggling. And this surgery wasn’t yesterday, it was many moons ago, yet she is still trying to navigate this reconstructed breast and all it brings to the table. This had me thinking about why there is such a difference in the response of women (and their partners!). I have other friends who say they simply had no trouble at all and grew to love their new breast almost immediately. Then there are others, who hated them at first and then over time found a new way to embrace and maybe even like (love?) the new breast, and then there are others who mourn the loss of old and simply never fully embrace the new.

So why the responses are so varied. Is it a self-imposed perspective of how she thinks the spouse views the new breast? Is it her view of the breast herself? Is it strictly a result of how similar the new breast looks to the old? Or maybe a reflection of how you viewed your old breast and now does the new breast live up to that, or exceed that? Is it the impact of the spouse’s view of the new breast? What drives this vantage point?

I’m thinking there absolutely has to be a baseline building block around the breast itself. I imagine this sets the pace for all thoughts thereafter. Did you upsize, did you downsize. Did you do nipple sparing (and therefore you have the same nipple you had before mastectomy), did you lose the nipple and now have a reconstructed nipple (tattoo, etc.). Are the scars obvious. Are they fairly hidden. Did you do immediate reconstruction. Did you have delayed reconstruction. Were you comfortable with your body before mastectomy. Were you displeased with your body before mastectomy. Did you get implants. Did you use fat-grafting. I certainly think the utter (LOL) basic aspects of the breast itself plays a big role in reconstruction satisfaction. Dare I say breasts are only as good as the surgeon who creates them? Or is it rather two women could have the exact same breast appearance after reconstruction and you get 2 totally different perspectives. I tend to think this latter scenario is where the answer most fully lies. But then, you go in and factor in a second person (spouse or partner) into the equation and you have a whole new level of pressure to like or dislike this new breast. Now let me stop here and say I have a complete score in this area. I had the most supportive spouse you could possibly imagine, but I recognize this isn’t always the case. Women are notorious for being self-conscious, almost to a paralytic fault, so imagine how you feel about a natural breast. Now replace that with a synthetic breast. Voila! Introduce a self-conscious disaster either imposed by yourself, your spouse, or a combination of both.

But this is what I have found uniformly in talking with women after mastectomy. Where you start is not where you will end. Your new breast will not be your old breast. Just know this upfront. Remove the expectation, and remove some of that pressure. But also, your new breast could be very similar to your old breast. This can give you some comfort that in many ways they are just as great (and even better) than the old breast. It may take you a while to get there, but I really think you will get there…over time. And I mean maybe over a long time. It may be a month, it may be several years. But I also realize there may be a few of you that for various reasons may never get there. And that is where I want to encourage you to not sit there in silence. There is absolutely NOTHING that is easy about mastectomy. It’s possibly the most challenging thing I have encountered so far. If you are struggling emotionally, reach out. I promise there is someone else out there that has either felt what you are feeling or knows someone who has. You aren’t strange. You aren’t abnormal. You are simply in a stage of processing and you may need some help with that. There is no right way to feel about all of this, but you aren’t supposed to be alone in it.  As my surgeon told me that day, there are so many discussion we simply aren’t having. We have to find a way to help women get through the emotions and many collateral impacts of mastectomy. This is so much more than removing a diseased breast and women simply don’t anticipate that. We as providers often don’t do our part to get you through it. And I’m now learning we has friends fail you as well.

If you know someone in your inner circle going through mastectomy, help them have open discussions with you. Be someone who can sit quietly and exude an environment of cherished friendship and unwavering support. And if you yourself are going through mastectomy, reach out to someone who can be a safe place to talk about the hard stuff. You don’t need a pat on the back. You need a sincere non-judgmental ear to confide in. This breast in no way defines you, but it certainly impacts you and is worthy of discussion. It’s not enough for me to know you are beautiful. You have to know you are beautiful too, and we need to find a way to support you until you get there. But know this, I have the utmost faith you will get there. In your own time and in your own way. 





To access previous blog posts - click HERE.

April 5, 2016 - Uncultivating fear

“We magnify the obstacles in front of us and instead minimize the powers and promises of God. It’s time to step out on faith and instead magnify God in the obstacle.”

This was my revelation this past week as I was perfectly placed at just the right moment to hear these words. I spent the next hour writing this down in journal style and mulling over the guts of the sentence. I am certainly wishing I had received this little nugget a few months (and years!) back, but the timing was perfect in its own way as I have been purposely and proactively cultivating my heart these past few months. More specifically, I’ve been navigating this ongoing realization that my reactions during perceived chaos/obstacle can powerfully dictate, both positively and negatively, everything moving forward. Simply put, I often set the wrong tone for my obstacle. 

If there is anything I am guilty of in hardship, it is in being reactive. I first learned this about myself a fews years back in my job, but later drilled down to see this existed in a more powerful way personal life. When someone says something harsh to me, without thinking it through or getting to the core of it, I immediately fall to the defensive. When my character is second guessed, I immediately jump in to defend myself. A project falls apart, I dive in head first with some sort of fast paced off the cuff reaction. Insert Event, Insert Sally’s reaction.  In a moment of hardship, I’m learning this is not my most stellar trait. I’ve successfully reformulated this in my professional life to work for the positive instead of the negative, but I am still in the reformulation stages in the non-work areas of my life.

Reactivity can be great in a moment of celebration or in response to someone else’s need. You are celebrating a moment in life, woo hoo, I am right there to be excited with you. Bring out the balloons and cake and let’s do that right now without delay! When someone has a physical or emotional need, I am happy to jump right in and see what I can do. You lost your job? I am immediate in my response of ok, how can we get you through this? Those are all positive examples of how being reactive can push me forward in a productive and triumphant motion. I love this trait of reactivity when it produces a positive outcome. But let’s turn those tables for a moment. Insert an obstacle, a diagnosis, a let down, a not-so-good surprise that affects ME and we will see that reactivity in a whole new light.

I recall driving down the highway one night after work 4 years ago. It’s funny because in hindsight I have no idea where I was going. And that seems strange to me because this isn’t a road I travel often after work, so one would think I would have the destination figured out, but it alludes me now almost 4 years later. However, the moment itself is drilled down into my memory. I can picture the placement of things in the car, and I know the exact exit I was passing when I held the phone to my ear and heard my mom pick up on the other end.  In that moment, instead of having a positive reactive moment, I was smack in the middle of the first 24 hours of a reactive floundering in fear. Yesterday, everything was perfectly normal. I was surely planning events for the upcoming weekend and looking forward to a movie with Ron later in the week. Today, however, while driving from work to wherever I was going my world was teetering on its orbit. With the opening of one email earlier that morning, in a split second reading of one confirmatory sentence, everything had changed. I went from thoughts of what are we having for dinner, to rapid paced thoughts of double mastectomy and the disbelief that this would most likely be my future.  From the opening of that email and onward in my day (and for weeks later), I simply lost the ability to concentrate as fear bubbled up from my core. The rest of the day was lost on me as I simply went through the tasks of the day while counting the minutes until I could get to my car where I would be alone with my thoughts to process what now lay on my plate. And there, in the car, the reactive pot of “why in the world is this happening to me?” all fueled by a fear of the unknown continued to boil. Rational thought was nowhere to be found. I drove for a bit trying to sort up from down and then instinctively picked up my phone and dialed. “Mom , I have some news……” 

I’ve mentioned this before in previous posts, I struggle with a reaction of fear and heightened emotion anytime I find out something untoward in my life. The obstacle is all I can see in the initial moments. It’s magnified in my view 100 fold to where it squeezes out of focus anything else in my life. The good news is very quickly that fear shifts to something more rational and productive, and I can see the reality of life and picking up one foot and putting it in front of the other to be better than I was the moment before. But in the first initial moments of chaos, I see only the perceived magnitude of the obstacle which then propels my reactive response of fear, disbelief and the anger of “why”. Then Fear sets the pace for the rest of my struggle.This past November after getting “bad” results on a lung test was the perfect example. One moment of thinking I might have progressive pulmonary fibrosis and I lost focus on what God probably truly intended in that moment. It came later, this understanding that God has great things to do in and through us in obstacle, but it was about a month too late and after I had found myself in zombie mode just trying to get through the busy month of work and moving.

“Fear is cultivated in the soil of disbelief.”

I’m in a season of my life where I am focusing and drilling down on this paralytic fear I can experience at the onset of an obstacle. I desperately want to unlearn this reaction and instead replace it with something that is more productive. I’m working to rid myself of the unsteady view that fear brings and instead fuel myself with the understanding that Faith brings incredible things that God has purposed in that minute. I want to rid myself of magnifying the obstacle.  I no longer want to ask "can you see how I have been harmed?!?" "Can you see how I don’t deserve this struggle?!?" "Can you see.... blah, blah, blah, and on it goes my woe is me. Would I (and you who are on the receiving end of my banter) not better profit from the magnifying of my Faith in God instead? Do I not believe that his ways are better than my own? Do I not believe that even at detriment to myself (a health diagnosis), his story is more important than my health, my circumstance, my wealth? Even when life brings about the most difficult of obstacles, we have to learn to trust in our faith and not our fears. The obstacles are coming. That is a guarantee. If you aren’t currently in one, you can be sure one is around the corner. So when that obstacle comes, because it IS coming, I want to be the person who can see the obstacle for its role in God’s story, instead of focusing on the obstacle and its negative impact on my story. How can my dilemma be a way for God to do great things? How can my obstacle grow myself or someone around me closer to him? I can either be a hindrance to that, or I can be a facilitator of his story. His story will be told no matter what, but will either be through us and our obstacle or without us.

So how do I rid myself of this initial fear of what may be and instead arm myself with a Faith cultivated in the understanding that God’s story is where my joy should lie?

“Faith is cultivated in the soil of assurance”

I want to claim Faith. I want to be a reactive person who goes straight to the positive instead of the negativity that Fear brings. It’s ok to feel emotions. Heartbreak will come. Sadness will lie underneath. All of this is normal in response to loss or potential loss. But in that heartbreak and sadness, instead of packaging that up in a rusted burnt out bow of fear and anger of “why me”, I want for God to shine through a glittery, and empowering bow of Faith in the assurance that God chose this story for me to do his work through me. I want to be a part of his story instead of a hindrance to the glory he has planned, for even in tragedy He brings about great things.

This is where my heart lies right now. I am working on a transformation of response. I’m right in the middle of blossoming a step closer to the version of Sally God designed me to be. And it’s an eye opening road of ups and downs and soul searching.  I’m being purposeful in finding a way to flood myself with a response of Faith and Trust that even in what seems unfair, His story is unfolding.

He is not after some crazy radical response from us, though that may happen, he is simply after our heart. And a reactive heart full of faith is so much more powerful than my reactive heart full of fear.

Sally Version 2.0, learning to uncultivate fear.





Visit  www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts. 

March 11, 2016 - She certainly knows how to play the game

I was explaining to her about Oliver’s (my cat) 37 lives. His diabetes, the lymphoma, the urinary calcifications, the eye ulcers, and then discussing how no matter what he gets, he keeps bouncing back. She turned and looked me in the eye and said casually with a chuckle in the undertone “he sounds exactly like you”.  

I guess there are worse things to be compared to than your cat whom you adore. There are subtle differences in that I don’t have hair between my toes, nor do I often (for no reason at all as proven by his recent ophthalmology appointment) walk around the house with one eye closed. I do however, like Oliver, remain to be the enigma that I thought I was (now confirmed by Lung Guru yesterday) and like him keep trying to find a way to bounce back, preferably in addition with some evidence of grace and dignity. Some days I would settle for either or as both seems to be asking for too much. Lung Guru agreed that she too is baffled that my asthma testing results were negative, and now she doesn’t know what to think. We landed on my tracking my symptoms more carefully, if they worsen let her know, exercise as much as possible to stress the lung, and repeat the lung tests in six months to see if there is any change.  I told her I think a trip to Aruba would fix it all. She told me to try it, and if it worked, she would write me a prescription for quarterly visits. My kind of guru! I’m delighted, even though baffled, in that this is not the diagnosis I feared up front. I don’t know what is what per se, but I know what it is not. And sometimes that is the only “win” you need to keep plunging forward.

And speaking of winning, I’ve been thinking lately about diagnoses (fibrosis, or breast cancer, or lymphoma, or anything else. Pick your dilemma). I live in malignancy’s game day in and day out in my job so it’s kind of always there in my mindset. I see kiddos fight for their life on a daily basis. And trust me,  you never get immune to its impact. I’ve recently formulated that finding yourself in the middle of a potentially fatal diagnosis is similar to finding yourself in a game of chess. There is a board in front of you. The diagnosis is on one side. Myself (the patient) is on the other. A clock is ticking away in between us awaiting the next move. Each of you are out to win. Each of you have 100+ directions you can go. You can talk to your coaches behind you (the physician on one side, the cancer cells on the other) but you can’t talk to your opponent. You know someone is sitting across the board from you but you have no idea what they are planning nor what step they will take next. You spend every waking minute of the game trying to outsmart the other while doing everything you can to protect your queen (for you, that is your life; for the diagnosis, it’s the starter cell). 

The diagnosis starts the play. He inserts his pawn one step forward and hits the clock. I see the game is now in play, and I strategically shift my pawn forward to start my traverse across the board. I’m confident early in the game that not only can I win, but I will win. Confidence comes early, but you have no idea how many plays that will last. On we go, play after play…the rook, bishop, king, pawn. You never know what piece will move next and your only goal is to stay in play. It becomes mad in its pace as you stare at the board in anticipation of his next move and with that move your confidence waivers. One move of success and you build it back up. One move of distress and anxiety heightens as pieces slowly get lifted from the board. As your opponent (cancer cells) starts collecting pieces (my hair, my immune system, my energy), I desperately try to retaliate in a logical yet triumphant pace (chemotherapy, radiation, immune modulators); my confidence being determined by each winning or losing play and by how many pieces are still left on the board. The game can be drawn out as each player takes its time advancing across the board, or it can be a game of rapid pace with pieces flying off the board with each passing second.  And here’s the double edge sword of diagnosis: with two pieces left on the board you may still win the game; with six pieces still left on the board you may lose it all. You simply don’t know the outcome until you find yourself there.

With both chess and a potentially fatal diagnosis, you never know when you will be invited to a new game. You know not your opponent until he arrives. And once there you spend the rest of the game oblivious to the opponent’s plan of attack. You only know the game clock is ticking and only one queen (diagnosis or patient) will prevail in the end. And until the very last move, you don’t know whose that will be. Here’s the other kicker. There is no amount of affluence, or brilliance, or luck that will keep you from being invited to the game.  And once at the board, none of those attributes will guarantee you a triumph or a loss. Malignancy particularly knows no social boundaries. You have a millionaire sitting next to a homeless man in the waiting room. Malignancy couldn’t care less the color or the gender of its new home.  The infusion room is one place on earth where racism doesn’t exist, and unapologetically no one is off limits to its invitation to the game. It’s the only equal opportunity employer where anyone can fall prey to the chess board. Most of the time there is absolutely no rhyme or reason (from our point of view anyway) as to who survives and who doesn’t.

After watching person after person receive an invite to the game, and after having played a game or two myself, I’m becoming more aware that I should care more about how I play the game (than whether I win or lose in the end) because that is the one thing in my control. Sure I want to do everything I can to try and win, but if you really get down to it, I’m not so sure it’s the end result I should really be focused on. Let’s face it, if we win, it will be celebrated for a few weeks or months and then that story will slip in with all the rest of the stories of our lives. There will come a point where people forget we once kicked cancer in the butt. Life moves forward and new struggles and triumphs fill in the seconds of the clock. If we lose, people will mourn us for some set amount of time, and then we simply become someone they used to know and love. However, HOW we play the diagnosis game can be a life changer not only for us as individuals but for those going through life beside us.  For I think in HOW we play the game we actually have the ability to “win” them all, despite the final outcome. I often see the mantra “People won’t remember what words you said, but will always remember how you made them feel.” I think this is something similar. People won’t remember if we won or lost, but most likely they will remember how we played the game.  Think about it.  Look at the people in your life facing dilemma. Isn’t it in the people approaching dilemma with positivity and grace that leave you feeling full? Don’t you leave their presence thinking how much richer your life is for knowing them? Don’t you hunger to be around people who face life with this spirit? When have you ever craved negativity and spite?

So this is where I am these after having experiences these crazy few months (that thankfully appear to have a positive outcome). Am I going to be graceful, uplifting, kind and Christ-like in my play? Or am I going to be fearful, negative, and “bitchy” in these diagnosis games/life situations I sit down to. It’s not an all or none, but rather a trend of how we will view the event, how we navigate it, and then in return how we will be remembered. The outcome will be what it will be, but we have choice in how we will play.  No doubt we will have our moments where fear or anger or despair bubble to the surface, but I fully believe we can as an overarching trend embrace the fullness and richness of life that can come in diagnosis. When your days are numbered or most certainly unknown, embracing the blessings in each individual day is where the win lies. This is where we can choose our outcome. Not the life or the death, but the richness that can be found in route to both.

During her last appointment with me for her diagnosis, I asked her how she was feeling. She said “Spring is coming! How could I not be good?” Now THAT is how you play the game. Oliver, you are a great comparison, but oh, for me to one day reach this, this would be so much more. 



Click  www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts. 

March 4, 2016 - Horrible in burlap

It’s March! Well, of course it is, Sally. But March is very special, because it means I made it through February and making it through February means I made it through my next pulmonary appointment. Two, in fact. I did so good at the first one, it won me a second one. And still I know….very little. Or maybe I know a lot but have no idea what it means.

We threw on the ole “climbing shoes” and took to the stairs! Well, we did this after donning on a spiffy super thick and super wide velvety red head band (I know you are jealous), an electrode glued to my forehead under the head band all of which was connect by two cables to a monitor which Lung Guru carried while walking beside me. We were a hoot to say the least. Down the halls we went, up the halls we went, down the stairs, up the stairs, down the halls, up the halls, down the stairs, up the stairs, over and over while recording my oxygen saturations. I was a sweaty mess with hair puffed up on the top of my head when all was said and done. Either my head was too big for the headband, or my hair too silky (let’s go with that one) because about 3 or 4 times the velvety thick  headband about shot off the top of my head, each time taking my hair higher and higher. At one point during our walk (in the hallways where I work!), one little girl of about six years at best walked by and looked at me as if she had seen a lady with 3 heads.  Then she smiled and giggled when I finally gave her a goofy look. I couldn’t resist. I knew I looked like a hot mess, and I knew she was trying to figure out why I had cables coming out of my head. After the little girl, I only ran into 4 coworkers, who don’t even work in that building, while sporting this fabulous straight off of a Richard Simmons video look. Now how does that always happen to me?! I packed up my embarrassment and threw it into my stride hurrying as quickly as I could to get back to the clinic office.

We don’t know if I passed or failed. We decided that I passed in that my oxygen didn’t drop as low as last time (89%), but failed in that I still dropped to 94%. Quite honestly, we have no idea what to make of it. 94 is better than 89. And now it’s just a number without a cause. My CT just doesn’t look significant enough to give me these symptoms. And 94% isn’t really all that worrisome given that it wasn’t 89%. There is fibrosis, but it is not impressive fibrosis. My heart works perfect.  Also not a reason to give me these problems. So we decided to chalk it up to maybe asthma…until appointment number two, where I had a 60 minute asthma challenge….and passed with flying colors. What???? I could not have been more surprised. I would have bet the bank that not only did I have asthma, but I had worsening asthma compared to a year ago. Good thing I didn’t bet the bank. Good thing because I would look horrible in burlap.

So this is where we will most likely land ….my chest has been radiated far too much. My chest has been operated on far too much. My chest wall has simply decided to be less expandable than it once has been. Less expandable = less lung volume = what we are seeing on the pulmonary function tests = periodic lung symptoms = I am simply just not going to worry about it anymore. All I really needed to know was do I have fibrosis? Yes. Is it the progressive kind? No.  Do I have asthma as I have always been told. Doesn’t appear so. (Though I still have asthma symptoms in exercise, cold weather, and a respiratory illness). Are my lungs just tired? Yes. Does it matter? Who knows? I simply think I am going to be done with this lung workup and if my symptoms progress, start back over then.  I say all of this having not yet spoken to Lung Guru after my asthma test (the respiratory therapist gave me the news), nor do I have the official read on that test, but I feel sure this is where she will land too. She said we would chat this week once she had a chance to look at the most recent test. I’m thinking Lung Guru has to think I am off my rocker. Maybe the little girl in the hallways pegged me right all along. I’m a lady with three heads. I’m an enigma. But I’m still lovable right?

It’s a good appointment. It’s puzzling. But it’s good. You are up to date.

Click  www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.