So Thankful that My Life is Awe-Full

November 7, 2011, I had my six month (and a few days past due to reschedule) follow-up appointment. I graduated to yearly checkups with my radiologist ... I should be ecstatic with this milestone. But I am happier that I opened the banking account for Will Give On Foundation and made a connection both business and personal in my plight. This date also marks the birth date of my son’s namesake my husband’s grandfather.

Now to share most memorable moment no.2 of my radiation therapy:

Radiation seemed a breeze compared to chemo, partially because I just did not have any preconceived ideas about it. Radiation was easier, mentally. Once it was done, I was just glad I no longer had to drive two hours (round-trip) for a 8:15 a.m. blast that lasted all of 90 seconds and this ritual occurred five days a week. The one fun twist with radiation was six days into treatment my baby sitter fell and broke her neck (not really funny at all but another wake -up call in my quest for the foundation.)

This snafu meant my “little man” waited for mommy’s turn and then watched me on TV with the wonderfully patient radiologist technicians. I have to send kudos to those radiation techs, since one day my son wandered over to my table after I was being zapped and touched something. This something caused my table came to a halt, a response that I thought occurred because the lady holding the lowering remote stopped the machine to protect him from being hurt. When she said “uh-oh” I started asking questions. My 20-month-old son had pressed the emergency shut off button ... my next session on Monday filled me with the information that my “curious” boy had shut down the system for 45 minutes after he pressed that big red button. I could not say I am sorry enough ... good thing my son had placed a soft spot in their hearts.

I have found connection after connection since my radiation ... Even the grandmother of a baseball team mate of my oldest child turned out to be one of my radiologist’s nurses. It took me a couple of practices before the “ah-ha” moment of who she was came about.

In retrospect, and now in looking as a visionary, I see a picture larger than me.

I thought I was a person of vast self-awareness until I faced my demise. I realized the true things of value were the things I could not place a price on. I knew I wanted to witness every notable moment in my children’s lives, to be apart of the love-of-my-life’s (whom I married) golden ages. I wanted to live ... Odd how looking at death, closely makes you assess priorities.

Once I met with the angel of death, I did not make an follow-up appointment. I told it to kiss my lily white! I hope my passion to live will encourage others with the “will” to live. Thus, by trial and error and then coincidence, the moniker Will Give On Foundation was conceived.

I left this insert about my son’s and mine adventure with radiation for more than six months ... Then the reason for it formed. Securing innocence, curiosity, and determination make death insignificant and conquer-able. It proves that life continues to be awe-full.

Never, Again.

As indecisive as I can be, I have been quite vehement about a few life-milestone events. So emphatic that my mantra was as follows: I will never…

The first “I will never...” entailed “get married.” With a family history of far-from-great relationships and an absent father, I was not a girl that thought of her wedding dress or knew what she wanted her wedding theme to be. Fast-forward to my mid-twenties, I meet this guy who completely overwhelmed me. Almost 13 years later, I have long digested my first “I will never” with a many a belches to compliment the chef!

After saying I do, my new hubby was ready for kids. Not I. I was born my mom’s only child but at 13, I was blessed with a thicker-than-blood older sister and an extra set of parents. In a few years to follow this included a myriad of younger siblings. I love those kids. They taught me a lot and made my heart enlarge, but I also was not sure I was up for the immense responsibility of my own children. I was too selfish. I had to break it to my hubby that at this moment in time “I never wanted kids.”

And, the I-will-never-have-kids mantra was foiled three times over with wondrous delight.

Well then, of course, triple-whammie hit when I stated, “I would never have to worry about getting cancer.”

My air of invincibly and ego trip have both been thoroughly put in their place. I now use the “I will never mantra” for useful things like:

1) I will never have a matching set of girls again (should get them by end of year taking the belly fat to make them!)

2)I will never be able to do a full boat pose in yoga class

3) And well this doozy is repeated daily – I will never win the lottery.

I figure the things that have happened to me have come from negative mantras. So if I say positive things in my negative statement, I have had 2/3rds positive outcome.

So, stay tuned I plan on having lots of charity checks to write!

And an update on my foundation is I had to change the name. I was quite bummed and my momentum put off-kilter for a bit. But I am back on the nonprofit paper-trail track again for Will Give On Foundation, Inc.

I missed June and July for my blog! Whoops! I let time slip up on me but well I am trying to it back in the groove of my life. I was disappointed in myself then I realized it was far from a catastrophe (and I should know.)

July of this year was odd for me. I remembered a year ago, my second whirlpool appeared: Chemo. It seems long ago, but then again I think my hair would be longer! (Perhaps if I stopped taking the clippers to my head, it would be!)

August has brought me my birthday! Thanks to my mom and older sister, who entertained (and contained) the Miller masses, I was able to take a two-day, birthday-weekend trip with my hubby to Savannah, Ga. We went with another couple (more chosen family - the hubby and I share a birth date also.) My swarm of siblings and extra set of parents met us for lunch on my birthday and I had an amazing dinner at Local 11 ten. A must-try restaurant if you are ever in Savannah. It has a great farm-to-table, local fare menu and the service was just as lovely as the meal. It marked my 37th birthday and our first adult-only trip in almost four years! It was well overdue and wonderful and left me with a wish for replay button on the life remote I still can’t find.

I will never enjoy life. Wink.

Taking it easy, doesn’t always mean taking the easy way out...

I now constantly re-evaluate my life, my motives and my stress limits. I try, and try to prioritize and I constantly fall short. I can’t get my family and work balance in perspective. I want to paint more. I want less stress. Then I have to take this Tamoxifen for five years that has put a nix in my metabolism (that was already miffed on with the steroid they gave me during chemo.) I get so frustrated because to top it off all I have to do is over stimulate my system to shed a few pounds, which would be fine if I did not find myself in physical therapy because I have a bulging disc in my lower back! My oncologist said it was better to gain than to not be able to gain…ok so I have to give myself a break. But it is so hard to take it easy! Then again I find that doing things the easy way is not always the best way.

Simply, it seems to me the easier we try to make our lives the more complicated it all turns out. Pre-made, microwave meals of all sorts to give us more time...more time to recover from the sickness all these conveniences cause us with the steroids, preservatives and chemicals.

My Granny was such a savvy business woman, yet she wasted nothing! She knew the importance of my future world and how she might affect it. Her and I had very deep debates (and conversations) about politics, social issues and wasting (time and money.) It was not until later in life I have appreciated her views on the former of the mentioned subjects. She was frugal yet generous, conservative yet open-minded. I speak of her in the past tense only because I miss the heart-to-hearts we used to have not because she is dead. She is ninety-four and suffers from dementia...and still she has her moments of spark (when I get to see her.) She still teaches me. Her lessons of love and concern, of practicality and hard work and knowledge to sustain life.

I hope you take my insights with a grain of salt and not preachy. I say them to make myself endorse/implement them more readily in my life. I struggle with enjoying the process of day-to-day duties. I want to rush through small task like brushing my teeth and the big things like meal preparations. I often find cooking as another creative outlet but when I have a full work load and three little ones to clean after and feed, I am often without inspiration to cook. I want the easy way out. The easy way out (especially when it come to meal preparation) is so harmful to the body.

Then, I take a deep breathe (my signature action now- just ask my hubby who can now read what the length and decibel of my exhales entail.) l tell my self to enjoy the process, be patient and well buck up and stop taking the easy way out.

It is not easy to make my own soap, or prepare organic mac-n-cheese from scratch or resist using the microwave to cook my meal sides. Yet I get mad at not having time to exercise when I rush through every part of every other task in my day!

So, I stop looking for “rock star” parking and make myself park as far as it is safe (and I am physically able to haul my kids) from the entrance of where ever my errands/life lead. I have been in physical therapy that teaches me to be conscious of my core (torso) muscles, that my moves should be deliberate in all things from picking up my kids to how I stand to wash dishes. I am constantly reminded I just want to accomplish and forget to enjoy.

I still give myself a break in that I can’t be perfect and if anyone in my life has problems accepting that or me as is...well I must progress onward and upward without them. I fret about my housework but have come to realize that those that mean the most to my family come to see us not our house. I take my chores in steps. Anytime I open the dishwasher to remove a clean item I remove at least two other things. This means I don’t feel the pressure having to complete it all at once, it becomes a process through the day. I keep a vacuum up and downstairs and (chemical-free) cleaning products in all heavy traffic areas so I am not constantly running back and forth.

So, please, keep stress at a minimum. Fret over your kids well being but don’t forget soak them in. Meals and housework and jobs can overwhelm when we lose stance of significance. The important thing is to live long, love long and have lots of loved ones around as long as possible. Waste not, want not…it is a mantra that applys to many facets of life.

And I have to add something my Granny used to tell me her mother told her: A task, be it great, be it small, should be done well or not at all. Enjoy the steps of a task...each task is apart of life and life is precious.

It’s all about the Peeps.

This month I found connection with Easter (in a way.) I am going to talk about Peeps. Peeps those animal-shaped confections that are a staple in most Easter baskets. But I often I refer to “my Peeps,” as people who are dear to me. However, I don’t know if I am the only one, but I don’t like Peeps (the marshmallowy treat) but I like “my Peeps.” Like people in general, I find Peeps to be, well, dismaying. Peeps are so cute and I have admired over the years the creative marketing of them into other holidays, with cool new colors and shapes. My kids get so hyped about them but I will not put them in their baskets. They get them though from other loved ones. And my kids react each time the same way: They rip into them, shove a head into their mouths…pause for the chewing…and hand the decapitated, spit-coated remnants to me, and tell me with a marshmallow-impeded speech, “Ah vont yike ut.” (That’s Peep-speak for “I don’t like it.) Yep, the reason I don’t buy them – the taste of disappointment. Peeps seem so great and you want to try them, then you bite to taste a bland grittiness. This, quite often, is my take on people, as well. What you find on the inside, usually, is not what you expect from the package.

That introduction of subject matter is hopefully going to help me explain my recent enlightenment.

For the most part, I am not a people person. This fact has started to morph over the past few months. I am still me, I just have found a broader spectrum of care for people in general.

I am really a loner. I like alone time. And this not because I am a mom of three young children, who pines for a calgon moment. I am an only child (well I was born an only but I have siblings that prove there is something thicker than blood.) In reading an article some years back about alone time, I realized that I prefer my solitude to be in private settings. I would never go to the movies or to eat in a restaurant all by myself (the horror!). These things are public and social. These public outings are only comfortable to me if I have someone to enjoy them with. Parties have for me, in the past, required a wing man. I don’t mingle well, I am not real great at small talk and I am completely without the ability to be fake.

I have come out of my shell a bit more over the years. The biggest contributor to removing me from my shell has been my husband. This man does not know the meaning of the word stranger. I often have to leave him in the grocery store because we are on the fifth encounter with people he knows and the kids are restless. This is where I smile, interject a greeting or response to my hubby’s boisterous conversation and tow a couple of kids to the next aisle to grab a few items. We bring the wares back to the buggy if he is still in conversation, drop them off, smile again and head to get the other things on the list. Sometimes he even moves along to find us, but is stopped again to chat. If we ever lose him there are no worries in finding our way back to him, his conversations are usually heard from a 30-yard radius! Even though his ability to talk to anyone sometimes irks me, I also admire it. He loves people. He does not, however, like to be alone. Yet he does those things that I deem as social, alone. He can go to the movies and out to eat all by himself (baffling!)

Here is the vortex of afore information: For the most part, I am not so great with people. However, I have many friends that are extremely dear to me. I bond with people. I have friends whom I have not seen or talked to in eons yet we can pick up just where we left off whenever we do reunite. My husband knows (and this is not an exaggeration) many of thousands of people. But he has only two friends (not including me) that he would trust with his life and/or the lives of me and the kids.

I guess the reason I often hold others at bay is the very reason I enjoy them. I have to connect with them and then again I don’t always want to. Of course, over the years I have found people disappointing like the Peeps confectionery. Self-awareness, developed through the years, has given me a better understanding and tolerance of people. I have become more open and friendly with individuals I don’t know or happen upon in my everyday doings. My husband has helped me overcome my fear of people. But for the most part I have come to care less about how others think or perceive me. Empowering my sense of not-caring-what-others-think occurred with things like, going through child labor, (naturally) three times over. This is a sobering achievement, and no one can tell me otherwise. When I turned 30, it seemed I was taken a bit more seriously as an experienced member of society. Then I had to reclaim my life. What others think of me has become petty.

I would like to say I have absolutely no regards of anyone’s opinion of me but if that were the case I would wear my pajamas in public. Perhaps the pajama example is more a self respect issue (because I find myself overly judgemental (or jealous) when I pass a lady in the produce department in her slinky, cotton PJ pants, sweat shirt and slippers!) So, I can’t bring myself to don sleepwear in public (just yet.) I have, however, come into a new understanding and regard for other people. I don’t care what they think, I just care about them.

After my first surgery (in December, 2009), coming to terms with having cancer, given a clean bill of health with extreme wariness, I embarked on my alternative treatment. This decision wasn’t made without some research. I read many theories as to how cancer is spawned and also how to cure it. Some of the curing elements dealt with emotional stress or relationship turmoil. I read them and briefly pondered of some of my past experiences. I did not dwell too much on it because I came to terms with much that was unjust, unwanted or unfair in life and in relationships, many years ago. The obvious issues of being raised without a father and sexually molested as a child, came to mind, but those have been resolved in true forgiveness long ago. I felt there was nothing I needed to confront.

Fast-forward to a few months back: I was in the waiting room for my first appointment with my radiologist. I picked up a health-related magazine and randomly opened it. I see a small article called, “Secrets can make you sick.” I decided to continue to the words under that headline. As I read the next few sentences, I have no recollection of what they detailed, because a thought entered my brain. The thought quite literally felt as if it dropped on me like a sack of potatoes. I knew my “secret.” I had to hold back my tears as the awareness of the new emotion flooded me (crying in public is another one of my hang ups).

Most of the theories I read as to explain my disease I could affiliate to something in my life. It was like pieces of a puzzle that started to give me the big picture of why. Now, do I in anyway feel this was the ultimate cure or cause of my sickness? No. But I was hit with an unresolved issue. I needed to make it right. I needed peace of mind for my body and spirit.

My epiphany was of a severed relationship that as I mulled over it, was, on my part, caused from unconsciously refusing to feel anything. It was an unfortunate circumstance that affected my expectations of holidays (and loathing of them) for many years. After I found my true love and soul mate, whom I married, holidays had a new life and excitement. Put a few kids in the mix, a few years later and I am an unbridled creature of delight. My “ah-ha” moment was not about forgiveness, though. It was about admission. I had keep these individuals almost completely absent from my life and they were family. I had decided to not miss them anymore. I had to admit to myself that I missed them…and had missed them for many years.

Like with a physical wound, emotional wounds cannot properly heal, if neglected. And when they do heal, something can remain amiss.

I have changed my life in the terms of diet, chemical exposure, and learning to not be so hard on myself. And now I have begun to realize the priority of my peeps and my time – I have to spend more time with my peeps. I have to consider new peeps as well. And recently I even went to a party…solo. And I worked the room. And, honestly, I enjoyed it – all of it, the company and the "big people" outing! Who knew?

As I was writing this month’s blog in my head, going over the details of my Peeps metaphor, I ran across the darnest advertisement. It was for Peeps dipped in chocolate. The fact that they were neither organic nor healthier, did not stop me from going into hunt-and-gather mode when I was birthday gift shopping at Target, a few days later. So, I find them. And lo and behold these little forms that look like they swam in a mud puddle are not just dipped in chocolate, some of them have under parts gilded with…dark chocolate (the bane of me.) There were even chocolate-flavored marshmallow critters dipped in the yummy goodness. So I buy the two options in dark chocolate. But they must be testing the market because they came in packages of only two. I get them home and my newly-turned-eight-year-old daughter is amazed and excited I bought them. However, she comments that she would have preferred the milk chocolate variety instead. Sweet little soul, she didn’t know I bought them for me. I, of course, make them wait a few days to eat them. But I only waited until their bedtime that evening! I rip open the package to then gingerly remove the wee Peep dipped in my vice. I only take a nibble because: 1) I was not in need of the sugar and 2) I was braced for disenchantment.

Verdict: The Peeps were quite tasty. And I only removed the tail off of one of each variety. I saved the rest for the kids.

I have nothing organic-oriented to share this month just an holistic insight or two (or three):

1) People cannot make you happy, you have to be happy to enjoy people. Caring what people think should not matter to you, but people should.

2) We all have our faults and flaws and idiosyncrasies that make us different. But we should not be indifferent.

3) Just give Peeps a chance.

In Like a Lion…named Leo.

March 2011: I have entered the survivorship phase of my trek. Funny thing about the surviorship part of cancer, for me, at least, has been the fact that I sometimes forget. I continue to be surprised that people are surprised that I look well. It goes down like this: “You look really good!” Dumbfounded pause on my part as I try to figure out why I wouldn’t look good. Then it clicks in my head, Oh, the cancer thing! I say “Thanks!” Then wonder if they noticed my confusion. When I was reading the Lance Armstrong biography, he expressed how he felt more impatient at this stage. Like, he should be doing more to fight off the cancer. He felt that all the treatments were a working towards being well again. Me, I felt a sense of closure. The day I walked out of medical complex from chemo, I felt like I had gone through the valley of death and come out only singed. I was better just because I didn’t not have to go back.

March has been my favorite month since I was 4-years-old. That year the wind caught me at the corner of my cousin’s house, I put up my arms and felt my body almost lift up. That amazing feeling has always stuck with me. I chose to marry in March and four years and a day later became a mother (then the two following months brought elaborate joy a few years later, with baby no. 2 then no. 3.) I have no need to be wary of the ides of March, they have been good to me.

This March was notable as well. I started my bigger-than-me project: Pink Link Foundation, Inc. I am excited and nervous.

My new endeavor has made me more aware of the fact that I have always been systematic. Systematic, meaning that I am always trying to figure out a better way to accomplish a task. I want to make it all more efficient. (Sadly I even map my crossing of the kitchen to grab/or put away/wipe/shut/ whatever is needed as I pass.) Every job I ever had, I figured out the routine then honed it to make sure I could find the simplest track to mainstream and accomplish each segment the quickest manner possible. And well I am good at it. But the ideas for all the projects I want Pink Link to establish just keep flowing. I become emotional often thinking of all those in need help. Then the ideas froth on how I have to make my machine work with the least amount of resistance. I see now how to implement all factors down to how to show others to fold the event T-shirts (crazy, but true.) All that said to note that I realize my mission.

My mission is accepting that this really was not all about me. I hope I can impart my chai. No one should fear death, we should be more afraid of not living.

Moving on to my tip for the month:

I have altered my diet, but most people don’t realize, what you use to prepare your food is just as important.

I still have my stainless steel cookware because I have yet to afford to replace the set. Steel (whether stainless or not) is an alloy of different metals; one of which is often aluminum in cookware. Aluminum absorbs into your food. It is a heavy metal. It is toxic to your body and is hard (but not impossible) to cleanse out of your system.

I try to use my Vision Ware pots or iron skillets for the stove top. If I microwave, I only use glass or porcelain. I bake with my glass and Corning ware. And the crock pot is safe as well.

I urge you to not microwave using plastic containers and [heaven forbid] Styrofoam!

Baking should not involve aluminum pans!

Non-stick = non-healthy! I put olive oil in my iron skillets after I cook and sticking is minimal. Hint: grilling toast or English muffins (sans butter) in the iron skillet with a bit olive oil is quite tasty.

It takes awhile to grasp another way of doing things but it is well worth it. And do some investigating on your own if you have doubts. I am only sharing the few things I have learned and try to implement in my family's life.

My survivorship consists of everyday making the healthy decisions: taking my estrogen-blocking pill (for the next 5 years), vitamins, lots of fruits and veggies, exercise and living as organic and chemical-free as possible. But these things are more unconscious now. I know why I am doing it but I dwell on the long life to procure not the worry of life being stolen. It is weird I suppose but cancer seems more like a scar (literally in some respects). Like, one of those scars you get on your knee as a child when you fell off your bike. Then many years after it has healed someone notices it and then you remember how and why it exists. The scar is apart of you but you don’t dwell on it anymore.

I realize I had cancer…then cancer had me. Cancer did not survive me.

The other day my oldest daughter and I are reading a book on earth and space. We happen upon the study of stars and they make note of how the astrological names came into being (some Greek thing.) She looks at me and says, “Mom, maybe Cancer should be your sign.” I laugh and respond, “Why, because I had it.” But it made me wonder why the disease has the same moniker. I will have to research this animal. Until next month, much love from the happy Leo.

Love, Peace and Cleaning Hair Grease (organically!)

February may be the second month in our calendar but it marked a lot of firsts for me this year:

I finally was able to go sans wig! I have been told I look a bit like Jamie Lee Curtis (not bad, but showing my age I guess.) I was once even stopped by a complete stranger who wanted to know who my stylist was, because she just loved my hair. I laughed and said it is just growing back. Undaunted by my response she continued telling me how she was looking for a new person because…finally I said softly as not to embarrass her in the dollar section of Target that I had chemo, and this was the growth so far. She gasps then stops and says but you look so healthy. I thought later I would never recommend my stylist.

I started going back to the office (only three days a week.) I almost feel like a grown-up again!

I went on a date with my hubby to a winery. It was our first date since my mastectomy. I loved it, he hates wine (but loves me tipsy!)

I had a girl’s-night out for the first time in I can’t remember when.

I finished radiation! Yippee!

I met with my lawyer to start the legal process to set-up my non-profit foundation! I will have more on that by the next blog.

Another interesting first time was meeting some ladies (3 to be exact) going through the same crap. We were all around the same age with slightly different scenarios and at different stages. We shared, we laughed, we brunched and I realized since being diagnosed with cancer I had never tried to find anyone with a similar journey. It was in its own sense, healing.

And this is the first time I almost let a month slip past me for my blog. For a short month, my February has been quite full.

Now to confide some tips on going organic over the next few months. For February I thought I would start with cleaning products.

I am mindful of my budget so some of what I suggest is costly in the beginning but the products I use can be stretched and end up being cheaper and of course healthier. I am not paid for my endorsement of these products (I wish!) It is just what I have found that works best for our household.

The best stuff is Dr. Bronner’s Magic Pure-Castile Soap. It cast about $6-8 for a 16oz. bottle. Exhale your gasps…this size bottle will last me for about eight months. Here is how I break it down:

I take about 20 drops (around 2tsp I guess) and put in a 20oz spray bottle and fill the rest with water. I have one of these bottles for the kitchen and one for the bathrooms. What do I use it for? The question is: What don’t I use it for?

Floors: I have hardwood floors and I just spray the stuff on the floor (note: I dilute it a bit more when moping because it can get foamy.) I still use my wet-jet. I only employ the removable pads the refill-bottle part and batteries have been removed. Granted this may not be very “green” of me but as a mother of three small kids and a timeline this is the simplest for me right now.

Kitchen: I keep the 20oz. dilution mentioned earlier on hand for the counter tops (mine are Corian and it works great) if you have something like granite you may want to check before using it. But I use the Seventh Generation brand of dish-washing detergent and dishwasher detergent. I try to buy these in bigger sizes at markets where they buy in larger quantities and it is not so expensive. I have to replace them about every 4 to 5 months.

Clothes: I spray it on stains in the laundry and have used a few drops in the washer (mostly for fragrance) because the ECOS laundry detergent I prefer is wonderful (and reasonably priced) but scentless. I add Borax for extra boost sometimes and white distilled vinegar for odor (mostly for sheets that my 21-month-old marks his territory on.)

Hand Soap: Now this endeavor is a bit more expensive up-front, but once you have done it the eureka factor kicks in. My small kids love playing with the pump bottle at the sink. This is great in encouraging them to wash their hands but really hurt my wallet when they empty a container in 2 days (or in two hours of barbie-hair washing!) I bought the dispensers that pump out the foamy bubbles. Buying them with the organic soap was the expensive part. But I keep the bottles and put around 10 drops of Dr. Bronner’s Magic Pure-Castile Soap and filled the rest with water, shake well and lasts for quite a while (if you make sure Barbie finds another salon.) It still gives me that foamy cleaner at a fraction of the cost. Sometimes I have to play with the amount according to the size of the dispenser. I like the Clean Well brand pump dispensers but have found the 365 brand at a better price.

Shampoo/Conditioner: I use Nature’s Gate. I try to buy the larger bottles and use sparingly. Of course, I personally have not had to use it since September 2010. Now, it is nice to only have to use a pea-size amount on my elfin locks.

Body Soap: I make our own bars now. I have opaque glycerin blocks (which keeps for awhile, it just turns a yellowish color but works well all the same.) The blocks can be found in craft stores or bought in bulk online. I got mine from sweetcakes.com, 40lbs is $110. I suggest finding someone who may want to split the case with you.

Oddly, soap-making was introduced to me in college by a wonderful friend. She wanted to try it as a group effort to make more personal Christmas presents and save us some money. I carried this on for many holidays, becoming more adventurous and creative in their appearance and textures. I would run across the recipes for more utile proposes but never tired them on a regular basis until…about a year ago.

I like to use a woodsmen soap because I live in the south and near the ocean (both of which attract a wide variety of bugs and tourists.) But I use this recipe to keep the bugs away not the tourists. I take about half a block of the glycerin that is sectioned in 1” x 1” cubes, I just cut it up in smaller parts so it will melt faster in the sauce pot. I melt it over a low to medium heat, stirring gently. After it is melted I add 5 drops the following essential oils: lavender, citronella, lemon, cedarwood and camphor. I bought my oils at www.essentialoil.com. Now the oils can be pricey but this one of the things that will hurt to buy in the beginning but will last for quite awhile. I bought mine a few years ago so the oils have a good shelf life.

Bathrooms: I put a bit more of Dr. Bronner’s Magic Pure-Castile Soap in these 20-oz. spray bottles. And I don’t measure any of this to a science but I estimate about 2 Tbsps and fill the rest with water. I spray in on the surfaces and let stand a couple of minutes (or however long in takes for me to make my rounds to all the bathrooms for their coatings of my mixture.) Then I wipe down with a rag. For the toilets, I sometimes squeeze directly from Dr. Bronner’s Magic Pure-Castile Soap bottle around the inner rim and let it sit.

And since we are in the bathroom…I recently found a replacement for the one thing I had removed and had not been able to replace in my kids life until I ran across this recipe for BUBBLE BATH! I read it in Parents magazine so I will give you exact measurements on this one.

• 4 cups distilled water

• 4 oz. liquid lavender castile soap (They give the web site for Dr. Bronner’s Magic Pure-Castile Soap at drbronner.com but I buy the stuff at Lowe’s Foods or Whole Foods. And use your preferred flavor, Dr. Bonners has good selection.)

• 4oz. vegetable glycerin (their suggestion is to use Nature’s Answer Pure Vegetable Glycerin, $6; vitacost.com)

• 10 drops of neroli essential oil (which I had to look up because I had no clue what it was.) It is orange blossom oil and it cost $15.95 for 1 gram at www.essentialoil.com. But I think it is apart of the composition for fragrance not necessity.

• Mix the water and castile soap. Then add the glycerin and the drops. Put it all into a bottle (glass would be best), add 1 cup to your bath.

I have not indulged in the recipe yet so if anyone out there tries it out before me, please, give me some feedback.

I will note my preferences on the Dr. Bonner’s varieties: for the bathrooms I like the Citrus Orange. It freshens without overwhelming since I use a stronger dilution for the bathroom cleaning. I use Peppermint for the kitchen and hardwood floors because I adore the smell. The Peppermint is refreshing and breathing it in makes feel like it opens my sinuses. I have tired the Tea tree oil which is minty-piney (I may try it instead of the lavender in the bubble bath because Tea tree oil is great for the skin.)

I hope my suggestions work for you. I can answer questions and would welcome other tips. Until next blog, may you have lots of love and astounding peace and enjoy an organic way to get rid of hair grease (or cleaning any other areas in need a good washing.)

Life As Art

I recently posted on my facebook wall that I was headed home from the hospital as my favorite form of balance: asymmetry. I had to have my left breast removed almost a year to the day I was diagnosed with cancer. All went well, the doctor was confident he got it all. I am now lop-sided and healing well.

The day of surgery, November 29, 2010, I fell apart in the pre-op room. My poor Superman did not know what to do with me, my surgeon walked in on breakdown number three and inquired as to what was wrong. A question I thought to be rhetorical but managed to choke out I was scared after his look of concern lingered. So much for thinking I was strong…honestly I just really hate blood and guts and hospitals.

It is said that life imitates art and vice versus. A year ago I was not willing to except life as a uni-boob, but my path has become an odyssey…

However passionately I feel about a subject, especially the subject I am about to detail. I try to be open-minded. So here is my confession:

Words I thought I would never utter (or type): I have a tattoo. But alas I can say I have two! Now as an artist people often are surprised on my regards of tattoos (and that I didn’t have one afore the prior admission.) Being artsy, yes I can appreciate the artwork and freedom of expression that details a tat. I have many a dear friend and family member that adorn these permanent works of art. But those that know me are aware of my aversion to these marks on my person. My reasons for not (on my own fruition) getting a tattoo are few:

1) I am needle phobic and this past year of constant stabbing has not cured me. Each time the needle neared I would look away and I would hear the mantra of the little clown fish dad from Finding Nemo exclaim, “Find your happy place, find your happy place, find your happy place…”

2) I seriously think of hepatitis when ever I see one.

3) I don’t like pain. Although I have a rather high threshold for pain I would never coherently and willing cross that line.

4) I can’t be stuck with artwork I can’t tweak. I like change or honestly I change my mind a lot. I periodically rearrange my furniture for need of a new scene or because I feel I have found a better use of the space. I constantly think of new ways of doing mundane jobs. I just could not be content with the same marking or I would have tattooers remorse.

Now here is how it happened:

I went to my first radiologist appointment on December 28, 2010. I met my doctor. He thoroughly examined me, described my treatments and the prior to radiation prep (or so I thought.) Then I went from the examining room to the CT machine.

I am lying on the CT table after I had my scan so the radiologist could tailor my treatment to fit my anatomy. The nurse asks if they told me about the tattoo. I give her a sheer, dumbfounded look and stammered a soft “n-noo.” She explains it or so I thought she had because what I comprehended and what happened were on the extreme chasms of each other! I am thinking dots with the sharpie marker as she pulls out this vial of black and dabs a bit on my sternum area. I off-handedly ask if it is henna. She tells me no and says actually it is India ink which I remark on using with some of my life-drawing, wire sketches in college. But as I am in mid recall I feel this sharp prick in the area of the dab. I kept my thought of, "OH shit I really just got a tattoo!", to myself and grimaced in anticipation with the now-full-knowledge of pain with dot two.

The fun part of getting my two little (and I mean minute, tiny) black dots on either side of my mastectomy scar was telling my oldest child about it. The subject (or infatuation) of tattoos started when she was all of three. I have no idea why. I have tried not to scar my kids with tyranny of my own convictions. I try the approach my kid’s curiosities (like their fortified wills) by guiding them, not conforming them. I want them to be aware of their world so when they are old enough to make there own choices they will be informed decisions. So, with the topic of tattoos I have allowed: tattoo-sque markers, stickers that transfer with a damp cloth and pressure for 30 seconds and the occasional whimsy at the tourist-trap-henna kiosks. All this done in hopes their affinity may fade or at least they will weigh their decisions at length.

Another way in which I feel, as of late, that my life reflects art is with literature. My blog is, of course, a crude form of literature for my trek. But assessing my missing body parts, the scars left behind and now going five days a week to lie on a table/bed that is lifted, many feet off the floor to have a high-frequency beam directed at my heart with this huge, bulky piece of equipment; I seem like a science experiment. I feel I am the subject of the infamous Mary Shelley novel. Just call me Frank-n-boobless.

On a more inner-probing note, I have taken up painting again as I have mentioned in previous blogs.

Well, for the fund-raiser my most wondrous friends arranged for me, there was an auction as part of the benefit. I offered to donate a painting that had stemmed from a study of my initial dusting-off of the art supplies. I had gotten a bit of a “painters block” and thought that a deadline would give me some motivation. The friend who was the task-master of the event, forgot about my suggestion until 3 weeks to go. (I just didn’t mention it afterwards because I thought she thought is was a bad idea.) However, she called and asked me about it. I said sure I still wanted to donate it. Now I had to finish it.

So, I got to work. I would paint and look and muse and squint and step back for awhile then paint again. These proceedings repeated, a lot. Finally, I liked it. Just liked it, that’s all. I walked to the other side of my studio (AKA the garage) and inspected it. Since I started this piece, which was of a woman sitting nude looking over her back, I wondered why all of my female subjects (that I draw without an actual physical reference) always seem to have a Nefertiti-like facial features. This particular day I am mulling over this detail again when an epiphany occurs. My “aha” moment was not about Nefertiti but about the woman’s pose. She was looking over her LEFT shoulder. My left breast was the location of the cancer. I had unconsciously made my art reflect me!

I mentioned in the KISS (Keep-It-Simple-Stupid) blog of December that I wanted to give pointers or suggestions in facing or preventing cancer. This blog of the new year I will start with an insight:

Like the paint makes it to the surface of the canvas; it seems our souls have a way of reaching out and touching our hearts too.

A simple reflection.

I have had a busy and enjoyable holiday season (even through dealing with the boob removal.) The December blog is going to be simple and short. I will just tell you I am going to continue the new year blogging with, of course, some humorous outlooks on my cancer-ridding journey. But I am going to add some advice or pointers of changes I have made that may help those reading to veer from the cancer path.

Now on with my simple insight over the past month.

This is what I know. I will be done with this phase of my life – just not as soon as I would like. I realize a lot of things have not gone according to my expectations over the past year. I have gained unwanted weight during my chemo, partly due to comfort-food consumption and that I had a steroid as part of my chemo cocktail. I have unwillingly lost body parts and had most of my body in need of Rogaine. I know don’t need guilt anymore. My life has to be true only to its Maker, no one else.

I have and am processing my plight. I still get angry. I still have ambition. I still have to take moments and put things in perspective. But most of all I still love and have love.

As you all bring in your new year, please, Live long and prosper!

The Upside of Chemo

In all my complaints of chemotherapy, I have a few pros I should share.

In the beginning, just before my chemo, a lovely oncology nurse gave me a folder filled with printouts of all the things that would be pumped into my body. She told me I may want to read them to be aware of the side effects. Now as a person, who prior to this, was rarely sick and when side effects were mentioned; I inwardly scoffed. My scoffing days over, the chemo gods laughed at me. Within two weeks of my first treatment I realized I had been thoroughly…side-effected.

One may not know that there are different kinds of chemo. The variation's range like the myriad of liqueurs. (However liqueur feels better once ingested unless one overdoes it.) My specific brew of poison (literally) caused hair loss. But while I was Mr. Clean’s look-alike I also did not have to shave my pits for four months. Some hair remained on my legs, although what was left behind was very thin and grew at an old, very old, snails pace. All in all, I had to shave about 3 times during my ordeal. My eyebrows almost became non-existent, the few that were left hung on as if they were stalactites. Thus, plucking eyebrows (or any other pesky stray hair) was crossed off the to do list. Showering became a breeze. I could even bathe, and for a bit the only stubble floating the tub was from my shedding, shaved head. So, we were able to pinch some pennies with shampoo and conditioner; soap worked just fine on my shiny, bald nugget. My head just became apart of my facial moisturizing regimen. Side effect one: Groom with ease.

As a woman, like pregnancy, chemo may offer you a token of reprieve. Even though I did endure a urinary tract infection (something I have had only once in my early teens), my monthly visitor went on safari. My ovaries were “tinged” (the moniker my oncologist named it). This tinging ended my period like a sentence and sent me into a mini-menopause. At 36, I was experiencing a heat that would start in the very core of my being, a heat that would make the sun blush. The heat wicking almost immediately to my head (which most of the time was bare) and I would have a moist sheen on top. So as instant as my head was wet …and hot, being exposed it would counter with a coolness from the surrounding air. It was so odd. This anomaly amused my mother, who I have picked on for years and now whose common predicament I share. Side effect two: We kicked Aunt Flo out but we relocated to the Sahara to be rid of her.

I had the fortunate coinciding of my chemo with the Halloween season. Normally, I am not really all that into Halloween. Even as a kid I never was very excited about it. But there was something liberating about the fact that I was free of hair; a trait not all are willing to “bare” (could not resist that pun) in the name of a great Halloween costume–mostly from a female standpoint. The characters of bald are quite a few: G.I. Jane, Mr. Clean, Kojak, Professor Xavier, that blue guy from the Watchmen and my chosen look-alike, The Last Airbender. I figured the kids needed to get some entertainment value out of this tribulation. Side effect three: Halloween takes on broader possibilities.

Lastly, my chemo ordained me, at time, with some enzymatic-action-in-the-stomach finickiness. When I did want to eat, I had the need for comfort food. As my treatments progressed, my appetite actually increased. My recipe of chemo, included a steroid, that kept me away from nausea, it also fatten me a wee bit. It took about 3 doses, but I finally just ate to feel better. I learned to be happy I was not feeling the need to vomit, but instead desiring chocolate cake! In the supposed words of Queen Marie Antoinette, I ate cake. Side effect four: Enjoy your lot, and your cake too!

It seems I should have a fifth item to tout, as if I were the fifth element, an end to the digits on one hand. But a new outlook would be the only thing I could share. I have lost my hair, which was a thick source of pride. I am about to loose half of nice rack. I have experienced strength I did not know was in me (not for me but more for those I cannot imagine life without.) If perk No.5 is anything it is of grace, it is of power, it is of knowing there is more than I have in my life, that I refuse to give up. Side effect five: A supernatural knowing that I will live longer than those feeling sorry for me. So…don’t feel sorry–feel strong!

Patient patient.

This is a not a path I wanted (or would ever wish on anyone) but it one I have to finish, I will finish. And when I finish, my new journey will begin. But waiting for this journey to end, for this chapter of my life to end with that last period pounded into place; is trying my patience.

I started life as a patient individual. I was often praised for my patience. Then somewhere in my trek to self-awareness I began to feel that my patience was a cover for not being as assertive as I needed to be in areas of my life. It soon developed into being impatient with myself and with each new endeavor. Higher education, seemed too long of a wait, so far down the road when I was sick of school by graduation. I wanted to explore life outside what I was familiar with, an adventure! Each adventure just whetted my appetite for the next. I wanted to hurry to the next step because it never came soon enough. My frustration with obtaining a degree was the time line and deciding a major that would please my family. The oddity was it took me nine years, yep nine years to hone in on the BA. I went from taking a year off after high school to travel to the Dominican Republic, as a tutor for a missionary family. I returned home (spiritually stunned) and enrolled in college first as an undecided, then to pre-pharmacy, moved to Michigan (to screw my head and heart back on) there I started working for a chiropractor and trashed my faith in traditional medicine, so I started training to be a youth pastor. When the time for me to take my year as a youth pastor underling-in-training, I knew I had become what I said I would never be: self-righteous. So, I moved back home, decided that I was paying for the next stab at a degree; the choice I had wanted it to be in the first place, Art. I added my soul mate into the equation by my second semester. I received my degree in two and a half years, impatiently tackling new challenges that would enhance my resumé (and skipping some of the enlightening endeavors that may have been more fruitful.) I became impatient with the process of each adventure. I envisioned each and every goal and I wanted to get there as soon as possible. I became the embodiment of far-from-patient.

At age 9, I decided I wanted a non-boring life, I wanted adventure. I am ever reminded of constantly achieving this desire. Whether it be the excitement of my handsome, adoring, high-strung, never-met-a-stranger (or stops talking to that stranger) hubby; or watching my three children discovering the world each in there own individual interpretations; or handling some emergency (work, home or personal) that became so because of poor-planning on my part or some one else’s. I became impatient with a lot of this process. A process that I should have been drinking in and enjoying moment by moment.

Even now with my current predicament I find my self wanting to walk into the Bed, Bath and Beyond, where I happen upon a creepy Christopher Walken with his secret lair containing a remote for my life. I have so wanted to have it and fast-forward past the chemo, impending surgery and my newest discovery that I will have to be an uno-boob chic for a year! Really. Really…Great something else I have to break to my precious girls. The hair loss was easy, now I have to explain removing half my chest! Those words coming out of my surgeons mouth stunned me. I felt my heart and/or head plummet. I had to fight to keep my composer. Where is that damn remote? I want this over. Now.

I make to the car with only a couple of tears escaping. Once in the car, I unfurled the clouds that pelted my cheeks. I called my husband after I thought I had rid myself of all moisture in my tear ducts. I tell him the news, it was not new news to him. He informs me and reminds me that is what the doctor said on our first meeting. I had not heard it in information-overload mode or I had chosen not to except it. Then the hubby asked the why-does-it-sound-like-you-are-about-to-cry question. Because I was crying…again.

Deep breath. Be patient, patient. Urrrrrrrgh.

Stage IV: I’m only human. But I don’t have to like it.

I am often flabbergasted (but not completely surprised) when people blame God for terrible things that happen. Complete Greek epics justified favor and disfavor from the gods. The Egyptians rulers just declared their own divine nature, taking the praise as well as the blame, I suppose. We, in American culture, tend accept a good just because we deserve it, but evil and bad have to be pawned off on the neglect of a higher being. However, most of the time human folly is the culprit. I don’t blame God for what happened to me or that I am being punished with cancer. Some of my actions were in conscious thought, some out of ignorance, but I know I took a gift, a responsibility given to me, for granted – my own being.

I also wonder how being “humane” is labeled as kindness to animals, not other humans. But then, in turn, being human is a term of frailty. But is that weakness deemed due to kindness to others, our immortality, or often being a myriad of emotions. The human condition: weakness. The superhuman condition: physically or mentally surpassing the human condition perhaps with an odd ability (the X-men type.) Of course, the good superhuman has a weakness (soft spot) for the human condition. I, in my too-human-for-me condition, have found myself surrounded by the superhuman, and they are many! These super beings are people I am privileged to call friends and family members. I would call cancer my Kryptonite but I am not superhuman, yet. Although, I need to fashion a big “S” patch for my hubby to wear on an undershirt! Cancer be damned – these people keep me strong.

These superheroes have showered me with prayers, meals, baby sitting, financial support and now a fund-raising benefit in my honor. I become emotionally tapped when I think how loved I am. That, me, the now frail (something I am far from being accustomed too), bald woman has my own crew of real superheroes! Professor Xaiver has nothing on me (save the shared, shiny head!)

July 21, 2010, I had an appointment with my human condition: My first chemo treatment.

As I arrived to the doctor’s office, I thought that every ill-side effect would manifest as soon as it entered my body. I am not sure why but that was the anticipation I had built in my dread. The treatment is administered in a large room with huge, plush leather-look- alike recliners (I can’t describe them as inviting only because every ounce of me wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.) I was also a bit too aware that I was the youngest patient in the room (that day.) As I found my recliner and waited to be ”hooked up,” I avoided all eye contact with the surrounding patients. Eye contact would unravel my mangled emotions of not wanting to accept what I tired with all my might to avoid for seven months, this chemotherapy. I went straight for my cryptogram puzzle book, and tuned out.

The first five to six days following the initial dose I had a hard time with the fact that I did not feel like me. I cannot equate the feeling to anything. I was tired, desired scads of ginger ale and graham crackers and just felt out of kilter. I was not me! And I did not like it!

To deal with my preoccupation through out the past few months (even before chemo,) I have been reading a good bit. I like to read biographies. I am not to keen on fiction unless it is an ultra classic, i.e. The Odyssey and The Iliad (both of which I also absorbed recently.) If I am using my time for reading I feel I must gain a sense of knowledge from the time spent. Yet I have no qualms with watching fictional (and as you have gathered the science-fictional) movies! Go figure. But biographies inspire me and I need all I can get these days. Without knowing it I have started with the “A’s”: Alexander the Great, Lance Armstrong and I just finished a bio on Brooke Astor.

The above rabbit trail left behind, I recently read Lance Armstrong’s book, It Is Not About the Bike. He also addressed humanity. In giving the dictionary explanation of the human condition being in comparison and contrast to an animal, a machine and God. I felt a kinship with this man that I didn’t know much about before other than he has won the Tour de France (a lot) and he had cancer. He talked about his diet changes and promises he made to know one in particular if he would/could survive the operations and severe chemo. Then, he mentions how he didn’t quite keep all of them, being human and all. I cried through most of this book. Lance Armstrong’s ordeal was 80 times more brutal than mine and he was only 25! But reading it gave me perspective and a waned sense of guilt for my cravings of chocolate cake and cinnamon toast crunch since starting chemo.

I was also amazed that I never realized that athletes and artists (like myself) have a common characteristic – passion. This passion Armstrong imparted was something I could pin to the why I fell in love with my husband many eons (almost 13-years) ago. Parts of Armstrong’s journey I have not met yet. I am not in survivorship stage yet. Until then I will face the ultra-weakening part of my path with hope and a big dose of robust and hearty dislike.

Often I pray to become more aware of the divine nature within me. Then I sense how super-human, super-frail I am, far from a superhuman! I envision what I want. Then I grope the limits of this flesh – this flesh that has been stretched and sliced and prodded and stabbed with countless needles. I hate it. I hate feeling sore. I hate being careful how I play and love on my children. I hate having to take it easy. I hate feeling weak. But I have to let it all go, embrace a new path and take a deep breath.

But the breathing part has been causing me some issues.

Breathing…I, in complete reality, keep forgetting to do this. So self-pep talk ensues. I remember why I feel short of breath and tell myself I will be okay, but only if I breathe! I may have to employ stickie notes randomly throughout the house with the words: Inhale…exhale…Inhale…exhale… There’s aromatherapy, physical therapy, then there’s my new remember-to-breathe therapy!

I know I will be okay. And that all of this will be over (not as soon as I would like.) I am learning to know what I want (or more, like, need.) I want to be healthy and strong and content. And it is okay not to like my human weakness, because when I am strong and believe beyond my circumstances I am superhuman. Most humans turned superhero are exposed to some odd element. My genetically-enhanced spider or vat of radioactive serum is chemo, I guess. I am not sure what my super power will be when I am done or what clever name I should have. I will be satisfied to be well again. I can’t say I will be my normal (if I was ever considered normal) self again. I have been altered in some way I guess by chemo and this whole experience. I try and see things as they are, take in each moment with my family and loved ones. And, please, don’t think that I am boasting of my own ability to overcome this obstacle. I am only trying to acquaint with what we all have within us that we bury or disregard due to our own shallow mental powers and perceptions. We are all human but yet I continue to be awed by the people who have rallied around me. I now have a habit of tearing-up at least once a day (if not more) when I think of these superhumans in my life. I know worse things could happen. This is happening to me and it is easy for me to conquer, because I have an odd knowing that death will come perhaps around 105 (this number seems like a good number that entitles me to know my great-grand kids and number my hubby will have to surpass in his competitive nature, while donning his “S” underoo.)

So, for now I feel super…super weak…and pissed. Pissed that I have to be human. But not for long, I plan to join the ranks of my superhuman loved ones that have kept me strong and determined.

Being so keenly enlightened of my own frailty has made me less dependant on my own abilities and strength. My strength is not physical or tangible anymore. It is not my own. Perhaps that is when I sense The Divine is closer than I realize. I feel the push. I hear that still, calm Voice. I am encouraged. The ability to prevail shows up and I know, well, yea, I am human. But I sure as hell do not have to like it!

By the way, I want my cape to be fiery scarlet!

Hair today, gone tomorrow.

It took two weeks for my locks to unlock from my head. The unlocking started some emotional unfurling as well, feeling hair-brained if you will excuse my pun. I had started thinking the hair loss would not happen. Hoping I would be the exception to the rule. I am having a hard time being the rule, not the exception.

I warned my daughters, seven- and three-years of age, before I started Chemo that the medicine that mommy was having to take might make her hair fall out. Two weeks from my initial treatment, after I thought the hair would stay, I started shedding. I have ultra thick hair and I am used to my tresses carpeting the house but it became overly annoying. So I told the girls that I my hair was going away. I have during my whole cancer experience tried my best to protect them and inform them gingerly, in hopes of not to freak them out. But their response to my locks unlocking left me feeling unnerved. They found it funny. They were so intrigued that they would randomly run their sweet, tiny fingers through my hair and announce in an awed and excited tone, “Mommy look how much came out this time!” In my efforts to keep them from freaking out I began to freak out. I finally had to ask them to stop because I did not have my wig yet.

Next we went wig shopping. The whole family. On my 36th birthday.

Yep, THIRTY-SIX, I am displaying it loud and proud. I will forever love my birthdays and the increasing number it brings! Now on with the show, and oh yes what I am about to share with you was quite the show!

It was not planned, the wig shop just happened to be within walking distant from my birthday-lunch-restaurant choice. Maybe it was a subconscious decision on my part, I am not sure. This event turned out to be one of the strangest and most enlightening experiences in regards to my daughters integral part in my life. Not to down play my precious son’s role, but at 15-months old, I don’t explain the steps of journey, he just gets the shock value of shedding mommy and lots of cuddling. The girls worked that wig shop like they had been there scads of times before! I was quite the opposite. I scanned the small boutique apprehensively, almost afraid to touch the blank-face heads with a potential new “do.” Now, the girls were telling me aloud (very loud, or so it seemed) to try one on. The sales’ lady offers me to sit in front of the mirror and she would “fit” me. Well, this invitation was all the girls needed to hear. Suddenly, half the heads in the shop were bared and a mound of fake hair amassed on the table in front of me. The lady would barely have one on my head before my girls would proclaim their opinion. They held nothing back. Their honesty was so funny and refreshing and unabashed. Little voices ensued, “Mommy, I don’t like that one. Take it off. Mommy, try this one. What about this one? Ohhh, yea get that one, mommy!” And my three-year old could not figure out “why those ladies don’t have their eyes?” But it did not bother her enough to keep her from ripping their hair off!

I left the shop without a wig. I did, however, leave with complete amazement at my girls. Where did these fearless, opinionated, take-it-all-in-stride creatures come from?!

The night before my second treatment, I told my husband when he came home from his moonlight job we would scalp me. Well, I resolved I would just take the “GI Jane” approach. But when the hubby had the clippers in hand I took off my glasses, he told me to close my eyes and the buzzing ensued. The odd coincidence was, [and I swear to you this is true] the movie “GI Jane” was on one of the movie channels the next day (and a few days following)! I remember going to see the movies in theaters a few years back. I have a few favorite parts but not a favorite movie really. Of course I felt drawn to watch it. Her plight much different than mine. But I connected with something familiar with the protagonist (other than the same hair cut) an aura of sheer determination. The shaven head, along with the movie, gave me a new perceptive. I may feel beaten down, but I am not beaten!

Now the next morning, post-shaved head had mixed reviews. Note: I had warned my daughters, as well as my mom and sister, (who were staying with us to help with the kids during my next treatment) the night before they went to bed that mommy might shave her head when daddy came home later that night.

The three-year daughter crawls in our bed in the almost-daybreak hours of the morning, calling my name as she crawled in the bed. I answer her so she can find me. She speaks again, “Mommy, Mom…mie, your hair.” I remind her of me telling her about it last night, just lay down. She seems content to be over the shock as we snuggle back to sleep. The 15-month-old son was the biggest set back, he was not warned. After his usual procedure of alerting us he was awake and ready to exit the crib, my husband gets him and lays him down beside me in the bed. I turn and greet him with my can’t-hold-back-how-much-I-love-you smile. I forget I am sans hair. He looks at me and quickly turns his head and cautiously cuts his eyes back at me. I speak to him and reach for him but he turns and whimpers. Then I laugh as I realize he is not so sure if this is mommy. He warms up after a bit of mommy jabber. The next person to jolt is my mom. I had to wake her to help me with the baby. I started talking to her to rouse her and said, “Mom, don’t be shocked I am…” Her eyes open and she jumps, jumps and gasps! You did it she says amazed and groggily bewildered. All of this is taking place during summer break, so my oldest daughter of seven, emerges much later in the morning. I am at the dining room table feeding the baby, my back to the stairs and my sister (who only replied “Whoa” to the no hair head) tells me to look to see who was up. I turn to see my oldest child is standing, or frozen I should say, in mid-descend of the stairs with her mouth wide open, speechless. I reply, “ I told you I was going to shave it off.” “But, mommy,” she almost whispers. “I didn’t think you would do it.”

I went to get the wig that day. I took the girls and my mom. I went blonde (with roots.) I liked the wig, as having to wear one goes. But I ultimately chose one my girls approved. The 3-year-old, who is blonde and often has the question posed as to where her hair color comes from since daddy and mommy have dark-brown hair; gives the excited approval of telling me, “You look like me, mommy!” The 7-year-old also says she likes it best. And my mom also was a big thumbs up. Out we went from the wig shop, me as a short-haired blonde.