76 Reflections Upon 2009 - Employment

It's the beginning of 2010 and naturally I find myself reflecting upon 2009. All kind of things changed and happened in 2009, and some of them were funny or cool.

One of the things that changed in 2009 was my employment.

When 2009 dawned, my full time job was to look for a job. I spent hours each day reading online want ads and company website job descriptions. I signed up with placement agencies. I updated my profiles on the online job search sites and weeded through the valid job descriptions from real recruiters vs. the "start your own business" and "work in insurance" junk mail from the would-be scammers.

By the end of January I was in the delightful position of having to weigh two offers that came in at the same time. Making the decision was agony. I played hardball when I negotiated my rate and compensation package, and that was a new tactic for me because the past had always seen me accept whatever I was handed. I was also amazed that I was unemployed for only a month and a half before I was back to work again.

I started my new job at Company A (a pseudonym, of course) and spent the first few days in culture shock. From late January to mid-May I worked at Company A, and hated most of the time I spent there.

It was weird to work with people that I liked, doing work that I was good at, and feeling miserable about what I was doing 40 hours or more a week. I got praised for what I produced, but the learning curve was steeper than I had anticipated and the more I learned the less I wanted to know about that company's business. I was a Systems Analyst for a company that wrote specialized software, and my job was to take the requirements given to me by the Business Analysts and write up detailed software specs that the developers could convert into code. It should have been fun, but it wasn't.

I wilted in the formalized atmosphere of extreme specialization. Nothing much in my job supported creativity. I had little room to innovate. Professionally I was delighted to learn new skills, yet at the same time I was starving for more fulfilling work.

In mid-May my dream job as a Data Analyst for Company B started and I stepped into work heaven.

I happened to begin my work at Company B just as they launched a class for the inside sales reps. I sat in as time allowed and learned about how different software applications worked within and interconnected for this company. I watched a series of videos from professional development coach Marcus Buckingham.

The schtick of Marcus Buckingham is to encourage people to identify their strengths, and then seek work that utilizes those strengths. I learned that when you do work that uses your strengths, then you feel invigorated from the work even if you are mentally or physically exhausted by the most recent task. When you perform work among your strengths, Mr. Buckingham says, then you look forward to your tasks and you take pleasure in your accomplishments. By contrast, when you perform work with your weaknesses, you may be really good at what you're doing but doing it drains you. You begin to dread doing more of it.

I sat in the class of new hirees and listened to these theories, and thought about how I had dreaded going to work each day at Company A. I received constant feedback that I was doing a good job and was learning the ropes much faster than the typical new Systems Analyst, and yet I disliked every new project added to my plate and my only real pleasure came in sharing tips and tricks with my co-workers about improving their productivity in the Microsoft Office applications.

Marcus Buckingham theorizes that your strengths show up in childhood, and as you age you only get stronger in those areas. The class trainer challenged us to think of an event from our childhoods that pinpointed a current strength. I thought back to the time when I drew up elaborate, written designs to eliminate a gopher that had been terrorizing our yard. I don't even remember doing this. I must have been about 5. My mom takes delight in telling me and anyone else who will listen about the event.

In modern work terms, I was designing a solution to a problem. I was taking information about a problem, and using my creativity to solve the problem. That is exactly what I love to do today. That is what I get to do at Company B.

So my first few weeks at Company B exposed me to a professional development coach whose recorded lectures affirmed that I was completely right to change jobs and embrace what I thought would be a dream come true.

I have especially enjoyed coming to work for the last month or so. I've now been here long enough to understand the basics of how the systems work, and I've been spending my time creating new reports and improving old ones. I like it that the managers have a clear idea of what information they need to see and how it should look, and I just need to make it happen. It seems like the more I learn about individual reporting preferences, the more good ideas I collect that can be applied to other situations.

I've also learned not to hold back with tooting my own horn. I understand that a common mistake that women make in the workplace is that they think the people around them will notice and remember their accomplishments without them having to bring those accomplishments to anyone's attention. Apparently women are wrong about this perspective, especially when they work mostly with men.

My husband assures me that men have no hesistation with telling everyone about what a great job they did on something. It sounds like part of the reason that women don't rise as high in the positions of authority within a company is because women are more relucatant to act like their male counterparts with telling everyone what a good job they've done.

While I don't hang signs on my door telling everyone that I'm awesome, I do make a habit of forwarding to my boss e-mails of praise that my co-workers send after I've helped them. Anytime I've improved upon an existing process or created something new, I make sure that my boss gets a copy so that he can see the progression of my work.

So in 2009 I began working in a job that utilizes my strengths, provides outlets for creativity, and provides a supportive environment for these changes and personal growth. Sweet!

In order to keep the blog entry sizes down to something less than "novelette" I plan to write a series of posts rather than one gargantuan post. Next up...getting locked out.

Next - 77 Reflections Upon 2009 - Locked Out
Previous - 75 The Speech

75 The Speech

I called a friend today and the first thing she asked was, “How did your speech go?”

The speech went well. The event went well. We had a few snags, like two of the four credit card machines not working, but overall people pulled together and worked out the problems and things were fine. I was exhausted about halfway through it and just had to push through and keep going.

Doing a major event like this a week and a half after a tonsillectomy was undeniably a challenge. I owe my neighbor Michelle big time for babysitting Kelric at the last minute when the friend who had been lined up got the flu. Thanks, too, to Alexis and Jason for being willing to watch Kelric if Michelle couldn't.

Since most people, including my mother, did not get to hear the speech, I’m going to post it to the blog.

But first I want to extend a heartfelt THANK YOU to all the wonderful volunteers who worked so hard to make it all happen. I could plan and organize to perfection, but without you it would mean nothing. Many people commented to the BCRC staff about how well you worked as a team, and the BCRC says many guests declared this the best Champagne Brunch and silent auction ever. Yeah team! Thank you for all your hard work! The staff and volunteers collected around 330 items for the silent auction which was more than we had last year and a surprise in this economy. We nearly sold out ticket-wise. I don’t know the exact numbers but there were over 650 people on the list of attendees. We won’t know how much money we made until later, but I know that all but three silent auction items sold, which is great compared to last year. Rue McClanahan entertained and delighted the guests. I was only able to hear a small portion of her talk as I snuck in a late lunch at the table in the back.

This picture taken at the event shows off my new haircut. I’m at the “Command Center” where I had the computers and printers set up. The ballroom doors are behind me and I'm trying not to look as stressed as I feel.

It was an honor to be a speaker. I’m glad this is part of my collection of happy memories. (In other words, it was fun but I'm glad it's over. Time to take a break!)

MY 5-MINUTE SPEECH AT THE 2009 CHAMPAGNE BRUNCH AND SILENT AUCTION BENEFITTING THE BREAST CANCER RESOURCE CENTER:

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer on March 3rd of 2006, it came as a surprise. We had spent over a month thinking the lump was caused by an infection; an abscess; something benign.

Fortunately, I had surgery to remove the “abscess,” and while I was under sedation my breast surgeon recognized it was cancer. The hospital lab confirmed it, and my simple surgery turned into a surprise lumpectomy.

I was 34 years old with Stage II breast cancer, and 36 weeks pregnant.

On the one hand, I got to skip that agonizing waiting period between a biopsy and a diagnosis. On the other hand, I got hit by the medical equivalent of a freight truck. And 10 days later I gave birth.

One of the difficult parts about dealing with a traumatic event is how it isolates you. Your loved ones all care and support you, but unless they’ve lived it too they can only imagine what you’re going through.

I cried the most in the shower, where nobody was watching me. Things got better, but it took a while.

After my son was born, the hospital social worker dropped off brochures about parenting and babies. One brochure was for the BCRC.

I didn’t call right away, but when I did call I spoke with Ray Anne Evans. She suggested that I might enjoy a new group just forming under the BCRC’s umbrella – the Pink Ribbon Cowgirls, a social network for younger breast cancer survivors.

I attended their first luncheon in April 2006 and found kindred spirits. They had been there, done that, and they knew what I was going through. I hadn’t realized how alone I felt until suddenly I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t even the only woman in town to have been diagnosed while pregnant!

I have made lifelong friends from that group and have become part of the support network that comforts others. The BCRC honored me by adopting my cancer poetry for use with their support groups.

I finished chemo, finished radiation, and in 2006 attended my first Champagne Brunch.

The next year they entrusted me with the Brunch committee for registration and checkouts. The timing was perfect. I was miserable at my day job. My boss treated me like a replaceable cog. I doubted if my skills would fit into a better job at any other company.

My stomach churned at the thought of asking people to donate items or money, but I had a grand time analyzing checkout processes and building a system to create invoices! My ideas resulted in Brunch checkout improvements, which in turn gave me the confidence I needed to seek another job. It’s funny how one thing connects to another.

The Journal of Clinical Oncology published results of the Nurses’ Health Study in March 2006. The study found that “women with social ties who had 11 or more friends, relatives, or neighbors had a significantly lower risk of mortality than those with zero to four ties.” Hmmm… More connections… Fewer deaths…

The BCRC connects people to education and resources. It connects people to each other. That’s important work, and I’m glad you’ve given some part of yourselves to support that cause today.

Three people connected to me have died from breast cancer this year: my former co-worker Diana Knight in January; my grandfather John Behne in April, who believed the doctor who told him that men couldn’t get breast cancer; and in June our very first Pink Ribbon Cowgirl, Becky Davis.

Cowgirls gathered the Saturday after Becky’s passing, and we shared memories of our lost sister, stories from our breast cancer journeys, and support for one another.

From an X-Files perspective, “We are not alone” sounds ominous. From the perspective of cancer survivorship, “We are not alone” sounds like the comfort of a warm hug when you’re cold and scared. “We are not alone” is the strength of many hands holding you up, chasing away isolation.

This year so far, two of my friends and one of my professional contacts have been diagnosed with breast cancer. They all found the BCRC. (Those brochures are getting around!)

These women are not alone. With one of eight women diagnosed with breast cancer at some point in her lifetime and over 212,000 Americans diagnosed with breast cancer each year, they have a lot of company.

I’m so glad the BCRC still lets me chair the committee of registration and checkouts. That number stuff is fun for me. Holding onto the confidence from the 2007 Brunch, I got a dream job this year as a data analyst. My marriage survived the financial and emotional strain of cancer, which is a big deal because something like a third of relationships end from those stresses, and we delight that our three-year-old son Kelric is thriving.

It’s 2009. My name is Angela Patterson and I’m a 3-year survivor. Thank you, BCRC. I am not alone.

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74 Living

It’s almost the end of September 2009. Once again I will be a participant in the Champagne Brunch and Silent Auction that benefits the BCRC. Once again I have been chairing the committee that handles registration and checkouts. We handle item distribution, too. With two years of experience performing this role I’ve got a lot of the processes worked out and refined for how my group does its thing, and I’ve spent long hours incorporating last year’s suggestions and updating the processes to make sure this year goes even better than before.

As I’ve participated in this labor of love, my mind has occasionally wandered back to that German woman at the poetry festival in 2008 who suggested that maybe it was time for me to “move on” from cancer. The memory still makes me burn with anger. It also ties into a larger perspective on giving each other the space we need to express ourselves.


Quick recap: this woman and I both participated in a poetry workshop at a poetry festival. I read my poem about radiation. She said that her husband had had prostate cancer and she could identify with many of the emotions my poem brought out about cancer treatment. She then later approached me and said that her husband had at first busied himself with lots of volunteer work, participating in a local group and supporting others going through treatment. She said that you reach a point where you’re ready to move on, and no longer throw yourself into these things. Her implication that maybe it was time for me to move on and stop participating so actively in breast cancer causes shocked me at first, then found its way into “deeply offended” territory. My stance then and now is that I work hard to balance my cancer-related activities with other aspects of my life, and I’m not out of balance and she had no right suggesting that I correct an imbalance that doesn’t exist.

I believe that it is important for citizens to participate in volunteer work. I believe that the details of the work should align with your passions, but it is just good for the soul to get out of your regular circles sometimes and do something that benefits others.

Back when I served on the volunteer-only board of my local homeowners’ association, I found it to be a lot of work for a lot of frustration. The people who appreciated my efforts were mostly silent. The loudly vocal minority who disagreed with the board’s stance on a couple of key topics made it miserable to do what I sincerely thought was best for the neighborhood. I found a new respect on what politicians go through when they try to balance voting their conscience – doing what they feel is right over what is popular or what is easy.


At one point I visited a number of residents in the neighborhood to get their proxies for an election coming up. Sitting down and talking to my “constituents” one on one was an enlightening experience. In some ways it outlined how unrealistic the expectations were for many people and their neighborhood HOA’s responsibilities. In many ways I was grateful because it helped me see the patterns of what my neighbors wanted, like a playground for their children. I felt like a better servant to my community when I sacrificed a considerable amount of personal time to engage in these one-on-one conversations. Then I participated in the neighborhood meetings between the board and the homeowners and experienced people who were interested only in yelling their points of view and not listening to anything.


By contrast, my volunteer work for the BCRC has been about equally time consuming but scads more rewarding since the people I’ve helped are actually grateful for my sacrifices and don’t mind telling me so.

I no longer scan the Internet reading personal stories of people’s cancer journeys on a regular basis. I’m too busy living my own post-cancer journey. Sometimes I have wondered whether it’s worth it to continue writing anything in this cancer-centered blog. Does this blog still inspire anyone or educate anyone or give anyone hope?

Then Jennifer wrote me that she was scared, pregnant, and newly diagnosed and wanted someone to talk to. She lives in another state from me. I don’t know how she found my blog but I’m so glad she did. I called. We talked. I hooked her up with the Pink Ribbon Cowgirls and now she’s got a community of breast cancer sisters online to support her – several of whom were also diagnosed while pregnant. She is not alone and I’m pleased to have been in the right place at the right time to foster that connection.

The speech I’ve written for this year’s Champagne Brunch focuses on connections, and how important they are when you’re dealing with a trauma. The speech is specifically aimed at the trauma surrounding a breast cancer diagnosis, but my real message is about healing from any trauma.


Reaching out and finding others like you who have been through what you’re going through is something I believe to be an essential element of healing.


Where would we be if everybody withdrew from their volunteerism, their activism, and retreated back into their own little circles of friends and events without giving of themselves?

In other words, where would we all be if everybody “moved on” like that woman suggested I should? I firmly believed last year that the woman was wrong to suggest such a thing then. I’m still convinced of it now.

I’m not going to quit my day job and throw myself into a new non-profit to tackle some element of breast cancer. I’m not going to volunteer for every breast cancer-related event in my area. That is not how the world can expect me to make it a better place.

I will, however, make time for any person who has been diagnosed with cancer and needs someone to talk to.

I will continue to make time here and there for the occasional volunteer-based non-profit-supporting project. The next project might be to help my child’s Montessori school, or to help Wonders & Worries instead of the BCRC. That plays into what I mentioned earlier about respecting one another’s choices. A mom who helps with her child’s school’s fund raiser but never helps with a cancer event is doing work just as important, in my opinion, as the woman who dedicates her life to raising funding and awareness about breast cancer, or multiple sclerosis, or diabetes, or birth defects, or hunger, etc.

I think I am setting a good example for my little boy by actively giving my time and skills to causes about which I feel passionate.

That is not "moving on." That, dear woman, is called "participating in life." I fought my battle with cancer so I could do just that – LIVE.

“Life isn’t rich if you merely exist. Life is rich when you participate in it; notice the nuances; and never settle for just being a bystander.” ~ Angela Patterson

Next - 75 The Speech
Previous - 73 Public Speaking, Friends Diagnosed

73 Public Speaking, Friends Diagnosed

May 2009 brought several changes. One was a another job change. The new job in January was a contract position. The people were nice and the company wanted to hire me permanently, but I just didn't enjoy the work.

On the same day my grandfather died, I received the formal job offer for a dream job. I gave my notice, fulfilled it, then went to work for the dream company in May. I get to work as a data analyst now and I love it. I'm crunching numbers and building reports and databases. I'm expanding my Excel and Visio skills and getting to teach others to do the same. It's great!

In May I learned that one of my girlfriends had been diagnosed with breast cancer. It felt like a blow to the gut to learn about that. Like me, she's a 30-something woman with a husband, a full time job, and a young child. Thanks to the Pink Ribbon Cowgirls, I have many friends now who are breast cancer survivors. This was the first of my friends with breast cancer who had been a friend before her diagnosis. It doesn't make sense for me to take her diagnosis personally, but there was a part of me mentally shaking a fist at breast cancer while yelling, "Leave my friends alone!"

The longer I'm alive, the less cancer is "somebody else's problem." It keeps resurfacing among people I know.

In June we lost our very first Pink Ribbon Cowgirl to breast cancer. The news depressed me for two days. In my head, I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later. Statistically, if you make friends with a group of people who have been diagnosed with cancer, sooner or later one of them is going to pass away. She died on June 11th, and many of the Cowgirls gathered at a member's house to grieve and remember. She was one of us, and it rattled us on several levels. We spoke of her and remembered her. We swapped stories of diagnosis and treatments (since many of us hadn't met each other before), and the mastectomy girls raised their shirts and compared their doctors' work. (Mastectomy survivors do that sometimes when they gather in groups. It's something a little foreign to us lumpectomy girls.) It was an interesting evening.

We celebrated the life of our sister survivor, a single parent, and mourned the increased difficulties of her 14-year-old son having to go on without his mother. I was asked to say a few words at her memorial on behalf of the Pink Ribbon Cowgirls, and so I found myself for the second time in two months speaking the praises of a life lost to breast cancer.

At the get together for our lost Cowgirl, I got to meet Michelle Bynum, a powerhouse of a personality whom I liked right away. She lives in Georgetown, so it isn't often that I see her at Austin-based events. I met some of the people in her group in November 2006 when I did the Race for the Cure. Her supporters wore t-shirts that said "Michelle's Angels" and they had a mission to educate people that young women can and do get breast cancer. Having heard about this woman in 2006, when she had already raised tens of thousands of dollors for the Komen foundation, it was something of a shock and a delight to put a name and a face together when I met her at my friend's house.

Michelle's doctor dismissed her lump as something non-cancerous without even testing it or suggesting that she see a specialist. The two-year delay between concern and diagnosis cost her precious time, and she was Stage III when she was finally diagnosed. She went through treatment and into remission, and then her cancer came back as Stage IV. Now she's the guest chair for the 2009 Race for a Cure for the Austin Komen fund raiser and I think she's an inspiration. She wants very much for women to be their own advocates, and to have the strength to keep asking questions whenever something in their bodies doesn't feel right. I agree with her. If you ask a doctor to investigate something odd and the doctor just poo-poos you, then go to a different doctor.

In July I gave a training in Excel for a group of property management people. This seems to be my year for public speaking. To my credit, I've come a long way with respect to my training style and pacing. I got off to a rocky start by spending too much time on navigation shortcuts, but then got into the "interesting" stuff and held their interest to the end. That was gratifying.

Now it's August and another of my friends has been diagnosed with breast cancer. (Because the medical details of my friends' lives are private, I've decided not to give names or details in a forum as public as a blog. So I'm not going to mention their stages or treatments here. Michelle's story is already public knowledge so I felt that repeating it here might serve to reach someone who needed to know.) My reaction to my second friend's diagnosis was less wrenching than my first friend. Maybe I'm getting conditioned to it.

I'm up for a 3-5 minute speech in September during the program portion of the Champagne Brunch and Silent Auction that benefits the Breast Cancer Resource Center. I'm looking forward to that. I've been working on my speech for weeks now and still have a ways to go before it's at a point that won't embarrass me to share it.

Rue McClanahan will be our guest speaker at the Brunch this year. I'm really looking forward to hearing her speech, and more than a little excited to know I'll be on the same stage even though not at the same time.

Next - 74 Living
Previous - 72 My Grandfather Died From Breast Cancer

72 My Grandfather Died from Breast Cancer

April 2009

GRANDFATHER LOST

On April 30th my maternal grandfather died. This was my grandfather who was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2006. This was the man who, after having a tumor for 20 years and then receiving a diagnosis of cancer, chose to do nothing for two more years. He chose to believe what the ignorant VA doctor had told him years ago -- that men don't get breast cancer.

In 2008 he finally had the tumor removed. The pathology reports indicated that the cancer had spread - a sharp contrast to the biopsy's pathology report from 2006 which indicated the tumor had not spread yet - and then he opted out of further treatment. He felt that quality of life was more important than quantity. The family respected that decision and didn't give him a hard time about it.

The shame of it was that Grandpa's cancer was mucinous carcinoma, a rare form of breast cancer that grows so slowly that it almost never kills anyone.

We know the cancer metastasized to his lungs. I suspect it was in his liver, too, given his lack of appetite and the way his body wasted away. Since he had no private health insurance and no curiosity about the extent of his disease, he opted out of any kind of scans that would have given us more information about where or how much the cancer had spead.

When his health went downhill in April, the symptoms quickly snowballed. He went from frail but stable health to dependecy upon an oxygen mask within mere weeks. Once in the hospital and on oxygen he remained mentally alert and lucid, though continually exhausted from breathing.

I entered his hospital room on a Wednesday afternoon, not knowing he would be gone in less than 24 hours. I cheerfully said, "Hi!" as I came in, happy to see that my mother and my uncle were there with Grandpa. Grandpa answered, "Hi for the last time." His response shocked me and he smiled.

I was there for several hours. I got to hold his hand and tell him that I loved him. I got to give him one last hug. It was a gift to see him just before he died. I treasure the memories even though it was difficult to see him like that. His feet were horribly swollen, with toenails turning black. His dentures kept falling from the top of his mouth to the bottom, making it difficult to understand him when he talked. But he was the same old Grandpa, bluntly asking, "What do you want?" when hospital personnel entered his room.

My mom and her brother and sister took turns staying with him around the clock, gently adjusting his oxygen mask back in place when it slipped off. My mom ended up caring for him overnight two nights in a row, so she was exhausted when she made The Call to me at 8:30 in the morning just minutes after he passed.

He died on a Thursday. A few days later on Saturday I delivered the eulogy at his funeral - something I'd never done before. I struggled with what to write. I interviewed my mom and took notes. Then I wrote a eulogy that I think honored him without making him sound unrealistically angelic. I think it went well. People smiled in the right places. Nobody said I was weird for calculating exactly how many days he had lived - 30,991.

I retold a story of Grandpa and a group of baby ducks. One of the ducklings ran up to him. He picked it up, then tossed it into the air. The duckling fell. Then it ran to him again. He picked it up again and tossed it into the air. This time it began to fly. Then all the ducklings in the group took turns running to him and he tossed each one into the air. It became a great game that they all enjoyed. That was my favorite memory to recount, even though the memory wasn't my own.

We brought 3-year-old Kelric with us to the funeral. I carried him up to the flag-draped coffin. (Grandpa was a World War II veteran and the flag was a fulfillment of his wishes.) My intention was to help Kelric understand why we would not be visiting his great-grandfather anymore. I thought he might want to say good-bye. Kelric seemed completely disinterested in the body and just wriggled to get down.

Weeks later in a private moment with Daddy, Kelric confessed, "I don't want Mommy to lie down in a box with a flag over it." It broke Guy's heart to hear this, and later broke my heart when Guy told me. There was more to the discussion which I've forgotten, but in essence Kelric realized that I had once been sick, that his great-grandfather had been sick, and since his great-grandfather had just died the little boy was terrified that I would soon die as well.

Kelric is still struggling with the loss of our family dog Wendy from last December. I keep trying to gently explain that Wendy died because she was very old for a dog; that death is part of the circle of life and all living things die one day. Kelric randomly tells us he's very sad and he doesn't want to miss Wendy. Where did Wendy go? Why did she die? Why did her body quit working? And so on... Now he's asking questions about why Grandpa Behne died. I'm worried that the next time I get a cold he'll be terrified for my life because he'll associate "getting sick" with dying.

Kelric noticed my lumpectomy scar recently and asked, "What's this?" I've already forgotten exactly what I told him, but I know it was short yet truthful and didn't lead to more uncomfortable questions. Now that he's three it's time to begin introducing him to this little part of our family history so that he won't learn it one day as a Big Secret Revealed. We need help learning the vocabulary to explain things to him.

I know that Wonders and Worries can help us learn to talk to our young son about serious illnesses and death.

My cancer is long gone. My family has moved on. But it seems that part of moving on means going back and revisiting the past in a language that soothes the fears of a young child. We will do this for his sake, even though it has an emotional cost for us.

FARE THEE WELL
I'm going to close with a reprint of the last two paragraphs from Grandpa's eulogy.

I sat next to his hospital bed three days ago, and adjusted the oxygen mask for him. I held his hand. I looked at him with worry and concern, and he happened to look up in time to see that expression. He was frail and weak. He was struggling to breathe. But when he was awake he was lucid and aware. He saw the look on my face and did something that surprised and delighted me. He tenderly reached up, and brushed my cheek. That single touch conveyed with absolute clarity his message of, “Have peace, child. I love you, too.” He never could have said it. Too many words remained unsaid. But I saw his eyes as he touched my face, and I knew.

Grandpa John Behne, you went softly into that good night just as you wished to go, on your own terms, in your own time. We wish you peace. Accept our honor and respect today, and fly with your little ducks now that sickness and frailty are behind you. Thirty thousand, nine hundred and ninety-one days… I loved you, too.

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Previous - 71 Yearly Mammogram

71 Yearly Mammogram

April 2009


MAMMOGRAM
When it came time for my yearly mammogram I was a mess. My confidence and excitement from becoming a 3-year survivor had dimmed. I could hardly eat anything the morning before the mammogram.

What if my cancer had come back but the tumor was too small to feel yet? What if I only thought I was fine but I was really in trouble? What if I had to go through treatment all over again?

This happens every year. I know that it's normal to experience these doubts and fears, but that doesn't stop me from going through the roller coaster of emotions. To me, a mammogram is a test you can't study for but you could die if you fail it.

The phone call to my husband went something like this:
Me: "Everyone looks fine! There's no cause for concern."
Husband: "Of course. I told you that."
Me: "I know, but I feel better hearing it from the technician. She said the radiologist saw nothing that needed further investigation."
Husband: "Good for you, honey."
Me: "Yeah. Good for me."

I went back to work relieved and all smiles.

The control freak in me came out as I insisted upon taking my films with me when I left the hospital. I proudly carried them to my breast surgeon's office a week later and proudly carried them back home again after that uneventful checkup.

INSURANCE
Part of my fear revolved around money. There are no easy answers for most people when it comes to health insurance and cancer.

Once you've had any form of cancer, your only realistic option is to stick with some kind of group coverage through your employer. What happens if you are a small business owner or a self-employed person with no group plan? That means you end up with no coverage, coverage that excludes anything related to cancer, or high premiums for major medical insurance that almost isn't worth having. When I dealt with cancer-related surgeries and treatments in 2006, the medical expenses were significant even with insurance, not to mention the lost wages for me and my husband from time away from work and my reduced work schedule during chemo.

When I was job hunting earlier this year, the availability and level of health insurance coverage was a potential deal maker/breaker for me. You can't exactly grill most potential employers, however, on the details of their health insurance plan before the first interview - or before an offer.

One decision that cancer survivors face when looking for a job is whether or not to bring up the fact that they have or had cancer. I found it to be better not to say anything during the interview process.

I've been fortunate to have been able to hold onto health insurance in one form or another through my unemployment and subsequent contract employment.

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Previous - 70 Three-Year Survivor - Whoo-hoo!

70 Three-Year Survivor - Whoo-hoo!

March 2009

I hit my 3-year anniversary as a survivor in March 2009. It was an exciting day. I thought at first that it would be bittersweet like the 2-year anniversary was. I grew more anxious about it as the day approached. Once it arrived, however, I felt like shouting my joy from the rooftops.

Three years and still counting!!!

As mentioned in earlier posts, my tumor was triple negative. That means it wouldn't respond to a whole range of hormone-based treatments if it recurred, since my tumor wasn't fed by estrogen or progesterone. Also, my tumor was did not show an overabundance of Her-2/neu receptors. That's a good thing, but it also means I don't have Herceptin as a drug that help me in the event of a recurrence.

Being triple negative means I don't have to take Tamoxifen for 5 years after chemo and radiation. It wouldn't do me any good. I'm happy not to have to deal with the unpleasant side effects that can accompany Taxomifen, but sometimes it's unsettling knowing that my only defense is "watchful waiting" and that's not a defense at all. That's a call to arms if something resurfaces.

So imagine my distress when a study was published last year showing that triple negative breast cancer survivors tend to have more aggressive tumors, and recurrences tend to happen within the first three years. (My tumor was as aggressive as you can get, scoring an unfortunate 9 of 9 on the Blooms-Richards scale.) Triple negative breast cancer people tend to have a higher mortality rate than our hormone positive counterparts. Younger women tend to be more likely to get triple negative breast cancer.

Women with hormone positive tumors tend to get recurrences within the first five years. That I made it three years without a recurrence is a really, really big deal. It doesn't necessarily mean that I'll never get a recurrence, but the odds of one happening now are considerably less likely than they were a year ago. Hooray!

So enough for now about the cancer talk.

Another momentous event occured for our family in March 2009. Kelric turned three! We had a birthday party, complete with a cupcake cake made to look like "Frank" from the movie Cars. (Way to go, Central Market!)



We had a red car pinata for the celebration, filled with toys rather than candy. Unfortunately, the weather had turned cold and wet so the planned outing at the park was scrapped and the party was held at home. That didn't bother the birthday boy, but it did pose a problem for Mom and Dad. Where to hang the pinata?

We opted for the old "pinata on a stick" option. That is to say, Dad held put it on the business end of a broom and the kids took turns whacking it.


Unfortunately, the silly thing wouldn't break! The kid-sized broom handle Kelric and Julian were using to hit the pinata started getting all kinds of kinks in it while the pinata itself remained undamaged. Now what? After some deliberation, we decided to encourage jumping. That worked!



The party for the three-year-old was great fun. Later in the month Daddy turned...another year older. Kelric announced that Daddy should have a firetruck birthday cake, so that's what I got. (Thanks again, Central Market!)







Hooray, March 2009!


Next - 71 Yearly Mammogram
Previous - 69 Kay's Memorial Service and Uncle Kenneth's Passing

69 Diana's Memorial Service and Uncle Kenneth's Passing

In February 2009 I went to Diana's memorial service. Her daughter sang "Amazing Grace" during the service and I was blown away by the purity and beauty of her voice. Diana's husband read a moving tribute. His voice broke somewhere near the end and you could hear the increased rate of sniffles (including my own) in the large assembly of family, friends and co-workers. It was hard to go, but I'm glad I went.

My beloved survivor bracelet broke two days before the service and I was worried that I wouldn't be able to get it fixed in time for the service. A new piece of history in the survivor bracelet saga... I took it to the local jewler to be restrung. The girl behind the counter started to estimate which day it would be ready. I told her that I needed it in a few hours for the memorial of the woman who gave it to me. I think she actually gulped.

I had strung it back onto the original wire at home and had carefully brought it intact into the jewelry store, but one end slipped out of the jewerly store lady's fingers and beads scattered everywhere.

I reassembled the beads into the order I wanted for the second time that day while Guy kept Kelric from breaking anything in the store, and then we left to run errands. When I returned as my last stop before driving to the memorial service, she gave me the beautifully restrung bracelet with every bead cleaned (and almost in the same order I had left it). No charge, she said. Tears welled up and I struggled not to cry.

That evening I learned via e-mail that my Great Uncle Kenneth Weaver had passed away from Lymphoma just the day before. Cancer is such a pervasive disease. I hate it.

So I attended Diana's service in Round Rock on a Saturday where I was pleased to see many friendly ex-co-workers one more time. Then on Sunday my mom and I drove to Caldwell for the viewing of my uncle's body. I opted for the viewing over the funeral because I could still pay my respects but have a longer time with fewer tears to visit my cousins. It was wonderful to see them again. They assured me that my uncle had been in quite a bit of discomfort for some time due to his cancer, and that his passing was a blessing. I believe he was in his eighties.

My mom had broken her wrist and wouldn't have been able to drive from Austin to Caldwell on her own, so I was glad that I was in a position to take her. Showing uncharateristic wisdom, we left 2-year-old Kelric home with Daddy.

Kelric still struggles to come to terms with the loss of our dog Wendy. He doesn't understand what cremation means and remains puzzled at how Wendy can fit in the wooden box that we keep in the high window. We remain puzzled at how to explain to such a young child what death means.

Next - 70 Three-Year Survivor - Whoo-hoo!
Previous - 68 Goodbye to Diana Knight

68 Goodbye to Diana Knight

During my unemployment in January 2009 I received word that my former co-worker Diana Knight had died from breast cancer. Her husband JW gave me a photograph and permission to use her real name, so I have modified the original blog I had posted with the pseudonym "Kay" to honor Diana the way she deserves.

Diana had been diagnosed a few months before I was. I was pregnant with Kelric when she was in treatment. I remember vividly our conversation one day when I had a noticeable belly. She said that chemotherapy left her feeling nauseated unless she ate small amounts of food throughout the day. I had been dealing with that thanks to morning sickness. She teased that it felt like morning sickness but for a less happy reason. I remember telling my husband about the conversation that night, remarking how grateful I felt that I didn't have cancer. Little did we know, of course, that I did have breast cancer! It just hadn't been diagnosed yet.

Diana's breast cancer had already made it to the chest wall when she was diagnosed, so she was at Stage IV from the get go. I marveled at the way she handled it.

Diana continued to work during treatment. She only took enough time off to deal with surgeries, appointments and infusions. She earned a promotion to a vice president position within the operations side of the company and she rose to the new responsibilities. People in our office and a regional office reported to Diana. Her entire Austin staff wore survivor bracelets in her honor. The bracelets had pink and white beads with silver ornaments and they were handmade by one of Diana's staff, a fellow breast cancer survivor.

Diana continued to travel as part of her work. She even influenced her local cancer center to accommodate her travel schedule by staying open a little late just for her. That is something I would never be brave enough to insist a cancer center do. She had a great philosophy, though, that she was the consumer and the cancer center was the provider. She was paying them a great deal of money so they could bend a little to help keep her treatments on schedule. Go Diana!

I admired Diana. I appreciated her strength and her positive attitude.

We talked about our cancers after I returned from maternity leave. I read to her the Awakening of the Tiger Woman poem I had recently written. It made her cry. Later that day she showed up in my office with a survivor bracelet just like her staff wore. That made me cry. I was so touched to have that bracelet and all the hope and sisterhood it symbolized.

I'm fuzzy on the details, but I know that Diana’s first brain tumor showed up around the time she completed chemotherapy or shortly thereafter. The second brain tumor was situated near where the first one had been, so within a year she had endured two surgeries to remove brain tumors. She went through radiation to her head. She never stopped wearing her wigs to work. The radiation affected her memory and made it more challenging for people to work with her in this new absent-minded form. Her husband stopped working so that he could drive her where she needed to go. Eventually she needed perpetual chemotherapy. "Cancer's always in my body somewhere," she told me. The drugs would knock it down one place and it would show up someplace else.

She battled breast cancer for four years before her body developed resistance to all the help chemotherapy could give her. I'd see her in the break room occasionally and touch base with how she was doing. She was always upbeat around me.

I know that I preferred to put on my most positive face when I was around others and I would try to only let my husband see the moments that revealed pain or fear. But Diana would not just appear in a room and avoid sounding scared or depressed. She would effectively sashay into the room and own it. It was impossible to feel sorry for Diana when she exuded such confidence and serenity.

Diana had no use for remembering the names of the chemotherapy agents. I knew what drugs I had been given. I learned their scientific names and their common names and how they each worked and roughly for what kind of cases they were appropriate. Diana had no idea what drugs she was given and didn't care. It was unfathomable to me to choose to be so out of touch with what the medical team was doing to your body.

Diana was just at the other end of the spectrum from me. I’m of the My Doctor Is My Partner In Treatment And We Make Important Decisions Together camp and Diana was of the Just Tell Me When And Where To Show Up So I Can See My Daughter Graduate High School And Get Married camp.

I spent the first half of my chemotherapy treatments on leave and when I did return to work I couldn't handle the 40-hour work week because chemo was so rough on me. I told Diana that I admired her for being able to work full time and overtime while in treatment. She would even work from her notebook computer during treatment.

She told me the difference was that I had a newborn at home and she admired me for coping with a baby while going through chemo. Oh yeah, I had forgotten about that little detail. That exchange taught me to appreciate the different situations and the different ways people handle them. There is no one "right" way to cope with chemo and it's okay to accommodate your own situation and your own body's ability to handle treatment.

I lost the beloved survivor bracelet Diana had given me. It tore me up. The clasp used a circle on one side and a rod on the other side, and sometimes it would work itself loose and just fall off my wrist. A day came when I saw it in the morning and missed it by the afternoon, and had no idea when or where it disappeared. I waited a while before confessing the loss to Diana. She took it in stride. The co-worker who had made the original had quit and moved on, but Diana still saw her at professional association get-togethers and Diana promised to ask her to make a new one for me.

Diana kept her promise. The new bracelet was too big. It had a “lobster claw” clasp but just rolled off my wrist. I didn't say anything to Diana about that. I felt extremely grateful to have a substitute symbol to support Diana’s fight with cancer as well as my own.

Later I found my original bracelet. It turns out that the last time it fell off I had put it in my purse until I could take it to a jeweler to have a safety chain added. I had forgotten about it and failed to turn up the bracelet when I later searched my purse - twice. After having confessed the loss to Diana and having received a new bracelet, I couldn't bring myself to tell her I had found the original. So instead I quietly passed the new survivor bracelet on to a new survivor, the co-worker of one of my friends. I confessed the bracelet’s history to her and felt delighted when she said she would have earrings made from some of the beads so it would be small enough for her tiny wrist.

By giving away the second survivor bracelet I got to share the sentimental wealth as a giver, and I know that Diana would have approved. I had the safety chain added to my original bracelet and it remains a special gift, now laced with a kiss of sadness as it holds the memory of someone lost from the land of the living.

Diana's daughter is only 14 years old. All she wanted was to live long enough to see her daughter grow up and get married, and now that wish will remain forever unfilled.

Diana's memorial service is coming up. She wanted to be cremated, so those wishes were fulfilled and her memorial was put off to coincide with her birthday.

I have a new job with new co-workers now. I'm looking forward to seeing many of my former co-workers at the memorial service. My new place of employment has a cemetery adjoining the north side of the property. We see the gravesides set up for services, and the mounds of fresh flowers left behind afterwards. It often leaves me to reflect upon how funerals and memorials are rituals meant for the living, to help us honor and properly say good-bye to the dead. I'm looking forward to participating in that ritual soon so I can honor Diana and chorus to her husband and daughter that Diana was a special, vibrant woman whose life touched others.

My memories of Diana are linked with traits of strength and bravery, of never giving up, and of accepting bad circumstances without letting them rule you. I know she will be pleased that I still celebrate her life even as I honor her death. I still admire her.

Goodbye, Diana. We miss you.

Next - 69 Diana's Memorial Service and Uncle Kenneth's Passing
Previous - 67 Choices Part 2: Parking

67 Choices Part 2: Parking

It is so hard to find time to write these days. I’m always super busy and the quiet time I need to concentrate on writing is at an all time premium. Kind of like the price of gasoline… So that explains the long delay between Control Part 1 and Control Part 2.

Something has come up that is much more important and timely than Control Part 2 so I will keep it short. Basically I wanted to mention something I did once I returned to work after maternity/cancer leave.

I started parking in different parts of the company parking lot.

This sounds like a small thing. It is a small thing, but at the same time it’s a big thing.

I used to always park in a certain area of the parking lot – the part in back close to the back door.

After my leave time I began parking all over the place – in the front, around the sides, under the trees, in the carport-like covered spaces, out in the open... I never knew from one day to the next where I’d end up. My only rule became “Not near the crepe myrtle trees during the months of the year when they’re expressing dew.” That dew is sticky and doesn’t come off until you wash the vehicle. Occasionally I would go out the front door when my car was around back or vice versa, but the parking lot was small enough that this wasn’t a problem.

The empowering thing about this freeform parking behavior was that I chose not to be bound by certain old habits. Cancer took away certain choices and illusions of security. Making my parking habits less predictable gave back some elements of control. I created more choices by shaking off slavery to old habits. That was a very big deal.

I worked for that company for five years. On December 16, 2008 they eliminated my job and laid me off. Nice, eh?

That brings me to the more important and timely blog entry: Goodbye to Kay.

Next - 68 Goodbye to Kay
Previous - 66 Choices Part 1: Hair