But, as I struggled to write and attempt to sound impressively fantastic, I ended up deleting it all and writing one word: “JOLI.”

The truth is, Joli has demonstrated more leadership in her little life than I have in my entire thirty-something years. And, though I’m pretty hard on her, and could be a heck of a lot nicer to her most days, she reminds me of the kind of leader I hope to be: calm, compassionate, and people-first.

The other day, Joli got grounded for a week. Unfortunately, it’s school vacation week (bad timing, sister!), and she is required to go to bed at 7:00pm every night — before her 5-year old sister, before her 2-year old brother. Why did she get grounded? Because she stopped to pet a cat. 

Now, as you can imagine, there is much more to this story. Or, maybe not. See, Joli is always the “slowpoke” in our family. Ask her to do something and maybe, just maybe, it’ll get done. Not because she’s stubborn, not because she’s rude or defiant. It’s simply because she stops to do something else. On this particular grounding-day, when my husband asked Joli to get inside the house because he was late for work, she stopped to pet a cat. 

I totally understood why my husband was mad, though. Every day, we ask Joli to hurry up. Get moving. Stay focused. Get your shoes on Brush your teeth Pick up your clothes Eat your breakfast Grab your backpack Finish your homework GoGoGoGoGoGoGo.

“Joli, why the heck did you stop to pet a CAT?” I asked her, slightly annoyed because I felt like my husband was totally justified for grounding her.

“Because, Mom. I bet no one even told the cat today day that he was loved today.”

Sigh. 

Joli is still grounded for the week and has been sent to bed at 7pm each night.

But, it really is Joli who keeps me grounded every day.

Peace, love, and seeking strength from even the youngest of mentors,

Liza

This past week had me questioning my abilities — my ability to be a wife, a mother, a full time director, a full time doctoral student, a rock star back up singing musician, friend, sister, daughter, lover of television where high school kids sing songs from the 90s. On Wednesday, after working every night until 1am in the office, I broke down and began to ask myself which of my abilities had to go. Which of my paths needed to be less followed?

And, the answer was: None of Them.

Each of these brings me fulfillment in different ways. I feel complete being able to give and receive love, to spark ideas in my brain that previously did not exists, to read and engage in concepts that make me think differently about the world in which we live, to share those ideas with my kids and figure out how to make a better world for them, to sing and appreciate the space my voice takes up, and to snuggle on my couch and watch cheesy television. All of these make me who I am. 

It is a privilege to be busy. It is a gift to be able to use what I have, to discover what I don’t know, and to have the support to pursue my dreams. 

#18: Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.

Peace, love, and learning to embrace success, 

Liza

Even after work slowed down (for a moment, of course), I kept the bed in my office. And, eventually, word got around that I had a napping area; other parents would let their kids sleep on the couch, and it just became known that my office was the place to be!

But, today, I was the one laying on the floor. Curled in the fetal position and doing my best not to break down in tears.

Earlier in the day, I had felt a dull pain in my lower left pelvic area. My appendix was removed back when I was a kid, so I knew I could rule that out. I don’t have any allergies, and it didn’t feel like it was coming from my stomach.

“Shit,” I whispered silently. “I bet it’s fucking ovarian cancer.”

Now, I’m not one for swearing — usually — but that’s what flew through my head, shot through my heart, and burrowed its way into my gut. From there, the pain radiated.

“I’ll be right back,” I told my staff who had just settled in for our weekly meeting. The bright-eyed graduate intern had just arrived for his first staff meeting with us, and I looked more like the girl in the Exorcist than I did a competent, intelligent Director.

I took a walk down the hallway, gripping the wall along the way. Breathe, Liza. Just breathe.

I smiled and made it back to the staff meeting, nodded my way through reports of programs, luncheons, staff selection processes, and student concerns. When I got up from the conference table to check something from my computer, I was paralyzed in my chair. “Oh, god. I can’t move.”

I mustered up enough strength to make it through the meeting, all the while thinking, “This is it. I’m done. Ovarian cancer caught up with me.”

No sooner did our meeting end did I pull out the Princess couch and collapse to the ground. My lovely assistant director, ever the devout Christian, began praying. “A Dios, por favor protegerla.”

To help ease her anxiety, I sat up from the Princess couch and crawled my way over to my computer. “Ay Dios! What are you doing, Liza?” said Jacqueline.

“Just …. one …. more…. email… before … I ….. go.”

Pain never stopped me before.

My staff got me to call my doctor’s office, which of course left me on hold for 6 solid minutes even after I said, “I’m in really terrible pain and curled up on my office floor.”

“We are very busy here. Go to the hospital,” the receptionist on the other line said.

For the record, that’s exactly what to say when you don’t want me to go the hospital.

So, naturally, I didn’t.

Jorge showed up at work. I stubbornly drove myself home as he followed behind me. I painfully inched my way out of the car and into my bed. And, a Snickers bar later, I was asleep and letting the painkillers set in.

Here’s the thing:  Truthfully, hours later, the pain has dulled. It could have been — could very well be — nothing. Honestly, nothing. It could be the time-of-the-month or mid-cycle ovulation. Dang, it could be bad chili. The point is, when you are BRCA positive, your comfort zone is cancer. Should I be concerned? Yeah. I should. But, what sucks about living with an absurdly high genetic disposition to cancer is that it’s never NOT an option. It’s always the first place my mind goes to, even when it’s just the time of the month.

I’m sure it’s nothing.

But sometimes, your mind just goes there.

Peace, love, and staying positively realistic,

Liza

For the past few days, my head, heart and soul just haven’t been in sync. It’s a combination of lots of little things — nothing really big — but they were all colliding at once.

Thankfully, (and, I thank Global Warming for this), it was unseasonably warm the other day and I went out for a long, slow run around the local dirt track. I was excited to be off the road and to just have the luxury of plugging in my headphones, tuning out the world, and trying to reconnect with myself.

The rhythm hit.

I closed my eyes, turned up the volume, and ran. Soon enough, the salty sting of sweat mixed with the tears on my face. Not sadness, not exhaustion, not anything — just not quite me. But, I grew comfortable, secure, and started to figure some stuff out in my heart. I was on my way to feeling whole again.

But, somewhere in the 6th lap, the sun had warmed enough that the frozen dirt track that struck a rhythm with my feet was turning into a mud puddle. I could no longer shut out the world — for, if I did, I would end up flat on my back. Where was my safety? My rhythm? Where do I go? What do I do?

There was the mud. Staring at me. Calling me to come and figure out what do to.

So, I ran. Right through it. And, I ran through it again and again and again.

At times, I lost my footing. I felt tense. My rhythm was all off. And, I couldn’t just run — I had to think about every step and every muscle. Whenever I thought I was steady, I fumbled. When I thought I would surely fall, I was strong.

I walked cautiously at first, feeling my feet sink into the ground. I felt my leg muscles tense up, my hips square off, and my arms reach out to balance. I wanted to move off to the side. I wanted to quit. I wanted my frozen, steady, solid, and sure footing back.

Soon enough, I found myself laughing. I smiled as the mud squished up into my ankle sock and down into my shoe. And, soon the salty sting of sweat mixed with tears of laughter on my face.

And, I reminded myself, that life is never about finishing the workout.

It’s about the mud you meet. 

post-run

Peace, love, and making my way through,

Liza

When I was little, my parents — though it tortured them, so — bought me a Casio Kids tape player that could actually take my favorite tape and “remove” the audio track. It was a cutting edge pre-karaoke machine. I would sit in the middle of the living room, on my parents’ beige loveseat that was decorated with large, colorful flowers to hide the chocolate milk and juice stains from 5 children, and sing my heart out. I popped in Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” tape (before anyone told me that it wasn’t appropriate for an 8-year old to sing “Like a Virgin”), cranked up the volume on the microphone, and blocked out the noise of my older sister cursing and screaming at me to WhatTheHellIsWrongWithYouLizaCutItOut!! stop singing (or at least to stop singing so loudly!).

When I was in junior high school, my parents stepped it up and bought the whole house a new karaoke machine (did I mention we are Filipino? Having a karaoke machine is like having a cross in a Catholic church!), and I took over. I learned everything from Frank Sinatra to Funky Cold Medina. If it was on a karaoke tape, I knew it.

High school found me in show choir, bedazzled in fuscia sequence and permanent jazz hands. It was the first time I ever sang a solo outside of my living room, and the first taste of what it felt like to be on stage and hear my voice fill a room.

College acappella. Grad school acappella. Then, started the acappella group at the high school where I worked. I even started a faculty acappella group and held rehearsals in my living room. And, it was on the night of one of those faculty rehearsals when I took my first pregnancy test and discovered I was going to be a mother.

After that, music slipped away from me. After Joli was born, I was consumed with being a first time mom, then moving from New York to Massachusetts. From that point on, our lives were turned upside down. The sound of a metronome was soon replaced by the beeping of the alarms on my daughter’s chemotherapy IV. Then, sounds of another baby crying in our home, then another baby. “Like a Virgin” was soon replaced with “The Barney Song”. Then it was the the steady drumming of my sneakers hitting the pavement during training runs, my own IV drip, the sound of medical tape coming off of my chest, and now the sounds of my laptop as I feverishly write pages and pages of doctoral work.

Music slipped away.

With three kids, a full time job, full time doctoral studies, and volunteering for organizations, it’s hard to imagine my life getting much busier.  But, in November 2011, it did.

I began singing again.

But I didn’t just find my voice, I found my courage. Just prior to my audition, I begged the lead singer not to crush my dreams. “Even if I’m terrible,” I said, “Could you just still pretend? Then, we can call it a day. If I’m not the one, and if I’m awful, just let me live in these 3 minutes of bravery, and then we can part pretending that it was a solidly good try. I can leave knowing I took the chance.”

Two months later, I’m still with the band.

Some of us call it a ‘bucket list’ — a list of things we must do or wish we could do before we die. I prefer the “Brave List.” If you knew you couldn’t fail, if you knew that doing so would mean you were brave, what would you do?

Even though I’ve had my mastectomy, I still wonder if this dull pain in my chest is a rogue cell that beat the odds. I picture that cell out at a karaoke bar while the rest of its buddies were being removed from my body. That the cell had somehow blocked out all the noise and kept singing no matter who told it to stop. I wonder if my ovaries are still working with me, or if this is the year they will work against me. I realize that each year I have is a true gift.

So, on this New Year’s Eve, I resolve to live. I cannot fail, for failure is simply not realizing that the purpose of life is to live.

To live bravely and courageously.
Every day.

Peace, love, and prospero ano,

Liza

But, I am not sorry.

I am thankful.

The National Cancer Institute estimates there were more than 207,000 new cases of breast cancer among American women in 2010, and 39,840 deaths.

Many of these women did not have the ability to anticipate cancer; did not have the ability to prevent cancer.

I knew.

I removed my breasts before they were removed from me. I removed them before they took my cells, my lymph nodes, my hair, my bone density, my fertility, and my health. I made choices before it took me from my family.

In just the two months since the school year has started, three of my students have watched their loved ones return to God. And, as I correct their final essays for class, I am learning of four more who have already lost a parents, loved one, and even a young friend to cancer. It’s hard not to think about the young students who have lived  in the buildings around my office who have been diagnosed, survived, or died from cancer.

As I write this, one friend is just hoping her husband lives through the next few days. One friend is hoping he lives  through the next few weeks. Two friends just had their mastectomies, helping them live through the next few years. One friend is preparing for her mastectomy next week. Many more friends are in active chemotherapy and radiation.

This morning, a college friend of mine called to ask if I would connect with her friend — a mom who just found out her 2-year old has cancer.

When people find out that I was thrown into this cancer world when my daughter was diagnosed with cancer, they feel sadness for us.

I do not.

I feel sadness for the parents who, on this Thanksgiving holiday, can’t help but wonder what their own children would have been like had they survived cancer. They think about their children in terms of  “My son would have been four” or “My daughter would have celebrated her 8th birthday today.” I feel sadness for the young people who are celebrating their first holiday without a parent.

And, in this same weekend, I heard from a friend who just delivered her third child. Happy, healthy, perfect. Welcoming life into this world after a tough pregnancy, and bringing joy and blessings into their family.

I am thankful.

My daughter — though physically changed — is here today to emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually keep growing.  I do not have to wonder who she would have been, but rather who she will become. And, in turn, she won’t have to wonder what it would be like to have a mom with breast cancer.

I am thankful.

I am thankful for cancer. I am thankful for the knowledge it has given us, for the opportunities it has provided us, and for the future it has still promised us. Cancer can make us both weak and strong.

It binds us to those who love, who care deeply, and who live as if every day is a Day of Thanks.

Peace, love, and healing prayers for those in great need these days,

Liza

*******

This was the week for bilateral mastectomies.

I received a beautiful email from a woman who wrote that she had been preparing for her own mastectomy, and she had been using my blog as a means of support and encouragement. So, the night before her surgery, she emailed me to tell me that.

Funny, I had done the same thing to a woman who’s blog I had been following. The night before my surgery in 2010, I tossed and turned. I finally got out of bed, made my way to the laptop, and emailed the woman who, virtually, guided me through my process. I hit send, went to bed, and fell soundly asleep until it was time to get dressed for the hospital.

There is some sort of shared experience about the possibility of dying that really makes you want to thank people.

The woman’s email to me got me thinking about the experience post-surgery. I have had two friends have  their bilateral mastectomies this past weekend, and one other friend who is considering the surgery next year. They’ve been pouring over the “how to prepare” advice; and so I thought it would be timely to write about what it actually feels like one year later.

Disclaimer: I intentionally am not going back into the blog archives to check out how I was feeling those days. Rather, I’m looking back. I’m reflecting on what it feels like — now — back then.

Those first few days

I remember feeling like someone had cut me open, ripped out my boobs, stuffed some things down there that didn’t quite fit well, and then wrapped me up. Easy enough. I recall stating “I feel like I’ve been stabbed” as a way to explain the kind of pain and sensation I was having.

Physically,  I remember being thankful that I had some good abdominal strength to pull myself up. I knew I had done what I could to be physically ready for this difficult journey towards recovery.

Emotionally, I remember feeling relief. I was relieved that it was over. That the anticipation was done.

But, physically-emotionally, I couldn’t look down. I couldn’t bear to look at my stitched chest. Couldn’t look at the drains coming out of my side. Couldn’t bear to look at the sight of my blackened chest. Now, one year later, and even just weeks post-surgery, I LOVE my chest. I love that I bear battle scars. I love that they are reminders of a strength I carry, a strength I possess, and a promise of life. I love my scars.

Those first few weeks

When I got married, the advice I got from all my new-bride friends was “At your wedding, be sure to eat. Eat the food you took so long to pick out. Eat the cake you taste-tested. Eat. Sit down, and eat.” After my mastectomy, I took the same advice. I slept. I rested. I let my body heal. I let people bring me prepared meals, and yes, I ate them. All. I stayed on top of my pain medication — I hate pain medication — and gave my body the rest it needed in order to recover. I made sure no one came to visit in those first few days because, frankly, I didn’t want to feel the pressure of having to get up, brush my teeth, and play hostess (after a week or so, people did come by to visit and I was ready for them!).

I also made sure I got online to support groups to re-read all of those post-surgical stuff that didn’t make sense to me when I was preparing for surgery. Now, I was spending my awake time just reading.

I did fine having the little ones around. My children were very patient, kind, and understanding of what was going on. There was still a lot of stress in the house — it was by no means an easy journey. I did find myself frustrated with daily things I used to do, and I stubbornly did things that I probably should not have (i.e. lugged a load of laundry to the basement; vacuumed the floor; washed dishes), but I needed to do them to keep my sanity. I just did them at a fraction of the speed.

For the first time in forever, I caught up on lots of television. Though I had books to read, I just wasn’t interested. It was actually hard to hold up a book, and it was even harder to sit up for any long periods of time. I developed  a drain infection, and the only thing I could do was to watch some mind numbing television. So, I did.

Those first few months

I had to learn to understand my body. Before the surgery, I was an active runner. Now, I couldn’t feel the upper half of my body. I had to learn what the “numb” sensation felt like. And, I had to learn to just be uncomfortable with it.

The look of it all.  Like I wrote before, it did take me some time to accept the dark scars on my chest. But, I did grow to love them. I’m proud of them. My chest did seem funny looking — a bit uneven and kind of lumpy and misshapen. Though people told me to be patient, I was anxious about how uneven my implants looked. And, sure enough, after about six months, they began to even out and look normal. I’m told that the swelling — real deep swelling — takes time to work itself out. Now, at one year later, I think they look totally natural!

The feel of it all. Let’s talk about the numbness for a moment. Until about 10 months post-surgery, I couldn’t feel a thing from just above my implants to just under it (so, the bra area). It felt so freaky weird to not have sensation. My body temperature around my breasts is always a little colder than the rest of my body. My implants, at first, felt really hard. Now, one year later, I think they move naturally, feel fine, and I even have sensation back around 50-60% of my chest (compared to 0%).

Today

Today, I feel really great. There are still some movement and strength issues, but overall I feel good. I made sure to go to physical therapy (a MUST MUST MUST – even if your doctor tells you that it’s not necessary — which is what my doctor told me!). I continued to strength train, run, and work out. Though, after helping to move a couch the other day, I can feel the tightness in my chest again — nothing some stretching can’t handle.

Is it all back to “normal”? No. It won’t ever be. I still know that I have implants in there — they pull and tug sometimes and they remind me that they there. But, overall, I don’t think about them.

What was “normal” anyway? I don’t think it’s “normal” to have lived my life worrying about breast cancer. Panicking at every lump, bump, and soreness in my breast. I worried about dying. I worried about chemo, radiation, and having to disrupt my life for cancer … again. I think “normal” is having a life, and not having to obsess about cancer. Though I’ll never be totally naive to it, this mastectomy lifted a weight off of my already busy mind.

One year later.  It was worth it. It’s hard to imagine what life will be like when you’re on the other side of considering a mastectomy. I’m here to tell you that it’ll likely be just fine. And, in my case, it’s even better.

Peace, love, and looking forward,

Liza

Pardon the cliche’, but it feels both like yesterday and like I’ve been this way forever.

Yet, on the eve of this important day (I take anniversaries very seriously), I’m finding myself in the dumps. I’m sleepless, yet exhausted. Irritated, yet numb. Hopeful, yet annoyed. I actually texted my sister Grace for some help with navigating the mental health process, wishing that perhaps a course of anti-depressants will move me from this chair.

I’m struggling with the idea that I should be celebrating right now – after all, I am coming up on another year that I have officially cut cancer off from the trust fund of my body.  I should be joyous, thankful, and floating on air, right?

Yet, as I sit here, one year later, I feel like one of those really tasty cookies — you know, one side is dark and the other side is light (but, of course, both sides are friggin’ delicious!!).

I feel mad that I had to do this; happy that I had the choice.

One year later, I’m reflecting on the roller coaster ride of Mb4M and the year of recovery: anxiety pre-surgery; relief that it’s done; exhilaration at my strength and flexibility coming back; frustration that I can’t sustain the “thankful-grateful-hopeful” Holy Trinity of positive thinking.

I have learned that it’s easier to remove my breasts than to remove negative thoughts.

One year later, I am realizing that removing my breasts was only the entrance gate to the battlefield — the rest of the struggle is still being fought in my mind and heart. I’m learning to come to terms with my anger, with my genetics, and with my belief that surrounding myself with good people will actually help me heal. And that constant negativity and stress is like paper to matches.

One year later, I have learned that I’m stronger than I thought; And, that I’m more human than ever before.

One year later, I have learned that we adapt to what life throws at us, and that at some point we have to decide to catch the ball or get out of the way.

One year later, I learned that writing, connecting, and sharing is easier to do when people are actually interested in what you have to say. That it is easier to communicate with people who care about what you are going through, what you share, and who are interested in what you are feeling. Strangers become friends. The phrase “I read your blog” really means “We are family.” At times when I don’t always feel all that valued, writing to all of you has made me feel important. Thank you.

One year later, I am letting myself off the hook.  I am learning to just accept who I am, what I was born with, and to change what I can.

I’m accepting that life is about peaks and valleys. The winding trails might be running, love, family, work, strength, achievement, or school — all of them have their good days and bad days.

But, these past two years have given me permission to explore what it means to be both fractured and whole.

One year later, I am saying hello to acceptance. One mile at a time.

Peace, love, and moving forward,

Liza

Time after time

“Oh, her arm.”

I didn’t see the arm.  All I saw was my little girl, back flat to the floor. The man eating his French fries at the table — just inches from where she fell — didn’t break his rhythmic chewing of salt, sweet, and crunch. The ends of my daughter’s long black hair was now grazing his shoe, as she lay shocked and still on the linoleum.
I saw the wheels of her roller skates still spinning.

“Her arm,” repeated the mother next to me. Only minutes before the fall, the woman introduced herself as the mother of one of Joli’s classmates. Our children were here for the same birthday party, and we were walking towards the food area for pizza and cake.

“Oooh, Joli, are you okay?” I calmly walked over.

She had fallen before. Only her second time on skates, Joli had been doing an incredible job. She was still walking/skating her way around the rink, and after an hour she was moving fast enough that her hair – recently blow dried and flat-ironed for the special occasion – was swaying behind her.

I walked towards her, slowly lifted her back off of the floor and got her to standing. “My arm, Mom. I can’t feel my arm,” she whispered to me. Tears began to fall down her tiny face.

I gently pushed her to a carpeted area of the rink, sat her down, and reminded her to breathe. “In and out, Joli. Just breathe in and out.”

I lifted the corner of her sleeve – her favorite pink and brown shirt with the playful white pony on the front.  Just an inch past her wrist, her arm was bent at a 90 degree angle.

My brain screamed, “Holy shit!”

My voice whispered, “Okay, honey.” I met her eyes. I wiped her tears. I breathed in. Then out. I could feel the corner of my mouth smile. Both out of pity and comfort. Oh, God. Why Joli?

Pity and comfort moved to action, and things moved quickly from there.

“FiveYearOld,GetTheShoes.”

“FifteenYearOldKidBehindTheCounter,CallAnAmbulence.”

“LadyStaringAtUs,PleaseGrabTheseRollerSkates.”

“Manager,HereIsOurInformation.WriteThisAllDown.”

“You,Mister.HoldThatDoorOpen.Please.”

“AmbulenceDriver,TakeUsToTheHospital.”

“Joli’sClassmate,HappyBirthday.”

Breathe in. Breathe Out. Comfort Joli.

If you fall, I will catch you. Time after Time.

The next few hours would be spent in the emergency room. Then another ambulance ride. Then another emergency room.  Waking her up from anesthesia with a red popsicle, sitting on my husband’s lap as we leaned gently on the metal rail that protected her from us, felt like PTSD. The last time we were leaning into her bed, she was just waking up from surgery to remove her eye.

Suitcase of memories, time after some time.

But, that day, each time, each doctor, each nurse and each moment that passed, I couldn’t help but feel like the luckiest person in the world. Joli was so kind, gracious, and strong. She cried when she needed to. She was helpful when she had to. And, she kept the entire day in perspective. As she was being loaded into the second ambulance, and I was going to drive behind her, she must have sensed I was scared.  There was talk of surgery, pins, IV’s, and overnight stays in the hospitals. Though our family has done this all (okay, maybe not the “pins” part), I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. Again.

“Mom, I’ll be okay,” she said, strapped into the gurney, thick black seatbelts fastened over her knees, thighs and chest. “I’ll be okay. Cancer taught me to be strong, right, Mom? So, you know, this is nothing compared to cancer. I’ll see you at the next hospital.” I kissed her and walked away as a tear hit the top of her head. “Oh, and bring me my teddy bear if you go home, okay? The one with the dress!” she yelled.

It was then that I realized, it was never about me catching her. She has always been the one catching me.

If you fall, I will catch you.

Time after time.

Peace, love, and carrying a suitcase of memories,

Liza

I’m no cute thang who can dab the corner of a white, pressed, neatly folded handkerchief gently along the half crescent below my eye lid; I don’t sniff gently into the folded piece that falls gracefully over my index finger, and turn the corner of my mouth into a tiny, yet visible, irk of a smile. My eyes don’t glisten with the dew of renewed emotion nor do I send down a kind, rolling tear to fall along the curve of my cheek.

F-that.

I am an ugly crier.

Eyes get swollen shut, my face turns the color of beet juice, snot mixes in with tears — both of which I end up wiping on my sleeve, and I sound like a wild snorting boar who just drank a liter of soda — alternating the deep ugly bass of muffled mucus with high pitched hiccups of too much air.

It ain’t pretty.

But, neither is the reason why I was crying tonight. I thought I was long past the emotional turmoil of talking about, hearing about, and speaking about being BRCA positive. After a two year hiatus, I once again screened the film “In the Family” by Joanna Rudnick. The film is like a religious text to the BRCA community — it shows the pain, vulnerability, and journey of women who have been diagnosed with the BRCA gene. Since it’s release, women in the film have died, and one of the breast cancer doctors, featured as a medical expert in the film, was diagnosed with cancer.

I was so excited to show the film this year — a way to celebrate my 1-year anniversary since my mastectomy. Though my scars, muscle tension, and bulging keloids (raised scar tissue) due to a drain infection remind me of my surgery every single day, I haven’t thought much about breast cancer since I reduced my risk from 90% to 1%.  Though the pink and teal tattoo on my left wrist reminds me of being BRCA, I haven’t thought much about my 60% chance of developing ovarian cancer.

Until tonight.

The moment the film started, I felt my skin crawl. I felt my stomach turn. I wanted to run out of the room.

I grabbed my doctoral textbook  — a thick research textbook on the public policies of early community colleges — and found an empty classroom where I could tune out of being BRCA. But, instead of diving into student retention rates, curriculum, and access to college studies, I pulled up my sister Grace’s blog on my iphone. My fingers began swiping across the screen. Select. Click. Scroll. Select. Click. Scroll. December 2007.

Read.

I read the entries my sister wrote just days before her own mastectomy. I read the entries I wrote for her while she was doped up on Vicodin and laying in her hospital bed. I clicked on photos of me and my sisters from four years ago, never imagining, when those photos were taken, that we would all have the same prosthetic, silicone breasts surgically implanted into our chests.

I am also reminded that we have the same, natural, living ovaries in our own bodies.

My sisters and I have not had our oopherectomies.

We have not chosen to save our lives by removing the tiny organs that could kill us.

I still hold a ticking time bomb. And so do they.

I waited as long as I could before entering back into the room where the film was being shown. When I thought it was close to the end, I clutched my textbook, quietly opened the door so as not to disturb the audience, and slid myself into the chair closest to the door.

I looked up, and realized I came in too soon.

On the screen was the funeral. It was the funeral of Linda Pedraza, a Boston mother who died of ovarian cancer. My sister, Grace, met Linda while she was still fighting; and after her death, Grace was the recipient of the Linda Pedraza scholarship.

I came in too early.

I wanted to run out of the room.

I buried myself into the rest of the textbook, only consumed with the idea that — without surgery — it could be my funeral from ovarian cancer; maybe my sister; maybe my other sister; maybe my many cousins who are also BRCA positive.  And, God help me, one of my children who could carry the BRCA gene.

There is no crying pretty. Crying reminds us that life is real, that pain is real, and that we are real.
If water is the source of life; tears are our connection to life. Tears cleanses us; tears wash us; tears remind us that the most basic requirement for survival is within us.

So, I say … cry often.

Live pretty well, love pretty well, and for goodness sake, cry pretty well, too.

Peace, love, and seek renewal every day,

Liza

I never understood why my cancer survivor friends reacted so strongly to the pink ribbon. I avoided it, of course, because I didn’t identify with the pink ribbon. I never had breast cancer. My sister (and aunts and cousins) did, of course. I figured they’d be all over the pink ribbon as a way to signal their survivor ship.

But, I’ll never forget the day my sister held up a 6′ x 6′ bubblegum pink fleece blanket that was covered with pink ribbons. I sighed with adorableness. She gagged and rolled her eyes.

“Really? R-e-a-l-l-y? What the hell does this match, anyway? Who the f*** buys a bubblegum pink fleece blanket and then expect to have it displayed in a living room? Do I look like I like pink? Do I look like I like ribbons??” She balled up the blanket and threw it on her couch. Then, she picked it back up again and stuffed it under a cushion.

My sister — affectionately known as “The Mean One” in our family –  isn’t known for her tactful subtlety.

But, the more survivors I met, the more I was hit with the same Pink Ribbon Gag Reflex.

The responses ranged from “I’m sick of the damn ribbon” to “The ribbon doesn’t cure cancer.”

They are all right — re-posting on Facebook that you hate cancer doesn’t cure cancer. It just makes me feel bad that I’m one of the 40% of your FB friends who won’t re-post it.

But, the pink ribbon — and all of the ribbon marketing techniques — did have a positive effect. The ribbon campaign helped us to talk about cancer, boobs, and our lady parts. I don’t hesitate when I say the word “breast” anymore in public because, likely, I’m usually using it in the same sentence as “cancer.”  And, if all the pink colored utensils, pot holders, and ribbons remind you to think about your own breast health, then the ribbon has done its job.

Because it’s October, I see Facebook posts and news stories about Breast Cancer Month. It’s a recognized month with lots of legislative, social, medical, and media support behind it.

But, in the past three weeks, my news feed also has had many posts about people announcing they have cancer. Or, in the case of last week, that two children — barely older than my own daughter –  died of cancer.  I’m reminded of my student who passed from cancer in June at the age of 20. Of a first year student in one of my classes whose mom just died two weeks ago of cancer. And of a Retinoblastoma mom-friend of mine who was just diagnosed with cancer. Finally, on Friday, as one of my doctoral classmates came into class, she apologized for her tardiness and announced that, 10 minutes ago, her mother-in-law had just died of cancer; this was after just burying her sister-in-law — who died of cancer — earlier in the week.

I’m eager for this month to be over.

Having hung around with one of my favorite professors who specializes in superstitious behaviors, I’m beginning to feel like October is a superstitious month. I’m beginning to think that November 1st — All Souls Day — is a little too obvious timing.

I’m eager to get to November because, to me, it’s a month of HOPE.

November 18th will be ONE year since my mastectomy. The month when my body and mind were freed from the weight of cancer. It was the month when I truly realized that all I needed in life were good friends, good family, and good faith to know I could conquer anything. I felt that high that people must get when they crowd surf at a concert — this feeling of trust, knowing that there was no possible way a single person could lift my 188 lb body; but, together, lots of people could.  And, the only way I could get from one place to another was to relax, let go, and just enjoy the ride.

But, I still have to get through October. I began October with plans for a 1/2 Marathon I was too tired to run (which, I never did run). I muddled through mid-October with emotional exhaustion. And, I’m ending October overwhelmed with the number of cancer related news in my life.

But, after an October of sorrow, pain, feelings of failure and exhaustion, I’m looking forward to a November that reminds me of love, kindness and compassion. A November that reminds me of life, of knowledge, and of perseverance. A November that reminds me of health, spiritual wealth, and limitless joy.

A November that holds not just a day of Thanks, but a life time of gratitude.

Peace, love and channeling the good vibes of November,

Liza

Lately, I’ve been just trying to keep my head above water. I haven’t exercised in months. I simply cannot find time to use the relaxation tools I learned from my weekend at the yoga institute. I’ve gained nearly all the weight back that took me 6 months to lose. I’m tired. I’m weak. I’m absolutely exhausted.

I know those things are certain.

And, given that I am writing this from my desk in my office at 9:00pm, I know with certainty that I have no idea where this train is headed.

I have no idea if my ovaries will rally up and grow tumors.

No idea if I’ll regain my range of motion in my arms and chest that I worked so hard to stretch.

No idea if I’ll feel the solid definition in my thighs that were a result of 4:30am runs, 2x a week cycling classes, and chasing my kids outside in a game of tag.

No idea if this paper I’m supposed to be writing — instead of blogging — will get done.

No idea when the next time is that I’ll log onto this blog to write a post.

I dragged myself to the Cancer Wellness class yesterday (after talking myself out of turning around 4 times and heading back home) and met up with my friend Denise. She has had more than enough loss in her life, has taken on the burden of her family, and has been deeply affected by her own cancer. I have no idea why almost every member of her family has been diagnosed with cancer. And, in Denise’s words, “I have no idea why we are all dying.”

I have no idea if I’ll run late to work tomorrow and make my 8:30am meeting

No idea if my day of “please do not book any appointments for me” will be filled up with appointments.

No idea if it’ll rain or be sunny (this is New England, after all).

No idea why the damn light in my office keeps turning off on me when I’m trying to type.

So.

Now what?

What do we do, when we have no idea?

What do we do when don’t know what comes next?

We simply Be.

We be.

But, we don’t idly Be. We place ourselves in the Present. We let ourselves simply see life for what it is — it just is. So, we live it vibrantly, preciously, carefully, cautiously, fully, and completely.

I have no idea what the smile meant to the student I passed by in the hall who was looking sad.

I have no idea what my “hope you have a nice day!” meant to the woman at the supermarket check out line.

I have no idea if it meant anything to my coworker that I smiled at her today.

No idea what it meant when I told my daughter that “I wish I had a best friend like you when I was 8-years old.”

I do know, though, with certainty, that we just have to be the best we can be at that exact moment. That we try and be the kindest, most caring, most loving version of ourselves at that exact moment.

I know, with certainty, that the unknown is the only thing that we know.

Peace, love, and seeking kindness in each moment,
Liza

He is both alarmingly predictable, yet disturbingly surprising. And, in many ways, my dad and I are exactly alike. Though there simply is not enough room in a blog post to share all of the lessons from my dad, there are key ones who have shaped who I am today.

Here are some of my dad’s best known lessons:

• Save everything. Though people may call you a pack rat or hoarder, you never know when you’ll need that phone charger from 1994 or that DustBuster vacuum from 1986. Or that Sony Discman, or a dozen screwdrivers, or even rusty nails. Waste not.
• Don’t carry a parrot on your shoulder. It might peck out your eyes when you least expect it. And, as an eye doctor, I’ve seen too many people with damaged eyes. Don’t carry a pencil in your shirt pocket. Don’t walk around with a lollipop. Never look directly at the sun. Never run with anything sharp.
• Don’t pretend to be something you are not. If you have more in common with the custodians than the doctors, sit with the custodians. Even if the other doctors look at you funny. Remember where you came from.
• Share everything. Why buy a soda for each person when you can buy 1 soda for 7 people? Share the soda but not the straws.
• Be concise. If you can say it in 3 words, then don’t use 5 words. Get to the point.

Growing up, my dad was always at my athletic games (even though I was horrible at sports), spent evenings practicing with me, attended my orchestra concerts, visited me in college to see my acapella shows, and trained me in his office (when he thought I was aspiring to be a medical student). He treated me to the hospital cafeteria (where I learned my “sit with the custodians” lesson), taught me how to fix everything from my car to a broken toilet, and never yelled at me when I was learning how to drive a stick-shift car. 

Through his absence during my daughter’s cancer treatments, he also taught me how hard it is to experience pain. For the first time in my own life, I saw my dad in emotional pain. I saw how hard it was to be near my family during Joli’s treatment. Through this, I understood the difficult choices my dad has had to make in his own life as a young doctor, immigrant, parent, husband, son, brother and grandfather.

These life lessons, though unspoken, are his greatest gifts to me.

But, my dad also gave me another gift.

I also got my BRCA gene from my dad.

I’ve never asked him if he’s felt guilty about it (though, really, what could he have done?). I’ve never asked how he’s felt about having the gene, himself. And, likely, we won’t ever talk about it.

As I meet more and more young women who have the BRCA gene, I hear their recurring declarations of “I’m glad I found out before I had kids. I’m definitely not going to have kids now that I’m BRCA positive.” Even when I saw my OB/GYN after I gave birth to Evan, his first statement to me was “He’s your last one, right? You’re not going to pass along the BRCA gene anymore, right?”

As if the gene, itself, has defined my life.

No. It has not. It has given shape to my life. Definition to my boundaries. Color to my world.

Today, on my dad’s 65th birthday, we are giving him gifts. But, 36 years ago, he gave me mine. He passed along the BRCA gene that has given me strength and wisdom beyond any of life’s taught lessons.

Peace, love, and to many more healthy and happy years for my Dad,

Liza

Yes, it has been a while since this here Marathon b4 Mastectomy writer has popped into your email boxes,  Facebook statuses and forwards. Thanks for sticking with me!

In a nutshell (which, frankly, is where I would like to be with some fuzzy slippers and bottle of wine), I’ve been pulled in a lot of different directions. I’m back in my doctoral program, work is busier than ever, the kids are all in sports-related activities 6 days a week, I’m leading a Presidential Task Force, and I’m trying to still fit in some exercise.

Life has interfered.

But, interfered with what?  After all, isn’t this life? Isn’t this living?

I’m embracing the privilege and blessing that goes with being busy. After all, I have the mental capacity to be challenged intellectually; the ownership of a car which allows me to drive my children to activities 6-days a week; the privilege of a job that affords me opportunity to pursue a doctorate degree; a loving husband who helps me through the process; and the good health to keep it all together (some days).

To be busy is the privilege.

But, all this stress does take a toll. I’m fortunate to be a part of the Asian Breast Cancer Project. Started by a super woman named Chien-Chi Huang who was going through her own cancer recovery and mastectomy while applying for grant funding, the Asian Breast Cancer Project provides support and resources to women of Asian heritage. Prior to working with Chien-Chi, I had no idea that Asian American women were the least likely to be properly diagnosed of all US racial groups.  Even with the attention being given to women of African and Latino heritage and their own low rates of proper diagnosis, little information is available about Asian American women.

So, while I am active in the ABC project, I realize that a) I did not have breast cancer, and b) I likely will not ever have it (less than 1% chance post-mastectomy). But, women who look like me — and a number of my aunts — have lived and died with breast cancer. I am fighting for a cause that affects my community, but it no longer affects me.

That is, unless, I can get this stress under control.

One of the ways I’m keeping present in the cancer conversation is to keep running. Together with Team ABC, I’m doing the Komen race at the end of October. I’ll take a nice prayer or good thought that I don’t fall flat on my face at Mile 3.  If you were moved to contribute to the Komen research on behalf of Team ABC, here is the link. HOWEVER, we have already surpassed our fundraising goal, so why don’t you RUN WITH US?

What keeps me grounded — what keeps me connected to “importance” — is the reminder that the world is bigger than I am. That family, friends, love, and peace are more important than sending one more email, reading one more chapter, and developing one more strategic goal.

My first day of school backpack that my friends make fun of me for wearing

Life isn’t about balance.

It’s about living.

Peace, love and getting back to it all,

Liza

PS To learn a bit more about the rising risk of Asian American women, click here.

At least, in our house with a toddler who is learning to use the potty, it is normal. In one morning, he has peed through all of his new Yo Gabba Gabba! underwear. He peed on the carpet right by our fish tank, too excited about seeing Tomas, his beta fish, eat the small pellets of food floating carefree on the surface of the water. He peed as he cheered on Diego swinging from vine to vine proclaiming “Let’s go, baby Jaguar!” And, with the last pair from his 3-pack of big boy cartoon undies, my son almost made it to the potty, but a rogue fly buzzing around the bathroom hallway caught his attention.

As normal as the peeing on the rug was, it was also quite normal for me to grab my iPhone, take pictures and videos of the puddles, and send them to my husband with a text message.

It was normal for me to open up WordPress, find a clever way to blog about the event, hit send, upload it, and then check to see if Facebook linked it for all 600+ of my closest friends to read.

But, when did this all become normal?

At Mass the other day, one of the new priests at our school gave the most beautiful homily I have ever experienced.  I found myself fighting back tears. I found myself wishing I was at my father-in-law’s church, standing up, lifting my hands, and vocally giving thanks to God. I found myself wishing I was in the silence of the Quaker meeting, with my hair standing up on the back of my neck, my stomach feeling the warmth of the Light to speak. But, instead, on that day, in that room, I folded my hands, bowed my head, closed my eyes, and prayed.

The message was about living deliberately. He said that one of the worst things we could do is to have our obituary, on the day of our death, simply be a delayed announcement of a death already gone by. Of a death we experienced when we stopped living deliberately.

When Hurricane/Tropical Storm Irene blew threw, our house didn’t lose power. In fact, we spent the evening watching movies, catching up on old television shows, and watching the strong trees in our backyard bending and swaying in the wind. Others, of course, were not so lucky. And, even 5 days after the storm, some of my friends are still without power in their homes. My parents were home when their power came back on at 6:30pm — more than 48 hours after it went out. And, by the grace of God, luck, or National Grid, if they were not home, their house would have burned down. A burner was still on when the power went out, and it turned back on when the power came back. The burner ignited a cloth that was near the stove, and that cloth quickly blazed up to the refrigerator, now a charred mess, and up to the top where the bread baskets are kept. They heard the fire alarm, ran upstairs, and extinguished the fire.

There is a burn mark on the refrigerator; and a burned memory of what lives could have been lost in a blaze.

The irony, for me, is that I am choosing to go away for this weekend. It is the weekend I turn 36 years old. And, while my friends are waiting patiently for their power to turn on — to use their laptops, their television, charge their cell phones, use their hairdryers, wash their clothes — I am choosing to leave these comforts behind. I am choosing to go where I can live undistracted from instant information. Rather than reading messages about other people’s lives, I will pay attention to mine. Instead of cheering on other people’s accomplishments, I will create some of my own.  Before reaching for news on my iPhone as I roll over in bed, I will learn of the newness of my surroundings.

This past summer, our school community lost a wonderful young man to leukemia. Last night, in a season dedication to him, rather than observe a moment of silence for a life lost, our community participated in a moment of applause for a life lived. An obituary that was written as life had been lived, deliberately. Though his illness was untimely, his life was not. He lived as he should, not as he wished he did.

Are we living, or simply living a delayed obituary?

For years now, I’ve been wanting to go on this type of retreat. After sitting and watching episodes of reality shows where people talk about committing to a healthier lifestyle — for themselves and for their loved ones — I am engaging in the journey. I am taking my life by the reigns, and surrendering to living fully.

Deliberately. Wholly. Peacefully.

Peace, love, and redefining normal,

Liza

We were standing in a tiny waiting room, more than seven of my family members crammed so close we could guess what toothpaste someone had used that morning. For a family of writers, teachers, doctors and preachers who make a living talking, speaking, and educating, we were speechless.

Just 24 hours prior to that moment, we were driving in our car to Boston to see a pediatric eye specialist to find out why our 2-year old daughter had a eye that didn’t seem to move properly. We read about “lazy eye” and how patching the eye would build the muscle and make it stronger. I recalled my own childhood memories of glasses, being called “Four Eyes”, and the ultimate benefit of having an ophthalmologist for a Dad — free contact lenses starting as soon as I could put them in myself. In my case, that was 4th grade. I had contact lenses before I even had my first bra.

Just an hour before her scheduled surgery to remove her right eye and, if needed, remove her left eye, we were gathered in the waiting room of Mass Eye and Ear. My brother had flown in from Hawaii in record time, arriving just moments after Joli went into surgery. My sister and my other brother arrived as soon as they heard the news. My sister, Mari, who just a year later would discover she had breast cancer and find herself in the adjacent hospital, was unable to be with us because she had just given birth to her first child in California. My mom was there with her rosary. My in-laws were there from New York. I was packing some serious distraction: the latest Harry Potter book. I remember thinking, “I could use a little fantasy and magic today, so this works just fine.”

My father, the ophthalmologist, was absent.

No one blamed him.

No one blamed him for not diagnosing Joli’s retinoblastoma, though he held the medical knowledge to do so.

No one blamed him for crying the night before the surgery in the hallway of my tiny home. Though my father had experienced the death of both of his parents, the tragic passing of some of his siblings (mostly due to cancer), and many of life’s challenges, this was the first time I had ever seen my father cry.

No one blamed him when he kept telling me to “stop taking pictures of her!” as I hid behind my camera lens and caught photos of her tumor taunting me. These would be the only photos of her visible tumor that we have.

No one blamed him for not being there in the hospital in which, just thirty years early, he had completed his medical internship in glaucoma and cataracts.

We didn’t need to blame him; He blamed himself.

I don’t remember much about that day, and I certainly don’t remember my dad calling to check in on Joli. I’m sure he did, though. I imagine my dad in his office, seeing patients and diagnosing a range of problems: nearsightedness, high eye pressure, farsightedness, a piece of sand caught under the eyelid from workman’s day on the job, cataracts and cloudy vision. But, he must have been thinking, “How am I diagnosing patients every 15 minutes, yet I couldn’t diagnose my own granddaughter.”

Maybe he didn’t call. I really can’t remember. Truth is, I’ve never blamed him.

Back at Mass Eye and Ear, the pre-surgical dance had us entering into different rooms for a dozen pre-op procedures: checking Jo’s weight, putting a eye drops to numb and dilate her pupils, check her blood pressure, answering questions from different medical students learning about her rare diagnosis. We then waltzed into another room where we spoke with the anesthesiologist about the many ways in which one could die from complications in surgery.

Six years later, I’m having trouble recalling the details of the day. And, that’s exactly how it should be, right? The further we get away from that day, the harder it will be to recall the process of that day. I simply remember much of it because our lives followed a similar pattern every three months when all three children were having eye exams under anesthesia.

Though the actual moments and memories are beginning to fade, and life is less about surviving from day-to-day, there are three distinct moments I will never forget:

1. After Joli’s eye drops had taken effect, I brought her to the large window on the upper floor of Mass Eye and Ear to look out onto the river. “Look, Joli! Look at those beautiful boats!” I said to her. In her tiny toddler voice, she whispered, “Mom, I can’t see any boats. I can’t see anything at all.”

We didn’t yet know if Joli would come out of surgery having removed only one eye, or having removed both eyes. It was at that moment that I realized her words just might foreshadow the surgeon’s procedure.

2. The second moment that has etched its way into my being is when the doctor came out to visit us at the conclusion of the surgery. “We had to remove her right eye. We were able to leave the left one alone.” Both joy and sadness swirled through my veins.

3. Finally, I was able to visit Joli in the recovery room shortly after her surgery. As I approached the open space filled with children in beds, I knew which one was mine. My child was the one with an  dramatically over sized compression bandage that looked like it belonged on a Broadway stage. I took a deep breath, walked towards her bed, and prayed she wasn’t in pain.

As Joli began to slowly emerge from anesthesia, I asked the nurse what I was supposed to do. Should I touch her? Can I hold her hand? Will I hurt her?

It was at that moment that Joli opened her one eye, and at age 2, she whispered to me, “Thank you, Mommy.”

We stayed in the recovery room until the anesthesia diminished its hold on her 24 pound body. Still connected to her IV, Joli sat up in her bed as one of the medical transporters wheeled her up to see the rest of the family in the waiting area. As we were leaving the floor, Joli turned to the nursing staff, raised her tiny arm covered in Tergadem used to hold her IV in place, and said, “Thank you, everybody” and waved.

I knew we would be fine. Hearing Joli’s voice was exactly what I needed to feel that we would be alright. Hearing her thank me, thank the people who cared for her, and show gratitude in the face of adversity, changed my own life forever. If my 2-year old child could be positive and strong, then why can’t I? That moment, it wasn’t cancer that changed our lives, it was her voice. From the moment I heard her voice — just a whisper at first, then a declaration to the entire floor — my life changed. She is why I could make it through the past few years.

I think of Joli every mile of my run. I thought of her when I was too scared to go into surgery. I thought of her as I lay in pain — the ache of stabbing just under my skin that was stretched over my swollen chest.  I think of her when I feel I can’t take another step.

After her surgery, we celebrated each August 17th as her ‘cancerversary’. It was the day she was diagnosed. Interesting fact is that August 17th was her original due date. Joli was born at 36 weeks — on July 17th — but her due date was August 17th. It was the day our lives had meaning, our souls had definition, and our family had purpose. It was the day when everyone realized there was more to life than stuff, and the only thing that mattered was that realization. It was the anticipated day of her birth, but August 17th was the day our family became truly alive.

I refuse to work on August 17th. It’s a reminder that there is nothing more important than family, particularly on that day. But, for two years, Joli has spent August 17th away from home. She has spent it with her grandparents at a camp where kids get to learn about love, God, and friendship. At first, this was hard for me to let her go. This year, it has been equally as hard. I’ve wanted to do nothing more than hold onto Joli, keep her next to me, kiss her, hug her, and tell her that I love her endlessly. But, she is 4 hours away, and having the time of her life swimming, playing, meeting new friends, learning new games, and trying all sorts of new things. Both sadness and joy swirl through my veins.

And, at 8:41pm, she called.
“Hi, Mom,” she whispered. “Everything is fine.  I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Peace, love, and the power of words,

Liza

I believe in listening to what’s being said inside of you. Working at a Quaker school taught me that. In Meeting for Worship, the practice is to enter into a simple gathering, sit silently, and open your heart and mind wide so that the message of God can be heard. When you feel God’s love and it moves you to speak, you stand up and share the message with others. No altar. No fancy chalice. No kneeling up and down. Just you, God, and silence.

For the lifelong Catholic in me, this was tough. In the early years of attending Meeting for Worship, I felt completely uncomfortable. I didn’t understand how a religious service  — a religious experience — was possible if there wasn’t someone of authority to interpret the message for me.

Every few Sundays, my husband and I would drive out to Queens to visit his family. His father is a Pastor of a charismatic Christian church. Live, upbeat music, clapping, “Amens” and “Yes Jesus!” filled the room during the songs, during the sermon, and long after the 2 1/2 hour service was done. People danced in the aisles, spoke in tongues, and turned to their neighbors to tell them “God loves you, and God is good all the time!” There was nothing this Catholic girl wanted more than for a little silence and a whole lot of structure. I didn’t understand how it was possible that a religious service — a religious experience –  was possible of everyone in the seats was involved in the service.

Though both places of worship seem so different, they share this foundation of God’s message:

Listen. Feel. Believe. Be present.

Though some of you might find this hard to believe, for most of my life, I beat up my body and mind. Not thin enough. Thighs too fat. Butt to big. Arms too wide. Skin too brown. Hair too straight. Hair too curly. Hair too black. Eyes too small. Stomach too jiggly. From my early teens until my mid-twenties, I battled troublesome eating issues.  A few years in there, those eating issues became best friends with alcohol dependency. More years of self-loathing. More years of never feeling good enough. More years of trying to be better, live better, treat myself better.

I have finally begun to come to terms with the truth that years of believing I was worthless, ugly, not good enough, not smart enough, and not pretty enough are not going to be solved with a few sessions with a nutritionist and a few weeks in a gym. They won’t even be solved with a few half marathons. Though my life events have helped me to leave most of that negativity behind, I still carry a small knapsack of it with me.

For the past 18 months, I have been focusing on my body in a very different way. Rather than obsessing about how thin I wasn’t getting from working out, I had to focus on how strong I was growing. In order to heal properly, I had to concentrate on how my muscles were changing. Just days after surgery, I remember sitting up in bed giving thanks for having built strong abdominal muscles that helped pull me out of bed.

Today, I marvel at my range of motion. I smile at my ability to do 2 push ups without my chest muscles violently convulsing when, just a few months ago, I couldn’t even bear weight on my forearms. I smile when I realize I can reach up to the top of the refrigerator, when I surprise myself as I zip up my dress, and when I finish running 6.2 miles with relatively no pain in my shoulders. I laugh when I choose to eat carrots instead of the Milano cookies in the white roll-top bag, when I look forward to that first refreshing bite of a really good salad, and the idea that a cool glass of water is more appealing than a bubbly glass of Diet Coke. My attitude towards food — towards my body — has changed. It’s how I now live my life.

Though having the mastectomy quite possibly saved my life from cancer, it actually saved me from myself. After Joli got sick, I appreciated the value of life, love, and joy beyond material possessions. After my mastectomy, I appreciated ME. I began to love myself. I began to see myself as worthy of care, of compassion, and of beauty.

I am beginning to Listen to the positive messages and redefine the negative ones. I am beginning to Feel the change in my physical body and change in my emotions. I am beginning to Believe in myself. And, I am learning to Be present.

As I sat quietly at the dining room table tonight, I thought of a video that was circulated a few years ago that I never watched. It was of the Carnegie Mellon professor who delivered his “Last Lecture.” I’m not sure what was prompting me to watch it, but I have learned to just go with what my heart is telling me to do.

I decided to just watch the 3 minute version (as opposed to the whole 76 minute lecture), and heard the line I was meant to hear:

If you lead your life the right way, the karma will take care of itself. Your dreams will come to you.

 

I never imagined taking away my breasts would actually give me my life back. My life was meant to do this, it was meant to move in this direction; and so far, my dreams of feeling more like the Me I was meant to be are beginning to take shape.

Peace, love, and being present,

Liza

But, in my life, a day is right when we can breathe, live and love in the way our lungs and hearts were intended.

For over two months now, I’ve been trying to tackle my weight. I’ve been hesitant to post my mental/emotional battle with my weight because it seems to petty, so foolish, after spending the past few years fighting for the right to be alive.

When I trained for my half marathon, I was running and eating in all the best ways possible. I never lost any weight. After surgery, my body had the pasta, brownies and cookies audacity to gain weight. I lost a cup size and gained 7 lbs. At 8 weeks, I began working out with a cancer exercise specialist, went to the gym regularly, started physical therapy, and began meeting with a nutritionist.

Just last week, I was sobbing in the nutritionist’s office.

I had done everything she told me to do — eat right, exercise, sleep well.

Still, I was exactly the same weight — just shy of 200 lbs on my 5’2″ frame — as when I started.

“How’s your stress level, Liza? Have you been keeping your food log?”

“Ginger, that’s what stresses me out!!” I felt like that Cathy comic strip character in need of a good AAACCKKKK!! Then, throw me in a human sized fondue of chocolate, please.

She made me write down everything I was thankful for in relation to my body.

I am thankful I have enough flexibility in my arms to hug my children.

I am thankful I can lift a bag of groceries that hold good food for my family.

I am thankful I can lay down on my side, snuggle my 2-year old son, and sing lullabye songs with him.

I am thankful I have legs that walk, lungs that breathe, and eyes that see.

I am thankful that I can move my body enough to run, use my mind enough to think clearly, and feel my heart beating when I am excited and happy.

I am thankful that I have  facial muscles that smile, fingers that can play games on my  iPhone prepare a healthy meal, and ears that can hear my children’s laughter.

I began to laugh.

But, I wasn’t laughing because I felt embarrassed or petty that I was focused on my weight; I began to laugh at the joy that filled my heart. Life is good. And, all these things made life better.

As we kept going, I began to focus less on me and more on those who help me be the authentic me. A me who knows how fragile life is. A me who knows how important love is. And a me who knows how quickly it can all be taken away.

I am thankful for the many people who have prayed for me, supported me, and even thought of me and my family in these past few years. I am thankful for the surprises I receive in the mail from friends I haven’t seen in over a decade, and friends who I only see for a few days a year.

Is the paper, postage, and envelope worth a heart that feels loved? Yes. I live by the saying, “What will you do today to help someone feel they are loved?” What would you do today if you knew you were loved?

Life is ours to have. Love is ours to give.

Peace, love, and focusing on what goes right,

Liza

I was running late. Forgot my bib number at home. And I had to have an almost-naked-husband who was getting ready to take his morning shower, jump in his car to drive it 30 minutes to me at the starting line of the race. Of course, while he was frantically putting his clothes back on, the toddler pooped his diaper and the dog had escaped from the house.
Time was ticking, and I was beginning to think running this 10K was a bad, bad, bad idea.

Jorge and I  finally met up, and like a good movie drug deal, my husband slowly rolled his car up along side me, rolled down his window, handed my running bib out the driver side window, and kept rollin’ by. Little did I know, just 2 minutes later, the toddler would puke up an entire morning’s worth of milk into the car that my husband just had detailed.

This was going to be a bad, bad, bad idea.

I made it to the starting line with just 4 minutes to spare. I caught up with my brother, who unfortunately was having a bad morning himself, and we were ready to run. “Here Liza, I have some extra energy gels, you want one?” Crap. Energy gels? I hadn’t even packed myself anything for the run.

3 minutes and 36 seconds into the run, my iPod began repeating the same song I had on. I tried to adjust it, pinched myself (which I have a lovely bruise now on the inside of my turkey-waddle arm), and spent the next hour trying to run and adjust my music.

What was I doing out here on this course?

I was trying to prove something to myself. That’s what.

I was trying to prove that I was strong, that I was ready, and that I was able to keep conquering the odds that were stacked against me. With a 60% risk of ovarian cancer, it was time for me to get control of my new body — my reconstructed body — and focus on the next step of my life: removing my ovaries.

Removing my ovaries forces my body into surgical menopause. Given that I have a good 50+ years still in me, my body will begin to age like that of a post-menopausal woman. I’ll be at greater risk for osteoporosis, will feel decreases in anything that my hormones regulate, and, well, lots of other stuff. So, it’s in my best interest to build a strong body, to keep my bones healthy, and to try and lose weight. The excess weight increases the side effects, and I need to focus on that part of my health, too.

But, it was actually never the running I was worried about — I was worried about my chest muscles. Every time I have tried to run post-surgery, my chest fired up in pain. The repeat back-and-forth motion of my arms as I pumped always resulted in a pulled, sharp pain in my muscles.

Early in the race, I happened to see a colleague of mine from work. Just like me, she was slow and steady. And, just like me, she was experiencing a very emotional and spiritual journey on this run.

We went back and forth with each other — one pulling ahead and then the other. When we found a moment to catch up with one another, she said to me, “Liza, I was really having a hard time. Then, I prayed to Henry (a student we both lost to leukemia a few weeks ago). I asked him to be with me, and to help me, and to give me strength. That was when you ran up beside me for the first time and squeezed my hand. I needed someone, and he sent you.”

Her words took my breath away, and I fought back tears.

I needed to hear those words at that exact moment. It wasn’t chance.

“God puts us where God needs us most,” I said.

It was at that moment that the run, the race, and the heat transformed. I stopped focusing on how bad it felt to be out there and began focusing on how privileged I was to be there, in that moment. I was truly Blessed to be able to save my life, to reduce my risk of cancer, and to recover. I was truly so privileged to be out there on that race course, feeling the burn in my legs, the air flow into my chest, and the sun warming my skin.

When I hit the wall at around mile 4, I thought of my friends who have passed from cancer, and my daughter’s friends who are still battling it today. I thought of the survivors I have known who, too, know what life is worth these days. And, of course, I pictured myself racing against cancer, racing against time, and racing against my odds.

By the time I reached the turn into the stadium, I was exhausted. My body had enough. But, my heart was full, my mind was at peace, and my soul was being carried by all those who inspire me along the way.

I registered for the race back in March to prove something to myself. But, today, my Self proved something to me. I learned that it’s never about the End. It’s never about the Finish. It’s about where you need to be on the road. It’s about where you need to be when other people need you most.

My awesome brother, Jon, and me at the finish line

Peace, love, and being at the right place,

Liza

A few weeks ago, my oldest sister (the one who was the catalyst for all of this BRCA stuff) called to tell me she was having some trouble. “I just spent the last two days lying on the floor,” she said. It was so bad that Gavin (her 5 year old) had to get her some lunch from the refrigerator, and he brought her a piece of square, plastic wrapped cheese. She couldn’t move, she was in pain, and she was relying on her son to take care of her, in the best way he knew how.

We were on the phone as I was driving to a prayer service for one of the students who passed away. He had been diagnosed with leukemia just a few weeks prior to his death. He was an athletic, happy, strong, funny, smart young man who thought he was just experiencing some side effects of being a competitive athlete. He had complained of back pain for more than half a year. A blood test months later revealed he had cancer.

After I told my sister, and after I dried away my falling tears, I began to laugh uncontrollably as I pictured my sister laying on the floor with a piece of Velveeta stuck to her forehead, cleverly placed there by her distracted son who was more interested in his iPad game than his Mom.

“Back pain?” she said. She grew quiet.

Oh, sh!t. Yes, back pain.

The messed up thing about ovarian cancer is that the symptoms are so benign that they are left unnoticed. These symptoms  can include (but are not limited to) bleeding, bloating, cramping, gas, pain during intercourse, constipation, lack of energy. Most women find these symptoms to be very familiar. And, though I used to freak out about every little bump, lump, or pain in my breasts, I never once worried — even post-BRCA knowledge — about these symptoms each month.

One of the other symptoms is back pain.

My sister’s back pain eventually subsided with the help of some muscle relaxers, and  as soon as she could get up to dial a phone, she made an appointment to see the gynecological oncologist. Turns out, she had a cyst. Undetected. As she was laying on the ground, prior to my story about my student, she just figured she had pulled a muscle carrying her 1-year old daughter up the flight of stairs. (NOTE: tests came back fine — not cancerous).

Just last week, I ran into a friend who had been following my journey online. After polite greetings, she came closer to me. “I feel like I can tell you this,” she whispered. “I have been having a lot of pain, you know, down there. And, I thought of your blog. I know you don’t write a lot about your ovarian cancer risks, but it got me thinking I should go and see someone about it. So, I did. And, guess what? I had a thing there that they ended up having to biopsy. The tests just came back this morning, and it was non-cancerous. But, I just think it’s so weird that we happened to see each other today!”

I walked away thinking, “Hmmm.. in less than 2 weeks, three totally separate incidents have made me think of ovarian cancer.”

Then the fourth hit.

I had been away for a few weeks while at school, and I was back at work catching up with a colleague. She told me she was worried about a friend of hers who was having some bleeding, post-menopausal, and she was taking her to see the doctor. “We’re not sure what’s going on, but we’re guessing it’s a cyst or something.”

Then the fifth.

I had gone through my Facebook account and deleted more than 600 “friends” from my list. I post a lot, and I just figured I’d keep the ones who I heard from, thinking that the other folks were just there and not really engaging with me.

The other day, a “message” was in my box from a student who had long graduated:

Hi Liza! I know we haven’t been in touch over the years, but I’ve been following your blog and your journey. I wanted to let you know that I’ve been going through some challenges, too. They found a large cyst on my ovaries recently, and I had to have really risky surgery to have it removed. I thought of you and all the words you honestly wrote about how hard it all was.

That was when I knew it was time. It was time to get back on the road again. The first leg of the journey was to reduce my risk of breast cancer. And, I did that. I reduced my risk from 90% to 1%. Then, I hung out at the Rest Stop for a long time. I ate at the restaurant, shopped in the souvenier store, people watched a little bit, sat out on the bench, and even filled up my gas tank. But, it’s time. It’s time to get back out there and fight for my life. It’s time to focus on living. It’s time to get off my @$$, get back in this fight, and gear up for the next round. It’s time to face my risk of ovarian cancer — my 45-60% genetic risk — and have the surgery.

I admit. I’m scared. Being present in my Marathon B4 Mastectomy journey took a lot out of me, and of course, gave me a lot as well. These past 7 months have been a long, long, long road to recovery, one that I am still very much driving on. I am still in physical therapy, still feel weak and timid in my chest muscles, and still feel stinging at my suture site time and again.

But, I’m also scared of the intensity of being so devoted to learning and exploring what it will mean to remove another set of my body parts: my ovaries. Removing my ovaries changes the nature of my body. The actual nature of it. My hormones will change, my body will change, and I will go into surgical menopause. It means another surgery, another recovery, and another set of understanding about what this all means: What does it mean to remove your body parts to save your life?

And, so it begins.

Yes, I’ll be doing the marathon thing again. In fact, my first official race is this Monday. Yes, I am freaking out. I’m not sure what possessed me to register for this race back in March. Maybe I thought I’d be ready. Maybe I knew myself better than I imagined. I knew that this is what I’d need to get me going. This is what I’d need to believe in myself again.

On Monday, I’ll be running a 10K.

I’ll be back on the road again.  Seeking strength, sanity, and courage to finish what I started.

Peace, love, and always welcoming a good playlist, cooler of snacks, and good company on this trip,

Liza