For years and years, I struggled with my body image — in high school, I actually used to fake sick to skip school just so that I could spend the day popping in different aerobics tapes into the VCR in my parents’ basement. I threw on my black and hot pink spandex, pulled my hair into a side-ponytail, and anticipated all of the 2-second cues before each move with Jane Fonda, Gilad, and Kathy Smith. On weekends, I ran miles and miles up to the local track and back again. I laid on the living room floor, listening to songs on my yellow, Sony, waterproof Walkman, and tuning out the world as I finished Side A doing nothing but crunches.

College was much of the same. I dated athletic men who made me feel like they only wanted to be with a woman who had an athletic body. So, I continued the obsession. And, compulsion.

Then, in my senior year of college, I began dating a man — now, husband — who fell in love with how smart I was, how well I sang, and the way my confidence stopped a room.  He saw me through my own destructive behavior, my own defeating thoughts, and helped me appreciate the power I had to turn things around. He never once made me feel that I needed to be a certain weight or a certain type of body. And, after carrying and delivering our first child, I began to believe that my body had power, too. The year I was pregnant with our first child was the year I stopped hating, viciously,  how I looked. And, two years later, when that little girl’s body began to betray her with cancer, I knew that I needed to fully come to terms with how my own body was designed to look, behave, and feel. She needed me. She needed to hear that our bodies are sometimes judged by others, but that we must be strong and help others be strong, too.

But, old habits are hard to break. For the majority of my life, I’ve hated my body. And, slowly I’ve been chipping away at that wall. With messages all around us, still surrounding us, there are days when it just isn’t easy. Lately, I’ve been thinking about going back into the operating room to have a revision done on my reconstruction. Bras just don’t fit me at all, my breasts just look so out of proportion to the rest of my body, and I’ve become very self-conscious about how they look. The revision process is actually easy; but, I find myself fantasizing about having liposuction to reduce the fat around my middle, or a gastric bypass to finally help me in a way that diet and exercise just aren’t doing. For the past few weeks, I’ve been obsessing about a thinner — a better — version of me.

“Liza, why is there a half-cut lemon and a tin of cayenne pepper doing on the counter?” asked a confused husband when he walked in the door.  Rightfully so. 

Yes, yes, friends. I admit…. if the Lemon-Pepper-Water diet worked for Beyonce, then it was worth a try for me, too. Shit, girlfriend lost 20 pounds in like two weeks! I have a fancy dinner, a rock show, my college reunion, and summer bathing suit season coming up! My obsession was turning into action.

But, unfortunately (or, thankfully?), I just can’t bring myself to behave the way I used to. By 10am, when I had already had my first 32 ounces of Lemon-Pepper-Water, I realized how stupid this all was. Sat down. Had a talk with myself (I was home on a vacation day, so it wasn’t all that weird to be talking to myself). And, laughed at the absurdity. Then, I grabbed a bagel, smiled, and went about my day being productive.

It was today when I realized that my mind might actually be changing. That, finally, after nearly 10 years since the day I got pregnant, and 10 years of telling myself that I’m good, I’m smart, and I’m strong, I might actually be believing it. 

That doesn’t mean that I don’t try to hide my stomach rolls when I sit down in a chair. Doesn’t mean I don’t do the “skinny arm” pose when I take pictures or make sure that people shoot me from “my good side.” Oh, yea. I’m not giving that stuff up! But, it does mean that  a part of me is letting go of the hatred, the meanness, and the belief that “If I were just 10 pounds lighter, I’d be a better person.”

My body isn’t perfect. Neither is my mind.

But, like any good work of art, it’s definitely going through some revision.

Peace, love, and constantly editing,

Liza

In anticipation of the 1/2 marathon on Sunday,  I stocked up on whole wheat bread and a fresh jar of natural peanut butter (my favorite pre-run food), re-laced my shoes to be snug in the right places, washed my running bra (the one that doesn’t squish my implants too much), and even put on the “Women Warriors” iron-on on my new grey tech shirt in honor of my Cancer Wellness women.  A few weeks ago, I picked up a stack of energy gels and a bag of sport chews for race day. All week, I’ve been drinking water (okay, okay, and some beer and wine during late night paper writing), eating carbs, and trying to add an hour of sleep to my 4-5 hours I’ve been getting this past year. I’ve done everything to prepare for this race.

Everything, but train.

See, I haven’t run in over 3 weeks. And, while that run was a solid push — it was in honor of my middle daughter’s birthday — I haven’t spent enough time on my feet logging in miles. I’ve been inconsistent — choosing writing papers over running miles. Reading journal articles over hitting mile-splits.

During the fall semester, I had a lot on my plate: full time doctoral classes, full time work, full time mom, and even auditioned and joined a working band that rehearsed twice a week. I also started working with a friend to launch a non-profit that provides pathways to higher education for students from under-served communities, and I stepped up as the Chair of an alumni committee from my undergraduate college. I was driving the kids to and from karate, gymnastics, school and after-school programs, soccer, and social activities. During the fall semester, my oldest child broke her arm, and we were back-and-forth to the hospital every 2 weeks for check ups. I had follow-up surveillance for my own BrCA appointments, and my full plate was looking more and more like a Las Vegas buffet.

But, in all of those activities and responsibilities, I thrive. I actually love stress. I love working in an optimal level of  ”To-Do.” I can honestly say that there is very little in my life that I “wish I was doing” — I’m doing it all. And, I’m loving it.

I’ve always viewed my activities and responsibilities as “taking good care” of myself. I’m intellectually stimulated; I feel (most of the time) valued at work; I’m in a loving marriage; I get to raise three fantastic kids; and I’m living my dream of singing again. I’m surrounded by supportive and inspirational friends and family; and, I’m essentially in good health. I am blessed to be busy.

Through all of this, though, one thing that I wasn’t doing last semester was running. I love running. I love the soreness of my legs after hill sprints, the tightness in my core after training, and the rhythmic and predictable sound of my sneakers on the pavement. I love hearing the voices of my musical friends echoing through my headphones as I pace myself by singing along with them.  I love the sweat on my forehead, the redness in my cheeks, and even the occasional blister that shows up after a long run.

In January 2012, I registered for another half marathon. Knowing that my spring semester was going to be intellectually brutal, training was going to be my way of focusing on health and strength. It was going to be my way of taking care of my body.  

But, lately, the realization that I haven’t spent time training has hit home. This past week, I was faced with not achieving my goal — a pretty rare experience for me.

“Liza, it’s not that you aren’t capable of running 13.1 miles, it’s that doing so could harm your ability to achieve your other goals. If you get hurt, it might mean you don’t have the energy to finish your papers for class, or participate in end-of-year activities with your seniors, or not be able to sing in your next show. It’s not about whether you can do it, it’s about whether you should do it,” said Jorge one night.

The decision to not run the half marathon is one of the most difficult ones I’ve had to make in a long time. It wasn’t a difficult decision to be a full time working student, to sing in a band, or to train for the half marathon.  That was just me seeing my busy life as a privilege.  But, making the decision to put myself — my health — before my goals is tough.  A part of me feels like a failure for not running tomorrow; another part of me feels like a really empowered individual who knows what’s good for me.

This experience reminds me that life is filled with decisions that challenge our own sense of self-worth. It requires us to face whether we are doing harm or doing good -- if we are giving up, or simply giving in.

Not running tomorrow’s half marathon is  giving in to the truth that doing no harm must include doing no harm to ourselves. To myself.

The stack of energy gels are still on my counter top, my laces are perfectly snug, and my running bra will still be clean for my next leisurely 8-mile run. My friends will still be keeping me company through my headphones, and the rhythm of my sneakers will always welcome me back.  My papers will get done, my seniors will graduate, and my kids will still be proud of me.  And, I’ll be able to role model for them that not running the half marathon actually DOES helps me to realize the most important goal of all:  Do No Harm.

We are really good at taking care of others, of business, and of responsibilities.

If only taking care of ourselves was as easy.

Peace, love and learning to do no harm,

Liza

I was recently invited to speak at the Asian Breast Cancer Project gala, a fantastic organization that supports women from AAPI backgrounds to access culturally relevant information about cancer screenings, diagnosis and support. After the event, a number of people asked for copies of my remarks, so here they are!

To learn more about the Asian Breast Cancer Project, please visit their Facebook page here. 

This post today is dedicated to Chien-Chi Huang, the fearless organizer of the ABC Project who is, herself, a cancer survivor. This past week, as Chien-Chi was selflessly organizing the gala, her mother died of cancer.

Chien-Chi, this is for you. 

“Good evening, and thank you for this opportunity to share my own story with you and the reasons I am involved in the Asian Breast Cancer Project. My name is Liza Talusan, and I am a BrCA positive, previvor, with quite an extensive history of cancer in my family. Many aunts, uncles, grandparents have had cancer.  Some are alive, some have passed. Even my own daughter, at the age of 2, was diagnosed with a rare pediatric cancer called retinoblastoma.  So my family is no stranger to surgeries, radiation, chemotherapy, living and dying.

One of the lessons I am most thankful for in this twisted cancer journey is about bravery. I have seen my 2-year old daughter hooked up to IV tubes of chemotherapy, exposed in a small paper gown while the rest of us were in protective shields and rubber masks.  I have watched my older sister brush clumps of her long, silky, black hair out while getting ready for my brother’s wedding – her first dose of chemo had just occurred a week prior.  I have watched my aunts seem to shrink as their bone density decreased at the age of 50.  I have kneeled at the pews of my Catholic church, praying for the peaceful rest of family members. We know bravery to be about being strong, about being resilient, and about being tough. In one of my favorite songs, we talk about “being bad, bold, wiser. Hard, tough, and stronger. Cool, calm, stay together.”  But, for me, bravery has been about being exposed.  Bravery has been about admitting when I cannot handle it all, when I cannot do it by myself, and when I must ask for help.

When my oldest sister was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 36, her doctors recommended she have the genetic test to see if she carried the BrCa gene, a genetic mutation that could give her, roughly, an 85% chance of developing breast cancer and a 60% chance of developing ovarian cancer.  Because she tested positive, my sister Grace and I also tested and received the same results.  My sister Grace and I were lucky – we were now armed with the knowledge of our BrCa mutation, could take steps to surgically reduce our risks of cancer, and we both elected to have prophylactic bilateral mastectomies. The three of us women are in the process now of exploring having oopherectomies, or the removal of our ovaries to reduce our risks of ovarian cancer.

Being able to go through this process of understanding our BrCa mutation and the surgeries we both required and elected to have, has been relatively easy because of the support system my sisters and I created for one another. We talked about our frustrations, our anger, our “WHY ME?” moments.  We showed one another our scars, and talked openly about what bras worked and didn’t work, who wanted tattoos and who didn’t, how we felt about our bodies, and what being BrCa has meant to us as women, as mothers, and as partners.

When Chien-Chi approached me, just after my surgery, about the Asian Breast Cancer project, I knew that I wanted to be involved and NEEDED to be involved.  See, when I was preparing for my mastectomy, I had made a commitment to train for two half marathons.  I wasn’t a runner – at all – and my idea of exercise was watching my children play tag.  When I decided that I would have my mastectomy, I knew I needed to be in the best shape possible to aid in my recovery.   I started a blog called Marathon B4 Mastectomy.  Over my year of training, I passed by hundreds of people –or, more accurately, they passed me. I shared the road with many runners, and was on message boards about health, training, and recovery. Though I shared much in common with runners and with people going through cancer, I was obvious to me that my olive skin, black hair, and Asian heritage was something I did not share with many.  On long runs, I never encountered other Asian runners. I don’t see Asian runners featured in my running magazines.  And, even to this day on message boards about cancer and health, I have only read from a handful of Asian survivors and patients.

One time, I got excited that I was reading a post from an Asian woman!

Yeah, that woman turned out to be my sister, Grace. Oh, well. 

I have even attended conferences specifically for BrCa individuals, and my sisters and I are well aware that we are one of the only API women in the room.  So, when Chien –Chi told me about the research that supports the need for the Asian Breast Cancer project, I knew she was on to something.  I knew that Asian and API women were, of course, diagnosed with cancer.  In my own family, there were many. Yet, where were they on the message boards, in the support groups, and in outreach?  As the Director of Intercultural Affairs at a college, I know the various cultural reasons why people from Asian or Pacific Islander backgrounds might not engage publicly – I see this play out in the lives of my students and in other Asian American organizations in which I am involved.

Yet, I am also deeply moved by the kind of support that I had from my own sisters.  That being able to talk about cancer, health, our bodies in a safe space has helped our healing. Though I have had these conversations with my siblings, I found it difficult to go to my first ABC event. What will I see? Who will be there? What will this feel like?

Thankfully, I quickly experienced that coming to the Asian Breast Cancer events actually felt like home.  The women looked like my mom, my sisters and my cousins.  I fought the temptation to call them “Tita” and “Ate” or “aunt” and “older sister.”

I was surrounded by women who – though they had different journeys from my own – looked like me.  Many ate the same foods as me and my family.  We felt the same discomfort about talking so openly about our bodies, our relationships with others, and the ways in which cancer, at times, made us feel less than who we are.

The Asian Breast Cancer Project also helped to raise the level of understanding and engagement with others. For example, a few months ago, we invited a nutrition expert to come and talk to the peer leaders. Though there are other nutrition workshops for cancer survivors, we talked about culturally relevant foods and practices. We talked about the role white rice played in our lives and the way our mouths watered when we thought about vinegary fragrance of chicken adobo or kim chi.  We talked about bok choy, noodles, and beef broth – not as “exotic new diets” but simply as “food we eat on a Monday.”

For me, the Asian Breast Cancer Project has been a source of support, encouragement and education. But, it has also served as my foundation of empowerment, of validation and of sisterhood. It feels like home. It feels like family. And, it is a place where I can feel authentically me. Though I am without my breasts and will soon be without my ovaries, with these women, I feel whole.  The wonderfully talented doctors may have saved my life by removing my breasts; but the Asian Breast Cancer has saved my spirit. To be with them is to be in healing.  We can love one another through this.

Please join me as we continue raise awareness of the experiences of patients and survivors from Asian and Pacific Islander heritage.  Yet, as we celebrate love, laughter and life here together in this room, I can’t help but think of all the API patients and survivors who are out there, right now, wondering if there is anyone who understands them, anyone who “gets” them or anyone who could possibly know what it feels like. Help us reach them, uplift them, encourage them, connect with them. Help us laugh with them, celebrate with them, and love them through cancer, recovery, and the many difficult decisions we all make in our lives.

Let us reach out, be brave, and demonstrate that bravery can be about letting ourselves be exposed. Bravery has been about admitting when I cannot handle it all, when I cannot do it by myself, and when I must ask for help. I am thankful for the help, for the kindness, and for the sisterhood that the Asian Breast Cancer has given to me. They help me continue my bravery, and I know I can go to them whenever I feel I just can’t do it by myself. They remind me to be bad, bold, and wiser; hard, tough, and stronger, cool, calm and how to stay together. For me, the Asian Breast Cancer Project is the love that saves the day.

Thank you.”

So, I have hesitated to post my sadness and frustration about the tragic death of Trayvon Martin here. Yet, I’m moved. And you know me … when it hits me, I can’t shake it. 

Whenever I meet a group of people for the first time — via workshops, classes, or training sessions that I facilitate — one of my favorite introductory exercises starts like this: “One thing you can’t tell just by looking at me is __________. That’s important for me to share with you because _________.”  Participants are then asked to complete the sentences and share with the others their answers. Mine usually goes like this:

“Hi! My name is Liza. One thing you can’t tell just by looking at me is that I am an avid runner, I have run half marathons, and I am incredibly physically fit. That’s important for me to share with you because I am a plus-sized woman, I wear a size 16, and most people assume that women with my body are lazy, fat, and don’t care about their health. I’m here to tell you that I’m fit, fabulous, and love how strong my body is both inside and out.”

As we go around the room, people share interesting details about themselves and why those details are so important to them. We then talk about how we often judge people by how they look and the dangers of making assumptions about folks.

As the mother of a son with brown skin, the wife of a husband with brown skin, the aunt of nephews with brown skin, the sister of brothers with brown skin, and a mentor to many young people with brown skin, I am terrified by the death of young Trayvon Martin and of the death of DJ Henry (a young college student from my hometown).  The men and boys in my life already have learned the rules of “looking suspicious” (rules that the young white males in my life do not need for survival).

But, when they have done everything right, and still get hassled, treated as suspicious, or worse, beaten or killed, what is there left to tell them? 

Do I tell my son to not leave the house? To never wear a hoodie? As he gets older, we will tell him to always carry ID, to be well spoken, polite to law enforcement, and to cooperate if he is ever pulled over or pulled aside. Though he may be angry at what is happening to him, he will learn that his anger in the face of authority will rarely lead to a good outcome. He will make decisions about whether or not he will want to, or whether his heart will call him to rise up, protest, and refuse to be treated poorly. And, my husband and I will support him. We will love him through the struggles that come with being a young, brown man in our society. We will love him through the “it’s not fair!’ and the “why me?” and the “why are they treating me this way?” Because we have been there, and unfortunately, hearts and minds don’t always change quickly.

The other day, Joli said to me, “Mommy, if you were a smurf, I’d call you Beauty Smurf.” I replied, “Oh! You’re so sweet! You think I’m beautiful?” She said, “Well, no, actually. I’d call you Beauty Smurf because you like to put on so much makeup that it covers up your beauty. So, if I call you Beauty Smurf, maybe you’ll stop. Your face is pretty, brown, and beautiful.”

Pretty. Brown. Beautiful.

One thing I hope my children, and all children of color, can tell just by looking at me is that being brown is a blessing. It is beautiful. Being brown does not mean we are suspicious. Wearing a hoodie does not make us suspicious.  We are people. We have futures.

And that’s important for me to share with you because a family, a community, and a world lost another young person simply because of how he looked.

When my brother-in-law, an African American man, turned 25 years old, my sister wanted to throw a party — not just to celebrate his birthday, but also to celebrate an age that many young, Black men do not reach because of violence.  On Saturday, my beautiful, brown son is turning 3 years old.

I pray each year that he has many, many, many more. And, I pray that we create a society together that embraces — and does not condemn — him for how he looks.

Peace, love, dignity and humanity,

Liza

I’m addicted.

Singing live was like that feeling of being right at the very top of the roller coaster — you know, those brief 2 seconds when you are teetering, ready to go over the edge. You can see the entire world, and for but a moment, the air feels just right. Your heart is racing, your hands are bracing the railing just seconds before they fly up into the air, your eyes widen, and you take one more breath through your lips. That’s how I’ve felt for the past 24 hours.

That feeling was, of course, made possible by the show of support from all different pockets of friends — people who decided that coming out to a bar at 10:45pm was worth it. That I was worth it. And, though they had never heard a note of the CD, never heard of the band, and didn’t know anyone else there, they came. For me, in that moment, the room was filled with love: the people I loved most, the music that has made me fall in love again, and the love I needed to have for myself to take the risk on stage. I saw friends smiling, my husband cheering me on from the front row, and strangers making eye contact with us.

Though my philosophy of life has been shaped by Joli, my singing has been shaped by Jada. Now, Jada doesn’t get a whole lot of attention on this blog. Mostly because she’s a pretty easy child. In fact, when she was an infant, I actually almost left without her a few times from my parents’ house. Jorge, Joli and I would race out the door, and inevitably, one of my family members would say, “Uh, aren’t you forgetting someone? Ahem. Jada?” Dang. Back up the stairs one of us would go, grab my tiny happy baby all strapped into her car seat, and then head out the door. Head hung in shame.

That “quiet-baby-phase” didn’t last too long though. In fact, that quiet baby evolved into SassyJada.

Sassy. Sassy. Sassy. Jada.

(who, by the way, now insists she ISN’T sassy … as she puts her hands on her hips, stares you down, cranks her neck, and says, “I’m telling you. I am NOT sassy.”)

By the age of 2, Jada was already spittin’ out comebacks, snarky remarks, and comments that would make your head whip around and say, “Um, what did you just say?” Eventually we just had to share these comments with world via Twitter (@sassyjadasays) because they were just too funny to keep to ourselves. Let me be clear, though. Jada isn’t rude, fresh or naughty. Just the opposite. She’s the sweetest little bug-a-boo you ever want to be around. She just also keeps it real. Very, very real.

About a year and a half ago, Jada was the one who called me out for not following my dreams. And, now, two live shows later, I can’t believe I didn’t try earlier.

Singing, for me, has always been a part of my being. I’ve always been a singer. My earliest memories are of making my Mama Lola (grandmother) sit and watch me sing the entire soundtrack of “Grease.” (little did I know what the lyrics meant!). In elementary school, I’d sit on my front porch with my friend Amy Burke and, at the top of our lungs, sing the entire soundtrack to “Annie.” That soon led to writing my own songs, composing the music, and even starting a fake band called “Ceryous” (a.k.a. “Serious” like “Are you SERIOUS?”) with my friend Jill Horowitz. Jill and I even sent out fake pitch letters — early signs that I’d love grant writing as an adult — to my relatives asking them for money to help produce our first album. No one sent us anything. Maybe it was because we were only 11 years old and wrote it in magic marker on old scrap paper from my Dad’s office.

Soon came Show Choir (please, no one post the pink fuscia dresses that we had to wear. The image of me still makes my sister Mary pee her pants from laughing so hard!). Musical theater. Then, Williams Street Mix acappella. Then APC Rhythm in New York City. Started my own acappella group at the private school where I taught. Then, I sort of lost the confidence in singing publicly. Soon, singing became only something I did to pass the time with Joli in chemo.

But, now, singing is my drug. I love the high, and I find ways to re-create it all the time. The car. My desk. Walking the grocery aisles. I actually downloaded a “Countdown” app for my phone so I can watch how much time is left until our next show.

(Shameless plug: April 13th at Gulu Gulu cafe in Salem, MA; probably a 10pm start time)

I breathe it.

I owe this to a then 4- year old. A four year old girl who reminded me that I’d never know unless I tried. I shudder to think what I would have missed.

She was right.

Peace, love, and moving through the risk,

Liza

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