“It’s Cancer, Deal!” by Guest Mug Upper, Jan

Update: I feel like I owe my regular Mug Uppers a blog post on what happened since I last wrote here, but I have other things I’d rather share right now. So the BRIEF update is that breaking my ankle in three places was about as far from my neuro oncologist’s plan for my medical leave to “rest my brain from the effects of chemo” and work on a “neuro cognitive rehab” plan as you can imagine. So, a lot has been going on since that day I fell and I’m working my way back to mobility, balance, driving, and building my “cognitive load” while also learning how to deal with anxiety, depression and PTSD. It’s a lot to work on at once.

Med appointmentsIf all goes well, I hope to be back to work in about two months. That’s about all I feel like saying for an update right now other than to assure you I am getting better. Some days really do still suck but I know my tribe of family, friends, medical trusted ones and my church all have my back. There have been a lot of changes, but one thing has remained true – I love and crave authentic voices. So, with that, a bit about today’s Guest Mug Up. 

This Mug Upper is the sister of a friend of mine. Her name is Jan and she owns a Pilates Studio in Brooklyn, NY. Jan was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2012. Motivated by her own rehab process and a desire to work with other individuals with breast cancer, she recently became certified as a Breast Cancer Exercise Specialist through the Pink Ribbon Program™. 

Recently I asked my tribe if anyone had connections to help me secure 40 journals and pens for an upcoming woman’s breast cancer retreat. The response was actually rather overwhelming – donations from new friends and old. In particular, Jan’s sister, my friend Dywer, sent me an Amazon link and offered to buy journals in honor of her sister and she sent me Jan’s blog so I’d understand why. I read Jan’s blog and immediately asked if she’d let me use her blog as a guest post. And here we are today…

I wrote to Jan and asked her what we’d have if we were to Mug Up together and I loved her reply. “My mug up or beverage of choice is always coffee, excessive amounts”! 

So, here is today’s guest Mug Up – “It’s Cancer, Deal!” by Jan Leahy

Jan-avatar
I thought I had a cancer a million times before I actually got cancer.

I am a worst case scenario kind of girl. I like to lay my scenario on a friend (not a new friend, that would be risky), come up with the triage plan, and then treat myself to an evening of Netflix and raw cookie dough in celebration of another, not really close, call averted.

Here’s a typical meltdown:

“Gigi, I have a serious, came out of nowhere, bump on my arm. It is more like a tumor, really, with all the symptoms of cancer. It is kind of growing as I speak, all spikey and asymmetrical. My nodes feel swollen. Where do you go to confirm arm cancer? Is there an arm cancer? Am I the first? How shitty is it that I have cancer of the arm and no one has any experience dealing with it? Why live in New York if we can’t muster up an arm cancer specialist at Sloane?”

Then Gigi will remind me I tripped over my dog’s leash and fell on my arm last week.
I am relieved.

Relieved enough to celebrate with cupcakes and feel rewarded for a whole five congratulatory minutes before the self-loathing kicks in.

When I found a rash on my nipple, and it migrated a bit, I saw my dermatologist, aired out the skin cancer scenario with a few key friends and started making the cookie dough.
Instead, I was told I had breast cancer.

I had grossly under-diagnosed for the first time in my life. How does a nipple rash jump to breast cancer?

It does if it is Paget’s Disease. According to the National Cancer Institute, by the time the rash shows up, there is usually an invasive tumor inside the breast.

As it turns out the Paget’s cells making up the rash on my nipple were ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS – not the television show). This means the cancer cells were contained in this one area.

Oncologists like to call DCIS “pre-cancer.” My oncologist compared it to a bank robbery. The robbers have got the Halloween masks and cased the joint, but they were stopped at the front door by the police.

Whatever. I ended up having a mastectomy, so I feel like the robbers got into the bank, had a dance party in the vault and shook down bystanders for loose change.

I had two options for treatment:

A lumpectomy, which would take the nipple and the areola and seven weeks of daily radiation in case there was post-surgical cancer inside the breast.

A mastectomy with likely no radiation to follow up.

Going to Manhattan 5 times a week for 7 weeks seemed like a huge pain in the ass. I had spent most of my Brooklyn life avoiding Manhattan, except for seeing my sister and getting Nespresso pods. Decision made.

Choosing a mastectomy meant reconstruction.

In fact, I do not remember NOT reconstructing ever being discussed as an option. I remember mastectomy and reconstruction being billed as a pair, taking X amount of time for surgery, X amount of time to put in a spacer, X amount of time to expand the spacer, X amount of time to replace the spacer with an implant, X amount of time to heal, X amount of time until the implant has to be replaced.

I remember thinking I could have another child before I get a less than an A cup replacement.

Paget’s Disease rarely occurs in the second breast, so I really only had to contend with reconstructing one breast. I spent an afternoon flipping through albums at my plastic surgeon’s. Getting a matching pair seemed to me an impossibility.

And so it was clear for me. Mastectomy, no reconstruction, back to life as I know it, a cancer blip on the big screen of life.

People asked me repeatedly why I chose not to reconstruct, so I needed a backstory.

I spent a lot of time contemplating: what do I care about on my body that would be hard to let go off?

I could cut my hair off, but it would grow back.

I could get rid of my wrinkles, but I like the life that earned them.

I could whiten my teeth, but I am the most caffeinated person I know, so one week of coffee later, and what was the point?

But if you took six inches off my height, I would take you outside and put you down like Old Yeller.

In other words, being shorter would make me feel like something had been taken from me. The amount of space I occupy in the world would change, and I wanted all of my space.

To prep for the actual surgery, I read a lot of books and was fixated on the words they used to describe it.

Peel. Tunnel. Harvest.

Okay, peel skin, peel an apple, peel an onion to reveal the many layers underneath. Tunneling could be adorable if you imagined your beagles tunneling under the covers at night. But harvest kept bringing up images of my surgeon as an alien, with fingers ending in scalpels, poking, lifting, flapping my skin and muscle, harvesting what he could to study and destroy the human race…

I popped a Xanax while waiting for the surgery.

Donna
Donna & Jan

I was pretty sure it wasn’t working. I was called to a consultation room where my breast surgeon was waiting. He asked me my name and my birthday, as if he hadn’t held my hand or fondled my breast every visit. I believe I said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He responded in a very leading-the-witness kind of way: “You are here to have a single breast mastectomy, without reconstruction, is that correct?”

I said “Yes.”

He said: “Which breast?”

I replied “Seriously?” It occurred to me when I said “Seriously?’ that I sounded exactly like my three-year old son when informed by my ex that some day, very soon, he would be responsible for wiping his own ass. Seriously?

It was a tough call between “are the nodes clean?” and “is there any coffee?” when I woke up from surgery, but I went with the nodes. And then a celebratory coffee. I then fixated on getting ahead of the pain which had been suggested more than once. I pounded a pre-emptive Vicodin like a professional junkie.

For some reason, I kept imagining a hole where my breast was instead of a flat surface. I remember the surgeon saying I wouldn’t have cleavage anymore and me thinking, “of course I will.” It is not really conceivable until you have seen it, and even then, I could not get it straight in my head.

I might have spent some time in a Vicodin haze looking for my cleavage.

Probably harvested and on the mothership by then.

I did not look at the scar for a while. I am a firm believer if you can’t see it, you were not meant to.

It helped that the scar was covered with cornrows of tape. The edges of it looked red and pissed. And big. It ran from what was my cleavage into my armpit.

I had seen the scar left on reconstructed chests before, and those were much smaller. Everyone was commenting about what a great job my surgeon had done, but I was thinking he cut himself a big fucking window to get out the tiniest breast ever.
When you reconstruct, you try to save as much skin as possible. If you are not reconstructing, the excess skin is trimmed so the ends come together “tidily.” It looked like something had ripped itself out of my chest, and the doctor spent as much time wrestling with my alien breast baby, as he did taping the gaping hole left behind.
This is the part where I am supposed to tell you that I have no regrets about not reconstructing.

I don’t. Seriously.

Especially because five years later, I got the most beautiful tattoo that I have ever seen. But that’s a story for another day.

My cancer could have gone a different route entirely, with a much worse outcome. I know, because I saw it play out less than 4 years later with my sister Donna.
I rarely think about the day I was told I had breast cancer. It is not even in my top 10 worst days.

Kelly
Kelly

I do think about that day in the waiting room before surgery. I wanted 3 people with me: my sister Donna, my ex, and my best friend Kelly. One of them died, one of them left, and one of them moved. Perspective is everything.

I am just glad I had them all together in that moment, whatever the reason. If I had to do it again, I would definitely have a least two of them with me.

Shit happens. I accept it with resignation some days and futile protest others.

Not reconstructing dovetailed seamlessly with all the other life lessons Donna taught me.

If you don’t want to spend months warming up your child’s milk, don’t do it the first time.

If you have no staying power and commitment issues, don’t change your hair color.

If the guy you’re dating says he doesn’t want to be in a serious relationship, believe him.

If you like having the bed to yourself, go to your kids’ rooms when they have nightmares and crate train that whiny puppy.

If you do not want cancer to define you, figure out what does, and move on. More shit is coming.

-Jan Leahy
Henry Street Pilates
jan@henrystreetpilates.com

~Mug Up Mermaid

Resting is Exhausting

5 days after my last blog post, I broke my leg in three places. Really. I fell on black ice. After trying to save a lost dog. And a police office drove right by me. Really.

So. I’m working on so many things to get better. And crying. And sweating. And praying. And being wrapped in love in so many ways. Soon I hope to be playing In AZ thanks to my tribe of friends (another blog for another day). I still believe in “effort” = “result”. It’s just taking even more sweat and love and patience and grace.

~Mug Up Mermaid

“F*ck – Do I Have to do a Marathon Now”?

Post by Mermaid Julie Ann…

If you followed this blog BC (before cancer) you know I was just trying to get used to people reading my writing as I worked on a side project of writing a book. Since I was 8 years old, I’ve wanted to be a writer.  I even won a writing contest and got to meet William Armstrong.
Zach

I continued to write over the years, but starting the blog was a bold step. At first, I think I had a total of 3 followers, which was great. I wasn’t really ready to have people read my thoughts, but something was telling me it was time. Then, BOOM. Cancer. My plans changed. Cancer has a way of shoving your plans right out the window. On the day of my diagnosis, my blog changed. My voice changed. I found myself having a lot to say and curiously, more than 3 people wanted to listen.  

Mostly, I knew from day one that I would only be able to be authentic, even when it got ugly. I didn’t know how ugly it would get for me. Initially I did not know anyone my age that had gone through breast cancer. As I got to know other “breast sisters”, I found that when we were together, our voices were honest, pure, authentic and clear. Publicly we all put on a brave face and try to live up to the impossible standard of being “warriors” or “thrivers” or “survivors” or whatever the PC cancer label is du jour. But the truth is,  beast mode looks different for all of us. And there is much you don’t see.

As of earlier this week, I am back out on medical leave. It was a hard decision to make as I wanted to power through and just put cancer behind me. I had just spent two months diving back into complicated work projects and reconnecting with colleagues. It felt good to be back until it wasn’t. I have been diagnosed with a host of neuro cognitive issues that are related to the chemotherapy and probably my autoimmune disease and other spine issues. Flat out, my brain is not working as it once did and to say I have “chemo brain” feels like a punch line and not a realistic portrait of what is going on… I have significant deficits in areas of my brain that are scary. I’ve had a car accident, falls/trips almost everyday (including hitting my head) and anxiety that makes me want to crawl into a ball. The psychological damage has been building. My inability to read, process information, organize, recall conversations, make decisions and calculate numbers were all interfering with my ability to do my job well.

Going back out on medical leave has given me a new job. To heal. Or, as my favorite doctor and friend reminded me, this cancer journey is not a sprint…it is a marathon. Shit. I guess I am actually doing a f*cking marathon. But not with sneakers on. Today I’m wearing slippers. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wear sneakers or LL Bean boots…or cowboy boots if I feel like kicking ass. Point is, I get to choose and as much as people want me to be the strong cancer warrior, my strength comes in a different form that you might not see right now. My strength right now is focused on taking the time to heal my whole person. Maybe down the road I’ll get the bug to do a road race or a triathlon, but for today, my marathon is getting my brain re-trained, healing the trauma my body and mind experienced and speaking up for what I need. Even if it is just rest.

zach

I don’t write this for sympathy. I write to be honest and not being willing to contribute to the “Be Positive and Wear Pink!” cancer culture that often doesn’t feel authentic. Platitudes and pressures abound and even though I put on a happy face in pictures during chemo, hair loss and trying to go back to work, my loved ones could see what was really going on. Just look at my eyes. Media and cultural stereotypes of the breast cancer warrior/survivor who is conquering literal mountains, while well intentioned (maybe), can make the person who isn’t feeling strong enough or positive enough or planning to run a marathon feel like they are not “doing cancer right”. Well, I call bullshit.

As I was finishing chemo, I met a woman who was a few months ahead of me in her recovery. We are the same age and both have high level professional jobs. Something she said to me has just stuck with me and was one of the most honest things I’ve heard since I was diagnosed. She said when she was diagnosed, her first thought was, “F*ck! Do I have to do a triathlon now?” Right? Everywhere you look there are women who work through chemo and radiation, they climb Mt. Kilimanjaro and begin to run marathons and never take a day off from work. And then there are everyone else. Including me. And that is ok.

I decided to reframe how I think about my marathon. Some days my marathon training has been organizing a drawer in less than 8 hours or working for 4 hours and going home and not collapsing in a puddle of tears and frustration or going to the grocery store and not needing to take anxiety medications. Now, being on medical leave, my training will be full of more medical appointments, therapy, yoga, massage, going to the gym and adjustments to medication so that I can return to work soon. I hope to write but some days that is too difficult. And yet, I’m determined that the marathon training will include joy. Time with family. Time with loved ones. Time to appreciate the change of season and the approaching anniversary of my diagnosis. I am making it through. I’ll cheer you on if you are doing an actual marathon or triathlon and I know you’ll cheer me on as I take this time to heal. With love, Julie Ann aka Mug Up Mermaid
Support Friends

*I am still accepting guest bloggers – no topic assignment other than authenticity!

~Mug Up Mermaid

“Under all that charred wreckage was the heartwood. Bruised. Scarred. But still good. Still capable of growth. ” Gwen Mitchell, Rain of Ash

 

“Scars of the Heart” by Guest Mug Upper, Lin

Today’s guest Mug Upper is my friend and “sistah”, Lin Daniels. A published writer of devotionals, it was no surprise she answered my call for guest writers on “stories behind their scars”. After forty years, Lin retired from teaching physical education, all but one year serving at the elementary school level. Her twin sister (Pat) and she are avid golfers and especially enjoy playing as partners. As such, each time they play they negotiate which identical clothing to wear but choose one item (usually a hat) to be different. When I asked Lin what we’d have for our Mug Up if we were with each other, she said Diet Coke or hot chocolate, “but not together”! Please know as you read Lin’s blog that you are not alone. If you need someone to talk to, to mug up with, to sit with, to pray with…we are both here for you. Anytime.

~Mug Up Mermaid

A few years ago I convinced Lin and Pat to walk the beach at sunrise, during a snow storm!

“I felt like I had just lost the greatest battle of my life. My mom had battled depression for twenty plus years. I don’t remember her smiling much. But despite her struggles, us kids knew she loved us. We stayed the course along with her – through counseling, physical ailments related to emotional distress and many dark days. In particular, I felt it was “my job” to encourage her and keep her alive…

Lin’s mom holding her grand baby, Jen

Despite our best efforts, she eventually took her own life. Where was God? I was sure He could have caused her suicide attempt to be unsuccessful – so why didn’t He?

I felt a mix of two emotions – anger and thankfulness. I could either stay mad at God that He didn’t intervene or I could give thanks for all the times He kept her alive over those many black years. In an intentional decision, I embraced thankfulness…

In the first few days after her death, I asked God to change her taking her own life and bring something positive out of it. Even as I spoke those words to heaven, I could not envision how anything remotely good could ever surface from this. But I knew enough about God to hope that He could and would.

A tragedy remains forever a tragedy unless it is shared and brings hope to someone else. 

To my surprise, God opened up opportunities over the years to walk with others suffering loss from a loved one’s suicide.

…I was blessed to escort a teacher friend as she returned to work for the first time after her son’s suicide. She had specifically asked me to accompany her, so I did. I don’t remember saying anything, but I DID stand right next to her as she greeted over thirty tearful friends.

…A sixth grade girl came to school distraught because the previous evening her mother had tried to slit her own wrists. The guidance counselor was not around so I volunteered to visit with her. No, I am not a brave person with lots of wise words. But my heart knew her pain, like few others. The young lady and I had a teary chat.

The scars from Mom’s suicide have become duller and somewhat faded. But they become fresh anew whenever I encounter another one on that same journey. Each time I reach out to another hurting soul a little healing occurs in the their heart…and also in mine.” By Lin Daniels

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support. Resources are available both by phone and online for you or your loved ones. www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org


The Unexpected Blessing of a Hot Flash

Last night I was cold so my electric blanket was on high and I had an extra fleece blanket on top of me.  I put on a winter hat on that someone had knitted me as well as an extra heating pad on my “foobs” (they get crazy cold – something I knew nothing about before my breast reconstruction and the joys of winter tempearatures). snug in bed

We were having a snow storm with temperatures expected to drop very low. I got warm and snuggly in bed, ready to watch some mindless Netflix and then WHAM – a hot flash. Truth be told, before bed, it had been a hard night of them. I lost count, but I had something like a dozen since dinner. And then I got cold. Chilled to the bone as they say.

These hot flashes are just one of the fun side effects of my chemo and the drugs I now take everyday to prevent (hopefully) the cancer from spreading. Going into immediate menopause with no gradual transition has been well, not fun. For someone who was always cold before, I thought hot flashes would be a welcome relief, even maybe a blessing to my forever cold hands and feet. How naive. There really hasn’t been much that I’d call a relief or a blessing about cancer and hot flashes definitely didn’t fit into that category…Until last night.

So as the hot flash became more intense and I felt like I couldn’t breathe and everything in my head was pounding, I threw off my comforter and then the sheets…and then my socks…and my pjs. (Sorry, if this too much information but it’s true and that’s my promise with this blog.) I went to get an ice pack (well, frozen corn) out of the freezer and held it to my forehead. Not enough relief. So I opened the bathroom window to get a blast of cold air and it worked. I could breathe again.

And then, I realized I could hear the ocean and I was instantly at peace. My head quieted down and I could just breathe in the cool air while listening to the quiet roar of the surf. Storms always make it easier to hear the ocean from my house. Suddenly I was so thankful for that moment of an extreme hot flash. I would have gone to bed without hearing one of my favorite sounds.

Thank you, Hot Flash #13+ for that blessing. Now, can you just please stay away for a few hours tonight so I can get some sleep, keep my clothes on and leave the corn in the freezer? I promise to open the window to listen for the ocean before I crawl into bed.

If you are not near the oean, listen for 30 seconds and enjoy the blessing of the surf.

Sweet dreams. Breathe.

Up next, a guest blogger will be continuing the “Stories behind the Scars” series…and a Julie Ann blog that has been in the works for a few months. Until then, enjoy a Mug Up with someone. Send your pictures and tell us what you Mug Up about!

~Mug Up Mermaid

“Behind, Beyond the Scars” by Guest Mug Upper, Sandy

Today’s guest Mug Upper is my friend, dog lover and sister breast cancer survivor, Sandy Duross. When I asked for guest bloggers to write about their stories behind their scars, I knew Sandy would volunteer to write. She is a published poet and loves to play with words and often finds the whimsy in any situation. I love this picture she sent to go with the blog – it speaks of positivity in the face of the scars from her cancer journey. I asked Sandy for a bio to introduce her to my readers… here it is in her own words:

“In retrospect, if not for years of challenge and adversity, I might not have been as prepared, albeit blind-sided, for the unexpected onslaught of breast cancer. In retrospect, I have come to see challenge as my personal trainer, a fit-for-gym-class psychological work-out in preparation for whatever is to come. And so it is, as past and future participant in this nothing-short-of-miracle event called life, I seek only to embrace the moment; to thrive not only in survivor mode but as conqueror with a purpose. As life and circumstance-taught philosopher, poet, singer, and writer, I seek only to compose a legacy of musings to help overcome the fear, pain and anguish that a cancer diagnosis can instill. My hope, my prayer, my belief is that I’ve only just begun.”

When I asked her what we would drink for a Mug Up together she replied in her lighthearted way, “If “mug” as in a real mug, definitely coffee…but white wine is up my alley too, just not in a mug”.

Sandy and I have shared coffee while I was in the hospital and recently at Dunkin’s, so now I am looking forward to a white wine Mug Up with her soon. Shhh… don’t tell her I’m not a stranger to having wine in a mug – just ask my sister about a long ago Halloween, but that is a story for another day. Today, it’s time to Mug Up with Sandy…

“Behind, beyond the wound, the scars, the missing body part, lies the same persona as before; the same woman, although albeit a bit more seasoned, wizened, and certainly more cognizant and appreciative of this given called life.  Behind the obvious lies the not-so-obvious…a story of change and acceptance, of adapting and modifying, of living in the moment because you have discovered moment becomes momentous when it is threatened or otherwise compromised.  Yes behind, beyond the scare of a lifetime, lies the challenge to overcome, lies opportunity for growth, for seeking and discovering new purpose, for allowing your scars to tell their own story and make a difference even as you seek to make sense of the non-sensible.  And yes, behind, beyond the smile of survival and gratitude that graces your face, lies a certain apprehension and uncertainty of what is to come.  Yet behind, beyond the scars that serve as reminder, the neuropathy and occasional lapses of memory that accompany treatment, lies a spirit that belies your momentary fears for the future…and oh, behind, beyond your visible as well as invisible scars, lies the heart, the soul of a conqueror…let it be so.” By Sandy Duross

~Mug Up Mermaid

“A Sharp Left Turn” by Guest Mug Upper, Ben

Ben & FamilyOn Mug Up Mermaid’s Facebook page, I asked if there were any guest bloggers who would write a blog based on the quote: “Behind every scar is a story of untold survival”. I’ve been learning that there is power, a “super healing power” of love that happens when we share the stories behind (and beyond) our scars. So today, I present my first guest Mug Upper, my cousin Ben. Ben is a Staff Sergent with the 15th Military Intelligence Battalion in Fort Hood, Texas. With this blog, I feel his super powers of love… love for family and country and for others through his message. When I asked him what we would drink for a Mug Up if we could be together, he replied, “Right now a water. But otherwise it’d be a sweet tea or a beer.” To understand why he chose water, here’s a hint… His suggested title for this blog was “AFib Sucks”.

~

I’m Ben. I’m 32 years old, I’ve been in the Army since I was in high school (13 years ago), I’ve deployed numerous times, I’ve been around the world, I’m a Night Stalker, and I’ve seen the worst combat has to offer on a daily basis over two deployments working Medevac. I’ve been a gym junkie, I’ve run circles around my peers, and have always sought out the next challenge to take it head on. Unfortunately in February 2018 all the momentum that I’ve had made a sharp left turn.

Ben working out

I woke up early to get ready for our first formation of the day and do my daily workout. At the time I was preparing for a physical fitness test and was trying to get my two-mile run time down. But I felt weird, I felt like I had a chest cold coming on. After I got back home for breakfast and get ready for the duty day, I took a hot shower and it made me feel worse. I debated going to see the doctor but decided against it. In the Army you can’t just call in sick to work. You have to physically go see the doc and convince him why you should stay home for the day. Unless there’s a plethora of bodily fluids, the doc just sends you back to work. So I work until noon and as I get up from my desk, I felt light headed, dizzy, like I stood up way too fast. That’s it, I had enough. I called the unit medic and asked him just if he could take my vital signs, maybe then I can backdoor getting some good cold & flu medicine without seeing the doctor or buying it over the counter. He convinced me to go with him to the ER just to get me checked out.

I get to the ER and I tell the admit nurse my symptoms, and she got me back to get an EKG done since she couldn’t get my vitals at the desk. I had four nurses working with me. One trying to take my shirt off, one trying to put it back on, one putting the stickers on my chest, and the fourth trying to get my name, date of birth, and admin data. One yelled out “Oh my God, he’s in A-fib!” and all four run out of the room. Well if there’s anything that was going to finish the job and give me a heart attack it would have been that. I texted the medic and he reassured me that I would be OK, and plenty of people have it. I get back into a room, and my wife shows up with her mother, they were running errands together. After I had some IV fluids, the doc said that I would be getting admitted for overnight observation so they can do an electric cardioversion the next day at another facility.

I’m in my duty uniform and I ask my wife to go back to my office and get my workout clothes (that I would have worn for my lunchtime workout) because I wanted to be comfortable and not wearing my OCP’s. As she’s out grabbing my clothes, the doc tells me that I’ll be observed overnight in ICU so they can keep a close eye on me and that I would be taken care of until my cardioversion the next day. Cool, it made sense to me, and I texted my wife “They’re sending me to ICU”… with no back story. So now she’s FREAKING out, hurrying up to get back to me, and yelling at me for not telling her that I was OK. AND YET FOR SOME REASON AT THE TIME I HAD NO IDEA WHY SHE WAS UPSET WITH ME…

Ben & Tanya

I get moved to ICU, my wife confiscated my phone (so I couldn’t keep up with my Clan) and after channel flipping for a few hours I finally decide to get some rest. My wife was resting on the couch beside my bed. At 4:30 in the morning the nurse that was watching me came in to do a lab draw from my IV line. She woke me up just to let me know. I sit up and I start getting hot, I started sweating like I was sitting on the sun, I kick the blankets off, and I feel my bowels start to open up. I tried pulling out my IV because I felt a panic that I needed to poop. I struggle with the nurse as she calls for help, pulls my emergency pull-cord, and the come rushing in with a crash cart. My wife woke up with me, and only went in to use the restroom and when she came out she saw all the commotion. I turned pale gray, my eyes rolled into the back of my head and my heart rate sank and the monitor started beeping “CODE BLUE”. After what seemed like forever, only lasted up to 45 seconds as the nurse pushed a heart rate increaser to get me beating again, and then a controller/reducer to get it back where it belongs.

I wake up to see two doctors staring at my monitor. They kept talking to each other “vagal… vagal… vagal…” “Why are you guys talking about bagels? Now I’m hungry” I asked them. “No, Mr. Wing. Vagal. You passed out and we brought you back.” So my nickname for the rest of the time was Bagel. Following that I was transported for a successful cardioversion (which by the way was a total let down. I was expecting Noah Wylie grabbing the paddles yelling “CLEAR!!!” Nope. They put a sticker on my chest, a sticker on my back, plugged it into a battery pack and pushed a button. TOTALLY ANTI-CLIMATIC!) And kept one more night for observation just in case I flat-lined again. I went home the next day without incident.

Ben & Tanya 2

Then it happened again ten months later. A lot less drama, and only took eight hours between reporting to the ER to being cardioverted. But this is the issue that has led me down this path. The military glorifies energy drinks. Don’t believe me? The main picture on the Army’s portal website is a kid in his vest and helmet with an energy drink sitting right in front of him. We use energy drinks as a pre workout, to get through our 24-hour duties, we hand them out as we go through our pre-deployment processing, and they’re in the chow halls. I had a habit in Afghanistan to cram as many as I could in my cargo pockets, ankle pockets, in an extra to-go plate, and in my hands to bring back to my office. I’d stack them all in a pyramid on my desk and drink them all within a 12-hour shift. I was hooked on them. It was essentially substance abuse. And this was the price I paid. I haven’t touched one since Valentines 2018, but even then I think the damage has been done. Am I saying I want all energy drinks banned? Not at all. I did this to myself because I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t have enough self-control to stop drinking two 20oz back to back within ten minutes of each other. I’m not picking one up ever again.

Ben & Family 2

So, this is my call to action to you, reading this. Stop drinking these things so much. Stop relying on them to get you through your day. We’ve gotten through life without them as a crutch for generations. But it is possible to go to a point that there’s no turning back from. I’m proof of it. The only reason I’m still here today was because I was in the ICU when my heart rate tanked. If I were at home in bed, then I would have died laying right next to my wife and down the hall from my kids. I already have one friend who died in bed next to his wife because of energy drinks. I’m lucky I wasn’t next. Hopefully you can read this and make a conscious decision that it’s time to cut back, if you’re going to do it, then do it in moderation. My career as a Soldier is up in the air because of it. What was my initial plan to retire as the Sergeant Major of the Army now turned to hoping I can keep up with these young bucks enough to make it to 20 years.

Thank you.

V/r

Benjamin Wing
SSG, USA
15th MI BN (AE)

~ Mug Up Mermaid

The Blessing of TIME

I’m traveling to Florida today. The last time I was in Florida was just before my mammogram. Yes, that mammogram. I was there for work and managed to get my toes in the water most days after the meetings ended. I had an extra day at the end of the trip and the weather was spectacular. My rental car happened to be a convertible so I went exploring with the top down, music turned up with my Red Sox hat on securely. I felt free.

Three days later my 3D diagnostic mammogram led to an immediate ultrasound. Next came biopsies, additional mammograms and ultrasounds, a breast MRI and the diagnosis. Breast cancer. For the better part of the 8 months since that mammogram I have felt anything but free.

Doctor appointments. Blood work. Bilateral mastectomy. Breast reconstruction. Complications. Chemo. Hormone therapies. Lymphedema. Physical and occupational therapy. More surgeries. Counseling. I don’t think a week went by without some type of doctor appointment or treatment. That carefree afternoon in the convertible was mostly forgotten.

Until this morning.

I’m at Logan Airport on my way to Miami. My first vacation since my diagnosis. A week without doctor appointments and treatments! I woke up thinking about that sunny day back in March and whispered a thank you to God for that spectacular day of joy and freedom before my world was turned upside down. Here’s hoping to capture some of that freedom in the next 7 days!

It’s my annual Miami trip with my Dad. We go most years to see the Pats when they play the Dolphins. Everything fun seems even better now with my “new eyes” so I can’t wait to get there, soak up some sun (yes, with sunscreen), swim in the ocean, walk along the beach, and maybe even play some golf. But more importantly, I’m just so aware of the blessing of time. Time to heal. Time to be with family. Time to have fun. Time to thank God for all the love in my life.

After I get home next week, hopefully I’ll get the ok to return to work by the New Year… my friend Jill sent me this picture early this morning. Coincidence?

PS…

I’ve been promising a guest blog and as soon as my cousin (ahem – Ben!) finishes it, I’ll post it and then there are 2 more in the wings.

~Mug Up Mermaid

Puking Pepto Bismol

Pink Tie

Time for a Mug Up. I have been putting off a new post. I am back out on medical leave and trying to get stronger and build up my immune system while I still deal with the effects of chemo and now hormones with my still changing body. This caught me off guard – I thought I was going to just keep getting stronger each day and had started to work more and added in some other activities.

 

Making Strides

I did my first fundraising walk (thank you to all you “MugUppers” who donated!) as a survivor, went to a Patriots game, attended several large business meetings as well as a swanky fundraiser and ran my first Foundation Board meeting since my diagnosis. 

And then all of a sudden, I crashed. Actually, it was not really all of a sudden if I’m being truthful. I was willing myself to push through because I wanted to be tough and I wanted to “get back to life”.  It was too much too soon. Chemo fog/confusion, fatigue and pain from lymphedema are overwhelming my daily activities and the mental side of healing is becoming harder, not easier. I find depression and anxiety are hard to admit to. In fact, I wasn’t going to write at all about it, but that doesn’t feel authentic and this blog has been my truth… and it isn’t all pretty.  A lot of it just flat out sucks.

sad dayI imagine I’ll write more about the mental health side of all this healing sometime soon. I’ve confided in a few people and sought out specific help. My tribe is all around me. Don’t worry – I just need a few minutes of grief mixed in with the rest of the healing in order for me to be whole. I’ll get there. I do have to get through two more surgeries this month so I’m working on healthy boundaries, rest, exercise and trying to do something positive each day. Yesterday I took a writing class for cancer survivors and they encouraged me to share the below piece – an assignment about color and emotion. I am mostly posting it for them if they decide to find my blog. But for you regular MugUppers, I think you’ll hear a hint of Julie Ann… 

“I must have been about 8 years old. I was sick. Saltines and coke weren’t helping. Mom, being a nurse, always had the solution for making us feel better. This time, she gave me Pepto Bismol. I remember thinking how fun it was to have medicine that was pink. My wallpaper was pink. My favorite Barbie doll dress was pink. I really wanted pink ballet shoes instead of black ones. So when she held out that little cup with thick, pink liquid for me to swallow, well, something about the color seemed to make me have hope that the queasiness would go away. And it did.

Fast forward 40 years and the month of October where I couldn’t escape seeing pink for breast cancer awareness everywhere. Having pink “everything” all month did not give me hope – I actually found it irritating. Until now. Sitting here now I’m remembering the pink of Pepto Bismol and the hope it gave me. And all the pink things I continued to love before breast cancer.pink ring I loved my big pink Bible. I loved a pink stone ring my father gave my mother and now I own. I loved the pink nail polish my grandmother always wore. So, maybe next October I’m just going to tell myself that the world is puking up Pepto Bismol and splashing hope all around and for every time I get irritated, I’m going to try to remember something else I love that is pink. Oh, and for those that know me, in case you are wondering, I still don’t love pink Red Sox hats. That will never change.”

~Mug Up Mermaid

PS – If you wanted to donate to the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer fundraiser, there’s still time!  And don’t forget to check if your employer matches donations!  xo https://www.facebook.com/donate/341891289712175/

Being OK with Loose Ends

straighten crown

convertibleMy cancer journey began exactly 6 months ago today when I first heard the words, “you have breast cancer”. Almost three weeks ago, I had my last chemo session. Finishing chemo was a milestone long circled on my calendar. However, I had not spent much time thinking about the healing still to come in the days and months after. I had already started working a bit before my last chemo session and just figured with chemo behind me I’d be quickly getting back to a “normal” life, increasing my work hours, doing more with my family and friends and just feeling more like myself. Well, it has been a hard three weeks as I struggled to accept what the cumulative side effects of all the past 6 months have done to my body, mind and spirit and how much healing still needs to occur.

I have worked, just not as much as I planned. I have done a few fun things with family and friends, just not as much as my heart craves. I have more therapy, hormone injections and Tamoxifen in my near future. I’m still bald. Chemo brain is real (this week I put toothpaste on a razor…). My immune system is compromised and I get sick easier now. I have to wear a mask on campus, in grocery stores and in crowds because of all the germs. I get anxious, confused and depressed. My body just shuts down from exhaustion and I am not able to finish things. Work projects have been delayed over and over. I have 3 blog posts started that I haven’t gone back to edit and post. Laundry piles up. I’m behind in thank you notes, calls, bills, and all the “should do’s” like buying a pumpkin and mums for the front door and putting away my summer clothes and…

And yet…

inhale love

I am inhaling love every day.  Not a single person in my life has made me feel like I am behind schedule or that I need to hurry up and get back to “normal”. The pressure has all come from myself. So today on this six month milestone, I am letting go of that pressure. I am so grateful for the army of angels that surrounds me with love. This army has helped me know that I have a new normal and we are in this together. I am not alone in the new normal and I accept that it will keep changing. And that is ok. The loose ends will get tied together in their time. In the meantime, I’m inhaling love and exhaling gratitude.

~Mug Up Mermaid