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How's Jen?
June 25, 2007 (Please Take My Children to Work Day.)
Dear MommaSaid fans:
I don't know where to start, so I'm going to get right to it: I've got some bad news and some good news.
The bad news is that I found out I have non-Hodgkin's lymphoma in my lungs. (No, I never smoked. It's a blood disorder and I
guess my lungs seemed like a nice place for the tumor to hang out.) My prognosis is very good; we've already shrunk this sucker by a quarter
in mass and it hasn't spread beyond my lungs. The doctors think I won't need radiation, but it'll be a long summer of chemo, hospitals,
treatments and trying very hard to maintain my sense of humor through it all.
The good news part is that the prognosis is very, very good. Also, that our kitchen will be gutted at the same time I have half the neighborhood
cooking for me. Wasn't that brilliant? That's smart cancer planning if there ever was any.
I have a wonderful support system in place. My husband is absolutely spectacular and my kids are, too. My college friends gave Nick a Yankees blanket
and Chris a Mets blanket. I wake up from naps with a different blanket on each time. It's like the Subway Series of the Couch. So far, the Mets are in the lead.
My family and friends have all pitched in, making sure the kids get to swim team practice and the house gets cleaned (around the contractors' mess.) And my fearless
MommaSaid team, Danielle, my assistant, Robin, my publicist, Ed, my manager, and Wendy, my literary agent, are helping keep MommaSaid ready for the next chapter of
fun. We've just got to get through this bump in the road. Okay, it's more of a hill.
 I will try my best to keep blogging when I'm not in the hospital. Knowing that I can make you laugh helps give me else something to pull for. My Good Housekeeping
blog, Good Grief!, will stay on schedule, as I racked up a bunch of entries before all this hit. So do visit and visit often. Tell your friends!
If you'd like to send me an e-mail, please use our special e-mail address below, as I need to keep my personal e-mail open for doctors and silly 4 a.m. messages
from my brother, who appeared in my hospital room one morning with an iPod full of fantastic songs for me, from the inspirational, to the wonderfully
goofy, such as "Video Killed the Radio Star" and Austin Powers' version of "Just the Two of Us."
I may not be able to answer all your messages, but I will read all of them. You may feel like you want to rush here and bring a casserole, but
I've got food and support. What I could use from you are your well wishes, cheerleading and humor.
Send me your funny kid stories and photos and I'll share them online.
We'll laugh through this together.
From my desk in our walk-out basement, I can see the frame for what will be MommaSaid's new World Headquarters come this fall. I can't wait to write loads of books
and blog entries for you from there. I am finishing up a book due out from Sourcebooks next spring, so look for it for next Mother's Day!
Meanwhile, do drop by now and then to see what I've got going on here, and please, hug your kids for me.
Thank you and much love,
Jen
P.S. I'll post some photos of my construction this week so you can see how crazy it is here.
Update: June 29th:
I posted some new things for you today. Check out Mommablog and
MommaHeard for some blog entries. And see my wig and house demo photos at MommaBlog Photo Album.
Some nice folks sent in some funny photos for the Guest Room. Please send yours in, too.
I'll be in the hospital next week, with a great view of the fireworks over the East River. I'll try to get my husband to post some blog entries for
me while I'm out, so do drop by.
Thanks for your well wishes and support.
Jen
Update: June 30th:
We had a crew here cleaning out our kitchen, because the contractor will be gutting it on Monday. My house is a metaphor for my body: a bit of a mess now,
but we're building it up even nicer than before.
 We shaved my head today -- first into a Mohawk. Then we shaved it all off, so drop by the MommaBlog Photo Album for photos.
My good friend and fellow soccer coach Dmitri also had his head shaved at the same time in support. We will be the bald soccer coaches.
Note that my friend Diane promised she would never shave her head for me, but I still love her. Thanks Dmitri!
Then we headed down to our community lake for the Fourth of July festivities, including a tug of war and an ice cream eating contest. Nick
says I came in first for the women, but I had too much ice cream on my face to see what was going on.
The doctor says I should get out and have fun as much as possible this weekend, and we are. I head back to the hospital on Monday for more chemo.
I will try to institute an ice cream eating contest on the oncology floor. At least no one has to worry about getting hair in their food.
Jen
Update: July 1st:
 We made it down to the lake for the annual Fourth of July Fireworks display. Everyone barbecues all day, and I got a chance
to catch up with friends and neighbors while mooching their food. (Thank you Smalleys, Galascios and Coutts.)
An orchestra plays along with the show, ending with "God Bless America." Chris sat in my lap again this year, and promises
to be there again next year. It was awfully nice of the community to throw such a big party for me before my second round of chemo.
Drop by the MommaBlog Photo Album for photos.
I'll be back in the hospital tomorrow for the week, but I'll try to blog from there, if I can get Pete to post for me. I'll
see the New York fireworks over the East River on Wednesday. I'm packing my Statue of Liberty costume for the event, but I can't bring the bullhorn. Hey, is she bald?
I am.
See you soon.
Jen
Update: July 6:
 Katina was a tough cookie. 84 going on 30, my hospital roomie had so many people who loved her, our room was filled with her wonderful greek family members day and night (I called it my Big, Fat Greek Hospital
Room.)
When she left me in the hospital two weeks ago, she rolled out on a stretcher with two burly NYC EMTs and a big smile. Apparently, she spent her final days praying for me before passing peacefully surrounded by family on Monday afternoon.
Katina must have magical powers, because my tumor shrunk from a softball-sized mass to a walnut. Thank you, Katina. You are missed and loved. I'll have a Greek cookie in your honor.
Jen
Update: July 11th, but wasn't posted until the 16th because the contractors knocked out my power.
My son tells me that when we vacation at the Jersey Shore next year, I will have to wait on everyone in the family hand and foot, as they are waiting on me this year. So far, they've done my laundry, made my meals, brought me snacks and drinks, driven me to a surf shop to buy a sweatshirt and set up my chair at the beach. In short, I am living Paris Hilton's life, minus the jail stint and the expensive wardrobe.
Lucky for me, though, paparazzi doesn't wait for me at the ice cream shop, though I am aware that people are staring at me. I know what they're thinking: "Poor woman. Cancer so young." Also, "Glad it's not me."
 But let me reassure you fellow vacationers what I'm thinking at that moment: "Do they have hot fudge and how much of it can I slather on my ice cream before it crosses the line from gleeful, enjoy-life-while-you-can dessert-eating to drop-the-spoon-and-put-your-hands-where-I-can-see-them gluttony?"
Still, a part of me wants to wear a T-shirt that reads: "Everyday is a bad hair day for me. What's your excuse?" But that would be rude. You know, like staring at the 40-year-old who has cancer while you're ordering your vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles.
Now, if I could just get one of my family members to take over typing, I wouldn't have to do anything at all around here. Maybe Paris is available for lunch today.
Jen
Update: July 19th
 Last night at our community beach, I was Elvis. I took me a good 10 minutes to make it to my chair from the parking lot, because so many people wanted to stop and hug me and
ask how I'm doing. Okay, so nobody asked for my autograph or (thankfully) threw their underpants at me, but I felt like a rock star. Thank you, neighbors!
I got to watch the kids race in the swim meet before the rain chased me home. My mother-in-law saw a little bit before she had to get home, having been at our house keeping
the kids from killing each other all day. Thanks, Omi.
Best news of all is that I don't have to spend all next week in the hospital having chemo. Rather, the doctor says I'm doing so well, we can go outpatient for one day only
for this round. It was like a Get Out of Jail Free card.
I wore this shirt that some of my friends gave me (thanks, Gang!) to the beach last night and it was a hit. The contractors working on our house seemed amused by it, too,
in that "Why am I working for a nutcase?" kind of way. My husband and kids, however, quite liked it.
Keep on sending your funny photos for the Guest Room! I'll post them whenever I can.
Thanks,
Jen
Update: July 22nd
If I weren't so tired, I would be dancing. I was supposed to go into the hospital tomorrow for four to five days of inpatient chemo, but instead, spend four hours in my doctor's
office on Friday for outpatient chemo. Once you've done the inpatient boot camp, outpatient feels like Amateur Night. (I am mixing metaphors, and I don't care.)
 At outpatient chemo, you sit in a comfy chair while nurses drop by every once in a while to change the bags of chemo drugs.
I wrote much of that time, working on my new book, tenatatively entitled, "Don't Answer the Phone When the Class Mom Calls," due out next spring by Sourcebooks. (No, I haven't
become blurry. That's the best we could get with my cell phone.)
I wrote more
in that chair than I've been able to write in one sitting at my house, where contractors drop things on my head from the kitchen above and ask, "Can you come take a look at this?"
In fact, I may just go sit in my doctor's office with my laptop this week, just to get some writing done.
Of course, I am tired from chemo, but nothing like after five nights of being awakened by nurses who stick thermometors in my ear and take blood at 4 a.m. Or by roommates who snore
and get up to pee five times a night, rolling their chemo poles through the room like a subway train at midnight. Or by laughing interns in the hallway. Here, they let me sleep.
And sleep I did: 12 hours last night.
Thanks to all the neighbors who are cooking for us and taking our kids to swim practice and CCD camp this week. They've even set up accounts at two local restaurants, where we
can order food whenever we need it and have it delivered. If it takes a village to raise kids, it takes one to help a family in need, too. Thank you.
And thanks to all the MommaSaid fans who have sent well wishes through the e-mail above. I read them all, and I appreciate your kind words, encouragement and most of all, your
funny photos of your kids. Keep them coming!
I'll try to post some more fun stuff this week. Every time I feel up to posting a Momma-logue, some contractor is standing behind me, operating loud equipment. So please be
patient. But I will post the latest Housewife Award winner and all the columnists' new stuff next weekend, so drop by. Or sign up for Laugh in a Box for a fun reminder.
Thank you for your support.
Jen
Update: July 25th
I don't have time to feel sorry for myself. Not with the contractors hammering (and cursing) 10 feet from my desk, raccoons INSIDE my dining room last night and the need to rush outside and reach
my boys before they reach the fresh concrete at the edge of the garage doors.
Thanks to the contractors, I have to get showered and dressed by 8 a.m. every day, lest they find a bald, drooling woman on the job. Thanks to my boys, I have to get them fed
and out the door to CCD camp first thing, not to mention making sure they don't kill each other over who's playing the piano now and who's better, the Mets or the Yankees. (Ah, summer.)
And then there are the wild animals who found their way into our house last night, feasting on leftover lasagna, peanuts and chocolate before pooping on our hardwood floors.
I can't thank them, but I didn't have time to think about how tired I was this morning while trying to identify which creature had infultrated our home and found their
way to the bag of peanuts. (The Yankees peanuts. They didn't like the Mets. That caused yet another argument among the boys...)
 In the midst of it all, I am still Mom. And, now that I'm bald, you can see that it's true what they say about mothers
and the backs of their heads. So beware, children. Beware.
I'm working on new stuff for the weekend between naps and hammering and swim meets. Meanwhile, you can read about my new "challenge," as they say in the corporate world, of
parenting with cancer in my Good Grief! blog on Good Housekeeping.com.
Please drop by to read, enjoy and post your thoughts. Unless you have raccoons in your dining room, of course.
Thanks -- Jen
Update: July 30th
I ran away this morning. Well, "hobble" away is more of an accurate description, as I can't really run anymore. I had tried to run down the hall to get the phone the other day,
but my legs wanted to go in different directions. I looked like Forrest Gump when he first shed his leg braces, but before he picked up speed. For someone who spent last summer
chasing tennis balls against formidable opponents in 90-degree heat, this was both disconcerting and mildly amusing.
 This morning, the power had been out for hours, the contractors were hammering and smoking (They're outside, but the smoke doesn't know to stay there), and I wasn't feeling all that great. So I packed up my
laptop, mumbled something about "getting out of here" and went to a neighbor's empty house where I promptly fell asleep on the couch with the cat. No hammering. No "Do you
want sheetrock or a dropped ceiling here?" No smoking. No worries.
We should all have such a place.
I've heard on TV about "Man Rooms," places where the man of the house can go hide and watch fishing on large screen TVs and burp without being chastised for it. After this morning's
glorious escape, I want a Mom Room. And I'm going to get one.
 The contractors, who have shoved my desk and all its contents into one very tight area while they rip out the windows nearby, are also working on MommaSaid's new World Headquarters.
It's got a beautiful view of the woods from its three picture windows, a bathroom, a closet, sliding glass doors and numerous areas for computer access in case I want to actually
write, rather than just hide.
It also has room for a couch, which I plan to put in next to a new desk, in case I feel I'll be more inspired horizontally.
I asked my contractor if there's a door to the office from the house. "It's not in the specs, but I can do it," he said. Not in the specs! Couch. Computers. Bathroom. View.
DOOR WITH LOCK. That's what a Mom Room needs. You know, to keep out the riff-raff. Now to work on getting a cat, and I'm all set.
If I'm missing, you'll know where to find me.
Jen
Update: August 3rd
I managed not to completely fall apart at church today. I don't know how, considering my eight-year-old was one of a handful of kids chosen to sing in the choir at the end
of religion camp's mass. When he pulled the microphone up to his mouth and sang about thanking God, I could feel the tears forming in the corner of my eyes. All that was missing,
was a halo over his head. And wings.
 I also managed to look pretty good today, or so people told me at church at later at the local deli. Everyone seemed surprised that I could look so good when much
of the this week, I actually forgot I have cancer.
Well, except for the pain and fatigue part. And the baldness. But I tried to be as normal a mom as possible and I pulled it off -- until I crashed this afternoon,
napping bald in my bed after
the contractors called it an early day. I even drooled. How pretty. No wonder people are surprised when I look good. I've got no window treatments; maybe they see what
I look like when I'm sleeping.
 The contractors are not coming tomorrow. I don't ask why; I don't want to know why. I'm just happy that nobody will be outside my window, hammering, for a change. Then I
can nap all bald and drooling in peace.
One more week until my next chemo treatment. Months until the house is done. The kitchen is as bald as I am.
Jen
P.S. For more on parenting tweens, construction and cancer (Oh, my!), stop by my
Good Grief! blog at GoodHousekeeping.com, updated three times a week.
I'd love to hear what you think, so please post a response!
Update: August 9th
Last weekend, I ran into a friend whose husband had coached soccer with me last fall. I hadn't talked to her about my diagnosis, but I'd assumed that mutual friends
of ours would have told her. Turns out, she had no idea. And she had no idea the entire time we were talking at the deli, either. I had a feeling she didn't know when
she asked, "How's your summmer going?"
How's my summer. Oh my. There's not enough time in the line at the deli to answer that, so I didn't. She later found out about my cancer here, and e-mailed me to apologize.
She said she felt like a real fool for not realizing. But I rejoiced. You mean, I don't look sick?! Hurray! That's what a bald woman needs to hear. Don't worry, friend.
You made my day!
 Also making my day is the fact that I finished writing my book, You're a Good Mom (And Your Kids Aren't Too Bad, Either): 14 Secrets to Finding Happiness Between Super Mom
and Slacker Mom) due out from Sourcebooks next spring. My deadline had been July 1st, but when you get a cancer diagnosis on June 6th, you generally don't feel much like
writing, let alone writing funny things.
Still, I managed to finish it by writing at the hospital, the couch and even the kids' dentist office. Thanks to my brother Scott
for the laptop, and to Christopher, who gets the photo credit. (Also, a cavity.) I edited the entire thing the last two days and I cracked me up. I hope I'll crack you up, too.
Meanwhile, get ready for the Wacky Wig Contest right here on MommaSaid. You'll be able to vote on the craziest wig my friends and family send me.
You can read more about it on my Good Housekeeping blog, Good Grief!.
My next chemo treatment is tomorrow, but I'll try to keep posting over the next few days. Hope to see you here.
Jen
Update: August 15th
I didn't even have my contact lenses in, but I could see it: One very large, very black eyelash, sitting on the edge of my nose. Oh. No. Not the eyelashes.
I lost the hair on my head back in July after my first round of chemotherapy, but my eyelashes and my eybrows have clung onto my face all along. Until now.
Reluctantly, I put in my contact lenses this morning so I could take a closer look at my eyes. That's when I discovered that my lashes have been quietly, yet methodically
disappearing this week, just as a cancer survivor had warned me.
 "The lashes and brows go after the fourth round of chemo," she said. It's day five since I finished my fourth round of chemotherapy.
They are leaving me, along with my dignity. So, I am wearing as much mascara as possible,
but that's a bit like painting the fence after a hurricane has started ripping through the yard.
I inspected my eyebrows, which I haven't had to pluck since June. Thankfully, they appear in tact, because if there's one thing this no frills woman shouldn't be allowed
to do, it's draw on eyebrows. Certainly, neighbors, who deliver us dinner every few nights, will wonder why I seem both surprised and angry at the same time. Please. Save the eyebrows.
Won't you help?
Meanwhile, the kids and I are getting ready for the first ever Wacky Wig contest. My friends and family have taken this opportunity -- me, bald -- to make me look as ridiculous as possible. I will set
up a place for you to vote for the craziest, silliest wig in the coming weeks. And if you've got a prize to donate to the winners,
e-mail me.
My lashes thank you. And so do I.
Jen
P.S. Here's a public thank you to all the neighbors who are pitching in for us:
Visit my Good Grief! blog on GoodHousekeeping.com. Thanks!
Update: August 19th
It was like pushing myself through molasses. I had to get through the night even though the bone pain had set in. And yet, I did it. Thanks, of course, to my family.
When I mentioned to both sides of the family that the boys would be appearing in a play at the local church last night, I figured a grandparent or two might show up.
But after ordering pizza for 12, I realized we all needed this night at this point in my chemo treatments. We just needed to be together. Also, to stuff hors d'oevres in our mouths.
(Well, maybe that was just me. The post-chemo steroids make me eat like Scooby-Doo.)
Unfortunately for me, though, it was day 8 of my Neupogen shots, white blood cell boosters that give me the side effect of bone pain -- the kind of bone pain that
sometimes requires me to drop to the ground and curl up in a ball. Oh, that'll look great in the audience at the play, I thought.
 Luckily, I was spared any public pain attacks and frankly, I had fun. Especially when my brother, my niece and my kids took
pictures of me in each of the wigs for the
upcoming Wacky Wig Contest, which will be posted on MommaSaid in the coming weeks. (Check out my mom in the giant Mohawk on the right. She should wear that to bridge this week.)
Scott even played music to fit each wig, because "The Way You Look Tonight" by Frank Sinatra just goes so well with a Marge Simpson wig. Ask Homer.
Both kids were fantastic in their play, and we all had a great time, especially considering I wasn't curled up in a ball under the seats. Just two more rounds of chemo and then?
Well, then I have a Halloween costume to get together. No wigs, but, let's just say I'm going to need a Mini Me...
Jen
Update: August 22nd
We can stop holding our breath now. We got the PET scan results this morning, and they were good. The tumor is now just 2% of its original size. Or, as my brother put it,
the softball-sized tumor that was in my lung is now more of a bird seed in size. Plus, what the doctor thought was just scar tissue is indeed just scar tissue. Hurray!
This all means that I don't have to go back to the hospital for a five-day infusion of chemotherapy and I need no radiation. It means that my last two rounds of chemo
will be outpatient -- just four hours in the doctor's office and then home to watch hours and hours of "Flip That House." Best of all, it means I won't miss my boys' first
day of school.
 To me, it doesn't feel like summer should be ending when really, it never even started for me. Though I did make it to our annual Jersey Shore trip, I spent much of it indoors
getting over a week's worth of chemo in the hospital. I saw only two of my sons' swim meets, and I went to our community lake just twice. I swam once, in a pool down the shore,
unless you count putting my feet in the freezing cold ocean. We couldn't go on our annual trip with my mom. This year, it was to be Baltimore to see my cousins, but we've
promised the kids a make-up trip to Cooperstown instead, as soon as I'm up to it.
And I missed a lot of time at the playground, the movies and more. It was the summer that never started. And now it's ending.
This week, I went to the police station to be fingerprinted, as all volunteer coaches need to do this year. I will be the assistant coach for my sons' soccer team. The coach,
my friend Dmitri, has shaved his head in my honor, and we will call our team the Bald Eagles.
When I filled out the form at the police station, the form said, "Eyes." I wrote "Blue." It said, "Hair." Oh, how I wanted to write, "Nope," but I didn't want the FBI to flag me.
Thankfully, I won't lose the fall like I did the summer. I'll be done with chemo by the third week of September. The house? I hope it's done, too. Just like the tumor.
Jen
Update: August 28th
Apparently, it's not enough to have fatigue, pain and numb fingers from chemo, because now, I have shingles. Notice that the first three letters in "shingles" are the same
as, well, you know. That's no coincidence.
Shingles are caused by the same virus as chickenpox and herpes, which is why I am now taking the same medicine as those
bike-riding couples in the TV commercials who say, "I have herpes," and the other says, "And I don't." I sure hope that the folks in my pharmacy know that I am taking it for shingles,
which is fairly common in folks with cancer. If I'm lucky, when my husband picked up the prescription he announced, "Gee, it's too bad my wife has to take this medicine
for SHINGLES. Poor woman has SHINGLES now. It's a shame she has to deal with the itching and pain of SHINGLES."
 This morning, I learned a valuable lesson thanks to shingles. If you apply Capsaizin-P -- the same stuff that pepper spray is made from -- to relieve your shingles, put your contact lenses in first.
Once that stuff gets on your hands, it gets on whatever you touch, which, this morning, was my contact lens and therefore MY EYE. As a result, I now know what it's like to
be a suspect on "Cops." I'm surprised no one tased me while I was down. (I'm also going to use it as an excuse for not noticing until I saw this photo that there's
a plaque with snowmen on it on my dining room wall, even though it's August.)
My fifth of six rounds of chemo is tomorrow, assuming my white blood cell count is high enough. I got a blood test this morning, requesting the Bugs Bunny Band-Aid just for grins.
The kids were jealous. Of the Band-Aid, that is, not the blood test.
So, I may not be up to blogging for a few days, but I can still entertain you. First, drop by the Wacky Wig Contest to cast your vote
for the wig that makes me look the most ridiculous. You can vote for just one wig at a time, but you can vote every day. Tell your friends. Also, if you have toddlers
or if you had them at some point, I'd like to give you your say. Drop by to take my survey on toddlers. It's research for a book I'm writing --
just as soon as I can look at the computer screen without squinting.
Thanks for all of your well wishes. I read every e-mail, and I do appreciate your taking the time out of your busy days with kids in tow to send me a message.
Jen
Update: September 2nd
I started the summer with baseball and ended it with baseball -- yet I never swung a bat or caught a ball. At my parents' Memorial Day picnic, I sat out the family
game of baseball because I had "pneumonia," or so my primary care doctor had told me. For our Labor Day game, though, I had to sit out because I'd just finished
my fifth round of chemotherapy. Next year, I'm pitching.
 Lucky for me, we caught the shingles early enough (see above) that they aren't really bothering me. My kids' colds though? Well, they have given them to me, and so I am
blogging before my sense of humor runs out along with my tissues.
School starts this week, and normally I would be thrilled to have my house and time back, but really, I am getting neither, what with the contractors still here at least another month and one
more round of chemo to go.
To me, it feels as though it should still be July, right before we shaved off my hair and I headed back to the hospital for another five-day round
of chemo. But fall marks the end of my cancer therapy and, hopefully, the beginning of healing. Also, perhaps the return of some semblance of hair on the top of my head.
I have noticed that I have stubble on my legs, which I refuse to shave because I haven't shaved since June. It's one of the perks of chemotherapy. The hair is, however, light and blonde, which is what I am
hoping for the hair on top of my head, especially considering everyone likes to warn me that it's coming back dark and curly, if not gray. Great. I'm going to be Maude. Thanks, everyone!
 Thanks to our popular Wacky Wig Contest, Christopher has decided he doesn't want to be a baseball player for Halloween, but rather,
Heatmeiser from "The Year without a Santa Claus." He now has the wig, though judging from the photo above, I'm not sure he has completely made up his mind yet.
My costume, however, has come in, and it has nothing to do with wigs at all. I don't need the latex cap, though. Perhaps I'll use it to carry my candy around.
In case I'm too cranky to blog these next few days, I hope you can amuse yourself with my survey on toddlers, whether you have them now or you've passed the stage of pulling small children
off of the shelving. Life With a Toddler: A survey about living with toddlers under your roof will help me write my next book. And please don't forget
to tell people about the Wacky Wig Contest, too. Vote every day! I do. I like to see myself with hair... even if it's a giant black Mohawk
or Heatmeiser's 'do. Anything but Maude.
Thanks!
Jen
Update: September 9th
I describe my mood as a Cranky Like No Other. It's like PMS, mixed in with day eight of a cold that won't go away, on top of back pain, rolled up into your ugliest day ever.
And, lucky me, we've still got one more round of chemo to go. Hurray!
No wonder my family has made themselves scarce this weekend. I'd like to hide from me, too. But I have another week until the last chemo -- THE LAST CHEMO! Sorry, that slipped
out. I sure hope it's the last chemo ever. Because if I am Cranky Like No Other right now, I can't imagine how cranky I'd be after more chemo.
 When I took my nail polish off last night, I showed Pete the white lines that the chemo has left on my fingernails. "Oh. One ring for each chemo," he pointed out.
He was right. Five lines. Five rounds of chemo. I'm like a chemo tree. I can't wait to get my leaves back.
I miss my hair. I miss my fingertips. (They're numb from the chemo.) I miss being able to run down the hallway to get the phone. I miss just being a regular mom to my
wonderful kids. But I just have to make it through September, and then things will get better. Until then, I'll be over here, being Cranky Like No Other.
Thanks for cheering me up with your funny kid photos for the Guest Room. And thanks for voting in the Wacky Wig Contest.
The deadline is the 17th -- my last day of chemo. So vote early and vote often.
I'll blog when my sense of humor comes back. Meanwhile, I'll keep watching the contractors work around my box of wigs. It amuses me greatly, and I need the humor.
Jen
P.S. One thing some women would love about chemo: It's made my chest larger. I'm going to tell people I got breast implants, and my hair fell out. It's a cautionary tale.
Update: September 13th
"So what is it? Breast cancer?"
My neighbor, like many other people, assumed my cancer is breast cancer. And why not? My cancer, non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, is most common in men in their 60's. Why would
anyone think a 40 year-old mom had that?
 Saturday is World Lymphoma Awareness Day, a global initiative of the Lymphoma Coalition, dedicated to raising awareness of lymphoma,
a generally little-known cancer of the blood that damages the body's immune system.
Throughout September, The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society observes Leukemia,
Lymphoma & Myeloma Awareness Month, to shed light on these diseases and let the public know that there are resources available for blood cancer patients
and their families. According to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, this year in the United States, an estimated 56,000 people will
learn they have non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. The average age for diagnosis is 60.
I found out this summer that the annual incidence of non-Hodgkin lymphoma has nearly doubled over the last 55 years. Doctors aren't sure why, but some people speculate
that pesticides and dioxins have something to do with it.
All I know is that I have it, and I'm beating it. My last round of chemo is on Monday. Hurray! Thank you for all of your well wishes, funny photos and votes in
the Wacky Wig Contest (Contest ends Monday morning, so vote while you can!).
In the mean time, I am finishing up the edits for my book, "You're a Good Mom (And Your Kids Aren't So Bad Either), due out from Sourcebooks in April. Thanks to you (and my kids, and the
house full of contractors), I've managed to keep my sense of humor going strong. Even when I'm chemo cranky.
See? Read about how I'm going to spend the school year worrying whether my father's saxophone will come home from school with my fourth grader at
GoodHousekeeping.com.
Thanks!
Jen
P.S. I am now officially drawing on my eyebrows in the morning. Can you tell?
Update: September 18th
Soon, I will be working on getting my muscles and hair back. I finished my sixth of six chemotherapy sessions yesterday, and I'm all hopped up on anticipation and hope.
Also, steroids. There goes my baseball career.
 In three weeks, I'll have a PET scan. If any of the bird seed-sized tumor we saw before my fifth chemo is left, I'll have 10 days of radiation. That's radiation lite, compared
to what most cancer patients endure. But if it's all clear, I will hear the beautiful, wonderful "R" word: Remission.
My doc says I can head back to the gym in 3 or 4 weeks, assuming I'm up to it. Even if I just go there and lift 3-pound weights for five minutes before heading home for a nap,
I will be thrilled. I miss being able to exercise. Heck, I miss being able to get up the stairs without having to stop and catch my breath. I should bring reading material
just to go upstairs.
I finished chemo before the contractors finished my house. We've still got a few more weeks of hammering and other loud noises like the ones I'm hearing overhead right now
as the tile guy works on leveling the kitchen floor. So far, nothing has fallen on my head, so it's a good day.
But, by the time my neighbors stop delivering dinner and I'm ready to cook again, we'll have a kitchen. And, I'll have a new office with a door and a sign on my chair
that reads: "No children allowed." They ruined the chair I'm sitting in, so they're not allowed to even go near my new one, which is hidden in the closet of my new office
until I'm ready to move in. Oh, I'll know if they've used it. I just have to look for Cheese Nip crumbs.
Well, I've got to get some writing done before the post-chemo blues set in. It's hard to be funny when you're so cranky, you're heckling the folks on "Flip That House."
Thanks again for all of your well wishes. If you want to read more by me, drop by my Good Grief! blog at
GoodHousekeeping.com
Jen
P.S. We have winners in the Wacky Wig Contest! See who won. Hint: He's too much.
Update: September 25th
There is an accident blocking two lanes on the FDR this morning in New York City near 71st Street. If I were going in the city for chemotherapy or a PET scan today, I would
need to know this, but I'm not going anywhere. Rather, I'm staying here, listening to my painter's radio give me the traffic report. You know, when I can hear it over the sawing and hammering.
And cursing.
 We are still a weeks away from moving out of the living room and into the new kitchen and family room
(and at least a month from no longer sharing a shower with three males.) And by "we,"
of course, I mean the rest of my family because I'm still too weak to bring in a Children's Place package from the UPS guy, let alone carry boxes of pots and pans into the kitchen.
It's quite a scam I've got going, huh? Except for the part where I have endured chemo for the past four months.
Neighbors have been telling me how great our house looks lately. I noticed they're not telling me the same thing about the way I look,
but I know I look tired. Or as my son put it yesterday,
"Under your eyes, you look like a witch." Ah, but he should have seen under my eyes when he was a colicky baby. Way worse. [Insert evil witch laugh here].
And yet, it's all looking up. In a few weeks, I'll start to get my energy back, so that going upstairs to the only functioning bathroom won't be like climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro
to me anymore. Naturally, the bathrooms will all be done by then, so, never mind. But going to my sons' soccer games right here in town won't seem like traveling to the Women's World Cup
in China, and, if everyone around here is lucky, I'll stop falling asleep on the couch at 8:30 at night. Wait a minute. I always did that.
I hope I have enough energy to walk in the Light the Night Walk for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society in October. I am walking in the name of
Katina, my sweet, 84-year-old Greek hospital roommate who passed away in July of complications from pneumonia.
Katina spent her final days praying for me -- and obviously it worked. I like to think she's in Heaven with my grandmother, eating Greek cookies and drinking rum & Cokes while
watching over me.
I've joined Katina's family in the walk. These kind folks took care of me, too, while I was Katina's roommate. They made me feel like family, too.
If you'd like to sponsor me or anyone in the group,
click here.We would truly appreciate it.
 .
In short, things are going to slowly get back to "normal," whatever that is. Until then, bear with me. And my house.
So if you see me at Back to School Night next week, please don't tell me I look like a witch. Just compliment me on my house's new siding or something. And carry my bag for me,
wouldya? Just as soon as the traffic clears.
Jen
Update: September 30th
The best part of this week is that I don't have to psyche myself up for chemotherapy. Normally, I'd have another week until chemo, but I'm done, so I don't. Now we're just
waiting for a PET scan which will determine whether I need radiation or if I'm in remission. Naturally, I am rooting for the second "R" word.
 I was pretty slow last week, as to be expected just 10 days after chemo. When I asked my doctor if I could go to my sons' soccer game on Friday night, he said,
"Well, you're not playing soccer, right?"
Apparently, he's never seen me coach.
I managed to stay in my chair much of the game, but I couldn't help but yell, er, "coach," from my chair. There's a reason this tumor picked my lung. It's very strong in there.
The boys won 6-1, and both of my kids scored. I slept very, very well that night.
Now, we wait. As soon as the insurance company okays the PET scan, we'll find out what happens next. Meanwhile, Chris' job is to check my head for any sign of hair regrowth.
(Oddly, there's hair on my legs. Figures.)
I will just keep on getting stronger while remaining very, very happy that I don't have chemo next week. I have two weeks to get strong enough to walk a 5K for the Leukemia &
Lymphoma Society. Do you think the soccer team would pull me in a wagon?
Jen
P.S.
If you'd like to sponsor me or anyone in the group,
click here. We would truly appreciate it.
Update: October 9th
When I found out last night that the tumor in my lung isn't completely gone, I took a deep breath and sighed. My oncologist thinks I'm going to need up to three weeks
of radiation to zap this sucker out of my body for good. I told my kids that God just wants another chapter for my book. Looks like I'm going to have a lot more to write about.
 When I went for my PET scan yesterday morning, I had to drink that awful "banana-flavored" gunk while the radiation techs
check in and make you feel guilty for not gulping it down like a frat boy.
"How's it coming?" one asked me anxiously about 10 minutes after I'd started drinking it.
"It'd go faster if there was rum in it," I answered, but I never got my margarita.
I could hear construction on the other side of the wall, because, you know, everywhere I go, there has to be hammering and sawing. After the PET scan, my husband and I went out
to lunch and wouldn't you know it? There was a guy putting screws on the other side of the glass door I was sitting next to.
Later, I took this as a sign that my work here isn't done.
I've made an appointment with a radiation oncologist to find out what I'm in for. Meanwhile, I'll just keep listening to the sounds of hammering and sawing here in my house.
Jen
P.S.
If you'd like to sponsor me in the Light the Night walk for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society,
click here. We would truly appreciate it.
Update: October 16th
My legs are as sore as though I ran a 10K, and yet I simply walked two miles last night. I was one of several hundred people to take part in a Light the Night
Walk for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society to raise money to help cure these diseases. My husband, kids, mom, in-laws and sister-in-law joined me, and we met up with
the family of Katina, my hospital roommate who passed away in July. (Read her story by clicking here. Katina ordered up a perfect fall night for us,
and I managed to walk the entire route, even though the only exercise I got all summer was dodging contractors in my house.
We carried ballons with lights inside them: red for supporters, gold in memory of a loved one and white for patients and survivors.
As we set out to walk the streets of Nyack, New York, I realized that I never would have imagined back in April that I'd be even walking in a Light the Night Walk,
let alone holding a white balloon.
I wasn't sure if I could walk all that way. My husband, the marathon runner, offered to drive a support vehicle behind me. Wise guy. In the end,
my family raised nearly a thousand dollars for the walk. Thank you for your donations. Hopefully it'll help other folks who can't imagine themselves carrying white balloons
either.
My camera pooped out on me, so I'll get some photos from my mom and post them here later. Meanwhile, I'll get out of my pajamas. Or maybe not. My support vehicle can
bring me lunch.
Jen
P.S. I continue to blog about cancer on my Good Grief! blog at GoodHousekeeping.com.
Click here to read about why I don't think cancer is a "journey," but rather, more like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.
Update: October 22nd
This morning, I shaved for the first time since June. My legs had grown a coat of baby-fine blonde hair that was getting too long to ignore, so I shaved it off. It would have made
a nice, soft bath mat or a stole.
 I'm hoping that if I shave the hair off my legs, it'll cause more hair to grow on my head, like a Play-Doh Fuzzy Pumper Barbershop. I feel more stubble on top of my head,
but my son says there isn't much and it's "lighter than blonde," which is his way of saying it's coming in gray. That's probably got more to do with the house full
of contractors and their noisy tools than the cancer. And it's "light blonde" if anyone asks.
I finished week one of radiation on Friday. Three more weeks to go. So far, it doesn't make me chemo-tired, or a Cranky Like No Other or even weak. After all, I helped Pete
move the kitchen table from the dining room into our newly remodeled kitchen yesterday without losing my balance and sending the table into the new tiles.
I'm like the Bionic Woman. We can rebuild her... just as soon as she finishes radiation.
Meanwhile, I'm watching one eyebrow grow back while the other appears to be watching from afar. So, I've got smooth legs, except where I missed, stubbly "light blonde" hair
on my head, and one eyebrow. There. I've got my Halloween costume all set. I call it "The Beast from Oncology."
I've got MommaSaid back on a bi-weekly schedule. I'll be setting up a new way to get our e-mails soon. Meanwhile, if you've got toddlers, take my survey for my book "MommaSaid's Guide
to Toddlers" by clicking here.
Jen
P.S. Are you Parenting with cancer? Join us on the new Parenting with Cancer message boards on Planet Cancer.org.
Update: October 28th
She was angry, and she wasn't afraid to tell us all. One of the women in the waiting area at the Radiation Oncology department where I go for treatments every week day
announced, "I am pissed off today, and I don't care who knows it." The rest of us put down our People magazines, adjusted our hospital gowns and nodded.
"What did I ever do to deserve cancer?"
It was a question we'd all asked ourselves, our doctors and our higher beings: Why me? Was it something I did in my youth that I'm being punished for now? Was it all that
cheese I ate? Dying my hair, living near a highway in college, eating Pop Rocks as a kid, getting lake water in my mouth by accident one too many times?
The woman in the waiting area had Stage 2 Hodgkin's disease, and after six months of chemotherapy and radiation, she was angry. Angry that, at first, her doctors thought
she had pneumonia, despite the bulge in her neck (sound familiar?) Angry that she had to drive an hour and a half each day to get radiation treatments. Angry that
her mom died before she would find out if her daughter is in remission.
We all understood that anger. We try to push it down with reminders on how much worse it could be, like the patient with Stage 4 lung cancer who has to sleep upright
or she coughs too much to sleep. Or the patient who just wants to live to see her toddler graduate from high school. We're doing better than that.
We have our families. We have life. We're lucky.
And yet, we get angry.
The angry woman in the waiting room finished her radiation treatments on Friday. She was going out to celebrate... alas, without her mother. Also, without champagne, as
alcohol is still a no-no for her, and for me. But I am celebrating, too: I reached the half-way mark of my radiation treatments on Friday. Just two more weeks to go.
Even better, after six months of construction, I moved into my gorgeous brand new home office, overlooking the changing leaves in the woods out back and my kids'
soccer goal -- a reminder that I have nothing to be angry about. At least, not today.
Jen
P.S. Are you Parenting with cancer? Join us on the new Parenting with Cancer message boards on Planet Cancer.org.
click on Connect and find your way to the Forum.
Update: November 2nd
I gave Jacob nightmares. My six-year-old neighbor, Jacob, was in my hallway on Halloween when I emerged from my bedroom dressed like Dr. Evil. Poor kid. He looked like
he had seen a ghost... or a bald mom with bushy black eyebrows pasted on. Then I scared my own son, who knew about my costume, but still wasn't prepared to see me that way.
 I knew I was going to have a fun Halloween.
I spent the next few hours answering the door as Dr. Evil. Small children reluctantly took candy from me while staring at my shiny head. Children who knew me seemed
surprised to find out I was bald. Teens and neighbors who know me commended me on the costume, while others averted their eyes and pretended not to notice.
The pizza guy
practically high-fived me. "Awesome costume!" he said. And that was after I'd tipped him. Maybe he thought I was wearing a Hollywood-grade bald cap over my hair. Or maybe
he thought I'd shaved my head just for Halloween. I dunno. But I do know that I had a ball on Halloween.
Women spend their lives trying to look attractive or at least appealing for everyone else. For one day, I was scary to some, disturbing to others and funny to many.
All I know is that next year, I'm going to have hair and maybe a hat. It's chilly being bald on Halloween.
Jen
P.S. In the photo is my friend, Dmitri, and his daughter Isabella. It's amazing they let us coach children's soccer, isn't it?
P.P.S. Now that Halloween is over, I'd like my hair back, please. Read about it on my
Good Grief! blog on GoodHousekeeping.com.
Update: November 12th
For the first time in a month, I am not lying half-naked on a radiation table at noon, trying not to sneeze. Ah, what a great day it is.
On Friday, I finished my last of 20 rounds of radiation. This means that I no longer have to rush out of here mid-day to drive 45 minutes to the hospital, where I'd change into
a flimsy cotton gown in a very chilly room and wait for my turn to be zapped. And I no longer have to turn my headscarf around like Tupac Shakur and lie on a table as
the techs raised it up, making me feel like Peter Boyle in "Young Frankenstein." And I no longer have to drive 45 minutes back home -- by way of Target, the bank, the post office, etc. --
before collapsing into a chair until the kids come home.
I am done with radiation. But apparently, it's not done with me, as, I'm told, it keeps working for another eight weeks. I'm hoping this means I'll be able to save some
money on our electric bill and power the Christmas lights myself.
I'll have a PET scan in January to see if I'm in remission. Cross your fingers for me. Meanwhile, I'll decide whether it's worth it to buy shampoo yet. Right now, I look like a balding man who forgot to shave
his head this morning. Maybe next week.
Jen
P.S. I have lost my camera, so no photos of my stubble until I find it. Sigh...
Update: November 26th
I joked all weekend that I should put on an Army uniform, head down to the mall and see how many people thank me for serving my country. My hair is G.I. Jane short.
But then I saw a photo in the local newspaper of a marine who'd just returned from Iraq in time for Thanksgiving and guess what? HE HAS MORE HAIR THAN I DO.
That's right: My hair is too short for the military.
Oh well. Maybe by Christmas.
Last week, I had my port surgically removed. A port is short for "port-o-catheter," or the medical device that the doctor surgically placed under my skin back in July so I could
have my chemotherapy through it without any troubles. I also called it "The thing that makes me look like Bride of Frankenstein," because it had a tube that went up my neck.
Pretty.
I had it removed because it was driving me crazy. The skin over it had become so taught that it hurt all the time. Also, it looked like the scene in "Alien" when the beast bursts out
of the astronaut's skin. Again, pretty.
Hopefully, I'll never need the port again.
Now I'm just trying to keep my energy up for the holidays. In honor of the bears that live in our woods, I slept much of the four-day weekend. I'm going to need that kind of
hibernation, especially when we put up our Christmas tree this weekend. I'm not exactly in military shape. Not even on top of my head.
Jen
P.S. I wrote about my "search for normal" on my Good Grief! blog
on Good Housekeeping.com.
Update: December 4th
 The last time we had our Extreme Quarterly Lunch was in the hospital. My brother, Scott and I, have lunch once every three months
or so, alternating from nice restaurant
with cloth napkins and appetizers with French names to hot dog huts that serve Birch Beer with their foot-longs. Though we were due for dogs this summer, Scott brought
surf and turf from a fine New York City restaurant to my hospital room instead. Hot dogs just don't go with chemo.
 Yesterday, though, it was time to meet for sauerkraut, so we went to Hank's Frank's (Buy 8, Get 1 Free!) on Route 46 in Lodi, New Jersey.
I was just happy to have the energy to go at all,
let alone to stand (There are no seats inside Hank's) for 40 minutes and catch up with Scott. He didn't seem to mind that I'd ditched my headscarf for good, even
though my hair is really still too short to pull that off. I was hoping I'd look like Sinead O'Connor, but I think I look more like Matt Lauer. In this photo, though,
 I look a lot like the guy on the side of The Palace, a former arcade in Asbury Park, New Jersey, that's probably featured on
a Bruce Springsteen album or two. Only, he's got more hair. The Palace guy, that is, though Bruce has a nice head of hair, too.
 It's not just because I got tired of wearing something on my head. It's that I got tired of having to hide the fact
that I've been undergoing cancer treatments. Taking off the headscarf and revealing that my hair is growing back is my way of saying "Up yours!" to cancer. Also, to the
headscarf industry, though that was unintentional. Besides, my kids seem to prefer it this way, because it's a sign that Mom is making a comeback, even if I look like Matt Lauer in drag.
At least I don't look like a pirate anymore. When I wore hoop earrings with my headscarf, I looked like an extra in a Johnny Depp movie. When I wore them with my bald
head, I looked like Mr. Clean. When I wear them now, however, I look like Boy George, only with less makeup. But, by the time we go for our next Extreme Quarterly Lunch --
this time, at Restaurant Week in New York City -- I hope to look like me again.
Thanks for the dogs, Scott!
Jen
Update: December 16th
It's one thing to try on dresses for a black tie New Year's Eve party when you're out of shape, but quite another when you're out of shape and have less hair than a marine
home from Kabul for the holidays. No amount of makeup was going to make up for how ridiculous I looked in the dressing room mirror at Macy's the other day -- like
a drag queen before he puts on his wig and takes the stage for a local production of "La Cage Aux Folles." No, he has more muscle tone. And hair. Also, enough flair to pull
it off. I, on the other hand, was lacking in all of these areas, but I didn't give up.
I headed over to Lord & Taylor where I found it in the window: A gorgeous sleeveless silver dress with enough fabric to cover the fresh port scar on my chest. I rushed to the
dress department and tried it on and...I looked like a man dressing up like Lucille Ball for Halloween, minus the red wig. Any other year, this would be my dress.
But this year? Well, this wasn't my year to say the least.
I thought, Maybe we should just stay home on New Year's. I get so tired these days, I won't make it much past midnight anyway.
I was going to give up when I found a satiny long-sleeved black jacket and floor-length skirt with a little train. It covered all the parts that had been gym-firm last
New Year's Eve, but thanks to months of cancer treatments and lying on the couch, are now as soft -- and white -- as the Pillsbury Dough Boy's tummy.
It actually made my Chia pet head look pretty good, and, with a bright blue
camisole under the jacket, might actually be flattering -- and for a woman, too, not just a drag queen doing Celine Dion.
I've got two weeks to find the matching camisole and grow a little more hair. I'm not going to hide my way into the new year. No, I'm going welcoming it in style,
no matter what's under the outfit this year.
Update: December 24th
We have been tracking Santa's progress this morning through the
NORAD Tracks Santa Operation, which maps out Santa's location every five minutes, complete
with YouTube videos. It's both entertaining and educational, as we now know that Santa flies 10 times faster than the bullet train, which goes 278 miles per hour.
I hope he's got his cap on tight. Sheesh! My contacts would most certainly blow out of my eyes.
 Last Christmas Eve, I looked forward to getting some gift cards to Ann Taylor. This Christmas Eve, I just can't wait for some bangs.
When I rang in 2007, I never imagined ending up looking like Ringo Starr, minus the beard, at the end of the year. Or wanting nothing more than a clean PET scan for 2008.
But cancer doesn't announce its upcoming arrival. Rather, it just shows up, rudely, uninvited. I wish I could just kick it out for good.
 At church yesterday, the priest asked us -- like he does every year -- to take time out of our busy holidays to reflect on what Christmas truly means...
and it's not the sale at Best Buy, either. Each year, I thought I understood what he was talking about, but this year, it's much clearer.
This morning, I watched
my son show his little brother his drawing of Santa's workshop he had made. I put down my newspaper, and watched them. "This is where the Naughty and Nice list is made,"
he said as he pointed out one of the buildings in his drawing. "And this is where the reindeer take off," he said, pointing to a ramp he'd drawn next to the reindeer shed
and Santa's headquarters.
I could go on about family and love and all that stuff that Linus talks about at the end of "A Charlie Brown Christmas," but frankly,
I'm just happy to be here at all. To me, this year anyhow, that's the true meaning of Christmas. That, and being grateful for the little things, like hair and
drawings of Santa's workshop.
I doubt that last year I would have noticed the yellow LiveStrong band on Ringo's wrist in this photo, or what it means to wear one. Or what it's like to feel that pang in
your stomach when the priest asks us to "Remember those who are sick, and remember those who have died and gone to Heaven." Or how lucky I am to be spending the morning
tracking Santa with my kids.
Merry Christmas. And I really, truly mean it.
Jen
Update: January 4th
I have to confess that I was sitting on the couch, watching Dr. Phil and eating Havarti cheese when I found out I'm in remission. That's right: At the most
important good news moment of my life, I was gobbling hunks of fat and watching a show about kids who "mattress surf," meaning they pull each other behind their cars
on mattresses. It was that kind of day.
I didn't tell my family I was sneaking into the city yesterday for a PET scan. I didn't want everyone to worry and wring their hands at the potential outcome. If it
was clear, I'd be in remission. If it wasn't, I'd spend a month in the hospital for a bone marrow transplant. Last month, my brother asked, "Where do you get the bone marrow?"
I replied, "Were you wondering what to get me for my birthday?" I'm not sure how you wrap that.
After the scan, I came home and tried to keep my mind off the impending phone call I'd get from my doctor. I figured I wouldn't hear from him until at least 7 p.m., perhaps even
the next day. So, I put up my feet and put on Dr. Phil. But it was just two hours after I'd left the radiology building when my oncologist called.
 "Jennifeeeer," he sang. "I have good news for you."
"You're kidding!" I replied.
"I wouldn't kid about remission," he said.
He added that there was "no sign of disease," and prescribed champagne and a trip somewhere warm with my husband.
In short, he put the "Happy" in our Happy New Year.
I called Pete at work and told him the good news. He replied by letting out a long sigh, as though he was purging seven months of worry and fear. All the positive PET scans,
the shots he had to give me, the trips to the hospital, the fights with the insurance company, the pain and the fatigue,
the household responsibilities dumped in his lap and the
deep down fear that our kids would grow up without their mom came out in that exhale. Last night, he brought home flowers, and we had that champagne.
Before Christmas, I spoke to a neighbor who, 25 years ago, also had non Hodgkin's lymphoma, only his was stage 4. Doctors gave him two months to live. Good thing he
switched doctors, because he's still here. He has to go for a PET scan every six months, and, he said, he still holds his breath waiting for the results. He told me,
"You will forever be changed by cancer," and judging how I feel today, I can see his point.
A friend asked me, "How do you feel?" I replied, "Like the governor just called the warden."
To mix metaphors, I'm happy to take this deep breath, but I understand that I could be dunked back under water at any time, too.
In six weeks, I'll get blood tests to check my tumor markers. In three months, I'll have another PET scan. But for now, I'm just plain happy that I'm in remission.
It is indeed, a happy new year. It's that kind of day.
Jen
Update: January 21st
I really didn't care what the big muscle-bound guys in the free weight room at my gym thought about me when I grabbed two five-pound weights and occupied
valuable space in front the mirror while I lifted them. They gave me looks that said, "You don't belong here." I shot back look that said, "If I can kick cancer's ass,
I can kick yours, too."
 All of my muscle tone is gone -- gone like it's never been gone before, even when I was on bedrest for pre-term labor for five weeks. It's one thing to lie around a lot.
It's quite another to blast your body with adriamycin, a chemotherapy drug that's a derivitive of mustard gas. My body has been through biologic warfare.
That's why when I returned to the gym after taking eight
months off for chemo and radiation and generally getting enough energy to even walk into the gym, I was lifting five-pounds weights instead of 20-pounders, like I did a year ago.
That's why the guys didn't want me or my super short hair (Is she a lesbian?) in their free weight area.
Since I found out three weeks ago that I'm in remission, I have been every so slowly trying to get back to some sort of normal. Only, when I do, I have to lie down.
I nap after I go to the gym. I have to rest after a week of motherhood and its Cub Scout meetings, piano lessons and laundry. I have to skip over cleaning up messes
and making phone calls because I know they'll poop me out. But still, I'm more normal than I've been since I handed in the doctor's note to suspend my gym membership
back in June.
If I stay in remission, the war on my body will be over for good. Next time, I'm lifting eight-pounders. Then I'm taking a very long nap.
Jen
P.S. Read more about how I am on Good Grief!, my blog on Good Houskeeping.com.
Update: February 10th
"It's the post remission smackdown," said my friend Heidi Adams, creator of Planet Cancer,
a place for young people affected by cancer to hang out. I'd told her how I was nursing a "Man Cold",
which, for me, is a cold on top of lower white blood cells thanks to radiation and chemo. I admitted to her that
I had been so busy celebrating my remission and acting like I had bounced
back to normal that the cold came along and told me otherwise.
 A long-time cancer survivor, Heidi explained that it's natural for people to go a little crazy when they find out they're in remission, only to get "smacked down."
Remission doesn't mean you're suddenly back to normal. I've still got to recuperate from the effects of chemo and radiation. Also, a Man Cold.
That means a little less running around Manhattan and piano lessons and basketball games and a yard full of kids and food shopping and cleaning bathrooms and doing laundry
and generally acting like a normal, crazed mom and a little more lying on the couch, watching CNN's Ballot Bowl and eating popcorn. It means feet up, not feet up and down the stairs.
It means I need more time to recuperate.
At least, until the Man Cold is gone.
Jen
P.S. Read about how everyone's so darn happy around here on Good Grief!, my blog on Good Houskeeping.com.
Update: March 22nd
We never would have spent the money or the time before. In fact, my husband, Pete, and I hadn't gone to a Caribbean island together since our honeymoon 17 years ago, back
before kids. Back before cancer. But somehow, it seemed we deserved to spend this week in Turks & Caicos sans kids. At least, that's what everyone told us when we booked the trip.
It was our "cancercation," the vacation you get after cancer puts you through the ringer.
 We didn't want to do much more than lie on the beach under an umbrella, which is pretty much what we did all week. We'd eat breakfast around 9ish and then set up our lounge
chairs between two umbrellas and a palm tree. We'd read. We'd swim. We'd nap. We'd drink mimosas in the morning and "rasparitas" at Happy Hour in the Cabana Bar just off the hotel's
beach.
We took one long walk together, Pete collecting a bag full of big conch shells while I snapped photos along the way. We went on a snorkeling trip, where I encountered a small
baracuda who, luckily, didn't try to eat my fingers. Every night, we went out for dinner and every morning, Pete went for a run on the beach.
When we got home, my 11-year-old, who, along with his brother, spent the week with my in-laws (Thanks Omi and Opa!), asked what we did. I told him about the naps and the walk and he
said, "That's it?"
Yep. That's pretty much it. And that's the point of a cancercation. Hopefully, we'll never need another one, though I wouldn't mind a rasparita at Happy Hour today. Meet me at the Cabana Bar.
Jen
P.S. I came home to discover that my new book, "You're a Good Mom (and Your Kids Aren't So Bad Either)" is now available at Amazon, and that my mother-in-law folded and put away all of my laundry. I'm not sure which is more exciting.
Update: April 9
When other authors reach the official publication date of their books, they spend the afternoon getting ready for their book parties. Me, I have a PET scan. And yet, for this
book anyway, that's rather fitting.
I had four chapters left to write in "You're a Good Mom (and Your Kids Aren't So Bad Either)" when I found out I had cancer. I wrote parts of it in chemo and parts
in the hospital. Good thing you don't need hair to write. (Click on the photo to watch the trailer.)
So when my first post-remission PET scan fell on the day of my book's release, it seemed to make sense. While folks were at the bookstore picking it up and deciding whether to buy it,
I was lying in a multi-million dollar machine, listening to Norah Jones and praying the scan would come up clear.
 A few hours later, my doctor called me at home with the good news. "I hope you're feeling as good as this scan looks," he said.
Today, I am indeed.
P.S. Check out this behind-the-book video from Women for Hire.com filmed
back in January. At least I have bangs now. Sorta.
Update: April 27
 I know I was entirely too excited but getting a haircut this past Friday, but I couldn't help myself.
This time, I actually had enough hair to warrant a "full head" haircut and 45-minutes of chatting with my
hairstylist, Michele, whom I've missed quite a bit this past year.
Unlike the cursory trim she gave me in March, followed by a minimalist's application of "man gel," this time I had layers she could cut
and waves and even some curls. Thanks to chemotherapy, my previously stick straight hair is growing
back in all full and wavy, and I gotta tell you -- that was one hell of a perm.
Now my hair looks a lot like it did back in the eighties when I really did perm my hair. It's short and wavy and pretty nice, though I could really use
some more bangs. You could show a movie on my forehead. If it rains tomorrow, maybe we will.
While my hair has been busy making its glorious return, so has my energy. Instead of dropping my son off at the Cub Scouts pack meeting last night
after his baseball game ran late, I went in and stuck around for a while, watching my husband help run the obstacle course with the other pack leaders while I
caught up with some friends. Normally, I'd have to get home to go to bed by then, tired from the after effects of cancer, chemo and radiation. But last night,
I felt like a normal mom with normal energy and a brand new haircut. Also, a normal headache from all that noise generated by 60 boys running through the gym.
So while things slowly return to normal, I just wake up every morning hoping and praying they'll stay that way -- and that my hair stays so wonderfully
full and wavy for a while.
P.S. Listen to me on XM's Take Five, Channel 155, on Tuesday, April 29th at 2:15 ET. Also, if you're in the New York City area,
join me for an author talk back and book signing at Secrets of a Soccer Mom,
an off-Broadway play.
Update: May 28
This weekend, a bumble bee got tangled up in the curls on the back of my head. When I tried to extract him from my hair,
he stung me.
Now there's a hair problem I can get used to.
My hair has grown back gloriously curly, even though, before chemo, it was straight. So curly that insects confuse it for a nest.
Next, birds will try to lay eggs in my hair. And that's fine with me.
 Finally, I could go
to my Extreme Quarterly Lunch with my brother as well as with hair. Not stubble that made people wonder if I was home from Iraq like
at our December lunch. I was just a normal woman with normal hair -- and glorious curls that attract honey bees.
Aside from a summer cold, I've been feeling pretty normal, too. I ride my bike and go to the gym. I even got out on the tennis court this weekend, though my knees can't keep up with my arms yet.
I looked like a baby giraffe trying to figure out how to move on these wobbly legs. But I did get to the ball some of the time, pelting it at my
mother for making me run in the first place. Obviously, she's jealous because bees aren't interested in her hair.
I had a clean tumor marker test earlier this month. My next PET scan is slated for July. Until then, I'll try to get back in shape. And I'll
check my hair for baby birds. Please, don't be jealous.
Jen
Update: June 30
A year ago today, I shaved my head. Well, my husband did the shaving while I tried to make jokes about it so
my friends and family who watched wouldn't feel sorry for me. After they left, I cried in the bathroom.
Today, one year after I got bald, I had my photo taken by tourists while I was on the outdoor set of CBS The Early Show, talking about
Please Take My Children to Work Day, my holiday for full- and part-time at-home moms.
Friends who watched the segment but hadn't seen me in a while were surprised to see my curly mop of darker brown hair. I'm just happy I had hair at all.
I'll post a link to the segment when it goes up, but here's a photo that a tourist was nice enough to take for me before we shot the segment.
It was a lovely day in New York, but then, considering what I was doing a year ago today, they're all lovely days.
My next quarterly PET scan is coming up in a few weeks. I try not to think about it, but as it gets closer, it's on my mind more and more often.
Frankly, I'm happy to have the fun distraction of TV appearances and other stuff to keep my mind off it as much as possible. And, if nothing else, I've got the
very wonderful experience of watching the 4th of July fireworks with my husband and kids. Last year, I watched the Macy's New York City fireworks from my hospital room
with my roommate, Virginia, who has since passed away.
This holiday -- whichever holiday it is -- I've got my family, my hair and...knock on wood ... my health. And that's worthy of a grand celebration.
Jen
Update: July 12
Seconds before I was to go on the air on ABC News this morning, the anchor broke the news that Tony Snow had died.
I had been following Tony's battle with colon cancer ever since I got cancer last year. When his cancer returned, one news program
interviewed the former White House press secretatry while he was having chemo. He was losing his hair -- and his voice -- and yet he still
had the chutzpah to go on national TV and talk about the disease that ultimately took him. A husband and a father of three children, he was 53.
I turned my head away from the set and tried to compose myself. That could be me. Dammit, I told myself, be funny. And then I thought about something Snow had
said in an interview, which I've since dug up from several news reports:
"Not everybody will survive cancer, but on the other hand, you have got to realize you've got the gift of life, so make the most of it. That is my view, and I'm going to make the most of my time with you."
And so I pulled myself together, smiled for the camera and gave the best interview about my book that I could. When I heard the weatherman let out a laugh, I knew
I'd done my job. I also knew I'd made the best of my time.
On the way home, I took off the jacket I'd worn on the set before heading into a bagel shop to get breakfast for my family. A woman behind me was staring at me. I wondered
if she'd just seen me on TV.
She inched closer to me and said, "Do you want your dress zippered all the way up?"
And there it was: Proof that life is wonderfully silly at the same time it can be so sad. You gotta wonder why anyone lets me out of the house.
She zippered my dress and I got my bagels and left, giggling at myself and the good news I got this week: My third PET scan of the year was clean. Now to make the most of it.
Jen
Update: July 25
Last July, my husband practically poured me out of my hospital bed and into the car to drive me to the Jersey Shore, where we vacation each summer
with his family. I spent much of the week in the condo, napping, as I was too weak even to walk to the beach, let alone swim or do any of the things
we normally do "down the shore." My boys told me then that I would have to make up for a week of being waited on by waiting on everyone this year.
Instead, I went boogie boarding.
And swimming.
And feet first down the "Beast of the East" at the water park.
And on the boardwalk.
And up the 168 stairs at the Cape May lighthouse.
And on the tennis court.
And out to dinner.
And on a bike made for four.
And I had even more fun than the kids did.
One afternoon, I sent this picture I had taken on my cell phone to my friend Robin, who didn't respond. I knew why she didn't say anything, and she knew why I had sent it.
It was my way of saying, "Look what I got to do this year...Look what I missed out on last year." We didn't need to say anything.
The picture said it for us.
The morning we were packing up to go home, my nine-year-old said, "I'm glad vacation is over. I need some rest!"
Slacker.
Jen
P.S. To read more about this summer's trip to the Jersey Shore, visit GoodHousekeeping.com
and Yahoo Shine.
P.S. Thanks to my sister-in-law, Monica, for any pictures that have me in it, or else we'd never know I was there.
Update: August 11, 2008
I didn't want to see my oncologist. Not until October, after my fourth and final PET scan for the year -- the one where, as I envision in my head,
he tells me I made it through the toughest year post-cancer and can go home and drink champagne. But then I got dizzy.
Not dizzy, really, but lightheaded. The first time, I was walking up the steps of the Cape May Lighthouse while on vacation
with my family. I figured that it was hot, there were 168 steps (my son counted each one out loud), and I'm not yet in shape. So
it's no wonder I was getting lightheaded.
But then I started getting lightheaded after working out. And soon, I was getting lightheaded just sitting at my computer.
Crap.
At a routine follow-up appointment with my radiation oncologist, I told her about it. She told me she didn't think it was serious, but I should
call my oncologist. He fit me into his appointment schedule a few days later.
He took my blood pressure sitting up, lying down and then shooting up again. It would suddenly drop whenever I sat up quickly.
Crap.
He sent out my bloodwork while I went about the business of convincing myself I had lymphoma/a brain tumor/colon cancer/leukemia/breast cancer. Yet here's the thing:
It came back normal. No anemia. White blood cells, normal. Tumor markers, normal. He told me to drink electrolytes, hold off on exercising and call him in a few days.
I mentioned it to my mom who told me she gets lightheaded in the heat sometimes.
And then, the temperature dropped, while the lightheadedness all but disappeared.
I called my oncologist to tell him. He replied, "Good! See you in October!"
I guess I'll get that champagne chilled now.
Jen
 P.S. This week, Goodies for Mom
has asked people to Blog for Blood Cancer to raise awareness for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and its mission to cure leukemia,
lymphoma, Hodgkin's disease and myeloma, and improve the quality of life of patients and their families. As a non Hodgkin's lymphoma survivor, I urge you
to take part in their Light the Night fundraisers this fall. I know I will.
P.P.S. That's a photo from in front of our house. It was the second rainbow we'd seen in three days.
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