My Bucket List

January 24, 2016:

We escaped from our snow covered neighborhood to go to Target because I absolutely had to pick up the chair for the baby's nursery. We got the chair home. I had to vacuum and mop the nursery. Bryan set up the chair and I rocked in my chair, imagining the baby I would hold in my arms.

And then the pain started.

I must've overdone it. I think I stood up at a weird angle while vacuuming. I tried to sleep. I felt sick. I texted my boss and told him I wouldn't be into work. Bryan went into work, believing me when I said I must've pulled a muscle. I tried to sleep.

I couldn't feel the baby move.

I texted my best friend, after walking into the kitchen and seeing a magnet I had on the side of the fridge. It explained the signs of preterm labor. Well...maybe I'll just call the nurse and see what she says. Left message.

Still couldn't feel the baby move.

I called the nurse again. I asked the operator to overhead page her. She called me back, "Have you taken Tylenol?" "I haven't felt the baby move. I don't know how long it's been. I just can't feel him."

I rushed to the doctor.

The ultrasound tech couldn't find a heartbeat. I start to sweat. She gets another tech. They adjust the monitor. Ah, there he is. They tell me I will relax in the recliner, letting the machine monitor the baby for about 45 minutes. 20 minutes pass and she's unhooking me. All must be fine.

Immediately in walks my doctor. No small talk. She asks me about pain. I start to cry. I NEVER CRY. I'm not a crier. She knows I'm not a crier. She tells me I'm having very quick contractions (they felt nothing like what the books said they would feel like), and I'm 3 centimeters dilated. She tells me about the NICU and how they will take such great care of the baby. I cry more. She hugs me (she's not a hugger) and I get dressed. I call Bryan as I'm putting on my pants. I have no idea what I said, except, "Meet me at the hospital." I think I'm calm. I'm 2 days shy of 34 weeks pregnant.

I call my mom. I never call my mom during the workday. She answers. I have no idea what I told her. I text my boss. I text my closest friends. I drive.

I pull up to the emergency room. There's no parking. I walk in and an elderly man explains to me what to do. I park. I walk into the ER. They're waiting for me. I immediately see another OB from my practice, "We're going to go ahead and give you the steroid shot for the baby's lungs." OK. I wait for Bryan and my room.

I get into my room. Steady contractions. They want to treat me with vancomycin since I'm too early in my pregnancy to know if I have group b strep. OK, sure. Go for it. Whatever you need to do.

My head starts itching. Gosh, my skin must be dry. I'm so itchy. Ah, I'm kind of hot. So. Itchy. Ohh! the nurse asked me a question, I try to answer, and my words are slurring. Oh... and my tongue is too big for my mouth.

Huh. That nurse moved quickly. Oh, and who are all these new doctors? "No, I didn't realize I had hives all over my body." Oops. Guess I'm allergic to penicillin AND vancomycin. Lesson learned. (Bryan is still mad at me for how I downplayed this allergic reaction. I seriously didn't realize anything was wrong until I went to speak. I was stressed, husband!)

A night in the hospital passes. I start wondering what I'm really going to name this baby. I can't keep calling him Oscar Clyde. He has to have a name. I don't sleep.

The next morning, another OB from our practice sits down with us and explains everything. He thinks the baby will come today. In fact, a few hours after this conversation, he prepares to move me to the delivery suite based on the quickness of the contractions. My mom is almost here.

And then everything stops. The pain lessens. The contractions slow down and become irregular. We wait. "I can let you go home since you live close. Bed rest. 3 weeks. But I plan to see you before the week is over."

I go home. We wait.

For 7 (painful) weeks.

March 12, 2016

40 weeks and 4 days pregnant. I wake up early. I want to shower, blow dry my hair, do my make-up, have some alone time. It's induction day. After all of that, Oscar Clyde decided to hang out for as long as possible. For months I walked around at 3-4 centimeters dilated, 100% effaced. Try telling a girl with that kind of  pressure that the baby will come when he wants. Prepare to duck when she hits you.  

Bryan gets up, he showers, we load up the car. He makes me a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. I probably had a cup of coffee. I sat at my dining room table and wrote the baby a letter, still referring to him as his nickname, Oscar Clyde. We went to the hospital.

7:00 AM: We check into the hospital. We are looking at each other, nervously laughing while the poor admissions guy takes himself way too seriously. We go upstairs to our room. I meet our nurse. "What do you wish to happen today?" "Excuse me?" (I'm thinking, I want to have a baby, woman.) "Do you have a plan? What you hope for today to be like?" Oh. "I want a healthy baby and a healthy mommy." "I can work with that. We're going to have this baby by the end of my shift." Ha, OK. That works for me.

10:00 AM: 5 centimeters dilated, 100% effaced. Pitocin starts sometime around 10:15 AM. My mom, stepdad, and sisters come to visit. I'm starting to get a little uncomfortable, sweating. They hug me, tell me good luck and they leave. (I had a pretty strict "I don't want visitors until I want visitors" policy. I was pretty dramatic about this.)

11:00--ish: I'm laughing with my nurse. We're bonding over my melanoma and her breast cancer. I'm totally distracted, laughing about something. I'm still sweating, becoming a bit uncomfortable, when we find out that a helicopter is on its way with a mom pregnant with twins. Anesthesia will be in the operating room with them for a while. If I want an epidural, now is my chance. Uh, yes. Please and thank you.

Epidural is easy peasy. I look at Bryan, "Gosh, I feel better than I have in months!" We're laughing and carrying on. I have no idea what we're talking about. I look at Bryan in alarm. "Oh my GOD. I just peed!" The nurse and my sweet husband laugh. Oh.... that was my water breaking. Right. I'm so glad I read all of those pregnancy books.

We tell our families to go on to lunch. Enjoy the day.

2:00 PM: I'm ready to deliver...or so the doctor and nurse claim. I am NOT ready. This is happening way too quickly. My family is somewhere eating lunch! (My whole visitor thing changed at this point.) Bryan says, "Like ready ready?!" Ah, false. The baby is sunny side up. Gotta try to get him to turn. The OB puts me in this funky position with a yoga ball and tells me she'll see me in a few hours.

The nurse promised me I would have this baby before the end of her shift, remember...

2:30 PM: We're practicing pushing. We're laughing. I have no clue what I'm doing. The OB is back. The nurse is having me practice pushing again. We're all still joking. The OB is playing with OC's hair, telling me it's almost time to meet my boy. More nurses enter the room. It's suddenly full of people. They put oxygen on me. "I need you to give me one big push right now or something-something-something C-Section."

All I heard was C-Section. I pushed.

 And then I met my baby.

"He looks like a little bird." (If anyone has ever wondered why I call him my bird, that's why. It was one of the very first things I said. Y'all. I'm weird. I know.)

I remember somewhere in the last few minutes of pushing, an arm reached across my forehead. I recall seeing my purple iPhone pass in front of me. These photos are why. One of the nursery nurses took it upon herself to snap these (and so many others) without being asked. Maybe it was a spontaneous decision. Maybe she does it for everyone. Whatever reason, I am forever thankful. She captured the moment I became complete.

My blog friends, you've been with me for the last 6 years, and now (a year overdue) I introduce you to my sweet baby bird:

He is my bucket list.



XO.

Julie.

I type. I hit delete. I type. I use the backspace button. I walk away from this page for a few more months.


The last time I wrote I shared the exciting news of my pregnancy. Hopefully if you follow me on Facebook or Instagram you've been introduced to my boy. I want to share my son with you all. I plan to write about the joys of motherhood. But I can't yet. I can't gloss over something that happened while experiencing the most incredible miracle of my life.


In the midst of our happiness, my sweet friends experienced the tragic loss of their girl. Julie passed away on April 30, 2016.


Julie is no stranger to this blog. With her permission, I often blogged about her, but I don't believe I ever shared with you how Julie and I got in touch with one another. My surgeon sent me this:

And sure enough, Julie reached out to me, and a friendship was born.

The first time meeting each other.

It is hard for me to accept that Julie was diagnosed after I was, did the same clinical trial, yet I get to experience things Julie wanted desperately. She wanted to grow old with her husband. She wanted to raise babies. She wanted to continue to take fun vacations with her mom. But melanoma was cruel. It was sneaky. And melanoma was unapologetic.

She fought a hard battle. She fought with a smile, a terrific sense of humor, and determination. Now she is at peace.

Why am I just now writing this? I have asked myself numerous times to sit down and give Julie the post she deserves. But how? While Julie's death caused me extreme sadness, in no way does it compare to the grief her family faces. How can I write about my own feelings when I don't have the slightest idea the pain they continue to experience? That seems so incredibly selfish.

I don't know how to write this post. This is all I can do.

So on the eve before I return to the city, I will share a few of my favorite pictures of Julie. Thank you for your friendship, girlfriend.

 

Hug your daughters. Kiss your babies. And protect your skin. 

 



Five Years Later

January 10, 2011

I didn't cry when the dermatologist told me the mole was melanoma. I left that appointment, made the calls to my family, and reassured everyone that we would proceed with the surgery, and everything would be fine. I vaguely remember saying something about how they surgeon would remove a little bit more and that would be that.

No one corrected me.

I didn't cry as the oncologist told me that melanoma had spread to lymph nodes on both sides of my body, in 3 out of the 4 areas, and to prepare myself that the PET scan would show that it had already spread to my organs. I asked for the treatment options. I heard that Interferon would be "enough" and I left the appointment.

I sobbed in my dad's arms in the backseat of the car while my mom and stepdad cried as they drove me back to my apartment.

My mom was determined enough wasn't good enough for her 23 year old daughter. Off to Memorial Sloan Kettering we went where I met "The Wizard" and "Glinda, The Good Witch." 

Another surgery.

I was healing in my hospital bed when my surgeon came into my room, sat on my bed, and told me that the FDA had approved Yervoy for melanoma stage IV patients. This was breaking news for the melanoma world. 

I cried--alone in the middle of a busy waiting room--when the surgeon told me that there was zero melanoma detected in the remaining lymph nodes that were removed during that surgery. Finally, some good news.

As my doctors at Memorial Sloan Kettering agreed there was no point in doing Interferon, I entered a three year clinical trial in May 2011.

 Round one

 Round 2, 3 weeks later

 Round 3, 3 weeks later

 

Round 4, 3 weeks later.

Then I got a break for 3 months.

January 2012:

I was fortunate that minus a few hiccups here and there, and the trips to New York for scans and treatment every 3 months, I was able to live like a normal 24 year old girl. I started a new job, I continued to date "Mr. Spots" and I lived my life. Oh, and I celebrated my one year Cancerversary thanks to my special friends.

I really jumped into advocating for melanoma awareness in 2012. I blogged. I tweeted. I facebooked. I was on Dr. Drew and Headline News, and I worked on a great program with the Skin Cancer Foundation. I put a lot of time, effort, and heart into sharing exactly what I was going through with hopes that it would cause someone to cancel their tanning membership. I was shocked how many did.

A major highlight from 2012 was the opportunity to speak at the Skin Cancer Foundation's Gala held at The Plaza Hotel. I shared my story to lovely people like Brooke Shields, Sam Champion, and the Real Housewives of New York. Intimidating, yes, but it was a night I will never forget.

2013:

Melanoma decided to reappear this year in March; however, thanks to my fantastic doctors, we caught it in the earliest stages.

I continued on with my clinical trial every 3 months.

I got engaged to "Mr.Spots!"

...and then I married him!

2014:

Once again, melanoma decided to sneak back onto my body; however, once again, my fantastic doctors caught it in the earliest stages.

The major thing that happened in 2014 was I completed the 3 year clinical trial! No more infusions!

2015: 

Thinking back to that day, January 10, 2011, the chief dermatologist asked me if I had children. When I replied no, the dermatologist made a comment that I would need to think about my family planning. I cried. Would I never have my own children? Would I never get the opportunity to feel the kicks and punches from the inside? Would my number one bucket item never be fulfilled?

Well, in July 2015, after many conversations with my oncology team, I found out the news: I am going to be a momma. 

30 weeks

I have 8 weeks left until I'm due to meet my precious baby boy, and I can already tell you, no child will be as loved.

Regarding my life with melanoma these days, celebrating my 5 year Cancerversary today is something I don't think I ever expected to do. I've lost so many friends in the last few years. I watch so many of my friends continue to struggle. I know firsthand how precious life is. Maybe that's why I'm determined to live to the best of my ability. I've backed off on advocating for melanoma awareness. I blogged once during 2015. I haven't shared the amazing advances in melanoma research. But I needed to live. For 4 years I lived and breathed melanoma. I enjoyed life, too, but I knew it was time for a break. I owed it to myself, my family and friends, and those no longer with us, to live life. Without melanoma.

No day is promised, there is no guarantee that the ugly beast won't reappear, but until it does, I'm going to keep on keepin' on.

And as always, thank you for your continued love, support, and friendship during this rollercoaster we call life.

 

Time To Go

"It was her time to go."

Source

Months ago with much help from the media, society decided to praise, bash, admire, and judge the young terminal brain cancer patient, Brittany Maynard, when she publicly shared her plan to end her life last fall. Many, myself included, praised Brittany for her courage in sharing such a controversial message to the world filled with varying (intense) opinions. Many, myself included, expressed admiration that Brittany could be so brave to end her own life, before cancer ended it for her. There was no getting better for Brittany. On October 9, 2014, Brittany said, "I'm not killing myself. Cancer is killing me. I'm choosing to go in a way that is less suffering and less pain."

I accepted it.

Fast forward to December 20, 2014. My phone rings, on Sunday morning around 8:20 AM, it's my boss. I could hear her crying before I put the phone up to my ear. My loyal co-worker and kind friend made the decision to end her life. I don't know why.

It's been almost 4 weeks and I am still having a hard time accepting it.

With Brittany, a stranger, I could understand why she would make the decision to end her life. She had researched her options, and the fact was, the cancer was going to take her slowly, painfully and surely. There was no one that could save her. Cancer was killing her. Brittany took control away from the cancer and died "with dignity" as she wished.

With Angela, I keep asking why. What did we miss? What made her pull the trigger? Why didn't we see she was in such pain? I know that is not fair of me to think. I know that mental illness and depression is a real thing, a thing like cancer, you sometimes can't see. But why can't I accept her death like I can Brittany's? That is not fair to Angela. It is selfish of me to need a reason why my lovely friend, the girl who was always ready to dance and laugh, ended her life. Quite frankly, why she decided to do it is none of my business. She had battles she kept perfectly hidden and she made a decision that we don't have to understand. Maybe, like Brittany, she decided to go in a way that was less suffering and less pain.

Brittany Maynard's husband said in the interview with TODAY, that Brittany spent her last day doing things she loved. According to my co-workers family, that's how Angela spent her last day. She went shopping with her mom, had dinner with her family, and watched a movie. Then, like Brittany, it was Angela's time to go.

It was her time to go...

And we have to accept it.

*Please, please, please, if you need help, please reach out to someone. 

There IS someone who will miss you tomorrow if you are no longer here.

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

1-800-273-8255

 

Cancer Survivor

 

I couldn't sleep last night. I tossed. I turned. My husband probably thought a few times about pushing me out of the bed. I tossed and I turned some more. What would have me up at 2:30 A.M. in such a fit? The title "Cancer Survivor."

Some of you know that wearing the hat "Cancer Survivor" makes me cringe and quickly change the subject. To many people who have not battled melanoma, that probably seems ridiculous. After all, I've sat half naked on a cold exam room when the dermatologist mumbled those two words, "it's melanoma." I've seen the sympathy in the nuclear medicine tech's face as the radiologist informed me of the "hot spots" on a scan. I've looked an oncologist in the eyes as he told my then-boyfriend and I that melanoma would not kill me "right now." (And then I basically fired him.) I spent a month recovering from a brutal surgery only to have a more invasive surgery a month later that kept me in the hospital for 4 nights. I knowingly signed up for a 3 year clinical trial involving a placebo and a drug the doctors didn't know all that much about for stage 3 patients all because I didn't like my two other choices: "watch and wait" or Interferon.. I FINISHED the 3 year clinical trial with only a few bad memories. I've spent 3 and a half years of my time and effort sharing my story on every social media outlet in hopes of saving one person from making the poor decisions I've made. I've traveled to Richmond and met with committee members begging for them to protect Virginia's teens from the dangers of tanning beds. I went from having no scars on my body to having more than I can count. But I still cringe at being called a survivor. 

Why?

I am surviving. Every new mole, every swollen lymph node, every 3 months with the oncologist and dermatologist, we do what needs to be done to make sure we keep one step ahead of melanoma. And despite that, the sneaky beast has come back twice. So tonight, when I walk the stage with other cancer survivors at Cure By Design, I'm walking for all of my mole-mates who are no longer here to strut the stage. I'm walking in honor of my melanoma friends, many I've never met, as thanks for the love and support you continue to give me. I'm walking as a survivor because I know that's what they would want. I'm walking as a survivor because that's what I intend to do: survive.

To learn more about the Cure by Design event that sponsors the American Cancer Society or to donate in honor of your favorite cancer survivor, please click here.

Destination: Australia

You know how there are places on your bucket list that you want to see? Australia is on mine. Even before melanoma, I knew that I would need to be extremely careful in the Australian sun.

Australia is known for the highest rates of melanoma and they are also known as being way ahead of the United States in terms of sun safety. That's why when I received an email from Fiona  at http://truebluemigration.com/, I knew I wanted her to take over my blog for the day. We have a lot to learn here in the States! Read on... (And be sure to check out their infographic. It's SO good.)

View the entire Infographic here:

 

Australia’s Biggest Killer

The land down under is kind of infamous for its menagerie of venomous creatures. We hear horror stories of giant jellyfish. We see gruesome images of lightning-fast snakes, and fear bathroom-dwelling black widow spiders.

Yet despite this cornucopia of poisonous fangs and stingers, there is one killer in the Land of Oz that trumps them all. It’s often invisible to those who don’t know how to find it, and can attack people before they’re even aware that it’s there.

That killer is skin cancer.

Some Like it Hot

Australia is a pretty sunny place. If it seems like an obvious statement, that’s because it is, and if you’re planning your vacation there, it’s probably one of the main selling points.

As this handy infographic shows, average number of sunshine hours every year is 3,200, consistently reaching some staggering temperatures. On the southern coast of Australia, the average temperature in cities like Sydney and Melbourne weighs in at a balmy 26ºC (79ºF).

Further inland, however, these temperatures can climb all the way up to the Australian record of 50.7ºC - that’s 123ºF - a temperature that ravaged Alice Springs back in January 1960.

With such a scorching climate, you would assume that residents would have the common sense to apply a healthy coating or two of sunscreen, right?

Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case.

The Facts

Doctors in Australia have more than one million patient consultations for skin cancers every single year. In fact, skin cancer accounts for 80 percent of new cancer cases in the country.

The collective quantity of incidences of cancers like Bowen’s disease, carcinomata and melanoma shows that the country has one of the highest skin cancer rates in the world. In 2011, over 2,000 people tragically died from skin cancer in Australia, most of which were preventable.

And the primary culprit? The sun. Up to 99 percent of all skin cancer cases are caused by exposure to the sun.

But, in the words of The Jackson 5, “don’t blame it on the sunshine”. You can - and should - enjoy the glorious weather of the South Pacific if you can, as long as you take the appropriate measures before doing so.

How You Can Stay Safe

So many people make a big deal out of the “effort” they have to make to stay safe in the sun. But it’s easy. Just remember these three important things:

Sunscreen - be sure to apply one ounce of high SPF sunscreen every time you apply, which should be three or four times a day in the summer.

Stay hydrated - and no, dipping in the pool doesn’t count. Drink plenty of water to stop your body and skin drying out, which could otherwise increase your risk of sunburn.

Get out of the sun every now and then - no matter how much water you drink and how much sunscreen you douse yourself in, you’ll still burn if you’re in the sun too long. If your skin feels hot, go inside until it cools down. If you’re at the beach, pack a hat or umbrella; statistics show that a wide-brimmed hat can reduce UV radiation exposure by 50 percent.

Staying safe in the sun does not ruin holidays; it makes them. If you’re protected and sensible, you and your family can enjoy Australia’s gorgeous weather care-free.

 

Thank you, Fiona, for educating us all. I hope to use these tips in mind when I get to cross Visiting Australia off of my non-existent bucket list! Until then, I know I can follow them here!  Be sure to view their Infographic and share it: http://blog.truebluemigration.com/cope-australian-sun-infographic/

Chasing Life

"...I didn't see a wealthy businessman or a candidate seeking office standing before me. I saw a father and I recognized that look in his eyes, that terrible fear because I've seen that same fear in my own mother's eyes, in my grandma's eyes, in my baby sister's eyes, because I have cancer, too. And let me tell you, it's a bitch. And it's an equal opportunity offender. No amount of money, no amount of privilege can make you exempt. ...And when it chooses you, you're suddenly thrust into a club you didn't choose to join, you're shipped off to war even though you never enlisted in the army, but you have to put on your armor anyway, and know that if you are lucky, you'll discover new sides of yourself like a will you never knew you had. And you'll get to see new sides of the people who matter the most to you in the world as they wrap you in their warmth and lend you their strength when yours is running low. And then you go off, you fight, you fight like hell because, really, what other choice do you have?" 
-Chasing Life

...So did anyone else sob their way through the latest episode of Chasing Life? I needed to share this quote with you before I forget about it. I'm heading back to NYC on Thursday for updated scans and an oncologist visit. May was my last infusion so this will be the first set of scans I've had post completion of the 3 year clinical trial. Fingers crossed it's a completely boring visit.

Hope you're all well. I'll update soon, I promise.

XO