Dear Mom, Today Senator Kennedy Died of Cancer

Dear Mom -

One of your favorite people, Senator Ted Kennedy, died today of cancer. Even though it's been twenty three years since cancer took you off this planet, a Kennedy's passing always makes my mind wander back to our days together and the memories of your love for the Kennedy family and ideals.

I remember that day in 1968 when Senator Robert Kennedy was assassinated. I was a 7-year-old sleeping in my quiet room in our little house on Arkansas Avenue in Denver. You came in quietly sobbing and sat on the edge of my bed. I woke up to the feel of you pulling me up into your arms, felt you cry quietly into my my hair as you held me tight.

You were beyond broken-hearted. You told me then about the man who you had so believed in, had campaigned endlessly for, and how his life had ended that day. I remember clearly that you believed in the same ideals that the Kennedy's believed in, and how you tirelessly worked towards those same goals as a young woman and mother. You were sure then that my hopes and dreams depended upon the world changing into a better place for everybody.

Mom, you died so long ago that these memories are the only things that I have left of you. I cling to them looking for all the sweetness I can squeeze out of them, hoping to know just a little piece of the long ago heart and soul that you were. My sadness today is that we could have been so good together now, if you were still here.

Tears spill down my face as I think simultaneously about how much I miss your wisdom, friendship, and wit, but also how grateful I feel that today I have survived the cancer that ultimately killed you and Senator Kennedy. I have so much now, Mom, and I am so very grateful. But I don't have you. I feel as though when one of the Kennedy's passes, a little bit more of you passes from me too. Like the whole era of you is slipping away from me.

But I go on, because I have to and because I want to. I have been a strong and able matriarch for many years now. I know you see your granddaughters and they are the lights of your life as they are mine. "You did good!" I hear you say, "WE did good!" You were there too, next to me, through the good and the bad of escorting these two amazing human beings to adulthood. We did it despite cancer, and we did it together Mom, even if you were on the other side. I have the relationship with them that I yearn for with you. I almost have it all.

Today in particular, with the passing of Senator Kennedy, the little girl in me yearns to turn back the hands of time so that I could feel your reassuring arms around me again. I worry about the world for my children and grandchildren just as you did. I don't know how it will all turn out. But I do know you are there and cancer will never break our amazing bond.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I miss you. I love you and am so thankful for you. I will see you again in time, when I am ready.

I Love you, Jen

(The picture is of my 3-year-old Mom, Carolyn Mason Storke Mueser, in 1940)

A Funny Thing Happened On My Way to My Cancerversary

I guess you could say that I'm feeling a little more experienced at cancer than I was last year. I feel as though I've hit my 20's in my cancer life ... sort of quieted down, less drama driven, more mature and reflective.

Like the dating rule which stipulates, "spend at least 4 seasons with someone before you even consider settling down," I have found that spending for seasons with cancer and its aftermath has given me a more peaceful perspective than I had before cancer.

I have always been one to live in the moment. After all, there is no point rehashing the past or worrying about the future. But when cancer moved in, the first thing my mind did was go right to the end, or at least what I envisioned *might* be the end ... an end due to cancer.

Like anybody first diagnosed with a potentially debilitating disease, you don't know much. This leaves lots of room the for mind to go nuts. Mine did. Did yours? This was the worst part.

But then, you get information, you have your surgeries, you talk with your professionals, you Google, and mostly, you figure out how to get on with life.

Now that 4 seasons have come and gone, I know a few things; I can make this life work no matter what. I know that cause I just did it. For a year.

I have said, and I still maintain, that cancer made me stronger, more determined, more focused, happier, more loving, more accepting, and way less resistant. I would not be the person today without it. More importantly, I would not have gotten to know many of my life heroes, my friends and inspirations.

And so, one year later as I move into my 5th season, I am as grateful and as peaceful as I ever was.

Paix and love, Jennifer

Friendships Are The Cornerstones of Our Lives

A dear friend emailed me after reading a few posts from this blog and apologized to me for initially saying "I'm so sorry" to me after hearing that I had cancer. He did this because several posts below, I went on a cranky rant about the things that people say to you when you have cancer.

Let me just say that it was my goal when I started this blog to honestly express my feelings and to record my journey for my girls. I never really thought that anybody else would read this. I told my kids that I would be as absolutely honest as possible no matter what. And I was.

Sometimes I look back at some of my blog entries below and it is all I can do to not erase them because certainly they do not show me at my best. However, for as dense as I am, I can learn. And I have.

Now that I am a year out, I have a new stance on "the things that people say" when they learn you have cancer. And that is ...

... People are doing the best that they can. No matter what words they use, they are saying, "I am shocked, I need to process this, I am concerned for you, and I don't want you to die." They are just loving in whatever way they can at the time. And guess what? That is good enough for me. Others around us need time and space to journey through their own feelings of shock and fear about our cancer. Cancer people would do well to remember that their disease is not always just about THEM. It's about everybody around them, especially their close community of friends and family.

In reflecting back, I think my irritation about the things that well-meaning people would say to me was more about how these interchanges often required that I step up and take care of the speaker. "I'm so sorry" is indicating that the person is fearful about what you've just shared. It was hard for me, as a long-time Mom, to not immediately step in to console, or try make things okay for everybody else about my own sickness. As a result, I spent a lot of time consoling others. And that was wearing to the point where I often avoided events like REALTOR gatherings and meetings. I was tired anyway, so going to an event like that would have resulted in a LOT of care taking on my part. Exhausting!

So, what's the lesson? Cancer hurts and baffles everybody. Cancer is about everybody, not just the patient. Everybody involved is entitled to have the feelings that they have about the situation. We can all love and care and empathize and nurture everybody else involved in the situation and that is awesome. People will get cranky. They will say dumb things. So what? At least they come in love, and that ultimately is what we are called to do. Who cares what form wonderful, marvelous, amazing LOVE comes in, just so long as it's there?

If your eyes are here, know that I love you very, very much. Paix - Jen

The Bionic Woman? Will We Build Her Better Than Before?

A friend just Twittered me to ask if my Doctor's appointment yesterday resulted in plans to "take stuff out, put stuff in, or move stuff around."

Pretty accurate actually, on all three counts. My one year "cancerversary" came and went uneventfully enough. But recent events have had me thinking that it might be time to revisit the idea of breast reconstruction.

For those not in the know, I had my left breast removed last year in August when biopsy results were unclear about what kind of cancer I had or how far it had spread. It was very difficult and messy to decide between having an amputation vs having a lumpectomy. The lumpectomy would have required follow-up radiation for 8-weeks, but the mastectomy did not require any further treatment, assuming the cancer was contained in the breast (it turned out that it was).

I remember vividly in 1984 when my Mom was being treated with radiation for her cancer. It caused her misery beyond description. Think about having a very painful burn, and then being burned again and again on top of that burn. That was no good and definitely not for me. So, I chose amputation instead. I wasn't at peace with the decision and was questioning myself even as I was being rolled into the operating room.

One year later, I am okay with the decision (what's the alternative, to not be okay with it?) However, now a messy new decision has arisen. Breast reconstruction. My less astute friends ask, "What's to decide? Get a new rack!" Oh how I wish it were that easy.

Not being a plasticky surgery kind of a gal who is not really okay with putting foreign substances into my body, this was a hard one. I learned in this year that there were "flap" procedures where you could have your own body tissue moved and molded into a new breast. I even heard that would result in a tummy tuck as well. Welllll okay, that was interesting and required taking in no foreign objects, so I looked into. Tummy tuck was definitely an inducement.

Several hundred Internet viewings later, I decided not to go that way. I didn't like the resulting look and I didn't want to sacrifice any other perfectly good body part for the cause. (I learned that the "tummy tuck" wasn't truly that, and that abdominal muscles would be removed and relocated. Definitely not for me.)

So, armed with this info and a million questions, we (the cancer army of angels who stick by my side) went to see Dr. Kristina Cheng, a highly recommend plastic surgeon and breast reconstruction specialist in Salt Lake City yesterday.

Of course, I was terrified to go. And for no good reason, by the way. Just cancer saying, "Ha ha! I got you BEFORE when you weren't expecting me and I'll get you AGAIN! ::: Evil Cackle ::::" For my uncancered readers, that is how cancer keeps a hold of you forever, even if it isn't in your body any more.

So with more than a little fear in tow, I showed at my appointed time with Dr. Cheng. I liked her right away. She listened, which is key. In fact, I was there for over two hours exchanging information with her about my health, my desires, and her recommendations. Turns out, I am getting what I knew would be right for me all along. After the struggle I had last summer, that was totally awesome.

For the squeamish, this is where you end. Trust me.

If you feel that you must go on from here, I'll show you in picture form what I have chosen to have done and what will happen next to me.

I'll be receiving a silicone implant placed into the left side, underneath the muscle. This is not enough to hold the implant in (because I have no breast tissue there, only skin) so my surgeon will be laying in a cellular mesh that will hold the implant firmly in place. This tissue is made from human protein material, and the plan is that my body will accept it as its own (hopefully).

On the other side, I will get a smaller saline implant into my good breast. This is simply to match what is going to happen on the left side. Since we don't really know what it all will look like, Dr. Cheng says I will be in surgery several hours while she fixes, prods and pokes to make them as symmetrical as possible. That is the last surgery (hopefully) and will take place in February 2010.

The first surgery will be in October when an expander will be surgically placed underneath my left side skin. Then at one week intervals, the Dr. will increase the amount of fluid in the expander by 50 cc's or so. She will do this by shoving a needle through my skin and into the expander itself. Sounds fun, huh? She promises it doesn't hurt too much.

The skin stretches and grows accordingly until there is room for the implant. That will take from October to February, although between you and me, I will make that a lot shorter because I have races I want to run next spring.

I did a lot of research on this topic because many women chose not to do any reconstruction, but instead to remain with one breast and a prosthetic, which is what I use now. Actually, that works out surprisingly well as long as I am on constant "bra patrol" making sure the thing doesn't move everywhere. It's been okay, but working out is harder, swimming is simply not an option, I had to sacrifice many of my shirts and tops, and many activities in my previous life are not a option when you are "one breasted."

So, I am doing what I never thought I would do ... buying a new rack. It certainly seems painful, and after looking at endless pictures, I now know that the result is generally not symmetrical, or even pretty. But like my dear friend Jill once said, "Do it and at least you'll look fantastic in a sweater." That is actually what swayed me. True story.

So now everybody asks, "What size are you going to be?" Tempting question for this lifelong double A-er. Probably a really chubby B. Not any bigger because just today I saw a woman jogging while trying desperately to keep her chubby C's from bouncing all over. Meh, don't want that. So chubby B's it is. I suspect any bigger would interfere with my golf swing anyway.

The Doctor, tactfully alluding to my ... ahem ... age, said "We will try to get some of the droop of your other breast into the new one." To which I said, "Droop is not in the picture, sister. Make 'em nice!" To which she said, "Will do." Hey if I'm going to pay for it and go through the pain, I'd better get something to show for it, right? (And by the way, a Federal Law requires that breast reconstruction be covered by insurance after mastectomy due to cancer. SWEET.)

I'm posting some links now, and I am telling you, they are hard to look at. None of these pictures is me, but I literally do look just like the before pictures. We all do. It is interesting and something that nearly all of you will likely come across eventually in your wives, sisters, mothers, friends and lovers. Might as well get your first look now.

It's simultaneously very difficult for me to put such personal information forward to strangers and at the same time kind of freeing. This is *MY* reality. Know I am SO grateful to be alive and living this reality. Thank you for living it with me.

This blog post is dedicated to Lori Stauffer Wood and her Mom, Pat Stauffer, who died from cancer this past weekend.

Love life like there's no tomorrow people, have no more resistance to what is good, get your mammos, and I love you from the bottom of my heart - Jen

1. Mastectomy before and after pictures. WARNING! Clicking this will bring up breasts! LOL

2. A great "picture documentary" of what I'm going to be doing, as demonstrated over several months time by a brave young lady who had a double mastectomy 2 months after getting engaged. She wanted to be "whole" again for her wedding. Her story is so inspiring.

3. Most Doctors Do Not Talk About Mastectomy Options (Mine didn't, I had to Google everything. The state of women's health care in Utah is atrocious. But that is another post.)

4. The bottom picture is of a friend from my favorite forum, Crazy Sexy Life. She had a double mastectomy and chose not to reconstruct. She is a hero of mine. Bless you Deb for the open and honest picture. I am busy spreading the word ... AN EARLY DETECTION MAMMO SAVED MY LIFE. Hear it. Do it.

Paix.

One Year Cancerversary: Love, Life, Lessons

June 6th hasn't ever been that great of a day for me. It's the day in 1986 that cancer finally killed my beautiful, vibrant, witty, intelligent mother. It didn't get her without a fight, but it did get her. And it got a piece of me along with her.

Fast forward to June 6th last year. I was sitting in the waiting room of an outpatient surgical clinic in Ogden. I was there because only a week before a spot had come up on a routine mammogram of my left breast.

That had happened many times before, and as I sat in the waiting room for my turn to get my biopsy, I wasn’t worried. I took my daughter Sara's hand in mine and enjoyed a rare moment of quiet with her.

As I sat reflecting, I was somewhat startled to realize suddenly that the day was the anniversary of my Mom's death. Almost instantly afterwards, the thought came to me that I was the same age that she was when she died of cancer.

And it was then that I knew. I came crashing into my being with all the certainty as if the building around me had just collapsed. I knew, I just KNEW, that I had cancer.

There are really no words to describe the icy fear that shoots through you when it becomes a reality that you might die. I looked at my beautiful daughter sitting next to me and as the terrifying fear sank in all around me, I suspected our lives were about to go on one hell of a roller coaster ride.

And I was right. I was so right.

I had the biopsy and a few days later I got the news that I did indeed have cancer. Although we find it difficult to schedule time together in the daytime hours, my girls happened to be standing behind me when I got the news on the phone. I could only imagine the silent looks that they exchanged with each other as they heard my voice say, "It IS malignant? What kind? How big is it? Has it spread? What are my options?"

I wish that I had something profound to say right here about the whole experience. I really don't. But I did learn that cancer, like anything else in life, is an able teacher. Oh, and the miracles, the miracles.

Lessons learned:

The conventional medical establishment, the staff, and the process get an F-. The lack of compassion, basic competence, and even working office systems is so shocking you never could have convinced me if I hadn't experienced it myself.

Cancer never leaves your head. Once you have cancer, you always have cancer. Going to the doctor for the simplest things is traumatic now and often I need somebody to go with me to hold my hand.The things that people say. Everybody means well and that is the good news. But let me share a quick tip. Don't, I repeat DON'T launch into a story about how your great Aunt Mildred had the same thing and bla bla bla. DON'T say, "Oh my God I am so sorry." People with cancer don't want to hear your stories and they aren't sorry so you shouldn't be either. "What can I do for you now?" is a great thing to say.

I spent a few days contemplating dying. This was before I knew conclusively that my cancer was in one place only and that I would recover fully. That took 3 months to find out. That was a wicked 3 months. Ever looked death in the face? You know it if you have.

I began to notice the most amazing vibrant details in things. I became more peaceful, more plugged into now. I stopped working so hard and allowed myself to feel all the emotions. I took afternoon naps if I needed the time alone or the rest. I got a housekeeper and yard people to do things I was too weak to do. I noticed the insides of flowers and the soul in people's eyes. I still do all of that - treasured gifts that cancer gave to me.

I had never been a good one for amputation. As it turns out, my choices were to remove my breast or to go through a series of chemo and/or radiation lasting for months. It was a very, very difficult decision, but I finally chose amputation. I just wanted my life back. A few days before my surgery, I Goggled "Mastectomy pictures" and let me tell you, a massive freak-out ensued. I had doubts about my decision even as I was being wheeled into the operating room. For the first time in my life, I was not confident about what to do. Yet it had to be done because there was no more time to wait. I learned that ...

Cancer is messy. To a person who ties up ends neatly and normally has all her ducks in a row, that is was a hard one. But I learned that it is indeed survivable, even pleasurable, to leave some things undone now and again, and instead go out and enjoy the world.

It was difficult being a cancer patient AND a Mom. A Mom's instinct is to make everything okay for your kids. But I knew I couldn't make it okay for my daughters. And so, the cancer patient not only suffers, but they get to watch their sun and moon suffer too. It was very difficult to be the patient. However, I do know it was a gift to my kids that they were there, nurtured me back to health, and watched me survive a battle with the beast. I couldn't have done it without them, but to this day I RAGE inside that cancer hurt and scared them so much.

I underestimated my clients. I was afraid to tell anybody that I was battling cancer because I was afraid that they would think I was weak and sick, fire me as their listing agent, and find someone else. Eventually I had to come clean to each one of them for various reasons. I could not believe how kind and caring everybody was. My clients Bill and Nancy came into town a few days before my mastectomy to look at ranches. When they heard what was going on with me, they were supportive, and yet still expected me to work hard for them. I so appreciated that, that when I got home I cried with relief. All I really wanted was to get my life back. My clients who trusted me throughout were critical to my rapid recovery. I knew you needed me to heal and get back to work for you. Thank you so very much.

My neighbors were unbelievably kind to me.

I did not like being the “sick kid.” I serve on the South Ogden Planning Commission and I never admitted to them that I was battling cancer or that I was having surgeries. I just wanted one place where I could go and be as “normal” as everybody else there.

I still wonder today what happened to my breast. Morbid, maybe, but that breast fed my babies and was an active part of my life for 48 years. Did they throw it away after they tested it? Why would they not offer you your own body part back? Like in cremated form? It was a good breast and it didn't deserve to end up in the garbage out back.

I lost friends over cancer. Yes, I did. Don't know why. Maybe they couldn’t handle it. But I made so many more that it was worth the trade.

I recovered and I am okay. My scar is 10 inches straight across my chest, just like what you see on Google. Everybody says the surgeon did a good job. It is what it is. I am planning on several reconstructive surgeries this summer and expect to do well through those and be fine.

I saved the best for last, and this will make me cry as I type it. I found early on, a forum called Crazy Sexy Life where people of all ages from all across the world hung out and discussed their cancer and all issues related to it openly and honestly and with words of such strength and truth and integrity that it was hard to imagine it was real. I became a part of that community and literally those people held onto me for dear life as I rode the choppy and bewildering waters of cancer. My love and gratitude to my friends there can never be overstated. I love you guys more than you would ever know. You see, YOU are the gift that cancer brought to me. You funny, goofy, caring, loving, wise, silly people. Please live for a long time for me, and I will for you. I love you, I love you, I love you.

So, happy one-year cancerversary to me. I miss you Mom. I'm hanging in there for the both of us now.

Have an awesome day. I’m going to.

But ... I Just Came Here For My Itchy Ears!

So, I was putting some days between me and my little cancer experience and feeling pretty good about things overall. Business has been great and keeping me fully occupied. The girls and I took a trip to New York City where I attended an Internet Marketing Conference and they played all through the city in the daytime, then we went out at night and had fun. I was beginning to think about getting a reconstruction, but when I heard about the magnitude of the surgeries and the time frame they took, I knew I would have to ponder it for a while and that's what I was doing. So, life was going along fine.

One day last month I woke up with itchy ears. I normally don't have ear issues, but when it got worse, I took them to see my Physician's Assistant, Laura Colvin. While there I mentioned the ever growing bump over my rib cage. She examined it and was surprised to see that it was the size of a goose egg. I told her that I have to sit slumped sideways sometimes because the thing is so uncomfortable. She also took a look at my latest bloodwork, and the pathology from my surgery. There was a lot if silence as she read the volumes of papers.

I left with stuff for my ears and an appointment to see an Oncology Specialist in Salt Lake City. Now here's the thing. If you are a cancer survivor, and you aren't expecting that kind of outcome from a simple doctor's visit, that is devastating. This where you realize that cancer never leaves you. It's the head games mostly. And there's other people. Do you tell people - the ones that will start to worry all over again, the ones who had cancer through my experience, the ones who stood by my side every step of the way? Their disappointment is no less than mine. The problem is, WE ALL THOUGHT WE WERE DONE WITH THIS!

Two weeks flew by and I was driving to SLC for my appointment. I became more and more terrified as I went. I wouldn't let anybody go with me, because you see, then cancer wins. It wins because it has scared you and all your loved ones again, and again they are taking time off from their lives to sit in the waiting room with you, waiting.

I was mad, too, because I've braved my way through some amazingly scary situations in life including going to DC to testify before a Senate Subcommittee, telling our Governor his community plan stunk, heading mutli-national grassroots groups of very powerful people, been a firefighter, etc., but that day cancer turned me and my courage into a blithering wreck. It's the not knowing that really gets you. And on that drive to Salt Lake, when cancer snuck in and stole my bravado, I felt as though I was truly stripped of the very things that make me me.

I pulled myself together and found the office near Salt Lake Regional Hospital. My new Oncologist was a woman my age. I liked her right away. We did a major work-up and my tests will be back May 7th at which time I'll see her again. She didn't know what my lump is, but her attention was instead on my disastrous liver situation. Even though my cancer was estrogen positive, I can't take Tamoxifen because my failing liver can't process it. This leaves me vulnerable to getting cancer again, both in the other breast and in my ovaries. She looked right at me and and said, "If your genetic tests come back positive for BRCA 1 & 2, you'll need to have to have your other breast and your ovaries removed. Further, if we can't somehow figure out what to do about this liver situation, you have at most 10 years to live."

Hey, pretty cool info for a girl who just went to get her ears checked. NOT!

You see, this is what I mean by "cancer never goes away." Even if you don't "have" it any more, you still "have" it. You have the emotional, physical, and medical repercussions as your most constant companions. Your friends and family go through an endless roller coaster until finally they get so sick of it they can't stand it any more. Cancer carves you up and is completely unapologetic about the scars it leaves behind. Cancer stole my family, leaving me the matriarch on my mother's side of the family by the time I was 25 years old.

I cried on the way home and then threw a pretty rockin' pitty party for one for a few days. But if you know me, you know I came back to the light knowing that I am so lucky to have all of you, a beautiful day outside, clients who are kind and care about me, little flowers coming up through the snow, and of course my wondrous kids and handsome dogs.

Cancer strips away all the trash and leaves just the raw truth of who you are, what your dreams are, and in some cases, that you'd better HURRY UP and get those dreams accomplished. That's not bad, because as we know there is no such thing as "bad", only things that happen and how we choose to react to them. It is all good and I will stand by that concept that until my dying day.

The sun just peeked through my window reminding me that my day has begun and that I need to get to work! I feel great, fantastic actually, and by May 7th, I will be standing ready for whatever comes my way next. Cancer (or my dumb liver) will not win over me, or my bravado, or my life.

Paix to all - Jen

Fear-based Thinking is Highly Overrated

I use this term, "fear-based thinking" a lot in my writings and my daily verbiage, so I got to thinking that it might be good to get it down as a precursor to something else I want to discuss in a later blog post.

Fear-based thinking is a way of life. A lifestyle. It is a choice. Many have it as their default because they are unaware there is another choice. I lived that way for a long time myself.

Several things in my life made me aware of the concept of fear-based thinking around the mid-90s. At that time, I was taking a series of Sociology classes at Weber State University. I learned that one basic foundation of Sociological thinking is that upon birth, man (and many animals) are helpless babies and therefore necessarily must belong to a group of others in order to survive.

Therefore, it follows that by taking on the practices and beliefs of the group you are born into is critical as to whether you survive or not. To what degree you soak in the group's norms is also good indication as to what degree you will thrive within the group. We all begin to learn this groovy survival stuff on day one of our lives.

Certainly, in the early days of man, if one person detracted from the safety or common beliefs of the group, they might be expunged from the group and left to fend for themselves in the wild. This would mean certain death of course.

Today's society is really no different. Newborn babies quickly learn which caretakers they are 100% dependant upon and nature makes sure that they direct the entirety of their efforts towards endearing themselves with these people. This of course, ensures their short- and long-term care and therefore survival within the group. The cuter or more interactive the baby, the more positive feedback they receive, which in turn teaches the baby which actions get him what he wants. Soon enough, he learns to fall into step with behaviors and belief systems the caretaking group approves of.

Fear-based thinking evolves from this. It is formed at the root of our deepest desire for survival. It is a physiological reaction. We are taught and we believe that if we make our choices to "go along" with our groups (parents, siblings, neighborhood, schoolmates, church beliefs, political beliefs) that we will not be cast out of these groups, and certainly be loved and thrive within them.

Hence, we carry a subconscious sociological fear that keeps us, to varying degrees, in tow with what society deems is right and wrong. Cross that line, and you will be ostracized, disinvited, head to jail, or put another way, be somehow isolated from your groups. Instinctively, we do not want that scary ultimatum. As a result, we spend our entire lives working towards the approval of our groups. This is what keeps most of us humans in line.

I took this concept and applied it to my own life by asking, ""What things am I doing to please my parents, spouse, friends, church group, classmates, fellow volunteers, and colleagues that don't REALLY resonate with my own truth? What actions am I choosing from a subconscious fear that I will be excluded from the groups if I don't follow the unwritten "rules" of the group?""

The answer was, a lot. This was the beginning of a new lifestyle for me away from fear-based thinking and towards living my own truth, or what I term, "love-based thinking."

Many of us are shifting in this direction, towards love-based thinking. And just in time, too.

My recent experience with cancer gave me a wide variety of examples to use to illustrate fear-based thinking. There is a lot of "automatic" fear-based thinking out there. People reacting before they think DEEPLY through an issue for themselves, deciding how the issue resonates with their own personal truth. People who react one way because that is how they have learned how to react from their groups, or their subconscious fear of being separated from the group.

For example, after learning I had cancer, I took a couple of days to grapple with the idea that I might die. That was a new one to me, and it was a trying test of all that I believed on a faith level. I worked through the initial fear, then thought about practical matters (i.e. must finish up the paperwork on my Living Trust) and then was able to regain a stable mindset, back to love-based thinking. Being momentarily afraid to die was a teaching journey for me, but at the end I returned to my own truth a little wiser for the trip.

However, I quickly grew to absolutely hate sharing with others that I was going through a cancer situation, for I learned that would quickly attract instinctive fear-based thinking from many people outside of my family group.

"Oh my God! I am so sorry!!!" was the most common response. If you think about this response, it is a response based in fear. Fear that the responder has from previous cancer experience, or fear they have for the fear that they assume I have, or from many possibe places. The response actually has nothing to do with the person who has the cancer, and therefore becomes an instant energy drain because it turns the table for the responder to need reassurance. It happens all the time that way, because people are so instinctually filled with fear that we just don't seem able to respond any other way. Let me tell you, it was exhausting fending off other people's fear all day long!

One relative, who I barely know said, "I am just devastated." Well, certainly. My cancer has big ramifications for her own health genetically. Of course she was devastated. She is a fear-based thinker and fear quickly became inflamed when cancer came too close to her. Many people fearfully made my cancer all about themselves. This was exhausting also, because it took some measures from me to actually reassure these people that I wasn't coming to cancer with a fear-based attitude and therefore there was no need for them to do it either.

Every person has the right to react to things in their own way, according to their own paradigm. But fear-based thinking will turn a conversation instantly into a discussion about the responder's fear even if the participants are unaware of it. A love-based reaction would be along the lines of, "How are you managing this new thing?" or "How can I help you?" or "How has your life changed?" or "What things have you been learning from this new experience?" or "What coping mechanisms are you using?" or "What can I bring you?" or "What are you finding is the most comforting right now?" or "How do you feel about (fill in the blank)" etc. These are reaffirming the notion that fear doesn't have to be part of the mix when you get cancer, or at any other time. It's another learning experience which can be shared lovingly and positively with other members of the group.

I think the thing about cancer that feels so scary to everybody and sending them spiraling into fear-based thinking is that it is our perception that cancer could potentially take the afflicted person away from the group. The very thing that at our most instinctive levels, we don't want. It scares everybody all around. "Oh look, somebody is about to be taken from the group. That is not good!" Instinctive Reaction 101, herd style. I had some friends who I didn't hear from after they learned I had cancer. The prospect of possible separation of a group member from the group was just too much for them to deal with, so they didn't deal with it at all. Understandable, when you are a fear-based thinker.

Now I'm not knocking anyone from coming from a place of fear. But I do want to point out that is a choice. Human beings have the capability to think past their fear-based reactions to ANY event, and make anything they want a total love-in. It is a choice. In fact, it is a lifestyle. The saying, "It's all good" came from this. It is totally true. It is all good if you choose to overcome your instinctual reaction and instead apply love as best you can as often as you can.

Choosing love over fear is what we are here to awaken to, in my spiritual opinion. If everybody on the planet made honest efforts to make choices in love and not fear (also called lack, jealousy, or any other negative emotion) then our planet would be in perfect peace and harmony much more often.

Never be afraid to stand up and defend your truth, even if you have to stand alone. Get off autopilot. Step back from the herd. Think about it. And then choose love.

Love, Jen

Take a Hike 2008; Don't Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out

I'm not being overly mean to 2008 am I? Everybody agrees it was a stinker year. Like I always say, nothing like a dose of the bad to make you appreciate the good.

So, this is the blog entry where I get to look over the whole cancer experience from the past year and say profound things. Ummm ... nothing profound comes to mind.

When I started this blog, I was staring death in the face (warning: do not try that at home or anywhere else for that matter). I had no idea what I was in for. To tell you the truth, I thought that maybe my blog would serve as a good record of my thoughts for my kids to read after I died. I never knew what my own Mom was thinking as she fought and lost her battle with cancer, so I wanted to be as open and honest for what was to come so they would know that no matter what happened, I was okay.

Thing is, now that I look back, it just wasn't all that life shattering. I had a heck of a time with my medical staff and my insurance, but in the end that all worked out. I was totally freaked out that I would wake up after my mastectomy and have a *major* freak out, but I awoke to realize that I was just fine. I did learn a lot about the people around me: who ultimately steps up, who doesn't, the things people say, who I can count on and who I can't. That was a big one. I found out what amazing stuff my daughters are made of. Another big one.

In 2008 cancer was a good teacher. It changed my life for the better. I am softer, kinder, gentler. While I have to wait for the five year mark to officially claim that I am cured, I already know that I am. So, what's to say about that? It is what it is, not good or bad, just is. A short, meaningful encounter. Kinda like a 6-month stand.

Guess like the blog says at the very top up there, I can check cancer off my list and get on with my life. I am thankful it turned out that way.

How I can ever thank you, all of you, is something I will never be able to do adequately. Just know you'll always be able to count on me. Cancer taught me that together we can do anything.

Thanks, love, and a joyous 2009 - Jen

The First Followup

Well it's December 1st and for me that means "the day" has finally come.

It's the day that my Surgeon, Oncologist, Radiologist and Internist all told me to schedule my six-month followup mammogram on the right breast. This because it contains all the same specks of calcifications that my left one did. So it has to be watched. Closely. From now on it's a perma-date. Me, the mammogram machine, and my right breast. Every six months from here to eternity.

At least the mammogram will only cost half as much now, har har!

It's funny, but in September when my Oncologist kicked me lose and told me I was done with all doctors, I hightailed it out of there fast. Physically, emotionally, mentally. Out of there. Less one breast, I didn't look back. And trust me, life has been sweet.

But because it is December 1st, I am forced to go back. Back there. Again.

I opened my day planner to "the page" in the back that has all the doctor's numbers, addresses, fax numbers, emergency numbers, and more. It's been several months and unexpectedly my gut fell straight into my shoes. It feels like being forced to open a doorway to the past. A rush of old emotions. And not in a good way.

I remember that my ex-mother-in-law, who had her own harrowing encounter with breast cancer many years ago, absolutely hated her follow-up visits. Days beforehand, she would become filled with anxiety and it seemed there was nothing we could do for her except be supportive. I remember distinctly at her 5-year-mark when she was FINALLY declared CANCER FREE. It was a great day in many ways, but for her, to never to have to go back for another damned follow-up visit was one definite perk of the 5-year milestone.

She is a hero to me, by the way. Like all women with this disease who do what they have to do, she did it with grace and calm and strength. She remains cancer free to this day.

So, my appointment is for Wednesday, December 3rd. I very much wish I could report that I am not apprehensive. That I am going in with all the confidence in the world. But, I will say that like many women before me, I will go and endure and that will be good enough because I have already proved my bravery and taken my stand against cancer.

Fingers crossed.

Love, Jen

20/20 Vision

Recently a dear and treasured friend emailed after we had been out of touch for some time. Having lost my email address, he Googled me. As a result found this blog at which point he learned I had cancer. He then sent me a note asking, "Your blog just went cold! Did you die? Please say you didn't die!"

Funny! But he's right, it's been a while since I've been here so here I am.

I titled this blog post "20/20 Vision" but it really should be titled "1/1 Vision." I am a little distance away from the cancer now, so I can look back and gain *some* perspective. However, time will provide me with a lot more. It's a lot of learning, so slow is good.

I am back to what I was, plus. I still have the unknown lump on my ribcage, having not found the time to go back to the doctor just yet. Or maybe I just haven't found the inclination. Either way, little lump is safe there for now.

My scar has healed and it does not physically hurt. If you google "mastectomy pictures" you can see what it looks like (well, not MINE exactly, but mastectomy scars in general). I will warn you that it is very alarming to look at. Somehow, despite my own 10 inch long scar, I've made a pretty fast peace with how it looks and feels. Except for an occasional cattie-wampus bra incident, I look and feel the same from the outside looking in. So, all is well there.

I don't worry much about getting more cancer. Rather, I simply accept that more is in my future due to a high-level family history and my young age at first occurrence. Knowing this does affect the choices I make. For the better. Mostly.

And I feel much more at peace than before, internally. The difficulty that is coming into play for me now is dating. I have a very picky criteria list, to which I must now add, "person who is willing to put up with one boob and a 10 inch scar." To be honest, it's not much of a dilemma for me. My attitude is that if a person can't do that, then they are not for me. So, I go back to a state of being thankful for the pretty day and not worrying about much. It's just how I roll these days. Peace has its advantages.

(By the way - the picture above was taken from our ocean front cottage at Cape Cod in October. I'm still trying to get a picture slide show together ...)

Peas, Jen

Congratulations America

"Judge a man not by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character."

~Martin Luther King

How Did You Find Out You Had Cancer?

I get this question a lot. Here's the answer.

Picture me at home, peacefully working at my desk.

Phone: Ring Ring.

Me: Hello!

Voice: Hi, this is McKay Dee Hospital. We're calling to schedule your surgery for next week.

Me: ....

Voice: Hello?

Me: Surgery for WHAT?

Voice: Ummm ... err ..... ummm .... Hasn't your doctor called you yet?

Me (voice escalating): What would my doctor call me about???????

Voice: Well, er.... your mammogram results.

Me (working up to a combo yell/shriek): MY MAMMOGRAM RESULTS!?!?!?!? WHAT ABOUT THEM?!?!?!?!? WHY DO I NEED SURGERY?!?!?! WHAT IS GOING ON?!?!?!?!?!

(This would be my first, but not my last, encounter with icy-cold fear running rampant through my veins - the kind that dumps in when you intuitively know that the news is not good.)

Voice: Er ... we need you to call your doctor and then call us back. Click.

That's how I found out I had cancer. Pretty 1950's eh? I felt bad for the voice because that must have been awkward to say the least. I called my doctor at the speed of light. I was told, "She is in a meeting and is not to be disturbed."

I said, "DISTURB HER. NOW."

They wouldn't. I was told to call back in 2 hours. I waited. Called back in 2 hours.

"She's still in a meeting, call back tomorrow." Compassion is not dead, it's just completely absent in Utah. Trust me, this is true.

Then I said some choice items that are not repeatable here. Later that day, the doctor found some spare time to call me and to confirm that I did indeed have cancer.

Some days are worse than others. That was a bad one.

Loves to all - Jen

One of My Heroes

Find more videos like this on My Crazy Sexy Life

My Friend Henry Writes About His Son's Passing, September 13, 2008 (UPDATED)

Henry writes:

Dear Friends & Family:

The hospice nurse was here this morning to examine Cameron. He is showing clear signs that he is at the end of his earthly life, and heading off on his next adventure.

He is in no distress or pain, and looks so beautiful. The nurse described him as regal. Take comfort that this process will be gentle and pain-free. We have days or hours left, and are now in vigil mode.

I am sad, of course, and yet strangely relieved. I do not intend to despair or fall into a dark depression. How can I? My son's life was not a tragedy. It is a triumph! This is a passing that he is worthy of. If it were me instead of him (and I wish it were), this is how I would want to go. With such grace. Such grace.

As the full moon approaches (Monday), imagine Cameron rocketing through space on the back of a comet, his laughter ringing through the universe. Free. Free of cancer. Goal met!

Please light a candle in Cameron's honor, and read the following passage to your children and grandchildren. A friend sent it last week, and it brought me much comfort. It warrants repeating here.

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says: 'There, she is gone!''

Gone where?' Gone from my sight. That is all.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says: 'There, she is gone!' there are other eyes watching her coming, and the other voices ready to take up the glad shout 'Here she comes!' And that is dying.

~Henry Van Dyke

Peace out, my son.

Henry

Cameron's Place

UPDATE: Cameron passed on the next day, Sunday. Here is an incredible poem one of Cameron's friends wrote:

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 2008 11:32 AM, CDT

That Joy Thing

I stopped by the creek.

It was flush and triumphant again,

from the rains.

The waters were singing your laugh,

crashing over rocks in a crazy dance—

you know—

with that joy thing you splash everywhere.

Tonight the moon is

cradling her swollen belly.

Her light is soft.

Not as bright though

as those stars we dusted off your shoulders

—while you lay in grace.

I felt the warmth of your breath yesterday

as I leaned in to gather more memories.

The flame from your warrior’s heart scorched mine

And I tucked it away, a treasure.

This earth can be cold.

For you,

for us, I will tend and share your fire.

I won’t hold you. (As if I could.)

Your trail is blazing across one landscape,

moving to the next.

Lay your body down, dear.

I see that it is too small now

to hold all of you.

It is hard work to wrap that much radiance—

But it was so lovely to bask in yours, as it spilled over

into this little moment we call life.

by Kerry Miller, in loving tribute to Cameron David Allen

Sunday, 04/16/95 - Sunday, 09/14/08

Nothing That a Little Art Won't Cure

Hey all, just to check in to let you know that I am healing exceptionally well and feeling fine. As it turns out, the lump below my incision (see the blog post below) was just a byproduct of the surgery. It hurts less each day and I am doing great.

In the meantime I am back to my full time shenanigans including a weekend trip to Denver with Liz to view some of her paintings in a First Friday showing in the Chac Gallery on Santa Fe in the Art District. We had an amazing time and she saw many of her old friends there. We also spent time hunting for an apartment for her because she will be moving back there shortly. Great fun!

Here's a couple of pictures from our trip:

Several highlights included having dinner with Liz's good friend Sophie (above) at Watercourse (an amazing vegetarian restaurant) and lots of reminiscing about Liz's old haunts.

Love you all - Jen B.

Icy Fear Through My Veins

Recently I made quite a splash around my town and e-town when I announced to the world (well, just my friends and clients) that I was cancer-free. I was kinda loud and proud about it actually. Friends from high and low were full of congratulations for me. Then we all did what we all do, got back to work.

I've been healing nicely (officially 2 1/2 weeks after surgery as of today). My horse's patoot of a surgeon did a very fine job by leaving only the teeniest of scars straight across my chest. Apparently this isn't always the case with mastectomies according to those in the know. So, even though I don't like the guy, I will say that he did a really good job on me, and I have enjoyed the lack of complications.

All is well then. Or it was until I looked in the mirror this morning and saw a lump protruding from my rib on the left side. It's true that I've been feeling some pain there since right before my surgery, but dismissed it as nothing. Now, I could clearly see it protruding, 1/4 inch out, maybe 3 inches straight down from where my tumor was located before it was removed.

ICY. FEAR. SHOOTING. THROUGH. MY. VEINS.

That is the only way to describe what happens to your mind and your body when you think it might be possible that you have discovered more cancer. Or that the original tumor left a little present. Or a baby. Or whatever the hell it is.

I had heard of this icy fear thing happening to other cancer folks, but didn't think I would be the type to fall into the I-once-had-cancer-so-now-every-little-thing-might-be-cancer-hypochondriac pit. But in I went, and fast. There was no stopping it. Balls to the wall full out fear. It definitely wrecked my day.

I have a followup with my stink-ball surgeon tomorrow and I will ask what it is. Hopefully ... well, I don't know, why speculate? I'll keep you posted.

As always, I couldn't do it without you. But if you could hold my hand for a minute, that would be great - Love, Jen B.
http://www.jenniferbunker.com/

It's Over

Two and a half months, 22 doctor's visits, and one mastectomy later, I am officially done with cancer.

My Oncologist said that I will not require any further radiation, chemotherapy or even Tamoxiphen. I have no more increased chance of contracting cancer than any other person on the planet. It's over for good.

I have been released back to my regularly scheduled life.

I'm not the same. I'm better.

And I couldn't have done it without you.

All my love and gratitude - Jennifer

36-Year-Old Christina Applegate - Double Mastectomy

I thought that this article about Christina Applegate was interesting. (Article on MSNBC). After her diagnosis with Breast Cancer, she decided to have a double mastectomy after also learning that she tested positive for the BRCA1 gene. This meant that she had her healthy breast removed at the same time as her cancerous breast. In the article she jokes that after her reconstruction is finished she'll have the perkiest breasts around!

I really commend Christina for making that decision. I'm sure it was agonizing to make. I will also be tested for the BRCA1 gene and if that test is postive, it is likely that I too will have my good breast removed and then do reconstruction on both of them.

But unlike Christina, I wasn't ready to say goodbye to both of them. I am glad that I still have one. Maybe it is baby steps, but it was right for me.

My hat is off to her and others like us who are forced to make such difficult decisions, and then do it with grace, style, humor, and positive energy. We are pretty amazing women if I do say so myself.

I feel great today, how about you? Be sure and give yo momma a hug today, okay?

I see my Oncologist later this afternoon. I'll report in about what he says.

My love to all - Jen

www.jenniferbunker.com

The Surgical Follow-up

I went to see the surgeon today for my one-week post-surgery checkup. I was excited and nervous because I knew that I would be getting my drain out, all the bandages off, and then going over the pathology to find out if the cancer has spread or if we got it before it did.

To be honest, I'm not sure what I was more anxious about. Just thinking about it all gave me a mild freak-out in the Doctor's waiting room but sweet Liz managed to settle me down before the lid blew. Sara is in Montana on a well-deserved vacation, so poor Liz had to endure this one all alone. She hugged me sweetly and soon it was my turn to go back to an examining room.

I was terrified that the staff or my doctor would remove my 12 inch X 5 inch dressing by ripping it off my body. After seven days of melding into my chest skin and underarm areas, that sucker was on for the duration. I went back and forth in my mind about would they, or would they not remove that bandage by ripping it off or by prying it off lovingly instead. Either way, I knew that my skin was in for a tough time as the bandage covered a very large amount of skin.

I had also had heard that the drain removal is super painful. I could feel that my drain was into me a good 6 inches, starting underneath my arm and going to the center of my left chest. I had read about both the drain removal and the tape removal on the Internet and had become very nervous about both things. (Note to self: Never read about scary things on the Internet after 3:00 p.m.)

You would think that my mind would be fully on the pathology, instead of these issues, wouldn't you? As it turned out, my surgeon came into the room and ripped that bandage from one side to another in one fell swoop before I even knew what hit me. The pain, though monumental and causing involuntary twitching, lasted only a few minutes. The surgeon who is never one for ceremony, compassion, or even words, took care of THAT issue. One down.

Next, he had me lay down on my back. He artfully distracted me with small talk while fiddling with my drain site. In the next second the stitches were cut and the drain was out with no pain. The man does not fool around. Two down.

I looked down to see what I looked like. Well, for sure my breast is gone and it is not pretty. I have a scar straight across with some skin left for my reconstruction. My friends, I don't know if I can ever get used to what is there now. It is very difficult to see, but there was no other alternative. Even though I don't like it, I have to learn to live with it. I will consider losing a breast one of my great life tragedies, but I traded it for my life and I will always stand by that decision.

Or .... did I trade my breast for my life? Maybe not. What if my cancer had just been a teeny pre-cancer? This was information that we had not known because I had two vastly different pathologies on my June biopsy, one reporting a serious cancer the other a stage 0 pre-cancer. What if I had given my breast up for a teeny pre-cancer? I had been thinking about that and the moment of truth was at hand.

The Doctor pulled out the pathology report and began. As it turns out, my surgery was "curative". Likely no need for radiation or chemo, although I now must go see the Oncologist to confirm this. My tumor was mildly estrogen positive, a condition that requires most women to take Tamoxifen for several years afterwards to control future cancer growth. The tumor itself was bigger than everybody thought. It was also a high-grade comedo type DCIS tumor. This means that it was the bad cancer, and it had been poised to become invasive.

But it didn't. And now it won't. The pathology also showed a proliferation of other calcifications which is how this cancer begins its journey. Think of them as baby pre-cancers, just a twinkle in their mother's eye at this stage, but poised to grow and mature into more cancer.

I had done the right thing after all. I followed my own intuition, fired two surgeons who wouldn't, and endured a third who just didn't care. But I did it. And, I think it's over. Mostly. Hopefully.

Love you all, I do. Jen

www.jenniferbunker.com

Home From the Hospital and Doing Great

Thanks so much to everybody who called, emailed, and brought flowers and cute teddy bears. I don't know what I would have done without my sisterhood through this.

I am back, one boob short of when I left. My family jokes that maybe I lost a pound (due to my famously small breasts). Jeepers, everybody's a comedian!

Like all my hospital stays I had a great experience. What's not to like? Nice nurses bring you warm blankets and keep you from barfing after surgery. They are kind and sweet and even reminded Sara why she once wanted to be a nurse.

I have had literally NO PAIN at all. We don't know why, but I did not need my pain meds in the hospital nor have I needed to take any percoset at home. I am taking 2 Tylenol for swelling and that is it. Why a person would have an 8 inch gash/amputation and not feel pain is beyond me. I have loads of energy and I feel great. I even managed a shower this morning.

My boobless area is bandaged tight. I see the surgeon next Thursday to get that off. That will be a low moment, but was the right choice.

I woke up in the hospital and realized with a start .... I am free of cancer. I won, you dirty bastard! Even if I had to give you a boob to do it!

(Actually, that is hopeful thinking, because we really won't know if the cancer was invasive until the I get the pathology back sometime next week. If it was invasive, we are talking a whole other ballgame. But we'll talk it then, not now. Today, in my mind, I am free of cancer.)

So, here's the details of my surgery, if you are interested. If not, you are done here. :-)

What strong woman doesn't have strong women behind her? Liz and Sara postponed their lives to be with me through 18 doctor's office visits and one mastectomy. They prepared my home before I left, secured any doggies and kitties and made me one heck of a hospital basket of soft comforting goodies. Precious adorable Josh has been checking in when he can even through the excess of estrogen and emotion. He is to be commended for his continued love and support. Love you, son.

I headed off for surgery at 7:15 a.m. on Thursday. With entourage and many pillows in tow, I arrived resigned and ready to get on with it. They checked me in and gave me the world's worst hospital gown along with the poofy hat. I didn't don the hat out of defiance and they let me get away with it, for a while. The girls toddled along behind my bed as I was pushed around the hospital to my various stations. (Note: They push you through the halls where regular people are walking. I would have been mortified to see someone I know!)

My first stop was to have radio active dye injected into my breast. This is done to check the sentinel modes for any cancer. The dye is injected, then you must wait two hours before it makes its way to the nodes. You are totally radioactive and that time, which is worrisome. Once the dye "seeps" to the right place, the surgeon uses a Geiger counter while in surgery to test the nodes. Because this kind of cancer attracts the radiation molecules, if there is cancer in a node, the Geiger counter will find it and then the surgeon removes it. I probably didn't explain that right, but anyway, I waited my two hours with my faithful servants, and finally it was my time for surgery.

I liked my anesthesiologist who listened carefully to my heart issues and made the appropriate notes. A resident who told me he was just finishing up medical school then rolled me into the operating room. On the way, he told me I was going to get the best "margarita" ever and that it would make it so that I just didn't care any more. He was right, I saw the stark white of the operating room and everybody in masks, but I just didn't care. They asked me to move myself to the operating table, which I happily did. Then, the best part ever ... I just went black.

In previous operations I had to play the game ... "Now count backwards from 100 ... here we go ..." That's when you know you are going out and it causes such anxiety in those two seconds before you go. This time, the wonderful med student simply filled my IV with the juice and didn't say anything as he did it. Bless his heart for that.

The surgery took 2 hours and then (for reasons we don't know yet) I was in recovery for two hours longer than we expected. This caused the girls some anxiety as somebody had told them I would be in my room shortly, but I then didn't show up for several hours. However, I woke up feeling fine in the recovery room and and had no pain at all. They wheeled me to my room where my nannies were waiting for me.

I immediately had the best nurse in the world, a guy who asked me if I felt nauseous (I did) and did I need some meds (I did). He took care of my and though I was dozy I noted that he talked at length with my girls and answered their questions. He was kind and sweet and that means a lot.

The rest for me was a lot of napping. Josh visited later that day which is a big deal for him as he hates hospitals. I had low blood pressure issues, 88/50 through the night along with a high heartbeat. It was concerning but the nurses kept a good eye on it all while I dozed. I slept all night long and woke up already to go around 7 a.m. I never saw or talked to my surgeon even though I asked all day long to talk to him. That is how they roll in Utah, and it is kinda sad. But, he did what I hired him to do and I guess that is okay enough.

I have a drain which is such a drag and kinda gross. I will get that out on Thursday. I'm already anxious to go to the nice ladies at the one-boobie-bra store and see what they can fix me up with. I just feel ready to get back to my life.

I need strong prayers that my pathology shows the cancer was not invasive. Then, I need prayers that my insurance will not be any more mean to me than they already have been. Then, I need my clients to call me cause I am ready to get back to work.

Thanks AGAIN, there are no words to describe how much your support means to me and my kids.

Love (the one pound lighter) Jen

www.jenniferbunker.com