CELEBRATING THE ORDINARY: Day 6

Twice a year, my dear pal P. and I celebrate our birthdays by taking each other to our favorite spa.

Yesterday was my turn to be pampered, and we got in plenty of quality GTL (Gym, Tan, Lunch) time. The kicker, for me, was the quote that was printed on the front of our lunch menu. It so aptly describes the process of getting through a cancer diagnosis. 

Don't cha think?

Thanks to P. for another awesome birthday celebration. It made the ordinary, well, extraordinary!

(This post is part of JBBC's Celebrating the Ordinary Challenge.)

CELEBRATING THE ORDINARY: Day 5

I am enjoying one of summer's simple pleasures: A perfectly round, perfectly ripe, perfectly delicious, perfectly delightful tomato.

Much like a mate, finding a good-looking tomato is easy; finding one with substance that's also nice and sweet? Now that's another matter entirely.

Until now.

(Copyright © 2012 The Big C and Me)

For lo, I have discovered the lovely Kumato®— a super-sweet and small (just an inch and a half in diameter) tomato that is brownish-green on the outside and reddish-green on the inside. Yes, quite unusual but OH so delicious! I buy them by the 6-pack at Trader Joe's for the very reasonable sum of $3.49. They're imported (thank you, Canada!) and their flavor can't be beat. They don't even need to ripen. Just pop 'um in the 'frig. They are consistently yummy, I swear. 

And no, this is not a paid announcement. Just sharing a little culinary secret with my besties!

PS Hats off to the JBBC challenge — for were it not for Marie, I would never have given the Kumato its due!

CELEBRATING THE ORDINARY: Day 4

(Copyright © 2012 The Big C and Me)

Ordinarily, I try to spend a few afternoons a week each summer swimming in the pool. I use my noodle and do a variety of contortionist water aerobics moves. I am quite the sight. (So much so, one of our dogs insists on keeping watch over me whenever I'm in the water.)

With my surgery fast approaching, however, my days in the deep end are dwindling. And I'm oh-so-weary of the hot waters of reconstruction anyway. I'm jonseing for a calm, cool, uncomplicated end-of-summer slide into fall.

So I guess if I want to cool my jets, I'd better get splash splashing before Wednesday.

CELEBRATING THE ORDINARY: Day 3

It is Day 3 of Marie's Challenge.

I haven't been hiking in several weeks because it's just been too damn hot. But this morning, I brave the sun and head out early — with an umbrella. (Something I have never done before.) A biker passes me and asks if I am expecting rain, which is pretty funny since I live in a desert-like climate and we won't see rain in these parts for several more months. (Certainly not like the rain Isaac is about to usher in to the Southeast U.S.). I simply reply that I am ever hopeful.

(Copyright © 2012 The Big C and Me)

Just as I am ever hopeful about seeing flora and wildlife when I go hiking. And today I was not disappointed. I came upon a few sunflowers — the last vestiges of summer in an otherwise stark and arid landscape. I move in closer for a better shot, and am surprised (just as I was yesterday) by the tiny creature I find ... this one hard at work (dare I say it?) busy as a little bee.

I continue hiking for another 20 minutes, then turn around. (Too hot.) As I round one of the final bends, BAM! There they are: A family of deer crossing the trail directly in front of me. (I love when this happens and have written about this before here, but they are always such a treat to see!) I count six of them as they make their way gingerly down the steep hill, across the dusty trail and down into the forested gully. My little camera doesn't zoom so well, but you can make out four of them before they disappear into the thick, dry brush:

(Copyright © 2012 The Big C and Me)

At the top of the ridge, I take a moment to look out over the landscape of this place that I know and love (and have written about before). Next week, I head into my sixth (count 'um, 6!) surgery, the one I have been looking forward to since this breast cancer journey began, the prize at the end of the struggle. Though my path hit several snags (whose hasn't?) and my surgery was shelved for a year while my body took its time healing, the day is finally arriving. A full 19 months and two days after my bilateral mastectomy, I will have my tissue expanders finally removed and exchanged for implants. My left expander has been in since February 2011; my right since December 2011. That is a long time in the life of a tissue expander.

(Copyright © 2012 The Big C and Me)

The loss of freedom is indescribable, so hell yeah, I can't wait to experience the "feeling" of having implants. And getting a semblance of my former self back. Though my chest will forever be a "no feeling" zone, at least I can rid myself of the unpleasant sensation of carrying around bricks. (And you ladies who have been through this know what I am talking about.) The sensation is akin to wearing a very tight bra that is holding, well, bricks, that you can never take off. Ever.

For now, I take my hike and drink in the view so that I have a pretty mental picture in my head before my friendly anesthesiologist sends me off to slumberland next week.

This is me this morning, all Mary Poppins-like.

Just another ordinary day.

CELEBRATING THE ORDINARY: Day 2

Nothing is ever quite as it seems.

(copyright 2012 TheBigCandMe)

I went outside this afternoon to take a photo of our Crepe Myrtle tree (I'm taking part in a one-week blogging challenge that was started by Marie over at Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer). The abundant blossoms don't last very long, and they are so pretty, so pink. They never fail to make me smile each summer.

So I got up under a tree branch and positioned my camera just so, in order to get a glimpse of the vibrant pink blooms against the bright blue sky.

Imagine my surprise when I saw this little face peering back at me from behind the lens.

Sometimes the obvious is right smack in front of us, but we can't see it because we're too busy looking for the pretty.

A perfect metaphor for life, don't you think?

CELEBRATING THE ORDINARY: Day 1

I'm taking part in a one-week blogging challenge that was started by Marie over at Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer.

As Marie puts it, this challenge is "about celebrating the ordinary simple things we can sometimes take for granted each day. Will you join me in finding one thing each day to take a picture of to remind us of the simple ordinary pleasures in life?"

So of course I said YES! If you have a blog too, you can join in by posting your photo on your blog and then leaving a link at JBBC. If you don't have a blog, you can still participate; just go to Marie's Facebook page and upload your photo there. Marie will be posting everyone's photos on Facebook as well.

This little duck symbolizes the past two summers I've been physically and emotionally staying afloat while navigating the wonky waters of reconstruction. I've had to do a lot of wading (and waiting) while my body took the time it needed to heal. For the most part, I've been able to chill out with a smile; after all, I'm still here. Still swimming. Still enjoying the sunshine. So many others are not. 

I am a lucky duck.

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

Forgive my posting another saying, but I couldn't resist... it's a good one. (PS: I'm currently working on a piece about anger, so stay tuned!)

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

I'm willing to bet this statement is true 100 percent of the time when it comes to cancer. 

Is it true for you?

DESIGNING WOMEN

I finally got around to giving my blog an official logo! It was designed by a lovely woman named Sumera. I love it, and hope you do, too.

I'm still tweaking the redesign, so please bear with me. Hopefully I'll end up with a blog that is both pleasing to look at and easy to navigate.

In the spirit of my new dancing woman/tree, I hope you embrace a little piece of nature this weekend! Enjoy.

GIVING UP THE GHOST

The last I wrote of my journey with reconstruction (see Delayed Healing), I was trying in vain to save my right tissue expander. Allow me to catch y'all up on my physical progress since then. I'm including photos to help anyone out there who may be struggling with delayed healing issues. First, let's backtrack to a year ago.

July 6, 2011

July 2011 My original right incision never healed closed after my mastectomy on February 3, 2011. After repeated surgical interventions to debride and re-suture and heal it, a pinhole developed through which fluid seeped at a consistent pace. The pinhole grew from a tiny dot to the size of a large pinhead (see photo). Because it is an actual hole and not just yellow/green tissue (see Delayed Healing for pictures of that), my plastic surgeon, Dr. C., and I decide it is time for the right tissue expander to finally come out. I make peace with this decision.

July 6, 2011 In the hospital under anesthesia, Dr. C. cuts into the healed portion of my old mastectomy scar, excises the expander and scrapes away the scar tissue that has built up over the past five months. This tissue will be sent to the lab to make sure I don't have an undetected infection as well as to check for cancer cells. 

This is my fourth surgery on this side (not counting in-office stitching). The fourth time I undergo general anesthesia in as many months. The fourth time I try in vain to heal this wound. (But who's counting. Oh right. Me.)

I wake up and don't feel nauseous (always a sign of operational success!) and am sent home a few hours later. With another damn drain in a different place (which means another awful scar). I'm wrapped tight as a mummy in an Ace bandage and not allowed to shower. Which is alright by me, because I'm dreading having to look at my mutilated self.

July 10, 2011

Despite the internal and external trauma of delayed healing and the subsequent removal of my tissue expander and scar tissue, the AlloDerm that Dr. C. placed in righty during my mastectomy is holding up just fine. That's the good news. But I'm now left with a crescent-shaped mound resting above my inframammary fold line, and a sagging, scarred pile of skin above it. Just call me Uneven Annie.

Time passes. My incision heals. For. The. First. Time. EVER. (I guess my body really didn't like that right expander.) My biggest challenge now? Disguising the fact that I'm now a one-boobed wonder when I leave the house.

The easiest way around this is to wear a structured bra that clasps in front. (This workout bra is by Danskin; I bought it at Walmart.) I don't fill out the cups, but that doesn't matter; when I wear this baby, I look "normal" in clothes. Only when hugging me would you notice a dent. (So I don't hug too many people.) The plunge design of this bra allows me to finally wear regular tops. (I've been living for months in surgical vests 24/7... they provide compression for the fluid build-up and a way for my bandages to stay put. I will not miss them.) What a relief to leave button-down shirts on the hanger.

November 30, 2011

I also begin physical therapy twice a week to regain the range of motion on my very weak right side. And I'm beyond relieved to hear neither infection nor cancer is found in my scar tissue.

December 1, 2011 One week before my one-year cancerversary (see that post here), I have my fifth surgery. Dr. C. inserts a new right tissue expander and fills it to 200 ccs (rather than the original 350 ccs like my other side). For the first 25 days, all goes swimmingly. My incision looks to be healing. I'm back in my surgical vest and recovering while also preparing for Christmas. But I overdo it, eagerly handing out gifts from beneath the tree I also helped decorate. What was I thinking? I notice a tiny spot of yellow on my bandage that night.

January 5, 2012

December 28, 2011 I notice a larger yellow spot on my gauze pad this morning. Here's the weird thing: The spot isn't on my fresh incision line. It's along my OLD incision line — an area that wasn't even cut during my last surgery! Truly, this is my Achilles heel. I feel like I just found out someone or something died: My hope.

Despite all this, and for reasons unknown, the tiny area does not develop into an actual hole like it has so many times in the past. It simply weeps. Kind of the way I do when I stop to think about how long I've been struggling. I use less antibiotic ointment this time around because I read somewhere that too much can inhibit healing. Dr. C. doesn't think this has anything to do with it, but I'm willing to try. Maybe this is why it's not getting bigger?

February 29, 2012

February 2012 Sometimes I have seepage after I shower, so I cover my incision with a big, waterproof bandage. Afterwards, I have to press down on the area above my expander to force out the accumulated serum that continues to build up inside and around my expander. Still, the area continues to improve. (Fat fingers crossed.) A yellow scab forms. I am cautiously optimistic. 

But the feeling is fleeting.

March 5, 2012

March 1, 2012 I shower with my waterproof bandage, and afterwards dab alcohol gingerly around the tiny scab. Lo and behold, the tiny scab comes off. Yippee! This means I'm healed! I quickly grab my magnifying mirror — and to my horror I see there is a tiny black hole instead of fresh tissue. Healed skin never resided behind that scab; it was all just an illusion. 

I almost drop the mirror. Instead, I start to cry. I can't take this anymore. I have been tolerant. I have been compliant. But it's been 13 bloody (in the British sense) months and I'm SO over this physical and metaphorical black hole. Part of me wants to keep denying that I've got a medical problem with no solution. Another part of me is pissed off and ready to take on someone, anyone, by the horns. The rest of me is just tired. Luckily I have an appointment in a few days with Dr. C. He will know what to do!

March 6, 2012 I'm feeling frustrated, confused, impatient — dare I say it: I'm in a mood. My pinhole continues to ooze. I explain the whole thing to Dr. C. He listens. He empathizes. He looks. He presses. He squeezes. Then he shakes his head. I have never seen him this perplexed or down. Then he drops the bombshell: He is not sure what to do with me.

What do you mean, you don't know what to do with me? You're a doctor! I'm doing everything right and this is all very wrong. I say nothing about getting a second opinion, but I'm absolutely thinking it — and he must be a mind-reader because he suggests I get one. (How many doctors do you know who are willing to tell you that? It takes a lot to admit defeat. Or at least profound frustration.) I'm also wondering why he hasn't shared my case with other surgeons and collectively figured this out. Again, he reads my mind: He tells me he has a colleague at UCLA that he wants to discuss my case with. 

I would like both of those things: A second opinion, and you discussing my case with your colleague. There. I said it. And man, it feels good.

Newly energized by anger, I go home and contact a friend who had reconstruction (see my Get This Party Started! post). She gives me the name of her doctor. As I'm about to dial his number, my gut interrupts: Don't call this guy. Why? Because I suspect he's the same surgeon that Dr. C. is going to confer with. I don't make the call. I listen to my gut.

I turn my attention to a woman I know online who is an expert on tissue expanders. In addition to her vast technical knowledge, she keeps a database on leading surgeons (as well as clunkers who should never work on a woman again) in dozens of cities across the U.S. She tirelessly volunteers her time helping breast cancer patients navigate the tricky, murky waters of TE Land. I lay out my tale of woe and ask for a referral or two in my area.

She emails back the same day, but I am unprepared for her reply: "I think you need to give up the ghost on implant-based reconstruction only. There is some reason your body is reacting in this manner and I do not think that current methods of trying to resolve the problem are working now or will work in the future."

   

March 13, 2012

And, just like that, my merry-go-round comes to a screeching halt.

I'm in a funk for three days. Pissed that someone could thwart my hopes to heal with one blunt email. The truth is, I'm unwilling to undergo more drastic surgical measures to "fix" my problem (i.e., a skin graft from my back, or taking fat from my belly to make a boob). I'm stubborn. I've been suffering through this for far too long to just "give up the ghost." But maybe that's exactly what I should do. Give up the ghost of what I want for what I can realistically have. (Like getting cancer wasn't enough of a kick in the mouth! This whole recon thing ain't for the faint of heart.)

March 14, 2012

March 14, 2012 Something amazing and unthinkable has happened overnight. My pinhole is no longer a pinhole. My incision is closed. CLOSED I tell you! I can't believe it. I was religious about taking photos of myself throughout this process; see it for yourself.

Miraculous, right? Guess I had to get good and mad in order for my body to release its need to seep. I was living in limbo land for so long that when I finally stopped crying and feeling sorry for myself, so did my body. And in that moment I took back my control. I was able to let go emotionally. And I began to heal.

March 27, 2012

March 27, 2012 I see Dr. C. again. He is visibly concerned about my plight. (He doesn't yet know that my pinhole has healed. I don't tell him; I want to hear what his colleague had to say first.) I'm sitting in my unopened, button-down shirt. Before he begins, I ask what the other surgeon's name is. (HA! I was right. It is the same surgeon who operated on my friend. The gut never lies!) Dr. C. says both he and the other Dr. C. think I need a Latissimus Dorsi Flap due to my compromised healing. And that's when I open my shirt. I flash him my healed incision and stop him cold in his tracks. (How often do you get to flash an unsuspecting man?) His mouth literally drops open. He is shocked speechless. He knocks on the wall for luck. "This is completely unexpected," are about all the words he can muster.

I no longer want a second opinion. (Kinda already got one.) The seeping and weeping has ended. I am healing. It will take a few more months. I can do this.

July 15, 2012

July 10, 2012 I see Dr. C and it's official: I am completely healed! Here the hitch: During normal reconstruction, saline is injected into tissue expanders over a period of time to stretch the skin and help prepare it for final implant surgery. I have 350 ccs on my left side from my first surgery, and 200 ccs on my right side from my TE reinsertion surgery. This is not ideal because A) they are not very big and B) they are uneven in size. I won't be as big as I was before, but Dr. C. is confident he can make me match (using implants only) on the surgery table, and with a good result. I do not need a skin graft. If I didn't trust this process completely before today, I do now.

Dr. C. does not want to compromise my skin integrity by stretching me further, so I will not be getting fills every couple of weeks like we originally planned. He has, however, decided I can have one fill (more for the experience, I think, than anything else.) Though he's never allowed a patient to do so before, he lets me push the saline through the syringe, giving myself the long-awaited 50 cc fill on each side. (It's only been 17 months. What's my hurry?)

(Illustration courtesy of Breastcancer.org; all reconstruction photos © 2012 The Big C and Me)

On that note, my friends, this blog is officially up-to-date with my real life. It is tracking true to life events. (That's something I've been trying to do since I started writing back in April of 2011.)

When I finally have my exchange-to-implant surgery (didnt I tell you? It's scheduled for September 5, 2012!), my posts will be in real time. 

Woot woot!

EDITED TO ADD: To read what happens after my exchange surgery, click here.

SURVIVING AN MRI

Whew! Been a busy June. I've squeezed doctor, hair and nail appointments, cross-country travel (my first flight since my diagnosis and yes I overcame a lotta fear that I might swell up which thankfully I did not and I also did not set off any TSA alarms with these freakishly old tissue expanders I still have, thank you very much), a high school graduation, lots of time with family, and meeting wonderful new (and old) friends — all while providing my mother with a lot more care than she has required as of late. Problems with her upper spine have her in pain and unable to lift anything heavier than a paper plate.

(Copyright © 2012 The Big C and Me)

So this week, I took her for an open MRI (she is terribly claustrophobic.) Afterwards, the technician asked if she had been in a car wreck. WTF? She's never had blunt trauma of any kind; her doctor suspects degenerative disk disease. We find out on Tuesday — that's when my sister and I take my mom (along with a copy of her MRI and radiology report) to see her immensely handsome neurosurgeon, Dr. H. (What a pleasure it is to rest one's eye on a good-looking man while stuck in a medical office. I'm just sayin'.)

I'm also just sayin' that's why I haven't had time for The Blog. Back in April, when I was posting daily as part of the WEGO Health Activist Writer's Challenge, I had ideas aplenty (despite only a smidgeon more time). This month? Lots of thoughts are fighting for space in my cerebral cortex — but nothin' is jellin', Magellen. 

Back to the MRI. Like my mother, I am terribly claustrophobic. But I have tricked myself into thinking I am somewhere else when I have an MRI and am able to breeze through it with less anxiety. You can, too! I'm re-posting some tips I wrote last August on how to make it through an MRI. Maybe it can help you, or someone you know. 

HOW TO SURVIVE AN MRI

You can survive an MRI (or any other uncomfortable procedure) while feeling calm and cool and even collected. I've got it down to a few simple steps:

1) Breath deeply while you're waiting (after changing into that cute little gown) and then waiting some more. Don't let your mind wander into the worry zone.

2) Don't be overly ambitious when you walk into the MRI room. Keep your eyes and mind focused on walking towards the machine. Try not to think of anything else in that moment. Do not look around the room.

3) Lay down as instructed and close your eyes immediately. This is key. Get comfortable. Listen to the tech's instructions, but whatever you do, do not open your eyes. If they will let you, wear a fabric eye mask without metal. Or tie a bandana around you as a blindfold (that way there's less pressure to keep your eyes shut).

4) Think about your favorite place that is relaxing and joyful to you. For me, it's being at the top of a hill I regularly hike to. I imagine how it feels to stand, feet firmly on the ground, arms stretched out to touch the wind. I notice the sun and how warm it feels on my face. With the breeze comes the fragrance of eucalyptus. I listen for the sound of birds and hawks above. BTW, while you are imagining the many details of your favorite place, the MRI will commence. Whatever you do, no matter how many times they ask you to move or they move the machine to reposition you, keep your eyes tightly shut! Focus on your breathing; it should be slow and rhythmic as you relax into whatever pleasant experience your mind is conjuring up for you. (I used this same technique as a pre-surgery meditation here.) 

5) Sing a song in your head. This helps to counteract the banging and clanking of the MRI machine. Imagine being in your favorite place and singing a great song to the wind. Sing it over and over again. Before you know it, the technician will be telling you it's over — the MRI, that is. 

Remember: If you can't see that you are closed in,

you can tell your mind you're anywhere!

PINK RIBBONS, INC.

The documentary Pink Ribbons, Inc. debuts in U.S. markets today. Please go see it!

MANAGING CHAOS, ONE YEAR LATER

(© 2012 The Big C and Me)

I was scrolling through some of my old blog posts and found one that was written exactly one year ago today. In it, I talk about how to manage the post-diagnosis but pre-surgery chaos that every patient has to deal with. 

"I took cancer from an angry rolling boil down to a simmer by determining the who, what, when, where,why and how of my diagnosis. This not only gave me a path and a direction, but a sorely needed compass. Once you figure it out, managing your cancer chaos gets much easier." 

Read the rest of the post here. I hope it helps any newbies out there.

CALLING ALL WOMEN!

A Duke University research team is currently looking for women who live anywhere in the U.S. and have undergone surgical treatment for any type or stage of breast cancer to participate in an Army of Women quality-of-life study.

THIS ONLINE SURVEY CAN BE COMPLETED FROM THE COMFORT OF YOUR HOME.

What could be easier than that?

THE REQUIREMENTS ARE SIMPLE

• You must live in the United States
• You have had a diagnosis of breast cancer at any stage — including DCIS, LCIS or Stage IV metastatic breast cancer
• You have had surgery to treat your breast cancer
• You are female
  
• You are 18 years of age or older
• You have access to a computer

HERE'S HOW TO PARTICIPATE

• Go to the Army of Women study requirements page (click here) and then click "Sign Me Up!" 
• If you are eligible, you will be sent an email with instructions on how to complete the survey online. The survey is completely confidential, and it asks some compelling questions about your experience post-surgery; I encourage you to be brutally honest! The medical community needs to know how utterly jarring and life-altering breast cancer surgery and reconstruction really is. Only then can things begin to change.

IMPORTANT!

Please tell any and all friends and family members who have had surgery for breast cancer about this study. It's one small way we can all make a difference! For more AOW studies, see my recent posts here and here.

SIX-WORD MEMOIR: CANCER

Ernest Hemingway was a big fan of brevity; his most famous short story is a perfect example:

"For sale: baby shoes, never worn." 

Proves the point that you don't need a lot of words to make a point! Larry Smith, founder of SMITH Magazine, believes that too. Back in 2006, he created the tantalizing Six-Word Memoir® project with the following tagline: Everyone has a story. What's yours? Then he invited folks to tell their stories — in half a dozen words. No more, no less. 

My challenge to you all today is: Can you condense your cancer experience into just six words? I say we give it a whirl! I'm inviting everyone to participate, because everyone has a breast cancer story. Even if you don't have breast cancer yourself, your life has somehow been touched by it. Let's put a six-word face on BC.

I'll start: Cancer called. Wish I hadn't answered.

BLOG ENVY

Three things happened this week that birthed this blog post.

First, I was catching up on my blog reading when I checked in on Jan from Mourning Has Broken; her post title caught my eye. By the time I was done reading it, my emotions had run the gamut. She had shared a secret she'd been harboring for years, and was so brave in revealing her truth that I couldn't comment quickly enough! This is what I wrote:

• "When I first started reading this post and saw the words “blog party,” I thought oh, this is going to be a funny post. As I started reading I realized it was serious — but I thought you were telling the story of the girl in the video. THEN I finally realized you were telling your own story. And then I watched the video. And now I want to give you a great big hug and say you are AWESOME and brave and amazing for sharing your secret! So proud of you!! And so sorry you have suffered with this disorder on top of suffering with BC and lymphedema. It ain’t fair. Truth be told I think we all have idiosyncratic behaviors that we use to keep our anxieties at bay. Some people drink too much. Some eat too much (as you have described). Some have compulsive routines that bring a measure of calm to a very topsy turvy world. Some are hooked into being drama queens. Some people exercise too much. Oh, the list goes on. The important thing to know is that we’re all just trying to cope. And you are definitely not alone. I suspect you have helped more than one person with your sharing today. Good on you!"

That's a cancer surviver for you: Strong, brave, and not afraid to tell the truth. (To read Jan's revealing post, click here.) I continued on with my blog reading.

Next, I popped in and out of a number of blogs (you know how that goes: One blog leads to another, and another...) before I landed on a sweet little one that (again) caught my eye: "Things I'm afraid to tell you." Intriguing title. Sounds like what Jan just did. I keep reading.

I quickly learn that blogging has gotten too pretty, too perfect, and too polished (not my words, but those of other writers). In fact, a movement is underway to bring more honesty to the blogosphere. 

More honesty? Really? Again, I think of Jan's post. And I keep reading: A group of bloggers have challenged each other to be more authentic by writing about the stuff they don't normally discuss on their blogs. You know, the things they are afraid to tell you.

As I'm sure you guessed by now, these are not cancer bloggers. 
So what's this 'movement' all about? Blog envy. It's (apparently) a real thing. Bloggers see beautiful things on other beautiful sites and have a misperception that the blogger has a beautiful life too — free from the many things that make us all human. Bloggers want to see that their fellow bloggers aren't perfect.
Well come on over to Cancerland! I'll show you a community of bloggers that is not shy about sharing its dirty laundry. Heck, it's why we're here in the first place! Our blogs are our attempt to make sense out of cancer, purging our minds of the darkness that hides within its cracks and crannies. 

Yes, I had a good laugh at the humor of it all. But don't get me wrong — I mean no disrespect to anyone out there who is blogging about something other than cancer. (Talk about blog envy — I wish I wrote about travel, not tissue expanders!) We need those kinds of blogs too: The ones focused on the pretty things, the ones we go to in order to forget (for a moment, anyway) our troubles. They're all important. It's just that I had no idea that "blog envy" existed. 'cause I have never felt it. So I decided to leave a comment. And here is what I wrote:

• "This is my first time visiting your blog (I followed a link to 'Things I'm afraid to tell you' and landed here). I feel compelled to leave you a post. I started blogging after a breast cancer diagnosis, and honesty is the backbone of my little corner of the blogosphere. I am stitched into a supportive, witty community of cancer survivors who tell it like it is every single day. No holds barred over there. No one afraid to tell their truth. There is transparency aplenty. And talent. And humor! Lots of humor. Really. But I had no idea that it wasn't like that in other web niches. Never really thought about it before. Kinda having an AHA moment over here — seeing a benefit to cancer I never noticed before. Thank you!"

I felt a great deal of honesty and transparency in leaving my comment. Maybe one person will check out my blog and discover some of your blogs too. We never know the ripple effect that one toe in the water can create. (Ever hopeful am I.)

Lastly, I read a brilliant post by Suleika Jaouad, who writes a column in The New York Times about her experience as a young adult with cancer (in Suleika's case, it is acute myeloid leukemia). The title of her article also caught my eye: "Posting Your Cancer on Facebook."

Whoa. Talk about truth telling. I don't share in that way on Facebook. That's my cancer-free zone. I'm just not comfortable talking about all my 'stuff' to all my peeps when all of them probably don't really want to know all the gorey details. That's why I have this blog. If you are a regular reader, you're not afraid of my truth or my cancer. And that makes me feel safe. Facebook does not feel safe to me in that regard.

Suleika was deep into chemo when she decided to finally "come clean" on Facebook. She writes that it felt "inauthentic, even dishonest" that her FB profile did not reflect her current reality as a cancer patient. I have to give her props; I'm just not ready to do it. 

And that's not blog envy. That's just the truth.

(To read Suleika's revealing post, click here.)

Amended to add: The Huffington Post has picked up on this "truth-telling" phenomenon (aka, TIATTY). OY. Too bad no one mentions cancer bloggers...