Hard to believe.

Yet not hard to believe that I haven’t posted in six weeks. I needed for this day to come. Needed 365 days under my belt before I could write another word.

Pneumonia; Infiltrates (a.k.a stuff no one knows what it is) in my lungs; and a contracting pectoral muscle shoving my boob expander into my armpit bummed me out. My treatments were over. Wasn’t life supposed to return to normal?

After a CAT scan, I came home and threw my keys down.

“What are you going to do when this is over?” Jeff asked.

“I’m going to the other side of the world from Mission Hospital.”

Scratching the Internet, we learned that traveling to the other side of the world would plop me in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

“No hotel there. What’s nearby?”

“The island of Mauritius,” Jeff said, “We could go on a family vacation.”

The airfare and hotel times four were beyond our budget.

“Madagascar is nearby.”

“That’s where all the Central Park Zoo animals went.” We pondered for a moment.

“You should go to Australia and see your friends,” Jeff suggested. Years ago, I lived down under and worked on a sheep farm. Just call me Jillaroo, a female cowgirl (for sheep).

“Brilliant idea,” I exclaimed. Within an hour, the gods of frequent flyer were with me as I booked a ticket leaving January 1st.

I know you’re thinking, ‘Were you high?’

The answer is ‘Yes, I was.’ Not high, but high in that carpe diem kind of way.

A sweet talking with my doctor secured his approval, while a phone call to my sister in Kentucky lined up help with the girls. I was ready to fly south.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

I was eager to beef up my exercise routine and get in shape for my walkabout, a rite of passage in which teenage Australian Aborigine boys used to wander the bush, retrace their ancestors’ steps and perform heroic deeds.

Push. Pull. Walk. Pop.

Pop?

A pea-shaped cyst on the base of my spine popped under the skin while stretching.

My pea had been with me for years. The girls would ask, “What’s on your back, Mommy?”

“It’s where my alien lives,” I joked.

Now my alien was angry as the pea grew into a golf ball.

I took antibiotics, applied warm compresses and asked my body to please stop this nonsense and heal. An airplane ticket and passport were in my nightstand ready for take-off.

That’s when the golf ball swallowed a lemon.

In the middle of the night, I woke up in pain. My hand reached around and felt blood.

There’s no need to get into the gory details of pus mixing with blood and weeping through my skin. Suffice it to say, I realized at 3 a.m. there would be no Australian walkabout. Knowing me, I would contract SARS disease and they would have to land the plane on some deserted island in the Atlantic Ocean.

The next day, I went to my surgeon, who was not happy I had waited so long. She numbed me up and sliced open the lemon.

“Be careful,” I said. “An alien could pop out.”

“No alien, but I can see down to your spine,” as she pulled out a cup of guck.

Ode to joy.

“It looks like a gun shot wound,” my husband said, diligently changing the bandages. My two-inch hole had to be stuffed with gauze daily.

“I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.” The Eric Clapton song played over and over in my head. “Every day the bucket goes to the well, but one day the bottom will drop out.”

The bottom dropped out.

You know what happens next because you’ve read it here before.

I lost hope and faith. Feared I would never be well again.

Then one day, I woke up and the hole no longer need gauze. A post-Christmas CAT scan showed that my infiltrates had gotten smaller (without steroids!). The unknown fibers were confirmed as radiation damage, not cancer.

Hope returned. My faith surged.

My fingers got busy searching the Internet for travel possibilities. Australia was out. Another item on my list was to visit my girlfriends in Arizona.

There was no time to do my pre-travel ritual of prep (clean madly), pack (buy cute clothes) and paperwork (go through every pile). I grabbed my medicine, laptop and sweatpants and hopped a plane by myself to Tucson. No kids, doctors or CAT scan machines.

This morning, I hit the road solo in a Mustang convertible, singing at the top of my lungs to Van Halen and Fleetwood Mac. Pure joy emanated from my big mouth.

Now, I’m sitting in front of Cathedral Rock in Sedona. If I had come here a year ago, I would never have been as grateful as I am in this moment.

What a difference a day makes. 365 of them.

Thank you for being an important part of my journey, a walkabout through the thickest and thorniest of territory.

Tomorrow, I’m taking you with me as I hike the red rocky paths to the Boynton Canyon Vortex.

We travel together.

When I went for the results of my second x-ray, I expected the doctor to say my left lung was looking good, clear of infection and white stuff. Instead, the radiology report said there appeared to be radiation damage or metastasis. Say what?

Once you’ve had cancer, you are no longer freaked out by the ‘c’ word. You get used to saying, ‘I have cancer.’ What freaks you out is the ‘m’ word: metastasis. This means the cancer has spread and with that info, you watch your survival statistics plummet.

After I got the news, the office scheduled a CAT scan with dye for me on Friday. Within 24 hours, I was on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Crying hysterically and dry heaving.

“We need to reschedule my test. I can’t wait until Friday.” My mind raced as I thought about starting a whole new regime of chemotherapy and radiation.

Jeff took one look at me and got on the phone. 24 hours later, I was on the CAT scan table.

“You are going to feel flushed and like you have to urinate,” the technician told me.

The warm rush came to my face and then down below. I prepared myself for another humiliating moment. Fortunately, it did not come.

Afterwards, my friend Christine and I went to a nearby restaurant to wait for the results. I had been fasting all day and was hungry for foods I rarely eat or drink. I consumed two beers (I wasn’t driving), cream of chicken soup, pizza margherita, focaccia bread, and a cappuccino. Yeah, baby! That’s called eating like there’s no tomorrow.

And then the phone call came. Jeff had spoken to the radiologist and there was no sign of metastasis. The doctor and radiologist studied my scan and determined I had a form of radiation damage they had never seen before. Atypical, of course.

Sighs of relief. Huge atypical sighs.

To celebrate, I decided I needed a new look. Salt and pepper hair was interesting, but not me. At least not for now.

My friend Carrie took me to her stylist today who whipped my hair into a warmer, softer do. (She reported my head was full of healthy hair.)

We had a moment together as I looked in the mirror and saw the old me. Happy tears flowed. What can I say? I feel better as a blonde.

Carrie leaves tomorrow on the 3 Day Komen Walk. She signed up right after I was diagnosed and has been training for almost eleven months. But more than walking from here to San Diego, it’s the camping that will be her greatest challenge. She’s my friend with the coziest, yummiest bed. Imagining her in a tent makes me chuckle.

She’s said many times, “If you can get through treatment, I can do the 3 Day Walk.”

Over the past year, I’ve learned to be a warrior. My friends and family are warriors, too.

I’m asking the universe though for a nice respite. For all of us.

Or as my mom likes to say, “Stick a fork in me, I’m done.”

Check out Carrie’s Komen Walk page. She still needs sponsors, too. I will be posting updates this weekend of her trip.

Two weeks ago today, I had my last radiation treatment. I was elated. The light at the end of the tunnel was only a few steps away. The doctor said I’d have one more week of pain from the scar booster radiation and then life would get better every week. I should have known that those kinds of predictions don’t apply to me.

The shooting pains started to subside on the weekend so I spent Saturday as the psycho soccer mom, cheering (not yelling). That night, my throat felt like I had swallowed a hair.

By the morning, the hair had turned into a fur ball the size of the world’s largest ball of twine. I couldn’t stop coughing. We all started to worry whether mommy was exchanging air with mother earth.

Want to feel like you have the plague? Try sitting in an oncology waiting room with a hacking cough. No one would sit near me and I didn’t blame them. My doctor ordered an x-ray and antibiotics and told me there was a chance I would be put in the hospital.

I dropped to my knees and begged. “Please, not the hospital. I’ll do 100 loads of laundry and watch all four seasons of Hannah Montana.”

He budged, slightly. “Okay, but no trick or treating.”

At that news, I burst into hysterics. Halloween is sacred fun in my household. The costume, the candy and, of course, the chocolate. Nothing tastes better than a Kit Kat in between houses on the candy route.

After an x-ray in which the technician had no idea what he was doing, I headed back home to wait for the diagnosis. Was it cancer? Radiation damage? Pneumonia?

My husband called the hospital three times, but there was no news. I began to think the cancer had shown up on my lungs and no one wanted to tell me. So much for positive thinking.

The next day, there was still no word. I tried to switch gears to the old adage, ‘no news is good news.’

Then, it dawned on me. They lost my x-ray. Sure enough, I was right.

After a few phone calls, the radiologist found it. My upper left lobe was milky with either pneumonia, radiation damage or both. What joy!

Under house arrest, I dove into napping, inhaling steroids and watching trash TV. Even though Rachel Zoe had her baby and Camille Frasier had survived the divorce, it wasn’t enough to keep me sane. My treatment journey was supposed to be coming to a close, not starting a whole new regime.

I laid in bed wondering ‘What the hell?’ Was it always going to be like this? Laying in bed, eating mashed potatoes and taking my medicine?

I stared at a beautiful stone with the word ‘courage’ engraved on it. My friend Carrie gave it to me two weeks ago and I hung it on my bed post. Strangely, she knew I would need it now more than ever.

Courage. The strength to fight. Flat on my stomach, weak as ever, I mumbled the word. “Courage, come.’

The door bell rang. My girlfriend Chris, an interior designer, stopped by. “What can I do for you?” she asked.

She had brought me wonderful chili and healthy stir-fries over the past months. I looked her straight in the eye.

“You can help me clean up my house.”

Her eyes lit up. “With pleasure. I’ve been waiting to get my hands on those piles.”

Over the past ten months, our family had accumulated a large amount of stuff. I’d had no energy to weed through the piles of homework, mail and junk that crawls into your house through the back door.

Chris and I talked about rearranging furniture, painting a few walls and cleaning up the trouble areas. I was feeling better already.

“Maybe this will help me heal.”

Chris agreed. “I can’t stand clutter. It blocks my chi.”

If her chi was blocked, mine was the Great Wall of China.

The next day, I went to see my oncologist. Since the antibiotics had helped my cough, he thought it was more likely pneumonia and not lung damage from the radiation. Yee-ha! Who ever thought I would be cheering for pneumonia?

At home, I told my friend Leigh, “I want to celebrate by throwing away all of my pajamas that I’ve lived in for the past ten months.”

“Great idea,” she said. “If the clothing says cancer, then get rid of it.” We ripped through my closet and drawers.

Two filled garbage bags later, my chi was flowing and my drawers were empty.

After that, I decided that I’m breaking out of jail.

I might be crawling on my knees through the underground tunnel, but there is a light at the end. Hope and courage will guide me there.

In celebration, Jeff and I made a short music video. Dr. Young, my radiation oncologist, has a secret talent of making balloon art. Recently, she made me two straitjackets banjos. Strangely enough, she did not know that I’ve had a yearning to play the banjo.

This video shows that I am certifiably crazy joyful about life. Be sure to check out the radiation burns on my chest! Now that’s authenticity.

Hope John Denver is not too offended at our butchering version of Take Me Home, Country Roads! There’s obviously no question as to my next career. Mental hospital Grammy Awards, here I come!

Trotting around in my bright pink Survivor shirt, I felt like royalty. Complete strangers gave me hugs, high fives and even jewelry. The most incredible part was the energy in a crowd. As my daughters, friends, and I walked the course, I felt hope that we will find a cure to this disease. For my own health, I felt a renewed energy to finish my treatment and keep fighting.

Which is good thing because ever since then, I have descended into madness. Sheer madness. I think the lack of exercising and constant pain of one kind or another has finally gotten to me. It’s either that or HAL, the radiation machine, has fried my brain.

For starters, I have lost all sense of spatial organization. I looked at our frig the other day and saw tubs of food shoved in at various angles, some of them hanging on for dear life. I can only assume the eggs felt sorry for me and voted unanimously not to splatter themselves all over the kitchen floor.

Another spatial problem is my big fat mouth. All filters and sense of appropriateness are gone. Last Saturday at Sara’s soccer game, I found myself yelling, ‘Get in her face! Don’t be polite.’ Now that’s setting an excellent example for my children, not to mention the other children on the team.

I’ve also criticized a friend’s parenting while telling my own kids, “Mommy’s fat and looks like a boy.” So much for keeping the ‘fat’ word and gender politics out of our house.

I am raw. On the outside, my skin is fried, my muscles ache and I am constantly exhausted. On the inside, I feel vulnerable yet unabashed in expressing my opinion. And I am depressed.

Why did the radiation take me to this place? Of course, there are the common side effects of nausea, fatigue and depression, but I assumed those wouldn’t happen to me since I had every side effect chemotherapy had to offer.

I recently had lunch with my friend Cathy, who was diagnosed with breast cancer around the same time as me. We contemplated why radiation can seem harder than chemotherapy.

“I think it’s because we have to do it every day. We have get on the table and get radiated.”

Every day. Except weekends.

“And it’s cumulative,” she added.

I laughed. Instead of cumulative, I think of it as exponential. Sometimes, I lay on the radiation table and do exponential math in my head. 9×9=81. 9×81=729. 9×729= (pause for mental math) approximately 6,300. Then, I gasp. No wonder I feel so tired and burnt! In just three days, I’m in the thousands.

Perhaps madness is my mind protecting itself. Or maybe it’s because the monitor in the radiation room shows the date 2/08/80. I am experiencing time travel back to my junior year in high school where I’m curling my hair and ironing my jeans. In an Avatar-esque moment, I transition from my teenager body to the mom belly and gray hair. The juxtaposition is just too much and my mind freaks out.

Is that why I’m going crazy?

“Maybe it’s because you’ve been fighting cancer for ten months,” my husband logically adds.

I just want to return to kooky, crazy Christine that likes to dance with bowls on her head in the middle of JCPenny’s. Oh wait a minute, that was 1980!

Anyway, I’m sure it will be over as soon as I get my radiation oncologist to commit to an end date.

“It all depends on your skin,” she says. (That reminds me of a movie I made in 1999!)

Fortunately, Sir Thomas Moore said, “Is it only through mystery and madness that the soul is revealed.”

I’m looking forward to the revelation that awaits me at the end of this tunnel.

That and a walkabout around Hawaii should cure those radiation blues.

King Kamehameha awaits.

If you have any questions call Laura Keller at: 949-939-2802

The most important one is last: we need to find a cure to breast cancer. I don’t want our daughters to ever go through the slash, poison and burn that myself and others have braved.

Since I’m not a scientist, I am doing what I can. This Sunday, my family will be walking the Komen Race for the Cure at Fashion Island in Newport Beach. I’ve never done one but I hear it is an amazing experience. And Dr. Oz is walking and talking which should be fun.

I hope you can join us and our team, the Chemo Room Groupies, Team #1973. You don’t have to register to participate, only if you want a t-shirt or number.

If you can’t join us, please let me know if there is someone you would like to honor. I will proudly WEAR their name on my body (arms, legs or t-shirt) and head (although I may wear my Dolly Parton wig).

Real quickly, here is my mesmerizing list of summer’s lessons learned:

1. Having pink cheetah hair is very fun. (It was temp color)
2. You can feel great affection for your bed and soft sheets.
3. Chemo fog doesn’t end when you end chemotherapy.
4. If you are taking steroids, you can gain five pounds while sleeping.
5. It’s easy and painless to pluck your eyebrows after chemotherapy.
6. Bank and store clerks are suspicious of bald women wearing hand gloves (for lymphodema).
7. As the patient, you must always be in charge of your medical care.
8. Private insurance companies can raise your rates whenever they want.
9. When you lose something, it’s always under something else (except for your boobs).
10. One in eight women in the US will get invasive breast cancer. That means that either our daughters or our children’s friends may already be growing cancer cells. This needs to be stopped. We must fight for a vaccine and a cure.

Please join me for the Race for the Cure, either in body or spirit. (I’ve posted some cute pics on the pages.)

Click HERE TO REGISTER for the race.
Click HERE TO SPONSOR ME in the race.
Click HERE TO SPONSOR CATERINA in the race.
Click HERE TO SPONSOR SARA in the race.
Click HERE TO SPONSOR JEFF in the race.

Don’t forget to let me know (either comment here or post on race page) who you would like to honor and I will take them with me. Thank you for your constant love, support, cards, angels and comments. You are always with me.

Here’s the deal. Every day, I walk into a large room and lay down on a flat metal bed. I take off the left side of my robe to uncover my breast. My neck rests onto a support and my left hand holds a pole about my head. The cute tech who is probably half my age makes a few adjustments so that all five of my sexy blue ink tattoos line up with the red lasers in the ceiling.

“Try to not help me,” he says, moving me around. I try not to laugh, thinking that my big butt and thighs probably weigh more than he does.

“Now hold still,” he reminds me as he walks out of the room, leaving me alone with Radiation HAL. There’s no glass partition where I can see his smiling face. This is a one way show with two cameras focused on me in all my fake boob glory.

The radiation delivery system, or HAL as I like to call him, is an extremely large machine with a long arm and circular hand at the end. As I lay on the table, this large three foot disc moves, first facing me. Parts inside of it start to move, like a pupil dilating when you are scared or in love. Grind, grind, grind. Then it stops in the shape of a small box.

A loud buzzing begins. I stare at the box. I can’t see anything but I know that my clavicle is being radiated. I hold my chin up as far as I can hoping radiation won’t leak into my head and destroy the few brain cells I have left.

After a minute or so, it stops. A mechanical groan begins and HAL moves his arm to below my left shoulder. Its pupil adjusts and the buzzing begins anew. Now beams are being sent to the left portion of my breast with special attention to its scars. When I asked why, the tech told me that research has shown that microscopic cancer cells are found in the surgical scars. Strange, but true.

For the finale, HAL moves his arm all the way over to my right side, hanging around 2 o’clock. After adjusting to a tiny pupil (has HAL becomes indifferent?), the buzzing begins. Now invisible beams are slicing across my breast, hopefully not touching my heart or lung. I take long slow breaths trying not to move, but anxiety hits me and my stomach distends into a large breath.

The lights switch on and the party is over. The tech comes in and helps me move my left arm down.

“You did a great job,” I’m not sure what I did right, but I nod, happy I didn’t freak out and leap off the table.

I wish I had a quick joke or bit of repartee. All I can do is bite my lip and hope I don’t burst into tears in front of him.

“See you tomorrow.” I muster.

Is this really what I do every day?

While the tech and I get along fine, I realized that HAL and I have a few trust issues. Is he really just radiating the chosen areas? What if he has a bad day, and moves a little to the left? Or to the right? Why can’t he just go south and melt away my fat stomach?

The director Stanley Kubrick was a great storyteller who understood a lot about human fears. I’m starting to realize that Eyes Wide Shut and 2001: A Space Odyssey were scary films about trust and power. And boobs.

Not sure what it all means except that this Halloween, I should be done with my radiation. A horror-free halloween sounds perfect to me.

Everything changed in an instant
For you. Nothing would be the same.
You may feel as weak and exposed as an infant,
No one could blame.

But your attitude is still as bright as the morning sun,
As light as a dove’s feather
As sweet as a honeybun
As strong as rough-hide leather.

A pink twisted ribbon shows
that you are brave
and everyone knows
that a cure will save.

Your golden, graceful, gorgeous hair is gone, but your spirit
Is much more beautiful than it.
Nothing can stop your journey of hope and pleasure
So never, ever
Give up.

Jessica Metz (Age 13)
April 3, 2011

Only problem is that my body wasn’t on board. My hands were swollen, my joints aching, and my feet hurting when I walked. I finally realized the reason they stopped my chemo was not because they liked me, but because my side effects were outweighing the benefits of the chemo.

Hello! Anyone home in that chemo brain?

Funny thing with the chemo drug Taxol is that you continue to swell and ache for months after you stop taking it. Swell and swell and swell. Such fun. I gained 18 pounds in 6 weeks. I swear to you from one day to the next, my shorts did not zip.

What happened to my cancer where I could eat anything? While I know most of this is water weight, there are a few dozen cupcakes and frosting shots in that double muffin top roll.

I pulled out some leggings and baggy tops for a recent visit to my oncologist. I begged my friend Christine, who was driving, to take me to Costco afterwards for a few things. I needed normalcy along with toilet paper and my spicy yogurt dip (most chemo peeps can taste spicy).

While perusing the vitamin aisle for some kind of something that would help, a woman approached me.

“Excuse me, are you pregnant?” she asked.

Was she talking to me? I scanned the area.

She was most definitely talking to me. “No, I’m not pregnant.”

I decided to not practice my usual TMI and tell her my ovaries had shut down from six months of chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer. Instead, I became hearing impaired.

I saw the woman’s lips moving but couldn’t hear. I think she was talking about her daughter who was pregnant and needed vitamins, but I’m not really sure. All I kept thinking was “Do I look pregnant?”

Back at home, I took a good look in the mirror. Spikes of gray curly hair, a puffy round face, and dark bags under the eyes. Should I be offended that she actually thought I was healthy enough to be pregnant?

That’s when the beauty hit me. I’m no longer a bald, flat-chested, sickly looking woman whose look screams CANCER!

Now I scream pregnant. Or indulgent. Or rebellious.

Whatever it is, I don’t care. I just feel love. Love for Costco. Love for my belly. Love for my friends and family. Love for Sprinkles cupcakes.

And love for people who don’t know you’re never supposed to ask a woman, “Are you pregnant?”