Another Life Milestone: Last son enters his twenties
“I’m not exactly single,” my nineteen-year-old informed me when he came home from college for Thanksgiving last year.
To my fifty-something mind, that meant he was married. Maybe he eloped. Maybe he didn’t want the trauma–and drama–of a king-sized wedding with Dad and Mom sitting apart. But then I thought he would at least tell me before he married someone. He’d at least do that for his mom, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he? That’s when the brilliant idea entered my mind that he was engaged.
But when he saw that confused, somewhat-knowing smile wash over my countenance, he explained what he meant. “I’m not single anymore on Facebook, Mom. Now I’m in a relationship with someone.”
Oh.
What do I know? I’m just an ageing baby boomer out of the loop on so many levels.
I “get” that social networks have taken over the world by storm. What I hadn’t comprehended was that the relationship status of friends on Facebook (which changes by the minute) has redefined the outdated terms used by couples only a fortyear ago.
Texting is another sign of the gaping chasm between my decade of birth and his. Now don’t get me wrong. I do text. But my texting lacks the volume of the Millennium generation. Maybe my small motor coordination is hampered by not having played video games as a kid. At any rate, my finger dexterity lacks what it takes to justify the cost of unlimited texting. In fact, next month I move from a generous family cell phone plan to a single one with–heavens to Betsy!–a limit on texting.
In contrast, this teen of mine, turning twenty tomorrow, texts me to the limit. He even texts back and forth while watching a movie.
Are we even related?
Now I confess that I do multi-task, most often when I’m on speakerphone or Skype. But during a movie? I don’t think so. I’d miss some dialog. I’d miss some critical climax and have to press the “rewind” button. If that is even a word anymore.
And don’t get me started on electronics. When this boy had just turned ten, we plopped on the couch a box with a new DVD player for him to set up. He was too young to watch the movie we were about to see with the new player, but old enough to know the ins and outs of intakes and outtakes. Now he’s graduated to far more complex tasks handling gadgets we couldn’t have dreamed up even five years ago.
Sometimes I feel like this teen’s grandmother. I’m old enough to be his grandma. But young enough not to feel that way mentally. I’m not sure if it’s even healthy to entertain thoughts of being a mom-grandma, but he certainly makes me feel so young.
And also blessed. Only three when his mom first received her cancer diagnosis (and ten when she suffered a recurrence), he’s to be twenty in less than 24 hours. And he’s not exactly single. Wow, I’m a lucky bum. Life promises more at every turn.
Bring on the next quirky electronic or social media trend. I’m ready. Now if I could just find my keys.
Have you ever felt like a grandparent to your own children? Have you ever sensed that you are not “with it?” If you’ve had cancer, has it affected how you view life’s milestones and relationships?
Christmas Ornament Reminiscing: My bubble pack of hope
I just finished savoring a post titled Buying Santa on Lauren’s blog After five years. It reminded me of the emotions swirling through my head when I recently bubble-packed my ornaments from Christmas 2011.
The year before I had squirreled away my baubles with no inkling of the whirlwind about to blow me away. I had no concept that six months later I would be moving these same treasures from a cozy garage to a sterile storage unit. How was I to know I’d be single again, except for a few clues that I chose to ignore in denial? Fortunately, some godly voice last year urged me to label with a Sharpie marker all my Christmas containers so I wouldn’t have to open each one to determine its contents. That proved helpful in November 2011 when I had to move my possessions from the house and decide which bins to take and which to leave behind. Of course I grabbed all those labeled “X-mas ornaments.”
What happened?
Life.
While early this year my son and I gingerly packed away delicate ornaments I had selected to hang from a loaner tabletop tree, I mused about them. About how these glittering jewels soon to be tucked away in my storage unit had weathered the storms of multiple decades. About how these fragile adornments had survived the trauma of several moves, hanging on by mere wiry hooks, if not their good looks. Could I, a woman with a history of two bouts with breast cancer, now separated from her lifetime mate, survive the same way, without being shattered into a million shards to be consumed by a Dustbuster? Would people remember me if I suffered a cancer recurrence from which I did not recover? My stalwart ornaments certainly could teach me some lessons in resilience and self-worth.
In the coming months I will tackle a major decluttering project: sorting through these assortments of memories. I’ll need discernment in deciding what I really must save (that papier-mâché imprint of my then 6-year-old son’s hand on a plate that is hanging by a thread) and what I should give to a worthy cause. I can always snap a shot of those handmade ornaments about to fall apart, but with which I have a hard time parting. Then I’ll always have a digital reminder on Flickr of their intersection with my life.
By this coming Christmas I expect to have downsized those ornaments to a reasonable number so I can start over. Like Lauren, I did succumb to buying merchandise during the post-Christmas sales. Thrifty blood runs through my veins from my Scottish father and Dutch mother. Unlike Lauren, I didn’t purchase a Santa, but I did score some timed LED-powered candles at 80% off list price. Like her Santa, I will keep them displayed all year, timed to light up for four hours on my windowsill each evening. My own Flickr. There’s always hope for brighter holiday seasons to come.
I see no need to forgo all after-Christmas discounts because of an uncertain future. All of our remaining days are uncertain. Yet we go on. We plan. We plant one well-heeled boot–or not-so-well-healed boot (pun intended)–in front of the other.
May my ornaments rest well, knowing that they have a good future in store for them, whether perched on my tree or that of another. And while the iced-silver electric candles in my window may seem like frou frou to the unobservant visitor to my home, these pillars of strength symbolize to me a tomorrow both expectant and mysterious.
Do you have ornaments that you especially treasure? Have you had a life-changing experience that makes you wonder if you will see another Christmas intact?
Social Omnivore: Freedom from the past
Not long ago my son asked me if I was an omnivore, now that I no longer lived in a household of vegetarians. I thought about it for a minute and then replied, “I’m a social omnivore.”
Now an omnivore can be described as someone who eats everything: meat, fish, veggies, you name it. But what is a social omnivore? Have I coined a new phrase? Well, like a social drinker who only drinks alcohol around others, a social omnivore eats everything put in front of him or her when eating with others, whether at a restaurant or someone’s home. It’s the polite thing to do–and a social bonus. At home, the social omnivore reverts to what he or she would normally prepare and eat alone in the privacy of the home.
Until now I’ve been mostly a vegetarian my whole adult life. Not a vegan, but an ovo-lacto-vegetarian. Did that diet prevent me from getting breast cancer? No. In fact, within a span of seven years I heard that dreaded “You have breast cancer” twice.
Being a vegetarian–or even a vegan–doesn’t mean making healthful choices. Sugary desserts rarely contain meat or fish, nor do fatty, salty entrees like fried zucchini, eggplant parmasean, and fettucine alfredo. White bread, French fries, donuts, milk chocolate goodies, etc. can also make up a vegetarian’s diet. Starbucks is chock full of vegetarian fare; some specialty drinks it sells can easily add 700 calories to the calorie count of a not-so-discerning customer.
I’m not saying cancer invaded my body because I overloaded on sugar or low-fiber carbs. But I do believe that vegetarians can be quite judgmental and hypocritical in their lifestyle. How many eat foods laden with sugar, salt or unhealthful fat? For that matter, how many wear leather shoes and sport leather wallets, jackets or purses?
I started my rebellion against strict vegetarianism about 11 years ago. Having had chemotherapy that could result in heart problems, I reasoned that I needed to add omega-3 fatty acids to my food repertoire. I was getting them only from walnuts. How many walnuts can a walnutchuck chuck if a walnutchuck could chuck walnuts? After a while I went nuts and forewent walnuts entirely. At a fancy restaurant in the San Francisco Bay Area, I put my foot down. I ordered my salmon–with mashed potatoes.
And loved it.
In 2000 I took a business trip to Tokyo. Thank God I had already eaten fish for some time. Nothing remotely vegetarian peeped out from the turntables posing as centerpieces on the restaurant tables. Not wishing to offend anyone, I would have starved if I had stuck to any strict principles. While shark-fin soup wasn’t my cup of tea, at least I was prepared to eat it if nothing else but seaweed presented itself to me.
After all, Jesus ate fish.
I’ve often wondered why vegetarians eat “fakon” and “shamburgers” and “fricken” and “mossages” if they are trying to escape meat? Wouldn’t they want something totally different if they chose this diet for religious or health-based reasons? Something like Asian fusion or vegetables laden in reduction sauce? Morning Star Farms makes a huge profit from these soy- and other based concoctions. And soy, filled with phytoestrogens, is something I shouldn’t be overloading on, anyway, as a person punched with estrogen-receptor-positive cancer.
I never became a locovore. It sounds crazy to me, eating only food grown within a hundred miles of you. Why not enjoy what you eat, especially when life seems short after two bouts with breast cancer? That’s my motto. At Thanksgiving I gobbled down turkey with friends, and at Christmas a few slices of tender ham with a different group of friends. Both families invited me in when I would have been alone for the holidays. I repaid them by doing what my mother always taught me: eating what was placed before me. When in Tokyo or Rome…
So if you see me at a local fine eatery savoring chicken and red wine with a friend, you might overhear someone say, “There’s that Jan, the latest refugee from New Age vegetarian, and the latest social omnivore and drinker.” So be it. That IS the new Jan. And cancer be banned.
Have you changed your diet due to a health scare? If so, was it a rebellious gesture like mine, or a way to alter a lifestyle to prevent or reduce the risk of a disease?
Empty Nest Revisited: Running through the pain
The train wreck was imminent, a given. But I didn’t know how it would hit me.
Last Friday I got my first taste of empty-nest syndrome as a single mother. I thought I would be prepared for the magnitude of the impact. I was mistaken. My brokenness registered 11 on the Richter scale of riven hearts.
When I dropped my son Josh off at the airport that day so he could start his new college semester, he gave me a lingering hug. An “I love you, Mom” embrace that echoed in my brain for many miles on my return trip northward. On my drive to the new digs I now call home. Nothing could have been sweeter. Nothing could have been sadder.
As I gripped the steering wheel in utter anguish, my plans transformed before my eyes. Upon exiting the airport I had intended to head to a ritzy mall that would be quite a bit out of my way. We have no such galleria near where I live and I wanted to experience retail therapy at its ultimate. But my heart wasn’t in it. Nor was my pocketbook. No item I could buy at Nordstrom’s would compensate for the emptiness, the void in my heart.
Instead, on the way back home I dropped into a blue-collar shopping mall I had never visited. One with totally predictable, mundane stores. To take my mind off my troubles and not return to an empty apartment, one that had been filled for over a week with the comforting sounds of a young man typing on his laptop, texting or conversing with his girlfriend, I determined only to window shop. I decided that purchasing items in a frenzy of retail madness would be counterproductive. After all, I’ve been decluttering ever since I moved to my apartment and don’t need yet another household convenience. My closets and storage unit are filled to the brim with items to benefit the American Cancer Society, Good Will, the Salvation Army and our local ARC group. Why fill up the shelves again with stuff that will end up in a similar heap–or, worse, a dumpster?
In the end I broke down and bought a single blouse on sale at an anchor store, a top to compliment my new post-traumatic-stress figure. After that, I passed the time walking and talking to a good friend on my cell until darkness crept in through the mall doors. It was time to venture home. I arrived at my destination in time to borrow some movies from our clubhouse and watch a thriller to distract my mind.
The next day, yesterday, I decided to run. The day promised to be picture perfect. I had taken a run a few days before, giving myself time to recover after my New Year’s fast of three days. That first run of the new year was a jog. When my son asked me how long I run when I go out, I told him 35 minutes. That amount of time seemed decent, allowing me enough minutes to loop through a safe residential neighborhood, if not quite make it to a nearby park.
But his question challenged me. Having run a 5K back in May for a charity fundraiser, I wondered if I could still sustain prolonged running after the fast and all the stress I’d been through since that time.
There was only one way to find out. I donned my running shoes and disappeared into the afternoon sun, planning to take 40 minutes or so to run to the park and then walk the rest of the way back. But my legs just kept churning. They kept moving in a forward direction. Upon reaching the park I sprinted along a creek until I located the first bridge across, probably two miles from where I had started. My intention was to stop at the bridge and walk the distance back. But my plans changed once again: I ran over the bridge and did the return, always knowing I could stop and walk whenever I wanted. Yet my legs just kept going forward. And I ran all the way home.
The total round-trip time? One hour.
Now one hour may not sound like much to seasoned runners, those half-marathoners and marathoners–or even 10K runners–who don’t blink an eye at running for at least two hours straight. But for me, a two-time breast cancer survivor with arm lymphedema who has sprained her ankles about four times and had chest pain from stress several months ago and a three-day fast a few days earlier, it bordered on a miracle. And it took away all the empty-nest pain, with no accompanying chest pain.
During the whole time I ran I could feel Josh’s presence. I could hear his voice egging me on: “You can do it, Mom. I know you can.” And because he was there, I kept up the pace. My sadness departed like a bad dream from which I had just awoken.
This morning I opened my eyes refreshed, with no soreness from the day before. I embraced the day, ready to resume life again as a single woman, but not alone. Friends and relatives stand at the ready to infuse me with their kindnesses. I look forward to spending next weekend in Napa Valley with my cousins whom I haven’t seen for several years. Life is good. The wrecked train has been repaired and transformed into a lean, mean machine.
And that’s the way we breast cancer survivors often see it: our ravaged bodies are slowly transformed into something different, and perhaps something more confident, more courageous, more daring. As the “little Jan that could,” I know I might get derailed again, but I won’t get impaled. That’s the goal, anyway.
How about you? Have you experienced empty-nest syndrome? If so, has it subsided and does it come up again with each visit? Have you done anything to ease the pain?
A Christmas Tale – from a cancer-punched gal
“When all the noise is gone there is only God.” ~Author Unknown
~~~~~
I came across that quote today as I was perusing my fellow blogger Lauren’s most recent post. It’s worth repeating. Those who believe there’s a God adhere to this truth, especially after the holiday hoopla has faded into background noises.
Christmas this year was different in too many ways to count. And not because cancer or lymphedema reared its ugly head again. Thank God for that! Caring friends reached out with Care Bear hearts, hugs, and hearths.
First, good friends who had recently moved welcomed me into their new abode. How they were able to decorate their home so beautifully remains a mystery to me, given the number of boxes they had to unload. As I settled into the rhythm of the household, the noise of children filled my ears as they squealed with delight at the abundance of presents: tiny tots pushing buttons and fitting parts together to assemble their newly opened treasures.
I hated to leave the festivities, but leave I must. Another social opportunity beckoned.
My arrival time couldn’t have been better planned on the second stop of the day. Just after family members arrived from a distance away my tires crunched the stones of my friends’ driveway. Inside their warm living room wrapping paper and tissue soon flew everywhere as dreams-come-true were unraveled and revealed. My gracious hostess had even bought me gifts, the first a wonderful microwavable teapot that eliminates the need for my tea kettle. The kettle will join the ranks of the already overflowing contents of Good Will boxes in my closet. The second gift box sported tea and a mug worthy of display on my bookcase.
After we tore up for recycling the boxes that bore our gifts so valiantly, we sat down to a delicious dinner served with homespun smiles. Before this day I hadn’t even set eyes on the sweet daughter-in-law of my hostess– and already we were good friends. After our tummies registered fullness we sat in front of the new flat-screen TV, mesmerized by the size of the images flashing quickly before our eyes. “Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
After a few hours, the main course settled, we dug into an assortment of pies: pumpkin, pecan, lemon meringue, apple. Coffee topped off this perfect ending to a perfect day.
But it wasn’t over.
I returned to my humble dwelling early in the evening, feeling a bit lonely. So I did another first: I went to the community hot tub alone. The old Jan never would have taken that social risk; she would have felt self-conscious and exposed. But not the new me!
When I reached the spa, a man and his wife were just getting out. After spending some time enjoying the heat and bubbles by myself, I was about to call it a night when a guy came through the gate. I decided to stay. We spent a good while soaking in that tub while sharing philosophies. Suddenly I panicked. I asked God how this was going to end: would I be rescued by a phone call or by someone else coming to the hot tub? God answered as I heard footsteps approach the entrance. Another couple decided to finish their Christmas evening off in hot-tub style, allowing us to end our long conversation that involved dodging wafts of steam.
Yesterday God gave me the best Christmas present ever (and it was not adorned with silk ribbons, boxes from Tiffany, or lace): my worth as His child, my solace from grief, my sense of belonging, my femininity, the sense of His overwhelming presence. No, I didn’t tell the man I had breast cancer, that I was missing essential parts, that my left arm had issues. Why ruin the moment, why break the spell for a gal who doesn’t fit Cinderella’s profile picture?
The evening ended with my watching a silly movie, laughing myself into a tizzy. And then it was quiet. The noise was gone. Only God remained.
Have a splendid 2012, with blessings galore.
Was your Christmas memorable? If you were grieving, how did you manage the holiday?
Foods to “Cure” Cancer: Miracle or myth
I just came across an online article in Prevention magazine entitled “Edible Healing: Food Cures for Cancer.” The byline? “A doctor with a malignant tumor sets out to find his cure. And comes back with dinner.”
The phrase “cancer cure” always gets my attention as a breast cancer survivor whose middle name is “Cynic.” Could certain foods be the panacea that replaces or supplements targeted anti-cancer drugs approved by the FDA?
Newly on my own, I am shopping for items to fill my pantry, refrigerator and cupboards. Not only am I seeking staples, condiments and perishables, but also inexpensive gadgets that promise to ease my new life as a personal chef. These items include a grater, a funnel and a handy-dandy can colander for draining fruit-juice concentrate from my canned peaches. Bed, Bath and Beyond graciously sold me a funnel (actually two-in-one), but I’m waiting for another store coupon before shopping for the other nifty, but non-essential, kitchen toys I once enjoyed.
But are they non-essential? The Prevention article touts the incredible benefits of zest from citrus fruit peel. And the author promotes grated ginger as the be-all, end-all spice. Must I use valuable gas to race to the nearest big-box store to acquire a grater–even in the absence of a coupon?
The first rendition of the article by this author is dated September 2008. The Prevention version published in November 2011 is adapted by arrangement with Viking. I do wonder what adaptations were made to the original, because the benefits of various food items to prevent a host of medical maladies change with the wind. In the three years since the original version of this Prevention article appeared, nutritionists have certainly written extensively on the supposed health benefits of all these foods.
And it is important to note that the author of the article, David Servan-Schreiber, MD, PhD, was diagnosed with brain cancer, not breast cancer.
For those with breast cancer, products made with soy–trumpeted in the article as an important protein–may not be the best to ingest in large quantities. Having been diagnosed with an estrogen-receptor-positive tumor, I take no chances with soy: my milk of choice is unsweetened almond milk, and I limit my consumption of tofu to a few times a week. The Japanese “soy story” to which the author refers to support his claim is complicated by other factors.
And for those with lymphedema, traditional soy sauce is laden with salt. Because we “lymphers” have been advised to limit our salt intake to stave off retention of unwanted fluids in the body part affected, if I ever do buy soy sauce, it will be the low-salt variety. Just sayin….
As to the “Cure It with Dessert” link of the article, I risk the wrath of all women by taking issue with the dark chocolate advice. I actually avoid chocolate of any kind, including dark chocolate, because it sets off overeating binges in me. Best to avoid that which overfeeds the soul. Better desserts for me include watermelon, strawberries or raspberries with low- or no-fat whipped cream, or a slice of pumpkin pie (preferably without the crust). None of these trigger binges, they are delightfully tasty, and they satisfy my sweet tooth. To each her own comfort food.
I subscribe to the nutritional advice advocated by breastcancer.org on foods to consider. Most nutritionists are of the opinion that the healthful components in a variety of foods work together to provide benefits. The properties of any single food must be weighed in the context of the entire diet. Rather than rely on a particular food in large amounts, try for a balanced diet with a plethora of foods that includes: five or more cups of fruits and vegetables daily and food from other plant sources, such as whole-grain breads and cereals, nuts, seeds, rice, pasta, and beans.
And make sure you adopt other lifestyle choices and coping skills than just sensible nutrition: use of humor, journaling, volunteering, support groups, minimizing exposure to toxins (such as parabens, benzene in gas and BPA), meditation/prayer and exercise are a few. A recent CBS Philly article provides some food for thought: avoid unnecessary medical radiation, limit use of combination estrogen-progestin menopausal hormone therapy, reduce alcohol consumption, maintain a healthy weight, exercise regularly and avoid tobacco use. Can’t hurt.
So do I buy that grater and some “As Seen on TV” gizmos to make my “kitschen” life easier? Maybe I’ll settle on the grater. Or just settle for powdered ginger and preshredded low-fat cheese. We’ll see. Right now I’m just enjoying a zest for life.
Do you believe that adopting a certain lifestyle can cure cancer? That it can cure breast cancer? What nutritional plan do you follow to maintain optimum health?
Hark! the Herald
It started with a phone call from someone I know who dances on a cable TV show.
Soon a recording will catch me and a dance troupe prancing and strutting on a studio stage with bright lights to a jazzy “Hark the Harold” tune. Charles Wesley, who penned the original words in 1739, would probably be blown away by this rendition. The original music by Felix Mendelssohn has been rearranged, to a classy hymn both fresh and alive.
So am I! I’m so excited, I want to trumpet it to the world.
That’s the challenge. As a sentinel I must hold high and steady a long sleek trumpet. And my movements must coordinate with my male counterpart who is about the same height as I. Angel dancers will be swirling all around us, in ballet and jazz form, with ribbons and arms adrift. My middle son has danced with this group, but it will be the first time for me. Digital time will tell whether this recording is one to save for posterity. In the meantime I am enjoying the role of someone who helps announce to the world the birth of the Christ child by faux blowing into an elegant instrument. If I stumble, it’s a clarion call to rehearse once again.
Before I began to practice they asked if I had any limitations. They knew about my lymphedema. But I said, “No, it’s in my arm, not my leg, and my arm has full range of motion.” In fact, the exercise of extending my arms to hold out the cornet actually helped to stretch my scars. It was fun to know the condition of my knees would not be an issue even though I would have to kneel. Nor would holding the trumpet high or pivoting to blow it from a different angle present a problem.
What a privilege to be part of this professional group. I’ll treasure my time together with these experts, learning and memorizing dance moves and experiencing the physical closeness that dancers take for granted. If my personal space seems invaded, it’s only because I’m not used to stage theatrics.
Watch for the results on YouTube and GodTube. Maybe you can be in a troupe, too, and prove that breast cancer need not pose a limitation. In fact, it can be a foray into any artistic endeavor you want. I’m glad I got cancer in my 40′s. I’m still young enough to make a public statement, to proclaim to the world, that breast cancer need not be disabling, that many survivors can do many things that others their age can do. The sky’s the limit, or maybe the ceiling of the studio.
In any event, I am finding my groove. Hark! I’ve been beckoned to return to the dance studio for the dress rehearsal.
If you have had breast cancer, are you trying anything different just to prove you can do it? If so, how does it make you feel?
A Word Exercise: thanks to Feisty Blue Gecko
John at age 3
In her post of Nov. 12, 2011, Feisty Blue Gecko challenges herself to come up with three little words to guide and inspire her in the coming year. For her the exercise proved cathartic and enriching. For 2010 she arrived at recovery, discovery and laughter. This year she chose harmony, vitality and adventure. Now she is pondering the magic words to carry her through 2012.
What a delightful venture, this search for single, but apropos words. I didn’t have to spend long coming up with my descriptors for the upcoming year.
I would have to pick “laughter” as my first word. The therapeutic value of humor can’t be underestimated. So many have blogged on this very subject. Norman Cousins began the movement when his rare disease disappeared after he watched slapstick-genre movies. I take a hefty dose of the “merriment medicament” as I ponder the “Thirty People and a Truck” help me move in the next few days. Thirty people (including some muscle-toned women) beats out two men any day!
“Spunk” is the second word to which I’ll cling as I lead off with a new life of my own. I can found out who (and how jazzed up) the real Jan Hasak is. Like that old TV show “To Tell the Truth,” people will have to guess which of the three women I am on the stage of life. Without guilt I can eat fish and turkey, drink diet soda, wear makeup, and lessen my salt and fat intake whenever I want. When we define ourselves by our lifestyles and how we set up our new living quarters, we reveal who we really are. I’ve already garnished my new living space with autumn-toned feathers despite only having a table and a bed.
The third word is “friends.” Like my oldest son John at age 3 with his new-found frog friend (lovingly sewn and stuffed by my mother), I treasure the warmth and hugs of true friends who see me through everything. As I venture into the unknown of a new life with all its financial and emotional challenges, I’ll need special pals to carry on. And they will be there, those thirty souls who helped me move–and untold others. And no question that I will pay this forward. Love requires no less.
Grateful to Feisty Blue Gecko for her post, I would recommend this exercise to everyone. The words you choose will linger so much longer than any resolutions you could make. It’s not too soon to take the opportunity to reflect on the new year.
How about you? What are your words? They don’t have to be three, they can be what you want them to be.
Advocacy at its Best: the Hallowed Dining Halls on Capitol Hill
Senator Barbara Boxer and Jan Hasak Nov. 3, 2011
The experience in Washington, DC to advocate for The Lymphedema Diagnosis and Treatment Cost-Saving Act of 2011 (HR 2499) can’t be compared to anything else I have ever done. I’d recommend it to anyone.
HR 2499 would require Medicare to pay for compression garments needed in the continued management of lymphedema, a swelling caused by malformed, damaged, or missing lymph nodes, which can be from birth or due to trauma, obesity or cancer treatment. I’m a board member of the Lymphedema Advocacy Group (LAG) created specifically to promote passage of this bill.
On November 2 to 4, 2011 26 people from several states across the U.S. descended upon Washington, DC to support the efforts of the LAG. We broke up into seven teams that traveled throughout the House and Senate offices to spread the word about this needed coverage and seek co-sponsors of the bill in the House and a sponsor in the Senate.
On the first day our team of three met up with a legislative aide for a House Representative from New Jersey. This particular staffer acted non-committal when we asked for co-sponsorship of HR 2499. But at lunch on the same day in the huge House cafeteria, the actual Representative sat down at the end of our table. We knew it was him because one of the members of our team, a lobbyist for the Oncology Nursing Society, recognized him.
The Congressman was busy with his i-Phone, but after he finished a call he asked what our group was about. We had a wonderful opportunity to explain lymphedema and the bill directly to this member of Congress! He even knew someone who had lymphedema and died from complications. I was thrilled because I thought the chances of this particular man sitting down at our very table over all other tables at this particular time were remarkably slim.
After lunch I rushed off to a Senate building to meet up for a photo-op with one of my Senators from California, Barbara Boxer. After speaking to a group of children from a private school near Santa Barbara, she posed with me. When I identified myself as a breast cancer survivor, she quickly replied, “We must stamp that out!” Amen to that.
The next day our team met with my own Representative, Wally Herger, and two senior aides. Their polite demeanor and compassion for the plight of lymphedema sufferers impressed us. I showed off my fashionable onyx sleeve with its bejeweled pink ribbon, courtesy of a garment company cleverly called LympheDIVAs.
Later that afternoon we held a staff briefing for the House and Senate offices. Latecomers encountered standing room only. Word spread like wildfire that two M.D.s would be presenting as well as a spokeswoman from the American Cancer Society and two lymphedema therapists. When the patient-advocates relayed their personal stories, emotion resonated around the ornate room. I doubt there was a dry eye when a teenager described living with her life-long condition.
All in all, it was a trip well worth taking. One never knows whom one will meet at the most unlikely places in the hallowed halls and dining rooms of Congress!
You yourself can make a difference if you live in the U.S. Learn more about it and write to your Representative and Senators at www.lymphedematreatmentact.org. Or join us the next time we venture out for this worthy cause. One day this legislation will pass and be enacted into law. Just as similar state bills have passed in North Carolina and Virginia to require private insurance companies to cover compression garments. It started with one young mother who was concerned about the lack of coverage for her four-year-old son. And it can keep going.
Have you ever been an advocate for a cause? Have you ever written to or lobbied a legislative body for passage of a bill about which you were passionate?
Local Breast Cancer Celebrations: Occlusion or Opportunity?
What transpired from a last-minute speech for the “Making Strides Against Breast Cancer” event held last weekend?
Here’s the back story: Six days before the speech I attended a “pink” celebration at the healing garden of our local cancer center. Lacking a companion to accompany me to these occasions does not hinder me from going. Someone always recognizes me in this small community and sachets over to exchange tidbits on the latest cancer news. Not only did I meet up with support group women who had heard me speak, but also with the hospital chaplain whom I got to know at a book signing.
The event transformed itself into a pleasant reunion for all of us, despite the cancer-appropriate music and a rah-rah speech by a hospital employee. A time to reflect on how far we had come, or had yet to come.
A therapist from the hospital’s Wellness Center offered free five-minute massages to anyone who had the gift of time. Since I’ve been laid off, I took advantage of the opportunity. How good it felt to be pampered and have my neck and upper back tissue loosened and manipulated. She laughed when I told her I learned at a support group that the hospital’s vegan bistro was closing. “Some support,” I mused. We all miss that marvelous eatery with the to-die-for soups and salads.
The goodies at this event rivaled those at the closed bistro: fresh broccoli, asparagus, carrots, snow peas, strawberries and a scrumptious hummus dip. But of course the token American cake had to worm its way onto the refreshment table for those with a sweet tooth.
As I listened to various women, I learned that the cancer center offered free yoga and art classes to its patients during and post-treatment. My oncology nurse is a watercolor artist who volunteers her time to teach survivors various painting techniques, even if they haven’t had any formal instruction. I’ll definitely enroll in the next class this coming January. Who can resist working with rolling pins and Saran wrap as they wield their brushes?
Later that evening one of my friends called to tell me her husband saw me on the five o’clock news!
“There’s Jan!” he called out to her. When she rushed out to see, the image had already passed. And the late evening news did not re-cover the event. My friend told me the video was of me sitting on a bench talking to an American Cancer Society volunteer. When I was chatting my head off with this dear woman whom I hadn’t seen in ages, I missed any camera, let alone a news camera with all the fanfare.
A few days after this celebration (from which I received three pink tote bags), I received a call from the regional American Cancer Society unit manager asking if I would speak at the “Strides” event three days distant. The survivor who was scheduled to speak had backed out at the last minute. He got my name from the volunteer who shared the TV limelight with me!
Strange how these connections work. If you live in a semi-rural community you can easily land a speaking spot if you have a history of cancer. If public speaking doesn’t terrify you, it’s a great way to spread the word about any particular cause you long to elaborate upon.
My seven-minute speech last Saturday focused mainly on lymphedema, a condition on which I am passionate. I used the public platform to educate the audience on the risks of developing lymphedema and urged them to e-mail or write their Congresspeople to co-sponsor legislation to help lymphedema patients. This bill would remedy the fact that Medicare does not yet cover compression sleeves to keep the swelling under control. To make a point, I rolled up my three-quarter shirt sleeve to reveal the fashionable onyx LympheDIVA sleeve I was sporting. The show-and-tell did make an impression. People listened. Individuals observed.
Following my rousing pitch, a spokeswoman for the American Cancer Society shared a few words and then a local breast surgeon stirred the crowd with stories of medical advancements. “Never give up” became the theme of the morning, an expression Winston Churchill used to great advantage in his day.
After the formal ceremony I strutted with another arm lymphedema survivor at a fast clip around the 5K course set out for us. How fitting that we were all getting exercise while supporting a worthwhile cause. All the research points to the benefits of physical activity in reducing the risk of recurrence and increasing circulation to keep lymphedema at bay. To top it all off, the morning morphed to grace us with the perfect temperature. And the circuit we made took us around a beautiful creek in the second largest metropolitan park in America outside New York City: Bidwell Park in Chico, CA. Where Hollywood filmed the 1938 version of The Adventures of Robin Hood starring Errol Flynn.
Upon the arrival of October I hadn’t intended to embrace the pink mantra. But circumstances dictated otherwise, and there I was, making an appearance, touting the benefits of lymphedema legislation. It actually felt good. I love helping people. An ordinary person like me could take advantage of this opportunity, even though I don’t like pink, to make a difference in people’s lives. If at least one survivor’s plight was altered by my plea for action, or by pity for my swollen arm, I consider it a success. Just like Robin Hood.
Have you experienced an unexpected joy from something that seemed like drudgery when it began? Do you like making a difference in people’s lives?
