CHAPTER 1
My Journey from GrilledCheese to Grilled Veggies
Well, I wasn't always the healthy woman I am today. I grew up on LongIsland eating food from packages (sorry, Mom!). Although my mother triedto encourage me to eat vegetables, I never would. My cousins still, to thisday, love reminding me of the time my aunt made me eat canned stringbeans with dinner and I proceeded to throw them up hours later on thefloor of the dining room.
Growing up, my favorite foods included anything sweet. I will confessthat many a breakfast consisted of a wrapped chocolate cake: think Hostess,Drake, or Entenmann's. There wasn't a Yodel or Yankee Doodles cupcakethat I would refuse. Our family dinners consisted of some kind of meatand a potato, and I was always the last to finish. I would come up withcreative ways to hide my uneaten food: underneath the rim of my plate,in my napkin, or—my favorite—in the bottom of my milk cup. Later,when I was off at college, I wasn't much better. I think I ate grilled cheesefor lunch and dinner for most of my college years. My friends back thencalled me the Dairy Queen. My love of sweets and ice cream didn't changeas I got older.
After college, I landed a job with the same advertising agency that Ihad interned with in New York. The position I was offered was in Detroit,Michigan. I was happy to get a job after graduation, and the idea of movingto another big city really appealed to me. My life became filled with work.I loved my job, I loved the people I was surrounded with, I loved beingin another big city, and I was happy with my life. I positioned myself as avery hard worker, putting in six days a week and making myself availableat all hours. I had great movie role models of working women back then.Remember Melanie Griffith in Working Girl and Holly Hunter in BroadcastNews? These two women made it okay to be powerful and hardworking. Iso wanted to be them! I had visions of climbing the corporate ladder andmaking a lifelong career for myself in advertising.
Back then, my diet still wasn't great. Breakfast, if any, was usuallycoffee and a pastry. Lunch was a take-out sandwich from a deli. Dinnerprobably consisted of the free hors d'oeuvres from the local bar whileout with coworkers. It took me several months of living on my own tounderstand that food could affect the way I felt. My health food epiphanycame when I shared a house with a girl from Italy who never ate anythingfrom a box. Daniela made cake from scratch. I thought cake from scratchmeant opening a box of Duncan Hines. I'm not kidding! I never had a"homemade" cake that wasn't from a box. Daniela opened my eyes to realfoods: fruits and vegetables. I tasted fresh vegetables, not from a can or thefreezer. I remember having fresh string beans with shallots and olive oiland loving them (not throwing them up)! I recall details of eating my firstroasted beet—that sweet, earthy flavor was something I never would haveenjoyed years earlier. Daniela even started a little garden in the backyardwhere she grew her own tomatoes. I can still see her making her homemadetomato sauce at the kitchen stove. I slowly started cooking my own meals,which included fresh vegetables.
Once I opened my eyes to eating better, I started going to the localhealth food store with guidance from a coworker, Linda. I can recall thestrange smells that filled the store. It was like a supermarket, but I didn'trecognize the items on the shelves. The people who filled the store werehappy, and patrons lingered in the small café. I sampled some of theirprepared foods'some I liked, but some had strange textures or smells that Icouldn't get past. It was a whole new environment. I tried different cerealslike oatmeal rather than a top-selling box type. I started eating more fruitsand vegetables and gradually adding healthy foods to my life.
My health transformation didn't happen overnight; it was a process.Part of my job was to visit McDonald's restaurants and eat their food. Itwas my job to get people to buy McDonald's food. Back then, I didn't havea problem with that; nowadays, I would.
During the next ten years, I paid more attention to health. I did a lotof experimenting with different foods and ways of eating. I ate meat, andthen I gave it up for a while; then I started eating it again. I bought a juicer.I learned where all the health food stores were in my neighborhood. AsI made healthier food choices and felt better in my body, I noticed otherparts of my life were not working so well. I was working for a companyI didn't like. I was in a relationship I wasn't happy in. Something had tochange.
I quit my job after seven years, left a long-term relationship, and movedback to Long Island. I left the advertising world, and went back to schooland became a licensed massage therapist. I reconnected with my highschool boyfriend. He didn't know it, but he had stayed on my mind allthose years. Frank was just about to finish his ten years of schooling. Hewas in his last semester of his orthodontic residency. It seemed that bothof us had finally made room in our lives for each other. We got married,bought a house and an orthodontic office, and settled down to have a baby,all within two years. Life was good, and I was happy. I seemed to be livingthe life I was meant to have.
Fast-forward to my first pregnancy. I remember reading and watchingTV shows about childbirth, thinking I wanted to do it differently. Okay,let's be honest here. I have a real phobia about needles. I have always beenfearful of IVs in my arm or hand as well as having to give blood. I was soafraid of getting the IV put into my arm for the birth of my child that Ithought, if I can deliver this baby naturally, I won't need the IV. I found adoctor's office that also had a midwife on staff. I made all my appointmentswith the midwife. My thought process was this is a naturally occurring event,so why add interventions unless necessary? I researched natural childbirth,took classes, and prepared fully for the experience. I was ready!
I successfully gave birth to my son, Frank, without any medicalinterventions: no IV, no spinal medication, no vaginal cutting, no stitches,no nothing! Frank was born at midnight, and we left the next morning. Itwas great! I felt fantastic.
Although I had quit my career in advertising, I didn't see myself in therole of a mother, either. I loved being a mother, but I really grappled withbeing a stay-at-home mom. I started working in my husband's orthodonticoffice at the front desk as a way to get out of the house and help him atthe same time.
Life back then was a blur, and two years later, I was pregnant again.Since the first birth had gone so well (and was so uneventful), we decidedto have our next child at home. Yes, you read that right ... at home!Besides finding the right home-birthing midwife, Frank and I took classesand became certified childbirth educators. With the help of a homebirthmidwife, we prepared to have this child right in our second-storybedroom.
The pregnancy went well. Again, I was ready to trust my body todo what it needed to do. I went into labor on Wednesday night beforedinnertime. I hung out in the pool for a few hours while one-year-oldFrank played near me in the shallow end. We put him to bed around eight,and I labored through the night. The midwife came over around six thirtyin the morning, and Emily was born at 7:40 a.m., right on our bedroomfloor. It was an incredible experience. Again, I was on top of the world,fully appreciating what my body was capable of doing. The highlight ofthe day was getting up to make a cake (from scratch) to celebrate Emily'strue birthday. I felt invincible!
I intended to have another home birth for my third and final baby, butthat didn't happen. Toward the end of my pregnancy, around thirty-eightweeks, I realized the baby wasn't moving as much as he had been. All the"natural" ideas went out the window, and medical intervention stepped in.Jack was born via C-section at the hospital and then put into the neonatalintensive care unit because he was so small at just under four pounds. Itwas a very stressful time for us as a family, wondering whether Jack wasmentally and physically okay. He is fine now, but it was scary while it wasall happening. Besides the stress of a newborn, I needed to let my bodyheal from the trauma of an emergency C-section.
I share those birthing stories with you so you can understand moreabout how we (my husband, Frank, and I) have dealt with various situations.We tend to view things a little differently from most people. We like to readand research different ways to treat things many people think are "normal."Yet we are not blind to when true medical intervention is needed. We didn'tjust do what society expected us to do; we did what was right for us. Thisapproach would serve us well ten years later, as you will see.
CHAPTER 2
How Did the Healthiest Girl inthe Room Get Cancer?
I have always been one of those organized people, making my yearlyob-gyn visit right around my birthday in November. Well, I went to see mydoctor; he did a breast exam, and it was all clear. He gave me a prescriptionfor my mammogram, yet something inside me asked him for a scriptfor an ultrasound as well. I had already had my baseline mammogramdone less than five years before. I remember the technician saying I haddense breasts; I assumed most people did. I had to go back for a separateappointment for the ultrasound the first time around. I didn't understandthat dense, heavy breasts needed an ultrasound because the mammogramdoes not show as much as the ultrasound.
I wanted to make things simpler this time around. My doctor gave methe prescriptions for both the mammogram and ultrasound so I could doboth in the same appointment. I remember thinking I would make theappointment after the holidays.
About four weeks later, I was lying on the couch with my hand undermy head, watching a movie, when my twenty-five-pound dog Zoe walkedon top of me and started pawing at my left breast. I remember thinking itwas strange. What the heck was Zoe doing? It was one of those momentsthat I had an intuitive feeling I was supposed to pay attention to. For somereason I trusted my gut and started to massage my left breast for a quicksecond.
That's when I felt the lump. It was on the upper left part of my breast.It felt like a BB bullet—a small, round, superficial mass. I had felt a masslike this before when I was breast-feeding and it had turned out to be aclogged milk duct. I remember thinking it was odd to be feeling a cloggedmilk duct at that point since it had been nearly ten years since I had lastbreast-fed. I reassured myself that it must be muscle I was feeling since Ihad recently increased my free weights at kickboxing.
I put the lump out of my mind, kind of. I didn't want to deal with ituntil after the holidays. But its presence stayed with me. I would feel it inthe shower. It was still there. I would feel it before I went to bed. It wasstill there. I wasn't ready to make the time to go to the doctor with theholidays approaching, but there was a nagging deep down in my gut thatI could not ignore.
I made the appointment with the breast center for my mammographyand ultrasound at the beginning of January. The day of my appointmentI drove alone and was a total wreck. I remember walking into themammogram room and feeling really sick to my stomach and lightheaded.I never said a word to the technician about the lump. I figured if it wassomething, they would find it. I recall the squeezing of the mammographymachine for both breasts and thinking, Thank God that's over. The filmswere then brought back to the radiologist down the hall to be read. I sat inthe mammography room in a chair in the corner almost hyperventilating. Itried to use my deep abdominal yoga breath to calm down, as my heart wasracing and my armpits were sweating. I was relieved I was in the hospitalgown, because my armpits drenched it.
The technician walked back into the room and said I was all clear.Wow—it really was nothing. I was feeling a sense of relief. The medicaltechnician escorted me down the hall to a different room for the ultrasoundtest. I was still nervous, but felt like the appointment was almost over andthat my "mass" was nothing.
The ultrasound room was very different from the mammogram room.There was no big machine or bright lights, and it had an examining table tolie down on. The computer in the corner played acoustic-type music. Theultrasound technician and I made small talk about reality TV shows andour kids while she slathered my breast in K-Y jelly to help the ultrasoundwand glide over my breast. Then it happened. She found it.
The tech turned to me and said, "There is a lump here. Are you awareof it?"
I confessed that I was aware of it. She finished with the ultrasoundwand on my left breast. Then she moved on to the right breast. Whenshe was finished, she said she needed to get the radiologist to look at theultrasound report. I remember waiting on the exam table, trying to wipeK-Y jelly from my breasts, and again attempting to use that calming yogabreathing to ease my nerves.
The doctor came back within five minutes with a look of seriousness.He said he did not like the way the mass looked and that I needed to geta core needle biopsy.
"Okay, when can I do it?" I asked.
"ASAP," he replied in an urgent tone.
I had never met this doctor before, but I could tell he was saying thislump was serious. I knew deep down that ASAP wasn't good. I got dressed,and the ultrasound technician walked me to the front desk. She helped memake the appointment for Wednesday (it was Monday). I knew from thetechnician and the radiologist that this was serious.
I went home not making a big deal of it. I did not research breastlumps on the computer, because I knew that I could not handle eventhinking about "what if." I told myself I was healthy, this was just a scare,and everything would be fine.
I went back to the breast center by myself two days later for the coreneedle biopsy, not knowing what I was getting myself into. If I had takenthe time to dissect the word, I might have been more prepared. A needlewas involved, and biopsy meant they were taking a sample of the mass. Itnever occurred to me what was about to happen.
A different technician took me back to the ultrasound room andexplained that I needed to get undressed with the gown open in the front.She told me to lie down on the table and she would be back soon. Beforethe technician left, I explained to her how nervous I was and that I neededher to help me through this.
"No problem," she said. "I will be by your side while the doctor doesthe procedure."
The technician and doctor came in and redid the ultrasound first,locating the mass. Once that was done, a needle was inserted into mybreast to numb it. I felt the pinching, but the pain was manageable.The next needle was the one that literally went into the mass and tookout a small tissue sample to be tested for cancer. Now the tears werestreaming down my face in fear, not in pain. Once the sample wasremoved, a metal piece—a.k.a. "marker"—was inserted into my breast,so that the mass could be found easily again. The pain was not intense,just uncomfortable. I couldn't wrap my head around this metal piecebeing left in me—somehow that didn't seem right. Once the doctorwas finished with the biopsy portion, I needed another mammogramto indicate the location of the "marker" that was left behind. Then thewaiting game began.
I don't even remember the time between the biopsy and the results. Ithink cancer was just the furthest thing from my mind. I didn't think "it"could happen to me.
A week later I received a call from my ob/gyn. Coincidentally, his wifehad also had breast cancer a few years earlier.
"I hate to tell you this, but you have breast cancer," he said. "You aregoing to be fine—it's the early stage—but you need to make some calls."
I remember taking the call in the living room, but when he startedtalking to me, I walked into the basement so I could be alone. I let thetears come as I wrote down information, because I hadn't thought aboutthe next steps. I had never let myself think of the "what-ifs." It was one ofthose times when my mind was a blank and my body was still. I listenedto my doctor talk about the biopsy results, but didn't understand any ofit. I just took notes. I asked him about referrals to doctors, and he rattledoff the names of a couple of breast surgeons to call.
I hung up the phone and walked upstairs to my husband and kids. Iturned at the top of the stairs. Frank looked at me and knew somethingwas wrong, but couldn't in a million years figure out what. Then I blurtedout, "I have cancer."
He hugged me and we cried together. I told the kids right then andthere too. I think the only one who understood the magnitude of it all wasmy fourteen-year-old son, Frank.
