My Ghost Stories -- Happy Halloween

We have all been to places that give us the chills. It could be an old house, a cemetery, or even sitting by an ancient oak tree. Whenever there is a sudden, inexplicable draft, or the feeling that someone is watching you... The most seriously spooky places I have been are ironically those lovely Bed and Breakfast Inns that look so charming and romantic on the outside. For some reason, my experiences with B&Bs have ended up on the hair raising side; that is why I don't stay in them anymore! Give me a blase, generic hotel chain any day!

My first brush with "the other side" as a tourist was long before my son was born -- over twenty years ago! My ex-husband and I were on a mini-getaway to central California and had checked into a lovely rose-colored Victorian B&B that was well over 100 years old. Our hostess was a pretty girl in her 20s, with long red hair, dressed in old-fashioned garb.

There were about six couples staying that night. The hostess wanted to give us a tour of the house. It was a lovely, sunny day as we toured the extensive rose gardens, the gourmet restaurant, the parlor, etc. The Inn had two floors and a cozy sun room up another flight of stairs that was, lo and behold, connected to our room. As the hostess showed us the sun room on the tour, I thought how nice it would be to sit there and relax with a book.

When the tour was finished, the couples were left to their own devices. "I want to go back to the sun room," I said, grabbing a book. I pulled on the door, but it wouldn't open. My ex tried, too, but to no avail. We tried and tried. "I'll tell the hostess it's stuck," I said. I finally found the hostess and told her I couldn't open the door to the sun room. "I'm not surprised," she said. What does THAT mean, I wondered.

She went with me to the sun room and pulled on the door. It opened instantly. Then, she said "SHE is guarding the door." "Umm, who is SHE?" I asked. Nonchalantly, pretty hostess explained that a sick little girl had died in the sun room many, many years ago while waiting for her mommy to come home from a trip up north. She haunted the sun room, and was very particular about whom she let in (her spirit was still waiting for her mother). Nice!

So much for the sun room! Miss hostess also said that the little girl occasionally showed up (guess where?!) in OUR room. Once, the little girl visited a guest who was taking a bath. Apparently, the ghost girl had told the bathing guest that she was "fat." Let me put it this way: I was not looking forward to bathing or sleeping in that room that night!

Later in the evening, a few couples were sitting in the parlor after dinner. Fortunately, the food there had been splendid -- I've never forgotten the mega-sweet strawberries with sour cream and brown sugar I had for dessert! Yum! Anyway, food aside, the guests sat leisurely in the parlor with its lavish, Victorian furnishings, including a gorgeous chandelier.

We shared stories while sipping brandy. One guest said that she had been told by the hostess that a pair of "wandering hands in gloves" could sometimes be seen in her room. I told them about our little girl in the sun room. "Well, we are in a haunted house for sure!" we all laughed nervously. At that moment, and I kid you not, the chandelier started to flicker. We all looked at each other in disbelief.

I didn't sleep well that night; I am simultaneously fascinated yet afraid of ghosts. Fortunately, however, the poor little girl who was still waiting for her mother didn't show up to tell me I was fat or anything.

Another time, my ex and I wanted to celebrate my 30th birthday up north in the wine country. We selected a large, Gothic style B&B -- figuring the bigger the place was, the more people would show up. The more the merrier! It was November, cool and windy. We pulled up to the B&B and it was out of a movie -- one of those dark, eerie places that the hero and heroine find when they've run out of gas in their car and have no other choice...

As we checked in, the hotel clerk said, "You're lucky tonight! You're the only guests staying in the inn." Lucky? Ex and I looked at each other. SCREAM!!!! "November is our slow season," hotel clerk admitted. Okay, we had made the reservations months ago, and didn't want to seem like chickens. We could DO this thing!

As we were the ONLY people staying in this HUGE MANSION for the night, we got to pick our room. We decided on the top floor (there were three floors), so we could have a view of the gardens. There were three rooms at the top. One had a fire place -- it seemed too warm. The next was big with blue walls, and it was very cold. (I know this sounds like Goldilocks and the Three Bears!) Finally, the third room was smaller, but the temperature was moderate, and it had a window facing the garden.

We started unpacking. Within five minutes of being in that room, I heard a strange hissing sound. Then I noticed drops of water coming down from the ceiling. This is not good! We went downstairs and found the hotel clerk, who called a maintenance man. We all went back up the winding staircase to the room. Strange, that in a place that large the ONE room we chosen had sprung a leak! Maintenance man said, "THEY like to play tricks sometimes."

Here we go again. "Who are THEY?" I asked. Hotel clerk flashed maintenance man a dirty look. "Ummm, no one," he said. Our room was declared unlivable for the moment, and we had to find another room. We decided on the warm room with the fireplace.

We finally settled into our second room and took a walk in the gardens. We were nervous about spending the night as the only guests, but figured that the maintenance crew and hotel clerk would be there, so we would be alright.

Again, like the other B&B, the food was amazing. The restaurant was open to the public and another couple was eating nearby. We couldn't help but hear their conversation. "Did you know a woman was murdered in here?" the woman said, loudly. "Really?" the man with her said. "Her husband killed her with an ax. It was gruesome. They say she haunts the first floor." Great! Thanks for sharing the information!

After dinner, we went into the parlor (love those Victorian parlors!) and played checkers. Hotel clerk came by. She was wearing a coat, carrying a purse. "Good night," she said. "We're all leaving. You have the place to yourselves."

WHAT???!!! This was not in the plans. "You mean, you don't stay here?" I asked, my hair on end. "Oh, no. I go home at night." "But what if there's a problem?" I stammered. Calmly, hotel clerk said, "The maintenance man lives down the road. Everything should be fine."

I have never been so scared in all my life. This mansion was totally creepy, and we were literally going to be the only ones in it that night! "We are sleeping with the lights on," I told ex.

We decided to go up to our room, as far away as possible from the roaming murdered woman ghost. I wouldn't let ex go to sleep. I think we played gin rummy until 3 a.m. I did not turn off the lights all night! Our room was sweltering! Were THEY playing tricks on us???

Finally, I woke up that morning (lights still on). It was a lovely, sunny day and birds were chirping! I can't tell you how happy I was that it was morning! We had survived the night alone in a haunted mansion. We had originally booked the room for two nights, but we told the hotel clerk after breakfast that we couldn't stay the second night. "Is everything okay?" she asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "We have to get home for a family emergency," I lied.

We found a wonderful hotel that day that was adjacent to a vineyard. No antiques, no fancy chandeliers, no ghosts. It was clean, modern and had a television (most B&Bs don't have TVs). Best of all, I got a good night's sleep!

Happy Halloween!

Halloween at the Movies

As kids, we think it is fun to be scared. Halloween makes being scared "safe," and for one month a year, taboo topics such as death, dismemberment, and witchcraft become acceptable and the norm. When I was a little girl, I used to love watching scary movies with my two older brothers on the weekends (Fright Night). We would stay up late and wait anxiously for the monster or alien or oozing being to appear; the more gruesome or frightening, the better. For some reason, movies about the Devil scared me the most -- and I know why -- because you couldn't see "it."

Today, I pay homage to some of my favorite terror film classics.

Boris Karloff played Frankenstein with a heart. Who didn't feel a little bit sorry for the big monster oaf when he met his demise? Or when his bride found him repulsive? My favorite line from the film is when Dr. Frankenstein first sees the monster's hand stir with life and says, "It's alive! It's alive!" Awesome!

I also loved Bela Lugosi as "Dracula." I am currently reading the book by Bram Stoker, and the infamous Count says to his visitor, Jonathan Harker, "I bid you welcome." As I read those lines, I couldn't help but hear Lugosi's European accent.

Vincent Price was another classic horror film actor. He was in "The Haunting" which I still think is one of the scariest films ever. The Haunting didn't have all the special effects or the gore factor of current films, but as a kid watching it I got major chills up and down my spine. I remember watching it one night by myself and I had to turn it off, I got so scared! Fun! (Vincent Price is also the deep voice and evil laugh at the end of Michael Jackson's "Thriller" song, by the way.)

When I was a teenager growing up in the 70s, The Exorcist was the BIG deal. I tried reading the book in high school, but got so scared I couldn't finish. Was I a big chicken or what??? Anyway, a few years ago I dared myself to pick up the book again. Well, I was glad I did, because it was amazing! One of my favorite books, ever. Still scary as hell, pun intended. I rented the film (which I had never seen, either, because of the fear factor), and it was not nearly as good as the book. Some nice cinematic touches, though. Love the head spinning and the nuns in white!

Steve McQueen's first movie was The Blob, about an alien "blob" thing that takes over a small town. Slowly but surely, the blob eats everything and everyone in sight. I love when the blob devours an entire movie theater! The theme song has become a Halloween favorite.

As you can tell, I am not big on current horror films. They are too predictable and gory for me. One of the most influential horror films was "Psycho" by Alfred Hitchcock (my all time favorite film director, too; he also directed "The Birds"). If you've never seen Psycho all the way through, I don't want to spoil it for you. But it was revolutionary in its day. I'll never forget the day I saw it for the first time at a New York City film revival theater. I was literally on the edge of my seat the whole time!

The list goes on and on. Do you have a favorite horror film? I would love to hear from my dear readers on their favorite fright night classics.

BC Awareness -- In Conclusion

When Dorothy said "There's no place like home," she wasn't kidding.

When I got home from the hospital, it was like I was seeing the world anew. Santa Clarita looked like Heaven on Earth! My husband had made a cute "bed" for me on the sofa, as I had to sleep sitting up on my back. We also registered our daughter for summer camp, which was the smartest thing we ever did. While I rested during the day, our sweet pea was swimming, playing, making arts and crafts, and going on field trips. My husband was off for his summer vacation (he is an educator), so he could drive her back and forth, etc.

So the chaos and stress of the past weeks turned into quiet summer days. I read, I slept, I took little baby walks in the neighborhood hanging onto my husband's arm. Some mornings we would go to Starbucks for iced tea -- that was a big treat for me! This recovery, however, was unlike anything I've ever endured. I was weak, tired and in pain for over a month. I'd lie in bed some nights and feel as if I were having a heart attack. The biggest pain was in my sternum area. At my first post-op appointment I asked Doc PS about it and he said the pain was normal and would go away. Yeah, right, I would think to myself. Apparently, during the mastectomies the surgeon removed some tissue from my ribs (there's breast tissue there, too!). It felt as if I'd been "kicked in the chest by a cow," as a friend of mine so aptly described it -- she had grown up on a farm! I read a book about another woman's experience with BRCA 1 and breast reconstruction, called "Beauty is What Changes" by Stephanie Queller, and she said the pain was as if "an elephant were sitting on my chest."

I did have major pain killers -- the stuff that drug dealers would have loved to get their slimy hands on. But I was trying to wean myself off of the meds, knowing that I had to be "clean" of the hard drugs in order to drive. My husband only had a couple of weeks off with me, and when he went back to work, I would have to drive my daughter to camp. Some serious anti-drug motivation here! I did get some help from my general doctor, however, who worked out a narcotics-free plan of alternating Tylenol and Motrin. It helped me enough to get back in the driver's seat within my time frame. But I only drove my daughter to camp and back. That was my limit.

Weeks passed. Suddenly, around weeks six or seven, I realized that I felt better. My new breasts, at first hard and swollen, were softening and looking like the real McCoy. By weeks eight and nine, I started to feel AMAZING. My energy suddenly came back with a vengeance, and I was taking my power walks in the neighborhood, driving, shopping and living a normal life once again.

During this time in my life, too, my son also left home for the first time to go to college up north. I was sad that I couldn't help him move (though I did give him money and that accounts for something). When I hit the two month recovery mark, I went up to visit him and his new place. What a victory trip that was!

Paradoxically, an offshoot to this whole experience was a heightened sense of spirituality and appreciation for my Jewish heritage. I learned that the BRCA gene mutations so common among women like me began centuries ago when the Jews left what was then Palestine (around the third or fourth century) and migrated through Europe. For a couple of hundred of years, these Jews lived primarily in Italy (NOW I know why I love pasta!) and intermarried for hundreds of years. Yuck, I know, and marrying cousins is what created the genetic mutation. Eventually, my ancestors moved onwards to Russia (I also like Vodka!). My grandparents had been Orthodox Jews -- strict observers of the law -- and my parents had rebelled against that religious rigidity and raised me with little Jewish education. The tides would turn.

The summer camp we sent our daughter to was a Jewish one -- and both my husband and I felt a kinship with the rabbi and his wife who ran the camp (they are with Chabad -an orthodox religious organization, but you don't have to be orthodox to participate in their events and programs). We decided to send our sweet pea to Hebrew school (run by the same rabbi and wife) and our family began to attend some services. Listening to the rabbi as he recited Hebrew prayers, I felt a deep, healing connection to my ancestors.

On another spiritual level, I will end my saga with this story. Way back in February, before any of this happened, my husband gave me a silver necklace for Valentine's Day. It was a "Hamsa" which is symbolic in Jewish folklore for the hand of G-d. The Hamsa is an amulet that supposedly offers magical protection from the evil eye -- it symbolizes the Creator's protective hand. I wore my Hamsa every day from the moment my husband gave it to me, and as it had a long chain, it fell right over my breasts. Yes, I think that Hamsa offered me protection against the breast cancer that my mother had when she was my age.

After my mastectomies, my breast tissue was sent to the lab to be analyzed. Sure enough, the report came back that the lab had discovered pre-cancerous tissue. Without a doubt, I had done the right thing.

Part 7: Birth and Death

After my surgeries (the big one and the emergency one), there was nothing left for me to do but lie in the hospital and recuperate. That I could handle! I was put on blood thinners to prevent any further problems. I was on patient cruise control.

Naturally, I had a lot of time to think on my hands, as I was not even allowed to get out of bed for five days. A very unusual concept for me, as I am the type that loves to run around and "do" things. I didn't even feel like reading much, either, because I was too tired.

I started thinking about birth. My son had been born in another hospital in Santa Monica, but my daughter had been born in the same hospital where I was now. And what joyous occasions the birth of my children had been! I mean, bringing life into the world is the BOMB! :-)

Suddenly, however, I could relate to babies in a crazy sort of way, too. Lying in my bed, I was completely, utterly helpless and reliant on others for EVERYTHING. The highlights of my days were visitors (thank you dear friends!), meals and baths. No wonder babies cry when they want to be held and fed! That's all they've got going on! A person -- no matter what age -- can go nuts just lying down all day. And I can certainly tell you that warm sponge baths are beyond awesome when you are bed ridden!

I lost track of days and nights, too. I woke up at all hours; sometimes it was on my own account, other times I would be in a nice slumber when my doctor or nurse would wake me for one reason or another. One night I had a terrible nightmare, thanks to all the pain meds. I dreamt that I was at some kind of Mardi Gras, but there were devils and ghouls out to get me. Kind of like Michael Jackson's Thriller video but for real. Fortunately, the night nurse woke me up for something. I felt as if I'd been rescued from a terrible fate. I thanked her and said, half-asleep, "There's evil everywhere!" I'll never forget the look on that poor nurse's face!

Besides birth, I also thought about death. I thought about death, because I was surrounded by it. While I was still in the ICU I noticed a group of visitors going back and forth in the hallway for several hours. Then I noticed they were all leaving, crying. I could just tell...the looks on their faces, the sobbing, their posture...someone they loved had died. So sad!

Two days later, I was finally moved out of the ICU, but to a room that was right next to the ICU unit. Sure enough, I watched a new parade of people going in and out of the ICU. I got to know their faces. This went on for a day or so and then I heard a shriek. Looking out of my door, I saw the familiar faces only this time they were in agony. One woman could barely stand up, she was consumed with grief. Other family members held her up. All the nurse told me (I asked) was that the deceased had been "young." At times like these, you see how vulnerable life can be. I so appreciated being alive. And I wanted to go home desperately!

Finally, on day six I was allowed to get out of bed. I was incredibly dizzy; but sitting in a chair for an hour was a real victory! On day seven, I met a physical therapist who took me for a walk around the halls using a walker. I saw people of all ages in their rooms, with their visitors, their balloons, their flowers. It felt great to be on my feet. Actually, let me take that back. It actually hurt like hell, but I was glad to make progress. If I was lucky, I'd get to go home tomorrow.

Tomorrow came and I went home!

BC Awareness -- Part 6 -- The Recovery

The first post-surgery day I was a blob; I could barely move a muscle. A sweet nurse used a sponge to bathe my dry lips, and let me bite down on a small sponge so I could get a teeny weeny bit of water. I did have a little gadget that I could press with my thumb to administer pain medicine whenever I needed (within 20 minute intervals). My thumb had a field day pressing down on that sucker!

I also had to wear a "bear hug" to keep my newly reconstructed breasts warm, and it was like a super duper heating pad over my entire body. Combined with my instant menopause (minus my ovaries), I was as Doc PS warned me I would be, "warm."

On day two, I hit a snag. My blood pressure was dipping and I was running a fever. I needed a blood transfusion! The transfusion was painful and I heard the nurse say, "this blood is thick." Okay. "Is it time to worry, yet?" I wondered. The room was spinning. Doc PS came in and examined my breasts, or "flaps" as they are called in plastic surgery world. My adopted girls were not covered with any gauze, so I could see them in all their glory. Every hour, 24 hours a day, the ICU nurse had to use a doppler (like the kind used in ultrasounds to hear the baby's heart beat) to "listen" to my breasts -- they made a whooshing sound. The strength of that sound indicated whether or not the transplanted tissue was "taking" to its new home. Yes, indeedy, my new breasts were like little babies!

Unfortunately, on that second day, Doc PS came in to check on me and didn't like what he heard on my right side. He also was concerned with the color. "It's dusky," he told the nurse, adding, "it should be pink." Within minutes, Doc PS and the nurse arranged for emergency surgery. Doc PS said he had to open me up (AGAIN!) and take a look at that "flap." He thought perhaps I had a blood clot there, or one of the veiny, artery thingys was kinked up (not his words, just my interpretation). The nurse called my husband who was on his way down to see me anyway after dropping our daughter off at day camp.

"This isn't life or death, is it?" I asked Doc PS, calmly. "No, it isn't," he said. "I'm hoping I can repair and save the flap." "How often does this happen?" I asked. "About five percent of the time," he said. Lucky me! I had signed a consent form outlining all the dangers and possible complications associated with this surgery, so I knew the risks. Doc PS and I discussed Plan B; if he couldn't save my right flap he would remove the transplanted fat and make room for an implant.

Yes, it did occur to me that I had made a big freakin' mistake opting for this surgery.

Within a short amount of time I was signing a whole new batch of consent forms for further surgery. I was brought to the OR. The anesthesiologist wasted no time and put a mask over my face. I kept batting my eyelashes so everyone would know I was still awake. "Don't start until I'm asleep!!!!" I screamed to myself.

I woke up and my husband and teenage son were there. A sight for sore eyes! Good news, too! Doc PS was able to fix my flap and all was well again. No need for an implant on that side. Whoo-hoo!

A wave of happiness and relief went through me. I was also drugged up. I asked my son how his college math class (summer school) was going. He admitted that he was struggling with it. In a total moment of just-out-of-surgery weakness, I said, "Don't worry about math. Do the best you can and drop it if you have to." Take it from me, never, ever let your guard down with your children! Not even when you are high as a kite on drugs!

Indeed, my son dropped the class.

BC Awareness -- Part 5

I am not going to deny that I had many sleepless nights as doubts and fears loomed in my mind about the impending surgery. Was I making the right decision? Did I think through this enough? But all in all, as I did more and more research, I felt like I was on the right path. If I didn't do this, I would have to be monitored like crazy for the rest of my life. I was also at a good age to be able to handle this kind of procedure. After another week or so of reading and basic self-torture, I stopped obsessing. Enough was enough.

I did order a book on how to prepare for a major surgery, though. I will sum up the basic premise of the book: find a happy place, memorize it in your mind's eye, and call upon this place to relax and find peace. Also, the book emphasized using positive affirmations such as "I am healing beautifully," or "I am strong and well," to help boost the immune system. Definitely a new age take on medicine, but useful in any stressful situation!

My "happy place" was my backyard, even with its squirrels, lizards, weeds and all. As the book suggested, I went to my backyard every day pre-surgery, just to relax, breath deep, and meditate. I use the term "meditate" loosely, however, because whenever I was in the backyard, as much as I tried to relax, I was too distracted. Rather than focusing on the peace and quiet, I kept thinking about all the plants that were in disarray and in need of pruning. Obviously, it was a challenge for me to allow my mind to reach its higher power. My lower powers were calling the shots.

I cleaned closets and drawers. I filed away all my miscellaneous papers, receipts, check stubs, etc., so if anything happened to me, my husband wouldn't find a mess. It was as if I wanted my life to be a blank slate. We took a trip to Legoland so my daughter had one mini trip during her summer vacation.

Finally, the day arrived. Husband and I had to be at the hospital by 5:30 am for the 7:30 surgery. On the ride in, I listened to some music on my MP3 player -- I was into the soundtrack for the musical "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" --and tried to relax as best as I could. But I don't deny that I was terrified. Scared stiff, in fact. My happy place was good for nothing!

After I was admitted, I was brought to the surgical prep area. Anyone who has been in a hospital knows that sinking feeling when you have to take off ALL your clothes, put on the ugly blue gown, lie down on a sterile bed and hope for the best. The nurse had a hard time starting my IV. Scream! The nurse asked if I would like a prayer said by the hospital rabbi. Hell, yeah! I wanted a prayer, I wanted all the help G-d could give me!

In a short amount of time, Rabbi Sarah came to my bed. She had soft brown curls and light blue eyes. She held my hand and asked me a few questions. She asked my mother's name. Then she started the prayer in Hebrew. I don't know Hebrew, but I heard her mention my mother's name and then my name. Looking at her blue eyes and hearing the prayer stirred something deep inside me. I was going through what my mother went through over forty years ago. I could run from my DNA, but I couldn't hide. I tried hard not to cry, really hard, but I couldn't stop myself. I thanked Rabbi Sarah. Sniff, sniff.

Soon, my time came. The surgeon who was removing my ovaries stopped by to say "hello." My husband was with me as I was wheeled to the operating room. We kissed and exchanged "I love yous." Doc PS was already in the OR waiting to "mark me up," which is quite literally what he did with a black marker. I had to be awake for that, as I had to be sitting up. It is quite lovely to be naked while a doctor draws on you as nurses and the anesthesiologist buzz about busily. Doc PS drew lines and dots on my chest and stomach, some for cutting, some for positioning. He said I would have amnesia and not remember the marking! Well, Doc PS, I remember it as clear as day!

The last thing I remember saying to Doc PS was "B-cup." I had my priorities! Over thirteen hours later I woke up to my husband and my best friend forever at my bedside in the ICU. Husband and bff said everything went well. The deed was done. I survived. I went back to sleep.

Breast Cancer Awareness -- Part 4

The next week was crazy. I had an MRI to make sure my breasts were clear of cancer. I also had my first meeting with the plastic surgeon I'll call Doc PS. Doc PS had a nice manner about him. According to what I read about him on the internet (research, people, not stalking!) he was in his early 40s, a perfect age for a surgeon, I think. You want them to have a lot of experience, yet you don't want them to be so old that their hands shake. Seriously. He also went to NYU for med school and UCLA for residency. Not bad.

I appreciated the fact that Doc PS took his time explaining everything to me. I had the option of either implants or the stomach tissue transfer procedure. In fancy surgical terms, it's called a Deep Inferior Epigastric Perforator or DIEP reconstruction. DIEP is now considered the "gold standard" of breast reconstruction because you are using your own tissue, or, I guess I should just come out and say the "f" word here -- fat. The reconstructed breasts, created from my own stomach FAT, would look and feel like real breasts. Implants, though less invasive, require more maintenance and sometimes go awry. The bad thing about DIEP surgery is that it is very long -- usually over ten hours -- and the recovery is notoriously painful. Depending upon a woman's physiology (and surgeons can't tell what you have until they open you up) sometimes stomach muscle as well as fat has to be transferred and that is very, very painful. Ouch city!

After Doc PS discussed the myriad surgical pros and cons he brought in his handy dandy computer to give me a slide show. This "show" included graphic pictures of what happens in surgery, along with many before and after pics. Doc PS was enthusiastic, and I think his intention was to inspire enthusiasim in me, too. Looking at picture after picture of headless, scarred torsos, however, only made me more nervous than ever. A strange sadness overcame me.

After the computer peep show, he examined me. (Now this part is for girls only, so if there are any boys out there, you need to go away now!) Because my breasts were large and had seen some gravitational pulling, i.e. sagging, action over the last (over) forty years, Doc PS said he wasn't sure he could save my nipple area. I knew my skin would be saved, but I had hoped my nipple would be part of the plan. Then he gently pinched my stomach fat. "Whatever I can pinch, I will use," he said.

Finally, for the first time since this whole BRCA 1 business began, I started to cry. Doc PS was very nice and said I needed time to absorb everything and he would meet with me again before the surgery. He left the room. His nurse, who had been there for the examination, gave me a hug. "I've been through this, too," she said. "I know it's scary. If you need to talk to any other women who've been through this, I can arrange that." I thanked her. I felt a little better, I felt a little worse. I felt nothing.

Back at home, I went on the internet and looked at more pictures of breasts in a week than a pervert does in a year! Every now and then I'd see a set of reconstructed girls that impressed me. I even printed out a few pics to show my husband. "I want to look like her," I said, "she must be a B cup." He nodded his head. "As long as you're healthy...But if you want to be smaller, that's okay with me."

Then the epiphany came. My personal moment of truth: I really, truly wanted to be smaller. After a lifelong battle with DD boobs and backaches, I began to embrace the idea of a smaller chest. A flatter stomach would be the icing on the cake. If I was going to go through ALL of this to be cancer-free, I also wanted the cosmetic perks. Vanity won out.

Within a week I revisited Doc B and Doc PS. My MRI came back clear, thank goodness! I made lots of decisions. My ovaries would be removed at the same time as the "big" surgery and I met another surgeon who would take care of that procedure. I also opted to have my nipples removed altogether, and would have them reconstructed at a later date. I told Doc PS emphatically, "I want to be a B cup."

The date was set: July 6th. July 6th, my own independence day.

Breast Cancer Awareness - Part 3

What do breast surgeons want?

In my opinion, they want their patients to live long lives, and they will do whatever it takes to reach that goal. Sometimes, however, to a frightened woman, a breast surgeon might seem scarier than breast cancer itself!

At my first visit to the breast surgeon's office I couldn't help but notice the other women in the crowded waiting room. I wondered what their stories were. A few women wore hats or scarves completely over their heads -- a sure sign that chemotherapy had taken its toll on their tresses. My heart went out to them and my stomach turned. This was life and death we were talking about here!

When breast surgeon (I'll call him Doc B) came into my room, he wasted no time by saying "you owe the doctor that tested you for the BRCA gene a good bottle of wine. He saved your life." I was taken aback by his bluntness, but the message certainly resonated. As he examined me (you know what that feels like, ladies) he talked about all of my options. I could take preventative drugs such as Tamoxifen, have constant monitoring through mammograms and MRIs, or...

Doc B took his finger and drew an imaginary line from my nipple across the side of my breast. He said, "the incision would go from here to here. We will save your skin, possibly the nipple, and take out all of the breast tissue. You'll be a little smaller -- perhaps a B or C cup -- and a plastic surgeon will replace your tissue with fat from your stomach. So you'll get a tummy tuck and you'll be perkier." He smiled.

He made it sound so easy. And what woman who has had babies and c-sections wouldn't jump at the chance to have a tummy tuck! I have also been a DD cup for so many years, that the thought of smaller, more manageable breasts (and less backaches!) was alluring. But what Doc B really wanted to do was give me a bilateral (both breasts) mastectomy with immediate reconstruction.

We are talking some serious, major, kick-ass surgery, here! Ummmm. A little voice inside of me was saying, "Help MEEEEEEE!"

But first, Doc B would have to send me for an MRI to make sure there was no cancer already present. If my MRI was clear, I could be scheduled right away for the surgery. If there was any cancer present, then it would be a whole new ballgame -- chemotherapy first, yada yada yada. A much more involved process.

Doc B was a true salesman. "I have a whole waiting room full of very sick women who would jump to be in your shoes," he said. "In the eighteen years since I have been doing this procedure on BRCA patients, no one has ever gotten breast cancer."

The next step then was to have an MRI and meet with the plastic surgeon Doc B recommended to "reconstruct" me. Again, I was numb, I was scared, I was even slightly terrified. But the seed of survival had been planted. I couldn't ignore the facts. The surgery seemed like the right thing to do.

I would have an MRI and meet with the plastic surgeon. I would come back to Doc B in a week to further discuss the surgery. Deep down I knew there was no turning back.

Breast Cancer Awareness - Part 2

There I was, BRCA 1 positive. That evening I told the news to my husband who got teary eyed and then said, "What does that mean?" It is funny how "informed" we are, yet when it comes to our own well-being, we can be quite ignorant. Actually, earlier in the year my husband had shown me an article about the need for women with an Ashkenazi (Eastern European) Jewish background to get tested for the BRCA genes. I had read the article and somehow forgotten all about it! Oops!

Thank goodness for the internet. My research gave me these facts: I had an almost 90 per cent chance of getting breast cancer, and a 44 per cent chance of getting ovarian cancer in my lifetime. MUCH, MUCH higher odds than the general population. Was I a ticking time bomb? Anyone who has ever had bad news from a doctor usually feels two things afterwards: fear and total confusion.

Within a week or so, husband and I were in soft-spoken doc's office to discuss my test results. As I was nearing 50 years old, doc said it was the perfect time to remove my ovaries. (Yay! No more children! No more birth control! And best of all, drum roll, please, no more period! Whoo-hoo!) Don't get me wrong about the children part, I love them dearly, but I'm so done, if you catch my drift. The surgery is called an "oophorectomy," and is a relatively simple laparoscopic (done through the navel, so not invasive) procedure. The surgery lasts only about 40 minutes and poof, I would be ovary free. I'd go through instant menopause, but I was gearing up for that, anyway. Doc said he would provide treatment for those pesky hot flashes if need be.

That was the good news. Oophorectomy to be scheduled, a no brainer. Now about those breasts of mine...

Very casually, toward the end of our conversation, doc mentioned that he would like me to meet with a prominent breast surgeon, just to learn about my "options." Note to self in the future: beware of any soft-spoken doctor who nonchalantly refers you to a freakin' surgeon!

I must be the most naive person on the block. I made an appointment with the breast surgeon.

In Part 3 I reveal what every breast surgeon wants.

Breast Cancer Awareness -- Part 1

It has been a very, very long time since I have blogged. To be honest, I went through a major medical procedure this past summer, and as much as I wanted to share my experience, a little voice said, "No, not yet." To blog or not to blog. I have waited and waited, and now that it is Breast Cancer Awareness month, the time finally seems right to tell my story. Many of my friends already know about this; many people who know me have no idea. My aim is to make people AWARE; if I can help another woman, then I have accomplished my goal.

A long time ago, when I was an innocent little girl,(yes, that was a LONG time ago), my mother had breast cancer in both breasts. Having radical mastectomies was the only alternative back then, and so I grew up seeing a big scar going from one side of my mom's chest to the other. Her first breast was removed before I was born, and the second was removed when I was about eight years old. I remember her telling me that she had a lump, and allowing me to feel the weird bump underneath her skin. Fortunately, mom lived to the ripe age of 80 years old. Cancer did not get her! Lucky for me to have had her in my life that long!

Flash forward to April, 2010. My new ob/gyn (recommended by friends, and located close to home) asks me about my family history. After I tell him about my late mom's bout with breast cancer, he then asks me if I'm Jewish. Affirmative. Without giving me much of a choice, he says he wants to test me for the BRCA 1 and BRCA 2 breast cancer genes. Yay for modern medicine! Women with a family history of BC and of Ashkenazi Jewish descent are candidates for this test. Doc said insurance would cover most of the cost (it's expensive!). I went for it, without any thought whatsoever about the consequences. To tell the truth, I thought it would be a good idea to know whether or not I was a carrier, and that was it. I had no plans to act on that information.

Little did I know that this test would change my life.

Of course, I got the phone call from Doc with the test results while I was at the market. Somewhere around the ketchup aisle my phone buzzed and Doc wasted no time, "You're positive for BRCA 1." Doc is soft spoken, and I could hardly hear him.

"Positive?" I repeated, in disbelief.

My mind started spinning. Doc mentioned something about removing my ovaries (BRCA 1 women are high risk for both breast and ovarian cancer). There I was in the market discussing surgery. SURGERY! I pulled my cart over to what I thought was the aisle less traveled. Ironically, it was the kosher food section.

My conversation with Doc left me reeling. I finished my shopping in a daze. Time to go home and talk with my husband. I knew I would need to go on the internet and do some research. LOTS of research.

Stay tuned for Part 2.