The Little Engine That Could

It's Monday again and I go in to Tower for round 5 of chemo. First up is my weekly fight with the scale. I've gained 2 pounds. Again. Fuck. Anne takes my blood and returns with mostly good news. My counts are holding up for the most part. My hemoglobin is low which explains why I'm so tired and why I've been getting daily nose bleeds. We talk about how I've been feeling and I tell her that other than my nose bleeds and some pain in my feet, I'm still feeling pretty good. I tell her that I've been having hot flashes at night and that Dr. Ottavi thinks it could be chemo induced menopause. I'm freaked out and ask her if I should be taking Lupron, a drug that shuts down the ovaries and is thought to protect them from chemo (there's no guarantee). She says I should discuss it with Angela and Dr. McAndrew. I'm given the green light for treatment and the drip begins.

Angela comes to see how I'm doing and tells me, again, how impressed she is with me and how well I'm doing. She tells me again, that I'm a complete mystery and she can't believe how good I look. "Doesn't she look amazing?" she asks Nitasha who is sitting with me. But of course. I ask her if I'm going to lose my hair. It's still growing and getting thicker and longer. She tells me that if it were anyone else but me, she'd say yes, but since it's me, she has no idea. I also ask her whether I should be taking Lupron and if she can ask Dr. McAndrew whether she thinks that Zometa is something I should consider. One of my triple-negative-breast-cancer-while-pregnant friends brought it to my attention after watching Dr. Funk discuss a new study in which women who took Zometa had a much lower recurrence rate (36%!). Zometa is currently used to treat bone cancer (and I think a slightly different form of it is used to prevent osteoporosis in post menopausal women). My friend's oncologist at UCLA believes that she should take it so I'm curious to see what Dr. McAndrew thinks. Angela (and Anne) are curious to know what Dr. McAndrew says but both say that it's probably a good drug for me to take and Angela says I can get my first injection of Lupron today. I tell her that I'm going to meet with a fertility doctor first and will see what he thinks before taking the drug.

I feel so torn about taking both drugs. Lupron may (not for sure) make me a crazy person with mood swings, depression, hot flashes, dryness etc. (it totally shuts down ovarian function and we really need estrogen to be normal). I'm already suffering from most the of the side effects but am afraid of severe mood swings. Mostly I'm afraid Boris might file for divorce if I become any bitchier. Even if it's not my fault. And although the initial research on Zometa is good, it's so new, that really, who knows? We don't know all of the upsides or all of the downsides. One of the few known side effects is necrosis of the jaw but it appears that those who suffer from it are either really old or people who have had major dental surgery that didn't heal (and I thankfully don't fall into either category). I'd have to take Zometa for 3 years which means that if I am able to have more children, I'd have to wait 3 years instead of 2 to try to have more (I have to wait 2 years because all of the studies show that women who become pregnant within 2 years of having breast cancer die twice as often as those who don't and triple negative tumors recur most often within the first 2 years.). Plus, the longer I keep my ovaries, the higher my risk of ovarian cancer. Also, Zometa stays in the body for ten years and no one knows what having it in your body while you're pregnant does to a fetus. I don't know how to make these decisions. Part of me thinks that I have to take anything that improves my chances of living, but I really want more kids and would like to worry about normal things during my next pregnancy instead of whether I'm subjecting my little one to something that will do horrible things to her (if I can have a third I'm having a girl and yes, I do have control over it.). Been there. Done that.

My infusion is uneventful. I go home three hours after it begins. Even though I had called my nanny to let her know I was on my way home, when I arrive, there are no children present. And dinner isn't ready for Miles. And there's no bottle for Baron. I'm pissed. I start making dinner and bottles and a short while later my nanny, mom and boys arrive. I'm not sure what I was thinking or who I think I am, but because I wanted time alone with the boys and because I'm so angry that everyone else is enjoying my kids while I'm cooking and cleaning I tell my mom I don't need any help and she leaves. I hold Baron while I feed Miles dinner and and wear him in a sling while bathing Miles. He falls asleep and I lay him in his crib while I start reading to Miles and giving his his milk. Baron wakes up screaming and wanting to eat. I bring him into Miles' room and the 3 of us sit on Miles' chair listening to music. Soon Baron starts screaming again. After a few minutes Miles turns to me and says "papa?" I tell him that papa is at work. "Sara?" he asks. I tell him that Sara went home but realize that he's asking me to get some goddamn help so he can have some peace and quiet before he goes to bed. I call my mom but she doesn't answer. I call my brother and ask him how quickly he can get to my house. 3 minutes later peace is restored. Seth gives Baron his first bottle with formula. Baron is an eating machine and has devoured our breast milk supply much faster than expected. I knew this day was coming, but still feel so guilty. Thankfully, he didn't mind at all (same with Miles who was happy as long as something was coming out of the bottle) and had no tummy issues whatsoever.

Two days later I meet with Dr. Jain, a fertility specialist. I have to fill out a lengthy questionnaire that's totally irrelevant to my situation. It's pages and pages of questions about my period and whether I've taken hormones, how many pregnancies and miscarriages I've had, how long it took me to get pregnant, my exercise habits. I barely fill the questionnaire out. When asked how long it took me to get pregnant I write "5 minutes," and then write "I am on chemotherapy and want to preserve my fertility and ability to have more children should I choose to." Dr. Jain meets me in the waiting room. He's young and handsome and very friendly. "You made me laugh," he says. "I've never had anyone write '5 minutes' before." Glad I provide some entertainment. I unleash a zillion questions on him regarding Lupron and chemotherapy and Zometa and testing eggs for the BRCA1 gene. I inform him that if I can get pregnant again, I am having a girl who does not carry the gene (and love that in the fertility world sex selection is euphamistically called "gender balancing."). He's very knowledgeable and honest about what's possible, what's unknown, possible risks. He says that while in vitro is an option for me because my tumor was hormone negative, the safest route will be a surrogate. He also says that when I'm ready to try to get pregnant again, we will have more information regarding testing eggs for the BRCA1 gene because advancements in this field are so rapid. He tells me that I need to have my hormone levels tested to know whether he can harvest eggs. If my ovaries haven't been "shocked" into menopause, he can determine the right time to harvest eggs with Dr. McAndrew. At the moment Boris swears he doesn't want more kids, but he's sleep deprived and stressed. Soon Baron will sleep through the night and I won't be in treatment and I want to keep our options open. I'll have my hormone levels tested next Monday at Tower.

Anne leaves me a message early Monday morning. She says that my kidney function is off a bit and that I need to come in early for hydration. I call Anne back and ask what she's talking about and if I need to be afraid. Apparently my kidneys are slightly toxic and the hydration will help flush them out. She says not to be afraid, but that I want to get the toxicity level down. When I got the call, I was tending to my newly planted vegetable garden (compliments of my aunt who has the most lovely and amazing garden) while Baron was asleep. I had planned on spending the morning with Baron, having lunch with Miles and then going to Tower. I stop watering my tiny cauliflower and budding tomatoes and run to the park so I can have a few minutes with Miles since lunch is out. Ironically, Miles found a watering can and spent our 30 minutes together watering the plants at the park. Miles would pour water onto the base of a tree, inform me that "Miles is watering tree," and then say "Fernando," who is our gardener. I kiss Miles, race home to shower and snuggle Baron and then head to Tower.

Before Anne starts me on hydration, I get weighed. I've lost 4 pounds and could cry I'm so happy. By the time Ali, my chemo date arrives, I'm already woozy from the drugs and I tell her repeatedly that I've lost 4 pounds. She laughs. My infusion goes quickly and I'm home much faster than I expected. I'm exhausted and feeling shitty. I feed Miles dinner and want to cry as he tosses his food on to the floor because he "no want it the pasta." I tell him that mommy isn't feeling well and I need him to cooperate. He doesn't care. Before I lose it, I remove him from his high chair and take him into the bathroom for his bath. But before I can close the bathroom door, he sprints out of the bathroom laughing and screaming and before I can catch him he rubs marina sauce all over my white couch. He's laughing and pointing to the red blotches yelling "red! red!" I'm trying to block him from rubbing his face into the couch again and he leans all of his weight on me as I'm letting go of his arm. He tumbles to the floor, starts crying and looks up at me and says "Miles hurt. Miles sad." I die. It takes forever to get him to sleep because at bedtime he now tells me that he needs to "poo poo on the potty," (which he almost never does), and he goes through each body part and tells me that it hurts or that his monkey blanket needs water or milk and a zillion other things that would prolong going to bed.

I leave Miles' room and collapse on the couch. When I get up to make myself dinner, I notice that there's a ton of hair on the couch. Fucking great. Although I'm hoping it will just thin, I know better. I spend the next few days noticing hair on everything I get near. The sink, my pillow, my clothes, our computer. It's so sad. I knew it would probably happen and I know it's coming back, but it's still incredibly depressing. And anyone who tells me that it's the least of my worries or it's not a big deal because I know it's going to come back quickly can fuck off. Actually, I'd like them to pour something on their head that causes their hair to slowly fall out all over the place until they look like a mangy dog. Then shave their hair off. Then have it grow back until it finally looks fairly normal even though they'd never have short hair. Then repeat the process. Then we can talk.

The night before round 7 as I'm putting Miles to bed he tells me "Miles want it the park. Go to park." I tell him that we'll go the park in the morning. He wakes up, we have breakfast and I'm feeling incredibly tired. When our nanny arrives, I tell Miles that he gets to go the park with her. "No want it," he says. "No want it the park with Sara. Park with mommy." He's so delicious that I can't resist. Off to the park I go. We spend an hour together and then I rush home so I can get to Tower on time. Shortly before I leave, Dr. Jain calls me to discus my hormone levels. I was tested at Tower the week before and had the results sent to him. My ovaries have shut down. He tells me that the normal "FSH" level is between .8-11 and mine is a 79. My estrogen is low (which explains some of the lovely side effects I'm suffering from like hot flashes every 5 minutes) so I'm not producing eggs. "That means there's nothing we can do about harvesting eggs at this time," he explains. "We will have to see if your ovarian function returns after you stop chemo." Fuck. I'm so sad. I want more babies and it's so goddamn rude that I'm 34 (for a few more days) and in menopause. The whole thing is rude. Cancer. Menopause. Being bald. And fat. Rude. Rude. Rude. Rude.

I learn that I've gained 3 of the 4 pounds I lost last week back. Fuuuuuccccckkkkk. Anne takes my blood and the results aren't good. My counts are low, especially my neutrophil. Before she can treat me I need to see Dr. McAndrew. I'm taken to a room right away. Dr. McAndrew looks at my counts and explains that this is the lowest level that they can treat me at. She gives the green light for today's treatment but tells me I'm going to have to get "the shot" I've heard so much about. It's a bone marrow stimulant that in addition to causing bone marrow to produce more white blood cells, is supposed to be excruciating. One of the first things my cancer friends asked me was if I had ever gotten "the shot" and complained that it was worse than chemo itself. Oddly, Claritin is supposed to help. I buy some right away and know that the next few days may suck big time. If my counts don't go up, I won't get treatment next week. I take the opportunity to tell Dr. McAndrew about my meeting and subsequent conversation with Dr. Jain and tell her that I'm really upset that no one suggested I take Lupron before I started this cycle of chemo. "I might have had a chance of protecting my ovaries," I tell her. She explains that because I was pregnant, there was no way to get a baseline for my normal hormone level prior to starting chemo so there was no way for her to know what to do with me. She also reminds me that there is no guarantee that Lupron protects the ovaries and she confidently states that she's never seen a woman my age not have her ovarian function return within 6 months to 1 year of stopping chemo. That's a relief. I sure hope I'm not some rarity and become her first patient to buck the trend.

We also discuss whether I should take Zometa. Dr. McAndrew believes that for me, the benefits outweigh the risks. I can't start it this week because my counts are too low and most women get a fever the night of the infusion and the risk of me getting an infection are too high. If my counts go up over the week, I'll start Zometa at my next infusion. And I'll hope that some brave women ahead of me get pregnant and that we have more research and information over the next 2-3 years. I have a lot of hoping going on.

With the green light from Dr. McAndrew, my infusion begins. Without telling me, Anne pushes the Benadryl through much faster than usual and I feel like I'm on mushrooms. Seriously. I'm not hallucinating, but same feeling. I tell my date, Debbie. She looks at me blankly and then starts laughing. I raise my eyebrows and ask her what's so funny. "I have no idea what you're saying," she chuckles. "You are incoherent and slurring all of your words. And it's hilarious. And I hope you're enjoying it." I think I'm speaking perfect English. So funny. And so sad that my first drug experience since high school is in a treatment center of an oncology office (I am not counting me and Boris' few days in Amsterdam on our way to Africa for our safari during which we bought a bag of weed that we ended up giving 90% of away because we couldn't finish it. Not to mention that neither one of us knows how to roll a joint since someone else always did it for us and it took Boris like 45 minutes to roll one joint so badly nothing came out when you tried to inhale).

I go home in my stupor and rake leaves outside with Miles. It's his new favorite activity. Of course since I'm kindof fucked up, he wants to be held and then instructs me to run and dance. "Mommy pick up Miles. Dance mama, dance! Run with Miles, mommy, running! Running!" Oy vey. I don't know if it was all of the dancing and running with a 28 pound child, but around bedtime I'm incredibly achy. I ask Boris if he thinks it could be psychosomatic since I'm anticipating agonizing bone pain tomorrow when I get "the shot." He laughs. I don't. I'm so uncomfortable that I can't sleep at all. I just toss and turn and toss and turn. Around 2am, I get up to take a Tylenol and my temperature. The thermometer reads 98.6. The thermometer however, sucks, and is never accurate. According to it, I usually have the temperature of a dead person. Before I started chemo 9 months ago, I told Boris we needed to buy some thermometers since I would need to closely monitor my temperature during treatment and the only thermometer we own had been in Miles' tush. Boris wanted to know why we needed a new thermometer since we had washed the one we had post Miles' tush. I was (I think not surprisingly) horrified and totally grossed out, but thought Boris was hilarious. I promptly went to the drugstore and bought several disposable thermometers. We've since added a high tech electronic under the arm thermometer (which also doesn't work) and 2 mercury thermometers (1 of which works but takes an insanely long time). So...given my usually dead status, 98.6 concerns me a little. I try to sleep. Again. No luck. I think I pass out around 6am for a few hours.

Even though I am exhausted and feeling like death, it's Wednesday and I always take Miles to the park on Wednesdays. Why should today be different? Um, because I'm on chemo and feel awful? But, I go anyway. With surgery coming up which will make the park an impossibility for several weeks and the very real possibility that my cancer could come back or kill me in a few years, I want to spend every minute with my kids that I can. However, I wish I hadn't because I'm achy and hurt everywhere and running around after Miles is brutal. I decide to go home a little early so that I can get to Tower for my shot and an accurate temperature reading. It's 101. Shit. I had been warned that anything over 99 could be grounds for hospitalization and the nurse tells me she has to go speak to Dr. McAndrew to find out what to do with me. Thankfully, I don't have to go to the hospital. I'm prescribed antibiotics (that cost over $100 for 7 pills) and am still given the green light for the shot. It hurts. A lot. I pop a Claritin before leaving to go home. I decide to have Baron sleep at my parents' house so that I can get some rest. Although I know I didn't choose this situation, I feel like the worst mom ever. I would have never been away from Miles for a whole night when he was 2 months old. I just feel guilty all the time. When I'm with Miles I feel guilty that I'm not with Baron and when I'm with Baron I feel bad that I'm not with Miles. And honestly, I think it's a miracle that second children learn to walk and talk and know who their parents are because they (or at least mine) spend so much time with other people and get a fraction of the attention that the first child gets. Although she disagrees, Baron might spend more time with my mom then he does with me. He still seems to like me best though. Phew.

I get a great night's sleep and feel a lot less achy in the morning. I think it's a good sign that my fever has gone away. And I don't have horrific bone pain...yet. A plus. I stay home with Baron all morning and take it easy. I go in to Tower in the afternoon for my shot. I have no fever. But the nurse tells me that Dr. McAndrew wants me to come in the following day to have my blood drawn and possibly have another shot. Ugh. I go the following day and my counts have doubled. Sadly, that means they're still incredibly low, but it means I'm doing better. And I don't need a third shot which is great. Although I haven't experienced the bone pain everyone warned me about, I feel like I'm 80 and my bones are jelly. My bones go back to normal by the end of the weekend. Just in time for Monday.

Round 8 starts off well. I've lost 2 pounds (the same 2 pounds I've been gaining and losing for the past 2 months) and my counts are relatively normal for someone who has had chemotherapy for 6.5 months. That means they're low, but I'm treatable. Dr. McAndrew has also ordered my first round of Zometa. Anne tells me that I may run a fever tonight but it shouldn't last more than 24 hours. I may feel other flu-like symptoms like achiness. That however is a major understatement. Although my treatment itself is uneventful, I feel like death by the time I get home. I am so achy I can barely move and I'm sure I have a fever. I would amputate my feet if I could they itch so badly. My never accurate, piece of shit thermometer says my temperature is 101.7, so I'm pretty nervous. That probably means I'm really running a fever closer to 103. Shit. I send Baron to my parents' house so I can sleep. Again. Worst mom ever?

I have to go to Tower the next 2 days for "the shot." Again. On day 2 I run into Darcy who has finished chemo and is feeling so much better. The best part is that she had her scans and they're all clear. I want to cry I'm so happy for her but am also so sad because it's my understanding that it's a virtual certainty that her cancer will return. For now, she gets to act like a normal 21 year old and is traveling for the summer. As lame as it sounds, I tell her that I'm so proud of her and that she's survived more than most people will in their whole lives.

To add to my sadness, my hair is now falling out at a frightening pace. I'm shedding everywhere and the worst part is that it looks like male pattern baldness. I have so much hair except for the very front. It's too crazy to wear out in public so I decide it's time to shave it off. Of course Boris' electric razor breaks so Boris and I sit in the shower for over an hour with a scissors and disposable razor and I emerge bald, bald, bald. I made it through 2 of my 3 months of chemo with hair. So rude that it fell out at the very end. But then again, it's all fucking rude. That night as I put Miles to bed he pats my head and says "Mama's head. Shiny."

When I wake up in the morning I'm still super achy from the shot. Then to make things worse I throw my back out the following day as I take Miles to the first day of a new toddler group. He's the youngest by a lot but he has so much fun. Me...not so much. I have to schmooze and act "normal" and am in my scarf and watching Miles makes me sad. He's growing up. So many of the toddlers who were much older than him clung to their parents or dragged their mom around to each activity they were interested in. Miles never looked back at me once. He was off and running and busy and cried when it was time to leave. I'm not sure what that says about his attachment to me, but people keep telling me it's a really good thing. When we get home, I tell Miles that I need his help and cooperation because I hurt my back. He tells me repeatedly that "Miles' back hurts." Instead of taking a bath that night, Miles and I shower together. He's so tender it kills me. He just wants to hug. Then he washes my face. He points to my nose and I keep saying "yes, that's mommy's nose," but then I realize I'm bleeding. When it's time to get dressed for bed, instead of running around the room like madman, he lays down on the floor, lifts his legs up and says "Miles easy." Usually, when he is acting like a madman and I'm struggling to put his diaper on, I tell him we can do things the hard way or the easy way, it's up to him. The hard way involves me pinning him down to the floor which initially he finds hilarious but ultimately ends up hating. I nearly fall down trying to lift Miles into his crib my back hurts so badly. I'm totally hunched over by the time I leave his room. And I stay hunched over for almost a week. Chemo is really good at making the healing process take way longer than it should.

During one of my back related forced park vacations, Katie 1 comes to visit. Baron is at my parents and we have the house to ourselves. She's just had her final implants put in and I'm eager to see what she looks like. She looks great. Just fake. But I've realized that there is no way to make implants look natural when you have no breast tissue (or I guess even when you do). I must have looked really sad because Katie says "Sharon, you are not having cosmetic surgery. You are having a double mastectomy. Your goal is to look normal in clothes. You have to remember that. It's a perk (no pun intended) if you look good naked. And you will...but that's not the goal. You have to remember what you're doing." We cry over how tragic it is to lose your breasts and she tells me how much she misses hers and how much she loved them. "I never thought about losing my breasts," she said. "And everything happened so fast that I never really had a chance to say goodbye. I was told I had cancer in both breasts and within a week they were gone." We cry over all the things we took for granted, like having your nipples get hard when the wind blows. She also tells me how being "done" with treatment is much harder than being in treatment. As amazing as her friends and family are, everyone keeps congratulating her on being done not understanding that you're never done. "It's like you're in a hole for over a year and the really hard part is getting out. Cancer does so much more to you than you realize or could imagine. It takes your body, your confidence, your happiness and you have to work really hard to find yourself again," she says. I just worship her and feel so lucky to have found her.

And on that happy note, she congratulates me on being 2/3 of the way done with chemo. One month to go. One month to go. I think I can I think can.

P.S. After reading this posting, Boris lamented that it sounds like he's not around helping. I could write a book on how helpful Boris is and how much he does (like feeding Baron in the middle of the night every night so that I can sleep and then gets up and goes to work). He also cooks, cleans (sort of), takes 1 day of work off a week to be with me and the babies (since we don't have a nanny every day) and continues to love me in my tired, itchy, bald, often bitchy state.

More Things I've Learned From Cancer

I am not as Vain as I Thought.

I am not as vain as I thought, or perhaps I'm just delusional about what I look like. My entire head is now covered in hair. I don't think I look sick anymore. Weird in a pregnant-military-chick sort of way, but not sick. Before I finished cycle 1 of chemo, I informed Boris that I was going to buy makeup and start wearing it when my hair grew back in. "And I want to wear nice clothes every day. No sweats or anything." Not a fan of makeup or dressing up (and I rarely do either), Boris wanted to know why. "Because there's a fine line between having short hair and looking fashionable and chic, and looking butch," I told him. Let me be clear that I have no issue with women decorating themselves however they choose - but butch is not a look I'm interested in.

But now that I have my covering of hair, looking fashionable and chic while 9 months pregnant and lugging a 27 pound toddler to the park is not really a priority. I'm content to leave the house in sweats without makeup. I'm just glad I can leave the house quickly without worrying about whether my scalp will get sunburned, without tying a scarf or putting on a wig. In fact I haven't worn my wig in a few weeks and have been going everywhere with my newly sprouted hair. It's actually quite thick (not surprising given the amount of hair I had pre-cancer, but you never know) and I'm overjoyed. Overjoyed may be a bit of an overstatement since I'd be much more joyful if I had my long curly hair back, but given the alternative that I've been living with, I'll take it.

When I go out, I think I make people far more uncomfortable than I feel. When my hair was more sparse (and yes, I still went out sans head coverings), people would stare or try to be discreet (you know when someone turns around pretending to look at something else but you know they're really looking at you), but I'd just smile or wave and they'd nervously smile back and turn around quickly. I recently had lunch with a pregnant with cancer friend who had completed treatment and was getting ready to go back to work. Her hair had just started to grow back in and was still pretty sparse. She told me that she really wants to go to work without a wig or scarf but was concerned about upsetting her co-workers. "My goodness," I said. "That is so nice of you. I wouldn't give a shit if I made anyone else feel uncomfortable. I only care about whether I'd feel uncomfortable or not!" But now that my hair is thick, I don't feel uncomfortable at all and most of the stares have stopped.

People Like Talking About Hair.

My new do elicits a lot of unsolicited conversations. They're mostly friendly and encouraging and it's pretty fascinating. A mom I see often at the park told me she didn't recognize me with my "new haircut." I'm not sure who chooses this haircut, but it was nice that she didn't think my hair screamed cancer. Another woman who I was sitting next to at dinner turned to me to tell me that her daughter cut off 10 inches of her hair to donate to Locks of Love and now has the same haircut as me. I smiled and told her to thank her daughter for being so fearless and generous. Then I told her that this wasn't a haircut, but rather that I lost my hair during chemo and it's just growing back. "Well," she said. Then silence. Then "you look beautiful." But of course. During a particularly rainy day, an older woman stopped me on the street and told me that I needed a hat to stay warm. And at my most recent blood draw at Tower, I was approached by a cancer patient who ran (really, she ran) up to me to tell me how fantastic my hair looked and how she couldn't wait until her hair was as long as mine. "I just had to talk to you," she said. "You are awesome and you are going to beat this. I know it." I immediately welled up with tears and said "I hope you're right." "I am right," she swore. I hope I hope I hope.

Compliments.

Never in my whole 34 year old life have I been told so often that I look great. Someone tells me on a daily basis. I'm not sure if I looked like hell before cancer or if people are just expecting me to look like death and are pleasantly surprised that I don't, but the compliments are never ending (not complaining!). A few months ago I was having a pilates lesson and was in my workout clothes (with my belly hanging out) and a scarf. A woman with short hair walked in, looked at me and said "you are beautiful." It turns out that she is a cancer survivor and must have known what was, or rather what wasn't, under the scarf. Now that I'm strutting around town with my buzzcut I get even more compliments. One woman recently told me that she would look terrible with such short hair but I'm "so pretty" with "such striking features," that I can pull it off. Puh-lease! Not to be self-denigrating or anything but give me a fucking break. I appreciate the compliment and all - but as I've said before, I am no supermodel. And no one who is accustomed to long locks thinks they'd look great with a semi-bald do and quite honestly, would look better with more hair. Myself included. I do appreciate that people routinely tell me I'm a bad ass for going out looking the way I do and Boris repeatedly tells me how proud he is that I'm so comfortable with the way I look.

Surrealism.

I often catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or window and sometimes stop and pause. "Who the hell is that?" I often wonder. I am unrecognizable to myself. In the few dreams I've had recently that I can remember, I look like my old self. I have tons of hair and clear skin and am wearing normal clothes. I know the maternity clothes part will end soon - but the rest...not so much. Even though I've endured 6 rounds of chemo and am gearing up for more treatment, I still can't believe this is happening to me. I've asked my chemo dates if they can believe this is happening, because I can't. Even bald and hooked up to an i.v. I just scheduled all of my post-pregnancy scans and as I was setting up appointment after appointment I turned to the receptionist and said that I was still in shock that the appointments were for me. Sometimes as Boris and I are getting ready for bed and I'm slathering my body in Aquaphor, I'll turn to him and ask if he can believe I have cancer. He can't. I have cancer. Me neither. I have cancer. I think. I guess the cancer has been removed. We hope. We don't know for sure and won't until I have my scans. So I don't know if I have cancer, am battling cancer, am a survivor? How surreal?

The C-Bomb Works.

I'm shameless. I know. But sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. If Pizzeria Mozza is booked, I just tell them I'm pregnant with cancer and voila - they're not booked anymore. I just purchased a new couch and when the clerk informed me I wouldn't get it before Miracle Warrior arrived, I told him that I had cancer and really needed the couch as soon as humanly possibly. I had it 4 days later. If I'm going to go through this shit - I'm going to milk it for all I can.

I No Longer Care Who Knows I have Cancer.

When I was initially diagnosed I only wanted to discuss cancer with a select few. The marines of my life if you will. Now, not so much. If anyone comments on my hair (or sadly, now, my lack thereof) I blurt out that I have cancer or am being treated for cancer. If people comment on Baron's name ("it's so unusual!") I tell them it means warrior and he and I went through chemo together. I shock people all the time and really, truly don't care.

Silkwood

It's Thursday. It's one of the big days I've been waiting for and dreading at the same time. I'm to have 2 of my 4 scans. A brain MRI and bone scan. I will finally know whether my cancer has metastasized. If it has, my doctor's goal is to prolong my life but curing me is out. If it hasn't spread, the goal is still to cure me since breast cancer is curable. Once it's metastasized ...not so much. It's almost an all day affair. I check in with the front desk at the Cedars' imaging center and am immediately sent to the "nuclear medicine" wing. I'm there with Cass and she asks me how long the doctors have told me I'll have to stay away from my kids. I have no idea what she's talking about. "When I had my MRI I was told I couldn't pick up my boys for 24 hours because of the radioactive dye used for the scan," she tells me. No one has mentioned this to me and I'm a little freaked out. And pissed. Who wouldn't mention this to me beforehand? "Just ask the doctor," she says.

I get called in a few minutes later and am led into a tiny room with a chair and some cupboards. A technician enters and tells me he's going to start an i.v. with some fluids and a radioactive dye for my bone scan. I ask him if the dye will preclude me from holding my kids. "How old are they?" he asks? I tell him 2 weeks and 18 months. "You're not breastfeeding, are you? he asks. I'm taken aback, tell him no and wait for him to answer my question. He tells me that I can hold Miles for 15 minutes an hour for the next 6 hours but that I shouldn't hold Baron until morning. I can be in the same room with them though. For the love of god. What a fucking nightmare. I can't believe I can't hold my boys and no one even thought to tell me. If I hadn't been with Cass I would have had no idea and would have snuggled them both for sure. Then we'd be one big radioactive family.

The i.v. isn't nearly as painful as I expect and the technician bandages my arm up within minutes of sticking me. "I've left a needle in so that you don't have to get stuck again for your MRI," he says. It's a little uncomfortable, but not bad at all. He tells me to go down to the dungeon for my MRI. I only wait about half an hour before I'm brought into the changing room. I change into my super sexy gown and am am led into the examination room. The MRI machine is massive. A technician comes in to greet me while another gets the machine ready. It's apparently been set up incorrectly because one of the technicians who read my file thought I was getting an MRI of the breast not the brain. I wait while the machine configuration is changed and lay down.

A young woman enters the room and tells me she's going to conduct the scan. "Have you ever had an MRI before?" she asks me. I tell her that I have although I wasn't given the contrast dye. "So you know it's really loud?" Yes. She hands me a pair of earphones and asks what kind of music I'd like to listen to. "It helps drown out the machine," she says. I tell her I'd like to listen to classical music but when I put on my earphones they're blasting opera. I hate opera. I call her over and tell her I'd like the pop station. I try to relax to Britney and songs I've actually never heard (one that's to the tune of You Spin Me Right Round) but the lyrics say "you spin my head round when you go down down." OMG. I'm horrified. And apparently old because I can't believe anyone would listen to this shit. And I'm secretly their target audience.

The scan begins. I have to lay perfectly still for about 45 minutes. I cry the whole time. Not because it hurts at all but because I'm so scared of what they might find. Plus, under normal circumstances if I heard the noises coming from the machine I would run for my life. It's like a war siren. After about 30 minutes, the technician enters the room again and tells me she's going to inject me with the contrast dye. She does and leaves the room. But one minute later she comes back in and says "you're breastfeeding? You can't do that." For the love of god. "I am not breastfeeding," I tell her. "Are you Sharon Shimanovsky?" she asks. Really for the love of god. I say yes. "Well this says you're breastfeeding," the technician goes on. "Well it's wrong," I tell her. "But thanks for reminding me that I'm not breastfeeding and for having a fight with me about it." Super cool. 10 minutes later I'm done. I wipe away my tears and change back into my clothes. I have about an hour before my bone scan. Cass and I go to eat, drink and be merry but it's pretty tough now that I'm just waiting to find out if my cancer has spread to places that will likely kill me. Plus, now I can't stop thinking about how sad and guilty I feel about not breastfeeding Baron. Especially since a recent article just came out that found Perchlorate, a type of rocket fuel, in 15 brands (not identified) of powdered formula. I promptly freaked out and emailed Baron's pediatrician with a subject line that said "having a heart attack," and sent her the article. She promptly responded "Please don't have a heart attack - I would hate for a news article to kill you after you have been doing so well fighting cancer!" (we heart her) and went on to explain that Perchlorate is not new news, is in many fruits and veggies and water and that in a 2005 it was found in most breast milk in significantly higher quantities than formula. Phew. I know that I didn't choose to stop breastfeeding him and that if he's anything like his brother he will be a super healthy genius regardless of the fact that formula touched his lips before he was 1 year old...but still.

We head back to Cedars for my bone scan. The machine is equally giant, but far more comfortable. It spins all around my body while tiny dots appear and disappear on a monitor above my head. The technician asks me if I've had surgery recently. I tell her about my c-section 2 weeks ago and she says she can see it on the scan. Interesting. I ask her when the results of the scan will be available. "Probably by the end of the day today, but for sure tomorrow," she tells me. And then I'm done. I go home to not hold my boys.

On the way home I call my internist who is affiliated with Cedars and is amazing. Knowing that Dr. McAndrew is always swamped and may not call me the second she receives results from my scans, I ask her if she can check Cedars' system tonight and relay any information to me. I decide that Miles should sleep at my parents' house just to be safe and Baron can stay there until Boris gets home. My parents feed Miles while I sit nearby and chat with him. I decide to spend my hourly 15 minutes giving Miles his milk and putting him to bed. Okay, so it might be a little longer than 15 minutes, but I think it should be fine since I haven't held him at all and won't be near him all night. Of course, it's the one night that Miles doesn't kick me out of the room like usual. On most nights, when he's finished his milk and we read a book or two, he tells me "mama, bye bye. Miles. Bed." Instead of being ousted, Miles gives me the greatest snugglage ever. He buries his little face into my neck and just hugs me forever. Then he repeatedly requests that I sing "tinka tinka " (aka "twinkle twinkle little star") while he opens and closes his hands making the twinkle motion. He actually takes my hands to make me clap and caresses my face all while beaming a giant smile at me. What's a mom to do? Even a radioactive mom who doesn't want to hurt her child couldn't resist. I was probably with him for 40 minutes, but I have to believe he'll be just fine.

I go home alone. It's eerily quiet in my house with no children around and I'm sad to not hold Baron. Boris brings him home an hour later and I kiss his head a few times an hour. At 11pm I get an email from my internist. It says "preliminary results for brain MRI is normal! Still waiting for bone scan results." Hooray!!! Finally, some good fucking news. And my phone rings the next morning at 730am. It's my amazing internist who tells me that my bone scan is also clear and that I should breathe a sigh of relief because that is huge. Huge. I want to be relieved but of course I ask her how reliable the scans are. I mean, I had a clear mammogram in May and we all know how that turned out. "Talk to Dr. McAndrew ," she says. "But they're very reliable. Not at all like mammograms which we all know aren't very effective for most young women."

I wait for Dr. McAndrew to call me with the final results, but she doesn't. I'm pissed. It's not like I'm waiting for the results of a pap smear or something and assume that no news is good news. Jesus. At least I already know that the preliminary results are fine so I'm not jumping out of my skin. I wait and wait and wait and...nothing. I decide not to call but rather to talk to her on Monday when I'm at Tower for chemo.

At Tower, I ask Angela if it's normal that I received no word about my scans. "Not normal at all," she says. "Dr. McAndrew was out of town and knew you would be here today." Hmmm. Sounds suspect, but whatever. Angela brings me the final results of the scans. CLEAR. I read it again. CLEAR. God I hope they're right.

It's Thursday again. I have my remaining 2 scans at Tower. The PET and CT. I don't really understand what they are and no one has really given me a good explanation except that together, they cover all soft matter in my body. I was instructed to eat an Atkins-esque diet for 24 hours before the scans. No carbs, dairy, starchy vegetables, beans, or sugar of any sort. And then no eating for 6 hours prior to the scan, which is set for 930am. The instructions also state that I'm not to exercise for 24 hours before the scans. Not a problem since sadly, I haven't exercised in months. I'm hungry when I check in at the front desk at Tower and take a seat in the waiting room. I pull out my laptop and am typing away when a woman in a white lab coat sits down next to me. She introduces herself and tells me she's going to be with me during the scans. She explains that after my i.v. has been started and I've been injected with radioactive dye, I'll have to sit as still as possible for about 2 hours. No typing or talking on the phone as that may cause the dye to pool in areas where there isn't anything to worry about (hence the no exercise for 24 hours prior). I wonder what the hell I'll do for 2 hours without my computer or phone. I also wonder whether the radioactive dye is the same as that used during last week's scans. I assume not since the instructions I received didn't mention anything about staying away from children and everyone at Tower knows about Baron and Miles. I tell her about Baron and Miles and that no one told me I wouldn't be able to hold them. "You can't," she states. "You actually shouldn't go home until 5pm and should stay about 15 feet away from them until midnight," she tells me. Even worse. "How come no one thought to tell me this before today?" I ask her. I am so upset it's ridiculous. I start to cry and she tells me that she had breast cancer when her daughter was 3. I have no idea why she's telling me this, but I guess it's because we're cancer sisters? She goes on to tell me that she's "lucky" to not be BRCA positive. Bitch.

Jose, the technician who often draws my blood calls me into an examination room to set up my i.v. I'm not worried about it hurting because he is the best at accessing my port. He's fast and there's no pain. Sadly, this i.v. was neither fast nor painless. For some reason it's excruciating and I nearly pass out. Jose hands me a barf bag...just in case. I am weak and lightheaded and am just hoping that I don't throw up. I've had enough trauma for the day. After several minutes, Jose takes my bag and computer and leads me to the imaging center at Tower. I didn't even know this part of the office existed. The imaging center is housed behind thick steel doors and I sit down slowly in the waiting room. My arm is killing me where the i.v. is bandaged up. I'm asked to fill out some paperwork and can barely hold the pen. And then the woman I met previously comes to get me. She asks if I'm okay enough to move forward with the scans. I don't want to delay and don't want to have to eat only protein for another 24 hours. I tell her that my i.v. is unbelievably painful but that I'm okay. Still a little nauseous. She injects me with the dye. While I'm waiting, Anne walks by to get some warm towels and says hello. I tell her that I am livid about this whole radioactive-can't-hold-my-kids situation and that I want to throw up. She kisses me on the cheek and leaves.

A nurse takes me to a small room with two large lounge chairs and a television. She hands me a remote control and reminds me to be as still as I can. Although I've been cautioned about the phone (the example she gave me was that she once had a Realtor who was on the phone for 2 hours have an abnormal result due to her excessive phone use - you know how Realtors are), I have to make arrangements for Miles and Baron. I'm lucky that I have so much help and wonder what people who don't have family nearby do. I also text Debbie and tell her she has to take me to lunch because I'm a wreck and surely can't drive. I didn't think the scans would be a big deal after last weeks so I was flying solo at Tower).

After 1.5 hours a nurse comes to tell me that I should go to the bathroom as my scans are about to start. I thought I had read that I was supposed to drink a glucose drink before the scan so I ask her if I need it. She tells me that it's chalky and pretty gross and since I was so nauseous I'm not going to have it. I'm assuming that the scans will still be accurate but am already nervous that they won't be as reliable as they otherwise might. The room where the machine is is freezing. I'm wearing sweats and a thermal but the nurse tells me that I have to change into a gown because the sweats have metal on them where the drawstring is and my bra has a metal under wire. The machine doesn't like metal. I lay down on my back and she covers me up with warm blankets. I have to lay with my arms above my head so that they "can get a good look" at my lymph nodes. It's ridiculously uncomfortable and the i.v. is still making me want to cry. I have to lay like that for almost an hour. The tray I'm laying on slowly moves from one end of the machine to the other. The nurse is very nice and constantly tells me that I'm doing great and eventually, when I think I can't take it anymore, that I'm almost done. I get dressed and the nurse instructs me to eat lots of carbs. Done. I wish I was under doctor's orders to do that more often.

I leave a message for Dr. McAndrew asking her to call me as soon as she has results from the scans.

Even though I was told to stay 15 feet away from my kids, I go home and quickly make out with Miles. Then I nap by myself since I can't snuggle Baron and need to be quarantined. I decide that Miles will sleep at my parents' house again and we'll have our baby nurse come that evening to take care of Baron. I take both boys to my parents' house and watch from a distance as my Dad gives Miles dinner and my mom holds Baron. As my Dad is putting Miles to bed, Miles repeats "have Mommy, have Mommy, have Mommy." Just shoot me.

Since I have no boys at home, Nitasha suggests that we go get a massage. I'm not really supposed to have massages lest my lymphedema act up, but I ask her to find out if any of the masseuses know about the lymph system or alternatively, if they know acupressure which is supposed to be fine for me. She finds me a masseuse who will do a combination acupressure/Swedish massage. Yay! My massage is relaxing, but not nearly as fabulous as I would have liked. I like really firm massages and "acupressure" just doesn't cut it. But I don't want to piss off my arm, so I settle for relaxation. My masseuse is very sweet and massages me for longer than an hour. When she's finished, she tells me about a health food store in Venice that has a book I "have" to get about why eating a raw diet will cure me of cancer. Not vegan, just raw. "Sushi with cream" is particularly good for me she tells me. Gross. And weird. Most "cancer diets," cut out dairy completely and as much fat as possible so cream seems surprising.

Before we leave, Nitasha and I sit in the Burke Williams' lounge drinking water and I check my cell phone. I see I have a message from Tower and check it immediately. It's Dr. McAndrew . She's left me a message at home too, but wanted me to know that my PET/CT scans were clear and normal and she's thrilled. I am too. I hug Nitasha and cry.

Finally some good news. And good news of the utmost importance. My doctors are hoping to cure me. Not prolong my life, but get rid of this shit for good. Me too.

Just Another Manic Monday

It's my first day of cycle 2 of chemo. My appointment is for 930am as I was told that it's very possible I could have an allergic reaction to my infusion and it could take all day. I spend the morning breastfeeding Baron for the last time. Of course, my milk supply is just building up and he's finally eating more. I cry the whole time. It's so sad to know this is the last time I will ever breastfeed my children. I have almost no time with Miles before I have to leave and I cry some more as I kiss both boys goodbye. I kiss Boris and cry some more. Who has a baby and starts chemo 2 weeks later? But Nitasha is waiting outside for me, so I pull myself together and walk out the door.

Nitasha and I pull into the parking lot of Tower 5 minutes later. The receptionist at the treatment center greets us with a big smile and asks how the baby is doing. "He's doing great," I tell her. Eating and growing and thankfully, sleeping. "And how's mommy doing?" she asks. "I'm pretty sad to be here," I lament, "but am otherwise okay. I'm taken to a chair right away. I meet my nurse for the day, Nellie. I'm a little disappointed that Anne isn't there, but Nellie seems nice. She asks me a few questions about the break I've had from treatment and then accesses my port and takes my blood. She also checks my c-section incision. "So you had surgery a month ago?" she asks? "2 weeks," I tell her. "Wow," she responds. I would have said "fuck," but "wow" will suffice. My incision has healed nicely according to Nellie and my blood counts look good. I'm given the okay for treatment.

Angela comes to talk to me before the infusion begins. She asks to see pictures of Baron. "He's a month old?" she asks? "2 weeks," I reply. I don't know why no one knows when he was born, but whatever. I pull the pictures up on my computer but we're sidetracked with chemo explanations and questions and she forgets to look. I want to know if I'm getting steroids, what they'll do to me and whether I need hydration. Angela tells me that there will be a steroid dripped through my i.v. It's to help me eat and hopefully feel as good as possible. It shouldn't make me too energetic because I'm also being given a huge dose of Benadryl which will pretty much knock me out. I wonder how my body will react to uppers and downers at the same time. Angela says she's going to re-confirm everything with Dr. McAndrew before my infusion begins. When she returns, she tells me that the plan is for me to receive 3 weekly treatments and then have a week off for my body to recover. "That is not the plan," I tell her. "Dr. McAndrew and I discussed weekly treatments, period. I don't want a week off." Angela explains that my body has already taken a huge hit with the first cycle of chemo and that the revised plan will ensure time for me to recover if my body can't handle cycle 2. "I don't want to assume that my body can't handle it," I tell Angela. "Let's assume it can and we'll skip a week only if I have to. I want as much treatment as possible. I never want this shit to come back and I never ever, ever, want to do this again." She goes to talk to Dr. McAndrew who agrees.

Angela tells me that I'm going to be just fine. "I hope so." My standard reply. "You will live to see your boys grow up and become successful adults. You'll dance at their weddings," she goes on. I start crying as she's talking. "I hope so. I hope so. I hope so," I repeat. She doesn't know but I sure hope she's right. I sob some more and then Angela starts to discuss the drugs I may need to get through this second cycle. "I'm going to prescribe you more Zofran (nausea) and something even stronger in case you need it. And you might need Ativan in case you're stressed and can't relax or sleep." I wonder who has cancer and isn't stressed and who has cancer and sleeps well? And throw in a newborn who wakes up every 3 hours to eat. I've been tired since August and have gone without sleeping pills so I don't know why I'd start now. If I have joint or muscle pain I can take Advil or she can prescribe something stronger. I have no intention of taking any of the drugs but take the prescriptions anyway. I'm already a pharmacy with a nice supply of pain killers that I've never taken. I should turn it into a business. I could star in my own private Weeds.

Nellie gives me literature on my new chemo agents that includes how they're made and the possible side effects. It's a nightmare. Reading it makes me more nauseous and afraid then reading The Jungle or Edgar Allen Poe. She tells me that because some of the side effects can be permanent (like neuropathy in the extremities) there will be required tests along the way to monitor me. I'm terrified. And then we begin the infusion. First Benadryl and other medications to help with allergic reactions and nausea. I feel drugged immediately. As she begins the drip of Taxol she tells me that the infusion will be incredibly slow and that I'm to be heavily monitored. She wasn't kidding. The nurse takes my vitals every 10 minutes and Nellie asks me a zillion times whether I'm itchy and can I breathe and am I short of breath and is my throat closing up. Shit. I don't think so but I'm so nervous I don't know what I'm feeling. I just keep saying no. It's all relative, right?

During the infusion, I meet a young woman receiving treatment next to me. We're the same age and have matching hairdos. We tell each other how good we look and ask about each other's cancer. Breast cancer all around. Her's was stage I though and she's HER2 positive so she gets the benefit of Herceptin. She cries when I tell her about Baron. She's resigned to the reality that she's probably not going to have children. She's single and will be in treatment for another year. She chose not to freeze her eggs. I can't imagine how horrible that reality is if she wanted children. But I tell her how lucky she is to be stage I and to get Herceptin. We talk about treatment, our doctors and detoxing as soon as we can.

Katie 1 brings Nitasha and I lunch and Boris comes to visit, too. I look like I'm holding court. I suppose I am. Katie cries when she sees me. "I was supposed to see you with Baron first," she says. "Mommy Sharon. Not cancer Sharon." We eat and chat and after 5 hours, I get to go home.

Miles is asleep when I arrive. But Baron has just woken up and is ready to eat. I get to feed him and snuggle with him for an hour before Miles wakes up. And then I get to play with Miles the rest of the afternoon while Baron naps. I think this isn't so bad. I'm so happy with my boys it makes everything better. And Miles is so funny it's really the best medicine. He used to say "uh oh" when he dropped something or as a warning that he was about to throw something (he'd say "uh oh" and then hurl food onto the floor). Soon that morphed into "oops," and lately when he drops something or falls he says "sorry." So he'll crash into something and say "sorry, sorry," and I always respond "it's okay, Miles," or "that's okay, Miles. Things fall etc." In the evening as I'm sitting with Miles reading with him and giving him his milk, I spill some on him and say, "oh, sorry Miles." And Miles turns to me and says "it's otay. It's otay." I heart him.

That night my head is pounding and I'm incredibly itchy. But other than that, I feel remarkably good. Too good. I wonder if the drugs worked or if I just need to wait longer to feel like shit. But I wake up feeling okay in the morning. I still have a headache and am still itchy, but I'm functioning and not too groggy. This doesn't seem so bad. As I'm laying in bed with Baron I hear Miles yelling "pee pee, pee pee, pee!" So I get out of bed and ask Miles where the pee pee is and he leads me into the hallway and exclaims "here it is!" Then he turns to Baron and says "hi Boon." And then he's off. We eat breakfast together and as I place my feet up on his highchair he tells me "mama, foot, bye bye." Geez.

Each day I wait to feel worse. But I don't. The itching subsides and I can deal with my headache. I've had one since August. I'm just hoping it's chemo and not brain cancer. By the end of the week I realize that I'm not going to feel like death. At least not this week. My taste starts to change which is unfortunate and sad, but tolerable. Water tastes horrible and I'm supposed to drink several liters a day. But I force myself to drink and eat regardless of what it tastes like and I go on with life as usual (you know, my usual crazy, surreal life). Before I know it, it's Monday again.

Anne's back in town for round 2. We hug and briefly catch up. Then I'm whisked away to get weighed (a traumatic event that happens each week before my infusion). After losing 15 pounds in 2 weeks, I learn that I've just gained 2 pounds in the past week. Gained. 2. Pounds. Shoot. Me. Although Anne is asking me important questions about how I'm tolerating treatment and about the neuropathy in my feet and legs, I can't stop complaining about my weight gain. It's all I can think about. I'm pissed. And a little suicidal. Anne and my chemo date, Debbie, continuously remind me that I could pee and lose the weight immediately and that I need to remember that weight gain is temporary and trivial given the circumstances. But I already feel like a fat lesbian (no disrespect at all to my sisters who choose to wear their hair super short, but I didn't choose this look) and getting fatter is so rude. I know I had a baby 5 minutes ago but I should be losing weight each week, not gaining it. Shit. Worst mood ever.

To make matters worse, there's a new nurse at Tower who I see instead of Angela. She's nice but meek and can't answer any of my questions regarding my upcoming scans. She tells me that she's spoken to Dr. McAndrew and has set up my chemo schedule for 3 weeks of treatment and 1 week off. "What?" I ask her. "I just went through this last week with Angela. I'm having weekly treatment and am only having a week off if I can't handle it," I tell her. She says she's unaware of that but that I can "play it by ear," next week. I'm not amused and explain to her that I cannot and will not play chemo by ear, that I need to know what the hell is going on and why my schedule keeps changing and that unless someone can tell me what the research shows about taking breaks during chemo, I'm not going to consider it. Plus, would that mean that I'm to get chemo through June instead of through May? According to her, it would. I've already scheduled my surgery for early June and am mentally prepared to be finished with chemo in May, not June. I don't want to prolong this shit any longer than is absolutely necessary. She can't answer most of my questions so I ask her to please let me speak to Dr. McAndrew. I can tell that she has no idea what to do with me. Debbie sends me an email telling me how annoying she is. The joys of modern technology. The nurse seems nervous and says she'll go talk to Dr. McAndrew and will let me know what she says. When she returns she says that according to Dr. McAndrew, my prognosis doesn't change with the 3 week on 1 week off schedule but that there's not a lot of research yet. I am so frustrated I could cry but decide that I will deal with this next week when I am scheduled to see Dr. McAndrew. In the meantime, I tell the nurse that I am planning on getting chemo next week and to make sure the appointment is set up.

I have the same side effects after round 2 as I did after round 1. Headache, itchiness and exhaustion. But it's still tolerable. And I'm still waiting for things to get worse. They don't. And before I know it, it's Monday again.

Round 3 starts out slightly better than round 2 because I have lost the 2 pounds I gained last week. But I didn't lose anything else, hence the slightly better part. My nurse for the day accesses my port. He asks me if its ever had problems with blood return. I never watch the nurses as they prick and stick me but I ask him what he's talking about and if something is wrong. He assures me that nothing is wrong but that he's not getting any blood out of me. He asks me to move my head in various directions, breath in deeply, cough. I want to vomit this is so gross. Nothing is working and so I keep doing neck and breathing exercises. He flushes my port numerous times telling me that there must be a small piece of tissue that's clogging the port. I ask him to never tell me what's going on again because that is so disgusting and wonder if he's going to have to start over again. He calls over another nurse who gets blood on the first try. He must have loosened the lid of the jar for her. My blood is taken and Angela comes to discuss the results with me.

"Your counts are good for chemo, but very low for you," she tells me. That explains why I am brutally exhausted (just in case getting up every 3 hours with Baron and then running around after Miles isn't enough of a reason). "If they get any lower, you will not get treatment next week. You need to be prepared for that." Ugh. "They can't go down," I say. Angela tells me that in all of her years in this field she has never seen anyone handle the chemo I was previously on as well as me. "You were the topic of many conversations here," she tells me. "You are amazing and handled it so well. You are so determined and each week you surprised us. So I wouldn't be surprised if you will you body to produce more blood so you can get treatment next week." We shall see.

After the infusion begins, I go to see Dr. McAndrew. We look at pictures of Baron and Miles and she tells me how beautiful they are (of course! but they really, really are beautiful). She asks about breastfeeding and how I'm doing now. I tell her that I was able to breastfeed for 2 weeks and that it was really sad for me to stop (especially knowing that I'll never be able to do it again if I'm able to have more kids). And I tell her that I'm incredibly itchy the night of treatment (despite the huge dose of Benadryl I'm given in my infusion) and that I've basically had a headache since August. Other than the neuropathy (which is also in my knees and calves on occasion), my taste buds have changed and food isn't as delicious as it used to be, but I'm otherwise okay. She's impressed.

And then we discuss my treatment. She tells me that I can get weekly treatments if my body is up for it but that if I have to miss a round or two it will not affect my prognosis. She explains that most people can't handle 100% of the treatment when they've previously undergone a full cycle of chemo. "Your bone marrow has taken a really brutal hit already and it's suffering," she explains. "Most of the studies show that if patients receive 80%-90% of the treatment, they do just as well as people who receive 100%." She says that I won't receive treatment past May (meaning that we won't tack on any missed treatments at the end if there are any) so I can keep my surgery scheduled for early June. What a relief. I ask if this is the case because this second cycle of chemo is icing on the cake (if that euphemism isn't too ridiculous) while the first cycle is what's really important. Dr. McAndrew explains that in her opinion, this cycle is just as important as the first. The Taxol I'm receiving is a Taxane based chemo and while some research shows it's not as effective with BRCA positive breast cancer patients, BRCA positive ovarian cancer patients who receive Taxanes fare much better than their BRCA negative counterparts. And the Carboplatin I'm receiving is recently being used to treat triple negative tumors and the preliminary studies are very positive.

Best of all, she says that come August, I will have been cancer free for 1 year. 1 year! It's a great milestone even though I'll have been in treatment the entire time. The only benefit of having a triple negative tumor is that unlike other breast cancers, it doesn't come back after many years. If I make it 2 years without a recurrence, my chances of a recurrence plummet. And if I make it 5 years without a recurrence, it's almost a certainty that it's never coming back. And if I make it 8 years without a recurrence, it's never coming back. Ever. 8 years seems like an eternity, but I can't believe I'm not too far off from the 1 year mark.

I set my appointment for the following week knowing that I may only have a blood draw. But I will hope that I can plow through. I go home to my boys. Baron is sleeping but I pick him up and get into bed with him. He's delicious and doing so well. He gained 2 pounds his first month and looks like a real baby (instead of a chicken) with an 87 year old's face. We wake up to Miles yelling "hello!" and pounding on the door. He reaches his little arms up to me and says "mama, hug, bed." I pick him up to snuggle but Miles thinks our bed is a giant trampoline and starts bouncing about. He does sit down for a minute (informing me that "Miles, sitting.") but pushes me away and says "bye bye." "Do you want me to leave, Miles?" I ask him. "Ya, otay," he says. Nice. And before I know it, it's Monday again.

I jump onto the scale wondering if I'm going to be in a good mood or a bad mood during round 4. Bad mood. I've lost nothing. Nothing! What is going on? Am I going to retain the rest of my baby weight for the next 2 months? So rude. The good news however is that my counts are really good. My white blood count almost doubled since last week. Angela is amazed and tells me she wants to "bottle" me. "You did it," she says. I'm given the green light for treatment. My infusion is totally uneventful except for a fight I have with my insurance company regarding a $64,000 bill they sent me for "unknown Shimanovsky." It's for Baron but since the hospital billed them without his name (weird since they knew it the second he popped out) Blue Shield is pretending they don't know who he is and is denying the claim. It's kindof like when I practiced law and had to object to opposing counsels' written requests for information on the basis that the questions were too vague or ambiguous even though I knew exactly what information they wanted. If I actually get a bill from the hospital I'll deal with it then. For now, I tell the "health care advocate" (are you fucking kidding me?) from Blue Shield that she is absurd and that I'm not paying one cent of this bill. I leave round 4 with a headache and itchy as usual.

I go home to my boys and take Miles to the park that's a few blocks away from our house. He starts crying "no want it," as I try to get him into the stroller. "Car! Car!" he yells at me. "You want to go to the park in the car?" I ask him. "Otay, ya," he says. I guess he's a proper Angelino. We swing and play in sand, Miles begs for food from total strangers and I feel like a relatively normal Mom. He's obsessed with trucks and cars and points out taxis, buses, street cleaners and almost has a coronary when a cement mixer drives by. "Mixer, mixer!!" he shouts with glee. When I was in college I would get so upset when parents would tell me their child was "all boy," or "all girl." I honestly believed that there was no innate differences between men and women but rather we were taught to have gender "appropriate" preferences. Then I had Miles and I swear I didn't only make him wear blue and certainly never did anything to foster a love of motor vehicles. He has a wide range of toys, including dolls, and zillions of books. But...he's all boy and only wants to read about big rigs and diggers and finds the one patch of dirt wherever we are and rolls around in it. And I love it. And so we read his truck books before bed and the day is over. I snuggle with Boris and Baron as we go to sleep.

Before I know it, it will be Monday again.

Homeward Bound

Boris and I carry Baron upstairs and welcome him to his new home. Miles is in his highchair eating lunch. I'm so happy to see him. I sit down next to Miles with Baron in my arms and say, "Miles, this is Baron. He's your baby brother." A giant smile spread across Miles' face and he starts waving and blowing kisses to Baron. He repeatedly says, "Hi. Hi Boon (Baron's new nickname for life)." And he asks to hug and kiss Boon and says "baby brother." Amazing. After 5 minutes or so, he does say "bye bye Boon," and I have to tell Miles that Baron is here to stay. I tell him that we're all here to stay. No more running back and forth to the hospital. No more leaving the house and not returning for 7 hours. I get to enjoy the rest of the week at home with all 3 of my boys.

The next few days are familial bliss. Baron is an angel. An absolute angel. He rarely cries, sleeps for 3 or 4 hours at a time (we actually got a few 5 hour stretches out of him) and Miles likes him. At least for now. It's such a stark contrast to the first few months Miles' life. Miles was a madman and for several months would cry for 3-4 hours at a time. He was either asleep, eating, or awake and screaming his brains out. Boris and I lived in fear of the evening as that was when he cried the most and was the least consolable. There was a time when I was terrified of leaving the house with him lest he burst into one of his screaming fits. You couldn't have paid me to go anywhere with him alone. Maybe it's that we're second time parents now and less afraid, or maybe Baron really is an angel baby. But our house is actually calm. I'm not nervous or stressed. All 4 of us go the park and on walks. Baron can be sleeping peacefully and we can pick him up, put him in a car seat or sling and he stays asleep (what!?) or looks up at me and blinks and then goes back to sleep (what!? what!?). He's eating like a champ and gaining weight. It's heaven.

But hell is around the corner and it's preventing me from truly enjoying myself. Knowing that each amazing day with my family brings me one day closer to chemo is torturous. And now that I see how peaceful and happy I am with all of my boys at home (instead of the chaos I was expecting), I'm pissed. It just seems so unfair that I lost an entire week to the NICU. Of course I am thankful that Baron is fine. And I'm thankful that he's home without an infection. But I feel robbed of precious time that I can never get back. And I'm afraid of what lies ahead and wonder if I'll ever get to experience days like I've been having again.

NICU

I think the NICU is the worst place I've ever seen. Small plastic cribs neatly lined up in rows encase tiny babies hooked up to tubes and monitors. I cry as I'm wheeled up to the plastic crib encasing my tiny baby. As I peer into some of the other plastic cribs, my baby doesn't look quite so tiny. But the sight of my child with a tube down his throat and a nasal cannula taped down to his face is really too much for me to bear. He however doesn't seem nearly as upset as me. He looks almost content. I speak with Susie, Baron's nurse. She explains the blinking monitor hanging above Baron's bed. "The first line is his heart rate, the second is the oxygen level in his blood and the third is his breathing rate. He's doing great and breathing much easier. We've taken some blood to see if there's any sign of infection." I notice the tiny prick mark on Baron's foot and start crying again. I ask Susie if I can hold him. She tells me that she'll have the equipment around his crib rearranged so that I can pick him up without disconnecting any of the wires. "For now, we can open the top of his crib and you can touch him," she says. The top of the crib is slowly removed and I stroke Baron's little body and place my face close to his and tell him how much I love him and that I'm here with him. He has tiny chicken legs and feet. I know a 6 pound baby isn't all that small, but compared to Miles who was over 9 pounds, Baron seems so scrawny. All around me I can hear the sniffles and murmurs of new mothers aching to hold their babies. "Mommy is here, mommy loves you, hi sweetheart it's mommy," they whisper over the beeps and buzzes of the monitors while sticking their hands through cut out windows in the cribs. It's tragic.

I tell Boris I must have been a serial killer in my past life to deserve this. First cancer (which is enough in and of itself) but cancer while pregnant, then a baby in the NICU. Anything else? I ask him if I can jump out of the window of our room or if he could please, please shoot me. He can't. But seriously, I can't take it. I just can't. I want to die.

I'm only allowed to stay with Baron for an hour before I'm told the nurses are changing shifts and I have to leave until the night nurses arrive. "You can stay all day and all night except for 1.5 hours in the morning and early evening," Susie tells me. I weep as I'm wheeled back to my room. I tell the nurse that I'm keeping the wheelchair so that I can see Baron promptly at 8pm when I'm allowed back in the NICU. And at 8pm sharp Boris and I scrub our hands and push open the doors to the NICU and park ourselves outside of Baron's crib. I ask the night nurse if she can take the top of the crib off so that I can hold Baron. "He's connected to a lot of wires," she says. I want to respond, "no shit. I'm not blind," but I don't. I just stare at her. "Are you going to want to hold him every time you come here?" she asks. "Yes," I state. "I'm going to want to hold him every time I come to see him." And I do. I am so happy to hold him! He looks so uncomfortable with tape on his face and he repeatedly tries (and often succeeds) at pulling the nasal cannula out of his nose. I swear he gives me a look like "mom, what the hell?" "I don't know chicken," I whisper. "They're trying to get you well so you can get out of here. I'm going to stay with you until I pass out and then will come back the second I wake up in the morning."

Boris and I stay in the NICU until after midnight. I cry myself to sleep that night. I just can't believe this is happening. My 2 weeks of bliss. I only get a few hours of sleep before the nurse's assistant comes in to take my vitals. I can't understand why it's more important to take my temperature and blood pressure instead of letting me sleep. And why every few hours? I'm fine. Jesus. Plus, she kind of freaks me out and I make Boris stay in the room with me every time she enters. She is always chomping on her gum so loudly it's hard to hear anything else. But the next morning through her chomps she tells me that she hopes my son looks like me because I'm so pretty. Um...creepy? She tells me that several times. Then I think she asks me if I'm Christian, but that can't be right so I say "excuse me?" "Do you go to church?" she asks. For the love of God. I was right. "No I do not go to church," I curtly respond. Now that she thinks I'm a heathen she has nothing to say to me.

I enter the NICU at 5am sans wheelchair. The nurses seem impressed that I've hobbled over so soon after a c-section. And without narcotics. They keep asking me if I'm in pain. I probably am but everything is relative. After chemo, massive surgery isn't really so bad. Nothing is. I chuckle to myself as I tell them that I'm just uncomfortable. For as long as I can remember, whenever I would ask my mom if something hurt, she would respond "no, it's just uncomfortable." I never understood why she never seemed to think anything hurt until now. Baron's nurse tells us that he did great during the night. "He's breathing well, staying warm and his CBC was good." I'm overjoyed. I have to speak to the neonatologist, but think that surely he'll be out of the NICU in no time.

So I'm surprised when Dr. Trintou tells us that Baron's CBC was not good. "His band count was very high. Although the blood culture came back clear, he's going to need a full course of antibiotics," she informs us. Fuck. I ask how long the course is. "7 days," Dr. Trintou says. 7 days!? Please shoot me now. I start sobbing. I can barely speak through the sobs but manage to blurt out that they cannot keep him for 7 days because I start chemo in 14. Susie hugs me and wipes my tears with a tissue. One of the other nurses walks over and suggests that I be moved to the room closest to the NICU and that we try to get Baron off fluids and the nasal cannula as soon as possible so that he can room with me while I'm at the hospital.

Cancer is so prevalent that there's not a single person's life it hasn't touched. Each nurse or doctor I met at the hospital had a story to share with me about their experience with cancer. Everyone wanted to know about my experience and how I was doing. And they wanted to help me however they could even if that meant bending the rules a bit for me. And interestingly, they all wanted to discuss my hair. I think I've moved out of the military phase and now look like a Chia pet.

I will not go in to detail of all the exceptions that the unbelievable nurses and doctors in the NICU made for me as they undoubtedly violate all of the hospital's rules. I will say that I am beyond grateful to them and that I spent 3 blissful days and 2 blissful nights with Baron before I was kicked out of the hospital. Baron slept on me for 72 hours straight and I nursed around the clock (another sad irony to my situation is that Baron, like Miles, latched on immediately and breastfeeding was really easy for us). I did have to give him bottles each time he ate because we were under strict instruction to feed him a certain amount of milk. It was actually incredibly stressful and I often felt as if we were being forced to force feed Baron. To keep him off fluids, he had to eat at least 30 cc's of milk. For a 6 pound, 2 day old, this seemed like an outrageous amount of food to me, but I wanted him with me. I hated trying to get him to take more from the bottle when he obviously didn't want it. I tried to get Boris to throw any left over milk away so the nurses wouldn't know when he didn't finish the requisite amount, but he refused. Boris didn't want to cross the very same people who were going out of their way to help and accommodate us. And of course...he wanted Baron to be okay. Baron often preferred to use my boob as a pillow, but I was so happy to have the snuggle time with him that I would have given up the breastfeeding all together.

I wish there was some way to blend motherhood and science and that I didn't have choose. It's one of the tragedies of the NICU. The doctors and nurses save so many little lives with science and medicine. For the truly tiny (and early), everything is monitored and controlled. There are specific "touch times" when mothers can hold or touch their babies, but the rest of the time the babies have to be in the climate controlled cribs. I heard a devastating conversation between a new mother and the nurse caring for her 4 pound twin boys born at 34 weeks in which the mother was begging the nurse to hold her babies "skin-to-skin" as she had read so much about how touch not only promotes bonding, but growth. The nurse was explaining why the babies had to be in their cribs except during "touch time." And even mothers of larger babies who could feasibly breastfeed often aren't able to successfully do so because they can't sleep in the NICU and miss too many feedings. Their milk supply dwindles and the babies won't latch on to the breast. I realize that having their babies come home as soon as possible is the most important thing, but it's all just so sad.

Another tragedy of the NICU, in my environmentally friendly and non-toxic opinion is that the NICU is well...highly toxic. For some reason I wasn't as bothered by the frequent use of xray machines as I was by watching toxic cleaning products sprayed all over the place. I realize that cleanliness is godliness at a hospital and that ensuring as sterile an environment as possible is crucial for premature babies but there are alternatives to cleaning products with harmful and harsh chemicals. One evening when Baron was rooming with us, his nurse came to take him to the NICU for a blood test. When he returned, I commented to Boris that he smelled like perfume. Boris thought the nurse must have had a lot of perfume on and it rubbed off on Baron. I later found out that they had given Baron a bath and used (gasp!) Johnson and Johnson shampoo. From then on, I instructed each nurse who cared for Baron that he was not to have any baths (I mean he's a newborn, how dirty do they think he's getting?) and they were not to use any soap, shampoo or other products on him. Since the beginning of his little couldn't have been more toxic (chemo and antibiotics - please, please shoot me), sparing him sulfates, "fragrance," and a paraben was the least I could do.

As happy as I was to have Baron in my arms 24 hours a day, I missed Miles tremendously. Miles has had like 3 colds in his entire life so of course he gets his 4th the day I give birth to Baron. I knew that Miles couldn't meet Baron while getting over a cold, but on day 4 of my hospital stay, I tell Boris that I might die if I don't see Miles. Boris brings Miles to the waiting room of the maternity ward. I had envisioned him running into my arms yelling "mama!" I know he's not the snuggliest boy, but surely he must be beside himself not seeing me for 4 days. Okay, so maybe not beside himself, but a little sad? Not so much. Miles coolly saunters over to me (Boris dressed him in a rock star outfit complete with designer jeans, a Fender t-shirt and L.A.M.B. tennis shoes), waives and says "hi, mama." Then he proceeds to wander around the floor pointing out doors, trucks, trees, windows, babies and people. He now calls all adults "man," so as each adult walked past us, Miles would yell "hi, man!" or "a man!" When he wants something he says "have it," and he spent a long time pointing to the table lamps demanding to "have it." Then one of the NICU nurses walked by and said hello to Miles. He was apparently quite taken with her, asked her to pick him up, then murmured her name the rest of the visit. I got a few hugs from him when I fed him ice cream, but without the ice cream, he could have cared less that I was there. So sad.

The next day was day 5 at the hospital and thanks to my insurance, my time was up. Dr. Ottavi made a few phone calls to the powers at be at the hospital to see if I could stay longer. She said that moms used to be able to stay at the hospital when their babies weren't discharged at the same time. The hospital basically provides a room but no care (no medical services or food). The nurse in charge of the floor comes to tell me that she can't let me stay. She says that if she makes an exception for me, she'll have to make an exception for all of the NICU moms. "I'm not going to tell any of them," I say. "So unless you are, that shouldn't be a problem. And I am an exception because as far as I know, none of the NICU moms have cancer and won't be starting chemo next week." Silence. "Well we're also full," she says. I couldn't really argue with that one, so that was that.

Boris and I spent the next 2 days and nights running back and forth between Miles and Baron. I was at the hospital between 7 and 8 in the morning so I could feed Baron and usually stayed until 4pm, at which point my parents would come to the hospital to hold him (I wanted him held as much as humanly possible) and I'd go home to play with Miles, give him dinner and put him to bed. Then it was back to the hospital until close to midnight if we didn't pass out sooner. It was agony. Having your heart split in two is brutal and guilt racking and a total nightmare. And what made it worse was the floor was not full. Far from it. Each night as Boris and I hobbled down the hallway we passed empty room after empty room.

But 2 hellish days and nights later, Baron gets the okay to come home. I hug the nurses who cared for both of us. Boris brings bagels. There's nothing like food to thank people. "You are so strong," Susie says as she loads up our bag with wipes and diapers. We promise to send updates of Baron and then are free to leave with our son. And the nightmare is over.

Milton Baron

My grandfather, Milton Baron, was one of the best men I've ever known.

He was generous, smart, kind and compassionate. And he was a mensch. It sounds trite, but it's true.

He ate puffed wheat cereal with milk lovingly warmed by grandmother every morning. The rest of the day he munched on raw vegetables, fish and salads with no dressing. So it was shocking that he succumbed to pancreatic cancer at the young old age of 70. I'm not sure why I was surprised since my mom was (is) one of the healthiest women I know and she too had cancer. I was pretty healthy, too. I digress. When my grandfather was diagnosed, he knew that his cancer was a death sentence. But he was determined to fight. He decided to have a risky surgery which only 5% of patients survive after 5 years in the hopes of prolonging his life. I remember sitting in the hospital with him after his surgery and listening to him tell my grandmother that his quality of life wasn't going to be good anymore. Quality of life, family and his work were everything to him. My grandfather practiced medicine until his illness required him to stop. He served a lower income population that desperately needed his services and he loved his work and patients. When he realized that he would no longer be able to practice, he quietly ensured that his wife and children were taken care of, and died.

He was the first and only man to tell me that I could have "whatever my little heart desired," (I'm still trying to get Boris on board with that one). And he was serious. So was my grandmother. If my parents wouldn't buy me something I wanted, my grandparents would. As a child I used to have weekly sleepovers at my grandparents' house. My grandfather used to tuck me in to bed at night and tell me a bedtime story. It was always the same. A recount of the day and night's activities. He and my grandmother took me on my first international trip: Israel and London when I was 13. On the beach in Tel Aviv, he wore black dress socks and dress shoes. He snored like a train. He never got mad. His temperament was even keeled and calm. Always. Upon meeting Boris, my family immediately likened him to my grandfather. I wish Boris could have met him to know what a compliment that is.

My grandfather was an avid gardener and grew stunning orchids and cymbidiums. When he gardened he looked homeless. His clothes were dirt stained and full of holes. My grandmother was mortified. He could have cared less. He never wanted to offend people. One day he was gardening and needed cardboard boxes. He went rummaging through a garbage can of a local grocery store that my grandmother regularly shopped at. One of the employees apparently thought he was homeless and gave him a few dollars. Much to my grandmother's horror, rather than embarrass her and tell her that he was a doctor who lived up the street in a giant house on Rodeo Dr., he humbly said "thank you."

He was also incredibly open minded and wanted to understand the passions of his family. When I was in the 11th grade, I took my first Women's Studies class. I was enthralled and idealistic and wanted to change the world. I went on to major in Women's Studies in college. The more I learned, the more pissed off I became. Sexism was (is) so pervasive in every aspect of our culture. I was angry and combative a good majority of the time. Particularly when it came to religion. Women's role in the bible horrified me as did the way they were treated in most devout homes. I hated that God was (is) always referred to as a man (although quite frankly I think the world is so fucked up that if there is a God, he's a he for sure). Raised as an orthodox Jew, my grandfather's commitment to Judaism and Israel were vital to him. We often battled about the role of women in the bible and their role in Jewish life. I refused to go to temple with my family during the High Holidays which was devastating to my grandfather. I remember him telling me that Women's Studies was becoming my religion. But even though he was hurt and angry, he still wanted to understand me. He read my college thesis ("Pseudofeminism in Advertising") and came to discuss it with me. "I feel like I understand you much better now," he told me before he died. And he told me how proud he was of me.

Before Boris and I got married we discussed (or rather fought about) whether I would take his last name. Initially I told him I'd change my name, but I wanted him to make his middle name my maiden name. It only seemed fair that we should take each other's names. He was hesitant. He said that he didn't expect me to change my last name, but thought it would be sad that when we had kids, they would all have his name and I wouldn't. I was shocked and responded that I didn't understand why he thought the kids would get his last name when they were coming out of my body. "That's just the way it works," Boris said. I reminded him that we used to have slaves and women couldn't vote and that's just the way it worked, but it didn't make it okay. And then my insanely smart husband actually said "I'm the man and the kids will have my last name or I'm not having kids." Jesus. That now comes in handy and I frequently remind him that he's the man and thus the breadwinner and I'm going to stay home with the kids and be a homemaker (with a nanny and housekeeper). He usually replies that that entails me having dinner on the table for him when he gets home from work and being subservient. Hilarious. We ended up agreeing that I would take his last name, we would both make my maiden name our middle names, and any children we had would also have my maiden name as their middle names. And, since I do not believe that childbearing is a partnership, I would get to choose our children's' names and he'd retain veto power if he really, really hated it.

When I became pregnant with Miles, I knew immediately that I wanted to name him after my grandfather. Before settling on Miles, Boris and I briefly discussed naming him Baron. I loved it. Boris wasn't sure. But we both loved Miles so we really didn't give much thought to other names. When I became pregnant with MWFS and was diagnosed with cancer, I wanted his name to mean miracle or warrior. The options for miracle were grim. Milagro, Chinua, Breindel...not so much. And then one day I looked up the meaning of Baron on several websites. "Young warrior," and "warrior" was its most frequent meaning. Done. Done. Done. I could once again honor my grandfather. And I could honor another woman warrior - my mom since Baron is her maiden name. And even though Boris wasn't smitten with the name, it grew on him throughout my pregnancy. And now that Baron is here with us, we couldn't imagine him with any other name.

I wish that my grandfather could have met Boris. I wish he could have seen me mellow out and not be angry all the time. I wish he could have seen me be a mother. I wish he could have enjoyed his great grandchildren. But I believe that he knows I am happy and I couldn't think of a better way to honor him than thinking of him every time I look at my beautiful boys. Miles and Baron. In honor of Milton Baron.