Reality Bites (and leaves a scar)

I realize I haven't written for months, and the truth is, I wasn't sure how much of the rest of my life should be in a blog about breast cancer.  But I read back a bit and realized that when I've felt my worst, this blog made me feel better.  (Some of the credit goes to the therapist, but she can't be there exactly when I need to talk, like at 12:51 in the morning on a Wednesday in late April.)

Over the summer, Rod and I (and Ari and his girlfriend Liz) traveled to Eastern Europe (Poland, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary) with a congregational trip to visit  many places I had only learned about in religious school.  It was almost unbearable at some moments, standing where Jews were shot in Auschwitz, seeing graves upon graves upon graves of men, women and children who were guilty of nothing but being the "wrong" kind of people.  There were moments of beauty in Prague, and Krakow, and the fact that these experiences were shared with people we knew and felt were like family made them possible, for me, anyway.  It was the European heat wave and we hurried from shade to shade to water stop to bathroom.  But I wouldn't have missed it.  And I don't think I need to do it again.

I've been to the oncologist (bloodwork good=happy oncologist=good visit) and I had another surgery on November 18.  (If you had read the posts surrounding the surgery when the implants were switched out, you knew this was coming.  It came. It went. I lived.)  The first-look results were pretty awesome.  But as usual, the wait of at least six months to see if the transplanted fat "survives" have been strewn with intense mirror-gazing and alas, I see a dent or two these days, which is not a good sign.

Before the surgery I went to the URJ Biennial in Orlando, which was pretty awesome.  Left on my own for a lot of the time, I had a chance to introduce myself to people I was previously too in awe of to actually speak to.  I learned a lot!  And I had a little free time to play a game I'm currently still involved in, called Ingress.  It requires me to leave the house and walk; to visit new places.  Since I started playing I've found at least four new parks within 15 minutes of my house.  It's kind of like geocaching in that it uses your phone's GPS, but without actual physical "things" to find.

At any rate, a few weeks after my return from Orlando, I learned that my friend (who has been the hero of many of my misadventures in breast cancer) and her husband  (who has been instrumental in the building of my "hobby" into a beloved career,) along with their two sons, would be leaving our neighborhood, for him to take a position in Manhattan.

I do not recall being so devastated since my diagnosis.  It seems ridiculous to compare a friend relocating to a train ride away to a potentially fatal illness, right?

Let me restate that.  It must seem ridiculous to everyone.  And if I could take a step back, I might see it that way, too.  Perhaps my world is smaller than everyone else's, which makes this feel just so overwhelming, even after four months of trying to absorb/deny/understand/accept the facts.  Perhaps I haven't taken enough credit for my own growth. Perhaps I was content with the happiness of having a "best" friend - a relationship I did not experience until my adulthood - and did not consider the importance of that in my life.  (There is no "perhaps" about that last one.  I'm pretty sure there was no way in hell I had considered the importance.  Otherwise, wouldn't I be more balanced about the whole thing?)

I feel ... wounded.  Mournful.  And some other words that are less sad and more angry.  I know they are a complete overreaction to the circumstances.  People should get to have jobs where their passion takes them.  Friends can't always be just around the corner.  But knowing and feeling do not always play together nicely.  Some days they're just plain 'ole crappy to each other.

Odd fact: It's funny (not funny haha, funny weird) that when I hurt emotionally, parts of my body that no longer exist hurt, too.  The fact that they were located near my heart is not ironic; it feels appropriate, somehow.

Dr. D'Amico, when last seen, was hot on the trail of tattoos again.  But he agreed to wait until the scars healed.  These new ones are going to take a while longer.

Every Birthday....

..is also an anniversary.  Because my surgery was on June 28 and my birthday is June 27, I can't help but remember the surgery that "started it all" every time I celebrate a birthday.  It's rather convenient, actually.  Every year that I say to myself "Wow, I made it!  Let's do it again!" I'm reminded just what got me to this day, or as they say in a Hebrew prayer "...shehecheyanu, v'kiy'manu, v'higianu, laz'man hazeh"  (or, roughly, for keeping us alive and allowing us to get to today.)

So, yesterday was June 28 - FIVE YEARS from my blog entry titled "Separating the Saucer Sections."  Good grief, how clever was I at 5 a.m. back then? 

Saturday I turned 60.  Years ago, people with breast cancer didn't get to celebrate a 60th birthday.  Today, some do and some don't, but more do, for sure.  I can't speak for everyone in the latter group but speaking for myself, I'm grateful.

Rod gifted me with a hammock which arrived on June 22, prompting several Facebook posts that started with "A View from the Hammock." Here's the first one:

For my actual birthday, I went to services in the morning, then out to dinner with my favorite dessert, zabaglione, made tableside.

Like I said, grateful.

30 Days Post

May 7 - 30 days post-surgery.  Time to check in and update.  

So after that first appointment, Elyssa took me home and I set myself up once more in "recovery mode:" Plenty of fluids, 2 phones, iPad, bottles of meds, all on a tray on the bed so I wouldn't have to reach backwards.  (Rod's idea.)  During the day the tray sits on the bed, and at night it moves to a "tv tray" table placed precisely so I can reach it AND still swing my legs around to get to the bathroom.  Whew.

Not knowing that I was going to have drains (ahem) I had failed to acquire a new fanny pack to hold them in, so on to Amazon and they (2 for just in case I need one for the shower) arrived by Saturday.  So at least now I didn't have to always pin them to my clothes. I try to be the "queen" of long-range planning.

For my next appointment, on the 15th, we actually saw the doctor and he (once again) admired his work.  (Thanks to Elyssa for again driving and taking notes!)  He and Yui (his nurse) said my drain numbers (now tidily lined up on a sweet Levenger note card instead of scrawled on the photocopy sheet from the hospital - I have my standards) were good, but not great.  They told me to take it easy and call on Monday, when they felt certain a drain would come out.  I believe what I heard (and perhaps not, in retrospect, what they said) is "call first thing Monday and you can come on over and we'll take at least one out."  We are also told (and this I'm certain about) that the left drain can only stay in for 2 weeks, max.  Something after foreign body, infection, blah, blah.  (And, true to his nature, Doctor D'Amico slipped in a snarky remark about that being the side where the radiation was.  Dude!  Give it a rest!  A decision I made in 2006 with what information I had can NOT be undone at this point.)

It is one loooooong weekend.  I empty the drains twice a day and hold the measuring cups up to the light.  The urge to fib (just a little) is strong, since the lower the numbers, the faster the drains are removed.  But the urge to do the right thing is stronger, and I faithfully record numbers that are getting dramatically lower on the right while staying unsurprisingly higher on the left.

On Monday I have arranged my ENTIRE day around leaving for Englewood at 10:05, right after I have successfully called in the near-perfect numbers (on the right, at least.)  Quick-ish trip to doctor's office, Yui takes out a drain (maybe 2? No, probably not) and back home again in time to get ready for work and my 1:30 & 2:30 meetings, then school. So the plan is to stay in sweats, etc. until I get home.

Call at 10, get the answering service.  Call at 10:15, get the service.  Call at 10:30, get the service and ask them (nicely) what the HELL is going on over there that they are not picking up the phone after I was PROMISED I could come in "first thing."  They say they'll pass along the message but at this point, I call myself again and reach the office, who says that Yui is in surgery with the doctor, and she'll get back to me.  It is useless for me to explain that I needed 30 minutes' notice to drive over, and did I mention?  It's pouring rain outside.  (You know the saying "Man plans and God laughs?  God was doubled over and peeing in his/her pants by now, I'm sure.)

This poor woman who is taking my calls and probably doesn't deserve the silent verbal pounding I am giving her lets me know, on my (3d? 4th?) call that Yui won't be out of surgery until after noon and Yui passed along the message to ask if at least one of the drains is at 25 or lower?  Yes, dammit.  By this time, my carefully crafted plan for the day in shards around my feet, I am so disappointed that I am crying.  (Did I say that in the scheme of life this is NOT THAT IMPORTANT?  It isn't.  But it sure was then.)

Finally she tells me I can come at 1 p.m. so I throw all my work clothes into a bag, basically pack up for my day into and through Kadimah, which ends at 8:30, and in a couple of trips (no over-working, remember) through the rain, to the car.  I'm leaving early so I can be there, lurking in the waiting room, just as soon as Yui can see me.

As I back the van out of the driveway, I simultaneously realize that a)this is the first time I've driven in 2 weeks and b)the (other) drains, the ones that keep water from collecting around the sunroof and normally channel the water off the back of the roof, are clogged.  So, it is basically raining IN the car as well, but only on the driver's side.  (Really? Come on!)  My left leg is just getting soaked after the water bounces off the steering wheel and on the right the water is dripping right onto the little box we keep in the car for all the extra charging cables.  Meanwhile I am getting onto the highway, which I do not like in normal conditions.  So here we are, cranky, wet, frustrated, tired (always tired) and secretly worried I am going to do all this and get there and she won't take a drain out.  As they say, it would be "all for naught."

After rearranging some stuff with my right hand to protect the electronics, I finally get up to what we could jokingly call highway speed (fog, driving rain, normally horrible fellow drivers even worse) and focus on just getting there.  Arrive at 12:40 and presto!  Yui comes out and takes me in, removes a drain, and verifies that I will have to come on Wednesday to get the left one removed no matter what the numbers are.

By this time, I have surgically removed from my fanny pack the two front pockets, leaving behind a slim pocket just big enough to hold the left drain, so the whole affair can fit "attractively" under a loose top (thank you, Chico's).  I get to use this new setup for not even two days, but any positive change is good.

Wednesday, April 22.  I am seated promptly in the waiting room at 1 for a 1:30 appointment.  I get right in, Yui takes out the left drain, removes some stitches, and says "I'm still not happy with that number (the left drain is "stuck" at 35) so you are going to have to be really careful that the number doesn't go higher now that the drain is out."  Hey, Yui, I love you to pieces, but without the drains and measuring their output, how am I supposed to know if the numbers are getting higher?  She answers my unasked question:  "So, we're going to have to immobilize your left arm - go and get a sling.  You need to wear it for 2 weeks, and come back in a month." (May 27 is the next appointment.)

Okay, so nobody trusts me to take it easy.  Good call.  I head to the drug store, buy one sling of the huge selection (2) that they have (try to get the lightest-weight one) and they patiently work with me to size it and figure out how to use all the velcro to fold bits up and make it work for me.  (Note here that the lovely people at the drug store have never met someone who needed a sling who didn't have a broken hand/arm.) Knowing that everyone will now see a sling and produce a whole new raft of questions, I post the following on Facebook:
"If you see me in a sling, please know:
I'm ok and nothing is broken.
Both drains are out, but qualified surgical professionals don't (with good reason) trust me not to use my left arm for reaching, lifting, and other activities that will harm the nice work they did.

So now they made me wear a sling. It's blue."

With all the nonsense I've been through in my life, I've NEVER had a sling.  It was quite comforting, for a while.  Did its job, and I was secure in the knowledge I wasn't going to overdo because I just couldn't.  That lasted about a 1/2 hour.  Then I realized I've NEVER had a sling.  How do I cut my food? Pull jeans down/up?  Drive?  (Ok, so it turns out I drove exclusively with my right hand for 2 weeks, but that's another questionable decision and it's done now.)  Call to Yui begins with "I feel like an idiot but......."  Turns out I don't have to wear it 24/7 - but I do my best.

Now it's Thursday, May 7.  I started wearing the sling on Wednesday,  April 22 in the afternoon.  So by anyone's calendar it's been 2 weeks. Some people have Cinco de Mayo, some have May the Fourth Be with You.  I have "Fling the Sling Thursday."  I don't think it will catch on and guess what?  I don't care.

Oh oh.  I think I feel fluid building up!  (Just kidding.  I have no idea if fluid did/did not build up more or less in the last two weeks.  And the doctor doesn't want to see me again for another 2 weeks, so methinks he was just being very protective of his work.)  After five years, if he asked me to wear the sling for another 2 weeks, you know I would.  I'd bitch about it, but I would.

Follow up #1

Accompanied (and chauffeured) by ace amazing friend Elyssa, I went for my first post-surgery follow up appointment.  We got in early and were seen in record time.  Today Dr. D's nurse took care of everything, and it was such a lovely visit. I didn't miss the witty verbal sparring that usually comes with time spent with this very smart, talented guy.  Frankly, I had questions, I was kind of physically "pfft" and I just wanted to feel better.  I know I'm not a billion years older than when I had my last surgery, but it seems a little tougher than it used to be.

However: I can now wear camisoles with the elastic support instead of the tight-banded bra.  I can take a shower and soften up the bandages until they fall off. I can wash my hair and wear deodorant! (Doesn't seem like much until you're told you can't do it.) I can sleep, not quite on my side, but what they call "3/4" which I know how to do, requires lots of pillows, and is going to take a load off my back that I've been sleeping (or rather not sleeping) flat on with no movement for the last couple of nights.

I have to continue the every 6 hours valium, I CANNOT get back to my beloved Advil for at least until the drains come out (1-2 weeks) and I can't drive until absolutely all the anesthesia is gone for good, so at least until Monday. I've been told in no uncertain terms that the less activity I do,  the less fluid I'll produce, and the less fluid, the sooner the drains go. (I have to produce less than 30 or 25 ml on each side in a day in order to be free of the annoying but familiar tethers.) No raising my arms higher than the top of my head, no picking up from the floor, no lifting, cooking, etc.  This is by far the most limited in movement I think I've ever been told to be, post surgery.  Remember how I said it feels tougher this time? Turns out it's not me, it's the kind of surgery I had. I am not a billion years older. Woohoo!

But apparently these new snazzy implants are going too be worth it, and he took out all the hardened scar tissue that had formed around the necrotic fat cells. (After years of watching "Bones" and other medical dramas, " necrotic fat" is a part of my everyday vocabulary, isn't that just delightful?)

I will say that I took a quick peek while Yue (the nurse) was un-mummifying me (muttering to herself something about why did they use SO MUCH gauze) and things look a bit more encouraging. Maybe I'll be able to see myself as a "girl" again someday for real! (Okay, even I heard that and I sound like Pinocchio.) But you get my drift.

Seriously, Dude?

As the anesthesia wears off (I'm drinking like crazy because a) you're supposed to and b) you get rid of anesthesia faster via visits to the bathroom) I'm remembering some of what what Dr D'Amico said in Pre-op.   Note that there was no conversation in Post-op.  He didn't come out to talk to Rod either, which is a first.  I know he had a procedure right after me, so maybe that was it.

But it's okay, since I'll see him on Thursday. Undoubtedly we will get the post game then.  And he did put my own sports bra on me in surgery (Huzzah!) instead of the plastic and Velcro surgical bra monster so by the time we get to Thursday afternoon I won't be trying to climb out of my own skin.)

In Pre-op he tossed a couple of curve balls at me.  (One wasn't technically at ME; it was to a nurse: "we will need blah, blah, blah, blah, TWO DRAINS, blah, blah.".

Yes folks, DRAINS, again.  I reacted as you, dear reader, would expect, and I daresay, encourage.  "Drains? Noooooo......."

His (IMHO) casual response was that of course new implants need drains. I told the nurse I had almost broken the record for length of time with drains, and he said that this time would probably only be 1 week "or until the fluid is down." I know what that means; it means as long as it takes. I'll (having thought it over more than 12 hours later) concede based on his previous results.  And after even more thought, realized that the only times I had drains were when implants were put in.

As he drew on me with a purple Sharpie he pitched again, another quick casual one. "And when these settle in for good we'll move a little fat from here (pats general direction of my abdomen) up to fill in spots."

I swing: "B-b-but I thought these new ones are shaped to fill in higher up?" And miss:

"You don't want them too high up, right?" Right. (Again)

But, like always, the long game is what's important.  And thanks to 3 kids, a husband, school parents, teachers, and students, I have cultivated a little patience. Besides, Amazon Prime is right there for me when it wears thin :)

Better Living Through Chemistry - and Chocolate Milkshakes

I'm home and in some "discomfort."  But it's mostly soreness in the muscles I'm sure the surgeon was shoving around while I was out and couldn't whine at him.  My throat (from the tube) "hurts more, actually.  But on the hospital's cute little pictograph of 1 to 10, 10 being what happened on Saturday when I jammed my pinky toe into the doorway of Rod's car while climbing out to get a pedicure (in flip flops, no less) and badly bruising my foot in the place where I broke it over 20 years ago, and 3 being now, after 1/4 of an oxycodone and a Valium.....

God bless Rod and the chocolate milkshake he stopped for on the way home.  And Ari who unpacked my stuff and brought me a strawberry Activia. (Gotta counterbalance that Oxy, and besides it says to take with food.  Milkshake is food, yes?  Of course, yes.)

But typing is a little dicey, what with the pain/meds and all, so suffice it to say I'm home and there's no place like it.  Except maybe Hawaii.  Hawaii is REALLY nice.

Ready or Not...

Passover was great, and somehow here I am, 5 hours until no more food/drink.  I'm just a little stymied by everything, and nothing.  My office at work is tidy, I've laid out all my "hospital clothes" and washed every dirty dish, including the giant matzah ball soup pot.  And with that, Passover cleanup is over.  There are stacks of clean things all over that need to go back to their various cupboards and hiding places until the next "occasion" and I waver between wanting to put them all back and wanting to direct my recovery minions to put them back when I get home from the hospital.

When I get home from the hospital.  When I get home from the hospital.  When I get home from the hospital.  I'm starting to think like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory.  Knock Knock Knock.  Everything, three times.  What's the magic formula that will give me the confidence to not worry about tomorrow?

No crystal ball, no magic formula, no ability to knock, knock, knock on the door of every single one of tomorrow's medical team and tell them to get a REALLY good night's sleep, for goodness sake.

I can make sure my own personal support system, Rod, gets a decent night's sleep.  The rest is just going to happen whether I'm ready or not.  Who's ever ready for surgery, anyway?

1818

1,818 days.  That is how long it has been since I was diagnosed with breast cancer a second time, and how long the road over, under, around, and through reconstruction and treatment has been.  As of April 9, I will be able to say that the cancer has not recurred for five years, which is something of a custom among people who cannot medically call themselves "cancer-free."

183 days - that's how long it's been since I have written in this blog.  So, you may ask, what prompts this entry?  

Well, last fall I met with Dr. D'Amico and had the surprising conversation about new implants.  And there we left it.  In the intervening months, our health insurance has moved from United HealthCare (who I knew how to work with by now) to Cigna (who I definitely had NO idea how to work with.)  So last winter Marie (Dr. D'Amico's "in-charge" off all things financial) told me that we couldn't do anything until we had Cigna officially and I could get her an ID card, which was January 1.  Promptly after New Year's I faxed a copy of the card over and called the office. 

Since I had met again with him in October, and had decided to go ahead if the (new) insurance company would cover the surgery, all that was left was telephone calls.  Marie called and then the nurse called, and I told them all the times I could NOT have surgery and be incapacitated or otherwise hampered by recovery dos and don'ts (BHSS retreat, RAC trip, Passover seder preparation) and the date was set - April 7, 2015.  It seemed like FOREVER until April.

But a couple of weeks ago the paperwork came in the mail - all the signatures, witness signatures, dates, and initials, plus an appointment for a pre-surgical physical and bloodwork.  Done, done, done.  And now it's April 1 and last night was my last Advil and tomorrow is my first special washing with the antibacterial soap and now it's REALLYREALLYREALLY real.

I've got my Passover supplies and my timeline spreadsheet and that, at least, is under control until it isn't.  The sponge cake could fall, the chopped liver could be "too" something or "not enough" something, the matzah balls could sink...and I wish I could turn off the other worries just for a couple of days.  Just to get my head into the Passover prep game, get revved up about enjoying the evening with my family, and then enjoying the second seder with my family and my friends at BHSS.

I did not take this decision lightly.  Much of the fat that was transplanted to help with the hollows from the mastectomy has, sadly, died, and instead of melting away and leaving, it has surrounded itself with scar tissue.  These are lumps that, oddly enough, are painful.  (Ironic, isn't it?  Completely numb in the reconstruction area except the stupid dead fat thingies.)  At any rate, this tissue is called "encapsulated" and some of the surgery is called a capsulectomy for that reason.  There is also an "implant exchange" (mentioned in an earlier post) and a "flap revision" which I don't know what that is but I'm guessing it has something to do with adjusting everything so it looks all even and (someday) attractive and natural.

Today I heard myself telling someone that it was going to be a good thing, and since the insurance was covering it, not too bad in the expense department, although our new deductible and out-of-pocket are bigger than they used to be.  Am I crazy?  Am I risking my life for a "bargain?"  Is this a bad decision?

I don't think so.  I think that anesthesia is safe, and I think I haven't had a problem with it in all the years I've been having surgeries.  I think that the lumps hurt, and I think I can see them in photos where I'm wearing clothing that is not even that "revealing."  I think the doctor is pretty damn good at his job.  But what do I know?  I know it is scary anyway.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...October

Since tomorrow is October 1, and officially the start of "breast cancer awareness month," it seemed an appropriate opportunity to get in a little bitching and moaning (just a little.)

Facebook is full of uplifting breast cancer stories, research news, and the like - and most of the time I find it interesting/reassuring/informative/entertaining.  But the latest "news" story to make the rounds, and Facebook, is that research is showing that a mastectomy may not necessarily prolong the life of a breast cancer patient any more than a lumpectomy would have.  And the rate of mastectomies is rising in young people, fueled, we are told, by Angelina Jolie's preemptive surgery when she learned she had "THE" gene.

Having had a lumpectomy and then a mastectomy (quick history: diagnosed in 2005 with less aggressive form, lumpectomy & radiation, diagnosed 2008 with LCIS "marker" pre-cancer, diagnosed 2010 invasive on other side, ability to "save" breast uncertain) I can say that all of these stories should come with a giant neon sign that says "THIS MIGHT NOT APPLY TO YOU" and maybe a couple of Ativans with a margarita chaser.

I so don't appreciate a study telling me that the surgery and all the accompanying angst, therapy, reconstructions (I think I'm up to 5 now,) body image nonsense (in that it doesn't make sense that a person is able to literally cut out the cancer and be luckier than a lot of other people who are far sicker but still doesn't feel good about herself - it should make sense, but it doesn't; hence, nonsense) that I did BECAUSE I thought it would help, says that I made the wrong decision.

At any rate, that's how I hear it.  I hear "you silly woman, you should have really, really waited and made absolutely sure before you did this and now you can't undo it."  And almost 5 years later, I still doubt myself.  Looking back, it feels like I had to make a decision, and not take too long about it.  After all, the big thing about cancer is that it grows, and faster than normal cells.  So every day you take to decide might be another day the cancer gets to visit more exotic places in you, like your lungs ("so much fresh air"!) or your liver ("come luxuriate in the hot bile spa!")

How the hell do you know?  You don't.  You don't ever, ever know because every single one of us is different.  We eat differently, we exercise differently, our relationships are different, we stress (or don't) differently.  There are so many factors that it would be impossible to know, FOR SURE, if what I did on June 28, 2010 prolonged my life.  That stupid jerk cancer does not discriminate between people with a "healthy" lifestyle and those who like pasta, and chocolate, and bacon.

Every time I think I've handled the "hardest" part of all this (the decision? the extra surgeries? the "sleep aids?" the side effects every day I take a pill, which will be another 8 years, at least?) I find something else that is going to be harder.  I don't live in a bubble and I don't intend to sever ties with the world of social networking, or cancel my newspaper subscription, or stop watching television.  I'm the only one I have to defend my decision to.   And I have to get comfortable with it. And I don't want that to take 5 more years.

Trying to think like a SURVIVOR is hard work.

Facebook 5-Day Gratitude Challenge

Since a friend had "tagged" me to do one of those gratitude challenges which asks you to list 3 things you're grateful for each day for 5 days, I decided just this once to do it.  But I broke the rules, a little, since I didn't "tag" more people to take the challenge.  Gradually, I become more and more intrigued by the idea that thinking really hard about what I was grateful for, beyond typical things like "I'm grateful I slept until my alarm went off" or "I'm grateful  that my gas tank was not actually empty as I rolled in on fumes to the gas station" reinforced the idea that all in all, there's a lot to be thankful for.

So, reprinted here, with a few edits, is my answer to the 5 day gratitude Facebook challenge:

As much as I'm not a big "get tagged and do something" kind of person, thank you to Lisa Lamster for getting me to post 3 things I'm grateful for - for 5 days. Ordinarily I'd put this kind of stuff in my blog but I've been too busy to write there. So - Day 1:

1. I'm grateful for my husband of 30 years Rod McVeigh for teaching me not only how to fix things and enhance/embrace my inner geek, but for showing me the importance of family; he is a dedicated son, spouse, father, and brother.

2. I'm grateful for my dad Arthur Bernstein (who isn't on Facebook but if he was he'd have more friends than me!) If I have one fourth of his sense of humor, his compassion, and his common sense and even a smidgen of his faith, and it continues with Andrew McVeigh, Alex McVeigh, and Ari McVeigh, that would be pretty awesome.

3. I'm grateful for my in-laws Tom and Maggie McVeigh. Never once have I felt like a "daughter-in-law." I have always felt like a member of the family and I have always felt appreciated. I know how rare that is.

Gratitude Challenge Day 2:

1. Although not my favorite day (because it's the longest day of my workweek) I am grateful for Monday...and Tuesday...and Wednesday...all the days, all the weeks, all the months, and all the years. I'm pretty sure I spent a lot of time not being grateful enough, but I sure am now.

2. I'm grateful for my friends who put up with a bit 'o crazy and still stick around. You teach me how to be a friend and let me practice on you And bonus points for those who have gone to various doctors with me when Rod can't make it. That's a special kind of devoted.

3. I still have no idea what I did to deserve my amazing "job" and the tremendous satisfaction I get from doing it (most days.) But I'm grateful to all of the people who work with me, both professionals and lay leaders. I couldn't do it without you.

Gratitude Challenge, Day 3:

1. I'm grateful that my breast cancer was caught early - twice. It might still be lurking, but each day that passes I dwell on it just a little less. There's a victory in there somewhere.
2. I'm grateful that I have doctors who do their jobs well. From the surgeons and oncologist to the other medical/dental professionals who I've been lucky enough to find along the way, they continue to care for me with kindness and skill. And I cannot overstate the importance of decent health insurance. I don't know where I'd be without it.
3. I'm grateful that I have places to go and things to do, even though I might complain and you tell me I look "tired." Probably I am tired, but I'm never bored. 

Gratitude Challenge, Day 4:

1. I'm grateful for my daughter-in-law, Jackie D'Arminio. She's smart, she's sassy, she asks for (and sometimes even takes) my advice, and she loves my son. (I told you she's smart!) And she writes a really cool blog at jackieandthefarmbox.blogspot.com.

2. I'm grateful that my boys (none of whom are still, technically, "boys,") continue to say "I love you." And they mean it. AND it comes with hugs and kisses.

3. I'm grateful that Andrew and Jackie entrusted me with the TEMPORARY custody of two of the softest creatures on the planet, twin chinchilla boys named Mario and Luigi. These little guys have cheered me up through a lot of down times. 

Gratitude Challenge, Day 5:

1. I’m grateful that my boys eat lots of different foods, and to my husband, Rod McVeigh, who made this possible by encouraging them to try things from an early age. He shared his multicultural upbringing and love of “exotic” delicacies with us all. I am additionally grateful that somehow my children do not have food allergies, and have boundless admiration for all parents who keep their children with food allergies safe and happy on a daily basis.

2. It may sound cliché but I’m grateful to have the chance to say “thank you” not just in these 5 days, but also that my workplace encourages random statements of gratitude the same way we encourage random acts of kindness. It’s not a part of our official mission statement, but it is cultivated and modeled by Rabbi Joel Mosbacher who thanks us all the time. It encourages me to “pay forward” the gratitude.

3. Last but not least (and having come full circle in this endeavor,) I am grateful again to Lisa Lamster for starting me on this 5-day exercise. It has really made me think about all the good things and wonderful people in my life. I hope you know how thankful I am for you all, and I encourage you to pass it along, one way or the other. 

Wanna See 'Em?

I wanted to share a video I saw on Facebook that, as a responsible adult who has a lot of "student" FB friends, I cannot share there.

http://greatergood.me/1ATibab

The preview guarantees you will laugh.  I smiled a bit, but mostly I cried.  (Happy? Sad?  Hard to tell.)  Frankly, I have no idea.  And it looks like all of these people had chemo, which I did not.  I think the one thing people who have no experience with breast cancer will find really funny is the woman who say, "Want to feel them?  Go ahead, feel them!"  


Oddly enough, that's the one thing I would NOT ask people to do, since I don't think they "feel" natural at all.  As a matter of fact, I worry when I hug people that they're going to think "boy, I can really tell those aren't real."

And when I leaned over the back seat of a friend's car to get at something in the "way back", I just couldn't.  The parts of me that would usually flatten a bit and flex and essentially, get out of the way, did not.  I consciously had to readjust my position and try again.  I've already written about bumping into things without realizing it - me and the Roomba.

There ought to be a session of some kind before a mastectomy (not just for people whose friends throw them a party, but for everyone) where you get to feel your real breasts - really feel them, and try to remember what they feel like.  (Maybe make a video.) Also, you should be sure to take a photo to help you remember...

I need something to remind me that what I have now looks better instead of what I'm pretty sure were kind of droopy.  I do not need anything to remember that what I have now is not going to kill me.  That much I know.  BUT, I wish to hell that I could remember what I was, what they were, how I looked, and how they felt.

The only thing missing from this video is "Wanna see 'em?" THAT, I would say to you, any time you want.  If it keeps just one person from feeling afraid to have this potentially life-saving surgery because of what he/she might look like afterward, I can help with that.

One Tooth Over the Line

A few weeks ago I found myself thinking about losses, and how many one could manage to handle without just crying all the time.  I thought it was pretty wonderful that humans were built to somehow "manipulate" their sadness by allocating energy to really feeling it only when they were ready to, and (mostly) not at inappropriate times in inconvenient places, like during a child's choir concert (tears of sadness, not joy) or on line at the grocery store or the bank.  (Yes, I still go into the bank once in a while, because the wait is shorter than at the ATM.  Don't judge.)

Then other things came to be be on my mind, like finishing the religious school year, and refurbishing my office, and getting ready for confirmation, and celebrating milestones (birthdays, work anniversaries - fun stuff) and I forgot about the conversation I was having with myself about loss in general, and my losses in particular: mother, sister-in-law, friends, breasts, etc.  Life went on.

This morning I got a call to (I thought) confirm my dental checkup appointment for tomorrow at noon.  As I was getting ready to say that yes, I'd be there, the receptionist told me that the dentist will no longer be doing my cleaning, and that they would make my appointment with a nice hygienist. 

You should know that for much of my life I have hated the dentist.  As a child, our dentist seemed to do his best to pull my lips completely off my face in an attempt to reach every tooth in his inspection, as did all the hygienists while they cleaned.  As a young adult I never found a dentist who could "undo" the anxiety that had built up, and luckily I have pretty strong teeth so it wasn't a huge problem. 

About 25 years ago the local pediatric dentist brought in a part-time guy to treat the parents, to see if he could build up a bigger clientele.  And that's when I met my dentist, Dr. Boff.  He was pretty young but nice, likeable, didn't treat me like a child (has NEVER ONCE said "I see we aren't flossing, are we?") and was gentle but thorough.  He nursed me through my first and only crown and has been my dentist ever since.  At the time, he didn't get assigned a hygienist, so he did his own cleanings. 

It was a perfect setup for me - I only dealt with one person, I trusted him, he treated me well, and he inspected while he cleaned so it saved a little time.  Then he left that office and I followed him to someplace in Ridgewood, where he continued to be my dentist in just the same way.

 When he set up his own shop (a lifelong dream of his) in Ramsey I was there, and Alex, my "idiosyncratic" son trusted him, as Dr. Boff took extra time with him to allay his fears.  Shortly afterward the other 2 boys chose him as their preferred dentist too.  I've sent many friends to him over the years, and I don't regret that at all.  He and I have chatted (well, he chats, I mostly mumble through his work) over the years about baseball, his wife, his kids (all of whom he acquired during our relationship) and his health.

Despite a few fillings, some painful scraping, and all that goes with a dentist visit for the non-scrupulously brushed/flossed/rinsed set, my anxiety about going to the dentist gradually faded, until I no longer regularly delayed my appointments. As a matter of fact, I haven't delayed them at all - until today.

I told the receptionist that this would really be quite a change for me and I would have to think about it, half hoping she would say something like "Oh, never mind, I didn't realize it would be so hard for you - we'll just make an exception in your case."  Or that Bob (that's his name) would suddenly call out, "Don't call Rebecca - I'll keep just her!"  But she didn't, and he didn't, and I hung up the phone.  I started to write an email to the office to make my case for exceptional treatment, because I had always had "exceptionally good" (got that nice turn of phrase there?) treatment, but I just couldn't figure out what to say.  So I called her back and promptly burst into tears.

She was horrified, told me it was nothing personal, which I gulped that I understood, and said I'd have to figure things out on my own and get back to her.  I told her it was NOT. HER. PROBLEM.  But I can only imagine what I must have sounded like, sobbing away and trying to explain that I needed to talk to all my friends who went there (remember, I got them some nice business, but I didn't say that) to see which hygienist might be the least problematic for me.

 I told her that I certainly don't feel as old as I actually am in people-years most of the time, but that this particular thing has made me react like an "old person."  Make that "old, cranky, demanding" person.  So she said she'd talk to him and I said I'd talk to my therapist (that I have because I have BREAST CANCER and a MASTECTOMY and couldn't you people be just a little sympathetic? - None of this was said out loud but I sure did think it.)  And we left it at that.

Conclusion:  my theory that the sadness of personal loss is cumulative is pretty dead-on, at least for me, and my theory that I can manipulate my sadness into appropriate and tasteful times/places is shot to hell.

Can't Touch This

Way back in late June of 2010 while I was still in the hospital recovering from my mastectomy,  I remember each breast surgeon's nurse (my roommate's surgeon works with my surgeon in a partnership) coming to us and giving us a "care and feeding" lecture on our new selves.  We were told, in particular, to be careful about getting burned.  Because nerve endings were disrupted (destroyed) in the surgery, the reconstruction areas would have no feeling.  (I desperately hope this will not be permanent, but based on personal experience, well, I just keep hoping.)  The shiny side of this (if you want to look at it that way) is that any further surgery I've had on that particular area just doesn't hurt.  It's so odd.

At any rate, she said to be careful about too-hot showers, mostly.  But also she said not to cook with that area "exposed."  Now, I do not regularly cook topless.  Jokes about men cooking bacon come to mind but all joking aside, there are WINDOWS all over my house, and sometimes (now adult) male children.  So, cooking barechested over an open flame is not going to happen until I get old enough not to care what people see.  And maybe by then I'll have some feeling back, anyway, so it all works out.

We acquired a Roomba the other day, and that same day I bumped into something, as usual, chest first (other than stubbing my toe endlessly, which is decidedly not numb.)  I felt a little like the poor Roomba; it bumps into something, and its sensor bumpers make it turn around and go someplace else.  The difference is, it FEELS somehow that it has run into a thing and reorients itself, then merrily heads off in another direction, while I just look around to see if anyone else noticed.  

This morning in the shower, I flashed back to the whole "being careful in hot showers" advice.  In a classic, really belated case of "I wish I'd thought to say that at the time," I realized that being in the location that they are on my body (not like a toe you'd dip in or a hand you'd wave in the water) the odds of me making a shower hot enough to burn one part of me while NOT burning the rest of me were pretty small.  (Doesn't the water usually hit you kind of all at once?)  But in June of 2010 I didn't think of that quick retort, probably because of the little anesthesia thing, the pain thing, the waking up missing major body parts thing.......

So a question I did not ask at the doctor's office the other day is: will more surgery disrupt the nerves even further, and take me back to square one on getting some feeling back (will I ever NOT be on square one?)  As my priorities in life constantly rearrange themselves, I'm beginning to wonder how much I really care. It's one thing to say you don't care, but it's another thing entirely to follow through when you walk into things/people without realizing you're actually touching them.

Meanwhile, the Roomba (no name yet) provides distracting entertainment.Yesterday (the day we unpacked it) it got stuck on one of the sticky traps we keep under the sofa to catch crawly things.  It went quiet for a while, screamed something, and gave up.  Not lethal - Rod fixed it last night - but kind of hysterical.  Alex says it needs googly eyes.....

Non Nervous Nellie

The plan WAS to go for a quick walk after services, go home, shower and dress for the appointment with the plastic surgeon.  For starters, I was going to see him alone for (I think) the first time.  No Elyssa, no Rod, no Evelyn, nobody but me.  I had left a lot of time to get from services, to the walk, to the cleanup, to leave early for my appointment, to give myself time to calm down for the argument over aureola tattoos I was sure we'd have.  He is historically behind; it's just how things are at Dr. D'Amico's office and that's what you plan for.

Having been back home now for a couple of hours, I would say that I am inordinately pleased with how my day turned out, though not how I envisioned.

Services went as planned (not that I was in charge.)  Lovely small (but big enough) group who put their "whole selves in," as Joel Mosbacher likes to say, with prayer and song.  We chanted the Torah and Haftarah blessings together, we cried together about our losses, and we finished with kiddush and a sweet snack of chocolate toffee matzah (I didn't make this particular batch, but I have the recipe!)

And then commenced the socializing.  As it happens, long-time friends Leslie, Jane, and Lisa were there today, and we all sat together during services.  Afterward we did some catching up, and since my doctor visit was by then generating a decent amount of anxiety, it became the topic of conversation.  "You'll be fine."  "Don't forget to ask questions." "I'm sure he's very good; you look great already."  (This last bit is always nice to hear, considering how far I've come to get to this point.)  Long story short (or short story long, as it were,) I was there enough time kibbutzing that I did not have time to change into my jeans and sneakers and go for my walk.

So I hightailed it home, grabbed a quick shower, changed into the thinnest white tank I own (more about that later) and flung myself into the car.  It was then almost 1:20, and I had planned to allow 45 minutes to make what is under ideal conditions, a 30 minute drive to a 1:45 appointment.  I called the doctor's office and confirmed that he was already behind in time, and the information seemed to "free" me somehow.  I relaxed, but instead of taking a leisurely right-hand lane Sunday drive kind of path, I drove my trusty minivan more like a race car.  All of a sudden I paid careful attention to all the lanes of (hated) highway; I signaled, and moved back and forth to maintain the highest (legal, sort of) speed possible.  I was no longer nervous about my appointment, and when I finally glided in to the parking lot EARLY my anxieties were gone.

Of course, arriving early does not guarantee being seen early.  So I sat in the waiting room for over a 1/2 hour (sometimes we've waited over 2 hours) filling out some new paperwork.  He now takes my insurance.  Is this good news?  Time will tell (and so will I, when I find out!)

A review of the basic "he said, she said" history - Dr. D'Amico feels that a reconstruction without aureola tattooing and nipple reconstruction is like a car without headlights, among other interesting metaphors.  I feel that one of the benefits of the mastectomy (other than the obvious, that of cutting out cancer cell-hosting tissue) was that I could FINALLY wear thin, close-fitting shirts.  And for the past four years I've been fairly adamant about this.   I wore the special white top to show him what I meant.  He reluctantly agreed he could see my scars through the shirt, and conceded on the nipple reconstruction...

He's been fairly adamant about his opinion on the tattoos though, and in conversations with other women who have faced this dilemma I have no clear "winner" one way or the other.  Even other doctors I've spoken to have come down on both sides of the discussion.  Bottom line is, I should do what feels right for me.

And I just DON'T KNOW.  If I get them, will I fell more like these parts of me are now "real?"  If I get them, will I now have the unwanted visibility through the shirt issue I had before?  If I get them light enough to NOT show through, will that be so light that it just doesn't look natural compared to what I was born with?  It's pretty damned permanent, and so hard to decide.  Shouldn't I be healthy enough psychologically by now and grateful enough to be alive that this should not be such a big issue for me?

Today he started with "Let me ask you, are all the pictures on your walls unframed?"  I responded, "yes, I know, car without headlights, unfinished painting...."  

I was completely honest.  I told him I've wavering a little, but I wanted to know if this SHAPE (right kind of round with a flat front, left kind of more realistically shaped) is what is going to be now and forever.  One remaining concern is that even if you put a tattoo on something that (from my looking-downward) viewpoint isn't shaped ideally, that won't make it any more realistic-looking.  The silk purse-sow's ear story comes to mind every single time.

I told him if I could afford it, I'd go through the latissimus surgery on the right side to become more symmetrical up front.  (Please understand, I look okay in clothes, and in profile things look fairly even, and from the medical measuring point of view, the "projection" is actually the same. But it's not going to fool anyone, and bras are shaped to fit how my lefthand side is now shaped, so there's always a pucker on the right.)  But he said right away (as my wallet breathed a sigh of relief) that he would never put me through that again unless it was medically necessary.

Fun fact: the lovely dream that once you have reconstructed breasts you don't ever wear a bra again, is pretty much a fantasy, at least as I have experienced it.  If you go without a bra for many days in a row and do any kind of strenuous moving, things start to get sore and you realize that you need support once in a while.  So you still have to buy bras, and they still have to fit.

But wait, there's more.  He started to say something and I interrupted him, hardly believing what was coming out of my mouth:  "I heard there are new implants that are shaped more realistically and can be customized, kind of like a pyramid-ical shape?"  He is used to Rod and I asking more unusual questions than the average bear, since we study hard about what's going on with me.  So he really didn't skip a beat and said that indeed, there are.

They have been in use in Europe for many years and would have been available to me in 2010 if not for the good ole' FDA and their numerous regulations to keep us safe.  (I feel neither here nor there about the FDA, but this is how he felt, clearly.)  Up until now all the implants are round (as you might notice when you see famous actresses bare-breasted and can tell "who has" and "who hasn't," and the new ones have "an anatomically shaped silhouette," to quote from the Natrelle website.  I do, in fact, have wrinkling on my skin on the right side where the contents of the round implant head mostly south (thank you, gravity); it's not only a little weird, but it's also just another daily reminder of June 28, 2010.  Between taking the medication every night and getting dressed every morning, there's still a lot of "just" in my adjusting.

At any rate, all decisions are put off while magical Marie in his office asks what the fine folks at United HealthCare think about this idea.  If we go ahead, I've promised a tattoo decision in time, and he's promised to remove (for free) a large mole dead center in my chest that I've had all my life, escaped the knife every time so far, and is (joking here) the only reason I never wear those slinky cut down to the navel dresses.  Hah!

As I said, today did not turn out how I planned, but it was good.  I think I'd better schedule the bone density scan and colonoscopy while I've still got the courage.

Yizkor - Are We Ever Too Old for This Homework?

This morning I plan to attend the Yizkor service to pay a mindful tribute to Jill Bernstein (my sister-in-law) who passed away in June from breast cancer, and to Dalia Leibowitz, my friend and a teacher in our school for over 15 years, who passed away in September from kidney cancer.  I hope to not "be" depressed, although I'm sure the service will raise depressing thoughts about not only Jill and Dalia, but also my friend Jill who died a year ago September from cancer, and my mother, who died in 2008 from lung disease. 

It's a sad service (as its name implies, Yizkor, meaning will remember, in which we are supposed to remember those who have gone) but it can be very uplifting as well.  I hope to leave it with a renewed determination to live my life in a way that makes Jill, Dalia, Jill, Mom, my grandparents, and a little boy I never met, Sam Sommer who died in December from cancer, somehow proud.  It's a huge job, and I'm not sure why we as Jews take on such an enormous "homework assignment" every day - to live like you are THE ONE who helps keep things going well here on earth while you're able.

Why would I voluntarily get all cleaned up to go to the synagogue on a day when I don't have to?  To remember, and to get a reminder about my homework. I doubt I'll get it all done by bedtime, but I hope to have many more days to polish my final draft. 

Fairway and the Oncologist

 It's not so odd that I always end up having an oncologist appointment during Passover.  Of all the appointments that I put off (dentist, etc.) so they're NOT exactly at 6 month intervals - like they're supposed to be - I will always see Dr. Ligresti right on time.  And, since as a Jewish professional I have Passover off from work, it makes sense to schedule appointments then.  As a matter of fact, on Monday I'm seeing the plastic surgeon, but that's another anxiety-inducing story...

Although I am not thrilled with the location of Dr. Ligresti's new office (I loved that I could get to her in less than 15 minutes, all back roads, for the first 8 years of our acquaintance,) there is a silver lining and its name is Fairway.  A year ago, as I was busy being upset at the new office - I didn't know the people, the bathroom was all the way through the waiting room, and I had to travel on Route 17 and find a new destination - stupid reasons - I just couldn't calm down so I sat in my car for a few minutes.  And there, like a vision, was the famed then-new Fairway Market, right across the driveway from the medical building.  (Do you hear the choir of angels?)

I don't know much about Fairway in general, except there was quite the uproar and hullabaloo and cheering when it opened in Paramus.  "Oh my God you wouldn't believe the produce!  And the meat!  And the fish!"  It is, in fact, a wonderland of food.  But shopping there is more like going to the Museum of Natural History; you can't do it all in one visit, and you'd be crazy to try.  It's sensory overload in the coffee aisle, for one thing.  There's a dizzying array of olive oils, the mind-numbing selection of chocolate bars, and the place is a rabbit warren of aisles and nooks.  Spices and cheeses and candy, oh my!

But my favorite spot is the smoked fish guy's station (henceforth referred to as "the fish guy.")  It's not just lox (salty? nova?) it's also Scottish salmon, Norwegian salmon...there are easily 6 or 7 huge fillets of smoked salmon, plus herring, whitefish (also salad) and goodness knows what else.  The lox is not cheap ($8.99 per 1/4 lb) but it is good and it is SO hand-sliced that it's kind of painful to watch in this hurry-up-and-get-someplace-else-quickly world.

My son Andrew clued me in to the "scrap" containers; if you go later in the day they have filled deli tubs containing the lox edges that they carefully sliced off the lox when you buy it, and the contents of the tubs are just as yummy, and far less expensive.  So I learned quickly to buy a little lox and a tub and I get just what we need, which is lox slices for Alex and ready-made little pieces for me.

THIS time when I went after my appointment, it was 9 a.m. and there weren't any scrap tubs yet.  So I asked the fish guy if I could buy my own scraps and as he s-l-o-w-l-y and c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y sliced my lox he created a fresh scrap tub.  While I'm standing there, a man comes to get in line (the line consisting of me and him) and waits patiently through the slicing.  He waits patiently while I also get a little creamed herring (a treat) and then...he asks to buy the scrap tub that he's been (patiently) watching get filled with the smelly, oily, yummy pieces. 

 "Oh no," I think, feeling simultaneously guilty and outraged.  "It's mine!  Why didn't he ask before he waited all this time?"  As the fish guy informed the customer that I had already claimed the scraps and he walked away, I resisted a (very small) urge to go after him and give him the container. But the bit of cotton and tape stuck to the inside of my elbow where they took blood at the doctor's office hurts and itches a bit and reminds me that I get to have some luxury (read: lox) in my life.

(Pause for fond memory that is ALWAYS brought on by the lox scrap tub acquisition:  my mom always cut her lox into little tiny pieces and placed each piece "just so" on the freshly cream cheese-d bagel.  I thought it was so she could get some lox in every bite but now I'm pretty sure it was so she wouldn't get the stuff stuck in her teeth. To this day, I cannot just lay an entire slice of lox on a bagel when I don't have a knife and fork to tidy it up without a twinge of regret.)

But I regress.  (Regression is the entitlement of a blog writer.  I'm sure I will come up with other "entitlements" as I need them.)

My visit to Dr. Ligresti this past week was fairly uneventful.  She asked me if I was taking my medication (yes) and if I was having side effects (yes, but apparently not badly enough to have me stop) did I get to that colonoscopy yet (sadly, no) and what about an updated bone density scan? (getting there.)  She verified that considering the current studies, I'm going to need to take medication for 10 years.  For a person who never really took medication, the nightly reminder that I have cancer (still) will be with me for another 7 years or so. 

Long-term depressing thoughts aside, April 2015 will be five years since my diagnosis and surgery, and so I will be able to call myself a five year survivor. Dr. Ligresti confirmed that all the studies still maintain that after 5 years of non-recurrence, you have a much better chance of long-term non-recurrence.  I know that compared to others I have had a bounty of better results than others, so maybe I shouldn't still be listening for data to make me feel "better" about my prognosis, but I can't help it.

The "Annual" Letter

This is for everyone not on our mailing (or emailing) list.  It does give a good summary of 2013, so I include it here.  By all means, if you'd like to be added, let me know.  It's been in continuous publication (except for one year) for almost 30 years.

This year's "Family Photo"

Dear Friends,

At many Passover tables, people sing a song called “Dayenu” (pronounced die-ay-noo.)  It means, more or less, “it would have been enough;” if one good thing happened instead of two, it would have sufficed. So, if Alex had graduated from college, it would have been enough.  If, in addition, Ari had graduated from high school and gotten into college, that would have been enough.  If also Andrew had gotten married, it would have been enough.  If I was honored for 10 years as educator to my congregation, that would have been enough. That was May and June.  Were they the only things that happened last year?  Nope.  But they were definitely the highlights.

January of 2013 was greeted with our host of friends, and the winter wore on as we prepared for Andrew and Jackie’s wedding.  In April we traveled to Cape Cod for our nephew Isaac Bernstein’s Bar Mitzvah, and celebrated with my Dad and the rest of the family.  We knew that my other brother’s wife Jill was still fighting a breast cancer battle far tougher than my own, but did not know that weekend was the last time we would see her.  Jill passed away on June 17.  She left behind my “baby” brother Jonathan, our beautiful niece Emily and our very cool nephew Aaron.

July took us to Cape Cod for some R & R.  Each son had a friend (or wife!) along and that made for some wonderful mini golf outings and great dinners.  We now needed two cars to go anywhere, but it was worth it.  Ari started Ramapo College (his first choice) in September, and made the Dean’s List! Although it is 5 minutes from home and 1 minute from the synagogue, he lives on campus and we really don’t see him as often as one might think.  He is getting ready to register for the fall semester and is hoping to land a room in one of the campus’s apartments with one of his suitemates from this year. 

Alex graduated from Montclair State University in May with a Bachelor’s degree and a paralegal certificate and a more than respectable GPA but now is not sure that paralegal work is something he can be “passionate” about.  So, he is going to take on some temporary jobs and see what the rest of the working world has to offer.  He has, however, been extremely helpful around the house when it comes to grocery shopping, running errands, shoveling SNOW, and helping to keep Mario and Luigi, Andrew and Jackie’s chinchillas (my foster grandchildren) healthy and happy. 

After a 10-year courtship, Andrew and Jackie tied the knot on May 19.  It was a rainy day, not what anyone would have chosen for a planned outdoor wedding, but the bride was gloriously stunning, the flowers were beautiful, the music was fabulous, and the food was delicious.  Everything was perfect, right down to Jackie’s blue peep-toe pumps.  The McVeigh men were decked out in gray Vera Wang tuxedos.  Our own rabbi and cantor performed the ceremony under Jackie’s family heirloom lace and my grandfather’s tallis.  They left for their honeymoon in Iceland the next day.

Memorial Day weekend the rest of the family flew to Denver for Francie Amdurer’s wedding to Jens Kuhlers high up (imagine even higher than the mile-high city) at a gorgeous castle with Colorado vista all around.  It was a whirlwind time, but Alex, Ari, Rod & I enjoyed our adventure.  I think a highlight for the boys was all the iPads at LaGuardia Airport!

Rod is still very busy at Konica Minolta, and also has a hand in Project Literacy and the Bergen Community College Foundation, as well as volunteering time at the synagogue.  Project Literacy’s annual gala and the BCC Foundation Medallion dinner dance were both great events that gave us a chance to dress up a bit and win a few things at the silent auctions.  He also regularly sees his parents in Teaneck, sometimes just to say “hi” and sometimes to help out.  Andrew and Jackie, who live about 5 minutes away in Hackensack, are also around if Maggie and Tom need a quick hand.  With everyone so close, it’s been easy to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries and holidays.  Alex, Andrew, and Jackie were in Teaneck with Rod’s sister Lindsay (in from Indiana) and her family for Christmas.

Rod, Ari and I were not in the United States for the holidays – we were in Israel!  Along with Ari’s girlfriend Liz and members of our congregation, I acted as co-leader with Joel Mosbacher, our rabbi while we did some traditional touring (Dead Sea, Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Eilat, Masada) and then some non-traditional things like picking fruit, helping prepare lunch at a soup kitchen, seeing East Jerusalem from two distinctly different political points of view, and hearing from the leader of the Women of the Wall and a prominent reporter from the Jerusalem Post.  We walked the Old City, of course, but we also took a day trip to Jordan and REALLY walked as we viewed the wonder of Petra.  We returned home early on the morning of New Year’s Day, and so did not host brunch this year.  (But Rod drove over to the Shearers in Ramsey to visit our friends after we got home and I heard they were wonderful hosts!)

Two weeks after that we drove to the wilds of Pennsylvania for our congregational retreat, picking up Liz along the way from her dorm at Muhlenberg College.  I had helped to plan some of the activities and so was running most of the weekend at the camp we had rented, but it was terrific to see so many of our families (over 100 people) together in such a relaxed, informal atmosphere.

I did have another surgery in August, but it was more reconstruction, which I needed.  Although my doctor says one can never be “cured” of breast cancer, every 6 month visit that goes by with a clean blood test helps me get to that “5 year survivor” point that they say decreases one’s risk of recurrence. Before the weather got cold, I had started doing a lot of walking at a nearby park, and I think that has helped with some of the side effects of my medication AND I lost some weight, so win/win!

I was able to travel to San Diego earlier in December for the URJ Biennial convention with 3 other leaders from our synagogue, and I now supervise not just our school staff but also our youth director, so I’ve done some professional stretching.  I’m finding that responsibility, risk, reward are all part of one package, and my renewed confidence has been one of the best rewards.

It seems like we’ve been in the process of removing snow forever at this point.  As I write, there’s more on the way, but it may only be a dusting.  Still, it’s got to be cleaned up and honestly, we’re all a little sick of snow.  (The snow blower we bought Rod a couple of years ago has been a huge help, though.)

Just one amazing thing to greet with joy in 2013 would have been enough.  But we wouldn’t have missed all the others for the world.  In July Rod and I will celebrate our 30^th anniversary while we are on Cape Cod with the family.  For those of you who have shared all or part of this journey with us, can you believe it?  We wish you all a wonderful year filled with good health, the company of loved ones, and celebrations large and small.

Rod, Rebecca, Andrew, Jackie, Alex, & Ari

31 Seton Hall Drive, Oakland, NJ  07436

 mcveigh@verizon.net ~ 201-337-0255