My Interview With US Figure Skating

Original art celebrating the fight.

 

Do you have experience as a coach or as an official?

Gold singles/moves/pairs judge. Advisor to the Grand Valley State University synchronized skating team. Learn to Skate instructor at Griff’s Georgetown and Walker Ice and Fitness. 

How many times have you competed at the U.S. Adult Championships?

Nine as a competitor: 2005, ‘06, ‘07, ‘08, ‘10, ‘12, ‘14, ‘16, ‘18. In 2009, I served as co-chair of AN09.  

 

Can you share a favorite memory of the event?

I’ve been at it since 2005, there are so many memories:

• Skating my first program clean at AN05 to Minnie the Moocher.  
• Skating under the biggest American flag in the Herb Brooks Arena at AN08.
• Hosting AN09 with Jen, Dee, and Leslie.
• Finally medaling at AN10.
• Doing my Wendy Bear tribute number at AN14.
• Competing with my husband Dave and son Will in attendance at AN16, and hearing Will shout “you were great mom!”  
• Being one of the first solo free dance competitors at AN18.

And I love, love, LOVE being a sweeper for the championship events year in and year out. Closest I’m ever going to get to a championship event, LOL.

 

What is/was your cancer diagnosis?

Stage 1 breast cancer.

 

Where are you in the process? In treatment, in remission, etc.?

I guess you can say I’m currently in recovery. Crossing my fingers for that 3 month checkup.

How are you feeling?

Feeling great!

 

Did you find that skating helped you through this difficult situation?

Very much so.

 

Was it motivational to have the sport in your life as a way to be active, set goals, and have events to look forward to?

Oh, absolutely. The minute I was given the all clear to return to the rink, I was there. At the start of radiation, my coach Michelle Wilcome and I made it a goal to pull together a gold free skate test to work on along with the gold moves. I did my first-ever full gold free skate run through midway through radiation treatment. It was terrible. But I did it. 

Did you participate in competitions/shows/tests during cancer treatment? What was that experience like?

My lumpectomy was February 5, and I competed at the Deborah Burgoyne North American Adult Invitational on February 16.

I was nervous because I wasn’t given permission to resume normal activities until February 13, and with a hockey tournament at my rink, my first time back on the ice was my event warmup. Event 1, may I add. I had no idea how my body would react, especially since I had been off the ice for two weeks. I landed a salchow on the warmup, and shouted to Michelle, “it didn’t hurt!” to which she replied “great, now go spin!”

My event was Light Entertainment/Comedy. It was important for me to show up, skate well, and have fun: a message to myself and others that I was going to be okay. I didn’t want to use my diagnosis as an excuse to withdraw. The first time I let cancer be an excuse means it would be easier the next time to make another excuse. If I was able-bodied, I was doing it.

To Mary Moss and Barb Lazotte: thank you. You both have been more than competitors through the years, you have been friends. It’s always an honor to share the ice with you.

How did the skating community (adults or otherwise) show you support when you needed it most?

The figure skating community was there for me from the start. I found out about my cancer diagnosis on the way to the US National Championships in Detroit. I got the call from the oncologist’s office AS I was checking in for my volunteer shift at the Little Caesars Arena. That’s how fresh the news was as I encountered one friend after another that afternoon. I wish I had held it together better, but unfortunately everyone got ugly cry from me, including Scott Hamilton. Scott has been a role model for me in the sport for so many reasons, and to get a “you got this” pep talk from him the day I am diagnosed was beyond surreal. Once the shock of the news died down, I found relief in being able to focus on my volunteer shifts, the competition, time with friends, and not think about myself for a while.

As for Adult Nationals, given the timing, the diagnosis and treatment, I knew it wasn’t possible to compete this year, so I placed myself on the “disabled list,” and was able to cheer for everyone in Salt Lake City from afar. Little did I know what The Adult Skating Committee had in store for me…

I was on a work call when I noticed social media blew up, and people tagging me in the live Facebook feed from the adult skating committee meeting. I’m tearing up now recalling the messages from everyone, and for you to “pink the rink” the Friday of the competition. Then came everyone posting images of themselves either at the competition or at home wearing pink in my honor. Thank you, everyone.

 

Are there specific people whom you’d like to thank?

WHERE TO START?! This is going to be like one long award acceptance speech.

I have the best husband and son in the world. Thank you, David for insisting scars are intriguing (he said sexy, but this is a family publication). And Will, you amazing creature, who said to me at 5am before my surgery, “It’s ok mom, that’s life. You have to experience stuff.”

Kim Coxe, Dave and Sue Bakke, Jennifer Simon, Jim Achtenberg, Kim Ellsworth-Flores, Denise Hendershot, Jennifer Schindler, Robin Johnson, and Maureen Linhardt who supported me at the Detroit Nationals – sorry for the ugly crying.

Arlene and Cas Kaczmarek, how lucky we are to have you as our adult skating parents.

My tribe, the West Michigan Adult Skaters, for their endless support. From vibrant pink bouquets to colorful socks, from attempts at child care to custom made naughty earrings as well as a special custom-themed piñata to celebrate the end of treatment, you never once let me doubt you had my back, er, front.

Judges and officials from the Midwestern Section who looked after me through the course of my treatments to make sure I was ok. Special thank you to Doreen Young, Phyllis Little, Ginger Charles, Holly Jinks, and Richard Dalley.

Thank you to the Adult Skating Committee, especially you, Lori, Lexi, and Rachel Firlik for thinking of giving me such a grand and public gesture of love at a particularly low moment during treatment. Oh my God, I’m ugly crying again just typing this… Allergies, it’s allergies.

And to the adult skating community, you are my tribe. Thank you for your support via snail mail, social media, texts, and more. Love you all.

 

What advice would you give to other skaters who have been diagnosed with cancer?

This is hard, since everyone’s experience is so different. For me, the waiting was the worst part. Once I had a diagnosis and a treatment plan, I could deal.

It’s going to be an emotional time, so it’s ok to be angry and it’s ok to be scared. Allow it. But also know it’s ok to find ways to heal yourself.

I relied heavily on humor. Whenever I started to feel angry, scared, sad, or sorry for myself, I looked at the situation from a different point of view, in what I jokingly started to refer to as “taking it out of context.” It was this perspective that turned an intimidating appointment at the radiation simulation lab into a wild lunch hour getting tattoos and playing with expensive toys. And since I found it absurd talking about my breasts day in and day out, I took the opportunity to post daily chicken breast recipes on social media instead.
 

I also relied on what I referred to as “musical oncology.” Right around the timing of nationals, I typically I get obsessed with a band or performer. Given the timing of my diagnosis and the success of the movie Bohemian Rhapsody, that band was Queen. It was easy to find comfort and a bit of distraction revisiting their catalog through my journey. The radiation treatment team got into it, tuning Spotify to the Queen channel during my appointments, and I think I turned a younger generation onto the band in the meantime. Appropriately, “Body Language,” “We Are the Champions,” and “Keep Yourself Alive” were on the playlist during my final treatment. Awesome.

Why I Skate: Pink the Rink Surprise

Week 3 of treatment was a penance for me. Instead of heading out to Utah to compete at the US Adult Figure Skating Championships (affectionately known as ANs), I was heading to the hospital for daily radiation treatments.

Denise, Lanette, and I jokingly posed for a picture at the rink while holding our various injured body parts, and declared ourselves the AN19 All-Star Disabled Team from Lake Effect FSC, while wishing our friends luck.

It was big girl panties moment from there on: I wanted to be sure the focus was on celebrating the people who were there skating instead of me whining about not being there. Also known as: it's not all about you.

Modern technology allowed me to watch the opening ceremonies via Facebook Live, and celebrate 25 years of the championships with people who have become dear friends. The lifers. Wendy Bears. Becca's live tossie routine. The oldest competitors performing. It was awesome.

The Friday of the championships, I smarted on Instagram, "plum hospital gowns are so fetching," in an attempt to make light of the situation. That day stung, physically and emotionally. I was feeling ill from the medication, my breast hurt, it was cold, and I missed my friends. Skating friends started to like the photo and make comments, sharing love and wish you were here sentiments.

I cried in the Family Fare grocery store parking lot.

I headed to work, where I proceeded as normal, all while checking online updates for results and photos. Then I had a work call at 2pm; at the same time, my cell phone blew up.

Once I got off the call, there were numerous messages to get on Facebook, follow this link, and I was tagged a million times. What's up people, was the Adult Skating Committee meeting that explosive?

So I signed in to watch the meeting on Facebook Live, and everyone reacted, "she's here, she signed on!"

To which I responded, "hey."

Whoever was live streaming panned around the lobby. Everyone was wearing some shade of pink, from competitors to officials. They had declared April 5, the Friday of the competition, Pink the Rink Day for Mel. They set up a page for Scott Cares at the Cleveland Clinic so people to make donations in my honor. The Bakkes, Dave and Sue, told the story of being there when I found out and how Scott counseled me at Nationals (the kids' nationals) in Detroit.

Once the committee meeting was over and I reposted the picture with my thanks, posts and tributes came pouring in: pink bows, t-shirts, polos, hats, babies in pink onesies, people eating pop rocks that turned their tongues pink. It was so overwhelmingly awesome.

There were more surprises in store for me well after ANs.  One care package after another arrived from Salt Lake City. I received a Wendy bear wearing a pink sweater with the same yarn as Adam Rippon's Olympic sweater, a Terryl medal, a flask signed by world champion Nathen Chen, pins, towels, can kozies, and more. The item that meant the most to me and made me cry? They sent me an All Event Pass - giving me notice that I was there in spirit.

This, and so many more reasons, are why I skate.

Chicken Breasts, Queen, and Dates with the Radioactive Man

Crazy lunch hour!

From facebook:

Taken out of context, I’m having a wild lunch hour: tattoos and nudie pics while playing with expensive toys.  

What the hell, let’s stick with that.

Treatment plan sounds manageable, I’m in a much better place than I was on March 4 when I wanted to break shit after I was told, “you’re going to gain weight” with the new medication. Well lady, I guess we’re going to work on that too. My remedy was to eat pretzels naked while dancing to Queen’s Hot Space album.

You do your therapy, I’ll do mine. 

I was given 20 days of radiation therapy over the course of 4 1/2 weeks: 16 treatments for the whole breast, and 4 boosters, which were concentrated shots directly to the space where the cancer had been, to make sure all those little bastards were dead and gone. 

So for 20 days, I was to check in, get zapped, and slather the breast with Radiaplex gel or Aquaphor for the health of my skin. How was I going to get through this? Chicken recipes I found on Pinterest and hard rock soundtracks featuring Queen. 

Why chicken? Because I found, and still find, talking about my breast bordering on absurd. And while people may also be uncomfortable talking about cancer, everyone likes food. 

The radiation therapy team also tuned Spotify to the Queen/Hard Rock channel just for me, and this gave me something to look forward to. 

"Ok, get ready to hold your breath..."

Day 1: Baked Firecracker Chicken. Soundtrack: Don't Stop Me Now. 

Day 2: Buttermilk Hot Sauce Chicken. Soundtrack: Another One Bites the Dust, Hotel California, Sweet Child o' Mine. 

Day 3: Slow Cooker Crack Chicken. Soundtrack: The Great Pretender, Rock you Like a Hurricane, Sweet Emotion. 

Day 4: Bone broth. Soundtrack: Killer Queen, Stairway to Heaven, Every Breath to Take. First date with Dr. T, who I had dubbed the Radioactive Man. He told me I was progressing as normal.

Day 5: In the words of Freddie Mercury, "gimme gimme gimme fried chicken!" Soundtrack: Fat Bottomed Girls, '39, Sheer Heart Attack.

Day 6: Chicken roll ups. Soundtrack: Killer Queen, Don't Stop Believin', Here Comes the Sun.

Day 7: Sweet and sour chicken. Soundtrack: She Will be Loved, Another One Bites the Dust, Paint it Black.

Day 8: Chili lime chicken. Soundtrack: Bohemian Rhapsody, Walk this Way. BoRap is a long song. Dr. T glad to hear I'm experiencing no fatigue. 

Day 9: Rosemary lemon chicken patties. Soundtrack: Save Me, Old Time Rock n' Roll, Killer Queen.

Day 10: Spatchcock chicken. Soundtrack: Calling All Girls, White Queen, March of the Black Queen.

I'm sure this wasn't a hallucination... 

Day 11: Grilled chicken sandwiches. Soundtrack: Body Language, Save Me, Sweet Emotion, Paint it Black. There's some repeats happening. 

Day 12: The BEST CHICKEN SALAD RECIPE EVER! Soundtrack: It's a Kind of Magic, Las Palabras de Amour. 

Day13, take one: a chicken in ice skates, dedicated to my skating friends on the opening day of Adult Nationals. The machine broke while I was on the slab, so the soundtrack was long: We Are the Champions, Killer Queen, Friends Will Be Friends, Innuendo, Getting Better. First time I've ever been pissed at a Beatles song. 

Day 13, take two: machine still down, so they moved my radiation appointment to the afternoon. I had to shuffle my chiropractor appointment from PM to AM. Having followed my journey, the chiro office wanted in on the chicken action. They got chicken enchiladas. 

Day 13, take three: frozen bag of chicken breasts, make up appointment cancelled. Peg helpfully recommends I watch Queen at the Rainbow, '74. 

Day 13, take four! chicken nuggets, for a late-night run. I was the last appointment of the day, even saw Dr. T. Gave him a Simpsons Radioactive Man figurine, based on the conversation that he wanted a tattoo, but he's not cool, and can't think of something cool to get. This might be one of the first patient presents he ever got, he was jazzed. Myrna, his nurse, later told me it has a place of honor in his office. He also said, "You're in treatment for breast cancer and your primary concern is missing a skating competition? I think you're doing ok." Soundtrack: Liar, Back in Black, Take it to the Limit, Last Dance with Mary Jane. 

Day 14: Snoop Dogg's Fried Chicken and Waffles. Soundtrack: Don't Stop Me Now, Heard it Through the Grapevine, Kiss, The Show Must Go On.

Day 15: Slow cooker Russian apricot chicken. Soundtrack: Sail Away Sweet Sister, Radio Gaga, I Love Rock n Roll.

Day 16: Chicken and rice casserole. Soundtrack: I Want to Break Free, Spread Your Wings, You're My Best Friend. 

Day 17: First day of booster shots, so a little longer than usual. Nashville hot chicken. Soundtrack: She Makes Me, Don't Stop Me Now, Shallow, Mr. Blue Sky, Listen to the Music, Hey Jude.

Day 18: Chicken tortilla soup. Soundtrack: Fool in the Rain, Save Me, Seven Seas of Rhye, And I Love Her. 

Day 19: Beer can chicken. Soundtrack: Hitman, Calling All Girls, Shallow, You're My Best Friend. 

Day 20: THE LAST DAY! Champagne chicken. Soundtrack: It's a Miracle, Keep Yourself Alive, Body Language, We Will Rock You, Build Me Up Buttercup. 

Cheers! 

What do you think my celebration meal was for the last day of treatment? A bucket of KFC and a bottle of Moet and Chandon champagne, kept in a pretty cabinet: a Kenmore fridge for us modern yet practical Killer Queens. I may have been temporarily out of action, but I'm guaranteed to blow your mind. 

Anytime.  

#wegetup

Me, with Mary and Barbie.

So what do you do when you've had a lumpectomy? Compete in a skating competition.

From my facebook post: 

I feel so weird doing these posts, but the whole damn thing feels weird anyway, so here we are.

Good news is there was no cancer found in the three lymph nodes they took during surgery. The site of my lumpectomy is healing well, if anything a bit more swollen. Leave it to me to get breast cancer and my boobs get BIGGER.

Bah dum tiss.

Bad news is I got an upgrade in my status from stage 0 to stage 1a, as one of those little bastards decided to break through the duct wall to see what else is going on. So I went from noninvasive to invasive. Merde.

What I did get permission to do is resume normal activities to my comfort level. Did yoga yesterday without drama; it felt good to reclaim my body. Going to try spin today. And because I need to do it for me, I’m skating in a competition tomorrow because why not.

If it appears I’m flailing, it may be bravado in place of bravery, just know I’m trying.

It was Event 1, Silver Ladies Light Entertainment. And I hadn't been on the ice in two weeks.

During the warmup, I nervously attempted a couple of jumps, and was relieved that it didn't hurt. Spins were fast, centered. Relief washed over me, the words of Scott Hamilton on my mind: rely on your training.

Now it was time to focus on presentation.

I skated second, after Mary but before Barbie. Wearing an old dirty shirt, bandana, and carrying a storage box, the program was to portray me finding my old prom dress while cleaning, reminiscing about that night and then boom, shedding the work clothes to reveal me wearing a prom dress and sash. The Prom Mix: Crowded House, Beastie Boys, Billy Idol, Madonna, Wang Chung, The Dream Academy, and Simple Minds. I engaged the audience and the judges.

Now it was up to the judges. And I had no time to pause, I was judging starting with event 6.

First place.

Now I've gotten plenty of gold medals before, but truly none have meant as much to me as this one. To be honest, I think even the silver or bronze would have meant a lot to me, but the win was sweet.

I could have withdrawn, but I didn't. I could have given myself a break, but I my concern was if I gave in to cancer this one time, how much easier was it going to be to give in again the next time? I didn't want to know.

"With breasts your size, you won't even notice."

February 5, we got up at the ungodly hour of 5am for my surgery. Will, with the promise of coffee and breakfast sandwiches, got up to go to the hospital with us, since Dave needed to get him to school once I went in for surgery.

The day is a blur, but a few things stand out:

Will, consoling me said "it's ok mom, that's life: you have to experience stuff."

I got an extra slipper sock, and I found it hilarious that I got three.

I was annoyed with the nurse who couldn't get my IV in, as she angrily jabbed me.

Dr. McCahill, who had cheerfully ran through the procedure with me the week prior, commented "with breasts your size, you won't even notice."

I kept warning them I would throw up post-op. They assured me I wouldn't. I did.

I kept telling them I wanted graham crackers when it was ok for me to eat. There were saltines when I woke up. This was fixed immediately.

I was annoyed with the bouncer at last call attitude that comes with out-patient surgery. As soon as I was coherent, there was a decided push to get me out, essentially "you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." I was shaky, confused, and according to Dave, an unflattering shade of green.

Settled at home and resting, the front door bell rang no less than three times. Flowers! I ended up receiving three bouquets: one from work, one from the WMAS skaters, and one from my friend Charlotte, whose breast cancer battle had started in August.

I vaguely remember eating, I think it was a series of snacks: dried fruit, string cheese, potato chips, ice water.

The song going through my head that day was Janis Joplin's "Take Another Piece of My Heart."

Oncology Team: Defeat Cancer NOW!

Common as soup.

Dr. McCahill: surgery oncology. He was the guy who looked at the films, determined the size and scope of the invasion - a perfect word for this, btw - and did the surgery. He changed the diagnosis from stage 0 to stage 1- invasive, once he reviewed the results from the surgery. He is the one who decided I needed radiation therapy, but no chemotherapy.

Dr. T: radiation oncology, a.k.a. The Radioactive Man. Young guy born in Turkey, raised here. We dropped an "I pity the fool with breast cancer!" reference to him, much to his delight, as not many people he treated were familiar with the actor/celebrity. He seemed young, nervous, but matter of fact about my treatment plan. Having done some research - and finding all the worse case scenarios - I was nervous that I would be at it for 8 weeks, my skin was going to rot off, and my left breast would turn into a sad little raisin. He told me to get off the internet.

Dr. Haque: medical oncology. Close talker, kinda intense, health food advocate. He was shocked by my anger and frustration that my hormones are working against me, again. Suggested I follow a mediterranean diet, something I will be considering. Applauded my activity level, and encouraged me to keep up with everything. Oh, don't think I won't.

"I'm Not Ready to be a Cancer Patient"

Not quite on board with all the pink ribbon stuff, but I've made some compromises.

Coming home from the US Figure Skating championships, I was a little nervous and overwhelmed with how to approach Dave and Will in person with the news. Did I need to be strong for them? Were they going to be strong for me? Tears? Fears? What?

I walked in the door, and everything felt shockingly normal. Like nothing had happened.

So I braced myself for the curious condolences for work the next day. But in an unprecedented move, due to our amazing Michigan winters, the university was closed... for five days.

This left me home with the boy, looking up breast cancer on the internet to understand what a ductal carcinoma is exactly, and for my imagination to work overtime.

And prepare to meet my surgeon on Wednesday.

Oh, the weather... government agencies cancelling services, road closures, business posting if they would be open or not, but I still had an appointment with oncology at 8am.

Dave still made it to work that Tuesday, and brought home a care package from the Bluebird Retreat Cancer Center, a nice basket with a blanket, water bottle, books, and treats. I know I should have been grateful, but instead, I was taken aback.

Startled by the look on my face, Dave asked what was wrong, and I answered feebly, "I'm not ready to be a cancer patient yet. But I've got less than 12 hours before I become one."

Remembering the Worst Day of my Life

The iconic Scott Hamilton and me. 

My facebook post from 1/24/19: 

It wasn’t a sneeze: I have breast cancer.

I can say yesterday was close to one of the worst days of my life, and yet it wasn’t so bad. I have an incredible family that went into deal mode with me. Dave and Will are my rocks as always. A billion heart emojis received helped me get through the night.

And huge thank you to the skating community. I got the call from the scheduling nurse as I was checking into LCA for my volunteer shift at nationals. That’s how fresh the news was as I encountered one friend after another who got ugly cry after innocently asking how’s it going. I apologize for ugly cry and thank you so much for your hugs. Within 90 minutes of getting the news, I get a cancer pep talk from Scott Hamilton? How does this even happen?!

I’ve got the best tools to make it through this: family, friends, and reasons to fight. I do not want to dissolve into tearful handwringing, I already did that. What got me through yesterday were tiny joys and small gestures of kindness, so small the giver probably didn’t even realize the impact. It’s ok to share your condolences but I’d prefer you share a tiny joy. After all, I think that’s what helps most of us get through our days.

But wait, there's more. 

Bad kitty!

The morning of the worst day of my life, I was packing for Nationals, and snapped this amusing picture of the cat sitting in my suitcase, apparently not pleased I was leaving. To the right of this picture is a Pierre Cardin scarf, a gift Dave brought me from Paris many years ago when we were dating. 

After showering and putting the last of my toiletries in my suitcase, I grabbed everything, including the scarf, and headed out for a long weekend of skating. 

The cancer call happens. So does ugly crying. 

I compose myself in the parking garage, grab my uniform, including the scarf, to head into Little Ceaser's Arena. 

I get another cancer doc call to say they will be following up so I can make plans for my masectomy. More ugly crying. I get the uniform jacket from check-in, put scarf around my neck. Ugly cry happens on and off during the entire day, including interaction with competitors, friends, celebrities, and the most elite of elite figure skating names. Hugs happen on the regular.

I finally get to the point I'm all out of tears, and head towards my sister-in-law's house. The cold January air helps clear my sinuses. 

Sniff. What the...?

The cat marked my scarf. I smelled like cat pee all day. 

Freaky for Deaky: Breast Cancer Music Therapy

My brief crush from 1980 is back with a vengance - Deaky!

In time of great stress, I have found comfort in immersing myself in music. Reading this blog from 2009-2015, you'd see music plays a big part in my life.

I also get obsessed with at least one artist or genre that proves to be a popular choice among the competitors at the US Figure Skating championships, such as Jennifer Lopez, Little Richard, or Ray Charles.

Being January, it is also the height of movie picture awards season.

The perfect storm January 2019 has resulted in a current obsession with Queen.

Don't get me wrong, I was a fan before Bohemian Rhapsody came out, but alas, not a crazy one. Also being an American that is subject to the wasteland that is currently the classic rock playlist, you don't get much outside of what can be found on your standard Greatest Hits CD. This resulted in the need to a re-education in the output of Deacon, May, Taylor, and Mercury.

And of course all of this occurs during the Great Breast Cancer Trauma of 2019. Why does that come into play?

Along the way, I have been "congratulated" for the fact that while I have breast cancer, I have the best breast cancer to have. So I begin a quirky list of the worst of the best: I have the Panda Express of breast cancer! I have the Palmer's Chocolate of breast cancer! I have the Busch Light of breast cancer!

So what occurs when one becomes obsessed with Queen and starts to review history? You learn that among the critics, Hot Space is considered by many to be the band's worst album during the years Mercury was alive. Queen's worst of their best.

#justiceforhotspace

One Friday afternoon doctor's appointment, I am prescribed tamoxifen, and a nurse with some truly awful bedside manner is running through the list of side effects, including a snarky "you're going to gain weight." I lose it, and burst into angry tears, which results in the doc coming in to give me the odds and how we can work on weight management to get diabetes under control as post-cancer therapy.

I'm defeated for most of the weekend.

Sunday morning, I'm hungry, angry and still stewing. I shower and for some reason, pull Hot Space up on iTunes while drying off and eating a snack bag of pretzels that were tossies from a skating competition a couple weeks back. Know what? Hot Space is not as bad as the critics say. Sure there's some crap on it, but there's also Calling All Girls, Body Language, Las Palabras de Amor, and of course Under Pressure, the perfect song for all of this drama.

I get a look at my scars in the mirror, assess my nearly-50 year old body in the mirror, the weight comment heavy on my mind. A switch is flipped. I transform from defeated to warrior, dancing to Calling All Girls with the thought, "you know what lady? I'll work on that too!"

So, in essence, my breast cancer journey is my Hot Space. It's different than anything I've experienced before, there's some shit that sucks, but if you take a minute to look and listen, there's some things you will come to appreciate, and maybe even love about the journey.

And to paraphrase, if you don't love me at my Hot Space, you don't deserve my Night at the Opera.

There's No Good Time to Get the Call

Pardon my French, but the week of January 17 - January 24 was the longest fucking week of my life.

Having been told I would get results within days, I steeled myself for the worst and could barely eat or sleep. "You'll know by Friday," I told myself.

"You'll know by Saturday," I thought.

"There's no way they'll keep me waiting this long," I thought Monday morning.

By Monday night, I was beside myself. At this point, I had also convinced myself that since I hadn't heard anything, well - it's sitting in the No Big Deal pile, while they tackle the So Sorry pile.

Delusion is great.

Having heard nothing and a couple of vacation days to use up, I packed my bags for the snowy landscape of Detroit for the 2019 US Figure Skating Championships. I had several volunteer shifts planned, including ice monitor for the pairs championship short program. Free jackets and swag! Fun with friends! It was going to be a great weekend!

Eager to make it to Detroit, I resisted the temptation to stop by the Coach outlet. And then, I got the call at about 11:30, outside of Brighton.

Dr Beall: "So hey, how's it going?"

Me: "Well, you tell me."

Pause.

"I have the test results back... and it looks like cancer."

I wish I could say I was shocked, but with a history of cancer in my family, I was not. I just thought this was possibly the worst place to find out, eastbound 96. Then I thought there was no good place to find out either.

"Shit."

I wish I could tell you more about the conversation. I empathized with her for having to make THAT call. A former figure skater, she was planning on attending the championships too, and maybe we would run into each other. I thanked her for her thankless task. I had my own phone calls to make.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part...

After I'm set up for the biopsy, now comes the harsh reality of how to pay for it. I don't have great insurance, but thank God for some sort of protection. I can't imagine facing this diagnosis and having no coverage. It seems cruel on top of it all.

Anyway, as comfortable as we are, payment requires some shuffling of funds, and is not what I want to think about while being told "this is something, or this is nothing." Felt like an expensive Saturday Night Live skit.

Also, it was coming time to inform Will something was going on. I was headed to the hospital a little more than usual, and of course the day of my biopsy, there's a snow day. We can't avoid telling him what's up.

He takes it with a grain of salt, just happy he's going to be able to play Minecraft on his phone.

I check in, and hand over the wad of cash. I get called back for the now typical locker room-gown check in. Butterflies are flying, and as I'm changing, nurse comes in and says "wait! We have to check something! Is it just a freckle?"

A freckle? Of course! This is nothing!

Oh, never mind. False alarm.

I'm taken into the area where they will be doing the biopsy, and I have to get on the bed and allow my left breast to hang through a hole in the table. When asked if I'm flexible enough to do it comfortably, I reply in irritation, "I'm a figure skater, I can do this!"

The way I was positioned in the room, I was facing away from everyone. At one point, I felt completely disconnected from everything that was happening. At one point, a Queen song was going through my head, and I remember thinking "stop, because if this is bad news, it will ruin this song forever and I don't want that." And for the life of me, I can't remember what the song was.

They remove the sample, and ushered into another room for ANOTHER mammogram. It's noted they dropped a clip, and whatever IT is, they removed most of IT in the biopsy, so I guess I should be relieved.

I asked what was next, and was told I should have results in 48-72 hours. This is on a Wednesday afternoon, so this could mean I know by Friday or Monday.

And so I wait...

The Infamous Sneeze

I report to mammogram part deux on January 3 at the hospital. At this point, I'm thinking we are just redoing the left breast because of the sneeze during the film from a week ago.

I'm given a locker key, my choice of front tie kimono, and shown the lounge where Nancy Kerrigan is on HGTV with her son to revamp flea market finds, some sort of game show where she is pitted against another Olympic medalist and her mom.

They are refurbishing when I'm ushered to another room.

I'm taken in the room with all the cool high tech equipment, and the tech is working efficiently to get me ready for imaging. I chuckle over the sneeze, and she says to me in all seriousness, "it wasn't the sneeze."

Oh.

The usual squashing happens, and I'm ushered back to the lounge, where Nancy and company are now selling their refurbished things as an antique market.

The doctor will see you now.

I never see who wins the challenge.

I'm taken back into the room with the machines and technicians and I hear the word "cancer" uttered for the first time. Complete and utter shock, I am struck numb.

Slight backpedaling, I'm told it could be nothing, and in most cases it is nothing, but we have to be sure, what I have looks suspicious and they have to rule it out. They're not in any hurry either, did I want to wait until the cool, new equipment comes in?

Tears rolling down my face that is still in stun mode, I nod.

The next thing on the agenda is a biopsy in two weeks. I'm given a pamphlet and time to pull myself together. I walk out to my car and sit there, staring across the lot at the strip mall across the street, with the realization that everything has changed.

Is this something, is this nothing?

We will find out in two weeks, I guess.

It's Been a While...

So I have been engrossed in the everyday life of work, being a mom and wife, and an active figure skating judge, and not keeping up with the blog the way I wanted. Hitting the gym, getting my sessions in at the rink, and watching my health.

Then came my annual mammogram.

I scheduled it for my Christmas break, so it would be an easy in and out at the local clinic, and I would have an excuse to be lazy and eat leftover cookies because my boobs hurt from being in a vise.

I get a call the regular tech was sick, and she had the keys to the mobile unit, so I could reschedule for another day or I could go to another clinic. Since I had nothing else to do, I opted for the same day reschedule.

Everything is pretty routine, until lefty is in the vise. I say to the tech, "Immma gonnnnna sneeeeze!"

"Please don't!" she implored.

I stare at the ceiling, I try the press your upper lip trick, while holding my breath because I'm not supposed to move.

I sneeze as she snaps the film. So I have to get it taken again.

I don't think anything of this, I'm actually a bit smug leaving the clinic, applauding myself for making sure to take care of my health.

Two hours later, everything changes.

The clinic calls, and with a professional singsong voice, I'm told they're not sure, they think they found something, but need me to come back in for another mammogram to be sure. They are so no big deal about it, that I almost dismiss it.

Almost.

So I live with a nagging fear leading into new year's.

Could it be cancer?

And thus a new chapter begins.