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.