Alysa Cummings

Last time I checked, cancer is not a comedy. No way. No how. Not even close. Maybe that’s why I was so disturbed by the movie trailer for 50/50 when it first appeared on TV last year.

For some unknown reason, they seemed to be marketing this cancer movie as a comedy. Seriously. Even though there’s not much plot-wise to put a smile on anyone’s face: a man in his late twenties tries to cope with treatment for a malignant tumor in his spine.

(Wait. Don’t laugh yet. There’s more…)

The patient’s dire diagnosis translates into multiple rounds of chemotherapy followed by high-risk surgery. Along the way, his artist/ girlfriend cheats on him, his mother tries to “smother love” the cancer right out of him and his best friend uses a head newly bald from chemo as a cool way to meet girls in bars and bookstores. Good times!

The 50/50 movie trailer made me so mad that I even started complaining about it to a friend who happens to be a fellow cancer survivor.

“Maybe the movie’s not funny-ha-ha,” said my friend. “Maybe it’s more funny- ironic. We should definitely go check it out.”

“I don’t know about that…” I responded. Then my friend suggested an alternate theory.

“Maybe they’re calling 50/50 a comedy just to sell movie tickets…” she said, her voice trailing off.

What was left unspoken was this: who in their right mind would make a serious movie about cancer and actually expect people to queue up and pay the current high price of a movie ticket to see it as entertainment?

Who, indeed. All I can say is that when 50/50 first hit the theatres last year, I was torn, feeling a real “push-pull”: wanting to see the movie because of the subject matter, avoiding seeing the movie because of the subject matter. Do you know what I mean?

Fast forward to now. 50/50 is out on DVD, as well as available on demand. Let the record show that today I surrendered without much of a fight to watch the movie in the privacy of my own living room.

And just as I suspected, 50/50 is definitely NOT a comedy; (I didn’t laugh at all; in fact I actually cried my way through half a box of Kleenex before the credits rolled). But that’s just fine with me because cancer is not a comedy. Instead, 50/50 is a wonderful film that focuses in a meaningful way on the cancer patient experience.

The movie shares moments – intense moments – that will ring true to many CancerLand veterans. Our hero gets the bad news sitting in his doctor’s office and the image on the screen immediately goes out of focus and the audio fades away. What a powerful way to depict the shock of a cancer diagnosis!

His doctor stays in a cold, clinical mode as he speaks with his patient about the treatment plan for his cancer. And his response to his patient’s deer-in-the-headlights expression is to immediately offer him the services of capable psychologists and social workers on staff.

Our newly diagnosed hero immediately makes an appointment to get some of that prescribed emotional support and discovers that he is patient #3 for a graduate student completing her dissertation. She quotes the psychosocial literature admirably, but is unable to be present and offer much comfort to a patient who is unnerved by life and death concerns, beyond patting his arm mechanically (there, there, this must be difficult for you…) as she has been very well trained to do.

Chemotherapy in the film is depicted as a social experience fueled by shared patient anger as well as home-baked cookies laced with marijuana. The newbie learns the ropes from two older cancer patients sitting in nearby barcaloungers who introduce themselves with the stage and location of their cancers. The instant intimacy among cancer patients is good medicine of another sort entirely, and our hero soon enjoys the benefits of connecting with fellow travelers on the road to recovery.

Caregivers try. They really do. But the truth is obvious – it’s not easy supporting a cancer patient who is going through the rigors of treatment. 50/50 introduces us to a girlfriend who admits she would rather wait for hours in the car than accompany her boyfriend into the Chemo Lounge. (I need to keep my energy separate from that), and to a best friend who secretly reads books in the bathroom with titles like How to Talk to a Cancer Patient and thoughtfully dog ears the best parts. The cancer patient’s mother confesses that she attends a support group for relatives to cope with her son’s health crisis. The details ring true because no doubt they are true; the screenplay was written by a cancer survivor.

Unlike various other cancer-themed movies that have played on the big and small screen over the years, these characters are based on real people and they act in believable ways. They live and breathe on the screen. They say the wrong thing at the wrong time. They mean well. They really do. But they are just like the rest of us – flawed, splendidly imperfect human beings trying to cope in the face of a health crisis.

If there is any humor in 50/50 it’s the chuckle of recognition, of seeing yourself, of seeing people you know and love being portrayed by famous actors in someone else’s cancer story. If you have spent any time at all in CancerLand, the situations and the behaviors on the screen will speak to you and remind you of parts of your own journey through treatment. And if you’re like me, watching 50/50 might move you to play back the mental movie of your own experience, help you acknowledge that you did the best that you could at the time, help you forgive yourself first and then everyone in your inner circle second. After all that, you just might sigh loudly and have a good cry. Not to worry; that’s the great thing about catharsis – it’s all good…

Cancer survivors, caregivers, doctors, nurses and social workers interacting with cancer patients, please add 50/50 to your “must see” list and see if you don’t agree with me.

Alysa Cummings

I double click to open my journal – a computer folder on my desktop filled with lots and lots of Word files, some dating back to 1998. These are files packed full of details of everything that has happened to me – day by day, one doctor’s appointment after another – since I was diagnosed with breast cancer. And as I glance at some text on the screen, one entry catches my eye, holds my attention and refuses to let go. Ten long years later, one particularly painful visit to a plastic surgeon still resonates in memory…

Good, that’s very good, the plastic surgeon says, his face totally hidden behind the camera. What’s good? she thinks to herself. How I look? There’s a brief delay as the doctor focuses, another as the electronic flash unit whirrs and recycles.

Pictures. Plastic surgeons need to take pictures. Lots of pictures. Before pictures. Post-reconstruction pictures. Expect-Multiple-Revisions-Because-Cosmesis-is-a-Lengthy-Process pictures.

So she faces the camera, flushed and red-faced, for a seemingly endless number of medical photographs. She poses as the doctor directs her to: naked to the waist, standing in front of a seamless black velvet background. While she feels exposed and vulnerable, truly uncomfortable in her own skin, she doesn’t say a word. But the unspoken dialogue in her head is another matter entirely.

Let’s finish this already. You’re not a photographer shooting a Vogue cover, for crying out loud, and I’m sure as hell no supermodel, she thinks to herself. Then she shivers, suddenly imagining what these photographs of her upper body will look like. Cringes knowing that there will now be a permanent record somewhere of her extreme disfigurement. (a purplish biopsy scar…the pale pink round bump of the port on her left side…patches of radiated skin burned to various shades of pale pink and light brown). Truth be told, lately she has purposely avoided looking too closely at her naked body in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door when she steps out of the shower every morning. There might be lots of good reasons why.

Over the past 18 months of medical procedures, radiation treatments, repeated breast surgeries and failed attempts at reconstruction, there have been so many physical changes. (the winding path of her mastectomy scar…the softball shaped right breast mound that sits grotesquely high on her chest, nudging her collarbone). Disturbing and dramatic changes to a body she lives in, but these days doesn’t really recognize as her own. She hasn’t mastered the breast cancer survivor’s fine art of looking in the mirror each and every time the bandages are removed, following yet another surgical procedure, without crying tears of disappointment and frustration.

Then she hears the camera shutter click again. She blinks at the bright light of the flash. I am shooting you from the neck down, the plastic surgeon says. Well, that’s good to know, she thinks to herself, because I am definitely not smiling for the camera. In fact, at this point, her mind chatter is so loud that she almost doesn’t hear the doctor’s mumbled comments as he scrutinizes his “tough case” of the day through the camera’s viewfinder. Anything we do for you, the plastic surgeon says, anything will be an improvement.

Alysa Cummings

Sometimes a day goes by, my breast cancer survivor buddy Lydia says wistfully, a whole day and I don’t think about it once. Not once! I can almost forget I had cancer, you know what I mean? And she says those words with this incredulous expression on her face, shaking her head from side to side as if to say, can you believe it? can you imagine? is such a thing actually possible?

I don’t know if in fact I do know what she means. But I listen and try on that feeling for size, to see how it fits.

Hours later I am sitting on my yoga mat, legs folded beneath me, listening to the teacher direct the class from the front of the room. She models our next posture – a seated twist – while she speaks the directions aloud to us in her gentle voice:…lift both your arms to the side…take a deep breath…extend from the waist…as you exhale, reach with your right arm for your left knee, twist at the waist and look over your left shoulder.

I listen to the George Winston piano CD playing in the background. I breathe deeply. I direct my cancer-treated, middle-aged body to move. At that moment, the yoga teacher adds a postscript to her directions. What I refer to as the Yoga Blessing: if it’s available to you, she says. Words that in my humble opinion ought to be part of life outside the yoga studio, part of life “off the mat” if you will: The Yoga Blessing is a caveat that encourages practice, while at the same time discourages competition and comparison with others. If it’s available to you…I love it! Ultimately it cautions against performance at a level that you just may not be ready for.

That’s the moment when I feel a sharp stabbing pain in the area below my right shoulder blade – the place where a muscle was removed by a plastic surgeon ten years ago to reconstruct my right breast. My gasp must be audible because the yoga teacher immediately looks in my direction and asks calmly, are you okay? Pain during yoga class is not okay. Listen to your body.

Good advice. I hear my body’s protest loud and clear and move tentatively into the child’s pose, head down, face to the mat. I surrender to the pain that has turned into a spasm across my back and breathe into it while soothing music continues to play in the background. As I wait for the pain to subside, I play back in my head my friend’s comments from earlier in the day (I can almost forget I had cancer), and hear a voice in my head say, that’s just not available to you yet.

But what a lovely thought…

Alysa Cummings

Saturday around noon there was a traffic jam at the Acme; a noticeable back up of shoppers heading southbound down aisle 5, right by the pretzel and candy displays (bags of Hershey miniatures on sale; two for six dollars with Supercard). All because of a slow moving senior citizen using her wagon as a walker, inching her way forward on shaky legs, one tentative step at a time. Backed up behind the elderly woman and unable to navigate the narrow crowded aisle to get around her, were a diverse bunch of Saturday supermarket shoppers – a young mom tending to her crying baby in a carrier, a man chatting a bit too loudly on a cell phone hands-free (probably to his wife to clarify exactly what he was supposed to bring home for dinner), and three teenage boys prowling for snacks. We all know these people. On any given weekend, we just might be one of these people. However, these shoppers of all ages with their long lists of places to go and things to buy, were unfortunately stuck dead in supermarket traffic. Lucky me, I was pushing my wagon north up the aisle, approaching the drama from the other direction. Don’t you just love these wonderful small human comedies? I’m always on the lookout for them – even more so since my cancer diagnosis. One of the great lessons I’ve learned in CancerLand is to practice living in the moment; not agonize over ancient history or obsess over what might happen in the near future, but appreciate instead the incredible specialness of “now,” – right here, right now. And as a result, hopefully tune in and experience life in a more mindful way. So here was an opportunity to practice doing just that, in aisle 5 of the neighborhood Acme. In fact, in the next moment we came face to face – the grey haired woman blocking aisle 5 supermarket traffic and me. Our eyes locked in that moment. I smiled and so did she, the countless wrinkles on her face framing a pair of twinkling blue eyes. We seemed to connect. I spoke first, Good morning how are you today? I asked. What did I expect the elderly stranger’s response to be? A nod of acknowledgement? A perfunctory fine, how are you? Instead what I heard as she moved slowly and deliberately past me towards the soda and tonic water at the end of the aisle, the group of shoppers still queued up impatiently behind her, was a punchline masterfully delivered with a comic’s timing. The response to my good morning, how are you today? was one word; just one word, that said it all. Old, she said.

Alysa Cummings

for S.S.

Six years. I check the calendar and still can’t quite believe my eyes. Six years since that December. Her last December.

Here’s what I remember:

She and I were support group buddies who gradually turned into best friends. And like so many patients who find each other, forge a bond and travel through CancerLand together, we focused on getting through it as a team, one challenging day at a time: the doctor’s appointments, the surgeries, the rounds of chemo, the seemingly endless wait for test results…

Until one day in late November when we heard the terrible news from her doctors. There was nothing left to do, they said; no new treatments to try. And her favorite time of year – Christmas – was right around the corner.

My friend told me she had a mission – to make it to Christmas. She told me in no uncertain terms that there was a big, long list of things that had to be done before December 25th. That’s when I came up with a great idea. Let me be your Hanukkah Elf, I joked. But since this is not my holiday, please be patient with me. Hey, I’m trainable and more than willing to do whatever I can to help.

My friend was so organized that despite her fragile health, she had already finished her holiday shopping. Her spare bedroom was filled with all of the toys, sweaters, and assorted holiday tchotchkes that she planned to give to her family and friends. There was a proverbial mountain of gifts to be tagged and wrapped, all under my friend’s watchful eye. Everything had to be “just so” for Christmas. Nothing less than perfect was acceptable. So with scissors in one hand and scotch tape in the other, I went to work. Hours later, the long dining room table was stacked end to end with presents wrapped in shiny red and green holiday paper.

Decorating the tree was the next challenge. There’s a first time for everything, I said. So where do I start? I asked looking at the jumble of lights and boxes of sparkly ornaments on the floor in the den. My friend looked at me from her wheelchair parked on the other side of the room and shook her head in disbelief. You really don’t know how to decorate a Christmas tree?

She silently pointed to a roll of wide ribbon on the coffee table. I picked it up and began to unwind it. Noel, Noel, Noel, I read aloud, admiring the shiny gold letters against the red background. Anchor the ribbon near the top of the tree, my friend directed. Now work the ribbon around the tree to your right, going in between the branches and keep going around and around and around…

Look at me decorating a Christmas tree, I thought to myself. And not doing a bad job of it either. Then I heard a sound behind me. Laughter. I turned around. My friend was laughing so hard that tears were running down her cheeks. What? I asked. Are you okay? What’s so funny?

Who. Is. Leon? My friend gasped between snorts of laughter. I looked up at the tree. The ribbon was wrapped around the tree, perfectly spaced between the branches, from top to bottom. Backwards. My friend continued to laugh. Leon? Leon? Leon?

When December rolls around on the calendar and I see Christmas trees on display, I can’t help but remember my friend. She orchestrated an amazing, picture perfect, last Christmas and even taught a Hanukkah Elf the finer points of holiday tree decoration.
Six years later and memories from that day can still move me to tears, but somehow – and here’s the best part – there’s always a smile on my face at the very same time.

Alysa Cummings

Holidays can be happy, happy, merry, merry or holidays can get on your last nerve.

You know what I mean? Honestly, it’s true. And trust me, cancer may have very little to do with it.

The season that starts with Thanksgiving and climaxes with New Year’s Day can drain anyone dry, even if you’re in the best of health. The flurry of activity – too many plans and not enough time to do them all. Overeating. Over-shopping. Over-stressing. Overdoing the celebration. (Did I mention relatives who occasionally overstay their welcome?) It can all be exhausting whether or not you live in CancerLand.

So what can you do for a friend, family member or loved one who’s just not “at their best” this holiday season because they are recovering from cancer treatment? How can you help them get through November, December and January with a smile on their face?

After giving this some thought, and checking in with some of my fellow survivors, here’s a short wishlist from CancerLand:

Help me feel normal

I’m still me! Sure I’ve been through some unpleasant medical treatment, and I might not look exactly the same, but I don’t want to be treated any differently. And, trust me, I will have zero tolerance for long faces, pitiful expressions and endless “howwww arrrrrre you’s.” all through dinner.

Help me feel special

Hug me. Kiss me. Celebrate with me. Whatever you do, please don’t avoid connecting with me. I’m grateful to be here – right here, right now – partying with all of you. Keep the invitations coming. Let me join in the merriment if I can, to the best of my ability. The spirit is willing! Let me work out the details.

Help me feel pretty

Losing my hair (along with selected body parts) doesn’t mean that I’ve lost my vanity. If the thought of buying me a gift makes you feel a little bit uncomfortable, (is this the right size? is this the right gift?) do the next best thing: give cash. Love that! Or a generous gift card to one of my favorite stores. I will be eternally grateful and I promise that I’ll treat myself to something sacredly selfish and special – all the while thinking lovingly of you.

Help me feel loved

I wish I had a dollar for every time someone said, “Please let me know if there’s anything that I can do…” Well-intentioned, no doubt, but an actual, caring gesture speaks volumes. The champion crocheter who creates a beautiful afghan that matches my living room color scheme and keeps me cozy during afternoon naps deserves a prize for Best Gift Ever. Ditto for the foodie who drops off a casserole dish filled with gourmet noodle kugel. I can eat some now and freeze the rest for future comfort food attacks. Thank you just doesn’t cover it! The neighbor who knows I need help dragging in those garbage cans every Friday morning and just does it without fanfare. That’s a real gift from the heart if you ask me. The friend who calls once a week “just to talk,” but instead chooses to listen. The gift of Beanie Baby miniature stuffed animals – all different types of cats – that keep me company while I’m seated in the Chemo Lounge. Blessings, blessings, all.

Happy Holidays!

Alysa Cummings

I’m at the neighborhood Acme, standing in the produce aisle, reaching for some shiny red MacIntosh apples, when I hear a female voice behind me:

Remind all the women in your life to get a mammogram…

Startled, I drop the fruit into my shopping cart, look around the store, and try to figure out where the voice is coming from. Suddenly I spot a monitor hanging from the ceiling, right over the potatoes, onions and shelled peanuts. On the screen, an attractive blonde in her mid-thirties is sharing the importance of breast health in a serious voice with a matching expression on her face:

Women over forty should get mammograms every year…

Who would argue with her? No one. Not me, certainly. Early detection is key. It’s literally lifesaving information that needs to be broadcast to the widest possible audience.

But that day at the Acme, standing in the produce aisle staring up at the monitor, I shake my head and angrily mutter two words under my breath: enough already! Thanks to Supermarket TV, I can’t even do my food shopping in peace without having to think about breast cancer.

Yes, it’s October again. Fall has arrived in rich shades of orange, brown and yellow. Everywhere you look there are signs of the seasons changing: big colorful piles of leaves raked to the curb, mums and pumpkins artfully arranged on the neighbors’ front steps.

But in CancerLand this time of year, there’s a totally different color scheme. October is the pink month. Truly, madly, deeply pink, everywhere you look: pink ribbons, pink tee shirts, pink hats. Shop online. You can buy pink ribbon stuffed animals, pink ribbon bracelets, pink ribbon shoelaces. On October 1 st even Yahoo got involved, looping a virtual pink ribbon around the first letter of their name.

This month there’s also dancing, racing, walking and driving for the cure. Go ahead, pick another verb I haven’t thought of, and someone else probably already has, and created an event for the cause, all in the name of pinkness. Now, please understand: I have nothing against fundraising, especially if it means we might actually get closer to a cure for cancer in my lifetime. What grates on my nerves is that so much of this well-intentioned effort is jam packed into the 31 days of October.

Open any newspaper or magazine this month. Odds are there’s a human interest story featuring a breast cancer survivor (or two). In these articles, the words fight, brave and battle will no doubt appear. Sometimes in the very same sentence. It makes me more than a little crazy.

On TV, expect the evening news to spotlight a new drug in the War Against Cancer. Or discuss an extremely unappetizing food that you have never heard of before that is now being touted for its anti-cancer properties. Change the channel: Oprah’s got Christina Applegate and Nancy Brinker on her show, both crying on camera, at the same time. Seriously, when it comes to Breast Cancer Awareness Month and its insidious pinkness, there’s truly nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Houston, we’ve got a problem. I’m on October pink overload. And there’s a few good reasons why.

Breast Cancer Awareness Month puts a spotlight on breast cancer. (I’m guessing the spotlight is pink, but I could be wrong). That fact by itself is incredibly ironic, because for so many of us on this bumpy road to recovery, breast cancer rarely moves very far from center stage. Survivors these days are strongly encouraged to think of breast cancer as a chronic disease. Which means it’s like a hawk flying wide, sleepy circles in the sky high above the earth. To take the metaphor one step further, during the entire month of October, that majestic predator lands, makes a huge nest on my head and squawks loudly non-stop for thirty-one days straight. I’m not kidding. Am I the only breast cancer survivor who feels this way? One thing I know for sure; I don’t need an entire month every year to remind me of things I can never ever forget.

Damn October – the non-stop pinkness, the endless breast self-exam reminders (in the shower, laying down, standing up) – the whole thing makes me self-conscious, knocks me totally off balance and shatters whatever “new normal” equilibrium I’ve managed to build up over the years. Which is such a shame because for me, October 2008 should be a time for serious celebration. Let the record show that it’s been ten years since my cancer diagnosis. (…and I’m feeling more than a little superstitious as I type these words and see them appear on the computer screen. Do I dare plan a Decade in CancerLand Party and risk angering the gods that keep me N.E.D.?)

But when all is said and done, here’s the real October demon. Breast Cancer Awareness Month has a way of putting my CancerLand experiences on instant replay. And, unfortunately, all of the intense feelings that go along with this traumatic chapter in my life play back too.

In late October, 1998, I remember being stretched out on my couch in the den watching the evening news. They were running one of those predictable stories about a Breast Cancer survivor that ended with the reporter promoting monthly self-examination. My hand moved with a mind of its own to my right breast. And that’s when I felt it: a lump.

By Halloween, I was flat on my back on the gynecologist’s examination table, staring up at the ceiling while the doctor stuck a syringe in my chest to aspirate fluid from the lump.

I tried to describe that night in my journal:

The holes in the ceiling tiles shift crazily in and out of focus. Dots. Holes. Shadows. Connect the dots. I squeeze the nurse’s hand much too tightly and wonder if all the sweat I feel is mine. I smell myself; my own sticky fear. I don’t like it , the doctor says, finally removing the needle. It’s very bloody. Not acting like a cyst at all. I sit up and look down at myself. The bandage on my chest is a small square with a bright red circle in the center. The flag of Japan , I think to myself. The doctor tries to reassure with lots of nervous pats on my leg. Then the door slams, she’s gone and I am alone, cold and shaking all over. I pull on my jeans and trash the paper gown. Something has changed. I know it. Feel it intuitively. For the first time I have seen cancer reflected in a doctor’s eyes. I have a feeling it won’t be the last…

By Thanksgiving I was recovering from my first surgery and being scheduled for a second one because the margins weren’t clear. By the eighth day of Hanukkah, I was through my first round of chemo. As thousands of people screamed for the ball to drop in Times Square to welcome the New Year, I watched them on TV and felt the hair on my head release in sections and slide down my back in clumps. Within days I was bald, without an eyelash or eyebrow in sight. All of this happened ten years ago. But when Breast Cancer Awareness Month comes around again, all dressed in pink, I have to stop for a moment and carefully check the year printed on my calendar; it still sometimes feels like it all just happened yesterday.

Maybe my support group buddy Cecelia will be my angel and help me get through Breast Cancer Awareness Month this year. She recently shared a poem she wrote that spoke to me so strongly. “Everywhere I go I carry cancer with me,” she wrote. “Now it’s not heavy.” I guess I know what I need to work on before next fall.

Originally Published on: October 5, 2009

Alysa Cummings

I’m at the neighborhood Acme, standing in the produce aisle, reaching for some shiny red MacIntosh apples, when I hear a female voice behind me:

Remind all the women in your life to get a mammogram…

Startled, I drop the fruit into my shopping cart, look around the store, and try to figure out where the voice is coming from. Suddenly I spot a monitor hanging from the ceiling, right over the potatoes, onions and shelled peanuts. On the screen, an attractive blonde in her mid-thirties is sharing the importance of breast health in a serious voice with a matching expression on her face:

Women over forty should get mammograms every year…

Who would argue with her? No one. Not me, certainly. Early detection is key. It’s literally lifesaving information that needs to be broadcast to the widest possible audience.

But that day at the Acme, standing in the produce aisle staring up at the monitor, I shake my head and angrily mutter two words under my breath: enough already! Thanks to Supermarket TV, I can’t even do my food shopping in peace without having to think about breast cancer.

Yes, it’s October again. Fall has arrived in rich shades of orange, brown and yellow. Everywhere you look there are signs of the seasons changing: big colorful piles of leaves raked to the curb, mums and pumpkins artfully arranged on the neighbors’ front steps.

But in CancerLand this time of year, there’s a totally different color scheme. October is the pink month. Truly, madly, deeply pink, everywhere you look: pink ribbons, pink tee shirts, pink hats. Shop online. You can buy pink ribbon stuffed animals, pink ribbon bracelets, pink ribbon shoelaces. On October 1 st even Yahoo got involved, looping a virtual pink ribbon around the first letter of their name.

This month there’s also dancing, racing, walking and driving for the cure. Go ahead, pick another verb I haven’t thought of, and someone else probably already has, and created an event for the cause, all in the name of pinkness. Now, please understand: I have nothing against fundraising, especially if it means we might actually get closer to a cure for cancer in my lifetime. What grates on my nerves is that so much of this well-intentioned effort is jam packed into the 31 days of October.

Open any newspaper or magazine this month. Odds are there’s a human interest story featuring a breast cancer survivor (or two). In these articles, the words fight, brave and battle will no doubt appear. Sometimes in the very same sentence. It makes me more than a little crazy.

On TV, expect the evening news to spotlight a new drug in the War Against Cancer. Or discuss an extremely unappetizing food that you have never heard of before that is now being touted for its anti-cancer properties. Change the channel: Oprah’s got Christina Applegate and Nancy Brinker on her show, both crying on camera, at the same time. Seriously, when it comes to Breast Cancer Awareness Month and its insidious pinkness, there’s truly nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Houston, we’ve got a problem. I’m on October pink overload. And there’s a few good reasons why.

Breast Cancer Awareness Month puts a spotlight on breast cancer. (I’m guessing the spotlight is pink, but I could be wrong). That fact by itself is incredibly ironic, because for so many of us on this bumpy road to recovery, breast cancer rarely moves very far from center stage. Survivors these days are strongly encouraged to think of breast cancer as a chronic disease. Which means it’s like a hawk flying wide, sleepy circles in the sky high above the earth. To take the metaphor one step further, during the entire month of October, that majestic predator lands, makes a huge nest on my head and squawks loudly non-stop for thirty-one days straight. I’m not kidding. Am I the only breast cancer survivor who feels this way? One thing I know for sure; I don’t need an entire month every year to remind me of things I can never ever forget.

Damn October – the non-stop pinkness, the endless breast self-exam reminders (in the shower, laying down, standing up) – the whole thing makes me self-conscious, knocks me totally off balance and shatters whatever “new normal” equilibrium I’ve managed to build up over the years. Which is such a shame because for me, October 2008 should be a time for serious celebration. Let the record show that it’s been ten years since my cancer diagnosis. (…and I’m feeling more than a little superstitious as I type these words and see them appear on the computer screen. Do I dare plan a Decade in CancerLand Party and risk angering the gods that keep me N.E.D.?)

But when all is said and done, here’s the real October demon. Breast Cancer Awareness Month has a way of putting my CancerLand experiences on instant replay. And, unfortunately, all of the intense feelings that go along with this traumatic chapter in my life play back too.

In late October, 1998, I remember being stretched out on my couch in the den watching the evening news. They were running one of those predictable stories about a Breast Cancer survivor that ended with the reporter promoting monthly self-examination. My hand moved with a mind of its own to my right breast. And that’s when I felt it: a lump.

By Halloween, I was flat on my back on the gynecologist’s examination table, staring up at the ceiling while the doctor stuck a syringe in my chest to aspirate fluid from the lump.

I tried to describe that night in my journal:

The holes in the ceiling tiles shift crazily in and out of focus. Dots. Holes. Shadows. Connect the dots. I squeeze the nurse’s hand much too tightly and wonder if all the sweat I feel is mine. I smell myself; my own sticky fear. I don’t like it , the doctor says, finally removing the needle. It’s very bloody. Not acting like a cyst at all. I sit up and look down at myself. The bandage on my chest is a small square with a bright red circle in the center. The flag of Japan , I think to myself. The doctor tries to reassure with lots of nervous pats on my leg. Then the door slams, she’s gone and I am alone, cold and shaking all over. I pull on my jeans and trash the paper gown. Something has changed. I know it. Feel it intuitively. For the first time I have seen cancer reflected in a doctor’s eyes. I have a feeling it won’t be the last…

By Thanksgiving I was recovering from my first surgery and being scheduled for a second one because the margins weren’t clear. By the eighth day of Hanukkah, I was through my first round of chemo. As thousands of people screamed for the ball to drop in Times Square to welcome the New Year, I watched them on TV and felt the hair on my head release in sections and slide down my back in clumps. Within days I was bald, without an eyelash or eyebrow in sight. All of this happened ten years ago. But when Breast Cancer Awareness Month comes around again, all dressed in pink, I have to stop for a moment and carefully check the year printed on my calendar; it still sometimes feels like it all just happened yesterday.

Maybe my support group buddy Cecelia will be my angel and help me get through Breast Cancer Awareness Month this year. She recently shared a poem she wrote that spoke to me so strongly. “Everywhere I go I carry cancer with me,” she wrote. “Now it’s not heavy.” I guess I know what I need to work on before next fall.

Alysa Cummings

Something good. The first time I tried it, and it worked, no one was more surprised than me.

Let me tell you what happened:

Over the summer I struggled with a bad case of the blues. Long weeks of low energy and negative thoughts. Little or no enthusiasm to make plans with other people. Way too much time spent sitting alone and numb in front of the TV, hypnotized by old movies and summer reruns.

How weird to feel so down, so listless, so unmotivated and not know the reason why. I couldn’t blame my ongoing sadness on any recent crisis in my life. Or on one of those I’m-sorry-I-have-some-bad-news-for-you phone calls from an Onco-doc. And it certainly wasn’t a nasty side effect of any new pharmaceutical in my medicine cabinet.

So I analyzed and ultimately rationalized my situation this way: can’t mood swings happen to the best of us, whether or not we are in- or outside of CancerLand? This psychological low point just was –and clearly in my life right now for no particular reason I could come up with. But the truth was, I hated feeling this way. I wanted the ‘old me’ back.

How could I short-circuit my blue mood and put a smile back on my face?

Then I remembered the idea of setting positive intentions. Maybe I read about it in one of those books I find myself constantly skimming in the self-help section at Borders. (You know the ones I’m talking about – they have catchy, italicized subtitles with lots of exclamation points – Take control of your life NOW!!!). Maybe I heard about it on Oprah or Dr. Phil. All I know is that I was at a point where I had nothing to lose and everything to gain, so I did it: I started setting positive intentions.

Once I made up my mind to try it, beginning the process was incredibly easy. Driving to work the next morning, I picked a positive thought (something good will happen today), and repeated it silently to myself over and over again until I pulled into the parking lot.

The next step would be more of a challenge. I had to wait and see what my first something good would turn out to be.

That night there it was, something good sitting in my mailbox, tucked neatly between the bills and Home Depot circulars: a handmade thank you card from a fellow cancer survivor. She wrote, how can I ever thank you for all you’ve done for me and all you’ve been for me in some of my darkest hours? Wow!I was touched by her kind words and totally freaked out by her incredible timing.

The next morning something good turned out to be a parade of geese stopping traffic to walk across a busy suburban side street to reach the pond on the other side of the road. This updated version of Make Way for Ducklings immediately put a big smile on my face.

On Saturday afternoon something good was my three year old neighbor Margot running into my yard with her child-sized toy rake in hand to help me clean up the first fallen leaves of the season. After raking diligently for a few minutes, Margot bent over and picked up a few acorns from the ground.

She held them out to me in the palm of her hand and announced proudly, “Cocoanuts for you.“

Forever the teacher, I gently corrected her. “These are actually acorns, Margot.”

“No, cocoanuts,” she insisted.

What is the name of a round object that falls from a tree that has a hard outside covering? Hmmmmmm. I tried to see the world through her three-year old eyes and couldn’t help but smile. It’s all how you look at it, isn’t it?

Another day something good was the e-mail I got from the public library announcing that a New York Times Bestseller that I had put on reserve over a month ago was now waiting for me to pick it up.

Before long something good was peeking through the kitchen window at the morning glories climbing the patio fence, wide open in shades of pale blue and hot pink at 6:30 a.m.

Something good was also silently watching a pair of tiger swallowtails lazily explore purple flowers blooming on the backyard butterfly bush.

No doubt about it. Something good was working wonderfully well for me, so I continued the experiment. Day after day, during my daily commute, I diligently repeated to myself the same positive intention. By dinnertime I reviewed the day’s events to pick out something good that had happened. Soon it became obvious that this process created a marvelous tension, powerful enough to lift my spirits for most of the day.

Finally I had to ask, did setting the positive intention actually make something good happen? Was I in fact drawing happiness and joy towards me like a magnet? Or did this process just supply the attitude adjustment, helping me to focus on the many small and precious moments that can be uplifting, only if we are properly “tuned in” to experience them?

Was it the chicken or the egg? In the end, does it matter?

Today something good is completing this piece and sharing it with all of you.

Alysa Cummings

Donations.  I’m a volunteer in charge of donations for a local office of a cancer organization. So for a few hours every week, I sort through bags stuffed full of donations.  Cancer-related types of donations to be exact: wigs, hats, scarves, bras and breast prostheses.  Special items that cancer survivors often need and don’t have the money (or insurance coverage) to buy.  Things that help ladies look as good as they can after surgery and during cancer treatment.

Here’s the drill: I empty a bag of donations onto a long table, hold up each item and evaluate:  (Would I wear this wig?  Or is it too worn out to be recycled?)  Within minutes I have a pile of treasures that will eventually make their way into the hands (and in some cases onto the heads) of cancer patients who will make good use of them.

Donations.  I’ve done this work for more than a year now and it has a way of making me smile.  I like the feeling of serving fellow cancer survivors.  It feels good to give back this way.

But on occasion as I have sifted through a bag of donations, my thoughts have wandered.  (Who wore this wig?)  And I have consciously tried to imagine the wig belonging to a woman like me, a cancer survivor happy to have finally finished chemo and radiation. A woman well into recovery, now deciding to donate her wig since her hair has grown back.  I haven’t wanted to think about other, sadder possibilities.

And that strategy has worked wonderfully well.  Up until now, that is.

I spotted the bra first:  pale pink, almost like new, folded in half, one cup folded neatly into the other, poking out of the top of a brown Acme bag.  When I emptied the bag onto the table, two wigs slid out:  each short, brown, layered with auburn highlights.  I continued to inventory the bag’s contents: one silicone prosthesis (size 12), one lace trimmed sleeping cap, six headscarves (One silk paisley patterned scarf caught my eye.  It was long enough to wrap around your head.  Wouldn’t it look exotic worn with silver hoop earrings?), one donor note.

We acknowledge all donations with a thank-you letter, so I opened the note and read the handwritten words inside:  In memory of Susan P.

I was stopped.  Stopped cold.  Susan P.  I know Susan P.  I instantly corrected my grammar.  I knew Susan P.  Before she died.  She was in my breast cancer support group.

Memories of Susan flashed quickly through my head ending with the final image – a cold, rainy night at a local funeral home, waiting my turn to walk by her coffin and pay my respects to her family.

Donations.  I’m a volunteer in charge of donations for a local office of a cancer organization.  So after I grabbed a tissue and wiped away the tears, I picked up a brush, shook out and styled the first wig and carefully anchored it on a mannequin head.  Then I tied the silk paisley scarf around the mannequin’s neck.  For you, Susan, I whispered. under my breath.  For you, my friend.

Alysa Cummings

Dear Doctor,

I am writing to say I’m sorry. I know my apology is almost 11 years overdue, but I mean it. I really do.

With so many doctors on the team working at the imaging center, what are the odds that you would be the one reading my films this year? But as luck would have it, after my Fall 2009 mammogram last week, I walked down the hall to chat with the radiologist on call like I always do. And there you were in your long white coat, standing in the semi-darkness peering up at the screens filled with ghostly compressed breast images. No one was more surprised than me.

You must remember me. How could you ever possibly forget the patient who pushed you across the room?

It was an awful day (what I now refer to as the Eve of Diagnosis) and yes, I remember all the details vividly. After reviewing the initial films, you sent me back for more views. Then I had an ultrasound. Next, you stepped into the room and walked over to talk to me. I don’t know, you said, your voice trailing off with uncertainty. There’s something there, but I don’t know. I just don’t know. You said those same words over and over again, in a low voice, almost under your breath actually, as if you were talking to yourself, with this incredibly serious expression on your face. But Doctor, I was sitting right there on the edge of the examining table facing you. Unfortunately I heard you loud and clear.

Maybe there was just one I-don’t-know too many that set me off. I don’t know for sure. But I do know that there was a metallic taste of panic in my mouth, along with a pounding pain in my head. There was too much cancer uncertainty for one person to sanely cope with. And since I felt so scared, so powerless and couldn’t push away the fear that there was a malignant tumor growing somewhere in my right breast, I did the next best thing. I put my hands on your shoulders and gave you a shove. (an-Elaine-Benes-from-Seinfeld-GET-OUT-kind-of-shove). Pushed you away instead. Crazy time: in what seemed like slow motion, you stumbled backwards, your eyes wide with surprise, then regained your balance and without saying a word, quickly left the room.

Fast forward – 11 long years later, (one mastectomy, eight rounds of chemo and 35 radiation treatments later) – and there we were together again last week, face to face. And in that highly charged moment, I couldn’t push any words of apology past my lips. I was much too embarrassed. Especially when I noticed that when our eyes met, without missing a beat, you coolly rolled over an office chair to fill the open space between us.

Just in case…