This month you made your international television debut on CNN!
This story was about Debbie Cantwell, another woman who survived breast cancer. She went on to build an organization to help other young women with breast cancer. She helped us by hiring someone to come clean our home when I was tired and weak from the treatments. Now she is being honored as a CNN Hero, and I jumped at the opportunity to thank her, and tell the world how critical her help was. [Full Story]
You were so cute, but I wish I’d made you sit still before-hand, so I could get a better part in your hair.
Then, a few days later, they came out with another video, this time it was longer, and showed even more of you…
The whole production was so much fun, and the team that came out to interview us was really nice, and set us all at ease right off the bat. Anytime you get a chance to stand up and say thank you – grab it!
We’ve had other big developments this month as well. We moved into a new apartment. It’s quite a bit smaller than our old place, but you love it. For one thing, you get quite a bit more freedom to run around the house than I allowed you in the old place, and you get to spend more time playing unsupervised in your bedroom. Some of that is out of necessity.
For instance, you graduated from a crib to a big-girl toddler bed.
I love listening to your non-stop chatter over the baby monitor. One day I heard: “keep trying, keep trying” and “try it again.” When I became a Mommy, I was granted eyes in the back of my head, and the ability to see through walls; I knew exactly what you were doing. I went into your room and sure enough, there you were perched on top of the crib railing making your escape. No more crib for you.
Unfortunately, you are also quite skilled at opening doors, and know exactly what to do with a deadbolt. I’m sure our attempts to keep you from wandering away would fail the fire marshal’s standards for ease of egress, but a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do. I’m certain a fire marshal with a 2 year old would understand.
Your happy place here in our new home seems to be mommy and daddy’s bed. Whenever you get quiet and disappear, that’s the first place I look. There you are, perched in the middle of our bed surrounded with your books and babies. And a couple times a day you will take me by the hand and lead me in there and ask to “sluggle.” How can I say no to that? When I go to bed at night, the first step is emptying our bed of your playthings so there is room for me to lie down.
You sing all the time. You make up little songs, but most of the time you just sing a running report of what you happen to be doing at the moment. I have often heard you singing: “sitting in a chair, sitting in a chair…”
Your language skills are really blossoming, but sometimes it takes a little time to figure out what you mean. The other day you came to me and asked me to: “rescue it, the pie cake?” I could not for the life of me figure that one out, until eventually, like Lassie leading Timmy to the well, you brought me to your bedroom and looked hard at the register under the window. So I looked too.
Sure enough, there was a pancake (pie cake) stuck in the register, along with a few crayons. Maybe we need to rethink the unsupervised playtime in your bedroom. Also, we need to figure out how to childproof that register, because it get’s really hot. I know it gets really hot because the thermostat is within your reach. Maybe we need to rethink those ease of egress issues, too.
I don’t image this post is going to garner me any mom of the year awards, but that’s not the point anyway.
I’m just doing the best I can, just like most of the other parents out there.
Someday you might find yourself in the same boat. Parenting isn’t full of easy, one-size-fits-all answers. It’s hard, and sometimes you feel like there is no right answer. Parenting is trial by fire, learn on the job, and there is no way to know if you’re doing the right thing. It’s also the most fun I’ve ever had.
When my Grandparents moved to Alaska in the 1940s, it was still very much a frontier. It was both the wild, wild west, and the frigid north.
Grandma took notes. By compiling and transcribing her notes, and sharing them on my blog, I’m fulfilling a promise to her to make these stories available and accessible to the rest of the family. I have created an archive to which I am slowly transcribing and adding these documents: McKinley Family Archives.
I’ve left these stories exactly as she wrote them, although I have been hunting down photos for illustration.
Here she is again, Doris McKinley, in her own words.
enjoy.
Steve, Karen, and Rodger with the family plane
The Last Frontier, Alaska 1947
Anchorage, a thriving business community, is the nerve center of western Alaska. In 1939 it had a population of 3000, now with the post-war influx, it boasts of nearly 15,000 – causing a serious housing shortage. Building in all classes is progress, but far too short of its needs.
Ft. Richardson, located only five miles from Anchorage is a combined Military, Naval, and Air Command with a personnel of about 12,000. The United States Government is pouring tremendous sums of money into the development of Ft. Richardson as the permanent headquarters of all Alaska Defenses.
Thus, there are some 25,000 local people served by Anchorage business. This is exclusive of the “bush.” The term “bush” is used to identify outlying terretory. “Bush pilots” are very efficient airmen, piloting their own planes. Their business consists of scheduled and unscheduled hops to almost any point within a radius of 400 to 500 miles. Residents of these remote localities, traders, trappers, and miners rely on the bush pilot and his light plane as readily as persons in the States use the bus or train. For in all Alaska there are only about 2000 miles of automobile roads.
The Alaskan economy is dependent on the various phases of aviation.
One day we saw a shy native boy carrying a baby seal. Walking along the street, he was drawing considerable attention. He had found the seal on the shore, it apparently had become lost from its mother. It lay quite content and quietly in the boy’s arms. The face seemed much like a dog’s, tho larger, with a rather pointed nose. The heavy brown body and flippers were interesting.
When my Father was in Anchorage last March, he saw several native Indian women carrying babies on their backs. As he was talking with one, he noticed severe sores along the baby’s jaw. Inquiring of the Mother what caused the sore, she replied, “Just rubbing.”
On a motor trip to Valdez, a distance of 300 miles by highway, which I am sure is not more than 75 by air, we saw a fish wheel in operation. This wheel was similar to a conventional water wheel, excep that each peddle had a wire screen which built up the side and end. The inside was left open so that as the river current turned the wheel, a fish was caught and held until that section reached the top and the fish dropped out onto a slide thence into a tank of water. The native then picked up the fish, split and cleaned it, then hung it by the tail on a nail with rows of other fish. Drying frames were built in a square and a fire smoldered in the center. Smoked, dried fish are a staple diet of the seld dogs and natives in winter. The use of these wheels are limited to the native population.
McKinley Family log home
Salmon fishing is most popular and during the season it is very common to see men, women or children on the streets with their fishing tackle going to Fish Creek near the Railroad. One day an old-time showed us the procedure. We bought stought fish line, heavy sinkers and large three pronged hooks. The idea is to throw the hook into the stream and jerk it back. Really, we snag salmon as they do not bite. Some time passed and we had no luck, our friend insisted, however, that the salmon would be at that spot about 15 minutes after the tide came in.
Shortly afterward a little boy, possibly 8 years old said, “If you’ll throw your hook right over there, Doc, you’ll catch a fish!” Sure enough, Lee brought in a nice four or five pound salmon, and brought in several more in a short time. The youngster caught two, pulled them onto the shore, but before he could get a good hold on them they flopped back into the water. He went on fishing as tho nothing had happened. When we were ready to leave, he handed two other fish to my husband, saying “Here, Doc, you take these. My mother wont let me bring any more fish home!” Lee skinned and filleted them, and we cooked in a friend’s kitchen that evening. They were truly delicious.
These were the silver salmon and were about 18″ long, later in July the big king salmon appear which may weigh 10, 15, or 20 pounds.
The famed Matanuska Valley farming project which was publicized a few years ago is located about 50 miles from Anchorage on the only highway which joins Fairbanks and Anchorage. The project is managed on a cooperative basis, is successful, and is developing into a real asset to Alaska. These farms, many only ten or fifteen years removed from the wilderness, are remarkably fertile. Farmers are farm owners as tenant farming is frowned upon. The valley produces vegetables of unusual size due to the very long days during the growing season. Dairying is being rather slowly developed because of the difficulties of carrying the herds thru the long winters. Farm buildings, built with Government assistance follow identical plans and are built of logs. Most farm work is, however, carried on with tractors and modern machinery.
This morning I heard the story of Aleisha Hunter, who was diagnosed with Breast Cancer when she was three years old. I had to rush right home to hug my baby.
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I understood that my daughter’s risk for developing cancer was increased, but it didn’t occur to me that she could develop it as a toddler.
That’s an odd thing for me to say; since my diagnosis, I have been drumming in to my friends and neighbors, and everyone with whom I interact online, that no one is too young to get breast cancer. I tell people not to let a doctor, or anyone else, be dismissive of a breast lump or discomfort, or suggest it couldn’t be cancer because of your age. It was easy for me to say a 20-year-old is not too young to get breast cancer, but my mind did not allow me to extend that caution to toddlers.
I spend a lot of time thinking about this diagnosis and how to manage the fear, particularly in reference to my daughter. How do I teach her to live her life at full speed, while still teaching her to take care. I don’t want to teach her to be fearful; I don’t want her to live a life of timidity and fear. On the other hand, I don’t want her to be dismissive of danger. Where do you find that balance? I have thought about teaching her to do breast exams, but the time frame I had in mind was a whole lot closer to puberty. Actually, that probably still wont change. But I want to find ways of discussing breast cancer and breast exams, not as a way of looking for a monster that is to be feared, but just a part of self care, like putting on a seat belt when you get in the car, not an anxious event, but one you wouldn’t overlook either.
But, as in other aspects of parenting, I think the best way to teach her to not let fear take control, to teach her to balance boldness with prudence, is to be a good example.
Hmmm….
I’m nearly done with treatment. I have two weeks left of radiation and then six months herceptin and then I just get on with my life, hoping the beast does not return. I can’t say it will be back to life as usual, because post-cancer life involves a bit of looking back over your shoulder. Post-cancer life means scans every six months to see if the cancer is regrouping for another attack. Post-cancer life means every ache and pain takes on a new meaning, it means asking “Am I being a hypochondriac, or would ignoring this ache be irresponsible?” It means paying extra attention to what lawmakers are doing – will their actions restrict my access to insurance or health care? Heightened awareness is a necessity. The trick, it seems, is to find a way to prevent that focus and attention from becoming a fixation and translating into fear.
And I’ve got to figure this out quick, because I have a little girl watching my every move.
My heart goes out to Aleisha, and her family. She underwent a full mastectomy, inluding lymph node disection, and is expected to make a full recovery. Thinking ahead to those awkward years of puberty and breast development, I hope she is able to develop and maintain a strong and healthy body image, and that she too finds a way to balance boldness with prudence.
I also hope that by spreading this story we can help save more lives. Breast cancer is not a disease of the aged, it can strike at any time. Please check your boobies.
Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011? (Reverb 10 – Day 7 / Prompt Author: caligater)
I started 2010 with my thoughts on community.
I enjoy my friends individually, but I missed belonging to a circle of friends. It’s been a long time since I had local friends who were friends with each other. It’s even more complicated now that some have kids, and some don’t. Schedules don’t sync up, we go weeks without seeing each other, and I end up craving grownup conversation. I was looking for a community to join at the beginning of the year. Specifically, I was looking for a writers’ group.
Cancer made a difference.
I was having grownup conversations with my doctors that no one should have to have. But cancer also led me to a circle of women, all breast cancer survivors, who would become my friends. At least twice a month I connect with other women, many with babies and young children, who understand what I’m going through. This community is not only helping me through this difficult diagnosis, it is addressing issues that existed before I knew I had cancer.
As I look ahead to 2011
I plan to find more communities. I am going to renew my search for a good writers’ group; I need the writing practice, and I thoroughly enjoyed my previous experience belonging to a writers’ group.
But there is something else that has been weighing on my heart since my diagnosis. Cancer support groups tend to be divided up by diagnosis, and they tend to be exclusive. Every day I count myself fortunate that my cancer cells first attacked my breast. Breast cancer is a popular cause, and while there is still so much need, most support groups and services are exclusively dedicated to breast cancer survivors.
Sure, most women with cancer happen to have breast cancer, but that is no comfort for the 29-year-old single mom in a support group full of 60-year-old men because she has rectal cancer. Would you want to discuss your chemo induced menopause in that environment? She’s receiving many of the same chemo drugs, and the radiation differs just in location. That young woman has no access to the Komen funds that help pay the rent of breast cancer survivors, or the house keeping services for breast cancer survivors, or the circle of young moms battling breast cancer. Fundraisers for ‘Save the Ta-Tas,’ T.I.T.S. (Two in the Shirt), and any number of other tongue in cheek parties that combine boobs with booze fill our social calendars, but nobody wants to go to a save the rectums party. Just because the cancer cells first attacked her caboose instead of her headlights, this young woman is excluded from an amazing array of cancer coping resources. And she is not alone. Millions are in the same predicament.
So let’s bring those millions together.
Or, as far as the Seattle area is concerned, lets bring those hundreds together.
I want to create a community for young adults with cancer, especially mothers of young children, that is inclusive rather than exclusive.
And then I want to find a way to help get them the kind of amazing support, financial and otherwise, that I have received as a breast cancer survivor.
People say some interesting things to me when they find out I have cancer. I understand that, for the most part, they mean well, but sometimes the things that come out of their mouths may not have the desired effect.
There is a time and place to tell me about all the people you know who have died from cancer, but it’s not really encouraging to the newly diagnosed. I’m sorry you’ve lost loved ones, I have too. But it’s not an appropriate response to the revelation that someone has cancer.
Another thing people tell me is that I could have another good twenty years in me. At the outset, that sounds great when your odds of hitting the five year survival mark are looking slim.
But then I look at my year-and-a-half old daughter and I know that twenty years is not enough. I need to be there to guide her through adolescence, dance at her wedding, and spoil her children. I need to be a grandma.
Twenty years is not enough. I can’t set the bar that low.
I know, realistically, that I may not have that much time. I know I have friends who don’t have that much time either. This breaks my heart. But I have to set the bar higher.
I’ve meet people who are 17 year survivors and I’m awed. It’s beautiful and amazing to survive that long, but it’s not enough. I want more. At the recent Race for the Cure there was a 45 year survivor. That’s a little more like it. But still, I want more.
I want to live.
I want to get old.
My grandmother recently passed away at the age of 99. She was 60 years older than me.
I think it’s about time we had a 60 year breast cancer survivor. How about telling me I could have 60 more good years in me? Then, when I hit the ripe old age of 99, I’ll ask for more time anyway.
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