Lost a Step or Two Along the Way

It’s been quite an eight months. Carolyn, Juan Carlos and our grandchildren returned to Santiago, Chile.  Fought and won a quick war with breast cancer. Lived through two and half months of construction, as a leak turned our house into a disaster zone for way too long. Took on an intense assignment for a San Francisco client that was a lot of fun – and a lot of work. Then got an even more intense assignment with a Southern California client that has had me running non-stop for three months and will do so for the foreseeable future. And finally, since nothing much else was going on, we decided to demo the kitchen and start over from scratch.

I’ve managed to juggle it all, but for one thing – walking five miles a day  become just impossible, or so it seems.

Two weeks ago, the battery on my FitBit died, and I couldn’t find the stupid little recharger that comes with the One. I tossed the FitBit into my nightstand and ordered a new recharger. Which is on back order until May 13. The final excuse to be a lump had fortuitously arrived.

Except that I find myself anxious and prone to depression. Not to mention chubby. Walking 5 miles a day, it turns out, is a pretty good treatment for whatever ails you. So rather than upping my Zoloft, I bit the bullet and order a new FitBit – just for the recharger. Extravagant, yes, but I decided that waiting another two weeks to get back to a good routine was too long. And yes, thank you, I am that neurotic that exercise doesn’t count unless I can measure it and strive to meet a goal.

I’m no less busy and my life is no less crazed. But with the motivation of knowing that I don’t want to look at the FitBit at the end of the day and see that I’ve taken exactly 45 steps, I think I can start to get healthy again. One step at a time.

Yahoooooooooooooo

Among my communication friends, the whole Yahoo “work from home” “don’t work from home” debacle has been the subject of loads of speculation. A lot of us were highly critical of the move; a lot of us were very supportive of the move.

But no one, not one person, thought it was well communicated. And the whole disaster reminded me of what I’ve preached for years – that communicators are risk managers, change agents, advisors, who can add tremendous value to their companies when they have earned the respect of the leadership.

Here are my thoughts on the subject, recently published on the website of Baker Brands, a Santa Monica-based design and branding consultancy:

The Changing World of Employee Communication

Common Sensa

If there’s a diet designed for suckers, I’ve fallen for it. Cabbage soup? What a fabulous idea! South Beach? Yup, done it. (Lost 30 pounds on that one, which is kind of amazing because the complete lack of whole grains and dependence on protein made for a seriously constipating experience. Oh, and I gained the weight back once I returned to eating normal food.) I’m embarrassed to admit that I even tried the Shangri La diet – for one day (This one swore that if you swallowed a teaspoon of olive oil in the morning, you wouldn’t be hungry all day. Which was true, because I was nauseous for 12 straight hours.). Tried Jenny Craig but couldn’t stand talking to the saccharine sweet “weight advisor” once a week. Tried NutraSystems but my freezer wasn’t big enough to store 30 days worth of frozen meals that tasted suspiciously like cardboard. And yes, I’m on and off Weight Watchers but hate to clock the points for those two glasses of wine every night.

Hey! Stop rolling your eyes! I can see you!  And I know what I’m doing wrong. Including those two glasses of wine at night. Which I don’t want to give up (and have no intention of doing – life is tough enough without skipping wine).

I also know what I’m doing right – tons of exercise, don’t eat dessert, always eat breakfast, don’t drink soda. So I’m not a complete loser. And in fact, took off 15 pounds three years ago and have kept it off. But I’d love to lose another 15.

So I’m back to searching for the silver bullet – the plan that will let me eat and drink just as I’m doing today but will help me shed weight. Because you know? I’m not into sacrifice right now.

And then, as if Facebook’s magic genies were reading my mind, up popped a series of ads for Sensa on my home page. Yes, Sensa, the latest miracle cure for us fatties. I resisted for a few days, but my resistance was down. (One of the many unpleasant aspects of having cancer is going to the doctor constantly – and being forced to get weighed with every visit…”"Hmmm, very good, Mrs. McKenzie, you haven’t gained any weight. But your BMI is still over 27….”) So I clicked on the link…

And there it was. The miracle diet to beat all miracle diets. And, best of all, it involves magic powder! All you do is sprinkle the magic on your food and after a few bites, you’re full. You can eat whatever you want, but Sensa powder gives you instant portion control. Instead of scarfing down the entire turkey burger, you’ll have a few bites, put the burger down, yawn casually, and say, “Oh my. I don’t think I can eat one more bite. I’m sooooo full.”

Sign me up! I was about to click “Yes! I want to try Sensa for free and with absolutely no risk!” when my finger hesitated. Was this perhaps too good to be true? So I typed “Is Sensa a big fat fraud?” into my browser. I was immediately swept to Amazon customer reviews where I learned the following:

1. Yes. It’s a big fraud.
2. The magic powder makes your food taste so vile that of course you stop eating it. You could accomplish the same thing by making yourself a dung burger instead of a turkey burger. After one sniff, you won’t be the least big hungry anymore.
3. Once you click on the free trial, Sensa will be in your life forever. Just try unsubscribing or quitting the program – once Sensa has their lethal claws in your bountiful flesh, they won’t be leaving without a fight.

Damn. I was so sure I had found the solution. If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I think I need a glass of medicinal Pinot Noir to get myself over this severe shock…

Bounce Back in My Step

OK, let’s be honest. November sucked. Totally. First, the diagnosis of breast cancer. Second, a slow drip over the last six months had, unbeknown to us, created the equivalent of Lake Erie in our living room ceiling. This revealed itself to us the Sunday after my diagnosis when filthy water started pouring onto our white sofa.

What next, locusts?

But what the heck. It’s December, and while I’m not exactly out ringing sleigh bells of joy, we’re definitely getting back on track.

We’ve dealt decisively with the cancer. I had a lumpectomy and lymph node biopsy on November 30, and while the tumor was malignant, my lymph nodes were clear. I’ve met with the radiation oncologist and the regular oncologist to discuss the treatment plan, and had genetic counseling to see if I have the bad BRCA gene. What I’ve heard and learned has been incredibly encouraging.

Let’s start with the best news: I no longer have breast cancer. That was fixed with the surgery. That put a BIG grin on my face. Second, the focus going forward is to prevent a recurrence (recurrences are bad). Third, my insistance on annual mammograms saved me a whole of pain and trouble, because my cancer was caught very early with this routine exam. Finally, bad news and good news. Breast cancer is one of the most commonly diagnosed cancers, with one in eight women getting this disease. That’s bad. But because it’s so prevalent, there’s a ton of research and progress in treatment, and that’s good.

So cancer has moved from being the boogie man in the closet to being something I can rationally handle. And rationality is my mantra. With that in mind, here’s what the future holds for me:

• Radiation treatment. I’m hoping to get that started as soon as possible, maybe even before the end of the  year. It requires going to the radiation center five days a week for five weeks. Not painful, just a time eater. In the third week, my radiation oncologist told me side effects might start, including a sunburn-type burn on my radiated breast and the need for some tasty naps. I can live with that. Catch this – women who had a lumpectomy and no other follow-on treatment have a 40 percent recurrence rate. Women who added radiation to their plan have a 10 percent recurrence rate. Wow. Worth a sunburn and the nuisance of dedicating five weeks to daily treatments.

• Anti-hormone treatment. My tumor was estrogen-receptive. That means estrogen fed it. So even though I’m post-menopausal and most of my estrogen is long-gone, I need to banish the rest of it. So after radiation treatment, I start taking Arimidex, the drug of choice for women like me. Side effects – those damn, damn hot flashes may come back. (Poor Scott – I had hot flashes for 15 years, and they were so bad that I wouldn’t allow him to heat the house in the winter. Looks like he’s going to have to go back to wearing a snowmobile suit during the winter months!) But worth it. Cuts recurrence rates by 50 percent. I’ll be taking Arimidex for at least 10 years.

That’s it. No chemo, thank God. No need for further genetic screening – it appears very unlikely I have or may have passed on the BRCA gene.

So aside from the fact that my life has become centered around going to the doctor constantly, I’m back on track.

And the house? Well, I suspect our home insurance will be cancelled after they pay out over $50,000 for the damages that small leak caused. Mold, lead, our master bathroom demolished, our living room ceiling taken out – ah yes…the pleasures of home ownership. But at least we have agreed on a settlement and now we can start the process of putting the house back together.

If I had a choice of catching one disaster early, I would want to catch the cancer early. The drip that caused the flood? A major pain and stressful. But not life-threatening.

I’m one lucky woman. Stage 1 breast cancer. Excellent health care. A warm and wonderful husband. A loving family. And an incredible outpouring of support from all of you. Yep, I dare say that the bounce is definitely back in my step.

The Certainty of Uncertainty

This week I became part of a club no one particularly wants to join – women with breast cancer. Here’s how it came to be…

I had just returned happy and energized from three days of communication training in DC when I got the news – my annual routine mammogram was abnormal and I needed to come in for more tests. It was hard not to freak out – my mom had her first bout of breast cancer when she was not that much older than I am today. Still, these type of follow-up appointments are very common, and usually all is well.

So with rational thoughts and a pretty high level of calmness, given the circumstances, I went in for the second mammogram and the ultrasound. I spoke with the radiologist afterward, and he pointed out a small shadow that looked suspicious. Small is almost an overstatement – I’m talking about a tiny little dark area with some bright white dots. But it was enough that he wanted me to have a needle biopsy. I walked out of his office with a next-day appointment for a needle biopsy and a week-later appointment with the surgeon, just in case.

Do the very words “needle biopsy” make you feel slightly sweaty and nauseous? Yeah, me, too. And no, they don’t give you Michael Jackson happy juice to get you through the procedure. But the staff at Kaiser was so kind, reassuring and, well, almost motherly, that it really wasn’t so bad. The technician who was running the ultrasound machine while the radiologist was poking around with a needle held my hand throughout. The lidocaine took care of any pain, and then it was over. I was treated with kid gloves afterward, as I got another mammogram, and then bandaged up and sent home.

And then the waiting game began. Six very long days later, I went into see the surgeon. I pretty much knew what was going on because no one called to say, “Hey, good news, Mrs. McKenzie! No need to see the surgeon; the biopsy was benign!” So the day before Thanksgiving, I waited to meet with my doctor. Where while the news wasn’t good, it really wasn’t all that bad. Here’s the scoop:

• Small tumor, under 1 centimeter
• Caught very early (couldn’t even be felt at this point)
• Likely stage 1
• Choice of lumpectomy or mastectomy – my choice
• Lymph nodes to be biopsied during the surgery
• Surgery this coming Friday (I chose a lumpectomy), followed by radiation treatment and hormone therapy

As my surgeon said to me, “Terry, you’re not going to die from this.” Good to know.

The maybes are over now, and dealing with the reality has begun. And while I know that all will be well, what I’d really like to do is just turn the clock back to when I returned from DC, bouncy and energized, without a care in the world.

The Little Mermaid and Me

My daughter was 7 and my son 5 when Disney’s My Little Mermaid came out in 1989. We all loved that movie, but the film always choked me up at one point in particular. It’s the scene where Ariel chooses to live with her true love on land, and must say goodbye to her water-bound father. Here’s how it reads in the script:

Triton: She really does love him, doesn't she, Sebastian?

Sebastian: Well, it's like I always say, Your Majesty.  
Children got to be free to lead their own lives.

Triton: You - always say that? (sighs) Then I guess there's 
just one problem left.

Sebastian: And what's that, Your Majesty?

Triton: How much I'm going to miss her.

Yeah, Disney always knew how to stick it right to you…

Our year of living magically has ended. The magic was pretending that our daughter and her family would now see that living in the U.S. was the best choice for them – and that our miserable economy would make an exception so our son-in-law could find a job. That dream went “Poof!” on Tuesday when I dropped Carolyn, Juan Carlos, Lucas, Matilda and Amalia at the airport where they caught their flight to South America.

They’re heading off to a good life. Juan Carlos landed a great job, and they return to loads of family and friends. Soon they’ll be settled in a new house, with Lucas and Matilda enrolled in school. We’re happy for them. And we’ll all make the best of it, between Skype and visits. But you know what? It still sucks and I’m still sad.

I don’t feel like being a good sport about it. Give me some time and I’m sure I’ll come around…

Creativity, Words and Surprises

What if you lost the ability to talk? For someone whose moniker is tmacwords, the thought is pretty darn chilling. But would happen if, with language gone, your brain was now open to a flood of  incredible visual and auditory information? What would happen if the creativity and focus you put into words could be turned into mind-blowing art or music?

Thus is the story I listened to this morning on NPR’s RadioLab. The podcast I heard, Unraveling Bolero, was so stunning I had to listen to it twice.

The story is about a type of dementia that affects the left side of the brain, where our language and math skills live. This  disease attacked Maurice Ravel, best known for Bolero (Go on, sing along with me… “Dah dah, da da da da da da da Dah Dah) and, 60 years later, a brilliant woman named Anne Theresa Adams.

Adams started off as a top notch cancer scientist. In her 50s, she suddenly dropped science and started painting. A lot. She created painting after painting, focusing first on buildings, than on microbes, than on strawberries. Until she became fascinated by Bolero and painted her most famous work, Unraveling Bolero:

Adams work is all about repetition (as is Ravel’s piece). She created her painting by analyzing Ravel’s music, by note, tempo, volume and tone. She assigned a color to each element and then put it together into this work of art.

So here’s what kind of chilled my spine. A few years after creating this work, Adams started to lose her ability to talk. At first, she forgot words. Then she lost the ability to string together sentences. Then all words failed her. And a few years after Ravel completed Bolero, he started to lose his ability to talk. At first, he forgot words. Then sentences. Then all words failed him. They both passed away shortly after all language was gone.

Ravel and Adams suffered from a rare disease called frontotemporal dementia, aka Pick’s disease. Instead of dementia attacking the entire brain, only certain areas of the brain are affected. In this case, the language center. But with language shut off, other areas of the brain all at once can flourish. Instead of using words to talk about experience, the brain needs a new way to express the incredible flood of images its receiving.

This article in the New York Times  (totally worth reading, BTW) describes it better than I can:

By then, the circuits in Dr. Adams’s brain had reorganized. Her left frontal language areas showed atrophy. Meanwhile, areas in the back of her brain on the right side, devoted to visual and spatial processing, appeared to have thickened.

OK, so maybe I am a total nerd. But I am fascinated by this. Kind of like when people lose their vision, they say that their hearing becomes sharper. But times ten. (Yes, point taken. This disease kills its victim pretty quickly so it’s not all roses and joy. I do get that.)

And yet, think about the beauty that was created in the amazing minds of these artists, even as parts of their cortex was crumbling. I’m just plain blown away…