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  • Liz Murtaugh Gillespie
    • Jul 30, 2016

My, what a difference a year makes


Many a time over the past few months, I've marveled at what a difference a year makes. Looking back, I can hardly believe how much has happened, good and bad, grueling and easier than I expected. One year ago today, on July 30, 2015, I took my first big step toward ridding my body of cancer. The night before my mastectomy, Sean looked at me with loving eyes and said in a kindly concerned but puzzled voice, "It doesn't seem like you're nervous about this." I wasn't. I was so relieved to be starting the process of getting cancer out of me. I was ready. Back then, I figured I'd slog through treatment, heal and get my ex-breast reconstructed as soon as possible. As costly as cancer treatment is, the practical penny-pincher in me wanted to get it all over with as quickly as possible. If I got reconstruction in 2016, it wouldn't cost us anything, essentially. Writing this now, I feel foolish to have let health insurance weigh so heavily in such an important decision. I changed my mind during (or after?) the more-painful-than-expected final days of radiation. I decided I'd wait at least a year, maybe even longer. I wanted to regain a grasp on life again. It felt so liberating to look forward to a real summer, some vacation time, holidays that weren't scheduled around doctor's appointments. Then one recent morning, after an invigorating three-mile run, I had an epiphany as I was taking off a fantastically comfortable new sports bra I'd just discovered. Why bother getting reconstructive surgery at all? Ever? I'd been dreading the thought of having to choose which part of my body I'd have to spare to get a great big skin graft: the back of my shoulder (which one?), a butt cheek, or my belly. I'd been dreading the thought of multiple surgeries — the toll it would take on me and my family as I had to brace for each one, then recover. Why bother? Really? So, guess what? I'm not going to. Years from now, the skin-and-bone left side of my chest might bother me more than it does today. If it does, well, I'll reconsider it then. For the time being, I'm just fine with my ridiculously comfortable Hot Shot bras, which have room in little cup sleeves for pads that approximate the shape of my ex-breast. Some folks have wondered if I'd somehow gotten reconstruction already. Fancy that, right? I'm feeling great these days. Happy and full of vigor. I'm swimming and running again. Biking some, too. Sean and I went kayaking, rollerblading, jogging and on a beautiful hike through Seattle's Arboretum during a mid-July staycation, when Sylvia and Tyler spent two weeks with Sean's folks in Pennsylvania and Disney World (yes, they took the kids to Disney World, bless them!). During our luxurious Date Week, we discovered new restaurants, went out with friends, had an impromptu movie-then-dinner date. We worked very little and read more than usual. I got some garden projects going. It was the most stress-relieving time we've had together in more than a decade. Then ... I had five days on my own. Just me, myself and I. I left piles of laundry where they were, barely dirtied or cleaned any dishes, made more progress in the back yard, built my first raised garden bed, saw Ghostbusters, went out to happy hour a time or two, did a little shopping. This! This is my kind of summer. My, what a difference a year makes.

  • Liz Murtaugh Gillespie
    • May 8, 2016

The fortitude(s) of motherhood


The thing that scared me most when I first learned I had cancer had nothing to do with the medical ordeal that loomed ahead. I knew I could handle surgery, chemo, radiation, whatever. I just couldn't fathom how I could do it all while being the mom I wanted to be to my two little kids. Crying those first waves of tears, I couldn't imagine how I'd ever muster the strength to battle breast cancer, continue to work, plan play dates and birthday parties, cook and clean and read bedtime stories and do all the things that moms do, day in, day out. My worries faded a little when my aching heart and mind raced back to my mom's battle with cancer. If she ever felt the least bit scared, never showed it. She approached each stage of her treatment as one more step toward getting better. Simple as that. She never whined about what a pain in the ass it was to have to fight off a disease she didn't deserve. She just lived her life, grateful for the top-notch medical care she was getting from her docs at Dartmouth-Hitchcock and for many people in her life who stepped up to help however they could. When it came time to call Mom and share my shitty news, she cried just like I did when she was the one calling me to share her shitty cancer news. "Oh, Lizzie," she wept. "You're too young to have to go through this. Your kids ... Oh, Lizzie." The shock of it all had worn off on me by that point, so I said something like, "I know, Mom. I know. It's not fair. It's going to suck, and there will be awful days. But somehow, I'll get through it. Just like you did." On Mother's Day 2015, I had no idea what a grueling ordeal I'd have to face over the next year. Today, I look back on it and feel more grateful than ever for my health, every hair on my head and all the love that so many people in my life have showed me over the last 11 months – including so many moms who inspire me in so many ways. Anytime I thought I was in over my head, someone always swooped in to remind me that I wasn't alone, that I could make it to the next day. And then the next. And then the next. Some days, my kids weathered the ups and downs with wisdom beyond their years. Some days, they fought with me and each other and made huge fusses over such little things that I barked with brutal honesty, "You know, everyone else in my life – I mean, everyone – is bending over backward to make things easier on me. You're the only ones who are making things harder. So cut it out." Sometimes the truth hurts. But ultimately, it's truth that leads to healing and growth and understanding. Last night, after one of Tyler's fits of fussiness (that's mommy code for "being an insufferable a-hole"), I said, "Tyler, I get that it's hard to be a kid sometimes. But you know what, it's super hard to be a mom, too." He reached out his arms to give me a hug and said, "It's even harder to be a mom with cancer. ... I love you, Mommy." And just like that, a half hour's worth of "OMG, if this kid does one more thing to piss me off I'm gonna blow my stack" angst melted away. "Wow, Tyler, what a wonderful thing to say to me." Of course there were ulterior motives. He wanted to watch one more episode of Mighty Med. Whatever. It was still a sweet thing to say. This morning, Tyler presented me an egg-crate Mother's Day rose he made for me. "I painted it orange, because it's your favorite color." Sylvia held my hand as we walked to our favorite neighborhood coffee shop for Mother's Day waffles. Sean gave me a hug, thanked me for being his best friend, then treated me to a luxurious day to myself while he schlepped the kids to their soccer games – freeing me up to enjoy a dee-LISH-ous strawberry mimosa with a fellow soccer mama friend (nyom nyom nyom). I'm blessed. Truly blessed. UPDATE: To top off the best Mother's Day ever, we enjoyed dinner out at a fantastic restaurant (Tallulah's), where we had SUCH yummy food, they treated all the moms to flowers and a card, and Sylvia wrote this on the back. "Dear Mother, You are the bravest person in my life." Wow.

  • Liz Murtaugh Gillespie
    • Mar 29, 2016

Hello, hair. I remember you!


About a week ago, I ventured out hatless for the first time since my hair went bye-bye. Walking into the grocery store with my not-quite-inch-long 'do felt almost like that moment in those nightmares when you realize, "Crap! How did I forget to put underwear and pants on this morning?" Of course, no one in the whole place so much as batted an eye, even though I was still quite sheepishly getting used to shorter hair than I had when I made my grand entrance into this world ... 42 years ago today. Whatever. It's just hair. Then again, it is, and it isn't. In ways that my ex-breast will never be, my formerly bald head and the cute hats I wore over it told the world, "Why, yes! I have cancer!" I never felt bold enough to bare my baldness (except doing laps at the pool), so there was always this sense that, adorable as those hats were, I was hiding something. Not anymore. Here I am, people, sprouting a new head of hair like all the daffodils and tulips that are blooming all over. I'm feeling pretty darn good and getting healthier by the day. So far, I'm still doing fine on my aromatase inhibitors. I'm getting better sleep more consistently – thanks in part to the recent discovery that I'd been overmedicating a thyroid condition. Yup, symptoms include insomnia, anxiety, racing thoughts, night sweats, all kinds of unpleasant stuff I thought was just part of the early menopause crud that chemo had triggered. Go figure. I've had a wonderful birthday, beginning with breakfast with the family at one of our favorite local restaurants. I went out on an invigorating if not vigorous jog in ridiculously gorgeous sunshine, treated myself to a post-run kale smoothie and a couple cute pairs of earrings, then shared some cupcakes with a friend and birthday buddy who turned 8 today. All day, my Facebook feed's been all lit up with happy messages. Emails, texts, phone calls galore have reminded me how grateful I am to know so many kind and supportive people. During this trying year, our family has given less to the many causes we like to support (thanks for being such a drain, stupid medical bills!). Today, it felt good to give to Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center. A cure can't come too soon. In the meantime, anytime I have some spare change jangling around (and sometimes even when I don't) I'm going to support the researchers who are doing all they can to cure this shitbird of a disease. Join me today ... or the next time you feel like giving cancer a kick in the crotch.

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