Hooters…
The 90’s blew in and snuffed out my Bic…power ballad lullabies would no longer rock me to sleep. Heart pounding Arena Anthems had flatlined, and Tawny Kitaen would never again writhe around seducing the hood of a Jaguar. My beloved 80’s Rock Gods were disappearing by the tour bus loads. Slaughter was being slaughtered… Ratt had been exterminated… Queensryche was being dethroned… and Whitesnake had its head chopped off with a shovel.
I was starstruck almost daily. The original founders popped in often, my manager, Vince “the Hooters Guy” and some of the girls had just returned from the well publicized march on Washington, and quite a few of the local girls were currently “featured” Calendar Girls who had become celebrities in their own right.
When it became common knowledge that Kelly Jo Dowd...a former co worker of mine...had been diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 37, that brought to my attention that young women under 40 could get this disease.
When I lifted up my shirt to take a look-see, staring back at me was a tiny swollen area at the 1 o'clock position.
Once I caught my breath and dried the sweat from my hands, I reminded myself that my lumpy, bumpy boobs had given me problems for as long as I could remember. I was told more than once that I had very dense, fibrocystic breasts.
This frequently caused terrible throbbing and a heavy aching during hormonal changes and caffeine binges, so I was used to breast pain…though, this did feel different than normal.
Then…some good news…
On March 17th…"Lucky" St Paddy's Day, my surgeon called.
You Had Me At “Hello”
LIFE IN THE 90’S... BEHIND ORANGE-COLORED GLASSES
Written by Janine Vollmer, Hooters Girl 1993-2000
Published in Hooters Magazine, November 21, 2013
Published in Hooters Magazine, November 21, 2013
The 90’s blew in and snuffed out my Bic…power ballad lullabies would no longer rock me to sleep. Heart pounding Arena Anthems had flatlined, and Tawny Kitaen would never again writhe around seducing the hood of a Jaguar. My beloved 80’s Rock Gods were disappearing by the tour bus loads. Slaughter was being slaughtered… Ratt had been exterminated… Queensryche was being dethroned… and Whitesnake had its head chopped off with a shovel.
The spotlight had been stolen by greasy looking Grungers wrapped in flannel and patchouli and no matter how much sugar Def Leppard tried to pour on it, the situation wasn’t getting any sweeter. The thoughts of weaning myself off of neon and shoulder pads gave me panic attacks. I was sadly aware of how horrible fuchsia fishnets and lime green scrunchies would look with “picnic plaid” and Dr. Martens. Everything I loved was drowning within a giant vat of “Teen Spirit” and I didn’t like the smell one stinkin’ bit.
The folks at MTV were still trying to get me to say “YO” and while I certainly appreciated the re-Ass-urance of knowing that they “liked big butts” and they could not lie... I was never particularly comfortable with shaking my big rump all over the place. Billy Ray Cyrus, his mullet, and that over played one-hit-wonder will haunt my achey breaky flashbacks forever, but, he did fill out a pair of tight blue jeans quite nicely and for that, I thank him.
Janet was still bringing rhythm to the nation, Celine was spreading the Power of Love, Mariah was breaking glass and leaving a trail of howling dogs everywhere her voice went and Whitney made an entire album about her bodyguard. Madonna’s music video “Vogue” had nothing to do with the magazine or its Super Models, and Vogue magazine’s Super Models were in music videos that had nothing to do with Madonna.
Every man on the planet seemed to be waiting for a slow motion rescue from the gravity defying Baywatch babes and would sell their souls to walk a few miles in the life of a shoe salesman named Al Bundy.
Meanwhile, I was supposed to find comfort in knowing that there were six great “Friends” waiting to hang out with me at the Central Perk, or I could join Brenda and Brandon at the Peach Pit in Beverly Hills.
In the movies, some kid got left Home Alone…another poor guy kept waking up on Groundhog’s Day, Demi was seeing Ghosts and the World belonged to Wayne.
Toys were talking, an island was full of Dinosaurs, mutant turtles could kick ass and a big scary Terminator tormented this poor woman and her son. Bill and Ted went on a Bogus Journey and McFly was visiting the old west. Also, wouldn’t ya know it, those damn Gremlins were hatching again. Ugh, I was so grateful to Thelma & Louise for introducing me to Brad Pitt.
Still licking the wounds of my failed 5 year attempt at becoming a successful fashion model in New York, Paris and Japan, I was back home in a stale, small town just outside of Charlotte, NC. To me, the early 90’s were chaos and contrary to popular belief, the fading Aqua Net haze of the 80’s was not “all that and a bag of chips”. Nothing seemed to help me “git jiggy wit it”. I was having a bonafide identity crisis.
Still licking the wounds of my failed 5 year attempt at becoming a successful fashion model in New York, Paris and Japan, I was back home in a stale, small town just outside of Charlotte, NC. To me, the early 90’s were chaos and contrary to popular belief, the fading Aqua Net haze of the 80’s was not “all that and a bag of chips”. Nothing seemed to help me “git jiggy wit it”. I was having a bonafide identity crisis.
Maybe, just maybe, if I hadn’t devoured half of Manhattan, and that entire bakery in France…I could’ve stayed skinny enough, and wouldn’t be slinging discount steak and potato platters at the local “Saloon”. Mom and Dad always said I should’ve gone to college.
Living in Nascar Country, I was well aware of Hooters Restaurants, not only because their driver Alan Kulwicki had won the Winston Cup, but because Hooters was always a popular hangout for my current and former boyfriends and boy-friends. Rumor had it that the girls made unbelievable amounts of money there, so much more than the waitresses did at any other restaurant in town. I had never been to one, but the thought of becoming a Hooters Girl had crossed my mind a few times… but me? Ha! Stuffed up to my chin with tube socks and duct tape...maybe, but “as is”… not a chance. Then one day a “friend” took me to Hooters for beers.
Giggling blondes and brunettes surrounded us, bopping around to the oldies coming from the juke box. A feisty little red head whizzed by on roller-skates balancing plates of chicken wings in her hands.
Each one understood the power of a Wonderbra, tight short shorts, and a sexy bare belly. They were hotter than most of the models I had seen. All flaunting healthy curves and big smiles, none the result of trying to adhere to a typical “model’s diet” of celery sticks, saltine crackers and air. Every male customer was wrapped around their acrylic nail-tipped fingers, the poor guys’ eyeballs almost crossing from not knowing where to look first. Those girls were having way too much fun and raking in pouch-fulls of cash, too. I knew I wanted to be a part of it and as much as I’d like to say that I had enough self confidence to walk back in there and expect to get hired, I didn’t, I mean I really, REALLY didn’t.
Months came and went, not a shred of courage could be found. My breasts were perfectly content working at the steakhouse, hidden safely behind baggy tee shirts and the silk screened silhouette of a large cow. My bottom half couldn’t possibly parade around in attention grabbing short-shorts either, after all, I had invested many, many years in perfecting the art of camouflaging my plump posterior. But I was in a predicament. I had racked up so many over due bills that at the age of 23, I found myself entertaining the thought of moving back in with my parents. Yikes!
Then one afternoon, I was escorted right up to the sidewalk at Hooters…my “friend” insistent that I go inside and apply. My bashful boobs and timid tushy were screaming “NOOOOOO!!!”.
Through the glass, I could see the night shift managers, cooks and Hooters Girls all gathered around a giant table. Knees knocking, I opened the door and wandered inside, swallowing my stomach which had suddenly jumped into my throat. Almost instantly, and to my surprise…I was hired. Almost just as instantly, and equally as surprising, my new Hooters family welcomed me with open arms and an open bar tab after my first week on the floor. It was just before Christmas, 1993…and I had become a Hooters Girl.
The parking lot was packed with Ford Explorers and four door sedans by noon, and the inside filled with men in suits having a quick bite on their lunch breaks.
Around 2:30, random work trucks pulled in and the “blue collar” boys got the party started. Rivers of draft beer flowed by the bottomless, ice cold pitcher-fulls and “50” plates of steaming hot wings paraded across the creaky wooden floors. Between 6 and 7pm, the work trucks were joined by Supras, Vipers, 300ZX’s, and the usual bikers on their chromed-out Harley’s.
There was usually a wait forming at the door and a line by the pay phone. I always felt bad for the poor saps who were trying their best to look cool while returning the page of a nagging girlfriend.
Once cell phones became popular, there was a constant sea of shiny antennas bobbing outside the windows, the bad boys were still calling home to tell their ladies that they were stuck at work. hehehe. At sunset, the lights dimmed and the volume was turned up on the juke box. Though the TV’s were muted, Jordan still compelled an audience at the bar as he flew through the air. Gretsky-era hockey highlights dominated the outside patio and scenes from the always popular Nascar races went round and round (and round) on the big screen in the main dining area. Only the footage of a certain white Bronco chase ever succeeded in seducing the diehards’ attention away from a stock car in this neck of the woods.
It took me a little while to get comfortable with my new “identity”. All of the other girls’ cups runneth over with confidence, wit and sass...thankfully, it was contagious. Before I knew it, I was right there with them, hula hooping outside in the median of the main drag, goofing off and racing big wheels through the restaurant and learning how to create AND properly present a “bachelor party” platter to a gaggle of snickering guys.
My face had also finally joined the other girls’ on the big wall of fame.
We posed for snapshot after snapshot with the random famous people who passed through our doors.
(Ahhhh… I remember racing great, Rusty Wallace wore the nicest cologne… I’m just saying’)
Soon, I was “elevated” to the position of Hooters “promo” girl. Whenever I wasn’t working at the store, I could be found “winging” it all over town with other girls delivering complimentary wings to local car lots, regional sports franchises and charitable community events. We were also often spotted careening across many of the area’s golf courses in beer carts, dodging trees, sand traps and water hazards while tossing out snacks and cans of cold drinks as we succeeded in wooing more customers.
Soon, I was “elevated” to the position of Hooters “promo” girl. Whenever I wasn’t working at the store, I could be found “winging” it all over town with other girls delivering complimentary wings to local car lots, regional sports franchises and charitable community events. We were also often spotted careening across many of the area’s golf courses in beer carts, dodging trees, sand traps and water hazards while tossing out snacks and cans of cold drinks as we succeeded in wooing more customers.
I was fat (in the wallet) and happy having become a new sister in the fastest growing sorority in the world. I had finally found my niche’, but when I got news that the Hooters Calendar photographer was coming to town, it was the icing on my cupcake!
All of this fun, insane amounts of money AND modeling opportunities too?! I couldn’t wait to try out!
Six months later, the new 1995 Calendars arrived at the store…and I was eager to see if I had made the cut. Tearing through the plastic wrap… searching page by page… I finally located my picture in the very back. It was small, but I was thrilled. My fingers were crossed that this was just the beginning, a stepping stone to a “big” picture down the road. The Hooters Calendar and Magazine girls were the creme’ de la creme’ of all the Hooters Girls system wide. If a Hooters Girl was lucky enough to land a “feature” spot in either one, she would become more popular at her store, and, in theory, she would attract more regulars and probably make a lot more money.
In the summer of ‘95, hot on the heels of my second photo shoot with “The Calendar Guy” for the 1996 Calendar, I moved to Tampa Bay with my “friend”.
Since the Hooters restaurants in that area were owned by the “Hooters Six”, who started the concept, I was intimidated and unsure whether or not I could continue my Hooters career at one of the original stores in St. Petersburg, Florida.
I walked in and immediately noticed that the tables were filled with mostly couples, families and retirees… and though the girls’ uniforms were the same as the ones in Charlotte… they were worn much more modestly. Thinking that there was no way this Hooters would be as much fun as the one I had left behind, I almost declined the “entry level” hostess position I was offered. But, since I didn’t have any other irons in the fire, I donned the all white uniform, and stood patiently by the front door for almost six months.
I was pleasantly surprised though, at how wrong I was in assuming this place was going to be a drag. Everyone was just as much fun to work with as the people back home, and they too, made me feel like family from the moment I arrived for my first shift.
Finally, I had successfully paid my dues as “the new girl” and was set free to roam the floor in my orange shorts and well cultivated “Hawaiian Tropic” tan. Soon after, I must’ve appeared on the radar at the Hooters advertising agency, because I was hired to cohost the company Christmas party at the CEO’s house. There I ran in to my photographer friend, Doug “The Calendar Guy” who remembered me from his past two photo tours through NC and I served appetizers and drinks to the members of Hooters’ marketing team that was located in nearby Clearwater. I chatted with Hooters’ founders and got to know a lot of the people from the Corporate office too. It was a whirlwind, really, because after that evening, everything changed so fast.
Over the next few years, I was more than able to get my modeling “fix”.
I had been chosen as a feature girl in the ‘97 and ‘98 Hooters Swimsuit Calendars, and my face appeared on not one, but two Hooters Magazine covers. I was on billboards nationwide - even way up in Canada, eh! From Myrtle Beach, my mom called me to tell me how strange it was for her to get out of her car and see her “30 foot tall daughter staring down at her”. I was in various national print ads, and there were life sized posters of me on New York City’s Bus stops. I was smiling in “taxi tops” from Chicago to Denver and doing signings from Miami to Kansas City. I was flown to Hawaii to represent the Original Hooters in the first ever Miss Hooters International Swimsuit Pageant and I was flown to New York City to sign autographs at the grand opening of the Hooters in Manhattan.
While in the midst of all the excitement, I had transferred to the Original Hooters in Clearwater, started using much needed SPF and got married to the “The Hooters Calendar Guy”. This then solidified my place as The Queen of Hearts in the Calendar’s playing cards for years to come. (aweeee) And, just when I thought I had enjoyed all of the opportunities Hooters had to offer, an artist was creating the image of Hooters’ very first Super Hero, “Halle the Hooters Girl”. When his initial drawings came in, they happened to look so much like me that I was asked immediately if I was up to the challenge of becoming a comic book character. (Sure! Why not!) The resemblance was uncanny, she even drove the same red Jeep as me!
The ripe old age of 30 was approaching, and I knew that I couldn’t be a Hooters Girl forever. I had declared that I was nearing the self-imposed cut off time for “hanging up the orange shorts”.
Something called “Y2K” was near… and I had acquired a nasty virus from a relatively new addiction called the internet. It seemed that Ally McBeal’s “dancing baby” was in the process of blowing up my computer. The Spice Girls were over seasoning the radio stations and “Boy bands” were popping up faster than pimples on the face of an unlucky teenager. Some hot, pre-pubescent, former Mouseketeer named Britney had sauntered in to the fantasies of every male on the planet and I would still get angry every time I watched the movie Titanic… knowing full well that bitch Rose had more than enough room on her floating hunk of wood to share with Jack. The Lewinsky scandal was finally fading so that I could at least make an attempt to find something good to watch on cable and seeing the cute little Furby that my parents had given me a few Christmases ago reminded me that my husband still wouldn’t let me have a puppy. But, knowing that my Hooters family wouldn’t abandon me just because I no longer wore the uniform, I looked forward to many future opportunities within the brand and I was happy that I would always be able to see life through my orange-colored glasses.
I had been chosen as a feature girl in the ‘97 and ‘98 Hooters Swimsuit Calendars, and my face appeared on not one, but two Hooters Magazine covers. I was on billboards nationwide - even way up in Canada, eh! From Myrtle Beach, my mom called me to tell me how strange it was for her to get out of her car and see her “30 foot tall daughter staring down at her”. I was in various national print ads, and there were life sized posters of me on New York City’s Bus stops. I was smiling in “taxi tops” from Chicago to Denver and doing signings from Miami to Kansas City. I was flown to Hawaii to represent the Original Hooters in the first ever Miss Hooters International Swimsuit Pageant and I was flown to New York City to sign autographs at the grand opening of the Hooters in Manhattan.
While in the midst of all the excitement, I had transferred to the Original Hooters in Clearwater, started using much needed SPF and got married to the “The Hooters Calendar Guy”. This then solidified my place as The Queen of Hearts in the Calendar’s playing cards for years to come. (aweeee) And, just when I thought I had enjoyed all of the opportunities Hooters had to offer, an artist was creating the image of Hooters’ very first Super Hero, “Halle the Hooters Girl”. When his initial drawings came in, they happened to look so much like me that I was asked immediately if I was up to the challenge of becoming a comic book character. (Sure! Why not!) The resemblance was uncanny, she even drove the same red Jeep as me!
The ripe old age of 30 was approaching, and I knew that I couldn’t be a Hooters Girl forever. I had declared that I was nearing the self-imposed cut off time for “hanging up the orange shorts”.
Something called “Y2K” was near… and I had acquired a nasty virus from a relatively new addiction called the internet. It seemed that Ally McBeal’s “dancing baby” was in the process of blowing up my computer. The Spice Girls were over seasoning the radio stations and “Boy bands” were popping up faster than pimples on the face of an unlucky teenager. Some hot, pre-pubescent, former Mouseketeer named Britney had sauntered in to the fantasies of every male on the planet and I would still get angry every time I watched the movie Titanic… knowing full well that bitch Rose had more than enough room on her floating hunk of wood to share with Jack. The Lewinsky scandal was finally fading so that I could at least make an attempt to find something good to watch on cable and seeing the cute little Furby that my parents had given me a few Christmases ago reminded me that my husband still wouldn’t let me have a puppy. But, knowing that my Hooters family wouldn’t abandon me just because I no longer wore the uniform, I looked forward to many future opportunities within the brand and I was happy that I would always be able to see life through my orange-colored glasses.
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| Fan Photo |
Cancer...
* I was already aware of the family history of cancer on my father's side. Both his mother...at age 70...and one of his 4 sisters...at age 55...had successfully battled breast cancer, and were cured.
But sadly, ovarian cancer quickly killed one of my dad's other sisters when she was just 50 years old.
Her diagnosis terrified me.
Being the hypochondriac that I am, I requested my first baseline mammogram at the age of 35.
Being the hypochondriac that I am, I requested my first baseline mammogram at the age of 35.
Since that time, I've met young women who were diagnosed with the disease when they were in their early twenties...and, even scarier...I've read (on message boards) about even younger women, who...in their late teens...are surviving breast cancer. Before I was personally affected, I never in my wildest nightmares thought that breast cancer could strike at such a young age.
Statistically, 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer...though I believe it's becoming more like 1 in 7 now.
*I had 3 mammograms and ultrasounds by the time I was 39...all of them clear. I was convinced my breasts were of the healthy variety. I was also very familiar with what my breasts felt like. I "felt my boobies" every day in the shower, and frequently inspected them in the mirror. It border lined on obsession. But if I sensed anything unusual, I immediately ran to my doctor and requested a scan. I just couldn't shake the fact that Kelly Jo, who was just 5 years older than me, had lost her battle with breast cancer and died with Hospice at her home when she was 42.
*In the early fall of 2009, the media was saturated with news about the new government advisory on breast cancer screenings. We were told not to get mammograms until we were 50. Young women were even discouraged from performing self breast exams because of our ever changing breast tissue. And for that reason, I stopped my self exams for about 3 months. I managed to quiet my hypochondria and I listened to the "experts".
Then came that unforgettable morning when I awoke and stood in front of the mirror.
There was a prickly/tingling/burning sensation moving within the left breast that I had chosen to ignore for a while. It was almost like an internal static electricity…bold, pulsing and fluid. When I lifted up my shirt to take a look-see, staring back at me was a tiny swollen area at the 1 o'clock position.
It was small...round and smooth...firm yet moveable.
Once I caught my breath and dried the sweat from my hands, I reminded myself that my lumpy, bumpy boobs had given me problems for as long as I could remember. I was told more than once that I had very dense, fibrocystic breasts.
This frequently caused terrible throbbing and a heavy aching during hormonal changes and caffeine binges, so I was used to breast pain…though, this did feel different than normal.
I kept telling myself over and over that if it was a tumor, the mammogram and ultrasound I had just had 6 months prior would have seen it. So I was convinced that it was a cyst or something. And with the "support" of the media's public DIS-service announcement about the new breast screening guidelines, I put off getting this new lump checked for about 3 months.
But there was this voice in the back of my head that made me very uneasy. It was Kelly Jo...telling her story about how she stupidly neglected to get her lump checked...until it was too late. So finally, I made an appointment to see my doctor.
*During my exam, the doctor said that the lump did not feel like cancer (yay) but, as in the case with any new lump, she wanted me to get a diagnostic digital mammogram followed by an ultrasound.
Three weeks passed, and I went in for my imaging tests. The mammogram showed nothing...but the lump was easily seen on the ultrasound. And again I was told that it did not look or feel like breast cancer. BUT...AND THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT...the radiologist asked what my family history was. When I told him, he said they had a cancellation that afternoon, and he wanted me to stay for a biopsy. I agreed. Better safe than sorry, right?
Five days later...on February 23, 2010...I received a phone call from the radiologist...asking me if I was driving and telling me to sit down.
I had breast cancer.
*As it turned out, my tumor was somewhat rare and extremely aggressive. I just know that if it had been located deeper within my breast tissue, and had not poked it's head out causing the slight swelling that it did, I probably would not have found it until it had grown larger and more vicious...because, after all...at the suggestion of the government advisory panel...I had stopped my self breast exams.
*The type of cancer was called Triple Negative Breast Cancer. "Triple Negative" means that it didn't have any hormone receptors...so it couldn't be treated with Tamoxifen or any other hormone blocking therapies. So surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation were the only weapons of attacking this form of the disease. Add to that, it has a nasty reputation for "popping up" in the time between scheduled annual mammograms (like mine did)...and it's propensity for metastatic or regional recurrence within the first 3-5 years following diagnosis. So, because I was under 40 and had triple negative disease, my doctors had me take the DNA test to see if I had the BRCA1 (early onset breast cancer) gene mutation.
TNBC has a much poorer prognosis than other types of breast cancer...striking mostly women under 50, African American women, and women with the BRCA1 gene mutations.
So needless to say, Doug and I were paralyzed by fear.
I found it difficult to refrain from spewing out a barrage of indignant "I told you so's".
I found it difficult to refrain from spewing out a barrage of indignant "I told you so's".
*The cancer (at initial diagnosis) was thought to be only at stage1...and I had yet to find out if I tested positive for BRCA...but solely based upon my triple negative status, we all knew that I was up against a monster.
On March 11, 2010 during a 9 hour surgery, I had a prophylactic double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction (expanders).
Sentinel lymph node dissections were done on both sides (5 nodes taken out under my left arm...3 taken out under my right), and three drains were put in to each "foob".
A chemo port was sewn in to the right side of my chest, and some bone marrow was taken from my hip as part of a "BP-59 bone marrow trial" that I had consented to prior to surgery. Then they took my boobs to Moffitt Cancer Center where they would live "under glass" for research purposes. (something I also consented to weeks prior).
What was intended to be a simple one night stay in the hospital...turned in to 2 1/2 days of pure Hell. I had trouble "waking up" from the anesthesia...then once I did...I had an out of control panic attack of epic proportions. This led to a healthy dosing of liquid valium...administered after the 30+ minutes of frantic testing to make sure I wasn't having a heart attack. Ugh.
So...I got home in the late afternoon of March 13th.
Absolutely everything was forever changed.
Absolutely everything was forever changed.
Then…some good news…
On March 17th…"Lucky" St Paddy's Day, my surgeon called.
She happily stated that the tumor was only in Stage 1…T1cN0M0, in fact.
WHEW!!!!!
(T1c) This means that the tumor was smaller than 2cm...just barely. (There's T1a, b and c...and you get thrown in to stage 2 if it's over 2cm)...
(N0) I had no lymph nodes involved...
(M0) and there was no evidence of metastatic spread...meaning that there was no evidence of lympho- vascular invasion...or LVI.
The following 6 months of the chest expanding process were excruciating...but it had to be done to make room for the silicone implants.
Six weeks after my mastectomy, I started four cycles of chemotherapy (Cytoxan/Taxotere) that lasted 12 weeks. They…along with the Steroids and Neulasta injections...brought muscle atrophy, bone loss, nausea, severe joint pain and fatigue, peeling fingernails, dry skin, mouth sores, high fevers, massive hot flashes and frequent insomnia.
I also felt an internal sensation of having been scalded throughout. My entire digestive system felt "raw", and that unpleasantness lasted for a little over 3 years.
I went bald two days before my 40th not-so-happy-birthday, and my body was forced in to early menopause and pre-osteoporosis.
I had physically aged 20 years over night.
September 15, 2010 was the eagerly anticipated and virtually painless implant surgery and chemo port removal.
And since I did wind up testing positive for the breast cancer gene mutation, I chose to have a (daVinci) Salpingo-Oophorectomy/Total Hysterectomy on December 2,2010.
(Also eagerly anticipated and virtually painless.)
BRCA1 mutation carriers are at an extremely high risk of getting ovarian cancer too, and having had
this surgery, I have substantially lowered my odds of developing the disease that killed my aunt, and I've removed an unnecessary uterus and cervix that may have caused me problems down the road as well.
*I still get "scanxiety" and "white coat syndrome".
I panic a bit with every single body ache and pain....and the personal Hell of "Survivor's Guilt" has crept up quite frequently.
I panic a bit with every single body ache and pain....and the personal Hell of "Survivor's Guilt" has crept up quite frequently.
Basically, I'm just existing each day a bit numb...crossing my fingers...hoping that I'm doing all that I can do to fight my disease.
I am incredibly, INCREDIBLY lucky.
I am incredibly, INCREDIBLY lucky.
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| (my husband, Doug and me...April 2010... four days before I started chemo) "FEEL YOUR BOOBIES"!!!! yes! men! you need to feel your boobies too! www.feelyourboobies.com |
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| 12/2014 Fuck Cancer! www.fuckcancerfoundation.org |
I likely inherited the BRCA1 mutation from my father.
I say "likely", because both he and the one Aunt
who is still surviving her cancer, have refused to get tested.
(I will kindly refrain from going into any detail
about how I feel about their decision making skills...or lack thereof)
I'm English and Portuguese (Mom's side)
Scottish and Dutch/German (Dad's)...
...and I have the IVS5-12A>G BRCA1 gene mutation, and though I'm unsure of the origin,
I have not seen it listed as one that exists within the Ashkenazi Jewish population.
Since the majority of cases are found within that particular group,
don't allow your concerns and wishes for genetic testing to be dismissed
simply because of your lack of Jewish heritage OR because of the age
at which your multiple relatives were diagnosed with their breast and/or ovarian cancers.
(update, Spring, 2017...my dad was diagnosed with
an incredibly rare "amelanonic conjunctival melanoma, stage 1c".
I'm curious if this also has to do with BRCA1 since this type of cancer affects literally 1 in a million)
(another update...and quite a frustrating one, at that.
My Aunt...who survived her breast cancer, but refused to get BRCA tested...
She was just diagnosed with ovarian cancer in June 2019.
Could she have been free from ever having to deal with cancer again, had she gotten a prophylactic salpingo-oophorectomy?
Pisses me off kinda...the "what if's". But hey...it wasn't MY decision to make then...was it.)
She lost her 4yr fight with ovarian cancer on February 12, 2023.
Dad...
October 10, 1943- September 30, 2021.
He hadn't been "sick"...except for feeling slight nausea and fatigue for the 2 months leading up to his passing. But when he started dry heaving in the morings and suddenly became more pale and lost weight (2 weeks before his death)...my snoozing intuition jolted awake and tumbled to the forefront.
'Oh shut up. He had been seen by those highly rated doctors, and all of his bloodwork, tummy taps and knee whacks were normal', I told myself...
besides, he didn't have pain anywhere...he was just old, cranky, pasty, tired and stressed.
Alrighty then.
I allowed my thoughts to settle into entertaining a much simpler, more mainstream cause of his discomfort...he most likely had developed an ulcer or something else easily fixable and tummy related. After all, mom had just dragged his ass down to Florida...kicking and screaming. He HATED Florida...but mom's post pandemic-lockdown-life-in-the-too-many-people-in-the-elevator-myrtle-beach-condo-building-C freaked her out so much that she wanted to be back in a single family home and close to their only child, yours truly...and she wouldn't shut up about it so it obviously made dad cave.
So here they were, and the adorable, little bungalow we found for them to buy (3 blocks from our house) wasn't yet completed. They bought it solely by trusting us completely and from seeing the pictures of it on Zillow (of course). My handyman hubs and his handyman friends had tried their best to have it all updated and finished for them....working tirelessly days and nights, for 3 months. It was the final project that ruined us...the enclosure of a small screened porch that would have eventually become "dad's sudoku room and man cave". We had hired a contractor for that, but the delays were out of our control due to Covid, supply chain issues and the many unforeseen permitting complications. Work dragged on...and on...and onnnnnn. Add to the little room from Hell project, some botched yard work/drainage issues that took a lot of money and time to straighten out, this had my parents sulking and at each others' throats...incredibly stressed out for close to 5 months. And since I didn't know how they got along (or didn't get along) prior to coming down, they may have already hated each other long before moving south.
Anyway, during all that, we successfully pushed dad to get scheduled for gastro scans to look into what was most likely a stress driven ulcer and a colonoscopy (finally).
I had been pushing for years for both of my parents to get colonoscopy's since neither had had one since they were in their 50's....and my dad definitely needed one because of brca1.
So when the day of his scans came...
he woke up to get ready to go to the appointment and had a "bloody episode" in the bathroom. And after making their big king-sized bed,he went to the kitchen to tell mom he thought that he should probably go to the hospital. She called an ambulance since she doesn't drive much.
She said the medics arrived and he walked himself to their vehicle and was driven at normal speed to the ER where
they did a CT of his abdomen.
I drove mom to the hospital, dropped her off and went home.
Later, she called to tell me that dad had been diagnosed with metastatic cancer of a "supposed GI origin" since his belly was full of cancerous fluid (ascites).
I was instantly gut punched and panicked.
NOOOOOO!
How was this possible?
The rest of that day and the early part of the next, was spent as mom's taxi, personal assistant and friend...shuttling her to and from the hospital, picking up food, keeping her spirits up, etc.
The following day...early/mid afternoon...just before the docs were getting ready to take him down to drain the fluid (which would have shown the kind of cancer he had), his heart went into failure from the stress of apparant internal bleeding. It was then that he was diagnosed with advanced heart failure too...which we had no idea that he had either.
All of the hospital's doctors got together to analyze the situation, and they realized there was nothing anyone could do for him that wouldn't trigger a massive cardiac event.
So my folks signed the "do not resuscitate" forms and a doctor called for hospice while the physician in charge called me.
My tall, handsome, humble, smart, introverted, father was given "24 hours to one week" to live.
At least I think that's what I was told? I was crying too hard to make sense of much.
On the phone, that doctor said he would call down for the hospital to waive their COVID protocols and allow my husband and I to join my Mom bedside.
Then in the car on our way there, I got a text from mom...
"hurry. dad's dying."
A few minutes later, another text...
"where are you, you're not going to make it."
FUCK!
We were hitting EVERY DAMNED RED LIGHT.
Once Doug and I got there, we both rushed the front desk...quickly finding out that the bitch downstairs didn't get the literal memo and didn't seem to give a shit either. She "didn't care who called down or who said what. no one talked to her." And she tried her best to turn us away.
Well I got real ugly real damn quick, after she greeted my pleading tears with empty, heartless eyes. She lunged across her little table in an attempt to grab my wrist in the hopes of stopping me as I had turned toward the elevators. I sprinted...leaving my husband behind to further explain our situation to her and to the nice, elderly security guard who had just finished rifling through my purse in what had to be his personal best, fastest time.
Dad died 30 minutes later.
He died approximately 34 hours after he was admitted to the hospital for bloody diarrhea.
And as we approached the bitchy lady on the way out...she couldn't meet my glare.
She softly said that she hoped everything turned out ok.
I said NO.
It didn't.
The woman hung her head as we walked past.
