by Joan Lunden
Hey, I always try to look at the glass as half full. My mom taught me this wise life lesson many times throughout her life. Glady was my personal guru of positive thinking. She could be angry with me and scold me, but fifteen minutes later, she had let it go and was at my bedroom door with a big smile, ready to move on.
I know it couldn’t have been easy for my mom to always stay so positive. When I was thirteen, we were living an idyllic life in Northern California. Though my dad was a cancer surgeon who spoke at many cancer conferences, he was also a businessman, building a medical office building and a community hospital.
After my father’s untimely death, I watched as my then-forty-one-year-old mom picked up the pieces of her shattered life and figured out how we would go on. She had to make heads or tails of our family finances while raising two young teens alone. She transitioned from being a stay-at-home mom to a working mom. So I learned at a young age how fast life can change. Sometimes it really does happen in a blink of an eye.
Living through that experience and watching my mom persevere through the toughest of times and still find a way to smile had taught me the importance and value of a positive outlook on life—something I have tried to instill in my children, too.
Now more than ever, I knew my attitude would play a big role in how I dealt with my cancer treatment. Staying positive, especially in front of my children, was critical.
Sarah took me to my sixth and “halfway there” treatment. This was her first time accompanying me to one of my chemo sessions. I had come to really adore Dr. Weisberg. She was so patient and thorough every time I saw her. She diligently went through all of the questions she asked at every visit, asking whether I’d felt tingling in my fingers or toes.
NO.
Had I felt my heart racing or skipping a beat?
I said NO, but the truth was, I might have.
Why wasn’t I being totally honest?
At this point in my treatment, I needed to trust in the process, but for some reason, I was still hedging on my answers, seemingly so I would appear strong and “fine.” Mainly, I wanted to be more fine.
Dr. Weisberg asked if I had experienced any headaches or nausea.
I told her there had been no headaches, but I’d had some bouts of nausea, and my belly did feel as though it had been taken over by aliens who were fully in charge. My belly was perpetually bloated because my digestive tract couldn’t do its job anymore; I was in a constant state of discomfort and always on the brink of heartburn. I told Dr. Weisberg that I had been using the natural laxative Senokot and the stool softener Colace, which her nurses had told me to use. Dr. Z had also suggested that I take an aloe pill at night, then a swig of aloe juice in the morning before eating, and another in the afternoon on an empty stomach. Dr. Weisberg thought that was a terrific alternative way to help without putting any more chemicals in my body. As long as I got results, it was all fine with her.
I also went over some of the vitamin supplements that Dr. Z had suggested: They included B12 and C and D, which Dr. Weisberg approved of, too. It felt reassuring that Dr. Z and Dr. Weisberg were on the same page. It also was nice to know that I could present a doctor with the other’s plan for my health and wellness and have them agree that it was the right course of action for my well-being.
Dr. Weisberg made a point of saying that after I’d had the equivalent of a chemical bomb dropped on me, I was managing to build myself back up by doing all the right things, and she thought that was awesome. This was just the kind of encouragement I wanted and needed from my doctor to keep me motivated with the eating plan that Dr. Z had outlined for me, working out with Beth, and maintaining my positive attitude.
I will admit, there were a lot of people out there rooting for me, and that helped me stay confident about my prognosis. Nancy Brinker, who started the phenomenally successful Susan G. Komen breast cancer organization, called soon after I went public simply to check on me and see how I was doing. I had interviewed Nancy over the years and had always admired how she held to a promise to her dying sister, Susan, who lost her battle with breast cancer at thirty-six, and how Nancy changed awareness of breast cancer in America. To receive a call from her said a lot about why she had been so successful. I was also incredibly heartened when Leonard Lauder of the Estée Lauder cosmetics empire contacted me to check on how I was feeling and to express how proud he was of the leadership role I was taking in the fight against breast cancer. His wife, Evelyn, had survived breast cancer years earlier and started the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. Evelyn died in 2011 of ovarian cancer, but Leonard Lauder jumped in and has continued to build BCRF. Since BCRF was founded in 1993, every single major breakthrough in breast cancer prevention, treatment, and survivorship has had BCRF funding. Currently, the foundation is the largest private funder of breast cancer research in the world. Leonard is truly a hero to me.
I also got a call from Dr. Susan Love, the renowned cancer surgeon who had told me during that fateful interview years earlier to follow my mammogram with an ultrasound. I told her that I attributed to her the credit for my being able to find the cancer in time to treat it. These powerhouse people have all kept in close touch with me throughout the course of my treatment.
Frankly, I have been awestruck by the power and sense of loyalty that the breast cancer sorority has, every female member instinctually reaching out and checking on other women, lending advice or simply strength. It’s not a sorority that you want to join, that’s for sure, but you can’t argue with its heart and its passion to help other members through their battle and to ultimately find a cure.
People magazine had been in touch since I made my announcement earlier in the summer. They wanted to interview me then, but at the time, I didn’t feel like there was a lot to share. I needed to place my full attention on my treatment and recovery. We agreed to circle back around later in the summer, and I’d give them an exclusive for a cover story in September. When we made this arrangement, I agreed to allow a reporter and photographer to come to Camp Reveille. However, as the date approached, I wasn’t so sure I had made the right decision. I was worried that I wouldn’t be feeling up to the weekend retreat.
Okay, let me clarify this. While I thought I was doing fine, Dr. Weisberg had her concerns.
When I went for my ninth chemo treatment, the nurses took my blood and we waited for the results, as we did before every session. When Dr. Weisberg came into the room to run through her familiar list of questions about how I’d been doing and feeling, I was extremely upbeat and positive, telling her that I’d been working out and playing tennis every day.
She looked at me with a bit of a confused expression and said, “Well, there’s a huge disparity between what I am hearing from you and what I am seeing on your chart. Your blood work says that your white blood cell count is down to 2.7, your hematocrit [another measure of red blood cell count] is at 27.0, your hemoglobin is down to 8.6, and your platelets are down, too. In fact, they’re very low, Joan.”
The normal white blood cell range for my age is 3.8 to 10.6; for hematocrit it is 36–42. The normal range for hemoglobin is 11.9 to 16.0. Clearly, I was way off.
Now I was confused—and worried. I was very tempered by hearing how low all my numbers were and the realization that I was much weaker than I perceived, so weak that the doctor said she might not give me the treatment. I didn’t want to prolong the course of my treatment, and quite honestly, I didn’t want to “fail.” I wanted to be one of those warrior patients who never missed a treatment!
Dr. Weisberg said we had three choices:
1. She wouldn’t give me a treatment that week, which would give my body a chance to recover.
2. I could blast through, choosing to go ahead with my treatment, but I might have to skip the following week, since I might not have the energy I needed to be at the helm of Camp Reveille.
3. She could give me a reduced treatment, choosing to go with 120 milligrams of Taxol rather than 150 milligrams. That way I wou
ldn’t be off my schedule by a week, but I wouldn’t get even more physically slammed when my blood counts were so low.
There was no chance I’d skip a treatment. I wasn’t prolonging this process unless I absolutely had to. And for sure, I needed to be on my A game and present for the ladies making the trek to Camp Reveille, which was happening in a few weeks. So many of them were fighters and survivors of their own battle against breast cancer. I needed to be there, to be strong, to be a role model and a beacon of hope.
Yeah.
It was a pretty easy decision.
I’d take door number three.
CHAPTER 16
Calling All Campers
With over three million women battling breast cancer today, everywhere you turn there is a mother, daughter, sister, or friend who has been affected by breast cancer.
BETSEY JOHNSON
Fashion designer, diagnosed with breast cancer in 2000
The last day of camp is always filled with mixed emotions for everyone. There’s laughter and tears and lots of hugs to go around. It marks the end of another memorable summer for the boys, most of whom board a bevy of buses and head home to their anxious parents, who haven’t seen them since visiting day. However, some of the boys stick around and are joined by their dads for Jeff’s annual father/son weekend, which has long been a favorite for dads and sons alike. As a father, Jeff feels strongly that our children need our presence more than our presents, and there is no greater impact on a son than spending quality time with his dad. The dads play basketball and soccer and water-ski and scale the climbing wall with their sons. They become a bunch of weekend warriors, killing themselves on the courts and the fields, and then sleep on a child’s single bunk bed near the other snoring dads for a couple of unforgettable nights of bonding. Ah yes, good sports they are!
I felt like I was doing better, but I was ever mindful that chemo is cumulative, and I was acutely aware that life had been a bit more challenging lately. I was closing in on finishing my first twelve-week round of chemo, hopeful that there would be good news before I started the AC round in September.
I’d been warned by Dr. Z and my oncologists that the side effects of Adriamycin and Cytoxan were much tougher than those of Taxol and carboplatin. Adriamycin is infamously known as “Red Death” or the “Red Devil.” With a name like that, it cannot be fun. Curious as to why everyone referred to the Adriamycin as “Red Death” or “Red Devil,” I was finally told it was because of its deep red color and its high level of toxicity. It is designed to kill as many cancer cells as possible in your body. It’s like sending in the whole damn U.S. Army along with the Navy and the Air Force. But once it’s inside your body, it doesn’t discriminate, so it kills off a lot of the other cells at the same time, including the good cells—the white and red blood cells that you need.
Interestingly, my oncologists and surgeon felt that my cancer might be completely gone by the time we got to the surgery in November. If that were the case, I would still have to follow the surgery with radiation. I wanted to remain as optimistic as possible. The good news just kept pointing me in that direction, because I got the results from my gene testing: Everything came back negative for BRCA1 and BRCA 2 and the entire panel. This meant I did not carry any genetic predisposition to developing breast cancer known to date. If I’d tested positive, we would have to be concerned about the possibility of ovarian cancer as well, and it would impact my daughters’ risk factors for breast and/or ovarian cancer. Everyone was able to breathe a little easier when the results came back negative.
As bad as my blood numbers were, I was feeling surprisingly well. I was staying fit and strong by working out with Beth every morning and doing whatever I could think of to prepare for the arrival of more than two hundred Camp Reveille ladies later that week. I began to ponder whether it would be a good idea to skip my next treatment—which coincided with the first day of Reveille—and give my body a week to recoup a little, especially since my next dose came with carboplatin, which had the tendency to wipe me out.
My biggest worry with running Camp Reveille was having enough stamina to do a lot of the fitness classes with the women, like I had in the past. My oncologist was more concerned about my exposure to the germs of two hundred people. With my blood counts so low, getting sick could spell real problems for me.
There would be lots of photo ops, hugs, handshakes, and other compromising situations to think about and plan for, to make sure I didn’t inadvertently expose myself to someone else’s illness or germs. It’s tough, because a person’s natural instinct is to reach out and take your hand or hug you, especially in an intimate setting, like camp. I’d been dealing with it all summer, and it hadn’t been easy, since I’m the kind of person who is quick to give a hug in return.
The women who come to Reveille are often surprised that I am so accessible and actively involved in all of the activities. I try to be everywhere so that my campers feel like they’ve worked out or roasted a marshmallow with me. I didn’t want to appear aloof or distant this year, but I needed to self-protect.
Overhearing me discussing this concern, one of the fathers attending the father/son weekend, who works as an executive with Sony, told me that a few of his celebrity clients buy flesh-colored surgical gloves to protect them from everyone else’s germs when they’re out in public. He said I could find them at Costco.
Who knew?
As the clock ticked down, I had a lot of bunks to get ready and cabins to prepare prior to the ladies’ arrival. All of my wonderful fitness trainers and mind/body facilitators were back, and I had some terrific speakers lined up. I was planning a healthy cooking class with Dr. Z. I also planned a “Live Younger Longer” panel discussion that would include Dr. Z, my fitness guru Beth Bielat, and Dr. Cheryl Woodson, a geriatrician I’d met in Chicago while speaking at a Washington Post Live forum on caregiving earlier in the year. She had a wealth of information about what made older people sick and unhealthy, and she pulled no punches when she spoke; I loved that. For a more holistic view, I had Dr. David Coppola, a therapist who specialized in emotional healing and lifestyle coaching. Each provided a completely different view on how to make healthy lifestyle choices and stay younger longer.
I also invited Jene Luciani, who wrote The Bra Book and could always lead a fun, wild, crazy session on “Do You Really Know Your Bra Size?” Most women have no clue! She has the ladies write what they think their bra size is on a sticky note and paste it on their chest. Almost all of the women discovered they were off in size and wearing an improper bra. And finally, I had security expert Tracey Vega coming to do a session on personal security, from the information you give on your social media that makes you vulnerable to thieves, to where to park at the mall, to how to break out of a hold if you are attacked. There was a lot to do, but as always, I had quite a posse to assist me.
While every year of Camp Reveille is special, there was incredible meaning behind our weekend this year. I think all of the women were wondering how I would be doing, but I was determined to be there and to be as strong and as healthy as possible. As their camp leader, I wanted to create an outstanding and unforgettable experience for everyone.
By the time all of the fathers and sons left after their weekend of fun, the amazing Takajo maintenance and counseling staff went into overdrive to turn this boys’ camp into a ladies’ retreat. They had three days to go from summer camp to bed-and-breakfast.
Believe me, that was no easy task.
I’m not sure even David Blaine could pull off such a feat!
Thankfully, it didn’t take a magician. We’ve got the most incredible housekeeping staff; they swiftly go from bunk to bunk and bleach them out, getting rid of any bathroom smells that groups of seven- to fifteen-year-old boys may have left behind. Our team then dusts and oils all of the wood shelves and paints the cabin floors, leaving everything looking brand-new. Next, they paint all of the shower houses a fresh coat of white and put up brand-new curtains at each shower sta
ll. I put wicker three-drawer dressers into the shower houses and fill them with every ladies’ amenity you can think of, from tampons to Q-tips.
Flowers are placed on the cabin nightstands, along with reading lamps. Plush two-ply toilet paper is placed in each bathroom, with a cute little basket of extra toilet paper and lots of potpourri and odor-removing spray. We also supply bug spray, sunscreen, and earplugs in the Reveille welcome bags. Each bed gets a special memory-foam pad, which completely transforms the sleep experience for the ladies, along with our exclusive Camp Reveille linens and comfy throws at the end of each bed to give the bunks a homey look and feel.
Take my word on this: The boys of Camp Takajo wouldn’t know what to do if they saw how the ladies of Camp Reveille lived in those bunks for the weekend!
Camp started in a day, and I was definitely not feeling myself. I was usually running all over, doing the work of ten people, but I simply couldn’t now, and that worried me.
By this time, all four of our younger children had returned from camp and were spending the week with us. On their first morning back, they were scheduled to take a tennis lesson with the camp instructor while I worked on the final details of who was bunking where and with whom. It was important to me that the women who shared bunks had lots of meaningful things in common.
While the kids were taking their lesson, it occurred to me that I needed to show them that I was doing okay. I wanted them to see me as normal. I didn’t want them to think I couldn’t be there, playing tennis with them. Besides, I had lost a significant amount of weight and wanted to show them how good I looked. I threw on my cutest outfit and headed up to the courts.
On the way over, I noticed I was unusually out of breath, though I thought nothing of it. But shortly after we started to volley, I lunged forward for a shot and tripped. I thought I had the physical stamina to do what I wanted to do, but I couldn’t react as fast as I thought I could. Instead, I fell on my left hand with my full body weight, which really hurt my left wrist and palm, leaving me bruised for weeks. (Chemo causes the body to bruise much easier than it usually does.) I also scraped my knee so badly, it was bleeding. I pushed myself up and tried not to make a big deal out of it, saying, “My bad, my bad.” However, I had really hurt myself.