dear gloria

Dear Gloria (on the day your portrait was taken, circa 1959),

Mom probably made a pretty big deal about getting the hair off your face and out of your eyes for this picture.  Little do you know that dealing with your hair over the coming years is going to be a pain in the ass. You’ll flatten it, curl it, dye it, tease it, streak it, cut it, grow it out, cry over it and repeat these activities on a regular basis. At 58, you’ll still be wrestling with it. Sorry.

You’ll wish later on that you had stuck with your piano lessons and maybe even the cello lessons. Telling Dad there’s “no way in hell that I’m going to end up having to work as a secretary to put my future husband through graduate school!” is really not a good reason to pass on a typing class. It could have been over and done with in one year during high school, and you wouldn’t have turned out to be a hunt and pecker, which is sort of like being a freak of nature here in 2013. Also, when people agree to let you discontinue French and/or Spanish, whack ‘em up side the head.

I think it’s a good thing you already have a camera and that you carry it around a lot.  Don’t get mad at Mom and Dad if they don’t always put film in it for you. You’re getting some mad skills just by holding that Rocket Brownie up to your eye and looking carefully at the world around you.

And dude, don’t get so hung up on the fact that there are nasty people in the world. Some of them will actually look down at you because you’re a Jew, because you’re a girl, because you’re from Kentucky or because you’re not Ivy League smart or Hollywood pretty. Mean people suck, but they shouldn’t get in your way. Ever.

People you love will die. You will get sick. When the time comes, you will die, too. In the meantime, though, there will be color TV, personal computers, soft-serve yogurt, phones that fit in your back pocket, spandex, Prozac, post-it notes, luggage with wheels, birth control pills and microwave ovens. Roll with the changes.

Try not to have regrets. You’ll make bad decisions. You’ll have boyfriends who aren’t good for you and girlfriends who talk behind your back. You’ll miss opportunities to have fun or to learn something new. You may take the easy way out. You might not tell the whole truth. You might not do as well as you hoped. You might even fail. Well, if you want to know the truth, you will fail. You will not be perfect: you will get some poor grades; you will hurt peoples’ feelings; you will get speeding tickets and rejection letters; you will smoke; you will steal makeup from Woolworth’s; you will lose races; you’ll never be good in math; you will say cruel things to people you love; you will drink too much.

But, please, give yourself a break. Now… and five years from now and twenty years from now and fifty years from now and (god willing) eighty years from now.

Dad will bring home two big empty oil barrels from his scrap yard one day shortly after your 15^th birthday to teach you how to parallel park. He’ll make you practice over and over again. He’ll start with the barrels spaced far apart and move them closer together as you start to get the hang of easing the car between them and close to the curb. He’ll spend most of the weekend working with you. You’ll get it just right, and then he’ll schlep the barrels back to the yard.

And then on another day you’ll teach your own kids how to parallel park.  And then maybe you’ll even get to share the “Baker Secrets to Successful Parking” with your grandkids.

Life is full of circles like that. Embrace them.

Anyone who cares about you will tell you life has good parts and bad parts. I’m not certain, of course, but I hope that if you’re kind to yourself and those around you, you’ll have more lovely days than rotten ones. I do know a few things for sure: you’ll question yourself a lot and you’ll doubt yourself even more. You’ll think you don’t measure up. You’ll take criticism to heart and you’ll be tough on yourself. You’ll hate yourself sometimes and wish you were prettier or smarter or thinner or more articulate, artistic or accomplished.

When you get home from this portrait session, hang that cute little Peter Pan collared dress in your closet and put on some pedal pushers and your Cincinnati Red Legs t-shirt and go out in the backyard and toss the ball around with your big brothers (you will never be accused of throwing “like a girl”) and let your hair fall in your eyes and your toes sink into the grass and take a deep breath and look up at the big expanse of Kentucky sky and whisper a little “thank you” for the sweet life you have and the people you have in it. You’re cool, Glo.

I promise.

[This is my response to my own assignment recently given to the breast cancer survivors I photographed for Shawnee Mission Medical Center. I asked the women to consider what they've learned from their experience and to share some words of wisdom with their younger selves. Thanks, Eddie, for taking my recent portrait.]

more breast cancer survivors

I'm always inspired by this project. Thank you, all 12 "calendar girls", for making my week an enlightening one.

breast cancer survivors

I've spent the last two days photographing breast cancer survivors for Shawnee Mission Medical Center in Kansas. Each year, twelve survivors are chosen to take part in this project. Their portraits and writings are assembled into both a calendar and an exhibition. I've been part of this endeavor for many years now.

Each year there is a different "theme" which ties the pictures and text together. This time around, I asked the subjects to consider what words of wisdom, after having gone through the experience of their breast cancer, they might share with their younger selves.

I photographed each woman holding a photograph of that younger self.

pink stuff

There is a lot of pink on the landscape these days. Even many of the NFL players are wearing pink football shoes! It's Breast Cancer Awareness month, of course.

I guess I'm kind of cynical about the pink stuff. When I was going through my own breast cancer experience I found no relief at all in the pink ribbons, the pink water in the fountain near my house, the pink bumper stickers, the pink t-shirts, the pink tote bags or the pink shoelaces I saw all around me that October. Even now, four years later, my mastectomy site aches when I see those t-shirts about protecting the boobies, the rack, the ya-yas, the jugs, the mangos, the melons, the ta-tas... Why should my pain be reduced to such nonsense? It's kind of an intimate and personal issue.

I've never quite been able to put into words the negative feelings I've had about the pinking of the breast cancer message. But recently, I ran across an article that kind of does touch on some of my own responses to it.

For many years now, I have photographed breast cancer survivors for the Shawnee Mission Medical Center in Overland Park, Kansas. Tonight I'll be attending a gala event that celebrates the images and the women (and I am not wearing anything pink). I'm proud of the work I've done for SMMC and happy to have met so many admirable and inspiring women along the way. These women and I all know that it is the strength and support of our medical community, our family, our friends and a deep well of inner courage (one we may not have known we had) that have helped us move through the scary journey that breast cancer is.

Above are a few of the portraits I've made. Below is the article I mentioned. I think it contains several notions that are worth considering.

“Pink, the supposed color of femininity, does not represent breast cancer to me. In fact, after losing my hair in six rounds of chemo, going through menopause at 28, being sick as a dog and having both of my breasts removed, I pretty much feel less feminine than ever.

Breast cancer, like any other cancer, is a gnarly and wicked disease. Its treatments are arduous and painful, long and intense. They are invasive and, at times, humiliating. To take this disease and cover it in pink glitter gives it a bubble gum appeal that, to me, does not raise awareness, but rather makes opaque and glamourizes the difficulties those of us with this cancer have faced. It also allows people to believe they are actually doing something and are helping and are informed when, in fact, they have simply peeled back a pink yogurt lid, bought a bag of pink-ribbon-stamped cookies or even a pink bucket of fried chicken.

‘Pinkwashing’ gives corporations the opportunity to look charitable while simultaneously allowing consumers to think they have contributed to a cause. While these fractions of percentages of donations have added up and I am incredibly grateful for their contributions, they seem to be utilized as a means for self-congratulation and marketing hooks rather than a truly greater good. It allows these corporations to look charitable and good by doing very little, thus leaving the gravity of these problems unclear and the change minimal. Also, when consumers of such pinked products believe that in buying such things, they are already aware of something via these channels, they then do not feel the need to actually educate themselves via more constructive modes (for example, about self-screening).

Why has my cancer been co-opted by these tactics? And, more importantly, why has it moved into every aspect of breast cancer, including support groups, fundraising and celebrations? There are now pink ribbons, pink colors and the word ‘pink’ on everything breast cancer-related. Further, does this symbol not lose its meaning when a pink ribbon-clad product can be chock-full of carcinogens?

For me, the pink ribbon and pink have been alienating and confusing. And I am not the only one that feels this way. This year, Breast Cancer Action, an organization based in San Francisco, has launched a ‘Think Before You Pink’ campaign to try to change the conversation around breast cancer -- to recognize that this is an epidemic and a health crisis in need of more than just a ribbon.

When I see organizations and events called ‘Tickle Me Pink,’ for example, with pink celebrities and pink cocktails, I fail to see the connection to what I have been through. I am not by any means asking everyone to go sit in a chemo ward. I am simply asking those of us in this breast cancer community to perhaps consider new modes of symbolizing our struggle while getting folks aware of how to prevent and understand this disease in a way that is not fixated on traditional gender roles and femininity.”

Erika Lade, 29. Graduate student, cancer thriver.  From the HUFFINGTON POST

breast cancer survivors

It is that time of the year again for me to photograph twelve selected breast cancer survivors for Shawnee Mission Medical Center. The portraits will be displayed in the hospital during Breast Cancer Awareness month (October), and the subjects will be featured as "calendar girls" in a nicely designed and printed piece that is given to newly diagnosed patients.

This year, we asked each subject to bring to the photo shoot something that was really important to them throughout their diagnosis and treatment - a treasure, if you will.... something that helped them get through it all.

I've done this project for many years and love working with Meg and Charlene at SMMC. One year, they even asked me to participate. That was 2008, the year I reluctantly became a member of the "club." (I am happy to report that with regular follow-up mammograms and check-ups, I remain in tip-top shape.) 

I am grateful to SMMC for asking me to shoot the portraits yet another time. They specifically asked that I do the pictures in the same style as my "Estate Sale Portraits." The colors are wild and whacky, but I think the pictures work.

These two happen to be among my favorites. Thanks, ReBecca and Pam, for letting me share them, along with what you wrote, here on the blog.

I am a mother, daughter, sister, auntie and friend... I am a breast cancer survivor.

My treasures through this life changing journey were GOD and my parents. I know God is always with me, but through this He has been working overtime, and I thank Him every day for that.

My parents raised me to be a strong individual, and this was a true test of how much of my childhood I took with me into adulthood. My mom, Mae, is my life rock. When I got the dreaded phone call, she was the first person I called. Her exact words were, 'WE will get through this.' We did just that. I LOVE YOU MAMA.

We spend our entire lives taking care of others. Please, ladies, take time out to take care of yourselves. Go to the doctor. Get your mammograms every year. I would never have thought this would happen to me, but early detection definitely makes a world of difference." - ReBecca

"I am a wife, mother, grammie, daughter, sister, aunt, mother-in-law, friend, co-worker... I am a breast cancer survivor.

My friends at my job supported me in every aspect. One of them made a stuffed, hot pink fabric bunny. Staff signed it with words of encouragement. I was overwhelmed that they did that for me. I took it to the hospital for every surgery, and it never left my side during recuperation. Her name is 'BooBee Bunny.'  My granddaughter gave me a smaller one at my one-year anniversary.

My mother says I light up a room when I walk in, so she's always called me her sunshine. My advice is to NEVER let your sunshine dim, because you are proof that there is light and hope." - Pam

more girl power

Breast cancer survivor, Traci, posed with her daughter and her sister, both of whom did not hesitate to shave their heads when Traci lost her hair to chemo.

girl power

It’s that time of year when I photograph breast cancer survivors for a local hospital’s annual exhibition and calendar. A member of the club, I feel now that the subjects trust me more.

Or maybe I trust myself with them more.

The theme this year is “support.” I have asked each woman to come to our photo shoot with someone who has been an emotional safety net.

Monica brought along her best friend. Pam has been there for her through it all. Unwavering support.

Talking to Monica and Pam brought back my own memories. And oh how my girlfriends were there for me.

The morning of my mastectomy… Eddie was so sick he couldn’t get out of bed. One quick call to a close girlfriend, and there she was to pick me up to go the hospital for my 6 AM check-in. She stayed the entire day.

That night, in the dimmed light of my hospital room, I saw (through the fuzzy haze of the morphine drip) four other close girlfriends sitting on the bed with me. There was a lot laughter. And a few trashy magazines and some candy, too.

Another girlfriend made sure I had a hand knitted shawl (in my favorite colors) to keep me warm as I was recovering at home. Another stocked my refrigerator with dinners for a week. Another made sure I had a new pair of comfy, warm, flannel pajamas – with pockets to hold the ports from surgery. Still others came over to just listen quietly while I moaned through weeks of reconstruction.

I know what Monica was talking about.

Girlfriends. Nothing much can compare.

pink, black, nude, red?

Those of you who use "Facebook" know what I'm talking about, especially if you are of the female persuasion. I wasn't sure how I felt about the stream of enigmatic status postings - one short word that was simply the name of a particular color - when they started surfacing on my friends' walls. I mean, having the breast cancer experience reduced to a cute nod to a cute color of a cute bra, an article of clothing that reminds me every day of my mastectomy - how was that supposed to make me feel? I've read quite a few pieces written in response to the "game" and the following one makes a lot of sense.

"Bra Color 'game' for Breast Cancer Awareness - Insensitive?

I just had to say something about the Breast Cancer Awareness 'game' that went around Facebook where thousands of women all over the world posted the color of their bra to draw attention to the ever-remaining need for a cure. I saw a link on Twitter that said, 'before you post your bra color on Facebook read this.' I clicked over and read the post written by a brave breast cancer survivor who had no choice but to have a double mastectomy in order to save her life. The posts of bra colors reminded her of the deep physical, and equally if not more devastating, psychological, wounds that breast cancer inflicts on all the women it touches. In writing what I am about to write, I in no way have the intention of taking away from her very valid point. We all need to be sensitive and caring towards the people we know who have had to go through the terrible, life-changing ordeal of dealing with breast cancer.

And before I make my point, I want to share a little about my own family’s history of cancer. My father’s mother had a mastectomy long ago when I was just small. Had a little stuffed fake boob she stuffed in her bras and swimsuits. She used to let me play with it. My mom’s mom had breast cancer and thankfully it was in remission for about 20 years before she died of other causes. My mom also has breast cancer that’s been in remission for over 20 years. My cousin wasn’t as lucky. She got breast cancer at 33. It went into remission for 5 all too short years before ultimately taking her life at just age 39. I watched her die in the hospital when I was 20. As one might imagine, this had a profound effect on me and my attitude toward breast cancer. This isn’t even to mention my first cousin who died at 34 from Hodgkins’ disease, my father who has colon cancer and several other relatives who have died from the disease in one of its many forms. I feel like in my case, it isn’t IF I’ll get cancer, but rather when and what type. Scares the hell out of me if I think about it too much. But… and you knew that was coming… BUT…

When I saw what all the color posting on Facebook was about I was kind of excited and posted my bra color… 'commando!' as I was sick on the sofa in my jammies. Got a lot of attention and giggles from girlfriends. The guys all wanted to know what was happening and posted colors too, making it even funnier! I loved the idea. Until I read that post by the double mastectomy cancer survivor. Ugh. How sad. How insensitive of us all. But then I changed my mind. While we need to be sensitive to the survivors (of COURSE WE DO!) of breast cancer, we also need, if I may be so bold as to say it, to be just as concerned for the women who don’t do regular breast self exams and who are in denial that it can happen to them. The game was meant to draw attention to the very real issue that there is no cure for this disease yet and we need to be vigilant with ourselves to assure as early detection as possible. I’m glad I posted my 'color' and brought attention to the very serious, often deadly condition.

Want to do more? Donate your money and/or your time to the foundation of your choice! There are lots of them out there. Spread the word to your girlfriends, sisters, moms, you get it... everyone! Do a google search of organizations where you can do your part to spread the word and hopefully one day find a cure for this awful disease." - Raelinn

saturday morning

A year and a half ago I joined a club.

The club wasn’t looking for new members. In fact, many people devote their entire lives to figuring out how to completely eliminate the prospect of there ever being any new members. No one sent me any kind of invitation. And I certainly had no desire to join the club.

Truth be told, I didn’t know of its existence.

I didn’t know that once I was diagnosed with breast cancer I would be deluged with offers of comfort and support from countless members of the club, ninety-nine percent of whom are women. I heard from people I barely knew, did not know, never will meet - members from my hometown and members from chapters in other states. I got letters, emails, phone calls, hugs, offers of lunch dates, gifts, flowers and shoulders available for crying from the brave, strong, faithful, generous, mighty and inspiring women that make up this ever growing alliance.

There is no official handshake. There aren’t even monthly dues. But what there is an instant bond unlike any I’ve ever experienced before. Breast cancer survivors will do whatever it takes to be there for each other every step of the way: from diagnosis, to surgery, to treatments, to recovery, to reconstruction, to more surgeries, to the ensuing and inevitable periods of grief and loss and readjustment.

For four years prior to my diagnosis, I photographed breast cancer survivors for a major hospital in my hometown. The portraits are used for exhibition in the hospital hallways and at various women’s health conferences. They are also published in a calendar that is distributed to newly diagnosed patients. Those I met during the photo sessions always impressed me. They were a forthcoming, gracious, spirited, optimistic and stalwart group of human beings.

The fifth year of the project I was just a few months out from my own mastectomy. Obviously, I related to my subjects quite differently then. We had a lot more to talk about. And trust me, most survivors of breast cancer will talk to other breast cancer survivors about anything and everything pertaining to their journey. There were some tender and some heart wrenching moments.

I figured this, the sixth year, would be a piece of cake. My life has been blessed and very full since my last surgery. I had this thing all figured out and had done what I needed to do to move beyond the experience of breast cancer. There would be no need to conduct club business during the portrait sessions.

Whoa, was I in for a surprise.

Yesterday I had a full schedule. Six of the “calendar girls” showed up on my doorstep at various times during the day for their sittings in my studio. Each time I opened the door, I welcomed a complete stranger. By the end of the day, I realized that what I had welcomed into my home at 1:00, then 2:00, then 3:00 etc. was a steady stream of tiny pieces of myself.

There I was in this woman, there I was in that one.

Staring into my own face through the viewfinder of my camera all afternoon took more strength than I could muster. When I got my last hug and closed the door on my last appointment, I sat down and cried.

I was not expecting this.


The women in this portrait are mother and daughter. They were diagnosed three months apart. The mother’s mother died of breast cancer. All three women worked on this quilt. (The assignment this year was to bring an object that says something about who they are.) All three names are stitched into it.

They are each club members. They are also family. The longer I am a member of this club, the more I realize the latter goes without saying for all the rest of us, too.

breast cancer survivors

Breast cancer is the most common cancer among women in the United States, other than skin cancer. It is the second leading cause of cancer death in women, after lung cancer. About 182,460 women in the United States will be found to have invasive breast cancer in 2008. About 40,480 women will die from the disease this year. Right now there are about two and a half million breast cancer survivors in the United States. The chance of a woman having invasive breast cancer some time during her life is about 1 in 8. The chance of dying from breast cancer is about 1 in 35.

This morning I have been thinking a lot about breast cancer survivors, having just completed the Faces of Breast Cancer photo project for a local hospital, knowing so many women who will participate in tomorrow’s Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure, and not being able to get my mind off of Elizabeth Edwards.

I think it’s a good day to feature some of the survivors I photographed these last couple of weeks for the hospital project. As you may recall, I asked each of them to incorporate an object, gesture or word into their portrait – something that speaks to whatever it was that helped get them through their ordeal or that illustrates how they feel having gotten to the other side of it.


Diane has moved several times since her breast cancer many years ago, but she managed to find this photo of her two girls taken when she was going through her surgery and treatments. Not unlike most of the women I have photographed, she said it was family, faith and friends that sustained her. Diane said it was mostly her young daughters who kept her going.


Donna's mom made this afghan for her. She wrapped herself in it during and after each radiation treatment. You can't tell from this black and white photograph, but the colors her mom chose to use are the colors of the chakras.


Running is what helped get Susan through her struggle with breast cancer. She said back in the day, she usually managed to come in first or second in her age group in the Race for the Cure, but now she doesn't fare quite as well... too much great competition! 22,000 people will take part in the race in Kansas City tomorrow.


When Lindsay was diagnosed, she decided to go back to school and get her teaching credentials, something she had always wanted to do. Here she is - teacher and mother to her two little girls. Both of these roles were instrumental in pulling her through her ordeal.


Jennifer's choice of words speaks for itself. It was a bit of a stretch for her to make this picture - she doesn't lie down on her side in front of a mirror with a word written on it with soap very often! But she told me that ever since her breast cancer, she finds she is more willing to step out of her comfort zone, to try new things, to be more adventurous.


Pam's sense of humor made the journey much easier for her. She told me that just before she went in for her mastectomy, she plastered her chest and stomach with post-it notes. Each had little messages and arrows for the surgeon, like "Take this breast, not the other," "Remember, you said you'd remove this mole," and "Look! Here's another little mole you can get rid of."


Debbie had a hard time coming up with ideas for her picture. As we began to talk about it, it was clear that she was a strong and centered woman. I wanted to show that in her picture. She did finally say that after each chemo and radiation treatment, she would pump her arms and say "YES!" It's certainly a gesture all of us survivors can understand and relate to.

lynn

Lynn has had a mastectomy, radiation, chemo and now reconstruction. She told me her family was very instrumental in helping her get through it all. I could relate to that, as can so many other survivors. But when she told me about her dog, I knew that’s whom she ought to include in her portrait. Lynn doesn’t have human children; her dogs are her kids.


“My dog Cinnamon was very important to me. For two months before my diagnosis, she would curl up with me and lay her head on my left breast. Then she'd just look up at me, like she was trying to tell me something. Later, she was very ill, and I asked her to just hang on to help me through treatment. She died the day after my last chemo. She hung on just to get me that far.”

gloria

Who knew I’d be one of the “calendar girls” this year? I was supposed to be the one simply taking the pictures. Didn’t plan on being in one of them.

Here I am on the “wrong” side of the camera, not a place I generally like to be.


I decided to recreate the self-portrait I made twelve years ago in Santa Fe. No impressive boulder to climb this time, no gorgeous forest for a backdrop. Simple and straightforward. (Thanks to Eddie for standing in as my tripod.)

These are the words that will accompany my self-portrait:

“I am a photographer, a mom, a wife, a friend, a daughter, a sister and the founder of a non-profit organization that helps AIDS and war orphans in Uganda. I am a little girl and an assertive woman. Two years ago I went to Africa for the first time and had my life turned all around. This year I had breast cancer, and my life got all turned around again. Both experiences have opened my eyes to what is good and what is bad about life. Both have helped me understand what love and compassion really mean, what is important and what is not. I did not expect to be on the ‘other’ side of the camera for this year’s calendar. But here I am, hopefully a stronger, wiser and better person than I was last year.”

ann

The Faces of Breast Cancer project this year will be especially powerful and meaningful for me. In years past, I have been inspired by the subjects I’ve met and photographed; this year, suddenly, I am one of them. I joined a club I didn’t plan on joining, one that just kind of takes you in whether or not you plan on going to any of the meetings… whether or not you intend to carry the membership card secretly in your back pocket or have started adorning your car with magnetic pink ribbons.

There are twelve of us this year, just like every year… one for each month on a calendar that will be printed and handed out to the next group of newly diagnosed breast cancer patients. It will serve as a source of inspiration to those shocked/numb men and women who will have just gotten the bad news from their doctor. Then, the following year, I will photograph some of them, and their picture and story will help the next group (a continually staggering and sky rocketing number) of breast cancer patients, and so on.

(That is, if they do indeed survive.)

The breast cancer survivors I have photographed over the years were the first ones to rally round me when I got my diagnosis. They clogged my email inbox and the mailbox that hangs outside my front door with notes of encouragement: You can do this. You can beat this. You will be stronger after this is all over. You will learn so much about yourself. You will finally understand what is important in life. Hold your family close. Let your loved ones care for you. Be kind to yourself. Welcome to our club. We are here for you.


So, the 2009 calendar is now under construction. My first subject was Ann. Turns out she had no problem following my “assignment.” She is a seamstress who happens to love words. She decided to use the time between her mammogram and the time she actually got her diagnosis to sew inspirational banners for women with breast cancer. She told me she had a very strong feeling that she had breast cancer, but before hearing the words drop out of her doctor’s mouth, she wanted to get used to the idea, “wrap her head around it” as she said. So she set to work stitching words into fabric, words that would help “others” get through their ordeal. Of course, Ann was right about her own diagnosis, and she continued making the banners right up through her chemotherapy, which she just recently completed. The word she chose to hold for the picture, “faith,” is what has helped pulled her through it all.

"faces of breast cancer" project

It’s time for me to start working on the 2009 exhibition/calendar for the Shawnee Mission Hospital Breast Center. I have done this project for the past several years. Each summer I receive a list of names: twelve breast cancer survivors. My job is to photograph and feature these men and women in an ongoing project about courage and inspiration.

My name was at the top of the list this time around. Sort of startled me. Then I remembered - oh yeah, I’m a survivor now.

In years past, I’ve tried to come up with some sort of theme, if you will. This time, I am giving the following “assignment” to each of the twelve, well… eleven other subjects.

It goes like this:

“Please consider a gesture, an object (which will be used in the portrait) or a single word (which will be incorporated into the portrait) that either helped get you through your ordeal or that symbolizes how you feel having gotten through it.

I will leave it up to your imagination to interpret these guidelines.”

My first shoot is Thursday. I’m looking forward to seeing what the subjects come up with and how our collaborations go. And I need to figure out how I will interpret my own guidelines.

sheryl crow

Torrential Midwestern rains held off just long enough last night for Missouri girl Sheryl Crow and her band to finish the encore set of their concert at Starlight Theatre. I wasn’t really up for going, but some girlfriends insisted; once they got me there, they presented me with a free tenth row ticket, a VIP parking pass, a glass of pinot grigio, and a beautiful, breezy, Kansas City pre-storm evening.

These three women have been my friends for close to thirty years (one for forty) and we’ve been through all the ups and downs of life together. Crow, who is really quite politically and environmentally liberal and outspoken, has been on her own roller coaster these past couple of years, and the songs on her new CD are all about what she calls life’s “detours.” Having recently battled breast cancer, she had some astute things to say about being forced to take a different route from the one you thought was going to be ahead of you.

The four of us fifty-somethings (my friends are very close to becoming sixty-somethings) were right there rockin’ out with the best of them. We still have it, I am happy to report.

I was amazed to learn that Crow is in her mid-forties. She is one gorgeous, fit and energetic woman. (We left the concert feeling like we wanted to grow out our hair and go to the gym more.)

Anyway, it was a fantastic night under threatening and amazing skies, and I thank my friends for getting me out into it. Here’s one of Crow’s new songs, which she wrote about her breast cancer treatment. Her new album is called “Detours” and I think it’s worth checking out.

Make It Go Away
 (Radiation Song)

I stare into

Some great abyss

And calculate

The things I’d miss

If I could only

Make some sense of this



And Madam Butterfly

Resounds

Over the mothership

Her lights flashing around


I float above her and

I wonder how

To make it go away

Make it go away



I crawl into my circumstance
Lay on the table

Begging for another chance

But I was a good girl


I can’t understand how to

Make it go away

Make it go away



Sometimes
I wonder

Which hurts the worse

The thought of dying

Or reliving every hurt

Was love the illness

And disease the cure


Make it go away

komen

I was recently invited to attend a luncheon, which was the annual meeting of the Kansas City chapter of the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. This is a message I found on the Komen website from Nancy Brinker, founder of the organization:

“As I look back over the last 25 years since I founded Susan G. Komen for the Cure, I am amazed at our accomplishments. What began as a promise to my dying sister, Susan G. Komen, has evolved into the world's largest grassroots network of breast cancer survivors and activists fighting to save lives, empower people, ensure quality care for all and energize science to find the cures.

I am in awe of our victories over the last two decades. We began the global breast cancer movement. We started the Komen Race for the Cure®, the most successful fundraising and education event for breast cancer ever created; pioneered cause-related marketing; created Komen Affiliates serving needs in more than 18,000 communities; developed educational tools to reach people in more than 200 countries; and became the world's largest source of private funds for breast cancer research and community outreach programs with nearly $1 billion invested by the end of 2007.

We're proud of the fact that we don't simply dump funds and run. We create activists - one person, one community, one state, one nation at a time - to try and solve the number one health concern of women. I am so proud of the work done by the Komen Affiliates who reach into their communities to keep the subject of breast cancer high in the public consciousness. With the help of Komen Affiliates, corporate partners, individual donors, Komen staff and activists, we've saved millions of lives, making the two million breast cancer survivors the largest group of cancer survivors today.

The sad reality is there is still tremendous work to be done. We don't know what causes breast cancer, and we don't know how to prevent it. Women are still dying unnecessarily in our own backyards. And on the global front, the situation is worse. Ten million women around the world could die from breast cancer in the next 25 years. Cancer already claims twice as many lives as AIDS worldwide. At least seven million people die of cancer each year and close to 11 million new cases are diagnosed. That's more than AIDS, tuberculosis and malaria combined.

We have come a long way in our fight. Twenty-five years ago, when breast cancer was diagnosed before it spread beyond the breast, the five-year survival rate was just 74 percent. Today, it is 98 percent. Nearly 75 percent of women over the age of 40 now receive regular mammograms compared to just 30 percent in 1982. Now it's time to take an even more aggressive stance. We must raise the expectations of science, of institutions and ourselves. We are so close to creating a world without breast cancer. The science is there. Now is the time for us to see this fight through so that no one ever has to fear breast cancer again.”

The luncheon was quite the event. There were 1300 people there, mostly women, many donning pink suits or hats. There was a real sense of sisterhood in the room. I sat with women who spoke openly and proudly of what they’d been through, as well as women who were grieving the loss of loved ones to the disease.

When I first got there, I was given a nametag to wear. Under my name was the word “survivor.” At the end of the luncheon, I, along with all the other “survivors” was given a long stemmed pink rose. I actually struggled a bit with this. It reminded me of Holocaust Survivors. As I have gotten to know many of them, I have learned that there is delineation in their minds between those who were actually in concentration camps and those who were not. For me and breast cancer, since I did not have chemo or radiation or even an “invasive” diagnosis, I feel slightly uncomfortable laying claim to the label of “survivor.”

I mentioned this to the head of one of the local breast centers. Her response was as follows:

“Your comments about being a survivor are interesting. I have heard other survivors voice similar feelings. Yes, your treatment is less than some others, but you lost a breast and probably more significantly you have lost your innocence. Cancer is no longer something that happens to other people - it has happened to you. That realization has to be difficult. But in the 15 years I have been working in oncology, 99.9% of the patients I've met consider their having cancer as a blessing. I have no doubt you are or will be in that majority.”

In the meantime, I am going to start training for the Komen Race for the Cure, a 5K run to be held in KC in August!

breast cancer survivors

The women (and men) I have photographed over the last four years for the exhibition/calendar at a local hospital’s Breast Center continue to show their support for me by sending constant good wishes and words of encouragement. I have been asked to be a participant next year on BOTH sides of the camera; I will do a self-portrait for “Faces of Breast Cancer, 2009.” Who could have predicted that? Anyway, here are more portraits and words from past exhibitions:



I am a mother, grandmother, daughter, sister, girlfriend, medical technologist and eternal optimist. I am a breast cancer survivor. The initial shock of diagnosis was bone chilling, but there were so many options available for treatment and support that my fears were replaced with knowledge and, more importantly, a chance to fight back. One of the most difficult things during my treatment was not being able to be with my grandchildren at times when my immunity was low. But I had the bonus of anticipating the birth of a new grandson due the week of my last chemo treatment! Not only was he a joyful addition to our family, but his arrival signified a healthy new life for me.

Leslie




After many years of being deliberate about getting my mammograms, December 1999 changed everything. I was shocked to learn I had cancer because we have no family history. I learned that this disease spares no one. Early detection is so important.

Karen (daughter)

Our lives are too short. We must live each day to its fullest and treasure our lives, family and friends. My experience with breast cancer was stressful but my doctors, nurses and caregivers gave me confidence. I have learned to enjoy the beauty of my family and friends and to never lose faith.

Nellie (mother)




I am a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend and business manager. Even though I never thought it would happen to me, I am a breast cancer survivor. Despite my initial fear, I have learned how resilient survivors can be. I have learned that relationships with people are the most important part of my life. I’m blessed with wonderful family, friends, co-workers and physicians. My advice for other women is not to wait or hesitate. Early diagnosis gives you more options.

Vikki




I thought breast cancer only happened to older people, but when a volunteer handed me instructions on how to do a breast self-exam, I took one anyway. I went ahead and did the check and found a little lump. I only went to the doctor after much urging from my mother. One appointment led to another until a biopsy confirmed that I had cancer. I used to be an introvert but I’ve found myself reaching out and getting more involved with more and more people since I’ve had breast cancer. Now since I’m here, I want to make a difference.

Tonia




Being diagnosed the first time at age thirty-two was a frightening experience. The second time was a challenge that also brought positive changes into my life. I embrace my family and friends and try to build loving, lasting memories. Exercise is a routine part of my life, and I feel it is an important tool for surviving this disease. A breast cancer diagnosis is not the end. It could be the beginning of a new life experience.

Mary Lou

words of wisdom

Many readers have sent along comments regarding my breast cancer issues. I’d like to share some of them:

- The one piece of unsolicited advice I will give is: be very careful where you go looking for information on the Internet. It is a scary process and the information is often inaccurate.

- Reading your comments about breast cancer hit close to home, as I am one of the many who have been told to watch and monitor the calcium dots that appear in my mammos each year. You are giving others an opportunity to pass on info they have gathered. Maybe some of these medical battles wouldn't be quite so frightening if we shared our experiences more readily.

- Surely you have learned from the many survivors you have photographed that breast cancer is not a death sentence for some of us - it’s merely a bump in the road.

- You have too much work ahead of you to let a few little cells get you down. Do what you gotta do, take care of yourself, and know that there are many, many of us standing beside you.

- I think the most important thing is to trust your doctor, and to get a second opinion (if only to confirm the first opinion).

- Be strong, girl! (It's not the disease, it's the medical establishment you'll need strength for!)

- Cancer sucks! The love and friendsips – concern from others – priceless.

- Eleven years ago this month I had a mastectomy - my left breast, and was very fortunate that no lymph nodes (23 removed) were found to have cancer cells. I was also fortunate in having a calm, optimistic attitude throughout the surgery and recovery, and the surgeon was not only amazed but said very positively that this was a very good factor in the success of my treatment.

- Let me know how it goes with the docs, as well as inside your heart and head. All get a voice in this journey, in addition to your body!

- Remarkably, when I look back at my fight against breast cancer, I don’t view it as a negative. As a result, I feel like I’ve become stronger with clearer priorities.

- If you ever had any qualms about privacy of your body, well throw them right out the window. I never guessed how many persons I would be exposing my breasts to when this started. Now don’t get me wrong, I am not a prude but any means, but to have several people walk into a room and ask you to disrobe for this test or that test… well, let’s say you get used to it. I tried to find a bright spot I could hang onto. That’s usually when my perverse sense of humor took over. Right after the “wires” go into place and you think “surely they can’t think up another test” your nurse comes to get you and says, “We need to do a mammogram.” How can you possibly have the breasts squeezed into that machine with those wires in there? All I could think of as I walked down the hall was, “I wonder if I could get a radio signal with all of this wire!” So off I go trundling down the hall with the wires hanging out. What a lovely sight that must have been. I guess what I am trying to say is we all have had pain involved in the “process": but most are still here to talk about it. That is the real bottom line and the best hope for any women with the diagnosis.

- There are some situations--divorce, disease among them--where even though the numbers are high, there is no comfort in numbers. Everyone has a story they can share, but still, it is all individual and very deeply personal.

- I've been mulling what to say to you and the deal is, I have no idea what to say. It's a rotten deal, but you will get through it.

(And, finally, the following excerpt from Blue Like Jazz, by a writer named Donald Miller, sent to me by a reader. I was thrilled to receive this. I heard Susan Sontag’s son on NPR’s “Fresh Air” the other day say that his mother absolutely hated the cancer/war metaphors. I had never really thought about it before, but obviously others have.)

- “It is always the simple things that change our lives. And these things never happen when you are looking for them to happen.

My realization came while attending an alumni social for Westmont College. I had never attended Westmont, but my friend Michelle did, and she invited me. Greg Spencer, a communications professor, was to speak, and Michelle thought I might enjoy the lecture. I did. More than I can say. The lecture was about the power of metaphor. Spencer opened by asking us what metaphors we think of when we consider the topic of cancer. We gave him our answers, all pretty much the same, we battle cancer, we fight cancer, we are rebuilding our white blood cells, things like that. Spencer pointed out that the overwhelming majority of metaphors we listed were war metaphors. They dealt with battle. He then proceeded to talk about cancer patients and how, because of war metaphor, many people who suffer with cancer feel more burdened than, in fact, they should. Most of them are frightened beyond their need to be frightened, and this affects their health. Some, feeling that they have been thrust into a deadly war, simply give up. If there were another metaphor, a metaphor more accurate, perhaps cancer would not prove so deadly.

Science has shown that the way people think about cancer affects their ability to deal with the disease, thus affecting their overall health. Professor Spencer said that if he were to sit down with his family and tell them he had cancer they would be shocked, concerned, perhaps even in tears, and yet cancer is nothing near the most deadly of diseases. Because of war metaphor, the professor said, we are more likely to fear cancer when, actually, most people survive the disease.

Mr. Spencer then asked us about another area in which he felt metaphors cause trouble. He asked us to consider relationships. What metaphors do we use when we think of relationships? We value people, I shouted out. Yes, he said, and wrote it on his little white board. We invest in people, another person added. And soon enough we had listed an entire white board of economic metaphor. Relationships could be bankrupt, we said. People are priceless, we said. All economic metaphors. I was taken aback.”

elizabeth

As I continue to work on the 2008 Breast Cancer Awareness calendar, I relish meeting such strong, courageous women - women who are willing to share their faces and their thoughts with those who are newly diagnosed (this is who the calendar is distributed to). Yesterday I had the pleasure of meeting Elizabeth, a striking and kind woman with a good sense of humor and who is exactly my age. I liked her right off the bat, and we made a nice connection. I love her portrait and what she had to say about having cancer:

"When I felt ‘the lump’ I knew exactly what is was. All I needed was the diagnosis, to have it removed, and to begin treatment. In the beginning it was all so unreal. Sometimes, even now, I find myself thinking I can't believe it. The sky has never been as blue as it is now. The stars shine brighter than I can ever remember them. In all honesty I can't say this is what I needed to change my life. I can think of a million other experiences I'd prefer. Since it did happen, I value life, and I know that I will never take it for granted as I did before. I want to love more, to feel less fear and enjoy the time I have to the best of my ability. Oh yes, and I promise, God, if you'll let my hair grow back the way it was, I'll never wear a hat, scarf, head covering again!"

Elizabeth

breast cancer awareness

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. For the past four years, I have had the pleasure of working with a local hospital to honor breast cancer survivors. Twelve survivors are selected each year to participate in the “Faces of Breast Cancer” project. I photograph them. Then the images are used in a calendar (which makes it debut in October) that is given to newly diagnosed patients as a means of support, comfort and encouragement. The portraits are also installed in the hallways of the hospital, along with the brave, honest and wise words written by the survivors themselves.

I am currently in the middle of photographing the women for the 2008 calendar. I spent time last night looking at some of my favorites from last year. We asked the survivors to bring with them to the photo session someone or some people who had been by their side throughout their ordeal.

Needless to say, this project has been a huge inspiration for me.


Verna

“My daughters were present with gentle support, care and encouragement when I needed that, but continued to involve me in the busy chaos of day-to-day living when I wanted life to just be ‘normal’ again. My diagnosis is an unwelcome inheritance – their risk is now increased. I must teach them to be vigilant for symptoms and get their checkups. My advice to others is to pay attention to your body. Listen to your intuition and get checked. If you are diagnosed with breast cancer, seek out someone who will let you talk and let you be quiet. Let it be about you for awhile, but stay involved in things that matter to you.”


Sherry

My family was upset when I was first diagnosed. My confidence in a positive outcome helped them take it in stride. They were there en masse for my surgery, including the new baby. A week later my mother-in-law died. Cancer and a death in the family made us all realize we weren’t exempt from anything. My daughter insisted on going to my doctor visits and chemotherapy treatments. She sat with me through the ‘bad’ days. The entire family remained optimistic and upbeat and gave me flowers after each chemo treatment. Everyone, including the babies, did the Race for the Cure for me that summer.”


Vanessa

“My diagnosis has made me get my priorities straight. I have learned to let go of the little things that aren’t important. It has helped me to remember that everyone has different challenges and that there is a reason this happened. There is something for me to learn from this. Everyone wants to help and sometimes it’s difficult for them (or me) to know what I need. Sometimes I need to talk and other times I need to be alone. My advice is to look for cues – listen and observe to learn what you need. Sometimes I get tired of being told what a great attitude I have – sometimes I need permission to say how crummy this is and how awful I feel.”


Jeannie

“We were dealt a ‘double whammy’ because my husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer just six weeks before my diagnosis. Our initial reaction was shock and sadness but we were strong for each other. We don’t have any close friends or family in the area but knew there were prayers and good thoughts coming to us from all our family and friends scattered across the globe. My daughter from Colorado and brother-in-law from California put their busy lives on hold to come and care for us. The outpouring of kindness from everyone has been a most humbling experience. It is important to stay in touch with family members or friends who have been diagnosed with breast cancer. A visit, phone call, email or card can make the sun shine on a rainy day.”