Re-Acquainting Myself With the Breast Self Exam

Posted on: June 16th, 2016 by

Once upon a pre-breast cancer time, a physician paid me a high compliment. “You do better breast exams than most doctors,” he said. And I think he was right. Every month I performed the same ritual: a thorough breast self-exam, including the look-at-your-breasts-in-the-mirror test.

Although I always dreaded the idea of something possibly being wrong, I examined my breasts thoroughly and regularly.

Until a breast self exam (BSE) saved my life.

After I found an odd, but ever-so-subtle dimple during an anything-but-routine BSE, I made the dreaded appointment with my gynecologist, who ordered a diagnostic mammogram, which showed an abnormal mass.

The rest is history. Breast cancer. Two lumpectomies. Chemotherapy. Radiation. Aromatase Inhibitors. Constant monitoring. False scares. A mass found via MRI in the same breast five years after diagnosis. Scared shitless. Another lumpectomy to remove the mass. Benign this time. Fought for a bilateral mastectomy with DIEP flap reconstruction. Done. And done. My “healthy” left breast loaded with pre-cancerous cells.

Turns out, the bilateral mastectomy saved my life.

I’ve been a medical success story thus far, and I am grateful. Before and after surgery, my mastectomy surgeon emphasized the importance of continuing to do BSEs, as it’s impossible to remove all breast tissue during the mastectomy.

And now I have a confession to make. You can probably guess what it is.

I haven’t done a BSE since my bilateral mastectomy and reconstruction.

I’m too afraid of finding something.

Thick fear suffocating me.

I’ve let my fingers do the walking way too much for my taste. So I’ve let my doctors’ fingers do the walking instead.

But I realize that my dependence on my doctors’ breast exams must be over. I need to once again take ownership of my health in this arena.

So, here I am, a BSE newbie again, learning the unfamiliar terrain of breasts that are mine-yet-aren’t-mine.

My first post-mastectomy BSE is just around the corner. A corner I must unwillingly turn.

Doing a BSE will be emotional. I weep just thinking about it.

But being proactive is my only choice.

I must go forward.

Do you do/Have you done breast self exams?

How was your breast cancer discovered?

Boycotting National Cancer Survivor’s Day

Posted on: June 2nd, 2016 by

National Cancer Survivors Day is on Sunday, June 5.

And I won’t be celebrating.

Sorry to sound like a bitter ingrate, but I take issue with a day that celebrates cancer “survivors” and leaves those with metastatic cancer in the dust of victory.

In fact, I take issue with the word, “survivor.” According to, the word “survive” means: “to endure or live through (an affliction, adversity, misery, etc.)” and “to get along or remain healthy, happy, and unaffected in spite of some occurrence.”

Does this definition fit those with metastatic cancer? Most certainly not. For those with mets, cancer is more than just an adversity to be overcome. And, let’s face it, people with this disease don’t necessarily remain “healthy, happy, and unaffected.”

The National Cancer Survivors Day website has a page called “Who is a Cancer Survivor?” It lists several criteria that “defines” who makes the cut as a survivor. Here’s one gem from the website:

“If you’re living with cancer as a chronic disease – you’re a survivor.”


Maybe I missed something here, but since when is metastatic cancer a chronic disease? Such deceptive, veiled language pretties up the ugliness that is cancer. Here’s another definition of “survivor”: “If you’re currently in active treatment for cancer – you’re a survivor.” I think the people who put the website together just threw this in in a feeble attempt to cover those with metastatic disease.

And here’s my favorite: “If you’ve beaten cancer and been declared cancer-free – you’re a survivor.” Ah, the old tried-and-true favorite: the battle metaphor stating that if one is NED, they have won the battle against cancer. Nobody I know has “beaten” cancer, yet the battle metaphor lives on.

Let’s be real: These feeble definitions of cancer survivorship also don’t fit for those people who lived through cancer and are currently NED (no evidence of disease), the so-called “survivors,” people for whom the national celebration is really aimed at.

People like me.


I’m under the survivorship umbrella, but it’s a raging shit storm out there.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m glad I am NED, but the jury is still out on whether I survived cancer according to the aforementioned National Cancer Survivors Day criteria. Regarding cancer survivorship, a hip hip hooray feeling eludes me. The bridge toward survivorship and greener pastures is rickety.

Here’s a synopsis of my post-cancer life. Most of the time, I live in a state of gratitude. I paint and write and read. And take nature walks, appreciating all that nature has to offer.

But while I’m grateful to be alive, I’m not grateful I had cancer.

I will never be grateful to have had cancer.

Cancer is ugly and devastating. To me, survivorship is akin to living under the Sword of Damocles. It’s like being placed in Edgar Allen Poe’s story of terror “The Pit and the Pendulum,” where the narrator finds himself facing a pit where he will fall into a never ending abyss, as the walls literally close in on him bringing him closer and closer to the pit.

I can only speak from my own experience.

Survivorship has been exceedingly difficult for me. Between the panic caused by oncology appointments and intense scanxiety that only those in the cancer world can understand to PTSD to fatigue to chemobrain to cancer paranoia — survivorship pretty much sucks.

Yet, despite all this, I know how lucky I am to have survived. I don’t need National Cancer Survivors Day to remind me that I’ve beaten cancer.

Truth is, cancer has beaten me up pretty badly.


Do you like the word “survivor”? If so, do you consider yourself a cancer survivor?

If so, how has your survivorship experience been?

Breast Cancer Is No Slam Dunk

Posted on: May 26th, 2016 by

I recently met with advisors regarding financial planning, something so many ordinary people ordinarily do. These gentlemen seemed to care about me, as they assessed my current financial status and my future financial plans.

But, of course, there’s a sales pitch.

There always is.

They recommended I purchase excellent, fantastic, stupendous life insurance. Although I have life insurance at my place of employment, these advisors suggested I obtain additional life insurance. After they rattled off all the different life insurance companies they work with — and after my brain stopped spinning — I asked the question my inquiring mind wanted to know: How expensive is additional life insurance?

“Well…um…that depends,” said one advisor.

The other chimed in, “Well, you are relatively healthy, so it would be reasonably priced for you. It’s only more costly if you’ve had a history of diabetes, cancer, heart problems, and so on. You’re not a smoker, are you?”

“No,” I said, as my mind had stopped at the word “cancer.”

“Good,” they both chimed in in unison, figuring that selling me life insurance was a slam dunk.

“But I’ve had cancer,” I said.

They were taken aback and looked shocked. I could feel what they were thinking: how could someone who looked healthy and younger than my age have ever had cancer? (Come to think of it, what does a person who has had cancer look like?)

Then our conversation took a turn for the worse, as they regrouped and launched into their sales pitch again.

“Can I ask what kind of cancer you had?” said one advisor.

“Yes, breast cancer.”

They both smiled with relief. “Well,” said the other advisor, “Insurance companies look at the type of cancer you’ve had when making their determination, and I can tell you that breast cancer is generally not a problem.”

“But you don’t know the nature of breast –,” I replied, as they cut me off.

“It’s no matter. If you’ve had breast cancer and a doctor’s note saying everything is now fine, most life insurance companies will be fine with this. How long ago did you have breast cancer?”

“Fifteen years ago.”

“Fifteen years?” they both said, beaming. “Well, if you’ve had breast cancer 15 years ago, you should have no problem getting life insurance. If it was a year or two ago, you’d encounter more difficulties.”

All I could think of at that moment was Jody Schoger, who was supposedly NED (no evidence of disease) for 15 years and who recently died of metastatic breast cancer.

My thoughts were interrupted by the two men who joyously believed they had a sale. And worse yet, these individuals believed that breast cancer was the “good” cancer and that having been diagnosed and treated 15 years before for breast cancer was no big deal. At all.

They had a cavalier attitude toward the source of my and others’ suffering. They believed that having had breast cancer 15 years ago was a slam dunk in the life insurance world. Heck, a slam dunk in life in general.

Slam Dunk

To that, I call bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

This dismissive, insensitive attitude is pervasive in our culture: breast cancer is the good cancer.


Breast cancer is the sissy cancer.


Once a person has passed the five-year mark, it’s all systems go.


Like I fire doctors whom I deem harmful to my emotional and/or physical health, I fired these advisors. I thanked them for their time and left, with no intention of ever coming back.

I’ve had enough with financial advisors. Instead, I just bought a book on financial planning. After all, I’d rather turn pages than turn into an idea of what a breast cancer survivor should be.

Have you encountered that attitude that breast cancer is the good, easy cancer?

If you have done financial and/or retirement planning, have health issues come up and, if so, how was it handled?

Jody Schoger and Gratitude

Posted on: May 20th, 2016 by

This has been a sorrowful week in the world. We lost so many to metastatic breast cancer (MBC), including Jody Schoger. Even though I knew she was in hospice, I was still stunned when I received the news that she passed away. And in that finding-out moment, I knew the world was suddenly worse off for not having Jody’s fierce passion, intelligence, kindness, and advocacy in it.

I never met Jody in person, but like so many in our wonderful online community, I felt as if I knew her. One of the #BCSM tweetchat co-founders and a moderator of the tweetchat, she exuded kindness and caring for all participants. A few years ago, I had a medical scare. I was seeing my oncologist, who confirmed I didn’t have a breast cancer recurrence, as the menacing bone scan report indicated. When I checked in during our #BCSM tweetchat, the first thing Jody did was ask me how the oncology appointment went.

I embraced that act of kindness deep within my heart and will always treasure it.

Frankly, writing this post is so difficult, as words cannot capture the anguish and ache I’m feeling right now. I know I’m not alone in this raw mourning — so much of the world is grieving with me for loved ones lost to MBC. I cannot capture the depth of sorrow and how I feel kick-punched by pain. So I don’t talk about this to friends. That’s how stopped up my voice feels.

Is it possible to love someone you never met?


I’m having a difficult time coping — and breathing — at this very moment.

So right now, as I write this post, I’m about to spiral down into the bottomless abyss of despair.

To keep from doing that — after all, depression is not helpful for me — I am reflecting on what I’m grateful for. I must turn to appreciate what I daily take for granted. No, this is not a post on thinking positively or to bury our heads in the sands of denial. Instead, writing what I’m grateful for will keep me (and maybe others) from completely sinking into the quicksand of anguish.

Here are just a few things I’m grateful for:

The blooming bush in my front yard that I’m sometimes too busy to notice. It has glorious white flowers right now.
The longer days of spring and summer.

The fact that my daughter challenges me on everything these days. It means she’s growing up and is learning about boundaries.

The purring of my cats.

The ability to write and create art.

The ability to go to the bathroom independently, something not everyone has.

Being able to teach and touch students’ lives.



Great doctors, although they scare the shit out of me.

The online breast cancer community.

More cowbell, always more cowbell.

What are you grateful for? Can you add to this list?

Do you have any fond memories of Jody Schoger? Feel free to share them.

Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person: A Review

Posted on: May 13th, 2016 by

Nancy Memoir


That’s what you will find in Nancy Stordahl’s memoir Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person: A Memoir About Cancer as I Know It. The book’s title is telling: Stordahl exposes the ugliness that breast cancer really is. In a culture of pinkwashing and stories about how breast cancer changed people for the better, it is refreshing to read this book’s account of breast cancer.

Stordahl knows first-hand about breast cancer, unfortunately. Her mother died of metastatic breast cancer, and not too long after her mother’s death, Stordahl herself was diagnosed with breast cancer. I don’t want to divulge too much about this important book, but Stordahl interweaves her breast cancer story with her mother’s breast cancer story exceedingly well. She also covers the complexity of how breast cancer has affected her family, as well as how horrific this disease really is.

The memoir’s narrative prose is so extraordinary, that I could not stop reading this book. The memoir is not the typical breast cancer feel-good-book; instead it is a poignant account of the tragedy that is breast cancer.

If you are a fan of her popular, excellent blog Nancy’s Point — as I am — you will appreciate the memoir’s same candor and heart as Stordahl’s blog. A well-known advocate for those with metastatic breast cancer, she has no qualms about sharing any topic on breast cancer.

Stordahl is a refreshing agent for change in breast cancer culture.

Similarly, her memoir is the antidote to the pink ribbon culture so pervasive in our society.

I highly recommend this memoir. It can be purchased here.

Have you read Nancy Stordahl’s memoir yet? Feel free to leave your comments.

Dancing Alone on Mother’s Day

Posted on: May 7th, 2016 by

For many in the US, Mother’s Day is a time of celebration. People may reflect on how lucky their lives are to have wonderful mothers and/or children. For others, this holiday is quite somber: too many people have lost their mothers or are even estranged from them.

This holiday’s cup runneth over with emotion.

Last Mother’s Day was fun for me and filled with celebration. However, this year, Mother’s Day is bittersweet. Arielle and I will do fun things, but I cannot rest easy.

My mom is grieving, spending the holiday without her husband at home for the first time since they became parents.


As you know, my dad has dementia and Parkinson’s and is at a facility that specializes in dementia.

Rewind to before I was born: My parents were a pair of great ballroom dancers. They won numerous awards, but, most importantly, they loved to dance. Even as I was growing up, once a week, they asked one of my grandmothers to babysit — and then they hit the town by ballroom dancing.

They danced at least once a week, and my brother and I knew, as we grew up, that dancing was their love. It’s no wonder, then, that they supported my tap dancing lessons for quite a number of years. At my wedding reception, my dad led guests in dancing the hora. In fact, my parents loved all kinds of dancing, although their favorite was always ballroom dancing.

When they retired and moved to Florida, they found a ballroom dancing community and went dancing two to three times a week. Even during my dad’s dementia, the one thing he could still do was dance. Even as his memory was failing, his muscle memory was still strong.

They danced and danced. Until the day he fell out of bed and broke his hip. Now my broken-hearted mom visits the nursing facility to see the man who was her dance partner for life.

Now she is alone.

It is unbearable for me to witness her grief. I try to help her through it. And I and my brother are grieving, too. We’re losing a father, slowly. And we’re understandably upset that my mom is grieving the decline and eventual loss of her husband.

And I’m saddened that my mom no longer has her life partner, as the dementia has fully taken over. And now, with his inability to walk, she no longer has her dancing partner.

“Your dancing days are over,” says my mom’s mean-spirited friend.

My mom calls me and cries over this comment. I keep trying to talk her out of this dysfunctional friendship, but my mom continues to reach out to a woman who does not have her best interest at heart.

And yet, despite all the trauma that my mom is going through, she was kind enough to send me flowers for Mother’s Day.

Speaking of flowers, my mom is a great gardener. My dad was never into gardening, so this has always been a solo hobby. She takes great pride and joy in her garden, which yields unbelievable flowers, so I encourage her to throw herself into gardening. It’s great therapy, as my mom won’t go to support groups.

So Arielle and I will celebrate Mother’s Day, as always. She will have fun, and I will enjoy the moments we have together. But I will call my mom and think regularly about my parents. They live a long way from me, but the distance between our hearts is short.


Have you experienced the loss of a parent? If so, how do you handle Mother’s Day and/or Father’s day?

What are your Mother’s Day plans? Feel free to share a memorable Mother’s Day.

Book Launches a Heart-to-Heart Talk

Posted on: April 22nd, 2016 by

Calling the Shots in Your Medical Care is about to launch in just a couple of months. And, with the excitement building, I feel a sense of purpose and urgency and certainty that this is the right time for the book to make its debut.

But I haven’t been so sure this is the right time to tell Arielle that mommy had breast cancer.

As many of you know, some time ago, my daughter accidentally found my prosthesis, as it flopped out of my bra. We had an age-appropriate talk, and I was hoping that would be that for a while.

Well a while has come and gone. She’s almost eight years old now, and the doctor-fixing-boo-boo language no longer flies.

A close friend tells me, “You’re going to have to tell her, you know, especially with your book coming out. Do you want her to find out by reading about it in your book? Don’t let her find out this way. It should be you who tells her.”

“Not yet,” I say. “She can’t read that well yet. And she’s not ready.” (Read: I’m not ready.)

“When will she be ready?”

“Maybe when she’s a teenager?”


Every once in awhile, I catch my daughter eyeing my scars and human-created nipples in a more sophisticated way than before. She gently traces the scars with her fingers. Because I don’t want Arielle to have body-image issues, I act like I’m just fine with my body and that my breasts are the most natural things in the world.

Except they are not.


Arielle is happy about the upcoming book launch. She is so thrilled the picture on the book’s back cover will be of both of us. She expects to attend the launch party, and at least one reading and book signing.

“I want to be there [at the launch party] for you, mommy,” says my sweet child, “just as you’re always here for me.”

At this time, I’m looking for a venue to host the book launch party. The prospect of the party makes Arielle especially happy. She can’t wait to be involved. And that’s the problem – she wants to be involved.

She’s more involved than she knows.


Kids are smart. They know there’s more to a story, even if you tell them only a portion of that story. On her own, Ari has figured out that something more significant, more serious had happened to her mom. We just don’t talk about it. And that’s been fine with me.

We are open about her adoption story.

We are not open about my cancer story.

Ari is a sensitive, caring child and, being adopted, she has already lost a biological mother. I don’t want to alarm her that she might lose me, too.

I know I have to spill the beans before the book launch. She will hear too much there. And it would break my heart to leave her home with a babysitter on such a significant day. I don’t know what to do.


One day when I’m not paying attention, Ari looks through the completed manuscript I accidentally left on my desk.

She accurately reads “Can-cer” out loud.


“Honey, do you know what cancer is?”

She shrugs.

“It’s a disease that makes someone very sick. [Deep breath] Years ago, before you were born, I had breast cancer, and I was very sick. But my doctor gave me a medicine called chemotherapy to get rid of the cancer.”

“How did they give you chemo…therapy?”

“Through a needle. In this arm.”

“A doctor took my breasts off and used my belly fat to create new breasts. That is why I have such a big scar under my stomach. Baby, I’m OK now.”

“I’m not a baby, mom.”


A few days later, we are talking about why mommy wrote the book. Ari is pensive: “Like the time you had breast cancer, you needed help,” she says. ”And now your book will help other people.”

Wise beyond her years.

We hug.


And now that the book launch is right around the corner, I feel better that Ari and I had this conversation. I am honest in my book, so I must be honest with my own daughter.

We must be open about her adoption story.

We must be open about my cancer story.

Still, I cannot rest easy.

What happens when she discovers that breast cancer kills?

What happens when she discovers how scared I was and still am?

What happens when she learns the truth that a doctor didn’t actually fix me?

Will she hold these gentle lies against me? After all, isn’t withholding information a lie?

As she discovers more about breast cancer, we will walk on unknown terrain. But at least the road we are heading on will be paved in truth.

Arielle on Path

How did you tell your children you had cancer?

Have you kept your cancer a secret from your children or anyone else? Why or why not?

Do you have any advice for me, as I know I will have to give her more details in the future?

Something Exciting

Posted on: April 15th, 2016 by

I’m pleased to announce that my book, Calling the Shots in Your Medical Care, will be launching in July 2016. This book focuses on helping others realize they have a voice in their own medical care. While I use my own breast cancer experiences as examples, this primer is geared toward anyone facing any kind of medical crisis.

However, a couple of disclaimers:

• The book is not a substitute for seeking out medical expertise.

• The book does not promise that if one advocates for his/her own healthcare needs, that he/she can change medical outcomes.

However, what Calling the Shots in Your Medical Care does is to encourage patients to be proactive in their own healthcare.

Too many patients are meek and passive, viewing doctors as uncontested authorities. Patients don’t always know how much power they really do have. Until they speak up, that is.

Calling the Shots helps readers:

 assert their needs to and command respect from medical personnel, such as doctors, nurses, and medical assistants.
 know how to find the right physicians.
 find out how to hire and fire doctors.
 effectively talk to physicians.
 deal with difficult doctors, such as Dr. Bully MD.
 build a great medical team.
 deal with difficult administrators and the bureaucracy of records departments.

Calling the Shots is a call to action.

Why launch in July?

I got the idea to launch during this month from the US Independence Day holiday. After all, the book is a declaration of independence of a sort – patients can be civilly disobedient to medical systems and personnel who do not have the patients’ best interest at heart.

I will keep you posted as the book launch gets closer. In the meantime, I’m working hard and am embracing the fact that exciting and unexpected things are bound to happen.

This is an exciting time.

I’m ready.

So Far Away

Posted on: April 8th, 2016 by

At the rehab center, I am shocked by the stranger in my father’s room.

It is my father.


My dad’s dementia has progressed so rapidly, so markedly that he is now a stranger to my family. He still knows who we are, but it’s like his very essence – that spark that makes him who he really has been throughout his life – is gone.

Oh, he’s technically still my dad and my mom’s husband. But for several years now, my mom was alone before she was physically alone.

At least they still went ballroom dancing twice a week; they were always good at dancing together. Until his hip broke in December.

Now my mom must learn to dance alone.

“How do you make a meal for one?” she asks me.

She has never before lived alone. She lived with her parents until she married young. Now that he was recently transferred to a permanent place for dementia and Alzheimer’s patients, they are apart.

“You can freeze food in one-person portions,” I say.

She is lost and cries to me on the phone. I wish I could just fly to Florida whenever she needs me. But she’s so far away. So I become a vessel for her pain.

I don’t cry with her. I don’t know why because I do cry alone. Perhaps I feel I must not fall apart when she’s falling apart.

Oddly, even though I’ve never been in my mom’s situation, I sort of understand. I know what it’s like to have my husband transform into a stranger. I’ve experienced the death of a relationship – albeit under different circumstances – and intensely grieved this death. I also had to learn to be alone.

My dad’s been on medication for dementia and for his Parkinson’s disease, but neither medication gives a rat’s ass that it has done nothing for these conditions. Neither do the doctors. He’s just one more old, frail, demented Florida patient to them. They don’t return my calls even though my mom has given them written consent to talk with me.

My mom is easily confused by medical jargon (who wouldn’t be?) and she has difficulty understanding and communicating what medical personnel tell her. So I’m her proxy, making these phone calls. I don’t mind making them.

But this is what I do mind:

The hospital social worker who deliberately doesn’t return my calls. I call her at least three times during the time my mom is in the same hospital visiting my father a few days after his third hip surgery. I call my mom and tell her to go to this social worker’s office, which she does. The social worker is in her office, admitting to my mom that she received my calls but isn’t calling me back. And don’t get me started about the rehab social worker who won’t return my calls until I call her boss and make a stink over this stinky situation.

I could go on and on about the rude, crude way my parents have been treated by the medical and social work “professionals” during a most stressful period of my parents’ lives, but I won’t.

Mini-rant over.

My dad has so many things wrong with him, the odds of his long-term survival, I think, are low.

While I sit next to him at the rehab center where he is recovering from his physical injury, he is so far away.

There he is, all hunched over in his wheelchair, staring down into space and unable or unwilling to lift his head when my grieving mom, says, “Beth is here to see you. You know Beth?”

“Yes, she’s my daughter,” says my dad blankly, with slurred speech.

“Hi dad,” I say, feigning calm.

No answer.

Then in a few minutes, he starts talking gibberish to my mom, who tells him to lift up his head and look at me. After her constant cajoling, he looks up at her and forces a smile, which disappears as quickly as it came. Then his head drops down again, where it remains for the rest of our visit.

I am losing my father. My dad is already gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

And my dad’s condition is only going to get worse.

Until he’s gone.

And so, as I write this during yet another sleepless night, I still know that cancer is shitty. But I’ve come to realize that dementia is right up there on the list of top shitty diseases. Dementia steals people from us, as we helplessly watch them wither away mentally, spiritually, and physically.

And I can’t help but wonder whether I will share my father’s fate. I no longer worry only about cancer. I don’t want to become smothered by dementia, and I certainly don’t want to be a burden to my daughter.

My dad and his only granddaughter

My dad and his only granddaughter

At this point, in my sleep-deprived brain, the song “So far Away” by Carole King runs rampant:

“So far away
Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn’t help to know you’re just time away
Long ago I reached for you and there you stood
Holding you again could only do me good
Oh, how I wish I could
But you’re so far away…”

Have you known/Do you know someone with some sort of dementia?

Have you ever lost someone to this condition?

Do you have any advice on how my family and I could best cope through this?

My dad and mom

My dad and mom

Fine Black Lines

Posted on: April 1st, 2016 by

fine black lines

What better way to celebrate National Poetry Month than to celebrate a book of poetry on breast cancer. The book is not new, but its message continues to be timeless and universal.

Fine Black Lines: Reflections on Facing Cancer, Fear and Loneliness by breast cancer survivor Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad is an phenomenal collection of poetry for those who have been diagnosed with breast cancer and their loved ones.

Besides being beautifully written, the poems and prose in this collection speak directly to the heart. These honest works are profound, yet simple — but never simplistic. As someone who was diagnosed with breast cancer, I easily relate to each piece of work in this book. In fact, among all the books I have at home, this one is among my favorites and sits in the bookshelf near my bed.

It’s rare that I find a book of poetry without a having a favorite poem or poems, but in this collection, all the poems are my favorites. They each touch me in different ways, and the sum of the total pieces of work equals sheer brilliance.

Here are two samples from the book:

The Mall

I went shopping today
for a bra that would not bind
for prostheses to remind.

It is difficult to search for something
that you never really wanted
in the first place.

You Will Be Just Fine

Please do not trivialize
My suffering.

You who are healthy
You whose mortality is as yet
Only dimly perceived —
Please do not say
“You will be just fine.”

I may well be — someday —
But I do not know…
You do not know…

On a personal note, I was lucky to meet Hjelmstad and her supportive husband Les when I was a newly diagnosed and frightened cancer patient. She helped me immeasurably and on April 4, 2001, signed her book for me as follows: “…with much love and best wishes for courage, comfort — and joy.”

And over the years, I have derived much courage, comfort, and joy from this book. If you haven’t yet purchased a copy, please do so here. You will be glad you did.