P.S

Ok, so I lied. I thought my previous post would be my last. But I decided I just had to write once more after I had one of the most amazing days of my life.

The Mother's Day Classic at The Domain in Sydney was amazing. There was a sea of pink and a spirit that was so strong. Hope flooded the atmosphere. It's incredible what a group of committed, like-minded people can do.

My family and friends met and lined up for the race with other supporters and survivors. And we walked. For me, for lives lost and lives saved. For future. For hope. For love. For a cause that touches far too many people.

I got chills. I smiled and laughed. And I cried.

Family members hugged me. Nik held my hand the entire event. Janette, my beautiful friend handed me my finishing medal at the end. People told me they were proud of me. And a complete stranger, a Bay Babe, watched Nik and I pin our tribute cards up on the tribute wall and cried. She stopped me and hugged me and told me I was special. I sobbed with her.

I loved every second of it. I'll be back next year, and the one after and each one for eternity. Until then, enjoy today's pictures.

Oh, and the picnic was perfect!

With love, hugs and thanks.

Sim

__________

Pic listing, from top to bottom

Jeff and Joan

Me with my race medal

Nik putting his tribute card on the tribute wall

Me putting my tribute card on the tribute wall

Nik's and my tribute calls hanging on the wall

Mum, me and dad

Janette and I

Jess, me and Clarissa

Nik and me from behind, wearing our tribute cards

Nik and I at the start of the race

See ya

It's with slight sadness and excitement that I write my last blog in the lead up to the Mother's Day Classic event. With the event on this Sunday, it's time to finish here.

I'm really excited about the race and can't believe I am a part of something so amazing. I'm looking forward to the buzz and cloud of pink on the day, and also proud to be walking in the event with Nik, my family and friends by my side.

But I'm also a little sad. I've enjoyed sharing my story with you here. Sometimes I find it hard to talk about things, but I don't have any problems writing. I've loved your support and reading your comments. It's been fun and added much sunshine to my life.

This isn't the last you'll see of me. I've been writing a journal since the day I found the lump. I write to help me heal and I also write with the intention of publishing a book about my experience, with 50% of the proceeds going to breast cancer research. So, keep an eye out in a bookstore near you - hopefully you'll see my book on the shelves in the next year!

With love, hugs and thanks.
Sim

Breast cancer club

I'm part of an exclusive club. The breast cancer club. Granted, not one I would've ever thought about joining, but one life signed me up for anyway.

The thing about this club is that every member knows another member upon sight, even if they haven't met before.

It's a knowing smile or a nod walking down the street, sitting in the waiting room at the doctors, curling up in the chemo chairs or passing each other walking in and out of the radiation centre.

Women who have been a member of this club are very good at spotting other members. Newer members like myself are a little slower identifying more experienced members. How do I know? Last week at the supermarket I was pushing a crazy trolley down the freezer aisle. A lady that I guessed to be in her 50s said to me, "It'll be alright." I just smiled back, in my own little world, until she said, "I've been through it too. Twice." Then it clicked. We stopped and had a chat. She's been in the clear for about five years now. Always like to hear that.

Although the breast cancer club isn't one that women are rushing out to join, it's one that members everywhere have embraced, and are lucky to have the love, support and experience of one another.

Picnic details

Are you ready for the Mother's Day Classic? There's only a couple of weeks left before we'll all be pounding the pavement for a pretty important cause. And of course, working up an appetite for our picnic afterwards!

So here's what is happening: bring your friends, family and food to Ramsgate Beach Park, opposite Ramsgate Coles. There's some shops where you can get supplies if need be. We're aiming to meet up around 1pm. We'll all have our phones. And we'll be decked out in Mother's Day Classic race clothing - so you can't miss us. Then we'll sit around and enjoy the rest of the afternoon in good company. I promise to bring some tasty baked goods to share. If it rains, all bets are off.

See you there!

Getting microwaved

For the last two nights I've been microwaved, or nuked, or zapped. Or if you want to use the technical term, undergoing radiation therapy. Treatment will continue for the next month or so.

It's a pretty weird experience. After the ray nurses set me up on the funny bed with my arm in the air, draw on me with texta, line my tattoos up, they leave and a big, heavy door shuts behind them. It's suddenly very quiet and lonely. And then some warning bells sound and an invisible beam zaps me. I can't feel it or tell if it is doing anything. The only reason I know it's on is because there's a whirring noise. In truth, it seems a little space age - the machine and the whole laser concept. But hey, if it works, I'm all for it.

There is a really nice touch to the treatment room that makes me smile. There's murals painted on the walls and ceiling. So when you're lying there, all alone, at least there's pretty pictures to look at.

Like all cancer stuff, it isn't fun, but the small touches like the paintings and the kindness of the nurses make it bearable. Plus the fact that Nik has rewarded me with a Freddo Frog for being brave after each zapping isn't to bad either!

Silver lining

Not many people would believe that there's a silver lining when it comes to things like cancer. But there is. In fact, I think there are many, many layers of nice, shiny lining.

Perhaps the most pertinent silver lining is being able to reassess my life. Nothing like a shock to the system like cancer to put things in perspective and teach me to focus on the important things.

I've mentioned it before, and I'll say it again. One of these layers is the abundance of love and support I've received.

Another is all the amazing and beautiful people I've met, who I wouldn't have if I wasn't diagnosed.

Being asked to blog for the Mother's Day Classic was yet another. I felt really special that the crew at the Classic wanted me to write about my experience during the lead up to the event.

Yesterday, another silver lining was unearthed. While sitting at chemo, my oncologist came to visit. I wasn't expecting her and was surprised when she came to my chair, as there's many of her other patients who have chemo the same day as me. She is holding a symposium on women and cancer later in the year and wanted a patient to be part of her panel. She thought of me. Me! I said yes in a heartbeat. I feel incredibly honoured.

Cancer, like life, does have its ups and downs. And good things do come from bad. There is always a silver lining - you've just got to keep your eyes (and heart) open.

The long reach of cancer

How many people do you know that have or have had cancer? In my immediate family, there are three. My dad and father-in-law both had melanoma. My mum had cancer in her eye. Include me and there are four of us.

Cast that net a little further to my extended family and the number increases by another four. My gramps had it and sadly died from it, Nik’s grandfather had it, and two aunties on Nik’s side had breast cancer it, but only one of them survived it.

Spread that a touch further to friends and family friends and the number jumps again. Suddenly, there’s another 10 people, including five more women with breast cancer.

That’s 18 people in my life. Far too many. And that’s just the people who have had it. Cancer changes the life of people around the patients too.

114,000 new cases of cancer are diagnosed in Australia each year. That’s 312 people a day.

Once again, far too many.

It just goes to show how important cancer research is, how crucial research funds are, and how vital a support network is. So sign up or support someone in the 2010 Mother's Day Classic and help do your bit.

Mother's Day Picnic

There's just under a month until Mother's Day and the Mother's Day Classic. I'm excited and a little nervous. And overwhelmed once again by the flood of love coming my way.

My family and I had briefly mentioned having a picnic together after the race. Nothing had been finalised yet. "We'll work it out later," I said, "It's still ages away." Turns out it's almost here and it's about time we got our butts into gear and planned that picnic.

Especially since so many other people - friends and extended family - who are also entering the race, or are supporting me, want to join in on the picnic festivities too.

I couldn't believe it when Joan, my mother-in-law, told me so. "Me? Why do they want to hang out with me? I'm not special," was my reply. Nik managed to convince me otherwise. "You are special to us," he said simply.

So, I guess, even when we don't realise it, we are special. We are important. And we are worthy.

Thank you for being an important part of my life. I'll see you at the picnic (details to be confirmed). And I promise to bring something decadently sweet to share - hey - we would've earnt it after the race!

Healing power of chocolate

I don’t know why it actually works, but chocolate is one hell of a healer. There’s just something about it that picks you up and helps mend all wounds and conditions.

I’ve even had a nurse prescribe it to me. No word of a lie. I had a biopsy done on my lump in the first few days after finding it. It was done under local and the biopsy was conducted with a cap gun looking thing. It wasn’t very fun. The wonderful nurse held my hand the whole way through it (because Nik wasn’t allowed in the room) and although I’m sure I shattered the bones in her hand, she was still super nice.

After the procedure, I went into shock. I was shaking like a leaf and my teeth were chattering like I’d just gone for a dip in the waters around Antarctica. She promptly told me to go and eat as much chocolate as I’d like. Fabulous, she was getting better and better by the second.

When I woke up from my mastectomy surgery and was wheeled into my room, Nik already had the chocolate out. It was far more appetising than the hospitable dinner that was waiting for me.

While recovering, some like-minded friends at work sent me a chocolate hamper. It contained a kilo or two block of chocolate and a little hammer for smashing the slab of chocolate apart. Not only did I appreciate this – all my visitors did too!

In the months since then, people are constantly showering me with gifts of chocolate. I can’t count how many blocks I’ve received. But they’ve all made me feel rather good.

So, you see, I think I’m living proof that chocolate is one of the best healers around. I hereby give you permission to devour it for whatever thing is troubling you – a bad day at work, a runny nose, a twisted ankle, or hey, even cancer!

Finish line in sight

I’ve never been good at maths. I’m a words person. Numbers are often like a foreign language to me.

So when I initially calculated how long my treatment would go for, it appeared as if I’d be finishing up in April 2011. Eighteen months since I found the lump.

Nope.

My oncologist (who is thankfully excellent with numbers), just advised that I should be finished treatment by December this year. Almost five months earlier than I’d thought. And better yet. It would be finished before Christmas!

My doc has ordered Nik and I to go on a holiday at Christmas time. “You’ll deserve it,” she said. We had been planning to go away next year for my 30th birthday, slotting it in between treatments and told the doctor so. She said, “Well, you just have to go away twice then!”

Doctors really are some of the smartest people around!

Tattooed lady

Much to Nath, my younger brother's disappointment, I have never really been interested in getting a tattoo. I think it has something to do with my instinctive fear of needles. Or just my brilliant common sense.

But when diagnosed and going through treatment, Nath would say to me that if I can live through that, then surely I am brave enough to get a tattoo. He even designed one for me. I'm, um, thinking about it. Maybe. Probably not...

When I discovered that I'd actually have to get tattooed for radiotherapy, Nath was the first person I told. He was overjoyed. Until I told him they weren't all that interesting. Rather, they would resemble black freckles that would help the radiation team line me up in the right spot each time I needed to get zapped. Still, Nath thought it was at least a start.

Yesterday I got my four new little black freckles. Truth be told, they actually look more like blackheads. Yes, very attractive, I know. I'm sure that before long, I'll forget they're actually tattoos and try to exfoliate them away.

Far from being inked in a back alley tattooing parlour, by a bald man, with a long goatee, minimal teeth and loads of scary pictures on his body, I was tattooed in the sterile confines of a hospital. The nurse dabbed blobs of ink onto my chest, then using something that looked like a big sewing needle, pricked my skin and pushed the ink into the tiny incisions. Not exactly my idea of a fun day out, but it was interesting.

I texted Nath after leaving the hospital. I told him that there's no way I'm ever getting a real tattoo. He thinks he'll be able to wear me down. I'll just let him believe that for a little while.

So now I'm the tattooed lady. But you'll practically need a magnifying glass to see them.

Carrots

Everyone needs a carrot. That’s what my Aunty Cheryl (on Nik’s side) says. Cheryl is an amazing woman for many reasons. But just one of them is that she is a breast cancer survivor.

When I was diagnosed, Cheryl told me to keep my eye on the carrot. You know, that goal or aim dangling out in front of you that you need to strive for.

I’ve already chomped my way through a few carrots. And I’ve got a few more in the vegie crisper waiting for me.

The Mother’s Day Classic Race is one of my next ones. It’s about six weeks away and I’m really looking forward to it.

The one after that falls only a week later. Nik’s and my cousin, Emma is getting married and we are going to the wedding. A party. Something to celebrate. It means I’ll get to buy a new dress. Perhaps not very exciting for some, but I haven’t really dressed up since being diagnosed. I haven’t bought any new clothes either. I’m both nervous and excited about getting a new frock, as my body has changed since I last bought clothes. Plus, by then, I’m going to have hair! It’ll be short, but I don’t care – it means that my ears won’t be pinned to my head under my scarf all day! True, small things, but they’re still carrots to me.

And as I munch through these couple of carrots, I’ll be sure to plant a few more.

Common cancer

To many, cancer has simply become as humdrum as the common cold. We hear about it so often in the media that a lot of people become immune to the word. And more importantly, what the word actually means and entails.

Cancer is as far away as possible from the common cold as you can get. Sadly, not everyone realises this. If only it could be treated with a dose of cold and flu medicine and be cured in a week. Instead, those who know it, understand that treatment lasts a lot longer than a week, and is far more complex than a couple of tablets.

I was talking about this to my oncologist recently. She said that like me, many of her other patients have encountered this attitude. And even she has noticed the shift in society’s opinion about cancer and cancer patients. She was saddened and shocked by this, as she believes that cancer is one of the most serious illnesses around.

Indeed it is. Perhaps more so to those touched by it, patients, family and friends included, than to those who only hear the word. This is why those affected by it need a little bit more understanding. True, no one knows exactly how a patient feels, but a little compassion certainly makes the world of difference.

Power of words

As a writer, words are pretty important to me. I believe in the magic of them, the beauty of them, and the power of them. Words have destroyed people and countries, and they've uplifted them too.
So when I was diagnosed with cancer, I decided to select my words carefully. It actually took me about a week before I could actually say the word cancer - for the first while it was the lump. And then I started thinking about the words that would describe what I'd be facing for the next year or so.
First up, cancer wasn't going to be a battle or a fight. It is a challenge and an experience. I didn't want to have any negative words associated with it. And as time has gone on, there have been many beautiful words that have become part of my cancer experience: hope, truth, faith, support, courage, honesty, strength and love.
It's incredible just how different you feel when you use positive words instead of negative ones. And it is just as easy to use brighter ones than darker ones. But it's also important to know that there's infinite meaning and depth to all words, and this can change depending on how they are used. I'll sign off this post with something I'd like you to consider. It's something Jeff, my father-in-law (melanoma survivor) said to me when I was diagnosed; ''Cancer is a word, not a sentence.''

Support networks

It's funny. And a little sad. You don't realise just how much you are loved and how strong your support network is until something drastic - like cancer - befalls you.

When I was diagnosed, the flood of kindness was amazing. I received cards, letters, donations on my behalf to the National Breast Cancer Foundation, flowers, food (including loads of chocolate), books, CDs, hugs and kind words. Most from family and friends, but some from people I hardly knew. I couldn't believe that so many people wanted to wish me well. Their offerings made me dissolve into tears. But their support also gave me so much strength.

My core support network is made up of my family and my closest friends. They each help share the burden that is breast cancer. Even if they don't know exactly what it feels like, they each help in their own special way.

Even Belle, our five month old kitten is part of my support crew. She's pictured here with my sneakers. She's quite fond of attacking the laces as I get ready for a walk. One of the reasons we got Belle was to bolster our spirits - and she certainly has brought much love and laughter into our home.

But I've found that support goes beyond our inner circle. There's a group of amazing women called Breastcare Nurses, who look out for breast cancer patients. They come and visit you on the day of surgery and stay in touch through the entire treatment process. They are like little rays of sunshine.

There's also volunteers with the Cancer Council Connect service, that puts people with cancer in touch with survivors with similar stories. I've talked to a few women who've been there and done that, and although they are relative strangers, they've helped.

Plus there's a wide world of people out there that know just how cancer can play with your life. They rally together for events like the Mother's Day Classic and the Girl's Night In. They form part of a community that is thousands strong.

Every single one of these people make up a support network - my support team - that helps me through the little things and the big things. And I know I couldn't do it without them.

Waiting rooms

Over the last five odd months, I've spent a good deal of time in waiting rooms at various doctors' offices and hospitals. They're interesting places. I always feel a sense of limbo when sitting around waiting. I have nowhere else to be and am at the mercy of the doctor's busy schedule. So I have to sit and wait. Sometimes it's a good thing. A long wait can mean I can sneak in a few more pages of the book I'm reading. Or it can be agonising - which was the case for my first few appointments after I found the lump. They lasted an eternity. And of course I was too nervous to read or sew or doing anything except sit and worry. Now I feel like a seasoned pro and waiting room waits are just part of the territory. Mind you, that doesn't make me brave - it just means I haven't had to wait for potentially icky results in a while!

But my heart does still go 'thump' when my name is called. And I feel a huge wave of relief once the appointment is over. I like it even better when I don't have to have a follow up appointment.

I learnt early on that it is very important to have someone with you for all the appointments you have to have. Mainly so they can sit with you in the waiting room and calm your nervous leg shake or hold your sweaty hand, and you theirs. It helps you. But it also helps your family and friends. They want to help you - and since they don't have that highly coveted magic wand that can make cancer drop off the face of the Earth - their next best option is to keep you company in waiting rooms.

Waiting rooms have definitely taught me at least one thing: how to be a patient patient.

Cupcakes and chemo

Today is my birthday. I turn the grand old age of 29. And guess what I got to do today? That's right, Wednesday is chemo day.

When I first saw on my treatment schedule that I had to go to chemo on my birthday, my heart fell. For the last 10 years, I haven't even worked on my birthday! I always take annual leave and spend the day doing fun things. Over the years I've been to the movies, art galleries, day spas, delicious lunches, the beach and even to Africa. So, the thought of going to chemo on this day of celebration got me down. I considered asking my oncologist to move my session to the day before or day after, but Nik and I were fearful of rocking the boat. Cancer is a big thing and we didn't want to mess with it.

Resigned to the fact that I'd be going on my weekly excursion to the oncology day centre instead of somewhere fun, I decided to make the most of it. So I made a big batch of chocolate cupcakes and took them to chemo. I made enough so every nurse, patient and their partner (most people take a friend, family member or partner with them to sit with during treatment) could have a tasty cupcake for morning tea.

When I arrived the beautiful nurses wished me happy birthday. Then they gave me a pretty pink rose (very fitting for a breast cancer patient), then they hooked me up to my chemo drugs as nicely as they could! They are wonderful people, kind, caring and they always bring sunshine to my day.

When it was time for morning tea, I got out of my chair (it's like a big, cosy recliner) and Nik pushed my drip machine around behind me (the medicine is administered through an IV) and I wandered around the room offering everyone a birthday cupcake. The other patients sung me 'Happy Birthday'. It was nice. People smiled and laughed and got to eat cake (and that's always a good thing!).

Although spending the day at chemo wasn't my ideal birthday plan, it's what I had to work with. And you know what, it was actually fun. It just goes to show that you can take happiness anywhere.

Words of encouragement

Kind words and notions of encouragement are easy to say, but often go unspoken. People are more likely to say negative things than they are positive and I don't know why - nice things are just as simple to say.

Since being diagnosed, I've been lucky enough to encounter lots of kindess - both gestures and words. And it has definitely helped. It can turn a dark mood into a bright one, a frown into a smile, and remind you that there is beauty in the world.

This week I've experienced lots of kind words that didn't have to be said, but were, and that made a big difference to my week.

When I was at the gym doing a series of squats, an instructor walked past me and said, "Great technique! Keep it up!" Those simple words made me smile and even though my legs were burning, I did 'keep it up'.

A friend at work in response to my first blog post said to me, "I don't think your muscle has turned to mush, I just think it is focused on your heart and mind for a while." That one made me cry - good tears though.

I interviewed a prominent female Australian journalist and wrote a profile on her for the magazine I work for. Upon reading the article she said to me, "You're talented." This made my heart soar, as like most people, I am my own worst critic.

These were all easy things to say - each taking less than 10 seconds to verbalise. But the impact has stayed with me much longer and still, days later, brings a smile to my face and heart.

Hat Hair

So I don't have hair at the moment and therefore can't possibly have hat hair. In fact, it has been a few months since I've had any hair at all. But it won't be long before I do. I realised this when I registered for the Mother's Day Classic. I bought a hat to wear on the day and thought to myself, "Hey! By then my hair will be growing back!"

I'm pretty curious about how my hair will grow. It used to be dark brown, long and quite curly. I've been told that it will probably grow back even curlier. I've also never had short hair before - unless you count when I was a baby. A lot of people have asked if I was scared about losing my hair. I wasn't really. I figured that I'd prefer to be bald than have cancer. And besides - it's just hair - it will grow back. Plus, hair falling out meant that the chemo drugs were working, and that's a good thing! When my hair started to fall out, Nik, my husband and I, shaved it off. It was actually quite liberating. You wouldn't believe how much time it saves me in the shower!

For the Mother's Day Classic I've started a team, Striding with Sim. If you want to join the team, look for it when you register. You don't need to walk with me to be a part of it though. Or, if you're not entering the race, you can always sponsor me and let me do the walking for you. Visit http://s.eventarc.com/sponsor/view/90/simone-mcclenaughan to do so.

See you next time.

Pleased to meet you.

Hi there.

Thanks for dropping by and visiting my blog for the 2010 Mother's Day Classic.

I'm Simone McClenaughan - but my friends call me Sim. I'm 28 years old. I'm a writer for a women's weight loss, health and fitness magazine. And I have breast cancer. Yes, young, I know. But breast cancer doesn't discriminate. I was diagnosed with it in October 2009 - which is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Within a week I had a masectomy, and since then have been undergoing treatment. My treatment will continue for about another year.

When I was diagnosed, I vowed that in 2010 and forever more, I will enter every single breast cancer charity race in my hometown of Sydney to help raise funds and awareness about the disease. I also wanted something to look forward to and achieve. I've already done one event in January, and the Mother's Day Classic is the next one I have my sights firmly set upon.

I used to be pretty active, exercising daily, doing all sorts of things such as walking, mountain biking, hiking, yoga and pilates. But since starting chemotherapy in November, that came to a grinding halt. The first batch of chemo was pretty toxic and made me quite weak. It was a struggle to even stroll round the block.

I'm halfway through my second batch of chemo and it's far easier to handle. So much so I am ready to exercise again. But after a couple months of no activity, all my muscles turned to mush, so I have to start from scratch. It's a weird feeling, because I've always been active and had good strength and fitness levels. To get me on my way, I've joined a gym and had a weights program written to help restore my strength. I've just finished my first week, going three times to work out on the weight machines. I was so sore after my first session! But it felt amazing. I felt empowered and like I was finally getting back to my old self. I'm also back walking, doing that three times a week too. I've managed to keep a good pace and go a little further each time. The hardest thing for me is being patient with myself and understanding that it will take awhile until I am back to the old Sim.

I guess that's just another lesson I have to learn in this little challenge called cancer.