It Happened…(a Year Ago Today)

I adopted Marcus Aurelius a year ago today. I had fostered for two years, but he wasn’t a foster fail. I adopted him based on a picture I saw on the Bad Ass Animal Rescue instagram. His face reminded me of my last foster dog, Goose. I got Goose adopted by a couple who lived in my building. I have gotten all my foster dogs adopted through connections. Between fostering and being the dog whisperer of adoptions, I felt ready for the general.

I noticed three things about Marcus right away. He never sat down. He was really hard to walk. And he jumped on everyone he came into contact with. At his first vet appointment, the vet told me she could tell he was a good dog and that he would calm down. Fair enough. I had fostered enough to know the transition isn’t smooth and it can take months before their true personality emerges. I was hoping for less psychotic and a little more bubbly down the road.

My vet called me a day later to tell me Marcus had heart-worm. Heart-worm is caused by a mosquito bite. Dogs are natural hosts, humans are not. The rescue had tested him and he was negative, but the disease can incubate for up to 6 months. It happens. 

Treatment is a course of 3 injections spread out over 6 months, no exercise, heavy sedation and a crate-to-curb existence. It was the beginning of summer, I had bike rides to organize, vacation plans to make and a new boyfriend to find. I could give him back, find someone to take care of him during his treatment, or bulldoze through. 

1 year Gotcha Day!

Feels like a stare down

I had dogs before I had kids—beagles no less. If you can survive having a beagle (note: I did not say training) then you have a reasonable shot at parenting. I have two sons. I was bound by two things, maternal instinct and the near impossibility of giving them back, so I kept my kids.

But I didn’t birth Marcus, I barely knew him, we hadn’t bonded and I suspected that at the end of this process he might just be an asshole. And I could give him back. But I am a bulldozer.

I held out high hopes for the drugs. I could do one, lazy, no vacation, summer. We could lay on the couch and watch TV, his head in my lap, talk shopping and all things small, furry and ultimately chase-able.

Except, Marcus wasn’t really capable of being sedated. It happens.

I took him to the vet handling his first of three injections. After witnessing our interaction in the waiting room, he told me not to worry—that the first thing he could do for me, for Marcus and for everyone who had the misfortune of being around us, is sedate him. I explained that this was Marcus sedated. They tripled his dose. It made no difference. On the way home from the first injection, I Googled What is the human dose for Trazodone?

I talked non-stop about whether I should give him up while I hired a trainer to keep his mind busy and his aggression low during the no-exercise period. I was in touch with the rescue, talked to other pit bull owners, read books, looked at videos and called my twin brother a lot. I was in it and doing what had to be done—but every day was like a root canal.

Almost unanimously people told me to give him back. No one actually told me to keep him. They said only I could make that decision but mentioned self-care and my quality of life a lot. Not a single, definitive, straight up, you need to keep him.

When I am in doubt, I consult the oracle, the person who is most like me in stubbornness and emotional depth. She asked me if I signed a contract to get Marcus. I said I did. She asked if I signed using my name. I said I did. And she said, Then shut the fuck up.

Ironically, when we were done with treatment—he could technically go to the park, run around and be um, a dog—he tore his nail down to the nail bed. On the way to the vet, one of his back legs locked up and he started whimpering but then it quickly passed. The vet wrapped the nail, put a cone on him and said he should rest for two weeks.

On the way out, I told her about the weird thing with his back leg that had resolved itself but had caused Marcus—the unstoppable—to stop. She looked his leg and said she couldn’t be sure without x-rays, but he probably had a luxating patella (dislocated kneecap). If it was that and it continued and it caused him pain, he may need surgery and then—wait for it—eight weeks of rest. That was not happening.

I emailed the rescue on the way home from the vet and told them I was done. It was right after Thanksgiving and with the holidays coming up, it would take a few weeks to find him a foster. When we got home, I took the cone off him and threw it away. I grabbed his massive jaw, looked him straight in the eye and said I think you broke me. I took a Trazodone and cried myself to sleep. 

The next morning, I taped his nail and took him to the park. Done resting. Done with by the book. He was a mad man. Jumped on everybody, played roughly and didn’t respond to any commands at all. I tried to make new friends before they figured out he was my dog. 

Dog park people are fully committed dog people. It is not like they didn’t think he should be in Juvie, but they were working from the premise that he was a good dog who had yet to find his way. I suddenly remembered two things my sister told me. Trust your kids before they give you a reason not to and parent the kid you have, not the one you wished you had.

At that moment, Marcus came over. I did not call him. We didn’t have a moment where our eyes met and we recommitted to our relationship. I didn’t give him a treat. But he did sit down—next to me. It happened.

I got up the next day and went to the park first thing and then again at 5pm. On the mornings I worked, I took him out in the wee hours, came back at lunch for a long walk and then the dog park again at 5 pm. He had a minimum of 2 hours of park time every day. He was a ground-and-pound brawler. Walks did not seem to tire him out but he was always the last man standing in Thunderdome. I had to wrestle him off other dogs to get him back on the leash— but he was happy as shit. It still wasn’t much a life for me, but I got a serious chuckle out of him.

I made friends at the dog park. They all dug Marcus. It helps that he is a full-ass wiggler when he says hello, sometimes knocking himself over. And the other dogs? They loved him. Even dogs that did not play well with other dogs played well with Marcus. Pretty soon, he had a girlfriend and a boyfriend.

His boyfriend Bowie.

The trio. And his girlfriend Billie.

I made a few not friends too. I told everyone our story and scared the shit out of new dog owners who thought their dogs would suddenly test positive for heartworm. And Marcus still jumped—despite hours of training. Not a lot, but every now and then, he met someone who read mauling. And he is a big. And a pit bull and it can be a lot.  

One woman yelled at me and I was instantly brought back to my feelings of being in lockdown with him: shame, guilt, resentment, fury. But I also felt protective and generally pissed off at the notion that she might not like him. That was new.

I wanted to explain to her everything he had been through—the size of the needles, how much pain he seemed to be in after, how the drugs seemed to not work and chip away at him instead, and how he spent hours looking out the window.

I realized everything I wanted to tell her about Marcus was from what I think is his perspective—not about how much it cost me, how much I gave up, how short he fell from my expectations.

My youngest asked me the other day if I had to go back and do it again would I keep Marcus? I said I have to be honest about how touch and go it was and how close I came to giving him away. But now, from the other side, I am crazy about him. How I feel about him is different than how I have felt about any other dog I have had or fostered. If I never knew this feeling, it would be heart breaking.

As I write this it is pouring rain and not yet noon. I have been out with Marcus two times already and had to change my clothes both times. The second time we met up with his girlfriend and I got to hang out with my friends. I am leaving soon to go see a movie with Goose’s mom. When I get back I have to finish organizing a BBQ with the dog park peeps (hot dogs without the dogs) and take Marcus out for a long walk.

I have my life back, I have my dog. It happens.

I GOT COVID AND NOT A SINGLE CLIENT GOT IT FROM ME!

I thought I had COVID no less than 10 times before I actually got COVID.  I thought I had cancer a million times before I got cancer.  I cannot tell if therapy is actually paying off and I am spending less time in my head imagining things or my window between shitty events is actually getting smaller. 

My cancer showed up as a rash on my nipple. I went to a dermatologist who said it was probably "runner's nipple". I have never run a day in my life and would and let any bear, robber, or old boyfriend catch me before I ran one step, so I did not believe her. I asked for a biopsy of what was probably eczema.

Cut to my fever and a slight cough on the evening of February 26. Similar to the likelihood of me ever getting runner’s nipple, the chances of getting COVID were even smaller. I am fanatically clean by nature, double-mask, militantly social distance and eschew indoor dining. Plus I was convinced getting COVID would be professional suicide (cue triage plan that included selling the remaining equipment, working at Club Pilates under an assumed name and living in the studio).

I canceled classes the day after the fever appeared and got both a rapid and PCR test. I was told the rapid test with symptoms (IF they were COVID symptoms is 75% accurate). It was negative. I did not believe it. Sue me. I went to pop-up testing site and asked if I should get another rapid test because I am pretty sure I had COVID against all odds. This time I was told the rapid test is 95% accurate. I believed it then and went home to figure out how much money I lost by canceling classes.

Saturday is my big-money day (when I see the most clients). While I was getting ready, I decided to check my patient portal. It has been less than 24 hours since the PCR test. It was positive. I closed the studio for 11 days, alerted everyone I had been in contact with that week, thanked God my boyfriend was too sick to break up with me and took to my bed.

I felt like I had a giant sinus infection without a sinus infection. I had a brief stint to the ER because it seemed like I had not drawn a deep breath in over eight hours. I was pretty sure I was getting oxygen if I was um, breathing and the ole oximeter was reading 97, but I had a rash on my nipple that was breast cancer and as near as I can tell I got COVID because I thought I had it too many times, so a heart attack seemed imminent.

What I did have is a lot of time to contemplate the great mystery of how I got COVID. When I was diagnosed with cancer, more than a few people asked me how I got it. Since I did not have the BRCA gene, I never understood the question. 

Scenarios were thrown out: I have a huge sweet-tooth, I had my first child at 34 or I internalize too much stress.  I settled on the answer that I am a bad person. Seemed like what they wanted to hear until my next oldest sister got and recovered from breast cancer and my oldest sister got and did not recover from brain cancer. I was then able to deflect the question by saying we grew up next to a nuclear power plant. Enough said.

I am far too busy contemplating what could happen to ponder why stuff actually happens. That is easy, because it does. What is the take-away on all this? Nothing. I can’t tell you how I got cancer, COVID or why I lied about growing up next to a nuclear power plant. I just did.

But I can tell you this. I had COVID and taught with COVID for two days and NONE of my clients got it. Not a one. Oh yeah, and NONE of my clients gave it to me. Not a one. Let’s be clear, in my world there is a completely huge, non-existent risk of getting COVID if all safety protocols are followed within a gym setting.

So, I welcome you back to the studio with open arms from 6-feet away. Thank you for your endless support and love. Despite not knowing how I got cancer or COVID, I can tell you this with certainty: The studio might be one of the safest places for you to hang right now.

See you in class.

Jan

Disclaimer, disclaimer, disclaimer: I take COVID and all safety protocols a 100% seriously and I am in no way suggesting anyone do anything otherwise. I do not know how I got COVID or why my clients did not but that does not mean I believe the spread of the virus cannot be mitigated by being very diligent about wearing masks and social distancing.

It's Cancer, Deal!

I thought I had a cancer a million times before I actually got cancer.

I am a worst case scenario kind of girl. I like to lay my scenario on a friend (not a new friend, that would be risky), come up with the triage plan, and then treat myself to an evening of Netflix and raw cookie dough in celebration of another, not really close, call averted.

When I found a rash on my nipple, and it migrated a bit, I saw my dermatologist, aired out the skin cancer scenario with a few key friends and started making the cookie dough.

Instead, I was told I had breast cancer.

I had grossly under-diagnosed for the first time in my life. How does a nipple rash jump to breast cancer?

It does if it is Paget’s Disease. According to the National Cancer Institute, by the time the rash shows up, there is usually an invasive tumor inside the breast.

As it turns out the Paget’s cells making up the rash on my nipple were ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS - not the television show). This means the cancer cells were contained in this one area.

Oncologists like to call DCIS “pre-cancer.” My oncologist compared it to a bank robbery. The robbers have got the Halloween masks and cased the joint, but they were stopped at the front door by the police.

Whatever. I ended up having a mastectomy, so I feel like the robbers got into the bank, had a dance party in the vault and shook down bystanders for loose change.

I had two options for treatment:

A lumpectomy, which would take the nipple and the areola and seven weeks of daily radiation in case there was post-surgical cancer inside the breast.

A mastectomy with likely no radiation to follow up.

Going to Manhattan 5 times a week for 7 weeks seemed like a huge pain in the ass. I had spent most of my Brooklyn life avoiding Manhattan, except for seeing my sister and getting Nespresso pods. Decision made.

Choosing a mastectomy meant reconstruction.

In fact, I do not remember NOT reconstructing ever being discussed as an option. I remember mastectomy and reconstruction being billed as a pair, taking X amount of time for surgery, X amount of time to put in a spacer, X amount of time to expand the spacer, X amount of time to replace the spacer with an implant, X amount of time to heal, X amount of time until the implant has to be replaced.

I remember thinking I could have another child before I get a less than an A cup replacement.

Paget’s Disease rarely occurs in the second breast, so I really only had to contend with reconstructing one breast. I spent an afternoon flipping through albums at my plastic surgeon’s. Getting a matching pair seemed to me an impossibility.

And so it was clear for me. Mastectomy, no reconstruction, back to life as I know it, a cancer blip on the big screen of life.

People asked me repeatedly why I chose not to reconstruct, so I needed a backstory.

I spent a lot of time contemplating: what do I care about on my body that would be hard to let go off?

I could cut my hair off, but it would grow back.

I could get rid of my wrinkles, but I like the life that earned them.

I could be younger, but welcome to the gerbil wheel of aging.

But if you took six inches off my height, I would take you outside and put you down like Old Yeller.

In other words, being shorter would make me feel like something had been taken from me. The amount of space I occupy in the world would change, and I wanted all of my space..

I popped a Xanax while waiting for the surgery.

Donna and Me

I was pretty sure it wasn’t working. I was called to a consultation room where my breast surgeon was waiting. He asked me my name and my birthday, as if he hadn’t held my hand or fondled my breast every visit. I believe I said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He responded in a very leading-the-witness kind of way: “You are here to have a single breast mastectomy, without reconstruction, is that correct?”

I said “Yes.”

He said: “Which breast?”

I replied “Seriously?” It occurred to me when I said “Seriously?’ that I sounded exactly like my three-year old son when informed by my ex that some day, very soon, he would be responsible for wiping his own ass. Seriously?

It was a tough call between “are the nodes clean?” and “is there any coffee?” when I woke up from surgery, but I went with the nodes. And then a celebratory coffee. I then fixated on getting ahead of the pain which had been suggested more than once. I pounded a pre-emptive Vicodin like a professional junkie.

For some reason, I kept imagining a hole where my breast was instead of a flat surface. I remember the surgeon saying I wouldn’t have cleavage anymore and me thinking, “of course I will.”

I might have spent some time in a Vicodin haze looking for my cleavage.

Probably harvested and on the mothership by then.

I did not look at the scar for a while. I am a firm believer if you can’t see it, you were not meant to.

It helped that the scar was covered with cornrows of tape. The edges of it looked red and pissed. And big. It ran from what was my cleavage into my armpit.

I had seen the scar left on reconstructed chests before, and those were much smaller. Everyone was commenting about what a great job my surgeon had done, but I was thinking he cut himself a big fucking window to get out the tiniest breast ever.

When you reconstruct, you try to save as much skin as possible. If you are not reconstructing, the excess skin is trimmed so the ends come together “tidily.” It looked like something had ripped itself out of my chest, and the doctor spent as much time wrestling with my alien breast baby, as he did taping the gaping hole left behind.

This is the part where I am supposed to tell you that I have no regrets about not reconstructing.

I don’t. Seriously.

Especially because five years later, I got the most beautiful tattoo that I have ever seen. But that’s a story for another day.

My cancer could have gone a different route entirely, with a much worse outcome. I know, because I saw it play out less than 4 years later with my sister Donna.

I rarely think about the day I was told I had breast cancer. It is not even in my top 10 worst days.

I do think about that day in the waiting room before surgery. I wanted 3 people with me: my sister Donna, my ex, and my best friend Kelly. One of them died, one of them left, and one of them moved. Perspective is everything.

I am just glad I had them all together in that moment, whatever the reason. If I had to do it again, I would definitely have a least two of them with me.

Shit happens. I accept it with resignation some days and futile protest others.

Not reconstructing dovetailed seamlessly with all the other life lessons Donna taught me.

If you don’t want to spend months warming up your child’s milk, don’t do it the first time.

If you have no staying power and commitment issues, don’t change your hair color.

If the guy you’re dating says he doesn’t want to be in a serious relationship, believe him.

If you like having the bed to yourself, go to your kids’ rooms when they have nightmares and crate train that whiny puppy.

If you do not want cancer to define you, figure out what does, and move on. More shit is coming.

---

Jan is a Breast Cancer Exercise Specialist through the Pink Ribbon Program.
Learn more here.

Are You in or Are You Out?

Even when you are running the most fabulous of studios, summer can be slow. That’s why I try new things in the summer. That, and I look better doing anything -- especially things that are new and I might not do well -- with a tan.

First, got the tan. I rented a house in the Rockaways for 3 weeks. I have always wanted to have a beach house. It’s a 20-year dream that I terrorized everyone about every summer until hello, this year I realized, I could just do it.

I love summer barbecues at Amagansett and picnics on the sprawling lawns of ‘Sconset like the rest of them but give me the overly-tattoed, weird and wonderful array of Rockaway characters any day of the week. Those be my peeps. I am in.

Biked by this en route to the Rockaways. Spinsters apparently welcome.

Second, I took a Barre class. One Henry Street Pilates client recommended it wholeheartedly and another swears she was injured by it. Exactly the kind of possibly great, but potentially dangerous, stuff I like to try. Kind of like online dating. Truly amazing, or scary psychotic.

I am not one to knock other kinds of exercise. You should move, period. With Barre, I moved for two classes and then I moved on. File classes under “professional development” and charge those puppies to the business. I am a fan of cross-training so I can see the appeal and the teachers were great. That said, I am out.

Third, I took my first surf lesson. And my last. I texted with the instructor and gave a description of myself so he could find me. “I am 6’ and blond.” Then, after further thought, “Don’t get excited, I am sure I am older than you by decades.” He was appropriately under-excited.

I got up my first two times because well, Pilates. And on the swim back to my next wave, I was already composing my dining out story, “I know surfing is supposed to be really hard, but I just kicked it. Beginners luck I guess. Or I just may be that gifted.” I was so deep in my surfing retell that I failed to notice I was getting worse and worse each time out. On the tenth fall, I twerked my arthritic, meniscus-torn knees, and it dawned on me: I sucked. There would be no tales of my prowess. Maybe I’d keep the whole two hours a secret. My resulting 10-day limp could be explained in a myriad ways. Surfing? I am out.

Fourth, I took a Bikram class. I thought I signed up for hot Vinyasa flow. I really cannot sit, stand, pose, or do anything still or listen to anyone else talk, so I have avoided Bikram like the plague. But I was already at the studio, and going back to the beach house meant being with four teenage boys, staring at their screens, seemingly incapable of coming up with a dinner plan (all "gifted and talented" attendees by the by). 

My knees did not hurt because the Warrior poses were mostly absent. We did everything once and just when I was thinking, “If I have to do this series more than a second time, I am out” pouf, we were done. Bliss. I said my usual “Namaste, Mother Fucker” with genuine affection. I am in. 

Fifth, I cupped. A fabulous masseuse in the Rockaways suggested it. She did it without the alcohol and fire and I think she used a kind of plastic one in an up and down motion. Keep in mind I know nothing about cupping and I was ass up.

It left a remarkable welt down my back that I never felt nor saw, but my friend screamed over it when I took my shirt off at the beach later. The cupping had a weird second life. I cupped and later that day had the best spin class of my life. Felt like my bike had wings. Along the lines of: “Move to the side, instructor she-devil, I got this.” I am in.

My beach vacation is over and I am inappropriately and irresponsibly tan. I had my Barre experience and it was much better than all my other bar experiences, my surfer chic dream is crushed, my red welt is gone, I am in search of a Bikram place in Brooklyn (got any recommendations?), spin is impossible again, and all I can think about is Pilates. How much I want to do it, how much my body craves it. 

I realize that makes me a special kind of geek. A full-on Pilates geek actually. But you want what you want, and I want my Pilates routine back. And perhaps another tattoo.