2013-05-19T08:33:46-04:00 Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=lauren-cahn Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Lauren Cahn Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3273880 2013-05-16T10:59:17-04:00 2013-05-17T11:07:47-04:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/ Betty Ford changed the breast cancer game by announcing that she was battling the illness, introducing breast cancer as an acceptable conversation (and possibly spiking that year's then-record increase in women seeking breast cancer screening). In 1979, Tamoxifen changed the game by providing an effective non-surgical treatment for "hormone-positive" breast cancer. In 1998, Herceptin changed the game by providing an effective "targeted" therapy for a particularly aggressive form of the disease affecting 20 to 30 percent of all breast cancer patients.

On May 14, 2013, Angelina Jolie announced that last month she had both of her breasts removed after testing positive for the breast cancer gene. Her announcement, in the form of a New York Times op-ed, may well be the greatest game changer that the war against breast cancer has seen in more than a decade.

No, Angelina Jolie did not discover a cure or even a treatment for breast cancer. But she did what Betty Ford did in a way that only Angelina -- a woman with a body like Jessica Rabbit, a charitable heart like Mother Teresa's and an Oscar on her mantle -- could do. With all due respect to Betty Ford, Angelina Jolie is more than the wife of a U.S. president. With all due respect to Christina Applegate, Sheryl Crow, Cynthia Nixon, Kylie Minogue, and several of TV's former "Charlie's Angels" -- celebrity breast cancer survivors whose candor about their experiences with breast cancer helped further raise breast cancer's profile -- Angelina Jolie is more than an A-list celebrity. Angelina Jolie is one of the most beautiful, talented and influential women on the planet. Her partner is one of the most beautiful, talented and influential men on the planet. She is the mother of six children, and she is a tireless advocate for human rights.

As such, the fact that she made the announcement at all is significant. She could have kept her health issues private, just as she had done for the past several months. If and when the media learned of her surgery, she could have refused to comment. In doing so, she would have contributed to the stigma that to this day continues to act as an obstacle to proper medical care for women who feel uncomfortable discussing their breasts with their friends and partners, let alone with their doctors and insurance carriers. In doing so, she would have deprived the world of a valuable resource: the juxtaposition of her jaw-dropping femininity and power with a disease that can make women feel ruined as women and powerless as people.

The underlying messages within her announcement are even more significant.

The text of her announcement makes only passing reference to the notion that her femininity might have been at stake, and when she does so it is only in the context of assuring us that her femininity is all there still. She says that the decision to have her breasts removed was not easy, but when she identifies the factors that went into her decision, her appearance is not among them, except for an indirect reference -- that she opted for reconstructive surgery. Instead the negatives she identifies relate to the surgery itself. When she mentions her scars, it is only to celebrate that they do not scare her children. In fact, her children had only one fear, and that was that their mommy would die of cancer just as their "mommy's mommy" had. She says that she is fortunate to have a loving and supportive life partner like Brad Pitt, who was there for every minute of every surgery, who helped her to laugh and who is part of the "we" that made the decision. Now, winning male attention may be one of Angelina's less-celebrated talents, but it is one that she is using for good when she speaks directly "to anyone whose wife or girlfriend is going through this," urging them that they need to be aware that they are an important part of the "transition."

The implication is clear, I think: Angelina would not approve of a man who does not support the woman in his life through the decision to remove her breasts, prophylactically or otherwise.

While Angelina Jolie's announcement will not cure cancer, it may help prevent at least some cases of hereditary breast cancer. As she points out, although hereditary breast cancer accounts only for a fraction of breast cancers, the presence of the inherited gene mutations that are often referred to as the "breast cancer gene" can raise a woman's lifetime risk of breast cancer to 87 percent -- which was what her own doctors estimated as her lifetime risk. For women who have a family history of breast cancer, Angelina Jolie's announcement could spur them to get tested and make the choice to reduce their risk from something close to a near certainty to something close to near impossibility (in Angelina Jolie's case, the risk was reduced to under 5 percent). This is especially significant for women who are aware that they may be at risk but for one reason or another are unable to work up the courage to talk to their doctors about testing. And as more women get tested, knowledge about breast cancer increases: The specimens and data collected in the course of testing can lead to the identification of new means of prevention, detection and treatment of breast cancer.

In her announcement, Angelina points out that the cost of testing may be prohibitive. However, Facing Our Risk Of Cancer Empowered (FORCE), a national nonprofit organization founded to addressing the needs of families affected by hereditary breast (and ovarian) cancers, is committed to its mission of providing women with resources to determine their risk and is a wellspring of information regarding clinical studies and gene-testing "registries" that provide testing at no cost. FORCE's website also contains a detailed explanation of financial and insurance considerations.

Angelina Jolie's announcement marks a giant leap from where we were when FORCE was founded in 1999. And an even more giant leap from where we were a mere two years earlier. The year was 1997, and an episode from the third season of David E. Kelley's iconic hospital drama Chicago Hope featured a pretty young mom who was determined have her breasts removed because she tested positive for the breast cancer gene ("Positive ID"). Her female doctor was aghast. Her male surgeon was outraged, going so far as to protest that "When it comes to cutting off a woman's breasts, she might as well cut off her head."

And then there was the husband. He looked nothing like Brad Pitt, not even close. Our first glimpse of him showed us a man deeply wounded by the terrible thing about to befall... him. Upon being shown photos of what his wife's results might look like, he snarled at the surgeon and stormed out of his office, pausing only to demand to be told how he was to be expected to look at his "mutilated" wife every morning.

I get the feeling that Angelina would most definitely not approve.

The good news is that everyone came around eventually, and the brave wife was wheeled into surgery. But as I re-watched the episode today in light of Angelina's news, I found myself snarling at the mid-'90s crybaby husband emoting there on my computer screen: "Hey! Dude! If it's good enough for Brad, why aint it good enough for you?!"

And that's when I realized: Mission accomplished, Angelina. Thank you, on behalf of all the girls.

For more by Lauren Cahn, click here.

For more on breast cancer, click here.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3226956 2013-05-08T17:47:00-04:00 2013-05-08T17:47:08-04:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/
What makes it so disgusting on the one hand, and yet so compelling on the other? Why is it so difficult for a woman to tell a man that she's had breast cancer -- without blushing? Why is it so difficult to tell anyone that you've had breast cancer without feeling as if you've given away some portion of power, however impossible to measure?

I'm here to tell you: Breast cancer is about breasts.

"Really?" you say, "I'd never have guessed." Well, put away the "scoff" emoticon for a moment and consider what that really means.

Think about breasts. Breasts. Is there a female body part with which our society is more obsessed than breasts? Is there any obsession so equally matched by inherent shame?

Pre-teen girls can't wait to start wearing a bra, unless they actually have already developed breasts, in which case they are ashamed to have to wear one. By the time girls hit their teens, they already understand that breasts come in only two sizes: too big and too small. We know that the boys like them. But, do we really want them to? So, we slouch so that we won't be so "obvious."

By the time we grow up, we are pretty sure that it's a good thing that men like our breasts. Yet this leads to a whole new set of issues. "Eyes up here!" we think when we're talking to a man who can't seem take his eyes off of our decolletage, despite that we like dressing in a manner that accentuates our curves. Philip Roth's 1955 novella, The Breast, riffed on the topic by turning its breast-worshipping male protagonist into a breast -- a 155-pound, walking, talking breast that couldn't stop debating desire versus reason (or, as anyone who has read Philip Roth's works understands, essentially, obsession versus shame).

Breasts are one of the very first subjects of our sexual negotiations: Who can see them? Who can touch them, and if so, on what terms? How many dates before it's permitted? And what is the process for granting permission? When is it appropriate for the bra to come off? If we consent to the bra's removal, should we assist with the inevitable bra-hook-fumbling? Does that make us seem "slutty" because we "want it"? Or does it make us seem powerful because we "want it"? The Black-Eyed Peas parlayed the notion of breasts (and also asses) as power into a hit song with 2005's "My Humps," in which a woman uses her "lovely lady lumps" to turn a man into silly putty: "What you gon' do wit all that breast? All that breast inside that shirt?" he asks. "I'ma make, make, make, make you work. Make you work, work, make you work," she tells him.

But just as we've seemingly gotten it all figured out, we realize that the game has changed. We realize at some point that if a man wants to see a woman topless, he can do so pretty easily. He can go to a strip club or open any number of magazines. Or he can go to an R-rated movie. Or he can watch Game of Thrones or Girls on HBO. Or he can go to a bachelor party. Or he can go on the Internet (there's porn readily available there, I'm told). Thus, it seems that breasts have somehow transformed from "mystical" to "seemingly ubiquitous."

And that's not the only transformation breasts seem to have undergone. According to the American Society of Plastic Surgeons (ASPS), more than 42,000 American women underwent surgery to make the breasts bigger or smaller or perkier in 2011 alone. That's a lot of women who felt the need to spend thousands of dollars and accept the risks of surgery in order to make their breasts bigger or smaller or perkier. And that number does not even account for the many thousands of women who underwent breast reduction surgery -- it only accounts for women who underwent implant removal. Nor does it account for the a 93,000 women who underwent breast reconstruction after mastectomy.

But none of this is without ambivalence: One who is perfectly comfortable with sexualized ogling of breasts may be equally uncomfortable with seeing breasts used to feed a baby. Breastfeeding in front of other people continues to be an issue of etiquette, if not exactly law. While most hospitals take no issue with breast-enhancement surgeries, some of those hospitals actually ban all websites relating to breast reconstruction, breast prosthetics and post-mastectomy bras. (I know this from personal experience: While hospitalized in Westchester County, N.Y. for a failed reconstruction in 2010, I was unable to research my post-surgical options due to the hospital's firewall.)

And any woman who has ever been pregnant knows that the breasts are the focal point long before the belly becomes prominent. Yet it seems that on network television, only the belly grows; the breasts are coyly ignored. Not sexy enough since they belong to a pregnant woman? Not pretty enough since they don't grow larger for aesthetic purposes, but to prepare to become a milk-producing factory? And then there is whatever we can extrapolate from the fact that not all women who undergo mastectomy go on to have reconstructive surgery, notwithstanding that insurers who pay for mastectomy are required to pay for reconstruction and notwithstanding that there is research that suggests that women who undergo reconstruction may have a more favorable prognosis than women who don't.

The bottom line is that what is really wrong with breast cancer is that it originates in the breast. It betrays women as women.

When I was diagnosed in 2002, I knew immediately that I wanted nothing more to do with those traitorous appendages that were threatening my life. But seeing the bruises from my biopsies? I felt mangled on a level far deeper than any bruise on my knee could ever make me. And then the thought of cutting into them? These mounds of flesh that I had wished for and then felt shamed by? That had been at once a source of power and a source of vulnerability? That I had despised when they failed to resemble the cute pregnant breasts of TV moms, but that I celebrated as the miraculous sole source of nutrition during the first three months of the lives of my children? That I alternately loved and hated right up until the moment I counted backward from 100 on the operating room table where I gave them up in a bid to save my life?

And then the nagging doubt: Had I done this to myself? Had I manifested lifelong ambivalence of breasts into an excuse to cut them off?

Breast cancer. It's about breasts. All you have to do is think about it.

For more by Lauren Cahn, click here.

For more on breast cancer, click here.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3103091 2013-04-18T16:28:59-04:00 2013-04-18T16:29:08-04:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/
More than 252,000 people liked Patton Oswalt's Facebook update regarding Monday's horrifying Boston Marathon attack. More than 48,000 people clicked "like" on The Huffington Post's reprint thus far. Obviously, Patton Oswalt's sage words are helping many to heal from the intense pain of yet another senseless act of terrorism (domestic or otherwise). And I so want to feel uplifted by their optimism that we're a "giant planet and we're lucky to live on it," that we need to focus on the "people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out" and that "the vast majority stands against that darkness."

However, I am finding myself feeling sad, even cranky. I've got battle fatigue, despite that I haven't left New York all week. Maybe it's the rapid onslaught of violence that seems to have escalated in the past decade, if not just the past year. Maybe I'm just feeling negative for personal reasons (my father passed away just two weeks ago from lung cancer).

But here's the rub: I am not at all certain that the good people on this planet "dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evildoers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak." No. I am not certain of that at all.

I have no doubt that Oswalt is correct in his statement that we can look "violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance" in the eye and think, "the good outnumber you, and we always will." It feels good to say so. Really good, in fact. Just like it felt good when I was watching Schindler's List and marveling at how a just a few good people intercepted the commission of unspeakable evil, at least on a small scale (at this point in time, Poland has still never fully recovered its Jewish population).

However, like Oskar Schindler mourning the fact that it "wasn't enough," I mourn the very real possibility that the forces of good being greater than the forces of evil may simply not be enough.

I wish I could be cheered by the notion that the sheer numbers are in favor of "good." I wish I could see the "good" as "white blood cells attacking a virus." But instead (and granted, maybe this is the fallout from my father's recent death), I see a tiny, virulent cancer cell with the capacity to ravage a healthy body into carrion. The capacity of one bad "cell" cannot be underestimated. While I wish I could jump on the "the good shall overcome" bandwagon, I am exhausted from the fight.

I lived in New York City on Sept. 11, 2001. I lost friends, friends lost spouses, children lost parents, and parents lost children. But I never lost faith in humanity, not even for one moment. What I did recognize is that life is precious, that it can be destroyed by a lack of humanity and that good does not always overcome evil. At least that's what the current scorecard says.

I listened in horror to the news the day that one of the first responders from the Oklahoma City bombing committed suicide. A month or so after the Aurora, Colo. movie theater massacre, I let my teenage sons go to the movies again. At first, I didn't want them to go to movies that depicted violence, because in some desperate attempt to impose order on chaos, my mind tried to connect the shooting with movie violence. Then after the December 14 massacre of first- and second-graders and their teachers in a quiet elementary school in a bucolic suburb not even an hour's drive from me, I realized that whether my kids went to the midnight showing of Batman or Sunday's Disney matinee, I couldn't feel safe because nothing was safe anymore. And all it took was one bad person.

I ran in the New York City Marathon three times in the 1990s. When I heard the news on Monday, a part of me breathed a sigh of relief that I could never run fast enough to qualify to run the Boston Marathon. Then I laughed at my folly. Was that what kept me out of harm's way on Monday? Or is it something else? If so, then why didn't something keep 8-year old Martin Richard out of harm's way? Why wasn't the essential goodness of an 8-year old child enough to overcome the evil that day? Why wasn't the essential goodness of 500,000 race participants (whether as runner or spectator) enough to overcome one small cell of evil?

I certainly don't fault Patton Oswalt for speaking the kind words that comforted so many, or inspiring perhaps hundreds of thousands of people with the notion that there is still hope for our planet because good does outnumber evil. It's not Oswalt's fault that I am not comforted. It's not his fault that I feel intense pain at the idea that someone who lost both of his legs on Monday may have just run 26 miles with those legs. That has nothing to do with Patton Oswalt, and it doesn't take away the essential truth of what he wrote, which is that there are so many many more good people than bad.

But I can't help but want something more. I feel unsatisfied. I don't feel soothed. Perhaps the problem is that I don't want to be soothed? Perhaps the idea that I might feel better tomorrow or the next day frightens me because I suspect that being soothed may simply lay the groundwork for another "shocking" attack. I have heard people call for the death of whomever planted the bombs, and I know that the thought of harsh justice provides comfort to some. I have comforted myself at times by wishing upon the perpetrators a different form of justice -- one that might be worse than death: a life behind bars without ever seeing the sun, a life without family and with no hope for martyrdom. I have comforted myself at times by imagining that somehow the perpetrators will someday feel remorse and that the victims and their families will someday find peace.

But the comfort does not last. What I really want is for the evil to stop. Will it stop because there are more good people than bad? I'm sorry, but I just don't think so. It has never worked that way, at least not to my knowledge. What I want is reason to believe that someone is thinking about new ways to end the violence, and that whomever is thinking about it has the power to put a workable plan into effect. It won't be a plan that involves multiplying the number of good by killing off all the bad or by moving the bad to an island or another planet. Instead, it will be a plan that takes into account the nature of evil, and how and why one apple can spoil the whole barrel.

I wish I had the answers. And I wish that my words could comfort hundreds of thousands the way the words of Patton Oswalt have. I won't pretend that these words of mine will comfort anyone. But what I wish is that we all give some critical thought to what our vast number of good people can do to vanquish the small but destructive force of evil.

For more by Lauren Cahn, click here.

For more on emotional wellness, click here.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2990160 2013-04-01T15:36:46-04:00 2013-04-01T15:36:52-04:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/
He was 70, and despite two brushes with cancer in the past 15 years (first prostate then lung), he had been healthy and vital right up until two months ago when some vague neurological symptoms led to a devastating diagnosis: leptomeningeal carcinomatosis, a spread of lung cancer cells to the membranes (meninges) surrounding brain and spinal cord (the illness Valerie Harper was recently diagnosed with). Rarely diagnosed, it is almost always terminal within two to three months.

In my dad's case, we thought that if anyone could beat it, he could.

Dad had no evidence of disease since his initial diagnosis in 2005. That initial diagnosis was grave: the lung cancer had spread to all of the lymph nodes they tested in his torso. Nevertheless, the cancer quickly relented once he began taking Tarceva, a drug that had then been newly approved by the FDA. With little history behind it, it was not then known how long a patient needed to take Tarceva in order to continue to benefit. This past year, a medical decision was made to gradually wean him off of it. When cancer in his brain was discovered, it was hoped that a combination of surgery, whole brain radiation and Tarceva might cause the cancer to relent once again.

The surgery seemed successful, but as I discuss here, it was clear that the cancer was continuing to spread. We had faith in the Tarceva, and my dad got through about two weeks of it. There were moments of hope, as when his appetite seemed to return or when he suddenly seemed remarkably lucid.

On Friday, I brought my teenage sons to visit him at home. He was tired, but he said he was happy to see his grandsons. Just before we left at the end of the day, Dad squeezed my hand to demonstrate how strong he still remained. As my kids and I drove home, we all agreed that that cancer treatment is brutal (we know this from my own experience with it) and that despite that Grandpa Jeff couldn't get out of bed, he might still be on the road to recovery.

Two hours later, we arrived home. Within minutes of my arrival home, my mom was calling me. "You need to come back right away; I've called for hospice care." (Hospice provides medical services, emotional support, and spiritual resources for people in the last stages of a serious illness; it means that treatment is over, only palliative care remains.)

I was shocked and indignant. Just hours earlier, he had seemed fine (relatively speaking). He was happy to see my kids. He squeezed my hand! I was still hopeful! How could my mother have made the decision to stop his treatment? How, on a Friday night, without seeing a doctor? None of this seemed possible. None of this seemed to be in good faith.

The hospice nurse, who had arrived quickly and administered a combination of painkillers and tranquilizers that immediately relieved my dad's pain, intervened on my mother's behalf. "Your father's body is shutting down," she told me in a soothing voice. I protested, of course. Calmly, she explained that my dad now bore all of the signs of death encroaching. As I listened, my mind reeled, trying to find ways to poke holes in what she was saying. But there were no holes and nothing to poke them with. Something had changed since I had gotten into my car and driven home. Something had shifted, and now this nurse, who had attended hundreds of dying patients before my dad, was predicting that within 36 hours, my dad would be gone.

With my dad resting comfortably, my mom reversed herself yet again and told me not to come that night. Now I was furious. I felt like I was being toyed with. But my mom promised me that she would call me the instant that it seemed that anything was changing (based on the nurse's criteria).

When I woke up the next morning, my brain was muddled -- shock and denial were battling rage and fury. Acceptance was nowhere to be found. Bargaining entered the equation: Should I make the two-hour drive that day? Could it wait until tomorrow? Was this even really happening -- or should I pack a suitcase and plan on staying a week? A month? What about my kids? Don't they need their mother? My dad had not been awake since the hospice nurse administered his pain meds, and it was now 18 hours later. Would he ever wake up again? Would my going there do anything? Would my going there mean anything to my dad?

Endless loops of shock, denial, rage, fury, bargaining. And not a shred of acceptance, not an iota.

I asked my mother what the purpose of my coming was when I had already come to terms with my father's death and even believed that I had said goodbye when I had left the day before. My mother told me she wanted me to have no regrets, but I couldn't process it. What regrets? What regrets? Even as I was calling my mom every hour for updates, I could not possibly understand what regrets I might have, what good it might do, what the point was of saying goodbye to someone who wasn't even conscious.

And then just as suddenly as my dad's condition had changed the day before -- and just as inexplicably -- something shifted in me. I didn't even call my mom. I just drove. Two hours later, I arrived at my parents' house. A nurse answered the door. My dad was asleep in a hospital bed, my mom was lying asleep in the queen-sized bed beside him. I woke her up when I got into the bed beside her. She got up and went to sleep in another room, and I inched over and reached for my dad's hand.

I slept fitfully until morning and woke up when my sister arrived. Soon after, they began changing my dad's shirt and moving him so that he wouldn't develop bedsores. His breathing was still steady, his color still seemed good. In fact, he looked handsome in the black cotton sweater my mother had chosen for him. I closed my eyes for a nap and was woken up not long after.

It was time to say goodbye, my mother told me.

How did she know this?

The hospice nurse had told her the signs -- the fingers and toes that were cool to the touch. The breathing coming less frequently. The thready pulse. The faint heartbeat. A gurgling in the chest, which was remediable with a special medication, but which was undeniable as a sign of what was coming.

The nurse left the room, and my mother, my sister and I lay next to him and talked to him about his life and about his legacy, and about everything we would remember about him. I told him how I was so amazed that he became my dad at age 22 -- just a kid -- and that it made sense now that he used to call himself "The Kid" and turn cartwheels. I told him how he had inspired me to never stop turning cartwheels and to always be a "kid." I told him how happy my kids were to see him and how much he means to them. My mom thanked him for marrying her even though they were so young, and for being her support and the love of her life for 48 years. My sister shared her own memories and told him how much she loves him.

All the while, his breaths were coming less frequently. All the while, his pulse became more thready, his fingers grew colder, and his mouth had fallen open (another sign). At some point, while we were huddled close to him and telling him how much we loved him and that he could stop fighting and let go, my father left his body.

His passing was so peaceful, none of us can say exactly when it even happened.

As his wife and two daughters chattered away -- peace restored after months of dysfunctional family dynamics -- my father took his leave, leaving the living together in peace.

I am going to miss my dad more than I ever was willing to allow myself to imagine while he was dying. I can't say that my father was ready for death or that any of us was ready for him to go. But I believe that thanks to hospice care, and some miracle of timing and life force and will that I will never quite understand, my dad's death was as beautiful as a death can be. Even as I begin the process of grieving his loss, I am grateful for that, more grateful than I ever could have imagined, more grateful than I could have ever known was possible in the wake of such loss.

For more by Lauren Cahn, click here.

For more on death and dying, click here.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2958188 2013-03-27T11:39:39-04:00 2013-03-27T11:39:49-04:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/
Yawn, right? I'm aware that this revelation is hardly noteworthy, particularly from where I am sitting -- here in a liberal-leaning suburb just north of New York City. What I do think worth noting is why.

It's not that I harbor a fantasy of leaving my marriage and cohabiting with another woman (not that there would be anything wrong with that). Nor do I have reason to believe that either of my two teenage sons will someday wish to marry a man (not that there would be anything wrong with that either). And I am not seeking to push the institution of marriage downward along a nihilistic slippery slope (you know -- the one which starts with two men marrying and ends with two men marrying one woman and her aging Labrador Retriever for whom health insurance would otherwise be financially prohibitive).

The way I see it, marriage should be (and always should have been) any union of two people who together are legally entitled to form a domestic partnership (a cohabiting and/or sexual relationship between two people who have expressed to one another their intention to continue in such relationship for the long-term). See? No slippery slope.

In fact: just the opposite. I believe that the benefits of marriage are significant, and the more people that have access to such benefits, the better off our society can be. From the looks of my Facebook newsfeed and my Twitter timeline, the emotional benefits of recognizing the validity of gay marriage are apparent even to those who've spent the better part of their adult lives running from marriage and commitment. "One Love," updates my Facebook friend -- the one who assiduously avoids using the word "love" in any other context. "I support #MarriageEquality," my divorce-lawyer friend tweets from her iPhone as she ducks out of court at the end of a long and acrimonious day. People who speak of "marriage equality" tend to already understand that everyone should have access to health insurance and file joint tax returns, not just married heterosexuals. And the ubiquitous proliferation of "gay marriage" avatars in place of the profile photos of heterosexual social media consumers goes a long way in supporting the proposition that validating gay marriage would vastly reduce any remaining stigma that remains regarding homosexuality.

Each of these benefits speaks to the importance of striking down pointlessly discriminatory laws such as Proposition 8, on which the Supreme Court is expected to rule in Hollingsworth v. Perry if the case is not dispatched on procedural issues). But what I'm here to address are the benefits that will never become #trending topics on Twitter -- the sort of benefits that married heterosexuals tend to take for granted, but from which homosexual Americans are flat-out excluded for as long as they continue to be forbidden to marry one another. And so, without further ado, I give you now three hashtag-free benefits of marriage, all of which should be enjoyed equally by all people, not just the heterosexual ones:

1. Seemingly Arcane Real Estate Lingo Can Have "Real" Consequences

In this country, a very special form of real estate ownership is available only to married spouses: Tenancy by the Entirety. Under a Tenancy by the Entirety, the real estate is owned, indivisibly, by the couple as a legal unit. Neither spouse may sell or otherwise dispose of the property without the other spouse's consent. Tenancy by the Entirety, like marriage itself, cannot be undone, except through legal means. And by legal means, I mean the mutually agreed-upon sale of the property, a mutual agreement to extinguish the Tenancy by the Entirety or the legal ending of the marriage by divorce or annulment. In the case of the death of one of the Tenants by the Entirety, the property continues to be owned by the surviving spouse. Perhaps more importantly, no creditor of either spouse can get at the property through lien, attachment or forced sale. Only creditors of both spouses can do so.

If same-sex couples are not entitled to marry, then they can never enjoy the benefits of Tenancy By the Entirety. At best, they can own property together as "joint tenants". But that won't insulate the property from the creditors of one owner. Thus, if one member of a gay couple were to make a particularly bad investment, then there goes the house. Unless, of course, they are entitled to marry.

2. Where There's No Will, Don't Be Gay

It's not something we like to think about, but there comes a time in our lives when we really ought to consider -- what happens to our stuff after we die? When a married person dies without a will, his spouse will inherit most of his earthly belongings; the rest is divided up according to the laws of "intestacy", usually amongst his blood relatives. It does not matter if the married person hated his spouse; if they were married and there was no will, this is how the money goes.

By contrast, when an unmarried person dies without a will, his or her entire estate is apportioned according to the laws of intestacy, regardless of whether he had been in a lifelong, committed, live-in relationship with a same-sex partner. It does not matter one iota if the blood relatives who stand to inherit fervently believe that "homosexual sex is ... as destructive as cocaine use," or that Michele Bachmann's hubby could have helped the deceased to "pray away the gay".

One might argue that a same-sex couple (who is not entitled to marry) might avoid this problem simply by making sure to make out their wills to include one another. Unfortunately, wills are subject to challenge, and I think it wouldn't be a stretch to suppose that the fwill of a dead homosexual is far more likely to be challenged by a bible-thumping, cash-poor relative than the will of a dead heterosexual who was married at the time of his death.

3. When Tommy Has Two (Too Many) Mommies

When a married heterosexual couple has a child together, the two spouses begin with equal rights as parents, regardless of whether the child was born to, or adopted by, the couple. If the marriage were to end, and the spouses were to disagree as to custody of the child, a court would make a determination as to what custodial arrangement it believes is in the child's best interest . In the event of the death of one spouse, there's hardly a question as to what happens next: the child would simply remain with the surviving spouse.

But here's a question: When a same-sex couple has a child together (in a state that does not recognize same-sex marriage), what happens in the event that the couple parts ways, through a break-up or because one dies?

And here's the answer: none of the above.

First, when that same-sex couple decide to have a child together, only one of them can possibly be the biological parent, and most states do not permit the non-biological same-sex partner to adopt the child (California being one notable exception at this time). Those same states would also prevent a child that is biologically related to neither parent from being adopted by a same-sex couple - only one of the two same-sex partners would get to be the "legal" parent.

In many states, a "non-legal" parent has no rights, period. If the legal parent were to die, the non-legal parent could easily lose custody to a blood relative of the legal parent. If the couple were to split up, the non-legal parent would have no rights except those granted by the legal parent. By the same token, the non-legal parent would also have no legal obligation to the child whatsoever (moral obligations exist notwithstanding; however, the lack of legal rights might put a damper on the ability to satisfy them).

The way I interpret this, the institution of marriage actually bestows upon its heterosexual participants their own handy-dandy "GPS-For-Getting-Out". The way things stand currently, no such benefit exists for gay couples. It strikes me as ironic that the proponents of Proposition 8 would have the Supreme Court believe that the notion of same-sex marriage is subversive to the institution of marriage in general, when, it is only heterosexual marriage that comes with its own built-in set of exit strategies.

"Love is love," wrote my gay-leaning bisexual friend on his Facebook status update today. I see his "love" and raise him two cash benefits and one welfare of the children.

(Lauren Cahn graduated from NYU School of Law and worked as an attorney in New York City from 1990 through 2003).]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2912926 2013-03-23T10:09:05-04:00 2013-03-29T09:05:07-04:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/
The one time it came up, the doctor's words were far from beautiful. "It's cancer," he said of the lump I had found in my right breast while showering one sunny August morning in 2002. I was 36. Although the cancer was aggressive, and my two years of treatment make the trials of Odysseus seem like a playground tussle, I am still alive nearly 11 years later.

My dad heard his "ugly" words 15 years ago, when at age 55 he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He survived. Eight years ago, the words were uttered again. This time, it was an aggressive form of lung cancer that was inoperable and had already spread to his lymph nodes. Miraculously, my dad responded to treatment, and the cancer remained in remission for eight years. But you've seen enough horror films to know what happens next: Bad guy is down, his body riddled with bullets. He's gotta be dead. But wait, is he... is he moving? Is? He? Still? Alive?

During the fall, my mom expressed her concern to me that my dad seemed to be getting lost on the way to places where he had been hundreds of times before. He was also tired and irritable. Then one day in February, he woke up unable to swallow. By the end of that day, we learned that the ugliest words in the English language may very well be: "Your cancer is back -- this time it's in your brain."

Nevertheless, the cancer was operable, and Dad made it through his craniotomy with flying colors. But a few days later, he suffered a seizure, an ominous sign of the cancer's murderous intent. And with the seizure came a change in my father. He was no longer who he had been before.

Once a voracious eater, now his appetite is poor. He sleeps most of the time. When he's awake, he sometimes doesn't know where he is. After reading an article about Thailand, he believed that he had just returned from vacationing there. He was briefly obsessed with buying a new car even though he can no longer drive. He can barely walk. At times, he's hostile ("someone needs to kick you right in the gut"). At times he acts like a young child (pulling the covers up over his head to signal that it's time for me to leave).

I'd love to say that with 15 years of experience fighting cancer, my family approaches my father's illness with equanimity. I'd love to say that we've come together like a well-oiled machine, steadfastly supporting one another as we face this ordeal.

Unfortunately, the reality is something else entirely.

My mom is sleep-deprived and highly reactive. When my dad has a good day, the treatment must be working. A bad day means that death must be imminent. On a Tuesday, my mom may fume over a doctor's neglect, despite that on Monday she was seething over what she felt was intrusive care. Learning that a doctor attended Harvard is cause for jubilation, until the doctor takes too long to respond to an email. Mostly, my mother seems furious -- and with good reason -- seemingly overnight her husband has become her charge, and how can anyone begin to know the pain she is feeling?

To my younger sister's credit, I believe that she has come as close as anyone can in helping my mom feel less alone in her anguish. Although my sister has a high-level job 45 miles from her house, her house is a mere five miles from my parents' -- and my sister has been physically present for my mom nearly daily since this ordeal began. That physical presence has been an invaluable source of comfort to my mom. I know this just clearly as I know that my own relative lack of physical presence has been a source of anger.

Why can't I be there, they have asked me, given that I don't work outside the home (which is solely their opinion, by the way)? The short answer is that I live nearly two hours away from my parents, I have two teenage boys who play on sports teams, no carpool prospects (not for not trying) and a husband who's rarely home during the week. The inevitable follow-up question is: Why not hire a car service to drive my kids around?

That I feel obligated to answer such boundaries-breaking questions is disconcerting to me. But here goes: My boys suffered terribly as a result of my cancer. I honestly believe that they have largely recovered from their abandonment wounds. But I also believe that the wounds left scars. I can't erase the pain of the past, and I can't alter the course of the future. But I candecide that at this time, while my father is sick but still in treatment and not without hope, I am not comfortable dumping my boys several times a week over an indefinite period.

My mom resents this, as do my sister and her husband, who just so happen to have structured their lives so that one of them (my sister's husband) is always home and available for their 8-year-old son. Their disapproval of my choices is registered both publicly and privately. But it's not only my parenting choices that are under attack. During the three weeks (a total of 12 performances) when I stage-managed an off-off-Broadway play, the accusatory question shifted briefly to, "Why is this job more important than your dad?" When I hosted a fundraiser for the play (which I had committed to doing well before my dad became sick), I was publicly shamed for having "fiddled while Rome burned." When I was recently down with a cold, I was accused of being happy to have been quarantined from visiting. When I created a fundraising page for the charity for whom I am keynote speaking in April, I was accused of spending all day on Facebook instead of visiting my dad. When I posted professional headshots taken well before my dad became sick (in connection with the same charity), I was accused of spending all day taking photos of myself.

Over and over again, and in all manner of contradictory fashion, I am accused of not caring.

It's not that I don't care. I care deeply. If caring were measured in the damage done to one's fingernails, no one would question me. I have bitten my fingernails until nothing is left except cuticles, and then I've bitten my cuticles. I am pained by the notion that the man who taught me to think like a lawyer and took me shopping for my prom dress might be gone soon, and that in a sense, he already is. And I am pained by the unavoidable connection between my father's illness and my own frailty.

Two years after my double mastectomy, my surgeon congratulated me for surviving past the point where "most women have a recurrence." At three years, I got the same exact speech. At seven and 10 years, I heard it again. Huh. I've tried to avoid thinking about what that might mean. Then last year my oncologist mentioned that breast cancer can recur even 20 years later. Still, I tried not to think about it.

But when my dad's lung cancer spread to his brain after eight years, how could I not think about it? There it was, springing up like some sinister jack-in-the-box at the most inopportune of times -- when I am alone in the car on my way to see Dad, or when I'm sitting in the chair beside his bed, hoping he doesn't get irritated with me for talking too fast.

Yoga, once my primary form of exercise, is now fraught with issues because it is deeply connected for me with cancer survival. I began yoga while I was in treatment, and I always believed it helped make me well. But now I'm skeptical. How dare I imagine that yoga could possibly matter when actual medical science didn't matter for my dad?

But this isn't about me. The fact is that my dad is gravely ill, and we as a family are not handling it well. I am not willing to compromise my parenting values at this time. I cannot take away my mother's suffering by suffering on her behalf, and I can't take away anyone's suffering by absorbing their verbal attacks. But still, I want to offer my support in any way I can. And what I do have to offer is a what I have learned about accepting major adversity with equanimity. Cultivating equanimity does not mean denying feelings. It means making choices about how to react to those feelings.

Having gone from vibrant at 35 to halfway dead at 36, having shown up for chemo only to be told to go home because I was too anemic, having just gotten used to wearing my wig when my eyelashes and eyebrows suddenly fell out, having celebrated my last day of chemo only to be checked into an isolation tank because the chemo had destroyed my immune system -- how could I help but cultivate some level of distance between experience and reaction?

I didn't choose to cultivate equanimity. It chose me. My experience has taught me that nothing is permanent. Change is inevitable; sometimes it brings pleasure, sometimes pain. While you can't avoid pain, you can choose to suffer less.

Choosing to suffer less does not equal choosing to not care. It means expecting both bad days and good days, in no particular order. It means accepting a new and truly awful normal. I don't have to like it. But failing to accept it is tantamount to trying to control an unstoppable force. It is doomed to fail, and you will get crushed in the process.

I'd like to say that I would recommend this approach to anyone dealing with adversity. But the truth is, in some cases -- in my case -- it seems to alienate those who are still riding the roller coaster. My unwillingness (or inability) to stomach the curves and drops isolates me from my family, even as it protects me. If I could teach my family to cultivate some level of distance between their experience and how they react to it, I would. They wouldn't hurt any less. But I truly believe that there would be far less suffering.

For more by Lauren Cahn, click here.

For more on emotional wellness, click here.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2584131 2013-03-13T18:09:28-04:00 2013-05-13T05:12:01-04:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/ Bite Your Tongue (an Actors Equity Showcase currently playing at Theater for the New City):

Bite Your Tongue explores the notion that what we actually say aloud does not necessarily reflect what is going on in our heads. The reality on the outside does not always match the reality on the inside. They are both a version of reality, but which is the more powerful force?

It's an amazingly fertile theme, as Bite Your Tongue demonstrates. And the play, which takes place outside of conventional sequencing and yet still maintains a cohesive story arc, presents many interpretations of the theme. Although reasonable minds can differ, as I have seen in various write-ups of the play, here is how I see it (and what can you expect if you are thinking of coming to see it before it closes on March 17).

Imagine an affluent suburban neighborhood. Mostly colonials. Mostly one-acre zoning. There's a wealthy doctor who lives there. Let's call him Andrew. Maybe he's the elegantly attired president of his country club's membership committee. Perhaps he's a highly respected pillar of his community with a really impressive golf handicap. Maybe he's got a rather milquetoast wife who goes by a rather generic name. Perhaps there's a daughter who is living at home while she finishes grad school ("Melanie" or "Mel") and a son who graduated from high school and is ready to start his freshman year of a rather impressive college ("Francis").

Imagine that Andrew has a next-door neighbor - a divorcee at midlife, a professional success, but no longer the sprightly vixen she was in her youth. Perhaps her husband left her for his personal trainer, and now the personal trainer has become his new wife and the mother of their new baby girl. Perhaps she is now embittered, or worse, apathetic about love. Perhaps we only know this middle-aged woman as "Mrs. White" because notwithstanding her career success, she remains nothing to anyone except some man's wife - and someone's rejected wife at that.

Perhaps Mrs. White has been doing her best to raise her two sons to speak politely and behave with decorum - a couple of pretty boys who may be truly ugly on the inside. Perhaps one is a lifelong friend of Francis ("David"), despite that he is not nearly as intelligent or deep. Perhaps the other ("John") is still living at home at the age of 30, for reasons no one in the neighborhood would ever care to discuss or even think about.

There are other neighbors too - a teenage girl the same age as Francis and David ("Felicia") who has already figured out the power of her youth and the sensuality that she supposedly possesses, but who has not yet figured out the nuances of using these secret weapons. Perhaps Felicia has an older sister, a 24-year old who is at home for the summer on break from Julliard ("Veronica" or "Ronnie"). Perhaps Veronica aspires to be a role model for Felicia, but hasn't quite figured it all out herself. Perhaps she never will. And imagine that in this affluent neighborhood, there is a boy known as "Bam" - a "token" minority, whose appearance (like anyone else's) is inevitably deceiving.

What if one day, for no explicable reason, every single one of these people - people like you and me and everyone we know - suddenly broke that long-standing contract we've made with society to keep our thoughts to ourselves?

What if suddenly we heard what they were thinking? What if the ugliest of notions carried in their hearts suddenly became audible?

What if suddenly, what they were thinking became reality?

What if it were nearly impossible to discern the difference between what they dreamed up in their heads and what was actually happening?

What if suddenly there were simply no filter, no rules, no social norms? What if suddenly everyone did just exactly what they wanted to do, without regard to societal standards? Would we wander around, spouting hatred? Would we commit random acts of unspeakable violence? Would the meaning of everything become intensified? Or would nothing mean anything anymore, happening only in a fleeting moment of feeling?

That's what Bite Your Tongue explores.

As we watch, it is difficult to be sure as to whether we are suddenly listening in on the deepest thoughts of these characters or whether these characters are suddenly acting on their darkest impulses. Is Felicia real? Or is she just a fantasy of Francis? Is she real to Francis but merely a fantasy to the middle-aged, deeply disappointed Andrew? Do we actually meet Felicia in Act I? Or are we only meeting her, for real, in Act II, when we catch her unawares, interacting with her older sister, Veronica?

Does Veronica have a reason to be angry? Or is she wishing she did? Could she possibly be capable of the unspeakable acts of violence of which she speaks when we first meet her? Is she a romantic? Or is she so in love with love, itself, that she is rendered incredibly callous? Does Bam speak the truth at any point? Or is Bam always speaking the truth? Is David as shallow as he seems? Is Francis as wise and decent as he makes himself out to be? Or is he making fools of all of us? And what of Melanie? Is she a borderline personality gone bonkers? Or could we merely be hearing her inner torment?

If one thing becomes clear, it is that there exists a tacit agreement with our friends and neighbors to maintain decorum. If there weren't, who knows what would happen?

As thought-provoking as the material is, these actors bring it to even more vivid life, in a way that words on a page cannot possibly express: Philippe "Keb" Blanchard as John, Ben Curtis as Francis, Tali Custer as Felicia, Elizabeth Lanier as Veronica (or Ronnie), Audrey Lorea as Melanie (or Mel), Zen Mansley as Andrew, Cameron Mason as Bam, Lissa Moira as Mrs. White, Thomas Wesson as David and Wendy Callard-Booz (in a special appearance; she along with Ben and Lissa appear courtesy of Actors Equity).

We feel their pain as much as we feel mocked by them. We find ourselves taking it all very personally as we watch. We grow to hate them and wonder if we even have a right to hate people based solely on their thoughts. Others we grow to love, but find ourselves questioning if what we are seeing is real, or just someone else's misimpression.

This production is directed by Theodore Mornel (aka "Ted") a veteran stage director who we are honored to have as our artistic captain. In the midst of the first week of rehearsals, Ted lost his wife, which made us all very sad and has added a note of poignancy to the entire production. The haunting music is by Quebecois composer, Sebastien Tremblay.

Bite Your Tongue grew out of the characters and ideas explored by Canadian playwright, Etienne Lepage, in a series of short stories he wrote while in graduate school. He later turned those characters and ideas into a play called Rouge Gueule that played in Montreal in 2009. Last year, Chantal Bilodeau translated Rouge Guelue into Red Howl, as commissioned by the Lark Play Development Center for a public reading in 2011. When Philippe "Keb" Blanchard took his dramaturgical turn at the material, the beautiful and brilliant Bite Your Tongue was the result.

My role has been called "Stage Manager", "Director of Fund Raising", "Director of Public Relations" and "Mommy"...but mostly, I have really just helped out where my help was sought and where I felt that my help could be used. It has been an amazing experience, and it makes me want to re-invent myself yet again...this time as a producer.

I would like to give this production the best review imaginable, but since I am so closely involved with it, it would sound biased. So, I encourage anyone and everyone to come out and see it before it closes on March 17. Tickets are available at this website and this one as well. Tickets are also available at the box office at 155 First Avenue, New York, New York. Showtimes are 8 pm on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. On Sunday, there is a 3 p.m. matinee at which tickets are "pay what you can."

Come on down, and see what happens "one day in dysfunctional post-postmodern America."]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2330933 2013-01-14T15:30:30-05:00 2013-03-16T05:12:02-04:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/
On Sept. 8, 2002, I would ride my first "century" -- an endurance bike ride of 100 miles. I had always been a "high achiever" (let's not be judgy and call me an "over achiever," all right?), so I had no doubt that I could train and complete the ride. Back in the mid-1990s, I had completed three NYC Marathons, and I logged my 50-mile training weeks while billing 2,000+ hours as a NYC attorney and planning my black-tie wedding, which included an entirely unironic performance by me of Vanessa Williams' "Save The Best For Last." (I was a starry-eyed 28, and I don't think irony had been invented yet, or so I shall believe if I so choose.)

Immediately after the 1996 marathon, I decided it was time to start having babies. When I didn't become pregnant on the first try, I booked an appointment with the best fertility specialist on the Upper East Side. Onlookers scoffed at my attempt to control the uncontrollable. But my persistence paid off: An out-patient surgery reversed an underlying structural condition preventing implantation, and just 23 days later, I had "passed" my pregnancy test (I'd like to think that I got an A, but this test was pass/fail).

Brian was born in 1997, perfect, as expected. Adam came along in 1999, also perfect, also as expected. Within three months of each pregnancy, I was back in my skinny jeans. At first I relied on running, but over time I incorporated inline skating and figure skating. Eventually, I discovered long distance biking, because it seemed to allow me to do everything I wanted, and all at the same time: I could do my my training sitting down! I could review contracts while on a stationary bike! I could strap Adam into the little back seat of my bike and squeeze in some quality mommy-time while training!

For six weeks during the summer of 2002, my burgeoning family rented a vacation house a mile from the beach in Westport, Conn. Those were truly the salad days, or so it seemed. I had managed to score one of the first ever "limited-hours" gigs at a large NYC law firm. I grilled up gourmet meals for visiting friends, I transitioned from Cosmopolitans to Mojitos to showcase the wonderful mint I was growing in the garden, I applied self-tanner to my milky white skin so that I would look good in my bikinis, and I spent hours and hours on my bike, training for my first century.

I was tired that summer, which shouldn't be surprising when you consider all that I was doing. But looking back, I realize that I was more tired than I should have been. And when I see photos, I can see that I looked like hell.

On the morning of Aug. 2, 2002, I found the lump. It was in my right breast, and I knew immediatetly that there was nothing benign about it. It didn't have any particular shape, it didn't hurt, and it didn't move. I found it in the shower, and I came out dripping, breathless.

Six weeks later, I had both of my breasts removed, taking a leave of absence from my law firm to recover. Six months of chemotherapy followed, during which I did not go back to work. With chemo came total hair loss, irreversible infertility (e.g., chemo-induced menopause), exhaustion, depression, a transfusion, a week-long stint in the isolation tank at the hospital, and a total failure to continue to be the kind of uber-mommy that recites six bedtime stories back to back, makes homemade banana pancakes for breakfast and takes the kids to the American Wing at the Metropolitan Museum on rainy days when the playground's not an option.

After that, there was a six-week course of radiation, surgery to remove my ovaries, three attempts at reconstruction (the last one was the charm), a year of an anti-cancer drug called Herceptin, an annual infusion of a bone-building drug called Zometa, and a daily anti-cancer pill called Arimidex that I have been taking "for five years" for the past 10 years.

I consider myself lucky. I'm alive. When all was said and done, I got the chance to be thin and have long hair again, and most importantly, to be the kind of mom I wanted to be, again.

But I never did bike that century. And I never went back to being a lawyer. Today, I mother my teenage boys, I write, I speak, and I do my best to inspire people to think, or just to inspire people in general.

Although I would never say that I am "grateful" for having had breast cancer, I am pleased with the change in course that breast cancer catalyzed for me. Apparently, life is what happens while we're busy making other plans. And while I was busy making new plans (to write and produce a short film, to transcribe a friend's experience growing up in Mao's China, to write the BDSM-themed novel that "50 Shades of Grey" could have been had it been infused with gritty realism), my "10 Years After Breast Cancer" came to the attention of HERS Breast Cancer Foundation (HBCF) through their PR Agency, Gutenberg PR, and I was, in turn, introduced to Neil Walsky, 25, and Jesse Frechione, 23, two guys from Anchorage, Alaska, who had meticulously planned a 7,000-mile bike ride from Anchorage to Cartegena, Colombia.

Their noble goal was to honor Neil's mom, Agnes Walsky, who was successfully treated for breast cancer in 2011, and also to raise awareness and funds for HBCF. I wrote about Neil and Jesse's plans in the first Bicycle Diaries installment. After Neil and Jesse made it through Alaska, the Yukon Territory and down the Pacific Northwest Coast into San Francisco, I updated the story in "The Bicycle Diaries Part 2." The next leg of their ride took them all the way down the California coast The riding was relatively easy, and the accomodations -- with friends and family -- relatively comfortable. In late October, they crossed into Baja, and the course changed. Tijuana was chaotic: terrible traffic, confusing roads, difficulty communicating (neither Neil nor Jesse is fluent in Spanish). Further south, in a town called "Warm Showers," they met a man who told them stories about his grandfather -- a drug dealer -- who used his machine gun to intimidate the neigborhood kids. While riding aong a dirt road in Uruapan, a truck stopped and asked them if they wanted to help them press wine. And so they did. But with the exception of a raucus night of street soccer with some local youths, the roads heading south through Santa Maria, Catavina and Santa Rosalia were lonely... almost ghostly.

When they reached La Paz, the monotony was overwhelming, and Neil and Jesse began feeling disconnected from their original purpose. They spent days by the water, soul searching, contemplating what lay ahead on their journey.

That's when Neil and Jesse learned their own lesson about what happens when the road changes unexpectedly (as it always does). Jesse confided to Neil that he was losing sight of what they had set out to do. South America seemed to be getting farther and farther away. And while their "honorary moms" at HBCF were never far from their hearts, they were very far from Baja. Jesse he had been offered a position on the crew of The Baha Bash, a 37-foot sailboat heading to San Diego. After more soul-searching, Jesse broke the news to Neil that he was heading back north with the Bash.

Waking up the morning after Jesse left, Neil resigned himself to continuing along the plotted course, even if it meant riding without a wingman through unfamiliar countries where he did not know the language. However, a phone call with his older brother, Eric Walsky, opened his eyes to yet another possibility: Having lost his cycling partner, he had nevertheless gained freedom in terms of time and destination. The unexpected was unexpectedly filled with possibility. Ultimately, Neil decided to spend a few days relaxing into the idea of his newly-modified journey before flying back to San Diego, from which he would bike east across the United States, all the way to St. Augustine, Florida. During this time, Neil realized that now that he was cycling across the U.S., he might not have to do so alone, after all. On Dec. 8, Neil's father, Buck Walsky, met Neil in Phoenix, Ariz., bought a bike and joined the journey.

Neil adapted to the unexpected... by allowing himself the freedom to change course.

But every good lesson bears repeating, right?

Eight days into the ride from Phoenix to St. Augustine (via a route established by the American Cycling Association), Neil's knees were hurting. It was in El Paso, Texas, that Neil realized that no amount of ibuprofin was giving him relief. Buck urged Neil to call his doctor, who advised Neil that it was time to find another mode of transportation.

It was a difficult decision for Neil to make. He had already come so far. He had already adapted to unexpected events. He had already changed course. And the ride with Buck had been a truly serendipitous opportunity for father-son bonding. But it would have been foolish, medically speaking, for Neil to continue the ride. And bravely, Neil accepted this reality, made the decision to fly home with his father and phoned Karen Jackson at HBCF to break the news. Karen was supportive, of course, thrilled as she was that he had gone as far as he did.

On Christmas Eve, Neil and Buck returned home. Neil's knees are recovering, he is back to playing hockey (former pro player that he was), and he's working on a book about his journey. Jesse completed his sail and returned home to Alaska on Dec. 30, safe and sound. Mike Price, who joined Neil and Jesse in the Pacific Northwest through Northern California, has been back home in Alaska since October.

While I was recovering from my cancer treatment, I studied the works of Pema Chödrön, a modern Buddhist who wrote such books as When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times. Her comments on the topic of "changing course" continue to inspire me. "To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest," she wrote. "To live fully is to be always in no-man's-land, to experience each moment as completely new and fresh."

Neil and Jesse, and the friends and family who accompanied them all, got to experience something of what Pema Chödrön meant. We don't have to enjoy the unexpected obstacles, the forks in the road, the changes of plan, exactly. But we can choose to awaken to them, to view them as opportunities to accept and adapt and to form new and possibly better plans.

Epilogue: All of the "players" will be meeting in San Francisco for the HBCF HERS People With Purpose Awards Luncheon, which takes place on April 25, 2013. I will be giving the keynote address, Neil will be speaking as well, and Agnes will be a guest. I look forward to meeting Neil, Agnes and Karen in person, along with everyone else who has made all of this possible.

Sponsorship opportunities are still available, and donations are still welcome and greatly appreciated.

If you are interested in joining us, please click on this link. Hope to see you there!

For more by Lauren Cahn, click here.

For more on breast cancer, click here.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2352982 2012-12-27T12:20:11-05:00 2013-02-26T05:12:01-05:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/
At 4:30 p.m., in my quiet home yoga studio with the French doors that reveal the sun's downward arc in the western sky, that is what I did.

In "Get In Shape for 108," I wrote about the roots of the ritual of performing 108 sun salutations at the change of seasons and at other times, as well as the significance of the number 108. In "Salute the Sun to Calm Your Soul," I discussed the way in which I use the performing of sun salutations to reset my mood and recharge my soul. Today, I share with you the life lessons I learned while performing my 108 sun salutations that afternoon:

1. Doing the same thing over and over again can be monotonous.

I started to feel vaguely annoyed, and sort of bored-in-advance, at the repetitious task that lay before me after I had completed roughly 15 sun salutations. I thought about my kids at the start of a school day, looking at six long hours ahead of them, every day for 180 days. For one moment of pure clarity, I could understand what all the belly aching was about.

2. Monotonous activities can create a favorable condition for meditation to happen.

After my 25th sun salutation, I realized that although I was engaged in a repetitious activity, I was no longer feeling annoyed or bored. I found that I was "in the zone." Gardening is like this for me, as is hiking. A task may seem monotonous, but after a while, time passes, and you don't remember what you were thinking about or if you were even thinking at all.

3. Engaging in monotonous activity can spark creativity.

At my 50th sun salutation, I had a "light bulb" moment. Realizing that as the number of repetitions got higher, my ability to keep count might diminish, I immediately came up with a solution: After every five sun salutations, I would perform one pose from the Fundamental Poses of the Ashtanga Yoga Standing Sequence, in sequence. Thus, I wouldn't have to count at all. I would simply get through the 11 poses in the sequence, and then I would know that I had completed another 55 sun salutations. Since I had already completed 50, that would make 105... with only three more to go to complete 108.

Easy peasy!

I don't think that the notion of creative sparks happening during monotonous activity is unique to performing sun salutations. People say "Let me meditate on that!" for a reason. When we are in the zone of a monotonous activity, we begin to lose track of conscious thought. And that leaves room for insights.

4. Breaking up a monotonous activity can make it far less "monotonous."

Performing a yoga pose after every five sun salutations made the repetitions not only less monotonous, but actually fun. I found myself looking forward to performing another five and then another five because after each five, there was a reward of another pose to practice.

The off-the-mat lesson is clear: You can't keep doing the same thing over and over again without a break, because that may indeed be the definition of "insanity."

5. Completing a seemingly-daunting task is a fantastic exercise in discipline.

I completed 108 sun salutations. I felt a sense of mastery as a result. It doesn't matter what seemingly-daunting task you complete, though. If you set your mind to it and do it, you will feel good about yourself for having exercised the discipline.

6. Feelings are fleeting.

Sometimes I was bored. Sometimes I was having fun. Sometimes I felt like my form was great. Sometimes not so much. I realized that I was "surfing" my feelings -- going over some, going under some, letting some carry me with effort, letting some carry me without -- exactly the way I would like to see myself surfing them when I am "off" the yoga mat.

7. Repetition increases competence.

The more sun salutations I did, the better my form got. By the end, there were moments when my core was so completely engaged that my feet were practically floating as I transitioned between the various movements that made up a given sun salutation. After doing 108 repetitions of anything, you are going to be somewhat "better" at it than before doing the first.

8. When you "fall down," you can pick yourself back up again and keep going.

OK, so this one time, at the end of one of my 108 sun salutations, I landed kind of weird and ended up springing onto my hands and knees. I felt like a klutz, but I wasn't particularly hurt. And then I kept going. That's useful to remember in life. Even if you do get hurt, you can choose to keep moving forward (assuming you haven't broken anything).

9. When you are not attached to the results, the process becomes easier.

Back to my klutz moment: I really had no particular attachment to my "performance." No one was watching. No one was holding up score cards. So, I fell. So what? In another moment, I would be beautifully executing another sun salutation. Or I would be falling again. Either way, it didn't matter, and that made it easier to let go of the moment of "fall" (or in life, "fail") and press on.

10. Difficult tasks are more difficult when faced alone.

I have performed 108 sun salutations in group settings. At times, I have led groups in performing the ritual, in fact. It is far more difficult to do it alone. Anything is easier, even more pleasurable, when you have someone with whom to share it.

Today, my arms are a bit achy, but I have a pleasant spiritual "hangover": After 108 sun salutations, I not only feel fitter, but wiser. I invite you to step onto the mat and accept the challenge of 108... or eight. It doesn't matter really as long as you make it a challenge. Then, listen to your thoughts as they go by and see what life lessons are in store for you.

As I always do when discussing the topic of sun salutations, I will leave you with a nine-step instruction guide on how to salute the sun:

Begin by standing at the front of your mat, feet touching, shoulders back, chin level with the ground, arms relaxed at sides. Mouth is closed; breathe through the nose.

Step 1. Inhale (through the nose) as you sweep the arms up overhead until palms touch. Look up.

Step 2. Exhale (through the nose) as you bow forward to touch the floor with hands.

Step 3. Inhale to lift only the head up to look up.

Step 4. Exhale to jump back (or step back if you're not ready to jump) to the bottom of a push up, feet hip distance apart, eyes gazed forward.

(That's right, a push up! Draw elbows close to ribs. Hips are level with shoulders -- you're flat like a board. If you can't manage hovering there, then lower to the floor.)

Step 5. Inhale as you press hands down to straighten arms into upward facing dog pose, curving chest and chin up. Feet are still hip width apart. Look up.

Step 6. Exhale as you lift your hips and roll over your toes to come into downward facing dog pose. Downward dog is the shape of an upside-down "V," with your hands flat on the floor, the balls of your feet on the floor and your hips high. Feet are still hip width apart. Look to the navel (or if you can't see it, then the thighs). Remain in this pose as you take five in-out breaths (through the nose, of course).

Step 7. Inhale as you jump (or walk) your feet to between your hands. When you land, the feet come together, your hands touch the floor, and you lift the head to look up. This is the same position as in Step 3.

Step 8. Exhale to drop your head down as far as it goes, getting as much of your palm on the floor as you can. This is the same position as in Step 2.

Step 9. Inhale and sweep your arms up as you raise your torso to stand with your arms over your head, palms touching if possible. Look up. This is the same position as in Step 1.

Finish: Exhale and bring your arms to rest by your sides, just like you started.

Your next inhale begins your very next sun salutation.

Namaste, and I hope your winter brings you much light.

For more by Lauren Cahn, click here.

For more on yoga, click here.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2110021 2012-11-12T15:55:52-05:00 2013-01-12T05:12:01-05:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/
So far, I'm still waiting for my family to thank me. This is despite that I'm fairly sure that the only reason we're back in our comfy house in Westchester County, New York after a ridiculous 11 days (that's 77 days in dog-years) after Superstorm Sandy, is that I made the brilliant decision to release my bladder into Adam's Nike's just moments before our mom was to drive him to school yesterday.

Hello. I'm Lewis, a very important "bagle" (that's a mix of Beagle and Bassett Hound -- shut-up, haters, we can't all have a fancy pedigree). And I'm here to tell you what it's like for a dog in the aftermath of a dog-forsaken storm like Sandy. And you should listen up, because I haven't been allowed to address the public since 2008. That was when I wrote this open letter to President Obama asking that he please adopt a dog, rather than buy one (for some reason, he didn't take my advice). But ever since my family was able to return to our house, yesterday, November 9, my mom has been busy cleaning like a fanatic, so I'm left to my own devices, electronic devices, that is (hahaha, we hounds are quite clever, hashtag-amiright?).

Anyways, I have ways of making you listen. I know how to howl, and I will not be ignored.

So, first off, let me just say that I am no stranger to the plight of the homeless. If you recall from my last article, I was rescued from a shelter back in 2005. I was wandering the mean streets of the Bronx for at least a day or so before I got abducted by some dude driving a white van. Next thing I know, I'm being thrown in a jail cell. They didn't tell me, but I knew it was death row. The stench of fear was overwhelming. Now when I close my eyes, I can still hear the screams. My mom and her two huppies (human puppies, now my teenage brothers) paid my bail and got me out of there, and we lived on the Upper East Side for two years before they finally got the hint and moved me to the country in 2007. But D-g only knows, being homeless is something you never forget.

Superstorm Sandy pummelled the Northeast on Monday, October 29, 2012. Through the pounding rain and the howling wind, I could hear the silence of the coyotes. I longed for that familiar, comforting scent of deer, rabbits and racoons, but it was gone. And I wasn't allowed out of my house for a run or anything. I saw trees falling down like dominoes along the edge of my yard, and it hurt my soul. These were trees where I had crouched, howling up at squirrels and hawks. Once I even saw an owl in one. And then just like that, they were gone: firewood.

I realize that "there but for the grace of D-g go I" - I mean, I heard my mom talking about how other dogs had lost their homes, how a dog in Brooklyn watched helplessly as his people were killed by a falling tree while taking him for his evening constitutional, how two young boys in nearby North Salem died when a tree fell down on their house. I can't bear to think about what I would have done if anything had happened to my people, especially my brothers.

Still, none of that can take away from my sense of helplessness as the lights in my house flickered off, then on, and then off again until they stayed off for good in the immediate wake of the storm. Our house quickly grew cold (which I didn't notice exactly because of my winter fur coat), and I could tell that something was very wrong as I watched my people build a fire in the fireplace, and they weren't smiling and happy like they usually are when they build a fire. I could smell their anxiety as they realized they couldn't contact the outside world because their phones were out of service, both landline and cell. They took me outside to do my business, but they couldn't do theirs because their toilets require electricity. Their despair hung acridly in the air as they piled me, along with flashlights and a change of clothes, into the car and left the darkened, freezing house behind on Tuesday, October 30.

We tried to go to a hotel in Tarrytown. I heard mom say it was the only hotel where there was still an available room. But when we got there, the hotel was evacuating because of storm damage.

We quickly changed course and headed toward New Jersey, where mom's sister and parents both live. I sensed danger, and indeed, New Jersey had already been declared a "State of Emergency." But while we had been driving towards Tarrytown, a text message from mom's sister had gotten through inviting us to stay at her house, which still had power and running water. It took us an entire tank of gas and four hours to get to Aunt Vanessa's house in Roseland because we had to make so many detours for fallen trees. A policeman stopped us and asked us why we were even driving around at all. Mom started crying that she was there because she had nowhere else to go.

When we arrived in Roseland, I could see it was going to be tough for us to stay there. My cousin, Sunday (a very bitchy cockapoo) didn't like having me there. And my aunt and uncle, Minnie and Maxie (a couple of yappy little Yorkies whose people are my mom's parents), were there as well, because their people had lost their electricity in Livingston, New Jersey. Sunday got Minnie and Maxie to gang up against me. The yapping was brutal. Plus, Aunt Vanessa has an important job at Planned Parenthood, and in the eleventh hour before an important election in which human female reproductive rights were at stake, the tension was high.

I ran away on the second day we were there. I'm not proud to admit it. But when I get stressed out, it's my default reaction: I run away. Luckily Aunt Vanessa got me back before mom even knew I was missing. But after that, we left because mom found a hotel in Stamford, Connecticut. It was in the "ruff" part of Stamford, I heard mom say. I think she meant that it was the only hotel that would take a dog and that had a room available.

We left the hotel in Stamford after only one night because friends of my mom insisted that we stay with them in Armonk. They had a generator, so they had lights and heat in the kitchen and in the bedrooms upstairs. But the catch was that I would have had to stay in a jail cell in their basement because they have two Golden Retrievers who are like totally discriminatory. Because of that, mom decided it was better for me to stay in my own house.

I was like, THANK YOU, LADY! May I just say, it was so good to be back in my house!?

I slept for an entire day and enjoyed plowing through a big box of Wheat Thin crackers that mom had accidentally left on a low shelf in the pantry (I learned "the art of the break-in" from a group of pit-bulls on the mean streets of the Bronx that day that I was homeless in 2005). I knew that mom was sorry that I couldn't run around in the backyard like I usually do, what with the electric fence not working, so I took the liberty of reserving one room for peeing and pooping -- the living room, which she almost never uses. As we say in the dog-parks, "I wanted to do her a solid." I felt awesome. Honestly, I don't understand why mom kept taking me out of there and bringing me places. Why didn't she understand that I just wanted to be home?

After another three days, school was starting again for my brothers. It was Wednesday, November 7, more than a week since the storm had hit. The school buses weren't able to get to all the kids in the district because there were still trees down everywhere, but I guess school had been out for too many days already. Mom managed to find an available room at the hotel in the IBM Business Park in Armonk, which was closer to school. She made me go too. At first I thought it could be fun because there were so many dogs there. In fact, it seemed like there was a dog in every room. I guess a lot of dogs were left without power after Superstorm Sandy.

But at the risk of sounding ungrateful, the place was d-g-damn awful. I was miserable. All the dogs there were tense. There was a lot of barking, a lot of howling, and a lot of unhappy dog-parents. On Wednesday night, the Noreaster blew in, along with seven and a half inches of snow. All the dogs wanted to play in the snow, and that made their people even more tense.

The next morning (now 10 days after Sandy), mom couldn't get her car started, so she had to walk Adam to the Middle School a mile away. She made me come with them because she said I needed the exercise. But I was cool with that since I love snow! Weee!

After dropping Adam off at school, mom walked down the street to buy a cup of coffee and call the mechanic to help her get her car started. She let me stay outside so that I could frolic in the snow some more. I really didn't want to go back to the hotel, but she came out with her coffee, and I guess it was time to walk back. As we were walking down the sidewalk, a human lady pulled up beside us. She rolled down her window and started yelling at mom for having kept me outside while she was buying coffee.

The lady obviously had power because her makeup was flawless, and obviously had had her hair "did" (as my mom would say). I looked up at my mom, dark circles under her eyes, her hair hanging limply from under her wool ski hat. I couldn't understand how the lady in the car could be mean to anyone in the midst of all the bad stuff that had happened, when half of the town was without power or indoor plumbing, when people had died, for D-g's sake. I was proud of my mom because she looked straight into that mean lady's eyes and told her, "Mind your own business!"

I guess at that moment, the lady must have realized then what she sounded like (rhymes with bitch) -- and maybe also she recognized my mom as someone who lives in the same town, with kids at the same schools, and maybe she had the bright idea that maybe it's not such a great idea to bully someone who can identify you at a PTA meeting -- because that was when she asked my mom if she could give her a ride somewhere.

Mom told her "not from a judgemental busybody, I don't" and stomped off through the snow. Go mommy!

I was proud of my mommy, sure, but that was also one of those "grand idea" moments that people have in the movies, when you know that you've got to take action to resolve the crisis. That was when I knew that we had to get back home and pronto. That was when I hatched my plan.

That night, while my people slept, I crept out of bed, found my brother's sneakers beside his backpack, and I just let loose. You know how people claim that dogs can't smile? Well, it's not true. If I had opposable thumbs, I would have taken an Instagram of my giant dog-smile at that very moment.

When Adam went to get ready for school in the morning, I knew mom would have to go home to get a new pair of shoes for him. That's when I made my move. I raced out the door when Mom opened it. "That's fine, let's bring Lewis with us," Mom said to Adam, as I knew she would. When we got to the house, she let me stay, as I knew she would.

Oh, and by the way, the power was on. See how powerful a dog's will is? I've been sleeping ever since, or at least until I decided that someone needed to get some credit for getting the family back home and getting that power back.

And that someone is me.

This is Lewis the Bagle, reporting from Westchester. May D-g be with you.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1933659 2012-10-11T17:20:42-04:00 2012-12-11T05:12:01-05:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/ HERS Breast Cancer Foundation (HBCF). HBCF is a charity based in Fremont, Calif. that was formed in 1998 to "support all women healing from breast cancer by providing post-surgical products and services regardless of financial status." Those fit, 20-something men are Neil Walsky, 25, and Jesse Frechione, 23, both of Anchorage, Alaska.

In "The Bicycle Diaries," I profiled Neil and Jesse, their mission and their motivation. Among other things, I noted that Neil and Jesse are biking specifically in honor of Neil's mom, who was successfully treated for breast cancer in 2011, but that they also are biking in support of the HBCF, which helped Neil's mom when she was struggling with the after-effects of her treatment. More than a month into their ride, and in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness month, I am providing an update on their journey:

At 5 a.m. on Aug. 23, 2012, Neil and Jesse bid their families goodbye in the chilly rain of Anchorage, Alaska to no fanfare other than Jesse's repeatedly tipping over as he struggled to acclimate to his brand new clip-in-pedals (note to would-be bikers: do not try out new gear on the day you set off to ride 7,000 miles). Within the next six hours, Jesse was hit by a car (sustaining no serious injuries) and blew out a tire. Notwithstanding such inauspicious beginnings, our young heroes went on to cover more than 200 miles in over the next 48 hours and close to 2,000 miles before making it to San Francisco four weeks later.

As Neil and Jesse wound their way from Anchorage through Canada's Yukon Territory, then back through Haines, Alaska and onto the "Lower 48" via Bellingham, Wash., they covered more miles in a matter of days than they had ridden in their entire lives. As they struggled to find their "bike legs," they became closely acquainted with ibuprofen and developed the sort of routine that perhaps only another 20-something man might be able to follow:

Each riding day (roughly five out of seven), they would begin with a lumberjack's breakfast of eggs, pancakes, peanut butter, and hot coffee. They would then ride the nearly empty highways for 30 to 40 miles before stopping at whatever roadside stand they happened upon for a hearty lunch of burgers and more hot coffee. After lunch, they would ride another 40 to 50 miles until they found a diner or convenience store to purchase food for supper.

As Neil and Jesse approached the Canadian border from Alaska, they met up with Neil's mom and biked with her for about 150 miles; Jesse's mom joined them as well, driving alongside of them in her car. Shortly thereafter, Neil and Jesse made friends with a lone bike rider from the United Kingdom and rode with him for the rest of the Yukon leg of their trip until they reached the ferry back to Alaska.

Throughout Alaska and the Yukon Territory, Neil and Jesse slept outside, despite sub-freezing nighttime temperatures. On the bright side, the days were largely sunny, there were no run-ins with grizzlies, and they found that their planned route was workable. Unfortunately, when Neil and Jesse reached Washington State, they discovered that their planned route needed serious tweaking: The Interstate 5 did not allow bike riders. As a result, throughout Washington and much of Oregon, Neil and Jesse often found themselves biking mountain routes on dirt and gravel, at least until they arrived in Portland, at which point they made their way to the coast, toasting their discovery thereof with shots of Jaegermeister, which is not unusual for a couple of 20-something guys.

Also not unusual for a couple of 20-something guys? Getting a surprise visit from a friend who wants to join in the adventure. Once in Portland, Neil and Jesse got a surprise visit from their friend, Mike Price, 26. Mike had grown up playing hockey with Neil and works as an engineer in the gas and oil industry. Upon finding himself in between gigs, Mike spontaneously decided to take the red eye from Alaska. Once in Portland, Mike purchased a bike at REI and joined Neil and Jesse for an 80-mile day. Hooked by the adrenaline and his friends' enthusiasm, and inspired by his own grandmother's having recently marked 33 years as a breast cancer survivor, Mike decided to soldier on through to San Francisco. He made it to Santa Cruz (approximately 900 miles of riding altogether) before he got called back to work. He is back in Anchorage now as Neil and Jesse continue their travels.

Along Neil and Jesse's travels, even as they biked through the wilderness, they were never far from reminders of why they were doing what they were doing: Signposts of breast cancer seemed to pop up at the most unexpected of times. At one point, Neil and Jesse gave chase to a mugger who had made off with a woman's iPhone. They couldn't catch the guy, but it turned out that the woman was a breast cancer survivor. Outside of an old abandoned mining town on the Alaska Highway (Silver City), Neil and Jesse found themselves in the dark of night without a safe place to sleep when they came upon the Kluane Bed and Breakfast... only to find that it was closed. The proprietors were kind enough to allow Neil and Jesse to camp on the property, and in the morning brought breakfast to Neil and Jesse. It turned out that the Kluane was closed due to a death in the family... due to cancer. Upon learning that Neil and Jesse were riding to raise money for the HERS Breast Cancer Foundation, the family made a generous donation.

On Sept. 29, Neil and Jesse were in Fremont, Calif. to attend the HERS Breast Cancer Foundation Annual KEEP ABREAST 5k walk and 5k/10k run. They participated in the 5k walk and were hosted in a manner fit for kings by the woman who handles the HBCF website: Neil and Jesse stayed with Lisa Stambaugh and her husband while they were in the San Francisco area. Meeting their "honorary moms" at the HBCF and being presented with their HBCF jerseys was arguably the highlight of this leg of their trip.

Throughout October, Neil and Jesse will be traveling down the California coast. So far, their California leg has been marked by the open arms of welcoming hosts, the comfort of beautiful surroundings (check their Facebook page for the amazing photos) and delicious food and drink: In the Napa Valley, they paid a visit to the St. Helena winery, but they also found that the milkshakes there were memorable. In Geyserville, it was the pizza was memorable. In Calistoga, it was the barbeque. When they cross the border into Mexico and make their way through Central America and South America, things promise to get a bit less comfortable since neither of them speaks Spanish (although they are planning to meet up, and ride with, Isaac Bean, 29, Neil's cousin, who is fluent in Spanish).

Stay tuned for more updates here, on Neil and Jesse's Cycling South: Alaska to South America website and on their Facebook page.

You can follow Neil and Jesse's progress by clicking on this link, which tracks Neil and Jesse's progress via satellite (cool!).

To Sponsor the Cyclists, click on this this link.

To hear Neil tell of his reasons for making the trip, check out this short video. It's worth watching, as will be the coverage of their journey. Stay tuned.

For more by Lauren Cahn, click here.

For more on breast cancer, click here.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1914986 2012-09-26T15:40:07-04:00 2012-11-26T05:12:02-05:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/
According to the Jewish religion, the Book of Life is inscribed on Rosh Hashanah -- who shall live and who shall die, who shall have a good year, and who shall have a difficult year. Those who have not sinned are immediately inscribed (it's a short list, obviously). The rest of us have to wait until Yom Kippur, when the book is "sealed." If we have successfully atoned for our sins during the "Days of Awe," then we too shall be inscribed before the book is sealed.

It seems simple enough: You spend 10 days thinking about what you've done wrong in the prior year and making amends to those whom you have wronged. This process is known as "repentance," which includes (1) introspection, (2) recognition of guilt, (3) confesssion of guilt to the person who was wronged, (4) a promise to not commit the wrong again and (5) an attempt to make reparations for the wrong to the extent possible. On the 10th day, you seek God's forgiveness for sinning against God, which includes having sinned against your fellow man. You do this by repenting to God (through prayer) and experiencing physical hardships (no food, no water, no washing, no sex, no leather, no work among others).

While I have never participated consistently in any form of organized Judaism, and while I cannot bring myself to believe in the magic of a "Book of Life" exactly, I am intrigued by Judaism's prescribed process for atonement. I am intrigued not only by the process, itself, but by its implications.

First, the process recognizes that there is a distinction between "atonement" on the one hand, and "forgiveness" on the other. "Atonement" begins with allowing oneself to recognize that one may have done wrong and ends with the demonstration of remorse and the making of reparations (if applicable) to those wronged. Atonement begins and ends with the self. By contrast, "forgiveness" can only be given by the one who has been wronged.

Atonement does not guarantee forgiveness. We are left to atone without knowing that we will be rewarded by forgiveness. During the High Holidays, the stakes are as high as they get. If you subscribe to Jewish law, you believe that if you cannot attain forgiveness by God, then you will not live to see another year. Getting God's forgiveness involves a complicated set of thoughts and behaviors, some of which involve third parties whom you have wronged. If some or all of those third parties cannot forgive you, will God? Can God?

If all that hard work may not result in the achievement of the goal, then what's the point really? With stakes that high, the process can feel overwhelming. And when the process feels overwhelming, some are tempted to throw their hands up and not even bother. And many don't.

I don't, and by that I mean that I do not buy into the process of atonement for the sake of obtaining God's forgiveness. I believe in atonement, and I hope for forgiveness. But I do not wish to atone for the sake of attaining forgiveness. I wish to atone because it feels right.

Atonement begins with cutting through a messy jungle of rationalizations such as total denial ("I did NOT do that") or scapegoating ("I did it, but only because you made me do it to you"). This takes courage, and I like to cultivate courage in myself.

Atonement continues with admitting our wrongdoing to the person we've hurt. We must allow ourselves to demonstrate our fallibility. We must admit that we are flawed. This takes immense strength, and I like to cultivate strength in myself.

Atonement requires that we ask for forgiveness, which puts us in a terribly vulnerable place. We have not only admitted to ourselves and to those that we've hurt that we have done wrong, but now we are willfully and knowingly transferring power to the person to whom we have done wrong, if only for a brief moment. And as brief as the moment may be, it requires trust. We must trust that the person to whom we are submitting our appeal will be fair and just. And we must trust ourselves to be okay if we are not forgiven. As challenging as this can be, it is worth cultivating.

Of course, as anyone who has ever been on the receiving end of a disingenuous apology can attest, atonement is incomplete without genuine remorse. And remorse is impossible without empathy. Cultivating empathy is much harder than many are willing to admit because it requires not that we place ourselves in the other person's shoes, but that we place ourselves in the other person's mind. But cultivating empathy is cultivating humanity. It not only makes atonement possible, but it helps us firm our resolve to never commit the wrongful act again. It helps us to think before we act, in general.

Finally, even if we are not in the mindset to cultivate courage, strength, vulnerability and empathy, we can still achieve some measure of peace through atonement. When we atone, we diminish our fear of retaliation from the wronged person We alleviate the grip of guilt and shame that can create in us an impulse to justify bad acts with more bad acts. We can eliminate regret as we do what we can to restore broken relationships.

When we wrong another person, we not only create pain for that person, but pain in ourselves. We cannot guarantee that we will be forgiven. But we can take steps toward forgiving ourselves. And if that is all we get out of atonement, then that is enough -- because it HAS to be enough.

May you be inscribed.

For more by Lauren Cahn, click here.

For more on Judaism, click here. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1826034 2012-08-27T17:29:00-04:00 2012-10-27T05:12:03-04:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/
Best friends since childhood, Neil Walsky, 25, and Jesse Frechione, 23, have committed the next four months, the next 6,690 miles, several canisters of bear-repellent and all this other gear to riding their bicycles from Anchorage, Alaska all the way to Cartagena, Colombia in honor of, and to raise awareness for, HERS Breast Cancer Foundation, a charitable foundation whose mission is "to support all women healing from breast cancer by providing post-surgical products and services regardless of financial status" (such products and services include post-mastectomy bras and fittings therefor, breast prostheses and compression garments for the prevention and treatment of breast-cancer-related lymphedena -- i.e., the disfiguring and debilitating swelling of the arm following the surgical removal of lymph nodes adjacent to the breast).

Neil, a former professional hockey player in one of Switzerland's National Leagues and a recent graduate of the University of Idaho with a degree in civil engineering, put his first post-college engineering job at Hattenburg Dilley and Linnell, LLC on hold to make this journey. Jesse, a forest firefighter and geology student at the University of Idaho (who spent his summer working for Hattenburg Dilley and Linnell) is taking the semester off from school. While both are physically fit, between the two, they have less than 1,000 miles of biking under their belts. Only Jesse has any significant first aid experience (he knows CPR). With no research team, Neil and Jesse plotted their route through 10 countries based on their own research. With no corporate sponsorship, no film crew, no support crew carrying food, first aid or protection from the elements and no six-figure book deal awaiting them when they arrive home, they will brave the chilly days and freezing nights riding and camping through Alaska, and will then spend several days wending their way through the Yukon territory, being careful to avoid attracting the attention of hungry and territorial bears.

To stay in touch with loved ones (and the media, including social media), Neil and Jesse will be carrying their cell phones and will keep them charged using solar panels. Their plan is to carry only enough food to get to the next location where they can obtain more food. As they make their way through Washington, Oregon and down the coast of California, there may be occasions on which Neil and Jesse will stay with friends and generous people who have heard of their journey and wish to support it. However, for most of the next four months, and as they continue through Mexico, Guatamala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama and Colombia, they will pitch tents and cook their own food each night after riding 80 to 100 miles each riding day. At the end, Neil and Jesse expect no finishing-line fanfare, no medals, not even a T-shirt. Instead, they expect to be content with the feeling of satisfaction that comes from knowing that they did what they set out to do and survived.

Which begs the question: Why?

As Neil explains, "Everyone seems to have that one crazy, amazing, and enlightening adventure that they will never forget; I think this is ours. There will be wrecks, fights, exhaustion, aches and pains, and times where you'd give up anything for a sip of water. And in the end all those experiences add up to one thing, an unforgettable adventure." But surely a journey of such magnitude could not be motivated solely for the physical and mental challenge alone.

And surely, it was not.

In 2011, Neil's mom, Agnes Walsky, an otherwise healthy woman in her mid-50s, was diagnosed with a an aggressive invasive ductal carcinoma (the most common form of breast cancer, and one that is not fully self-contained but has "invaded" or spread to the surrounding breast tissues). She was treated with a lumpectomy, removal of 14 lymph nodes, six months of chemotherapy, seven weeks of radiation and a five-year prescription for an aromatase inhibitor (to suppress the production of estrogen, which fed her cancer). The loss of 14 lymph nodes coupled with an immune system compromised by chemo and radiation meant that Mrs. Walsky was advised to wear a compression garment on her arm to prevent lymphedema. She still wears one while engaging in certain physical activities that could cause a flare of lymphedema.

Neil was confident that his mother would survive her ordeal, which began when she fell on a trip to Switzerland and received a bruise on her breast that did not heal upon her return home to Alaska. Neil had already seen his father Buck fight for his life after a life-threatening trauma and survive against all odds. Neil had faith in his mother's strength and in the medical community, but he took note of the fact that there was little in the way of support AFTER treatment for breast cancer. After all of the treatments are done, he wondered, after all of the friends stop bringing dinner over, what then for the woman who remains emotionally traumatized and physically disfigured? What then for the woman who may not be able to afford the cost of post-mastectomy breast-forms and bras? What then for the woman who can't afford treatment for lymphedema?

Neil expressed to his friends and family his concern and his interest in bringing awareness to this issue. Eventually, he was put in touch with the HERS Breast Cancer Foundation. He found himself drawn to the fact that HERS Breast Cancer Foundation's focus was not so much on breast cancer research as on life after breast cancer. A few months ago, fueled by the thought of making a difference in the lives of women who have gone through what his mom went through, and inspired by the movie The Motorcycle Diaries (the story of a young Che Guevara's motorcycle journey through South America that inspired his life's calling as a revolutionary), Neil approached his long-time friend, Jesse, saying, essentially, "I've come to realize that I am going to make this trip at the end of this summer," to which Jesse replied, "OK, let's do it." As Jesse explains, "Life is short, and when an opportunity strikes like this one you don't sit around and let it pass you by, you seize it and go on a ride of your life."

But both Neil and Mark feel that something Mark Twain once said most accurately captures their feelings about their journey: "Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

And so, with precious little fanfare except for this blog entry and this lone Tweet by @neilwalsky saying, "Our wheels set in motion at 4:30 am AKDT, let the adventures begin!!! #AlaskaToSouthAmerica #breastcancer #cyclingsouth," the adventure began today, Aug. 23, 2012.

I had the honor of speaking with Neil and Jesse just the other day, having been introduced by Veronica Olah and Andria Barrera of Gutenberg Communications. After a lovely afternoon of talking with them about their lives and their goals, I look forward to keeping in touch with them over the next four months and helping them to make a record of their ambitious travels.

You can literally follow Neil and Jesse's progress by clicking on this link, which tracks Neil and Jesse's progress via satellite (cool!).

Or you can Facebook-follow Neil and Jesse on Facebook: Alaska To South America (on Facebook)

To follow Neil on Twitter: @neilwalsky

To hear Neil tell of his reasons for making the trip, check out this short video. It's worth watching, as will be the coverage of their journey. Stay tuned.

For more by Lauren Cahn, click here.

For more on breast cancer, click here.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1740440 2012-08-06T17:57:20-04:00 2012-10-06T05:12:17-04:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/
It's not a lump, it's not a lump, I kept telling myself. That's good, right? It's not a lump. No, it definitely wasn't a lump. It wasn't smooth or round like a pea or a marble. And it didn't move when I pushed and probed at it. I couldn't describe what it was, actually. My breast, just above my right nipple, felt thick, as if the skin had stuck to the flesh beneath it. This thickened area had no shape, and I couldn't discern its size. I sat down on the shower floor and let the water wash over me, running the pertinent facts over and over in my mind.

I was just 36 years old. I had just had my baseline mammogram 12 months before, and it was clear. Well, not clear exactly, in that the radiologist's report said that my breast tissue was dense. But certainly, there were no calcifications, no shadows, no... thickenings. I was healthy. I ran or biked daily. I was slim. I had become pregnant with my first child by the time I was 30. I had spent a total of 24 months nursing my two sons (altogether, not each). I ate healthy foods. I hadn't spent any significant time on the birth control pill. And it wasn't a lump! No! It was just a... thickening!

I got out of the shower and dried off. My husband was shaving at the sink. We were supposed to be getting ready for six friends to come over for a day of sunshine, cocktails and grilling. He saw my face and asked me what was wrong.

"I think there might be something wrong with me," I whispered, "With... with my... breast." As I described for him what I had felt, I suddenly remembered a dream I had had the night before: that I had found multiple tumors in my breast. Well, at least this wasn't a lump, I kept telling myself.

Monday morning, I showed up at my OB/GYN's office, without an appointment. She laughed. "It's just a cyst," she said, "Let's get you to a radiologist to confirm that, and you'll be fine."

"But if it's a cyst, then why can't you just drain it?"

"Well, not that kind of a cyst."

"What kind of cyst then?"

"More like a... mass..."

I never saw that doctor again. I took her prescription for a visit to the radiologist and made an appointment for the next day. In the meantime, I tried not to let my hands get anywhere near the thickening. If I couldn't feel it, perhaps I wouldn't think about it. Uh huh.

The next day, I had an ultrasound, and the technician pointed to two masses above the right nipple. She asked me if I wanted to feel the one that I hadn't felt before. I declined. When the radiologist read over the report, she became very quiet. Her silence filled me with panic, and I asked her, "What are you thinking? Are you thinking it's cancer?"

"I can't answer that."

No, she couldn't apparently, because first I had to have a biopsy. And they wouldn't be able to do that for another two days. For two days, I pretended that nothing was happening, even as I floated above my own body in a sea of disjointed anxiety.

Two days later, despite my pretending that nothing was happening, I brought my mother with me back to the radiologist's office, where a slim needle was inserted into the thickenings in my breast -- the one I could feel and the one that I refused to feel. The radiologist on call took the cells he retrieved into another room and looked at them under a microscope. I had no idea that he would come back less than five minutes later looking crestfallen. I had never seen a doctor looking crestfallen. I didn't like it one bit.

"Well, it looks suspicious," he said quietly.

Suspicious?! Enough with the vagueness. Please.

"It's cancer, is that what you mean?"

"It looks that way, yes," he answered.

I didn't cry. I think by this time, I pretty much already knew. And I didn't have time to cry because I was being handed a list of highly-recommended breast surgeons and being told to get an appointment as soon as possible. And I was being prepped for yet another biopsy, to confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt what we already knew.

The results of the second biopsy wouldn't be available for another day. And I filled that day with an appointment with a breast surgeon my sister knew personally. He looked at my ultrasound results and said, "It isn't necessarily cancer." I wasn't sure why we were going backward at this point. I can only surmise that doctors, or at least the ones that I met that week, really didn't like saying the "C" word to women in their 30s. Or maybe to anyone.

Of course, the next day, this doctor called to tell me that the results were "Just as we suspected."

"You mean..."

"Cancer. Breast cancer. Ductal carcinoma, with lympatic and vascular invasion."

Honestly, he had me at cancer. The rest of it was lost in a sea of "I need to remove these beastly appendages as soon as possible." My right breast had betrayed me at the age of 36. As far as I was concerned, it was the enemy and it had to go. As for the other breast, the last thing I ever wanted to do was sit through another mammogram. No, wait. The last thing I ever wanted to do was to recover from cancer at 36 only to have it diagnosed in the other breast 10 years later. Yeah, so, as far I was concerned, both breasts had to go. And I wasn't going to take no for an answer, not that anyone argued with my reasoning.

Six weeks to the day after I first felt the famous "thickening," I underwent a double mastectomy with immediate saline implant reconstruction. The surgeon I ultimately went with called me two weeks later to tell me that she had GREAT news. Turns out that there were not two but THREE tumors, one of which couldn't be seen except when the breast was cross sectioned by the pathologist, and all three of my "sentinel nodes" (the first node that lymphatic fluid from each tumor drained into) were positive. This was great news, according to my surgeon, because it meant that my decision to have a mastectomy was proven to be a sound one. Even better? Precancerous cells were found in my supposedly healthy breast. So, the decision to have a double mastectomy was proven to be sound. Awesome!

Ultimately, my cancer was staged at "2B," which meant basically exactly what the first surgeon I met told me over the phone: I had a breast cancer that had spread to some of my lymph nodes. This meant that I was definitely going to have to have chemotherapy. Further testing also showed that I was "triple positive" for something called "Her2Neu," which meant that my cancer was particularly aggressive. I already knew that, but apparently, this particular marker was often associated with breast cancer that metastasized to distant places, such as the lungs, bone and brain.

But wait! Again, this was GOOD NEWS! It meant that I was eligible to take "Herceptin," a drug that disabled whatever cellular activity the Her2Neu marker was associated with, at least in about one-third of patients who had the Her2Neu marker. At the time, Herceptin was brand new for women who were not considered to have "advanced" (metastatic) disease. And by brand new, I mean that less than a year earlier, it had received its approval for trials in women with disease that was considered "early stage," such as mine. My oncologist made sure that I was given Herceptin, rather than a control drug. And by that I mean I wasn't in any study. And I don't know how I got so lucky, and I don't know how I can call anything about this lucky. But I will just quietly count those blessings and not question it.

Making a long story shorter, following my double mastectomy I underwent six months of chemotherapy, the last three of which were accompanied by Herceptin, and I continued with bi-monthly infusions of Herceptin for another 12 months. I was allergic to something in the chemotherapy drugs, so I was dosed up with Benadryl every time I went for an infusion. And by doped up, I mean fed it intravenously. I don't remember a lot of those days. I lost all of the hair on my head two weeks after my first infusion. Three months later, my eyebrows and eyelashes fell out, which devastated me far more than having lost the hair on my head, probably because I could hide my head under a wig, but there was nowhere to hide a bald face. At three months into my chemo protocol, I became so severely anemic that I needed a transfusion, which I remember as one of the most disgusting experiences of my life. Imagine, really imagine, watching someone else's blood drip INTO your veins.

At the end of the six months of chemo, my left eye started hurting. I noticed I had a stye. No big deal, right? Well, within a day or so, one stye had multiplied to 10... on each eye. I ended up in the hospital for a full week, being treated for neutropenia, which meant that my immune system had been temporarily destroyed by the chemotherapy. When I recovered, I underwent six weeks of radiation.

Then I had my ovaries removed. The purpose of that was two-fold. First, my cancer had been estrogen- and progesterone-receptor positive. That meant that hormones fed my cancer cells. Since I already had two children, I decided that I should remove the organ that churns out all those hormones: my ovaries. Also, I figured that if I had gotten breast cancer at 36, I might be a good candidate for ovarian cancer in my 40s. Like my breasts, my ovaries needed to go. As far as I was concerned, they were nothing but time bombs ticking away inside of me.

Menopause at 36 was brutal. I had night sweats daily, had strange "shivers" at all times of day, experienced depression and a general fogginess in my mental faculties and gained 20 pounds, most of it around my waist. I also began to develop osteoporosis, for which I was given a drug called "Zometa," which is given both to post-menopausal women who have osteoporosis and to women whose breast cancer has spread to the bones. Zometa was supposed to have minimal side effects, just as Herceptin was.

Nowadays, I think that when a drug involved in the treatment of cancer is said to have minimal side effects, it means merely that it does not cause hair loss. Other than that, I cannot possibly understand what is "minimal" about any of the exhaustion, bone pain, continued weight gain and depression I experienced while taking Zometa and Herceptin.

By the summer of 2004, toxic substances were no longer being poured into my body at regular intervals, and I began to shed the weight that breast cancer had caused me to gain. In 2005, I finally accepted that my saline implants looked and felt terrible and had them replaced with silicone implants. Within a year after that, I began to understand that the silicone implants too were a failure. But I never would have done anything about it had I not suffered an accidental burn on my right breast that went all the way through every layer of skin until the implant was exposed. Luckily, the nerve damage I had experienced in my breast kept me from feeling this injury. But what I could not help but feel was very, very ill when the staph infection set in.

In 2009, I spent a week in the burn unit of a hospital, taking intravenous antibiotics and having yet another surgery to remove my right implant to improve my chances of healing from the devestating burn. A few weeks later, I had another surgery to debride the wound. I then spent several months taking hyperbaric treatments (90 minutes, every day) at the hospital to help heal my still-open wound. After a "wound-vac" (a disgustingly loud gurgling machine that sucks the lymphatic drainage out of a wound for 23 hours a day for a minimum of six weeks) failed to help, I met with a new surgeon, one who could transplant live flesh and blood from my ass to where my breasts should have been.

In the summer of 2010, I was given approval for this nine-hour surgery that I had to fly down to South Carolina to have (that was where the doctor was who could do the surgery). The surgery was a success, and for the first time since 2002, I felt whole again. I felt whole enough, in fact, that I sometimes forgot and still sometimes forget, that I went through all of this over the previous 10 years.

Why am I telling this story for what feels like the 100th time? Because I think it is important to recognize that I am just like you. I am not a hero. I am not particularly brave. I am not particularly zen. I don't believe in "The Secret," and I don't read anything by Dr. Wayne Dyer. If I could get through what I got through, then anyone can get through anything. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, yes. But what didn't kill me should make others strong as well.

And one more thing. Put your hands on your breasts every month or so, and get to know your body. The worst that can happen is that you feel something scary and have it taken care of. If I could do it, anyone can.

And anyone includes you.

For more by Lauren Cahn, click here.

For more on breast cancer, click here. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1648188 2012-07-08T10:00:53-04:00 2012-09-07T05:12:12-04:00

Lauren Cahn http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cahn/
I've patiently listened as friends tell me that they have found the key to happiness and fulfillment in such-and-such book, even as I observe that these friends seem neither happy nor fulfilled. I've watched my Facebook feed scroll by with pithy aphorisms taken from self-help books such as The Four Agreements and The Secret.(um, not highbrow), and I've largely ignored them because I am aware that they are being quoted out of context.

However, when a well-meaning (I think?) friend informed me that everything that has ever happened to us is the result of our thoughts, I felt compelled to kick the tires. As a breast cancer survivor, as the mother of two young boys who certainly did not invite my breast cancer into their lives, I had to know: how can this notion (which I believe is distilled from The Secret) be true? I asked whether "people" who get sick invited illness, or whether children whose parents get sick or die could be blamed somehow. I asked whether those who died in the World Trade Centers were responsible for their own deaths. I asked whether the Jews who died in the Holocaust had wished it upon themselves.

"You need to do your reading," was the only answer I received.

So I did. Only I didn't merely fold the pages of the aphorism-filled latest pop-psychology books. Instead, I referred to the thousands of years old Yoga Sutras. And I refreshed my memory of Transactional Analysis (which observes human interactions as multi-faceted and not unilateral) and cognitive behavior therapy (which has scientific credibility). I reread some of Pema Chodron's essays. And what I came up with is my own personal guide to personal satisfaction in interpersonal relationships (when you get those right, the rest of it flows):

How you treat people is your karma. How they react is theirs. But... If you treat someone poorly, and their reaction is to act poorly in response, it's rather poor karmic form to deny your own culpability by saying, "that's their shit."

How you treat people is karma that you put into the world right now, right here. If you treat people poorly, you should expect not only that they will treat you poorly back but also that the consequences wil ripple forth. Don't treat people poorly and expect it to affect only you. Slap your kid? Expect your kid to slap their friends. And then their own kids. It's not their karma alone. It never is. By acting toward someone, you have dipped your toe in the river, and the river will never be the same. You can try to say "their reaction is their karma," but when there's a kid crying in the playground because an angry kid slapped her, it's your karma too.

As for controlling our destiny by controlling our thoughts, well, good luck with that. You can't make someone treat you well by willing it so. You can't live forever by thinking healthy thoughts. You can't make yourself sick by thinking about illness. If thinking about death made you die, you would never be able to go to a funeral. If thinking about traffic makes for traffic on the road, then you just might be driving during rush hour.

There's no upside to blaming a person or being in the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. Sure, you could try, but really, you can't possibly know what each and every person who died that day did to bring themselves into the exact space where a crazed, suicidal terrorist was going to aim an airplane. And how would it help you to know anyway? All you're accomplishing is distancing yourself from a tragedy by distinguishing your situation from the situation of the victims. And frankly, you really don't know enough to do that.

Even if you believe that your thoughts hold the key to your success and fulfillment, you would never know how to use that key. Impossible. And anyone who wants to tell you differently wants to sell you something that can't be bought and then KEEP selling it to you over and over again each time you fail to think the "right" thoughts... which will be often, especially if not thinking the right thoughts makes you feel bad about yourself. Because feeling bad about yourself will only cause your negative thoughts to multiply, which will, in turn, cause bad things to happen (if we believe such nonsense), which will in turn create more negative thoughts about yourself, in an endless loop of shame and self-fulfilling prophecy.

Much more important than thinking good thoughts is doing right action. As a human being living in this world that is full of other human beings and interacting with those other human human beings, your actions have far greater meaning and consequence than any thought you might have. And even if I am completely wrong about that, your actions are all that the people with whom you share the planet have to go on. If you are good to them, they will feel good. If you are bad to them, they will feel bad. What you think about them is your business. No one has to know.

Go ahead: Think whatever awful thoughts you want, just don't put those thoughts into action. Thoughts and feelings are fleeting phantoms, and absolutely powerless unless and until we act on them. Give them more power than that? They become either shame or magical thinking, depending on the nature of what happens to you.

Karma is in your actions. Action is karma. Karma is action. Understanding that thoughts are powerless until we act on them will set you free of shame and of magical thinking. It's one thing to wish me dead, it's another thing to kill me. If you wish me dead and I die, I promise you, you had nothing to do with my demise. You are hereby absolved of all guilt and all shame.

I don't have a perfect life and I can't say that I have all the answers. But I know that more than anything else, I am defined by my actions. And my owning that makes me accountable.

Not blameworthy. Accountable. Knowing the difference is a challenge. But right action does not require understanding of the difference.

Right action is all there is, ultimately.]]>