We arrived early enough, although I had to return to the house twice after we got about a block away because I forgot first, my sunglasses and second, my money. Anyway, once we got going, the trip to Providence was uneventful. We arrived at the parking facility and the folks there were very nice and accommodating, getting my bags loaded in the shuttle before I even was able to get both kids out of the car.

Then, we arrived at the airport and the cumbersome shuffling began, although many folks were quite helpful when I was checking the bags in and organizing the children. I have a two seat stroller and I had A strapped into his carseat and the carseat in the top part of the stroller. B was riding in the stroller. I had four carry-ons -- mine, the essentials for the children, B's and A's. It was quite a load. As we reached the security checkpoint, the judging began. Fortunately, we arrived quite early and there was no line at security. Unfortunately, I am usually pretty bad at getting myself through security, as I carry a lot of electronic equipment so that I can work (computer, hard disk, camera). I always set off some sort of flag and one of my bags is inevitably identified as one to be checked for gunpowder residue (or whatever that machine with the little swatch of cloth does).

This time, I had to disassemble the stroller (it has to go through the x-ray machine), fold something on the car seat so that it will go through the x-ray machine, get the kids' shoes off, jackets off, my shoes off, jacket off and send the four bags through, as well. Then, I have to get a 22 month old to go through the doorway detector without touching the sides, then the 3 1/2 year old through without touching the sides, then walk though myself and then try to capture the children. It took me about 20 minutes to reassemble the stroller, strap the kid in, put both kids' shoes back on and my own. Before we could leave, however, two of my bags had to be hand searched because I forgot to take the laptop out of my bag and there was a large hard disk in another bag. Once everyone was certain that I and my two children were not a threat, I began to try to get everything together so that we could head to the gate. In the end, the adventure at the security check point took about thirty minutes.

Finally, the stroller was loaded up. The carseat was lodged in the stroller. A child was strapped into the carset. I had one bag with rolling wheels and my giant metropolis chrome messenger bag. A friend of mine once stated, "have you ever noticed that all moms carry big purses?" I thought this was quite funny and was silently thankful that I would never be a big-purse carrying, stereotypical mom. When I decided to bring my metropolis messenger bag, then started packing diapers, wipes and sippy cups in it, I realized that I had not actually escaped the "big purse carrying mom" stereotype that I so feared. In fact, I am just living the dyke version.

Anyway, I was carrying a lot, pushing a stroller and my poor older son had A's bag on his back (which was indeed a backpack) and was rolling his own cute little travel bag behind him. It was around this time that I became acutely aware that people around me were openly judging me. I have noticed that this is a phrase that is offered often in popular parlance: 'stop judging me' or 'I know you're judging me.' Okay, I am not entirely sure whether it is circulating heavily, but I have one particular student who makes me laugh with this one quite often. I realized this was not funny, but actually happening. Or maybe it was still funny, but actually happening. Yeah, still funny, although odd.

Prior to becoming an instant mom, I traveled quite a lot on my own. I used to dread being seated next to children. I also dreaded being seated next to an overweight person, a person who smelled bad, or a person who wanted to have a conversation with me. However, I solved all of these worries with a simple, yet not cheap, purchase: Bose Noise Canceling headphones. They are worth every penny and I never hear anything that goes on during a flight except what is playing on my iPhone. That is, until I acquired a couple of kids. Now I cannot use the headphones as I actually have to pay attention to the noise my children make.

Now, I have a big mom purse substitute and people dread sitting next to me. My therapist once said to me that "our society hates children." I now know what he meant. It is unfortunate and a bit sad. Kids are cool. Parents sometimes are not, but you cannot blame that on the kids.

I think my favorite things so far is this: in the program guide, movies are represented by some sort of small graphical representation, usually a photograph or still from the film. However, there is one short film that defies this convention: "X," a sixteen minute short directed by JOSH BROLIN. So, I guess when you are super-famous like JOSH BROLIN, you need not present any representation of your film in the guide, but instead a bad headshot of JOSH BROLIN represents the film. It's not even a good headshot, but instead a snap made when JOSH BROLIN was at an awards show or some such -- one can discern some text on the wall behind him that speaks to this. I will not see this film simply because of this poorly contrived image; I am also not that interested in it.

I am nervous. In three days, folks will be assessing my film. I'm trying to stay in the moment and recognize that we have come a long way with this project. A 'top 12' film festival -- not so bad. If you are near Providence, RI on Saturday, please come see the film:

Commit to the Line
Saturday, Aug 9, 2008
9:30p.m., Bell Street Chapel
Rhode Island International Film Festival

“No, Whistler. Whistler. In Canada – British Columbia. . .”

“Oh, I thought you said ‘Worcester.’”

“No. Why would I vacation in Worcester?” Worcester is arguably the least attractive city in Massachusetts.

“Yeah, I was wondering the same thing.”

This conversation occurred repeatedly prior to my departure to Whistler. Inevitably, when I state that I will be out of town, folks ask, “Oh, where are you going?”

“Whistler.”

Whistler. One word. Like ‘Paris’ – one never needs to explain that it is Paris, France, despite the fact that there are several cities called Paris. If you say, ‘Paris,’ everyone assumes that you mean Paris, France. In my estimation, it should be the same with Whistler. There is only one. There can be only one. Whistler.

In the winter, Whistler is a premiere destination for skiing and snowboarding; in the summer it is the premiere destination for downhill mountain biking. There is no other bike park on earth quite like it. How can everyone not know this? I know about Paris and I never want to return to that city, so how can the general population be so ignorant about something as important, indeed crucial, as downhill mountain biking destinations?

This brings me to my main point: why are bicycles, and in turn cyclists, so universally discriminated against? I am currently on a flight to Boston from Vancouver. I have been in Whistler (yes, Whistler, not Worcester) for the past week. Before I even entered the roped off twisted line guides at the airport, I was asked by a Northwest employee, “Is that a bike?”

“No,” I replied.

Sadly, my partner, Milissa, sternly said, “Rachelle.”

“Okay, yeah, it’s a bike. But does it have to be a bike?”

The attendant responded, “I thought it was a bike. It looks a lot like a bike.”

I think she really meant that the case looks like a bike case. My bike certainly does not look like a bike when it’s broken down and packed in the blue plastic bike case in which it travels.

“Could it just be excess baggage?” I ask plaintively.

She chuckles in a friendly way, attempting to shrug off my obviously disconcerting question. “May I have your passport?”

I hand it to her. “Seriously,” I say, “Why does it cost so much for my bike?”

Again, she smiles. “I know it doesn’t seem right,” she replies in her pleasant Australian accent. “That’s why I don’t travel with my bike. I just ride local trails.” (Here’s a really great thing about B.C.: everyone rides mountain bikes. Everyone. Seriously.) She scans my passport and hands it back to me. She turns to Milissa and requests her passport.

“Golf clubs,” I say, “How much do you charge for golf clubs?”

“Yeah, nothing.” She scans Milissa’s passport.

“Not fair,” I state.

“Yeah, you’re right,” she returns.

I am whining about the charge for my bike and all the while she is entering the travel data at the “self service” kiosk for Milissa and I. She is finishes, but cannot get the boarding passes to print. I can see panic flickering in her eyes. She clearly does not want to be stuck with me complaining much longer.

“Anna, this doesn’t seem to be printing, can you do a check from there?” she shouts to a woman at the check-in counter.

“Hey, maybe this means my bike should fly for free – you know, for the inconvenience,” I say.

“It’s not printing?” Anna replies.

“No. Can you reset it from there?”

Anna says, “Just put a sign on it and we’ll print the boarding passes here.”

The nice Australian woman looks at us and says, “If you’ll just go up to the counter, you can pay for the bike and they will print your boarding passes.”

“So, no free bike, huh?” I ask. Milissa grabs my arm and pulls me along to the counter.

At the counter, a young man asks for our passports again. We hand them over. “Is that a bike?” he inquires.

“Uh, no.” I state.

“Rachelle.” Milissa says.

“Okay, it’s a bike,” I say, “but what if it wasn’t? What if it’s just excess baggage?”

“Well, it does look like a bike,” he states. Again I wonder how this blue plastic box looks like a bike.

“Yeah, but, why do I have to pay for a bike? What about golf clubs – free, right?”

“Yes,” he responds. “That will be $105 with tax. How would you like to pay for that?”

I hand over my American Express card. “I understand that this isn’t your fault or your policy, but I find it quite frustrating.”

“Please sign here,” he says as he hands me a charge slip.

I sign and hand the paper back to him. “I mean, bikes do not weigh any more than golf clubs,” I continue.

He hands me a receipt. “Would you like me to read to you why we charge for bikes?”

“Sure. That’s sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, they have a whole thing written out for us that we’re supposed to read, it says: ‘we apologize for any inconvenience, but we will allow you to travel with your bike rather than shipping it as freight. For this service, we charge a nominal fee of $100. Bikes require extra attention and special handling in order to insure that it arrives safely.’ “

“Okay,” I interrupt. “I get the idea. That’s pretty funny. Just look at my bike case – there is clearly evidence to the contrary of any ‘special handling’. Does that mean that if anything happens to it, I get a new bike?”

By this time, he is done with me and I think he would very much like for me to move on. “Uh, yeah, I don’t. . .” His voice trails off. He hands Milissa the boarding passes and our passports. “So, you’re all set. You’ll just need to move ahead to the customs line.”

“Okay,” I reply, “Thanks.”

I start explaining to Milissa how I am going to start a company that manufactures bike cases that do not look like bike cases. As I talk on and on about this plan, she interrupts, “Wait a minute, you’ve thought about this before now?”

“Heck, yeah. I’ve been planning this for a while. I’m on a polymer/plastics manufacturers email list to look at various materials that would be suitable for the case.”

“Polymers. You look at polymers.”

“Yup.”

I talk on and on about my bike case idea and the expense of manufacturing a prototype as we snake through the long customs line. The only thing that finally shuts me up about the bike is when an irritating power-hungry little man gives me an order to move ahead when, clearly, I cannot move ahead as there is another person in front of me. I go on about that, incredulously inquiring why such men irritate me so, until we reach the customs counter.

The bike travel thing has plagued me for years. I used to be able to flash my IMBA (International Mountain Biking Association) card and the unknowing or unaware check-in folks would let the bike go for free. Due to more stringent airline restrictions, this no longer works. In my defense, America West Airlines did have some agreement with IMBA that allowed members to acquire a limited number of vouchers each year for flying with a bike. Or, maybe it was United Airlines. Anyway, I always did it on America West when I flew to Phoenix:

“Is that a bike?”

“Yes.”

“That requires an additional charge.”

“Oh, no. I have my IMBA card,” and I’d pull it from my wallet and show it to the attendant.

“Okay, go ahead.”

Booyeah.

For this trip, I was quite sure that there would be no way around the charge for the bike and had prepared myself to suck it up. I was okay when we left Boston. I answered in the affirmative when asked if the blue plastic case was a bike and quickly presented a credit card to pay the extra fee. Any irritation over the fee was certainly mitigated by the fact that I was traveling to Whistler (not Worcester) to ride my new downhill bike.

I did give the check-in attendant a bit of trouble, but all in good fun.

She said, “it will be a $100 charge for the bike.”

“$100? I could fly a child for less money.”

“Yep. So how did you want to pay the $100?”

“You really like rubbing it in, don’t you, the $100?”

“Yeah. So, here’s the receipt for the $100 fee.”

“Come on, do you have to keep saying $100?”

“Thank you for paying that $100 fee.”

By this time, we are both laughing and she gave me plastic Northwest Airlines wings. For this, I was grateful. Usually, they only hand those out to small children. This was definitely worth the $100.

When we reached our Hotel in Whistler (after I almost killed us both when I fell asleep driving the curvy, under-construction, sea-to-sky highway in the middle of the night), there were signs everywhere declaring that bicycles were not allowed in the hotel rooms. As I always do when in Whistler, I ignored these signs and took my bike to my room every day after I was done riding.

On the second day, the concierge caught up to me at the elevator and asked if he could check my bike. I said no. He told me that the hotel did not allow bikes in the rooms, so he really would appreciate it if I would check it. Then he said, “or I could look the other way.”

“Look the other way,” I replied.

The next day, I was in the elevator with the bike searching for my room card. In this particular fancy hotel, you needed your room card to make the elevator work. In the time it took me to find my card a rather aggressive concierge stopped the elevator doors from closing and said, “excuse me, but you’ll need to check the bike down here. Bikes are not allowed in the rooms.”

I stared at him for a moment, looked at his name tag that read ‘Dick,’ and then said, “so, you’re going to drag me off the elevator?”

“If I must,” he replied. This was quite odd because as a rule, I have found everyone in Whistler to be incredibly nice and friendly. I glared at him and got off of the elevator with my bike. I went over to the concierge desk with my bike. He put a tag on the bike and handed me the torn off claim check.

“I assume that you have insurance in case anything happens to the bike,” I stated.

“Oh, come on. We don’t need to go there,” he remarked in a most rude manner.

I said, “It’s an expensive bike.”

“It will be locked up. It’s fine.”

I gave him my most intensely dissatisfied angry look and walked away mumbling something about the expensive hotel with assholes working in it.

The next morning I returned to retrieve my bike for my last day of riding and Dick was minding the counter with a colleague. His colleague took my tag and Dick turned abruptly, obviously a bit embarrassed, and told his colleague that he would retrieve it. Dick brought the bike out and his colleague tried to hand me the tag. I looked at him.

“Do I need that?”

“I assume you’ll be checking it back in later,” he said in a pleasant British accent.

“Actually,” I said, “I’m leaving in the morning so I will want to bring my bike up to the room to break it down and pack it up. You’re not going to give me a problem about that, are you?”

Dick jumped in, “No, of course not. That’s perfectly reasonable if you’re packing it up to have it in your room. And, I do apologize that I was short with you yesterday. You must appreciate that we can’t have bikes in the rooms – they drag in dirt and make trouble for the cleaning personnel.” (No more trouble than I do, I thought, since I am at least as dirty as my bike when I return, but thought better of saying it out loud).

“Well, you should understand that this is a very expensive piece of equipment and I like to know where it is,” I said.

“Oh, sure, yeah.” He was falling all over himself to be nice. But it did not matter to me one bit. I can’t wait to write my letter to the hotel.

So, after all of that, what’s my point, you may be wondering. It is this: why is there so much discrimination against bikes? I am especially shocked in Whistler that the hotels would be so reluctant to allow people to have their bikes in their rooms. It is a bike park in the summer. Sure, there are other summer activities in Whistler: snowboarding on the glacier; the zipline; golfing; hiking; but by far the biggest and best activity that brings so many folks to Whistler in the summer is the ‘greatest downhill mountain bike park in the world.’ That means that bikes bring in revenue. Do they take away skis and snowboards in the winter? Do they take away the golf clubs from those who are silly enough to go to Whistler to play golf?

Nope.

When I found myself at the awards banquet yesterday, each "exceptional woman" was introduced and I was astounded and awed by the company in which I found myself. It could not have been more moving or overwhelming to hear the stories of the honorees. I found it difficult to keep myself together and really just wanted to openly bawl, not just cry a bit, but bawl right out loud. It was especially difficult to hear the cancer stories (Peg Feodoroff, who came up with clothing to replace the horrible jonnies for cancer patients; in addition to being a survivor, she lost her sister to cancer) and the stories of humanity (Ophelia Dahl who helped found Partners in Health to get basic modern medical services to third world countries; Brecken Chinn Schwartz who came upon a little girl covered in third degree burns in China and brought her to the US for medical help). It was overwhelming and it also fired the synapses that connect to the experiences I had as a cancer patient, which I work so hard to keep buried.

This morning, I woke up and, with a little help from Milissa, had a good cry. I was having visceral memories of the time I spent as a cancer patient, helpless and confined and fearing the degeneration that would happen before my death. I cannot tolerate these feelings or these memories, so I keep them buried as much as possible. But, being at that banquet really brought them to the surface and today I could not longer keep them down.

Milissa encouraged me to go for a bike ride. Embracing my physical self helps and mountain biking is the way that I do this. I went to the Fells and started off on a ride. I was buried deep in my own thoughts and pedaling. I came upon a couple who were making their way up a rocky incline. The male was behind the female and he saw me and got off the trail. I passed him and then caught up to the woman. She was having a lot of trouble and I did not want to disturb her concentration, so I slowed down, pedaling slowly behind her. I thought about shouting an "on your left" and going around, but this seemed like a bad idea as she was not able to keep her bike on any sort of line. So, I was content to pedal slowly behind her. Shortly, she skidded and stopped, catching herself with her right foot. I gently passed on the left and kept going, thinking nothing of it.

About five minutes later, I was riding on a fire road when someone pedaled up quickly beside me and shouted, "hey."

He seemed to try to ride his bike in front of mine to stop me. I stopped. He immediately began shouting at me. He was the guy from the couple I passed on the rocky incline.

"What is wrong with you? Do you even know what this is about? Do you know the rules? That was my girlfriend that you passed back there and you didn't even apologize. You just kept right on going. You almost gave her a heart attack. Why didn't you say anything? What is wrong with you?"

He ranted and raved and I simply looked at him. Finally he stopped and asked, "Are you even going to say anything?"

"In my experience, there are usually at least two sides to every story," I replied calmly.

"Oh, yeah, well, what's your side?"

"I was pedaling slowly behind your girlfriend, she skidded and stopped and I pedaled around her."

"That's not right. Don't you know anything about this sport? If you rear-end someone on the road, do you just keep going?"

I noticed that he was riding a rental bike. "I didn't rear-end her."

"She's just learning. You owe her an apology. How do you expect her to learn if you act like that? You have two choices here. You can wait here, probably she'll be along in about ten minutes, and then you can apologize, or you can just keep on riding."

I moved my bike to go around him and said, "I will keep going."

He tried to block me and shouted more, "You owe her an apology. This isn't how you're supposed to act."

"I did not realize that you were the Mountain Bike Morality Police," I said, "but I still think I'll keep going."

I moved my bicycle and pedaled away. He shouted, "You Stupid Fucking Dyke."

I slowed down and turned and said, "Stupid fucking dyke, huh? That's awesome. You are truly amazing."

I rode away. He shouted something else that I could not hear. I spent the rest of my ride thinking about this and wondering why he was so indignant. I am respectful of other cyclists on the trail. I passed three other guys today who were having mechanical problems and, each time, I stopped and offered help.

I did consider saying something to the guy's girlfriend (not an apology, but just a heads up), but I didn't want to startle her. Instead, I pedaled slowly behind her until I had an opportunity to pass. Why would that require an apology? Why was he so angry? And, why does any of this make me a "Stupid Fucking Dyke." What does that have to do with anything? Is it because I am a better cyclist than he? Was that what he was angry about? Was his girlfriend really indignant? Did she insist that he chase me down and demand an apology? And, what would I be apologizing for? Riding around her? Last time I checked, the rules of the trail require slower riders to move to the right so that faster riders can go around. And, really, most trail etiquette has to do with respect for other users (hikers, equestrians. . .) and the trails, not with offering apologies for being a better rider than those you pass. In any event, I meant no harm to this woman or her chivalrous boyfriend.

Now I am considering whether I am an Exceptional Woman or a Stupid Fucking Dyke. Not really. I just think this whole thing is a bit ironic.

I followed the dirt road to a singletrack trail that marks a border between a grassy open area on the right and a wooded, fenced area on the left. There is a trail and hole through the fence that leads back into the woods near the reservoir. As I approached this intersection, a dog came charging toward me, barking with all it's energy, almost frothing at the mouth. I stopped my bike to attempt to calm the dog. I heard a man yelling at me from several hundred feet away; he is obviously the dog's owner.

"Sir, just keep moving. He won't bite, sir. Just keep going, sir. Sir! Keep moving. He won't bite you."

Suddenly, my wonderful and peaceful ride is radically altered and I was angry. First of all, I thought, "Don't tell me what to do," and second, I thought, "Stop calling me sir." But then I wondered, would I prefer the oppositional term to 'sir' -- 'ma'am'? No.

"Sir, please just keep moving."

I was jolted out of my reverie, still feeling extremely angry. I started pedaling. Not only did he call me 'sir,' he kept repeating it needlessly, after every phrase he spoke.

"That's it, sir, just keep moving. He won't bite you, sir."

The dog continued to bark at me in the most ferocious manner and I started pedaling, following orders and becoming more angry with every word that came out of the man's mouth. I reached the intersection and turned into the wooded area.

"That's great, sir. Yeah, go in there, sir. He won't follow you in there, sir. Great, yeah, sir, just keep going."

Now I am livid and I have the uncontrollable urge to scream, "stop telling me what to do." But instead, I shout, "It's MA'AM you jackass!" as if I really want to be called ma'am and then I added, "Get a leash!"

The man started shouting an apology and then I think he responded to the leash comment, but I could no longer make out his words. I pedaled hard to escape him and the anger I felt. I stopped finally and started to decompress. And, I started thinking about the words Sir and Ma'am. Who does want to be called by these words? They are so grossly inappropriate in most situations. Then, I wondered if people should be held responsible for keeping up with cultural trends, changes and appropriate terms. When I was young, say into my twenties, I think these were appropriate words for addressing those elder than oneself. However, since I am now often in that category (the elder), they seem like ridiculous terms. I think I prefer the term 'dude,' which I think has become gender neutral, although not entirely desirable as a generic term for fellow human. But, this guy would not even know what gender neutral(actually, I do not think that I have ever used the term 'gender neutral' in a serious way and I am probably not now) means as he could not even perceive that the female gender might be riding a bike in the woods. I do not think I look like a man, although I do have short hair and I often wear men's clothing. This is what I looked like that day:



Do I look like a man? Or, was it simply that I was mountain biking and only men can do that? Or, is it assumed that the male term is preferred -- better to call a woman a man than a man a woman? I dunno. It messed up part of my ride. That dude sucks. Maybe he did not know how to address a dyke.

In addition to crashing because my Camelback got caught on a tree branch, I also accomplished some sections of the trail that I have previously not been able to do. When I was riding out at the end of the ride, I was feeling pretty cocky.

"I am a badass," I said to myself. In fact, there is photographic proof by Thomas Gustainis to prove that I am a badass:

I am thinking that I am hot shit and I hit the little hill that marks the end of the ride. Almost at the top, my front wheel hits a rock and turns and I start to go down. I pushed myself away from the bike and somehow managed to land on my left side and my fist went straight into my rib, knocking the wind out of me and causing a great deal of pain. The best part, and by best I mean worst (I am employing sarcasm here), is that I just purchased new Dainese chest/back armor:

I purchased this armor specifically to protect my chest and ribs as bruising my sternum was one of the most painful injuries that I have experienced. Despite my new armor, I managed to slam my rib with my fist and knock the wind out of my lungs. Damn that hurts.

I had a hard time getting comfortable that evening and a difficult time sleeping. When I woke up the next morning, unable to move without so much pain that I wanted to cry, I knew I had to go to the doctor. From prior experience with the sternum injury, I knew that the biggest problem with this injury is not whether it is bruised or broken, but mitigating the pain to allow for deep breathing. Because it hurts to breath, one tends to breath more shallowly, which in turn can cause lung issues including pneumonia. I called my doctor and she saw me that morning. Unfortunately, I had a horrible experience with my time at the hospital. My physician is part of the Bullfinch Group at Massachusetts General Hospital. Excellent health care, but I always get a bit tense and anxious when facing any medical interaction.

My physician saw me almost right on time. I like that. It makes me so angry when physicians make me wait far beyond my scheduled appointment to actually see me. My time is valuable and I am a real doctor. The event began with me attempting to remove my jacket for an exam. Because it was so painful, the physician helped and then just lifted my shirt to utilize her stethoscope. What was she listening for, I wondered. Would my rib speak to her? Can she hear whether or not a bone is broken? I guess not because she sent me down to have x-rays made of my chest.

Chest x-rays always freak me out because that was one of the preliminary things I had to have done before my cancer surgeries. They want to make sure that the cancer has not spread into the chest cavity before performing surgery. I suppose this may be because compromised lungs could be problematic when receiving anesthesia. Thus, chest x-rays always remind me of cancer. Actually, most medical interactions remind me of cancer.

Before I left to have the chest x-ray made, the doctor explained to me that "once you get the x-ray, come right back up here and I will see you right away to discuss the results."

I went down to the second floor where x-rays are made and followed the directions that were given to me. I hate having chest x-rays. Do I have any cancer in my chest cavity?

I went back upstairs to the fifth floor and checked back in with the receptionist. She told me to have a seat and that the doctor would be right with me. I sat down and proceeded to wait for over forty-five minutes. After about ten minutes, I began to become anxious and frightened. "She said she'd see me right away," I thought. I immediately went to the forbidden zone of what might be taking so much time. I convinced myself much too easily that there was a problem and that she was consulting with another physician about it. What might be the problem, I wonder momentarily before determining that they had found cancer on the x-ray. I remembered that my oncologist told me that in some women, there is a connection between uterine cancer and breast cancer. They found something in my breast. I just knew it and became convinced that they were consulting about what to do and how to tell me. I spent the rest of my wait time trying to determine how I would handle this. I thought, "well, I am just going to be one of those people (many of whom are my colleagues and friends from my cancer support group at the Wellness Community and most of whom have since passed away from the cancer) who lives out my time battling cancer. I try to imagine how I might deal with this; what will I do? How can I possibly tell people that I have cancer again? This fantasy went far too deep and I found myself planning stoicism, fighting the urge to run out of the waiting room and practicing myself as a cancer patient again. I completely lost it and was so far inside my head that I nearly jumped out of my skin when the nurse called me back.

I went with the nurse back to the examination room. My doctor passed by on her way to finish up with another patient, smiled at me and said, "I'll be right with you."

Immediately I realized how over the top I was with fear. I really have been thinking that I am much better with my cancer anxiety, but this was almost equivalent to my experiences between the two surgeries when everything was so uncertain (including my prognosis). The doctor came in and reported that she could not see a fracture, but that my rib was badly bruised. She wrote me a prescription for painkillers and said she was going to have the radiologist read the x-ray just to be sure. I thanked her and I left. I lost the rest of the day. I was a mess, I could not focus and I was exhausted from the anxiety. This is what happens when I have to go to my oncologist for my cancer checks.

I was looking at my iPhone calendar on Wednesday in order to schedule a shoot and realized that my appointment with my oncologist is this month. I wonder if I will ever be done with this or if it will always be there in my head, awaiting an opportunity to come to the front and rob me of days in my life. I guess the good news is that after this oncology appointment, I only have one more in six months and then I switch to yearly checks. I will have made it to the five year mark. That's something.

On Friday, November 23, 2007, I went with Jared to try out "Bruce & Toms Excellent Adventure" somewhere in Gloucester. Cool place, but much of it way beyond my skill level. Huge, rickety (and a few not so rickety) built up skinnies, drops, teeter todders, and jumps, not one of which I could do. I spent the much of my time sliding down dangerous rocks on my ass. There were no "opt out" trails. Anyway, Jared and I were riding, having a pretty good time, despite the treacherous built-up terrain. We rode up to the top of a large rock and came to the descent. The descent was about a 5 foot drop onto a short ledge (maybe 5 feet wide) and then a steep roller down the remaining 50 feet, which leveled out briefly on a pine needle, wet leaf covered flat area (this one, about 7 feet wide). At that point, you had to take a skinny (about 8" wide) that rolled out to a drop of about 15-20 feet and land either on a wooden transition ramp that followed or in the rock garden below.

We skidded down the first drop to the small ledge. Rolling the rock face seemed simple enough and I went first. Unfortunately, it was much steeper than it seemed and the rock was slippery. Slight modulation on the brakes caused me to skid, so I was trying not to brake, but still maintain enough control to stop at the second ledge. I certainly had no intention of taking that skinny/drop. I ended up going way to fast and at the end of the roller was an unexpected lip with about a foot drop. After dropping, for some reason my speed on the wet leaf/pine needle covered rock ledge sent me on a trajectory into a tree. I tried to steer away, but ended up slamming my bar into the tree, which in turn, slammed my fist into my sternum. I fell on the ground, unable to breath as the wind was knocked out of me. Jared was standing at the top yelling down to ask if I was all right. I could not talk because I had no breath, so I began waving my hands around wildly. He yelled, "did ya get the wind knocked out of you?" I gave him the big thumbs up sign. Shortly thereafter, I began breathing and got out of the way for Jared. Jared came down it with similar problems to mine and came within about 2 inches of hitting the same tree. Fortunately, he learned from my mistake. (Note to self: never be the first one to try something.)

My sternum hurt, as did my right shoulder and ribs. I could feel it when I breathed, but we kept riding. That evening, my sternum, shoulder and ribs became more sore. The next morning, I woke up and could barely raise myself out of bed. I was miserable and Milissa was becoming frustrated with me. We tried to run some errands, but I was in a lot of pain and dizzy because it was hard to breath. She wanted me to go get an x-ray, but I resisted. She finally scared me into it by talking about pneumonia and punctured lungs. I looked up sternum injuries on the information superhiway. The articles I found stated that "women with osteoporosis" have greater risk in injuring the sternum. Damn, that's me. I grudgingly went in to the Faulkner Hospital ER for an x-ray. After a lot of waiting around, the PA confirmed that I had not broken any ribs or my sternum, but had simply bruised them. Then, I got a speech from both the PA and the Nurse about breathing. Apparently, that is the danger with this type of injury: you begin to breath shallowly because it hurts and then you get pneumonia. The PA wrote me a prescription for some narcotics and sent me home.

Last Saturday, November 17, I also had an unfortunate encounter with a tree and the tree clearly won. Thomas, Jared, Christopher and I were riding at "Vietnam." We came upon a really nice drop. Bowers went right off it without a thought. The other boys both declined. I wanted to do it. So, I sat at the top for a bit, attempting to visualize the act (pedal, looking ahead, preload - lift, land). Unfortunately, I did not visualize what would happen after I landed. I finally went for it and executed the move quite beautifully, I must say, except for the part after I landed. When I was in the air, I became somewhat terrified by the height I was falling from; once I hit the ground I immediately grabbed the brakes and skidded on the wet leaves straight into a tree, head first. It was the side of my head, but I hit hard. I then rolled off the bike onto the ground and curled up in a fetal position. I think the gang began to laugh, but then when they saw me curled up, they became concerned. Or, at least, they acted concerned.

"Hey, you okay?"

They approached me, but I did not want anyone to touch me. Argh, that hurt! Anyway, I finally got up and Jared asked me if I wanted him to wipe the blood.

"Blood?" I said, "There's blood?"

"Yeah, you can't feel it?"

"No."

So, he wiped the side of my face. I sat on a rock for a bit and then I took out my iPhone. Jared made a picture of my face. I came back the next day (with a painful neck and stiff shoulders) and completed a post-mortem of my face and the site of the incident.

Running into trees is not good.

For even more mtb photographs, check out my .mac gallery.

I was riding over the weekend with my current riding pals, Thomas and Jared, and student, Christopher B. Recently, Thomas, Jared and I all pitched in for a set of walkie-talkies so that we could reach one another easily while out on the trails. We also had a bit of child-like giddiness over the thought of carrying walkie-talkies and using terms like "10-4" and "Over" and "Come Back." However, the primary reason for this purchase, I am somewhat embarassed to say, was so that the "boys" could keep in contact with me as I fell behind or just fell. They tend to ride faster than I do and it pisses me off. But, I also hate it when they stop and wait for me because when I reach them, then we all stop. I like to keep riding with no stops, so I encourage them to keep moving and assure them that I will catch up. The walkie-talkie allows them to let me know if they've taken a turn on the trail so that I do not become hopelessly lost in the woods or hopelessly lost and injured. This is good as I do fall often and get lost often. After my last fall where I smacked my kneecap for the second time this season on a rock (it was not healed from the first time), I summoned Thomas and Jared back to where I was lying, bleeding in agony. The walkie-talkies worked well:

"Rider down. Death imminent. Over."

"We're on our way, Over."

Actually, though, after they reached me, they made fun of me and took pictures of the blood pouring down my leg, so maybe it was not so great. Thomas had bandages, though, so that was good.

Anyway, as I was riding along this weekend, falling behind of the group of boys, I started a dialogue in my head. I was chastising my weakness and inability to keep up. But, then I had a thought:

"I am a 40 plus woman riding with 22-, 30- and 32-year-old men/boys. AND, I had cancer, 2 abdominal surgeries and radiation treatment."

So, fuck it. I am tough.

Anyway, the birthday has been good thus far:

1. Milissa demanded that I return home by 6pm for some sort of "surprise" and I'm actually excited about that.
2. Nat Grether called me for my birthday.
3. My Niece and Nephew called me up to wish me happy birthday.
4. Kate made me a collage featuring Ms. Jennifer Hudson.
5. Kate got me "better than mom's chocolate cake" and she and several other colleagues sang the birthday song to me.
6. I went out to lunch with Thomas, Jared, Christopher M. and Molly.

Perhaps my dread of my birthday is diminishing or the bad omen that I attached to it post-cancer is relinquishing it's hold.

We were scheduled to fly out on Thursday, Aug 16, 2007. On Tuesday, I received an email from Jared: "wanna ride blue hills tonight?" Thomas, one of my photography professors, and I have been riding almost daily in the Blue Hills during the work week, so, yeah, I wanted to ride. I texted Thomas (wow, I never thought I would have the occasion to use text as a verb) and invited him to join.

I think it was definitely Thomas's fault that we were running a bit late. And, then I could not find the lot where we were supposed to meet Jared. This was the first time that I had ridden with Jared. Jared was once my student. Now, he is coming to teach for me at the college. By the time we got to the meeting place, it was after 6 p.m. Off we went on a fast, fun, somewhat rocky ride with several annoying climbs. I still maintain, although I know it is not exactly possible, that there is more climbing than downhill at Blue Hills. Anyway, it was getting dark and both Thomas and I had to be at our respective homes by 7:30 p.m. His wife and friends were awaiting his arrival to cook them dinner; I had arranged for a co-worker to meet me at my house as she was going to house-sit during our absence.

We were running late still. I rolled over a somewhat technical area of a rock garden and Thomas shouted from behind, "hey, nice." (or something like that)

I turned back to nod proudly, hit a rock unexpectedly and lost control over the bike. As I toppled over, I put my right foot down to catch myself. Instead of hitting solid ground with that foot and stopping my fall, I caught the edge of a large rock with the inside of my right foot. This caused my foot to twist on the toe to heel axis all the way to the right. I heard a popping sound. Then I fell hard. I yowled. Thomas came upon me quickly to inquire as to my well-being. I think he may have been surprised that I was actually swearing with real live pain. I was intermittently yowling and laughing at the absurdity.

Thomas sat down beside me and began snapping various size twigs to inquire as to whether it sounded like the popping noise I had heard. He may have been mocking me.

We got out of the woods (me limping and rolling on the bike when possible) finally. We were all late. Thomas felt my accident would mitigate his tardiness. I knew it would exacerbate mine. Milissa was mad at me. She made me go to the ER, even though she already diagnosed it as ligament damage. They did the requisite x-rays and after about ten hours of waiting, I was informed that there are no broken bones, but that I had torn ligaments. They called in the crutches guy to "fit me" for crutches (I guess it's some kind of science) and the doctor, with the help of the nurse, put me in an air cast. Bleh.

Prior to this incident, Milissa had been complaining that someone who did not know me might think that I was being abused given the number and varying ages of all the bruises on my body. I have been crashing a lot lately on my bike. We laughed about it. Then, we get to the ER for the ankle and I am immediately asked if I am "safe." Yeah, just not from myself. Anyway, when we were in the treatment room, this older, gray-haired hospital worker started making her way to my room. You know the type: pink polyester pants and cardigan sweater with the hair-salon, hairspray curly head of hair, thick glasses and a kind face. Milissa and I did not even need to say anything to each other; we both felt deep panic as we thought she was the social worker on her way over to assess our perceived abusive relationship. We both sighed relief when she began helping the doctor with the air cast. We got out of the ER around midnight.

We had to put off our flight for one day.

I was all set to bring my bad boy to California for fun biking on the beach. Instead, I had to be wheel-chaired through the security checkpoint at the airport and subjected to a personal body search since I did not go through the metal detector. Now I can only watch the beautiful ocean and whine about my lack of mobility. Milissa's dad did offer me the use of his cane that is really a cleverly disguised sword. Good times.

I flew to Montana on Thursday, June 7th. I had agreed to show a rough cut of my film, "Commit to the Line" as part of the Helena Dirt Divas Clinic. It was the first time I have shown my film to anyone outside my own inner group -- people who know me. I was nervous, but not only was I nervous about showing the film, I had all kinds of additional anxiety prior to leaving on Thursday. The short list : I was directing the sponsor roll-ins and the Kathleen Turner Retrospective for the Provincetown Film Festival. The best part is that we did not get to interview Ms. Turner until Tuesday, May 29th and we need to deliver the piece by Monday, June 11th (the day that I return from this Montana trip).

So, of course, I am going crazy trying to supervise the edit on KT and do some initial finish work on my film for the screening. The audio has not been mixed or normalized, there is no sound track, we have not color corrected; I was somewhat lamely trying to normalize the audio and put a temp track on it before buring a DVD.

I stayed up all night on Tuesday, working on trying to get the levels right on the audio, and then went to work for an unbearable amount of time on Wednesday. Of course, there was an important lunch meeting that I could not miss on Wednesday. I glued my eyelids open and made it through lunch. Then, I took off for my studio to get to work on adding the temp music track. I am not entirely sure why this took me all night, but it did. Once I finished burning three copies of the DVD (just in case) at about 4:30am, I jetted home and tried not to fall asleep on the floor as I packed my suitcase to catch my 8am flight to Bozeman, MT.

This may be surprising, but flying, and traveling in general, is a source of anxiety for me. My way of mitigating this discomfort is to try to control as much of the process as possible. I have claustrophobia and so I absolutely must sit in an aisle seat on an airplane. I know, where am I going to go? It is not rational, it just is. Northwest Airlines has this new way of squeezing money out of passengers by offering "preferred" seating 24 hours before the flight leaves for a nominal fee ($15-20). "Preferred" means aisle, exit row and rows with more legroom. Of course, I am always on the website 24 hours ahead to get the best seats. On the first leg of my Montana trip, I purchased "preferred" seat 19D -- close to the front of the plane (another anxiety mitigator), an aisle seat with a bit more legroom.

I arrived at the airport about an hour before the flight was scheduled to leave and managed to stay awake until the boarding call was announced. I got on the plane and was incredibly relieved to sit in my aisle seat with extra leg room. There was a man seated in the window seat. I made a silent plea that no one be seated in the middle seat. I just wanted to sleep. Ah, but alas, it was not to be; instead two parents with about 25 kids come bouncing down the aisle. I see the father eyeing the middle seat of my row; my thoughts of rest and quiet were shattered. And, then, the ultimate confrontation: "excuse me ma'am, are you traveling alone?"

Argh. So what if I am. "Yes," I responded.

"Would you mind trading this aisle seat for another aisle seat so that we (meaning he and his son) can sit together?" He asked in his best, I am more important than you because I have a child and any reasonable, responsible, caring human being would do this, voice.

I was half asleep and totally irritated. Why did they not plan accordingly? They have a huge family and, of course, they would want to sit together, but they can spend their time on the internet finding appropriate seats just as easily as I. Ever the wimp, however, I responded, "uhhh, where's the seat." He says something like row 100. Well, there's my out. "That's too far back for me."

But, it does not end there. The woman in the aisle seat in front of me stands up and looks at me disgustedly, "would you move to this seat? I'll move to the back."

I stand up briefly and start to concede, but then I look at her seat, notice the smaller amount of leg room and become absolutely infuriated. "You know what," I said, "I paid extra for this seat because it has more leg room. I'm not moving."

The woman looked at me as if I were a monster. A gasp arose from the entire airplane. A whisper cumulated in the air "can you believe the mean lady would not change seats so that family could sit together; I just can't believe that."

I felt bad for a while, then mad, then bad, then I became unconscious and when I regained consciousness, the plane was landing and the mom was sitting beside me. When I conked out, the little boy was in the seat. I wondered how much climbing over me had occured. And, then I started worrying about the mean looks that people were going to give me as I deplaned. I kept my eyes down. I am the mean lady who really wishes to avoid confrontation with strangers.

One last thing : I know that I was perceived as the mean lady, but is it not odd or maybe even ironic that the father first whispered to his son (loud enough for me to hear), "we can ask that man if he will change seats." The "man" to which they were referring was seated in the window seat in my row. But, then dad says, "or we could ask that lady." And, they proceeded with plan B. Why is it easier to ask a woman, er Lady, to inconvenience herself? Why not ask the man? They never did. Instead, I just got to be the mean lady who would not change her seat so that this poor family could sit together.

Four years ago today, I was diagnosed with cancer.

On Friday as I was driving home from work, I realized that I needed to find a new housecleaner. Mis and I recently finished MAPP training at The Home and a couple that was in the training with us gave me the name of their cleaners and highly recommended them. So, as I was driving, I was scrolling through my mobile phone directory trying to locate the name and number of this cleaning service. Of course, I could not remember the name and so I had to go through every one of my contacts.

I came to the name, "Mary P," and my heart skipped a beat and I felt tears come to my eyes. Mary was one of my favorite people in the support group that I attended at the Wellness Community. She died at the end of last year on Thursday, December 16, 2006. Her death was an incredible shock to me as the last time I had seen her, she looked great. She was such an incredible, empathic, energetic, positive presence and to know that she is no longer in the world is painful and sad. She was enormously generous to me when I first joined the group. Mary continued to be a friend long after I left the group, although I will admit that it was difficult for me to see people from the group after I left as it left me riddled with guilt and anxiety. Now I have guilt about not making more of an effort to see her in the last year. I will never have another opportunity to talk with her. I kept putting off the invitation to have dinner with her again and now it will never happen. I could not bring myself to delete her contact information on my mobile phone. Somehow this seemed wrong, like I would be deleting her. For a moment, I even considered calling the number. I do not know why -- maybe I hoped she might answer, but, no, I think I just hate feeling such a huge sense of loss. The number stays and so does her email address right along with the others from the group who have gone: K.C., Susan, Florence, Jim.

I hate cancer. I hate what it took from me and what it continues to take from me. I have not emerged triumphant, but instead am anxious, uncomfortable, superstitious and downright terrified. It never stops, but I do successfully avoid it sometimes. I remember right after I finished treatment, I kept feeling like I wanted me back -- I wanted to be myself again. Slowly, I began to realize that the me that existed prior to the diagnosis was gone forever. One short telephone call that ripped apart my comfortable existence and I can never go back to the way it was before I received that telephone call from my physician: "You have cancer."

Milissa's father is coming to Boston to see a specialist at MGH. He has prostate cancer. It has been very difficult for me to think about this -- my diagnosis anniversary is coming up (good old April Fool's Day) and I always get anxious around this time anyway. Now, Jim has cancer and he is scared and that makes me so sad. He has been incredibly supportive of me -- through my treatment and beyond, my filmmaking projects and artmaking in general. He has been wonderful to me. I do not want him to have cancer. I do not want anyone to have cancer.

There is a Lance Armstrong commercial for LiveStrong where Lance is looking directly into the camera and saying, "Remember me, Cancer?" He goes on to speak in a very defiant way to cancer and every time I see this commercial, my anxiety skyrockets. I think to myself, "No, Lance, don't do it -- don't tempt cancer to come back and kick your ass." Crazy, I know. But I have some weird superstitious feelings about tempting fate and I think Lance should be quiet and hope that Cancer forgets about him. He should not confront Cancer like that on national television. He is asking for trouble.

I found a housecleaner who did a wonderful job on Sunday. I went to Target while she was cleaning, mostly to mitigate my unbearable anxiety, but with the excuse that we needed various items for the house. Mis had to remind me that her folks were not coming to town to investigate the house or assess our cleaning abilities, decorating abilities or anything else; they are coming to see a specialist and have us there for support. I was a bit off and had a powerful drive to acquire furniture, towels, sheets, throw rugs and other items for the house to make it more like the kind of house my mother keeps. Thankfully, Milissa is rational when I am not, which is a bit ironic as she has more reason to feel anxious about this than I. Or, maybe not.

I hate cancer. I hate it so damn much.

I had a party while they were out of town--she knew. I went to the drive-in movies (which I was forbidden to attend even though that was the only potential activity for teens in Bozeman, MT aside from "cruising" Main Street)--she knew. I snuck out my window to go to a midnight movie with my boyfriend (yes, I had boyfriends) and she was waiting up for me when I attempted to sneak back into the house. I could go on, but I will not torture myself or you.

The point is, with the proper overbearing parenting skills, the surveillance camera in the car is superfluous.

I think the work-out/fitness piece has been the most difficult, however, because of how much the treatment fucked up my body. Prior to the discovery of the cancer cells taking over my uterus, I was in fantastic shape. I was at an ideal weight and excellent fitness level. My biggest complaint was what I thought was asthma. I had allergies and asthma as a kid, but had gotten allergy shots and thought that it was mostly behind me. I started having breathing trouble during my biking and so began using asthma inhalers to mitigate this. Turns out, I was having trouble breathing because I was anemic from the cancer.

My diagnosis anniversary is coming up -- April 1 (ahh the irony). It will be four years from the diagnosis. It is time for me to come to terms with my new body. I have been saying that for quite some time. But, I feel like I am slowly, steadily taking action. I am back at the gym; I have been taking pilates for over a year. I just need to lose the excess weight. I was going to publicly flog myself by publishing my current weight and my pre-cancer treatment weight, but I have changed my mind. Oh. . .wait, I think it is changing again. . .

Ahhh, what the heck -- I am carrying excess weight in the amount of (drum roll please) thirty (30) pounds. Eck.