Stand Up To Cancer

"Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me, for when I am weak, then I am strong." 2 Corinthians 12: 9-10

Framed verse given to my mother several years ago, found in the basement of my childhood home in Inverness, IL last December, two months prior to her death. Frame reads: Claudia--Submission to God

Three months have elapsed since I lost my mother, Claudia Fecarotta, 55 years young, mother of two, sister of ten, loving wife to my father, Thomas, Jr., friend to hundreds, and as close to a mother-in-law as one could get to Angela LaMonica, my fiancee. The original goal was to get her to our wedding (this May--5/22) when she started chemotherapy for lung cancer last fall. Then the goal was adjusted to get her to spring, when just three months into treatment the cancer had spread to her bones. Neither goal was realized.

She walked into her kitchen on a sunny, late-summer day last August, and complained of discomfort in her chest. I was visiting that weekend. The discomfort was more of a nuisance to her--she thought maybe she had worked too hard in her garden or had an allergic reaction. It's a memory that's inexhaustible now. Many are from the last eight months.

When she was diagnosed with Stage IIIa non-small cell lung cancer at Loyola University (Cardinal Bernadin Cancer Center), it was roughly one month after her original complaint of discomfort in her chest. I still wonder today if a more efficient screening test existed, maybe her life could have been saved--or at worst, prolonged.

She was told a few days after diagnosis last September that she was lucky to have any symptoms at all. The luck ended there for her--and us--as she passed away just five months later and left people behind who relied on her, savored her wit, rejoiced in her spirit, love her.

Our Stand

Now that she has been gone three months, it's now time to reflect on my mother's life, her disease, and the outlook for lung cancer. My mother quit smoking well over decade ago, and developed what her oncologist termed light-to-non-smoker's lung cancer.

Living in Chicago, I would commute to Loyola almost every day to see her smiling face greet me amidst all her pain. I remember the nights driving home in October during her aggressive chemotherapy and radiation regimen (a 40-day stint), watching the sun set over the Chicago skyline and the pink lights start to illuminate the Willis/Sears Tower. It was breast cancer awareness month, and people were greatly aware.

It made me cringe then, because breast cancer was (and still is) receiving more funding from the NCI and ACS than lung cancer, despite the alarming number of cases and deaths of lung cancer, including thousands of deaths among non-smokers and light smokers like my mother. But I look at the funding disparity in a different light now. You cannot fight a battle of perceptions. It's remarkable that we are saving the lives of those diagnosed with breast cancer, a feat only possible by advanced treatments and proper funding, funding that one day will be directed toward lung cancer.

In order to stand up to lung cancer, we must be made aware of the century-long deceit of the tobacco industry, an empire that has masked its entire history behind powerful people in charge of where our cancer research money is spent. We have made strides in smoking bans and anti-smoking campaigns for our children, but the CDC notes that smoking rates have remained virtually the same among adults.

With SU2C, we are pleased to find an organization that is transparent with how donated money is divided into dream teams, that opens doors to all cancer research avenues, and has the ultimate goal beating--and preventing--all types of cancer.

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My mother used chemotherapy drugs that were administered to patients as early as 1978. When these treatments failed, she began using Tarceva, a targeted lung cancer therapy that, if effectively matched with the patient's specific molecular traits, could reverse progress of the rapidly dividing cancer cells. Unfortunately for her, she did not have this specific mutation, and there were no other answers for her. All that was left was the culmination of weeks of aggressive chemotherapy, the inability to move her right arm from possible neurotoxicity, the inability to eat and hold down food, the inability to live the way she wanted to. When she no longer could fight, we brought her home near the end of winter. It was sunny for five straight days prior to her death, a first glimpse of spring and a real rarity in Chicago. She became increasingly unaware of her surroundings up until her final days, but one of my favorite memories is watching her wake up one morning, turn to me and say: "That's five."

As a family, we continue to champion my mom in many ways, who was greatly revered by us and, in my opinion, deserved a better chance at fighting her lung cancer. Below are notes from some of her nieces and nephews, who wrote of fond memories of their aunt:

I remember how Aunt Claudia always asked how I was doing. She always cared greatly about how people were feeling. Aunt Claudia always made everyone feel loved. -Paul

I remember her as a genuinely kind person. She was an aunt I enjoyed talking with, an aunt I liked to see. She always gave me a hug and asked how I was doing, and she really did want to know the answer. She threw really great parties. She was never, ever in your face. Aunt Claudia was a sweet, caring person, and I will miss her. She was an aunt I wish I could have seen more often
-Claudia

--Tom Fecarotta

Tom and Angie have started an SU2C Team, "Not In Vain," in Claudia's memory. You can join their team here, or start an SU2C Team of your own here.

Posted on May 7, 2010 1:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

My mother Laura is strong and accomplished and admired and loved by the people around her--by me, first and foremost. So many things about her are inspiring that it is assumed she is immune to emotional frailty. Hardly anyone notices that she has plenty of insecurities that she is often afraid, that she can even, on occasion, luxuriate in fear.

It's not noticeable to most people, which is just as well, but of course most people are not me. Which is to say that most people are not Laura's daughter. It's different for me, because I know. I can see: She is quietly frantic and defeated just before she gets up to speak in public. She absolutely knows that a project at work is facing certain failure. She worries often that her cancer will not stay contained.

My mother is not fearless--she's something much more important and much more inspiring: My mother is vibrantly relentless. She uses her fear, not to close off, but to open herself up further to the world. To inspire people when she's speaking in public, to approach every problem at work with a solution and the attitude that no problem (however great) is unsolvable, to overcome the feeling of threat to her sense of self, to her life itself by tackling her own cancer with the same 'can do' attitude. She embraces the fears that come with any cancer diagnosis by turning the power of fear against its source. As we all joked when she was first diagnosed, "Cancer f***ed with the wrong person."

Read the rest of Julia Barry's blog at the Huffington Post.

Posted on May 7, 2010 4:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My mother, Margot, was my best friend and my greatest role model. I lost her over 20 years ago to ovarian cancer. For 18 months, I watched her struggle to try and defeat this horrible disease. I watched the pain, the false hopes, the humiliation - and I watched as the cancer ate away at her body. My mother's will to live could not save her, and no amount of love or positive thinking could prevent her death.

At that time, I decided that the only way to make sense of this tragedy and the only way to honor my mother's memory was to help support scientific research that would hopefully eradicate this disease. Too many of our mothers are lost to cancer every day and I could not sit back and watch as others suffered in the same way as my mother had. And so I began my journey as a Cancer Advocate.

I hate cancer. I hate it like I've never hated anything in my life. It causes incredible pain and suffering and does not discriminate. It knows no class barriers; it is not conscious of race, religion or gender.

Read the rest of Sherry Lansing's blog at the Huffington Post.

Posted on May 7, 2010 4:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Just like on The Flintstones, when we married men get together, we often complain and groan about the mother-in-law, if for nothing else, than it's a classic and never-ending source of comedy. As mother-in-laws go, I did well. Mine loves sports, can dig into a rack of baby back ribs like nobody's business, and plays a mean game of racquetball. The only thing that scares me about Sandy Shuster is her strange fascination with procedural crime shows and murder mystery novels, which leaves me to suspect she is somehow secretly plotting my death. CSI obsession aside, my mother-in-law, is very kind and unassuming most of the time-- unless you forget to make her "cuppa tea" or dare interrupt her during an Eagles game, then she turns into Sam Jackson in Pulp Fiction and strikes down upon thee with "great vengeance and furious anger."

Most relationships with in-laws, no matter how great, probably wouldn't exist if not for marriage, and therefore, love and respect build over time (if at all). I realized I loved my mother-in-law, when she was diagnosed with stage three ovarian cancer. I should have felt love sooner-- but you don't know how much you love something or someone until you're faced with the prospect of losing it.

Read the rest of John Koch's blog at the Huffington Post.

Posted on May 7, 2010 4:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

When I'm asked what I remember most about my mother--I always find that my answer stays the same. She cared about people from the bottom of her heart and always put others first. Her selflessness was at the core of who she was. She was the kindest person I've ever met, with a genuine concern and regard for the well being of others.

When my mother was diagnosed with cancer, she didn't tell me or the rest of our family and friends. She played down her condition so as not to worry us, but in turn, we found out at a point in which there was nothing we could do for her. It was terminal and we were left helpless, hopeless and completely devastated at what was ahead--our future without her as she was being robbed from us by this thief of a disease. She was the cornerstone of our family, the person who meant the most to all of us, and soon she would no longer be there guiding and championing us as our lives unfolded. I wasn't sure how I was going to live in the world after she was gone. I was guilt-ridden over not having been able to do something more, over not having been able to save my mother.

Seeing my mother die, experiencing the stages of cancer that drained her of life, made me come face to face with my own mortality. And so I knew I needed to continue experiencing life for everything that it was and finding its beauty in my own children. My mother believed every day should be seized and life was provided to us to be lived to its fullest. She loved being able to say, "I did that," or "I've been there." She was never shy in experiencing new things.

Read the rest of Terrence Howard's blog at the Huffington Post.

Posted on May 7, 2010 4:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

I remember the day that I realized that my mother was not 28 years old. I was outside one spring night, running down the stone fence outside the Coughlin's house. The fence dead-ended in a pokey hedge that, when jumped correctly, landed you on the other side in a heap, two painful feet lower than you started. If you jumped it wrong, you got all tied up in the bush. It was a lose-lose situation, and I did it every time I could.

On one particularly creative go, after I hit the bush and the ground in the same jump, Mrs. Coughlin came out to patch me up. She was young and pretty, like my mom. I'm not sure how we got on the subject.

"How old is your mom?" she asked.
"28," I said.
"Really? And how old are your brothers and sisters?"
I thought for a second. "Jimmy is 17, and Carolyn is 24 and Linda is one year younger."
"So then your mom can't be 28, honey."

She smirked, I scowled. I know for sure that I scowled because I remember the new band-aid on my forehead got all pinched up. It was 1977, and I was probably the only kid in elementary school with a mom in her mid-40s. She'd been telling me she was 28 every year for as long as I could remember. Why? As the youngest of four, I instantly assumed I was being teased: how long could they sell the baby on this ruse? Or, maybe, some part of it was to ward off the neighborhood judges - of Mom and of me.

I will never know why my mom did the things she did because I never really knew her at all. It was not for lack of trying. My mother was a private island. Even if the rough sea between us allowed my little boat to sail over, the jagged coastline would crush any boats that tried to run ashore. My mother was full of pride, and full of fear.

Maybe something happens when you turn 40, or maybe it's when you first look down your belly at your own precious little babe. I imagine there is point for every woman where she starts to understand versus underestimate her mother and the choices she made. One unfathomable decision my mother made was to go through her final days alone. It was almost exactly Mother's Day 2007 when the brain tumor overcame her lucidity. Ever proud, she did not want us to see her so attenuated. It's a decision I understand even less now than I did in the days she made it, over and over again, as she refused my company while the brain cancer took its three months to kill her.

I will never know what it must have been like in 1968 for my mom to be 36 years old and pregnant. In 2010 as a 42-year-old single mom, I feel more passe than judged or brave. My daughter, Isabella, was born on November 4th, 2009. She too will never know my mother.

It's Mother's Day again, only now I can't help but dream that the love of this beautiful little baby would have finally broken the ice that surrounded Marion DiBiase for the 38 years that I knew her. There's so much I would like to say to my mom now, so much I'd like to ask her. We would laugh and swap baby stories. As if somehow the ground on the other side of the hedge would suddenly reveal itself to be two feet taller.

On this Mother's Day, let us remember all those moms we've lost and all those in the fight. One out of every three women is affected by cancer. Today we stand up in memory of all those moms we've lost, and all those moms who are in the fight against this vicious disease. Launch a star in memory of someone you love here.

--Jules DiBiase

Posted on May 7, 2010 4:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

My mother is a survivor. A beautiful and brave fighter.

When she was diagnosed with lymphoma over a decade ago, she decided she wasn't going to think about it too much, she was just going to do what she had to do to live her life well. She sought out - and found - the best medical care available for her disease, and in that search we found a brilliant physician and, it turns out, a lifelong friend in Dr. Lee Nadler at Dana-Farber in Boston.

My mother had chemotherapy when she was in her early 80s. She had radiation a few years later. Recently she has gone through two cycles of Rituxan. She is 87 years old. She never complains and she doesn't feel sorry for herself. She plays cards with her friends twice a week and is still so beautiful she turns heads when she walks into any room.

My mother inspires me each and every day. She inspired me to get together with some of my dearest and closest friends and to work with them to start Stand Up to Cancer. None of us will stop until we've seen real breakthroughs - for our mothers, our fathers, our sisters and brothers, our children and partners and most cherished friends.

Happy Mother's Day to my beautiful, extraordinary Mother Anita Simon, and to those of you who no longer have their Mothers around, know that mine always has extra hugs available. She is why I continue to Stand Up to Cancer.

On this Mother's Day, let us remember all those moms we've lost and all those in the fight. One out of every three women is affected by cancer. Today we stand up in memory of all those moms we've lost, and all those moms who are in the fight against this vicious disease. Launch a star in memory of someone you love here.

--Ellen Ziffren

Posted on May 7, 2010 4:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Seventeen years ago my mother was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma. My sister and I were with her. Ready to give support and to lend our ears, we accompanied our mother to a doctor's appointment. However, I could never have imagined what I was about to hear. "What the (bleep) is Multiple Myeloma?" we asked. Yet my mother knew. Still, she didn't cry, not one damn tear. She left the tears for the rest of the family to shed. The day she learned of her incurable cancer my mother remained strong and self-contained. She always had been and always would be. The doctor delivered the sentence to us that very day . . . six to nine months to live. However, Mom didn't give a damn what the doctors said. I believe she made a pact with herself that day. While she had not always been able to live her life the way she envisioned, she was now determined to end her life when and how she chose. My mom fought hard and lived three years fighting her cancer every day. In the end, she controlled her life and her death.

Seventeen years ago, you couldn't just Google Multiple Myeloma. So I went old-school and visited library after library, learning whatever I could. What I discovered was not encouraging. In fact, it sucked. Yet it never brought Mom down. During her three-year struggle, I would hear her talking to herself in the mirror many mornings. She would often repeat, "What am I going to do? I didn't choose this, but here I am. So I will put one foot in front of the other and I will walk out into the day and make the most of it." She absolutely did - every single day.

My mom was a remarkable woman. In the 1940s, she attended Ann Arbor Medical School while studying to become a doctor. However, when her mother died of cancer she left school to take care of her father and brother before he left to fight in WWll. While taking care of them, she went on to graduate from Purdue University with a degree in medical research. Despite not quite reaching her goal of becoming an MD, her accomplishments were great. She excelled in her medical research career until she chose to give it up in order to raise her five children.

In the end, my strong and fearless mother passed away from kidney failure that was attributed to her fight with cancer. She made the ultimate decision not to go through dialysis. Her medical knowledge allowed for her to make the decisions regarding when and how she wanted to go. She knew that by refusing that last and final stage of treatment she could have full control of her body and die peacefully. I brought her home on my 40th birthday and said my goodbyes to my strong and fearless mother, Maeta Rosengard.

It is in her memory that I stand up to cancer.

On this Mother's Day, let us remember all those moms we've lost and all those in the fight. One out of every three women is affected by cancer. Today we stand up in memory of all those moms we've lost, and all those moms who are in the fight against this vicious disease. Launch a star in memory of someone you love here.

--Sue Schwartz

Posted on May 7, 2010 4:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

On September 1, 2001, I picked my mother up at the airport in LA. Those were still the days before airport security, meeting at the gates, and bringing water on a plane from your house. When my mother walked off the plane, I said, "Mom, you really don't look good," and she replied in her inimitable style, "Well, thanks a lot!"

I said, "No, I mean, have you seen your doctor?" She went on about her doctor of 30 years and how each week as she complained about heaviness in her chest, he just kept telling her: "Your x-rays show you have COPD and if you have heaviness in the chest-- you just must be depressed. Here are some anti-depressants and another inhaler . . . go enjoy your daughter in LA."

The next morning she couldn't eat and felt very weak. I went to the computer to look up COPD and read the symptoms. They didn't seem right, so I called her doctor. He continued, "She is just depressed." I told him, "She is not eating. She is very weak. Who wouldn't be depressed?"

Frustrated, I connected with my doctor and his pulmonary specialist. On the day of her first appointment, she collapsed on the landing of the stairs to my house. I called the EMTs, although she pleaded with me to not have her go in an ambulance. But we needed help, so an ambulance it was.

To my doctor's amazement, that afternoon my mother had her first PET scan EVER!! This was a woman who never even had a cold. She never wanted to question the doctor she had for 30 years, as no one of her generation did.

On September 5, 2001, my doctor, whom I adore and had become very close to in the last years, called and told me he was coming to my home. I knew it wasn't good news. I asked him to prepare me. "Rusty, your mother has late stage lung cancer," he said. I couldn't say anything to her. She looked at me and knew it was not good news. The doctor arrived and said, "Ruth, you have a 10 centimeter lung tumor under the breast bone and it is incurable. You have about two months to live." There was silence, and he asked, "Do you have any questions?" She sighed and said, "Well, I really was expecting this news." And then my mother moved on. "I would like to tell you about my children." She began to speak about my brothers and me in the face of the worst news of her life.

My mother never went home. The four Sundays, not eight, that I was expecting her to live were filled with me getting her hair done, nails done, facials, and playing Dean Martin music. The family, children and grandchildren all flew in at different times. The Jewish holidays came and went. And then came September 11th, and we spent the next week together watching the shock around the world after two planes hit the World Trade Center. It seemed to me like everything was dying. Around the end of September, her decline was coming very fast.

As the hospice nurses worked around the clock, I sat with her and we talked and talked. She said, "You know something told me to come here to LA." It was then I told her I was planning to drop her off in Dallas and fly to New York on September 10th. If my mother hadn't been with me, I would have been in NY on Sept 11th, for an early morning appointment with my client, American Express. I always took the escalators up and the crosswalk across the Trade Center to the AMEX offices. As I held her in my arms, we both thought, what might have happened to me that fateful morning if she hadn't discovered her tumor? She was positive through it all. In our last conversation, she said that being with me through this was "an experience she would not forget, even in heaven."

The next three days, my mother fell silent as the lung cancer filled her body. We never spoke again. On October 5 at 12:35 AM, as soon as I walked out of the room, my mother passed. I guess she didn't want to go while I was in the room.

For years, September 5th had become a dreaded day for me . . . it was the day I found out my mother had weeks to live. When she died, I pledged to do everything possible to not let someone else die so quickly in the arms of their daughter or son. I would try to make a difference with this horrible disease that takes one person a minute in this country.

On September 5, 2008, my day of sadness became a day of joy. On that day, Stand Up To Cancer was born. Stand Up To Cancer's first television show was on all three networks and a group of my now best friends and I helped raise a lot of money for cancer research. And I do believe my mother had a hand in that!!! I feel her smiling down on me everyday.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I am happy. Thank you for giving me the gift to help make a difference and hopefully save someone else's mom from dying too soon.

--Rusty Robertson

Posted on May 7, 2010 4:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)