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So on Sept 13, Ginnie was diagnosed with breast cancer. For now. Here is where we'll keep you in the loop on what’s happening as cancer gets its sneaky little ass kicked. read more

Latest journal entry

19.65 miles. One hand.

To continue my marathon analogy, I am coming up on the 20 mile mark. 

I can see the Wall, which I have always had mixed feelings about.

That's when your body starts to feel it. But that's when my brain always gets

that first sweet whiff of the barn.

And it was at this point on my last marathon where I was joined by the elegant

and vivacious Paula Goodmanson. We had a prearranged plan.

"Meet me just before the Franklin Bridge. And don't let me walk." 

You have to be careful what you tell this woman, because she does it. 

So down River Rd and all the way up Summit, there was a hand,

ever so lightly, on the small of my back. And whenever I started to lose my stride,

I'd get a little shove and a quiet "run". 

This is an amazing thing for a friend to do. And within a mile, each little shove

was being answered with increasing strings of profanity. But that hand didn't leave my back

til we split at the hurricane fencing, just past the Cathedral.

When all that was left was a downhill cruise to the finish line. 

We met back up right after the finish shoot, and I promptly said,

"Thank you. And I think I owe you an apology"

 

"Yeah, we're good" she replied. "That's what I am here for."

 

I think about that almost every day, as I make my way through this boobathon. 

There has always been someone's hand on my back. Every text 

is a hand. Every call. Email. Boob painting. Pot roast. Ginger Red Pepper shots.

Jokes about fried nipples, with a lovely Aquaphor dipping sauce.

And a fresh pair of naughty socks for every silly sock Friday at radiation.

 

So. Many. Hands.

 

And while 19.65 miles of radiation has fried my titter pretty damn good, 

you all have made sure I don't lose my stride.   

 

And it's quite possible I owe Molly and Shorty a couple of apologies.

It would seem a sore boob, which seems to get worse right before bed,

makes me get my bitch on.

 

So 15 down, 5 to go.

(I can count the remaining treatments on one hand!)

 

And as the Wall always gives me a  boost, so did today.

Planning the first post-radiation cocktails with my zap sisters Lynda and Cinda.

Being called Ginda by the techs who love dirty jokes and dare me to come to treatment topless.

And getting this red hot sore boob wrapped in medicated gauze.

Holy cats. I wanted to kiss the nurse.

Instead I told her, "may the boob fairies rain goodness on you today."

And then my soft spoken PT gently massaged my pit and arm for almost an hour.

 

Science Lesson of the Day:

Turns out lymph vessels get a little bitchy with radiation too. It's called cording. 

Which is a pretty accurate name, as there is a hard chord going from my pit down

through my forearm. Might be muscles in the lymph vessel tightening. Might be

lymph fluid hardening. Whatever it is, it hurts like hell.

And my weekly massage and old lady arm stretches make the vessel be a little nicer. 

 

So 5 treatments to go. 2 lakes of running. 

I can smell the barn.

And still, so damn much to be grateful for. 

When it comes to toasts on Thanksgiving, 

I will put Tyrion Lannister to shame. 

(I am on the final season of Game of Thrones, if you're keeping track)

 

And while I will be thankful for good health thanks to science and amazing doctors and nurses and techs,

I will be thankful for all of you. Old friends, and new. For all the unique ways you put your hands on my back. 

And know this, if you ever need me to run you in on any race 5k or ultra* – I'm your girl.

 

Love, Ginnie

 

PS Fuck Cancer

 

*I am speaking metaphorically here, as currently having me actually run you in on a race would be as effective as me being your fashion advisor. Although, if you have an affinity for cargo pants, there I can help you. 

 

 

 

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