One Year Cancerversary

(photo: Larisa Forman)

Healing Breast Cancer (photo: Larisa Forman)

Dates are important to people with long-term illness: we celebrate them with a vengeance. We celebrate everything actually – because every moment we’re still here is a fucking party. Harrowing and victorious moments alike are crystalized into milestones, because each one reminds us that we’re not dead yet. Pain and pleasure are like sugar and salt – two sides of the same living and breathing, sensuous world.

We remember the first time we told someone we had cancer with the same clarity we remember the first time we told someone we’d been accepted into college. We remember the first time we made love as a cancer patient the same way we remember loosing our virginity. We remember the first chemotherapy infusion and the first time we threw up. We remember the first time our white blood cell count dropped dangerously low and we were declared neutropenic. But in addition to all the bumps in the road, we remember and celebrate all the hurdles we’ve cleared, and every single finish line we’ve crossed: first round of chemo completed: check. Second round of chemo completed: check. Tumor removed: check. Adjunctive chemotherapy completed: check. First anniversary of diagnosis: check. And then the big ones: The one year anniversary of the cancer’s removal, and the even bigger one: the second year anniversary of the cancer’s removal, and then the biggest one: the 5 year anniversary of the cancer’s removal.

Maybe it seems like a lot of hoopla. Is that really a word? Maybe it seems ceremonial overkill. But if you’re part of this tribe, if you’ve ever taken a trip to Cancerland, you know how important these annual markers are.

Today is the one year anniversary of my mastectomy; my cancer’s removal. That means that for one year I have been N.E.D. (No Evidence of Disease). If I can make it to July 25th, 2015 without a reoccurrence, I will be 80% likely to beat this damn disease entirely. 80%. That’s a pretty big deal. So I know we just made a big deal about how I finally, after 16 months and 31 infusions, I finished chemotherapy – but to me, this is an even bigger deal. I don’t need a party, or a big display of public support… I just need to share this moment with you – and with my fellow breast cancer sisters, and celebrate in my own little way.

This morning I went for a ride with our Nantucket cycling group. It was my 4th ride this week. And even though I know they slowed down significantly for me, I hung on through the whole ride, and averaged a personal best speed. That to me is the party. The ongoing celebration of life. The fight. The victory. The triumph.

This time last year I was on an operating table at Mass General Hospital. Dr. Michelle Specht was removing my tumor, the invasive cancer that covered 3/4th of my breast, and taking the other one off proactively. My plastic surgeon was about to surgically place two silicon implants into my chest. I hand needles in my arms and tubes draining out my sides.  I wasn’t sure when I woke up if I would still have my own nipples. We didn’t know how many of my lymph nodes would be cancerous. We didn’t really know how well I had respond to chemotherapy. We didn’t know that a year later, I would be riding with a pack of highly driven cyclists. We didn’t know that I would win.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

~Mary Oliver.

how to love a chair

Goddess pose

(photo: Larisa Forman)

16 months ago I invited you to join me on an adventure to CancerLand. Through my pieces on Rebelle Society and the more spontaneous posts here on my blog, I took you with me from the point of my initial diagnosis (terrifying), on a chemotherapy roller coaster ride (tenacious) and through my surgical recovery (triumphant). We’ve moved through the phases of my disease and healing process together as a tribe and I’ve tried not to pull any punches along the way. I’ve attempted to share my experience of cancer with you without embellishment, exaggeration or pretense. I’ve tried to be authentic: presenting my vulnerabilities when feeling weak, and my fortitude when feeling strong. Hopefully together we have demystified the big C at least a little, shed some light on chemotherapy, debunked mastectomy and embraced on the healing process.

I hope that through my writings, my FaceBook posts, and my Instagram pics, that you’ve seen just how resilient we humans are. Since I began attending the cancer support group at Palliative & Supportive Care of Nantucket, we have said good-bye to a number of extraordinary members. Each parting has been painful, scary and traumatic for those of us remaining. But my resolve, OUR resolve as a community to memorialize those who have departed by living the fullest lives we can live, and cherishing every single fucking moment, has grown with each grief-choked tear.

I can no better explain to you why some of us survive and others pass than you could reassure your 20-something year old daughter that after immense heartbreak, she will in time fall in love again. But here I am. And here we are. And I’m still writing. And you’re still reading. And we owe it to Jenny and Claudia, and my late husband Aaron, and everyone we’ve loved and lost to keep going.

We owe it to them to smile big, laugh lots, and love hard.

Now, as of July 16th, almost a year and a half after our disembarkation, I’ve finally  come home. I’m finished with treatment. The infusions are over. My time in the chemo chair is over. The trips to MGH are bi-annual and in just 9 days I will be able to say I am officially a year out from the removal of my tumor. 365 more days after that I will be 80% likely to side-step a reoccurrence.  Something will kill me eventually, but it won’t be cancer.

I’m sure I’ll write about my life as a cancer survivor in the months and years to come, but for today, I’d like to leave you with the following video. My heartfelt thanks to Lisa Frey for filming, and to all of you for watching.


(10 Practical Tips for the First 10 Days of Cancer)

(Making the Breast Decision)

(Life After the Knife)

{How to Talk to Someone with Cancer)

(Let’s be Friends)


not done yet

A Smooth Sea

I’ve long trusted the universe and for the better part of my adult life, have been able to put stock in something bigger than myself. I think that’s why my cancer diagnosis never crippled me.

I have faith.

I I have faith that everything happens for a reason, and that even life’s biggest obstacles are put in our war to teach us priceless lessons.

A lot of heavy stuff had transpired in the last few months, and yet has worked out for the best. Our lease expired on May 15th, and though we scrambled to find a suitable housing situation for months, a great little opportunity eventually came through. There were personality issues for me at the studio, which were eventually abated and morphed into a managerial promotion. We were forced to put the land we purchase just prior to my cancer diagnosis back on the market, and it sold. Private lenders were paid back. After 18 round of chemotherapy, mostly in Boston, my oncologist gave me permission to do the remaining 13 infusions locally – saving my hundreds of dollars and countless hours of travel time. Things were looking up…

So… how sad was I yesterday, when shortly after the needle was extracted from my arm, my old friend nausea showed up knocking on my door. Dizzy, exhausted, and no– not yet done with treatment, despite the fact that it’s been 15 months and the story seems like it should have come to some conclusion long ago – these side-effects shocked me. Me, the newly Cancer-Free Caitlin. And they were, excuse my french, super fucking disappointing.

I don’t know why I thought that somehow this time things were going to be different… As if all the empirical data I’ve collected over the last 3 dozen treatments would somehow support a different conclusion… But maybe it was because I had been averaging 16 miles a day on my bike every day for the last week or because I had just completed a stand up paddle yoga teacher training last weekend. Or maybe it was because, in my rush to finish this chapter of my life, I’ve decided to open up a new business, and bring a 10 week old puppy into our family. But somewhere along the way, I feel into a little denial pothole, and apparently I forgot just how yuckie  the chemo would make me feel

I got home from the hospital and balled my eyes out.

I’m so close to being done with chemo: with Herceptin, and yet some days – like yesterday – it feels like these last few weeks will never end. Don’t get me wrong, I am sooooooooo grateful for my treatment. I am so grateful for each of the three chemotherapy drugs i’ve been on, and especially for this last one, which for my specific kind of breast cancer, is the real power punch: blocking my cancer from binding with the protein in my body it’s specifically attracted to. But common Cancer Sisters, let’s just admit it: treatment is HARD! and it’s okay to feel resentful, tired, angry, sad, vulnerable and weak at times. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself…

You can be full of grace and gratitude and still have rough days. Fuck that, you can have a rough WEEK if you want!

Anyway… I know many people think I’m done with treatment (and that’s kind of hard too), but I’m not. I’m almost done, but not quite yet. I have 2 more infusion to go: June 25th and finally July 16th. And you can bet that I will be taking full advantage of social media that day to Tweet about it, post it on FaceBook, take all kind of ridiculous chemoAsanas for my Instagram account, and celebrate the my way through the halls of the Nantucket Cottage Hospital. I want crazy dance music in the infusion ward and a big bouquet of flowers for my chemo nurse, Gretchen. I want to crack open a big bottle of Veuve and dance all over the place.

Then I’ll go home and sleep for 2 days….

Infusing: May 29th, 2014

Infusing: May 29th, 2014

Sex, Lust and Cancer

henri de toulouse-lautrec The Kiss, In bed 1892

I have a new piece up on It’s called Sex, Lust and Cancer: Tips for Staying Sexually Alive, and it’s by far the most personally revealing, intimate piece I have written to date. It feels a little scary, putting everything out there, but so far the feedback I’ve gotten from other cancer survivors has been tremendous. If the article has helped shed some light on a taboo subject for even a handful of people, any vulnerability I feel having published it is well worth it.

My journey continues. Yesterday I had my 23rd infusion (my 5th in this cycle) and I’m one step closer to the finish line (I have 8 more to go). Although I feel exhausted, this infusion hasn’t rocked me nearly as hard as the last one did three weeks ago. For that I am grateful.

In between treatments my life continues. I have been lucky enough to go on two exotic yoga retreats this winter and study with some amazing and powerful teachers. In addition to having the new piece out on Rebelle, I recently took the bull by the horns and started writing my book on using yoga to navigate cancer. I’m teaching more and more yoga, (now quite a bit off-island) and just reopened my massage therapy practice. I feel like I’m finding my rhythm again.

I think 2014 is going to be an amazing year. May it be for you too!


Caitlin with cancer

I took a yoga class this morning and cried. I cried every time we came into a forward fold. I cried every time we opened our hips.I cried during cat & cow, child’s pose and even downward facing dog.

I cried for the last 8 months of treatments my family has endured. I cried for every needle stick, every blood test, every biopsy, injection and surgical procedure. I cried for every night spent writhing in pain on the couch, and every morning kneeling over the toilet. I cried for every time I was too tired to play with my son, or walk to the beach.

I cried  for the natural breasts I now miss; the ones I was born with, the ones I used to nurse my son.

I cried for the physical strength I once had, the endurance I’ve lost, and the muscle tissue that has atrophied.

I cried because plank is hard, chaturanga is impossible and cobra is painful. I cried because laying on my stomach pushes my implants into my chest and makes it hard for me to breathe. I cried because I’m not sure I like anything about these new appendages.

I cried because I’ve lost sensation in the skin across my chest. I cried because I cannot feel my nipples, and when my lover touches them I do not know.

I cried for all the days I have not recognized myself. I cried for the impermanence, the letting go and saying good-bye.

I cried for the medically-induced early menopause. I cried because I will never have another baby. I cried because last night I had my first true hot flash.

I cried because amputating a part of my body has been a big deal, though I have played it down.

I cried because for 8 months I’ve rarely let myself.

I cried because it was long overdue.


I am starting over with a new body. This body is softer and wiser. It has some big scars and a few little ones, and each one tells a powerful story. This body moves differently, expresses itself differently and even sits in silence differently. But as vulnerable as it may be, this body loves bigger, connects stronger, and is home to a depth of gratitude and appreciation I would never have found on my own in the time before cancer.

“When we become sick, we often take the illness personally and feel that our happiness is conditional upon getting ride of it. We forget that illness- along with aging and death- is a hallmark of our human existence, and we get angry at our bodies for “letting us down”. When we realize that illness is inescapable, realize that stress around illness increases our suffering, and that being sick is not a shortcoming – only than can we be at ease with, and even empowered by, illness.” ~ Jean Smith

May all we learn to hold ourselves sweetly, no matter where we are. May our commitment to practice compassion begin with compassion for our Selves. May we continue to show up, rise up and hold space for our own intrinsic value in sickness and in health.

no more complaining

positive thinking

“Each morning when I open my eyes I say to myself: I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I’m going to be happy in it.” ~ Groucho Marx


So many incredibly challenging things have happened this year, and yet I have felt happiness like never before. The ups and downs and highs and lows that accompany a life-threatening disease are many, but the gratitude that floods your soul when your appreciation of life deepens is  immeasurable. If we can reframe the way we see life’s challenges, truly we have the power within us to take any tough situation and make it a positive one. When we start focusing on the positive we attract even more positive people and events into our lives.

Since making the mental shift that my breast cancer diagnosis has ultimately been a positive experience, all kinds of amazing things have started to happen in my life. Recently, I won the #KeepYogaWeird photo contest, $500 and two tickets to Wanderlust Austin’s weekend long Yoga + Music Festival!

Appreciating the power of positive thought, and that like attracts like, I’ve decided it will be interesting to take this premise one step further: so for the next 3 days, I will try to avoid articulating a single negative thought. It sounds easy, but I know it will require vigilance and dedication.

This weekend I am going away for a reason other than cancer treatment for the first time in 8 months! Which also means it’s the first time I’ve left the state of Massachusetts in as long.

I am headed to New York City for the night with my partner, where I will practice with my teacher Elena on Saturday morning.  I haven’t seen Elena since I was first diagnosed with breast cancer back in March. I also haven’t taken a vinyasa class since my emergency port-removal surgery last Saturday night (more on that coming out on this Monday). I am looking forward to a dose of my old town and an infusion of Elena’s elegant gracefulness and potent energy.

Saturday and Sunday night we will be in CT for a dear friend’s wedding. And then on Monday morning it’s up to Boston to see my oncologist to discuss the next stage of my treatment. (okay, so part of the trip still involves cancer…but hey, it’s the new normal).

It might get dicey here and there. I might be tempted to complain, or voice an anxiety. There will certainly be opportunities to worry about what to wear, or how I look. It might be hard for me to practice in a room full of strong and healthy bodies, while I am slowly healing from surgery and navigating my way around my still tender new boobies. But this is where the challenge will get juicy.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

“Beliefs have the power to create and the power to destroy. Human beings have the awesome ability to take any experience of their lives and create a meaning that disempowers them or one that can literally save their lives.” ~ Anthony Robbins


{Let’s be Friends}

Hot Rubber

This is an exercise. This process of writing. It stands in place where once physical exertion use to be. When in the time before cancer, I used to move my muscles and bones, now I push my mind to extract thoughts, words, descriptions. It makes me feel clearer, proactive, more engaged, and re-connected. I don’t write for sympathy, or  empathy even, but for the sweet relief that comes from a solid work-out. This mental treadmill temporarily pacifies my atrophied body, and so I continue…


MGH Cancer Center

It is a strange thing to be cancer free and still in treatment.

I am out of the woods. I am going to live. There is no more imminent threat. No more DEFCON 4.  No more evidence of disease. So in many respects I should be elated, overjoyed, or in the very least, relieved.

And I am. Much of the time. But not always.

Sometimes I am clumsy with my feelings, and I trip myself up.

I want so badly to celebrate victory over my disease, to feel – really feel – in my cells that the danger has passed, and that I have come out on top, ahead, successful, triumphant. My heart aches to authenticate the alleviation I am meant to feel knowing I have won. I hunger to embody the gratitude my mind has embraced for surviving this ordeal, but my tummy is rejecting the solace of cancer vanquished.

So I feel guilty and disgraceful.

I have lost people to cancer; friends, relatives, a husband, and yet I am still here. Why? I know people living with Stage IV cancers who move through their lives with dignity and seem not to have a single ungrateful moment. Surely I am a bad person for indulging my trivial discomfort.

And yet my physical pain is real, and life still revolves around treatments, side-effects and medications. There are more trips to Boston, more Herceptin, Tamoxifen, early menopause, and come January,  more surgery.

I ping back and forth between feeling justified in my anxiety and feeling ashamed of my short-sightedness.

Chemo now has me in a bind, literally. My gut is twisting. My intestines cramping. My digestive system in revolt. I hunger for food, but  cannot eat. I am subsisting on peppermint tea. Candida, apparently unchecked by the probi0tics I take each morning, makes me emotional and itchy. Insomnia visits me nightly and hosts thoughts of unworthiness and insecurity. I feel isolated and crave constant companionship, reassurance that I am not alone. I am bloated in my abdomen and swollen in private places you cannot see beneath my clothes. I feel ugly and vulnerable.

Sunday night I gave myself a large second degree burn on my breast from falling asleep with a hot water bottle. I’ve lost sensation in parts of my chest, so I had no idea my skin was boiling beneath the hot rubber until dressing Monday morning. Obviously the burn didn’t cause me any pain, although you’d be hard pressed to believe that if you saw it, but there was something so sad to me about this self-inflicted injury, I burst into tears when I realized what I had done.

It dawned on me this morning while watching the sun rise over the Atlantic, that the psychic scaring I have suffered from cancer, while not a wound I will die from, is deep. There is no denying it, so I should probably stop trying.

I am going to be okay. I’m just not 100% okay yet.

Cancer survivors are just that, survivors. Implicit in this identity is the endurance of trauma: the trauma of breaking bad news to our loved ones,  of lying nearly naked on a cold CAT scan bed, the injustice of burning radioactive dye injected into sensitive places, bone scans, biopsies, disease staging, port implants, surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, infertility, neurological, sexual and digestive disfunction. We’ve temporarily lost our old identities as athletic go-getters, given up control of our bodies to nurses, doctors and caregivers and have at times felt extremely, extremely powerless. Let’s stop being stoic and call a spade a spade; we’ve been through a lot.

So, perhaps, instead of beating ourselves up – as I have, we would do well to forgive ourselves if this trauma does not fade as quickly as our tumors may have. Holding ourselves with the tenderness we would extend to a dear friend, maybe it becomes more possible to create space for those who have departed while accepting we are still here. Teaching ourselves to be patient with the healing process, perhaps we gain more insight into the mechanisms of recovery.


{Let’s be friends}

It Takes an Island

Part of this letter was originally published on  September 19th, 2013
in the Inquieror & Mirror Newspaper on Nantucket

Fight Back with Love


For six months now, we have collectively fought my cancer with the support of the entire island, several fundraising events, home delivered good meals, childcare assistance and a whole lot of love.

Like a child who wakes on Christmas morning to a sea of sparkling wrapping paper, and the magic impression of Santa’s recent visit, I’ve had to pinch myself many times over the past 6 months to make sure I’m not dreaming. From the moment I was diagnosed with cancer on March 15th, to this very day, and I’m sure into the months to come, I have felt blanketed in Nantucket’s support. Despite the challenges my family and I have faced this year, my partner and I agree that we are two of the luckiest people in the world, cancer and all, for surely the love we have received has far outweighed the suffering we have endured.

During the first 3 months of my chemotherapy this spring my body crashed hard. Fatigued and in pain, I was often too exhausted to cook for my family. A meal train for us  was set up online, and within a few days it was full. 2-3 nights a week from March through May members of this incredible community took care of us. Friends, coworkers, yoga students and people we didn’t even know put together thoughtful, often beautifully arranged, healthy meals that made us feel nurtured and supported.

 To all of you, our deepest gratitude.

As my treatment journey continued and my health became more fragile, it was clear I would not be able to work. I closed my massage therapy practice for the time being and worried about loosing my teaching place at The Yoga Room. Much to my relief my employer and friend, Shannah Green, reassured me that she would keep my name on the schedule no matter what. My co-workers: Paul Bruno, Clay Twombly, Susan Browne, Bettina Broer and Patricia Dolloff, all took turns covering my regularly scheduled classes. They never questioned me if I said I was up to the challenge of teaching and were always there for me, even at the last minute, if I was too sick to show up.

When it was time for my double mastectomy in July, I was forced to rest for 6 weeks. During this time ever one of the teachers who taught my classes asked to put their earnings on my paycheck. Shannah began teaching a weekly seva class, gifting all of the proceeds directly to my family and I.

To Shannah and my co-workers at The Yoga Room, my deepest, deepest thanks. 

It goes without saying that the foundation of my support at the darkest of times has come from my immediate family and my closest friends, but I would like to publicly acknowledge the bravery of my parents, Joanne and Steve Marcoux, the strength and compassion of my partner, Burr Tupper, and the pinch-hitting help of my ex-husband, Paul Budzynski. Without their support, I would have been lost at sea. Instead I been buoyed up by their love and confident that my little boy has been getting all that he needs to thrive when I am absent.

To my little boy, who perhaps will one day read this, thank you. Thank you for understanding about Mommy’s booboos, shaved head, low energy and “broken boobies” (though I’m still dying to figure out where you came up with or heard that one!). Thank you for offering to “buzz your hair” to show your solidarity. I’m sorI’m I’ve too too attached to your golden locks to let you do it. Thank you for keeping your sense of humor on the days we’ve had to wear face masks, and for making silly games out of the millions of times we had to wash our hands.

And thank you for all the hundreds if not thousands of warm little boy hugs your been giving me your whole life, but especially this year. Some times I feel it’s been a diet of your love alone that has pushed me through to the end of my hardest days.


Caitlin Marcoux, Cancer Survivor, Breast Cancer Ninja, The Cancer Diaries

Griffin and I “playing” with our masks when my wbc counts are low

It has taken many anchors to keep my ship grounded these past six months, and most recently a few strong captains to take the helm. On Sunday, September 15th, a team of incredible women including Shannah Green, Julie Hilberg-Hunt, Megan Soverino, Vanessa Raab Moore and Patti Cattafe put together a stunning silent auction event at the Cisco Brewery. Spearheaded by my dearest of friends, Elisa Allen, these ladies created the most beautiful and touching event I have ever been at the center of. Together they collected auction items from some of the most talented artists, skilled artisans and tradespeople, hardworking merchants, industry folk, restauranteurs and craftspeople on Nantucket. I cannot say how deeply touched I am by their efforts.

Fight Back with Love organizers Megan, Shannah and Julie (Elisa not pictured)

Fight Back with Love organizers Megan, Shannah and Julie (Elisa not pictured)

Thank you to the following people who donated their time and skills, contributed their wares or helped in any way to make this weekends fundraiser such a success:

The Rose & Crown

Sally Bates Electric

Joann Burnham & The Nantucket Yoga Festival

The Yoga Room

Paul Bruno & Roaming Dog Yoga

Bettina Broer & Yoga with a View

Jessica Jenkins & Downtown Yoga

Patricia Dolloff Yoga

Megan DuBois Yoga

Burton Balkind & KindFlow Productions

Cate Raphael

Clay Twombly & Cambia Means Change

Susan Fitzpatrick

Susan Warner

Katie Ashley Compassionate Cuisine Coaching

Theater Workshop of Nantucket

Sally Charpie

Petticoat Row Bakery

Organic Nail Salon

Cara DeHeart & Seaweaver

Charlotte Hess

The Bean

Arbonne Products

Nantucket Seafoods

East Coast Seafood

Force Five

Atlantic Landscaping

The Water Closet

The Tile Room

East End Gallery

Robert Sturman

Laurie Richards

Ron Lynch

Kit Noble

Cary Hazelgrove

Beauty By the Sea

Lynn Tucker Beauty Products & Services

Santjes Ooman Massage

Ugne & Brandon Jellison and Authentic Body Therapy

Casey Boukus

Bartlett’s Ocean View Farm 

Pauli & Uribe Architects

Mindy Levin & Nantucket Family Chiropractic

Gary Konher & Nantucket Surf School

Christine Lee Pilates

Amber Hinds& Au Coeur  Design

Emily Brooke Rubin Jewelry Design

Claudia Buttler & Ambrosia Chocolate & Spices

Susan Lister Lock Jewellery

Nell Van Vorst

Christine Sanford



Zero Main

R.J. Miller’s & Ann Fitzgerald

Sarah Hutton Jewlery

Darya’s Salon

Toscana Corporation


Amy Pallenberg Garden & Design

Nantucket Holistic Health

Sheri Perelman

Tracy Cullinane Personal Training

The Westmoor Club

Nantucket Cycling & Fitness 

Nantucket Health Club

Anita Bierings

Michael Rich

Robert McKee

Jessica Sosebee Gallery

Audrey Sterk Design

The Lovely

Elise Gura & Space

Nantucket Beach Chair Company


Sam Parsons

The Lion’s Paw

Peter England

Annye Camara & Annye’s Whole Foods

Best of the Beach

Megan Anderson

Bruce Bartlett

David Berry & The Nantucket Honeybee Co.


Dr. Buck Weaver


Nantucket Looms

Indian Summer

The Haul Over


Company of the Cauldron

Straight Wharf Restaurant 

George Riehof

The UPS Store

Stephen Swift

Neil Brosnan

Kitty Kania

Denna Charnes

Caitlin Jelleme

Rachel Dowling

Louise Turner

Thank you to the following people who helped before, during and after the event: Sky Wallace, Victoria Paige Ewing, Bettina Broer, Paul Bruno, Cate Raphael, Brad Nolen, Antitank Stefanski, Burton Balkind, Mike Allen, Erin Elizabeth, Heather Williams and Dina Warren. 

Additionally, thank you to The Cisco Brewery, Jenny Bence of The Green and DJ Pete Ahern for making the day come together with spectacular style and tying it all together with the healing energy of phenomenal food, drink and great music.

To everyone who attended “Fight Back with Love” and to everyone who bid on the silent auction items, my most heartfelt thanks.

Fight Back with Love

Incredible but true, the list goes on.

I’d like to thank Steve Tornovish of Krav Maga Nantucket for holding a special Women’s Self Defense class in my honor this summer, and to all the attendees for their generous donations – I bow to you. My deepest thanks.

To Ieva Aldins, of Dharma Yoga Nanatucket who taught one of her monthly Seva (charity) yoga classes for us this summer, thank you. And to the following yoga sisters and brothers who held donation yoga classes across the country in my honor throughout the last 6 months: Amber Cook at Moksha Yoga in Chicago,  Larisa Foreman, Kate Greer and Nocile Burille at Krama Yoga in Cambridge, Alex Jarobe and Rachel Ann Gasner of the Yoga Pod, in Bolder, co. and my whole family or yoga teachers and fellow 500-YTT candidates at the Asheville Yoga Center in Asheville, NC. And to Jennifer Hrabota-Lesser for her Bujangasana t-shirt campaign, which also raised money for our charitable fund – thank you.

Gratitude, gratitude, gratitude. 

To talented, local photographer Laurie Richards and former Nantucket resident and brilliant artist Hannah Stone, both of whom auctioned off portraits in my honor earlier this spring, thank you.

To Clay Twombly who made for me the most beautiful mala, thank you.

To my friends in Chicago, for dedicating this year’ Annual Shawn Koch Memorial Poker Run to my fight, thank you.

I’d also like to thank the following businesses for supporting my family and I directly: Dharma Yoga Nantucket for allowing me to take free yoga classes during my treatment, Pi Pizza, Susan McGinnis and The Center Street Bistro for feeding us on more than one occasion, Darya Afshari for cutting my hair and eventually shaving it off, Monika Rudnicka for giving me the most amazing facials throughout my chemotherapy, Sheri Perelman for Reiki, Casey Boukus for massage therapy and Jenny Bence for treating me to acupuncture with Tammy Belanger this spring.

Looking back a little, I’d like to Thank you to everyone who came out to Cisco on July 23rd for our Boob Voyage Party. Organizing that event gave me something to focus on other that my approaching surgery. Burr and Griffin and I will be moving out of our Heller’s Way home this spring, and I cant think of a better way we could have celebrated our time there. Funny how it took having cancer for us to finally throw a proper house party. Thanks to Doug Cote and Floyd Kellogg for our semi-pravate Lance Mountain Dance Party, what a blast.

I would also like to thank local pilot Chris McLaughlin and Patient Airlift Services for all there assistance getting me back and forth from Nantucket to Boston, whenever they could make it possible.

In closing I’d like to thank every person who sent me a card, or mailed me a care package, left a note on my back door, a four leaf clovers or hand knitted socks in my mailbox, a CD in my car, flowers in my living room, taught a class in my honor, said a prayer for me, gave me a hug, picked my son up for a playdate, gave me a hug, was brave enough to ask me how I was, gave me a reassuring pat on the back and told me with certainty that I could win.

Today I can say that I am winning, and I’m winning because of you. This enchanted island truly is home to the kindest most compassionate people in the world. And while it may not seem lucky to have cancer, I consider myself so lucky to have had cancer here.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

(photo: Robert Krivicich}

(photo: Robert Krivicich}

Humbly Yours,

~Caitlin Marcoux

Me & The Red Devil: Chemotherapy the Second Round

Any way you frame it, chemotherapy is no walk to the park. There are good days and there are bad days, and all of it is out of your control. Many of the side-effects you might suffer depend on which chemotherapy drug you’re given. People react differently to different cocktails, and no matter how much research you do, you won’t know how you react to your chemo until it’s pumping through your system. At least I didn’t. For us, nothing about my breast cancer and it’s treatment has been predictable.

IV Fluids, Chemotherapy, Caitlin Marcoux, Breast Cancer Survivor

checking into the hospital for i.v. fluids post-chemotherapy. September 6th, 2013

People in the know will tell you A/C is the worst. They call it the Red Devil. There are multiple urban legends circulating in the breast cancer circles about how this life-saving yet toxic drug earned its nickname. It has a broad range of side-effects including HEART FAILURE and get this, Leukemia. It’s the heavy hitter they say; much harder on the system then Taxol.

It comes in a syringe instead of an I.V. bag and needs to be slowly injected into your port or peripheral veins carefully, so as to not damage near by tissue. The infusion nurse who administers it will approach you with a battery of personal protective gear: gloves, a paper dressing gown, face mask and even goggles.

They’ll tell you you’ll pee it out (it turns your urine red), and to be sure to flush the toilet twice if not three times. They’ll makes you wonder  what A/C is doing to our planet, not to mention the insides of your own body. You’ll wonder what damage it’s causing as it makes it’s way from your circulatory system to your kidneys and bladder and eventually the sewage system.

I’m grateful for A/C, but it’s a powerful drug.

Following the tough time I had with Taxol in the spring, I was nervous to start A/C this August, and nervous more for the many ways in which it might effect my life. Having survived three months of chemo and a double mastectomy, I have to admit I’ve been ready to get back to my regular life. The break I was given following my surgery gave me a taste of living a normal(ish) life again, and I was thrilled to have enough energy to teach some yoga and play with my son.

The days leading up to my first infusion on August 21st, I began to worry. What was A/C going to do to me? Would I loose my slowly growing hair again? Would my eyelashes fall out again? How much sleep would it interrupt? Could I finally return to the gym? Do a handstand? Or would I be back on the couch every afternoon?

I wondered, how much of the Red Devil’s legend was true?

The Red Devil, Chemotherapy, AC, Breast Cancer Treatment

The Red Devil

So far, I’ve been pleasantly surprised.  I’ve had two of the four dose dense infusions I’m scheduled for through October and I’m really only sick for the first 3-4 days following the actual treatment. As my white blood cell count drops again around day 7, I get pretty fatigued and my immune system wears thin. But seriously, I’ve been tired for 6 months, so a little more exhaustion is no big deal. It’s certainly a lot less than other people have to deal with.

I have to admit that the second treatment was harder than the first, but that still, looking back on how I felt in the middle of my 3 months of Taxol, the last 3 weeks haven’t been so bad. Some days I’m nauseous and tired and other days I feel like a perfectly healthy human being.

When I went up to Boston for my second infusion of A/C on September 4th, I wanted desperately to go out to dinner that night. I put much thought into finding a special place to meet my pseudo in-laws, who drove 90 minutes each way from NH to meet up with us.

My partner and I spent the day at MGH and I finished my infusion in time to change into a pretty dress and jump in a cab. Sadly, and very much against my own will, 45 minutes into dinner, I was making frequent trips to the bathroom. Socializing in a predictable and schedulable way just isn’t part of my repertoire yet.

Our evening interrupted, we rushed back to our friend’s Clarendon street home, where I spent the next 2 hours on her bathroom floor.

A/C, Chemotherapy, Caitlin Marcoux, Breast Cancer Treatment, The Cancer Diaries

A/C number 2: September 4th, 2013

Feeling broken and in pieces, Burr and I left Boston the next morning.  We arranged for a wheelchair to meet us curbside at Logan (a brilliant perk everyone dealing with acute illness should take advantage of if they have to deal with air travel) and hopped on a donated Cape Air flight made possible by my friends over at P.A.L.S.

Patient Airlift Services is a wonderful charitable organization which: “arranges free air transportation based on need to individuals requiring medical care and for other humanitarian purposes. Our network of volunteer pilots provide this service without compensation using their own or rented aircraft. In no case are fees of any kind charged for these services. PALS flies as far South as Virginia and as far West as Ohio.”

We arrived home mid-morning and I more or less crawled into bed.

The two days following my second infusion were brutal. On the third day I was dizzy, nauseous, and struggling with a gnarly headache. After speaking to my oncologist in Boston, I checked into the hospital here in Nantucket for three hours of I.V. fluids and anti-nausea meds.I left the hospital feeling like a much more complete person, and feeling fully recovered 24 hours later, stuck my first handstand in 2 months the  following day.

Sure, there are other minor annoyances. My hair follicles are irritated and angry again. I’ve got lots of little hot bumps on my scalp and on the back of my neck. I don’t often feel pretty, and it looks like I’m about to loose the baby hair that’s been growing back since my surgery. I scratch my head compulsively. Some times my belly gets oddly distended as soon as I eat the smallest of meals, and my cycle is all over the place. I cry for no apparent reason at all, often. Let me stress the word often.

But everything is temporary.

The storm surge that is A/C is over as quickly as it comes on. 4 days after my second infusion I felt fine. Really, like 75% normal. That Saturday night Burr and I rode our bicycles into town and he took me out to dinner. After sitting at the Proprietor’s bar for a couple of hours, I still had enough energy to ride all the way home to Cisco. I taught yoga the next day, and  4 more consecutive classes in the following two days: the most active work I’ve done in 6 months.

That all being said, I do have anxiety about Adriamycin and Cytoxan’s cumulative side effects. As I’ve been told to expect things might get worse before they get better. For me it’s pretty simple: I either feel bad, or I don’t. Thankfully right now, the good days outweigh the bad.

I am very, very grateful to be as healthy as I am, and thrilled to reassure my sisters in treatment that life can still go on.

A/C, Chemotherapy, Caitlin Marcoux, Breast Cancer Survivor, Mastectomy, new boobs

A/C infusion number one: August 21st, 2013


As an aside…

I consider myself damn lucky to have a cool and innovative general contractor for a boyfriend. He’s really come in handy during this whole cancer thing. I could wax on and on about all the big expressions of support he’s made over the last 6 months, and all the little ways in which he’s made my life better, but for those of you who’ve been following my journey and are in active treatment yourselves, let me just mention the most recent idea he’s come up with which has given me some of the biggest sighs of relief since re-starting chemotherapy on August 21st: The Frozen Hat.

If you are in the process of loosing your hair (as I am for the second time this year) and suffering from an itchy, hot, irritated scalp, you need to try this at home. Take your two most favorite, preferably soft cotton hats and stick them in the freezer. You can put a plastic bag full of ice cubes or a plastic or jell cooler pack inside the hats, or  use whatever’s handy in the freezer: a bag of frozen peas for instance is perfect.

Once the hats are sufficiently cold and crispy: VOLA! Your own homemade Cold Cap. Place one hat on your head, and breath a sigh of relief. As soon as your hot head has cooled off one hat, you have another one waiting in the freezer to replace it with. Switch out as necessary. Enjoy.


 {My Cancer Story: The Beginning}

(Making the Breast Decision)

(Life After the Knife)

{How to Talk to Someone with Cancer)

(Let’s be Friends)

Life After the Knife: Keep Your Head Up

{ graphic / nudity}
Originally Published by on August 12th, 2013

What happened after the knife?

Life After the Knife by Caitlin Marcoux, Cancer Jedi

photo by Robert Kricivich

Eight months doesn’t seem like a lot to exchange for the chance at living another 50 years, so I’m trying to be patient.

For me, the past 2 weeks since my mastectomy have been packed with a myriad of  emotional transitions and physical alterations and it’s been tough to stay attentive. Despite my lack of physical activity, all the emotional flux I’ve been navigating has turned slow days into full days, and I find myself feeling like the last 2 weeks have both flow by and crawled along at a snail’s pace.

It’s hard to believe that 2 weeks ago I had a body of disease and today I am making big strides towards a full recovery.

According to everyone, my double mastectomy and immediate reconstruction was a great success. With the guidance of my savvy oncologist, the previous 3 months worth of chemotherapy shrank my tumor and all of it’s many calcifications and satellite spots of carcinoma to an almost undetectable presence. My breast surgeon was then able to remove all the invasive cancer from my chest, get clean margins and perform what is called a nipple and skin-sparring mastectomy.

What is a skin-sparring mastectomy?

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this process, as I was before confronting it, this kind of mastectomy involves the removal of all of the patient’s breast tissue, but preserves a woman’s own nipples and surrounding skin. While nipple-sparring is said to alleviate  some of the emotional turmoil a woman will feel following a mastectomy, sadly she will never regain sensation in her nipples. Generally speaking the pain level following this type of mastectomy is greater than that of a simple or total mastectomy, but if it were possible, I was prepared to pay that price should I be able to keep more of myself self intact.

It was originally said that I was not a candidate for this surgery given the extensive and aggressive nature of my cancer, so going into my operation, I wasn’t sure what outcome to expect. My team had prepared me for a couple of possibilities: single stage reconstruction with implants, or tissue expanders which would help rebuild my breast over several months should everything need to be removed. I really had no idea if I was going to wake up with tissue expanders, flat chested or fully reconstructed with all my own bits and pieces.

Needless to say, I was scared.

I arrived at Mass General Hospital at 5:30 am with my teammates by my side. Both my partner Burr and friend Elisa helped shepherd me through not one, but two preoperative check points, and as we got closer to the surgical time of 7:00 my anxiety was mitigated only by a dose of Ativan.

The fear kicked in big time when Burr and I were greeted by my anesthesiologists who explained to me in detail the process of getting a PVB, or paravertebral block. The explanation, though sound, did nothing to make me feel better.

“PVB is an advanced nerve block technique, in which long-acting local anesthetic is injected below the muscles lateral to the spine and adjacent to the spinal nerves. Ultrasound guidance ensures correct needle placement, and the injected local anesthetic provides a band of numbness around the chest and breast area.” 

Ultrasound guidance or not, I was terrified by the thought of someone sticking a needle in my back. After all, I am the girl who’s primary motivation to birth at home was to avoiding an epidural. Put another way, I’d take childbirth over a needle in my back any day.

The explanation seemed to continue on for hours. The radiologists’ voices seemed distant and distorted, as if the words came out of their mouths in slow motion. Then, all of a sudden, they  disappeared. They went to check on the O.R. and the time space continuum swallowed me up. All I could hear was the thumping of my heart and the loud rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Be here now, said a voice from somewhere deep inside my mind.

It occurred to me right then and there, that staying present has been exactly what I’ve been hoping to convey in my yoga classes all year. Crazy pre-surgical fear and all, this was just another golden opportunity to put my money where my mouth was, and be.

Be here now, the voice said again.

I fell back on my mindfulness techniques. I focused on the feel of the loose hospital garment draped over my shoulders, the sounds around me, and the cold bed beneath my seat. I remembered Thich Nhat Hahn’s gatha:

Breathing in I calm.

Breathing out I smile.

Dwelling in the present moment

It is a precious moment.

Pre-Op Mastectomy and Reconstruction. Caitlin Marcoux

When the doctors returned, it was time to lay down on my stomach and surrender the fear.

Burr was asked to clear the room and an ultrasound machine was switched on. Someone injected an intoxicating liquid mellow high into my I.V. and soothing female voices began coaxing me to relax. Reflexively I started ujjayi breathing, and somehow I faded into the ether. I barely remember the nerve blocks going in.

The next thing I remember was thirst. Thirst, then dizziness, then nausea and then Burr. By the grace of the divine, the marvels of modern medicine and several hundred friends and yogis praying and practicing for me, my surgery was a success.

My cancer was vanquished, my breast surgeon saved my nipples, the plastic surgeon reconstructed my breasts and everything was completed within the space of 5 hours. As I came to my senses, I felt a tightness around my chest and a tingling in my breasts.

Breasts! Yes, I had them.

Two of them; swollen and distorted from surgery, but exactly where the old ones had been. How amazing. 

I was released from the hospital just two nights after my surgery. Sent home with a monstrous surgical bra and an elastic band that wrapped around my chest to keep the implants from pulling north, I felt like a walking Ace bandage. With the residual effects of anesthesia and morphine still pumping through my body I was amped enough to entertain company for dinner.

I’d love to say that things went smoothly from there on out, but I can’t. I’d love to tell you that I kept the full sense of mindfulness and presence I had found in pre-op, and that I basked continually in gratitude for my medical successes, but that would be a lie.

A knife might be less painful than depression.

The truth is, that once the last of the intravenous drugs wore off, nausea and vomiting descended upon me like locusts, eating up any excitement or enthusiasm I had had for surviving the surgery. Since I couldn’t hold food down, I weened myself off everything except Tylenol and Ativan, three days after my hospital discharge.

But once off the narcotic pain killers I was haunted by strange phantom pain in my chest and bizarre let-down reflexes in my breasts.

Every time I thought about my holding or snuggling with my son Griffin, I’d feel the hot prickling sensation of my long ago dried up milk coming in, and a floodgate of tears would stream down my cheeks. No longer having milk ducts to produce and deliver milk, nor a baby to nourish, I felt bewildered by these sensations and overwhelmed by maternal yearning.

Try Googling “phantom let-down reflex after mastectomy,” and you might get two or three hits on some breast cancer message board, and that’s about it. So little information exists out there that I thought I was just imagining things.

I made valiant attempts to stay positive, but found myself spiraling into sadness.

The dirty, dark secret thing that no one wants to talk about, the possibility the doctors don’t warn you about, the trap that Glass-Half-Full-Cancer-Warrior-Troopers aren’t supposed to succumb to, is that cancer can cause clinical depression.

And about 7 days out of surgery, I fell into a deep, self-loathing darkness. The darkness in my heart matched perfectly the deep purple bruising spreading across my chest.

Life After the Knife. Post-Mastectomy bruising. Caitlin Marcoux

One week post-surgery bruising.

I’ve always believed that knowledge is power, so I’ve since done a little digging.

It turns out that studies show as many as 1/3 of people newly diagnosed with cancer, in treatment for cancer and those who’ve survived cancer suffer from PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, and according to HealthNews Day, 1 in 4 women with breast cancer report symptoms of PTSD following diagnosis and/or treatment.

Symptoms of PTSD include “trouble sleeping, memory problems, irritability or anger, feelings of guilt or shame and episodes of uncontrolled sadness and crying spells” (Post-traumatic Stress via The Mayo Clinic).

Well, this explained the unbearable darkness and tumultuous tears.

I rested all of my hope on getting my surgical drains taken out as soon as possible. These drains are a package deal when you have a mastectomy and keep blood and lymphatic fluid from collecting at the surgical site. The drains are embedded inside the breast area and extend externally from your body, where they connect to collection bulbs, sometimes called grenades. The bulbs are awkward at best, and need to be fastened with safety pins to your clothes.

While the drains functionally provide an important service, they are anything but sexy (if you’re interested in more about the drains, there are hundreds of amateur videos you can watch on YouTube), suffice to say that daily life with the tubes and drains comes with its own set of challenges.

I was crestfallen when at my July 31st follow-up appointment with my plastic surgeon, he told me I’d need to keep the drains in for at least two more weeks due to residual edema and the stubborn internal bleeding. For a short while I let this pull me down deeper into my depression.

“Let everything happen to you, beauty and terror, no feeling is final.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

The drains are a drag.

But they are temporary, at least that’s what I  keep telling myself, and isn’t that the lesson that has made itself clear since the beginning of this journey: that everything is temporary (beauty, youth, fertility, hair, health, even breasts). The only constant in life is change.

In her powerful and tender book, Being Well (Even When You are Sick), Elana Rosenbaum counsels those of us with illness that “To accept change, we need to accept thoughts and feelings as well as our resistance to an altered life.” I read that and thought, what sage advice.

So all that being said, I decided this week, it was time to accept my bulbous plastic friends and my depression and then maybe I would stop feeling so out of control. Obviously climbing out of a depression is easier said than done, but with support from my partner, my family and my therapist, I stopped fighting everything so hard, and started to embrace things as they are.

Acceptance is key.

I picked up my old copy of Pema Chodron‘s seminal work When Things Fall Apart, started walking the eighth of a mile to the beach a couple of times every day, and recommitted to my meditation practice. My partner came up with smart, creative ways to make the drain grenades more comfortable.

We used old Kaenon sunglass bags to cover the  sticky plastic bulbs (making them much less irritating to my skin) and carabiners to fasten them to my belt loops. This makes wearing the grenades more comfortable and it saves my clothes from holes made by the safety pins.

Then, when I wanted to shower, we made good use of one of my many malas. It’s easy to pin the drains between the beads, and this frees up your hands for sudsing and shaving. Loop a long mala around your head twice, and you have complete freedom.

Sometimes I keep the grenades pined like this all day long. If I leave the house, they go back in the sunglass bags and get pinned inside one of Burr’s boxy t-shirts. If I’m teaching class (yoga) I wear a flowy skirt with a roll down waist band that can cover the grenades and a loose tank top on top to hide the drains. I sit on a yoga block at the front of the class and keep pillows under my arms to remind me from excitedly gesturing with my arms while I queue.

Life After the Knife. Post-Mastectomy drainage. Caitlin Marcoux

My sacred drainage mala.

I even started going to the gym…with my parents!

As if it weren’t already sweet enough that each day this week, my father or my mother has picked me up and chauffeured me to the Nantucket Health Club, the entire staff welcomes me with open arms and showers me with encouragement. “We’re with you” they say. “You can do this!” they declare.

The reality is, I can’t do much (in the way of exercise); nothing with my arms until my drains are taken out, but I can ride the stationary recumbent bike. So that’s what I’ve been doing; about 10 miles a day, at a very mild pace.* The endorphins I release while exercising are giving me the kick in the ass I’ve needed to stop the depression in it’s tracks, and despite the drains, I feel better than I have in weeks.

*Sidenote: it is important not to get your heart rate up too high while recovering from surgery — exercise only under your doctor’s guidance.

My dad is a cancer survivor too. Stage IV throat cancer almost took him from us two years ago. It’s kind of a miracle he’s alive, considering he smoked well into his 50′s.

Never having been one for a workout, it’s impressive that this year he’s getting himself to a few group fitness classes per week. I’m tickled pink when we go there together: two cancer survivors, working out in the same gym, giving cancer a run for its money.

My life feels very different since I was diagnosed with cancer.

It certainly looks different. Some times things change at lightening speed; like the initial diagnosis which hits you out of nowhere at 180 miles per hour. Other times a treatment or procedure seems to go on forever: hours can be lost in trace watching chemotherapy drugs drip slowly from their IV bags.

The key for me I think, and perhaps for all of us no matter what the struggle, is to stay present with whatever’s happening, whenever possible, as much as possible.

I have a few more hurdles to jump before I can put breast cancer behind me, but with presence and acceptance things are getting easier every day.

“The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.” ~ Carl Rogers