About Amanda
I’m a disgruntled LIRR commuter by morning, real estate journalist by day, insomniac by night, and cancer butt-kicker for life.
Where To Find Me
Why You Should Care About Young Adult Cancer
Published April 3, 2012 | This week is the 10th annual National Young Adult Cancer Week. Why should you care? According to the National Cancer Institute:
- Nearly 70,000 people between the ages of 15 and 39 (collectively called AYAs) are diagnosed with cancer each year.
- Cancer kills more people in the AYA age group than any other disease.
- Even though survival rates have steadily improved for children and adults who have cancer, survival has lagged behind for AYAs.
- The roadblocks: low number of clinical trials for AYAs and poor participation; delayed diagnosis of primary cancers; inadequate treatment practices and settings for AYA cancer patients; poor understanding of the biology of AYA cancers; limited access to care and insurance coverage for AYA cancers; limited emphasis on prevention and early detection for AYAs; and unique AYA psychosocial and supportive care needs.
I’m one of these young adults. In 2005, at the age of 22 and a few weeks after my college graduation, I was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Primary Mediastinal Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma, stage IIA. In short, I had a tumor the size of a grapefruit in my chest with smaller tumors throughout my chest cavity. I went under six rounds of R-EPOCH chemotherapy, and now I’m nearing my seventh year of remission. Some of my peers aren’t as fortunate.
These past few days, I had the opportunity to spend time with the 550 most inspirational people I’ve ever met at Stupid Cancer’s annual OMG Cancer Summit for Young Adults in Las Vegas, a conference for young adult patients, survivors, and caregivers.
Photo: Kenny Kane
We came from all walks of life: some of us had cancer when we were children; other were adults just starting their independent life. Some of us lost breasts, testicles, and limbs; others didn’t even lose their hair. Some weren’t even old enough to drink; others were 20 years in remission. It wasn’t a contest or a pity party, because we all had one thing in common: we had cancer. We were put through an emotional, mental, and physical challenge. It didn’t matter if we were still in treatment or out of treatment, we all had one goal: to get busy living and share our experiences with others. (If you have 10 minutes, here’s a documentary put together by Stupid Cancer, the premier young adult cancer organization.)
It’s a club you don’t want to belong to, but like founder Matthew Zachary said with a nod to Olive Garden, when you’re here, you’re family. I knew many of the attendees from past OMG events (this was my third and most amazing), some from online, and many I’d never met before. But it didn’t matter – we all felt like old friends by the end of the three-day event.
If you don’t understand the impact of the AYA movement, Stupid Cancer, and the OMG Summit, I’d like to share this story. In 2005, when I was diagnosed, I only knew two people with my cancer: my mentor through the Lymphoma Research Foundation and a girl my age who’d been diagnosed at the same time and was undergoing the same chemotherapy at the same hospital. The girl died after only a few treatments, leaving me frightened. There weren’t many online resources or other ways to connect with people who had the same cancer. That’s all I knew: one person who lived and one who died.
But this past weekend, I took a picture with eight survivors of my cancer. That’s double the number who attended last year’s summit. And now there are 145 patients, survivors, and caregivers in a Facebook group I belong to for that cancer.
This weekend, I was with 550 people who understood everything I’ve gone through. This will only grow if we continue to educate others, share our stories, and fight for other young adults. Please take the time to learn more about cancer in young adults. If you’ve had or have been affected by cancer, share your story.
We’re not alone.
The Scandalous Note
Published January 17, 2012 | A Writer’s Book of Days (01/17) – Write About A Time You Found Out About Something You Weren’t Supposed To Know
I’ve been an avid reader, ever since I was a child. I’d read anything I could get my hands on, and the wall-to-ceiling bookshelf in our old living room was a gold mine – my particular favorites were a National Geographic anthology and the Lexicon Universal Encyclopedia set. Strange kid, I know.
One day, when I was eight, I pulled out an illustrated herbal encyclopedia. As I flipped through the pages, a white piece of notepaper fell out. I read the decidedly adult cursive, which described a man my mother was to meet at the airport. He was tall, had a mustache, was a romantic, and would bring flowers. He had a very basic name, like Paul or Allen. Oh, it was scandalous. My parents were divorced and my father had remarried, but I didn’t know there was such a fellow in my mother’s life.
I couldn’t breathe a word of this – I didn’t want to get in trouble for snooping. Nor was I going to tell my little sister, who would likely use it as ammunition against me later. I had no one to tell this secret. I tucked the note back into the book – it was between the marjoram and marshmallow root pages. I made sure to put it back in the exact place I found it.
As far as I knew, there was never such a man. Once in a while, I’d take the book out and look at the note again. Then we moved, and the book was long forgotten, stored in a box with cookbooks somewhere in the basement.
But when I was in my early 20s, a renovated kitchen meant there was more room for the books. Mom brought the box up from the basement and took the books out one by one, piling them on the table. At the top of one pile was the herbal dictionary and I quickly grabbed it, shaking out the pages. No note fell out. I thumbed through to the marshmallow root page. Nothing.
Mom asked what I was doing. So more than 12 years late, I confessed my knowledge of the mysterious stranger. She looked baffled. Apparently, she didn’t remember the note, nor had she ever met such a man. I described what I read, and she laughed. She said it sounded like a dream a friend had and wrote down for her or something an astrologer might have told her. I believed her – there would be no reason why she’d not let me in on a romance so many years after the fact.
It was certainly the longest time I’ve ever had to keep a secret. And when you’re eight, that seems like an eternity.
A Bedtime Conundrum
Published January 16, 2012 | A Writer’s Book Of Days (01/16) - Write About A Bed
It seems that any time I’d like to take a nap, it’s easy to fall asleep. Any place easily becomes a bed – a couch, a chair, a car seat… even a floor, if needed. Public transportation is especially snooze-conducing.
Why the heck is it that when I actually want to go to sleep for more than four hours, it’s impossible to fall into a peaceful slumber? Suddenly that comfy couch I usually sink into feels as hard as a rock. Forget my actual bed – the blankets are uneven, the pillows are not fluffed right, and I can feel every wrinkle beneath me. Instead of falling quickly asleep, I toss, I turn, I think too much, and then eventually get up, defeated.
I’ll then do something to make me tired, like read a book. When my eyes become heavy and I’m reading the same sentence over and over again, I’ll attempt sleeping again. But the bed still isn’t as comfortable as it is when I go to take a nap.
Is there some bed coziness-to-sleepiness ratio I’m unaware of?
One Man’s Trash is Another Amanda’s Treasure
Published January 15, 2012 | A Writer’s Book of Days (01/15) – It’s Saturday. You’re Not At Home.
I rummage through the rack of scarves, picking up a gold-embellished pashmina. Only $2! I put it in my cart, which is filling up with clothes, books, board games, and other long-discarded items. It’s just another Saturday rummaging through thrift stores with Lexcie. He’s off looking for Coca-Cola glasses, which are found in almost every store we go to.
Flickr: Pete Boyd
Thrifting is relatively new to me. Once in a while, I’d stop at a garage sale or local thrift store to see what things people were getting rid of. Sometimes I’d end up with a new novel for a quarter or perhaps a nice basket. It wasn’t until Lexcie introduced me to the mega thrift store (Salvation Army, Goodwill, Savers, and consignment boutiques) that I’d really become a convert. I’m constantly finding brand new clothes, expensive books, and vintage accessories for mere dollars. (That is, unless Lexcie watches my shopping cart. A lot of things for mere dollars can add up to $50 or $60, I’ve learned, especially when you’re in Great Britain and thrift store density is akin to Starbucks in New York City.)
Some of my best finds include: a $60 pencil skirt for $3 (new with tags); a vintage teal Samsonite Fashionaire carry-on, which I now use as my briefcase; a $50 Ann Taylor scarf for $4; and plenty of spectacular, signed vintage brooches for my jewelry collection.
I hardly shop retail anymore, which is good for my wallet and overall materialism. It feels nice to give something a second or third home. I’ve found some really great buys that I may not have necessarily sought out elsewhere, opening me to new fashion, new ideas, and new inspiration.
An Accidental Trip
Published January 14, 2012 | A Writer’s Book of Days (01/14) – Write About The Horizon
“Wait a second, are we supposed to be going over a bridge?” Mom asked as the J train rumbles into daylight.
Crap. I forgot that Essex Street and Delancey Street were the same station and missed the stop.
In a few months, I was moving to the Bronx for college and was still learning the intricacies of New York City’s subway system. We certainly weren’t supposed to be going over a bridge. Nor did I know that the next stop, Marcy Avenue, wasn’t in the greatest neighborhood.
We got off the train at Marcy Avenue and waited for the next uptown train. There were some interesting characters loitering around the station, and I knew Mom was a bit nervous. She hadn’t ridden the subway in decades, and this wasn’t exactly a mistake that would calm someones reservations.
Finally, an M train pulls into the station and we hop on, taking a bench seat by one of the windows. It starts moving back toward Manhattan.
“Look at what God painted tonight,” Mom whispered, pointing to the sun setting over Manhattan’s horizon. The sky towards the front of the train was filled with brushstrokes of orange, red, gold, pink, and purple. It was one of the more spectacular sunsets I’d seen.
Flickr: bondidwhat
“Look!” she said more loudly, pointing towards the east. Not only we were witnessing a beautiful sunset, but a rare moon rising over Brooklyn’s horizon.
Sometimes missing your stop isn’t such a bad thing after all.