I've always gotten jazzed by the red 'ON THE AIR' light that is present at every broadcast facility I've ever seen. From the basement country radio station where I got bitten by the broadcast bug (as aside: quite an auspicious beginning...in my first radio newscast, the 19-year-old college-dropout Kevyn called that big city in Korea SEE-OUL and mentioned that a lot of debris--rhymes is head-dress--fell after a big storm) to the bigtimebigcity stations where I've plied my trade of late, the sign is the one common item.
It goes on and I go on.
I go on and I feel alive.
My sign is turned off for now. I'll let you know when it will be back on.
In the meantime, please continue to send me your positive energy, thoughts, prayers, poems, jokes, slogans. I feel as if I'm riding your cresting wave.
I fight my fear. I truly believe my work here is not complete. I pray that I am correct.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
An Article In Today's Pioneer Press
Here is an article by Rhoda Fukushima from today's Pioneer Press regarding mom's diagnosis.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Thursday at 9 a.m.
This Thursday, May 31, at 9:00 a.m. I will be in my chair and behind my microphone at FM107. I am going to spend an hour on the air and then I'll be gone for a while.
It won't be the usual show and it won't be any falsely cheery 'the-show-must-go-on' crapola, I promise. I won't share the show with any guests, friends, experts--it's just going to be me and you, my friends. My time to talk to you about this breast cancer diagnosis and what's ahead for me.
In the meantime, thank you for your love, thoughts, prayers, advice.
Keep it coming.
It won't be the usual show and it won't be any falsely cheery 'the-show-must-go-on' crapola, I promise. I won't share the show with any guests, friends, experts--it's just going to be me and you, my friends. My time to talk to you about this breast cancer diagnosis and what's ahead for me.
In the meantime, thank you for your love, thoughts, prayers, advice.
Keep it coming.
An Article In Today's Strib.
Here is an article on startribune.com in response to last sundays post.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Dear Friends
Hello friends,
This may be a heartlessly efficient way to deliver news. Please trust me that this is not how I would choose to relay what I now have to say. It is painfully clear to me that what I choose has very little relevance in my life.
In my news career, I had the reputation of being one who never buried a lede. Meaning, I got the the heat and heart of the story pronto, toot-sweet, out front.
So here it is:
I have been diagnosed with breast cancer.
I had a routine screening mammogram they day after I did the Walk for the Cure.The only remarkable incident about that day was that I locked my keys in the car. What a drag, huh? I had no idea!
I expected to get that 'see ya next year' postcard in the mail. Instead, a call, the need for another look, the need for an ultrasound, the need for a needle biopsy.
And then the diagnosis: invasive ductal carcinoma. In two places.
The good news is that this cancer has not moved to my liver, bones or lungs.
The bad news is that I actually have two lumps and they are perilously near my lymph nodes.
I am scheduled for surgery at the soonest possible date. I will have a full mastectomy on June 2 at 9:30 a.m. This will be followed by immediate reconstruction. I will recover for a few days at Abbott Northwestern, then come home, recover some more, and begin chemotherapy and then radiation.
It has been fun mirror stuff, a crazily distorted time, waiting for the conclusive information. I've seen an array of specialists and undergone a series of pokes and prods. Basically, I have now used up my share of the health care budget for the rest of my life...and about half of yours, as well.
Once again, the good news-bad news scenario. This will not kill me. (That's the good news.) The bad news is the fear and misery that will inevitably be my companion in the coming months.That I have to say goodbye to my breast and my self-image as a person with an almost super-human immune system. That I am going to have to learn how to be vulnerable and how to ask for help.
All of these challenges frighten me to my core. Against my will, I am exiting my comfort zone, never to return.
I am blessed to have a gutsy and loyal husband, a loving family and dear and devoted friends. I will have to rely on each of you in ways we can't now imagine.
Please do not call me right now. I need to keep my strength and focus. Please do not send large and extravagant arrangements of flowers to the hospital. They always remind me of funerals, Please pray for me and for my family. Please ask specifically for the gift of peace and strength for my husband, my parents and my children.
A hard lump of fear is wedged in my middle and nothing can make it dissolve until the surgery is complete. I know many of you feel it with me. Still I am optimistic. I have a lot of fight in me and I will give my all to this battle.
On the same day I was diagnosed, I jumped on my bike and rode hard around Lake Harriet. I focused on the mannered pewter of the water, the hopeful growth on the trees and the intoxicating aroma of the flowering branches. As I pedaled, these words came to me, like a mantra:
"My fear is strong, but my faith is stronger."
It is. It truly is. And the faith that you have in me is a big part of that.
What can you do for me right now?
Here is my request: actively think of me each time you cross the river. Consider how that ribbon of water is on a journey. Notice how the river shines; think of how the water seeks the sea. Remember how I'm working to heal...and send me your thoughts, prayers and best wishes as you cross between the banks. My body and soul feel somewhere floating in between right now, working hard to rejoin you on the solid ground of the banks. Wave to me in the mist and the water. Beckon me back to the land of the fully alive. I'm a strong swimmer. I'll be there with you again...soon.
With love,
Kevyn
This may be a heartlessly efficient way to deliver news. Please trust me that this is not how I would choose to relay what I now have to say. It is painfully clear to me that what I choose has very little relevance in my life.
In my news career, I had the reputation of being one who never buried a lede. Meaning, I got the the heat and heart of the story pronto, toot-sweet, out front.
So here it is:
I have been diagnosed with breast cancer.
I had a routine screening mammogram they day after I did the Walk for the Cure.The only remarkable incident about that day was that I locked my keys in the car. What a drag, huh? I had no idea!
I expected to get that 'see ya next year' postcard in the mail. Instead, a call, the need for another look, the need for an ultrasound, the need for a needle biopsy.
And then the diagnosis: invasive ductal carcinoma. In two places.
The good news is that this cancer has not moved to my liver, bones or lungs.
The bad news is that I actually have two lumps and they are perilously near my lymph nodes.
I am scheduled for surgery at the soonest possible date. I will have a full mastectomy on June 2 at 9:30 a.m. This will be followed by immediate reconstruction. I will recover for a few days at Abbott Northwestern, then come home, recover some more, and begin chemotherapy and then radiation.
It has been fun mirror stuff, a crazily distorted time, waiting for the conclusive information. I've seen an array of specialists and undergone a series of pokes and prods. Basically, I have now used up my share of the health care budget for the rest of my life...and about half of yours, as well.
Once again, the good news-bad news scenario. This will not kill me. (That's the good news.) The bad news is the fear and misery that will inevitably be my companion in the coming months.That I have to say goodbye to my breast and my self-image as a person with an almost super-human immune system. That I am going to have to learn how to be vulnerable and how to ask for help.
All of these challenges frighten me to my core. Against my will, I am exiting my comfort zone, never to return.
I am blessed to have a gutsy and loyal husband, a loving family and dear and devoted friends. I will have to rely on each of you in ways we can't now imagine.
Please do not call me right now. I need to keep my strength and focus. Please do not send large and extravagant arrangements of flowers to the hospital. They always remind me of funerals, Please pray for me and for my family. Please ask specifically for the gift of peace and strength for my husband, my parents and my children.
A hard lump of fear is wedged in my middle and nothing can make it dissolve until the surgery is complete. I know many of you feel it with me. Still I am optimistic. I have a lot of fight in me and I will give my all to this battle.
On the same day I was diagnosed, I jumped on my bike and rode hard around Lake Harriet. I focused on the mannered pewter of the water, the hopeful growth on the trees and the intoxicating aroma of the flowering branches. As I pedaled, these words came to me, like a mantra:
"My fear is strong, but my faith is stronger."
It is. It truly is. And the faith that you have in me is a big part of that.
What can you do for me right now?
Here is my request: actively think of me each time you cross the river. Consider how that ribbon of water is on a journey. Notice how the river shines; think of how the water seeks the sea. Remember how I'm working to heal...and send me your thoughts, prayers and best wishes as you cross between the banks. My body and soul feel somewhere floating in between right now, working hard to rejoin you on the solid ground of the banks. Wave to me in the mist and the water. Beckon me back to the land of the fully alive. I'm a strong swimmer. I'll be there with you again...soon.
With love,
Kevyn
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