Bust A Move

Thank you!

We were overwhelmed by the response we received from cancer survivors in support of this project. 8 phenomenal survivors stepped up and went through the casting process to help support our cause. Here are some of their stories.

Lynn Rowe Reed, Cancer Survivor & Artist

I have been an illustrator for nearly thirty years, with work published in arenas from the Wall Street Journal to children’s books. I am an author, as well, and am presently working as both author and illustrator of my thirteenth book, all of which have been published by major New York publishers.

In a strange twist of fate–as related to this bustcasting project–I was diagnosed with breast cancer in September of 2006. It began one night when I found a very small lump in my upper left breast, and soon became a battle against a small but aggressive breast cancer. Within weeks, I had undergone two surgeries (a lumpectomy and re-excision when it was discovered there was more cancer), four rounds of chemotherapy, thirtythree radiation treatments, then IV treatments (Herceptin) every three weeks for the following year, and a multitude of doctor appointments and tests. I was one of those rare patients who doesn't handle chemo well, and I made three trips to the emergency room during chemo as a result of extreme nausea. For several months, my life was all about cancer, both physically and emotionally. I was sick, sad, and scared to death.

Today, twenty-three months since my diagnosis, I am finally feeling like my old self, and I am creating art like a possessed soul, thriving with a new sense of gratitude for life and a rudimentary ability to begin living life in the moment, for it is this lesson that cancer has given me: all any of us have for sure is today.

As both recent breast cancer survivor and artist, it was my unique opportunity to create a piece of art from my own plaster cast. I struggled with this concept; this bust was deeply personal to me. My approach, therefore, was to make this bust deeply personal–to use two photos taken of me when I, along with photographer friend, Jason McFarland, documented my journey. During the time of my “chemo baldness,” I was very private about my appearance. Only a small number of people saw me without a hat, and I have struggled with showing myself with no hair to the world, but this photo says it all with my defiant stance and f@!#**! cancer attitude. I had to use it.

I incorporated boxing gloves (after all, I went through four “rounds” of chemotherapy) because I have often felt like a fighter, both knocked down by the brutal treatment and, in the end, victorious over a deadly foe.

I included an entry from my journal, and I cut an illustration of “chemo heads” into individual faces. I
painted the bust in acrylic and collaged the remaining elements over the bust and the gloves. I incorporated a tutu which I previously used in a kids’ book illustration because it represents the feminine side of the fighter that I am.

My only regret about this piece is that I had 100 times as much material as could be used for it, and it was painful to have to edit the content to such a small sliver of my experience. I hope this piece makes you feel the pain, sorrow, fear and sheer defiance I experienced while fighting breast
cancer.

HA!–cancer:0, me:1.

Cindy Frederick, Cancer Survivor

When I turned 40, my gynecologist told me that I needed to start having annual mammograms. There was no family history of breast cancer; it was simply recommended because of my age. I made sure that I accounted for the cost of a mammogram in my 125 plan for 2007, and I scheduled it for February. It was an easy procedure.

Two weeks later I got a phone call at work saying the mammogram needed to be redone. "Not to worry," they said, “it could just be a fold in your skin.” Plus, most mammograms are now being done digitally, and mine had not been. So I went back for a 2nd mammogram. The lump was still there. An ultrasound followed. The lump was still there.

Next, a biopsy was done. I was worried. Again, "not to worry" the tech who was doing the ultrasound guiding the biopsy said. "I've seen cancer before, and this doesn't look like cancer." She went on to say "I just know they will call you in 2-3 days with the results and tell you it's just a cyst." I left there feeling pretty confident. After all, the tech should know what she was seeing, right? For the next 2 days, I put it out of my mind.

Thursday, March 1, 2007, I received a phone call at work from my doctor's office. Here's what I remember hearing: "We have the results of your biopsy back. Your regular doctor is out, but another doctor can see you today at 1pm. Oh, and you might want to bring someone with you... blah, blah, blah, blah." She went on with directions, but I didn't hear a word she said. Time stood still. If it wasn't cancer, she would have told me that. After I composed myself a bit, I asked her to start over. "Tell me where I need to go." After that, I laid my head down and cried.

When I sat down with my daughter, who was 12 at the time, and told her that I had cancer, the tears flowed. "But Mommy, I don’t want you to die." I did my best to reassure her that cancer doesn't necessarily mean a death sentence.

I was only 40 years old. I turned 41 on March 5. A lumpectomy was scheduled for March 7. Three weeks later I started radiation - 33 trips to Lutheran Hospital. I finished my radiation treatments just before Memorial Day. After my last treatment, I got in the car and cried. It was such a relief to be finished, to get on with my life.

I would describe my cancer experience as inconvenient. Fortunately, my cancer was caught in the very early stages when it is most treatable. Before my lumpectomy, I met with my gynecologist. Despite knowing where the lump was located, I was still unable to feel it. He told me, "That's why you have mammograms!"

Through all of the overwhelming information and multitude of doctor visits, I learned that I have the best friend ever. I am also blessed to have a wonderful and supportive group of co-workers, as well as a supportive group of friends through my church. It wasn't easy to let people help me. But the generosity and out-pouring of support I experienced meant the world to me. God used ordinary people to reveal himself to me by providing tangible examples of just how near He was.

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