One artist's journey through breast cancer

 Recently yours truly underwent her own breast cancer scare. Though mine turned out to be nothing more than "B-9" lumpy boobage, I have a little metal clip inside me for life that reminds me each and every day that I must remain vigilant and get to know every inch of my boobies as a preventive measure. To say the least, the initial diagnosis stage is frightening enough, so I can barely imagine the stress in going through an entire battle. One local artist, Victoria Behm, has decided to utilize her talents to help her through the immense journey ahead to recovery and triumph over the ultimate adversity. I highly recommend checking out this thought-provoking scrapbook/diary she recently posted on Health.com's website. It is stunning in its imagery-- the needles, the radiation, the chemo, the chronicle of her hair loss. She really epitomizes for me what it means to be an artist-- for truly great art reaches within one's self to share with others. Behm does this and so much more.

But I definitely want to end breast cancer awareness month on a positive note. I love how Behm's fighting spirit really comes through in her writing as well as her art. She pulls no punches. There will be "discharge," she is warned, and with humor and bluntness, she shows how the gooey mess became a part of her daily struggle. The list of the drugs she has had to take, as well as the numerous treatments that keep her going is mind-numbing. My favorite part was where she is told by her doctors to refrain from being near any "sharp objects," (Hello! A bit hard to do when you work with woodcuts!)-- from whence she mentions how she once sliced off her fingertip with an x-acto knife. Pretty cool lady, and a great story.

Check it out below at:

http://slideshows.health.com/slide_shows/10210/slides/10472


 

I'm one angry boob

 

(Ditmas Park in the Fall, years past- B.H.A. Before Hipster Arrival)

Completely off the art topic today. I'm bored with it and crankier than ever as of late. Perhaps it's the 6-inch long needle to the boobaroo I got yesterday and then the repeated SMASHING of it again and again in the mammogram machine right after being sliced open that made me revel in the joys of my womanhood once again. Hurrah for Breast Cancer Awareness month!! Whoopee-dee-freakin'-doo. To make it 100% relevant, my body decided to go and have a breast cancer scare. In honor of my newfound coinkydink, I've decided next year's Talk Like a Pirate Day will have me actually BECOMING a pirate, and for Take Your Daughter to Work Day I'm going to have a daughter. Beat that, Jolie.

In my other crank-ass topic of the day-- I'm never one much to talk about where I live. Where I work is another story-- at least the neighborhood where I work and the galleries that surround me. I like to think that where I live is more or less where I finally go to sleep at night, because that's about all I ever do here. But lately, I'm more annoyed than ever. One of the best things about Ditmas Park for the past 5 years has been the unique quality of diversity to this neighborhood. All types of people lived here of all racial and ethnic backgrounds. The other great quality was the fact it takes a freakin' hour to get anywhere I need to work in Manhattan. And for that hour, I used to be able to sit my ass for most of the ride and read my paper.

Well, my antisocial ass has unfortunately found that oh, no-- everyone and their f'ing brother has decided to move here. YAY. And they're all white and they all wear skinny jeans with flannel shirts. Just what I always wanted!! Oh, and my dear Q train-- you know, the one that takes me where I need to go-- well, they decided to go glam. Yep, they gave us Q trains that are really L trains-- and now we've lost a good 10 seats per car. Yay. Swap cleanliness for extra feet and lower back pain from standing an HOUR on the way home. Gotta love it. F'ers.

The one good thing of the Gentrification 101 has been the addition of the Tibetan restaurant over the subway tracks. Yeah, you heard that right. Every time the train comes by the lights flicker on and off while you're eating. I f'ing love it. It rocks. They serve Tingmo. The Tingmo is boobalicious. I mean, delicious. Its fat, plump and you can mold it just like a mammogram technician molds your boob. But the best part is, you can eat it. My favorite part is so far there's mainly Tibetans in this restaurant, because most of the skinny jean, beard-grower, deodorant challenged keep eating at the outside tables. But alas, my days of easy quiet eating is numbered as the temperature drops. My solitude shall soon be greeted with tables of them socializing with their BYOB. Can't wait.