The New Me

As I have talked about in previous blog posts, one of the hardest parts of getting breast cancer is dealing with the physical changes due to surgery, chemotherapy and radiation treatments. And there a double whammy with these changes. Not only have they taken a physical and mental toll, but they also wreaked havoc on my career. Because as an actor body image impacts just about everything. It’s not just what you look like, but how you feel in your own skin that makes a difference.

For a few years I put “making money” as an actor on hold as I worked to build up The Seeing Place (my theater company.) But at the beginning of 2015 I made a new commitment to dust off the ol’ headshots & resumes, get back onto the casting websites, and start submitting myself for paying work again. And just as I started to do that, I got my cancer diagnosis and everything stopped. Just stopped. First, it was recovering from surgery. Then, it was being sick during 5 months of chemotherapy. Then, it was having to find the energy to drag myself to radiation treatments every single day for 7 weeks. Once all of this was done in April, one would think that I would be able to start auditioning right away. But the side effects lingered on, and not in ways that I anticipated.

It’s been really upsetting knowing that I had the time to pursue work as an actor but the psycho-emotional/physical impact of the disease and treatment have kept me from putting myself out there. First, I don’t know if I can adequately describe what it’s like to look in the mirror and see someone you don’t know staring back at you. I felt like my identity was ripped from me and I didn’t know who I was anymore. I’d look in the mirror and see an alien - puffed up skin with no eyelashes or eyebrows, short stubby hair, sunken eyes. I hated myself so much that I didn’t take any pictures during this time. I actively avoided the camera unless I was making some kind of funny face - because then at least we could all laugh about what I was doing and we could overlook the way I appeared.

As I’ve mentioned, I lost my hair so it’s taken some time for it to grow to a length that I feel comfortable sharing with the world. I gained about 15 pounds during treatment due to the steroids they had me on to combat chemo side effects. All of the weight that was gained went to my upper body (which is very rare for me but apparently common for steroid weight gain.) Not only did none of my clothes fit, but I hated the way I looked in photos. My face felt fat and my upper body seemed to overwhelm any photo I was in. I was very ashamed of the way I looked, and even though I knew it wasn’t my fault I felt guilty that I couldn’t get my body under control.

It’s taken me about 8 months and I’m just now starting to recognize a “me” that I can relate to and feel comfortable putting out there. I’ve lost almost all of the weight I gained so now I’m working to get to a pre-cancer weight. My scars are starting to heal - they still itch and ache, and I still have tons of swelling that causes pain, but for the most part that can be covered up with clothing. And I’m so relieved to know that my stylist has found a haircut that works for my face and I’m really loving it. I put in a streak of hot pink in my hair as a sort of gift to myself for everything I had gone through. (By the way, one thing that’s weird - sometimes I feel like I have a ponytail and I go to grab it and it’s not there! Is that like a phantom limb? A phantom ponytail??) And in the last few weeks I have started to get some of my old energy back.

So...

It’s time for me to re-introduce myself to the acting community. A new me. And it all starts with new headshots.

I was very nervous for the photo session. I wrote to the photographer that I was anxious about looking heavy in my photos, and I was also questioning my choice to keep the pink in my hair. I just couldn’t bear to remove it, though, and my photographer reassured me that we could do retouching on the photos if I ever took the pink out. So I swallowed all of my fears and last Friday I traveled to the Upper West Side to shoot with Mendez Photography. I had a lot of fun, and though I was a little restrained throughout the process I got some really great shots out of it.

Here are a few from the proofs - they have not been retouched yet so be kind!

Photos by Mendez Photography

I’ve done the task of figuring out exactly the type of work I want to be doing and how I want to promote myself for that work (also known as “branding” in our industry.) So my next step is to update my website and all of the casting websites with my new materials and start putting myself out there. The hope is that I’ll be able to reignite things that way I wanted to before I got sick. And maybe, just maybe, this illness will yield deeper, more expressive work that will bring me an income that will make living in NYC easier and more fulfilling.

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To see my description of what happened the day I was diagnosed, check out my first post, “Yes, I Have Breast Cancer.” And here is a link to all of my cancer posts.

To experience the art I’ve created through grief, come see me in the play GETTING OUT with The Seeing Place Theater - July 16-August 7, 2016.

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Erin Cronican is a breast cancer survivor, whose career as a professional actor and career coach has spanned the last 25 years in New York City, Los Angeles and San Diego. She has appeared in major feature films and on television, and has toured nationally with plays and musicals. She has worked in the advertising & marketing departments of major corporations, film production companies, theater magazines, and non-profit acting organizations. For more information, please visit www.erincronican.com.

Your Brain On Cancer

When something traumatic happens in your life, the moment it occurs it's burned into your memory and in your body, never to be forgotten. It’s how people know where they were and what they were doing when Kennedy was shot, when the Challenger exploded, when the Twin Towers fell.

On May 15, 2015 I received a phone call that is similarly burned into my memory. The phone call was from a radiologist telling me that the breast tissue they biopsied the day before was, indeed, cancer.

Cancer. Me. Cancer.

From that moment on I was whipped into a whirlwind of doctor’s appointments and disbelief, decisions and numbness, advice and anger and crippling fear.

I remember distinctly that the medical team said that in a year, treatment would be done and I’d be embarking on a new, cancer-free life. They said that this year would fly by, but I didn’t believe them. How could a year that would be filled with 3 surgeries, 5 months of chemotherapy, 7 weeks of radiation, and countless biopsies, scans and tests, “fly by”?

What’s so troubling about this whole concept is not only that they were right - it’s that I barely remember any of it.

Of course I remember all of the details and events, I’m not saying that I have amnesia. But somehow my mind has shellacked those details with a layer of “remove” that keeps me from remembering how hard it was, how much pain I felt, how much fear and anxiety I had, and how alone I felt. Someone might think this remove is a good thing, but I’m feel robbed of the experience that has newly shaped me, and shaped me so completely. To be honest, I feel numb. Numb... all the time.

People ask me how it was to go through chemo and I say, “I tolerated it really well, luckily.” They ask about what it was like to try to save my hair and I say, “It was really hard to lose it, but I’m glad I look ok with short hair.” They ask how I feel these days and I say, "I'm getting better and better!" It’s like I’ve forgotten how devastating the whole ordeal was, to be reduced to sound bites of optimism. The day to day difficulties are just glossed over so that my experience is only as palpable as my last headache or my last heartbreak.

And I’m not meaning to do this. It’s how my brain is allowing things to be remembered in those moments.

I know why the mind does that. It’s such a miraculous thing - it shields the psyche from giving us too much to deal with. How amazing is that? The brain has a way to cloud memory so we don’t remember the depth of physical or emotional trauma. And I could go on very nicely under this guise and just rebuild my life, but I always have this nagging feeling that I’m overlooking something, and I don’t want to do that. The intuitive empath in me won’t let me ignore myself for long.

After treatment ended in April I began seeing a therapist, because I knew that finding healthy ways to manage stress would be important in maintaining my health going forward. What I learned was that there was far more to deal with than just stress management. Unfortunately, I learned that there’s a new battle on the horizon, one that rears its head only after treatment is over -- the battle for my mental well-being.

One of the things I had been beating myself about was the fact that I didn’t “take advantage” of the extra time I had to reflect and plan while I was in treatment. I had reduced my work schedule and had every intention of being proactive with my down time to really focus on my emotional needs. (As I type this, I recognize the oxymoron of that last statement -- being proactive with my downtime? Hello!!) What I found was that I was too tired, physically depressed, and emotionally numb to focus on anything other than surviving the damned treatment. And the workhorse in me has seen that as lazy and self-indulgent.

Is it turns out, there was no real way to deal with my mental health while in a physical battle for my life. We all know that chemo and radiation have devastating effects on the body, so naturally all of my effort went into into merely staying alive. My therapist invited me to see my first year post-physical treatment as the time to be in emotional/mental treatment - which means I’m right on schedule, and at least 8 more months of mental healing to deal with.

So I’m going to be spending some time reflecting on my experiences and posting them here. I’m sharing on this blog for a variety of reasons. One - I hope that other cancer patients & survivors might find some comfort and solidarity in what I'm writing. Two - I hope that I can help people understand what happens to someone who goes through a trauma like this - just because treatment is done we are not "fine" or "finished." Three - I want a place where I’m forced to be open, because it’s way too comfortable to shut everyone and everything out (especially for introverts like me.)

So... I thought I would share some stream consciousness I wrote on the anniversary of my diagnosis:

May 15, 2016.
One year ago today was a Friday.
It’s the day I found out I had breast cancer.

I lost my innocence that day.
The innocence that made me believe that if you do all the right things you’ll be safe.
Because cancer doesn’t discriminate.
Being good doesn’t get you a pass.

I became isolated that day.
Doctors don’t always know the “right” thing to say.
Their focus is on getting rid of the cancer first. All else comes second.
Friends. Family. Colleagues...don’t always know the “right” thing to say.
They just want you to be fine.
And you’re a jerk if you tell them just how un-fine you really are.
Because no one wants to know the truth.
They say they do, but then you have to take care of them, too.

I became a “warrior” that day.
And all other kinds of ridiculous nicknames.
I don’t want to be a fucking warrior for fighting a disease.
I want to be a warrior because I fight for my theater company to have a voice, I fight for actors to find empowerment, I fight to be the best friend, girlfriend, daughter, sister, aunt, boss, coach I can be.
Not for getting cancer. Fucking cancer. I didn’t choose that fight.

I became a sage that day.
Because when I was in high school I had this small inner voice that told me that I would get cancer. That statistics can be in my favor all they want to be, but someone is always on the wrong side of those numbers, and I knew that would be me.
Years later I now accept that my mind and body just know things sometimes.

I became lost that day.
The path has always been obvious, and when it hasn’t I created one for myself.
Now, I know I’m still moving but everything is murky.
Everything has weight. Everything has meaning.

As I type innocence, isolation, warrior, sage, lost - I experience these things like they happened that first time. I’m grieving. I’m aching. And a new experience starts to grow.

If I’m lost, that means there’s nothing left than to be found.
I lost “innocent” but found “sage.”
If I was called a warrior, it must mean I had something to fight for.

Damn it.

I don’t want to be a better person for having had cancer.
I don't want to be an after-school special on self-love.

But even when I want to revel in the darkness, I recognize that’s only defined by the light. And as I allow myself to grief, I start to feel healed. I start to feel lost, and then I realize that I can take ANY path I choose because I can’t see the old one anyway.

So this blog may reveal pain and anguish as I trace my steps at each milestone a year ago, but I’m starting to see that it’s the only way to find my way back to center.

Thanks for bearing with me.


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To see my description of what happened the day I was diagnosed, check out my first post, “Yes, I Have Breast Cancer.” And here is a link to all of my cancer posts.

To experience the art I’ve created through grief, come see me in the play GETTING OUT with The Seeing Place Theater - July 16-August 7, 2016.

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Erin Cronican is a breast cancer survivor, whose career as a professional actor and career coach has spanned the last 25 years in New York City, Los Angeles and San Diego. She has appeared in major feature films and on television, and has toured nationally with plays and musicals. She has worked in the advertising & marketing departments of major corporations, film production companies, theater magazines, and non-profit acting organizations. For more information, please visit www.erincronican.com.

Why I Self Produce

As a part of my theater company's 2016 Fundraising Initiative I was asked to write little blog post to help our patrons get to know our members. We were given a little challenge: To start, The Seeing Place asked each of its members 3 questions which they could answer via text or video:

1) What is your hometown?
2) What is your dream role?
3) When was the last time you contributed to a campaign and how did it make you feel?

They then asked is to craft a little blog post about what brought us to The Seeing Place and why it means so much to us. I thought you might enjoy learning a bit about my love for the company!



"WHY I SELF-PRODUCE" BY ERIN CRONICAN

When I was younger I never had any aspirations of being a director or a producer. I was an actor - there was no way I’d overwhelm my life with other things. It was, “Be an actor” or nothing at all.

The last few years in my hometown of San Diego I worked for an amazing organization called the Actors Alliance, a non-profit that helps actors have all of the resources they needed to be professional artists in San Diego. One of our projects was our actor-driven Festival of Short Plays, which would allow actors to sit into the producer’s seat and have a chance to create work for themselves. What was so amazing about co-producing this event is that each year I was able to feel the pulse of the community and curate content that a) our audiences would appreciate and b) would inspire our artists. And all of the sudden a day job which once simply supported my efforts as an actor became a training ground for what would be a life-altering jump into the abyss as a Managing Director of The Seeing Place.

Erin Cronican
(headshots with new hair coming!)

I’ll be honest - when Brandon approached me in 2009 and said, “Hey, I’m starting a theater company, and you’re going to start it with me,” I said no. I’d known Brandon for years, from back in our mutual hometown of San Diego where he worked with me in my final year producing the Festival. I assumed that all he wanted was my producing acumen rather than my skills as an actor, and I wasn’t having any of that! But he wore me down with a promise that we were going to do something different. Actors who led the company would have choices. They would have a voice, an opportunity to have a real say in the art they created. And how can you turn down a promise like that?

So many people describe productions that actors self produce as “vanity projects” and I find that term so disheartening. Where is that distinction when a writer produces their work, or when a director finds a script they love and have a vision to bring it to life? I think that what “vanity project” actually refers to is when someone creates something for their own good or use with no regard for their audience. People fear that actors only want to perform because they like to show off or want personal accolades. But thinking that way does actors a great disservice, and we at The Seeing Place are fighting to return the name of ACTOR to their rightful place as Living Historian - a position that, in the past, held great reverence. Actors are the conduit that allows an audience to see themselves and learn something about the world around them.

A thank you Erin received from Judy Shepard
of the Matthew Shepard Foundation

What is most inspiring to me about being an actor who produces is that I don’t just have a voice in the roles I play - I also have a voice in the organizations we partner with, the audiences I help to develop, and the issues that I’m burning to shed light on. When we did THE LARAMIE PROJECT (2014) I got to dream big about how I wanted to make a real impact, and we were able to partner with the Matthew Shepard Foundation, Tectonic Theater Project (who wrote TLP with Moises Kaufman) and multiple other organizations who put humanity over hate. When we did A LIE OF THE MIND I was able to coordinate talkbacks on traumatic brain injuries and violence against women, and our dramaturgy sessions help educate our cast about the very real issues surrounding abuse that is passed down through families. Can you imagine how inspiring it is to be able to make a difference not only on stage in bringing a human being to life, but also off stage with our audiences and our members where the real difference is made?

So when you donate to The Seeing Place, you do more than give us money so that we can act. You are funding a company that teaches its members how to give back to society. You’re enabling our producing staff to mentor dozens of actors to be conscientious self-producers, the way I was mentored back in San Diego. And best of all, you’re a partner in creating art that makes a real difference for its community, which means you’re an artist, too. 


Learn more about Erin at www.erincronican.com

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To help create new work with Erin and The Seeing Place by contributing to our campaign, visit www.TheSeeingPlaceTheater.com

Erin Cronican is a breast cancer survivor, whose career as a professional actor and career coach has spanned the last 25 years in New York City, Los Angeles and San Diego. She has appeared in major feature films and on television, and has toured nationally with plays and musicals. She has worked in the advertising & marketing departments of major corporations, film production companies, theater magazines, and non-profit acting organizations. For more information, please visit www.erincronican.com.

I'm A Survivor

I have been sitting here staring at the title I just wrote for this post, having the hardest time knowing where to start. I have just finished active treatment for breast cancer, and now I’m in what they call the phase of “survivorship.”


I looked up the work “Survivor” in the dictionary, and here is what it said:

• a person who survives, especially a person remaining alive after an event in which others have died. Example: ”the sole survivor of the massacre"

• the remainder of a group of people or things. Example: ”a survivor from last year's team"

• a person who copes well with difficulties in their life. Example: ”she is a born survivor"

And this is what people have been saying to me when I’ve told them that I’m done with treatment:

“You’re cancer free!”
“You’re done!”
“You’re better now!”

And that makes sense, given the definition listed above. But Survivorship means something different in the cancer world. According to the National Cancer Institute, here is the definition:

“In cancer, survivorship focuses on the health and life of a person with cancer post treatment until the end of life. It covers the physical, psychosocial, and economic issues of cancer, beyond the diagnosis and treatment phases. Survivorship includes issues related to the ability to get health care and follow-up treatment, late effects of treatment, second cancers, and quality of life. Family members, friends, and caregivers are also considered part of the survivorship experience.”

So when someone asks me if I’m planning a party to celebrate "the end of cancer" I almost don’t know what to do.

Because I’m not done. I will never be done with cancer. For the next 5 years I will be going through an inordinate amount of tests to make sure the cancer doesn’t come back. (I wrote at length here about the prognosis for my kind of cancer recurring.) And thereafter will always been someone who almost lost her life, and that changes you. Will I be fine? Yes. Am I better? I don't know. I'm pretty sure that if given the option I would have never wanted to get cancer, no matter how much of a silver lining I fight to see.

But I do feel an immense sense of accomplishment. As of Saturday, March 19, I am completely done with active breast cancer treatment. I stare at myself in the mirror and marvel at how resilient my body has been through this whole process: 2 biopsies, 2 surgeries, 16 rounds of the most intense chemo they could throw at me, and 33 rounds of radiation. I have had more scans and needles sticks than I care to count, and my body has withstood these invasions with aplomb. I didn't know I was so strong, and I am in awe of my body and truly honor it in a way I didn't know possible.

The one thing that did not survive, so to speak, was my long blonde hair which I had worked ravenously to save. For the past 5 months I’ve been in a pretty deep depression about the loss of my hair, covering my naked head with hats and a wig. When I lost my hair I lost my sense of self. I no longer knew who I was - and hated who I saw in the mirror. I was at war with myself daily, and here was no end in sight.

But this week, to commemorate the end of treatment, I bucked up my courage and took my scrawny, newly grown locks to the hair salon, where I spent several hours creating a whole new look with my stylist. I have never in my life had short hair, and it was time to face the fact that I can't ignore it anymore. Hiding will not make the problem go away. It's time to embrace it, and find out who I am now.

And it’s as if I’ve been reborn - perhaps not the way I had envisioned, but no phoenix rises from the ashes in the same form they were before the fire. And within one day, I have fallen in love with myself once again.

I'm back. 

So, without further ado... The New Normal:

Twiggy...eat your heart out!

And yes, if you look closely enough you’ll see that I gave myself a bit of naughty color - a big stripe of purple to bring life back to my being:

I'm a little bit rock and roll...

So...What’s next for me?

Well, as the definition says above, my focus for the next 5 years is survivorship. I have to take care of this body, but I also now know how precious life is so I will do everything I can to squeeze every last of goodness out of it. I will continue to create with my amazing theater company, I will continue to love and support my friends, and I will try to leave the planet and humanity a little bit better each day. I’m commit to expressing all of myself and not holding back, letting go of the small anxieties, and learning everything I can about the world we live in. No sticking my head in the sand. No running away when things get tough. LIVING.

I look forward to keeping you on this journey with me. Please leave a comment so I know you were here!

Erin :)

PS: I have a bunch of “retrospective” posts that I will be sharing about some of my inner thoughts as I’ve gone through treatment. I’m going through my personal diaries to pull some of the better excerpts, and will share them soon.


Erin Cronican is a breast cancer survivor, whose career as a professional actor and career coach has spanned the last 25 years in New York City, Los Angeles and San Diego. She has appeared in major feature films and on television, and has toured nationally with plays and musicals. She has worked in the advertising & marketing departments of major corporations, film production companies, theater magazines, and non-profit acting organizations. For more information, please visit www.erincronican.com.
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Performing Howard Ashman

A couple of weeks ago I had the amazing honor of singing in the cabaret event, “Gone Too Soon: A Tribute to Howard Ashman” at the Metropolitan Room in NYC.

It is always so wonderful being able to sing with some of my favorite performers, including Adam Shapiro and Janice Hall. But as the concert date approached, I realized that the event was fulfilling a long held dream I had forgotten I had: offering my own interpretation of Howard Ashman’s amazing lyrics.

The event's host, Adam Shapiro, reached out to me and said that each singer would get to perform two songs, and though I could choose anything I wanted he hoped that I would be willing to sing, “Part of Your World.” I was so thrilled and said yes immediately, and then made my own special request - would he be willing to join me for the duet, “Suddenly Seymour” (a long held favorite of mine)? He agreed, and my challenge was set.

The performance was scheduled for January 19, exactly two weeks after my last round of chemotherapy. Unfortunately, I had caught a severe chest cold during the holidays which my poor, compromised immune system could not fight off, and it was lingering well into January. I started to worry if I would be able to perform fully. I laid low and did all of the things singers do to preserve their voices - limited my talking, upped my intake of water and local organic raw honey, steamed until my asthma got the best of me, practically freebased slippery elm and licorice root, and packed in all of the antioxidants I could muster. The day of the show arrived, and I was (thankfully) in full voice and ready to perform.

When I got to the venue for sound check something hit me. I had been spending all of my time worrying about my body being able to perform that I forgot the magnitude of what I was about to do. My god - I was about to sing two classic Howard Ashman songs at his tribute! I immediately started tearing up, and nostalgia set in. I was transported back to my childhood when the renaissance of Disney began to take hold, with The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast and Aladdin. I was transformed into my childhood self who wore out her little record player, then cassette recorder, then CD player with the full gamut of Disney albums. With those deep memories came the dreams and hopes present in any child whose whole life is ahead of them. It’s not a cliche - I truly felt like a kid again.

But there was a somber air to the performance as well. Howard Ashman died 25 years ago from complications from AIDS. The tribute was not only a celebration of his music but also of his life, which was snuffed out too quickly. And I sat there throughout the concert realizing, “My god. I also have a life threatening illness, just as indiscriminate as HIV. Will my life be snuffed out too early, too?” It brought to the surface so many fears, and I ached for what Howard and his friends & family must have experienced.

In the end, I was left with how lucky I was to be able to share my personal expression with so many people that evening. How art is the great connector that transcends all of the barriers that tear a community apart. It made me even more determined to continue to make art happen, even if conventional wisdom says I should be laying low.

I didn't get any photos or recording of this event, but I have performed & recorded a version of "Part of Your World" in the past (with a surprise comedy bit added.) Check out the video, with the incomparable Cris O'Bryon on piano. 

As always, thank you for your support. If you're looking for ways to help, you can check out this blog post with my wish list, which is making all the difference in the world. 

Erin :)

Erin Cronican's career as a professional actor and career coach has spanned the last 25 years in New York City, Los Angeles and San Diego. She has appeared in major feature films and on television, and has toured nationally with plays and musicals. She has worked in the advertising & marketing departments of major corporations, film production companies, theater magazines, and non-profit acting organizations. For more information, please visit http://www.erincronican.com.

Update: Chemo Is Done!

Hello! I’m so sorry it has been so long since I’ve posted a "real" update. In October 2015 I went from having chemo once every two weeks to having it weekly, and it truly took over my life. Most days were spent trying to figure out how to manage my side effects while also attending to the important things in my life.

Dealing with the day to day illness was not as easy as I thought it would be. I stepped back my day job (career coaching for actors) to only 10 students a week, a drastic cut from the 20-25 I was used to. I had to take Tuesdays off due to being at the hospital all day, and I added another day off (Fridays) so that I could give myself a rest on the day that side effects reared their heads the strongest.

I was also producing two shows with The Seeing Place - directing one of the them and starring in the other - which were in pre-production and rehearsals on October and November and then ran for 3 weeks December 4-20. The shows went really well, by the way (see reviews here!) - they even received an “Honorable Mention” distinction in Manhattan With A Twist’s “Top 10 Productions of 2015” award - there are hundreds of indie companies in NYC, so to have our company singled out with 14 other amazing productions is a hugely impressive distinction.

Then the holidays came, where I finally got to see my mom for the first time since my diagnosis and I also got to see my dear friend, Laura, who has also been through breast cancer and accompanied me to one of my appointments. And on December 20 I was hit with the longest running chest cold of my life. I only just started to get better yesterday, 3 weeks after being run down by it. My life has been an exercise in patience and self-preservation.

The side effects of chemotherapy have been less intense than I imagined but somehow far more difficult to deal with than I ever imagined. If they had been more intense (losing weight, extreme nausea, etc) I would have been chained to my bed and forced to rest. Instead, the side effects “only” left me feeling like I had a flu for 5 months (pain in my bones, achiness in all of my muscles, listlessness, fatigue, shortness of breath when exerting myself, stomach cramps after every meal, congestion, loss of voice from coughing, numbness in all 10 of my toes, temporary weight gain from the steroids that made none of my clothes fit, extremely low white blood cell count, and generally feeling drugged up.) But I still “seemed fine” to everyone around me so I convinced myself that I was healthier than I was and pushed myself really hard. The result? Anytime I had down time I crashed and slept. In November and December I did little to no socializing, pretty much staying in bed unless I had to teach or be at the theater. This exhaustion kept me from doing much of anything, much less blogging or writing. And I started to feel like my life would never get back on track. I’ve never been very good at slowing down, so the last few months have been really awful.

I thought that when I reduced my day job workload it would free me up to do some things for myself - take time to explore the city, brainstorm about where I want my life to go, do little personal creative projects (like reading, coloring, writing poetry, etc.) Instead I found myself sleeping or just reading social media in a daze because I couldn’t get my mind to really focus on anything when my body felt so depleted. So now that I’m done with chemo I look back and wonder where the time went? I had such good intentions for my time “under the drip.”

I also had a development with my hair that I didn’t expect, which threw me into a deep depression for a couple of weeks. While the cold caps were effective in keeping hair on my head, what I didn’t expect was that in early November absolutely all of the blonde hair I had BROKE OFF at the place where my roots had grown in. Meaning - right now instead of long blonde hair with about 2-3 inches of my natural brown roots, I only have 2-3 inches of my natural brown roots. No more length, no more blonde. I had no idea this was possible. I followed the hair care instructions to the finest point and read pages upon pages of message boards - I never heard about people’s hair breaking off. The only thing I can figure is that my hair became too brittle and weak due to the chemo, and broke at the last place it had been bleached. I look a little like Anne Hathaway in Les Mis when she chops her hair, except that because of the chemo I had already shed 50% of my hair and so it looks less full and much more choppy. Definitely not sexy or attractive.

This is Anne, not me. Though we do share a birthday, so maybe we are the same person. 

(And, with respect, please don’t comment to say, “You’ll look good with short hair!” Understand that this has been devastating for me, especially after the intense pain and countless hours of using the cold caps - the only appropriate response to cancer patients who lament their hair loss is, “I’m so sorry you’re having to go through this.”)

So I enter 2016 not really knowing who I am or what’s ahead. My identity was so wrapped up in the package I presented to the world - now I look in the mirror and there’s someone there that I don’t recognize. I have 4 scars across my chest, my hair makes me look like a refugee, and I’m still deep in the side effects of chemo even though my last drip was a week ago. (Chemo lingers in the body for a while, and the 12 straight weeks of my last cocktail show cumulative effects that are hardest at the end.)

What's also been very hard is reading about all of the deaths this week from cancer. I was hardest hit by those closest to home. An actor colleague of mine, Rick Delaney, passed away from cancer. And Holley Kitchen, who changed the world with her devastating video about her metastatic breast cancer, just passed away. The video was posted about a month after my diagnosis, a time I learned that even if I do all of the right things I still have a 34% chance of having the cancer come back as Stage 4. Her death is so personally upsetting that I could barely speak today. 

I spent 95% of my time "fighting" and "staying positive" and "being inspiring" - so please forgive me when the 5% overtakes me. It's a dark fight, and scary fight, and sometimes I just need to be allowed to express my fears and live them for a moment so that I don't bottle things up (which is far worse - fake positivity does nothing good for the body.) This is why I might hibernate sometimes so that I can come back out to the world a more stable, fearless, "warrior" that you know me to be.

I had a consultation with my radiation oncologist today where we put together a plan for radiation - 5.5 weeks (28 treatments) of radiation across my left chest, underarm and collarbone (to get the full breast plus all of my lymph nodes) and then 5 more targeted treatments just into the area where the cancer was found. I’ll post more when I know more. In the meantime, most of my medical updates can be found at my blog at PostHope.

As always, thank you for your support. If you're looking for ways to help, you can check out this blog post with my wish list, which is making all the difference in the world.

Erin :)


Erin Cronican's career as a professional actor and career coach has spanned the last 25 years in New York City, Los Angeles and San Diego. She has appeared in major feature films and on television, and has toured nationally with plays and musicals. She has worked in the advertising & marketing departments of major corporations, film production companies, theater magazines, and non-profit acting organizations. For more information, please visit http://www.erincronican.com.

Top 10 Benefits of Going Through Chemo [HUMOR]

Artwork courtesy of ChemoNinjaStore

So often when someone talks about adversity you hear people say things like, “Everything happens for a reason” or “You’ll come out much stronger after going through this.”

My initial response is wanting to punch those people, but then I got to thinking - what ARE the positives of doing 16 rounds of chemotherapy for breast cancer, aside from the obvious “maybe I won’t die”?



So here it is - my Top 10 Benefits of Going Through Chemo:

10) The mosquitos that bite me will never know what hit them. Suck on that!

9) The port they’ve sewn into me for injections and blood withdrawals makes me feel like a funky robot.

8) I haven’t had to shave my arms and legs for months.

7) I’m getting dozens of wishes per day as my eyelashes fall out.

6) I've gotten over my phobia of needles - now it's just a low grade anxiety instead of panic attacks. (yay?)

5) I have a brand new internal furnace that eliminates the need for sweaters and scarves in the fall. (Chemo causes early menopause! Who knew?)

4) No eyebrows & no eyelashes = chic alien look.

3) The doctors tell me that I can eat whatever the f*ck I want - dieting can resume once treatment is done.

2) I got a free foot massage in the hospital every week

and...

1) I feel invincible knowing that there’s poison coursing through my veins and I’m still able to walk. The human body can be incredible!

I'm thrilled to announce that I completed chemotherapy January 5, 2016. Today is my first Tuesday that I haven’t been on a chemo schedule since August 2015. I feel immensely grateful that I was so well taken care of, and there was some sort of calm knowing that each week I was taking a positive step forward to fight the disease.

Luckily, I’m not done. The next chapter involves 33 rounds of radiation, 5 days a week for 7 weeks. I have my consultation with the radiation oncologist on Thursday to find our exactly what my treatment will entail. While I’m not looking forward to the daily appointments, inevitable radiation burns, and fatigue that comes with the treatment, I’m glad that there’s one more intense therapy that can improve my chances of going into full remission. What I’m most scared of is the day in mid-March when the treatment is all done and all I’ll have left is to sit & wait for the 5 year “all clear” announcement.

Meanwhile, David Bowie just died of cancer and I’m reminded of just how precious life is...

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Many of you have asked how you can help. I’ve created a wish list of things that would really make a difference as I go through chemo and radiation treatments. Click here.

To read my medical updates, including how I’ve been doing with chemo treatments, click here.

I love comments almost as much as getting mail. Leave something below!


Erin Cronican's career as a professional actor and career coach has spanned the last 25 years in New York City, Los Angeles and San Diego. She has appeared in major feature films and on television, and has toured nationally with plays and musicals. She has worked in the advertising & marketing departments of major corporations, film production companies, theater magazines, and non-profit acting organizations. For more information, please visit http://www.erincronican.com.