On June 7, 2004, the day after my 28th wedding anniversary, I became a statistic. I am now that one in eight women you've probably heard about in United States alone diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetime.
Over the course of my surgery and treatment, I hope to post a journal of my experience with this once potentially deadly disease, as well as links and other information I will gather over the next few months. I will also count on feedback from others who have dealt with breast cancer, either personally or with a loved one.
I hope you will come back often, as this page will definitely be a work in progress.
Thanks for stopping by.
June 25
Time seems to be the worst of it so far. Too much of it. Three weeks, to be exact, between diagnosis and surgery. I've been amazed, for the most part, that I've handled it as well as I have to this point. Not a single "Why me?" No anger or bitterness. I've been kind of stoical, I guess. After all, why not me? The odds seem unfairly stacked if you happen to be born female. The statistics are frightening. Over 240,000 of us are diagnosed every year. So, why not me? And yet, it's still a little unbelievable that it is really happening. I just want to get it over with.
But time has been a good friend, as well. I've learned a lot about breast cancer and its treatment. Much has happened in the field since my mother's radical mastectomy in the early 70's. It's comforting to know that my chances of surviving this and leading a normal, healthy life are very good...if not excellent. Besides, my surgeon is very encouraging.
Now comes the stretch run. The final weekend before the beginning of the next phase of my life. Monday seems so far away and yet it's so close. Almost frightening to think that it will finally arrive. I try to picture myself in that "twilight" sedation while my doctor removes the little perpetrator that has turned my life upside down over the past month and a half, making the concerns that had plagued me until then seem insignificant in comparison. Nothing prepares a person for this. Not in my wildest imagination could I ever have conceived of this. And now, I am calling upon an inner strength I never knew I had. I suppose it was there all along. I just never needed it before this.
July 3
On Wednesday, I cried. OK, that's an understatement. I sobbed uncontrollably, I gave in to fear, despair, and whatever other pent-up emotions had been building inside me and needed an outlet. It surprises me that I didn't explode sooner. After all, a month-and-a-half is long time to keep so many feelings under wraps. I suppose it was bound to happen, and I'm happy that I was able to vent. Tears can have cleansing effect.
I haven't been deceiving myself. Until Wednesday, I had been going about my business as a newly diagnosed breast cancer patient with blinders on, focused on the date of my surgery and not letting anything get in my way. The surgery went well, for the most part. The staff at the hospital were all compassionate, caring professionals, who did their best to make me comfortable, explaining everything and open to questions. It seems like a blur now, waking up in the recovery room with my husband and father there at my side. The surgeon was there as well, but I barely remember speaking with him. All I knew was that he had "gotten everything" and I would soon be going home to await the pathology reports.
I slept on and off for the remainder of the day, managing the pain with vicodin and my anxiety with ativan. I even managed to eat a little supper and keep it down. I allowed myself to relax, looking forward to healing and getting on with treatment.
Then Wednesday came. I called my surgeon. Had he received any news? His voice was steady, but I sensed immediately that the news was not good. The tumor was larger than he'd expected. Not one 1.2 cm. tumor, by three little buggers. A cluster, one after another. But he removed all of it. The bad news was that it had spread. There was cancer in the sentinel node. He would need to go back in and remove more lymph nodes.
At first I wasn't sure I had heard what he had said. I asked him if he would have to take my breast. My heart was pounding. I felt light-headed. No, he said. We weren't going there just yet. Only a few nodes. And I would have an mri to determine the extent of the spread. He made certain I understood before we hung up.
And then I cried.
I felt alone and devastated. More surgery. And then what? Was I going to die? How would I get through this?
I'm back on an even keel again. MRI is scheduled for Tuesday. Will see the doctor on Thursday, and the following week I have appointments with the rest of the "team," the radiologist and oncologist. On Thursday I received a call from a member of the hospital's breast care outreach staff. We talked for about an hour and left off with positive feelings. I'm not alone. Even strangers can be caring when they share a common bond. As women we reach out to our stricken sisters and extend to them comfort and hope. In times of uncertainty, comfort and hope take on a whole new meaning.
July 17
I keep telling myself to stay focused. There is but one goal on this road in the battle against cancer, and that is to be cured, to eradicate all trace of it from my body and increase the chances that it will never return. And do whatever it takes to ensure that I achieve that goal.
But there are the inevitable, unforeseen pot holes along this road. It isn't easy. No one ever said it was. So, when I found myself derailed yet again, I began to lose sight of the goal. There are going to be detours. The road to recovery will be longer and bumpier than any of us could have imagined.
The MRI showed an invasion of lobular cancer in my left breast, the type that is not easily picked up on a mammogram or ultrasound. After day after day of ups and downs, I heard the words I most feared from my oncologist. Mastectomy. Chemotherapy. I will lose my hair and my breast. But before we go any further, though, there will be more tests. Brain scan. CAT scans. More anxiety and worry until the results come in. Has it spread even farther than the sentinel node? Is it in my bones, my liver...? And then there will be genetic testing. Is my daughter at risk? My sisters? My sister's two girls?
My stomach has been in knots since Thursday. Will I get through this? Do I really have the strength to endure? The point is, I have no choice. That makes this journey somewhat easier to bear.
July 3, 2005
All right, "my bad!" It's nearly a year since I wrote here...nearly a year since I've done nearly anything at all, except run around (well, I didn't exactly run) from doctor to doctor, going through the whole gamut of treatments and their expected side effects: four months of chemo, 28 days of radiation, and reconstruction surgery. I lost breast, my hair, my strength, my brain, but not my life. And that's what it's all about. Nothing and I mean absolutely nothing came between me and my goal. It's odd, looking back. It's almost like a bad dream. But upon waking, I appreciate how fortunate I am and how lucky I've been. I have a new appreciation for so many things in life I used to take for granted: my kids, husband, sisters, friends. Seeing life return to the trees and the earth reviving from its winter dreariness in spring brought a sense of breathless fascination to me. And as I sit out on my porch on a hazy, hot summer evening, I feel all the awe and wonder of a child seeing fireflies for the first time.
I am a survivor. It's now part of who I am. It's etched into my psyche and I'm reminded of it almost every minute of every day. I still have a long way to go before I can truly put breast cancer behind me. I will always have the scars and the memories, the tingling fear in my stomache when I think back on the toxic liquids dripping into my veins, that mingling of physical sensations in my scalp as my hair began to fall out, the queasiness, the uncertainty of it all, the radiation burns. And it's not over by a long shot. There are still visits to my darling oncologist, Raj Nadkarni, every few months, the battery of tests every six months, the daily dose of arimidex and the aching it causes in my feet and joints. Five years. In five years, if it doesn't come back, if it doesn't metastasize in my bones or organs, I will be considered cured. In the meanwhile, I live in dread of strange aches and pains, and suffer through the axiety of waiting for test results. But I live, nonetheless, and for the rest of my life, I will treasure every moment.
I couldn't have gotten through this past year without my husband, Tim, who was a real trouper, sitting with me through chemo, injecting me with neupogen, cooking, cleaning, and putting up with my nonsense. My sisters (who made sure I received my daily dose of laughter), my dad, and my kids, who gave me hope. And all my "breast buddies" on the breastcancer.org boards, the bravest, funniest, most courageous women I'll ever hope to meet: Nela, Karen, Diane, Frances, Clare, Brenda, Candy, and Patti. These women all began their journeys with me in the "August 2004 Chemo Sisters" and some of them continue still with their battle.
March 13, 2006
A couple of days ago I observed the first anniversary of the end of treatment. I hadn't realized what an accomplishment this was. Frances died in November, leaving behind four young children and a husband. And just a couple of weeks ago, Karen was taken too soon from her husband and young son and daughter. Both were young women who left a legacy of caring and devotion, as well as courage in their fight against breast cancer. Both are sorely missed.
Links
Beaux Tie Designs -- Nice site, 15% of all sales is donated in your name (or the name of a loved one) to promote breast cancer awareness, treatment options and counseling.
Breastcancer.org
Breast Cancer Action
The Breast Cancer Site -- Fund Free Mammograms
cancer network.com
CancerSource.Com
Headcovers Unlimited, site offers hats, scarves, wigs and more
Look Good...Feel Better
National Alliance of Breast Care Organizations
National Cancer Institute
NexProfiler™ Treatment Option Tool
Patient Advocate Foundation
Softee USA, offers post mastectomy products
The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation
Visions of Hope
