A friend I went to school with, all the way from 1st grade through graduation, has recently started her battle against breast cancer. She is facing it with courage, humor, and strength. I am so proud of her.
I do understand the urge, upon hearing the diagnosis of cancer, to just curl up and hide, feeling sorry for oneself. It would be so easy to just let everyone feel sorry for you and put everything on hold in hopes you survive and can get back to living later. But Lisa is fighting, commenting on facebook about the good days, laughing at having found gray hairs in her wig. She is still going to work most days, and living--really living her life.
During my treatment, I was just too sick to work. I was too sick to be around other people, including my kids. My parents took care of them while Mark took care of me. Every day, Mark made me shower and dress. On the days I felt good enough to get out of the house, we went for walks or strolled through flea markets. Anything we could do without putting myself at risk (I usually had a white blood cell count of less than 5 and was prone to infection.) And on the one day each week when my count was high enough, the day before my next treatment, we would spend time with my daughters. We would play quietly, watch movies, and snuggle. My youngest daughter turned five only days before I was diagnosed. Mark and I scoured flea markets and used book stores to find a second copy of the Little Golden Books we already had. Each night, I spoke to all three girls, talking to the older two about the things they had done that day and their plans for the next day. Every night, I let my youngest pick out one of the books and I read it to her over the phone while she followed along with her copy. She is almost 13 and still remembers the nightly reading sessions with great fondness. It made the distance between us disappear for a little while every night.
I wonder, sometimes, just how things would have worked out if I had had less support from my loved ones.
Another friend, Ron, is at the end of his battle. Cancer is taking his life, but he has never stopped living. He offers support to others, shows strength in the way he is approaching the end. He is the most courageous man I know. He has tried several different courses of treatment, but is now just trying to find an end to the pain.
If you know someone battling cancer, take a minute to let them know you care. Don't feel sorry for them, be supportive. That is what they need the most just now.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Happy Anniversary!
Today is Valentine's Day. I am a romantic, of course, but to me, Valentine's Day is not about roses and chocolate. It is about survival. Seven years ago, I underwent my final chemotherapy treatment. Lunch that day, in the infusion center, was prime rib. There was a rose made with Hershey's Kisses on my tray. It tasted like everything else had for months. But I will always remember that meal.
The past seven years has been filled with learning to deal with the fact that I don't always have the energy I want and my hands don't work like they used to (I'm told that the neuropathy was caused by the chemo and may go away...someday). I am getting used to the lymphedema and menopause my body was thrown into suddenly. I have learned everything there is to know about post-mastectomy bras, swimsuits, and prosthetic breasts. I have been frustrated by the inability to just wear any shirt I want, since most of today's styles show my prosthesis. I have spent $80 on a bra and more than $100 on a swimsuit. I am still seeing my oncologist and my oncological surgeon on a regular schedule and I take medication every day to help prevent a recurrence of the Inflammatory Breast Cancer that tried to kill me.
Today I took the next step. I met with a plastic surgeon and scheduled the first stage of my breast reconstruction. It is something I have thought about, read about, and stressed about for a very long time. I almost took the step last year, but because I was going to college, I decided to put it off. I graduated in December.
The first stage of my reconstruction will take place on March 2nd. They will be doing a reduction on my remaining breast, removing my port (finally!) and inserting a tissue expander. When I have healed some from that surgery, I will begin twice-weekly visits to have the expander, well, expanded. That will provide the extra skin to create my new breast. Once it is expanded enough, I will undergo stage two: the reconstruction. They plan on doing a procedure called a TRAM. They will take muscle and, doing a tummy tuck, fat, and reposition it, creating a new breast. Some weeks later, they will create a nipple and, finally, tattoo it to make it the correct color.
I won't lie. I am excited, but scared to death. This is the first surgery I have chosen to do. The others were life-saving surgeries, and I didn't have a choice. They were also all much shorter procedures. But I know I will be fine, and I know this is the right decision for me.
Well, since it is Valentine's Day, I am going to go spend some time with the love of my life. I hope it was a good day for you.
The past seven years has been filled with learning to deal with the fact that I don't always have the energy I want and my hands don't work like they used to (I'm told that the neuropathy was caused by the chemo and may go away...someday). I am getting used to the lymphedema and menopause my body was thrown into suddenly. I have learned everything there is to know about post-mastectomy bras, swimsuits, and prosthetic breasts. I have been frustrated by the inability to just wear any shirt I want, since most of today's styles show my prosthesis. I have spent $80 on a bra and more than $100 on a swimsuit. I am still seeing my oncologist and my oncological surgeon on a regular schedule and I take medication every day to help prevent a recurrence of the Inflammatory Breast Cancer that tried to kill me.
Today I took the next step. I met with a plastic surgeon and scheduled the first stage of my breast reconstruction. It is something I have thought about, read about, and stressed about for a very long time. I almost took the step last year, but because I was going to college, I decided to put it off. I graduated in December.
The first stage of my reconstruction will take place on March 2nd. They will be doing a reduction on my remaining breast, removing my port (finally!) and inserting a tissue expander. When I have healed some from that surgery, I will begin twice-weekly visits to have the expander, well, expanded. That will provide the extra skin to create my new breast. Once it is expanded enough, I will undergo stage two: the reconstruction. They plan on doing a procedure called a TRAM. They will take muscle and, doing a tummy tuck, fat, and reposition it, creating a new breast. Some weeks later, they will create a nipple and, finally, tattoo it to make it the correct color.
I won't lie. I am excited, but scared to death. This is the first surgery I have chosen to do. The others were life-saving surgeries, and I didn't have a choice. They were also all much shorter procedures. But I know I will be fine, and I know this is the right decision for me.
Well, since it is Valentine's Day, I am going to go spend some time with the love of my life. I hope it was a good day for you.
The Very First Step: An Introduction
In May of 2004, I was a 35-year-old single mom of three, looking forward to spending the summer with my daughters. It was their last day of school and I was meeting a friend for lunch as soon as I was finished with a doctor's appointment. The appointment did not go well.
After three months of doctor appointments trying to get to the bottom of my headaches and exhaustion, and weeks of antibiotics to treat the "breast infection" that had come on suddenly, I had finally convinced my doctor to order a mammogram. The technician could feel a lump that hadn't shown in the mammogram, so they did an ultrasound. That was followed immediately by a biopsy. That day, a Thursday, I was back to find out the results of the tests.
I really wouldn't say I was surprised to find out I had cancer. I had actually expected that. And I wasn't really scared, either, because I knew enough about breast cancer to know the survival rate was pretty high. I frequently heard of someone having a lumpectomy and not even needing to go through chemo, or going through a few weeks of chemo and not needing surgery. When the doctor, and his nurse, walked through the door, though, everyone outside at the desk stopped talking. The nurse gently closed the door and turned around and the look on her face stopped my heart. The doctor sat in front of me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, "You have cancer, and it is bad."
The doctor went on to explain to me that I had Inflammatory Breast Cancer, at that time a rare and extremely aggressive form. He offered me tissues, tried to prescribe sedatives (Really???) and left the room to contact an oncologist. The oncologist skipped his lunch to meet with me.
By that point? Yeah. I was pretty scared. But the oncologist was calm, straight-forward, and confident. He told me that there was not a specific protocol for IBC, but that between the two of us, we were going to figure out the best way to treat it. He refused to tell me the expected survival rate, but promised me that one year later, I would be teaching other women with breast cancer how to survive. I later found out the three-year survival rate was below 10% at that time.
The very next morning, I took my daughters to my parents' house, had surgery to implant a port, then started chemo. My boyfriend, Mark, took me home with him and took care of me.
I underwent chemotherapy through June, July and August. In September, I had a modified radical mastectomy. Fifteen of 16 lymph nodes removed during the surgery tested positive. Time for another serious talk with my oncologist. Because of the aggressive nature of the cancer, he strongly recommended a hysterectomy and oophorectomy (the surgical removal of ovaries) to stop the advance of the cancer. As soon as I healed from that, I started radiation and began chemo again.
My last radiation treatment was the week of Christmas. My final chemotherapy infusion was Valentines day. I had lost nine months of my life, lost my hair (twice!), lost my energy, my breast, my chances of ever having more children, my home, and missed out on so many things in my children's lives. But I hadn't lost my fight.
After three months of doctor appointments trying to get to the bottom of my headaches and exhaustion, and weeks of antibiotics to treat the "breast infection" that had come on suddenly, I had finally convinced my doctor to order a mammogram. The technician could feel a lump that hadn't shown in the mammogram, so they did an ultrasound. That was followed immediately by a biopsy. That day, a Thursday, I was back to find out the results of the tests.
I really wouldn't say I was surprised to find out I had cancer. I had actually expected that. And I wasn't really scared, either, because I knew enough about breast cancer to know the survival rate was pretty high. I frequently heard of someone having a lumpectomy and not even needing to go through chemo, or going through a few weeks of chemo and not needing surgery. When the doctor, and his nurse, walked through the door, though, everyone outside at the desk stopped talking. The nurse gently closed the door and turned around and the look on her face stopped my heart. The doctor sat in front of me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, "You have cancer, and it is bad."
The doctor went on to explain to me that I had Inflammatory Breast Cancer, at that time a rare and extremely aggressive form. He offered me tissues, tried to prescribe sedatives (Really???) and left the room to contact an oncologist. The oncologist skipped his lunch to meet with me.
By that point? Yeah. I was pretty scared. But the oncologist was calm, straight-forward, and confident. He told me that there was not a specific protocol for IBC, but that between the two of us, we were going to figure out the best way to treat it. He refused to tell me the expected survival rate, but promised me that one year later, I would be teaching other women with breast cancer how to survive. I later found out the three-year survival rate was below 10% at that time.
The very next morning, I took my daughters to my parents' house, had surgery to implant a port, then started chemo. My boyfriend, Mark, took me home with him and took care of me.
I underwent chemotherapy through June, July and August. In September, I had a modified radical mastectomy. Fifteen of 16 lymph nodes removed during the surgery tested positive. Time for another serious talk with my oncologist. Because of the aggressive nature of the cancer, he strongly recommended a hysterectomy and oophorectomy (the surgical removal of ovaries) to stop the advance of the cancer. As soon as I healed from that, I started radiation and began chemo again.
My last radiation treatment was the week of Christmas. My final chemotherapy infusion was Valentines day. I had lost nine months of my life, lost my hair (twice!), lost my energy, my breast, my chances of ever having more children, my home, and missed out on so many things in my children's lives. But I hadn't lost my fight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)