This is how I have decided to live my life.
I have decided that I will not be defined by this cancer. I have decided to try and not spend one extra minute in my day dwelling on it, having it take control over what I do.
That of course, is easier said than done. How can you ignore that your life has been threatened? How can you move on past the “active” phase of treatment and back to the everyday minutia that takes up so much of life? How can you make those minutes matter? I ask those questions every day. It isn’t easy, but I am getting better about not framing my life in the context of cancer, but of trying to celebrate the good things without having to taint it with that ever present cloud.
Updates
So, I got some surgery last month. The original plan was to do a lift on the left and a mastectomy and reconstruction on the right. Things didn’t quite work out that way. I know that I said I wouldn’t blog about my areolas again. It totally makes my husband uncomfortable, but the fact of the matter is, between the amount of space the surgeon needed to remove what was left of the tumor and the fact that my areolas were kind of big, the skin wasn’t thick enough and there wasn’t quite enough of it left to do the reconstruction at the same time.
I was disappointed. My husband told the plastic surgeon that he needed to be the one to tell me, I don't think my husband wanted the responsibility of it, he knew how it would be something I didn't want to hear. I have a very vague, drug-induced memory of the surgeon doing just that. He went on to tell my husband that I was pretty with it when he delivered the news. I remember nothing else about him talking to me or most of the remainder of that day except waking up two hours later, getting wheeled into a hospital room and the sweet, sweet, kindness of the painkillers.
Before the surgery I thought one night in the hospital would be enough. Two was definitely necessary and I knew it right away. I was so unsure of how I would feel afterwards and in all honesty it sucked. There are women out there who have had to go through worse (double mastectomies, removal of lymph nodes and muscle) none of it is easy. The surgical drains were the worst. They were super uncomfy and had to be emptied daily.
Can I say one thing here? My husband is amazing. I considered getting the visiting nurses to come in and do the drains as well as apply the nitroglycerin paste to what was left of my right boob in order to make sure the skin didn’t die, but he said he was fine with it. I never wanted him to see me sick. I never wanted him to have to take care of me at 37. It is one thing to see babies coming out of my body, but that was beautiful in its own crazy, sort of gross way, because they were something we created together, new lives that made us more than we were before.
Donning surgical gloves and smoothing cream over an area outlined in blue marker is another story and he will never know how grateful I am to him that he never once flinched and still seems to think that he made a good decision marrying me.
I do think he will be pleased once the right boob is good and grown.
It is weird to have one boob. I will say the one on the left looks amazing (a small C), that was the first conscious question I asked the plastic surgeon when he came in to check on me the next day.
I am also totally thankful to my amazing social worker who showed up the next morning with a camisole that had pillow inserts so that I would have something other than the bra I woke up from surgery in to wear and so that I wouldn’t be so lopsided.
Any of you who know me know that I have never, ever had to stuff a bra.
Anyway, instead of taking two weeks of disability from work it ended up being three. I am still not 100% back to doing all the everyday things that I am used to doing. I still probably shouldn’t pick up QT, but it is less because of the lifting and more because I am afraid he is going to bump a boob. Last week after I came back from the doctor, he said to me "your booboo better, you hold me now?" Tears.
The plastic surgeon left an expander with a port inside me after the surgery. I go every week to get pumped up. He inserts a little silicone and the expander fills slowly. After each visit, I take a little bit more stuffing out of my bra. In the next 4 or 5 weeks it will reach the point where it matches the left side and then we will schedule another surgery to replace the expander with a permanent implant. It will be a basic boob job at that point, an outpatient surgery that hopefully won’t have much of a recovery.
I wanted to have the reconstruction done at the same time as the mastectomy because I am tired of waiting to resume my life. I just want to move on. It is a setback, but it is minor and in the scheme of things, it isn’t that terrible.
I feel lucky that the tumor is out. I feel even more lucky that the last round of scans came back showing nothing left of it, and more importantly nothing new.
I am not cancer-free. Metastatic cancer doesn’t allow that.
What I am right now is cautiously optimistic, what I am doing is continuing to take my meds, going for my treatment every three weeks, growing a new boob, adjusting to life post-chemo, post-surgery, post-what do I do now?
For all of you who helped me during the recovery from this surgery, I am unbelievably grateful. Thank you for visiting me in the hospital. Thank you for coming over with couscous salad, button down shirts and climbing into bed with me to chat. Thank you for making meatballs and enduring a very sleepless sleep-over party. Thank you for the daily Dunkies delivery. Thank you for pjs and the Twizzlers. Thank you for taking the kids and making this difficult time for me an opportunity for them to go and do something new and exciting. Thank you for calling and sending cards. Thank you for being a friend of a friend who knows all too well what it is like to go through this surgery and sending me an email with post-surgery advice from women who have been there.
Thank you for simply showing up. Thank you for knowing me well enough that I probably was not going to ask for help so instead of simply offering an empty platitude you responded with action.
Also, thanks to my Loyola ladies for the lingerie gift card. When the new boob comes in, I am going shopping. A perky C-cup after three kids? Ahhh the marvels of modern medicine.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Scantastic Results and Surgery
I am done with chemo.
Six months, six cycles, side-effects.
It was a bit anti-climatic, especially since I still have to go every three weeks for the "maintenance" drugs, but I am happy to not have to deal with the exhaustion, the sleeplessness, the steroids.
I feel better.
My hair is growing back pretty quickly. I am going to have to actually go to a salon soon for some styling advice since it has transitioned to something that resembles a nun's haircut and is starting to grow in over my ears.
I started running again (I am slow).
I am taking Bikram yoga (it is hot).
I am making summer plans (please invite us over, especially if you have a pool).
I was rescanned in May. My third time. I now consider myself a bit of an expert on the art of the PET scan, I arrived with loose clothing, no metal, I removed my earrings, and my wedding rings. The technician couldn't find a vein, he asked me the awkwardly uncomfortable question of what I was doing there, my shoulders cramped in the long narrow tube. I wanted so badly for these results to reflect what I have hoped so much for since that cold October day. That the treatment worked. That the cancer is gone.
And the news is good. There is nothing left in the hip. They see nothing anywhere else but there is still something left in the breast.
I got another mammo, another ultrasound. I got a call from the doctor and we are going to do surgery.
He said the best way to totally remove the remaining cancer from my body is to cut it out. So that is what I am going to do.
I had to wrap my head around it. In the beginning before we knew anything, before things were so aggressive, so advanced, surgery was an option, then it wasn't. I have to admit I was a little jealous of those other women in the treatment room, women who had options, who for them surgery would be just the fix they needed to put this all behind them and move on.Women who would worry if and not when.
I also have to admit that I never really entertained the idea of a mastectomy. When we first talked surgery it was going to be a lumpectomy, remove what was left, throw in an implant and move on.
Let me assure you that there is nothing that I won't do to ensure my chances of a longer survival. Breasts are great, my breasts are great, but they aren't working for me the way they should. So we are removing one, putting in an implant, and much to my delight giving me a bit of a lift on the other side.
I am lucky that both the surgeon and the plastic surgeon can do the procedures at the same time. One surgery is better than two. The reconstruction will happen right after the removal and that makes things easier for me in terms of recovery.
The plastic surgeon kept on telling me that we were going to have to make the boobs smaller. I kept on assuring him that this wasn't an issue. I mean I breastfed three kids, gravity isn't kind.
So that is where we are. I will go in for surgery in a few weeks, continue to go for monthly treatments, readjust to life post-chemo, and hope days turn into weeks and then years and years and years.
Six months, six cycles, side-effects.
It was a bit anti-climatic, especially since I still have to go every three weeks for the "maintenance" drugs, but I am happy to not have to deal with the exhaustion, the sleeplessness, the steroids.
I feel better.
My hair is growing back pretty quickly. I am going to have to actually go to a salon soon for some styling advice since it has transitioned to something that resembles a nun's haircut and is starting to grow in over my ears.
I started running again (I am slow).
I am taking Bikram yoga (it is hot).
I am making summer plans (please invite us over, especially if you have a pool).
I was rescanned in May. My third time. I now consider myself a bit of an expert on the art of the PET scan, I arrived with loose clothing, no metal, I removed my earrings, and my wedding rings. The technician couldn't find a vein, he asked me the awkwardly uncomfortable question of what I was doing there, my shoulders cramped in the long narrow tube. I wanted so badly for these results to reflect what I have hoped so much for since that cold October day. That the treatment worked. That the cancer is gone.
And the news is good. There is nothing left in the hip. They see nothing anywhere else but there is still something left in the breast.
I got another mammo, another ultrasound. I got a call from the doctor and we are going to do surgery.
He said the best way to totally remove the remaining cancer from my body is to cut it out. So that is what I am going to do.
I had to wrap my head around it. In the beginning before we knew anything, before things were so aggressive, so advanced, surgery was an option, then it wasn't. I have to admit I was a little jealous of those other women in the treatment room, women who had options, who for them surgery would be just the fix they needed to put this all behind them and move on.Women who would worry if and not when.
I also have to admit that I never really entertained the idea of a mastectomy. When we first talked surgery it was going to be a lumpectomy, remove what was left, throw in an implant and move on.
Let me assure you that there is nothing that I won't do to ensure my chances of a longer survival. Breasts are great, my breasts are great, but they aren't working for me the way they should. So we are removing one, putting in an implant, and much to my delight giving me a bit of a lift on the other side.
I am lucky that both the surgeon and the plastic surgeon can do the procedures at the same time. One surgery is better than two. The reconstruction will happen right after the removal and that makes things easier for me in terms of recovery.
The plastic surgeon kept on telling me that we were going to have to make the boobs smaller. I kept on assuring him that this wasn't an issue. I mean I breastfed three kids, gravity isn't kind.
So that is where we are. I will go in for surgery in a few weeks, continue to go for monthly treatments, readjust to life post-chemo, and hope days turn into weeks and then years and years and years.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
The Double Life
It's been a while.
I still have cancer.
I am still navigating what I can only describe as parallel lives.
There is me, mother, wife, full-time working woman, who is trying to find missing library books and make dentist appointments. Someone who is making plans for summer camp and beach weekends, making mental grocery lists and trying to pair missing socks. Someone who had a hard enough time trying to balance work and home before fitting in devastation.
Then there is me, breast cancer patient on week 20 of sitting in a chair, waiting, wondering, hoping. Someone who has given up on headcoverings and who barely wears a wig outside of work. Someone who makes green smoothies and keeps her talismans close at hand.
It is amazing how normal this has all become. How the weeks have moved forward and how much I have changed and how much I am very much the same.
You would think I would be sleeping less. That the worry would be so constant, so chronic that I could do nothing but sit wide-eyed in my bed at night and fret over all the what ifs and the things that I may miss. And while there are times that I am blindsided, hit so fiercely and furiously by the enormity of my diagnosis, I am also so exhausted by chemo and kids and correcting commas that there is no time left to pay it any mind.
So I live in both spaces, balancing precariously on the tightrope of each, trying to move on.
I still have cancer.
I am still navigating what I can only describe as parallel lives.
There is me, mother, wife, full-time working woman, who is trying to find missing library books and make dentist appointments. Someone who is making plans for summer camp and beach weekends, making mental grocery lists and trying to pair missing socks. Someone who had a hard enough time trying to balance work and home before fitting in devastation.
Then there is me, breast cancer patient on week 20 of sitting in a chair, waiting, wondering, hoping. Someone who has given up on headcoverings and who barely wears a wig outside of work. Someone who makes green smoothies and keeps her talismans close at hand.
It is amazing how normal this has all become. How the weeks have moved forward and how much I have changed and how much I am very much the same.
You would think I would be sleeping less. That the worry would be so constant, so chronic that I could do nothing but sit wide-eyed in my bed at night and fret over all the what ifs and the things that I may miss. And while there are times that I am blindsided, hit so fiercely and furiously by the enormity of my diagnosis, I am also so exhausted by chemo and kids and correcting commas that there is no time left to pay it any mind.
So I live in both spaces, balancing precariously on the tightrope of each, trying to move on.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Updates
I realized that I never really update this blog with actual information about my treatment.
Today I have an off day. That means no chair, no meds, no time off from work. But it is also a nice little break. My body doesn't get beat up, I have a bit of time to recover and not feel so run down.
I will pretty much be getting weekly treatment until June. Sometimes it is one drug, sometimes it is two, every three weeks or so I usually get all three.
The chemo drug, Taxol, is the one that I feel the most side-effects from. It keeps me up at night, it makes my face flushed the next day,and it needs to be coupled with a steroid that makes me hungry. One girl (and I say girl because she is about 10 years younger than me) who is going through treatment told me that the Dr. said you can gain up to 25lbs. on Taxol. I am thinking about wiring shut my jaw. I am all for getting proper nutrition but I do not want to show up in swimsuit season with a crewcut and an extra 25 lbs. attached. The kids are really into getting in the water now and my husband refuses to step foot in the LI Sound, so it is pretty much me in there. Ugh.
The other two drugs that I am on are targeted for the HER2+ breast cancer. I will continue getting them both every three weeks after June for who knows how long. But I will continue to take them because they are part of the long-term treatment of this disease and because they seem to be working and I am all about things working.
I will say that there appears to be a bit of a silver lining on the hair front. I haven't actually gone full-on Daddy Warbucks bald. In fact, my hair seems to be growing back.
I went from the GI Jane phase and am transitioning from the butch lesbian/English soccer hooligan phase into the 13-year-old Asian boy stage right now. I asked the nurse if this was OK. I mean, one of the big side-effects of Taxol is hair loss and even though my hair was coming out in clumps maybe I was premature to shave it all down. Maybe I could have gone with a pixie cut? I am pretty sure I will never be described as "gamine" like the Hollywood starlets who have embraced the pixie hairdo but it would have been a little less dramatic than taking it all off.
I was worried that because the hair was growing back that it meant the drug wasn't working. The nurse assured me that it was just because of the way my body metabolizes the drug. I will take that as a bit of good news. Hopefully, once June hits I won't have to wear the wig anymore.
I know a lot of people want to know how I feel, and in all honesty, I feel OK. I do get tired. I hit a wall every day where I just feel like I have had enough and need my bed, but I am not knocked out completely. I still get up with the kids. I still occasionally vacuum. I still go to work every day and still make it to the grocery store. I am lacking in energy and it isn't always easy, but I see how far I have come already and I know that if I keep going I am going to make it through.
So for now I just move forward. I will go to treatment and keep hoping the drugs continue to work and I will try my hardest to keep you all updated.
Today I have an off day. That means no chair, no meds, no time off from work. But it is also a nice little break. My body doesn't get beat up, I have a bit of time to recover and not feel so run down.
I will pretty much be getting weekly treatment until June. Sometimes it is one drug, sometimes it is two, every three weeks or so I usually get all three.
The chemo drug, Taxol, is the one that I feel the most side-effects from. It keeps me up at night, it makes my face flushed the next day,and it needs to be coupled with a steroid that makes me hungry. One girl (and I say girl because she is about 10 years younger than me) who is going through treatment told me that the Dr. said you can gain up to 25lbs. on Taxol. I am thinking about wiring shut my jaw. I am all for getting proper nutrition but I do not want to show up in swimsuit season with a crewcut and an extra 25 lbs. attached. The kids are really into getting in the water now and my husband refuses to step foot in the LI Sound, so it is pretty much me in there. Ugh.
The other two drugs that I am on are targeted for the HER2+ breast cancer. I will continue getting them both every three weeks after June for who knows how long. But I will continue to take them because they are part of the long-term treatment of this disease and because they seem to be working and I am all about things working.
I will say that there appears to be a bit of a silver lining on the hair front. I haven't actually gone full-on Daddy Warbucks bald. In fact, my hair seems to be growing back.
I went from the GI Jane phase and am transitioning from the butch lesbian/English soccer hooligan phase into the 13-year-old Asian boy stage right now. I asked the nurse if this was OK. I mean, one of the big side-effects of Taxol is hair loss and even though my hair was coming out in clumps maybe I was premature to shave it all down. Maybe I could have gone with a pixie cut? I am pretty sure I will never be described as "gamine" like the Hollywood starlets who have embraced the pixie hairdo but it would have been a little less dramatic than taking it all off.
I was worried that because the hair was growing back that it meant the drug wasn't working. The nurse assured me that it was just because of the way my body metabolizes the drug. I will take that as a bit of good news. Hopefully, once June hits I won't have to wear the wig anymore.
I know a lot of people want to know how I feel, and in all honesty, I feel OK. I do get tired. I hit a wall every day where I just feel like I have had enough and need my bed, but I am not knocked out completely. I still get up with the kids. I still occasionally vacuum. I still go to work every day and still make it to the grocery store. I am lacking in energy and it isn't always easy, but I see how far I have come already and I know that if I keep going I am going to make it through.
So for now I just move forward. I will go to treatment and keep hoping the drugs continue to work and I will try my hardest to keep you all updated.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
On Giving Up
I gave up cancer for Lent.
I am pretty sure I can get some sort of special dispensation, but I decided to just let it go.
I am giving up the worry.
I am giving up the insomnia, the feeling of insurmountably, the burden of it all.
I am giving up the ache in my bones, the cracked nails and skin.
I am giving up the indignity of my body breaking down.
I am giving up the itchy wig, the scarves, the head coverings.
I am giving up feeling defined by it, feeling sorry for myself, feeling sorry and sad and stuck.
I am giving up just managing to get by.
I am giving it up, out to the universe to deal with and struggle with every day instead of me.
I won't give up the treatment. I will still sit in that chair every week while the meds pump through my veins, I will still do as much as I can to battle this disease but I won't be in some sort of holding pattern until treatment stops, until this all melts away. I will give up the weight of it, the heavy load, the unimaginable fear and I will live through it. I will live my life. I am pretty sure it will be easier than giving up chocolate.
I am pretty sure I can get some sort of special dispensation, but I decided to just let it go.
I am giving up the worry.
I am giving up the insomnia, the feeling of insurmountably, the burden of it all.
I am giving up the ache in my bones, the cracked nails and skin.
I am giving up the indignity of my body breaking down.
I am giving up the itchy wig, the scarves, the head coverings.
I am giving up feeling defined by it, feeling sorry for myself, feeling sorry and sad and stuck.
I am giving up just managing to get by.
I am giving it up, out to the universe to deal with and struggle with every day instead of me.
I won't give up the treatment. I will still sit in that chair every week while the meds pump through my veins, I will still do as much as I can to battle this disease but I won't be in some sort of holding pattern until treatment stops, until this all melts away. I will give up the weight of it, the heavy load, the unimaginable fear and I will live through it. I will live my life. I am pretty sure it will be easier than giving up chocolate.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
On Washing Wigs and Looking Good
On Washing Wigs
When washing a wig you should probably pay close attention to detail and maybe be focused on the task at hand. For example, when the instructions say fill the sink with cold water, drop in a capful of shampoo, agitate the hair for a minute or two and let soak for five minutes before rinsing off, you probably shouldn't leave the wig in there for let's say roughly 35 minutes while you try and get the kids to bed and find yourself sitting on the couch watching an episode of "Tattoo Nightmares" before rescuing your wig, which now looks like a wet piece of roadkill.
Looking Good
I should probably wear makeup. I am a firm believer in looking good/feeling good, but it is hard when you have three kids and cancer. Last week I did attend the Look Good Feel Better session offered at the Breast Center. I was actually excited to go. Not only would I be getting some freebies but the entire group would be made up of breast cancer patients.
I haven't been too social in the chemo room and I was interested to be among a group of women who were all battling the same thing. It was a wide-range of ages and wig choices. There were some who felt that the homemade t-shirt head wrap with a piece of lace and small button might work for them and there were others who maybe thought that if you weren't choosing a turban as a fashion headpiece before you were diagnosed with cancer than maybe you might not be too keen on wearing one after.
Anyway, I got a bag full of goodies. The woman who ran it was very adamant about making sure that we not share any of these products with anyone else. I wasn't sure how long that was going to last in my house. In fact germs are pretty much everywhere. As I sat there listening to how to apply foundation I got a call from the Lady's school saying that she vomited. I guess going out to lunch with my newly applied makeup and taking a moment or two to pamper myself wasn't going to happen. I was just hoping that we wouldn't have a repeat performance of last year's stomach bug.
I was lucky enough to be sitting toward the front of the room so the woman was able to use me to demonstrate a few things. The problem with this was that she only did one eye or one cheek and I was left to my own devices to figure out how to get the other side to look somewhat close to her work. Did I mention in this bag was liquid eyeliner? Look, I think I might be able to handle regular pencil liner but liquid eyeliner? You need a steady hand and perhaps a background in 80's hair bands. To say that my application was shaky would be an understatement.
When the makeup portion was done I had a full face on. Eyes, lips, cheeks you name it. Then the woman from the salon where I got my wig did a small presentation. She reminded us all to wash our wigs, "just agitate it for a minute or two before rinsing it off."
Um.
The good thing was that she was able to show me a trick or two on how to part this wig so it gave me a few options and didn't make me feel so insecure about wearing it.
With that I was off to tend to the Lady who was feeling much better after her little puking incident and who was very interested in the contents of my new makeup bag. Since I knew I wouldn't get away without sharing any of the contents with the Ladies I let them have the liquid eyeliner, the lip gloss and the very neutral beige eyeshadow.
When washing a wig you should probably pay close attention to detail and maybe be focused on the task at hand. For example, when the instructions say fill the sink with cold water, drop in a capful of shampoo, agitate the hair for a minute or two and let soak for five minutes before rinsing off, you probably shouldn't leave the wig in there for let's say roughly 35 minutes while you try and get the kids to bed and find yourself sitting on the couch watching an episode of "Tattoo Nightmares" before rescuing your wig, which now looks like a wet piece of roadkill.
Looking Good
I should probably wear makeup. I am a firm believer in looking good/feeling good, but it is hard when you have three kids and cancer. Last week I did attend the Look Good Feel Better session offered at the Breast Center. I was actually excited to go. Not only would I be getting some freebies but the entire group would be made up of breast cancer patients.
I haven't been too social in the chemo room and I was interested to be among a group of women who were all battling the same thing. It was a wide-range of ages and wig choices. There were some who felt that the homemade t-shirt head wrap with a piece of lace and small button might work for them and there were others who maybe thought that if you weren't choosing a turban as a fashion headpiece before you were diagnosed with cancer than maybe you might not be too keen on wearing one after.
Anyway, I got a bag full of goodies. The woman who ran it was very adamant about making sure that we not share any of these products with anyone else. I wasn't sure how long that was going to last in my house. In fact germs are pretty much everywhere. As I sat there listening to how to apply foundation I got a call from the Lady's school saying that she vomited. I guess going out to lunch with my newly applied makeup and taking a moment or two to pamper myself wasn't going to happen. I was just hoping that we wouldn't have a repeat performance of last year's stomach bug.
I was lucky enough to be sitting toward the front of the room so the woman was able to use me to demonstrate a few things. The problem with this was that she only did one eye or one cheek and I was left to my own devices to figure out how to get the other side to look somewhat close to her work. Did I mention in this bag was liquid eyeliner? Look, I think I might be able to handle regular pencil liner but liquid eyeliner? You need a steady hand and perhaps a background in 80's hair bands. To say that my application was shaky would be an understatement.
When the makeup portion was done I had a full face on. Eyes, lips, cheeks you name it. Then the woman from the salon where I got my wig did a small presentation. She reminded us all to wash our wigs, "just agitate it for a minute or two before rinsing it off."
Um.
The good thing was that she was able to show me a trick or two on how to part this wig so it gave me a few options and didn't make me feel so insecure about wearing it.
With that I was off to tend to the Lady who was feeling much better after her little puking incident and who was very interested in the contents of my new makeup bag. Since I knew I wouldn't get away without sharing any of the contents with the Ladies I let them have the liquid eyeliner, the lip gloss and the very neutral beige eyeshadow.
The Lady wasn't much better than her mother at applying liquid eyeliner. She ended up looking like the guy from A Clockwork Orange. And even after multiple attempts at me trying to remove said liquid eyeliner from beneath her lashes, I am pretty sure I sent her to school yesterday with a bit of it still on.
I am happy to report that the rest of the stuff is mine (and currently germ-free). Who knows maybe one day I will actually take the time to apply more than the moisturizer.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Results
Here's when you cry
In the car on the way home from work with the radio loud and the dark winter night as cover.
Here's when you cry
In the shower on a Sunday when you have five minutes to yourself and even though the kids keep popping in you know you can hide behind the curtain and camouflage your tears with the shower spray.
Here's when you cry
In bed at night after your husband's breathing has become low and slow and you think about what a great dad he is and pray that he never has to do it alone.
Here's when you cry
When you see your kids in your rear view mirror and realize you can't miss one minute of their life, not high school, or college or first grade.
Here's when you cry
In the hallway outside your office on an October afternoon when the surgeon who did your breast biopsy calls and says cancer, before you go back to your desk and work for the rest of the day.
Here's when you cry
In a small examining room mid-November when the doctor says the word metastatic.
Here's when you cry
In the passenger seat of your minivan, on a foggy January afternoon, clutching your husband's hand and a printout of your PET scan results that say words like "illiac" and "acetabulum" and "hypermetabolic" and even though you have to google the words you know what it also says is:
Findings consistent with a significant response to therapy
Significantly decreased activity in the right breast
Right axillary/subpectoral lymph nodes and osseous structures no longer appear hypermetabolic
It says it is working and those are tears of relief and the only thing you can do is cry.
In the car on the way home from work with the radio loud and the dark winter night as cover.
Here's when you cry
In the shower on a Sunday when you have five minutes to yourself and even though the kids keep popping in you know you can hide behind the curtain and camouflage your tears with the shower spray.
Here's when you cry
In bed at night after your husband's breathing has become low and slow and you think about what a great dad he is and pray that he never has to do it alone.
Here's when you cry
When you see your kids in your rear view mirror and realize you can't miss one minute of their life, not high school, or college or first grade.
Here's when you cry
In the hallway outside your office on an October afternoon when the surgeon who did your breast biopsy calls and says cancer, before you go back to your desk and work for the rest of the day.
Here's when you cry
In a small examining room mid-November when the doctor says the word metastatic.
Here's when you cry
In the passenger seat of your minivan, on a foggy January afternoon, clutching your husband's hand and a printout of your PET scan results that say words like "illiac" and "acetabulum" and "hypermetabolic" and even though you have to google the words you know what it also says is:
Findings consistent with a significant response to therapy
Significantly decreased activity in the right breast
Right axillary/subpectoral lymph nodes and osseous structures no longer appear hypermetabolic
It says it is working and those are tears of relief and the only thing you can do is cry.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
On Healing Masses and Radioactivity
I made an early decision to try and keep myself open to any form of support be it meals, prayers, alternative medicines, talisman, voodoo charms or hand holding.
In my pocket I carry an angel of healing medal, I wear a cross with healing stones, I have three bottles of Lady of Lourdes water and a necklace, with what has become my mantra on it, which someone sent me with no card and a Canadian return address (it looks like it came from Etsy--if you sent it please let me know so I can thank you properly!).
So when my friend Andy called me and asked me if I wanted to go to a healing mass I said sure. I thought why not? I didn't know what to expect or what I would have to do but I thought I have faith, and there is something very powerful about saying I believe.
Andy drove up from Baltimore. He picked up my friend Dave in Hoboken and my girlfriend Lauren drove in from Brooklyn. We met for tapas and a nice glass of wine. We talked, we laughed, we got caught up.
If any of you knew the four of us in college you would know that we would be the last four people out of our group of friends who would be heading towards a church. There might have been a few times the four of us were in a van heading somewhere, but I guarantee you there were probably some unholy acts occurring as well.
But there we were navigating the Merritt Parkway on a cold New England night looking for a little hope, a little more faith and some healing.
Would it surprise any of you to know that when we got to the church it was pretty dark? There were only a couple of cars in the parking lot and about three other people inside. We sat, we waited, we giggled a little at the fact that we had come all this way and there was no priest to lead us. (Although in a totally unrelated aside, I guess no priest is better than the priest that married my brother and sister-in-law, who recently got arrested for selling meth to support not only his drug habit but his adult sex shop.) And finally we decided to go.
Priest or not priest though, there was some healing that night for me. There was the familiarity of being around old friends, of being able to be myself, of not having to focus so much on the cancer. I even stepped out with no wig. I thought I pulled it off okay.
I am grateful to my friends for making the effort, for being willing to explore every avenue out there, to give me the opportunity to find a way to help heal.
Radioactive
I am radioactive.
I am.
I have a note with my name on it that explains why a Geiger counter might go off in my presence.
I spent my morning in a mobile unit attached to the outside of a hospital getting injected with a radioactive dye and stuffed in a tube for twenty minutes.
The only thing I can say about it is please.
Please. Please.
Please show some shrinkage. Please show that this cancer hasn't spread that the meds are doing their job.
Please make the awkward chatting with the kind-of-off PET scan guy worth it.
Please give me something concrete and positive to hold on to, proof that all the days in the chemo chair are making a difference and that not being able to hug or hold my kids tonight is just a small price that I will have to pay, a few short hours in one short day in a long line of days to come.
In my pocket I carry an angel of healing medal, I wear a cross with healing stones, I have three bottles of Lady of Lourdes water and a necklace, with what has become my mantra on it, which someone sent me with no card and a Canadian return address (it looks like it came from Etsy--if you sent it please let me know so I can thank you properly!).
So when my friend Andy called me and asked me if I wanted to go to a healing mass I said sure. I thought why not? I didn't know what to expect or what I would have to do but I thought I have faith, and there is something very powerful about saying I believe.
Andy drove up from Baltimore. He picked up my friend Dave in Hoboken and my girlfriend Lauren drove in from Brooklyn. We met for tapas and a nice glass of wine. We talked, we laughed, we got caught up.
If any of you knew the four of us in college you would know that we would be the last four people out of our group of friends who would be heading towards a church. There might have been a few times the four of us were in a van heading somewhere, but I guarantee you there were probably some unholy acts occurring as well.
But there we were navigating the Merritt Parkway on a cold New England night looking for a little hope, a little more faith and some healing.
Would it surprise any of you to know that when we got to the church it was pretty dark? There were only a couple of cars in the parking lot and about three other people inside. We sat, we waited, we giggled a little at the fact that we had come all this way and there was no priest to lead us. (Although in a totally unrelated aside, I guess no priest is better than the priest that married my brother and sister-in-law, who recently got arrested for selling meth to support not only his drug habit but his adult sex shop.) And finally we decided to go.
Priest or not priest though, there was some healing that night for me. There was the familiarity of being around old friends, of being able to be myself, of not having to focus so much on the cancer. I even stepped out with no wig. I thought I pulled it off okay.
I am grateful to my friends for making the effort, for being willing to explore every avenue out there, to give me the opportunity to find a way to help heal.
Radioactive
I am radioactive.
I am.
I have a note with my name on it that explains why a Geiger counter might go off in my presence.
I spent my morning in a mobile unit attached to the outside of a hospital getting injected with a radioactive dye and stuffed in a tube for twenty minutes.
The only thing I can say about it is please.
Please. Please.
Please show some shrinkage. Please show that this cancer hasn't spread that the meds are doing their job.
Please make the awkward chatting with the kind-of-off PET scan guy worth it.
Please give me something concrete and positive to hold on to, proof that all the days in the chemo chair are making a difference and that not being able to hug or hold my kids tonight is just a small price that I will have to pay, a few short hours in one short day in a long line of days to come.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Friends and Benefits
If you stumbled upon this page because you mistyped as you were Googling "friends with benefits," I am sorry to inform you that you have made your way to a cancer blog.
Having said that I will say that the JT/Mila Kunis movie by the same name was surprisingly much better than I thought, although I do prefer the Ryan Reynolds/Anna Faris classic "Just Friends" when it comes to movies about trying to navigate the tricky and often hilarious missteps of trying to date your best friend.
However, what this blog post is really about is saying thank you.
Thank you to every single one of you who showed up on Saturday and supported me and my family. I know that the draw of a day drink with an open bar might have been a bit of incentive, but please know that to walk into a room and see so many people that have played a role in my life and who were willing to show up and lend their support was unbelievably amazing.
Thank you.
Thank you to Marianne and Colette and Bourbon Street.
Thank you to college roommates and their moms and work friends and to those of you I had sixth period French with and those of you that at one point I might have french kissed. Thank you to my cousins and aunts and uncles, friends of friends who showed up and lent a hand. Thank you to old friends I haven't seen in too long and to those who have been by my side through it all.
In all honesty I wasn't even sure I was going to show up. The thought of walking into a room, what I dubbed the "Worst High School Reunion Ever," at 36, bald, with breast cancer was a little daunting.
But the one thing I am realizing through this entire, terrible, overwhelming, unbelievably life-altering process is that there are people who care and who just want to help. By showing up on Saturday, you lessened the burden a bit for me and for that I am incredibly grateful.
Having said that I will say that the JT/Mila Kunis movie by the same name was surprisingly much better than I thought, although I do prefer the Ryan Reynolds/Anna Faris classic "Just Friends" when it comes to movies about trying to navigate the tricky and often hilarious missteps of trying to date your best friend.
However, what this blog post is really about is saying thank you.
Thank you to every single one of you who showed up on Saturday and supported me and my family. I know that the draw of a day drink with an open bar might have been a bit of incentive, but please know that to walk into a room and see so many people that have played a role in my life and who were willing to show up and lend their support was unbelievably amazing.
Thank you.
Thank you to Marianne and Colette and Bourbon Street.
Thank you to college roommates and their moms and work friends and to those of you I had sixth period French with and those of you that at one point I might have french kissed. Thank you to my cousins and aunts and uncles, friends of friends who showed up and lent a hand. Thank you to old friends I haven't seen in too long and to those who have been by my side through it all.
In all honesty I wasn't even sure I was going to show up. The thought of walking into a room, what I dubbed the "Worst High School Reunion Ever," at 36, bald, with breast cancer was a little daunting.
But the one thing I am realizing through this entire, terrible, overwhelming, unbelievably life-altering process is that there are people who care and who just want to help. By showing up on Saturday, you lessened the burden a bit for me and for that I am incredibly grateful.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
In Treatment
They finally just hooked up the last drug in my "cocktail." I have been here since 11:15, it is now almost 4.
Today is a long day.
I get all three drugs that make up my treatment, plus an anti-nausea drug, a steroid that is wholly responsible for the fact that I have not lost one single pound since this diagnosis. That is right, I am blaming the steroid, not the oreos, not the copious amounts of pretzel thins and never my good friend peanut M&Ms.
As much as I would rather be anywhere else than sitting in this chair, I have to admit there is a community here. I am getting to know the nurses, I am loving my social worker and fellow working mom, I am recognizing more patients, becoming comfortable in an environment I never wanted to be welcomed in.
I still sit in the second room, the smaller room, with less people and a bit more privacy. I am not interested in watching News 12 or Family Feud on the shared TV. But there is another thing, something that I never expected. I look forward to coming here.
At first I thought maybe it was because I didn't have to go to work. I will admit that might be part of it, but then it became more. An uninterrupted 2-4 hours where I can concentrate on myself, actually rest, read. Oh my god, I am reading again. Real books with chapters. Not one princess or Strawberry Shortcake in the mix.
I am spending actual quality time with my best friend. The only way we have to sit and chat without worrying about six kids is in the chemo chair.
I also come because it is the one thing that I can really do to make me better. I look forward to the needle in the port, the metallic taste of the meds in the back of my throat, the cocktail dripping in my veins. It is me being active even though I am just sitting here, draped in the fleece blanket made by a friend, wearing a knit hat sent by another. Waiting for it to work.
Today is a long day.
I get all three drugs that make up my treatment, plus an anti-nausea drug, a steroid that is wholly responsible for the fact that I have not lost one single pound since this diagnosis. That is right, I am blaming the steroid, not the oreos, not the copious amounts of pretzel thins and never my good friend peanut M&Ms.
As much as I would rather be anywhere else than sitting in this chair, I have to admit there is a community here. I am getting to know the nurses, I am loving my social worker and fellow working mom, I am recognizing more patients, becoming comfortable in an environment I never wanted to be welcomed in.
I still sit in the second room, the smaller room, with less people and a bit more privacy. I am not interested in watching News 12 or Family Feud on the shared TV. But there is another thing, something that I never expected. I look forward to coming here.
At first I thought maybe it was because I didn't have to go to work. I will admit that might be part of it, but then it became more. An uninterrupted 2-4 hours where I can concentrate on myself, actually rest, read. Oh my god, I am reading again. Real books with chapters. Not one princess or Strawberry Shortcake in the mix.
I am spending actual quality time with my best friend. The only way we have to sit and chat without worrying about six kids is in the chemo chair.
I also come because it is the one thing that I can really do to make me better. I look forward to the needle in the port, the metallic taste of the meds in the back of my throat, the cocktail dripping in my veins. It is me being active even though I am just sitting here, draped in the fleece blanket made by a friend, wearing a knit hat sent by another. Waiting for it to work.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Gettin' Wiggy Wit It
Obviously the hair came off. I will not say that having a cancer conversation with a 5 and 3-year-old was easy. Both of the girls processed the news in their own way. The hair thing to them, like me, was the pressing issue.
I will say we talked, we read, we cried, we hugged, we shaved. All of us.
I sat in the bathroom on a stool and the girls each took a turn taking some off. I would like to thank my husband for his attention to detail and his steady hand. In hindsight we probably should have done a Mohawk for a little bit, but since I am hoping to never, ever have to shave my head again, I will not consider it a regret.
I will also say that I didn't look in the mirror. Not at first. I showered and saw the outline of my head reflected back in a steam-covered mirror. I caught a glimpse of myself in a reflection off of the window, but I didn't own up to it, confront it or embrace it until hours later when I finally looked.
And then I thought. . . It's been seven hours and fifteen days. . . Look, I am not going to rip up any pictures of the pope, but it is very Sinead circa 1990, and until the rest of the hair falls out I am going to try and own it.
The wig is itchy, but I told the girls that I would wear it when we are out in public. I also said that when I was home that it would probably come off. There is a time in every day when my rings come off, my bra comes off, and that my friends, is when the wig comes off.
I did wear the wig to my sister's that same day. All of a sudden you realize that it isn't just your own kids who have to be prepared. It is nieces and nephews, cousins and friends. I could tell that my sister had prepped the Wild Woman for my arrival. When we walked in the door I could see her looking at me and trying to process it. She then said, "I like, I like, I like you."
I like you too Wild Woman.
Here is a picture of me in the salon when I picked up the wig. Note how perfectly it is parted. Let me just say that I have never been able to recreate the top part and that just like when I had real hair, I am barely even brushing this thing. I feel very suburban mom in this thing. Not that I am not a suburban mom, but it seems very styled to me. Although, I do love the color. This photo doesn't do the nice warm highlights justice.
For those of you who thought we should go hot pink. Here is a pic of me and the Lady in our hot pink wigs sent to us with special care from my cousin in Chicago. Val, the Ladies couldn't have been happier! Will post a family pic of all of us in the wigs, please note that my husband's noggin is too large but I am sure we will figure something out.
I will say we talked, we read, we cried, we hugged, we shaved. All of us.
I sat in the bathroom on a stool and the girls each took a turn taking some off. I would like to thank my husband for his attention to detail and his steady hand. In hindsight we probably should have done a Mohawk for a little bit, but since I am hoping to never, ever have to shave my head again, I will not consider it a regret.
I will also say that I didn't look in the mirror. Not at first. I showered and saw the outline of my head reflected back in a steam-covered mirror. I caught a glimpse of myself in a reflection off of the window, but I didn't own up to it, confront it or embrace it until hours later when I finally looked.
And then I thought. . . It's been seven hours and fifteen days. . . Look, I am not going to rip up any pictures of the pope, but it is very Sinead circa 1990, and until the rest of the hair falls out I am going to try and own it.
The wig is itchy, but I told the girls that I would wear it when we are out in public. I also said that when I was home that it would probably come off. There is a time in every day when my rings come off, my bra comes off, and that my friends, is when the wig comes off.
I did wear the wig to my sister's that same day. All of a sudden you realize that it isn't just your own kids who have to be prepared. It is nieces and nephews, cousins and friends. I could tell that my sister had prepped the Wild Woman for my arrival. When we walked in the door I could see her looking at me and trying to process it. She then said, "I like, I like, I like you."
I like you too Wild Woman.
For those of you who thought we should go hot pink. Here is a pic of me and the Lady in our hot pink wigs sent to us with special care from my cousin in Chicago. Val, the Ladies couldn't have been happier! Will post a family pic of all of us in the wigs, please note that my husband's noggin is too large but I am sure we will figure something out.
Here is a pic of QT in my wig. We shaved my head when he was napping and when he woke up to my bald head he didn't even bat an eye.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Friday, January 4, 2013
On Shrinking and Shedding
On Shrinking
As my friend Mike told me yesterday in response to a text, shrinking and boob should never be used in the same sentence, unless of course it is to say that the tumor inside my boob seems to be shrinking, which I am happy to report seems to be the case.
Since I started treatment five weeks ago, I have been able to tell a difference in the size of the tumor in my breast. I pretty much feel myself up like a 100 times a day to try and determine if there has been any change. What used to hurt, doesn't so much anymore. What used to be very visible has receded. However, this is just me going on what I feel and what I see.
When I met with the doctor on Wednesday he too was able to feel a difference. I felt pretty good about the fact that he took out his little measuring tape and didn't even end up using it. He did frequently apologize to me about "mashing" my boob, but I assured him that he could continue to mash away if it meant that he was going to tell me that the tumor was shrinking.
As an aside, I totally went topless in front of this guy with no worries. Usually, they throw a blue paper robe at you and leave the room. I have zero modesty left when it comes to the boobs. I have whipped them out in various places over the last five years including, but not limited to, a confessional in church, the beach, planes, and a carnival. I was like, "dude you are going to see them in 30 seconds, totally exposed anyway, why don't you just stand there and pretend you are 'covering me up' with the paper blue robe, while I take my top off for you."
Anyway, hopefully the shrinkage has made its way to my hip, which I am also happy to report doesn't ache with the same consistency that it has in the past few weeks. We will follow up with a PET scan in the next month or so to see. Oh chemo and your toxic blend of chemicals coursing through my body, please work, please work, please work.
On Shedding
My hair is falling out. It is everywhere. One of the first things I did was go out and get a wig. Even though I paid extra for two day shipping over a month ago because I wanted to be prepared for the inevitable, my hair really just started falling out last week. First it was just a few strands, now it is pretty much clumps of hair every time I touch it.
Good thing I have a lot of hair. I can tell that it is thinning but there aren't large bald areas yet that are noticeable. I stopped shaving my legs a few weeks ago because I thought that the hair would just all come out. After a few days I realized that it wasn't happening and that I really should probably still try to maintain some sort of hair removal on my body.
The hair on my head however, has started to get everywhere in the house. I find it on the kids, in my bed, it is all over the floor and I am not sure the vacuum can handle it anymore. It is time to come off. All of it.
What that means though, is that we have to tell the Ladies. Up until now there has been no real physical signs of this cancer. We have tried to keep everything as consistent and structured for them as we can. I just don't want to introduce this into their lives. There is no avoiding a shaved head, there will be no avoiding a bald one. There is no avoiding the reality of this situation.
We have resources, books, places to turn if they have questions and concerns. But we are going to be honest. We will use the word. Cancer, like Voldemort will be spoken in our house if only to take a bit of the power and the fear away from it. We will not whisper it or call it the c-word (I usually refer to another word by that title, if you are unsure of what it is just check out my first post on this blog). We will be honest, as direct as possible and probably sobbing messes by the end.
I just hope the Ladies like my wig and that my husband has a steady hand with the trimmers.
As my friend Mike told me yesterday in response to a text, shrinking and boob should never be used in the same sentence, unless of course it is to say that the tumor inside my boob seems to be shrinking, which I am happy to report seems to be the case.
Since I started treatment five weeks ago, I have been able to tell a difference in the size of the tumor in my breast. I pretty much feel myself up like a 100 times a day to try and determine if there has been any change. What used to hurt, doesn't so much anymore. What used to be very visible has receded. However, this is just me going on what I feel and what I see.
When I met with the doctor on Wednesday he too was able to feel a difference. I felt pretty good about the fact that he took out his little measuring tape and didn't even end up using it. He did frequently apologize to me about "mashing" my boob, but I assured him that he could continue to mash away if it meant that he was going to tell me that the tumor was shrinking.
As an aside, I totally went topless in front of this guy with no worries. Usually, they throw a blue paper robe at you and leave the room. I have zero modesty left when it comes to the boobs. I have whipped them out in various places over the last five years including, but not limited to, a confessional in church, the beach, planes, and a carnival. I was like, "dude you are going to see them in 30 seconds, totally exposed anyway, why don't you just stand there and pretend you are 'covering me up' with the paper blue robe, while I take my top off for you."
Anyway, hopefully the shrinkage has made its way to my hip, which I am also happy to report doesn't ache with the same consistency that it has in the past few weeks. We will follow up with a PET scan in the next month or so to see. Oh chemo and your toxic blend of chemicals coursing through my body, please work, please work, please work.
On Shedding
My hair is falling out. It is everywhere. One of the first things I did was go out and get a wig. Even though I paid extra for two day shipping over a month ago because I wanted to be prepared for the inevitable, my hair really just started falling out last week. First it was just a few strands, now it is pretty much clumps of hair every time I touch it.
Good thing I have a lot of hair. I can tell that it is thinning but there aren't large bald areas yet that are noticeable. I stopped shaving my legs a few weeks ago because I thought that the hair would just all come out. After a few days I realized that it wasn't happening and that I really should probably still try to maintain some sort of hair removal on my body.
The hair on my head however, has started to get everywhere in the house. I find it on the kids, in my bed, it is all over the floor and I am not sure the vacuum can handle it anymore. It is time to come off. All of it.
What that means though, is that we have to tell the Ladies. Up until now there has been no real physical signs of this cancer. We have tried to keep everything as consistent and structured for them as we can. I just don't want to introduce this into their lives. There is no avoiding a shaved head, there will be no avoiding a bald one. There is no avoiding the reality of this situation.
We have resources, books, places to turn if they have questions and concerns. But we are going to be honest. We will use the word. Cancer, like Voldemort will be spoken in our house if only to take a bit of the power and the fear away from it. We will not whisper it or call it the c-word (I usually refer to another word by that title, if you are unsure of what it is just check out my first post on this blog). We will be honest, as direct as possible and probably sobbing messes by the end.
I just hope the Ladies like my wig and that my husband has a steady hand with the trimmers.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Betrayed by the Boobs
So maybe my first post was a little salty, a little angry, a little aggressive. But guess what else is aggressive and advanced? This insidious cancer that has made its way into my breast and spread itself to my hip.
I am angry. I am angry that I didn't care enough about me to go to the doctor a month or two earlier. Would it have made a difference, who knows? But I will tell you one thing any amount of time that takes off my life, that this keeps me from watching my kids grow up is too much so I will try to turn that anger against me and the cancer around and try to make sure that it turns into action. I will fight as hard as I can as long as I can and for the results that will enable me to have the life I deserve and will enable me to watch my kids grow into their teen years and beyond.
I want to say that even though my body has birthed three kids, even though it is carrying probably an extra 15-20 lbs. and the boobs aren't quite where they used to be, they are one of my better features. To have them be the cause of such anguish when they have been the cause of such pleasure to others is sad.
When I first got the cancer diagnosis and we sat down with the surgeon, we were going on the fact that the cancer was localized to my breast and at least one lymph node. When the surgeon showed my husband and I photos of a 75-year-old woman's saggy breasts (for sizing reasons only) and promised me that not only the cancer would be removed but I would get a breast reduction and lift, I saw that as a silver lining. It would be like junior year in high school. Perky breasts, perhaps the treatment would shave off a few pounds, who knows maybe we would whip out the medical marijuana. Oh junior year. . . .
Yes, the treatment wouldn't be easy, I would go bald, I would still have to fight. But it seemed like it was something "fixable" something that would be a bump on the road and I could move past it, move beyond it and move on.
Then we found out the cancer had spread. Surgery is not an option at this point. They are treating the entire body and are hoping that the cancer will just melt away. All of a sudden it was no longer "fixable" it was treatable but it is something that I will have to deal with for the rest of my life. Stage 4 cancer doesn't have that long of a shelf life and to have to say that out loud is heartbreaking.
The doctors are positive, they feel like this can be treated like a chronic condition, but there will always be a follow-up, a new scan, and fear, always fear. There will always be the what if it comes back? and there will always be the chance that the treatment won't work. It is scary as shit.
We got a second opinion, we got a ton of tests and scans. I wouldn't recommend a bone biopsy, it hurts like hell. Any ultrasound should only have a baby on the other side and the fact that they only told me after I showed up for the PET scan that I should avoid touching or holding my children close to me for 24 hours because of possible radiation contamination is beyond frightening. But I did it all and I will continue to do it all until this cancer goes away, melts away, and even though it is probably microscopically elsewhere in my body, I am hoping that the treatments do their job.
So do I feel betrayed by my boobs? You bet. For a year they nourished QT, they fed my Ladies and helped them grow. Now, I am just hoping that they will return to their sad, saggy state, cancer free and in it for the long haul.
I am angry. I am angry that I didn't care enough about me to go to the doctor a month or two earlier. Would it have made a difference, who knows? But I will tell you one thing any amount of time that takes off my life, that this keeps me from watching my kids grow up is too much so I will try to turn that anger against me and the cancer around and try to make sure that it turns into action. I will fight as hard as I can as long as I can and for the results that will enable me to have the life I deserve and will enable me to watch my kids grow into their teen years and beyond.
I want to say that even though my body has birthed three kids, even though it is carrying probably an extra 15-20 lbs. and the boobs aren't quite where they used to be, they are one of my better features. To have them be the cause of such anguish when they have been the cause of such pleasure to others is sad.
When I first got the cancer diagnosis and we sat down with the surgeon, we were going on the fact that the cancer was localized to my breast and at least one lymph node. When the surgeon showed my husband and I photos of a 75-year-old woman's saggy breasts (for sizing reasons only) and promised me that not only the cancer would be removed but I would get a breast reduction and lift, I saw that as a silver lining. It would be like junior year in high school. Perky breasts, perhaps the treatment would shave off a few pounds, who knows maybe we would whip out the medical marijuana. Oh junior year. . . .
Yes, the treatment wouldn't be easy, I would go bald, I would still have to fight. But it seemed like it was something "fixable" something that would be a bump on the road and I could move past it, move beyond it and move on.
Then we found out the cancer had spread. Surgery is not an option at this point. They are treating the entire body and are hoping that the cancer will just melt away. All of a sudden it was no longer "fixable" it was treatable but it is something that I will have to deal with for the rest of my life. Stage 4 cancer doesn't have that long of a shelf life and to have to say that out loud is heartbreaking.
The doctors are positive, they feel like this can be treated like a chronic condition, but there will always be a follow-up, a new scan, and fear, always fear. There will always be the what if it comes back? and there will always be the chance that the treatment won't work. It is scary as shit.
We got a second opinion, we got a ton of tests and scans. I wouldn't recommend a bone biopsy, it hurts like hell. Any ultrasound should only have a baby on the other side and the fact that they only told me after I showed up for the PET scan that I should avoid touching or holding my children close to me for 24 hours because of possible radiation contamination is beyond frightening. But I did it all and I will continue to do it all until this cancer goes away, melts away, and even though it is probably microscopically elsewhere in my body, I am hoping that the treatments do their job.
So do I feel betrayed by my boobs? You bet. For a year they nourished QT, they fed my Ladies and helped them grow. Now, I am just hoping that they will return to their sad, saggy state, cancer free and in it for the long haul.
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