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.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
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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