I
wrote a similar post two years ago about my Breast Cancer journey. Most of this
is a re-hash about my very personal feelings about breast cancer and the treatment, not awareness.
I’m
not sure why October has been designated for so-called “Breast Cancer Awareness”,
probably for fundraising and the very publicized Susan G. Komen 3 Day walk, but
my most memorable moments in October are the trees turning to autumn colors, my
husband’s birthday, and Halloween, not Breast Cancer. Soon enough there is ensuing rush of
things to do and places to go, leading up to and including Thanksgiving and
Christmas. The daylight hours may be short, but the
‘to do’ list of the last two months of the year are full and hectic. It is also
the time of year I have to get the dreaded mammogram and follow-up with an
oncologist and surgeon.
It
has been eleven years since I finished breast cancer treatment. My breast cancer journey has been relatively
easy when compared to what others endure or don’t survive. Some cancer patients
call themselves survivors. I don’t. I see myself as someone who has thrived
regardless of the bump in the road that was Breast Cancer.
It
was a big friggin’ bump, but a bump, not an earth shattering devastating event
that derailed life as I knew it.
Wait,
yes, it did derail it to a degree, but I got back on track. I did what had to
be done and moved on with my very busy and noisy life.
After
several lumpectomies over the course of two years, the diagnosis came from my
surgeon that ‘we’ found some breast cancer. I like that he uses the first
person plural when discussing my condition, it’s a bond in a weird way, that
he’s in this with me. From the time of that phone call through the next surgery
and other events that were mostly complications from treatment, my surgeon
always discusses things with me as if we’re partners planning on the next move.
It’s comfort and support that makes that hard decisions not so hard and gives
me confidence that I’m doing o.k. It’s
been a good twelve plus years that is almost like a good marriage.
I’ve
had a few different oncologists over the years, the last one doesn’t piss me
off like some of the others. She seems to appreciate and genuinely sympathize
with my concerns. Most importantly, she honors and respects the treatment
decisions I make for myself. That’s not to say the previous doctors were not good
physicians, they were better than ‘good’, some of the best in their field of
expertise. I am blessed to have been treated by very capable and top-notch
doctors and while medicine is certainly not a popularity contest, I want to like the person that is going to
grope what’s left of my boobs, while I sit on an exam table, stripped to the
waist with a tiny paper jacket hanging open in the front.
When
the reality set in that my doctor visits were going to become a much more
regular gig than an annual check-up, I insisted on a sheet to drape around me
instead of the ill-fitting paper jacket that was designed to fit nobody I know.
When I asked for the sheet instead of that stupid paper jacket, the nurse
looked at me, smiled and simply got me a sheet. I have never had to suffer the
indignity of that stupid paper jacket again. If a sheet is not already provided
at each of my appointments, I ask for one.
With
the start of radiation, I felt relatively good. I thought this was going to be
a breeze. By the middle of the fourth
week, I wasn’t feeling like it was such a breeze. Monday through Friday, every
morning at 7:15 I checked in at the reception desk, was handed my beeper to
notify me that it was my turn in the “oven” (patient humor, but the techs did
not find this reference humorous). I would go to a changing booth, strip to my
waist and wrap myself in a sheet, march into the radiation room, with a large
heavy door, similar to that of a bank vault, appropriately labeled with
tri-foil radiation logo, lie down on a table with a form created from a body
mold of my shoulder to keep me in the same position. Once under the
accelerator, a light would switch on, the tech lined up the blue-black dots
tattooed from the center of my chest to the middle of my side under my armpit,
it looked like a grid pattern. It was called ‘the field’. The actual shot of radiation inflicts no pain
or discomfort and lasts for minutes. The set-up takes more time than the actual
therapy. On most mornings I was back home within the hour.
Weekly
blood work indicated my T-cells were dropping, it was the tail end of winter
and everyone around me seemed be fighting a cold. The fatigue set in like a
wall fell on me. My skin was burned and blistered. I wore snug men’s undershirts to reduce the
friction of anything I wore against the raw skin. Toward the end of the seven
week treatment it was time for the ‘boost’, a more concentrated blast of
radiation. My skin was badly burned and I was asked if I wanted to take a few
days off and pick up again the following week. I declined, it was the final
week and I just wanted to be ‘done’.
After
I finished radiation therapy, my skin healed really well, but a few months
later developed a blood infection in the treated breast that almost become
sepsis. Once the infection healed the scar from the surgery had now become a
crater because of the damage from the infection.
A
year later, the oncologist asked me if my uneven breasts bothered me. I laughed
at first. She stood back, folded her arms across her own chest and simply
nodded right and left surveying my chest. “Really, does the uneveness bother you?” she
said. My response was, “of course it does, but what can I do about it?” She
recommended a plastic surgeon. When I mentioned that I thought I wouldn’t be a
candidate for reconstruction, because of my womanly size, she responded, “ this
is not a size 8 world.” I like that thinking.
My
visit to the plastic surgeon was a pleasure. I felt like a million bucks with
every appointment. He also doesn’t believe this is a size 8 world. While he
detailed for me what the results of the surgery would be, the treated breast
had substantial damage and he was limited as to how much he could improve the
look of it, filling the crater was about the most I could hope for as an end
result. When all was said and done, on my last appointment with him I expressed
that I was pleased with the view as I looked down. He said that was 90% of his
job.
Along
this journey the best medicine was something not procured by prescription or a
surgical procedure. Nestling under a blanket with my husband while I whined about how badly
I felt, and his quiet but constant presence was more healing than anything
else. Sometimes we’d lay side by side
and just hold hands in silence. And those were truly energizing moments,
lending strength to each other to get on with our life.
Every
year I keep my appointment to get the ‘girls’ checked out, squished, groped and
visually assessed by the medical professionals I call the booby team. From the
Radiology tech to the surgeon to the oncologist, it will be a long day but I’m
grateful I can get all the appointments in one day, and get it over with. When
it’s all said and done I have my own little celebration. This year it might be
a Sunday dinner with the family. We’re overdue for a Sunday dinner.
