Cancer: the fickle fiend

Gray on gray, the tumor filled the ultrasound screen. The interloper had enmeshed itself in my breast, slithering between my cells to expand its grasp on my body, on my life.

“A cyst has defined edges,” the radiologist said.

Not like this.

Cancer. Me. Cancer.

I donned the shroud of patient and, after weeks of worry, biopsies and MRIs, underwent a lumpectomy. My medical oncologist advised chemotherapy, but lacked evidence of its benefit for my situation. I reluctantly agreed, but stopped after the first infusion, concerned about permanent neuropathy. I finished treatment with seven weeks of radiation, absorbing the daily dose over lunchtime. Eventually my hair grew back and life went on.

I’m dubbed a cancer survivor.

Survivor? Hell, I don’t know the meaning.

My friend, Kathy, exists in a world filled with PET scans and CA125 tests. Multiple rounds of chemotherapy have eaten away at her organs—collateral damage in the quest to kill the relentless predator that invades her body. Fragile kidneys, neuropathy-torched feet and constant exhaustion task her every waking moment.

I feel like a Roman at the Colosseum as I watch Kathy in battle. A gladiator in the arena, with doctors and nurses offering her weapons, my friend fights alone. She advances, slashing at the evil, pushing it into retreat for a few months, but the disease finds a vulnerable spot and attacks again. I pray and offer support, the limitations of my role as a spectator.

For me, cancer has been a hiccup in my life—a pit stop in which I needed to “get fixed” before I roared back into the race.  I grouse about lousy drivers, too much work and crappy weather. Cancer hasn’t forced me to evaluate my life, to change it. I chew up every day and expect there to be a fresh one tomorrow. I make plans without wondering if I’ll live long enough to see them through.

Days like today, when Kathy tells me another growth requires surgery or chemo, I realize how lucky I am, and understand not the meaning of survivor, but of survivor’s guilt.

January 7: I’m done!

From late November, I can't take a new picture until my wrist is out of the cast.

The "artwork" from my tumor-area-only treatments

I finished my radiation treatments the week after Thanksgiving, something like December 2. I had a bit of a sunburn, and I got a little tired. It would hit me about three in the afternoon; suddenly I wanted to nap. In the evenings I fell asleep on the sofa around 8 or 9 PM.

For the most part, I forgot about the treatments. My reminder went off at 11:30 and at 11:45 I was on my way, coat on, rushing over to the hospital. By 11:55 I’d be out of my clothes and into the gown. They called me in, I got zapped a few times, grabbed lunch on the return trip and usually made it back to my desk by 12:30, prepping for my next meeting.

The last eight treatments zeroed in on the location where the tumor had been. By then I was a bit red and glad I was almost done. For these sessions, the Linnac (a.k.a. espresso-machine-on-steroids) was fitted with a plate shaped like the tumor area. The radiation tech explained that the machine sent a different type of particle for these treatments and the little buggers liked to go off in all directions. The plate forced them to “straighten up and fly right.”

My “all-inclusive package” offered more body art — albeit temporary this time. To make sure they pointed the machine at the correct spot, the techs created a template from which they drew the shape of my tumor area on my chest each day. I had to chuckle the first time I saw the plastic guide. To center it correctly, one of the techs drew in the scar from my lumpectomy. His rendition of my scar brought to mind visions of Frankenstein.

The day after my last radiation treatment, I started tamoxifen. The first couple of weeks I was a little nervous because the drug can, in rare cases, cause blood clots to form. Every little ache or pain in my legs gave me pause and a voice in my head screamed “There she blows!” But so far so good.

The “features” of the tamoxifen that impact me most are increased night sweats and an occasional hot flash. Normally I spend my winters shivering under electric blankets, extra socks and flannel everything. It’s a bit jarring to wake up with hot feet, a soggy scalp and a back that feels like a furnace — too bad I can’t control these new-found powers for the good of mankind. Instead, five minutes later I’m clammy and cold.

My rheumatoid arthritis damaged my right wrist, so I finally underwent joint replacement surgery in late December. For the last three weeks my right arm has been encased in a cast-like brace. Getting through the day has been interesting, to say the least. Bedtime is a real adventure — wearing flannel pajamas and trying to turn between flannel sheets with one arm in a cast.

I mention this because, for the first time, I’m thankful I don’t have hair! I can’t imagine the struggle of washing, drying and styling a full head of hair with my right hand out of commission — Don King and Phyllis Diller would be envious. For the next few weeks I’m content with my Susan-Powter-gone-pewter look.

I didn’t have the meltdown the counselors warned me about, but cancer changed me. As I wrote in my Christmas letter, I’ve had to confront my own mortality. I take notice when I hear of a cancer death — especially when the situation is like Elizabeth Edwards, a woman who was diagnosed with stage II in 2002 and died from it in 2010. But life goes on for the survivors and we move forward.

In February I have my six-month follow-ups — a mammogram and an MRI. I’m sure hoping everything looks good and I won’t have to undergo any ultrasounds or biopsies.

From my lips to God’s ear.

October 16: How am I?

The grays that hung on are growing!

Work is really picking up, the days are full of meetings so they’re flying by. I don’t think much about the cancer — probably the most time spent on it is during my walk over to the hospital, and I think my biggest concern is that I’m not upset that I was diagnosed with it. Somehow I’ve conveniently compartmentalized this fact and feel no emotion, no angst about it.  I worry that I’m in some sort of denial. But by the time I get to the hospital I’m already thinking about something else, and when my treatment is finished, I’m focused back on what needs to be done at the office.

I’m so over the wig — I want my hair back! Now that the grays are growing, I search each night for some sign that the other hairs are starting to return. I carefully run my fingers over the terrain of the bald areas, but so far my heart hasn’t fluttered from the delightful discovery of new stubble. My head still seems to be a vast desert of empty follicles, void of any life. At night when I wash my face I inspect my scalp in the mirror, scrutinizing the landscape in the hopes of seeing a 5 o’clock shadow. No luck, but I’m thankful I didn’t lose my eyelashes or eyebrows.

The skin on my scalp is soft, sort of like a newborn’s butt. Evidently my hair has protected this patch of skin from the elements.

I wasn’t kidding when I said by the time I’m in the hospital I’m thinking about something else. When I walked through the halls yesterday, I observed all of the bald heads of the men around me. Did you ever notice that some of them are as shiny as a bowling ball, while others are more of a “matte finish?” Mine doesn’t shine, maybe that has to do with skin type, or the amount of time it has been exposed. I don’t know, I’m just thankful mine doesn’t reflect light!

Otherwise, there’s no change it me, I feel the same as I did last June before the diagnosis, completely normal – except for that pesky draft against my scalp!

Oct. 8: Me? A survivor?

 

My scars from surgery and biopsies

 

I don’t consider myself a breast cancer “survivor.” What brings this up? A few weeks ago they held the big Susan G. Komen run/walk in Milwaukee. I didn’t attend, but I heard about all the efforts made at the event during the September breast cancer support group session. From what I understand, the women who survive breast cancer get massages, etc.

Maybe if I had gone through all four chemo treatments, or if I had been stage II or III — or maybe I’ll feel differently after radiation. Right now I don’t feel like a survivor. I feel like a person who had a lousy  summer and is now moving on.

The breast care coordinator who runs a support group said a lot of women feel this way, and have a meltdown after treatment is completed. When there are no more appointments and life goes on.

I’d like to get a group together for next year’s walk. I’m impressed with the headway that has been made in treating breast cancer and want to support efforts. I hope someday soon we’ll be able to figure out how to eliminate cancer without the toxicity of chemo. Maybe by next summer I’ll feel like a survivor. Or maybe never.

I’m amazed at how often cancer is mentioned — TV, radio, magazines, newspapers. Evidently I never paid attention before because now it seems that the topic is in front of me all the time. Mom mentioned the same thing. In a recent People magazine there were three articles about people battling cancer.

Most of the time — even wearing a wig — I forget about the cancer. It still seems like it happened to someone else. Even when I see myself in the mirror – bald head, scars from biopsies and surgery, and breasts that are no longer similar in size and appearance — I don’t think about the fact the changes are due to a malignant tumor. Instead they are my badges of honor for the life I’m living. They’re due to the challenges God gave me, the obstacles I need to tackle while existing on this planet. In some ways I look at this experience as a life lesson — sort of like trying to get through a difficult class at college. Keep your head down and grit your teeth, forge ahead and before you know it, you’ll be through the gauntlet and on the other side.