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.

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.