my Breast Cancer blog

2004, age 34 — this is my story
Home » 2006 » February

About God

Posted on 2/27/2006 By

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Jacki and Joey

Joey talked to me about God tonight. I wrote what he told me, word for word. I stopped typing after a bit, and Joey kept talking. He was passionate and convincing and reluctantly concluded his sermon in order to brush his teeth and go to bed!

“God loves people more than birds. Two little boys went walking to find Jesus and they didn’t have any cars so they had to walk. They talked together and they saw Jesus in the church learning about God. And God made anything and everything, everything you see. God made your chair. God made everything, everything in your house.

God made a house upon the rocks
And the rocks came tumbling down
And the rain came up and the floods came down
And the rain came up and the floods came down
And the jiggly ark was jiggling on the ocean

So that’s when God sent the big ol’ flood.

The animals came by two by two
And they came by three by three
And then they came by four by four
Then they came by five by five
Then they came by six by six
And then the boat was in the waves
And the floods came up and the rain came down.
They sailed for 40 days.

God has a special thing for everyone to know which is God’s favorite thing to do. Every year God tells Noah to build a house for someone. So you don’t know this but Jesus comes down and you don’t see it but you notice there is more wood than you think. He made the picture. He made the blinds. He made the lamp. Just imagine if he didn’t bring us anything, there would be no earth. There would be no us. And we wouldn’t really know what we were doing. We would be dead. Our brains would be gone. We wouldn’t be living. Wouldn’t that be scary?

And here is one more thing: Jesus comes down and gives Santa the presents to give to the kids. God made the serpents. He made the bad guys. You know why? He is the best guy ever. He can do anything for you. He loves us. He said he is our best friend. He wants to give us fun and food. When we die, we go and have fun with him, with G.G. and Riley in Heaven.

Let there be light. Let there be fish. Let there be space. And then everything came. Let there be gators. Let there be sharks. And everything came.”

Note:

G.G. is Joey’s great grandma who died when Joey was 2 years old. Riley is Joey’s grandma’s dog who died when Joey was almost 4 years old. Right now, Joey is 5 years old.

The hours that follow

Posted on 2/22/2006 By

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In the hours that follow each Herceptin treatment, I have a routine of sorts. Not a purposeful routine. Things just seem to fall into place the same way each time, making every third Wednesday afternoon strikingly similar to all the other third Wednesday afternoons.

I leave the infusion center when my treatment is complete, feeling no ill effects, and I walk to my car. As I drive home, I call John and the boys to tell them I’m on the road and will soon be home. I return home, get a running hug from Danny and a passing glance from Joey, and ask John promptly about what I missed during my 3-4 hour absence from the most important guys in my world. John usually tells me that they wandered in the outdoors or visited Home Depot or just played at home. I always want more details than I get — I want the play-by-play rendition of what I see every day but miss so much when I am away. But I settle for the basics. Do I really need to know, after all, who ate what and who said what and who was happy and who was sad? And could I, myself, accurately recall all this detail if asked? Probably not. So I jump back into the swing of things — which includes dinner and bath and book, an easy bedtime for Danny, and a not-so-easy bedtime for Joey. And then I tend to myself.

I get undressed for a shower and look for the first time since my infusion at the small round bandaid that covers the port that is buried underneath the skin on the right side of my chest. I peel the bandaid off and see the tiny red dot where the IV needle poked me, sat in my skin for a few hours, and then was pulled out. It no longer bleeds but it looks sore and irritated. It is not painful really — but it gives me a queasy feeling to look at it and this is the first tangible reminder of my treatment earlier in the day.

There is something about tending to my own medical needs that makes me queasy — like pulling off the bandaid and really thinking about this foreign item under my skin. I have felt like this when removing bandages after surgeries, when applying ointment to my own wounds, when merely considering the thought of giving myself an injection. And I feel this when I first go the bathroom after my Herceptin treatment. Herceptin has a unique odor and I can smell the drug as it exits my body. It repulses me — and is my second reminder of what occurred hours before this moment.

And then, perhaps because of a physical reaction to Herceptin but mostly due to a mental habit, I take one Zofran pill — to combat the nausea I begin to feel or think I feel. It’s all I need. I never go on to feel any nausea during the three weeks that follow treatment. Life continues on normally. I have normal happy thoughts and normal sad thoughts and thoughts about whether this drug is making me feel bloated (Joey told me tonight, “When I see this loose skin on your tummy, I think there’s another baby in there.”) and thoughts about new diets and health regimens I’d like to follow once my treatment ends.

I conclude my routine by writing this entry.

And then my night resumes like any other night. I get ready for bed. I relax. I call my mom. I talk with John. I watch TV. I mentally prepare for another day with two busy boys who will keep me completely and fully occupied for each day that follows until my next infusion takes place. And I do it all over again.

Jacki Donaldson

Blessing

Posted on 2/17/2006 By

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I recently read an article about doctors who are not recommending Herceptin therapy for patients they know do not have good insurance or who they suspect will not be able to pay the hefty price of this promising drug. If medical professionals cannot be reimbursed for the financial burden of dispensing Herceptin, they may not offer it to those whose life it may save.

I have insurance, and I was offered the treatment. My insurance pays 80%. I am responsible for 20%. Not so bad until you look at the math. Each Herceptin treatment (every third Wednesday for me) costs about $5,000. My 20% responsibility is $1,000 — that’s $1,000 every three weeks for 52 weeks. So even pretty good insurance doesn’t quite make this medical intervention affordable. But I am doubly blessed — I have insurance that covers the bulk of the burden. And I have family members who help me with the rest.

I think often about how fortunate I am to be free of financial worries in this cancer battle. I have never worried about the cost of tests and screenings and office visits. I have never felt lost in the expense of chemotherapy and radiation and hospital visits where every pill and blood draw and doctor opinion has a special fee. Instead I have felt complete and total peace about a side effect of cancer that crushes so many people. I wonder how we would have done it — paid all the bills that have been arriving at our mailbox for more than a year. Had we paid all bills in full, we would have had nothing left by now. Had we paid just the minimum amount on each bill, we would have been living with a cloud over our heads for possibly the rest of our lives. So I think about those who live this reality — or don’t even get treatment because of their financial situation — and I realize that it could have easily been my family destroyed by cancer bills.

I am blessed. I am thankful — thankful that I can sit in my infusion chair on those Wednesday afternoons without the stress and worry about how I will pay for the clear liquid that may save my life.

Jacki Donaldson

Good news

Posted on 2/11/2006 By

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About a week ago, I had a breast MRI. It was recommended by my radiation oncologist who in January felt some dense, lumpy tissue in my right breast. As this doctor was feeling my breast during the exam, she said, “Does this hurt?” I said, “Yes” because it felt very tender and sore. She was not really worried and told me that it is normal to have some lumpy tissue and that soreness is usually a result of hormones. Since my left breast has received radiation, she said I will not feel much sensation on this side — the tissue has all been zapped and fried and is now numb to hormonal influences. But the right side is still affected and this is perhaps why she felt lumpiness and I felt discomfort. But (there is always a “but”), there is the chance that this was not normal so to be cautious, she referred me for an MRI. I’m on the every-six-month rotation for mammograms but had not yet had a MRI which offers a different look at the breast and can perhaps pick up something left unnoticed by mammogram.

So I had the MRI. The experience was fine — despite the IV contrast that was injected into my arm, the tight tube I was plunged into, and the loud, banging noises that made it all but impossible to hear the music that was piped into the headsets I was wearing. The whole process took about 30 minutes and was pretty uneventful — so much so that I forgot that I could call for the results in one week’s time. Yesterday was the one week mark. My mom called to ask me if I’d received the results. No, I had not. The MRI was off my radar. No worries. No concerns. No memory really that I’d had it done. I figure this a good thing. I could have been anxious and worried and on pins and needles for the week. Instead, I was oblivious. I’m not sure if this is a result of better coping on my part or if chemo drugs have affected my memory (this is called “chemo brain”). Regardless, I am thankful for the absence of thought on this topic.

I called my radiation oncologist for the results after my mom reminded me about the MRI. And I got a call back late in the afternoon — a message on my voice mail that told me “I cannot tell you the results on this message. But I can tell you that it’s good news.” Before I called back to get the specific results, I checked my mail and got a letter that read:

“We are pleased to inform you that your MRI examination did not show any problems at this time. Please remember that some cancers (about 10%) cannot be found on mammography alone. Early detection requires a combination of monthly breast self-examination and a yearly breast exam by your physician.”

Another “but” — everything looks good, “but” there still could be cancer. I’m OK with this. I think that if cancer returns to my breast, it will be caught early with the combination of monitoring I will receive for the next five years. And while I am not sure how I would handle cancer somewhere else in my body, I think I can handle breast cancer again. I know the process, I know what to expect, and I even know what I might do differently (like rest more and keep up my normal routine less).

For now, I will go with the 90% chance that everything really is OK. To me, that is good news.

Jacki Donaldson

Cure by Design

Posted on 2/5/2006 By

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Cure by Design is a fashion show sponsored by the American Cancer Society. There are 100 models in this show — women, men and children — and all are cancer survivors. And I am one of them. I hesitated at first at the invitation to strut my stuff on a runway. I am not really a spotlight type of person. And showcasing myself in front of a crowd of people makes me a bit self-conscious. But I agreed — I was guaranteed it will be a great time. I was told I’d meet lots of great people. I will get a free meal too. And hey, it’s for a great cause so I couldn’t really turn down the offer.

So I went to a models luncheon today to learn all about the upcoming show. I sat with another breast cancer survivor — a young mom who has survived for three years after a stage 3 diagnosis. I spoke with another women, younger than me and a mom of a three-year-old. She was diagnosed with breast cancer at about the same time as I was and our hair now is strikingly similar. We found ourselves looking at each other before we spoke, taking in the image of our respective dark hair and almost identical sparkly clips holding wild curls in place. And I observed other women and men and children, all of various ages and undoubtedly, all with very powerful stories of cancer survival.

I am told this fashion show is quite amazing and powerful and life-changing. One woman told me she cried through the entire production the first time she attended. So while I am still a bit hesitant about my role as “model” — I find myself wondering if I’ll slip, fall, tumble or crash off the stage — I am eager to be a part of this show. And I welcome all who want to come watch me, support me, or laugh at me in an effort to raise money so that a cure for cancer may someday be in reach.

For those who are interested and able to attend, Cure by Design will take place on Sunday, March 5th from 5:00-6:15 PM at the Phillips Center for Performing Arts on the University of Florida campus. Tickets for attending the show are $15 and can be purchased at the Phillips Center. There is also an opportunity to attend the show and then a reception with meal and silent auction (items to be auctioned include meals with local celebrities, vacations, rounds of golf, spa items, and more). These tickets are $100. Please contact me if you would like to purchase these $100 tickets. Kids are welcome at this extravaganza that will feature music all tied to an animal theme. My boys will be there!

Cancer has given me many new experiences — some of them not so great. But this, I think, will be an experience I will treasure.

Jacki Donaldson

Excitement

Posted on 2/1/2006 By

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Last week, Danny stood on the side rail of an empty Target shopping cart and pulled the red plastic and metal structure over. It knocked him to the floor and when I saw him, after being prompted by his screams, he was flat on his back with the cart balancing on his chest. Shoppers gasped and Target red shirts surrounded me, offering assistance and kindness. An ambulance and fire truck responded, just to be safe, and it was determined that Danny was just fine. He went home with a plastic fire hat, stickers, and a complimentary blue slushy from the Target staff. When I said to him later that day, “Danny, that was scary,” he said, “No, it was fun.”

Last week, Joey and Danny had their teeth cleaned. Going to the pediatric dentist is always exciting for me because my boys are perfect, well-adjusted, kind little men during their visits (they sometimes are not this way which is why dentist appointments are such special occasions). They get their teeth cleaned while I wait in the waiting room with no complaints, no cries for mommy, no problems. I get to read magazines and sit quietly and peacefully. When they march out to meet me, prizes and toothbrushes in hand, the dentist tells me they are so good and so cute and so sweet. And this time, the dentist also told me that Joey has two loose bottom teeth. Exciting! Especially for a boy who just turned five a few weeks ago. So each day we wiggle Joey’s loose teeth and wonder when they will fall out. We talk about the tooth fairy and what she might bring Joey. We are shocked by this milestone that just happened upon us.

And today, I had another Herceptin treatment. Not so exciting. I slept and am happy for the rest. And I am happy that for now, the excitement of Danny’s ambulance adventure and the thrill of Joey’s loose teeth outweigh the enormity of cancer treatment.

Jacki Donaldson