my Breast Cancer blog

2004, age 34 — this is my story
Home » 2007 » November

The day

Posted on 11/21/2007 By

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And so the day has arrived, the day that makes it official: I have survived breast cancer for three years. I feel slightly weepy about this milestone, and a lot happy. Surviving is everything to me — I don’t consider it an option that I won’t be around to raise my little boys until they are big and strong and living on their own — and so making it to this day is quite an accomplishment, considering the lethal nature of the tumor I found in my left breast 1,095 days ago.

And so the day, complete with an official clean bill of health from my doctor, has arrived. What a happy Thanksgiving it will be.

Healing wounds

Posted on 11/20/2007 By

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My oncologist called me this morning to express his sorrow for my mishandled appointment yesterday. I know it’s not his fault I waited so long for the follow-up that never came to be. To blame: The red tape wound tightly around the system for which this doctor works. Still, he was sorry. And he called.

My doctor offered, as part of his apology, to help me in any way possible — so I will return to his office tomorrow for the very first appointment of the day. He’s already notified his nurse that I must be seen in a timely manner, and he promised to address all of my questions and concerns on the spot, no waiting required. He told me on the phone my MRI results were “benign” so I don’t have to wait on that one. He also told me I should offer my feedback to the woman who manages the cancer clinic. I will. It will be the second time I share my input with this woman — the first time I talked with her about waiting endlessly to see one oncologist, I ended up referred to the doctor who called me today. That was three years ago, and it seems nothing much has changed. Maybe my words will make a difference this time. Maybe not.

Tomorrow marks three years since I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and it seems I will get my status report after all. I am completely expecting a clean bill of health. And I am completely expecting to spend very little time receiving that bill. Tomorrow will be the day before Thanksgiving, after all, and I simply must spend my time giving thanks — and celebrating the gift of life.

Disgruntled

Posted on 11/19/2007 By

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Today, I am a disgruntled patient. I’ve been one before, once after waiting four hours to see my oncologist; another time after waiting almost that long to see the same doctor; another time after being dismissed by, yes, the same doctor, when I complained of serious chemotherapy side effects. The day after her dismissal, I was in the hospital. Disgruntled, I was.

Today, I waited for two hours and 15 minutes in an exam room in another oncologist’s office. TWO HOURS and 15 MINUTES, with nothing more than a social worker checking in on my mental health. Truth be told, it was a bit unstable at the moment she caught me, 90 minutes into my wait. It only got worse. And then I walked out. I marched right up to a nurse, told her through tears that my time was valuable, that I would wait no longer. And I walked out. I went for lunch, took my laptop and did some writing, and tried to recapture my composure. I feel better now. But I’m still disgruntled.

Something is wrong, harshly wrong, with a system that requires patients to wait so long for medical attention. It’s disrespectful and completely inappropriate, the way my cancer center operates. I walked away today without any information about my lab work, without the answers to the questions I’d been collecting for the past three months, without receiving the results of the MRI I had several days ago, without a physical exam of my breasts — in two days, it will be three years since I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and it would have been nice to know where I stand when this milestone arrives.

I find it hard to imagine any other business functioning according to these same practices. Ask someone to show up for a meeting and then require that person to wait hours to be seen. Who would stand for that? I wouldn’t. And that’s why I didn’t accept such treatment today. It took me more than two hours to make my stand, but I’m happy I did it. I realize I’ll need to return to the very place that caused my blood to boil today, and I’m not exactly sure how I’ll confront the whole scenario next time around. But for now, I’m happy I walked away. I’m happy I made the most of my day, a day that was slipping away in a room no one considered worthy of a visit.

Checking out my boobs

Posted on 11/15/2007 By

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First, my boobs were squashed like pancakes in a digital mammography machine. They were squashed from the front and squashed from the side and when the squashing was done, I was called back for more. The doctor wanted to see additional images of my high-risk breasts, so the tender little things were flattened again, and again, so more shots could be snapped. It hurt, all that squeezing. It didn’t hurt as much as breast cancer hurts but still, it hurt.

Next was my ultrasound, a painless but messy test that involves loads of gel dripping from my breasts and a wand that travels every inch of skin in search of suspicious stuff. A few questionable areas popped up but were quickly dismissed. No breast cancer, according to that ultrasound. And the mammogram too.

A breast MRI rounded out my morning — I spent about an hour sliding in and out of a tube, IV in my arm, boobs dangling toward the floor through openings on a table, buzzing sounds blaring in my ears — and while I don’t yet know the results of this humbling experience, I am confident everything is A-OK. It has to be. I’m not sure I could handle it any other way.

The color pink

Posted on 11/10/2007 By

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The other day, I took my kids for something to eat after school. We went to Moe’s, a southwest grill, and just after we’d parked, four women exited the restaurant. They were dressed in bright pink medical scrubs, which prompted Joey to ask what he always asks when he notices an obvious display of pink: “Is that cancer?”

“Is what cancer?” I asked.

“Are they cancer?” he replied.

“No,” I told Joey and then explained that (1) people are not cancer and (2) the color pink doesn’t always mean cancer. I told him the women we saw probably just work for a doctor, or a dentist, or someone of a medical persuasion. They must just like the color pink, I told Joey. He was happy with that.

The color pink has some true staying power in Joey’s world. For him, cancer and pink go hand in hand. They do for me too. And I suspect that for both of us, because of our dance with breast cancer over the past three years, they always will.

Funny how chemo does that

Posted on 11/7/2007 By

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Funny isn’t the best word. It’s not really funny at all how chemotherapy messes things up. Interesting is a better word.

It’s interesting how I can no longer eat the food my sister brought me during each of my chemotherapy infusions. Tuna sandwiches from Panera Bread, gyro wraps from Pita Pit, and turkey sandwiches from Larry’s Subs will never again pass through my lips, because the last time I ate them, poison was sailing through my veins. Something about the combination of the food and the toxic solutions my body absorbed has permanently scarred some portion of me. It’s a repulsion, the feeling I have toward chemotherapy and the food I associate with it.

It’s no big deal that I’ve gone almost three years without these foods. There was nothing special about them, and I’m sure they weren’t so healthy for me anyway. Which brings me to these words of advice: If you’re about to begin chemotherapy, or you’re in the throes of it right now, consider eating the very foods you’d like to ditch from your diet. If your wish is to give up chocolate, or your favorite potato chips, or that high-calorie, high-fat treat you can’t seem to put down, this may be just the fix you need. Chemotherapy is one powerful force. It can kill cancer. It can kill cravings too.

I have hope

Posted on 11/6/2007 By

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First I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Then a neighbor was diagnosed, then a friend from Ohio, and then another neighbor. Next came another friend and after her, my mom’s friend. Now another neighbor has breast cancer. She’s just had a mastectomy and is awaiting word on her prognosis and her specific treatment plan.

No one is immune to breast cancer. And sadly, the biggest risk factor for the disease is simply being female. This puts all women in the breast cancer lottery, and I know it’s just a matter of time before I learn that someone else I know is doing battle with this life-threatening disease.

Yes, breast cancer is everywhere. But so are survivors—which means this disease is beatable. I’m beating it. And of the six women mentioned above, five are healthy and happy. Amy, my Ohio friend, lost her short battle but still, surviving appears to be the norm. Thank goodness for that.

More good news: the longer a woman survives breast cancer, the greater the chance she will die of something other than the disease. It’s been just 18 months since my treatment ended and already, new and improved treatments and therapies are available. I’m confident if breast cancer pays me another visit, I’ll have an even better shot at conquering it than I did during my first go-round.

It’s all a matter of perspective, this cancer thing. Cancer can be dismal, and daunting, and of course, deadly. I like to view it through a more hopeful lens, though. You see, cancer can be controlled, and managed, even killed. And so this is how I will approach it. For me, it’s the only way.

About my hair

Posted on 11/5/2007 By

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download.jpegJoey asked me about cancer last night before he went to sleep. I think it was an attempt at delaying bedtime—he often asks very serious questions at this inopportune time, knowing it will be hard for us to deny him an answer.

"Mommy, why did you cut off all your hair?" Joey asked just as I'd turned off his light and was making my dash out of the room.

"My medicine was making my hair fall out, so I cut it off before it all fell out," I told the boy who helped shave my head on February 5, 2005, just one month after his fourth birthday.

"Cancer made your hair fall out?" Joey asked.

"No, the medicine that killed my cancer made my hair fall out," I told him.

"So the medicine killed the cancer?" he continued.

"Yep, it did," I happily declared.

We went on to discuss my cancer at length. We talked about my operation, how I was sick, and about my scars.

"Can I see your scars?" asked little-brother Danny from a neighboring bed.

I showed Danny my scars, answered a few more of Joey's questions, and then slipped out of sight. My boys were sleeping peacefully moments later.

Perhaps Joey was buying himself some time by asking me about cancer last night. Or maybe he was really curious about my once-bald head, now covered by a mass of dark, wavy hair. Either way, it was my pleasure to talk with him about a topic that will forever be etched in our minds.

If Joey asks again to talk about cancer right at bedtime, I’ll honor his request—again. I won’t tell him that, though. It would be just the invitation he’s looking for in his pursuit of a later bedtime. Nope, this will be my little secret.

The 5K and more

Posted on 11/4/2007 By

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I ran a 5K on my treadmill this morning. I love the sound of 5K. It sounds so much more accomplished than 3.2 miles. I’m all about accomplishment these days, especially when it comes to physical fitness.

In February 2007, study findings published in the Archives of Internal Medicine revealed that five hours of weekly strenuous exercise significantly cuts the risk of breast cancer recurrence. I think it’s safe to conclude that physical activity of this magnitude can help anyone wishing to achieve optimum health, not just those fearing a cancer return. So in the spirit of preventing another brush with breast cancer—and becoming as healthy as I can be—I jumped on the fitness bandwagon. And here I am, many months after this exercise news hit the media, running, and walking, and crunching, and doing whatever I can to keep cancer at bay. I’m also eating a cleaner diet, enjoying a leaner body, and trying to minimize stress. It’s the least I can do, I figure, if I want to live a long and healthy life. And I do.

The power of prevention

Posted on 11/3/2007 By

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If you’re not convinced that the way you live your life is directly linked to your risk of cancer, you should read this. It’s a landmark report authored by the American Institute for Cancer Research (AICR) and the World Cancer Research Fund (WCRF), and it reveals this groundbreaking news: Excess body fat is now convincingly linked with cancer. So is the consumption of alcohol, red meat, and processed meat. Salt and sugar are no good either. But exercise is, and we’d be wise to get plenty of it if we wish to live long, healthy lives.

It’s taken five long years for all this data to come together. It’s taken nine independent teams of scientists from around the world and 21 international experts who analyzed nearly 7,000 large-scale studies to conclude what many have long suspected: Cancer is not all about genetics, family history, and bad luck. It’s about how we treat our bodies. Consider this: Body fat is linked to six different cancers—colon, kidney, pancreatic, adenocarcinoma of the esophagus and endometrium, and post-menopausal breast cancer. If that’s not proof we hold the power of prevention in our own two hands, I don’t know what is.

It’s time to take action, my friends and fellow survivors. Here’s how:

Recommendations for Cancer Prevention

1. Be as lean as possible within the normal range of body weight.
2. Be physically active as part of everyday life.
3. Limit consumption of energy-dense foods. Avoid sugary drinks.
4. Eat mostly foods of plant origin.
5. Limit intake of red meat and avoid processed meat.
6. Limit alcoholic drinks.
7. Limit consumption of salt. Avoid moldy cereals (grains) or pulses (legumes).
8. Aim to meet nutritional needs through diet alone.

Special Population Recommendations

9. Mothers to breastfeed; children to be breastfed.
10. Cancer survivors to follow the recommendations for cancer prevention.

This is for you, Bob!

Posted on 11/2/2007 By

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joeyrace3.jpgToday, I ran two miles for Bob, my grandfather who passed away from cancer just recently. My sister ran too. And so did Joey, my six-year-old who announced just before the Gator Gallop—the kick-off to the University of Florida Homecoming parade—that he’d be racing. I think he liked the idea of pinning a race number on his shirt, and he loved the prospect of wearing a sign on his back stating, “This is for you, Bob!”

Joey made his own sign, with his signature first-grade writing, and he wore it with pride. Tracy and I also wore signs. John and Danny, not official racers, wore them too. We were quite a group, decked out in our orange construction-paper signs. And we got a lot of attention, Joey especially. You see, Joey amazingly—with no prior training or preparation—ran all two miles. When he crossed the finish line and plopped down on the curb to catch his breath, it was clear the guy had mastered a major feat—for himself, and for Bob. One passer-by came up to him and said, “Good job, buddy. I’m sure you made Bob proud.”

No one in the crowd of runners knew exactly why we were running for Bob. But we knew. We knew that when we finished our race in Florida, Bob’s funeral would be starting in Ohio. Our running was a tribute to him, our own kick-off to an event not as happy as a university homecoming but a ritual of sorts nonetheless. We thought it needed a proper introduction. And so we ran. It made us proud. We hope it made Bob proud too.

On the run

Posted on 11/1/2007 By

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Tomorrow is the funeral for my dad’s dad, a 74-year old man who lost his short fight with esophageal cancer on October 28. In response to all death caused by cancer, I’m going to do what I do best: Run.

Ninety minutes before the start of tomorrow’s funeral in Ohio, I will begin running in a two-mile race in Florida. The run is a kick-off for the University of Florida’s Homecoming parade, and both my sister and I will pound the pavement while wearing signs on our backs in celebration of Robert C. Nicol, and his own homecoming.

Last year, I ran this same race just hours after hearing that my friend Amy had passed away after a 15-month journey with breast cancer. She was 35 years old. Just two weeks ago, I ran in my third Making Strides Against Breast Cancer event, for myself and every person who has ever done battle with such a treacherous disease.

When cancer takes a life, I feel it’s my duty—as someone fortunate enough to be alive—to do something. And that’s why I run. For Bob. And Amy. And myself. For everyone. It’s the least I can do.