Archive for February, 2008

Not a bad deal

Friday, February 29th, 2008

My gut was right.

I am fine, says my radiation oncologist and the resident who examined me during my six-month follow-up today. My appointment did turn up something, though: A referral for massage therapy. Not a bad deal.

On Wednesday, I will report for the first of a few massages designed to rehab my left shoulder and arm, the areas where muscles are twisted and tightened due to surgery and radiation. I’d planned to just live with my limited range of motion, the soreness I feel after physical exertion, the way my shoulder rounds forward. This can all be fixed, though, my doctor told me. Thank goodness for that.

Thank goodness for today’s clean bill of health too. I celebrated with a trip to Panera for a cup of low-fat chicken noodle soup with sourdough bread. A pumpkin muffin was my treat. A yummy day overall.

Posted in My story | 5 Comments »

The big deal

Thursday, February 28th, 2008

Tomorrow is the day I report for a visit with my radiation oncologist, the woman who designed and delivered my radiation therapy, those 30 some daily sessions that blasted the site of my tumor in order to prevent a local recurrence of breast cancer. So far, its doing its job. My cancer has not returned.

I return for radiation follow-ups every six months. I get weighed, my arms get measured to check for swelling caused by lymphedema, my breasts get manipulated by several sets of hands, and I get a chance to report any new symptoms, to ask any pressing questions. I don’t have either at this time.

This appointment is not really a big deal anymore. Except that when I really think about it, it actually is. There’s a lot at stake as I present myself before the medical students, residents, fellows, and doctors who will study me. There’s a chance they may find something suspicious, after all. And if they do, the could-it-be-cancer? wheels will start in motion. The prospect of that stings a bit.

My gut tells me that I am fine, that my cancer is long gone, that I’ll walk away from my appointment as confident and happy as I’ll be when I arrive for it. My gut has served me well throughout my cancer years. If it’s on target as usual, then I will be well. And I won’t have to worry about this high-stakes visit for another six months. Well, not exactly.

I also see my medical oncologist—also known as my chemo doctor—every six months. The same basic scenario occurs—substitute blood work for arm measurements—on a different time schedule and in a different office. Also not a huge deal anymore.

Except that when I really think about it, it is.

Posted in Lymphedema, My story, Radiation, Survivors | 2 Comments »

Cancer-free

Thursday, February 21st, 2008

I talked with a breast cancer survivor yesterday who is recovering from a mastectomy she endured just a few days ago. We talked on the phone about her disease, my disease, our treatment paths, diet, exercise, and more. In the midst of all of this, my new friend asked: “How do you know when you are cancer-free?”

Good question. Just not an easy one to answer.

There is no surefire method for determining whether or not cancer lives in one’s body. There are blood tests, physical exams, and screening tools. But there is no comprehensive body scan—well, there might be but it’s not one I can afford or care to have. Just imagine all the possible problems such a test might turn up. Any abnormality of unknown origin that pops up would surely cause worry, and more tests, and perhaps no concrete diagnoses. This approach is just not good for the psyche.

In addition to my specific screening protocol—mammogram, ultrasound, and MRI—my team of doctors screen for symptoms. This means they wait for me to complain about something. If I experience persistent headaches, a head scan may be in order. Shortness of breath? I’ll probably get a chest X-ray. A new lump? Perhaps a biopsy will follow. None of these tests will be done without reason, though. Only if they are warranted will they come into play.

Right now, at this very moment, I don’t know if I am cancer-free. There could be cancer in my body and I just don’t know about it. There may be nothing at all invading my cells. I don’t know this either. None of us is always privy to cancer’s presence, not even those who’ve never had the disease. It’s no different for me, because I’ve had cancer. I still don’t know. And that’s OK. I think about it this way: I have survived breast cancer for three years which tells me cancer has not been an issue for me for a good long time. Let’s call it “symptom-free.” I’m symptom-free. And that’s good enough for me.

Posted in My story, Survivors | 2 Comments »

What in the blog am I doing?

Sunday, February 17th, 2008

In the beginning, this blog had one simple purpose: to inform family and friends about my travels with breast cancer. When something significant in my cancer world happened—a surgery went well, my hair came tumbling out, radiation scorched my delicate underarm skin—I announced it right here. It was all my husband’s idea, this online stuff. I hadn’t even heard the word blog before John spoke it. But now, three years later, the term kind of defines me. Joey, my seven-year-old, even says he wants to be a blogger when he grows up. Blogging has had quite an influence on us all. Especially me.

Blogging quickly became more than a means to communication. It turned into a great form of therapy, it gave me my very own cheerleading section—people far and wide leave me the most inspiring comments—and it allows me the pleasure of reaching out to those who find my site and use it as a road map. Perhaps the most notable consequence of blogging, and definitely the most unexpected, is the way it’s been shaping my career.

Blogging has given me a voice in the world of breast cancer. It’s given me professional blogging jobs—first at AOL’s The Cancer Blog and now at its sister site, That’s Fit—as well as two professional magazine writing gigs and a few writing assignments for My Breast Cancer Network. Blogging led The New York Times my way for a story about hair dye and its link to cancer. It got me a speaking engagement at a University of Florida sorority event, an invitation to write an essay for a movement called I Hate Tumors, a guest spot on Sure Woman, and an appearance on Orato. Blogging put me on the radio twice and is responsible for a slew of books I receive by agents who want published blog reviews. And just the other day, I was interviewed by a writer with MAMM magazine for a story about breast cancer survivors who blog. That’s me, a breast cancer survivor who blogs. The story will publish in the March/April issue and will be available online too.

I don’t know where this blogging career will take me. It may lead me no further than my home office or my dining room table, where I park myself behind my laptop and spin words into meaningful content. If this is as good as it gets, then life will be grand—because no longer is it necessary that I inform family and friends about my struggle with a life threatening disease. Nope, now it’s my job to spread the word about all I’ve learned. For me, there is no greater honor.

Posted in My story, Resources, Side effects | 7 Comments »

Sleeveless

Thursday, February 7th, 2008

I should have worn my compression sleeve on my trip to and from Austin, Texas this past weekend. But I didn’t. Because I forgot. Which is scary because on airplanes, cabin pressure can really mess with my arm, now that four of my lymph nodes are missing. Ever since my lumpectomy in December 2004, my fluids have had fewer drainage options, which makes air travel a dangerous prospect.

It doesn’t appear that any damage was done. I’ve been on land now for a few days and my arm looks like it always has. Lucky.

You’d think a scenario like this would ensure I’ll never again forget. But this isn’t likely. Because this isn’t the first time I’ve forgotten my sleeve. I did it once before—on my travels to Arizona last year—and the same panic I felt this time swept over me then. That time, though, I at least had my sleeve with me—I’d just neglected to put it on my arm prior to take-off. This time, I didn’t even pack my sleeve, didn’t even remember I’d forgotten it until my mom reminded me on our return trip. That sleeve didn’t even register on my radar.

I consider my forgetfulness on this matter a symbol of progress. There was a time when cancer consumed my every thought. Everything concerning the disease worried me, including my arm and the fact that I could end up with lymphedema—a condition of localized fluid retention caused by a compromised lymphatic system. I guess I’m not so worried anymore because there’s my arm, right in plain view, and nothing about it, nothing about my trip, nothing about that sleeve ever entered my mind. Which means cancer is further than ever from my thoughts. That’s the good news. More good news: I seem to have dodged a bullet. So I hope I remember my compression sleeve next time. I hope I remember to put it on too.

Posted in My story, Side effects, Surgery | 3 Comments »

Putting my feet up

Wednesday, February 6th, 2008

Do you believe things happen for certain reasons? Is it possible, for example, that my mom felt lightheaded and leaned her head forward toward the floor on our flight home from Texas this weekend so that she’d see my cell phone slide out of my purse and in front of the seat ahead of us? And was another passenger’s lone shoe sitting in its exact spot so that it could stop my phone from getting lost in its travels to the front of the plane? I keep thinking that if this series of events hadn’t happened as it did, my phone would be long gone. And I’d have no idea what happened to it.

I think part of my toenail fell off for a reason. I think it’s a sign that I must slow down on my nutty exercise routine. I’ve been running every day and fitting in some core exercises and weight training too. “Take a day off,” family and friends tell me. But I don’t. I keep at it, some days hopping out of bed at 5:30 AM to get a rush on the day. I keep exercising because it feels good—my mood is so much better after strenuous exercise—and because I believe my body needs it, for overall health and for cancer prevention too.

Logically, I know my body needs some silence—this is what the folks at my gym say for rest—but something in my crazy head keeps powering me forward, as if a lost day will compromise all I’ve accomplished.

Something had to give, I guess. It was my toenail. I have no memory of an injury that could have done such damage (maybe the running is to blame) but part of the nail on my right big toe is just gone. It’s sore, that toe, and wearing a shoe causes a bit of discomfort. Running, clearly, would make things worse. I could probably get away with walking and I could surely lift a few weights but the one thing I love—running—is, I hate to say it: sidelined.

Maybe this whole toe thing did happen for a reason. Left to my own devices, I’d be jumping on my treadmill first thing in the morning, perhaps headed for exhaustion, a worn out body, a more complicated injury even. Instead, I’m forced to take a break and rethink my fitness approach, an approach that may not have been that healthy after all.

So in the spirit of this little toe intervention, I’m going to do what makes the most sense: I’m putting my feet up—at least for a day or two.

Posted in Exercise, My story | 1 Comment »

Me, after cancer

Tuesday, February 5th, 2008

Miss Melanoma wrote recently on her blog about how she sometimes misses her pre-cancer self. She wishes she could go back, could let go of the pity that surrounds her at times, could feel free to think of nothing but having fun for a whole evening. It’s getting better, she writes. “I’m so happy I’m starting to see that ME that was here before melanoma. I really liked that girl. She’s finally coming back.”

Cancer has a way of changing a person. But while there are times when I think back to my former self with fond memories (if only I could have my straight hair back), I tend to like the post-cancer me better than the me who knew nothing of this vicious disease. Of course, it takes time to get past the darkness of diagnosis and the terror of treatment. Surviving takes some practice too. But when the fog clears and the dust settles, life can turn pretty darn bright.

Cancer was my wake-up call, my “watch out, your days may be numbered so make every day count” reminder that helps me focus on what is truly important. For me, it’s family and writing and anything that causes virtually no stress. Cancer makes me appreciate every sunny day, every cool breeze, every laugh that roars from the mouths of my little boys, every accomplished task. I’m not sure I fully comprehended the beauty of every moment before cancer. I do now.

I never really grasped the importance of health before cancer either. I now know cancer is likely caused more by lifestyle factors than anything else and so it has become my mission to eat right, exercise right, and fuel my body so that it outlasts any disease that tries to invade it. Today, my body is leaner than it’s ever been, my heart allows me to run distances I never could have previously conquered, and I wake each day with a spunk that is invigorating.

Cancer makes me want to be better, do better, live better. And this is what makes me happier to be the me after cancer than the me before cancer. It’s a personal preference, I guess. Some people long for days past. I long for days present and future. I thank cancer for that.

Posted in Diet, Exercise, Family, Gratitude, Inspiration, Kids, My story, Survivors | 3 Comments »

Cancer Perspective

Saturday, February 2nd, 2008

For a moment I felt a little sick about the damage I did to my van on Thursday. But just for a moment did I stress about the front right headlight that is now detached from the body of my vehicle, in dire need of repair. It’s the hassle of one day fixing the damage that bothered me most, not the blemish that so visibly graces my car. It’s seven years old, after all. This is just one of many scratches and dents that add personality to my family ride.

My minor accident, caused by a wooden pole I nailed while backing out of a parking spot at Joey’s school—”Ouch,” I saw written on the face of one mommy onlooker—is truly minor. In the whole realm of life and death, it’s nothing really. It’s a car. Just a car. I’m not sitting in a chemo chair, not combing my hair out in handfuls, not holed up in a hospital room with plummeting blood counts. I’m not receiving massive doses of radiation so that I can live to watch my boys grow up. I’m not overcome with fear and panic. And I’m not swallowing a daily anti-depressant just to cope. Nope. I’m simply driving a mini-van that looks a little more like a jalopy than it did a few days ago.

Life is just a matter of perspective. For me, it’s a matter of cancer perspective—which makes the fact that various parts are dangling off my Honda Odyssey nothing but simple stuff.

Posted in My story | 4 Comments »