my Breast Cancer blog

2004, age 34 — this is my story
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Could it be something more?

Posted on 6/27/2008 By

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I’ve had a cough for two weeks now. It’s so bad I’d hack all night if it weren’t for a narcotic-strength suppressant I’m taking. It’s so bad it’s making me vomit, it’s irritating my family members, and along with some lingering tummy tuck swelling that’s consuming my mind, it’s preventing me from exercising. I hate that.

Along with my cough, I get chills now and then and on occasion, I have a low-grade fever. It all makes sense, all these symptoms, because Joey had the very same illness just before me. The very same—the annoying cough, the throwing up, the chills, the fever. Clearly, he passed his germs on to me, and I’m probably passing them on to someone else right now. But I must admit that the thought has crossed my mind: Could it be something more? Like cancer.

Sure, it could be. A persistent cough can sometimes signal a problem in the lungs. It’s just not very likely. And really, I don’t believe anything serious is wrong with me. It’s simply my head. You see, it’s wired now with this very sensitive alarm system. If ever cancer comes back, I plan to fight like mad, so my brain alerts me when something, however small it may be, goes amiss. It could be a funny something I feel in my breast, a headache that won’t go away, or an ache in my belly.

This time it’s a cough, which will probably go away and take up residence in John’s body, causing him to hack, spit up, and get all cold and hot and bothered. And I won’t worry at all. Because he’s never had cancer. I have.

Photo courtesy of whiskeyandtears on flickr

Six weeks

Posted on 6/11/2008 By

5 Comments

img_1446.JPGSix weeks, my plastic surgeon told me. Six weeks to fully recover from my tummy tuck surgery.

Sure enough.

It's been six weeks—seven now, actually—and I am back to doing everything I want to do. Some tasks came earlier than others, like driving—did that after nine days—and walking upright, and sleeping in my bed instead of a recliner, and lifting increasingly heavier objects. But my compression garment didn't come off until the six-week mark and the biggie—exercise—was off limits for the entire six weeks. But now, I'm back at it.

This morning, I walked up and down the seven steep hills in my neighborhood with my niece Tori in her jog stroller. Yesterday, I did a pretty strenuous treadmill workout. A week ago, I took a long bike ride with my mom and Joey. I've also lifted a few weights, held myself in the plank position several times, and have been trying to tone my legs and butt—six weeks of sitting have not been kind to them. My tummy, though: I love it.

Here is my tummy, in all its glory, prettier than it's ever been. Finally, I am comfortable in my skin—well, my lack of skin.

Babies, no more

Posted on 6/6/2008 By

2 Comments

mvc00149-9.jpgIn November 2004, I wanted another baby. I got breast cancer instead. Not a great trade, but what could I do—except fight the cancer and reassess my baby wishes later down the line. Which is what I did. I had surgery, then chemotherapy, then radiation, then more drug therapy. I lost my hair, re-grew my hair, went to counseling, and physical therapy, and doped myself up on an anti-depressant for a year. And then one day, I was free from cancer and free from treatment. Then the baby question came up.

Baby?

Or no baby?

I have decided on no baby. I use the word "I"—as if John is not a player in the baby game—because he would take the plunge and have one if it were up to him. But somehow, it comes down to me. I guess my having had cancer trumps his not having had it. And so I get to decide. Because for a while, my decision to no longer reproduce was all about cancer. I didn't want to get pregnant and have my cancer return during those nine—well, ten—months. I didn't want to have a baby and then die and leave John with three kids to rear. Two is more manageable. I didn't want pregnancy hormones raging through my body; fueling tumor after tumor, ensuring a life spent fighting a nasty disease. Cancer made me say no more to more babies. But now, it's not cancer at all that makes me stray from having another child. It's everything else.

I don't want a baby because in two weeks, I'll be 38. I don't want to be pregnant at an "advanced maternal age." I know loads of women have babies at this age—and older—but I don't want to be in this camp. Besides the health implications of later-in-life child bearing, I'm just plain tired. Which brings me to another reason I don't want a baby: I like to sleep. I don't want to wake every few hours to soothe and feed a fussy babe. I don't want to function like a zombie through my days for months and months—and sometimes even more months. I don't want the endless baby chores that would make me, well, more tired.

There's more.

I like my self-sufficient boys. They brush their teeth, get dressed, give themselves showers, tie their shoes, and buckle their seatbelts. Joey even vacuumed my entire mini-van this morning. It only cost me three bucks. I also like my job. I like devoting school-day mornings to my business of writing. I love my four free hours—the stillness, the quiet, the candle I burn in honor of all that is peaceful during my alone time.

When it comes down to it, I realize I'm really happy as a mom of two growing boys. I even think I'm a better mom for older boys than I was for baby boys. Babies are unpredictable. Big kids are easier for me. They communicate, respond to my questions, clearly express their needs. They can sit through dinners out, manage through long car rides, and tell me they love me. Who said parenting is thankless job?

Nope, no more babies for me. Not because of breast cancer. Because I couldn't be happier at this moment in time with the two blessings that have been bestowed on me, the two guys who simultaneously drive me crazy and make me giddy with love and laughter and hope.

Cheers to Joey and Danny. And our perfect family of four.

Lucky

Posted on 6/3/2008 By

4 Comments

dsc_0534.JPGI'm one of the lucky ones—I'm surviving cancer, have been since November 2004. That makes me three and a half years invincible, and I must say it feels good to go to bed each night knowing I've survived for 1,277 days.

My neighbor is not so lucky. She was diagnosed with breast cancer—my same disease—a little more than six months ago. She had it removed—both the cancer and her breast—and already, the disease is back. It’s back in her breast tissue. It's made its way into both lungs too. Doctors are calling it stage IV. Hospice is calling on her already.

"She's no young girl," her husband told me last night when we passed each other in the neighborhood. But she is. She's 73. In my book, that's young. I don't want to die at 73. She shouldn’t need to either. But it's happening. And there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.

1,277 days. I'm one of the lucky ones.