My friend Lexi over at Jeans Cream asked me to write a guest post for her blog and I did. It published today. Here it is: http://bit.ly/9BOMdJ
Archive for the ‘Counseling’ Category
What Helped Me Move Forward
Thursday, May 20th, 2010It could be worse
Saturday, August 30th, 2008
Joey's new mantra: It could be worse. He uses it to excuse his questionable behavior—like when he was playing at the dinner table recently, waving his arms all around like we tell him not to do, and he knocked over his cup of milk. "It could be worse," he announced after locking eyes with my frustrated gaze. Not exactly my preferred response—"I'm sorry, mom, I know I shouldn't have been horsing around and it won't happen again" would have been my pick—but hey, the kid is seven. How much can I expect, really? Besides, he's right. It could be worse.
Sometimes Joey is wise beyond his years. The kid always gives me something to think about. Once Joey told his dad about the grandfather he never knew (he died before Joey was even born): "Don't worry that your dad can't see you anymore. He's in the sky now and the clouds are his eyes." He told me three years ago that cancer is "medicine and love." Pretty good way to sum it up—I got lots of medicine and lots of love. I'm not sure in hindsight that I'd describe it much differently.
It could be worse. I keep thinking about this and realizing Joey is right on with this perspective.
Back to cancer.
I found a lump—early. It could have been worse. It could have spread. It could have been larger.
I had a lumpectomy. It could have been worse. I could have had a mastectomy.
I had chemo, and it made me sick. It could have been worse. My cancer could have been so bad chemo wouldn't have worked.
I was hospitalized twice during treatment. It could have been worse. I could have been hospitalized three, four, five times.
I had radiation, and my skin burned slightly. It could have been worse. My skin could have been left sizzled and scorched. I could have been in pain. I wasn't.
I had more drug therapy. It could have been worse. I could have been a non-candidate for the treatment (Herceptin), which could be the very thing saving my life.
I went to counseling for more than one year and took an anti-depressant too. It could have been worse. I could have denied these forms of help and could be battling depression and anxiety at this very moment. I'm not. I'm happy.
I could go on and on, but I think you get my drift. I hope you get how this applies to your life too. Try this next time you’re down in the dumps: Tell yourself: It could be worse. See if it makes a difference. It does for me.
And Joey too.
My story
Wednesday, March 12th, 2008I don’t often tell my entire breast cancer story all at once. I usually share just bits and pieces of it. This afternoon, I talked about a few chapters with a fellow mommy while waiting in a doctor’s office. It turns out while I was being diagnosed with cancer three years ago, this woman found herself in a serious car accident. We talked about physical therapy, our long lists of doctors, our respective survivals. Our chat was short and sweet—and powerful.
This morning, I told my whole story. I talked about diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, hair loss, radiation, drug therapy, counseling, anti-depressants, hospitalizations, and doctor relationships. I talked about my hopes, my fears, my attitude, and my state of mind every step of the way. It took more then one hour of phone time to pour out every last detail for the researcher who will somehow use my information to help better the business of cancer. Our chat was long and involved—and powerful.
Talking about cancer is emotional. It forces me to revisit my travels with a life-threatening disease. It also helps me appreciate how far I’ve come, how well I’m surviving, how important it is to talk.
I told my researcher guy today that I’m willing to talk about anything related to cancer. Sure, I could be private about it all. I could keep my information inside. But I figure that doesn’t do anyone any good. Talking—and writing—about cancer is what helps. It helps me. I hope it helps others.
If you want to know something about cancer, especially breast cancer, ask me. My information is yours for the taking.
The long and short of it
Wednesday, November 22nd, 2006Two years ago, I wanted another baby. Instead, I got breast cancer.
It was the day before Thanksgiving when the surgeon who performed my biopsy called me at home with the news. And for the en
tire Thanksgiving holiday — that seemed to last an eternity — I grappled with the fear and confusion and uncertainty that accompanies the discovery of a life-threatening illness.
It’s been a long road — complete with surgery, chemotherapy, hair loss, two hospitalizations, one blood transfusion, radiation, a year-long drug therapy, physical therapy, counseling, and more. But it also seems like a short trip. And today — two years after I learned the tiny, hard lump in my left breast was in fact cancer — it’s hard to believe so much time has passed. But it has. And the passing of time is marked by the scars under my armpits, a scar where my port once lived, hair that has grown so much it almost reaches my chin, and the growth of my two little boys who two years ago were 18 months and almost four years old. Now three and a half and almost six, it’s clear time has stormed right by.
Two boys are all I have. Cancer took the place of a third child. And while I still want another baby, I don’t know if I will have one. Because I am still grappling with the fear and confusion and uncertainty that accompanies life after cancer.
If I never have another child, I will be okay. Because I have my life. And I am thankful to simply be alive.
Overcome
Monday, May 2nd, 2005I am overcome with emotion and fatigue. Today I had five medical appointments. First, I had my port flushed. This has to be done once every four to six weeks when the port is not used regularly. My port gets accessed with a needle and saline and a blood thinner are flushed through the line to keep it clean and clear.
Second, I met with my oncologist who told me he thinks having my breasts and ovaries removed at this time is a radical approach. He thinks I should give myself some time to think things over and to live life a bit after treatment. Perhaps my worry will subside when life becomes normal again. He also recommended that I take an anti-depressant for a few months to ease my mind. I’m thinking about it. I really don’t like taking drugs. But my doctor says sometimes cancer patients need to clear their minds — and this helps. He says some describe the effect of the drug as bringing them out of a dark room and into the sunlight. I’ve filled the prescription and it sits on my kitchen counter. Another decision.
Third, I went for my 16th radiation treatment and learned that I will have 12 more of what I’ve been receiving and then will get 10 “boost” treatments. After radiation and fourth, I met with a radiation oncologist — this happens once per week to monitor my skin and any other side effects. So far, my skin is not affected. My side effect is fatigue — which today seems to have tripled with my busy schedule.
For a break, I met John, Joey, Danny, my mom, and Jordan for a quick and hectic lunch. Then I dropped off a prescription and went to get my arm fitted for a lymphedema sleeve (to help with swelling due to lymph node removal).
Fifth, I met with my OB/GYN to talk about ovaries. He did an ultrasound and pelvic exam and like popular opinion, told me screening for ovarian cancer is not very effective. But from what he could see, my ovaries look fine. He told me they are not fully functioning due to chemo-induced menopause but he saw signs that they may return to full function. If they do not, he says there is no need to keep them and I could have them removed. But until he knows of my true menopausal state — which could take up to one year — he does not recommend removing them. There is no evidence that I will get ovarian cancer at this time. I will still have the CA 125 test done to see if there is any elevation in levels that detect ovarian cancer — but this too can be deceiving.
For the near future, I will continue my treatment without making any big decisions. For today, I think I will put the topic of cancer to rest.
Jacki Donaldson
Discharged
Sunday, April 3rd, 2005I am home from the hospital—hopefully for good this time. After my first hospital stay, I had in my head that I couldn’t go through that experience again. And I thought there would be no reason that I’d need to. Until March 30. On that day, I felt once again that my body was struggling in so many ways.
For the past 4 1/2 days, my emotions have been like a yo-yo. At first I was told that it is very odd for blood counts to drop again without another chemo treatment to precipitate a drop. I have been without a chemo treatment for four weeks. And I should have been healthy after my first hospital visit where I got new blood and a clean bill of health. So this second drop was a mystery. My first team of doctors (an attending oncologist and team of residents) were stumped. One doctor even paced my room saying, “You know this is odd, don’t you?” He just couldn’t figure out why this had happened. He told me I might need a bone marrow biopsy to determine what was going on. The worst-case scenario could include a diagnosis of leukemia or lymphoma—both cancers. I lived with that fear for several days. I worried and cried and was completey unsettled. I already knew there is a chance of getting leukemia as a byproduct of chemo. But I was still shocked that this would be considered for me.
I never got the bone marrow biopsy. I was monitored for a few days, received IV antibiotics, and had my temperature taken religiously. Although my fever never dropped and my counts never increased, something good did happen. I got a new team of doctors
On the first of each month, a new team takes over. My new team never even considered a biopsy. The attending doctor believed I had a viral infection (due to my severe sore throat). He did not believe it is odd for counts to drop four weeks out from chemo. And an onset of a virus would bump them down even more. He added an anti-viral drug to my treatment plan. It worked. My sore throat was better the next morning. He also ordered injections of a growth factor to grow my bone marrow, which stimulates the growth of blood cells. This worked too. After two shots (one per day), my counts were even higher than they were when I was discharged from the hospital the first time. These injections do cause aches in my bones but this is manageable for now.
I will go to my oncology clinic on Monday and Tuesday for more shots and to have my blood checked. I’ll take an oral anti-viral medication at home to make sure the virus is gone. And I’ll hope this never happens again. If it does, a bone marrow biopsy may be necessary. Although there still is a chance that they will drop a bit due to radiation which is to begin in a week or so. If only I can breeze through this portion of the treatment.
There is no way to clearly express my feelings in writing about this whole ordeal. I can say that I’ve been up and down and sad and hopeful. I’ve sobbed and smiled and questioned and wondered. I mostly know that I will be okay when this is over. But sometimes I look at Joey and Danny and think about what their lives would be like without me. This is not negative thinking. I really do have a positive outlook, and I know I will fight whatever comes my way. But cancer brings mortality to the forefront. We are all going to die—some at an early age; some at an old age. But the gift for many is not knowing when it will happen. I don’t know when it will happen either, but my illness can be life threatening and the possibility for me seems more apparent now than before my diagnosis. So I am searching for the strength to live each day to the fullest, knowing tomorrow is not a guarantee. When my body is weak and sick, this is harder to do. But I feel so much better today so I think my yo-yo emotions should start to taper off. I’m going to start talking with a psychologist too—she focuses on young women with breast cancer—and I think she will help me put all my thoughts into perspective.
It is so good to be home. I’ve been without my boys for too many days. They sure are a sight for sore eyes—all three of them.
Jacki Donaldson
