my Breast Cancer blog

2004, age 34 — this is my story
Home » Archive by category "Hospitalization"

Grace Under Pressure

Posted on 7/11/2012 By

2 Comments

I’m tempted to use this space to moan and groan about a recent medical condition—not cancer and likely curable—that has me feeling pretty bummed. But I can’t bring myself to publicly mope because I am not very sick, really, and when I think about it, never have I been really sick. Not when I think about my new faraway friend Lauren, who blogged today about true sickness. Lauren, a breast cancer survivor, is battling leukemia, and the fight is really taking a toll on her body. She is sick.

I once thought I was sick. That time chemo kicked the crap out of me and left me all dizzy and light-headed and almost incoherent, with low blood counts and the need for hospitalization (twice), a blood transfusion, and some growth-hormone-type injections—yea, that was pretty convincing. But considering what Lauren is enduring, that wasn’t sick.

I had jury duty recently, and an attorney asked me to define “grace under pressure.” I told him, “it means maintaining a sense of calm in the midst of a difficult situation.” What I wanted to tell him is, “Lauren.”

Lauren is grace under pressure. If you read her story, I think you’ll agree, and I’m pretty sure you’ll be inspired to live strong, in sickness and in health.

Second Opinions Matter

Posted on 3/19/2010 By

2 Comments

Photo: cjc4454, Flickr

Photo: cjc4454, Flickr

My darkest hour arrived while I was cooped up in a hospital room with chemo-induced fever and other mystery symptoms. I was bald and bloated and beyond hope when a well-respected attending oncologist swung by my room with a crowd of med students and announced it could be another cancer causing my illness. Probably leukemia or lymphoma. A bone marrow biopsy would determine my fate, this doc told me, just before he casually strolled away from my despair and moved onto his next patient.

It wasn’t a biopsy that greeted me a few days later. It was a new doc, starting a new rotation.  A second cancer wasn’t even on his radar. Rather, he was convinced my dose-dense chemo (given every two weeks instead of three) was to blame. Nothing some heavy-duty meds couldn’t fix.

A few days later, I was home, healthy, and once again, hopeful.

That was five years ago, and it was not the first time I was misguided by a well-meaning doctor, which brings me to this very important medical conclusion:

Second opinions matter.

I’m living proof.

Hope

Posted on 1/17/2010 By

5 Comments

2005

2005, post-chemo

Five years ago, I was in a hospital bed, too weak from chemo to stand up.

2010, post-run

2010, post-run

Today, I ran 11 miles.

See, there is always hope.

What Breast Cancer Looks Like – Sherri Jo

Posted on 3/26/2009 By

1 Comment

Sherri Jo says, “Until I had breast cancer, I never fully realized what wonderful family and friends I have and how much I am loved. The outpouring of love and support I received was truly amazing. Every few days there was a card in my mailbox, flowers at my door, or something wonderful to cheer me on. People found such unique and creative ways to show their support for me and it made such a difference in my ability to cope with all the stress. One of my most favorite memories came from friends at my sailing club. On a particular race day when they knew I would be present, all of the sailors flew a pink ribbon on the back of their boat in my honor! What a site – to see 30 plus sailboats flying pink – just for me!  I felt loved and celebrated and certain that I would survive the fight against breast cancer. Never underestimate what a simple show of support can do to lift a person’s spirits.

My husband instigated the whole event so he got a few extra starts in his halo. I am a lucky woman to have such wonderful people in my life.”

Want to show me what you think breast cancer looks like? Please send me a photo that captures the essence of breast cancer, and I will display it here. Email to jackidonaldson@gmail.com, make sure your shot is at least 450 pixels wide and tell me something about the photo. No blurry pics, please.

Ouch!

Posted on 1/9/2009 By

3 Comments

Chemo was bad. The next worst thing about breast cancer, though, was this nasty allergic reaction I had to the tape/latex used during my surgery to remove the tumor that threatened my life. What started as a few red bumps grew into quite a mess of blistery yuck. It burned and itched, made my skin crawl and sent me nearly over the edge. My surgeon (and a dermatologist he pulled into the case) had never before seen anything like it, and they hadn’t a clue what to do about it. They gave me Xanax to get me through.

The reaction happened again, in response to an antibiotic I received while hospitalized for low blood counts. And now, it’s happened again.

Tegaderm tape could be the trigger of this allergy. Well, either that or latex. So I always list both as allergies when asked by medical professionals. I’m sure it’s on my chart at the dermatologist office, but somehow I was sent home after my skin cancer surgery on Monday with bandages containing, oops, latex (there they are, pictured above, apparently “ouchless”). Sure enough, I slapped them on my arm, covered my stitches and then 12 hours later discovered the mistake I’d made. A mess of blistery yuck. It burns and itches, makes my skin crawl and is sending me nearly over the edge.

Double check. That’s what I’ve got to do from now on. No more assuming that someone else is going to look out for my best interests, that someone else is going to actually read my patient paperwork for a listing of my allergies. Nope. It’s all on me. Well, all over me, right now. Which is proof that no one can take better of me than me.

It could be worse

Posted on 8/30/2008 By

6 Comments

jt-aug-2008-034.JPGJoey'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.

Beds

Posted on 8/12/2008 By

Reply

img_1758.JPGCancer takes away control. I hate that, because I like to have control—not necessarily over people but over my surroundings, my space, my schedule. I like a neat house, a manageable calendar, a semi-clear view of what's ahead. Losing control makes me nervous. Image my anxiety, then, when I had to wait weeks to learn about my breast cancer pathology—the stuff that determines a treatment plan. Consider how wacky I was waiting for my hair to come tumbling out of my head. Think about my mental anguish over the foggy head I developed after my fourth and final dose of chemotherapy—talk about literally losing control—or my two unexpected five-day stays in the hospital. Cancer was out of my control.

I hate that.

But losing control taught me something. It taught me to chill—a little bit—which is why the state of my kids' beds is not driving me completely bonkers.

My boys, ages 7 and 5, are making their own beds now. I figured it was time to charge them with something more than playing, eating, sleeping, watching TV, and occasionally dragging a trash can from the street to the side of our house. So I told my guys one morning to make their beds. I gave them a simple how-to on the whole process, and I set them free. Now they make their beds every morning, often before I even ask for compliance. I love it. I love the initiative they take, the pride they feel for their accomplishments, the fact that it's one less chore for me. What I don't love: The end result—the lumpy, bumpy comforters that are not nearly as smooth as I'd make them, the crooked pillows, the stuffed animals thrown on top of it all. They do far from a perfect job. Gosh, how I wanted at first to control it all, run in their rooms once they finished to straighten and fix it all. But I didn’t, and I don't, because it's their work, it's age-appropriate, and it's something I no longer need to do. They'll become more skilled with time—and maybe with a refresher course taught by me—but for now, they are doing a beautiful job.

Yes, my boys are in control. I'm not. And that's OK.

Chill.

My story

Posted on 3/12/2008 By

8 Comments

I 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

Posted on 11/22/2006 By

1 Comment

Two 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 entire 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.

Discharged

Posted on 4/3/2005 By

5 Comments

I 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

Update

Posted on 4/2/2005 By

3 Comments

Jacki is on the mend. Her fever appears to be breaking and some cell counts have risen. Others are a bit low, but doctors believe they will recover soon. Her recovery is a result of two different antibiotics and a daily shot of a human growth factor indented to grow bone marrow and stimulate growth of blood cells. There is no plan for a bone marrow biopsy at this point. That’s good news.

Jacki’s current symptoms include periodic headaches and aching in her back and legs. The aching is a side effect of the injections.

There’s a possibility that Jacki will be home in a day or so and will be monitored by outpatient visits to an oncology clinic. We’re hoping for the best, yet are prepared for anything.

John Donaldson

Another hospital stay

Posted on 3/30/2005 By

4 Comments

I took Jacki to the emergency room at 5:00 AM after she woke up with a fever, chills, sore throat, sore gums, and a headache. We already knew her white blood cell counts were low and she’s been told to report any of these symptoms to a doctor immediately. So she called the doctor on-call who told her to report to the emergency room. After 10 hours of receiving care in the ER, she was admitted. She’s now resting in a private room. She’s receiving an IV antibiotic to treat the fever and her blood counts will be monitored with the hope they will all rise. In addition to the white blood counts, other counts have dropped.

The reason for this fever and the drop in blood counts is a mystery. After the first hospital stay and treatment, everything should have been on the upward climb. Doctors will meet at length tomorrow to discuss the situation. It is possible Jacki may receive a bone marrow biopsy to further investigate the problem.

More to come.

John Donaldson

A hospital & a beach

Posted on 3/21/2005 By

2 Comments

Emailing at the hospital.My hospital costume — mask, gloves, hat, and an IV that travelled with me much of the time. I was hospitalized for neutropenia (chemo-induced fever and low blood counts) and received a blood transfusion on hospital day #4. I went home on day #5. March 11-15, 2005.


Us at the beach.Crescent Beach, Florida — a few days after I was discharged from the hospital. I was away from my boys for four and 1/2 days while in the hospital. Watching all three of them play in the sand and surf was a beautiful sight. March 17, 2005.


Home sweet home

Posted on 3/15/2005 By

4 Comments

I am home. And I am fine. My skin rash is a bit worse but otherwise, I feel pretty good — and some good lessons came my way during the past few days.

I learned that I can let go of my responsibilities and that life goes on. In the hospital, I had control over nothing. There was nothing I could do about my health, my kids, my house. Despite this, everything is fine. I got well. My kids did great. And my house is just as I left it. This is largely due to John — who became a full-time dad and excelled at the job. He even kept the house clean, did the laundry, and found time to visit me at the hospital — thanks to my mom who filled in when John was away. Thank you John and mom for taking over and for keeping Joey and Danny so happy.

Thank you also to my friend Bev who watched Joey and Danny today so John could work and my mom could be with me at the hospital. Joey and Danny have been left with non-family members on only a few occasions . Joey has loudly protested each time (Danny does fine). So I’ve protected Joey and have avoided leaving him. I predicted today would be a challenge, and it made me nervous as I watched the hospital clock this morning in anticipation of Bev’s arrival at our house. But there was no protest. Joey welcomed Bev, allowed John to leave for work, and played like he always does. I am so relieved. And I am so happy to be home.

Jacki Donaldson

New blood

Posted on 3/14/2005 By

3 Comments

I have never been a blood donor — well, once I was. I donated blood once at Kent State University while going to college. But I got dizzy and thought I would faint as the blood was being taken from me. Someone had to ring a bell and someone else came running with a special red chair and wheeled me away. I think I got cookies and juice and was saved. I never gave blood again. But today, because of all my dizziness and low blood counts, I received blood. One bag of blood has gone into my body already and I’m waiting on the next one. It’s been strange, watching someone else’s blood, 0+ like my own, drip into my system. It is definitely a gift. Maybe once I am well, I will try again to donate so someone else can receive such a gift.

I feel pretty well right now. I do have an allergic rash on my chest and back — it was determined that I am probably allergic to the antibiotic that has been dripping into me for the past three days. So the IV antibiotic was stopped and now I’ll take an oral antibiotic for a while. I’m hoping the rash does not get worse — and that I continue to feel well. I really want to go home.

Jacki Donaldson

My hospital stay continues

Posted on 3/14/2005 By

6 Comments

It’s Monday — and I’m still in the hospital. Some of my blood counts are up but others are down. So today I will get a blood transfusion to raise my red blood cells. Maybe I will go home tomorrow if all goes well.

I got to see my boys today — after three long days. John brought them to a family room near my floor and I got to visit while wearing my mask. Joey said I look like an alien. He may be right.

Jacki Donaldson

A getaway

Posted on 3/12/2005 By

7 Comments

Yesterday was the day we planned to go to the beach — me, John, Joey, Danny, and my mom. We planned to relax, play on the beach, and dig in the sand. I didn’t feel well but I thought the break would be good for me. I wanted to clear my mind and return to Gainesville with a positive attitude about my next phase of chemotherapy.

I got my getaway — but I never made it to the beach. Instead I had a one-way trip to the hospital. I don’t know when my return trip will be.

So now I sit at a computer in a little room on the 4th floor of Shands Hospital. I have a mask over my mouth and nose and gloves on my hands. An IV pole sits next to me, with antibiotics and other fluids dripping into my port. I’m staying in a room with special air flow to minimize the chance of infection. I’m restricted from receiving flowers or eating foods grown in the ground. Every time I leave my room, I have to wear a mask and my kids are not permitted on this floor. All this because of low blood counts and a fever.

I never felt well following my last chemo treatment on March 4th. In addition to the crummy way the anti-nausea drugs made me feel, I began feeling generally unwell. I felt lightheaded and dizzy and could hardly stand up after my shower yesterday morning. So when my mom and I went to a genetic counseling meeting yesterday at 9:00 AM (prior to our beach departure), I told her I would have my blood drawn to see if my blood counts were okay. So I had my blood drawn, walked just around the corner for my counseling appointment and sat for an hour learning about a blood test that can determine if I have a breakdown in a gene that may have led to my breast cancer. After the appoinment, I was handed a mask and whisked into an exam room. I was told my white blood cells were low — they were 700 and should be between 4,000 and 10,000. With this and a fever of 100.4, I was considered “neutropenic.” This sometimes happens with chemotherapy. Cells are attacked and immune systems suffer. I never expected this to happen to me — the shots of Neulasta I receive the day after chemo are intended to prevent this — but I hear now that many women are hospitalized at least once during chemo. Antibiotics are the course of treatment, to break the fever, and IV antibiotics are the fastest method for addressing the problem. So I went to my usual infusion room for my first dose and then was transferred to the main hospital for the rest of my treatment and observation.

My fever is gone. And my white blood cells are up to 1,200. But these are still too low to go home. The doctors say I may go home tomorrow (Sunday) or maybe Monday. They are looking for a trend that I am steadily getting better. And while I really would like to be home in my own bed, I am okay here. My mom spends the day with me while John takes care of Joey and Danny. Then my mom gives the boys dinner and a bath while John joins me for dinner. I know I am safe and protected here — and I am going to get well.

This is a getaway, really. And it’s probably just what I needed. When I look back on the past week, I don’t know how I was surviving. I kept going because I thought I had no other choice. I went to playgroups and registered Joey for preschool. I played in the yard and washed and vacuumed my car. But things happen for a reason — and for some reason, I knew on Friday that someone needed to look at my blood. Thank goodness for that genetic counseling session that got me on the oncology floor that day. Had I not been going for the appointment, I may not have thought to stop by for a blood draw. Now I know when to turn myself in for a hospital getaway.

Now I also know that I must continue with my chemotherapy — only eight weeks remain — but I am going to slow down the process a bit. I am going to push my next treatment from this coming to Friday to the following Friday. I think I need an extra week to recover and to feel normal before my body gets blasted again. Hopefully it won’t get so bad this time — and if it does, I will have to conquer it. I now know that my best attack on this disease is the first attack so if I quit now, I can’t ever go back. So I’ll do it now. And somehow I will survive it.

Jacki Donaldson