Breast cancer gave me a gift today. It arrived in my mailbox, and I think it’s pretty cool. Yes, I’m silly like that, thinking gifts can flow from something very frightening and life-threatening. Some day, I’ll write all about the upside of cancer. For now, I just want to share my nifty keychain!
Gift by breast cancer
Pre-cancer spots detected and frozen, 8/24/10
It’s now online — my Coping with Cancer magazine article. It was only in print form for a while, but now, you can actually click on a link and read it right on your computer. OK, here’s the link:
http://copingmag.com/cwc/index.php/feature_article/blogging_cancer/
Click now.
Photo: jamieanne, Flickr
After cancer, I made some big changes in my life. It all started because I wanted to lose the 10 pounds treatment had forced upon me, and because I wanted to rid my body of the toxins that had been suffocating it for a year and half.
The changes (no alcohol, no sweets, no red meat, no really fatty foods, lots of fruits and veggies, lots of exercise), well, they worked. I lost 15 pounds, got in shape, scored a great resting heart rate and super cholesterol levels, and I became healthier than ever.
Yes, it was tough at times to refuse the brownies and pass on birthday cake, but I became so happy in my skin that the few seconds it would take to stuff down a sweet treat just didn’t seem worth it anymore.
My willpower lasted for three years.
Three. Whole. Years.
And then something horrible happened.
Halloween 2009 arrived.
And I fell down.
One little bite of one little Tootsie Roll from my kids’ stash, and that was it. The sugary flood gates opened, and I just couldn’t get them closed. For nearly 10 months.
If there’s something I’ve learned about my relationship with sweets over the years, it’s this: One cookie isn’t enough. One slice of pie won’t do it. One mini Halloween treat — you get the idea, right?
So, what started with one indulgence back in October led to a feast in November, a baking frenzy in December, a free-for-all in January and February (I was training for a 1/2 marathon, and I became ravenous), and, well, there are no excuses for March, April, May, June, or July. I just ate the sweets I wanted, when I wanted, and while I really didn’t like that my scale had jumped 5 pounds and my middle felt uncomfortably soft, I couldn’t find the drive to get back on track.
Until a few weeks ago, when the tides turned.
I’m not sure how, or why, but just as hard as I fell, I got back up, and now, I seem to have my footing again. I can’t promise I’ll keep it, but for the moment, the sweets are off limits. I’m tightening up the reigns on my favorite crackers and nuts and carb-y snacks, too, and I’ve never let go of my commitment to no alcohol, no red meat, lots of fruits and veggies, and regular exercise, which means the scale is back on track, my middle is firming up, and I’m feeling a whole lot better about the skin I’m in.
Finally.
It’s been said that falling down is not what matters most. It’s the getting back up again that counts.
I agree.
Still, I hope I don’t fall again, because, really, it’s not all that fun.
Photo: eren | thisvintagechica, Flickr
I have survived breast cancer for 5 years.
I have survived enjoyed marriage for 15.
Really, it has been a pleasure. I just wanted to use that nifty strike-through feature. Cool, isn’t it?
Happy anniversary, John. Thank you for taking the time to muddle through life with me.
I love you.
Photo: One in a Million
My boys have summer journals, and they’re writing every few days to keep their skills sharp for the 2nd and 4th grades. I’ve been writing along with them, because I want to show them I’m not afraid of a little summer work, and well, because, writing makes me happy, and it helps me process all of life’s twists and turns. And that’s sort of what I wrote about today in my black and white composition book — getting through the ups and downs, and cutting down on stress.
My essay turned out to be a list, and here are 12 of my ideas for finding peace. Might want to try a few if you’re searching for a little calm.
Gosh, it’s hard to stop at just 12.
Would love to hear your ideas — if you share, I’ll add them to my list.
Photo: Temari 09, Flickr
The American Cancer Society folks claim to be the official sponsor of birthdays. Well, if they are, I thank them for sending another one my way.
Today, I get to face 40 candles — well, I’m not sure anyone is really going to top my strawberry shortcake with that much wax and fire, but somehow, with some configuration of candles, I’m going to be closing my eyes, wishing hard, and blowing out little flickers of light.
And my wish?
Simple.
I want to see be around to see 41 candles next year. That’s all.
Photo: LaserGuided, Flickr
I’m a grateful girl. Really, I am. In fact, I can’t even put into clear and concise words how very thankful I am for the breast cancer treatments that have kept me alive for five years. If I even try to put my thoughts into words, I promise you tears will stream down my cheeks. I’m about to turn 40 on Sunday, and WOW, I wasn’t sure I’d make it to that age, what with birthday No. 34 followed by such fear and uncertainty.
Just so we’re clear: I am so. very. happy. to be alive and writing this. I’m simply amazed by what medicine has done for me.
I’m amazed by what medicine is doing to me, too. Five years later, and it finds a way to make me a little bit miserable. Right now, actually, a lot miserable.
I’m covered in red, itchy, drive-me-crazy bumps on my shoulders, chest, back, and areas around my armpits. It happens every year, and it’s called something like UV Recall. Years after treatment, the sun reacts with my skin and the poisonous drugs, and the remnants of radiation, and sunscreen (I’m not sure about what order this all follows or if it’s one or several of these factors), and my skin pays the ultimate price. You’d think I’d have figured it out after all this time, but I haven’t, because sometimes (like last year at the beach), nothing bad happens. I find a sunscreen for sensitive skin, lather it from head to toe, and I’m just fine, maybe even a tiny bit tan, which is a treat for a fair-skinned gal like me. Other times (like this year at the beach), I find a sunscreen for sensitive skin, and, well, the bumps begin — just a few here and there, then some more, until they’ve climbed all over my body, making me more and more wacky by the day.
“Are you not so happy?” Danny asked me today.
Gosh, how I’m trying to be happy, plodding along through these summer days like everything is fine. But it’s not. I’m itchy and scratchy, showers hurt my skin, clothing bothers it, too, the Florida heat (it’s been like 100 degrees here lately) agitates every inch of me, and well, no, Danny, I am not so happy. (Add head cold to the equation, and you might imagine how poorly I really feel.)
The end is near, I know. The bumps will dry up and slowly disappear, and I will do what I always do — slink into the shadows at the pool, sit under an umbrella at the ocean, hide under the bimini of a boat. It’s no fun to be the mom always seeking shade and avoiding fun in the sun. I guess that’s why, year after year, I keep trying to jump waves, and find sea shells along the seashore, and splash in the pool — because I want to think cancer treatment won’t keep plaguing me. But it does, and it probably always will. And that’s just how it is. The very thing allowing me the pleasure of birthdays is torturing me, too.
OK, I’m getting a grip here. This skin ordeal is short-lived. It will consume about a week of my life (couple more days to go), and then I’ll move on. Maybe I’ll even be free and clear by Sunday, when I blow out 40 candles and celebrate another year of life.
See, I’m grateful. Really, I am.
Note: If you caught this post just as it published, you got a glimpse of what I look like. But the photo I put up at first has been taken down. It’s just too icky, and while it’s definitely educational, I decided to shield you from the yuck. And me, too. Looking at the mess in the mirror is enough. Online is just too much. And so I give you: flowers, pretty flowers.
i2y.com
70,000 young adults are diagnosed with cancer every year. Survival rates and quality of life have not improved in 30 years.
This is not OK.
That’s why the I’m Too Young For This cancer foundation exists, to ensure that every young adult affected by cancer is given access to the best age-appropriate support so they can get busy living at every stage of their survivorship.
Oh, and they’ve got local chapters and way cool gear, too. (See bracelet to the right.)
Your mission: check out the i[2]y website and follow on Facebook, too.
Photo: tanakawho, Flickr
Time may not heal all wounds, but in my case, it definitely blurs them. Let’s talk chemo, that horrible thing from which most of my breast cancer wounds developed.
For each of my four dose-dense infusions of adriamycin and cytoxan, my sister delivered lunch to the pink pretend-leather recliner I called home for hours at a time. There was a yummy gyro, a delish tuna sandwich, a great turkey sub, and I can’t remember the fourth one — which is exactly my point: I can’t remember. Time has erased my memory of the food that so repulsed me I couldn’t eat it for years. Years!
It’s been five years since my chemotherapy ended. And just now have I realized that the thought of these foods does not make me want to vomit. They actually sound pretty appetizing.
All it took was time. The same time that has allowed my hair to grow back, my surgery and port scars to fade, and my fear of recurrence to morph into something almost unrecognizable.
Yes, my wounds have healed — not completely and entirely, but mostly.
I love that.
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
Photo: ladyheart, morgueFile
All day today, I can’t stop backtracking five years, back to the day I was wheeled into surgery, not knowing what my surgeon would find when he sliced open my left breast in search of a tumor that was threatening my life. I’m sailing back in time today because someone I know is in an operating room right now. Her surgeon is removing both of her breasts, one containing a malignant tumor and the other marked by something precancerous, and that makes today her day of unknown. She doesn’t know what the docs will find: How big will the tumor be? Will the cancer have spread? What treatment will she face?
Unknown.
I asked my husband last night if he remembers my day of unknown. Of course he does, he told me, and what he recalls most vividly are the steps the surgeon took toward him in the hospital waiting area, once I was all closed up and starting to recover from my lumpectomy. When the steps stopped, the talking started, and John and my mom got some news: My tumor was 1.1 cm, it was Stage 1, it had not spread. They considered this all good news. When they told me, I did, too.
What will my friend learn today when her surgeon starts to talk? No one knows, yet. But I can’t get my head to think about anything else, all day today.
Photo: geishaboy500, Flickr
Surviving cancer is a good thing. Really, it is. I mean, look at the alternative. Still, living on and on after a cancer diagnosis comes with a little bit of a price tag.
My personal bottom line: the potential for heart disease, maybe some additional cancers and increased cancer risk for some family members. No one can promise these curses will come to life, but no one says they won’t either. And that’s why I visited today with a very nice doctor at the forward-thinking Cancer Survivor Program at Shands Hospital, to learn all about what might face me, and what I can do about it all.
My heart. In the past five years, I’ve had three treatments with the power to compromise cardiac function. There’s that toxic Adriamycin chemo drug (four doses, two weeks apart, over eight weeks time), and the radiation that zapped the area directly over my heart (every day for six weeks), and then Herceptin — the potential life-saver that sailed through my veins every three weeks over the course of one whole year. The good news is that I’m probably out of the woods with Herceptin, it usually does its damage during treatment or shortly thereafter. But the chemo drug and the radiation, these still have time, and usually, adverse reactions occur eight to ten years after chemotherapy. Enter the echocardiogram. I’ll have one in three years to start monitoring my ticker. And I’ll keep exercising and (mostly) eating right to keep in good shape. (Today’s resting heart rate: 50.)
More cancers. Sometimes leukemia comes as a side effect of chemotherapy (ironic, isn’t it?), but I’m likely beyond the risky time frame for that one. Bladder cancer isn’t entirely out of the question, however, because one of my poisonous chemo drugs was processed through my bladder, and apparently, that’s not a great thing. Skin cancer, too. My risk is higher now. Perhaps the basal cell cancer I had removed from my left arm last year can be linked to this risk. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. I should pay attention to the left side of my body, though, says my doc, because that’s where another cancer might show up.
My kids. My kiddos — both boys — are not really at risk. Of course, they can get breast cancer, it’s just not very probable. And their kids, if they have girls, are not at higher risk, either, even though their grandma (me!) had the disease. Had I tested positive for BRCA, they would have been. But I didn’t, so they aren’t.
My sister’s two girls — no one knows for sure, but they probably will be fine. Same for my mom — the risk travels mostly from older to younger, not younger to older. My sister (sorry, Tracy!) is the one who gets the short end of the stick. My having had breast cancer ups her risk, which is why she gets a mammogram every year, and why she’s already had a baseline MRI.
Am I scared by the cost of surviving cancer? No. I have every reason to believe none of this will ever affect me. And if it does, worrying about it now won’t do me a bit of good. If anything, I’m just happy to be alive and thrilled that I had the chance to sit with a doctor five years after I wasn’t sure I’d survive at all.
The following post is a reprint from Braving Boys.
I’m soft. I know this. And I’m OK with it. But it kind of goes against the grain of what John tries to teach the boys. Example: the other day, while at a lake for some fishing, Joey and Danny started whining about sunscreen. They hate it, especially the kind that sprays, because it gets in their eyes. So, we do our best to slather faces without blinding them, but as it always turns out, they are gun-shy and get all worked up about the event.
John is sick of it.
“You guys need to get hard,” he told them.
“Here’s how I do it,” he declared, then pretty much sprayed the stuff directly into his own baby blues to prove his point.
Explanation: John is a Marine, and he’s encountered some rough living. There was a period of time in boot camp when he was so hungry, he’d eat from sugar packets in the mess hall to fill the void in his gut. He hiked until his feet bled, marched until he couldn’t see straight, and for months on end, he was worn down and challenged to the core. He’s hard. He can spray sunscreen in his eyes.
Getting hard is good. It’s preparation for life’s tough times. It’s why Joey should eat fish, even though he doesn’t like it — because maybe, one day, fish will be the only thing available. It’s why learning to defend yourself is key, because when you’ve got to fight for your life, you’ll be ready.
I get it.
It’s just not me.
Don’t get me wrong. I can be tough. I’ve white water rafted, parasailed, driven a jet ski, completed a few ropes courses, traveled Europe all by myself, run a 1/2 marathon, pushed two large babies from my body and fought breast cancer.
Still, soft is my fall-back.
This worries me, and sometimes I fear my boys will come to know me as the wimpy mom. It’s why I choose to engage in some battles. Will I ski down a snow-covered mountain when we finally take a ski vacation? No. But I am fully prepared to let the waves knock the crap out of me during our next beach trip. I’m also on board this year for a very long road trip (in one cramped mini-van), even though my better judgment says, “Don’t do it.” And this summer, I’ll take on one-too-many roller coasters with my little theme-park thrill seekers, even though these rides give me a throbbing head and wobbly knees.
It’s a good thing there’s a John and a Jacki in our family. It’s like we’re the anchors supporting our family tree. John is at the top (of course, he climbed up there), I’m at the bottom (because I don’t want to climb up there), and Joey and Danny are right in between, observing the qualities that define their parents and deciding which ones to embrace.
My wish is that Joey and Danny do get hard. I hope they also realize that, at times, it’s OK to be soft. Because really, I’m convinced there’s value in both.
Easter 2010
All I have to do to chart my progress post-cancer is to look at these kiddos. The one on the far left is Danny. He was 18 months old when I was diagnosed. He’ll be 7 in May. Next to him is cousin Jordan, a brand new baby at the time (and now 5), she sat with my mom at all of my chemo infusions. Jordan’s sister Tori, almost 3, was not even a thought when breast cancer consumed our lives. And Joey, almost 4 all those years ago, is now a big ‘ol 9-year-old.
What did I count this Easter, besides the 125 eggs I hid in our yard? My blessings. Here are four of them!
I’ve written about her before, and on several occasions, she’s graciously allowed me to give away some of her greatest gear, but until recently, I had never seen her smile up close or talked face-to-face with the woman behind Out of the Blue Delivered. Now, I am honored to say that Dawn and I have met — all because of our chance encounter on the Internet, our close proximity to one another (we live just an hour apart) and the convergence of her last-Friday medical appointment and my desire for a Cinnamon Crunch bagel at Panera — which happens to be located right down the road from her doc’s office. It was perfect — our chat over breakfast, our connection, our mutual love of carbs (well, to be fair, I ate more than she did)!
www.outofthebluedelivered.com
Also pretty cool about our pow-wow is the Ouch Pouch my friend gave me just after I’d scarfed down my dessert-for-breakfast. It’s something new and exciting she’s offering at her online shop, and here’s what she says about it on her website:
These trendy little pouches are PERFECT for holding items for life’s little boo boos. Measures 4″ x 5″ with clear poly front. It’s a chic first-aid on the go kit! Comes with bandaids, alcohol wipes and a lollipop to take away the pain.
Fill-your-pouch ideas!
My pouch features a black and white zebra-like stripe fabric, but yours might be different depending on the artist’s preferences. If you order, Dawn says to tell her if you would like specific colors, like girl fabric or boy fabric.
As you can see from the photos above and to the right, this is just the right token of love and friendship for so many on your gift list. It’s also quite handy for your own bag or purse, don’t you think? Only $9, too.
And if the Ouch Pouch is not right up your alley, Dawn has so many other goodies for you to check out — there’s even something named after me. See why I’m so honored to have met Dawn? Out of the blue she came into my world. And what a gift she is.
Oncology: a branch of medicine that deals with tumors (cancer).
I went for another cancer check-up this morning, the first since my 5-year cancerversary. Mostly, everything is A-OK — so well, in fact, that I now get to see my favorite doctor once a year instead of every six months.
But with the happy hooplah of surviving cancer for a good amount of time comes the fact that I need to start thinking about surviving the side effects of cancer for a good amount of time. There are certain issues that come with life after cancer. For me, it’s mostly heart stuff.
Three things that might affect my heart: the chemo drug Adriamycin (I had four doses), radiation (it was delivered right on top of my heart) and Herceptin (the wonder drug I received for one year). All three of these life-savers can compromise heart function over time. “You should be so lucky to get heart disease in 20 years,” someone once told me, “because it means you will have survived cancer for 20 years.” Yea, that doesn’t make me feel so relieved. In fact, it’s apparently cause for a consultation.
Someone is going to contact me soon to discuss survivorship issues, says my doc, and this person will notify my primary physician of potential concerns, too, so he can monitor me appropriately. I’m not overly concerned about this, really. I’m basically just thankful to be alive, with a heart that today is very strong. For now, that’s just enough.
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.
Photo: Robert Brook, Flickr
I’ve been dreaming about my oncologist. Just knight-in-shining-armour kinds of dreams — you know, where someone sweeps in and saves the day, or in my case, a life.
Note: In stories about medieval times, knights were soldiers who rode on horses and helped women in difficult or dangerous situations.
Anyway, my mind has been a bit wonky ever since my body was blasted by chemo five years ago. The whole head thing is sort of cool, really. Sometimes I think something is going to happen, and then it does. Or I wonder why I haven’t heard from someone in a long time, and then that person magically calls or sends me an e-mail. Or, I dream about something that is so telling. I’m dreaming about my doctor, you see, because I have a check-up with him on Monday, and he’s going to take my blood, check for lumps and bumps and determine if I’m still cancer-free. Big stuff. No wonder he’s hijacking my dreams.
Now maybe this pseudo-psychic stuff is not chemo-connected at all, but I don’t recall things like this happening before poisonous potions spilled through my veins, so I tend to merge the two. Either that, or I can’t remember my mindful skills because chemo is wiping out my memory, one cell at a time.
Whatever the case, I’m having doctor dreams, and while I can’t remember them clearly (aha, the memory theory is looking pretty strong), they are generally positive and happy dreams, and I’m taking that as an indication that so will be his news to me on Monday. He is my knight after all, and I’m counting on him to keep saving me.
Speaking of doctors, mark your calendars, because March 30 is National Doctor’s Day. The red carnation is commonly used as the symbolic flower for this special day, so maybe you should deliver one to your own knight at the end of the month.
Dry erase board John spotted (and captured) at a doc visit
Losing track of the hurt of cancer is kind of like forgetting how painful childbirth is — yes, it’s kind of a blur, even though I remember clearly barking at my husband while in labor with my first child, “Why would anyone do this twice?” Then I did it again, 2 years and 5 months later.
I know, if you are fighting cancer at this very moment, you might think I’m crazy, suggesting you will block out of your mind how horrible it can be. But I did, and I know this because yesterday, I sat in a dentist chair (after three months of complete and utter avoidance), and while getting my first-ever crown, I cried.
A crown. Not surgery to remove a deadly tumor, or poisonous chemo or skin-scorching radiation. I cried because of the pain caused by the needle used to numb my mouth. Five years after the horrors of cancer, and a shot in the mouth brings me to tears. Clearly, I’ve forgotten.
See, life does get better.
Then you cry.
You are currently browsing the archives for the My story category.
