my Breast Cancer blog

2004, age 34 — this is my story

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Flashback: November 29, 2004

SarahMcD ?, Flickr

SarahMcD ?, Flickr

On November 29, I met with a surgeon at Shands who prepared me for my first step: surgery. He said he would remove the lump and would determine whether or not my lymph nodes were cancerous. He would check all the margins around my breast to see if any surrounding tissue was affected and would identify all the defining factors of my cancer. If he found extensive cancer, he would have to remove my breast. I had to sign a form stating that my surgery was to be a lumpectomy but could turn into a mastectomy. My surgery was scheduled for Friday of this same week.

Flashback: November 24, 2004

 alanclarkdesign, Flickr

alanclarkdesign, Flickr

My phone rang at 10:00 a.m., and the doctor who did the biopsy said the pathology report was back already. He said that unfortunately, cancer cells were found. He said I would need a lumpectomy (surgery to remove the lump), radiation, and possibly chemotherapy. He told me to buy a book called Dr. Susan Love’s Breast Book. I got the book that day.

Somehow, I made it though the Thanksgiving weekend, with my thoughts jumping from the hope that this would turn out OK to the fear that I would not see my boys grow up. My mind wandered and worried about surgery and what treatments I would have. I wondered if I could have more kids and whether or not I would lose my hair. I cried and lost sleep and was hopeful, too.

I learned a lot from reading my new book. I learned that many women do go on to have kids after cancer, but I also learned that chemotherapy in young women could cause early menopause. I learned that I have an 85 percent survival rate, and also that I will get tiny little tattoos surrounding my breast to aid in the proper delivery of radiation. These permanent tattoos will also alert any future doctors that my breast has had radiation because I can never have it again in that same area. The book helped me feel positive about this journey, but it also helped me face reality.

Note: My survival rate turned out to be more like 93 percent for five years. And here I am — at five years.

Flashback: November 23, 2004

Brittany G, Flickr

Brittany G, Flickr

On November 23, I had a biopsy. A large needle was placed in my breast and a piece of the lump was pulled out. The surgeon had a hard time getting a piece, however, because it moved around so much. He said this was a good sign, the movement. He sent the tissue to pathology and told me to call his office the next afternoon for the results.

MRI Shows Low-Risk Changes

Crap.

I was hoping for an e-mail from my oncologist that went something like this:

“Your MRI results are back, and everything is great!”

But this is what I got:

“Your MRI report is attached; My take is that there are some low risk changes and that we should keep doing what we have been, the mammogram alternating with the MRI.  Let me know if you want to talk.”

We talked. And my doctor said he thinks we are fine to just keep monitoring — even though the report said things like: There has been interval development of few small, less than 3 mm enhancing foci located more posteriorly within the right breast which demonstrate Type II enhancement curves. No space-occupying lesions are identified. No other concerning enhancing lesions are identified.

You see, tests like MRI are very sensitive, and they pick up all sorts of things. It’s all probably benign, it could be fibrous stuff, or hormonal stuff, who knows.

The “who knows” part is what scares me. Maybe it shouldn’t. The radiologists involved are apparently very cautious, and if they were worried, they would have recommended further action. Still, I’m going to have my surgeon and some others take a look at the report on Monday.

Some good news — everything on the left side is good, and that’s where the cancer was five years ago. It’s the right side that is causing trouble now.

More as the mystery unfolds.

Flashback: November 19, 2004

Elisabeth Augusta, Flickr

Elisabeth Augusta, Flickr

I was the youngest person waiting to get my mammogram, another sign that this lump was nothing serious because it is not common for young women to have breast cancer. Mammograms are not even recommended for women under the age of 40. I am 34.

The mammogram films looked OK, and the technician told me the doctor would talk to me, but that she was not worried about anything. This was true, but she did an ultrasound anyway to look further at the lump. She determined it was not a cyst, which is fairly common, and nothing serious. It could be a fibroma (a common growth that can be removed or left in place without harm) or it could be cancer. She said she wanted me to have the lump removed. She wanted it out and in a jar, she said.

I asked her if it could be cancer, and she said it could be.

Either I’m Fine or I’m Sick

Another MRI.
Quick this time around.
Answered some questions.
Filled out some forms.

Blue gown and underwear.
IV in arm.
Beeping and screeching.
Kelly Clarkson in my ears.

8 minutes on my back.
20 on my belly.
Boobs through holes in table.
Someone snapping pictures.

“Pretty,” she called the pics.
I was still and didn’t move.
The real answer comes tomorrow:
Everything is fine, or maybe it’s not.

Relaxing at home.
Not worried, really.
Either I’m fine, or I’m sick.
I know the drill.

5 years looming on horizon.
Will I make it free and clear?
I think so.
Will let you know.

Flashback: November 18, 2004

pfala, Flickr

pfala, Flickr

I went to my OB/GYN on November 18. My doctor felt the lump but was confident it was nothing to worry about. It moved around easily, there was no discharge from my nipple, I did not feel any pain: all signs that it was benign. But it’s routine to get a mammogram for any mass so I got one the next day.

Flashback: November 16, 2004

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Remembering 2004

I felt a lump in my left breast while taking a shower. I have always been aware of what my breasts feel like. I have a lot of dense tissue — so dense that the surgeon who performed my breast reduction (in 1996) had trouble separating the tissue to take some out and leave some in. My breasts always seem lumpy to me, and I never knew if I’d be able to tell the difference between normal and abnormal tissue. I once had a mammogram because of something I felt. It all turned out fine. It was just the dense tissue. All of my annual GYN visits have revealed nothing abnormal. But I’ve always been aware and curious, which is why I found something in the shower. I knew it was not normal. It was hard, and it felt like a small, frozen green pea. It moved around, and for the first few days, I had a hard time locating it. Once I became obsessed with it, I could find it immediately.

Live Like You Were Dying

Five years ago on this very day, I was two weeks from learning I had breast cancer. There I was, plugging along nicely in life, attending playgroups with a 3-year-old and an 18-month-old, investigating preschool programs, thinking the worst of my existence was a frustrating run at potty training and an inconsistent nap schedule. Ha!

There’s no better case for cherishing the day than realizing something devastating might be lurking around the corner. It happens to people every day. Everything is fine, then BAM! — Cancer. Now, I completely hope it doesn’t happen to you (although if it does, I am confident you can totally handle it, because I did, and I’m a pretty accomplished whiner), but just in case, I suggest you really do live each day as if it’s your last, just like country singer Tim McGraw sings:

Live Like You Were Dying

He said: “I was in my early forties,
“With a lot of life before me,
“An’ a moment came that stopped me on a dime.
“I spent most of the next days,
“Looking at the x-rays,
“An’ talking ’bout the options an’ talkin’ ‘bout sweet time.”
I asked him when it sank in,
That this might really be the real end?
How’s it hit you when you get that kind of news?
Man whatcha do?

An’ he said: “I went sky diving, I went rocky mountain climbing,
“I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu.
“And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter,
“And I gave forgiveness I’d been denying.”
An’ he said: “Some day, I hope you get the chance,
“To live like you were dyin’.”

He said “I was finally the husband,
“That most the time I wasn’t.
“An’ I became a friend a friend would like to have.
“And all of a sudden goin’ fishin’,
“Wasn’t such an imposition,
“And I went three times that year I lost my Dad.
“Well, I finally read the Good Book,
“And I took a good long hard look,
“At what I’d do if I could do it all again,
“And then:

“I went sky diving, I went rocky mountain climbing,
“I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu.
“And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter,
“And I gave forgiveness I’d been denying.”
An’ he said: “Some day, I hope you get the chance,
“To live like you were dyin’.”

Like tomorrow was a gift,
And you got eternity,
To think about what you’d do with it.
An’ what did you do with it?
An’ what can I do with it?
An’ what would I do with it?

“Sky diving, I went rocky mountain climbing,
“I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu.
“And then I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter,
“And I watched Blue Eagle as it was flyin’.”
An’ he said: “Some day, I hope you get the chance,
“To live like you were dyin’.”

“To live like you were dyin’.”
“To live like you were dyin’.”
“To live like you were dyin’.”
“To live like you were dyin’.”

I Quit

crazy boys

Where I'd rather be!

I quit my job, the one where I’ve been writing and editing for the website That’s Fit. It’s a bold move, I know, but in order to practice what I preach, I had to do it. You see, I tell people all the time — especially cancer survivors — that stress can really muck up the body, and anyone who’s been given a second chance at life (like me) should really try to stay as healthy as possible.

So here I’ve been, working way too many hours and virtually drowning in my workload. In theory, the job was ideal: Work in the morning while my boys are in school, spend care-free afternoons and evenings together and then do a little more work after putting them to bed. Essentially, my children would be totally not affected by my work. I’d still be a stay-at-home mom, with a little job on the side. Gosh, that would have been nice. But it didn’t happen that way. I mean, it started out OK, but then my job turned into a completely different monster. That chatty diet and fitness blog that allowed for flexible mommy schedules morphed into something much more deadline-driven. It’s turning into a newsroom, which is great for folks who like newsrooms, but frankly, there’s someplace I’d rather be.

I’d rather be playing in the front yard, watching my boys hunt for bugs, instead of on the porch steps, balancing a laptop on my legs and peeking at them in between e-mails and edits. I want to be volunteering in their classrooms and going on field trips, not picking and choosing what I can do because I’ll feel guilty if I take too much time off. I want to be watching Joey play baseball without my cell phone beeping in the bleachers, and when Danny says, “Mom, look at this!” I want to go running, instead of responding with my canned, “in a minute.” I mostly want to look back years from now and know I soaked up every second of Joey and Danny. I want no regrets. And at the pace I’d been keeping, regrets were inevitable.

This has not been an easy decision to make. For one, I’d gotten pretty greedy about the money that was rolling into our bank account — it’s allowed for a nice cushion, a lot of out-to-eats and a few pricey weekend vacations. Plus, I really, really like writing and editing, and I’ve met some great people whose paths I won’t cross as often as I’d like. And honestly, the time I’m getting back by quitting my job is going to be too much — I like a schedule, a purpose, some responsibility. That’s why I’ll search for something else. Not sure what, but I’ll find something that better suits my needs. First, though, I think I’ll read a book (for pleasure!) and attend my kids’ school functions, update some scrapbooks and let my insides settle down for a bit. Then maybe I’ll take 8-year-old Joey’s advice: “Just get a job at a car dealership and be done with it,” he said after spotting me upset about my job one day. He’s all about cars and shoes lately, so maybe he’s onto something, who knows. What I do know is that he’s aware that my job has gotten out of hand, and that’s reason enough to bid farewell to the stress of it all.

So, goodbye That’s Fit.

And, hello happier me.

Straight Talk on Chemo Hair

straight hair

Photo courtesy of Jordan Pfaff, almost 5 years old

I’ve never really liked the curly hair I got post-chemo. Now, it’s not as curly as when it first sprouted, but it’s definitely wavy and full, and on a humid Florida day (that would be, like, seven days a week, mostly year-round), it grows really big. Thank goodness for the flat iron, because I use my pretty pink one every. single. day. no. exceptions. (Well, except for that one day I let my locks go natural and Joey greeted me after school with an enthusiastic, “What happened to your hair?”)

OK, so I overuse my flat iron, and the crazy-hot heat is damaging my hair for sure. So realizing my strands really needed a break, I had this hair-straightening procedure done two weeks ago. Here’s how it worked: My hair stylist washed my hair and dried it, rubbed and combed in this solution, dried it again and then flat ironed it all over. For three days — OMG, three days — I could not wash my hair (ewww!), supposedly so the magic could lock itself in and straighten my hair for up to four months. And now that I’ve been washing and conditioning my hair for a bit (with special no-salt products), I’m here to tell you what I think about what cost me $150 (plus tip, plus $30-ish for products).

The Coppola Keratin Complex Smoothing Therapy seems to have some merit. It has not worked miracles, and I still have a sort-of bend in my hair, and it’s not immune to the effects of weather, but my hair is smoother and straighter now than it was pre-expensive treatment. I can blow-dry it and leave it as is, if I’m OK with a tiny bit of fluff, or I can dry it and pass through a couple of times with the flat iron — which is what I’ve been doing. My ideal scenario would have been to pack away the iron entirely, but my hair is just not as poker straight as I’d dreamed it would be, so I use it a little — much less than before, though, so that’s a good thing.

When four months is up, or whenenver the effects wear off, I’m not sure I’ll do this again. Truth be told, the no-shampooing thing was really hard, mostly because I like to exercise and sweat every day (so hair washing really is a daily necessity for me) and also because my hair got heavier and greasier by the day, and that just basically grossed me out. I guess if after three days I was rewarded with perfectly super-straight hair, I’d take the plunge and empty my wallet again, but it’s just not. It’s an improvement. Just not dead-on straight — you know, like the hair I had pre-cancer, the hair I permed non-stop because I was sure I wanted curls forever. Well, I was wrong. I don’t.

Dear Doctor

waiting toes

Waiting, 10.5.09

Dear Dr. Lynch,

You don’t know this, but tears fill my eyes every time I drive to see you. It happens as I head east on Archer Road, right as that big Shands hospital comes into sight and just before I plant my feet in your waiting room and begin contemplating the reason you and I know each other. These are not sad tears, though. They are “Gosh, I am so glad I fell into your hands” tears. They are simply my body’s way of conveying what words cannot.

Thank you, my friend, for rescuing me from the doctor who told me to toughen up when my blood counts numbered 700, for telling me Taxol was not the drug for me (I knew it wasn’t!), for signing me up for the hopefully-life-saving Herceptin, for fielding my endless questions and worries, for helping fund my run (your name on a pink ribbon, October 24), for giving me another clean bill of health today and for so much more.

See, words just can’t sum it all up.

It’s happening again.

Tears.

In good health (yours and mine),

Jacki

Cancer: No, Pulse: Low

exam-table-200jd090409

Keeping a Pulse on Cancer

My body is free of cancer, at least as far as my radiation oncologist can tell from a clinical exam — just had a follow-up visit this morning, and I appear to be A-OK, which is great news and all, but even better at the moment is what I learned about my resting pulse (or heart rate).

Right after I was weighed and my blood pressure was taken, my heart rate clocked in at 47. “Oh My Goodness, 47?” said the nurse. “That’s really low.” I guess I knew this, I’m always pretty low, but her surprise threw me for a minute. “Is that OK?” I asked. She told me it’s just fine and asked if I’m a runner. I told her that I am. I mean, I’m not a marathoner or anything, in fact, a 5K is pretty much tops for me. But I do run, and walk, and make often-lazy attempts at push-ups, planks and other body-weight exercises. I guess it all adds up.

“Fit people usually have low resting heart rates,” the nurse told me. I took that as a compliment. Then I came home and found this on Pat Croce’s website:

One of the greatest barometers of your fitness status—that is, your ability to expend energy—is your resting pulse rate. The lower your pulse rate (also referred to as your heart rate), the less energy you expend doing menial tasks and the more energy you keep stored for other activities. Ironically, the best way to lower you resting heart rate is to exercise or engage in physical activity.

On average, the American Heart beats about 70 to 80 times a minute. The active or athletic heart beats around 60 bpm. And the highly trained athletic heart beats in the range of 40 to 50 bpm. For example, it has been reported that Tiger Woods has a resting pulse rate in the low 50’s and my friend Tour de France champion Lance Armstrong—who wrote the Forward for my book 110%—was monitored in the low 40’s. I’m proud to say that my resting pulse rate is in the high 40’s.

Hmmm, “highly trained athletic heart” — not sure about that, but it sure is motivating to know my heart is seemingly healthy. Makes me want to go out for a run. Tomorrow.

Braving Boys

I started blogging about breast cancer the day I learned it had invaded my body. But I’ve never routinely blogged about my children — invaders of another sort. I’ve been braving cancer for a little more than four years, but I’ve been braving boys for more than eight. Seems only fitting I document the beautiful and boisterous ways of Joey and Danny. Come see me over at Braving Boys — I’ve only just begun, but if you follow me, I promise to keep you entertained.

Look Good … Feel Better

nancy_both

The toughest part of my dance with breast cancer was losing my hair. Seems crazy, doesn’t it, that a tumor was living in my body, threatening to take my entire life away, and I was worried about my hair. Yea, crazy. I know that now that I’m alive, probably because the same drugs that left me bald also wiped out a treacherous disease. Still, it’s heartbreaking to lose a headful of hair. Even Farrah Fawcett, who is courageously fighting her own cancer battle, hung onto her famous hair for as long as she could, only succumbing recently to the toxic hair-stealing chemotherapy drugs.

The reality of cancer treatment is that many people will lose their hair. And lots of them, like me, will determine it a tragedy. That’s why the Look Good … Feel Better (LGFB) program exists — to help women face the challenge of a lifetime. LGFB (organized by the American Cancer Society) offers workshops to help cancer survivors feel better. I attended one, and I learned how to draw on eyebrows (yes, chemo takes those too), apply make-up on blotchy skin and cover my head with wigs and scarves. I went home with my very own cosmetic kit, matched to my skin tone, and I met a whole bunch of women walking in shoes that were much like mine. LGFB also offers one-on-one consultations, self-help materials and a 24/7 toll free information and help line — 1-800-395-LOOK.

Take advantage of LGFB if you can. And suggest it to any loved ones who might need it. And do you know of any survivors who deserve to win a trip to NYC (you, maybe)? Check out this contest. LGFB is celebrating its 20th anniversary by searching for five Women of Hope they can pamper with a complimentary make-over and a trip to the annual DreamBall, a black-tie gala and the program’s largest annual fundraiser.

By the way, that’s Nancy up top. She’s a LGFB participant. Doesn’t she look good?

Happy Mother’s Day!

the power of songHere I sit in a chemo chair in February 2005, getting dosed with the toxic drugs that are hopefully saving my life, while my mom sits nearby, holding my baby niece Jordan. This lovely man toured the infusion center on this Friday, singing a personalized song to each patient in my similar predicament. He sang about me, my mom and Jordan — the two girls who sat with me for every chemo session. Click on the photo to start video.

Thanks, mom.
I love you.
Happy Mother’s Day.

Bald

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I haven’t been watching much of “Grey’s Anatomy” lately, but I do know that Katerine Hiegl’s character Izzie Stevens has cancer, so when I caught tonight’s episode, I was somewhat prepared for the storyline. What I wasn’t prepared for was my reaction to the end of the show, when Izzie pulls fistfuls of hair from her head.

She cried.

I cried.

I cried big, sobbing tears, because even though I am almost five years removed from that same helpless, hopeless feeling, it was still there, right in the pit of my stomach, waiting to be called up.

My cancer memories are vivid. Every one of them. But nothing is as vivid as the feeling that suffocated me the day my hair started falling out, when it washed from my head in the shower and gathered in the drain, and wound around my brush, and then covered my pillowcase when I woke up the next morning.

“That was the worst,” I told my husband as “Grey’s Anatomy” ended tonight and Izzie sat in a hospital bed with a completely bald head. “You survived it,” John said. Yes, I did. But I’ll never forget it.

Countdown to Mother’s Day – May 7, 2009

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Are these not the cutest flip flops ever? They’d make a pretty nifty Mother’s Day gift, wouldn’t they? I’m thinking so. In fact, I know how comfy these Havaianas Fit cuties are — my sister won a silver pair in a giveaway recently, and she passed them on to me (she’d just bought herself some silver sandals and was feeling generous) — and so I can promise mom will love them. Well, maybe not promise. But chances are, she’ll feel pretty sporty and summery in her very own pair. All you need to do is shell out $30 bucks (she’s worth it, right?) and order a pair for mommy dearest. Pick from pink, white, black, silver or gold. Hey, get a  pair for yourself while you’re at it.

Fine

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At 8 a.m. this morning, I arrived at the oncology clinic at Shands Hospital in Gainesville, FL for a six-month breast cancer follow-up. I sat in a nearly empty waiting room for a short time, then was moved to an exam room, where I had my blood drawn (ouch!), my weight checked (good news), my blood pressure taken (low, but good) and my temperature taken (98.3). Then met with my lovely Dr. who checked my boobs, my lymph nodes, my belly and my breathing.

Everything was just fine.

And then I drove away. And it’s been a glorious day ever since.