Apparently, my parts are perfect — well, except for the few organs that have caused my pelvic floor dysfunction (but are not allegedly the culprits in my overall tummy turmoil). All else, though — flawless. Everything in the view of both endoscopy and colonoscopy were clean and clear, MRI revealed my pancreas and nearby organs to be healthy, tests of my blood showed no food allergies, blah, blah, blah, and today’s sonogram of my female stuff identified no abnormalities. “Perfect,” said the tech who did the test. I have a follow-up Thursday with the doctor, who maybe will see something the tech did not, but it’s looking like there just isn’t anything medically wrong with me. There is the IUD that came out last Wednesday — it’s my only remaining hope for explanation, and, interestingly, my stomach has felt great ever since it was removed. Now, in the past, I’ve gone spans of time feeling well, only to later have a horrendous episode, but wouldn’t it be so glorious if removing that darn copper thing was the trick? Ah, yes, it would be.
Colonoscopy — Normal
Yesterday, I had my first colonoscopy. The test was ordered to rule out malignancy as a cause of my recent tummy troubles. My GI doc was pretty sure cancer was not a culprit, but she wanted to cover all the bases given my history. And now I know — no colon cancer.
Something else I know — the test itself is a breeze; the prep, which includes near starvation for more than a day and the guzzling of a thick, laxative-type drink that can induce vomiting (in my case, anyway), is not so fun.
The good news, besides the no-cancer result, is that I won’t have another colonoscopy for 10 years (whew!). The bad news is that I still don’t know what’s wrong with my insides. My self-diagnosis, in the absence of answers from all my tests is either (a) something food-related, (b) something chemo-drug-related, (c) something scar-tissue-related due to past abdominal surgery, or (d) something pelvic-floor-related due to problems that have already been diagnosed.
Nothing like narrowing down the problem, right?
Covering the Bases
“I am not worried about malignancy,” my GI doctor told me this morning during our discussion about what may be wrong with my gut. Still, given my cancer history, and in order to cover all the bases, she has ordered a colonoscopy. This means that for an entire day, I can consume only clear liquids and clear foods—which, I assume, means jello only, because are there really any other see-through foods? Then, I get to drink a special potion that will put me on the potty for much of the day. The next day, I’ll get knocked out so my doc can examine my colon through a tube of some sort. Lovely.
I am not really looking forward to having a colonoscopy at age 42 (so much earlier than the test is typically prescribed for preventative purposes). I am, however, hopeful that the test will reveal a healthy colon.
Not worried about malignancy.
Just covering the bases.
Powerful Perspective
Merry Mammogram
Surviving Cancer Not So Simple
When the cancer doc says, “you’re cured, go home,” it’s not the end of the story.
In about a year, roughly eight years out from my year-long, every-three-week Herception treatment that targeted the over-expression of a certain protein in my tumor, doctors will start monitoring my heart. Why? Because the same drug that may be saving my life right this very minute, also has the power to compromise heart function after about 3,000 days.
(oh, and the chemotherapy drug Adriamycin that I received via dose-dense infusion on four separate occasions can also cause heart damage.) (dose dense means given every two weeks instead of three.)
(oh, and the radiation that zapped the breast right over my heart every day for 30+ days can also cause heart damage.)
I choose not to think too much about these potential side effects.
Still.
My point:
Surviving cancer is not so simple.
Today, I Got a Call
Regarding the the unofficial good news I’d received about my MRI results on Tuesday, I wrote:
(But you know what? There’s a teeny tiny part of my brain thinking that someone might call and say, “nevermind, there is something wrong,” and, in the spirit of being totally honest, I must admit this.)
Well, someone did call today, a someone who gave me the official good news that my MRI was normal, that the wonky results that showed up the first time around were, in fact, due to hormonal fluctuations.
OK, I feel better now.
(Next up on the imaging front is a routine mammogram in June, then another routine MRI in November.)
Seven Years Ago
.Seven years ago yesterday.
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.
.Seven years ago today.
The next day, November 24 and the day before Thanksgiving, 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.
Live and Learn, MRI Style
So, here is what you should know about MRI:
- Your MRI will pick up everything. Great if you have certain types of breast cancer, because they will likely be detected, and this could save your life. Bummer if it’s not cancer, because you’ll be forced to chase it down like it is cancer in order to confirm that it’s not, and this could take a really long time, and even if it doesn’t take a really long time, it will seem like forever, and you will worry and fret and panic until you find answers.
- Your MRI should be scheduled for a day that is between something like seven and 15 after days after the onset of your period. This is very important. Should you schedule off this track, your MRI (remember, it will pick up everything) will zero in on all sorts of hormonal tissue changes, and this could lead a concerned radiologist to indicate in test results that “malignancy is considered.”
Get where I’m headed here?
In a nutshell, I caution you to (a) realize MRI is a very sensitive screening tool, and (b) make sure you are scheduled properly when you plan to use this very sensitive screening tool. If (a) and (b) converge, you might have a stressful time on your hands, like I just did.
Why for my past five MRIs no one has ever asked about my cycles when scheduling me, I will never know. And WOW, how lucky I’ve been for all those five times to not have happen to me what happened last Thursday. You see, my period started the day after my last-week MRI, and it looks like this just skewed everything. Yesterday’s MRI, though, implemented properly, apparently showed that the worrisome issues had resolved.
<sigh>
No.
<big sigh>
You just can’t imaging how relieved I am, given the fact that seven years ago TODAY, I had a biopsy for a lump I’d found in my left breast. The next day, the day before Thanksgiving, a doctor called me to say, “unfortunately, cancer cells were found.” That just can’t happen twice, with such precise timing.
It just can’t.
And it didn’t.
Now is when I get to declare that I am the happiest girl I know!
(But you know what? There’s a teeny tiny part of my brain thinking that someone might call and say, “nevermind, there is something wrong,” and, in the spirit of being totally honest, I must admit this.)
MRI Monday
The re-do MRI is over, and I fully expect I will get a call in the next day or so from a medical someone who will declare it normal. I really do believe this, even though there were machine technical difficulties this morning requiring a start and stop and start again, an interruption to fix one boob that might have been receiving too much pressure in the apparatus in which it hung, and marks on my body from said pressure that I never noticed after my past five experiences in the tube. Surely, none of that will matter, because my sense, really and truly, is that this whole scare that’s been going on is just a fluke, a false alarm, bad monthly “cycle” timing, something other than the “malignancy considered” wording that appeared on the first MRI.
I’m sure I’m right. I just need someone to confirm it for me.
Waiting.
Surgeon Says
Today, I met with a breast surgeon to review what’s happened over the past almost-week. To recap:
- there was the annual MRI.
- then the MRI report featuring the awful words “malignancy considered.”
- then three days of pure worry (and lots of well wishes and prayers).
- then an ultrasound that prompted docs to utter the happy word, “benign.”
- then another couple of days of pondering it all.
- then this afternoon’s consultation with the guy who operates on women with breast cancer.
First of all, who knew the gowns had gotten so lovely in the past seven years. Wow, check out my beautiful blue poncho-style paper cover-up, complete with hanging-open sides that are just perfect for peering in at boobs and muffin tops. It didn’t really matter, though, how substantial that pretty paper is because in a matter of minutes, I was on the exam table, boobs fully naked and prime for examination. And here’s what I learned about the troublesome twosome:
They feel fine. No lumps, bumps, masses, or tumors. No thickening or dimpling or other changes in the skin. Maybe a little nipple redness (we’ll monitor that). No swollen lymph nodes. No infection. No inflammation. No apparent cause for concern.
The game plan: The surgeon will review my MRI and ultrasound Monday morning at a weekly “breast conference,” where all sorts of doctors converge and weigh in on cases. While he’s at the meeting, I’ll be getting a re-do MRI, and he says if it looks better than the first, we’ll sum up that I am A-OK, and I will check back with him in January. If it looks the same as the first, we’ll call it a mystery and continue digging by way of MRI-guided biopsy. No matter what, I’ll watch the nipple (not, like, every two minutes, though, the surgeon said), and I’ll report any continued or worsening redness.
I learned so much from the surgeon today, like if I ever get cancer in my right breast, it won’t be a spread of the cancer I had in the left breast, because cancer doesn’t spread from one breast to the other. It would be another new cancer, and the chances of that happening are something like .5% per year.
I also learned that MRI catches more than 95 percent of invasive breast cancers (there are others, but these are the types that present as lumps). Awesome, right? Of course it is, but the bummer side to the story is that MRI picks up everything else, too. And what the heck does one do about that? Chase it all down, that’s what, just like I’m doing right now, to see if the iffy stuff turned up by that loud and annoying tube is cancer-related in any way, shape, or form. No fun, I admit, but it’s a necessary evil — unless of course, the boobs go away, which is totally an option, and thanks so much to everyone for sharing opinions on whether or not I should just chop the breasts right off (well, the surgeon would do it, not me). Still thinking on that one, but I’ll keep you posted.
Today was a good day. No pure worry, but still plenty of well wishes and prayers, and news that is more hopeful than not.
Oh, and to make the day even better, the skin biopsy I had last week came back normal. I didn’t see that coming at all, but what a treat!
Benign
Docs have talked, and the call at this time is “benign.” No need for biopsy right now. Follow-up MRI at end of month, and, if it shows concerns, we’ll take it from there. <sigh>.
Ultrasound Not Alarming
Initial news is good: no mass, tumor, lump — ultrasound showed a bunch of dense and enhanced tissue + a lot of shadows. What does that mean? Not sure, so ultrasound doc will follow up with doc who read MRI, and she will compare with my previous MRIs to determine what exactly has changed and if there is anything to biopsy. If not, a repeat MRI will probably be scheduled. Surgeon will also be looped into the mystery. So, while I did not get a definite “everything is fine,” I am at peace knowing there was nothing alarming discovered!
Next Up — Ultrasound
Ultrasound scheduled for 10:30 this morning.
Suspended State
“I’m sure you’ll be in a suspended state until you know.”
Suspended state.
That’s it.
Exactly.
Credit for these words, which are so fitting for my situation, goes to Anna. She’s my boss, a faraway friend, someone I’ve never even seen in person — that is so strange, isn’t it? The virtual world makes it possible for me to work at home in Florida with a staff of others who fill a New York City office building. I am so lucky. (Not to have never seen Anna, of course, just to have the great gift of working in my house so I can be a professional and a mom.)
So, if you have not read the posts that come before this one, I am waiting. waiting. waiting. for an ultrasound (hopefully on Monday) that will give a second look at a “new conglomerate of small enhancing foci in the retroareolar region” of my right breast (not the one where I’ve already had breast cancer) and a non-mass-like something in the posterior of the same breast. Malignancy and infectious/inflammatory etiologies are considered, says the MRI report.
The MRI I had on Thursday was just a routine follow-up — a test that was supposed to reveal I am still cancer-free.
Maybe I am still cancer-free. Maybe I’m not. The ultrasound, and probably a biopsy, will flesh it all out. While I wait for that second look, though, I’m sorta just going through the motions and hanging in a balance. I’m up and down, and, well, this is what I feel:
Yes, a suspended state, Anna. I don’t know whether to feel panic or peace, nervous or calm, worry or hope. It’s crazy.
There is still plenty of happy in my world, though. I mean, how can I not count my blessings with a boy who is willing to dance his little heart out at the Gator basketball game last night just to get on TV (and in the newspaper).
All in all, I am fine. I know deep down that if cancer is back, I will just fight it again. And if it is not back, I will be the happiest girl I know.
What I Feel
Quick MRI Results Not a Good Sign
1. Incomplete MRI of right breast with new conglomerate of small enhancing foci in the retroareolar region and non-mass-like enhancement of posterior breast as detailed above. Malignant and infectious/inflammatory etiologies are considered. A second look with ultrasound is recommended to evaluate for discreet lesion that would be amenable to biopsy. If ultrasound in unsuccessful, MRI-guided biopsy should be considered.
2. Normal left breast MRI.
Next up: ultrasound, early next week.
Funny thing: seven years ago, just before Thanksgiving, it all happened pretty much like this.
Of course, it could be nothing.
Or it could be something.
I just want to know.
MRI No. 5
I had my fifth post-cancer MRI today. I get one every year, right at this time. It’s just a routine thing, a method of peeking at the insides of my breasts to determine if cancer is coming back or not. I don’t know what today’s results will reveal — gotta wait for my oncologist to call — but I do know it was a pretty good visit. I can’t always say that, because I usually wait so long to have my turn in the tube that I’m steaming mad by the time I slip into my awesome blue gown.
Today, though, no one made me wait, no one made me pay, I got my MRI in the new part of the hospital (first time there), and besides one minor blood spill when the needle came out of my arm, everything went well. The best part of the morning was meeting a woman newly diagnosed with breast cancer, telling her it’s been almost 7 years since my story started (see, there IS hope!), and leading her to my blog, where she can hopefully see that what lies ahead isn’t always horrible.
And to the newly-diagnosed woman — if you are reading, welcome to my blog. It’s really long (that’s a good thing — it means I’ve been surviving for a good amount of time), but I hope you’ll find what you seek, and if you don’t, please just leave me a comment or send me an e-mail (address is on the card I gave you), and I will happily answer any of your questions or lead you to someone who can. Best wishes to you!
Her First Mammogram
My friend Heather wrote a story about her first mammogram, and, in the name of breast cancer awareness, she is donating it to me so I can publish it for you. Her words follow, and see that photo to the right? That’s her — the girl I first met when we were something like 25 years old, and, now, we’re something like 40.
Oh, and the “cancer-surviving friend” in the story — that’s me!
My First Mammogram
Heather Dilatush
I just had my second mammogram. I really don’t mind going to the doctor or dentist – I like staying on top of my health, but I did skip last year’s mammogram and I think I know why.
Two years ago, I went for my first “mammo.” People will probably not believe this, but I wasn’t nervous or worried about the pain that sometimes accompanies getting “squished.” I figured that if it hurt, I would take some deep breaths and get through it. As my cancer-surviving friend said, getting squished may hurt, but cancer hurts more.
But first, let me put that time in a little context. I was getting my mammo at the start of a new school year. Although I was heading into my sixth year of teaching, I was thrown into teaching photography. I am a skilled artist, but I confess, I am not a photographer. I don’t even have a background in photography. Zippo, ziltch, nadda. So I was about to learn in front of 16-year-olds. I know, fun, right? It was one of the few times in my life when I felt like I didn’t know which end was up. Everybody kept telling me I was a great art teacher and I would be good. But like all teachers, I like to know my stuff really, super double extra well so that I can teach the hell out of it. Where do you start when you don’t know anything? And another confession: I have no passion for it. I appreciate it; my partner is a great photographer, my dad had a darkroom in our basement, but that particular artform does almost nothing for me. It makes no sense, I know.
So like a good 39-year-old, I went in for my mammogram and was greeted and fondled by a very nice woman. I got squished, and it was fine. She said that sometimes people have to come in a second time, but that 80% of the time it is just to get some better shots. I thought that made sense. And I remember thinking I could never do her job. I am scared to death of my new position, but I could never work as a technician. Sometimes you have to smile at the patient knowing that something is abnormal in those images.
I got the call that I needed to come in for some more images. This time, I was more nervous because I had been trying all week to plan lessons for something I had no clue about. When my students’ film doesn’t come out, why doesn’t it? And if you have ever shot photography, is it me or is learning aperture a little tricky? Oh, and darkroom chemicals, how do those work? I felt like a fraud. Also that week, when I went into our finance office to order some supplies, I looked at Cheryl’s desk full of purchase orders, mounds of paperwork-filled columns and numbers and stuff, and said, “I could never do your job.” She said chuckling, “well, I could never be a teacher, so we’re even.”
I was feeling so scattered that when I showed up for the second mammogram, I realized I had forgotten my wallet when I went to get my money for the co-pay. They took me anyway, and when I was in the room with the technician, she said, “I will let you know that this is not going to be very pleasant.” Ugh, okay. I thought to myself, just breath, it’s all you can do. She was right. It was not pleasant. But it still wasn’t really the worst pain I have ever experienced. I used it as a time to practice breathing.
But it still happened. I panicked. I realized that she was trying to get a particular shot. There was an area of my breast that she kept squeezing the heck out of. I closed my eyes and thought about my breathing. I assume she had no idea that I was concerned. I went back to the dressing room to get dressed and was on the verge of tears. Just as I finished pulling my shirt over my head, a woman with a beautiful, warm face and handshake said in a run-on sentence, “Hi Heather, I am Doctor Bryant we will see you next year everything is fine.” When she left, I thought, I could NEVER do HER job. I went out to my car and wept. I was both relieved and upset about the upcoming year. Somehow I would get through it. Maybe I would use it as a year to breath.