my Breast Cancer blog

Quick. Get me a cardiologist. My right ventricle is mildly dilated. My aortic valve is mildly thickened. And my tricuspid valve is mildly insufficient.

I’m sure this is all somehow medically insignificant. Otherwise my oncologist would not be telling me I’m good to go should I opt for a tummy tuck surgery (more about this tummy business later). If my heart couldn’t take it, surely he’d be warning me. The guy did save me from breast cancer, after all. He clearly knows what he’s talking about.

This morning, my good doctor e-mailed me a copy of my latest echocardiogram—that’s how I was able to pour over the details of this July 2006 report. I’d asked him for it as I continue to search my soul for guidance regarding my tummy, and he swiftly sent it my way. I wanted to know how my strong my ticker is—both my year-long therapy with the breast cancer drug Herceptin and my four doses of the chemotherapy drug Adriamycin put me at risk for compromised heart function and so my heart was monitored for a bit. I wanted to know today, based on my last screening, how I’d fare under general anesthesia and how my heart would tolerate a two-hour surgery—should I go through with it.

I’m good to go, says my doc. Still, I’ve asked him for a bit of clarification. What does this troublesome wording—dilated, thickened, insufficient—mean, I want to know.

This is what I want you to know: Context matters.

More and more, we patients rely on information via the Internet or in this case of mine, e-mail. These methods of research are void of human contact and medical opinion and therefore lack context. Who knows, maybe a thickened aortic valve is a good thing. Maybe it’s not necessarily good but not bad either. I don’t know. Until someone clears things up for me, I will remain uncertain. That’s why I’m following up with my doctor. You should too.

Whenever you are concerned about your health, do your research, ask around, dig up all you can. Then talk to a medical professional who can iron out all the kinks in what you’ve gathered. Balance is always a good bet. Really, it is.

My story

Posted on 3/12/2008 By Jacki

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.

Operation tummy

Posted on 3/8/2008 By Jacki

I wrote and published this post for That’s Fit on December 15, 2007.

So I’ve got this loose skin on my tummy. I thank my little boys for this curse I can’t seem to whittle away. My two whopper guys barreled into the world weighing 10 pounds, nine ounces and 10 pounds, two ounces and no matter how hard I work out or how well I eat, this baby fat just hangs on tight. It’s gotten better over the years—all four and a half of them—but still, sometimes I wish just a little bit for a tummy tuck to erase my bothersome birthing battle scar.

Would I really follow through with a tummy tuck if money were no object? I’m not sure. That’s why I asked my doctor today for his opinion on this surgery. “I think it’s a bad idea,” he told me. Sure, it’s an option, he said. And it would probably clean up my problem pretty neatly. But it’s surgery. And while tummy tucks have gotten less and less invasive—they can be performed in a doctor’s office without general anesthesia—the procedure requires an incision from hip to hip to ensure a tidy final product. And any surgery can cause problems. Infection, mistakes, difficult recoveries, and scarring are just a few worst-case scenarios. These are the very things that cause me to stray from such a seductive surgery.

A flat tummy would undoubtedly lift my spirits. But a surgery-gone-wrong could permanently crush them. So I think I’ll rely on good old-fashioned hard work as I try to fix my flab. What would you do?

It’s been three months since I determined I would not submit to such a surgery, three months of obsession and depression and plain old hatred for this stomach of mine. And now I’ve changed my mind. I can do that, right?

I’ve decided that I need this surgery. Not medically. Just emotionally. Because no amount of eating right and exercising right is going to change what hangs from my mid-section. I’ve got a team backing me on this—family, friends, doctors, and fitness trainers. They all assure me that I’m not cheating by opting for this procedure, that I’ve done all I can, that it’s OK to remove what drives me absolutely bonkers. I’m not taking an easy way out then. I’m taking the only way out. And while money is an object, I realize I’m worth the investment.

It all begins on April 23 when I allow a plastic surgeon—an expert in breast cancer reconstruction using tummy tuck skin and thus very well-equipped to handle my issue—to cut a football shaped chunk of skin from my middle. While there, he’ll repair and reshape the muscle my big babies separated, fix an umbilical hernia, and sew me back together. I’ll end up with a repositioned belly button, a few missing moles, a flat gut, a six-pack even.

A tummy tuck is no simple surgery. It is in fact still very invasive, I will receive general anesthesia, and a full recovery, which will allow me to exercise and lift heavy objects, takes up to six weeks. And yes, there are risks. But I think—I hope—the benefits of this fix will outweigh the small chance that something will go wrong. There is just so much that can go right with this surgery that I really don’t want to deny myself the peace of mind and comfort I know will come from it.

I admit there is some reservation swirling around in my head, made worse by a new acquaintance whose own tummy tuck 11 days ago has left her feeling great remorse about what she’s done to her body, what she’s done with her money, what trouble she’s caused her husband and daughter. With time, I think she’ll probably regard her decision as one of the best she’s ever made—most women do—but right now, she’s struggling. This causes me to pause.

Big decisions are never easy. I have three weeks to secure mine, three weeks until I attend my pre-op visit and hand over my cash. I have three weeks then to make a final call. What will I do? I’ll let you know.

Not a bad deal

Posted on 2/29/2008 By Jacki

5 Comments

My gut was right.

I am fine, says my radiation oncologist and the resident who examined me during my six-month follow-up today. My appointment did turn up something, though: A referral for massage therapy. Not a bad deal.

On Wednesday, I will report for the first of a few massages designed to rehab my left shoulder and arm, the areas where muscles are twisted and tightened due to surgery and radiation. I’d planned to just live with my limited range of motion, the soreness I feel after physical exertion, the way my shoulder rounds forward. This can all be fixed, though, my doctor told me. Thank goodness for that.

Thank goodness for today’s clean bill of health too. I celebrated with a trip to Panera for a cup of low-fat chicken noodle soup with sourdough bread. A pumpkin muffin was my treat. A yummy day overall.

The big deal

Posted on 2/28/2008 By Jacki

Tomorrow is the day I report for a visit with my radiation oncologist, the woman who designed and delivered my radiation therapy, those 30 some daily sessions that blasted the site of my tumor in order to prevent a local recurrence of breast cancer. So far, its doing its job. My cancer has not returned.

I return for radiation follow-ups every six months. I get weighed, my arms get measured to check for swelling caused by lymphedema, my breasts get manipulated by several sets of hands, and I get a chance to report any new symptoms, to ask any pressing questions. I don’t have either at this time.

This appointment is not really a big deal anymore. Except that when I really think about it, it actually is. There’s a lot at stake as I present myself before the medical students, residents, fellows, and doctors who will study me. There’s a chance they may find something suspicious, after all. And if they do, the could-it-be-cancer? wheels will start in motion. The prospect of that stings a bit.

My gut tells me that I am fine, that my cancer is long gone, that I’ll walk away from my appointment as confident and happy as I’ll be when I arrive for it. My gut has served me well throughout my cancer years. If it’s on target as usual, then I will be well. And I won’t have to worry about this high-stakes visit for another six months. Well, not exactly.

I also see my medical oncologist—also known as my chemo doctor—every six months. The same basic scenario occurs—substitute blood work for arm measurements—on a different time schedule and in a different office. Also not a huge deal anymore.

Except that when I really think about it, it is.

Cancer-free

Posted on 2/21/2008 By Jacki

I talked with a breast cancer survivor yesterday who is recovering from a mastectomy she endured just a few days ago. We talked on the phone about her disease, my disease, our treatment paths, diet, exercise, and more. In the midst of all of this, my new friend asked: “How do you know when you are cancer-free?”

Good question. Just not an easy one to answer.

There is no surefire method for determining whether or not cancer lives in one’s body. There are blood tests, physical exams, and screening tools. But there is no comprehensive body scan—well, there might be but it’s not one I can afford or care to have. Just imagine all the possible problems such a test might turn up. Any abnormality of unknown origin that pops up would surely cause worry, and more tests, and perhaps no concrete diagnoses. This approach is just not good for the psyche.

In addition to my specific screening protocol—mammogram, ultrasound, and MRI—my team of doctors screen for symptoms. This means they wait for me to complain about something. If I experience persistent headaches, a head scan may be in order. Shortness of breath? I’ll probably get a chest X-ray from an X-ray tech soon. A new lump? Perhaps a biopsy will follow. None of these tests will be done without reason, though. Only if they are warranted will they come into play.

Right now, at this very moment, I don’t know if I am cancer-free. There could be cancer in my body and I just don’t know about it. There may be nothing at all invading my cells. I don’t know this either. None of us is always privy to cancer’s presence, not even those who’ve never had the disease. It’s no different for me, because I’ve had cancer. I still don’t know. And that’s OK. I think about it this way: I have survived breast cancer for three years which tells me cancer has not been an issue for me for a good long time. Let’s call it “symptom-free.” I’m symptom-free. And that’s good enough for me.

What in the blog am I doing?

Posted on 2/17/2008 By Jacki

7 Comments

In the beginning, this blog had one simple purpose: to inform family and friends about my travels with breast cancer. When something significant in my cancer world happened—a surgery went well, my hair came tumbling out, radiation scorched my delicate underarm skin—I announced it right here. It was all my husband’s idea, this online stuff. I hadn’t even heard the word blog before John spoke it. But now, three years later, the term kind of defines me. Joey, my seven-year-old, even says he wants to be a blogger when he grows up. Blogging has had quite an influence on us all. Especially me.

Blogging quickly became more than a means to communication. It turned into a great form of therapy, it gave me my very own cheerleading section—people far and wide leave me the most inspiring comments—and it allows me the pleasure of reaching out to those who find my site and use it as a road map. Perhaps the most notable consequence of blogging, and definitely the most unexpected, is the way it’s been shaping my career.

Blogging has given me a voice in the world of breast cancer. It’s given me professional blogging jobs—first at AOL’s The Cancer Blog and now at its sister site, That’s Fit—as well as two professional magazine writing gigs and a few writing assignments for My Breast Cancer Network. Blogging led The New York Times my way for a story about hair dye and its link to cancer. It got me a speaking engagement at a University of Florida sorority event, an invitation to write an essay for a movement called I Hate Tumors, a guest spot on Sure Woman, and an appearance on Orato. Blogging put me on the radio twice and is responsible for a slew of books I receive by agents who want published blog reviews. And just the other day, I was interviewed by a writer with MAMM magazine for a story about breast cancer survivors who blog. That’s me, a breast cancer survivor who blogs. The story will publish in the March/April issue and will be available online too.

I don’t know where this blogging career will take me. It may lead me no further than my home office or my dining room table, where I park myself behind my laptop and spin words into meaningful content. If this is as good as it gets, then life will be grand—because no longer is it necessary that I inform family and friends about my struggle with a life threatening disease. Nope, now it’s my job to spread the word about all I’ve learned. For me, there is no greater honor.

Sleeveless

Posted on 2/7/2008 By Jacki

I should have worn my compression sleeve on my trip to and from Austin, Texas this past weekend. But I didn’t. Because I forgot. Which is scary because on airplanes, cabin pressure can really mess with my arm, now that four of my lymph nodes are missing. Ever since my lumpectomy in December 2004, my fluids have had fewer drainage options, which makes air travel a dangerous prospect.

It doesn’t appear that any damage was done. I’ve been on land now for a few days and my arm looks like it always has. Lucky.

You’d think a scenario like this would ensure I’ll never again forget. But this isn’t likely. Because this isn’t the first time I’ve forgotten my sleeve. I did it once before—on my travels to Arizona last year—and the same panic I felt this time swept over me then. That time, though, I at least had my sleeve with me—I’d just neglected to put it on my arm prior to take-off. This time, I didn’t even pack my sleeve, didn’t even remember I’d forgotten it until my mom reminded me on our return trip. That sleeve didn’t even register on my radar.

I consider my forgetfulness on this matter a symbol of progress. There was a time when cancer consumed my every thought. Everything concerning the disease worried me, including my arm and the fact that I could end up with lymphedema—a condition of localized fluid retention caused by a compromised lymphatic system. I guess I’m not so worried anymore because there’s my arm, right in plain view, and nothing about it, nothing about my trip, nothing about that sleeve ever entered my mind. Which means cancer is further than ever from my thoughts. That’s the good news. More good news: I seem to have dodged a bullet. So I hope I remember my compression sleeve next time. I hope I remember to put it on too.

Putting my feet up

Posted on 2/6/2008 By Jacki

Do you believe things happen for certain reasons? Is it possible, for example, that my mom felt lightheaded and leaned her head forward toward the floor on our flight home from Texas this weekend so that she’d see my cell phone slide out of my purse and in front of the seat ahead of us? And was another passenger’s lone shoe sitting in its exact spot so that it could stop my phone from getting lost in its travels to the front of the plane? I keep thinking that if this series of events hadn’t happened as it did, my phone would be long gone. And I’d have no idea what happened to it.

I think part of my toenail fell off for a reason. I think it’s a sign that I must slow down on my nutty exercise routine. I’ve been running every day and fitting in some core exercises and weight training too. “Take a day off,” family and friends tell me. But I don’t. I keep at it, some days hopping out of bed at 5:30 AM to get a rush on the day. I keep exercising because it feels good—my mood is so much better after strenuous exercise—and because I believe my body needs it, for overall health and for cancer prevention too.

Logically, I know my body needs some silence—this is what the folks at my gym say for rest—but something in my crazy head keeps powering me forward, as if a lost day will compromise all I’ve accomplished.

Something had to give, I guess. It was my toenail. I have no memory of an injury that could have done such damage (maybe the running is to blame) but part of the nail on my right big toe is just gone. It’s sore, that toe, and wearing a shoe causes a bit of discomfort. Running, clearly, would make things worse. I could probably get away with walking and I could surely lift a few weights but the one thing I love—running—is, I hate to say it: sidelined.

Maybe this whole toe thing did happen for a reason. Left to my own devices, I’d be jumping on my treadmill first thing in the morning, perhaps headed for exhaustion, a worn out body, a more complicated injury even. Instead, I’m forced to take a break and rethink my fitness approach, an approach that may not have been that healthy after all.

So in the spirit of this little toe intervention, I’m going to do what makes the most sense: I’m putting my feet up—at least for a day or two.

Me, after cancer

Posted on 2/5/2008 By Jacki

Miss Melanoma wrote recently on her blog about how she sometimes misses her pre-cancer self. She wishes she could go back, could let go of the pity that surrounds her at times, could feel free to think of nothing but having fun for a whole evening. It’s getting better, she writes. “I’m so happy I’m starting to see that ME that was here before melanoma. I really liked that girl. She’s finally coming back.”

Cancer has a way of changing a person. But while there are times when I think back to my former self with fond memories (if only I could have my straight hair back), I tend to like the post-cancer me better than the me who knew nothing of this vicious disease. Of course, it takes time to get past the darkness of diagnosis and the terror of treatment. Surviving takes some practice too. But when the fog clears and the dust settles, life can turn pretty darn bright.

Cancer was my wake-up call, my “watch out, your days may be numbered so make every day count” reminder that helps me focus on what is truly important. For me, it’s family and writing and anything that causes virtually no stress. Cancer makes me appreciate every sunny day, every cool breeze, every laugh that roars from the mouths of my little boys, every accomplished task. I’m not sure I fully comprehended the beauty of every moment before cancer. I do now.

I never really grasped the importance of health before cancer either. I now know cancer is likely caused more by lifestyle factors than anything else and so it has become my mission to eat right, exercise right, and fuel my body so that it outlasts any disease that tries to invade it. Today, my body is leaner than it’s ever been, my heart allows me to run distances I never could have previously conquered, and I wake each day with a spunk that is invigorating.

Cancer makes me want to be better, do better, live better. And this is what makes me happier to be the me after cancer than the me before cancer. It’s a personal preference, I guess. Some people long for days past. I long for days present and future. I thank cancer for that.

Cancer Perspective

Posted on 2/2/2008 By Jacki

4 Comments

For a moment I felt a little sick about the damage I did to my van on Thursday. But just for a moment did I stress about the front right headlight that is now detached from the body of my vehicle, in dire need of repair. It’s the hassle of one day fixing the damage that bothered me most, not the blemish that so visibly graces my car. It’s seven years old, after all. This is just one of many scratches and dents that add personality to my family ride.

My minor accident, caused by a wooden pole I nailed while backing out of a parking spot at Joey’s school—”Ouch,” I saw written on the face of one mommy onlooker—is truly minor. In the whole realm of life and death, it’s nothing really. It’s a car. Just a car. I’m not sitting in a chemo chair, not combing my hair out in handfuls, not holed up in a hospital room with plummeting blood counts. I’m not receiving massive doses of radiation so that I can live to watch my boys grow up. I’m not overcome with fear and panic. And I’m not swallowing a daily anti-depressant just to cope. Nope. I’m simply driving a mini-van that looks a little more like a jalopy than it did a few days ago.

Life is just a matter of perspective. For me, it’s a matter of cancer perspective—which makes the fact that various parts are dangling off my Honda Odyssey nothing but simple stuff.

Pancakes gone perky

Posted on 1/27/2008 By Jacki

Something about having had breast cancer makes me feel not so modest about my boobies. They’ve been poked, prodded, smashed, sliced, diced, poisoned, and radiated—not to mention reduced in size by four pounds long before cancer was an issue—which kind of makes them belong as much to the medical profession as they do to me. Given the public showing of my breasts over the past few years, I don’t hesitate to share with you what may seem a fairly personal issue.

I’ve been in the market for a new bra lately. Spurred on by a wedding I’m attending in one week—congrats Annie and Keith—I figured it was high time I purchase a new contraption for holding my ta-tas in place. So off I went to a local department store this weekend where I asked a sales associate, “Can you tell me where I can find your minimizers?” A minimizer is a type of bra that, well, minimizes breasts. I wore them before surgery took my full figure away and for some reason, I’ve been wearing them ever since. I guess they were familiar and comfortable and so I never upgraded my bra selection. Until now.

The woman who fielded my minimizer question was shocked I’d ask for such a bra. Looking at me—I was wearing a form-fitting winter coat at the time—she told me she couldn’t even tell I had boobs. I looked that flat. I simply should not be wearing anything of a minimizing nature, this woman told me. Pancakes are what I had, she said. My perfectly sculpted breasts, in all of their size 34C glory, had become nothing more than pancakes. Flat, squashed pancakes. This was unacceptable, my helper friend implied as she declared, “I don’t want you looking like that.”

“OK, then,” I told her. “Find me something better.” And she did.

I’m now wearing a barely-there-light-push-up bra. The transformation, which has turned my pancakes perky, may seem small. But to me—and a few others who have taken notice—this bra rocks. And it’s only now I realize I should have been showing off my girls long ago.

Clearly, I can’t turn back the hands of time. But I do plan to proudly showcase my newly renovated second base. Watch out, Annie and Keith. Wait until you see these things in person.

Joy and sorrow

Posted on 1/6/2008 By Jacki

5 Comments

I’m calling our holiday travels both fun and miserable. Our excursion to Virginia to see family was fun because we saw loved ones we hadn’t seen in nearly two years. Cousins played, adults visited, and memories were made. Our trek to Washington DC was fun because Joey, at almost seven years old, was primed for dashing up and down busy streets, posing by monuments, exploring museums, and splashing in the hotel pool.

Both trips were miserable because a flu bug tore through our family of four. It didn’t hit all at once but took its time infecting us one by one, so that our entire vacation was consumed by illness. Sickness drove us home days earlier than planned so we could get Danny to the pediatrician. Turns out he not only had tummy troubles but a raging ear infection too. He’s so happy to be home. So are the rest of us.

The photographs we collected on our road trip tell the story well. They depict both the joy and sorrow leading up to a year we hope begins better than its preceding one ended.

Cheers to a happy and healthy 2008!

The Middle Place

Posted on 1/2/2008 By Jacki

I'm not finished reading her book yet—almost, just not quite—but I don't need to finish the final page to say that breast cancer survivor Kelly Corrigan's book The Middle Place is quite a find. It's a book I can't put down and when I simply must, I can't wait to pick it back up again. I want to know more and more about how this young woman lives with cancer, a husband, and two little girls; about her relationship with her father and his own cancer; about her mother and two brothers; about everything else that helps shape her journey through life.

This book applies to me. The story is similar to mine—the breast cancer part, anyway—and so every word I read somehow touches me. Some words make me laugh; some make me cry. Some transport me to places I've been; some allow me to appreciate how each woman's breast cancer story unfolds in such a different way. All of Corrigan's words inspire me. And I know by the end of her book, I will admire this girl even more than I already do.

“The Middle Place is about calling home,” writes Corrigan. "Instinctively. Even when all the paperwork—a marriage license, a notarized deed, two birth certificates, and seven years of tax returns—clearly indicates you're an adult, but all the same, there are you, clutching the phone and thanking God you are still someone's daughter."

I called my mom the moment after I heard the words, "You have cancer." Thankfully, she lives nearby and bolted right over to comfort me. Corrigan called her mom too. But it was her dad she'd wanted to reach—the man who knew and loved her like no other, the one who would do anything for the little girl he'd nicknamed "Lovey." He hopped on a plane, this man who would soon be battling a cancer more fierce than breast cancer, and crossed the country to find himself a place in his daughter's arms. His always-positive spin on the world assured Corrigan she'd be OK.

Whether or not her dad would be OK was a constant worry for Corrigan who after chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation learned her own cancer was gone. Passionately, and sometimes madly, trying to manage her dad's care became her mission—despite his everything-will-be-fine declarations. Losing her father is not an option for Corrigan, whose days are powered by an overwhelming love for the man to whom she will always belong.

And this is where I'm left, with a few chapters remaining in a book I can't wait to keep reading, wondering how it all turns out. I'll be sure to let you know.

To learn more about Kelly Corrigan, check out her website Circus of Cancer.

Run, Reindeers, Run

Posted on 12/9/2007 By Jacki

Just when I think I’m in shape, just when I think I’m a pretty strong runner, my six-year-old Joey leaves me in his dust.

He’s done it twice now, first during the two-mile University of Florida Homecoming race where he took off, never looked back, and crossed the finish line well before I did. He did it again on Saturday at the first annual Reindeer Run, a community event intended to help in the fight against childhood obesity. That kid just blew right past me and ran with all his might for one mile. I am so proud.

I’m proud of Danny too. He ran his little heart out in the 100-yard dash and took a stab at the mile run too. He couldn’t run the entire course, but he did cross the finish line and counts the medal he received for his fitness feats as one of his most prized possessions. He’s already packed it in his backpack for his Pre-K Show & Tell on Thursday.

Next, I think I’ll sign us up to complete a marathon. We won’t do it in the traditional manner but we’ll run and chart a mile at a time until we reach 25 miles. Then we’ll run the final 1.2 miles during a local race in February. And while I intend to train and run that final leg with Joey, something tells me I’ll be chasing him the whole way. How thrilling that will be.

Should they stay or should they go?

Posted on 12/1/2007 By Jacki

Right about this time three years ago, I received a lumpectomy to remove the cancerous tumor in my left breast. My surgeon told me surgery was all I needed since my disease had not spread to any lymph nodes or neighboring body parts. So I did what this very capable man told me to do, had the surgery, and moved on. I’m perfectly fine with this course of action—on most days. Sometimes, though, I wonder if I should have had my now high-risk breasts lopped right off my chest. Some women do this for cancers less invasive than mine. Some women, having never even had breast cancer, do it too.

Prophylactic, or preventative, mastectomy—surgery to remove one or both breasts in hopes of preventing or reducing the risk of breast cancer—is often a chosen route for women with a family or personal history of breast cancer or a genetic predisposition for the disease. The mere likelihood of getting cancer is enough for some women to remove the breasts that put them at risk.

Prophylactic mastectomy clearly reduces the risk of breast cancer. But it doesn’t guarantee breast cancer will never strike. Breast tissue is widely distributed on the chest wall and cancer can appear in the armpit, above the collarbone, or on the upper part of the abdominal wall. The chances of this happening are slim. Still, they exist.

On the days I question my decision to keep my breasts, I wonder if I should have slimmed down my own chances of getting breast cancer again. Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve lived three years beyond my diagnosis with my troublesome breasts. Maybe I’ll be fine for another three, and then three more, and then three years after that. Only time will tell. What I can tell you, though, is this: If cancer comes a knockin’ again, these knockers are coming off.

The day

Posted on 11/21/2007 By Jacki