Surviving and thriving after breast cancer

The Beginning:

On September 11, 2009, I woke to the crazy routine of any young mother. I threw on clothes from the clean laundry basket, downed a latte and dropped off my kindergartener at school with my seven month old baby in tow. As I walked in the door to change a diaper, I suddenly remembered an appointment.

“Honey!” I yelled to my husband in his upstairs home office. “I forgot that mammogram today! Could you watch the baby?”

“Sure,” he responded, his voice tinged with an understandable blend of annoyance and genuine concern. “Anything I should be worried about?”

“Nah,” I called back as the door swung behind me. “I’ll just knock this out and be right home!”

We had no way of knowing this day would be pivotal. Life would soon be measured in “befores” and “afters.” At 36, I was the “2 kids and a white-picket fence” kind of boring. And blessed. I was happily married with two healthy, hilarious daughters. I was not overweight or a smoker or a heavy drinker. I ate healthfully and exercised. Neither my mother nor my grandmother had ever had breast cancer. I never felt a lump.

In fact, the only reason I scheduled this “routine baseline mammogram” was because of an episode of Oprah and a type-A tendency to do what I’m supposed to. Like going to the dentist every six months, I wanted to check off the mammogram box on my busy life’s to-do list.

Although many in the medical community advise women to wait until the age of 40 to begin regular mammograms, some inexplicable instinct (or was it Oprah?) told me to ask my OB/GYN to write an order for me anyway. She obliged and my insurance said they’d cover it, so why not? My case is rare, but if I had waited those five years, I would not be here to write this.

As I flipped through magazines in the mammography waiting room of Hollings Cancer Center, I had no hint of foreboding or nervousness. I actually relished the quiet time to sit and read an article - uninterrupted by spit-up or Sesame Street. When my name was called, I chatted with the technician and tried to be cheerful through the uncomfortable process. Maybe it was the delirium from lack of sleep that comes with having a baby, but I wasn’t even unfazed when she frowned and calmly told me I needed to “head up to ultrasound right away.”

A few impatient hours (and several apologetic calls to my waiting husband) later, a doctor greeted me in a dim exam room. She was trailed by an intern who carried a box of tissue. The doctor had seen my ultrasound pictures and told me to schedule a biopsy and follow-up tests ASAP. Confused and taken aback, I asked was she sure? I mean this had to be a mistake, right? This was nothing... I’d just finished nursing after all? She shook her head.

I asked if I should call my parents and explained I had young children and no family close by to care for them through the impending myriad of diagnostics. She said “yes” with a look that left no room for more questions. I felt my stomach lurch. I called my husband. I called my parents. I have no recollection of how or what I told them. What I know is that they were there for me right away. They have stood by me ever since.

What followed that day were five days of scans, tests and anxiety. We entered a surreal maze of denial and desperate attention to detail, Internet research and calls to friends of friends who’d battled the disease. In less than a week, my husband and I sat in my trusted OB/GYN’s office surrounded by beautiful birth announcements like the one I’d sent just a few months before. My doctor had come in on her day off to wait with us for the test results to be delivered by her colleague, a well-respected breast cancer surgeon.

On September 16th, I was diagnosed with Stage IIIB Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. The cancer had spread from two sites near my chest wall to nearby lymph nodes. My mind swirled and my palm sweated in my husband’s hand as the surgeon gently explained that if the cancer metastasized beyond what they had already found, we would need to talk about “management” rather than “cure.” I read her meaning intuitively: If this is worse than we think or these treatments don’t work, my life has an expiration date.

The Middle:

My husband is a tech geek. If it is on the Internet, he will find it. Need a part for your 10 year old Italian espresso machine? He’ll find it. Want a voice-activated wireless universal remote compatible with all your devices? Ken will figure it out and make it happen. He gets things done. My diagnosis sent Ken into exhaustive research mode. He found the best doctors and treatment protocols for my type of cancer. We spoke to doctors from Sloan-Kettering in New York to MD Anderson in Texas, the Mecca of cancerdom. They all said the same thing: Start chemo NOW. We found a brilliant MUSC oncologist with a straightforward, but warm manner and put a plan in place.

My course of treatment would have four phases: Chemotherapy, mastectomy, radiation and hormone therapy. The first three would last through the end of the school year. The last phase would take years to complete. In October, I began the first of 16 rounds of chemotherapy. My incredible mother moved in with us to help care for the girls... and me. Despite it all, I was able to get up with my girls every morning and tuck them in each night.

Our friends from all over the country started a system of sending meals. They gave me phone numbers for every breast cancer survivor they knew and I called them all inquiring about their experiences and advice. I listened closely to each voice from the other side. We were in survival mode, but I was adamant that life would not be somber or poignant. This was surprisingly easy. When you’re busy taking care of two tiny humans, you have little time for drama. When the theme from “Terms of Endearment” started ringing in my head, I put on Prince.

As I writer, I found solace in blogging about my experience. Constructing sentences that relayed my tremendous gratitude or darkest fears was somehow cathartic. I wrote about the gory details of chemotherapy, how it made me feel like a “human glowstick.” I shared my experience with Reiki and juicing organic vegetables to ingest the maximum amount of antioxidants. I blogged and bragged about my daughters and their latest little triumphs. After each post, the ticker of views would show that people were reading. They cared. They were praying. And in my isolated, germaphobic corner of the world, this camaraderie made all the difference. Cancer gave me the gift of stillness and presence to delight in the little moments and minutes that add up to a life.

Having completed my 16 rounds of chemotherapy in March of 2010, I underwent a double radical mastectomy. When doctors examined the tissue they found no trace of cancer, which meant my chances of survival were now at 80%! My family and friends rejoiced, thanked God, Buddha, Mother Nature and oh yes, my oncologist. It was as if the umpire in the World Series of big league cancer had called me “safe!” at home plate. I still had to complete six weeks of radiation, undergo a radical hysterectomy and a complicated, painful series of reconstructive surgeries. But I was cancer-FREE.

The After:

In all, my cancer treatment protocol took more than two years. I recently drove past a billboard that featured the face of a war veteran and read: “Sometimes the hardest part is after the battle.” The ad was in reference to a PTSD help center for wounded soldiers. It struck me so pointedly that I said out loud: “Exactly.”

It is with no self-pity or disrespect that I compare a late-stage a cancer survivor’s experience to that of a wounded warrior. There is the initial onslaught of a life-threatening enemy. There is the chronic stress of strategizing, working, waiting and the fear of getting hit again. There are chemical and radiation burns, surgical scars. Some of us are amputees. And there is pain. One can feel, as I did, physically and emotionally gutted.

My years of cancer treatment left me filled with gratitude and also, utterly spent. When people would ask how I was doing, I’d reply, “I’m just happy to be here!” And I meant it-- for a while. Then the fatigue took over and the grief set in.

I imagined that friends and family were waiting for a switch to flip and the old me to reappear. I felt sure they were tired of hearing about my endless check-ups and follow-up surgeries, so I stopped talking about them. I thought I had to be an inspiration, when it took all I had to get through my day. My “chemo brain” could not focus enough to follow a recipe, much less write an article or blog post. I was living in a cycle of insomnia, then nightmares, then exhaustion, irritability and guilt for not being present enough with my precious girls.

The hormonal changes that go along with breast cancer treatment can be debilitating. Anxiety and depression are common among survivors.

I am not proud to share that I resorted to self-medicating the pain - as many survivors do. I am proud that I survived that brutal part of the disease with the patient devotion of my family.

Seven years after diagnosis, I remain in remission. I am present and at peace with whatever may come. But it took five years and a lot of healing to get here. My story is not the norm, nor is it unusual.

I am one of the smiling moms you see at Publix or Peace Love Hip Hop. Yoga and prayer/meditation were so powerful in healing my body and mind that I’m working to become a certified instructor. My hope is to bring healing techniques and empathy into chemo-infusion rooms, classrooms, and studios.

Every few weeks a friend will call or email to ask if I would speak with someone they care about who has been diagnosed. I always say yes. My only advice to these women is to be your own advocate - ask questions, do your homework, take care of your body with vegetables, exercise and fresh air. And most of all, be patient. It is a long journey.

People often ask what breast cancer taught me. Maybe the expected answer is to say that I appreciate life a bit more than the next girl? Or that I live each day as though it were my last? Those are great lessons but I quickly realized that if I live “like there’s no tomorrow” I won’t have much of a life.

Cancer was a brutal teacher of beautiful lessons. But what stays with me every day is a realization I came to when I was bald and skinny and weak and in pain I cannot quantify with words: If I engage in this fight then I have already lost. If I used all of my energy to defeat some unseen enemy, I’d lose sight of my army of loved ones. I had to get over my fear of leaving motherless daughters and give them the best of me each day.

Cancer was something I had to rise above. I still do my research, take my medicine, drink green juice and listen to the doctors. I laugh and pray. I breathe in and mediate, remembering that I’m not entitled to each breath. It is a gift. Even the most challenging days are a privilege.

Daniel Island Publishing

225 Seven Farms Drive
Unit 108
Daniel Island, SC 29492 

Office Number: 843-856-1999
Fax Number: 843-856-8555

 

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