Chemo

It was eleven years ago that I last heard Mom’s voice. She was dying from cancer, and I knew then that someday I would deal with it also.

In May 2006, it was time for another mammogram. I dreaded those blasted things. I have heard many women say that they don’t hurt at all. That was not true in my case, but I didn't have a choice. I had felt a lump in my right breast a few weeks before the mammogram but decided not to tell the doctor. I wanted to see if the test would actually show the lump. I knew when the doctor scheduled an ultrasound that it indeed did show up. These tests were nothing new because of the fact that I had fibrocystic disease. My breasts developed lumps on a pretty regular basis. I had been through surgeries four times previously to remove suspicious lumps. I knew each time that it was benign before the tests came back. I always told my family not to worry because it was nothing.

After the ultrasound came a stereotactic biopsy. I laid on a cold table face-down with my breast hanging through a hole in the table. The technician compressed the breast in an attempt to center the lump. She was able to see it on the monitor, but it wasn’t centered. She attempted to readjust me several times and recompress the breast each time. It was like having several mammograms in a matter of less than an hour. The doctor finally told her to let me down; the lump would not comply.

Upon hearing about the failed test, my surgeon scheduled an ultrasound guided biopsy where they would insert a small metal tag to permanently mark the spot. I was given a drug to help with the pain during the test, but on the morning of the test I could not find it. I took a much stronger pain pill because that is all I could find. I was left waiting longer than was expected because the doctor was still in surgery. When I was finally called to go back, I stood up and nearly fell into the woman next to me. The pain pill was in full effect. I was taken back and probed with a machine that felt to me like what the ground must feel like when being drilled for oil. I felt no pain, only like I had a corkscrew moving inside my breast. They took several samples of the area in and around the lump.

When the tests came back, they showed atypical cells. I wasn’t sure what this meant, but upon reading the information on the internet found that it is uncommon for it to be cancer. The doctor wanted to schedule a surgical biopsy. It was not long after this that I heard my mom’s voice for the first time in eleven years. She only said, “you are going to be ok”. This is when I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I had cancer.

I had the surgical biopsy after which my doctor told my husband that she didn’t think it was cancer. A few weeks later I called her office and what I knew all along was confirmed, I had breast cancer. I spoke to my doctor about the possibility of a double mastectomy. She agreed that it would be a good idea due to my family history.

I was diagnosed in August of 2006, just in time to start back to teaching. It was not difficult to tell my husband; we had a very honest relationship. I remember feeling a knot in my stomach when it came time to tell my sister. She was the one who cried when I or my brother got spanked as children. She had an uncanny ability to put herself in others shoes. This is just one thing that makes her such a wonderful and caring nurse. She came to my house and sat next to me. She knew by the look on my face that the news was not good. She embraced me and we cried together. I could not tell my Dad the news. He had lost already lost a wife and son to cancer, this would devastate him. My sister delivered the news for me. As strong as I could be through many things, I just couldn’t bring myself to do this. I don’t remember telling most of the people I did tell or what their reaction was. I do remember, however telling one of the principals at the school where I taught. We had become friends in the year I had taught there. I was invited to join her and others after school at a local wine bar where we would eat, share stories of the day and taste wines. It was nice to be a part of that group. I liked the way she dealt with the kids. I could tell that she too got attached to them as individuals and genuinely cared for them. I had a lot of respect for her and really admired her. I broke down and cried when I told her of my plight. She was compassionate and assured me that I would be ok. I was so surprised by all the support I got from the people at school. This job was a great fit for me and I was just starting to realize it.

I had mixed reactions to my decision. There were several people who would never consider having a part of what they perceived as their sexuality removed. I did not feel that attachment to my breasts. I suppose part of the reason was that I had always had a very supportive husband who fell in love with the person and not the package. I had many women come to me at work and tell me that they too had battled breast cancer and offered any help I might need in getting through this. They told me about their experiences with all of it. Most people did not get into any gory details, but I do recall one woman who told me her sister had been through the same thing and that I too would be curled up in a ball unable to move because the pain would be so severe. I am very happy to report that the pain never got that bad or at least not that I remember.

I was scheduled to go into the hospital on October 1st at midnight. The insurance will only pay for so many days, and the plastic surgeon wanted to make sure I was plenty hydrated for the 7–8-hour surgery. When I arrived, there was no one to check me in so I wandered about the hospital for about 15 minutes. I finally took a seat by the admitting area and waited for someone who looked like they worked there. Someone finally came along and retrieved a nurse to help me. It didn’t take long for me to get checked in and assigned a room. An I.V. was inserted and a saline drip started shortly after I got into my room. My husband did not leave my bedside for the four days that I stayed in the hospital. I was scheduled for surgery October 2nd at 12:00 p.m. I got more anxious the closer it got to that time and no sign of anyone starting pre-op. I finally discovered at 12:30 that the reason no one had come for me yet was because they were calling my house looking for me. It was my sister who answered my phone and told them that I was already at the hospital in a room. This was the first of several oopsies over the next four days. I was taken into pre-op where a man who looked like a younger version of Willy Nelson placed a needle in my I.V. and told me that was my 1st half bottle of wine. He couldn't have known that I was a huge wine lover. I was taken into the operating room that was all too familiar a sight. My surgeon was there to tell me that I was going to be just fine. I knew that eventually I would be. I was only able to remain conscious a few seconds after “Willy” gave me my 2nd half bottle of wine.

I don’t remember very much about the next four days. I am told that no one ordered pain medicine for me after surgery and at 3:00 a.m. my husband was screaming at a nurse to call the doctor at home and get the orders needed to relieve my pain. We found out later that the nurse who admitted me forgot to put that little detail in the computer.

2nd treatment:

I went in on a Friday to get my second chemo treatment. I feel like such a baby. I so want this all to be over. I started feeling ill sooner today than the last time and by early evening was losing what I had eaten over lunch.

It seems odd to me that while as a country we are fighting the Iraqi war, my body has waged its own war. The chemo that I am getting to fight the “bad guys” the cancer cells that may have escaped is also killing the “good guys” my red blood cells. As a country, we mourn those who to many are faceless, nameless men and women, dying because of a few “bad guys” who may have gotten away. We feel the effects of losing so many good people to this terrible war, so many positive influences, smiling faces, open arms, big hearts, helping hands, comforting souls, protectors. What will the long-term effects be of this terrible loss? We will never truly know. I in turn feel the effects of losing my nameless, faceless warriers; the shortness of breath, the pain, the loss of hair, the change in my skin, and to a chef one of the hardest to lose is my sense of taste. It is not gone, but it is no longer a familiar friend. I know well what chicken broth tastes like, it is not sour. Sweet never lingered so long and harsh and dissipated into something I cannot describe. I no longer enjoy eating. Why in war must we lose so many good guys to stop or at least slow down the bad ones? I will eventually rebuild my stock of red blood cells and the long-term damage should be minimal. The country will too eventually rebuild their stock of warriers, but I am afraid the long-term damage will not be minimal.

This reminds me of a battle that was waged by one of the most courageous people I have ever known. I say courageous because for nine years, he waged this battle alone. Chris was an opinionated, stubborn, carefree, loyal and entrepreneurial man. I so enjoyed our conversations because while we didn’t always agree on each other's point of view, we always respected the other person and did not hold a grudge. While Chris tended to be a rather negative thinker, I tend toward the bright side, trying to find the positive. I liked hearing about how he thought the world was being run or at least should be, how he felt he always got the best deal because he knew how to work with those people or how people looked at things all wrong because he had all the right answers and when he didn’t, he made it up. I remember being in my husbands apartment one New Years Eve and having Chris tell me he was bi-sexual. I think he was very surprised at my response…”so” I said. We forged a permanent bond that night. On my wedding day, when he danced with me, he told me how happy he was that his brother married me, he felt we were a good fit. He came to me in the summer of 2004 harried about his latest dealings with a local store. I listened to him rant and rave for about 15 minutes when he suddenly stopped and apologized. He didn’t mean to go on and on, but he had been having a particularly bad day. “Oh…and by the way, I am dying”. I was stunned for a few moments before I said, “we are all dying”. This was my way of fielding him for information. He replied, “No, I have AIDS”. I knew he was serious and it literally took my breath away. I can’t honestly remember what I asked him next, but I wanted to know when he found out. “It was nine years ago”. My heart instantly hurt and I began crying, when he told me not to cry because he was ok with it. My mind was reeling with questions about the last nine years. Why hadn’t he told anyone in the family, how could he possibly cope with this alone, how long did he have, what could we do for him, how was he handling it, couldn’t he be saved, Why Chris? He asked me to please keep this a secret from the rest of the family including my husband. I told him in no uncertain terms that I could not withhold something this devastating from his brother. I think he knew when he spilled the beans to me that Mark would soon find out.

Mark and I discussed this at much length over the next year. We had been somewhat resentful toward Chris because of his nomadic ways. He did not keep a job, business, vehicle or home for very long and seemed proud that he could buy his food with food stamps. The loss of any of these things never seemed to bother him. He chose to show up at some family functions while avoiding so many others. He had no problem asking for money when we were struggling to pay our bills. I felt crushed by the shame. It all made sense now. How could we have judged him for so long and not even considered that it may have all been out of need.

As I lay here tonight, I remember all the people who taught me about fight, courage and strength. It would be a great disservice to them not to see this all as an opportunity to learn and to grow. As my mom said, “we may not know why we don’t always get what we want, but we must accept that it is because there is something better out there for us and when we can be at peace with this, we free ourselves to grow”.