I had a blood test today. Routine, just checking thyroid levels and such. But as I drove away from the doctor's office, I looked at the bandage on my hand (yes, my hand; I'll explain that later) and remembered it's Oct. 1, the beginning of Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
If you don't mind, I'd like to share my (overly long) story. I'll also have a simple request at the end. Thank you for reading.
Believe me, being told you have cancer brings with it all kinds of horrible emotions - for some, it’s a crushing blow of fear and sadness; for others, it’s a “call to arms,” ready to fight; and for others, anger could be the main result. For me, it was all three.
On Nov. 23, 2009, I heard from a pathologist that cells taken from my breast tested “suspicious for cancer.” Those suspicions turned into Stage III invasive breast cancer, and so began a full year of tests, surgery at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in Manhattan to remove the affected breast (along with 19 of the 23 lymph nodes in my right arm - and 6 were cancerous), chemotherapy, reconstruction and radiation. It was a blur; incredible grace from God and an abundance of love and assistance from my family and friends got me through it.
I was able to undergo chemo locally, as the protocol was identical to that at Sloan. The nurses were kind and encouraging, and most of all optimistic, even when my poor veins meant as many as seven pricks before they could find a good entry. Eventually, I had a port installed above my left breast. Unfortunately, that surgery led to an infection that landed me in bed on IV antibiotics for an entire week at Sloan (during my birthday, no less!). I almost lost the expander that was part of my reconstruction.
All along, pretty much since my first visit to my breast surgeon, I was given all the options for reconstruction. I was told the procedure I chose was a good choice, given a little inconvenience at first. There were a LOT of trips to New York City - a looong drive (or train ride) from southern Sullivan County. After chemo and reconstruction, I underwent about eight weeks of radiation entailing a daily trip to Sleepy Hollow in Westchester County. To this day, I am awed by how many people gave up their time to accompany me.
After the final phase of reconstruction, I was happy. Then, gradually, I wasn’t.
Thank God, there are so many resources out there raising awareness of breast cancer, and encouraging women to get mammograms, maintain a healthful lifestyle, and support critical research. I agree with all that. But after radiation, as my reconstructed area started to hurt (sometimes, radiation can constrict muscles so much that it becomes painful and deformed), I noticed more and more that a lot of the awareness campaigns centered around saving breasts: “I (heart) Boobies” bumper stickers, “Save the Ta-Tas” merchandise. Who are we saving our breasts for, anyway? What about saving lives?
Now, I understand that losing part of yourself is devastating. But losing quality of life is something else. In January 2014, during my annual mammogram on my healthy breast at Sloan, one series of mammograms turned into two, then three, then four. Then they performed two ultrasounds. What they saw wasn’t malignant, the technicians thought; but they couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was. Combined with the constant pain I had, my decision was clear. So on May 28, 2014, I had a mastectomy on my left side and had the reconstruction “deconstructed” on the other. Bonus: There were no rooms available on the regular floors for my overnight stay, so I was treated to the 19th floor - luxurious beyond belief. An artistic friend who works at Sloan gave me a tour the next day of the floor, pointing out artwork like original Mapplethorpe photos and other priceless art on the walls.
I joke and call myself Flatsy. To be honest, I don't miss my boobs. I can choose to put on my prosthetic "chicken cutlets" if I want to, but I don't usually when I'm at home.
This isn't to say it's all a walk in the park. The estrogen blocker I took for ten years following my diagnosis thinned my bones so much that, even though I was on strengthening meds, I broke my leg in three places by tripping over a flipflop in my hallway at home (try explaining that with a straight face). The radiation ruined my thyroid, so I'm on daily medication. My right arm developed lymphedema, which is sometimes painful. And veins? Yeah, that's a fun subject: Blood can only be drawn from my left arm, and the veins there are so bad that I get to "enjoy" a hand stick.
But through all of that, I still don't have it nearly as bad as others. And of course, I need to remember that I'm still here. A lot of my friends are not.
The Relay for Life, held locally in Pine Bush each year, was something I'd looked forward to each year. It has a festival atmosphere, with teams raffling off prizes and people walking laps to raise money for the American Cancer Society. In 2010, I attended my first Relay. I was ecstatic that I survived, and I couldn’t wait to walk the Survivor Lap. Those of us who are lucky enough to have won our battles so far line up in our purple Survivor T-shirts under a purple arch and walk one lap around the track in celebration. Believe me when I tell you that it is not a short jaunt, nor is it easy. It hurts to see how many people in our relatively small part of the world are hit with this dread disease. On the other hand, we were there to celebrate the fact that yes, we are survivors. As we lined up, I caught the eye of a friend who had just finished thyroid-cancer treatment. She was sobbing. Of course I then became a liquid mess and we alternately held hands and wiped tears as we walked the track. But what a difference a year makes: At the next Relay, Caren and I practically skipped around the track with laughter.
But recently, it was a little bit different, and I can’t explain why.
I draped my white Survivor sash across my shoulder, and joined the line of purple-clad walkers. Before I even began walking, the tears came. I gratefully acknowledged the supportive wink of a former high-school classmate, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I somehow wasn’t worthy of being there. I thought of the many, many friends and relatives who should be there: my mother-in-law (and my daughter’s namesake) Ellen, my cousin Kathy, Vicky, Erin, Dina...
Cancer is an evil thing. It robs you of your hair, it robs you of your time, it robs the families of those who don’t make it. Even though after treatment, your body may be rid of it, your mind never really is. Even though there are miracles in medicine every single day, and it’s not fair to feel badly around so much success, I felt that we were all ticking clocks as we made our way around that grassy field. By the time I reached the Crispell Middle School team's tent, where my sister Diane and her family waited with my husband, Jim, and our brood to cheer me on, I was overwhelmed: I took off my cap, pulled off the sash, dropped into a chair, and gave myself up to the tears.
No one knew what to do with me. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder: Jim helped me up and led me to the arch to begin the Caregiver lap. This time, when I reached the Crispell tent, I was smiling. I motioned for my kids Marty, Ellen and Tommy to join me.
It was then that I looked down at the purple rubber bracelet I had bought earlier in the day, and truly believed what it said:
No one fights alone.
If anyone is beginning their own cancer journey, and is scared to death of the unknown, please let me know. I’ll be more than happy to talk with you - and to listen as well.
The Relay raises funds for cancer research, patient assistance and other issues related to that scary diagnosis. If you want to help, visit my Facebook page, where I'm raising money this month for the Relay: https://www.facebook.com/donate/624624194879684/
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