breast cancer – Page 3 – Sassy Dreams Awake

breast cancer, health, Yahweh's fingerprints

WHEN SUPERWOMAN LOSES HER CAPE

Posted on November 11, 2011 by sassysheisme

It’s been a little over three months since my treatments ended, and almost three months since I’ve been on Tamoxifen. It’s been a roller coaster ride for sure.

I have a love/hate relationship with Tamoxifen. I love that it has the potential to keep breast cancer from ever coming back, but I hate how I feel about 10 days a month. Of course, it’s hormone related and it’s brutal. For most of the month I have good days. My energy is increasing and I feel better in general. Then, HELL WEEK starts.

PMS has gone from a two day annoyance to an all out war with my hormones. During HELL WEEK I alternately want to tear phone books in half and smite people (my tolerance for stupid and the judgmental is non-existent) or I want to crawl into bed with a box of tissues and cry myself to sleep, or cry reading the news, or while watching football, or sob during Happy Feet commercials.

Tamoxifen intensifies anything I ever experienced related to my cycle, but it’s only been a few years that I’ve had anything remotely intense. When I was in college, I never got PMS of any kind while my friends had cramps and crying and mild/or violent mood swings. I was so oblivious to what other women endured that M (who shall remain nameless because she might not remember she did this) put a curse on my children that they be born breech so I’d at least be able to commiserate with some pain related to my female reproductive parts.

HELL WEEK got so bad last month I almost stopped functioning completely. I was nearly hysterical one night because I couldn’t stop crying (for no reason). I wrote an email to one of my closest friends stating: Is it bad that I hate the way Tamoxifen makes me feel so much that I don’t want to take it anymore and I’d rather take my chances with cancer?

I was serious.

My oncologist, upon hearing this news, was not amused, especially when I added that if we couldn’t at least get HELL WEEK reduced to annoying but manageable days, then she would have to force feed me Tamoxifen once a day and write me a note to work at home those days and pay someone to sit with me to make sure I didn’t cry all day and bankrupt myself on QVC or the internet buying things that made me smile through my tears.

I guess I made my point, because I have another prescription for some medical equalizers that should help HELL WEEK go away. I will have to wait a week or so to feel any different, the doctor said, but HELL WEEK should lessen and if the prescribed medical equalizer didn’t work, we’d keep trying until we found something that would work.

It’s been really wonderful to have a team of doctors (there are five of them now) who are working so hard so that I will not only survive, but thrive.

The biggest issue I’m having is how limited I now feel. All of the doctors have told me that I can no longer burn the candle at both ends as I’m accustomed. If I get overwhelmed and stressed, I can’t push through, I have to STOP and relax. I can no longer dig deep and pull all nighters like I used to, nor can I keep up the wicked pace I sometimes force upon myself so that I don’t miss a moment of any event, day or breath. If I didn’t have to sleep, I wouldn’t. There’s so much to see and do in life.

I told my team of doctors (I’ve had 5 doc appts this week) that I am not handling losing my Superwoman cape very well. I am no longer “invincible.” I am no longer the queen of multi-tasking, and sometimes I say some words and mean others. I tire easily. My joints and muscles hurt (thanks Tamoxifen) and my clumsy moments are multiplying. My eyes are not as reliable as they used to be, and working around that limitation as a photographer is frustrating and frightening.

I have done some rather stupid things that if I was clear-minded I would never do. I get confused. I feel like I’m walking through life in slow motion or in a thick fog. I don’t feel like I’m the best version of myself right now, and I have fought long and hard to break out of my prison of mediocrity.

People forget that the fight against cancer doesn’t end for a patient when they stop chemo or radiation. Years lie ahead, years filled with other medications and an endless stream of doctor’s appointments. Life is forever altered. The old life can never be regained completely.

Women have to learn to continue to be Superwomen without their capes.

I’m sure it can be done. I see examples of it every day. I think the ones that make the transition learn to let go of their old lives and fully embrace the new, even with all of its meds, new diet and challenges.

Yes, I’ve lost my cape. I think it’s at the bottom of a Tamoxifen bottle. Regardless of where it is, the cape is out of my reach. Instead of chasing what was, I will live with what is, and invest in the what can yet be. My life was more than the cape anyway.

breast cancer, photography

KOMEN FOR THE CURE, HOUSTON 2011

Posted on October 1, 2011October 30, 2012 by sassysheisme

Today I walked the Komen 5K in downtown Houston. My friend Jene’ has done this walk many times and asked me if I wanted to walk it with her this year. I decided, after my current struggles with Tamoxifen, that it might be a good idea to reinforce my resolve with this walk. I had to prove to myself I could do this short walk and hope to use it as a springboard into walking for more weight loss.

Jene’ very graciously picked me up this morning at 6:45. Anyone who knows me is aware that mornings are a struggle and my uncoordination is amplified by trying to do anything complicated before 9 AM. I have learned, however, I could get anywhere by 7 AM and function if I had a chauffeur.

Though I registered before the deadline, my registration packed did not arrive (and still hasn’t) so Jene’ let me out to go get my t-shirt and bib number (and hers) while she tried to park. After a half hour, we finally found each other again and started to walk toward the start line.

Jene’ had hoped to meet up with her friend Stacy from The Container Store. We walked toward the start line and still hadn’t found her. If you know Jene’, you know that she can walk into an ice cream store in South Carolina, strike up a conversation with a person and in no time, find that they either know mutual people or know each other. We call it Six Degrees of Jene’.

Find it no surprise, then, in the midst of nearly 40,000 people, Jene’ found Stacy.

The walk started late, and the sea of humanity moved slowly toward the start line. Because we were walking so slowly, I was able to get some shots of how people celebrated the race with costumes and t-shirts. Yes, the photographer carried her camera over three miles. I carry the camera every day and I hardly notice it. Besides, I wouldn’t have gotten shots like these with my phone’s camera.

This is the sea of humanity as we walked under the Montrose Bridge. It was an amazing sight to see all of these people walking for a cause, a mother, a sister, a grandmother, a friend.

This man held this sign up for nearly the duration of the race. I am going to assume it was his wife. I know many people walked for people they’ve lost and saw many “in memory” tags on people.

All along the route were organizations and volunteers cheering people as they walked. At one point there were several that were cheering directly to me, a survivor. I almost started crying but managed to not let my emotions get the best of me. I know I still haven’t fully wrapped my brain around what happened to me this summer. I think I’m still numb and still trying to decipher what getting and surviving breast cancer means to me personally. I know what breast cancer has meant to me when it has involved people I love in my life, but I am still not sure what to think or feel about walking this road myself.

After crossing the finish line, I walked through an area specifically for survivors. They said your number of years as a survivor over loud speakers. Five, seven, twenty years… and I said four months (because I am using my surgery date as the day the cancer left me). As I walked along the line of people cheering at me and giving me high-fives, I almost choked up again.

I was given a carnation and then, after emerging from that line of people, I picked up a couple of things from Ford (I love their Warriors in Pink collection).

The newspaper said there were 2000 registered survivors of the 38,000 + registrants (I expect that number to climb because so many people signed up at the last minute and there were people walking without bib numbers). Again, seeing so many people walk in memory of someone and realizing how few survivors were walking in relation to how many people were registered hit me harder than I thought it would. Like I said, it’s still something I have to wrap my brain around.

Jene’ and I went to the car at 11:20. The 5K took over an hour because it was difficult to get to Jene’ speed (petite woman with a cane will walk your legs off!) because of how many people were trying to walk in the same space with children, strollers, wagons and people stopping in the middle of the street to take photos.

Jene’ had to go to work all day at The Container Store after she dropped me off. Jene’ walks more than a 5K when she works. I imagine her legs are a lot more tired than mine! I am grateful for her persistence in getting me to do the Komen walk this year!

breast cancer, health

NORMAL IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

Posted on August 28, 2011 by sassysheisme

I took a giant leap forward in my journey to return to “normal” this week: I put on a bra. Yes, for the first time in 2 1/2 months, I was able to expand my wardrobe past the five large, baggy shirts I’ve been confined to wear to conceal my braless status. If you’re a man, you have no idea what this means to a woman. After all, we wear this confining contraption for men and fashion and a host of other reasons.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with the bra. I love the lift a bra gives but I hate underwires. I love the clothes that a bra allows me to wear, but I love the freedom leaving the bra behind gives me. Wearing a bra on brand new skin when it’s over 100 degrees out isn’t necessarily the best plan, but I managed to get through it without needing any new skin. I did ache a little after work. It wasn’t the best feeling in the world, but it was time to rejoin the world as a “properly” dressed woman.

I’ve started meeting with a nutritionist to deal with the weight issue. Surprisingly, I do not eat enough calories in the day, but even so, I find it nearly impossible to lose a significant amount of weight even when I make the effort. I have seen an endocrinologist and the medication I am on for my thyroid is keeping my levels fairly normal, so we are keeping on that track until I have a 3-month checkup in November.

My energy level increases every day and I feel better each day in general as well. I started taking Tamoxifen a week ago and it has delivered the four side effects I really could do without – road blocks to energy level (fatigue, but so far not as much as the radiation delivered), upset stomach/ZERO appetite, headaches and hot flashes. Hot flashes in 100+ degree weather is not fun. Having zero appetite when I’m supposed to be eating MORE makes it very difficult to make myself eat, though I’m trying to eat as the nutritionist instructs. Upset stomach and headaches do not help me get motivated to exercise, but I’m pushing as much as I can. I’ve been told these symptoms should dissipate over the coming weeks. I certainly hope so!

I also need to be patient with myself. I’ve been on a rush to get back to normal, but after four work nights in a row of not getting home until after 8 pm (and then trying to eat right) I was exhausted. The rest of my life will have to unfold a little more slowly if I want it to unfold for the long haul.

breast cancer

SASSY AND THE CHAMBER OF RADIATION

Posted on July 30, 2011 by sassysheisme

Thursday I had my final radiation treatment. 33 treatments in total. Just this short time later, the nerves are finally calming, the pain is lessening, and the burns are healing. I am on my way to having my body, brain, and life back.

The last day of treatment for a cancer patient is both exciting and sad. I was so happy my treatments were over, that now I get to have my afternoons and evenings back for other things other than treatments, work or resting. I will actually be able to get back to all the writing, photography and other plans that were derailed in April. It hardly seems possible that almost four months has flown by since the initial mammogram that set all this in motion, but I will gladly take what these last four months have given me – perspective and insight on my life that has been saved from cancer.

Given all that I was excited about Thursday, I was also sad that my days would no longer include trips to visit those work at the chamber of radiation. Each person I encountered always smiled, had positive things to say, and were huge sources of encouragement. I hugged and chatted with everyone as I left, but as I was leaving, I was especially sad to leave AJ, the receptionist. I have never met a receptionist who actually viewed their duty as a calling rather than a job. AJ always greets with a smile and can lift spirits of those who are facing the dark realities of their condition. One day when he was not at the office, I walked in just as the lady who delivers the mail said, “He’s not here?” and I saw her shoulders droop. “He can always turn my day around.” These are the people I am leaving behind to return to my life.

I’m certain I will be more prolific at what I’ve learned the past four months in the coming days. I’m still wrapping my brain around the fact that I am no longer a visitor to the chamber of radiation and I sincerely hope this is my final tour through the ordeal of cancer. I know many people right now who are facing a breast cancer far more fierce, who are losing but still fighting. Each person who navigates this road will have a completely different experience and set of circumstances, and if I ask of you only one thing is not to compare one person’s experience with cancer with another as I have tried to do the same.

This journey, as I have been reminded, is far from over. There are follow-up appointments and regular visits to the oncologist in the coming years that will ensure I do not forget my life is no longer the same. I will, however, continue to do what I need to do so the cancer does not return.

I do not wish to return to the chamber of radiation – ever.

Now, I am going to try and figure out what to do next!

breast cancer

TALES FROM THE DRESSING ROOM

Posted on July 12, 2011October 30, 2012 by sassysheisme

I’m more than halfway through my treatments and let’s just say my skin is in full revolt. Most nights, my skin is crawling and there isn’t much I can do to soothe it. Radiation doesn’t mix with most salves. I keep telling myself this is just a season, but it’s been a long one. Three months in and I can’t wait to wear a bra again, or to wear my girly clothes, or even to have time to go to the dentist. Even after my treatments are over, I will still have another waiting period of healing, much like you have to wait to eat your food for a few minutes after microwaving it because it’s technically still heating, but at least I’ll be almost finished cooking.

People rotate in and out of radiation treatment. I meet someone, I make a connection, and then Monday happens and they are no longer in treatment. I may never know what happens to them, I just have to trust that they return to their lives and live them to the full.

Take Hazel for example (not her real name). Hazel is a lady that I shared the waiting/dressing room with for about three weeks. She is older, somewhere in her 60’s, and she has returned to work. She’s been through chemo or hell, however you choose to package it. Hazel didn’t talk much the first week and didn’t smile much at all. Someone with that disposition might as well hang a sign around their neck that says, “I dare you.” I love those kinds of dares.

One day the wait was a little long, so I took her dare and complimented the shiny hat that covered the bit of hair that had grown back from her stint with chemo. The tip of the iceberg crashed to the floor.

I’m amazed at how quickly after a diagnosis patients are whisked through chemo and radiation, and Hazel was no different. She told the doctor she had a family vacation she wanted to take before she started treatment and delayed chemo for two weeks. The vacation was with family overseas and she was determined to take it because it might be her last vacation for a while, or in her opinion, ever.

I told her that we should take all the opportunities we can to live life to the fullest because we are survivors. Her countenance clouded, then she said, “everyone keeps telling me I’m a survivor. I’m sitting in here waiting for radiation… and… I don’t feel like a survivor.”

My Sassy filter did not deploy, but since I’ve determined from watching all 7 Harry Potter movies Saturday and Sunday that my brain has wrackspurts (aka radiation brain), I was not surprised that I said, “Hazel, you’re a survivor until they pull the sheet over your head.”

Since we were not alone, I waited for a gasp, chastisement, or even disgust. Instead, the person just within earshot was amused and Hazel’s eyes ere wide. Then, for the first time since I’d been trying to get to know anything about Hazel, she started to laugh, a deep, heartfelt laugh.

“I’m going to tell my kids that one.”

She smiled Friday when I saw her, and I got her to laugh again by telling her, as she feverishly worked on a crossword puzzle, that I had been to crossword rehab (I’m not proud of it!) and only recently had been released to play Scrabble again. She kept giggling and it was music to my ears.

This week, her treatments were over, and I haven’t seen her since. I hope she is on her way to good health, that she gets to fill towers of crossword puzzles, take more trips and laugh.

After all, we’re all survivors until they pull the sheet over our heads, and even then, some of us know what’s hidden behind the veil.

Until then, I need to get back to my Scrabble game.

breast cancer

DON’T STARE INTO THE LASER

Posted on June 17, 2011October 30, 2012 by sassysheisme

My whirlwind tour through breast cancer treatment continued this week with the beginning of radiation therapy. Nothing ever really prepares a person for what lies ahead, no matter how much reading, studying, asking, praying or preparing is done. What can really be done to prepare for fatigue and nausea? Not much. What prepares you for the command to not wear a bra or deodorant and the self-consciousness and discomfort that goes with it? Not much, especially when the temperature gauge reads 100 degrees every day.

So I cope, as usual, with a camera or a pen in my hand.

Monday, June 6, I went in for my “fitting” for the form they make for the radiation table. They put me in this machine (which is a CAT/MRI type machine) and took some pictures.

The entire facility is practically brand new and the staff is very friendly. They welcome questions and give you answers in any detail you like. They rolled me back in to the machine and I saw this sign that told me not to stare into the laser beam. For anyone that knows me, my eyes see signs like this and my brain says, “you know you HAVE to look.”

I refrained, however, because I know that lasers can hurt the eyes, and Lord knows I need them for many things, including taking photos.

The master of the MRI domain, G, lined me up on the table so he could get the readings to make the mold that would hold me in place. Then he marked on me with permanent marker, and then stabbed, rather, tattooed me in three strategic spots that they will be using the next six weeks to line me up with the laser. I have a tattoo, and that one didn’t hurt at all. In G’s defense I’m not sure this can be done any more gently to make the dot, and he even said it would sting like a mosquito. I’m not sure what mosquitoes he’s come in contact with! He did the second one and it hurt so bad, had I not been holding a foam doughnut above my head, he said I looked as if I wanted to punch him. G is very observant.

This Monday, the 13th, I had a final fitting for the foam form and they wrote all over me with permanent marker for further guides to line me up on the radiation machine. It felt like they were playing tic-tac-toe on my stomach. I was giggling because the marker tickled and someone made a comment about me being ticklish and Sassy (they like the tattoo). They put stickers over the marker so it won’t wash off, so I have many lines and X’s in addition to the three tattoo marks. I mentioned that if they did that again, I wanted an X in the center square.

I asked V (radiation team) if I could take photos and explained I wanted to chronicle my journey in pictures. He agreed that as long as I didn’t take photos of people I could shoot away. I was very grateful and the next day I took my camera around and took pictures while I waited. Taking photos is very therapeutic for me.

This is one of three dressing rooms in the waiting room. Once you get called back there, there usually isn’t much waiting until they come and take you to the radiation chamber.

The radiation chamber is behind this door, which is at least two feet thick.

The radiation machine has lots of pretty lasers as well.

I have no idea what any of this means, but they do, which is the important thing.

I’m actually on the table less than ten minutes, but it’s interesting how much happens to cells in that amount of time. In 5 treatments I can see my skin reddening, so who knows what is happening under the skin’s surface. After the third treatment, I have experienced a period of nausea, and by the end of the day I’m wiped out.

One week down, five to go. I’ve read the side effects grow worse as time goes on, so that’s on my mind as I try and rest this weekend. It’s so difficult for me to allow others to do things for me, but I am grateful for the help I’ve received so far.

I was asked if I’d been directed to a counselor through this ordeal. I haven’t, but I think that’s because I explained to my oncologist that I am surrounded by a wonderful community and am blessed to have them around me – I have a lot of ears to listen and many shoulders to cry on. I’ve never been good at pampering myself but I’m trying to do that, and to allow others to pamper me as well.

I appreciate all the thoughts and prayers on my behalf. Please pray for the others I come in contact with daily. I am one of the few getting treatment who hasn’t been through chemo already. Some have good attitudes, some are already defeated and going through the motions. I am also not the youngest one there. Some bring their kids now that summer break is here and they wait while their precious mommies or grandmothers get treatment. All of them have already learned the art of waiting for an indefinite amount of time, somewhat resigned to this routine.

Also pray for the staff. I have never been on a medical journey like this one, but I am amazed at the compassion and smiles I receive every day. The receptionist is so chipper and kind I want to hug him and tell him how much his smile and spirit mean to me. Maybe over the next few weeks I will.

breast cancer, health

ROLL THE DICE, MOVE THREE SPACES

Posted on May 30, 2011 by sassysheisme

I have been at the doctor’s office at least once a week for the last eight weeks. I met with the oncologist this week, a 3-hour appointment that left me exhausted, but hopeful. I answered questions, filled out forms, had a complete physical exam, and they drew blood. Marking where I am physically before I begin radiation treatment took longer than I thought, and I have a 2-hour appointment with the radiologist on Wednesday. I am grateful, though, to get closer to action, rather than information gathering and assessment.

A week ago Friday, I got the news that the tissue they removed during my lumpectomy included a 2mm tissue sample of Stage 1 aggressive cancer. I spent the weekend very troubled, because this news, in my mind, made me skip a few spaces toward chemotherapy. I believed that because I thought I would test positive for BRCA gene mutation, which would put me at high, high risk for recurrence and the doctors would want to do whatever was necessary to lower that risk.

Monday, however, the doctor called to give me the news that would move me back a few spaces away from chemo. I tested negative for the BRCA gene mutation. I was more in shock by that news than the news I was now advanced to Stage 1. That relief was much needed in the midst of the weight of uncertainty. I hadn’t even given a negative result a second thought. I felt like I’d been given a free roll of the dice. Move ahead six spaces past chemo.

The oncologist and I talked about another issue that needed addressed: my weight. My cancer is estrogen positive which means my fat cells are the enemy. I also have to navigate a new diet tailored to reduce the risk of breast cancer recurrence. All I have to say is, “no bacon.” I will be seeing a nutritionist in August after radiation so I can get started on that as soon as possible. In the meantime, I have been looking into vegetarian dishes on my own.

So that’s where everything stands. I will most likely start radiation in a couple of weeks. I will take treatment every day, five days a week for six weeks. That will take me through to the end of July, and then I will see the oncologist again. To me, it all seems like a random roll of the dice, but I know God has it under control.

breast cancer

OFF THE HOOK

Posted on May 15, 2011 by sassysheisme

Tomorrow I will know for certain, but my surgery was an apparent success. The pathology report from the tissue they took may not be back in time for the appointment, but I seem to be healing quite nicely, and the wound is now 8 colors or less. Go me.

I woke up Tuesday morning at 5:15 AM, unable to eat or drink anything, including coffee. Jene’ retrieved me at 6:30 and she drove me down to the medical center. Without coffee, the trip seemed like a dream. The sun started to rise but I was barely lucid. For example, in the parking garage, there are only 11 floors, and I was told to report in to the 15th floor, so the elevator caused me great confusion. Thank goodness Jene’ had been there before and handles mornings and numbers better than I do.

I reported in on the 15th floor around 7:15 and began a long day of waiting. They explained to me there were others ahead of me on the surgery schedule and I probably wouldn’t have the wire insertion until after 9 or so and told us to go up to the 16th floor for that procedure, where we…waited.

I had previously stated that the stereotactic biopsy was the weirdest medical procedure I’d experienced, but that was because I had not yet experienced the wonderfully surreal wire insertion that preceded my surgery.

I don’t remember the technical term, but a doctor inserts a wire anchor/hook (6+ inches long) into your breast at the exact spot the surgeon needs to remove tissue. I am sure medical people know why the wire is more important and exact than an “x” marks the spot, but apparently, this procedure is a must for accurate breast-tissue removal surgery.

I went in and sat in a chair and they pushed me forward and put my breast in the mammogram vice grip before the lidocaine (which I think the lidocaine should be inserted before compression of this magnitude) and positioned me for the procedure. I was instructed to hold still, not move, barely breathe, while they took pictures and aligned my cancer cells to a grid. Then the lidocaine was applied (thank God) and the wire hook inserted. I was praised for being a good (blood) clotter.

To try to assign pain levels to such a procedure is folly, even with the pain killer – they have the breast in a vice grip and they hook the area like you’re catfish and then they leave it there. The wire stuck out at least 6 inches like a fishing line, and to make sure I was “hooked” securely the doctor tugged a few times. I felt like I’d been fishing with my brothers and there’d been an unfortunate accident (or one of my older brother’s “let’s see what this does!” experiments gone wrong).

I got a cheer for enduring the procedure as the doctor wrapped the wire in a spiral around the anchor/hook and taped it down so I could put on a gown and be taken back to the 15th floor. The gowns come in two sizes – for tiny, small people with no curves, and pup tent sizes. I was double gowned in the pup tent size, which I could have fit two or more people inside. It quite resembled a choir gown and I wanted to bust out a, “Hallelujah Chorus,” except that I had a wire sticking out of my breast and I still hadn’t had any caffeine.

They took me to the pre-op area where I waited a couple of hours for my surgery. Jene’ waited with me and I was visited by a long line of nurses, residents, anesthesiologists, and the surgeon. My friend Michelle, who works at the Children’s hospital, came to visit me, too. Finally, after what seemed like an endless morning laying there with the end of the hook poking me in the arm, the surgeon and the anesthesiologist returned and started the IV of sleepy-time tonic. Jene’ said that I spoke after that, but I do not remember anything until I woke up in the recovery area. I was very thankful to be “off the hook.”

There was a man there in scrubs checking my vitals and Jene’ was sitting next to me. I felt like I’d taken a nap but didn’t rest. I was finally able to drink some water and eat a couple of oatmeal bars and then the nice man in the scrubs shot me up with demerol. He told me I could leave when I could prove I could pee. I had motivation and a bottle of water.

I kept looking down at my arm (groggily) and being surprised it was blue (the anesthetic wash). I was surprised by this several times, for several hours as the demerol wore off. Finally, I was able to use the restroom, and then I got dressed and was whisked out to Jene’s car in a wheelchair (demerol does a nice job of making your legs feel like wobbly gelatin).

We went straight to the pharmacy and we were there for over an hour because the resident who filled out the prescription for my vicodin (a narcotic) did not put the required DEA# on it, so we waited (and waited) while Jene’ tried to get all that worked out. I am still going to address this with my doctor, as I had to wait an agonizingly long time for pain relief and they need a better way to get in touch with the doctors after 4 PM.

We finally got home, I took meds and eventually climbed into bed at 10:30, sleeping with a wall of pillows around me so I wouldn’t roll over. I stayed home and medicated the next day, then worked the next two days (doctor said I could if I didn’t overdo it) and have rested the rest of the weekend. There’s a little discomfort left, but not much. Just in time for round 3.

breast cancer, Yahweh's fingerprints

WARRIORS IN PINK

Posted on May 5, 2011 by sassysheisme

April 1st I got a mammogram. I’ve been getting them for seven years now. Every year I am grateful for good results, considering how breast cancer has ravaged my family.

This year, April melted into a slow parade of doctor’s appointments, highlighted by a stereotactic biopsy, which goes down in my personal history as my weirdest medical procedure yet. The biopsy came back ER (estrogen receptor) and PR (progesterone receptor) positive, Stage 0 (Zero). In other terms, it’s like getting assigned a 5K while most other people diagnosed with breast cancer have to run an entire marathon whether they are prepared for it or not.

Breast cancer is one family badge I didn’t want, not that anyone ever wants it. I was tested last week for the BRCA gene, which will give a clearer picture about the road of treatment I need to travel. As all this unfolds, people will see that this is a complete, life-changing event, one I hope I can weather with grace and courage rather than fear and misery.

I feel like the trajectory of my life has been forever altered, either knocked sideways by a pair of pink boulders or a breeze from a pair of pink butterfly wings. Only time will tell which. God will have to show me the meaning in all this, because right now, I’m still on autopilot, numbed by the shock. I have breast cancer.

I’ve rather hated the color pink my entire life. Yes, my mother bought me pink clothes as much as possible, but I had a deep dislike for pink. Pink meant “all girl.” I was almost sad when the color that represented the fight against breast cancer was pink (though I totally get why it is). Now, suddenly, find myself at the Susan G. Komen website looking at endless pages of items made in pink. Suddenly, I don’t mind pink so much (though truthfully, I don’t wear pink well, but maybe some pink accessories?).

Still, I know, I’ve witnessed the real warriors in pink: some who get a much, much, much worse diagnosis and live to tell the tale or fight like hell until they can’t fight anymore. I arrive on the radar at Stage 0. I won’t even have to walk through the hell that is chemotherapy. I get to go through the purgatory of radiation only instead. I get to keep my hair. I get to live on. I have breast cancer, but I’m not going to die – not now, and not for a long time if I have anything to say about it.

I have surgery Tuesday morning to remove tissue to make sure all of the cancer has been removed, then the carousel moves onward to radiation therapy and whatever else they throw at me to reduce the risk of this horrible disease ever coming back.

about shae, breast cancer, health

BREAST CANCER AWARENESS MONTH

Posted on October 3, 2010 by sassysheisme

October is, besides being National Sarcasm Month, (like I need to tell you how well I celebrate that), is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t know someone who has triumphed over or succumbed to breast cancer. Breast cancer has mercilessly ravaged my family, taking lives, and derailing some for a time, and every year I anxiously await my mammogram results until I get the “all clear” sign for another twelve months. The question is always in the back of my mind as I slowly open that envelope, “is it my turn this time?”

I have had one biopsy already – when I was in my mid 30’s. I ran out of blanks in the “who in your family has had breast cancer,” section on the info sheet at the imaging center and handed it to the nurse and asked her where I should write the other names (and this was before my cousin had been diagnosed). She had tears in her eyes. It was also my deceased brother’s birthday, so I had a lot on my mind and my knees nearly buckled with the weight of all that emotion.

When I got the news back that the lump they found was a benign fibro adenoma (read about my mammogram and biopsy adventures) I was so relieved. The doctors have been so careful ever since and I have been faithful to get that mammogram every year. I found, though that experience, that I’d rather know than not know. You can’t fight what you aren’t aware of. In this case, ignorance is not bliss, it’s death.

The memories of my mother with no hair linger, of her wigs and how she used to lift them up to let cool air in against her skin. My mother complained often about many things, but she never complained about that. It just was what it was. The second time around, she just shaved her head and let everyone see. It was what it was. It was part of the process, part of the uniform of, “I’m fighting for my life.” She’s been gone for almost 8 years now, but when January rolls around each year, I remember, most painfully, what cancer has done to my family.

I have cousins and aunts who have lived quite long lives after fighting breast cancer. I think it’s that Scot-Irish steely resolve that, coupled with the fact the women in my family are just naturally strong, brings out the “oh, yeah, bring it,” attitude that balances with, “it is what it is.” If cancer wasn’t such a horrid disease, I’d almost feel sorry for it when it chooses a woman in my family to fight with. I’m hoping by the time we younger ones come to that time of life (who am I kidding, I am in that time of life), when cancer tries to rear its ugly head, that it looks up and says, “oh, it’s one of those Mills women. Forget it! Run for your life!”

I encourage you to visit The Susan G. Komen foundation and make a donation, or purchase products that show your support in the fight against breast cancer. As much as I dislike pink, this is the month I will wear it and make that statement that I remember, I honor, and I fight.