For A While

A week ago I had another surgery.
Or maybe it is called a procedure.
I am not sure of the difference.
It was in-out patient.
Surgery lasted about an hour or so.
I got to the hospital about 10:30am and was released and home by 4pm.
As far as surgeries go, the first 24 hours wasn't too bad.
Over the next few days it got worse.
But today it seems to be getting a little better.
I needed to stop taking the pain meds after a few days,
because I can not drive while taking,
and come Monday I had to get back to my regular routine.
Taking the kids to school, dance classes,
grocery shopping and errand running.

I had fat grafting done.
It was a year ago that I had my mastectomy.
I didn't have clean margins after the surgery
so that is why I had to have the second one.
During that surgery the doctors had to remove
more skin, tissue and scrape the muscle in hopes
of getting the clean margins.
The second time was a success.
But it left me with a concave chest and my ribs sticking out.
At first if was fine, but as I am slowing getting some feeling
and sensation back -
it is painful.

So my surgeon suggested that he could do some fat grafting, to help with the pain.
Kind of a temporary fix until I am ready for reconstruction.
They remove fat from either the thighs or stomach and inject it back into other places.
I opted for my thighs, because I am saving my stomach area for reconstruction.
I have eight small incision marks.
Two on each thigh and four on my chest.
I am bruised - very bruised.
From my hips to almost my knees and half my chest.
Lots of colors - black, purple, blue, green and yellow.

I realize it is only a week since the surgery and I am still very swollen and sore,
but I am not sure it was totally worth it.
I hope in a few weeks, when I feel better, I will think otherwise.
And just for reference sake, I would rather recovery from a hysterectomy than this procedure.

So I am done for a while.
I am excited about no hospital stays, no bandages and wound care and no recovery times where I can't pick up Gage!
Nothing scheduled in 2016 - except for the routine check-ups, scans, and doctor appointments.
Then in 2017 I will start the big reconstruction process!

FREE

Today is a BIG milestone.

One I have waited for a long time for.
One that proves that I have been through hell, and survived.

ONE YEAR CANCER FREE

One year ago, today, I was coming out of my second surgery
in two days to hopefully rid my body of all traceable cancer cells.

One year ago was one of the hardest days.
I have come a long ways.

I am kinda at a loss for words right now so...

After cancer treatment, I had to walk away from my life as I knew it. 
By: Sonja Koenig

 

That disease that could have killed me back in 2010 had not;
but oooh, breast cancer can whoop one but good.
And while they save you with their chemotherapy, their surgery and their radiation, it is far from the end.
For years after, they continue to slice and dice, taking every last womanly piece
 – all of it gone in the name of prevention –
and you watch the body and face in the mirror morph into that of a stranger.
Thirty extra pounds and ribbons of scars; a highway toward a lost self.
 

Silent battles begin, fights with things not spoken: early menopause, infertility, depression.

A small rectangular box now looms on your counter:
medication to be taken for ten years “after treatment” to help save your life long term, they tell you.
It is exhaustion packaged in a small white pill.
Your muscles stiffen into painful throbbing things.
And here you had assumed the worst of “treatment” was over.

One day, you notice that your house isn’t clean;
that you, once so immaculate and caring, really don’t care much any more.
And that walking the dog is too much effort.
That dinner is a bag of chips or red licorice.
You lie on the couch. You stop showing up.

There are amazing people put on this planet.
You call some of these people friends.
But, because of geography and circumstances, you end up going through some very difficult times alone.

Eventually, you are given back some of what was taken.
They reconstruct part of you, and you are grateful – delighted, in fact – rejoicing in that feeling of fullness.
But beneath it, that persistent strange sense of “lack,” of something still missing, remains.

 

One night, you list out the whole damn thing in a journal and realize there is probably a good reason you are exhausted;
you have been clawed at for so long that you don’t know how to put the pieces of your shredded self together.
You don’t even have the energy to pick up the first piece.
And you have forgotten the feeling of spontaneous joy or excitement,
what it is like to go through a day without it all feeling forced.

And you’re guilty for feeling anything like this when you are “lucky to be alive,” right?
Sometimes you think of the pregnant woman who was getting chemo in the chair next to you,
how the two of you laughed: black humor to fight the disease that wanted to take you.
And then you hear three years later that she didn’t make it.
The child has no mother. Who are you to complain, really?

You know, now, that we are all one heartbeat or wayward cell away from the whole thing going to hell in a hand basket.
You are at your desk, in your car, at the grocery store, and you forget to breathe.

The therapist crosses her legs and listens.
 

And then, one day it comes, the troubling realization that you may,
in fact, still be harboring a killer – one that has nothing to do with flesh and bone but that has,
ever so slowly, crept into your soul.
That somehow, through the course of it all,
you have become so worn down and so depleted that you risk losing yourself forever.
That you’ve drifted away from your ambition, your potential, your drive,
your dreams and the things you know you need to make you happy.
That saving yourself takes more than the poison they put through your veins.

It isn’t over.
Not yet.
 

So, you head to your core.
You haven’t lost that yet.  It is the place where the still, small voice lives.
You lend it your ear, you dig deep.
Remember how you sat on the chair the day they diagnosed you?
The doctor scribbling on the paper covering the examining table –
drawing it all out, giving shape to the hungry monster inside you.
Remember what you thought?
Will I die?
Will my hair fall out?
And then, I can’t die.
There are stories in me I need to tell.

And eventually you begin to work on that thing,
the thing that came from the deep place:
the response to some long-ignored primal creative urge.
The portal to help you find your way again.

This is where I feel I am at.
Trying to find my way again.
Things are getting better, different, but definitely better.
Surprisingly, surviving being a survivor is harder than I thought.

 

Still Here

It seems like I am neglecting the blog quite a bit lately.
I think that is a good thing.
Nothing new to report, just me trying to adjust and busy, well, living.

The other day I decided I needed to donate all my wigs and scarfs to the hospital's cancer center.
I called Deb, the first nurse I meet after I was diagnosed.
She is the one who explains the treatments, what to watch for, but mostly how to manage the side effects.
She is an amazing lady and is in charge of meeting all the new cancer patients.

I told her my story about the day I went to find a wig.
The owner of the wig store was very sweet.
She took me to a back room so I could try them on in private.
At this point all my hair had already fallen out.
To be honest I was kind of excited to try diffent lengths and colors.
But for some reason none of them "looked or felt like me".
I tried on more.
Nothing worked.
I felt heart-broken.
She showed me multiple magazines and said to order any that I liked.
I knew my insurance would not cover the cost of the wigs.
So as I looked for a wig that would help me feel like normal, I sadly noticed the prices first. 
Cheaper ones were $300-$400. 
Some of the ones that were hand tied and used real hair were, well, a lot more.
I felt torn, how could I spend that much money on a wig with all my medical expenses coming up. 
Eventually, I left the store with a clearance halo hair piece and tears in my eyes.

I wish I could prevent every women who is faced with that decision from feeling the way I did that day.

Luckily I met friend through an old co-worker who was a few months ahead of me in her cancer treatment.
Her insurance paid for 2 beautiful, expensive wigs.
She gifted them to me.

It was time to pay it forward.
I told Deb to find a young women who was in a similar situation - and give them to her.
I hope she likes them.
I hope they make her feel just a little bit better.

Then Deb asked me how I was doing. 
It is a weird thing with the nurses at the cancer institute.
If any of them ask how I am doing, I usually cry. 
I know they really want to know.
I know I can be honest and real and not have to try to be strong with them. 
So I cry.

But today I didn't.
I didn't cry!
She asked me if I still thought about my cancer everyday.
I do.
And then I thought for a moment and added,
but it doesn't always bring me to tears anymore.

I want to thank everyone who has followed, supported and cared about me this past year.
The posts might not come as often, just know I am doing well.
I truly hope you have a wonderful holiday season surrounded by the ones you love.

I Think So Too

I found this the other day while playing around the internet, wish I would have copied the source.

"I think so too.
That chair you’re sitting in?
I’ve sat in it too.
In waiting rooms. Chemo rooms. Prep rooms. For tests. Surgeries. Procedures. Radiation. Inpatient. Outpatient. Emergency visits. Routine visits. Urgent visits. To see generalists. Specialists. Surgeons. Alone. With friends. With family members. As a new patient. Established patient. Good news. Bad news. I’ve left with new scars. Prescriptions. Appointments. Words of wisdom. Theories. Guesses. Opinions. Statistics. Charts. Plans. Tests. Words of assurance. More bloodwork. Nothing new. Nothing gained. Nothing but a bill.

That feeling you’re having?
I’ve had it too.
Shock. Disbelief. Denial. Grief. Anger. Frustration. Numbness. Sadness. Resignation. Confusion. Consternation. Curiosity. Determination. Dread. Anxiety. Guilt. Regret. Loss. Pain. Emptiness. Embarrassment. Shame. Loneliness.

That day you’re dreading?
I’ve dreaded it too.
The first time you speak the words, “I have cancer.” The first time you hear “Mommy has cancer.” Anniversary day. Chemo day. Surgery day. MRI scan day. Decision day. Baldness day. The day the options run out.

Those reactions you’re getting?
I’ve had them too.
Stares. Questions. Pity. Blank looks. Insensitivity. Jaw-dropping comments. Tears. Avoidance.

Those side effects you dread?
I’ve dreaded them too.
Nausea. Vomiting. Pain. Nose bleeds. Bleeding gums. Weakened heart. Baldness. Hair loss. Everywhere. Unrelenting runny nose. Fatigue. Depression. Itching. Insomnia. Night sweats. Migraines. Watery eyes.  Loss of appetite. Loss of libido. Loss of breasts. Phantom pain. Infection. Fluid accumulation. Bone pain. Abdominal Pain. Neuropathy. Numbness. Joint pain. Taste changes. Weight gain. Weight loss. Mouth sores. Fevers. Anemia. Diarrhea. Brittle nails. Stomach aches. Bruises. Muscle spasms. Chills.

That embarrassment you’re feeling?
I’ve felt it too.
Buying a swimsuit. Getting a tight-fitting shirt stuck on my body in the dressing room. Having a child say “You don’t have any eyebrows, do you?” Asking the grocery line folks to “make the bags light, please.” Wearing a scarf. Day after day. Wondering about wearing a wig because it’s windy outside and it might not stay on. Holding on to the bannister for dear life.

That fear you’re suppressing?
I’ve squelched it too.
Will this kill me? When? How bad is chemo going to be? How am I going to manage my kids and get through it? Will my cancer come back and take me away from my life? Will it make the quality of life I have left so bad I won’t want to be here anymore? Is this pain in my back a recurrence? Do I need to call a doctor? What is worse: the disease or the treatment?

That day you’re yearning for?
I’ve celebrated it too.
“Your counts are good” day. “Your x-ray is clear” day. “Now you can go longer between appointments” day. “See you in a year” day. First-sign-of-hair day. First-day-without-covering-your-head day. First taste of food day. First Monday chemo-isn’t-in-the-calendar day. Expanders-out, implants-in day. First walk-without-being-tired day. First game-of-catch-with-the-kids day. First day out for lunch with friends day. First haircut day. “Hey, I went a whole day without thinking about cancer” day. “Someone asked me how I’m doing, I said ‘fine’ and I meant it” day.

That hope you have?
I have it too.
More research. Easier access. Targeted therapy. Effective treatments. Better quality of life. More options. Longer life. Less toxicity. Fewer guesses.
Ultimately, someday, for my children or grandchildren perhaps: a cure.
Don’t you think that would be amazing?
I think so too.

October 20th

I am sure for the next few years I will remember lots of anniversaries. 

Some will remain important forever and some will fade and become less significant.

Today, one year ago, I was sitting in the chemo infusion room getting my last big treatment.

My whole family showed up and surprised me with a party.

It felt so good to finally have 18 weeks of chemo behind me.

As with a lot of things that have happened over the last year,

sometimes it feels like yesterday and yet it also feels like a life time ago.

However I feel, I am grateful it is in the past.

Happy October 20th.

All is Well

I feel like a huge weight has been lifted. MRI results came back today - no evidence of disease, everything is all clear !!!!! So relieved and happy. Hope everyone has a fantastic weekend.

Waiting for Friday

This past Friday the kid's school put on their annual Harvest Hop.
We buy drinks, cookies and eat pizza.
Then each grade puts on a dance.
Fun for the kids.
I had fun, too.
So much more so than last year.

As I sat there watching my kids dance - I felt so good.
Last year I got so tired and winded from the short walk
from the road to the pavilion, that I had to lay down,
for almost the entire performance.
I was so sick I couldn't even sit up.

I feel like things are getting "better."
Most days they are.
Then a day like today hits me and I struggle.
This morning I had an MRI.
An MRI will now be one of my annual appointments.
Just to check to make sure there is no cancer they can see.
It took about an hour.
But laying in this machine, with ear plugs and ear muffs on, staring at nothing
trying to drown out the horrendous noise!
Fear found me.
I was too afraid to cry.
I am not supposed to move.
I certainly didn't want to have to start over.

I don't want things like this to scare me.
But I don't know how not to be worried.
Waiting for the results.
Probably nothing.
But not sure how to process my feelings as I wait.

Two days.
Forty eight hours.
Trying to stay positive.

Short Update

Thought I would give a quick update.
I am actually feeling great.
Haven't taken any pain meds since Wednesday, last week.
Excited to switch the cancer meds, hopefully one that doesn't cause insomnia, weight gain, and hair lose as a side effects.
That might be wishful thinking though.
My left incision's glue came off too soon and it split open.
My doctor was great and got me right in to make sure everything was ok.
It is, I just have to keep a band aid over it.
But the best news of all...
The pathology report came back - no signs of cancer cells anywhere.
Wahoo!!!!!!

Thanks again for all the wonderful support and concerned calls.

Home and Doing Good

First off I want to thank everyone for the sweet words, thoughts and prayers.
I have received lots of beautiful flowers, plants, balloons and a yummy edible arrangement. 
Your support means so much to me, I feel very loved.

Disneyland was great. 
I only wish we had more time there. 
Two days was not enough. 
The kids had a blast and are already asking when we can go back.
I don't have the heart to tell them not for at least 5 years.

We got back very early Wednesday morning. 
I had 1 doctor appointment that afternoon, 2 on Thursday and 2 on Friday.
Getting everything in place for surgery Monday morning.
I had to be to the hospital at 5:45 am.

I got checked in and was taken back to OR by 7:30 am.
Surgery lasted only about 2 hours.
First my port was removed. (I asked if I could keep my port, I got a strange look but they agreed.)
I am a little sore at the incision site.

These are a few pictures of my port still in.
You can see the raised bumps on the first one,
that is to tell the nurse where to insert the needle.
The one below is the cord that goes from the port to the vein in my neck and over to my heart.
Then a few pictures of the chemo needles, one in and one just to see how big the needle is.

Here is my souvenir, not sure what I am going to do with it.

 

 I hate the tape they use.
This one stuck so well to my skin it actually pulled some of it off with the bandage.



Next was the Laparoscopic Bilateral Salpingo-Oophorectomy with Hysterectomy.
So basically, removal of both ovaries, tubes and uterus.
(That was probably too much info so I will spare you the rest of the details.)
I will say how amazed I am at what doctors can do laparoscpicly.
The only evidence I have of this surgery is 3 small, less than 1/2 inch, incisions on my abdomen.
(One is in my belly button so I couldn't get a good picture of it, that is probably for the best)

And a very bruised arm from a failed IV.

The doctor said there was a mass on one of my ovaries, so everything has been sent to pathology.
I should get the results back in about a week.
He said he didn't think it looked like cancer, probably just a cyst.
Otherwise everything was very textbook and went great.

I was awake by lunch and by evening they had me up and walking around.
I do remember asking for the catheter to be removed as soon as I woke up.
One less pain I wanted to deal with.
I was having quiet a bit of pain from the air they used to inflate my abdomen. 
Apparently they have a hard time getting all of it out and most often the extra air rises up and sits
right under the ribs and presses on them and the diaphragm.
This also cause nerves to get pinched that go to the shoulder and neck.
I don't understand how it all works, but they said it would only last a few days.
But the most painful thing of all was my back.
More than the neck pain, incisions or abdomen pain put together.
I think laying on my back for most of the day really messed it up.
The back pain was the main reason I was taking my pain meds.
It hurt to sit, walk and lay.
I am so happy to be home in my own bed.
It does seems to be getting a little better everyday.

Thanks again the all the well wishes and continued concern.

Staying Busy

This month is filling up fast already.
In the last two weeks I have had 5 doctor appointments.
In the next couple of weeks I will have 5 more.

I did a little pampering for myself.
I had my hair dyed. 
I needed to cover up all the grey that was coming in.
I got some eye lash extensions - I love them.
I lost almost all of mine during chemo.
I am going to a luncheon for cancer survivors.
Last year I had just been diagnosed and was feeling the full effects of my first round of chemo.
Honestly I don't remember very much other than I didn't dare eat anything for fear of throwing up.
This time I imagine it will be different.
This year I am going with others survivors - friends.

Abby informs me everyday how many more days are left until we leave.
Disneyland is 8 days away!
I think I am ready.
I only hope my energy can keep up with them, just for a few days.
I really don't want to have to go back to the hotel room and rest.
I want to go on every single ride, with them!

I am getting nervous.
The surgery I had planned for October has now been bumped up.
It is 5 days after we get back from Disneyland.
I understand the reasoning behind needed a complete hysterectomy,
but I am scared for all the long term side effects.
I am not sure I am ready for this, again.
I guess I will have another excuse to take lots of naps.
I have a feeling I will be very, very tired.
(I am also having my port removed at the same time.)

I have nothing on my calendar for October, yet.
I know that will start filling up soon too.
Hopefully with less doctor appointments and with more fun activities.

Today

Today was a great day.

Today I was able to do something that quite honestly I didn’t know if I would ever be able to do again, or at least not this soon.

Thanks Ryan for convincing me to go for it and believing in me.

It has been 2 years since the last time and 8 months since surgery.

Today we went to the lake.  

Today got up on a slalom ski!

It felt amazing.

Today was a great day.

What's New

I got the results of my latest heart scan - it was good,
which is a relief.

I am taking advantage of the last few days of summer,
before getting the kids ready to start school next week.

I have 5 doctor appointments this month.

I am still trying to find my new normal.

Very Well Said

Lost in Translation after Cancer

by Suleika Jaouad

 

It took me a long time to be able to say I was a cancer patient.

Then, for a long time, I was only that: A cancer patient.
Now that I’m done with my treatment, I’m struggling to figure out who I am.
On paper, I am better: I no longer have cancer, and with every passing day I’m getting stronger.
The constant flood of doctor’s appointments, blood tests and phone calls from concerned family
and friends have trickled to a slow drip.
But off paper, I feel far from being a healthy 26-year-old woman.
 

My disease has left countless invisible imprints in its wake: infertility, premature menopause,
chronic fatigue and a weakened immune system.
And that’s just the short list.
Then there are the demons of depression and the fears of relapse that sneak into my head
just when I think I’ve gotten a grip.
The rattle of a cough in my chest.
A strange bruise on the back of my leg.
A missed call from my oncologist.
Each of these triggers rips me out of my fragile, new reality leaving me to wonder:
What happens if the cancer comes back?
Will I ever feel normal again?
And most daunting of all, how do I move forward with my life?
 

Writing about all of this has not come easily to me. It is hard not to speak in clichés about cancer.
It can be even harder not to feel as if I have to live up to those clichés.
I sometimes feel a deep sense of guilt for not doing a better job of making lemonade out of metaphorical lemons.
I know that I am one of the lucky ones, and I am deeply thankful to be alive.
In writing about the problems I am facing now, I worry about sounding ungrateful — or worse yet, insensitive to my friends in the cancer community who may never go into remission.
 These fears color the unexpected challenges that emerge during life after cancer, and can overwhelm the need to talk about them.
After all, I’m supposed to be better.
So why don’t I feel better?
 

When I finished my last cycle of chemotherapy friends and family congratulated me on being “done.”
What they couldn’t know was that in some ways the hardest part of my cancer experience began once the cancer was gone.

While in treatment, I had been surrounded by the world’s best army: my supportive family and friends and a brilliant medical team who had worked tirelessly to keep me alive.
The goal had been to cure the cancer.
Now that I had survived the “cut, poison, burn” of the disease, I no longer had the cavalry running after me.
Suddenly, I found myself standing dazed and alone in the rubble, wondering what had happened and where everyone had gone.
 

The inner scaffolding that had kept me strong and brave during my treatment had crumbled.
I no longer wanted to be anyone’s inspiration.

I’ve spent the last year of my life searching for the B.C. (before cancer) version of myself.
I’ve looked for her all over the city — the stores she used to frequent, the coffee shop where she had her first date, the apartment on Canal Street that she shared with 10 roommates her first summer out of college — but the more I look, the more I’m beginning to realize she no longer exists.
There is no going back to my old life.
The problem is I don’t know how to move forward either.
For many, the experience provides a renewed sense of life and purpose, but the task of rebuilding your life after something as devastating as cancer can also be a deeply disorienting and destabilizing one.
 

I have learned since the day of my diagnosis that cancer affects all of who we are.  There was no aspect of my life that wasn’t torn apart as my body was literally torn apart. In my case, after my treatment ended, I experienced mental health issues that were more intense and more debilitating than I’d ever experienced before in my life. This thing that we experience that is casually referred to as post-treatment depression is much more than just that. It has many facets: spiritual, psychological, social, medical and financial, among many other things.  I was diagnosed with chronic low-grade depression and anxiety caused in part by Tamoxifen, a medication that is intended to reduce the risk of developing breast cancer again and I will be taking for several years.

We like to think of the end of cancer treatment as the closing of a chapter, but what most people don’t realize is that the emotional struggle continues long after.  This time I’m finding that there are no protocols or discharge instructions, no roadmaps or 12-step plans to guide me back to the kingdom of the well.

The road back is going to be my own.
 

 

Last

I want to celebrate, jump up and down and even scream a little.
Except there is still a part of me that wants to hide in fear.

I completed my last chemo treatment.
My last of the year long Herceptin treatments.
Or technically, as Ryan says, it is not chemo.
It is a Monoclonal Antibody Targeted Therapy Treatment.
The nurses call it chemo, so I will too, it's easier.

It feels good.
It feels like a real milestone.
It has been a long time coming.
It has been a long process.
It took a lot to get here.
It feels like an accomplishment.

But somewhere in the back of my mind I am still scared.
Scared of it returning or spreading.
Scared of the side effects.
So I am afraid to celebrate.

As always, Ryan was right there by my side.
Flower in hand.
I got to ring "the bell".
Give my friends and nurses a hug and walk out the door.
It was a lot easier to walk out then it was to walk in.

Up next...
A trip to Disneyland!
I mean where else would you want to go when you have just become a cancer survivor?
The kids are super excited.
That makes me excited.


I have a heart scan the end of this month.
This fall I will have surgery.
A bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy and hysterectomy.
Hopefully the recovery won't be too bad and I will be able to travel for the holidays.

I hope to take 2016 off - no surgeries at all. 

In January 2017 I will start the reconstruction process.
That feels like forever away.

But for today I feel good.
Getting some energy back.
Adjusting to medication I am on for the next 5 years.
Trying to be happy, accept and live my new life.


I found this quote I really like and wanted to share it..

Cancerversary

Today is my Cancerversary.

 

One year.
52 weeks.
12 months.
365 days.
8766 hours.
525,949 minutes.
31,536,000 seconds.

 

The day I was diagnosed.

The day my life was changed.

 

Feels like a lifetime ago.

Feels like just yesterday, too.

 

A lot of things have happened during that time.

Things I wish I could forget.

Things I wish to remember  forever.

 

Today, I thought I would add to my “I have survived list.”

 

Here is my list from 2014

I have survived a needle punch biopsy.

I have survived the waiting.

I have survived "the call" with the diagnosis.

I have survived losing all my hair.

I have survived 2 MUGA Scans.

I have survived a Breast MRI.

I have survived PORT surgery.

I have survived 6 rounds of Taxotere, Cytoxan and Perjeta.

I have survived 23 weeks of Herceptin.

I have survived 6 Nuelasta shots.

I have survived 3 blood transfusions.

I have survived 10 blood draws.

I have survived 33 needle pokes.

I have survived a mammogram.

I have survived a Sentinel node biopsy with radioactive dye.

I have survived 2 guide hook wires procedure.

I have survived 2 major surgeries.

I have survived 5 days in the hospital, without my children.

I have survived the loss of my breast (and implant).

I have survived 16 days with a drain tube.

I have survived 32 prescriptions (not including over the counter and hospital meds).

I have survived 32 doctors and specialists appointments.

I have survived the countless hours in a waiting room, the side effects and the tears.

I have survived the "whys" and the "what ifs".

I have the scars, both emotional and physical, to prove I have SURVIVED!

 

Here is my list for 2015, so far.

I have survived mild lymphedema.

I have survived the loss of upper body strength.

I have survived 9 physical therapy sessions.

I have survived 1 CT Scan.

I have survived 4 guidance tattoos.

I have survived 2 MUGA Scans.

I have survived 31 rounds of radiation.

I have survived the blisters, peeling and loss of skin on half my chest.

I have survived 8 prescriptions.

I have survived 11 needle pokes.

I have survived 17 doctor appointments.

I have survived 27 additional weeks of Herceptin.

I have survived a weekend trip to InstaCare.

I have survived Shingles.

I am surviving with permanent numbness in my arm and chest.

I am surviving with a 5-10 year prescription of Tamoxifen.

I am surviving with the help of a monthly support group and wonderful social worker.

 

I AM SURVIVING.

I AM A SURVIVOR.

 

This Is My June

We are in June.

June is a weird month for me.  June is “my” cancer month.

Actually is all started the weekend before my 35^th birthday.

May 25  I had been pretty tired so Ryan decided to take all the kids for the Memorial Day weekend and go to the cabin while I stayed home to rest.  To be honest I wasn’t totally in love with the idea.  I was still keeping Alyssa pretty close; after all she had only been released from her two week hospital stay a few weeks earlier. But I did rest and got some things done around the house.  I was pretty excited when they finally all got home. 

May 25 was the night I decided to sit on the floor in the kid’s room so we could read a bedtime story.  Alyssa was trying to situate herself on my lap, around my big belly.  Abby or Kaden, I don’t remember any more which one, came up to try and tickle Alyssa.  She flung her head back, hitting my right breast.  I had immediate pain, a lot of pain. 

May 25 was when my first thought was, “Hey, I am almost nine months pregnant - of course that is going to hurt getting hit there.”  But what I couldn’t figure out was why there was a lump there.  Again, “I am almost nine months pregnant, weird things happened there when you’re this close to having a baby.”  I will just remember to ask my OB in a few weeks – no worries.

June 1 was a great birthday.  We went to Walmart and bought the kids a Slip-N-Slide.  They played on it most of the day.  Then we had my favorite ice cream cake from Dairy Queen.  I truly wasn’t giving the lump I found the week earlier a thought.

June 9 was my scheduled OB appointment – 38 weeks.  Baby is growing and everything is measuring right on.

June 9 I was still naïve and blissfully unaware.  I almost forgot to mention it to my OB.  She did a breast exam.  She said she wasn’t sure.  She asked how long it had been there.  I don’t know, I only found it a few weeks ago.  It wasn’t there when I had an exam in January.  She was hoping it was just a type of cyst or fluid filled pocket.  She was going to send me to a surgeon who would do an ultrasound and then we would go from there. 

June 9 was when my OB said she wanted me to get it taken care of before I had this baby.

June 12 was the day the surgeon was booked.  Her staff said they couldn’t get me in until mid-August – seriously?  I had my doctor call and tell them about my situation.  I should have realized this was something to worry about.  She saw me, on her lunch break.  She didn’t like what she was seeing on the ultrasound.  Time seemed precious and there wasn't any to spare. She scheduled me for a biopsy – the next day!

June 13 – Friday the 13^th.  I am not really superstitious but maybe I should have been. 

June 13 is when I went to have a biopsy. Pain.  I have never had a biopsy before, I had no idea how painful  it was going to be.  At first they didn’t know how to do it because of me being almost nine months pregnant.  Typically they have you lay on your back while they do the procedure.  It was going to take between 30-60 minutes and I couldn’t lie on my back that long.  They tried to prop me on my side, but I wasn’t supported very well and I was straining my back just to stay still and in the right position.  Then they prepped the site and draped a cloth over me, kinda like in an OR, so I couldn’t really see anything.  I was glad about that.  After I got home I googled the needle thing they used.  It was called a punch biopsy – and yeah it feels just like its name.  If I would have seen them pushing it into my breast I probably would have fainted.  I believe they ended up taking 6 core samples.   First they numb the area with about 6 shots of local anesthesia.  Pain.  Then they wait a few minutes.  Then they take the samples.  The first few I did okay.  But by the 4th one I started shaking and feeling really dizzy – the anesthesia was starting to wear off and I could feel everything.   They still wanted 2 more.  I didn’t think I could take any more.  I was sweating like crazy.  I think they would have tried for another one but they looked at me and realized I wasn’t looking so good and stopped.  I laid there, crying, for a while to recover.  It also bled for some time so they wanted to make sure it would eventually clot on its own.  It did and I drove myself home.  Home to wait.  The surgeon would take it to pathology that day and 3 days later she would call me, not including the weekend of course.  LONGEST. WEEKEND. EVER!

June 17 was a Tuesday.

June 17 I got a call.

June 17 I told myself the first sentence from my doctor was the most important.  If she asked me to come into the office to talk it was not good news, because who would tell you over the phone you have cancer. 

“Kim I got the test results”

Phew she didn’t want to see me. Okay nothing serious.

“It came back positive, Kim you have cancer.”

June 17 was the day I sat on my bed crying.  Not know anything, feeling lost and scared. My world stood still.  I tried to call my husband at work, but he was with clients and couldn’t answer his phone.   I tried my mom, no answer either. 

June 17 it's the day I made a lot of phone calls and had to tell people I had cancer. It's also the day I couldn't make any more phone calls and asked others to please tell family and friends for me because I just couldn't do one. more. call.

June 19 was the day I met my oncologist.  MY ONCOLOGYIST.  I was meeting an oncologist the day before having a baby.  He apologized he was having to see me. He was nice.  He saw me after hours; it was the only time he could fit me in.  I think we were there for a long time.  I left feeling numb, overwhelmed and scared, but I was not empty handed.  I got 5 prescriptions I needed to get filled before chemo started.

June 20 I had a beautiful, healthy 9 1/2 pound baby boy.  My saving grace, Gage.

June 21 was the day I went home to be with my family. I wanted to live in ignorance for one week.  JUST ONE WEEK.  Tons of doctors were calling to set up scans, blood draws, test and appointments.  I ignored them.  I just wanted one “normal” week with my baby.  I didn’t think that was too much to ask.

June 30 is when I didn't even listen to half of what she said. My nurse navigator is what her title was.  Someone who told me about the treatment plan that my oncologist thought would give me the best chance for survival.  She explained the chemo, the potential side effects, the prescriptions, more side effects, when to call, and when to go to the ER.   I cried.  She handed me papers to help me remember, I couldn’t see them through the tears.   At some point, she asked if I had any questions. I couldn’t talk. 

June 30 was the day my husband told our kids their mother had cancer.  I remember I didn’t really say anything for fear of bawling in front of them. We read a book and tried to help the kids understand.  I am not sure how anyone could understand what was about to take place.

This is June. This is what my June was.

23 days.

23 days from just finding a lump to “you have cancer.”

Just 23 days.

It's not that long.

It felt like a lifetime.

While I know the June of 2015 is not the same as June of 2014, it's still a hard month for me. I know there will be no ultrasounds or biopsies or having to hear you have cancer again this month. Somehow this June has felt like I am back to that June.

It's a hard month for me emotionally.

If I seem distant or quiet or look or sad or tired, know that I am.

Because this is my June.

But is also carries over into July.

July 1 was the day I had a Breast MRI.  Trying to lay still while everything is hanging down.  Not to mention I was very engorged from suddenly stopping breast feeding because they injected dye into me for the procedure.

July 1 the day I scheduled my MRI for the late morning so I could breast feed my baby one last time.  My last baby I will ever nurse.  I had tried to come to terms with everything that would be happening to me but this just seemed so unfair.  I felt robbed.

July 2 was the day of my port surgery. I struggled with recovery.  My chest was in a lot of pain.  Every time I moved I could feel the weight of the device implanted in my chest to make getting my year of chemo treatments easier.  I couldn’t pick up my baby, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t use my left arm.

July 3 was the first of many blood draws and my first MUGA scan, to get a baseline for my heart.  One of the chemo drugs has the potential side effect of damaging the heart.  I remember how bad it hurt because they accessed my new port.  Not even 24 hours out of surgery.

July 4 a holiday.  For me and for the doctors.  So I got to spend it with my family.  Unfortunately I was full of anxiety waiting for Monday.  The first day of chemotherapy treatments.  Treatments that would be every week for 18 weeks then every 3 weeks for a year.

July 7 the day I didn’t want to get out of bed.  I would have given just about anything to stay there.  I didn’t want to leave. Leave my little baby and go sit in an infusion room for 6 hours,  away from him.  Not being his mother.  Not taking care of him.  Not really a choice though. I drove myself to the hospital.  I could have just kept driving – to anywhere.  When I got there I couldn’t get out of the car.  I just sat there crying. Now I was late.  I better go.  I got as far as the hospital doors.  I sat down on the bench and cried some more.  That is when Ryan showed up, with a rose, and held my hand as we walked in together. 

 

The Side Effect I Wasn't Warned About

Sorry I don't feel like writing much, so I will let someone else.

 

 

Posted by Brandie185

March 11, 2015

 

When I learned I had cancer, there was a lot of information thrown at me.

As I learned more about my cancer and decided on a treatment path,

it was time to go over all the side effects, the what-to-expects.

 

The first hurdle was surgery.

I was told possible complications, I was told about healing time,

and expected hospital stay.

From there, it was chemo time.

The chemo side effects were so serious that for the three chemo drugs I took,

not only did I get a list of side effects and what to expect,

I had to sign a paper saying I was told the side effects, the possible complications, 

and that I was comfortable receiving said drugs.

Next up, radiation.

Again, a list of side effects.

A list of what to expect.

A nurse going over all of it with me.

How to care for the radiated skin, things to watch for, things that were normal,

things that I should call for if happened.

Side effects on top of side effects on top of side effects.

Some minor, some major, some barely noticeable by me,

others impairing my quality of life.

 

Except, there was one side effect no one warned me about.

No one prepped me for.

I never expected it in a million years.

A side effect of having cancer is making friends with people who

have cancer and having to grieve for the friends who die.

While friendship is a good side effect, and one I never expected,

grief is the worst side effect I've faced so far.

As I see some pretty wonderful people die from cancer, my heart shatters all over again.

And I rebuild it the best I can.

When I was first diagnosed, I was very active in breast cancer groups on-line.

I tried a couple support groups.

One wasn't a good fit me, but another one was.

It was good.

And then a friend passed away.

And another passed away.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Jenny, Susan, Rachel, Jada, Barb, Dave ... all friends who died from cancer.

It was too much.

It was just too much for me.

I realize this is quite selfish on my part.

Sometimes I have to be selfish though.

And so I pulled away.

I pulled away from chats I had participated in.

I pulled away from some friends.

I pulled back and tried to bury my head in the sand.

To pretend that I wouldn't lose anyone else to cancer.

If only.

If only it were that simple.

In the last few weeks, several more people have died.

My heart has shattered a few more times.

Another friend received bad news: treatment not working, time for the next one.

I have cried and been angry.

I have shouted.

I have whined that life is not f*#king fair.

I have woken up, and done what needs to be done, all the while wanting

to crawl into bed and just hide away for a while.

Even when I try to build walls, to protect myself, life ticks on.

It keeps going.

Friendships still get made.

Good moments are celebrated.

And sad moments still happen.

I wasn't told about this.

I wasn't warned.

I'm not sure someone can be warned though.

This is life: it is comprised of birth and death and the time in between.

Some get a lot of time in between and some people are robbed of time.

And I can't try to hide my heart away.

I can't try to protect it.

My life is richer and better because of the friendships I have.

I've learned things from them.

I carry some of their words in my heart.

They have helped me on bad days and celebrated with me on the good.

I hope I was able to do the same for them.

It doesn't make my life better to pull away, to hide, to try to protect myself.

I would much rather have wonderful friends in my life.

Yes, it is hard to say good-bye to them when the time comes.

Yes, my heart is heavy with loss.

Yes, I will cry and be angry and sad and upset and pissed off.

But I can't hide away and pretend like nothing bad will happen.

Because it does happen.

And I can't let fear hold me back.

As Helen Keller said, I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light.

Hard Week

This week has been a hard week for me.
Not physically, but emotionally.

A women I met a few months ago at a Pink Party, a party for those surviving with cancer, passed away.
She was 55 with 4 children. 
When we spoke at the party she told me she had been battling breast cancer for years and now it had spread - to multiple places including her brain. 
We talked on Facebook a few times, she gave me a lot of tips to help with various side effects.
Her goal was to see her youngest child graduate high school.
She passed away 5 days before his ceremony.

I have what she had.

Then on Tuesday I found out that a girl I went to high school with had passed away.
I am sad to say I didn't really know her, just knew who she was.
From reading her blog - she seemed to be an amazing mother, wife and friend.
She had been battling skin cancer for 8 years.
She has 3 young kids.

We are the same age.

This is from her blog from a few years ago.

victory
Wednesday, May 25, 2011

"You have cancer."

And just like that you are drafted into a conflict you would never sign up for.
Women and children and old men, everyone is eligible.

In the trenches we suddenly find ourselves.
The cancer hospital.
Waiting for a blood draw on a bench with worn-out people in the same boat.
Everyone has a story in their eyes.

We are a brave bunch. Even if it's because we have to be, we are.

We go into treatments the picture of health. Come out disfigured and close to death.

Everyone wants to help, the army of support, but we are the ones who have to stand up and take the blows.
Dr.s give us their best weapons and we hope they work.

The enemy is terrible.
Win or loose, we fight hard.
For the worthy cause of more time on this beautiful earth.
For every happiness we have experienced.
For everything we haven't done yet.
We fight for the things we love.
For the people we love.

My heart aches for their families.
That is why I keep fighting.
Fighting for those I love.
So hopefully my story is different.
 

I wanted to say Happy Mother’s Day to all the wonderful women in my life.
From my own mother to my step-mother, my mother-in-laws, sister and sisters-in-laws, and grandmas, aunts and friends.
Yes, it is after 10pm, but better late than never.

One year ago was honestly one of the best Mothers days I have ever had.  
There was no fancy breakfast in bed, no flowers, not even a hint of chocolate covered strawberries waiting.

It was because Alyssa had just been released from her 2 week stay at Primary Children's Hospital and she was doing well. 
We celebrated her homecoming, Abigail's 8th birthday and Mother’s Day all on the same day. 
It was so wonderful to be home and all together again. 
We had just come through a rough storm and were finally starting to breathe a sigh of relief. 
I was feeling great and in just over a month would be welcoming another little guy in to the family.  
Who could have imagined another storm was waiting for us. 
One that would forever change me. And my family.

I am so grateful for all my family, friends, neighbors and strangers who helped out but mostly for my mother. 
I don't know what I would have done without her. 
I could never sum up into words everything she has done for me of how grateful I am for her.
The more I look back on my childhood, I am amazing by her.
Her strength, selflessness and the sacrifices she made.
She has shown me true unconditional love.
She has taught me how to be a better person and mother.

Each Mother's Day (as well as most holidays) has a different meaning for me now.
I am grateful for each one.
I am grateful I am here to celebrate them.

Happy Mother's Day!

 

A Mother's Fight

Written by Mary Darling Montero 

(Psychotherapist, writer, mother and cancer survivor)

This Mother's Day falls just before my two-year anniversary of being diagnosed with an aggressive form of early-stage, invasive breast cancer. Anniversaries can trigger traumatic memories, and as mine approaches I catch myself reliving pieces of the day I was diagnosed. Breast cancer would permeate every layer of my identity, shifting the way I felt as a wife, daughter, sister and friend, but that day it was my sense of motherhood that rocked me to my core.

Elizabeth Stone famously said: "Making the decision to have a child -- it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." I can't think of a better way to express how having children multiplies your sense of vulnerability. When I was diagnosed, my first thoughts were about my 1- and 2 year-old children: Will I be able to take care of them during treatment? Will I survive? Will they grow up without me?

That last question took my breath away and woke me up in the middle of the night with a racing heart. It sent me into my closet where I sat on the floor and cried, and into my kids' rooms while they slept, where I curled up beside them and fervently prayed.
It was fear with the power to paralyze me, yet my instinct to fight for my kids was stronger than that fear. For me, "fighting cancer" meant keeping my role in my kids' daily lives as steady as possible. It meant using my last reserves of energy to attend an event at my son's school or play with my daughter at the park.

When I was in treatment, our babysitter sent me a cartoon of a bald woman wearing a headscarf and walking with purpose while clutching the hand of a small child and carrying both a crying baby and a grocery bag. "This reminds me of you!" she said.
Of course, I wasn't that woman all the time. Anybody going through cancer treatment and surgeries feels defeated at times, and even those of us who have a relatively easy time with side effects succumb to sick days spent entirely in bed. But I could relate to the woman in that cartoon. She was busy with endless appointments, tired from chemo, and afraid of the future, but she shook off feeling sorry for herself, pulled herself up, and took care of her kids.

She was a woman who would forever be part of a sisterhood of women who live with a new sense of wonder for the small bodies housing pieces of their hearts -- women who watch their children grow with a new reverence for the passage of time.
I wish a Happy Mother's Day to every mother who fights for her kids in the face of unimaginable challenges.
May our fight always be stronger than our fear.

Mourning, Denial and One Year

Mourning and Denial - these two words seem to contradict each other.
How can you deny something, yet mourn it too?
Somehow, I feel both.

As I was sitting waiting at Instacare on Saturday for over two hours, I started thinking.
Even as I get "better" my life (and my body) will never be the same as it was.
I am mourning a life I will never get back.
I cry and long for my BC (before cancer) me.
My "better" will always consist of doctors, blood tests, scans and the continual fear that
each new symptom could be the cancer returning.

This is hard for me to come to terms with.
I am not sure how anyone can truly come to terms with the cancer world.
Just this has been hard for me to live with.
Most days I just try to keep myself busy with the kids and school and
getting caught up on the things I had to put on hold for the past year.
I find sitting and reflecting is too hard and I can't deal with it right now.
It is easier to somewhat live in denial, pretend for a few moments that everything is how it used to be.
Everything is fine.
I am fine.

Not quite sure how anyone could truly deny everything that has happened.
Honestly my first thought looking back over the last year is Holy Hell - did all that really happen?
A team of doctors, nurses, and specialist have been working over the last year to save my life and rid my body of this cancer. 
To get me to this point.
But now that I am there, now what?

They told me what to do, what not to do.  What to eat, what not to eat.  Use, not use, take, not take.
And sometimes they even told me how and what to feel.
But now... I don't see them as often, every 3-6 months, some even longer.
I don't know what I am supposed to be feeling.

I have heard from others that this time is often more difficult emotionally than when actually going through the treatments.
I still have a hard time believing it all.
So am I in denial?
It is the only way I am coping.
Of course seeing certain things bring the feelings and fears right back to the surface.
My scars, short hair and the numerous medications I have to take daily.

Maybe why my emotions are so raw right now is because I am coming up on a lot of one year marks...
The day I found my tumor and fear set in,
the day I got my diagnosis and life was forever changed,
the first day of chemo that I am still trying to recover from its side effects.

But the one I am trying to focus on most, that brings much need excitement is Gage's First Birthday!
My little baby is turning one.
He has helped me get thought some of my darkest times with his sweet smile, a quick little snuggle and his always on-the-go personality.

I know in time things will get less scary and overwhelming.

Things will get better!

(Why was I at Instacare?  I got a small rash a got a few days ago.  Just thinking it might be a delayed allergic reaction to a new medication, I wasn't too worried.  Then it started to spread and got very painful with lots of small blisters.  A call to my oncologist, who urged me to get it looked at, rather than wait to see him on Monday.  Well... I have shingles.  So, now more medications but hopefully it was caught soon enough and it will only last for a few weeks.)

The Downside of Beating Cancer

This is a long article, but it is somewhat of how I am feeling lately.  Written by Dr. Frances Goodhart and Lucy Atkins.


You expect to be elated, but, cancer survivors are often left feeling depressed, exhausted and even angry. 
More people than ever are surviving cancer.
But many struggle with life after the disease.

 

DEPRESSION

Low mood — or even depression — is one of the most common side-effects of cancer survival.
Sometimes this feeling kicks in almost as soon as treatment ends, but it might also hit you months or even years later. There are many reasons why your mood might plummet after treatment, but the basic summary is simple: you have been through a very tough experience, physically and emotionally, and it takes time to recover. You are not mentally ill, you are not ungrateful or a wimp, and you do not automatically require professional help. You’re just feeling sad. Your own expectations about life after cancer also play a part. Often people who are going through cancer treatment make deals with themselves about what they’ll do if and when they get the all-clear. ‘I told myself, and my wife, that if I got through this I would put the rest of my life to good use,’ says Keith, 45, a leukaemia survivor.  ‘We talked about how I’d leave my boring job in accounts. We’d set up a residential home together to provide a loving and homely atmosphere for elderly people in their twilight years.’ But the pressure ‘to make the most of life’ can — and often does — backfire. It can feel overwhelming. And this can leave you very confused, lost and low. Then there is the huge hit your body has taken. You may be scarred and shaken up. You may have suffered enormously. You may feel overwhelmed by side-effects, such as fatigue, mobility difficulties, pain, discomfort or lymphoedema (swelling). On top of this, your general strength and fitness will probably have diminished. The Victorians had a concept of ‘convalescence’. They recognised that after a major illness it takes someone time to recover and regain their strength. But over the years — maybe because of the amazing advances in medical treatments — we’ve somehow lost this valuable idea.  The expectation these days is that you should be raring to go the moment you are discharged (or as soon as the time between follow-up appointments is lengthened).

 ANGER

Mixed emotions: Rather than being relieved, many cancer survivors feel angry about why they had to suffer and the treatment they had to endure. ‘If one more person tells me I am so lucky to have got through my cancer, I won’t be responsible for my actions,’ says Gill, 46, a breast cancer survivor. ‘Yes I’ve survived, and I’m immensely relieved about that, but to suggest I’m lucky to have had my breast removed, gone through chemo, lost my hair and had an early menopause shows how ignorant people can still be about cancer.’

Like Gill, you’ve faced your cancer and, after being given the all-clear, are where you have longed to be. So why are you still angry?
One reason is that you still feel threatened. Though cancer is no longer an immediate danger, it might still feel close by. You may be experiencing feelings of helplessness. During treatment, you and your medical team are busy doing something about the cancer.
But when you reach the end of your active treatment phase, even though it’s obviously what you have been longing for, you can end up feeling lost, even helpless. When active treatment ends, people often begin to look backwards, trying to work out what caused their cancer. It’s common to go over and over this. If you smoked, drank too much alcohol or did any of the numerous carcinogenic things we all do every day, then you might feel regret and guilt. You may also feel angry at yourself.  Other people’s expectations can be frustrating. Whether they assume you’ll instantly spring back into your normal life or insist on treating you like a fragile flower, it’s common to feel misunderstood.  Anger is not always bad.

FATIGUE

 Common side effect: Battling the disease physically and emotionally can leave many people exhausted

Fatigue isn’t like any tiredness you’ve had in the past. It affects you both physically and mentally. It can be overwhelming or niggling.
Or it can veer between the two. It is also the most common — not to mention the most frequently ignored — side-effect of cancer and its treatment. Fatigue is a physical and mental response to the stresses and treatments that cancer brings.
It is also a known side-effect of certain medications used in chemotherapy (it can take a surprisingly long time to get over these.) Other causes include ongoing medication and changes in your immune system or hormone levels.  
Your body is also likely to be out of condition — this can make you feel drained and lacking in energy — as, too, can disrupted sleep, which is very common among cancer survivors. Your body has taken a huge hit and needs to be built back up.

 Everyday is different, and every day I experience varying degrees of side effects.  I have and do related to all of the above.  And probably a few more.

 

 

Appointments

I can't believe it has been a month since I updated this blog.

Last week was a lot of doctors appointments - 3 of them.

First on Wednesday was an appointment with my oncologist. 
He thinks I am doing well.  My last blood test in December came back
all within the normal range, so he hasn't ordered any more. 
I started taking Tamoxifen, but haven't been on it long enough to see what side effects I will have. 

During one of the first appointments he mentioned that within the next five years
I would need to have a Oophorectomy, removal of the ovaries. 
Well, he changed his mind.
 Now he wants me to have a complete hysterectomy, removal of the ovaries and uterus.
And he wants me to have it done within this year. 
I am still trying to come to terms with that one. 
I am thinking maybe around October.

I also  talked to him about what state I am. 
He said I am NED (no evidence of disease) and in remission. 
When I hit the five year mark cancer free, I will be "cured". 
And I can technically say I have been cancer free since the date of
my second surgery - December 4.  Almost 5 months now!

I don't go back to him for 3 months.


Next on Thursday was my radiation oncologist. 
He said my skin was healing up nice. 
I still need to do a few things to take care of it but overall it is doing good.  
My skin is discolored from the radiation, kind of looks like a tan now instead of a burn. 
He doesn't know if it will ever go back to its normal color. 

I don't have to go back to him for 5 months.

I will also see my plastic surgeon in 5 months.
I will talk to him about the best time to start reconstruction.

Then on Friday I saw my physical therapist.
My arm had some swelling but that is typical from radiation. 
She is working to try to get it back down to its original size. 
I am getting better range back in my shoulder. 
I like going to see her, she helps, but I usually leave in pain too. 
My insurance only covers so many visits so I see her about every 2-3 weeks.

I go for my next Muga (heart scan) in a few weeks.

I am still getting the Herceptin treatments every three weeks -
and have finally been able to schedule my last one for the end of June!!

I will see my surgeon next month in May.
We will talk about doing the left mastectomy and removing my port.

I have some lasting side effects like: my nails are still very brittle. 
I have nose bleeds almost everyday.  My eyes get fuzzy a lot.
The headaches vary in intensity each day as do the stomach and abdominal pains.
I am trying to learn these are just part of my new normal and to find a way to live with them.

My hair is also starting to grow back.  It is about as long as Ryan's, he thinks it is time for a trim.
I don't think I want to cut any of it for the next 5 years. 
I still wear my scarfs and caps.  While I am grateful it is coming back,
it is still really hard for me to see it so short. 
It is to much of a visual reminder that I had cancer, kinda like my scars. 

I am slowly getting back into a routine and am excited for the next steps -
they will all bring me closer to being done with this whole stupid cancer thing!

Time to Breath

On Tuesday I finished my last round of radiation!
31 rounds. 
The goal was 33 but my skin was not doing well,
so my radiation oncologist called it quits.
I can't say I am sad.
My skin is very red, sore and starting to peel off.
I am glad to be done.

What's next?

I will still receive Herceptin chemo treatments until the end of June.
I will still see the physical therapist for my arm.
I will still see the doctors - my oncologist, surgeon, plastic surgeon, and radiation oncologist to "check in".
I will still have surgeries, probably for the next few years - port removal, left mastectomy, reconstruction of both breasts and a hysterectomy.

In a few weeks I will starting taking a pill called Tamoxifen. 
Tamoxifen blocks the actions of estrogen, which is what my type of cancer needs to grow.
I am Triple Positive - meaning estrogen, progesterone and HER2 positive.
My doctor is hoping it will prevent any recurrence since I am at high risk due to my age and stage.
I have a prescription for 5 years. But studies are showing 10 years is better.

I could have an allergic reaction to Tamoxifen: hives; difficulty breathing; swelling of face, lips, tongue, or throat.

Or the more common side effects: hot flashes, bone pain, joint pain, or tumor pain, swelling in hands or feet; decreased sex drive, headache, dizziness, depression; or thinning hair.

Some of the serious side effects are:
sudden numbness or weakness, especially on one side of the body;
sudden severe headache, confusion, problems with vision, speech, or balance;
chest pain, sudden cough, wheezing, rapid breathing, fast heart rate;
pain, swelling, warmth, or redness in one or both legs;
nausea, loss of appetite, increased thirst, muscle weakness, confusion, and feeling tired or restless;
unusual vaginal bleeding;
pain or pressure in the pelvic area;
blurred vision, eye pain, or seeing halos around lights;
easy bruising, unusual bleeding (nose, mouth, vagina, or rectum), purple or red pinpoint spots under your skin;
fever, chills, body aches, flu symptoms;
new breast lump; or
upper stomach pain, itching, dark urine, clay-colored stools, jaundice (yellowing of the skin or eyes).

And of course increased risk of uterine cancer, stroke, or a blood clot in the lung, which can be fatal.

While these side effects scare me I think it scares me more to be "done".
Sounds silly but these last 8 months have been a constant battle
doing chemotherapy, surgery and radiation to get rid of the cancer.
I felt like I was "battling" it.
The sicker I was the better the treatment was working. Right?
Now it feels like if I am feeling better, I am not fighting to get rid of it.
Sick meant getting better.  Now I am not "sick".
Now, they tell me it is gone, I'm done.
I am in remission.
Or NED - no evidence of disease.
Or maybe even cured!

I am all the words you can use to describe happy: joyful, delighted, pleased, thrilled, elated, ecstatic, blissful, overjoyed, excited, fortunate, lucky, glad, relieved - the list could go on and on.

But...

I am also scared.  Anxious. Emotional. Frightened. Fearful. Nervous. Terrified. Panic-stricken. Afraid. Lost. Broken. Suffering from survivor's guilt.

I will find my "new" normal. 

My cancer ends here!
But more importantly, I am grateful my story does not.