Shaken, Not Stirred: Three Years Later

I have hair!

Three years ago today, I received the confirmation of a medical condition that would completely change my life.

Breast cancer.

Breast. Cancer.

B-R-E-A-S-T C-A-N-C-E-R!

It doesn’t matter how it’s written. It’s devastating in every form.

As an adult, there are very few moments of true fear that I’ve experienced. Car accidents, earthquakes, fires and lost children are those that quickly come to mind.

My experience is usually this: Adrenaline rushes through every part of my person when the awareness of something to fear hits. After some brief amount of time, I gather my wits and that rush blends into acceptance and step-thought. Step-thought for me is when I create the next steps needed to come out of this place of fear and into a place of action. This doesn’t remove the fear, but it helps me to focus beyond its paralyzing effects.

So, three years ago, I’m waiting for a phone call from my doctor with the results of my biopsy done two days before. It was a Friday afternoon, and I was at work. I’m walking through a hallway when my cell rings. Dr. D. is on the other line.

“The results from your biopsy are in and you have breast cancer,” my beloved Dr. D. said, slowly and with sadness in his voice.

My breath left me. I could no longer stand. I sank to my knees, my back sliding down the wall in my office building. All of the strength that I had used to repel my fear over the week and half between my mammogram and these results fled. What was left was fear. Intense, deep and pure fear.

“What do we do now?” I asked, barely able to get the air through my words. And as Dr. D. began sharing next steps and more details of the biopsy, I felt some of my strength return. I stood and walked to the office of a dear friend, who welcomed me in while I continued the conversation with my doctor.

Thus began a journey that I never expected to take, but one for which I will always be grateful.

Yes, I said grateful.

Here’s the thing about having your “untimely” death become a very real possibility. It scares the ever-loving shit out of you, and it doesn’t stop. Not while you’re being assessed for the best course of action. Not while you are being treated. And certainly not when you’re pronounced done and maybe even cured. The fear is ongoing, continuous and while its impact ebbs and flows with the days and current situations, it never really leaves you.

So how does someone push through the fear? Acceptance. Prayer. Faith. Hope. Resolve. Humor. Exercise. Action. Distraction. Education. Fellowship. And, in my tutored and grateful opinion, the most important way to push through fear is by opening yourself to love. That’s where my gratitude comes in.

At my core I am an observer of life. I love watching and analyzing how we live. It’s one of the reasons why I was drawn to journalism, because I had the privilege of documenting other peoples’ life stories. When I was first diagnosed, I told my husband that I would have to write openly about my experiences. He said he expected nothing less from me. (That made me feel amazing!) I tried to approach much of my early days as a breast cancer patient as I did any other research, by watching and experiencing and then writing and photographing the journey. A tiny part of me was even a little disappointed when my doctors first told me that my cancer was caught so early that there would be little intervention needed to set me back on the path of life, because my experiences would have been limited to a simple surgery and radiation.

But, for those of you who know my full story, that innocence and yes, slight arrogance, about my situation quickly morphed into something more terrifying as I underwent a second lumpectomy with the recommendation of moderate chemotherapy. And then when I thought I was past the worst, I ended up with a double mastectomy, followed by some serious complications, and then aggressive chemotherapy for almost six months. My Stage 0-1 cancer was actually a Stage 2 condition, documented by 25 very small and deep tumors that hovered maniacally just above my chest wall. I lucked out by not having any of my lymph nodes affected, but the multi-focal definition of these many small tumors meant that my cancer could have traveled through my body by other highways. Hence the double mastectomy and aggressive chemo.

With every disappointing phone call and every unexpected, frightening turn of my situation, my old friend fear raised itself again and again, and commanded my obedience.

Franklin D. Roosevelt said, “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the assessment that something else is more important than fear.”

Each day for the last three years, I wake up and remind myself that I have more important things to do this day than to waste myself on fear. From the start, I promised myself that I would stand as tall as I could, even when I felt so weak and sick that I just wanted to collapse into a puddle of flesh. I pledged that I would dress nicely, do my makeup and wear a big smile every day even when I was bald, swollen and sad, because this would best reassure those around me who were invested in my survival. Even at my sickest, I vowed to pay forward all of the many kindnesses and acts of love I received, because I knew how much these gifts meant to me, how elevated I was to know I was loved and cherished. I swore that even when I felt my worst, I would try to lift someone else’s day, and respect my fellow humans for their journeys, because no matter how bad I felt or how dire my situation, there are so many others who are going through much worse. I chose to share openly what my experiences were because so many of us go through versions of this or watch loved ones endure cancer treatments, but they don’t know what to expect, and knowledge is power, especially over fear.

Somewhere in all of this, in the face of constant fear, I found my courage. And I believe that I retained my kindness. Which is why that sweet line from the movie, Cinderella, became one of my two mantras that year, “Have courage and be kind.”

The other was “strength,” which is a word that has always inspired me.

My formula for surviving and thriving while navigating a cancer diagnosis is this: courage, kindness and strength. And add to that good nutrition, lots of sleep, prayer, as much exercise as can be tolerated and always seek joy.

On Thursday, I will undergo my tenth surgery in my cancer journey. The first four surgeries got rid of my cancer. The next five–and this one–put me back together. In that number, three of these surgeries were unplanned, emergency operations. This should be my last surgery. But if it isn’t, so be it. I am determined to regain as much of my health as possible, and to regain as much of my “normal” as is practical.

Me and Samantha at her Senior Awards night.

There is nothing cliché about my saying that I could not have gotten through one day of this without the constant support and love of those around me. I can’t even list how many people reached out to me, sent me gifts, brought food, cared for my kid and husband, offered smiles, hope and encouragement, and so much more. I am horrible with writing thank you cards, but in the early days of my treatment I started to list the many people I wanted to thank at some point for their time and concern. I had to stop when the list exceeded 75 within a month, because I was too overwhelmed to know where to start, and then I was too weak to consider tackling the list. I had to let it go, but I hope that I adequately thanked everyone in other ways.

Cancer is not a solo journey. Every patient walks it with those who love them. My family, immediate, extended and adopted, never wavered in their care. I never felt so loved before, and it came at the time when I needed it most.

Me and Stephen at a concert.

There are too many who have lost their breast cancer fight in this life, many who I love. Hannah. Madeleine. My grandmother. Melissa. Shannon. But I can also say that there are many, many more men and women who have survived their disease and that’s how hope is born. They were there for me. They advised me and guided me through this. And I want to be there for others, because that’s how we get through this, together.

Shaken, Not Stirred: Cancer Still Sucks

Me and Samantha recently.

Me and Samantha recently.

This might be a big rant, but it’s part of that full disclosure thing that I’ve been trying to do.

My new chemo, which started in January, is Taxol. Taxol IS more tolerable, as I was told over and over, but I really like it less than the A/C combo and this is why.

A/C was once every other week for eight weeks total. The pattern was receive drugs Day 1. Days 2-4 were yucky days, with nausea, headaches, body aches and just general blech (that’s a medical term if you didn’t know). But it would get noticeably better each day. By the time we hit Day 5, I was usually fully functioning and able to continue for the remaining 9 days. So the cycle was built with a body break.

Taxol is Every. Single. Damn. Week.

Day 1 (Mondays) I get chemo. I receive fluids, Benadryl, steroids and Taxol. Sometimes something else for heartburn. Each of these is given through my port by IV. Often, my port is not behaving. We have to first draw blood from my port to test my white count and lots of other things before we start the chemo. My port likes to clog. A lot. So we shoot a little Heparin into it to loosen it up. (Heparin is a blood thinner.) Then I am usually asked to stand up, jump a little, move my head in circles (because the port is in my neck) and this is the point in the exercise where I start looking for the hidden camera. Yep. It’s pretty funny watching me contort in order to bleed. Nurse M. has been renamed the Port Whisperer, because she can usually make it obey. And it will. Eventually. But not before Richard Simmons takes over my body and makes me sweat.

Once the blood is received, we move on to the drips. The Benadryl pretty much knocks me flat. I don’t always sleep, and that’s bad, because I’m usually experiencing legs shakes in place of snores. The chemo takes about 3 hours and there’s no way I’m at work after, so it’s another sick day from work. I get home and sleep for the hours that follow. And then we get to night of Day 1. At that point I’m pretty much awake the rest of the night. And that’s because of the steroids. Steroids are evil. I’m told the steroids are what help prevent allergic reactions to the Taxol, which can be bad, very bad. But the trade off is that for several days I don’t sleep (which causes its own set of problems), I’m flushed all the time, I’m very hot, my brains are scrambled, I can’t hold a thought well, and more.

It eases a little every day, but then by Day 3 or 4 I’m feeling the Taxol. I get low-grade nausea–never chucking, just feeling like nothing is settled in my tummy–and other GI issues that I decline to put into words. For that one day I’m just not feeling good and I’m usually very emotional and can’t hold back the tears, even though there’s no solid reason for my angst. By the weekend I’m feeling pretty normal, but that gives me just two days of break before the next dose. I have eight more weeks of this. Eight. More. Weeks.

When I start feeling sorry for myself, and it’s usually either the day I go in for the chemo or the day it hits me so badly, I remember the many, many people I see in my chemo center who are struggling way more than I am. There are men and women who come in barely walking or in wheelchairs because they are so weak. Their coloring is yellow and their lives are marked by the schedule of scans to find out if their tumors are shrinking or not. They talk about the constant vomiting and exhaustion, about not being able to work or live a semi-normal life. Some of them seem to be alone while they go through this, and that breaks my heart the most. No one should experience a life-threatening illness alone. No one. It makes me think about what I can do when I’m done with this to help others who don’t have the human resources around them for support. I’m mulling it over big time because I can’t picture going through any part of this cancer journey alone.

I am so blessed with amazing family and friends who walk with me over and over in ways big and small. I have never been alone in any of this. I treasure the fact that I can mostly work, that I can take my kid to school and attend her cheer games. I can write and sew and clean my house (stop laughing Stephen!) and cook. I’m functioning close to normal. I look mostly normal, except for the complete absence of hair, which still freaks me out. No eyelashes. No eyebrows. No bikini line. It’s freaky, totally freaky! I’ve gotten used to my plethora of head scarves and beanies. They work well and I’m never without one. Stephen jokingly asked this morning, as we looked at the rainy deluge outside, if I had a waterproof one? Smart ass! And no, I don’t. That’s what hoods are for, I said.

I also know that I won’t have any scans when this is over. As I’ve explained before, this aggresive chemo is really my insurance policy. Because of the multi-focal nature of my cancer (many, many small tumors) the worry is that something might have escaped and that it would be too small to detect, until it latched on somewhere and grew. So the chemo is designed to wipe out all potential harm floating around in my body. There’s nothing to track. Once we’re done, we’re done.

Me sick last week at chemo. They still gave me fluids even though they didn't do the chemo.

Me sick last week at chemo. They still gave me fluids even though they didn’t do the chemo.

I got sick last week. It could be a flu, or just be that really, really nasty upper respiratory virus circulating very efficiently through our town and my office, but it was bad. With a depleted immune system, I was laid flat for five days. It’s two weeks later and I’m still hacking and not feeling any let up yet. In contrast, I gave it to my husband and he was better in five days. Samantha too. That’s the difference between having an immune system and not. So I get to be extra careful these days. The result of this illness was missing one week of chemo. So the regimen was extended by one week. That’s nerve-wracking. When you’re battling a life-threatening illness, you live for your treatments. You know your treatments are what potentially guarantee your future existence. To miss one or two allows doubt and fear to creep into the scenario. Luckily I was able to continue with chemo this week and Dr. S was not phased at all by the missed week.

Life has definitely settled into a pattern and it’s very livable, if sometimes unpleasant. I know I”ll get through this phase without any hiccups. And then it’s onto reconstruction. That’s my next post. Reconstruction is becoming a bigger and bigger deal here. But I’ll save that for a couple of days.

My favorite baby picture of my Samantha.

My favorite baby picture of my Samantha.

By the way, my baby turns 16 on Sunday. I can’t express how freaky it is to have a 16-year-old! I feel like I’m still 16 myself many days. And she’s had to grow up so fast this year with all of my crap. I feel like she’s lost some of her innocence and faith in the world, watching me fearfully so many times. Samantha has definitely paid the highest price in stress and worry through this. Stephen of course, but we both have the gift of maturity and experience that allows us the faith to know that this will be okay. Sam doesn’t believe it. She’s always worried about the next emergency. I crave the day she will relax and know that I’m not going anywhere. Because I’m not. At least not from this.

Shaken, Not Stirred: I Am Blessed, But Still Nauseous

I can’t believe I haven’t written in more than a month. True, the holidays were here and that consumed what very little extra bandwidth I possessed to be anything other than The Cancer Patient. Though it was a complete challenge many days, I did survive the holidays and the sometimes endless requirements (decorating, socializing, presents, worship) because it’s important to me that normal be our norm, as much as is possible.

My hair is completely gone. What we shaved down on Thanksgiving day (about 1/4″ of buzz) dropped out within a week. I stepped into the shower, made a pretense of shampooing my head, and as my hands passed over my skull, hair sloughed off into my palms like it was never attached. It was sad, and scary and dramatic, and Steve and Samantha are my saints for putting up with my angst during those couple of weeks.

I was right, by the way. One of the biggest concerns I had with losing my hair was that with an absence of hair, and the inability to make peace with a wig, I would stand out in a way that makes people wonder what’s wrong with me. I bought a small ton of beanies in different colors to coordinate with my clothes and they are comfortable and kinda cute, but there is no doubt that I have no hair beneath them.

Here’s what I’ve discovered about being hair-free:
1. My bare skull is cold, cold, cold. Except when I’m having my hourly hot flash. (Because the chemo I’m given puts me into early menopause. Hence the hot flashes and other unpleasantries.)
2. I would never, repeat never, take off and expose my bare head in public. It feels incredibly intimate and vulnerable to me, like being completely naked in a crowd. So my new biggest fear is that a strong wind will rip off my beanie in public and I’ll be naked for all to see. I carry an extra with me just in case.

So, what about the wig? Yep. The Wig. I know many women who happily wore a wig throughout their treatments. I envy them. I bought a great wig from a great shop, had it styled before I left there, came home and could not make it work. I’m one of these women who uses cosmetics not to fake or hide something on my appearance, but to enhance what’s there. The wig makes me feel artificial. It’s not real, so it’s not me. I mostly bought it for the few times I will be in front of an audience for work-related things, thinking that it would make me more comfortable and therefore make me a better presenter. But the fact is that most of the time, when I’m wearing my beanies, I completely forget I have them on. I just live my life. And it’s the same with public events.

I have to admit to feeling a little pride in owning my head. Having cancer is not my fault. It’s not a point of shame or guilt. Losing my hair is part of what I have to do to get completely healthy and while I choose not to show it to the world, I’m not embarrassed by it. (I should say the same thing about gaining weight from the steroids, but I am embarrassed by that.)

This week, I started a new chemo drug. My protocol is 4 treatments of AC every other week for 8 weeks total, and then 12 treatments of Taxol, once a week for 12 weeks. I’m on week 1 of Taxol. I hate it. The AC was hard enough. For a few days it was really hard. My last treatment on Dec. 27 knocked me on my ass for five days. I was nauseous all of the time and dizzy and grateful I didn’t have to work. But I knew it was only four treatments, with a week’s rest in-between.

When I finished the last one, I begged my doctor to give me an extra week before starting the Taxol. He said it wouldn’t be a problem. That week was so important to me. I was starting to feel like I was going to quit this whole thing, that I couldn’t take one more jab and stab. I started to feel normal again (because on chemo you’re really not ever normal until you’ve been off the drips for a few weeks is what I’m finding out), and girded my chemo port for the next assault.

So I love my nurses. I can’t say enough kind things about them. Ms. G. is too funny though. Her favorite descriptor for how Taxol would be was “tolerable.” Okay, so what the hell does “tolerable” mean? I couldn’t get her to give it to me straight. Me, a trained inquisitor, could not get her to budge from “tolerable.” I was getting worried. So I dug up a friend who is also an oncology nurse and asked her for the exact translation of “tolerable.” Her answer was that there may be some nausea and similar responses to the AC, but that it shouldn’t knock me flat. What I do have to watch for is neuropathy–numbness–in my hands and feet. Oh, goody. Since the chemo drugs accumulate in your system while you’re still taking them, these symptoms increase with time. Besides the Taxol, I received Benadryl, Zantac, Prednisone and fluids. It was another 3+ hour infusion. I slept through most of it, thank you very much Benadryl, and crawled home to sleep more. Until the night came and the steroids hit. Bye, bye sleep! But I got through the first couple of days without an issue.

Yesterday it hit. I was incredibly tired, partly from having a crazy work schedule this week, and I started getting leg spasms and nausea, but in a different way from the AC. With the AC I was queasy, but never felt like I would actually throw up. (I know, sounds weird.) The Taxol makes me want to chuck. And the spasms and twinges and sharp jabs throughout my body just make me feel like I’m battling tiny internal soldiers.

I hate this. I hate feeling sick. I’m tired of being sick. I’ve indulged in at least two crying jags in the last 24 hours because I’m pissed I still have 11 more weeks to do this. Yes. I know I can get through it. But I don’t want to. I want to feel normal and healthy. I want my frigging hair back! For that matter, I’d like my boobs back as well. And I want to stop swelling up like a blimp from the steroids. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be on constant chemo, as many people are. I feel so bad for these patients. I know I’m blessed by being mostly healthy and mostly able to lead a normal life. There are so many who are not in that position. But still, it sucks.

Tomorrow I’m going to Road to California. It’s our major regional quilt show and I haven’t been able to get there for two years. I will see lots of people I like and love and it will be fun. But I know my beanie-head will stick out and I will field a lot of questions and looks. I’m prepared. I will survive it.

These days the biggest gift I get is when I see someone and they don’t ask how I feel. I know that sounds snarky. It’s not meant to. I DO appreciate when people ask after me and I really don’t mind it. But I am so much more than this cancer. I am leading a full, rich life, despite cancer, and there are so many more interesting things to talk about than my nausea, treatment plan, upcoming surgery and anything else related to tumors and boobs. Yeah, cancer gets in the way a lot. I have to set limits on my activity and energy because of it. But mostly, life moves forward for my family and me and it’s a good thing.

I am not my cancer.

Shaken, Not Stirred: Update. Finally. Part 1.

Woman with breast cancer ribbon on white background

Oh, it’s been a busy, cray, cray time in and out of the Birdhouse with my happenings. I know I haven’t posted for more than a month, and I beg your pardon for the delay. I’ve given short updates on Facebook, my preferred social media drug, so there will be a little repetition here.

As last said, I had a bilateral (double) mastectomy on Sept. 21. What I didn’t really explain is the chaos surrounding that event, before and after. Once the pathology report (Path-Port) came back from my second lumpectomy showing that this damn cancer was deeper than any of us thought, we volleyed the options back and forth with my doctors and decided to turn first to aggressive chemo, much upped in type and time than we had originally planned.

(WARNING: Graphic medical info to follow…)

I was shopping online for knitted caps and turbans when I got the call on the morning of Sept. 16 that my surgeon was VERY concerned about the site of the second lumpectomy. See, it wasn’t healing. She had not inserted a drain into this one, for which I was initially very grateful. But my Poor Boob would not stop building up fluid. With the absence of a drain to suck out and receive the fluids, I ended up in my surgeon’s office several times so she could drain me there. With a huge honking needle. In my Poor Boob. Which was numb, but still…. (Are you gritting your teeth yet, because I am!)

The lack of healing was probably a factor of the cancer itself impeding the healing, we were told. If we continued to wait for Poor Boob to heal to start chemo, we could be waiting for weeks, and that would not be good. At. All. So I got scheduled for the mastectomy the next week. We were floored. Again.

I can’t tell you how hard it is to gently and firmly turn your emotions and prayers to one frightening treatment direction only to have to switch direction for urgent reasons. As a patient, I want to be calm and confident. I want my stress levels to be as low as possible, because this kind of stress is so damaging for the body. But sudden changes create fear and worry, and more so for my husband and kid. Poor Samantha has been reeling throughout this whole experience with the many changes in my status and diagnosis. Stephen has been more stalwart, but I can see the ravages of stress about him as well.

So surgery involved three surgeons: Dr. B would perform the mastectomy, Dr. TB would insert the Port-A-Cath for my future chemo, and Dr. H would do the initial reconstruction work. I was out for eight hours, in the hospital for two days and nights and went home with a couple of drains, this time on both sides. I tolerated everything well and the pain was manageable, I thought.

We were told several interesting things right after the surgery. For those who never met me in real life, I was fairly well-endowed. At a 34DDD bust, there was a lot of flesh to deal with, and this is one of the main reasons why it was so hard to determine the extent of my cancer.  With my dense breast tissue, all of the many types of scans I had could never ascertain exactly how much cancer was happening on my right side. And that’s why I decided to give up my left boob as well. The dense tissue issue is the same for both breasts and forever more, I would never trust a scan on that left breast. A smaller reason was that there was no way I would have reconstructed my right side to a 34DDD again, so a reduction would have been needed anyway. These are the things that we had to consider as we faced this surgery. What I didn’t have time to decide, though, (and this becomes important later) was what KIND of reconstruction I would have down the road, after chemo.

In a nutshell there are three main types: saline implants, silicon implants, and tissue reconstruction that involves using my fat (from my tummy) to build a “breast.” There are several versions of this, but it’s most commonly called the “flap.” When done successfully, it ensures that you have no foreign materials in your body, and is more natural, but what I would need to do would involve several surgeries, one of which would be major and leave me in the ICU for five nights. So this was a big commitment in contrast to the implants, which is usually a one or two surgery deal.

Because I was still researching, Dr. B implanted expanders into my chest, behind my pectoral muscles, which would help gradually stretch the skin over time to later accommodate implants, if I went in that direction. If I went for the flap, well it wasn’t going to hurt having them. They would just come out when the time was right.

We were told after the surgery that after years of hauling around 34DDDs–which weighed about 8 pounds together, ahem–that my pectoral muscles were deliciously well-developed and that should help hold the expanders in place. We were also reassured that having the double mastectomy was a good idea. When the path-port from this surgery came back, it was all good news: NO AFFECTED LYMPH NODES, CLEAR MARGINS ON THE RIGHT SIDE FINALLY AND NO CANCER AT ALL IN THE LEFT BOOB! Now all I needed to do was heal so I could start chemo, about a 4-week process.


Shaken, Not Stirred: The Path-Port of Dread


Life is cray cray here.

I haven’t written because things are changing so quickly. There has been no time to process and disseminate one issue before another arises. So please, forgive the length of this post as I try to catch up here.

When last we left our cancer-ridden heroine, I was contemplating the meaning of pain in the aftermath of my first lumpectomy. While boob-life has not been easy since, I’m happy to say that remains my most pain-ridden moment to date.

Every surgery/procedure has an epilogue called The Pathology Report. I’m learning quickly that the Path-Port is really the next-steps Bible for cancer, more so than any other lab report to come out of treatments, because it’s dealing with Bob & the Bobettes. The doctor cuts them out of me and the white-coated folks take over, aiming their microscopes and stains on B&B to learn more about these invaders. I like to think of the Path-Port as an alien autopsy, Hangar 51-style.

So the Path-Port from the first lumpectomy came in right after my last post, and it wasn’t good. Remember those margins I talked about? The doctors want clear (cancer-free) areas around the tumors that they cut out. Well, my margins were not clear and I needed to go in again. In fact my margins showed more small Bobettes that weren’t showing anywhere in all of the other tests and scans I’d had to that moment.

And this very point, that I had things growing in my boob that were not easily found, led to the second revelation of the now Dreaded Path-Port. If I had so many small satellite malignant tumors lurking and growing in the breast, it was still possible for one or more of them to spread to other parts of my body. These would still be too small to track (needle in a haystack-style) which would make them even more dangerous in the future. The only real option for ensuring that I would not have a problem with these potential “colonists” (my wonderful doctor’s word, not mine) would be to have chemotherapy.

Chemo is a blow. While I completely understood and agreed with the problem and solution, Stephen and I reeled with the news.

Chemo is what sick people get. Really sick people. Emotionally, I still hadn’t absorbed that I was really sick. I felt good, I couldn’t feel lumps and I was told and I believe (still) that I will be cured. So how could I be considered sick, with something as major, as deadly, as cancer?

And if I wasn’t really sick, there was nothing for me to be afraid of. That’s right folks, I had not felt any real fear during any of this. I had yet to be afraid.

Chemo stripped away my emotional innocence, and my arrogance, because I was now afraid. Very afraid.


Still my fear wasn’t coming from a fear of dying—they keep saying I will be fine­. My fear is of becoming so sick that I actually would feel like I had cancer. To me that’s the main side effect of chemotherapy—feeling like big crap. Big Crap. BIG, BIG CRAP.

(Not doing chemo when it was recommended was never an option. My maternal grandmother, my only female relative to have breast cancer, died from it because she opted NOT to have chemo or radiation after her mastectomy. She died two years later when it spread to her brain. Not pretty.)

On Sept. 2, Stephen, Samantha and I were back at the Aspen Surgery Center having a second lumpectomy, knowing that chemotherapy and radiation would be my protocol after. This surgery was much simpler, because the only good news from the Path-Port was that my two sentinel lymph nodes—which act as the primary conduit to spreading cancer throughout the body—were clean. So we didn’t need to take more lymph nodes, only go into the breast again for the margins. And I didn’t need to become the Borg again, because we weren’t working with a large main tumor, but with small Bobettes. No wires, no dyes, woohoo!!

I flew through that second surgery, and landed back at work and active the following week, thinking all was good. Yep. I was done with surgery. No worries at all. They got the Bobettes out of me. In fact, Dr. B basically performed a partial mastectomy this time to ensure that she had clear margins. (Stephen remembers her saying that she took a big chunk out of me this time because she didn’t want me on her table again—which we found very amusing and reassuring. None of us wanted me on her table again either.)

Samantha, Stephen and I attended Chemo School. Yes, that is what it’s called. We were told I’d be on a four three-week cycles of TC. TC is the cocktail they chose for me. I would have many other things to help me survive the chemo, like anti-nausea meds, steroids, Neulasta (to increase my white cell count to help fight of nasty bugs) and more. While the TC guarantees me losing my hair, it’s a good all-around chemo for us to use as a proactive measure. Twelve weeks and I should be able to work through most of those days.

We scheduled the start in early October, after the Simi Valley Relay for Life on Oct. 1 and 2, for which I had taken over as team captain for a friend who wouldn’t be there for the event. We were set and I was starting to do my research into surviving and thriving during chemo and using cold caps to save my hair. (More on that in a later post.) I was intent that I would be the best, most functional chemo patient possible.

I’d forgotten about the second Path-Port. Completely, totally forgotten. I was so focused on our next steps and planning as much as I could that when Dr. B called me last Thursday, I figured it was just a follow up.

Instead I found myself shaking and crying in an empty office with a dear, dear co-worker holding my hand while Dr. B went over Path-Port: The Sequel.

My margins were not clear. They found more microscopic tumors and cancer cells, and some slightly larger ones. This time I would need a mastectomy. They would need to take my breast. Take. My. Breast.

I couldn’t breathe. Here I thought I’d gotten around needing to lose my breast and two surgeries later it was bye-bye boob.


It’s a little hard to put solid words to such strong emotions, but I’m going to try and ask you to bear with me in this. And do know that I’m past needing reassurance about my womanhood, identity, usefulness of my boobs and all of those other things we hope will sound reassuring. I am okay at this point, but I had to process this all first, and that’s what you get here—my process, and it’s intimate.



For some women, from what I’ve been told, their boobs are not necessarily an appreciated portion of their sexuality. (Yes, I’m finally venturing into the world of sex here.) That’s not the case for me. I have always appreciated the sensations that come with happy boobs. (My daughter is now running around in circles, clamping hands over her ears and screaming, “Stop talking now!” Okay, Dear. Enough said.) There is a very sad part of me that says losing one or both of my boobs is like a lower-version of castration. I am without those sensations forever more. That’s a loss. A very personal loss. One that I have NEVER heard anyone put words to. And I think we don’t talk about it because the bigger concern is living, and with the close second concern possibly being gracious, well-mannered ladies in the process. Obviously I agree with the first part (I am now afraid that I will die, just in case you were wondering when that emotion was going to final arrive) or I would not be moving forward. As for the second, judge me as you will.

But, I certainly don’t have to like it.


The other change that comes with Path-Port: Part Deux is with my chemo. Now that we’re seriously concerned because we really don’t know what the hell is happening in my boob, we need to get more aggressive with my chemo. What was 12 weeks total of TC will now likely become 8 weeks of AC (which I’m told could make me fetal-curl-crying-for-mommy) followed by 12 weeks of T. All of these acronyms and the order and combinations in which they appear are for specific chemo drugs. But I really hate science and I’m getting tired of my forced indoctrination, so I’ll let the very curious research these solo. It’s all very searchable on the Net.

Wrapping an overly long update here, I’ll say that my surgery is scheduled for next week. Chemo will start 3-4 weeks after. And radiation is still on the table. I will post later about reconstruction and options and what they all mean, but for now me, my family/friends and my doctors are committed to and confident with the approach of cutting the damn cancer out of me and poisoning what’s left. And at the end of it all, I will be okay. They still say this. I will live. I will thrive and I’ll have some perky new boobs to go with my renewed life. Amen.


Shaken, Not Stirred: Really?


The primary word coming into my mind these days is “surreal.” I don’t feel sick and I can’t even feel this tiny tumor that’s causing all of this fuss, so it’s really, really, really (and typically writers don’t like using words like “really” and “very” because there are so many others to choose from) hard to identify with the phrase I keep saying.

I have breast cancer.

Just doesn’t fit.

I have a friend I love completely. For more than three years, I’ve watched her suffer through the most brutal attack of cancer, which, of course, started in her breasts. Every single day, cancer steals from this 40-something-year-old’s lifestyle, family and joy. And yet she retains her grace and her kindness, always looking for the best around her.

She sees my Facebook posts, texts me from out of town, and she wants to know how she can help ME?! ME? Oh my gosh! Can I tell you how embarrassed I was to share my good prognosis with her? I did share, because I didn’t want to add to her worries. Being worried about me when she’s fighting for her life is the kind of person she is.

I’m too humbled to cry.

I don’t feel sick. I can’t even feel this lump. I feel fine. Really.

Then today happened. I made the appointment for my lumpectomy.

I shared about our meeting with the surgical oncologist on Monday afternoon. Tuesday morning we met en masse with the medication oncologist, Dr. S., who will be my hub for the next decade as I’m guided through the medications (ie: Tamoxifen) that will keep my cancer from visiting me again. (I love Dr. S.! Any doctor who offers his first name to me gets an instant fan.)

At this appointment, we got more information about me and this. I’m positive for both hormone markers, which is a good thing as it enables Tamoxifen to be a long-term preventive measure from recurrence.

(BTW, I don’t believe in free lunches; there’s a cost for everything in life. It’s hard for me to be comfortable with the thought of taking this wonder-drug for the next decade with the only side effects being those I’m about to encounter naturally as I quickly approach menopause. I wonder what problem will I be told comes with Tamoxifen in five years time, when our chemists have more data to analyze?)

Tamoxifen aside, I will do what I’m told, which is lumpectomy followed by radiation, and chemo is still possible.

In the course of 24 hours, I’ve said or written these words too many times to count. Every time, I feel like I’m back in my reporter’s brain, reporting facts that are completely separate from my reality. This is someone else who will have to handle these procedures. Not me. I’m fine, remember?

My lumpectomy happens on Aug. 22. I make the arrangements by phone, asking my questions and taking my notes. Then I text Stephen the time and place. And I start crying. Just a little.

I’m at work and I have an incredible amount of support around me. I call one blessed and trusted friend and ask if I can visit for a short while. As I’m walking over to her end of the building, Stephen texts me back. Am I okay? Mostly I answer, because that is the truth. But he gets it. And she gets it. This is becoming real, even if I feel fine.

I’m not scared of the procedure. I swear that’s the truth. I’ve had much worse, trust me. No sane person wants to be cut into, though. For just a second, a milisecond, I feel sorry for myself. Then I think of my dear, sweet friend, who keeps her soul intact when all else is failing in her body. For her, and for all of those others who don’t have a “good prognosis,” I can’t indulge in pity. It’s just not right.

God never promised fair. He doesn’t give perfection. (How boring would that be?) I also don’t believe that God sadistically inflicts pain, at least not since the Old Testament days. I do believe that He receives us, comforts us, offers us alternatives to our earthly challenges. That’s my faith and hope at work and it does help.