
“If I can give anyone advise, it would be to reach out to others. The ones that have cancer so they can know their pathway is familiar territory to many willing to offer support and encouragement, and the ones that don’t have cancer that they may understand the world we’ve been shoved into.”
I am a slightly out of the ordinary rebel at most things but fit a few cancer survivor stereotypes. My first bout with cancer was cervical in 1990. I was diagnosed, had a hysterectomy and went on with my life barely giving any thought to what had happened except for the freedom of not having to take “the pill” or go through the ugly monthly “ritual”. Having never known anyone with cancer, to my knowledge anyway, I didn’t know what questions I should ask or that I should even ask any.
Sometime in 2004, with my marriage barely a joke, I started to look at myself pretty critically in the mirror and questioning where I was in life. Was I actually contemplating being alone? Divorcing my husband of 15 years? I still looked pretty good for a woman of 56, could even still go braless.
I did notice that my right breast seemed to begin looking a little less firm than my left breast but I passed it off as normal aging only slightly regretting that both breasts didn’t follow the same pattern at the same time. Then the morning of January, 5th 2005, I woke with my left breast feeling painful, hot and the upper half hard. Darn, another gland infection. I hadn’t gone through that since I was pregnant in 1968, but I remembered it was the same breast, same location. I started hot packing it and calling my doctor.
“Oh, I’m sorry but Dr. J retired the 31st of December”. What? I have a problem and no doctor? He’s been my doctor for over 20 years and I didn’t know he was retiring? Just a week ago? How can this be? But it was. So here I am with a problem, no doctor and no insurance. I called about a dozen doctors from the phone book knowing I had to see one. The ones I reached would not take a new patient with no insurance and the rest didn’t bother to call me back. Finally I called Dr. J’s office back and begged for an appointment with the first doctor I could see.
Dr. S had an opening just a week and a half away so I took it and waited. A moment after looking at my breast the new doctor ordered a mammogram and ultrasound and that appointment was another 2 weeks away. I was already learning the anxiety of waiting that would rule the rest of my life.
Fast forward, I had the mammogram, ultra sound, a meeting with a surgeon, the biopsy and then came the day I had to return for the results of the test.
Dr. V’s nurse put me in a very small conference room, only a table and a couple of chairs. I didn’t wait long and Dr. V came into the room with his boyish smile and greeted me. He had a folder in his hand that had my results and I’m not sure how the rest of the conversation went because I was in shock. I started to shake. Not the way one does when their body is reacting to cold but almost a vibration. I couldn’t think, react, could hardly speak, couldn’t even cry. I barely remember him telling me that I would need surgery, chemotherapy and radiation and did anyone come with me to drive me home. I gathered myself as well as I could, said I was fine and went home.
Six weeks later I had surgery. Dr. V removed my pretty left breast that was nice and full because of a 6 cm cancerous tumor. Along with that he took out 18 lymph nodes, all tested positive for cancer so it was spreading.
I had surgery on the 22nd of March. In May I started chemotherapy and around the end of November I started radiation, finishing on the 13th of January 2006. My hair had started to grow back but was barely fuzz. I didn’t like any of the lovely wigs I had and wore hats. I liked hats. Always wished I dared wear them more often. Now, they were my signature. Cute, simple, inexpensive little newsboy type hats. I had them in three or four styles and several colors. Being self employed I had to work whatever I could, all through treatments but with the help of Medicaid I could at least get treatments.
So here I am, it’s the end of summer, 2008. My marriage is still intact, the hair grew back, the cancer is in remission and I look back at the entire experience as just that, an experience. One that still leaves me with fear every morning. One that makes it difficult to walk at times because of the effects of chemotherapy; makes it uncomfortable to look in the mirror when I’m undressed; one that I’m conscious of every mealtime and every time I walk into a store to look for clothes. Is that neckline too low? Will my “chemoport” show? Will my breast prosthesis creep out of my bra and show? Will I ever find my waistline again???
And then I take a deep breath, remember that I’m still alive, still love life, still look forward to every day. Cancer, through the Internet, brought me new friends that have one thing in common, cancer, and the fact that we’ve made it so far. Friends were lost along the way. New friends, some still in shock from their new diagnosis of cancer are seeking answers to questions the rest of us have dealt with and experienced. There it is again, experience. A small word that is so important when one is frightened out of their wits and threatened with their very lives. A well placed answer to a frightfully asked question; a word of encouragement as simple as “I’m still here”; a suggestion for someone facing a new round of treatments; all so very important.
My husband says I changed while going through chemotherapy treatments. I used to not say much. I had a difficult time talking to people I didn’t know. Now, he says, he can barely shut me up at times. My soapbox is always handy and pops out when I’m least expecting it!
If I can give anyone advise, it would be to reach out to others. The ones that have cancer so they can know their pathway is familiar territory to many willing to offer support and encouragement and the ones that don’t have cancer that they may understand the world we’ve been shoved into. It doesn’t matter if they’re a different religion, color, financial status, age, size, bearing, upbringing, they are sisters and brothers in a club that no ordinary person would want to get into. It’s exclusive and expensive. It’s frightful and demeaning. It’s disfiguring and disheartening. But our club pulls it’s strength from each and every one of us. Individually we are fighters, together we are a symphony! And keep the music playing!
Laura Strebel
landslidjr@aol.com