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Marylin
It started with a diagnosis of mastitis and several prescriptions of antibiotics. Months went by. A referrel to a DO surgeon and more antibiotics. Then 5 biopsies at one time, one a needle and the others punch biopsies.
A call at the shop from the doctor, bad news. She told me I had cancer and to come in the next day to see her in her office.
That started what I refer to as the conveyer belt ride. I just show up when and where I'm told, do what I'm told, and try not to think too much about the realities of what's happening to my life.
First stop is port placement day surgery. Then 12 weeks of chemotherapy. Loss of hair and energy, I was extremely lucky, no hanging over the toilet.
An appointment with the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance to see my surgeon and their medical oncologist. I asked how I could be sure the path report from the initial biopsies were mine. I wondered how I could be certain that a mistake had not occured somewhere down the line. (After all, we're all humans... right?)
Bless their hearts, they heard me. They set up a tumor marker and a breast MRI to confirm. They did, and that was that. Surgery (modified radical mastectomy) August 11.
Thank goodness my sister was here to help with the drains and moral support. My husband was great after she went back home, but his touch was not nearly as gentle. And I strangely enough felt like trying to protect him from seeing the newly deformed vision of my breasts.
My first big cry was my first shower. I had showered for six months knowing that I would be losing my left breast and trying to get used to that idea. Then my first shower without it gave me the push to get rid of all those emotions I was able to tamp down until that moment. It was a wonderful release, and I felt 20 pounds of weight gone off my shoulders (besides whatever my breast had weighed before removal).
Began physical therapy September 9. Late. My fault. I didn't want anyone touching my scars, they were so sore. But after going into the radiation office and finding out I couldn't raise my left arm high enough to get in their cat scan machine or to receive radiation, there was no alternative.
Two weeks later I was able to get the cat scan and on September 26 I begin seven weeks of radiation. Very big machine, very scary. I was lucky with my chemo treatments. I'll see now if I'm that lucky with my radiation treatments.
Once radiation is finished, my oncologist will begin the hormonal treatment phase (5 years worth). Side effects a bit more alarming than I had originally understood them to be.
Some days I haven't been able to do anything. Other days I have a clear head and a vision and I can get much work done before calling it a day.
The journey back to normality - or the journey to the end of life here on earth - can be a long one.
I understand that dying is part of life. I'm willing to fight for my life up to a certain extent. I have yet to know what that extent is yet. But when I've had enough, I'll know. And I dearly hope I will be graceful in my passing when (not if) that time occurs.
You and I have a disease that's very formidable. How we got here we'll never know, but we're here none the less. We have options to these treatments, we must remember. We can say NO when it becomes too much to ask to continue on.
Our type of cancer is the type that can keep showing up. How strong am I? I don't know. Is it more strength when you keep fighting or more strength when you say 'No more'?
But we are here and available to one another for strength and sharing if and when we want it.
Marylin Olds
Kingston, WA
molds@tscnet.com
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