This time last year I felt pretty darn lucky. I’d tiptoed through my breast cancer treatment without awakening its two snarling monsters: chemotherapy and radiation. Now I find myself facing both head on. This coming Monday I’ll have surgery to install a port. Most likely, the following week, the first of 4 rounds of chemo. The decision to move forward with chemotherapy wasn’t easy. The genetic test was decisively vague. After much deliberation, the pros seemed to outweigh the cons (barely). Then again, as my oncologist freely admits, no one knows if chemo will help or not. Basically, it’s a crapshoot. The stakes couldn’t be higher. Maybe I’ll get lucky.
The Sound of Silence
Walking a VERY fine line between denial and compartmentalization.
Hence, the blog is a little quiet.
La la la la la la la la
Hurry Up and Wait
Well, last Friday’s appointments with the surgeon and oncologist were anticlimactic (as usual). Basically, radiation and menopause-inducing hormone therapy are definitely in my near future. (Yanking out my ovaries is also an option. Yeah, thanks.) But the “other big C” (aka chemo) is still a tease. Not all breast cancers are sensitive to chemo. My oncologist says he’d be happy to send me to chemo, but it may not work. (Um…yeah, no.) The other option is to order a genetic profile of the new tumor and use that info to make a more evidence-based decision. (Hm…me thinks this sounds familiar.) My first tumor was not cut out for chemo, so we’ll see if this one’s personality is similar. And, since chemo must comes first in the breast cancer treatment buffet, all else must wait. In the meantime, I’m trying to live life as as if a giant meteor isn’t angling straight for me. Easier said than done I’m afraid.
Looking Up
Bone scan was clear.
Tumor was tiny (3.5 mm).
Margins were clear.
Tomorrow we meet with the surgeon and oncologist again.
Thank you all for your unwavering love and support.
Location, Location, Location
For six years now Mary and I have lived two blocks from the local hospital and today it finally paid off. Not that I’ve wished us ill, of course, but years of sirens blasting past the house felt like a reasonable price to pay today for the convenience of not having to schlep 70 miles to Indy (AGAIN). Instead, at 9:35 this morning Mary and I sauntered out the door arm-in-arm for my 9:45 appointment. By 10am a nice woman named Michelle was injecting me with radioactive liquid. Then Mary and I ambled back home, stopping to smell the peonies. Three hours later, after my bones soaked up the juice and were certainly glowing like a skeleton on Halloween, we eased back down the sidewalk again. The trip took 5 minutes door-to-door. The 22-minute bone scan left me plenty of time to try on a few of my new mantras, including “I am at peace with my decision [to get a bone scan]” and “Neal [the tech who scared the shit out of me last week] is a tool.” When the mantra-thing got old, Mary (who sat nearby but out of range) plied me with jokes from her new joke app. (My personal favorite: What did the Buddhist say to the hotdog vendor? Answer: Make me one with everything.) Bone scan? Check. Sense of humor? Check. Radioactive pee? Check. Not having to waste 2.5 hours of a beautiful Spring day in the car? Priceless.