Fighting Breast Cancer

I’ve been sitting here thinking about today’s appointment with Dr. N.  When I got home today, my husband grilled me about every moment of my appointment.  I’ve been going to the appointments by myself because my husband and I are self-employed with a very busy mortgage company.  (By the way, if you need a mortgage in Michigan, Iowa, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Utah or Wyoming- we would truly appreciate it if you would consider using us.  877-551-8188, ext 83 to speak directly to me- ext. 88 for Michael.  We will beat the best deal that you can find.  Ditech-schmytech.)  

My husband has to stay behind to process the loans and take care of general business stuff.  This arrangement makes him terribly anxious and upset because he wants to hear everything that the doctor has to say to me.  If he had the equipment to ”bug” my conversation with Dr. N, I’m sure he would.

Anyway, I was thinking about some of the things that Dr. N had said.  He said that I was going to lose my hair after the second round of chemo.   He then wrote me a prescription to have a wig made so that my insurance will cover it.  I’ve been thinking about the possibility of losing my hair for a while, and I don’t think that I want a wig.  In fact, I think that I’m going to just shave my head before I start to lose it.  My life is spinning a little bit out of my control and shaving my head is my way of letting the cancer know that I decide when I lose my hair.  I also don’t think that I will wear a wig.  Wigs creep me out.  When I was a kid, my brother hid my mother’s platinum blond Doris Day wig on the floor of the closet and told me it was a dead rabbit.  Also, I live in AZ where the temperature can get as hot as 115 degrees.  Wearing a wig would make me feel like I have a hot, dead rabbit on my head. 

When I made it known that I was going to shave my head, I was surprised at the mixed comments that I received.  My husband and parents were behind me 100%.  But, I had to convince a few other people that it was a good idea.  One friend told me that I shouldn’t shave my head because I might not lose my hair from the chemo, afterall.  Her grandmother had to have chemotherapy last year and didn’t lose her hair.  I didn’t know this before either, but it turns out there are several different types of chemo.  Indeed, there is some chemotherapy that will not cause hair loss.  Dr. N assured me, though, that I would be experiencing hair loss from my chemo. 

I thought some more about Dr. N.  Could I really put my trust in this man?  While he was giving me the gruesome details about all of the side effects that I would be experiencing, he would scan my face and look at his computer, but he didn’t really look me in the eye.  He spoke very calmly, but very deliberately, in a clear and somber tone.  Physically, he was about an inch shorter than me and (I hate to admit it) about 15 pounds lighter than me. 

In other words, I could take him. 

“Dr. N.  Are you absolutely sure that I need chemo?  Isn’t there anything else that I can do?  Any natural therapy I can try?  This just seems so ridiculous to me!”

“Karen, countless doctors at our facility have reviewed your file.  We all agree that this is the best course of treatment for you.  Please believe me when I say that the last thing that I want to do is take this beautiful girl (awwww, shucks.  Dr. N thinks I’m beautiful) and make her bald and sickly from chemo.  You do have the right to refuse treatment, but I can promise you that this is the best course for you right now and I recommend starting the chemo.”

“Okay Doctor.  I’ll do it.”

I’m going to do it.  I’m going to start chemotherapy.  I’m going to defiantly shave my head.  I think it will be good to let go of my vanity.  For my whole life, I’ve washed, conditioned, brushed, colored, high-lighted my hair.  I’ve spent countless dollars at the salon.  I’m going to let it all go.  I’m going to shave my head and be bald for a while.  I’m going to be free from caring about my looks so that I can concentrate on the essential:  Getting Well.

I met my Chemo Oncologist, Dr. N, this afternoon.  He’s a very confusing fellow.  I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as stoic as he.  I guess that’s a good thing.  You don’t want your Oncologist playing the “got your nose” game with you or telling you, “Lighten up!  You’ve got cancer.”  It’s just that when I’m nervous, I make jokes or I try to say something that will break the tension in the room or get a rise out of somebody.  When Dr. N told me that I would be starting chemotherapy right away, I told him, “Good!  At least I’ll be Chemo-Skinny!”  Instead of cracking a wan-looking smile at my gung-ho spirit, he looked disturbed.

“Actually, Karen, you will most likely gain weight during chemo.”

“……….huh?”

“You should probably count on gaining between 20-30 pounds.”

“You’re kiddng me.  That can’t be right.”

He went on to tell me that I will experience many other symptoms:  Hair loss, nausea, anemia, my immune system will be compromised, pain, fatigue, shortness of breath, menopause, hot flashes…the list went on and on.  He told me that I would have one round of chemo every 2 weeks.  This is because I was young and strong and could take a  more frequent dose than the standard “one round every 3 weeks”.  All in all, he expected me to have chemo every other week for the next 6 months.  Now remember, Dr. G told me that I would be getting the standard every-three-weeks dosage.  I knew I must be in trouble, because already, they were upping my dosage.  (This, of course, would also mean that my husband would need to up his dosage of his little blue calming pills- his doctor put Michael on Valium because of my cancer.  We both get prescriptions.  Yea!)

“So, Doctor N-  Is there anything that I can do to not gain so much weight?”

“Not really.  Weight gain is a side effect of the chemotherapy.  The chemo will also shut down your ovaries and force you into menopause which will also cause weight gain.  But that’s really the least of your worries, Karen.”

“Wait.  Hold on a second. You’re telling me that I’m going to be bald and fat?”

At that point, I think the doctor thought my priorities were a little out of whack.  He gave me a strange look and then continued…

Dr. N told me that I would start chemo the upcoming Thursday, which was in 3 days.  He then told me that he wanted me to have one last test before I began chemo.  The test was called a PET Scan.  A PET Scan is the most sensitive cancer detecting test available at the moment.  This test will clearly show if my cancer has spread and where.  At this point, there are a couple of “suspicious shadows”, but the cancer could still be isolated to my breast.

When our meeting was over, Dr. N threw his arms around me in a very awkward bear hug.  I didn’t know how to react.  It was completely unexpected because up until that moment he personified stoic professionalism.  Dr. G never acted this way.  We always closed our meetings with a friendly handshake.  This contact, this hug, made me very worried because I realized on the way home that Dr. N…..felt sorry for me.  Uh oh.

Today, Dr. G mapped out my plan of attack.  Based on all of the testing that has been done so far, this is his recommended course of strategy for my War with Cancer:

Battle 1:  The Chemical War Offense–  Considering how large my tumor is, Dr. G has recommended that I begin chemotherapy.  As soon as possible.  This will hopefully achieve 2 goals: A.) Shrink the tumor in my breast such that I will be able to have a lumpectomy instead of a mastectomy.  B.) Immediately stop the cancer from spreading through the rest of my body.  This battle will be the hardest.  I will have to endure one cycle of chemo every three weeks.  I will lose my hair.  I will be very sick.  I will suffer many unpleasant side-effects.  But, like all wars, I may have to suffer through some “losses” (i.e. my hair, my energy) in order to win the battle.

Battle 2:  Operation Surgery–  Assuming that I win the first battle (and I will win the first battle) my next course of action is to undergo surgery.  I will hopefully be a candidate for a lumpectomy.  With a lumpectomy, only the tumors will be removed so that I won’t have to lose my whole breast.  I may also have to have the lymph nodes removed from under my armpit. 

Battle 3:  Nuke Any Possible Survivors–  After I recover from the surgery, I will undergo 6 weeks of radiation of my breast.  The radiation will “sterilize” my breast tissue by killing any miscilaneous microscopic cancer cells that may not be visible at the time of surgery.  This will reduce the possibilty of the cancer returning by a considerable amount.

Battle 4:  Sanctions Against the Enemy–  Cancer violated and invaded my body.  Now I will starve and kill the cancer.  A Hormone Receptor Test (this is a test that was performed on the sample taken from my biopsy) has shown that the cancer takes signals from and “feeds” off of my body’s estrogen.  Hormone Therapy (a pill taken every day) will block the estrogen in my body and “starve” any cancer cell that may be in my body. 

Timing is of the essence, so Dr. G has requested that I meet with my Chemo Oncologist, Dr. N, today.

Today I received my test results from Dr. G.  The breast MRI showed that the tumor was  much bigger than we thought.  In fact, it shows that the tumor is actually comprised of two tumors next to each other.  The MRI also showed that the cancer has spread to the lymph nodes under my armpit. 

My next test was an Echocardiogram and EKG.    I have a great pulse and blood pressure, so these tests were no big deal.  I actually found it to be quite relaxing.  The tech placed several nodes on my chest and basically took an ultrasound of my heart.  She had the lights dimmed while I layed there and I would have fallen asleep if she hadn’t have had to smear the cold ultrasound gel all over me. 

When that test was finished, I had about another 2 hours to kill.  I visited the gift shop and wandered around looking at all of the art on the walls.  Then I sat in the lobby and listened to the piano player in the main lobby while I read.  Finally, at long last, it was time for my Breast MRI.

Another IV.  Just great.  This time, at least the dye wouldn’t make me feel like I needed a diaper.  MRI’s are very very loud.  I was given a pair of head phones along with a list of CD’s to choose from.  The test would take about 30-40 minutes, so they wanted me to be as relaxed as possible. 

This time, I was told to lay face down on the table with my gown opened so that my breasts would fit into an opening of the table (there was something very perverted about that table).  My arms were raised over my head so my position was like that of a topless Supergirl.  My IV was hooked up and the nurse positioned the headphones on my head.  I could barely hear Sarah McLachlan over all of the MRI racket. 

At long last, my day of cancer testing was over.  I drove home and took a nap.  All of that waiting around to be poked by needles can really wear a person out.

I had to be at The Mayo Clinic at 7:00 this morning.  This means, that I had to wake up at 5:30 to get there on time, and I was still about 10 minutes late because I underestimated traffic.  I don’t know how people do it every day.  I had road rage just from driving in traffic once.  (Oh, I should say that I work from home.  So it’s not like I don’t drive; I just never have to do it in rush hour.)  My anger might have something to do with the fact that I was told to “fast” this morning before my CT scans.  I don’t do very well with fasting.  Just ask my husband.  He’s in charge of my feedings.

Anyway, today I had several tests, and I don’t mind telling you that I’m exhausted.  When I arrived, I ran down to the Lower Level Radiology Department and checked in for my first CT Scan.  A nurse called my name shortly after and handed me what she called my “morning hour cocktail”.  She lied; there wasn’t any booze in there at all.  I sucked down a thick and disgusting white banana flavored Barium “drink”.  Then I was told to wait. 

Nearly 30 minutes later, I was led to an area so that I could change into a gown.  Then a nurse sat me down so that she could administer an IV.  (An IV?  Nobody told me there would be needles involved!)  Apparantly with CT scans, “contrasts” are used to help outline different areas of the body.  The barium drink that I was given would help my digestive tract to show up on the scan.  An iodine IV would help my blood vessels and lungs to show up on the scan.  I was pricked in the arm with the IV and they capped it off.  Then they led me to a room where the CT Scan was located and I was instructed to lie down.  I was positioned on the table and the nurse hooked up the IV line to a bag of saline.  At the opportune moment, the iodine would be fed through my vein causing me to feel flush and to feel like I just peed my pants.  Goody!

The nurse left the room and the scan began.  The table moved into the tunnel of the machine.  I just closed my eyes and waited.  A women’s voice (was it the nurse?  was it a recording?  I couldn’t tell…) was instructing me to breathe in, breathe out, hold my breath, and so on.  Finally, the Iodine injection came and a flash of warmth raced through my body down to my bladder.  I was absolutely certain that I pissed myself. 

Again, the voice badgered me about breathing and not breathing and then it was all over.  The nurse un-hooked my IV and removed the needle from my arm.  I jumped down off of the table and made a bee-line for the bathroom, but to my confusion I was completely dry.  No accidents after all! 

With that test out of the way, I had some time to kill before my next appointment.  Thankfully, my fasting was officially over, so I went to the cafeteria to eat. 

On a side note, I would just like to say that The Mayo Clinic has the best cafeteria in the world, ever.  I mean, this isn’t your average hospital crap.  My husband actually says he wishes it wasn’t 30 minutes away, or he’d eat there every day.

2 eggs cooked to order, hash browns, bacon and a Snapple:  $3.85