I went for my yearly exam at my OB/GYN this week.  In addition to the usual humiliations that one normally endures during a GYN visit, I intended to have the doctor drain a so-called cyst in my right breast.  A pap smear and a giant needle stuck in my boob all in one wonderful day.  What could be more fun?

A little backstory:

At my previous visit with my doctor, I had pointed out a lump that I had found in my breast. He told me that it was Fibrocystic Breast Disease and that I had nothing to worry about.  He said that if the cyst grew, that would mean that it was filling up with fluid, which he could easily drain in the office.  Because of this benign diagnoses, I didn’t feel a sense of urgency as the lump grew in my breast between appointments.  It wasn’t until I developed a constant, dry, hacking cough that I began to worry…or should I say, my husband began to worry.

My cough was so bad that I could barely talk on the telephone.  I thought that my cough was allergy / asthma induced, so I made an appointment with my doctor a few months early to take care of the cyst in my breast and to get an inhaler for my cough.

During my exam, I reclined on the table and lifted my arm over my head as the doctor requested.  I knew something was wrong by the look on his face.  He led me to another room where he had an ultra-sound machine set up for pelvic exams.  He then reached for a prescription pad and ordered me to get a mammogram at a nearby radiologist’s office.  I was shocked by how easy it was for him to do that.  If all he had to do was write my name at the top of a pre-printed prescription pad, why hadn’t he done that the year before?

You see, the year before, like many young women, I was not offered a mammogram, ultrasound, biopsy- nothing.  This was a terrible mistake on the part of my doctor, but again, all too common in younger women.

Check out this article.  It explains that misdiagnosis or delayed diagnosis of breast cancer is the most common medical malpractice suit.  Now, before I get any hate mail:  I am not condoning or condemning the suing of doctors.  I love doctors.  I am simply posting this for everyone’s best interest.  I would hope any doctor reading this would download the article, read it, and pass it on to a colleague.  It could save a life.  Take all lumps seriously doctors; follow them closely or stick a needle in it!  Please! (and thank you)

I wasn’t disappointed.  Her hands were warm.  The technician guided me into the room and was very sweet and talkative.  I didn’t catch her name, which is a shame since I like to be able to recall the names of all the people who grope me.  Grope me?  More like mauled me.  She and that dreadful machine. 

Ms. Warm Hands had me stand before the machine while she prepared the film and made some adjustments.  Then I gracefully unveiled my offending orb and placed her delicately on the shelf of the x-ray machine.  Ms. Warm hands pushed me further into the machine (hey! No rough housing!) and then placed her hand on my boob to hold it in place while she mercilessly lowered the top panel.  Then she gave it a few sadistic hand cranks for good measure and told me to “hold still”.  Where else was I going to go?  She had my tit trapped in a vise grip.  I felt as helpless as an animal caught in a trap, although chewing it off wasn’t an option at that point.

After I was finished with the mammogram machine, I was guided into another room to have a proper ultrasound performed.  A new technician squirted some lubricant on my breast and began to move the wand back and forth.  It kind of tickled. 

When that was done, I wiped the excess goo off of my chest and stepped back into my nice clothes.  What a waste of a good outfit.

He made me give a play-by-play of my appointment over and over.  If I left something out, he would detect it like an attorney with a lying witness on the stand.  He would then ask me to “think about it carefully” and repeat the same question again.  Finally, realizing there was nothing he could do at this point, he provided me a list of questions to ask the doctor when I returned for the biopsy.  I could almost see him going out of his mind.

Michael was pacing the floor and, literally, tugging at his hair.  Meanwhile, at this point, it could be absolutely nothing!  What I have to put up with…

I arrived on time and was shuttled into a room where there was a padded table for me to lay on next to an ultra-sound machine.  I was told to undress and put a gown on.  Then, I laid on the table and waited for the doctor and nurse to come in.

First the doctor numbed my breast in several places with an injectable local anesthetic.  Then she showed me the device that she would use to collect the tissue sample of the mass in my breast.  It looked like a small gun-like device with a long hollow needle inside the “barrel”.  It kind of reminded me of the type of “guns” used to pierce ears, except the needle on this gun was pretty long.  She explained that she was going to ”shoot” the needle six times in my breast at different angles to get six different samples.  The ultra-sound was used to help her with the placement of the gun against my breast.  All together, the process took about 20 minutes.  When she was done, she placed a couple of butterfly shaped bandaids over the points of entry.  She collected the samples and prepped them to be sent off to a pathology lab to be analyzed.

Meanwhile, my husband has been parked in front of his computer Googling ”Invasive Ductal Carcinoma”.  He tends to overreact when it comes to health issues- while I’m quite the opposite.  I’m certain that everything will be fine; there’s no sense getting upset at this point. 

I met with Dr. S this morning.  He is the surgeon that my gynocologist recommended.  He looked at my mammogram film and examined my breast, then sat me down in his office to go over my options. 

First, he took a piece of paper and drew a line down the center, separating it into two columns.  At the top of the left column, he wrote Mastectomy.  At the top of the right column he wrote Lumpectomy + Radiation.  He explained that, statistically, a lumpectomy with 6 weeks of radiation has the same effect as a mastectomy.  (That was the whole purpose of the chart- to show me that the odds were the same.  He could have just told me that.  I don’t need graphics to understand “equal odds”.)

The choice then, would be which surgery I prefer.  He said that regionally, it seems that women in the western side of the U.S. seem to opt for the mastectomy, while more lumpectomies are performed in the East.  God knows why…and really, who cares? 

Anyway, with a mastectomy, the whole breast is removed, including the nipple.  After the mastectomy, I would have to go through a series of breast reconstruction surgeries.  He said that a nipple would be fashioned and tattooed to match my other breast. 

During a lumpectomy, only the tumor is removed.  Once the breast is healed from the surgery, 6 weeks of radiation is applied to the breast to “sterilize” the area where the tumor was removed.  This sterilization process kills any microscopic cancer cells that may have been left behind during the surgery.  Of course, I found out later, it also- ironically enough- leaves you more susceptible to cancer in the future.  You get lots of lose / lose choices when you have cancer.

Dr. S then told me that once my surgery is over, a pathologist will examine the tumor and an oncologist will decide whether I need chemo or not.  He estimated that there is a 50/50 chance that I will need chemo.

Dr. S is giving me the weekend to make my decision.  He wants to schedule the surgery ASAP.

My husband has no opinion on what surgery I should take.  He said, since survival rates are the same, it was my own personal choice…and believe me, he knew the survival rates were the same, because he spent the whole weekend reading about the lumpectomy vs. mastectomy deal.

My Dad is a true-blue Republican…my husband is a hardcore liberal.  They couldn’t disagree more about anything that has to do with politics.  We try to avoid political discussions for the most part- at least while I have breast cancer. 

…but, I digress.  I thought I could break the news by saying something like, “Hey Mom and Dad.  I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’ve decided to vote straight-ticket Democrat in all future elections, no matter who is running.  Also, Ronald Reagan was a very mean man.”

I would continue: “Just kidding! I only have breast cancer.”

Instead, our conversation went just like this:

Me:  “Hi Mom and Dad!  How are you doing today?”

Mom and Dad in unison on speaker-phone:  “Great!  We’re on our way home from seeing your grandmother in Indiana.  How are things with you, our only daughter, our precious angel, our most treasured God-given gift?”  (Okay, I made some of that up.)

Me:  “Um…not so good.  I have breast cancer.”

There was silence followed by a thud, which is when I think my mother dropped the phone.  I could hear her screaming, “No!  Oh God No!” 

My dad was fumbling for the phone so that he could talk to me.  I heard the fumbling.  When he finally got back on the line, he sounded despaired and confused, but at least he wasn’t crying.  I told him the whole cancer story, while in the background, I could hear my mother crying and screaming.  How did she know I was’t joking?

Dad says he’s going to “book the next flight out to Arizona” so that he and my mother can be with me through this ordeal.  This should be good.

I had already made up my mind that I was going to just have a mastectomy because Dr. S said that after they remove my breast, they will be able to pop an implant in while I’m still under.  That way, I won’t have to deal with what I like to call “The Uni-Boob Effect”.  Of course, when they do the mastectomy they will remove my nipple as well, so I will have to go back to the plastic surgeon for a series of procedures where they will construct and tattoo a new nipple.  Sounds nice, eh?  I can’t wait to for someone to ask me if I have any tattoos. 

“Yes, I do,” I’ll say. 

“Well, what’s it of?” they’ll ask. 

“A nipple.” 

Silence.

But, I digress.  All this talk about my nipple made me go off on a tangent.  Where was I?  Oh yes.  Michael has been worried sick.  Just as he was starting to go over the deep end, his friend from Mackinac Island, Jack called.  Jack put Michael in touch with a friend of his who is a Doctor of Oncology at Northwestern Medical School.  She is an extremely gracious person who spoke to Michael at 10:30PM about my diagnosis.  As soon as he read the pathology report to her, she interrupted him and asked, “How big is her tumor?” 

“About 3 inches, ” Michael replied. 

Incredulous, she stated: “Michael, you need to get her to another doctor right away.  I don’t know of any oncologist in the country that wouldn’t start Karen on chemo right away!  Surgery should come later.”

She then asked Michael to read Dr. S’s business card to her.  It stated that he was a “General Surgeon”. 

“He’s a General Surgeon?  That means that he does things like remove appendixes.  Call his office and find out how many mastectomies he has done.  If the answer isn’t ‘hundreds and hundreds’ I wouldn’t even consider him.  Karen really needs to see a Surgical Oncologist.  A Surgical Oncologist removes tumors.  I would get away from Dr. S if I were you!”

Michael called the surgeon’s office the following day and asked his chief nurse how many mastectomies the doctor had performed.  She hesitated a moment and then replied “a few.”

I guess it’s time to find a new surgeon…and fast.

Basically, she made me feel like we were crazy for making this insurance choice.  My husband doesn’t care.  His response:  ”I have an American Express Platinum, a Bank of America card with a $36,000 limit, and an AT&T Universal card with a $20,000 limit.  I’ll bankrupt us if I have to.” 

I know that he really doesn’t want to file bankruptcy, so I reminded him of the high interest rates.  The response:  A.) “We’ll find a way and money isn’t important right now” and B.) “I don’t give a shit Karen!  You are going to Mayo and that’s that.” 

The idea that our medical bills are going to max us out has my stomach in knots. 

I just got off of the phone with Mayo and scheduled an appointment to see a surgeon in the Breast Clinic.  They won’t be able to see me for 2 weeks, but I feel better about going there for treatment.  In the meanwhile, they have requested that I have my biopsy slides, mammogram films and ultrasound images sent to their facility so that they can look at them and have an idea of what’s going on with me.

I feel very fortunate that they could get me in.  When one pulls up to the hospital, there is a hotel right on campus, and tons of out-of-state license plates in the parking lot.  In other words, it’s a good hospital with great doctors. 

Although we do live about forty minutes from the Mayo Clinic now, we used to live five minutes away.  I don’t know why we didn’t think about this to begin with.

Michael:  “Why are you coughing so much???”

Me:  “Calm down.  It’s just allergy induced asthma.”

Michael:  “Is it productive?  Are you coughing up phlegm?”

Me:  “No.”

Michael:  “Are you telling me that you have an unproductive, dry, hacking cough?”

(Oh shit.  Back to grilling me like a witness on the stand.)

Me: “Yes, it is ‘dry and hacking’,” I reply cautiously.

Michael: “That’s just great.  The cancer has spread to your lungs!  Oh my God Karen- you have cancer in your lungs.  There is no reason for you to have a dry hacking cough for an entire month without any other symptoms!  No fever? No night sweats?  Are you sure there’s no phlegm?  Any phlegm at all?”

These aren’t really words of encouragement.  The guy is nuts.  Here he is, begging for phlegm.

Even if he’s right, I’m not going to acknowledge Michael because he is just too out of his mind and crazy for me to deal with.  I just can’t wait to get to the Doctor so that I prove to him that he’s wrong and needs to calm down. 

We arrived at the Breast Center and sat down with the doctor.  He had reviewed the mammogram images that I had sent over from the radiologist that I had seen a few weeks ago; he expressed concern with these images and asked that I have a few more tests taken at the Mayo Clinic.

Then, he examined my breast.  He made note that my nipple was beginning to invert and I had a strange dry patch on my skin, just above my areola.  He also carefully felt the lymph nodes under my armpit, as well as the lymph nodes in my neck. 

I was very taken by how capable and intelligent Dr. G seemed.  I am certain that I am in the very best hands, literally.  He was not able to tell me anything definite at this appointment; rather, he examined me and ordered some tests.  Still, it felt good to know that he wasn’t blindly rushing me into surgery like the first doctor was going to do.

The mammogram was a lot like the first one I had, except more thorough.  The technician took 4-5 pictures of each breast.  I found it particularly painful because she was trying to smash my arm and chest in the machine such that she would be able to get a view of my lymph nodes.  Sometimes the physiology of a large breast can be limiting.  I mean, there is just so much mass that the machine can view at once.

The chest x-ray was no big deal.  That just took a few minutes.

Finally, I was ready for my bone scan.  One of the nurses led me to a room in the radiology dept. where they administer the radioactive dye.  The nurse prepared the syringe with the radiation warning signs on it.  She tied off my arm and shot the dye in a vein.  (Visions from the movie Trainspotting dancing in my head.  Don’t ask me why.)  I was then led to a different room where a technician asked me to lay on a long thin table.  He asked that I lay as still as possible while a machine was lowered within inches of my face.  Over the next 30 minutes, the machine inched it’s way down towards my feet, giving the technician an image of my skeleton on his computer screen. 

When the scan was complete, I was told to drink as much water as possible so that I could pee out the radioactive dye.

We arrived at the Breast Clinic and were ushered into an examination room.  Dr. G walked in wearing a very well tailored suit.  (I noticed this before.  It seems that the Doctors at The Mayo Clinic should win some sort of “Best Dressed” award.  They all dress impeccably.)  He sat down and pulled up the radiology images on his computer.  The mammograms and ultrasounds that were taken showed a much clearer picture of the tumor in my breast.  The tumor is approximately 3.3 inches wide.  The bone scan showed a strange shadow in my pelvic bone and two vertabrae in my spine.  This does not necessarily mean that the spots are cancer, but we need to investigate some more.  The chest x-ray came back clear.

The doctor examined me again, paying close attention to the lymph nodes in my arm pit.  My husband, looking a little bit shaken, started firing questions at Dr. G.  “I know you can’t formally stage Karen’s cancer, but based on the information that you have now, can you do a clinical staging?”

Dr. G helped me sit up as he addressed Michael’s question.  “I would clinically stage her at Stage 2b“ 

“Oh my God, Karen!  2b??!!!  2b???!!!  That means it’s spread to your lymph nodes!!  Oh this is bad.  This is bad.”

Obviously, Dr. G didn’t realize that he was dealing with a hypochondriac who probably reads more about disease than the average family practitioner.  Michael had been compulsively Googling cancer since I first felt the lump.  (Before he had my lump, Michael spent his spare time reading about infectious disease, you know, for fun.)  Sensing Michael’s rising anxiety levels, Dr. G quickly interjected, “I meant to say Stage 2a.  Really, I misspoke.  I would say 2a at this point.” 

“2a?  Are you sure?  Because you just said 2b.  I very distinctly heard you say 2b!  Which is it?”

(Again, the attorney routine.  The doctors are going to grow tired of this.  This is a consultation, not a deposition.)

Honestly, I think Michael was beginning to unnerve Dr. G.  Thankfully, having been married to Michael for 4 years and having known him for 11, I’ve developed an immunity to his antics.  I had to tell him what I’ve told him so many times over the years.

“Michael, really.  Just cope and adjust.  Ok?”

We left shortly after that.

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

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.

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.

“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.

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.

The Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale has teleconferences with the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota and Florida- all the best breast cancer doctors in the U.S. discussing my file with faxes and television monitors and maybe even heated arguments- who knows?  Like, maybe Dr. House was there, telling all the other doctors that they are wrong and that I am definitely lying about something.

But I digress: Think about that.  Please, please, please don’t go “just anywhere” if you are ever diagnosed with cancer– and I hope you never are…but if you are ever in my shoes, think Mayo Clinic; think Northwestern University; think University of Michigan; think Harvard; think M.D. Anderson.  Going to your local hospital is just nuts- unless one of your local hospitals is known as one of the best in the world. 

This is your health.  This is your life.  This is cancer.  Do it right the first time.

“Steve McQueen without hair?  It’s a blessing he died young.” ~ Dr. House

See, that’s one way to look at cancer…

PET Scans are great, but a lot of times it’s difficult for cancer patients to have one because the machines are so expensive that many hospitals do not have them.  In fact, the Mayo Clinic’s PET Scan is a mobile unit that they lend out to different hospitals around the valley.  Each PET Scan costs approximately $5000…at least, that’s how much they charged me.  Could be more or less somewhere else.

Anyway, I went to the Mayo Clinic early that morning for my appointment.  I was really cranky because I couldn’t eat and I had to drive in rush hour traffic.  I was probably also a little cranky about dishing out $5000 that morning- on the spot.  By the time the nurse called me, I was starting to feel really antsy because I wanted to get this test over with so I could eat. 

I was led to a room with several vinyl reclining chairs.  This is when I learned that the nurse was going to have to put the IV in my foot.  She told me it was because the Doctor needed the dye fed at the opposite end of my body.  Since the cancer was in my right breast, the IV needed to be inserted in my left foot.  I had a real problem with that.  I do not like the thought of needles being dug into my feet.  Still, I didn’t have a choice.  The nurse reclined me back and began to look for a vein in my foot.  She wasn’t having much luck.  When she thought she had finally found one, she began to dig the needle in.  She kept missing the vein so she had to keep digging.  It was very painful and I started to feel like I was blacking out.  My ears started ringing and I broke out in a cold sweat.  Slowly the blackness washed over me and I passed out.

When I woke up, I was confused.  Then I felt embarrassed.  There were nurses standing over me talking to me, but I couldn’t figure out what they were saying.  I thought I had fallen asleep when I wasn’t supposed to.  Then I noticed something really strange:  I was fully reclined in the vinly chair, I had an oxygen mask on, and I couldn’t put my arms down.  They were clenched straight up in the air, and I kept thinking to myself, “Now that’s weird.  Why won’t my arms go down?”  I was too dizzy and confused to formulate this question to one of the nurses (who was now yelling at me, but I still couldn’t hear what she was saying through the ringing in my ears) so I just looked at her, kind of smiled and said, “Hi!”

The moment I spoke, the ringing in my ears began to fade and my arms relaxed enough so that I could rest them on the chair.  Then one of the nurses explained what happened.  I had passed out, and I had had a seizure.  That was why I couldn’t put my arms down.  I hadn’t noticed before, but two nurses had been holding my legs.  The nurses had called for a doctor to come in and examine me quickly.  Once he reviewed my history, he looked at me and told me that he wanted me to have a CT Scan of my brain, right then and there. 

“Why?”

“Considering that you have cancer and you just had a seizure, we need to see if [the cancer] has spread to your brain.”

I felt crestfallen.  The idea of the cancer spreading to my brain made me feel so depressed and dejected that I started to cry.  I couldn’t do this.  Who the hell am I to think that I can handle something as big as cancer?  I was all alone at the hospital, sobbing like a baby.  It was all too much.

Because of the urgency of the situation, a radiologist immediately reviewed the images of my brain.  For 20 gruelling minutes, I sat with my head lowered in the wheel chair, trying not to cry.  At last, some good news.  My brain was free of cancer! 

It’s amazing how a little bit of good news can make you rebound from the depths of despair to the highs of heaven.  After I processed the relief of having a clear brain scan, I agreed to press on and have the PET Scan.  I was so amiable, that I even agreed to let the nurse have another shot at my foot.  Pun intended.

This time, I was too tired from the seizure to get worked up about the IV in my foot.  She found the vein and popped it right in.  Then, a gal named Melissa wheeled me to the PET Scan Unit.  The scan was located outside in what looked sort of like a giant tour bus for the Rolling Stones, complete with a wheelchair lift.  Melissa pushed me onto the lift and I was raised and pushed inside.  The unit was divided into three rooms.  The main entrance  was the “control center” where the technicians monitored and operated the scan.  The room to the left was where the actual scan was located.  I was led to the room to the right. 

Before the scan could begin, I had to have the radioactive sugar solution administered through my IV.  It was imperitive that I sit very still in the recliner provided for me while the solution ran through.  I don’t know if this was important to the test, but the room they had me in was so cold, I thought I was going to die from hypothermia.  Melissa had wrapped me in 4 warm blankets and I was still freezing.  I tried to doze off but it was even too cold to sleep.

After about 45 minutes, Melissa retrieved me and removed the IV from my foot.  Then she wheeled me back inside the Clinic so that I could pee out the excess radiation in my bladder.  Then, it was back up the lift and into the room on the left where the scan was located. 

This scan was a lot like the others:  I had to lay very still on the bed while the machine moved from top to bottom.  This took approximately 20 minutes.  At long last, I was free to go. 

Mary, the nurse who cared for me after my seizure, asked me to sit and stay for a little while longer to make sure that I was okay to drive.  After about 30 minutes, I convinced her that I felt “worlds better” and was capable of driving myself home.

On my drive home, I listened to the messages on my cell phone.  There were 5 missed messages, all from my husband.  I called him back and told him about the PET Scan, the brain scan and, “….oh yeah.  I had a seizure today.”

By the time I got home, Michael was sufficiently inebriated.

The doctor implanting the clip was actually a great guy.  Finally- someone who could crack a smile about good ole cancer!  I laid down on the table after I had changed into my Mayo Clinic robe of choice.  The Doctor first created a sterile environment by isolating my breast beneath some clean tissue and then he gave me “a local”.  He swabbed me with some iodine and prepared to insert the clip.  An ultrasound technician was on hand to help guide the doctor to the correct spot.  He had to push the clip in with a long needle-type tool. 

I confess: I wasn’t watching.  I was a little freaked out, actually.  Again, when in these situations, I tend to try to lighten the awkward mood.

As he was finishing and bandaging me up, the doctor asked if I had any questions.

Me (very seriously):  “Just one Doctor.  Is my career in Playboy over before it’s begun?”

Doctor (he can’t quite tell if I’m serious or not):  “Uh…I’m afraid so.”

Me:  “That’s too bad.  I was thinking of doing a ‘Girls Gone Wild’ type video.  Only I’d call it ‘Girls of the Mayo Clinic Gone Wild’.  It would feature women with Mastectomy and Lumpectomy scars.”

[ Yes, I realize this is probably in "poor taste" by most people's standards...but I have cancer. ]

Doctor:  “Well, if you ever get featured in a video or magazine like that, please let me know.  I will be the first to buy that issue.”

I could seriously love this man for indulging me.

My mom and dad are staying at a hotel near by.  I picked them up and brought them over to show them my house.  This is the first time they’ve ever seen my home!  Quite exciting for me, as I am very proud of my house.  It was nice to sit and visit with them and talk about everything.  I’m so glad that they came and could be here for me. 

Tomorrow I start chemo.  I’m not really nervous about it because it doesn’t seem real to me.  I can tell my mom is nervous.  She looks like she’s been crying.  I just hope that everyone will be able to get some rest tonight.

The presentation mostly covered the side-effects of chemotherapy.  Nausea, hair loss, anemia…the list went on and on.  The nurse gave some recommendations. 

“Do not use laxatives or enemas for constipation.  Use stool softeners.” 

“You may have the occasional alcoholic beverage, but do not over do it by any means.”

“Do not try to conceive children while going through chemo.”  Since I was the only person still of child-bearing age, we all knew she was talking about me. 

Throughout the presentation, Michael kept getting up to leave the room because he was very upset upon learning exactly what I would be experiencing.  One of the women sitting at the table leaned over and asked me if he was going to be okay to start chemo today.  I told her that he didn’t have cancer.  I did.

Finally, the slide show was over and I went to collect the rest of my family.  I wanted to stop by the Breast Clinic to see if Dr. N had received the results of my PET scan.  That’s when my life was hit by a ton of proverbial bricks. 

I knew something was wrong when the door opened and Dr. N made a bee-line straight for me and locked me in a bearhug.  This meant that Dr. N thought that I was going to need comforting.  What did that mean?  Could things possibly be worse for me than they had been up to this moment.  The answer is, yes.  Things were horribly bad.

Dr. N pulled up the images of my body from the PET scan on his computer.  He explained that the areas of the images that glowed orange and yellow indicated cancer.  My body was lit up like a Christmas Tree.

“Here is the original tumor in your breast.”  It looked like E.T.’s heart light.  “The cancer has spread to the lymph nodes under your right armpit, the lymph nodes in your neck and the lymph nodes in your chest.  This is a close up of your lungs.  You have cancer here and here and here……”  He seemed to go on forever.  I must have had 50 or 100 tumors in my lungs.  “This is why you have been coughing so much.”  (I was starting to feel faint and light headed.)  “You have a couple of spots in your pelvic bone.  There are two vertibrae in your spine that have cancer and a couple of ribs.”

“So, my cancer is Stage 4.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

My dad looked dumbfounded.  Michael had tears streaming down his face.  He looked like he was going to throw up or faint.  Maybe both.

“What are her chances of beating the cancer?  What are her chances of complete remission?”  Michael asked.

“Karen’s cancer is so far advanced that we are not going to focus on curing her.  We just want to try to control the cancer.  She can possibly still live years…”  (He didn’t get specific time-wise, but we understood.)

“What are her chances for a cure!!!???”

“About three in a thousand.”

As soon as I heard that, I felt like a volcano was erupting inside of me.  Here I am 30 years old and the question of my mortality is being raised.  Will I live to see my 35th birthday?  How about 40?  Dare I dream to see 50?  Why the hell didn’t I insist on a mammogram last year?  Why????  I was so angry I was shaking.

This was bullshit.  I grabbed my purse and told the doctor that I had a chemo appointment to keep.  He stood up and tried to hug me, but I pushed him away and told him to save it.  Then I told my dad and Michael that I wanted to get the hell out of there.  I stormed out of the office to deliver the news to my mother while the men in my life trailed behind me in a daze.

My mom- who never swears and probably never heard me do it- was too heartbroken to be appalled with my language.  In fact, she had to sit down because she looked like she was going to collapse.  Her face was blank, but that was just the calm before she really lost it.

I turned around to see where the rest of my entourage was hiding.  Michael was on the phone with his mother delivering the news; he was yelling at her- God knows why- and pacing.  My dad was still talking to Dr. N and babbling on about how- when raising my brother and I- he had instilled in us his Protestant Values of no drinking, smoking or drug use (read:  No Fun.)

“So how could this happen?”, he demanded of the good doctor.

Dr. N must have thought we were a bunch of lunatics.  He still may.

My chemotherapy appointment was approximately 15 minutes away at the Mayo Clinic Hospital, different from the Mayo Clinic, Clinic.  We were running late, so I knew that I had to put an end to all the dramatics and get the proverbial show on the rode.  When I was finally able to corral my family together, I herded them to my car.  Dad and Mom sat in the back; Michael in the passenger seat.  I buckled into the drivers seat and drove us all over to the hospital.  Can you imagine?  Mother, father and husband unable to drive?  This was a very traumatic day.

I feel like I’m voluntarily driving to my death.  I’m half tempted to turn the car around and go home, but I know that I just can’t do that.  While the prospect of enduring chemo feels like a “fate worse than death”, I know that it is a very necessary evil. 

So, I drive on until I see the walls of the hospital rise up from the desert earth.  Things are about to get worse for me before they get better.  However, I do believe that things will get better.

First, I check in so that the chemo nurse can place my chemo order with the pharmacy downstairs.  Second, I’m given a vibrating beeper and told to wait.  Third, I pace and make my mother nervous. 

Michael is really nervous too, so he takes a trip to the cafeteria.  Whenever he feels helpless with respect to my cancer, he feeds me.  He comes back with the wares of his hunt and I eat.  At long last, my beeper vibrates and I walk back to the OPIV room.  I’m given a choice between a reclining chair or a hospital bed.  I opt for a chair next to a man who is already plugged in to his IV drip.  All around me there are people laying with their eyes closed.  Most have no hair.  All of the people in the room are at least 65, with the average being about 75, I’d guess.  Except for the nurses, I am the youngest person in the room.  I suddenly feel like I don’t belong here and I have a full-blown panic attack. 

Roberta, my favorite nurse, comes to start my IV. 

I can’t do this.  I can’t do this.  I absolutely cannot do this. 

Mom and Michael leave the room; abandoning me.  Apparently, they can’t do this either.  My ever-strong Father is the only one brave enough to watch me be injected with poison.   He stays and gives me a pep talk.  He can see that I’m beginning to falter, so he comforts me.   He tells me that I am the bravest person that he knows and tells me that he’s very proud of me.

The man in the chair next to me also tries to comfort me.  He tells me that chemo is “not so bad”.  Of course I know he’s lying.  His name is Bob and he is so skinny that his eyes and cheeks are sunken and hollow and his clothes were hanging off his painfully frail body.  He had to poke new holes in his belt to so that he could cinch his pants tight enough so that they didn’t fall off.  Bob has Colon Cancer.

At long last I calm down and Roberta starts me on a saline drip.  Next she hooks up my “pre-meds” to the saline IV.  The pre-meds are combination of anti-nausea medication and Pepcid AC.  She lets these drip for about a half hour.

Mom and Michael eventually compose themselves and gather the courage to enter the OPIV to check on me.  So far, so good, I say.  We chat about nothing in particular; Michael and my mom seem to be coping.  That is, until my IV begins to beep, signaling that the pre-med bags are empty.   It is now time for the chemo, I explain.   Turns out Michael and Mom didn’t miss the poisoning after all.   In fact, they had arrived right on time!  Ha!

Michael’s face went white and his face took on a strangeness.   I can’t even explain it…  Maybe a combination of terror and disgust, if you can picture such a thing.  He stayed put anyway.

Roberta hands me a cup of ice.  She tells me that this chemo is very toxic and can cause mouth sores.  So as she’s administering the chemo I am to chew ice.  Michael informs me that chewing ice often means that you are sexually frustrated.  I know he was quite proud to make a stupid joke during what was probably the most stressful moment of our lives.

Now Roberta pulls two large syringes from a hazardous waste bag.  The syringes are filled with a thick, red substance.  This is my chemo.  Such a pretty color!  The color of passion.  The color of desire.  The color of blood.

This is Adriamycin:  also known as “The Red Devil”.

And it sucks.

Roberta unscrewed the cap of the first large syringe and screwed it into the line of my IV tube.  She slowly put pressure at the end of the the syringe and gently pushed the lovely red color into my veins.  Each syringe took about fifteen minutes to empty.  And then, I was done.  They let me sit with a saline IV for about a half hour to hydrate me.  I sat quietly, not sure how I felt.  Everyone just sort of looked at me expectantly, but I couldn’t really react.  I was in a slight state of shock, I guess.  I was totally aware and conscience, but I just felt so disconnected.  So I smiled and said I was OK and ready to leave.

I was unhooked from the IV and sent on my merry way.  This time, I let Michael drive us home and I closed my eyes for the ride.  Once there, I immediately got ready for bed while my mother started pumping me with various anti-nausea meds and sleeping aids prescribed to me. 

Oh God, here comes the first wave of nausea.  I somehow make it to the bathroom and puke my guts out.  Then I pee and my urine is bright red.  Very Christmasy.  I stumble back to bed and lay there trying to sleep, but I feel wired.  So I just lay there and close my eyes.

I sit and try to pinpoint exactly how it feels to be on chemo.  “Not good” is the first thing that comes to mind.  I feel like my blood pressure is slightly raised, my mind won’t settle down, yet my body is completely fatigued and begging for sleep.  I’m not in any pain, but I have a general feeling of discomfort about me.  I can’t wait to get through all of this and get on with my life.  I am taking Zofran, but it doesn’t seem to help.

I doze in and out and throw-up a few more times.  Late in the evening, I have another visitor.  My Mother-in-Law has flown in from Michigan to visit me, and she is bearing gifts.

Here are some great breast cancer gifts.

Then, she pulled out a cross, a prayer card from St. Anne de Beaupre in Quebec, Canada, a metal from St. Anne’s with a piece of St. Anne’s bone in it, and some Holy Water.

She proceeded to tell this story:

[Incidentally, it is important to know that Michael and his Mother come from a very ethnic Sicilan background.]

My mother-in-law’s words to me, verbatim:

“Jodi (her cousin) was having a ‘Cousins and Nieces Party’ at her house a few days ago.  She had a beautiful spread, tons of food and everyone was there.  When I arrived, I was visibally upset because of the news about your cancer.  Immediately, Jodi went to a cupboard and revealed a stash of holy water, crosses and metals.  She gave me this crucifix for you to wear, this silver metal with a piece of St. Anne’s bone in it, a prayer card, and this vile of holy water. 

Everyone was gathered around me expectantly and wanting to know about you and I was confused about what I should do with the Holy Water.  So I asked: ‘What does she do with the Holy Water?’   All of a sudden, very loud and in perfect unison all of my cousins yelled at the the top of their lungs, ‘SHE DRINKS IT!!!’”  Irritated, as if my mother-in-law should have known this by Catholic-instinct.  What was wrong with her?

 ”So, you have to drink this Karen,” explained my mother-in-law, very sincerely.

Who am I to argue with a strong family of Sicilian women?  I placed the cross and metal on my chain with my Grandmother’s Cross.  I held the prayer card and recited the prayer out loud, and then I drank the Holy Water.  It tasted like water.

I find the concept of Holy Water very interesting, though.  I read somewhere that a Japanese scientist photographed “water crystals” before and after it was prayed over and blessed.  After the blessings, the shapes of the water crystals actually changed and the scientist concluded that the positive energy of the prayers and blessings transferred actual physiological changes to the water.  So, now I have the prayers and blessings of St. Anne healing my cancer.  Thank you Mom and Aunt Jodi and the rest of the family for thinking of me.  I didn’t find the concept silly at all.  If this water was blessed in the name of God, I’ll happily drink a gallon and ask for more afterwards.

After taking a few sleeping aids, I finally got some rest.  This morning I still feel a little sick to my stomach.  I throw up one more time.  But, I think I’m through the worst of it.  In addition to the Zofran, I was prescribed Compazine and Ativan to help with my nausea and sleep.  Bang up job so far.

My parents, husband and I pile back into the car and make the trek back to the hospital.  We ride the elevator to the 4th floor and I sign in in the OPIV room.  Again, I’m given a beeper and I sit with my family and wait.  About 15 minutes later, the beeper vibrates and walk back to receive my injection. 

I must not look very good, because Roberta, the nurse who adminitered my chemo, walks over and looks at me concerned.  She has me sit down and asks how I feel and if I had any nausea.  I tell her I feel like a truck ran me over and I puked 6 times.  The puking concerns her and she says that she will contact Dr. N and have a stronger anti-nausea med prescribed for my next round of chemo. 

Next, she takes my vitals.  No temperature, but my blood pressure and heart rate are higher than normal.  Next she pulls out the Nuelasta injection.  It’s chilled and she tries to warm it with her hands.  She tells me that it may be painful as she depresses it, so she’ll go very slow.  She sticks the needle and my left arm.  It stings a little, but it’s not that bad.  Finally she pulls the needle out and I am free to go. 

I walk out to the lobby and my family look at me expectantly.  Michael grabs my arm protectively and helps me outside while my dad grabs the car.  We pile back in and make our way home. 

I have two dogs, Autumn and Farley; they do not possess such cancer detecting capabilities.

The oldest dog, Autumn, has been my constant companion for the past ten years.  And by constant companion, I mean that she ignores me for most of the day unless she wants to be walked or fed or is demanding a treat.  She is half Chow / half Labrador and she is gorgeous and absolutely odor free.  In fact, I will go so far as to say that she is odor absorbant.  She was once sprayed in the face by a skunk.  I didn’t have any special “skunk-out” shampoo, but it turned out I didn’t need any.  The next day the skunk odor had completely vanished. 

With respect to her mix, it’s amazing how she carries the personality traits of both breeds.  She can be an intimidating guard dog one minute; a sweet bundle of playful emotions the next.  She is extremely stubborn and bull-headed but that is rarely a problem because long ago, she and I came to an understanding:  I wouldn’t try to dominate her and in return she would adopt a code of behaviorial rules that just so happened to coincide with what I expect of her.  I tell people that I have the most well behaved dog, but secretly we both know the truth.

Then there is Farley.  I adopted him 3 years ago.  I always describe Farley as ‘confused’ because his breeding is debatable.  And, when I first got him, he looked kind of cross-eyed.  The Arizona Animal Welfare League (where I adopted Farley) said that he may have a little Pit bull in him.  Pit bulls are notorious for being very aggressive with other dogs.  Certainly not this sweet animal!  He could never hurt a fly!  However, I started to believe the “half pit bull theory” when Farley tried to attack my friend’s 6-month-old Lab puppy.  I was completely convinced when he tried to take on two 80 lb. Golden Retrivers at the same time.  The funny thing is that Farley is the sweetest, most cuddlely, 50-pound, wanna-be lap dog you’ve ever met.  He loves children (especially babies) and he even adores strangers, but most of all he loves Autumn.  Actually, I would say that he worships Autumn.  (There is a picture of Farley below with our good friend Kristy’s gorgeous baby, Olivia.  She looks like a model for Gerber.)

Despite my dog’s inablility to alert me of my cancer, they have been an extreme comfort.  Farley lays in bed with me with his head on my pillow just staring at me with sympathetic brown eyes.  Autumn makes a few daily appearances at my bedside.  She smacks the bed with her paw to alert me to move over from the side of the bed.  I roll towards the middle so that she can jump up and sleep in my spot.  (This is her way of showing affection…I think.)  

The dogs sandwich me and I continue to try to rest.

The reason that I am such a devoted dog-walker is because of Autumn and the agreement that she and I came to long ago.  I adopted Autumn when I was 21 and living in my first apartment.  Of course, because I didn’t have a yard, I had to walk her constantly throughout the day.  It became tradition that her morning walk was the longest walk of the day, and I would take her for a series of shorter walks in the afternoon and evening. 

When Michael and I bought our first home with a yard, I thought to myself, “At last!  I no longer have to walk Autumn every day!”  We moved into our home in the summertime and our backyard has a pool that is bordered by a patio and rocks.  We have one patch of grass in the backyard that would be a perfect putting green, if either of us knew how to golf. 

Michael wanted to train Autumn to eliminate on the side of the house where the rocks are.  The test of wills between Michael and Autumn began.  The day we moved in, the first moment Autumn squatted to pee on the grass, Michael yelled, “No!” and led her to the side of the house to show her where the deed must be done. 

It didn’t work. 

One “no!” was all it took…she just glared at him and sulked away, never attempting to ”go” in the backyard again. Autumn, to this day, has never used the backyard.  She does no wrong and she never, ever wants to be scolded…but seriously, she does no wrong.  She has never peed or pooped in the house (once housebroken); she’s never run away; she’s never knocked over a trash can; she’s never bitten anyone; you can leave a steak on the table and leave the house for several hours and it will still be there when you get home…you get the point.  So she really gets angry if you scold her.  She even pouts.  I love that dog.

So, I walk my dogs every day, twice a day.  However, I actually really enjoy it; it isn’t a chore.  It forces me to get out of the house and enjoy nature.  It also gives me 40 minutes each morning to do a walking meditation.  I’m starting to meditate about getting rid of my cancer…about being cancer free.  About getting through this horrible mess and coming out strong and healthy and better for having gone through it.  Each morning when I walk my dogs, I picture my body attacking the cancer.  I picture myself in the future fitter than I have ever been and laughing at “what a crazy year 2005 was” and I’m so glad that I’m cancer-free. 

I walk my dogs and enjoy nature and I look forward to the future.

The past couple of days, he’s been waking me up every couple of hours proudly displaying plates of food.  Everything from homemade soups and stews, to my favorite Italian dishes, you name it.  He’s been cooking up a storm.  I eat, even though I’m not hungry, but I figure that it’s good to have something in my stomach to throw-up.  Plus, it makes he and my mother so happy to see me have an appetite. 

I’ll admit, I’ve always had an appetite.  I’m not a picky eater at all, especially when it comes to Michael’s cooking.  In fact, I think that’s what initially attracted him to me (Michael:  “Have you seen that girl eat?  She sure is hot!”. –ok this never actually happened, but he could never date, much less marry, a girl who lived on salads.)   

So, like an animal at the zoo, Michael has me on a regular feeding schedule.  At this rate, I’ll gain that 30 pounds that Dr. N talked about by next month.

This is so encouraging, that I’m actually looking forward to my next chemo.  When I say that, I don’t mean that I’m looking forward to feeling sick and losing my hair.  I’m looking forward to continuing on with my treatment and getting this over with as soon as possible.  I am now completely confident that I made the correct decision in choosing this method of treatment and not something alternative.

I’ve had many loving friends come to me with suggestions of various treatments since my diagnosis.  They tell me about people who were sick with cancer and tried everything from grape seed extract to Laetrile with great success.  I was told numerous stories about how chemotherapy and radiation are terrible treatments because they are so damaging to the body.  I have been given links to many websites that promise natural cures and tell of horror stories regarding western medicine’s answer to cancer treatment.

The problem that I have to tell these caring friends is that with regards to my situation, my cancer is way too advanced to take any chances.  I believe that the people giving their testimonials to these alternative treatments are true and valid.  I’m sure that these treatments did work for them.  But, what kind of cancer did they have?  What kind of immune systems did they have before starting this?  How many times has this treatment been successful?  Just how effective is it?  See, unless these treatments have been fully tested and investigated, how do we know that they will work for me: a 30-year-old woman named Karen with Stage 4 breast cancer, who has mets to her lymph nodes, lungs and bones?

Don’t get me wrong:  I don’t mind combining my western treatment with some holistic treatments (as long they don’t interfere with my chemo/radiation.)  In fact, I’ve been considering going to an accupuncture clinic and I take lots of fish oil and cancer-fighting-mushroom supplements.  As for the website links that people send me, I’ve stopped going to them.  I’ve stopped googling the internet regarding breast cancer all together.  There is so much information out there, most of it doom and gloom.  I see what it does to my husband (it makes him nuts and drives him to drink.)  I don’t need anything to cause more stress in my life and waiver my confidence to beat this.

So, now that I’m confident that Dr. N may actually know what he’s doing (ha ha–I’m totally kidding, Dr. N.  I never doubted you for a second!) I’m happy to continue on.

This was the case with my husband and his mother.  There had been some bad blood between them and they hadn’t spoken for a while, but because I was sick and he knew that his mother loved me, he decided to extend the olive branch and call to invite her to stay with us and visit me.

Unfortunately, in a family of highly emotional individuals put into an extremely stressful situation, the peace was short lived.  Words were exchanged, past angers were awakened, and I was in the middle begging for everyone to stop.  Without going into details, the fight crescendoed until my mother-in-law changed her flight so that she could leave early. 

I hate to see her go, but I hate stressful situations even more.  I don’t have the energy for this right now so I agree with her decision and say goodbye.

So, in an effort to cover up his emotions, he has been drinking more and more.  I know that he’s hiding and storing bottles of alcohol so that he can discreetly refill his glass without my knowing.  He thinks that I don’t know, but I do.  I know him better than I know myself.  I feel terrible that he is in so much pain, and I don’t know what to do.