Fighting Breast Cancer

When breaking bad news to people, I’ve always been of the School Of Thought which believes that you should just spit-it-out, as “they” say.  The sooner you relay the news, the sooner people can start to get over it.  However, after telling my parents that I have Breast Cancer, I’m beginning to think that I should have pulled the punch of my delivery a little and told them in a roundabout way. 

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.

Did I mention before that my husband is a neurotic crazy person?  Well, for once, his neurosis may have come in handy.  Since my cancer diagnosis, Michael has called every single person that he knows trying to get information and opinions about lumpectomies vs. mastectomies. 

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.

It just so happens that the world famous Mayo Clinic has a facility in Scottsdale, Arizona, about 40 minutes from my home.  My husband absolutely insisted that I get, what he considers to be, the best medical care available.  He called our insurance company and they said that we were technically covered, but for the Mayo Clinic, there is a $10,000 deductible, plus you have to pay for any diagnostic work out of pocket.”

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.

There is nothing to new to report at this time, except my cough has been getting worse and worse.  I have never had allergy / asthma problems quite this intense before!!!!  We’ve had a lot of rain this year, but still…this is ridiculous!  I can barely speak on the telephone to my clients.  Even the inhaler that I’ve been using hasn’t been working.  Maybe I’ll ask to see an allergist at the Mayo Clinic while I’m there.  I’m driving my husband crazy.

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. 

*cough, cough*.  Well, at least I’m getting a good ab workout. *cough, cough*

I met with a surgical oncologist, Dr. G, at the Mayo Clinic today.  It turns out that Mayo has a place called the Breast Center.  My husband joked that it sounds like the “best place in the whole wide world”, but it wasn’t quite as he fantasized.  You can always count on Michael to make boob jokes, even at the most inappropriate times.  He is 34, going on 17.

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.

Dr. G scheduled me to have a new bilateral mammogram (meaning both breasts) with ultrasound, as well as a chest x-ray and bone scan.  The Mayo Clinic does all of their blood work and radiology tests in house, so I should get all of my results by tomorrow.

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 move 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.