I Knew I Would Get Better
Fri., October 22, 12:00 PM
I can’t explain where the certainty came from. I absolutely knew that I would get better. I was aware that it might not be easy, but I knew everything would be fine. I even began to feel a little stupid as I talked to myself: “how can you be so dumb, woman, you have cancer – I know, but I’m going to get better.” My surgeon agreed that the outlook was good, and that my attitude would play a large part of that.
I derived more confidence from the screening procedures that came next. Chemotherapy cannot begin without testing cardiac function; I passed that test with flying colors. I also had to have both a bone scan and a CT scan. They were looking for other signs of illness, but found none. The CT showed some fluid where my surgery had been, and that was all. That’s when I began telling people, “I’m in pretty good shape for the shape I’m in.”
Lots of people find such remarks amusing, but there’s a certain…madness to my method? I’ve always known that laughter will help me through anything, even though there are times when you laugh to keep from crying. Another reason I do this is for the professionals that are caring for me. It lets them know that I understand what they’re doing, that I don’t blame them for discomfort, and that they don’t have to tiptoe around me.
Because I felt so optimistic, I never even went through the “why me?” phase. Statistically, of course, it never should have happened at all. There is no family history of cancer, I don’t live in a “Love Canal-type” region, I don’t smoke, I eat the right foods. I breast-fed my babies. But I didn’t learn about statistics and probabilities for nothing. I understand that, unless it’s 100 per cent, there’s always somebody who’s on the low end. It happens.
Nearly forty years ago I learned about breast self-examination, and I practiced it. But I didn’t find this lump; I couldn’t even find it after I saw the mammo film. The surgeon showed me where it was – it was very deep – and I still had trouble feeling the edges.
I know that I have been very fortunate throughout my treatment, and I never would have you think, “oh, it’s nothing.” Whenever I had the opportunity to speak with other patients, I felt blessed.
You may have heard about “drive-through” mastectomies; I just had a one-day lumpectomy. There is a difference and, since U.D. was there to take me home and care for me, I was better off. There was nothing that professional nurses could provide at that point that couldn’t be done at home. I had medication for pain, and I was far less likely to pick up someone else’s infection in my own bed.
Technical? I made it simple for my friend Gloria. They removed a lump about the size of a walnut, with an extra half inch of tissue all around to be on the safe side. Only three of the seven lymph nodes removed were affected. For all intents and purposes, they had removed it all. Whatever followed was preventative.
Less than two weeks after surgery, the doctor turned me over to an oncologist. I’m sure he was glad to get rid of me: I was a demanding patient. I wanted a smaller dressing, I wanted the drain removed, I wanted the staples out. My own perceptions of my progress guided my requests; I knew what I needed.
My oncologist is wonderful. (He’s even better than I knew; in a recent survey of Connecticut physicians, he’s the one they would choose for themselves.) He explained everything at the beginning, including “you’ll lose your hair.” (That will take an entry of its own.) I would begin with chemotherapy (I figured that would take most of the summer), and that would be followed by radiation therapy. I could plan on everything’s being finished by the end of the year.
You have probably heard all sorts of things about chemotherapy. I know I had, and I was amazed at how much the techniques have progressed. It’s poison, so one dose is administered, and then they give you antidotes for the next three weeks, to make you ready for the next one. They begin with anti-nausea medication, which is really effective. I carried “just-in-case” pills with me, but never needed them. That negative effect just didn’t occur.
The drugs hit your blood cells as well as the cancer cells. Obviously, they have to counteract that. First shot – a day later – is for the white cells. That’s a kick in the marrow, and it’s accompanied by bone pain. I learned to start my aminocetaphin before the pain began, and it was bearable. Just an over-the-counter remedy.
Low white counts mean you’re susceptible to infection, and I hated hearing “stay out of crowds, don’t go to the movies, wash your hands, steam your vegetables…” Inconvenient, but I could manage that. I was careful enough that infection never became an issue.
Blood was drawn weekly, and my red cells were depressed too, of course. There is a medication just for that, and it worked beautifully for me. Unlike many other patients, I never needed a transfusion. “Pretty good shape…”
Injections and blood drawing will forever be somewhat problematic: only one arm is available. Once lymph nodes are removed, you are susceptible to swelling in the arm, particularly if something tight goes around it. They don’t take my blood pressure on that side. I even stopped wearing a watch. Bless the phlebotomist who was able to draw blood out of my right arm – painlessly – each week without bruising or spoiling the vein.
That same arm is the only one available for intravenous injection as well. My nurses were so skilled – and my veins were healthy enough – so that I never needed a port, a device that makes IV’s easier but involves problems of its own.
The one symptom I experienced throughout chemo was extreme fatigue, which fortunately is easy to treat. It often came on unexpectedly, so that it was a good thing I was home anyway. I generally curled up on the couch every afternoon and napped for a couple of hours. “She’s nesting,” U.D. would explain.
To be continued…
