Cured!

When I was going through treatment, I read a lot of blogs by people who had also gone through or were journeying through cancer. Many of the blogs just stopped, seemingly partway through the story and I always wondered what happened? In my lower days, I wondered if the person had died from their cancer, a very sad ending to their story. On better days, I assumed they finished their treatment, left cancer behind, and went on to live a happy healthy life. And I promised myself that one day, I would come back to this blog and write the ending. Happily, my update is the end of a chapter, not the end of my story.

After finishing my treatment all those years ago, I got the idea in my head that if I could survive five years without a recurrence, I would be cured. All the studies I read talk about the five year survival rate. The doctors won’t ever say that you’re cured, but I anticipated that I would feel cured after five years and that would be enough. But, in the first year after my treatment, I heard about a colleague’s wife who had a recurrence six years after completing her treatment; she died the following year. The news of her passing was sad, tragic, and, for me, scary. Her breast cancer had been caught in the early stages too, maybe not quite as early as mine, but still early. I revised my timeline. I would need to make it through ten years to feel cured. That meant carrying around ‘not cured’ for the next ten years. At least I had a long-term goal!

For the first year, the fear of a recurrence was strong. I felt my scars and my chest weekly looking for any signs of recurrence - always on a Monday; why ruin a perfectly good weekend? About a year after my surgery, I stayed in a hotel with floor to ceiling mirrors and excellent lighting in the bathroom. While stepping in to the shower, I noticed a lump on my chest, on the side that had had cancer. It was oddly cylindrical and hard. It was my worst fears realized - a lump not even a year after finishing treatment. I knew that if a lump came back that quickly, it must be very aggressive. I collapsed on the floor in a sobbing puddle. The lump appeared to foretell the end of Lisa. I couldn’t focus on anything except finding out if it was a recurrence. I was a mess of anxiety and the only thing I could hold on to, that gave me any hope, was the odd shape of my lump. Does cancer ever grow as a cylinder? I cut my trip short and flew home so I could see my surgeon. 

“Oh! That’s nothing to worry about. That’s just the titanium clip we used to repair your blood vessels. You have several others - here, here and here.”

The tears kept coming but now they were tears of joy! Lisa would live to see another day! Another year! Another decade! From the depths of despair to the peaks of gratitude, I drove home full of relief, joy, and  appreciation for what felt like my new lease on life.

Thankfully, there were no other scares. And with each passing year, the thought of recurrence didn’t occupy my thoughts as much. At five years cancer free, I celebrated by buying myself a much-needed new car - a limited edition pink VW Beetle! I’ve always liked the colour pink and since my diagnosis with breast cancer, it’s come to represent so much more - my strength and resilience and my joy at being alive. I couldn’t believe my good fortune when I found my Beetle - the car I’d always wanted as a child, in the colour that held so much meaning for me, in the year of my five-year cancer free anniversary. Bugzie and I were clearly meant to be! 

While the fear of recurrence slowly abated, an ongoing struggle has been adjusting to life sans boobies. Some parts of my new boob-free life were great. I never wear a bra (woohoo!) and the feeling of some fabrics on my naked chest is delightful! Most sports, especially trampolining, which I’ve really gotten into lately, are much nicer without having even my small boobies flopping around. But, while functionally life is definitely easier without boobies, it’s been a challenging mental journey. I had thought that since my boobies were quite small that it wouldn’t matter much if they were gone. But it did. I missed them. My body looked so different. I looked like a child with my flat chest. I couldn’t imagine anyone ever seeing me as sexy again; I couldn’t see myself as sexy. I felt deficient, defective and less than. I still struggle with this occasionally.

But, for my ten year cancer free anniversary, my dear friends surprised me with a gift that made me feel beautiful. One is an artist and the others sent photos of their breasts to her. She drew each of them along with what she guessed my scarred chest looked like and the text ‘10 Years’. 

Seeing my chest alongside the chests of these beautiful, vibrant, amazing women made me feel equal for the first time since my surgery. They saw my chest as worthy of being art! For the first time, I thought that maybe my different chest could still be beautiful. I think this is the most impactful gift I have ever received and I will forever be grateful to my babes for their generosity and the important lesson I’m taking from their gift. My cups may not floweth over, but my spirit does and that is beautiful. 

The day of my ten-year cancer free anniversary, I felt liberated. I hadn’t really been thinking about a recurrence for quite some time - although sometimes the memories of my time in treatment are triggered and I expect that will stay with me - but, nonetheless, the meaning of that day resonated so strongly with me. I had made it! In my mind, I was finally cured! Cured of cancer! The weight was lifted and I was free!

To celebrate, my babes and I went out. We dined; we danced; we did a photo shoot and attracted a lot of attention. It was an incredibly special night. I felt beautiful and sexy and so much love from all my friends and family 💕 

Look at these women - gorgeous inside and out!

I may not have a chest that attracts much attention, but we discovered that night that I have an ass that just won’t quit! When a door closes, a window opens! 😂 
 

And that is the end of the chapter entitled ‘Lisa, Cancer Slayer’. I’m ready to write my next chapter! It’s called Lisa’s Roaring 40s and it’s full of fun, adventure, new skills, travel, and a bit of risk and rebellion - it’s a joyous celebration of being alive. 

With much love and positive thoughts to anyone who stumbled upon my blog and is going through their own cancer slaying. I hope your chapter has the happiest of endings. 

27 Down & One More Day

I've now completed 27 sessions of radiation and have one session left. It is tomorrow at 3:45 pm. It’s hard to believe I’m almost done, although I’ve been told that the side effects worsen for the first one to two weeks after the last treatment before they start to get better.

For the most part, the side effects have been manageable. I’m tired, sore and sometimes grouchy (perhaps more than sometimes!). I have a large rectangular patch of what looks like a very bad sunburn on my chest, which I have to put cream on several times a day to hopefully prevent the skin from cracking. It itches and I have to sleep with gloves on so I won’t scratch it and damage the skin. The skin feels like dry leather and it’s bumpy as if every hair follicle is standing up in revolt of this treatment.  One more day.

One more day of going to the Cancer Agency.  Mentally, it’s a bit tough going every day to a place called the Cancer Agency and knowing that you’re a patient. It doesn’t allow you to forget that this is real and not some horrible nightmare. But, everyone I’ve met at the Agency has been really nice and compassionate.

I’m in radiation Unit A. The first time, it was impossible to find. Now, the route is familiar. I am a pro at this and I have a routine. Front entrance, elevator to 2, left, left, right, left, right, elevator to 0, check in at Unit A.

I am robe 889. It is hanging in a cloth bag on a brown hanger on the lower rack, in the middle. I hang it in the same place on the same hanger every day. At first, it was to make my robe easier to find, but now it is a part of my routine.

Last week, I checked in to Unit A at the same time as another woman. She showed them her appointment card and I thought, ‘Aha! A newbie’. You really only need to drop off your appointment card on Fridays, so that they can write in your appointment times for the following week.

We arrived at the change rooms at the same time. My competitive nature surfaced – I will be the best cancer slayer. Today, that means I will be the fastest to change into my robe. Mission accomplished - I was triumphant in my imaginary race.

After changing, it’s time to sit in the waiting room. Sometimes, I don’t have to wait at all and I rarely have to wait for long, which is great because the waiting room is my least favourite part. Before changing into my robe, I imagine that other people think I work at the Agency. I look a lot more like the doctors who treat me than I look like the other patients, who are most often decades older than me.

But, in my robe, I’m clearly a patient. The robe is a thin cotton cloth wrap. It does nothing to hide my flat chest and I try to cover up as much as I can.  In the waiting room, I feel the others, mostly seniors, looking at me. I imagine that I am their feel-better comparison, that they think: ‘That poor young woman, at least I made it to 50, 60 or 70 years old, before cancer struck me’. I look back at them and think: ‘You’re right, I am far too young for this. How the hell did this happen?’ I have yet to see anyone younger than me in the waiting room. One more day.

The radiation therapist calls my name and I am thankful my time in the waiting room is over. The radiation therapists at the Cancer Agency are fantastic. They are kind, caring, gentle and respectful. They also offer me a warm blanket every day for my treatment. Regardless of the situation, I never say no to a warm blanket.

The linear accelerator (a.k.a., radiation machine) looks a little like a really large KitchenAid mixer. I’ve always liked baking, but I’ve learned through my radiation treatments that it’s much nicer to be the baker than the bakee!

I lie down on the ‘bed’ with my arms above my head and my chest exposed. The therapists maneuver me until I am perfectly lined up with the plan designed by my radiation oncologist. 

With only one day left, my area of treatment is obvious – my red rectangle – but, in the beginning it wasn’t so easy. To help line me up in the exact same way every day, I was given two tiny tattoos before treatment began. They are just tiny little blue dots, but they are still tattoos, which means I’m badass now.

About halfway through my treatments, I had a student who was very aggressive when trying to line me up. It was painful, but more than that it was the first time through this whole experience I had ever felt uncomfortable and sensitive about someone touching my chest. It left me in tears and I gave some feedback to the trainer.

That experience made me realize how lucky I’ve been with all of my doctors at the Cancer Agency. I had thought that I had lost all modesty and just didn’t mind being touched and examined, but this experience showed me that it’s actually the skill and training of the doctors and therapists that put me at ease and made me feel comfortable.

On alternate days, I have to wear a ‘bolus’ over the area to be treated. It’s a clear plastic rubbery material that increases the radiation to the skin. Since I had Paget’s, which is a cancer of the nipple, my oncologist wants to make sure that nothing malignant is left in the skin or scar. I see my oncologist every week. Last week, she said I didn’t need the bolus anymore. Apparently, my skin has reacted enough.

Once I’m all lined up in the machine, the therapists leave the room and watch me on their television monitors. I am the star on the most boring tv show imaginable. Through an intercom, they ask me to take a deep breath and hold it. The expansion of my lungs push my heart farther away from the radiation field and that's a good thing. The radiation lasts about 5 seconds and then I’m allowed to exhale. The machine rotates and we repeat, except this time the radiation comes from the side instead of the top. The baking is now done for the day.

I wish the therapists a good day and hurry to the change room where I quickly change back into my regular clothes and put my robe back in bag 889. However, today, my brown hanger wasn’t waiting for me on the middle of the lower rack.  Somebody else had used it! Suspecting a newbie as this had never happened before, my suspicions were confirmed when I spotted my hanger on the end of the lower rack with a newbie’s bag. I knew it was a newbie as the last day of treatment is shown on the outside of the bag. I quickly righted the situation by taking the brown hanger for myself and giving the newbie a lovely white hanger.  I allow myself this little bit of crazy. I just need the brown hanger for one more day, then the newbie can have it.

I try to avoid looking at anyone when I pass through the waiting room on my way out. I exit the Cancer Agency and breathe deeply, elated that I’m done another day. One more day.

The Worst of the Best

By the Friday after my surgery, things started to calm down. Our doggies finally got their act together and managed to go a whole day without needing a trip to the vet. I was still having abdominal pain, but we weren’t worried about it anymore after our visit to St. Paul’s. All in all, things were looking up.

Overall, the pain from the surgery was less than I expected. This was because I hadn’t anticipated that the surgery would sever all of the nerves on my chest and I would be left with almost no feeling. I have heard from some women that feeling has returned in some cases, but for now, you could set me on fire and I’d have no idea.

While the pain on my chest was less than expected, the pain I experienced from wearing the compression bandages was awful and definitely the worst part of that first week. If I hadn’t developed a hematoma on my right side, I would have been spared the compression bandage. However, with the hematoma, my options were compression bandage or a second surgery to drain the blood. Sign me up for the compression bandage!

Wearing the compression bandage, I developed muscle spasms in my back and in all the little muscles between my ribs as I struggled to breathe normally. I was allowed out of the compression bandage twice a day for about 45 minutes. Those 90 minutes a day were pure heaven – I could breathe again. It was really back to basics - I was beside myself with gratitude for the ability to take a deep breath.

Though I couldn’t feel most of my chest, I could feel pain on the perimeter of the surgical site and the compression bandage put a lot of pressure on that whole area.  I really hated that compression bandage!

Squeamish Alert! The next three paragraphs may not be for the faint of stomach!

The second worst part of that first week was the drains. I had a piece of flexible plastic tubing nearly a foot long underneath my skin on both sides of my chest. The tubing was dotted with holes to collect fluid. Where the tubing exited my skin, it became solid and the fluid drained into plastic collection ‘grenades’ that were pinned to my clothes. These grenades had to be drained a couple of times a day and the exterior tubing also had to be regularly ‘milked’ to ensure no clots built up inside, preventing drainage. I’m not squeamish, but I found the drained fluid to be quite gross and smelly.

To save me from what he could of this experience, Pascal usually did the milking and draining. I would close my eyes, plug my nose and we would sing Christmas carols so that I wouldn’t have to hear the gurgling. We now have quite the repertoire and are considering a career change (kidding  - we sound better than gurgling, but that’s about it!).

I mentioned the smell to my breast surgeon and she surprised me by saying: ‘that’s what people smell like on the inside’. It had never crossed my mind that we have a smell on the inside. As it turns out, we smell rather icky; I guess a surgeon would know.

Over the course of the first week, the fluid draining from my left side lessened and gradually lightened in colour from red to about the colour of apple juice. Each day, Pascal and I would measure the amount of drainage and document it on my chart to show the home nurse. One week out from surgery, the fluid draining from my left side had reduced enough that the drain was removed – hurray!!!

It was such a relief to have the drain removed. I think it was on top of a nerve that give me a little shock every time I breathed in. The right side drain would have to stay in longer to allow the hematoma to drain out.

Going into the surgery, I knew that my prognosis and any further treatment would depend on what was discovered when they analysed my recently departed boobies. The analysis would be documented on a pathology report and I had been told that this would take two to three weeks. Knowing this, I tried my best to put it out of mind completely that first week and just focus on getting through each day.

However, about a week after my surgery, my nurse navigator called wanting to schedule an appointment for me with my breast surgeon. She said that my path report was back. My heart started racing, I started sweating and I felt a bit faint. I hadn’t expected it so soon. This was the moment of truth, when we would find out if we got all the cancer out, if it had spread to my lymph nodes, if it was invasive, if, if, if…

I was barely able to sputter out the words “the lymph nodes, were they negative?” I don’t remember wanting anything more desperately in my life. My prognosis, chemo, everything hung in the balance. This was the difference between catching it early and maybe catching it too late. This could change my delay in going to a doctor for the rash on my nipple from the biggest, costliest mistake of my life to moot. I could feel the blood racing around my head as my nurse navigator struggled to find the answer to the most important question in my life, my world.  Please, please, please, let it be negative.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime she said: ‘it’s negative’. I wept with joy, not even waiting to get off the phone. I yelled to Pascal, to the house, to the universe: ‘it’s negative, the lymph node is negative!’ and continued weeping, releasing four and half months of worry and stress at levels I had never experienced before. I’m weeping now as I write this and I hope that I never again feel such desperation.

A couple of days later, I met with the surgeon to review the path report and check on my healing. She was pleased with the left side, which was healing very nicely, but we were still waiting for the hematoma on the right side to drain.

Going over the path report, we confirmed what the nurse navigator had told us – the lymph node was negative. The surgeon had previously told me that three lymph nodes were removed, but it turned out to only be one and that one lymph node was a cancer-free rock star. If I could have had it framed, I would have, but my once perfect breasts and lymph node are now the property of the BC Cancer Agency.

The path report went on to say that the cancer was large – 9 cm and the margin with my chest wall was 0.1 mm. Yikes! Those are numbers I didn’t want to see. On the good side, the pathologist didn’t find any evidence of the cancer being invasive. That’s a big plus. So, two good results, two bad, but the two good results were the really important ones, so that’s another win for the slayer!

The results of the path report were a bit unexpected. It was much larger and closer to my chest wall than we had thought prior to surgery. What did all this mean? Well, it didn’t change the fact that I had the ‘best’ kind of cancer, if you’re going to get breast cancer. It was all non-invasive (ductal carcinoma in situ – dcis) and hadn’t spread to my lymph nodes, but within that category of ‘best’ I was at the worst side of the spectrum because of the large size and the frighteningly close margin with my chest wall.

We were also surprised to learn from the path report that my right breast had pre-cancer, even though nothing had been detected on the MRI or the mammogram.  If I ever had any doubt about going for the prophylactic mastectomy on the right side, this certainly erased it!

With the path report in hand, I was ready to meet with a radiation oncologist to determine if further treatment was necessary. But first, I asked for a second pathologist to review my tissue. People make mistakes and this was one analysis that required complete accuracy. I wanted to know for sure that no mistakes were made and we knew exactly what we were dealing with before making any further decisions.

The second path report confirmed the findings of the first. I had the worst of the best and I wondered if this would mean I would need further treatment. 

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Hospital

Happy New Year! I hope 2012 brings us all health and joy (and perhaps two new boobs for me)!

Ok, it’s been awhile, but I’m back in the saddle and I’ve got lots of updating to do. So, let’s go back in time to just after my surgery…

With me out of the hospital, super hubby Pascal had two patients to look after – me and Zeus, one of our two little dogs who was recovering from an eye infection. Pretty manageable, or so we thought.

Shortly after my last blog post, having enjoyed my super yummy dinner and basking in my time outside of the compression bandages, I started having pain and swelling in my abdomen. I called 8-1-1, just like 9-1-1 but for medical non-emergencies, to speak with a nurse, and she said that since I was only one day post-surgery, I should go to Emergency and get checked out. This was at 11 pm, when I was much more ready to head to bed than back to the hospital.

We let the dogs out to do their business in the yard when Pascal noticed that Zena, our other precious pooch, seemed to be having trouble doing what dogs do in a yard. He also recalled that she had a stomach ache the day before. Putting two and two together, he quickly surmised that she might have a ‘blockage’.  Yikes – sounds serious! Nurse Pascal was now at three patients.

We all piled into the car and Pascal, in a rather stressed voice said: “ok, I’m going to drop you off at St. Paul’s Emergency and then take Zena to the 24 hour Animal Hospital”.

While discussing who would be getting dropped off at the hospital (Zena!) and who would have Pascal accompany them (me!), we started en route. On Kingsway, I recalled that Pascal’s parents had taken our dogs for a walk earlier that day. Maybe they could shed some light on Patient #3.

11:30 pm PST – The Strangest Conversation Ever - translated from French

Pascal: "Mom, I don’t have time to tell you why, but I need to know if Zena pooped on the walk today."

Pascal’s Mom: "Yes, she did."

Pascal: "Excellent news, thanks! Bye!"

So Zena didn’t have a blockage; we figured it was a return of her back problem and Patient #2 (me!) again became the focus. Arriving at St. Paul’s (Mount St. Jo’s ER closes at 8pm), the car and the doggies were left in the parkade and I went to Admitting.

Any time I’ve been to an ER previously, it’s always been a long wait. Now, I know the secret to a quick entrance - arrive wearing your pajamas and looking like hell, one day post- double mastectomy and complaining of abdomen pain and swelling. I was admitted immediately.

By this time, I was exhausted and close to falling asleep on the stretcher I had been assigned. Poor Pascal was not. He was on high alert, monitoring my breathing and trying to keep me awake. He was worried that I had internal bleeding and might slip away before the doctor even arrived.

The doctor, however, was able to allay all our fears. The abdominal pain and swelling was from the hematoma I had suffered on the right side. The fluid was tracking down from the site of the operation to the abdomen and would eventually be reabsorbed. In the meantime, it looked a bit like my right boob had migrated from my chest to my abdomen.

That problem solved, we headed back home for a night of well-deserved rest.

The next day the focus was back on Patient #3 (Zena). She seemed to be doing a bit better, so we crossed our fingers, hoped for the best and asked the doggies if “they could please keep it together while we get through some tough stuff”.

Later that day, Zena’s pain returned and Pascal took her to the vet. While they were gone, I cuddled with Zeus (a.k.a., Patient #1). While petting him, I noticed he had some oddly shaped dirt on his back. After some research, I discovered this patch of oddly shaped dirt was actually flea (ahem) poop. Yuck! So much for the doggies holding it together!

When Pascal and Zena returned with her pain killers and muscle relaxant for her sprained back, I told Pascal the bad news. Patient #1 has a secondary infection – fleas!

Pascal spent the rest of the day washing, clipping and flea treating the dogs, washing and cleaning the entire house, throwing out doggie beds and toys and shopping for new doggie beds and toys. It was not a good day, but the house and dogs sure were clean!

Another day, another night of well-deserved rest. Hopefully, Pascal’s three patients wouldn’t give him any more problems!

The Surgery

Tuesday, November 2, 2011.

If today was a bra, it would be a double D day, because it was a big, big day!

We woke up at 5:25 AM, 5 minutes before the alarm clock to go to St Paul Hospital, the first stop of our hospital crawl.

St. Paul, unlike my final destination for the day, has a nuclear medicine department, where my left nipple received a shot of radioactive tracer dye. The role of this substance is to drain via the nearby lymphatic vessels toward the local nodes where it accumulates and signals to my surgeon equipped with the proper detector which nodes she should remove. This procedure is called a sentinel node biopsy where hopefully they will find that the cancer hasn’t infiltrated my lymphatic system.

After this first stop, we continued our hospital crawl to Mount Saint Joseph Hospital and arrived around 8 AM. I first met with my surgeon who went over the surgery and drew where she would make the incision. Then a nurse asked for the fourth time in less than two hours for my birthday (so I expect a lot of presents this year) and offered me a stylish gown and a pair of green socks. My anesthesiologist then joined the party and things started to get very fuzzy...

… Although alertness did not all come back at once, I knew where I was and why my chest was killing me while I drifted in and out for about an hour in the recovery room.

I eventually regained full consciousness thanks to my bladder telling me it was time to get up. My surgeon came to see me. She described the purpose of the two clear and soft hand grenades attached to my chest by tubings disappearing under my bandages. They are drain to help prevent the accumulation of fluid. Although they have a key role in my recovery, I find them quite disgusting. My surgeon also told me that she saw “no cancer cells stuck to the chest wall” (yay!) “and the lymph nodes looked good” (double yay!!)

The definitive answer will come in about three weeks with the final pathology report. In the meantime it looks like all the cancer is gone and this round goes to the slayer.

Wednesday, November 3, 2011.

Last night was tough. After a relatively good afternoon slowly recovering from the surgery and visiting with my parents from Chilliwack, I noticed around 8:00 PM some swelling that made me quite concerned. The nurses and eventually the night doctor came to see and after discussion with my surgeon, it was decided to put a very tight wrapping around my chest and check the swelling in the morning.  Yikes that hurt! I don’t like taking drugs, but agreed to the morphine the doctor offered and it allowed me to sleep until about 3 AM. I guess the morphine had worn off as I woke up with a lot of pain, much of it in my ribs and back reacting to the compression bandages. I felt the need to move around a bit, thinking that it would help manage my back pain. Pascal, who had found a recliner and was able to stay with me, helped me walk down the hallway. Once we arrived by the nurse’s desk, things started to get fuzzy again – not a good sign after the surgery. Fortunately, a nurse found a chair for me before I fainted. I was wheeled back to my room and eventually fell back asleep until about 6:00 AM.  My surgeon came by shortly after and removed the compression wrapping. The swelling had gone down and her answers to my questions about the surgery made me feel better. When I asked her if in her expert opinion, she thought we got all the cancer out, she said ‘Yes’, music to my ears.

Pascal brought me a yummy breakfast, peanut butter on quinoa bread and a freshly made green juice. Everyone should be so lucky to have such a wonderful (and handsome) caregiver.

I shared my hospital room with another woman who had breast surgery. The first time she had it was 7 years ago and she was now having a recurrence treated. At the time of her first diagnosis, she was told that it was non-invasive, like mine, yet it came back. However, they didn’t test her lymph nodes, which is where it came back. This is why it was so important for my lymph nodes to be tested, even if everything is pointing to a non-invasive cancer.  

After visits from the person organizing home nursing, the physiotherapist who briefed me on the exercises I could start right away, and a final tutorial from a nurse who showed me how to empty my drains I was cleared to go home.

We were back home around 11 AM; it’s hard to believe not much more than 24 hours had lapsed since it all started.

Nicely installed on my bed, it did not take me long to fall asleep. I eventually woke up wondering what day it was. It was only 5 PM so I went downstairs to watch some TV before a yummy dinner.  I don’t seem to have lost my appetite, so that’s good!

It’s now getting close to bedtime again and I’m enjoying some time out of my compression bandages. I hope I won’t have to wear them too long, they kill.

Several studies I read throughout my research showed that the more support a cancer slayer has, the better the outcome, so thank you for your love, support, friendship, compassion, jokes, emails, dvds, and books. I really, really appreciate it and love you all. I think I’ll be up for some short visits this weekend. Please use the calendar to let us know if and when you’ll be able to stop by.

Hugs,

Lisa.

We Have a Date!

After an excruciatingly long wait, we finally have a date. On November 1, we will bid a sad farewell to my poor boobies.

Thinking back to my teens, I thought my boobies were just fashionably late and hoped they would be worth the wait. But alas, it turns out that they are actually big party poopers as they not only arrived late to the party, but they will also be leaving far too early.

Nonetheless, they were worth the wait (so long as you subscribe to good things and small packages!) My plastic surgeon said they were perfect; high praise from someone who sees many, many breasts!

The past several weeks have been a roller coaster. I usually like rides, but this is one I wish I hadn’t got on. When I look back on it now, I’m so glad each week is done and the wait is nearly over.

There have been some highs – like when I was able to change my surgical oncologist. The first one I met with, while experienced, didn’t seem to appreciate my many questions. I want someone who’s willing to work with me. It’s my body, my decisions. My new surgeon is a rockstar in her field. She has no problem answering lots of questions and I feel very comfortable with her. Studies have shown that the experience of your surgeon does impact your prognosis, so I’m very grateful and relieved to be her patient/groupie.

Tip #1: You will be assigned doctors throughout the cancer treatment process. If any of them don’t work for you, ask to see someone else. You always have a choice.

There have also been some downs. A big one was getting the MRI results back. From the MRI report, we learned that the cancer, while still showing no signs of invasion (Yay!), was spread over a larger area than we had thought. In fact, it appears to abut the chest wall (Boo! Bad cancer!) This was scary stuff and a very bad day. Compounding the already bad day was the news that the MRI spotted a small mass with benign features in the “good” boob. This little bit of news translated into more ultrasounds and a biopsy of the right breast. We’re still waiting on the results of this, although the radiologist is confident that it’s just a lymph node (fingers crossed).

In hindsight, I really wasn’t prepared for the MRI report. I didn’t know that mammograms and biopsies typically underestimate the spread of the cancer and that the MRI is much more accurate. I also didn’t know that MRIs pick up every little thing that isn’t absolutely perfect (e.g., a lymph node in your right breast) and that these little imperfections can be false positives, but still need to be checked to rule out cancer.

Tip #2: Mammograms and ultrasounds are useful imaging tools, but can underestimate cancer spread and even miss it entirely. If you need details, MRIs are the bee’s knees.

Another challenge over the last two weeks that has been creating a lot of downs is that I have been having pain in my armpit and chest wall on the left (cancer) side. I’ve talked to my nurse navigator and there’s nothing that can be done before my surgery. So, we wait and hope that it’s just stress. Physically, the pain is not a big deal -  just a slight bother. Mentally, it’s almost unbearable.

However, today it seemed a bit better. Now that’s a GREAT BIG UP!

Thank You Cancer Slayers!

Today was a big day for fighting breast cancer. Lisa’s Cancer Slayers, a team of 19 fabulous family and friends, ran and walked for a cure for breast cancer! 

Our team raised over $2000, doubling our goal of $1000. Thanks to everyone who came out to walk/run and who donated, I greatly appreciate the support! Our MVP fundraiser was Dani, who raised over $700! Amazing - thanks!

If you didn’t get a chance to donate yet, it’s not too late! You can still donate to our team at the following link:

http://www.runforthecure.com/site/TR/RunfortheCure2012/BCYukon?team_id=21367&pg=team&fr_id=1266

It was really great to gather together with friends and family for today’s event. It was an emotional day, seeing the names of people who participants were running for, some in memoriam, and knowing that my team was running for me. It’s still hard to acknowledge that I’m in Club ‘C’ now, but I know that I have a strong support network and it was never more apparent than today. So thank you Cancer Slayers! Thank you for coming out and being with me today.

I need to send a few shout outs to some rock stars of the day.

A huge thank you to my friends Amanda and Bob for suggesting we have a brunch after the run and offering to host. I loved hanging out with Lisa’s Cancer Slayers – it made the day all the more special.

Another big thanks to Mama and Papa Bear who woke up at 5 AM to drive in from Chilliwack for the race. I know you dislike early mornings as much as I do and I know you did it for me. Thank you, I love you both very much.

And finally, an enormous thank you to my hubby, Pascal, for organizing the team, co-ordinating tshirt distribution and spending all afternoon yesterday making crepes for the brunch. The next best thing to crepes in France are crepes made by a Frenchman! Tu es sensas! Merci beaucoup, je t’aime.

This year, our team sported 'Lisa's Cancer Slayer's' t-shirts. 

Next year, I'm thinking pink boas!