Life after crappy breast cancer means returning to some familiar things and also making some new choices. The song says "It ain't over 'til it's over," but when you've had crappy breast cancer, you discover that it's not even over when it's over!
After a marathon of the crappy cancer diagnosis
and treatment that seem to go on forever, one can hardly wait
to get back to a normal life again. There is no normal! I'm trying to find my new normal. My body has been through an enormous assault. I'm still recovering. I
can feel my nerves actually regenerating. . . . . a not too pleasant
feeling. And other places that will forever remain numb.
I have embarked on another leg of the trip. This one is all about
adjusting to life as a breast cancer survivor. In many ways, it's a lot like the life I had before, but in other ways, it's very
different.
My relationships with my family, spouse and friends. . . . . to my eating habits and (EEK) exercise have changed my life in ways that I hope and pray will last well after treatment ends. Treatment has been tough. I hate the side affects of these crappy cancer meds. How do I fight this lingering fatigue? What should I eat or NOT eat to help prevent a crappy cancer recurrence?
The emotional ups and downs are frustrating; with most of it due to the crappy cancer therapy. There are just so many things going on that it's hard to pin down what I hate the worst. Fatigue has got to be up there at the top though. Bone weary fatigue is no joke! NO ENERGY at all is making me feel much older than I am.
My sight has been affected. My memory and cognition have suffered. I don't sleep well. I hurt all the time. It's not just soreness; it's a deep down, my bones feel bruised, hurting. Just another not so pleasant side affect. And the hot flashes!!!! Oh Em GEE!!! These are so INTENSE!! Much more so than when I went through menopause!
I want my life back. I want my body, mind and energy back. Am I gambling with my life if I quit therapy? Studies suggest that I am. I'm on my second one and it's about as bad as the first one. I'm supposed to take this crappy cancer therapy for 8 years. EIGHT YEARS!!!! It feels like an endless process. However, studies show a great link between estrogen positive cancers coming back, sometimes decades later. Breast cancer is a smoldering, sneaky, insidious disease that is never truly over. So yes, I will most likely continue the treatment for the recommended time and suffer through it.
Everybody thinks I'm through. Done. What's the Big Deal anyway? They just don't get it. It Ain't Over! I'm still dealing with recovery. I'm still dealing with the therapy to prevent a recurrence. I'm not springing back to my old self. She's gone. She basically died the day I got the crappy cancer diagnosis. I'm having to reinvent myself. I'm having to rest more often. I have to make notes so I don't forget things. I'm having to carry around a fan and even go outside in 30 degree weather just so i can BREATHE! (you just have no idea how intense these dang hot flashes are!)
It Just Ain't Over.
AN OPEN LETTER TO MY PATIENT ON THE DAY OF HER MASTECTOMY
Today is the day. I am a member of the surgical team who will take care of you -- the team that will remove your breast to treat the cancer that has tried to make a home in your body. We all have our role today, and the world would see yours to be the "patient."
I see it as something more: a powerful gift to us.
Because you remind us why we do what we do.
Today will feel sterile and scary. And I am sorry for that.
I wish there were a better way. Today we will ask you to take all your clothes off and put in their place a gown. Women before you have worn it. Women after you will wear it. Be sure to ask for warm blankets, because we always have plenty. We will ask of you your blood type, your medical history, your allergies. We will ask you to lie down in a bed that's foreign to you. We will have to poke you so that we can start an IV.
You will meet many nurses, doctors, and hospital employees. We will write down important things for you to know. Your surgeon will see you soon. He will have to mark the breast we are having to remove today.
We will take you into the Operating Room -- a room only few have seen. There will be bright lights, lots of metal, instruments that you've never seen, and we will be dressed in gowns, gloves, and masks. Over our masks, we hope you can see our eyes reassuring you as you go off to sleep.
Today is the day you will have to say goodbye to a part of your body, a part of yourself.
Your breast has felt the warmth of a lover's caress, has fed your child with life-sustaining milk and connection. You have many memories stored in your breast, stories none of us today know about. Somehow I wish I knew them.
And yet. Here we are. We must do our rituals. We must scrub our arms and hands with alcohol so that we can fight off infection before we start. We don our gowns, our gloves, our masks. We must drape your body in blue.
You are exposed. And unconscious. And it must be difficult to trust. I honor you, Dear One.
My job is to help your surgeon take away the cancer. I get a bird's eye view of the process. The surgery begins and I feel your warm skin through my gloves. I wonder what stories you already have and the ones that are yet to come.
We carefully remove your breast. It never gets easy to see or to do. You must know this. It never feels natural, it never feels cavalier. It feels sacred to me. Every. Single. Time.
I look down and see your pectoralis major --- the big muscle behind your breast. A source of strength. It is beautiful and shiny. Sometimes it contracts a little bit while we work. Sometimes the muscle is bright red and young. Sometimes the muscle is faded a little. But it is always strong. I like to gently touch it withmy fingers. Because I feel your strength there.
We must send your breast away now. It officially leaves your body. I always feel an ache in my gut in that moment. There is no way for you to fully prepare for this day, Dear One.
I like to think that your body is already healing, as we close the incision we had to make.
Sewing your skin back together feels like I'm helping a little. But I know it's actually all youdoing the work. Even as you sleep, Dear One.
We will put a bandage on your incision. We will wake you up. We will tell you everything went well. But the road is just beginning for you.
I saw you today.
You are beautiful.
You are strong.
Thank you for entrusting me and my colleagues with your most intimate moments. I am honored to be a witness to this phase of your life.
Because now the healing begins. Now the grief is in full force. Now your breast is gone and in its place is a memory.
I watch you as you wake up. And I want to make it all go away. I can't. Today your body underwent a transformation. And today our team took care of your body. I hope we took care of your heart, too.
There is nothing we can say or do to make it go away. But please know that I care. We care.Behind our masks and gowns are heavy hearts and sometimes tears.
Yours are a gift today. Because you remind us of human resilience. You remind us of strength. You remind us of trust.
I saw you today.
You are beautiful.
You are strong.
I will not forget.
---Niki, your Nurse Practitioner First Assistant on the Surgical Team