Four months ago today, on October 1st, I sat in a dark room with my friend, who also happens to be my radiologist at the breast center I have gone to for the past few years. She had just finished reading my diagnostic mammogram, and had the great misfortune on that day of having to tell me that I would need a biopsy, because my mammogram showed some calcifications that looked suspicious. Upon further pressing by me, she told me that she suspected that I had something called "ductal carcinoma in situ," or early breast cancer. Her suspicions were confirmed the following week after my biopsy on October 7th.
One month later, on November 1st, I laid on a table in the Saint Thomas surgical prep area while my amazing surgeon, Jeanne Ballinger, did her best to assure me that my lumpectomy would go well, and that my lymph nodes would be clear. I was scared. The surgery went well, however, and indeed, the next day, Dr. Ballinger was able to confirm that the surgery had been successful, and that the cancer had not spread to my lymph nodes.
This morning, I sat in a well-lit room at the Dan Rudy Cancer Center with my radiation oncologist, Paul Rosenblatt. I had just received my thirty-third and final radiation treatment, and Dr. Rosenblatt and I talked about what the future would hold for me. I told him how much I appreciated his skill and compassion, and thanked him and his staff with a cake that said "33 Down, O To Go. Thanks Y'all!!"
The last four months of my life have been, in many ways, dominated by breast cancer. While the hardest part of the journey appears to be behind me, the journey is by no means over. I'll have follow-up visits and frequent mammograms. And as much as I historically have disliked going to the doctor, I am taking some comfort in the fact that I'll be followed by so many doctors. If anything comes up in the future, we'll presumably find it early, and nip it right in the bud. I have great doctors. I am blessed.
My hope is that this blog will provide hope and encouragement to other women diagnosed with breast cancer, and persuade friends and family to take care of themselves and to stay on top of their healthcare. Please, if you're reading this blog, go for your annual mammograms. Check your breasts monthly. Go see a doctor if something doesn't seem right. As Elizabeth Edwards reportedly told women in the years between her diagnosis and her death, the cancer is either there or it isn't; the only thing that having a mammogram changes is your options. Catching cancer early can make all of the difference in a woman's prognosis. While cancer can certainly be scary, it also can be a very manageable disease, particularly if detected early.
So you may be wondering what will happen to my blog now that I've finished my treatment. I certainly will keep writing, but perhaps not as frequently as I have been. Who knows, maybe in the aftermath of my treatment, I'll have more to say about cancer and its' impact on my life. On the other hand, maybe I'll move on with my life and not write much more. We'll just have to see. One thing is certain though: I've loved writing this blog and sharing my journey with you, my readers.
A huge and heartfelt thanks to each of you who have read my blog and followed my journey. I am extremely grateful for the support and encouragement you've provided to me along the way.
Erin
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
You're Not the Only One
I am keenly aware of the fact that everyone -- regardless of age, income, race or social status -- has challenges in life. I learned this lesson years ago as couples I thought had the perfect marriage announced they were divorcing, or as I learned that another family's seemingly perfect teenager was struggling with depression and suicidal ideations. I learned long ago not to look at other people and assume that their lives were perfect; no one has a perfect life. We all have struggles.
I was once again reminded of this fact, however, yesterday, as I sat in the parent waiting room at one of my middle child's therapy programs. I was sharing with one of the employees there that I had been diagnosed with breast cancer. There were three other parents in the room who listened intently, and for a brief moment, I felt "special."
What transpired next, however, was one of the most unexpected and moving conversations in which I've been involved in a long time. After I shared my situation, each of the other three parents in the room ended up sharing their own recent health issues. One parent had been diagnosed with a terrible neck cancer that, while once was deemed "terminal," recently had simply abated and disappeared. Just weeks ago, he was declared "cancer-free." Another parent shared how she recently had undergone surgery for two masses in her body, neither of which turned out to be cancer, but both of which could have turned into cancer had they not been removed. The third parent talked about a serious neck condition for which she had had a complicated and lengthy surgery several years ago.
As the parent whose cancer recently has disappeared told us his story, and shared with us how many people had been praying for him, and how grateful he was that God had heard and answered those prayers, we all sat mesmerized, thinking undoubtedly about our own experiences, and so grateful to hear this parent's powerful testimony, and to be blessed by his amazing outlook on life and prayer and family and God.
Not for a minute do I think that I'm the only person walking around with challenges, or that I'm somehow special because I've had this experience with breast cancer. My main motivations in writing this blog were to have a record of the experience, and hopefully to provide hope and encouragement to women facing this diagnosis in the future. As we walk through our lives, and face the challenges with which we are presented, we cannot forget that everyone we encounter has trials and tribulations, and that we can be a blessing in other people's lives, regardless of what we're facing. I was grateful for yesterday's powerful reminder of this truth.
Erin
I was once again reminded of this fact, however, yesterday, as I sat in the parent waiting room at one of my middle child's therapy programs. I was sharing with one of the employees there that I had been diagnosed with breast cancer. There were three other parents in the room who listened intently, and for a brief moment, I felt "special."
What transpired next, however, was one of the most unexpected and moving conversations in which I've been involved in a long time. After I shared my situation, each of the other three parents in the room ended up sharing their own recent health issues. One parent had been diagnosed with a terrible neck cancer that, while once was deemed "terminal," recently had simply abated and disappeared. Just weeks ago, he was declared "cancer-free." Another parent shared how she recently had undergone surgery for two masses in her body, neither of which turned out to be cancer, but both of which could have turned into cancer had they not been removed. The third parent talked about a serious neck condition for which she had had a complicated and lengthy surgery several years ago.
As the parent whose cancer recently has disappeared told us his story, and shared with us how many people had been praying for him, and how grateful he was that God had heard and answered those prayers, we all sat mesmerized, thinking undoubtedly about our own experiences, and so grateful to hear this parent's powerful testimony, and to be blessed by his amazing outlook on life and prayer and family and God.
Not for a minute do I think that I'm the only person walking around with challenges, or that I'm somehow special because I've had this experience with breast cancer. My main motivations in writing this blog were to have a record of the experience, and hopefully to provide hope and encouragement to women facing this diagnosis in the future. As we walk through our lives, and face the challenges with which we are presented, we cannot forget that everyone we encounter has trials and tribulations, and that we can be a blessing in other people's lives, regardless of what we're facing. I was grateful for yesterday's powerful reminder of this truth.
Erin
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Boost
I finished up my "regular" treatments on Thursday, and moved on to the boost treatments yesterday. I would be lying if I said that the first boost was a breeze. After all the poking and prodding I've experienced over the past few months, you'd think that a little additional poking and prodding wouldn't bother me at all. But it did.
The "boost" treatments consist of eight treatments targeted to the area in my breast from which the cancer was removed. The amount of radiation is lower, and the penetration not as deep, but I guess that the idea is just to really cover our bases and make sure that no leftover cancer cells survive. Let me tell you, my breast feels a bit like it's had the heck beaten out of it. Looks like it, too. If there's any cancer left in there, I'd be pretty darned surprised.
The boost treatments are delivered by the same machine that delivered the regular treatments, but they use an attachment that comes down very close to my breast. During the first treatment, the doc had to come in to make sure that the treatment field was covering just the right area on my breast (which entailed him pushing, poking and prodding my breast to make sure that the area covered included all of the area he wanted in the boost field), and the techs, once again, had an opportunity to create art on my chest with sharpies, this time drawing a large circle around the area to be treated. Feeling a bit like a science experiment (or a piece of canvas) over here. Just sayin.
The treatment didn't hurt at all, but it was disconcerting because I didn't know how long the blast would last. I'm always afraid that the machine will malfunction and give me way too much radiation, and because I didn't know yesterday how long the treatment was supposed to last, I was especially concerned about that. There's always the fear, too, in the back of the mind that something will hurt, and that I'll have to figure out how to get up off of the table during the middle of the treatment. Yesterday, all of these paranoid thoughts came crashing in around me, and I literally was shaking during the treatment. I surprised even myself with my level of wimpiness yesterday. Now that I know what to expect, however, I'm guessing that I'll sail through the last seven treatments.
Still wondering what a celebration of the end of this nonsense should look like. It will be a Tuesday night -- not exactly the best night of the week to have a big blowout. Maybe a quiet dinner somewhere with Eli; certainly several glasses of wine to mark the occasion; maybe a big, yummy steak. We'll see.
Have a great weekend.
Erin
The "boost" treatments consist of eight treatments targeted to the area in my breast from which the cancer was removed. The amount of radiation is lower, and the penetration not as deep, but I guess that the idea is just to really cover our bases and make sure that no leftover cancer cells survive. Let me tell you, my breast feels a bit like it's had the heck beaten out of it. Looks like it, too. If there's any cancer left in there, I'd be pretty darned surprised.
The boost treatments are delivered by the same machine that delivered the regular treatments, but they use an attachment that comes down very close to my breast. During the first treatment, the doc had to come in to make sure that the treatment field was covering just the right area on my breast (which entailed him pushing, poking and prodding my breast to make sure that the area covered included all of the area he wanted in the boost field), and the techs, once again, had an opportunity to create art on my chest with sharpies, this time drawing a large circle around the area to be treated. Feeling a bit like a science experiment (or a piece of canvas) over here. Just sayin.
The treatment didn't hurt at all, but it was disconcerting because I didn't know how long the blast would last. I'm always afraid that the machine will malfunction and give me way too much radiation, and because I didn't know yesterday how long the treatment was supposed to last, I was especially concerned about that. There's always the fear, too, in the back of the mind that something will hurt, and that I'll have to figure out how to get up off of the table during the middle of the treatment. Yesterday, all of these paranoid thoughts came crashing in around me, and I literally was shaking during the treatment. I surprised even myself with my level of wimpiness yesterday. Now that I know what to expect, however, I'm guessing that I'll sail through the last seven treatments.
Still wondering what a celebration of the end of this nonsense should look like. It will be a Tuesday night -- not exactly the best night of the week to have a big blowout. Maybe a quiet dinner somewhere with Eli; certainly several glasses of wine to mark the occasion; maybe a big, yummy steak. We'll see.
Have a great weekend.
Erin
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
My Friend Bob
In life, people come and people go. I made a friend at radiation named Bob (I've changed his name in order to protect his confidentiality). He was probably about fifteen years older than me and was being treated for prostrate cancer. He had to have FORTY-FIVE treatments. Wow. That's twelve more treatments than I'm having. That's a long haul.
Bob and I had our appointments each day around the same time, and after seeing each other a few times, and smiling at one another politely, one day, we struck up a conversation. Bob isn't the kind of guy I'd normally hang out with, but there we were, together in the waiting room of the cancer center, our lives intersecting. I got to know a lot about Bob; he was a talker. He told me all about how his cancer wasn't diagnosed in a timely manner, about his symptoms, about his diagnosis, about his initial meetings with the radiation oncologists, and about his treatments. He told me about the pain he experienced when they had to insert (not once, not twice, but THREE times) a balloon into the treatment area (ouch!!) On snowy days, he told me about his driveway and how he ran over his azaleas trying to get out of the driveway, and about his long and harrowing drive into Nashville for his treatment on one particular day.
Bob finished his last treatment last Tuesday. I had thought about getting him a big cookie that said "Congratulations," but I didn't. I'm sorry about that. I saw him on his last day, and we hugged each other, and said that we hoped we'd see each other again one day. But not there, we said. We didn't want to see each other at the cancer center. Maybe at the Kroger, or someplace else in Nashville, but not at the cancer center.
Here's hoping that Bob and I are reunited one day under better circumstances, and that Bob has a long, joyful, cancer-free life.
Have a great day, all.
Erin
Bob and I had our appointments each day around the same time, and after seeing each other a few times, and smiling at one another politely, one day, we struck up a conversation. Bob isn't the kind of guy I'd normally hang out with, but there we were, together in the waiting room of the cancer center, our lives intersecting. I got to know a lot about Bob; he was a talker. He told me all about how his cancer wasn't diagnosed in a timely manner, about his symptoms, about his diagnosis, about his initial meetings with the radiation oncologists, and about his treatments. He told me about the pain he experienced when they had to insert (not once, not twice, but THREE times) a balloon into the treatment area (ouch!!) On snowy days, he told me about his driveway and how he ran over his azaleas trying to get out of the driveway, and about his long and harrowing drive into Nashville for his treatment on one particular day.
Bob finished his last treatment last Tuesday. I had thought about getting him a big cookie that said "Congratulations," but I didn't. I'm sorry about that. I saw him on his last day, and we hugged each other, and said that we hoped we'd see each other again one day. But not there, we said. We didn't want to see each other at the cancer center. Maybe at the Kroger, or someplace else in Nashville, but not at the cancer center.
Here's hoping that Bob and I are reunited one day under better circumstances, and that Bob has a long, joyful, cancer-free life.
Have a great day, all.
Erin
Monday, January 17, 2011
A Little Levity
This has absolutely nothing to do with my cancer journey, except that it has made me laugh so hard that I consider it to be therapeutic. Just thought I'd share....
Have a great day!!
Erin
Have a great day!!
Erin
Friday, January 14, 2011
Another CT Scan
I had the pleasure of having another CT scan today. This one was required in order for my radiation team to plan my "boost" treatments, which will begin next Friday. I guess they need to remeasure everything (I'm told things move around and shrink during radiation treatments) and find the area they need to target for the last eight boost treatments. It's really hard for me to believe that I've only got 12 treatments left altogether.
I've learned a lot about all of the different types of scans/x-rays over the past few months. The CT scan machine that I've been in twice is just this narrow tube that you slide in and out of during the scan. If you close your eyes and pretend you're in Disney World, you can almost make yourself believe that you're on a fun space ride or some sort thing. At least, that's what I tried to do today. It wasn't bad.
I'm getting very used to having folks look at my boobs, too. Take today, for instance. Two of the techs set me up for my treatments, and of course, had the pleasure of not only seeing my boobs, but drawing on them and putting tape on them. Then, three more lucky individuals (including the doctor) handled my CT scan set up, and got to make more markings on me. At this point, I'm liable to whip my breast out in the middle of Kroger or something, given the comfort level I now have with being "exposed." No pride anymore. That's long gone, for better or for worse.
Well, on that terrific note, I think that I'll sign off for the weekend. And don't worry; I'm not going to expose myself. I was just kidding.
Erin
I've learned a lot about all of the different types of scans/x-rays over the past few months. The CT scan machine that I've been in twice is just this narrow tube that you slide in and out of during the scan. If you close your eyes and pretend you're in Disney World, you can almost make yourself believe that you're on a fun space ride or some sort thing. At least, that's what I tried to do today. It wasn't bad.
I'm getting very used to having folks look at my boobs, too. Take today, for instance. Two of the techs set me up for my treatments, and of course, had the pleasure of not only seeing my boobs, but drawing on them and putting tape on them. Then, three more lucky individuals (including the doctor) handled my CT scan set up, and got to make more markings on me. At this point, I'm liable to whip my breast out in the middle of Kroger or something, given the comfort level I now have with being "exposed." No pride anymore. That's long gone, for better or for worse.
Well, on that terrific note, I think that I'll sign off for the weekend. And don't worry; I'm not going to expose myself. I was just kidding.
Erin
Thursday, January 13, 2011
A Dream
It was bound to happen, sooner or later, but I had my first radiation-related dream last night. It was weird. I was sitting in a room with a bunch of women who were being treated for breast cancer. They were all in the middle of their radiation treatments, but they all had markings on their head. I started to ask about the markings, and they all looked at me as if I were crazy. They explained that their docs had included a few blasts to the brain as part of their treatment protocol, and began to question why this wasn't included in my plan. I couldn't quite wrap my head around why they would be having brain treatments, but they insisted that I ask my doctor about it. The only problem was that my doctor wasn't around so I sat down with the other radiation oncologist in the practice, Dr. Hunter, and he started drawing pictures of what the radiation field would look like and where it would enter my brain. Dr. Rosenblatt showed up somewhere later in the dream, but I can't exactly remember what happened after the meeting with Dr. Hunter.
I have no doubt that this dream relates to the fact that each day, when I'm in the radiation room, I have to look at the masks that are custom-made for brain cancer patients who are receiving radiation. They sit on a table, staring up at the ceiling, and honestly, they freak me out a little bit. Evidently, when radiation is given to the head or brain, it is absolutely essential that there is no movement, and so these mesh-like masks are created, placed over the patient's head, and bolted to the table. The nurses have mentioned how hard this is for a lot of patients. It would be hard for me, I'm sure. It makes me thankful that all I have to do is lay on the table with my arms up over my head for a few minutes each day.
Dreams are interesting, aren't they? I've never been much of a student of dreams and what they can tell us about ourselves, but I've had a lot of dreams in my day, and it seems abundantly clear to me that they are closely related to our subconscious, and that they reflect our fears, desires and passions.
Have a wonderful day, and sweet dreams!
Erin
I have no doubt that this dream relates to the fact that each day, when I'm in the radiation room, I have to look at the masks that are custom-made for brain cancer patients who are receiving radiation. They sit on a table, staring up at the ceiling, and honestly, they freak me out a little bit. Evidently, when radiation is given to the head or brain, it is absolutely essential that there is no movement, and so these mesh-like masks are created, placed over the patient's head, and bolted to the table. The nurses have mentioned how hard this is for a lot of patients. It would be hard for me, I'm sure. It makes me thankful that all I have to do is lay on the table with my arms up over my head for a few minutes each day.
Dreams are interesting, aren't they? I've never been much of a student of dreams and what they can tell us about ourselves, but I've had a lot of dreams in my day, and it seems abundantly clear to me that they are closely related to our subconscious, and that they reflect our fears, desires and passions.
Have a wonderful day, and sweet dreams!
Erin
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