Tuesday, November 07, 2006

52 E-mail: Race for the Cure (Nov 2006)

Tuesday, November 7, 2006

http://www.statesman.com/search/content/news/photos/11/110606_cure.html

The Race for the Cure was this past Sunday. Guy, Kelric and I got up very, very early and headed towards Auditorium Shores to be a part of the event. We ate breakfast in the survivor tent. We failed to find the main group of Pink Ribbon Cowgirls to walk with them because I forgot where we were supposed to meet and there were around 22,000 other people hanging around. We walked near the back of the group, and it seemed like everyone was walking faster than we were. But we made it all the way through the Family Walk (which was only 1 mile as opposed to the 3.2 miles of the full course) and it was an unforgettable experience.

We started out by walking over the bridge on South First Street. The lovely aroma of bats (and bat waste) caught our attention as it wafted over the water from the nearby Congress Avenue bridge. Oh boy, that’s a special smell. Then what made my heart catch in my throat was seeing the sea of people coming the other way as they approached the end of the walk. The bridge ahead of us was full of people walking north and it was full of people walking south. The bright pink shirts were in abundance, marking the survivors like me. I was pushing Kelric in his stroller. Guy was walking with me on my right, and I felt my eyes tear up as I thought about all these thousands of people coming together to fight breast cancer.

This year’s Race for the Cure raised $1.2 million.

The link above is to the Austin American-Statesman web site. It has a picture of the survivors who showed up for the picture (which means a LOT more survivors were around but they aren’t in the shot). I am sitting on the front row, fourth from the left. I’m wearing a pink cowboy hat as were most people associated with the Breast Cancer Resource Center. The group picture that includes me goes very quickly in this slideshow, but I found that you can stop the slide show with your mouse. I’m in the first and third slides.

I have a picture of my own to include. It’s of the chair after I pulled out all the pink stuff from the Race for the Cure survivor goody bag. It looks like an explosion of Pepto Bismol, to tell the truth.



While we ate breakfast in the survivor tent, we shared a table with several other survivors. Two of them were swapping stories. Their cancer was caught early enough that they needed only surgery and not chemo or radiation. (Man, I’m jealous!) Both women were a generation older than me and they said how frustrating it was to try to get the insurance companies to cover mammograms for their daughters when their daughters were in their 30s. Ah…I thought. Another reinforcement of the need to convince insurance companies to include this as part of annual screening for younger women…

Kelric started fussing before the Race was over. He was hungry and it was nap time so that was it for us. No hanging around to talk with strangers after our walk. Fortunately, my office building was right across the street so we walked over, I used my magnetic card to unlock the door, and we got to use real restrooms with plumbing instead of the pink porta-potties. And then we went upstairs to my office to feed our baby and let him drift off to a much-needed nap.

Then we loaded up Kelric and headed over to Whole Foods a few blocks away. There we ate a proper breakfast some 3-4 hours after our scant continental breakfast, and in the ladies room a woman asked if I was the person on the Parent:Wise Austin magazine cover this month. Oh my! A first taste of celebrity! I know it’s a small pool and I’m still a very small fish, but the moment was fun. I told her that yes it was I on the cover and my baby was with the husband just outside. We ended up leaving the ladies room about the same time and she oohed and ahhed over an adorable sleeping Kelric for a minute before moving on. I guess I’ll stop complaining about not being mentioned in the article itself. A picture is worth a thousand words, right?

Angela

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51 E-mail: "Parent:Wise Austin"


Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Well, the magazine is out and Kelric and I are on the cover. It’s a disappointing write up for us, though. Even though I was interviewed along with Shauna, Michele, and Audra of the Pink Ribbon Cowgirls, absolutely no mention is made of me or of Kelric in the article. Our pictures are all plastered all over the article and on the cover, which is neat, but we are mentioned nowhere in the article itself and that is weird.

I'm glad that Shauna, Michele, and Audra are all quoted. That's what the interview was for. I'm okay with having our pictures shown in place of story quotes, but it confuses people because the article focuses heavily on Shauna's story and yet the pictures of me and Kelric are on every page. It would have made more sense to the average reader if someone had put in a caption under just one of our pictures mentioning that here's another cancer survivor with baby.

Instead, the average reader will probably assume that the photos of Kelric and I are of Shauna and her son Cooper. Too late now to change it and that's a shame. Cooper is really cute.

I got a bunch of copies for parents and friends, anyway. It isn’t every day I get to have my picture in something available to the general public. The pictures look great, by the way. I especially love the one with Kelric sticking out his tongue.

You can catch the online version at www.parentwiseaustin.com. Here is the direct link to the archived Nov 2006 magazine: http://parentwiseaustin.com/Archive/2006/11_November/2006_11_PWA.pdf.

Cheers,
Angela

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50 E-mail: wait...but there's more

Thursday, November 11, 2006

BREAST CANCER
I was so hopeful. I wrote what I thought would be my last entry after the party and I was glad to wrap things up. Life was settling down and there was so much to look forward to.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s still a lot to look forward to, but life isn’t ready to sit back and let me relax yet. I’ve heard about four – count ‘em, 4 – breast cancer diagnoses in the last three days. Two came on Tuesday and two came today, Thursday.

Diagnosis #1 – A friend of a co-worker’s husband. The co-worker works on the floor below me and the newly diagnosed woman is in her 30’s.
Diagnosis #2 – We’ll come back to this one.
Diagnosis #3 – A friend of a woman who works one floor above me. The friend is 36.
Diagnosis #4 – A friend of a co-worker/friend who works on the same floor as me. The friend is in her 50’s.

Circling back to Diagnosis #2, this is someone in my family. My grandpa learned this week that he has breast cancer.

You heard that right. My 82-year-old maternal grandfather. A man with breast cancer. Here’s a link if you want to read more. http://www.susanlovemd.com/breastcancer/content.asp?L2=6&L3=5&SID=224

Men have breast tissue. They don’t have much of it, but they have a little bit of breast tissue and fat. All children do until puberty when girls develop more and boys don’t. This tissue in men can get breast cancer just like women, only most men don’t get diagnosed until they are in later stages of the disease because they aren’t as aware of that part of their bodies as women. The treatments are the same, too, with sentinel lymph node biopsies and mastectomies and chemo/radiation. Dr. Love’s web site quotes that an estimated 1,720 men will be diagnosed with breast cancer this year (2006).

I have no idea what stage my grandfather is in. I’m hearing rumors of surgery, but I don’t know the details. I was shaken by the news when it came Tuesday night. I found myself crying in my husband’s arms, worried about my grandfather and upset that breast cancer wasn’t completely out of my life yet. I was depressed about it all day Wednesday. Then I saw my therapist Wednesday night and discussing the situation with her took the sting out of it. Therapy with a professional counselor can be a wonderful thing. I’m still concerned. I’m still upset. But that edge of panic has receded. Now I’m brewing on how to be supportive while I live an hour and a half away.

SURVIVORS
I went to a couple of events recently that I haven’t written about. The first was the champagne brunch and silent auction benefiting the Breast Cancer Resource Center, the local Austin-area support organization for breast cancer survivors. The brunch took place on October 8th, a Sunday. During the brunch I learned from the speaker that one in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in her lifetime. That statistic shocked me.

One speaker talked about how breast cancer, while the most common cancer for women, is not the deadliest cancer for women. More women die of lung cancer than breast cancer. That doesn’t surprise me because lung cancer is very deadly once contracted. Only about 10-15% of lung cancer patients respond to chemotherapy. About 90% of the people who get lung cancer could have prevented it by not smoking, and about one in ten smokers get lung cancer. Sorry. I digress. I worry about my friends and co-workers who smoke now that I have seen statistics on how vicious lung cancer is.

During the brunch one of the speakers asked all of the survivors to stand. Different things had happened that had garnished applause before that moment. As I stood with my fellow survivors I heard applause louder than anything else that day, and it brought tears to my eyes.

Several days later on Thursday, October 12th I attended the annual Texas Conference for Women. I got to hear Martha Stewart speak that morning. I’m afraid her speech was a lot of “Look at me and buy my stuff” so I didn’t learn much. The speaker at lunchtime, however, was Nancy G. Brinker, the founder of the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. Governor Rick Perry and First Lady Anita Perry spoke as well, but it was Nancy Brinker’s talk that riveted my attention. Her speech was inspirational to me and I enjoyed it thoroughly.

She mentioned that breast cancer kills about 3,000 Texans and about 40,000 women across our country each year. That’s 100 people per day who die from breast cancer. To put it into perspective she compared that figure to terrorist attacks. If we had 100 Americans killed each day by terrorists you can bet the government would be pulling out all the stops to put an end to it. That’s why it is important to continue to let legislators know that we demand funding for breast cancer research so that we can put an end to this disease and find a cure.

Ms. Brinker, a breast cancer survivor (though the foundation was established in honor of her sister), asked all of the survivors to stand. I stood with a handful of other women across this huge room of 8,000 conference attendees seated at round tables. Once again the applause came, and once again it brought tears to my eyes. It was an incredible moment, and as I sat down at this table of eight women I was tempted to tell them, “You’re all safe because I’ve already been diagnosed.” The moment passed, however, and I remained silent.

AN IDEA
Seeing and hearing the founder of this influential organization gave me an idea as I sat at the table. The Pink Ribbon Cowgirls group sure has a lot of members now, and we’re finding more young survivors all the time. (Got two more just this week!) The mortality rate for breast cancer has actually gone down lately because early detection and advances in treatments are making a difference. Groups like the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation that have made substantial contributions to breast cancer research have had a very real impact in making things better, and I’m proud to be a part of the Race for the Cure this coming Sunday even though I haven’t raised any money for it this year – I just didn’t have the energy to do fund raising and other co-workers have solicited people for money in honor of our co-worker who was also treated for breast cancer this year.

My idea as I sat as the table was to get my insurance company, Aetna, to lower the age at which they would pay for mammograms as part of the annual well woman exam. They pay for them now, but you have to be 40 years old or older. They won’t pay for mammograms for younger women unless there is a medical need. I have a medical need now, but I know from my first mammogram earlier this year that they’ll only pay 90% of it and not the 100% they cover for 40-year-olds. That kind of prejudice would be enough to push me into not getting checked if I didn’t already have a breast cancer diagnosis under my belt. How many women in their 20s and 30s are sent to get mammograms first thing when they or their doctors discover suspicious lumps? Mammograms must have some place in things if they are used as a diagnostic tool for the young. How much better are the new digital mammograms at finding lumps in the denser breasts of younger women than traditional mammogram machines? Would it make more sense to include breast ultrasounds instead of mammograms as part of exams for women younger than 40? If Aetna changed their policy would other large insurance companies follow suit?

These are the kinds of questions I have been asking myself since October 12th, and this is the goal that feels right for me to pursue. I would like to contribute to raising awareness that women younger than 40 are at risk for breast cancer, and if there is a way to find breast cancer sooner then I think insurance companies should cover that technology as part of their annual well woman exams.

I don’t know how far I can take this or what kind of momentum I can gather. I don’t know if this is the best use of my energy. Part of me wonders whether I can make any difference at all, but then I remember The Accident of 2004.

My husband and I were in an auto collision on July 9, 2004. I cannot bring myself to write out the details because it was such a horrible, traumatic experience. The short version is that the other motorist was riding a motorcycle and he died about six hours after the collision. Guy had made a left turn and the other guy hit us. In the end the police determined that the motorcyclist was at fault because he was doing around double the speed limit and he popped a wheelie as he entered the intersection. Guy was devastated because he had looked for oncoming traffic and seen nothing, so the sudden appearance of another motorist was a complete surprise.

For the next several months as the accident played out repeatedly in our memories, Guy and I tried to analyze what went wrong and how could it have happened in the first place. When we realized that the road in front of us dipped down so that oncoming traffic was completely concealed for a couple of seconds, it finally clicked in our heads and we understood how the accident was possible. When we saw the local newspaper print a map of Austin and all the fatal collisions around the city for 2004 (ours was listed, of course), we saw that several other collisions had taken place at the same intersection and we speculated that it must have been for the same reason. The left turn arrow rarely made an appearance so you were forced to turn left on a green light without an arrow, and the dip in the road made it dangerous to do so.

MAKING A DIFFERENCE
I found a place on the City of Austin’s web site where people could fill out a form online and report problems with intersections or traffic signals. I wrote. Guy helped me edit the words until we described things with clarity and intelligence. About two weeks later someone from the City wrote back and told me that a study had been conducted and research showed that there had been many collisions just like ours at that intersection over the last two years: somebody turned left and collided with somebody coming the opposite direction while speeding. Not only did they agree with our recommendation that people should only be able to turn left on a green arrow and not on a general green light, but the signal had already been changed to put that proposal into practice.

What an amazing moment that was, to see that somebody in authority had listened to my/our request and made a simple change that would save lives. I cried from joy and sent the message to our insurance claims adjuster to pass along to the family of the deceased.

Filling out the right form for the right reason made a difference.

I carry that experience with me always. Nothing can ever undo the tragedy, but at least other people won’t have to go through what we did and what the loved ones of the motorcyclist did because of the light and the shape of the road at that particular intersection. I’m not really comfortable broadcasting that experience in such a public way, but telling the tale is pivotal to explaining my determination for this idea of mammograms for the under-40 crowd. I use that memory to remind myself that one person can make a difference, and once in a while that one person gets to be me (with the help of my wonderful husband).

So maybe it’s not so crazy to think that I can start something that will ultimately contribute to insurance companies covering technological examinations of breasts of women younger than 40.

A plan of attack is beginning to form, but I hesitate to write too much about it now. I figure the first thing is to do my research on what is appropriate and reasonable to ask. If insurance companies paid for it, what is the most appropriate way to detect breast cancer in breasts dense with breast tissue? I thought I was done writing updates as events merited it. I guess I was fooling myself. There’s work to be done and I need to do as much of it as I can. From disease, accidents, or other causes you never know when your life will be cut short in the middle of things. The Alan Parsons Project wrote a good lyric in the song “Turn It Up.” The chorus goes: “If there’s something you’ve found to believe in/then the message must get through./So don’t you sit in silence/when you know what to do.”

Angela

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Sunday, October 22, 2006

49 E-mail: the celebration, the speech, and a moment of contentment

Today is Sunday, October 22, 2006. It’s a little after 1:00 in the afternoon and everyone in my house is taking a nap except me. The dog is sleeping on the floor just inches away from my chair. The cat is snoring delicately from the chair behind me. The baby is sleeping on my husband who is napping on the sofa in the living room. With all the sleeping people and animals in the house and the dryer tumbling upstairs, a sense of contentment steals over me as I write this latest and perhaps final entry.

A week ago I had a party. The Party. It was a celebration of the end of my cancer treatments. My husband and I worked like mad to get the house clean. A friend came early the day of the party to help with last minute preparations. My father grilled meat and several guests brought excellent bread, side dishes, and desserts. Culver’s donated four ice cream cakes. The celebration began, people showed up, and I got to read a speech. We had good food, good conversation, and a very good time. It was exactly what I needed to find closure.

I pondered for days how best to say “thank you” to all the people who helped me get through the days of treatment with my sanity intact. I think the final version of the speech did a pretty good job of saying how I felt. It helps if you remember that the theme of the celebration was Life Can Be Beautiful. Odd that a brush with cancer would lead me to a renewed hope for the spirit of mankind, but it has.

Read Sunday, October 15, 2006…

Thank you all for coming.

Today marks the one month anniversary of my last treatment for breast cancer. It is Sunday, a day of rest, and a day of celebration.

As some of you know, I sometimes express my emotions through poetry. I intend to share two poems with you. The first one is very short, and it is called “Cream in My Tea.”

the cream in my tea
hangs suspended
until stirred

unique little patterns of milk
standing apart
until forced to blend

like people in a group
individuals
until a common goal unites them

a job a war
a rescue
a Reason to stir, then blend

Through various acts of kindness, your individual actions created a symphony of support during a difficult time. Whether it was a flexible schedule at work, or a card, baby sitting Kelric, or food, money, time, or just asking how I was doing, it counted. It all helped. Thank you for stirring to act in some way, and for blending your kindnesses into a web of support. It means more than we can ever say.

I’m one month out from my last cancer treatment, and things look good for my future. For the present I have my energy back. My color is back. And I am so very happy that nothing is poisoning or zapping me.

The second poem is one that was published in the Austin International Poetry Festival’s Di-verse-city anthology in 2004.

The Flowering Vine
(A Woman’s Strength)


Given time, I can strangle stones.
My green tendrils seeking purchase in tiny cracks,
Clinging to rough walls
As my roots grow deep, grab hold, stay.

Mine is the strength of endurance.
Wind may blow but it cleans me.
Sun may bake but it feeds me.
Rain may drown but I drink deep.

And I grow…
With subtle, quiet progress, I thrive.

And when I bloom, everybody notices.

I feel like I’m blooming today.

I remember people quoting to me, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.” I have to tell you, I knew going into this that I was strong enough to survive it. I was just mad that I would have to be that strong.

Nothing could make cancer treatments easier, but you helped make it bearable. Thank you, all of you, for showing me how wonderful people can be. Thank you for reminding me that Life Can Be Beautiful.

Since the party I have found peace. My world no longer revolves around surviving breast cancer. Since the party I feel that I can close this chapter in my life and that feels healthy and appropriate.

Now I can focus on just living. Routines and patterns are shaping without cancer treatments causing waves of disturbances. Oh I’ve got a mammogram coming up next month and follow-up visits with my breast surgeon and my oncologist for the rest of my life, but this is part of the “new normal” and it doesn’t scare me. I’ve stopped obsessing over the fear of recurrence/metastasis. I’ve got one last cancer poem that I would like to finish, but I think I will be inspired to write poetry about other topics soon.

Next month the November 2006 issue of Parent:Wise Austin should be out with Kelric and me on the cover and the article about mothers with cancer inside. You can download a PDF version of the magazine from their web site, http://www.parentwiseaustin.com/, so you folks who live out of town/state can read the article as easily as the people who live in Austin.

I’m going to walk in the upcoming Race for the Cure on Sunday, November 5th. I will continue volunteering for things that benefit the Pink Ribbon Cowgirls and the Breast Cancer Resource Center. I am interested in becoming a peer counselor for other young women going through treatment. But there is a part of me that now breathes a sigh of relief. A part of me draws a deep breath and quietly says, “It’s over.” Life will certainly have other unpleasant surprises down the road, but for now I am allowed to let my family rest and I can enjoy the contentment. Life can be beautiful, and you know I will look for that beauty now more than ever before.

Angela

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Monday, October 09, 2006

48 POEM: The Flowering Vine

The Flowering Vine
(A Woman’s Strength)



Given time, I can strangle stones.
My green tendrils seeking purchase in tiny cracks,
Clinging to rough walls
As my roots grow deep, grab hold, stay.

Mine is the strength of endurance.
Wind may blow but it cleans me.
Sun may bake but it feeds me.
Rain may drown but I drink deep.

And I grow…
With subtle, quiet progress, I thrive.

And when I bloom, everybody notices.


Written by Angela Patterson
Copyright Angela Patterson 2003

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Tuesday, September 26, 2006

47 E-mail: catching up and grieving

10/1/2006

Lots of things have happened that I haven’t made the time to write about. This entry plays “catch-up” with those events.

DOCTOR APPOINTMENTS
It’s been a little over two weeks since radiation treatments ended. I have a follow-up appointment with my radiation oncologist this coming Friday.

I neglected to report how things went a few weeks on a follow-up back with my oncologist. That appointment was on a Thursday. Guy went with me and we were both in good moods for the rest of the day. My oncologist said that things were looking good. I could discontinue taking the dreaded Coumadin pills and that meant I could discontinue the weekly INR tests. Hooray! No more regular blood work!

ALLERGY TESTING
I also failed to report that I got tested for allergies not long ago. Since my cancer treatments have gotten me over my fear of needles, I figured why not go for the allergy testing thing which has lots of needles. I joked with people that I loved needles so much that I needed to get a fix from another source since my cancer treatments were drying up.

Really the last thing I want is a continuation of shots or blood draws, but I’m tough and I can take it. As it turns out, allergy shots are nothing compared to what I’ve already experienced.

I endured the whole series of outdoor, indoor, and food allergy tests. First, from fear that chemo may have suppressed my immune system enough to block histamine production, they put a drop of something on my arm and scratched the skin lightly with a needle. I got a big red welt that itched like mad. That was a good thing because it meant my body was reacting normally to things that triggered allergies. I thought so.

Then a grid was drawn on my back and over a hundred different potential allergens were put on my skin, one drop at a time. A needle lightly scratched the skin in each drop of liquid and we waited to see where the welts would form.

Cedar pollen gave a huge, obvious reaction that left no doubt. No wonder I’m so miserably sick during cedar fever season here in Austin!

For the allergens that had some reaction but not the spectacular result of cedar, they injected something under the skin of my left arm and made a new grid with 16 different things.

In the end I learned I’m allergic to all the tree and grass pollens in the area as well as dogs and a few foods. The pollens come and go throughout the year but I’m allergic to so many of them that I’m reacting to something or another all year ‘round. That explains my embarrassing dependence on facial tissues.

Last Friday I went for my first allergy shot. I can expect to receive allergy shots for the next three years, with the frequency the most intense in the beginning. It’ll taper off to once a month eventually.

The needles are so fine that they don’t even hurt. I’m all for needles that don’t hurt. Several people have told me they’ve gone through allergy shots and the improvement to their quality of life was well worth the trouble. Good! It’s time for improvement.

GRIEVING
I had a conversation recently that helped give me unexpected clarity.

It started when the co-worker who had lost her husband visited with me for a little while and we talked about her grief. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to lose a spouse. She cannot imagine what it must have been like to go through cancer treatments with a newborn in the house. As we talked we learned that we had more in common than we imagined.

Both of us were out of the office for two months. It felt strange coming back after the extended absence. Staff had turned over. People had moved to new locations within the office. Workloads had been redistributed so we didn’t exactly pick up where we left off. It was wild to hear her express how surreal it felt to be back and have so many things not be the same, and I heard myself say, “I know how you feel.” And I did.

We also learned that we have in common a mixture of reactions from people who don’t know us well. Some folks really want to know how we’re feeling and what’s going on and they ask and really listen to the answers. Some folks may want to know but they don’t want to upset us by asking so they don’t. It reminds me that people often don’t know how to act around people who are grieving. I’m one of them.

The more we talked the more I realized something very important. I’m in mourning.

Since the day of my diagnosis, I have been grieving.

I had breast cancer. It’s a big deal. My life will never be the same and I’m trying to figure out what that means now.

I’m also trying to define exactly what it is that I’m mourning. My husband thinks part of it is a loss of innocence. My body tried to kill me. I never thought it would do that. Now that I know it can do that I can never trust it the same way I did before. Everything takes on a “before cancer” or “after cancer” demarcation in the timeline of my personal history. I will spend the rest of my life wondering if my cancer has come back, and the only way I will know if I’m cured is if I die from some other cause.

FEAR
Dealing with the fear of recurrence and the fear of metastasis is a hard thing for me these days. That fear was the most intense in the first weeks immediately following chemo. That was when I read that it doesn’t much matter if metastasis is caught early. Once breast cancer metastasizes it is treated as a chronic illness to be “managed” because it is so very difficult to cure. That’s not to say that it is impossible to cure, but metastasis generally kills you. I feel unlucky to have had cancer to begin with so I worry that I will not escape the low odds should my cancer metastasize.

A recurrence, on the other hand, is not such a bad thing because it can be treated with more chemo and possibly more radiation and catching it in the early stages can make a big, big difference. That is why I will remain diligent about going to all of my appointments with my breast surgeon and my awesome oncologist, Dr. Carsten Kampe of South Austin Cancer Center.

My husband likes to remind me that we caught my cancer fairly early. It was a stage II tumor and my lymph nodes weren’t affected. My early e-mails to loved ones show that I knew then that it was a 3.5 cm tumor. I don’t know at what point I began to think it was a 2.5 cm tumor. I guess wishful thinking tricked me for a while. But we got all of the tumor out during the lumpectomy. The re-excision did not show evidence of additional cancer so it seems that all the cancer was removed during the first surgery despite the dirty margins. I’ve gone through radiation which should have killed any microscopic cells remaining in the breast tissue after surgery. I’ve gone through chemotherapy which should have killed any breast cancer cells that traveled elsewhere in my body. Let’s hope all the treatments were effective and all the microscopic cells are gone, gone, gone.

Now I will get a follow-up mammogram before the end of the year and start getting my once-a-year mammograms every April. I will alternate appointments between my breast surgeon and oncologist for the rest of my life and I will pay attention to and report any unusual pain in my head, chest, or bones.

MAMMOGRAMS
I have had two women tell me they have gotten mammograms recently because of me. I’m really proud of them for taking care of their health like that. Mammograms are important, especially as we get older. Self exams are also important, and I encourage all women to become familiar with the way their breasts feel so that they will be aware should something feel different.

DEATH AND COMPASSION
The weeks between chemo and radiation surprised me with the strong emotions and the depth of sadness I felt at that time. Fear of recurrence and fear of metastasis lead of fear of dying sooner rather than later.

Fifteen years ago I lost a dear friend to a sudden car accident. Two years ago I was a passenger in an auto collision that claimed the life of the motorcyclist who hit us. I didn’t need cancer as a wake up call to get me to treat every day as something precious. I already learned that from losing my friend fifteen years ago. I didn’t need cancer to remind me that any of us can go suddenly at any time. I was reminded of that two years ago.

I do not share the gratitude I have heard others express about getting a “second chance” at life. I mean no disrespect to those survivors, but I don’t look at my cancer experience as a wake up call and it certainly wasn’t a gift to me of a second chance.

I’m angry that cancer threatened my life and I’m annoyed that it interrupted my life so dramatically, especially during a time that should have been only joyful with a new baby entering the household. I already lived each day as something to be treasured, so I didn’t need cancer to teach me to pay attention to what’s really important. I already knew I was strong, so I didn’t need cancer to show me what I’m made of.

There are so many life lessons I could have learned from cancer but I had already learned and applied them from past experiences. So I found myself asking what can I take from this cancer experience that is positive?

It’s important to me that I find something positive about all of this mess. More than one person reminded me of the quote probably every cancer survivor hears at some point: That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. I didn’t feel a need to be made stronger when I was on the verge of becoming a first-time parent. I knew I was strong and I was pissed that I would have to pull so hard on that reserve of strength to get through this.

What I have taken as a positive lesson from my cancer experience is an increased depth of compassion.

My great uncle pointed out eloquently that the fuzzy thinking, light headedness, clumsiness, and need to move slowly that I experienced after one of the Taxol treatments is very much what he lives with every day as a man in his seventies.

My husband lives with neuropathy in his fingers every day compliments of injuries to his hand from Vietnam. He and another friend of ours deals with arthritis on a regular basis.

I would never have expected chemo to show me what it can be like to have arthritis, or numb fingertips, or the general effects of old age.

The last time I went to a movie, I found myself exiting the theatre behind a woman using a cane. Because she blocked one side of the aisle and the younger woman helping her blocked the other side, I could not get by them. I had to wait while they slowly made their way down the stairs, and I found myself remembering how slowly I was forced to move when I was struggling with chemo side effects. It gave me patience with waiting for the old woman with the cane, and I entertained myself with thoughts about other things rather than sighing with irritation about not being able to dash to the ladies room right away.

If I thought that somebody was pulling the strings and that cancer was a stop on my journey of life toward some greater purpose, then I would wonder and fear what in my future would need such great compassion that I would have learn it now from breast cancer.

I don’t wonder and fear that I will be called upon to exhibit compassion for some specific important trial up ahead, though. Sometimes bad things happen to good people, and there isn’t necessarily a reason. My friend didn’t die for a reason fifteen years ago from his car accident. It devastated me and his family and his other friends and loved ones. I realized I had a small talent for writing poetry because I wrote poems back then to help me cope with my loss, and those poems meant something to other people who had known my friend and grieved his loss with me. I had lost not only my friend, but my innocence that life (or death) had any sense of fair play. Poetry was one positive thing I could take from the death of a very good person.

I’ll take something positive from cancer because I’ve looked for it and I choose to take it. It’s all I can do. And I’m learning to do it while I wonder if this disease will eventually come back and kill me anyway.

A MID-LIFE CRISIS
That brings me nearly to the present. I’ve decided to seek professional counseling because I don’t wish to remain in the grip of my fears and depression. I’ve had three sessions with a therapist now and it’s helping.

I drove to my most recent session last week with the windows down and the moon roof open in my car. The weather cooperated that day because the temperature was pleasant. We’re moving from the primary season in Texas, hot, to the other season, not so hot. (Most places have four seasons. Austin, Texas really has only two.)

I felt more in touch with the world by rolling down the glass that usually insulates me. When my hair was longer I couldn’t bear to ride in a vehicle with the windows rolled down. My hair would whip into my eyes and sting my skin.

Now it’s so short that I’m lucky to feel the wind in my hair at all, so I’m making the most of it and enjoying some things that I otherwise would not.

As I drove with the wind in my face and my hair most definitely NOT in my eyes (think Mia Farrow and Rosemary’s Baby), I thought about how free it felt to do this and how I could understand middle-aged men buying convertible sports cars. I chuckled to myself as I contemplated how driving around town with the top down seemed like a perfectly sensible thing to do.

Then I told my therapist about questions I asked myself in the weeks between chemo and radiation. One night I had a tearful conversation with my husband and vocalized the questions that began haunting me at the time.

What if I die in the next five years? What goals have I left unfulfilled? Has my life made any difference? Have I done enough?

My therapist told me that most people think of these things when they are middle-aged. I laughed and realized I have been in a mid-life crisis! I’m not sure that she was as amused as I, but it sure felt like an important puzzle piece had just fallen into place.

I forgot to mention in my list of where I have become more compassionate that I sympathize now with women going through menopause. The hot flashes and other symptoms are worse than annoying. I really feel for women having to put up with that uncomfortable period of adjustment that takes years for the body to sort out.

I can remember wanting to cry every time I had a hot flash because I was 35 years old and experiencing menopause. My fertility returned during the radiation days, so my hot flashes have gone away. My cancer was ER and PR negative so I’m not a candidate for Tamoxifen, a drug that has been shown to reduce recurrence of breast cancer in survivors with hormone sensitive tumors. Tamoxifen can cause hot flashes, so I’m grateful to not have to take it for the next five years.

Between a chemo-induced menopause and concerns about mortality that hit most people in their 50s, it’s no small wonder that adjusting to my post-cancer situation has been stressful.

One of the challenges now is trying to balance how to live my life as though I will die in 50 years and at the same time living as though I may die much sooner, like in the next 5 years. If my cancer is going to recur or metastasize, it will probably do it within the next five years.

Really the next three years are the first big test. If I get through them and remain cancer free then it really means something. The five-year mark is the next big test. Then ten years. Then twenty. Breast cancer is sneaky and sometimes waits 20 years to come back. Most breast cancer patients are older than their 30s when first diagnosed so they don’t have good data about breast cancer survival thirty, forty, fifty years after treatment.

It’s not a bad thing, though, to ask myself what goals haven’t been met yet. I’ve thought of one or two and I’m beginning to look around for ways to fulfill those goals instead of counting on “someday” to come around and magically make the goals happen without any effort on my part.

Cancer has made me take a hard look at what is important to me and what is not. I am glad to look back at my life and speculate that if I died tomorrow, I wouldn’t have many regrets over not keeping in touch with friends or telling people how much they mean to me.



GRATITUDE
It has surprised me how strong my “village” is, with the friends and family who stepped forward to show encouragement and support as I went through treatment. My husband was a rock, showing unflagging support and shielding me from the worst of his stress.

It was only last week that it hit me how hard it must have been for him. He came with me to so many appointments, all the surgeries, and all but one of the infusions. I shared all of my thoughts and fear and he held me more than once as I sobbed and wept.

We got through it with our marriage intact and stronger than before. And we learned a new level of team work as we coped with my inability to do as much as I wanted to do to take care of our son. I’m so proud now to be a full part of the baby-caring team and not the mommy who needs as much care as she gives.

I can begin to imagine but not fully appreciate how difficult it must have been for Guy to watch me go through treatment. After all, he could accompany me to everything and hold my hand, but he couldn’t take away my pain. It was my skin that got pierced with the needle every two weeks for chemo. It was my body that was poisoned and developed the long list of side effects that made living miserable.

He could listen to me complain and he could sympathize, but he couldn’t endure the nausea for me. He could encourage me to hang in there, but he couldn’t gather courage for me to get my breast zapped with radiation yet another time when the skin was peeling and stinging.

I had to do all that myself and I know it just killed him to watch. I am so grateful that he remained steadfast as the loving, accepting man he’s always been with me. I’m glad we’re best friends and I could tell him anything all along. I think at times I told him more than he wanted to know, but even then he took it well. I could not have asked for a more wonderful spouse.




We both agree that we have the baby of our dreams. Kelric is beautiful, healthy, and our daily injection of laughter. He smiles and we melt. At six and a half months he is crawling all over the place and beginning to pull himself up.

It is impossible for me to think for long that life is awful when I have this wonderful little cherub at home. Only parts of life have been awful this year. Other parts have been incredible. What an amazing journey…



Angela



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Friday, September 15, 2006

46 E-mail: the last round of radiation



9/17/06

Today is Sunday. Friday (two days ago) was my last radiation treatment. You would think that I would have been happy to go and get it over with, but it was an emotional day and joy over getting through the last treatment was only part of it.

RADIATION

The morning of my final dose of radiation I ate frozen waffles and ice cream for breakfast. I had the song lyrics, “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to,” running through my head as I drove to the cancer center.

I brought my camera for the last treatment. It’s something I did not do when I had chemo because I did not want to make other patients in the infusion room nervous or upset. Radiation is a more private event and I wanted a memento of the last cancer treatment I’m scheduled to receive.

I figured out earlier in my treatment that other patients got confetti thrown on them after their final zap. This educated guess was confirmed earlier in the week when a woman who got treatments before I did told the receptionist on her way out that it was her last treatment and she got the confetti and everything.

I was called back to change my clothes and suddenly realized that I’d left my camera in the car. My radiation oncologist’s nurse told me it was okay to fetch the camera so that’s what I did. I came back in time to wait several minutes for someone else to finish dressing.

When it was my turn I changed into the hospital johnny, picking one of the less faded ones because it looked prettier. On the way into the radiation room one of the technicians asked if I was glad that this was my last treatment.

“No,” I told her honestly. “I’ve been dreading this treatment just as much as the others, but I’m glad I won’t have to come back for more.” That response surprised her.

My skin didn’t hurt over the last week. It healed from the painful moments of the week before and the boost didn’t cause new problems. So I should have been in better spirits because I haven’t suffered much from fatigue and the skin reaction is under control. Still, I’m sick of treatments of any kind and I’m more than ready to get back to a normal life. Last week was hard to keep myself showing up for radiation morning after morning. It’s like that final week in your old job when you’ve given two weeks’ notice. Are you really glad to show up for your last day of work at the old place of employment? If you’re like me you’d rather stay home and rest.

Back to radiation… We went through the usual routine of positioning my body on the table to line up the marks on my abdomen with the laser beams in the room. They set the table at the right elevation according to notes in my chart. The gantry with its smaller field of radiation blasted me from one side and then the other, the left side with its usual high pitch and the right side with the lower pitch that started with the boost.

I waited on the table for my treatments to finish and noticed that the radio was too low to hear the music. Typically there were commercials playing during my treatments. The week before I was finally getting to hear music, probably because my treatments were consistently late last week instead of early or on time. Friday I couldn’t hear the music, so I thought about what I’ve been through this year and all the changes I’ve endured thanks to cancer. My eyes teared up and I almost cried. But then a technician came into the room and I held back.

I got to bring my arm down from the cushioned grip over my head for the last time. I got to put my arm back into the sleeve for the last time. One of the technicians brought my camera into the room and I turned it on and showed her which button to push. She knew I wanted a picture in front of the gantry, so she started to take my picture when I asked, “What about the confetti?”

“You’re not supposed to know about that!” she said, surprised. I figured it out weeks ago, but didn’t bother to explain. So the other two technicians came into the room then. I forget that they have the sound turned on in the booth so anything said by someone in the room can be heard in front of the room in case someone needs help.

The three of them dipped their hands into a metal pail I had never noticed before and readied themselves to throw the confetti. One of the counted to three and I found myself bouncing back and forth on my toes like an excited child. On the count of three they tossed the confetti into the air and it floated silently down like snow. It got in my hair and on my face and clothes and I smiled, touched by happiness at last.

Two pictures were taken of me then, one in focus and one not. Both are next to the gantry I won't have to see anymore. On the way out I noticed the mirror and took another picture of myself.




















Then I waited to see the doctor. The radiation oncologist always meets with folks after their final treatments.

MEETING WITH THE RADIATION ONCOLOGIST

The meeting with the radiation oncologist was all sweet and not bitter. He congratulated me on getting through my treatments and asked if I had any last questions. I did.

Why did my rounds of the boost involve the gantry turning left and right like my regular treatments? I thought it was going to come straight at me where the tumor had been. And why did it have two different pitches of sound when the radiation was in use? I knew from asking the technicians questions earlier in the week that the different sounds meant different energy levels, but why was that necessary?

He shifted his hands which were holding my chart. He withdrew a small plaque and handed it to me. The plaque has a quote from John Wayne and I would see a larger version of this every day as I left the radiation lab. The plaque says, “Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.” Boy, isn’t that the truth?

My doctor then said something like, “We know you put on a good face but you have to suck it up every day you come here.” Oh! I guess the people who see the patients all day long, day after day pick up on a few commonalities such as feeling less than thrilled to be there. My obstetrician must be so upbeat because she gets to spend parts of her days with pregnant patients who are looking forward to meeting their babies.

This ritual of the John Wayne plaque was a complete surprise to me. It felt good. My eyes once again teared up but I didn’t cry.

Then my doctor answered my questions. He turned to pictures in my chart to help him explain things.

The picture was an image of my breast overlaid with colored lines to show fields of energy and numbers next to the lines. The lines weren’t straight lines. They followed the contour of my body and they formed amoeba-shaped circles in the breast tissue.

He explained that the depth of my tumor site was 5 cm below the skin. The energy it would take to send radiation that deep into my body would send it too deep. He showed me a mark in the graph that invaded a significant portion of the white space below the breast. He explained that the radiation would have hurt my lung (the white space) if they had done the boost with the gantry shooting energy straight at me. That’s why the boost had the gantry going side to side just like the regular treatments.

Then he showed me a different picture of my breast with energy markings overlaid in color. I think the breast pictures (which were in black and white) were either x-rays or CT scan images.

With the second picture he explained that the lower energy travels farther. It was necessary to send lower energy at my breast (with the lower sound) because it penetrated the tissue further. The distance it needed to travel was 10 cm to reach the tumor site on one side. The distance needed was less from the other side which is why the faster energy was used there.

He also explained something I didn’t completely follow about one type of energy affecting the skin more than the other. Thought went into giving me as few treatments as possible of the energy that damages the skin more.

I appreciated the technology that allowed him to plan my radiation treatments with such careful attention to detail. I also appreciated how my doctor took the human side of treatment into consideration.

I asked if the pictures represented actual or projected treatment results. He told me they were accurate within one percent. Oh wow!

And with that, my visit was over. I’ll return for a checkup in three weeks.

I went into the dressing room, applied the lotion my friend Tara got for me, changed back into my work clothes, and left the cancer center. As usual I saw the John Wayne quote on my way out. I hugged my new plaque to me and smiled. "Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway." Damn straight.

Then I got into my car and cried.

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Saturday, September 09, 2006

45 POEM: Dessert

Ah...the rapture of dessert!
Something wonderful and interesting,
with opposing flavors melded.
Or something oozing and gooey,
deliciously sinful in divine sweetness.
It could be a classic done exceptionally well
or an unfamiliar combination of exotic delights.
Whatever the form, the impact is a flavor to savor,
an impression of perfection.
This is the moment when time stands still,
the taste buds tingle and applaud,
and nothing exists but this miracle -- this harmony
a mouth can roll and revel in.
This fleeting bliss is a gift from the gods.
Treasure it.
Ah...the rapture of dessert!



Written by Angela Patterson
Copyright Angela Patterson 2006


I meant to publish this poem close to the time I wrote it (and wrote about it), our anniversary weekend in Salado in July. I forgot to post it then, but I'm catching up now. The blog formatting messes up the indentions that makes my poetry display as written. Oh well. I'm happy to be able to share.

This morning I'm going to experiment with homemade crepes for breakfast. I intend to cut up strawberries and throw heavy cream into the mixer so it will whip up into unsweetened whipped cream with a touch of vanilla. Strawberries, whipped cream, and crepes will be like having dessert for breakfast. Yum!

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Wednesday, September 06, 2006

44 E-mail: 7 more to go

9/6/2006

A CHANGE OF PLANS
This morning held a surprise for me that I didn’t like. It’s a change of plan for my radiation treatment.

Instead of 25 treatments of irradiating the whole breast (and nearby lymph nodes) and 8 treatments of the boost, I am now to have 28 treatments of whole breast irradiation and only 5 treatments of the boost.

The reason I don’t like this change is because the skin under my arm has finally reacted like a sunburn and begun to peel. Starting this weekend the skin has been peeling and the skin underneath is tender and easily irritated. Because the peeled skin is akin to the sensitivity and texture of new skin under a blister, it sticks to my arm when I bring my arm down. Lifting my arm up or forward causes the sticking skin to unstick and that’s when it hurts. Just a little bit. Many times an hour. Every hour I’m awake. Oh yeah, and then there’s the added joy of when my bra digs in just a little bit and makes it hurt some more. Radiation isn’t as tough as chemo but it still sucks, and now I get an extra 3 treatments of the radiation that’s caused this condition. Grrrrr…

Yesterday the nurse gave me a packet of an astringent called Domeboro (Aluminum Acetate). I am to combine the powder from the packet with water. Then I’m to dip a cloth in the water, wring the water out, and keep the cloth on the peeling skin for 15-20 minutes. Then I’m to let the skin air dry for 5 minutes before I apply lotion. And I’m supposed to do this 3-4 times a day. Yeah right. Like I have time for that.

I plan to try it this evening. Once a day is better than nothing. My radiation oncologist assured me today that the stuff works wonders and I’ll be amazed at how quickly my skin heals.

RADIATION EDUCATION
I decided to ask why my treatment plan has been changed. I still don’t exactly understand why fewer doses of the boost equals added doses of the full blast, but here’s the part I did understand.

Chemotherapy doesn’t help with the site where the tumor was removed because chemotherapy is systemic. It travels through your bloodstream to affect your system. Blood vessels were cut during surgery, so the healed area has scar tissue and blood that now travels differently in the site. Chemotherapy cannot help where it cannot reach, and it cannot reach through blood vessels that are no longer there. So that’s why we need radiation to kill the microscopic cancer cells that might have escaped from the surgery. That makes a lot of sense to me.

Furthermore, lack of blood flow means lack of oxygen. For some reason, cancer cells with less oxygen are harder to kill with radiation, so it takes more radiation to kill them.

(This next bit is my own mental leap here and not part of the conversation with my doctor.) I supposed that is why chemotherapy and radiation shrink tumors before surgery. Chemotherapy delivers the systemic poison when the blood vessels cancerous tumors create still feed the tumors. And oxygenated cancer cells die faster when radiation is applied.

My radiation oncologist reviewed my chart recently and found something of interest in my final pathology report. It you recall, I had essentially two lumpectomies. The first one was March 3 when the cancer was discovered and diagnosed. That’s when I was still pregnant. We thought from the preliminary pathology report that the margins were clean but learned in the final pathology report that the margins were dirty on one end. When I had the passport installed in my arm and the sentinel lymph nodes biopsied March 22, my surgeon made the original incision wider and removed extra tissue from the breast. It turns out that the final pathology report from that surgery reported no disease, and that’s what caught my radiation oncologist’s eye last week. No evidence of disease after the second excision means less call for the boost, so I get less of the boost.

A HALF RECALLED CONVERSATION
From the party Guy and I attended last weekend I remember part of a conversation but I cannot remember the source. This party-goer has a friend who has been working on a project using light to kill cancer cells. It was an amazing breakthrough, and I think it was shown that light waves at the right frequency shrank tumors and caused cancer cells to kill themselves. Something that causes cancer to go suicidal gets me excited.

I remember the person mentioning that the light technique is now in clinical trials. So I googled it. (Funny how that word “Google” has become accepted as a verb.) I typed in “light kill cancer clinical trials” and found this link on ClinicalTrials.gov. http://clinicaltrials.gov/ct/show/NCT00030589 The technique is called Photodynamic Therapy and in this trial it was combined with chemotherapy for lymphoma patients. (What’s humorous is that Google posed the question to me if I really meant to type “might kill cancer clinical trials.”)

After learning the proper name for the technique, I tried Google again and found this article at the National Cancer Institute. http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/factsheet/Therapy/photodynamic In a nutshell this looks like a promising new technology and it is already approved for certain kinds of cancer, such as esophageal cancer and non-small cell lung cancer, but it doesn’t apply to breast cancer. And it turns out that the treatment helps the immune system kill cancer cells. They don’t commit suicide.

I have to laugh at the quack sites that claim that the government is suppressing efforts to find the cure for cancer. Researches are trying all kinds of things to find a cure and kill cancerous cells. I know the FDA has a hand in trying to make sure new treatments are safe. If that’s governmental interference I’ll take it. There’s something about application of the scientific method and documented results of double blind studies under controlled conditions that makes me feel oh so much better about new techniques.

FLEXIBLE BABY
Kelric did something unusual today. According to one of his teachers at the Montessori school, he spent time in the stroller outside with his feet on the tray. Kelric pulled his own little feet from the normal position until they stuck out in front of him, between his torso and the tray. He stayed that way for a while, happy as a clam. She said that in all her years with all the different kids, she’s never seen any other kid do that.

I’m reminded of the ultrasound at 21 weeks where our first view of Kelric in the womb showed his feet by his head with his knees straight. The ultrasound technician said she had never seen a baby do that before.

It makes me wonder if he’s destined to become a gymnast, or a Cirque du Soleil performer.

I think I’ll go do some stretching now.

Angela

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Monday, September 04, 2006

43 Tiger-striped nails




Here are photos from July 15th. Guy took pictures of me with Kelric, getting a few close-ups of my tiger-striped nails.

Angela

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42 E-mail: 9 more left

9/2/2006

RADIATION UPDATE
Today’s update tracks time with a different approach. Instead of counting how many treatments of radiation I have received, I’m beginning to track how many are left to go.

Someone asked me that question today. “How many treatments do you have left?” I answered, “Ten.” My husband quickly corrected me. “Nine!” Well, they all blur together after a while. But Guy’s right. I only have 9 treatments left.

The cancer center will be closed Monday for Labor Day, so my next treatment will be on Tuesday. It will be the 25th and final treatment of whole breast irradiation. The last 8 treatments will be what they call “the boost.” That means the radiation treatment will be changed so that only the site of the lumpectomy will be irradiated. The direction of the radiation will be different as well. Instead of a strong beam that’s designed to hit my body at an angle to pass entirely through the breast tissue (and presumably out into the room), the boost will come straight at me but won’t go deeper than the breast tissue. The beam gets changed so that it doesn’t hit the bones or organs behind my breast. Oh, and the dosage of radiation will be increased from 180 rads to 200 rads. Looks like I’ll top out at over 6000 rads of accumulated radiation treatment. Lucky me.

All I can say is, “This had better work.” I SO don’t want to do this again.

I was given a new mark on my body to care for. It’s a dot in the middle of the lumpectomy scar. The dot is covered by a special tape like my “plus sign” marks are and I got it Thursday morning. I also got another round in the CT scan machine so that my radiation oncologist can prepare the machine details of the boost. I was recently corrected by someone that the doctor I had been referring to as my “radiologist” is actually my “radiation oncologist,” so I apologize for the earlier misnomer and vow to say it right from now on.

STATE OF MIND
I’m in about the same frame of mind as the last entry, I think. I’m happy to have normal amounts of energy. I’m stressed about money and resigned to my treatment regime. I’m optimistic again about my long term survival and I’m thrilled to be Kelric’s mom. Some days I’m extremely tired and that makes me more prone to feeling depressed. I have gotten a decent amount of rest the last three days so depression has faded away lately.

Sometimes my skin and/or my lumpectomy site hurt. Sometimes they don’t. I grumble a little when my lumpectomy site hurts because it reminds me of the early days of diagnosis when I was healing from the lumpectomy incision. My greatest desire often is to get the laundry caught up. That desire has yet to be fulfilled. I appreciate even more when people baby sit Kelric for us as that gives me time to focus on running errands or getting stuff done around the house. I’m getting tired of the piles of papers in the “office” part of the music room so I’ve started the attempt to organize and file the piles. I’ve made a dent but I’m far from finished.

BLOG
I’ve decided to succumb to peer pressure and start a blog. For those of you who may be wondering what a blog is, it is a journal of someone’s thoughts posted to the web in reverse chronological order (with the most recent entries showing up first). “Blog” is short for “web log.” I have been more or less creating a blog when I send out e-mail messages to you all, but it’s been private. A blog will be public in the sense that it’s on the world wide web and anyone can stumble upon it. I’m a little nervous about this, but it will make it much easier for new people to find and read all of the messages to date. I can even post pictures.

It’s going to take me a while yet to finish the preparations, but essentially I’m going to go through all of the updates I’ve sent out since diagnosis and post them to the blog (with spelling errors corrected). The first entry of the blog fills in the blanks a little and talks about how I came to get the surgery that became my lumpectomy and diagnosis and how I was given the news that I had breast cancer.

I’ll let you know when it’s ready.

PARTY
Guy, Kelric and I attended a party tonight. We got to visit with a number of people we hadn’t seen in ages. It was wonderful to see these people and reconnect with them.

I’m looking forward to our Life is Beautiful party October 15.

MAGAZINE INTERVIEW LAST WEEK
On Thursday (two days ago) I joined the three founders of the Pink Ribbon Cowgirls in giving an interview to a local magazine called ParentWise. I believe the article is about young mothers with cancer. This was my first magazine interview and I was excited to be included. The article will appear in the November 2006 edition.

That’s it for today, folks. A bit dry and matter of fact this time, but at least I’m feeling upbeat again.

Angela

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41 POEM: On a Good Day

On a Good Day


When asked today how I’m doing,
I say, “Today’s a good day.”
I don’t mean it in the Klingon way,
“Today’s a good day to die.”
I mean that I have energy again.
I can take care of myself
and all the details of life.
Today the nausea sleeps.
My muscles and joints don’t ache.
I can walk fast.
No haze of pain clouds my thoughts today.
This is how I will feel once all the chemo treatments are done.
This feeling will keep the bottles washed and the diapers stacked.
Today I feel better than the days before they said, “Cancer.”
Today I’m a dancer in a beautiful ensemble of improving health.
My slice of solo time dazzling and inspired.
In two days I will ache in a shifting landscape of muscles and joints.
My fingers and toes will go numb.
But I have survived 6 out of 8 treatments so far.
Today is a good day.
I’m smiling. Little happy thoughts dangle
in my head. I swallow the thoughts and survive.
Soon I’ll be even better; I’ll thrive.


Written by Angela Patterson
Copyright Angela Patterson 2006

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40 E-mail: 17 of 33

8/23/2006

I’ve got a few random things to share.

TUMBLE
For one thing, I took a tumble a week and a half ago taking Kelric to the Montessori school. They have stepping stones in the shape of Texas that connect the driveway to the sidewalk. A week ago Monday I was carrying Kelric in his car seat. He’s getting heavy. I was carrying the seat kind of low, and it hid my view of my feet on the steps. When I took that last step to get to the sidewalk my right foot unexpectedly turned to the right and I went down. I didn’t so much drop Kelric as set him down quickly as I fell. I ended up on the ground, but the carrying bar of the car seat was something I was still holding onto as I fell and that broke the fall considerably. I ended up with a lightly sprained ankle and an aching foot. I also bruised both knees but not badly.

I told the owners of the Montessori school about my fall and they were very concerned. They have made plans to even out the level of the stepping stones with the ground. Currently the stones sit on top of the ground and it creates a good inch or more of uneven surface that could contribute to future falls, so I’m glad they’re planning to change that.

The night of the fall I waited until evening to ice my ankle. That plus a Tylenol dosage took the pain away for the night. Now a week and a half later I still get faint pains from the bone in my foot and my ankle, reminding me to treat them gently. Each day I feel a little better so it’s a nuisance but really no big deal.

Since last Monday, however, I put Kelric in the baby carrier that I wear around my torso and I carry the car seat separately. That works much better for me and for Kelric. He has a grand time kicking his feet and sucking on the top of the carrier. He also looks really cute that way and I appreciate the lighter weight in the car seat.

SCREWDRIVER
The cubby hole bin things in the changing room at the cancer center need work. The hinges are not properly aligned and the cubby doors are very close to one another, so the misalignment issues mean they rub and stick on the surrounding doors when I try to open a cubby. The cubbies are to hold personal belongings while patients wear the hospital johnnys for radiation treatment.

This annoyed me just enough that I brought my own screwdriver one day and fixed the hinge on cubby number 5. That’s my favorite cubby since it’s easily reachable and usually has a key in it. Then I decided to try to fix the other doors. I quickly realized that I was out of my depth because fixing the other cubby doors requires time and a study of how each door’s hinges are set or misset and how they relate to the other doors.

So a couple of Tuesdays ago I complained to my radiologist about it. I waited a week and nothing changed, so I complained to my radiation technicians about it. The nurse said she would inform her boss. I said I was tempted to bring my screwdriver in from the car while we waited for the person in treatment to finish up. It was taking a while. The lady next to me asked if I would take a look at cubby number 10 because that one is her favorite and it bangs into or rubs other doors. The next day I brought my screwdriver and took a look at 10, but fixing 10 required fixing the doors around it so again I backed off. I mentioned this to the lady whom I saw again because her treatments are scheduled after mine. The nurse said that her boss had put in a call to the company that had originally installed the cubbies and they were coming to fix them. Oh boy! That day I tightened the screws that attach the handle for the cabinet door with the stack of hospital johnnys inside. That made me happy, tightening the handle and knowing that the professionals would take care of the rest.

It’s been a few days and nothing has changed yet. Guy suspects that it was embarrassing for a patient to try to fix the dressing room cubbies herself. I told the radiology nurse that the rest of the facility is so nice that it is strange to have this situation in the dressing room. She agreed. Hopefully it will get fixed before I get to stop coming every day.

RADIATION CHEMICAL REACTION
Yesterday I met with my radiologist after treatment. He sees me every Tuesday to keep an eye on possible skin reactions and to answer any questions that come up.

I told him that my breast is starting to hurt. Kelric kicked me that morning as I was changing him and it hurt. The day before I had held a bag of trash too tightly to my chest as I carried it downstairs and suddenly it hurt. It doesn’t hurt all the time, but it is beginning to ache whenever pressure is applied.

My doctor explained that fluid typically fits the void left after a lumpectomy. I knew there was fluid there from the mammogram I had a couple of months ago. They told me then that my body would reabsorb the fluid over the next year or so and it’s nothing to worry about. I’m still not worried, but my radiologist told me that a chemical reaction takes place when the fluid is irradiated. It causes a reaction that feels a lot like arthritis. He suggested I take ibuprofen to manage the pain. I can’t take that because I’m still on Coumadin for three months after the port removal (July 24 plus three months), so all I can take it Tylenol. He said that Tylenol won’t work as well, but it will help so I should take it every day.

Meanwhile, my “skin reaction” continues. The skin under my armpit looks quiet tan now. Under my breast it’s turning red. The lumpectomy scar is still light pink and none of these places hurt or itch yet.

I’m also getting comments about how much energy I seem to have. I must admit that I feel like my old self again if not better. I think the cancer was battling with my immune system for years and it affected me in all kinds of ways. Now that the tumor is out and chemotherapy isn’t poisoning me, I have a lot more energy. It’s nice.

AUTO PILOT
Today as I drove to the cancer center I realized that my brain was on autopilot. Just as I can navigate my way to and from work without intense conscious thought, I turned my trip to the cancer center over to the automatic navigation control and wound up at my destination without much conscious consideration. It struck me as sad that my path to South Austin Cancer Center should be so well traveled as to become automatic.

FUZZY HEAD
Earlier this week I rode up in the elevator to my office and a co-worker happened to ride up with me. I wasn’t wearing a scarf or hat at the time so my head was uncovered. My co-worker asked if she could rub my fuzzy head. I didn’t mind. I like it when people rub my new hair. It felt like velvet last week but this week it’s soft like Kelric’s hair. I’m tickled to see it filling in and it’s fun to have others share in that excitement. “Oh Angela!” she said in her English accent, “It feels like moleskin!” I’m not sure what moleskin is, but it must feel very soft.

CELEBRATION
I’m planning a party to celebrate the end of cancer treatments. I believe I had mentioned this before as a tentative event. Now it is scheduled for Sunday, October 15th. I’m still mulling over times, but I believe 2:00 to 5:00 p.m. will work for most people. That gives churchgoers time to attend services and eat lunch. It gives many Texas-based out-of-towners time to travel, even with church and lunch first. I’m halfway inclined to suggest that the people still around at 5:00 stick around longer and eat a spaghetti dinner here before going home. What do you think? Spaghetti sound good? Should I encourage people to bring desserts or snacks for the 2:00 to 5:00 part? I’m not terribly creative when it comes to planning parties. All I want to do is hug and talk to everybody. I figure if I set out tea and stuff to nibble on then the rest will take care of itself.

For parents, we’ve got the playground across the street from our house. That can be fun for kids under 12.

I wanted a theme for the celebration. At first I thought the theme would affect the food, like having all sweet desserts for a “Life is Sweet” theme. But I want non-sweet food, too, and “Life is Sweet” seems not quite the tone I’m trying to create.

Today it hit me as I walked to my car from radiation that I could pick a broader theme such as “Life Can Be Beautiful.” I would like for you party attendees to wear something beautiful. The exact dress of the outfit doesn’t matter. You can be formal or casual, dressy or comfortable.

Just wear something to my party that makes you feel good. Either it makes you feel beautiful when you wear it or it looks beautiful to be worn.

For those of you who can’t make the celebration, wear something for me the day of the party that links beauty with joy.

I have a pair of fish shorts that has a horrible cut. I’ll never wear them in public and I rarely wear them around the house. But the fabric is so freaking soft that I just want to pet my shorts all day long. It’s wild. I’m not going to wear the fish shorts to the party, but it would be in keeping with the spirit of the event if you wore an equivalent to my fish shorts that day because that fabric to me is beautiful. I also have a black maternity dress that I felt beautiful wearing when I was pregnant. It was comfortable and classy and looked really nice with a certain gray choker. That made me feel beautiful and even elegant despite my awkward pregnancy stages. I don’t think I’ll wear a maternity dress to my party, but I think you get the idea.

Surviving the cancer treatments adds a sweetness to daily life for me. Not feeling nauseous or numb or having my body hurt is a beautiful thing, and these painful and expensive treatments will give me years to watch my little boy grow up. That’s beautiful. Wear what inspires you to think about beauty and then please be sure to tell me why.

I’m going to go to bed now. I felt distressed earlier in the day worrying about metastasis and local recurrence statistics. Now I feel upbeat again and optimistic. Roller coaster, roller coaster… I’ll go to bed thinking beautiful thoughts tonight.

Angela

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Monday
8/21/2006

Today will be my 15th treatment. By Wednesday radiation will be halfway over. It’s been fairly easy, all things considered. My skin is beginning to look lightly sunburned and it’s starting to hurt if pressure is applied. Most of the time I don’t notice any discomfort. Oftentimes I feel a little yicky after eating a meal and that started with radiation. Hopefully it’ll end when the treatments are over. The interesting thing about the sunburn effect is how I can see a right angle for one of the corners. It’s as though someone held up a sheet of paper and the corner of the page got burned onto my chest.

I’ve attached two photos.

One is of me from a week and a half ago. It shows two of the four radiation marks that help the technicians line up the equipment consistently for treatment. So far the universal response has been laughter when people (non-radiation technician people) have seen these (such as my husband and my parents). I don’t know why. So have a giggle on me. The other picture is a sunrise from our back porch on our wedding anniversary this year, July 15. I came downstairs to make a bottle. From the kitchen sink I saw the sunrise and felt inspired by the beauty. I quickly grabbed the camera and captured an image to remember the moment. Enjoy.

Angela

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8/10/2006
Today is Thursday and I’ve had 8 radiation treatments so far. Monday this week (treatment #5) I noticed that my incision from the lumpectomy has turned light pink. Today I asked about what kind of lotion I can use on my pink spot and I was told to buy the Nivia brand with aloe. If I can break away to get to the grocery store soon I’m going to hunt for it. With Kelric’s early bed time and our general exhaustion after working a full day and then playing with the baby, it’s hard to get to the store.

Monday I asked during treatment why they put a shield of some kind over the x-ray machine. The technician told me it evens out the radiation for my body. Part of my body is thicker and part is thinner. The shield is thicker on the side where my body is thinner and the shield is thinner on the side my body is thicker. That way they don’t overtreat the thinner bits to get sufficient radiation to the thicker bits. Oh.

Tuesday they took a chest x-ray. Wednesday they took another x-ray. What’s that for? The doctor made an adjustment of half a centimeter in the positioning of the radiation and the second x-ray was to document the change.

I asked Wednesday what the x-rays show. The nurse put up a collection of CT scan images (4 images on one x-ray sheet) and Tuesday’s x-ray side by side. She showed me where the radiologist had marked the area where the radiation treatments are supposed to hit my body. I recognized the treatment pattern overlaid on my CT images as the shape of the “leaves” behind the glass on the gantry machine. Oh. Then she showed me from the x-ray where the radiation is actually hitting my body at the original setting. She compared it to where the doctor/computer-generated image showed it was supposed to hit my body. Slight variation. Then she put up that most recent x-ray with the half centimeter adjustment made. She showed me the slight difference where it is affecting a smidgen more of my breastbone than before. OK. That was neat, and I thanked her for taking the time to explain things to me. I’m glad I asked.

Today I asked how many rads I’m getting with each treatment. The answer: 180. That doesn’t seem so bad. From “Dr. Love’s Breast Book” I expected 4500 to 5000 rads per treatment. I felt very comforted hearing that my treatments only contain 180 rads. Then again, 33 treatments times 180 rads each equal 5940 rads. That disturbs me because I think radiation is cumulative. I know that a modern x-ray is just a fraction of a rad.

Here’s a quote from a link http://www.cancer.org/docroot/CRI/content/CRI_2_4_3X_Can_breast_cancer_be_found_early_5.asp to the American Cancer Society web site. “To put dose into perspective, if a woman with breast cancer is treated with radiation, she will receive around 5,000 rads (a rad is a measure of radiation dose). If she had yearly mammograms beginning at age 40 and continuing until she was 90, she will have received 20 to 40 rads. As another example, one mammogram exposes a woman to roughly the same amount of radiation as flying from New York to California on a commercial jet.” I didn’t know you got dosed with small amounts of radiation from flying on planes! That’s interesting.

What is a rad, exactly? According to this web site http://hyperphysics.phy-astr.gsu.edu/hbase/nuclear/radrisk.html#c5, “The rad is a unit of absorbed radiation dose in terms of the energy actually deposited in the tissue. The rad is defined as an absorbed dose of 0.01 joules of energy per kilogram of tissue. The more recent SI unit is the gray, which is defined as 1 joule of deposited energy per kilogram of tissue.” I believe “SI” stands for “Standard International.” So the “rad” is the old unit of measurement and the “gray” is the new unit of measurement and 100 rads equal 1 gray. And I thought “gray” was just a color involving black and white. It must involve pink as well.

I still have loads of energy and I only get depressed when I notice how few eyebrow hairs I have left. The “baby” eyebrows are growing in, but the continued hair loss marks another thing that’s beyond my control (and, let’s face it, I’m something of a control freak) so it’s mildly traumatic and bugs me continually. It also confuses me to still be losing any type of hair when it’s growing back all over. What’s especially annoying is that the stupid eyebrow hairs hurt when they’re ready to fall out. So one or more hairs die, they hurt, I rub my eyebrows and see the hair or hairs on my finger. I sigh then go back to whatever I was doing. Another day or two and it’ll be over. Meanwhile, my face looks funny.

On the other hand, the back of my head feels like velvet. It’s really neat. The front top of my head feels like velvet, too, only a shorter pile. The middle top of my head feels bumpy as all the little hair follicles are trying to push through the skin. The hair is growing back in the order it fell out with the earliest fallout areas coming back first. We still can’t tell for sure what color it is. In some light sources the color looks pale blond, in others it looks strawberry blond, and in others it looks a little dark. Right now Kelric’s baby fine hair is about an inch long so he’s way ahead of me. I’m getting more comfortable with my super short hair and when I feel too hot I’ll take my head scarf off at work. I tried wearing my wig today but it made my scalp itch too much. The scarf is soft and comfortable so I like it better than the wig. One of my coworkers has promised to loan me his scarf with red chili peppers on it. I hope he brings it soon so I can wear it and be sassy.

The other day Guy and I were somewhere that I found to be cold and he didn’t. It’s a common situation, I’ve noticed. This time he checked my forearm for goose bumps to see how cold I really was. I looked at my forearm, too. “Look,” I told him, “both of my hairs are standing up.” All the little baby hairs were at attention but they’re so short they always look that way. The two remaining original hairs on my arm were both indeed standing up. I wasn’t exaggerating, but it was an injection of humor that made Guy laugh. I forgot all about being cold as I laughed with him.

Eeee-gads! The quick note I started to write just after 10:15 has turned into another long one. It’s after 11 p.m. and I’m going to pay for this tomorrow. I could blame tomorrow’s fatigue on the radiation but now I have all of you witnesses to keep me straight. Guy was smart. He fell asleep on the sofa just after 9 p.m. tonight.

‘Night, ya’ll,
Angela

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37 E-mail: beginning of radiation

8/3/2006

This week marks the beginning of radiation for me. I can’t understand why I’m so depressed about it.

Monday was fine. That’s the date of my “sim,” the simulation of my body created in the CT scan machine. I laid on the table with my right arm holding a grip above my head. Lasers created cross marks on my abdomen and a technician marked my skin with a red marker to show the cross marks of the laser beams. These marks in three places around my mid-section help them calibrate the equipment to the same position each time which in turn helps control exactly where the radiation goes. Clear adhesive tape was placed over the marks so that they wouldn’t wash off in the shower. I am strictly forbidden to soap or scrub them in any way. Monday’s session involved the marks, lying down on the CT scan table, and going through one pass in the CT machine with it whirring at full speed. Then we were done.

I asked to look at my CT scan on the computer before I left. The technicians indulged me. As a result I got to see my lungs, heart, stomach, kidneys, spleen, and aorta. It was pretty neat. It reminded me of the long ultrasound session at twenty-something weeks when we got our first good look at Kelric and his internal organs. We got to see the four chambers of his heart that day and it really impressed us. Guy asked if I could see the site where the lumpectomy had been but I could not. The display went by quickly.

So Tuesday I showed up for my first dose of radiation. I asked Guy to come with me for moral support and so he would know what the equipment looked like. The technicians let him stand with them next to the computers that run the million dollar radiation machine called a gantry. He could see me the whole time thanks to a closed circuit video feed. Nothing like lying on a table with half my torso exposed knowing strangers can see me on a camera when I can’t see them.

The first treatment of radiation is the longest, I’m told. It started by returning to the original CT scan machine where the technicians used the lasers once again to check the measurements and add purple marks to my body, this time above the breast. Then I went into the radiation room and laid on a similar long, thin table on rails with the gantry at the head. Here’s a link to see what one looks like. http://www1.va.gov/ntxradoncology/page.cfm?pg=2 One technician moved a green foam thing to support my neck as I lay down. The other technician put a strap around my feet to keep them together then she adjusted my position under the lasers by pulling the paper I’m lying on. Also a cushiony thing shaped like a triangle is placed under my knees for support. I understand now that this is part of the daily setup process for radiation.

They used the gantry to take chest x-rays first. I’m not sure why. The gantry machine rotates around me while I lie on the table with my right arm over my head and my left arm at my side. It was interesting to watch the thing take on different shapes. According to the article on the web site this is new technology that shields organs from radiation damage and what I called a “thing” is actually “a newly developed field shaping system called multileaf collimation.”

During the first blast of radiation with a buzzer letting me know when it starts and stops, I had a strong impulse to leap off the table and run away. What kept me in place was fear that organs would get damaged if I moved. I had similar impulses Wednesday and today, too, though the intensity was less.

The radiation treatments don’t take very long. There is a long blast that’s between 30 seconds and a minute, then a short one of maybe 4 seconds. The gantry rotates what I believe must be 180 degrees and I get another long blast that’s about 30 seconds long followed by another short one. Then we’re done. The strap is removed from my feet, the pillow thing removed from under my knees, and a technician or two helps me sit up. Then I’m allowed to put my arm back in the sleeve so the hospital “johnny” covers my torso again and I’m free to return to the dressing room to get dressed and leave.

For my first treatment on Tuesday we were asked to stay a little longer to meet with the radiologist. He’ll see me every Tuesday to keep an eye on possible skin reactions. It will probably be a few week into treatment before the first reactions start to appear, if I have any.

Radiation is surreal to me. I lie on this table and listen to a buzzer while expensive equipment rotates and adjusts. The room is darkened with the main lights turned off and small fluorescent lights in recessed canisters creating enough glow that you can see around the room. The temperature is moderate so I’m not freezing while I’m half naked. That’s a relief.

So far I hate radiation more than chemotherapy. Maybe it’s because I got to keep my clothes on during chemo. Oddly enough chemo felt less invasive. It hurt more since my skin got pierced with a needle every time they drew blood or accessed my port, but that hurt usually stopped or eased up after just a few minutes. Radiation doesn’t hurt at all yet I find myself longing for the days of infusions. I don’t understand.

I’m not sure why I feel so prudish about this. During the days after Kelric’s birth when we were still in the hospital, I would nurse Kelric with my breasts fully exposed and it didn’t bother me a bit to have the nurses come and go. They would see the lumpectomy scar and offer condolences. Other than that I didn’t feel self-conscious. I don’t exactly feel self-conscious with the radiation routine. I just feel emotionally tired. Tired of having to do something uncomfortable around people I don’t know for the sake of killing the cancer cells. Tired of thinking about cancer. Tired of adjusting my work schedule to accommodate cancer treatments. Earlier this week I found myself crying and apologizing to Guy for getting sick. Naturally he reminded me that I had no control over getting sick and he would prefer that I go through cancer treatments than risk it coming back by having no treatments. Just being held in his strong arms while he assured me “It’s okay” was enough to calm me down.

It was so nice once the side effects wore off from the last round of Taxol and before I started radiation. It was so nice to have a normal life again. Even with the surgery and having to be careful not to mess with the steri-strips or put pressure on the site where the port used to be, I still felt more normal than I do now.

And oddly enough, I’ve taken this week to grieve my diagnosis all over again. I’m actually starting to feel well and truly sorry for myself for what I believe is the first time. Maybe the shock has worn off and I’m past the initial phase of processing that I had cancer. I’ve accepted my diagnosis but now it scares the willies out of me. It disturbed me to learn that my tumor was 3.5 cm instead of 2.5 cm. That should be just a little thing but it’s not to me. That extra centimeter puts me in a lower survival category and I don’t like it.

I met with my breast surgeon Monday afternoon for a follow-up exam after the port removal surgery. I prepared a list of questions and finally got to ask her why certain things were done the way they were done.

Why, for example, was it so freaking important to induce Kelric to come early? He was only a few weeks away from term. Why couldn’t we wait it out?

I asked this question knowing from Dr. Susan Love’s book that it is common practice to deliver the babies early when the mothers have breast cancer. On the other hand I’ve met women who delayed the start of their treatments by four weeks or so. I know that every case is different but why did we have to deliver Kelric early? It wasn’t that Kelric was harmed in any way by an early delivery. It’s that we had several less weeks to prepare for his arrival than we were expecting to have and that threw our household into chaos and made our son’s arrival a mixture of joy and great sadness.

Her answer was that the baby was far enough along to be safely delivered early and she needed him out before she could perform the sentinel node biopsy surgery because that required general anesthesia. The surgery to check for cancer in my lymph nodes was important for staging the cancer, and learning what stage I was in affected the treatment I was given. Frankly, she said to me, she was surprised that my lymph nodes were negative for cancer. Given the large size of my tumor (and the fact that the pathology report showed signs of invasion of cancer into my bloodstream and my lymphatic system), it was almost certain that the cancer had spread to my lymph nodes. She was shocked and happy to see that it hadn’t spread yet. In retrospect I’m happy that I had a surgeon who was skilled enough to use the sentinel lymph nodes as a statistical sample of cancer invasion. It’s a much more difficult surgery than taking all the lymph nodes and checking to see which ones had cancer and which ones didn’t.

Putting the port in my arm is a more difficult procedure as well, per the book by Dr. Love. I seem to be the only one with a port in my arm in the growing number of survivors in the Pink Ribbon Cowgirls group. All these women who have or had ports in their chests ask me why mine is in my arm and I didn’t know why until this week.

My surgeon has a personal preference to put ports in the arm. She said most doctors around Austin prefer the chest but she prefers the arm. It’s one less scar on the chest, for one thing. I know other women have told me with young children they get bumped by their little ones and it hurts. Kelric only bonked his head on my port when I’d be foolish enough to put his head on that arm.

I mentioned that I had problems with blood clots with the port in my arm. She said that’s a risk of ports in the chest, too. Clots and infections are the common risks of ports. Guess I’m lucky I didn’t get an infection there.

So what color was the tumor? I asked. Guy told me the surgeon could tell by looking at the tumor that it was cancerous. What color is cancer? It’s tan, she told me. She could tell it was cancer by the color, the size, and the way it was intruding on the tissue around it.

I asked what happens during the follow-up visits once my treatments are over. She said I’ll alternate between her and my oncologist Dr. Kampe, seeing one then the other every four months for the next three years. If my cancer has not come back in the next three years, then I will have reached an important milestone and the odds will be that it will never come back. After that, I’ll see one then the other every six months for the rest of my life. That way, between the office visits and regular mammograms they’ll keep a close eye out for recurrence.

What about scans? I asked. She said scans are used to diagnose symptoms. If I have no symptoms, then there’s no need for a scan. Scans cost money, so I’m relieved not to have them on a regular basis.

I finally got a copy of the final pathology report and I asked questions about what different terms meant. It felt good to understand things a little better. She put the 21 copies of Pink Ribbon Cowgirl flyers I had brought with me in one of the flyer dispenser containers on a wall of brochures and flyers. Maybe we’ll get new members from that. I hope so because the group is helpful to me.

I learned that my breast surgeon specializes in breast cancer. That’s all she does. I think my obstetrician sent me to her to rule out cancer as a cause for my lump. The preliminary ultrasound scans showed only fluid at the time, not a mass of any kind. Everyone was surprised on the day of the surgery when we learned it was cancer. As scary and awful as it was, I am grateful that the diagnosis didn’t get delayed for several months.

I keep telling Guy I want him to take a picture of my face very soon. When I first told him this I had 8 eyelashes on an upper eyelid and one eyelash on the lower one. The other eye had something like 12 lashes on the upper lid and 1 on the lower lid. Now I have no “adult” eyelashes on my lower lids. I have only “baby” lashes growing in. I’m down to one lash each on the upper lids. The “baby” lashes are short and pale, but they are slowly growing in and replacing what I’ve lost. Wish they’d hurry up. Guy says my faces looks “wrong” in a subtle way. The lack of eyelashes and the shadows they create mark me as surely as the short fuzzy hair that I’m a chemotherapy survivor. Only my wig doesn’t hid the eyelash business.

Well, enough about that, eh? So it’s been a tough week. I’m getting through it. I’ll get a break Saturday and Sunday. No radiation on weekends. And I’m having fun with my work lately, finally getting to dig into interesting projects with exciting potential for improving the way people work at our company. This week marks my first week back to full time hours, though radiation cuts into my schedule enough that I’m having to work an hour a day from home to make a 40-hour week. Still, I have normal amounts of energy finally and that’s a nice change. Last weekend I started reading articles on www.quackwatch.org and they were very interesting. My oncologist told me that’s one of his favorite web sites. I learned lots of interesting things there but this e-mail is long enough already.

I’m trying to think of a theme for a party to be held sometime in October to celebrate the end of cancer treatments. I would love to rent a hall and have dancing and live music, but we can’t afford that so I think I’ll host some kind of open house on a Sunday afternoon instead.

Guess I’ll have to think on it in my sleep. I’m going to bed now.

Cheers,
Angela

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