54 E-mail: one year of survivorship

March 3, 2007


Our son will turn a year old on the 13th. That’s just a week and a half away. Today has been full of errands and cleaning and planning for the upcoming birthday party.

Today is also an anniversary. Exactly one year ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer. One year ago today I became a survivor.

In the handful of down moments throughout this hectic day, I’ve had flashes of memory from events over the last year of treatment and survivorship.
Tears filling my husband’s eyes as he told me, “You’re going to need chemotherapy and radiation.”
Tears filling my own eyes during the first round of chemo when I sat in an infusion chair for the first time and thought, “I don’t want to be here.”
Jumping a little like an excited child as the confetti floated down after my final radiation treatment.
My newborn son, laid upon my belly just moments after birth. Joy so profound it is too deep for words.
Asking to be turned away from the mirror while my hair was shaved off.
Seeing hundreds of tiny hairs on my hand in the shower as the stubble fell out.
Wanting during my first radiation treatment to jump off the table and run away.
Writing e-mails to my friends and family so they would know what was going on.
Crying in the shower.
Feeling isolated as I adjusted to my circumstances.
Attending the annual company party my first week back at work, feeling sick with nausea, and almost crying as I looked at so many women who still had their hair.
Struggling to cope with the realization that I had a life threatening illness that could very well have prevented me from watching my son grow up if we hadn’t caught it when we did.
Suddenly realizing I would lose my hair and Guy saying, “You poor thing. It’s all hitting you at once, isn’t it?” It was.
Alone in the bathroom, staring at my bald head in the mirror. Some days I felt strong and proud. Some days my reflection looked alien and forlorn.
Wanting to cry from a hot flash because it meant my fertility was gone.
My obstetrician sitting on my bed the second morning after I gave birth, telling me about breast feeding, “You need to stop.”
Feeling light-headed all the time from the anti-nausea medication and the steroids given before chemo.
Feeling elated when my cycle returned because I had hated being 35 and in menopause.
Struggling to drive safely when my fingers and toes were numb.
Needing frequent reassurance that I was still attractive to my husband (and getting that reassurance every time).
Needing to talk about my cancer experience – to record and document events as they unfolded.
Joy at going to my port removal surgery.
Joy when I could stop taking Coumadin.
Realizing that I had a right to demand a butterfly needle when blood was drawn for lab work, and sadness that I knew what it was.
Sadness at realizing I knew the shady spots of the cancer center’s parking lot because I had been there so many times.
Crying because I had just purchased nursing pajamas the day before diagnosis and then learned it wouldn’t be safe to nurse my baby.
My hungry baby instinctively turning his head to my breast as I held him and me bursting into tears while I told him, “They don’t work, baby. Mommy can’t feed you that way.”
Gratitude for the kind souls who looked after Kelric so I could sleep or go to medical appointments, or so my husband and I could have “grown up” time.
Getting encouragement from the e-mails loved ones would send and from conversations with other survivors and how it sustained me.
Gaining confidence and strength as I learned to navigate through insurance billing details, negotiate payments plans with hospitals, and see that my short term and long term disability payments were correct.
Watching my son grow and taking life day by day as I coped with cancer treatments with an infant in the house. And loving him all the more as the special gift he is to our family.
Feeling guilty for falling apart around my husband who would always hold me and let me cry it out so I could calm down and feel better.
Learning that we have a responsibility to ourselves to have unusual things going on in our bodies checked out. And being persistent if the first doctor says not to worry but our instincts say otherwise.
Realizing that you must find medical professionals you like or else you won’t trust their judgment or recommendations.
Staying up late when I was tired so that I could finish typing my updates.
A rush of joy when I realized I had helped somebody else by sharing my story or by freely giving advice based personal experience.
Feeling that sense of, “Aw shucks!” when told that I had inspired someone and mentally kicking my toe at the carpet in embarrassment and secret pride.
Feeling special when Parent:Wise Austin put the picture of me and Kelric on the cover of their magazine.
Feeling special when so many people came to my post cancer celebration party last October.
Wanting to do more to reach other people and help them.
Struggling to balance my work with my newfound activism with private time with my husband and our son.
Loving everyone for their many kindnesses.
Feeling inspired to write cancer poetry and feeling grim about the source of inspiration.
Trying not to cultivate a permanent aversion to the intersections and roads around the cancer center.
Appreciating the knowledge and skills of the medical professionals who treated me and continue to look out for me.
Gratitude for having health insurance.
Feeling the shock and disbelief when I was first diagnosed.
Feeling determination to endure the treatments and thrive afterwards.

I guess one memory lead to another here. That was quite a trip!

I’m doing well now. I had my first post-treatment checkup with my oncologist two days ago. It was interesting how strong the old emotional patterns returned. The day before the appointment I became mildly depressed over returning to the cancer center. That always happened the day before chemo. The day of the appointment I was anxious, just like I always felt the morning of chemo. I was surprised at the reluctance I felt to drive into the cancer center parking lot. I parked my car on the side that gets shady in the late afternoon. I walked in the door and a new receptionist sat at the front desk. I asked for a butterfly needle and a compression bandage from the lab tech who drew my blood. I made real progress in the puzzle in the waiting room before I was called to see the doctor. I felt the familiar sadness at having a reason to be in a cancer center.

The checkup went well. I should mention that a couple of weeks before the checkup I called and asked to speak with my oncologist because I felt I had figured out the link between the liver and post treatment depression. He returned the call and I told him about my theory of the liver being damaged from chemo which leads to Vitamin B deficiencies which leads to depression and also possibly contributes to chemobrain. He found that interesting. I took printouts from my research via the web to my checkup so that he could see what I had found about which B vitamins contribute to what symptoms.

I asked about starting a study to formally prove or disprove my theory. He pointed out that getting funding for a study like that will be difficult since a drug company won’t benefit from the results. Boy, that’s life, isn’t it? You get a lead on a good idea that could contribute to improving the quality of life for thousands or millions of people and you can’t get the medical backing that proves it’s a valid theory because it won’t make money for a major pharmaceutical company. Sounds like I have a new challenge to adopt.

I need to correct something I stated in my last communiqué. I said that anger was depression turned inward. I got it backwards. The saying goes that depression is anger turned inward. Thanks to the friend who pointed that out.

So a year ago I had a lumpectomy and a diagnosis. Ten days later I had a baby. Here’s to the next fifty years of having checkups. If I experience a bit of anxiety with the checkups each time, so be it. At least I’m healthy and alive. :-) Hooray!

Angela the Pink Tiger, Survivor

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