I know the exact day it happened. It was April 11, 2015 when I finally felt a
little like myself again. My friend
(and breast cancer survivor) Jo Ann said it happened for her a year after her
last radiation treatment. For me, it was
exactly 14 months and 14 days after mine. It could have been the beautiful
crisp sunny day, the green that finally began to sprout from the trees, or
maybe it was my first trip to Lowe’s this spring to buy some Gerbera daisies.
On second thought….no. It was my ponytail, or a semblance of one. It was about an inch long and I had to sweat
a little to cram it in the elastic band, but it was a joyous occasion. I ran into the living room and squealed, “Look
honey (queue the twirl)! A ponytail!!!” He smiled, kissed me and said, “I’m so happy
for you. I know how long you’ve waited
for this moment.” It sounds silly, but
when you spend 18 months either bald or having some kind of hair crisis, it’s
such a relief to finally have a little hair on your head.
My ponytail stub. :)
Lauren and Jordan help me through one of the most difficult moments of cancer treatment.
My annual mammogram was April 20. It’s always a day of dread for me. April 20,
that is. That’s the day my dad
died. A few days later would have been
my mom’s birthday and I just felt really sad those few days. Why in the world would I schedule a mammogram
that week? I’m on edge a few days
before, imagining myself walking into that same office where just 22 months
ago, they dropped a nuclear bomb on my little world.
I walked into the waiting room and counted the women
sitting there. There were eight
of us. I thought, “One in eight women is
diagnosed with breast cancer.” I said a silent prayer that I had been the
only one in THOSE eight women who was diagnosed with breast cancer and that none
of us would get called into that dreadful little consultation room today.
The technician was very kind and respectful. I’m sure she’s seen it all. She placed wire tape over my scars so that
the radiologist could easily determine where the tumors were removed. The technicians, the way they pick up and contort
your breasts and manipulate them into the perfect place between the two sheets
of plexiglass, resemble a baker with a slab of dough squeezing it into a pie
pan. “How are you doing…emotionally, I
mean?” I felt my throat tighten up and
swore I wasn’t going to cry today. “I’m
terrified. With every headache I think it has
spread to my brain. If I’m aching, I’m
sure it’s in my bones. What is this organ? My liver? I feel twinges sometimes….” She nodded like she understood. “I was diagnosed with melanoma a few years
ago. I’ve had several surgeries since
then, but I’m here. And you are too…and
we have to live each day to the fullest and put it in God’s hands. Hold your
breath…(the machine whirs)……..You can breathe now. All done.
Have a seat in this room and I’ll come back and get you if we need more
pictures.” I waited for about 20 minutes. The sweet
technician with the big brown eyes said, “Everything looks great. You don’t
need to come back for a year.”
“You mean the radiologist already read it?” She nodded, hugged me, and said she would
pray for me. I wanted to say that I
would do the same for her but my throat was burning and I felt the tears coming
and I really didn’t want to cry. So, I
nodded and mouthed, “Thank you.”
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I have an appointment soon with a plastic surgeon. If he can spackle this hole in my breast, or
better yet- transfer some fat from my belly into that hole- I’ll be a happy
camper. If he can do it outpatient so I
can get back to work in a day or two, even better. I’m just now beginning to have a little
energy and can’t imagine wanting to start from square one with an extensive
reconstruction surgery. My body has been through enough these past two years.
When Jeff was two years old, his mother was diagnosed
with cancer. She was a very religious woman and prayed that God would let her
live long enough to see Jeff graduate from college. He graduated in May 1984 and she died two
months later.
My dad always told everyone that he’s always somehow
known that he wouldn’t live to see 53.
He was in his 20’s when I first heard him say it. I was 7 or 8 and didn’t worry about it much
because 50 seemed really old to me. He
was diagnosed with gall bladder cancer at 52 years and 7 months old and died
four months later. Does our brain have
that much power over our bodies? Just
in case, I’m telling myself and everyone else that I’m living to be 100!
