Cancer Sucks- Part Two- Diagnosis

In my front yard right now.

This is the part of this story in which I tell about what it was like to have the bee-jeebies scared out of me when I was diagnosed, for the second time, with Cancer.  The part where I tell about what its like to have your world thrown off its axis.  The part where you lose your hair, but get through it.  The part where the love and support of others makes all the difference.  


This post may be very long.  Or it may turn in to two posts.  I am writing for myself, so that I don't forget what happened, ever, even when I am really really old and my memory is (like my 96 year old dad used to say) "like a steel trap" (not).  I am writing for my family and friends, who loved and supported me through it all.  I am writing for those who are clawing their way through Cancer right now, and need to see that light at the end of the tunnel.  


I hope that what I write is helpful.


In my post Cancer Sucks- part one I wrote about my experiences with thyroid Cancer. Definitely scary, but almost more of an inconvenience.  After my treatments for that were over, my life returned to more-or-less normal. I was a good girl and got my screenings.  I wanted to do all I could to NEVER walk down Cancer Street again.  Once I turned 40 I had regular mammograms and colonoscopies.  I started having colonoscopies young, because, as you may remember, my mother died of Colon Cancer when I was five (read about it here).  I've had several, and had pre-cancerous polyps that could have turned into full-scale colon cancer painlessly removed twice.  I am a big cheerleader for colonoscopies --go Colonscopies, go!!!-- because they've saved my life.  If you have a family history of colon cancer get your hiney (literally) in and have one.  If you are over 50, have one.  If your parents are over 50, march them in and MAKE (if you have to) them have one.  You can read about what my last one was like here. 


Anyway, I was due for a mammogram in August of 2005 but missed it for a reason that I'm sure I thought was valid at the time but can't remember.  October is breast cancer awareness month, so one October day my husband Spence came home with this little pink ribbon thingy that he got at work and stuck it on one of the shelves in our closet.  I saw it every day, and eventually the guilt got to me, and I re-scheduled my mammogram.  It was in November.  I went in, put on the lovely gown, sat down in the inside waiting room and smiled shyly at the other women who were there for the same thing.  They smiled awkwardly back, while we all pretended to watch something inane like Jerry Springer or Montel Williams (some kind of "high quality" television programming) on the little TV.  I remember feeling younger than the other people there.  


The appointment itself was uneventful.  The boobs were squeezed, the small talk made with the technician, the clothes put on, and I was home.  I thought nothing of it.  


I noticed that I had missed a few calls from Intermountain Healthcare on the caller ID, but again, thought nothing of it.  They were probably taking a survey.  Seriously, it didn't even cross my mind that the calls might have to do with my mammogram.  Then one day I got something in the mail from the Breast Care Center that said "We've been trying to reach you about the results of your recent test, please call..."  That got my attention.


I called, and scheduled a follow-up mammogram.  I was worried, but not too much at this point, because I had been reading on the internet (wonderful and dangerous place when it comes to medical information) that most of these things were false alarms (most are).  I had never felt a lump, still couldn't. It was probably just a shadow on the film, or some kind of cyst, right?


Spence and my brother Dan came over to give me a priesthood blessing.  I wanted them to tell me that this whole thing was going to turn out to be nothing.  They wanted to tell me that, too. They really wanted to, but they couldn't.  Instead they said, and felt, that this whole thing wasn't going to turn out to be "nothing", but that it wasn't going to be the end, either. 


They were right.  I remember the radiologist matter-of-factly showing me the lump on the ultrasound. Putting my fingers on my left breast and saying, "Can't you feel that?"  I honestly couldn't.  Or maybe I barely could, but it just felt like a lumpy breast.  Like my breasts always felt. Like normal.  


I was more or less in shock, numb.  They kept telling me that most of the time when you get something this early it isn't much of anything.  Maybe I would have to have surgery and then radiation, but the surgery is easy to recover from, and the radiation not that bad.  I would be like Cheryl Crow.  She never had chemo, never lost her hair, was right back there singing on stage.  Yeah.  That's how it was going to be.


My surgery was scheduled remarkably quickly.  My surgeon was awesome, and very re-assuring.  He, too, seemed to believe that this would turn out to be only a minor thing. It was right before Christmas, and my family babied me and was oh-so loving.  I actually remember that Christmas as being an especially sweet one.  After the New Year someone from IHC Breast Care called and asked if I would like to see a panel of doctors at the Huntsman Cancer Institute about what was coming up next.  It was a new thing, and they said it would be great, that I would be able to get all of my questions answered.


That appointment turned into seriously one of the worst mornings of my life.  They took Spence and I into a little room with a couch where one specialist after another came in to talk with us, loaded with an armful of fun that included new information on the size and spread of my tumor, conflicting statistics, scary ultimatums, survival rates with various procedures, and lists of horrible side-effects and long term possibilities that I had never even considered.  I started bawling, and couldn't stop.  We felt trapped.  Still they came in.  "If you have this treatment, your hair will of course fall out, you may get mouth sores, your nails may fall off and never grow back, you may have bone aches and possibly permanent numbness and neurological changes.  If you don't do the treatment, your cancer will come back, and when it does, you WILL die.  You may get lymphedema, and have to wear support-hose on your arms for the rest of your life.  Do this exercise every day to help that not happen.  And oh, by the way, if you have the breast cancer gene, your children will be at risk.  They may not want to take the risk of having children, and may want to have  mastectomies as a preventative measure."  Really. All said in a matter of fact way as if I were not a mess, sitting in front of them, crying my head off.  Said in a way that said "We do this all the time". Sadly, they DO do this all the time.  Hopefully they are better at it now than they were then.


I left feeling scared and confused.  I went home and cried.  A lot.  Cried until no more tears could come.  Cried more than I ever had before or ever have since.  


Life went on.  I went to work, got the kids dressed and fed.  Went through the motions. I was teaching high school, and told my students what was going on.  I think its good not to pretend like nothing ever goes wrong in this life.   They were great.  So supportive.  Lots of people were.


My ward (congregation) had a fast for me.  We had only been in our neighborhood for a year or so, and it was so touching to me how many people went without food and sent prayers my way.  So sweet.  I know it helped.  I remember feeling so loved and supported, and even feeling a physical burning in my chest on the affected side the whole day of the fast.  Almost like a cleansing burn. It was amazing and the support and prayers so appreciated.


My sweet neighbor and soon-to-be good friend who did hair took me wig shopping.  She had this great attitude like this was all a party.  We went to every wig store in the Salt Lake Valley, trying things on, laughing, making it fun as best as we could.  If you ever need a wig, drop me a line and I can point you towards the best places and give you some good info.


About two weeks after my first treatment, just as they said it would,  my hair started falling out by the handful.  It was crazy.  I'd just run my fingers through my hair and have maybe 100 hairs in my hand.  Then more than 100.  I put a pony tail in my hair and a baseball hat on my head and didn't touch it for a week, trying to make it last as long as I could.  Finally it was time to cut it off.  My sweet friend washed it in our kitchen first.  It looked like a dead cat was in the sink.  So much dark curly hair.  Then she cut it in a bob (I was used to long hair).  She said things like -  "Look how cute this is!  Lets try it even shorter, though- I want to see how you look in a pixie.   Oh my gosh, you look great!  You are totally going to rock the short hair when your hair comes back.  You totally have the eyes for it."  Even though my hair was much too thin to wear out the way it was, I felt pretty, and for that I was so grateful.  The next morning, when I took my shower, all the rest of my hair fell out.  All of it.  I was bald.  Me, the girl who had always complained about having too much bushy hair.  Once that part was done, though, it was done.  I honestly grew to think that hair is overrated.  It gets in drains, on floors.  Its just dead cells, after all, right? Kind of gross, if you think about it.


Much more to say, but I think I'll stop here for now.  I need to get back to (thankfully) normal life.  

Things to say about what its like to see poison dripping in to your veins.  About side effects.  About a surprise bundle of joy that fell into our home from above right after I started chemo. About wonderful people who were, and are, there for me, and for my family.  About what it means to be a survivor.  


About my lessons learned.