I never did like pink and rarely wore it. But that was before I got drafted into the army of Pink Warriors. Now I’m stuck with pink ribbons the rest of my life.
It all started last November with a little itch. It was around midnight, my husband had already gone to bed and I was in the living room watching Nancy Grace and the unfolding horror story about Casey Anthony and her missing little girl, Caylee.
Without thinking, I shoved my hand up under my sweatshirt and scratched the itch. And there it was — something hard and rubbery in my right breast. I couldn’t believe it, poked at it again and it was still there.
I didn’t say a word to anybody about it. But I was working at the time with Kelly York and Stephanie M. Thompson of Early Detection Works for a story about some upcoming activities. One of them was a visit by the Mt. Carmel Cancer Center mammography van to the Decorum on Nov. 8.
They had been after me for a couple of years to get a mammogram, but I had ignored them because I had no history of breast cancer in my family. As I learned later, heredity plays a role only in a small percentage of breast cancer cases.
Anyway, they made an appointment for me, and I showed up at the van at 9:30 a.m. on Nov. 8. I told the technician there that I had discovered a lump in my right breast. That was the first time I’d said a peep about it to anyone.
I had the screening mammogram in the van. I also had a diagnostic mammogram at Mt. Carmel Regional Medical Center. They confirmed what I already knew. I had cancer.
I chose Dr. Phil Cedeño to do my mastectomy. His parents, Pat and Barbara Cedeno, had worked at The Morning Sun and were two of the finest people who ever drew breath and I knew their son had to be OK.
When Dr. Phil asked if I was interested in reconstructive surgery, I told him I’d consider it if Hugh Hefner called and offered me $5 million to peel for “Playboy.”
So far, Hef hasn’t called.
I had surgery on a Monday morning in December, and went home Tuesday evening. After a week at home reading and drinking tea, I went back to work the following Monday with Dr. Phil’s full consent.
He was pretty sure he’d cut out all the bad stuff, but recommended I consult Dr. Boban Mathew. The oncologist gently told me that there could be microscopic cancer cells in my body, just waiting for a chance to settle down and grow into more tumors. In fact, he put the odds at 60 to 70 percent that I could have a recurrence.
Chemotherapy and radiation could improve my odds. To start, I had four cycles of adriamycin, often called the “red devil” because it’s bright red and just as mean as cancer, and cytoxan. These drugs are administered intravenously through an implanted port, which Dr. Phil installed below my collar bone on the left side.
I received the red devil and its accomplice once a month, and would start feeling ill around the second or third day afterward. That’s what we call a “yuck day.” After three weeks, just when I was starting to feel normal again, I’d get another dose.
During that time, everything tasted salty. Chocolate, one of God’s great gifts to humanity, tasted like salty mud to me. On the other hand, I hate salmon and other fish, but my poor stomach craved salmon. I also ate a few tons of graham crackers with peanut butter, which soothed me just about as well as the anti-nausea drugs I’d been prescribed.
My long hair fell out. So did my eyebrows and eyelashes. But there’s a good side to everything — I haven’t had to shave my legs for nearly a year.
What worried me most was my blood. Chemo has a destructive effect on white cells and my immune system was just a memory for a lot of my time on chemo. I was sure every germ and virus in Kansas would sense this and swoop in for the attack. Actually, I didn’t even catch a cold during that time.
After the two-drug cocktail, I had four weekly cycles of Taxol. After that I was blasted with radiation 35 times.
Now my life is nearly back to normal. I actually miss hanging out at the Cancer Center, with its free muffins, cookies, coffee and juice. They tell me I’m welcome to come, bring a book and read in the lobby any time I want.
There is one good thing about breast cancer — you can’t give it to anybody else — so there was absolutely no reason for me to stay home from work. I never threw up once during treatment, and was never unable to function. I am more grateful than you can imagine for that.
Now I’m getting regular check-ups to see if there’s been a recurrence. I don’t think much about that because there’s absolutely no point in it. I’ve always believed that I’ll go when my time comes, not one second earlier or later.
So if the cancer doesn’t come back to get me, I could fall in the bathtub tomorrow and break my neck, or be out the yard playing with my great-grandchildren when a meteorite conks me on the head.
Meanwhile, people are telling me they love my new short haircut. I have eyelashes again and chocolate tastes wonderful. Life is good.
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I never did like pink and rarely wore it. But that was before I got drafted into the army of Pink Warriors. Now I’m stuck with pink ribbons the rest of my life.
It all started last November with a little itch. It was around midnight, my husband had already gone to bed and I was in the living room watching Nancy Grace and the unfolding horror story about Casey Anthony and her missing little girl, Caylee.
Without thinking, I shoved my hand up under my sweatshirt and scratched the itch. And there it was — something hard and rubbery in my right breast. I couldn’t believe it, poked at it again and it was still there.
I didn’t say a word to anybody about it. But I was working at the time with Kelly York and Stephanie M. Thompson of Early Detection Works for a story about some upcoming activities. One of them was a visit by the Mt. Carmel Cancer Center mammography van to the Decorum on Nov. 8.
They had been after me for a couple of years to get a mammogram, but I had ignored them because I had no history of breast cancer in my family. As I learned later, heredity plays a role only in a small percentage of breast cancer cases.
Anyway, they made an appointment for me, and I showed up at the van at 9:30 a.m. on Nov. 8. I told the technician there that I had discovered a lump in my right breast. That was the first time I’d said a peep about it to anyone.
I had the screening mammogram in the van. I also had a diagnostic mammogram at Mt. Carmel Regional Medical Center. They confirmed what I already knew. I had cancer.
I chose Dr. Phil Cedeño to do my mastectomy. His parents, Pat and Barbara Cedeno, had worked at The Morning Sun and were two of the finest people who ever drew breath and I knew their son had to be OK.
When Dr. Phil asked if I was interested in reconstructive surgery, I told him I’d consider it if Hugh Hefner called and offered me $5 million to peel for “Playboy.”
So far, Hef hasn’t called.
I had surgery on a Monday morning in December, and went home Tuesday evening. After a week at home reading and drinking tea, I went back to work the following Monday with Dr. Phil’s full consent.
He was pretty sure he’d cut out all the bad stuff, but recommended I consult Dr. Boban Mathew. The oncologist gently told me that there could be microscopic cancer cells in my body, just waiting for a chance to settle down and grow into more tumors. In fact, he put the odds at 60 to 70 percent that I could have a recurrence.
Chemotherapy and radiation could improve my odds. To start, I had four cycles of adriamycin, often called the “red devil” because it’s bright red and just as mean as cancer, and cytoxan. These drugs are administered intravenously through an implanted port, which Dr. Phil installed below my collar bone on the left side.
I received the red devil and its accomplice once a month, and would start feeling ill around the second or third day afterward. That’s what we call a “yuck day.” After three weeks, just when I was starting to feel normal again, I’d get another dose.
During that time, everything tasted salty. Chocolate, one of God’s great gifts to humanity, tasted like salty mud to me. On the other hand, I hate salmon and other fish, but my poor stomach craved salmon. I also ate a few tons of graham crackers with peanut butter, which soothed me just about as well as the anti-nausea drugs I’d been prescribed.
My long hair fell out. So did my eyebrows and eyelashes. But there’s a good side to everything — I haven’t had to shave my legs for nearly a year.
What worried me most was my blood. Chemo has a destructive effect on white cells and my immune system was just a memory for a lot of my time on chemo. I was sure every germ and virus in Kansas would sense this and swoop in for the attack. Actually, I didn’t even catch a cold during that time.
After the two-drug cocktail, I had four weekly cycles of Taxol. After that I was blasted with radiation 35 times.
Now my life is nearly back to normal. I actually miss hanging out at the Cancer Center, with its free muffins, cookies, coffee and juice. They tell me I’m welcome to come, bring a book and read in the lobby any time I want.
There is one good thing about breast cancer — you can’t give it to anybody else — so there was absolutely no reason for me to stay home from work. I never threw up once during treatment, and was never unable to function. I am more grateful than you can imagine for that.
Now I’m getting regular check-ups to see if there’s been a recurrence. I don’t think much about that because there’s absolutely no point in it. I’ve always believed that I’ll go when my time comes, not one second earlier or later.
So if the cancer doesn’t come back to get me, I could fall in the bathtub tomorrow and break my neck, or be out the yard playing with my great-grandchildren when a meteorite conks me on the head.
Meanwhile, people are telling me they love my new short haircut. I have eyelashes again and chocolate tastes wonderful. Life is good.
