"Survivor"
I'm in a bizarre limbo period. I can't bring myself to say I'm a "breast cancer survivor." Instead, I share that I am cancer free. Interesting nuance, right? Maybe when I'm fully healed from surgeries? Maybe when I'm done with antibody infusions and don't have to return to the infusion center? Maybe in a couple years when I feel this is behind me? Maybe never?
I'll take this in pieces. First, the surgery. It has been six weeks since my surgery and the days have all mushed into each other in such a way, that I can hardly believe it's been six weeks. Also, my body doesn't feel six-weeks-post-surgery good. I still have trouble getting comfortable to sleep, I still can't sleep on my side or stomach. I still can't stretch my hand fully above my head, nor lift much on that side. I still have some scabbing. I go on Thursday for my last saline expansion, when I get to schedule my next surgery. Yay?
Second, the antibody infusions. I had Herceptin #10 today. Walking into the infusion center makes my blood pressure spike. Today, it felt like there were so many people waiting for chairs. People of all ages and seemingly stages. One particular gentleman was looking around a lot, a bit anxious. He finally asked, "so what is this all about, anyway? What goes on back there?" And I was moved to take up his questions. Turned out, it was his first infusion for lung cancer. He hadn't made it to chemo class, and was feeling overwhelmed by the unknown. I talked him through what to expect once he got to the infusion chair, and assured him that since it was first infusion, his nurse would go over every medication in detail before starting. I was called back approx. 45 minutes before he was, and I wished him well. And as fate would have it, he ended up in the chair next to me. I had been doing some work, when I heard "Hey, miss. I'm on the other side of the curtain from you." He shared my (amazing/favorite) chemo nurse, and it tickled me that the first thing he asked for was ice, because "she (me) said I can get some ice to numb my port, so the needle won't hurt." It also tickled me that he called his significant other his "lady."
As I was finishing, I noticed a woman who was cold capping. She also shared my nurse. I was encouraged to pop into the cold capping room and give some encouragement and show off my cold capping success, which I did. It turned out, she, too, had a lot of questions that I happily answered. She was also nervous by the unknown.
And that's the story of how I evolved from "cancer patient" to "cancer mentor," yet not quite "cancer survivor." It made the infusion center feel more tolerable for me; being there for good, and not for all things bad. I kept touching my necklace, engraved with my final chemo date, to keep me grounded.
Thirdly, the Tamoxifen. The hormone blocker pill that I began taking on 2/20/20, so I would always remember the date that began a 10-year journey. I was hoping for and expecting no side effects, but it wasn't to be. I developed some consistent mild cramping that hasn't gone away, and I fear it could be causing ovarian cysts, which I am prone to and this med is prone to cause. I developed mouth sores. My coffee tasted bitter again. My sleep is terrible and frequently interrupted. I still have hot flashes. My nails keep tearing and breaking. I'm fatigued ALL the time, which is likely a combination of this drug, surgery recovery, and cumulative effects of chemo that ended three months ago. I'm told these things get better as one's body adjusts, but...it just feels like the cancer treatment cycle is never ending.
Treatment. I had hoped so much that I would no longer be considered "immunocompromised," but sadly that is not the case. Because I still have immunotherapy infusions (Herceptin), I am still considered in active treatment and am still immunocompromised and part of the "higher risk" population. As everyone reading this knows, that is particularly noteworthy in the time of Coronavirus. Coronavirus has affected my next several weeks negatively already, but learning that I remain higher risk was a tough pill to swallow.
Whenever I run into people I haven't seen in a while, they ask how I'm doing. I always say "okay." I'm so much better than I was. I'm so far from "good!" But I'm doing strongly okay. I'm back at work several days a week, my brain is sharper than it was in chemo, my mobility is better. I'm running errands and planning for trips, work goals, and life, and I'm doing a convincing job of surviving...just not quite yet a "survivor." Stay tuned.
I'll take this in pieces. First, the surgery. It has been six weeks since my surgery and the days have all mushed into each other in such a way, that I can hardly believe it's been six weeks. Also, my body doesn't feel six-weeks-post-surgery good. I still have trouble getting comfortable to sleep, I still can't sleep on my side or stomach. I still can't stretch my hand fully above my head, nor lift much on that side. I still have some scabbing. I go on Thursday for my last saline expansion, when I get to schedule my next surgery. Yay?
Second, the antibody infusions. I had Herceptin #10 today. Walking into the infusion center makes my blood pressure spike. Today, it felt like there were so many people waiting for chairs. People of all ages and seemingly stages. One particular gentleman was looking around a lot, a bit anxious. He finally asked, "so what is this all about, anyway? What goes on back there?" And I was moved to take up his questions. Turned out, it was his first infusion for lung cancer. He hadn't made it to chemo class, and was feeling overwhelmed by the unknown. I talked him through what to expect once he got to the infusion chair, and assured him that since it was first infusion, his nurse would go over every medication in detail before starting. I was called back approx. 45 minutes before he was, and I wished him well. And as fate would have it, he ended up in the chair next to me. I had been doing some work, when I heard "Hey, miss. I'm on the other side of the curtain from you." He shared my (amazing/favorite) chemo nurse, and it tickled me that the first thing he asked for was ice, because "she (me) said I can get some ice to numb my port, so the needle won't hurt." It also tickled me that he called his significant other his "lady."
As I was finishing, I noticed a woman who was cold capping. She also shared my nurse. I was encouraged to pop into the cold capping room and give some encouragement and show off my cold capping success, which I did. It turned out, she, too, had a lot of questions that I happily answered. She was also nervous by the unknown.
And that's the story of how I evolved from "cancer patient" to "cancer mentor," yet not quite "cancer survivor." It made the infusion center feel more tolerable for me; being there for good, and not for all things bad. I kept touching my necklace, engraved with my final chemo date, to keep me grounded.
Thirdly, the Tamoxifen. The hormone blocker pill that I began taking on 2/20/20, so I would always remember the date that began a 10-year journey. I was hoping for and expecting no side effects, but it wasn't to be. I developed some consistent mild cramping that hasn't gone away, and I fear it could be causing ovarian cysts, which I am prone to and this med is prone to cause. I developed mouth sores. My coffee tasted bitter again. My sleep is terrible and frequently interrupted. I still have hot flashes. My nails keep tearing and breaking. I'm fatigued ALL the time, which is likely a combination of this drug, surgery recovery, and cumulative effects of chemo that ended three months ago. I'm told these things get better as one's body adjusts, but...it just feels like the cancer treatment cycle is never ending.
Treatment. I had hoped so much that I would no longer be considered "immunocompromised," but sadly that is not the case. Because I still have immunotherapy infusions (Herceptin), I am still considered in active treatment and am still immunocompromised and part of the "higher risk" population. As everyone reading this knows, that is particularly noteworthy in the time of Coronavirus. Coronavirus has affected my next several weeks negatively already, but learning that I remain higher risk was a tough pill to swallow.
Whenever I run into people I haven't seen in a while, they ask how I'm doing. I always say "okay." I'm so much better than I was. I'm so far from "good!" But I'm doing strongly okay. I'm back at work several days a week, my brain is sharper than it was in chemo, my mobility is better. I'm running errands and planning for trips, work goals, and life, and I'm doing a convincing job of surviving...just not quite yet a "survivor." Stay tuned.
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