Stick A Fork In Me...I'm Done.

After I've got the kids off to school, grabbed a quick bite to eat and jumped into the shower, my Monday morning routine begins:

10:17am:  Fill up Starbucks travel mug with coffee, grab keys and head out the door. 
10:19am: Make sure all necessities for the ride to the hospital are situated (coffee mug in the drink holder, cellphone within reach, etc.). Put on seat belt, turn on seat warmer and pull out of driveway.
10:20-10:55am: Scan radio through lots of crap-tacular music because I forgot my iPod...again.  
10:56-10:57am: Curse 2-3 elderly people for causing a back up in the parking garage, putting me a precious 1-2 minutes behind schedule.
10:58am: Park in one of the spots designated for 'Special Permit Passes Only'. Walk {very fast, now that I'm running late} down the ramp to the entrance of the DeCesaris Cancer Center. 
10:59:55am: Sign in and wait for name to be called.
11:00am: Doors to the treatment area swing open as the nurse appears and heads towards the front desk to grab my sign-in sticker. "Mrs. Minakowski, you can come on back."
11:01am: Most days, head straight back to the treatment room. Other days, wait in the "on deck" chair (this is the seat designated for the next in line to be zapped). Everyday while heading back to the treatment room, answer the question, "Any changes?" -- referring to (1) the treated area, (2) prescriptions and (3) insurance.
11:02am: Remove all clothing from the waist up, grab a towel, state my name/D.O.B. and lay down on the treatment couch (sounds comfy, eh? well, if you find laying on a cold, hard, narrow board comfortable -- then, yes...yes it is).
11:03am: Fred, the radiation therapist, makes a joke about how I don't have any fat on my ribs to move around in order to line-up my tattoos to the proper treatment coordinates.
11:05am: All machine adjustments have been made, the technician records all prep info and they're ready to treat. 
11:06am: The B-52's, Love Shack, which is the song on the hospital loop during my zap time, is cranked up on the overhead speakers just as the first low pitch "beeeeeeeep" begins.
11:15am: All five angles to my breast, chest and lymph areas have been radiated. Remove arms out of the holders above my head. Resume chewing gum that has been tucked into the side of my cheek for the past 10 minutes.
11:16am: Put bra and shirt back on and head out of the treatment room. Before exiting the room, engage in the the same exchange of pleasantries with the radiation therapist -- Me: "See you tomorrow." Fred: "Same time, same place. Have a good one."
11:20-11:57am: Drive home. Scan radio through more crap-tacular music -- make mental note to remember iPod tomorrow.

Repeat said schedule...

...Tuesday morning, Wednesday morning, Thursday morning  and Friday morning for six weeks. 

Daily routine? Sounds more like a prison sentence -- I guess you could call it my "cancer sentence". And the crime for which this sentence was handed down to me? Possession's charge. No, not for an illegal gun or a dime bag of marijuana --but, for possession of cancerous cells in my lymph nodes.  

There it is -- the 1cm mass in my armpit that upon its discovery had me on the phone with my doctor demanding a mammogram STAT

In all fairness, the cancerous mass in my right axilla wasn't the sole contributor to my cancer sentence, other factors were involved. But, it was that pea-sized mass that 'muddied' the picture, as my radiation oncologist explained, making radiation a necessary part of my active treatment.

And, it's that necessary part of my cancer sentence that potentially wreaks havoc on your body. You wouldn't believe the laundry list of complications that can occur from just a minute and a half of daily radiation. I won't bore you with the complete list -- even I started to zone out when my doctor started discussing the less than 1% chance of complications that could develop. But, when she started talking about the possibilities of ruining my reconstruction efforts - my ears perked up (did I mention how painful it was to pump this bad girl up? For those of you who missed my previous post -- let's just say, lots of muscle relaxers and narcotics were needed to ease that pain). 

Thankfully, I've only had to deal with some minor skin issues. Radiation causes the treated area to react much like it would from a bad sunburn -- redness, with itching, soreness and peeling. Sure, it's uncomfortable -- but coming from a girl who used baby oil as sunscreen back in her teenage years --it's nothing.

It's what's going on underneath the skin that causes the most agony. A little blistery skin pales in comparison to the discomfort that comes from the scarred tissue around my breast and armpit from these power zaps. To help ease the tightness and pain, I do my post-mastectomy exercises continuously throughout the day...at any given moment, I can be seen dropping to the floor into a praying position or "walking the wall" to stretch out the boobs and pits. Once a week, I go see Susan, my physical therapist, who makes me feel so good by the time she gets done with me. Not only do her massages and stretches help redirect the lymph fluid that sometimes gets confused which direction to go, but improves the blood flow to my breast and armpit as well. All this, in the hopes, that once treatment is complete, all the damage to my tissue will heal...and that my gift from Santa will be delivered on time:

Do you think it would be too much to ask Santa to throw in a couple inches of hair as well? (for my head, not my breasts, of course)

Anyway, despite all the negative impacts that radiotherapy can cause on your body. There are good things that come from this part of my treatment...really, really good things. Like when radiation is complete, I will have destroyed any lingering cancerous cells that haven't gotten the memo that the party is over. Even better, I get to begin living a life that is cancer-free. 

So, I continue to serve out my sentence -- although, I'll never live down this charge. Cancer goes on your permanent record. 

And then, stick a fork in me because I'm done. I've suffered through the chemical cocktails, had my breast hacked off and now, I am four zaps short of being sufficiently radiated. Well, at least I know what I will be for Halloween this year....

...Radioactive Kitty

Me-OW!

Nine months ago, I entered the ring with the big "C". On that day,  I claimed that I wouldn't leave the arena without a KO under my belt. Well, on November 1st, the coup de grâce (a right cross to the carcinoma) will be delivered and it's me who will be lifting the championship belt over my head declaring victory.

Cancer, you never stood a chance!

 

Inquiring Minds Want To Know

After learning of my diagnosis with cancer, the first thing that many people wanted to know was how I found out. Was it a lump that I found during a self examination that landed me on the doorstep of my physician's office or was it during an annual routine screening? As women, we've been lectured from a young age to feel our ta-tas regularly to detect any lumps or abnormalities and given the technologies that are available today to spot breast cancer at such an early stage -- why was I diagnosed so late in the game? Well, in light of it being Breast Cancer Awareness Month -- I figured it would be appropriate to share with you how I discovered the lump...or I should say lumps...that forced me into the ring with the big "C".

The detection of the lump in my breast was not a recent discovery. That mass of uncontrolled cell proliferation had been hitching a ride on my right boob for over a decade. It started with tinges of pain that would run through my breast. Not all the time, but enough that it became noticeable. One day while showering, I felt a small, hard lump on the side of my breast. As I dried off, I frantically tried to think back to my middle school sex-ed classes on the proper way to administer a self exam. Although, it didn't matter if I was performing the exam correctly or not...the lump was easy to detect whether I was laying down, standing up or doing a handstand. Surprisingly, the discovery of that tiny mass didn't send me into a complete panic -- my reasoning, breast cancer is for old people, not thirty-somethings -- but it caused enough concern for me to make an appointment with my gynecologist to have it checked out.

Ah, yes, the visit to that Newport Beach gynecologist's office so many years ago...I can remember it like it was yesterday. My doctor had an odd bedside manner. First off, he was one of those annoying uptalkers, which was disturbing coming from a physician rather than a teenage girl..."My name is Dr. Uptalker? I'm like, totally going to feel you up right now to see what's going on, like for sure?" (okay, he didn't really say that - but in my mind, that's how it played out) The second peculiar behavior was that he asked and then answered his own questions. The prognosis went something like this:

   Doc: Do you have a lump in your breast?
   <pause>
   Doc: Yes.
   Doc: Are you a 30-something with breast cancer?
   <dramatic pause>
   Doc: Absolutely not. 
   Doc: Is this probably just a calcium deposit within the breast tissue?
   Doc: Yes.
   Doc: Should you follow-up with annual mammograms in your 40s?
   Doc: Absolutely.
   Me: Phew, that's great news. Now can I get my legs out of these
          stirrups?!  
   ***30 minutes had passed since a certain test and I still had my
       legs in those things (guys - you don't want to know; gals - you 
       know what I'm talking about)

Three kids and 10 years after that doctor's visit, the lump in my breast remained...and grew...and changed shape. Sure, I had doctors over the years question the mass during my pregnancies but they seemed satisfied with the findings offered by good ole' Dr. Uptalker - just a calcium deposit. I must give credit to the gynecologist who delivered my youngest child -- she went above and beyond the mere verbal suggestion from my other gynecologists to schedule a mammogram -- she actually wrote a referral. "No hurry," she said while handing me the prescription for a mammogram, "Once life settles down a bit with your newborn and two, young children  -- go have it done." Music to my ears...she wasn't too concerned over the lump in my breast, which at that point had definitely gotten bigger, so why should I be? She's the doctor, after all, not me. And so, life went on...while I waited for it to settle down a bit. Before I knew it, six years had passed and that prescription still wasn't fulfilled.

It was over the course of the nine months prior to my diagnosis, that I began to notice significant changes. The once mobile mass had adhered to the tissue surrounding my breast and was pulling in the skin around it causing it to pucker. What started out as mild discomfort to the affected area was now causing consistent pain. The words of advice to have annual mammograms in my 40's were spinning in my head...there I was 41 years old with a large mass in my breast that was causing noticeable alterations to my skin and I STILL had not been in to have it checked out. I tried to convince myself that the changes to my breast were attributed to getting older, just like some of my other 'no longer twenty year old' body parts -- even though my gut feelings were telling me something different.

Then, came that frightful day when I discovered the other lump...this time, not in my breast, but, in my armpit. Prior to detecting the second mass, I was blessed to have one of those after-Thanksgiving colds that always seems to come just in time for the hustle and bustle of the holidays. You know the one that I'm talking about --sore throat, fever, congestion...but this particular cold came with the additional benefit of an achy armpit. One early December morning, I was massaging my pits to try and ease the discomfort that I was experiencing when I felt it...the other lump. It was the discovery of that pea-sized mass that sufficiently freaked me out and had me on the phone with my doctor demanding a mammogram STAT. 

The rest of the story is history...one week after having the 4x4cm mass in my right breast x-rayed and biopsied -- I heard those dreadful words, "You have cancer." Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, Stage III, grade 2 -- to be exact.

I'm sure that some of you might be shaking your head as you read this post (even I cringed as I put my story to words). Why didn't I schedule a mammogram when I began to notice the changes? Well, the answer was simple -- there was no need to have that lump checked out. I already had the right diagnosis that was provided to me years ago by an uptalking doctor in Newport Beach who examined the mass and said,"Are you a thirty-something with breast cancer? Absolutely not." So why would it be necessary to have it checked out again? -- who cares that I was now a forty-something with a mass that tripled in size to the one that he examined a decade ago.

Here I am today, almost at the end of my treatment, and I'm going to let you in on a little secret -- all of those changes to the mass and skin around my breast in the months leading up to my diagnosis -- deep down inside of me, I always knew something was wrong. Truth is, I was scared -- actually terrified about the possibility of a life dealing with cancer. I remember asking myself time and time again, what if I was diagnosed? How the heck would I survive that? I have three kids - no time for cancer. I have a wonderful sex life with my hubby - no time for bald & boobless. The awful scenarios of life with cancer kept playing out in my mind but instead of having the mass checked out to put my mind at ease or validate what I was thinking...I chose to look the other way.

I've always taken comfort in knowing that God has a plan for me. Sure, I don't know exactly what that plan entails and I certainly have cursed Him many times for allowing cancer to be a part of it. But, being plagued with this insidious disease has allowed me the opportunity to use the power of words to share my story with you. Perhaps that was part of His plan, for me to not be afraid to put myself out there. By making myself vulnerable, maybe it might help one woman to not make the same mistake that I did -- ignore the signs of cancer.