Today
was my last round of chemotherapy, for
that I am ecstatic. But I chose not to ring the bell.
For
those who don’t know, ringing the bell signifies the end of cancer treatment.
The plaque reads:
 |
"Ring this bell three times well to celebrate this day.
This course is run, my treatment done, and I am on my way." |
And
this is where I am going to get really real. It’s
not all happy, happy, joy, joy, so if you’re looking for a feel good post, or
something glowingly positive, click the “x” to close and move on.
I
don’t really expect anyone to fully read the steroid-induced diatribe that this
has become. But if on the off-chance you continue, you’ll probably learn more
than you wanted to know, not necessarily all about cancer, but about me. It
turns out the writing is more for me anyway, not for you. Writing is supposed
to be therapeutic, or so they say....
People
keep saying how strong I am, how brave I am. But I tell you, I’m not. The only
thing that I am doing is what any person with a negative diagnosis would do –
I’m doing everything that I can do to try and save my life. That’s not brave,
that’s just doing what medical science says is my best option today (and I mean
“today” because treatment options are always changing and ever evolving).
So,
today I had my last round of chemotherapy, and while the bell was there for me
to ring, I refused. While I may be done chemotherapy, and I hope I never have
to do it again, I am far from done with this unfortunate journey.
Firstly,
it will be at least a week of side effects from the chemotherapy. And then
another week of my immune system being so shot that I can’t risk the germs
associated with going out. I’m assuming and hoping that I’ll be one of the
lucky ones who won’t have to deal with the side effects of chemotherapy for
additional months, years or even forever. Time will tell. I’m not whining, I
accept the ends for the means. That’s just a fact.
Secondly,
today I also had a consult with the Radiation Oncologist's med. student. I knew from the start
that radiation was a given with my triple negative diagnosis with a lumpectomy
and I’ve been dreading this the most. I am a giant wuss when it comes to burns,
and what they call “skin changes” is the most common side effect. What they
mean by “skin changes” are the changes caused by radiation burns. I won’t get
into it. Do yourself a favour though and never do a Google Image search for
radiation side effects. Some of the side effects are short term, some could be
long term, or even permanent. And hey, who knew, radiation therapy to beat cancer
can also cause secondary cancer! Again, taking the good with the bad and
playing the odds. There’s lots more, but I won’t bore you with them. It’s
supposed to be easier than chemo for the most part, for the vast majority of
people, so I’ll likely be just fine through my 15 + 4 hypofractionated
radiation treatments, every day, not counting weekends. But hey, I finally get
to get another tattoo!
Side
note for those who don’t know the difference between chemotherapy and
radiation, in the simplest of terms, chemotherapy (in my case) = injecting
poison into the vein and through the bloodstream, radiation = targeting the
cancerous area with a laser beam of radiation for about 10 minutes every day
for weeks. Though the treatments are different, both are designed to kill
cancer cells.
I
also still have to complete genetic testing and genetic counselling. That’s
just a simple blood test, but depending on those results, I may have still have
a double mastectomy and surgery to remove my fallopian tubes and ovaries to try
and prevent future cancer. And then decide if I want reconstructive surgery or
not. It’s unfortunate that the wait list to complete this testing is so many
months long as knowing the results may have changed my standard of care from
the very beginning, especially with a triple negative diagnosis. However,
hindsight is 20/20. The first thing you learn with a cancer diagnosis is that
you don’t know nearly enough, and you can’t learn it fast enough.
After
all those things are done, there’s still a couple really big steps left. The
biggest steps really.
So
next, vigilantly be on guard for recurrence. Yes, I was diagnosed with breast
cancer, or what some may say “ONLY breast cancer.” As much as that phrase
“ONLY” bothers me, I can see why some people say it. The fact is, the odds for
beating breast cancer are great! The 5-year survival rate for breast cancer
overall is 90%! And if the cancer is found solely in the breast (and I was this
lucky!) and not spread to the lymph nodes or anywhere else, the 5-year survival
rate jumps to 99%!
However,
for triple negative breast cancer (TNBC) the 5-year survival rate falls to 77%
and the odds of recurrence jump to 34%, especially within the first 3 to 5
years of the initial occurrence. Recurrence is often “distant,” with the cancer
most likely to return not just to the breast, but also to the lymph nodes,
lungs, brain, liver, and/or bones. If this happens, Stage 1 becomes Stage 4.
The odds of stage 4 are fairly well known… Not impossible, but so tough for not
that great of prognosis.
This
is why watching for the red flags of recurrence become a part of everyday life.
Knowing the signs and symptoms and listening to your body. A mammogram will be
done at least once a year (I’ve been doing that for pretty much 7 years so no
biggie there). Recent studies have shown that regular scans can lead to
anxiety, wrong diagnoses, false alarms, unnecessary procedures, and more costs.
My oncologist is a proponent of these studies. I, on the other hand, am not. I
believe in mammograms every 12 months. I believe in having a CT Scan or a PET Scan
to ensure that there are no “mets” (or metastasis) to these other areas. I will
be looking into getting a second opinion. For me, NOT having scans causes
anxiety; anxiety to the point of waking me at night, to the point of not being
able to say the word “recurrence” without choking and tearing up, to the point
of not looking for symptoms in case they’re there and I find them! So light me
up! Poke me, prod me, inject the tracer, x-ray, and scan, scan, scan! At least
once, for crying out loud! I’d rather have regular scans then only have scans
when other symptoms have appeared, because if other symptoms have appeared we’re
already behind in the fight and pushing “too late.” The same doctor already
said that we have only one shot at this cause if it comes back it’s not
treatable (triple negative strikes again). Her words, not mine. And while I
believe she misspoke, it resonated.
Maybe
I’d be more confident if I was able to see my tumour shrink. Surgery with the
result of “we got it all” with clean margins and no lymph involvement is
supposed to be a good thing. However, it’s a phrase I’ve hated since shortly
thereafter, from the second I learned that no residual cancer means that there
is no way to tell if the chemo regimen prescribed is working. That there’s no
way to know if my tumour responded because it was removed fully and completely.
If I knew then what I know now, I would have begged for chemo before surgery
(or what the call neoadjuvant chemotherapy). At the time I just wanted it out
of me and that is what was recommended by my surgeon at the time.
Maybe
I’d be more reassured if I trusted my cancer team, but I don’t. The fact is, I
was scheduled to see my oncologist once during this whole ordeal. One
appointment does not a relationship make. Mistakes in my treatment plan were
made. Mistakes that I caught, not my team. I thank God for the 12 years of
pharmacy training I had which exposed me to medical jargon and research, and
for my relationship with nurses from home who I could bounce ideas and
terminology off. This particular Cancer Clinic was nearly inaccessible in the event of
the occurrence of a fever or emergency from the long list they give you and say
to “call us if this happens,” and when you do get through, they direct you to
the nearest Emergency room or walk-in clinic, who then has to wait for
treatment feedback from the Cancer Clinic anyway. Then there is no follow-up from
the Cancer Clinic, which made me thankful that I found a family doctor who
cares, because after each ER visit his office took the time to follow-up every
time an email pinged with a new test result regarding me. That was not his
responsibility, so I am grateful. I’m told the mistakes and confusion happen at
this Cancer Clinic because they are so overworked. In this city alone, 3
people a week are diagnosed with breast cancer. JUST breast cancer, never mind
any and every other cancer which is also treated here. Mistakes are not
acceptable, not when that mistake could prove to detrimental to the difference
between life and death; “to err is human” be damned.
2/5
star rating for this Cancer Clinic. They’ll get the job done, but make sure
your knowledgeable enough to be your own advocate, don’t be afraid to speak up,
and don’t let yourself fall through the cracks.
I
also don’t understand the protocol and chemo regimen that I completed. I don’t
understand why Alberta has a different and seemingly less aggressive treatment protocol
than pretty much everywhere else for one of the most aggressive breast cancers,
triple negative. I accepted it when treatment began, but I’ve learned too much
since to be wary of it now. Maybe if I saw my oncologist again I’d ask her, though
I’m not scheduled to see her again. Score 3 for Hindsight; High score for
things that keep me up at night.
Which
leads me to that last step:
Finding
my new normal. I’m not even done treatment and I already know that my
post-treatment normal will not be the me that once was. In some ways good, in
some ways bad. I’m confident that most if not all side effects will recede –
neuropathy, fatigue, ‘chemo brain.’ I’m more compassionate in some regards, and
if not that, than I at least don’t let things bother me as much. They say
“don’t sweat the small stuff” but you don’t really get what that means until
accosted by something big, and what’s bigger than confronting your own
mortality? The thinking about mortality leads to fear. Is it a headache, or is
it brain mets? Is it a gastro thing, or is rib pain, if it’s rib pain, is it
bone mets? Did I pull a muscle in my neck or is it lymph or thyroid cancer? Am
I going to die? What will happen if I do?
 |
The face of cancer treatment:
After & Before |
So,
this is the long story of why I didn’t ring the bell today. It’s why I didn’t
bring cupcakes and sparkling apple juice to celebrate the end of chemo and to
thank my team. Cancer changed my life, it put me on a new path, and quite
frankly, I’m feeling pissed, not celebratory. I look like Uncle Fester and I’m
anxious, and I’m insecure. That’s not me, that’s not who I was. And while I’ll
get over the Fester-look, cancer is unpredictable, and there’s no real “end.” I
may get used to being a cancer patient, and I may learn to cope with the
physical and emotional scars, survivor’s guilt, and the fear of recurrence,
but I’m pretty sure I won’t 100% return to the me that I once was again. For
those who may now be slightly worried, I did see a counselor of sorts today as
well, and have been referred for more sessions; maybe not talking about all
these emotions for the last 6 months wasn’t the best idea, but talking about
feelings is, after all, in direct opposition to my normal stoic self.
So
instead of a bell I’ll say, in a slightly plagiarized and bastardized re-write of
a post from a fellow breast cancer fighter:
Dear Chemotherapy,
As of today we are broken up. Kaput. I’m done with our love hate
relationship.
I hate the things you took from me, my summer to start small, the
ability to swim in my favourite lakes and play rounds of golf, but also my
confidence, my unafraid contentedness, the hair loss from every conceivable
part of my body which just screams “cancer,” and likely my ability to have
children (which turns out, once you’re told you can’t have them is a big game
changer in the mind of the child-free). I hate the paranoia and sleepless
nights and the moments when you reduced me to tears and made me feel hopeless,
insecure, confused, lonely, and made me realize why some people just give up. I
hate how vulnerable you’ve made me feel.
However, with you I also found much love. I love that Chemo has provided
me a deeper level of compassion. I try to interact more with strangers, listen
more closely, try harder to help. It’s true, you never know what people are
going through and how your one small gesture can make a difference.
I love that Chemo has humbled me in a way that I hope stays with me the
rest of my life. My belief in humanity has advanced through acts of pure
altruism. Through strangers who have stopped me to share their personal cancer
stories and have told me to keep fighting or that they will pray for me. These
interactions are so personal they bring me to tears and will stay with me
forever. Like the lady I met at a garage sale who is an 18-year TNBC survivor
who shared her story, and that of her sister who is now a 5-year survivor; who
said with full conviction that I will be ok. Or the man from the mall, and
again from Costco, who stopped with tears in his eyes just to tell me to be
strong and keep fighting, to tell me that I am beautiful. Through the Pastor
who prayed over me, asking for healing and strength. And the reconnection with
an old friend who is now a 4-year survivor, who has walked with me, cried with
me, prayed for me, and helped me through. There’s so many more, I can’t
possibly list them all, so to all the friends, family, acquaintances, fellow
survivors, coworkers and even strangers who have taken time out of their day to
provide me food, kept me in cards and letters with uplifting messages, cleaned
for me, stayed with me, or sent me sweet gifts - All of these gestures touch
me; Giving up your personal time to help myself and Shawn, we feel more blessed
than you’ll ever know and are eternally grateful.
Last but not least Chemo, I do love the healing I hope you gave my body.
Although you are poisonous to many healthy parts of my body, your poison also
kills my cancer. For this, I am thankful. I will always be grateful your
treatment was available to me, giving me the chance to fully live my life.
So, thank you Chemo, and good riddance.
Maybe
after I complete radiation I’ll change my mind and ring the crap out of that
bell. Or more likely, maybe in 5 years, when the odds of recurrence for me drop
to nearly NIL/Nada/Nearly 0%, I’ll breathe a sigh of relief and do a happy
dance with my family doctor and the mammogram technician who had me first
diagnosed so promptly. At that time though, 5 long years from now, I feel like
I’ll still say “f@*k the bell” and instead celebrate by throwing on my seldom
worn camo gear, grab my husband and some besties, and go blow up some stuff up
with the 300 Winchester and a few boxes of Tannerite in the woods, and
definitely by a lake. Summer 2023, Seton Ridge – Save the date. Maybe
I’ll even blow up that damn bell, I bet those who will never have the
opportunity to ring the bell because their treatment never ends due to their
prognosis would appreciate that. If “every time a bell rings, an angel gets
their wings,” I wonder how many angel wings would be handed out for that?
