5 Years Later.

Here I am. 5 years later.

Still alive.

Did you have more faith in this moment than I did?

It felt good to end this blog after radiation was complete, but the end of the blog was not the end of my walk in cancerland.

So lets catch up, shall we?

About 5 months after radiation was over I went back under the knife to have my implants…implanted. That’s all I really have to say about that.

In June 2013 I had my last Herceptin infusion. It was bittersweet as the Herceptin didn’t affect me like chemo did. Herceptin caused me to feel kind of flu-like for about 24 hours and made my nose run all the time but other than that I felt fine. Going in every three weeks for my infusion made me feel safe. I was surrounded by a group of wonderful nurses who showed me great care and concern. The Herceptin was specifically designed to target my particular type of breast cancer so therefore I felt like it was saving my life. I have asked for boosters multiple times since that last dose 3.5 years ago but thus far no one has agreed to give me that booster. I guess Herceptin boosters don’t exist.

Hmmmm…talking about that leads me to this.

Yes, 5 years ago today I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Everyone says the 5 year mark is the pivotal moment. If you make it that long without recurrence your chances of recurrence decrease significantly. So I have made it 5 years from my diagnosis.

But only 3.5 years since my last active treatment.  (And I won’t even go into the fact that I still pop a pill daily to treat my cancer. I mean, I won’t go into it yet)

But 5 years from diagnosis is the standard norm. I don’t agree with it tho. In my mind I will reach 5 years in June 2018.

But today I have lived 5 years past a breast cancer diagnosis. There is no denying that. And I am so thankful.

Anyway…back to my health…

In Jan 2015 I had a partial hysterectomy (I still have my ovaries). This surgery wasn’t really cancer related, it was more like post treatment menstrual problems related…you don’t really want to hear about that.

Just about every part of me that could be scanned has been scanned. It is a fact that after you have cancer and have a medical issue that can’t easily be explained the first thing any doctor does is scan you to rule out cancer. In my case, cancer has been ruled out time and time again. Dare I say that getting old sucks? No. I won’t say it. The alternative is to scary.

In June 2016 my amazing, kind and wonderful Dr Shah (my chemo doc) left LVHN to advance his career and while I miss him terribly I am now being followed by the just as wonderful Dr Scialla. I had my first appointment with him in Jan 2017 and immediately felt just as safe in his care as I did in Dr Shah’s. He and I talked extensively about this little pill I pop daily. Tamoxifen. Tamoxifen is used for women whose breast cancer overexpresses Estrogen. My cancer overexpressed estrogen by a small amount, 5% I believe. There is research going on right now that taking Tamoxifen for 10 years may be better than the current standard of 5 years. I will reach the five year Tamoxifen mark in  Feb 2018. I do not want to stop taking this pill, even tho, as I understand it, my chances of survival are just as good stopping it as taking it. As a matter of fact, there is a blood test to check it efficiency. I have refused to take that blood test. It is psychological, I FEEL SAFE taking this pill.  I don’t have horrible side effects and I think that like Herceptin, it is saving my life.

Plus, when I stop taking it I will need to have my ovaries removed. So even tho that damn Estrogen tried to kill me, I still want to keep my ovaries. At this point, Dr Scialla has agreed that I may stay on it for a total of ten years unless I change my mind.

Tamoxifen=treatment.

And I am healthy.

I am a survivor.

Of many things.

I survived being diagnosed with cancer. I survived 3 surgeries. I survived chemo. I survived radiation. I survived Herceptin. I survived my sleep last night. I survived my drive home from work yesterday. I survived 5^th grade math.  I survived some creepy guy in downtown Easton asking me for a hug the other week.

I don’t want a pat on the back or a high five for “fighting like a girl”, for “beating cancer”, for being a “survivor”. Today I am asking you to think about (pray for) those who will lose their “battle” with cancer, not because they didn’t “fight” hard enough, but because cancer is relentless. Because “winning the battle” is all about luck, not about how hard you fought. I am not (was not) brave or strong, I did what I had to do so I wouldn’t die. And so many people are still doing that, knowing ultimately they won’t “win”, but trying to increase their chances, to live longer, to have just one more good day. These people are the real hero’s, the survivors, the fighters, warriors, or whatever word you choose to use.

I was unlucky.

And then I was lucky.

I survived. With grace, dignity and sarcasm. I survive now, each day, with grace, dignity and sarcasm.

I am a better person because of my walk in cancerland. More cynical perhaps, but overall I am a better person.

Thank you my friend, for all your support.

This will, hopefully, be my last post.

Remember my first post? Here is the first few lines. The only thing that has changed is my age.

Today:
I am 44
I am a daughter
I am a sister
I am a wife
I am a mother
I am a friend
I am a nurse
I am a hiker
I am a kayaker

But let me add:
I am alive
I am healthy

Moving On

So…the “hard” stuff is done.

I have gotten the dreaded “C” word diagnosis.

I have undergone a bilateral mastectomy.

I have undergone 6 chemo infusions.

I have gone to the radiation therapy department 34 times, for a total of 78 “zaps”.

All in the past 9 months. During that time I have dealt with a myriad of side effects. Both emotional and physical. I have watched all my hair fall out. I have watched my muscle tone waste away. I have watched my body drop 15 pounds. I have looked in the mirror and not known my own reflection. I have watched my skin turn red and now I am watching it peel. I have watched those people I love, and who love me, deal with this while trying their hardest to keep my spirits us. I am still dealing with problematic fingernails. I am still fatigued yet still have trouble sleeping.

But…as I said…the hard stuff is over.

There is still more to do. I will have Herceptin infused every three weeks until July. (I love Herceptin, it has saved (is saving?) my life. I don’t want to stop it).

I still need my expanders removed and my implants…implanted.

Soon I will start popping a daily pill, and will pop it for the next 5 years. This pill comes with its own horrid side effects, but, like everything else I have done, I will give it my best shot, while holding onto my right to stop popping it if I so decide.

I have never had a full body scan but I have been told by my oncologists that there is no evidence of disease in my body. None. NED. I’m on a wing and a prayer.

And I am done blogging. I am still walking in cancerland, I will never fully leave this place, but I am done blogging about it. I hope to never, ever have to blog a Part II. I appreciate all of you who have come along on this walk with me. I thank you for your comments, prayers, love and support.

I will be giving back, and paying it forward, for the rest of my life. Because I know of no other way to properly thank you. Every good deed I do in the future will be done in your name. Thank you.

If you have enjoyed reading this blog may I direct you here: http://www.butdoctorihatepink.com/. Ann is a wonderful woman and blogger. Her diagnosis started as mine did (stage 2) but quickly morphed into Stage 4 metastatic disease. She is more graceful, more dignified and more sarcastic then I could ever be. She is my hero.

If you would like to watch me say “thank you” to you time and time again then please go here:  http://www.thechemobag.com and here: https://www.facebook.com/TheChemoBag

With much love and gratitude I leave you with hugs and peace.

Leah

Breast Cancer Survivor.

Survivor??

Lately, I haven’t had much to say. This blog started as a place to keep people informed, then morphed into a place where I could moan and groan and complain “oh woe is me”. I like to think I did my best to maintain some dignity and grace as I trudged thru this muddy place I like to call “cancerland”. I like to think that my words have helped someone else; either on their own walk thru cancerland or by reminding them that the grass isn’t always greener, that everyone has a shitty story to tell and therefore we should judge less and love more.

 

Actually…what I would really like to do is say “good-bye” to this blog. I would like to end it on a positive note…With a picture of the certificate I will soon receive, the one that says NED. No evidence of disease.

 

But I am not ready to do that yet. Not yet.

 

Because I don’t know if I believe it or not. The NED part, I mean.

 

Is it unfortunate that I am “too informed”? That I have read too many horror stories of women just like me, women who battled against the big “C” with every weapon available to them, only to succumb to it later? Possibly. Probably.

 

The odds are in my favor. “Statistically” (how I loathe that word) I am a breast cancer survivor. Most likely the chemo and the rads have gotten rid of any rogue cancer cell that was lingering in my body. At least, that is what all of my oncologists tell me.

 

I have 7 more rad treatments left. That’s it. 7. And it hasn’t been as horrible as I had anticipated. As a matter of fact, my rad onc Dr. Mc says my skin looks really good, “considering”. I could get into the appearance of my skin, but I won’t. It’s a dull story and compared to how I felt after my surgery, and how I felt for the 20 weeks following my first chemo, I feel fine.

 

I would like to just get out of cancerland and go back to the real world. But I know that for the rest of my life I will be walking with one foot in cancerland. While my “active” treatments may be coming to an end, I still have a lot of cancer treatments ahead of me. The Herceptin (my miracle drug) will continue to be infused once every three weeks until July 2013, I will soon begin popping a daily pill for the next 5 years to block my overproducing estrogen from producing cancer (can I just say here, that like all the things I have been told to do to get rid of this nasty cancer, I don’t want to take this pill?) and there is still one more surgery I need to have. And then I just wait. And every day that I wake up without cancer will be a day worth celebrating.

 

But I would like to wake up and NOT have cancer be the first thing I think about. I would like to go to sleep without cancer being the last thing I think about too.

 

I knew how to live my life before cancer. I figured out how to live my life with cancer. I have no idea how to live my life as a survivor.

 

Insurance

Insurance is defined as (simply):  protection against something going wrong.

Last week when I saw my Rad. Onc, when she told me I did not have cancer, that my cancer was removed from my body on May 31, 2012 when I had surgery, she also told me to look at chemo and rads as “insurance”.

Protection against something going wrong. Like, say, my cancer coming back (either local or metastatic).

So now this word “insurance” is stuck in my head.

Many years ago I was involved in a car accident (not my fault). My car was totaled. My insurance company paid off my loan, paid for my ER visit and subsequent physical therapy. There was even a few bucks left over for money towards a new vehicle. I paid my insurance and my insurance took care of me the way it was suppose to.

Alan and I have medical insurance, we pay into it monthly and as a result they help us with medical bills. They help us cover the cost of all these medical bills. (I don’t want to get into the money part of cancer but let me just say this: that shot I got the day after each chemo? $15,000. Each. 6 chemo’s, 6 shots. You do the math).

So you see, having insurance is a good thing. It helps. Without it we would sink into a deep whole of debt that we could never recover from.

But my point is, we pay for insurance and when something goes wrong we use that insurance to help us out.

So…chemo and rads. My insurance. I have paid for this with money. With sweat. With tears. With fatigue. With nausea. With every ounce of energy I had. Worst payments ever.

I have paid my dues (18 more rads to go).

So who pays if something goes wrong?

Me.

Happy News.

Wow! All I can is “wow”! I have had a fantabulous Birthday weekend and I just want to share it with all of you…I have given you all a lot of sad news/bad news/angry news over these last 8 months, so here is something to make you smile.

Starting with last Thursday, Dec 13, my official birthday. I had a lovely lunch with a dear friend I don’t see enough of. Luckily we chose a place to eat that will bring you a free “birthday” dessert but doesn’t sing and dance and make you feel like an idiot. It was good to spend time with her, just to sit and chat and be able to taste a yummy meal. There was one moment during lunch where all hell could have broken loose…but didn’t. It was a very funny moment for Lynn and me but for you…well, if I explained it, you would just be left scratching your heads. Lynn has been a strong voice of reason for me these last months, our friendship is precious.

Alan and Michelle presented me with cards and new charms for my bracelet and we had a lazy night eating breakfast for dinner and just chilling out at home.  Peaceful, calm. Family.

On Friday I went in for my radiation (9 now done, out of 34) as usual and then saw Dr. M. for a bit. Every Friday I see her after radiation. I worked up the nerve to ask her if I “had” cancer or “have” cancer. As far as I can recall, here is how the conversation went:

Dr. M: Oh no, you don’t have cancer anymore. There is every indication that all the cancer was removed from your body on May 31, 2012 when you had your surgery.

Me: But there was cancer found in that one lymph node…

Dr. M: Yes, but only in one lymph node…

Me: (interrupting) But they only removed one lymph node…

Dr. M: Yes, and the cancer found in that one lymph node was so microscopic that it is highly unlikely it had time to spread to another lymph node. And as you finish up treatments you will be scanned again…

Me: (interrupting) But I have never been scanned. Except for my brain and that was because my vision became blurry…

Dr. M: I scanned you. When you had your mapping done you had a CT Scan done of your torso. I can see all your lymph nodes and upper internal organs. There is no indication of cancer anywhere in that scan. If there were a few loose microscopic cells floating around in your body the chemo would have taken care of them, and if not the chemo then the radiation will finish the job.

Me: So all this treatment is for “just in case”?

Dr. M: Yes. When radiation is over I will give you a certificate that says NED on it. No evidence of disease.

Me: So I don’t have cancer.

Dr. M: No Leah, you don’t have cancer.

I don’t have cancer. Happy Birthday to me! Merry Christmas to me!! I will take her statement on faith and believe it is true. What other choice do I have??

And then there was Saturday. Best. Party. Ever. It is hard to surprise sneaky, micromanaging, nosey me. But there were definitely a few surprises. 40 pink balloons? Surprise! The hugest “40” cake in the world? Surprise! Pink luminaries lining the street in front of my house, my driveway and my front walk? Surprise! My brother and sister in law ringing the bell? Huge Surprise! There had to have been 40+ people in my house that night. Multiple bottles of wine finished, laughter, food, happy children. I couldn’t have asked for a more special night. And micromanaging me didn’t have to do anything. Even on the day after when I was reminded how horrible feeling hung-over was, Alan shooed me off to bed while he cleaned up.

I really thought this Holiday Season (including my birthday) was going to be a bust, but I was so wrong. I couldn’t be happier. I have everything I need, everything I want.

Including evidence of eye-lash regrowth.

Happy Birthday To Me

So…I turned 40. Yep. The big 4-0. In the past I have been one of those people who would say “sure feels good to be 28” when I was really 38.

But not this year. I am 40! Thank God, I have lived to see this birthday.

Reality check people: having a birthday is a good thing. A really good thing. And I won’t ever take another birthday for granted, or lament the fact that I am getting older. The alternative to getting older is not an option.

Turning 40 actually makes me laugh a bit. This is the age when most women get their first mammogram, and here I am, with no more mammo’s to gram.

Once again, I find myself thanking my troublesome boobs, so problematic that I had my first mammo at 25, and my last at 39. All those benign lumps and bumps helped to save my life. By the time I had my last mammo, getting a mammo (or ultrasound) had become routine.

Knowing myself as well as I do…I would most likely have been on the phone today with my Gyn saying “I’m 40 now, schedule my mammo!”

It has been 8 months since my diagnosis; imagine what havoc these aggressive HER2+++ cancer cells would have done to my body if say…I found out now that I have breast cancer. What a mess that could have been.

What a freaking mess.

I am done with messes, thank you very much. I am done being a mess. I am happy, I am in a good place, I love and I am loved.

40 is the new 20. It is time to celebrate folks!

Have Beer...Will Ramble.

I suppose now would be a good time to ask one of my oncologists if I have cancer. Or have I had cancer? I am never quite sure which it is. Have or had? I don’t know what cancer feels like; I only know what the treatments for cancer can feel like.

It’s an odd question, I know. My mom would say “Leah, you are cancer free”, and she is probably right. So while still undergoing treatments for cancer can I honestly say that I don’t have cancer?

If I honestly believe that the surgery took all the cancer out of me, then is everything else prophylactic? Is it?? Huh??

It sure as hell better be.

Because, while feeling really good mentally and physically right now, I am so over it.

Mostly I am over looking like a cancer patient. I am tired of the head scarves; I am tired of the missing eyelashes and eyebrows (and the eyelashes...they are still falling out). I am tired of looking in the mirror, although I am an expert at not seeing certain things when I look in there. Seriously.

And, after 6 radiation treatments, I am over radiation. According to my rad onc, I am an “early reactor”. Which is big time medical jargon for…my skin is already pink. And I’m sore. Don’t bump me.

But I will keep going, for now, because I haven’t received permission from anyone (Alan, Mom, Mike) that I can stop…

On a good note…I’m still in chemopause!

Oh, haven’t I talked about that before?

I am cracking myself up…

Smile ya’ll…life could be worse.