Journal of a Living Lady #78
I had
begun another column that was supposed to run today, an amusing one. Yet, after
a frank discussion with my oncologist this morning, a humorous column didn’t fit my mood. My funny bone fractured with the news that the cancer has
returned with a vengeance.
My
shoulder has been aching for several weeks, yet I couldn’t remember injuring
it. I tried putting my arm in different positions in bed. No relief. I even
exercised it with some tree trimming, thinking the painful kink would work out.
It didn’t.
Last week
I discovered an egg-shaped lump deeply embedded under my right arm. It seemed
oddly familiar, like the one I found in 1985, just before the original
diagnosis of breast cancer. There was a twelve year interval between that surgery
and the recurrence in 1997 that invaded my lungs and back. Afterward a steadily
downward spiral, including a stint with hospice, I have miraculously bounced back to near normalcy for the summer.
I probed
that lump most of the night, hoping that this greatly enlarged lymph node was
my imagination. It just had to be an under-arm muscle I didn’t know existed. A
searing, stinging pain followed. I extended my arm under the bright bathroom
light and searched for a burn of some sort. Yet nothing could be seen. These
strange feelings were foreboding.
Dr. Stead
listened as I described the sensations. She felt the bulging spot I told her
about. She felt again and again.
“Maybe it
is a torn rotator cuff,” I offered hopefully. She said nothing.
My
thorough doctor felt beneath the other arm. I had done the same thing myself the
night before, but because of the previous mastectomy a comparison was
difficult. Dr. Stead quickly detected another enlarged lymph gland. It was
somewhat smaller than the one on the right.
Feeling
my neck like a strangler looking for a good place to grasp, the usually
personable doctor robotically remarked that there was a suspicious lymph gland
on the left side. She scribbled some notes in the chart and immediately started discussing treatment
options, including a chemotherapy regimen known to be especially hard on the veins.
I stopped
her monologue long enough to remind her I was more interested in quality of
life than quantity. She listened and politely allowed me finish my point of
view. Then she continued as if dying too soon wasn’t an option.
“You
probably will not lose much hair,” she said. That was relief as I finally have
my second set of extremely short, but
treasured curls and waves.
Dr. Stead
continued describing the protocol. My
surgically implanted port would be used for administering the drug. She would
monitor my blood counts meticulously as they could drop dangerously low. I
would come each week for eight weeks and then she would access the progress.
I clearly
had two options: continue treatment or “case closed.” I thought about the two challenges I had yet to accomplish. One was to publish this journey in a book
and the other was to see our son Charlie graduate from college. There are no
guarantees regardless of my choice, but my chances are obviously better with
treatment.
So here I
am, off again on this journey that seems to never end. My cancer may not be
cured, but my funny bone will heal soon. I promise.
++++++++++++++++
September
6, 2000
