Very good news! My lymph nodes are clean, meaning the cancer hasn’t spread!
I had a follow up appointment today. Shortly after I arrived, I overheard the receptionist calling someone for my test results. Eavesdropping as discreetly as I could, I came to the disappointing realization that I might not know anything today. Even after waiting for an hour to see the doctor, they hadn’t yet received anything.
I was a bit disappointed, but went home armed with 3 more scripts: call the physical therapist asap to get an appointment this week to be fitted for a compression sleeve for flying next week, call a radiation oncologist for a consult and call a medical oncologist for a consult.
So after a couple of detours on the way (can’t just drive by an AC Moore, and then there was WaWa!) I arrived home and settled down to take care of the appointments.
First was the physical therapist, to make sure I could see them in time. 12:30 tomorrow. Great. Second, the radiation oncologist. June 11th. Wow. That’s a bit farther down the road, but the earliest I could start radiation would be 3 weeks. I must be completely healed first.
While I was on the phone making the second appointment, call waiting chimed in. I didn’t even check to see who it was. At the same time, Gaby came home from school, so I didn’t get around to making the third appointment right away.
When I went back to the phone, I got the familiar beep beep indicating a message, and remembered the recent caller. I was surprised and thrilled to find that it was my doctor, who said she was calling with ‘good news’ and would I please call the office. Didn’t waste anytime on that!
Jacki answered the phone and was able to give me my results. I’ve been wanting to devote a post to Jacki, and plan to soon. She’s another one of those amazing encouraging health care professionals I’ve come in contact with since all of this started. Nurse practitioner, I think. I’ll have to ask next time I see her. She’s the person who monitors me for signs of lymphodema, so I’ll be seeing her every 3 months or so for the next 2-3 years.
Jacki confirmed that the nodes were benign, so I asked if I still had to make the appointment with the medical oncologist, since it was my understanding that this might mean that only radiation was necessary.
Here's where I learned something else, but didn’t write down the name of what next needs to be done. I’ll find out what it’s called. The tumour that was removed is typed, to determine if chemo would benefit me. Jacki started the paperwork while we were on the phone, and we’ll have the answer to that in 1-3 weeks.
In a string of bad news leading to bad news leading to bad news, this is very good news indeed!
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Recovery
After waiting for a while for my doctor, who was tied up in another surgery, we left without seeing her. I was starving and craving a blueberry scone. It was almost 4:00 and I had yet to eat. We swung by Starbucks on the way home, picking up no beverages. Scones for Marc and me, an apple fritter for Nick, and chocolate covered grahams for Gaby.
Brewed a giant cup of tea, and settled onto the couch with my scone. It was gone in no time!
I think it might take me a while to recover from the anesthesia. I didn't feel tired, but couldn't keep my eyes open. Just got comfy on the couch, waiting for Marc's lasagna.
Now, Marc has always told me he can make a better lasagna than anything that's ever been put in front of him. But in our 18 years together, he's never made it for me, so I figured it was all a fairy tale. Well, after our dinner on Sunday at Bertucci's, where he once again mentioned his fabled lasagna, I suggested he pass the time while I was in surgery, making it for dinner.
And so he did. And it was delicious. I wish I had had the presence of mind to photograph it, because I don't know when we'll see it again! But he made a double recipe, so there's some for the freezer!
After dinner, it was back to the couch. I needed to take it easy as much for the post op as for the excessive amount of lasagna I had pretty much inhaled.
It's good to be home. There's no place like home.
Brewed a giant cup of tea, and settled onto the couch with my scone. It was gone in no time!
I think it might take me a while to recover from the anesthesia. I didn't feel tired, but couldn't keep my eyes open. Just got comfy on the couch, waiting for Marc's lasagna.
Now, Marc has always told me he can make a better lasagna than anything that's ever been put in front of him. But in our 18 years together, he's never made it for me, so I figured it was all a fairy tale. Well, after our dinner on Sunday at Bertucci's, where he once again mentioned his fabled lasagna, I suggested he pass the time while I was in surgery, making it for dinner.
And so he did. And it was delicious. I wish I had had the presence of mind to photograph it, because I don't know when we'll see it again! But he made a double recipe, so there's some for the freezer!
It's good to be home. There's no place like home.
Surgery Today
Didn't sleep well last night, though I'm not surprised! Anxious about the surgery, anxious about the kids, then, anxious about oversleeping since I'm not falling asleep! Typical!
Except for Gaby going to EK's early this morning, and me not eating, the morning is pretty typical. Nick leaves at his usual 6:40 a.m., Roxi's underfoot, anxious for attention, a bit less so after having been fed. Marc forgets we have to be out the door by 7:15, so has to skip two of his S's, and cut the third short. He'll have time later, while waiting to come back for me.
Gaby's happy to see that baby Caroline is up when we drop her off, so parting ain't such sweet sorrow. She's off to mother Carrie, since two of her siblings are still sleeping and the third is no where to be seen.
With Elizabeth's expert guidance and instruction, I have no trouble directing Marc to the parking lot and find our way to nuclear medicine. We get there with almost 15 minutes to spare. My appointment is 8:00. Check in, flashing that driver's license and insurance card, of course. And wait. I'm moved to a room. I change. I wait. Waiting some more, I'm told that the doctor who's supposed to form the procedure wasn't aware she had early morning patients and isn't there. I don't care about that -- I assume there should be someone else there qualified to do it. Nope. Not so far! So I put my comfy green hoody over my lovely blue hospital gown, under which I still wear my comfy faded yoga pants, and return to Marc in the waiting room. Better than sitting in that cold room alone. I'm assured the doctor should be there in about 15 minutes. Back to my book.
They seem surprised to have found a different doctor present, who can perform my needed procedure, and I'm back down the hall and in my room about 10 minutes later. I'm positioned on a surprisingly comfortable board, on my side to expose the required left boob, and poked. Several times. First, the lidacane to numb the area, so that I won't feel the subsequent four or so needles used to inject the dye into the lymph nodes. Now, I thought my lymph nodes were closer to my arm pit, not the centre of my breast. But that's where the injections went. Better not to watch!
A bit of bandage and I was ready to dress and head off to the breast centre, for the next step. I was required to be there at 9:30 for my 10:00 appointment. I didn't sit long in the waiting area once we arrived. Another lovely blue gown, and more prep. This time, needle localization. The insertion of a wire (turned out to be 2) into the tumor, for, as I understand it, location identification for the surgeon. More numbing for more needles.
I was glad to see the same doctor who performed the biopsy. A different nurse and ultrasound technician, but the same doctor. While the fact that I'm becoming familiar with the people and faces there is a bit unsettling, they have wondeful, supportive, professional, simply amazing people working there. Nice faces to become familiar with. Just as Anne, my nurse during my biopsy, held my hand throughout the procedure, instructing me to squeeze if discomfort was a problem, Kathleen, my nurse today, held my hand, rubbed my leg, offering conversation and comfort. I realized shortly into the procedure that I had a front row seat for it. The doctor has to see the ultrasound screen to know what she's doing. The screen is on my right, which I'm now laying on to provide access to the doctor. We're both looking in the same direction, and I suddenly realize that the straight line growing across the screen is the needle in my boob. Can't feel it. More just sense it's there. So I watch her position the first wire, which has a sort of looped hook at the end, to hold it in place. She places a second one, to be sure. She's gentle and apologetic, very calm throughout. And she's the same with the two assisting her.
More tape, which they call model tape, to hold the wires in place. After gathering up my worldly goods that I'm traveling with, Kathleen wheels me to the waiting area, where Marc joins us. We take the back way to the surgical centre. They're a different entrance, but there're secret hallways joining the two. And with a nurse escorting us, we've got an in. No waiting this time. Straight through to the back. Like getting the best table at a restaurant, passing through other waiting guests. Except I'd rather be dining today.
I'm given a third gown at this point. I have to change into this one, and return the second gown to Kathleen, who is waiting. I'm told that it's different laundry services, so they have to keep them separate. Seems like a bit of a waste to me. I'll have to check the itemized bill we're sure to receive and see if there's a 2 or 3 beside the hospital garb line.
I have to admit, this is the nicest gown of the three. A lovely blue pattern on white, heavier fabric, socky slippers and a blue cap that gives Marge Simpson hair. Once I'm dressed in my latest gown, I return the second one to Kathleen. Though we've only spent the last hour or so together, we've chatted almost constantly. Enough conversation to make us feel close enough for her to give me a sincere embrace along with her good wishes. This is what I mean about the awesome women that work here. Awesome!!
More waiting. Surgery is scheduled for 11:30. After getting my IV set up and checking my BP on my left arm for what should be the last time, we wait. Marc says he'll wait with me til it's time for me to go. I'm grateful, as I originally figured he could drop be at the breast centre and get a head start on his promised lasagna. But I'd much rather have him with me. And he gave me his lap for my footrest during the wait. What a guy!
It was nice to have that time to just talk. No blackberrys, no computers, just us. Nothing deep or earth shatttering. I think part of the reason the conversation kept flowing was just to keep our minds off things.
The nurse anesthetist popped in, introduced himself, went over his part. Another nice person. Just before surgery time, the doctor appeared. We spoke briefly and readied for the surgery.
What I found funny is the checks in place to ensure the surgery proceeds as required. Meaning. Right patient. Right part. Or in my case, left part. They ask your name, birthdate, why you're there, and which side. Now, my left breast is under layers of white tape. Removing those would reveal wires, and several puncture marks. Clearly, my left breast is the target. But they have to ask. The doctor also, as is protocol, wrote on it, further indication of the right place. Actually, I think she wrote above it, as it was covered in tape!
One of the things the nurse anesthetist had mentioned was that I might drift in and out throughout the surgery. Wouldn't feel anything he said, but I might be present.
It's probably like waking in the middle of the night, or sleepwalking. You might do it, but you don't remember. Shortly past 11:30, I was in the cool operating room, being draped with warm blankets, having something else fed into my IV. I woke in what I realized was recovery, at 2:00. Surgery done.
Except for Gaby going to EK's early this morning, and me not eating, the morning is pretty typical. Nick leaves at his usual 6:40 a.m., Roxi's underfoot, anxious for attention, a bit less so after having been fed. Marc forgets we have to be out the door by 7:15, so has to skip two of his S's, and cut the third short. He'll have time later, while waiting to come back for me.
Gaby's happy to see that baby Caroline is up when we drop her off, so parting ain't such sweet sorrow. She's off to mother Carrie, since two of her siblings are still sleeping and the third is no where to be seen.
With Elizabeth's expert guidance and instruction, I have no trouble directing Marc to the parking lot and find our way to nuclear medicine. We get there with almost 15 minutes to spare. My appointment is 8:00. Check in, flashing that driver's license and insurance card, of course. And wait. I'm moved to a room. I change. I wait. Waiting some more, I'm told that the doctor who's supposed to form the procedure wasn't aware she had early morning patients and isn't there. I don't care about that -- I assume there should be someone else there qualified to do it. Nope. Not so far! So I put my comfy green hoody over my lovely blue hospital gown, under which I still wear my comfy faded yoga pants, and return to Marc in the waiting room. Better than sitting in that cold room alone. I'm assured the doctor should be there in about 15 minutes. Back to my book.
They seem surprised to have found a different doctor present, who can perform my needed procedure, and I'm back down the hall and in my room about 10 minutes later. I'm positioned on a surprisingly comfortable board, on my side to expose the required left boob, and poked. Several times. First, the lidacane to numb the area, so that I won't feel the subsequent four or so needles used to inject the dye into the lymph nodes. Now, I thought my lymph nodes were closer to my arm pit, not the centre of my breast. But that's where the injections went. Better not to watch!
A bit of bandage and I was ready to dress and head off to the breast centre, for the next step. I was required to be there at 9:30 for my 10:00 appointment. I didn't sit long in the waiting area once we arrived. Another lovely blue gown, and more prep. This time, needle localization. The insertion of a wire (turned out to be 2) into the tumor, for, as I understand it, location identification for the surgeon. More numbing for more needles.
I was glad to see the same doctor who performed the biopsy. A different nurse and ultrasound technician, but the same doctor. While the fact that I'm becoming familiar with the people and faces there is a bit unsettling, they have wondeful, supportive, professional, simply amazing people working there. Nice faces to become familiar with. Just as Anne, my nurse during my biopsy, held my hand throughout the procedure, instructing me to squeeze if discomfort was a problem, Kathleen, my nurse today, held my hand, rubbed my leg, offering conversation and comfort. I realized shortly into the procedure that I had a front row seat for it. The doctor has to see the ultrasound screen to know what she's doing. The screen is on my right, which I'm now laying on to provide access to the doctor. We're both looking in the same direction, and I suddenly realize that the straight line growing across the screen is the needle in my boob. Can't feel it. More just sense it's there. So I watch her position the first wire, which has a sort of looped hook at the end, to hold it in place. She places a second one, to be sure. She's gentle and apologetic, very calm throughout. And she's the same with the two assisting her.
More tape, which they call model tape, to hold the wires in place. After gathering up my worldly goods that I'm traveling with, Kathleen wheels me to the waiting area, where Marc joins us. We take the back way to the surgical centre. They're a different entrance, but there're secret hallways joining the two. And with a nurse escorting us, we've got an in. No waiting this time. Straight through to the back. Like getting the best table at a restaurant, passing through other waiting guests. Except I'd rather be dining today.
I'm given a third gown at this point. I have to change into this one, and return the second gown to Kathleen, who is waiting. I'm told that it's different laundry services, so they have to keep them separate. Seems like a bit of a waste to me. I'll have to check the itemized bill we're sure to receive and see if there's a 2 or 3 beside the hospital garb line.
I have to admit, this is the nicest gown of the three. A lovely blue pattern on white, heavier fabric, socky slippers and a blue cap that gives Marge Simpson hair. Once I'm dressed in my latest gown, I return the second one to Kathleen. Though we've only spent the last hour or so together, we've chatted almost constantly. Enough conversation to make us feel close enough for her to give me a sincere embrace along with her good wishes. This is what I mean about the awesome women that work here. Awesome!!
More waiting. Surgery is scheduled for 11:30. After getting my IV set up and checking my BP on my left arm for what should be the last time, we wait. Marc says he'll wait with me til it's time for me to go. I'm grateful, as I originally figured he could drop be at the breast centre and get a head start on his promised lasagna. But I'd much rather have him with me. And he gave me his lap for my footrest during the wait. What a guy!
It was nice to have that time to just talk. No blackberrys, no computers, just us. Nothing deep or earth shatttering. I think part of the reason the conversation kept flowing was just to keep our minds off things.
The nurse anesthetist popped in, introduced himself, went over his part. Another nice person. Just before surgery time, the doctor appeared. We spoke briefly and readied for the surgery.
What I found funny is the checks in place to ensure the surgery proceeds as required. Meaning. Right patient. Right part. Or in my case, left part. They ask your name, birthdate, why you're there, and which side. Now, my left breast is under layers of white tape. Removing those would reveal wires, and several puncture marks. Clearly, my left breast is the target. But they have to ask. The doctor also, as is protocol, wrote on it, further indication of the right place. Actually, I think she wrote above it, as it was covered in tape!
One of the things the nurse anesthetist had mentioned was that I might drift in and out throughout the surgery. Wouldn't feel anything he said, but I might be present.
It's probably like waking in the middle of the night, or sleepwalking. You might do it, but you don't remember. Shortly past 11:30, I was in the cool operating room, being draped with warm blankets, having something else fed into my IV. I woke in what I realized was recovery, at 2:00. Surgery done.
I Love Technology!
When we lost our beloved Abby dog almost 2 years ago, it was impossible to talk about it without shedding a puddle of tears. For at least a month or two. So I relied on the internet to share this news with friends and family, near and faraway. Cowardly? Perhaps. But living in the 21st century, it's an option I take advantage of.
And so it was when I wanted to share the news of my breast cancer diagnosis. While I can keep a secret, I'm a lousy liar. I also like to believe myself to be somewhat empathetic, and so I choose to spare my friends from having to share their initial, sometimes horrified reaction, in my presence. I know I could never hide my true emotions in the face of this kind of news. So I turn to email.
The Friday before my surgery, before Mother's Day, before the weekend of Nick's RUSH shows, I sent an email to friends and family, near and far. It was exactly 3 weeks after I had received the news of my diagnosis. I had had time to process, share with some, plot a battle plan with my doctor, and take care of a few things that I would be unable to do for a period of time following the surgery.
The first response was from my childhood friend Carla, who wrote from her blackberry. She's a teacher, so I was surprised to hear from her during the day. But she sent a lengthy message of love and support and also mentioned that her mom had been asking about me. Unbeknownst to me, my parents had requested a mass be said at church, for my health. Our childhood church, scene of our first communion together, attempts to duck out of catechism and church, of quiet rows of blue capes shoulder to shoulder in sodalilty.
I heard from friends who responded immediately, straight from the heart. Confessing to typing through tears. Friends who's work email addresses I use generated a couple of auto out of office replies. Some waited to compose their emails until they had taken the time to process the information, offering that explanation with their reply. Thanks Jen! Friends and family who were aware of my diagnosis, acknowledging my next step.I heard from friends and family who are either cancer survivors themselves, successfully keeping cancer at bay, or who have friends or family celebrating survivor anniversaries. Jay. Sandy. Full of optomism and encouragement.
But the universal message was love. Love in the offers of meals, rides, company, chores, childcare. And in the Love You's. That's how I feel too.
Jay shared a story of a friend who battled cancer in solitude, sharing it with no one but his wife, thinking he was sparing his grown children. He had the flu a lot during that time. While he beat the cancer, it came back eventually, and he survived a short period of weeks after this time sharing it with his loved ones.
My Aunt Judy's Mom beat cancer over 25 years ago, and she's still going strong at 92. My Aunt said she attributed her success to the support of her loved ones, all around her. I'm with her on that!
I am so blessed to have the love and support of so many amazing people. My friends and family. Here in PA. In Winnipeg. Vancouver. Texas and St. Adolphe! I feel safe and strong wrapped in their collective arms.
Cancer doesn't stand a chance against all this.
And so it was when I wanted to share the news of my breast cancer diagnosis. While I can keep a secret, I'm a lousy liar. I also like to believe myself to be somewhat empathetic, and so I choose to spare my friends from having to share their initial, sometimes horrified reaction, in my presence. I know I could never hide my true emotions in the face of this kind of news. So I turn to email.
The Friday before my surgery, before Mother's Day, before the weekend of Nick's RUSH shows, I sent an email to friends and family, near and far. It was exactly 3 weeks after I had received the news of my diagnosis. I had had time to process, share with some, plot a battle plan with my doctor, and take care of a few things that I would be unable to do for a period of time following the surgery.
The first response was from my childhood friend Carla, who wrote from her blackberry. She's a teacher, so I was surprised to hear from her during the day. But she sent a lengthy message of love and support and also mentioned that her mom had been asking about me. Unbeknownst to me, my parents had requested a mass be said at church, for my health. Our childhood church, scene of our first communion together, attempts to duck out of catechism and church, of quiet rows of blue capes shoulder to shoulder in sodalilty.
I heard from friends who responded immediately, straight from the heart. Confessing to typing through tears. Friends who's work email addresses I use generated a couple of auto out of office replies. Some waited to compose their emails until they had taken the time to process the information, offering that explanation with their reply. Thanks Jen! Friends and family who were aware of my diagnosis, acknowledging my next step.I heard from friends and family who are either cancer survivors themselves, successfully keeping cancer at bay, or who have friends or family celebrating survivor anniversaries. Jay. Sandy. Full of optomism and encouragement.
But the universal message was love. Love in the offers of meals, rides, company, chores, childcare. And in the Love You's. That's how I feel too.
Jay shared a story of a friend who battled cancer in solitude, sharing it with no one but his wife, thinking he was sparing his grown children. He had the flu a lot during that time. While he beat the cancer, it came back eventually, and he survived a short period of weeks after this time sharing it with his loved ones.
My Aunt Judy's Mom beat cancer over 25 years ago, and she's still going strong at 92. My Aunt said she attributed her success to the support of her loved ones, all around her. I'm with her on that!
I am so blessed to have the love and support of so many amazing people. My friends and family. Here in PA. In Winnipeg. Vancouver. Texas and St. Adolphe! I feel safe and strong wrapped in their collective arms.
Cancer doesn't stand a chance against all this.
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