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If you've read my posts in "the cancer journey' then it's probably quite clear why I'm looking to live an anti-inflammatory lifestyle... beginning with my diet. I committed to this approach the day I was diagnosed with breast cancer. And you know what, I'm so happy I did. I feel great. I look great. My skin is clear. My hair is shiny. I'm quite pleased with the outcome actually. In fact, I feel so strongly about the benefits of this approach that I started the Save 1 Challenge to help get the word out. Haven't heard about it? Are you ready to start? Great. There's a plan ready and waiting for you and it wasn't created by some smart-ass suburban mom (yeah, that's me). It was created by a bunch of really smart people who've spent the last 40 years researching cancer prevention. So here we go. Let the adventure begin. I've accepted the challenge and I'll keep you posted on how it's going along the way. Oh, and don't think doing this is super easy for me, it's not. But, I know that even though I'm not there yet, I'm getting closer every day. Have you been diagnosed with cancer? Or any other disease for that matter? Here's the deal. I'm not a doctor. I'm just a cancer survivor who did her own research. When I was diagnosed, I did EXACTLY what the doctors told me to do. This wasn't an alternative approach, it was a complimentary approach to science-based medicine. So, please don't mistake this for what it isn't, and do what your doctor says. I did.

It's finally here! Marathon Day in Mount Desert Island... Acadia National Park, Maine See... I told you I'd run for a view. I think the smile really says it all. For me, getting back to marathon distance as a really big deal. I'd promised myself on Last-day-of-chemo-eve that I'd run another marathon and I did. It took me 18 months, but I got there. For me, it was about being alive again. About feeling strong. About being my pre-cancer self. Plus, LOOK AT THE VIEW! So worth it. I will admit, it was the hilliest 5 hours and11 minutes / 26.2 miles I've ever run. Still worth it. Miles 21 to 25 were a single hill non-stop, Still worth it. Mile 26 was downhill. At the finish line, my two girls jumped onto the course and crossed holding my hands. Then I got a lobster claw medal. When I finally sat down I started to cry. I was tired. This was a big deal for me. My youngest daughter said, "Mommy, why are you crying? You won a medal! Here you can use my sleeve to wipe your tears." Then we all went and ate SO MUCH FOOD! MMMMMMM chowda Just keep swimming.

There's one friend in particular who I owe so much too. She's my self-dubbed Accountability Buddy. (You know who you are!) We met through a mutual friend and live in the same neighborhood. Even though she's a MUCH MUCH MUCH faster runner than me, she got up before sunrise twice a week for over a year to get me in shape. We ran in the sun, in the rain, in the sleet, in the dark... you name it, we ran in it. She never complained. She never got annoyed when I needed a break. She let me vent. She let me talk. She'd ask questions. I'd let her vent. She'd talk. I'd ask questions. For a while the table had turned and she had her own health crisis. We ran through it. One morning we ran 16 miles before 8 am. You can talk about a lot when running 16 miles together. No judgement. Just running. Everyone needs running friends. Just keep swimming.

I've been talking to a therapist for a while now. She told me I have experienced prolonged chronic trauma. Just like if a loved-one has died, I'll need to move through the basic progression of emotions. It's normal. Its expected. We talk. Therapy is great. Everyone should do it. Can't get a therapist, try talking to a friend. Need help right now? The American Cancer Society has your back. Giving you accurate, up-to-date information on cancer is one of our top priorities. You can find plenty of information here on the site, but if you still have questions, you can call our 24-7 helpline or check out some of our more in-depth publications. Cancer information, answers, and hope. Available every minute of every day. 1-800-227-2345 Whether it’s the middle of the afternoon or the middle of the night, our cancer information specialists are here to help. Have questions about treatment options or potential side effects? We have you covered. Need a ride to chemo or a place to stay when treatment is far away? We can help. Even if you just need a friendly ear, we’re here to help and can assist in more than 200 languages (via a language line) – 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Just keep swimming.

I head in for one of my 3 month check-ups. This time I'm seeing Dr. W. "You look great." "Whew" "Anything wrong?" "I can't sleep" "Yeah.... it's the meds, and the stress. With what you're on if you eat any sugar, alcohol or coffee you can pretty much kiss sleeping goodbye." "Well that takes the fun out of a glass a wine." "Get the Calm app" Just keep swimming.

Finally, good bye tissue expanders, hello new boobs. They're supposed to be so much more comfortable. I'm soooooo ready. Plus, I'm totally gonna look like this lady afterwards. Right? That's the bright side of a mastectomy. Afterwards you get permanently perky boobs... if you want them. I'm mean, common. Shouldn't their be at least one bright side here? Also, depending on the type of reconstruction you get, you might go home with a tummy tuck...Or at least lypo... if you want. Actually, there are a bunch of different types of breast reconstruction, and you may have to pick which one is right for you. See, I told you. By tomorrow, I'm totally gonna look like this lady. :) Just keep swimming!!!!!!!

Sooooo, I'm sitting in my oncologist's office and she tells me that because of all of these medications I'm taking, that I am at higher risk for osteoporosis when I'm older. So she wants me to do an infusion (of an acid not a chemo) every 6 months to reinforce my bones. I think she's trying to be nice about it because she knows how much I've already been through. I smile politely and nod... but seriously all I can think is I"M WOLVERINE!!! My brother in law is going to be sooooooooo jealous. The infusion hurts for a few days after I get it. It kinda feels like the growing pains you had in your legs when you were a kid. Just keep swimming.

So, now that I'm done with active treatment the doctors visits diminish greatly. Instead of going to the hospital every day, I'm going once, maybe twice a month. Which leaves lots more time for thinking.... Which means I keep finding ways to convince myself the cancer is back. This time, having learned about the Chain of Pearls, I'm convinced a spot on my chest is an inflamed lymph node. Yup, totally convinced. So I text Dr. W and a nurse navigator on her team gets back to me. She asks me to come down to the hospital and they'll take a look. The next day, I head over to the hospital. I meet the Survivorship Nurse and she does an exam. "I'm pretty sure that's a pimple." "Right" "Don't worry, this is what I'm here for. Everyone does this." "Okay, sorry." I head home and tell my husband. He shakes his head. "You are crazy. I told you so." I decide to get a therapist. Just keep swimming.

Well... I'm on to hormone treatment now. I can either take an ovarian suppressant (OS) for the next 10 years or have my ovaries removed. The OS requires I go to the chemo infusion center once per month and get a massive shot in my belly. Yup, 120 scars on my belly. OR I could do a 1 time outpatient surgery to have my ovaries removed. Chemically/hormonally they're the equivalent and both cause things like hot flashes and night sweats. Added bonus, if you don't have ovaries you can't get ovarian cancer. It doesn't take graduate level training in cost-benefit-analysis (which I have) to know that 1 surgery, no scars, and no ovarian cancer is better than 120 scars, 120 treatment visits, and possible ovarian cancer. I'm planning to schedule that surgery soon and just be done with doctor visits. That was until I spoke to my oncologist. She politely listened to my cost-benefit analysis. Then she told me breaking research (as in her researcher friends at Johns Hopkins are only now see the correlation) have figured out the removing your ovaries is correlated with Alzheimer's later in life. It may also be correlated with heart issues. I'm at no heightened risk for ovarian cancer. I like my brain. I value my heart. 120 scars, here I come. Yup, I'm in the hot flashes club now. I timed one once, they only last 30 seconds. It's a lot cheaper than paying for a hot yoga class. Just keep swimming.

I'm so sorry you had to go through this. But, in the world of cancer a busted tissue expander is just a bummer. You aren't going to die from it. - my cancer surgeon Late August - sooooo, one of my tissue expanders popped. Yup, that's right. My fake boob basically popped and I could actually feel the water run down the inside of my chest....so odd. In the world of cancer, the doctor's reaction to this was "Bummer." A popped tissue expander is not going to kill you, but it does mean you need an extra outpatient surgery. I was in and out of the surgery center in under 3 hours, but the next 3 days hurt like hell as my body absorbed yet another 6 sets of sutures. I'm sugar-coating this one a bit. In reality the suture pain I felt one night when trying to get out of bed is the most pain I have ever felt in my life, and I've had two kids. The good news is they gave me pain killers and I was past the pain in a few days, but it was intense. Later, I told me friends about it and I could see them trying to keep a straight face. Eventually we all burst out laughing. I mean common.... it is kinda funny. Just keep swimming. Do you need a prosthetic breast? A mastectomy is a big deal, it can also be very expensive. I also appreciate that many women opt not to get reconstructive surgery- it's a lot for the body. I also know many women simply don't like the idea of having implants. In my crisis, I found out that Athleta (The Power of She!) has a whole line of mastectomy bras and inserts, and they're reasonably priced.

All I can think is, this is the part where they tell me I'm going to die. - me I'm 6 months out from the mastectomy and I had a checkup with the surgeon to make sure everything was okay. She did her standard tests and I could feel her jamming her fingers into my right armpit. She stopped, scrunched up her nose and did it again. Then she shook her head. I knew instantly something was off. She looked and me and said 'The skin looks normal, everything looks normal... except there is this one thing." My stomach hit the floor. "There's a palpable node in your right armpit. Do you remember if that was there before?" I want to puke. I don't need statistics to tell me that cancer spreading to the other side after 5 months of chemo is a really bad sign. "Um, I remember there was something in an early scan." She goes to the computer and flips through scans from December. She points to one scan and flips her head from side to side, debating. I'm sitting Indian style (that's what us 40 year old's called crisscross-apple-sauce) on the exam table. I can't decide if I want to scream, cry, faint, shake, puke. There are no words. She says, "I want you to get an ultrasound, wait here." I wait. Less then 10 minutes later I'm in the waiting room for the radiologist. The surgeon had called her and she would see me immediately. Eventually the technician comes and gets me and does the ultrasound. I don't know enough to be able to read anything from the images. I just have to wait for the Dr. to tell me the results. All I can think is 'this is the part where they tell me I'm going to die." The Radiologist comes in and immediately says, "Everything looks normal. I want to double check, but everything looks normal." She does more checks and I do have a fat lymph node. Literally, one of my lymph nodes is just carrying a little extra fat around the mid-section. We can all understand that right? It's totally normal and she can confirm it with heat imaging. She said we probably didn't feel it before because I weighed more, but now that I lost so much weight it's just easier to feel. "You're free to leave. Everything's normal." The scariest 45 minutes of my fucking life. Just keep swimming.

My second to last day of treatment. I walk into the waiting room feeling good and knowing I'm almost done. An African-American woman is sitting across from me on a bench. We're the only people in the room and she's throwing up into a bag. When she stops she looks ups and apologizes. "Oh, it's okay, you don't have to apologize to me. I completely understand." "I'm still on chemo but we stopped to do the radiation. I have cancer in ten different places in my body, my brain, my lungs, my bones..." "I'm so sorry." "Lord help me." K the radiation nurse comes out and escorts the woman into a private room where she can rest. I wonder if moving her to a private room is for her comfort or mine. I will always have this vivid image of what dying from cancer looks like. Actually, every woman I met who had terminal breast cancer was black. It's not a coincidence. Last day of radiation. I'm in and out of there quickly. There's another bell but this one doesn't feel nearly as emotional as the chemo bell. I'm thankful to be done. My strength is coming back. Just keep swimming.