Preventable My Ass

I've been battling a cold for the past week, and I swear, it has legs. I guess I was due for one this severe, because I haven't had a cold since I left the Great White North two-and-a-half years ago. I think that's a personal record. I never got sick while I was on chemo, despite my non-existent immune system, so I think my body is treating me to a long overdue comeuppance.

Besides being stuffy and achy, I'm pissed off yet again by some things I found in my Facebook feed. An article that appeared in the Washington Post the other day set off the mammogram alarms, with it's "gloom and doom" title masking the real intent of the story, which is to bitch and moan about the over-diagnosis of breast cancer.

“Right now, we have women getting bilateral mastectomies for ductal carcinoma in situ, which is not a cancer,” Otis Brawley, chief medical officer of the American Cancer Society, said. “It’s the world turned upside down.” Otis - my man! Thank you for telling me I lopped off my tits for nothing. If someone diagnosed you with testicular carcinoma in situ (I don't know if that exists, but I'm making a point), would you put your balls at risk and let it go untreated? My guess is "no".

The Post article was shared by my favorite militant-feminist breast cancer organization, Breast Cancer Action, and the comments that followed truly blew my mind. There are women out there who actually think cancer is preventable; that diet and exercise will spare you from the blight, and keep you healthy until you gently pass on into the night. You know what? In some places, that might be true.

North America is known for it's pesticide-bombed, sugar-laden, genetically modified, processed "Frankenfood", along with myriad chemicals polluting our groundwater, soil, and atmosphere. We refuse to embrace solar energy, we still mine and burn coal, and now we're "fracking" the hell out of the planet to get our hands on natural gas deposits and bitumen. All this is likely responsible for the increase in breast and other cancers, but eating metric tons of kale and cauliflower isn't going to put the brakes on those cancer cells. The truth is, we don't know what will. Science is getting closer to finding out, but right now, we do what we have to do if those nasty cells manifest themselves in our bodies.

Maybe one day, I will buy myself a romantic villa in Tuscany, or a fabulous chateau in Provence (when I finally get published). I'll grow my own pesticide-free fruits and vegetables, slaughter my own hormone- and antibiotic-free animals, and drink enough wine to keep me in a glorious stupor for the rest of my days. My cancer might come back, despite any effort made to escape the filthy, disease-ridden, industrialized world.

Cancer is like a nuke; it will find you wherever you attempt to hide. Preventable my ass; let's stop kidding ourselves, shall we?

Why I Like Not Having Breasts

I thought I'd do something a little different today. I'm sharing an essay I wrote a couple of months ago, and have been attempting to flog for publication. So far, no bites. I hope you enjoy it.

Why I Like Not Having Breasts

In June, 2014, I was diagnosed with early-stage cancer in my left breast. The news came about ten days after my very first mammogram. I had spent most of my adult life half-heartedly performing self-examinations, and never felt anything resembling a lump, so my diagnosis came as quite a shock.

It turned out my cancer was the kind that was not in lump form. It was in my milk ducts, and is known as invasive ductal carcinoma, and ductal carcinoma in situ. I was lucky enough to have both. There were about four centimeters of fully-developed cancer cells in total, and more warming up in the bullpen. To make things even more interesting, the doctors suspected that my lymph nodes also contained some malignant cells, and a biopsy proved they were right.

Lumpectomies are not an option with the type of cancer I had. When the surgeon told me it would be best to have a mastectomy, I looked at him, and without hesitation said, “Fine; take them both.” He sensed my certainty and replied, “Alright, we’ll do a double.”

I realize that most women are not particularly eager to part with their breasts. Boobs, titties, girls, knockers, fun bags, headlights – whatever you care to refer to them as – are the embodiment of womanhood. Without them, some of us tend to lose our identity. I never felt that way. At 47, I never had children, and, quite honestly, I never thought my breasts were particularly attractive. I am of Eastern European Jewish descent on both sides of my family, and I’d inherited a pair of low-hangers from my mother and grandmother. My nipples pointed towards the ground ever since I was a teenager.

Since I was a bit unlucky in the genetics department, my breasts proved challenging when it came to buying bras. I wasn’t burdened with a pair of mammoth, back-breaking breasts (I was a D cup), but as I got older, finding bras that fit me well became harder to procure. I was once molested by a saleswoman in a lingerie shop – the kind where they measure you and attempt to “fit” you into the best bra for your size and breast shape. The woman became extremely frustrated because my nipples refused to hold their place in the center of the cups. I kept trying to explain I’d been dealing with that problem most of my life, but she couldn’t find a shred of empathy for my plight. I was 34 years-old when that happened, and from that day forward, I had a sneaking suspicion that maybe I wasn’t meant to go through life with such troublesome appendages attached to my body.

Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t wishing for cancer. I was thinking maybe I’d go for a breast lift, or a breast reduction when I was older. I knew several women who were diagnosed with breast cancer, and watched a cousin to whom I was very close, suffer with metastatic disease. She’d had a lumpectomy and chemotherapy in the early 90s, and the cancer came back in her other breast. Then, it spread to her spine, and eventually to the rest of her body. When she died in 2005, I vowed that if it ever happened to me, I would “lop off my tits” without hesitation. And that’s exactly what I did.

The breast cancer lottery awarded me with the full enchilada. Because cancer was found in my lymph nodes, I had to undergo chemotherapy, and as I write this, I am preparing to embark on six weeks of radiation. In addition to that, having 26 lymph nodes removed (five of them cancerous) left me with nerve damage and lymphedema in my left arm.

Despite all that, I am not sorry I got rid of my breasts. There will be no more mortification in the lingerie department, and gravity no longer has dominion over my nipples. Yes, my cancer might come back, but I’ll sleep better at night knowing I did everything I could to hopefully prevent that from happening.

Science and unchecked vanity might say that I mutilated my body, but I disagree. I made an informed, educated decision to do what I thought was best for me. And I’ll never get poked by an underwire bra ever again.  

Meltdown

 
Life has been very interesting since I last posted, mainly because I had a complete meltdown following the conclusion of roasting. I didn't realize that, like the roast you let rest on the counter after removing it from the oven and tenting it with foil, you keep cooking after you're cooked. Yes, as bad as I felt the last time I blogged, I started to feel even worse a couple of days later.

I went back to see my medical oncologist the Friday after I had the CT scan, and that disastrous cardiac ultrasound. Thankfully, my scan was clear and my heart is fine. The rest of me, however, was a huge mess. I was in horrific pain, and I believe I had a slight cold/flu, because I had a runny, stuffy nose and a fever. He took a look at my left chest/underarm area and promptly wrote me prescriptions for a strong antibiotic and painkillers. I was also supposed to receive my first jabbing with Lupron, but on top of everything else, I could not handle being thrown into menopause. I went home and spent the remainder of the weekend on a merry-go-round of chills, sweats, and nausea. It felt like someone sneaked more chemo into my lemonade. I was begging for mercy, and a few times, the phrase "kill me now" crossed my lips. The high point was when I barfed up a roast beef sandwich, mere moments after consuming it. There are no adjectives to describe the frustration you feel when you're hungry, and your body rejects what it craves.

Happily, I am feeling better, but there is still residual discomfort from roasting. To say that I was rendered well done, and extra-crispy, is an understatement. Again, I know it is impossible to predict how one will react to cancer treatments, but like the overachiever I tend to be, I went above and beyond expectation. Sure, I heard all the waiting room-gossip about the horrors of radiation, and my hubris got the better of me. "I'm no wimp", I kept telling myself. "I am strong like bull!" The truth is, no one here gets out alive.

When I was in high school, all the big Doors fans read that Jim Morrison biography (it was first published in 1980). You were beyond cool if you were seen carrying a copy of it with your school books. Not being the biggest Doors fan, I passed. I still haven't read it. I have no intention of ever reading it. It's a snappy title, however, and a solid aphorism when used to give perspective to what it's like to go through cancer treatment. You have to literally kill off parts of yourself - physical and emotional - to get through it.

My grace, humor, dignity, and general "fuck you" attitude towards cancer seem to have collectively left the building. I've reached the point where giving a shit is too bothersome. This is an inevitable phase of the experience, and I'm not quite ready to claw my way out. I've postponed menopause, at least until the end of the month. I am, however, going ahead with the immunotherapy study, and am scheduled to receive my first Herceptin infusion this Thursday. Despite my current attitude, I feel I still owe a debt to all the people who have helped me, and to all the people who might have to get on the same merry-go-round. Now is not the time to be selfish or self-destructive. I can say it, but part of me doesn't mean it. Sometimes, it's easier to just be weak.

Nava

Some News and a Bitchfest

I promised I would reveal what the next leg of my journey is going to be. I thought I would be doing it with a bit more levity, but right now, misery trumps everything.

I'm going to be taking part in an immunotherapy clinical trial starting in April. My medical oncologist apparently had me in mind early on, because my cancer fell within the parameters necessary for participation in this particular study. In a few weeks, I will begin receiving the drug, Herceptin, every three weeks for a year, along with a "vaccine" that is supposed to prevent the recurrence of breast cancer. The reason why I put quotes around the word "vaccine" is because it is a single-blind study, and I won't know if I am getting the actual vaccine, or a placebo.

I promise to have more information about the study when I'm not feeling quite so bitchy. I'll just say that I am very happy to take part in it. Maybe in some small measure, I will one day be responsible for saving a life. If I can prevent anyone from going through the hell that is chemotherapy and radiation, it will all be worth it.

Now, on to the bitchfest.

I'm miserable because my epidermal decline brought on during the last week of roasting still has me cursing like a longshoreman. There's no way to describe it other than to say, this shit fucking hurts. And it itches. And I subjected myself to a pre-study CT scan and cardiac ultrasound yesterday, which was a huge mistake. Drinking about 900 mL of berry-flavored barium suspension was rough, but it turned out to be nothing compared to the unrelenting pressure of an ultrasound probe pressing into my chest.

The ultrasound technician kept remarking that he was having a tough time getting the images, and I was lying there exasperated. When I asked why he was having so much difficulty, he said he couldn't explain it. Mind you, I had one of these back in August, about a week before I started chemo. The technician who performed that one uttered nary a complaint. Yesterday, I was in no mood. I almost went all Brooklyn on the poor guy because, "If you stuck that thing up my ass, would you have a better vantage point?" was on the tip of my tongue. Naturally, the words never crossed my lips, but I was ever so tempted.

So, here I am, 24-hours later, still sore, burning, achy, and cranky. To top it all off, I have a slight cold, which is adding to my misery. And, I got word this morning from a reliable source that Joan Lunden is writing a book about her breast cancer experience. Of course she is. I mean, why wouldn't she? She's Joan Lunden for fuck's sake. Who am I? Oh, just some random schmuck toiling in obscurity in my minuscule little corner of the Internet. 

I know; I know; I shouldn't say things like that. But come on... I have things to say that are just as relevant. And I really can write. There's no ghostwriter all up in here taking dictation from me; there is no interlocutor between brain and fingers. I think I stole a variation of that last line from a "Sopranos" episode.

I don't want to turn into one of those bitter writers who does nothing but lament about never getting published. I used to have a friend/colleague who would post all his rejection e-mails on Facebook. Not only did I unfriend him, I blocked him because I just couldn't take reading them anymore. Maybe karma is smacking me for that, but I don't care. I am trying to keep the faith that this will all work out. It has to. I will not take "no" for an answer. 

Nava

Roasting Completed

I'm posting a few days late again. This time, I've been busy tending to my roasting injuries. It is absolutely shocking how quickly your skin goes from "pinked" to the worst sunburn you've ever had in your life. 

My epidermal decline went into overdrive last Monday, when the skin in my underarm area started peeling, unbeknownst to me, because I couldn't feel it, and because I was in a pretty dense fog less than 24 hours after having to part with my cat. From there, it just kept getting worse. At present, I am beet red across the entire left side of my chest, and the redness has crept about halfway up my neck. I don't even want to discuss what's going on under my arm. All I will say is that I am so thankful I don't have any sensation in most of that area. If I did, I'd probably need to be in a medically-induced coma, or attached to a morphine drip. 

Please keep in mind that like everything else having to do with cancer, the radiation experience is different for everyone. Maybe I got a little full of myself with all the "schmearing", thinking that I would get away completely unscathed. I don't know how much worse it would have been if I hadn't been diligent with the skin care. Regardless, it's over. And once the sunburn has healed, I don't want to think about it anymore. 

Nava

Lily

When you're diagnosed with cancer, the days, weeks, and months following that news are filled with loss. You lose a body part or two, you lose your hair, you sometimes lose your dignity, and often times, you even have to sacrifice your livelihood because the treatment leaves you incapable of earning a living. In most cases, you can recover those losses; I can even replace my breasts if I want to, but I've yet to make that decision.

The other day, I suffered an irretrievable loss. My cat, Lily (pictured above), passed away on Sunday, and I am heartbroken. Lily had been with me through many ups-and-downs in my life, and she was only eight days short of her 18th birthday when I had to let her go. In many ways, it is harder to make peace with losing a pet because you count on them for support you sometimes cannot get from humans. Anyone who tells you that humans are capable of the kind of unconditional love animals are, is full of shit; an animal loves in a way humans can't, and that's just the way it is.

Lily came into my life from somewhere in the Pocono region of Pennsylvania. A former colleague of mine was in possession of a female cat that was regularly birthing litters of kittens. In March, 1997, he asked me if I'd be interested in adopting one from her latest batch, and I said yes. I asked him to choose one of the females, and bring her to me when she was about three months old. At the time he asked me, I had just gone to contract on a house. Anyone who has ever transacted real estate in New York state knows you can feel your hair growing during the time it takes to seal the deal. Finally, early that June, "Twitcher" came to live with me. The name was bestowed upon her by my co-worker's children, because she twitched a lot after she was born. My ex-husband re-named her Lily. She joined Clarkie, the male cat I adopted from the county animal shelter in October, 1994.

Lily and Clarkie were my first pets. I wasn't allowed to have pets as a child for two reasons: the first was because a bird my brother had before I was born, died while it was left to fend for itself when he and my parents were visiting the family in Toronto. Second, my mother had no affection whatsoever for animals. They loved her, but for some reason, she was unable to return their affection. My father was ambivalent, and fond of quoting a Yiddish expression which meant (loosely translated) that cats plugged up your head. So, I was 27 and living on my own when I finally adopted my first pet.

Regaling you with stories about both Lily and Clarkie would require me to write pages, so I will condense by saying that both cats brought so much joy to my life. I can't imagine going through life without caring for an animal. It became a passion of mine and I don't intend to give it up. Many people feel that way about children, but for me, that wasn't an option. I've never been sorry I haven't had kids, even though I do like them. Pets, however, are more my speed. Say and think what you will, but I'm being completely honest. I'd rather clean a litter box than change a diaper; and yes, I've done both.

Clarkie lead a life of leisure with me in two apartments and my house, before he passed away in April, 2007. He was diagnosed with a cancerous tumor in his mouth that winter, and I tried like hell to save him. I never knew exactly how old he was, but I was told he was approximately one year-old when I adopted him, which meant he was 14 or 15 years-old when I lost him. At that point, I had lost both my parents, and a few other people I was close to. Somehow, losing my first pet was a blow that hurt worse than all those human deaths combined. Clarkie was there for me when my dad passed away in 1996; he slept on my head and kneaded his paws, claws intact, on my face. He nursed me through bronchitis, colds, and kidney stones, and waited patiently in the window for me to return whenever I was out. He once pulled a chicken carcass out of the garbage and picked it completely clean on the kitchen floor. I never figured out how he got at it without upending the garbage pail, which was under the sink, inside a cabinet.

Lily, on the other hand, kept me company in a few dark, unhappy places. She endured 24 hours on the road during an aborted trip to Toronto, when exceedingly officious Canadian border wingnuts would not let me bring furniture into Canada, because I wasn't yet officially a resident of Ontario. That bureaucratic horror cost me one sleepless night in a grungy motel room, and thousands of dollars in legal fees. She accompanied me on a move to the Washington D.C. area, and was happy in her home there, because she had about 1,000 square feet of carpeting to sink her claws into. From there, we successfully made it, furniture in tow, to Toronto, where we lived with a psychotic relative for a little over a year. Lily knew who she was dealing with: one night, said psycho was rewarded with a gash on the nose for encroaching too far into Lily's personal space. A few weeks later, she sent me to the emergency room for penicillin and a tetanus shot after a swipe of her paw scratched my eyeball. Not long after, the psycho threatened to dump her in an animal shelter. We moved out into our own apartment.

Lily's last two-and-a-half years were spent in the company of Mr. Stinkman, a portly, fluffy feline who wanted so badly to be her friend. She tolerated Mr. Stinkman, but they never really became friends. This made me sad because I wanted her to love him the way she loved Clarkie. She had grown old and tired at that point, and I think all the drama of the previous few years had taken its toll on her.

In hindsight, I think Lily started to really decline after I was diagnosed with breast cancer. She lost a bit of weight before we left Toronto, but she was still spry, hungry, and somewhat kittenish when we got here. It was last summer, as I recuperated from surgery, and before I started chemotherapy, when I noticed things were changing. Maybe she hung on long enough to make sure I would be okay. The irony of her dying eight days before such a milestone birthday, and five days before I finish radiation is not lost on me. She'd had enough.

When I took her to the vet to be euthanized, she died in the examination room, before the doctor could administer the injection. It was peaceful, and I don't think she was in any pain. That's the best we can hope for, when our beloved furry friends decide it's time to go. I'm heartbroken, and I'm trying like hell to get through this last week of treatment. Of all that I've lost over these months of being a cancer patient, I feel this one most acutely, and it will stay with me longer than anything else.

Nava

Radiation, Week Six

Maybe some of you like your chicken this way, but not me! 

Sorry for the delay in getting this post up; I've actually been suffering more from roasting fatigue than the burning. Although, my skin is starting to take on the hue of fresh ground beef. It's different than a sunburn; there's a sort of brownish tinge to it that I've never before experienced. Chalk more oddities up to the cancer experience. 

Yes, the fatigue has finally gotten to me these past couple of weeks. Fortunately, it doesn't carry with it the assorted accompaniments of chemo, but I've been napping again. Hence why this post is coming two days later than usual. 

I have four roastings left, which include the "boost" I've been hearing about for a while. The beam is now being concentrated in two areas, rather than the entire section that includes the lymph node area. It involves more table-jockeying than before, since my crackerjack techs have to hit two exact spots, as opposed to a larger area. It's too bad they weren't able to boost me at the beginning. I'm about ready to indulge in some nightmare-patient behavior at this point. Of course I won't, but the temptation is there. 

So, I will report back when this is all wrapped up. I have some news I've been keeping under my hat (pun intended) that I'd finally like to share with everyone. Don't worry - it's all good. 

Nava