Good news from the MRI --- they didn't see anything they weren't expecting! My surgery was scheduled for Wednesday, August 29.
I had to stop eating at midnight, my surgery wasn't until 2:00 the following day, and I couldn't sleep the night before. I was in horrible pain, couldn't breath and could hardly raise myself to a sitting position. I was certain that during the MRI procedure they had broken a rib!
I haven't mentioned much about my husband's role throughout this process. He's not a chatty guy, and doesn't express his emotions (except through angry outbursts). He lost both of his parents to cancer, and my diagnosis was bringing back memories he'd hoped not to revisit.
I'm not sure what I expected from him ... something romantic, straight out of a made-for-TV movie. I had hoped for quiet, reflective moments together... but, he's not that kind of guy. He was either attending Royal's baseball games or watching baseball on TV. We just went through the motions of life as usual.
When the morning of my surgery came, nothing in our relationship had changed ... I was still bitching at him to get ready so we wouldn't be late, we had to round up cats and dogs, and make sure everything was "buttoned down" before we left. And, as instructed by the nurse, I had to "frost" my nipple with an analgesic cream ... I was hoping I could at least share this moment with Frank, but...I had to frost alone!
As usual, we were running late...the drive to the hospital was by far the most dangerous part of the entire day. I could tell that Frank was worried about me by the number of people he yelled at on the road. When you've been together over 22 years, you just know these things about each other. I believe we encountered at least 15 "idiots" on route to the hospital ... I knew that Frank really loved me!
LETTERS TO MY CHILDHOOD FRIEND, ZIP THE MONKEY
Friday, August 31, 2007
The MRI
The MRI, by far, was the worst experience of my life! I knew when they asked me how much I weighed that I was in for trouble! Their response, "larger ladies find it a very tight fit...are you claustrophobic?"
Claustrophobic? A better question would have been, "are you claustrophobic and do you mind having someone sit on your lungs for 30 minutes?"
During the first part, I was on my back...not a problem, I thought. As I was put passed through the tunnel, it didn't seem too small...until I noticed that it went from a fairly large ring to an extremely tight one. At that point I shut my eyes and decided not to open them until all testing was complete!
The second part required me to lie on my stomach with my breasts in a hard plastic form with two holes in it (just when I thought a mammogram was the most humiliating form of testing possible...). Of course, this took up about six inches of space that didn't exist...
Knowing that this was the most important part of the MRI, I was determined to make it work...after lots of adjustments and realizing that shallow breathing was the best I could hope for, they got me in place. If not for the hypnotic rhythm of the MRI itself, I wouldn't have made it.
At one point my right hand said, "hey, I can't move!" Then, my left lung said, "so what, I can't breathe!" Then my left hand started screaming, "I just felt something brush against me!!!" Finally, my brain had to take charge and tell them all to "SHUT THE F*CK UP!" Chaos at that time would not have been pretty. Gone unchecked, I knew that I could break through the tube like the Incredible Hulk ripping through his shirt!
After the procedure, I complimented the MRI crew on their ability to squeeze me into such a tight place and suggested that they go into the sausage stuffing business. My humor was lost on them.
My husband told me to wait in the lobby until he brought the car around, but I wanted fresh air...it was so nice to be out in the open...able to breath deeply once again!
Namaste,
Chele
Claustrophobic? A better question would have been, "are you claustrophobic and do you mind having someone sit on your lungs for 30 minutes?"
During the first part, I was on my back...not a problem, I thought. As I was put passed through the tunnel, it didn't seem too small...until I noticed that it went from a fairly large ring to an extremely tight one. At that point I shut my eyes and decided not to open them until all testing was complete!
The second part required me to lie on my stomach with my breasts in a hard plastic form with two holes in it (just when I thought a mammogram was the most humiliating form of testing possible...). Of course, this took up about six inches of space that didn't exist...
Knowing that this was the most important part of the MRI, I was determined to make it work...after lots of adjustments and realizing that shallow breathing was the best I could hope for, they got me in place. If not for the hypnotic rhythm of the MRI itself, I wouldn't have made it.
At one point my right hand said, "hey, I can't move!" Then, my left lung said, "so what, I can't breathe!" Then my left hand started screaming, "I just felt something brush against me!!!" Finally, my brain had to take charge and tell them all to "SHUT THE F*CK UP!" Chaos at that time would not have been pretty. Gone unchecked, I knew that I could break through the tube like the Incredible Hulk ripping through his shirt!
After the procedure, I complimented the MRI crew on their ability to squeeze me into such a tight place and suggested that they go into the sausage stuffing business. My humor was lost on them.
My husband told me to wait in the lobby until he brought the car around, but I wanted fresh air...it was so nice to be out in the open...able to breath deeply once again!
Namaste,
Chele
A Letter to My Sister
Dear Suzie,
You asked why you've not been mentioned in my blog. I hadn't needed to, yet.
After receiving my diagnosis, you were the second person I called; and, I knew you would be there for me -- as always.
You're the one I've always counted on to protect me ... from thunderstorms, dark bedrooms without nightlights, to the anger in our house -- especially the fights between mom and dad. You gave me long stemmed roses for my first ballet recital on pointe, and you bought my first pair contacts (to help rid me of those awful, geeky glasses I had to wear).
You were the middle child, I was the youngest. Yes, I was spoiled.
When you had the opportunity to break free from the family, you took it...and rightfully so. It was during that time that our seven years difference in age seemed liked decades. The Dark Ages of our relationship. The time when I was living at home, believing that you were the bad person in the family ... the cause of all mom's suffering. She was quite the drama queen.
I believed that I had to make choices in my relationships. I "prioritized" everyone by those who could help result in the most comfortable, non-confrontational outcome. Always at the top of the pyramid was "making Mom happy!"
This seemed easy enough ... just give in and give up. But, I now realize how painful and selfish it was. That meant giving up on my relationship with you, plunging us into the Dark Ages.
I'm sorry that I didn't think for myself during that time, but I now know that I was trying to survive in a toxic environment. I was also trying to figure out who I was. I'm ashamed of myself for that.
So, when I called you about my diagnosis, I was stung with the guilt of asking for your help -- fully aware that you'd be there, and fully aware that I was not always there for you.
I know you needed me when Loren was born, when we almost lost you. I didn't step up to the challenge, I failed you, and I can't forgive myself for that.
This letter to you should have been written long before now. Just know that you are the most important person in my life, and that I thank you for being there for me -- and that I don't take you for granted!
Love,
Chele
You asked why you've not been mentioned in my blog. I hadn't needed to, yet.
After receiving my diagnosis, you were the second person I called; and, I knew you would be there for me -- as always.
You're the one I've always counted on to protect me ... from thunderstorms, dark bedrooms without nightlights, to the anger in our house -- especially the fights between mom and dad. You gave me long stemmed roses for my first ballet recital on pointe, and you bought my first pair contacts (to help rid me of those awful, geeky glasses I had to wear).
You were the middle child, I was the youngest. Yes, I was spoiled.
When you had the opportunity to break free from the family, you took it...and rightfully so. It was during that time that our seven years difference in age seemed liked decades. The Dark Ages of our relationship. The time when I was living at home, believing that you were the bad person in the family ... the cause of all mom's suffering. She was quite the drama queen.
I believed that I had to make choices in my relationships. I "prioritized" everyone by those who could help result in the most comfortable, non-confrontational outcome. Always at the top of the pyramid was "making Mom happy!"
This seemed easy enough ... just give in and give up. But, I now realize how painful and selfish it was. That meant giving up on my relationship with you, plunging us into the Dark Ages.
I'm sorry that I didn't think for myself during that time, but I now know that I was trying to survive in a toxic environment. I was also trying to figure out who I was. I'm ashamed of myself for that.
So, when I called you about my diagnosis, I was stung with the guilt of asking for your help -- fully aware that you'd be there, and fully aware that I was not always there for you.
I know you needed me when Loren was born, when we almost lost you. I didn't step up to the challenge, I failed you, and I can't forgive myself for that.
This letter to you should have been written long before now. Just know that you are the most important person in my life, and that I thank you for being there for me -- and that I don't take you for granted!
Love,
Chele
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Letter to my mother
Sunday, August 26, 2007 -- Dear Mom!
I must, of course, begin my letter with an apology. Just like the phone calls of yesteryear, I’m always apologizing for things I’ve not done that I should have done.
I’ve been diagnosed with a form of breast cancer. We think it’s just a simple matter of removing the lump and treating me with radiation. But, I have an MRI scheduled for tomorrow to confirm it. You know me, always the worrier. Worry-wart, wasn’t that what you used to call me?
I really can’t believe it. No one in the family had it; however, I still wonder why dad had his breast removed. Obviously, it wasn’t cancer (or, at least not invasive) as he lived a long life after the surgery without any sign of cancer.
Cancer. What a strange word. A very frightening word…at least it scares me. I’ve spent so much of my life worrying about the little things … mainly, the bills, and if you really loved me. Did I measure up as a daughter? What should I have done differently, better, or what did I do wrong.
It would be nice to have you to talk with about it, about my fears. Of course, the biggest regret that I have right now is that I didn’t take proper care of you. I have to know my heart, and in my heart I know I took the quick and easy route. All about me, right? I always thought that you (Dad and Gary) were there to make my life better, without regard for your needs. I was always worried about growing up and letting go, not wanting to, of course.
Perhaps that’s why I’m not taking care of your properly … I’m too busy thinking about myself and my needs. I was always too busy getting myself into financial messes and expecting to be bailed out of them. Okay, I’m not perfect. Okay, I’m selfish and greedy. I’m always thinking that I’m entitled to something. I think that life should be easy and carefree. Okay, I’m starting to understand, now, that it isn’t
Yes, I’m mad at you and Dad for not getting the proper care for Gary; and, knowing that someday it would be my responsibility. Yes, when I really search my heart and soul, I realize that I want-want-want everything I can get. Yes, I’m a greedy little kid that hasn’t grown up.
Now, however, I’m a greedy little kid with some form of breast cancer. I can hear your words, “well, perhaps God is punishing you for being that greedy little kid.” I don’t want to believe that.
Here’s what I want you to say, Mom:
“Chele, I’ve always loved you. I know that it was ridiculous to think that I didn’t want you when I found out I was pregnant with you. And, it was even more ridiculous to tell you. But, you’ve been a great daughter. You’re kind and caring; thoughtful and compassionate. You’ve done and are doing the best you can…which is all anyone can ask of themselves. You’ve been a joy to me, and helped me through some hard times. I know that I’m unable to care for myself; and, I’m in a place where no one should be expected to care for me…except in a professional setting.
You’ve always tried to make the right choices. I know that we didn’t always have the best family dynamic. I know that I had emotional problems that even I wasn’t aware of. I know that I displayed bi-polar systems, even to the point of being hateful. But, I always loved you. I always loved all of my children; and, I always loved your father. We weren’t well educated, and I didn’t have a good sense of myself. I was a housewife, because that’s what was expected of me. Perhaps I even had dreams and ambitions. Perhaps I was always hateful to you when you wanted something (or attained something) because I was jealous. I’m human, that’s the way human’s react. I would have loved to have gotten “more” out of life, but that will never be.
I’m sorry for treating you badly; and, I’m sorry for my own selfishness that resulted in difficult times. I’m sorry that I told you that you didn’t have real friends; I’m sorry that I told you that ‘if they really knew you, they wouldn’t have anything to do with you.’ Put that out of your mind, right now. You know that people like you and care about you…because you are you!
I’m sorry that I wasn’t more supportive of you in pursuing your dreams and ambitions. I’m sorry that I didn’t help nurture your dreams and ambitions. But, as mentioned before, I was a pretty selfish person, too. It’s hard to support someone else when you don’t feel good about yourself.
But, I did the best I could, under the circumstances. I worried about money problems. I worried about Gary. I feel guilt for the way Gary has turned out. I hurt for his current life that may have been caused by something I did or didn’t do. I hurt for all my children when they hurt. But, I’m human. I can’t take away that hurt. I should not have inflicted more hurt, but I did; and, I’m sorry.
I’m proud of you, Chele, for all of the things you’ve accomplished in your life. I’m proud of all my children. But, for whatever reason, I was never able to express it. I was never able to express all the love I have for each one of you.
I worry about your health and the days to come for you. But I know that you’ll get through it … I know that you’re not being punished … it’s just something that happens. I know that God loves everyone and does not punish. I know that God and you are not punishing me, now.
I’m in a good place … I have no longer have worries. I no longer fear what might or might not happen. I know that all things turn out for the best, even if they don’t appear that way now.
I love you and care about you, Chele, that’s all I can offer. I hurt for you and pray for you. I know that everything will turn out okay! Love, Mother.”
I must, of course, begin my letter with an apology. Just like the phone calls of yesteryear, I’m always apologizing for things I’ve not done that I should have done.
I’ve been diagnosed with a form of breast cancer. We think it’s just a simple matter of removing the lump and treating me with radiation. But, I have an MRI scheduled for tomorrow to confirm it. You know me, always the worrier. Worry-wart, wasn’t that what you used to call me?
I really can’t believe it. No one in the family had it; however, I still wonder why dad had his breast removed. Obviously, it wasn’t cancer (or, at least not invasive) as he lived a long life after the surgery without any sign of cancer.
Cancer. What a strange word. A very frightening word…at least it scares me. I’ve spent so much of my life worrying about the little things … mainly, the bills, and if you really loved me. Did I measure up as a daughter? What should I have done differently, better, or what did I do wrong.
It would be nice to have you to talk with about it, about my fears. Of course, the biggest regret that I have right now is that I didn’t take proper care of you. I have to know my heart, and in my heart I know I took the quick and easy route. All about me, right? I always thought that you (Dad and Gary) were there to make my life better, without regard for your needs. I was always worried about growing up and letting go, not wanting to, of course.
Perhaps that’s why I’m not taking care of your properly … I’m too busy thinking about myself and my needs. I was always too busy getting myself into financial messes and expecting to be bailed out of them. Okay, I’m not perfect. Okay, I’m selfish and greedy. I’m always thinking that I’m entitled to something. I think that life should be easy and carefree. Okay, I’m starting to understand, now, that it isn’t
Yes, I’m mad at you and Dad for not getting the proper care for Gary; and, knowing that someday it would be my responsibility. Yes, when I really search my heart and soul, I realize that I want-want-want everything I can get. Yes, I’m a greedy little kid that hasn’t grown up.
Now, however, I’m a greedy little kid with some form of breast cancer. I can hear your words, “well, perhaps God is punishing you for being that greedy little kid.” I don’t want to believe that.
Here’s what I want you to say, Mom:
“Chele, I’ve always loved you. I know that it was ridiculous to think that I didn’t want you when I found out I was pregnant with you. And, it was even more ridiculous to tell you. But, you’ve been a great daughter. You’re kind and caring; thoughtful and compassionate. You’ve done and are doing the best you can…which is all anyone can ask of themselves. You’ve been a joy to me, and helped me through some hard times. I know that I’m unable to care for myself; and, I’m in a place where no one should be expected to care for me…except in a professional setting.
You’ve always tried to make the right choices. I know that we didn’t always have the best family dynamic. I know that I had emotional problems that even I wasn’t aware of. I know that I displayed bi-polar systems, even to the point of being hateful. But, I always loved you. I always loved all of my children; and, I always loved your father. We weren’t well educated, and I didn’t have a good sense of myself. I was a housewife, because that’s what was expected of me. Perhaps I even had dreams and ambitions. Perhaps I was always hateful to you when you wanted something (or attained something) because I was jealous. I’m human, that’s the way human’s react. I would have loved to have gotten “more” out of life, but that will never be.
I’m sorry for treating you badly; and, I’m sorry for my own selfishness that resulted in difficult times. I’m sorry that I told you that you didn’t have real friends; I’m sorry that I told you that ‘if they really knew you, they wouldn’t have anything to do with you.’ Put that out of your mind, right now. You know that people like you and care about you…because you are you!
I’m sorry that I wasn’t more supportive of you in pursuing your dreams and ambitions. I’m sorry that I didn’t help nurture your dreams and ambitions. But, as mentioned before, I was a pretty selfish person, too. It’s hard to support someone else when you don’t feel good about yourself.
But, I did the best I could, under the circumstances. I worried about money problems. I worried about Gary. I feel guilt for the way Gary has turned out. I hurt for his current life that may have been caused by something I did or didn’t do. I hurt for all my children when they hurt. But, I’m human. I can’t take away that hurt. I should not have inflicted more hurt, but I did; and, I’m sorry.
I’m proud of you, Chele, for all of the things you’ve accomplished in your life. I’m proud of all my children. But, for whatever reason, I was never able to express it. I was never able to express all the love I have for each one of you.
I worry about your health and the days to come for you. But I know that you’ll get through it … I know that you’re not being punished … it’s just something that happens. I know that God loves everyone and does not punish. I know that God and you are not punishing me, now.
I’m in a good place … I have no longer have worries. I no longer fear what might or might not happen. I know that all things turn out for the best, even if they don’t appear that way now.
I love you and care about you, Chele, that’s all I can offer. I hurt for you and pray for you. I know that everything will turn out okay! Love, Mother.”
Saturday, August 25, 2007
How it all began
My last mammogram was in 1999. I really didn't worry about it because I didn't have any cancer in my family. My family is filled with emotional dysfunctionality, lots of heart problems and dementia. As a matter of fact, I just came through the mitral valve prolapse scare from my use of diet pills. So, I arrogantly figured "that was it," for me!
So, you can imagine my surpise when, on August 10, I was told that they "found something that needed a closer look." My mammogam showed 'numerous scattered calcification and a benign nodule.' I jokingly told my husband that I needed to take a picture of him with me because they wanted a closer look at my boob!
My next steps were sonogram, core biopsy and waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
I received the pathology report and diagnosis at 1:05 p.m., August 20. I knew something was up when my doctor called me (and not the nurse) ... "positive for a certain form of breast cancer." I was sitting down at the time, lost for words, not expecting to hear what I just heard. All the online research indicated that 80% of all calcifications were benign. While stuttering to find the right questions to ask, I was told that my next step would be a visit to a general surgeon ... and, we would take it one step at a time.
It appears that I have DCIS -- carcinoma in situ, located in duct-branch. "This is good," he told me ... "some don't even consider this cancer." He recommended a lumpectomy and removal of the sentinel lobe (lymph node), with foll0w-up radiation. Surgery was scheduled for the following Friday, August 24.
Great, I found it early; they diagnosed it; and, of all possible cancers, this was the one with the best survival rate. Plus, I was scheduled to have surgery on Friday ... get everything done, out of the way, and get on with my life.
The Thursday afternoon before surgery, as I was cutting grass and trying to "get things in order" before my surgery, I recevied a call from my doctor. He said the radiologist requires an MRI prior to the surgery to ensure that they know as much as they can before they go in.
That was like a gut punch.
Sure, I'd had some time to think about it, bore my friends with details of everything I was going through, cry about it an even speculate on what might happen. However, it was all very superficial...all too "easy." This jolted me back into the reality of what I have. This gave me more time to think about it...and, more time to wait.
I've been assigned a "nurse navigator," Donna, who has been tremendously helpful throughout this process. She tells me what's going to happen and why the MRI is required.
So, all this "clinical" discussion about my diagnosis is just that ... very clinical, very sterile, very removed. The truth is, I'm scared. I have no idea what the MRI will show ... but I'm trying to be positive.
I work for a non-profit organization called Unity. It's been my saving grace throughout this process. Not only do I receive emotional support for my friends/co-workers, but the main mission of Unity is prayer...and, I'm blessed to receive lots of prayer support. But, there's the reality of life and death. There's the reality that people die.
I struggle through dealing with the reality of science and medicine and the spirituality of hope and positive thinking. I also deal with the "what ifs" running through my head. I've been told that when what we call "bad news" is received, the question should not be "God, why me?" but rather, "God, what am I to learn from this?"
Easier said than done. But I'm working on it ... because, when you're left with the waiting, it's probably the best mind exercise around.
I'm scheduled for my MRI on Monday, and hope that it confirms that we're dealing with a simple, localized non-cancer cancer!
Namaste,
Chele
So, you can imagine my surpise when, on August 10, I was told that they "found something that needed a closer look." My mammogam showed 'numerous scattered calcification and a benign nodule.' I jokingly told my husband that I needed to take a picture of him with me because they wanted a closer look at my boob!
My next steps were sonogram, core biopsy and waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
I received the pathology report and diagnosis at 1:05 p.m., August 20. I knew something was up when my doctor called me (and not the nurse) ... "positive for a certain form of breast cancer." I was sitting down at the time, lost for words, not expecting to hear what I just heard. All the online research indicated that 80% of all calcifications were benign. While stuttering to find the right questions to ask, I was told that my next step would be a visit to a general surgeon ... and, we would take it one step at a time.
It appears that I have DCIS -- carcinoma in situ, located in duct-branch. "This is good," he told me ... "some don't even consider this cancer." He recommended a lumpectomy and removal of the sentinel lobe (lymph node), with foll0w-up radiation. Surgery was scheduled for the following Friday, August 24.
Great, I found it early; they diagnosed it; and, of all possible cancers, this was the one with the best survival rate. Plus, I was scheduled to have surgery on Friday ... get everything done, out of the way, and get on with my life.
The Thursday afternoon before surgery, as I was cutting grass and trying to "get things in order" before my surgery, I recevied a call from my doctor. He said the radiologist requires an MRI prior to the surgery to ensure that they know as much as they can before they go in.
That was like a gut punch.
Sure, I'd had some time to think about it, bore my friends with details of everything I was going through, cry about it an even speculate on what might happen. However, it was all very superficial...all too "easy." This jolted me back into the reality of what I have. This gave me more time to think about it...and, more time to wait.
I've been assigned a "nurse navigator," Donna, who has been tremendously helpful throughout this process. She tells me what's going to happen and why the MRI is required.
So, all this "clinical" discussion about my diagnosis is just that ... very clinical, very sterile, very removed. The truth is, I'm scared. I have no idea what the MRI will show ... but I'm trying to be positive.
I work for a non-profit organization called Unity. It's been my saving grace throughout this process. Not only do I receive emotional support for my friends/co-workers, but the main mission of Unity is prayer...and, I'm blessed to receive lots of prayer support. But, there's the reality of life and death. There's the reality that people die.
I struggle through dealing with the reality of science and medicine and the spirituality of hope and positive thinking. I also deal with the "what ifs" running through my head. I've been told that when what we call "bad news" is received, the question should not be "God, why me?" but rather, "God, what am I to learn from this?"
Easier said than done. But I'm working on it ... because, when you're left with the waiting, it's probably the best mind exercise around.
I'm scheduled for my MRI on Monday, and hope that it confirms that we're dealing with a simple, localized non-cancer cancer!
Namaste,
Chele
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