We're here to pump you up

Several years ago there was a funny Saturday night spoof featuring Arnold Schwarzenegger and Dana Carvey. It was a hilarious skit about two body builders and how they were going to help "pump up" people's muscles with their wonderful body building techniques. I thought about that silly skit this morning as I got out my compression pump and slipped on the compression sleeves. After the fiasco, the other day, where I got stuck in the sleeves and couldn't get out, I decided it would be best to only do one arm at a time when I'm alone in the house, so I slipped one arm out of the sleeve and lay it on the sofa.

As I got situated, the reality of my circumstances hit me square between the eyes. This wasn't going to be a once in a blue moon thing. This was going to be a daily, forever commitment. I don't know why I hadn't thought of that before, but I hadn't. Lymphedema doesn't ever go away. I'm stuck with it for the rest of my life and if I want to be able to function as normally as possible, I have to go through this therapy for an hour every single day. One hour. That doesn't sound like much. 60 minutes. No big deal, right? Wrong. When I'm hooked up to this pump, I'm immobile. I can't do anything I want to do. All I can do is sit and let the machine do it's thing. The sleeves compress tightly around my arms and begin working from fingertip to shoulder. As the sleeves compress, they move lymphatic fluid throughout my body.

I'm thankful someone invented this type of machinery for those of us who need it but I'm frustrated at having had my lymph glands removed in the first place. I understand why the sentinel node in my right arm had to be removed, because it had cancer in it, but the others...they didn't. And yes, my breast surgeon was taking precautions to insure no cancer cells were missed but if I'd known what the removal of my lymph nodes would have involved, I would have refused surgery. But there's nothing I can do now so I try my best to grin and bear it. I know the compression therapy is meant to help me even though it restricts my movements for an hour every single day.

The best way to counter all the negativity associated with lymphedema is to look for the positives. I'm thankful I still have my arms. I'm thankful the cancer had not spread to even more lymph nodes in my body. I'm thankful there are ways to help move the lymphatic fluid through my body and most of all, I'm thankful I'm still here.

Bottom line: lymphedema sucks. It really does. It's painful and irritating. My arms swell so much I can't wear 95% of my clothing but there are people suffering with worse cases than mine. So permit me to whine a little today. It makes me feel better even though it doesn't change my circumstances one tiny bit. And why is it that complaining makes us feel better? Isn't that weird? It should really make us feel worse. I really should be ashamed of myself for complaining at all.

© bonnie annis all rights reserved

Sometimes I just want to pull my hair out

Sometimes I just want to pull my hair out, especially when I read a friend's blog post and I just can't wrap my head around it. This morning, I was reading a post from a fellow breast cancer survivor. She said her cancer has returned and is growing in her spine. As soon as I read the words, I burst into tears. I just didn't understand! We'd been diagnosed with the same type of cancer in the same year. How could it be that her cancer had returned and mine had not? And what made it even more difficult to understand and accept was the fact that she'd chosen to go the traditional treatment route. I'd opted not to do that. She'd endured chemotherapy, radiation, and the anti-hormone therapy afterward. I'd refused chemo, had done 28 rounds of radiation, and had only taken the anti-hormone drugs for a couple of months. It just didn't compute and it certainly didn't seem fair. But that's what sucks about cancer. It doesn't follow the rules.

Cancer the gift that keeps on giving - the high cost of cancer

There's a basket of bills sitting in the corner of my bedroom. I try not to look at it as I enter the room but I know it's there. Its contents spill out onto the floor whenever my husband stuffs another bill into the basket. Usually, when the mail comes, he gets it first so he can filter what I see and what I don't see. Since he's the only one working, he takes care of our financial responsibilities and while I'm thankful for that, I'm not ignorant about our mounting bills. Cancer is expensive. Even if you've reached maintenance phase, it's costly. There are always tests to be run, blood to be taken, doctors to see. It never ends. Just knowing this will be a continual process for the rest of my life frustrates me and the alternative, death, will be my only way out. It would be nice to know that cancer could be a once and done kind of thing but that's only wishful thinking. Everyone knows cancer is a long and very involved illness. I had no id

Annual checkup yields good news!

Yesterday I went to the Cancer Treatment Centers of America for my annual check up. For those unfamiliar with the cancer treatment center, it's an integrative facility that provides services for the body, mind, and spirit. My day began in the survivorship department. While there, I met with the doctor and was asked about how I'd been feeling both physically and emotionally. We talked for about half an hour. The doctor and I had a few laughs and it was probably the most pleasant visit I've ever had. Instead of making me feel that she was the doctor and I was the patient, I felt like we were old friends just having a good chat. It was refreshing and I left her office feeling very optimistic. Next was the port lab where I have my blood drawn. It's always a challenge there because I always have to explain about my lymphedema and why it's necessary to have blood drawn from my hand instead of my arm. You'd think, after 4 years of being a patient there, they'

Journey Out of Pink

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