When the fear of cancer recurrence becomes detrimental to health

 

For the past nine years, I’ve struggled with waves of overwhelming fear of cancer recurrence. I knew I had an issue, but until recently, wasn’t aware of how much fear was affecting my life.

The fear began to manifest in physical problems. First, I noticed my heart would race even though I wasn’t exerting myself, so I started seeing a cardiologist. I’d had problems with hypertension in the past, but this was something new. After running a slew of tests, the doctor assured me I was OK and the three medications I was already taking were doing a good job. He told me not to worry, so I tried my best to heed his advice.

Next, I began having trouble sleeping. I’d done a lot of reading about aging and sleep problems, so I wasn’t too concerned, but when I started waking up exhausted. I knew something wasn’t right. The cardiologist suggested we do a sleep study, so I agreed to it. The test revealed I had sleep apnea, so I found a pulmonologist to address that.

I started having stomach issues and wasn’t able to digest my food well, so my primary doctor referred me to a gastroenterologist. After several tests, it was determined I had legitimate concerns. I was afraid I had esophageal cancer — the cancer that took my brother’s life — but the doctor assured me he’d do more testing. I endured two endoscopies and a colonoscopy, and even had my esophagus stretched. While I awaited the results from those tests, my fear grew.

An enlarged lymph node on the side of my neck freaked me out. Immediately, I called the oncologist and set up an appointment. She ordered an ultrasound. When the test was inconclusive, I panicked. I wasn’t ready to face cancer again. The doctor ordered a CT scan of my neck and one of my abdomen just to be sure there was no cancer there. I was thankful she was proactive.

When I received an email alert through the patient portal of my cancer treatment center, I just about lost it. Why was the oncologist calling me in to see her? If it was good news, wouldn’t she have called and told me? The fear inside reached epic proportions.

I called my husband at work and asked if he could take a vacation day to accompany me to the appointment. I didn’t want to face bad news alone. Immediately, he went to his boss and made the request. I felt a little more at ease knowing he’d be with me.

The night before the appointment, I didn’t sleep a wink, even with my CPAP machine. My thoughts were all over the place. What would I do if I had to face cancer again? I didn’t think I could do it.

In the morning, as we drove to the cancer treatment center, my husband held my hand. He talked softly to me and assured me that whatever the news, he’d be right with me.

After waiting in the lobby for about thirty minutes, my name was called. Grasping my husband’s hand, I tugged on it hard as I stood up to follow the nurse. Together, we walked into the exam room and waited for the doctor.

I did my best to control my breathing as the nurse took my vital signs. The nurse asked if my blood pressure was normally high. I replied, “No.” She turned the screen to reveal my systolic pressure was 157. I told her I guessed I was nervous.

The doctor came in with a scribe and her medical assistant. She barely greeted us before sitting down and opening her laptop. I tried to read her body language but couldn’t. She seemed to be all business.

As she pulled up the report for the CT scans, she said, “There’s no cancer on your scans, so you have nothing to worry about. And I see here that that you’re coming up on nine years being cancer free, so I don’t need to see you but once a year now, unless you have something that pops up in between time.” She stood and folded her laptop, then headed toward the door.

“But wait!” I said anxiously, “Are you sure? This wasn’t what I was expecting.” She nodded her head and put her hand on the doorknob. As she turned it, I felt a rush of cool air brush my face.

When she’d exited the room, I turned to my husband, tears in my eyes, and exhaled. We were both in shock. Neither of us expected to hear good news delivered in such a cavalier fashion. Sure, the appointment was probably the last of the day for the doctor, but gee, didn’t I deserve a high five or something?

As we left the cancer treatment center, I suddenly realized I wouldn’t be coming again for an entire year. I had mixed emotions. On one hand, I was happy to be walking out with good news, on the other, I wondered how I’d let fear overpower me so easily.

When I got home, I went into the bathroom and cried. The tears were a much-needed emotional release. Until that point, I hadn’t realized that every time I’d felt any kind of physical malady I’d subconsciously defaulted to “it’s cancer.”

I’m a pretty grounded person, but that afternoon, I realized I had some unresolved post-traumatic stress to deal with. I’d thought that I’d done most of that healing work over the past nine years, but I guess a barb of fear had lodged itself deep in my spirit.

Fear is a powerful weapon the enemy uses against us. The important thing is to learn to recognize it and disarm it.

If there was one piece of advice I’d like to give others facing the overwhelming fear of recurrence, it’s to give yourself grace. We’re only human. It’s normal to dread a recurrence of cancer, especially when it's come into your life and done a number on your mental and physical well-being. Sometimes, it’s necessary to get professional help to conquer it and there’s no shame in that. But please, don’t let it control your life like I did.

I once read a powerful quotation by Emily Freeman I’d like to share with you, “Worry is a thief, fear is a liar, and anxiety is their trembling, furrow-browed baby.” That sums it up perfectly. No one deserves to live under that kind of stress.

Nine years is a long time to deal with the powerful side effect of fear that cancer brought into my life. So today, I choose to release myself from it. And if it ever tries to rear its ugly head again, I’m going to lop it off and scream, “NOT TODAY! I am alive and doing well.” That, my friends, is my new mantra. I’ve fought too hard to let down my guard ever again. I am blessed and I’m going to start living like it.

One more ultrasound

At my latest oncology appointment, my new oncologist, Dr. Sharma, seemed concerned about the walnut sized lump at my left clavicle. It had been there for months but had seemed to be larger than it was when I first mentioned it to previous oncologist. I was grateful this new doctor was being proactive in ordering a test so quickly. 

When I arrived at the cancer treatment center's imaging department, the room was packed. The only available chair was close to a wall mounted television set and very close to an automatic door. I knew the constant noise from the TV would interrupt my reading but wasn't prepared for the blast of cold air every time the door opened as someone entered. I waited about fifteen minutes and as soon as someone was called back, I got up to move and take their seat. I lucked up and got a seat in a warmer section of the room very close to the receptionist's desk. 

My appointment was scheduled for 9:45 a.m. When 10:30 rolled around and I still hadn't been called back, I wondered if I'd been forgotten. There were so many in the waiting room though and it seemed they were moving slowly so I patiently waited. 

To my left was an older black couple. One seat over from me sat the woman softly humming. As I read, I heard her soothing melody. It wasn't bothersome at all and I was thankful for her low, soft voice. It seemed to calm me as I waited for my test 

A nurse came and sat by the couple. She spoke to the husband about the wife's upcoming procedure. I did my best not to eavesdrop but the nurse wasn't whispering. I kept my eyes glued to my book and tried to read as they talked. I kept going over the same line again and again. The nurse was telling the man that after his wife's lung biopsy they'd have to keep her under surveillance for a couple of hours. He asked questions as to why and the nurse said sometimes, during a lung biopsy, air can get into a patient's lungs and this can be a dangerous situation. The man's voice wavered as he continued to talk with the nurse. A few minutes later,  the nurse was taking the woman with her to the procedure area. 

I sat for a few minutes and didn't say a word. As I did, I felt the Holy Spirit prompting me to tell the man I was going to pray for his wife. I waited a few more minutes for confirmation and the nudge didn't go away, so I leaned over and told the man I wasn't trying to get into their business but I couldn't help overhearing about his wife's biopsy. He looked at me intently and I said, "May I ask your wife's name? I'd like to pray for her." Immediately he said, "Her name is Lynn Morgan." I smiled and told him I would be praying for her and I spoke words of encouragement to him. He thanked me over and over again before leaving to go find a hotel room for the night as the nurse had suggested he do just in case the wife's biopsy was more complicated than they expected. 

After Mr. Morgan left, I began to pray for his wife asking God to be with her and give her strength, to guide the doctor's hands and to protect her from complications. As I prayed, a verses from Isaiah came to mind, "You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you. Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord God is an everlasting rock." (Isaiah 26:3-4) I know God brought those verses to mind for not only Mrs. Morgan, but also for me. 

It wasn't long before I was being called back. I lay on the exam table as the radiology tech warmed up the gel. After asking me to show her the exact location of the lump, she took the transducer and began going over and over my left clavicle. As she pressed the wand down on the lump, it hurt. I kept my eyes on the ceiling tiles instead of looking at the ultrasound machine as I did in 2014 when I was first diagnosed. The ceiling tiles in the room were illuminated with a beautiful spring scene. I remembered that view and smiled to myself. 

The ceiling scene I enjoyed

I found it interesting that I wasn't terrified like I was the first time I'd had a breast ultrasound done. Over the years, I've become desensitized to all the poking, prodding, and tests. Perhaps it's because I feel in my heart cancer is no longer a threat to me. Oh, I know it can be. I'm not being naive about the dangers and possibility of a recurrence, it just feels like my stint with cancer is over and has been for some time. 

It kind of feels moot to have to keep going to the oncologist for annual checkups but I'm glad I have a safety net in place just in case. 

On the way home, I continued to pray for Mrs. Morgan. I wish I knew if she was doing okay. 

Next month, I'll return to the oncologist for more blood work, to see the integrative wellness team. Thankfully all that will be after vacation and I can enjoy the sand and sea without thinking about anything cancer related.

The wait is the worst part

 

The day started early. I woke at 6 a.m. and tiptoed into the kitchen to have my devotional. My sweet husband had taken the day off work so he could accompany me to the hospital for the test. I didn't want to disturb him. He'd set his alarm for 7 a.m. and that extra hour of sleep would be good for him. 

The kitchen was dark when I entered. The red light from my head lamp made things take on an eery glow. Pulling out my devotional book and my Bible, I sat down at the table and began to read. 

The time went by quickly and before I knew it, I heard hubby's alarm going off and a few minutes later, the shower running. While he got ready, I went back in the room to make the bed and get dressed myself. We needed to leave the house as close to 8 a.m. as possible so we could arrive at the hospital in time to find a parking space, get registered, and pay our co-pay. 

As I busied myself with small details, I tried to keep my thoughts in check. Of course, I was worried, but I did my best not to show it. 

When we arrived at the hospital, the parking lot was already pretty full. We couldn't find a space up close, so we parked a good distance away. Thankfully, as soon as we cut off the car engine, a hospital volunteer, an elderly man, pulled up in a golf cart. He asked if we wanted a ride to the front door. We took him up on it and were amazed at how quickly he drove. 

At the registration desk, I gave my name and other information. The receptionist printed a hospital bracelet and attached it to my arm. Another volunteer, a very white-haired gentleman, escorted us to the radiology department. I wanted to tell him I knew the way already, but I didn't. 

We checked in at the radiology desk and about 2 minutes after I'd sat down, a technician called my name. Rising, I turned to Phil and said, "I love you," as I followed the young man through double doors. 

I was asked to take a seat in the blood draw chair, a large, vinyl chair with a pull-down arm. I sat down and proceeded to tell the tech about my lymphedema and my arm restrictions. He didn't balk when I said my only option was the left hand. Taking my hand in his, he began to slap the top of my wrist and hand. I knew he was trying to coax veins to stand up so he could find them better, but he explained to me anyway. After finding what he thought would be a good vein, He pulled out a syringe and proceeded to jab me working the needle side to side hoping for flash - blood flow back into the needle indicating a vein had been hit. There was none. He apologized and moved the needle to another site. I watched as the sight of the first prick swelled and turned blue. Once again, he couldn't find a vein. I laughed and told him 5 tries was his limit. He said, "No. I won't try again, but I'll call a nurse in." The nurse came and hit the vein on the first try. I was glad. I hate getting stuck over and over again. 

When the needle was in, she threaded an IV and the tech injected the radioactive tracer. It only took a few minutes. I was told we could go home but would need to return around 11:30 a.m.

Phil and I left the hospital and went home. I did a couple of loads of laundry and tried to guzzle water as I'd been instructed by the tech. 

When it came time to head back to the hospital, I began to feel anxious. I knew this was going to determine my future. 

We checked back in and my tech, Doyle, met me at the double doors. As we walked down the cold corridor, he said the test would be about an hour. 

Doyle helped me climb onto the scanner table and covered me with a warm blanket. I'd had this type of test several times before, so I was familiar with what was going to happen. The table underneath me began to vibrate slowly as the machine came to life. Doyle's cell phone went off and he left to answer it. He came right back and we got started. 

The machine moved very slowly over my face, down my sides, over my chest and trunk, then down my legs. After the first set of scans was complete, Doyle ran extra scans of my hips, spine, knees, and ankles. He said he could see degenerative changes in those areas, which my last scan had revealed. 

Finally, it was over. Doyle reminded me to drink a lot of water to flush out the radioactive tracer and we left. 

We ran by a local restaurant to pick up lunch, then headed the Cancer Treatment Center. There was a nice covered pavilion there and we planned to use it. 

It was so quiet and breezy beneath the pavilion. I talked with Phil about our future asking him if he thought I should do chemo this time if the cancer was back. He told me he didn't think I was going to need it. Secretly, I hoped he was right. 

We sat and talked for about an hour, then went home. The doctor's office told us we wouldn't get a call until later that day or perhaps the following day. 

At exactly 4:30 p.m., I got the phone call from the oncologist's office. When the phone ran, my caller I.D. did not indicate who was calling, but I answered it anyway. The nurse said, "Hi, this is Kelly, Dr. P's nurse. He asked me to tell you what your scan showed." At that very moment, I felt my heart begin to race and I held my breath. I was so scared! She said, "The news is good, there's no evidence of cancer!" It was all I could do not to drop the phone. Tears welled up in my eyes. Phil came running over and I had to motion to him that everything was okay. 

I don't remember how the conversation with the nurse ended, but I do remember, as I hung up the phone, I gasped for air. I'd been holding my breath the entire time. 

Phil and I both began to cry and hug each other. We were so very grateful for the good news and immediately began to praise and thank God. 

Waiting on test results is such a hard thing to do, especially when those results could change your life forever, in a split second. 

I have no idea why God, in His mercy, has given me another chance at living life cancer free, but I am so very grateful. I haven't taken a second of life for granted since my initial diagnosis and I'm not about to start now. 

I group messaged all of the kids with the good news. Their texts of gratitude started to pour in. 

It was such an emotionally stressful day and I was so glad it was over, but even more glad that it ended on a good note. 

The fear of recurrence is a horrible thing. None of us like to live in wonder. 

I really want to learn to thrive this year instead of merely surviving. Hopefully,  this will be the year I do that. 

God is teaching me to number my days. I don't want to waste one of them. I hope you don't either. 

Old Memories resurface

Mirror view

It's already the 6th day of the New Year and I haven't found a free second to blog until now. One of my resolutions for the year is to spend more time blogging. It's not only cathartic for me, I believe it is beneficial to others (or at least that's what I've been told by some of my online readers...) so we shall see if I manage to keep that resolution. 

This morning I had an appointment with the endocrinologist. My thyroid level has been extremely low and the primary care physician has tried his best to manage it but has been unable to keep me in normal range. I don't fault him, really. It must be hard to medicate a person without a thyroid gland and keep the hormone level just so, that's why I decided it would be best for me to remain under the endocrinologist's care. 

I'd made the appointment through the online app and was able to get the first appointment of the day. I like those early appointments because the doctor is usually energetic and cheerful. 

Arriving at the hospital just before 8:00 a.m., I lucked up and found a parking spot close to the front door. The wind was whipping as I exited the car and I realized a cold front was moving in. I was thankful I'd worn my down coat and a pashmina shawl. Tucking a book under my arm, I donned the mandatory mask and headed for the door. As I walked, I looked around. The hospital reminded me of a large ant hill and the people looked like little ants busily going to and fro, in and out, always on the move.

The office staff was efficient and moved me into a room quickly. The doctor came in and went over my records then received an emergency phone call and begged forgiveness as she stepped out of the room. I waited a few minutes and then she knocked and re-entered. We continued our conversation and once again, she received an emergency call and needed to leave the room. When she returned, she apologized profusely explaining she had a patient in the ER, and she was coordinating care with the physician on call. I told her it was okay, and I understood completely. I felt sorry for her. She was obviously stressed but managed to give me her undivided attention once her phone stopped vibrating. She ordered labs and said she'd see me in 2 weeks. We said our goodbyes and I walked down the hall for the labwork. 

The phlebotomist was nice and took her time locating a vein. I explained why I had to have blood drawn from my hand and that was the segue that led to our conversation about breast cancer. She shared that her mother had suffered from breast cancer and also developed lymphedema. Then she told me she was concerned about one of her breasts. As she shared her symptoms, I encouraged her to get a mammogram as soon as possible. I explained a lot of women think the only symptom of impending breast cancer is finding a lump and that's not necessarily the case. Many women experience puckering or dimpling of the breast, itching or scaling, and various other symptoms like tenderness, hotness, or redness. 

Leaving the office, I called the number the doctor had given me to set up a bone density test. I wasn't expecting to receive a same day appointment but as luck would have it, that's exactly what happened. I got an 11:30 a.m. appointment so I shot across the street to grab some Chick-Fil-A and returned to the parking lot at the hospital to eat it. (I'd skipped breakfast because I knew the doc would probably want to do a fasting blood panel and I was right.) While I wolfed down my chicken minis, I got a call from my youngest daughter. We talked for the next 30 minutes and then it was time for me to go inside. 

Walking up and down the hall, I finally found the office. On the wall outside the suite, it said Diagnostics - Breast Cancer Center. I wondered why I was having a bone density test at a breast cancer center. I assumed I'd have it at the imaging department of the hospital. 

I checked in and sat to wait. About twenty minutes later, a nurse called my name. I followed her back to the dressing room and watched as she pulled a pink robe from underneath a cabinet and a green plastic drawstring bag from the drawer beside it. She handed them to me and told me to choose a dressing room, remove everything from the top half of my body, and come out when ready. 

Inside the dressing room, I held the pink robe. All of a sudden, feelings I hadn't felt in years came flooding back in. I remembered the first time I'd had to don one of "those open in the front robes." It had been at the breast surgeon's office while there for my initial consultation. I was so scared that day and so embarrassed. I didn't want to bare my chest in front of anyone but knew I must. 

When I'd removed my clothing and put on the robe, I walked out into the central waiting area. There were half a dozen other women clad in the same type robe. All of them were talking about their breast cancer as if it were a social club meeting. I chose a chair in the corner and listened. Beneath their masks, I could head their voices but was unable to see their facial expressions. One woman shared she was in the midst of chemo, another recently had a mastectomy, and the others were there for diagnostic mammograms. I never said a word. I wanted to tell them I was a survivor of almost 8-years but didn't. I didn't want to lump myself into their category for some reason. I guess it was too scary to think about being back in the routine of breast cancer care again. I'd left those thoughts behind years ago when I'd received the news of my 5-year cancerversary. Passing that mark, I assumed I was home free and now, at almost 8 years post cancer, I still felt the same way. I didn't want to do anything to jinx it. 

The DEXA scan went quickly, and the radiology tech was kind. She said I'd receive the results in about 2 days. Thanking her I went back to the dressing room, changed, and almost ran out of the office as the tears began to flow. I hadn't realized how emotional I'd be. 

I guess the fear of recurrence will always be with me. Though I hadn't thought of breast cancer much since my last annual exam, that little pink robe screamed loud and clear - "You could get bad results and go through this all over again, you know." But as soon as the thought cross my mind, I whispered back, "Maybe, but not unless God allows it." 

I trust that He's got my back, my front, my sides, and the rest of me and I will continue to claim myself to be cancer free. And if He ever deems it necessary for me to go through the trial of breast cancer again, I'll face that day in His power and grace but in the meantime, I'm going to remind myself that's a great big "IF." I pray it will never be a reality in this lifetime. I've done my time. I've paid my dues and that should count for something but I'm also not naive. Many women have recurrences of cancer, but I don't want to be counted among them and I'm going to do whatever I can to stay healthy and strong, today and in the future. 

 

Three little letters

I am an impatient person, always have been, always will be. And while that's not always a good thing, it's the truth. I just hate waiting.

On Tuesday, I spent most of the day at the cancer treatment center. I was scheduled for a biopsy. Dr. H had found an enlarged lymph node along my left clavicle at my last exam. Since that visit, I'd had an ultrasound performed which defined a fairly large node just under my left collar bone. Those findings led the doctor to order an ultrasound-guided biopsy but the thing is, when I went in for the test to be performed, the little radiology tech couldn't find the node! She kept passing the ultrasound wand over and over the area where the node had been. She snapped photos of what she thought might have been the place Dr. H wanted to biopsy. She turned those photos in to the head radiologist for his opinion. She even brought him back into the exam room to talk with me. When he arrived, I didn't know what to think but as a big grin crossed his face, I knew everything was going to be okay.

Although the node wasn't showing up on the ultrasound scan and although no biopsy was performed, Dr. H, along with the radiologist, felt a repeat PET SCAN was due. (I'd had my last scan done in 2015 and I'm sure they felt that 4 years could have led to some notable changes in my body.)

Yesterday, I spent most of the afternoon at the cancer treatment center. First, I was intravenously administered a radioactive tracer. Then it was time to wait. I was told I'd have to wait about an hour for the tracer to course through my system.

After gathering the radioactive vial and other materials, the nurse turned down the lights, brought me a warm blanket, and left the room. I assumed the ambient lighting was to help me relax and possibly even fall asleep, but they didn't know me. I don't nap during the day.

I got up and turned up the lights and began reading a book I'd pilfered from the library on the second floor earlier that day. As I read, I noticed the room was beginning to get colder and colder. Although I had that thin little warmed blanket the nurse had given me earlier, I was freezing! So I got up again and tried to adjust the thermostat in the room but was unable to do so. Apparently, it was controlled elsewhere in the building so I made the best of a bad situation and covered myself from top to bottom with that little blanket.

When the time was up, the nurse came back into the room and told me to empty my bladder. I was so happy to hear her say that! I was about to burst from drinking all the water they'd encouraged during my time there and the coolness of the room exacerbated my feelings of urgency.

After taking care of business, I was taken into the room for the scan. The positron emission tomography scan (PET SCAN) would look at all my bones, tissues and organs. The radioactive tracer would illuminate any trouble spots indicating a probable recurrence of cancer. I was nervous about the test and since I don't do well in confined spaces, I'd taken the anti-anxiety meds the doctor had prescribed for me before being put into the scanning machine. They helped me relax enough to withstand the scan without feeling anxious.

The test was over fairly quickly. I don't think it lasted more than about 15-20 minutes. When the test was over, I asked the tech when I could expect to receive the results. She assured me I'd hear from my oncologist the following day.

All night long I tried my best not to worry. I didn't want to think about the possibility of a recurrence. As I prayed before bed, I told God I'd accept either verdict. If He saw fit for me to go through another round of cancer, so be it. And, if He saw fit to allow me to remain cancer-free, then I'd accept that, too. By coming to terms with whatever God chose to bring my way, I fell asleep peacefully and slept soundly through the night.

I woke up bright and early. From 5:30 a.m. until 12:30 p.m. I waited patiently to hear from the doctor. I sat by the phone in my office expecting it to ring any minute.

When I finally received word that I was still cancer free, I wanted to dance around the room! I was so grateful and so humbled.

In His goodness, God has allowed me to remain cancer free for almost 5 years. I know so many others who've passed away during that time from breast cancer. I have no idea why God's chosen to allow me His favor, but I will gladly accept it. And I'll treasure those three little letters, N.E.D., every day from this day forward.

For those who've never experienced breast cancer, it's hard to explain what living under an umbrella of fear feels like. It's hard to be on constant guard for the most recent results from bloodwork, scans, or other tests. Sometimes, it seems like they'll never end and for most us, even if we're in a state of remission, we'll continue to be under the watchful eye of a doctor for the rest of our lives.

Cancer is a tricky disease. It can pop back up and become active at any time. Many times, a recurrence appears within a few years after the initial diagnosis and other times, it can appear decades later. But for those of us who've had our lives touched by cancer, we have to learn to continue our lives. We can't live in a state of constant fear - that's a very unhealthy place to be. So on this day, I am celebrating! Fear has no power over me!

And one thing I know for sure...God is good, all the time. He's got a plan for my life and I am choosing to walk in it. I will trust Him no matter what because I know He has numbered my days. No one can pluck me out of His MIGHTY, OMNIPOTENT hand.

Celebrate with me, won't you? N.E.D. seems such a tiny little acronym for such a big blessing but I'll take it!

The test results are in and I'm happy to report I'm currently cancer free! That's fantastic news! I am so grateful and so very blessed.

Doctors found a suspicious place on my fourth rib and another on L5 of my spine. After an ultrasound and an MRI, they determined the spot on my ribs is costochondritis and the place on my spine is due to degenerative disc disease. I also have several herniated discs and those little buggers, along with osteoarthritis, are the reason for my chronic back pain. So...I'm being sent for treatment which will include physical therapy, chiropractic care, and acupuncture.

I'm thankful for a cancer treatment center that believes in integrative health care. It's so nice to have everything under one roof. Instead of having to travel from one city to the next to receive treatment, I go to one place. It's kind of like one-stop shopping for healthcare, lol.

In July, I'll be celebrating my fourth cancerversary. Isn't that amazing??? 4 years of being cancer free! What a milestone! God is so good and I can't thank Him enough for allowing me to continue to live.

This year, I'll be focusing more on finding joy. God has impressed upon me that I need to see His goodness and the best way I can do that is to find joy in the midst of my gratitude.

There are so many things to look forward to this year! Hubby and I have already planned our calendar year and several mini-vacations are on the slate.

So life is good and we are blessed. I never want to meet up with cancer again. Hopefully, God will see fit to keep it far away from us. We trust He will!

The Purpose In Suffering

Yesterday, I was reminded of something important. Late in the day, as I was checking my emails, I received notification that someone had left a comment on one of my blog posts. I have my account set up so I can moderate comments as they come in because, in the past, I've received some pretty racy spam comments that shocked me to my core when they were posted without my knowledge.

As I read the comment the reader left, I went back to that post I'd made in October of 2014. Re-reading the post brought back a flood of memories, some good, and some not so good.

In the post, I was reminded of a lesson God had taught me. It's been almost 4 years since that original post and He's still teaching me reasons for my suffering.

You'd think, by now, my suffering would have ended. You'd think, I'd be much stronger and more healthy than I was back in 2014 after surgery and treatment, but I'm not. Daily, I'm in pain. Some days are worse than others, but there's never a day without some discomfort.

I try hard not to mention it. My husband is really the only one who sees my constant struggles. I try hard to keep my physical pain from my children and grandchildren. There's nothing they can do to help me other than pray, so why bother them with it?

When my spine screams in agony, or when my arms are swollen so tight they feel like they'll burst, I have to remember, God has allowed this into my life. I have to trust that He knows what He's doing. I have to trust He's using this for my benefit. It isn't always easy, in fact, most days it's really hard. And, I do spend a lot of time on the floor of my closet in tears crying out to Him, but I know I'm not forgotten. When I do give Him my agony and pain, He gives me His peace. And that's enough.

Tomorrow, I'll see the new oncologist. I'd be lying if I didn't say I was nervous. Although I'm coming up on my four-year cancerversary (July 9, 2018), every visit to the cancer treatment center is scary. It's always concerning when the lab results come in. I can't help wonder if my tumor marker will be up and more tests will need to be done.

I canceled the MRI I was supposed to have done last week. I'll be talking with the new oncologist about this and get his feelings before rescheduling. If he feels it will be beneficial, then I'll do it. If not, I'll wait.

This morning, as I read my Bible, I was reminded that Jesus is the Good Shepherd. I always wondered why He had to qualify Himself to those to whom He was speaking. In the Greek language, the word good is translated, "Kalos." This word describes someone who is noble, wholesome, good, and beautiful. It signifies not only that which is good inwardly—character—but also that which is attractive outwardly. It is an innate goodness. Therefore, in using the phrase “the good shepherd,” Jesus is referencing His inherent goodness, His righteousness, and His beauty. As shepherd of the sheep, He is the one who protects, guides, and nurtures His flock.

As I thought about my Shepherd, Jesus, I was reminded that I am a lowly sheep. Sheep need to be protected, guided, and cared for. That is exactly what Jesus is doing for me.

While I continue my journey through breast cancer, I can trust Him to lead me exactly where I need to go.

His purpose for my suffering is only completely known to Him but as I follow after Him, I know that every ache and pain will soon be erased one day, and that makes it bearable.

The Never-ending Fear of Recurrence

The fear of recurrence looms overhead like a brown turkey vulture on a Georgia, hot summer’s day. Swooping and diving, she circles. I can feel her, a living presence. I walk daily in her shadow. Some days the ominous darkness overwhelms me.

I never thought myself to be a fearful person. I’ve always done my best to walk by faith, not by sight, but when the oncologist scheduled a complete body bone scan three years after my initial diagnosis, doubt and worry crept in. Thoughts I’d failed to consider became reality. What if? What if cancer returned? How would I feel? What would I do? The more I thought, the closer I felt the brush of her wings. I wasn’t ready.

Do all lives touched by cancer feel this fear? At diagnosis, does that great bird of destruction perch idly on shoulders waiting for an opportune moment? Do we carry her with us for days, months and years, unseen and quiet, or am I the only one sensitive to her nearness? Am I overly sensitive?

I’d prefer not to think about recurrence, but how do I suppress truth? One solitary cancer cell. That’s all it would take. Just one. Floating carefree in my system, reveling in the precious flow of my life’s blood. And that minute cell has the power to decide when, where, and if. It seems so unfair.

Cancer was an uninvited guest. I don’t know how or when it decided to reside in my breast. It could have been there for ten years or more according to the doctor. I never felt it. I had no idea until that fateful day in the shower. As my fingers trailed over my soapy breast, the hardness of the solid mass stopped them. The discovery life altering.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to the hospital. The technician will inject a radioactive tracer into my vein. The tracer will travel through my bloodstream and into my bones. A special camera will scan my body and take pictures. Areas that absorb very little of the radioactive tracer will appear as dark spots. These places could show a lack of blood supply to my bones or could indicate a problem. They could pinpoint a recurrence of cancer. Areas of increased absorbency will show up brightly. These are called hot spots and may indicate problems such as arthritis, tumors, fractures or an infection.

At present, the fear of recurrence is circling. She floats silently on the breeze feeling the updraft beneath her wings. As she dips and dives, moving ever close, I watch. In my mind’s eye, I see her clearly. She is hideously ugly. She is ravenous. She frightens me but I can’t spend my time watching her. There are things I need to do. I have a life to live.

Take one day at a time, wise advice I received years ago from a friend who lay dying. She was stage 4, metastatic. Her frame wracked with disease, yet still, she loved. She was the epitome of brave. A young mother with four little ones. She fought valiantly, but cancer fought harder. On the day she succumbed to breast cancer, I sat by her bedside. Our friendship touched by unbearable pain and suffering, I needed to be with her. The last words she said to me before leaving this earth still echo in my mind, “Take one day at a time, Bonnie, just take one day at a time.”

If there was one word I wish I’d never learned, it would be the word cancer. But to be ignorant of the word would not negate its power. I’ve been fearful, especially this week, as the bone scan looms in front of me but as I look up, toward that dark figure in the sky, I hear the words of my sweet friend whispering in my ear, “Take one day at a time, Bonnie, just take one day at a time.” And that’s exactly what I intend to do. I can’t worry about tomorrow. Today has enough troubles of its own. One day at a time, that’s all I can handle right now and that’s enough.

Happy 3rd Cancerversary to me!

It's been 1096 days since I was first diagnosed with breast cancer. Today is my third cancerversary and it's hard to believe it's been three years since I was diagnosed with Stage IIB Invasive Ductal Carcinoma.

We celebrated early (yesterday) with family at a local Chinese restaurant over a scrumptious dinner of all kinds of Chinese favorites. There was Moo Shu Chicken, Mongolian Beef, Egg Rolls, Fried Rice, Chicken Wor Bar, Sweet and Sour Shrimp, and some other dishes. We all ate to our hearts content sharing memories and laughter. It was a good time to just relax and let our hair down. Later, we came back to the house for cake and ice cream. The cake was from Publix and had delicious cream cheese frosting and a luscious center filled with chocolate and strawberries. It more than likely had a couple of thousand calories but we didn't mind! We were celebrating and calories didn't count.

Throughout the day, I'd been emotional. It was hard not to think about all the things I'd been through over the past three years. I couldn't help but remember the surgeries and the pain. There had been many struggles and physical challenges. I'd spent 840 minutes underneath a linear accelerator being radiated. I'd been sick from radiation fatigue and had experienced radiation burns along my right chest and neck. I'd gone through physical therapy, manual lymphatic drainage, and spinal therapy. I'd traveled many miles to countless appointments. I'd spend untold amounts of time on phone calls to doctors. I'd dished out hundreds of thousands of dollars on medical bills, prescriptions, bandages and ointments. I'd had MRI'S, CT SCANS, BONE SCANS, PET SCANS, ULTRASOUNDS, CORE NEEDLE BIOPSIES, XRAYS, MAMMOGRAMS, and more. I'd given pints of blood for testing.  I'd fought with insurance companies over medical equipment. I'd cried more tears than I could ever count in a million years. I'd suffered insomnia, nausea, cording, and Lymphedema. I'd tried three different anti-hormone therapy medications and had horrible side effects from each of them and the list goes on  and on. But, along with all those challenging, heart wrenching, terrible, horrible, awful, very bad things, I'd also experienced many priceless, beautiful, unforgettable moments. And those were the ones I tried to occupy my mind with on Saturday. Those were the ones that mattered the most.

I also thought about the people who'd been there to support me over the past three years. Some family members had been there through thick and thin while others had chosen not to be there at all. I'd made friends and connections with other breast cancer survivors through Facebook and breast cancer websites. I'd had complete strangers offer their love and support. It had been amazing! I have a briefcase full of greeting cards I've received over the past few years. Each and every one speaks volumes to my heart as I read them over and over again.

Never in a million years did I dream I'd still be alive three years after being diagnosed with breast cancer. I still remember the day I heard the words, "YOU HAVE CANCER." I thought surely I'd be dead within the year, but I'm still here! God is so good and I am extremely grateful! It's been a wild, crazy, tumultuous rollercoaster of a ride and even though I'm still on it, I'm thankful the curves, twists, and hairpin turns have drastically slowed down. I keep pushing toward that miraculous 5 year mark my oncologist keeps talking about...the one that's supposed to mark the "approaching safety zone" where the fear of recurrence gets all but obliterated but it seems so far away. No matter how hard I try, I can't help but wonder if I'll ever experience another round of cancer. I surely hope not but if I do, I'll be better prepared the next time around. But I'm really, really hoping there's no next time.

So, happy cancerversary to me! I've made it one more year. For some reason, it feels like cancer was just a tiny blip on the radar and now that tiny blip has disappeared and I'm home free. I guess that's kind of what hope feels like, isn't it? And speaking of hope, if you think about it, I'm already into the first day of my fourth year being "cancer free." (I put those words in quotes because my oncologist won't declare me cancer free although I did goad him into saying I was N.E.D. (no evidence of disease) on my last visit. Isn't that great?! Life is good and I am blessed. What more could a girl ask for? (except maybe a new Porsche and some diamond earrings...)

Attitude is everything

In two weeks I'll see the oncologist again. For the past couple of years, it's been an ongoing thing. When cancer comes into your life, so do the doctors, and the nurses, and the labs...and while all these repetitive visits get to be a royal pain in the rear, they're a necessary evil. The doctors just want to keep tabs on things. They want to make sure cancer isn't trying to rear its ugly head again. And even though I'd rather not be continually poked and prodded, I know it's for my benefit so I suck it up and deal with it. I've learned it's important to keep a positive attitude.

One of the best ways I've found to stay positive is to begin each day by being thankful. I spend the first minutes of every day being grateful for all of God's blessings in my life. Gratitude helps me get things in perspective and keep them there. Attitude is everything.

It's hard to stay in a positive frame of mind when things in our lives aren't in our control but, being a person of faith, I know God uses all things for my benefit...the good and the bad, the easy and the hard. When I look at life this way, it's easier to accept the things I can't control or change. I've noticed when I focus on the positive, my day goes smoother, my load seems lighter. When I focus negatively or complain about things, every single thing seems to weigh heavily on my heart. I'd rather be happy than sad any day, so I choose to look for the silver lining in every gray cloud.

I'm hoping, when I see the oncologist on March 1, he'll tell me I don't have to come see him again for six months or even better than that, for an entire year. If I get that news, I'll be skipping out of his office with a great big grin on my face and I'll be celebrating my progress. Gotta keep believing that good things are around the corner! Hope and gratitude are my constant companions.

Piedmont hospital, my home away from home

Time to visit my old friend, Piedmont Hospital again. Today it will be for a complete head to toe bone scan. I've been having a lot of spine and hip pain lately. The oncologist wants to do some testing to make sure the cancer hasn't returned. It's funny how cancer always seems to be lurking in the shadows ready to jump out at me at any given moment. I'm always on guard and I don't like feeling that way. I wonder if other cancer patients feel the same way. It's an eerie feeling, one you can't shake.

The lead tube housing the injection

At 2:00 p.m. I went to the Nuclear Imaging Center for my injection of radioactive phosphorous fluid. The injection is housed in a lead casing to protect the workers. When the radiology tech came out with it. My eyes immediately went to the radioactive symbol. I remember seeing that same symbol on the fall out shelter signs in elementary school in the early 60s. I thought of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The images of children on the front page cover of Time magazine with their skin hanging off their bones was fresh in my memory...nuclear fall out, radiation sickness...uggghhh! Shaking my head, I made myself jump back to reality as the technician was applying the alcohol swab to cleanse my arm. I watched him as he carefully wiped my arm and let it dry for a few minutes. There on the counter beside me lay the lead tube containing the injection. It looked ominous.

The tech opened up the lead tube and readied my arm to receive the injection. A bright orange tourniquet was placed above the crease in my elbow. (I'd reminded him earlier it was important for him to only use my left arm because of the lymphedema.) I prayed he'd find the vein quickly. For some reason I'm the one with the tricky veins and usually end up being poked and prodded until a willing vein jumps up. I watched as he overshot the vein and had to draw the needle back to make contact. As he was working, he said he'd been doing this for 23 years. He was a medic in the U.S. Army. I thanked him for his service as he finally made contact. Blood leaked out of my vein onto my skin and he quickly swabbed it up and depressed the plunger on the syringe. I watched as the radioactive liquid swirled into my vein. I was instructed to leave the hospital and drink large quantities of water.

At 5:00 p.m. I returned to the hospital. I'd taken an anti anxiety pill around 4 because I knew it was going to be challenging to be in that tight space for over an hour. I hated being claustrophobic. (I'd never suffered from that in the past, only recently after having been trapped in an elevator for several hours.) When I lay down on the scanner table, the tech took a draw sheet and wrapped it over me tying up my arms tightly. I didn't like the feeling of being restrained. The tech told me it was to keep my arms in proper position for the scan. I closed my eyes and tried to relax as the heavy equipment lowered over my body. I was tempted to look but didn't want to because I knew the machinery was just an inch or two from my face. Using my imagination, I placed myself on the beach. I began listening for the shore birds and lapping water. I felt myself melting into the imagery and almost falling asleep. Before I knew it, the test was complete and the tech was raising the scanner as I moved out from under it.

I sat on the edge of the scanner bed and got my bearings. The tech asked if I had pain in my hip, leg, and foot. I wondered why he was asking this. Did he see something concerning in those areas? I had already mentioned my spine and hip pain but had not mentioned the shin and foot pain. I knew he was forbidden to share any medical information with me because the radiologist had yet to read the films. I dismissed his questions and left for home.

I'll have to wait until Monday or Tuesday for the results of the scan. I hate waiting. I'm concerned because I don't want anything to show up but then again, if there's something that needs to be addressed, I'd rather it show up now and know we can get on it right away. If cancer is evident, I'm going to have to do a lot of praying about my treatment options. I don't want to have to do chemo but I will if I have to. I'm going to rely heavily on my oncologist's opinion.

Tomorrow I celebrate 2 years of being in remission. I am excited about that. I didn't really celebrate my first year of being in remission because I was afraid to celebrate. It was too soon. But this year, I'm ready. We have a family dinner planned and then will come back to the house for dessert. I'm so thankful to still be here.

© bonnie annis all rights reserved.

I wasn't expecting this

Today I went for my three month check up with the oncologist. I arrived promptly at 9:00 a.m. I always like to arrive a little early for my appointments and since mine was at 9:30 a.m. I relaxed and read a few articles in the waiting room. While sitting there, I glanced up now and then to see other patients arrive. There were some evidently in the middle of treatment as their bald heads announced to everyone in the room. There was a woman who could barely sit in a chair because of pain she was having in her leg and another in a wheelchair, doted on by loving children. I almost felt guilty being there and feeling as good as I did but I was thankful to be in my position.

Several minutes passed and I heard my name being called. The medical assistant stood in the doorway waiting for me to join her as we sauntered down the hall toward the scale. I was smiling to myself knowing I was 5 pounds lighter without my prostheses on today. I'd weighed this morning with and without them to see exactly how much they weighed. I decided not to wear them so Dr. F wouldn't fuss at me for gaining 5 pounds. It's the small things that matter. After being weighed, I was taken to the lab for blood work. The phlebotomist and I had a nice little chat as she was trying desperately to find a good vein in my left hand. Lymphedema makes it difficult for me to have blood work done and I always have to remind the techs to use a butterfly needle and use my left hand. You'd think by now they'd have notated on my chart these specific instructions, but they don't. After talking with the tech about summer vacations, family and holiday plans, my blood had been drawn and I was about to be escorted to my exam room .

I entered the room and instantly my arms were covered in goosebumps. The room felt like a meat locker, it was so cold! The nurse began to take my vitals and I had to remind her not to put the blood pressure cuff on the upper portion of my arm, once again, you'd think they'd know this...When she was done, she left me alone in the room. As she exited, she smiled and said, "The doctor will be with you in a few minutes." I wanted to reply, "Yeah, right...like that's gonna happen!" but I didn't. I knew it would be a while before Dr. F came in. He's always late. I sat in the room for a long time and began to think I'd been forgotten. Forty five minutes later, I hear a tap at the door.

Dr. F enters and asks me how I'm feeling. I can tell by his demeanor he's behind in his schedule and he's trying to play catch up. This frustrates me and I want to tell him I've waited long enough and he can at least give me the courtesy of sitting and listening patiently while I talk, but I don't. He asks me what my main concerns are today and I hear the underlying, "Hurry up and tell me what you want me to do so I can go on to my next patient" so I comply. I tell him my main concerns are my fatigue, back and hip pain. I tell him I had an MRI done a few months ago and a PET scan and tell him the results of those tests. He excuses himself from the room and tells me he wants to go look at those tests for a minute. He's gone for a lot longer than a minute...in fact, he's gone 15 minutes. I looked at my watch, so I know. He comes back in and tells me all he could find was tests that were done last year. I explain those are the only ones I've had done but it seemed like just a few months ago because I've had so many tests and I can't keep up with all the dates. He smiles and says, "We need to do a bone scan then. I don't want to let anything slip." I wasn't expecting to hear that and thought he meant a bone density scan so I pipped up and said, "I had one of those done ten years ago." He tells me he isn't talking about a bone density scan and I get very quiet. Now I know he's looking for evidence of minute lurking cancer cells. He gives me a gown and tells me to undress. I obey and he's back in the room in a few minutes to do a mini exam. He listens to my lungs and heart, palpates my chest and underarms then he's done. He says, "I'll see you again in 3 months. If the bone scan is normal, I'll send you to an orthopedic to help get your pain under control. If not, we'll deal with that then." He tells me goodbye and walks out the door. That was that. And I'm standing there wanting a do over.

I walk up to the check out desk and the girl asks my name. I tell her and she types it into the computer. She says, "He wants you to have a complete body bone scan." I smile and say, "Yes." She gets on the phone and calls the hospital to schedule it. She listens intently as the person on the other end gives her instructions to pass on to me. I'll have to arrive at 2 p.m. next Friday and receive an injection. Then I'll return later that same day to have the scan performed. It will take about 30 minutes to an hour. Next she schedules my 3 month appointment. When we're all done, I head out of the office and to my car.

In the parking lot, I sit for a few minutes letting my air conditioner cool the car. I'm bewildered. I hadn't been expecting a bone scan. I didn't really know what I had been expecting other than to have had a chance to be heard. Is that too much to ask? I don't think so. I wish I were more aggressive sometimes. I wonder how much longer I'll be on this every 3 month schedule with the oncologist. I feel like I should be done with all this cancer stuff by now but it never seems to end.

On another note...
Sometime this week, I'll be in our local paper. I was interviewed by a news reporter the other day regarding my cancer story. I was honored to talk with her about my journey and humbled when she asked if I'd mind having my story featured on the front page. I don't want to draw attention to myself. I'm nothing special. I'm just one of the millions of women fighting the good fight, but if my story can give hope to someone out there, I'll be happy. Hopefully I'll sleep well tonight. There are no doctors visits to dread tomorrow and thankfully none on the calendar for another month. Life is good and I'm so glad to still be here. Oh, and by the way...the lumps I mentioned in my last post, he thinks they were just swollen lymph nodes, yay!

©bonnie annis all rights reserved