The Susan Sequel

A year ago today, my morning started like thousands of other women across the country as I headed to my yearly, routine mammogram.  However, I shockingly ended the day as just another percentage: one of the 13% of women (about 1 in 8) who will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetime. Although my diagnosis wasn’t actually confirmed that day (I had to await the results of the biopsy my amazing doctor had immediately performed for me), she told me that based on her 40 years of experience, she was pretty confident that I had breast cancer. Two days later, that diagnosis was confirmed and I began, what has turned out to be, a completely surreal experience.

From that moment on, I became a professional patient, with a massive influx of doctor appointments, scans, tests and phone calls (I’ve never answered so many “unknown” phone calls in my life). I was beyond fortunate to get immediate appointments with all my requested doctors, and some, though not requested, turned out to be life savers. Without going into every tedious detail (breast cancer isn’t all that exciting), I was ultimately diagnosed with hormone receptive, early stage, invasive breast cancer. My genetic testing (Including the one for the scary BRCA gene) was negative and I became just another statistic of women who randomly get breast cancer for no reason (I do not have a family history). Originally scheduled for a lumpectomy and radiation, an MRI showed I had additional cancer cells in my right breast and I was then scheduled for a mastectomy (I elected to have a double mastectomy because I certainly wasn’t going through this again). After meeting a plastic surgeon, I opted for reconstruction at the time of the mastectomy (for the person who never cared about her boobs). On July 20th, I had my surgery and unfortunately, a small amount cancer was found in my lymph nodes and my reconstruction had to be postponed and I woke up with the dastardly breast expanders in place (imagine two boulders implanted in your chest and you’re almost there).

After a relatively “easy” recovery, and believing I was almost done with the process, my oncologist (whom I adore) decided that I would benefit chemotherapy (I was 55 and still getting my period, which is a major no-no for someone with hormone receptive breast cancer). After all that I had been through, the thought of chemo scared the bejesus out of me (I had been relatively calm until this point). But, being the professional patient that I was, I did what I was told, got fitted for my cold cap (saving my hair was a major concern for me) and started my course of chemo. Again, the thought of chemo was worse than the treatment itself and I got through the three months, saving 70% of my hair (chemo was no picnic but I was drugged appropriately to get through it). Once chemo was over, I prepared myself for radiation, only to discover that I didn’t need it (the only good news I had gotten in quite a while). Most importantly, no radiation meant that I could complete my reconstruction, which I did in January of this year (good riddance to the boulders; hello to squishy implants). Soon thereafter, I started the 2 medications that I will take for the next 2-5 years and that brings us to the present date. I am doing well and feeling good, although my hair is growing back and looking ridiculous and my eyelashes keep falling out on me (quite a sexy look). Obviously, this is a very abbreviated version of what transpired this past year, but I think you get the gist (and who needs all the gory details anyway).

You always think you know how you will react if given traumatic medical news and trust me, I did not. Although I was numb (my body’s reflexive reaction to bad news), those first six months were overwhelming. Every day brought different news and different results (cancer is a lot of hurry up and wait) and patience is definitely not one of my virtues. And, my personal feelings aside, watching my loved ones react to your illness is gut wrenching, at best (I don’t think my mother or daughter could speak for the first month or so without crying). On the flip side, I learned that I had the most supportive group of family, friends and people I didn’t even know were friends (cancer brings people out of the woodwork). I am very lucky; I have the most wonderful husband, children, family, friends and people in my life. The outpouring of support was overwhelming and I am committed to pay it forward to others in my situation. From the bottom of my heart I thank those that fed us, flowered us and gifted us with more blankets than I could possibly use in a lifetime (blankets are a very popular cancer gift, btw).

So many people asked why I didn’t blog throughout my journey, as I am quite loquacious about the mundane things in my life. Truth be told, I just didn’t want to (I know that may shock some of you). Franky, I was tired of talking about myself, tired of the sympathetic looks it engendered and tired of being the center of attention (definitely shocking). Now, a year later, my perspective has shifted and I feel able to publicly share my experience and hopefully, help anyone else in a similar situation (I wouldn’t have survived without the assistance of my fellow cancer experts who gave me such amazing guidance and encouragement). I am happy to answer questions for anyone who cares to ask or needs support.  Thanks for caring and thanks for checking on me. I am good and I am healthy. 

Please get your yearly mammograms; it will literally save your life!! #PetosaInPink