Monday, July 30, 2012
Avon Walk SF 2012
Here are some pics from the Avon Walk SF. Thanks to everyone's support, I raised over $4200 for breast cancer research and assistance for the uninsured and underinsured in the Bay Area. It was a challenging, wonderful experience.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Living together
For the past two weeks, I've been anxious. The fear doesn't take the overtly obvious form of panic attacks or depression; it's more of a feeling of constant soul discomfort. A nagging feeling of anxiety that reminds me of the "mean reds" from Breakfast at Tiffany's. After describing the blues as "just being sad," Holly goes on to explain pensively that the mean reds are when "suddenly you're afraid, but you don't know what you're afraid of." However, in my case, this isn't completely true. I knew exactly what I was afraid of.
Last week, I had my first MRI since beginning my cancer treatments. I think any cancer patient would agree with me that the yearly check-ups to detect if the cancer has returned are absolutely terrifying. Anyone other than a cancer patient, I've found, is confused by my terror. "Do you feel sick, is that why you're upset?" "Are you stressed because you found a lump?" The answer to both is no, but most people don't fully emotionally comprehend that the results of that test could determine whether I can live my life normally or if I have to face more treatment which, the second time around, is even more debilitating. The fear of what destructive forces could once again be hiding in my body made it increasingly more difficult to breathe.
In another one of my favorite movies, the quiet and beautiful Elegy, Penelope Cruz's character is a young woman who finds out she has breast cancer. She describes the experience of having cancer as being "trapped" inside herself. Before I heard that the lump in my breast was cancerous, I didn't fully understand that description. But after my diagnosis, "trapped" was exactly how I felt. From the second I found the lump, my relationship with my body started to change. In fact, before I found the lump, I didn't even realize that I had a relationship with my body; we were one and the same. Having cancer made me very aware that I am a separate entity from my body, but it also made me realize how inextricably trapped I am within it.
Two weeks before I found the lump in my breast, I moved from San Francisco to Walnut Creek. Mostly, this decision was made out of necessity. The commute from my apartment in the city to my school in the suburbs cost not only my time (about a fifty minutes each way) but money. Between the gas bills, wear on my car, and bridge tolls, I was spending hundreds each month to sit in traffic. As a part of this life change, I renewed a pledge to myself, one that I made a few years before but had long since taken a backseat to daily stressors. The pledge was that I would try to be the healthiest--physically, mentally, spiritually--I could be, each and every day. Ironically, only fourteen days later, I found the tumor.
My body felt like a stranger. I've been betrayed by loved ones a few times before, but the betrayal by your own body is the most basic, visceral type of pain. My reaction was one of overwhelming panic. I felt like the captain of a sinking ship. "This one's not working anymore! Get me out!" The feeling of desperately wanting to live while your body seems to be trying to kill you is one that I won't soon forget. I don't know if I believe in a soul, but a part of me--my mind, my spirit--felt completely detached from its shell. I had wild visions of this spirit jumping into another body like a hermit crab switching homes. Cancer, I believe, is a particularly hard disease to reconcile for young, seemingly healthy people because it's not a virus that invades your body and attacks your cells. It is your cells that are mutating and your immune system that can't kill them. Because of this, it feels like your body is committing suicide without seeking your opinion. Faced with the MRI, this feeling, diminished by months of feeling healthy again, came back and knocked the wind out of me.
Slowly, over the course of this past year, my attitude towards my body has evolved into a "we're in this together and better make the best of it" sentiment. In this life, we are subject not only to random accidents, contagious disease, and dumb luck affecting our health but, also, the sometimes surprisingly separate, rebellious world of our own bodies. And like any relationship, even if you treat them right, at times, they can turn against you.
During the last two weeks, I've also been packing and getting ready to move in with my boyfriend. Strangely, these two events seem to mirror each other. Both are life-changing and character-testing. Any lingering feelings of holding back, not trusting him completely because of past heartaches, must make way for the hope and risk of giving my heart and life openly and freely to this man. Just as my heart, also, has to give trust and hope back to my body.
My philosophy for both is simple. Try my best to make them happy and healthy. Always be kind and recognize what is beautifully unique about them. Trust that just as I give them the best of me, they will give me their best. And, always be grateful and feel lucky for the precious time I have with them.
In case you were wondering, the MRI was clear of any sign of malignancy--thankfully, I am still cancer-free. Whew! :)
Last week, I had my first MRI since beginning my cancer treatments. I think any cancer patient would agree with me that the yearly check-ups to detect if the cancer has returned are absolutely terrifying. Anyone other than a cancer patient, I've found, is confused by my terror. "Do you feel sick, is that why you're upset?" "Are you stressed because you found a lump?" The answer to both is no, but most people don't fully emotionally comprehend that the results of that test could determine whether I can live my life normally or if I have to face more treatment which, the second time around, is even more debilitating. The fear of what destructive forces could once again be hiding in my body made it increasingly more difficult to breathe.
In another one of my favorite movies, the quiet and beautiful Elegy, Penelope Cruz's character is a young woman who finds out she has breast cancer. She describes the experience of having cancer as being "trapped" inside herself. Before I heard that the lump in my breast was cancerous, I didn't fully understand that description. But after my diagnosis, "trapped" was exactly how I felt. From the second I found the lump, my relationship with my body started to change. In fact, before I found the lump, I didn't even realize that I had a relationship with my body; we were one and the same. Having cancer made me very aware that I am a separate entity from my body, but it also made me realize how inextricably trapped I am within it.
Two weeks before I found the lump in my breast, I moved from San Francisco to Walnut Creek. Mostly, this decision was made out of necessity. The commute from my apartment in the city to my school in the suburbs cost not only my time (about a fifty minutes each way) but money. Between the gas bills, wear on my car, and bridge tolls, I was spending hundreds each month to sit in traffic. As a part of this life change, I renewed a pledge to myself, one that I made a few years before but had long since taken a backseat to daily stressors. The pledge was that I would try to be the healthiest--physically, mentally, spiritually--I could be, each and every day. Ironically, only fourteen days later, I found the tumor.
My body felt like a stranger. I've been betrayed by loved ones a few times before, but the betrayal by your own body is the most basic, visceral type of pain. My reaction was one of overwhelming panic. I felt like the captain of a sinking ship. "This one's not working anymore! Get me out!" The feeling of desperately wanting to live while your body seems to be trying to kill you is one that I won't soon forget. I don't know if I believe in a soul, but a part of me--my mind, my spirit--felt completely detached from its shell. I had wild visions of this spirit jumping into another body like a hermit crab switching homes. Cancer, I believe, is a particularly hard disease to reconcile for young, seemingly healthy people because it's not a virus that invades your body and attacks your cells. It is your cells that are mutating and your immune system that can't kill them. Because of this, it feels like your body is committing suicide without seeking your opinion. Faced with the MRI, this feeling, diminished by months of feeling healthy again, came back and knocked the wind out of me.
Slowly, over the course of this past year, my attitude towards my body has evolved into a "we're in this together and better make the best of it" sentiment. In this life, we are subject not only to random accidents, contagious disease, and dumb luck affecting our health but, also, the sometimes surprisingly separate, rebellious world of our own bodies. And like any relationship, even if you treat them right, at times, they can turn against you.
During the last two weeks, I've also been packing and getting ready to move in with my boyfriend. Strangely, these two events seem to mirror each other. Both are life-changing and character-testing. Any lingering feelings of holding back, not trusting him completely because of past heartaches, must make way for the hope and risk of giving my heart and life openly and freely to this man. Just as my heart, also, has to give trust and hope back to my body.
My philosophy for both is simple. Try my best to make them happy and healthy. Always be kind and recognize what is beautifully unique about them. Trust that just as I give them the best of me, they will give me their best. And, always be grateful and feel lucky for the precious time I have with them.
In case you were wondering, the MRI was clear of any sign of malignancy--thankfully, I am still cancer-free. Whew! :)
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
I'm Good!
Today will go down as the first day since I was diagnosed that I could honestly answer "good" when asked how I was doing. I didn't, in fact, answer "good" because I'm so used to saying "okay" that it comes out of my mouth without me thinking about it. I actually had a moment after I answered okay when I thought, "No, wait a minute, I'm good!" And can't wait to answer great!
Monday, January 23, 2012
These boots were made for walking!
I've decided to participate in the 2012 Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in San Francisco on July 7 & 8, my birthday! Please click on the link that I've posted to access my personal fundraising page about the Avon Walk and what it means to me. I have to raise $1800 to simply participate and would love to raise more! I would greatly appreciate any donation. CancerGirl's going to walk 39.3 miles for a cure and quality care for everyone, regardless of insurance and income. Please support me! :)
http://info.avonfoundation.org/site/TR/Walk/SanFrancisco?px=6336023&pg=personal&fr_id=2173
http://info.avonfoundation.org/site/TR/Walk/SanFrancisco?px=6336023&pg=personal&fr_id=2173
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Friday, December 23, 2011
A Boob of a Different Color
When I first found out that I would need either a full or partial mastectomy (also called a lumpectomy), I went online. And this is my advice if you have breast cancer (or even if you don't) - NEVER, EVER search Google images for the phrases "mastectomy scars" and/or "breast reconstruction." Yikes! After seeing women's chests displaying giant red slash scars with no nipples, I became terrified. My surgeon, however, was amazing, and it ended up that my partial mastectomy went very well, and my breast looks very similar to how it looked before.
Six weeks later, when it came time to begin radiation therapy, I turned to Google images once again. I know, I know. But it turns out that I could only find one picture of a radiation burn on someone being treated for breast cancer. I'm not sure why that is, maybe people are just shy because the side effects from radiation aren't that pretty, but I'm a person that thinks it's helpful to see the worst so that I can prepare for it.
A few years ago, my friend went through radiation treatment and I saw his burns. His neck ended up looking bright red, something akin to a severe sunburn. But his situation and mine were different. I was told before treatment that places where the skin folds or stretches regularly are more prone to blistering and skin breaks. Also, having to wear a bra over irritated skin can cause pain.
In any case, I was curious, so I've decided to post a few pictures showing my skin while it was peeling and at its peak burn period. It's kind of gross, but it's not as horrific as I once thought it might be. Also, I wanted to show that it was manageable because of my frequent moisturizing and pleading with it. Each day for the last couple weeks, I'd apply my radiation cream and say aloud, "Please don't bleed. Please don't bleed. PLEASE don't bleed."
The first side effect that really threw me was the peeling. It doesn't peel like a sunburn; instead, the skin comes off all at once. One evening three weeks into treatment, I was rubbing moisturizer onto my chest, and when I pulled my fingers away I had a white paste of skin all over my hand. It shed copious amounts of white flakes over me and the shirt I was wearing. It was definitely scary. But it only happened a few times and didn't hurt. The burns, however, eventually did hurt and, also, in a different way than a typical sunburn. The skin on my side under my arm was the worst and that is displayed in the third picture. I once described my pain as "my side feels like it was hit with a blowtorch, the fold under my breast feels like it's covered in poison ivy, and my nipple feels like I put it in a pencil sharpener." That was only accurate for a short time, though. Also, the red in the pictures doesn't really do justice to the hot pink to bright red to dark brown colors of my changing skin. It was definitely a boob of a different color. Each day, I woke up to an altered, yet equally vivid hue. One side of me looked perfectly normal and the other bizarre. You've heard of the Batman villain Two-Face, right? Well, I was Two-Boob, his radioactive sister.
The superficial side effects end up going away slowly as the skin renews; two weeks after treatment, I still have a tan and my skin is peeling. The harder side effect is the internal pain, which may stay for a little longer or be permanent. That feels like occasional rolling shock waves through my chest, but that's manageable as well. It's chronic but not constant. My only permanent external scars will be my three little freckle-like tattoos: one in the middle of my chest and one on each side of my body (shown in the last picture). And I'm actually kind of fond of them.
Six weeks later, when it came time to begin radiation therapy, I turned to Google images once again. I know, I know. But it turns out that I could only find one picture of a radiation burn on someone being treated for breast cancer. I'm not sure why that is, maybe people are just shy because the side effects from radiation aren't that pretty, but I'm a person that thinks it's helpful to see the worst so that I can prepare for it.
A few years ago, my friend went through radiation treatment and I saw his burns. His neck ended up looking bright red, something akin to a severe sunburn. But his situation and mine were different. I was told before treatment that places where the skin folds or stretches regularly are more prone to blistering and skin breaks. Also, having to wear a bra over irritated skin can cause pain.
In any case, I was curious, so I've decided to post a few pictures showing my skin while it was peeling and at its peak burn period. It's kind of gross, but it's not as horrific as I once thought it might be. Also, I wanted to show that it was manageable because of my frequent moisturizing and pleading with it. Each day for the last couple weeks, I'd apply my radiation cream and say aloud, "Please don't bleed. Please don't bleed. PLEASE don't bleed."
The first side effect that really threw me was the peeling. It doesn't peel like a sunburn; instead, the skin comes off all at once. One evening three weeks into treatment, I was rubbing moisturizer onto my chest, and when I pulled my fingers away I had a white paste of skin all over my hand. It shed copious amounts of white flakes over me and the shirt I was wearing. It was definitely scary. But it only happened a few times and didn't hurt. The burns, however, eventually did hurt and, also, in a different way than a typical sunburn. The skin on my side under my arm was the worst and that is displayed in the third picture. I once described my pain as "my side feels like it was hit with a blowtorch, the fold under my breast feels like it's covered in poison ivy, and my nipple feels like I put it in a pencil sharpener." That was only accurate for a short time, though. Also, the red in the pictures doesn't really do justice to the hot pink to bright red to dark brown colors of my changing skin. It was definitely a boob of a different color. Each day, I woke up to an altered, yet equally vivid hue. One side of me looked perfectly normal and the other bizarre. You've heard of the Batman villain Two-Face, right? Well, I was Two-Boob, his radioactive sister.
The superficial side effects end up going away slowly as the skin renews; two weeks after treatment, I still have a tan and my skin is peeling. The harder side effect is the internal pain, which may stay for a little longer or be permanent. That feels like occasional rolling shock waves through my chest, but that's manageable as well. It's chronic but not constant. My only permanent external scars will be my three little freckle-like tattoos: one in the middle of my chest and one on each side of my body (shown in the last picture). And I'm actually kind of fond of them.
Imaging and Breast Cancer
http://news.yahoo.com/breast-cancer-patients-face-more-imaging-tests-today-140313914.html
Interesting, I read this after I had a chest x-ray this morning.
During the first couple weeks of trying to determine my diagnosis, I had an ultrasound, mammogram, and MRI. One thing that this article doesn't mention, though, is the need for patients to sometimes demand tests. My initial visit to my gynecologist ended with the nurse practitioner telling me that my lump "didn't feel like cancer" and the tests would most likely confirm that. I'm very happy I decided to push for the imaging right away instead of waiting and seeing if the lump was going to change.
Interesting, I read this after I had a chest x-ray this morning.
During the first couple weeks of trying to determine my diagnosis, I had an ultrasound, mammogram, and MRI. One thing that this article doesn't mention, though, is the need for patients to sometimes demand tests. My initial visit to my gynecologist ended with the nurse practitioner telling me that my lump "didn't feel like cancer" and the tests would most likely confirm that. I'm very happy I decided to push for the imaging right away instead of waiting and seeing if the lump was going to change.
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