Like it or not, I have cancer

When my pathology reports came back after surgery number two, things looked good.  Here is my medical speak- Clean margins, no lymph involvement and my cancer is ER and PR positive.  ER  and PR positive means that my cancer gets its fuel from the hormones in my body.  This is a good thing because the drug Tamoxifen which blocks the body's production of estrogen, can be used to help lower the recurrence rate in cancers such as mine. 

The first visit following my surgery with Dr. Thummala she prescribed the drug and told me to start taking it straight away.  Neither Doug or I had ever heard of the drug so Doug asked her about the side effects.  Dr Thummala said something very cryptic in return along the lines of, "You believe that once you are married to someone it's forever right?"  Doug answered her, "Of course."  "Well," she said,"Tamoxifen is the only drug that your wife can take, and she needs to take it.So whatever the side effects are she will just have to put up with them.  Kind of like marriage, right?"  and then she laughed. 

When we got home I googled Tamoxifen.  I will post here some of the comments I found from women who are taking the drug:

A few weeks ago I started taking Celexia to combat anxiety and severe depression

I am feeling lots of dizziness and vertigo

WEIGHT GAIN??? Is there anyone who can succeed in losing weight on this drug.

Leg cramps!!! Wow....I've been on tamox for almost 5 months and have had mild foot cramps all along that I can stretch out to relieve.....but yesterday I had nearly debilitating cramps

Need advice on best bedding to manage night sweats! Waking up wet several times a night

Has anyone else found their hair is thinning on Tamoxifen

I've been on tamoxifen since August. Apart from the usual symptoms hot flushes, joint pains, headaches, insomnia and mood swings I've noticed rashes and dry itchy patches on my legs.

I've been on Tamoxifen for close on 3.5 years and have had chronic insomnia 

Been on Tamoxifen for a year now. After many attempts of working out at the gym and on a strict meal plan I am still struggling to lose weight especially around the middle section.

So, um, ya.  I was seriously scared to take the drug.  The list of side effects on the drug insert was as long as my arm and included all of the things mentioned in the comments above: anxiety, depression, weight gain, leg cramps, bone pain, night sweats, hot flashes, thinning hair, insomnia, mood swings, and rashes. The insert also listed more serious things like risk of possible endometrial cancer, cataracts, and pulmonary embolism.  These mild and more serious side effects are just a sampling of what's possible.  And what's more, on the message boards and in the facebook support group page many of the symptoms seem to be commonly had by many women taking the drug. 
I filled my prescription and then stared at the bottle for a few hours.  I have  a weird and irrational fear. (I mentioned it in an earlier post.) It has to do with the Tylenol and cyanide incident of 1982.  Anyhow, another little caveat, if you will, of my fear is I never take a new pill, be it prescription or otherwise , without a witness.  So I decided I couldn't start the Tamoxifen until Saturday when Doug was home.  That way if I had a strange or allergic reaction to the pill...okay, or it was poisonous, Doug would know what I had taken.  Is that the dumbest thing you ever heard?  I know it is, but it's been a very real fear of mine since 1982.  
In the days leading up to my first dose I prayed a lot.  I prayed that my side effects would be minimal.  I prayed specifically that I would not experience depression and mood swings. Okay, alright, I also prayed about the weight gain, but mostly I prayed about the depression.  Here's why.  In 2003 I had a miscarriage. I was only a few weeks pregnant and had been experiencing horrible morning sickness, and extreme mood swings during the weeks of my pregnancy.  After having the miscarriage I found myself completely depressed.   This was new to me.  I told you  my go to emotion on the negative side of the scale is anger.  Anger pumps you up.  I can do things when I'm angry. You should see how clean my kitchen can get with a little angry elbow grease. And because I can do things when I am angry I can sometimes work that anger into productivity and even better I can work that anger right out of my system.  But depression is different. It slows you down. It stops you dead in your tracks. It consumes you. So after I had that miscarriage I had my first ever experience with depression.  I wish I  had a songwriter's voice or poet's words so I could adequately describe how I felt during those few weeks.  There are few periods in my life that I would consider as difficult as those wretched weeks. I was completely despondent and unable to function.  I remember waking up each morning and for a just a second thinking, "Oh it's gone.  I 'm me again," but before the thought would take shape the dark mist would creep back in and envelop me.I didn't eat.  I didn't interact with my family.  I didn't read or write and perhaps most damaging, I didn't pray. One thing I distinctly remember from those weeks is this, my vision changed.  I mean it.  I felt like I was looking at the world through some weird lenses. It was as if  everything had gone dim.    I was lucky, though.  My sojourn into the world of depression was short lived.  
The pregnancy and miscarriage had caused a temporary imbalance of my hormones so in a few short weeks the fog lifted.  I was also blessed with an understanding husband who prayed for me morning and night.  He carried our family during those weeks and because of his creativity and diligence our kids were mostly sheltered from the ordeal.  Once I felt like myself again and returned to my routines I had the distinct impression.that I was given that trial so I would have an added measure of compassion when It came to others' struggles with depression.  Prior to my own season of sorrow I had always viewed depression as something one could will away.  I would think, "If she would just get up and get moving,"or, "She just needs to think positive thoughts," not at all comprehending the grip depression can have on an individual. 
So when I saw depression listed as one of the most common side effects of the drug I felt a great deal of trepidation. I still remember the despondency I felt during my short battle with depression and it was something I hoped to never feel again. 

Back to me staring at the bottle.  I realized not taking Tamoxifen was not an option because like it or not, I have cancer. This drug  greatly reduces the risk of  recurrence in women with ER (estrogen) positive breast cancer.  I had to take this drug and live with the side effects,whatever they might be.  I told myself if the dreadful and dreary mist of depression crept back into my life I would be prepared to address it as best I could.  In Elder Holland's "Like a Broken Vessel," he reminds us:

Above all, never lose faith in your Father in Heaven, who loves you more than you can comprehend. … Never, ever doubt that, and never harden your heart. Faithfully pursue the time-tested devotional practices that bring the Spirit of the Lord into your life. Seek the counsel of those who hold keys for your spiritual well-being. Ask for and cherish priesthood blessings. Take the sacrament every week, and hold fast to the perfecting promises of the Atonement of Jesus Christ Believe in miracles. … Hope is never lost. 

With that counsel in mind and my wonderful husband by my side I swallowed my first dose of Tamoxifen.  That was over a month ago.  

Exactly one month after Dr. Thummala gave me the prescription I found myself back in her office.  "How are you doing with the Tamoxifen?" she asked.  "So far, so good," was my simple reply.  I was grateful when she shared with me that most who experience the more dreaded side effects start to feel them shortly after they begin taking the drug. "I'm in the clear then?" I  inquired. "Seems you are," came her response.

So here I am, almost two months in, and I'm still feeling fine.  I am grateful for this drug that is lowering my chance of a recurrence.   I'm also grateful for the small experience I had with depression that gave me a better understanding of the disease, but am immensely grateful I am not experiencing that dark side effect of this drug. 

Wheelchairs and Fresh Air

Doug's birthday cake

After the first surgery my little nursemaids were really pushing the pain meds on me.  To be fair, I talk a lot and it was probably the easiest way to keep my quiet while we watched movies and previously recorded TV shows.  So, for about three or four days I just sat on the couch, half in, half out of it.  On day three Dr. President came to visit and I asked him if I could quit the pain meds.  "Of course," he said somewhat surprised by me asking.  You see I didn't realize I didn't have to take them.  I could have been off them the first day home and on to ibuprofen but when Doug and the nursemaids (and I) read the bottle -Take every four hours- we thought it was a mandate not a suggestion.  That shows you how little we know about pain medication!  Anyhow, after I stopped the pain medication I felt like a whole new person!  On day four I was up and about. I started baking like it was Christmas. I made bread, cakes, cookies, custards.  I just couldn't stop myself.  Doug's birthday rolled around and I made him a giant Boston Cream Pie.  I sent pictures of it to my brothers because growing up this cake was always their favorite. I organized cabinets and drawers.  I read my scriptures and other good books. Friends dropped by often.  I watched the Food Network.  (Okay. I watched A LOT of  Food Network.) I called old friends and had lunch with others. I worked tirelessly on a now close to four hundred page family history/cookbook. I ate Cafe Rio with Dee. I went to church every week that I was able. I went to the temple. I made our family Christmas card and did crafts. Millie and Bret came to visit. We went out for sushi. Millie and I got our nails done.  Nothing extravagant, but these little things brought me so much joy.

My kids sending love from Salt Lake

I realized something during this time.  I love my little life.  I mean I have always known that I have a great life, but again, a cancer diagnosis makes you really reflect. Simple things, I discovered, bring me a lot of happiness. I am so grateful for this.   Being in my home, cooking, cleaning, organizing, doing projects,talking with friends,  reading and writing all bring me immense joy.  On top of the things I love to do, I have the greatest little brood.  I mean really, who gets as lucky as Doug and I did when they blend families?  Our kids are happy.  They are productive and are living good honest lives that we hoped they would live.  While I have been sick they look for opportunities to get together and then knowing it will make me happy, they send me photos of their gatherings.  We also have extended family members that care and are engaged in our lives. We have friends, wonderful friends, that are more like family.  I have girlfriends that are my surrogate sisters, making up for the biological sisters I never had. We have a ward that is closely bonded, having raised up our kids together, and a new stake full of old and new friends who love the Lord as we do.   I have a job I love and friends at work that are kind and good.  We have a neighborhood filled with friends who look out for each other and I even have my brother's family living right across the street.  So although that surgery was tough,  in the weeks that followed I definitely considered that I might be the luckiest girl alive!

The skin graft donor site.  OUCH!

Surgery two came and this time, healing took a bit longer.  I think my body was like, "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hang on a minute.  I'm not quite done healing from number one and now this?"  The second surgery involved a bit more pain.  Not the mastectomy, really, it was the skin graft.  Skin grafts hurt folks.  Years ago when our friend's daughter was almost killed in a head on collision I got my first look at skin grafts.  This tough as nails little gal endured many of them during her months in the hospital. Her little body had been devastated with broken bones, injured organs and many other wounds some of which required grafts. So when Dr. President first told me I would need a graft, I remembered those Wednesdays that I would sit by her bed in the hospital reading her books to pass the time.  I remembered the sound of her wound vac and the excruciating pain she felt each time she moved if her donor site was disturbed.  Dr. President told me it was going to hurt.  He said it would feel like I fell of my bike and skinned my knee really bad..  He was right it felt like I fell of my bike, several times... landing on the same spot...over and over again. That first week I struggled to move around, I had a hard time getting comfortable on the big couch so watching the Food network and reading were a little bit more difficult for me.  The wound vac pumping making it's annoying noises on one side of me and a drain sewn into my chest on the other side kept me pretty sedentary.  Like and angel, Doug emptied that disgusting drain each morning and night measuring what was there to report to Dr. President.  My nursemaids were back taking care of me each day and yet still, I felt lousy.  Those first few days were hard. Being unable to enjoy the simple things that make me happy was very difficult.  I  made an effort to reflect  more on  all that I have been blessed with in my life.  Isn't it curious that we sometimes need a dire event to help us appreciate the  lives that we are blessed to live? Sitting on my bed one night I poured my heart out in prayer to my Father in Heaven thanking Him for all I have been given and begging His forgiveness for the times I have been less than grateful for my many blessings.   Years ago my sweet friend Gloria  shared with me about a night during which she could not sleep.  At the time she and her husband were caring for some of their grandchildren and life was hectic and unpredictable for them.  She told me that during this sleepless night she knelt and prayed, but instead of asking Father in Heaven for his help she thanked him for all the blessings in her life.  She prayed all night long and as the familiar hymn suggests, "...counting her blessings naming them one by one."  I got out of bed, adjusting my tubes and vacs, and knelt.  I tried to do the same as Gloria had done and realized I would need weeks, no months to name all the things with which I have been blessed. I could take an entire twenty four hour period and barely scratch the surface of all that Doug does to bless my life.  I prayed most of the night crawling back into bed not because I had run out of things to be grateful for, but because I was falling asleep.
I found a talk given by President Monson in the October 2010 conference.  In it he recounts the story of a Canadian boy named Gordon who learned much about gratitude..

Gordon tells how he grew up on a farm in Canada, where he and his siblings had to hurry home from school while the other children played ball and went swimming. Their father, however, had the capacity to help them understand that their work amounted to something. This was especially true after harvesttime when the family celebrated Thanksgiving, for on that day their father gave them a great gift. He took an inventory of everything they had.On Thanksgiving morning he would take them to the cellar with its barrels of apples, bins of beets, carrots packed in sand, and mountains of sacked potatoes as well as peas, corn, string beans, jellies, strawberries, and other preserves which filled their shelves. He had the children count everything carefully. Then they went out to the barn and figured how many tons of hay there were and how many bushels of grain in the granary. They counted the cows, pigs, chickens, turkeys, and geese. Their father said he wanted to see how they stood, but they knew he really wanted them to realize on that feast day how richly God had blessed them and had smiled upon all their hours of work. Finally, when they sat down to the feast their mother had prepared, the blessings were something they felt.Gordon indicated, however, that the Thanksgiving he remembered most thankfully was the year they seemed to have nothing for which to be grateful.The year started off well: they had leftover hay, lots of seed, four litters of pigs, and their father had a little money set aside so that someday he could afford to buy a hay loader—a wonderful machine most farmers just dreamed of owning. It was also the year that electricity came to their town—although not to them because they couldn’t afford it.One night when Gordon’s mother was doing her big wash, his father stepped in and took his turn over the washboard and asked his wife to rest and do her knitting. He said, “You spend more time doing the wash than sleeping. Do you think we should break down and get electricity?” Although elated at the prospect, she shed a tear or two as she thought of the hay loader that wouldn’t be bought.So the electrical line went up their lane that year. Although it was nothing fancy, they acquired a washing machine that worked all day by itself and brilliant lightbulbs that dangled from each ceiling. There were no more lamps to fill with oil, no more wicks to cut, no more sooty chimneys to wash. The lamps went quietly off to the attic.The coming of electricity to their farm was almost the last good thing that happened to them that year. Just as their crops were starting to come through the ground, the rains started. When the water finally receded, there wasn’t a plant left anywhere. They planted again, but more rains beat the crops into the earth. Their potatoes rotted in the mud. They sold a couple of cows and all the pigs and other livestock they had intended to keep, getting very low prices for them because everybody else had to do the same thing. All they harvested that year was a patch of turnips which had somehow weathered the storms.Then it was Thanksgiving again. Their mother said, “Maybe we’d better forget it this year. We haven’t even got a goose left.”On Thanksgiving morning, however, Gordon’s father showed up with a jackrabbit and asked his wife to cook it. Grudgingly she started the job, indicating it would take a long time to cook that tough old thing. When it was finally on the table with some of the turnips that had survived, the children refused to eat. Gordon’s mother cried, and then his father did a strange thing. He went up to the attic, got an oil lamp, took it back to the table, and lighted it. He told the children to turn out the electric lights. When there was only the lamp again, they could hardly believe that it had been that dark before. They wondered how they had ever seen anything without the bright lights made possible by electricity.The food was blessed, and everyone ate. When dinner was over, they all sat quietly. Wrote Gordon:“In the humble dimness of the old lamp we were beginning to see clearly again. …“It was a lovely meal. The jack rabbit tasted like turkey and the turnips were the mildest we could recall. …“… Our home …, for all its want, was so rich to us.”

A few days after surgery two Dee showed up at the house.  Well, wait, let me clarify. Dee came over every day, but on this day she said, Let's go for a walk.  When I think of all of the simple blessings in my life I count nightly walks with Dee as one of the choicest.  We have been doing laps together in our little neighborhood  for so long.  Our girls used to accompany us on these long walks.  Now all but Emilee, her youngest have grown and gone. When the girls come home to visit they join us as we amble around the neighborhood, meeting up at Narnia (our designated lamp post). Sometimes Todd and Doug join us, but mostly it's a girl thing.  Basically we solve all the world's problems and unravel the secrets of the universe.  For instance, did you know if you drink cold water you will get cold?(Only the Moody girls and the Mecham girls are laughing at that inside joke, I know.  Sorry, I couldn't resist) Anyhow, on this day, I was thinking how I would love to walk with her but figured with all my tubes and drains I would have to walk at a snail's pace. Not so.  Dee had dug an old wheelchair out of her attic and cleaned it up, fashioning straps for my feet where the foot rests were missing.
Since I was already grateful for Dee and her friendship  I added old wheelchairs and fresh air to the growing list of things for which I am grateful.

Wheelchairs and Fresh Air

The Ugly Truth

Like I mentioned in an earlier  post, I am a strange type of hypochondriac. I can be all consumed by my illnesses yet I avoid medical attention at all costs.  I just want things to go away on their own and, for all of my life up until now, it's worked out pretty well.
The biopsy of the left breast was scheduled for the last Monday of summer vacation. By that time, the giant lump had grown to the point where I felt sure it was going to grow right out of my body. The wonderful technician and doctor worked quickly. I mentioned before it was an easy job for the doctor. It wasn't like he would miss the lump with his little flesh chomping gun, it was literally as big as my fist. Three very loud clicks later he was done.  Again the words, encapsulated and well defined were used in describing the now orange sized lump.  Doug was in Provo at BYU moving Bret into his first college apartment so after the biopsy I came home to an empty house.  I was told no lifting for twentyfour hours and to take it easy all day. I did the best I could.  It isn't in my nature to sit around so I worked on painting a coffee table and end table for the remainder of the morning.  School started in just two days so I had about 5,000 things I wanted to  get done.   A classroom to set up, lesson plans to attend to and a host of new programs and technology that I needed to digest.   That afternoon I went down to the school and promised myself I would just do work at my desk. I remember walking down the hall with my arms folded discreetly over my chest so I could hold on to the massive lump to stop the pain.   My thoughts were occupied as I reflected on the many things I had to do during the next three or four weeks.  I had the new school year of course and on top of my young students' classes I was slated to start teaching a graduate literacy course the following week. I was also enlisted to present at our stake's women's conference the second Saturday of the month. On top of that I had a Primary Teacher Appreciation coming up  and 11 year old scout camp was just around the corner.  Although my nest is empty September looked to be jam packed with commitments.  Planning for the weeks ahead kept me from focusing all my energy on the lump.  Besides, I had convinced myself,  It was a fibroadenoma, or possibly this other phyllodes thing (that are almost always benign by the way) so it was all good.
When the call came on Thursday and I was told I had, whisper it, cancer, a funny thing happened.  I knew instinctively that no good would come from my google searches at this point.  Somehow the reality of the diagnosis told me it was time for me to focus on the guidance and advice of the professionals.  You would think a hypochondriac like me would have sat at my monitor all night googling those forbidding words; malignant, spindle-celled neoplasm, but I didn't.  I knew I was out of my league so I just avoided the web searches.  I had read everything I could find about phyllodes tumors prior to the diagnosis and hoped with all I could hope that this thing, this interloper, this intruder, this aggressive, whisper it, cancer, would turn out to be one of those rare phyllodes tumors and not some far worse form of the dread disease.
About six weeks after D day I decided to dip my toes in the pool so to speak. I went online and deliberately searched for breast cancer. You can imagine the thousands of results that search returned. I looked over a few of the sites, hopping back and forth between  breastcancer.org, dana-farber.org and mayoclinic.org. I settled in on dana-farber.org.  I'm a Boston girl and somehow knowing the Dana Farber Cancer Institute is in Beantown  gave me comfort.  Besides my old high school pal Anne who is just finishing up her treatments for breast cancer was cared for at the DFCI and had nothing but wonderful things to say about the hospital.   She was diagnosed in 2015 and went through a mastectomy, chemo, radiation and most recently, reconstruction.  I haven't seen Anne in over 20 years, maybe close to 30.  I still picture her as a seventeen year old girl, not a woman, who like me is battling with this horrible disease.  Anne has been a huge source of strength and information for me.  She is, for lack of a better term, ahead of me, in all of this.  So talking with her about what I should expect has been informative, helpful,and extremely hopeful .
So what did I find in my research?  Cancer is gross.  Cancer is a cruel, ugly diseases that picks on the old and young alike.  Breast cancer it seems finds a place for itself in one out of eight women in the United States.  Welcome to the club to which nobody wants membership. I still avoided looking at survival rates or stats on recurrences.  I'm just not there yet and quite frankly don't think I will ever get there.  Knowing that information won't help me in any way. In fact, I steered clear of anything that felt negative to me. I studied my pathology reports and with the help of the breastcancer.org's guide made sense of every foreign term I found there.  I researched Tamoxifen, the drug I would be taking for the next five years.  I learned about its effectiveness and its side effects.  I researched radiation, and its effects on the body as well as  different courses of chemotherapy.  Although I have been told chemo is unlikely, it's still a possibility so I wanted to know more about it.  I looked into support groups (Vegas is significantly  lacking) and found some online communities which offered lots of information.  I further studied nutritional changes I wanted to make and other lifestyle changes that could help me as I go forward.
As I educated myself I felt myself becoming stronger, more powerful. Faith in the blessings I had received increased with this added knowledge.  Since the surgeries which removed the damaging tumors I have not known what to say about myself in regards to my cancer status.  Am I cancer free?  Am I a cancer patient?  Am I already a survivor? I mean  the cancer is gone, right? Dr. President made darn sure of that. But somehow saying , "Oh ya, remember those three weeks or so when I had cancer," doesn't seem logical, or even possible.  Dr. President warned me that for months, maybe years, heck possibly forever, I would think every little ailment was cancer.  Considering my place in the Hypochondriac's Hall of Fame I was pretty sure he was right. Still, armed with this knowledge (in addition to my faith), I have been able to fight victoriously in what is probably the most difficult battle when it comes to a cancer diagnosis.  The battle with fear.  I once heard faith and fear can't exist together.  I'm not entirely sure that is true.  Throughout my illness I have had tremendous faith-faith in God, faith in His plan, faith in the Atonement of Christ, faith in prayer and faith in many other principles, but I have still felt fear on many occasions.  We often talk about our relationship with the Father and Jesus Christ and use phrases like, "We do our part and Christ makes up the rest."  I think maybe the formula to overcome fear is knowledge plus faith.  We do our part, which is to gain  knowledge and add that to the faith we have.  This in turn causes that  very faith to grow.  For me, this combination has been unbeatable.

Shark BItes

The phyllodes tumor was really big.  Eight centimeters by the time they removed it.  Because it was so big and I was so small (in the mammary department anyhow) Dr. President felt sure he would not be able to close me up after removing the mass.  Not only that he was pretty sure in order to remove the tumor and ensure clean margins he would also have to remove part of my left pectoral muscle. He told me he would be using a surgical material called Integra to serve as a temporary skin of sorts until a skin graft from my leg could be performed during a later surgery. Integra is made of shark cartilage. (From the time we heard that forward we have referred to the scar left behind as the shark bite.)   When he told me all of this in his office on August 26 I was not so much concerned with these particulars regarding the surgery as I was about the malignant, spindle-celled neoplasm  that was growing rapidly in my chest.  

It’s heartbreaking to me how much emphasis is placed on the physical nature of  a woman’s body.  When I was young, like so many girls,  I really struggled with body image.  I compared myself to the shapely women in magazines and movies and always came up short.  I remember in junior high when many girls started to develop and I stayed miserably flat chested,  I asked my mom about it.  “When will my boobs grow?”  My mom was a little pear shaped elf.  “Five foot one and three quarters,” she would proudly rattle off when asked her height.  She had plenty of fluff in her bottom, hips and thighs but was small like a child through her shoulders and chest. She laughed and  said, “Oh honey, I’m still waiting for my chest to fill out.”  Fast forward to me as an adult.  At 48 I too was still waiting for my chest to fill out.  Like my mom, I’m small and  carry all my extra pounds in my behind, hips and thighs.  I would like to tell you I loved my body prior to the surgery, but I didn’t.  I beat myself up every day like so many woman.. I am not terribly unfit. In fact I go on workout binges every year.  I go to the gym pretty much every day of summer break but when  the school year takes shape, I find myself to be more and more busy, less and less motivated and make fewer and fewer trips there.  Still I’m not a sedentary person. I walk a lot, am not afraid of hard work and basically just have a lot of energy so I'm constantly moving. When I was in my thirties I contemplated getting breast augmentation.  I wasn’t too serious about it. It was expensive and as much as I wanted a bigger bust one day, I enjoyed the how thin my small chest and tiny torso made me look the next.  I bought hundreds of bras that afforded me enhanced bust lines.  I had padded bras,  push up bras, gel bras, water bras.  You name it, I had it.  Inevitably, I would wear these, “big boob bras” as Doug called them, for a week, maybe two and revert back to my regular Maidenform T Shirt bra. I know lots of women who’ve had breast augmentation. Some are happy they did it, some are not.  It seems to me those that were content in their life to begin with remained happy after surgery and those who thought a giant set of boobs was going to somehow make them a new person ended up sorely disappointed.

After that first surgery I woke up with my left breast covered in gauze and tape.  Dr. President was the first to change that dressing while Doug and possibly Kristie and Dee looked on.  For the next few days Doug, Kristie, Dee and Gloria Patterson would be my personal home health care team.  The wound needed to be packed twice a day and kept moist with a chlorine solution.  They would also encourage me to do my “exercises.”   Dr. President told me that I should raise my left arm into the air as often as I could.  He said I should enlist a door frame or a wall to be sure my arm was being raised straight above my head so that once healed I would have full range of motion. You guys, it hurt.  It was hard. I felt like I was pulling against a giant rubber band that had little or no give. Who would have ever thought lifting your arm, raising your hand so to speak, could be so difficult.  I spent a lot of time those first few days, fingers creeping up the door jamb in my bathroom, thinking how so very often we take our bodies for granted. On that Sunday morning, the day after surgery, when Dr. President changed the dressing.  I took a quick peek when he removed the bandages.  There, in the spot where my breast should have been was a sort of hole in my body, football shaped, red and moist. I quickly looked away and would not permit myself to cry.   I was alive.  How dare I be so vain.  I was done nursing, I would never have more children.    “This was so unimportant,” I told myself.  Still I felt like a freak.  In the weeks and months that followed a friend made mention to me that, “I was lucky because I had a small chest to begin with so it wasn’t as noticeable.” This  well meaning friend didn't mean to insinuate that the loss of a small breast is less painful or less emotionally difficult  than losing a large breast.  I’m absolutely certain it was not her intention, but I find it remarkable that even the best of us, in some small way buy into society’s emphasis on appearance; that my "luck" was somehow connected to my how I would look.

In the days that followed that first glance downward I avoided looking at my chest completely.  When Doug or any of my angels packed and bandaged my wound I deliberately turned my head so I wouldn’t even see the littlest bit of the shark bite.   Doug was wonderful throughout this time.  Each day he tenderly packed the wound and did his best to talk about how good things looked. “It’s healing really well,” he would remark as he taped me up.  Let’s be honest, there was certainly an element of loss for him but if it bothered him, he never let it show. Instead he remained cheerful and optimistic at every pass. After a few weeks I went into our room alone and removed all the bandages. Before I turned to face the mirror I bowed my head and said a little prayer.  “Please, help me to be strong.”  I turned to face the  mirror and looked at what was left of me. I cried briefly as I stared at the healing wound. Recently I read an address given by Stephanie Nielson who, as a young mom, survived a plane crash that left more than 80% of her body burned.  In it she said,  “I had been taught--and thoroughly believed in--my infinite worth as a daughter of God. I knew my value as a person transcended my looks, but that belief was being tested as I looked at my disfigured reflection in the mirror.”  I also believe in our eternal worth but like Stephanie at that moment it was hard for me to see past what was in front of me.  As I stood there wiping a few tears from my cheeks I had a powerful thought that chased away my self pity.  I thought,  “Here I am. “Here I am, living.”

In her address Stephanie talks about a meeting she had with Elder Holland.  He told her, "We look for Christ's scars because they are evidence of what He did for us. They'll be the first things He shows us when we see Him again. Your scars tell a story too. They might not make you feel attractive, but they are a witness of a miracle: that God blessed you to live and that you have accomplished very difficult things." 

 I guess that is what I can always remember.  God has abundantly blessed me in this time of sorrow.  These scars I have, while not attractive, do tell a story.  They tell my story.  The one to which I agreed.The one I understood before coming to this earth. The story that keeps producing more and more tiny miracles each and every day. 

He Who Must Not Be Named

“Cancer,”  the solemn answer so often whispered when asked about a person’s devastating illness or untimely passing.

When you say the word cancer, do you kind of whisper it? I do.  I wish I could remember the movie in which the characters talk about this. How it’s too scary to say out loud.  I’m guessing it isn’t just me and the characters in that film who feel this way.  
In the first Harry Potter book we learn along with Harry about He Who Must Not be Named.   I suppose like the characters in the series we fear that if we say it aloud we will somehow be invoking doom upon ourselves.  In the first book Dumbledore encourages Harry to use Voldermort's name. "Call him Voldermort Harry... Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."   Maybe it's like that with cancer. 

When I was a kid, we never went to the doctor.  Basically at my house if you were seeing a doctor your were either in the ER with a fishhook in your eyelid or you were being admitted to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy, so I'm not really sure how I became so medically motivated.  Let me explain. I'm pretty much the biggest hypochondriac you have ever met. I've never been a run to doctor kind of hypochondriac, instead I am a Web MD kind of hypochondriac.  Prior to the web, I would actually go to the library and look up my symptoms in giant volumes of medical conditions. I'm not kidding.  I would stand there between the stacks sure my liver was about to quit  or I was about to experience a stroke.  I have completely convinced myself on numerous occasions that death was close at hand. Liver cancer has always been one of my biggest fears and the threat of pancreatic cancer has gripped me. Brain aneurysms also make my list of likely ailments and one of my most far out fears is death by poisoning.  When I was a junior high aged kid some jerk in Chicago put poison in Tylenol bottles -  cyanide I believe.  I have never gotten over that.  I struggle, really struggle, with taking the first capsule out of a bottle. For many years my twitching eye and tingling hands had me convinced I was developing MS. I know it may sound like I am being facetious, but I swear I have spent hours agonizing over real and imagined symptoms. I always stop short of seeing a doctor though.  Not because I think my symptoms aren't real, but because I am too afraid to say it aloud.  I'm too afraid to have a doctor confirm my suspicions.  I'm too afraid to know the truth. "What if I am dying?"  I would rather not know. Still, I drive myself and those closest too me crazy as I fret and fixate on these conditions. Over time my symptoms will subside and for a while I will be free of  fear. Sadly, thoughts and new symptoms  will creep in and consume me and I will be back online. Have you ever seen that meme that says, "A worried mother does better research than the FBI." I completely agree with that one by the way, and along those same lines I would say, "A hypochondriac does more thorough research than a medical fellow." That's why when the lump in my left breast first formed and then began to grow quickly I googled extensively.  I was sure I had a fluid filled cyst in my breast.  In my initial research I found caffeine consumption was  thought to contribute to the  development of such cysts.  This gal ran on diet coke for about 15 years so of course that's what is was. Since it is something that has to be taken care of, and won't just go away, I actually went to the doctor.  My doctor's nurse practitioner thought I might be right and I left that first appointment thinking I was in the clear.  This little cyst will be taken care of in no time.  She sent me to have an ultrasound to confirm our findings.  I made the appointment for about a week later.  That lump was growing so fast.  I swear it had doubled in size by the time I got  the ultrasound, but it was a cyst and I was still drinking diet coke so... After the ultrasound I returned to my doctor's office and saw the nurse again. About another week had passed and that old lump had continued to grow. "It's not a cyst, it's a mass.  You need a diagnostic mammogram." Words like well defined and encapsulated entered the dialogue.  I made mental note of these words for my google research that night.  I called Steinberg to schedule the appointment and their first available slot was mid September- a lifetime away. I grumbled about  our crummy new insurance plan and the close to a month wait  but set the appointment.  Armed with new information I sat down to google.  Using my new arsenal of terms I quickly diagnosed myself with a fibroadenoma.  For the next day or so I was content with my research but the lump seemed to be getting bigger each hour.  There was no way I could wait a few weeks to have that mammogram. I called my doctor's office to ask if there was any way they could expedite the process.  They told me my insurance wouldn't approve a stat order so I would have to wait.  I called my pal Carol.  She is my darling friend who works at West Valley Imaging. Before a massive overhaul to our health plan we were able to have diagnostic tests done at their location.  I asked her how much it would be to do a test there with her. It wasn't cheap but both Doug and I agreed waiting was not an option.  I really felt like I needed some answers.  Carol worked her magic and I was able to see her the next business day at 8:00 AM.  I spent the entire night on the computer.  My google searches had gotten more specific.  I added rapidly growing, painful and disfiguring to the my previous searches.  The night before I went to see Carol I had my first encounter with the phyllodes right there in my kitchen. I showed Doug what I had found and announced, "This is what I have."
The next day after the usual hugs and chatter, I stood shirtless in Carol's relaxing exam room.  I told her about all of my research and asked her if she knew anything about phyllodes tumors.  She said she knew very little about them. I wasn't surprised.  My research told me they were very rare. When the exam was done Carol sent me on my way. She is always encouraging and hopeful.  She too used the terms, encapsulated and well defined  but I could see a little look of concern on her face that day as she told me I would need a biopsy to get any conclusive results. "I'll be praying for you," she said as I left her that day.   This just got real.  
Driving home that day I allowed myself to think the thought I knew would consume my hypochondriac self from this point forward, "Do I have cancer?"

I didn't know what to do

Suzie  and I plotting the nuptials of my daughter Millie and her son Seth.

 I mentioned Suzie in an earlier post or two.  Suzie was there with me on D day when I got the phone call.  We were working late preparing for the school year.  Earlier that day we had run to Hobby Lobby during our lunch time to get some plastic beads for a first day of school activity. While at Hobby Lobby we looked at all of the Fall decor.  I shared with Suzie how I hate when country decor is smiley.  Meaning chickens and cows, leaves and pumpkins.  I hate when they have cartoon smiles. It seemed like everything at Hobby Lobby from cornucopias, to scarecrows had these big goofy cartoon faces and big silly grins.  We had a good chuckle about it and then we saw a primitive sign that caught both our eyes.  It said, Thank you for the food before us the friends and family beside us and the love between us.  We both loved it.

Later that night after the phone call at work,  amidst much uncertainty and confusion, Suzie and her husband Brent stopped by.  She had the sign. She said, “I didn’t know what to do.” Tears, laughter, more tears.  Suzie said she didn’t know what to do, but that statement is completely inaccurate.  Not only has Suzie known what to do, she’s done it. The entire time I was out of work, Suzie made sure my sub had everything he needed to be successful.  Since my return she has basically let me ride her coattails as far as the school thing is concerned.  To be honest, I ride on those coattails a lot, cancer or no cancer.

 Suzie and I first became close when I found out that she wanted a part time job with the school district.  At the time I was working as a part time grant writer and facilitator. The program we intended to implement with the funds from the grant provided the school at which I worked with three part time learning strategists.  I knew Suzie then (She was there on my first date with Doug, in fact.) but mostly I knew of her.  I knew she was a great leader and teacher and I knew her three children were wonderful kids.  I talked to my boss who gave me the go-ahead to call her in. I gave Suzie, and our other dear friend Jori, a call. For the next year the three of us worked together implementing the grant  and writing a subsequent grant which kept us in our positions going forward. Our office was a crowded, lively spot in which we worked diligently to attain and provide resources for the students at our school. On many occasions we laughed so hard that the three of us would have tears rolling down our cheeks.  It was a good time in my life. Because my hours were flexible and part time, I was able to be home with my family when they headed out to school and I was there when they got home.  At around that time our husbands also became friendly.  Doug gives Suzie’s husband Brent all the credit for his love of sushi, when in fact I think Joey and I are at least partially responsible. Whatever the case, the Mechams and the Hinrichsens forged a friendship that has grown stronger with each passing year.  Suzie is an example to me in many ways.   She is a great mother and a wonderful wife. She really has built something special within the walls of her home. Do you have people that you watch and try to pattern yourself after?  I do.  In fact, there are several couples to whom Doug and I have paid particular attention over the years.  We watch how they operate as a couple and as parents.  It’s a pretty smart thing to do really.  If I wanted to be a great musician I would try to learn from those who had achieved success.  Getting marriage advice from a thrice divorced pop psychologist who published the latest best seller is probably not as helpful as looking to those around you who have achieved success in their family.  Doug and I have learned a lot from watching other couples and Suzie and Brent are one of the couples we have long admired.  Suzie is also a very hard worker.  I wish all of you readers knew all of my friends because if you did you would understand the following statement- I put Suzie in the same camp as Darla and Kristie.  For those of you who know, you understand what I mean. For those of you who don’t know it is sufficient to say Suzie’s work ethic is up there with the best of them. Perhaps though what most impresses me about my friend is that she recognizes opportunities to serve.  More, she recognizes the need to act on those opportunities.  I found a wonderful talk by President Monson.  In it he says: 

Our opportunities to give of ourselves are indeed limitless, but they are also perishable. There are hearts to gladden. There are kind words to say. There are gifts to be given. There are deeds to be done. There are souls to be saved.

When our friend Cynthia showed an interest in the gospel I was there to do what I do best, TALK.  I’m that kind of gal.  I have no problem approaching people and sharing my testimony, but I lack what you would call follow through.  Suzie was the one who took the time to involve the missionaries, Cynthia’s ward members, and was the one who had the discussions in her home over dinner.  When Cynthia was baptized many people approached me and said , “Wow, great missionary work you did there.” I smiled and nodded but I knew the real missionary was Suzie.  

In that same talk, President Monson refers to the hymn, Have I Done Any Good in the World Today. The hymn teaches:

There are chances for work all around just now,

Opportunities right in our way.

Do not let them pass by, saying, “Sometime I’ll try,”

But go and do something today.

I guess that is what most impresses me most about Suzie.  When there is a opportunity to do good in front of her, she always takes it. 

I don’t know what I would do without her.

Surgery- Take Two

Dee and I talked shortly after I left Dr. President that Friday afternoon. She has been my sounding board through all of this.  She shared with me that after the PET Scan she felt strongly that I had an additional cancer.  At the start of all this, when Todd, Dee, Doug and I sat huddled up in our living room talking during that first long night, Doug shared with us that he felt my road may be long.  After the phyllodes was removed we assured ourselves that the skin graft and subsequent reconstructive surgeries must be the long road of which he spoke.  None of expected another entirely different cancer to be discovered in my other breast.  I sort of feel like I need to thank that crazy, fast growing, malignant spindle celled neoplasm. That giant tumor was the catalyst which led us to discover this other, menacing growth.  I have to be honest, I'm not much for mammograms. Okay, I'm ashamed to admit it but I had only had one prior to this ordeal.  Reflecting on that makes me realize had I not had the insta-tumor it may have been a year or more before I had a mammogram. Scary stuff right?
So about this second surgery, you would think I would be a pro, right?  Wrong! This time I was about a bazillion times more nervous than I was during the first go round. I'm guessing it's because this time I wasn't in shock.  Looking back at round one I recognize I was in some sort of shock for the first few days.  I'm not sure what shock does to, or for a person but I feel like it served as a sort of protective shell for me.  This time I was aware of what was happening.
Monday was a long day.  After surgery number one I started working on a little family history project which blossomed into a four hundred page recipe/ family history book complete with photos and numerous stories.  That book kept my mind completely occupied while I healed.  I can't wait 'til my hardbound Mecham Family Cookbooks arrive so I can give one to each of my kids for Christmas. That Monday I sat down to work on the book and Doug went off to work.   It's hard for me to avoid being superstitious.  I know, it's silly, but I really struggle with that.  So on Monday while I worked on this incredible labor of love it  occurred to me, "Am I doing this so my kids will have all of these recipes and these stories if I die?"  I looked around at the little old house we live in.  Last summer I spent every waking moment and many moments when I should have been sleeping, painting our old cabinets, hanging new drapes, I even put in a new floor and kitchen backsplash.  "Was that all part of God's way of easing me out of the picture? Take care of everything that needs to be taken care of, and then I'm gone?"  As I went through my parents old photos I realized that in the years before my mother died- years preceding the onset of her battle with Alzheimer's disease- my mother had gone through all of her old family photos and written a detailed description on the back of each picture.  I was sure she  must have been prompted to do this before it became impossible for her to do so.  I was equally as certain that my frantic work on this sure to be family heirloom was much like my mother's effort to scribe handwritten details on the backs of the photos of my ancestors.  That day was a hard day.  Lots of time spent thinking about the "what ifs."   Not to mention the worry I had about pain this time up to bat.
When I saw Dr. President  on the Friday before the surgery he told me after doing the mastectomy  he would do the skin graft on my leg.  I was looking forward to having the shark wound patched up. (More about the care of the shark bite later) The only problem is skin grafts hurt like the dickens.  Dr. President didn't try to sugar coat it.  He said, "It hurts.  You'll be okay."  I knew he was telling me the truth- it would hurt, but I would be alright.  Then he told me what felt like the worst part of this whole ordeal.  He said I had to have four shots into the area around my nipple- while I was awake- without any local anesthetic.  SAY WHAT?    After being admitted and brought to the surgical waiting area,  I would be taken to the nuclear medicine department. There a specialist would inject a radioactive dye into that area which would in essence map out the route to my sentinel lymph node.   Dr. President took one look at me, tears spilling down my cheeks, and said, "I'm sorry."  I felt so bad that he felt bad.  Here this wonderful guy has done so much for me, made every effort to ease my burdens and I'm blubbering over four lousy shots.  It was pathetic but I just couldn't stop feeling sorry for myself. All I'm  thinking at this point is, (and forgive my salty language) my boob is getting cut off tonight and my final memory of the old girl is going to be this.  Weird, right?  I mean does anyone have a final memory of their boob?  Probably not, but at the time I felt very justified in hating the little mound of flesh.
Monday evening came and Doug and I headed off to the hospital.  We waited downstairs for Dee and Kristie and then the four of us headed up to the third floor.  During my first surgery the waiting room and the holding tank were busy and alive with people.  Tonight we had the pace to ourselves.  After they suited me up, (again the gown with the paw prints)and got my IV line in an orderly came to take me down to nuclear medicine.  My crew followed but once we got down to the department the technician informed us that I had to go it alone. I was scared and a few tears may have slipped from my eyes at that point.  Well,I will spare you the details but it is sufficient to say that trip to nuclear medicine went exactly as everything else has gone.  Two incredibly kind people, a  chatty technician and a gentle doctor, helping me through a rather painful ordeal.  I made it back to the surgical waiting area where my posse sat waiting, Dee, Kristie,  my old friend Jamie who had arrived while I was gone, and of course, Doug.  I impressed upon them to never, no matter what, get a nipple piercing. I hope they took me seriously, but with that crew, you never can tell. Later,  Ari and Derek also dropped by and were able to come back to see me in the surgical holding tank.
Next entered my anesthesiologist. Doctor Vollers.  I. LOVE. HER.  Remember my fist surgery, how I woke up, threw up, felt sick for days?  Yes?  Well I told Dr. Vollers about all that.  She sat with me for maybe twenty minutes and went over what she planned to do to ensure I would not feel that way again. ( I didn't by the way- woke up without any side-effects whatsoever.)  Dr. President appeared and  talked to all of us for a few minutes.  Kristie offered to go suit up, but he assured her he had things under control.  We all had  a good laugh.  Minutes later I was being wheeled back to the O.R.. Dr. Vollers walked along side me.  Angel nurses moved me to the operating table effortlessly. Again they stretched my arms out  and wrapped me up in warm blankets.  Dr. Vollers calmly spoke to me as she started some sort of feel good medicine.  Again I searched the room for my hero.  There he was- head bowed.
Peacefully I drifted off.
The surgery took some time.  Doug had lots of company in the waiting room.  Suzie and Brent and a few others had joined those waiting. Later Suzie told me she could see just how nervous Doug was. As the night wore on she said  he removed himself from the group.  Unlike me, lots of talking does not comfort my husband.  He is far more comfortable in quiet places.  I know he was grateful, so grateful, for the support though and cherishes our friends for their kindness.  Dr. President  emerged after surgery to tell them all went well.  Everyone who was there said they could see that Dr. President was happy, genuinely happy.  I wish I could have been there.  I'm envisioning a moment similar to those one Grey's Anatomy:

Doctor emerging from the surgery suite. Those waiting for the news jumping up to meet him. A huge sigh of relief from the Doctor as he takes off his cap.  The family and friends burst into happy tears. Roll credits while  we hear Meredith's voice-over saying some dopey stuff about how everyone has pain.

I don't know if it was like that, but that's how I picture it in my mind. A couple hours later I was home on the couch watching my recording of the season premier of the Voice.  Take that you nasty cancer.  You can't beat me.

No man is a failure who has friends

Remember the movie It’s a Wonderful Life?  Of course you do.  If you know me you know that I’m crazy about this movie.  At Christmas time it’s a toss up for me between It’s a Wonderful Life and Elf.  If I had to pick just one though, I think George Bailey and his sidekick Clarence would take the prize.   One of the most memorable scenes  in the movie comes at the very end when George finds a copy of  Tom Sawyer among the hundreds of dollars his friends and neighbors collected to help him. With Mary at his side and ZuZu in his arms George opens the book and  reads the inscription from his friend Clarence,  “ Dear George, Remember no man is a failure who has friends.” This has always resonated with me. So much so that a couple of years ago the theme of my  Christmas card and letter was It’s a Wonderful Life. I ended our family letter with the inscription George found in the old  book.     Friendships are important to everyone to some extent I suppose.  My father was a great friend. Always willing to go the extra mile for a friend, neighbor or even an acquaintance. I think I take after him in this respect.  I endeavor to be a good friend and strive to keep in touch with the friends I have made over the years. A long time ago a teacher told me something along the lines of, “People won’t remember what you said, but people will always remember how you made them feel.”  From then on I’ve honestly attempted to make people feel good about themselves when they are around me.  

Find a job you love and you'll never work a day in your life!

Over the past two months Dee has mentioned to me more than once that my determined effort to be a good friend is evidenced in the outpouring of support I have received from so many.  I’m certainly grateful for my father’s example.  He knew life was better, sweeter, richer with friends to share the joys and hardships.    On Sunday the 18th of September I woke up excited for the day ahead.  At church I serve in the Primary and today was the final practice for the Primary sacrament meeting  program.  I had missed some meetings recently due to my circumstances and my counselors had done the lion’s share of the work getting this program pulled together. I was excited to see the children as they prepared to perform.   Now that my own kids are grown and gone, I am usually pretty early for church. On this Sunday however, I was running a little behind and was going to arrive only about five minutes prior to church starting. . Doug had meetings that morning so he was already at the building.  When I arrived and entered the back of the chapel I saw my friend Kelli from work.  Before I could process this I realized many other friends from Lied were sitting together in a middle row.  They all turned to greet me with enormous smiles.  It took me a second but I then noticed they were all dressed in pink.  My heart felt as if it grew an inch in my chest. Here were these wonderful women and men, most of faiths different than my own,, sacrificing their Sunday morning to be with me in the place they know I hold the most dear, second only to my own home. There were hugs all around and introductions galore.  Many of the youth in our ward attended Lied so the kids scurried over to say hello to their old teachers. When it was time to begin we all took our seats. .As we sang the opening song my eyes filled with tears.  I was so touched by this gesture.  Again I reflected on the giving of one’s time- how precious a gift it is. I saw a great poem in my oncologist’s office.  It’s called, What Cancer Cannot Do.

It cannot cripple love

It cannot shatter hope

It cannot corrode faith

It cannot eat away peace

It cannot destroy friendship

It cannot suppress memories

It cannot silence courage

It cannot invade the soul

It cannot steal eternal life

It cannot conquer the spirit

When church ended, I stood in the foyer surrounded by my friends- more hugs, more tears , more promises of prayers- and realized that cancer truly has no power over me.

PET scans and biopsies

I got myself worked up into a tizzy about getting the PET scan.  No, not because I feared the results. Well, I did fear the results, but more on that fear later.  I was afraid to do the actual scan.  Somewhere between the start of junior high and adulthood I convinced myself I was completely claustrophobic.  I say it came on in junior high because I know in elementary school the idea of crawling into my brother's accordion case and letting him carry me around the house thrilled me.  Anyhow, the thought of the PET scan was freaking me out. I looked at pictures online of the long white tubes  and thought, "There is no way I won't lose it in there."  I called Steinberg Diagnostic and they told they could medicate me.  No way.  I was not interested in any drugs.  After the three days on pain meds following the first surgery I had sworn off any drugs that weren't required for saving my life. They told me to come a little early so I could check the machine out.  Turns out, I had nothing to fear.  I'm pretty small so the tube was actually quite roomy for me.   I had an IV injection of some sort, drank a gross chalky drink and then sat quietly for about 45 minutes. Okay, I tried to sit quietly. The gal doing my scan was darling.  So kind, and when I had a chance to talk with her, she shared with me how much she loves her job.  She even had some tattoos on her arms that paid homage to her work. By the time she slid me into the tube I was enjoying a great book on my audible account and I might have even dozed off for a minute or two during the process. The PET scan itself was a breeze. When I was done, I studied the tech's face as she looked at the machine in her office where I was sure the results were displayed.  I tried to read the look in her eyes, but she, like so many other technicians have a poker face that could take down Steve Wynn's empire.
The  next day I had a lunch date with my friend Teri Stolworthy.  I really wish someone would record one of our get togethers.  You see, both of us can talk. Not like regular talking, no, we can both REALLY talk.  Our lunch dates last for hours and often when we finally say goodbye we are both rushing off to get dinner for our families. It was the perfect way for me to kill the time before seeing Dr. President that afternoon.
At 5:00PM Doug and I found ourselves in the same exam room we had been in when we got the happy news about the phyllodes tumor.  This time Dr. President entered the room with a little less spring in his step. Uh oh, where was Dick Van Dyke? The PET scan revealed something suspicious- high metabolic activity in my right breast.

At 10 am the following Tuesday I was back at Steinberg Diagnostic for a biopsy.  I am completely over my fear of needles by the way. I have been poked and stuck so many times in the past two months I hardly even wince anymore.  This biopsy was nothing like the first.  The first biopsy, on the gigantic phyllodes tumor was a breeze for the doctor.  I mean, it was like hitting a beachball with a baseball bat.  The technician during the first biopsy took about two minutes to get the necessary ultrasound pictures and then one, two, three, the biopsy was done in three quick clicks. Oh, for those of you that have never had a biopsy, they aren't too bad.  I mean it hurts, but really the most uncomfortable thing about it is the noise the needle makes when it's doing its thing.  It reminded me of a the noise an electric stapler makes.  That noise, coupled with the fact that you are probably at least a little bit anxious due to the fact that something irregular showed up on an earlier test, makes the entire process nerve wracking.  This biopsy was going to be more difficult to do than the "one, two three, and done" on the phyllodes I had experienced the month prior.  Just like last time though, the technician performed an ultrasound to get a clear look at the lesion.  If you have ever had an ultrasound before you know the wand and jelly routine.  When you're expecting this experience can be pleasant. When the technician is searching for cancer, instead of a baby it's dreadful.  I knew after a minute or two something was wrong.  This sweet technician did not have the poker face of the gal I had met during my PET scan.  She left the room to get the doctor.  A gentle middle aged man came in.  He informed me that the ultrasound showed two lesions. What? Two lesions?  How could this be possible?  I had a mammogram just weeks ago when the biopsy was done for the phyllodes tumor.  He explained that sometimes women with dense breast tissue get inaccurate reads on mammograms.  I already knew this as Dr. President had explained it to me the last time I saw him, but I let this nice man explain it to me again as tears tumbled down my cheeks.  He told me he needed to call my insurance to get approval to do two biopsies instead of the one that was ordered before he could go on.  He and the technician left the room and I lay alone there crying miserable tears.  After what seemed like an hour they came back and the procedure was over in no time at all.  I was sick with worry as Kristie drove me home but I tried to keep myself on the sunny side of the street.
Last time I had a biopsy it had taken three days for my doctor to get the results.  If the same was true I would hear on Friday afternoon.  I had an appointment with Dr. President Friday morning and hoped he would have the results when we met.  I didn't want the news of the results to come from anyone but him.
Can we take a minute to think about Dr. President.  Can you imagine going into a room and telling a friend, anyone, for that matter, that he or she has cancer?   Can you imagine trying to deliver that horrible news? Sometimes when a loved one or we ourselves our ill, I think we forget about the health care providers and the terrifically difficult job they have. In times of a health crisis we are so caught up in our own cares that we might forget how painful this process must be for them, particularly in cases involving a friend. Sitting there in the exam room as he explained the results of the needle biopsy to Doug and I,  we could tell he was clearly saddened.
The biopsies on the right breast produced two different results.  The first, a benign  mass. (Finally my fibroadenoma arrives at the party.) The other, the one Dr. Thummala was concerned about, was cancer.  Not a phyllodes tumor, but a more commonly had breast cancer.  The needle biopsy indicated a ductal carcinoma.  We learned from Dr.President 80% of all breast cancers are ductal carcinomas. We discussed my options, lumpectomy or mastectomy.  Again, I was thinking, "Can you go get your scalpel and take care of it right now?"  I already had my shark bite where the phyllodes had been, I didn't care at this point about aesthetics, I just wanted that stupid cancer out of me. We quickly decided I would have a mastectomy on the right side. Dr. President had his surgical scheduler look for an opening in his schedule. There weren't any, so instead of having me wait, he decided he would perform the surgery after a full day of work the following Monday. (Again can I get a holler for Dr. Presdient?  I don't even want to grade papers at night and here he was willing to work well into the night for my benefit.)We would be headed back to Mountain View in just a few days for my second surgery in three weeks.
When we were driving home I shared with Doug that I had been praying for Dr. President earlier that morning.  Something in me knew that he would be delivering bad news to me that day and I wanted nothing more for him than peace that day.

Oncology, pathology and a bunch of other stuff.

August 31
My first post op checkup with Dr. President.   Wait, no, let me say that again.  My first post op checkup with Dr. President at his office.  Y'all don't know how good I got it- my surgeon makes house calls.  All kidding aside that wonderful, brilliant, kind hearted, busier than anyone I know, guy stopped by my house to check on me once or twice during those first few days after surgery.  To say I'm blessed really is an understatement.
Anyhow, the afternoon of the 31st found me and Doug sitting in one of Dr. President's exam rooms.  Doug in a chair, me on the exam table waiting anxiously for Dr. President. He has a way of bursting into the room.  His entrances  remind me a bit of the opening of the Dick Van Dyke show.  Do you remember that?  Dick would come through the door, a huge smile on his face, filling the room with cheer. Well that's how Dr. President enters. He doesn't trip though, for the audience. I wonder if he could work that in for me at some later date. That day his smile was broad. He shook Doug's hand vigorously and announced, "The tumor was a phyllodes tumor."  This was the best bad news a person in my shoes could get.  The tumor was still cancerous, it was still a malignant sort, but it was a type of cancer that afforded me great survival odds.  What's more, the margins were clear, meaning no little sneaky cells had been left behind when he operated and, as would be expected with a phyllodes tumor, my lymph nodes were clear.  All of this great news was more than I could handle.  I burst into tears and jumped up and hugged poor Dr. President.
Following an exam of the shark bite Dr. President told us next up would be a visit to Steinburg for a PET Scan to make sure no other cancers were lurking in my body.  Just a precaution.  He also gave me some instructions to raise my arms, my left arm in particular, over my head each day to ensure proper healing.  Let me tell you this arm lifting is hard stuff.  Don't ever take for granted the amazing work Heavenly Father did creating you.  Our bodies, and their ability to function, are truly remarkable.  As I walk my fingers up the wall each day in order to stretch those muscles fully I find truly myself grateful for the body I have been given.

A few days later I met with my oncologist, Dr Thummala.  Can I just take a minute to say, I love her. Dr Thummala is a short, pretty Indian woman who speaks with a touch of a Hindi accent. Sunny was with Doug and I at this appointment and the entire time the Doctor was talking to me I can see Sunny smirking. I know it is because she is thinking my oncologist looks like Mindy Kaling, the actress who plays Kelly, on the Office.  I know she is thinking that because it is exactly what I am thinking. Of course we can't have that discussion until we are in the car so I'm up on the exam table trying to play it cool while Sunny is in the chair suppressing a giggle. Doug was none the wiser, bless his heart .   Dr. President really likes Dr. Thummala.  He said her goal in life is to stamp out every cancer cell on the planet. I believe it.  Her bedside manner is great and don't forget how spoiled I am by Dr. President. He's a tough act to follow but she did not disappoint.  She talked with us about the pathology findings and told us she was going to have another lab look at it for a second opinion.  I worried aloud, "Do you think the phyllodes diagnosis is wrong?  Could it be one of the more sinister cancers we were worried about?"  She assured me it was just good practice to get a second opinion, "It is, after all," she said, "cancer." While she examined my shark bite and then my right breast I told her that  Dr. President had ordered a PET Scan.  While we were talking it became obvious to me she had found something in my right breast that she did not like.  She continued to examine me and finished with, "Yes, go have that PET scan."  I asked her about what she found and she confirmed my suspicion.  There was something, barely there, that felt wrong to her. She didn't appear overly concerned but she also ordered an ultrasound to be sure. I left her and made a handful of appointments for the next few weeks and honestly didn't give too much thought to that little something she found on my right side. Leaving her office that day  I tried to read into every comment she made but mostly fixated on why  she want a second opinion on that pathology?  I don't remember being too worried about the little something she found on my right side. C'mon, it can't be more cancer.  Can it?

Time is free, but it's priceless

August 28-September 10
Do you know how many great chefs  there are living in Las Vegas?  I'm not talking about those working in 5 star restaurants on the Las Vegas strip. I'm talking about members of the San Miguel Ward, the Shadow Mountain stake and the Highland Hills stake.
The day I came home from the hospital the food started to arrive.  Delicious meals,  hearty soups, fresh baked breads, cookies and cakes, succulent fruits, healthy nuts, and sumptuous cheeses. It was as if we were living in a giant buffet.  Doug and I were fed so well it kind of seemed like Christmas around here.  You know when all your neighbors and friends are dropping off yummy treats.  It was like that, but better, because  along with the treats we had delicious home cooked meals.  Seriously, it was such a relief to have dinners taken care of during those first few weeks.  How blessed we are to have so many wonderful friends.  We were indeed well fed.   To be honest though, I wasn't too hungry.  Pain medications and the worrisome thoughts kept my appetite at bay.  I was hungry for a different kind of food though, and let me tell you, those same folks who brought over meals and many others brought me just what I needed most. Friendship.  I arrived home from the hospital on Sunday afternoon and within minutes visitors began dropping by.  I know for some a string of guests might have been overwhelming, but for me that constant stream of guests provided joy.  At the risk of sounding trite, I am a people person. Okay, if you know me, are you laughing. I love to meet new people, I love to contact old friends and mostly I love to talk to people.   My mother had professional pictures done of me of my when I was a baby.  I was fat and bald  and because she had four sons and only one daughter she taped a pink bow to my head.  I'm not joking.  Funnier still is the prop she gave me for those photos.  A pink phone rattle.  I was probably two or three months old but I have that little phone positioned just right in those pictures as if I am talking to my best girlfriend.   Even then I knew where I was headed. Give me a couple of friends and a few hours to kill and all is right in my world. So in those days that followed the surgery the visits brought me just what I  needed.   Friends from church, from work, and the neighborhood dropping by to assure me I was in their prayers.  These words lifted my spirit as I knew of their sincerity.  Friends from across the miles and oceans away sending messages via email, snail mail and facebook. Almost all of them ending their note with, "My family is praying for you," or "You are in my prayers nightly."

On Monday Doug had to go to work.  I was still pretty messed up. Pain medications making me foggy and a shark bite (as we jokingly called it) where my left breast used to be kept me somewhat sedentary.  In came my girls.  Just when I thought I couldn't possibly  be the recipient of another blessing I was told I wouldn't be alone while Doug was at work.  I would have my girlfriends with me to pass the time. Gloria and Kristie had the day shift, followed by Dee during the after school hours. Every day these angels came and attended to my every need.  Flora Fauna and Merryweather come to mind. I could never do enough or say enough to thank them. Talk about laying up your treasures in heaven.  These women are true examples of Christlike love and service.

My friend Jori placed my name on every operating U.S. Temple's prayer roll.

As I have gotten older I recognize the sweet truth in something my father used to tell me, "Time is free, but it's priceless."  When I was young I didn't really understand what he meant and thought he just wanted me to slow down and spend more time with him and my mom.  That was probably in part true. Now, I realize the subtle implications of that phrase.  When a person gives you their time they are giving you something they can never get back or replace.  It is a real and personal sacrifice to give in that way.  When I think of the countless prayers said in my behalf, the countless temple roles on which my name was placed, the meals prepared, the notes written, the thoughtful posts made on facebook, the friendly visits- the sum of those accumulated minutes overwhelms me.  How can I live my life in a way that truly expresses my thanks? I am not sure exactly, but heaven knows I will keep trying.