A clean bill of health

My surgeon called last night with the absolute best news ever. The final pathology was negative; both for the nodes and breast tissue. I am officially cancer free.

The emotion that overcame me at that moment was incredible. I could only say thank you over and over again to my doctor.

An amazing amazing feeling.

Moving forward

Bilateral mastectomy done. Tissue expander implanted. Now in full recovery and pain management mode. December 3rd was a long day to say the least. We checked in at 6am and I was wheeled into surgery around 10:45 and out around 5:30. The surgery was a success. The initial pathology during surgery on the nodes came back negative; there's still a slight chance the post-surgical pathology will come back positive but the doctors are optimistic.

Recovery is hard. The night after surgery was a haze of pain and nausea. The nurses gave me a rainbow of drugs to help with both but nothing seemed to work. Even my PCP drug button wasn't doing the trick. I attempted to eat...first ice cream (because why not, right?) then threw up about 10 minutes later then graham crackers which I kept down for a good 20. Then I decided to give up for the night and attempt sleep, which didn't really didn't really come easy.

Tuesday morning, my surgeon woke me up to check up on me. He took my bandages off and I got a glance at my new (let's be honest) butchered chest. He said he couldn't have asked for better - that my skin is in great condition and will do great for the reconstruction. Wonderful news. He wants me to walk around and asks the nurse to take the catheter out so I'm forced to get up to go to the bathroom. I don't feel ready for this at all, but I complied.

9am JM came for a visit with a bagel which was delicious - I hadn't eaten since Sunday night and I finally felt like I could keep food down for more than 20 minutes. The nurse suggested that I get up and attempt a walk down the 10' hallway. After my success with the bagel, I thought it would be a good idea. At this point I hadn't gotten out of bed since Monday morning before surgery. Moving my body never felt so painful - everything hurt and felt weak. I finally stood on my two feet and felt ok, took a few steps and in walks the plastic surgeon who thankfully advices the nurse that I look like I need to sit down...and out goes that delicious bagel I just devoured. Boo. I still need to use the bathroom so I waddle to the bathroom with JM's help and somehow make it back to the bed and out goes whatever else I have left in my stomach. It was only 11am and I felt completely defeated and done.

The day did get better. The doctor gave me new pain meds, a muscle relaxer and more anti-nausea meds. I got chicken noodle soup for dinner and successfully digested it, got up and went for a walk around the post-op ward and even watched a movie on my iPad. Success!!!

Wednesday morning, I was discharged with two drains and meds to keep me happy for weeks. By Thursday I was able to get my left drain removed and the right one the next day. Recovering at home is better but far more frustrating than being at the hospital. I see JM doing everything for the girls and me not being able to do a thing. I feel completely useless...well, I am useless and in fact a burden because I have to ask for help with everything.

JM is an angel. He makes me laugh and forget my pain and has been my advocate throughout this whole ordeal. When he holds my hands, he makes me feel at home. When he kisses me, he makes me feel more loved than anybody in the world. His laughter is contagious and infects my whole being, and watching him be a good father makes me the happiest of all.

The girls have also been amazing. They help me get up from my chair, cover me with blankets, put my slippers on write me cards filled with love, and give me kisses and leg hugs since they know my chest is off limits. On Tuesday they came for a visit at the hospital and Anabelle held my water bottle, opened and fed me my saltine crackers so my med wouldn't make me sick. Both girls stood on either side of my bed holding my hands; both with smiles as wide as their little faces; never showing any worry in their faces. As a mother this is something I never wanted my kids to experience but I am so extremely proud of their maturity and compassion. JM told me later that in the hallway of the hospital Anabelle broke into tears from what she saw. I can't express how amazed I am at her strength to stay so strong in front of me...even making jokes to make me laugh.

This year has been the biggest challenge for all of us but I cannot wait for 2013. We all deserve an amazing 2013 and I know in my heart that it will be.

Thoughts of a husband and father

"The doctor called, he said it’s malignant." Shock. Fear. Confusion.
Sadness. DO NOT CRY. Denial. "It's ok. We're going to be ok."
No way. No way this is happening to my family. She is quietly
sobbing. Be strong for her. I can't stop myself; tears stream from
my eyes and panic fills my gut. Get a grip man. Pull over. Don’t
alarm the girls Get your head straight. Hold her. Soothe her.
Everything will be all right.

I will never forget the moment that Kana told me she has cancer;
unequivocally this was the scariest part of the whole ordeal because
of the unknown. Cancer is such a big word. A few years ago, my
family had just finished dealing with a breast cancer scare. My dad
had been diagnosed, had a lumpectomy and a couple weeks of radiation.
Lucky for us, he caught it extremely early. I remember being so
much more level headed; calming my mom and helping navigate the
medical decisions with my dad. After I told him about Kana, he
reminded me that life deals us cards and we make the most of what we
are given. Don’t give up just because you don't like what you have.
Play out the hand and try to come out on top. In between my dad’s
episode and Kana's diagnosis a friend of ours was diagnosed with
stomach cancer; stage IV. I remember calling her husband after I got
a text from him telling me the staging. The doctors had talked to
them about longevity. Kana and I were heartbroken. They have 2
beautiful kids together and I couldn't help but imagine what it would
be like if we were in their shoes. We had visited them in
Albuquerque because it was important to us to make sure that when we got together
we were all together when our kids met. After she passed her
husband sent me a text thanking me for being there for them. At the
time I didn't thank him for sharing his friendship with me. I
remember seeing him care for his wife and kids and admiring him for
being such a good father and husband. I remember feeling embarrassed
about the things I complain about. She passed a few months after our
visit and 1 year later we found out that Kana had cancer. Almost
immediately I thought of them. Their experience made what we are
facing scarier than it really is but at the same time easier. Easier
because we saw first hand that when thrown into the roughest waters
that life can churn out, all is not over. They showed us that love
for one another can get you through the darkest days by helping you
find appreciation in life and celebrate even its most simple things.

Seven months into treatment and cancer has become a normal part of our
life. Kana has lost her hair. Fatigue is an issue. Chemo has pushed
Kana into early menopause and her temperament has changed. She is
certainly still more level headed than me when I'm hungry or tired.
And you guys have seen her, still beautiful. Kana is like an orchid;
vibrant and full of life yet also delicate. I suppose life is like
that too. Nowadays, for me, living a fulfilling life is about the
appreciation of the most simple and minute details of my family life;
seeing Kana wake up from a nap during an infusion and smiling at me or
holding hands while watching the kids play in the backyard. I don’t
want to miss a single moment of it. Life can turn you onto your head
in a flash second so I don’t want take things for granted. Kana asked
me to describe the last few months in three words. "Aged ten years"
and we both had a laugh. I have thought about the next ten years a
lot lately, and how I want to enjoy as many moments, from the simple
and small to the monumental and epic with Kana, Anabelle and Sofia.

Our lives have changed forever. Temporarily challenged but as I've
seen Kana fight with such elegance and grace I know that our lives
have been enriched. When you try to leave for an infusion and you
hear your two year old crying "No want mama go chemo!" and hearing
from my sister that my 4 year old cried while watching the scene in
"Totoro" where the girls are trying to visit their mom in the hospital
but can't it breaks your heart. My girls have seen their mom fight
cancer and I hope that they see that there is no challenge in life
that can put them down. Get up and fight on. Mom did it and so can
you.

I'm finishing this entry three months after I started it. Kana
finished her last chemo infusion on October 30th. Her hair has started to grow
back and her beauty and vibrancy is starting to peek through the chemo
cloud that has been cast over her for the last six months. We still
have two more phases to go but supposedly surgery and radiation is a
cakewalk in comparison to the slow trudge through chemo. I want
everyone to think of the thing that they are most proud of in their
life. We all share that feeling of pride and accomplishment about
something and I know from deep within my soul, spirit, chakras,
whatever, that in my life I am most proud of Kana and I am truly
thankful that she is the mother of my children and the love of my
life. I look forward to celebrating life with my family and for the
opportunity that over the next 50 years, Kana will be by my side when
we watch our girls get married and play with our grand kids.

Now, on the eve of Kana's mastectomy I want to give my deepest thanks
and appreciation to our family and friends who have made this past 7
months easier and supported us. We are looking forward to finishing
up and celebrating with and thanking all of you in 2013!

Out of the dark

I just got home from my MRI at the Stanford Imaging Center in Redwood City; the 7pm appointment was the only available time so I had to take it. I went by myself because JM had to stay at home and watch the girls. I was only one of four cars parked in the dimly lit parking lot. I parked and walked up to the building and was greeted by a guest services staff who pointed me in the right direction. 

The lobby was filled with the sounds from the self-playing piano and low-lights that left the lobby feeling eerie. The one advantage to geting the imaging done so late in the day is that there's no wait. I checked in and before I had a chance to open my book and read, I was ushered into the dressing room. I undressed and put on my two hospital gowns as instructed and looked in the mirror and giggled. I looked silly; my riding boots, leggings and my oversized flower-printed hospital gown with my purple scarf...not that I was going to a party, but could they make these hospital gowns any less attractive? 

I got an IV (for contrast injection) and followed the Tech to the room. Laid down face down with my breasts hanging down in the MRI contraption, got some ear plugs and headphones and waited. I was given some instructions about the injection then the machine slid me in. As I laid there, I closed my eyes and my mind started spinning. The last couple of days of imaging brought me back to the very beginning of this whole ordeal.  The anticipation and nervousness all came rushing back and my body felt unbalanced and unstable. What if they find something. What if the chemo did not accomplish all that we thought it had.  I tried to ignore it, but it kept getting worse. I opened my eyes and the spinning stopped. I tried to remember the positive results of the mammogram and ultrasound from the day prior to calm my nerves, but every time I closed my eyes my mind wandered to places I did not want to be and thoughts I didn't want to think. 

All the unknowns and what-ifs that have been creeping into my mind for the last six months exploded over me like an avalanche as I laid on the table in the dark in what felt like a coffin. The edges of the machine were pressing up against my arms and making me feel claustrophobic. The loud foreign noises were making me feel anxious and uneasy. My body got more and more tense as the scan went on and on.  My body involuntarily jumped at each noise and vibration during what felt like hours. When I felt like I couldn't take it anymore, the tech finally came back in and I was done. I was rolled back out of the machine, got off the table and remembered that I am not the same person I was 6 months ago. I have been through what felt like hell sometimes and am now back recovering and trying to slowly regain composure of myself.

All done. Oshimai. Sayonara.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012 was my last chemo infusion. My Oncologist said we looked giddy, which was probably an understatement. I was so beyond excited to get to this day and be done. Nights before this day, I started thinking about what it means to be a survivor of cancer. Thinking about what if it comes back or what if I develop a new cancer somewhere else.

For the last 6 months I have been sunk deep in trenches of fighting this cancer; not thinking about much else but getting through chemo, then surgery, then radiation, etc. I'm slightly afraid to face 'regular' life after all this is done and I am back to 'normal'. I feel a little like I'm standing alone on a big stage with hundreds of people expecting something from me. But I have nothing to offer - no words of wisdom or direction on my own life.

What do I do once I'm all done with this fight? Where do I go? I'm starting to ask myself these questions a lot now and get no clear answer.

I still have multiple surgeries and radiation ahead but I feel like I can let out a big sigh of relief with the end of my 6-month marriage to chemo. Last round of chemo's side effects are all the same: nausea, nausea, fatigue and digestive issues. I've been sleeping for the last two day and nights to ignore my symptoms as much as I can, but I should probably wake up and eat a little something and drink a little more water.

Thank you all for your texts messages, cards, emails and flowers celebrating my last day of chemo. I feel like a lucky girl to have so many behind me along this journey.

One more to go

Last Tuesday was my second to last chemo session! Hooray!!!! Side effects this time around: more nausea, sinus headache/pressure and fatigue...all expected, but not fun. :) That's me sitting in my lounge chair happy that I'm almost done! One more left on October 30th and I will be 100% done with chemo. I have a month off to recover from the chemo and will enjoy some Thanksgiving food and family, then on December 3rd I have my bi-lateral mastectomy. I decided to get the tissue expanders put in at the time of the mastectomy which I will have to get filled every few week to expand my skin and muscle to accomodate the new permanent implant that will be placed in about 6-8 months.

After surgery and the Holidays, I start my 5 week course of radiation: Monday-Friday, 25 days. The end of the treatment plan is so close, I can finally see it and almost feel it.

----

Toward the end of my last infusion, a woman with two friends walked in and sat in the chair across from mine. From what I could overhear it sounded like she was on the very same chemo regimen (the Buzdar regimen) and it was her very first day. She had all her hair still and looked nervous, uncomfortable and a little out of place (I think it was the hair). I would hear bits and pieces of her conversation and could hear the tension in her voice. I was so tempted to walk over to her and say, "You can do it! If you ever want to talk just call me..." But I didn't. I didn't want to be intrusive or nosy, but in all honesty if someone had come up to me on my first day and reached out to me, I would have been so grateful. I regret not approaching her. Hopefully I'll see her again in the Infusion Center and I'll have enough courage to talk to her and share my experience with her then.

Seeing her brought me back to where we were six months ago: scared, unsure and nervous about the road ahead. I've had my share of emotional and mental breakdowns since May and have had many nights and days of self-reflection and self-realization, and what I came to realize is that cancer has made me selfish. I have been completely in my own head for the past six months with tunnel vision of seeing mostly ME and not everyone else around me. I know that having cancer is awful, but being a spouse, child, sister, brother, mother, father, in-law, friend of someone who has cancer sucks too. I feel like my acknowledgement of that fact has been sparse.

I thank the people in my life everyday - for all the help with the kids, the house, and me, but realized that I'm so stuck in my own head that I don't say it out loud enough. I don't say thank you to the people who matter...out loud, so they hear me loud and clear. I will change that starting now.

Perspective

About a month ago I entered my name for 49er game tickets at Stanford's Women's Cancer Center. A few weeks later, I got a call saying I won two tickets. I've never won anything so I was pretty excited to get the call. I took JM, of course and we went this past Sunday. His birthday was on Friday so it was the perfect belated birthday present.

It's October, Breast Cancer Awareness Month so the 49ers had dedicated a small section of the stadium to breast cancer survivors and their guests to enjoy the game and participate in the half-time show. I met a number of women either going through cancer treatment like me or women in remission from the disease for upwards of 25 years, giving me hope for my future.

For the half-time show, we were ushered onto the field by the cheerleaders and gifted a pink pashmina by a 49er alum (I wish I knew football well enough to know who gave me my scarf). The applause and cheers enveloped us from every angle of the stadium; empowering me with strength to keep fighting and moving forward. I felt loved, encouraged and supported by complete strangers I will never meet or exchange words with, and felt camaraderie with the women standing next to me who are fighting the same disease I am fighting. I admired my fellow cancer buddies and was in awe of their happy, vibrant smiles and hoped that I was exuding the same positive energy for them.

I came away from the event feeling so blessed and lucky to be where I am. I caught the cancer early and the chemo and hormone therapies crushed the cancer immediately. There were a number of women at the event who were on their second or third chemotherapy regimens because their previous regimens hadn't worked or their tumor kept getting larger. Before the half-time ceremony there was about 30 minutes when we had a chance to chat with each other and exchange stories. One woman said that she would be happy if she can live 5 more years, but instead of just leaving the world without making an impact, she's doing everything she can to further breast cancer and BRCA research so that one less woman (or man) has to go through this. Her attitude and courage is inspiring.

I know I will survive this and live. My prognosis is great, maybe even excellent (I'd like to think that it is, at least). ;) When I hear stories of women who's prognosis is not as good as my own, I feel an immense amount of guilt that I will be OK, and that living another 5 years is not a question but a certainty. I wish nothing but the absolute best for these women and all the other women fighting this disease. We have come so far in breast cancer research but the road ahead is still a very long one. Thankfully for me and the thousands of other women with HER2+ breast cancer, a drug called Herceptin was introduced as a targeted hormone therapy.  Fourteen years ago, HER2+ breast cancer was very hard to beat, but with Herceptin my tumor shrank after the first treatment. I am done with chemo on October 30th, but will continue with Herceptin until May 2013.

My little preachy bit before I go...and since it's breast cancer awareness month it's sort of fitting...early detection is key to beating this awful disease. Ladies and gents, do a self breast exam, check your family history and if you have a history of breast or ovarian cancer ask your doctor about whether you should have a BRCA gene mutation test done, get your mammograms ON-TIME, get an annual PAP, get your annual physical...here's to all our health and happiness.

PS Thank you all so much for your emails following my last post. I have the most amazing friends and family who lift me up and make life a lot brighter and happier when I'm feeling down. Lots of love to you all.