Breathing a huge sigh of relief

(Left: Dr. Karen Dec - for details, read on)

Yesterday, I visited the Breast Care Center for my first mammogram since completing cancer treatment. I didn’t realize how anxious I was until I was driving to my appointment. I had already asked my husband to meet me at the facility because my last appointment didn’t go so smoothly.

Back in February, they found a hematoma at the site of my lumpectomy after doing a mammogram and ultrasound. For a good 20 to 30 minutes, I didn’t know what was happening and was under the impression that they’d found another tumor. That was when I took leave of my body and floated around the ceiling until it was time to go home. I hoped that yesterday’s appointment would be different, but I knew that anything was possible. Once one shoe drops, you’re prepared for the other one to go down, too. You learn not to take anything for granted.

Of course, I prayed days in advance of my appointment, but I mostly tried to keep myself busy and not think too much about it. Last week, I attended another support group meeting at the local hospital for women who have had breast cancer. We all went around the table and introduced ourselves and told a little about our experience with cancer. When it was my turn, I related my cancer stats (two surgeries, chemo, radiation, and now on Tamoxifen), and then added that my first mammogram since completing treatment was coming up on September 11 and that I was quite edgy about it.

To my relief, several of the women assured me that this was completely normal. One of them is two years out from her mastectomy. She said that she still cries in the parking lot and at the front desk when going for her mammogram. Another woman is 11 years out from her experience and she still gets anxious. At least I know that I’m not some stressed-out weirdo. It truly is post-traumatic stress syndrome.

As I drove to my appointment, I prayed for God’s will and His mercy. I asked Him to give me the courage, faith, hope, and peace to face whatever situation I encountered, even if it meant something I didn’t want to hear. But, of course, I also asked for deliverance from the affliction of cancer, not only for myself, but for all the people I’ve met who have endured the scourge of cancer.

I was surprised that the closer I got to the office, the more emotional I became. My eyes started to fill with tears. I was a bit incredulous at my emotions. Apparently I’d done a good job at stuffing them down--until then.

I had good reason to feel uptight. I’ve been experiencing aches, tenderness, and stinging sensations in BOTH breasts off and on almost daily. I wondered if my porta-cath (on the side opposite the breast that had cancer) was causing some problems. I’m supposed to have it flushed every 6 weeks or so because complications can arise if it isn’t tended to regularly. I’ve done that, but you hear horror stories and wonder if something will go wrong.

So there are all kinds of “what is that?” “what if it’s cancer again?” thoughts that go through your mind on a daily basis. That’s the challenge of being a “survivor”—it’s a real head game—you have to try to live a normal life and not let fears overwhelm you. For a person who tends to be a worrywart, that’s a tall order indeed.

The other reason I was apprehensive is because my “other” breast has not been examined via mammogram or MRI for a full year. Since I’ve had breast cancer in one breast, I now have a two to six times higher risk of getting a new breast cancer in my other breast. I just read an article the other day that said the highest risk of recurrence is within two years following the initial diagnosis. For some reason, if you make it five years without a recurrence, many people consider you “cancer free.” However, that just isn’t the case. It is true that your risk of recurrence goes dramatically down at the five-year mark, but it isn’t eliminated. One woman in our support group had her second cancer diagnosis 15 YEARS after the first one. So you never really feel safe.

You hear a lot these days about breast cancer survivors and it is true that there are a lot of them walking around, praise be to God. However, the statistics are rather sobering. Of the women diagnosed with breast cancer this last year, one-third will go on to die of the disease. And even though the odds are in favor of beating it, that’s a huge chunk of women who won’t beat the odds. And if I were to go with odds alone, I’ve already lost because I got breast cancer in the first place (with no family history of it). So I learned a long time ago not to put my hope and faith in statistics.

Having all of this knowledge swimming around in my head, I approached the mammography exam room with some fear and trembling (not literally, but inwardly). The technician was as nice and gentle as she could be. She told me that she would take four pictures on each side and then show them to the doctor who would then come in to talk to me. I asked if my husband could join me when the doctor came in and she assured me that she would retrieve him from the waiting room.

So I sat wearing my little cape with the snaps in the front and waited. At one point during the technician’s absence, I got up and took a look at the digital photos of my breasts. I could see dense white areas on both the right and left breasts. I knew one of them was my surgical site, but didn’t know if it was supposed to look like that or not. So I just sat down and waited for the doctor.

Finally, my husband arrived in the room just ahead of Dr. Karen Dec, who happens to be the same doctor who performed my biopsy after my tumor was found. I will never forget her. Something about her demeanor on that day over a year ago had reassured and calmed me. I was grateful for her composure and the effect it had on me.

Yesterday, she wasted no time getting to the point. “Everything looks good. It all looks normal,” she said. I had to hold myself back from bursting into tears. I just wasn’t prepared for that. I put my hands together in a prayerful gesture and stammered out, “Thank goodness!” My heart was saying, “Thank you, Lord!” but something different came out. I really wanted to dissolve into tears, but I held myself together and said, “What about the hematoma? Has it gone down?” She answered, “Yes. We can see the normal scar tissue there, so it all looks normal.” She told me that unless my doctor wanted me to come back earlier, I was good to come back in another year.

I told her that she had performed my biopsy and I wanted to thank her and managed to bumble out, “You were great.” She smiled and thanked me before she left the room.

I felt like jumping for joy. I feel that I have been given a reprieve for at least six months, maybe a year. I just don't take it for granted that everything's peachy from hereon out (even if it is my hope). It’s like being let out of prison and seeing the light of day for the first time in a long time. I wanted to celebrate!

And even though yesterday, September 11, was a sobering day for so many, I wanted to celebrate my life and the days I have left to live. My husband hugged me on the way out the door and my eyes filled with tears. I wish for every woman who’s had this dreadful disease to feel the way I felt as I left that office.

The fear isn’t gone, but neither is the faith that my life is in God’s hands. The lessons I began to confront during cancer treatment are the same lessons I have to learn over and over again every day:

Live each day in service to God and your fellow man.
Don’t fear the future—God is already there.
Trust God—He is good and loves you.
Be thankful for the gift of life and the loved ones He has placed around you.
Appreciate the “small” things—they make life worth living.
Let go of the petty annoyances—they are small potatoes in the grand scheme.

I could go on and on, but you get my point. Today is a beautiful day. Let us rejoice and be glad in it!