Mary and I met through the Busting Out dragon boat team in 1999 and our friendship grew as we got involved in other activities together, such as hiking, biking, downhill & cross-country skiing, cottaging and even winter camping. Mary participated in it all, even after her cancer came back. Many years we did the Run for the Cure together, and the year of her recurrence, we crossed the finish line together, holding hands.
Mary taught me to not let cancer keep me from living my life.
The winter after her cancer returned, a group of us went to Algonquin park to camp in a yurt and ski. Mary was having chemo treatments, but she didn’t let that stop her. We skied together and, as I struggled to keep up with her, I remember thinking: I hope I could handle it half as well as Mary if my own cancer ever came back. Little did I know that I would soon be joining her on that journey.
When my cancer did return, Mary was one of the first people that I called. I met her for lunch the next day and told her that I really didn’t want to join her ‘damn club’. But now that I had, we were in it together. That Christmas she gave me a lovely fleece nightgown with the words ‘our damn club’ embroidered on it.
Mary taught me how to be both a ‘classy lady’ and ‘one tough broad’
Mary and I often went on group hikes or ski outings together, but we had an agreement that if one of us needed to turn back, we would turn back together. Sometimes I didn’t feel like going but there was part of me that thought “If Mary can do it, so can I”.
Mary taught me that if you have a battle to fight, it’s better not to do it alone.
We participated in the “Look Good, Feel Better” program together, where we learned how to draw eyebrows where there were none. No disrespect to that wonderful organization, but we secretly called it “Look Good, Feel Like Crap”. A few weeks before she died, I brought my mom and my son Adam to see her, and she put on makeup and draped herself in a lovely red shawl for our visit.
Mary taught me that, if you have to be sick, you might as well look good doing it.
I know it was a hard pill to swallow, but Mary handled the loss of her beautiful thick hair with humor and grace. In a piece that she wrote and posted on my blog she said:
“Well, as my friends say, bad hair is still way better than the alternative. But just in case, here’s how I want my epitaph to read: She died after a long and cranky battle with cancer and hair care.”
Mary taught me that it’s better to laugh than to cry
In 2004 we travelled together to China to paddle in the World dragon boat festival in Shanghai. After the festival, and a group tour that took us to several cities in China, Mary & Jennifer & I went on to Vietnam.
We enjoyed great meals (even though we weren’t always quite sure what we were eating), tea ceremonies, boat rides in the Me-kong Delta, foot massages, and unknowingly what our guide referred to as “friendly massage’.
Mary taught me to hang on to my bathing suit straps while having a massage on the beach (even though I have pictures to show that she didn’t!)
We spent the better part of a month together and the only complaint that Jennifer & I had was the snoring. You wouldn’t believe the noise that could come out of such a little person! She’d probably be mortified that I shared that with you, but somehow it made us feel better to know that she wasn’t quite perfect after all.
I recently went through the pictures of that trip and it was a joy to see photos of Mary looking lovely and healthy and strong. That’s how I remember her: with her head of beautiful thick hair, smiling, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
Mary taught me that the world is a wonderful place to explore and that times with good friends are to be cherished
Mary touched so many people, as we can see by the turnout today. I know that at the International Festival in Peterborough last weekend, she was with the Busting Out team in the boat and in spirit.
Mary taught me to dig deep and paddle strong.
And that cancer doesn’t define you.
It’s not how you die that matters, but how you live your life.
And Mary’s was a life well lived.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Monday, May 31, 2010
New math, by Sue Hendler
New math, my results and a potential solution to the parking problem
Posted By SUE HENDLER
May 2009
I get a fair number of comments on this column. Some are heartwarming and supportive. Others are not. Still others give me pause, as they give me more, rather than less, material over which to ruminate (spoken as a true vegetarian).
The most recent instance of the last of these was a response to my "wish list" column ("At first, cancer centre seemed foreign; now it seems homey," April 3). Alastair Lamb and Anne Smith wrote a letter to the editor ("Cancer centre improvements meet columnist's 'wish list,' " April 22) in which they documented how most of the things I had wished for were, in fact, planned in the ongoing expansion of the cancer centre.
It was great to know that some of the things I thought could enhance the lives and treatment of those of us with cancer were actually being planned for. But there was one stark incongruence that I have been thinking about for the past while.
In my column, I made a big deal of how the people at the cancer centre make all the difference -- especially in the midst of inadequate physical facilities. In their response, Lamb and Smith emphasized the improvement of these facilities.
But that made me think back to a story in the Whig from a while ago. It had the provocative headline: "KGH to cut jobs, beds." That story was all the rage in the cancer centre waiting rooms the day it came out.
OK, so I know I'm a political person. I have lots of opinions as to how the world ought to be run, and lots of arguments with how parts of it are being run. But I didn't set out to write this column in order to express political viewpoints. While I believe that values are implicit or explicit in everything we do, and I knew I couldn't escape expressing values in my columns, it wasn't my intention to advocate for or against particular ideas, policies or programs in this space. But the juxtaposition of these two stories ended all that.
In other words, the contrast between these two positions struck me, as I hope it does you. How can the same, or smaller, numbers of staff provide good service to increased numbers of clients (from 75,000 to 105,000, using Lamb and Smith's own numbers) in a space that is almost twice as big? Hmm ... must be the new math. I must have been sick the day they covered that in school.
Speaking of sick, after several weeks of good news I got a less-positive report before my last chemotherapy treatment. I had had a CT scan and, for the first time, had not called my oncologist for results. I'm not sure why; maybe I didn't want to spoil things, as I was feeling pretty good but realized I had never gotten a good report after a scan. It was always, in the words of my oncologist, "not good" or a "mixed bag." Maybe I wasn't worried because my blood work had been encouraging. Maybe I was in denial.
Anyway, I didn't call but, for some reason, wasn't surprised when I got the "mixed bag" verdict. Some liver lesions are smaller or gone, but several are bigger. Bone lesions look like they're healing. Lung lesions look stable. Tumour marker counts are way up ... again. Sigh.
So what does this mean? It could just be an unexplained blip in my treatment. It could mean that the chemotherapy isn't working anymore. It could even be a positive thing in that the tumour marker could signify dying cancer cells as opposed to replicating ones. In other words, we don't know.
It's hard to decide what to do given that kind of uncertainty. We could stop this chemotherapy and try another one. We could try something else entirely. Or we could stay with the current therapy for one or two more cycles and see what happens.
I've decided to go with the last of these options. Two oncologists recommended it, it makes sense to me not to give up on something that has been effective -- at least not without more conclusive evidence -- and I really don't want to go through the uncertainty of starting another sort of therapy with a whole new set of side effects and a whole new question as to its efficacy -- or not.
The day I got this news, I drove to my place in the country. I figured that digging in the garden would be therapeutic. While I lay on the grass and took a break from this work, I looked up and saw three -- no, four -- turkey vultures circling overhead. Not yet, I thought. Not yet.
Finally, if you have ever been to the local cancer centre, you'll probably have experienced the frustration of trying to find a parking spot anywhere close to the building. You'll probably have driven in circles for a while and then reconciled yourself to either getting a parking ticket or parking blocks away, or both. Having dealt with this situation for more than a year, I would encourage you to sign an online petition (before July 31) about cancer centre parking: http://www.thepetitionsite.com/2/parking-for-cancer-care. Thanks.
Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey.
Posted By SUE HENDLER
May 2009
I get a fair number of comments on this column. Some are heartwarming and supportive. Others are not. Still others give me pause, as they give me more, rather than less, material over which to ruminate (spoken as a true vegetarian).
The most recent instance of the last of these was a response to my "wish list" column ("At first, cancer centre seemed foreign; now it seems homey," April 3). Alastair Lamb and Anne Smith wrote a letter to the editor ("Cancer centre improvements meet columnist's 'wish list,' " April 22) in which they documented how most of the things I had wished for were, in fact, planned in the ongoing expansion of the cancer centre.
It was great to know that some of the things I thought could enhance the lives and treatment of those of us with cancer were actually being planned for. But there was one stark incongruence that I have been thinking about for the past while.
In my column, I made a big deal of how the people at the cancer centre make all the difference -- especially in the midst of inadequate physical facilities. In their response, Lamb and Smith emphasized the improvement of these facilities.
But that made me think back to a story in the Whig from a while ago. It had the provocative headline: "KGH to cut jobs, beds." That story was all the rage in the cancer centre waiting rooms the day it came out.
OK, so I know I'm a political person. I have lots of opinions as to how the world ought to be run, and lots of arguments with how parts of it are being run. But I didn't set out to write this column in order to express political viewpoints. While I believe that values are implicit or explicit in everything we do, and I knew I couldn't escape expressing values in my columns, it wasn't my intention to advocate for or against particular ideas, policies or programs in this space. But the juxtaposition of these two stories ended all that.
In other words, the contrast between these two positions struck me, as I hope it does you. How can the same, or smaller, numbers of staff provide good service to increased numbers of clients (from 75,000 to 105,000, using Lamb and Smith's own numbers) in a space that is almost twice as big? Hmm ... must be the new math. I must have been sick the day they covered that in school.
Speaking of sick, after several weeks of good news I got a less-positive report before my last chemotherapy treatment. I had had a CT scan and, for the first time, had not called my oncologist for results. I'm not sure why; maybe I didn't want to spoil things, as I was feeling pretty good but realized I had never gotten a good report after a scan. It was always, in the words of my oncologist, "not good" or a "mixed bag." Maybe I wasn't worried because my blood work had been encouraging. Maybe I was in denial.
Anyway, I didn't call but, for some reason, wasn't surprised when I got the "mixed bag" verdict. Some liver lesions are smaller or gone, but several are bigger. Bone lesions look like they're healing. Lung lesions look stable. Tumour marker counts are way up ... again. Sigh.
So what does this mean? It could just be an unexplained blip in my treatment. It could mean that the chemotherapy isn't working anymore. It could even be a positive thing in that the tumour marker could signify dying cancer cells as opposed to replicating ones. In other words, we don't know.
It's hard to decide what to do given that kind of uncertainty. We could stop this chemotherapy and try another one. We could try something else entirely. Or we could stay with the current therapy for one or two more cycles and see what happens.
I've decided to go with the last of these options. Two oncologists recommended it, it makes sense to me not to give up on something that has been effective -- at least not without more conclusive evidence -- and I really don't want to go through the uncertainty of starting another sort of therapy with a whole new set of side effects and a whole new question as to its efficacy -- or not.
The day I got this news, I drove to my place in the country. I figured that digging in the garden would be therapeutic. While I lay on the grass and took a break from this work, I looked up and saw three -- no, four -- turkey vultures circling overhead. Not yet, I thought. Not yet.
Finally, if you have ever been to the local cancer centre, you'll probably have experienced the frustration of trying to find a parking spot anywhere close to the building. You'll probably have driven in circles for a while and then reconciled yourself to either getting a parking ticket or parking blocks away, or both. Having dealt with this situation for more than a year, I would encourage you to sign an online petition (before July 31) about cancer centre parking: http://www.thepetitionsite.com/2/parking-for-cancer-care. Thanks.
Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey.
An open letter to my sister, by Sue Hendler
An open letter to my sister: 'I understand so much better now'
May 15, 2009
Dear Celia:
Happy birthday! It's been almost eight years since you died, so that means you would be turning 52 today. As always, I miss you and hope that wherever you are, if anywhere beyond the container of your ashes, your spirit is more peaceful and content than it was during your last years on this planet.
I've been writing this column in our local newspaper for almost a year. I started doing it a few months after I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. Sometimes I wonder what you would say or think about my writing -- and my cancer -- both in general and in terms of specific columns or topics. I wish we could talk about it.
I'm writing to you because I want you to know that so many things about your illnesses and your behaviour make sense to me now. While I found them frustrating and irritating at the time, I have found myself doing and feeling some of the very things that I couldn't understand back then. So I want you to know that I get it and I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I got frustrated when I drove you around to do your errands. You had particular things that you wanted to get in particular stores and in a particular order. Ever the planner, I just wanted to do everything in the same place -- or at least as much as possible. Driving around southern Florida, where you lived, was never my favourite thing to do, and I wanted to do the least amount of it as possible. Why couldn't you understand and respect that, I wondered. After all, wasn't I doing you the favour of helping you get your errands done? I now know how important it was for you to retain control over at least some parts of your life.
I'm sorry I kept trying to "fix things." While there is a fine line between being helpful and being controlling, I know now that I could have talked with you about how I was experiencing that conflict. We could have come to a place where maybe both of us might have been more comfortable.
I'm sorry I was scared of your illnesses. My own fear helped make me less than supportive at times. I had always been a pretty healthy person, and being around anyone who was ill was difficult for me. That must have not felt too great to you and, boy, do I know what that feels like now!
I'm sorry I didn't make more time for you. It's true you lived far away and I had a job that was pretty demanding. Still, I wish we could have had more time together -- especially now that I see time as the greatest gift we can give each other as friends or family members.
I'm sorry I got impatient when we spoke and you repeated the same thing over and over again. And you weren't on chemotherapy so you couldn't even blame it on chemo-brain! Again, I sure know now what it means to be repetitive and have people say, "Sue, you already told me that."
I'm sorry I didn't realize that being with you while you were so sick was in many ways a gift that I could have accepted more gracefully. I think that I often regarded it more as a chore and something I was giving you instead of a more equitable sharing of time, experiences and feelings.
I'm sorry I criticized your choosing to hang out with people who were sick. While I thought it made sense that it would be better for you to associate more with people who were well, I can now understand how sometimes you wanted to be spending time with people who had experienced situations similar to those with which you were living.
I guess what I'm trying to say with all these examples is that while being really sick and thinking one may be close to death is going to be a unique experience for everyone, there may well be some general trends. Trying to maintain some degree of autonomy and control over one's life falls into this category. Accepting with grace the help of others does, too. As does needing to be listened to and respected.
While it's too late for me to say these things to you directly, it's not too late for me to figure them out and articulate them in whatever form I can. I picture us having this conversation while we are walking on trails in the Everglades. Remember when I found that eastern diamondback rattlesnake? Or when we saw the roseate spoonbills? Or when we drove north to Orange County and saw all those manatees? Those stand out to me as some of the good times we had before you died. But I now think that if we had had this sort of conversation, that would have been a good time, too.
Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey.
May 15, 2009
Dear Celia:
Happy birthday! It's been almost eight years since you died, so that means you would be turning 52 today. As always, I miss you and hope that wherever you are, if anywhere beyond the container of your ashes, your spirit is more peaceful and content than it was during your last years on this planet.
I've been writing this column in our local newspaper for almost a year. I started doing it a few months after I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. Sometimes I wonder what you would say or think about my writing -- and my cancer -- both in general and in terms of specific columns or topics. I wish we could talk about it.
I'm writing to you because I want you to know that so many things about your illnesses and your behaviour make sense to me now. While I found them frustrating and irritating at the time, I have found myself doing and feeling some of the very things that I couldn't understand back then. So I want you to know that I get it and I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I got frustrated when I drove you around to do your errands. You had particular things that you wanted to get in particular stores and in a particular order. Ever the planner, I just wanted to do everything in the same place -- or at least as much as possible. Driving around southern Florida, where you lived, was never my favourite thing to do, and I wanted to do the least amount of it as possible. Why couldn't you understand and respect that, I wondered. After all, wasn't I doing you the favour of helping you get your errands done? I now know how important it was for you to retain control over at least some parts of your life.
I'm sorry I kept trying to "fix things." While there is a fine line between being helpful and being controlling, I know now that I could have talked with you about how I was experiencing that conflict. We could have come to a place where maybe both of us might have been more comfortable.
I'm sorry I was scared of your illnesses. My own fear helped make me less than supportive at times. I had always been a pretty healthy person, and being around anyone who was ill was difficult for me. That must have not felt too great to you and, boy, do I know what that feels like now!
I'm sorry I didn't make more time for you. It's true you lived far away and I had a job that was pretty demanding. Still, I wish we could have had more time together -- especially now that I see time as the greatest gift we can give each other as friends or family members.
I'm sorry I got impatient when we spoke and you repeated the same thing over and over again. And you weren't on chemotherapy so you couldn't even blame it on chemo-brain! Again, I sure know now what it means to be repetitive and have people say, "Sue, you already told me that."
I'm sorry I didn't realize that being with you while you were so sick was in many ways a gift that I could have accepted more gracefully. I think that I often regarded it more as a chore and something I was giving you instead of a more equitable sharing of time, experiences and feelings.
I'm sorry I criticized your choosing to hang out with people who were sick. While I thought it made sense that it would be better for you to associate more with people who were well, I can now understand how sometimes you wanted to be spending time with people who had experienced situations similar to those with which you were living.
I guess what I'm trying to say with all these examples is that while being really sick and thinking one may be close to death is going to be a unique experience for everyone, there may well be some general trends. Trying to maintain some degree of autonomy and control over one's life falls into this category. Accepting with grace the help of others does, too. As does needing to be listened to and respected.
While it's too late for me to say these things to you directly, it's not too late for me to figure them out and articulate them in whatever form I can. I picture us having this conversation while we are walking on trails in the Everglades. Remember when I found that eastern diamondback rattlesnake? Or when we saw the roseate spoonbills? Or when we drove north to Orange County and saw all those manatees? Those stand out to me as some of the good times we had before you died. But I now think that if we had had this sort of conversation, that would have been a good time, too.
Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
German New Medicine
I don’t pretend to understand German New Medicine (GNM) from the short time I spent at a retreat on the topic, but then I often don’t understand conventional medicine either, so this post is not meant to be a critique. The quotes below are from websites I found and not associated with the retreat I attended, but will lead to more information about GNM.
http://germannewmedicine.ca/home.html, http://www.newmedicine.ca/overview.php and http://germannewmedicine.ca/documents/metastasis_theory.html.
My own personal comments are in blue.
“Dr. Ryke Geerd Hamer, formerly of the Universities of Munich and Tubingen in Germany, founded the German New Medicine after extensive research and a therapeutic practice dating back to 1979.”
“After twenty years of research and therapy with over 31,000 patients, Dr. Hamer finally established firmly, logically and empirically how biological conflict-shock results in a cold cancerous or necrotic phase and how, if the conflict is resolved, the cancerous or necrotic process is reversed to repair the damage and return the individual to health."
”He established that such a sudden shock affects not only the psyche, but impacts at the same time (visible on a brain scan) the part of the brain that corresponds biologically to the specific trauma. Whether the body responds to the unexpected event with a tumor growth (cancer), with tissue degeneration, or with functional loss, is determined by the exact type of conflict shock. So far, Dr. Hamer has been able to confirm these discoveries with over 40,000 case studies. Since HEALING can only occur after the conflict has been resolved, German New Medicine therapy focuses on identifying and resolving the original shock.”
While I’ve certainly had my share of disappointments in my life, I’ve had very few actual ‘shocks’, so I have a hard time making a connection here. The biggest shock I’ve received was the cancer diagnosis itself. Part of the time I spent at the retreat felt a bit like group therapy and I’m not at a place where I want to analyze what emotional trauma may or may not have caused my cancer. I’m just interested in ways to be at peace and enjoy my life, however long it may be.
“German New Medicine does not dispute the existence of second or multiple cancers. But, as we now learn to understand, second cancers are not caused by “spreading” cancer cells, but are the result of simultaneous or further conflict shocks, involving the organ that is biologically linked to the respective conflicts. This applies, without exception, in every case of cancer.”
I have a hard time with this because I’ve been led to believe that the difference between metastatic breast cancer and new primary cancers can be pathologically identified. My original lung tumor was tested after the surgery and was determined not to be lung cancer. Further tumors in my lungs have responded to hormone therapy, which lung cancer would not.
“Lung cancer is biologically linked to a “death-fright conflict”. As a secondary cancer, lung cancer is most often the result of a diagnosis or prognosis shock perceived as a death-sentence.”
As mentioned above, according to GNM, I have lung cancer, not metastatic breast cancer. It came 10 years after my original diagnose, so I don’t think it can be traced back to a prognosis perceived as a death-sentence. I don’t want to die, but I am not afraid of death.
“Bone cancer is, according to Dr. Hamer’s findings, linked to “self-devaluation conflicts”, which cancer patients typically experience because of feeling “worthless”. During the conflict-active phase, the bone(s) or joint(s) closest to where one feels.”
Again, according to GNM, I have bone cancer as well, not metastatic breast cancer. I don’t feel worthless or self-devalued. I may have struggled with inadequacy issues when I was younger but, with time, I think I have developed a healthy sense of self-value and worth.
When I mentioned at the retreat that I have pain in my rib (I didn’t dare say that I’m about to start radiation!) I was told that the pain was a good thing because it meant that it was in the ‘healing phase’. Couldn’t it also mean that it’s getting worse? Healing itself may be painful, but I think that the cancer weakening the bone and causing them to fracture is bound to be more of a source of pain. My latest MRI says that there is a "met lesion involving C5 vertibra with almost complete and replacement of the normal marrow signal". Somehow that doesn't sound like a healing phase to me.
There was a young woman there who had received a very poor prognosis for cancer (I believe it was lymphoma) and is now healthy and cancer free because of GNM. However, we’ve all heard numerous stories of people who did high-dose chemo, or alternatively did nothing, and who are well today. Lance Armstrong’s cancer spread to his lungs and brain and he survived. However, no two cancers are alike. Metastatic testicular cancer is considered curable; metastatic breast cancer is not.
I guess what it all boils down to is that everyone has to do what is right for them. I wouldn’t criticize anyone for exploring and believing in GNM, but I now know it’s not right for me. My plan is to combine traditional medicine with whatever else I find that is helpful and adds to the quality of my life.
http://germannewmedicine.ca/home.html, http://www.newmedicine.ca/overview.php and http://germannewmedicine.ca/documents/metastasis_theory.html.
My own personal comments are in blue.
“Dr. Ryke Geerd Hamer, formerly of the Universities of Munich and Tubingen in Germany, founded the German New Medicine after extensive research and a therapeutic practice dating back to 1979.”
“After twenty years of research and therapy with over 31,000 patients, Dr. Hamer finally established firmly, logically and empirically how biological conflict-shock results in a cold cancerous or necrotic phase and how, if the conflict is resolved, the cancerous or necrotic process is reversed to repair the damage and return the individual to health."
”He established that such a sudden shock affects not only the psyche, but impacts at the same time (visible on a brain scan) the part of the brain that corresponds biologically to the specific trauma. Whether the body responds to the unexpected event with a tumor growth (cancer), with tissue degeneration, or with functional loss, is determined by the exact type of conflict shock. So far, Dr. Hamer has been able to confirm these discoveries with over 40,000 case studies. Since HEALING can only occur after the conflict has been resolved, German New Medicine therapy focuses on identifying and resolving the original shock.”
While I’ve certainly had my share of disappointments in my life, I’ve had very few actual ‘shocks’, so I have a hard time making a connection here. The biggest shock I’ve received was the cancer diagnosis itself. Part of the time I spent at the retreat felt a bit like group therapy and I’m not at a place where I want to analyze what emotional trauma may or may not have caused my cancer. I’m just interested in ways to be at peace and enjoy my life, however long it may be.
“German New Medicine does not dispute the existence of second or multiple cancers. But, as we now learn to understand, second cancers are not caused by “spreading” cancer cells, but are the result of simultaneous or further conflict shocks, involving the organ that is biologically linked to the respective conflicts. This applies, without exception, in every case of cancer.”
I have a hard time with this because I’ve been led to believe that the difference between metastatic breast cancer and new primary cancers can be pathologically identified. My original lung tumor was tested after the surgery and was determined not to be lung cancer. Further tumors in my lungs have responded to hormone therapy, which lung cancer would not.
“Lung cancer is biologically linked to a “death-fright conflict”. As a secondary cancer, lung cancer is most often the result of a diagnosis or prognosis shock perceived as a death-sentence.”
As mentioned above, according to GNM, I have lung cancer, not metastatic breast cancer. It came 10 years after my original diagnose, so I don’t think it can be traced back to a prognosis perceived as a death-sentence. I don’t want to die, but I am not afraid of death.
“Bone cancer is, according to Dr. Hamer’s findings, linked to “self-devaluation conflicts”, which cancer patients typically experience because of feeling “worthless”. During the conflict-active phase, the bone(s) or joint(s) closest to where one feels.”
Again, according to GNM, I have bone cancer as well, not metastatic breast cancer. I don’t feel worthless or self-devalued. I may have struggled with inadequacy issues when I was younger but, with time, I think I have developed a healthy sense of self-value and worth.
When I mentioned at the retreat that I have pain in my rib (I didn’t dare say that I’m about to start radiation!) I was told that the pain was a good thing because it meant that it was in the ‘healing phase’. Couldn’t it also mean that it’s getting worse? Healing itself may be painful, but I think that the cancer weakening the bone and causing them to fracture is bound to be more of a source of pain. My latest MRI says that there is a "met lesion involving C5 vertibra with almost complete and replacement of the normal marrow signal". Somehow that doesn't sound like a healing phase to me.
There was a young woman there who had received a very poor prognosis for cancer (I believe it was lymphoma) and is now healthy and cancer free because of GNM. However, we’ve all heard numerous stories of people who did high-dose chemo, or alternatively did nothing, and who are well today. Lance Armstrong’s cancer spread to his lungs and brain and he survived. However, no two cancers are alike. Metastatic testicular cancer is considered curable; metastatic breast cancer is not.
I guess what it all boils down to is that everyone has to do what is right for them. I wouldn’t criticize anyone for exploring and believing in GNM, but I now know it’s not right for me. My plan is to combine traditional medicine with whatever else I find that is helpful and adds to the quality of my life.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Overcoming Survivor's Guilt - Cancer Crusade Affirmation
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all?
~William Shakespeare~
King Lear, V:iii
The lovely young woman pictured above was one of my best friends. Her name was Juanita. The Spanish name is the feminine form of "Juan" which means "God is gracious." After her death from cancer at age 34, I doubted very much and for quite a long time that God was gracious, since my dictionary defines that word as "displaying divine grace, mercy, or compassion."
There had been other losses in my life. The worst was that of my own brilliant, sweet and handsome brother - my only sibling - who also died at the age of 34. There was the young woman with whom I taught who went to bed one night, seemingly the picture of health, and never awakened. And there was the infant son of a neighbor who picked up a nasty virus that took his tiny life in a matter of a few days.
But it was Juanita's death that caused me to experience "survivor's guilt" for the first time, probably because we had had similar diagnoses. Why had cancer taken her and not me? I almost laughed when I heard people say that "life isn't fair" because "fair" is such a wimp of a word to use when taking in the whole of life and death and our poor attempts to find some meaning in all of it. After all, as Johnny Carson once said, "If life were fair, Elvis would be alive and all the impersonators would be dead."
In the years following Juanita's death, there was much talk about "survivor's guilt" and much material available on the subject because of events in the news. Most of us felt a bit of its sting when a riding accident left Christopher Reeve's "Superman"" body broken and paralyzed; when a car carrying Princess Diana smashed into the wall of a tunnel in Paris; when an ill-fated flight took the life of John F. Kennedy, Jr. and his wife and sister- in-law; when the unthinkable, the unspeakable happened on 9/11 and the walls of our last illusions came tumbling down, finally and forever.
But for all the material I have come across in the years since Juanita's death, all the books published on the subject of "survivor's guilt," all the television talk show interviews with experts, I find that I return time and again to the most profoundly comforting book I have ever read. When Bad Things Happen to Good People, by Harold S. Kushner, is a small volume, just over 150 pages, easily read in a few hours. I encourage you to purchase a copy, read it and keep it close so that you can read it again and again, anytime you find yourself going to that life-isn't- fair place and wondering why you are still here when someone you loved and cherished is not.
I also encourage you to celebrate the one you have lost and to keep the flame of his or her life shining brightly by giving something good and beautiful to the world with your own life. It doesn't have to be big, but it has to come from a big place in your heart. It doesn't have to be expensive, but it must be generous of spirit.
I won't even begin to list the possibilities because they would be my ideas and not yours, and because once I started to list them, I would never be able to stop. You start. You think. You dream. You imagine. You leave a legacy.
Do it in memory of the loved one you have lost. And do it so that, when you are gone, the world will be twice blessed by your having been a part of it.
For everything there is a season,
And a time for every matter under heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
A time to plant,
and a time to pluck up what is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
A time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to throw away stones,
and a time to gather stones together;
A time to embrace,
And a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
A time to keep, and a time to throw away;
A time to tear, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate,
A time for war, and a time for peace.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
________________________________________
Roger and Kathy Cawthon
The Cancer Crusade
________________________________________
email: cawthons@thecancercrusade.com
web: http://www.thecancercrusade.com
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Card writing tips
Here are some card writing tips from the Cards4Cancer website:
1- Try to stay away from “Get Well”. Unfortunately some of the recipients of your cards will not get well and this message, while a positive one, can be hard for some. Because we do not know specifically who will receive your cards its a good idea to stay away from any type of “Get Well” messages.
2- “Thinking of You” “Wishing You Well” “You Are In Our Thoughts” “Encouraging You Through Your Battle’ etc…are all great messages to include in your cards.
3- Uplifting quotes are always great.
4- Drawings without any message at all work too.
5-Try to stay gender and age neutral as you do not know who will be receiving your cards. Please write ADULT or CHILD on the card envelope. If you wise to write a card in French, please write FRENCH on the envelope as well.
6- We ask that you include spiritjump.org somewhere in your card so that people who want to receive more cards know about our services.
7- Hospitals have asked that people not include religious messages in their cards.
8- Hospitals have asked not to store cards in a home where someone smokes cigarettes and that they are kept in a smoke free environment.
To learn more, visit http://www.cards4cancer.wordpress.com/
1- Try to stay away from “Get Well”. Unfortunately some of the recipients of your cards will not get well and this message, while a positive one, can be hard for some. Because we do not know specifically who will receive your cards its a good idea to stay away from any type of “Get Well” messages.
2- “Thinking of You” “Wishing You Well” “You Are In Our Thoughts” “Encouraging You Through Your Battle’ etc…are all great messages to include in your cards.
3- Uplifting quotes are always great.
4- Drawings without any message at all work too.
5-Try to stay gender and age neutral as you do not know who will be receiving your cards. Please write ADULT or CHILD on the card envelope. If you wise to write a card in French, please write FRENCH on the envelope as well.
6- We ask that you include spiritjump.org somewhere in your card so that people who want to receive more cards know about our services.
7- Hospitals have asked that people not include religious messages in their cards.
8- Hospitals have asked not to store cards in a home where someone smokes cigarettes and that they are kept in a smoke free environment.
To learn more, visit http://www.cards4cancer.wordpress.com/
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Consumer warning - Shark Vacuum from Canadian Tire
In October 2008, I purchased a Shark vacuum cleaner from Canadian Tire for $169.99. It seemed to work well and I recommended it to my mother, who then bought the same model.
Within 6 months the wires in the telescopic tube came apart. I took it to a local vacuum service centre, only to be told that because Shark has an exclusive rights deal with Canadian Tire, they can’t be repaired & I’d have to order a new part online.
I put off ordering the part and by the time I did, the warrantee had expired. In the meantime, I used a 20+ year old Electrolux which has its problems but still works better than the new vacuum, which I was unable to use at all.
I called Euro-pro’s customer support and was told that, yes, I would have to order a new telescopic tube (product 1129FC), which I did, for $53.32 (including shipping & handling). When the tube arrived, it did not work.
This is the part that really ticks me off! I called customer support and was told that they have upgraded the parts and I will now have to order and purchase a new Power Nozzle for $89.99 plus shipping and handling.
I wrote to Euro-Pro’s customer service on Feb 22 and to Canadian Tire’s customer service on Feb 28th with the following concerns:
a) Euro-Pro seems to have a ‘throw away and repurchase’ policy, which is environmentally unfriendly. It is disappointing that these products cannot be repaired.
b) I should have been told that I would need to buy a new power nozzle when I ordered the telescopic tube.
c) The replacement parts will cost a total of $134.31 (plus shipping & handling for the power nozzle) for a vacuum that originally cost $169.99. I think that I could have bought a much better vacuum for the total of $300 that I will have spent on the Shark in a year & a half (not to mention the time I’ve spent trying to get it fixed or get new parts).
d) While I realize that I was at fault for missing the warrantee date, the fact that the vacuum broke within 6 months tells me that this product was poor quality to begin with.
It doesn’t look like I’ll get this resolved, but I just thought I’d warn other people who might consider making a similar purchase.
Within 6 months the wires in the telescopic tube came apart. I took it to a local vacuum service centre, only to be told that because Shark has an exclusive rights deal with Canadian Tire, they can’t be repaired & I’d have to order a new part online.
I put off ordering the part and by the time I did, the warrantee had expired. In the meantime, I used a 20+ year old Electrolux which has its problems but still works better than the new vacuum, which I was unable to use at all.
I called Euro-pro’s customer support and was told that, yes, I would have to order a new telescopic tube (product 1129FC), which I did, for $53.32 (including shipping & handling). When the tube arrived, it did not work.
This is the part that really ticks me off! I called customer support and was told that they have upgraded the parts and I will now have to order and purchase a new Power Nozzle for $89.99 plus shipping and handling.
I wrote to Euro-Pro’s customer service on Feb 22 and to Canadian Tire’s customer service on Feb 28th with the following concerns:
a) Euro-Pro seems to have a ‘throw away and repurchase’ policy, which is environmentally unfriendly. It is disappointing that these products cannot be repaired.
b) I should have been told that I would need to buy a new power nozzle when I ordered the telescopic tube.
c) The replacement parts will cost a total of $134.31 (plus shipping & handling for the power nozzle) for a vacuum that originally cost $169.99. I think that I could have bought a much better vacuum for the total of $300 that I will have spent on the Shark in a year & a half (not to mention the time I’ve spent trying to get it fixed or get new parts).
d) While I realize that I was at fault for missing the warrantee date, the fact that the vacuum broke within 6 months tells me that this product was poor quality to begin with.
It doesn’t look like I’ll get this resolved, but I just thought I’d warn other people who might consider making a similar purchase.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Excited to be alive
I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.
Like most everyone who watched the news on January 15, 2009, I was glued to the television as the anchors reported the story of US Airways Flight 1549's crash landing in the frigid waters of the Hudson River. Miraculously, all 155 persons onboard survived, and only a few injuries - most of them minor - were reported.
At one point in his coverage of the story on NBC's Nightly News, Brian Williams went to a live telephone interview with a survivor named Jeff. Jeff did his best to describe the crash from his perspective as a passenger, but it was clear he was struggling to speak. With shaking voice, he stopped and started his story several times. Finally, he said, "Forgive me. My voice is cracking. I'm just so excited to be alive!"
So excited to be alive! Not "happy," not "glad," not "relieved," but "excited"!
As cancer survivors and caregivers, many of us are facing painful procedures and treatments. Many more Americans are coping with illnesses and injuries just as debilitating and some that are even more so. Others are dealing with untold and unimaginable losses. And almost every American has been hit hard by the current economic crisis. The bottom line is that every single one of us faces worry, fear, grief and/or heartache of some kind nearly every day.
~Agatha Christie~
Like most everyone who watched the news on January 15, 2009, I was glued to the television as the anchors reported the story of US Airways Flight 1549's crash landing in the frigid waters of the Hudson River. Miraculously, all 155 persons onboard survived, and only a few injuries - most of them minor - were reported.
At one point in his coverage of the story on NBC's Nightly News, Brian Williams went to a live telephone interview with a survivor named Jeff. Jeff did his best to describe the crash from his perspective as a passenger, but it was clear he was struggling to speak. With shaking voice, he stopped and started his story several times. Finally, he said, "Forgive me. My voice is cracking. I'm just so excited to be alive!"
So excited to be alive! Not "happy," not "glad," not "relieved," but "excited"!
What a powerful reminder. Thank you, Jeff and Brian!
As cancer survivors and caregivers, many of us are facing painful procedures and treatments. Many more Americans are coping with illnesses and injuries just as debilitating and some that are even more so. Others are dealing with untold and unimaginable losses. And almost every American has been hit hard by the current economic crisis. The bottom line is that every single one of us faces worry, fear, grief and/or heartache of some kind nearly every day.
But what if we resolve to find some way to be excited every day just to be alive in that moment in time? Let's try this. Let's take just five minutes out of our day and mentally put every worry, fear, pain and other negative feeling into an imaginary box and set it aside (it's a very strong box and they can not get out!). Then let's close our eyes, say "Thank you, God, for my life today," and then run around in circles (open your eyes first) or jump for joy or - if you can't run or jump - lift up your arms like you're cheering at a ballgame and shout "Yay!" Show some excitement, for God's sake! For it is by His grace that we awoke this morning to another glorious day on this planet and to all of the possibilities that brings.
I don't know about you,but I'm excited!
Dear God, thank You for my life today.
~ Amen ~
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Who am I? More specifically, who am I now?
Posted By SUE HENDLER
Feb 6, 2009
TALKING ABOUT CHANGES TO ONE'S identity is pretty common among people diagnosed with cancer. We can look different, act different and feel different. Our looks can be altered by surgery, stress, radiation, chemotherapy and, sometimes, voluntary changes if we want to shake up our appearances a bit. Our actions can change because we have varying amounts of time, strength, stamina and, perhaps, courage and flexibility. And our emotions might change because of medications and all of the above.
While most people around me insist that I am still the same person -I just now have a "condition" -it often doesn't feel that way to me. Instead, it feels as if cancer has rocked my foundation, and I've often said that I don't know how to be this (new) person.
My friend, Susan Babbitt, and I often talk about this issue of identity. She was diagnosed, over five years ago, with sarcoma, an aggressive cancer of the soft tissue that began and recurred in her leg, and then spread. We have been on our respective journeys
for different periods of time and in different ways, but I often seek her insight as to how she has adapted to cancer, and her wisdom has been an important resource in my living with cancer the best I can.
Sue:Susan, you've had a bunch of surgeries, radiation and chemotherapy. You've so far outlived a pretty dire prognosis. How would you describe who you are now in comparison to five years ago?
Susan:I have the same interests and commitments, the same personality, but much has changed for practical reasons. At first, I just wanted to "get my life back." But I eventually realized that if I didn't want fear, disability and cancer to rob me of my life, I had to think differently. This has affected my expectations and priorities.
Sue:How so? What has changed?
Susan:Cancer took away so much. I had never been ill before. I'd always had health, strength and energy, and I loved physical activity. And then, from one day to the next, just because of a lump on my leg, I became a seriously ill person. Eventually I couldn't ride a bike or ski, and now I can hardly walk. My life became so bizarre, with so many hospital stays and so much uncertainty, that I learned to look just at what was happening and not to think about what I wanted or expected to be happening. This requires mental discipline but it is possible. Again, it's practical. I had to accept the arbitrariness of disease. The result is that, although I feel like the same person, I no longer have much sense of that identity, or so it seems. I do and believe in the same things, but I don't think much about what I do, or whether and how it matters.
Sue:What do you mean when you say that you can't think about what you do or if it matters?
Susan:We've talked about how there's no script for living with the threat of death. Even though I teach philosophy, I had no resources to know how to face death. The challenge is: How do I not lose my life just because I'm losing my life? And I've found that as I live with what I have - which is the present -I lose not only the future, but also the past, or at least it loses importance. Perhaps that's because the past is tied to expectations for the future. It tells us something about who we are and what we can offer. Thomas Merton said that life is never absurd when you just live it, but it is always absurd when you watch yourself live it. Life with cancer is absurd enough, as you and I have laughed about. So I don't analyse what's happening. Perhaps that sounds odd, from an academic.
Sue:Not odd -just hard. In some ways, my probably having less time than I would have thought makes each remaining moment both more and less important. It's a strange tightrope to walk. Just when I think I've mastered it, cancer throws another curve ball and I find myself fighting to find my balance again.
Susan:I learned through the practice of meditation -just observing the arising and passing away of all aspects of my own being, and recognizing experientially that this is the nature of the whole universe. This serves as a tool. A focus on importance brings back the fear of losing it all -for me, at least. I lose that fear when I live just with what I have.
Sue:So, if we return to how we started this column, how would you describe your identity now?
Susan:I'd say that I now identify as part of the unfolding of a beautifully complex and mysterious universe, in love with the day-by-day ordinariness of my temporary existence.
Sue:Amidst all the ugliness of cancer, that is really beautiful, Susan. Thank you for sharing it with me.
¦ Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey. Susan Babbitt teaches in the philosophy department at Queen's University.
Feb 6, 2009
TALKING ABOUT CHANGES TO ONE'S identity is pretty common among people diagnosed with cancer. We can look different, act different and feel different. Our looks can be altered by surgery, stress, radiation, chemotherapy and, sometimes, voluntary changes if we want to shake up our appearances a bit. Our actions can change because we have varying amounts of time, strength, stamina and, perhaps, courage and flexibility. And our emotions might change because of medications and all of the above.
While most people around me insist that I am still the same person -I just now have a "condition" -it often doesn't feel that way to me. Instead, it feels as if cancer has rocked my foundation, and I've often said that I don't know how to be this (new) person.
My friend, Susan Babbitt, and I often talk about this issue of identity. She was diagnosed, over five years ago, with sarcoma, an aggressive cancer of the soft tissue that began and recurred in her leg, and then spread. We have been on our respective journeys
for different periods of time and in different ways, but I often seek her insight as to how she has adapted to cancer, and her wisdom has been an important resource in my living with cancer the best I can.
Sue:Susan, you've had a bunch of surgeries, radiation and chemotherapy. You've so far outlived a pretty dire prognosis. How would you describe who you are now in comparison to five years ago?
Susan:I have the same interests and commitments, the same personality, but much has changed for practical reasons. At first, I just wanted to "get my life back." But I eventually realized that if I didn't want fear, disability and cancer to rob me of my life, I had to think differently. This has affected my expectations and priorities.
Sue:How so? What has changed?
Susan:Cancer took away so much. I had never been ill before. I'd always had health, strength and energy, and I loved physical activity. And then, from one day to the next, just because of a lump on my leg, I became a seriously ill person. Eventually I couldn't ride a bike or ski, and now I can hardly walk. My life became so bizarre, with so many hospital stays and so much uncertainty, that I learned to look just at what was happening and not to think about what I wanted or expected to be happening. This requires mental discipline but it is possible. Again, it's practical. I had to accept the arbitrariness of disease. The result is that, although I feel like the same person, I no longer have much sense of that identity, or so it seems. I do and believe in the same things, but I don't think much about what I do, or whether and how it matters.
Sue:What do you mean when you say that you can't think about what you do or if it matters?
Susan:We've talked about how there's no script for living with the threat of death. Even though I teach philosophy, I had no resources to know how to face death. The challenge is: How do I not lose my life just because I'm losing my life? And I've found that as I live with what I have - which is the present -I lose not only the future, but also the past, or at least it loses importance. Perhaps that's because the past is tied to expectations for the future. It tells us something about who we are and what we can offer. Thomas Merton said that life is never absurd when you just live it, but it is always absurd when you watch yourself live it. Life with cancer is absurd enough, as you and I have laughed about. So I don't analyse what's happening. Perhaps that sounds odd, from an academic.
Sue:Not odd -just hard. In some ways, my probably having less time than I would have thought makes each remaining moment both more and less important. It's a strange tightrope to walk. Just when I think I've mastered it, cancer throws another curve ball and I find myself fighting to find my balance again.
Susan:I learned through the practice of meditation -just observing the arising and passing away of all aspects of my own being, and recognizing experientially that this is the nature of the whole universe. This serves as a tool. A focus on importance brings back the fear of losing it all -for me, at least. I lose that fear when I live just with what I have.
Sue:So, if we return to how we started this column, how would you describe your identity now?
Susan:I'd say that I now identify as part of the unfolding of a beautifully complex and mysterious universe, in love with the day-by-day ordinariness of my temporary existence.
Sue:Amidst all the ugliness of cancer, that is really beautiful, Susan. Thank you for sharing it with me.
¦ Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey. Susan Babbitt teaches in the philosophy department at Queen's University.
When you're a cancer patient, there's a lot of waiting
Posted By SUE HENDLER, Feb 20, 2009
Waiting for godot is the title of a play written by Samuel Beckett. The play is focused on the time that passes as two men await the arrival of someone called Godot. Godot never shows up and the men are left to decide whether they will wait again the following day, as a young boy tells them that the elusive Godot will certainly come then.
I was reminded of Beckett's play this week as I waited for the results of various tests that will determine how my chemotherapy regime is working. Like this play, life with cancer is filled with waiting. Waiting to be seen by doctors. Waiting for treatment. Waiting for pain or discomfort to go away. Waiting for tests. And, especially, waiting for test results.
Those of us with cancer typically undergo a variety of tests. There are blood tests that show how my organs are working and that measure the levels of the tumour markers my cancer cells produce. There are specialized tests, like the Multiple Gated Acquisition Scan (MUGA), that make videos of my heart and demonstrate whether the chemotherapy treatments I'm on are compromising its functioning.
This is one type of imaging; there are three others that I experience pretty regularly.
Magnetic resonance imaging, or MRI, allows my doctors to see detailed three-dimensional pictures of my spinal cord or other body part(s) of interest. Bone scans demonstrate levels of metabolic activity throughout my skeleton. They give rise to pictures showing the absence or concentration of a radioactive tracer that suggest where my bones are either rebuilding or breaking down. And there are computerized axial tomography, or CT, scans that generate two-dimensional cross-sections often focused on soft tissues and organs, like my lungs and liver.
Most of these tests require the use of specialized equipment and trained personnel. Some also require particular dyes or radioactive isotopes that allow for the collection of different sorts of data based on the staining or absorption rates of these tracer elements. All of these things - equipment, people and tracers - are, or can be, in short supply, so it often takes a while to be scheduled for a given test.
Once a test takes place, the waiting for results starts. While my doctors can access MRI or CT scan images on their computer almost immediately after the pictures have been taken, they usually prefer to wait to contact me until they've received a technical report in which the images are analysed and compared with earlier tests.
I have found that I not only wait with bated breath for my own tests results, I also wait for those of my friends who are living with cancer. My friend, Susan, gets a CT scan every three months to gauge the state of her cancer. Then there's Jackie, who gets a colonoscopy every year to assess whether any stray cancer cells were left after her successful colon surgery. A new friend, Chris in Ottawa, has breast cancer that has metastasized to her lungs, and she recently had a CT scan as part of her ongoing treatment.
While my oncologists say they don't treat numbers or images, the tests are still an important part of my living with cancer, as they will be used in conjunction with how I look and how I'm feeling in order to figure out how best to treat my condition. And the same applies to my friends and their tests.
While I wait to hear about my latest tests and any subsequent decisions about my chemotherapy, I play Sudoku, wash dishes and brush my cats. I talk with friends and sort my recycling. I also think more about Beckett's play. There are a lot of interpretations of Waiting for Godot. Is Godot a real person? Is Godot actually supposed to be God? Or is Godot not a person or being at all but, instead, a metaphor for something else entirely? Pleasure? Life? Death? Meaning itself ?
Conversely, or at least on the surface, my waiting for things like test results seems unambiguous. If blood work shows that my tumour marker has gone down, that's good news. If my CT scan suggests that various lesions are bigger, well, that's bad news. There is some truth to this, but, it seems to me, there are even bigger issues at stake. Do I want my life to be summarized as a play called "Waiting for Cancer Tests Results"? If not, then I have to find a way of appreciating the fact that the tests are important but not allow them to take over whatever time I have on this planet.
It's hard to do, but I'd really like a play about my life to have a more interesting title. "A Woman of at Least Some Importance," perhaps (with apologies to Oscar Wilde)?
* Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey.
Waiting for godot is the title of a play written by Samuel Beckett. The play is focused on the time that passes as two men await the arrival of someone called Godot. Godot never shows up and the men are left to decide whether they will wait again the following day, as a young boy tells them that the elusive Godot will certainly come then.
I was reminded of Beckett's play this week as I waited for the results of various tests that will determine how my chemotherapy regime is working. Like this play, life with cancer is filled with waiting. Waiting to be seen by doctors. Waiting for treatment. Waiting for pain or discomfort to go away. Waiting for tests. And, especially, waiting for test results.
Those of us with cancer typically undergo a variety of tests. There are blood tests that show how my organs are working and that measure the levels of the tumour markers my cancer cells produce. There are specialized tests, like the Multiple Gated Acquisition Scan (MUGA), that make videos of my heart and demonstrate whether the chemotherapy treatments I'm on are compromising its functioning.
This is one type of imaging; there are three others that I experience pretty regularly.
Magnetic resonance imaging, or MRI, allows my doctors to see detailed three-dimensional pictures of my spinal cord or other body part(s) of interest. Bone scans demonstrate levels of metabolic activity throughout my skeleton. They give rise to pictures showing the absence or concentration of a radioactive tracer that suggest where my bones are either rebuilding or breaking down. And there are computerized axial tomography, or CT, scans that generate two-dimensional cross-sections often focused on soft tissues and organs, like my lungs and liver.
Most of these tests require the use of specialized equipment and trained personnel. Some also require particular dyes or radioactive isotopes that allow for the collection of different sorts of data based on the staining or absorption rates of these tracer elements. All of these things - equipment, people and tracers - are, or can be, in short supply, so it often takes a while to be scheduled for a given test.
Once a test takes place, the waiting for results starts. While my doctors can access MRI or CT scan images on their computer almost immediately after the pictures have been taken, they usually prefer to wait to contact me until they've received a technical report in which the images are analysed and compared with earlier tests.
I have found that I not only wait with bated breath for my own tests results, I also wait for those of my friends who are living with cancer. My friend, Susan, gets a CT scan every three months to gauge the state of her cancer. Then there's Jackie, who gets a colonoscopy every year to assess whether any stray cancer cells were left after her successful colon surgery. A new friend, Chris in Ottawa, has breast cancer that has metastasized to her lungs, and she recently had a CT scan as part of her ongoing treatment.
While my oncologists say they don't treat numbers or images, the tests are still an important part of my living with cancer, as they will be used in conjunction with how I look and how I'm feeling in order to figure out how best to treat my condition. And the same applies to my friends and their tests.
While I wait to hear about my latest tests and any subsequent decisions about my chemotherapy, I play Sudoku, wash dishes and brush my cats. I talk with friends and sort my recycling. I also think more about Beckett's play. There are a lot of interpretations of Waiting for Godot. Is Godot a real person? Is Godot actually supposed to be God? Or is Godot not a person or being at all but, instead, a metaphor for something else entirely? Pleasure? Life? Death? Meaning itself ?
Conversely, or at least on the surface, my waiting for things like test results seems unambiguous. If blood work shows that my tumour marker has gone down, that's good news. If my CT scan suggests that various lesions are bigger, well, that's bad news. There is some truth to this, but, it seems to me, there are even bigger issues at stake. Do I want my life to be summarized as a play called "Waiting for Cancer Tests Results"? If not, then I have to find a way of appreciating the fact that the tests are important but not allow them to take over whatever time I have on this planet.
It's hard to do, but I'd really like a play about my life to have a more interesting title. "A Woman of at Least Some Importance," perhaps (with apologies to Oscar Wilde)?
* Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travels her breast cancer journey.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Don't tell me I should be positive in the face of my illness
Don't tell me I should be positive in the face of my illness
Posted By SUE HENDLER
March 20, 2009
I've written a couple of columns about questions I have been asked. If I had to say what one thing I had been told, not asked, it's the importance of being positive. This has, to be polite, started to irk me. Why? There are lots of reasons.
While my surgeon once told me that some of his patients had said cancer was the best thing that ever happened to them, I think this must have involved curable, turn-your-life-around kinds of cancer. I seriously doubt anyone would laud the benefits of a cancer that, at least 97% of the time, is going to kill you. It's hard to think positively about a disease that is almost always terminal. It's also difficult to glue rose-coloured glasses to your head and assert that you are going to beat the odds, no matter how much those odds are stacked against you. So, as someone who tends to be a realist, it has been important for me to acknowledge that I will probably live a lot less time than I thought I would and that cancer is to blame for this.
Second, it's easy to feel like a failure if you can't do this thing that everyone tells you that you should be doing. That is, when people tell me to be positive or think positively, and then I have moments or days when this seem impossible because I feel too scared or sad or angry, I start to see myself as having failed: failed to believe I will get well, failed to smile and be cheery, and failed to be brave in the face of adversity.
So, the bottom line is that not only have I failed to be healthy, I have also failed to stay positive in the face of a serious illness. I don't know about you, but I'm not good at seeing myself as a failure.
The third reason follows from the second. If I don't do something that will help me get better, then I can be blamed for not getting better. In other words, if people are right in asserting that being positive is important in healing, then not being positive can actually be a reason for getting sick or staying sick. So, I am responsible for my cancer! Clearly, this is one of the last things I need to hear right now, and it certainly wouldn't help me be positive (and therefore supposedly heal myself ).
My friend, Christine, has suggested that maybe people want me to be positive so I don't show them how upset I really am. This may help them feel better -- or at least less uncomfortable -- when they are around me. If this is true, I am pretty sure it's not a conscious thing, in that I think the people telling me to be positive really do want me to get better and beat this thing.
Whether being positive is good for people around a sick person, or for the sick person him or herself, the empirical question remains as to whether optimism actually helps someone get well.
A recent study in the journal Cancerconcluded that "emotional status was not associated with survival rate" in people with certain kinds of cancer. When this was reported in the news during the fall of 2007, many people responded with anger, disappointment and a sense of betrayal. We are so wedded to the idea that thinking and acting positively is important, even the suggestion that this could be wrong generates a strong emotional reaction.
Regardless of the medical data, I think it makes sense that enjoying our lives makes for more enjoyable lives. Irrespective of the amount of time we have on this planet, how do we want to live? To a certain extent, I think we can choose whether to be caustic, critical and pessimistic or pleasant, constructive and joyful. But there will always be times in which anger and/or sadness take over.
In my case, these are days in which my pain level makes moving uncomfortable, the sores in my mouth from the chemotherapy make eating difficult, and my cats insist on eating house plants and then barfing all over the place -- especially on the bed because, if you have to throw up, why not do it in the most comfortable place possible?
I don't need to be told that my feelings of irritation and negativity at these times may fester even if they don't actually shorten my life. I'll figure that out for myself and hopefully get to a more "positive" place in time.
After my diagnosis, my mother asked me to tell her when she said something wrong or something that was not helpful. While I won't say it's wrong, I've definitely asked her, and anyone else who will listen, to avoid telling me to be positive. I'm pretty sure -- no, I'm positive -- that would make my life easier, and maybe even better.
Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travel her breast cancer journey.
Posted By SUE HENDLER
March 20, 2009
I've written a couple of columns about questions I have been asked. If I had to say what one thing I had been told, not asked, it's the importance of being positive. This has, to be polite, started to irk me. Why? There are lots of reasons.
While my surgeon once told me that some of his patients had said cancer was the best thing that ever happened to them, I think this must have involved curable, turn-your-life-around kinds of cancer. I seriously doubt anyone would laud the benefits of a cancer that, at least 97% of the time, is going to kill you. It's hard to think positively about a disease that is almost always terminal. It's also difficult to glue rose-coloured glasses to your head and assert that you are going to beat the odds, no matter how much those odds are stacked against you. So, as someone who tends to be a realist, it has been important for me to acknowledge that I will probably live a lot less time than I thought I would and that cancer is to blame for this.
Second, it's easy to feel like a failure if you can't do this thing that everyone tells you that you should be doing. That is, when people tell me to be positive or think positively, and then I have moments or days when this seem impossible because I feel too scared or sad or angry, I start to see myself as having failed: failed to believe I will get well, failed to smile and be cheery, and failed to be brave in the face of adversity.
So, the bottom line is that not only have I failed to be healthy, I have also failed to stay positive in the face of a serious illness. I don't know about you, but I'm not good at seeing myself as a failure.
The third reason follows from the second. If I don't do something that will help me get better, then I can be blamed for not getting better. In other words, if people are right in asserting that being positive is important in healing, then not being positive can actually be a reason for getting sick or staying sick. So, I am responsible for my cancer! Clearly, this is one of the last things I need to hear right now, and it certainly wouldn't help me be positive (and therefore supposedly heal myself ).
My friend, Christine, has suggested that maybe people want me to be positive so I don't show them how upset I really am. This may help them feel better -- or at least less uncomfortable -- when they are around me. If this is true, I am pretty sure it's not a conscious thing, in that I think the people telling me to be positive really do want me to get better and beat this thing.
Whether being positive is good for people around a sick person, or for the sick person him or herself, the empirical question remains as to whether optimism actually helps someone get well.
A recent study in the journal Cancerconcluded that "emotional status was not associated with survival rate" in people with certain kinds of cancer. When this was reported in the news during the fall of 2007, many people responded with anger, disappointment and a sense of betrayal. We are so wedded to the idea that thinking and acting positively is important, even the suggestion that this could be wrong generates a strong emotional reaction.
Regardless of the medical data, I think it makes sense that enjoying our lives makes for more enjoyable lives. Irrespective of the amount of time we have on this planet, how do we want to live? To a certain extent, I think we can choose whether to be caustic, critical and pessimistic or pleasant, constructive and joyful. But there will always be times in which anger and/or sadness take over.
In my case, these are days in which my pain level makes moving uncomfortable, the sores in my mouth from the chemotherapy make eating difficult, and my cats insist on eating house plants and then barfing all over the place -- especially on the bed because, if you have to throw up, why not do it in the most comfortable place possible?
I don't need to be told that my feelings of irritation and negativity at these times may fester even if they don't actually shorten my life. I'll figure that out for myself and hopefully get to a more "positive" place in time.
After my diagnosis, my mother asked me to tell her when she said something wrong or something that was not helpful. While I won't say it's wrong, I've definitely asked her, and anyone else who will listen, to avoid telling me to be positive. I'm pretty sure -- no, I'm positive -- that would make my life easier, and maybe even better.
Sue Hendler is a former member of the Whig-Standard's Community Editorial Board. She is contributing regular columns on her experiences while she travel her breast cancer journey.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Now Voyager
To change one's life: Start immediately. Do it flamboyantly. No exceptions. ~ William James~
If you woke up breathing, congratulations! You have another chance. ~ Andrea Boydston ~
John Lennon once said, "Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans."
Truer words were never spoken.
It certainly was true in his life. A gifted and immensely popular musician, poet and artist, Lennon had found his soul mate in Yoko Ono, and together they had a healthy, beautiful son. Life was good, and the future looked brighter than ever. Book and movie deals, new recording contracts, gallery exhibits - those were their plans.
Until life happened.
On a cold, drizzly evening in New York City, December 8, 1980, John Lennon was shot and killed outside his Central Park apartment by a crazed fan.
We're all familiar with names of other well-known people who seemed to have their whole lives ahead of them, whose futures held great promise but were cut tragically short. Princess Diana and John F. Kennedy, Jr. are two of the most obvious examples.
The actor Christopher Reeve was surely making other plans when he was thrown from his horse during a riding exhibition in 1995. Life happened in one terrible moment, and he went from being the man everyone knew as the movie hero Superman to a quadriplegic dependent on others for every breath he took. He died from the combined and long-term effects of his injuries nine years later.
Nearly three thousand Americans were making other plans when they went to work or boarded airplanes on September 11, 2001. Their lives ended that day, and the lives of countless thousands of others, their families and friends - who were also making other plans - were forever changed by the nightmare now known simply as "9/11."
All of these people and the tragedies that befell them made headlines around the world either because of the celebrity status of those involved or the sheer enormity of the event. But life happens to ordinary individuals making other plans every single day, quietly and with little or no warning, in doctors' offices and clinics and hospitals around the world. Someone says a single word - "cancer" or "terminal" or "coma" or "inoperable" or any one of thousands of terrifying possibilities - and someone else's life changes forever.
If you're reading this, it's probably because you are one of those for whom life has forever changed because of some circumstance beyond your or anyone else's control. There is some measure of comfort in reminding ourselves that no one gets off this planet without his share of such circumstances. Give yourself time to grieve, focus on slow, deep breathing to calm and center yourself, then begin to move forward again, this time using the new tools and techniques you have learned at such dear cost.
And now begin to really live. No prissy, half-hearted living like you were living before. That wasn't really living, and that you doesn't exist anymore. No putting off dreams until tomorrow. Carpe diem. Carpe diem. Carpe that diem now.
Go live your life. Become who you know you're supposed to be. No holding back this time.In the words of Walt Whitman, "Now voyager, sail thou forth to seek and find."
And don't you dare say it's too late. If you're reading this, it's not too late. It's only too late for the people who didn't wake up this morning.
Live out loud. Be outrageous. Love fiercely. Laugh and cry at the sheer beauty of it all. And thank whatever god you believe in that you have another chance to get it right.
Every day, you get another chance.
Dear God, thank You for allowing me to wake up breathing this morning and for one more chance to get it right. Today I will begin to become the person you created me to be.
Amen
Roger and Kathy Cawthon
The Cancer Crusade
email: cawthons@thecancercrusade.com
web: http://www.thecancercrusade.com
Roger and Kathy Cawthon
The Cancer Crusade
email: cawthons@thecancercrusade.com
web: http://www.thecancercrusade.com
Monday, August 17, 2009
Life is Eternal
lyrics (Carly Simon/Teesa Gohl)
I've been doing a lot of thinking
About growing older and moving on
Nobody wants to be told that they're getting on
And maybe going away
For a long, long stay
But just how long and who knows
And how and where my spirit will go
Will it soar like Jazz on a saxophone
Or evaporate on a breeze
Won’t you tell me please
That life is eternal
And love is immortal
And death is only a horizon
Life is eternal
As we move into the light
And a horizon is nothing
Save the limit of our sight
Save the limit of our sight
Here on earth I'm a lost soul
Ever trying to find my way back home
Maybe that's why each new star is born
Expanding heaven's room
Eternity in bloom
And will I see you up in that heaven
In all its light will I know you're there
Will we say the things that we never dared
If wishing makes it so
Won't you let me know
That life is eternal
And love is immortal
And death is only a horizon
Life is eternal
As we move into the light
And a horizon is nothingS
ave the limit of our sight
Save the limit of our sight
I've been doing a lot of thinking
About growing older and moving on
Nobody wants to be told that they're getting on
And maybe going away
For a long, long stay
But just how long and who knows
And how and where my spirit will go
Will it soar like Jazz on a saxophone
Or evaporate on a breeze
Won’t you tell me please
That life is eternal
And love is immortal
And death is only a horizon
Life is eternal
As we move into the light
And a horizon is nothing
Save the limit of our sight
Save the limit of our sight
Here on earth I'm a lost soul
Ever trying to find my way back home
Maybe that's why each new star is born
Expanding heaven's room
Eternity in bloom
And will I see you up in that heaven
In all its light will I know you're there
Will we say the things that we never dared
If wishing makes it so
Won't you let me know
That life is eternal
And love is immortal
And death is only a horizon
Life is eternal
As we move into the light
And a horizon is nothingS
ave the limit of our sight
Save the limit of our sight
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Two years
Chris Lynds
Diagnosed at: Age 40
Diagnosis: Infiltrating Ductal Carcinoma, one positive lymph node
Treatment: Modified Radical Mastectomy, Chemotherapy, Tamoxifen
Occupation: Training Specialist
It has been almost two years since I found a lump in my breast. Two years since my life changed forever. Two years of learning about cancer treatments. Two years of getting an education that I never signed up for. Two years of finding my own strength while learning to lean on others. Two years of crying every tear my tired eyes could produce. Two years of discovering that some of the humor that makes me laugh the hardest is the stuff that comes from a dark place. Two years of appreciating things I overlooked before. Two years of letting go of what is not important.
I probably don’t look much different to the world. I have a new, shorter hairstyle. My prosthesis gives the illusion that all of my body parts are intact. Artificially induced menopause and daily doses of Tamoxifen have made my skin a bit drier, my waist a bit thicker and my temper a bit shorter. No one except the person living inside this body really knows how much I’ve changed.
I was one of the lucky ones. I had a lot of support from family and friends. But not all of the people who started on this journey with me were able to hang in for the long haul. And some of the people who helped me the most were an unexpected surprise.
My cancer was treated by a team of capable and experienced doctors. My soul was treated by a group of women who had one scary but bonding thing in common: we all had cancer. Joining a support group was probably the most beneficial and important step I took towards healing. My Bosom Buddies (as we call ourselves) are the only people who I feel really understand what I’ve been through. My participation in a dragon boat team of breast cancer thrivers makes me feel safe, that there is life after breast cancer.
My life has changed so much, yet so many things are the same, that sometimes it feels surreal. I still go to work every day, I still forget to take out the garbage, I still spend too much time in front of the TV. Yet always in the back of my head is the anxious feeling that I should be doing something important, that somehow on this wild roller coaster ride that I’ve been on these last two years I should have discovered the ‘true purpose’ of my life.
I have not.
What I have discovered is that everything is temporary. Happiness, grief, joy and heartache – it’s all temporary. I always knew that even life itself is temporary. But now I REALLY know it.
Whether you’ve been diagnosed with cancer, or have never been sick a day in your life, we’re all in the same boat, headed in the same direction. To the business person who boards a plane with a faulty engine, to the lonely old man sitting on the porch of an old-age home, to the active young woman who has an appointment today for a mammogram, to those of us living everyday with the hope that our cancer will never return – statistics don’t matter. However bad your prognosis is, there are many seemingly healthy people that you will outlive.
Cancer or no cancer – expensive cars, grand houses, and huge bank accounts can’t save us from the inevitable. All we have is this minute, right here, right now.
I wish I could say that I’m living this minute to the fullest. For now, it’s enough that I’m living this minute. I’m still working on the ‘fullest’.
Diagnosed at: Age 40
Diagnosis: Infiltrating Ductal Carcinoma, one positive lymph node
Treatment: Modified Radical Mastectomy, Chemotherapy, Tamoxifen
Occupation: Training Specialist
It has been almost two years since I found a lump in my breast. Two years since my life changed forever. Two years of learning about cancer treatments. Two years of getting an education that I never signed up for. Two years of finding my own strength while learning to lean on others. Two years of crying every tear my tired eyes could produce. Two years of discovering that some of the humor that makes me laugh the hardest is the stuff that comes from a dark place. Two years of appreciating things I overlooked before. Two years of letting go of what is not important.
I probably don’t look much different to the world. I have a new, shorter hairstyle. My prosthesis gives the illusion that all of my body parts are intact. Artificially induced menopause and daily doses of Tamoxifen have made my skin a bit drier, my waist a bit thicker and my temper a bit shorter. No one except the person living inside this body really knows how much I’ve changed.
I was one of the lucky ones. I had a lot of support from family and friends. But not all of the people who started on this journey with me were able to hang in for the long haul. And some of the people who helped me the most were an unexpected surprise.
My cancer was treated by a team of capable and experienced doctors. My soul was treated by a group of women who had one scary but bonding thing in common: we all had cancer. Joining a support group was probably the most beneficial and important step I took towards healing. My Bosom Buddies (as we call ourselves) are the only people who I feel really understand what I’ve been through. My participation in a dragon boat team of breast cancer thrivers makes me feel safe, that there is life after breast cancer.
My life has changed so much, yet so many things are the same, that sometimes it feels surreal. I still go to work every day, I still forget to take out the garbage, I still spend too much time in front of the TV. Yet always in the back of my head is the anxious feeling that I should be doing something important, that somehow on this wild roller coaster ride that I’ve been on these last two years I should have discovered the ‘true purpose’ of my life.
I have not.
What I have discovered is that everything is temporary. Happiness, grief, joy and heartache – it’s all temporary. I always knew that even life itself is temporary. But now I REALLY know it.
Whether you’ve been diagnosed with cancer, or have never been sick a day in your life, we’re all in the same boat, headed in the same direction. To the business person who boards a plane with a faulty engine, to the lonely old man sitting on the porch of an old-age home, to the active young woman who has an appointment today for a mammogram, to those of us living everyday with the hope that our cancer will never return – statistics don’t matter. However bad your prognosis is, there are many seemingly healthy people that you will outlive.
Cancer or no cancer – expensive cars, grand houses, and huge bank accounts can’t save us from the inevitable. All we have is this minute, right here, right now.
I wish I could say that I’m living this minute to the fullest. For now, it’s enough that I’m living this minute. I’m still working on the ‘fullest’.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Healing Chemistry of Tears
The sorrow which has no vent in tears may make other organs weep. ~Henry Maudsley ~
When I was diagnosed with cancer, I thought there could be no scarier words than those my surgeon had just said to me. I was wrong. Over the course of the next few months, I heard far more frightening words over and over again from well-meaning friends and family members. At least once a day someone said to me, "You have to have a positive attitude! That's the only way to beat this thing!"
Each time I heard those words, my heart skipped a beat, and I had to swallow hard tokeep the rising panic down.
I had just been told that I had cancer and that I was facing at least a year of what the medical professionals mysteriously referred to as "very aggressive treatment." Before any of it could begin, I had to sign a 13-page consent form that outlined all of the potential complications and side- effects I might encounter, including "sudden death."
I desperately needed and wanted to cry, and yet everyone kept telling me not to, that that would be "giving in to it" and evidence of a "negative attitude." I began to believe that if I cried, it could actually cause me to die. I thought that I would not die of cancer, but of negative thinking.
I want to say again and really emphasize that these were well-meaning friends and family members who love me. But they were not cancer survivors. They were people who cared about me who were only repeating words they had heard somewhere because they didn't know what else to say. The fact of the matter is that the best thing someone could have said to me at that point was (and please listen up here, caregivers), "You need to have a good cry."
There is considerable scientific evidence to indicate that the shedding of tears may be involved in removing waste products and toxic substances from the body. The chemical composition of tears resulting from emotional stress (grief, fear, anger, etc.) is known to be different from that of tears produced while cutting onions. Scientists speculate that this is why we experience an increased feeling of well-being after having a "good cry."
University of Minnesota researchers who are studying the chemical composition of tears have isolated two important chemicals (leucine-enkephalin and prolactin) in emotionally shed tears (as mentioned earlier, tears released in response to an unemotional activity, like cutting an onion, don't contain these chemicals). The researchers say that leucine- enkephalin may be an endorphin, one of the natural pain relievers released by the brain in response to stress. William Frey, Ph.D., a biochemist and the leader of the research team, suspects that tears cleanse the body of substances that accumulate under stress. In other words, crying seems to be a healthy and very appropriate way to respond to stress.
Conversely, to resist crying may be harmful to your health. It's possible, say researchers, that men develop more stress- related illness because they don't cry as freely as women do.
So are we to ignore the "positive attitude" advice? Absolutely not! But we need to understand that it will develop over time. It will come with experience along the way of the cancer journey. You will reach a place where you will feel more positive because you will regain control. You will understand more. You will not feel that you are lost and floundering in a foreign land. You will learn the ropes. You will become something of an expert on your specific cancer and treatments, so far less will be unknown to you and you will therefore experience less fear.
But there will also be times when you feel like crying, and when that feeling comes over you, you need to give in to it. Crying does not mean that you don't have a positive attitude. It simply means that your body needs to cleanse itself of some stress-related toxins so that it can get on about the business of healing. Help your body and your spirit heal by having a "good cry."
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Jennifer
When was your original diagnosis?
4/2005
When did the cancer return and how?
3/2009. I was scheduled for the second stage of my reconstruction and in the mean time my oncologist ordered a CAT and PET scan because my tumor markers were higher. They ended up canceling my surgery the day before it was scheduled. They told me it spread to my bones, lungs, and liver. I ended up getting my ovaries removed 2 months after that.
How did having the cancer return affect you? (Mentally, physically, emotionally) What changes have been made in your life since the cancer returned, if any?
I have to say cancer has affected my life both times, not just because of the return. I learned to not let anything or anyone stop you from doing anything you want to do. I learned to live in the moment and enjoy life for what it is. I learned to appreciate and love your family and friends and tell them how you feel as often as possible, even more. I try to stay positive and only alow positive people into my life. I have changed many things in my life. I have done more things in my life in the last 3 years then I did for the first 28 years. I experienced life and done things that I always wanted to try. Some of the things I tried were photography, kayaking, cross-country skiing, rock climbing, hiking, snorkeling, singing, swing, latin, and ballroom dancing. I received my reiki master, scuba diving certification, directed 2 plays, and I'm working toward my black belt in Kenpo. I have also traveled more and have been to Ireland, Scotland, England, Wales, and Paris among my favorites. I also returned to school for something I have wanted to do almost my whole life. I'm not happy with my current career. I have also become more spiritual and I try to share the lessons I have learned with all my loved ones. I have had a few of my friends and family do things or make changes in their life that I never thought they would do, but always wished they would. They told me I was their inspiration.
Where do you draw your strength from? How do you look at life today?
I draw my strength from myself. I think I am a very strong person. Don't get me wrong, I have my moments. But most of the time I am pretty strong. For the moments that I do get weak, I would probably have to say my boyfriend. He is my inspiration. He lost both his parents in the last 4 years and he always knows the right thing to say to get me out of my depressing moods when I find myself there. I look at life as a learning experience and every day there are lessons to be learnt. If you don't learn those lessons, things will keep happening to you until you do. Once you do learn the lessons, you need to share all you have learned with anyone that will listen. It is also a place to enjoy and appreciate. We will not always be here, but we much enjoy it while we are.
Do you have any advice for others with a recurrence?
You made it through the first time so that means you have the strength and determination to make
it through again. Take one day at a time and still continue to live your life. Don't let this run your life, take control.
Anything else to add?
Love yourself and don't be afraid to tell your loved one's that you love them every day.
4/2005
When did the cancer return and how?
3/2009. I was scheduled for the second stage of my reconstruction and in the mean time my oncologist ordered a CAT and PET scan because my tumor markers were higher. They ended up canceling my surgery the day before it was scheduled. They told me it spread to my bones, lungs, and liver. I ended up getting my ovaries removed 2 months after that.
How did having the cancer return affect you? (Mentally, physically, emotionally) What changes have been made in your life since the cancer returned, if any?
I have to say cancer has affected my life both times, not just because of the return. I learned to not let anything or anyone stop you from doing anything you want to do. I learned to live in the moment and enjoy life for what it is. I learned to appreciate and love your family and friends and tell them how you feel as often as possible, even more. I try to stay positive and only alow positive people into my life. I have changed many things in my life. I have done more things in my life in the last 3 years then I did for the first 28 years. I experienced life and done things that I always wanted to try. Some of the things I tried were photography, kayaking, cross-country skiing, rock climbing, hiking, snorkeling, singing, swing, latin, and ballroom dancing. I received my reiki master, scuba diving certification, directed 2 plays, and I'm working toward my black belt in Kenpo. I have also traveled more and have been to Ireland, Scotland, England, Wales, and Paris among my favorites. I also returned to school for something I have wanted to do almost my whole life. I'm not happy with my current career. I have also become more spiritual and I try to share the lessons I have learned with all my loved ones. I have had a few of my friends and family do things or make changes in their life that I never thought they would do, but always wished they would. They told me I was their inspiration.
Where do you draw your strength from? How do you look at life today?
I draw my strength from myself. I think I am a very strong person. Don't get me wrong, I have my moments. But most of the time I am pretty strong. For the moments that I do get weak, I would probably have to say my boyfriend. He is my inspiration. He lost both his parents in the last 4 years and he always knows the right thing to say to get me out of my depressing moods when I find myself there. I look at life as a learning experience and every day there are lessons to be learnt. If you don't learn those lessons, things will keep happening to you until you do. Once you do learn the lessons, you need to share all you have learned with anyone that will listen. It is also a place to enjoy and appreciate. We will not always be here, but we much enjoy it while we are.
Do you have any advice for others with a recurrence?
You made it through the first time so that means you have the strength and determination to make
it through again. Take one day at a time and still continue to live your life. Don't let this run your life, take control.
Anything else to add?
Love yourself and don't be afraid to tell your loved one's that you love them every day.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Asparagus vs Cancer
"My Mom had been taking the full-stalk canned style asparagus that she pureed and she took 4 tablespoons in the morning and 4 tablespoons later in the day. She did this for over a month. She is on chemo pills for Stage 3 lung cancer in the pleural area and her cancer cell count went from 386 down to 125 as of this past week. Her oncologist said she does not need to see him for 3 months."
THE ARTICLE:
Several years ago, I had a man seeking asparagus for a friend who had cancer. He gave me a photocopied copy of an article, entitled, `Asparagus for cancer' printed in Cancer News Journal .I will share it here, just as it was shared with me: I am a biochemist, and have specialized in the relation of diet to health for over 50 years.
Several years ago, I learned of the discovery of Richard R. Vensal, D.D.S. that asparagus might cure cancer. Since then, I have worked with him on his project. We have accumulated a number of favorable case histories.Here are a few examples:
Case No. 1, A man with an almost hopeless case of Hodgkin's disease (cancer of the lymph glands) who was completely incapacitated. Within 1 year of starting the asparagus therapy, his doctors were unable to detect any signs of cancer, and he was back on a schedule of strenuous exercise.
Case No. 2, a successful businessman 68 years old who suffered from cancer of the bladder for 16 years. After years of medical treatments, including radiation without improvement, he went on asparagus. Within 3 months, examinations revealed that his bladder tumor had disappeared and that his kidneys were normal.
Case No. 3, a man who had lung cancer. On March 5th , he was put on the operating table where they found lung cancer so widely spread that it was inoperable. The surgeon sewed him up and declared his case hopeless. On April 5th he heard about the asparagus therapy and immediately started taking it.By August, x-ray pictures revealed that all signs of the cancer had disappeared.. He is back at his regular business routine.
Case No. 4, a woman who was troubled for a number of years with skin cancer. She finally developed different skin cancers which were diagnosed by asking specialist as advanced.... Within 3 months after starting on asparagus, her skin specialist said that her skin looked fine and no more skin lesions. This woman reported that the asparagus therapy also cure her kidney disease, which started in 1949. She had over 10 operations for kidney stones, and was receiving government disability payments for an inoperable, terminal, kidney condition She attributes the cure of this kidney trouble entirely to the asparagus.
I was not surprised at this result, as `The elements of materia medica', edited in 1854 by a Professor at the University of Pennsylvania , stated that asparagus was used as a popularremedy for kidney stones He even referred to experiments, in 1739, on the power of asparagus in dissolving stones.
We would have other case histories but the medical establishment has interfered with our obtaining some of the records. I am therefore appealing to readers to spread this good news and help us to gather a large number of case histories that will overwhelm the medical skeptics about this unbelievably simple and natural remedy.
For the treatment, asparagus should be cooked before using, and therefore canned asparagus is just as good as fresh. I have corresponded with the two leading canners of asparagus, Giant and Stokely, and I am satisfied that these brands contain no pesticides or preservatives.
Place the cooked asparagus in a blender and liquefy to make a puree, and store in the refrigerator. Give the patient 4 full tablespoons twice daily, morning and evening.
Patients usually show some improvement in from 2-4 weeks. It can be diluted with water and used as a cold or hot drink. This suggested dosage is based on present experience, but certainly larger amounts can do no harm and may be needed in some cases.
As a biochemist I am convinced of the old saying that `what cures can prevent' Based on this theory, my wife and I have been using asparagus puree as a beverage with our meals.
We take 2 tablespoons diluted in water to suit our taste with breakfast and with dinner. I take mine hot and my wife prefers hers cold. For years we have made it a practice to have blood surveys taken as part of our regular checkups..
The last blood survey, taken by a medical doctor who specializes in the nutritional approach to health, showed substantial improvements in all categories over the last one, and we can attribute these improvements to nothing but the asparagus drink...
As a biochemist, I have made an extensive study of all aspects of cancer, and all of the proposed cures. As a result, I am convinced that asparagus fits in better with the latest theories about cancer. Asparagus contains a good supply of protein called histones,which are believed to be active in controlling cell growth. For that reason, I believe asparagus can be said to contain a substance that I call cell growth normalizer. That accountsfor its action on cancer and in acting as a general body tonic.
In any event, regardless of theory, asparagus used as we suggest, is a harmless substance. The FDA cannot prevent you from using it and it may do you much good.It has been reported by the US National Cancer Institute, that asparagus is the highest tested food containing glutathione, which is considered one of the body's most potent anticarcinogens and antioxidants.
THE ARTICLE:
Several years ago, I had a man seeking asparagus for a friend who had cancer. He gave me a photocopied copy of an article, entitled, `Asparagus for cancer' printed in Cancer News Journal .I will share it here, just as it was shared with me: I am a biochemist, and have specialized in the relation of diet to health for over 50 years.
Several years ago, I learned of the discovery of Richard R. Vensal, D.D.S. that asparagus might cure cancer. Since then, I have worked with him on his project. We have accumulated a number of favorable case histories.Here are a few examples:
Case No. 1, A man with an almost hopeless case of Hodgkin's disease (cancer of the lymph glands) who was completely incapacitated. Within 1 year of starting the asparagus therapy, his doctors were unable to detect any signs of cancer, and he was back on a schedule of strenuous exercise.
Case No. 2, a successful businessman 68 years old who suffered from cancer of the bladder for 16 years. After years of medical treatments, including radiation without improvement, he went on asparagus. Within 3 months, examinations revealed that his bladder tumor had disappeared and that his kidneys were normal.
Case No. 3, a man who had lung cancer. On March 5th , he was put on the operating table where they found lung cancer so widely spread that it was inoperable. The surgeon sewed him up and declared his case hopeless. On April 5th he heard about the asparagus therapy and immediately started taking it.By August, x-ray pictures revealed that all signs of the cancer had disappeared.. He is back at his regular business routine.
Case No. 4, a woman who was troubled for a number of years with skin cancer. She finally developed different skin cancers which were diagnosed by asking specialist as advanced.... Within 3 months after starting on asparagus, her skin specialist said that her skin looked fine and no more skin lesions. This woman reported that the asparagus therapy also cure her kidney disease, which started in 1949. She had over 10 operations for kidney stones, and was receiving government disability payments for an inoperable, terminal, kidney condition She attributes the cure of this kidney trouble entirely to the asparagus.
I was not surprised at this result, as `The elements of materia medica', edited in 1854 by a Professor at the University of Pennsylvania , stated that asparagus was used as a popularremedy for kidney stones He even referred to experiments, in 1739, on the power of asparagus in dissolving stones.
We would have other case histories but the medical establishment has interfered with our obtaining some of the records. I am therefore appealing to readers to spread this good news and help us to gather a large number of case histories that will overwhelm the medical skeptics about this unbelievably simple and natural remedy.
For the treatment, asparagus should be cooked before using, and therefore canned asparagus is just as good as fresh. I have corresponded with the two leading canners of asparagus, Giant and Stokely, and I am satisfied that these brands contain no pesticides or preservatives.
Place the cooked asparagus in a blender and liquefy to make a puree, and store in the refrigerator. Give the patient 4 full tablespoons twice daily, morning and evening.
Patients usually show some improvement in from 2-4 weeks. It can be diluted with water and used as a cold or hot drink. This suggested dosage is based on present experience, but certainly larger amounts can do no harm and may be needed in some cases.
As a biochemist I am convinced of the old saying that `what cures can prevent' Based on this theory, my wife and I have been using asparagus puree as a beverage with our meals.
We take 2 tablespoons diluted in water to suit our taste with breakfast and with dinner. I take mine hot and my wife prefers hers cold. For years we have made it a practice to have blood surveys taken as part of our regular checkups..
The last blood survey, taken by a medical doctor who specializes in the nutritional approach to health, showed substantial improvements in all categories over the last one, and we can attribute these improvements to nothing but the asparagus drink...
As a biochemist, I have made an extensive study of all aspects of cancer, and all of the proposed cures. As a result, I am convinced that asparagus fits in better with the latest theories about cancer. Asparagus contains a good supply of protein called histones,which are believed to be active in controlling cell growth. For that reason, I believe asparagus can be said to contain a substance that I call cell growth normalizer. That accountsfor its action on cancer and in acting as a general body tonic.
In any event, regardless of theory, asparagus used as we suggest, is a harmless substance. The FDA cannot prevent you from using it and it may do you much good.It has been reported by the US National Cancer Institute, that asparagus is the highest tested food containing glutathione, which is considered one of the body's most potent anticarcinogens and antioxidants.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Dance with my Father
It is probably fair to say that I miss my father since his death last year. But then, I’ve been missing my father most of my life.
I think back to a day when I was about ten years old, before my parents divorced. My mom told me that Daddy would be coming home soon for supper (as we always called it in the Maritimes) and I decided to walk down Herring Cove Road towards the Armdale Rotary to meet him.
I remember walking along the gravel shoulder of the road, watching for my dad’s car in what was probably considered rush hour traffic in those days, feeling the coolness of the spring ground through the rubber soles of the sneakers that my mom bought me every year from a bin at Lawton's drug store. I imagined that my dad would stop and pick me up; he would be so happy to see me. I would get to sit in the front seat with him, listening to the radio, and we would arrive back home together.
He never came. I walked for what seemed like a very long time before I turned around. He probably took an alternative route home, or maybe, because my parents’ marriage was already in trouble, he didn’t come home at all that night; I’m not sure. What I do know is that it was the start of a lifetime of missing my father.
I left home when I was only seventeen and lived most of my life in Ottawa. When I decided to get married, my dad didn’t attend the wedding. He said he couldn’t afford to travel from Halifax to Ottawa.
I longed to hear him say “I’ll find the money somewhere, don't you worry about it. I’ll take a second job. I’ll drive all night. I’ll do whatever I have to do to be at your wedding, because I’m your father and that’s what fathers do”. The marriage didn’t last and it was a lifetime ago, but it still causes me pain when I remember that my father wasn’t at my wedding to walk me down the aisle.
In the years since I moved away, my dad only came to visit me once. I was in my twenties and my son Adam was only a few years old. During the visit I developed an ear infection and the doctor prescribed drops that had to be put into my ear canal. My dad offered to help me and I still remember how it felt for him to touch me, to take care of me, to cradle my head in his hand while he put the drops in my ear.
I’ve seen pictures of me on my dad’s knee as a baby, but I don’t’ remember him ever touching me or holding me. The only memory I have is of him putting those drops in my ear when I was a young woman and it has stayed with me for thirty years.
Time went by and I usually went home to Nova Scotia every year or two. I always went to visit my dad when I was there, sometimes reluctantly. Usually the visit would be awkward and we wouldn’t have a lot to say to one another. Phone calls were about the weather and neighbors that I didn’t know. We might as well have lived on separate planets, our lives were so different.
After I found out that the breast cancer I had in 1998 was back and had spread to my lungs, I decided I needed to go home to Halifax to be near the ocean, to mentally prepare myself to start chemotherapy again. My son Adam flew from the Netherlands to be with me and we planned to meet my dad for lunch. Adam hadn’t seen his grandfather since he was about 13.
During the visit, my dad didn’t mention the cancer or ask me about my treatments. Instead, he brought up something that happened between him and my mom when I was a child, something that didn’t involve me but painted my mom in a negative light.
I lost it. My emotions were on the edge and all of the hurt I had been feeling about our relationship started spilling out of me, like a time bomb that had been ticking for longer than I can remember. I hadn’t really cried since I found out that the cancer was back, but the floodgates had been opened and there was no turning back.
I stood on the sidewalk outside of his car and yelled at him, tears streaming down my face. “Why haven’t you asked about my treatments, how I’ve been feeling, if there’s anything I need? Why are you talking about things from 40 years ago that no longer matter? Why can’t you ever just be there for me?”
I can still see the look of shock on his face. He didn’t know what to say, so he just stood there. Finally, when I thought I had nothing left to say, he hugged me. As I sobbed on his shoulder, I said something that I hadn’t said to anyone else. “I’m scared. I’m just so scared”. I felt like a child again, a child who needed her daddy to make everything OK.
That was the last time I saw my dad alive. A little over a month later he went into the woods to hunt and never came home. He died the way he lived much of his life, alone. He sat down under a tree, waiting for the ducks to fly over, and he had a heart attack.
To say that my relationship with my dad was complicated is an understatement. I’ve spent my life missing the father-daughter relationship that never was. Part of me feels angry that when I finally found it in me to tell him how I felt, he died. Part of me feels guilty that I hurt him. Part of me feels sad that I didn’t tell him sooner, while we might have had the chance to change some things.
At least that was my fantasy: that we could change things and have the kind of relationship that I longed for my whole life. But the reality was that even if I had told my dad how I felt years ago, I don’t believe that he was capable of being the father that I needed. I know he never wanted to intentionally hurt me; he just didn’t seem to know how to be any other way.
I miss what might have been and never was. I’m not a religious person but I like the idea that if there is something beyond this life, that maybe we’ll have another chance to get it right. Maybe I’ll be small again and my dad will lift me up in the air and twirl me around. Maybe he’ll protect me and keep me safe from harm. Maybe he’ll ask about my dreams and fears, and he’ll listen to my answers. Maybe he’ll hold me and tell me that everything will be OK.
Maybe I’ll get to do something that I never did in this lifetime: dance with my father.
I think back to a day when I was about ten years old, before my parents divorced. My mom told me that Daddy would be coming home soon for supper (as we always called it in the Maritimes) and I decided to walk down Herring Cove Road towards the Armdale Rotary to meet him.
I remember walking along the gravel shoulder of the road, watching for my dad’s car in what was probably considered rush hour traffic in those days, feeling the coolness of the spring ground through the rubber soles of the sneakers that my mom bought me every year from a bin at Lawton's drug store. I imagined that my dad would stop and pick me up; he would be so happy to see me. I would get to sit in the front seat with him, listening to the radio, and we would arrive back home together.
He never came. I walked for what seemed like a very long time before I turned around. He probably took an alternative route home, or maybe, because my parents’ marriage was already in trouble, he didn’t come home at all that night; I’m not sure. What I do know is that it was the start of a lifetime of missing my father.
I left home when I was only seventeen and lived most of my life in Ottawa. When I decided to get married, my dad didn’t attend the wedding. He said he couldn’t afford to travel from Halifax to Ottawa.
I longed to hear him say “I’ll find the money somewhere, don't you worry about it. I’ll take a second job. I’ll drive all night. I’ll do whatever I have to do to be at your wedding, because I’m your father and that’s what fathers do”. The marriage didn’t last and it was a lifetime ago, but it still causes me pain when I remember that my father wasn’t at my wedding to walk me down the aisle.
In the years since I moved away, my dad only came to visit me once. I was in my twenties and my son Adam was only a few years old. During the visit I developed an ear infection and the doctor prescribed drops that had to be put into my ear canal. My dad offered to help me and I still remember how it felt for him to touch me, to take care of me, to cradle my head in his hand while he put the drops in my ear.
I’ve seen pictures of me on my dad’s knee as a baby, but I don’t’ remember him ever touching me or holding me. The only memory I have is of him putting those drops in my ear when I was a young woman and it has stayed with me for thirty years.
Time went by and I usually went home to Nova Scotia every year or two. I always went to visit my dad when I was there, sometimes reluctantly. Usually the visit would be awkward and we wouldn’t have a lot to say to one another. Phone calls were about the weather and neighbors that I didn’t know. We might as well have lived on separate planets, our lives were so different.
After I found out that the breast cancer I had in 1998 was back and had spread to my lungs, I decided I needed to go home to Halifax to be near the ocean, to mentally prepare myself to start chemotherapy again. My son Adam flew from the Netherlands to be with me and we planned to meet my dad for lunch. Adam hadn’t seen his grandfather since he was about 13.
During the visit, my dad didn’t mention the cancer or ask me about my treatments. Instead, he brought up something that happened between him and my mom when I was a child, something that didn’t involve me but painted my mom in a negative light.
I lost it. My emotions were on the edge and all of the hurt I had been feeling about our relationship started spilling out of me, like a time bomb that had been ticking for longer than I can remember. I hadn’t really cried since I found out that the cancer was back, but the floodgates had been opened and there was no turning back.
I stood on the sidewalk outside of his car and yelled at him, tears streaming down my face. “Why haven’t you asked about my treatments, how I’ve been feeling, if there’s anything I need? Why are you talking about things from 40 years ago that no longer matter? Why can’t you ever just be there for me?”
I can still see the look of shock on his face. He didn’t know what to say, so he just stood there. Finally, when I thought I had nothing left to say, he hugged me. As I sobbed on his shoulder, I said something that I hadn’t said to anyone else. “I’m scared. I’m just so scared”. I felt like a child again, a child who needed her daddy to make everything OK.
That was the last time I saw my dad alive. A little over a month later he went into the woods to hunt and never came home. He died the way he lived much of his life, alone. He sat down under a tree, waiting for the ducks to fly over, and he had a heart attack.
To say that my relationship with my dad was complicated is an understatement. I’ve spent my life missing the father-daughter relationship that never was. Part of me feels angry that when I finally found it in me to tell him how I felt, he died. Part of me feels guilty that I hurt him. Part of me feels sad that I didn’t tell him sooner, while we might have had the chance to change some things.
At least that was my fantasy: that we could change things and have the kind of relationship that I longed for my whole life. But the reality was that even if I had told my dad how I felt years ago, I don’t believe that he was capable of being the father that I needed. I know he never wanted to intentionally hurt me; he just didn’t seem to know how to be any other way.
I miss what might have been and never was. I’m not a religious person but I like the idea that if there is something beyond this life, that maybe we’ll have another chance to get it right. Maybe I’ll be small again and my dad will lift me up in the air and twirl me around. Maybe he’ll protect me and keep me safe from harm. Maybe he’ll ask about my dreams and fears, and he’ll listen to my answers. Maybe he’ll hold me and tell me that everything will be OK.
Maybe I’ll get to do something that I never did in this lifetime: dance with my father.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Definitions
Aromatase inhibitors (AI): a class of drugs used in the treatment of breast cancer and ovarian cancer in postmenopausal women that block the aromatase enzyme. Examples: Aromasin, Femara. I was on both of these drugs and they eventually stopped working for me.
Bone scan - A technique to create images of bones on a computer screen or on film. It can be used to detect cancer in the bone.
CT scan [also called computed tomography, computerized tomography, computerized axial tomography, and CAT scan] - A series of detailed pictures of areas inside the body, taken from different angles, created by an x-ray machine linked to a computer.
Chemotherapy - Chemotherapy, in its most general sense, refers to treatment of disease by chemicals that kill cells that divide rapidly, one of the main properties of cancer cells. It also harms cells that divide rapidly under normal circumstances: cells in the bone marrow, digestive tract and hair follicles. This results in the most common side-effects of chemotherapy: decreased production of blood cells, inflammation of the lining of the digestive tract and alopecia (hair loss).
Estrogen receptor: A protein on the surface or inside a cell that the hormone estrogen binds to.
Estrogen receptor positive [also called ER+] - Breast cancer cells that have estrogen receptors. Breast cancer cells that are ER+ depend on estrogen to grow.
Femara (chemical name: letrozole) - A drug that lowers the amount of estrogen made in the body after menopause. This can slow or stop the growth of cancer that needs estrogen to grow. It belongs to the group of drugs called "aromatase inhibitors".
Fulvestrant (brand name: Faslodex) - A drug used as a "second-line" hormonal therapy for women after menopause with advanced breast cancer that has hormone receptors. This means it is used after other hormonal treatments (e.g. Tamoxafin, Femara, Aromasin) have stopped working. It can slow or stop the growth of cancer that needs estrogen to grow. This is the drug that I am receiving now.
Incurable – There is no chance (or in the case of metastatic breast cancer, a 1-3% chance) of a cure. The person has a chronic disease that can be managed for long periods of time with chemotherapy and other treatments. This is where I classify myself.
Lung metastases - Cancer that has spread from the main (primary) tumor to the lung. If breast cancer metastasizes to the lung, the secondary tumor in the lung is made up of abnormal breast cells, not of abnormal lung cells. The tumor in the lung is then called metastatic breast cancer, not lung cancer.
Metastatic (plural: metastases): Metastatic breast cancer is the spread of cancer from the breast to another part of the body. When this occurs, the new tumor is called a secondary or metastatic tumor, and its cells are like those in the original tumor. (Although the cancer is in my lung, it is not lung cancer. It is metastatic breast cancer in the lung).
Oncologist - A doctor who specializes in taking care of people with cancer. Some specialize in one type of cancer treatment. For example, a radiation oncologist treats cancer with radiation, and a medical oncologist treats cancer with medications. I am currently seeing a medical oncologist.
Palliative therapy - Treatment to relieve symptoms caused by advanced cancer. Its purpose is to improve the quality of life. (I have trouble with this one. According to my medical file, my treatment is considered 'palliative'. I think of palliative as what they do when you are dying. And I'm not dying!!!)
Port-a-cath [also called port] - A small device placed under the skin. It empties into a blood vessel and makes it easier to give chemotherapy and to take blood for tests.
Recurrence - This is when a cancer comes back after treatment. It can come back in the same place as the original one (local recurrence) or in a different part of the body (metastatic recurrence).
Stage IV breast cancer - invasive breast cancer in which the cancer has spread to other organs of the body -- usually the lungs, liver, bone, or brain. Once the cancer was found in the lung, I was classified as Stage IV.
Tamoxifen - A drug used to fight breast cancer cells that have hormone receptors. It blocks estrogen receptors on breast cancer cells. This can slow down or stop the growth of cancers that need estrogen to grow. It belongs to the family of drugs called "selective estrogen receptor modulators," or "SERMs."
Taxotere (chemical name: docetaxel) - A type of chemotherapy drug that kills cancer cells by stopping their growth. It can also make it hard for cancer cells to repair themselves. (Taxotere is the chemo drug that I just completed 8 rounds of).
Terminal – I couldn’t find a definition online. While people use this term to describe incurable cancer, my definition is: There is nothing more that can be done and the person is dying.
Bone scan - A technique to create images of bones on a computer screen or on film. It can be used to detect cancer in the bone.
CT scan [also called computed tomography, computerized tomography, computerized axial tomography, and CAT scan] - A series of detailed pictures of areas inside the body, taken from different angles, created by an x-ray machine linked to a computer.
Chemotherapy - Chemotherapy, in its most general sense, refers to treatment of disease by chemicals that kill cells that divide rapidly, one of the main properties of cancer cells. It also harms cells that divide rapidly under normal circumstances: cells in the bone marrow, digestive tract and hair follicles. This results in the most common side-effects of chemotherapy: decreased production of blood cells, inflammation of the lining of the digestive tract and alopecia (hair loss).
Estrogen receptor: A protein on the surface or inside a cell that the hormone estrogen binds to.
Estrogen receptor positive [also called ER+] - Breast cancer cells that have estrogen receptors. Breast cancer cells that are ER+ depend on estrogen to grow.
Femara (chemical name: letrozole) - A drug that lowers the amount of estrogen made in the body after menopause. This can slow or stop the growth of cancer that needs estrogen to grow. It belongs to the group of drugs called "aromatase inhibitors".
Fulvestrant (brand name: Faslodex) - A drug used as a "second-line" hormonal therapy for women after menopause with advanced breast cancer that has hormone receptors. This means it is used after other hormonal treatments (e.g. Tamoxafin, Femara, Aromasin) have stopped working. It can slow or stop the growth of cancer that needs estrogen to grow. This is the drug that I am receiving now.
Incurable – There is no chance (or in the case of metastatic breast cancer, a 1-3% chance) of a cure. The person has a chronic disease that can be managed for long periods of time with chemotherapy and other treatments. This is where I classify myself.
Lung metastases - Cancer that has spread from the main (primary) tumor to the lung. If breast cancer metastasizes to the lung, the secondary tumor in the lung is made up of abnormal breast cells, not of abnormal lung cells. The tumor in the lung is then called metastatic breast cancer, not lung cancer.
Metastatic (plural: metastases): Metastatic breast cancer is the spread of cancer from the breast to another part of the body. When this occurs, the new tumor is called a secondary or metastatic tumor, and its cells are like those in the original tumor. (Although the cancer is in my lung, it is not lung cancer. It is metastatic breast cancer in the lung).
Oncologist - A doctor who specializes in taking care of people with cancer. Some specialize in one type of cancer treatment. For example, a radiation oncologist treats cancer with radiation, and a medical oncologist treats cancer with medications. I am currently seeing a medical oncologist.
Palliative therapy - Treatment to relieve symptoms caused by advanced cancer. Its purpose is to improve the quality of life. (I have trouble with this one. According to my medical file, my treatment is considered 'palliative'. I think of palliative as what they do when you are dying. And I'm not dying!!!)
Port-a-cath [also called port] - A small device placed under the skin. It empties into a blood vessel and makes it easier to give chemotherapy and to take blood for tests.
Recurrence - This is when a cancer comes back after treatment. It can come back in the same place as the original one (local recurrence) or in a different part of the body (metastatic recurrence).
Stage IV breast cancer - invasive breast cancer in which the cancer has spread to other organs of the body -- usually the lungs, liver, bone, or brain. Once the cancer was found in the lung, I was classified as Stage IV.
Tamoxifen - A drug used to fight breast cancer cells that have hormone receptors. It blocks estrogen receptors on breast cancer cells. This can slow down or stop the growth of cancers that need estrogen to grow. It belongs to the family of drugs called "selective estrogen receptor modulators," or "SERMs."
Taxotere (chemical name: docetaxel) - A type of chemotherapy drug that kills cancer cells by stopping their growth. It can also make it hard for cancer cells to repair themselves. (Taxotere is the chemo drug that I just completed 8 rounds of).
Terminal – I couldn’t find a definition online. While people use this term to describe incurable cancer, my definition is: There is nothing more that can be done and the person is dying.
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