Diana Rose
Grateful to be a survivor
Thump! That is what I felt one night when I rolled over in bed and my wrist bone hit my left breast. I immediately jumped out of bed to further investigate this bulging object. I found a lump the size of a cherry. I told myself not to panic. It can't be cancer; I'm too young and healthy and have no family history.
After several trips to various doctors, a biopsy was scheduled. The nurse practitioner, the gynecologist, the radiologist and the surgeon felt confident that the tumor was benign. So why did I feel anxious and fearful the night before the surgery? I've had a few minor surgeries in the past, but they never bothered me. I couldn't understand my reaction.
The surgery was easy. I was home 90 minutes after I left my house. My body was a little sore, but it wasn't a big deal. I felt better and calmer. I was going to be just fine.
Two days later I called the lab to get the results. They faxed them to me at work, never asking who I was. As I read the report, I felt my heart sinking to the floor even though I had no idea what I was reading. The report was filled with medical terminology. I looked for words such as benign, cancer or malignant. Those words did not appear on the report. I called my sister and brother, both of whom are medical professionals, and read the report to them. All I heard was silence. Then, my brother asked me to read it again. I read aloud the words, "poorly differentiated ductal cell carcinoma." I heard silence again and panic crept into my body. Finally, I asked, "What does that mean?" My brother answered very softly, "You have cancer."
Am I going to die? What do I do now? Will I have chemotherapy? Will I lose my hair? Will I lose my breast?
I was full of unanswered questions and consumed with fear. The unknown scared me. Chemotherapy scared me. Death scared me. I didn't want to die. I was only 31. I wanted to fall in love. I wanted to have kids. I wanted to see Paris. I wanted to live.
I needed to find out if the cancer infiltrated my breast or spread to my lymph nodes. I needed to know my options for treatment. My life suddenly became consumed with doctor visits and medical tests. The hospital began to feel like a second home. I learned about the various forms of treatment and discovered chemotherapy was going to be a necessity because of the size of my tumor. My options were to have a lumpectomy, chemotherapy and radiation or to have a mastectomy and chemotherapy. A lumpectomy would save my breast, but I would have to go through weeks of radiation and live with the fear that the cancer may still be there. If I chose a mastectomy, I could avoid radiation, but I would lose my breast. Neither option appealed to me, but I had to make a decision.
I made a decision to have a mastectomy, so I also met with a plastic surgeon to learn about reconstructive surgical options. I wondered what I would look like when this was all over. Would I still feel like a woman? Would I ever feel beautiful and feminine again? I prayed that I was making the right decision.
I wasn't nervous about the surgery, however. From the moment I was diagnosed with cancer, chemotherapy was what frightened me the most. I kept thinking of the male character in the movie Dying Young. I was going to lose my hair. I was going to feel sick. The possibility that chemotherapy could permanently stop my menstrual cycle scared me the most. Since I was a child, I've dreamed of being a mom.
Fourteen days after my first treatment, I started to lose my long, thick curly hair, which made me depressed. Haven't I been through enough? Now I have to lose my hair? I couldn't wash it. I couldn't brush it. I felt sorry for myself. I lost more hair each day and each day I fell into a deeper depression. I needed to take control, so I decided to shave it off. My friends got together and threw a frozen margarita/head shaving party.
Someday it would grow back and, hopefully, it would grow back straight, I thought. I was never fond of my curly hair and I cursed it my entire life. I am a strong believer that everything happens for a reason, and I knew there must be a reason I got cancer. I hoped cancer was going to be God's way of giving me straight hair. It already made me thin--I lost 15 pounds. In a few months, I would have reconstructive surgery and I would have bigger boobs. I didn't think it was too much to ask: thinness, straight hair and bigger boobs. It was going to be a whole new me.
Five surgeries, four rounds of chemotherapy, and a new full head of curly hair later, I am proud, thrilled and grateful to say I am a survivor. I won my battle with breast cancer. But the war is not over. Breast cancer has a high rate of recurrence. I'm told the magic number is five. Five years of being cancer free before I can be considered "cured." It's a scary thought. What if it does come back? How will I go through it again? I honestly don't think about it every day. I can't. I need to believe. I need to feel it is over and that it isn't coming back. All I can do is hope and pray that in five years, 10 years, 20 years, even 40 years, I can say, "I'm grateful to be a survivor."
