The diagnosis of breast cancer in June 2002 did not come as a complete shock to me, as I have heard it does to many women.  My mother had passed away 17 years earlier after a second diagnosis of cancer in her left breast.  I had been feeling fatigue for some time, and rest did not abate it. I wondered if “something wasn’t quite right,” even though my regular mammograms did not reflect any problem.  In fact, as I had listened to a friend just weeks before describe his treatments for throat cancer, an inner voice said to me, “You have it, too.”  It was that inner voice and my husband’s prodding that led me to a surgeon’s office to examine a very tiny lump that felt like a couple of cornmeal grains.

The surgeon, a well-known female specialist in Richmond, VA, performed an ultrasound and biopsy.  Her comment:  “It doesn’t look like cancer, but it doesn’t look like ‘not cancer’ either.”  Honestly, I wasn’t very worried.  Nothing catastrophic had ever happened to me before—despite kidney stones and hernia operations following my two pregnancies.  I had followed a good diet, took vitamins and supplements, ate organic, breastfed the girls, exercised, and had mammograms.
Dr. Stephens left a voice mail message the following day (a day earlier than expected) for me to telephone her;  I knew by the tone in her voice that the news wasn’t going to be good.  I had run a 5K the day before my appointment and could barely make it over the finish line. The pieces were beginning to come together; I hadn’t associated fatigue with a possibility of cancer, but it was becoming apparent that I was going to get some bad news about my health for the first time in my life.  I called back, shaking as I punched the numbers on my cell phone.

Dr. Stephens was reassuring.  The test was positive for ductal carcinoma—she did not have enough information to stage the disease, but it seemed to be at worst Stage I or II, which, of course, I had no idea how  to interpret.  (The final diagnosis turned out to be much worse, but more on that later.) She mentioned lumpectomy, suggested I purchase The Breast Book by Dr. Susan Love. (“Dr. Susan Love’s Breast Book?” I thought, (“-sounds silly, cheesy.”) She recommended that I not feverishly search the Internet for information, but rely on the book.  I was writing like crazy, however, trying to take down the information for thorough research later.

I hung up the phone.  It was time to react to the news.  My training in science and statistics colored my first response: I knew I had had a 33% chance of breast cancer, based on my mother’s pre-menopausal diagnosis.  One of her three children was likely to have it, and the odds just worked against me.  Logical conclusion: mathematical probabilities.   My second reaction was typical of my stoicism: I can take it.  After all, I’d seen what my mother had endured—surgery, hysterectomy, chemotherapy, and more.  Based on the surgeon’s data, mine had been caught early.  I might not need chemo.  Because so many years had passed since my mother’s terrible experience with chemo, I was sure that newer treatments had to be available that wouldn’t prove so debilitating.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Now, six years after my diagnosis and the beginning of the cancer treatment cycle, I can say with all the emphasis I can muster in print: I thought I was ready to take on cancer, but nothing prepared me for the debilitating treatments and nothing could have.   At the heart of my “issue” with cancer treatment is this: the mental impairment caused by chemotherapy, with no warnings about this side effects beforehand.  It was not on the list of potential side effects provided by the oncology nurse at my oncologist’s office.  The concerns were of possible heart damage from the adriomyacin,  The concerns were not about brain damage.
(more to follow about my journey)