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It's difficult to live between many question marks of breast cancer
By Regina Brett
POSTED: 10:52 a.m. EDT, Jun 05, 2008
This column was first published Wednesday, March 11, 1998
The strangest thing about having cancer is I feel great.
I don't drink alcohol, do drugs, smoke, eat meat or drink caffeine. I exercise five days a week. I've never broken a bone or needed stitches.
I'm healthier than ever and will have to undergo a cure that could make me sicker than I've ever been in my life.
Having breast cancer is like being trapped in a nightmare. Every day you wake up and breathe a sigh of relief. Then it hits you and you realize it's not a dream. There is no way out. Only through. And through means surgery, chemo and radiation.
It truly sucks.
What gives me hope is knowing so many women have gone before me. Breast cancer strikes 180,000 women a year. It's the leading cause of death for women in their 40s.
Statistically, one out of nine women will get breast cancer in their lifetime. It killed three of my aunts. Francie was 58; Veronica and Maureen were 42. I'm 41.
Each day is a roller coaster ride. The knot in my stomach hasn't unraveled. I'm scared of dying; I'm scared of living. Life is too good to leave now but the side effects of chemo and radiation make me shudder.
My body will never be the same. Surgery will take part or all of my breast. Some women get reconstruction so they wake up from surgery with a breast. A surgeon takes part of the abdomen, forms a breast mound and leaves you with a free tummy tuck. The problem is, after doing 200 crunches four days a week, I don't have enough tummy to make a breast.
A saline implant is also out. I could have one if I'm willing to have them shrink the other breast to get a good match. I try to look on the bright side and take it as a compliment.
Cancer makes you think of what a breast really means to you. It was designed to nurse a child, and mine did. But it's such a measure of your worth in our society that you fear your sexuality and femininity will be diminished.
The loss of control is the worst. That and the endless waiting for each surgery and test result.
It's hard to live between so many question marks. The poet Rilke reminds me, "Try to love the questions themselves . . . Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them."
I am grateful to the Mednet doctors who have answered the ones they could. For Dr. Susan Shaffer, who insisted I see a surgeon despite a negative mammogram report; for my surgeon, Dr. Leonard Brzozowski for being equal parts aggressive, honest and compassionate; and for my oncologist, Dr. Jim Sabiers, who is gentle as a saint.
Already, the love of friends overwhelms us. The phone hasn't stop ringing. We're considering getting voice mail: Press 1 for pathology results, press 2 For surgery update, press 3 to leave advice.
My husband has been a rock. The sweetest moment in my marriage was lying on the bed next to him holding hands as we made the calls to break the news to our friends.
My daughter has turned into a parent overnight. When I wept over the prospect of losing my hair, she reminded me that true beauty is within.
I may regret sharing this private experience so publicly, but I do so in the hope that you will never find yourself on this path.
Next to finding out I had cancer, the greatest shock was learning most women I known ever examine their breasts.
Please, do it every month. Have a doctor examine them once a year and get an annual mammogram.
Men, insist that the women you love -- your mothers, sisters, wives, daughters, lovers -- get breast exams.
One of the creepiest things about cancer is that it is painless. Unchecked, it will spread to vital organs. It's the cancer that leaves your breast that kills you.
But you'll never know it's there if you don't look for it.
This column was first published Wednesday, March 11, 1998
The strangest thing about having cancer is I feel great.
I don't drink alcohol, do drugs, smoke, eat meat or drink caffeine. I exercise five days a week. I've never broken a bone or needed stitches.
I'm healthier than ever and will have to undergo a cure that could make me sicker than I've ever been in my life.
Having breast cancer is like being trapped in a nightmare. Every day you wake up and breathe a sigh of relief. Then it hits you and you realize it's not a dream. There is no way out. Only through. And through means surgery, chemo and radiation.
It truly sucks.
What gives me hope is knowing so many women have gone before me. Breast cancer strikes 180,000 women a year. It's the leading cause of death for women in their 40s.
Statistically, one out of nine women will get breast cancer in their lifetime. It killed three of my aunts. Francie was 58; Veronica and Maureen were 42. I'm 41.
Each day is a roller coaster ride. The knot in my stomach hasn't unraveled. I'm scared of dying; I'm scared of living. Life is too good to leave now but the side effects of chemo and radiation make me shudder.
My body will never be the same. Surgery will take part or all of my breast. Some women get reconstruction so they wake up from surgery with a breast. A surgeon takes part of the abdomen, forms a breast mound and leaves you with a free tummy tuck. The problem is, after doing 200 crunches four days a week, I don't have enough tummy to make a breast.
A saline implant is also out. I could have one if I'm willing to have them shrink the other breast to get a good match. I try to look on the bright side and take it as a compliment.
Cancer makes you think of what a breast really means to you. It was designed to nurse a child, and mine did. But it's such a measure of your worth in our society that you fear your sexuality and femininity will be diminished.
The loss of control is the worst. That and the endless waiting for each surgery and test result.
It's hard to live between so many question marks. The poet Rilke reminds me, "Try to love the questions themselves . . . Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them."
I am grateful to the Mednet doctors who have answered the ones they could. For Dr. Susan Shaffer, who insisted I see a surgeon despite a negative mammogram report; for my surgeon, Dr. Leonard Brzozowski for being equal parts aggressive, honest and compassionate; and for my oncologist, Dr. Jim Sabiers, who is gentle as a saint.
Already, the love of friends overwhelms us. The phone hasn't stop ringing. We're considering getting voice mail: Press 1 for pathology results, press 2 For surgery update, press 3 to leave advice.
My husband has been a rock. The sweetest moment in my marriage was lying on the bed next to him holding hands as we made the calls to break the news to our friends.
My daughter has turned into a parent overnight. When I wept over the prospect of losing my hair, she reminded me that true beauty is within.
I may regret sharing this private experience so publicly, but I do so in the hope that you will never find yourself on this path.
Next to finding out I had cancer, the greatest shock was learning most women I known ever examine their breasts.
Please, do it every month. Have a doctor examine them once a year and get an annual mammogram.
Men, insist that the women you love -- your mothers, sisters, wives, daughters, lovers -- get breast exams.
One of the creepiest things about cancer is that it is painless. Unchecked, it will spread to vital organs. It's the cancer that leaves your breast that kills you.
But you'll never know it's there if you don't look for it.
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