Doctors' Visits

Over the last few days, I completed a battery of tests and check ups with a coterie of doctors. An appointment with Sigal, the surgeon who operated on me in May and was the original bearer of bad tidings, finally put to rest any lingering fears of IBC and I am now convinced that my swollen breast is due solely to the radiation therapy. To celebrate, I bought some new bras. Ironically, the afflicted breast is rounder, more firm and generally nicer looking than other one, which is smaller and tends to droop.

However, by the following Sunday, I was ready for additional reassurance from my oncologist. Dr. Sarid did the usual pummeling, poking and prodding and pronounced me lump- and IBC-free. He explained how the tissue had been fried and the molecules rearranged and that it could take not just months, but even years for the swelling to subside. Now that IBC is off my mind, I can go back to obsessing about metastasis. Dr. Sarid agreed with me that the threat of metastasis is everpresent, which was not very comforting. It's incredible that our advanced technology hasn't yet developed any means of honing in on aberrant cells en route to wreaking havoc in the body's vital organs.

My next appointment is in three months' time.

I also had an appointment with the endocrinologist, who has added vitamin E to my daily intake. My morning routine now includes swallowing Tomoxifen, black cohosh, vitamin E - which serves as a major antioxidant - and a glassful of green magma.

Despite some pressure from the social workers, I have resigned from the breast cancer support group. It suddenly seemed absurd and wasteful of precious evening hours to spend time traveling to and from Tel Aviv just to discuss cancer with people who are not my bosom :-) buddies. There's a sense of artificiality in meeting once a week with a group of people with whom the only unifying factor is that we've all suffered from the same disease. There is a limit to how much one can talk about it.