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.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Monday, January 7, 2008
Breathing Freely
My mammogram and ultra sound results are back and everything is OK. For about an hour before Nachum phoned from the Herzliya Medical Center with the good news, I was incapable of coherent thought and did nothing but play mindless games on the computer. Working was impossible. As a bonus, it appears that my bone density test actually shows improvement in my thigh bones.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Battery of Tests
I have begun a battery of tests preparatory to my next appointment with Dr. Sarid on January 13. Yesterday I had the dreaded mammogram, which was particularly painful on my afflicted, still-swollen left breast. I also had an ultra-sound, the test which had confirmed the presence of cancer only eight months and a lifetime ago. I’ve decided to throw in a cardiologist and a dermatologist in addition to all the other tests I’m doing for a full and comprehensive inspection of all my body parts. Because Tomoxifen can cause cataracts, I’ve also checked my eyes and happily, they are in good condition, apart from a few annoying floaters that have been around for a while.
Support Group
I joined a support group through the One in Nine organization and the weekly meetings began a few weeks ago. Strangely, I was first interviewed by the two social workers for suitability; apparently, having had cancer does not automatically qualify one to join a support group. From among the seven or so women who apparently also passed muster, I was particularly struck by the wide range of cancer experiences. Three of them have had radical mastectomies - one woman, with a tumor half the size of mine, but with a higher oncotest rating, had opted for chemotherapy and a full mastectomy.
This is the first time I’ve joined a support group and I wasn’t sure what to expect. The overall rationale is that as fellow sufferers, we can say things to each other that only we can understand or appreciate. Now, after four or five meetings, we’ve exchanged our cancer stories and added some personal information. The social workers, who monitor the meetings, occasionally pipe in with an observation or two. I’m not sure what their role is; whether it’s to guide our chat in a certain direction, to summarize what we’ve talked about in order to draw conclusions or if they are just there to lend an air of officialdom to the proceedings. Some bonding should be taking place and indeed some of the women have formed friendships ‘after hours’, but at the last meeting I had an acute feeling that, as a group, we really didn’t have that much to talk about.
Unfortunately, I know enough women with whom I can discuss the different angles of our cancer and even those friends who have not personally experienced the disease are there for me to offload an angst or two. Add to that the fact that I don’t get home until after 10.30, I have good enough reasons to consider resigning.
This is the first time I’ve joined a support group and I wasn’t sure what to expect. The overall rationale is that as fellow sufferers, we can say things to each other that only we can understand or appreciate. Now, after four or five meetings, we’ve exchanged our cancer stories and added some personal information. The social workers, who monitor the meetings, occasionally pipe in with an observation or two. I’m not sure what their role is; whether it’s to guide our chat in a certain direction, to summarize what we’ve talked about in order to draw conclusions or if they are just there to lend an air of officialdom to the proceedings. Some bonding should be taking place and indeed some of the women have formed friendships ‘after hours’, but at the last meeting I had an acute feeling that, as a group, we really didn’t have that much to talk about.
Unfortunately, I know enough women with whom I can discuss the different angles of our cancer and even those friends who have not personally experienced the disease are there for me to offload an angst or two. Add to that the fact that I don’t get home until after 10.30, I have good enough reasons to consider resigning.
Seventh Sense
The medical establishment is my first line of defense in my personal war against cancer, but once that's covered, I'm open to anything that alternative treatment has to offer, even if on the face of it, it sounds outlandish. I would hate to find myself in a position where I failed to avail myself of some remedy only to discover too late that it was key to a complete recovery.
Some weeks ago, a colleague told me how a woman called Sigalit, using a method taught to her by a cardiologist who’d gone looking for the soul, had helped her, so I made an appointment.
Dr. Nader Butto is a cardiologist at the Rabin Center. He has “...developed an energetic method that tracks down emotional conflict (and its state) which has caused the energetic block and that has eventually evolved as a physical illness. This unique method opens the energetic block and washes the body with a flow of life, energy, and vitality.” (See a demo.)
Sigalit began by examining the palm of my right hand and asking me what had happened eight years ago. My mother had died eight years ago amid circumstances that still cause me feelings of guilt, not least because the opportunity to have been a better daughter to her is forever gone. Sigalit also noted that I had undergone an emotional experience five years ago, although under happier circumstances with the birth of my first grandchild. She told me that the turmoil of my mother’s death had been the trigger for the cancer, which, based on the number of documented cases of cancer which appear to have been accelerated by a profoundly emotional experience, seems a reasonable assumption
Treatment consisted of me lying down with legs bent and slightly apart. I was to inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth. Sigalit dug her fingers deep into my diaphragm which was extremely painful. Apparently, this is the location of fear and she waited to hear the click which would indicate that fear had flown my body. She pressed her hands at points above my breasts, which was also quite painful, and circled her hands over my head. Occasionally, she gently slapped my legs, which should have been shaking uncontrollably by now, but were hardly quivering. At a certain point, she suggested calling it a day and told me she wouldn’t take any money. But I was determined to get as much out of this as possible so we both strove valiantly on.
However, apart from a small flutter, my legs remained obdurately steady, although they were getting extremely uncomfortable being held in a somewhat unnatural position. At the end of the session, we acknowledged that nothing of any significance had taken place, that my fear remained invulnerable to exile. Sigalit gave me a few exercises to do which would open some chakras and a book called Cancer as a Turning Point by Lawrence LeShan. The book is excellent.
Some weeks ago, a colleague told me how a woman called Sigalit, using a method taught to her by a cardiologist who’d gone looking for the soul, had helped her, so I made an appointment.
Dr. Nader Butto is a cardiologist at the Rabin Center. He has “...developed an energetic method that tracks down emotional conflict (and its state) which has caused the energetic block and that has eventually evolved as a physical illness. This unique method opens the energetic block and washes the body with a flow of life, energy, and vitality.” (See a demo.)
Sigalit began by examining the palm of my right hand and asking me what had happened eight years ago. My mother had died eight years ago amid circumstances that still cause me feelings of guilt, not least because the opportunity to have been a better daughter to her is forever gone. Sigalit also noted that I had undergone an emotional experience five years ago, although under happier circumstances with the birth of my first grandchild. She told me that the turmoil of my mother’s death had been the trigger for the cancer, which, based on the number of documented cases of cancer which appear to have been accelerated by a profoundly emotional experience, seems a reasonable assumption
Treatment consisted of me lying down with legs bent and slightly apart. I was to inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth. Sigalit dug her fingers deep into my diaphragm which was extremely painful. Apparently, this is the location of fear and she waited to hear the click which would indicate that fear had flown my body. She pressed her hands at points above my breasts, which was also quite painful, and circled her hands over my head. Occasionally, she gently slapped my legs, which should have been shaking uncontrollably by now, but were hardly quivering. At a certain point, she suggested calling it a day and told me she wouldn’t take any money. But I was determined to get as much out of this as possible so we both strove valiantly on.
However, apart from a small flutter, my legs remained obdurately steady, although they were getting extremely uncomfortable being held in a somewhat unnatural position. At the end of the session, we acknowledged that nothing of any significance had taken place, that my fear remained invulnerable to exile. Sigalit gave me a few exercises to do which would open some chakras and a book called Cancer as a Turning Point by Lawrence LeShan. The book is excellent.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Cosmetics and Food
Life has settled into a groove. I swallow Tomoxifen in the evening and hope that it does its job of preventing estrogen from binding to the cells in my breast and causing another cancer. My breast is still swollen and despite reassurance from Sigal that the swelling is due to the radiation, the fear that there are other, more sinister, causes is ever present, occasionally leading to a minor anxiety attack. Its dimensions apropos the other, hopefully healthy, one reminds me that we should be careful what we wish for - I'd always wanted to be more buxom but my hope extended to both breasts sharing equal proportions; the devil is no doubt enjoying a prolonged snigger at my lopsidedness.
The hot flashes are still a major annoyance. Last month, I had an appointment with a gynecological endocrinologist with an unpronounceable name (Dr. Zlotsover. try it out loud) who prescribed a natural, over-the-counter remedy based on black cohosh. Black cohosh apparently improves the functionality of Tomoxifen and recoups bone mass lost as a result of taking Tomoxifen, However, according to several reputable sites I found on the internet, the jury is out on black cohosh - not only are there conflicting conclusions from the many clinical trials, but it might actually be contraindicated in breast cancer patients (http://ods.od.nih.gov/factsheets/BlackCohosh.asp). Apart from that, it doesn't seem to be helping - there are days when I feel that the flashes are less frequent and less intense but the next day, they're back, with increased vigor. However, it takes about six to eight weeks for the black cohosh to do the job, so I'll give it the benefit of the doubt.
In my quest for optimal health (having been so cruelly deprived of the illusion that that's what I had all these years the cancer was surreptitiously growing inside me), I've begun paying more attention to what I put on my body, not just in it. I've recently discovered a supermarket close to my office that sells organic vegetables and fruit alongside non-organic produce as well as rows of spices and herbs that claim health-inducing properties, every type of pasta on the planet, freshly-made bread with whole grains, goat's milk ice-cream, a soup bar, and so on and so on. The ambiance is rustic as establishments emphasising health tend to be, although the effect is somewhat marred by containers of Osem chicken soup powder at the entrance to the store. At the back, there is a shop selling all manner of toiletries that purportedly contain no harmful properties and were not tested on animals. In fact, the range of lotions, moisturizers, shampoos, conditioners, deoderants, etc. is overwhelming, as indeed are the prices. But who wouldn't hand over a few more shekels to promote good health!
The question is, does it? The market is cashing in on the current obsession with good health. (There's a furniture store near my office called Green Furniture, as if to deny that their furniture is depleting the rain forests. On the other hand, the proprietor's family name could well be Green.) How much of it is a scam? Do we assume that the labels on products are telling all the truth? Is the literature telling us to avoid products with sodium lauryl sulfate, propylene glycol and petrolatum based on substantiated proof that these substances, even if they don’t cause cancer, are harmful to our bodies in other ways? Is the absence of harmful ingredients from the packaging sufficient indication that the listed ingredients are indeed good for you, or at least, will not cause you any harm? How is a simple consumer with no training in pharmaceuticals or chemistry supposed to make intelligent decisions?
The sales assistants project an air of knowledge about their products and are seemingly sincere in their belief that the products are not harmful but that's what they have been trained to do. Notwithstanding the sincerity of the manufacturers and sales staff, the possibility that some substance hitherto believed to be harmless could become toxic in combination with other substances cannot be precluded. These questions might seem obsessional but I find it hard to accept the superiority of a product, a food or a belief just because people with persuasive skills tell me to.
In spite of the questions and doubts, I've decided to to err on the side of conventional wisdom and buy the toxin-free products gradually, choosing those that suit me, and phasing out those containing ingredients identified as harmful. And if these products are indeed all they are purported to be, I hope that my current habit of mixing them - such as the healthy, pomegranate-smelling shampoo with the unhealthy conditioner, and vice versa - will not cost me any brownie points.
The Cancer Notebook by Julia Chiappetta provides a pretty full breakdown of which cosmetic ingredients to avoid - in fact, it contains quite a lot of useful information; highly recommended.
Scepticism also describes my approach to what I put in my body. Every morning, Nachum and I down a glass of green magma, a bright-green powder smelling of grass, mixed with water (http://www.greenfoods.com/products/green_magma.html). Based on barley grass, this tasteless mixture lays claim to promoting good health by supporting cardiovascular function and supplying the body with a generous dollop of antioxidants. Efforts to locate independent research on the efficacy of green magma proved fruitless but I was directed to http://www.greenfoods.com/news/#1 by the manufacturers of Green Foods. My conclusion was that so long as it does no harm, the worst that can happen is that it does no good. In the meantime, I wrote to Sloan Kettering to ask if they had ever conducted research on green magma, but apart from an auto-generated acknowledgement, I have not yet heard from them.
I have begun to eat with abandon and in the last few months, have gained around seven kgs, which makes me feel clumsy and uncomfortable. Having eaten according to the rules for so long and yet falling foul of cancer, I have thrown caution to the winds and, although our fridge now contains goats' dairy products, I have eaten cows' dairy products that were high in fat, aware that dairy foods cause mucus in the body and that cancer cells thrive on mucus. I have eaten cookies and cakes, aware that cancer cells thrive on refined sugars. On the other hand, Nachum has been making me a weekly portion of soup of carrots, yams and squash because I was advised to eat orange food.
In the battery of tests scheduled over the next few weeks, I've included a dietician to help me streamline my eating habits. She will no doubt dispense advice based on current conventional wisdom.
The hot flashes are still a major annoyance. Last month, I had an appointment with a gynecological endocrinologist with an unpronounceable name (Dr. Zlotsover. try it out loud) who prescribed a natural, over-the-counter remedy based on black cohosh. Black cohosh apparently improves the functionality of Tomoxifen and recoups bone mass lost as a result of taking Tomoxifen, However, according to several reputable sites I found on the internet, the jury is out on black cohosh - not only are there conflicting conclusions from the many clinical trials, but it might actually be contraindicated in breast cancer patients (http://ods.od.nih.gov/factsheets/BlackCohosh.asp). Apart from that, it doesn't seem to be helping - there are days when I feel that the flashes are less frequent and less intense but the next day, they're back, with increased vigor. However, it takes about six to eight weeks for the black cohosh to do the job, so I'll give it the benefit of the doubt.
In my quest for optimal health (having been so cruelly deprived of the illusion that that's what I had all these years the cancer was surreptitiously growing inside me), I've begun paying more attention to what I put on my body, not just in it. I've recently discovered a supermarket close to my office that sells organic vegetables and fruit alongside non-organic produce as well as rows of spices and herbs that claim health-inducing properties, every type of pasta on the planet, freshly-made bread with whole grains, goat's milk ice-cream, a soup bar, and so on and so on. The ambiance is rustic as establishments emphasising health tend to be, although the effect is somewhat marred by containers of Osem chicken soup powder at the entrance to the store. At the back, there is a shop selling all manner of toiletries that purportedly contain no harmful properties and were not tested on animals. In fact, the range of lotions, moisturizers, shampoos, conditioners, deoderants, etc. is overwhelming, as indeed are the prices. But who wouldn't hand over a few more shekels to promote good health!
The question is, does it? The market is cashing in on the current obsession with good health. (There's a furniture store near my office called Green Furniture, as if to deny that their furniture is depleting the rain forests. On the other hand, the proprietor's family name could well be Green.) How much of it is a scam? Do we assume that the labels on products are telling all the truth? Is the literature telling us to avoid products with sodium lauryl sulfate, propylene glycol and petrolatum based on substantiated proof that these substances, even if they don’t cause cancer, are harmful to our bodies in other ways? Is the absence of harmful ingredients from the packaging sufficient indication that the listed ingredients are indeed good for you, or at least, will not cause you any harm? How is a simple consumer with no training in pharmaceuticals or chemistry supposed to make intelligent decisions?
The sales assistants project an air of knowledge about their products and are seemingly sincere in their belief that the products are not harmful but that's what they have been trained to do. Notwithstanding the sincerity of the manufacturers and sales staff, the possibility that some substance hitherto believed to be harmless could become toxic in combination with other substances cannot be precluded. These questions might seem obsessional but I find it hard to accept the superiority of a product, a food or a belief just because people with persuasive skills tell me to.
In spite of the questions and doubts, I've decided to to err on the side of conventional wisdom and buy the toxin-free products gradually, choosing those that suit me, and phasing out those containing ingredients identified as harmful. And if these products are indeed all they are purported to be, I hope that my current habit of mixing them - such as the healthy, pomegranate-smelling shampoo with the unhealthy conditioner, and vice versa - will not cost me any brownie points.
The Cancer Notebook by Julia Chiappetta provides a pretty full breakdown of which cosmetic ingredients to avoid - in fact, it contains quite a lot of useful information; highly recommended.
Scepticism also describes my approach to what I put in my body. Every morning, Nachum and I down a glass of green magma, a bright-green powder smelling of grass, mixed with water (http://www.greenfoods.com/products/green_magma.html). Based on barley grass, this tasteless mixture lays claim to promoting good health by supporting cardiovascular function and supplying the body with a generous dollop of antioxidants. Efforts to locate independent research on the efficacy of green magma proved fruitless but I was directed to http://www.greenfoods.com/news/#1 by the manufacturers of Green Foods. My conclusion was that so long as it does no harm, the worst that can happen is that it does no good. In the meantime, I wrote to Sloan Kettering to ask if they had ever conducted research on green magma, but apart from an auto-generated acknowledgement, I have not yet heard from them.
I have begun to eat with abandon and in the last few months, have gained around seven kgs, which makes me feel clumsy and uncomfortable. Having eaten according to the rules for so long and yet falling foul of cancer, I have thrown caution to the winds and, although our fridge now contains goats' dairy products, I have eaten cows' dairy products that were high in fat, aware that dairy foods cause mucus in the body and that cancer cells thrive on mucus. I have eaten cookies and cakes, aware that cancer cells thrive on refined sugars. On the other hand, Nachum has been making me a weekly portion of soup of carrots, yams and squash because I was advised to eat orange food.
In the battery of tests scheduled over the next few weeks, I've included a dietician to help me streamline my eating habits. She will no doubt dispense advice based on current conventional wisdom.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Panic
It’s a known condition of human nature that we appreciate what we have only when we’re faced with losing it. I’ve spent so much time bemoaning the lack of well-being that characterized my life BC (before cancer) that I failed to notice a gradual process whereby a facsimile of that well-being was developing in its place.
And then, that was shattered.
I’d become aware that my bra was pressing against my flesh, especially on the left side, but put it down to having put on weight. During the week, however, I realized that my breast was swollen. I remembered it had swelled during radiation but I’d had a vague notion that it had settled down to its normal dimensions some time over the last two months, since completing therapy. But now, my breast obtruded whenever my left arm brushed against my side, a situation that was not reflected on my right side. By the time I became agitated enough to call Hannah, my old companion, the churning stomach, was back.
Hannah told me to contact the surgeon. She said that the swelling could be due to the radiation, but it scared me that she could entertain any other possibility. (It’s unclear to me why she suggested I contact the surgeon instead of Dr. Sarid, my oncologist. She said that she didn’t know Sarid’s schedule for Wednesday, when he would be at the hospital, but I still wonder why she couldn’t have made an emergency appointment for me.)
Genuinely alarmed now, I tried to contact Dr. Sigal Librant and left a message on her voicemail. Next I made an emergency appointment to see her on Thursday afternoon (made possible by Nachum running to the doctor to obtain an emergency referral).
By the afternoon, I had calmed down. I’d surfed the net and spoken to Sally, my granddaughters’ former nanny, whose young daughter is a cancer survivor. It seemed that even months after radiation therapy, the breast can remain swollen. My problem was that I couldn’t remember if it had ever returned to its original smaller proportions.
I remained relatively calm until Wednesday evening when I noticed small black spots on the aureole around my nipple. Thursday morning, I ran a search for inflammatory breast cancer or IBC and what I read sent me into an unprecedented realm of panic (http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/inflammatory-breast-cancer/DS00632). My symptoms met some of those of IBC, although they could just as well be related to the effects of radiation. IBC is rated as Stage 3B or Stage 4 if it has metastasized, and survival rates are low. I believed with my whole being that the fight was over and that I was now facing death.
We reached the clinic early and when Sigal arrived, she told me that she’d heard my voicemail message only that afternoon. She examined me, told me the swelling was indeed due to the radiation but that I had one of the best recoveries she’d seen, that the black spots were pigmentation, also from the radiation, and that I certainly was not suffering from IBC.
I wondered, and still wonder, why I wasn’t immediately lifted out of my sense of doom by a feeling of relief. I think it’s because I’d given up. I had cried with uncontrolled hysteria, I’d screamed with fright at the horror of imminent death, I'd rued the time I hadn’t spent feeling grateful for my life as a cancer survivor. Mentally, I had gone to the brink of the abyss and it took a while to step away from it. How fragile my ability to cope with it all is and how wonderful life is when I can.
The next day I drank in the beauty of the world, and was back to complaining to Nachum, dispenser of indispensable TLC during that horrible period, about his driving.
And then, that was shattered.
I’d become aware that my bra was pressing against my flesh, especially on the left side, but put it down to having put on weight. During the week, however, I realized that my breast was swollen. I remembered it had swelled during radiation but I’d had a vague notion that it had settled down to its normal dimensions some time over the last two months, since completing therapy. But now, my breast obtruded whenever my left arm brushed against my side, a situation that was not reflected on my right side. By the time I became agitated enough to call Hannah, my old companion, the churning stomach, was back.
Hannah told me to contact the surgeon. She said that the swelling could be due to the radiation, but it scared me that she could entertain any other possibility. (It’s unclear to me why she suggested I contact the surgeon instead of Dr. Sarid, my oncologist. She said that she didn’t know Sarid’s schedule for Wednesday, when he would be at the hospital, but I still wonder why she couldn’t have made an emergency appointment for me.)
Genuinely alarmed now, I tried to contact Dr. Sigal Librant and left a message on her voicemail. Next I made an emergency appointment to see her on Thursday afternoon (made possible by Nachum running to the doctor to obtain an emergency referral).
By the afternoon, I had calmed down. I’d surfed the net and spoken to Sally, my granddaughters’ former nanny, whose young daughter is a cancer survivor. It seemed that even months after radiation therapy, the breast can remain swollen. My problem was that I couldn’t remember if it had ever returned to its original smaller proportions.
I remained relatively calm until Wednesday evening when I noticed small black spots on the aureole around my nipple. Thursday morning, I ran a search for inflammatory breast cancer or IBC and what I read sent me into an unprecedented realm of panic (http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/inflammatory-breast-cancer/DS00632). My symptoms met some of those of IBC, although they could just as well be related to the effects of radiation. IBC is rated as Stage 3B or Stage 4 if it has metastasized, and survival rates are low. I believed with my whole being that the fight was over and that I was now facing death.
We reached the clinic early and when Sigal arrived, she told me that she’d heard my voicemail message only that afternoon. She examined me, told me the swelling was indeed due to the radiation but that I had one of the best recoveries she’d seen, that the black spots were pigmentation, also from the radiation, and that I certainly was not suffering from IBC.
I wondered, and still wonder, why I wasn’t immediately lifted out of my sense of doom by a feeling of relief. I think it’s because I’d given up. I had cried with uncontrolled hysteria, I’d screamed with fright at the horror of imminent death, I'd rued the time I hadn’t spent feeling grateful for my life as a cancer survivor. Mentally, I had gone to the brink of the abyss and it took a while to step away from it. How fragile my ability to cope with it all is and how wonderful life is when I can.
The next day I drank in the beauty of the world, and was back to complaining to Nachum, dispenser of indispensable TLC during that horrible period, about his driving.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
How Am I Physically?
I'm tired. I don't know if I'm tired because radiation destroyed some of my cells and my body has to work overtime to recreate them, or I'm tired because we're in a transitional season and I'm working long hours. Everything becomes cancer-centric even when a connection to it is farfetched.
I sometimes forget that I still have limited use of my left arm. This is the arm from whose armpit 15 lymph nodes were extracted and although I'm getting some sensation back - for example, I can feel myself applying deoderant - an area of my upper arm is still numb. Sometimes, such as when I stab my electronic card at the parking entrance at work, I overreach and then my arm hurts. I've been told not to lift anything heavy in this arm, including weights. For the rest of my life, blood tests, injections and anything involving the active use of an arm and its contents must be done from my right arm. I wonder how much more time will pass before I get full feeling back.
I've put on weight. Initially, I put on weight because I tend to overeat but I should've been smart and lost a few kilos before beginning the Tomoxifen. Now my jeans pinch around the waist and the thighs. I don't know if there's any point in even trying to diet.
I have hot flushes. When I stopped taking HRT, I began to get a few hot flushes a day. They didn't last more than a minute or two and were more or less bearable, even those that left a faint line of sweat on my upper lip. It was, after all, summer and there were times when I didn't know if I was having a flush or it was just damned hot. A hot flush, for those who have never had one, begins in the depths of the body and spreads itself all over while concomitantly increasing in intensity. It has been referred to as 'cooking from the inside'. I think their frequency has increased since I began to take Tomoxifen - a spot check over the last four hours shows I was getting one every hour on the hour for the first three and the fourth one a mere 50 minutes later. If it gets worse than this I'll be dressing for summer in the depths of winter.
I sometimes forget that I still have limited use of my left arm. This is the arm from whose armpit 15 lymph nodes were extracted and although I'm getting some sensation back - for example, I can feel myself applying deoderant - an area of my upper arm is still numb. Sometimes, such as when I stab my electronic card at the parking entrance at work, I overreach and then my arm hurts. I've been told not to lift anything heavy in this arm, including weights. For the rest of my life, blood tests, injections and anything involving the active use of an arm and its contents must be done from my right arm. I wonder how much more time will pass before I get full feeling back.
I've put on weight. Initially, I put on weight because I tend to overeat but I should've been smart and lost a few kilos before beginning the Tomoxifen. Now my jeans pinch around the waist and the thighs. I don't know if there's any point in even trying to diet.
I have hot flushes. When I stopped taking HRT, I began to get a few hot flushes a day. They didn't last more than a minute or two and were more or less bearable, even those that left a faint line of sweat on my upper lip. It was, after all, summer and there were times when I didn't know if I was having a flush or it was just damned hot. A hot flush, for those who have never had one, begins in the depths of the body and spreads itself all over while concomitantly increasing in intensity. It has been referred to as 'cooking from the inside'. I think their frequency has increased since I began to take Tomoxifen - a spot check over the last four hours shows I was getting one every hour on the hour for the first three and the fourth one a mere 50 minutes later. If it gets worse than this I'll be dressing for summer in the depths of winter.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Musings
I have been a hypochondriac since childhood. Whatever ghastly illness of the week I was suffering from, the inevitable panic was sometimes allayed by a visit to a doctor, where more often than not I felt like an idiot, or it just dissipated with time as I found that I had no real symptoms and I was still alive. As I matured, I found that although I was still apt to take on board the most rare and deadly disease possible, I was far more sanguine about my state of health. In fact, I suspect there was an element of 'it can't happen to me', because until then, it hadn't.
Now I find that, in common with almost every cancer patient I know, anything that is even slightly awry is cause for panic. A little over a month ago I watched with horror the appearance and daily growth of a mole-like object on my leg. It started as a small, white bump that morphed from a pale pink to a darkish brown. I was convinced that my body was breaking out in melanomas but people who should know what a melanoma looks like put my mind at rest. The mole or whatever it was, darkened, hardened and has since disappeared. But this is the way it is - an unexpected twinge where there had never been a twinge before, a bout of gas, fatigue, a pimple, all become the focus of a fear that my cancer is manifesting itself in a new and dangerous way.
Art of Living
I'd been looking forward to this course, which was conducted within the framework of research, and was open to anyone who had contracted breast cancer within the last five years. Art of Living appears to be an international organization - launched by one Sri Sri Ravi Shenkar - with the usual claims of reducing stress, increasing awareness, and promoting better health, energy, personal and global peace. A number of courses on its effect on cancer patients was concurrently underway in
The course I attended consisted of 16 women, the trainer, Dafna, and two additional women whose presence was not totally clear - I think they were there to help us perform the exercises or tend to someone in case of distress. The women were of all ages, some shockingly young, from different walks of life. Our common denominator was that we had all suffered breast cancer, ranging from the minimally treated for early stage cancer (one woman's lump had been only 0.5 cm., less than half the size of mine) to those who'd gone through the hell of chemotherapy. One young woman revealed she'd had a recurrence.
Following the initial meeting, I was struck by the impact of that seemingly innocuous statement - we'd all had breast cancer. My diagnosis and ensuing treatment had been so very dramatic and I have been totally focused on my feelings, my treatment, my health care practitioners. As I have moved through the process to recovery, I have immersed myself in learning about the disease and its remedies, exchanging stories with women who shared the process with me, and riding the emotional roller coaster of trauma, fear, panic, despair and acceptance. It had been, it still is, a very personal, intense and all-encompassing experience.
The 16 women assembled in the room with the Indian ambiance and yoga mats, could have been anyone you see in street, the mall, driving to work - and yet, each and every one of us has lived through the same drama. It's almost surreal to contemplate that we all experienced the same gamut of emotions; the anxiety punctuated with intermittent hope waiting for results, the horror, fear, panic, despair and tears on receiving the devastating diagnosis, the bewilderment of submitting our bodies to the various machines, the resilience needed to confront the fear.
The course was exhausting. We filled out forms, learned to breathe in different rhythms (we learned to recognise each rhythm by its Sanskrit name), we looked into each other's eyes, we informed each other when we arrived on the planet and how long we intend to stay here, sang a song to an alien god, shared our feelings, and thankfully lay down on the mats to sleep as soon as we could complete the requisite breathing exercise. We drank a lot of water. Strangely, the subject of cancer was almost a stranger in the room, rarely becoming a topic of our interchanges.
I asked Dafna what happens physiologically when we breathe in different rhythms. Surely there is a purpose in taking long, drawn breaths as compared to short, panty ones. She insists it cleans the system, but cannot say how or why. Whenever I ask questions such as these, a common response is Why do I want to know. Seems to me a more relevant question would be, why would I not want to know.
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