You go for your yearly mammogram, no problem. Then you get "the postcard." You go back expecting they just needed a better angle perhaps. You get the results and your head spins with words like CANCER, bilateral and major vs. minor and all sorts of things.
AttyPatty, a 60-year-old breast cancer survivor fighting invasive ductal carcinoma, shares her inspiring story - how she coped with the diagnosis, how she decided on treatment, dealing with hair loss, what gets her through it and lessons she learned that might help others. You can keep up with AttyPatty's story by visiting her journey at WhatNext.com.
WN: How did you discover that you had cancer?
It started with an innocuous message on a postcard from my health care provider, sent four days after my routine mammogram: “The results of your mammogram demonstrates a finding in your breast that needs to be looked at further. This is not uncommon. In many cases, such findings show that there is nothing to worry about. We would like you to return for a follow-up exam. Please call us within the next week to make an appointment for this follow-up exam.”
I called in and was scheduled for another mammogram right away. I never felt tempted NOT to call, to avoid it, evade it, hide-my-head-in-the-sand and deny it. Not because I am brave; no, because the gravity of the message didn’t sink in at the time. I didn’t think much of it. Certainly, my brain did not immediately rush to think, “Cancer.” I just needed another mammogram, in order to magnify specific areas.
So I went to the Breast Imaging Center completely carefree and healthy. Ignorance is, indeed, bliss.
What the next mammogram showed, however, was: “THINGS TO BE AFRAID OF.” Words like “bilateral” meaning there was something on both breasts. “Minor calcifications” - but how can they call them “minor” when minor is bad and major (large) is ok? “Minor” makes them sound trivial. But “minor” means something really major. “Minor” means there could be cancer. “Minor” means suspicious. The specks on my mammogram were suspicious. Another acronym I had never heard of: “BIRAD” and a rating of “category 4.” What is this – a tornado? The highest rating, meaning probably malignant, is 5. My rating caused “intermediate concern.”
I had to schedule a biopsy, actually two biopsies, for both breasts. But I had travel plans, a non-refundable airline ticket. Couldn’t they wait until I returned from my trip in two weeks? I should have felt worse than I did when the oncology nurse said, “No.” I was only disappointed that I had to delay my trip and a little pissed that it was costing me $150 to change flights. I was still in that hopeful place, thinking everything would turn out all right.
A week after the biopsies came “The Call.” I knew right away that the news was bad when Dr. House (really) told me it would be better if I could sit down. I was in Costco, which always had furniture on display, so I sat down. In a calm, professional voice over my cell phone, Dr. House gave me all the clinical information. The location: right breast. The size: .3cm. The type: infiltrating ductal carcinoma. The histology: Stage 1. The receptor: estrogen. All in all pretty bad, but it could be worse. It could be untreatable.
I would need surgery, maybe a lumpectomy and radiation, or maybe a mastectomy, in which case I wouldn’t need radiation. I would definitely need hormonal therapy for five years, and the tumor would be tested to determine if I needed chemotherapy. Dr. House talked and I made notes, sitting there in a Costco lounge chair, because I knew I would forget at least half of what she was saying. It was surreal.
So the long story short is that my breast cancer was discovered on a routine mammogram.
WN: How did you determine what treatment path you would take?
I always felt in control of my treatment decisions. At Kaiser Permanente (my health care provider – an HMO), the first step in determining treatment is a “Group Visit” – starting with an intake interview with the oncology P.A. followed by a 30-minute video and question and answer period with the oncology nurse and surgical P.A. There were four other women in this group visit with me and I had to assume the P.A. didn’t mean it literally when she said, at the end of the class, “This is probably the last time you will see one another….”
The following day, I had an appointment with the cancer team assigned to my case, including an oncologist, a radiation oncologist, an oncology nurse practitioner and a breast surgeon. Prior to that meeting, they had each reviewed all my tests and medical records, and had discussed my case with each other and with the hospital’s tumor board. Each had something different to say, but they were all pretty much on the same page. Small tumor. Lumpectomy. Radiation. Hormone therapy. Jury still out on chemotherapy. It was a long three hours with lots of information to absorb.
I was given every available test to determine my cancer type, including the Oncotype test to determine if I would benefit from chemotherapy. My tumor was measured, biopsied, and tested. The tumor was larger that the initial biopsy indicated – 2.5 cm, about an inch at the longest point. So I was upgraded from Stage 1 to Stage 2, without even a glass of champagne. Chemotherapy was indicated to prevent recurrence, assuming the surgeon removed the entire tumor and got “clear margins.”
The margins proved to “clear” although very close on the anterior side. Still, as the surgeon told me, “A clear margin is a clear margin.” I was ready to start chemotherapy, if I wanted to. I did. I wanted to fight this disease with every possible weapon in the arsenal.
My doctors were great about talking to me, talking to my husband, talking to each other. I always felt confident I was getting my questions answered, getting enough information and getting in a way that was comprehensible.
Having the information I needed led me to make the decisions about my treatment that were right for me.
WN: What has surprised you along your cancer journey?
Meeting so many survivors in the most unexpected places – from among friends I have known for a long time to complete strangers. It’s almost as though we learn a secret handshake or develop radar. Some illustrative examples:
I was in church in Montana in December – cold, snowy weather and everyone wears hats and scarves. I looked no different from anyone else, despite the fact that my hat covered a bald head. Yet a youngish man approached me and spoke, rather hesitantly at first, saying, “ Excuse me, I probably shouldn’t say anything, but…” The he just came out with it – “Are you in chemotherapy?”” I could have said, “It’s none of your business,” or “I didn’t think it showed.” I could have been rude, or sarcastic, or hurried. But I simply said, “Yes, I am.” He said, “I am a two-time survivor.” He pointed to his face, where there was a small dent and a surgical scar under his eye – something I hadn’t really noticed. I thought about my own dent – I guess we all have them, some you just can’t see. He went on, “I shouldn’t even be here. I was Stage IV, but here I am ten years later.” Some tears filled my eyes and it was all I could do to say, “Thank you.” He introduced himself, shook my hand and then we hugged. He gave me a great gift that morning.
My husband and I ride motorcycles with a group of friends we have known for 30 years. On one of our rides, just after I had been diagnosed, one of the women told me that she had breast cancer 20 years ago and had a mastectomy. All these years I have known her and I never knew! She told me that she hadn’t ever told anyone in our group. (I’m the opposite – I tell everyone!) We spent most of the night sharing our experiences. It seemed good for her to be talking about something she had kept hidden for so long and it was certainly good for me to hear from a long-time survivor.
Pedaling in the gym about a month ago, a gentleman on the stationary bike next to me asked me what kind of cancer I had. When I answered, he told me that he, too, was a breast cancer survivor. He had cancer in both breasts, first when he was 17, the second time when he was 19. He was in the army and the only treatment available was mastectomy and mega doses of Vitamin C. He is now 75 and still cancer-free! We talked about the latest research and studies published in medical journals. Like me, he had become obsessed with learning about cancer, only he has had 50 years to study, and I have just begun. I learned a lot from him while riding along for 8 miles.
At my high school reunion last week, two of my friends whom I haven’t seen in 10 years told me they had breast cancer. The three of us talked and laughed about our mutual experiences of being “slashed, poisoned, and burned.” One was a 5-year survivor, one a 12-year survivor. Although we hadn’t remained close after high school, our experiences created a strong bond and we have been in contact since the reunion and will probably stay in touch.
It constantly surprises me that there are so many people out there who have survived cancer – and how much support I feel from talking to survivors, friends and strangers alike. We are living with cancer and the key word here is “LIVING.”
WN: In your journey you share your experience with losing your hair using scarves. What advice would you give to a woman about to undergo treatment, and frightened of losing her hair?
First of all, I would say not to worry but that would probably be useless. I knew I would lose all my hair so I began to prepare myself. I never really wanted to use wigs because 1) wigs are uncomfortable; 2) good wigs that look natural are expensive; 3) cheap wigs look like wigs; 4) I wasn’t ashamed if people could “tell” that I had cancer. I wasn’t afraid of that cancer-patient look – the bald head, the stark eyes without lashes or brows, the pale skin. When I was diagnosed, I felt like I was given the biggest hall pass in the world, a can’t-argue-with-that, get-out-of-jail-free card. I felt entitled to do whatever I needed to do – take time off work, beg off volunteering for this or that, napping in the middle of the afternoon, whatever I needed to do to fight this disease. So losing my hair was a badge of honor, a beacon that signaled, “Hey, this is what I am going through – deal with it!”
I found lots of videos on YouTube about how to tie headscarves. I found that women look beautiful with their hair all tied up in brightly colored scarves with knots on one side or in back or in front, with long ends twisted and wrapped around the head. I had fun shopping for exotic scarves and vintage pins to use to hold them. I bought long earrings to go with them.
When my hair started falling out in sheets, I had a head-shaving party. A hair stylist friend a brought over her shears and about 20 people came over to drink wine and watch. It was great fun and it helped to have so many people to egg me on, laughing and joking and taking pictures.
Every day since then, I look forward to choosing which scarf to wear, how I am going to wrap and tie it, which pin to place where, which earrings to go with. Now that my hair is growing back, I wear hats more often because I am proud to show off my neckline and “sideburns.” It reminds me of the Mary Quant/Twiggy look with a watch cap and a short Beatle cut.
I guess what I would tell others it to view hair loss as a chance to do something fun and different. And when the hair starts to grow back, buy a baby hair brush. It works great.
WN: What did you wish you knew at the beginning of your journey that you know now?
My husband and I moved into my grandmother’s hundred-year-old Victorian 30 years ago. It was in a condition of “deferred maintenance” (read: falling down dilapidation). We thought it would be fun to fix it up. We are still fixing it up. It has been an interesting, challenging, sometimes discouraging, often rewarding journey. I’m glad we did it, but if we had known 30 years ago what “fixing it up” really meant, I doubt we ever would have started.
So my answer to this question is, “Nothing.” If I had known at the beginning all I would go through on this journey, I would have felt so overwhelmed, I doubt I could have coped. I have taken each step as it has come along, putting one foot in front of the other, seeing a little way into the future, looking back to see how far I’ve come.
WN: Funny things often happen to cancer fighters. Can you share something that made you LOL?
Chemo brain has made for some funny moments – like the other day when I thought it was good idea to put the soap pump from the kitchen sink into the dishwasher to clean it. It wasn’t until the kitchen floor was covered in soap suds that I realized it wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done.
In addition to finding humor on this journey, I have also discovered some insights. Twelve years of Catholic school instilled in me the habit of prayer. To help me on this journey, I have used prayer, meditation and guided imagery to calm, relieve and inspire. Five days before starting chemotherapy, I was meditating, feeling calm, peaceful. I saw three paths before me.
On the left was a long, dark tunnel with an opening large enough for a train. I walked into the empty entrance. It was cool. The walls were cement and damp. There was dim light at the mouth of the tunnel and reflected light further down. As the tunnel receded there was no light at all. I could walk blindly through that tunnel feeling cold and damp, feeling my way through the darkness without knowing what was ahead.
To the right was, not a path, but an abyss. I gingerly walked to the edge and, looking over, I could see a steep cliff with a switch-backed path leading precipitously downward. It looked like Dante’s circles of hell. Nothing grew on the rock walls of the cliff and I couldn’t see the end of the trail. It just kept switching back and forth, downward, ever downward. One false move and I would slide – no stops, nothing to cling to, no end to the unfathomable depth.
Ahead of me was a hard packed earth pathway beneath a wooden arbor, painted white with worn spots, where hands had touched the posts. Wisteria grew overhead reaching across the beams, filtering the sunlight, its leaves yellowed by the season. Purple flowers still clung to the vines. Roses and daisies grew alongside. At the head of the path grew a maple tree, its leaves blazing red and orange and yellow. At the end of the path was a weeping willow, the Crayola color called “spring green”. Its branches were full and heavy and reached the ground, giving shade beneath it, cool and lovely. I could dawdle along this path.
I had a choice. I could make myself miserable and end up in a dark place. I could let myself be scared and end up in a dangerous place. Or I could find some warmth and sunlight and have some fun along the way. It’s a choice we all have at every juncture of this journey. I chose the wisteria-covered path.
You can share your story and get instantly connected to other cancer fighters who share your specific diagnosis at WhatNext.com.