I have been diagnosed (yesterday) with stage 1 breast cancer.
The good news is that I know what I'm facing now; it has a name, and I have my Riunite cooling in the refrigerator.
Cancer is bad news. But Stage 1 from my little American Cancer Soc. booklet, page 26 of "For Women Facing Breast Cancer", says it means: the tumor is smaller than 3/4 of an inch in diameter. It does not appear to have spread beyond the breast.
I was a good girl, a conscientious woman, and an alert old broad. I had a fibroid when I was 21. Benign.
I had mammograms. About five years ago I'd read where at my age there was more of a chance of the radiation harming me, than not. But I didn't just do monthly exams, I did them daily.
A couple of weeks ago I'm on the floor doing crunches and my shoulder's been giving me problems (the one my horse sat on broke my arm), so I crossed my hands across my chest and my thumb hit something hard.
Uh-oh. Well, maybe it was because I'm a terrible klutz. I walk into things. I'm like Mr. Magoo, or one of those windup toys that bounce off the walls. I've always been like that. I'm surprised that I haven't given myself brain damage for all the times I've stood up into cabinets, walked into the point of the bookcase turning into the kitchen of my single's pad in Greenwich Village countless times, closed my head in a car door twice- recently I walked into the bathroom door that was open in the dark, and it hurt. So I thought maybe, hematoma. I'll wait a week and call my PA, Jim. That was a Monday night. By Wednesday I was getting worried. It was the same . His response - we need you to get a mammogram as soon as possible. So I went.
The practice's new NP, a lovely young woman, Stephanie, saw me as soon as the results were in and since she'd had breast surgery, she suggested strongly that a surgeon of my choice or theirs (who happened to be the same one), do the biopsy. That's a chilling word. B I O P S Y. It can mean the end of your life as you know it. I had seen the ultrasound showing twin "BLOBS", and a smaller one beneath. I sketched them. The radiologist mentioned that it could be a shadow, that small one, because when a malignancy shows up, it is so dense it casts one. I'm getting that "feeling". My surgeon said that, too.
I was numbed - the needle stick is nothing. And you feel nothing as the vacuum-assisted core biopsy is done, and I was so curious, I watched it on the ultrasound. It was over quickly. I think maybe I knew what the prognosis was, but my surgeon is excellent at allaying fear. I went home to prepare. But when I got the call to come in yesterday afternoon, I lost all my courage and became incoherently terrified, soaking my pillow with tears.
Yesterday I sat on the examining table and my surgeon sat before me. It was the bad news, good news thing. Bad he had to tell me I had cancer; good because it's Stage 1 and he doesn't believe it's invaded the lymph nodes, but I get an MRI Monday, and take the results to him on Wednesday. There's a estrogen receptor test that will take a week, and surgery for removal soon after.
Now I want it out. If lymph nodes aren't involved, it will be a lumpectomy. Survival is good, especially at my age (70), as good as a mastectomy. I have a good attitude - positive - and I'm tough.
I will post from time to time about this journey here. I didn't expect this. No one does. If I get chemo brain, I may not comment. Or I may not feel like writing at all. But I'm going to try to keep up with the news. I may not need radiation.
So ladies - get your mammies grammed, and it's not unheard of to teach your favorite guy to do it to themselves because men get breast cancer, too.
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