I’d been aware of the lump in my breast for quite some time. During my annual mammogram, the nodule in my right breast inevitably prompted multiple ultrasound exams, then eventually the same verdict: “It’s a watery cyst; nothing to worry about. See you next year.” And off I’d go each time, surfing a tidal wave of relief.
Except in the waning months of 2019, I knew something was very wrong. The mass in the outer quadrant of my breast was no longer squishy and familiar feeling. It had gone rogue; rigid and painful. Given the incidences of the disease in my family, it was probably not a matter of if, but when.
Thus, my mammo on a Thursday sparked an immediate referral for a biopsy to be done the following Monday. Coincidentally, I had a long-scheduled appointment with my general practitioner about an entirely different issue the next day. After calling up my medical record, the words “it’s malignant” somehow made their way across the vast space from his lips to my ears.
My nurse navigator – whose name turned out to be MaryAnn, which I interpreted as an excellent omen – called a couple of days later to schedule an appointment with my husband and me. The moment I glimpsed the words “Cancer Center” in sky-high letters on the side of the building where we met, a tsunami of tears burst forth from my eyes. But then in her calm, reassuring voice, MaryAnn suggested that I might be a perfect candidate for a minimally invasive lumpectomy, followed by several weeks of radiation. Unless there were unforeseen circumstances, she didn’t think chemotherapy would be necessary.
I nearly fainted with relief.
MaryAnn would become my cheerleader, psychotherapist, and wrangler of all things cancer related. She set up appointments with the surgeon who performed my lumpectomy a month later, she coordinated with my oncologist, my radiation oncologist, and other medical team members. She answered questions, offered advice and encouragement, and in general, talked me back from the ledge.
One month after my surgery, I began my course of radiation treatments. Given my good health going in, my radiation oncologist elected to zap me with double doses. In this way, a six-week regimen was cut in half.
By day two of my treatments, I’d devised my own weird way of muscling through the process. Choosing to view my journey as a marathon, I opted to prepare and garb myself appropriately. Thus, each morning I’d have some breakfast and hit the trail, putting in whatever mileage I felt up to that day. Then, after a shower and lunch, I’d don one of my sparkly running skirts and affix an adhesive number – denoting the number of treatments I had left – on my left shoulder. And in three weeks, I was finished.
I was also sporting some pretty scorched skin, and a number of boob-blisters. Radiation, after all, is basically the worst sunburn you never want to have. But a regimen of aloe vera and Aquaphor lotion kept the most extreme discomfort at bay, and after a major peel, my right breast boasted beautiful, youthful-looking skin.
On the day of my final treatment, I brought a sheet-cake decorated with the radioactive symbol for my wonderful techs. I also dressed in a sequined cocktail dress, stiletto heels, and my sash and crown from a senior beauty pageant. After I rang the gong in the lobby, the staff sent my husband and me home with certificates commemorating the completion of my journey. Both are framed and proudly displayed on the wall in our den. I treasure those two pieces of paper above every other award I’ve received in my life.
Two weeks later, I did a half-marathon. Races not being held anywhere during COVID, I clicked off the 13.1 miles alone. When I returned home, my mate draped one of my old medals around my neck and poured me a glass of champagne. The photos he took that day are among my all-time favorites.
Was my cancer experience horrific and debilitating? No, not in the slightest – I often think that I had “CancerLite,” and perhaps don’t deserve to be called a survivor, when others have had such grueling, almost unbearable experiences.
Was there fear? Absolutely. Did I ponder my mortality? Constantly; still do. I’m also profoundly grateful that I received such extraordinary care, and my prognosis is excellent. Whatever the future holds, I’m excited to embrace it fully. Intermountain Health has literally given me a new lease on life; one that is and continues to be full of joy.