How does one walk away from something you LOVE???

My surgeon had advised me to quit teaching immediately.  "You work in a cesspool of germs", was her reason and she wanted me to go into this process as healthy as possible.  Ironically, I already felt as healthy as possible!

I have battled with my weight my entire life.  I don't know what it's like to be stick-thin (like my older sister ... bless her heart green with envy!!).  September is always a good time for me -- I'm a routine person, and I love getting back into the routine of school.  I hadn't been the most motivated exerciser during the summer, so I decided to sign up for a "Boot Camp" run by Ashcroft's local fitness guru.  We met in a nearby park, and 5 evenings a week, for 4 weeks, we ran, jumped, squatted, and push-upped our butts off ... literally!!  There was a prize attached -- someone would be named "The Biggest Loser" if they managed to lose more pounds and inches than the rest of the group.  This sounds really braggy, but ... I WON!!!!  That was just the motivation I needed to sign up to start 6 a.m. workouts, 3 mornings a week.  It was a pleasure the hardest thing to get up at 5:15 a.m., get dressed, and have a bite to eat to get to workout, but it was well worth it.  I felt like I was getting into the best shape of my life (well, maybe with the exception of training with Judy for our 100 mile bike ride several years ago... OK ... several, several years ago!)

So ... I WAS healthy.  Resentment!!  Anger!!  Confusion!! ... these don't even begin to describe what I felt towards this intrusive disease that was now partying in MY body.  But, I have always been a people-pleaser, and I wanted to "please" my surgeon by obeying her.  I called my principal at home to tell him my news, and to inform him that Monday would be my last day.  He advised me to stay home on Monday, take the time to process all the information I had learned, and he'd see me on Tuesday.  He's a very wise man!!  I did go into school at the end of the day to see my staff, and cry with them as I told them I had breast cancer and would be missing the remainder of the year.  I arrived at work on Monday morning, ready to tell my students that it would be my last day.  My principal would come in near the end of the day to be my "support person", and I'd break the news to my precious students.

By lunch, I was a mess!  I made a crying phone call to David, telling him I couldn't do it ... I just wasn't ready to walk away from my class!  I realize that there are many, many teachers out there like me -- I'm not unique -- but, I LOVE MY STUDENTS!!!! I become VERY attached to my students VERY quickly, so we already had a tight bond that would be excruciating to break.  It would be like cutting off my left leg.  He told me he supported me with whatever decision I made.  When my principal arrived near the end of the day, I was still unsure what I was telling my students.  I started with the news that I had breast cancer.

Part way through my difficult talk, I made the decision that I COULD NOT LEAVE ... yet.  I told my students that I would stay as long as possible, try to help them with the transition to a new teacher, and come back and visit as much as possible.  We cried together ... and cried ... and cried ... and cried ... and many of them had to be physically pried off of me to catch their bus home.  This truly was one of the hardest moments of my entire life.  An even harder one would come 2 1/2 weeks later when it was my last day with them.

Waiting and Red Flags

I know it doesn't sound like a long time to wait from an MRI on October 25 to a surgeon's appointment on November 4, but believe you me, it was an ETERNITY.  I still had not said anything to my teaching colleagues about any of the numerous medical appointments I had been absent for.  No one knew that I was on pins and needles waiting to hear if I had breast cancer.  I was still arriving at school each day with a smile on my face, and thankful for the distraction of teaching 24 precious 12 and 13-year olds.  Of course, cell phones were not allowed in the classroom, but I left mine on the corner of the desk (on vibrate!) and found every excuse to wander by and push the power button to see if there was a text awaiting me with the happy news that the surgeon's office had called.  I continue to learn, as I travel along this long and winding road, that so much of the journey is in the waiting.

LESSON: 

Learn to be patient very early on.  It will save you wasted energy and much anxiety.  Let go of what you can't control.

I couldn't control when the phone would ring.  PS:  I'm a wee bit of a control freak, so this was extra hard for me!

On Friday, November 2, the anticipated, dreaded call finally came.  Would David and I please meet with the surgeon in her office on Sunday,November 4 at 1 p.m.

RED FLAG #1:

If a surgeon is taking time out of their Sunday afternoon to consult with you, there's a very good reason.  (It means she needs 2 hours to examine you, and explain what is going to happen to you over the next months.)

RED FLAG #2:

If that same surgeon asks your husband to wait in the waiting room while she examines you, there's a very good reason.  (Why would a surgeon want to examine me unless they plan on performing surgery on me??)

RED FLAG #3:

After the examination, if the surgeon comes back into the room to see your husband and yourself and there's a large package under her arm, there's a very good reason. (It's volumes and volumes of valuable reading material, the most important one being an excellent book published by the B.C. Cancer Agency jam-packed full of information which I nicknamed, "My Cancer Book".)

DIAGNOSIS:  

The day, the hour, the minute that would change probably the rest of my life, but undoubtedly, the next year of my life, came at 2 p.m. on Sunday, November 4, 2012.

There is nothing in life that prepares you to hear the words:  "You have four cancerous tumours in your right breast, and you will need a radical mastectomy as soon as possible."

 

MRI's, Ultrasound-Guided Biopsies, and other Delights

It has been quite a few days since I last wrote.  Too many things have happened to list here now, but I will fill them in as the chronology of my journey takes shape.

MRI Time :)

I AM CLAUSTROPHOBIC!! Very claustrophobic!  My surgeon had given me an overly-adequate supply of Adivan to help combat this for all the various screenings and tests I would encounter.  Off to the MRI, I went.

First, it was getting an IV needle inserted ... Let me just break from the MRI story to say that I am quite sure this is one of my least favourite parts of this entire journey.  I have bad veins!  They ALWAYS have trouble getting an IV started on me.  Therefore, I'm tense, anxious, uptight, which I'm sure doesn't help the poor nurse or tech who is trying to do their job.  Usually on try #2 or #3, they are successful.  David started to nickname me "Pin Cushion" (thanks, dear!). And, I bruise ... badly!  I had my Adivan "on board" (a phrase I learned from my nurse-sister), so I wasn't too uptight this time.

However, when I was led into the room, I was unprepared for the huge machine I would see. Waiting for me was a metal, coffin-like machine with a round doughnut hole for me to slide in and out through, while laying on a conveyor-belt "bed". To top it all off, because they were doing an MRI of my breasts, I didn't get to lay in comfort on my back, I had to be on my stomach.  Oh, did I mention that there was an extra accessory added for my type of MRI -- a contraption with two lovely holes for my breasts to dangle down through. My forehead rested on a chunk of styrofoam.

A very important part of having an MRI done is laying perfectly still.  It is amazing how, under normal circumstances, I could sit or lie in a position for quite a length of time and think nothing of it.  But, as soon as I'm told I can't move -- I need to sneeze, cough, scratch my nose, move my leg, etc. etc.  It took a lot of self-control to be still.

MRI's are noisy!!! I'm not quite sure why, in this day and age, the latest and greatest technology sounds like it's whirring, banging, and falling apart?!?  To help block out the noise, I was offered head phones with music.  They asked me my music of choice, and I responded with, "Anything but Zamfir flutes :)"  They put on Kamloops Best Rock station.  I made a mental note to be more specific with my music choice if I ever needed another MRI in my lifetime.

Each "picture" took 7-8 minutes.  After each picture was complete, I was asked through the headphones if I was OK, told I could move and shuffle about a bit (all the while keeping my breasts dangling down their holes, of course), and then get settled down for more stillness.

After several pictures were done, a dye of some sort was put into the IV needle for a different perspective picture.  I should be looking up all the correct information in my cancer book here, but it's not with me right now.  Sorry that this part won't sound too technically correct.

Whew!! I survived! Now, off to the ultrasound room ...

Ultrasound-Guided Biopsy Time :)

The biopsy procedure had been explained to me in great detail which helped my brain prepare for what to expect.  I'm not a believer in the adage, "Ignorance is bliss."  I do WAY better when I can visualize something, and mentally prepare for it.

I had THE BEST ultrasound tech imaginable (thank you, Lord!!), and I will reserve comment on the adjectives I would use to describe the radiologist who arrived to perform the procedure.  Let's just say he lacked bedside manner.  The tech, on the other hand, was kind, compassionate, understanding, and reassuring through the entire procedure, always telling me I was doing well and rubbing my legs (something that, surprisingly, really helped me get through it).

My breast was frozen and the doctor proceeded to insert a skinny metal tube through which the biopsy would be taken, guided by an ultrasound image on the screen.  It was the next words spoken by the doctor that sent me into shock ... words that would change my thinking about my prognosis ... words that caused me to burst into tears ...

"We'll call this original lump #1 (he's pointing at the screen and talking to the tech -- not me), this one is #2 (pointing to another lump), this one #3 (pointing to another lump), and this little one #4 (pointing to another lump)."

THIS is how I found out that I had not one, but FOUR lumps in my right breast.  I would later learn from my pathology report that there were actually 5 lumps -- 2 major ones and 3 "babies".

The rest of the biopsy went by in a blur -- I really don't remember him taking several samples from each lump.  I vaguely remember them needing to give me more and more and more freezing because it was taking so long. I just remember laying there in shock, feeling alone, anxious, and desperate.  I remember the tech rubbing my legs and telling me I was doing well ... it sure didn't feel like I was.

When My Journey Began

So, I thought I'd backtrack a bit and start at the beginning of this story called my cancer journey.  David always tells me I don't know how to tell the short version of a story, so if you find that I get too wordy, simply don't read everything I write :) 

In mid-September, 2012 I found one small lump in my right breast.  It's kind of ironic that I am quite a "do-er" in many aspects of my life, having an extensive "To Do" list most days.  However, for other aspects of my life, I can procrastinate like there's many, many tomorrows.  Unfortunately, my health is one of those areas.  I didn't call my GP for over 2 weeks.  She examined me, said the lump felt "moveable" - a good sign in her mind - and was no bigger than my baby finger nail.  No problem! Relief! Yes!  "Well," she continued, "we should get a look at it just to be safe." Rats!

I hadn't been a diligent 40+ woman who routinely had a mammogram every year or two, but I had had a mammogram in June of 2011 that was clear.  I was holding tightly onto that fact.

LESSON:  Don't hold on too tightly to a screening tool that is only 75% accurate.

On October 8, I headed off to Kamloops, one hour away, where I had a mammogram of both breasts and an ultrasound of the lump I had found.  Alarm bells started going off in my head when the ultrasound tech came back in the room wanting to ultrasound my armpit.  Note to self:  This is never a good sign!

I headed off alone to my GP's office on October 15 never imagining that I should have taken a "support person" with me.  

LESSON:  If you are going to receive any kind of results from a doctor, DON'T GO ALONE!!

My GP is a compassionate, caring woman with terrific bedside manner.  However ... NEVER before had she wheeled her chair over to my side and put her hand on my knee to deliver any kind of news.  More alarm bells!  Yes, I was given the news that the lump looked "very suspicious as being cancer" and further tests were ordered.

I had not previously known, or given any thought to the fact that a radiologist has a pretty good idea if he/she is looking at a cancerous lump simply by the conformation of the lump.  If a lump presents as a cyst filled with fluid, it is almost never cancer.  Cancerous lumps usually present as solid and have an irregular outline.  Most cancerous lumps have a taller-than-wide appearance and if a lump has these two characteristics -- irregular and taller-than-wide -- it is almost certainly cancer.  Apparently, this was the appearance of my tiny lump.

The next exciting  nerve-wracking part of my journey would be an MRI of both breasts and a biopsy of the lump.

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, my dear friend, Laura asked me a very profound question.  She asked me what I had always wanted to do, but never had time for.  WRITE!!  

It didn't even take me 3 seconds to come up with that answer.  It all started with my creative writing teacher in high school.  He really brought out the creativity in me, and showed me the new world of expressing myself through writing.  I vented, cried, described, and celebrated through writing -- poetry, mostly, but I have loved all forms of writing ever since then.

I had a really hard time deciding within my own mind what I wanted to write during this time when I wouldn't be able to teach, and when I wouldn't necessarily have my normal amount of energy.  I considered a novel -- hard to make MY story somebody else's story.  I considered poetry -- not everyone loves poetry (I do, and I will likely include some here and there on my blog).  I will, obviously, blog but I may also write a "How To" book for surviving the trials and tribulations of being diagnosed with breast cancer.

It's taken me a while to get going.  My daughter, Kate, encouraged me to start blogging way back when I had my surgery -- over 2 months ago, now.  I'm not the greatest at technology, so my blog is not fancy or colourful, etc. etc., but I really hope it helps one woman (or her children or her husband or her friends) get through this trying and difficult time.

All About Me

My temptation is to start out saying, "Hello, my name is Yvonne and I have breast cancer".  Seems somewhat reminiscent of an AA meeting -- not that I've ever been to one -- and not what I would like to be known and remembered for.  Kind, compassionate, caring, people-lover, wife, mother, teacher -- those are the important things to me and how I hope those who know me would describe me. At 54, I was contentedly going about life in Ashcroft, a tiny B.C. interior town, teaching Grade 6/7 at the local elementary school and married to David, my husband of 3 years.  My four girls were busy figuring out life, dreams, goals, and ambitions, as girls are apt to do at 29, 23, 21, and 20.  It's ironic how four little words can cause a whole world to come screeching to a halt -- "I FOUND A LUMP!"