Advice and helpful hints for women diagnosed with breast cancer from one who's been there, had that. I'm writing everything I wish I had known when I was diagnosed.
Showing posts with label breast cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label breast cancer. Show all posts
Sunday, September 20, 2015
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Saturday, July 11, 2015
Friday, July 13, 2012
Cancer is Scary - no matter what stage or age
I recently spoke with a woman who told me she had been unsure about contacting me because she wondered whether her own experience with breast cancer was bad enough to warrant reaching out. She felt guilty about coming to me because she felt that she hadn't suffered enough compared to what I had gone through. I felt sad hearing her describe how her age (over 50) and her treatment (lumpectomy and radiation) made it seem like she should be having an easier time or feeling lucky that she hadn't needed anything "worse". As though a lumpectomy and radiation are a piece of cake. HAH. Only if the cake is filled with burns and fatigue that makes you feel like you're wearing a lead suit and the icing reads: This may be your last birthday. Pretty messed up cake.
Where do we get these feelings? Sure, it could be worse. Does that mean we're lucky if it's not? Is any cancer victim supposed to feel lucky that their diagnosis isn't worse? These are things that well people say to us because of their own fear. It's their own need to rationalize and make it all ok. I actually had a "friend" tell me I was lucky I was bald because now I didn't have to deal with washing and styling my hair all the time. Are you kidding me?
Regardless of your diagnosis, age or treatment plan - cancer is terrifying. Period. You're dealing with something that isn't very well understood, and leaves you with great uncertainty about the rest of your life. All cancer treatments are debilitating in many ways. We read about mastectomy and chemotherapy and we accept those as being particularly awful to deal with, but that doesn't mean that other treatments are easy. No way. Lumpectomy is surgery. Surgery that changes a part of what makes you look like a woman. It doesn't matter how old you are or how good the reconstruction, or how small the scar - still life-altering stuff. Radiation knocks you down, no matter who you are or how well your skin heals. You have to go every single day except during the weekend and walk into that room. The password to get into my club is cancer. That's all.
Sure, you have to find ways to get through the day without feeling sorry for yourself. Sure, you have to remind yourself of the positives, blah blah blah, but some days just suck and there's no way around it. Some days you just have to give yourself permission to whine and feel sorry for yourself, regardless of how other people expect you to act.
Top 5
1. When you feel the need to whine, accept it. Don't judge yourself. You're going through hell and if your friends or family don't get it or are tired of hearing it, find a support group or email me.
2. Set a time limit for wallowing. Don't let it overwhelm you. Though it's important to express those feelings, it's not helpful to let them take over. I will say to my husband sometimes, "Can I just whine for 10 minutes?" Then I go through all the crappy things I feel. All the pains (big and small), fears and whatever else is going on. His job is to just listen and then say something like. "Oh honey, that sounds awful." No offering advice. No tips on how to change my mood or fix anything. Just empathy.
3. Reach out to someone who can understand. Sometimes it really does have to be another cancer victim. Your regular friends and family may not be able to hear you during those moments because they hate to hear that you're suffering. They love you and want it to be okay. They need it to be okay and when it's not - its freaking scary for them.
4. Have a response ready for times when people say something stupid like, "You're lucky." Even if you don't say it out loud. How about, "I guess I feel somewhat relieved that I don't have to...." Of course, what you really want to say is, "I don't think anyone who has cancer feels lucky, you idiot." That probably won't go over too well, though.
5. Understand that the people who know and love you are scared and sometimes overwhelmed too. Maybe tell them what you need from them - including sharing that it's really hard to feel like you're not allowed to have a bad day. It's too much pressure to feel like you're supposed to go through treatment and put on lipstick and a happy face all the time. It feels lonely to have to put on a cheerful face for the world when sometimes you just need to get under the covers and cry a little.
Where do we get these feelings? Sure, it could be worse. Does that mean we're lucky if it's not? Is any cancer victim supposed to feel lucky that their diagnosis isn't worse? These are things that well people say to us because of their own fear. It's their own need to rationalize and make it all ok. I actually had a "friend" tell me I was lucky I was bald because now I didn't have to deal with washing and styling my hair all the time. Are you kidding me?
Regardless of your diagnosis, age or treatment plan - cancer is terrifying. Period. You're dealing with something that isn't very well understood, and leaves you with great uncertainty about the rest of your life. All cancer treatments are debilitating in many ways. We read about mastectomy and chemotherapy and we accept those as being particularly awful to deal with, but that doesn't mean that other treatments are easy. No way. Lumpectomy is surgery. Surgery that changes a part of what makes you look like a woman. It doesn't matter how old you are or how good the reconstruction, or how small the scar - still life-altering stuff. Radiation knocks you down, no matter who you are or how well your skin heals. You have to go every single day except during the weekend and walk into that room. The password to get into my club is cancer. That's all.
Sure, you have to find ways to get through the day without feeling sorry for yourself. Sure, you have to remind yourself of the positives, blah blah blah, but some days just suck and there's no way around it. Some days you just have to give yourself permission to whine and feel sorry for yourself, regardless of how other people expect you to act.
Top 5
1. When you feel the need to whine, accept it. Don't judge yourself. You're going through hell and if your friends or family don't get it or are tired of hearing it, find a support group or email me.
2. Set a time limit for wallowing. Don't let it overwhelm you. Though it's important to express those feelings, it's not helpful to let them take over. I will say to my husband sometimes, "Can I just whine for 10 minutes?" Then I go through all the crappy things I feel. All the pains (big and small), fears and whatever else is going on. His job is to just listen and then say something like. "Oh honey, that sounds awful." No offering advice. No tips on how to change my mood or fix anything. Just empathy.
3. Reach out to someone who can understand. Sometimes it really does have to be another cancer victim. Your regular friends and family may not be able to hear you during those moments because they hate to hear that you're suffering. They love you and want it to be okay. They need it to be okay and when it's not - its freaking scary for them.
4. Have a response ready for times when people say something stupid like, "You're lucky." Even if you don't say it out loud. How about, "I guess I feel somewhat relieved that I don't have to...." Of course, what you really want to say is, "I don't think anyone who has cancer feels lucky, you idiot." That probably won't go over too well, though.
5. Understand that the people who know and love you are scared and sometimes overwhelmed too. Maybe tell them what you need from them - including sharing that it's really hard to feel like you're not allowed to have a bad day. It's too much pressure to feel like you're supposed to go through treatment and put on lipstick and a happy face all the time. It feels lonely to have to put on a cheerful face for the world when sometimes you just need to get under the covers and cry a little.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
How Breast Cancer Changed My Life
I know, I know - so cliche. The thing is, though, last week I was interviewed by my local paper - The Santa Barbara News-Press and at the end of the interview, the woman interviewing me asked, "How has having breast cancer changed your life?" I answered,"In every single way."
I've been thinking about that for about a week, and it's true. Having breast cancer changed all of me: body and soul. It's not that I've changed my life. I still eat way too much chocolate, watch tv, read the same newspapers (including the News-Press - yes, I'm shamelessly pandering). It's more that I have been changed.
Let's start with the obvious - my body. I lost those pesky 7 pounds I'd been fighting for years. Nothing like a little chemo diet to get you started. And of course, the more obvious - I'm not only minus those 7 pounds, but a breast as well. No, my breast did not weigh 7 pounds - I wish! My hair might have though. It was pretty darn thick and luscious. As you know from my previous posts - not so anymore. Now it's thick and kind of like a poodle's. I also sport a Port-a-Cath in my chest near my collarbone for easy infusion and blood draw access. Yup - I'm very accessible. In addition, one of my toenails has never quite recovered from it's bout with chemo and at any given moment, I'm likely to burst into flame from the early medically-induced menopausal hot flashes. That's just the outside.
The less obvious - I slowed down. Almost every breast cancer survivor whom I've met has said the same thing. It's not that I changed my religion, or found yoga (in fact, I hate yoga). I didn't give up coffee or anything else, for that matter (except Diet Coke - my son made me do that). I just found that I can enjoy a slower pace now. It's not exactly - take time to smell the roses, slower - but it's different. Life is short and that stupid, pink, ribbon-wearing elephant takes up a lot of room in my house and mind so there's less room for clutter.
When you undergo treatment for cancer, people always say, "You're so strong." Or, "You're so brave." The truth is, most of us are strong and weak, brave and absolutely terrified. And that's okay. We learn the truth about ourselves in those dark moments - and sometimes the truth about those around us. I dealt with some of it well, and some of it horribly - just like everyone else. I definitely learned how to say, "I'm sorry." That and, "I have to lie down." Not entirely sure which one I said more.
So, when we moved to heaven - otherwise known as Santa Barbara - I could walk on the beach, collect sea glass, and be happy with that. For the first time, I didn't feel like I had to be outwardly productive all the time. It turns out quiet time is productive too, but it was during my year of nothing-but-cancer that I learned that. When your life is filled with doctor's appointments, blood tests, infusions, and side effects, you simply don't have the time to do everything you used to do. So you learn to do less, and that seems to stick.
Then there's the not-so-obvious. I became a writer. My first blog was on www.caringbridge.org and was just to keep my friends and family up to date on my treatment and progress. Then I realized that all the information I had gathered along my breast cancer road needed to get out there. I wanted to share all the tips and hints that the amazing doctors, nurses, survivors and my own research had taught me. Never in a million years did I think I could write a whole book. Turns out - I can. I hope it gets published and out to the women who need it some day, but at the very least, I learned I can write.
Cancer changed my family as well. I won't speak for them (because they hate it when I do that) but, without a doubt, we are all changed.
I've been thinking about that for about a week, and it's true. Having breast cancer changed all of me: body and soul. It's not that I've changed my life. I still eat way too much chocolate, watch tv, read the same newspapers (including the News-Press - yes, I'm shamelessly pandering). It's more that I have been changed.
Let's start with the obvious - my body. I lost those pesky 7 pounds I'd been fighting for years. Nothing like a little chemo diet to get you started. And of course, the more obvious - I'm not only minus those 7 pounds, but a breast as well. No, my breast did not weigh 7 pounds - I wish! My hair might have though. It was pretty darn thick and luscious. As you know from my previous posts - not so anymore. Now it's thick and kind of like a poodle's. I also sport a Port-a-Cath in my chest near my collarbone for easy infusion and blood draw access. Yup - I'm very accessible. In addition, one of my toenails has never quite recovered from it's bout with chemo and at any given moment, I'm likely to burst into flame from the early medically-induced menopausal hot flashes. That's just the outside.
The less obvious - I slowed down. Almost every breast cancer survivor whom I've met has said the same thing. It's not that I changed my religion, or found yoga (in fact, I hate yoga). I didn't give up coffee or anything else, for that matter (except Diet Coke - my son made me do that). I just found that I can enjoy a slower pace now. It's not exactly - take time to smell the roses, slower - but it's different. Life is short and that stupid, pink, ribbon-wearing elephant takes up a lot of room in my house and mind so there's less room for clutter.
When you undergo treatment for cancer, people always say, "You're so strong." Or, "You're so brave." The truth is, most of us are strong and weak, brave and absolutely terrified. And that's okay. We learn the truth about ourselves in those dark moments - and sometimes the truth about those around us. I dealt with some of it well, and some of it horribly - just like everyone else. I definitely learned how to say, "I'm sorry." That and, "I have to lie down." Not entirely sure which one I said more.
So, when we moved to heaven - otherwise known as Santa Barbara - I could walk on the beach, collect sea glass, and be happy with that. For the first time, I didn't feel like I had to be outwardly productive all the time. It turns out quiet time is productive too, but it was during my year of nothing-but-cancer that I learned that. When your life is filled with doctor's appointments, blood tests, infusions, and side effects, you simply don't have the time to do everything you used to do. So you learn to do less, and that seems to stick.
Then there's the not-so-obvious. I became a writer. My first blog was on www.caringbridge.org and was just to keep my friends and family up to date on my treatment and progress. Then I realized that all the information I had gathered along my breast cancer road needed to get out there. I wanted to share all the tips and hints that the amazing doctors, nurses, survivors and my own research had taught me. Never in a million years did I think I could write a whole book. Turns out - I can. I hope it gets published and out to the women who need it some day, but at the very least, I learned I can write.
Cancer changed my family as well. I won't speak for them (because they hate it when I do that) but, without a doubt, we are all changed.
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