Port A-Choice

If you're reading this, maybe you have been diagnosed with cancer,
hopefully you haven't.
But if you have
fear not, you are not alone...
which is good to know because this a marathon, not a sprint.
And the first thing you will need to do is amass a TEAM to help you make it to finish line. Truth told, from this point on, the finish line will forever be ahead of you.

If you're having chemo (or know someone who is),
you may have been given the option of having a port(a-cath) placed.
A port, is a small, device that is placed underneath your skin that allows the chemo nurses access to your veins. Instead of receiving chemo intraveniously each day, week or month, the port provides easy access, without frying your veins.
I never considered NOT having the port. But the port placement was a consideration.

The doctor or PA will put the port in one of two places: in the chest, above the breast or in the underside of the bicept. Mine was placed in my chest, a disappointment to me because it restricted me from wearing some of the hot summer fashions that I wanted to wear. Having breast cancer did not diminish my sense of style. My plastic surgeon wasn't thrilled with it either. His job is to eventually make my chest look great. After a bilateral mastectomy, he's got his work cut out for him.

The other location suitable for port placement is the arm, which would have been my first choice, had I been given a choice. Unfortunately, my provider decided where to place the port; I didn't. Oncologists also generally prefer that the port be placed in the chest, in case it becomes infected.

Wherever your port is placed, know that it will be with you for a while. Mine was placed January 5, 2010. It was a simply, straight-forward procedure that was slightly complicated by the Fentanyl that I was given as a pain reliever. In addition to discovering yet another narcotic that I am allergic to, my port remained in my chest through chemo, radiation and beyond, until it was finally removed on November 9, 2010.

Removing the port meant the end to monthly flushes (where saline is injected into the port, followed by a flush of Heparin to prevent the port from clotting). But it has also left an ugly scar, one that I am treating with Mederma, and I hope will fade over time.

Like I said, it's a marathon.

The Marathon

If you're reading this, maybe you have been diagnosed with cancer,
hopefully you haven't.

But if you have, as difficult as it seems, try not to be fearful.
Cancer is not your friend; neither is fear.
It will steal your joy and your ability to see beyond the disease.
Just remember, fighting cancer (and make no mistake, you will be fighting)
is more of a marathon than a sprint.

And from this point on, the finish line will forever be ahead of you.

No matter your diagnosis or prognosis, you'll want to arrive at the starting line, well-prepared. Beyond your medical team, you'll need a dream team to help you maneuver this new frontier. Some people to consider include your immediate family, extended kin, friends, co-workers, neighbors, and acquaintances. Never underestimate the people who will run to your rescue. Likewise, don't be surprised when those you thought would show up to cheer you on, wind up sleeping in.

People still ask me, "So you were sick?" (I assume they ask this because I look so good.)

Don't forget to strap on your sense of humor. It might just be the THING that carries you across the finish line.

Don't Tell/Do Tell

I am writing after a long hiatus, in-part because I realize that I still have something left to say.
In my moments of doubt,
I almost lost my voice.
I wasn't sure that anyone was still listening.

Today, two women persuaded me otherwise.

The first, and we'll call her "D," is a three-year breast cancer survivor.
This morning was my first time meeting "D", but it won't be my last.
In between sips of coffee and bites of jam on bread,
she wrestled with the fact that she'd struggled with telling people that she had breast cancer. That was three years ago. Yet even today, she questions her decision to keep her decision on a need-to-know basis.

For a survivor, telling someone, can be almost as difficult as confiding the truth about your diagnosis. "D" admitted to sharing her breast cancer story with a stranger during a three hour flight, while lacking the words to express even the most basic conditions regarding her illness to those around her. Think about it, how DO you tell someone?
"How are you doing? Me? Oh, I just found out I have breast cancer."
It isn't an easy conversation starter.

It was then that I offered a simple explanation for creating my blog. I needed a way to tell people. My words in cyber-space were birthed from the realization that informing people of my diagnosis would not be easy, for them or for me. A blog kept me from re-telling my story.
I was willing to lay my soul bare, if anyone was willing to read it. Sure enough, within ten minutes of posting my initial blog and subsequently posting it on Facebook, my phone rang. It was Claire. "You must have read my blog," was how I answered the phone.
Thus the conversation was launched.

Was "D's" decision the right one?
Although it was different from my own, I assured her, it was.
We all want to survive. We all make the best choices that we can with that goal in mind. People handle life's issues based on life's experiences.
Nobody owns the sole rights to right decisions.
For some women, saying the words breast cancer can mean looking at the ugly disease, over and over again. For others, putting it out there, frees one from the stress of carrying it inside and alone.

Perhaps that's why I've been a little overwhelmed by life lately.
Maybe I should have kept blogging all along, instead of suffering in silence.
Well the silence has ended,
and I've got lots to say.