And the reports come rolling in ...

The final block that fell into place happened a week following the phone call from my family doctor. During our last phone call we set up an appointment because from now on she wanted to touch base with me frequently and keep a close thumb on me. At this appointment a streak of good luck was to happen. First of all, she removed the dressing and checked the wound on the chest, which was now completely scabbed and healing to perfection. She told me that it looked good, so I wouldn’t have to wear the dressing any longer. She told me to go home and get a nice hot shower and get the wound as soapy as I want. Yes! My first shower in weeks!!! She then looked at the incision under the arm, which was covered with steri-strips. These are an alternative to stitches, which tape the two sides of the wound together and let it heal naturally. When the wound has healed, the steri-strips are taken off or eventually fall off. My doctor decided she would take them off. I couldn’t believe what she unveiled. The scar underneath the arm was COMPLETELY healed … no scabs, no blood—nothing. Just a scar. And it was much smaller than I thought it would be-- just under 2 inches. Having the bandages removed gave me the awesome feeling of freedom. I could now wear whatever clothes I wanted (without bandages being revealed) and could shower as frequently as I wanted.

When the dressings were removed, my doctor proceeded to open my file and inform me that each day she had been receiving updates from pathologists. They had done a series of tests and stains and each were sent to different places across Canada to be examined (depending on where various specialists were). As each test result was obtained, it was faxed to the doctor’s office. Here are some of the things I gathered from the reports that were sent thus far:

1) The scar tissue from the first surgery (lumpectomy) was examined and revealed that all cancer had actually been removed during the first surgery. This means that I probably could have gotten away with not having the second surgery at all. However, no one could be sure that they removed it all the first time, and I have no regrets about having the mastectomy anyway.
http://www.breastcancer.org/dia_pict_margins.html

2) The tumor was Estrogen and Progesterone positive (70% and 50% respectively). Let me explain: all cells in the body have receptors which respond to various components in the body that trigger their growth. The cells in the breast have estrogen receptors ... they respond to estrogen, which causes them to divide. In my case, the tumor (cancer cells) had both estrogen and progesterone receptors, which triggered their growth. More simply, this means that more than 70% of the food that fed the tumor and helped it grow big and stong were the female hormones. This actually means a better prognosis ... the hormones and the actions of the hormone receptors can be controlled through medication.]
http://info.cancer.ca/E/CCE/cceexplorer.asp?tocid=10 (*click on Diagnosis, then Diagnostic Tests at a Glance, then Laboratory Tests, then Hormone Receptor Status)
http://www.breastcancer.org/dia_pict_hormone.html

3) The cancer cells were "Well Differentiated." This tells how aggressive the cancer is. The pathologist looks at the cancer cells under a microscope and compares them with normal breast cells, which are also examined under the microscope. If the cancer cells appear and act very similar to normal cells, then they are well-differentiated. This means a slowly growing, less aggressive cancer. If the cancer cells look nothing like the normal cells and behave much differently, then they are called "poorly differentiated." This means a more quickly growing and aggressive cancer. Cells that look somewhere in between normal and completely abnormal are called "moderately differentiated." This means the cells are somewhere in between the above. This was EXCELLENT news. This means that I had a slowly growing cancer that was not overly aggressive.
http://info.cancer.ca/E/CCE/cceexplorer.asp?tocid=10 (*click on Pathology & Staging, then Tumor Grading)
http://www.breastcancer.org/dia_pict_rate.html

4) The pathologists did a number of stains on the lymph nodes that were extracted (the 2 sentinal nodes from under the arm and the 10 axillary nodes that were in the breast). From the many stains and tests they did and after rambling on with a bunch of medical jargon, the report read: "We are, thus, ruling out any chance of metastesis." Metastesis= spread to distant areas in the body.
http://www.breastcancer.org/dia_pict_sizeshape.html

All of this was amazing news. A rush of excitement filled my body. I felt on top of the world. The only thing that I needed to know now was whether or not the tumor was Her2 positive. This tells whether the tumor overexpressed a certain gene and can tell a great deal about a person's prognosis.

The doctor looked at me and said: "I'm not sure what this means for your treatment. This is all excellent news, but I have a feeling you will still be treated with chemotherapy because of your young age. We'll have to wait and see."

Cancer can have its benefits!

The days ahead would only become brighter. So many good things began to fall into place. First of all, my brother and three year old nephew came from New Brunswick to spend two entire weeks with me. Having them as company over that time really brightened my days. And, not only did they come to visit … my brother brought with him a brand new computer which he built just for me. And this isn’t just your average computer--it is a Pentium 4, 3 GHz with 512 MB of RAM, DVD burner, mint video card, and fully equipped with all the programs one could want. What a gift--and a useful one at that. I could only imagine how much more comfortable this would make my recovery period.

In addition to this, my father began doing renovations on the house to make it more comfortable for me. Wow … I am being treated like a queen. He remodeled the bathroom and bought me a brand new bed with a beautiful pillow-top mattress. This bed is fit for a queen. A cool feature of the mattress is that it has the famous pink ribbon sewn all over it … it is not only in support of breast cancer research, but was specially designed for those undergoing breast surgery. He also bought me a 20” television to top it all off. My living space is now one which no one in their right mind would want to leave! I thought this was extremely thoughtful and generous of my family, but this shouldn’t surprise you. This is going to make the next period of my battle with breast cancer much easier.

In addition to all this, I was greeted by a major influx of friends the week following my hospital stay. People started “coming out of the woodwork.” In life we all have friends who we enjoy and appreciate, but the rush of our daily activities sometimes gets in the way of these relationships. We move, we work, we go to school, have kids … all of these things can get in the way of once strong friendships. However, in a time like this, we come to realize that these friendships shouldn’t be taken for granted. We realize how much these people mean to us. So, I think we should do whatever we can to find time to maintain the relationships that mean the most to us... no matter what is going on. Afterall, where would we be without friends? So … over the next while I was surprised at the friends I hadn’t talked to in a while that made an effort to email, call, or visit. I was even surprised to receive an email from a former roommate from university who I ended up “on the outs” with at the end of our school year. This wasn’t because we disliked one another, per say, but moreseo because of stupid petty things that seem to matter in the moment. We let these things get the better of us and haven’t talked much since. But I thought it was quite brave, respectable, and exemplary of her character to be one of the first to contact me with concerns about my health. I was also happy and touched to find an old friend from high school show up at my doorstep one afternoon. She is the same age as me (one day in the difference) and was also diagnosed with breast cancer almost exactly a year earlier. It was nice of her to offer her support—especially where she is my age and has gone through the battle already.

Finally, as you can well imagine, one of the very tough aspects of being diagnosed with a disease like cancer at the tender age of 25 is the financial burden it carries with it. In my case, it struck at the worst time possible in this respect. I just finished all the coursework for my education degree and obtained my teaching lisence in late May of this year. At that time, it was too late to begin teaching and I was beginning planning my travels to South Korea, so my number one goal became to get a temporary job and raise enough money to pay for my plane tickets to Korea (which would be reimbursed when I began working). This I did. I ran into many problems, however, when I was diagnosed a few weeks after arriving in Korea. First of all, my company would not give me a CENT for my flight because I "broke the contract" (although I really had no choice when I had an lethal disease beginning to invade my body). They also would not give me a DIME for the hours I had worked--again, because I "broke the contract." So, when I got back to Canada I was $3500 in debt for flights which were supposed to be paid-- $7000 if you include Mike's flights too. After being told that I would likely be unable to work for approx. 1 year, I went to the unemployment office in hopes that they would assist me financially. However, because I was in school the past year and therefore only worked part-time hours, I had just under the required amount of hours for unemployment. The only other option left to me was Social Assistance.

At first, I hung my head in shame going to the community services office. I just felt that I had worked so hard over the years to be successful and now I was lowered to asking society to give me money. My friends assured me that this was ok--this was what the system was designed for. I swallowed my pride and went for my first meeting with a case worker. I was shocked at how sympathetic they were. They couldn't believe my situation and said they were willing to do whatever they could to assist me in any way possible. They agreed to give me medical coverage (mine ran out in May after I turned 25) and give me a living allowance each month, which is small but enough to get me by for the time being. I became very thankful for this. It gave me a chance to reflect on the amazing country in which we live. It is a beautiful thing to know that your country will support you when times are tough. It is a beautiful thing to live in a place where people have compassion. I realized this not only when I was given such support from community services, but also when I was faced with a group of people who are money-driven and care not for people's individual circumstances (i.e. CDI, the company I worked for in South Korea).

I have heard interviews with cancer survivors in the past, and have heard (more than once) a common idea many of them have shared. This idea often puzzled me, but I am beginning to realize where they are coming from more and more: Cancer can have its benefits!!! Cancer is a potentially lethal disease, but when it strikes it changes your life, and not always in a bad way. Of course we must live in fear of the disease returning or becoming fatal, but we also find a renewed sense of life. The trivial things in life are now recognized as unimportant and the important things become clear. We regain old friendships and strenghten existing ones. We become stronger and more resiliant people. We look at life in a completely different light. (And all the other perks, like new beds, computers, and tvs don't hurt either!!!)

A reason to celebrate

Wednesday, October 6th (6 days after I arrived home) was an eventful day. First of all, I went to the hairdresser to get my hair cut and dyed. I figured I would probably have another month or so left before I would start treatment and, according to Dr.Butler, this would likely be chemotherapy. As most of you probably know, one of the side effects of this potent poison is hairloss. So, preparing for the worst, I went to the hairdresser and paid a nice chunk of money to get my hair all done for what could be the last time in a long time.

Going to the hairdresser was actually a little nerve wracking for me. It was taking some getting used to for me to be out in the public eye where I knew everyone was talking about me. I knew I would go in there and people would be uncomfortable and I would have to go through my story once again. However, I took a big breath, stood tall, and walked proudly into the hairdresser as if nothing had happened. The girls at the shop took the same approach-- smiled at me (although I knew they were nervous) and made small talk. As soon as I sat in the chair I decided to let everything out in the open -- being fake is not any desire of mine. When the hairdresser asked how I was, I answered: "I'm doing awesome. I just got out of the hospital ..." From there our conversation took off. I tried my best to make them feel comfortable and realized that it wouldn't be as hard to face the public as I thought.

Half way through what grew to be an intense conversation about everything I went through, another client came in and caught wind of what we were talking about. She seemed inquisitive, so my hairdresser said: "Melanie has breast cancer and just had a mastectomy." The lady replied ... "Ohhh ... are you the young one that was over in Asia teaching and had to come back?" How in the world does she know this? I replied that I was and asked her how she knew me. "Oh ...I don't know you, just heard it through the grapevine." I was sort of shocked at the extent of people who knew every detail about my situation when I had only arrived back in Canada two weeks earlier ... but then I reminded myself I was in Cape Breton. There are no secrets here. I asked: "Do THIS many people really know about me?" And the lady replied that yes, everyone knew the story, but not everyone knew exactly who the "she" was that they were talking about. She then went on to tell me that she had cancer of the bladder at age 22, which came back twice. But now, close to 10 years later, she was sitting in the room pregnant and feeling fine. She also told me that her younger sister had breast cancer when she was 24, and was diagnosed WHILE SHE WAS PREGNANT. I couldn't begin to imagine what her sister must have gone through. But she said its been over five years and her sister was also fine, as was her baby. This gave me a great deal of hope. I loved to hear about others who had cancer and were able to beat it and go on with their lives. I left the hairdresser that day feeling even more empowered than before.

When I arrived home from my appointment, my father (who is hyper on normal days) was in the driveway frantically waving, as if his heart would stop if I did not stop the car and get out immediately. When I got out, he said "QUICK! The doctor just called you and said she had some news for you!" Okay Okay. I went into the house and called the doctor immediately. She was not in. But, her secretary told me that the doctor urgently wanted to talk to me, so she would page her at the hospital. I hung up the phone, wondering what could be so urgent. I was waiting for the results of the lymph node biopsy to come back, but these weren't expected to arrive for another couple of weeks. My heart raced. Thoughts rushed through my mind. Then, the phone rang. Within 10 minutes the doctor was calling from her cell phone: "Melanie. I just got some reports back from a pathologist about your sentinal node biopsy. The tests were rushed and they were able to fax the results in to me today. We have some very good news for you ... the 2 sentinal nodes as well as all 10 surrounding axillary lymph nodes were negative for malignancy!" She was very excited and told me they were at the office all morning waiting for me to call back so they could give me the news.

A wave of happiness came over me as I told my father, who anxiously awaited the news. There was something funny about it, though. Just as I had a feeling that something wasn't right a month earlier when I was waiting for the biopsy results in Korea, I had a feeling all week that I was going to be fine. Something deep down within me told me not to worry-- I had a "funny feeling" that the lymph nodes would be clear. Intuition? Maybe. Or maybe just the newfound sense of positivity I had gained from my "armour." Nonetheless, I was more excited than you can probably imagine about getting this news. This said ALOT about my prognosis. Basically, the lymph nodes determine to a large extent whether any spreading has occured. If absolutely no lymph nodes are infected (as was my case) than the chances of cancer having slipped into another area of the body are slim. There is a slight chance that some microscopic cells may have slipped out and gone unnoticed-- afterall, cancer is an unpredictable disease. But, as far as invasive cancer goes, this was the best case scenario possible.
That night, as you can well imagine, some serious celebrating was in order ...

"A man is but the product of his thoughts. What he thinks, he becomes." --Mahatma Ghandi

Knowledge and Support ... my new armour

Aside from trying to return to normal life the best I could, I also used some other tools to assist me in moving on and gaining strength. One of these tools was knowledge. Knowledge became power for me. I began reading and researching. I read hours each day about every nick and cranny of breast cancer. I read about other cancers, about cancer in young adults, about risk factors, and alternative therapies. I read and read and read. I can remember that one night I even read the entire "A Patient's Guide to Breast Cancer" book that I once dreaded in one three-hour sitting. I discovered that the more I learned about the disease, the more confident and empowered I felt. One warning, however: use the internet with caution. The internet is an amazing resource if you use it properly. If you are using it to research a disease that you or a loved one has, you should be sure that you are collecting accurate information (i.e. I found sites like The Canadian Cancer Society site and other national cancer research sites to be the most reliable and accurate). So, just beware of what you read!

Another important tool was my unbeatable support system. I soaked up all the positive things people had to say and used them to my advantage. I reminded myself of all the beautiful people I had to fight for. Most importantly, I talked to these people about each and everything that was on my mind. This gave me a chance to sort out my thoughts, vent, and get feedback. I have to thank Mike and Alyson mainly for letting me talk for hours on end day in and day out about breast cancer, all the things I learned, and all my thoughts about it. I really needed it! And finally, knowing that so many people are thinking about me and praying for me gives me a sense of strength and confidence (remember the power of human good!).

With all of these weapons by my side, the battle became easier by the day.

A Return to Normal Life (minus a body part)

When I finally walked out of those hospital doors I felt free. The world was mine once again. The drive home felt exciting, as I thought about all the things I would do when I finally arrived home...

When I got home I immediately decided that I wanted to regain my old life and do the things I would normally do. If I allowed this wound to control my life, this would never happen. Nor would I be able to heal as speedily as possible, both mentally and physically. So, my first chore was to do what I would normally do when starting out my day-- shower and beautify (hehe). With some of the amazing soaps, bubble baths, and shampoos I recieved as gifts, I filled a warm bath and soaked. I was confined to bathing rather than showering over the next couple of weeks until I was able to remove my wound dressing and get it wet.

When I got out of the bath, however, I had a major task to complete, one which didn't normally present itself in my daily routine-- I had to change the dressing on the wounds. I was directed to do this at home every few days until I was able to take it off completely. This would be another huge challenge I would have to overcome. You see, when I was in the hospital, the nurses would change the dressing and I would cover my eyes and tell them I wasn't ready to look at it yet. I just wasn't prepared to face what had happened to me at that point-- I had enough to deal with. But now that I was home and trying to get on with my life for the time being, I would have to face the ugly truth-- my breast is gone.

I decided not to waste any time dwelling on the inevitable, so as soon as I was out and dried off, I began picking away at the sticky covering. Boy, this proved to be a difficult task. The dressing was glued on so much that it took five minutes for each inch I pulled up (and this dressing was quite large). So after about a half hour of tedious picking and pulling, I unveiled the new me. Hmmm. Interesting. Actually, this isn't so bad. I wasn't 100% sure what to expect earlier, so all sorts of images were running through my mind (probably like they're running through yours right now). Dr. Butler had done a fantastic job. Basically, my chest looks like a normal chest (the skin, muscles, and ribs are all there looking intact). There is one scar that stretches across the left side of my chest. If you're wondering how large, just imagine how wide across a breast normally is. Mine is probably a little less than 3 inches across (thank God for 32B boobs!). It is simply a horizontal line--there is no excess scarring, excess skin, or excess tissue, as I had previously imagined. Simply a neat little line. I looked in the mirror, examining the damage done and how it looked in relation to the rest of my body. I was quite surprised-- this really doesn't look all that bad. And then I also reminded myself that this scar was evidence of the battle I had gone through. This was here for a very good reason -- a life-saving reason. With this, I put on my favorite bra and got dressed in the clothes I normally would, put on my makeup, and got 'all dolled up.' I looked myself over in the mirror--it's me! I looked no different than I did before I went into the hospital. And, although many people try to say that the way you look means nothing, I believe that looking good can make you feel good too. For me, it gave me a sense of normalcy and a sense of renewed confidence.

Aside from this, I went about most of my daily activities (minus anything strenuous). I hung out with Mike and friends, played the piano, went for walks, took a trip around the Cabot Trail (this even included a small hike!) ... etc. etc. Most people were shocked at my recovery level and my mental state. But, I felt that this return to normal life helped a great deal. I now truely believe that your mind is a powerful tool and you need to use it to your advantage. I could have easily sat around the house and lay in bed for days feeling sorry for myself. But, I chose not to allow this disease take a hold of me and rule my life. I did everything I usually did (aside from the things my temporary disability haulted) and tried my best to move on.

(Mel and Mike @ Miscou Island, N.B. just before we went to Korea)

Reflections

Now that I think back to that hospital stay, I realize it wasn't all that bad. Of course I was in pain--I had just been sliced open and had body parts removed. Of course there were many discomforts and scary procedures-- this was something I had never experienced before. It was foreign, untrodded territory. I now look at it all as a learning experience. Because of the short-term suffering I overcame, I am now prepared to deal with many more cicumstances than I wasn't before. Pain is weakness leaving the body. I see this phrase in a number of ways. The most important meaning I take from this is that when you experience pain like this you become stronger and ready to deal with more of life's battles. The weaknesses you once had are now diminished.

When I was staying in the hospital I also learned a great deal about the nature of human beings. There are some really good people out there, and you really realize it when you're down and out. I know I already spoke about Patrice, Craig, and Dr.Butler. But I will say it one last time. These people went above and beyond for me. This wasn't because of false intentions or alterior motives-- they did it because they are kind people who care about the well-being of other human beings. I believe we all have this in us-- its a genuine human good and an innate care we have for one another. I should add that while I was in the hospital (Tuesday), Patrice came by with a gift and a card for me while she was off-duty. Need I say more?

Even besides the healthcare professionals who saved my life and my sanity, there were many people who went above and beyond for me while I was in the hospital:

My mom--she was there first thing in the morning and stayed until 10 at night. She gave me more care than I ever could have imagined receiving-- bringing me food, helping me to get around, washing me, bringing me things. I never could have done it without her. Again I will say that my mother is a completely selfless person and deserves a great deal of respect for it. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to stay in the hospital without any family or friends around for help and support. My mother says its not like it used to be in the hospital these days. You barely see a nurse after your first day or two in there--except when they need to do the essentials (like give you medication or check your vitals). I could die alone in my hospital bed and no one know for hours on end. Getting back to my list ...

My dad--my dad got kidney stones just after I arrived home from Korea and was suffering the entire time I was in the hospital (he was in and out of the hospital himself). Nonetheless, he stuck it out and managed to be there for me the entire time I was in the hospital. He is my intellectual and mental support system (always has been) and has a great deal to do with the strength of mind that got me through it all.

Michael- Michael, Michael, Michael. What a guy. I never EVER could have asked for a better person to share my life with. Michael was there for me since day one and continued to be during my entire hospital stay. He got a new job while I was in the hospital, but still managed to be there 5 or 6 hours a day to give me all the TLC and support he could. He is my emotional support system 100% and I love him to death for it.

My grandmother (Carrie)- she sat at home for 24 hours each day thinking about me and praying for my progress. She is my spiritual support. She took an order from me daily while I was in the hospital and delivered gourmet meals to me with care. All the nurses would come in to see what delicious meals I would have today. Thank goodness I didn't have to eat the hospital food (I could write whole seperate blog on that)!

So many more people helped me get through that ordeal by visiting, calling, sending cards and gifts, and doing other thoughtful things for me: you all know who you are and I plan to do a complete seperate blog to thank you for all the little things you did that together made a BIG difference.

I don't ever wish to have to go back into the hospital but I do realize that if I ever have to it will be much easier. I also have the comfort of knowing that I have one of the most amazing support systems out there, and I can make it through anything with these people behind me. We are in this together and with the common force of human good behind me I feel like I can conquer anything.

Three bumps on the road to recovery

Early Monday morning a problem arose: my IV had appeared to be falling out since the night before so I mentioned this to the one of the nurses when she came in to check my vitals. "Oh yes, it does look like its coming out. We'll have to give you a new one," she said. Oh great ... another needle in an already tender spot. Another nurse soon came in with a new needle to jab into my hand. Because the wrist area (where it had previosuly been placed) was tender and red, she decided to try a vein in the top of the hand-- not an easy spot when you have boney little hands. She jabbed me once. Twice. Three Times. Okay okay! Stop already! Can you guess what I did? (Of course you can) ... I cried. I pleaded too, this time: "Can't you just give me a pill or something? I don't need the IV. I've been eating and drinking more than enough. The only reason the IV is there is for the morphine pump." The nurse said she would go and find out what she could do. An hour or so later she came back and informed me that in the morning she would ask Dr. Butler to order something else for me in pill form. For the remainer of the time, I was stuck with Morphene injections into the hip.

In the morning Dr.Butler arrived for his hospital rounds and gave the "ok" on an order of Delaudid to replace my regular Morphine dose. I was nervous taking this one-- as I mentioned, my body is not used to pills, and I had heard from some recent visitors that this drug is highly addictive and is up there with Oxycontin. My parents convinced me to give it a try and that when drugs are administered for serious pain instead of recreational use, the threat of addiction or serious reactions is weakened. So, I agreed to take it, but opted for the smallest dose possible.
I took one in the afternoon and one in the evening. The effects weren't half as strong as I fathomed. They seemed to be a slow release type of drug and weren't effective enough for the pain I was encountering. I told the nurse and she said I should try the medium-level dose because what I was taking was likely not enough. That night I agreed, worried that I wouldn't be able to sleep with the pain. After all my visitors left, I called my father on the phone and expressed that I was worried to take this much Delaudid without anyone around. He assured me that everything would be fine and that I just had to go with it. He told me to take the pill and stay on the phone with him and when I started getting drowsy I could hang up and go right to sleep.

I have always trusted in my father, being the wise man he is. So I took his advise without batting an eye. Down the hatch it went. When the wave hit, I hung up the phone and went right to sleep. Whoa! This time it really hit me. I felt like I was in a coma for most of the night. It enduced such a heavy sleep that when I finally woke up, my head felt like a hammer was hitting it. Pounding. Pounding. Throbbing. My head hurt so much that I began to feel queazy. I picked up the phone and called my mother-- "Come right away! I don't feel well!" Within an hour she and my father were at the hospital by my side. They got me Gravol from the doctor and a cold cloth. I was a complete mess--dizzy, nauseated, headache... the whole nine yards. This terrible mess lasted into the late afternoon, when I finally came around. I will never take Delaudid again!

From then on, I opted for a simple Tylenol with Codene and decided to start trying to get over the pain. If I kept covering it up with crazy painkillers, I would never start dealing with it. Pain is weakness leaving the body. I could deal with this. I did my arm exercises more (these are required in order for me to gain mobility in my arm and shoulder again). I went for walks. Michael took me outside for fresh air. He stayed late with me and we cuddled on the hospital bed and watched t.v. I did the best I could, and I started feeling a lot better.

Wednesday morning, an appointment was arranged for my bone scan, which Dr.Butler previously warned me about. This was quite nerve wracking because the bones are one of the first places breast cancer normally spreads to. This would tell the doctors if there was any sign of spread thus far. A nurse first came up and injected me with radioactive dye in a vein in the arm. This time it wasn't half as painful as the dye injected into my breast. It was similar to getting bloodwork done. Phew! About an hour later, the nurse came back and wheeled me down to the same room where I previously had the lymph node pictures taken. A technician directed me to lay on the bed, where she was to take pictures of my entire body. These pictures would show my complete skeleton. Click this link to see pictures of a bone scan machine (it was also a similar machine for the lymph node procedure): http://health.allrefer.com/health/bone-scan-nuclear-scan.html I went through the exact ordeal as I did the previous week--chlautrophobia (but on a smaller scale this time). When taking pictures of the head and upper body, the machine is lowered an inch from the face. I did as I did last time-- closed my eyes, took deep breaths, and convinced myself that this was really not that big a deal.

The more important thing this time was AFTER the procedure. Dr. Isles (that sunny radiologist) would examine the pictures immediately and tell me the results. When I climbed down from the bed, the technician showed me the pictures and commented on how nice they turned out. She said the bones showed up bright and clear because I am so young and thin ... this would make it easier for Dr. Isles to detect anything. It was so strange seeing my own skeleton on the screen ... cool. I was placed back in the wheelchair and wheeled out in the hall to wait for the results. Thoughts rushed through my mind. What if it DID spread? What's taking her so long? Did she find something weird? I turned my head and saw Dr.Isles prancing down the hall, looking as jolly as ever. Her journey down the hallway seemed to take an eternity as I watched her face and tried to read her expression. I think she could tell what I was going through because half way there she reached out her arms and gave me two thumbs up and a big smile. Phew! I said, excited: "Everything was good?" She replied: "You're beautiful on the inside AND on the outside ... everything looked wonderful!" That's one less thing I have to worry about.

The final major obstacle that I had to overcome in the hospital occured Thursday morning. I began to feel scared in the mornings at this point--not knowing what they wanted to do next to cause me pain. I was now getting absolutely sick of people poking and jabbing at me and causing me discomfort. I wanted it all overwith. I wanted to be left alone. This time, Dr. Butler came in and examined the containers that had been attached to me the entire week. He said that there was now barely anything in them, so he thought it was time to take the drains out. This was to be bitter sweet. All week I wished they were out, since they caused so much annoyance. But at the same time, I dreaded getting them out because I knew there must be some sort of pain attached to the ordeal. The nurse came in with all her supplies and began getting everything ready. She tried to make small talk with me, but all I could concentrate on was what she was about to do. Unimportant words and fake smiles were too much for me right now. I decided not to 'beat around the bush':"Does this hurt?" I was getting used to the way the healthcare professionals answered these sorts of questions: "Ah ... it may cause you some discomfort." Discomfort meant pain in this place. So, I gripped the bed and waited. She told me that the first one would be easier than the second. This was because the second one was wider beneath the skin than it was outside the skin. She first clipped the stitches that held them in, then she told me to take a deep breath (this is their way of saying, "get ready, this is going to hurt"). I took a deep breath and clinged on to the blanket, covering my face. I then experienced the most bizarre sensation of my life, as she yanked the drain from beneath my skin. I could feel the plastic moving inside my body, coming up from my side. It feels like a long snake squirming beneath my skin. It was almost disguisting. She was correct this time, though--the sensation was more uncomfortable than painful.

Now for the second tube. As she pulled this tube I felt the same sensation coming from my chest area. However, because the tube was bigger under the skin, it had to be popped through to come out. This was painful. I screamed during the entire procedure. It was my way of dealing with the never-before-felt, bizarre sensations. The aftermath was well worth it. No more drains! I suddenly felt free. And I was free! Dr. Butler said that now that I had my bone scan done and my drains removed, I could collect my things and head home.

Pain is weakness leaving the body ...

I arrived to my room to find a large group of family and friends awaiting me. It felt so good to finally be out of recovery and to see some of my favorite people. I had become a spectacle of sorts ... as I was wheeled in I saw a dozen or so sets of eyes glaring right at me. They all stood around the bed smiling, and took turns coming over to give me a hug and talk to me. Although I loved the company, I had no clue what anyone was saying (or at least I don't remember) ... Morphine shots had clouded my brain. I drifted in and out of consciousness as everyone conversed. People later told me that I looked quite amusing ... my eyes were swelled out like balloons from crying so much in recovery that I could barely open them!

The days ahead were a huge challenge. My whole left side was incredibly painful. For the first three days I was on a morphine drip and pain pump. This meant that I was given a constant, very small feed of morphine through my intravenus, but could also press a button that gave me a larger dose whenever I needed it. It allowed me up to four pumps (or large doses) an hour. This helped ease the pain, but kept me on cloud nine.

For those first three days, however, even with the pain pump, the things I could normally do became a battle. Sitting up in bed, going to the bathroom (which was only on the other side of the room), reaching for things, holding a conversation-- all of this became difficult to say the least. I could barely move my arm, my chest ached, and my body was weak. Surprisingly, of the two operations, the Sentinal Node Biopsy was the worst. It's funny because I spent all my time dwelling on the mastectomy and never even took the time to consider that the removal of lymph nodes would pose a problem. The Sentinal Node Biopsy required the surgeon to make an incision reaching from one side of my armpit to the other to access the required lymph nodes. My armpit was extremely tender. Because nerves were also damaged during this surgery, the whole surrounding area (my shoulder, back, ribs, and arm) were all very tender and sore.

In addition to the pain experienced from the biopsy, I also experienced the discomfort of having two drains hanging from my underarm and side. These were small tubes stitched inside a hole made from an incision, which served to drain any access blood or fluid from the traumatized area (in this case my underarm and chest). They drained into two small containers that I had to clip to my pajamas. These drains proved to be an extreme annoyance. This was, first of all, because I had to carry them around everywhere with me. Second, the containers had to be guarded with great care because if they were yanked or pulled by accident the drain could be ripped from the incision points where they were stitched in. And finally, they were hanging from the exact area that was already causing me a great deal of pain. So each time they were moved, pulled, or laid on, they caused a great deal of discomfort in that area.

Of the two surgeries, the Sentinal Node Biopsy also offered the more risks. The lymphatic system (lymphatic vessels and lymph nodes) is one of the chief drainage systems in the body, aside from the vascular system (blood stream). One of the key purposes of the lymph nodes is to filter infection, bacteria, virsuses, cancer, or other harmful substances from certain areas of the body. For instance, sometimes when you get a cold or infection in your ear/nose/throat, you will notice that the 'glands' in your neck swell out. This is caused from the spread of infection from the primary area to the lymph nodes, where it is trapped. The same goes from the lymph nodes under the arm. Any fluids or harmful substances in the arm will be filtered through the axillary lymph nodes (under the arm) and any fluids or harmful substances in the breast will be filtered through the internal mammary lymph nodes and axillary lymph nodes (in the breast and under the arm). Click this link for an illustration: http://www.breastcancer.org/tre_surg_whatlymph.html#lymphnode

Getting to my point ... Once some of the crucial lymph nodes are removed, a piece of the immune puzzle is missing. Now gone are some parts of the lymphatic system that were once used to fight off infection. Thus, because two lymph nodes were removed from under my left arm, I must now be extremely careful to avoid anything that may cause infection in that arm. The list is longer than you might think: no cuts or scrapes, no bloodword or needles, no blood pressure, no hangnails or picking cuticles, no burns, only shaving the underarm with electric razors ... and so on. So not only did this surgery cause a lot of pain-- it caused a lot of annoyance and risk that will be present forever.

But here's a news flash: mastectomies don't hurt much. Of the 3 surgeries I had in that 2-week period, this one hurt the least. I'm not sure, but it may have to do with the fact that instead of cutting into nerves and muscles and leaving them hanging (like they did with the lumpectomy), they completely remove all the nerves and muscles so that the sensation is nill.

As you can see, the first three days in the hospital (Fri.-Sun.) were quite the challenge. But with a lot of support, love, and company I was able to make it through the weekend and begin on the road to recovery ...

"We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey" --Kenji Miyazawa
"Pain is weakness leaving the body" --Tom Sobal

Awake ... shake dreams from your hair ...

The second OR was as gruelling as the first. I went through the same steps all over again--it hadn't become any easier. I once again yelled and cried like a child during the needle, Patrice by my side. She took the same steps in trying to calm me down as she did a week earlier--talking to me quietly, letting me grip her, and assuring me that I would be fine. This time she whispered: "I think you are making the right decision. I think Dr. Butler thinks so too." This made me feel much better. Soon that wonderful anesthetic hit me once again.

For a second time the room turned into a giant wave and I felt good. Blackness. But wait a minute. Something is happening. I suddenly felt extremely bizarre. My body felt completely numb. I tried to move my limbs -- but they felt like they weighed 200 lbs. each. I could not budge. I could not even move my eyes, my mouth, my hands. I felt like I was trapped inside my own body. I heard the doctors and nurses conversing and buzzing around me. Wait a minute. They are talking about me! I heard bits and pieces: "This is Melanie ... she is a musician .... yes, she plays the piano ... a teacher ... was over in South Korea teaching ... yes ... 25 ..."I felt panic strike me. I tried to move my mouth again to tell them that something was going wrong. I tried to tell them that I knew they were speaking about me. I struggled. And struggled. Then everything began to fade away.

After what seemed to be a quick 10 minute nap, I awoke. Where am I? I felt something on my face. I began to choke. What is that gross taste?!?! I started to cough. I tried to move. PAIN. Wow ... a LOT of pain. I saw a nurse hovering over the top of me adjusting the oxygen mask that was causing me discomfort. Tears began streaming down my face, and I once again found myself sobbing. I was sobbing loud enough for everyone in the recovery room to hear. I can not tell you why--I woke up like this. The nurse took the mask off my face. I then heard a voice: "Hang in there honey. Hang in there. Be strong." I looked around. The voice was coming from someone in the bed next to me. "Melanie, this is Aldrina," the nurse said. "She just had the same surgery as you and we are arranging to have the two of you staying in the same room together." All of this was just words to me. I was too groggy to comrehend much or at least to react.

I continued to sob for what seemed to be about an hour. I was soon able to calm down. I was now coming to the realization that I was to be in a great deal of pain-- even more than I had previously been worrying about. I laid in that bed and tried to do everything I could from becoming anxious. I laid. And laid. And laid. And then the boredom began to hit. Did I tell you that I don't enjoy sitting for long periods of time? I watched the clock. 2 hours went by. Why am I in recovery so much longer this time? I felt tears begin to pour down my face again. I heard the nurse on the phone: "Yes. She's doing fine, but she is quite upset ... yes she's been crying quite a lot ... no I don't think its the pain ... I think she is just traumatized." Then I heard an announcement: "Visiting hours are now over .... blah blah." I yelled to the nurse, crying yet again: "How much longer will I be here? Are they going to make my family leave?" She talked to me like I was a child: "No, dear. I'm sure they'll allow your family to wait here for you. We are just waiting for your room to be prepared. It took a little longer because we were waiting for a room with 2 beds to come free so you and Aldrina be together." I cursed her in my mind. Just let me out of here! All I could think was that my family was in the waiting room waiting patiently for me to come out for the past four hours (my mother had been there with me since noon ... so she was nearing her 8th hour). I worried that they would leave and I would be all alone going to my room.

But soon my nurse came over and said: "We're going to take you up now hunny." The porter came to take me, but the nurse said: "This is my little girl. Do you mind if I take her up?" It seemed like she knew me, but I barely recognized her. Goes to show how aware I was for the previous four hours.

(I would later discover that the strange occurence that happened under the anesthetic was a small mistake. The job of an anesthesist is quite meticulous and requires two drugs to work at an exact moment together: the drug that paralyzes your body and the drug that paralyzes your mind. Turns out that my body became frozen just slightly before my mind, which explains the awful sensation that I experienced. It likely lasted a few seconds, but you can understand that it seemed like an eternity at the time)

Far beyond the call of duty ...

I was first approached by Patrice, my OR nurse from last week (aka "my guardian angel"). She said "hello" and asked how I was doing. We exchanged a few brief words, and she rushed towards a nearby office where she yelled: "Paris is here!" All the doctors and nurses inside giggled. I guess they had come to the conclusion (like so many other people) that I was Paris Hilton's look alike -- so I had acquired a nickname in the hospital already.

Another nurse then came towards me with a clipboard and explained that he would be my nurse during this operation. As he began asking the 100 questions he was required to ask of me, I began feeling uneasy. He was young, quiet, and seemed uneasy. Where is Patrice? I want Patrice!!! I kept quiet. Next, I was approached by another man, who introduced himself as Dr.Jensen (I think) and told me he would be my anesthesist. He was an older and much more serious man than Craig, but all the same, he was a nice man. Where is Craig? I want Craig!!! I thought to myself ... This would be much easier if the same people as last time were here. I now appreciated them even more.

The anesthesist began explaining what he would do to me today and explained the effects of the anesthetic. I cut him off, being anxious: "I don't have to get that freezing needle this time, right?" He looked like he was trying to figure me out: "Ah ... what are you referring to?" I explained that last week Craig gave me a needle in the back, between the lung and spinal chord, which was meant to freeze my left side. He stumbled over his words: "Ah... hehe ... well I had planned to ...em ... give it to you, but its really up to yourself whether you want it or not." Oh no. More decisions! I asked him how much worse off I would be without the freezing and if I would be crazy not to get it. He explained that it provides a considerable amount of comfort to patients following surgery, but it was still my choice. I asked: "Do most people get this?" He answered, snickering at the same time: "Well, yes, most people do have it when offered." I looked at my mother. She looked at me. "I think you should take it," she said. I can't go through with this again. They both stared at me. The anesthesist said: "Listen ... I really don't want you to feel pressured into doing something you are not comfortable with, so why don't we just go ahead with the operation without it?" I agreed. I can't do it again.

The next person to approach me was Dr.Butler. I can't even recall why now, but I do recall that I asked him what he thought about my decision concerning the freezing. His face told me that he knew nothing of this decision ... and he wasn't about to let me stick with it easily. He explained that it would provide me a great deal of post-operative comfort and he definitely did not recommend me not having it. I trusted him, so I put my faith in him. Suck it up. I said: "Ok I guess I'll be brave and have it then. It's gonna be hard without the nurse I had last time to hold onto and squeeze, though." At this point I didn't know the nurse's name was Patrice. All I knew was that she was one special nurse. Dr. Butler smiled and I could tell he was reaching back in his mind, trying to figure out who I was speaking of. Off he went.

My mother and I sat outside the OR, as I rocked back and forth nervously, dreading that same needle I was given last week. You know, I was never a needle wimp before now. I went for bloodwork without flinching and never minded the dentist's needles at all. But now I was beginning to fear them. There is such a great variety of them out there ... and I was getting hit with the worst of them. Another nurse soon came by and told me my aunt was out in the general waiting area and was wondering if she could talk with me. Only one person is allowed in the OR waiting area to wait with a patient, so I asked quietly if she could quickly come in. The nurse was very sweet and said that this would be no problem at all, and she quickly went off to fetch my aunt. It turned out to be my aunt Judy, who came just for support, which I really appreciated. I expressed how frightened I was and she comforted me, assuring me that everything would be fine. I rocked. And I rocked.

Suddenly, I saw Patrice coming around the corner with a smile ear to ear. She came right to me and bent down on her knees, putting her hands in my hands. She said: "I have come on special request! I feel so important!" Tears immediately filled my eyes and I cried (I am crying just thinking back about this) for a number of reasons. I cried mainly because I was so happy that she would be with me again when I really needed her. And I cried also because I was humbled at how very kind people can be. Dr.Butler went out of his way to be sure I was comfortable. He actually went into another operating room, where Patrice was with another patient, and switched her with my nurse so that she could be with me. These people had again gone far beyond their call of duty. I looked around me. My aunt cried. My mom cried. Patrice cried (but still managed to maintain her genuine smile). We all cried together. And suddenly I was called into the operating room.

I hugged my aunt who was filled with tears. I kissed my mom, who is quite the tough woman and managed to keep the tears to a minimum. I wiped away my tears. Patrice took me by the arm and escorted me down that same long hallway and into that same familiar room. "Be strong. You are going to be fine," she whispered, as we opened the doors.

Facing Your Fears Will Only Make You Stronger

Friday, September 22nd was the big day. Although the last surgery went as good as it could have (aside from the screwdriver-sized needle to the back), I dreaded this one even more. The fear of being admitted for what the nurse suspected could be anywhere from 4-7 days plagued me. I figured I would probably be in the worst pain I ever encountered if they were to admit me, and, as I mentioned before, I dreaded being bed-bound for such a long period of time. Never once, however, did I question the decision I made or worry myself about the outcome. I knew it was the right decision and I wasn't about to talk myself out of it.

My mom and I made our way to the CBR hospital once again, me with 10,000 thoughts racing through my mind. I asked my mother 100 questions that she gave confident answers to, although she was really just trying to calm me down. I felt like a child again--asking my mother questions like she was an all-knowing being and accepting whatever answers she gave as the only possibilities. This temporarily disguised the fear that haunted me. What will it feel like when I wake up? Is it going to be excruciating pain or bearable pain? What's it like to stay in the hospital overnight?

Soon we arrived at the hospital and executed a similar procedure as last week. This time, however, before I went to the surgery waiting area I had to return to nuclear medicine. Today they would take a set of pictures of the chest and underarm area so that they could find the path of yesterday's radioactive dye injection. I was directed to lay on a stretcher-like bed with my left arm stretched out to the side. The technician moved a large machine over the top of my upper body, which was to snap the pictures. Too bad these pictures don't work like our normal point and shoot cameras. I was told to lay without moving until the picture was finished--which turned out to be about 5 minutes. The problem is that I have a mild case of chlaustrophobia. This large machine was positioned an inch from my face and enclosed from that area down to my stomach area, or thereabouts. And, unfortunately, there wasn't just one picture taken! There was a series of about 4 pictures taken, which meant I had to lay under this machine for about 20 minutes. This is no walk in the park for someone who dislikes closed-in spaces. Again, there was a lot I had to overcome. Challenges is every sense of the word. I convinced myself that this was nothing compared to what I was about to undergo. I convinced myself that I was tougher than I thought and that this was all a figment of my imagination. I decided to embrace this moment and to face my fears. I had nothing to lose. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths ... soon it was all over.

Dr. Isles came prancing in the room with a smile from ear to ear once again to take a look at the resulting pictures. She pointed to the monitor and I saw what appeared to be a white, glowing pea on the screen. This was the sentinal node that they were going after, and it had absorbed the radioactive dye perfectly. Awesome! No more bee stings! Dr. Isles said she would send the pictures up to Dr.Butler who would use them as a sort of map during the surgery. And off I went back to that large familiar room to wait for the OR to call for me ...

The remaining difference between today's procedures and that of last week's was that instead of only waiting half an hour in my johnny shirt and robe for the OR to call me, this time I waited for two and a half hours. The thoughts and questions recapped in my mind as they did on the journey to the hospital--I was sure my mother was getting tired of me by now. But no--she remained completely patient, comforting, and supportive of me ... holding my hand, hugging me, and reassuring me that everything would be fine. I am very thankful to have such a patient and selfless mother.

When they finally called me to the OR it was 4pm. I took a big gulp and, with my mother at my side, I made my way to same waiting area where I first met Craig the anesthesist last week.

"Kamsa-hamneda"

That's "Thank You" in Korean.

Rather than replying to every comment, I thought I'd take the time to let you all know at once that I have been reading them, and they mean a lot. It is these words of kindness, care, and inspiration that keep me going. You are the reason I am finding strength. Also thanks to everyone else who has sent emails and messages in response to this site. It's good to know that people are reading it and enjoying it. I welcome other comments and feedback as well ... it makes me want to write! But Miles, Linds, Enz, and Caroline the comments were quite eloquent and much appreciated.

I have come to realize that this "blog" is becoming more like a novel of sorts. I apologize for the lengthy reads. It seems like it might be sort of impossible to read one blog and truely understand what I'm getting at without also reading the previous one. So for all you who are new to the site, be sure to click on ARCHIVES (October, 2006) on the sidebar and scroll down to the bottom of the page. The first post is "Where do I begin?" The posts then go from bottom up.
Thanks again everyone for reading and for caring about my progress.
Love, Mel

I hate bee stings.

I made my way to the CBR hospital once again, first for my meeting at the pre-admission clinic. The nurse turned out to be an in-law of my aunt's. This is another adjustment I would have to make--in Cape Breton everyone knows everyone else. By whatever bizarre connection it may be, people are bound to find that link. Nothing is a secret. So I was greeted by a nurse who seemed to know me and everything about my situation already, and I was taken into an office. She was , nonetheless, very nice and helpful (another innate characteristic of CapeBretoners). She explained what I could and could not do before and after the surgery, explained the basic procedures of each surgery, and did some basic tests (blood pressure, etc.). She gave me a special underarm pillow designed for breast surgery patients. It was decorated with pretty pink ribbons, a design which now sticks out to me like a sore thumb.

She directed me to bloodwork, where I was again to have a routine sample taken. I entered this section of the hospital to see a massive group of restless, anxious, and cranky people waiting to have bloodwork. Oh no ... not another waiting period. I went to the registration booth and waited for my number. Surprisingly, the lady told me to go right in. No wait? I can deal with this. Although I felt sorry for the numerous tired and discontented faces, I happily made my way ahead of them. Afterall, I think I deserved it after all I had been through and was about to undergo.

The final battle of the day was the radioactive injection for the Sentinal Node Biopsy (see "Pre-Op Stuff and Some Sugar and Spice). The nurse from the pre-admission clinic told me she wasn't sure what this was going to be like, but she didn't think it would be difficult or painful--at least she didn't hear any complaints about Nuclear Medicine procedures. I, thus, made my way to Nuclear Medicine not knowing what to expect. The unknown was now becoming familiar as well, although not welcomed.

I was met by a nurse and was once again told to remove my shirt and bra. She directed me to lay on my back and began to prepare the room for the radiologist. Soon, the radiologist entered--a lady I had met previously during my ultrasound. She was a very bubbly lady, with lots of energy. So, with a big smile and happy eyes, she informed me that she was going to inject me with radioactive dye, which the sentinal nodes would hopefully pick up. Without changing her expression and without a bit of negativity, she said: "Ok hunny, I'm not gonna lie to you. This isn't going to feel nice." Wait a minute. I thought the nurse said this would be nothing. Oh no!
I replied: "This hurts?" She answered: "Yes hun. It will be pretty painful. The good news is that its quick." I clenched the side of the bed with one hand and my waist with the other. The nurse passed her the needle. "Ah ... wait a minute," the doctor said. "You must have a smaller needle than that. We want to give Melanie as little pain as possible. Can you go get a smaller one?" They talked about needle sizes and things I couldn't understand. But what I did understand was that this was going to HURT. My heart raced. I wanted to get up and run for dear life. I wished I had someone to cling to. The nurse suddenly appeared once again. "Sorry. There are no other sizes." What??? You mean to tell me you just told the nurse that the needle would cause me tremendous pain RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME and now you are going to give it to me anyway? Please don't give it to me anyway. "Ok then. Looks like we'll have to use this one my dear. Don't worry, it will be quick." My nerves were literally SHOT. The nurse told me to squeeze her hand and at me came Dr. Isles with the dreaded stick of metal. And she was exactly right. This needle felt like a long beesting, but the sensation was ten times more intense.
"All done," she smiled, full of business. I quickly jumped up. But wait a minute. Ahhhhhh! The sensation got WORSE! The doctor lied to me! She told me it would be quick. This was true ... of the actual injection. But the pain lingered and continued to intensify afterwards. I started to cry. Why am I such a wimp? I blurted: "I'm a wimp," trying to quickly wipe away the evident tears. "You're a wimp?! Look at me, I'm crying too and I didn't even get the needle!" Dr.Isles had a few tears in her eyes. The nurse ran and got me an icepack and told me that this would help ease the pain. She explained that the sensation was caused from the material under the skin, but as it spread out, it would soon fade.

I got dressed and went out to the waiting room, where my mother and Mike sat waiting patiently. I was happier than ever to exit those hospital doors.

Pre-op Stuff & Some Sugar and Spice

Early the next morning I showed up at the doctor's office. The secretary gave me two pieces of paper, each explaining the two surgeries I was to get. The first surgery would be the modified radical mastectomy. It would take place at 4pm Friday, September 22nd (the following day).

The second surgery would be the Sentinal Node Biopsy, and would take place at the same time as the mastectomy. The Sentinal Node Biopsy is a rather new procedure used to test the lymph nodes for malignancy, and is only performed by more experienced surgeons. Approx. 24 hours before the surgery, the tumor is injected with a radioactive dye, which is then drained by the tumor into the lymph nodes. This then tells the doctors which lymph node(s) is the primary spot which drained the tumor. Sentinal, then, comes to mean first or primary. It tells us which lymph node or nodes the cancer cells would likely travel to first. A radiologist then takes pictures of the underarm/breast area and those chief lymph nodes show up bright and clear. The surgeon uses these picture during the procedure to know which lymph nodes to remove. During the surgery, the surgeon will sometimes also take a few extra surrounding lymph nodes if he/she suspects there may be spread. Some physical signs of spread that the surgeon can detect are swelling and clumping together of lymph nodes (and I'm sure there are other signs that I'm unaware of). Once the lymph nodes are removed, they are then sent to a pathologist to be tested.

The secretary also gave me some pre-operative directions. Today, I would have to get routine bloodwork, have the radioactive dye injected into the tumor, and go to a "pre-admission clinic," where a nurse goes over what to expect from surgery and provides information about it. I was not to eat or drink anything after midnight (ugh! I hate this). Tomorrow, I was to show up at noon to have the pictures taken. Then I would have to register to be admitted. Yes ... I was being admitted. This would be my first time EVER staying overnight in the hospital. The thought of it made me cringe. You see, I am the type of individual who loves to be "on-the-go" ... sitting around and doing nothing (even if t.v. or a book is involved) is not my cup of tea.

I was to be challenged in every sense of the world. If I can overcome all the personal battles that this disease brings me, I can overcome ANYTHING.

(I decided to start adding some sugar and spice to The Pink Diaries. As I was taught in the Education program, visuals are ALWAYS a good thing (haha). This is me a couple days after I was released from the hospital following the 2 surgeries. I know ... I'm getting ahead of myself, but you all know I'm tough, right?)

The verdict

I was happy to leave the doctor's office and escape the five sets of eyes that were glued to me during the entire appointment. I needed time to decipher everything that had just happened, to sort my thoughts, and to make some sort of decision.
We gathered around the kitchen table (my mom, dad, uncle, aunt, and Mike) to discuss all of the news. The kitchen was becoming a familiar meeting place for those who cared. I was surprised when no one at the table volunteered to give me an opinion. Each and every person there expressed that they thought it was important that I make this decision on my own because it was a decision that only I would have to live with for the rest of my life. They all expressed that they would support whatever decisions I would make. I went to my room to be alone and think.

Surprisingly, the decision I was to make became very clear. Something in my gut was telling me what to do. I knew what I wanted and what was the right choice. I, nonetheless, did a little research to be sure my decision was sound. But in the end the gut instincts I was having were the deciding factors. I wanted to let them take the breast. I thought this was the most responsible choice I could make. I wouldn't have to worry about it any longer, would likely not have to do radiation treatment for months on end, and could have breast implant that looks nice, rather than a mutilated breast. The price I would have to pay? I would have to go around for the next little while (until treatment is over) without a left breast. To me, my life and my sanity were worth more than my short-term physical appearance. Before I made any final decision I needed to talk to Michael. My main concern was that he wouldn't find me attractive anymore, although deep down I knew our relationship was much stronger than that. But you can imagine that this would be a concern of any young woman who was considering having her breast removed. The conversation, however, was short-lived. There were no ifs ands or buts. Mike was completely supportive of the move and told me that he actually thought it was the better choice for me to make. He reassured me that I am beautiful, my beauty is not based on my breasts, he loves me, and our relationship was about more than petty things like that. He made me feel 100% confident about the choice.

Within an hour I was back in the kitchen announcing my decision. Everyone looked extremely happy ... I now knew what they would have said if they thought it appropriate to give me an opinion. The decision was made. I was happy.

I took a deep breath and phoned the doctor's office. I left a message explaining that on Friday I would have a modified radical mastectomy and would be in for further instructions in the morning.

Booby or no booby?

The call finally came in Tuesday from Dr. Butler's office. They recieved the pathology report, which was put on "rush." We set up an appointment for Wednesday evening with the doctor to review what they had found.

This time, I acquired an extra hand to come with us--as I mentioned earlier, my mom and I ended up with conflicting stories following the last appointment with Dr. Butler. So, this time my aunt Cathy Anne decided to come with us. Last time Mike waited in the waiting room simply because I thought the doctor wouldn't like a flock of people piling in his office, but this time I told him he could come too. The more people, the more information we could soak up. So, when the doctor called me in this time, there was a crew of people behind me. He thought this was quite amusing.

Down to business. The doctor immediately went into the details of the report:
They removed the tumor and some of the tissue surrounding it, and both were tested. The tumor was indeed Invasive Ductal Carcinoma (the most common form of breast cancer) and was approx. 1 cm in size when they removed it. The largest edge was 1.3 cms. If you have been reading well you will recall that the reports from Korea stated that the tumor was .67 cms. This leads me to believe that one of two things could have happened: 1) The ultrasound didn't pick up the full size of the tumor (which is quite possible since it is not 3 dimensional); or 2) The tumor grew QUICKLY over the past 2 weeks. If the second scenario is indeed the case, then I am extremely glad I was insistent in getting it removed as soon as possible. I am also glad I did not delay a second in getting back to Canada from South Korea.

But this wasn't the only news. The surrounding tissue that was tested was also positive for cancer. However, this cancer was the non-invasive or "in-situ" type (the type that is contained in the ducts, is not spreading, and is not immediately threatening). Although it was DCIS (ductal carcinoma in-situ), it still needed to be removed. This is because DCIS eventually becomes invasive if left long enough. The doctor couldn't be sure that he removed all of the non-invasive cancer in the tissue he took, so further surgery was required. YIKES! I have to go through all of this again?

I was, however, given an option. The first option was to remove a small piece of the breast. This would preserve my original breast, but could have drawbacks: 1) If the margins were not clear (meaning, if they still weren't sure they removed all of the cancer after removing the second piece of tissue), I would need to go in yet again for another surgery; 2) I would need an extended radiation treatment following to be sure no cancer cells were left behind and still lingering in the breast; 3) I could quite possibly be left with a mutilated looking breast (what the doctor called a less-than-appealing "cosmetic result"), mainly because I have small breasts; and 4) Even if everything went well, I could quite possibly be haunted by the breast for the rest of my life--wondering if there are lumps, if cancer is still lingering, and what is going on inside there.

The second option would be to have a "modified radical mastectomy," where the breast is completely removed and all chest muscles are left in-tact. As soon as I thought of having my breast removed I became disguisted. Just to think of myself with one boob and a large scar across my chest sent shivers through me. This was the major drawback of the second option. And it is definitely a large and quite significant drawback. There were benefits, however: 1) Definitely no more surgery (unless the cancer was to recur down the road, which is possible for both scenarios); 2) Radiation treatment might be an option, but would not be necessary; 3) I would have the piece of mind of knowing that the breast was gone-- no worrying about what might be brewing beneath; and 4) MSI offers free reconstructive surgery following treatment. Dr. Butler told me this would be in the form of a breast implant, and he assured me that the plastic surgeon who does it is excellent, and the results are usually beautiful.

With that, I was to make a decision. These are decisions that would affect the rest of my life, and were not to be taken lightly. Both scenarios had there benefits and drawbacks. Scenario 1 had a large benefit with a number of drawbacks, while scenario 2 had a one large drawback and a number of benefits. Boob? or No Boob? Or as Craig the anesthesist would say: Booby? Or No Booby?

I told Dr.Butler that this was a decision I would need to think long and hard about. He suggested reading the dreaded "Patient's Guide to Breast Cancer" book he gave me the previous week to learn more about the pros and cons of each option. He told me, however, that if I decided by early tomorrow morning (Thursday) he could have me in Friday (just 2 days later!) for the surgery. Otherwise, he would perform the surgery the following Friday.

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions. And I thought I had tough decisions to make before this happened ...

Cancer of the Mind

By Sunday I was able to function fine. My chest was still sore, but not sore enough for painkillers. I couldn't do anything strenuous (like exercising or lifting), but normal activities were managable. Dad let Mike and I take his Mercedes out for the afternoon. We went for a nice long drive out to Mira (about 45 minutes away). It was a gorgeous afternoon and proved to be an awesome way to relax. Who wouldn't enjoy taking a Mercedes convertable out for a long drive on a sunny September afternoon with their hunny?

Although the pain was easing, as time progressed after this initial operation, so did paranoia. I started doing some research--on the internet and in a "Patient Guide to Breast Cancer" book the doctor gave me--and it did nothing but frighten me. I felt that it was my duty to know as much as I could about this disease and I needed to be more informed so that when I went to the doctor next, I would have some clue what he was talking about. But all these things I felt I had to do, turned out to worsen my situation. All I could now think about was metastesis (cancer spread to other parts of the body) and the many possibile outcomes for me. I then decided that I would wait until I was ready to start learning more about the disease--until I was more comfortable with my siuation and until I had accepted what was happening to me.

It took a while to shake the paranoia. I went out for lunch with my friend/cousin Alyson Tuesday afternoon. I remember telling her that I had a pounding headache the last couple of days, one like I have never experienced before. I started to feel light headed. I felt like my vision was blurry, so I started covering each eye and testing them. I was extremely worried. I thought I had a brain tumor. My thoughts were travelling like wildfire. Alyson told me she thought I might be taking panic attacks--what does that feel like? I now think that I simply had a stress headache, which made me paranoid about brain tumors. This, in turn, made me paranoid about other normal things that were happening with my body. The headaches discontinued that week.

Thinking too much. That could have been the death of me. I thought while I was in bed. I thought while I watched t.v. I thought while I was eating, speaking, playing the piano. I thought constantly. Why? What if? Thinking was the root of a tremendous amount of stress. I remember going to my grandmother's house for lunch that week and, in the middle of nowhere, breaking down. She was extra supportive and loving and managed to calm me down. I broke down numerous time while talking to Mike about things--and thinking. But this would soon pass.

Drugs, Drugs, Drugs. Which Are Good, Which Are Bad?

I woke up in the recovery room after what seemed to be a cat nap-- just as my mother had told me. Except, now I was feeling extremely groggy and 'doped up.' I vaguely remember speaking with Dr. Butler, but I have no recollection of what was said. What I do remember was immediately thinking about how much I appreciated the nurse and the anesthesist. I thought I had a dream that I was speaking to Craig (the anesthesist) and thanking him. So, when he came by the bed to ask if I was doing alright, I said: "That was weird." And he asked what was on my mind. I told him I had a dream about him. He replied that it was impossible to dream under anesthetic and asked me to tell him what I was thinking about. I told him I thought I was talking to him and thanking him, and he told me that actually happened! Embarrasing. Goodness knows what else I said to them. He told me that when I came to I immediately asked for Craig, and when he came over to me I shook his hand and thanked him. At least they know they were appreciated.

After about a 45 minute wait, I was wheeled out to the same place where I came in to get changed a few hours earlier, the day surgery unit. I saw my mom, dad, and aunt Gladys waiting for me. I had never been so happy to see them. The nurse parked my bed in the large room and brought me water, tea, and a blueberry muffin. It tasted sooo good after not having eaten since yesterday at suppertime. We sat and chatted while waiting for the anesthetic to wear off. By around 3pm I was on my way home.

That night proved to be quite an experience. I thought I was on top of the world for a while, but as the freezing began to wear off, the pain began to kick in. During a lumpectomy, nerves and muscles become damaged, so this is where most of the pain comes from. I found myself taking 1-2 tylenol 3s every few hours to hide the pain and discomfort. Laying on my bed became a chore. It felt like my chest was going to split open with every subtle motion. At one point, I had finally situated myself in a comfortable position on the bed, and Mike came to lay beside me. The impact of his body on the bed sent immediate pain all through me. I popped more pain killers ... but this only proved to worsen my state. You see, as I mentioned before, I had never previously been ill enough to have to take pain killers, so my body wasn't used to them. After a day of taking the maximum dosage of tylenol with codene, my stomach began to rot. By around 10pm I was gagging, heaving, and about to vomit. Vomitting is bad enough, but I also had severe chest pain from surgery. As I mentioned, any subtle movement equalled pain. So I feared that if I threw up, the pain would be unbearable. Mike and my mother tried to help, but I wanted none of it. I wanted to be alone. I shooed them out of my room and sat hanging over the garbage bucket for about 20 minutes--alone. Finally, my mother convinced me to take yet another pill (Gravol) to ease the nausea. The gravol mixed with some TLC from Michael had me out like a light within 20 minutes.

The next day (Saturday) was much better. I still had some discomfort, but nothing compared to the hellish night I had encountered. I made sure only to take the Tylenol 3 with lots of food, and took them sparingly. I tried to go about my daily business as best as possible. The pain limited me to going out for coffee with Lindsey, visiting with family, and watching movies with Mike. But, these little things were the things I came to appreciate when all this happened. You see, when something like this happens your world becomes narrowed. Instead of seeing all the little things, you start to see the big picture. When I was away in Korea and was first diagnosed with breast cancer, I remember thinking about what I would do when I got home. Mike and I wallowed in our daydreams together. Movies. Cuddling on the couch. Good ol' Tim Hortons coffee. Long drives. The great outdoors. The Cabot Trail. Family. Friends. It was these little things that we missed and came to appreciate. Everything became narrowed down. It was clear what was important to us.

A Guardian Angel and a Double Rum & Coke

I was led through a series of hallways and was asked to have a seat once we landed in the OR area of the hospital. My mom sat with me and holded my hand. She explained that I didn't need to worry ... I would go to sleep and wake up in what would feel like a few minutes, not even knowing anything had happened. I tried to calm down.

At this point in my journey with breast cancer, I was still extremely emotionally sensitive. I was nervous to talk to people because I feared breaking down in front of them. Any talk about cancer or my current situation would have me in tears. So you will understand that when the anesthesiologist approached me for a preoperative chat, I broke down. Again, I should remind you that I was not even minutely familiar with hospitals, so I had no idea who he was or what his job was. He was an extremely friendly man, who came over to me and said "You must be Melanie! ... My name is Craig and I will be your anesthesist today." He began looking over my documents and asked if I was here to have a lumpectomy. I replied yes. He said: "Well the booby is a strange thing Melanie. Lots and lots of women get lumps in their boobies and they usually turn out to be nothing, so don't worry ok?" My only reply was: "Mine is cancer ... I was already tested in South Korea ... this is just a precaution." He looked so sympathetic and so sincere that I began to cry. He put his hand on my leg and told me everything would be alright. He explained the procedure and turned out to be a hilarious guy. Every time he had to mention the breast, he called it a booby, which made me laugh. Most doctors I had seen so far had been so damn serious. He was able to pick me back up and make me feel better.

Soon, a nurse came and told me it was time to go in. I hugged my mother, took a deep breath, and followed the nurse down a long hallway and into the operating room. As I entered the room, everything felt surreal. It looked like something I had seen on reality television, or House, or Gray's Anatomy. It was a large white room with a skinny bed plopped down in the center. All sorts of machines were around its perimeters, and half a dozen doctors and nurses zipped around in their blue hats, slippers, and scrubs, getting everything prepared.

I was immediately approached by my guardian angel ... well, at least that's what I think of her as now. She was a nurse with the most beautiful, sincere eyes I have ever seen. All I could see was her eyes because she had a mask over her nose and mouth. But I will always remember her eyes. She put her hand on my shoulder and talked very quietly to me. She treated me with great respect, care, and sincerity. She directed me to the bed and gave me a heated blanket to put over me. She stood right beside me the entire time I watched everyone buzzing around the room. She continued to ask me if I was ok, if I needed anything, if I would like another blanket, etc. I feel like she went above and beyond her call of duty. She was someone who didn't just do her job, she actually cared. She made my first experience in the hospital and with cancer 1000 times easier.

Soon, Craig approached me. He first hooked me up to the IV (my first experience with this too!) and explained that he would be giving me a needle (which I had previously agreed to) through the back, which would numb the entire left side of my upper body. This is a technique which only some doctors can perform and which requires great precision. It requires the doctor to pinpoint a nerve located in a tiny space between the lung and the spinal chord, and, as you can imagine, it presents the danger of puncturing the lung. But, it also provides a high level of comfort post-operation (for up to 2 days). But ... boy did I NOT know what I was in for. First, I was poked in the back with a needle meant to numb the area. And then ... he came at me with a needle that looked about 6 inches long. I cannot begin to describe the sensation it caused me, but I can tell you that it was not nice. Painful. I yelled. I cried and sobbed. I felt like a small child. It lasted soo long! The only thing that kept me from jumping was Patrice, the nurse I mentioned earlier. She held me from the front and spoke to me softly, telling me that I was going to be alright, that I was doing excellent, and that I was a brave woman. Dr. Butler (my surgeon) also came to me and said: "You're going to be fine, Melanie." This meant so much to me.

I can't tell you how appreciative I was of the care I got that day. I really felt that everyone in that operating room cared about me ... they weren't just there to get a job done. Craig (the anesthesiologist), Patrice (the OR nurse), and Dr.Butler all went above and beyond.

A few minutes later, the dreadful needle was done and they laid me back onto the bed. Craig said: "Mel ... do ya like drinking? What's your favorite drink?" I replied that I liked beer, red wine, and milky drinks. He asked: "What do they drink over in Korea?" I told him all about Soju, one of the big staples of South Korea. He said: "Well, Mel, here is a double rum and coke for ya, on the house." Immediately, the whole room turned into a giant wave. I had never felt so good!!! This feeling made surgery worth it! Then ...

Blackness.

But I'm Healthy! (Aren't I?)

Friday soon came and so did the butterflies. Up until today all I cared about was getting the lump OUT. I didn't even consider the surgery, how I would feel, or what the aftermath would be. This, nonetheless, kept me strong and less nervous leading up to the surgery. However, as soon as I woke up Friday, the very idea of it began to frighten me.

See, up until I was diagnosed with cancer, I had never had a thing wrong with me (or never thought I did, anyhow). I always ate excellent food. As a matter of fact, I went out of my way to be sure I had a balanced diet for every meal, made sure I ate lots of fruits and dark green and orange vegetables, fibre, herbs, and fish. I researched healthy eating and kept up with the times ever since I began university almost 8 years ago. I exercised. I never owned a car throughout university, so walking was my main source of transportation. I also took up running and cycling during university and began doing rigorous activities like mountain climbing and hiking while living in Victoria, B.C. I have also always had excellent mental health--I lived a high-stress life, but learned to deal with stress very well over the years and have always been able to keep a positive attitude during the mos trying times. I believe that it was because of my healthy lifestyle that I enjoyed a life close to free of colds, flus, and other illnesses. I remember going for close to 2 years without having any sickness whatsoever. Aside from feeling healthy most of my life, I had also never had any accidents that caused illness. Never a sprain, broken bone, or other accident. Actually, I had stitches ONE time when I was about 4 years old and fell off a swing. I had never had an overnight stay in the hospital.

So I think you get my gist! I was not used to being sick and was definitely not used to being to doctors or being in the hospital. I remember talking to friends over the last few years and saying: "I think I am in for it one of these days." First of all, I figured it was my turn soon. And second, I knew that I would have a hard time dealing with illness when something finally did happen to me. So in a way I was expecting this, just not on such a large scale!

I made my way once again to the CBR hospital in Sydney, did all the necessary registrations, and was taken to the Day Surgery section of the hospital. My mom and I were directed behind a curtain, where I was to remove all clothes and jewelry and place them in a "Patient's Items" bag. Then I was to put on a white johnny shirt, green hospital housecoat, and blue paper slippers and hair cover. Once all that was done, I was to wait an hour and a half to be called to the operating room. They make you go in a couple hours early in case someone doesn't show up or they can somehow squeeze you in early.

I sat there and began to shake. I showed my mom my hands ... shaking like a leaf. She hugged me and comforted me. So many things were rushing through my mind--things mainly to do with the surgery, rather than the cancer (a weird change of pace for me, since cancer had been plaguing my mind for the past couple of weeks). The nervousness mainly stemmed from the unknown--from not knowing what to expect. Luckily, my anxiousness was cut short. After all, day surgery was calling for me and they were able to start my surgery more than an hour early--less time for me to think and obsess about it.

Off I went.

Mammograms and MAJOR advise

Thursday, September 14th. My first mammogram ever. Although I was thankful for being given such an early appointment, I was dreading what was about to be done to me. Actually, I had no idea what they were about to do to me, aside from what the odd aunt had told me.

I stepped nervously into the mammography room at the CBR hospital. The nurse told me to take off my shirt and bra (which I was getting used to by this point), and she began to stick little silver balls that looked like bebe pellets first on my nipples, then on the area around the tumor. I'll tell this in detail so all you young girls who are reading this understand what a mammogram is-- I know I didn't up until a month ago. She then directed me over to a large machine, where the actual pictures are taken. Basically the mammogram machine is like 2 flat pieces of plexi glass that move in a vertical (up and down) direction towards one another. You first lay your breast on the bottom piece (its sort of like a table) and then the nurse presses a button that causes the second piece to move downward onto the breast. She moves the 2 'tables' together (your breast is in between them) until your breast is as flat as itcan be.It ends up looking something like a pancake. I won't lie ... it feels pretty brutal. It's more uncomfortable than anything, just to know that your boob is being squished in ways you never before thought possible. Once your boob is in squish position, the nurse runs over and presses another button that takes the pictures. Normally they do this procedure 4 times (top and bottom of each breast, then sides of each breast), but they did it to me 7 times because they had to take extra pictures of the tumor.

Aside from a little discomfort, the mammogram really isn't that big a deal. Of all the things I've had done to me so far, this was probably the easiest.

Once this was done, I was on my way ... I thought. I had to wait in the waiting room until they were sure the pictures came out clear enough to be used in the operating room. The nurse came out about 10 minutes later to inform me that I would have to also have an ultrasound done, because the mammogram pictures may not have been clear enough. So, after another hour's wait, I was finally taken in to have my second ultrasound done this month.

This is what is scary: First of all, doctors don't recognize women under 40 as being high risk for breast cancer (especially not at 25). In addition to this, women under 40 often have very dense breasts, which makes the tissues hard to read in a mammogram. Many times, if you are a young woman and manage to somehow get a mammogram, the cancer often goes undetected. This is why they needed to do an ultrasound for me. What I'm saying is that when you are a young woman under 40, detecting breast cancer is up to you! No one is going to find it for you! Self breast exams are crucial and it is also crucial that you have your doctor do a breast exam during your yearly obgyn (and make sure he/she is thorough!). The problem is that usually when you find it yourself, it is already a cancerous, invasive tumor. I'll explain: There are many stages of breast cancer, which usually develop over several years. First, you have abormal cells. Then, the cells mutate abnormally. Then, non-invasive or in-situ cancer forms. This is cancer that is contained in one area, has not yet broke away from that area or spread, and is not immdiately threatening. However, eventually this cancer can (and normally will) erupt and move outside that once-contained area and begin to spread. This is usually when a tumor is felt. With ductal carcinoma, the most common form of breast cancer and the kind I had, the non-invasive or in-situ cancer is confined to the ducts in the breast. Once these cancerous cells break away from the duct, they then become invasive, invading the surrounding tissue in thebreast and forming tumors. Mammograms can often detect in-situ cancers before they become life-threatening. However, when you're my age, there are few ways of knowing you have breast cancer until it is has become invasive.

The good news is that if you find the tumor quick, there is still lots of hope! Even though it has become invasive, the sooner you find it, the less chances it has of spreading outside the breast. In my case, I managed to detect the tumor shortly after it was formed, which will likely save my life.

So for all younger women reading this, take the advise I gaveyou above. And don't feel that just because you are young, you are scott-free!!! It happened to me and it's happening to lots of otherwomen our age. For all women over 40 who are reading this, take advantage of the services available to you. You may have the ability to nip cancer in the bud before it becomes life-threatening.

Don't be a pushover!

The battle began that week. Everything happened so fast! Monday (Sept. 11) I visited my family doctor (who was shocked because 2 weeks before I went to Korea I had a breast exam done by her and the lump was not there, or not noticed). She talked with me and referred me on to a surgeon, Dr. Butler.

Wednesday (Sept. 13) was the scheduled appointment with Dr.Butler. I was extremely nervous to see him because he had looked over my reports from Korea and was the one who would hold the responsibilty of giving me the details of my disease and various options for localized treatment (surgery). My mother, Mike, and I went to the office to discover that Dr. Butler had been called into the O.R. for an emergency, so we had to wait an extra hour in his office. This felt like an eternity and as every minute passed my heart gradually pounded a little harder, a little faster. I clinged on to Mike. I fiddled. I looked around the office. There were about 5 or 6 chairs filled ... every single person waiting to see him was over 60. Not Fair, is all I could think.

Soon I heard my name being called. We went in and were met by the doctor, who began to look over the report and fill me in with some details. EVerything that came out of his mouth was like a blow to my heart. Everything started to become real. I asked questions, but all the answers seemed to be too much for me to handle. He was talking about hormone therapy, chemotherapy, surgeries, spreading, staging ... it was all overwhelming to say the least. Half way through the meeting I began to sob. There was complete silence in the room for about 4 or 5 minutes, as everyone (the nurse, doctor, and my mom) all stared at me with sympathetic eyes.

I noticed that the doctor looked sort of nervous. Maybe it was just me, but he appeared to have struggled with the whole situation. If he had given me too much information I blamed it on this. He told me he had never treated someone my age for cancer. The youngest had been late 20's/early 30s. So I could understand what he may have been going through.

The overall outcome of the appointment was that Dr.Butler did not want to rely on the test results from a foreign country where he didn't know the pathologist. They wanted their own results here in Canada, and a second opinion could never hurt me. He said because of my age he wanted to be 100% sure that the diagnosis was correct. So, he gave me 2 options: 1) Get another core needle biopsy done (ahhh!); or 2) Get the lump removed to be tested. This was one of the easiest decisions I ever made: Take the lump out!!! I wanted this out of me more than I have ever wanted anything before. So ... he scheduled an appointment for me for Friday, Sept. 22nd. Another week and a half??? I can't bear to wait that long, feeling around and wondering how fast this cancer is spreading. I sobbed again (I know ... I'm a wimp). I said "Isn't there anything earlier than this?" He and the nurse conversed quickly and he said "We can do you next Wednesday. It can't be any earlier because you need to first have a mammogram so that we can map out the tumor for the surgery and make sure there are no other lumps in this breast or the other breast. The earliest mammogram appointment we can get is Monday." So ... this was the best they could do. I accepted, although I thought I couldn't bear to go around for another week knowing that a cancerous tumor was erupting in my breast.

We all went back to my house, where my grandmother, uncle, and father were waiting to hear what the doctor said. It turned into a heated, loud argument, surprisingly. Mom and I had different accounts of what happened in the office, which got all of us frusturated. Soon ... our conversation was interrupted by a phonecall. It was the hospital calling to confirm the mammogram apt. for Monday. The nurse said: "Your mammogram is scheduled for Monday, Septem ... ah actually ... we have an opening here for tomorrow at noon if you could come in then." A miracle?????? I said "Yes!" and immediately called Dr.Butler's office. I told his secretary that I was able to get an appointment for tomorrow (Thursday) for the mammogram and was wondering if Dr.Butler could fit me in for my surgery a little earlier because of this. She told me to wait and then came back saying ...

Yes! You will have the mammogram done tomorrow and then we will fit you in Friday (2 days later) during Dr. Butler's OR time to do the lumpectomy.

EVerything was starting to fall into place. Getting home on Monday, seeing the family doctor, then the surgeon, having a mammogram, and then a lumpectomy surgery done all in one week? That is unheard of around here. This is where my second piece of advise comes in --

When it comes to your health and especially the gut feelings you have about it ... don't be a pushover! Take control of your own situation. Be insistent. Be proactive. And when you find out what the test results of my lumpectomy were, you will realize that it was a good thing that I pushed the doctor to get me in early.