The Cancer Survivors Club (8 page)

No longer do any of us take life for granted or waste a minute of our days; we appreciate just how precious life
is.

There it was, the tiniest spot of blood. It was no bigger than a pinhead. At the time, I thought it could be just about anything, so ignored
it.

A few more months went by and I'd practically forgotten about my little red spot until it appeared again. This time, it was obvious it was a spot of blood. However, it was now bigger and far more visible than a few months earlier.

I'd started running almost a year to that day. I began as I had a high-pressured job working practically every hour given. Stress as we know can do all sorts of nasty things to your body. Not only did I want to reduce my anxiety levels, but I also wanted to lose some pounds. Somehow, my weight had crept up to over twenty pounds more than my ideal weight. It took me a long time to admit I was a runner. I was a swimmer, but a swimmer that didn't have enough hours in her day to practise the sport. Running was easy: just throw on a pair of shoes and head out the door. It's a beneficial low-maintenance sport. Boy, I'm starting to sound like an athlete or some super-fit woman
–
I'm
not!

A year into practising my newfound sport, I was back to my ideal weight; I was now feeling stronger and on top of the world. I'd even run a half-marathon; yes, I'd managed 13.1 miles or 21.1 kilometres. Then I saw that spot of blood again. It just happened that I was reading a lot of books and magazines on running at the time. I recalled reading about women who were clocking up a lot of miles during their weekly training. Some were experiencing irritated breast nipples, which sometimes
bled.

This was caused by the friction of their bra constantly rubbing. I simply assumed the rubbing had caused the spot of blood. After all, I was in the best physical shape I'd been in my whole adult life. I felt energized, healthy and definitely not
sick.

A close friend had sent me the article, which had prompted me to do a little investigating on the internet. While I was poring over other websites about various physical problems female runners had experienced, I noticed the word cancer kept appearing on the screen.

As I continued to read, the symptoms described were very similar to mine. This type of cancer is largely asymptomatic and is considered non-invasive. It's not like there's a lump in there that you can feel. Although I was more concerned than I'd previously been, I decided I wouldn't let my overactive imagination take over. Contradicting myself, I did make a decision to visit my gynaecologist; an appointment was
made.

The following week, I was sitting in the doctor's office, feeling rather apprehensive while I waited to be called. I'd been a patient at this clinic for almost fifteen years. My doctor had delivered all three of my daughters and been through the various other ups and downs in my life. He'd have an answer, I confidently thought. After my name was finally called, I found myself sitting in his office explaining what had been happening over the past couple of months.

My last mammogram had been taken less than a year prior to this visit, but he suggested I have another one just to rule anything out. Maybe it was because of my age, I thought, as I'd recently turned forty-five. Perhaps it was because I was in good shape; whatever the cause, the doctor was confident it was nothing to worry about. He'd wait for the results of the mammogram and in the meantime advised me to go out and buy a more supportive bra; so my ‘girls' wouldn't jiggle about as much when I was running. The bleeding, which wasn't constant or even annoying, should soon stop, he told me. I invested in a supportive running bra and, sure enough, the bleeding did stop. The results of my mammogram soon arrived and everything looked fine and my life carried on as normal.

However, just one month later, the bleeding had started again. This time it was heavier, particularly when I wasn't wearing a bra. After another visit to my doctor, I was sent to a special breast clinic. There I was given a laser imagery test and an ultrasound. Both tests confirmed the inevitable. I had cancer. The rest of that day was a complete blur. Everything seemed to speed up and get crazy. I was booked for a lumpectomy at the hospital just two weeks later; I was lucky and managed to get a cancellation. The operation went very well and the recovery was easy. I assumed my next visit to my oncologist would be my last. My brief encounter with cancer was done. Life would go on. Not so fast, Andrea: this would turn out not to be the
case.

My next appointment with my oncologist would prove to be the most devastating. Not only was the lumpectomy unsuccessful at removing all the cancer, but suddenly I had all these older family members coming out of the woodwork with their depressing tales of breast cancer; what an experience!

Now I had to make a decision between another lumpectomy, where the doctors would try to get clean margins this time, or a full mastectomy. Not all women make such drastic choices. But, given my newfound family history, and knowing I'd worry for the rest of my life about the cancer coming back, I decided to have a double mastectomy. I'd also have an immediate reconstruction using tissue taken from my stomach.

Through this journey, my running had taken on even more importance. I was now running for my life. Running gave me purpose, refreshed my mind and reminded me I was alive. I even made race plans in order to keep training with a purpose and my mind focused. I ran most days up until the very day I entered the hospital for the biggest operation of my life. It was a lovely run and I remember it well; but not because it would be a while before I laced up my running shoes again.

It was a warm summer evening on 2 August when I was admitted to the hospital for my operation. I felt so alone in the hospital room that night and had a multitude of worrying thoughts racing through my mind. I had fought and pushed to have surgery as soon as possible. In some ways, I was relieved. This would be the end of the cancer. They would get it all out and I would be on the road to recovery. I'd have probably seen the whole night round, if it wasn't for the medication they administered to help me sleep.

I was woken and out of bed early the next morning. I was going into theatre at 8:00
A.M.
I had two surgical teams waiting for me. One was led by my oncologist, who would be doing the mastectomies. He estimated that the operation would take around three and a half hours. The next team would be led by the plastic surgeon who would do the reconstruction. It transpired this part of the operation took a massive seven hours. When I came out of recovery, the whole day had come and gone, and it was now dark outside.

During my last appointment with my plastic surgeon before surgery, I was told I'd feel like I had been run over by a truck when I woke from the operation. You may think this was a silly thing to say, but it actually helped me prepare mentally. Not that I know what it's like to be run over by a truck, but I remember thinking, when I woke up in my hospital room, this must definitely feel worse than being hit by a truck. I had drains coming out of both sides of my chest and two others coming out of my pelvic area. My legs were covered in what looked like ‘space boots', which expanded and contracted in order to prevent blood clots from forming in my motionless legs. I had two more blood transfusions on top of the two units they gave me during surgery. I was too weak to have a port installed for pain medication. They therefore had to administer it through injections every few hours. Yes… it really was like I'd been run over by a truck, I can assure you. Luckily, thanks to the anaesthetic, that first night was a blur. The adult members of my family were all there when I was brought out of theatre; what a sight I must have been. For some reason, I was placed on the maternity ward to recover. The weather had suddenly turned very humid and the room, which had no air conditioning, was stifling hot. I kept drifting in and out of sleep as they watched over
me.

I was in hospital for six days. My mum and sister, who are both practising nurses, spent the entire day during my hospital stay with me. They made sure I was washed and was moved in bed and later helped me get
up.

By the time I was discharged, I really did feel ready to leave. Looking back, I was still quite weak. Thankfully, my parents lived with me for the six weeks after I was discharged. This certainly helped and increased the speed of my recovery. I couldn't walk up or down stairs and wasn't allowed to walk outside on my own. The doctors were worried that, if I fell, it would have a detrimental effect on my whole healing process. I was also not allowed to drive.

During this time of recovery, I did a lot of thinking. Going through cancer is a life-changing experience. I'm sure most cancer survivors will tell you the same thing. I wasn't the same after I'd gone through the operations and follow-up treatment. I did much soul searching. I found out who my true friends were and who truly loved me. I can now distinguish between the positive people and influences in my life and those who aren't.

Four weeks into my recovery, I received my pathology results. The supposed slow-moving and non-invasive cancer had started to migrate through my lymph nodes. As a result, they took seventeen of my nodes out on the side the cancer had been lurking. So this wasn't the end after all. I was sent to another hospital, to what they call a ‘Tumour Board'. There, a team of doctors including pathologists, oncologists and other cancer specialists met and discussed my case. They collectively decided what they felt would be the best approach for my treatment. The consensus was to prescribe eight rounds of chemotherapy. The doctor said to look at it as an insurance policy; that I was putting the optimum number of years of survival on my side. I'll never forget that day. Like the day I found out I had cancer, this day also passed like a slow-moving dream. I questioned myself over and over again; I wondered if this was even real. Was this really happening to
me?

I was introduced to the oncologist who would be responsible for my chemotherapy. I was also introduced to my pivot nurse, or personal nurse, who would oversee my treatment. My ‘new' oncologist gave me what for him must have been the millionth repetition of a speech on what tests I would undergo before starting the chemotherapy. He also went through the dangers of undergoing such severe treatment and explained what medication I would need to take during my treatment and why. Then, without asking, he took out a form and enquired if I was employed. He started filling it in while I nodded, confirming I had a
job.

Herein lay what would be one of the forks in the road that I went down. I had a choice. I could have nine months off work with the stroke of a pen while I went through treatment and recovery. Yet I had no intention of stopping work, so politely pushed his completed form back to him, while explaining I wanted to continue working if I could; I tried to sound as confident as I could. I felt empowered when I told him and I truly believed it. It was the first post-operative decision I made that was in my best interest. I needed to prove to my daughters, who were thirteen, ten and seven years old, that I was going to be fine. I wanted to give a positive example of how someone can fight with strength and dignity. I wanted my family to have as normal a life as humanly possible. So I worked my sixty-hours-a-week job, except for the two days I needed to take off every second week for my treatment. I arranged to have my treatment on a Thursday, so that by Monday I had gone through my physical and mental crash and was back on track. Once you go through the first treatment, the others tend to keep the same pattern. It's like a rollercoaster ride with the same peaks and troughs each time you go around.

Some of the best advice I got at this stage of my journey was to bring a friend or family member to chemotherapy with me. I did as suggested and it made each session much easier for me to handle. We would spend the time together chatting, laughing and reminiscing; this really distracted me from the treatment. In my case, the toughest part of the treatment was actually at the beginning of each session, when they inserted the needle. It was always so hard for them to find a vein big enough. The stress for me was them being able to hook me up. Once that was connected, it was just a question of getting the prescribed drugs inside
me.

Soon after the first chemotherapy treatment, the inevitable happened. My hair started to fall out. At first it was in tiny wisps but eventually it was coming out in bigger clumps. Fortunately, my hairdresser is also my friend. So, armed with my new wig, I went over to my friend Dianne's house to get my head shaved. This was another choice I wanted to make, and I'm so glad I made the decision. As with any opportunity I chose, it was empowering and allowed me to remain in control. I'd been mentally preparing for this since my personal nurse told me I'd lose my hair. I actually think it was harder on Dianne who was much more emotional over this than me. Once my hair was off, we made a cup of tea and looked at the wig. What were we to do with it? I stuck it on my head but it just didn't look right. It required a trim and needed to be much flatter. Eventually, we put the blow dryer on low and flattened the synthetic hair down. I knew it would take some getting used to, but it was the new ‘me'
–
for at least six months anyway.

It's strange how much colder it is with no hair, but hair loss does have its perks. For a runner during the cold weather, you never get hat hair and taking a shower is less time consuming. You save on shampoo and other hair products, and towel drying your head is done in a matter of seconds. Beats the fifteen minutes it takes to blow dry. There's no such thing as a bad hair day, they're all the same. Just place the wig on your head and go. To be honest, the wig was the first thing to come off when I got home. The chemotherapy induced hot flushes, I felt so hot! I think the sight of my baldness was a little troubling to my pre-teen, so I'd wear a bandana to cover it up. I didn't wear the wig very much on weekends either. I wore it only on special social occasions or when going shopping with the girls.