My second visit to KU Cancer Center concluded with a trip to the Little Girl’s Room and an abrupt face-to-face with my future.
I was sure I had walked into the Little Boy’s Room when a tall, denim-clad fellow walked out of a stall. I did a double-take and then a triple-take. No fellow here, it was a woman without hair—a woman somewhere on the chemotherapy journey. And like one of those sci-fi movies—I had seen my future self.
After my lumpectomy six weeks ago I figured I had dodged the bullet. Chemotherapy need not apply. The margins of my invasive ductal carcinoma tumor were clear (medical slang for ‘we got it!’); as were the two lymph nodes the surgeon took. I wouldn’t need chemo, right?
Wrong. Within a few weeks the testimonies of two well-respected oncologists had convinced me I needed chemo. It was all about my hormone receptor status. Basically: the force was not with me.
So what to do? I’ve always leaned toward natural medicine. I’d heard “If the cancer doesn’t kill you the chemo will,” and other scary catch-phrases. And I’d believed them. But then I got breast cancer. It was real. Susan G. Komen, double mastectomies, nausea and bald women were real and I was joining the league.
So I had a second visit with the second oncologist. Tell me again why I need chemotherapy. And he did. My risk factors, my breast cancer, my chance for a reoccurrence: one in four. Not good enough odds for me. Chemo would give me 1 in about 10. That was better.
I’m in this life for the long haul. My fourteenth grandchild, born a few weeks after the surgery, my paranormal book still in the rewriting phase, my bedroom still a mess…all reasons to stay on earth a while longer.
Okay, I’ll have chemo.
If you’re going to have chemo, have some fun with it I was told. So how do you have fun with it? You buy hats. Fun hats, cute hats, pink hats, hats with witches and pumpkins. My surgeon’s office helped out with a few donated hats from some wonderful service organizations and the American Cancer Society offered a wig. Wow! I shouldn’t have to share my bald look with anyone except my husband whose secret identity, by the way, is Knight-in-shining armor.
To the arsenal I added colorful scarves, some great makeup and I even bought eyebrow/eyelash cream that is supposed to help me keep those delicate hairs (here’s hoping). And I bought three prescriptions of anti-nausea medications. Kinda forgot to budget for it all, but the Knight patiently indulges me.
Funny story from the grocery store: So last night I’m shopping for cat food, frozen dinners, soup and chicken. Karen, one of my favorite cashiers, asks me about my breast cancer. The conversation goes something like this:
Me: I start chemo Monday.
Karen: Are you ready?
Me: I’ve got eight hats.
Karen: Inside or outside?
Me: Both.
Karen: In Liberty you can only have three.
Me: Right. (roll eyes)
Karen: Yeah that’s the rule. (serious)
Me: What are you talking about?
Karen: Cats, you can only have three cats.
Me: I said hats, not cats.
Karen: Oh. (laughs)
I won’t even go into the Nanook of the North hat she tried to convince me to buy right then and there. Karen: “It will keep your head warm.” More laughs.
Hats, laughter, makeup, friends and the Knight, it all helps a lot.
Did I mention that my daughter gave me a great idea for a Halloween costume? It’s Jack Skellington from “Nightmare Before Christmas.” I don’t even need a wig.