Hello Mammogram. So Nice to Meet You.

So, last week I had my 'annual' mammogram.

The first one since my cancer diagnosis.  (I did have a mammogram on the morning of the surgery to remove the lump -- but that one doesn't count because its purpose was to guide the insertion of 'guide wires' to assist the surgeon in identifying the outer edges of the tumor.)

The routine is to wait six months after the finish of radiation treatment.  

And now I know why.

Because it takes a long long time after radiation is over for the tissue to recover from the inflammation.  And mine has not.  Recovered.  From the inflammation.

OUCH!

This time, I did not go alone.

Don took the day off of work to accompany me for my tests. 

Much to the confusion of Kathy, the ultrasound technician, I insisted that Don be allowed to accompany me into the mammogram room.  Husband education day! (Surely, others have brought moral support?)

Kathy was wonderful.  She explained that, after a diagnosis of breast cancer, diagnostic mammograms are done for the next five years.  A diagnostic mammo is different in that more photos are taken, and greater magnification is used.  

She asked if I'd like to see the pictures.

So, after each compression, I went back to her computer and compared the picture with the same pose from last year.

And I saw the cancer clearly on last year's picture.

It was not there on this year's picture.

Gone.

Thank God.

I explained to Kathy about the new lump I have felt.  She arranged for a diagnostic ultrasound to be done immediately.

The ultrasound technician had me pinpoint the lump.  And he went over it again and again with the ultrasound to see if there was anything there.

The radiologist doctor (who is remaining unnamed in this tirade) came in.  

He introduced himself to me and said how pleased he was to meet me. 

I think, to myself, "um, hello?  You met me last year and gave me the worst day of my life.  You don't remember me?"  Really.  

I know, I know.  He sees many patients every day.  But doesn't my chart tell him that he did the core biopsy?  That I would feel so much better if he came in and said "Hello, Drenda.  I am happy to see you again.  How are you doing?"  That I would think I was safe and in good hands if he remembered?  

But he did have good news.  He said the mammogram results were entirely NORMAL.  And then he went over the new lump again and again with the ultrasound.  NOTHING IS THERE.

"Drenda, I see nothing suspicious or of concern.  Everything is fine.  If the lump changes, let us know.   Otherwise, I'll see you next year."

Thank God.

Thank God.

I am getting near the end of 'cancer'.

I can feel it.

There is nothing there.

Shapes?

I am starting to "feel" it.

"Feel" that God is using me.

I take no pride in being used.

At least, I don't want to.

But it does 'feel' good to know that my experiences, my fears, my trembling, are of help to someone else.  

To know that God's faithfulness to me, and to my family, is an encouragement to others.

To know that my words that were poured out in pain and terror may help calm that same pain and terror for another.

That was not my purpose.

Perhaps that is His purpose.  At least part of His purpose in allowing Drenda Howatt to experience breast cancer.

Platitudes, cliches, and acts are melted away in fires.  

The dross is burned.  At least some of it.

There is not time to consider what others may think.

To consider how I will look.

To consider if my words 'sound' right.

It is what it is.  

I am what I am.

That is all ok, because He is who He is.  And His promises are true.  He is true.

I know cancer will always be a part of me.  It will not define me.  But it is now a part of who I am.

I know God has allowed it to shape me.  Shape my thoughts.  Shape my actions.  Shape my character.

I will always have the physical reminders that cancer was there.  

Scars.  

An oddly shaped breast.

The heart reminders will be the helps I can offer others.

And the physical reminders will be the outward sign for me to look for the heart reminders.

As For Me...

I have shared, perhaps too often, the fears that came with cancer.  

The terror.  

I have never felt anything like it.  So scared.  So anxious.  

Never.

Ever.

I have shared my conflicted heart.  

I have shared about what I know to be true about Christ and the salvation He has given me and the conflict that the terror of death has brought.  "How can I be a Christian and be so scared of death?"

Surely, my relationship with Christ, if true, would shield me from that terror, right?  And if I am not shielded, if I have that terror, what does that mean?  

It meant I went back to Him and asked.

Many times.

In the middle of the night.

In the middle of the meeting.

In the middle of the waiting room.

And the answer continues to come.

I am not alone.

The answer came from Sue Walt.  When I shared my terror with her, and my upset over the conflict, her words were quick and strong and reassuring.  "Drenda, you are not alone."

The answer came from Joyce McElmurry.  Same words, again.  "You are not alone."

I had never heard anyone admit to that fear.  I felt alone.  Ever since my Mom died, twenty years ago, I have wondered if she was scared of death.  I believe death was a physical relief for her, but was she scared?  I don't know.  And I've never had the courage to ask my Dad if he knows.  I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.

But now I know I am not alone.  

And today, I was encouraged that there is another who understood.  I was reading Psalm 55, a Psalm written by David.   Do you know what David says to God?  

Psalm 55:4-5

My heart is in anguish within me,

And the terrors of death have fallen upon me.

Fear and trembling come upon me,

And horror has overwhelmed me.

And yet, even in those terrors, David ends the Psalm by writing "as for me, I trust in You."

My heart has been in anguish within me.

And terrors of death have fallen upon me.

As for me, I will trust in Him.

Check-In

Tonight I attended my first breast cancer support group.  

There were six other women there.  Two of us were new.  "First-timers".

What is shared in group stays in group. 

Ok.

That is fair.  Safe.

But it was good to hear the other women's stories during 'check-in' time.  

And to share mine.

Each of the stories brought questions to my mind. 

The biggest question?

Will I need to come to a support group five years out?  

Ten?

No, I tell myself.  

NO.

I won't 'need' to come.

I won't 'need' to come because I will be done with this cancer stuff soon.  

Done.

I won't 'need' to come because I will have moved on, away from cancer.  

Away from terror.  

Away from fear.  

Far.  

Away.

But maybe I'll 'want' to come.

Perhaps the women who still come years after their diagnosis are not there because they 'need' to be.

Perhaps they were there for me.

Jerry Day

Today was "Jerry day".

Labs first.  Nothing of note.  Use the hot pad to warm up the arm, and then take the blood.  And no question about which arm to stick.  Of course, I just put out my left arm, so if the wrong arm is not available, all will be well~

Jerry wasn't too late today.  Wonderful.

Because of the joint stiffness and pain I have been experiencing (severe -- I hobble around like a really really old person...) Jerry will switch the medication I am taking for estrogen suppression.  Hopefully that will help.

I have had a few headaches, so Jerry wants another MRI of my brain.  "First available".  That is Saturday, tomorrow, 7:30 a.m.  Oh my goodness.  This time I will take a double dose of sedative in an attempt to have an easier time in the 'machine'.

I have been doing pretty well leaving that sack of fear alone.  But not today.  "Jerry days" are particularly hard.  What will he say?  How am I doing?  Is the blood work normal?  Not to mention the instant panic that arrives upon walking in the door of the Cancer Center.  And when that panic rises in the middle of an intense hot flash, I am really in a mess.  

As Don and I stood at the counter while Jerry's medical assistant, Sconesha, was making calls to schedule my MRI, echo-cardiogram, mammogram, and EKG, I had another "punched in the stomach by cancer" moment.  I had to fight off the tears.  As I heard Sconesha say my name, along with the words "history of breast cancer", "headaches", "another echo", I wanted to scream.  WHY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT ME?  I AM FINE!  STOP SAYING MY NAME AND THOSE AWFUL THINGS.  STOP IT.  STOP IT.  STOP IT!"

Instead of screaming, I stood there and "patiently" waited for her to finish scheduling my next few weeks.  And willed myself not to cry.

Another "how did this happen" moment.  Another "why me, God" question.  I thought I was done with those reactions and questions.

Perhaps I will never be done asking.

That is o.k.

Because I know He will answer -- maybe not on my timeline, but He will answer.

Knocking Cliches

so those words? They're knocking.

At my head.

They want to come out.

I am going to let them out now:

There is a cliche' about trash.

"One man's trash is another's treasure."

I have changed that cliche' in my mind.

For me, it is "one person's routine can be another's terror".

And, I silently bless a few people every time I think of this new cliche'.

I bless them because they saw beyond their routine and stepped out.

I bless the ultrasound technician who left her machine and came around to hold my arm and touch me while the radiologist explained that he was concerned and wanted to do a core biopsy right then. I bless her when I remember her squeeze of my shoulder as the doctor asked "are you here alone?" and the tears rolled down my face.

I bless the pre-op nurse who, seeing my terror while I awaited surgery to insert the port, asked me if I'd like a sedative. She saw the wild look of terror in my eyes. Just my eyes. No words from me. Well, ok, there were a few of those silent-type tears slowly making their way down my pasty white cheeks. But no words.

I bless that same nurse who, when she brought me the sedative, put her hand on my arm and squeezed. And told me I'd be o.k. I bless her.

I bless our friend Gilbert who came to the hospital before my first surgery. I later learned that he came to pray with us, but did not get the chance before they wheeled me away. I bless him for his understanding that both Don and I needed support.

I bless Janis, Don's sister (and a physician), who left her warm home that cold November evening to come to be with me and Don...and brought sedatives with her. I bless her for her calm forthrightness and loving kindness.

I bless Beverly, one of the nurses in the chemo room, er..., the infusion suite, who, on my first visit for treatment, told me "your care is curative, not pallative". She will never really understand the impact those words had on me. They were a ray....a bar to hold on to.

I bless Dr. Lehti, my surgeon, who said "we took the cancer out. It is gone." I bless him when I remember his words telling me not to feel guilty for skipping my mammograms the previous four years. "Stop. It wouldn't have made a difference in your case. The cancer was found early, and it is out. It wouldn't have made a difference." Bless him.

And Jerry. I bless him. I bless him for his matter-of-fact way of explaining things. I bless him for the way he makes me feel safe. I bless him for being my oncologist.

My point in all of this? I am not sure, really.

Except, I recognize that I have routines.

And my routines may not be comfortable for those around me.

My routine of driving. I take it for granted. But for the poor young person who just received their permit and now has to learn to drive in our crazy world, that routine may be their terror.

My routine of public speaking. Sweaty palms, anyone? (Me, too. Still get incredibly nervous.)

My routine of expecting fast, accurate service at checkstands. For the new clerk, customer service can be pretty overwhelming...especially service to demanding, impatient customers.

My routines may not be routine to others.

I want to learn to notice those around me. And maybe take a minute out of my "routine" to be a person first.

Who knows?

I may end up being blessed.

Scarring is a Good Thing

Jerry is not concerned.  

Another lump.

In my breast.

Oh my goodness.

Jerry is not concerned.  

At all.

That helps a little bit.

He is not concerned because he thinks it is scar tissue from the surgical site.  So "not concerned" that he says it will be checked out at the next mammogram, which will be scheduled for early February.

But can there be scar tissue a bit away from the direct incision line?

Take it out.

That's what I want.

But if Jerry is not concerned, I will try not to be concerned.  I'll make conscious effort to leave that bag of fear alone.

I will trust that the trial drug, in conjunction with all of my other treatments over the last 12 months, is killing any microscopic cancer cells that may have been in my body.  

I am down to less than 15 weeks left of the clinical trial.  Good news there.  

That means less than 15 weeks left of uncontrolled itching all over my body.  Itching at all times.  Itching so severe that it sometimes wakes me up in the middle of the night.  How weird is that?

Less than 15 weeks left of acne-like skin rash.

Less than 15 weeks left of severe intestinal duress.

My visit with Jerry today was just a year from my first meeting him.  December 3, 2008.  A day that sent me reeling.  A day where I heard words like "grade 3 cancer", "most aggressive", "this cancer can travel to the brain".

The visit today, December 4, 2009.  A day where I heard words like "you're doing well", "I don't need to see you so often",  "you're tolerating the treatment so well", "I am not concerned".   

I like the words I heard today so much better than those from last year.

So, while all those words I heard are true, the ones today are the most true.  

I am certain.

Please.