Mammograms Do Save Lives
Vicki’s Story
Written by: Vicki Blair
“You have breast cancer.” Words I never wanted to hear. Words no one ever wants to hear.
But on December 18th at 4:30 p.m. those words were said to me. I couldn’t believe it. I had been so good about getting the dreaded mammogram every single year like clockwork for 11 years. I periodically did the self-breast exams. I had just had my annual pap smear and my gynecologist didn’t feel anything. So, I thought when The Breast Center called me the day before to ask me to come back for a couple of repeat views on my right breast that maybe, just maybe, they saw some calcifications like I had had a few years previously. That was not the case. I went back and had the 3-D mammogram and I had a feeling something did not look right to her. The nurse came back in so sweetly and said they wanted to do an ultrasound. I texted my husband, Rusty, who was teaching a class at that time, and told him what was happening. He asked me if I needed him to come. Of course, my independent self said no, I’m sure it’s nothing. I waited a little more nervously until she came back in to tell me I needed a biopsy because they saw a very small spot. I texted Rusty again and thankfully he said he was on his way. I say thankfully, because now my independent self is feeling scared. The biopsy was performed while my husband waited in the lobby (very impatiently I might add) and then I was told they would call me with the results. That afternoon, I got the call while I was at work. A week before Christmas, our lives were turned upside down.
One of the hardest parts of hearing that you have cancer is telling your family. My family is very small and we talk to each other practically every day. My daughter, Abby, was home from college for Christmas break so after I pulled myself together, Rusty and I broke the news to her. Of course, her reaction was a typical one: let’s get this out, why do we have to wait, what’s going to happen? All of those questions that I had no answers for. We decided that it would be best if I told my parents in person and she volunteered to go with me. I think that was the hardest part of all. My parents are the healthiest people that I know over 70 years old and were so excited that we had made a surprise visit to see them. Little did they know that day I would be giving them bad news.
The next few days were a blur as we muddled our way through the Christmas and New Year season, scheduling appointments with the surgeon, an MRI and meeting with the Cancer Navigators specialist. The tumor was pea-size and located behind the breast wall, so tiny and in a spot that never would have been found without a mammogram. The best-case scenario was that I would have a lumpectomy which would allow me to keep my breast and I could go about my merry way. The surgery was performed and thankfully the cancer had not spread to my lymph nodes. Dr. Brock was very hopeful that I would not have to have any chemotherapy or radiation because the tumor was so small and had not spread. By now, we are at the end of January and I am healing nicely from the surgery. The one thing that Dr. Brock did mention, however, was that the tumor was sent off for an Oncotype diagnosis. This test reveals how likely the cancer is going to come back and if chemotherapy and/or radiation is necessary. Studies had shown that any number below 30 would not require chemo or radiation. We started praying for anything lower than 30. Our prayers were answered. The number was 28. When the oncologist, Dr. Harris, called to tell me this (while I was at work again), I was so excited. However, my excitement quickly faded when he told me that new studies had shown that the cutoff number was actually 25 now. He was so compassionate as he went on to explain how he dreaded contacting me but he had talked with my surgeon and several other doctors to make sure before he called me. But the numbers were the numbers. He recommended chemotherapy and we were devastated.
By now, we are at the end of February. Two whole months of thinking that I was going to be fine. Thinking that I wasn’t going to need chemo. Thinking that we were going to get back to our normal lives. But I was wrong. Rusty, Abby and I met with Dr. Harris and asked him one thousand questions, all of which he answered very informatively and patiently. We met with the specialists in his office to watch a video, talk about the financial implications, etc. Since I would need 16 weeks of chemotherapy, we decided the best option was to have a mediport put in, so that was scheduled as well. Another surgery. During all of this time, we tried to continue on with our lives. My daughter had gone back to college and Rusty and I worked our jobs around all of the appointments and surgeries. I still wondered if I was doing the right thing. The night before my first chemo treatment, I looked at Rusty and told him that I had been doing some thinking and I didn’t think I wanted to go through with it. What if I was sick and couldn’t go places? Would he still love me when my hair came out? Was I going to be a burden to him and to Abby? Why was this happening to me? I just didn’t think I wanted to put my family through all of that! He reminded me that my daughter needed me, my parents needed me, my friends needed me and he needed me to be around. If chemo was what I had to do, then they would all support me and help me get through it. I knew that was true, but I also knew that Rusty had been carrying around anger and frustration because of the ups and downs of the whole process. I didn’t want to put him through anymore of that. But I went to sleep and the next day I worked til noon and then he and I went in for my first round of chemo. This was our routine for 7 weeks. One day of chemo for four hours every other week. I am not a very good medicine taker, but I took the nausea medicine like clockwork. Thankfully, I never experienced the sickness that a lot of others experience when they are on chemo. My first four rounds of treatments were all on Thursdays so I worked on Fridays and rested as much as possible on Saturdays.
My hardest days were Sundays. I did not want to take a shower. I did not want to get out of bed. I did not want to do anything. But I made myself.
Every morning that I had a treatment, I drank a protein shake. I drank a Gatorade before the treatment and water all day the day before. I do not know if any of those things helped prevent me from being bedridden, but it seemed to be working so I wasn’t about to stop doing it. After the initial four treatments, I had to do an additional 12 weekly chemo treatments. My hair did fall out and although I thought I might lose some weight due to being nauseated, the opposite happened. The steroid medicines that I was getting when I got the treatments caused my face (and everything else it seemed) to swell, but my husband didn’t care. My daughter didn’t care. I tried not to care. Since my treatments were weekly, my mother volunteered to relieve Rusty of the duty of taking me to the appointments. Those treatment visits with my mother were ones that I will never forget. We laughed, ate Cheez-Its, and talked non-stop. She even created a Facebook account which later I threatened to delete if she kept clicking on spam ads. My family made the treatment times as painless as possible with their love and support. My last treatment was on August 2nd and the sweet nurses that had been taking care of me every time threw confetti while I rang the bell. It was one of the happiest days of my life.
In September, I began 33 radiation treatments. They actually were probably worse than the chemo in some ways. The treatments were described as being like going to the beach every day and getting sunburned but continuing to go to the beach anyway. That description was accurate and then some. But I survived that too and on October 31st I completed that step of the treatment plan.
Today, I can say that I am a breast cancer survivor! I am on a pill for 5 years and I have to get a booster shot every six months. I do have some pain from this last type of treatment, but it is tolerable and I know deep down the medicine is necessary to help prevent reoccurrence. Sometimes, I look back and wonder how I got through it all. I know without my faith in God’s healing, my family and my friends, I could not have.
The miracle is that without going in begrudgingly for the mammogram in early December of 2018, I might not be here to talk about it.
I might not be here to watch my husband graduate with a Master’s Degree all while taking care of me. I might not have been able to watch my daughter graduate Magna Cum Laude with a Bachelor’s Degree. I might not be here to witness the birth of my first grandchild.