I Have Chemo

Lately, amidst my negative outlook on my current situation, I found myself wondering why I’m not one of those “I can beat this!” cancer patients. You know, those women in the media wearing pink t-shirts with big smiles, waving their fists at their seemingly endless cancer-fighting strength. Given my normal ‘life is beautiful’ outlook, those who know me might be wondering where that sunshiny gal is now. She’s still here, but currently being held captive like a circus animal in a dank dungeon, only allowed out at gun point to perform at the seldom out-of-the-house appearances—work, infrequent friends’ visits, and when forced to chit-chat with strangers in public at the dog park and grocery store.

My confidence in “beating” cancer is definitely strong. Arming myself with education on nutrition, herbal remedies, and available treatments covered by my insurance (and if I’m being honest, a dash of denial since the cancer hasn’t produced any symptoms—it’s easy to think you’ll outlive something that doesn’t hurt), has given me a positive outlook on becoming “cancer free”.

It’s the demonic chemotherapy I’m not sure I’ll outlive. His poisonous talons have gripped not only my physical wellbeing—tearing apart my body’s strength system by system, but also my mental spirit. I can’t think of one structure inside me that hasn’t been negatively affected by the fury of chemo. Well maybe my hearing….I guess my hearing is the same. I will spare you the nauseating details (you’re welcome) here, but feel free to email me for my complete gruesome list (especially if you’re one of those who thinks chemo only produces fatigue and queasiness).  

I wasn’t exactly okay with chemotherapy to begin with. If you’ve read my previous posts, you know I strongly favor natural healing remedies over chemically compounded drugs. And chemo is the worst of the worst. Not only is it a drug, but one in which my body is duped before it enters and attacks. And now that I’m in the middle of my treatment, I’m even more NOT okay with it. Almost daily I consider that undergoing chemotherapy was a huge mistake.  

So, as someone who’s suffering through the debilitating side effects of 3 venomous drugs pumped into my chest port weekly, which were likely tested on rabbits and Beagles in torturous ways with no benefit to them, and rendering me useless as a wife, friend, relative, worker and activist—no, I’m not one of those women who’s taken by the deceiving and over-funded pink ribbon campaign, wearing a Save the Ta Ta’s bracelet and shouting catch phrases like “I’m a survivor” and “Bald is Beautiful”.

What I’m fighting now, is the chemo not the cancer. While my tumors are reacting to the powerful poisonous potions, my body is in the battle of its life against the toxic regime. Sure I was diagnosed with cancer, but what’s more detrimental now—I have chemo. 

Three Down

After a rough couple of weeks, struggling with gross symptoms and questioning my ability to see this battle through; last week’s treatment day brought some much needed optimism. I met with both doctors treating me—the traditional oncologist and the naturopathic oncologist. Both had good news and positive offerings. While I did hit a small set-back, this third visit to the center gave me the lift I needed and I may have found God as well.

First, the not-so-great news. Upon drawing my blood, they found that my neutrophils % was very low at 0.70 where 1.70 – 7.0 is the normal range. They labeled me “Fabulous”—wait, no, that wasn’t the word. It was “Neutropenic”, that’s sounds right. This means I’m at great risk if I contract any kind of infection before my white blood cells can be replenished. And to aid in replenishing them, I’ll need to administer the obnoxious at-home injections for 5 days instead of 3 days like usual. The evil symptoms those damn injections bring apparently mask the good work they’re orchestrating inside my bone marrow. Yet how can something that’s so absolutely vile to me, be helping?

Additionally, I was given a list of precautions to follow while my wbc-soldiers are reloading. Among the list is avoiding crowds and sick people, not eating raw foods, avoiding scratches and cuts to my skin (because I would otherwise seek them out?), and avoiding construction areas (surely this is to avoid cat-calls from workers with slow-moving-bald-lady fetishes). Needless to say, it’s been a rough, painful, symptom-full, and boring past few days.

On to the good news (or potentially good, I should say). During my visit with the naturopathic oncologist, we were given some much needed encouragement through supplemental and nutritional education. It seems my good diet and continued natural remedies will significantly increase my chances of killing the existing cancer, decrease my chances of recurrence, and healthfully support my body while the battle burns on. As this intelligent yet earth-minded man offered advice on natural care for my body—while expressing resentment for a medical system that pays little to no attention to diet—with his waves of white hair and neatly groomed silver beard—both R2 and I realized he no longer looked to us like Kenny Rogers, but more like how we picture God. And certainly God would have much to say about the American healthcare system and the benefits of natural remedies.

During my visit with the traditional oncologist (non-God doctor), he revealed his already-in-play plan to hit me hard—which explains why I’ve been getting all 3 chemo drugs at once instead of 2 for six weeks then 1 other for six week—since I’m healthy and young (the only good thing about being in the breast cancer world, is being considered “young”….I eat it up each time they say it). His hope is that my cancer will gravely respond (oh, and the treatment won’t kill me along the way), and I’ll get away with only 8 weeks of treatment instead of 12. That would be a serious reason to celebrate, and was just the boost I needed to courageously march back into battle. Three down and fucking hopefully only 5 to go. 

Time to Give Thanks

I’m long overdue in sending blogratitude out to my besties, homies, friends, posse, and all the good people around me who are making my journey through hell a bit more cheery. I feel the need to change the names of the not-so-innocent to protect the SUPER amazing, but you know who you are.

First, allow me shout out to all of you who text, send cards in the mail, email, send Facebook messages, and comment on my blog. Just knowing people care and are thinking of me, means a lot. It really does. Small (or big) messages of love from a few miles away or across the country are seriously sometimes all I need to keep my head up and feel loved. Thank you.

From the very beginning of this reality, my lovely friend Em was there—took me to my first testing appointment and cried with me in the parking lot after. Since then, she’s been right next to me though all my fears, anger, newly-found-but-definitely-tardy strength, encouraging news, rough lows, and everyday “you can get through this”-es. Em and Blue happily joined my husband in forming my transport trio (or carcinoma carpool, tumor troopers, mammary marshals…..I could keep going). This is a tremendous help to both me and my husband, and is no easy favor. My treatments are at least 6 hours long, in a town outside Seattle—so when you factor in the long drive through rush-hour traffic, sitting bedside in a standard comfort-lacking waiting room chair all day, surrounded by patients with various stages of cancer, and intermittent conversations with me around the IV Benadryl slumber—you’ve got a less than ideal day trip that only a real friend would see you through. All this, in addition to hours of tedious ‘how are you today’ communication filled with ugly treatment grievances and symptom complaints, AND finding MM’s special ginger brew, makes for a true friend hero. Em still seems to see a strong vegan activist in me, which always helps to remind me that this is all very temporary. I can’t thank you enough, from the bottom of my heart.

Blue is the kind of drop-everything-for-a-friend, kind of friend and I am damn lucky to have landed in her life and neighborhood. There’s nothing better than a good friend who also lives 30 seconds away. Blue escorted me to my first MRI and CT scan appointment, waited patiently among the waiting patients, and comforted me through every minute (even texting with me from the waiting room between scans). Her humor and call-it-like-it-is approach to all this is invaluable, especially given how close we’ve become. She sees the real hardship of this for me, yet never hides behind rainbow and sunflower sentiments. From loving and relieving my dogs while the mister and I are in Satan’s infusion playhouse (I mean ‘treatment’), and bringing us healthful comfort food, to wrangling dog-fur tumbleweeds from our home, and lending sincerity in long cancer-centered discussions—Blue is very important to me. Her words, “the only way to get through this is to GO through it” have boosted me during rough moments.

At the first news of my diagnosis, my amazing friend Spiderman, hopped on a plane to Seattle to be with me. For the record, this is not some easy feat for her either—just back to work after a badly broken leg, with debt sky-high, times have been tough for Spidey. But she made her way here; celebrated my last chemo-free week, sacrificed Thanksgiving with her family to be with me and mine, escorted me to my first ever surgery (port placement), and all the while—made me laugh more than I ever have. Seattle could really use a good Spiderman, so get back here soon!

My fast friend at work V3, wasted no time in making me the most savory homemade vegan soups—perfect for someone who feels close to death but needs wholesome nourishment, just in case. Not only has V3 continued to bring me flavorful blends of the best ingredients in soup form, but also brought me the best comfort package a lifetime-Grover-loving-girl could ask for. A handmade soft-as-hell Grover blanket, a reusable Grover shopping bag, and….[drum roll]…a never opened, vintage, collectable Super Grover figure (with phone booth for changing from mild-mannered Grover to Super Grover, naturally). Since I cannot take my 3 foot, 36-year-old, plush, eye-less Grover with me to treatments for comfort, this ‘travel size’ figurine has brought much security during each trip to hell’s torture chamber (I mean ‘treatment’).

Niagara, my BFF in Michigan has spent many hours talking me through this new set of worry and concern, and sent a loving care package. Dob has continued to send messages of strength and encouragement via email and in comments to my blog (love you!), my mom sent handmade hats for my newly bare head, CDT brought a much needed bottle of wine and trendy pink gloves, and J-Walker left a delicious plate of vegan goodies on my doorstep and has offered to walk the dogs (which I will likely humbly take you up on). Weetzie brought us the best sweet potato pie I’ve ever tasted for our Thanksgiving feast and continues to invite us along for fun puppy-love walks. Finnamon was a remarkable help in online research for me when I got completely overwhelmed by all there is to read, Choopina gave some real advice early on about dealing with everything from helping friends help me to being a patient, Yobama gave me a sweet gift package, and Pepsimily assembled a thoughtful PETA care package with a card signed by old friends, including my animal hero Ingrid (oh my god…..I’m either really important or really sick, because she signed my card….oh my god).   

My greatest gratitude goes out to my husband. Without him, I’d be a complete pessimistic-joyless-humorless-cry-baby-who’s-lost-all-faith-in-the-world mess. R2, as I’ll call him, has impressively stepped up to the plate, when faced with having a once-spunky and very healthy spouse who now deals with the awful effects of the toxins surging through her veins in a fight to prevent a disease from becoming terminal. This isn’t what he signed up for and certainly not how we pictured our second year of marriage and first year in our dream city Seattle to be. Nonetheless, R2 has risen unconditionally to my side—he’s my comfort, my shield, my logical counterpart, my care giver, my chef (can you call someone who’s culinary skills stop with boiling pasta, a chef?), my nurse, and my medical manager. Never complaining, he cares for me when I'd rather die than let anyone else see me, he gives in when I play the ‘I’ve got cancer card’ (as in, “Can’t we watch The Grinch since, you know….I have cancer?”), and most recently, spent his Saturday night shaving my head in the bathtub while keeping me from crying by telling jokes. He is the most amazing man I know, whose abundant strength is seen each day. I am continuously reminded of how fortunate I am to have him, and will never forget.

To all of you—mentioned above specifically or not—who have helped in big or small ways to see me through this, I couldn’t do it without you. Well, I guess I could, but I’d be much sadder and lonelier (and hungry). Not everyone has this band of friends, and I need you all to know how very much you mean to me.

Thank you for all you’ve done for me and for allowing me to step aside from being the friend, co-worker, sister, and wife you once had to conquer my enemies within. I promise to reenter our relationship with strong purpose and appreciative joy (and baked goods!) when the battle is won. 

Hairless in Seattle

Well, it started last week. I thought I had more time, but after the second chemo treatment, my hair started to fall out.

It started with just noticeably larger handfuls in the shower and during styling. But I knew what was happening. After all, I’ve had this ever-replacing head of hair my whole life. I could tell this was the beginning of a temporary Sinead O’Connor look for me. A forced look yes, but still temporary, I keep reminding myself.

I was a bit in denial at first and tried to keep my hair for as long as I could. It soon became somewhat comical that the hat I wore on my head was not to simply keep me warm, but actually to keep my hair from falling out like the brown needles on a sad Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Before long—in only a matter of 2 days—just looking at my hair the wrong way produced a chunk of hair plucked from the roots.

Thankfully, I stocked up on nighttime head covers, a few pretty scarves, and a bunch of fun winter hats (and every episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, but that has no relevance to my hair loss, I guess).  

And so the time came to shave the remaining thinning, shedding hair. My brave husband, armed with a fully charged electric razor, valiantly removed my pink and brown locks. As I watched the strands fall, I couldn’t help but feel really sad. I didn’t choose this and in fact, I’m still pretty fucking mad about the whole cancer thing. I know I have every right to be sad and upset, but still—I can’t stay mad forever. It’s not healthy and my poor beaten (and now exposed) body needs me to be strong. So, I cried a bit and said good-bye to the fallen casualties of my malignant war. Then took the weirdest-feeling shower ever (having no hair saves tons of time in the shower but sure made my hands feel lost—like Ricky Bobby’s first on-camera interview).  

Easing the pain of my becoming follicle-challenged, my husband shed his punk-fabulous Mohawk and left the security and warmth of his sculpted beard. It’s a sacrifice I’ll never forget and very much cherish. I can’t help comparing us to the Coneheads from SNL, as we look so alien. But we match….and that’s a beautiful thing. 

You won’t see me proudly trotting around town under my newly bald scalp, that’s just not me. This is a very vulnerable state for me and I won’t be showing anyone my new Uncle Fester look. Instead, I’ll be sporting fuzzy caps with pom-poms and warm snowboarding hats for the next couple of months. And when it grows back, I vow to love my hair as it is naturally (or as it is forever altered by the devil’s serum….I mean ‘treatment’).  

What Have I Done??

Once home from my first treatment, I felt surprisingly well. Still dizzy and weak, but otherwise well enough to eat, walk at the park, and laugh. I can do this, I thought. Little did I know, an avalanche of symptoms was waiting for me around the corner of day 3.

I won’t bore you with the specifics of the barrage of drugs and supplements I was prescribed around the chemo treatments. But on day 3, I was instructed to begin self-injections of a drug that stimulates my bone marrow to make more white blood cells—to fight infection. This biological encouragement takes place inside my bones, which causes quite a bit of pain. Oh, but don’t worry—they told me that the pain to my bones and joints means its working. Such comfort there.  

The onset of the white blood cell producing stimulation drug on the evening of day 3 mixed with the expected wearing-off of the steroids from treatment day, made for a hellish storm inside my body. Now I’m not one to complain or to solicit sympathy from others, but damn—this was the worst I had ever felt. For me, it was what I imagine it’s like to be a 75-year-old boxer who hadn’t the sense to retire, coming off a foggy heroin trip, who had just been struck by a New York City cab while suffering from the flu. Yeah, that’s about it.  Complete misery.

The worst of it was the continuous fear that I had made a huge mistake. What if I don’t recover from this? What if I’m never myself again? What the fuck have I done? I know others have done this but they aren’t me. I already long to be me again and I’ve just started. I have always been active and on the go. What if this changes me and I never regain my spunk? For all those who want to wash away my doubt with “You can do it!” encouragement, please just allow me to share the reality of my trepidation. In the midst of my 75-year-old-boxer- flu-sufferer hours, all I wanted was to stop it. Never mind. I changed my mind; I’ll deal with the cancer another way. Certainly the cancer won’t be worse than this. But alas, I must move forward. By day 4 my symptoms had died down to a level of cab-struck-boxer but without the heroin fog or flu symptoms. Still not the active, laughing, cleaning, go-get-‘em me, but far more manageable.

Okay, so maybe I can do this. And maintain some normalcy as a wife, friend, dog-guardian, cat-servant, employee, and good standing human? I’ll give it my all.  

Chemovember

Best blog title yet, right? I have to give credit to my husband for that one.

Last Thursday I had the first of 12 chemotherapy treatments. The treatment itself was bearable enough. The center was comfortable and the staff was very professional, kind, and accommodating.

Since this was my first treatment, I elected to be placed in a more isolated space. Maybe once I’m an ol’ pro at this, I’ll spend my time in the open area (called “Tiki Bar” at my center, adorable) where I can socialize with other cancer victims. But for now, I’m still getting used to being this person so I’ll take the room off to the side with the drawn curtains, please.

Grover is my co-pilot.

My nurse accessed the port in my chest where blood was to come out and toxins were to go in. Ouch—still tender from only just being placed and sewn under my skin last week. But he’s good at his job and the discomfort was minimal. In preparation for the release of a vicious chemotherapy assault into my system, the nurse drew blood to be sure my values were normal and strong enough to accept the attack, then started a saline drip into my vein for hydration. One should always be hydrated before entering battle.  

In an attempt to thwart my body’s heroic defense against the chemotherapy drugs, they administered 2 different anti-histamines. Blocking my natural guards (histamine) from protecting against foreign enemies (chemo), the anti-histamines are jesters (or seductive dancers—whichever scenario suits you) sent in to distract the sentries. When this sleepy brigade took over, I had no choice but to surrender into a 30 minute-or-so slumber.

In addition to the antihistamines, they gave me a steroid to prevent nausea and dull my body’s inflammatory response to the chemo drugs. This was good when it was in my system—helping to boost my energy (yet bad when it wore off two days later). Surely my body was wondering what all this preventative build-up was for. I imagine the little soldiers of my immune system realizing all the feel-good stuff must be in preparation for something bad, yelling, “wait…. a… minute…..” right before the tsunami hit. 

When they brought in the chemotherapy agents to be administered in my vein, you’d have thought they were handling nuclear waste. I couldn’t help but notice (and hate) how awfully wasteful this process was. Everything that touched the chemo drug bags were wrapped in extra plastic, and handled with gloved hands. Triple protection. Even the nurse was wearing a disposable gown over his clothes, just to carry the toxins in. Before you hit me with sharp reasons on the need for caution around chemotherapy drugs, I get it. Of course I understand the real necessity in protecting others from this toxin (which is about to be pumped into my veins—just a reminder of how scary this is). I just don’t think it needs to be this wasteful. I am sure that if we wanted to, we could come up with a more waste-less system that’s still as safe. 

This is posted in the treatment center's restrooms.

I was given 3 heavy-hitting chemo drugs. Although I was keenly aware of every drop entering my vein, waiting for some horrible feeling of ill to fall over me, it wasn’t too bad. Aside from minimal side effects of dizziness and weakness, I came out feeling pretty normal. One down, 11 to go.       

Here I Go....

When I first decided to write a blog about being me with cancer, I kept a list of ideas to write about based on events, feelings, opinions, beliefs, stages or events that I was going through. This one is different. Today’s blog is going rogue and comes from newer feelings emerging right now.

I’ve been pretty consumed with researching cancer drugs and treatments, writing/calling friends and family, reaching out to a couple of women in similar situations, buying hats and scarves, living it up with my visiting friend, Spiderman, and generally struggling to wrap my mind around the new ‘there’s-an-alien-inside-my-body-so-I-must-conquer-it-with-toxic-treatments’ me—all while unsuccessfully trying to maintain 40 hours at work. This is not easy. But it has served as a fine distraction from the fact that….HOLY SHIT, my treatment starts this week!

Last week I underwent my first ever surgery, when a team of people I had never met before rendered me unconscious so the surgeon I had met only once prior could cut my chest open to place a port for chemotherapy. All-in-all, it went well. I woke up in a very happy mood—ecstatic that I had survived what I called “open heart surgery” (after all, the vein he opened leads to my heart which was right there), and made it through my first dance with general anesthesia. But I was most excited at knowing that the first stop after discharge was vegan comfort food nirvana, Wayward Café with Spiderman and my husband who patiently awaited news of my survival.   

Now that the confusing and extensive decision-making process of choosing between the traditional oncologist and the naturopathic oncologist/traditional oncologist team has been made, at least my mind is at ease and I’m ready to face the fire. My husband and my good friends EM and Blue have graciously agreed to be my “Tumor Treatment Trio Transport Team”, rotating weekly shifts between them. The medical billing calls have started and I’ve begun to take the prescribed reinforcement supplements at home.

Even though I’d much rather go back to my 2-months-ago self, I am working to push out negative thoughts and open myself up to the positive energy around me. I am ready to walk into that treatment center with a bag full of optimism, strength, and courage. Oh, and my Zoolander DVD and Super Grover figure. I seriously can’t do this without Super Grover. 

Decisions, Decisions

When the breast cancer diagnosis first slapped me in the face, I had no idea that so many decisions lay ahead. Sure, I presumed there’d be tears, painful treatment, hair loss, surgeries, and mounds of fear. But I had no idea how difficult it would be to decide on a treatment regimen.

As a new patient (“new” in the sense of being new to the whole world of medicine as a patient in need, not just new to one doctor), I was referred to each next step in diagnosing and treating my cancer by the previous doctor. Family doctor sent me to a radiologist for testing who sent me to an oncologist who sent me to a surgeon, plastic surgeon and radiation oncologist. I never selected any of them.

I’m sure they’re all excellent physicians and highly capable of skillfully treating me. But once I started researching what each piece of the harsh cancer-killing treatments would do to my body, it became clear—this wasn’t their decision.

Too many people take advice from the white-coats and never ask questions. Or maybe ask the wrong questions. Of course I’m not a doctor or a tribal healer, but I am someone who questions the norm and looks past the masses, in search of a more natural solution. I strongly believe our diet is not only a vehicle for management of health, but also often the culprit of destruction to our health (even as a vegan, I wasn’t healthful enough, just ask Dob—and that’s a whole other discussion).

When I learned that such professions as Naturopathic Oncologists existed, I was instantly intrigued. I looked into 2 naturopathic cancer centers locally and learned that one of the two was covered by my insurance. Since most American insurance companies do not recognize naturopathic remedies as medical treatment, it seems the world of naturopathic oncology formulated the best solution. As a patient of theirs, I’d be treated by both a naturopathic oncologist and traditional oncologist. It’s win-win! The insurance company sees “M.D.” and approves payment for the cancer fighting medications, and I benefit from non-chemical remedies given around my chemotherapy by experts in natural supplements.

Although my original oncologist was sharp as a whip and a strong, intelligent physician; I wasn’t thrilled about her ‘hit it hard with every tool in the box’ approach. Statistically, I’d be a success for her books, but at what cost to me? And while seeking treatment from the naturopathic center still means harsh chemotherapy—the alternative drugs and specialized course of treatment, and abundant natural supplemental support, make this rough road just a bit easier on my life’s vehicle. Plus, there was a “therapy dog” in the lobby the first time I visited the naturopathic center. A dog. If that’s not a sign that this is the place for me, I don’t know what is.   

It's So Scary

Let me be quite frank about how scared I am by all this. Of course being struck with a diagnosis as serious as the life-threatening cancer is shocking and scary. But for me, it’s been the harsh treatments that bring the most fear. My first oncologist jumped into action with her advised treatment, wanting to throw every trick in the bag at me—mastectomy, excision of axillary lymph nodes, 6 months of chemotherapy, 6 weeks of daily radiation treatments, and 5 years of daily Tamoxifen.

This sign is on the road going to my treatment center. I took the picture myself. Eerie, right?

The more I learn about chemotherapy, the more fearful I become. Essentially, it’s a toxic militia that is shot into my veins with orders to destroy cancer cells, wherever they may be. But along the way, this chemically-compounded wrecking-ball can potentially kill other cells in its path. The question with chemotherapy is; are the civilian casualties worth the war? I guess it is, but how do I know? Not to mention the complete destruction of my hair. At least that part is temporary. The other hazards are permanent and could lead to more problems. This shit keeps getting worse and worse.

Radiation therapy is no walk in the park either. Here, a beam of concentrated radiation is shot at precise angles through my chest after surgery to zap any possible remaining cancer cells. An imperfect strike, the beam will pass through a tiny portion of my left lung. Are you fucking kidding me? My lung? Oh, but don’t worry, the radiation oncologist assured me that I’ll still have most of my lung function and can do everything I want to after treatment. There is a small possibility that I could regain air-exchanging function in that damaged lung tissue in the coming years. On top of the threat to my lung, there’s a list of other adverse side effects to radiation, including permanent scar tissue, permanent skin damage and the prevention of implants as part of reconstruction. No thanks, I think I’ll pass. No radiation for this girl.

I’m sure my original oncologist (Dr. Fast-Talking-Super-Smart-Aggressor) will be disappointed to learn I’m opting out of radiation. But after all, this is still my choice, right? She’s met me twice and even though she may be an expert on cancer and cancer treatment, I’m the expert on me. So for anyone questioning my decision, let me first say that you’re lucky I haven’t run off into the woods with a drum of orange juice, a bottle of multi-vitamins and a duffle bag of weed as treatment. Yet. I think cutting the entire body part where the cancer originated out of my body, excising a branch of lymph nodes from my arm pit, accepting several months of hostile poisons pumped through my veins, and absorbing the mound of supportive supplements and drugs needed to counter the inevitable flood of side effects—is pretty radical and aggressive. Yeah, I’d say that’s plenty. It’s more than I ever thought I’d agree too and it’s all I can take. 

No Animal Ingredients For Me

Trying to stay true to my natural, vegan beliefs is challenging when it comes to western medicine. There seems to be a pill or shot readily available for even the most minor of discomforts. In America, we counter the side effects of drugs with other drugs, and we’re never meant to endure any aches or irritations, no matter how small (or how useful in sending signals to your brain to act accordingly). Sadly, many of the drugs we use are derived from animals, and most of them have been tested on animals. And just in case you imagine these unfortunate animals enjoying picturesque blissful lives where their fluids/parts are nicely taken from them—that’s not even close to reality. I invite you to educate yourself on the truth. 

Just like a Christian who walks a path of kindness, forgiveness, sin-free actions and church-filled Sundays, I too hold my beliefs close to my heart and clenched tight as a guide for every decision. And just like any other set of values, they are challenged at times more than others. For me, this is one of those times. With this new diagnosis (and consequent new direction of my life), I find myself pulling my beliefs in, holding them close and fiercely embracing them (seriously—if PETA called me up and asked me to exploit myself and my illness in some grand display to educate people on animal testing, I’d ask, “Which sign do I hold?”).

Usually asking a western-minded professional about animal testing or animal ingredients, triggers eye-rolling and disrespectful dismissing. But, so far voicing my wishes to avoid any medications/supplements that are derived from animals with the 4 oncologists I’ve seen, has been met with due concern and assistance in research. When my original oncologist prescribed vitamin D3 to boost my immune system strength, I called the nurse back and asked for D2 (ergocalciferol, derived from fungi) instead since D3 (cholecalciferol) is extracted from sheep. Below average levels of Vitamin D are quite common in the Pacific Northwest and two doctors have told me recently that they have never seen normal Vitamin D levels in their patients in all their respective years practicing medicine here. Most doctors will prescribe Vitamin D3 first because it has a better absorption rate. But with a simple request to the doctor (and a side of educating their nursing staff), you can get the supplement you need while sparing the animals. 

Apparently, oncologists have a checklist of things that a patient recently diagnosed with breast cancer must do. And when mine said I needed a flu shot “today” so I don’t get the flu during chemotherapy, I immediately protested. I don’t get sick, I never get the flu, I’ve avoided the flu shot for years, and I’m healthy (says the cancer patient). But she insisted. I said no, and that the flu vaccine contains animal derived ingredients. She said that can’t be right, that other countries who oppose eating animals use this flu vaccine. I pushed and she eventually looked it up in front of us and sure enough—the flu vaccine is made from eggs and their suffering hosts, chickens. HA—I knew it! Not that this is anything to celebrate. Chickens are abused by the billions for meat, eggs, and apparently flu vaccines. I was just happy that for once, I schooled someone who is far more educated and intelligent than me. So that was it, no further discussion. She knew she had lost and that this “patient” wasn’t receiving the vaccine. In her defeat, she cautioned, “but you better not get the flu during chemotherapy!”

No one is a purist and no one (certainly not in America) can exist without causing some measurement of harm to others. But that shouldn’t stop us from standing up, educating and avoiding known suffering when we can. Each day is a challenge to not only dodge products and practices that hurt animals (although, I find that extremely easy and natural), but to stand up and—not to sound cliché—be their voice. It’s not always easy to be the single weirdo who refuses a piece of cake at a birthday celebration because it’s made of animal secretions. But at the end of the day, I am empowered and proud of who I am. 

I Am Patient, Just Not A Patient

I have never really been a patient. Aside from annual reproductive exams, a couple sutures here and there, and that one take-over by poison ivy that nearly killed me—I have been lucky enough to avoid doctors. I’ve never suffered a broken bone, been hospitalized, or contracted any kind of disease/virus/condition that required long-term care. Hell, I’ve never even had an IV.

Sure, I’ve spent lots of time in hospitals and with doctors in offices. But, I was always on the giving side, not the receiving side. As a Hospital Corpsman in the Navy while on active duty and reservist duty, I worked full time in hospitals and doctors’ offices—providing care to sick and injured Navy and Marine members. Then after I fulfilled my contract, I worked in the medical community for 6 more years on the “outside” as a Medical Assistant alongside 3 different specialists. I learned a ton about human anatomy, medical science, the inside of our healthcare system, and medical billing. I got really good at performing sutures and placing IV’s.   

Now, I’m suddenly a patient—like the many I cared for—I’m on the receiving end of the medical questions and needles. And so far, I don’t like it one bit.

Along with becoming a patient, my priorities have abruptly switched gears without my approval. Just a couple weeks ago, student loan payments, scheduling my next tattoo session, and designing my Halloween costume for trick-or-treating with my nephew, were my top priorities. Instead however, I canceled my tattoo appointment (to not add to my body’s inventory of wounds to heal) and completely missed Halloween to make way for my first 2-hour oncology consultation. This is not what I want, not at all. I want to go back to worrying about our broken oven, debating my uncle about hunting on Facebook, celebrating the small steps in progress my new shy cat takes, pushing myself to go to the gym, protesting animal testing labs with strong friends, and planning a vacation with my husband. Now, that’s all on the back burner when I so badly want it on the front again.

Stupid cancer literature is now taking priority over my usual reading.

With this dreaded diagnosis, comes a mountain of reading and research. The animal rights magazines and earth-loving books I love now take a back seat to informational pamphlets and breast cancer guides. Quiet evenings with my husband drinking wine and watching movies, now give way for serious, brow-dropping cancer treatment strategy meetings. It’s true, facing a disease like this is like having a second job. A full time second job that doesn’t pay, renders you less attentive and sometimes absent as a friend, consumes most of your thoughts, and delivers you to cheerless places where every new encounter greets you with weight measurements and blood pressure readings. 

Hello, Breast Cancer

So it seems I have cancer. Cancer. Just like that, I’m a cancer patient. One day I’m minding my own business when suddenly—WHAM! Cancer is in the forefront of my mind and doctors’ appointments are taking over my calendar pages.

How the hell did this happen? I have never smoked. I don’t drink heavily (although now I might). I am very active, relatively fit, never get sick, and have always been healthy (or so I thought). I have even carried a vegan shield for the past 8 ½ years and vegetarian armor for 22 years. Why didn't they protect me? And surely my compassionate, happy, ‘live and let live’ nature accounts for something. Nope, apparently not when it comes to the “c” word. None of my positive defenses were any kind of match for breast cancer. It snuck in past my animal-defending, human rights-supporting, and earth-loving guards and nestled into my breast tissue where it has dodged my immune system army and created a nice home for itself—without my permission. For the record, I wouldn't mind it living there (I’m fine with symbiotic living), if it weren't trying to kill me. That’s not cool.

The first time I noticed an uninvited intruder may be occupying my body was in the shower when I felt a lump about 2 or 3 months ago. It was easily detected; firm and out of place. Still, there’s no way it could be cancer, I told myself. Eventually I found a family doctor (as I mentioned, I never get sick, no need for a FP doc) who felt what I felt and sent me for a mammogram and ultrasound. Little did I know then, she was pushing me onto a terrifying and life-altering ride with no defined end. Wait, I didn't want this—can I change my mind? Can I get off now?  

When I made my way to getting this lump checked out by mammogram and ultrasound, my friend, "Emma’s mom" came with me for support. Confident that this was still nothing, I saw the whole ordeal as a fun afternoon with an uncomfortable set of tests in between a girls’ lunch and bonding catch-up time. Emma’s mom was great; she held a strong sense of concern for the lump while maintaining the spirit of ‘ladies time away’. That’s when a bit more concern appeared on this ride. The radiologist who read my scans requested I come back the next day for a biopsy. She reported that the masses (hold on—did you say masses??) are not normal and a lymph node is also swollen. This shit just got real. I scheduled the biopsy for the next morning.

My husband brought me to the biopsy appointment. You know it’s serious when you bring your spouse to a doctor’s appointment. This was a first for me. The biopsy was painful and seemed to take forever, but it was certainly made better by the fabulous staff at the women’s imaging center. I must note here that I was tended to by the best women’s care staff in the world. My high regard for them comes from the gentle yet honest care they provided both days I visited their facility. And the radiologist couldn't have been better. She sat me and my husband down, gave us the basics of the biopsy and scans, then offered, “I’m not sure how honest you want me to be here”. Since I've never been one to overreact, I asked her to tell me everything she saw and give us her honest opinion. That’s just what she did, which included a diagnosis of breast cancer.

At that moment, without yet realizing it, I was placed into a new category. I was given a new label. I was treated differently, given a new list of priorities, and sent on a muddy path detour through my life.