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.