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.