Archive for the 'breast cancer' Category

A few years back I submitted some very personal journal entries to a proposed anthology. I was delighted to hear that Keeping Time: 150 years of Journal Writing edited by Mary Azrael and Kendra Kopelke was recently published. This is a rare collection of journal entries all under one cover. As the editors state in their poignant introduction, “For many people, journal writing is a private activity, spontaneous and revealing, not intended for an audience of strangers.” But these editors did a stellar job of putting together 37 wonderful pieces with subjects ranging from everyday life parental issues, raising children, nature, travel, health and historical events. “Keeping Time,” they go on to say, “stands as witness to the times spanning from our great grandparents to today. It opens a way into our history at its most intimately and sincerely felt, and expands our sense of what a notebook can do to connect us more fully to our lives.”

My submission represented the year 2001, and I have posted it below:

I have been keeping a journal since the age of ten. Over the years, my journal has been my friend and confidant to help me through difficult times. I strongly believe in the powerful healing qualities of the written word.
Today, I teach journaling to breast cancer survivors and high-risk teens. During my breast cancer journey, writing became my lifeline and a way to give voice to my deepest feelings.

The following is an excerpt from my memoir/self-help book, HEALING WITH WORDS: A WRITER’S CANCER JOURNEY.

August 22 (one-day post-op)
I wake up in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) today and Simon sits beside me holding my hand. One part of me wants to look down at the hospital gown covering this corset-like gauze bandage around my chest. Yet another part of me is scared out of my mind. The nurse helps me to the bathroom and I avoid the mirror as if it holds the most dreaded secret. I want to rip it off the bathroom wall. I never want to see myself naked. While walking back to bed, I look over at Simon and begin sobbing with no respite. I know in my heart that one day soon I will have to look at my chest. My hope is that my plastic surgeon will make all the necessary explanations. I am happy that the surgery is behind me, but now I must begin preparing to walk down an even more arduous road. I must get used to the new me.

August 23
Today my mood oscillates back and forth. One moment I want to touch my newly-created breast and the next minute I never want to see it. I am pleased that the reconstruction was done immediately following the mastectomy. After breakfast, I pulled the nurse’s cord to help me sit up. I am terribly sore from being in one position. By the time she arrives moments later, I have already changed my mind. I put my hand over my right breast and feel nothing. I do the same on the left. I can only feel the slight pressure of my hand. How will I ever get used to having no sensations. My right nipple had always been more sensitive than and easily stimulated than my left, but now there is a sense of nothingness, numbness, a void.

Today the nurse removed the bandage around my chest. I looked the other way while crying into my pillow. I felt nothing. My plastic surgeon said some sensations might eventually return, but never again could I become sexually aroused on my right side. So, I have two breasts, but really only one. My sensations have been severed forever. Never again would I experience that sublime tingling when Simon runs his fingers over my rather large nipple—never again on that side. Never could I experience the joy and tingles from let-down reflex when my babies sucked for the first time. I loved that sensation which permeated my soul and brought me such joy.

August 27
The books I have read, and my nursing experience warned me that depression is common following many surgeries, particularly breast surgery, because of the huge psychological component of losing a breast. I should be optimistic because my breast surgeon says that the cancer has been removed. He says I am lucky that it did not spread into my lymph nodes. Yes, this is a true blessing, but there are moments when this is not enough to console me. My father taught me to look at the glass half full and not half empty. I’m trying. Really trying. But, this entire event has been surreal. My defenses are stripped. I have no strength left in my body except for the weeping. Tears flow like an endless river. They pour out without warning and dry up without notice.

August 28
I look around me and see all the technology. I think of my husband, an engineer, and how people like himself have made mine and so many others’ survival possible. He is a fixer. On so many other occasions he wants to quickly make everything better for me. His smile and touch are so healing. He has so much power, but he cannot bring my breast back to me. He says he wishes he had a magical wand to make me feel better. I tell him that the wand was discarded the day it brought him into my life. One person cannot be bestowed with any more luck than me. He implores me to think positively.

Sometimes life is not so simple. I don’t want to say this to him because he tries so hard to soothe me. It’s still early in my post-operative period, but I already feel physically and emotionally changed and drained. In some ways it is easier being far from home. My predicament somehow seems clearer and my mind less distracted by familiar surroundings.

September 3
Today I am nearly two weeks post-op. I do not feel any better emotionally than the day they rolled me out of the cold and sterile operating room. My emotional strength is barely returning. I still get teary-eyed for no obvious reason. This morning, the nurses bathed me. They helped me to the chair where I tried reading a magazine, but my mind wandered. Everything makes me cry, even glancing at the latest hairstyles in the magazine. I feel trapped inside this body that I don’t know anymore.

Here’s what I look like. On my right side is a drainage tube tucked into a hole beneath my mastectomy site. On the same side, another tube leads to the incision in my back where they have removed the muscle and tissue to cup my saline implants. The tube leads to this thing that looks like a hand grenade which dangles from my side. This grenade drains the blood from my wounds, but I think it does the same from my heart. It needs to be emptied three times each day. It’s gross and yet another reminder of my missing breast. When we go to dinner at the hotel’s restaurant, the only thing I can wear are baggy men’s shirts to hide my tube and stupid grenade.

Getting up and going to the bathroom is such an ordeal. I need at least ten minutes to prepare for the departure from my bed. Getting all the wires organized is truly a monumental task. I cannot lean on my back; the drainage tube sticks straight out. I cannot lean on my right side—another tube. They hurt like hell. There are no more comfortable positions left for me. Jeannine [mother-in-law] asked if I have been writing. She must be kidding! I have so much to write about, but I cannot focus. My mind wanders beyond belief. Life is fuzzy and not even eyeglasses can help. I am just plain frustrated. I can only muster these few words and even these exhaust all of my energy.

September 4
Today I will go visit my plastic surgeon. It seems as if the past couple of weeks have been surreal. A thick cloud suspends over me. How did I get here? I was diligent about my annual mammograms and check-ups. On the first day of my menstrual cycle I diligently did self-breast exams in the shower. There is no cancer in my family. Why am I lying here all mutilated?

I have never thought much about cancer, but one thing I know is that if cancer is in your body, you better get it out quickly. Having had reconstructive surgery at the same time as my mastectomy has put my mind at ease. Even though I have refrained from looking at myself naked in the mirror, there was a sense of relief to waking up with a mound on my right side, even if it was not my own breast, but just a sack of saline water.

September 6
I’m trying to take the position that cancer is no longer lurking inside of me. I did have cancer, but it is now all gone. All of it. I don’t like the sound of the term ‘breast cancer.’ People equate cancer with death. I refuse to die.
When I first learned about my breast cancer, I wanted to hear everybody else’s escapades and everyone’s medical sagas. It seems that everyone knows someone who has had breast cancer. This is not surprising since the statistics have now risen to one in eight women. Listening to other people’s stories is boring at times, and at other times scary. Sometimes it’s inspiring to learn that others are less fortunate than me. The woman in the corridor told me about her stage III cancer. Okay, she made me feel lucky, but I just don’t want to be surrounded by negative energy.

I am so afraid that the cancer will come back. I cry about losing the breast and also about having to lose my other one. Crying comes so easily. Sometimes the tears last a few minutes, other times an hour. It all depends.

Keeping Time is available from Amazon at the link below, and it is a wonderful read. I surely hope you take the time to order and read it.

http://www.amazon.com/Keeping-Time-Years-Journal-Writing/dp/0963138545/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1297999546&sr=8-1