This was one of the nicest surprises that I received throughout all of treatment.
Growing up, I always associated surgery with umpteen stitches that required removal. Then again, I also associated cancer with certain death. Luckily, neither one is a definite anymore. Since I’d never needed major surgery before, I had no idea that surgical glue is a thing. And what a thing it is! It would have probably been different if I’d had a mastectomy, but with a simple lumpectomy to remove a not-so-big tumor…all the stitches were dissolvable and internal.
On the outside, there was glue. It was plastic-y, kind of like if someone had taken nail polish and drawn a stripe across the incision, only it was more pliable. As my incisions healed, the glue flaked off. There were no dressings to change, no bandages necessary at all. Not having external stitches was a beautiful gift from my surgeon.
If you’ve read my other posts, you’ll know that psychologically I didn’t handle the concept of cancer well. It took me on an anxiety-fueled roller-coaster ride, as I went from a healthy, active woman to a cancer patient. I have a stubborn expectation of normality in my life, and over the years I’ve put a lot of work into maintaining it. Cancer blew that to shreds. And in a funny way, that little strip of glue brought a bit of “normal” back to me.
I figured that there would be a lot of medication involved with cancer treatment. I just didn’t realize it would be THIS much.
I am not a big pill-taker. Besides vitamins here and there, the only thing I’d taken with any frequency had been ibuprofin, and that was only for menstrual cramps and knee pain. But then came breast cancer.
First there was Xanax, so that anxiety from my diagnosis wouldn’t cause me to lose too much weight before starting chemo. Then there were meds post-surgery: I took half a pill of generic Vicodin before switching to ibuprofin, fearful of taking anything for too long. But with chemo, I needed steroids for before/during/after to get me through the infusion’s worst effects. Then there was the chemo itself, and additional IV drugs to prevent an immediate reaction. The day after each infusion, I went in for an injection (Neulasta) to help bring my white blood cell count back up.
There were drugs to help deal with side effects. And then other drugs to handle the side effects of those drugs. I had more pills with my name on it than I’d ever had in my life. It was terrifying to me. I’d gone from being a remarkably healthy 50-something to (what felt to me like) a seriously ill patient with a life threatening disease.
In all honesty, most of these drugs I didn’t even take. While I did need the Xanax, I worked hard to reduced the dose until I parted with it completely. In its place, I meditated. After the first infusion and some unfortunate confusion regarding which anti-nausea pill to take first, resulting in one of the roughest nights of my life, I switched to CBD (cannabidiol) oil to prevent vomiting. Initially this required experimentation, as research in the area is relatively young due to an evolving legal landscape, resulting in lack of reliable dosing guidelines. But once I got that down, CBD eliminated the need for a myriad other medications because it didn’t have side effects.
Even the Claritin, which I was told to take for bone pain commonly associated with the Neulasta shots, was unnecessary. I took it for a while until I realized that I wasn’t experiencing significant pain and could do without it.
Limiting medications that weren’t completely necessary didn’t have negative physical effects and, even better, benefited me psychologically. I was constantly striving for normality, and that doesn’t come easily with cancer treatment. Pill-popping was an unfamiliar concept for me, so getting back to where I felt comfortable, taking as few medications as I could safely tolerate, was critical.
Unfortunately, I’m not quite done yet. The toughest part is over, but the last chapter of my pill-taking experience includes a decade of the estradiol-blocking drug Tamoxifen. It’s a single pill I have to take on a daily basis to reduce the chances of cancer recurrence, and I deal by looking at it as an excuse to hydrate before getting out of bed every morning. Drink a bunch of water and, oh, slip that pill in there too.
I wish I didn’t even have to take the Tamoxifen. But it is what it is. I’m looking forward to the day when I can be completely pill-free, and trying to appreciate that after everything I’ve been through, there’s only one medication left.
Okay, this one was just weird. File this under “not all cancer treatment side effects are bad.”
How shall I put this? After I finished chemo, I noticed that I didn’t smell. At all. No armpit odor, no sweaty crotch odor, nothing. I asked my husband to check; he concurred.
“You smell like…skin,” was the best description he could muster. Once again, I took to the Internet, that repository of information about anything and everything. Except that I found nothing.
Eventually, I came across a forum where women were discussing bad smells associated with their tumors. Again, not what I was looking for. But nestled within all those posts was a single comment by someone that she had lost all her body odor for about two and a half years. Finally! Someone else experiencing the same cool weirdness.
So this probably won’t last forever, but for now, I can get away with all-natural deodorants and not worry that they won’t have staying power. To be clear, I sweat, I just don’t smell like it. My teenage daughter is jealous. My teenage son, of course, couldn’t care less, although I really wish he would. The smell of testosterone is strong with that one.
Regardless, this is one side effect that I’m going to enjoy as long as I can.
Or more accurately “Breast Changes, Lack Thereof.”
This one threw me for a loop. Prior to my lumpectomy, I scoured the internet for ideas of what partial breast removal looked like. In a word, disfigurement. Certainly, having half a breast was preferable to having no breast or dying from breast cancer, but I wondered how I would deal with losing a secondary sex characteristic that society uses as an indication of female-ness. My breasts had nursed two bouncing babies into toddlerhood and cancer was going to take one of them (breasts, not babies!). That kept me up at night.
After dying a thousand deaths, I found that my reality was not nearly as frightening. My lump was small and sitting at about 2 o’clock on my left breast. That put it dangerously close to my axillary (armpit) lymph nodes, which could enable the cancer to spread faster, but also in a place where tissue removal would be less noticeable. Three sentinel lymph nodes were removed from my armpit — they were found to be unaffected. My surgeon was able to get “clear margins” (no cancer cells were seen on the edge of the tissue that was removed) on the cancerous lump, and if not for the scars, there was little indication that I’d had surgery.
That blew my mind. With small breasts, I didn’t think I could spare the tissue. I was contemplating a prosthesis, and concerned that the size of the excision might tempt me to go with reconstructive surgery…but none of that was necessary. Even my surgeon was surprised. I told her it was because she was an excellent surgeon, but she wouldn’t accept the compliment. According to her, I was just very lucky.
After radiation treatment, that breast tightened up and even gained a bit of size. All at no extra cost.
So, whenever I do a gratitude meditation and count my blessings, I reflect upon this. There are so many things that could have been worse, and I had gotten lost in the terror of it all. But in the end, it was okay.
Note: I wanted to show how similar both breasts looked, but then there’s all this potential for getting flagged as inappropriate, so you’ll need to be content with “side boob” photos and just take my word for it.
When you’re told that you have cancer and will need the full complement of treatments, you focus on the concepts of surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. Chemo, for example, can be frightening to think about because of purported its side effects, so you gloss over the details. But when you get down to a practical level and start learning about exactly how the infusions will take place…
I knew I needed chemo. I assumed that it would be administered intravenously, as in, into an arm vein with the bag o’ drugs hanging from the IV pole. Ahhh, but the drugs are caustic and would cause damage to a smaller vein, so to avoid that, they go directly into a major blood vessel to allow for quicker mixing with blood, faster circulation through your body and much less discomfort. This is done through a port.
Let me be clear: a chemo port is a revolutionary device that has made administration of chemo drugs far easier on the patient. Not having the port would be absolutely miserable and likely necessitate breaks in treatment as the patient recovered.
However, it wasn’t until we were talking about setting up a port implantation appointment that I began to grasp what was actually going to happen: a small disk would be implanted onto my chest wall, just under the skin, from which a thin flexible tube would run up and over my clavicle and then down into the blood vessel (probably the superior vena cava, but I didn’t ask). Once I started infusions, the needle from the bag containing the drugs would be inserted through my skin, through a membrane on the port, and that was it for the needle prick. Simple and relatively painless.
But about that port. To me, “port placement”, as the implantation procedure was called, was surgery. And I wasn’t great at handling surgery. Usually I like a lot of info to prep me for what’s coming, but I couldn’t even handle watching a video of a placement procedure.
I don’t have a lot of fat on my chest. There was nothing to nestle the port down into, and as a result, after implantation my skin was stretched tight. I could see the lump in my chest and I could see the tube as it ran up from the lump, over the clavicle. Turning my head pulled the skin — ow! I avoided looking at it, let alone touching it. All I could think was that I had an entire year of this.
Eventually the skin stretched to accommodate the port, but because it stuck out like a little knob, I worried about twacking it. When I hit it with a dumbbell during a workout, I cried. Seatbelts were a constant concern; I was afraid that the port would get dislodged and injure me in a car accident. Hugs hurt and I instinctively turned that side away from people. And of course, in the event of a huge catastrophe that resulted in the collapse of society and all modern services including port removal procedures, I might be stuck with that thing on my chest for the rest of my pathetic little life.
Eventually, the day came when I finished my last infusion and my oncologist gave the go-ahead for port removal. That thing was out within a week. Removal was simpler than implantation, done under local anesthesia without the need for fasting, and even all the tugging to get it loose didn’t bother me. I was so happy to have it out.
But I’d carried it inside me longer than I had carried either of my children, so I asked to take the port home. While I had hated it inside me, I was so grateful for what it had done. I mean, I couldn’t just let them throw it out! It was handed to me in a bright pink box designed for dentures (apparently, keeping your port isn’t popular enough for the creation of “used port” containers) and now sits on my desk. I prefer it there rather than in my chest.