Living Life Is The Best Revenge!

I've survived breast cancer twice.

If you put the face of someone you know on a life-threatening disease, it suddenly becomes more than just a clinical definition. I could be your wife, your mother, your sister, your daughter, your aunt, your grandmother, your niece or your best friend.

In 1991, my first encounter with breast cancer affected everyone around me. With this diagnosis, I became a statistic, a symbol of fear and uncertainty, a woman's worst nightmare.

I had just celebrated my fortieth birthday. For the last year, I'd tried to find out why I had been experiencing breast pain. After two negative mammograms, I had to demand a biopsy and was finally diagnosed with stage two, ductal carcinoma.

The diagnosis was delivered over the phone. I was alone and I remember seeing everything after I hung up the phone through a red haze. My ears rang, I felt heart palpitations and I had trouble breathing. Months later, I laughed when one of my friends told me she thought I had been so brave and strong. Actually, I was terrified, only managing to move through each day because it was all I could do.

I had a mastectomy with reconstruction surgery done at the same time. My surgeon and a plastic surgeon worked together on me. Lymph nodes were removed to determine the stage of my cancer. I remember waking up after the surgery and seeing my father sitting in a chair watching me. He made me feel safe when he just smiled and told me to go back to sleep.

Two days later, my surgeon, plastic surgeon, mother, father and husband all crowded into my hospital room looking very serious. My surgeon explained that cancer cells had been found in my lymph nodes and that I was stage two. Because of the staging, I would need six months of chemotherapy to make sure all the stray cancer cells floating around in my body would be destroyed. All I wanted to know was when I could start.

I remember asking if I could still ride my horses during chemotherapy. I've had horses my entire life and riding is my therapy and my passion. I ride long distance in competition. Along with the worry of losing my very long hair, I was concerned I wouldn't be able to participate in the next ride season.

I started chemotherapy one month after I got out of the hospital. I went every three weeks for about four hours. An IV dripped three different chemicals slowly into my veins. It certainly wasn't any fun, but it was tolerable. And it was a weapon in the battle to save my life.

Each time I went, I could feel the cold fluid moving through my body and across my brain. Because I was afraid I was going to lose my waist-length hair, I was given an ice cap to wear during the treatment. So I sat shivering, stretched out in a Lazyboy wrapped in blankets, feeling the chilling chemicals flow through my bloodstream while the top of my head froze. Because of the ice caps, I only lost half of my hair. That half grew back curly. If I'd known curly hair would replace my old straight hair, I would have dealt with the baldness!

My oncologist is one of the most wonderful doctors I've ever met. She allowed me to play around with my chemo appointments so I could continue to ride in my competitions. Exactly two months after my mastectomy, I finished my first 25 mile ride. While waiting for the vet to check my horse, I passed out. I woke up to find the veterinarian taking my pulse. I was fine, just tired. I continued riding throughout my treatment. I believe the strenuous exercise was the main reason I didn't have any trouble with white cell counts during the six months of chemotherapy.

Every time I went for treatment, it seemed a bit harder and I was more exhausted. I told my husband it was like walking up a steep hill. It's not so bad at first but if you continually fall down and have to get up during the climb, it gets harder to pick yourself up each time. I remember trying to talk my oncologist into letting me skip the last treatment. That didn't happen.

I had two further reconstructive surgeries and finally I was done. For good measure, the post-chemotherapy drug Tamoxifan was prescribed. That was the worst part of the entire treatment. I had every reaction and side effect listed for the drug. Finally, I had to stop taking it.

After the treatments were over, I was tired and depressed. As I recovered from the effects of chemotherapy and struggled to get my life back to normal, I became very anxious. It was as if I had won several battles but the war was still waging and I was no longer doing my part. It took a long time to get past that feeling. I later learned that anyone fighting cancer experiences some sort of anxiety once their treatment is over.

Nine years later, in 2000, I received a call from the clinic after a routine mammogram. An ultrasound was scheduled and a needle biopsy was done. Once again, I was diagnosed with ductal carcinoma. It had not come back, it was a new cancer.

Going through breast cancer the second time is much more difficult. I'd known several women who had died after fighting breast cancer twice. I now realized I could die too. It was a very resigned and solitary feeling. I began having heart palpitations and couldn't sleep. After conferring with all my doctors, I made the decision to have another total mastectomy. If I made it through this, I didn't ever want to deal with breast cancer again.

I discovered knowing how everything would happen is sometimes not very comforting. I started to believe I really had been brave and strong the first time because now I wasn't being brave or strong because I knew too much.

I had reconstruction again. This involved two more surgeries and a somewhat disappointing outcome. As a woman, I think when you are faced with such an overwhelming and personally disfiguring disease as breast cancer, you automatically deny the cancer by making plans to reconstruct your body so it looks as if nothing happened to you.

The thought of waking up and looking at a flat area of skin, bone and scarring may be too overwhelming and anything would be better than that. Sometimes it is and sometimes it isn't. Reconstruction after a single mastectomy is a tricky thing. Balance and symmetry are not always as promised by willing plastic surgeons, no matter how sincere or skilled.

Because I had experienced reconstruction surgeries that were less than expected and one that was a complete failure, I finally became aware of what I should have been focusing on from the beginning. I was still alive. Do I look different? Yes! Is that a bad thing? No! When I looked at myself in the mirror the first time, it was upsetting and sad. But I am still the same person.

I heard on the news the other night that forty thousand women will die of breast cancer this year. But there are also thousands and thousands of women who will survive breast cancer this year. I want you to think about that too. I celebrate every one of them because they are my sisters and my hope!

I am the face of awareness. I am your wife, your mother, your daughter, your aunt, your grandmother, your niece and your best friend. Iam not one of the victims, I'm one of the victors in this war. In the battle against breast cancer, living your life is the best revenge!