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BY GUEST BLOGGER | NOVEMBER 21, 2011
Wow. We were in corgi heaven.
When we arrived, there were puppies in the front yard to greet us, and basically just corgis everywhere. The owners brought Cane in the house to meet us and we fell in love instantly. He was 3 years old, beautiful, playful, funny and obsessed with his toy. We passed inspection, and it was agreed that we would be Cane's new forever family. We were so happy. As we started on the long five-hour drive home with Cane in the back of the car all the "what if" thoughts kept creeping into my head and I began questioning our decision. My husband Steve kept telling me everything would be fine.
You see, I was having an imaging scan the next day to see if my breast cancer had returned. I was initially diagnosed in January 2006 and had gone through the standard treatment: bilateral mastectomy, chemo, radiation and tamoxifen. It was discovered in one of my follow-up scans that I had kidney stones, which were thought to be the result of my chemotherapy treatments. They were not causing any problems, and due to their size we decided to just do the watch and wait approach. That meant a kidney CT scan every year, no big deal right? Well, my urologist informed me after my scan in April 2009 that something was showing up on my liver - definitely not what I was expecting to hear.
A few days later we learned everything was not fine and that my breast cancer had metastasized to my liver and numerous lymph nodes. We were shocked, scared, angry and just plain terrified. The first time I had a fear of the treatment more than dying; now I was stage 4 and I most likely will die from breast cancer. Then I started thinking about Cane and wondering if we did the right thing. Were we crazy bringing home a new dog into our home when I was going back into treatment? How would I have time for him? Would it be fair to him?
Well little did we know, but he would end up being the best thing we could have done. Right from the start he was such a comfort to both Steve and me. He was by my side every day and never expected anything from me other than love. He put a smile on my face even when I didn't feel like smiling. He got me up and moving for short walks or just outside to throw the ball for him. He seemed to know when I wasn't feeling well and that sometimes I just needed the comfort of his head resting on my lap.
After six months and a good response from my treatments, I was able to switch to a more tolerable treatment and I began feeling better and having more energy. Cane seemed to sense my improvement and with that we also saw a change in him. He was still his lovable, attentive self, but now he seemed to have a whole new attitude and was always raring to go at the drop of a hat. Cane is so amazing and such a joy to have around; he will always have a very special place in my heart.
But there is always more love to go around. We got another corgi in August 2010. Her name is Poppet, and she is the same age as Cane and lived with him in their previous home. She is a sweetie and makes our home complete. I believe both Cane and Poppet have enriched our lives and helped us to cope with the reality of my cancer and that treatments will now probably be a forever thing since I have metastatic cancer.
They are the best therapy I could ask for and I am happy to say that my last scan in July 2011 showed no evidence of disease. We are enjoying life to the fullest, and our corgis are with us every step of the way.
Gail and her two corgis, Poppet and Cane.
Gail Lemberger, 52, from Camarillo, Calif., is a wife and mother with a 27-year-old son. She was first diagnosed with breast cancer in Jan. 2006 and then metastatic breast cancer in June 2009. She is a participant and volunteer at The Wellness Community Valley/Ventura.
Editor's note: Do you have a story of how a pet helped you heal? Submit a photo and brief description and we'll share your story with CURE readers <Submit your photo here>. Also, stay tuned for an upcoming article on how pets help us during and after a cancer diagnosis.
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BY GUEST BLOGGER | OCTOBER 14, 2011
I am Julie, wife of Jeff, mother to Kalyn and Hannah, daughter, sister, aunt, cousin, niece, daughter and sister-in-law, friend and a metastatic breast cancer survivor of six years.
My story begins in the shower. A horrible fear encompassed my being as I felt a lump on the left side of my rib cage near the start of my breast. Never had I completed a self-breast exam--that task I left for my OB/GYN. After a mammogram, ultrasounds and antibiotics for swollen lymph nodes, a biopsy proved that I had infiltrating ductal carcinoma, a 0.9-cm ER/PR-negative, HER2-positive cancer with 8 of 12 nodes testing positive.
I had a bomb dropped in my lap that I did not know how to dismantle. Overwhelmed with the news, I eventually had to leave the surgeon's office. I was a mess. I stared at the elevator and saw a man and woman waiting for the doors to open and, I asked myself if I should wait or go.
The elevator door had closed and the couple was still behind me. The lady asked if I believed in God. I told her yes. She said, "Honey, he is with you now and will be with you on your journey." It felt like it was the first time that afternoon that I had taken a breath and felt calmness. It was just one floor, just two minutes and already I was starting my healing process with this beautiful gift from a stranger. As we left the elevator, I stopped her, embraced her and thanked her. Yes, God was with me.
I armed myself with my family, friends, prayers and the best oncology team in Ohio. Adding whatever I could grasp from the Internet, survivors and books to my warrior strategy, I was ready for this cancer battle. I think I ended up knowing enough to get a college degree in oncology. All that studying really didn't matter. God had a plan for me, and I told him that he knows how sassy I am. I had plans as well. I said that I am going to do this in a "sassy Julie" style, and I hoped he would be proud of me.
Timing was great for my breast cancer (Herceptin had just been approved for non-metastatic HER2-positive cancer), perfect for my chemotherapy treatment and continuation after radiation. My family shaved my head; we took a lot of pictures, had hat parties, went to school plays and games, laughed and celebrated holidays. I thought that as a walking "bald woman" billboard would start some conversation and create awareness. I still had what my husband called my "high maintenance days" when I would get concerned with the "what ifs." My wellness plan was to allow cancer to live in my life, and for me not to live in cancer's life.
I cannot let life pass me by. I want to live and continue to be positive about everything, even throwing up, which means the chemotherapy was doing its job. I have much more to do. Each day I looked for one good thing and somewhere along my journey everything was beautiful and life trumped cancer completely.
The headache that would not go away did not go unreported. Now I listen to my body and have learned that my cancer had spread to my brain. Hearing the results, I was ready for action. While they were setting up my radiation schedule, I was calling all my friends and family for a dessert party and hair shaving party when we arrived home that evening.
Again, it was perfect timing for me with those innovative people that come up with new medications. Tykerb was the ammunition that filled my warrior belt this time. Aggressive radiation, prayer, Tykerb, radio static gamma surgery, more Herceptin and positive attitudes of all the people that surround me made for another successful treatment.
My degree is not in oncology but life. I continue to take Herceptin every three weeks. I look forward to going to the infusion center to visit with friends and meet new people. A world without cancer may not be in my lifetime, but I am happy to be a part of putting an end to it. I have no complaints about my cancer journey. I am blessed to have the opportunity to grow into the woman that God intends for me to be. What I have is an open door to give to others as they have given to me.
You are important. Take care of yourself. Surround yourself with faith, family and friends. Celebrate life and be ready to jump into your elevator, as you may not know what is waiting inside for you.
Julie Tate is featured in the Faces of Metastatic Breast Cancer video that provides a look at how metastatic breast cancer is different from early-stage breast cancer and offers simple ideas on how friends and family can help. For every video view, Genentech will donate $1 to MBC initiatives and programs (up to $20,000).
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BY GUEST BLOGGER | OCTOBER 13, 2011
October 13 is National Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day.
As these things go, it's not an impressive day: The post office won't close, it's not a parking holiday and the trains and buses will follow their normal schedules. There are no NMBCA Day greeting cards and no special flowers or candy to buy.
But for me and the thousands of other people living with metastatic breast cancer, Oct. 13 is a big deal.
It's our day, a day where hopefully we can tell our stories, foster understanding of what it is like to live with an incureable disease and call attention to the urgent need for more research that will help us live longer with a decent quality of life.
It's a day we can remember the family and friends we have lost to this disease.
For people with metastatic breast cancer and their families, every month is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. We are all too aware of this disease.
But many of us didn't start out with that knowledge. My mother died of inflammatory breast cancer when I was 17. I thought I knew something about the disease. Ha!
My breast cancer had spread to my bones when it was found. Before my own diagnosis, I knew that breast cancer could spread, but I didn't realize it could spread to your bones.
Given that my working knowledge of the human skeletal system was largely derived from a Grateful Dead t-shirt, I had a lot to learn about metastatic breast cancer (aka stage 4).
If you lost someone to breast cancer, you lost them to metastatic breast cancer. It might have been triple-negative breast cancer, triple-positive breast cancer, inflammatory breast cancer, hormone receptive-positive breast cancer (ER/PR+) or some variation.
Regardless of pathology, if a person has metastatic breast cancer, it means the cancer spread outside the breast, typically to the bones, liver, lungs or brain.
My friend C.S. says early-stage breast cancer is like pulling a dandelion: You dig out the yellow flower, roots and all. Hopefully it never grows back.
"But with metastatic breast cancer it's as if the dandelion has gone to seed and the little white seeds have drifted on the winds of your lymph system to the greater confines of your body," she says. "It's pretty hard to see those little white seeds until they take root in your bones, liver, lungs or brain and then you start spraying the oncologic equivalent of weed killer but those little white seeds are pretty smart and keep developing resistance to the various chemos, etc. so you keep trying new and improved kinds."
I am fortunate - my low volume of bone mets hasn't done much over the past couple of years. My cancer is currently stable on anti-hormonal treatment. Eventually this drug will stop working, and I will try another one. Eventually I will have to move on to the big guns: chemo. And then I will always be on chemo.
Treatment does not end. Doctors' appointments do not end. Scans do not end.
But I am not alone: there are currently 155,000 people in the U.S. living with metastatic breast cancer. Some of them are my fellow volunteers at the Metastatic Breast Cancer Network (www.mbcn.org).
I have taken great inspiration from their stories and I look forward to hearing more of them at the annual Metastatic Breast Cancer Network Conference in Baltimore this month (Oct. 28-29 at Johns Hopkins).
Remember us on Oct. 13 - and every day!
Katherine O'Brien blogs at ihatebreastcancer.wordpress.com.
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BY GUEST BLOGGER | OCTOBER 12, 2011
So far, today has been a really productive day. I got my 17-month-old son up and dressed and fed, the house cleaned for the realtor's open house and got myself all prettied up for a date with my husband later today. This will be a good day. The sun is out, the leaves are changing and now my son is playing in his crib so I can enjoy my cup of coffee in peace.
That cloud overhead--that is my stage 4 breast cancer diagnosis, and it is not ruining this day, nor will I let it ruin the days ahead. That has been my motto ever since my mother died in May of this year, and I was re-diagnosed with bone metastases at age 30. Life is short, so live it with passion.
I am pretty much a totally normal, stay-at-home mom; I take my son on lots of play dates, pretend to plan his wedding with a girlfriend's daughter, play with our dog outside and meet up with my husband on date night. It's a wonderful life. In addition, we are planning for our future; we are in the process of building a house and selling our current duplex--a dream that I had put off for years.
If it wasn't for seeing my oncologist every month, I think I could totally forget I even have cancer. Although I do have days where it clouds over with worry of progression and failing therapies, and I fall apart entirely. Friday was one of those days. After a great five months on oral chemotherapy, my tumor markers suggested it was time to look to the next treatment plan. So after the storm of my emotion settled, I can once again poise myself for another battle as I await the PET scan results.
The cancer has definitely changed my life, but it has not been all bad. Prior to discovering a lump while breast feeding, I was planning my career in science. I was expecting to graduate with my PhD in immunology and go on to hopefully study cancer immunotherapy. While the former came true, and I will be graduating in December with my PhD, the latter is not exactly what I had in mind.
On closer examination, I am actually still doing what I'd planned, only from a very different perspective--the patient's perspective. Rather than designing the experiment behind a bench, I am the experiment. I am the unknown, and I know there are 1000s of scientists standing behind their research benches hoping and praying that their hypotheses are supported and remission is headed my way.
To all those researchers out there, I say thank you and don't be discouraged. Science is a collective process, and it takes many, many incremental steps to take basic science to the bedside. Granted, I wish I weren't the guinea pig, but this is the hand God dealt me and I need to play it as best as I can. Choosing to stay home with my son instead of continuing into a post-doctoral fellowship was not part of my plan, but I love it more than anything else in the world--so for that, I say thank you, cancer.
Kristin Ness-Schwickerath is a stay-at-home mom to her son, Parker, and a cancer survivor. Prior to staying home, Kristin was a graduate student at the University of Iowa working on her PhD in immunology. She will graduate in December 2012. She blogs at kristin-notdying-blog.blogspot.com. "I may be fighting metastatic breast cancer, but I am optimistic for a long life."
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BY GUEST BLOGGER | OCTOBER 11, 2011
Cancer has taught me a lot of things. I have learned that we are not our bodies. This simple truth is one that took me a long time to learn. My body is sick, not me. I am still here, inside my malfunctioning shell. It is easy to lose sight of it, but our bodies are only containers for our real selves. I now see cancer as a gift rather than an affliction. It destroyed my former life, took everything that I once had from me but it has given me other things. I now have time to read, to study, to write, to find my spirituality. It made me a better human being, gave me back my family and enabled me to gain great satisfaction from helping others.
The following are some things I have learned from my journey with breast cancer:
Quiet Heals. Healing takes place in peace and quiet. Getting yourself to such a place, internally and externally, is essential to healing. Still the noise, and you will begin to heal. Treat yourself to some quiet time even after your recovery. Everyone needs some time just for you when you take a break and just relax. Use this time to shut out all your troubles, giving yourself a much needed rest. Take this time to do something that will bring you enjoyment.
Bend Instead of Breaking. Acknowledge the weight of the burden, then flow with it instead of resisting it.
Have Patience. Healing takes time, which in itself is a healing thing. There are no quick fixes and the only way out is through. Impatience, anger and frustration only retard healing. Wait for your cure. Wait for healing.
Accentuate the Positive, Eliminate the Negative. You must be absolutely ruthless in cutting negative people, habits and situations out of your life. Your very survival may depend on this. Anyone who really cares about you will understand that you need a positive attitude and environment in order to get well.
Take Control. Be in charge. It's your body, your life, your disease, not the doctors'. You cannot simply hand it to them and expect them to deal with it for you. Be their partner, not their patient. Knowledge is power, so empower yourself by learning all you can.
Create Healing Circles. In a support setting, these groups are healing circles unto themselves. Participation in the group is cathartic--for when we share ourselves we receive many gifts. It is healthy to share your story with others for it helps them realize they are not alone, that others have gone through this and survived. For you, it is another step forward to wellness. You realize things about yourself that surprise you. You find you are a lot stronger than you ever thought you were. You have new priorities. You appreciate life and now stop to enjoy it. You notice all the little things you never noticed before. You have a greater depth of compassion, patience and love. You are grateful to be alive. Others notice these things about you and learn from you.
Take One Day at a Time. I have learned that the best thing I can do is live just for today. The past is over and done with ... you can't change it, so let it go. The future isn't here yet, so why worry about it? All you have is today, with all its promise. Live each day the best you can and you will do well.
Life is a Gift. Surviving a life-threatening illness has given you a second chance. Learn from your past mistakes.
Marie Canfield is a cancer advocate who focuses on political policies to advance patient rights. She mentors patients through the process of diagnosis, treatment and recovery. She is currently in treatment for her third recurrence of metastatic breast cancer. "I have seen many advances in cancer treatment and they have all been for the better. I tell everyone--attitude is everything. Learn to go with the flow and don't sweat the small stuff. Never lose hope for it is always there even in the smallest of things. Life truly is a gift, and for me...wow, what a ride."
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BY GUEST BLOGGER | OCTOBER 10, 2011
Breast cancer awareness month is upon us again and with it comes the usual tide of pink ribbons, fluffy bras and 5K runs. Women's magazines will run features on young, attractive, middle-class women who were diagnosed with breast cancer in their 20s and 30s and more recently, we'll celebrate the award of an honorary doctorate given to singer Kylie Minogue for her contribution to breast cancer awareness.
All admirable stuff. But there is an invisibility here that often goes unnoticed and unchallenged. When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer seven years ago, I would meet other black women who were also going through treatment for this disease and would often hear the same comments. Many would tell me that they always thought of breast cancer as a 'white woman's disease,' that they didn't think they would ever be diagnosed with this illness.
If we look at how breast cancer is portrayed in the mass media, we can see why they might think this way. The focus on Kylie Minogue as the current breast cancer pin-up girl is a typical example of the type of woman who normally fills our screens and newspapers. The tendency of the media to focus on the young, pretty, white, affluent breast cancer survivor at the expense of other groups has troubling potential implications, especially when it comes to racial differences.
Although in general, breast cancer tends to be diagnosed less often in black women than white women, when it is, it tends to be more aggressive and diagnosed at a more advanced stage. For reasons that are currently unknown, black women have a greater tendency to be diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer – this is an aggressive form of the disease that has no estrogen or progesterone receptors. It also doesn't have the abundance of HER2 receptors. This status means that hormonal and targeted treatments, like tamoxifen and Herceptin, will have no effect, with chemotherapy being the only option that can be used. If this wasn't enough, recent studies have shown that when black women are diagnosed with breast cancer, they tend to be diagnosed at an earlier age. One recent study even suggested that screening for black women should start earlier, from the age of 40.
In addition to the media's stereotype of the typical breast cancer patient, there are a number of possible reasons why black women are less likely to run to the doctor at the first sight of a symptom. Here in the UK, we don't have the issue of a lack of medical insurance. The NHS offers a free service to all. But there still exists a taboo surrounding cancer among many older, black women from more traditional cultures, with many feeling that it is a fatal disease. This fuels a feeling that if you are diagnosed with breast cancer, then there's nothing that can be done. Added to this is often a distrust of the health system, in the way that there is a distrust of the criminal justice system, the educational system and mental health system. When miscarriages of justice are revealed along racial lines, it appears to cause a domino effect in all other areas.
So what can be done? Perhaps we need to start acknowledging that there are differences among particular racial groups of women who are diagnosed with cancer. We need to put more money into research that looks at the reasons why women of West African origin are more likely to be diagnosed with triple-negative cancer, why black women are now being diagnosed at an earlier age, and we need to create awareness campaigns that challenge the stigma of breast cancer in black culture. We also need to change the current face of breast cancer – to one that incorporates women of all races and ages (incidentally, breast cancer is most common among those over 60). Until we do this, the prevailing image of a sexy, young, white breast cancer survivor will continue to exist and more women of colour will continue to die unnecessarily.
Caroline Hunter is a photo editor and writer who lives and works in London. She was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer when she had a recurrence in 2010, ten months after giving birth to her baby boy. She blogs about her experiences as both cancer patient and woman of colour. Read more from her at afrochemo.blogspot.com.
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BY GUEST BLOGGER | AUGUST 29, 2011
September 1, 2009
Morning
It is my oldest son's first day of kindergarten, or really his first hour of kindergarten. My husband and I are taking him to be "oriented" to his classroom in anticipation for the real start tomorrow, sans parents. Given there is no separation involved in this orienting hour, I am aghast when tears begin spilling from my eyes, striping my cheeks. "We have made it to kindergarten," I tell myself. I take a deep breath and wipe my eyes.
My son, Harry, and I walk hand in hand down the corridor as kids and parents bustle about, the enthusiasm and excitement palpable. The 1600's brick school house is quintessential New England and quintessential kindergarten. Its large wooden windows are cracked a little, just enough to waif in the nippy fall air. The classroom walls are laden with 5-year-old art, its shelves lined with bottles of Elmer's glue, small red and white milk cartons and colored plastic trays. Memories of kindergarten 35 years ago come flooding back.
"Mom, are you staying with me today?" Harry asks for the third time of the day.
"Yes, honey, Mommy is not going anywhere." I shudder at the irony of the words.
My husband, having arrived by separate car, spots us coming down the hall and notices my tears. He gives me a nod that suggests he understands my typical mother-letting-go-of-son emotions. What I cannot utter, for fear of dissolving in front of my son, husband and a multitude of composed parents, is that my tears are not about letting go of my son as he enters kindergarten, but of complete joy and gratitude for being able to let him go. I had played this very scene over and over again in my mind, praying every day, all day, that I would be blessed to act it out. Here I am. Alive and cancer-free after my lymphoma diagnosis two years ago. Thank you, God.
Evening
I drive 30 miles north to glorious New Castle Island, NH, to pick up my nephews, Brad and Adam, for some back-to-school shopping. Adam is starting his freshman year of college and Brad his junior year. As they approach the car, I am struck by their stature, each over six feet tall.
"Are you registered for all your classes?" I ask Brad as we drive toward the department store.
"Yup," he replies as he checks his email on his BlackBerry.
"Don't forget to go to Health Services to check on your health care coverage, you have a doctor's appointment next week. We need to make sure you are still covered by your school insurance."
"Yeah, will do," he replies as his thumbs move quickly across his phone's keyboard. As we enter the department store, we separate. I head for the toddlers and boys section and they head to mens. I watch them go, remembering with a familiar ache when my sister and I would shop for them in toddlers and boys.
We leave the department store, exhausted and hungry, with carts overflowing with bedding, towels, and speakers – all later to be housed in dorm rooms.
"I'm starving," says Adam as he surfs on his iPod.
"How about Flatbreads," suggests Brad.
"Sweet," replies Adam, and I steer the car in the direction of the local pizzeria.
"How did Harry like his first day of kindergarten?" Brad asked as the waitress brings the large chicken and artichoke pizza, small white, and large garden salad. Man, can they eat.
We talk about Harry's teacher, the school bus and his new found ability to run faster in his brand new Nikes. I'm careful not to mention my tears.
"Thanks so much, Kit," Brad says as we finish every last bite of food.
"Yeah, Kit, thank you for everything," echoes Adam.
"Of course," I say as I raise my glass to them. It is hard to believe it is exactly five years ago today that my sister died of breast cancer. "Your mom would be so proud of the two of you starting school. And, I know she'd want us to be together tonight. I love you both so much."
For the second time of the day, my eyes well with tears, as her sons' eyes, no longer scanning their Blackberry and iPod, lock mine. My heart swells with love, loss and deep gratitude for being alive to share in their first day of school, too.
Kit E. Haber, PsyD, is a non-Hodgkin lymphoma survivor and a carrier of the BRAC1 gene. She aspires to share her stories of loss and challenge through writing in order to help others move forward through similar experiences. She resides in Saint Augustine, Fla., with her husband and three young sons. She is a licensed clinical psychologist and executive coach and can be reached at kithaber@gmail.com.
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