As well as being a cancer blogger, Laura Yeager is a religious essayist and a mental health blogger. A graduate of The Writers’ Workshop at The University of Iowa, she teaches writing at Kent State University and Gotham Writers’ Workshop. Laura survived cancer twice.

Laura Yeager

I was attempting not to think about the possibility of more cancer.

For two months, I went about my life without my breast prosthesis. I had lost it, and my insurance paid for only one a year. It really didn’t matter because my special cancer bras had firm cups and when I wore them, I hardly needed the little prosthesis that fit on the one side of my bra. I looked fine. Plus it was the pandemic, and everyone had a pass in the “looks” department. My prosthesis was simply gone, and I thought I’d never find it again.

A key aspect of blogging about your cancer life is that you “sign” an unwritten contract to be honest. For this reason, I am going to admit that I am a cancer survivor slob. I’m messy, and for this reason, it will come as no surprise to you that I hadn’t decluttered our bedroom since the pandemic hit. That was in March, in case you forgot. 

Our bedroom, the one that I shared with my dear husband who had suffered through two bouts of my cancer with me, was a bit nest-like. I liked to call it “the rat’s nest.” Piles of clothes sat on the floor. My sock basket was overflowing with unmatched socks. Good dresses and suits had slipped off the hangers in the closet and were lying on the ground. A pile of magazines lay next to my bed, where I’d tossed each one after I finished reading it.

But then, something happened. Last week I went back to teaching writing at the local university, albeit remotely, and something changed. Something interrupted the malaise I’d felt since COVID-19 began, and suddenly, I felt like cleaning. I couldn’t possibly do it in the daytime; at about 8:30 on Friday night, I tackled my mess.

In my cleaning that night, I found so many things that I hadn’t seen in six months. I found my burgundy, long-sleeved blouse with the bell sleeves; I found my nightgown that said, “Due to unfortunate circumstances, I am awake.” And, wait for it, I found my breast prosthesis. It was under a pile of clothing next to my dresser.

I was glad to have it back. I wore it then. It made me feel more put together and respectable.

Underneath it, was a bright purple lesion that my oncologist was following. I’d had the ugly spot for two weeks. She wanted me to inform her on Tuesday if it was gone. If it hadn’t disappeared, she was going to biopsy it.

But it was probably nothing. I’d had so many false alarms that I was not worried about this one. I felt a bit like a cat with nine lives. A cat in a prosthesis. (I hoped I had one or two more lives left.)

And so the truth went on, and the rat’s nest was no longer.

One week later. The saga continued. They wanted to biopsy it.

I asked my oncologist’s assistant what the lesion looked like, and she said, “It looks like a pimple, but it’s purple.”

“No, we investigate unusual lesions on folks who’ve had cancer issues before. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

So the punch biopsy was Thursday. There were more days of uncertainty ahead.

The biopsy went swimmingly. It didn’t even hurt. My mother had been watching Mass on television and praying for me, and we were convinced this was why I had no pain.

At that point, I had a couple of stitches in my breast. Those would come out in about a week. I would learn my fate in the next few days. I was not too stressed, just extra tired. I’d feel much better when I knew definitively that the cancer hadn’t come back.

There was a lot to do to keep my mind off cancer. We celebrated my son’s 16th birthday. I received a set of 38 papers to grade. I taught remote classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, signing on happily as if nothing was happening. I wondered if I would need to quit teaching if I got cancer again. Cancer for the third time.

Can you say nightmare? Did I have cancer? Didn’t I have cancer? I couldn’t get through to the people at the breast cancer center to tell me what was going on. It was 10:00 AM, and they were still not picking up their phone. I kept getting their answering service. Finally, an operator took pity on me and transferred me to a secretary who was privy to my information. She checked my file. “No, still in process,” she said. It looked like I had to wait another day.

The next day, I called again and got the answering service. It was 9:10 AM. But the operator finally figured out the problem. I was 

 the answering service phone number, not the number of the cancer center. She gave me the right number, and I quickly dialed it. I reached Karen, the woman with the info. She checked my file again. “Benign,” she said. “It’s a benign inclusion cyst.”

I went thrift shopping to celebrate, picking up a Sponge Bob Christmas ornament for my kid and a pair of shoes for my mom. As I was driving home, my oncologist called, all bubbly and happy. “I’ve got good news,” she said. I hated to tell her she was a little late. “It’s a benign inclusion cyst.”

“I talked to Karen a few minutes ago,” I said. “But this is great news!” I was trying to sound as elated as my doctor, but I’d just had too many near cancer misses, and this was just another one to add to my list. “Thanks for letting me know, Mary.”

“We’ll see you on October 1 to remove the stitches,” she said.

Driving home, the sky did look a bit brighter, and somehow I was not as weary as I had been.

Articles

Waiting is the hardest part when wondering about cancer complications.

Waiting For The Lesion To Go Away

Jan, my best friend from childhood, moved down South forty years ago and never returned to our fair state of Ohio. She’s been living in Tampa, Florida for thirty odd years and every Christmas I send a gift down to her with her father, who drives to Florida to spend the holiday with her. 

He’s now 85, so it was questionable whether he was going to make the drive this year. Around Thanksgiving, I phoned him and told him that I was going to bring her Christmas gift over so that he could pack it in his car with the other presents he was taking down.

Great news! He was going to do the 24-hour drive to the sunshine state. At the end of our telephone call, he said, “So now, the cancer, it’s over?”

I’d had breast cancer in 2011 and again in 2016. This was the first time he’d mentioned my life-threatening illnesses to me. He wasn’t a person to pry. I guess he felt that by this time he could be fairly sure that my cancer woes were gone.

I paused. “Yes,” I said. “It’s all gone. No trace of cancer.”

“You have a nice Thanksgiving and Merry Christmas,” I said.

“Yes, and you, too. I’m so glad you’re well.”

I was lying to him, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth and face what I had to face. I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me. And I didn’t want my Jan to think I wasn’t anything but 100% healthy. She was the picture of health at 57, still participating in triathlons and had never gained the “middle age” fifty extra pounds as I had.

About a month ago, I’d been having pain in the left area of my chest. I went to the emergency room and was checked out for pulmonary embolisms, among other things. They did a CT scan. The scan revealed that I was clear of embolisms in my lungs. I was relieved. Pulmonary embolisms were treated with blood thinners, and that made clotting difficult if you cut yourself. I was glad that I didn’t have to deal with bleeding all over the place.

“The radiologist noticed a spot on your right lung.”

“Something that might have come from radiation treatments. Were you treated with radiation for either of your breast cancers on the right side?”

“The radiologist wants you to follow this. He said to get another CT scan in six months.”

That’s all the info I could get out of the ER doc.

So, the next day, I called my radiologist, the one who oversaw my radiation treatments eight years ago. He looked at my films from the ER CT scan. “Yes, it’s a spot,” he said.

“If you were a smoker there would be more of a concern.”

I felt there was a lot he wasn’t telling me. I could sense that he didn’t want to alarm me. But the point was, and there was no denying this, he wanted to do a follow-up CT scan in April. I guessed they wanted to see if “the spot” was growing or changing.

Cancer just keeps haunting me. It was going to be an agonizing six months.

But I was proud of myself and how I’d hid the truth from my friends. I’d acted with prudence and empathy. 

Why alarm them until I knew something definitive?

Jan is a dentist, and she throws a huge party every year. Ironically, I send her bags of dark chocolate and a beautiful Christmas bowl, which she sets out for the partygoers. It’s the one time she encourages people to eat sweets. Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we may die.

This year, it’s going to be a ZOOM party due to COVID-19, but she assures me that the chocolate will get gobbled up by her staff. She said she’d send me the ZOOM link so that I can drop in. This will be my first ZOOM party. Despite the spot, I have to find a way to keep enjoying myself, to ignore the damn thing. It will be so good to see Jan, even though I’ll be looking at her on a screen.

Life just keeps getting more dangerous. With the possibility of more cancer and this COVID-19 pandemic, we must find ways to forget the possibility of our own disappearance from this earth.

I will be looking forward to April, to another CT scan and hopefully a COVID-19 vaccine.

This holiday I have unfortunate news that may turn out to be nothing, but sometimes it's better to keep our loved ones in the dark till we know more.

Cancer and The Christmas Lie

I was attempting not to think about the possibility of more cancer, but a cleaning spree during the pandemic made it hard to ignore.

For two months, I went about my life without my breast prosthesis. I had lost it, and my insurance paid for only one a year. It really didn’t matter, because my special cancer bras had firm cups, and when I wore them, I hardly needed the little prosthesis that fit on the one side of my bra. I looked fine. Plus, this was during the pandemic, and everyone had a pass in the “looks” department. My prosthesis was simply gone, and I thought I’d never find it again.

A key aspect about blogging about your cancer life is that you “sign” an unwritten contract to be honest. For this reason, I am going to admit that I am a cancer survivor slob. I’m messy. So, it will come as no surprise to you that I hadn’t decluttered our bedroom since the pandemic hit. That was in March, in case you forgot. Our bedroom, the one that I share with my dear husband who has suffered through two bouts of my cancer with me, was a bit nest-like. In fact, I liked to call it “the rat’s nest.” Piles of clothes sat on the floor. My sock basket was overflowing with unmatched socks. Good dresses and suits had slipped off the hangers in the closet and were lying on the ground. A pile of magazines lay next to my bed, where I’d tossed each one after I’d finished reading it.

But then, something changed. Recently, I went back to teaching writing at the local university, albeit remotely, and something about that activity interrupted the malaise I’d felt since COVID-19 began. Suddenly, I felt like cleaning. I couldn’t possibly do it in the daytime, so at about 8:30 on a Friday night, I tackled my mess.

In my cleaning that night, I found so many things that I hadn’t seen in six months. I found my burgundy, long-sleeved blouse with the bell sleeves; I found my nightgown that said, “Due to unfortunate circumstances, I am awake.” And, wait for it: I found my breast prosthesis. It was under a pile of clothing next to my dresser.

However, it was hard to ignore the fact that, underneath it, was a bright purple lesion that my oncologist was following. I’d had the ugly spot for two weeks. She wanted me to inform her on Tuesday if it was gone. If it hadn’t disappeared, she was going to biopsy it.

It was probably nothing. I’d had so many false alarms that I was not worried about this one. I felt a bit like a cat with nine lives — a cat in a prosthesis who was hoping she had one or two of those lives left.

One week later, the saga continued: they wanted to biopsy the lesion.

So, the punch biopsy was Thursday, and there were more days of uncertainty ahead.

At that point, I had a couple of stitches in my breast. Those would come out in about a week, but I would learn my fate in the next few days. I was not too stressed, just extra tired. I’d feel much better when I knew definitively that the cancer hadn’t come back.

There was a lot to do to keep my mind off cancer. We celebrated my son’s 16th birthday. I received a set of 38 papers to grade. I taught remote classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, signing on happily, as if nothing was happening. I wondered if I would need to quit teaching if I got cancer again, cancer for the third time.

Can you say “nightmare?” Did I have cancer? Didn’t I have cancer? I couldn’t get through to the people at the breast cancer center to tell me what was going on. It was 10:00 a.m. on the day I expected results, and they were still not picking up their phone. I kept getting their answering service. Finally, an operator took pity on me and transferred me to a secretary who was privy to my information. She checked my file. “No, still in process,” she said. It looked like I had to wait another day.

The next day, I called again and got the answering service. It was 9:10 a.m. But the operator finally figured out the problem. I was calling the answering service phone number, not the number of the cancer center. She gave me the right number, and I quickly dialed it. I reached Karen, the woman with the info. She checked my file again. “Benign,” she said. “It’s a benign inclusion cyst.”

I went thrift shopping to celebrate, picking up a SpongeBob Christmas ornament for my kid and a pair of shoes for my mom. As I was driving home, my oncologist called, all bubbly and happy. “I’ve got good news,” she said. I hated to tell her she was a little late. “It’s a benign inclusion cyst.”

“I talked to Karen a few minutes ago,” I said. “But this is great news!” I was trying to sound as elated as my doctor, but I’d had too many near-cancer misses, and this was just another one to add to my list. “Thanks for letting me know, Mary.”

“We’ll see you soon to remove the stitches,” she said.

For one survivor, finding a lost breast prosthesis coincided with another cancer scare. 

Clearing Away Clutter — and the Fear of Another Cancer

Bad eggs come in all professions, even in the cancer world.

We are all conscious of the good work some cancer doctors, nurses and practitioners do. In fact, most of those in the fight against cancer are on that level of extraordinary. That is why I was taken aback when I encountered one who was not.

It was 2012. I was being treated for my first breast cancer. In total, my treatment plan included chemotherapy, a double mastectomy and radiation. I would also have to take tamoxifen for years after the fact. At the time when I encountered this awful man, I was doing several rounds of radiation.

The person in question was a radiation tech. He was a 40-ish male who would bother me only once, but that was enough.

Radiation was hard on me as it is, I imagine, on most. The skin of my right breast became a brilliant red color and was flaking off, as if I had the worst sunburn imaginable.

One day, as I was getting off the radiation table, the tech smirked while looking at my breast, “Now, you’re nice and crispy,” he said. Then, he chuckled.

The comment stabbed me like a butter knife. What had he just said? Wanting to get away from him, I quickly left the procedure room. While I was getting dressed in my street clothes in the changing room, I contemplated how sadistic he was. He seemed to enjoy causing people pain.

I tried to rationalize for him. Sure, his life was tedious, day after day, working with the public, getting people up on the table, adjusting the radiation equipment and then, pushing the appropriate buttons.What was a little joke?

But it was much more than a joke. It was a comment meant to hurt me.

I just wish I would have had the strength and the wisdom at the time to report the offender.

Unfortunately, cancer strips you of your power. Sometimes all you can do is get from appointment to appointment, from doctor to doctor. You do regain your strength, but it can take years.

Readers, if you encounter mistreatment by your cancer practitioners, do not be afraid to expose them. If they are hurting you, they are probably hurting others.

It is rare that we hear of this kind of harassment from cancer workers. They are mostly a wonderful, caring and selfless group. I celebrate this. For that one bad dude, I had a dozen other impeccable souls who nursed me along and helped me survive the disease. I owe them my life.

It is now 2020. Sometimes, it takes years to unpack the truth. That guy was a tormentor and I was his victim.

If you encounter mistreatment by any of your cancer providers, do not be afraid to expose them. If they are hurting you, they could be hurting others.

Laura Yeager

Waiting For The Lesion To Go Away

Cancer and The Christmas Lie

Clearing Away Clutter — and the Fear of Another Cancer

Cancer Providers Can Be Bad Eggs Too

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