Laura Yeager

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.

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.

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

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.

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, and 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, 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.

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

Articles

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.

Cancer Providers Can Be Bad Eggs Too

If you've been reading my blog posts over the past few years, you know that I love the local thrift store. Going to this store is therapy for me. I love sorting through clothing of all colors and sizes, looking for that perfect bargain. I also love the household section of the store, where they sell knickknacks. I was there a few months ago and bought a pretty purple and white, plaid tablecloth and a big ceramic bunny for my kitchen table. It was the middle of March, but as this pandemic was just getting underway, I needed something to brighten my day.

I cleaned the table off and bleached it good. After washing and drying the new tablecloth, I situated it on the table. It fit perfectly. Then, I placed the beige, ceramic rabbit right in the middle. I threw the snowman runner that had been on the table into the wash and put away the snowman statue. Before the snowman statue, there had been a red and green plaid runner and a Lenox Christmas candle. Decorating my kitchen table for the holidays was one of my innocent pleasures.

But what felt better was making a connection with a woman who works at the thrift store, manning the dressing rooms and distributing new (well, used) merchandise. Her name was Barbara, and she was retiring in seven days. I was originally drawn to Barbara because she went through breast cancer around the same time that I did. We both wore scruffy wigs to cover our bald heads during chemo. We both shared our pain and suffering, and then, we both recovered together.

Barbara was one of the most hard-working women I knew. She worked all through her cancer treatments (like I did), and seemed to have never missed a day since. I was glad she'd be done with her work career soon.

When I saw her in March she said, "When I'm retired, you're going to have to come down to my house and sit by my pond with me."

"No, but I'm going to build one. And I'm going to fill it with fish," she said. She then wheeled a clothing cart around and placed a few blouses on a nearby rack. If anyone could build a fish pond, I thought, Barbara could.

I told her that I would love to come sit by her pond and asked her for her address. 

She proceeded to give me directions to her home. A bit confused by the complicated path to her house, I asked her what her phone number was. She gave it to me and then said, "What's your number? I won't answer the phone if I don't recognize the number."

I wrote my number down on a scrap of paper from my purse and handed it to her.

"Great, call me," she said. "The water sounds so pretty dripping from a waterfall; you'll love it."

"I can't think of a better thing to do in your retirement. I will call you," I said.

I've never been in a sorority, but I have to say that having breast cancer has put me in a sort of sorority of women (and a few men) who understand each other, who commiserate with each other, who, by our very circumstances, love each other.

Yes, I plan on sitting by Barbara's pond. And I imagine that they'll eventually be burgers to be barbecued, beer to be consumed and homemade brownies to be devoured. We'll have happy times. Who knows, we may even sing campfire songs around the fire pit.

The thrift store has given me much more than bargains.

Through my experiences there, it's given me the insight to know that cancer survivors should stick together. We are a sorority much tighter, much truer than any Greek one. We are a band of lifelong friends.

Although I was never a member of a sorority in the traditional sense, having breast cancer has put me into a sorority of women (and a few men) and created lifelong freidnships.

Cancer Survivors Belong to Their Own Sorority

The pain was a combination of burning, stinging and stabbing "jolts" in my left breast about every half hour. It started at approximately 4:00 in the afternoon on a Thursday.

Now what? I thought. A two-time cancer patient, whenever I experienced breast distress I always imagined the worst. The pains were strong enough that I cried out every time one came over me.

At about 6:00, I called my doctor and got her answering service. Luckily, they put me through to her.

"I'm having really bad burning, stinging, stabbing breast pain in my left breast, the one that didn't have the cancers."

"Call my secretary tomorrow and make an appointment. I want to see you."

She must have been pretty worried because it was during the COVID-19 pandemic and most of the time, she was simply giving telehealth phone calls.

I went to bed around ten and slept for two hours. I was up at midnight. There it was again— the awful pain.

I considered going to the emergency room. But what would they do for me there? Probably give me an EKG. It wasn't chest pain; it was definitely breast pain. And they'd wake up my oncologist and ask her what to do. I didn't want to wake her up. I also was afraid of contracting COVID-19. Hospitals were germy places, especially at that time.

Not knowing what else to do, I took two Ativan, knowing that would put me back to sleep.

"Does it still hurt?" my mother asked me over the telephone.

At 9:00, I made an appointment to see my doctor at 1:00. I had a couple of mild stings, but gladly, the huge pains seemed to have gone away.

For some reason, I didn't put a bra on but simply dressed in a loose shirt. Soon, I was in her office. Due to the pandemic, I hadn't been in a doctor's office in months. The waiting room was empty. I was glad about that. It seemed I was the only person on the doctor's face-to-face schedule. Consequently, I got right into an exam room. The nurse did the routine, preliminary tests and asked the routine questions. Her big question was "Are you having any pain?"

I told the nurse about the details of the problem.

"O.K.," she said. "The doctor will be right in."

It was so strange to not have to wait for my doctor; in a few seconds, she was there in the examination room.

She got right to examining my left breast. She pushed and prodded the little saggy breast skin I had. There was no implant to deal with. That had been removed last summer.

"I was wearing an extremely tight bra yesterday," I said.

"Yes, it was an old one. I've gained about 15 pounds and it was one that fit two years ago."

"Well, you've got really bad scar tissue from your mastectomy. A tight bra would compress the scar tissue. That's what it was, I think."

"Seriously. That tightness could cause a great deal of pain."

"I'm so glad I didn't end up in Emergency."

What is the upshot of this little tale? Take a lesson from me. If you're a mastectomy survivor, you too may have scar tissue, so avoid tight bras. This might save you a lot of pain and a trip to either the doctor or the hospital.

We're so programmed as cancer patients to suspect the worst. Sometimes, though, the explanation is simpler. 

Breast pain during the pandemic is extra worrisome, but finding an explanation for it is sometimes much simpler.

Author | Laura Yeager

Clearing Away Clutter — and the Fear of Another Cancer

Cancer Providers Can Be Bad Eggs Too

Cancer Survivors Belong to Their Own Sorority

A Series of Unfortunate Breast Events