No Time Like the Present

First and foremost, a big congratulations to my precious sister and brother-in-law, Happy and Rob, who tied the knot in one of my favorite cities over the weekend. I am so thrilled for them!!!  More evidence for me that there is no time like the present to do what you want to do and go where your heart leads. Hooray for Hap! (the picture is with their two attendants, Delta and Bosco) 

And in keeping with this train of thought, this was the week that my conversations about chemo moved to the present tense. I met with my oncologist, Nancy Peacock, on Tuesday. I really like her and I think this is going to be important as we go forward with the poisoning part of my cancer treatment. I read somewhere that the treatment for breast cancer is “slash, burn, poison.”  This does not bring to mind sweetness and light does it? More like a scary harsh reality.

I am lucky to skip the burn part, I know, but I’m petrified of the effects of the poison. My answer? Carpe diem. Let’s just get it over with. So, I am. Starting next Wednesday, September 30th, I will receive Taxotere and Cytoxan four times over 12 weeks. And yes, I know what your are wondering. Yes, I will lose my hair. Not to mention all the other fun side effects. But barring infections, illness, or other unforeseen distractions, I will be finished by early December with the poison. 

I am feeling much better, now, from the surgery and am proceeding with the reconstruction phase of treatment. Without burdening you with TMI, I’m visiting my very cute plastic surgeon weekly for a bit to have my expanders gradually filled and stretched in preparation for my final surgery, hopefully in January. Wow! Although that seems like a long way away, 5 or 6 months is really just the blink of an eye in the big picture. I have already started to envision my life when my hair grows back and I am “whole” again. What will that life look like? How will I have changed? What will I have learned? I know some of this will become apparent to me as I continue on this journey.

One question I continue to ask is WHY? Why did this happen to me in the first place? If the medical community has become so good at detecting and “curing” breast cancer why can’t they figure out why 1 in 8 women will get it in their lifetime? And why is that number is growing? I believe that we will get some answers during my lifetime. Not just a cure, but a prevention. Will Susanna be able to simply get a vaccine to avoid this nightmare?  That would be amazing. 

In my recent surfing, and thanks to Facebook, I discovered ArmyofWomen.org. It is a partnership with the Dr. Susan Love Foundation and Avon to sign up a million women to help in breast cancer research. You can join the database and learn about various studies going on that you might qualify for. I love their tag line, “go beyond a cure.” At the end of the day, that’s what it’s really all about.  I encourage you to register as a volunteer, you never know who you might help in the future. 

I remain grateful to all of you who have me in your thoughts and prayers and appreciate  so much you who have reached out by mail, email, text, phone. I am humbled and overwhelmed at your generosity and thoughtfulness. 

So long for now. Talk soon!

Lymph nodes and Mommy Love

So thrilled to report that I just got the word from the pathology lab that the seven (!) sentinel nodes removed during surgery were all clear and benign. This explains why my underarm is so sore ... but is great news! They are still trying to determine the size of the actual tumor, as it was surrounded by a good bit of DCIS (Ductal Carcinoma in Situ), which I understand to be the pre-cursor to invasive carcinoma. Seems the path lab at Vanderbilt is a little busy (darn that Swine Flu), so even though almost two weeks was a while to wait for this news, I”ll take it!

The size of the tumor is important information for my oncologist as we determine my course of chemotherapy. I will let you all know more information as I get it. I will try and post here about once a week. Don’t want to bore you but also it is a good way to get the word out. You can subscribe to this blog by email so you don’t have to come back here to check it. Click through the link at the bottom of the blog and the next screen should have some choices on the right margin. Also, please don’t be shy if you have a thought to share in a comment. Or a topic to recommend. I would love to hear from you and would love to talk about whatever is on your mind. As they say, content is king. (I have now figured out how to set it so that anyone can comment. Hopefully I won't get any spammers or fruitcakes)

I have not said much here yet about the most important people in my life: my kids. I am sure those of you who have been faced with unexpected threats to your time here on earth can relate to this; but when the word cancer enters your life, your kids are the first people you think about. Sure, I felt sorry for myself for a second or two but my cares immediately shifted to my kids. Richard, yes, I worried about him, too. But let’s face it: he’s cute and has an accent and would find someone to drink wine and watch baseball with him if I were gone. He would heal. But the terrifying thought of leaving my kids without a mother reduces me to tears every time. I know you can relate. This is what keeps me up at night. (And thank you, Ambien. See previous post re: the miracle of modern phamacology.)

My mother was, and continues to be, a driving force in my life. I would be a different person if she had not raised me. I thank her for that but I also know it goes so much deeper. She is an inextricable part of me. I want that security and comfort and feeling of unconditional love for my own kids. My grandmother (Who is 90!How lucky am I?) left me a voice mail before my surgery that said, “I love you, Barbara Keith, and I would do anything for you.” I loved that message so much because I knew it was true, and I think it is the ultimate expression of a mother’s love: that we would do anything, anything at all for our children.

The fear of leaving motherless kids seems universal among the friends I talk to who have experienced serious illness. Initially my instinct was to protect my three completely. They were kept in the dark for a good month while Richard and I processed info, visited with doctors and developed the plan. I don’t regret this time we took. I think it was the right thing to do, especially for me because I needed to work through it myself first. They have learned the information slowly, but hopefully honestly and in a way that their variously aged brains can process.

Adriana, our babysitter/nanny and one of the true angels in my life, is training to be a Child Life Specialist and just happens to be reading How to Help Children Through a Parent’s Serious Illness by Kathleen McCue. Divine Intervention? Absolutely. This book came into our house at a perfect time and guided me through separate talks with each of my children at their level. The funniest was with Brown (7), who is going through a stage of typical middle child goofiness. He giggled through the whole “chat” but at one point said “Oh... is that what you have...breast cancer?” Although I had told him these words before, I think he was ready to really hear them. So I went through the age-appropriate thing about how “it’s not contagious, nothing you or I did caused it, etc. I am going to be just fine, so I don’t want you to worry and always talk to me if something’s bothering you.” His response? “Okay mommy,” as he rolled his eyes, giggled and went back to his fruit roll-up. He got up to leave the room, but paused at the door, came back, and gave me a big hug. Must have been his seven-year old way of acknowledging that what I said registered and reassuring me that he was okay. He won’t ever know the magnitude of the message he conveyed through his small gesture of genuine affection, but in that small moment, he told me he’s going to be okay. It is a mommy moment I hope I never, ever forget.

Interval Training

All is well here at Command Central on Chickering Court. As you have heard, my surgery was successful and I was attended to by some incredibly capable doctors and nurses at Vanderbilt. There were, as you can imagine, many nerve-wracking hours leading up to the surgery and frankly, much of it is a blur. I left the hospital 24 hours after my surgery started. Hard to believe, really, but I am so glad to have this first hurdle behind me.

The weekend post-surgery was difficult. It’s good to be at the 8 day mark recovering, not anticipating. I have spent the last few days being waited on hand and foot, every whim fulfilled. Starbucks? Smoothie King? Calypso? My wish is apparently the world’s command. I have been inundated with flowers, food, and words of encouragement, and I am eternally grateful.

There are a few things for which I am especially grateful: One is pain killers. No kidding! How could one have a modicum of sanity or rest without them? Another is the US Open. Perfect timing to have the welcome distraction of all-day fabulous tennis served up (I know...bad pun) with a new DVR in the bedroom. (Note earlier reference of wishes/commands.) What a godsend: Comcast On Demand. Too bad about my gal Melanie Oudin but she will have her moment someday I am sure. And, let me just say a word about my close family and friends. I remain in awe of their many talents: cooking, cleaning, hair styling, joke telling, message taking, errand running, shopping, communicating, PR, marketing, delegating, even blog editing. You get the picture. Most importantly, they have shed tears with me and protected me. Their loyalty and dedication to my comfort and recovery leaves me speechless. I will never be able to repay them.

Many of you know that over this past year I have really tried to get in shape. I’ve worked hard at working out often. Now, the truth is, I don’t like to run. I would really rather pull out my fingernails than get on the treadmill and run for 45 minutes straight. But, I have discovered I do like intervals. I can warm up for 10 minutes and then run ten 3-minute intervals before I cool down for 5 minutes. Those little spurts of speed and shorter challenges are conquerable and give me energy and time to recover for the next challenge. Maybe that is why I like working on commission instead of salary. Well, I take that back. I don’t always like it (and let’s face it, over the last few months it has been downright depressing), but I am more motivated by commission than salary. So, maybe that is a good way for me to view my treatment for breast cancer: I am going to get through this first interval. Surgery and about 4 weeks of recovery. That, I can comprehend.

I’m not ready, however, to think about or discuss the next intervals. Chemo, wigs, and nausea may all have a place in this training program, if you want to call it that, but I’m not going to run this race well if I try to absorb the whole of it in one breath. I know this about myself. I’m learning that too much information can be painful and scary, so I’ll let you know when I’m ready to move on to the next interval. The future can be scary, and I am resolved to just face today bravely, with confidence. I am sure this is a life-lesson from this seemingly random meaninglessness of cancer.

And so, some celebrating is in order. I hope you will toast me and my success and may I suggest where you might procure the toasting beverage of your choice? The Wine Chap, of course! (Remember, I promised plenty of shameless self-promotion along with updates on me. Would so hate to disappoint!)

That’s it for now. Thanks for tuning in!

BK

good news

This is just a quick note to tell everyone that the surgery was a great success.
The initial pathology shows the lymph nodes to be clear which is great news. Barbara keith should be home Friday pm.

Thanks to everyone for their good wishes. It is very comforting to know she was in so many peoples thoughts.

I can assure you BK will be writing a lot more soon!!!

Thanks again

Richard

Gratitude and Attitude: What One Woman is Packing for Her Quick Trip Through Cancerville.

Hello. Welcome to my blog. I’m new to this, so bear with me. I’m Barbara Keith. Not Barbara. BK to my friends. And yes I do go by both names. And here’s the deal: I have breast cancer. I am healthy. I am invincible. I am 42. (Just barely, by the way.) And yes, cancer stinks. (Plenty of you can attest to that.) And no one has been more shocked than I was just a few weeks ago to hear the news.
I have been thinking over this entry for a couple of weeks. I hope I can say what I need and want to say, and not bring you down or wear you out. I think you are probably reading this because you know me. You may know me really well, or just a little, or maybe you know somebody who knows me. That’s cool. I am glad you are here. Those of you who know me well know I am not shy. I don’t mind being center of attention and I am not a super private person, but going public and “putting it out there” about all this has been particularly hard. Moving out of Healthyville is a BIG leap. I have always lived there and never even been on a vacation to Cancerville. Now I am taking up residence, temporarily.

Here are the facts for those who are interested: I have a 1.8 cm. tumor surrounded by 2 cm of calcifications. It was discovered in a routine mammogram. And yes, I can feel it (and so have many many doctors in Nashville). But no, I didn’t know what I was looking for so I did not “palpate” it before I knew it was there. I have no family history of breast cancer whatsoever. If you know cancer-speak, my cancer is hormone positive and Her2Neu negative. This is good. Right now my cancer is being called a Stage 1. This could change once the pathology comes back after surgery. Hopefully it won’t. I will probably have chemo just because I have a borderline “intermediate” vs. “low” grade tumor. I am having a bilateral mastectomy by Dr. Ingrid Meszoely of the Vanderbilt Breast Center and reconstruction by Dr. Jason Wendel. Surgery is Thursday, September 3rd. Scary stuff, but these are the professionals and this is not their first rodeo. I have confidence in them and my case is straight forward. One nurse called it “generic” breast cancer. Love that. Never thought I was someone who wanted to be average...until now. And this is also a fact: I will be fine. I will be cured, and I will die of something besides breast cancer a very long time from now.

So what about the rest of it? How I am going to get from here to there? How did I get here in the first place? There is so much to say. This is, and will continue to be, my story. And I hope my story will help someone else who has to cope with this insidious disease.

I thought I had problems, issues, and “stuff” before that fateful Friday afternoon in July sitting with a radiologist who said, “You have a very worrying mass.” WHAT? Wait. Back up! Some of you know what it feels like to hear news like that. (I hope the rest of you never do.) You’re overwhelmed by this sudden urge to travel back in time and take back all the complaints and whining. You find yourself asking why all those small things (i.e. your formerly unblemished, perfect health record) went unappreciated? Fast forward through the next couple of weeks. It all seems like a blur now, but I can tell you those were the longest two weeks in history. There was a biopsy. There was an MRI. Then there was telling my parents. That was hard. Really hard. They would trade places with me in two seconds flat. I knew that before I told them, because it’s exactly what I would do for my own children if tables were turned, if I could.

And there is saintly Richard. I am deeply loved by Richard. He has been to every appointment (we have seen no fewer than 8 doctors), and he listens patiently to all of the ranting and raving and crying that punctuates his already-stressful 60 hour work weeks. We are grieving for the life we had, but we know, also, that we are lucky.

And then there are my friends, family, and frankly, even my acquaintances. The messages, the voice mails, the emails, the offers of help and comfort are simply overwhelming. It is humbling in a way that only people who have experienced this or something similar can understand. I will never be able to say thank you enough. The word gratitude has a taken on whole new dimension for me. Oprah is big on it, and now I know why: it fills up the hole created by uncertainty and waiting and an unknown future. So thanks. That’s all I can say.

I will try and post updates after Thursday in a timely manner. Feel free to post a comment or shoot me an email. I hope I will have enough to say to make this interesting reading.

That’s all I’ve got for now. All of you who follow along with me on this detour through Cancerville, thanks. It’s good to have you along for the ride.

BK

P.S. And if you’re going to follow my blog, beware of shameless plugs for the Wine Chap. Business is going well thanks to all of you but the season (the holiday season that is) will be here before we know it, and we hope you will toast it with delicious beverages from The Wine Chap! And don’t forget to tell your friends, too.

pps Thanks to a clever friend for the title of this entry. I cannot take credit!