Jenny Short “The perennial Weed”

I always think my story is unremarkable. (Notice the use of the present tense as I like to feel my story is far from over.) I wondered why anyone would want to read an unremarkable story. But then I realise that it is only me who thinks it is unremarkable. Certainly a lot has happened to me over the last three years.

So I will start from the beginning. In 2006, about August, I received a telephone call at school. “Please come in for another mammogram. We have seen something and want to check it out.” I had had three mammograms over the previous three years as part of the Breast Screen Aotearoa Programme, not because I ever believed for a moment that I would be found to have breast cancer, but because my GP has always made it her duty to make sure that I have all the appropriate health checks promptly. So a second mammogram was performed, followed immediately by an ultrasound and core biopsy, then an almost instantaneous visit to a breast surgeon to discuss the diagnosis. The lump was small but very deep on the chest wall. Thank goodness for Breast Screen as I would never have felt a lump. The cancer was assumed to be “early stages” so I was booked in for a lumpectomy. I expected the worst to be over very soon and life to roll on as normal, but the margins were not clear and now a mastectomy was to be “booked”. Now – I was very well “endowed” and had trouble visualising myself with one side of my chest wall concave and the other enormous. I was assured that a significant breast reduction was part of the deal, but at this point I thought that it would be little extra bother to have a bilateral mastectomy. And so it was arranged, with a simultaneous reconstruction thrown in for good measure.

I felt very strangely unfazed by all this melodrama. I had friends who felt I was “in denial” and told me that I should be grieving for myself in some strange way. But then the hospital strikes!! Why oh why does cancer have to be considered to be “elective” surgery which can be cancelled in times of strikes. Waiting can be worse than the operations! You cannot help but wonder what cells may be escaping where.

Node biopsy showed the sentinel node was positive, so all other nodes were removed, but those all turned out to be negative. Another good sign? Maybe the cancer hadn’t travelled anywhere. Again I could believe I would live forever. With the help of some wonderful surgeons and nursing staff, and the caring love and support from family and friends, the operation, recovery and chemotherapy all progressed with far fewer problems than I had expected. Others were hugely concerned but I was still feeling strangely calm and unworried about the whole situation. “You can’t kill weeds” was my common remark to them. I did not feel sick. I felt well and strong and if they would stop feeding me chemicals and cutting bits out of me, I wouldn’t know anything was wrong at all.

Even when I had my first CT scan, prior to chemo, and the oncologist pointed out the “spot” on my liver, I was not worried. He reassured me that it may just be a cyst. Exactly what it was would be known after a second CT scan to be performed after chemo was finished. If it was unchanged after chemo, it would be a cyst or some such. But chemotherapy reduced its size by half, so I was then given the bad news that this was a “treated metastasis”. I was now in the realms of having secondary cancer. Well, if I had been nonchalant up till now, with this news I felt my knees buckle a bit. I wondered if my concerned family ringing from far away could detect the wobble in my voice. No longer did I feel invincible. I now found myself doing some hard thinking about life. Did I have long? How long? All the questions which cannot be answered. . .

I craved for information more than ever but the information trail seems to dry up when one gets to secondary cancer. Is it because there are so many things which cannot be predicted? Or is it because no-one, not even doctors, like to discuss death, feeling that they could damage a patient’s need for “hope”? Even my ‘bible’, Dr Susan Love’s Breast Book, has little to say about secondaries. It is great that there are now sites like this that allow for secondary cancer to be discussed openly and not swept out of sight. I believe we cannot reach acceptance without understanding.

Since that period of shock when I was told I had metastases on the liver, I have once more regained my equilibrium and like to think I live a totally normal life. I often forget that there is anything wrong and consequently can forget medications. (My husband is great at reminding me.) Then someone takes a deep breath and asks nervously about my health, and I have to remember why.

I take a little “magic pill” called Femara (Letrozole) and that has continued to shrink the cancer to the point that it can no longer be seen on a CT scan. I am told that, unfortunately, the cancer cells will one day learn to circumvent the medication and start to grow again. But fortunately, if and when that happens, there are other similar medications which can be tried. Femara is not without its problems. I now take a medication which helps to reduce violent and oh-too-frequent hot flushes I was experiencing because of Femara. Another side-effect is arthralgia. I had not realised how much painful joints had slowed down my ability to move until, after an operation to remove a tumour from my shoulder in March this year, I suddenly felt freedom of joint movement again because of the affect of anaesthetics and pain killers. It was a joy to be able to get out of a chair and start to walk straight away. So now I also take Diclofenac (Voltaren) to keep my joints relatively pain free. Oh – and the expanding belly which other women who take Femara complain of. . . When people ask why don’t I go off that drug when it does all those things to me, I answer, “the alternative is worse”. I am so happy to be alive, even if my joints hurt, I get red and hot all the time and am growing corpulent.

I gave up work to avoid stress and, instead, I enjoy having lots of time with friends and family, meeting with others at BCS, going walking and Nordic Walking at the beach, travelling as much as finances allow, reading, going to movies and, amazing as it is to everyone who knows me, I even enjoy gardening! I am at peace with the fact that my time might be shorter than it might have been otherwise. I revel in a new-found “wisdom” that I wish I had had as a twenty-year-old. I am finally, at the age of 60, “comfortable in my own skin.” And best of all, I know that, if and when things take a turn for the worse, I will be able to cope.

Yours,

The Perennial Weed

Jenny Short “The perennial Weed”

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