News Journal reporter Lou Whitmire waits for an appointment with a surgeon last week at the Student Union on the Columbus campus of the Ohio State University. / SUBMITTED PHOTO
- FILED UNDER
- Lifestyle
LOU WHITMIRE
News Journal
News Journal
· FILED UNDER
I have breast cancer. Don't like saying it. Don't like what's ahead.
I had a mammogram this month and the rest is, well, no fun.
A lesson to be learned, do not put it off. I had my last mammogram in 2008 and didn't feel like going until March 15. The surgeon I now see said I probably had this cancer for three to five years. It probably was too small to be detected in 2008.
Assuming the plan works, I will need chemotherapy perhaps once every three weeks, a breast surgery that could be an outpatient surgery and radiation under my left arm. I will have to take a pill for three to five years to make sure it will not come back.
I'm fairly certain I could go into a crowded room and ask people to raise their hand if they know someone with breast cancer and there would be a lot of hands.
We don't have any history of breast cancer in our family, so it caught all of us off guard. My son Al gave me a hug after my biopsy.
I go to an oncologist next. I also get a breast MRI. I get a port, and my first round of chemotherapy is coming soon.
I'll need a wig of course, and have asked my sister Pam to come with me so I don't pick one that makes me look goofy.
While it's hardly something to worry about, hair loss is scaring me as much as anything. The surgeon said I will lose my hair with the second round of chemotherapy.
My life was going so well until my local nurse practitioner called me, explaining there was concern over the mammogram. I was watching the morning news about the earthquake in Japan. I started to cry for the Japanese, then I cried for me.
I am usually very happy.
I was happy because my youngest son Adam came home after a long year in Afghanistan. In January, we met the plane.
Then this.
I was pretty mad and sad at the same time. Fear of the unknown is an awful thing in the middle of the night. But within days I was able to briefly forget my own problems.
While visiting in Mansfield, my son in the Army learned his apartment complex was on fire in Kentucky. He lost everything.
I was more worried about that than myself.
While doing a story about a cat the other night who was stuck up a tree for seven days, my cousin called to say her brother, my cousin Clayton, died of cancer that afternoon. Their sister died recently of an aneurysm.
When the surgeon last week told me the cancer did not spread to major organs, family members let out sighs of relief or cried.
I sat quietly, thinking this is a road I do not wish to travel.
I hope I will be OK. I have lots of plans. I'm only 50.
The surgeon said I am expected to miss little or no work.
That made my day. I love work. I could see light at the end of the tunnel.
I told my husband Gregg I am glad to have it now, versus at age 85.
Who would take care of me then, I asked?
He said at 85, I wouldn't care.
I would like to think I'm not worried, but have begun cleaning the basement and contemplating buying a plot in Bucyrus near my parents' gravesite.
I am a worrier.
I have never broken a bone. I hardly take anything but ibuprofen.
But as things are unfolding I am feeling a bit braver. I'm hoping to live to be 84, as my mother did.
I'm not going to be able to pretend this is OK. I don't like it.
Who would?
lwhitmire@nncogannett.com 419-521-7223
No comments:
Post a Comment