Breast cancer? Me? A personal account of my diagnosis and treatment (With Video)
To say that 2011 has been a year of great change for me is a bit of an understatement. As I write this article, I have just finished the last of seven straight weeks of daily radiation therapy for breast cancer.
It all began during a routine checkup in March. I told my gynecologist, Samantha Pfeifer of Penn Medicine, that I had found a lump. You should understand that, for me, lumps are not very unusual. As she felt my left breast, a look came over her face. “I’m sending you to a breast surgeon. If I miss something I would never forgive myself,” she said.
I think in my heart of hearts I already knew what the result would be, and during the late afternoon of April 28 – just as my high school reunion from Shipley was about to begin – I received news no woman wants to hear: “You have breast cancer.” Invasive, lobular breast cancer to be precise. The room swirled for a moment. It was a total out-of-body, this-can’t-be-happening moment.
The first phone call I made was to my boyfriend. I just blurted out the news. I needed to know if he could handle this. He told me we would get through it together. Then one by one, I told my family and close friends. I hated making those calls.
I spent a few of those early days in front of a mirror, trying to come to terms with how I looked at that moment, and how I might look after (depending on the size of the mass and the margins that needed to come out around it). I also made my peace with the possibility of losing the entire breast. That was a really hard and weird place to go, but I had to do it. I stood in front of the mirror and covered up one breast. That was when it really hit me: breast cancer hits the core of femininity in every woman it touches.
I also made a major decision: I would be open and positive about my disease – but not so positive as to sound like an over-medicated Hallmark card. Already a blogger, I started a new blog (http://ihavebreastcancerblog.wordpress.com) that would chronicle this chapter in my life. My original goal was selfish: blogging would be therapeutic; writing has always been carthartic for me.
But my blog soon evolved into a place for others. First it became a gathering place for my family and friends, a site they could visit for information and for reassurance that I wasn’t contemplating walking off a ledge somewhere.
Then, remarkably, it became a place for strangers. My blog isn’t advertised yet people from all over the country – breast cancer patients and survivors I have never met – have become readers. It is awe-inspiring and comforting at the same time to connect with women who just get it. Because some days you just need that “yeah I know.” Because they really do know.
I had my surgery on June 1st. Much of that morning was a blur but I do remember that my surgeon, Dr. Dahlia Sataloff at Pennsylvania Hospital, was in complete control – and was wearing Dansko clogs I loved (patent leather leopard print). I couldn’t remember what they told me about how much of my breast had been removed, but I remembered what my surgeon was wearing and that I had had an almost exclusively female surgical team.
I had a lumpectomy – also known as a partial mastectomy – that morning. I went home later that day wrapped up like a gauze mummy. The hardest part was having to go to my local drug store pick up my pain medication. I stood in front of four people behind the counter not waiting on people for twenty minutes before I finally asked if they noticed the woman just out of surgery standing in front of them. I think my anger was the only thing keeping me on my feet.
The initial news after surgery was good: I had clean surgical margins and no lymph node involvement. It was Stage 2. A few weeks later, I received my Oncotype score, which measures the probability of recurrence. It was on the low end of the scale so I wouldn’t lose my hair to chemotherapy. I would, however, have to have radiation five times a week for seven weeks – 35 treatments in all – followed by five years on the drug, Tamoxifen.
Dr. Marisa Weiss and her team at Lankenau Hospital would handle my radiation treatments. Founder of the Ardmore-based non-profit, BreastCancer.org, Dr. Weiss is an energetic advocate for educating women about breast health. She gives breast cancer survivors – and women who want to be proactive about their breast health – a path to follow that is understandable, livable and empowering.
Radiation, although easier then chemotherapy, was rough. Not only are you incredibly tired all the time, but you also have to live with perpetual sunburn that really, really hurts. Because my skin is sensitive, I’ve also had to put up with what can only be described as radiation rash and patches of degraded skin. Sharp, shooting pains running through the surgical site periodically as internal stiches continue to work their way out. Some days I was so tired that all wanted to do is sleep, but I couldn’t. Still, every day of radiation brought me one step closer to the end of that phase of my treatment.
These last few months have taught me a lot about myself. I’ve learned that I‘m much tougher than I thought and that I’ve been blessed. Not only do I have a supportive family and boyfriend, but I also have the most amazing friends in the world. Early on they decided I would never go to a radiation treatment or a doctor’s appointment alone so a friend from high school created a rotating chauffeur schedule, better known as the “Driving Miss Daisy List.”
Far away friends and non-drivers have been supportive in other ways. They have kept me going through every single day of this. I will never be able to repay the debt I owe them.
On September 13, a sunny Tuesday morning, I finished my radiation. I was overcome with emotion all morning but did my actual crying in the treatment room when it was over – bittersweet tears of happiness, relief and gratitude. I knew I’d never forget the awesome team of technicians and nurses at Lankenau.
A slew of my Driving Miss Daisy pals and my mother, along with a dear male friend (who braved the gal gauntlet) had gathered in the waiting room. When it was all over and I rang the special bell signifying the end of treatment, they cheered. A hospital administrator chided us for being too loud.
At the end of the day I am alive with a terrific prognosis for a long and happy life. I am one of the lucky ones.
I’m now part of the sisterhood – women of different races, ethnicities, ages, sizes and shapes –forever bound together by this disease.
Breast cancer is so much more than pink rubber bracelets. It has challenged the very core of my femininity and changed my life forever. I now proudly call myself a survivor, even if it was a heck of a way to spend a summer.
Haverford resident Carla J. Zambelli is a blogger, publicist, free-lance writer, photographer and community activist.
It all began during a routine checkup in March. I told my gynecologist, Samantha Pfeifer of Penn Medicine, that I had found a lump. You should understand that, for me, lumps are not very unusual. As she felt my left breast, a look came over her face. “I’m sending you to a breast surgeon. If I miss something I would never forgive myself,” she said.
I think in my heart of hearts I already knew what the result would be, and during the late afternoon of April 28 – just as my high school reunion from Shipley was about to begin – I received news no woman wants to hear: “You have breast cancer.” Invasive, lobular breast cancer to be precise. The room swirled for a moment. It was a total out-of-body, this-can’t-be-happening moment.
The first phone call I made was to my boyfriend. I just blurted out the news. I needed to know if he could handle this. He told me we would get through it together. Then one by one, I told my family and close friends. I hated making those calls.
I spent a few of those early days in front of a mirror, trying to come to terms with how I looked at that moment, and how I might look after (depending on the size of the mass and the margins that needed to come out around it). I also made my peace with the possibility of losing the entire breast. That was a really hard and weird place to go, but I had to do it. I stood in front of the mirror and covered up one breast. That was when it really hit me: breast cancer hits the core of femininity in every woman it touches.
I also made a major decision: I would be open and positive about my disease – but not so positive as to sound like an over-medicated Hallmark card. Already a blogger, I started a new blog (http://ihavebreastcancerblog.wordpress.com) that would chronicle this chapter in my life. My original goal was selfish: blogging would be therapeutic; writing has always been carthartic for me.
But my blog soon evolved into a place for others. First it became a gathering place for my family and friends, a site they could visit for information and for reassurance that I wasn’t contemplating walking off a ledge somewhere.
Then, remarkably, it became a place for strangers. My blog isn’t advertised yet people from all over the country – breast cancer patients and survivors I have never met – have become readers. It is awe-inspiring and comforting at the same time to connect with women who just get it. Because some days you just need that “yeah I know.” Because they really do know.
I had my surgery on June 1st. Much of that morning was a blur but I do remember that my surgeon, Dr. Dahlia Sataloff at Pennsylvania Hospital, was in complete control – and was wearing Dansko clogs I loved (patent leather leopard print). I couldn’t remember what they told me about how much of my breast had been removed, but I remembered what my surgeon was wearing and that I had had an almost exclusively female surgical team.
I had a lumpectomy – also known as a partial mastectomy – that morning. I went home later that day wrapped up like a gauze mummy. The hardest part was having to go to my local drug store pick up my pain medication. I stood in front of four people behind the counter not waiting on people for twenty minutes before I finally asked if they noticed the woman just out of surgery standing in front of them. I think my anger was the only thing keeping me on my feet.
The initial news after surgery was good: I had clean surgical margins and no lymph node involvement. It was Stage 2. A few weeks later, I received my Oncotype score, which measures the probability of recurrence. It was on the low end of the scale so I wouldn’t lose my hair to chemotherapy. I would, however, have to have radiation five times a week for seven weeks – 35 treatments in all – followed by five years on the drug, Tamoxifen.
Dr. Marisa Weiss and her team at Lankenau Hospital would handle my radiation treatments. Founder of the Ardmore-based non-profit, BreastCancer.org, Dr. Weiss is an energetic advocate for educating women about breast health. She gives breast cancer survivors – and women who want to be proactive about their breast health – a path to follow that is understandable, livable and empowering.
Radiation, although easier then chemotherapy, was rough. Not only are you incredibly tired all the time, but you also have to live with perpetual sunburn that really, really hurts. Because my skin is sensitive, I’ve also had to put up with what can only be described as radiation rash and patches of degraded skin. Sharp, shooting pains running through the surgical site periodically as internal stiches continue to work their way out. Some days I was so tired that all wanted to do is sleep, but I couldn’t. Still, every day of radiation brought me one step closer to the end of that phase of my treatment.
These last few months have taught me a lot about myself. I’ve learned that I‘m much tougher than I thought and that I’ve been blessed. Not only do I have a supportive family and boyfriend, but I also have the most amazing friends in the world. Early on they decided I would never go to a radiation treatment or a doctor’s appointment alone so a friend from high school created a rotating chauffeur schedule, better known as the “Driving Miss Daisy List.”
Far away friends and non-drivers have been supportive in other ways. They have kept me going through every single day of this. I will never be able to repay the debt I owe them.
On September 13, a sunny Tuesday morning, I finished my radiation. I was overcome with emotion all morning but did my actual crying in the treatment room when it was over – bittersweet tears of happiness, relief and gratitude. I knew I’d never forget the awesome team of technicians and nurses at Lankenau.
A slew of my Driving Miss Daisy pals and my mother, along with a dear male friend (who braved the gal gauntlet) had gathered in the waiting room. When it was all over and I rang the special bell signifying the end of treatment, they cheered. A hospital administrator chided us for being too loud.
At the end of the day I am alive with a terrific prognosis for a long and happy life. I am one of the lucky ones.
I’m now part of the sisterhood – women of different races, ethnicities, ages, sizes and shapes –forever bound together by this disease.
Breast cancer is so much more than pink rubber bracelets. It has challenged the very core of my femininity and changed my life forever. I now proudly call myself a survivor, even if it was a heck of a way to spend a summer.
Haverford resident Carla J. Zambelli is a blogger, publicist, free-lance writer, photographer and community activist.
http://www.delcotimes.com/articles/2011/09/19/life/doc4e7767c059090646611552.txt?viewmode=fullstory
Haverford resident Carla J. Zambelli is a blogger, publicist, free-lance writer, photographer and community activist.
Haverford resident Carla J. Zambelli is a blogger, publicist, free-lance writer, photographer and community activist.
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