If our dreams define the inner workings of our minds, mine is on some crazy trip. I didn't sleep well Friday night because I thought I'd try to do without my Lorazepam. Apparently that tiny, white pill works wonders to quell the thoughts of my inner mind because I rarely remember my dreams and I tend to sleep quite peacefully through the night.
But I didn't take it and my mind went on overload. I can't remember all the dreams, but the most vivid - because it was right before I woke up at 4:48 a.m. - was about hiding in a locker. I was wandering in a room full of lockers looking for something or someone. I had a partner somewhere in the room too, who was on the same mission as I.
At the beginning of the dream, the room was quite empty, but as time went on, more and more people were walking around. Suddenly someone pulled a gun and I hid in one of the lockers. I remember thinking that I'd be pretty safe there, even if someone started searching, because I could hold the door closed. Then I woke up.
So my dream interpreter friends, what do you think that all means? I'm looking for my health and I have a partner (Michael? my doctor?) who is on the same quest? The people around me (helpful or dangerous? health care professionals? other cancer survivors?) are growing all the time? But all of a sudden there is danger (the gun), so I hide and feel quite secure?
Am I hiding from my feelings, from the reality of danger? Do I feel unrealistically safe in my little cubby-hole of a locker? Or am I really safe, dodging the (cancer) bullet?
I think one of the people in the room was a mother, who was looking for her son. Now what was that all about?
And in an earlier dream, I was returning to my in-laws house (but they had a completely different house and it felt like a different era - like the 1970s) to retrieve an answering machine (perhaps I'm afraid of missing some important news) and a loaf of bread so I could make sandwiches for my kids' lunches (ever the provider mom). I'd forgotten these items because my mother-in-law was on the phone. Hunh.
I don't usually put a lot of stock in dream analysis, but I do think our dreams can take our fears, hopes, thoughts, worries, etc. and manifest them into some strange little movies that play while we're asleep.
I welcome your interpretations.
Tina
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Redefining healthy
In the last chapter of Kris Carr's Crazy Sexy Cancer Survivor she says, "Everybody wants the (cancer) journey to be over and to get their lives back." This really hit home for me, especially since my last CT scan indicates I don't have a clear abdomen.
Yes, I agree it would be idyllic to return to a time and place untouched by cancer, and forget the very real reminder that I'm only on this earth for a finite period of time and will one day leave all those I love so much. It would be great to return to when I felt in control of my body and not betrayed by it. And to once again be someone who only saw the doctor for a yearly check up, and didn't worry about things like disability and not qualifying for life insurance.
But there's no way to go back to my old life. My perceptions, thoughts, feelings, and priorities have changed as I travel along on this journey. How insurance companies, doctors and some others view me has also changed - not always for the better.
But I did expect to completely beat the cancer and be in remission (no signs of cancer left in my body). I can't say that because I don't know for sure. Yes, those crazy, grey dots on my CT scan may be scar tissue or just plains cysts, but they could also be signs of cancer.
Carr often gets asked if she's in remission yet, if she's beaten the cancer, and she feels the pressure. "At first that dreaded question took the wind out of my sails . . . as if I were being quizzed on my net worth or, worse, my weight. But on a deeper level, I was just ashamed to admit that I hadn't kicked it yet."
When I read that paragraph, I noddled my head in acknowledgement because that's exactly how I feel - and I am often the one asking the question! Kris has cancer (the big C) and it's chronic (the little C). Unfortunately, ovarian cancer is also often treated like a chronic disease.
Now, I know what you're saying. Wow, has she rolled over and given up? NO! I still pray those little, grey dots are false alarms and that I've kicked ovarian cancer's butt. And I'll continue to fight. But I'm opening myself up to the potential reality that I may have to live with this disease. Not that I want to live with it! But I can't stop living, even if I haven't beaten cancer (or until I do).
Kris says we have to redefine healthy. It doesn't necessarily mean being cancer or disease free because in this day and age, many people have some type of illness or disease. It means living the richest life I can with what I've been given. It means filling my body with good fuel, treating myself with kindness, getting closer to God, appreciating my friends and family, and being the best me I can be.
As Carr says, we'll be healthier, even if we aren't cured.
"Nothing is guaranteed. If I could guarantee that juice and a positive attitude would cure you, I'd be a zillionaire. But I can't. What I can promise is that you will grow and create peace. Quality is far more important than quantity. When I stopped focusing on being cured I started healing and living in a ginormous way."
Constantly worrying about being cured isn't healthy and it isn't living. That's why I've tried to stop thinking about what my innards are doing and focus on what I'm doing to make the most of my life.
Tina
Yes, I agree it would be idyllic to return to a time and place untouched by cancer, and forget the very real reminder that I'm only on this earth for a finite period of time and will one day leave all those I love so much. It would be great to return to when I felt in control of my body and not betrayed by it. And to once again be someone who only saw the doctor for a yearly check up, and didn't worry about things like disability and not qualifying for life insurance.
But there's no way to go back to my old life. My perceptions, thoughts, feelings, and priorities have changed as I travel along on this journey. How insurance companies, doctors and some others view me has also changed - not always for the better.
But I did expect to completely beat the cancer and be in remission (no signs of cancer left in my body). I can't say that because I don't know for sure. Yes, those crazy, grey dots on my CT scan may be scar tissue or just plains cysts, but they could also be signs of cancer.
Carr often gets asked if she's in remission yet, if she's beaten the cancer, and she feels the pressure. "At first that dreaded question took the wind out of my sails . . . as if I were being quizzed on my net worth or, worse, my weight. But on a deeper level, I was just ashamed to admit that I hadn't kicked it yet."
When I read that paragraph, I noddled my head in acknowledgement because that's exactly how I feel - and I am often the one asking the question! Kris has cancer (the big C) and it's chronic (the little C). Unfortunately, ovarian cancer is also often treated like a chronic disease.
Now, I know what you're saying. Wow, has she rolled over and given up? NO! I still pray those little, grey dots are false alarms and that I've kicked ovarian cancer's butt. And I'll continue to fight. But I'm opening myself up to the potential reality that I may have to live with this disease. Not that I want to live with it! But I can't stop living, even if I haven't beaten cancer (or until I do).
Kris says we have to redefine healthy. It doesn't necessarily mean being cancer or disease free because in this day and age, many people have some type of illness or disease. It means living the richest life I can with what I've been given. It means filling my body with good fuel, treating myself with kindness, getting closer to God, appreciating my friends and family, and being the best me I can be.
As Carr says, we'll be healthier, even if we aren't cured.
"Nothing is guaranteed. If I could guarantee that juice and a positive attitude would cure you, I'd be a zillionaire. But I can't. What I can promise is that you will grow and create peace. Quality is far more important than quantity. When I stopped focusing on being cured I started healing and living in a ginormous way."
Constantly worrying about being cured isn't healthy and it isn't living. That's why I've tried to stop thinking about what my innards are doing and focus on what I'm doing to make the most of my life.
Tina
Friday, November 6, 2009
A new attitude - work version
It's all official, sanctioned by Human Resources, Health Services, the rehab consultant, the disability office and my department. I start my gradual return to work on Monday morning for three hours a day, three days a week. I'm looking forward to going back, being with people again and building some normalcy back into my life.
I'm also nervous about getting tired, dealing with my up and down emotions at work and getting sucked back into expectations - although I know very well they're my unrealistic expectations and not anyone else's. I can be a mean taskmaster sometimes, cracking that whip and screeching more, quicker, better!
Colleen, my wonderful boss, warned she's going to keep her eye on me so I don't overdo it and work only the hours approved in the plan. She didn't want to give me my laptop yesterday either. I think she was thinking of the old Tina, who would have felt compelled to log on this weekend if only to clean out emails or get it prepped for Monday. But I actually didn't even want it. Monday is soon enough for me. There will be plenty of time to work on all that stuff when I return to work.
Mentally, I have no intention of reverting to my previous ways, but old habits die hard. I'll have to be vigilent to slow down and be realistic with my expectations. To keep the quality, yet not the quantity.
I've always said, I work to live, not live to work. But I think I only halfheartedly lived up to that mantra and ran around like a chicken with my head cut off. Colleagues could identify my presence by the way I race-walked through the department. I always had a mission and had to get it done - now! To be honest, being very busy made me feel important and as if I were contributing.
These seven months off (as if it were a vacation!) demonstrated, while I really like my job and want to do it well, it can sometimes be a life-sucking force instead of a life-giving one. But I don't think it has to be that way. I think it depends on choice, pace, attitude and gratitude.
My social worker recently asked me if I'd thought about doing something different with my career now that I'd been through the cancer fight and its mind-altering effects. Happily, the answer was no. I like my job and love the people with whom I work.
So now I'll focus on easing back into work and incorporating (and living by) my new attitude. Life has taught me some valuable lessons and it's time to work them into portions of my old life to make the new one even better.
Wish me luck.
Tina
I'm also nervous about getting tired, dealing with my up and down emotions at work and getting sucked back into expectations - although I know very well they're my unrealistic expectations and not anyone else's. I can be a mean taskmaster sometimes, cracking that whip and screeching more, quicker, better!
Colleen, my wonderful boss, warned she's going to keep her eye on me so I don't overdo it and work only the hours approved in the plan. She didn't want to give me my laptop yesterday either. I think she was thinking of the old Tina, who would have felt compelled to log on this weekend if only to clean out emails or get it prepped for Monday. But I actually didn't even want it. Monday is soon enough for me. There will be plenty of time to work on all that stuff when I return to work.
Mentally, I have no intention of reverting to my previous ways, but old habits die hard. I'll have to be vigilent to slow down and be realistic with my expectations. To keep the quality, yet not the quantity.
I've always said, I work to live, not live to work. But I think I only halfheartedly lived up to that mantra and ran around like a chicken with my head cut off. Colleagues could identify my presence by the way I race-walked through the department. I always had a mission and had to get it done - now! To be honest, being very busy made me feel important and as if I were contributing.
These seven months off (as if it were a vacation!) demonstrated, while I really like my job and want to do it well, it can sometimes be a life-sucking force instead of a life-giving one. But I don't think it has to be that way. I think it depends on choice, pace, attitude and gratitude.
My social worker recently asked me if I'd thought about doing something different with my career now that I'd been through the cancer fight and its mind-altering effects. Happily, the answer was no. I like my job and love the people with whom I work.
So now I'll focus on easing back into work and incorporating (and living by) my new attitude. Life has taught me some valuable lessons and it's time to work them into portions of my old life to make the new one even better.
Wish me luck.
Tina
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Mother of a 12-year-old
At 9:45 last night, I officially became the mother of a 12-year-old. It used to make me feel old, but now it makes me feel thankful I've seen another of my precious son's birthdays.
On Nov. 3 every year, I remember the events of the day of his birth. Michael had just left for work when I experienced the signs I was going into labour. I happily waddled into his nursery to unpack the last few gifts and ensure all was in its place for his arrival.
But it wasn't all sunshine and roses on Nov. 3, 1997. At the hospital that afternoon, after the nurses took my blood pressure and a blood sample, my doctor broke the scary news that I had HELLP syndrome, a life-threatening obstetric complication, thought to be associated with pre-eclampsia. As a result, I had high blood pressure, my liver wasn't functioning properly and my platlet count was low.
The cure - an emergency C-section so I didn't get worse and go into seizures, bleed out or experience any of the other horrifying and deadly possibilities. I couldn't have an epidural to experience the birth of my first child because I could bleed out through my spine. So they completely prepped me for emergency surgery, including swabbing my abdomen with the antibiotic, so they could cut immediately after I was out.
I remember waking from the anaesthesia and Michael telling me it was a boy. I said, "Of course." But I wasn't properly awake and didn't really see him until the next morning. He was (and still is) beautiful - and healthy.
Me, on the other hand, went downhill with jaundice and lethargy the afternoon of Nov. 4. I spent three days in recovery before I was out of the woods and able to go to a regular hospital room. Once there, I recovered rapidly and relished the time with my new son (poor boy had to stay in the nursery because I wasn't healthy enough to care for him).
I almost died giving birth to Noah. But here I am, thankful for my wonderful, exasperating, caring, confrontational, imaginative, crazy, funny little boy (although I'm sure he'd hate for me to call him little). He's a tween who is almost as tall as me and changes weekly. He and I have a special bond, which I hope continues as he grows.
I sometimes worry that cancer will take me from my babies and they'll have to continue to grow up without me. Michael and Noah are so much alike, they butt heads a lot, which worries me. But somehow I can communicate with Noah, so I feel he needs me, especially because of his bipolar disorder. My mom job isn't done yet. Surely, I can't be forced to leave before it's complete.
Here's hoping I get to experience many, many more of Noah's birthdays (and perhaps even his children's birthdays).
Tina
On Nov. 3 every year, I remember the events of the day of his birth. Michael had just left for work when I experienced the signs I was going into labour. I happily waddled into his nursery to unpack the last few gifts and ensure all was in its place for his arrival.
But it wasn't all sunshine and roses on Nov. 3, 1997. At the hospital that afternoon, after the nurses took my blood pressure and a blood sample, my doctor broke the scary news that I had HELLP syndrome, a life-threatening obstetric complication, thought to be associated with pre-eclampsia. As a result, I had high blood pressure, my liver wasn't functioning properly and my platlet count was low.
The cure - an emergency C-section so I didn't get worse and go into seizures, bleed out or experience any of the other horrifying and deadly possibilities. I couldn't have an epidural to experience the birth of my first child because I could bleed out through my spine. So they completely prepped me for emergency surgery, including swabbing my abdomen with the antibiotic, so they could cut immediately after I was out.
I remember waking from the anaesthesia and Michael telling me it was a boy. I said, "Of course." But I wasn't properly awake and didn't really see him until the next morning. He was (and still is) beautiful - and healthy.
Me, on the other hand, went downhill with jaundice and lethargy the afternoon of Nov. 4. I spent three days in recovery before I was out of the woods and able to go to a regular hospital room. Once there, I recovered rapidly and relished the time with my new son (poor boy had to stay in the nursery because I wasn't healthy enough to care for him).
I almost died giving birth to Noah. But here I am, thankful for my wonderful, exasperating, caring, confrontational, imaginative, crazy, funny little boy (although I'm sure he'd hate for me to call him little). He's a tween who is almost as tall as me and changes weekly. He and I have a special bond, which I hope continues as he grows.
I sometimes worry that cancer will take me from my babies and they'll have to continue to grow up without me. Michael and Noah are so much alike, they butt heads a lot, which worries me. But somehow I can communicate with Noah, so I feel he needs me, especially because of his bipolar disorder. My mom job isn't done yet. Surely, I can't be forced to leave before it's complete.
Here's hoping I get to experience many, many more of Noah's birthdays (and perhaps even his children's birthdays).
Tina
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Bittersweet
I went into work yesterday to prep my cube for my return next week. But I have to say, it was a bit bittersweet.
It was wonderful to see some of my work friends. Tears welled in my eyes several times because I received such a warm welcome and unconditional understanding. I got lots of big hugs and I saw some people I haven't seen since I left work.
But when I was alone and started to clean my cube, a weird feeling washed over me. I nostalgically remembered my B.C. (before cancer) life where I blindly carried on thinking I was almost invincible. I donned a superwoman cape back then. Too bad, tumours hid in its folds.
I had a weird sensation in my stomach when I washed down the phone on which I received the call telling me I had cancer. I sighed with dissapointment when I noticed my calendar was still on April. Dissapointment that I dramatically dissapeared from life as I knew it in mid-April, and I reflected on the hard fight those unflipped months entailed.
I felt a little sadness that I'd lost my B.C. life - when cancer didn't touch my body and soul. For a time when my biggest worry was whether Noah would be suspended from school. A time when I was fit and didn't have a gigantic scar or cringe at every twinge in my abdomen. When I didn't have to worry about a life-threatening illness coming back to wreak havoc with my life and family.
But the good of the visit outweiged the bad because, while I temporarily focused on B.C., I quickly moved back to reality. I'm blessed to have many wonderful, understanding people in my work life who, I have no doubt, will help me ease back in and will accept the new work Tina - a person who goes slower and reflects more than the speed-walking, stress-induced, deadline-driven, Type A individual I used to be. While I'll still care about doing a quality job, I won't take on more than I can handle and I'll carve time out to enjoy each day.
I long for my B.C. life, but I'd want it with all the valuable insights my fight with cancer has given me. Yes, I want my cake and eat it too.
Talking to people yesterday, I realized, I've truly put my cancer in God's hands and am ready to move on. I really mean it when I say I'll see what the CT scan says in three months and deal with it then. I want to live my life as normally as possible until I have to change it.
I know people are sympathetic to the bad news. I saw it in people's eyes yesterday. Please don't feel sorry for me. Feel sorry with me and listen to me rage or cry when the roller coaster dips down, but help me celebrate life every day. I'm going to try avoid wasting too much time feeling sad because I want my life (however long I have - hopefully many, many, many years) to be happy.
Tina
P.S. Oh, in follow up to yesterday's blog, I went bald (which isn't exactly true as I do have very, very short hair) yesterday. I took off my hat when I got hot cleaning my cube and then ran around without it. I even went to the cafeteria sans head covering. It felt weird and I was a bit nervous, but all was fine.
I didn't even get very many stares, which is typical out in public. So I think that's what I'll do at work. But I will have to wear a hat or toque outside as my poor, baldish head gets cold. Brrrr.
Thanks everyone for being supportive and for the compliments on my very short hairstyle. ;)
It was wonderful to see some of my work friends. Tears welled in my eyes several times because I received such a warm welcome and unconditional understanding. I got lots of big hugs and I saw some people I haven't seen since I left work.
But when I was alone and started to clean my cube, a weird feeling washed over me. I nostalgically remembered my B.C. (before cancer) life where I blindly carried on thinking I was almost invincible. I donned a superwoman cape back then. Too bad, tumours hid in its folds.
I had a weird sensation in my stomach when I washed down the phone on which I received the call telling me I had cancer. I sighed with dissapointment when I noticed my calendar was still on April. Dissapointment that I dramatically dissapeared from life as I knew it in mid-April, and I reflected on the hard fight those unflipped months entailed.
I felt a little sadness that I'd lost my B.C. life - when cancer didn't touch my body and soul. For a time when my biggest worry was whether Noah would be suspended from school. A time when I was fit and didn't have a gigantic scar or cringe at every twinge in my abdomen. When I didn't have to worry about a life-threatening illness coming back to wreak havoc with my life and family.
But the good of the visit outweiged the bad because, while I temporarily focused on B.C., I quickly moved back to reality. I'm blessed to have many wonderful, understanding people in my work life who, I have no doubt, will help me ease back in and will accept the new work Tina - a person who goes slower and reflects more than the speed-walking, stress-induced, deadline-driven, Type A individual I used to be. While I'll still care about doing a quality job, I won't take on more than I can handle and I'll carve time out to enjoy each day.
I long for my B.C. life, but I'd want it with all the valuable insights my fight with cancer has given me. Yes, I want my cake and eat it too.
Talking to people yesterday, I realized, I've truly put my cancer in God's hands and am ready to move on. I really mean it when I say I'll see what the CT scan says in three months and deal with it then. I want to live my life as normally as possible until I have to change it.
I know people are sympathetic to the bad news. I saw it in people's eyes yesterday. Please don't feel sorry for me. Feel sorry with me and listen to me rage or cry when the roller coaster dips down, but help me celebrate life every day. I'm going to try avoid wasting too much time feeling sad because I want my life (however long I have - hopefully many, many, many years) to be happy.
Tina
P.S. Oh, in follow up to yesterday's blog, I went bald (which isn't exactly true as I do have very, very short hair) yesterday. I took off my hat when I got hot cleaning my cube and then ran around without it. I even went to the cafeteria sans head covering. It felt weird and I was a bit nervous, but all was fine.
I didn't even get very many stares, which is typical out in public. So I think that's what I'll do at work. But I will have to wear a hat or toque outside as my poor, baldish head gets cold. Brrrr.
Thanks everyone for being supportive and for the compliments on my very short hairstyle. ;)
Monday, November 2, 2009
Hairs of my chinny chin chin
Life is just not fair. I am using every ounce of willpower to urge the hair on my head to grow, only to discover the ones that grace my chin are back with a vengeance. They didn't seem to have any trouble sprouting after the chemo left my body.
In fact, on the places I'd prefer not to have hair - underarms, chin, legs - I see regrowth. And it's growing to the point where I have to do something about it. Yet, the hair on my head, continues at its seemly slow pace.
Michael kindly tells me it's growing quickly and that people would shell out good money for the "highlights" I have in my hair. I think he's just trying to make me feel good about the astonishing amount of grey (silver, platinum) I have on my head. Men tend to look distinguished with grey temples. I'm not sure that's what others say about my look, but oh well. There's nothing I can do about it right now and I like having hair, regardless of its colour.
I'm getting more comfortable with taking my hat off in public, although I still get double takes and astonished stares. Most of the time I ignore people so they can quickly look and adjust to the semi-bald woman. I know that if I were in their shoes, I'd probably do the same thing.
But, last week at the hospital with my mom, an older lady in the waiting room continued to stare at me until I looked her square in the eye. After a beat, she quickly looked away, embarassed to be caught openly staring.
So now my delimma now is what do I do when I return to work - bald, scarf or hat? Hmmmm.
Tina
In fact, on the places I'd prefer not to have hair - underarms, chin, legs - I see regrowth. And it's growing to the point where I have to do something about it. Yet, the hair on my head, continues at its seemly slow pace.
Michael kindly tells me it's growing quickly and that people would shell out good money for the "highlights" I have in my hair. I think he's just trying to make me feel good about the astonishing amount of grey (silver, platinum) I have on my head. Men tend to look distinguished with grey temples. I'm not sure that's what others say about my look, but oh well. There's nothing I can do about it right now and I like having hair, regardless of its colour.
I'm getting more comfortable with taking my hat off in public, although I still get double takes and astonished stares. Most of the time I ignore people so they can quickly look and adjust to the semi-bald woman. I know that if I were in their shoes, I'd probably do the same thing.
But, last week at the hospital with my mom, an older lady in the waiting room continued to stare at me until I looked her square in the eye. After a beat, she quickly looked away, embarassed to be caught openly staring.
So now my delimma now is what do I do when I return to work - bald, scarf or hat? Hmmmm.
Tina
Sunday, November 1, 2009
BRCA support group
I almost didn't go. After the shocking news on Tuesday, I didn't feel emotionally prepared to go to the BRCA support group that evening. I felt too raw, too emotional, too exposed. I even said to Michael, "What can they say that can help me at this point in my journey?"
"Go," he said. "At least you'll know what it's like and see if it can help you. You have to go at least once."
He was right. I met a small group of BRCA-positive women - those who have been diagnosed as having the hereditary BRCA-1 or BRCA-2 mutation in their genes that predisposes them to contracting breast and ovarian cancer.
Some have fought cancer, others are having surgeries to stave it off. One of these women, Karen, was featured in The London Free Press a few weekends ago. This awesome story talked about a mom and her two daughters who tested positive for the BRCA-2 gene and their subsequent decisions.
www.lfpress.com/news/columnists/kate_dubinski/2009/10/17/11431711-sun.html
At the meeting, Karen talked about her double mastectomy and explained the tram flap procedure she chose. She talked about the operation and recovery, and even showed us her scars and her new flat belly. Brave woman!
Actually, anyone with the gene is a brave woman because it's not a question of if you'll get cancer but when. We have to make tough decisions to prevent it from taking hold, and if it's too late, be brave and fight it when it's discovered.
Two genetic counsellors also attended the meeting. I think their role is to be supportive, provide information and reinforce facts about the BRCA genes. Apparently Dr. A used to attend the meetings when the group started about 10 years ago.
I have to admit, when I was asked for my story, I rambled. I'm good at explaining the whole diagnosis, fight, chemo portions, but when I had to talk about the too-fresh results of the CT scan, I wasn't very eloquent because I was still processing the news.
But no one judged. Everyone was supportive and accepting. One woman complimented me on my smile. Who doesn't need that kind of group of people in their lives?
Despite feeling a bit aloof and alone, I was accepted for who I am and where I am in the journey. I left feeling less alone, knowing there are others who understand what it's like to be BRCA positive. We're a select group with a mutation none of us asked for, but we're dealing with it. I have a feeling I'll be able to learn from some of these women, to make my BRCA journey a little easier.
Tina
"Go," he said. "At least you'll know what it's like and see if it can help you. You have to go at least once."
He was right. I met a small group of BRCA-positive women - those who have been diagnosed as having the hereditary BRCA-1 or BRCA-2 mutation in their genes that predisposes them to contracting breast and ovarian cancer.
Some have fought cancer, others are having surgeries to stave it off. One of these women, Karen, was featured in The London Free Press a few weekends ago. This awesome story talked about a mom and her two daughters who tested positive for the BRCA-2 gene and their subsequent decisions.
www.lfpress.com/news/columnists/kate_dubinski/2009/10/17/11431711-sun.html
At the meeting, Karen talked about her double mastectomy and explained the tram flap procedure she chose. She talked about the operation and recovery, and even showed us her scars and her new flat belly. Brave woman!
Actually, anyone with the gene is a brave woman because it's not a question of if you'll get cancer but when. We have to make tough decisions to prevent it from taking hold, and if it's too late, be brave and fight it when it's discovered.
Two genetic counsellors also attended the meeting. I think their role is to be supportive, provide information and reinforce facts about the BRCA genes. Apparently Dr. A used to attend the meetings when the group started about 10 years ago.
I have to admit, when I was asked for my story, I rambled. I'm good at explaining the whole diagnosis, fight, chemo portions, but when I had to talk about the too-fresh results of the CT scan, I wasn't very eloquent because I was still processing the news.
But no one judged. Everyone was supportive and accepting. One woman complimented me on my smile. Who doesn't need that kind of group of people in their lives?
Despite feeling a bit aloof and alone, I was accepted for who I am and where I am in the journey. I left feeling less alone, knowing there are others who understand what it's like to be BRCA positive. We're a select group with a mutation none of us asked for, but we're dealing with it. I have a feeling I'll be able to learn from some of these women, to make my BRCA journey a little easier.
Tina
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