A Page OUt of Jacki Donaldson's Breast Cancer Journal
Iam
a breast cancer survivor. I am also a wife, a mother, a sister, a
daughter, an aunt, a friend, a scrapbooker, a shopper (I love
shoes!) a preschool teacher, a licensed hair stylist, and a writer.
I’m sure I have forgotten something because I know I am a whole lot
more than these titles suggest.
Somehow, though, in my mind, “breast cancer survivor” seems to
loom over all these other roles I play. Sometimes I think this is
not okay — that I should not be defined by a disease that I do
believe I will conquer. But other times, I think this is okay.
Cancer is big. It’s monumental. And it does affect all these
roles...[but] there is light at the end of the tunnel. I have been
tunneling through this cancer journey for almost 19 months and I can
truly look back and wonder where the time has gone. Some days are
long and some moments are bad, but time does heal wounds and pain
and despair — and the light of the world does return.
Immortality - Wednesday, March 15th, 2006
I heard a woman in the Cancer Center waiting room today say to a
man I assume was her father, “When I was 18, I thought I was
immortal.” I thought the same thing — that I was immortal — at age
34, just before cancer flashed in front of my face and reminded me
that I am not. And today, looking at the man I think was this
woman’s father, I felt deep in my gut a sad realization that life
passes by so quickly. I know this from watching Joey grow in no time
from a chubby, cuddly baby into a long, lean five-year-old who is
about to perform in a school musical this weekend. And from watching
Danny, my second chubby, cuddly baby who asks each day, “Am I three
now?” I tell him, “Not yet. In two months.” He asks, “Is it a long
time?” and I tell him, “Yes, for you, it’s a long time,” all the
while knowing that for me, two months is nothing — just a quick
passage of time that will end with Danny’s third birthday and will
make me long for the days when my babies were babies.
Life moves at a fast pace. I’m sure it did for this man in the
waiting room. I heard him reminiscing about his younger days. I
heard him say, “When I was the captain of a DC-3 … ” and he talked
about flying planes and landing planes and airports. Today, this man
is elderly. His skin is wrinkled; his posture slumped. He looked
fragile — and it made me sad to witness an image of aging, knowing
this is what happens as time ticks on. And it made me sad to see him
in the pink infusion chair, receiving treatment for an illness that
is undoubtedly threatening the life that is already passing him by.
But I am also inspired by this man who is fighting for those
precious moments in life. He had no sadness about him. Perhaps with
age comes a wisdom that the passing of time is an okay process —
it’s the way life is meant to be.
And mortality comes with life (cancer or no cancer) — and being
reminded of it is not such a bad thing but a wake-up call to
appreciate the teeny tiny moments that pass by so quickly. Like when
Danny said to me last night at the dress rehearsal for Joey’s
musical, “Mommy, you are pretty.” Or when I poured his cereal into a
bowl the other day and he said, “Good job, Mommy!” So while I regret
that my boys are growing so quickly and I am aging right along with
them, I also would not trade these phenomena for anything. So when I
have moments of sadness about mortality, I will focus on the gift of
life that allows me to watch my babies grow up, however startling
and swift the process may be.
I am thankful today for the glimpse of the man in the waiting
room. I am thankful for the life I have with two little growing boys
and one big boy who takes care of them while I receive my Herceptin
treatment. And I am thankful for my Herceptin treatment and the fact
that it is likely giving me more life than I may have had without
it.
The room full of uncertainty - May 6th, 2006
I waited for hours yesterday to hear the results of my mammogram
and ultrasound. It’s not an odd thing — the waiting — and the women
revolving in and out of the doors of this office know the routine
well. We sign in and wait. We are led into another room, lock our
clothing in a locker, put on a cape-like gown so that we are all
partially revealed to one another — and we wait. We are called back
to the exam room where our breasts are squeezed and manipulated and
squashed like pancakes into a machine. Photos are taken, we are
excused, and we report back to our previous location — and we wait.
We are called again, into a hallway, where a nurse usually says,
“The doctor has looked at your films and everything is just fine.
You may put your clothes on and check out.”
A sigh of relief for many. And then the chore is done for one
whole year. Unless you are me.
For women like me, who have had breast cancer, the scenario is a
bit different because regardless of what the mammogram shows for me,
I go on to get an ultrasound and meet with the doctor. And I visit
this office twice a year — not once. This came as a shock to the
draped women who sat with me in the holding room who assumed I was
there for the obligatory one-year check-up. One woman stated the
assumption and then I told her of my story — that I am still
receiving treatment for breast cancer and am monitored more closely
than some. She apologized for steering into my business but I really
didn’t mind. I enjoyed telling my story and answering questions and
offering hope to those who sat uncertain of the news they would
receive.
You see, you don’t have to feel a lump to find out you have
cancer, like I did. Often, the mammogram picks up on a problem when
there was never a suspicion at all that anything existed. So the
women who enter this office and wait for hours do so with anxiety
and a tinge of fear. So I think these women asked me questions in
order to prepare for the potential bad news they may one day
receive. And I wanted them to know that the bad news doesn’t have to
be all that bad. Because here I am, healthy and strong and happy and
with a mop of brown curls that no one in the room would have ever
known is my second batch of hair.
One woman said to me, “I am so sorry.”
And another responded, “Don’t be sorry. Look at her — she’s
surviving.”
And that is exactly what I wanted them to think.
I got a round of applause at the end of my visit — from these
women who I talked with for more than hour. They clapped for me and
smiled for me and sent me on my way with tears welling up in my
eyes. I know they were clapping to honor me — for fighting this
sometimes deadly disease. But I hope they were clapping also with
the knowledge that they too can fight and win this battle.
For now I am still winning my battle. My mammogram looked good
and my ultrasound did too. The doctor did determine that I have an
skin infection on one nipple — which worries me a bit when I allow
myself to really think about it. But I will take an antibiotic for
one week and will not dwell on this hopefully normal occurence.
And then back in six months when I enter the room of uncertainty
again.
No More Herception - July, 2006
No more Herceptin. No more infusions. No more pink chairs and
chemo nurses and my favorite pharmacist who mixed my drugs with me
in mind. No more hours spent waiting. No more hours spent visiting,
hours spent observing, hours spent thinking. No more personal
retreats to a place that became home. No more powerful potions
saving me from cancer. No more bald head. No more sprouts of short
brown curly hair. No more every-third Wednesday. No more. No more.
No more.
It’s only me. And my port that I will keep. Just in case. And a
stop every month to keep it clean. And one scan of my heart. To
check for damage. And periodic follow-ups. And longer brown curly
hair. Long enough to pull back, straighten, style. And memories of a
place that took cancer away and gave me a life more precious than
ever before. A life that is all my own. On my own.
One year behind me. Fifty-two weeks of treatment. Seventeen
infusions. All above and beyond my initial treatment plan. An extra
protection to stop cancer from returning. Because of studies and
trials and women who lost their lives before me, I benefit. I am a
recipient of this wonder drug. I am a recipient of the gift of life.
I am happy. I am relieved. I am thankful. I am overwhelmed. I am
sad.
No more active treatment. No more help from cancer-fighting
drugs. No more constant attention. No more company in strangers who
are like me. No more strength in numbers.
Just me. And my safety nets. Zoloft. Counseling. Family. Friends.
Writing. Sharing. Praying. Helping. Honoring. Hoping. Laughing.
Making sense of it all. Making it matter.
Today, the real surviving begins.
Visit Jacki at jackidonaldson.com, Hope
Starts Here, and The Cancer Blog
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Breast Cancer Journeys
