Breast cancer affects one in seven women at some time during their lives. Like a devastating fire, we believe it will happen to someone else, not to us. So, while you continue to read this, think about the women in your life – your wife, daughters, granddaughters, sisters, mothers. Are there more than seven? If so, chances are very good this disease will affect you and your family. It won’t be somebody else; it will be you. It was me and I am one of the lucky ones.
My breast cancer story begins in February 2000, with a routine, annual checkup at the gynecologist’s office. During this visit, my doctor recommended a baseline mammogram. I was over 35 years old, but not yet 40, thank you very much! Taking the doctor’s advice to heart, I scheduled my mammogram appointment. On a beautiful, sunny spring day in March, I made my way to the diagnostic center. What could go wrong? I was young, healthy, and doing what I could to take care of myself. I tried to eat right daily and exercise at least four times a week.
After the nurse took the first set of films, I returned to the waiting room while she developed them. A few minutes later, she returned to the waiting room stating another set of the left side was needed. I laughed it off – she hadn’t found enough to take a picture of the first time! Again, I returned to the waiting room while she developed the films. Yet again, the nurse came back, stating a need for more films. This time, however, a specific area was to be magnified. A sliver of fear started, but I laughed this off, too. Yes, I said, the whole area needed to be enlarged!
More than a bit nervous by now, I dressed and waited to see the doctor who would read the three sets of films carefully arranged on the lightboard while I sat on the examination table three feet away. The doctor came in, reviewed the films, pointed to the area in question and promptly announced, “These are going to have to come out.” He went on to explain the numerous white spots in my left breast, spread throughout the milk ducts, were calcium bodies. The calcium bodies, he said, are like grains of sand oysters form their pearls around. No, they weren’t full blown cancer cells – yet – but would be if not removed as soon as possible. My life was forever changed. . . .
During the next month and a half, I met with a surgeon, underwent a biopsy (to confirm the diagnosis), met with a reconstruction surgeon, had a chest X-ray (to rule out lung cancer) and a series of blood tests. On April 27, 2000, three weeks before my 37th birthday, I underwent a modified radical mastectomy of the left breast. There is no way to explain my thoughts or fears throughout this time.
As I said, I am one of the lucky ones. The surgeon removed all of the breast and surrounding tissues (not quite achieving the clear margins he wanted, but having no more tissue to remove) and only the sentinel lymph node, which proved benign. This meant no chemotherapy; no radiation. My prognosis was very good, although, my chances of experiencing this on the right side were slightly higher than before, but still good that I might not.
So, for the next seven years, I went on with my life, forever thankful for my doctor who said “You’re over 35, but. . . ,” knowing I could have been dead by 40 if he hadn’t made his recommendation.
Fast forward these thoughts to September 27, 2007, where my husband and I are enjoying our vacation in Arizona when we felt a lump in my right breast. A lump that felt just like my doctor had described to me: hard – like my knuckle – without movement and without any real pain. At that second, in that instant, our lives were forever changed, again. . . .
On October 1, I welcomed Breast Cancer Awareness Month 2007 with a visit to my gynecologist’s office. This time I knew the routine. A week later on the morning I was to begin my new job at Jeffersontown Fire Protection District, I went to the surgeon’s office; I reported to duty two hours late. After 7-1/2 years the surgeon still remembered me. He gave me a smile, a hug, did an ultrasound and then a needle biopsy “just to be sure.”
The results came back a few days later as “cells atypical.” They weren’t good; they weren’t bad. The cells were just different than they should be. Okay, not cancer! This is going to be alright. . . ! For additional reassurance, however, the surgeon ordered a digital MRI of the right breast. This I underwent on the third day at my new job.
After all of the pinging, banging and holding still, I waited and waited for the radiologist to send the results. A week later and the night before my procedure to remove the “atypical mass,” the radiologist’s report told my surgeon the characteristics of the mass were “not worrisome.” Good, not cancer! The mass was removed the next day, October 19, a Friday.
I arrived at the surgeon’s office the next Thursday (after leaving my new job early) for a wound check. I’ll never forget the look on my doctor’s face. It was as if he’d grabbed the biopsy results off the fax machine as he walked into my examination room. He shook my hand, sat down on the little rolling stool, looked at the results and with a stunned expression on his face said, “Oh my god, Jodie, this is malignant!” This is not okay; this is cancer.
Somehow – for the second time – I pulled myself together, got in my car and tried to drive along the interstate, during the afternoon rush hour, all the while trying to figure out how I was going to tell my husband and my son – not to mention the rest of our families – that I had breast cancer and this time it was malignant. And we all thought cell phones were a distraction for drivers!
Anyway, I explained this new development to Chief Reckner the next day. Imagine starting a new job two hours late and not working a full day or week thereafter. But then, even more incredibly – because the fire service takes care of its own – Chief Reckner came into the office a couple of days before surgery and announced the firefighters had donated 200 hours of sick time. I would not have to worry about making the financial ends meet. How wonderful is that!? I’ll never be able to say thank you enough.
So, like I said, I knew the routine. I went to see the reconstruction surgeon the next week. Again, he remembered me from the first time around. This is good, I think! He gave me a hug, said he was glad to see me, but wished he wasn’t and proceeded to lay out our game plan. Surgery for a modified radical mastectomy of the right breast was scheduled for November 13, 2007. Just over a month since I had started my new job.
Fortunately, recovery went well and I returned to work the Monday after Thanksgiving, drain tubes (which I affectionately refer to as “udders”) and all. We had scheduled the first of four chemotherapy sessions for December 14. I felt good again by Christmas and was basically bald by New Year’s Eve. All along the way, I had family, treasured friends and an entire fire department providing more support than I could ever have imagined.
Chemo wasn’t horrible, although it’s nothing I ever want to go through again. Same for the complete and total baldness! But, if ever there’s an occupational group to be in when you’re bald, it’s the fire service! More than ever, I looked just like one of the boys!
Although mostly thought of as a “woman’s” disease, at least 5% of all breast cancers are diagnosed in men. Approximately 80% of all newly diagnosed cases will occur in women who do not have a family history. My family didn’t have a history, but 2-1/2 years after my first surgery my mother had a modified radical mastectomy of her right breast. Hers was caught very early, too, so she did not undergo chemo or radiation treatments. Now, not only must our son worry about the typical “male” illnesses and diseases, he must remember he is a candidate for breast cancer. I’ve made sure he knows what to look for. . . .
Like I said, I’m one of the lucky ones. I am alive and hope to be for decades to come! Both times the cancer was caught extremely early because of my commitment to annual visits to the gynecologist, monthly self-exams and our increased awareness. My lump wasn’t there in July when I did my monthly check, but was the size of a pea in mid-September. I could have forgone the chemo and accepted an 89% chance of survival after ten years. But why accept that when I can have 96% to 98%? After all, it’s only hair and it has grown back curlier than I could have ever imagined and a far cry from the straight hair I had before! There are nicer ways of getting a makeover, but I think I like the new look!
Cancer of any kind is terrifying in every sense of the word. But, if we work together, we will find a cure. For additional information, visit the American Cancer Society on-line, www.cancer.org, or call your local chapter.
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