Breast Cancer Awareness column

I figured that since my radiation treatments are happening during Breast Cancer Awareness Month, that I would write a column about it.

And also, nobody could tell me no because I'm the editor of the Life sections!

So here's the column:

---

Support system, humor helping with cancer treatments

I'm a little more than halfway through radiation treatments for breast cancer.

That still feels weird to say. But if you can't say it during Breast Cancer Awareness Month, when can you say it?

I was notified that there was something suspicious on my yearly mammogram and was sent for a diagnostic mammogram. That led to an ultrasound.

At the end of the appointment, the doctor said he was pretty sure it was cancer. Apparently, cysts have smooth edges, and what he saw didn't. He showed it to me — a little spiky amoeba-looking spot.

That led to a needle biopsy, which was pretty painful. The biopsy results confirmed what I had already started to process.

It was real. It was breast cancer.

The only breast cancer in my family was a maternal great-aunt who was in her 60s. So I was pretty surprised to hear that I had it.

But it turns out, mine was hormone-based. I have invasive ductal carcinoma. And because I have yearly mammograms, we found it really early. 

I don't remember having any kind of feelings at all when they told me. You hear about people saying, "When I heard the C-word ..." But I went immediately to asking what's next.

When it comes to health stuff, I'm very practical. I loved being pregnant, but I didn't see the delivery as a magical moment. I saw it as a medical procedure to get my son safely into the world.

And I pretty much had the same thought about the cancer. I guess I see it as more of a process than a journey.

And a process it's been.

One thing that's helped is that we have good health care options here in Greensboro. And everyone is intertwined. The diagnostic folks talked to the surgery folks, who talked to the oncologist folks, who talked to the radiology oncologist folks, who all talked to me. So the process has been fairly seamless.

The hardest stuff for me has been mental. My head is full of facts and figures about the kind of cancer I have. And it's also full of worry and fear. What if these treatments don't make it go away? What if it comes back? Will this cause me to be more susceptible to other cancers?

Because we caught mine so early, I was able to have a lumpectomy, or as the doctors call it, "breast-conserving surgery." That's when they take out the cancer but leave the rest.

About a month later, I started radiation therapy — 33 treatments to be exact. I have one each day Monday through Friday through mid-November.

The side effects have officially kicked in. I'm tired. Very, very tired. Some days, it feels like it's a chore to get out of bed and get going for the day. Naps are my friends these days.

I also have radiation burns. Imagine having a really bad sunburn in a place that's usually covered by a bathing suit. And I have fair skin, so that certainly doesn't help matters. It's uncomfortable and itchy and hot. And it's only going to get worse. And the effects don't go away as soon as the treatments are done. It can take months for things to get back to some sort of normal.

After the radiation, I'll have to take medication for about five years. I'm not looking forward to the side effects of that, either.

It's a lot.

I can take up to 12 weeks of unpaid time off for a health problem, but my husband was laid off last year and hasn't found full-time work yet. So "unpaid time off" isn't an option. Luckily, I've been able to work from home. And my co-workers have been great. They're offered to help with whatever I need.

And of course my family and friends have been wonderful. They've brought meals and given us gift cards to our favorite restaurants and some of the food delivery apps, along with cards, emails, texts and more. I'm very lucky to have such a big support system around me.

Early on, I was trying to explain the details of the diagnosis to my husband, Jeff, and I said, "I have invasive ductal carcinoma. That means that it started in one of my milk duds."

"Milk Duds?" he asked. "Like the chocolate caramel candy?"

As soon as I realized what I said, we started to laugh. And it felt good. I hope we can carry our humor throughout this process. I'm sure we're gonna need it.