Spooky treats

 I might have mentioned before that despite my exhaustion these days, it still feels good to do "normal" things.

Cooking dinner or ordering and picking up the groceries take a lot of energy, but the results are worth it.

So as Halloween was growing near, I asked Griffin if he'd like to make our usual Halloween treats. We bag them up and deliver them to his friends. And we usually deliver his birthday invitations at the same time.

Griffin was very concerned about me overdoing it. I think that's probably pretty rare for an almost 13-year-old, but that's my boy.

I assured him that we wouldn't do as much as we usually do, and that what we did do, we'd keep it simple. So I dipped stuff in white and milk chocolate. And Griffin was my sprinkle man.

His friend from across the street came over, so we let him help with sprinkles, too.

After he left, Griffin said, "I'm really glad he got to be a part of the festivities this year."

As for me, I was just glad to do something that felt normal. And I was glad to keep a tradition going. It helps me feel like I haven't spent this entire time just doing medical stuff.

Alone

I used to write a blog about my son. Not long after he was born, I realized that I was telling the same story over and over again to family and friends all over the place. So I thought that if I just put a lot of it down in writing, people could read it at their leisure, plus see photos and videos of him.

I was really good at writing that blog.

I haven't been as good at writing this one.

First of all, I am SO tired. All the time.

Every part of me feels heavy. It takes effort to get out of a chair.

Plus, there's just so much of this that is internal. Even if I share how my treatments are going, I still can't really share the experience with anybody.

I have to go alone.

I drop my car off with the valets and walk into the Cancer Center alone.

I get checked in and go downstairs to the waiting room alone.

I step into the dressing room and get my hospital gown on alone.

And I sit on the bench and wait for them to call my name, yep, you guessed it ... alone.

But the worst part is leaving alone.

For some reason, I get really sad after my treatments. It lasts for about an hour or so, and I'm not sure why it happens. I try to find distractions, stopping by the get a milkshake, meeting a friend, calling someone. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn't.

Have I mentioned that I'll be glad when this part is over?

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.

Pick your products

Just like everything else, there are a ton of products that everyone says you HAVE TO HAVE if you have breast cancer.

Let me just say ... No.

Take your time, read reviews, ask your care group or ask someone who's been there because it's hard to know early on what you might need or want.

There are two things I've found really useful.

First, there are the post-lumpectomy bras I got. It's crazy how much some of those things can cost, and the sizes are pretty limited. But I found some that were really affordable. But more importantly, when I looked through the review photos, I saw a woman about my size (both body and boobs), and liked how they fit her.

They're very stretchy and soft. And they open in the front, so when I first had my surgery, I wouldn't have been able to handle back hooks.

Don't get me wrong. They're nothing like my pretty underwire hoisters. They don't hold things in place like my regular bras do. But I can't wear underwire. I can't imagine wanting to right now anyway. The underside of my right breast is hot and sore.

And speaking of sore, from the biopsy to the seed implantation to the surgery to the radiation, my poor breast has been to hell and back. I've had so much pain there from all these procedures.

So when I saw this handmade pillow on a website, I could see it being useful. And it has been.

I have two surgery incisions — one that goes halfway around my nipple and one that is a couple of inches long at the bottom of my armpit. They gave me ice packs that would fit into my bra for the nipple incision. 

But can you see the pocket on the front of this pillow? The idea is to put a small ice pack in that pocket, and adjust the ribbon to fit on your shoulder, and you wear the pillow like an over-the-shoulder pocketbook. It also keeps the skin of your arm away from the skin where the incision is. It's kind of a genius idea.

But lately, my little heart pillow has taken on a new job. It's a great pad between me and my seatbelt. Seatbelts are not comfy on post-surgery areas, and as I'm learning now, they're not comfy on radiation burns, either.

It's a little bulky, but my car is an automatic, so it doesn't get in the way of shifting gears.

And come on, you can't tell me the pattern and colors aren't spirit-lifting. Who wouldn't want multi-colored flower petals to make things better?

Radiation = burning heat

Have you ever seen pictures of radiation burns? If you haven't, do not search for it. I saw some accidentally on a doctor-approved website, and it was scary to think that they represented my very-near future.

As I type, I'm sitting in the living room wearing a gown with no bra, with a folded washcloth under my right breast that was ice cold about 2 minutes ago. The heat on that side is about as bad as bad sunburns I've had. And I'm only 1/3 of the way through treatments.

Are you scared? 'Cause I am!

I have special deodorant and prescription cream to use, but they can only do so much.

I mean, it's inherent in the word "radiation."

The definition of radiation is that it is the transmission of energy in the form of waves or particles through a material medium.

The energy in this case is x-ray beams and the medium is my right breast and armpit.

Here's a science graphic. See radiation? Heat being applied to hands. In my case, heat being applied to boobs!

The way the radiation works is that at high doses, radiation therapy kills cancer cells or slows their growth by damaging their DNA. Cancer cells whose DNA is damaged beyond repair stop dividing or die. When the damaged cells die, they are broken down and removed by the body. 

So they're basically burning the cancer cells to death, which in turn, burns my skin ... not to death, but it certainly feels that way.

It's hard to figure out because they want me not to wear a bra (the bands are rough on that skin). But because my breasts are large, I must wear a bra for support. And they don't want the skin under my breast to be in contact with the skin on the bottom of my breast. If you have large breasts, how the heck can that happen?!

Answer is, it can't. So I'm just gonna have to do what I can do.

And did I mention the swelling? It doesn't feel great to type because my upper arms squish my breast. And the pressure hurts.

I know this too shall pass, but it'll be a while. They say it can take up to a year or so for the skin to get back to its usual color. And sometimes it never goes back. The same for the swelling and soreness.

Since it's out of my hands, I'm going to just keep plowing through, using my products and hoping for the best.

The accessories

When I get dressed to go to radiation, there isn't much creativity there — capris, t-shirt and shoes or sandals.

Whatever I wear has to be easy to get out of (and back into) with slightly limited motion in my right arm.

A quote from a movie I love says, "The only thing that separates us from the animals is our ability to accessorize!" And that's where I'm finding a little bit of creativity.

I can't wear necklaces, scarves or bracelets, but that leaves earrings, and thanks to COVID, masks, and thanks to the bad haircut I have because of the skin cancer on my head, baseball caps.

So I try to color coordinate t-shirts, masks, earrings and hats. And I have quite a small assortment of all four of those things.

So much of this cancer process is out of my control. And I'm a control freak. So that doesn't help my current predicament. So I have to find things that I CAN control.

Hence my focus on accessories.

Maybe I'll get some festive holiday earrings and masks. That would be fun. 

I may even give the valet with the socks a run for his money!

What modesty?

You get to a point with certain medical processes when your privacy and modesty just goes out the window.

I was explaining to my mother-in-law and sister-in-law how the process goes when I go in for radiation, and I said off-handedly, "Half the county has seen my boobs."

She said, "What have you been doing that half the county has seen them?"

My husband was laid off last year and hasn't found a full-time job yet, so I couldn't help myself with my reply.

"Well if my good-for-nothin' husband would hold a job, I wouldn't have to be showing them to everybody!"

We had a good laugh, but it's true. My modesty is gone.

When my name shows up on the screen, I have to go to a dressing room and take off everything above my waist and put on a hospital gown. The first few times, I tied up the strings on the back for the 30-feet-or-so walk down the hall and into the treatment room.

But as soon as I get into the treatment room, I have to lie down on the table and pull my hospital gown off my arms and down to my waist. Which meant that I had to walk over to the table, untie the strings on the back of the gown, then climb onto the table and flip down the gown.

That's just too much trouble.

So now, here's what anyone in the hall sees.

And I'm perfectly okay with that.