My brain on chemotherapy: we might all have cancer this very moment!
I wrote this in 2009, a couple of years after completing my super fun year with breast cancer. I just cut this chapter from my book (Mostly, I Just Miss My Nipples, get a copy) because it was not flowing with the rest of the content. However, I still think it’s pretty interesting as a bit of insight into how I was thinking three years after completing chemo: it’s still there. The “cancer thinking” does not go away easily or quickly. Also, the minion in the picture was ravaged by a dog. Not cancer. But, I think, the poor guy perfectly embodies how cancer patients can sometimes feel, you know, after all of it’s over.
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I have this theory: we might all have it. Right this very second.
Likely, not to completely freak you out, but every one of you has or has had cancer in your body. Luckily, most of the time, it is being managed by your strong immune system and your white blood cells. Most of you will never even know you have cancer. Technically you don’t. If you follow this logically, it is possible that during some point in your life so far you could have already had and cured yourself of breast cancer. Maybe you had a tiny lump in the time between your self-breast exams and your own natural defenses took care of it. Killed it. Made it go away. And you were never the wiser.
Maybe, developing full-on cancer is all about timing.
You get that teeny tiny lump. Then you move. Then your dog dies. Then you have a miscarriage. Then you make a big career change. And you have a tiny genetic pre-disposition for cancer. That’s a multi-fecta of major stress that influences your body and its functions. There is only so much your body can take care of on its own. Top that off with your inability to blow it all off as “life” or as a glitch or as the fact that everything changes all of the time and, whammy, another blow to your immune system. And you drink a few glasses of wine every night and eat red meat every day along with lots of cheese and bread. You’re 15 pounds (or more) overweight. You have a family history of cancer. And your genetics aren’t doing you any favors. Suddenly, that teeny tiny lump is twice its size. And twice its size again. And then, after years pass, it’s the size of a walnut. And you’re in chemo. And interviewing surgeons. And scared to death.
Yes, of course all of the above is all about me. Not you.
My oncologist has a program* that spits out your risk of reoccurrence within 10 years of diagnosis. She puts in the treatment options, even layering in or removing multiple options, and the software model spits out the likelihood that you will get cancer again.
In my case, no treatment at all equaled a 60% chance that I would die within ten years of diagnosis. But read the stats the other way around: that means that there is a 40% chance that I would be fine. Which means my body could possibly (40% possibly) get better on its own. After that it becomes an alluring numbers game: add surgery, knock off another 20%. Add chemotherapy, you’re better than 50% survival rate. Radiation adds another 15%. Tamoxifen? Three percent. The number we ended up with after I did all of the above was only (only!) a 12% chance that I would die from cancer within 10 years of diagnosis. Put another way, this full-frontal medical attack would provide me with an 88% chance of surviving 10 years past diagnosis. After 10 years? Not measured at the time. So what would you choose? Nothing for 40% chance of surviving past 10 years of diagnoses or “slash, poison and burn” for 88%? An interesting question, I think.
I’m now a huge fan of my immune system. I treat it like my dearest friend. I am constantly measuring the signs: have I slept enough, am I having that second glass of wine too often, are those the sniffles or allergies, what’s my Vitamin D level, am I exercising enough, do I have a trip planned, do I need an acupuncture tune up, should I eat more veggies, do I need to ease up on the monitoring of every little blip I feel in my body, am I working too much, did I have fun today? I will cancel anything if I feel like my immune system is in serious danger and I will also, to the chagrin of my friends and family, spend more money than some people spend on their cars or TV or shoes on monthly body maintenance. My health is my priority. I will not be back in my oncologist’s office running through that computer model again.
* This program has since been redesigned/recalibrated to incorporate data gathered over the past 13 years and at this writing is being update therefore my statistics can’t be reproduced as they were, as described above, in 2006. That said, this is how I remember it, and according to my oncologist, correct enough to prove my point, but any mistake is my own.
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