by Chris Geiger
It was a warm summer evening on 2 August when I was admitted to the hospital for my operation. I felt so alone in the hospital room that night and had a multitude of worrying thoughts racing through my mind. I had fought and pushed to have surgery as soon as possible. In some ways, I was relieved. This would be the end of the cancer. They would get it all out and I would be on the road to recovery. I’d have probably seen the whole night round, if it wasn’t for the medication they administered to help me sleep.
I was woken and out of bed early the next morning. I was going into theatre at 8:00 A.M. I had two surgical teams waiting for me. One was led by my oncologist, who would be doing the mastectomies. He estimated that the operation would take around three and a half hours. The next team would be led by the plastic surgeon who would do the reconstruction. It transpired this part of the operation took a massive seven hours. When I came out of recovery, the whole day had come and gone, and it was now dark outside.
During my last appointment with my plastic surgeon before surgery, I was told I’d feel like I had been run over by a truck when I woke from the operation. You may think this was a silly thing to say, but it actually helped me prepare mentally. Not that I know what it’s like to be run over by a truck, but I remember thinking, when I woke up in my hospital room, this must definitely feel worse than being hit by a truck. I had drains coming out of both sides of my chest and two others coming out of my pelvic area. My legs were covered in what looked like ‘space boots’, which expanded and contracted in order to prevent blood clots from forming in my motionless legs. I had two more blood transfusions on top of the two units they gave me during surgery. I was too weak to have a port installed for pain medication. They therefore had to administer it through injections every few hours. Yes… it really was like I’d been run over by a truck, I can assure you. Luckily, thanks to the anaesthetic, that first night was a blur. The adult members of my family were all there when I was brought out of theatre; what a sight I must have been. For some reason, I was placed on the maternity ward to recover. The weather had suddenly turned very humid and the room, which had no air conditioning, was stifling hot. I kept drifting in and out of sleep as they watched over me.
I was in hospital for six days. My mum and sister, who are both practising nurses, spent the entire day during my hospital stay with me. They made sure I was washed and was moved in bed and later helped me get up.
By the time I was discharged, I really did feel ready to leave. Looking back, I was still quite weak. Thankfully, my parents lived with me for the six weeks after I was discharged. This certainly helped and increased the speed of my recovery. I couldn’t walk up or down stairs and wasn’t allowed to walk outside on my own. The doctors were worried that, if I fell, it would have a detrimental effect on my whole healing process. I was also not allowed to drive.
During this time of recovery, I did a lot of thinking. Going through cancer is a life-changing experience. I’m sure most cancer survivors will tell you the same thing. I wasn’t the same after I’d gone through the operations and follow-up treatment. I did much soul searching. I found out who my true friends were and who truly loved me. I can now distinguish between the positive people and influences in my life and those who aren’t.
Four weeks into my recovery, I received my pathology results. The supposed slow-moving and non-invasive cancer had started to migrate through my lymph nodes. As a result, they took seventeen of my nodes out on the side the cancer had been lurking. So this wasn’t the end after all. I was sent to another hospital, to what they call a ‘Tumour Board’. There, a team of doctors including pathologists, oncologists and other cancer specialists met and discussed my case. They collectively decided what they felt would be the best approach for my treatment. The consensus was to prescribe eight rounds of chemotherapy. The doctor said to look at it as an insurance policy; that I was putting the optimum number of years of survival on my side. I’ll never forget that day. Like the day I found out I had cancer, this day also passed like a slow-moving dream. I questioned myself over and over again; I wondered if this was even real. Was this really happening to me?
I was introduced to the oncologist who would be responsible for my chemotherapy. I was also introduced to my pivot nurse, or personal nurse, who would oversee my treatment. My ‘new’ oncologist gave me what for him must have been the millionth repetition of a speech on what tests I would undergo before starting the chemotherapy. He also went through the dangers of undergoing such severe treatment and explained what medication I would need to take during my treatment and why. Then, without asking, he took out a form and enquired if I was employed. He started filling it in while I nodded, confirming I had a job.
Herein lay what would be one of the forks in the road that I went down. I had a choice. I could have nine months off work with the stroke of a pen while I went through treatment and recovery. Yet I had no intention of stopping work, so politely pushed his completed form back to him, while explaining I wanted to continue working if I could; I tried to sound as confident as I could. I felt empowered when I told him and I truly believed it. It was the first post-operative decision I made that was in my best interest. I needed to prove to my daughters, who were thirteen, ten and seven years old, that I was going to be fine. I wanted to give a positive example of how someone can fight with strength and dignity. I wanted my family to have as normal a life as humanly possible. So I worked my sixty-hours-a-week job, except for the two days I needed to take off every second week for my treatment. I arranged to have my treatment on a Thursday, so that by Monday I had gone through my physical and mental crash and was back on track. Once you go through the first treatment, the others tend to keep the same pattern. It’s like a rollercoaster ride with the same peaks and troughs each time you go around.
Some of the best advice I got at this stage of my journey was to bring a friend or family member to chemotherapy with me. I did as suggested and it made each session much easier for me to handle. We would spend the time together chatting, laughing and reminiscing; this really distracted me from the treatment. In my case, the toughest part of the treatment was actually at the beginning of each session, when they inserted the needle. It was always so hard for them to find a vein big enough. The stress for me was them being able to hook me up. Once that was connected, it was just a question of getting the prescribed drugs inside me.
Soon after the first chemotherapy treatment, the inevitable happened. My hair started to fall out. At first it was in tiny wisps but eventually it was coming out in bigger clumps. Fortunately, my hairdresser is also my friend. So, armed with my new wig, I went over to my friend Dianne’s house to get my head shaved. This was another choice I wanted to make, and I’m so glad I made the decision. As with any opportunity I chose, it was empowering and allowed me to remain in control. I’d been mentally preparing for this since my personal nurse told me I’d lose my hair. I actually think it was harder on Dianne who was much more emotional over this than me. Once my hair was off, we made a cup of tea and looked at the wig. What were we to do with it? I stuck it on my head but it just didn’t look right. It required a trim and needed to be much flatter. Eventually, we put the blow dryer on low and flattened the synthetic hair down. I knew it would take some getting used to, but it was the new ‘me’ – for at least six months anyway.
It’s strange how much colder it is with no hair, but hair loss does have its perks. For a runner during the cold weather, you never get hat hair and taking a shower is less time consuming. You save on shampoo and other hair products, and towel drying your head is done in a matter of seconds. Beats the fifteen minutes it takes to blow dry. There’s no such thing as a bad hair day, they’re all the same. Just place the wig on your head and go. To be honest, the wig was the first thing to come off when I got home. The chemotherapy induced hot flushes, I felt so hot! I think the sight of my baldness was a little troubling to my pre-teen, so I’d wear a bandana to cover it up. I didn’t wear the wig very much on weekends either.
I wore it only on special social occasions or when going shopping with the girls.
Although I was somewhat sidelined by chemotherapy, it didn’t keep me off the road and I ran as often as possible. I’m convinced that the effort to lace up my shoes actually gave me the energy to endure the treatment. I ran a five-kilometre race midway through my treatment and clocked one of my better times. I remember thinking to myself as I ran past the cheering spectators along the race route, ‘Way to go, chemotherapy girl – you show them.’
The night before my last day of treatment, my three daughters and I made cupcakes for the nurses and doctors on the Oncology Ward. It was in part a celebration and a way to thank them at the same time. It provided hope for my daughters that they would have their mother back and that life would start to be normal again. We had a wonderful dinner that night with friends; it was the perfect tonic.
With the treatment officially over, it felt strange at first. I wasn’t at the hospital being checked by my doctor and healthcare workers every two weeks. I didn’t have the security of being able to ask questions whenever I wanted. It took a lot of getting used to not going to hospital. Initially, it felt like I’d just been dumped by a boyfriend, honestly. To celebrate this newfound freedom, and because my running was going so well, I made plans to run a half-marathon just four months after the end of my treatment. The belief I had in myself and my confidence in being able to finish the race were all I needed, even if I was a little bit slower than in my pre-cancer days.
My true transformation really began towards the end of the year. Breast cancer, or any cancer for that matter, places you in front of your greatest fear. I had a choice when looking that fear in the eye. I could laugh and believe in myself and my ability to survive or not. There was never a moment that I didn’t believe I’d get well. Even when I had my meltdowns while I was crashing off the steroids and medication following chemotherapy, my belief was still there. The transformation taking place now was more of me as a person. I had shed the previous skin I was wearing in my pre-cancer days and had become somehow different.
At first, it was the small things I noticed, like being more patient and more grateful for things like a beautiful moon, or the joy of hearing the waves while I walked along the beach. It’s the appreciation of seeing the loving smile on my daughter’s face as she sleepily gazes up at me upon awaking. Although these things may have given me joy before, I now noticed them more. I had a newfound tendency to see the glass half full. I no longer angrily shout at the car in front of me in rush-hour traffic, in my haste to get to work. I listen to inspirational CDs now, or sing along to a great song in the peace of my car instead. In fact, I sit quietly in amusement when someone I know loses it because something is making them angry.
Like tending a garden, I was transforming my life in other ways as well. Some of the friends I once had were replaced by others. It’s not because we had a falling out, but because my needs had changed and my goals were no longer the same. Family members who were once irritating ceased to be that way. Not because they had changed, but because I was more open minded. I don’t let things get to me as much as they once did. Perhaps it’s a result of looking proverbial death in the face and winning.
I don’t take life as seriously as I once did. I laugh more and like to linger more in the moment. I’m grateful for the little conversations I have and take time to say mental thanks for the people I have them with. Unlike a young child, I no longer wish time would speed ahead to that special day or celebration. I’m patient, knowing that day will come with many other pleasurable moments in between. When I’m invited somewhere, I go giving my full attention. I don’t leave half my thoughts at the door because I’m too busy thinking of the lengthy to-do list waiting at home.
Material things are less important to me. It’s more important to have a car that keeps me safe and runs well than to own a specific model. I would rather spend my money on travelling and creating memories than own a special piece of jewellery. I prefer to spend my money on hosting a nice meal at home for my friends or family and enjoying each other’s company before, say, buying another television.
I treat my body with more respect and keep up with my exercise. My diet is much healthier and I’m much more conscious of what goes in my mouth. I have discovered the joy of cooking. Spending time in the kitchen is now another way I relieve stress. I love spending a few hours making a good meal and look forward to poring over my ever-increasing collection of cookbooks looking for new culinary inspirations. Wholesome and nutritious foods are much more prominent in my family’s diet, and it gives me great pleasure that they are eating well. While in the kitchen I have a smile on my face and I’m at peace.
As a survivor, I have devoted part of my running to supporting races that help cancer charities. Those races are even more special to me and inspire me to think of a future where I’ll spend more of my time helping other cancer patients. I have started this through my writing. A year ago, I started a blog; it’s a survivor’s look at breast cancer. I write about running for health, running for hope and running for a life without breast cancer. This blog is not only therapeutic to me, but it’s also my way of helping cancer patients who are now having treatment I once had. My hope is to inspire and perhaps just show them that, as with life in general, there is always a choice.
I’m at a point in my life where I am still growing.
The transformation into my new body is not yet complete. My journey has provided me with a life experience unlike any other.
I now know how powerful the mind is and how productive and successful we can be by properly exercising our thought process. The stories in this book will attest that everyone has the ability to be tenacious.
In life we have choices; the only question is whether we are ready or strong enough to seize the opportunity when it presents itself. My wish is to provide that inspiration. Cancer has been a massive life-changing experience for the better, but you shouldn’t have to be diagnosed with cancer in order to realize this. Things happen for a reason and this is mine. It is also my gift back to you.
Newspaper Column by Chris Geiger
Mad Dogs and Englishmen
Membership: # 1
What is it with our obsession to rush down the beach the moment the sun shines? I’m not moaning – at least we’re getting a summer this year.
Like stranded seals on a beach, and as regular as salmon swimming upstream to mate each year, we wallow in the sand frying our skin that hasn’t seen daylight since this time last year.
Men lie there motionless, fighting a losing battle to hold in their stomachs, while adamantly refusing to use coconut-scented suntan lotion. Women slowly slip into swimsuits, using as much care as a bomb disposal expert, desperate to ensure their towels don’t hit the floor before their tops are securely fastened. Men watch under the camouflage of their sunglasses, hoping to see flesh that’s normally only displayed on the top shelf of a newsagent.
So it’s no wonder skin cancer has quadrupled over the last thirty years. There are two main types of skin cancer: non-melanoma, which is very common, and malignant melanoma, which is less common but more serious. It’s estimated there are over 100,000 cases of non-melanoma skin cancer in the UK each year. Over the last twenty-five years, rates of malignant melanoma in Britain have risen faster than any other common cancer.
While women lie on a beach covering themselves in every combination of lotion they can find, as if replicating the mating habits of a peacock, men, on the other hand, prefer to burn like bacon in a frying pan, thinking it’s a sign of weakness to use any sun protection.
This is proven in the statistics; men are more likely to develop a malignant melanoma, normally found on their chest or back, and women on their legs.
Nearing the end of the day, the guys’ attention moves from the bronzing bodies around them to the forthcoming BBQ, an extravagant purchase that was acquired along with the oscillating fan and new garden furniture from a retail outlet earlier i
n the year. All purchased in hope of showing off to neighbours and proving to the women that we men can be spontaneous.
Although non-melanoma skin cancer is extremely common, in the vast majority of cases if detected early it’s not life-threatening. Survival rates have been improving for the last twenty-five years and are now among the highest for any cancer. The latest malignant melanoma survival rates show that over eighty percent of men and around ninety percent of women survive the disease for at least five years after diagnosis.
While the men now stand impatiently waiting, shocked that their wives’ faces now look like the skin shed from a snake, their wives give impressions of escapologists as they prise themselves out of their beachwear, their limbs feeling as taut as drum skins, and pulling faces like a tortoise eating lettuce.
So the moral of this column, should you not have got the subtle message by now: the next time the clouds drift away and you get the urge to lie and relax in the sun… Use some sunscreen…
My Story by Paula Glass
Live Life to the Full
Membership: # 11
Everything was going so well in my life, until finding a lump in my collar bone. I had a routine smear test scheduled for March so decided I’d mention the lump to the nurse at the same time. I hoped if nothing else it would put my mind at rest. I was twenty-nine years old and foolishly thought nasty things only happened to older people, which helped dismiss my fears. When the nurse said it wasn’t anything to worry about, I felt a bit stupid for even mentioning it. I went home pleased my smear test was over and relieved my lump hadn’t been anything to worry about either.