by Joan Lunden
She removed the Steri-Strips to examine the incisions on my breast and under my right arm. She looked at my breasts and then looked straight at me and said, “The volume of your right breast is definitely smaller after the surgery. How do you feel about that?”
Interestingly, I had looked at them a couple of times, but the right breast had been so swollen from the surgery that I hadn’t noticed a big difference. I guess I hadn’t taken a really good look since the swelling had gone down.
Hey, it wasn’t as bad as what so many other women have to deal with, from mastectomies to total reconstructive surgery.
I made light of it with the doctor, perhaps due to nervousness or maybe just denial. I didn’t want to deal with that reality then. I told her I’d look at my breasts when I got home and I’d let her know how I felt after giving it some thought.
After the exam, I met Dr. Ward in her office, where Jeff was waiting for me. Dr. Ward said nothing about the smaller right boob. Instead, she focused on the success of the surgery, that I had clean margins and the tumor was out of my body. This was all great news.
Then she said she would need to see me for a follow-up in three months.
Just when I thought I was done . . . She hesitated and asked if I was scheduled to do a lot of appearances in the coming weeks. She had heard a lot of people around the hospital saying they were excited that I was going to be speaking at an upcoming educational conference at the hospital. The fact was, while I had canceled all of the October speeches that required me to travel on planes, I had left two local speeches on the docket. One was on Sunday, October 19, and the other was the speech at the hospital, which was scheduled for Saturday, November 8. Dr. Ward was clearly concerned that with just getting over my surgery and starting the next round of chemo, I might be pushing myself too much and, frankly, overdoing it.
Jeff, who is always very protective, agreed.
“Duly noted,” I said to them both.
I mentioned that I was scheduled to do the Today show again the following week, on October 17, but after that, I was relatively free and clear of commitments. As a result of my schedule, we all decided it would be best not to start the next round of chemo as discussed but, rather, wait a week. Not only would that let me get those speeches and the Today show appearance out of the way while feeling better, it would give me a little extra time for my incisions to heal a bit more.
I could easily live with that decision, so I agreed.
I wanted to get started on the second round of chemo as soon as possible so I could get it over with faster. Thankfully, as long as I waited, Dr. Ward gave me the green light to begin, and with that, I was out of there and ready to begin the AC the following week.
While I was in the building, I met with my new prospective oncologist, Dr. Dick Hollister, to discuss doing my next round of chemo closer to home.
I’d already worked with two oncologists along my breast cancer journey, and I had been so happy with them. Now I would have to start all over again with another doctor, a new center, and new nurses. No one likes change. But I knew this was in my best interest. I had received such amazing treatment at the New England Cancer Specialists in Maine. Part of me wanted to get in a car and drive back up there for my next four treatments. Clearly, that was impractical and unreasonable, but the thought crossed my mind.
There was also a concern about whether he would go along with giving me the shorter, more intense regimen—dense-dose AC (ddAC)—in which you get infusions every two weeks instead of every three weeks, which was what I wanted. Although it’s harder on you physically, this regimen would allow me to finish my chemo sooner.
I wanted to like this doctor. It would be incredible to find a chemo induction center in my hometown where I would be comfortable. Doing my chemo sessions close to home without the added pressure of having to go into New York City would make my life so much easier over the next few months.
When we met, I thought Dr. Hollister looked like the sweetest mad scientist you’ve ever met. He wore a long white lab coat, a bright bow tie, and had a white mustache to match. He was absolutely adorable, funny, and very smart. The first thing he wanted to know was whether I’d had a stress echocardiogram. This question telegraphed only one thing to me—that the AC round would be tough on my heart and might cause long-term damage. I’d just had this test prior to my lumpectomy, so I didn’t need another.
Thankfully, I got a great feeling from Dr. Hollister. I could tell he had great compassion and cared deeply for his patients. Dr. Ward, my cancer surgeon, said that she’d handpicked him because she thought I’d enjoy him and that we’d connect.
Boy, was she right!
Later that night, while getting undressed to go to bed, I thought about my appointment with Dr. Ward. I stood in front of the mirror and looked at my breasts. This may have been the first time I really looked at them since I got sick. It was definitely the first time I’d examined them close up since my surgery.
The doctor was right.
My right breast was definitely smaller in size than my left.
Would I need more surgery to fix this?
I presumed I would at some point in time, or I could choose to live this way for the rest of my life.
And if the cancer didn’t kill me, I hoped that would be a very, very long time.
At that moment, though, I couldn’t bear the thought of one more surgery, especially on my boob.
When I awoke the next morning, I was stopped cold in my tracks by an article I spotted in the Huffington Post titled “My Strong Reaction to Joan Lunden’s Bald People Magazine Cover Isn’t What You Might Think.”
In the article, the blogger, both a mommy and a TV producer, wrote about how her grandfather used to tell her that she looked like me when she was a little girl. At the time, she didn’t get the comparison. Somewhere along the way, he had requested and received an autographed photo from me and had sent it to her.
While she was in high school, the blogger’s father was diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer. He bravely battled cancer for just over three years. Ultimately, his brain cancer spread into his bones. He was unconscious on the day she graduated from high school, and he died less than a month later. Though it had been twenty years since her father died, when she saw that photo of me on the cover of People, she wrote, she was filled with hope—for me and for those battling cancer who would get to live the rest of their lives, happy and healthy, in honor of those who hadn’t: in honor of her dad.
Well, you can bet I was floored and touched after reading this blog.
Her grandfather obviously saw something special in her at a very young age—and not because we allegedly looked alike but because there was a sparkle in her eyes and something that made her stand out in the crowd, I am sure. I was happy that she wrote and made the connection. And here we are, still connected, through her father’s battle with cancer and his passing and now my cancer battle. So much has been learned about cancer since the nineties, when her dad struggled with it. I often think about what it must have been like back in the sixties for doctors such as my father. It must have been so challenging, so frustrating, so futile back then. With the amazing medical advances that have been made, many of us diagnosed with cancer today can fight it and live on.
A couple of days after my appointment with Dr. Ward, I decided to talk to Jeff and tell him there was something I hadn’t shared with him in the meeting at her office. I explained to him that my right breast was no longer the same, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.
Jeff took my hand and very sweetly said, “I love you no matter what. You don’t have to worry about that. If you decide to do something about it, I will support you completely. And if you decide not to, it won’t matter to me. I’m not a boob guy, anyway.”
Still, I was worried about it. I knew it was something I’d eventually address. But I didn’t know when or how.
What I was sure of was that the stress wasn’t good for me.
The universe ha
s a way of giving us exactly what we need when we need it the most. You have to pay attention and look for the signs. They’re always there.
That afternoon, while I was contemplating so many things, Beth Bielat, my fitness trainer in Maine, sent me an email that said the following:
Remember,
Rest and reflect
Eat clean
Breathe and meditate
Exercise
And lots of family, support, friends and laughter,
Thinking of you,
Beth
I am incredibly fortunate to have people who take the time to stop and send me important reminders in my life. I’m not sure I would have been affected by a simple email before my cancer journey, but I have a more profound appreciation now. And now that I do have gratitude for this type of support and outreach, it seems to come every day, in droves. It’s the basic Law of Attraction: You get what you put out in the world. Every positive (or negative) event that happens to you is attracted by you.
Good morning Joan.
I’ve been watching you as you’ve shared your cancer journey. You’ve been brave, bold, and beautiful and so wonderfully open.
As a daughter of a two-time survivor, I salute you for arming women with critical information and empowering them to ask the right questions about breast cancer detection and treatment. And I salute you for your honesty in sharing the most intimate of your concerns and challenges along your journey.
With much admiration and respect,
Your longtime fan.
Paula Zahn
I was and continue to be so grateful for these emails from family, friends, colleagues, and strangers who feel like so much more, especially as I was on pins and needles going into my second round of chemo at yet another new place—though after I met everyone in the facility, I found them all to be incredibly nice.
On the morning of my treatment, Jeff and I made the fifteen-minute ride to the oncology center for my nine A.M. infusion. I will concede that, compared to the commute for my other chemo treatments, this short trip was a pleasure!
When we got settled, the oncology nurses opened up my port and checked my blood counts; it was business as usual. I was growing anxious and eager to know my counts, since my body had had well over a month to rebuild after the last round of chemo. I was expecting my counts to be up, or at least I was hoping they’d be.
When the results came back, I was a little disappointed. My white blood cell count was only 5.0; I had expected it to be back up around 7.0. The nurses explained that my body was still feeling the effects of the first bombardment of chemo, and the numbers were reflecting that treatment. The numbers they were more concerned about were my hemoglobin and my hematocrit, which were both alarmingly low. They advised me to take an iron pill and to be sure to eat red meats, dark green leafy veggies, and other foods that provide high sources of iron.
Once I was cleared to start, we got rolling. How much chemo you are given is dependent on your height and your weight. Together they are used to calculate your body surface area (BSA). Almost all chemotherapy drugs are dosed in this manner.
Based on my height and weight (no, I won’t tell you!), I received two full syringes of bright red Adriamycin—which were not administered by the regular drip method but, rather, slowly “pushed” into the tube attached to my port.
(By the way, anyone going through this type of chemo should know that after receiving the Red Devil, you pee red for hours. I called it the “Hawaiian Punch Pee,” because that’s exactly what it looked like.)
While I sat in the chemo chair, hooked up to the tubes giving me my meds, I taped several videos for my breast cancer video blog. One of the videos I shot was thanking all of the women who sent me scrumptious hand-crocheted throws and scarves to keep me warm throughout my treatment. I was surrounded by many of them in the video, each one made by a woman from somewhere in America. It was so heartwarming that people took their time and put in so much effort to make these items for me. I thanked them all and posted the video on my website. I wanted them to know I was receiving their items and how much they meant to me. Giving gratitude helped pass the time and filled my emotional bucket as the chemo dripped into my body.
I was given a lot of anti-nausea medications and steroids that first day. I usually left an infusion flying high from the steroids, and that day was no exception. In fact, the nurses wanted to give me their home addresses so I could go clean out a few closets for them. Those steroids hang around in your system for several days, which made those my favorite days of chemo—if there is such a thing, because once they leave your system, you crash and feel kind of like you have the flu.
When I got home later that day, I checked my email and found a lovely letter from a psychologist I knew through her son, who worked at Camp Takajo.
Hi Joan,
I saw your still, I’m very ashamed to say, enviably, beautiful, hairless face on People magazine and heard your incredible story on television. I don’t know how you do it, but it looks as if you’re thriving, not just surviving cancer. Obviously, the way that you really feel isn’t in the scope of ordinary language. But you do manage to have an inexplicable gift that allows people to connect with you, not just watch. It seems you’ve learned to speak a language that’s just as visceral as informative. And by some magical surge, you miraculously touched my heart and brain at the same time. So I wanted to write you a thank-you note of sorts. I’m sure that I’m just one of the many scared-of-cancer women who feels a little less petrified and has a lot more hope because of you. As a result of you daring so greatly, and allowing yourself to be publicly vulnerable, I have a sense of belonging to that tribe of worrier, warriors who are just a little less scared to join your battle against cancer. Needless to say, it’s a spiritual connection. But it’s there. Let me assure you that our entire family is fighting with you and sending you the most positive energy for a full and speedy recovery.
With awe and hope,
LC
I loved reading that note and truly appreciated the sentiment and connectivity LC felt. I was beginning to understand that my role was growing and my purpose was becoming more defined because of the impact of my willingness to share.
However, it was the following letter I received through my website on the same day that awakened something deep within me and helped me to understand that my true mission was something far bigger. This note really shook me to my core.
Oct 21, 8:29 p.m.
I just wanted to wish you the best in your fight against breast cancer, and tell you how proud I am of you. I also wanted to share some history. My grandmother, Violet Larson, was a 48-year breast cancer survivor when she passed away of natural causes on February 24, 2010, in Sacramento. I was truly blessed to have 45 years with my grandmother. And I really mean truly blessed, because it was your father who performed my grandmother’s radical mastectomy. I am so thankful he was such a talented and gifted surgeon, because from what I was told, it was a difficult surgery. Bottom line, he saved her life and a handful of years later I was born and got to meet a fabulous woman! For many years in Sacramento she led the parade of survivors in the Komen Race. My mother is currently a 15-year breast cancer survivor. So far, I am good, but I know not to mess with family history, and I get my mammograms annually.
So good luck Joan Lunden with your continued fight!
Tracy M.
Okay . . . that was a big WOW!
I sat there motionless, with a tear running down my face, after reading this story about my dad. There was no way I could have imagined getting a message like that. There was a time, not so long ago, when it would have been impossible to connect with strangers on such an intimate level. I never would have known this story or the impact my father had had on Tracy’s family without the access that social media has provided for people.
I absolutely loved that message and was so appreciative that Tracy took the time to share it with me. In the process of doing so, she shared a bit of my own family
story. Reading Tracy’s message conjured up a picture of me as a child, back at my home in Fair Oaks, California. I instantly imagined my dad in our living room, sitting in his big easy chair, surrounded by stacks and stacks of medical journals, which he devoured in his free time. I thought about how he would leave before dawn every morning, often before we awakened, because he had his early rounds and two or sometimes three surgeries a day. Although he had a medical office, he didn’t spend much time there because he was always in surgery—at least that’s how I remember him.
I can’t begin to express how much I enjoy hearing stories about my dad. Since I was only thirteen when he was killed, I didn’t have the chance to know him as an adult. Every now and then I hear from one of his old patients, which gives me a small glimpse into what he was like as a doctor and what he meant to people.
Wanting to know more about my dad a few years ago, I called upon three doctors in Sacramento whom he worked with and was close friends with until he died. I videotaped a sit-down interview with each of them. I learned so much about my father as a doctor, as a friend, and as a dad.
I often struggle to remember what his voice sounded like. I do remember that on weekends when he didn’t have early surgery, he would be around for breakfast. He loved speaking Spanish with me at the kitchen table, since I was studying it in school; he spoke several languages but was rather fluent in Spanish. He was born in Sydney, Australia, was raised in China, moved to the U.S. in his teens, and often traveled to Mexico to deliver medical speeches at cancer conferences, in Spanish.
From his friends and colleagues, I learned that there were no “medical specialties” back when my dad was starting out in medicine in the forties and fifties, so he was what they called a general practitioner. When he was seeing patients, he could be doing anything from setting broken bones to delivering babies. Back in those days, an office visit was two dollars and house calls were five dollars. Dr. James Reece shared an office with Dad for years and told me that he was famous for not only writing a prescription at a house call but also for leaving a twenty-dollar bill under the prescription, knowing when a patient desperately needed the medicine but couldn’t afford it.