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I came to work that November morning expecting a phone call, still hoping it would be good news. I stayed busy working on a story - about what I no longer remember. I was focused on the call. At 10:45 a.m. my phone rang. After the hellos, my radiologist said, "I'm sorry, Lois. The results of your biopsy show it's cancer." Silence on both ends of the phone. "Lois, take a few minutes," he said. "Call me back." I sat - frozen - at my desk. I knew I had to do something. But what? The previous Sunday evening, I had discovered a lump in my right breast. On Monday, I visited my gynecologist, who had ordered a diagnostic mammogram and an ultrasound. On Thursday, I had the tests, and my radiologist performed a biopsy. Now, on Friday, I learned I had breast cancer. I could not believe it. I left my desk to find some privacy. I called my radiologist back. I did not want to be comforted. I wanted a "to do" list. What do I do now? What's next? Who do I see? He listened compassionately, but said he was not allowed to make a referral. "What do you mean?" I was in no mood for medical hair splitting. I didn't need rules. I needed a name. "Are you married?" I asked. Yes, he answered. "If your wife just got this call, where would you send her?" After hanging up, I told myself to take one thing at a time. First things first. I had to tell my boss. I walked over to my editor, McGregor McCance, knelt beside him and whispered, "McGregor, I have cancer." He got up and led me into a room off the main newsroom. Then my tears poured out. I thought of my mother who died of breast cancer in 1990. I remembered her pain. Her chemotherapy treatments. Her radiation visits. Her surgery. Her recurrence. Her suffering. Her death. Now, on the day before the anniversary of her death, I found out I had breast cancer, too. I could not stop crying. McGregor held my hand. I felt his comfort, his compassion. I asked McGregor not to say anything to anyone. I still had to figure out what was happening. He walked me to my car. We hugged. I drove home in a daze. Cancer. I could not get the word out of my mind. None of this made any sense. I had my yearly mammogram in November 2002. "Benign findings." Six months later I had my biannual breast exam. The doctor said I was fine. So how could I have cancer, now, just six months later? My sisters, Judi Caprio and Maria Caliri, live in Rhode Island. They knew about my tests and anxiously awaited the results. As I expected, they reacted with a mixture of anger, sadness and "not again." They had questions, questions, questions. They wanted to know if I would return home to get the "best" treatment. Treatment ... I wasn't there, yet. I didn't even know what kind of cancer I had. Didn't know if it had spread. Didn't know if I would live or die. My life had been turned upside down and I didn't know what was going to happen next. 'Celebrating life' I was seeing a therapist because of relationship issues. I kept my afternoon appointment with him. When I told Ben Owen about my diagnosis I was scared, but I did not know how to express that feeling - or any other feelings. My heart, like a cold bed in winter, had lots of covers over it, and I wasn't going to take them off. In my 49 years that's how I had learned to survive. Ben knew I was scared, and I knew he was going to help me. Later that day, my good friend Peggi Spencer and I decided to make a plan. I needed one, even if it was sketchy. She brought me information about cancer centers, including the breast care center at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. My sisters kept calling. They assured me they would do everything they could to help. I talked to them, but my news still hadn't sunk in. I kept asking how the doctors could have missed this. I was so faithful with my mammograms and six-month check-ups. I wasn't angry. I just wanted to know why, why, why. Peggi talked about medical records, keeping copies of records, making lists of names, titles and phone numbers. Here I was, having just found out I had breast cancer, and now I was thinking about what I had to buy at Staples. When Peggi got ready to leave, I cried. I told her I did not want a mastectomy. I was having a difficult time meeting Mr. Right even with all my parts. Now, I might lose a breast. Who would even want to date me, let alone marry me? My whole sense of womanhood was wrapped up in having two breasts. About 5 o'clock, my managing editor, Rich Martin, called. He told me he was there for me. But I still could not comprehend any of what had happened. I cried. This is awful, I told him. Minutes later, his wife, Margaret, called to invite me to their home for dinner. Toward the end of an evening filled with questions, tears, laughter, prayer and hugs, Margaret popped open a bottle of champagne. "Why are we celebrating?" I asked. "We're celebrating life," she said. Life, I thought. Yeah, I can drink to that. Maybe I will live. So many angels My house quickly became like an annex to a cancer library. You name it; I had it. Books. Magazines. Journals. Phone numbers. People's names. I quickly learned about the cancer organizations that have the most knowledgeable people, who were all too willing to answer any question. I turned to their hot lines so I could talk to volunteers who are breast cancer survivors. They would see me through some difficult nights. I talked to my sister Judi every day. My closest friends - Peggi, Lee Garth, Natalee Waters and her husband Roby Page, Sondy Shiplett and her husband Allen - never left me. They never asked if they could do something. They just did it. They cooked for me, went with me to chemo treatments, spent time with me at home, brought me care packages. Best of all, they listened and never judged or second-guessed me. I was also getting to know God in a way I never thought possible. What a wonderful companion. He never left me. He worked through so many people, so many angels. One of those angels was Terry. We had met at Carilion Breast Care Center on the Thursday I went for my diagnostic mammogram. She was having the same tests I was. She asked who I would see if I needed a biopsy. I mentioned a surgeon who had been recommended by another doctor. She immediately said, "Don't go to him." She told me she was an operating room nurse and didn't like some of the results of this surgeon's work. I had no reason to doubt her. It just felt right that we were at the center at the same time. After my diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound, my radiologist, Dr. James Mullet, told me I needed a biopsy. According to my records, I was supposed to see the doctor whom Terry had warned against. I looked at Dr. Mullet and said, "I'm not going to him. Do you do biopsies?" Yes. "How many have you done?" Oh, about a thousand. "Fine, then you can do mine." He smiled. He did not give me an answer. He simply told me to get dressed. The breast nurse specialist, Catherine Hagan, made the appropriate calls to arrange a timely biopsy. Dr. Mullet performed it at the breast care center. When I left, my affected breast was packed with gauze; an ice pack under my shirt did not help my appearance. "Don't worry, Lois, you look like a lopsided Dolly Parton," a caregiver joked. I smiled. I made it through a tough morning. I wasn't thinking about tomorrow. The doctor The days after my diagnosis were hectic. I felt terrified, confused, overwhelmed. I took time off from work so I could figure out what to do. Do I stay in Roanoke for my medical care? Do I go to Philadelphia so my friend, Dr. Bob Sklaroff, could treat me? Do I go to Boston? Do I go to Johns Hopkins? My first visit with Dr. Paul Carmichael, a surgeon who then practiced at Roanoke Memorial Hospital, provided the answer to my questions. He sat on a stool across from me and Peggi and talked to us for about two hours, always focused on me. I was nervous. He was calm. I needed his humble confidence. His subtle compassion. His knowledge. His patience. I was surprised when he told me I had a choice. I could either have a lumpectomy - removal of the tumor and perhaps some lymph nodes - or a mastectomy - removal of the breast. I thought I would go to the doctor and he would tell me what had to be done. I never expected to have a choice. When he told me my survival chances would be the same with either operation, I knew I wanted to preserve my breast. He ordered a medical resonance imaging test that he hoped would give him clear pictures of my breast and cancer. If the pictures were clear, he knew he could rely on the MRI as a diagnostic tool in the future. On the way home I looked at Peggi and said, "If I'm going under, I want to be in his hands." I had previously made two other appointments at Lewis-Gale to get second opinions. The next morning, a radiation oncologist told me I needed a double mastectomy. Pow! I was hit hard in the stomach. How dare he say something like this when he hadn't even suggested additional tests, like an MRI. He told me that no one in the Roanoke Valley knew how to read an MRI for breast cancer. Damn him. When I talked to a surgeon in the afternoon, he reiterated what Dr. Carmichael had told me. But as we walked out of the office, he told me MRIs were for the "independently wealthy." I was livid. How dare he equate someone's net worth to someone's life? As confident as I was with Dr. Carmichael, I still needed to know more, so I called the Johns Hopkins Breast Center. I talked to a woman who listened intently and asked about the treatment I was going to receive. I told her my doctor had scheduled an MRI. Perfect, she said; that's what I would have had if I were at Johns Hopkins. She never tried to persuade me to come to Baltimore. Instead, she asked the questions and gave me just enough information to guide my decision. She knew where I was, emotionally, and responded accordingly. What a gift! I decided to stay in Roanoke. Holding a rosary The night before my MRI, I called the Rev. Andre Antao, my spiritual mentor, who had moved from Roanoke to North Carolina. He calmly talked away my anxieties and assured me it was OK if I wanted to hold my rosary beads during the procedure. "Father," I said. "These people at the hospital are going to think I'm crazy, wanting to hold my rosary." He explained that, during periods of high stress, what might appear irrational to me really makes sense. As long as the behavior isn't hurting anyone, he said, it shouldn't matter what others think. He did advise me to check if the metal on the beads would interfere with the medical procedure. The next morning I showed up at Roanoke Memorial Hospital and headed toward the nuclear department. I felt like I was walking into Three Mile Island and a reactor would explode. I wore my brave face, but I couldn't fool the technician, Lori Aliff. We said a prayer before she slid me into the MRI machine. Even though I listened to jazz on my headphones, I still heard the cling, clang and booms of the machine. I lay still, face down. My breasts were suspended into two holes. I lay my head to the side. My hands were slightly above my head. I clasped the rosary in one hand. Thirty minutes later I was done. Another big accomplishment. The next step A few days later I got a call from Dr. Mullet, my radiologist. Oh no. Bad news, I immediately thought. It's OK, he said. The MRI results were back. He had consulted with another radiologist and they wanted me to come in for another ultrasound. The MRI had detected something on the other breast. We don't think there's anything wrong, he said, but we want to make sure we cross every t and dot every i. I went nuts. Back to the breast care center. Another radiologist sat on the bed and performed another ultrasound. He talked to me. I tried to relax, but my insides were churning. What's happening? What's he seeing? What am I going to hear? He was quiet, looking closely at images of my breasts on the machine. I was looking, too, at huge patches of gray and clusters of white cells. I knew a lot more than I did when I had the first ultrasound. But I was still scared. Then the doctor smiled and said, "I don't see anything. You have lots of activity in your breasts. But the left one is fine." I thanked God, again. A few days later I was back with Dr. Carmichael. "Given the size of your tumor, I feel it would benefit us if we did neoadjuvant therapy," he said. "Don't you agree?" I knew what that meant: chemotherapy. Dr. Carmichael thought it best for me to have chemo treatments before surgery to shrink my tumor, which measured 4.5 centimeters. Given its size, chances were high the cancer had spread to my lymph nodes. There was no way of knowing that before surgery. But chemo could kill any cancer that had spread. One of Dr. Carmichael's staff members quickly made an appointment for me with Dr. Dan Temeles, a medical oncologist. It happened so fast that I almost couldn't figure out how to get to the cancer center on Jefferson Street. When I got off the elevator, I found a room filled with people. Some had hair. Some had none. Some wore hats. Some wore scarves. Oh, no, I thought. Where am I? What is happening to me? I was taken to an examining room. The doctor walked in, shook my hand and said, "Hi, I'm Dan Temeles." No white coat: jeans, a plaid shirt, a stethoscope around his neck. He talked to me for more than an hour. He shared so much knowledge I felt I could have written an encyclopedia. He listened. He answered my questions. Once again, I knew I was in safe and capable hands. He told me he wanted me to come back for a second visit so I could have time to process what he told me. When I was ready to leave, the tears came. He put his arms around me and assured me everything would be fine. First chemo An ice storm blanketed Roanoke that day in November before my first chemo treatment. Peggi didn't know if she could get out of her driveway to take me to the cancer center. Could I change my appointment? I couldn't. I wouldn't. I called taxi services. No one would commit, not knowing what the morning weather would be like. I was now in high stress. What do I do? My friend Sondy called to see if I was OK for my big day. "Sondy, the storm is here. Suppose I can't get out." "Don't worry about that," she said. "Even if Allen has to come get you in one of his trucks, we'll get you to the center." A huge sense of relief. I slept. Morning came and the ice wasn't as bad as expected. Peggi could get me there. At the cancer center, I anxiously accepted all the smiles and encouragement that came my way. The next thing I knew I was sitting in a leather recliner in the room where patients were getting their chemo treatments. Peggi and Natalee were by my side. My nurse, Cindy Flint, made me feel as if I were the only patient there. My chemo treatments were not the horror I expected because I was given an excellent anti-nausea medicine. I was hooked to an IV, watching a liquid slowly drip from the clear bags into my bloodstream. Dr. Temeles immediately ordered blood tests. Cindy explained each test to me. Then the bomb hit. "Lois, we called your insurance company," Cindy said. "They won't pay for this test unless their lab performs it." What? "No, that's not happening. My test is not going to their lab." I was getting mad. "Can this test be performed, here, or at Carilion?" Absolutely, Cindy said. "Then let's do it now." It's OK, she said. I would just have to sign a waiver, and the cost would be about $100. Give me the pen. Several hours later Dr. Temeles gave me a hug and told everyone within earshot that I had graduated from my first treatment. I had done it! I talked to my sisters that night, and returned to work in a couple of days. I looked the same. I wasn't in any pain. But I had cancer. I went to a breast cancer support group, and, as loving as the women were, I wasn't ready to hear their experiences. Some of their stories scared me. I wondered if those things would happen to me. Reading about women's cancer also frightened me. Several women described one of the chemotherapy drugs that I took as the red devil because of its bright red color. When I told Dr. Temeles that, he cringed. "I call it Kool-Aid with a kick," he said. Cindy called it the Red Angel. Chemo stripped me of my body hair, weakened me, changed my taste buds, lowered my red blood cell count, induced a rash that itched like hell and made my head throb when my hair started to fall out. I freaked out over losing the hair on my head. I cried for weeks. I grieved over the loss of my identity. I remembered the day my mother walked out of her bedroom with her bald head. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't. She saw my shock. We both hurt. Now, I wondered what to say to myself each night before going to sleep, not knowing whether I'd wake up with hair on my head. I concocted an elaborate scheme so I wouldn't have to look in the mirror when I put on my wig or hats. Ben, my therapist, listened to my strategy. He knew that I was filled with stress. He told me to imagine a pipeline that began on the ground and ran up to my heart. He said peace would never find its way up the pipeline if I let anxiety block it. Let go of the fear, he said. I was learning how to accept what I could not control. FACING CANCER After diagnosis - Ask lots of questions. -Ask the doctors to repeat anything you do not understand. - Take one step at a time. -Reach out for help. -Speak up for what you want. Where to find help American Cancer Society 800-227-2345 Y-Me National Breast Cancer Coalition 800-221-2141 Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation 800-462-9273 Virginia Breast Cancer Foundation 800-345-8223 MORE WEB SITES Provides tips on diet and exercise, lifestyle and monetary matters. Research updates and information from breast cancer experts BOOKS "Chemotherapy Gives New Meaning to a Bad Hair Day," by Eileen Marin. How to keep a sense of humor while losing your hair. "Recovering From Breast Cancer," by Diana Stumm. Good ideas for an exercise regimen. "Hope is Contagious -The Breast Cancer Treatment Survival Handbook," by Margit Esser. Excellent. Written by a survivor. "Spinning Straw Into Gold," by Ronnie Kaye. An excellent combination of wit and understanding. "Your Breast Cancer Treatment Handbook," by Judy C. Kneece. A guide to understanding cancer, its treatments and recovery. "A Healthy Weight for Life," American Institute for Cancer Research "Eating Hints for Cancer Patients Before, During & After Treatment," National Institutes of Health; National Cancer Institute "Cancer Fitness," by Anna L. Schwartz. Exercise programs for patients and survivors "Uplift," by Barbara Delinsky. Secrets from the Sisterhood of Breast Cancer Survivors "The Blue Day Book," by Bradley Trevor Greive. A must-read for cheering yourself up. AUDIO "Focus on Healing through Movement and Dance: The Lebed Method of Dance Movement," developed by a breast cancer survivor and a doctor. "You're Not Alone: Conversations with Breast Cancer Survivors and Those Who Love Them," by Voice Arts Publishing Co. More than 20 breast cancer survivors share their experiences, wisdom and advice. VIDEO "Alicethenics: Exercises to Increase Freedom of Movement After Breast Surgery," by Alice Saland. Relaxing and calming. "Better Than Before Fitness, Ltd." Helps women regain a full range of motion in areas affected by breast cancer surgery. |
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