BC Becky

Never thought I'd want to be a breast cancer survivor

Category: One year and counting … again

  • The end of breast self-exams

    The end of breast self-exams

    This is a story written base on reflections my initial year after diagnosis (2016), with added comments about what I’m thinking after my second diagnosis (2024).

    The feature image is from Wikimedia Commons.

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    Introduction

    Before my first diagnosis, I was obsessive about breast self-exams. Every time I showered, I would check, feeling each part carefully. It was just part of my routine—not because I had any family history of cancer, but because of a high school health class. The nurse had brought in these dummy breasts with a “lump” we were supposed to find. I remember how I could never feel it, no matter how hard I tried. That really stuck with me. I was afraid that when it mattered, I wouldn’t feel anything.

    I missed the lesson on looking for changes, not just lumps. Now I can tell you everything you should be looking for in a breast self-exam – changes, not lumps. However, only days after seeing initial changes, I felt a lump. I thought it was a muscle strain at first, but it didn’t hurt and it didn’t go away. It wasn’t a muscle strain, it was a 4.5cm tumour in my left breast. 

    ~~~~ 2016 ~~~~

    It has been a year since my diagnosis and treatment for bilateral breast cancer. I no longer have breasts. I have fat tissue that was transplanted from my stomach to make forms that look like breasts. The breast-self exams I did before don’t make sense anymore. I have no breast tissue. But I also have no sensation, which comes with new risks. 

    One of my new risks is the cold. I have body parts now—my reconstructed breasts, my belly—that I can’t feel. They’re living flesh, warm to the touch, but numb. I have to relearn what “normal” feels like, but also how to check myself to make sure I’m not getting frostbite.

    I’m still exploring what a breast self-exam means for me now. This was how I found my cancer. I used to check every time I showered, and I saw the change almost immediately—a lump, and a strange discharge. But now, I don’t have breasts with breast tissue. My nipples are still there, but they don’t leak anymore. They’re unfeeling and unresponsive, but they’re warm to the touch.

    I still examine my chest, but I’m looking for something else. No lumps—just damage. I’m scanning my skin for signs of anything that could have happened without me noticing, because I can’t feel it.

    Part of my new normal is this constant exploration of my changed body. I trace the areas with no feeling, trying to find the boundaries—where sensation fades from something to nothing. I want to see if these boundaries shift. I’ve been told there’s a chance I might regain some feeling, but nerves can take up to three years to grow back. For now, I’m grateful it’s not winter. I’ll have at least a year or two, maybe more, before I need to think about what snow and freezing temperatures mean for my body.

    ~~~~ 2024 ~~~~

    I am used to my body. My urge to inspect it so closely fades. I stop any form of breast exam in the winter. Now, it’s during the warmer months that I need to check. Instead of worrying about frostbite, I’m prone to heat rash, especially under my breasts. I don’t feel it when it starts; I only notice it later, after it’s become severe. By the time I see it, it needs days of treatment—creams and patience—to calm down. I can’t always tell if the creams are working; I just wait for the rash to fade.

    I stopped looking for cancer years ago. Then came a regional recurrence, in my lymph nodes. They found it on a scan. I couldn’t feel the swollen nodes, even with a 2.5 cm tumour growing in the largest of the five cancerous nodes. My family doctor also could not feel it. That experience stripped away any faith I had in self-exams to detect recurrence. The familiar routine I once had, washing and inspecting my new breasts, has fallen by the wayside, offering no comfort now. All I can rely on are blood tests and scans.

    My new normal feels like my old normal. After a shower, I give myself a quick glance in the mirror, just to check if anything looks wrong. That’s it. I don’t dwell on it. There’s nothing left for me to find. A self-exam in the shower isn’t going to catch cancer if it comes back. So, unconsciously, and now consciously, I’ve moved on from that practice.

  • Letrozole – so far so good

    Letrozole – so far so good

    Back in October, when my oncologist and I agreed I was done with Herceptin, we decided I wouldn’t do anything but let my body heal until January. That’s when I’d give Letrozole a try.

    Stopping Herceptin felt like a relief. For the longest time, I couldn’t distinguish which symptoms were caused by chemo, radiation, COVID, or Herceptin itself. They all blurred together. Eventually, I realized Herceptin was the culprit behind two days of fatigue and flu-like symptoms after every infusion. A week later, my heels would crack so deeply they hurt—a pain that even special creams and heel socks barely managed. My nails became brittle and splintered at the slightest touch, and the skin on my thumbs cracked along the seams of my fingerprints. I’d resort to using crazy glue to hold them together.

    Even after moving from three-week to four-week infusions, I was miserable half the time. I couldn’t imagine continuing until the end of the year.

    My oncologist, who I respect for this wizdom and experience, left the decision up to me. “If the cancer comes back, will you regret stopping early?” he asked. I didn’t even hesitate: “No.” I’ve learned not to regret decisions made with the best information at hand. When my scans came back clear, I stopped Herceptin and allowed my body the time it needed to recover.

    When January arrived, I approached Letrozole with caution. My oncologist reassured me not to dwell on my past experience with hormone therapy. Back then, I started too soon—driven by fear—and as a pre-menopausal woman, the effects were far more severe. This time, I’m post-menopausal, and we’re taking things slow.

    Starting from a different place makes all the difference. It has been not quite two weeks. The initial main side effect: intense back and hip pain. It feels manageable, though, especially with regular exercise like boxing or walking. If I skip a workout, the pain catches up with me, and I crash, needing a 1–2-hour nap every few days.

    But I’ve turned this challenge into motivation. The fear of a sore back pushes me to lace up my shoes and move. I’ve even upgraded my headset for boxing, and I’m having a blast with it!

    As time has passed, the side effects seem to have diminished. That or the regular boxing is doing my body good. Perhaps both are true!

  • My first haircut

    My first haircut

    Last week I had my first post-chemo haircut. This time around, I have taken very few selfies. I really didn’t like how I looked as my hair was coming back. I also didn’t feel the same need to share pictures of me smiling. I didn’t have the same reasons for taking pictures.

    I waited as long as I could stand, but the hair was getting crazy. It has some curl but is also very frizzy. It stuck out on the sides and was long in the back. I dislike the feel of hair on my neck. Fortunately, I was able to find a good hairdresser to create something out of the mess that was my hair. I think she did an excellent job given what she had to work with. It isn’t the hair that I want, but it is much better than it was. I’m OK to be seen in public with it.

    Before
    After

    I don’t remember the date of my surgery, but I’m pretty sure it has passed. I need to look it up – Wednesday August 23. That day came and went this year without me even noticing. It wasn’t the traumatic event that surgery was the first time. I can now say that I’ve been cancer free for one year.

    I’m still in treatment. I’m still taking herceptin. I have spaced out my treatments to every four weeks rather than three weeks. That seems to help reduce the side effects. They like to say that herceptin doesn’t have side effects, but that is compared to the stronger chemo meds that have crazy side effects. Herceptin makes me tired. I lag for a few days or even a week after taking it. Then I get back to normal and feel good until the next cycle. After today, only two more left.

    I don’t know yet what will come next. I thought maybe there would be a scan, but the oncology nurse tells me that in the absence of symptoms there are no scans. I am reminded of the last time I went through this. I hear of people with other cancers doing some kind of regular scan to ensure the cancer hasn’t come back. With beast cancer, if you don’t have any breasts, scans only occur if you have symptoms.

    Next week I’ll see my oncologist in person and we will talk about next steps. My hormone receptor levels were much lower than the first time I had cancer, so I don’t know if hormone therapy is going to be suggested. It was really hard for me the first time, so it isn’t something I’m looking forward to.

    As I enter into this year of ‘now what’, I have the tools I didn’t have the first time. I’m taking an online course to refresh my cognitive based therapy (CBT) tools. These have kept me sane throughout this journey. I also have my mantra, that I repeat whenever I start to worry “In the absence of a diagnosis, I am healthy”. I say it to myself regularly and it helps me stamp out unproductive and unnecessary worry. It lets me get on with my day and get out there and live. At this point in time, I am feeling strong and healthy.

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