There is so much I didn’t blog about so I’m going to try to catch up. Time has now passed and things are foggier. I’m going to back up a bit before starting again. I waited 4 to 5 weeks to get my results. I felt confident it would be a similar story to the last time. That time no nodes were involved and radiation was the only thing I had to go through. At the surgeon’s appointment there was the inevitable long wait. He showed up eventually telling me it had gone well, but that one node was positive and one piece of a margin showed some cancer cells. He felt radiation would help that and quickly mentioned that otherwise it might mean some chemo. I asked him if he had an opinion on that and he said he didn’t feel the chemo was warranted in this case. My heart sank knowing that one node was involved. This changed everything. Sadly, my visit lasted only 4 minutes, and seemed hardly worthwhile. The medical oncologist would call me within two weeks and it would be a decision between the two of us. So that was that.
I waited for that phone call for 2 weeks and it didn’t come so I called them and within a couple of hours I had an appointment.
My brother, John, who was visiting us in Toronto, came with me to the medical oncologist appointment. I liked the medical oncologist. He was Irish and very different than the surgeon. This one’s name was Geoffrey Watson. I met with the social worker Victoria and a nurse called Miriam who enrolled me in a study where I would be given a blood test to determine my genetic markers. This would help the rest of my family to determine their risk factors. They will be thrilled. Not. Doctor Watson told me that I would be having chemo, the light kind, or I could decide on a heavier regime. I didn’t have to decide immediately but it would start in January. And, holy cow, more surgery for that pesky margin. I couldn’t believe it. He said, we don’t want this coming back do we and it’s your best chance. I could stop the chemo at any time if I was unable to tolerate it- here my brain switched to they think I may not be able to. This comes from having had my tonsils out when I was 6 years old. The nurses kept visiting me after that surgery asking, do you want to be sick? My 6 year old brain heard this a few times before thinking, they think I will be sick, and I promptly was. Long story about getting my tonsils out, a story for another day. Bottom line, he considered me cured but let’s never let this happen again. It wasn’t till later I wondered how he could say cured in the same breath as cancer cells are still in the margin, that I had had a positive node, and oh yes one tumour was HER positive, not a good thing. And yet he said, your prognosis is excellent. So why did I feel so bad?
After seeing Dr Escallon, I’d felt reasonably relaxed about what lay ahead. This was familiar ground. I’d have the radiation and everything would be as it was. It seems that after I’d seen him things had changed. Were there further results that clinched this new regime? If so, why had they not been available at that meeting and why had I even seen him if everything wasn’t known yet? I don’t suppose I’ll ever know but I do know that the surgeon visit hadn’t prepared me for the visit with Dr Watson.
Right after that I went to see the Radiology oncologist, Jennifer Crooke. She’s at Princess Margaret Hospital, which is next door. We didn’t wait very long to see her and I liked her right away. She was relaxed but efficient, sweeping in like she’d known me a long time. She explained that she’d need to see what St Barts had done to make sure she knew what she could do. She may not be able. She drew some pictures for me of the little lingering cancer cells, explained the different chemo approaches, and explained the HER effect. She said those little complications were unexpected but showed up later. Lucky me. I would probably have a smaller, shorter surgery for that margin, but had anyone discussed a mastectomy with me? Well, no! She said the radiation would make my breast even smaller and harder, but I could have a reduction on the right side to balance things out. I told her I was happier with the thought of fillling out the one on the left with something in my bra. At my age I wasn’t going on any nude calendar after all. Geez.
There were always three of us in those rooms. Both doctors, with their separate styles, were routinely (Dr Croke more personable and empathetic) telling me the facts. John was quiet but later seemed confident things were pretty good. I was the one who was stunned and a little scared. What did all this mean? Was I going to be OK? Why weren’t things going like they did in 2002? And was it really that simple then? Probably not. It was, however, very clear that I was on a very different path this time.