The other night I was at a family party, laughing and eating and chatting away with everyone, when another guest arrived. She walked slowly, tentatively as if it hurt to move. She wore a heavy coat even though it’s August because she gets chilled so easily. And her face was pale, with sunken eyes. I heard one of her relatives whispering about her having just taken a Compazine to try to calm the nausea.
A feeling of nausea suddenly rushed over me – it brought me right back to one year ago. Getting poked repeatedly to try to find a decent vein for the IV before we gave up and had the port put in. Feeling sick on the way to the hospital just because I knew what was coming. Sitting in the big comfy infusion chair, wrapped in heated blankets. Trying to smile and laugh as my family and friends tried to distract me and keep my spirits up, as the poison rushed through my veins. Feeling loopy on the ride home – and then sick for days.
I am so lucky. That was a short period in time for me – and every day it gets buried further in my past and becomes a smaller percentage of my overall life. This woman – as so many others – is not so lucky. It’s too late, they explained to me after she left. They’ve done all they can but it’s spread so much there’s nothing else they can do, except try to keep her comfortable. My heart ached for her and her family. And my mind raced, repeatedly thanking God for letting me find that lump when I did, and for being able to stop the cancer in its tracks.
I am scared all the time. I, like many survivors I know, see Tamoxifen as my wonder drug. As long as I’m on it, it will ward off the recurrence. I should be safe. But what then? There is no telling. A lot can happen in a few years – particularly in research and development. Maybe by then they will be able to not only detect earlier, but prevent – and cure. So I have hope.
It all takes money, though. This is why I’m doing the Jimmy Fund Boston Marathon Walk on Sunday, September 8. I want to do everything I can to stop this monster of a disease. Please join our team – Team Inspire Boston – and walk with us, or sponsor me. You can walk 3 miles, 5 miles, 13.1 miles or the full marathon: 26.2 miles. No matter what you decide – to walk or sponsor us (and no amount is too small – every cent counts!) – you will be helping to kick cancer and helping people like me (and maybe you) live a longer, happier life. Thank you.
Amy's America 
Hi Amy,
I enjoyed reading your story. I too went through chemo last summer and am on Tamoxifen for 21/2 years and then another drug for 2 1/2 years more. I know what you mean about the uncertainty. No one really knows if the cancer will come back. What should I look for? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life worrying but I do have an entirely new perspective. Treasure your life and your loved ones. Don’t spend energy or time worrying about the small stuff. You look like you are embracing your life and I really believe that attitude will enhance your health. You are beautiful and your wig looks just like mine! I don’t wear it much because my hair is growing back. Take care. You have inspired me to do the walk!
Hi Maureen,
I am so glad to hear you’re doing well and have such a great attitude and perspective – some just can’t see through the bad, or get frozen in the future uncertainty. I’ve asked repeatedly what to watch for, and it’s really the same as everyone. It drives me crazy that there’s not a blood test or scan – but know even medicine has its limitations, and that some things will tell you more than you want or need to know… As for the wigs and hair – I had many wigs, but didn’t wear them for too long – ended up just being bald most of the time, and now have a full head of short curls. I refuse to complain about them because at least it’s hair! Anyway, thank you! Thank you for checking out my blog, for your words of encouragement and for now doing the walk! You’re welcome to join us on our team if you don’t have one! http://www.jimmyfundwalk.org/2013/teaminspireboston (and there’s $5 off registration with code JF2013).
Cheers,
Amy