My Fight for Life: Theresa’s Story
Energy levels wane as 'chemo brain' sets in
She sat in the chair in the chemo clinic, waiting for her blood to be drawn. A terry-cloth turban wrapped her head. Her face bore not only the lines of age, but the creases of pain Her skin was colorless, her eyes vacant. She attempted to stand in order to move to another chair, but she couldn’t raise herself without help.
Her struggle made my heart lurch and brought tears to my eyes.
She would, in her anonymous way, become my inspiration, pulling me out of the darkness.
I thought being diagnosed with breast cancer had been the biggest challenge ever faced in my nearly 50 years on this earth. Making decisions about surgery and treatment options initially seemed overwhelming. But those were nothing compared to the physical and emotional effects of chemotherapy treatments. They left me drained, depressed, confused.
Until I saw the lady in the turban.
My first phase of intense “dose dense” chemotherapy treatments began during the warm, early days of summer and ended in the first weeks of fall as leaves began to change color and temperatures began to cool. My treatments came through an IV line and needle inserted through my skin into a portacath in my chest every two weeks. Each treatment lasted three to four hours. Afterwards, I’d be groggy from the medications delivered to me prior to treatment, so I always had to make sure I had someone to drive me home. Then I would spend the rest of the day sleeping on the sofa, covered by my quilt, the breeze created by the overhead fan caressing my face. For the next four or five days I would stay close to home, too wrung out to do much. Although I experienced little of the most dreaded side effects like nausea and vomiting, other side effects began immediately, and took their toll.
Chicken-fried steak and ‘chemo brain’
I had occasional problems with my stomach feeling unsettled, but my appetite remained good over the weeks of treatment. My sense of taste was affected by the chemo treatments — as though my taste buds had been sanded off the surface of my tongue. Even though I was hungry, nothing tasted right ... well, with the exception of chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy.
Battered pieces of steak, fried to a golden brown with white pan gravy poured all over it and mounds of mashed potatoes. Yum!
This form of comfort food tasted great and I craved chicken-fried steak constantly. My family got sick of hearing me ask for it. Despite my affinity for this calorie-laden food, I began to lose weight.
Then I developed a phenomena called “chemo brain,” and my memory and brain function became fuzzy. I’d lose track of a thought, or be unable to perform simple math problems. Writing a simple thank you note seemed tougher than writing the Declaration of Independence. It was almost like my brain had taken a vacation and forgot to tell me. As a result, my beloved pastime of reading became impossible.
My low blood counts caused by the chemo were counteracted with injections to boost cell production, but I still I suffered from chemo-related weakness that made it difficult to walk or stand for any length of time. And although chemotherapy has a toxic cumulative effect on the body — meaning the side effects and their severity tend to increase as the treatments go on — I developed congestive heart failure within days of my first treatment. I became short of breath and swollen. A beta blocker was prescribed to help my heart cope.
In those first weeks, I felt as if every cell in my body was screaming at me — and all at the same time. I tried desperately to disentangle all the sensory information I was receiving. I was feeling spent. And, frankly, I’d become pretty self-absorbed. It was a self-defensive mode of survival. It took a revelation for me to pull myself from the suffocating sense of overload.
Feeling crummy, then a flash of insight
I had several treatments finished when I arrived at the chemo clinic for my weekly injection to boost my white cell production. I walked in feeling crummy As I sat waiting for one of the hard-working nurses to call my name, I looked around the room. And for the first time I saw — not only with my eyes, but with my heart — what was going on around me.
Dozens of recliner chairs lined the walls. Another smaller room, the “quiet room,” held even more recliners. And, to my astonishment and dismay, every single chair was filled with patients receiving treatment. It’s difficult to see so many people receiving treatment, knowing that each chair is filled five days a week, 52 weeks a year.
There are too many of us, I thought.
Near the nurses station, a machine that measures samples of blood sat on a low counter. A chair for patients waiting to have blood drawn sat next to it.
As I waited, I watched that very ill woman in the turban sit in the chair next to the blood analyzer, waiting for her blood to be drawn. She appeared so weak, so frail and deathly ill.
At that moment, I had an epiphany.
I realized that as crummy as I might feel, I did not look or feel as ill as that poor woman did. From that moment on, I became determined to uplift myself from the pools of despair that I’d been in.
Feeling something akin to shame, I decided then and there to look beyond myself and focus on the future. That moment was a turning point in my recovery.
Last chemo treatment
I spent dozens of hours sitting in a recliner at the chemotherapy clinic in Stockton, hooked to an IV line. During those many weeks, I was fortunate enough to meet others going through the same treatment. Some were bald, others had retained their hair. Some were men, others were women. Others patients were being treated for lung cancer, colon cancer or brain cancer. With some, I formed the bonds of friendship through commonality. We exchanged telephone numbers and e-mail addresses. We shared tips on how to endure side effects of the treatments such as altered taste — lemon wedges added to water made it easier to drink. We talked about how to tie scarves around our bald heads and which wig shop to go to.
It was mid-October when the last chemo treatment of this first phase was completed. I survived 16 weeks of intense treatment. So many had complimented me over the weeks, telling me how well I appeared to be enduring my treatments. Little did they know how truly sick I felt most of the time.
But once I’d had that epiphany, I simply chose not to dwell on it.
Pam, the nurse that had taken care of me all those weeks, unhooked my IV on that last day. We talked about the little break I would get before radiation treatments would begin. I’d gone back to work and looked forward to regaining some of my old energy and stamina. We talked about returning for Herceptin treatments after the New Year. I bid goodbye to a couple of fellow chemotherapy patients and I began to gather my things to go home. I no longer needed the sedation medicines as I did in early treatment. I’d progressed to the point that I could now drive myself home. I looked up from my position in the recliner to see the entire oncology nursing staff moving toward me. They were smiling and they began to sing and blow bubbles into the air around me. As they sang and the bubbles floated down onto my upturned palms, I smiled broadly and tears glittered in my eyes.
We were celebrating life.
Those weeks following the end of my chemo treatments were spent getting back into routines at work and at home. My energy began to rebound. I examined my scalp daily, hoping to see some signs of hair re-emerging from that barren plateau. I began to regain some of the weight that I lost. The tingling sensation in my hands and feet was beginning to fade. And I simply appreciated a few weeks free of poking and prodding, blood tests, IV lines and that sharp smell of isopropyl alcohol.
The second phase — radiation
I arrived at the Ben Schaeffer Cancer Institute in Lodi the week before Thanksgiving. A lush green garden, calming waterfall and koi pond greeted me as I walked to the front door. I was scheduled to begin the second phase of my treatment plan: external radiation.
I was introduced to Dr. Harvey Gilbert. He, along with Dr. William Johnson, would be overseeing the radiation treatments to my left chest, armpit and breast. Using a linear accelerator to deliver precise amounts of high-energy radiation, the treatments would stop the reproduction of cancer cells and kill them. I was told that radiation treatments have been proven to increase the overall survival rate of women with breast cancer.
Who am I to argue with success?
Dr. Gilbert reviewed my medical history and medical records. We talked briefly about the course of my treatment, radiation treatments — five days per week for six weeks — and about any side effects that I might experience. The most common complaints were fatigue and burns, similar to a sunburn, to the surface of the skin.
Radiation treatments began right after Thanksgiving. Each treatment was painless, much like receiving an X-ray, and didn’t last more than a few minutes. Usually, it took longer for me to undress and put on a gown that it did to perform the treatment itself. I’d lie on the table with my head tilted to the right and my left arm positioned over my head. Telling me to hold very still, they’d leave the room and watch me from a monitor located on the other side of the heavy lead door.
The machine would click, tap and whir. The computer monitor on the wall would blink while treatment was occurring. When the word “complete” flashed on the screen, the technicians would come into the room, reposition the gantry and treat the area again from a different angle. Weekly blood tests monitored my blood cell level, and I resumed growth factor injections sometime during the course of my treatment to combat low red blood cell production.
Between treatments, I was advised to use aloe vera gel and cornstarch several times a day to combat the effects of radiation treatments to my skin. It was messy, but necessary. It was nearly impossible to wear black during those six weeks. I seemed to leave a dusting of cornstarch in my wake no matter how careful I was, and I never seemed to gain control of the cornstarch fallout. But with the help of that simple treatment, I avoided burns to my skin until the last week of treatment. During those final days, the area over my collarbone became very red and tender.
But the human body truly is amazing, and my skin began to heal immediately after treatments were over. Thankfully, the predicted fatigue never happened. My radiation treatments ended the final week of January, and a certificate awarded to me by the staff for successful completion of treatment now hangs in my office. Eight months had passed since my diagnosis.
Hair sprouts anew
Again, I was granted a reprieve from treatments and medical appointments. I regrouped, thankful for the momentary lull. As each day dawned, I felt stronger and healthier. I could successfully walk a few blocks to the park without getting exhausted. My garden had suffered during my treatment and I attacked the wild strawberries that had invaded it. My brain began to function more normally and I once again enjoyed reading and counted cross stitch. My color returned and the steroid induced puffiness began to fade. By the beginning of February, my hair finally began to sprout. Just like the curly fuzz on the head of a newborn, it slowly, almost cautiously began to re-emerge. My eyebrows and eyelashes grew in much more quickly, and my facial hair grew back at an absolutely alarming rate. For a while, I thought I’d have to resort to shaving to get it under control. But, the growth eventually evened out and I began to look more and more like my old self.
As beautiful and functional as my wig was, I could not wait to ditch it. So when my hair was no more than one half of an inch long, I did just that. I didn’t care that my newly grown curly hair couldn’t be styled or combed neatly into place. I took advantage of its wildness by using gel to make it stick up all over my head. It gave the illusion, at least to my eye, of being longer than it really was. While I didn’t grieve over losing my hair, being bald for over seven months was simply too long. When people complimented me on my new curly “do,” I thanked them and replied that I was simply glad to have hair.
At the end of February, almost a month after completing radiation treatments, I began a new course of treatment at Dr. Prasad Dighe’s office. Herceptin, a monoclonal antibody, is being delivered through my port in weekly treatments. Biological therapies, such as Herceptin, specifically target cancer cells using the body’s own immune system. All other healthy cells are unaffected. I don’t have to fear a return of the side effects experienced with my first round of treatment. The doctors are carefully monitoring my heart function. Damage to the heart is single biggest side effect of Herceptin. Developed to treat Her-2/neu-positive cancers, Herceptin has created quite a buzz in the oncology community. It is showing great promise in reducing recurrence of this aggressive, unpredictable form of breast cancer. It is providing hope when hope can be such a rare commodity.
I have been receiving weekly IV treatments of Herceptin for five months now. I have been told that I will need to continue receiving this treatment until the end of February 2006. By then, 21 months will have passed since my diagnosis. Although I’d love to be finished with treatment now, I need to keep my goal in mind: To remain disease free as long as possible, perhaps forever.
I am doing well. I get tired a little more easily that I used to. But every day my stamina gets better. I was left with a little stiffness in my left arm and shoulder after radiation treatments. But the best news of all: All tests performed up to this point have been negative. So far, I am cancer-free.
I am grateful to medical advances and to those who treated me.
But I am also grateful to the people, some of whom are perfect strangers, who reached out to me on this journey.
They have given me fresh lessons about life, enduring lessons I must share in the final chapter of this odyssey.
For more than a year, Theresa Larson, the News-Sentinel's director of administration, has been fighting breast cancer. This is the story of her ordeal.
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