Saw this nice article in CancerConnect:
http://cancerconnect.com/groups/brea...-breast-cancer
One woman shares some hard-won wisdom from years of living with metastatic cancer—and encourages laughter along the way.
by Teri Cooper
Borrowed time—technically, that’s what I’m living on. Diagnosed a second time with Stage IV breast cancer metastases to brain, liver, lung and bones, research told me I had two years to live. Fortunately for me, new treatments and good doctors have kept me alive beyond the two years and have inspired the hope of many more. The reality is I can still get hit by a bus tomorrow regardless of my cancer diagnosis, so how has a cancer diagnosis changed my perspective?
For me cancer has been both a blessing and a curse. It has allowed me to get back to things I love, like painting, which is the most relaxing and gratifying thing I can do for myself. I also keep busy with civic groups, ballroom dancing classes, seeing friends, and writing; in other words, “living my life.” In my journey the important thing has been to focus on what I really love and to make time to do it…like traveling and eating ice cream for breakfast! Cancer has taught me what is important to me and how I want to live the rest of my life, regardless of how long it is.
I have also learned that though I haven’t chosen the journey I’m on, I can choose to share the discoveries I’ve made along the way. In some small way, these experiences may help someone else struggling to find their path.
My hair, or the lack thereof, has taught me more than I could have imagined. When I was diagnosed the first time, I started to prepare for the road ahead: I spent a fortune on a wig made of real hair only to find it hot and uncomfortable. In its place, on hot days, I would wear a scarf, and people would inevitably recognize the telltale “cancer coif.” In fact, while out shopping one day, a woman came up to me and identified herself as a fellow survivor: “I recognize that hairdo…I had that too!” She hugged me, and instantly I felt part of a sisterhood.
When I did choose to wear my wig, I found that wearing a wig is very different when you have hair and when you don’t. I found salvation from the irritation the wig caused my skin by placing paper towels between my scalp and the wig to form a cushion to the scalp and absorb the perspiration. (If paper towel manufacturers only knew how thankful I was for the help!)
And finally, having found a wig that is not uncomfortable—it’s synthetic, well-aerated, and looks very natural—people now approach me to ask where I get my hair colored or just to compliment me on my hair. I pause before I answer, but I guess it is mine since I bought it—online, of course!
Since those first days of wig shopping and hair dilemmas, I have finally lost all of my hair. The eyebrow issue was easily solved with an eyebrow pencil, but the trick was finding the eyebrow pencil with the brush attached. Penciling the brow in a shape I liked and using the brush to soften the lines created a more natural look. As for lashes, boy am I glad I had tattoo eyeliner years ago. At last count, I had about five lashes on each eye. (Adding insult to injury, when they fall out, they fall into your eye.) Arm and finally leg hair is gone too. It had seemed so unfair to have to shave my legs and armpits when I had no hair on my head. Now there is equity! On the bright side, I consider how much money I save on hair care products and hair removal.
And yes, years of teasing my husband about being bald finally caught up with me; there I was, post-chemo, with less hair than him. We now joke and say our hair color is “clear.”
Coming to terms with hair loss—and learning to laugh along the way—has been a journey in itself; coping with my prosthetic breast has provided a whole new set of lessons…and laughs. Initially, I went to get my prosthesis and the necessary bras only to end up feeling like I had missile-shaped breasts. I switched back to my regular bras after my incision healed, at first sewing a pocket in for the prosthesis.
After years of doing this I got lazy and would just place the breast in my bras, against the skin, which provided a few memorable moments, like the day I was vigorously digging a hole while gardening and saw what looked like a chicken breast in the dirt. Puzzled, I went to move it with the shovel. Thank goodness I recognized what it was before I touched it: my prosthesis had popped out unnoticed. I stood in the yard laughing at myself; I’m sure the neighbors thought I had lost my mind!
The comic moments that the prosthesis provided were joined by genuine discomfort as I tried to develop a comfortable way to “wear” my new breast. Now, though I still wear my usual bras, I have found a solution for the discomfort of the prosthesis against the skin: I buy a pair of ankle socks and put one on the side that touches the skin. For me this works—as long as I am not doing anything like digging!
Helping my family come to terms with my illness and managing the emotional aspects of this journey has not always been as easy as having a good laugh, but we’ve still managed to find our way. I am a caretaker. I find it eases my mind to look after others, and I’m calmed knowing everyone else is going to be fine. My husband and I talk frequently about cancer and mortality—fortunately for me, he is a psychologist and a good man. My son can question my husband about the cancer without feeling uncomfortable. My stepson calls regularly. I send e-mail updates to my sisters, cousins, and friends because it allows me to give the information without getting emotional. My mother died of AML a few years ago, and my father is a cancer survivor and shows me every day how important it is to enjoy your life. Both have provided good models not only in how to live but in how to say goodbye. Ultimately, I have my faith, and I feel immense support from friends and loved ones.
Managing my hair loss and my prosthetic breast has provided me with just a few of the discoveries I’ve made on this journey, and knowing that my loved ones are taken care of has given me peace at home. The view from the IVth floor is not always pretty, but I hope by sharing what I see, I can help others and maybe share a laugh along the way. There is still joy and hope in my life, and I wish the same thing for all of my fellow survivors.
Outside the Box of a Metastatic Cancer Diagnosis
Remembering that there are exceptions to every rule keeps hope alive in the face of Stage IV breast cancer.