Aug. 10--Editor's note: New Haven Register Assistant Metro Editor Ann DeMatteo was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. As with hundreds of thousands of other women and their families, the diagnosis hit hard. But like others living with cancer, Ann is moving on and we at the Register asked her if she would share her experience with our readers. She graciously agreed. Below is what will be the first of many columns about her journey.
The closer it came to my first chemotherapy treatment, the more anxious I became. The day before, I was a wreck and did a lot of crying.
After weeks of trying to figure out whether to have a second surgery first or go in for "systemic" treatment, the doctors insisted I stop procrastinating and start chemo to fight off any cancer cells that remained in my body, and the cancer discovered in my lymph nodes.
I soon found out there's nothing like a puncture in your port-a-cath and a huge syringe filled with red Adriamycin to change your attitude from negative to positive.
Let's back up a few months. A huge lump surfaced in my right breast on the night of May 18, and the constant physician parade began.
"Lumpy," as dubbed by my friend, Meg Barone, was the size of a lime ... no tequila included. The mass contained ductal carcinoma in situ and invasive ductal carcinoma: fancy words for the c-word.
Stromal fibrosis -- hardened breast tissue -- had wrapped around the cancer, and that's what more or less brought it to the surface. Though I had felt a twinge or two in my breast in the weeks preceding my diagnosis, and I certainly was more tired than normal and my right arm hurt from time to time, I had never felt anything out of the ordinary.
Doctors said the cancer could have been there "for a while." Because my breast tissue is dense -- I've never had children -- nothing was picked up on the mammograms, even the one from July 2007.
"Lumpy" met his demise on June 9, when he was surgically removed and rightfully dissected into smithereens at the Hospital of Saint Raphael.
The diagnosis hit me over the head like a brick.
Because the invasive cancer can only be seen under a microscope, my surgeon, Dr. John A. Bonadies, didn't get clear margins in the breast, something that can happen.
After chemo ends -- I get eight rounds over 16 weeks -- I will have a lymph node dissection, because one lymph node has tested positive for cancer. More breast tissue will also be excised in order to get a clean margin. A mastectomy is still a possibility, depending on what happens.
And that's not the end of the world, as many women before me will attest.
Look what I have to look forward to.
My very supportive boyfriend, Bob Daley, has joked he'll write a song about a "One-Breasted Babe," if that's what it comes to. I thought the idea was hilarious, and extemporaneously sang a few lines.
From Bob and his family, to my family and everyone in between, I have a wonderful support group. I thank everyone for their much-needed prayers.
But all the support and prayers in the world don't make up for a crummy attitude about chemo.
On July 31, I was sitting in the Hamden office of Medical Oncology & Hematology, emotional and still trying to put off the inevitable.
The port-a-cath was still very uncomfortable. I was nauseated since the July 25 surgery that placed it in my chest wall. Was it infected? Did I really have to do this now? I explained all my complaints to my oncologist, the affable Dr. Johanna M. LaSala.
But make no mistake. LaSala had my number. How about if we take your vitals and your blood and if everything's OK, we'll move forward, she nicely urged.
So, the nurse came in to draw my blood from the port and as soon as the IV went in with a pop, I burst into tears. My mother was hovering, "Be brave, be brave," but that really wasn't it.
I think the tears were the release of the pent-up emotion of the unknown that had plopped itself squarely on my chest, and the fact that I immediately flashed to my dear college friend, Marcia Burel, who lost her life to aplastic anemia, a blood disease, several years ago. I thought about how much Marcia suffered and how vulnerable I felt, and prayed for her.
A few minutes later, the blood tests came back fine, so then the nurse led me into the "treatment room," which brought me to tears again. It is a large room with about 25 reclining chairs on one side, each with a blanket.
It's a cheerful, yet sterile hospital setting with at least six nurses behind a glass partition. A few people were finishing up their treatments at the end of the room when I got there. One of the women happily said, "See you next week" to the nurses, and I said to myself, "Hmm, that woman seems happy." I think she was a child of a patient.
So, I looked at the chairs. The yellow and navy blue blanket beckoned ... yellow and navy are the colors of the national service sorority I joined in college, Omega Phi Alpha. (Side note: the mother of a sorority sister from Texas who I don't even know sent me e-mail greetings upon learning of my diagnosis and said to bring a blanket to chemo. In this office, it's done for you already. Volunteers make them. The Texas woman, you should know, is an eight-year breast cancer survivor. Last week, we learned actress Christina Applegate has breast cancer! I swear breast cancer is outpacing the common cold, but I sure hope its cure comes first.)
So, the first thing nurse Karin gave me was an IV drip of Aloxy, and of course, I cried when she put the IV into the port. Also, the Aloxy gave me an immediate slight headache. She said it does that because it helps the brain's receptors deal with or block the nausea or something like that.
After that was over, there was a huge syringe of the red Adriamycin, the first part of the "chemo cocktail." Then the Cytoxan and the Decadron drips. I was done just before 5 p.m., after arriving in the treatment room two hours earlier.
I left there feeling like my head was off kilter, though my stomach was OK. Went home, rested, wrote some police news for the paper. Answered the phone. Bob visited later and about 8:50 p.m., I took a Compazene for nausea. Went to bed just before 10:30 p.m. Upon touching the pillow, my head was spinning like I had a hangover. I slept like a rock until 2 a.m., when a huge headache woke me up. I tried to get up for Tylenol or even to wait another 45 minutes for more Compazene, but was too tired to move. So, I slept until about 7:30, got up, had something to eat and started the anti-nausea regimen prescribed by the doctor.
After being in a blur for about four days, the side effects have been manageable. A slight sore throat here and there. Sensitivity to the cold. Inability to sleep the full night.
I went back to the doctor's office Friday to have blood drawn, the standard procedure a week after chemotherapy. My white blood cell counts are down, also a typical chemo reaction, and now I have to take an antibiotic and be careful not to catch a cold.
Sitting in the doctor's office, I am staggered by the number of people who also visit. The fellow sitting next to me having his blood drawn. The woman in a white baseball cap who's already lost her hair. An elderly woman coming through the door with a walker. A stunningly pretty older woman supported at the elbow by a younger relative.
My heart goes out to each of them and I say a prayer, wondering what they are fighting.
But one thing is for certain. With the help of dedicated doctors, nurses and medical technicians, powerful drugs and prayers from many, we're in good hands.
And with my new positive attitude in check, I am on my way to healthier living.
-----
To see more of New Haven Register, or to subscribe to the newspaper, go to http://www.nhregister.com.
Copyright (c) 2008, New Haven Register, Conn.
Distributed by McClatchy-Tribune Information Services.
For reprints, email tmsreprints@permissionsgroup.com, call 800-374-7985 or 847-635-6550, send a fax to 847-635-6968, or write to The Permissions Group Inc., 1247 Milwaukee Ave., Suite 303, Glenview, IL 60025, USA.
Singapore:K29,