Recently I learned I have breast cancer.
From the moment I learned that I needed a mastectomy, actually bilateral mastectomies, it became evident that my physical appearance will change dramatically over the next year. After the surgery, the treatment will include radiation and chemotherapy. Not only will I lose my breasts, but also my very long hair. I won't be able to have immediate breast reconstruction until after the treatment. For a while, I will be physically "beaten up" by the treatments, so it really won't matter much what I look like because I probably won't care. Excessive fatigue, nausea, vomiting, and severe depression are the standard side effects of the treatments.
Breast cancer has taken away the very undeniable essence of the feminine and nurturing aspects of being a woman.
This is not my deepest concern, though. At this time in my life, having breast cancer has turned my world inside out. Family events, which normally would have taken place in their own time, will now happen on an unnatural time line, one that is measured according to and because of my cancer treatments.
My family consists of my 94-year-old mother, and my grown son who helps me take care of her. We all live together in this sweet little cottage by the pond. We've made a commitment six years ago to come and live with her and take care of her so she could continue to live here instead of going to a nursing home. Now I must betray that promise. I will not be able to care for her, and my son could not possibly care for the both of us. It appears that very soon, our little family will be living in separate housing situations. This is very painful, and breaks my heart every time I sit with my mother at breakfast, or brush her silver hair, or watch her in secret as she covers up her stuffed animals with her shawl before she goes to bed.
The Elder Services are involved, and during their home visits, we discuss arranging her placement during the time of my surgery, but now this period has been extended because of the postoperative treatments. She is present during these conversations and at first she understood and accepted that it would be only for a week or two. I am not sure if she knows this has been changed from temporary to an indefinite living situation at a nursing facility.
She knows I have cancer, but some times she forgets by the end of the day. She is reminded when she comes silently into the living room and sees that I've been crying. Yesterday she took my face in her hands and said, "You are a very brave woman. I love you." She hugged me and kissed me on my face. I cannot imagine what she is thinking. How sad it must be for her if she realizes she is not coming back to her home after all.
She loves us all so dearly, especially her grandson, Jim. She cherishes his company, and she is so proud of him. He is very kind and compassionate, and spends a great deal of time with her, talking about history and current events, and baseball. She loves Chiefy, the little dog Jim brought into this family. We're all a family, even Chiefy, but in a few weeks, we will be separated. It is very painful to think about. Very, very sad.
"Give us this day, our daily bread…."
From the moment I learned that I needed a mastectomy, actually bilateral mastectomies, it became evident that my physical appearance will change dramatically over the next year. After the surgery, the treatment will include radiation and chemotherapy. Not only will I lose my breasts, but also my very long hair. I won't be able to have immediate breast reconstruction until after the treatment. For a while, I will be physically "beaten up" by the treatments, so it really won't matter much what I look like because I probably won't care. Excessive fatigue, nausea, vomiting, and severe depression are the standard side effects of the treatments.
Breast cancer has taken away the very undeniable essence of the feminine and nurturing aspects of being a woman.
This is not my deepest concern, though. At this time in my life, having breast cancer has turned my world inside out. Family events, which normally would have taken place in their own time, will now happen on an unnatural time line, one that is measured according to and because of my cancer treatments.
My family consists of my 94-year-old mother, and my grown son who helps me take care of her. We all live together in this sweet little cottage by the pond. We've made a commitment six years ago to come and live with her and take care of her so she could continue to live here instead of going to a nursing home. Now I must betray that promise. I will not be able to care for her, and my son could not possibly care for the both of us. It appears that very soon, our little family will be living in separate housing situations. This is very painful, and breaks my heart every time I sit with my mother at breakfast, or brush her silver hair, or watch her in secret as she covers up her stuffed animals with her shawl before she goes to bed.
The Elder Services are involved, and during their home visits, we discuss arranging her placement during the time of my surgery, but now this period has been extended because of the postoperative treatments. She is present during these conversations and at first she understood and accepted that it would be only for a week or two. I am not sure if she knows this has been changed from temporary to an indefinite living situation at a nursing facility.
She knows I have cancer, but some times she forgets by the end of the day. She is reminded when she comes silently into the living room and sees that I've been crying. Yesterday she took my face in her hands and said, "You are a very brave woman. I love you." She hugged me and kissed me on my face. I cannot imagine what she is thinking. How sad it must be for her if she realizes she is not coming back to her home after all.
She loves us all so dearly, especially her grandson, Jim. She cherishes his company, and she is so proud of him. He is very kind and compassionate, and spends a great deal of time with her, talking about history and current events, and baseball. She loves Chiefy, the little dog Jim brought into this family. We're all a family, even Chiefy, but in a few weeks, we will be separated. It is very painful to think about. Very, very sad.
"Give us this day, our daily bread…."
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