Holding on to Normal

by Alana Somerville

  Chapter 32

  ABIDING SCARS

  My breasts were healing nicely. The bruises were fading, the stitches dissolving, and the scabs falling off. I massaged and moisturized them daily to speed things along. I had nothing to compare them to, but as far as the scars were concerned, I thought my plastic surgeon had done a fantastic job and I was sure they would look great in the end. What I was going through was just a process. It was weird touching my breasts because I had no sensation in my chest. I could feel what I was doing in my hands, obviously, but not in my breasts. And they weren’t smooth and round and supple anymore, either. They were firm, immovable, and a slightly odd shape because of the expanders. I could feel the seams of those near my chest wall. Nothing about them felt natural.

  It was clear that my body had been through a battle. I had been wounded, scarred forever. I was trying not to let that change my life. In fact, in many ways the scars were the only reminder that cancer had wormed its way into my life. That and these new mounds, which were far from the little deflated saggy post-baby boobs that I had seen in the mirror every day.

  I was anxious to move on. There were so many more physical procedures to come before the journey would officially be over, but I decided I would try to embrace my scars the same way that I had embraced the loss of my hair. They made me different. They were proof that I had kicked cancer’s butt.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing we have scars,” I said to my mother. “They show us and others what we’ve overcome. Remind us how strong we truly are. Tell our story.”

  A couple of weeks after the surgery, my mom went back to work and I had to start fending for myself at home with the kids. I was so tired, though. Sleep was a chore. The expanders were hard, sticking out below my skin in some places, and it felt as though they moved around underneath my chest muscle, which was disconcerting. So I slept on my back without a pillow under my head, using one under my knees instead. I definitely didn’t get a deep or restful sleep, and the days became unbearably long. Every once in a while I took an Ativan just so I could get a deep sleep and play catch-up.

  I also had trouble sleeping because I was worried. “I can’t stop thinking about the pathology results,” I said to Greg.

  “No matter how many times we’ve had to wait, it never gets easier, does it?”

  “It doesn’t. I can’t stop thinking about the first ‘fill-up’ with the plastic surgeon, either. I can’t help but wonder if it’ll make everything hurt all over again.”

  There were days when I was home alone with Charley and Rudy that it seemed impossible for me to keep my eyes open, even as early as ten in the morning. One day I was sitting next to the couch while the kids were playing on the floor, and I’m sure I dozed off. I jerked awake suddenly and realized Rudy was up on the couch. I didn’t even notice him crawling up there. What kind of horrible mother am I? I thought. I opened up some windows and made a coffee in an attempt to wake myself up.

  I kept thinking back to when I was a new mom and everyone told me, “Sleep when the baby sleeps!” Like any new mother, though, I did the opposite. I used naptime to do laundry, wash dishes and clean the house. I learned from my mistakes, though, and started heeding that advice. We started a new afternoon ritual: When Rudy went down for a nap, Charley and I would lie down together on the couch. She’d chill out and watch a bit of television, and I could close my eyes for a few minutes. I didn’t ever get a good sleep, but it was a necessity. I took every single opportunity to nap.

  As I got more rest, things started to get better all around. My appetite began to come back, and my energy levels increased a little each day. The thing I was most thrilled about, though, was that my hair was starting to come in again. At first there was just the faintest peach fuzz. I wasn’t even sure I was seeing what I thought I was.

  “Greg, come look!”

  “What?”

  “There’s more hair,” I said. He thought I was crazy. I was constantly asking him to look to see if there was new hair growing in. But there was, and more on the top of my head than on the sides. “I feel like Mr. T!” I joked. “I’m definitely going to have to get a trim any day now to even things out.” And my eyebrows and eyelashes were coming back, too. But while the doctors and nurses had all said my hair would grow in quickly, the process wasn’t as quick as I wanted it to be.

  One day Adriana called me from school. As she’d discovered more about the ordeal I was undergoing, Adriana became committed to the fight against breast cancer—more specifically “my breast cancer,” as she called it. After all, she had been one of the founding members of the Boobie Brigade and also hadn’t hesitated to join the Dinner Club. The fact that I was sick, that I had cancer, didn’t scare her away at all, the way it did a lot of people. “I’ve become one of the organizers of Relay for Life, and I’m looking for team members.”

  “What is the relay, exactly?”

  “I need to get together a team of ten people who’ll take turns walking or running around a track to raise money for the Canadian Cancer Society. The event will take place at the high school in Niagara Falls. It goes on the whole night, and we can bring lots of food, a tent, and maybe even sneak in some wine! It’ll be a fun night!”

  “I’m in!” I was so excited.

  “You don’t even know the nitty-gritty yet.” Adriana said. She was used to my exuberance. “I have to get pledges of at least $100 from each of the ten people I choose to be on my team. Our team needs to raise $1,000 all together.”

  “No worries!” That would be a piece of cake. I sat down and sent out an e-mail to everyone on my list of contacts.

  Erin was the first to respond. “I’m in for $50.”

  People had been so amazingly supportive ever since I’d been diagnosed, I wasn’t surprised when the donations started pouring in from there. It wasn’t long before I reached the goal for my team—then surpassed it.

  I continually told myself that the cancer was gone, but having that confirmed by the pathology results would mean I could rest easy. I was trying so hard not to think about the possibility that there was more cancer, but couldn’t voice my concerns to anyone else. If there was cancer, that would mean radiation, possibly more surgery, even chemotherapy again. I wasn’t prepared for that. I tried not to let those nasty thoughts sneak into my head, but it was so hard.

  The night before my pathology appointment, I went to bed with the same thoughts I’d had before: The news I’ll get tomorrow—good or bad—will change my life. When Greg’s alarm went off in the morning, I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept much. I went out to the kitchen to make coffee and grab a few minutes by myself to try to relax. It didn’t help.

  Greg got up and so did the kids. I needed to shower and get the kids ready to go. Rudy was at last old enough to go to day care, which was a relief.

  “Try not to worry, Alana. I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Greg said as he left.

  I got the kids bundled up and into the car. Luckily they were quiet on the way over to the day care, and Charley was good with the drop-off.

  “I love you,” I said to her as I gave her a big squeeze.

  “I love you, too,” she said, and went off to play with her little friends.

  Rudy had a tough time letting go once in a while, and this was one of those days. Maybe he sensed that I was having a tough time, too. In any case, the day-care worker had to pry him from my arms.

  “He’ll be fine,” she said. “Honestly, he usually stops crying before you even leave the building.” While that might have been true, it just wasn’t a good start to the day. I wiped a tear from my eye, got in the car and turned on the music to distract myself. I still had to pick my mother up. When she saw me, she knew.

  “You’re worried,” she said.

  “I wish we could get the results first,” I said. “But my fill appointment is first.”

  We walked into admitting, and I started scrambling about in my purse.

  “What’s the matter?” Mom asked.

&nbs
p; “I can’t find my health card.” I couldn’t believe it. “What if they postpone or even cancel the fill?”

  “I’m sure they won’t.”

  I explained the situation to the nurse in admitting.

  “Let me look you up.” She typed away on her computer. “I found you. You can go ahead.”

  I was so relieved. We walked down the hallway to the outpatient wing. I wondered how my mother was going to handle the procedure. I didn’t say anything to her about what was going to happen. I figured anticipation would make things worse.

  Before the procedure I had to fill out paperwork at the main reception area. Then I was called into another room to go over my medical history with a nurse and have my blood pressure taken. After that we went back out to wait. There were about five other people waiting, too, and I wondered what they were all there for. “I wonder why mammograms and breast screening are supposed to be most important in women over fifty?” I said to my mother. “Look at everyone here. They’re almost all younger, just like me.” Maybe they weren’t cancer survivors, though. Some of them may have been there for a good old plastic surgery enhancement. If so, I couldn’t help but think, I wish life were that easy.

  When my name was called, Mom and I went to an exam room, where a nurse left a gown with me and asked me to put it on, before she discreetly left. After a moment there was a knock on the door, and Doctor 9, my plastic surgeon, and the nurse who took my blood pressure came in.

  “How are you, Alana? How are you feeling? Any pain or soreness?”

  “I’m quite numb.”

  “That’s not surprising. Why don’t you lie down so I can examine you?”

  He felt around the incision, around my chest wall where the seams of the expanders were, and in my armpit area. There was a little bit of swelling on my left side under my armpit where the drains had been removed.

  “Is that normal?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. It’s just a bit of fluid left over from when the drains were in and should dissipate over time. I’m going to use a magnet to find the port in the expander.” He marked the spot with a pen and filled a needle with saline. “I suggest we start with 60 cubic centimeters in each breast, bringing it up to 180 cubic centimeters, because we don’t know how you’ll feel after this.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said. I was amazed I could talk. The needle was the longest, thickest needle I had ever seen. He pushed it into my breast. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt at all. There was just some pressure.

  He explained, “I’m moving this through the port and into the expander.”

  I looked away, staring into the nurse’s eyes. I definitely did not want to see what was going on.

  “Is it supposed to bend that way?” Mom asked.

  “I have to press down hard to get it in.”

  Mom sat down. The doctor removed the syringe, then repeated the maneuver on the other breast. When he was done, the nurse placed little bandages on each breast, then asked me to sit up slowly and take a deep breath. I did and felt nothing. Nothing at all! I felt exactly the same as I had before I got the fill. The procedure took all of five minutes. I got dressed and Mom and I walked out.

  When we got to the waiting room, Mom said, “I have to sit down, Alana.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I feel woozy. I got all sweaty and queasy when they put those needles in.”

  “Oh, Mom!” I felt so bad. We sat quietly for a few minutes.

  “I feel better now. We better get to your next appointment.”

  In the next waiting room, it seemed to take forever before we were called in. Again, a nurse asked me to disrobe and put on a gown, since my surgeon would want to look at my chest to see how it was healing. After I’d gotten changed, the nurse came back in. “You’ll be happy to hear everything is good. The pathology results all came back negative for cancer.”

  “Sorry, can you repeat that?” I asked. I’d been expecting Doctor 7 to give us the results.

  “The results showed no cancer cells in any of the tissue removed from your body.”

  “I’m cancer free?”

  “Yes, congratulations!” She got ready to leave. “The doctor will be here in just a bit.”

  I couldn’t talk for a minute. The day I had been diagnosed with breast cancer had been a turning point in my life, and now this day was one, too. I turned to my mother. “I’m cancer free!” I felt stunned, and yet I was ecstatic.

  “I knew it! I knew everything would be okay. I’m so happy.” But in a split second she went from beaming to frowning. “Are you upset that all your lymph nodes were removed?”

  “Only to find out there wasn’t any cancer in them? Not at all. I’d rather live my life without the nodes and be certain than have them spared and always wonder.” I knew, regardless, that there was a need for checkups. “I know I’m more likely than the average person to get cancer again, but I’m happy I’ve done everything possible to get rid of it.”

  Doctor 7 came in then and clarified everything the nurse had said. “All of the lymph nodes that were taken out—nine in total—were negative for cancer. The cancerous lump margins were clear, and all of the remaining breast tissue that was removed was negative as well.”

  “Thank you,” I said, grinning. What else could I say?

  I was emotional, yet in many ways, I’d already experienced much more. I’d been on such a huge emotional roller-coaster ride over the past eight months, that these final results simply felt like a big relief.

  Mom and I didn’t say much when we left. I think we felt drained.

  “All I want to do is make a few phone calls, grab some lunch, do some celebratory shopping the way we’d planned, and go home.”

  “Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

  “I want life to get back to normal again.” For such a long time that was what I’d been thinking and hoping for, and now I was almost there. As I was getting ready for bed that night, I still felt fine—no soreness, no pressure on my chest. “I think I’m going to ask for 100 cubic centimeters at the next fill,” I said to Greg. “I want to be bikini ready for the summer!”

  Chapter 33

  WHO ME, A SURVIVOR?

  We arrived at the Relay for Life event early to get our tents and lawn chairs set up and register, even though everything didn’t officially start until seven P.M.

  “Look,” I said to Adriana, “survivors get a special yellow T-shirt!” On the front it had the words Celebrate, Remember, Fight Back. Everyone else in the relay received a blue shirt with similar messages, so the yellow ones made us stand out. It was neat to be able to pick out my comrades in the crowd. I pulled on the shirt. With the initial fill I’d gotten during my surgery and the fill during my first appointment, it was starting to feel like I had breasts again. They were definitely different to the touch, but I had breasts and I was alive. I was happy.

  Adriana told me that survivors would be kicking off the relay with a victory lap, which would be dedicated to all of the people who had been diagnosed with, conquered, or succumbed to cancer.

  “I don’t feel I belong to the survivors group.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said.

  “I think I’m in denial somehow.”

  “Get out there!” She pushed me towards the starting line and the little group of about seven people wearing the yellow T-shirts. As I walked over, I realized that I recognized one of the survivors: a teenage boy named Brock. I used to babysit him when he was little. He’d been just ten months old when he was diagnosed with high-risk acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Because of her son’s diagnosis, Brock’s mother, Lori, had become a huge advocate for pediatric cancer patients and their families. She was a volunteer member of both the provincial and national public issue teams for the Canadian Cancer Society, worked to raise funds, and was also a national family advocate for the national caregiver advisory group in the Canadian Cancer Action Network. I was amazed by how she’d jumped into action when Brock had gotte
n ill. It was emotional to see him, because I never thought we’d be in the same situation, but it was inspiring, too, to see him alive and well sixteen years after all he’d gone through. If he could do it, so could I.

  We started walking around the track, Brock and I beside each other, catching up on life and what his family had been up to since I had seen them last. I didn’t notice it at first, or maybe I tried to block it out and distract myself so that I wouldn’t get emotional, but the crowd of people who were watching and would take part after in the relay started cheering us, quietly at first, then louder and louder. I was startled. I started to cry and kept crying. I couldn’t help but notice that a lot of other people were crying, too, including my group of girls. When we’d finished our victory lap, Lori presented the school with a plaque.

  “Are you okay?” Adriana asked when I joined our team after the presentation.

  “Yeah. It’s weird, but I think that’s the first time I identified myself as a cancer survivor. I’ve never thought about it that way before.”

  “It’s cool.”

  “It is. They’re all great people. But I hope one day everyone in the world will be in another group—the never-had-cancer group.” I almost started crying again. “That we’ll look back on this epidemic, and it will all be in the past—a part of history.”

  Adriana hugged me.

  “Cancer totally sucks,” I said, and we started walking. The weather was rainy on and off, and windy, but everybody had such great energy that the weather couldn’t keep our spirits down as we kept walking into the small hours of the night. “It’s kind of strange, but I’m not that tired,” I said to Adriana around three A.M. when we headed to our lawn chairs to have a bit of a break.

  “Neither am I.” She pulled out some cheese and crackers from the cooler she’d brought. “It must be the adrenaline of the whole thing.”

  “We’ll be exhausted when we get home in a few hours for sure.” Before long, we were up again—we knew that the longer we sat, the harder it would be to get back up. Before we knew it, we could see the sun starting to come up and could smell pancakes cooking. The walk ended at seven A.M., and by that time I was definitely exhausted.