Nearly eighteen months have passed since my breast cancer diagnosis. My final chemotherapy treatment was on my 47th birthday (December 20, 2010). I completed radiation treatments almost exactly a year ago. I have hair again. And it’s brown again! Before and after my cancer diagnosis, I worked from home as a freelance writer. Since August 2011, I’ve worked with students at Wake Technical Community College in the Disability Support Services department. I have so much for which to be grateful.

Christmas 2011. ©Darren Vanden Berg

Cancer changes things forever. In my case, I believe things have changed for the better. … That may not be entirely true. A few challenges are still tripping me up, but I can definitely see blessings in many areas of my life. One benefit is the experiences my children had that I never in a million years would have chosen for them. They know the struggles cancer patients and their families face. They know the fear and pain. They also saw the kindness, goodness, generosity, and love of others, some mere aquaintences. They know God’s faithfulness first-hand.

Will he have as much fun when he's the one in the chair?

Armed with these personal experiences, Silas is taking action. He’s “Shaving the Way to Conquer Kids’ Cancer!” My Ringo-Starr-look-alike will have his head shaved on March 3 at Napper Tandy’s Irish Pub, joining more than 50 kids from his school and more than 220 other Raleigh-area participants.

Sponsor Silas at the St. Baldrick’s Foundation website  or by phone at 888-899-BALD. Please consider donating $5 or more to the St. Baldrick’s Foundation and help support pediatric oncology research. To see Silas’s fundraising progress and his “before” and “after” photos, visit his page on the St. Baldrick’s website.

St. Baldrick’s funds more in grants for childhood cancer research than any other organization except the U.S. government. Last year, the Foundation funded nearly $22 million in new grants – all because over 45,000 people shaved their heads. Visit StBaldricks.org for information about the organiztion’s responsible stewardship of your contribution.

Jane Currin

Only my friend Jane could persuade me, not only to attend a Pampered Chef  party, but to host a Pampered Chef party. The reason? I am so thankful to be at the end of my breast cancer journey. This unwelcome experience has given me a heart for cancer research and educating others about prevention. Twenty-five percent of the sales from the party will be donated to the American Cancer Society and used for breast cancer education and early detection programs. Since 2000, Pampered Chef consultants and customers have raised more than $10 million to Help Whip Cancer®!

I hope you’ll join us on Sunday as we celebrate, sample something tasty, enjoy new kitchen toys, and help raise funds for the American Cancer Society.

May 22, 2011 at 2:00 p.m.
Church of the Holy Cross
2301 West Millbrook Rd.
Raleigh, NC 27612

 If you’re unable to join us, you can still help raise money for cancer research by shopping online! Visit www.pamperedchef.biz/janecurrin. Select “Shop Online” and enter “Carolyn Koning” as the host in option 1.

Click here for Jane’s special “pink” recipes!

Did you know?

• That breast cancer is the second most common cancer among women, following skin cancer.
• That the best protection against breast cancer is to detect it early through mammography and good breast health, and prompt treatment if diagnosed.
• That less than 10 percent of breast cancers diagnosed occur in women with a family history of the disease.
• That the estimated five-year survival rate for women diagnosed with breast cancer in its early stages is approximately 98 percent.

Click here to schedule your mammogram reminder.

October 4, 2010

Do you remember this?

The surgical placement of the subcutaneous port was anticipated to be a non-event. I was told I could drive myself to and from the hospital, that I’d feel just peachy following the procedure. It turned out to be one of the most miserable of days of the past eight months. My mother picked me up since, based on what I expected, I sent Paul on to work (in Durham, 45 minutes from Wake Med Cary). Later, my friend Laura and her five children and my two children and my mother had to drive back to Cary to fetch my car while I wallowed in my misery.

Subcutaneous port—April 12, 2011

I still vividly recall the local anesthesia wearing off, the subsequent pain, the unbearably hot temperature in the operating room due to an air conditioning malfunction, and my swollen and bruised arm. However, I’m ( naively?) optimistic as I head back to the OR today. I’m excited about the port being removed. While it was certainly a blessing during chemotherapy and it never actually hurt, the port is uncomfortable and ugly. I’m looking forward to its absence.

Hair progress

I took my first dose this morning. You have to sit upright for 60 minutes afterwards. You can’t eat anything before or for 60 minutes after the dose other than eight ounces of “plain” water (not to be confused with “complex” or “extraordinary” water, I suppose). My oncologist prescribed Boniva because compromised bone density is one of the side effects of the hormone inhibitor I’m taking. Meanwhile, here I sit, upright, longing for coffee and a bowl of cereal.

It’s been over a month since my last post. I hope you haven’t worried terribly about my third degree burns. I finally called the radiologist, and the nurse gave me some fancy cream that solved my problem within a week.

Carolyn & Joan

The reason behind my apparent silence is good news; life has seemed nearly normal. I’ve been especially thankful for recent writing and editing work which has kept me busy. I cover Lily’s soccer carpool on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. I’ve joined Silas as a member of our church’s  Handbell Choir. Add doctor, dental, and orthodontist appointments; church small group; tennis and trumpet lessons; soccer games; Bible study; and tutoring; and our schedule suddenly looks like everyone else’s again.

I’ve had all sorts of follow-up appointments lately. A post-therapy mammogram was clear and established a new baseline. Blood work produced optimistic results. My oncologist explained that my “counts” and “markers” were all good. A bone density test revealed I have “osteopenia,” a precursor to osteoporosis, and consequently, need the Boniva prescription. I’m also taking Arimidex, an estrogen/hormone inhibitor. (I told a few folks I was taking Tamoxifen. I was confused. No Tamoxifen.) My breast cancer was hormone-receptor-positive, so the Arimidex helps decrease my chances of recurrence.

Arimidex side effects

Post radiation surprise from Kate

• weakness (ugh!)
• fatigue (ugh!)
• headache (ugh!)
• mood swings (as if I don’t have enough problems with moods already)
• depression (oh good grief!)
• nausea
• mild diarrhea
• increased or decreased appetite (can I choose?!)
• sweating
• hot flashes
  

  Carolyn, Melissa, Ann & Donna

• temporary hair thinning (not again!)
• joint pain
• bone pain and weakness
• lower bone density

Boniva side effects

• esophagus problems
• low calcium levels in the blood (I thought this stupid stuff was supposed to increase my calcium levels!)
• bone, joint or muscle pain
• severe jaw bone problems
  

  Alicia, Annie Grace, Becky, Carolyn, Mary & Janet

• unusual thigh bone fractures (Again, I thought Boniva is supposed to prevent fractures!)
• muscle spasms, twitches, or cramps
• finger or toe numbness or tingling (More?! I’ve been numb and tingling for six months!)
• back pain
• heartburn
• abdominal pain
  

  Carolyn, Kate, Cathy & Hope

• arm and leg pain
• diarrhea
• headache (ugh!)
• muscle pain (ugh!)
• flu-like symptoms

On a brighter note, I’ve been celebrating the end of cancer. My church family and a few of my dear friends hosted parties to say farewell to my breast cancer. Good riddance!

The last three treatments were “boost” doses. For women with early-stage breast cancer, treated with breast-conserving lumpectomy and radiation, for women like me, an additional “boost” dose of radiation to the original tumor site has been found to reduce the risk of cancer returning in the same breast.

My final treatment was last Wednesday. No changes on Thursday. Everything was still fine on Friday. However, by Saturday, it looked like I had ironed my chest. When I was a high school senior, after a brainless episode involving baby oil, a bikini, Atlantic Beach, and more than 20 hours in the sun,  I had the worst case of sunburn anyone has ever experienced. My current condition tops even the disastrous incident of 1982.

I am truly miserable. I can’t even wear a bra, and unlike some women, I hate not wearing a bra. I’m hardly a rock star. More like a feminist lobster.

It almost feels surreal that the end is here. I praise God for the conclusion of cancer treatments. I’m looking forward to pursuing some semblance of a normal routine. Unfortunately, even in times of good health and relative calm, “normal” has always eluded me. Perhaps this fresh start will give me an advantage.

Thank you for your encouragement  over the past six months. I never could have faced this journey without your prayers, words of inspiration and hope, and practical help.

I go for radiation Monday through Friday, usually at 1:00 p.m. One of the radiation therapists calls me from the waiting room and walks me down the hall, through their control room, and into the therapy room. My name is on one of those binders above the computers and other equipment. The therapists, physicians, and nurses meticulously record all procedures, observations, test results, and details related to each patient’s treatment.

Radiation therapists Jerri & Tim

As I head into the treatment room, I pass through this vault-like door. Once the machine’s settings are correct and I’m in position on the treatment table, the therapists return to their control room and lock this door between them and the radiation (and me).

I change into a hospital gown behind the screen on the far side of the room.

The radiation machine

As I lie on the table on my back, one of the therapists positions the blue foam thing under my knees. The other therapist makes sure my head is turned slightly to the right. I hold the two vertical white bars to keep my arms in position over my head. A therapist maneuvers my body so I’m slightly on my right side. She marks my skin with a marker, emphasizing my little freckle tattoos to ensure that the radiation beam goes precisely to the right location.

My view once I'm in position: The collimator (I think)

Once every detail is perfect, the therapists leave me alone as they return to the control room, locking the vault door behind them. The enormous machine buzzes as it rotates around me. I can’t feel anything at all; it’s like getting an x-ray. I just lie perfectly still (Well, you know, as “perfectly still” as I get). The actual treatment process barely takes five minutes. The therapists return and lower the table. I dress and drive the 30 minutes back to North Raleigh.

Carolyn & the radiation machine

Sylvia is my friend from church who was diagnosed with breast cancer just a few weeks after I was. She’s undergoing a similar course of radiation as I am, but her regular appointments are at 10:00 a.m., so I don’t usually get to see her. I needed to go early today, so it was a happy blessing to run into her at the radiology office.

Carolyn & Sylvia

I took Lily’s small digital camera with me today so I could show you what the equipment, room, and machine look like. Of course, the camera battery was dead. I’ll try again tomorrow.

So far, I have encountered minimal reactions to the radiation. My skin just looks tanned, not red at all. I’m nowhere near as tired as I was during chemo. I may have some swelling, but no pain.

Zoe & Lucy

In the mean time, my mom is doing well, Lily has a bad case of the yucky upper respiratory gunky gunk, Silas has been astounding me with his knowledge of electricity, we hope we’re getting a dog, Lucy and Zoe do not want a dog, the Sigmon guys are building our fence, and Paul is speaking at our church this Sunday.

Uncle Elwood circa 1950

I had heard the story many times. How Dad had nervously journeyed from the balcony at the old Tabernacle Baptist Church to the front of the church, responding in faith to Christ. How his older brother Elwood had joined him along the way to stand beside him. However, I had never heard Elwood’s version.

Richard circa 1950

Uncle Elwood shared this familiar story at Dad’s memorial service. For weeks, he had wanted to demonstrate his faith by going forward during the hymn of invitation, but he said he had struggled to find the courage. Seeing his “baby” brother bravely going forward gave him the confidence he lacked. Uncle Elwood said he was thankful that Dad had helped him at such a pivotal crossroads in his life.

Uncle Elwood and my cousins David and Ken related many accounts of how Dad had helped them and others. Dad was, indeed, generous and kind. I doubt he ever considered himself especially “courageous,” but Uncle Elwood viewed him as brave that particular morning at Tabernacle Baptist Church.

Dad could have provided countless examples of how Elwood and others had helped him along the way and how they had given him courage on many occasions. What a positive example these brothers are for all of us.

Sometimes we need a brother (or a sister or a friend) to show us the way, to come alongside and walk with us, giving us strength and courage. Sometimes we lead by example, encouraging others to be brave.

I’m thankful for my heritage of faith and for these role models. I’m reminded that God gives us others when we need support (as I often have in recent months) and that we can be a source of strength for someone else, sometimes without even realizing the impact of our actions or words.

Elwood, Albert, James, Richard, Grace, Ma Wrenn, Dot circa 1970

I, however, was totally distracted by a single detail, casually mentioned in the 10th paragraph, “she had to go bald to her dad’s funeral.” I thought that was one of the most tragic things I could imagine.

Yet, that was my own fate last week.

I have worn my hats proudly in an effort to defy the sinister disease and subsequent treatment that robbed me of my unenviable limp mousey brown locks. But, on the day of my dad’s memorial service, I so wanted regular hair. It didn’t matter to anyone but me, but it did matter, and I can’t explain why.

To make matters worse, I didn’t have anything that I thought was appropriate to wear. I took a twelve-year-old suit to the cleaners with no intention of wearing it, especially since I knew my mother was planning to wear one almost exactly like it. I genuinely despise shopping for clothes (which is how I ended up in this mess), and I endured five different stores before stumbling across something mildly promising. I purchased a dress I didn’t even like at store number four, just in case, which I now have to return.

On Thursday evening, the outfit dilemma resolved, there was still the issue of my bald head. I remembered a wide-brimmed black hat I had purchased ages ago, but had never worn. Once I unearthed the darn thing, the Belk’s price tag still dangled from its brim. Lily said I looked like Madeline, Paul said I looked like the Jesuit priest in Black Robe, Silas said it looked like a black sombrero, and Mom just hated it without making a particular comparison.

How was I going to conceal my naked noggin during Dad’s service?! I have all sorts of toboggans (or tuques, depending on where you call home) and bucket hats, none of which were remotely suitable for this unwelcome occasion. The pretty ‘20s cloche one of my sisters-in-law gave me just seemed too whimsical or cheery for the situation.

Clothing proved to be an issue for several Konings, so I visited one of our neighbors Friday morning, just a few hours before the service, to borrow a blazer, button-down shirt, and tie for Silas. While at Hope’s house, out of utter desperation, I happened to ask, “You don’t have any hats, do you?” Does Hope have hats?! As it turns out, Hope used to manage a Laura Ashley store, and she has more hats than I do, all very pretty. She easily produced five or six straw hats, but I needed a winter hat. She disappeared up into their third floor, complained about her tall husband storing things beyond her reach, and returned carrying the lovely black felt hat I wore to Dad’s memorial service. God provided a beautiful hat, just in the nick of time, through an unexpected source.

While my wardrobe and bald head should have been the least of my concerns last Friday, I couldn’t help worrying over those details. I still struggled with self-pity over the fact that I was bald at my daddy’s memorial service, but I thank God for his mercy and grace in the midst of our grief. I’m finished with chemo, so I didn’t feel as rotten as I did a month ago. I got the week off from radiation, so I didn’t have to drive back and forth to and from Cary all week. Therefore, I was able to help Mom with the arrangements. I ended up with an acceptable outfit and an attractive way to conceal my smooth dome. And Dad is healed.