It’s taken a few months for it to really sink in, but my hair is thinning. Rapidly. The bathroom looks like one of my exes has moved back in. If the thinning stopped right now, it would be manageable with a bit of fluffing and arranging over the crown, but I’m afraid it won’t.
I saw my oncologist Tuesday for my 6-month checkup and he confirmed my suspicion — that the aromatase inhibitor (aka AI, either Aromasin or Femara) I’m taking is the culprit. It stops all estrogen synthesis by the adrenal glands, so I’m getting zip, less even than a normal post-menopausal woman would have. The result is thinning hair, leaning toward what is called male-pattern baldness. Continue reading
I saw my oncologist yesterday for my quarterly followup check-up, and as I expected, it was pretty much:
“Hi, how ya doin’?”
“Any new issues?”
“Okay, great. Come back in six months.”
Two years ago, on May 20, 2015, I had my lumpectomy. That was followed with 4 rounds of chemo, 3 weeks apart, and 33 radiation treatments. After that, and after getting rid of a stubborn, gut-busting cough, I started 5 years of hormone treatment (it should be called anti-hormone treatment).
This memorable illustration is making the rounds on social media now, and well it should. With words and visuals anyone can understand, it shows what breast cancer can look like.
Just pausing to note that I saw my oncologist a few days ago for my once-every-4-months checkup. Got some reassurance on a few things:
As I’d read in many places, occasional twinges or stabs in my left breast are normal healing and could continue for some time. If cancer were to recur, it would be elsewhere, outside the area that was treated (ie, somewhere other than the left side of my chest).
Note: I first published this on my primary blog in May 2013. It occurred to me that Curves is an even more relevant venue (although I had only a lumpectomy, not a mastectomy). Unbelievably, even a lot of women who’ve had a mastectomy still mispronounce it.
After months of indecision, I called my oncologist last week and told him I was ready to switch from exemestane (Aromasin) to letrozole (Femara). He’d suggested several months ago that if I wanted to, I could make the change because the letrozole might have fewer, milder side effects. And I’ve been wrestling with the decision ever since.
This song was released last year, about the time I got my cancer diagnosis. I never play music at home but I heard it occasionally on the radio going to and from the Cancer Center. And almost every time the chorus kicked in, I’d start crying and almost drive off the road. It still makes me cry. But I sit a little taller and feel a little stronger, a little more determined when I hear it.
Despite the title of my post a few days ago, today is my real one-year anniversary. My cancer surgery was exactly one year ago, May 20, 2015, and was the first salvo in my war against the invading malignancy.
I hasten to say, however, that I’m not a “hero” for “fighting courageously.” And I’m not “brave” or deserving of praise. Few cancer patients really are, although that’s the way we’re often depicted by others. We really have only one decision to make: We decide to fight and go through whatever treatment the professionals deem necessary, or we decide not to fight and just let the cancer grow and spread until it kills us. Continue reading
Thursday, May 5, I had my first post-surgery mammogram, and for the first time in my life, I was afraid of it. I didn’t know what to expect, but I’d been stressing for a week. My poor left boob had already been biopsied, injected, sliced in two different places, scanned a couple of times, and radiated. It seemed logical that subjecting that abused, scarred tissue to the none-too-gentle clench of a mammogram machine was just asking for pain.