Another Fucking Growth Opportunity
Coping With the After-effects of Cancer Treatment
It’s remarkable how you can take your body for granted. The transformation that I went through as a result of breast cancer treatment a year and a half ago continues to shake me on a weekly, if not daily basis. Although I had the best possible diagnosis one could have – the tumor had essentially not become invasive yet and was contained within the milk duct – the choice I made about treatment transformed something that could have been a passing malady into an ongoing disability.
It being winter in Wisconsin, I’d been layering for months, when I went to the recount in late November. That first day, instead of wearing the form fitting sweatshirt I’d had on for a couple of days -- under, of course, my red-and-black, lumberjack-style, fleece-lined flannel jacket. The sweatshirt had applied a modicum of pressure across my torso throughout the day, and when you have lymphedema, you discover that pressure is your friend. It helps keep the lymphatic fluid moving so that your limb (or other body part) doesn’t swell. When I got home after that first afternoon shift at the recount, my left arm was aching, and I wondered if the lack of compression on my chest and torso was the reason.
When I got in to see a lymphedema therapist a week later, she told me that repetitive motions, like slowly turning individual ballots over hundreds of times, can trigger a flare up.
Who knew?
Living with lymphedema is like a God-damned discovery all the fucking time.
I took a hot bath after finishing my last shift at the recount. When my shoulder and arm started to have funny twinges, I wondered if the bath had been a mistake. I knew that hot tubs are a no-no, for example. Here, I was discovered that switching out “bath” for “tub” did nothing to change the “hot” part of the equation, and so, apparently, luxurious soaks have been erased from my chalkboard of relaxation.
It’s frustrating because I often don’t know what is going to trigger an episode – or what did.
A few months ago, I decided to start on my chores first thing one weekend morning. I got the vacuum cleaner out of the closet and carried it down the hall with my left arm, the side where the surgeon had removed the lymph node. By the time I made it to the kitchen, some 20 feet from the closet, my arm was protesting. It throbbed from the armpit down to my hand for the entire day. Because I carried the vacuum cleaner some 20 feet.
When I was going through the surgical part of my cancer treatment last year, the medical staff told me that having just one lymph node removed wasn’t likely to cause any problems.
My surgeon gave me the option of not doing it. She said it wasn’t only beneficial about half of the time, so she left it up to me.
The three other doctors I spoke with all leaned towards doing it. One of them said that if I were his wife, he would recommend it. That warmed my heart.
My intuition didn’t fall for it, though.
Still, when the day for the radioactive dye injection came, I felt like I was walking myself into a mistake.
I cried, a lot. But I still listened to other people.
Now I’m paying the price, and it sucks.
It is a massive lesson.
Not so long ago, I had a realization that living with lymphedema is sort of like adjusting to living with diabetes. There are things you can do to keep it under control, and coping successfully means accepting that you are now subject to different rules. From here on out, I’m going to have to be much more careful about what I lift, how I exercise, and whether I nick my left hand or arm. Shoveling snow is revealing itself to be problematic, definitely an issue if you live in Wisconsin.
This change feels like a massive loss when I think about the ease with which I did so many things just 18 months ago. And adjusting to that loss has been both a psychological and a physical challenge.
Recently, I talked with a friend who has MS about this. She confided that there are days she hides in her bathroom to cry about the way her body is changing. It validated my own frustrations and grieving.
In the end, though, I’m here. I’m healthy, I have a solid support network, I have insurance, and I’m moving forward, even if that looks and feels very different from what I imagined for myself. There’s probably a very Buddhist – or 12-step – lesson here. I wouldn’t have chosen these circumstances, but they’re the ones I’ve got. So, can I make peace with this and love myself and my life as it is?
Have you ever heard of Arise Virtual Solutions? No, well, read this story from ProPublica about the company’s rejection of a Department of Labor investigation that charged the company with owing more than $14 million in back pay to its employees.
Lisa Davis provided editing support for this essay. You can reach her at mslisadavis64@gmail.com