Chapter 5: My Friends

Why do people think it's appropriate--or even remotely OK--to tell someone with cancer their own cancer horror stories?

My family does it, my friends do it, even people I barely know feel compelled to tell me the horrific details of the deaths of people they know to cancer.

I don't even want to know that someone you know died of cancer. I can't hear this right now. I know someone who died of cancer--my father died of pancreatic cancer at age 53--but if I dwelt on that, I'd soon be dead, too. The woman you know who had breast cancer two years ago--had a mastectomy, chemo, radiation, the whole nine yards, and is now well and running marathons--that story I want to hear.

Many of these people probably have their own grief and pain, and they need someone to talk to. But a person being treated for cancer is not the right person to tell. I need to hear that I will get well, and I need stories that reinforce that belief. My mind can help make me well, but not if the people around me think that I am dying.

When I got my diagnosis, I did not know a single woman who had had breast cancer and survived. I did know several who had died, including one of my my aunts. This was scary.

A Little Help From My Friends
But let me tell you what my friends did for me in those early weeks: They brought me stories of women who had survived breast cancer. They gave me phone numbers of more women who had survived and who could tell me, with authority, that I would survive it, too.

These women told me that I would cry when my hair fell out, that I would feel sick with chemo, that I would sometimes feel very sorry for myself, that I would laugh sometimes at the indignity of it all, but that I would get through it, as they had.

They were the greatest gift, these stories.

Let me tell you what else my friends do for me:

They drive me to doctor's appointments and chemo treatments, week after week after week. They cook dinner and deliver it to my door at 5 o'clock. (People I don't even know, neighbors of friends, cook dinner for us.)

They drive my children home from school and to chess practice and to Japanese class.

They have the kids over, weekend after weekend, so that I can sleep on my bad days, right after chemo. They take the kids out to have fun: to the Science Center, to the park, to the movies, bowling ... wherever Robin and Akira want to go, someone is there to take them.

They bring me books from the library to read during the long nights when I can't sleep. They clean my house, and wash and fold my laundry. They shop for groceries. They do repairs and take my children Christmas shopping. They bake Christmas cookies.

They bring me vitamins and herbal teas. They bake me brownies. They give me parakeets to replace Spot, my cockatiel that died a couple of days after my first chemo treatment.

They listen to me talk about cancer. (And talk, and talk, and talk.) And they never tell me what to do, they just listen. They tell me I am remarkable. They tell me I am strong. And they tell me they love me and that I will live.

The Checkup, and a Delay
I had a sore throat when I went in for my fifth chemo treatment, which was also my monthly check-up with my oncologist. He took a look at my throat and said, "We'll have to hold your chemo today." I was surprised--the sore throat didn't seem like any big deal--and also dismayed, which in itself is a surprising turn of events for someone who had dreaded chemo as much as I had.

But holding this week's chemo means a week longer till I'm done, and I am counting down the weeks. I wanted to argue with my doctor about it, but decided that didn't make much sense.

My doctor swabbed my throat to run a culture to see what the sore spot was, a viral infection, possibly even herpes, or what he called "chemo toxicity," a reaction to the chemo drug. If it was chemo toxicity, he said, it wouldn't heal if I had my usual chemo dose.

Then we ran through my typical long list of questions, agreed that I was doing very well, and I headed home, feeling oddly bereft without the chemo. I was trying to be philosophical about it--knowing I'd have a much better week than I would have had if I'd been pumped full of poison and sent away to get over it.

Several days later, on Wednesday, I called to get the results of my culture. No virus, no herpes, so that means it's a reaction to the chemo drug, and my doctor will cut my dose. Apparently it isn't unusual to get a smaller dose as the chemo goes on and your blood counts drop.

I go in on Friday and get 26 mg. of doxorubicin instead of my usual 34 mg. I suck on ice chips while the IV is running. It's supposed to help prevent further mouth sores.

Back on track, seven weeks to go. But I want so badly to be finished. I want my life back.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006