My Cancer History

I was first diagnosed with breast cancer in the fall of 1998, at age 43. Although struggling with shock and denial, I shopped around, getting second and third opinions, and chose the University of Washington Medical Center because of its team approach to diagnosis and treatment, and because of the reputation of medical oncologist Dr. Robert Livingston.

My team of doctors recommended a mastectomy, because I had extensive DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ) in the milk ducts of my breast as well as a tumor. They recommended the surgery be followed by 12 weeks of chemotherapy with doxorubicin.

Looking back, I find it hard to believe how much I agonized over the decision to have chemotherapy. The thought of having a mastectomy didn't bother me nearly as much. But the idea of pumping my body full of poisons that would kill healthy, necessary cells along with the cancer cells was terrifying.

Finally, I decided that it was OK to be afraid of the chemo but to do it anyway.

Throughout my treatment, I was an assertive patient. I went to appointments with lists of questions. I read about cancer, and researched new treatments and drugs. I read about my treatment in medical journals, just to make sure there wasn't something "they" weren't telling me.

My doctors seemed to like this attitude, even when I came in with pages of information printed off the Web. Dr. Livingston always took time to answer my questions, carefully and patiently, with no hint of condescension.

He also had, and has, a knack for distinguishing between a real question and fear disguised as a question. And he will answer the fear behind the question.

By spring of 1999, I was done with treatment, and, I hoped, done with cancer.

But the cancer wasn't done with me. Here's what I wrote in Jeanne's Diary about discovering a new lump:

"There I was, lying in bed on a sunny Sunday morning in July with the newspaper and a cup of coffee, enjoying feeling well. After five months of cancer treatment and five more months of recovery--gaining energy day by day, remaking my life to fit my new values--it was the kind of moment I’d learned to savor: The sun through the blinds, buttery yellow and warm but not too hot; the coffee, strong and rich with cream. And then I rubbed my hand across my chest where my right breast used to be and felt a lump.

"There was little doubt in my mind that I was feeling cancer: a new tumor, just five months after finishing chemotherapy and less than a year after my mastectomy. I didn’t panic. I didn’t tell anyone. But I did call my oncologist at eight the next morning to make an appointment. I had to wait a week to see Dr. Livingston, which was hard, but when I did see him, he had few doubts, either."

Dr. Livingston arranged for me to see my surgeon the next day, and we discussed treatment options. The lump was cancer, a local recurrence, so I had surgery to have the lump removed, followed by five weeks of radiation, and more chemotherapy, this time three months of Taxol.

That round of treatment took me to the end of 1999, and, again, I had every reason to believe the cancer was gone forever.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006