A few days
later we trudged to the next of a series of appointments I now had, this one
with an oncologist. My oncologist. I now have a surgeon and an oncologist. Holy
shit.
While we
were anxious to get more information and answers and an actual plan, nothing could have prepared me for the
oncology department that day. I have never felt so confronted.
I think it
must have been one of the busiest days ever because it was absolutely packed. And being the public hospital, there were people
from all walks of life, obviously at different stages of their treatment. Cancer is a great equalizer. It
doesn’t discriminate.
Some people
looked just so, so sick. Some people looked like they’d been chopped apart and
sewn back together. Some people had tubes coming out of them. A lot of people
had no hair. A lot of people looked pale and drawn. Again, I seemed like one of
the youngest people there. It was terrifying and overwhelming.
I have since learnt that no two cases of cancer
are the same. You absolutely cannot predict your journey by looking at others’
journeys. Each case is treated specifically and each person’s body responds
differently.
So my
husband and I found a couple of seats way in the corner and waited. Lesson
number one: there is a lot of waiting
involved in this process.
When we
were eventually called in to see the oncologist, again, I got a sense that I
was being taken under her wing. She also explained in detail what they were
seeing on the scans and the results of the testing. She was careful with her
words and paused a lot to let them sink in.
Her job is
to treat me with chemotherapy. They were suggesting neoadjuvent chemotherapy
(chemotherapy before surgery) as was discussed with the surgeon.
By this
stage I had pretty much talked it over with Thomas and decided that we would go
ahead with chemo first. Fighting cancer is so
much a mind game. And knowing how my mind works, by having chemotherapy
first I would be able to see without a
doubt the result which would (hopefully) be cancer cells shrinking and
dying. There would be no guesswork. If (and the doctors assured me that it was
a big if) the tumour didn’t respond to this chemo, they then would be armed
with useful information and be able to prescribe other courses of treatments.
My
oncologist also explained that chemotherapy’s job is to target any stray cancer
cells that may have escaped from my breast and be floating around my body. We
are talking on a microscopic level. So
it’s kind of like an insurance policy. If I can see the chemo shrinking the
cancer in my breast, there is no way any cells anywhere in my body can survive.
I liked that thought. I needed that reassurance.
The
chemotherapy regime I would have is as follows:
1.
First
4 doses of ‘AC’ chemo. Specifically called “Doxorubicin” and
“Cyclophosphamide”. These will be given every 21 days. You need time to recover
in between the doses.
2.
Then
12 doses of ‘Paclitaxel’ given weekly. Along with “Herceptin” every 3 weeks to
target the Her2 hormone receptors of my cancer.
3.
I
will continue to have Herceptin every 3 weeks for a year total.
So in a
nutshell, about 6 months of chemo. A very daunting prospect but now that I had
a plan, I wanted to get started straight away.
This was a
Friday, they could start me on the Monday. I said, sign me up.
I received
paperwork outlining all the drugs, what they do and all the possible side
effects. I then signed the consent form. I will never forget that somewhere on the form, there were three little
boxes, one of which needs to be ticked. They were reasons for administering
chemotherapy. The first was to induce a
cure. The second and third options were along the lines of prolonging life and relieving symptoms. The first box was ticked in my case. And I
think that’s the exact moment that the positivity took over. She wouldn’t have
ticked the ‘cure’ box if they weren’t expecting a cure right? To my core I felt
such relief.
I met with
the Breast Cancer Care Coordinator
who would be my go-to person for appointments and questions. She actually sat
in on the whole appointment and was taking notes on everything that had to be
organised. Before we left, she took us for a walk around and showed us the day
therapy unit where chemo is given. It was of course, full to the brim.
She was
cheerful and very matter of fact about telling us that it isn’t such a scary
place. No one is dying. No one is screaming or crying in pain or throwing up. I
think she sensed my overwhelm.
I walked
out of the oncology department that day a changed person. So confronted with
what I saw. So overcome that such a department, let alone a whole floor and
building is dedicated to this horrible disease. So sad for all those who don’t
get the “first box ticked” on their chemotherapy consent form.
But I was
ready to go. Ready to do whatever it would take to be rid of my cancer. It
seems the nurse I spoke to during those first couple of days after I was
diagnosed and was stunned with shock was right after all. I had a plan of
attack. I had my warrior on and was ready to fight with all my might.