CANCER AND BEYOND . A PERSONAL JOURNEY . PART III
- Terry Dance-Bennink
- Jan 13
- 4 min read
July 5, 2010
Day one of radiation. I had my CT scan a few days ago and the technician tattooed three tiny black dots around my left breast to guide the radiation machine. Now it’s time to go into the oven every morning for 16 days. I’ve escaped chemo, but radiation is not a piece of cake, as one well-meaning friend ineptly put it.
My cancer has been caught at an early stage due to a routine mammogram on April 1, 2010. A lumpectomy (partial mastectomy) on April 19 left my boob intact, albeit shrunken and weird-looking. Without radiation and hormonal drug therapy, I face a 15–20% chance of cancer recurring somewhere else in my body.
The first day is tough.
I’m very nervous and in tears as the two gentle technicians position me under the large overhead machine. I have to raise my left arm behind my head and remain very still. The actual treatment lasts only a few minutes, but the thought of being irradiated chills me.
July 8, 2010
As I lie on the radiation table, I try to visualize my healthy cells regrowing after being blasted and the demented cells giving up the ghost. Afterwards I feel a bit dizzy, but a walk on Dallas Road with my husband, Theo, followed by a turtle pecan blizzard at the Dairy Queen, cheers me up.
July 17, 2010
I’m halfway through my radiation treatment and, so far, the side effects are mild. I feel tired and itchy and often wake up at 4 a.m., but that’s about it. I’ve been warned, however, to expect serious fatigue for at least two weeks after treatment ends. Unlike my surgery, I can expect to feel worse as the treatment progresses.
I decide to hand over another editing job to a colleague because I’m just too tired. Maybe it’s time to mentor others and let go of my desire to earn money? But it’s hard to give up my identity as a working woman. I’m only 62.
July 21, 2010
Fatigue hits big time. I feel like a zombie when I wake up. I dream of my beloved 19-year-old puss cat, Tee-tee, dying. A therapeutic touch session at the cancer agency that afternoon calms me down. Volunteers gently stroke my legs, feet and head and brush away the evil spirit of anxiety.
July 27, 2010
I’m done with radiation! I’ve got an itchy rash on my left boob and feel tired, but I’m through with the giant microwave oven. To celebrate, Theo and I sit on the rocks at Gonzales Bay and watch the tide race through the narrows and spot a grey whale. A fitting tribute.
That night, I dream I’m at the ocean and all of a sudden, my mum appears, to my absolute delight (she died 10 years ago). She is so real.
“I wanted to surprise you, dear,” she says gently.
“I’m trying to find my purpose in life now,” I tell her, “and it’s not quite the same as yours.” I used to love our long chats on her big bed overlooking the bare, sandy mountains of southern California.
July 31, 2010
Tee-tee is failing. Her hind legs wobble as she staggers over to my chair and she can no longer leap up onto our bed. She’s down to four pounds and I can feel each one of her ribs. I never had a child, so Tee is my very dearest. I dread her loss.
Please God, let her die without suffering and may I be brave enough to hold her when she goes.
August 2, 2010
I’ve got a really itchy rash on my boob now and feel exhausted. It’s one week after the end of radiation. Cold saline compresses help, along with quiet meditation in my garden and a visit from a close friend.
August 6, 2010
In a powerful dream, I explore two different routes down a mountain. In the first scene, I’m alone on a barren mountain top; a woman holds out her hand and urges me to climb down a very steep ledge. I take her hand and, with great fear, edge my way gingerly down the cliff, clinging to the side.
The scene shifts. A man flies down from the mountain top — free, at ease, gleeful, soaring high above a rich forest. I envy him.
I entitle this dream “Lost but free.” I’ve lost a great deal in the past few months — my breast, my work as an editor and spiritual companion, some beloved elders, my church, my choir, my sense of meaning and purpose, and soon, I will lose my precious cat.
Death preoccupies me, but I must choose my route to life. I can move slowly with caution and guidance or take a flying solo leap into the unknown.
I envy that man in my dream. But I am that man!
The holy speaks to me most clearly through my dreams.
August 18, 2010
Day 3 on Letrozole, a hormonal drug that should decrease the risk of cancer recurring, but it comes with a price — a long list of potential side effects, including osteoporosis and aching muscles. My right leg, thigh and back are, in fact, aching today. Am I imagining things?
August 19, 2010
“For every month of active treatment, expect one month of recovery and grieving,” a counsellor tells us during a breast cancer support group meeting. That’s longer than I thought and sobering to hear. She also suggests we sort our friends into categories. Some are willing to bake casseroles; others are great listeners; some prefer to do practical errands; a few may even have to be avoided for a while.
August 26, 2010
I draw up a long list of all I’ve lost during the past five months, not the least of which is control.
The list of what I’ve gained is much shorter, but it feels good to be honest. And the “gains” are nothing to sneeze at: removal of a cancerous tumour, successful radiation, renewed friendships, more time to spend with my husband and beloved cat, greater appreciation of nature, and the freedom to go deeper on my spiritual journey.
...to be continued...
By Terry Dance-Bennink . First Published in Island Gals Magazine . 2011 . Volume 1 . Issue 3
