It was the end of summer vacation when my daughters and I went to our yearly gynecologist appointments. Everything was fine,
except for a thickening in my right breast. “You’ve had this before,” the doctor said, “but just to be on the safe side I’m giving you your yearly prescription for a diagnostic mammogram and sonogram if needed.”
I would need it. I got an appointment two weeks later. I wasn’t worried, I had been through this before. I put it in the back of my mind. The mammogram was fine but the nurse said the radiologist wanted a sonogram.
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I’ll never forget the tech leaving to get the radiologist, a sunburst with gears left on the sonogram screen. The radiologist didn’t like the look of it, and ordered a core biopsy. I left the office with a lead weight on my shoulders. The biopsy was like getting your ears pierced, not painful, but scary.
Three days later, my surgeon called: “It’s positive for cancer.”
Dumbfounded, I was trying to think of what to ask when my scientist husband picked up the extension and started firing questions at the surgeon.
I told my daughters and they just hugged me. I made a million phone calls to friends, family, co-workers. Later that week, my husband and I met with another surgeon, my oncologist, my radiologist, a plastic surgeon. I learned about the chemotherapy I would receive, that all of my hair would fall out, that I’d start a seven-week radiation treatment. Everyone agreed a lumpectomy would be best as long as the MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) was clear. I prayed. My surgeon set surgery for the next Monday. Five days away. I didn’t even find out it was definitely going to be a lumpectomy until the night before the surgery.
St. Agnes Hospital had a patient navigator to help me before my surgery and make sure I was never alone. The whole staff was compassionate and reassuring. Everyone was great. I was one of the lucky ones — I was going to wake up with two breasts. And then they found a tiny dot of cancer in one of my sentinel lymph nodes. This meant another surgery to remove the rest of the nodes under my right arm. I begged for a two-week delay so I could meet my class and set up their routine and they agreed. I had time to spend with my family, to pick out a wig, to get everything in order. Surgery and the pathologist revealed only one of 25 nodes was positive for cancer. I was lucky.
There were more meetings. Soon I was ready for my first chemotherapy session. The nurses were the backbone of my well-organized treatment plan at St. Agnes. I like to face everything with humor and they were the most upbeat, positive group of people I have ever met. Somehow I made it through the 16 weeks of chemo with my family, the nurses and the support systems at the hospital and my school. At times I didn’t think I’d make it, but everyone was there to hold me up. My last chemo was Dec. 29 and I had a month to get stronger for radiation. Radiation was a piece of cake compared with chemo. I even made friends — I met up with Bob, a man I went to high school with, who was also going through chemo. We sat together during treatments. Radiation went quickly and I couldn’t wait to get back to work. I started back in April. By the end of the year I was my old self. I never could have gotten through the year without my family, my dog, my friends and the wonderful staff at St. Agnes Hospital. I love them all.
Beth Hazel teaches kindergarten and is one of the faces of the new St. Agnes Breast Center campaign “In Days Not Weeks.” For more on our survivor stories go to daysnotweeks.com.
