Adelina, Canada
The Feelings of Cancer
In Trying Times
Lives worldwide were at stake. On March 11, 2020, the World Health Organization declared the novel coronavirus outbreak a global pandemic.
Four months later, I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer.
I twisted my mouth and clenched my fists while I stared at the blanket of stars on that pitch-black July night.
`Why me?" I yelled.
Shaking my head, and eyes closed, the date moved back to the early morning of November 18, 2019.
Laying on the operating table for a knee replacement surgery, I felt a sudden shooting, tingling sensation inside my left breast. Sensing it was my heart, I pointed a finger at it.
“My heart, my heart...painful,” I whimpered.
“No, it is not your heart,” the surgeon whispered.
The right knee replacement surgery proceeded.
Four months later, I noticed my left breast nipple turned inward. My spouse and I deliberated over it and asked, “What made it happen and why?”
I googled “inverted nipple” and learned that a retracted nipple that happens rapidly could be a concern.
I connected with The Cancer Centre branch in our region and was scheduled for breast mammogram imaging on June 23, 2020. It showed a 95% chance of cancer cells in my left breast. A breast biopsy on July 3, 2020, confirmed a malignant tumor.
A feeling of weakness lingered for several days. My face felt hot, and with furrowed brows, I pondered about the knee replacement pre-surgery wellness checks I went through without including a mammogram screening test.
“Why?” I screamed.
Awake, with eyes closed, in the middle of the night, my mind was preoccupied with the birth control pills I had swallowed in the thirteen years gap between my two pregnancies; and, as I aged, the multitude of hormone replacement tablets I took for the prevention of menopausal symptoms.
My tormenting dreams exposed my guilt and self-conceit, instilling within that the tablets fed my vain desire to stay young, agile, and vigorous.
I gulped for air; it was hard to breathe.
However, on bright mornings, I put my chest out whenever I reminisced about my heartbreaking times in Manila as a single mother to two young daughters. At forty years old, I took the first step on a journey of thousands of miles to find the glorious Canadian dream.
It was not easy to find our place in the sun. I worked hard at two jobs, studied early childhood education courses, and tried my best to nourish and guide my girls as they walked their paths toward self-fulfillment.
I lifted my chin when I reflected on how we found solutions and positive possibilities through our eagerness for new learning, determination, and buoyancy. We survived and thrived!
My hands were clasped in prayers as soon as the telephone conversation with my first daughter ended. She quickly collaborated with my family doctor for medical appointments with a Surgical Oncologist in a progressive cancer-based hospital on the mainland.
Also, she offered her penthouse suite to stay in, be taken care of, and be my caregiver and companion to all medical appointments while she performed her sales executive job responsibilities at home.
Away from my island home and spouse, and nervous about the preparations for surgeries and other medical appointments, my feelings were on a roller coaster.
I giggled over silly jokes thrown by folks at my second home. At times, I hummed a happy tune when I received gifts and well wishes from family and friends.
Yet there were times when I could lay on the bed, with narrowed eyes and curled upper lips, or sit by the window, withdrawn from everybody else.
During my pre-surgery visit, the Surgical Oncologist explained.
"We will do a total mastectomy of your left breast."
With both of us, wearing face masks, and one meter apart, I glanced at her, my head tilted to the left side.
"We will remove your left breast, nipple, and several lymph nodes under your left armpit for biopsy." She spoke gently through her facepiece, and I felt her warm connecting gestures.
Then she asked, "Would you like a new breast? It's free."
“No” I blurted and shook my head from side to side. My hands suddenly got cold.
On a Tuesday morning in July, I had a left breast total mastectomy and lymph nodes biopsy.
As I lay sedated on the operating bed, I was directed to move my head sideward, upward, and open my mouth wide. Heavy-eyed, I heard voices, saying "We will breathe for you."
Later, I learned that my surgery required general anesthesia; a breathing tube connected to a respirator was placed into my trachea through my mouth.
I reached for the hands of the nurse at my side when I woke up. She gave me a glass of ice-cold water which numbed my sore throat. My eyes welled in tears.
In the late afternoon of the same day, I was home, wearing a chest binder and a drain. They were life-saving gadgets because the drain removes old blood and fluid that can collect after surgery and the chest binder puts slight pressure over the incision to prevent bleeding.
Still, at times, I sobbed over the pressing tightness on my chest. Sleeping in an inclined position, with two pillows underneath to prop me up planted wrinkles on the middle of my forehead.
Two weeks later, the Surgical Oncologist’s skillful hands removed the drain and chest binder. Immediately, I pressed a palm to my heart and let out a huge breath. Our eyes twinkled.
On a Friday morning in August, I had another meeting with the Surgical Oncologist to clarify and interpret the pathology report following my lymph node biopsy.
She leaned forward, her brows puckered and she announced that the lymph nodes extracted showed the presence of mass cancerous cells and highlighted the probability of their movements through my bones and tissues. Without hesitation, she scheduled a CT scan and bone scan appointment at an affiliate hospital.
“A negative result from these scanning tests means the lymph node surgery would be done soon. A positive result could rule out the surgery, and chemotherapy is the only option.” the doctor warned.
I slumped into the couch when we reached home. Then leaned my head against the glass window and stared at the gray sky. My eyes squinted as I glanced at every cloud formation. “Give me some answers please,” I begged.
The CT scan appointment at an affiliate hospital was scheduled soon. A nurse gave me an intravenous shot of a special dye called contrast material to help the internal structures of my body show up more clearly on the X-ray images.
I lay on a narrow bed enveloped in a tunnel-like machine while a camera on the inside rotated and took a series of digital images from different angles of my chest, arms, and pelvis. Throughout the fifteen minutes of stillness, my heart was pounding, and my lips pressed together.
Another test, the bone scan was scheduled for the following day. At noontime, I had an intravenous injection of the tracer through a vein in my right arm. Two hours later the same day, I lay on a narrow bed, enveloped by a huge imaging machine. A nurse told me that it would move but would stop if it sensed my breathing.
Still, my muscles tighten as the robot’s camera parts move slowly downward and sidewards for forty-five minutes. The downward slow movement was most intimidating, and I felt like the metallic imaging piece could pierce through my frail body.
“'Help, help, help!" I wailed as a part of the machine moved down, a whisper away from my face. I expected to hear a human voice reassuring my safety, but I heard laughter instead.
Nonetheless, the sound of people laughing made me smile and my stiff body dropped down.
Later, a charming nurse helped me get up.
A day later, we welcomed the good news from the Surgical Oncologist; the scanning tests did not show tumor cells yet.
My body swayed to the 1970s music during my morning shower. Eventually, my upper lip curled upon remembering that the lymph node surgery had to be done fast because four of the six lymph nodes removed during the first surgery showed the presence of tumors.
On the morning of August 27, I was prepared for lymph node surgery in the left Axilla.
Although it was my second preparation for surgery in the same hospital room, I felt a rhythmic shaking in my hands, arms, and legs. However, the warm white sheet on me and the sparkling eyes of the masked doctors and nurses gave me a sense of caring and compassion. Soon, I felt comfortable.
I came home with a drain and a tight chest binder. This time, the drain was located at the far end of my left side while the tightness of the chest binder was concentrated below the left armpit.
Through the pain and discomfort, I found refuge in the loving people around me and the simple joy they inspired. My first daughter’s delicious homemade foods and the sweet treats from my grandson made my eyes glow. My cheeks flushed during facetime with my spouse. Videos, texts, and emails of good wishes from my second daughter, brothers, and friends put happy tears in my eyes.
On a sunny September day, my caregiver/daughter and I were in a meeting with the Medical Oncologist, the head of the team in my drug treatments after breast cancer surgery.
Based on the pathology report, the doctor divulged that the cancer cells fed on my female sex hormones, estrogen, and progesterone; nourishing and letting them grow into a tumor size of 4.0 cm. As several cancer cells had already moved to my lymph nodes in the left axilla, she highlighted the possibility of a minute, undetectable cancer cell feeding on my female hormones, although the bone scan and CT scan did not show any trace of them.
When asked if the hormone pills, I had taken in the past could have caused the malignant tumor, she said, without a tie, “They could have contributed.” She emphasized the need for cancer drug treatments, and then presented a treatment plan consisting of sixteen chemotherapy cycles; a cycle is three weeks for the first four and a week for the remaining treatments
Also, she added that after undergoing the series of chemo treatments, I would have a medical meeting with a Radiation Oncologist, who is the head of the team in my next adjuvant therapy, radiation treatments.
I felt exhausted to the limits; my body and mind wilted from weariness.
“Please let me go back to my island home, even for some days!” I begged.
The doctor leaned forward and looked straight at me.“Yes, you can rest for some weeks. Your treatments will start next month.” Her face mask hid her smiles, but her eyes sparkled.
I let out a slight moan, my lips parted. I closed my eyes and thought of home, the ferry ride, and the calm, blue sea.
A day later, in a wee morning hour, a tiny bird flew into our opened glass door by the balcony and hovered over me while I lay on the bed.
My upper lips curled and unable to move, I stared at the winged creature.
My cheeks flushed, my eyes sparkled, and then tears kept on flowing
Could that tiny, beautiful creature be a messenger of hope?
From then on, I turned within to listen and feel more of my thoughts and what my body was saying. I breathed deeply and slowly when I felt like shutting out or when my mind wanted to escape the light and dwell in darkness.
I have braved sixteen intravenous chemotherapy cycles and sixteen radiation treatments.
I have cried over my clumsiness, tiredness, and hair loss as well as gnashed my teeth each time I felt the pinching, squeezing sensations in my joints, and surgical incisions.
I have gagged and thrown up when I smelled certain aromas; my nose wrinkled in distaste for food I disliked.
My fingers clenched, and my toes curled over the stinging, pricking sensation on my burned chest wall.
Until now, tears flowed but my eyes glistened. The strength instilled in my heart by my loving folks especially, my first daughter and caregiver, stayed within and grew into a higher consciousness of hope and perseverance.
Each day through the penthouse glass window, I spread my arms wide as I gazed open-mouthed at the majestic mountains, the fog formation above the Fraser River, and the changing hues of the clouds and sky at sunrise and sunset.
My heart and mind were centered on my wellness and a purpose to teach again. This time, in a classroom with students of early childhood education courses, sharing my challenging yet delightful experiences on the floor with preschoolers.
A voice within says my wishes will manifest soon.