Good News Is Gospill

“SO, WHAT PRESCRIPTION DO YOU HAVE TO BE ON FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE?” My college friend was comparing breast cancer treatment notes with me. His wife was sick for years, and now faces a lifetime of medication.

“I’m not on anything,” I responded a little too quickly and dismissively. He seemed a bit crestfallen. Maybe I said something like, “We found it, removed it, studied it, chemo’d it, and I was sent on my merry way.” 

But that’s not the whole story, and I need to apologize. Even 20 years later, my body — inside and out — has been impacted by breast cancer in ways no one ever tells you about. Or at least they didn’t 20 years ago.

Sure, I’ve got fake boobs, or mounds, actually. They don’t fit in bras, but who cares? I also have no feeling, but they let me know they’re there every time I undress. They have nasty scars tracing from my former nipples to my armpits. (As I age, at least the scars are fading — but so are the fake nipples and areolas that were constructed and tattooed onto me.)

My shoulders and neck have been in constant pain. For years following my surgery, I repeatedly asked my breast surgeon if I was dropped during my mastectomy (!). She kept suggesting an epidural, but I wanted to know the cause of my pain, first. She could never explain it to me. A few years later, I finally went to an orthopedic surgeon, who sent me to pain management for “trigger-point shots” and an Rx for massage plus another for naproxen, which I continue to adhere to today (so I guess I do have some longstanding Rx’s!)

One day, I simply walked into Massage Envy and signed up. I had the incredible luck of getting a therapist — Micha the Giant Dutchman — who really knew what he was doing. And what had happened to me: “Frozen shoulder,” it’s called. When he finally got my shoulder to rotate, I cried. In fear and relief.

Today, my pectoral muscles scream every time I stretch; “post-mastectomy nerve pain.” I’ve been seeing a massage therapist and pain management provider ever since. Sometimes more than once a month.

I have super-soft, recessed gums, bridgework, and a missing molar. Dentists and techs I’ve spoken to aren’t surprised when I tell them I’m a longtime cancer survivor. Cancer treatment, including chemotherapy, can have lasting effects on oral and dental health — though 20 years later, no one can neatly draw a line from chemo to every problem in my mouth. Unfortunately, health insurance doesn’t see any connection. And we all know how modest dental insurance is for major work.

Also, possibly thanks to chemo, my very large red blood cells have confounded doctors for at least a decade. Macrocytosis can have plenty of causes, but science now knows much more about the long-term changes chemotherapy can leave behind in blood-forming cells. Not definitely, but chemo might have been what mutated my blood cells. Avengers, here I come!

I’m exceptionally lachrymose this time of year, every year. For the past 20 years. That’s right, I’m a big crybaby. In an instant, I can recall the fear, anxiety, anger, awareness (and gratitude) for my own mortality. 

It’s been 20 years. Twenty years experiencing the privilege of getting older. And 20 years of learning that “cancer free” doesn’t necessarily mean cancer is finished with you.

So, back to my college friend: I owe you an apology. You asked what prescription I have to be on for the rest of my life, and I said, “Nothing.” 

Turns out, that wasn’t quite true. But 20 years later, I’m still here. Still walking for awareness. Still crying. And still extraordinarily grateful that I can.