GET IT OUT NOW
It was all so surreal and things were moving fast. On the Thursday night of the diagnosis, my husband—to—be and I went online and read everything we could find on breast cancer. We had one evening to become so—called "instant experts." I met with the breast surgeon again the next day after leaving the radiologist office. The speed at which I received my diagnosis must be some type of record, Friday, March 10th. He said the tumor was about 1.5 CM, and due to its location, would require a total mastectomy. The other breast was fine, but I found out quickly that many chose to remove both regardless. I quickly decided that for me, one was better than none, but I wanted the cancer OUT NOW. Yes folks, no second, third, or fourth opinion for me, no more time for this tumor to grow any larger. My surgery and treatment, ACT, was what has been referred to as "boiler plate" for my diagnosis. I decided that what had aided me in business would come to the rescue now...ACT IMMEDIATELY. DO NOT PROCRASTINATE OR DELAY THE INEVITABLE. GET IT DONE, GET IT OUT! So I scheduled my surgery for the following Friday, St. Patrick’s Day, March 17, 2006. Diagnosis: Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, Stage 1, size 1.5 CM, Negative Lymph node involvement and hormonal receptors.
I also did not spend a lot of time thinking about my career and what the cancer diagnosis would do to it. I wear my heart (and life) on my sleeve, so I did what I thought everyone must do. I came "out" to my boss while in the mammography clinic. What, wait until Monday to tell him? I knew that everyone’s support, in both my nuclear and work family, would be critical to my recovery. In an appearance—oriented business, where a pimple is noticed (yes, Hearst Magazines is 75% female), my therapy would not be easily hidden. There was no denial on my part; I knew in my gut that chemotherapy would be necessary.
And then there was my staff. I decided the best way to handle this challenge was the same way I have handled others, bluntly and with humor. I wanted to control the dialogue, not let "whisper down the lane" occur. I figured that if I did not tell them my own story, by the time it got repeated to the last person on my staff, I would have a terminal prognosis, which was not the case. So, I called the team into the conference room, and of course, they all felt a sense of relief when they realized that I was not leaving. My news was split into good and bad.
The bad news, of course, was that I needed to have a mastectomy and chemotherapy...and the good news was that my prognosis was excellent. I enlisted their help...both personally and professionally. I explained that my travel would be curtailed during treatment and that I probably would not be able to keep my frenetic schedule. I urged them to get sonograms as well as a mammography. I told them Ed was so proud he found the lump and he had offered to do breast exams on any female staff members "free of charge". Then a male staff member said he felt something unusual in his prostate; would Ed be willing to check that as well?? I know this sounds a little "un—PC", but the laughter helped balance the seriousness of my words.
Next, the underground of survivors began to emerge. Women in my office, clients, acquaintances, all came forward to show their support (and share their stories) after my very public announcement. How did I not know they were survivors until now? I vowed to serve as a role model, so people around me would use me as a cancer resource.
I loved my oncologist, Dr Ruth Oratz, from the moment I met her. She was warm, funny; with a small, feminine "boutique" like office (I love personal attention). Ed told me he knew I would hire her when she complemented me on my hair and asked where I got it done. When I told her proudly that my wedding invitations had arrived the night before my mastectomy and that I would move forward and focus on this happy occasion, she offered some advice. First, she gave me an extra week "off" after my fourth treatment (so that I would feel as good as possible at my June wedding). Then she said, "The A and the C are the atom bombs of chemotherapy. You will need to find a great makeup artist for your wedding, because you are NOT going to be at your prettiest." All I could think about was walking down the aisle looking like the bride of Frankenstein. That is when Look Good...Feel Better popped into my head. I felt so fortunate that I knew about this fantastic organization through Personal Care Products Council, and all the public service work that Hearst Magazines and others have done promoting them to women across the country.
So I took one week off after my mastectomy...I might have gone back sooner but I had a drain attached to my body. I started chemotherapy three weeks after that, and decided I would focus on keeping my routine. I figured that for myself, as well as for the sake of my husband and two children, getting up, getting dressed and trying to live life with the healthy would make me better faster. Moreover, I believe it worked. I tried to go into work later and leave earlier, but I was not always successful. My oncologist insisted that I have a port "installed" (to administer the chemo into my body), and I requested it be placed on my chest where it would not be spotted as I walked down the aisle. I referred to my port as a "hands free" device, which allowed me to fill my HOURS of chemotherapy with productive work. My office associates came to dread my chemotherapy sessions. "How long is this one", they would ask. It is amazing how much work you can be done when you are not interrupted for four to five hours.
I also did not spend a lot of time thinking about my career and what the cancer diagnosis would do to it. I wear my heart (and life) on my sleeve, so I did what I thought everyone must do. I came "out" to my boss while in the mammography clinic. What, wait until Monday to tell him? I knew that everyone’s support, in both my nuclear and work family, would be critical to my recovery. In an appearance—oriented business, where a pimple is noticed (yes, Hearst Magazines is 75% female), my therapy would not be easily hidden. There was no denial on my part; I knew in my gut that chemotherapy would be necessary.
And then there was my staff. I decided the best way to handle this challenge was the same way I have handled others, bluntly and with humor. I wanted to control the dialogue, not let "whisper down the lane" occur. I figured that if I did not tell them my own story, by the time it got repeated to the last person on my staff, I would have a terminal prognosis, which was not the case. So, I called the team into the conference room, and of course, they all felt a sense of relief when they realized that I was not leaving. My news was split into good and bad.
The bad news, of course, was that I needed to have a mastectomy and chemotherapy...and the good news was that my prognosis was excellent. I enlisted their help...both personally and professionally. I explained that my travel would be curtailed during treatment and that I probably would not be able to keep my frenetic schedule. I urged them to get sonograms as well as a mammography. I told them Ed was so proud he found the lump and he had offered to do breast exams on any female staff members "free of charge". Then a male staff member said he felt something unusual in his prostate; would Ed be willing to check that as well?? I know this sounds a little "un—PC", but the laughter helped balance the seriousness of my words.
Next, the underground of survivors began to emerge. Women in my office, clients, acquaintances, all came forward to show their support (and share their stories) after my very public announcement. How did I not know they were survivors until now? I vowed to serve as a role model, so people around me would use me as a cancer resource.
I loved my oncologist, Dr Ruth Oratz, from the moment I met her. She was warm, funny; with a small, feminine "boutique" like office (I love personal attention). Ed told me he knew I would hire her when she complemented me on my hair and asked where I got it done. When I told her proudly that my wedding invitations had arrived the night before my mastectomy and that I would move forward and focus on this happy occasion, she offered some advice. First, she gave me an extra week "off" after my fourth treatment (so that I would feel as good as possible at my June wedding). Then she said, "The A and the C are the atom bombs of chemotherapy. You will need to find a great makeup artist for your wedding, because you are NOT going to be at your prettiest." All I could think about was walking down the aisle looking like the bride of Frankenstein. That is when Look Good...Feel Better popped into my head. I felt so fortunate that I knew about this fantastic organization through Personal Care Products Council, and all the public service work that Hearst Magazines and others have done promoting them to women across the country.
So I took one week off after my mastectomy...I might have gone back sooner but I had a drain attached to my body. I started chemotherapy three weeks after that, and decided I would focus on keeping my routine. I figured that for myself, as well as for the sake of my husband and two children, getting up, getting dressed and trying to live life with the healthy would make me better faster. Moreover, I believe it worked. I tried to go into work later and leave earlier, but I was not always successful. My oncologist insisted that I have a port "installed" (to administer the chemo into my body), and I requested it be placed on my chest where it would not be spotted as I walked down the aisle. I referred to my port as a "hands free" device, which allowed me to fill my HOURS of chemotherapy with productive work. My office associates came to dread my chemotherapy sessions. "How long is this one", they would ask. It is amazing how much work you can be done when you are not interrupted for four to five hours.
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