(Disclaimer: Please bear in
mind that the opinions expressed here are mine and relative to me alone. I do not intend to belittle or negate
others feelings or opinions related to their own cancer diagnoses or
identities.)
sur·vi·vor [ser-vahy-ver]
n.
2. Law.
the
one of two or more designated persons, as joint tenants or others having a
joint interest, who outlives the other or others.
3. a person who continues to function or prosper in spite
of opposition, hardship, or setbacks.
As many of you know, while I was going through treatment, I didn’t care
for the word survivor when referring
to myself. I still don’t think
that I survived cancer (cue dramatic
music) since I never really felt like my life was hanging in the balance. Perhaps I was and I’m still in
denial. I didn’t need a special
label; I knew I would survive whatever I had thrown at me. Someday I won’t, but for now, I’m too
stubborn to not survive. J
I never felt sick or ill before I was officially diagnosed with
cancer. I looked normal, felt
normal, acted normal well, normal for me anyway. I had no idea that my body was
losing a battle with cancer until we found the lump. Even then, I felt fine; I just had a pesky lump in my
breast. While that pesky lump
spread its pestilence to my lymph nodes and possibly beyond, I was oblivious. I didn’t know that I was going to have
to survive anything.
war·ri·or (wôr-r, wr-)
n.
1. One who is engaged in or experienced in battle.
2. One who is engaged aggressively or energetically in an activity, cause,
or conflict
While I was trying to rid my body of the disease that has pervaded our
lives for almost the past three years, I did consider myself a warrior. A warrior is someone who fights for a cause. My family, my medical team and I were
fighting to get the cancer out of my body. My cause was my
family. I was not “surviving”; I
was too busy fighting and living.
I still am. Yes, it is a
simple semantic difference, between the words survivor and warrior, but
one that I differentiate when talking about myself.
While going through treatment, I was not only a warrior but a patient as
well. As much as I don’t like it,
I still am and continue to be a “cancer patient” for the next seven years
despite the fact that I am now in remission.
re·mis·sion (r-mshn)
n.
1. a.
The act of remitting.
b. A condition or period in which something is remitted.
2. A lessening of intensity or degree; abatement.
3. a.
Medicine Abatement or
subsiding of the symptoms of a disease.
b. The period during which the symptoms of a disease abate or subside.
4. a.
Release, as from a debt, penalty, or obligation.
b. Forgiveness; pardon.
Remission is a wonderful word to a cancer patient. Every additional year of remission is
special; it’s one year further away from when one was sick. And, it
generally means that your likelihood of developing the disease again is lessened
a little more.
Because of the “advanced stage” of my disease at diagnosis and my age at
diagnosis, the doctor’s will continue to monitor me for another seven years. They do with everyone actually, but they
are especially keen on keeping close tabs on me, not just because of my cancer
staging and age, but because, after three years, they know how strong-willed
and independent I am. They want to
make sure that nothing goes unchecked.
I’m a good girl and dutifully go in for my check-ups with my oncologist
and my surgeon when they tell me to.
Most of the time, I feel fine; I feel “normal”. I always hesitate to mention any little
ache or pain to them. It always
turns out to be nothing or something very minor, not even related to my cancer
diagnosis. I should feel so loved
by those family and friends that have ratted me out to my docs when I hold
things back. Instead, I feel
stressed and annoyed that people are making such a fuss over things that are
invariably minor in the grand scheme of things. It bothers me that valuable resources are being wasted on me
when there are others that truly have a need of all the tests that I’ve been
put through for my little aches and pains since my cancer diagnosis.
In the past four months I have been poked and prodded and scanned more
than I ever was while going through cancer treatment. I have had a full cardiac work-up, blood work, chest x-ray,
bone scan, CT scan and MRI of my brain.
You know what they found? I
was diagnosed with reflux and sinusitis.
Like I told them, it was nothing major. All that money and time… :-/
Now, I can hear the collective chastising: How could you say such things? It’s because we love you and worry about
you! We just want to make sure you
stick around for a good long time! I know which of you I’ll probably get the emails from
telling me exactly why it was important to go through all those silly
tests. I stand by my opinion
though; it’s a waste of valuable resources. I knew with each minor complaint that it was no big
deal. LOTS of people have reflux
and sinusitis.
I know my body and I know when something is wrong with it. I wish other people would just trust me
in that regard. I know you all
care about me but I really don’t like to worry people needlessly. If it’s important, I’ll letcha
know. Honest.
** Postscript: I made it through two different courses of hardcore antibiotics
to get rid of the reflux and my sinus infection. While on the antibiotics I was true to form; I had many of
the usual side effects (nausea, vomiting, headaches) and the less common side
effects – numbness in my arm and hand and extreme fatigue. The good news is that the reflux and my
headaches are almost completely gone and my blurred vision is gone completely.
Glad to hear that you are feeling better. I'm also glad you did all the testing, even though you feel it was unnecessary. : ) Stay healthy chicka!
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