Category Archives: Cancer

the five year mark…

22 Wednesday Jun 2016

Posted by in Cancer, photography

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(This is the post I wrote last Friday before the ice storm. We had been home two days when the storm came and so I thought this post could wait for more current events!)

Many of you were not following when I started my blog nearly five years ago.(a very early post you might enjoy here) I started it while having radiation treatment in Darwin, 1000 miles from home. It was a soul searching, solitary, and challenging, but also very rewarding 7 weeks.

Alone in the light.

Alone in the light.

I have just returned from my five year consultation with the surgeon, and the tests that confirmed, all is well. The surgeon told me in October, five years from when I started the aromatase inhibitor medication I will be able to discontinue it. Further, she told me that the mammogram imaging has improved so much that I will be able to discontinue the difficult breast MRI test, unless the high resolution mammogram shows something unusual. (Mammogram remains an extraordinarily painful compression of one’s sensitive body parts, however!) Five years is a significant benchmark and I was greatly relieved, feeling very very fortunate.

The lady in the corner quietly crying into her tissues reminded me how far I had come.

For many years walking and enjoying nature has been a calming habit for me. It keeps me centred and feeling normal, even when things are abnormal. The recent week we spent in Adelaide began with a breast MRI the first day, and ended on the last day with the mammogram and surgeon consultation. In between were five days. I hesitate to say it was an uncertain time, because nothing in life is certain. But no doubt our awareness of uncertainty is sometimes heightened. One morning I told my husband I need to go find some light to photograph. The Adelaide Botanic Garden is not far from our hotel and I thought that would be the place. He wanted to join me, which was fine. He understands my frequent stops and contortionist positions to capture images I’m chasing. Here was my therapy for that day.

Banyan tree in morning light
lovely dead lily pads
homage to Georgia O’Keefe
Gingko with dew
Autumn Ginkgo

For all of society’s increasing interest in taking photos, there are still life moments that escape being photographed. The moment of certainty (however temporary) in the surgeon’s room, was not a Kodak moment. But this set of photos above, taken during that week, will be in my mind for a very long time.

This final photo is no prize winner, but it was a shared meal with our daughter and my husband, a good bottle of wine at our favourite Chinese restaurant with my husband’s grateful words;

‘Here’s to good boob health!’ Always a good toast!

'Here's to good boob health'

‘Here’s to good boob health’

Breast Cancer Awareness Month

05 Sunday Oct 2014

Posted by in Cancer

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radiation tatto on centre line

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radiation tattoo on side coordinate

These are my ‘tatts’. My ‘tit-tatts’, I guess you could call them. (I don’t wish to be crude, but I want you to remember the message of this post.) These are the tattoo dots that are etched permanently into the positions the radiographers used when I had radiotherapy treatments after surgery for breast cancer. No, the tattoos didn’t hurt. The radiation didn’t hurt either, at the time. But it made me tired, and I had a nasty heat rash all over the area where I was treated, and there were after effects. The treated breast tissue is changed by the radiation and remains larger. New bras, girlfriends. I needed physical therapy treatments as well as continued self treatment to loosen the muscles of the underarm area which painfully tightened.

I was lucky.

I had treatable cancer and it was caught early. And that is the reason for this post. A routine mammogram was the key factor. A talented radiographer saw in my very dense tissue a ‘spot’. To you and I it would look the same as all the other dense spots of tissue.

But it wasn’t.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Take care of yourself and urge your loved ones to do the same. Get routine mammograms and do self-testing. Life is precious. We are precious to someone; and we must be our own advocates.

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Dad, brothers, Grandmother, me, Grandfather

This photo was taken the same year my paternal Grandmother had a radical mastectomy. She lived another 30 years and did not die from cancer. I am the 3 year old little girl holding her hand. Believe me, my life would have been the poorer if she had not survived. I had breast cancer at the same age as her. I knew about her cancer because she and my own Mother, who is a nurse and cared for her, talked about it. But there was a lot I didn’t know about it, and have since learned.

As well as the cancer category of this blog, where I talk about my time in treatment, here are a couple of things that you, or someone you love, may find useful or interesting:

The Emperor of all Maladies – A Biography of Cancer by Siddhartha Mukherjee, Amazon paperback (This book tells the history of cancer and treatment and is very readable and interesting, except for a chapter or two that are a bit ‘scientific’. A word of caution; it is somewhat confronting in its honesty about past treatments and about prognosis of certain cancers. I read it the same year I was treated and had to put it down a time or two, but was very glad to have read it when I finished)

Courage Through A Lens – A breast cancer journey (I wrote about this photographic journey in a past post. It was a remarkable, if confronting, ebook, link on old post here.)

I donate to http://www.abcr.com.au/about/ because 100% of their proceeds go toward research.

I do not dwell on this event, any more than I dwell on other major events/lessons one has in life. However, it is my goal to shed light whenever I can. I learn things and share them.

Live, learn, share.

Repeat.

~Ardys

For those of you unaware, you can read my ‘about’ page; I started this blog while in treatment, to let my family and friends know about my journey since I was 1000 miles away from home for the surgery (Adelaide), and 1000 miles the other way from home for the treatment (Darwin)

the camera and the app

15 Wednesday Jan 2014

Posted by in Cancer, Creativity, Inspiration, photography

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When I was about 9 years old I received my first camera.  It was a little Kodak Hawkeye ‘flashfun’ click and shoot. I clicked and shot… the cat, the flower garden, my family, and friends, who, or whatever would sit still long enough.  But in those days, of course one had to be able to afford the processing and printing as well, and at the age of 9 my funds were limited.

I have never been without a camera since then– sometimes even two cameras at a time. I’m hopelessly dyslexic about retaining all the technical information regarding f-stops and shutter speed so I would not have made a good professional photographer.  I completed a photography class at University but the chemicals and precision required just didn’t capture my imagination, and I thought my photos would always remain snapshots, and mostly boring.

But in recent years, aside from assisting my very poor memory, my photos have become a source of creative interest.  Nothing has aided learning the skills of composition and content more than digital photography, the iPhone and Instagram.  I’ve learned that the best camera is the one you have with you, which is always my iPhone. Being able to take copious shots, without the expense of processing, then examine them immediately is a wonderful learning tool. And sharing them on Instagram has opened a whole new world. It’s as if I was born to take little square photos!

Me n the ladies (sculpture by Ron Mueck)

Me n the ladies (sculpture by Ron Mueck)

I have sense enough to reign in my enthusiasm and enjoy being in the moment when I need to… mostly. Those little square gems just intrigue the hell out of me.  Far from mere distraction, the photos require my attention in a way that seems to etch the events into my mind more indelibly. Did you know that your short term memory only stores things for about 20 minutes before it loses them?  In order for them to become accessible in the longer term the memories must be processed and linked to something more substantial.  I think this is why photos help my memory rather than serve as a distraction.

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Dust Storm in Alice

I first learned about Instagram while reading a Qantas magazine.  My husband and I were flying to Perth just after I had had the surgery for my breast cancer, less than two and a half years ago.  I read about a fellow who was having an exhibition of photos, all of which were produced through a little app called Instagram.  An entire exhibition? Interesting.IMG_0592 IMG_0609

I downloaded the app and for the remainder of the trip I was consumed with learning to use it.  Don had some business in Perth, and we had decided to make a holiday out of it, before I knew I had cancer. I was in between surgery and radiation, and he was very patient and indulged me, stopping the car for me to photograph trees and cows and flowers on our trip south through the Margaret River region (sounds like I was 9 years old again, doesn’t it?).  It transported me to a place where I did not think about cancer every minute of every day and I will always be so grateful for that little app when I was 58, and for the camera that started it all, when I was 9 years old.

Here are some of my early Instagram photos. You will have seen many of the more recent ones in my blog posts. Have a lovely day.

-Ardys

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Mont Serat, Spain

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Driving in France

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My friend’s lovely dishes

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Cows along the road, Margaret River

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My room during radiation treatment

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Cape Leeuwin, WA

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handmade tea cups, wedding gift

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Spring blossoms, Ohio

Boranup Karri Forest, Margaret River

Boranup Karri Forest, Margaret River

Kicking it with Kiki

28 Thursday Nov 2013

Posted by in Books, Cancer, Health, photography, Recommendations

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A few days ago I selected the ‘publish’ button on this post.  But you didn’t see it, did you?  That’s because, for some reason (operator error!) it didn’t publish.  And I’m glad.  A few hours after thinking it had published, I wished I had written it differently.  Sometimes the Universe and I are on the same wavelength and I get a second chance at things! Has that happened to you?  Well, let me try again…

Kiki was an Australian resident who migrated here from Netherlands a few years ago.  She was a 27 year old photographer, with a husband and two young children when she was diagnosed with breast cancer.  She chose to document her very difficult journey using her photography skills in an e-book titled ‘Courage Through A Lens – A breast cancer journey’.  This book is raw and beautiful, confronting, and heart wrenching, especially for those of us who have been on part of that journey. It explains and photographically documents the journey of breast cancer in a way I have never seen it done.  It is the book I wished I had two and a half years ago.  Kiki passed away, as I understand it, very recently… within weeks. But she has done something for women everywhere that will live on and be remembered.

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‘selfie’ taken two and a half years ago

During this time of the year when we sometimes have difficulty staying centred, here is a reminder of what is important.  If you have a daughter, sister, girlfriend or Mother who has survived breast cancer, be grateful. This book might help them share their experience. If you have a loved one who has breast cancer now and you would like to be better informed about what she is going through, I recommend this book.

As for cancer, I’m kicking it with Kiki… it’s butt, that is.  She was an awesomely ordinary woman who stepped up and did an extraordinary thing to help others. I just want to do my little bit to keep things kicking along.

Thanks Kiki, regrettably I won’t get to tell you this in person.

(This is an e-book, so it works on your iPad or other tablet device, or your computer.  It is downloaded as a PDF document.  Half the proceeds go to benefit breast cancer.)

Breast MRI

19 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by in Cancer, Food, Health, Life

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About this time last year I posted my experience with my first breast MRI (see ‘Happy Dancing‘ in Archives or click on the link). Whenever I learn something new I like to share it so here we go with this year’s experience.

I am not at all a fan of recreational drugs, but the well used drug in therapeutic circumstances is such a marvel. After my difficult experience with the panic attack last year the surgeon suggested I take a 5mg Valium tablet about an hour before the test this year. Of course the surgeon lives 1500km away from Alice Springs so it was my GP who had to write the prescription when the time came, and his advice was to take the Valium 2 hours prior to the test. Not being familiar with Valium, I wasn’t sure whose advice to follow but in the end I thought my GP might have a better knowledge of my history so I took his advice. The variables were a bit complex however as I had an empty stomach (on purpose), and a thirty minute walk to the hospital and then the appointed time varied by 30 minutes from what I’d thought it would be.

By the time they called me through to have the cannula inserted for the dye I realised it had been two and a half hours since the Valium and it was already wearing off. This started to make me more anxious and when I saw the technician I explained to her my situation. And then I cried. I’ve hardly cried through the entire treatment of the breast cancer even though at times it was quite confronting. Facing fear is one of the things that helps us grow. I know… but… are we having fun yet?

The technician was very calm and matter of fact, assuring me she could make ‘modifications’ to things that would make me more comfortable. Oh really? Could she disappear the tube and put me to sleep during the entire process? I didn’t think so. However, it turns out she could modify the framework on which I had to lay. She opened the area where my face rested so that I would feel I could breathe more easily. She placed a softer block of high density foam on which to rest my forehead. And the most important thing she did was tell me to breathe normally! Previously, the last words said to me as they shoved me into the tube was ‘no deep breaths’, which I had somehow misinterpreted as ‘take shallow breaths’ and which resulted in my panic that I could not get enough air.

The modifications made an appreciable difference. My only question is, why not just do it this way in the first place????? (The surgeon had no answer, she was equally mystified!)

vanilla slice

vanilla slice

The technician encouraged me to think about something I like doing… my next jewellery project perhaps? But all I could think about was the vanilla slice Don had found in town, and had told me about earlier! Go for it girl, I thought, think about that vanilla slice for all you’re worth! By the time the technician’s voice came through the headset to tell me she was about to inject the dye, that vanilla slice had saved the day. I was pretty sure I would be okay. When the scan finished and I felt them move me out of the tube and into the room, I stuck both thumbs up for the technician to see, and to celebrate my victory. But the final celebration was awaiting me… a thirty minute walk into town… the taste of victory, thy name is vanilla slice.

(The following day I had the be-jesus squeezed out of my breasts during the mammogram and saw the surgeon.  All clear for another year. Gratitude out the yin-yang)

PS. Take the Valium an HOUR before the test for maximum benefit!

Have the conversation.

15 Wednesday May 2013

Posted by in Cancer, Health, Life, Uncategorized

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Two years ago this week I had a routine mammogram that showed I needed a needle biopsy.  Less than a week later I had flown 1500km to have the biopsy as quickly as possible, and a few days later, back at home, May 31st, I was told I had breast cancer.  Last evening we saw in the news that Angelina Jolie has taken preventative measures after learning she has the BRCA 2 gene.

Many are calling her courageous and, yes, I do too, because all women who face this decision have not only the difficult decision itself but the pain and consequences inherent in such a decision.  But let’s be clear about what leads to this courageous decision and course of action. What is the conversation we need to have?  First, have the conversation with yourself about getting routine checkups.

The thing I have learned about cancer (read: ‘The Emperor of All Maladies’ by Siddhartha Mukherjee) is that almost every single case is unique.  Try to get your head around that.  Each human being is unique, and each cancer is as well.  The combinations of possibilities are endless.  If we don’t do our part to look after ourselves and to have checkups is it any wonder in which direction that behaviour will tip the scales?

Be pro-active.  In my own case, I live in a remote area of Outback Australia but I made the habit of getting a routine mammogram from the time I turned 50.  There was a lot of cancer in my Dad’s family.  His mother had breast cancer at about the same age as did I.  Dad had prostate cancer which is what is called a ‘soft tissue’ cancer and has some influence on the inherited tendencies.  At the age of 47 I had an upper endoscopy and was told I had what could potentially become esophageal cancer. After following the doctor’s advice a follow up endoscopy last year (12 years later) has shown the problem has been reversed.  I have had 13 moles removed, 12 of which were the type that turn into melanoma.  At the age of 52 I had my ovaries removed when I had a hysterectomy.  At age 58 I had the breast cancer followed by 7 weeks/five times a week, radiation treatment.  And all this while one of my closest friends, about whom I’ve written on my blog (read: Remembering Ivy) was battling breast cancer and eventually died from it, having had a preventative double mastectomy!!!  Let me repeat that, she had a preventative double mastectomy.

Here is the rest of the conversation you must have with yourself and with others, if you can.  Discuss options.  Be as open as you can about your experience, if you have had cancer or loved someone who has.  There are no guarantees in life.  I have lived healthy, am not overweight, have exercised, tried to reduce stress, breathed clean air, don’t smoke, wear sunscreen etc. etc.  I got cancer.  Ivy was the same.  She died of secondary breast cancer at the age of 58.  There are no guarantees.  Have the conversations, have the tests and have the treatment.  Give yourself a better chance.

Be pro-active.

Be pro-active.

Daffodil Day

26 Friday Aug 2011

Posted by in Cancer, Darwin, Health

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I have just learned how precise the dose of radiation is that I receive. It is so precise that it is not timed in seconds. There is an exact dosage predetermined in the ‘machine’ and it is released by electricity. Because electricity supply varies slightly, rather than the dosage being measured in seconds, it is released as an amount measured in some kind of special measurement as it applies only to radiation. (So, for example, if you were to get 3 grams of medicine via a syringe, it may take 10 seconds for one person to push it through or 15 seconds for another person to push it through.) That is why the length of the ‘exposure’ varies ever so slightly from one day to the next. It is the amount of radiation you get that is important, not the time it takes to give it to you.

I have, today, realised the exact amount of sleep I needed for the week had not been reached. In the interest of precision, and good health, I have just had a 43 minute nap as a result. Is there anything nicer than a very good nap?

(today is exactly three months since I had the biopsy… a lifetime ago)

my daffodil

So Much to Enjoy!

17 Wednesday Aug 2011

Posted by in Cancer, Darwin, Family, Food, Life

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My darling girl is with me today.  She arrived yesterday afternoon and we talked 90 miles an hour to catch up on lots of things while picking up a few grocery items and going to the PO.  And then we talked some more! We decided that a nice dinner at the Noodle House on Mitchell street was what we ‘needed’.  Allison said she hadn’t come from winter in Alice Springs to see me in the Tropics and sit in air conditioning, and so we sat at a table near the footpath outside, enjoying the evening air and light breeze.  We ordered one of our all time favourite meals in the world, whole fried fish with sweet Thai chilli sauce, stir fried bok choy and mushrooms and steamed rice.  It is a VERY impressive meal, and as we were sitting in prime ‘ogling’ real estate, the passers by nearly all had to stop and have a look.  Finally, Allison said, “For someone who doesn’t particularly like attention, I picked the wrong seat for this meal!”  We had a good laugh, the first of many, and enjoyed our spectacular meal.

Today we rode in the rental car to treatment and it was such bliss for me to be able to walk in, have my treatment, and walk out to get in a car and ride away again.  It was much less tiring than the usual bus ride, and we could spend the precious gift of time any way we wanted to later on!  Allison wanted to watch the treatment and the technicians explained the basics of what they were doing and she was very interested in it all.  It is certainly not something I knew anything about before having it myself, despite the fact that my father had undergone 25 radiotherapy treatments more than 20 years ago.  It was a wonderful opportunity for us both to share another part of this journey. I’m trying to remember, this is not just my journey alone, it is a journey for everyone who is close to me and I want to bring them along to my eventual destination as much as possible.

Anxious to adhere to my stringent program of balancing the ‘job of treatment’ with a good measure of ‘fun’ we did a superb job of hitting the shops, and buying a few lovely items, in between a delicious lunch from Simply Foods in the Star Village, followed by a mid-afternoon dessert (or two) from Parap Fine Foods!  Oh, so much to enjoy, and so few hours in the day!

A Meal to Remember

Radiation

16 Tuesday Aug 2011

Posted by in Cancer, Health

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I haven’t written much about the actual radiation treatment itself.  It’s an odd thing, which may be why it isn’t often described.  Five days a week, I walk into the Oncology Unit and hand over my ‘treatment schedule’ to the receptionist, which she updates weekly so that I know a week in advance when my treatment times will be.  She asks my birth date and once confirmed, places a red hospital bracelet on my wrist.  I move to the waiting area that has a TV and magazines and several large recliner chairs .  When the radiology technicians are ready they retrieve me from this area and escort me to the changing rooms.  (Before treatment started they asked me to wear two piece outfits when I come for treatment, so that I can undress only from the waist up, and wear a hospital gown like a jacket, so that it is open at the front.)  Once changed, a technician escorts me into the treatment room

I feel extremely vulnerable when I am stretched out on my back, with my arms above my head and my breasts bare. The two technicians (sometimes male, sometimes female) put felt tip pen marks on my chest and sides as they ‘line me up’ with green laser lines that intersect with the permanent tattoos that are tiny dots on the middle of the chest and each side under the arms.  There are rotating shield-like shapes that the technicians operate from a remote observation room and when they are ‘radiating’ they make a strange little high pitched  ‘beep’ followed by a ‘whirring’ sound.  I am alone in a large room that looks like something from a space station, and like many things in life, it is a solitary experience.  What makes it kind of ‘okay’ are the technicians who are all quite friendly and positive and very considerate.  I know they are doing this all day long, but somehow they always make me feel a bit special when they are treating me.

After I am stretched out and marked up, and feeling a bit like the proverbial trussed turkey, they gently close the front of the hospital gown to cover my chest before they retreat to the observation room from where they administer the radiation.  The hospital gown fabric protects you from nothing, (except the air conditioning), and yet that gesture of ‘covering you’ means so much. Clothing seems rather symbolic in this instance since it certainly is no fashion statement, and doesn’t even really protect one’s modesty, having already had at least twenty different people view my breasts over recent months. Nor, of course, does it provide any protection of the physical wellbeing.  It is just such a ‘humane’ thing to do for someone, to cover them. (It occurs to me that there is possibly some very practical reason they do this, but I have chosen not to ask because I like the idea they do it to be kind!)

The whole treatment lasts only a few minutes, including the time taken to line up with the laser beams.  There is no pain, no sensation at the time.  Later on there are occasionally some ‘twinges’ of discomfort, not unlike those of ‘healing’ after the surgery.  After the treatment the technicians return giving me the ‘all clear’ so that I can rest my arms and wait for them to lower the table.  I sit up and step down from the table and change back into my street clothes before having my hospital bracelet removed and walking out the door.

On Mondays and Fridays I am scheduled to see the doctors and nurses after treatment.  On Mondays the doctor checks in with you to make sure all is going well and to answer any questions you may have.  Fridays the nurses have a series of questions and observations they record, as well as to examine the skin and help with any medications you may need.  We have to slather Sorbolene cream  (cetomacrogol APF) onto the treated skin area 3 times a day to keep it soft so it doesn’t dry out and crack.  Also I have a semi-permanent heat rash that I am treating with another cream.  My skin looks like it has been sunburned but all of this will go away in weeks or months after the treatment.  It is crucial to keep the skin in good condition so it doesn’t develop lesions because the radiation inhibits healing.

There is almost no comprehension possible of the invisible rays of treatment, but the people transform the experience into a reality that I can accept, and even enjoy, at times.  Enjoy?  One of the things I have felt at every step of this journey was meeting each new aspect with an appropriate amount of spiritual perspective, intellectual understanding and emotional clarity, would enable me to ‘go with the flow’ and not be wracked with anger, fear and misery.  I have been lucky to have wonderful medical experts surrounding me, and plenty of family and friends supporting me.  But I also have had to support myself, and part of supporting myself has meant staying in the moment, not regretting what could have been, nor fretting for what might happen in the future, but just being here, and now.  The here and now is truly our only reality, everything else, past and future, exists only in our minds.

‘The Spaceship Room’

Treatment or transformation?

15 Monday Aug 2011

Posted by in Cancer, Inspiration, Life

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Whenever I see someone I have not seen for a while, since my diagnosis or treatment started, and they ask me how I’m doing, it is a chance for me to do a quick mental run through… how AM I doing?  Today I visited with a good friend from Alice who was here for other reasons, but who made himself available to pick me up from treatment and enjoy some lunch.  We both shared some stories about what has been going on in our lives, and of course the inevitable question comes up about how I’m doing.  I realized as I was explaining to him about some of the trials and some of the observations that there has been waaaay more going on than I am able to process at the moment.

Try as I may to assimilate the various aspects of treatment, living away from home in an unfamiliar environment, and coming into contact daily with many, many people who are sick and some even dying, it struck me, this is too much to possibly digest as it happens.  It may take me years to process it all.  But there is one statement that has stood out from all the things I’ve heard along the way and it was made to me by a breast care nurse when she and I met for the first time.  First let me say, the breast care nurses are a unique ‘breed’ of nurse.  They are so knowledgeable and compassionate and strategically placed and ‘available’ at important intervals of the treatment.  To my thinking they are indispensible for best care practice in breast cancer.

At a point just after my surgery, I had been explaining to the breast care nurse in Alice Springs that the journey, thus far, had been such an insight to life at so many levels that I could hardly say “I wish this had never happened” but was more inclined to say “I’m glad this has happened”.   She smiled and nodded as if she knew exactly what I was saying and then she said ‘If you don’t feel that way, then it’s just a ‘treatment’’.  And she repeated ‘It’s just a treatment’.  I was stunned at how succinct were her words.  That was exactly how I felt, and I knew from my own observations that some people viewed it as just a treatment to be gotten through, but that others had considered it a transformational experience.  I make no judgements about this, I just simply say that my experience has undoubtedly been transformational.

In fact, from the beginning it was my choice to see this as an opportunity to learn from one of life’s unique experiences.  I don’t feel obliged to dedicate the rest of my life to raising funds for cancer research or to necessarily identify myself as a breast cancer ‘survivor’ or a cancer ‘victim’.  I don’t want to limit myself to those roles or labels.  I just know that I have left myself open to absorbing as much as I can stand about this experience so that it is more than a treatment, as today was more than ‘just Monday’.

Come and sit for a while