My Big Breast Adventure: or How I Found the Dalai Lama in my Letterbox

By Jennifer McDonald

“I’m sorry to say you have breast cancer – an Infiltrating Lobular Carcinoma to be exact,” said her doctor delivering the tough news right before Christmas 2013. “And there’s three ways we deal with breast cancer – cut, poison and burn.”

Such was the start of Jennifer McDo

• Language: English
• Publisher: For Pity Sake Publishing Pty Ltd
• Release date: Oct 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995363205

Book preview

Welcome to My Big Breast Adventure

Monday, February 17th, 2014

When I first lived in Sydney in the early 1980s one of my flatmates used to visit a dive called the Oxford Cinema, a classless strip club boasting ‘live’ sex acts that were in fact tawdry simulations conducted by highly disinterested parties. Not that this mattered to the audience, I’m sure. Anyhoo, my mate reckoned he only went there once or twice on boys’ nights out — for the laughs, you understand. Despite having consumed his own body weight in beer each time, he still managed to remember and regale us word for word with the opening lines from the invisible Master of Ceremonies as the house lights went down. You have to imagine this being said in a booming yet bored, fake American accent — Welcome to the Oxford Cinema. Patrons are encouraged to participate but no rough stuff will be tolerated.

You’ll no doubt be thrilled to know My Big Breast Adventure yarns will differ markedly from the infamous performances of the Oxford Cinema. For starters, you don’t have to go to Sydney’s red light district to see it. Then there’s the fact that the players on stage are anything but disinterested in the proceedings. And now the big one — it is so not a simulation. It’s for real.

I also can’t guarantee there’ll be no ‘rough stuff’ in the Big Breast Adventure chronicles. Let’s face it the whole concept of chronicling my breast cancer journey under the guise of an adventure story is a bit off-centre, I admit. And while I won’t go out of my way to shock you, dear readers, I fully expect much of what I share may sting a bit. (Boy, if I had a dollar for every time a health practitioner has said that to me over the past two months before taking blood, injecting dye or inserting a drain, it’d be my shout at the pub for sure.)

For those of you who are still with me, here’s the story so far. I was diagnosed with breast cancer — an Infiltrating lobular carcinoma to be exact — in my left breast, right before Christmas. The only reason this came to my attention was because I’d decided to change doctors recently. My dealings with our family’s previous general practitioners had become a little medical centre/factory-like. Frankly, I was tired of having to run the gauntlet of questions and cynicism from these doctors when I mentioned I was seeking complementary care from a host of ‘alternative’ practitioners, including highly qualified naturopaths, homeopaths, acupuncturists and osteopaths. Sheesh! Anyone would think I was taking counsel from snake charmers or circus fortune-tellers. But I digress.

When I was prompted by a letter reminding me that my bi-annual Pap smear was due I took the plunge and made an appointment with a local doctor who’d come highly recommended by my naturopath of some 25 years. Cynical GPs everywhere — how do you like them apples? For the purposes of this blog let’s just call him Dr C, shall we?

Well, Dr C turned out to be a gem. My first clue was that he did not complain about the Pap smear being my prompt for a first appointment with him. I mean really, this test must rank right up there with the rubber glove-smacking prostate examination male patients shy away from in droves. But Dr C took to it with aplomb, running a series of bloods in addition to conducting a comprehensive breast examination. On discovering a taut lump on my left breast — which was not mirrored on the right side (so it couldn’t have been muscle build up from stretch-band exercises I’d been doing) — he wrote a referral for a mammogram and ultrasound that I duly had about 10 days later. While undergoing these tests I was asked if I wanted a biopsy of the lump there and then, as they couldn’t identify what it was from the scans. Not a good sign.

A few days later and a week before Christmas I was back in Dr C’s office being told I had breast cancer. That afternoon I saw a specialist breast surgeon who, thankfully, had not yet closed up shop for Christmas and headed off on a ski holiday to Vail or Val d’Isere or wherever Australian surgeons go at that time of year. Equally thankfully, this surgeon is female and considered one of the very best in the field in Sydney. What are the chances?

Forty-eight hours after meeting the breast surgeon for the first time (let’s call her Dr M) I was in hospital undergoing surgery — a full left breast mastectomy and ‘node-ectomy’ in the left armpit. Apparently 23 of the 25 lymph nodes were compromised, a few of them very badly. In my groggy post-surgery state I recall Dr M telling me that the scans I’d had prior to surgery were clear. Phew.

I’d had the full barrage of tests required pre-surgery — an MRI and CT scan, a chest x-ray and an ECG — and a couple of days post-surgery I had a bone scan which showed up some inflammation in various spots around the body. Most of these spots were thought to be the beginnings of arthritis as they appeared in places like fingers, ankles and shoulders. Three spots, however, were of concern due to their proximity to the site of the cancer — the T11 vertebrae in the middle of my back and two spots in the Ilium (pelvic bone) where the leg joints attach.

I didn’t know this when I broke into my bone scan results envelope and took a peek at the report before Dr M saw it, but bone scans can only tell you that there is inflammation present. In order to differentiate between what’s arthritis and what’s a cancer growth you have to have another nuclear medicine test called a positron emission tomography or PET scan. There’ll be more about this type of scan and the way I came to it in later posts, but for now, let’s not worry about the suspicious spots in the bone scans. I wasn’t at the time when I surreptitiously read the report. I was just glad to have survived the surgery and had all the cancerous nodes out at the same time!

Following surgery, I was in hospital for five days, had two drains attached to my left underarm, consumed at least two rounds of antibiotics, a shed load of analgesics and some lovely stuff called Endone which made me feel like melting butter. Actually, I eased up on the Endone after day two as it made me too dopey — well, dopier than usual. It was fun while it lasted, though.

While in hospital I was lucky enough to receive a few but not too many visitors, lots of flowers and my sister bought me some fantastic, red-sequinned slippers that were instantly dubbed ‘Dorothy’. Dorothy left a useful little trail of sequins in and around my room, a constant reminder that even though I’m not in Kansas anymore, I’m still here and always able to find my way back to bed.

After having one of the drains under my arm removed I was released on Christmas Eve to the bosom of my dear family. Breast Care Nurses visited me every day, even on Christmas Day, to check on me and remove the second drain on Boxing Day. (What a fantastic service!) Once that was gone I was able to start exercises that help stretch out the scar tissue and regain optimal movement in my left arm.

While it was quiet over Christmas and New Year, I spent a lot of time in a quilt covered chair on my deck, scoring some rays, drawing, writing, staring up at the clouds and drinking tea. The thought occurred to me that this is what Christmas holidays are supposed to be like. Fancy. If I hadn’t been diagnosed with breast cancer a week earlier I might never have known that!

So welcome again to the first post in My Big Breast Adventure blog series and thanks for joining me on this initial step of what is sure to be a journey of 1,000 miles. Your comments on my blogposts and the many, many kindnesses I’ve encountered to date on this trek from family, friends and healthcare practitioners alike keep me very aware that I am not travelling alone.

More soon.

Comments:

Jenny

Hi Jenny — Been on my own breast cancer voyage too; a hiccup in life’s journey. You get on with it. You get over it and you go on. Life is never quite the same as it was, but then if things stayed the same how boring and stagnant that would be? If Dr M is your breast surgeon you’re in good hands. I love the fact that you write. I always enjoyed our brief meetings circa Manly Vale Public School.

Kamlesh

Hi Jenny — We are all with you and there is always a new sunrise after a dark night. Thank you so much for letting us be with you on this journey. Wishing you all the best and hope to hear more soon.

Catherine

You are one very funny but most importantly, courageous woman, Ms Jen. You make everything ooze with purpose. May this be your special gift for all, you generous soul. Big hugs and love xxxxx

Kellie

You’re never alone, Jenny. You’ve always been an inspiration and now in another way as well. My thoughts and love are with you and your family and thank you for sharing. If there is anything at all I can do, just let me know when the time is right. xx

Richard

Having grown up much closer to Kansas than to Sydney, I can’t truly appreciate the imagery invoked by the Oxford Cinema. Having said that, I can bung on a pretty good American accent and, there have been rumours that once (after having consumed my body weight in beer), I did visit a place in Indiana where my mates told me we could have our very own ‘Big Breast Adventure’. I mention this only because I think you’re on to something with the ‘Adventure’ metaphor. Consider one of my favourite quotes: May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds. -Edward Abbey, naturalist and author (1927-1989).

Of course my ‘Big Breast Adventure’ ended up with an amazing view; a view of the car I was riding in parked on top of a pile of firewood in some farmer’s front yard, followed by a crooked trail, through the farmer’s meters high corn field, as we escaped the scene of the crime. My adventure concluded not with mountains rising above the clouds but rather with the clouds opening up to create a quagmire worthy of Flanders Fields, completely ruining my expensive shoes and designer jeans. I share this yarn only because, as M. Scott Peck of The Road Less Travelled fame said, We learn only through adventures and it’s normal to be frightened.

So, ‘Dorothy’ may I humbly encourage to you to avoid the yellow brick road and instead follow Ralph Waldo Emerson’s advice: Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail. Blog, reflect, share and know that others are encouraged and motivated by your strength and incredible sense of humour!

Mary Ellen

Ruby slippers. Wow.

Trish

Jen, you sound remarkably sane for what must be a complete ordeal…am so pleased you have had such outstanding medical care — and they are blessed in having a truly brave patient in you. Thinking of you, dear girl, and all your beautiful family. Lots of love from us all. X X X

Mez

Very well written, Jenny Wren — it is not ‘a dog and pony show’. I look forward to reading more.

Kellee

All power to you, Jen. Well done allowing us on this journey with you. Know we are here — always.

Janet (I own my typos!)

What an excellent homage to the memories of the Oxford Cinema, titillating to some, metaphorical to others! Love the title of the blog, all too specific reminder that once coveted parts of our anatomy can become a surgeon’s bio-hazardous waste. Truly humbling … and none-too-shabby as a reminder of change as a great leveller. Keeps me mindful in waking up everyday and saying it’s good to be alive. Love to you Jenny-Wren my dear sister and journeyman.

Jan

Hi Jenny — you are very brave. We are all going to go on this journey with you and will learn a lot. Love and best wishes xxx

Nicky Jim (only Jen gets away with that!)

Yeah, what Janet said! Except the sister part. And Kellee too and Jan and…

Jeremy

Completely inspiring — thanks for sharing!

Cut, Poison, Burn… and Laugh

Friday, February 21st, 2014

After Dr C, my general practitioner, delivered the news that I had breast cancer and we’d moved onto the topic of treatment, he said (and I quote), There are three ways we deal with cancer — cut, poison and burn. Then we looked at each other and burst out laughing. I’m still not quite sure why.

When I relay this story some people wince and one dear friend actually snorted, charming, in an appalled kind of way. But if one can get past the horror of what Dr C had just said and apply cool logic for a moment, what would you rather? To cut a worm out of an apple or wait until the whole fruit is spoiled? Likewise, I have no compunction putting a little something toxic among the cracks in my sandstone pavement when the weeds come through. Nor do I mind the thought of a back-burn that clears undergrowth and scorches tree trunks to prevent a bush fire raging through later on. Those pea green shoots of regeneration that spring up so quickly afterwards are a joy to behold are they not?

My Uncle Val, a retired pineapple farmer and fisherman from Queensland, always used to say, Better an empty house than an unwelcome tenant. While he was usually referring to a burp, fart or some other bodily function the sentiment is chiefly the same to my way of thinking. So no, I really don’t mind the treatment of my breast cancer being put to me in the manner of cut (mastectomy), poison (chemotherapy) and burn (radiation). I like my medical information to be up front, pointed, pervasive and scorching. (And the metaphorical puns just keep on coming…)

In an effort to stay present with what was about to happen to me while waiting to go into surgery — you know, when the mind of any sane person is suggesting somewhat hysterically that you should pull out that drip and get the hell out of Dodge! — I blessed my left breast on her way. I thanked her for the decades of loyal service — as part of a baby-nurturing tag team, as a chock to keep my face out of the sand while lying on the beach, and as one half of an entertainment troupe. (I told you there was a link to the Oxford Cinema from the last post.)

I thought I might grieve for my left breast in the days after her removal. A lot of people told me I would — but I didn’t and haven’t. I can’t help thinking about how lucky I am that the cut part happened so fast and so effortlessly. I think those few moments of pre-op bosom gratitude really helped. And instead of sadness, laughter came. My daughter made the suggestion that I sign off all future posts with Breast Regards — little scallywag. A dear friend gave me a handmade card with the letters of the words ‘Get Well’ cut out of Indian-looking wrapping paper. When my husband saw the card on the shelf in my hospital room he asked, Who sent you the ransom note? One can just imagine the phone call from the kidnappers, We’ve got your left breast. Pay up or we’ll come and get the other one.

So the cut bit is over now and I await the start of the poison part. There’s some trepidation about how I’ll fare during this process, which no one says will be a barrel of laughs. But today, Friday, is Law of Detachment day in Deepak Chopra’s The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success where we are bidden to step into the wisdom of uncertainty and put aside our attachment to outcomes. That doesn’t mean we cease setting our intentions for the things we desire — like a smooth, vomit-free ride through chemo — it simply means we get to a place where we are OK with not knowing exactly how things will turn out or why they happen as they do. Easier said than done I know — but I am working on it, fellow travellers. I’m working on it.

All the breast to you.

Comments:

RNRUs

OMG!!!!!! My first ever art work on the net! BTW, there’s more to come dear friend. Sending you positive thoughts on your healing journey. Love from Ransom Notes R Us. xxxxxxx

Jonathan

Hi Jenny — Love your writing and attitude. Every challenge uncovers another piece of magic. Sending lots of love to you.

Amanda-Man

Lovely Jen — Thanks so much for inviting us to share your path right now. And thanks for your bravery in putting it all out here on the interweb. There’s precious little like the content you’re giving us. We’re with you, if only from a distance. A x

Mez

Dear Jen — Very moving read. Thanks for the opportunity to review my own attitude to the journey we are all on. I have previously always looked at events in a clinical way — too one-dimensional and limiting.

Sally

Darling ‘Jenny-Wren’ — Only you, my friend, could have such a wonderful way with words at such a testing time. Laughter is the best medicine for us all. Will call soon for a catch up chat. Much love.

Newton’s Third Law

Sunday, February 23rd, 2014

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Or as a very wise kinesiologist once told me in a bid to help me understand quantum mechanics, in universal terms every negative has an equal and opposite positive. EVERY negative. His attempt to learn me some quantum mechanics wasn’t particularly successful, however, this little suggestion has lodged itself in my brain and probably my heart as well.

I like to consider myself pretty Zen, but I’m still coming up to speed with the concept of viewing anything that happens as ‘neither good nor bad, it just is’. Seeing negatives and positives as paired, as well as equal and opposite, is like my cheat sheet for dealing with what can initially be perceived as ‘bad’ news. Here are a few negatives and their equal and opposite numbers that I prepared earlier:

Perceived negative: Being told you have breast cancer.

Equal and opposite positive: The veritable tsunami of help and love that comes at you as soon as people find out.

Perceived negative: Having to go to a dungeon-like place in the hospital called Nuclear Medicine to have scans and be ‘marked up’ for surgery. (That’s code for ‘make sure you get